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.
The library is glorious. It's spacious, and just as bright and airy as she'd thought it would be, and everything is pristine and new.
When the Mayor does something, Isabelle thinks as she surveys her new domain, she does it properly. She might have been blackmailed, bullied or bribed into opening the library and hiring Isabelle as librarian, but she hasn't done it half-heartedly.
The library is glorious, and tomorrow it will be open for business. She's spent the whole day getting it ready – putting books on shelves, making sure the computer system is functioning robustly, arranging and re-arranging the children's section. She's determined that everything will be absolutely perfect for the opening, determined that Mayor Mills will have no cause to complain.
She checks her watch; it's late, time to lock up the library and head home. Well, she amends, not quite home. She's planning on making a stop first. There's a Tupperware box of brownies in her bag that are destined for…
A friend? Is that what he is? Isabelle frowns thoughtfully as she shuts down the computer, goes through the library to check all the lights are turned off. She's seen him three times, and he's been…well, nice isn't a word people often associate with Mr Gold, but he's been nice to her. He'd listened to her talking about the library, a few weeks ago when she'd gone to his shop to thank him, and hadn't ever appeared bored or disinterested. He'd given her cookies, and he'd seemed pleased when she hinted she'd visit him again.
But there's something else there too, something darker running beneath their interactions. Something she doesn't want to think about, not really.
It's been ten years since she thought about anyone like that, and she knows there are so many reasons why she shouldn't be thinking about Mr Gold in this way. But Isabelle can't deny it to herself. She's grown so used to examining all her thoughts and feelings, to exposing the painful as well as the pleasant within her own mind, that she can't deny how attracted to him she is.
Thirteen weeks since she was released from the hospital, and Isabelle hasn't felt any kind of sexual urge. She'd almost assumed the drugs and the captivity had erased her sex drive entirely. And yet there is Mr Gold.
Her cheeks are warm as she picks up her bag, leaves the library and locks it securely behind her. A friend, she tells herself, and nothing more, because he must be at least two decades older than her, and he beat up her father, and she owes him more than she can ever repay. No sense complicating things, she thinks, because it's hardly likely he would feel the same anyway.
She ought to talk to Archie about some of this. However while Archie is a wonderful doctor, patient and kind, he is after all a man. Perhaps Mary Margaret, then, although Mary Margaret, like everyone else, is no great fan of Mr Gold.
It's a short walk to Mr Gold's pawnshop, and it's only once she's there that she realises he might have closed up for the day. It's past six; the door is firmly shut, the lights in the shop are off, and the sign on the door is turned to 'closed'. Disappointed, Isabelle stands for a minute, staring at the sign.
She doesn't know where he lives – and even if she did, she thinks that would be too presumptuous, to go to his house without invitation. No, she can't do that, and so the brownies will have to go back with her to the apartment. She turns to go, head lowered. She hadn't quite realised how much she'd been looking forward to seeing him again.
"Miss French, you weren't going, I hope?"
Isabelle turns around, feels a smile tugging at her mouth. "I didn't think you were there, Mr Gold," she admits. He's standing in the doorway, cane in hand as always. His jacket has been discarded, revealing white shirt sleeves and a waistcoat. It makes him look even more slender than usual, and Isabelle feels her cheeks heating as she looks at him, feels that fluttering of desire in her stomach that's so strange and new.
"I came to bring you something," she says. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you."
"Hardly," he says. "I was just closing up." He steps aside, gestures for her to come into the shop; their arms brush as she passes, and she's not sure if he's done it deliberately or not.
"I don't want to get in your way," she says. "I can come another time."
"You're not in the way," he assures her. "It's lovely to see you again." He closes the door, glances at her sidelong. "How are you, Miss French?"
"I'm…alright," says Isabelle. "And you? I meant to come by sooner, but I've been so busy with the library."
"I'm flattered you thought of coming at all," he says, limps across the room to the till and resumes whatever it is he was doing before Isabelle arrived. Flattered and pleased, judging by the small smile that lingers about his mouth. Isabelle wanders closer, leans against the counter.
"I really don't want to bother you," she says. "I could come back." She watches as he counts out notes and coins, fingers moving quickly and gracefully.
"Not at all," he says. "I shan't be a moment, and then I'm entirely at your disposal." Isabelle nods, glances around the shop as she waits for him. It fascinates her, this place; she could spend all day in here, she thinks, exploring all the things in the cabinets and display cases, all the hidden corners. She suspects he knows the history of every single item, wonders if he'd tell her if she asked.
"There," he says, closing the till and locking it. "All done." He looks at her, glances her over, and Isabelle fight another blush. It's appraising, his gaze, and she's not sure what he sees.
