Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Relationship: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Characters: Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle (Once Upon a Time)
Additional Tags: Rumbelle Secret Santa (Once Upon a Time), rumbelle secret santa 2025, Breathplay, Choking Kink, BDSM, Femdom, Scuba Diving, you've heard of only one bed; now get ready for only one hyperbaric chamber, stalker zelena
Summary: Gold thought he liked the simplicity of paying for companionship. It was neat, businesslike, easy. Safe. But lately he's found himself feeling unfulfilled. He considers giving up on the idea of companionship altogether. That is, until he stumbles across a profile on the dating website Sweet Tea - a woman with intriguing blue eyes who promises adventure.
Happy holidays @kelyon! I'm 90% sure I forgot to hit anon at least once, so this may not be a total surprise. Hope you enjoy your @rumbellesecretsanta gift!
All Rumpelstiltskin wanted was to keep the girl fed, but Belle's appetites are for more than just food
Rumbelle Secret Santa gift for @depressedstressedlemonzest
Read on AO3
The Dark One’s obsession began in the most innocent of ways. He’d acquired the girl through a relatively simple deal--freeing a land of ogres had always been something of his specialty--and now she was his. His caretaker, he’d called her, but she was first and foremost his property. And since she belonged to him, it became his duty to keep her in good condition.
That meant feeding.
It had started so simply. A glass of water and a crust of bread deposited to her dungeon cell on that first night. But even that paltry repast elicited a response from the child. It was simple, but heartbreaking in that simplicity.
“Thank you, Rumpelstiltskin.”
She’d thanked him. Thanked him! On the very day he’d stolen her away from everything she’d ever known, from every person she had ever loved. She had thanked him with sincerity, with true, heartfelt gratitude.
It was ridiculous. It was absurd. No one ever thanked the Dark One, not even when he delivered a person’s wildest dreams for what they thought was nothing. Rumpelstiltskin had lived the last few centuries without ever being thanked, and without ever deserving to be. That this girl, this noblewoman in a dungeon, would offer him her gratitude was a perversity. Didn’t she know who she was dealing with? Was she a simpleton? Or was she more clever than he had expected?
After that first night, Rumpelstiltskin began to consider this girl, this Belle as she was called. He had known precious little about her before he made the deal--only that she was the most treasured item that existed in her little fiefdom. The heir of her father, the pride of her people. She was the greatest prize, so she had been the greatest price.
Now he looked at who she really was, what she had really done in her short life. The marks of war were on her, he knew them well. She was a tiny thing. Short--stunted?--and thin. She looked more like a child than a maiden about to be married.
Rumpelstiltskin knew the results of a lifelong war with ogres. Battlefields grew poor crops and soldiers could not do the work of farmers. A lifetime ago, he had seen starvation on the people of his own village, on his own family. Of course, the Duke of the Frontlands had never suffered that fate. Nobles stayed fed, no matter what might happen to the peasants. How bad had Belle’s war gotten that hunger had touched her? Or was she a different kind of noble altogether?
The second day, he fed her a bowl of gruel. It was thin and watery, but she received it with the same grace.
“Thank you, Rumpelstiltskin.”
He’d retreated without a word.
Eventually, he began to put her to work. She was supposed to be his housekeeper after all. He told himself that she was too frail for the truly menial tasks, so he started her with lighter chores, dusting and sweeping and such. And every night and every morning, he made sure she was fed. Gruel, mostly, though he took to lacing it with milk so it was more like a porridge. And since it was porridge, he might as well add dried fruit and nuts--to make the girl strong. So she could do more work. Obviously.
He saw the changes first in her energy. She didn’t tire as quickly over her dust rag and her broom. Her steps took on a determined quality. There grew a light in her eyes that hadn’t been there in the first few weeks. She began to look up from her work now and then, to look around.
She was braver with him as well. No more did she meekly obey whatever orders he doled out each day. She asked him questions--nothing impertinent, just simple questions about her duties--but it was a marked change from the silent cowering he had seen in the first few days.
And with every meal he gave her, she responded with the same sincere, “Thank you, Rumpelstiltskin.”
****
It took him a while to realize he was lost. Every day he was upping his own ante, giving the girl more and more to eat. Gruel had turned to porridge and porridge had turned to soups and stews with hearty chunks of meat and thickly buttered bread. It was almost Yule after all! He had a duty to keep her warm during the frigid months. And the more she ate the livelier she became. Soon, he was able to entrust her with the backbreaking work of laundry. It was a challenge for her at first, but with an extra helping at lunch and she grew strong enough for the task. Rumpelstiltskin could see the muscles in her arms as she lifted soaking cloths out of the hot water. She never knew that he was looking at her, which made the act of spying all the more delicious.
He liked the girl. That was the first danger. Centuries of living alone in this castle had made company a novelty. With the Dark One’s enhanced senses, he could feel her going about her chores. He knew where she was and what she was doing at all times. That knowing occupied his thoughts more often than he could admit even to himself.
As the tasks he gave her became more demanding, her victories became more sweet. He began to reward her when she accomplished something new, by giving her a dessert at dinnertime. And Belle was open with her delight. That was also a problem. When she thought she was alone, Rumpelstiltskin spied on her devouring stewed pears and sliced oranges. She licked the plate and sucked the juices off her hands with a fervor that quite took his breath away. It was so unladylike, so unreserved from this creature who seemed often to be nothing but reserve. When Belle ate, he saw something of her true nature, of the animal appetites that any good girl kept buried in a secret core.
The question taunted him: What if this Belle wasn’t as good a girl as she had been bred to be? What would it take to unleash the real animal hidden in her heart?
So he had no choice but to experiment. In addition to meat and vegetables to make her strong, Rumpelstiltskin offered daily temptations of pastries and chocolates. Sweet Belle offered no resistance, but gobbled up her treats like the starving creature she had once been. It took all of his control not to give her enough to gorge herself. How much would she eat if she had an unlimited supply? Instead, he focused on finding her favorites. She ate everything he provided, but what did she eat fastest? What did she take the most relish in? Did she prefer chocolate or vanilla or caramel or fruit? Did she like the bittersweet more than the salty-sweet? What crumbs was she content to leave on the plate and what compelled her to lick her fingers and pick up every morsel?
Why did Rumpelstiltskin care so much? Why was this experiment so fascinating? He banished from his head the thoughts of meager meals he’d served in another life, of how much he had yearned to fill the stomachs and delight the palates of people he had loved. Perhaps all he would have needed to keep Milah by his side was an endless supply of that gray stuff Belle had called delicious.
But that was in the past. It was a fool’s quest to focus on what could not be changed. Milah was dead, and their love had died long before that. Belle was alive. She grew more alive with every meal he fed her.
For he could not deny that she was growing. The wasp-waisted ballgown she had come to him wearing had always been impractical, but it was swiftly becoming indecent with how her bosom swelled over the straining stays. As much as Rumpelstiltskin liked the show, it was clear she needed a change of wardrobe. So he fashioned for her a practical working dress. It was loose and flowing about the sleeves so the muscles in her arms and back wouldn’t be hindered. The corset was made of starched cloth, sturdy enough to keep her situated without the constraints of whalebone. Belle still had to breathe, even if her waist had thickened. She had to be able to move comfortably, even if her thighs brushed together under her skirts.
Was it wrong that he knew the condition of her thighs? For he had made it his business to know all about the girl’s body. Day by day, he had watched the hollows in her cheeks fill in and become dimples. He had observed her limbs thicken first with muscles and then a covering of softer flesh. He saw her belly jiggle when she moved and there was no sweeter sight in all the world. This Belle had grown plump under his care, and he delighted in that fact the way she delighted in her desserts.
The spying had not stopped. Now Rumpelstiltskin had two reasons to watch her when she didn’t know--both to see her eat and to see the results of her having eaten. At first, he told himself that was the whole of it, that he wanted to see her body’s steady progress away from starvation. But as much as he enjoyed the heft of her calves and the swaying flesh under her arms, he couldn’t deny that his eyes were always drawn to the fullness of her curves and the ever-growing roundness of her breasts. The Dark One was still enough of a man for that. He spied on her as she bathed, hoping to catch glimpses of her shapely hips and beautifully round backside. When he found himself fixating on the flesh that pooled over her waist, Rumpelstiltskin knew he was lost.
****
Belle knew what the Dark One was doing. When her meals had first become more substantial, her fear had been that this monster was trying to fatten her up so that he could eat her or sacrifice her to some fearsome creature. But clearly that was not Rumpelstiltskin’s goal. He didn’t seem to eat anything. At least, her duties never included cooking or kitchen cleanup. No, clearly he was spoiling her for his own reasons and not to make a snack of her himself.
Nor was he so clever as he thought he was with his spying. He might very well go about his castle unseen, but Belle had sharp ears. From the beginning, she had heard him breathing when there was no sign of him in her cell. When she ate her meals, she had often heard the sharp intake of his breath, or even a soft moan. She knew it was him. Surely the Dark Castle was too evil a place for any other specter besides its master.
So Belle had found herself entertaining the Dark One. She didn’t always know when he was watching her, so she treated every moment with the same intensity. She had gotten used to expecting his presence, so much that she sometimes found herself leaving the door open for him. The first time she had heard his sigh in her bathing chamber, it had hardly felt like a surprise. Rumpelstiltskin owned her now, why shouldn’t he own her nakedness as well?
It was a little odd that he wanted her--or rather, that he wanted to look at her without doing anything else. In her old life, Belle had been touted as a beauty. She was used to men wanting her. And she was worldly enough to know what men did with women they wanted, when there was no propriety or morals to stop them.
Did the Dark One have propriety? Did the Dark One have morals? Most people would say no, but most people didn’t know him the way Belle did. The very fact that he didn’t do whatever he liked with her--for who could ever stop him?--slowly budded into a desire to let him. After all, she wasn’t a noblewoman anymore. There was no value in her virginity. If the pattern of the last few months held true, she would never meet anyone new for the rest of her life. If she was never going to know anyone else, couldn’t she at least know him?
“Rumpelstiltskin,” she asked him once when they were physically in the same room. “What is your opinion on carnality?”
“Quite in favor of it,” he said casually. “Man is meat, why shouldn’t we act like it?”
Then why don’t you? Belle thought the question, but wasn’t brave enough yet to ask it.
****
It was some time later that she did. She was in her bathing chamber--the days of the dungeon were long behind her--when she heard his sigh again. Belle had finished her initial scrub and had settled in for a long soak to ease the ache in her back. Perhaps it was that very ache that gave her the gumption on that day. After all, what would feel better on her skin than a lover’s hands?
Still, her voice quavered when she called out. “Rumpelstiltskin? I know you're watching me.”
He appeared all at once, his eyes wide and his hands fidgeting. “You--You do?”
Belle nodded. She made no move to cover herself or even sink deeper into the water. “For some time now.”
He took a tentative step. “You are… less angry than some might be.”
“I’m not angry at all,” she said. “In fact I--I think it’s rather silly that you watch me and I pretend I don’t know about it.”
“Silly?” he said. “I suppose that’s one word for it. One of many.”
“But I must know,” she said. “Is watching all you want to do? Truly?”
Rumpelstiltskin swallowed loudly then was quiet for a long moment. Then he spoke. “Do you know what you are offering? To me?”
“Why not you?”
He sputtered and almost laughed. “So you don’t understand.” He began to pace around the small room.
Belle stayed in the tub and crossed her arms over her chest--not to hide her breasts but because she was irritated. This wasn’t going how she had planned.
“What I understand is that I had already been bought and sold. Before we made our deal, I was to be married to the man with the biggest army. That was the price of--of what I’m offering to you.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “An arranged marriage is one thing. The joining of a maiden to a monster is another story altogether.”
In spite of herself, Belle felt her irritation slip. “You’re not a monster, Rumpelstiltskin. A monster would take. You have done nothing to me but give.”
“I took you from your very home.”
“You gave me a chance to save them all,” she said. “Now give me this. Surely you want something from me, or else why would you spend so much time watching me?”
“Well there’s nothing else to look at,” he said in his impish voice.
Belle smiled. Slowly, she braced herself against the sides of the bathtub and stood up. “Then look all you like, Rumpelstiltskin.”
He did. Water cascaded off of Belle’s skin and Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes followed every drop. His face was hard to read at first. He wasn’t impish or triumphant or annoyed with her. He was… stunned. After a moment, he seemed worshipful.
Belle reached out her hand. All the weight she had gained affected her balance and the tub was slippery. Rumpelstiltskin took it. He grabbed onto her and Belle knew that no power in the world would let her fall.
When she was safe on the ground, she looked around for her towel. Rumpelstiltskin held it in his other hand. He offered it to her, but instead Belle held out her arms, inviting him to wrap her up himself.
He did.
Had the warmth of his body transferred onto the towel? Was it magic? Or was it Belle’s sudden blush that heated her from head to toe? He was so close to her now, so real. His eyes--strange and inhuman as they were--painted over her face. He seemed just as worshipful now as he had at the sight of her nakedness.
“Stop me,” he whispered. “You need to stop me.”
Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t want to stop you.”
His hands raised, fingers outspread, as if he were about to take her by the shoulders. “If you don’t stop me, I won’t stop, Belle.”
She repeated, “I don’t want you to stop.”
Then she lifted her head to meet his lips.
****
It was a soft kiss. Slow and tentative. Rumpelstiltskin tasted a drop of bathwater as it rolled down from her lips. She smelt of soap and oil--roses and lavender--but she tasted of herself.
He tried to back away, tried to insist again that she stop him. If she said one word, if she offered one modicum of resistance, he would free her immediately and never do another deal for the rest of his days.
But she moved with him when he stepped back. She kept their lips together. She pushed herself into him, into his arms.
He gripped onto the cloth that covered her, not trusting himself to touch her skin. Her skin--so wet, so naked--was far too precious for him to pollute with the Dark One’s hands.
Still, he kissed her. There was nothing in the world he wanted more. For so long he had watched Belle’s hungry mouth suck down delicacies and now he knew what it was to have her consume him. She wanted him, as impossible as it seemed. She wanted to kiss him, to taste him. Gods above, she wanted his tongue in her mouth. And he wanted her just as much.
They stopped when they ran out of air. Gasping, they broke apart. She clung to his sleeves and he forced himself to let go of her towel.
“Well,” he tried to compose himself. “Now that you’ve gotten that out of your system--”
She kissed him again before he could say more. This kiss was even hungrier, even more demanding. Gods, she wanted him. The thought refused to leave his mind. She wanted him!
His hands moved without consideration of his will. He brushed his claws against her bare flesh. The tips of his fingers grazed against her soft skin. She was so warm, so real. She was here and she wanted him.
“Belle,” he murmured as he kissed her again and again. “Belle, are you sure? Will you let me take you to your bedchamber?”
“I am,” she answered breathlessly. “I will. Please.”
It was the ‘please’ that convinced him. In less time that it took to snap a finger, Rumpelstiltskin transported them into the little room where Belle slept. Her body filled the narrow bed as he laid her down before him. The towel was gone. She was naked and laid out for him like a feast.
Slowly, his kisses moved down from her mouth. He kissed her neck and round shoulders. She was too plump for him to see her collarbone, but he felt the hardness hiding under her skin. He lavished her large breasts, sucking her nipples until they were red and swollen.
He went down to her belly. Gods, her belly! When she had first come to him, her stomach had been all but caved in. Now, he looked at what he had done to her, at the sweet protuberance of her abdomen. She was striped with silver stretch marks, like a goddess of fertility. His hands roved the loose flesh, gripping at her and shaking her until she jiggled. He gave her a playful smack and watched her skin vibrate under him. Was there ever anything so beautiful?
She opened her thighs for him, and the skin jiggled there too. His lips covered the soft roundness that guarded her female places. He took his time, savoring all the succulent nooks and crannies of Belle’s legs before he took to the main event. He kissed down to her dimpled knees and put her meaty calves onto his shoulders. He kissed her feet from ankle to toe, then started up again.
She was beautiful, every inch of her.
Gently, Rumpelstiltskin raked his hands down the underside of her thighs. He grabbed at her round backside and hefted her up to straddle him. He kept his hands on her arse, kept her steady. As he had with her stomach, he delivered a few light slaps and felt the flesh quiver and shake.
“Is it strange that it feels good when you do that?”
A hot flame of lust flared up in Rumpelstiltskin at her question. “Not at all, my dear. There are some who enjoy pain just as much as pleasure. We’ll find out what you like.”
“So far, I like everything.”
He squeezed her yielding flesh. “So do I, sweet Belle.”
“What else is there?”
“Let me show you.”
He laid her down again, legs spread apart. Then he bowed his head over her and began to enjoy himself.
