This is where my inner demons go to relax.

she/they 30 something name Lem. expect Rumbelle, Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss, Gallavich, Eddie Munson/Stranger Things, OFMD, Good Omens content and whatever else my gremlin soul decides to fixate on. Ao3 same name, for Rumbelle, Gallavich, Eddie Munson, and GO fics. feel free to send writing prompts/asks, whether or not they get answered... that's another story.

[bobbiecarlyle-deactivated201906]

(insp.)

[deravinous]

Tale as old as time / Song as old as rhyme / Beauty and the beast

[oathkeptroxas]

Ian Gallagher + random posts i tagged as him

(Mickey companion post)

[writingsofmax]

when your maid insists on endangering herself because she’s way too stubborn to ask for help

[gemthegerm]

happy 4th of july to this image the official boston fire department made and posted to twitter like 3 years ago. i will not let it die.

[oathkeptroxas]

Shameless US + Onion Headlines

[periodicallypurple]

Thought this might help others who struggle when writing. I know I get in my head too much.

[kosmogrl]

am I unforgivable or is it just wednesday

[rumbelleshowdown]

Part 1 of the Reveal! The authors and the pseuds are scrambled, please match them as you see fit! On the right are the Tumblr names of the Showdown writers. On the left are their secret pseuds. Send all guesses to the ask box 🧐🌟

💖 The full author reveal will be posted on Friday, July 3rd! 💖

*authors who have declined to be revealed have been left off the list

beeinyourbonnet ⭐️ Aurelia Grimm

bg-sparrow ⭐️ Guardian of the Scrolls

darklybound ⭐️ brown butter bear

depressedstressedlemonzest ⭐️ Shiro

goldenwingediris ⭐️ bluebelles

human-nxture ⭐️ Paperclip Parade

jackabelle73 ⭐️ moonlit sonata

janiquebeingcreative ⭐️ pizzapizza

leni-ba ⭐️ olivetheotherreindeer

lunarmultishine ⭐️ Olive Tree

MaybeMiserablyWrites ⭐️ WiltedRose

pixie-snake ⭐️ meowmaid

reolf ⭐️ Nothing Gold Can Stay

threepwoodmarley ⭐️ raisinet rockette

writingsofmax ⭐️ Rumple_bumple

⭐️ D4daughter ⭐️

⭐️ softest-sofa ⭐️

⭐️ Strawberry Teacups ⭐️

⭐️ Thread of Gold ⭐️

⭐️ Undyne Determination ⭐️

⭐️ One crazy raspberry ⭐️

[rumbelleshowdown]

⭐️Olive Tree⭐️

[depressedstressedlemonzest]

CONGRATS OLIVE TREEE!!!!!

[rumbelleshowdown]

And that's a wrap on the 2026 Showdown!!! 🤩🌈🤩🌈🤩

Every single writer put out something great this year, and I continue to be delighted by just how good and unique everyone's fics were. Thank you everyone who sent in prompts, and everyone who wrote, and everyone who commented and voted. This event would truly be nothing without all your participation 🥳🥺💖

Amazing work everyone! WOW!

⭐️The winner will be revealed tomorrow at 10am EST!⭐️

[vulpes-aestatis]

Baby sphinx trying to be like mama and waylaying travelers, but all its riddles are completely non-sensical like the ones a 1st grader would tell

[thecactifindahome]

[maluskrow]

[callali1y]

me: it's just like really weird and upsetting when someone is trying to find out my deadname, yknow?

chill af short dude i met weaving gold on his badass loom: oh yeah no i understand completely. do you want that baby or can i have it

me: oh yeah for sure man

[writingsofmax]

how I wanted skin deep to end

[rumbelleshowdown]

The Usual

Author: Thread of Gold Final Round: dress code casual; old coffee shop; whispers

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The coffee was excellent. 

Freshly ground and brewed expertly by someone who did not consider the whole art of it to end at hitting a button on a machine and – most importantly – not the dishwater the diner presumed to sell in paper cups. The coffee was excellent and that had been the reason why Lachlan Gold had come to Café Precht every day at 2 PM for all of recent memory – for a freshly brewed black coffee and a break from the idiocy of his fellow townspeople, while he read the newspaper. The borrowed echo of old-world grandeur had nothing to do with it, surely.

