Belle was nearly bouncing as she moved from behind her desk to the children's department, her arms full of the books she'd picked out for their Story Hour. Hard to believe that just a few days ago, she'd been sick with worry and desperate with indecision. She'd been focused for so long on not being impulsive that she'd almost talked herself out of going to check on Gold, but luckily, she'd just snatched up her purse and her heaviest coat and gone.
It was the first time she'd been impulsive in far too long, and it'd paid off so beautifully. Not only did she learn that Gold was only keeping his distance out of some misguided notion to protect her, but he'd let her cuddle with him for hours that night. Had let her sleep on his couch. Had made her breakfast in the morning and eaten his own meal without leaving even a crumb leftover. Had driven her to the library and stared at her—with wide, beautiful eyes—when she kissed his cheek. Had smiled when she came to his shop for lunch, a bag from Granny's in hand. Had spent three hours more than she'd expected last night while they talked and pretended to work on library tasks, huddled close together at their table. Had called her of his own volition this morning.
Even though she'd talked herself out of bothering him with lunch two days in a row, she thought she might be able to close the library early tomorrow and walk toward his shop when he was usually locking up. They'd both need dinner, and if that was together, well…then Granny's was practically always open, or she had groceries enough to cook for him upstairs, or…or he might invite her back over to his place.
Hugging herself with glee, Belle had to stop in the middle of the stacks and bite her lip to keep from letting out some embarrassing noise.
"Go slow," she whispered to herself. "Be careful. Don't ruin this."
The familiar commands rang somewhat hollow after the unmitigated triumph going to his house had been. If anything was too rushed, too impulsive, not careful, it'd been that.
But he'd wanted her there. He'd been happy to see her. Hard as he was sometimes to read, she could tell that.
So maybe…maybe her recklessness didn't always have to lead her astray. Maybe sometimes it was okay to give into the impulsiveness that was so much a part of her.
Her dad would wince and groan and start another lecture if he heard her thinking that. Her friends would probably plan yet another intervention if they were here to see her losing all her hard-won methodical thoroughness.
But they weren't here. They didn't know Rumple. They hadn't seen him, how alone he looked before, how shy and timid his smiles were, how awed his stare felt when he couldn't look away from her. And, really, was it any of their business if Belle had stopped hoping for company and a friend and started thinking that…maybe…this could be more?
Hearing the door, Belle took a deep breath, tried to compose herself for the sake of the children coming for Story Hour, and headed toward the front.
The next hour was a blur of children, storybooks, parents hovering and asking for help finding their own books in quick asides, smiles and laughter and wide-eyed excitement growing on the faces of the kids Belle couldn't help but hope would fall in love with reading as avidly as she had, so long ago.
Her mom was long gone, little more than memories and a beautiful flowery grave half a world away, but her legacy lived on in Belle, in the children who found new horizons to explore between the covers of each book they put their hands on, in the readers fostered and nurtured here within the walls of this small-town library.
Belle was halfway through her last picture book of the evening when she glanced up at something glimpsed from the corner of her eye, subconsciously drawing her attention though she couldn't pinpoint why. What she saw, through the stacks to the front of the library where she could just barely keep an eye on the door, was Rumple slipping in, so timidly that the springs on the door didn't sound at all. He caught her eye for only a second before he averted his eyes and slunk into the darker corners of the library. But that split-second look was all Belle needed to know that something was wrong.
His eyes were just as big, as darkly shadowed, as helpless, as they'd looked that day in the diner, when snow fell outside and his wrist bones poked out of the cuffs of his tailored suit.
Only long habit kept Belle reading, kept her smiling and making the voices the children loved so well. It felt like a trial of endurance by the time she closed the book while saying, "…and they lived happily ever after."
The children all chorused the phrase with her, none louder than little Henry whose toddler voice garbled the words badly through his toothy smile.
"Very good!" Belle praised them. "You all sat and listened so well—and helped me with the story of the woodland friends—so I think you all deserve a tasty treat! Nicholas, why don't you lead them to the snack table. You may each take one—one—snack before finding your parents. Henry, would you like to be my special helper to put the books away?"