She gasped at the first tentative licks to her cunt, but Rumpelstiltskin worked slowly, thoroughly. He stayed away from her clitoris at first, choosing to start on the outer edges of her lips. Like everything else about her, they were plump and pleasing. He licked hard at them, brushing them with the edges of his teeth until Belle began to squirm. Then he slid inside her core, filling her entirely with his tongue. Stroke by lovely stroke, Rumpelstiltskin raised her up. He felt the fire growing inside her, but he knew it had yet to explode. She whimpered, when he pulled his tongue out of her hole. She wanted more, and by gods he was going to give it to her.
Still, he was soft. He flicked up to her clitoris--that perfect bud of a woman’s pleasure--with light, delicate strokes. He teased her with her own delight.
Sounds emitted from her. Heavy breaths and soft sighs and gentle, wavering moans. Her hands pressed limply at the back of his head, as if ready to encourage him but not certain to what end. Rumpelstiltskin stayed mindful of Belle’s virginity. It was possible she had never experienced a climax before in her life. She might not know how to get herself to that point. It was his duty to help her, to guide her. Lick by lick, he showed her the path to paradise and the clever girl was happy to walk it.
Now he moved back and forth from her core to her clitoris. He filled her one moment and pleased her the next. When his tongue proved unequal to the task, he rubbed his nose and chin against her. He devoured her, as she had devoured so many pastries. He used every skill he had to bring her closer and closer to the edge of pleasure. He filled her with his fingers, he laved at her breasts, he rubbed and rubbed and rubbed at her cunt until finally she began to clench around him.
“Oh!” Belle gasped. Then she nearly screamed another “Oh! Oh, Rumpelstiltskin, I--I--”
“I know,” he breathed in the scent of her budding orgasm. “I know, my dear.”
Her shaking reached a fever pitch. All of her flesh quivered and jiggled in the same rhythm. Fuck! It was intoxicating to witness. All Rumpelstiltskin wanted to do was rip off his trousers and join his body to this gorgeous mass of pleasure. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until she was done.
She shook and moaned and clenched. Over and over, like there would never be an end to it. He held her as she came. One arm wrapped around her body while her body was wrapped around his fingers. He kissed her, he felt her scream into his mouth. She was so beautiful.
By the time it was done, she was sweating. Her face and chest were flushed red, her eyes were heavy lidded. Her pupils were so dark with lust her eyes were almost entirely black. Her breath came out in heavy pants.
“Oh,” she said again. “That was amazing.”
He swallowed. “Was that all you wanted?”
Overwhelmed as she was, Belle still had the presence of mind to shake her head. “Not all,” she breathed. “I understand there is a male component as well.”
“Yes, but…” Rumpelstiltskin made a noncommittal gesture. “You needn’t trouble yourself if there is no desire for it.”
“Rumpelstiltskin, I am nothing but desire!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.”
His first act was to magically douse the candles and dim the firelight that lit this room. There was no need to frighten Belle with the sight of all the Dark One’s scales. Let him be a shadow made flesh, let him be darkness itself as he defiled this beacon of light. With another twist of magic, he vanished his clothes. Now they were both naked, laying atop each other on the little bed.
It was a simple thing, fucking. His own pleasure was neither so complex nor so fascinating as hers. He gave her a few gentle kisses--reassurances of his devotion to her comfort--then he spread her thighs, and lined himself up to enter her.
There was no pain, no bleeding, only a moment of confusion as Belle adjusted to this new presence in her body. Rumpelstiltskin soothed her through it. He kept his hips still and touched her face until her breathing steadied.
“How does it feel?” she asked him.
Like every heaven of every realm had just declared him king. She was so hot around him, so wet from her orgasm. She was slick and smooth and waiting for him. Like her body had been made for him.
“It feels good,” he answered lamely. It seemed words had abandoned him. “So good.”
“It feels good for me too.” Belle shifted her position. “Oh, yes, that’s very good.”
“Good,” he breathed. “I--I’m going to move now.”
In the darkness, he saw her nod. Slowly, deliberately, he began to slide in and out of her cunt. He bit his lip to keep from embarrassing himself with more words. But gods this was perfect. The feel of her was liquid silk. He could still taste her cunt on his lips, smell the products of her pleasure--pleasure he had made! It was good. It was so, so good.
Groaning now, he lay on top of her as he made her his own. What a wondrous bed Belle was, so soft and pillowy. Her thick legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him ever deeper inside her. She sucked him in, consumed him with her cunt in the same way she had consumed him with her kisses. All Rumpelstiltskin could do was let her. It occurred to him that she was leaving her mark on him just as much as he was on her. She was losing her virginity, but he also would be forever changed.
Somehow, that thought didn’t horrify him. Instead, it spurred him on. He began to fuck her properly now, to thrust into her quick and hard. Belle moaned and sighed. Her hips made faint bucking motions as she tried to match him. He pushed into her, filling her to the brim, until she squealed. He felt her clench around his cock, just as she had clenched around his fingers as she came.
She was coming again now, coming just for him. Her body shook and her flesh quivered and he felt the reverberations from the inside out. He kissed her face as an encouragement, to tell her she could keep going forever. He kept fucking her as she came, meeting her jerked-out rhythm as best he could.
When she lay beneath him, exhausted and spent, he was still inside her. Every bone in her body seemed to have melted. Her hot femininity gripped him through tired aftershocks. Her hands clutched at his back and shoulders like he was a life raft. Oh, but he was the one drowning. He was the one lost in an ocean of pink skin and slick heat.
“Let me finish,” he breathed into the shell of her ear. “Just let me work in you a little while longer, and then I’ll let you rest. Yes?”
“Oh yes,” she answered. “Yes, take your pleasure in me, Rumple. I just don’t know how I can go any further.”
“You’re doing quite well for your first try.” He grinned.
Belle gave a weak smile and let her head fall back onto her pillow. Rumpelstiltskin gave her a gentle kiss to the lips, then ravished her breasts for a moment, before he began to thrust again.
He looked at her beneath him, this creature so wet, so willing. For him! For the monster, for the coward. If Milah and Cora could see him now, would they believe their eyes? He pushed into Belle hard, proving his manhood with every thrust. She moaned and squealed like a thing possessed. Gods, if he wanted to he could make her come again, easily. He could make Belle drunk on the power of her own orgasms. He could deplete her entirely and ruin any other man for her.
She was his. The thought pounded through his brain as he pounded into her. She was his. She was his. She was his. He fed her, he delighted her, she wanted him. What more was there in the world? He kissed her, hard and hungry, as he fucked her. She took to his rhythm, raising her hips to meet him. Rumpelstiltskin gripped the soft flesh, hard enough to leave bruises. He banged into her, his girl, his creature, his favorite possession.
Ultimately, even the Dark One had limits. He came into Belle, pouring himself into the same cunt he had spent so long lavishing. He pressed his face into her neck as he broke. He took refuge in her body. He gave her everything.
She wrapped her arms around him, holding him to her chest. They kissed, soft and tired, as she stroked his back.
“That was wonderful,” she whispered.
“It was,” he agreed.
In the darkness, in that moment of perfect mutual exhaustion, Belle gave him the same response she offered after every meal.
For the 2025 Rumbelle Secret Santa, I received @tabbyyykatt's prompt of "Dark Castle Soulmates." Merry Christmas, my friend! I hope I did your prompt justice as a first-time Soulmate AU writer!
From the Same Star
Soulmates are almost unheard of anymore, but the Dark One has no doubt that his soul is bound to Avonlea’s princess. And while Belle is intrigued by the promise of something so rare, she refuses to believe in love without choice. No one decides her fate but her—not even fate itself.
From the Same Star - Chapter 1 - BGSparrow - Once Upon a Time (TV) [Archive of Our Own]
Rated: T || Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending || Tags: Soulmate AU, During Canon, Getting to Know Each Other, Falling In Love, Slow Burn, Moral Ambiguity, Power Imbalance, Mutual Pining, Free Will, Fate, Doubt, True Love's Kiss, Angst with a Happy Ending || @rumbellesecretsanta
Chapter 1:
“My price…is her.”
He’d been waiting to say it for months.
He knew the time would come.
He knew the moment he saw her.
He’d been struck dead and reborn at the sight of her: a bright, restless spirit he glimpsed through an open window framed in pink Avonlean roses one sweet summer afternoon. From that moment on, nothing could dissuade him. Nothing could stop him.
This was what he’d been waiting for—who he’d been waiting for.
He wasn’t one for serenading a fair maiden beneath her tower window, but he hadn’t pictured this moment quite so doom-and-gloom. Broken chandeliers and beams had been pushed aside for war maps, singed banners, and dented shields. Battle glowed red on the horizon, and the fetid must of desperation was a tad overpowering.
Though not overpowering enough, it seemed.
Maurice looked from Rumplestiltskin to Belle and back again with a firm but rattled, “No.”
And the gallant fool next to her barred a protective arm over her lovely gold gown to say, “The young lady is engaged to me.”
It was chuckle-worthy, truly.
“I wasn’t asking if she was engaged.” The Dark One didn’t ask for things. “I’m not looking for love…” A grimy leer played on his dark lips as he turned, savoring their last moment of ignorance for them. “Though I am her soulmate.”
Their indignant silence was music to his ears.
Gaston scoffed. “You?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, sonny,” Rumplestiltskin said. A haughty once-over. “I’ve seen buckets of paste with more personality.”
“You overstep, Dark One,” Maurice said. “Who are you to claim that bond?”
Rumplestiltskin furrowed his brow and clicked his tongue. “Ah, her soulmate—I’m sorry, is there an echo in this room? A language barrier, perhaps?” He pointed to a frightened sheep of a man to his left. “Can you translate?”
“If you are my soulmate,” Belle said, craning her neck around Gaston’s arm, “then you know my birthday.”
Rumplestiltskin’s eyes slowly slid into hers, yellow and sharp and keen.
There she is.
There’s his princess.
She would not be caged. No, not ever, his princess.
“What he knows is meaningless,” Gaston said to her. “All the kingdom knows your birthday.”
“And you wouldn’t be the first to waltz in here with that date on your arm,” Maurice said. He sneered in the direction of Rumplestiltskin’s wrist. That the beast had a date there at all turned his stomach. “How do we know you haven’t used your sorcery to alter your mark and manipulate us?”
Rumplestiltskin splayed his hand on his chest and bowed his head. “I am honored you think me so powerful, Your Majesty.”
“No,” Maurice said. “I think you that despicable.”
Rumplestiltskin flashed his eyebrows with a silvery smile.
“Alas, my dear king, I cannot alter a soul mark. No one can. Though you’ve given me something to aim for.”
Maurice scowled at him.
Fine, fine. He wouldn’t get anywhere being a thorn in their side. Some cooperation and decorum were necessary. This was a negotiation after all.
Rumplestiltskin held Maurice’s gaze as he pushed up his cuff and exposed the inside of his swampy green wrist.
15 MAY
A silent, collective breath was taken and held. The air grew thicker, augmenting the scent of the smoke on the other side of the river. The way Maurice’s nostrils flared in disgust only bolstered Rumplestiltskin’s ego.
“I’ve shown you mine.” He met Belle’s eye again, his smile curling as he folded his hands behind his back. “Show me yours.”
“Say nothing, Belle,” her father commanded, shielding her from Rumplestiltskin’s view with Gaston. He looked down his nose at their guest. “If he is who he claims to be, he should already know.”
“That I do,” Rumplestiltskin said silkily, “despite the birthday of the princess’s soulmate being such a heavily guarded sssecret.”
Belle touched the thick golden bracelet concealing the mark on her wrist.
Maurice’s voice turned to stone. “Then name it.”
Rumplestiltskin’s eyes flicked to Gaston, who had heightened imperceptibly as if anticipating a duel should his own birthday not roll off the Dark One’s tongue. Rumplestiltskin considered the regal garb and shiny sword, the coiffed hair. Poor devil hadn’t a clue how outmatched he was, nor in how many ways; black leather and forbidden mystique were so in.
“I was born on darkest winter’s night,” Rumplestiltskin imparted, painting an imaginary sky above them with a wave of his hand. “Winter solstice!” And he looked to Belle again. “A charming and poetic complement to a disposition as warm and gracious as yours, Your Highness.”
Bewilderment swept through the makeshift war room.
He saw them think it—a smug twitch in the corner of Gaston’s mouth; relief in her father’s face; a few hands relaxing on their swords. They thought they were going to laugh him out of the room.
Belle parted her father and fiancé and stepped up to Rumplestiltskin. She carried herself with civility and strength, so unlike anything anyone expected of any princess. The one part of the stereotype she did fit was ‘fairest of them all’. And she was even more beautiful up close. Beautiful enough to snag his smirk and, in time, unravel him completely.
“With all due respect, Dark One, you are mistaken.”
She took off her bracelet, cool air touching her bare wrist. She jutted her chin out a bit when she showed it to him.
“My soulmate’s birthday does not fall on the winter solstice,” she said. “It is ten days earlier, on the eleventh of December.”
A patient grin bloomed as he read her mark.
“Mm. There it is.”
“Yes,” she said crisply.
“Eleventh of December.”
“That’s right.”
“Hm.”
Rumplestiltskin traced the mark with his eyes, took a deep breath, then glanced at Maurice, the demure arch of his brow enough to make the stolid king squirm. Half a heartbeat later, horror trickled over Maurice’s face, and Rumplestiltskin’s modest smirk spread like wildfire.
A Dark giggle rang through the chamber.
“Catching on, are we, Your Majesty?”
“No,” Maurice whispered. Blood thrashed in his ears so loudly, he barely heard himself. “It cannot be.”
His reaction made something cold grip Belle’s spine, and it didn’t let go. She discreetly flattened her slick palms to her gown, her throat inexplicably tight.
“Father? What is it?”
“Funny thing, these marks,” Rumplestiltskin suddenly said, taking Belle’s hand and smoothing his thumb over the date on her wrist. She yanked it back, but he was undeterred. “Day, month…no year.”
Alarm and confusion widened the cracks in Belle’s composure. He pressed into them with a low, velvety whisper.
“I suppose it would take all the suspense out of moments like this, wouldn’t it?”
Her face finally fell.
A torrent of denial flooded her with adrenaline, chest heaving as she looked at her father, then back at Rumplestiltskin. Her mouth opened, but eclipsed by the Dark One’s formidable shadow, nothing sensical came out.
Ah, the unforeseen perks of immortality.
“But that was…” The chills surged over her skin with such ferocity that they dampened her voice. “The calendar shifted two hundred years ago.”
“And before it did…?” he lilted.
Belle’s eyes emptied.
Oh, gods.
“The solstice fell on the eleventh.”
Rumplestiltskin clapped his hands loudly and spun to the room. “There you have it, gentlemen!” He bowed off to the side to grandly present his breathless beauty. “My soulmate.”
He nudged the nearest guard with a wicked glint in his eye.
“Kind of throws a more literal light on the whole May-December thing, don’t you think—?”
“My daughter’s soulmate,” Maurice boomed, “is not the Dark One!”
“I sympathize with you, Your Majesty, I really do,” Rumplestiltskin said, feigning a pout. “But there are ways to confirm!” He pinned Belle with unsettlingly bright eyes. “We could clear all this up right now with one little kiss.”
Her glare hardened. “No.”
“Are you that afraid of being wrong?” Rumplestiltskin asked. “The first kiss that two soulmates share is always True Love’s Kiss. You’ve read enough fairytales that I know you believe it. Someone like you,” he purred, “romanticizes it.”
Belle stiffened most incriminatingly.
But she maintained her scowl.
He liked that.
He liked the nuanced layers of curiosity, outrage, and determination unfurling in her smile like she’d figured something out. A provocative spark beckoning his fire. Oh, he liked that.
“It is not a soulmate you seek,” she defied, “but True Love’s Kiss.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She pursed her lips.
“Everyone knows your curse can only be broken by death,” Belle said. “But True Love’s Kiss can break any curse, including yours—without killing you. That’s what you’re after.”
A condescending titter sputtered out of him. Oh...Oh, she was sweet. So terribly, terribly sweet and naïve.
“Why in all the realms would I want that?”
Belle’s breath hitched at the nasty snap of his tone. A shadow shuddered through her; he’d been smiling and slimy all this time, but now, his voice was a black blade in the night, and it had struck fast and deep. But like the sun winking in the facet of a jewel, his expression readjusted as quickly as it had slipped, and the impish smirk resurfaced.
“No, dear girl,” he said to her, “I am not getting rid of my power. I like it. And hear me when I say that even ‘the most powerful magic there is’ can be open to negotiation, if not interpretation.”
