Belle wouldn't say the rest of the week went well. But it went by fast at least. The first day back after her short break was the hardest. She still ached. Her whole body felt like she had been held against a brick wall while a truck slammed into her…repeatedly. She did her damnedest to hide it though. Each time Gold showed up to taunt her, to watch her work, to just be a complete and utter nuisance, she had smiled brightly, moved quickly. He went away each time grumbling and she hoped it was because she was exceeding his rather pathetic expectations for her.

And she had no doubt at all that he had expected her to walk on the first day. He had poked at her, needled her and insulted her. He continued through the first week, though the remarks had gone from just plain rude to almost teasing. There was a note in his voice, a sort of strange respect lighting his eyes, that made her keep going.

But he still did try to chase her off.

He almost succeeded the middle of the day when he showed up while she was carting water and made her spill it all over the floor. Really, he took great joy in startling her, in leaving her feeling slightly off. Oh I'm just here for the dogs, he had said and gone on his way, using the crutches to maneuver himself around her.

He was getting more at ease with the aids, though she still saw him cast a rather resentful glare at the things on occasion. He would be off them soon and using a cane to get around and from what she gathered, he may never walk without it. Somehow she thought that probably wounded his pride.

She didn't know him, not that well yet, but there was one thing that was obvious. Gold was a proud man and no doubt being brought low by a mere car accident, requiring help, was beyond the pale for him.

She wondered if he was always like this. Difficult and acerbic.

She wondered if he had once been softer, kinder, if he hadn't looked at people as if they were bothersome.

It was late on that Friday, her final day of work that week. Gold had asked her to put in a little extra work preparing the feed for the sheep so that he could easily take care of the chore over the weekend.

They had adjusted her schedule sometime during the first week. Originally, he had planned to have her around seven days a week but it seemed he decided he valued his privacy a bit more than that. Weekends were her own, but that meant putting in more hours during the week. Mondays would be long. Mucking out the stalls after a weekend of use would be harder, but it also meant she could enjoy some time at the library and get in some reading on her days off. It seemed a fair trade and one she had accepted eagerly.

She hadn't stayed so long past noon as she did that day, making sure everything was set to rights. Fresh bedding, fresh food and water, the food doled out in small, easy-to-transport portions. When she stepped back to survey her handiwork, she was sure that she was starting to get the hang of the job.

Oh, she still ached, but she was getting accustomed to the smell and the pattern of things on the farm. With a contented sigh, she stepped out into the cool afternoon air. It may be nearing April, but the air still carried a bit of a winter chill. The wind up on the hill whipped her hair across her face and she tucked her ponytail back and into the coat she was wearing, tugged the hat on that she had tucked into her pocket some time ago.

It was desolate up on the hill, the few trees that dotted the landscape still stripped bare. Spring came late in Maine, no great rush of warm air and green grass, but instead sneaking in slowly until one day you looked around and realized that winter had finally ended.

That day the grass still looked half dead, flat and soaked with the run-off from the last of the winter snow melting. The sky was grey, not the sort of grey made up of wispy clouds of varying monochrome shades, but the kind that was flat and uninteresting, one great sea of grey hovering low over the hills. It kept the temperature warmer than it might have otherwise, but it also felt cool and damp and close.

She took a deep breath, looked out over the hillside. The sheep were high up the hill, just where they were most days when she left the farm. But this day she realized the dogs had been left out and Gold was making his way slowly toward the hill. He was a good distance from her, certainly too far for her to shout much at him with the way the wind whipped across her face. It would steal her voice away, carrying it back toward the house rather than toward Gold.

And so instead she simply watched as he finally got to the base of the hill, wind sending his hair flying around his face. He didn't bother to tie it back or put a hat on and he didn't even seem to notice it as he stopped. The dog at his side stopped too. Taz, she assumed. It had to be. The red and white dog seemed to always be at Gold's side. She wondered if the dog even slept with him and then felt her cheeks warm with the embarrassment when she realized she was contemplating his sleeping arrangements and if he slept in the pajamas she had returned to him the other day. The image was not one that found unappealing.