The mayor's little boy hopped with excitement and stretched his pudgy hands up toward her. Belle couldn't resist ruffling his dark hair. She couldn't remember if he was quite three yet, but he was such a cute little thing that it was hard not to fall in love with him immediately. Sliding a book into his hands, hiding a smile when he carried it in both arms, hugging it to his chest, Belle took up the rest of the books and headed back into the stacks, sure to walk slowly enough Henry could keep up with her.
She'd hoped that by separating herself from the crowds with only Henry at her side—a boy she knew Gold interacted with occasionally during his meetings with the mayor—Rumple would come seek her out and, hopefully, tell her what had happened between this morning and now to destroy the burgeoning seeds of happiness she'd been so happy to watch grow.
It almost worked.
Rumple started toward her, just long enough for Belle to get a good look at him and see the red rims of his eyes, the tremble to his hand—but then Mary Margaret came from around the aisle and smiled as she asked if Belle had a moment to help her pick out something to draw Emma from her shell—the teenager hadn't been the same ever since she'd ran away, gone for almost two years before she was found, sullen and quiet—and then Henry tripped and fell and needed Belle's caring attention to keep his tears from brimming over his hazel eyes, and then Ashley was asking if anyone had seen Alexandra's shoe, and the Tillman siblings needed their books checked out, and before she knew it, almost another hour had passed.
At least Rumple wasn't avoiding her. In fact, Belle almost thought he might be hovering, in his own quiet way. Nothing to draw attention to himself, but he didn't retreat from the library even after the third interruption, and when Belle was split between Henry with his two remaining books to shelve and the desk where there was a line waiting to be checked out, he came out of nowhere to take Henry's hand.
"I'll help him," he murmured, and Belle wished she could do more than just squeeze his arm gratefully.
She tried to watch the two from the corner of her eye as she helped the crowd thin down, book by armful of books. There was a warmth glowing steadily brighter in her chest as she watched how careful Rumple was with the toddler, how he listened so intently to every word the tiny thing babbled to him—how he kept looking up, every so often, to glance toward Belle.
Still, there was something nearly…desperate…in the way Gold held onto Henry. In the emotion that flashed over his face when Regina finally arrived and commandeered her son, who was more than happy to take her hand even if he didn't talk quite as enthusiastically in her presence. In the fact that rather than excusing himself, Gold sat at his usual spot, at their table, and just…waited.
There was still all the cleaning to do, not to mention putting away the table and extra seats and seeing to the stragglers still browsing among the stacks. With a quiet smile, Belle took the cart of books and nudged them Gold's way. "As much as you want to do," she said as softly as she could.
She hoped it helped him, having something to occupy his hands. Part of her was constantly tracking his progress, aware that rather than pushing the cart ahead of him, he simply took a handful of the books and shelved them before coming back to retrieve a few more. It ate up more time, and Belle appreciated it, glad that he didn't plan on slipping away before she could try to get him to open up about whatever was wrong.
Finally, the last of her patrons were gone, the last of the crumbs were vacuumed away, the table and chairs were all in their proper places, and Belle locked the front doors with a flourish of relief.
"Hey," she said, quietly, when she found him over her nearly emptied cart.
He jumped, and then winced when a book was jarred to the floor. He bent, but Belle swooped in ahead of him to place the book back on the cart without even examining it for folded pages or dinged corners.
"I'm sorry," Rumple said, unable to meet her eyes.
"No matter. If nothing else, we'll add it to our stack of repairable books."
The line of Rumple's stiff shoulders eased a hair, but he didn't react in any other way.
"I didn't expect to see you here," she said. "I thought I'd scared you away from Story Hour forever."
"I…" He looked around, a flicker of fear painting his features with shadows. "I didn't realize it would be so busy. I'm sorry, Belle. You're closed. I should…"
But he didn't finish that sentence, which meant Belle didn't feel a single iota of guilt about sliding her hand through his. "I already locked up," she said. "Do you want to come upstairs? I can make us dinner."