Belle shrank away half a step when he leaned in, his breath hot on her ear.
“There will, however, still be definitive…stirrings we cannot ignore.” His voice dipped lower—an aside—and she could feel his eyes raking through her hair and down her neck. “Very noble of you to consider a brief armistice for the sake of breaking my curse. But what would entice you to do it for yourself, I wonder?”
She had enough time to answer before her father cut in.
The fact that she didn’t meant she was thinking about it.
She was wondering, too.
“That’s it,” Maurice growled. “This has gone far enough—"
“Because we both know,” Rumplestiltskin continued loudly, resuming his conversation with Belle, “that your betrothed doesn’t share your soulmate’s birthday, nor you his. Most don’t these days. But if you wish me to leave so that you may pursue whatever Happily Ever After means with that buffoon in the smoldering ruins of your kingdom, say the word.”
His eyes hardened to dense, black glass.
“I’ve lived centuries without you, dearie. You’re not putting me out.”
“Then why name me as your price?” Belle demanded.
“Oh, that.” He’d plumb forgot! “My castle,” he said, pointing to the door, “is in need of a caretaker.”
“A caretaker?”
“Mm, not what you were expecting! All this soulmate business,” he said, flitting his fingers with a slow grin, “is pure happenstance. Serendipitous. Meant to be. Fortuitous! Take your pick.”
Belle’s nails dug deeper into her palms as the date burned on her wrist. Her heart pounded, war drums and fate, and she was starting to discern a rhythm amidst the chaos.
Fury was winning out at the moment, however.
“Regardless,” she hissed, “you came in here, knowing I was your soulmate, knowing we needed your help, and chose to lord this ‘happenstance’ over our bargain as if it had no bearing.”
He frowned. “Does it?”
“You know it does.”
“Ah.” Guilty. “Well, from where I’m standing,” he said, now including other parties again, “the deal is thus: safeguard and security from the ogres for a lifetime of servitude. Your princess for your people.”
Belle swallowed. Her reveries trailed to the ruddy tiles beneath her—large tan and charcoal squares not unlike a chessboard. Servant or soulmate, the Dark One would have her forever. Yet, part of her felt like he already did. Like something carried over from another life.
If fate decided this was her soulmate, there must be a reason.
It was vile of him to do it like this. As if he might woo her with trickery and conceit. But she read him like a book: keeping her as a caretaker kept her close and gave him hope. He could posture all he liked. She knew this meant more to him than he let on.
Gods be good, it meant something to her, too. Just not yet.
“You have named your price,” Maurice was saying to Rumplestiltskin when she lifted her head, “and I refuse to pay it. Our people fight for their princess—“
“Or they could live because of me,” Belle interjected. “If they fight anymore, they’ll die, Father. They’re out there dying right now!” She looked at Rumplestiltskin, wary but resolute. “That’s why we sought his help—"
“Don’t argue, Belle!” Maurice’s nostrils flared at Rumplestiltskin, big, angry breaths rushing from his nose. “He will not have you.”
“He will if I say.”
She held her father’s incredulous gaze as she took one brave step back to stand at Rumplestiltskin’s side. She was holding her breath, clutching her skirt. He could see her pulse beating in her throat. But the soft click of her shoe resonated louder than cannon fire, final.
“No one decides my fate but me.”
It would taste a lie to say he hadn’t swooned a bit—that little flutter in his heart, like sun on buttercups. Fate, indeed. She was as ready and capable as he was when it came to seizing power.
He touched the small of her back, acceptance and praise, but she turned out of it to face him.
“My family and friends—they will all live?”
Rumplestiltskin inclined his head. “You have my word.”
“Then you have mine—on one condition.”
Rumplestiltskin steepled his fingertips, searching her eyes. He didn’t care for conditions and addenda, all those superfluous clauses that muddied a deal. But she wasn’t afraid of him, and that captivated him more than the fact that she was fated to him.
“Do tell,” he said.
She stuck her chin out again. It was cute.
“You will honor our agreement to the letter: I am and will only be treated as your caretaker, not your soulmate,” she said. “I am not a bride in this exchange. I am a servant. I expect my duties and our relationship henceforth to reflect that.”
Summary: In a small town, to have a child drown is a tragedy that can live in the minds of townspeople for years. But when another child drowns, sadness quckly gives way to suspicion.
TW: heavy themes, also very morally-questionable characterisations.
Rating: M
Prompt: mystery (murder optional), mountain cabin
A/N: surprise, @killingkueen, it is I, your Secret Santa! Here roasting my ass in the Southern fucking hemisphere, but about to flee to the cold embrace of the Northern Hemisphere (wait for me, cold!).
It was a delight to be your Secret Santa, and I hope that I managed to deliver. It's a bit too angsty for my usual fare, but the inspiration kinda mandated it. This fic is SUPER loosely-inspired in El Secreto de sus Ojos (The Secret in their Eyes), an Argentinian film (do recommend watching it, the American remake is just so bad).
Happy Holidays!
Chapter 1
Emma had never been to Storybrooke, not in the two years since she had first been contacted by Henry. It was a boundary that had been firmly set early on. But Regina’s frantic phone call had been enough to have her pack a bag and speed all the way there from NYC, barely sparing a thought for her job. She had enough savings to pause chasing after lowlifes for bail money, she’d be fine.
When she had chosen to make the adoption process an open one, she hadn’t really imagined what that might entail, hadn’t dared to hope for much. But Henry was a curious kid, and so the moment he had been told he was adopted he had pretty much demanded to meet her. And, though his adopted mother hadn't been too thrilled, she had allowed them a manner of a relationship. Emma was like a cool aunt, foil to Regina’s strictness, taking Henry everywhere he wanted in New York City, having pizza parties and movie marathons once every few months and then shipping him back to Storybrooke to his actual mother, the one that knew his medical history, that enforced necessary boundaries and guaranteed he ate nutritious meals. And she was more than okay with that.
Now that Henry was in the hospital, however, Emma thought about all the things she missed in-between their visits, including the series of events that had led to her son being in a coma in a fucking hospital. All she knew was that he had been found in the water near the docks by a fisherman, a local drunk named Leroy. There was suspicion of foul play, since Regina had been adamant about Henry going nowhere near the docks, claiming it wasn’t safe.
Though she was itching to go to the hospital as soon as she arrived in town she forced the bug to turn towards the sheriff’s station, where she was meant to check in on Graham, as per Regina’s instructions. He had brought Henry over to her apartment several times over the past few years, and they had established what felt like a tense rapport, an unacknowledged attraction warring with the nebulous knowledge of whatever thing he had going on with Regina, some kind of unspoken affair that wasn’t quite a relationship but didn’t seem casual either. Whatever connection Emma felt with him was not worth poking that hornet's nest, especially if it could endanger her access to Henry, however sporadic.
To her chagrin, Regina was there when she arrived, berating the Irishman for his incompetence and drilling him on any possible leads he might be able to pursue. It was the reason Regina had likely called her, Emma knew. Not because she genuinely wanted her to know about Henry’s condition, but because she wanted her to use her dubiously-acquired skills to find out what had happened. She would’ve been angry at the blatant manipulation if Regina wasn’t looking like she hadn’t slept in days and was barely holding herself together. She didn’t like the mayor, but she couldn’t deny she was a caring mother.
“Okay, okay, time out. Can someone walk me through what we have?”
Once again the need to go to the hospital overwhelmed her, but she stomped it down. Henry would be fine. He was a strong kid. And at the hospital she could do nothing for him except watch him struggle to breathe, surrounded by machinery. There she could be of use, could help track down whoever had hurt him, so when he woke up he wouldn’t have to be afraid.
“Little to nothing. No witnesses, no leads, no suspicious activity in town around that time. Henry was having what looked like a normal then. He was last seen a few hours before he showed up in the water, and since he was rescued alive it means he couldn’t have been in the water for long. Not only he didn’t drown, he also had only the early signs of hypothermia, even though the water was freezing. Doctors speculate he couldn’t have been in there for more than five minutes. He has brain activity, though we don’t know whether he’s suffered brain damage. If-” the sheriff paused, looking at both women in front of him before lowering his head and correcting himself. “When he wakes up we’ll know more, even if he’s not able to tell us himself.”
“No strangers in town?” A shake of the head. She wrote the information down. “No deviations from his schedule recently?” Another shake of the head, this time from Regina. “No similar occurrences?” Storybrooke was a small, sleepy town, but it didn’t hurt to ask.
“Well, actually-”
Emma’s head snapped up, her eyebrows raising. She caught the way Graham rubbed his nape, as if aware he had made a mistake, and Regina’s glare before she interrupted.
“That’s got nothing to do with this. It happened ten years ago, it’s ancient history.”
There was a tenseness in Regina’s tone that told Emma both that there was something there and that it was better left unexplored for the time being.
“We’ll get back to that. And who was the last person to see Henry?”
Regina’s eyes narrowed, her mouth pursing in distaste. Before she could speak, however, Graham decided to answer.
“According to testimonies it was the librarian, Belle French.” He paused, looking a bit defensive. “He went into the library in the morning, right before closing. The librarian only works half days on Saturday. She’s rather new, unlikely that she knows anything.”
There was something protective in his words, which Emma quietly made a note of.
“Well, doesn’t hurt to try. There’s not much else to go on.”
On the way to the library she found out, from a still-reluctant Graham, that Belle French had moved to Storybrooke close to five years ago. The town, being as small and bucolic as it was, still perceived her as a newcomer, and once she met her Emma could see why. Besides the thick accident advertising her foreignness, she dressed in a daring sort of way a bit out of place in a conservative little hamlet like Storybrooke, with interesting patterns and daring hemlines. She did appear to be welcoming at first, and genuinely concerned for Henry, asking after him and seeming more than happy to help by providing whatever information they might need.
Perhaps some other time Emma would’ve been a bit more tactful in her interrogation, especially considering there wasn’t any suspicion of foul play yet, but the image of Henry in the hospital, hooked to machines, pale and still on some standard hospital bed too big for his small frame, rattled her, pushed her to be more aggressive, to press on when she would usually back off.
Her initial questions about her last interaction with Henry didn’t seem to pose any problem. The librarian tried to be as thorough as possible, down to looking up which books Henry had turned in and which he had checked out. Emma wrote the last list down, already thinking about trying to track down the books, see if Henry had had them in his person or if they had been recovered nearby. That would tell her where, hopefully, he had been before ending up in the water.
But when her questions turned more personal, centering around her background and more personal information. Almost as soon as she started asking about her past the librarian seemed to clam up, flinching visibly the more she probed.
“I don’t see how questions about my private life might help uncover what happened to Henry.”
The librarian’s accent got thicker the more she was questioned, a tightness entering her voice.
“Oh, you never know what sort of thing will help crack the case. And, as the last person to have seen Henry, you’re central to the investigation. Everything about you is interesting.”
Her instinct told her there was something there, something in the way the librarian’s shoulders hunched and her hands wrung together that screamed a secret begging to be let out, but before she could explore- and, likely, perhaps cross a boundary that shouldn’t be crossed, especially since the librarian seemed genuinely worried and nice-a figure emerged from the shadows, startling her. Emma, as a true foster care kid, had an almost unnatural ability to feel people, especially people looking at her. And yet she hadn’t noticed the figure in the shadows, somewhere between the Religion and Social Sciences section, until they stepped into the light. It was a man, short and unassuming, hair a tad too long for someone in his forties, dressed impeccably in a pressed suit beneath a woolen overcoat, a book in one hand and a cane in the other.
“My, my, what an interrogation this little chat has turned out to be. I thought for a moment I had made a wrong turn into the Sheriff’s station.” The man’s voice was soft and heavily-accented, affable even though his eyes were cold. “Miss French, if you don’t mind bearing with my company for a few more minutes I’d like to stay, make sure you’re not in need of a bit of legal advice.”
His tone remained even, congenial, but a threat lingered behind his words all the same. Emma didn’t need to ask him for his name to know who he was, Henry had mentioned him plenty of times, and Regina too.
“Miss French is not in need of a lawyer.”
Graham’s voice was gruff, but had an edge of deference to it, as if he were talking to his superior. The man shrugged, leaning against the circulation desk, as if to make himself comfortable.
“I shall stay all the same. I’ll take any client I can get. After all-” A pause, an ironic smirk, and the gentle tap of his cane against his crippled leg. “I’m not much for ambulance chasing.”
The librarian snorted, and Emma’s attention went back to her. Unlike a minute ago she looked relaxed now, a smile playing across her face as she tried hard not to laugh. It was as if the presence of the man had had the opposite effect on her as it did on both Graham and herself.
“You’re Mr Gold.”
Another wolfish grin, the glint of a gold tooth enhancing the effect.
“Ah, I see my reputation precedes me. And you-”, he pointed towards her. “Are Miss Swan, here to solve the mystery of what happened to little Henry. I do feel sorry for what happened to the boy. Wish him nothing but the best.” There was an abrupt shift in tone as something genuine slithered into Mr Gold’s voice. “But if you wish to uncover whatever happened to the boy, you better look elsewhere.”
It was a dismissal and, though she didn’t like to comply, Emma couldn’t deny that there wasn’t much left to do there. Once she and the sheriff departed Mr Gold turned towards the librarian, watching as pity replaced the discomfort she had shown earlier.
“Well, Miss Swan seems like a lovely person.”
The pawnbroker did nothing to hide the heavy sarcasm in his tone, still ruffled by the blonde’s attitude. Belle, gently taking the book he had placed on top of the desk to scan it, bit her lip.
“She must be going through something horrible, and Regina too.”
“Bless you bleeding heart. I wouldn’t be as forgiving as you are, if someone had tried to drag my past through the mud like she just did.” There was a faint note of admiration in his voice, as if he was in awe of her goodness, before it turned serious. “But I have to counsel you to try not to get too involved. Regina already doesn’t like you, and now she’s upset and looking for people to blame. It’s a dangerous combination.”
“But I like Henry. I feel awful for him. If anything I said about his last interaction with me helps, then I don’t regret it.”
“Henry’s a nice lad, but not worth putting yourself on the spot for. Try to practice a little selfishness, my dear, it’ll serve you well.”
The words might have sounded heartless, but Belle smiled at them.
“You don’t have to worry about me, you know? But it’s sweet of you to do so.”
“Yes, well, sometimes it pays off to befriend the town monster.” He looked down at the book she handed him, all checked out, and allowed the tips of his fingers to brush against hers. “They tend to be protective of those close to them.”
— — —
The library had given Emma a few leads and one massive guilt complex, but she shrugged the latter off, telling herself to stay on track. The librarian’s feelings would recover, but Henry might not and the only thing she could do for him was find out what had happened, who had hurt him.
Her next stop led her to Granny’s, ostensibly to get a room- she had the feeling Regina wouldn’t be making up the spare room for her at her home-, but mainly because she knew such a place would be ripe for gossip.
Ruby Lucas, the proprietor’s granddaughter, proved to be a veritable fountain of information, and clearly so bored with small town life that she was jumping at the chance to talk to someone new. Emma also suspected she was gathering her own gossip. After all, she was the teen birth mom of the mayor’s son, who’d showed up out of the blue to investigate a possible murder attempt on him, she was basically made of gossip.
Ruby had been in Storybrooke all of her life, and her grandmother too, so there was little they didn’t know about the town and its occupants. And she was chatty too, which worked in her favour. It only took one thinly-veiled reference to a “previous tragedy” for the waitress to launch into a detailed account of the incident both Regina and Graham had tried to sweep under the rug. Emma, out of a sense of obligation, ordered a burger and fries so she could justify sitting in the mostly-empty diner and listening to the grandmother and granddaughter talk.
It turned out Henry wasn’t the first ten-year-old to be found floating in the waters near the docs, only that this boy had been found already dead. It had been a huge scandal ten years ago, and though most people had moved on, there was still talk of it, every now and then.
That boy had been Bailey Gold, Rowan Gold’s only son.
“There was never a Mrs Gold, or at least none that we knew. One day Mr Gold just showed up, already owning over a quarter of the town, with a small boy in tow.”
“Bailey was a lovely boy.” Granny, who didn’t seem to care a jot for the pawnbroker, softened when she spoke of his son. “The apple fell very far from the rotten tree in his case. Very polite, good to a fault. Always eager to help. I think he realised the adults judged him on account of his father and tried to prove them wrong, to prove everyone wrong. And Gold, that old miser, really loved him. The sun rose and set on Bailey for him.”
“So, what happened?”