Lamplight pooled amber off the dark wood paneling with its brass fixtures and caught in the foxed mirrors and the crystal of the chandelier –  made for a higher ceiling than the one the building at hand had seen fit to give it, but still pointedly grander than anything else one could have reasonably expected in a small fishing town in Maine. The tabletops were real marble, heavy with gravitas and faintly ringed where a thousand gold rimmed porcelain cups had stood, arranged with bentwood chairs and satin banquettes. The counter was clearly not meant to serve so much as to display the glass case, presenting its glazed contents pointedly without further explanation: Sachertorte, Linzertorte and Mrs. Precht’s Apfelstrudel.

From the old-fashioned rack with pressed newspapers to the gold-framed picture of an old city no one within fifty miles of Storybrooke had ever stepped foot in, everything in the room reached for a bygone era of old-world glamour, it could not quite reproduce.

Lachlan Gold had liked it precisely because the pretense wore thin. Lachlan Gold had liked to condescend about the seams, where the artifice showed in comparison to the sort of establishments back in Glasgow whose doors had been firmly shut to a boy from Calton; the Austrian flavor only made the derision more flattering. Lachlan Gold had told himself that he came to Café Precht for their Melange. Rumplestiltskin, who had spent the last four days reacquainting himself with the precise shape of who Lachlan imagined himself to be, did not feel charitable enough to indulge him in this pathetic pretense or any other. 

Routine had brought him here for the last four days, and just like yesterday and the day before that, Mrs. Precht met him just inside the door. Her wrinkled spinner hands were folded in front of her, deceptively placid. The smile she offered him was welcoming and entirely undeserved – but then Mother Holle had never, in his estimation, been nearly as gifted in her judgement of people, as she liked to think.

“Your preferred table is free, Mr. Gold. The usual?” A faint smile.

“Yes, thank you.” The answering politeness fell just short of rude. No matter.

He shifted his weight off the cane and crossed the room with the languidness a well-deserved break called for. The cane sounded the same as it always did against the parquet. His gaze was carefully fixed on Lachlan’s preferred table along the side wall, the one with an unobstructed view of the rest of the room. He sat. Pressed his hand against the marble, until his knuckles turned white. He did not turn around. The stone was cool to the touch, the surface slightly tacky beneath his palm where the polish had not been entirely lifted. The paper arrived, then the Melange; the fossilized routine of 28 timeless years. He folded the paper twice and laid it on the marble. He drew the saucer towards him and did not drink. 

Four days since the savior had turned towards him in the diner and said “Emma”. 

Four days since Lachlan had ceased to be and Rumplestiltskin had had to contend with not one, but two lifetimes of mistakes to regret. 

Four days until Saturday. 

The corner table had been burning at the edge of his awareness, since he had first stepped into the café. He had forced himself not to look at it. 

A breath.

Rumplestiltskin turned.

For one long moment there was only the fact of her. Belle was there, in the corner, where she had always sat in 28 years’ worth of memories. Brown curls and high cheekbones and cheeks flushed with youth. Breathing and breathtaking and real. His knuckles ached with the calculated force it took to stay frozen. Five days ago, her health had been both of no doubt and pointedly no longer of any interest to Lachlan. Four days ago, the false memories of her smile and her brokenness both had choked Rumplestiltskin with a relief he had not quite dared to trust, until the curse routine had finally allowed him to verify the truth. Something violent crushed his chest. Rumplestiltskin stayed frozen. He should look away. There was no earthly way he could.  