She was startled out of her reverie by the sound of a sharp whistle. Taz took off from Gold's side like a shot. The big dog was just a tiny speck as he raced up alongside the hill. She'd never seen a dog move so fast nor so gracefully as he flew up the left side and then turned right. Graceful. Easy. The dog moved like nothing she'd never seen.

Gold stood at the base, leaning heavily on one crutch, whistle still in his mouth. As the dog reached the center of the hill, just behind the sheep, it turned, slowed. The sheep started to move almost as one. The dog followed behind, skirting to one side and then the other to keep the sheep in line and moving. One sheep almost made a break for it. She could see it happening, the separation start. Gold let out two quick whistles and the dog turned on a dime, gathered it up, kept them moving.

It was like a dance, she realized, the dog weaving in and out, Gold's control. He was intense, hair swept back from his face by the wind, whistle still in his mouth. Every once in awhile he let out a piercing screech from the whistle, sometimes long, sometimes two short whistles. She didn't know what any of them meant, but the dog clearly did, laying down, creeping up on the sheep, moving quickly to head off any attempted escapes.

She realized it wasn't even that Gold was in control, not really at least. Man and dog worked as a team.

As the dog and sheep came closer to Gold, he lifted the crutches and started to hobble backward. It wasn't easy for him and more than once, she wanted to rush to him, help keep him up. But she didn't. She didn't move. She couldn't move. And as he came near, crossed paths with her, she wanted to speak. But he was concentrating, his entire focus on the sheep, keeping the dog balanced on the other side as the dog drove them toward him. Always toward him.

She could see how it worked, at least on a superficial level. Keep moving where you want the sheep to go, keep the dog balanced at the other side and the sheep fell naturally in line. When they got to the barn, Gold stepped back and used his crutch and the aid of the dog to get all of the recalcitrant animals into their stalls and the doors shut behind them.

Taz stayed at the ready for a moment more, crouched, staring intently at the door where the sheep could still be heard, though not seen. And then Gold looked down at the dog, his lips quirked in a soft smile, unlike anything she had seen from him in the week she had been around him. He was usually all hard edges and sarcastic smirks. But this was genuine fondness and she liked the way it made his whole demeanor softer, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners just slightly. "That'll do," he said quietly and the dog relaxed its stance immediately and leaned against Gold. He reached down as best he could around the crutches he still held and scratched the dog behind the ears.

It was a tender moment.

She wasn't sure she was really meant to be there and so stepped back just slightly, tried to turn away.

"You're still here, Miss French?" His voice was soft as he spoke and she turned back toward him, bit her lip as she looked at him.

"I'm afraid so. I…um…just finished."

"Hmph," was all he said before walking off, leaving her standing in the barn watching his retreating form.

A moment later he paused. "Are you coming?"

"Of course." She hadn't intended to head into the house, but she followed immediately. Taz looped around behind her and she was almost sure the dog was herding her this time. She hesitated and the dog rushed forward, just a tiny bit, eyes intense.

"If you don't come along, Miss French, Taz may resort to nipping at your heels." She glanced over at him, surprised to hear the humor in his voice, to see it in the small half-smile he offered her. For that moment he looked younger, more boyish. She had an image of what he might have looked like before whatever in life had beaten him down to the hard man he had become. And then it was gone.

He dropped his gaze, turned slowly, and finished the walk to the house. She followed in silence and though he never turned to look back at her, she was sure he knew she was there not far behind. She trailed him by a few feet, allowing him to take the lead despite his halting gait.

As they entered the house, he turned back toward her and his gaze traced her body from head to toe. She shivered at the intensity of the look and then was surprised when it turned almost playful. "It seems you escaped bathing in the sheep water this time."

"I do catch on eventually," she said, equally playful. She would follow his lead. It was easier that way. He seemed skittish, in some ways an animal that was still half-feral. If she pushed too hard, he was sure to go to ground to escape her.

And she didn't want him to.