“One day Gold went to pick him up from the playground- he was old enough to be out on his own, in a town as safe as this one, and kids were more likely to play with him if his father wasn’t around- and he had vanished. He went berserk looking for him, got the sheriff involved right away and everything. A few hours later, when it was almost about to get dark and they were talking about canvassing the woods, an old fisherman found the body. There was a bit to-do with the investigation but, in the end, it was ruled an accidental drowning.”
“Gold hated that, fought tooth and nail to reopen the investigation, but there weren’t any leads, or any suspects.”
“I almost feel sorry for him just remembering it all.” Granny looked grim for a second before shaking her head. “Then I remember he almost evicted us on Christmas three years ago over a misplaced rent check and the feeling passes.”
“Gran, we didn’t even get to the best part yet.” Ruby’s enthusiasm, in light of the subject matter, seemed more than a little out of line, but it didn’t seem malicious. “Months later, around the anniversary of the event, people began to hear horrible sounds coming from the woods on the hilltop. Like howling, or screaming. Some people thought there might be wolves. In Maine. Somehow. But then people made the connection and started to say there was a ghost boy haunting the woods.
“But that makes no sense. Bailey didn’t die near the woods.”
“Well, yeah, but the woods were his favourite place. His dad bought a cabin up there and everything, fixed it up, put a ton of money in it. They used to go there all the time. It makes all the sense!”
“Sure, no, it makes all the sense now.”
The waitress shrugged.
“People haven’t heard sounds in the woods for years, but every now and then people bring it up. It was a very real thing. People were terrified of going up there.”
“Don’t doubt it. Who was mayor at the time?”
“Regina was fresh from her first election win back then. Took the whole thing very personal, as if the child’s death somehow reflected on her leadership or something. Gold hounded her about it, it further soured their relationship, I think.”
“They didn’t like each other before?”
“They knew each other before he came to town, that much was obvious. Or, at least, Gold knew her mother, and not in a pleasant way. Horrid family all around, as far as I could tell. Regina’s the best of the bunch, compared to her heartless mother or crazy sister. Thankfully, neither has stepped foot in Storybrooke in a few years. Good riddance.”
— — —
The conversation left her with a clear notion that there was a strong possibility that what had happened to Bailey Gold was related, in some way or another, to what happened to Henry, which is what she told Regina rather emphatically a few days later, once she had explored almost all the other leads she had managed to gather. Regina was, rather surprisingly, adamant that what had happened to Gold’s kid had been long ago and had been nothing more than a tragic accident, thoroughly investigated and put to rest. When Emma pointed out the similarities, a kid vanishing from the playground and winding up in the docks, face down in the water, she dismissed her.
“I’m familiar with the case, Miss Swan, you aren’t. I was mayor when it happened, I was deeply involved in the whole sorry thing, so I’m telling you to drop it because I know there’s nothing there to disturb other than some unpleasant feelings.”
Even as Regina said that, swanning around her house, busying herself with tidying up an already impeccable home- all things Emma knew that the other woman did because the moment she stopped, the moment she was alone with her thoughts and nothing to do, she’d break down-, Emma could tell something had occurred to the brunette. There was a shadow of something in her eyes, some inkling of suspicion, that she didn’t comment on but took note of. To try and redirect the conversation she asked about the books Henry had checked out from the library the day of the incident, and from Regina’s look- confusion mixed with distaste- it was obvious that she had no idea about them, and that she disapproved of those sorts of books.
Graham came up to meet her as she exited the mayor’s house, sensing her frustration right away. He didn’t talk to her right away, letting her air out her grievances about what felt like the one solid lead she had- other than, perhaps, the missing library books-, which Regina was determined to dismiss or ignore.
“Look, Emma, I promise that, no matter how Regina comes across as, she loves Henry and only wants what’s best for him. If she says that what happened to Bailey Gold isn’t related to what happened to Henry, then it’s true.”
“With all due respect, Graham, you’re a bit too close to this to be impartial.”
“And you aren’t? After all Henry’s your-”
He stopped himself before he said something dangerous, like recognising that Henry was Emma’s biological son. Regina absolutely forbade that sort of talk and the sheriff obeyed, like the loyal dog that he was.
“Can I at least see the case file? I mean, just so that I can cross this off my list, confirm the dead end.”
Graham reluctantly allowed her to swing by the station after her daily visit to the hospital- more as a reminder that Henry lived and breathed and was fighting than a proper visit- and have a look at the file in question. It was neat and orderly, all the t’s crossed and the i’s dotted. Emma was no stranger to case files, she’d bribed her share of cops to rifle through dozens of them, looking for clues that would help her locate her targeted bailjumper. And, though usually those had been case files from NYC precincts and so her sample might be eschewed, case files tended to be messy. Too much handling, information added, worked on, studied. But Bailey Gold’s case file was… neat. Very straightforward, the inevitable conclusion neatly wrapped up, as if no alternative scenario had been conceived. The autopsy was conclusive, lacking perhaps a level of detail she had seen in previous ones, but that may have had to do with the nature of small-town coroners. That, along with a few scarce witness statements, constituted the lion’s share of the report, with no passing clue or vague remark pointing in any other direction.
It bothered her. That it was so damning, so convincing.
Too convincing.
Chapter 2
Regina was on a warpath. Her first stop was the pawnshop, but the door was shut and locked, a “Be right back” sign jauntily swinging from the glass window, mocking her. She headed to the library next, her heels clacking almost painfully against the asphalt. Even though it was past closing time, she was unsurprised to find Mr Gold there, following the librarian around as she shelved books.
She had known about this unlikely friendship for a while. She paid attention to what mattered in town, and everything Gold did mattered. So she had noticed when he had begun to visit the library, at first once a week, and then almost every other day. He usually slipped in near closing time, and lingered there past the official hours. She had kept the information for herself, thinking she might be able to use it later, but right then she couldn’t care less that she had given the game away and made him aware that she knew about his silly little crush.
“Did you do this to my son?!”
“I’m crippled, not deaf, dearie.”
The mayor stared at him, hating how unflappable the pawnbroker looked, even as the accusation lingered in the air. He didn’t try to look surprised or even affronted. Clearly, he had been expecting her outburst and seemed almost faintly amused by it.
“Cut the crap, Gold. I know you’ve never really let go of that old anger of yours. It’s been years but you never really did move on from the past, did you? Still stuck on what happened.”
Her tone was derisive, as if he found him pathetic, and that at least seemed to elicit some sort of emotional response from the Scotsman. He snarled, his right hand tightening around the handle of his cane, tension visible on his shoulders.
“No parent worth a damn ever moves on from the death of their child. They just endure it, one day at a time. Something I hope you don’t find out first hand.”
The mayor took a threatening step forward, hand raised in a vaguely-menacing gesture, when the librarian pushed the shelving cart in between her and the pawnbroker. She was a petite little thing, even in towering heels, but didn’t seem to notice or care about the size disadvantage, her gaze firm but not unkind as she told her that she understood that she was upset, and worried, and wanting to lash out, but that Henry was a strong boy and she had every confidence he’d be awake soon enough.
Her kindness, the softness in her voice, felt somehow worse than Gold’s scorn and anger. It spoke of pity, of weakness, things that Regina had strived to erase from her life. She felt exposed, the feeling like acid in the pit of her stomach.
“Or maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree here. Maybe I should be looking elsewhere for my suspicions. After all, Henry spent a lot of time here and who knows who loons fixate on for no reason? What sort of obsession some mentally-unbalanced individual might develop, and what dangers that might lead to.”
She felt a pang of satisfaction when the librarian visibly flinched, though she kept it together, careful not to take the bait. Behind her the pawnbroker stood, still like a panther, but ready to pounce the moment he thought Regina might overstep.
“Madam Mayor, this isn’t necessary.”
Graham’s Irish lilt jolted Regina out of her thunderous mood, like water being poured over a fire. Still, she resented his intrusion, the way he cautiously put himself in-between the two women. It wasn’t for her sake that he did it. She had seen how he was with the librarian, how gentle and careful. Apparently there was something about the little chit that appealed to men with power in town.
“Stay out of this, Graham.”
“I only mean, visiting hours are almost over at the hospital, and I know that you’ll want to wish Henry goodnight, like you do every day.”
His gentleness somehow didn’t rankle the way the librarian’s had. There was a familiarity to it that disarmed her, that got beneath her steel exterior. She glanced at her watch, noticing the lateness of the hour. Graham was right, she needed to get to the hospital now to get there on time and give Henry his good night kiss. Getting into some manner of fight between Gold and his little librarian would eat up too much of her time. She stalked off the library, Graham following at a more sedate pace, through a soft, understanding look at Belle before closing the door.
“Well, the library has certainly gotten exciting lately.”
Mr Gold’s acerbic comment fell a bit flat in the tense, uncomfortable silence that followed the departure of the mayor and the sheriff. The librarian looked at him, outwardly composed, but with a shadow in his usually luminous eyes. The mention of his son had rattled him, she could tell, and the vulnerability didn’t sit well with him. He was about to bolt, gaze drifting towards the door, likely calculating how much time should he let pass before he was sure Regina was far enough away. And though Belle wanted to give him privacy she didn’t think the best for him would be to be alone with his pain.
“Would you like a cup of tea? I was just about to make myself one, and I’d enjoy it much more with company.”
She saw him hesitate, his need to go somewhere safe to lick his wounds warring with his desire to not be alone with his thoughts. In the end he nodded, a small smile flicking across his face.
“That’d be lovely.”
She directed him to her office, keeping a mostly one-sided conversation as she prepared the tea, making sure the pot was warm before she poured the water and offering him sugar, honey and a little pitcher of milk, of which he only took the honey. She could tell he appreciated the artistry of it, though she wagered he would’ve been equally polite if he had been handed a mug with microwaved water and a teabag. When she produced a tin of Danish Butter Cookies from a cupboard and presented it to him so he could grab one he looked at her like she was the sun and the moon. That look went straight through her, making her feel strangely drunk.
“You’re too kind to an old monster, my dear. Far too kind.”
“You’re not a monster. And Regina was out of line, about what she implied, and what she said about Bailey.” She paused, sitting down to pour her own cup of tea. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, but I’m here, if you want to talk.”
The following few minutes were spent in silence, but not the tense one from before. There was a warmth simmering between them now, a coziness she had managed to build inside her office, with the tea and the cookies, that did away with the discomfort from a few minutes ago.
“Bae loved books. That’s one of the things I remember most often. Whenever I find some new book I like I think about what he would’ve thought of it, think about what it would’ve been like to share it with him. He used to come up to the library a lot. Back then it was closed but he’d peer between the boards on the windows, looking at all the dusty books inside like they were some treasure he was trying to get too. He liked adventure stories the most, full of knights and battles and fantastical places.”
His voice cracked, the words trailing off.
“You don’t have to talk about Bailey if you don’t want to. You don’t owe me his story.”
“No, but I want you to have it. I want you to know about Bae, and what happened to him. When they told me someone had fished him out of the water it was like someone had stabbed me. Like they’d cut out a part of me. I felt incomplete. I still do, sometimes. The next thing I felt was rage. Pure, unfiltered rage. I wanted to find out who was responsible. I wanted them to pay. Bae was a good lad, and smart. He knew better than to go near the docks.”
He paused to take a sip of tea, his eyes unfocused, lost somewhere in the past.
“At first they treated it like a suspicious death, an actual investigation, especially after the autopsy pointed towards strangulation. The sheriff questioned people with a grudge against me, which was a rather long list- still is. There were a few possibilities that seemed promising. A butcher who blamed me for his failed business. A drunk I had evicted a few weeks before. But then, suddenly, the investigation was over. A new autopsy had been carried out without anyone informing me, and the new verdict was drowning. No wiggle room, no doubt, no possibility of contesting it.”
He stared at his empty cup of tea, now fully immersed in the recollection.
“I raged against it. I thought it was bullshit and pushed hard for the investigation to be reopened. Regina, fresh from her first victorious election, was intransigent. Told me that accidents happened and that I was looking for people to blame just so I had somewhere to put all my anger and my pain. She insisted that there was no one to blame, that it had been a regrettable tragedy. I never believed it. The impotence nearly killed me.
“Eventually, I rebuilt myself, or came as close as I could. Sought out ways to keep my son’s memory alive, to keep him with me. Like supporting the opening of the library, which has brought many unexpected added benefits, I must admit.”
“To us both.”
— — —
As the days stretched and the town held its breath, both hoping for and dreading news from the hospital, Emma began to contemplate the possibility that there wasn’t any foul play and what had happened to Henry was an accident. As much as Regina swore up and down that Henry never went near the docks, wouldn’t dream of disobeying her, it looked as if she might just be saying what she hoped was the case, instead of facing reality. Emma knew Henry to be good at bending truths and cautiously stepping out of line when it benefitted him, Regina’s motherly pride, and perhaps the fear that she might have failed Henry by smothering him with rules and then leaving him to his own devices to follow them.
The more she became convinced that her theory of an unfortunate accident was the right one, the more Regina insisted that Gold was behind it, having changed her tune. And yeah, the guy was sketchy, no doubt. There was something unsettling in the way he carried himself, something threatening. Still, it was a stretch to think the pawbroker might have tried to kill the mayor's son just because of what had happened to his own son under Regina’s watchful gaze.
“You don’t understand. You weren’t there. He holds me responsible, I know it. He’s sure I swept everything under the rug because I was new and inexperienced and didn’t want the stain of an unresolved crime on my first tenure as mayor. It’s too big of a coincidence that his son drowns tragically and years later the same thing happens to my son.”
“But why now, Regina?”
“Because Henry’s ten now. The same age Bailey was. Just, just look into him.”
Emma did, not because she thought the suspicion had merit but because there wasn’t anything else she could do and just sitting by Henry’s bedside was driving her mind. There was nothing that pointed towards Gold, who seemed to have, perhaps, too clean a background, which would’ve been a red flag if she was investigating him for financial crimes or shady deals, but was hardly a smoking gun when it came to pushing children into the water. Graham letting her know he had spotted the Caddy at the cabin on the afternoon of the tragedy all by cleared him for Emma, but Regina was determined.
“He may have not done it himself, but he’s got people. And he’s awfully chummy with that little librarian, he might have managed to convince her to do it for him. The chit is unstable, and she was the last to see Henry. She could’ve followed him somewhere, or lured him into the docks somehow.”
“That’s a bit much, Regina, are you sure you’re al-”
“No, you don’t understand. When I say that girl is mentally unstable I mean it. She had a past, a past I was nice enough to ignore when she was hired because I thought everyone deserves a second chance, but perhaps my kindness was badly repaid. Here, I have records.”
The brunette passed her a folder full of hospital form admissions, therapy notes, treatment outlines and a whole lot more personal information than Emma was comfortable, and legally-allowed, to have. They painted a pretty horrible picture, making the blonde regret her harsh questioning of the librarian’s past all the more. No wonder she had been so tight-lipped about it, given both how painful the memory of it must be and how very intolerant people tended to be about mental health matters.
It was then that Graham intervened again, clearing his throat so both women would remember he was there. He seemed to spend a lot of time at the mayor’s house, where Regina oscillated between leaning on him and ignoring him altogether. Emma felt a pang of pity against her will. The sheriff was a grown adult, capable of both making his bed and lying in it.
“Belle was with me that afternoon. We went fishing, that’s why I saw Mr Gold’s Caddy at the cabin.” He shrugged. “It’s a good spot for trout.”
As Regina gawked at Graham, apparently too angry for words, Emma wondered if that was really the reason why the mayor seemed so fixated on the librarian. If, perhaps, Graham was two-timing her, or having some sort of emotional affair that the mayor resented in some way.
Emma told him so when they both left the mayor’s house, telling herself she wasn’t confronting Graham because she cared about his romantic life, she was doing it because he didn’t seem to realise how dangerous Regina and her petty jealousy could be.
“It isn’t like that, and I’m sure Regina knows. Belle and I- we have an understanding. It’s very innocent, she’s like a sister to me. We’ve had similar life experiences, it’s how I know when she’s feeling too overwhelmed or afraid of enclosed spaces. We go trekking, or fishing, or even bird-watching, and talk or just enjoy the silence. She needs to be outside when she gets a certain way. I’m sure you can understand, from what Regina showed you just now.”
“Yeah, I really wish she hadn’t, by the way.”
She felt awkward, knowing so much private information about a person she had only met once. She wondered how she’d feel if complete strangers she had met once were privy to all the gritty details about her time in foster care.
“She was with me the whole afternoon. We found out about Henry when I got the call just as we were packing things up.”
“Well, that’s good for her, but bad for me. Regina’s gonna stay on my ass until I give her someone she can blame.”