Belle was reading, stiffly bent over a tattered pocketbook, the title only just visible through her clenched fingers. Sartre’s Nausea – another French author for another first impression. She had been reading Voltaire, when Lachlan had first noticed her almost a year ago, in the curse-memory of an exchange that had not, in fact, ever occurred, except in the aftermath the curse had played out over the last three decades. Belle – Claire, Claire French, the florist’s girl – had been absorbed in Candide; a vision of almost excessive pastiche, the woman and the philosopher in the gilded light of a coffeehouse. Lachlan had scoffed and been transfixed and leaned across his table to ask her about it, before he could stop himself. Claire had looked up with the undefended face of a person whom no one had previously bothered to engage with about philosophy. From the satire of the best of all possible worlds to the meaninglessness of human existence – the cruel irony of the curse would have bordered on poetic, if it had been pointed at anyone else.  

There was nothing of that brightness now. The line of her cheek was pale and she was wearing the sort of soft, washed-out sweater, that had been previously a part of her careful Saturday ritual – a comfortable sweater, a good book and a coffee she could not really afford in a coffeehouse that let her imagine that she led the sort of life, where literary deliberations in gilded cafés were just par for the course. A parallel he had not been able to quite dismiss even then. 

Lachlan had been charmed and charming in turn, and then pointedly smug, watching the sweaters give way to blouses, the bare collarbone, the careful red lipstick she had taken to wearing on the days she had known he would be there, disturbing her ritual. 

The sweater was back and looser on her now than the curse-memory of it. Belle was sitting very straight and her gaze was rigidly on her book. She had not turned a page since he had come in.

Her tight expression was not the one she had worn in his shop, when she had come to him for reassurance, after, and Lachlan had looked her straight in the eyes and asked with the quiet precision of someone who knew exactly what he was doing: Isn’t it exactly like that? The hopeless heartbreak was either gone or carefully held back, behind that grey-pallid composure that he had only seen briefly once before, in the dungeon, when her defiance had wavered for the briefest of moments as it became clear that he would not give in. That had been the last time he had seen Belle, until now.

His right hand had begun shaking, a series of tremors he could not contain. Rumplestiltskin had had four days to consider what Lachlan had done from a careful remove, where he, Rumplestiltskin, had been the witness of someone else’s actions. But he knew that expression, and he had caused it and, in the end, the borders of what the curse had conjured and what he had wrought, ceased to matter. The result was the same.

He had been Lachlan. He had said it. He had watched her face do what it had done and he had not given in – again.

And the memories were there – fabricated, false, and just as much burned into his head as any day of the last 28 years: Belle smiling uncertainly at him, that first night at the cabin, under the paper-thin pretense of a mildly interesting first edition. Belle, at some hour past midnight, barefoot, looking at the books on his shelves with open curiosity. Belle, flushed and bare, against his sheets, her hand reaching out for him. Belle, face falling, as he had kept precisely to the polite distance of casual acquaintances in the open street before his shop. 

Nothing of that had happened. He had memories of it anyway, and she had memories of it anyway, and the weight of having them and walking through the town with them was drawing her face tight even as he stared at her right then, in the café where the curse had let the whole tragedy begin.  

Rumple- Gold had meant to look at her for a moment. He found that he could not look away.

Behind him, Mrs. Precht’s heels moved on the parquet. Unhurried, deliberate, and pointedly in a direction somewhere to his left. The following murmuring had been there for some time, before his focus abruptly sharpened to a point at the mention of her name.

“...that’s Miss French, the type of girl who thinks she can get something for her trouble – and there she still sits, every Saturday, like she’s owed.”

A sudden stillness settled the tremor in his hand. His gaze was still fixed on Belle – on Claire. She did not look up. Her gaze stayed fixed on her book as her face turned first white, then sharply red. Her hands had cramped around the book until the cheap cardboard creased at the spine. For a granted measure of deniability – undercut by her white knuckled grip on the strained paperback and shored up by stubborn determination not to give up what she had refused to surrender – she had not heard a thing that had been said.

It was a small room. A whisper meant to carry could not be doubted to have reached the far corner. Mother Holle had taken care to modulate her pitch carefully as she spread her whispered tar with the righteousness of someone who had decided long ago what exactly ‘that Miss French’ deserved. He catalogued the change before him almost idly in the breath his fury deliberated over cresting. A heartbeat. A break.

“Mrs. Precht.”

Quiet, even, with no particular weight. The murmur at the nearby table stopped mid-sentence.

