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.
"Dammit, dammit, dammit," mutters Isabelle as the keys slip through her fingers. It's late, almost dark, and it's pouring with rain – the skies had opened when she was halfway to the library, and she'd not brought even a jacket with her, let alone an umbrella. She's absolutely soaked, and her fingers are so cold and numb that she can't manage the key properly.
She's taken to bringing her course materials with her to the library, because it's not that busy, and she seems to spend a lot of time sitting waiting for somebody to come in – and today she'd been in such a hurry leaving, due back at the apartment to help Henry with his English homework, that she'd left all her notes behind.
She bends over, retrieves the keys, tries to put the correct one in the lock. But her hands are shaking, and she can't quite manage it. She curses again, kicks the door in a fit of bad temper.
"Miss French, whatever are you doing?"
Despite the rain, despite how cold she is and how cross she is with herself, Isabelle smiles as she turns to see Mr Gold. He is dressed for the weather, holding an umbrella in the hand that isn't holding his cane.
"Mostly, I'm kicking myself," she says, pushing wet hair out of her eyes. "I left my notes here, and I can't get the door open."
"And your aversion to umbrellas?" he says with a raised eyebrow, stepping towards her and plucking the keys from her hand. He reaches past her, puts the key in the lock and turns it.
"It wasn't raining when I set out," she tries to explain.
"I see," he says, and she thinks he's smiling as he ushers her into the dark library and closes up his umbrella. "You'll catch a cold if you're not careful, Miss French."
"Oh, are we back to Miss French?" she complains, reaching for the light switch. "I've told you to call me Isabelle." She goes to the desk, looks down at her pile of notes and makes a face. Of course she hasn't got a bag, and she's so wet she's afraid of picking the notes up.
"So you have," he says, close behind her, and she glances over her shoulder, offers him a smile. "I hadn't forgotten," he adds, and his gaze flickers across her, makes her shiver in a way that doesn't have anything to do with the cold.
Then he glances away, down at the notes on the desk. "You came out and risked a cold for some papers?" he asks, disapproval evident, and Isabelle shrugs, goes around the desk and opens a drawer. There's some plastic bags there, which will hopefully be enough to keep her notes safe.
"It's for my GED," she explains. "I never graduated, you see." She carefully manoeuvres the notes into a bag, and then puts that bag into a second one. She glances up at him, offers a smile. "You were going to come and see me," she reminds him. "The library's been open a fortnight. I've been looking forward to it."
"Have you?" There's something pleased in his voice, although his face is a deliberate blank. "I do apologise. If I'd known you were so eager, I would have come sooner, of course."
"I didn't mean – I mean, of course, I know you're busy," Isabelle falters. "I didn't meant to make you think…" She shrugs, feels awkward, but she thinks he understands – hopes he understands.
Then she shivers again, cold water dripping down her collar, clothing plastered to her body.
"My car is just down the road," Mr Gold says then. "Will you let me drive you home? You really shouldn't go back out there without a coat, at least." He pauses for a moment, gaze flickering across her. "Really, Miss French, you're soaked through."
"Isabelle," she insists. "Please." He shrugs, doesn't answer. "And yes, thank you," she adds, "that would be great. But I'm soaking, your car – I'll get the seat wet."
"Here," he says, and he leans his umbrella up against the wall, unbuttons his coat. "Believe me, dearie, you're far more important than the car," he adds, and Isabelle flushes, pleased at the confession, pleased he's said it. He steps towards her, offers the coat, and Isabelle puts it on, slides her arms into the sleeves and laughs at how big it is on her.
It smells like him, she realises – and wonders how she knows what he smells like. But it's a familiar scent somehow, and comforting.
"There," he says softly, "much better." He reaches out, adjusts the collar, and Isabelle holds her breath. He's close to her, so close, she could just…
But she's scared, and she drops her gaze, even though his hand lingers. She's scared and hates herself for it, but she can't remember the last time she kissed anybody, can't remember the last time anybody wanted to kiss her.
"Oh, Belle," he murmurs, and Isabelle pulls back from him, startled. For a moment she can't see him – for a moment there's someone else standing before her, someone with Mr Gold's eyes and a wider smile.
"Why – why did you call me that?" she asks, shakily. "Nobody's ever…I don't…" Nobody's ever called her that, she wants to say, except…except she's not sure that's true. It feels familiar. Just like Henry's book and the picture of the spinning wheel, just like Mr Gold himself.
It feels natural. But she's sure nobody's ever called her that before.
Mr Gold's shaken too, she can see, although he's trying not to show it. He steps away from her, creates distance between them, goes to retrieve his umbrella.
"My apologies," he says, smooth and distant once more. "Won't happen again."
"No, I – " She cuts herself off, uncertain and afraid. She's sure she's made a mistake, sure she's pushed him away when she didn't mean to. "Please," she says, stretches a hand out to him. "Please don't…"
Please don't go away, she means, but she can't quite say it. Mr Gold turns back to her, eyes narrowed as he glances from her face to her outstretched hand. She can't tell what he's thinking, can't tell if he understands what she wants to say.
