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.
"You look lovely," says Mr Gold, and Isabelle finds herself blushing, brushes a hand over her skirt self-consciously. She'd showered and changed after cleaning her room, and she's wearing a blue sundress that is a little too baggy, with a white cardigan over the top – the weather is mild today, but it will turn colder as the afternoon wears into evening.
"Thank you," she manages to say, before the silence stretches out too long. "It's not – I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" It's nearly five o'clock, a little later than she'd intended to get here, and she's nervous now – made nervous, perhaps, by his frank, appraising stare when he'd answered the door to her.
"Of course not," he says, dismissing her concern and her nerves in one. He doesn't smile, not quite, but there's warmth in his eyes. "I'm glad to see you." Isabelle beams, steps into the house and waits as he closes the door. "I'm doing a spot of gardening, before it gets dark," he says, gestures at the apron he's wearing over his usual attire – no jacket, but suit trousers and a dark red shirt, the sleeves rolled up a little to reveal his forearms. "But you're quite welcome to come out with me."
"I'd love to," says Isabelle, and she follows him through the house to the back door, out into the garden that's larger than she pictured. There's a lawn, and flower beds; a path winds from the back door out across the lawn and around a bend, hidden from sight by a large rose bush. It's neat but not aggressively so; there's enough wildness and disorderliness in the flower beds and the rose bushes to make it far more comfortable and real than any regimented garden.
"It's beautiful," she says, glances up at him and catches a glimpse of a pleased smile. "Can I help?"
"I wouldn't dream of it," he says, retrieving trowel from a basket next to the back door. "It's just a bit of tidying, anyway. Nothing to it, really."
"Alright," says Isabelle agreeably, following him down the garden path, around the rose bush and to the herb garden that she hadn't been able to see from the back door. The smell is heady, even in early spring; Isabelle pauses by a rosemary bush and inhales its scent, smiles at it, smiles at the whole garden. His garden is lovely, and she glances at him, meets his eyes and loses her breath for a moment at the look in his eyes.
The moment passes, and Mr Gold lowers himself carefully to his knees, lays his cane aside and resumes his activities. Isabelle hesitates for a moment then goes to kneel beside him, gestures at the plant he's putting into the soil.
"What's that?" she asks, and his mouth quirks into a smile, all angles and sharpness.
"Always so inquisitive," he murmurs. "That, Miss French, is a mint plant. Mentha piperita, to be precise. I had a plant here before, but it didn't weather the winter."
"I like this," says Isabelle, gesturing around the garden. "I always wanted a herb garden, when I was a kid. And a vegetable garden. But Dad…" She trails off, can't think about it. Even thoughts of her childhood, when she was relatively happy, before the hospitalisation…even those thoughts are too painful to dwell on for long.
Mr Gold doesn't say anything, seems to realise that any words would be futile. He continues his work, digging a hole deep enough for the plant. Isabelle pulls herself together, collects her scattered thoughts and forces them aside. She watches as Mr Gold takes the new plant out of the plastic carton, gently frees its roots and then puts it into the ground. His hands are quick and efficient, even covered in soil. He is as easy here as in his pawnshop or his kitchen.
"You're staring," he comments, and there's a sly tilt to his mouth as he glances sidelong at her. "Am I so interesting, Miss French?"
"No," she says, flushing. "I mean – yes. You are." She can't quite meet his eyes, knows she's bad at this – she doesn't know how to flirt and tease, can't remember the lessons she'd hardly had a chance to learn about this kind of thing in high school. And Mr Gold is different to the boys she'd known then, anyway.
"Yes," she says again, and laughs at the freedom she feels, the ease that comes from simply admitting she finds him fascinating. "And you know it," she adds. "Don't tease me, it's not kind."
"I'm not a kind man, dearie," he reminds her, leaning back on his heels, rubbing his leg absently. She wonders if his leg hurts, kneeling down on the ground like this, but she knows his pride, at least a little. She won't ask about it, will let him ask for help when and if he wants it.
"You're kind enough," she says. She rests her hand on the grass, leans on her arm and folds her legs to one side. The sundress rides up, baring a long, gaunt leg, and she's aware of his gaze lingering on her exposed skin. Flirtatious, she realises, provocative, although unintentional. And she's hardly a beauty, not like this. Perhaps when she regains some weight…but she's too thin, she knows that, there are too many places where the bones jut out just a little too much.
"You're kind to me," she adds.
"You're a special case," Mr Gold murmurs, and Isabelle smiles a pleased smile. She likes knowing she's special to him, likes it said plain and simple, so she knows where she stands.
She likes the way he looks at her, the way he's looking at her now. Hunger and desire, but something deeper too, something stronger. Something…
Something that could last forever. That should scare her, she thinks. This is new and fragile and she should not be thinking of forevers or happily ever afters. It's too soon for any of that. And yet he looks at her as if he would like to look at her every day for the rest of his life.