“The coffee is the one thing here that has ever justified the trouble of coming in. I should hate to learn the standard had slipped.” Gold turned around in his chair, facing the neighboring table. “It does tend to, the moment a proprietor begins offering opinions her customers are not paying her for. Pour. Keep the rest behind your teeth.”

Mother Holle’s hand stilled on her customer’s saucer. The color had gone out of her face entirely. He was not sure what exactly his face was doing, but he faintly doubted that it had bothered with the veneer of deniability his words had. Good. 

It was very quiet, as Gold settled back into his chair and deliberately opened his newspaper, gaze firmly focused. The murmurs around him were slow to pick up again. He did not allow himself another look at the corner. His face gave away nothing. Regina could doubt his placidity, but she could not know, not with Bae on the line. Not this close, before the end.    

His face was composed. His hands were still. A chair scraped, and he did not turn. He registered her gathering – the coat, the book, the small careful work of leaving – at the periphery of his vision. Then the footsteps. Even, measured, the careful pace of a woman who would not be heard hurrying. His chest clenched. 

They stopped at his table.

He looked up, because there was no other option. Standing before him was Belle, close enough to touch. The line of her jaw was rigid. The color was still high on her cheeks and her eyes were hard. There she was – ferociously present, the timidity of the curse burned away by hot anger, holding herself together by a control he could see fraying at every edge. 

“I am here every Saturday.” Her voice was very low. It did not waver. “I have been here every Saturday for years, before any of – this. You sat in that chair last week and the week before that and every week before that, and the conversation at the next table did not, on any of those days, seem to spoil your coffee. So I do find it a bit strange that today, of all days, it suddenly does.”

The memory came up before he could push it down. Her face in the shop doorway, the hopeful ‘If everyone knows anyway, could you say something, tell them it’s not like that’, the slight breath he had taken before refusing it, the small wavering she had seen in the moment, before the curse had shut his hesitation down. Then ‘Isn’t it exactly like that’ and her face emptying. That had been the end.

In the memory, he had been able to push away the guilt and remember the necklace and the extension on the rent and tell himself that she deserved what they called her. There was no question of that now. 

Gold could give her warmth. It would not make any of this right. And the cost – whispers from the room, through Mrs. Precht’s customers, to the Mayor’s office – would be Bae. 

Four days. He had been Lachlan for twenty-eight years. He had to be him for a while longer. 

“You overestimate the matter, Miss French.” He heard his voice as if from far away – dangerously soft and without a hint of warmth. “I find conversation about my fellow customers tiresome. I find conversation in general tiresome. I had thought I had been sufficiently clear, some months ago, about what I do and do not concern myself with. Apparently, I was not clear enough. Allow me to amend: I do not concern myself with you, beyond the obvious and even that has grown tiresome.”

He watched her face as it happened.

The bright thing that had been holding her up went out of it – not all at once, in stages, until there was only the drawn tiredness left.  Her gaze settled on something just past his shoulder, then she nodded once. Not to him. To the decision she had just made about him. 

Belle walked to the door without another word. The bell rang. 

He turned the page of the paper. He could not breathe. His face was calm. Her face, as he hurt her again. He could not breathe.

[rumbelleshowdown]

Day After Day

Author: Olive Tree Final Round: dress code casual; old coffee shop; whispers

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Alexander Gold groaned softly as light spilled around the bedroom curtains and onto his face. He rolled to his side to get away from it, the action having the delightful side effect of bringing him in contact with the beautiful woman sharing his bed.

“Mmm, morning sweetheart,” he rumbled, throwing his arm around his wife and pulling her closer.

“Morning,” she replied, placing a soft kiss on his chest and burrowing even further into his embrace. “What time is it?”

He glanced over her head to squint at the clock. “Nearly nine.”

“That late? Ugh.” Belle rolled away from him and he only had a second to mourn the loss of her closeness before it was replaced with appreciation for her naked form as she strolled from the bed to the antique wardrobe. She pulled out two dresses and held them up. 

“Which one for brunch?”

“They’re both lovely.”

“Yes, but which is better? I want to look good.”