That realization suddenly dawned on her and left her reeling slightly. How odd. How totally unexpected. She wanted to get to know him, figure out what hid behind the layers of sarcasm and pain. She suspected there was someone worth getting to know inside, if she could just dig deep enough to get to him.

"Please have a seat," he started to say.

She took a couple steps toward him. "Do you want me to get us tea?"

"I'm perfectly well capable of doing that on my own, Miss French." His voice was terse and for a moment he bared his teeth at her in a snarl. "I'm sorry." He took a deep breath. "I am not used to company."

"I see that," she muttered.

"Nor am I an invalid. I will be with you in a moment."

As he left the hall and she retreated to the living room, she so desperately wanted to remind him that she served them tea the last time, when he had been too exhausted and probably in too much pain to get up and take care of it, that it didn't make him an invalid if he asked for help. But she let him do what he needed to. Tonight his pride was taking the driver's seat and he had relegated his practical side to somewhere in the back. His moods seemed to change quickly and without warning.

He came out a short time later and sat on the edge of his favorite recliner, leaned forward to watch her. "I underestimated you, Miss French."

She cocked her head to the side.

"I thought you'd walk out on your first day, but here you are. The end of a whole week. How did you manage it?" And he sounded impressed. Honestly impressed.

"Grit? Determination? I'm not the sort to give up on things, Mr. Gold. Not even you could chase me off once I set my mind to it."

He made a slight humming noise in the back of his throat as he poured the tea. When she reached for one of the cups, he smacked her hand away lightly and picked up the one she had been reaching for. The one with the chip. Her eyes met his and she cocked her head to the side. He shrugged. She didn't quite know what to make of that. "And yet I could have sent you on your way."

"Yes, well…" She hesitated over the words, not quite sure what to say. "I'm the only one who decides my fate."

"I hardly think that's how interviews go."

She let out a small laugh at that. "I wasn't taking no for an answer."

"Obviously." He pushed the hair back from falling in his eyes.

"That was beautiful," she blurted out and for a moment she wasn't sure if she meant the way his hair fell back into his eyes, the silky strands begging for attention, or if she was referring to the exhibition on the hill.

There was a slight furrowing of his brow at her words, a little cock to the head. "Pardon?"

She let out a small laugh. "Sorry. It's just…I was watching you. With your dog?"

"Ah, right." For a moment he looked almost embarrassed.

"It was this amazing dance of coordination and grace. I've never seen anything like it." There was a beauty to it. He was beautiful when he was standing out there, wind in his hair, eyes trained on the dog that had been so distant and yet still so connected to him.

"It's everyday farm life, Miss French." The words were dismissive. She expected nothing else out of him, really. But she was almost sure she saw a little blush on his cheeks.

"It may be, but I've never seen it before," she pointed out. "City girl, you know."

"I never would have guessed." The words were dry and the twist of his lip a bit sarcastic. "Where did you grow up?"

"Where did you?" she shot back. It wasn't that his question irked, not exactly. But she had heard it many times since moving to the States. More times than she cared to count. Some by people interested. Some by people who just wanted to insult her for her "funny accent."

"Scotland, actually. Near Glasgow." His eyes met hers and she saw the pride there.

"With a name like Gold?" He looked taken aback at that, his brow furrowing just slightly. "That doesn't sound very Scottish," she added.

"I assure you my first name is quite Scottish." She had to laugh at the defensive tone to his voice.

"Is it now?"

"It is."

"And that first name would be…" She couldn't deny that she had wondered. He had even signed the paperwork she had for the job as Mr. T. Gold.

He watched her for a moment. "You're from Australia somewhere."

She just raised an eyebrow at the abrupt change of subject. "I am." He waved a hand at her. "Oh you wanted to know where?" She leaned forward, her eyes met his and she smirked. Two could play at this game. "Tell me your name and I'll tell you where I'm from."

He leaned back in his chair. "It's not that important."

She heaved a sigh. "Fine. I'm from Sydney, if you must know. And I've spent almost all my life here in the States in other big cities." Apparently two couldn't play at his game. Not yet at least. But if she opened up, even just a little, he might consider opening up to her as well.