— — —
To keep up the peace and give herself something to do Emma dove back into the Bailey Gold’s case file, which did not bring about the sudden and irrefutable realisation that Gold had had anything to do with Henry’s accident, but rather the sinking suspicion that Gold’s accusation that Regina had swept Bailey’s death under the rug, categorising it as an accident for her own nefarious reasons, was spot on. Which did leave open the possibility of this being some sort of revenge plot, though it felt a bit weak.
“You can stop looking, you know. Gold didn’t do this. I know it.”
Graham’s voice snapped her out of her inner musings. She had been staring at Bailey Gold’s file for the past ten minutes without taking everything in, mostly puzzled by Regina’s vehemence in her accusation of Gold.
“You’re telling the truth.”
Emma would comfortably call herself a very down-to-Earth person, but ever since she was a kid she had been able to tell when someone was lying. It had served her well during her years in foster care, and was one of the things that made her the best at tracking bail jumpers. She trusted that instinct, which is why it surprised her that she could not detect an ounce of doubt or hesitation. He wasn’t speculating, or guessing, or hoping. He knew Gold didn’t do it.
“But you said you only saw his car at the cabin, not him. He could’ve left it there in order to have an alibi. Gold is literally the only person I can figure who’d want to hurt Regina in that way. What happened to him was horrid and for some reason he blames Regina for it. I doubt he could ever move on from it, not without getting revenge. Though it seems rather shortsighted and unfair to blame Regina for something she had little to do with.”
She had only met the man once, but she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was a man who would not tolerate being wronged. The kind that would hold on to a grudge, feed it and wait for the perfect moment to strike. The reasoning behind it just felt petty and weak.
“Regina’s sure Gold did it because there’s a good reason to blame what happened to his son on her.”
She looked at Graham, noticing how tired he looked, how out of sorts. She doubted he had slept much the past couple of days, between investigating what happened to Henry and keeping Regina from burning the town down in her rage. He looked exhausted, but also completely coherent, fervent now that he had apparently decided to speak.
“What do you mean?”
The entire story spilled out in hushed tones, the puzzle pieces slotting cleanly in place, allowing her for the first time to grasp the full picture of what had happened ten years ago. The feud between Gold and Regina had nothing to do with the pawnbroker blaming Regina for failing in her mayoral duties. The truth was much uglier, but not altogether surprising.
“Regina covered it up, and Gold knew. Back then Regina’s sister lived with her. Zelena was- unhinged. I didn’t know her for very long, but you could tell right away that there was something off about her. She came to Storybrooke to stay a while ostensibly because she was looking to bond with her sister, but Regina told me the truth, that she was running away from potential stalking charges. Something to do with a man, I don’t recall the specifics.
“Then she met Gold and she became… obsessed. Mostly because, apparently, her mother and Gold had been involved at some point in time, and that seemed to… intrigue her.”
“You mean she was into Gold because he used to bang her mom?”
She shared a look of disgust with the sheriff, who reluctantly nodded.
“He rebuffed her. He wasn’t interested and I think he too found it more than a bit unappealing that she wanted him because he had had a relationship with her mother. When she doubled down he was cruel about it. Made it clear he wasn’t interested. Zelena didn’t take it well. At all. Ranted to Regina all the time, told her how she wanted to hurt Gold like he had hurt her.”
He paused, looking a bit ashamed.
“Then Bailey went missing. Zelena showed up at Regina’s house a few hours after Gold had reported it. She was in a panic, apparently. Told her that she had taken the kid so that Gold would freak out a little. Thought she might even play the part of the hero and pretend she had found him wandering in the woods. Maybe it would get Gold to see her in a different way. But Bailey had fought, and had managed to get away. So she had chased him down and… she said she tried to get him to shut up, because he was crying and screaming for his dad. Put one of her hands over his mouth and the other around his neck. She let go when he stopped moving, but by then he was dead.”
Emma saw the scene in her mind’s eye, only the woman she was picturing had no face and the child looked exactly like Henry. It was too horrifying to even speak of it.
“Regina told her that she’d take care of everything. Told Zelena to dump the body in the harbour and go home. Then, when Bailey was found, she pushed hard to rule the whole thing an accident. Went as far as requesting a new autopsy from a doctor who owed a favour to the Mills. Took care of everything, even though Gold made it very difficult. Later, she sent Zelena away, threatening to reveal the truth if she ever set foot in Storybrooke again. Regina didn’t like Zelena, but felt responsible for her. It had something to do with the way her mother used to treat them. Something about favouritism.”
Graham finished his story, eyes glued to some imaginary detail in the file in front of him he was pretending to focus on. Anything to avoid Emma’s disgusted, judgemental gaze. She bit back all that she wanted to say, all the accusations she wanted to make. She wondered how Gold could stand looking at Regina without exploding, without taking his cane and beating the truth out of her.
“You can see now that what happened to Henry is not the same thing that happened to Bailey. And Gold may be a lot of things, all dangerous, but he’s not a child killer. As much as he hates Regina there’s no way he could do that to a child, not after what he went through.”
“What about Zelena? Could she have come back, unnoticed? If she was holding some kind of grudge against Regina, isn’t it possible-?”
“No. Zelena didn’t do this. I know it.”
Another clear-cut truth, but Graham seemed in no mood to tell her why he was so sure.
“I don’t know how you do this. How you stay with her, when you know what she did. What she made you do.”
“I don’t know either, if it helps.”
— — —
When Belle saw Graham walk into the library, she could immediately tell something was wrong about him. His shoulders were slumped and he looked tired, pale, the dark circles under his eyes prominent under the overhead light of the room.
“When was the last time you took a break, Graham?”
“Good afternoon to you too, Belle.”
The attempt at a joke felt a little flat, the smile accompanying it barely there.
“I mean it. You look tired. You’re going to burn yourself out at this point and you’ll be no use to anyone like that.” The librarian bit her lip, unsure about whether to say what she was thinking. “You know, you can tell Regina no. You’re not her slave. I understand that she’s going through a horrible time and you feel the need to be there, but you’re still allowed to take basic care of yourself.”
The mention of Regina seemed to unsettle the sheriff somewhat, putting him on the defensive.
“Don’t worry about me, Belle. Worry about yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The sheriff sighed, one hand tangling around his hair as he thought about how to broach the topic that had brought him there.
“I mean- I didn’t know you were that close with Mr Gold. And you seem to have gotten even closer to him lately, even as everyone else in town has decided to give him a wider berth.”
“What does Rowan have to do with anything?”
The use of Gold’s first name seemed to almost disturb Graham in some way.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be seeing him.”
“I’m not, but what if I was?” The librarian rolled her eyes. “Are you going to lecture me about unsavoury relationships? Because I’ve very carefully chosen not to comment on whatever is going on between you and the mayor, so I don’t appreciate you trying to butt in on my relationship with Mr Gold.”
“Those things are not comparable.”
“If anything, that’s a point in my favour. At least Rowan is not my boss, nor does he keep me like a secret.”
Her voice was raised, defensive, a hard edge to her that seemed almost foreign to him.
“No, Belle, he’s worse. He’s not a good man. In fact, he’s the opposite. He’s dangerous, capable of things you can’t even imagine. Regina has done many things, but at least she’s not a killer. Gold is.”
Anger flashed across the librarian’s face, an emotion she seldom directed at the sheriff.
“Don’t tell me you now believe Regina’s nonsense about Rowan being responsible for what happened to Henry? I thought you knew better. He’d never harm a child. Besides, we both saw his car in the woods.”
“I know. That’s not what I’m talking about.”
For the second time the sheriff found himself recounting the sordid details of what had happened ten years ago, what he had allowed to happen, had been complicit in. The shame he felt when Belle looked at him as if she couldn’t recognise him was devastating, but he pressed on, refused to give her room to talk, to take him to task over what he had just told her.
“The reason I know that Gold had nothing to do with Henry’s situation in spite of having ample reason to do this is because I know for a fact he’s already taken his revenge. He told me himself years ago, one evening in front of Bailey’s tomb. I used to visit often, once a week at least to leave flowers and, I suppose, alleviate my guilt. One evening Mr Gold was there. I thought he’d want me to leave him to his grief, thought he wouldn’t want me anywhere near his son’s grave. Instead he thanked me for the flowers, but told me I didn’t need to bring fresh ones the next week. Told me his son had been avenged. Went into detail about figuring out Zelena had done it, about thinking about turning her in, having her spend her life in jail like justice demanded. But, after what Regina had pulled, he didn’t trust the system anymore. So instead he tracked her down and put a bullet between her eyes.”
Graham let the words linger in the air, his stare intense as he tried to gauge whether his words were having any impact on his friend. Belle was motionless, face carefully blank, giving away nothing.
“Gold didn’t tell me that so I would have some peace. He didn’t tell me because he thought I would be glad to hear it. He told me because he knew I couldn’t tell anyone else. Not without incriminating myself and Regina. He knew I would even have to keep it from Regina, or she’d try to take him on. He played it perfectly. The confession was a punishment, one I was glad to accept at the time. But now all it does is make me worry for you.”
He rose, wanting to take a step forward, to perhaps console her or reassure her, but there was no fear in her eyes, no disgust or even surprise at the revelation that her recurrent visitor to the librarian was a cold-blooded killer. Instead, something else, something he hadn’t really expected, crossed her face.
Approval.
He took a step back, feeling the roles reverse as revulsion began to creep up his spine the more he saw her.
“You don’t care that he killed someone?”
“It’s not that straightforward.” The librarian sighed, clearly not wanting to pick a fight but also unable to give him the answer he wanted to hear. “I’m glad he didn’t let Zelena ruin some other life, and I’m sure you feel the same way about that.”
He looked at her like he didn’t know her, which he felt was pretty close to the truth right then and there. Belle stared back, unapologetic, looking both like the kind, gentle person he had known for a few years now and a complete stranger, someone angry and cold and violent.
“Just… just stay away from Gold, okay?”
He grabbed his jacket and stumbled out of the library, thinking things might right themselves tomorrow, after a bit of sleep and some self-searching. If sleep ever came, which he highly doubted.
Chapter 3
They fished him out of the water in the morning. A passerby who saw the net pulling up the still body of sheriff Graham ran back to the Diner to tell everyone there and, soon enough, the entire town was talking about it. Emma, who had been just finishing her cup of hot chocolate when she heard, went straight to the hospital, where she was soon joined by a distraught and enraged Regina, who seemed to be in a pretty heavy state of denial as she tried to bully doctors and other hospital staff into letting her know "how Graham was doing”.
Gold showed up a little later, looking more solemn and less like his sardonic self. He was there, ostensibly, as a representative of the Town Council, to verify the sheriff’s death and, Emma supposed, put into motion the process of replacing him. He was, in contrast to Regina’s almost-hysterics, calm and collected, though not in a flippant way that would imply he didn’t care. Deputy Nolan, who worked only part time as a law enforcement officer and was usually found manning the local animal shelter, completed the trio of officials, looking grave and perhaps a little bit frightened at the possibility of taking on all of Graham’s responsibilities and having to lead the current investigation, even if it was temporary till a new sheriff was elected.
As for herself, Emma felt like she was a bit in a trance. She kept replaying her last few interactions with Graham, kept thinking about the nuance of their relationship, the spark of something that had existed between them from day one but that both, due to circumstances, had decided to ignore. He felt a pang of regret now, sitting down on an uncomfortable hospital chair, waiting for whoever needed to be there to receive the official news about his death.
That limbo was interrupted by the arrival of Belle French, eyes huge and looking like she had run all the way there, her hair windswept and her coat unbuttoned. Immediately her presence caused a few shifts in the room: Mr Gold tensed up, eyes going soft and distraught at the sight of her, and Regina’s face contorted into something between disgust and rage.
“What’s the bookworm doing here?”
The librarian ignored everyone at first, going directly to the doctor and announcing she was Graham’s emergency contact, which did not exactly calm the mayor down. The doctor took her aside, not quite out of the hallway but out of earshot from everyone else, and spoke in low, hushed tones, his expression gentle but grim. Belle nodded, her eyes watering but holding herself together as she thanked the doctor and signed the paperwork that was put in front of her. David Nolan approached a moment later, likely to discuss next steps with the doctor. There would be an autopsy, but given where he had been found- in the exact same spot Henry had and, years ago, Bailey Gold- there only seemed to be one possible cause of death, and the attempted murder investigation would soon be updated to a murder investigation.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Regina’s snarl cut through the solemn silence in the hallways, her voice grating and shrill as she demanded to know what business Belle had been Graham’s designated next-of-kin. She took a couple of steps closer to the librarian, one hand pulled back in a threatening manner, but before she could do any harm, the pawnbroker stepped in front of her, expression calm but eyes flinty.
“Pull yourself together, Regina. This behaviour is very unbecoming, and getting yourself banned from this hospital- which I will demand they do, if you get violent- is not what you or your boy need right now.”
Regina paused, clearly weighing the pros and cons of acting on her rage, but Gold stared her down, probably the one person that she couldn’t bully or threaten into backing down. Finally, with a dismissive huff, she turned around and left, likely going to Henry’s room to sit with him. Then Mr Gold turned around, the ice around his eyes melting as he looked at the librarian.
“Are you alright, Belle?”
The way he said her name made Emma feel like she was intruding on a deeply personal moment, but tried as she might she could not look away. The librarian shook her head, her composure breaking just as the pawnbroker’s arms encircled her. He let her bury her face against his coat, one hand like a band of steel around her waist and the other tangling in her hair, his face tilted down so he could murmur something comforting to her.
Emma still didn’t like the pawnbroker. Every alarm bell in her body went off whenever the man was nearby. He moved and looked almost like a jungle-cat, deceptively still. But, in that moment, she was glad he was there, to stop Regina when no one else would’ve been able to.
Besides, now she could truly cross him out of her suspects list. Because, looking at the way he was holding the librarian as she cried, she knew for sure he would never do anything to hurt her like that.
CH— — —
There was an autopsy, but none of the initial findings were conclusive, so people in Storybrooke were in a state of limbo, expecting big news at any moment while life went on, more or less as usual. Emma spent her time between visiting Henry- Regina had reluctantly let her know that some new neurological tests were throwing promising results, and doctors were slowly transitioning from grave and silent to cautiously optimistic about his prognosis- and helping Nolan with the investigation and keeping order in the town.
Gold was keeping his distance from most people, knowing there was a considerable number of town residents who were utterly convinced he had something to do with whatever was going on, and so things were tenser than usual. He turned his attention instead to sorting out the late sheriff’s apartment. There were no family members there to claim anything, only a vague will where he asked for his things to be donated, namely the local shelter. As his landlord Gold took the initiative to catalogue the belongings, trashing what could not be donated, distribute the rest amongst the few local charities that might be interested- minor the nuns- and keep a few personal possessions for those close to the sheriff that might want to claim them.
When Belle showed up at his home he thought she might be there for something of Graham’s. He had set aside a few things he thought she might enjoy, some well-looked-after books and a couple of carved figurines that looked hand-made. He told her so, letting her know that he had a few things there and a few at the shop, and she was welcome to any of it that she wanted. But she shook her head, her eyes soft but purposeful as they looked at him. She looked better than he would’ve thought. Composed, more in control of herself. Her eyes were still the slightest bit red-rimmed, as if she had cried recently, but nothing else seemed amiss.
“I’m not here for that. I’m here to check on you. May I come in?”
He might have hesitated if he wasn’t so surprised that Belle could think outside of Graham’s death and the slow and painful process of mourning that man, given how much he had meant to her. He ushered her inside when nothing else seemed to come to mind, leading her to the kitchen so he could prepare some tea. It was freezing outside, and the Australian had never quite gotten used to winters in Maine, feeling the cold more than most.
“You’re generous to worry about me, my dear. Especially given how I’m sure Graham must occupy your thoughts most of the time.”
One of the first things he had heard about the new librarian, before he had ever even set eyes on her, was how fast she and the sheriff seemed to have grown close to each other. At the time he had felt only a detached sort of pity for the newcomer, given how much he knew about the sheriff’s complicated love life and Regina’s vicious covetousness over anything and anyone she viewed as her own.
Then he had met her, and had found her charming. Beautiful enough to explain the sheriff being besotted almost right away, but also funny and engaging. She refused to be bullied by him, or be afraid of him, and laughed at his acidic comments. One visit to the library had turned into a weekly tradition, and then, over time, one day a week had turned into three.
He’d realised he was in love around that time, and though he recognised the futility of his feelings he was still glad for them. Ever since Bailey died he hadn’t let anyone else close. He’d found purpose and will to live in other ways, but never companionship, never love. Belle French had changed that and it did not matter that she couldn’t reciprocate. He was content to be her friend and keep any deeper feelings private. He’d even prepared himself for the possibility that, one day, the sheriff would finally manage to untangle himself from whatever toxic relationship he had with Regina, and decide to make an honest woman out of the librarian. Had shielded as much of his heart as he could, thinking he was being realistic.