“It’s a casual family brunch, sweetheart. I don’t think there’s a dress code.”

“I know, but Neal and Emma are bringing Henry all the way from New York. It’s a big deal.”

“If you’re worried about their opinion of you, you don’t need to be. They already love you. It’s me they hate.”

“They don’t hate you.” She let her arms drop and walked over to him. “They want to reconnect. That means they care.” 

“Mmm.”

She leaned down to give him a quick kiss. “I’m taking the first shower, by the way.”

Later that morning Gold drove them into Storybrooke and parked outside the pawn shop. Emerging from the car he walked around to the passenger side, linking arms with Belle as they headed towards Granny’s Diner. 

“Belle!” 

Gold looked up at the same time as his wife did, seeing Moe French crossing the road up ahead towards them. 

He didn’t see the car until it was too late. 

The vehicle barrelled straight into Moe, throwing him over the hood and onto the road before speeding away. 

“Papa!” Belle screamed, pulling her arm free and running towards her father’s fallen form. Other people were already racing over to help. He could hear one of them calling for an ambulance while another started CPR, but his main focus was Belle. He pulled his sobbing wife into his arms, trying ineffectually to turn her head away from the scene as the others worked to save her father. 

It didn’t take long for the paramedics to arrive and whisk Moe away in a flurry of movement and medical words that Gold didn’t quite understand. They closed the ambulance doors on them and he ushered Belle back to his Cadillac so they could follow to the hospital. 

They’d only been waiting for ten minutes when Dr. Whale appeared. Gold wasn’t sure if the quick turnaround was good news or bad. Belle shot to her feet and Gold followed, keeping an arm around her just in case.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Gold.” Whale’s face was solemn. “We did everything we could but your father’s injuries were just too severe. He didn’t make it.” 

Gold tightened his grip as Belle gasped and sagged against him. He nodded as Whale suggested making an appointment with Dr. Hopper, before lowering himself and his wife back into the hard plastic chairs, keeping a tight grip on her the whole time. A nurse brought over a cup of water and Belle took it automatically, simply holding it in her hand while she continued to cry. 

After a while Belle’s sobs lessened and she looked up at him with red eyes. 

“We should let the others know we won’t make it to brunch.” Her voice was thick and raspy. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He stroked her hair, gently returning her head to its resting place on his shoulder. “I’ll let them know.”

He pulled out his phone to do just that, relaying Neal’s message of love and support to Belle. 

When Sheriff Nolan arrived to take their statements Gold told him in no uncertain terms that that would wait until the next day.

Eventually he was able to coax Belle up and into his car so he could drive her home. A heavy shroud hung over them for the rest of the afternoon as he did his best to get her to eat something.  

When they went to bed that evening he held his wife in his arms as she cried herself to sleep.

***

The next morning Gold groaned softly as light spilled around the curtain and onto his face. He took a deep breath to steady himself before rolling over, knowing that he had to be strong for Belle today. 

“Good morning.” His wife smiled sleepily and moved closer to him, kissing his chest. “What time is it?”

Gold frowned, pulling back so he could examine her face properly. “Belle? Are you alright?”

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” She turned her head to look at the clock. “Ugh, time to get up already. Which dress do you think I should wear today?”

“What?” Gold was very confused now. Was this some sort of mental break? Was her mind blocking out the trauma? He should ask Dr. Hopper about it as soon as possible. 

“For brunch later.” She walked to their wardrobe and pulled out two dresses, holding them up for his inspection. “I’m leaning towards the blue, but maybe the yellow would be better?” 

“Sweetheart,” he spoke gently. “I don’t think there’s going to be a brunch today.”

“What? Why? Did something happen?” Belle let the dresses drop and rushed over to her nightstand, grabbing her phone. “I don’t have any messages canceling.” 

She held out her phone to him and his eyes widened as he saw the date. He grabbed the device from her and stared at it, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Blinking and shaking his head made no difference, it remained the same. The date was yesterday. But how was that possible? Was he the one having the mental break?

“Sorry, I, um…” Gold stammered, still staring at the phone. “I had a strange dream. It felt so real. I must still be waking up from it.” 

