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.

She fidgets, twisting her hands together, head bowed and eyes lowered. She feels safe, here in Archie's office, but there's a barb to the safety. She has to unwrap herself here, has to explain things and talk about things, and sometimes she doesn't want to do that.

Sometimes she just wants to let things be.

But she can't put off her therapy sessions, and Archie is generally sensitive, knows when to push and when to leave her to her own thoughts.

"Okay," he says, "let's forget about that for a while. Why don't you tell me what you've been doing since last week?"

Isabelle nods slowly, lifts her head to glance at him. "Not much," she has to admit. "Uh…I cleaned the bathroom. Cooked supper, a couple of times. I even managed not to burn it." Archie smiles, and Isabelle tries to smile back. "Henry and I went for a walk," she offers then. "He showed me his favourite places. It was nice."

"Good," says Archie, approving. He likes it when she goes out, even if it's just with Henry, even if it's just a walk around the town. He knows, just as Isabelle does, that Regina disapproves; still, Henry seems to do a lot that the Mayor doesn't approve of, and nothing's stopped him so far.

"The library's being reopened," says Isabelle then. She thinks, briefly, about Mr Gold. She hasn't seen him since that evening in Granny's café, four days ago now. She's barely left the apartment since then, truth be told, and she can admit to herself, at least, that it's partly because she's not sure what she's going to do when she does see him again.

"Yes, I heard that," says Archie. "I hear they're looking for a librarian, as well. Have you thought about applying?"

"Yeah," says Isabelle, sighing. "I've filled in an application, Emma brought it home for me. But…"

"But what?" he asks, gentle.

"I won't get it," Isabelle mutters. "There's no way the Mayor will ever let me get it." She knows Emma and Mary Margaret think the same. They've encouraged her, and Mary Margaret helped her fill in the application form. Still, she has no qualifications – not even her high school diploma, thanks to her father and the Mayor – and although she's started correspondence classes to get her GED, she won't have that for a while yet. No degree, no work experience, apart from a few summers in her father's florist business, which is hardly relevant for a librarian.

All she has is passion, and a ten-year stint in a locked psychiatric ward.

"Okay," says Archie, "let's turn that around. Why should she hire you? Let's think about what skills you have that qualify you for the job."

Isabelle sighs; he likes doing this, turning things around. "I love to read," she says, shrugging her shoulders. "I guess I know a lot about books, and writers. I mean, not from the past ten years, but…"

"Good," he praises. "What else?"

"I'm organised," says Isabelle slowly, thinking it through. "I know how to use a library reference system, and how to set it up. I like keeping things in order." She sighs again. "But I don't have any experience or any qualifications. And if that wasn't enough, she helped lock me up. She didn't want me let out."

Panic rises in her throat at that familiar thought. She can remember in vivid detail that day, ten weeks ago now, when she'd heard arguing outside her door. Emma Swan had burst into her cell, the Mayor trailing in her wake loudly demanding that Emma leave, that she stop interfering in things that weren't any of her business.

Regina Mills had claimed she was violent; suicidal; had claimed this was the best place for her and that she was getting the best treatment possible. She'd told Emma that Isabelle lacked mental capacity to make her own decisions. That the Mayor and Moe French had decided that this was the best course of action, and she must stay where she was.

But Archie had been there too. While Emma and Regina had been arguing, Archie had come to Isabelle's side, had crouched beside her and introduced himself. He'd smiled, gentle and open, honest in a way she hadn't seen from anybody in ten long years.

He'd promised to take care of her, and she'd believed him. And when Archie had straightened and turned on the Mayor, he'd told her quietly, calmly, that since Isabelle hadn't had a psychiatric assessment in more than five years, she didn't have a leg to stand on and he would be taking over Isabelle's care.

It hadn't been immediate; she'd spent a week in another ward of the hospital, a little side bay with windows and a proper bed, and things to read and a television to watch. Archie had spent most of his days with her, working intensively, helping her acclimate to the small amount of freedom she'd been given. Assessing her mental state, assessing the damage done from ten years of being locked away. At the end of the week, a judge had been in to see her and laid out the conditions for her release.

It had been obvious that Regina wanted to keep her locked up; obvious that she had her reasons for it. But Archie had assessed her; Isabelle is not violent, is not suicidal, and any mental health problems are a result of her imprisonment. Her earlier records were scarce enough that he couldn't comment on why she'd been committed, he'd said to the judge, but she certainly does not need to be in a mental ward now.

Archie, she reminds herself now, is on her side. Archie won't let Regina put her back in that place. It's enough, just, to quell the panic. She breathes deeply, the way Archie's taught her. Clenches her hands into fists and feels her nails biting into her palms.

"Isabelle," says Archie quietly, "I promised I'd help you, and I intend to. The Mayor has no legal basis to have you committed again. You're as sane as anyone else."

Isabelle laughs, a choked sound. "I'm not sure that's saying much, Dr Hopper," she says, and he smiles, concedes the point.

