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 hums as she works, wandering around her tiny bedroom, tidying things away and dusting as she goes. It's Sunday and she isn't working today – is thankful for it, after what had happened yesterday at the library – and she's planning on cleaning her bedroom, doing her allotted weekly chores around the rest of the apartment, and then…

And then, she thinks, with a shiver of happiness…then she is going to go out and see Mr Gold. Nothing explicit had been said, no plans set in stone, but he'd mentioned – quite casual except for the glint in his eye – that he'd be home by late afternoon today.

She wants to think it's all too much, too soon. She'd stayed at his house for two hours yesterday afternoon, and their conversation had ranged over diverse topics – but always with his eyes fixed upon her, the feeling that she was at the centre of his attention. It is a heady feeling, and Isabelle thinks perhaps she should be a little afraid of it.

But he likes her; he desires her. Despite everything, despite the ten years, despite the way she reacts – and over-reacts – to the simplest things, despite…

Despite everything, he wants her. And Isabelle likes him, is attracted to him. She wants to see what's there, to peel back the outer layers and discover the richness within this strange new relationship she is forging.

"You sound bouncy," observes Emma from the doorway, and Isabelle sends her a grin, pauses and pushes her hair out of her eyes.

"I feel good," she says. "Today is a good day."

"Given how you were feeling yesterday, I'm pleased," says Emma, and Isabelle stifles a sigh, knows what's coming. "I guess that has something to do with Mr Gold?"

Isabelle puts her duster down, drops it onto the bookcase and hugs herself as she turns to face Emma properly. "Yes," she says, refusing to be anything less than honest. "Yes, I suppose it does."

"Isabelle," Emma sighs. She leans against the doorframe, presses her lips together tightly as she observes Isabelle. She sighs again, shakes her head. "I don't want to sound like I'm patronising you," she says quietly. "I really don't mean it to come across that way. You're an adult, and you know what you're doing."

"But?"

"But he's dangerous, Isabelle," says Emma, stepping into the room, her expression anxious, concerned. "He's – I've never met anybody who sets my teeth on edge like he does."

"I'm not afraid of him," says Isabelle softly. "And I'm afraid of so much, Emma." She closes her eyes for a moment, thinks of that dangerous darkness that she knows is in him. "He's not…he's not dangerous to me."

"How do you know that?" Emma asked, frustrated. "How can you possibly tell?"

"Because he's nothing like Regina Mills."

"Nobody's like Regina, thank goodness," Emma says with a roll of her eyes. "But you can see why I'm concerned, can't you?"

Isabelle glances away, considers her words for a long moment. "Would you be concerned if I were anyone else?" she asks at last. "If I hadn't…if I weren't…"

"Of course I would," says Emma at once, and Isabelle has to believe her – has to when Emma's answer is so quick and clearly so heartfelt. "You're my friend, and I'd be just as concerned about any of my friends getting involved with someone like him."

"Someone like him," Isabelle murmurs. "I don't – I don't think there isanyone quite like him, Emma." She goes to the bed, sits down, drops her hands into her lap. "I'm sure you're right," she says. "But I…"

"But what, Isabelle?" Emma asks, coming to join her on the bed. "Look…do you like him? I mean, really like him? Enough to ignore the things he does?"

"I don't know," Isabelle has to admit. "I haven't…really seen any of that. I know I haven't, I know he's…he's making sure I only see the nice stuff. But isn't that what dating is about?"

Emma's silent for a moment, takes a breath. "Dating," she repeats at last. "Is that what you're doing?"

"Isn't it?" Isabelle asks, glancing at Emma. "Isn't that what it is? I haven't dated anyone in over ten years, Emma – is that what we're doing?"

"I think it might be," says Emma slowly. "It…certainly sounds like you're dating. I just…can't get my head around Mr Gold dating." Isabelle is startled into a laugh, and after a moment Emma joins her. It is strange, thinking of Mr Gold dating. He's not anything like the kind of boys she dated in high school – he's so much older, for one thing, so much more dignified. Dating is…she tends to think it's for younger people, somehow.

Courting, her mind supplies. Courting is more appropriate. That seems to fit better with what she and Mr Gold are doing.

"I guess what I'm saying," says Emma, "is that…I just want you to be safe and happy."

It warms her, this friendly concern – and it's not patronising, as Emma was concerned she would sound. It's friendship and love and caring and it warms Isabelle, makes her feel secure. Perhaps Emma's right and this is not the right thing, not the right path for her. Perhaps Emma's wrong. Perhaps, perhaps. So much is uncertain, and usually Isabelle hates that, hates any uncertainty in her life.

But she doesn't feel uncertain with this, she realises – with Mr Gold and her burgeoning relationship with him. She feels…safe. Certainly safe, that's something he elicits even when he seems at his most dangerous. Safe and loved, although it's too soon for that, far too soon.