Belle smiled at him indulgently, taking her phone back from his loose grip. “Why don’t you go take a shower. That usually helps me with the mind fog. And who knows, maybe I’ll join you.”

She threw a wink over her shoulder as she turned towards the bathroom. All thoughts of the strange dream flew out of Gold’s head as he hurried to join her. 

Later that morning, Gold drove them into town and parked outside the pawn shop. He frowned as they got out of the car and he walked around to the passenger side to take Belle’s arm. This was all so familiar. Too familiar. Could it really have just been a dream he’d had? Or was it some sort of premonition? 

He looked up and saw Moe French stepping out into the road. 

“Mr. French! Stop!” he called out, his voice sharp. 

Belle’s head snapped up at his shout and he could tell the instant she registered the danger. She pulled her arm out of his and ran towards her father, pushing him out of the way just as the car barrelled into her full force. 

“Belle!” Gold screamed, the sight of her flying over the hood of the car one that would haunt his nightmares forever. 

For a second that seemed to last a lifetime he stood frozen in place, staring at his wife’s unmoving form on the ground, before motion returned to his limbs and he rushed to her side.

“No. Nononononono.” Moe was already hovering over her, murmuring similar sentiments, so he pushed the man out of the way, reaching towards his wife. “Belle, sweetheart. You’re alright. You have to be alright.” 

Gentle hands pulled him back as he dimly registered voices all around him. He saw someone leaning over her, starting CPR. He vaguely heard a voice talk about calling an ambulance. 

Internally he was screaming. 

He insisted on riding in the ambulance, refusing to take no for an answer. When they arrived at the hospital the doctors whisked her away and he was left to stew in his own guilt and misery. 

Dr. Whale appeared far too soon.

The words were far too familiar. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Gold. We did everything we could but your wife’s injuries were just too severe. She didn’t make it.”

Gold stumbled back down into the hard plastic chair, nothing Whale said after that registering in his brain. Someone brought him a cup of water and he stared at it numbly. 

Sheriff Nolan appeared at some point. Gold answered his questions. 

Neal arrived not long later and drove him home in silence.

He didn’t eat.

He went to bed.

***

Alexander Gold groaned softly as light spilled around the bedroom curtains and onto his face. The events of the last couple of days rushed back to him and his eyes snapped open, his breath catching as fear and hope warred in his chest. He rolled over, tears springing to his eyes as they landed on the sweetest sight he could imagine. 

“Good morning,” Belle smiled at him, leaning forward and kissing his chest. “What time is it?”

Quicker than he ever thought he could move, Gold wrapped his arms around her, pulling her so tight against his body she let out a little oof. 

“Oh, Belle. Belle. I love you so much, sweetheart,” he murmured into her hair. “So much.” 

“I love you too, but I need to breathe!” Belle laughed, pushing him back gently and looking into his eyes. “What’s gotten into you this morning?”

“Nothing, I just… I love you.” He leaned down to kiss her before pulling her close again. “Let’s not go anywhere today. Let’s just stay in bed all day.”

“Well as lovely as that sounds, we have that brunch with your family, remember?” she said, pulling back again. “I’m not blowing it off.” 

She wriggled out of his grip and he reluctantly let her go, watching as she walked to the wardrobe and pulled out the same two dresses.

“Wear the yellow one,” he said before she could even ask. She tilted her head at him and smiled, returning the blue one to the rail.  

Later that morning Gold drove them to Storybrooke, speeding a little on the way, and parked outside the pawn shop. As they linked arms he directed them towards a crossing.

“What are you doing?” Belle looked at him in confusion. “Granny’s is this side of the road.”

“I know, but I think I see your father up ahead. I thought you might want to say hello.” 

If Belle wondered why he would suggest such a thing when he’d never had any interest in spending time with her father before, she didn’t say anything. She simply smiled at Moe as he appeared.

“Hi, Papa.”

“Hello love, I’m glad I caught you, I…” Moe’s words were cut off as the car whizzed past them and he directed his attention to shouting at the driver. “Slow down, you maniac! You’ll kill someone!” 