"I, uh…I brought you something," she says, and opens her bag, brings out the box of brownies. He's surprised, lifts an eyebrow slightly, and Isabelle shrugs sheepishly. "Well, I ate all those cookies, last time I was here," she says. "And I've been doing a lot of baking, and I thought…" She trails off; he isn't saying anything, and she wonders if this was the right thing to do.
"How thoughtful of you," he says, and he reaches to take the box from her. Their fingers brush, and it's like electricity down her spine. She stares at him, startled, but he reveals nothing. If he feels anything, he's concealing it well.
"Well, like I said, I felt bad," says Isabelle after a moment. "For eating the cookies. I know you said it was alright, but…" There's a flicker of something on his face, and she thinks he's disappointed so she hurries on. "Baking seems to be my favourite way of forgetting about things," she says, something she's only said to Archie before. "When I'm baking…I forget about…well, everything."
"Ah." He nods slowly, looks away from her. "Yes, I can understand that." There's something ancient in him then, something old and pained beyond measure. He understands more than anyone else, she thinks suddenly. She doesn't know how, but he understands captivity, understands the need to forget painful memories.
There's a dragon sleeping behind his eyes, and it understands something of what she's been through.
"So, brownies," she says, bright and cheerful. "They're really good."
"Thank you," he says, looks back at her and inclines his head. "I wonder if you'd care to share them with me? I was going to go home and have some supper. You're very welcome to join me."
Isabelle hesitates, surprised by the invitation. Everything she's heard and seen of Mr Gold has told her that he's an intensely private man, and she knows from things Emma and Mary Margaret have said that nobody else has ever been invited to join him in Granny's, or to have a cup of tea with him in the shop.
She's expected back at home, but a phone call would be enough to let them know.
"Just a suggestion," says Mr Gold, and she thinks he's trying to sound as if it doesn't matter to him either way, but either he's not trying hard enough or she's getting to know him a little better because she can see it does matter to him. Her perceived rejection of him matters.
It sends a little thrill of pleasure through her, to know that he feels, if not the same, at least…something. He feels something for her.
She hopes that's a good thing; hopes this is a good thing. She knows what other people would say, knows what Emma and Mary Margaret and Archie would say about this new relationship she's forming.
Dangerous, she reminds herself. He's the deal-maker, the money-lender, the man who always claims his debts. And she already owes him so much.
"I'd love to," she says, throwing caution to the wind, and she's rewarded by a small, genuine smile. "I'll have to call home, though, otherwise they'll worry. And," she adds, "I can't stay late. I don't want to risk messing up tomorrow."
Mr Gold nods. "Of course," he says. "The phone's just there. I'll lock up the back while you call." He goes through to the back room, and Isabelle goes to the phone, dials the number Emma made her learn the first week she was free.
"Hello?" Mary Margaret answers, and Isabelle's guiltily pleased; Emma would have been harder to speak to about her changed plans, because Emma has stronger feelings about Mr Gold.
"Hey, it's Isabelle," she says. "My plans have changed for the evening." She twists the phone wire around her fingers; an old-fashioned phone, wired rather than wireless – it suits him, she thinks idly. "Mr Gold's invited me for supper." There's a long pause, and Isabelle waits it out. She can hear Emma asking something, hears Mary Margaret's furtive whisper back, but can't quite make out the words.
"Okay," says Mary Margaret at last, hesitant. "If that's what you want."
"It is," says Isabelle. She could say more – knows she'll have to say more later, when she returns home – but she knows Mr Gold is close, knows he'll be listening. She can't attempt to explain herself to her friend in this situation, not when she's still not sure why he's interested in her, what he wants from her. "I won't be back late," she adds.
"Okay," says Mary Margaret again. "But you want to go? He's not…he's not…"
"Of course not," says Isabelle. She hears his cane, glances up and watches as he puts on his jacket, goes to close the blinds in the windows. "And yes, I do." There's the sound of a scuffle at the other end, the phone passed from one person to another.
"Isabelle, are you alright?" Emma demands. "I don't trust him. You shouldn't either."
"Well, I do," says Isabelle, and is amazed to realise she means it. Trust is not a commodity she gives freely – even her roommates, good friends now after nearly three months, don't have her full trust, not really. She trusts Archie, and apparently she trusts Mr Gold too. "It's fine, Emma, honestly," she says. "I'll be back later."
She hangs up before Emma can say anything else, looks up to find Mr Gold watching her. That strange, searching expression is on his face again, that look that makes her think he's trying to find something in her. Something hidden.
"Ready to go?" he asks, and Isabelle nods, smiles. He opens the door, waits for her to leave and then locks it securely, pocketing the keys. He holds his arm out for her and, charmed, Isabelle takes it.