Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings
Rating: T
Word count: ~51k
Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.
Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.
"Everyone's staring," Isabelle mutters, shrinking into the corner, lifting hands to her hot cheeks. Granny had put her in a corner booth, lifted an eyebrow at her choice of companion, but taken their orders without comment. A corner booth, so there's nobody at her back and she can see everyone in the café.
"Of course they are," says Mr Gold mildly. "I rarely come in here, and I never have such a lovely companion with me." Isabelle's flush deepens, and she catches a hint of a smirk on Mr Gold's face. "Ignore them," he advises. "It's what I do."
"I…yeah, that's what I should do," Isabelle says, dropping her hands into her lap. "I, um…I haven't been in here since…"
"Quite understandable."
"It's just…it's so bright," Isabelle tries to explain. "And there's so many people." Mr Gold nods, doesn't say anything – doesn't try to comfort, or offer false platitudes. Like Henry, he seems to simply accept her foibles and peculiarities.
She glances beyond him, at the rest of the café. Some people are still staring at her, but some have lost interest. Ruby is leaning against the counter, openly watching until Isabelle meets her gaze. Then she turns away, busies herself cleaning the counter. Isabelle glances back at Mr Gold, finds him watching her, his amusement evident.
"You're braver than you think you are," he says.
"You don't know me," she says, and he shrugs. Isabelle frowns at him, leans forward a little. "Why did you stop the Mayor?" she asks then. "You don't know me. Why would you do that for someone you don't know?"
"As I said, I'm never averse to sticking a spanner in her works," says Mr Gold mildly. "Shall we leave it at that?" Isabelle's mouth twists, discontented with his answer, and there's approval on his face for a moment. "Very well. Perhaps I'm simply interested."
"Because I'm a –"
"Because," he interrupts her, "you seem a charming young woman, and I believe a great disservice has been done to you." Isabelle is silent, watches him. There's something hidden behind his eyes, something…
She puts her hands flat on the table, tilts her head as she looks at him.
"You beat up my father," she says, and there's a barely perceptible flinch at that. He doesn't look guilty or ashamed, not exactly, but there's something else there. Satisfaction, she thinks, and shivers.
"Yes," he says plainly. He doesn't lie, doesn't obfuscate. She appreciates that. The truth, plain and unvarnished.
"Good," she says, low and fierce, and she's surprised him, she can see. His eyes widen slightly, he stares at her as if he's not sure what to think, and Isabelle lifts her chin, defiant. "He helped her," she says. Mr Gold nods, slow and thoughtful, and begins to speak. But Granny comes bustling up then, puts their drinks down before them.
"Two hot chocolates," she says. "I'll just get your cake."
"Thank you," Isabelle murmurs, and she holds the cup in her hands, lets the heat warm her. She is aware of his gaze, aware of how closely he is watching her. Strangely, it does not upset her the way it does when others watch her.
She lifts the cup to her mouth, sips cautiously. Cream and chocolate, a little too hot to drink, scalding her tongue, but it tastes good, and she smiles.
"This is nice," she decides. "Nicer than I thought." He's amused, sips his own drink and watches her. "That came out wrong," Isabelle says, apologetic. "I meant…"
"I understand," he says, and she thinks perhaps he does understand. She's not sure why, but this man seems to know without needing to be told all the things that are inside her head and her heart. The reasons why she's kept away from bright lights and crowded spaces.
The marks that long captivity has left on her.
She is puzzled, tilts her head to one side and looks at him. "I don't get it," she says. "I don't understand why you're here having hot chocolate with me. It doesn't make sense."
"Why?" he inquires. "Because of the things you've been told about me? All true, I assure you." He grins, bared teeth and danger, but it doesn't repel her. "Perhaps you intrigue me, Miss French." The grins disappears as quickly as it appeared, and Isabelle leans back as Granny approaches.
"Here's your cake," she says. "Enjoy." She glances at Mr Gold and her mouth tightens slightly; disapproval, Isabelle judges. But she doesn't comment, turns back to Isabelle and gives her a smile before leaving.
Isabelle sips her hot chocolate, watches Mr Gold watching her. She's trying to piece him together, this well-dressed man who put her father in the hospital and has his fingers in every possible pie. She can't understand why he's interested, why he intervened for her with the Mayor. Why he's brought her into Granny's and bought her hot chocolate and a slice of fruitcake.
Why she agreed to it, when Emma's been trying to get her in here for weeks. Why is she comfortable here with him, but not with her friends?
"Deep thoughts, Miss French?"
"Confusing thoughts," she corrects him with a sigh, and picks up her fork. "I just don't understand why you're being so nice to me."
"Do you have to understand?" he asks, and Isabelle shakes her head, frowns slightly.