Seconds later the sound of screams filled the air and all heads turned towards the corner the car had disappeared around.

They followed as fast as they could and Gold stumbled, barely able to keep his footing under him as the scene unfolded in front of them, revealing Neal and Emma sobbing over Henry’s lifeless body.

***

Alexander Gold groaned as the morning light spilled around the bedroom curtains and onto his face. His eyes snapped open and he sat upright.

“Alex?” Belle’s sleepy voice came from his side. “Is everything alright?”

“No,” he replied absently, grabbing his phone and calling his son. “Neal?”

“Pops?” Neal’s voice was also thick with sleep. “It’s a bit early for a Sunday, isn’t it?”

“Are you planning on going out this morning?” 

“Uh, yeah.” Neal still sounded confused. “Yeah, Emma suggested we go for a walk around town before meeting you guys for brunch.”

“Don’t!” Gold shouted, then winced as he realized how demanding that sounded. “I mean, wait there. We’ll pick you up from Granny’s and show you around. There’s a lovely old coffee shop down one of the side streets.”

“But why? Brunch isn’t that far away.”

“Just stay put. Please. I’ll be right there.” Gold hung up and began getting ready, ignoring his wife’s quizzical look. 

“Alex? What’s going on? Did something happen?” 

“It’s fine, sweetheart. Just a change of plans. You don’t mind meeting up a little early, do you?” 

“I guess not.” She frowned again, but didn’t argue. “Which…”

“The yellow one,” he answered without looking.

Not long later, as they were about to leave the house, Gold’s phone rang. He looked down and his breath caught at seeing Neal’s name on the screen. 

“Neal?” he answered with trepidation.

“”Pops?” Neals’ voice was thick with tears and Gold’s heart lurched. “It’s Emma. She went for a run and… and there was a car. The cops said it was speeding. They took her to the hospital but…” 

“No…” Gold shook his head, the phone falling from his grip. “How…?”  

He watched numbly as Belle picked it up, seeing her face fall as she listened to Neal on the other end. 

***

Alexander Gold groaned softly as light spilled around the bedroom curtains and onto his face. He took a deep breath, rolling over to face his wife.

“Good morning.” Belle smiled sleepily, kissing his chest. “What time is it?”

“Nearly nine. We should get ready for brunch. Wear the blue dress, it brings out your eyes.”

She gave him a bemused look as she pulled herself out of bed. He watched her movements, committing her form to memory. 

Later that morning Gold drove them to Storybrooke and parked outside the pawn shop. When Belle went to link her arm with his he held her shoulders, looking deeply into her eyes.

“I love you, Belle.”  

He leaned down to kiss her before pulling away, turning just in time to see Moe French step into the road. Throwing himself forwards as fast as he could he pushed the other man out of the path of the speeding car, pain exploding through his body as he was thrown across the hood. 

He heard Belle scream. 

Then nothing. 

***

Alexander Gold groaned as light hit his face. He tried to roll away from it but his body was too heavy. Sounds gradually permeated his consciousness. Vague whispers that coalesced into distinct voices. And beeping. What could be beeping?

Groggily he forced his eyes open, blinking as the world around him came into focus and a pair of beautiful blue eyes appeared in his line of sight. 

“Hey,” Belle spoke softly, her voice rough with tears. 

“Belle.” 

“What were you thinking, you silly man?” She was smiling so he didn’t think she was too angry with him. “Risking your life like that.” 

“I don’t like seeing you cry.” He tried to lift his hand to stroke her face but the movement was too sluggish. 

“Well don’t throw yourself in front of cars then!” She shook her head. “My father can’t believe you did that for him.”

“For you,” Gold corrected, feeling his eyes start to close again. He forced them back open, half afraid to ask his next question. “Belle? What day is it?”

“It’s Monday.” She smiled sympathetically. “You’ve been unconscious for over 24 hours.” 

“Oh, thank goodness,” he murmured, eyes closing. “Tomorrow’s finally here.”

[rumbelleshowdown]

The fantastic finalist fic has been posted! Now it's time to read! 👗☕🗣️