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's still shaking two hours later when she leaves the apartment. Emma and Mary Margaret had tried to persuade her to stay at home – to call Archie and tell him what happened, and then spend the afternoon where they can see her, and make sure she's safe.
But Isabelle is expected, and despite Emma's valour, she knows there's nowhere safer for her to be than with Mr Gold.
Still, Mary Margaret comes with her, walks her to Mr Gold's house to make sure she arrives safely, makes her promise to either ask Mr Gold to drive her back, or call for Mary Margaret or Emma to come and collect her. It's a promise Isabelle doesn't mind making, because she's shaking and terrified still, even though everyone's promised she's safe.
Mr Gold opens the door before she reaches it, looks her over and his frown is deep and foreboding.
"What happened?" he demands, and Isabelle can't quite manage to speak. He shakes his head, ushers her inside. "Are you alright?" he asks, closing the front door behind her, gesturing for her to precede him into the lounge.
"I – no," she whispers, and she feels herself near tears, lifts her hands to cover her face. "No," she repeats, and in a moment she feels his hand on her shoulder. A sob chokes her, and she drops her hands, looks up at him. He's not that much taller than she is, she realises. He looks almost bewildered, as if he doesn't know how to deal with tears and anguish, and she tries to regain control. "Sorry," she mumbles. "I should probably – I'm being a nuisance."
"You're not a nuisance, dearie," he says gently. "What's happened?"
"I – she –"
She doesn't need to say more; Mr Gold comprehends immediately, and his gaze turns into stormy thunder.
"What did she do?" he demands, and Isabelle shrugs, wishes she were brave enough to lean into him, to demand he hold her and protect her. She wants it, in this moment she wants it more than anything else. But she does not feel brave right now. She feels scared, alone, vulnerable, and she wants him to hold her but isn't brave enough to ask for it. "Belle, please, you must tell me," he says, and Isabelle's breath catches in her throat.
"You called me Belle again," she whispers, and Mr Gold shakes his head, impatient, as if what he calls her doesn't matter.
"Slip of the tongue," he says. "Come and sit down. You're shaking."
"I haven't stopped," Isabelle confesses, lets him draw her to the couch. He sits down beside her, takes her hand, and she wants to smile because despite her fear, despite what a mess she is, he's holding her hand and she likes it.
"When did you see her?" he asks, and Isabelle has to think for a moment, has to tear her concentration away from the feel of his hand, warm and calloused, his thumb brushing back and forth ever-so-slightly across her skin.
"She came to the library," she says. "Well, my father came, and she was with him," she corrects herself. There's a snarl on his face, and Isabelle squeezes his hand gently. "I'm alright," she says. "I mean…I'm not, but…"
Mr Gold glances down at their joined hands, almost as if he hadn't realised he'd reached out to her. His mouth moves for a moment without words, and then he looks back at her, manages a thin smile.
"Go on," he says. So Isabelle tells him, slow and faltering, what had happened at the library. She tells him what her father said, what Mayor Mills said, tells him about Emma coming to her rescue just at the right moment, just before Isabelle fell apart completely. He sneers faintly at that, mutters something about heroic impulses, but then he laces his fingers through hers, the sneer fading away as he looks at her.
"And you're still shaking, two hours later," he murmurs. "I'll skin her alive."
Isabelle gives a startled laugh. "Well, I hope not," she says. "Wouldn't it be kind of messy?" He gives her a flash of a grin, and Isabelle stares for a moment, thinks she sees something else in him. Something hidden behind his face, something ancient and powerful. Then it's gone, and all she's aware of is the concern in his eyes, her hand in his.
"You're quite right," he says. "Perhaps something with a little more finesse." He looks her over once again, lips pressed together in a thin line. "I said she wouldn't get you, dearie," he reminds her. "I always keep my word."
Isabelle tilts her head, smiles a little. "I know," she says. "But don't you always ask for something in return? Isn't that the way it works?"
"As you pointed out, Miss French, we're not business associates," says Mr Gold, retreating back into formality, releasing her hand. Isabelle feels disappointed, wishes she could reach out and take his hand back. "Besides," he continues, "I may be mistaken, but I think I remember something about baked goods?"
She smiles properly then, widely. "I told you," she says. "You're just interested in my baking."
His gaze turns heated, just for a moment before it gentles into something softer, something fonder. "And I told you," he says, "there's far more to it than that." She thinks he wants to reach out again, thinks he wants to touch her again. She holds her breath for a moment, hoping and wishing with all her heart. But he doesn't, and Isabelle feels her bravery has been used up today.
He leans towards her, just a little, just enough for her heart to start beating faster. Then, with a faint, almost regretful smile, he leans back, rises and retrieves his cane.
