Chapter 9 Battling the Dragon

Belle sat on the bed as tears welled up in her eyes. Angry she might be, but perhaps not for the most obvious reasons. The words thrown at her like piercing darts of distrust and disgust hurt her the worst. At first she cried a little out of fear of him-if he raged like that over a little photograph, then what would he do when she refused to leave? Then again, over the last month, she had thought she had seen the man behind the tyrannical landlord. She thought she had found softness under the hard scales that the dragon seemed to be made of. The man who had rushed to soften her fall, knowing his own leg wouldn't take the weight, then to be so angry over just a little photograph meant that some sort of horrible story must be behind it all, must be behind the boy who looked like Mr. Gold-a son? Mr. Gold, a father? The idea seemed so bizarre.

Though her mind would not excuse Mr. Gold of his rage, she found that the distrust that fueled his words hurt far worse than the anger through which he said them. He had spoken them as if he had been expecting her to double cross him the whole time, and after all she had done for him, and the trust that she thought they had built, that hurt worse than anything else.

She sobbed in her pillow for another half hour, before pulling herself together. If she was going to go up against the dragon, she would need a suit of armored resilience. She went to the bathroom to splash water on her face, while her stomach announced that it wasn't just Mr. Gold, who hadn't had any breakfast-and with how busy her day was yesterday, she had hardly eaten for the past day and a half. She looked at herself in the mirror-steeling her nerves and erasing all signs of crying, she went downstairs and nibbled on bacon and toast while she started putting together the ingredients to a soup. She would hold up her end of the deal, and she would force him to hold up his.

…

Gold was seething. Slowly but surely his heart was going back to its normal rhythm, all the panic and white terror finally settling into a sort of feeling that left him both angry and exposed. She had no right to go to his desk drawers and rifle through his things-the one place that was off limits to her. How did she even manage to get into it?...

It hit him. And all at once a flood of all sorts of different emotions assailed him, guilt probably most prevalent.

He had done what he did every Saturday since she came. Mope. He chided himself for ever allowing her to go back home and slave for her father when she could have gotten much more rest here. Then he chided himself for being interested enough in her well being to care. Self deprecating thoughts of age and sins were then mulled over, which always led him to his desk and the papers and the photograph that were laid inside. He had pulled them out, putting his hand through his shaggy mane wishing he were a better person, a better father or at least have the courage to see if he could be one.

His head had begun to ache and reading the letters that when he first read them had nearly given him a heart attack (but was now replaced with an ache whenever he thought of it) now made him tired. Finding himself dozing on the desk itself (something he never did! That was for the likes of Belle French, not him). He shook himself and rose, hoping that those children that had sneezed all over him had not given him something annoying. His limbs were so tired and aching that he decided that he would rest for an hour or two and come back down before he officially went to bed and would tidy and lock everything back up.

He had left it all out on the desk.

The realization made his head spin and he closed his eyes tight, trying to send away both his headache and the now overwhelming guilt. Belle had probably happened upon the picture while searching for his ledger book and he had accused her so horribly. If his distrusting, black heart would have just paused before he started opening up his mouth to lash accusations at her, he might have remembered the night before. He might have even played things off and she wouldn't have known any more than what she saw. Unless…

A new wave of panic hit him though this time with none of the anger that had been present the first time.

The letters, the documents…Could she have read them? What would she do with such information if she had?

He tried to drink some water, desperate to sedate his nerves, but his trembling hands had the water sloshing over the rim and doing hardly a bit of good.

He hadn't a clue what he was going to do. He would need to apologize, he realized, feared, dreaded. He had thrown her out-perhaps instead of actually apologizing, he could make a new deal for her secrecy and cancel her father's debts anyway. She would never want to come back and she would never want to speak to him, and he would be back to the lonely existence that had haunted him all this time.

The first problem was that he felt horrible. His head ached, his body ached and chilled, and his throat felt like he had swallowed gravel. His tea was now cold (and she had so sweetly come in to check on him, though he knew she was beyond tired, herself, and seemed to actually want to take care of him-no more thinking of that anymore. He would never receive any of her soft smiles or kind acts ever again), and he realized that he would need to fend for himself. Just a trip to the bathroom, and his head was dizzy and he feared that he would fall if he wasn't careful. The water she had given him those couple of hours ago would now have to tide him over until he could stand properly. He drifted back to a sleep that was full of grief, guilt and unrest.

A knock at the door caused him to jolt awake. His foggy brain gave him little time to realize what a knock meant.

Blue fire. That was the first thing he saw as his maid peered around the door. Her face was set in determination, and her shoulders were stiff, as if they were gathering strength to bear whatever would be thrown at her. But her eyes. So fierce, yet sad and hurt at the same time. What a wonder she was. The fogginess was just reveling in their beauty before he remembered exactly what such fiery eyes would mean for him, and what he needed to do.