Though he didn't verbally reply, he followed Belle's slight tug on his hand without balking. Belle focused on keeping her breathing steady as she preceded him up the staircase to her apartment, going slow to accommodate his pace behind her, their hands linked between them.
"This is me," she said as she opened the door. An instant later, she flushed and bit her lip. "Well, I mean, you've been here before."
He smiled at her—she was pretty sure it was meant to be reassuring. It just looked desperately sad.
A knot in the pit of her stomach twisted into being.
"Umm. Please, sit down. Make yourself at home. Is soup okay? I have some bread I can warm up and slather with butter?"
"Thank you," he managed through what even she could tell was a tight throat. At her repeated gesture, he sat stiffly on her little couch. Knowing that—hoping that—she'd be inviting him up in the near future, Belle had tidied the place, but seeing Rumple in his expensive suit, gold-handled cane, and formal, even aloof, posture, her apartment couldn't help but appear small and worn in contrast.
But then Belle blinked, looked past the façade, and saw the big, dark eyes, the trembling hands, the way he kept looking as if to make sure she was really there, and suddenly, the apartment was too big, too much distance between them, too many things keeping her from holding him together.
Because he was falling apart. He had a very respectable mask on, but it was armor that was paper-thin, and already Belle could see it crumpling.
"Rumple," she said, and sat down just beside him to weave her fingers through his own.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely there at all, completely belying the fact that he held onto her as if he were drowning. Belle shifted his grip so that she was clasping his hand in both of hers, and finally, Rumple looked up at her. "I can't be alone right now," he gasped. "If I go back there…if I step into my house…I just can't. I can't…"
"Okay," she soothed. "Okay, I understand. It's all right. You can stay here. Okay? My couch isn't as comfortable as yours, but it will do in a pinch. Or…" She swallowed, hoped she wasn't being reckless again. "Or we could share the bed. It's nice, sometimes, to have company in the dark."
His eyes went even wider, even darker, and Belle thought it best to give him a moment.
"Whatever you decide," she said. "You're very welcome, okay?"
And she retreated into the kitchen to give them both time to process.
Dinner didn't take terribly long to prepare, despite how many times Belle paused to go check on Rumple—handing him a book once, telling him a story about that book the second time, asking if he wanted anything else to look at, just staring at his head bent over the book, eyes unseeing—and soon enough she was setting her dinner trays up in front of the couch.
"Tea," she said, "just as you like it. Should warm us right up."
Rumple stirred clockwise circles in the soup. When Belle caught his attention and took a bite of her bread, he copied her, but soon enough, he was just staring again, even his tea untouched.
Fear was beginning to set up shop inside Belle's heart.
This seemed worse than just a regular bad night. This seemed like something…bigger. Something she was afraid she wouldn't be enough to help. She was just a silly little girl still paying for mistakes she'd made out of sheer carelessness and rash foolishness. Why had she ever thought she'd be able to help anyone else?
Quietly, Belle pried the spoon from his hand, set the trays to the side, and then sat once more beside him.
"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," she murmured. "But I'd like to help you, if I can."
"Please don't make me leave," he blurted.
Belle stared at him, stricken. "I'm not," she said. "I won't. I want you here, Rumple, I promise. I just…I wish I could help you."
"David called."
There was sweat on his brow. She hadn't noticed it before; now, it drew a huge portion of her attention. His hand was clammy and chilled, but there was a bead of sweat sliding down the slight curve of his brow toward the edge of his eyebrow.
"The…the sheriff?"
Rumple's inhale was so shaky, so staggered, that Belle seriously considered calling 911 and demanding a hospital—whether because he was having a heart attack or she was about to have a panic attack, she wasn't quite sure.
"They…they found my son," he rasped. "I'm supposed to go to a morgue in Boston tomorrow and identify the body."
And then a noise, an ugly, shattered noise, was ripped from his throat as he folded in on himself, his armor disintegrating, his mask shattering, his façade evaporating.
Belle caught him, made herself large enough to wrap around him, a shield between him and the world, as he wept great, heaving sobs that both terrified her out of her mind and shattered her own heart.
