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.
Mr Gold's house, Isabelle decides, is a perfect reflection of him. Elegant, tasteful, full of dark furniture and interesting objects. Like the shop, she wishes she could explore and examine everything, to see the things he's chosen to have in his home. To know more about him, she thinks, and smiles to herself.
"I don't have anything fancy, I'm afraid," says Mr Gold, perusing the contents of his fridge. "How does omelette sound?"
"Delicious," says Isabelle, taking a seat at his kitchen table. It's strange, but somehow being around Mr Gold seems to ease the problems she's been having with food. Cake, and cookies, and now supper, and she's actually looking forward to supper, something she hasn't felt in a while.
Archie's suggestion had been to plan out her meals, to make a menu and stick to it, which means she has to choose what to eat, but only once a week. Once it's chosen, she doesn't have to think about the food, only about cooking it. Cooking isn't a problem, it's the eating of it, and although it's only been two weeks, Isabelle thinks she's doing a little better.
"Is the library ready for opening?" he asks as he pulls ingredients from the fridge, collects a chopping board and a knife and comes to join her at the kitchen table.
"I hope so," says Isabelle fervently. "I really don't want to get anything wrong. The Mayor's just looking for an excuse."
There's a brief flicker of something dark across his face, something that reminds her how dangerous he is.
"I imagine she is," he says. "She never has taken kindly to somebody getting away from her." Isabelle frowns faintly, rests her elbow on the table, puts her chin in her hand.
"You know her very well," she observes.
"We're old adversaries," says Mr Gold as he chops up ingredients, bares his teeth in a brief, fierce grin. "But from what I understand, she can't get her hands on you again."
"That's what Dr Hopper says, and Emma," says Isabelle quietly. She's silent then, thinks about the few encounters she's had with the Mayor since getting out of the hospital. She thinks of the day Regina had come to see her at the apartment, to give her the job and warn her off Mr Gold. She'd warned Isabelle to be careful, insinuated that if Isabelle did anything out of line she'd be straight back into the isolation ward.
She shivers. Mr Gold sees it, and his hands still.
"She won't get you," he says. Quiet, reassuring, but there's a dark promise in his words that he's not even attempting to conceal. She should be afraid, Isabelle thinks, but instead she finds it reassuring.
Mr Gold is the most powerful man in Storybrooke; more powerful even than Regina Mills. If he says the Mayor won't get her, she will believe him.
"But yes, I think the library's ready," she says, returning to the original subject. "I'm pleased with it, actually. You should come by some day." She smiles, watches as he puts aside the pepper and begins to grate cheese. She likes his hands, she decides. Long fingers, elegant movements.
"I'll make a point of it," he says, and she thinks he will. She thinks he'll pick some quiet time, close up his pawnshop for an hour or two and come to see her in the library.
To see the results of whatever deal he struck with the Mayor, and that makes her smile fade a little. But she doesn't think he's interested in her just because of whatever game of one-upmanship he's got going on with the Mayor.
Or perhaps she just hopes he's interested in her for other reasons.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asks as he cracks eggs into a bowl expertly, whisks them together, goes to the stove and puts a pan on to heat. "I feel bad just sitting here."
"You brought dessert," he points out. "And what kind of host would I be if I asked my guest to help prepare her own supper?" He glances at her, then his gaze slides away. "Besides, you're hardly doing nothing, Miss French," he says. "I'm enjoying your company."
"I'm glad," she says – glad to have confirmation, glad she's not completely misreading the situation. "Although," she has to add, "I can't imagine why." He doesn't say anything, but she catches a glimpse of a smile before he turns his concentration onto the meal.
In minutes the meal is ready and served, and Mr Gold sits opposite her at the kitchen table, waits for her to begin before starting his own meal.
"This is delicious," Isabelle says after the first bite. "You have to teach me how to make this." She smiles across the table at him, catches a glimpse of satisfaction before it's hidden. He hides so much, this man, but she thinks she could learn how to read him, in time.
"If you like," he says. "It's not complicated."
"My cooking skills aren't up to much," says Isabelle with a shrug. "I was never a great cook but then it's been ten years…"
"And yet you bake."
"I don't know why, but baking's different," she says. "It's all…precise. You have the get the quantities right, otherwise it just doesn't work." She frowns for a moment, glances down at the plate before her. "And cooking…it's…I sort of have a bit of a problem with food."
Mr Gold doesn't say anything for a moment. He cuts a piece of omelette, eats it, his gaze thoughtful. Isabelle concentrates on eating, but she can feel the way he watches her, she's sure she knows what he's thinking about.
"You seem to be coping admirably," he says at last. Isabelle huffs a laugh, shakes her head. "Miss French, you were locked away for a very long time. You seem to have adjusted extraordinarily well to your changed circumstances."