"What made you come here? Surely you had a family and friends? So why come to Storybrooke? Why get stuck working for the monster on the hill?"

"You're not a monster," she immediately responded with and realized just how much she meant it. When he raised his eyebrows, she responded with. "You're not. As to why I'm here? My father." She took a deep breath. "He's dying, you see. Cancer. There's a hospital nearby with experimental drugs…"

"He's in the hospital?"

He seemed worried at that, maybe even a little contrite. She nodded, watched him carefully. "It costs a lot of money." She trailed off and they fell into silence for a time. She sipped her tea and he sipped his and she worried about revealing so much about her personal life. He didn't need to know that. No one did. As the silence dragged on, she felt the blush creeping up her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you that."

He was silent a moment longer. "No," he said, the word quiet but firm. "I'm glad you told me."

"I told you that you're not a monster," she pointed out and hoped he could hear the smile lurking in her voice.

"You did."

"And you're not."

"I could fire you right now."

She was almost sure she could hear a bit of light sarcasm behind the words. "You could. But you're not going to."

"And why do you think that is?" He met her eyes then and his were unfathomable and dark. He could fire her. And maybe he should. She certainly wasn't adept at this sort of work. The first week had proved that. Her muscles still ached like nothing she'd ever felt and getting out of bed in the morning was an exercise in near-futility. She had to roll out, almost dump herself on the ground, just to get to her feet.

It had gotten slightly better over the course of the week, which was a good sign, but she couldn't say that she felt good exactly. Just not as bad.

"Because you like me?"

He let out a scoffing sound.

"You do."

He shook his head. "You do decent work…for a girl from Sydney."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You are far too cheerful, Miss French. It seems life hasn't quite beaten that out of you yet."

The look she gave him was serious, mouth turned down. "Sometimes you have to choose between being miserable and being happy, Mr. Gold. I choose to be happy."

"Even if the world is falling down about your ears?"

"Especially then." Her father was in the hospital, ill, dying unless the experimental drugs could save his life. She was in a new place with no real friends, working at a job with a man who was difficult at best. Life was falling down about her ears. But she had picked herself up. Met people. Gotten a job that she at least enjoyed to some degree even if she wasn't all that good at it. She was doing something and it kept her spirits buoyed.

Gold watched her and then finally shook his head. "Oh, to be so young and naïve."

"I am neither young nor naïve, Mr. Gold." The words were clipped. "I'm simply left two choices in life. Be happy or not. It seems we've made different choices."

"We have," he confirmed.

She was not surprised to find he sounded a bit amused by it all. Setting her cup down, she shook her head. "I think it's time for me to go." She stood then and the pain of trying to stretch aching muscles almost made her fall back down on the chair. Steadying herself on the nearby wall, she couldn't help the small groan that escaped her.

"Are you quite alright, Miss French?" Gold's voice came from too close behind her and she would have jumped at the closeness if that wouldn't have caused even more pain.

"I'll be fine," she muttered and took a couple steps, testing the movement of her muscles and finding she still hurt all over.

"You don't seem fine," he pointed out and she let out a small bark of laughter. "Wait here a moment," he said and then disappeared from the room. She could hear the soft thump of his crutches on the floor as he left, though she didn't dare turn her head to watch.

He was back a moment later and holding something out toward her. She took it, glanced down at the nondescript jar she held in her hands, and then back up to him, the question evident in her eyes.

"Muscle rub," he said softly. Her eyebrows shot up. "It seems that I have, perhaps, overworked you just a wee bit."

She was silent, no idea what to say to him in this moment of decency. "And so muscle rub?"

"It smells absolutely wretched but I assure you it will help." His lips quirked with a small smile and she had the feeling he knew all too well how bad the stuff smelled.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "You'll do better work next week if you're not in pain."

Somehow she knew that wasn't the reason. She just knew. And so she stepped toward him, put her hand over his where it held one of the crutches. "Thank you." He froze under her touch, body stiffening, his hand gripping the crutch just a bit harder than was necessary. She released him then and turned to go, a small smile on her face.