"My boy," he keened. "My beautiful boy. He's gone. He's gone."
"Oh, Rumple," she whispered, smoothing his hair, holding him tight, pressing her lips into the nape of his neck. "Rumple, I'm so sorry."
She hadn't even known until right that second that he had a son.
Rumple was nearly catatonic by the time the sobs tapered off into shuddery breaths that rattled his whole body. It was a blessing, in one way, because in his right mind, Belle didn't think he'd have been so sanguine about letting her guide him to her bedroom or help him remove his coat, his tie, his vest, his shirt, his shoes, his socks, his belt, his pants—he had so many layers, and Belle mourned at the loss of each one, both because these were not the circumstances she'd have wanted for this milestone and because with each bit of fabric removed, he became smaller and thinner and more shrunken in on himself.
In just his boxers and a t-shirt, there was almost nothing left of him. Both literally and metaphorically, Belle thought, and considered his checklist in a whole new light.
His son, she thought as she left him in the bathroom and hoped habit would take over for him.
His son, she thought as she brushed her teeth and changed into the comfiest, least revealing pajamas she had—he'd remember this at some point and she didn't want him to feel bad about any of it.
His son, she thought as she nudged him into her bed and pulled the covers over them both.
For a long moment, remembering her self-directives to be calm and rational and logical, Belle laid there with several inches between them.
But he was still shaking, his every third or fourth breath rattling with the aftershocks of his destroyed sobs, and Belle wasn't a monster with a heart of stone.
Rash or not, she rolled into him, gathered him close, shushed him as she ran her hand through his hair and guided his head to her shoulder. He resisted for only a second before melting into her. Hot tears bathed her throat, but this time, his shaky sobs was utterly silent.
It was worse, somehow. She wondered how many countless nights he'd cried himself to sleep so that now he'd stopped expecting anyone to hear him, to respond, to come to his cries.
"I'm here," she whispered into the night, her fingers woven through his hair. She thought he could probably feel her heartbeat—hoped he could, that it would remind him of life and hope.
But she doubted it.
He had a son, a son who was more than likely dead.
"Tomorrow," she whispered into the dark, "I'm coming with you."
He didn't reply. Maybe he wasn't even awake. But he went pliant and soft in her arms, and she dared to hope that she'd managed to comfort him.
She slept fitfully. Rumple whimpered in his sleep, and jerked, and cried out what she gradually learned was a name.
"Bae!" he cried, over and over again, and he couldn't settle until Belle once more wrapped him close and whispered soothing words into his ear.
Still, she didn't feel exhausted or tired when her alarm went off and Gold went rigid in her arms. She felt determined. Sure. Fixed on her course.
"Good morning," she said before he could devolve into a mess of apologies and recriminations. "What time do you have to be on the road?"
"Eight," he said in a voice that hurt to hear and must have hurt him to produce.
"Okay." She sat up. "I'll be dressed in a few moments, and then I'll get us breakfast to go at Granny's while you go home and change?"
"What?" He stared at her. If she were being impartial and unbiased, he'd definitely looked better. But Belle looked at him and saw him here, beside her. He'd come to her when he knew he needed to. He'd asked for help even though it clearly bothered him. He'd admitted what was hurting him so badly, and he was afraid of needing her too much—and if anyone understood that feeling, it was her—and she thought he'd never looked braver, or more deserving of love.
Not that she loved him yet. Of course not. That would be rash and reckless. That would be too much too soon when she hadn't come to terms with it. It would lead to her making stupid decisions and throwing away her own life too quickly on some passing whim.
No, she didn't love him.
But she could.
Oh, she so easily could.
"I'm coming with you," she said. Daringly, she pressed her hand over his cheek, feeling his stubble and the dried tracks of tears that matched the ones on her neck and collarbone. "Please, Rumple, don't ask me to make you do this alone."
"I…"
"I'm coming," she said, and smiled.