But in the face of Belle’s genuine concern, seeing her there, in his home, days after the sheriff died, all his resolve crumbled. It felt almost intoxicating, having someone care for him to the point of being able to put their own grief aside. If he hadn’t already been head over heels for Belle, this little visit would’ve sealed the deal.
“You seem surprised.”
“Not at you, dear. I’ve always known you have too big a heart for your own good. But I’m unused to such kindness. I’m a difficult man to love, or so I’ve been told.”
He aimed for flippancy, like he’d done often before. The truth was better off said in a sardonic manner, so people would dismiss it. It didn’t seem to have the expected effect on the librarian, who looked solemn, but in a way that was soft, gentle. He lowered his eyes, watching the dredges of tea at the bottom of his cup as if he was trying to read his future in them.
“Not to me.”
He looked up sharply, a denial on the tip of his tongue, where it died a quick, ignominious death. The look in her eyes was too raw, too honest. He had been aware that she felt a certain fondness for him, but what he saw in her face went beyond simple affection. Beyond the tentative friendship he thought that they had established over time. It was almost as if-
“What about Graham? You- you loved him, didn’t you?”
He hadn’t questioned that fact in years. Had simply accepted it, seen the logic behind it- the sheriff was, after all, young, handsome and kind to a fault, why wouldn’t Belle fall for him?- and decided that it didn’t matter. That he could settle for whatever Belle could give him, and be glad of it. But she was looking at him like he’d grown a second head.
“I… I thought you knew. That the rumours weren’t true. Graham and I… we bonded over trauma. We both spent time in mental institutions as children, and didn’t come out of them unscathed.”
He blinked, sure that he had heard her wrong. Sheriff Graham had always seemed like a well-adjusted, no-nonsense individual. A bit reserved, perhaps, and a tad taciturn, but nothing that would’ve led him to think that he carried something like that in his past. And Belle… Belle was full of light. Fanciful, yes, with her head always stuck in some book or three, but nothing that would make anyone think of madness, much less of a dark, grim past.
But there was no mistaking the hurt behind her eyes, the shadows that settled across her face as she told him. As if speaking of it was akin to relieving the experience.
“What happened?”
The story spilled out in the space between them. Losing her mother in a car accident when she was ten, and going mute as a result, too lost in her grief to form words. Her father, loving but overwhelmed, too broken by the death of his wife to make the best decisions, was convinced by medical experts that it would be for the best to put her in a place where she would receive constant professional help.
“Perhaps it wasn’t the wrong idea, but it was certainly the wrong institution. It was run by some very uncharitable nuns, very strict, not very compassionate. They tried to force me to talk. They would withhold food unless I verbally requested it, and then force-feed me when I’d get so weak from hunger I couldn’t get out of bed. They’d lock me up too, saying that if I wanted to use any of the common areas I’d have to ask for it. At night I’d hear horrible screams, and I became scared of some of the other kids. It was awful, and it took over a year for my father to realise I wasn’t getting better, but worse. By the time he pulled me out I was afraid of enclosed spaces, and large groups of people. I still am, sometimes.”
Violent impulses overwhelmed him. He wanted to go to her and crush her to him, wanted to hunt her father down and make him pay for his mistake, wanted to find some way to erase the entire experience from her mind.
“Graham knew because Regina told him, warned him to keep an eye on me. I didn’t understand at first how I even got the show with my background, but later it became clear that she enjoyed having leverage on me, like she does with everyone else that works for her in some capacity. Instead of doing what he’d been told, Graham told me of his own experience in a mental institution. He’d grown up with his grandad in his sheepfarm, both of them isolated from the rest of society. When the old man died he was placed in an asylum because he didn’t know how to properly interact with other people, grew up heavily medicated until some uncle tracked him down and sprang him out, took him to live with him in the States.”
Rowan thought, rather grimly, that the good sheriff’s often complicated and downright unsavoury relationship with the mayor made a bit more sense now that he had all the facts. Regina wasn’t quite her mother, but she was a good manipulator nevertheless. Good at finding out and exploiting other people’s weaknesses, even if they weren’t aware that she was doing it. He had no doubt that she’d used the Irishman’s past as a way to ingratiate herself to him, sinking her claws into him before he was ever aware of it.
“Graham always knew when I felt too overwhelmed, or needed to be out. He would take me hiking, fishing, bird-watching, anything that would allow us to be outside. We wouldn’t talk much, but it’d be nice. What I felt for Graham was kinship. He was the older brother I never had, protective and intuitive but respectful of my boundaries. He made me feel comfortable. But it wasn’t romantic, or passionate. Not like what I feel for you.”
“But you- you never said anything.”
He hadn’t either, but only because he had the decency to recognise Belle was too far above someone like him. But she had to know that all she needed to do was snap her fingers or smile in his general direction and he was in her pocket.
“Because the idea of telling you about my past was too terrifying, and it would've been wrong to pursue something with you without sharing everything. You were so nice, so attentive. What if it all changed when you found out the truth? I was sure that you wouldn’t be unkind about it, but it didn’t mean that you would want me once you knew.”
Rowan fought the urge to snort at the idea that anything Belle said or did could ever make him not want her.
“Why now, then?”
She shrugged.
“Because Graham’s dead, and Henry might still not make it, and I don’t want to live with regrets. I don’t want to be scared of going after what I want anymore.”
He was undone by her bravery, the way she stubbornly held his eyes even though she could tell it was difficult for her, given all that she had just told him, how she refused to back down, even as silence stretched between them. He had always found her beautiful, but she was even more so at that moment, open and vulnerable and choosing to be like that. To expose herself to him so.
Kissing her was inevitable, her bravery rubbing off on him. Impossible little chit, brave and beautiful and there, in front of him, showing that she cared, letting him know the worst parts of her, trusting that he would be careful with them. He’d thought for the longest time that she wanted another, that she was out of his reach. Thought he’d spend the rest of his life admiring her from a distance. But she felt real in his arms, warm and soft against him, her arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer, showing she was as eager for him as he was for her.
He knew she deserved better. Deserved something slow, something gentle and romantic. Perhaps some other time he could try to give her that, but at that moment he felt frantic. Kissing her wasn’t enough, crushing her small frame to him wasn’t enough. He wanted to drown himself in her, to pour so much of himself into her that it would be impossible to tell when one ended and the other began.
Fortunately, given how tight she held onto him, how strongly she pressed her mouth against his, she seemed to feel the same way. One hand sunk into his hair while the other travelled down the lapel of his suit, clumsily trying to tug it off his shoulder. He helped her as much as he could, his need to feel as much of her skin against his winning over his refusal to let go of her for even a second. Between frenzied kisses and heavy breathing they shed both their winter outwear, and he was rewarded by the feeling of the pebbled skin of her arms and neck against his hands and the tip of his nose. It was only when he felt her shiver just as his finger began to undo the buttons of her silk shirt that he regained some sense of self, enough to know that however rushed he felt to strip Belle naked and have his way with her, they at least needed a bed, and all of them were upstairs.
“Come here, darling.”
He took her hand, trying to be gentlemanly even as he all but dragged her upstairs, the strong grip of her hand in his and her barely-contained laughter telling him he wasn’t doing anything she didn’t seem to heartily approve of. Once in his bedroom she pounced on him before he could feel even a twinge of self-consciousness, pushing him backwards insistently till his legs hit his bed and he felt rather ungracefully onto the mattress. She fell against him a second later, hands and lips everywhere, undoing his shirt and loosening his belt before sneaking under his undershirt so that skin touched skin.
It wasn’t until he felt the clasp of her underwear give under his fingertips that he realised how far things had gone, in the blink of an eye. He breathed in, trying to get enough oxygen into his brain to think for a second, to give himself enough self-control to slow down and act a little less like a sex-crazed maniac. He slid his hands up and down her now bare back, revelling in the softness of her skin, feeling the barely-there notches that marked her spine, thinking to himself that she was too skinny, in need of some pampering.
Belle noticed his change of pace, her own hands pausing, fingers hooked on the waistband of his underwear, but instead of pleased at the notion that he wanted to go slower, that he had decided to gentle his approach, she looked stricken.
“I’m-I’m sorry.” Her voice was thin, unlike her. “Am I- am I going too fast? Is this too…?”
He didn’t know how she was going to end that question, whether she was going to say “too soon”, “too much” or something alike. It didn’t matter, because he knew what she really meant. Knew that, if he let her, she would retract back into herself, would follow his lead and slow down, be softer. But it wouldn’t be what she wanted, wouldn’t be as real as it was now.
“It’s not too anything.” His voice sounded raw, too uncultured, nothing like the soft, purposeful burr that he had cultivated over the years. “If anything, it’s not enough.”
He hauled her back against him, telling his sense of propriety to go fuck itself. There was nothing proper between them, only something natural. Inevitable. Her passion, her wildness, was the only thing that made sense. Anything else would be madness. With little patience he tore at the sides of her flimsy underwear, peeling the sodden fabric off her with nothing but delight. She half-sighed, half-moaned in response, the sound much less inhibited than any before, her own fingers managing to push his boxers down far enough that he could wiggle out of them with relative ease. The sensation of cold air against his aching cock only made him more impatient, desire bleeding slightly into pain as he wrestled her into the mattress, her warm body beneath his, eyes impossibly blue as she stared up at him, making electricity rush down his spine, leaving him feeling more alive than he had in ages.
His first thrust spoke more of desperation than desire, but though Belle whimpered in pain she wrapped her legs around his waist and urged him closer instead of trying to scramble away from him. After basking in the utter delight of being buried balls-deep inside such heat Rowan forced himself to pull out, eagerly thrusting back inside a moment later. It was a deliciously messy process, full of blood and sweat, grunts of exertion and impatience and the occasional struggle for dominance. Thrusting in and out of Belle's hot little cunt felt a little bit like what he had always thought heaven must feel like, a rapturous wonder that defied words and explanations. It became impossible to differentiate pain from pleasure, and by the looks of the woman beneath her he wasn't alone in such lovely confusion.
When he felt her flutter against his cock relief washed over him and whatever shred of his self-control remained were washed away in the violence of his own release, burning into nothing by the time it was all over. Afterwards he fell on his side, barely managing not to crush her, his hands and lips caressing whatever bit of skin they could reach, his voice low as he told her how wonderful she was, how dear to him. Told her that he hoped that he didn’t hurt her, that he would be gentle like a lamb if she wished it, she only had to tell him so.
“You were perfect.” The undertone of satisfaction in her voice was impossible to fake, as was the slow, brilliant smile he gave her. He kissed her, unable to do anything else, and tucked her firmly against him, holding tight till he drifted off.
Chapter 4
Compared to the almost violent passion of the night before, morning found Belle and Rowan sedate and quiet. Waking up together, by some miracle, hadn’t been awkward or stilted but rather natural, both basking a little in the stillness of the moment before hunger drove them out of bed.
As he fixed himself something to eat Rowan tried studiously to ignore the way Belle looked, all domestic and soft, hair mussed and a bit of sleep clinging to the corner of her eyes. It was cute and homely and yet it made his insides burn to know she smelled of him and that the hem of the shirt she had borrowed barely graced the top of her soft thighs, leaving her glorious legs bare. It was the most intimacy he’d ever shared with someone and it made buttering his toast a very slow process. Thankfully, Belle didn’t seem to notice, chattering about the latest book she had read, not an ounce of self-consciousness or regret in her.
The almost magical moment was interrupted by a rather abrupt knock on his door. Rowan checked his watch, wondering about the time. It was a Sunday, after all, nine AM was an ungodly hour to pay a social call. Besides, very few people would dare call on him at his home, and the only one that he would welcome was already inside. The alternatives where Regina- God forbid- or the ever-annoying-
“Miss Swan. To what do I owe this unwelcome intrusion on my lazy Sunday?”
He had every intention of being as unpleasant as possible in order to drive her away fast, but the improper little chit practically elbowed him out of the way before scurrying into his house like she had no manners at all, which, to be fair, was pretty close to the truth.
“Sorry to bother you, Gold,” she said, sounding distinctly unbothered, “but I was told that you had some of Graham’s stuff and I wanted to know if I could go through it. I’m looking for anything that could be a potential clue as t-”
Her jabbering came to an abrupt stop just as he was done locking the door, and when he turned around he saw her standing there, still wearing that ridiculous beanie over her puffy princess curls, her eyes wide as saucers as she looked into the kitchen and spotted Belle, in a distinct state of almost-undress, looking very much like she had gotten out of bed only a few minutes ago. His eyes zeroed in on the librarian, who made no move to cover herself, to try and pretend she wasn’t just wearing her lacey knickers and his shirt, nor did she seek to hide herself or give the newcomer any explanation. Instead she smiled and waved before redirecting her attention to drizzling honey into the piece of toast he’d just made for her.
Her complete and unaffected nonchalance thawed something inside of him that had turned to ice the moment the blonde had stepped into his home. Belle wasn’t ashamed of what had happened last night. Wasn’t ashamed of them. And she wasn’t bothered by the idea of other people knowing either. The relief was almost dizzying, threatening to knock him down for a second. Emboldened by the silent display of acceptance Rowan walked past Miss Swan, still playing at being a statue in the middle of his foyer, and moved close to the librarian, pressing a kiss to her hair, breathing in the fragrance of her.
“I’ll be right back, sweetheart.”
He went to his office, where he had kept the small box of personal belongings of the sheriff that he had there, leaving the door open enough that he could hear both women make conversation feet away, Belle’s cheerful, accented cadence followed by Miss Swan’s awkward, stilted answers. When he came back to the kitchen with the box Miss Swan refused to make eye-contact, awkwardly thanking him for his help and barely-listening as he told her there was another box at his shop that she was welcome to collect the next day.
She was about to leave, one foot on the other side of the threshold, when she got a call.
“It’s the hospital.”
The tension in her voice and face lingered for the first few seconds, and this time it was Rowan who felt like looking away, wanting to give her a smidge of privacy as she prepared herself for some bad news. A second later, however, her frown cleared, exuberance overtaking her features as she rushedly told however was on the other end of the line that she would be right there.
“Henry’s awake. He’s talking. I have to go to the hospital, see it for myself.”
She was out the door before either Belle or Rowan could congratulate her. The pawnbroker was surprised to feel anything other than mild happiness at the news. He knew little Henry, of course, and had nothing against him, but he hadn’t thought he cared much about him. Perhaps what he felt was relief that a story so similar in some ways to that of his son turned out to have a happy ending. And the twinge of bitterness he felt at the notion that Regina, who had been a key player in the tragedy that had befallen Bailey, wasn’t as deep as he thought it would be.
The sound of his cellphone ringing snapped him out of his musings. It was the hospital, to let him know, as a representative of the town council, that the sheriff’s autopsy results were ready, and would be released to the authorities. He thanked the caller and hung up, and for a few seconds just stared at Belle, whose smile dimmed at his solemn look.
“Well, it seems the little mystery the town’s been drowning in is about to be solved. Either by Henry or by the late sheriff. Or both.”
He approached her, one of his hands going to stroke her hair, luxuriating in the freedom to do so. He hadn’t known how touch-starved he was until the librarian had moved in and had struck a friendship with him, gifting him a million little touches here and there. But last night had opened some sort of floodgate and, suddenly, those little touches weren’t enough.
“I could drive you back to the library, if you want. Or the diner. You’ll be able to find out more about what’s going on there.”
He didn’t want to keep her there, not when he knew she cared about Henry and, though not romantically, she did love the sheriff. But Belle shook her head, leaning back against him and humming in appreciation at the solid feel of him behind her.
“Let’s make the most out of this bit of quiet, enjoy it before the bomb drops. All we know now is that Henry’s awake and things are good.”
— — —
The bomb, when it finally did explode, turned out to be a bit of a dud. The story that began to circulate, tentatively at first, but gaining momentum as more and more people confirmed it, seemed almost disappointingly mundane. There was no big mystery, no killer lurking on the edges of town, ready to drown his next victim. Little Henry confessed, appropriately chagrined, that he had been going to the docks a lot, contrary to what he had promised his mother. He had made a secret fortress there, a hidden place where he read books he got from the library and comic books he bought with his money from chores. Mostly fantasy stuff that Regina apparently disapproved of, thinking it might rot his brain or some nonsense.
The day of the accident one of the comic books had gotten blown in the wind, and when he went to retrieve it he fell in the water. He remembered the shock of cold from falling into the water, the way it felt like thousands of needles prickling him, and then nothing. He didn’t recall seeing anyone or being pushed or anything that even remotely pointed to someone else being involved.
