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.
Isabelle hesitates at the door, biting her lip, twisting her hands together. She shouldn't be here, she knows. There are a hundred reasons why she shouldn't be here. A hundred reasons why she should walk away without opening the door, without stepping into the building.
She should go, and yet she doesn't. She takes a deep breath, pushes the door open. The bell set over the door chimes softly, and again when Isabelle lets the door swing shut behind her.
The pawnshop is dark, smells faintly of dust, and after the bright daylight outside Isabelle has to pause to let her eyes adjust. She squints into the darkness until she can make out the shape of counters, cupboards, things scattered all about. She can't see the pawnbroker though, and she steps further into the shop, glances about as things become clearer.
A strange collection of objects, she thinks, wonders if some of these things have any value at all. But they must, she thinks, because otherwise why would they be pawned?
There are a pair of wooden dolls on one glass display case; a beautiful glass slipper within the case itself. A broken compass sits next to the slipper, and a beautifully ornate hair comb.
"Miss French?"
"Oh!" she gasps, jumps, spins around to look at him. "You startled me," she says. Her heart is racing, adrenaline surging through her system. "I didn't hear you," she adds.
Mr Gold smiles, polite and a little apologetic. "My apologies," he says. "Quite unintentional, I assure you." Isabelle nods slowly, feels her heartbeat slowing, looks at him and once again feels like she knows him somehow.
"I, uh…this place is…" She hesitates, trying to find the right word. Mr Gold is smiling now, just slightly – just a hint of amusement showing through, as if he can tell what she's thinking. "Incredible," she says at last, and finds she means it. A shop of curiosities.
"Thank you," he says. "I was about to make a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?" Isabelle nods before she quite realises it, follows him through to the back room. There's a kettle there, a small kitchenette, and Isabelle watches as Mr Gold moves economically around, preparing tea. His movements are precise and graceful despite the limp, despite the cane.
"I wanted to thank you," she says.
"For what, dear?" he asks, not glancing at her. The kettle boils; he warms the pot, discards the water, puts teabags in and fills it up. For some reason it delights Isabelle, this attention to detail.
Mr Gold strikes her as a man who pays attention to the details, no matter how small.
"You know for what," she says. "The library. My job."
"Oh, you got the job, then?" he says, feigning ignorance. The truth is revealed in the way he glances at her, just briefly but long enough for her to recognise the hint of smugness, of satisfaction, in his eyes. He knows exactly what she means, but won't admit it. No doubt he has his reasons, and Isabelle isn't inclined to press him.
"I did," she says. "The Mayor came and told me herself." She grimaces, and Mr Gold glances at her again, lifts an eyebrow but doesn't comment. He's assembled a tray with the tea things, she sees, and knows he'll struggle to carry it to the table. She steps forward, moves past him, picks it up without comment. She hears him inhale, sharply, as their arms brush.
She puts in on the table; he's put cookies on a plate, she sees, wonders if he's trying to feed her up. Other people are less subtle about it, and she doesn't think she minds.
"Thank you," he says after a long moment, and he steps across the room to the table, gestures for her to sit before he joins her. A gentleman's manners, she thinks, oddly charmed by it. A gentleman's manners and dragon's eyes.
He pours tea – milk first, so it doesn't scald, tea after, lumps of sugar in a bowl, but Isabelle has never cared for sweet tea. She takes a cookie, sees his eyes flicker across her hand as she helps herself, but it's not disapproval in his glance. Quite the opposite in fact, and Isabelle's suspicion is confirmed. Still, she doesn't mind. Somehow his concern is of a different order to that of Emma and Mary Margaret.
"Are you looking forward to the job?" he asks her then, picking up his teacup, cradling it in his hands. "At the library."
"Yes," says Isabelle, smiling now. "I've been sorting out all the old stock – it was locked up in storage at the town hall. And I've got a budget for new books, so I've been ordering as well. The rebuilding's going really fast, I'll be able to start moving things in by the end of the week."
Whether he's genuinely interested or not, he listens to her talk for nearly half an hour, asking sensible questions and even making a few suggestions. He refills her cup, and Isabelle eats five cookies without thinking about it, only realises what she's done when the plate is empty.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't even let you have one."