"Don't forget your notes," he says at last, and Isabelle bites her lip hard enough to hurt. But she picks up her notes, holds them close to her chest, follows him to the door. She turns off the light and they step outside; the rain is heavier than before, and she's glad of his coat, thick and warm. Her fingers are warmer now and she manages to turn the key in the lock, puts the keychain into the pocket of her jeans.
Mr Gold opens his umbrella, and she has to step close to him to be under its cover. He offers his arm, and she links hers through it, leans against him just a little. He doesn't comment on it, leads her away from the library, down the street towards his car.
He doesn't speak, and neither does she; and anyway, the rain is fierce and heavy and loud, any conversation would have to be half-shouted to be heard.
When they reach the car he holds the door open for her, and Isabelle finds herself once again charmed by his manners. He might pretend otherwise, she thinks, but at heart he's a gentleman. He treats her like she's a lady, like she's worthy of such treatment, and it's nice to feel like that.
She watches through the window as he walks around the car, huddles into his coat, smells sandalwood and wet wool. Then he gets in, putting the cane down beside his seat, and he glances at her.
"I'm afraid I left my keys in the pocket," he tells her. "If you wouldn't mind?" Isabelle nods, puts her hand into the pocket of the coat, finds the keys and passes them over. His fingers brush against hers, and she's sure it's deliberate but doesn't say anything about it. He starts the engine, hesitates for a moment before moving the car away from the kerb.
It's not a long drive, but Isabelle savours every moment of it, commits every sensory impression to memory. The feel of the coat around her; the smell of it. The rain on the windscreen and her notes, wrapped in plastic bags, on her lap. Mr Gold next to her, focused on the road but she catches him glancing at her every few minutes.
Once again she's struck by the sense that he's afraid she'll disappear if he looks away for too long. And yet, she reminds herself, he's never sought her out. He could have come to see her at any point over the past two weeks – she'd invited him to, after all.
Perhaps she's completely misreading the whole thing.
He pulls up outside the apartment building and Isabelle glances up at it, sees the lights on. Emma and Mary Margaret are probably worrying about her, she realises – but she doesn't want to get out of the car, not just yet.
"I don't mind," she says, when it's clear he won't speak first. "I was just…startled." She glances at him, finds him staring straight ahead. Brave, she thinks. Be brave. "I quite like it," she admits, and now he does glance at her, just briefly.
"Do you," he says, not quite a question, but Isabelle nods anyway. "Well."
Isabelle pulls her arms from the sleeves of his coat reluctantly, picks up her plastic-wrapped notes. It's something, she thinks, but she's not sure what that something is. There's so much hidden in him, and she thinks it would take an eternity to peel back all the layers. She's only known him a few weeks, only met him a handful of times. Far too soon, she thinks, to be trying to understand what he's thinking and feeling.
She wishes she'd been brave enough to kiss him earlier, but knows she's not really ready for it. Not yet.
"Tomorrow's Saturday," she says, and she turns in the car seat, angles herself towards him. Mr Gold rests his hands on the steering wheel, but he's looking at her now. Amused, sardonic, and she's not surprised when he answers with sarcasm.
"Is it really?" he says. "Well, thank you for letting me know."
Isabelle huffs, rolls her eyes. "I mean," she says, "that the library closes at midday tomorrow."
"Ah." He nods slowly, thoughtfully, and Isabelle waits. She lets hope flutter in her stomach, in her heart. This is perhaps not the wisest course of action, but she's never heard that hearts are wise. "I suppose," he says, "if you wanted to present me with some more of your delicious baked goods, I might find myself at home tomorrow afternoon."
A grin creeps across Isabelle's face, uncontainable, and she thinks she sees an answering smile lurking behind his eyes.
"You only want me for my baking," she teases, amazed at her own daring – amazed at the sudden, heated look on his face. It's gone before she can do more than draw breath, but it was undeniably there.
"Oh no, dearie," he says, softer than she's ever heard him before. "Not just your baking." He doesn't expand, doesn't add anything to it, and Isabelle is blushing. Mouth dry, heart beating just a little too fast, she hugs her notes to herself and stares at him.
Finally he nods at her, reaches across to open the door. His arm brushes hers, but he doesn't linger. "You'll excuse me for not getting out," he says. "The rain. You understand."
"Yes, of course," Isabelle mutters. The rain's coming in, and she doesn't want to let his car get wet, can't stay here any longer. "Thank you for the ride," she says. "And the coat." He nods, smiles faintly, and Isabelle slides out of the car, flinches as the rain hits her. She turns, leans down to look at him one more time. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says, and his smile deepens, just a little.
"Tomorrow, then," he agrees. "Good evening, Miss French."
She shuts the car door; it's too wet to watch him leave, so she goes into the apartment building, shakes herself off. Tomorrow, and she's excited, she realises. For perhaps the first time since leaving the hospital, she's really excited about something.