As for Graham, the results of his autopsy were shocking, but in an unexpected way. The sheriff had, apparently, died of a heart attack. It was discovered he had an undisclosed heart condition, a cardiomyopathy he might have been entirely unaware of, that explained why a young and otherwise healthy man, who exercised and ate well, would suffer a cardiac episode so young. There was no sign of drowning, so the coroner speculated that the sheriff might have been patrolling near the docks- perhaps searching for clues- when he had suffered his heart attack and had sadly tipped over into the water.
Two tragedies, tied in unexpected ways- it was speculated that the amount of stress the sheriff had been under could’ve triggered the attack-, one that had ended happily and one that hadn’t. But at least little Henry would make a full recovery, and people considered that a good ending overall.
There was a celebratory toast at the diner offered to Leroy, whose quick acting had saved little Henry’s life, and by the time the crowd dispersed the sun was beginning to dip on the horizon. Belle glanced at the pawnshop on her way back to the library, noticing the Caddy missing in spite of it still being too early for the shop to be closed. She decided to close up the library as well, knowing no one would visit that day and that Regina wouldn’t care whether she complied with opening hours that day or not, and headed towards the woods, following a familiar path.
She wasn’t surprised to find the Caddy parked near the cabin, even though no one seemed to be inside the house. She walked around, brushing snow and leaves off the floor till she found the door for a storm cellar, carefully camouflaged against the muddy brown of the forest floor. Opening the well-oiled trapdoor she went down the sturdy stairs, unsurprised to see light illuminating the room below.
The stairs gave way to a rather large room, dominated by what appeared to be a cell of some kind, a crude, but functional, cage, complete with what looked like rudimentary bathroom facilities off to one side, a desk, a chair and a cot to sleep in. Rowan was inside, sitting down on the chair, eyes blank as he looked around but, Belle would wagered, managed to see nothing.
He startled when his gaze drifted towards the stairs and he saw her there, standing still like a statue.
“Belle, what are you-?”
She smiled, trying to look reassuring.
“I thought you might be feeling some type of way about the news circulating around town today, and I didn’t want you to be alone.”
“I’m glad that Henry’s safe. As much as I hate Regina sometimes, I never wished her to go through what I had to go through.”
“Oh, I know. But still, it must be bittersweet.”
Rowan frowned, gesturing around himself, looking vaguely discomfited.
“But how did you know I would be- here? How did you even know this place existed?”
The unasked question- Do you even know what this place is?- floated between them, heavy and dangerous.
“I’ve often spotted the Caddy parked next to your cabin when I come here with Graham, so I knew you came here a lot. But I didn’t realise why till Graham told me about Zelena and what she did.”
“What did he tell you about Zelena?”
His voice was an angry hiss, but a note of fear snuck in as well. Belle shrugged, her face carefully blank.
“He told me what she did to Bailey, and that you tracked her down and shot her for it. He was disappointed when that knowledge did not deter me from loving you, or wishing to pursue those romantic feelings.”
He stiffened for a second, but relaxed when he saw no sign of rejection in her eyes. No disgust or fear. She wasn’t there to threaten to go to the police with her knowledge of what he’d done, or even to tell him off for it.
“But perhaps he didn’t understand why because I never really told him the story of how my mamam died. He knew she’d been involved in a car accident, and how that had led to my time at the asylum, but nothing beyond that. I never told him she’d been killed by a drunk driver, who survived the crash and went on to live a happy, carefree life because he was the local mayor’s son and his father made sure the entire incident was buried. All brushed under the rug in time for his son to go to college and leave everything behind. Papa was furious, obsessed. He would’ve been able to let it go and move on eventually, perhaps, if the injustice of it all hadn’t eaten away at him until there was nothing left.”
Something familiar flitted across her eyes, something he knew on a deep, personal level. It felt like kin recognising kin, almost.
“So when Graham told me what you confessed in front of Bailey’s grave I put two and two together. I knew you wouldn’t have shot her. It would’ve been fast, and over too soon. It wouldn’t have erased the hurt, or properly made her atone. I knew that because I lived through something similar, saw someone I loved be consumed by the feeling. And I heard the rumours too. About the wolves in the woods. The screams. I understood then that you had made sure that Zelena was properly punished for what she did. A murder like the one she committed, the only proper sentence would’ve been life in prison. So that’s what you made sure she served.”
“What are you saying?”
“You must’ve taken her and kept her here until she died, which is when the screams stopped, and people began to give up on the idea that the woods were haunted. That’s why I never heard them.”
The Scotsman kept looking at her, and Belle knew he was weighing the pros and cons of lying to her, of trying to deny the truth of what she had just told him. In the end, however, he seemed to discard the option, leaning against the back of the chair and pointing with his cane to a spot in a corner.
“Graham promised me forever. Promised me, before he knew what had happened, that whoever had killed Bae would spend the rest of their life atoning for it. And she did, I made sure. She hanged herself there, using a bedsheet as a makeshift noose. When I came across her she had been dead for a few hours, at least. Dove, who had been helping me from the beginning- big softie loved Bae like mad- took her down, helped me dispose of the body somewhere far away from here. Far away from Bae.”
He sighed, feeling the cathartic effect of the confession. It felt good to unburden himself, and even better to see nothing but pure understanding in Belle’s eyes. No flinching, no wincing, not even a small moue of discomfort. He thought of her own pain, of her tragedy, and wagered he’d feel exactly the same if she came out and said she had done what he did to the idiot who killed her mother. Whatever kindred bond she had shared with Graham paled in comparison to the understanding that was now between them.
“I thought that would be the end of it. That I’d be able to move on. Instead, I became stuck. Kept coming back here, where I’d made sure Bae had justice. Had peace. I thought I’d never be able to move on. Was angry for a long time, that I hadn’t been more careful. That I had allowed that bitch to take the easy way out. I accepted that I would never be able to get over what had happened. That I’d simply grow old and frail until the time came where I wouldn’t be able to make it out of the house, much less to this isolated place. But then something happened. I began to try and do small things to honour Bae by, things that he would’ve liked. Like pushing for the reopening of the library, which turned out to be a life-changing decision. Suddenly I had someone to talk to. Something to look forward to. And, against all odds, you seemed to feel the same, to be interested in me as much as I was interested in you. I rediscovered my passion for many things by looking at them through your eyes.”
He stopped, his voice feeling a bit too shaky all of a sudden. He looked around, thinking for the first time about how small the room looked. Small and barren, empty.
“After we slept together I decided that keeping this prison, this mausoleum, meant keeping Zelena in my life. Letting the wound fester. And I don’t want that anymore. Once I might have thought it would be a fitting end, but now I want- I want more. With you. So I came here today to take one last look. I’ve already called Dove. He’ll dismantle everything tomorrow. Has been wanting to do so for years. I think he also wants to move on. Not from Bailey, but from his death.”
Belle nodded, as if it all made perfect sense to her. And, it likely did. What had happened to her, the tragedy that had shaped her, had made her like him in many ways. So when she approached he let her, cautious but spellbound. This Belle in front of him was so different from the one he had created in his head. Flawed, for one, and dark in some ways. Better. This was a person who could understand him, accept him. Who he could build a life with.
She stopped just outside the cage, by the open door.
“Alright, then. It’s time to get out now. Just take my hand.”
She stuck her hand inside the cage, trying to pretend like the threat of confinement didn’t tug at something deep inside her, talking in low tones, as if she was addressing a dangerous but wounded animal. He got up, leaning heavily against his cane, feeling like he was taking some sort of monumental step. When his hand grasped hers he sent a last, quiet prayer for Bae and the past and stepped forward and out of the prison he had built for himself, feeling like his head was finally above water.
Merry Christmas to @wayamy27narf ! Here is your Rumbelle Secret Santa gift! The prompt was “adversaries to lovers, towel slip”, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. As you wanted them to be adversaries, I made Gold and Belle lawyers on opposing sides (all the implied/referenced stuff in the tags relates to the court case). I also set it in London, both because I’m British and more familiar with the English legal system, and because the thought of Gold in a wig and gown was too delicious to pass up.
Words: 7,775
AO3 link: Close Counsel - Emospritelet - Once Upon a Time (TV) [Archive of Our Own]
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There were days when Belle almost wished she had not gone to law school, much less become a criminal barrister. The pay was shocking, the hours long, and it often felt as though she was fighting a losing battle against the London cost of living. Balanced against that was the intellectual challenge and the thrill of going toe-to-toe with the prosecution. Case in point, Sir Lachlan Gold, King’s Counsel, appearing for the Crown against her client, Zelena Mills. He was watching her with a tiny smile lifting the corner of his mouth, idly fingering the edge of the black silk gown draping his slim form. The horsehair wig on his head showed silver hair at his temples, darker hair at the nape of his neck. She knew he had had a highly successful career as a defence barrister before joining the Crown Prosecution Service, and—not for the first time—wondered why he had chosen to switch sides.
“Miss French?”
His Honour Judge Spencer was eyeing her, and Belle nodded hastily.
“Thank you, Your Honour.”
She glanced across at the dock, where Miss Mills was taking a seat, flicking back her red-gold curls and smiling at the jury. Her perfectly tailored green suit showed an impressive amount of cleavage, her fingers glittering with diamonds. She was glamorous and self-confident, the very picture of success, which must have made the charges against her seem ludicrous to some. Perhaps it would be enough. Belle took a deep breath. Here we go.
“Miss Mills,” she said. “Mr Locksley has told the court that you are an obsessive, jealous stalker who has terrorised his family for months. How do you respond to these accusations?”
Miss Mills let out a tinkling laugh of true amusement.
“It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” she said lightly. “I’m a highly successful businesswoman. He is – a plumber. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.”
She curled her lip slightly as she said it.
“I have a house in Chelsea, a business that pays me extraordinarily well, and I work out every day,” she added. “I don’t exactly starve for male attention.”
There was a ripple of amusement from the public gallery.
“What was your relationship with Mr Locksley?” asked Belle.
“As he said, he came to my house to fit a sauna and plunge pool,” she said, sounding bored. “He was perfectly pleasant, and so was I. We hit it off immediately, and when the job was finished, I offered him a drink to celebrate. I wasn’t aware he was married until after.”
“After?” asked Belle, and she smirked.
“After,” she said. “After he woke up and started panicking and rambling on about his family.”
“So, the two of you had sex, after which he fell asleep?”
“Miss French,” said Judge Spencer softly. “That is a leading question.”
“My apologies, Your Honour, I’ll rephrase the question.” Belle licked her lips. “Prior to Mr Locksley “waking up”, in your words, what had happened?”
Miss Mills arched a brow at her, smirking. “We had sex, after which he fell asleep. Typical man.”
“And before that?”
“As I said, we had shared a drink.” She sounded bored again. “I wasn’t expecting him to pass out from one drink, but then we were quite – vigorous.”
“You’re aware that Mr Locksley claims you spiked his drink,” said Belle. “Although the jury ha been reminded that you have not been charged with that offence.”
“Well, I should think not, I wouldn’t know how!” she protested, pressing a hand to her heart. “I mean, one hears about this sort of thing, but it’s all in seedy nightclubs and dive bars, isn’t it?”
“Did he make this accusation at the time?”
“I can’t recall what he said exactly,” She waved a hand, beringed fingers twirling in the air. “He was panicking, blabbering on about his wife. Quite the mood-killer, to be honest.”
“And what did you say?”
“I thought he was overreacting,” she said airily. “He asked me not to tell anyone, and I agreed. Then he left. I didn’t expect to see him again.”
“And then?”
Miss Mills sucked in her cheeks before letting them go with a smack.
“He asked to meet a day or two later,” she said. “I agreed, and he came to the house. He suggested we start an affair.”
“In his evidence, Mr Locksley denied that,” said Belle. “He told the court he had gone to chase payment, which you had been withholding, and that it was you that suggested the affair.”
“Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?” She shuffled in her seat a little. “He was the one to suggest it, not me. I was interested, but I was going away on business, so I said I would call him the following week. He called me instead.”
“When was this?”
“Fifth of March,” she said. “He said he couldn’t see me again. Quite rudely, I thought. I didn’t understand why, he wasn’t making much sense.”
“So, you wanted to know where you stood?” prompted Belle. “His response confused you?”
“Leading, Miss French,” said Judge Spencer. “I’d prefer not to have to tell you again.”
Belle grimaced, but turned back to Miss Mills.
“Mr Locksley states that you turned up at his home on March 13th,” she said. “What is your response?”
“Well, I still needed to pay him for the work that he had done,” she said, looking put out. “He wouldn’t answer my calls, and I wanted to settle up. I always pay my debts.” She looked at the jury as she said that, and Belle saw one of the men nod approvingly.
“So, what did you do?”
“That was when I went to his house,” she said. “And why I went. It wasn’t to stalk him, it was to pay him.”
“Did he take the payment?”
“He did not,” she said coolly. “Perhaps plumbers make more than I thought. Or perhaps he didn’t need to. I did notice a few of my jewels were missing a few days later…”
“Your Honour?” Gold’s interjection made Belle jump. His tone was icy. “Miss Mills has not made this claim before, and quite frankly, the victim’s conduct, real or imagined, is not on trial here.”
“Thank you, Mr Gold. Miss Mills!” The judge’s tone was firm. “Answer the questions put to you, and do not insinuate anything else! The jury will disregard the last sentence. Difficult as that may be now that Miss Mills has suggested it.”
Miss Mills gave him a beaming smile.
“A thousand apologies, Your Honour, I was just – thinking aloud.”
“Then I suggest you keep your thoughts internal only, unless they are germane to the questions being asked.”
“As you wish.”
Belle tried not to sigh in frustration at her client. Provoking the judge was never wise.
“What did Mr Locksley say when you visited his house?” she asked.
Miss Mills pursed her lips.
“He said something about needing time,” she said vaguely.
“Can you remember exactly what he said?” asked Belle.
“Of course not, it was ages ago.” She flicked her hair back. “Then his wife joined him at the door. She was extremely rude. I offered payment, and she refused on his behalf and told me to ‘fuck off and take my money with me’.” She hooked her fingers in air quotes, looking simultaneously apologetic to the jury and appalled at Mrs Locksley’s profanity.
“And what has been your contact with Mr Locksley since then?”
Miss Mills flicked back her hair, jewellery clinking.
“We met up in a bar a few weeks later,” she said. “He suggested getting a room for the evening, but by that time I was tired of being used and discarded. I told him it was over. The next thing I know, the police are at my door accusing me of stalking, of all things! It’s nonsense! All that rubbish about following him around and talking to his son – it’s completely ridiculous!”
She huffed indignantly. A muttering from the public gallery, where Mr Locksley and his wife sat, reached Belle’s ears, but cut off abruptly as the judge frowned at them.
“And since then, have you initiated contact at all?”
“I have not.”
“Mr Locksley claims you threatened him,” said Belle. “That you paid an acquaintance to follow him and intimidate him. What is your response to this accusation?”
“Utterly ridiculous,” said Miss Mills dismissively. “I don’t know where he gets these ideas, I’ve never done anything of the sort. Does he think I’m desperate or something? Honestly, the nerve of mediocre men…” She shook her head sadly.
“Thank you, Miss Mills. No further questions.”
“Please remain seated, Miss Mills,” said Judge Spencer. “Mr Gold?”
“Thank you, Your Honour.”
Gold stood, swivelling on the toes of shining black leather shoes to face the dock, eyes fixed on Miss Mills and both hands folded over the top of the gold-handled cane he used. He held that pose for a long moment, and Miss Mills looked wary, shifting in her seat. The courtroom was silent, waiting, the atmosphere heavy. Belle rolled her eyes at his theatrics, but just as Miss Mills opened her mouth, Mr Gold smiled.
“You’re a successful businesswoman, Miss Mills,” he said, and she seemed to relax a little.
“Yes.”
“Not exactly starved for male company, you said.”
“That’s right.”
“With a house in Chelsea, who works out every day. You’re quite a catch, aren’t you?”
She smirked. “Well, I—”
“It hurts to be rejected, doesn’t it, Miss Mills?”
Her mouth twisted, as though she had bitten something sour.
“Like I said, I wasn’t—”
“You have a long history of rejection, don’t you, Miss Mills?” he went on, striding back and forth across the court with a swift, limping gait. “We’ve seen the tales of your exploits in the press over the years. I believe one of your ex-lovers called you 'psychotic' and 'the worst mistake he’d ever made’. Hardly a ringing endorsement.”
Miss Mills bristled, looking furious.
“Those were lies!”