Isabelle swallows, shrugs. "Maybe," she whispers. She thinks about Mayor Mills; thinks about the way she still avoids crowded places; thinks about her father. Archie says she's doing well, he's proud of her, but Isabelle knows there's still a long way to go.
"Anyway, I told you to call me Isabelle," she says, pushing away the fear and the doubt. Mr Gold shrugs a shoulder, says nothing. "It's not that hard," she coaxes. "And if we're going to be friends, you should be able to call me by my first name."
"And are we?" he asks then, leaning back slightly in his chair, and Isabelle's mouth is dry, but it's not fear or panic. There's something in the way he looks at her…
"I hope so," she manages. "I'd like to be friends with you."
"As you have no doubt been informed," he says, a harsh edge to his voice, "I don't have friends. I have business arrangements."
Isabelle puts her fork down, tilts her head as she looks at him. "If I was just a business arrangement, you wouldn't have invited me for supper," she says plainly. "Tell me I'm wrong, if you like." He doesn't say anything, and Isabelle swallows, folds her hands together. "I know some of what you've done for me," she says, voice low. "I can guess at the rest. But you haven't asked anything of me except my company. I think that makes us friends."
"You're missing a yet, dear," he says, still with that bite, and for a moment she sees a dragon in him, sees the sleeping dragon awoken. "I haven't asked anything of you yet. Haven't you heard? I always collect."
Isabelle nods slowly. "Yes, I've heard," she says. "But I'm right. This isn't business." He doesn't say anything, and she picks up her fork again, cuts a piece of omelette. "This really is very good," she says. "You will teach me how to make it, won't you?"
"If you like," he says eventually, repeating his earlier answer.
"I do," she says, glances up at him. There's more in her words than the surface, and she hopes he understands. He resumes eating, but he can't seem to stop looking at her, glances away only long enough to spear omelette with his fork before his gaze returns to her.
It's flattering, if a little unnerving sometimes, this intense scrutiny. It's like he's afraid if he looks away for too long she'll disappear – and yet he hasn't sought her out. Their first two meetings had been coincidental, and since then she's been the one to go to him. She's been the one who instigated conversation, and only then has he extended his invitations.
She wonders who he lost, to make him so scared of losing someone else. It's not a question she can ask now, though. Perhaps in time, but not now.
They don't speak again until they've finished, and then Mr Gold collects her plate, takes it to the sink and returns with the brownies.
"I don't have anything to go with them," he tells her, opening the box and placing it between them on the table.
"They're good enough alone," says Isabelle, smiling at him. "Go on, try one." He lifts an eyebrow, amused by her enthusiasm, but he takes a brownie and tries it. Isabelle waits for her verdict, reaches for her own brownie.
"Very good," he decides at last. "Did you make them from scratch?"
"Yup." Isabelle has tried packet mixes of brownies, but hadn't liked them. It had taken three different recipes to come up with a brownie she does like, but she thinks it's pretty perfect. Just moist enough, just rich enough. She takes a bite now, hums happily, and smiles at him. "Like I said," she says, "I'm good with baking."
"It seems so," he agrees. "Far better than my usual fare."
"Ooh, watch out," says Isabelle, teasing now, "I seem to be forcing my baking on everyone. I'll end up bringing round a whole load of stuff that you don't really want."
"I can't imagine ever turning you away, dearie." The words seem unintentional, and he flinches slightly as she stares at him, startled.
Dearie, she thinks. She's heard that before. She's been called that before. But he doesn't usually say it – usually it's 'dear'.
Dearie.
Sometimes, Isabelle thinks the world doesn't make sense. She wonders, sometimes, if she's more ill than Archie thinks. If these occasional flashes of…of some sort of sense memory are enough to indicate mental illness.
"Well," she says at last, "I guess dearie is a step up from Miss French." She finishes her brownie, licks a chocolate streak from her thumb. He's watching her, she realises, and she feels her cheeks heat at the look on his face. His eyes follow the movement of her hand, her mouth.
She feels incredibly aware of her own skin as he watches her. She thinks, for a moment, that there's no way this can turn out well. He's older than she is, and cynical, and hurting. And she's so very broken. Attraction, she tells herself, can never be a strong basis for two people who hurt so very much. But he's looking at her like…like he wants to be the one to lick her fingers free from chocolate, and her heartbeat feels a little too fast, her mouth a little too dry.
"I might have another," she mumbles, reaches for the box. Mr Gold finishes his own brownie, neat and fastidious, and helps himself to a second piece as well.
"These really are very good," he says. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," says Isabelle, and can't quite meet his eyes.