Then Mr Gold turns away, finishes packing the soil around his new mint plant, brushes his hands together to free them of soil.
"I dislike having to replace plants," he tells her. "Most of these are hardy enough to last the winter, but sometimes I lose one."
"Tell me about them," she coaxes. "Teach me. You know so much and I…don't."
"Yes, well, you were locked away for ten years," he says. It's a statement of fact, said without any sense that perhaps he shouldn't say it, perhaps she's too fragile. She likes that. Most people are nervous of speaking of it, most people think she doesn't want to be reminded. She doesn't, of course, but that doesn't mean she can ever forget. Mr Gold's prosaic mention of it is easier to bear than Mary Margaret's tentative way of speaking around it, or Emma's desire to keep from talking about it with Isabelle at all.
"I missed a lot," Isabelle nods. "But I'm here now." She reaches out, takes his hand despite his protest that his hands are dirty. "Teach me," she says softly. "Please?"
"If you like," he says, just as quiet as she. There's something else there, hidden beneath the surface of his words, but she can't work out what it is. She flushes, tries to tug her hand from his but he doesn't let her go, and she stills. Caught, but not entirely unwillingly. She could pull away if she wants, but she doesn't want to. She wants…
She licks her lips, sees his gaze drop to her mouth, and her heart is pounding in her chest. She wants to lean towards him, wants to reach out and trace the features of his face. The lines on his forehead and his cheeks, the shape of his nose and his mouth. She wants to tangle her fingers in his hair and hold onto him as he kisses her.
Isabelle isn't brave. There is so much that frightens her, so much that makes her feel weak and scared and small. She is scared of small spaces and loud noises. She's scared of her father and of an evil woman with a painted smile. She's scared of herself, sometimes. So much in the world that she hasn't managed to get used to yet, so much that scares her.
She isn't brave, but she wants to be, and she will start now.
She holds Mr Gold's hand and she shifts closer to him; his other hand goes to her waist, so natural, as if they've done this a hundred times before. He's getting soil on her dress but she doesn't care.
"Belle," he murmurs, "what are you doing?"
"I love when you call me that," she says, and she lifts her free hand to rest on his shoulder. "And I'm…being brave." His mouth curls into a smile at that, some private amusement that she isn't privy to, but she doesn't care. She likes his smile.
"Is that what you call it?" he says. "I think there are other words for it, dearie."
"I think I'm being brave," Isabelle whispers, and she leans closer – slowly, so slowly, but he's leaning towards her as well, and her eyes close as his lips meet hers.
She's kissed boys before, years ago. There had been Harry, and Gabe, and a few others. But that was all years ago, before her incarceration.
Mr Gold is not a boy, and his kiss is not tentative in the way the boys at high school had been. He knows exactly what he is doing. His hand at her waist is a heavy weight, and he clutches her hand tight as he kisses her.
Isabelle can't think, can't concentrate on anything except the feel of it. His lips and his tongue and she presses closer to him, clutches at his shoulder. She digs her fingers in and tastes him and for one long, perfect moment, Isabelle is no longer afraid.
She is kissing this man, and he is kissing her back, and she isn't afraid any longer.
And then something breaks inside her head and Isabelle pulls away from him and tries to breathe. She can't quite manage it, can't force her lungs to inhale, can't combat the pain in her head and the agony wrenching at her heart.
It's pressure like the pressure she's felt before but so much worse, unbearable and crushing, and Isabelle wants to scream from it but she can't breathe. There's something clawing at her heart, and she's dimly aware of Mr Gold, can feel his hands on her shoulders. He's clasping her tight, but she can't see him. Everything is dark.
Everything is dark and Isabelle is lost in the darkness. Everything that she is and considers herself to be is being ripped apart. Violently, destructively, it's all being ripped up and it hurts deep down in her bones, deep in her heart.
"Isabelle."
It's her name but it's not, and Isabelle manages to breathe at last, sucks in a great lungful of air, holds it for long moments before releasing it. Another breath, and another, and the pressure in her head is fading now but leaving only chaos behind.
Her heart hurts, and it's an old ache, a familiar one. It's a heartache that she learned to live with, before.
Before. Before means something different now, and she opens her eyes at last. She's lying on the ground, she realises hazily. Warm grass beneath her, blue sky above, and a man leaning over her, fear and panic poorly-concealed on his face.
"Isabelle," he repeats. "Are you alright?"
She looks up at him and knows who he is, knows the shape of his eyes even if the colour of his face is different. She knows him, knows this man kneeling over her. Her mind is broken and she knows who he is.
She scrambles to her feet and she runs.