"I like him," she says. "A lot. And I think…no. I know. He likes me too."

"Are you sure?" Emma asks in hushed tones. "I mean…you're not just…"

Isabelle thinks of how he'd held her hand, thinks of what he'd said to her. He'd made it clear how he feels, she thinks, made it clear the path he wants to go down with her. He wants to share her story, no matter what that might be, no matter how troubled she is. How scared, how damaged.

"I'm sure," she says. "He's…" She remembers how he looks at her, just occasionally. That heated look, as if he wants everything she's willing to give and many things she's never given to anyone else.

"You're blushing," Emma tells her, and Isabelle lifts her hands to hot cheeks, flushes further as Emma laughs good-naturedly. "Well, that answers one question, anyway!"

"I don't – I'm not – " Isabelle's flustered, can't find the words, can't refute Emma's insinuation and doesn't really want to. This is part of this new relationship she's forging, and she treasures it. She treasures the attraction she's feeling because for so long she'd thought that was lost to her. Ten years of nobody and no way to feel anything like that, of being emotionally and sexually suppressed by the drugs and the isolation, and now…

And now she is attracted to Mr Gold – she doesn't even know his first name, she realises, but she's attracted to him. She wants him, wants to be with him, and she thinks – hopes, perhaps, except it's not a hope. A hope is something kindled in a lonely heart, a hope is something that may have little basis in reality.

This is not a hope; it's a certainty. She knows he feels the same. He wants to be with her, but he's taking his time, giving her the time she needs. She's so damaged in so many ways – and some of the damage she knows will never be repaired, no matter what Archie or Emma or Mary Margaret say. Some of it goes too deep. But he's going to wait for her, he's going to let her take the time to repair what can be repaired. He won't push her into anything, as she suspects Emma fears.

"He understands," she says to her friend. "I don't know how, but…he really seems to understand a lot of what I'm feeling. The things I'm going through." She glances at Emma, curious. "Do you know if he's ever been…locked up?"

"He was in the holding cell for a while after he beat up your father," says Emma, characteristically blunt. "He doesn't have a criminal record apart from that, although I'm absolutely sure he should have." She shakes her head, shrugs a shoulder. "As far as I know, he's got no other experience of jail, or of…psychiatric wards. So I don't know how he understands."

"I guess it's enough that he does," murmurs Isabelle.

"I promise this is the last time I'll ask," Emma says then. "I'll believe you if you tell me it's all okay. But I have to ask. Are you sure he's not…manipulating you, or expecting things from you?" Isabelle inhales, and Emma reaches to take her hand, continues quickly. "He makes deals, Isabelle. That's what he does. He never does something for nothing. If you tell me your relationship isn't about that, I'll believe you. But I need to know."

"It's not," says Isabelle. "I…I know why you're concerned." She looks down at her hand in Emma's, thinks about Mr Gold holding her hand. "We've talked about it, you know," she says. "I think he was…trying to warn me off or something. He said…he said he hadn't asked anything of me yet. That he always collects. But he was testing me, I think." She lifts her gaze again, looks back at Emma's concerned expression. "He doesn't expect anything, he's not going to ask me for anything," she says, firm and clear. He wants things, of course he does, but not…not as a deal. Not as a return for all he's done for her.

He wants her because she is who she is, not because there's something in it for him. He wants her because she is…she is Belle. To him, she is Belle, and that's…

There's pressure in her head, just as there had been yesterday when she'd tried to remember how she knows that chipped cup in Mr Gold's display cabinet. It's not pain, not quite, but a distinct pressure, like the atmosphere around her has changed, as if she's in a plane and her ears need to pop.

There's a barrier and she can't get through it, but she knows if she could just reach through – if she could just grasp hold of something – the whole thing would fall apart.

She shakes her head, the idea fading as quickly as it had arrived, and she smiles at Emma.

"He doesn't want anything from me," she says. "Not like that. He's…I mean, of course he wants things, but…"

"I don't want to know," says Emma with a grimace. "I mean, I'm glad you've found someone you like, but…I don't want to know. I don't want to think about it. There's a bit of an age gap, you know."

"Not that much," says Isabelle with a shrug, although she doesn't know his precise age. Still, she doesn't feel young compared to him – he doesn't feel old to her. "I'm not exactly like most other people my age," she adds. "I couldn't be, you know."

"You're fine the way you are," says Emma, a blessing and a confirmation, and Isabelle finds she needs to hear that; her smile widens. "And like I said, I don't like it – but I won't ask again." She releases Isabelle's hand, stands up. "You were right that day in Granny's," she says softly. "You're not crazy, and you're not stupid. Just remember, I'm here if you need me."

"Thank you," says Isabelle. "You're a good friend, Emma."

"Hey, anybody would be, with your baking," says Emma, teasing. "I guess that's how you're winning Gold over, huh?"

Isabelle laughs, shakes her head, stands up and goes to continue her dusting.