"Alright," he says. "Then shall we say you're no more mentally ill than anybody else?" Isabelle's smile is genuine, and Archie leans back in his chair, pleased. "Even applying for the job is really good progress," he tells her. "Let's just take one step at a time."

"Okay," she whispers. She doesn't think there will be a next step – doesn't think she'll even be called for an interview – but she's willing to allow Archie to think there will be.

"What else have you done this week?" he asks. Isabelle hesitates for a moment, and Archie waits, patient.

"I went for a walk by myself," she says slowly, "and met Mr Gold." There's a flicker of something on Archie's face, a hint of distaste before it's hidden behind his professional mask. Like everybody else in Storybrooke, he has no liking for the pawnbroker, the deal-maker.

"He…" She tries to formulate her thoughts, hesitates. She isn't quite sure what to say, or how to say it. "We went into Granny's," she says at last. "He bought me a hot chocolate. And a slice of cake."

Archie's surprise isn't hidden quickly enough. "You hadn't been in to Granny's yet, had you?" he says, light and gentle, although it's obvious he wants to comment on the companionship she'd had rather than where she'd gone. "How did that go?"

"Alright," says Isabelle. "I mean…everyone was staring. And talking. But it was…actually better than I thought it would be." She hasn't been back, but that's not because she's afraid of the café, of the people there. It was better than she'd imagined, and nobody had overtly commented on her appearance there.

"I think Mr Gold got the Mayor to open the library," she says suddenly. "Because last week when I left here, I walked by the library and he was there. He said I was…passionate about it. And then at Granny's, I asked him outright, and he didn't deny it." Archie hesitates; it's clear he doesn't know how to take this. He's not the only one – Isabelle has spent the past four days in a state of confusion.

"How would it make you feel if he did put the proposal to the Mayor?" Archie asks at last, neither supporting nor denying her assumption.

"I don't know," says Isabelle. "I…I know people expect me to hate him. Because of what he did to my father." She lowers her gaze, twists her fingers together, thinks of the one time she's seen her father since leaving the hospital. He hadn't visited, that week before she'd been released. He'd come to the apartment afterwards, had stood at the door and begged Emma to let him in to see her.

Emma – good, kind, understanding friend that she is – had refused him entry. Isabelle had stood behind her, Mary Margaret's arm around her shoulders, and shakily told her father that she didn't care if she never saw him again.

He helped put her away; she doesn't want to see him. No amount of apologies can make up for ten long years of silence and imprisonment.

"I don't hate Mr Gold," she says into the silence. "He was…nice, actually. He…he didn't ask stupid questions or make stupid comments, or…he just…" She sighs. "He confuses me," she admits. "But I don't hate him. I don't even dislike him."

"He's definitely a confusing man," Archie says, too professional to say what she's sure he's thinking. That Mr Gold is dangerous, that she shouldn't have anything to do with him even if she doesn't hate him.

"It's strange," she whispers, "but he makes me feel…comfortable. Kind of like Henry. He doesn't make me feel like I'm weird."

"That's good," Archie says, encouraging her no matter what his own feelings are. He likes it when she finds people, things, activities, that don't make her feel awkward. Things that don't make her feel like a stranger in the real world.

She remembers the first time she tried to use the washing machine. She'd stared at it, knowing she should remember how it worked, but technology had changed so much in ten years. She'd separated coloureds from whites, looked at the box of powder, tried to work out what to do. She'd stood there for nearly twenty minutes before Mary Margaret found her and showed her how it worked. Mary Margaret is lovely, kind and compassionate, and hadn't said anything about Isabelle's inability to do such a simple thing. But Isabelle had felt awkward anyway, felt like a stupid child.

"Isabelle," says Archie then, "I asked you a question earlier, and you couldn't answer it." She nods, clasps her hands tightly together, keeps her eyes downcast. "I'm going to ask it again," he says, "and I don't want you to answer right now. I know it's hard for you to think about, so there's no pressure, okay? Just in your own time. You can come back to me whenever you have an answer."

Isabelle nods, can't look up at him. There's a lump in her throat, panic and tears and grief, and she knows he's right. She knows she has to think about this, has to talk about it, because if she doesn't, she'll never be able to move past it.

But it hurts. It hurts. Because she'd trusted him, he was all she had and she'd trusted him to do what was right, to take care of her and be her family and not to shut her up in a closed ward and never make sure she was properly cared for, never come to visit her at all. Ten years, and it hurts. More than anything else, it's a hurt that's deep inside her, a splinter in her heart, omnipresent and everlasting.

She doesn't think it will ever go away. Archie says it's too soon to be making statements like that, but Isabelle doesn't think it will ever go away.

"Do you really hate your father, or are you afraid of him?" Archie asks her gently. Isabelle can't speak, blinks away hot tears that sting her eyes. "Don't answer now," he reminds her. "Think about it. My door is always open."