"Tea?" he asks her, and Isabelle nods.
"Please," she says. "Can I help?"
He's amused, shakes his head. "I think I can manage," he says dryly. "Make yourself at home. I won't be long."
He leaves the lounge, goes through to the kitchen, and Isabelle gets up, goes at once to the bookcase in the corner. She's always drawn to books, and she spends a happy few minutes perusing the titles, learning about Mr Gold through the books he reads and chooses to keep in his home. History, art, law – all well-represented on the shelves. There are a few novels, mostly classics, and a couple of volumes on architecture. Fact rather than fiction, but a wide range.
She turns, intends to go back to the couch and her discarded bag, which holds a box full of white chocolate and raspberry cookies, but she stops. Something stops her, and Isabelle steps towards the glass-fronted cabinet, frowning as she looks at the cup on display there.
A cup she's seen before. She's absolutely sure she's seen that cup before, white with a blue print on it, a chip in the rim. She's sure she's seen it before, but she can't think when…
Can't think…
Dizzy, she staggers and catches herself against the back of a chair.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes," she says, glances over her shoulder to see him. The cane's hooked over his arm, he's limping slowly through with a tray of tea things, and she hurries to take it from him. She sets it down on the coffee table and can't help a glance back at the cabinet.
"Is something the matter?" he asks, and he follows her gaze. She turns back to him just in time to see his flinch, just in time to see the grief before he hides it away again. He hides so much, so much buried deep within, and she's barely scratched the surface.
"That cup," she says after a long moment. "I've seen it before."
"I doubt that," he says, almost careless. He sits down on the sofa again, leans forward to check the tea in the pot. "It's…a relic, you might say. A memento."
"No, I'm sure," says Isabelle. There's a sound in her ears, something like the sound of the sea, crashing all around her. Pressure in her head, and she closes her eyes, shakes herself. "I – I can't think where," she says faintly. "But I'm sure…"
"Come and have a cup of tea," he suggests. "You're still shaken."
"No, I – I…" Isabelle can't find the words, opens her eyes again and drifts to the sofa, sits down next to him and clasps her hands together tightly. "Yes," she says at last. "Yes, tea would be…I'm sorry, I don't know what…" She shakes her head, looks up at him. "But I'm sure I've seen it," she says. "And that's not the first time this has happened. Henry has this book…"
"Yes, I've heard about Henry's book." He stirs milk into his tea, glances at her sidelong. "What in particular seemed familiar?"
"There was a picture," says Isabelle slowly, cradling her cup in her hands. "There was…it sounds crazy. I know I sound crazy."
"My dear, you're perfectly sane," says Mr Gold. "And believe me, I've met a few people who could test the definition of insanity." A flash of a grin, and he turns to face her, waits for an answer to his question. Isabelle licks her lips, considers him for a moment. Of all people, she thinks, he will not judge her. She's not sure why she thinks that, but it's true, a truth she feels deep in her heart.
"There was a picture of a spinning wheel," she tells him, and is a little scared by the surprise she glimpses on his face for a moment before he conceals it. "I'd never seen the book before – I didn't know the stories – but I knew that picture."
"That…is very strange," he murmurs. "But I'm sure it's just a coincidence. Sometimes we think we've seen something but it's just an illusion. A sense of deja-vu, perhaps."
"No, this is…this is different." Isabelle sighs, sips her tea. "I'm sorry, I'm not…quite right, today." She puts her tea down, reaches for her bag and pulls out the box of cookies. "Emma and Mary Margaret wanted me to stay home," she goes on, "but I…I wanted to come."
"I'm very pleased that you did," he says.
"Even though I'm a complete mess?" she says with a smile. The teacup, and its familiarity, is fading from her mind, slipping through her grasp, and she doesn't care. She lets it go, concentrates on sitting here in this room with this man.
"Hardly a mess," he says, and there's a dangerous glint in his eyes, the darkness she'd seen earlier when he'd muttered a threat against Regina Mills. It should make Isabelle feel scared, but instead all she feels is safe.
"I'm glad I came," she says. "I…I'm…" She shrugs, flushing, opens the box of cookies and puts them on the coffee table. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you?" she says, not quite looking at him. "If I were being too…if you want me to go? I know I'm not…I mean, I'm sane, but I'm not…always quite right."
"Oh, dearie, I don't want you to go." He takes her hand again, brushes his thumb across her knuckles, and she shivers. "And as far as I'm concerned, you're just fine." She lifts her eyes to his, feels heat curling in her stomach and knows he feels it too. "But I would tell you," he murmurs. "And in return…tell me if we're not on the same page, dearie?"
"I will," she whispers. "But…but I think we are."