Truthfully, she didn't really expect it to be that easy, and she felt a frisson of fear when she let him leave the apartment without her, but she also wasn't too surprised when his car pulled up outside of Granny's less than an hour later. Rumple was isolated and aloof and used to being alone—but he didn't want to be. He wanted connection. And she hoped he knew that he didn't have to face any of this alone now. Not as long as she had anything to say about it.
"That was quick," she said as she ignored Ruby's incredulous stare and joined him in the Cadillac.
"I keep a change of clothes at the shop," he said, not quite meeting her eyes. "It…it was better than going to the house."
"I'm not complaining," she said neutrally.
Was it a gun? A noose? A razor? Pills accumulating, carefully hoarded? Whatever escape he kept at the house—not home, she'd noticed before, just the house—she was glad that he knew when to avoid temptation.
"I got you a cinnamon muffin and me a banana nut, but we can trade if you'd like." To give him the second he seemed to need, she busied herself setting their drinks in the cupholders, and readying his with a straw for when it had cooled enough he could drink it.
"We could share?" he offered after a pause.
Belle favored him with a carefully measured smile—not too bright because this wasn't a cheerful morning, but not small enough that he'd think he should try to talk her out of accompanying him. "I'd love that."
"The library's okay not opening?"
"It's only a half day anyway," she said with a shrug. "I left a note on the door."
"Okay." But Gold just sat there, his throat working as he swallowed, his hands tight on the steering wheel.
"Do you need me to drive?" she asked carefully.
"No. No, I need something to concentrate on."
"Well, good thing I brought this, then." Belle pulled a book out of her bag.
"Gilded?"
"Turns out the author of the Lunar Chronicles wrote a Rumpelstiltskin retelling too. Shall we try it? I can read aloud for us both?"
His nod was slight, but he put the car into gear and got them started without any more delays.
Before she cracked open the book, Belle put her hand over his. "I'm here," she reminded him.
He was quiet so long she let her hand fall away and her eyes return to the book.
"Thank you," he whispered, then, and Belle bit her lip to keep from throwing herself across the seat at him.
The drive seemed too long in that Belle's voice gave out before they made it there, but too short in that she could tell Rumple grew more distraught the closer they drew. As soon as they made it to Boston proper, she made him pull over so she could trade places with him.
"Which morgue is it?" she asked, pulling up GPS on her phone.
A tiny sound escaped Rumple's throat, but when she looked over at him, he was stone-faced. "David texted the address to me," he said, and retrieved his phone to get them directions.
For a harrowing thirty minutes, Belle followed Gold's calm voice through the lunch hour traffic until finally, stressed and a bit shaky herself, she found them a parking spot and shut the car off. Boston wasn't necessarily the first place she would have chosen to practice her rusty driving skills.
But there was no time to give into her own nerves, not when Gold was staring at the building in front of them with dread pouring off of him.
"Do…do you have a picture of him?" she asked, not sure she should.
"Only an old one. He's been missing for over five years."
Belle sucked in her breath as her stomach twisted into a tighter knot.
Five years! She couldn't imagine.
But then, Rumple probably hadn't been able to either. Even now, she thought he probably couldn't really believe it had been so long.
"We can wait here as long as you need," Belle said, though she had no idea what the procedures were for these kinds of things. She wanted to ask if Sheriff Nolan was going to meet him here, if they were supposed to go inside the building alone, if the powers-that-be were really going to make a grieving father look at desiccated remains and tell them whether it was his beloved son or if it was just belongings and clothes they were here to check. But none of those questions would help, so instead, she took Rumple's hand in hers and waited with him.
Seventy-three minutes later, they walked into the morgue.
Eighty-six minutes later, Rumple burst back through the doors to collapse on the pavement outside, Belle right behind him, desperately trying to hold him together while David signed them out at the desk.
"Bae," Rumple sobbed. "My boy."
"I'm sorry," Belle said, over and over again, her own tears hot and sticky on her cheeks. "I'm sorry."
"This is good," David said from behind them. "This means we can still find him."
But Rumple couldn't hear him, and Belle had no words to reply.
A/N: Don't hate me!