With a thump, she threw down a folder on his lap, making him jump at the motion. By this time, he had raised himself up to a sitting position once more and looked down at the folder before looking back at her eyes.

'You can't, Mr. Gold, you can't make me leave!' Her eyes were more confident than her voice. The quiver in it had him looking down at his hand in shame.

'I've done nothing to break our deal, and perhaps you may not trust me, but I have always trusted that though you might do many horrible things, breaking a deal wouldn't be one of them.'

She let out her breath, Gold could hear it, though he hadn't looked back up at her yet.

'True. You're right.' His own voice quite small, yet very much heard by the intended audience. He didn't even pick up the folder, nor had he yet to look at her. That would merely be too much for him to stand.

'What?!' Belle flung the words at him and his face wrinkled up in pain-the headache still hadn't gone. He deserved more than a headache, so he continued.

'You are right.' He attempted again, though his voice remained small, yet strained, due to his aching throat.

'That's it then? No anger? No telling me of some loophole I've missed while I went over this again and again just now? I, uh,' She gave a depressed laugh, he still hadn't managed to look at her. 'I had planned for a fight, and your answer is just that I'm right and that's all? What, what is going on?' She sounded exhausted, as if all the adrenaline of the fight she was preparing for, had now left her, taking all her built up strength with it.

'Just simply that' He started to ring his hands, something he hadn't done in twenty years, then stopped himself. Instead he gestured a bit too wild and became self conscious of that too. 'Though, I would suggest an amendment to our deal to accommodate what you now know about those letters.'

'What letters?'

He did dare to look at her face then. Traces of frustration lined it, though a genuine look of confusion overtook it at once.

'Wasn't there letters on the desk, as well?'

'There were documents there, but I didn't pick up any of them. The only reason I picked up the photograph was because the boy looked just like you, and I thought he might be your…'

'Son?'

Belle looked at him nervously, as if expecting another outburst. He was panicking a little, but he felt too out of it to realize the complete ramifications of her discovery, though he was sure to think about it later.

He only nodded his head, swallowing, and looked back down at his fumbling hands. Readying himself for the barrage of questions that surely must come from such a discovery. Moments passed, awkward, tense moments, but she said nothing.

'I made some soup, can I get you some?' She finally broke the tense quiet.

His head darted up at that. After all he did, after what she knew…she was not shouting, she was not asking him pertinent questions about his biggest failure in life. She was asking if she could bring him something-she could just let him fend for himself-he knew there was no clause for her having to take care of him while he was sick. He nodded his head again, his eyes still bent down as shame washed over him for the umpteenth time that day.

She took the tray that was resting beside him, he had no idea what sort of emotions would be written there, as he still had no courage to look. He did need to do something. Actually, there was much he needed to do, but it started with something he was very much out of practice doing. She was almost out of the room before he managed it.

'Belle, I…' His eyes were up, her eyes turned back towards him. He couldn't decipher what she was thinking. Her head bent over in curiosity.

He swallowed again.

'I think I owe you an apology. I had no cause to shout at you, and no cause to question your integrity…'

Each word fought to come out. The sentiments were so foreign a concept to him, but he felt obligated to give them to her-he was determined to give them to her.

His dresser was nearby and Belle set his tray upon it for a moment to better analyze him, he imagined. He wondered what she read-could she see his guilt and shame?

'I'll forgive you, Mr. Gold, on one condition.'

What were her terms, he wondered? Conditions he could understand and handle. He gave her a look that asked her to continue.

'You start to trust me. I-I don't mean you have to tell me your deepest darkest secrets-I am, after all, just your housekeeper-I just mean you trust me to do what I've given my word to do, without holding my father's livelihood over me anytime you are in a foul mood and want to threaten me.'

Her face was set and determined, and he would have credited her with the highest form of bravery (he did credit her with more than he certainly could boast) had her lips not trembled when she spoke, declaring her on the verge of tears. He had truly hurt the one person that had shown him a speck of kindness and all she wanted in return was for him to stop threatening her all the time.

Whether it was the fever, the medicine, the headache, or something different all together, he suddenly wanted to give her the world as an apology.

'I think that is more than fair.' Were the only words that would come out. She nodded, her battle fought, the dragon slain and brought to its knees, ready to give over all its trinkets if she would just smile at the old scaly beast again, and she went off towards the kitchen.

Author's Note:

Some notes: In trying to stay true to how I've built their characters (as well as how they are in the show-season 1 anyway ;) ) I felt that this was how an 'apology' would look and how Belle would have responded. However, there's more to come, as far as Mr. Gold feeling sorry!