"I guess not," she concedes. "But I don't like things that confuse me. I spent so long feeling confused because of the drugs. I want things to make sense now."
"Now, Miss French, you know life's not that simple," he says, a gentle rebuke. Isabelle purses her lips, unhappy with the answer but knowing he's right. She concedes, however – brings a forkful of cake to her mouth and is surprised by how good it tastes. Food hasn't really tasted right in a while, she thinks, but this is moist and rich, and she hesitates only a moment before taking another bite.
The door of the café opens then, admitting Emma, and Isabelle drops her fork, lowers her gaze as Emma hurries towards her.
"Hey," she says, aiming for light but not hiding her concern. "You've been gone a while. We were getting worried." Emma glances at Mr Gold, lifts an eyebrow. "I see you found company," she says.
"Yes," murmurs Isabelle. "Yes, I…" She trails off, shrugs her shoulders, feels both Emma and Mr Gold watching her – and others too. Emma's arrival has rekindled their interest.
"Sheriff Swan," says Mr Gold at last, a terse greeting. The dislike, Isabelle thinks, is mutual.
"Mr Gold," says Emma, cool. "Isabelle, are you okay?" Isabelle's not sure whether the concern is for how long she's been out, and where she's been found, or for who Emma has found her with. But she can't chafe at the concern, won't allow herself to let it upset her. Emma is her friend, has been so kind and caring.
And Mr Gold is dangerous, she reminds herself. He's cold and calculating and…
Resigned, she realises as she glances at him. He expects her to leave with Emma, to shun him because he knows Emma's opinion of him – knows what everyone thinks of him. She wonders why it should matter to him, why she should matter. Yet it's clear she does.
"I'm fine," she says at last. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. Or to be out this long." She doesn't move, although she knows Emma expects her to get up, to hurry home. An hour ago, she would have; but an hour ago she would never have stepped foot in Granny's. Something has changed, but she doesn't know what or how.
"I won't be long," she says to Emma. "I'm going to finish my cake before I come."
Emma glances at Mr Gold again, mouth twisted in a scowl. "Are you sure?" she presses. "Isabelle, you know who this is, right? What he did to your –"
"I'm not crazy," Isabelle interrupts her. "And I'm not stupid."
"I didn't mean…" Emma falters, seems to realise how she sounded to Isabelle. "Alright," she says after a long moment. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'll see you back at the apartment." She meets Mr Gold's gaze and something seems to pass between them, something icy and full of warning, but Isabelle isn't sure who's warning who. There's too much she doesn't understand, history between them that Emma hasn't told her.
All true, he'd said. Everything she's heard about him is true.
Emma leaves, and Isabelle looks across the table at Mr Gold.
"Interesting," he says, and smiles faintly as he drinks his hot chocolate.
"What is?" she asks. There are whispers in the café; she's caused a stir. She hates it, and yet she didn't want to leave just yet. She is, she finds, enjoying herself. She didn't expect to be able to do that in public, not yet. Not until the gossip has faded and the fear has become a little more of a memory.
"You are," he says, honest except not – there's a lie wrapped up in his words somewhere, she feels, but can't put her finger on it. "Did you hear," he says then, changing the subject, "that the Mayor has decided to open the library?"
"Yes, Emma told me," says Isabelle, pushing away the embarrassment and the confusion, focusing on the bright bubble of happiness she'd felt when Emma had told her only a short while ago. "But – well, the Mayor will be appointing the librarian, won't she?"
"The town council has a say," says Mr Gold, and there's something mischievous hidden just beneath the surface. "It's true she generally has the final word. But not always."
Isabelle frowns faintly, stares at him. "Did you – did you ask her to open it?" she asks slowly. "Mary Margaret says she can't remember the library ever being open, and the other day…"
"Yes, Miss French?" he says, and Isabelle wonders once again why he's so interested. "The other day?"
"Did you ask her?" Isabelle repeats, voice soft and almost lost in the general noise of the café. Mr Gold says nothing, looks at her with a carefully blank expression, and Isabelle feels afraid, just for a moment. Ice down her back, and she drops her eyes, finishes her slice of cake. She doesn't understand this man, doesn't know why he's interested in her, because he clearly is interested.
And she is interested in him; there's a fluttering in her stomach as he looks at her, a prickling of her skin. She hasn't felt this in over ten years, hasn't been attracted to anyone. But she's attracted to him, and it scares her.
"I'd better go," she says then. "Thank you for the cake, and the drink."
"My pleasure, Miss French," he says, and rises as she does. "Perhaps we'll see each other again some time."
It sounds like a promise, and Isabelle flees the café, aware of everyone watching her. It sounds like a promise, and she's not sure what she's feeling.