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.

Voices wake her, angry voices, pulling her out of blissful unconsciousness and into the harsh waking world. Belle pushes aside her covers, goes to her bedroom door and opens it a little, just enough to hear the words being flung near the front door of the apartment.

"You're not going to see her," Emma is saying, voice carefully controlled so it doesn't rise into a shout although it's clear the urge to yell is there. "I never thought it was a good idea, and now I know it wasn't."

"You're not her keeper, Sheriff Swan."

It's him, he's here, and Belle's heart leaps at that, even as it makes her cringe away from the door. She wants to see him, and yet she doesn't. It's all so complicated now, and it was complicated enough before, when she was simply Isabelle French and her memories were locked away in a cage.

She wonders, briefly, if she's gone mad. Except she knows the taste of madness, had lost a little of her sanity in those long months and years trapped in the Queen's castle. This is not madness; this is truth. She knows it just as she knows the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

This isn't madness, and he is the only person who has answers for her. She has to talk to him at some point even if just to coax those answers from him.

"No, I'm not, I'm her friend. And as her friend I'm telling you, you're not seeing her!"

"Emma…" Mary Margaret this time, soft and soothing. "Keep your voice down. Both of you. She's still asleep." Isabelle bites her lip gently, wonders whether Mary Margaret is glaring, wonders if she's got her 'teacher' face on. Mary Margaret is stronger than most people realise, more in control than most people know. She will keep Emma and Mr Gold from shouting at each other, at least.

"If she doesn't want to see me, I will respect her wishes," says Mr Gold. There's strain in his voice, but Belle thinks she's the only one to recognise it. Nobody else knows him the way she does, except perhaps Regina. Perhaps the Queen, who has been Rumplestiltskin's enemy for so long, would be able to hear the strain – but Belle thinks not. "But I want to hear that from her. Not from you, Sheriff."

"I'm not letting you near her," snarls Emma, a fierce lioness protecting what she considers hers to protect. "If you think for one second that after whatever you did –"

Belle pulls her bedroom door open, steps out. "It's alright, Emma," she says, and she sounds more subdued than she'd hoped. They're all looking at her, Emma and Mary Margaret and Mr Gold, and she flushes as she realises she's in her pyjamas still, flushes at the look he gives her, just for a moment.

"Isabelle, you don't have to do this," says Emma, stepping towards her, hand outstretched. "Not today, not ever if you don't want to."

"It's alright," Belle repeats. "I want to see him." She catches a flash of something on Mr Gold's face, hidden before she can put a name to it; Emma's scowling, and Mary Margaret is frowning too. They can't understand what she's doing, or why she's doing it.

But they don't know what she knows.

"Isabelle, are you sure?" Mary Margaret asks. "You don't have to do it right now. He can come back when you've had something to eat, got dressed…"

"No," says Isabelle. "Now." She doesn't want him in her bedroom, but there's no other private space here, and she glances around, twists her hands together. "Do you – would you guys mind –"

"I've got to get to work anyway," says Mary Margaret quickly. "Emma, come on."

"I don't think we should –"

"Please, Emma," says Belle. They look at each other for a long moment, and Emma's concern is touching, but Belle thinks she knows what she's doing. Finally Emma sighs, nods. She grabs her jacket from the hook by the door and follows Mary Margaret out of the apartment.

The door closes behind them, and Belle looks at Rumplestiltskin – at Mr Gold – and wonders what she can possibly say. How she can possibly start.

"Miss French," he begins, and Belle shakes her head, holds up a hand.

"Please," she says, "don't." She closes her eyes for a moment, hugs herself. "Please don't call me that," she whispers.

"Forgive me, but it seemed…" He's awkward, and it doesn't suit him, but Belle isn't sure she can find words to reassure him. She opens her eyes, looks at him. He looks frailer than she remembers, somehow. Older. There's the stick, of course, which he didn't have in that other place, but that's not all. She's hurt him – running from him yesterday hurt him, and she can't make that right. She can't take it back.

All she can do is speak the truth now, reveal to him what has been revealed to her. But she can't seem to begin. So much has gone between them, and so much of it hurts, and she doesn't know how to begin.

"It's not my name," she says at last, and Mr Gold frowns, lifts his chin slightly as he looks at her. "You know my name," she says. "Call me by my name, please?"

"I don't quite –"

"Please," Belle says, and she steps towards him, shuffles forward in her bare feet and pyjamas that hang off her hips and shoulders even though she's regained a little weight. "Please."

"…Belle?" The word falls from his mouth, full of disbelief and uncertainty, and Belle's breath catches in her throat. She nods, waits for more, and he takes a step towards her, the cane thumping on the floor. "What's going on?" he asks, a murmur, and Belle shrugs her shoulders, drops her arms to her sides.

"I don't know," she says. "I really, really don't know." Her feet are cold; she needs to go and get socks or slippers, but she won't, not now. "Where are we?" she asks, and hates how scared her voice sounds.