Mr Gold shakes his head. "They were for you," he says. "Pay it no mind." There's something strange in the way he looks at her, and Isabelle pauses for a moment, tilts her head as she looks at him. She can't shake off that strange feeling that she knows him, although she can't remember ever meeting him before…
Before.
She leans back in her chair, clasps her hands together. "I meant it, you know," she says quietly. "I really do want to thank you."
"As I said, entirely unnecessary," says Mr Gold.
"It's not," Isabelle contradicts him. "Even if you won't admit it, I know you've done a lot for me." She can't look at him now, drops her gaze to the table, the empty tea cups. But for a moment she doesn't see them – for a moment she sees a different cup, delicate and pretty, with a chip in its rim.
"Miss French?"
"I – I'm sorry," she says, the words automatic, and she blinks, shakes her head. "I, um…"
"You were thanking me," Mr Gold says. There's a strangeness to his voice, to the way he looks at her now. As if he's hoping for something, waiting for something. There's something hidden beneath the surface – just like the Mayor, Isabelle thinks, but at the same time it's completely different.
"Yes," she murmurs. "Yes, I…" She gathers her thoughts together, shakes herself. "Even if you won't admit it, I know you got the Mayor to open up the library. I won't ask how. But you did." She pauses, hesitates. He's watching her expectantly, as if he knows there's more, but she knows he won't admit to anything. He's canny, secretive. Everything is worked to his own advantage.
Except…except how does helping her provide any advantage to him?
"Why?" she asks him, plaintive and confused. "Why are you so interested?"
"We've had this conversation before, Miss French," he reminds her. He reaches for her cup, puts it back on the tray, adds his own to it. "My answer hasn't changed." He rises, doesn't bother with the cane, picks up the tray and limps across to the counter. Isabelle watches, wonders why he's allowing her to see that small amount of vulnerability.
"You said a great disservice had been done to me," she remembers.
"Unless you know of any good reason for your incarceration," says Mr Gold smoothly, "I stand by that answer."
"As far as I know, there isn't one," Isabelle mutters. She closes her eyes for a moment, remembers the cell, remembers back ten years to the day they'd come for her. After ten years of the same four walls, ten years of pills and injections and never even knowing the day of the week, the memory is barely there. Faded, in tatters, like a page torn from a book, folded and wrinkled, the edges scuffed and bent.
She remembers Regina Mills telling her it's for her own good, that her psychotic episodes have become too severe. That her mental illness is the reason she can't remember doing any of the things Regina says she's done. She remembers her father turning away from her, deaf to her pleas for help.
"Miss French," says Mr Gold, and Isabelle glances up. He's returned to her side, is staring down at her with a frown. "It was not my intention to upset you," he says after a long moment.
"It's not your fault," she says, lifts a hand to wipe away the solitary tear that's fallen. "I'm sorry. I should go." She stands up, but he doesn't step back, so she finds herself close to him. So close, and she looks up at him, holds her breath, feels something fluttering in her stomach.
He moves away, retrieves his cane and leans heavily on it. "Do stop by again," he says, and it's more than politeness, she thinks. It's genuine, and she wonders if he's lonely, wonders why he's chosen her as a companion, because it's clear he likes her.
Or perhaps, she thinks, she simply hopes he likes her. That's a dangerous thought, and not one she cares to examine right now. He's older than she is, and dangerous, and…
She should not be attracted to him, for so many reasons. And there are so many reasons why she should go. He says nothing more, indicates that she should precede him, and they move back into the shop, the strange pawnshop filled with curious things that seem to have little value.
A dragon, she thinks, hoarding treasure.
"Thank you for the tea," she says, turning back to him. Mr Gold has gone to the long counter with the cash register, leans against it. She wonders if his leg is hurting, wonders what happened to give him the limp.
"You're very welcome," he says.
"And the cookies," she adds. "Next time I promise I won't eat them all."
His gaze is sharp suddenly, intent and focused, and Isabelle feels for a moment horribly, painfully exposed to him. As if he's reading all her thoughts and feelings and intentions, picking through her soul for what he wants to find.
"Next time," he murmurs, and it's not quite a question. "Well, you're always welcome, Miss French."
"Isabelle," she says. "You can call me Isabelle." That faint smile lingers on his face then, creases at the corners of his eyes, a slight uptilt of his mouth.
"Perhaps," he says. "Have a good day, Miss French."