"What do you mean?"

"I remember…everything," Belle says, glancing away from him. "I remember the day the Mayor came and put me in the hospital. And I remember the day the Queen took me from the road and put me in her tower."

He inhales, shocked and sharp, and in moments he's right in front of her, the cane discarded and clattering on the floor, his hands tight on her shoulders.

"Belle," he breathes, and there's wonder on his face, wonder and fear, such a strange combination. "How can you possibly remember that?" He's so close she can feel his breath, can see every line and wrinkle on his face. His eyes aren't quite as dark as they were before, and his skin is so much paler, but it is him. It is him.

"I don't know," she whispers. "I kissed you and I remembered." There's something in that – she knows the power of kisses – but she can't quite put her finger on it, not with him looking at her like that. As if he wants to hold her close and never let her go, but scared at the same time. This scares him, her remembering. "Rumplestiltskin," she whispers, and he shudders, his mouth moves in silent words. She wonders how long it has been since anyone spoke his name. "Rumplestiltskin," she repeats, just for the pleasure of it. "Where are we?"

"I hardly think that's the important question," he says, and he lifts a hand from her shoulder, traces his fingers across her cheek, her mouth. "Belle…" And then he crushes her to him, pulls her so close she can hardly tell where she ends and he begins, holds her so tightly she can barely breathe but she doesn't care. She doesn't care, because she's wanted this for so long, for so many years. She's wanted to be in his arms in both the lives she remembers, and she closes her eyes and clings to him.

She doesn't know how much time passes; eventually his grip relaxes, eventually she pulls away a little. He lifts his hands to cup her face, strokes his thumb across her cheekbone.

"Belle," he whispers. "I thought you were dead." Belle nods; she knows. The Queen had rejoiced in telling her that her beloved – the creature who had flung her aside – believed she was dead. "I shouldn't have believed her," he goes on. "I should never have…" His hands drop to her waist; he holds her close again, and Belle lifts her arms around his neck, presses her face into his shoulder. "I should have looked for you."

"It's done," she says softly. "I'm here now."

"Yes."

"It's all…jumbled together in my head," she says, trying to explain to him how it feels, what she remembers. "I remember…ten years in the hospital. But it was more than ten years. I mean…I know it was more than that, but it's…it's all…"

"Two sets of memories working against each other," he says, nodding. "And I imagine the reawakening was…traumatic." His fingers dig in to her waist, slip beneath the hem of her pyjama top to touch skin. Belle shivers, and he moves his hands at once. "Forgive me," he murmurs.

"There's nothing to forgive," she says, and she means it. There is nothing to forgive, for she forgave him long ago. She lifts her head, looks at him, sees the anguish hidden behind his eyes and she offers a gentle smile. "I'm here now," she says again. "And you…you're…" Her courage fails her, the insecurities that are ingrained from her existence here stopping the words even as she tries to speak them. You're a man, she wants to say, and you're with me.

"It's a curse," he says after a long moment, and Belle nods. "I imagine that's why…why you remember now." He offers a thin smile, lips pressed together, hiding his own insecurities behind a sardonic expression. "You know what they say about true love's kiss."

"Then you do love me," Belle breathes, hope and love and joy filling up her heart and spilling out. "Still?"

"Always," Rumplestiltskin tells her, and he is brave then, braver than she; he cups her head in his hands and brings his mouth to hers. He kisses her, soft and gentle but desperate at the same time. It's been so long – so many years. So much pain. And he kisses her now as if he's afraid she will disappear. As if he's afraid she'll reject him as he once rejected her.

She doesn't; she presses herself closer to him, closes her eyes and tries to show him how she feels.

They part at last, and with a twist of his mouth that might be a grimace, he bends to retrieve his cane.

"I imagine Sheriff Swan will be returning shortly," he says. "I should…" Leave, he doesn't say, and she doesn't want him to go but forces herself to nod.

"I think Archie will be here soon, as well," she says softly. "I should get dressed." His gaze moves over her, heated and intent, and Belle feels exposed, but not necessarily in a bad way. "I don't want you to go," she admits then, and is rewarded with relief flashing across his expression.

"I have to," he says. "For now." He leans on his cane, both hands on the handle as if to prevent himself from reaching out to her again. "There are things we should talk about," he goes on. "About the curse, for one thing."

"Yeah." Isabelle tugs at the hem of her top, bites her lip for a moment. "I, um…I guess I've got to open up the library today, but it's usually quiet on a Monday."

Mr Gold nods, thoughtful. "I close the shop for an hour at midday," he says. "Shall I bring you something, for lunch?"

Belle smiles, nods. "I'd love that," she says, and Mr Gold gives her one last look, disbelief and awe and fear still, and she knows she needs to ask about that – but later. Not now. It's not important right now. She closes the gap between them, lifts her face to his once more, and his kiss is a promise.

No update tomorrow night, I'm afraid *ducks* I'm heading to London to see a show. Normal service will resume on Saturday :)