“In fact,” he added. “Not one of these relationships lasted more than a few weeks. The longest was three months. That’s not counting all the one-nighters, of course. You may not be starved for male company, but it doesn’t seem that you can keep it for long. Perhaps you just don’t hold their interest.”
"That is not true!"
"Or perhaps you just can't let go," said Gold. "Clinging to every one beyond the point when any reasonable woman with a modicum of self-respect would have backed away. But that's not you, is it, Miss Mills?"
“How dare you!”
“Your Honour, I really must protest!” exclaimed Belle.
“Counsel, please approach the bench,” said Judge Spencer wearily.
Belle huffed, tugging her robe straight as she stomped towards the judge, who was eyeing her sternly. Mr Gold stepped up next to her, and she caught a whiff of expensive cologne.
“I’d prefer for this trial to be conducted without descending into chaos,” said Judge Spencer, in a low tone. “This is not America, Miss French, please try to refrain from shouting.”
“Yes, Your Honour,” said Belle meekly. “I apologise, but if I may, reports in the tabloid press are hardly watertight evidence."
"I'm merely setting out what's in the public domain," said Gold mildly. "The defendant can choose to refute my points, and the jury can decide on their accuracy."
Judge Spencer looked enquiringly at Belle.
"I fail to see what relevance tabloid gossip columns have here," said Belle stiffly. "Mr Gold merely seems intent on humiliating the defendant.”
“The defendant doth protest too much, methinks,” said Gold dryly, and Belle frowned.
“I think perhaps my learned friend is confusing agitation with guilt,” she said. “Unfortunate, given that justice favours evidence over emotion. Whether or not you quote Shakespeare.”
A tiny twitch in Gold’s cheek showed Belle she had scored a hit, and she pressed her lips together to keep from grinning. Gold arched an eyebrow at her, looking amused. He leaned close, his breath tickling her ear and making her shiver pleasantly.
“And the evidence shows she’s guilty as hell,” he whispered.
“A pity you need to prove it beyond reasonable doubt rather than just relying on vibes, then,” she returned, and his eyes gleamed, the tip of his tongue sweeping between his lips as he tried to hold back a smile.
“Well, we’ll see what assessment the jury makes, shall we?” he asked, and Belle shrugged.
“I’ve already seen a few of the men eyeing her cleavage,” she said in an undertone. “I think we both know how they’ll decide.”
“In time, you’ll understand how juries think,” he said. “As well as being a pathological liar, she’s unlikeable.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“It’s yours too, if you’re honest with yourself.”
Belle put her fists on her hips, raising her chin.
“I’m here to represent Miss Mills to the best of my ability,” she said. “What I feel about her is immaterial.”
“Well, I’m delighted we’ve cleared that up,” said Judge Spencer, in a dry tone. “Mr Gold, you may resume this line of questioning. Miss French, try to be less excitable.”
“Yes, Your Honour. My apologies, Your Honour.”
Gold turned back to Miss Mills with a wry smile. She was glaring at him, cheeks red and nostrils flaring.
“Miss Mills, we’ve already established that you have a history of failed relationships and one-night hook-ups,” he said. “It seems that men within your own social circles avoid you like the plague. That must be - humiliating - to a woman with as much to offer as you say.”
“I have a hectic social life!” she hissed, eyes flashing.
“And so, you turn to those you consider beneath you,” he went on, as if she hadn't spoken. “People like Mr Locksley, whom you entice with promises of lucrative contracts, and who need the work to feed their families.”
“He came on to me!” she snapped. “He clearly wanted a little excitement in his dull little life, so he led me on and then got scared his wife would leave him and take their son!”
“The truth is, all he offered you was his excellent workmanship,” said Gold. “But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You had to take what you wanted. It’s all about power with you, isn’t it? Power and control and putting men in their rightful place, which is giving you what you want, when you want it.”
“You…” Miss Mills looked furious. “How dare you sit there and judge me!”
“Oh, that’s for the jury,” said Gold carelessly. “I’m merely sketching out your character.”
“He chose to pretend that I was the one that couldn’t let go.” Her nostrils were flaring. “He was the one to cheat on his wife, and now he’s making me pay for his guilt! He should just have been honest with her.”
“The truth, Miss Mills, is that he was honest, wasn’t he?” snapped Gold. “He told his wife exactly what you had done, and that’s why she wasn’t surprised when you turned up at their house. You went there to intimidate him into doing what you wanted, didn’t you?”
“I went there to pay him!”
“You could have paid him very easily by bank transfer, you didn’t have to turn up on his doorstep!” Gold looked incredulous. “This is the 21st century, Miss Mills, did you think you had to hand-deliver a bag of gold sovereigns?”
“Of course not…”
“The truth, Miss Mills, is that you are a lonely, bitter woman who thrives on exerting power over the men that turn you down, isn’t that right?”
“No, it is not!”
“Mr Locksley told you outright that he was married, and had no intention of cheating on his wife, and you took offence to that, didn’t you?”
“No!”
“So you hired a man to threaten him,” he went on. “You turned up at his wife’s place of work and his son’s school. You acted, in short, like the ‘psycho’ your ex-lover said you were, like ‘the worst mistake’ a man could ever make.”
“You bastard!”
“And yet the only mistake Mr Locksley made was agreeing to take the job in the first place,” said Gold. “You pursued him. You refused to accept his rejection. You targeted his family. You intimidated him!”
“Well, he deserved it!” she shouted.
The court erupted in excited murmurs, and Miss Mills snapped her mouth shut, looking horrified. Gold’s smile grew.
“No further questions, Your Honour."
-
Belle huffed despondently, slumping a little on the bar of Paternoster’s as she turned the remains of a large gin and tonic between her fingertips. Guilty. She hated losing. Overall, her first few years as a defence barrister had gone well; she had stood her ground against seasoned prosecutors even before she had faced off against the infamous Sir Lachlan Gold, but she still hated to lose. Admittedly, though, she felt that the jury had reached the right verdict.
Behind her, the noise of the bar was growing, an excess of pre-Christmas spirit from the assembled lawyers and office workers. She was feeling less than festive herself, her Christmas plans thwarted by her housemate’s failure to return from her grandmother’s due to a bad case of flu. Although Ruby was over the worst of it, it was unlikely she would make it back until the following week. Belle would be cooking and eating Christmas dinner alone.
She raised the glass in mock celebration before downing the dregs of her gin. Happy Christmas to me. The barman started towards her, and she opened her mouth.
“Good evening,” came a familiar voice from behind her, before she could speak. “I’ll take a Macallan, please. Neat.”
Belle swivelled on her stool, a wry smile on her face. Mr Gold looked very different outside court, his wig and gown removed to reveal a slim-fitting suit and black silk shirt, a dark red tie at his throat and soft hair brushing his high cheekbones.
“Miss French,” he said, surprised.
“Come to gloat?” she said lightly, and he grinned.
“Perish the thought.” He nodded at her glass. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Gin and tonic.”
“Certainly.” He raised a hand to the barman, gesturing towards Belle’s empty glass and getting a nod of understanding, before slouching against the bar and turning towards her. “So. The first time you and I have crossed swords. Hopefully not the last.”
“I’ll get you next time,” she said, her tone teasing, and he chuckled.
“I don’t doubt it.”
The barman returned with their drinks, and Gold slipped onto the stool next to her, hooking his cane on the bar. Belle took a sip of her drink.
“I read up on you,” she said. “Sir Lachlan Gold, KC. Staunch defender of white-collar criminals, scourge of the CPS.”
He smirked. “That was some time ago.”
“And then you jumped ship and became a Crown Prosecutor,” she went on. “Poacher turned gamekeeper, if you like. Why the change of heart?”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t the money,” he said dryly, and she giggled.
“I imagine not.”
“The truth is I got tired of defending some of the worst people in the world,” he said, looking suddenly weary. “I thought it was time to switch sides. You may decide the same in a few years.”
“Can’t afford it right now,” she said regretfully. “This case is the most high-profile I’ve done, and certainly the most lucrative. I was surprised to get the instruction.”
Gold leaned in, fixing her with a stare.
“Well, the trial is over, so I don’t suppose it hurts to let you know,” he said. “Word amongst the chambers was that she had approached most of them and been turned down. She has something of a reputation for lying to her advocates. Not to mention her little trick with the ‘strong’ drink. A pity Mr Locksley didn’t call the police earlier; the charges against her could have been even more serious.”
Belle slumped a little further. “Oh,” she said heavily.
“Overall, I’m pleased to have won,” he added. “Mr Locksley and his family will have a far more relaxing Christmas with her locked up, I’m sure.”
Belle nodded, reaching for her drink and shoving Miss Mills out of her head. He had only confirmed her suspicions, after all.
“What are your plans for Christmas?” she asked, changing the subject. Gold grimaced.
“I’m afraid my Christmas will be unintentionally uneventful,” he said ruefully. “I was expecting my son and his family to visit. Unfortunately, their flight was cancelled because of the snow. They won’t get here until Boxing Day at the earliest.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” she said. “Where do they live?”
“Maine, New England,” he said. “A little town called Storybrooke. I usually travel there myself, but the trial made that impossible. It’ll be the first Christmas we haven’t spent together.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ll be alone, too. My best friend went to visit her granny, and they both came down with flu. I’ll be cooking dinner for one.”
“Ah.”
“Actually,” she amended. “I’ll probably just eat cheese and drink wine and fall asleep on the sofa watching Muppet Christmas Carol.”
“That doesn’t sound terrible, to be honest,” he said, with a grin, and she giggled.
“Well, if you fancy slumming it in Ealing, you’re welcome to come over.”
“Can I bring dessert?”
“Only if it’s really fattening.”
“Is there any other kind?”
“And if you bring booze, too,” she added.
“I could put the booze in the dessert,” he suggested. “And bring the rest of the bottle, perhaps. Speaking of which, can I get you another?”
He pointed at her glass, and Belle turned a little more towards him. The gin was warming her body, flushing her cheeks, and she was feeling pleasantly loose and relaxed for the first time in weeks.
“Careful, Mr Gold,” she teased. “A girl could think you were taking advantage.”
He pressed a hand to his heart with a wounded expression.
“Please, I’m a gentleman.”
“Pity,” she sighed, and he laughed.
“But since you offered, I’ll have one more,” she added.
“Of course, I’ll just—” He cut off, tilting his head as he looked at her. “Are we flirting?” he asked, and she pursed her lips, looking him over before nodding slowly.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Thank God you told me, it’s been so long since I tried, I wasn’t sure.”
Belle laughed, clinking her glass against his.
“Then get me that drink and we’ll see if we can give you some more practice.”
-
The frigid air made Belle shiver, flakes of snow tickling her nose as they fell. Gold had offered her his free arm when they left the bar, and she was pushing his wheeled briefcase with her left hand, her own stacked on top with her handbag. They made their way slowly along Embankment, shoes squeaking in the new-fallen snow. The world seemed hushed, muffled, the streetlights dimmed by a veil of falling flakes. The Thames trickled along slowly beside them, water shimmering with the reflections of coloured lights, and the sounds of laughter and snatches of Christmas songs reached them from revellers leaving nearby pubs and heading home.
“So,” said Gold, making her glance across at him. “Ealing. That’ll be the District Line from Temple, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Only we passed Temple some time back,” he pointed out, and she sighed.
“I know. I’ve kind of been enjoying the walk. It’s not often we get snow at Christmas in London, I’m making the most of it.” She shivered again.
“By freezing to death?” he remarked, stopping his stride and turning to her. “Here.”
He unwound the scarf from around his neck and offered it to her. Belle nodded gladly as he wrapped it around her. The heat from it was instant: soft wool filled with his own warmth and scent, and she caught herself inhaling deeply.
“Thank you.”
“Can’t have my favourite new adversary catching the flu,” he said, turning back to the path.
“Are we adversaries?” she asked. “The trial’s over.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he agreed. “My thanks to Miss Mills for enabling us to meet.”
Belle smiled, arm tucked in his.
“I’ll have more cases in the New Year,” she said. “No doubt we’ll meet again.”
“No doubt.”
They walked a little further, their breath like smoke.
“So, do you live alone?” she asked casually. “When your family isn’t visiting, I mean?”
“Yes, just me and the cats,” he said, and she turned to him, delighted.
“You have cats?”
“Yes. Honey and Marmalade.” He grinned at her. “My grandson named them.”
“Oh, that’s adorable!”
“I suppose having a grandson makes me seem incredibly old to you,” he said, and she waved an impatient hand.
“Please. I read your bio, I know how old you are.”
“Ah.”
They walked on, and she glanced across, noting his tiny smile.
“Where do you live?” she asked suddenly. “Am I taking you out of your way?”
“Not at all, I own a flat near Regent’s Park. A short hop on the Tube. Not that I do much hopping, obviously.” He patted his bad leg with a chuckle. Belle gaped at him.
“Regent’s Park?” she said. “I was lucky to find a tiny rental in Ealing. And even then, my housemate had to call in a favour.”
“Oh, I own it,” he said casually, and when she continued to stare, he leaned in. “Corporate crime pays very well. Which means those accused can afford to pay their lawyers accordingly.”
“Huh.” Belle turned back to the path ahead of them. “And yet you gave it all up to be a public prosecutor.”
“Yes.” His tone was thoughtful. “Very noble of me, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
“Sexy, some might say.”
Belle giggled, casting him an amused glance.
“Are we flirting again?”
“Yes, I think so.” He was grinning at her, and she stopped, turning to face him.
“Well, Mr Gold,” she said, gazing up at him. “You’re getting better at that.”
His grin widened.
“Did you know you’re extraordinarily beautiful?”
“Hmm, even better,” she murmured. “Go on.”
“I’d like to kiss you.”
“I’d like that, too.”
His left hand in its leather gloves was cold against her cheek, but there was warmth in his eyes, and she let her hands rest on his waist as she tilted her head back. His lips were soft against hers, his tongue gently parting them, and she felt herself melt into him with a tiny moan. The hand crept into her hair, making her shudder, the kiss deepening, and she wrapped her arms around him, pressing herself against him. He tasted of the whisky he had drunk, honey and snoke and the heat of the alcohol, and she could feel the desire that had smouldering within her all evening flare to life deep in her belly. Gold’s lips left hers, his breathing heavy.
“Well, well,” he said, his voice a low, throaty growl. “That was - delicious.”
“It was.” She felt a lazy smile spread across her face. “Seems a shame to let the night end.”
His eyebrows lifted, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“My place is nearer than yours,” he said. “If – if you want.”
Her grin widened. “I want.”
-
Gold’s place was a corner apartment in a beautiful Georgian building, overlooking Regent’s Park. The lobby was resplendent in shining wood and marble, the concierge greeting Gold by name and giving her a respectful nod. They took the lift up to the third floor and Gold flourished his keys as they approached a large, white door at the end of a corridor. A chorus of mews was coming from behind it, and he grinned.
“Alright, let me get the door open!” he called, and unlocked it.
Two cats were in the doorway, meowing loudly: a slender, elegant brown Burmese and a fat, fluffy ginger cat. They began winding around Gold’s legs, backs arched and tails curled over in pleasure at his return.
“Hello, Miss Honey.” Gold bent to pet the Burmese, then the ginger cat. “Hello, boy. Say hello to Belle. Come on in, Belle, make yourself at home. I’d better feed these two before they eat us alive.”
Belle had bent to let the cats sniff her, but the moment Gold strode off, they darted after him, squeaking excitedly. She shut the door behind herself, looking around. A corridor painted in pale salmon-pink led to a kitchen, where Gold had taken the cats. Twin doors led off to left and right, and Belle tried the one on the left, opening it up onto a large lounge with fat leather sofas and a corner bookcase, a pair of Chesterfields either side of an ornate fireplace, and a sumptuous Christmas tree reaching almost to the high ceiling, crystal decorations twinkling. Belle’s mouth fell open.
“This place is huge!” she called, and heard an answering laugh from the kitchen.
She tried the door to the right next, finding a dining room painted in pale green, with an elegant ten-place table and chairs, an antique sideboard, and another fireplace and Christmas tree to match the lounge. High windows flanked by olive green brocade curtains looked out over the park. Belle shook her head, and tried the door to the right of the fireplace. It opened out into a spotless, modern kitchen with gleaming white units and an island, where Gold was spooning cat food into two bowls. A door to the left led back into the lounge, and another door was in the rear wall of the kitchen, next to a well-stocked wine rack.
“This is amazing!” she exclaimed, darting from the lounge to the kitchen and back again, her head turning to take in the elegant furnishings. “And all this is yours?”
“It’s useful for the family,” he said nonchalantly, putting down the cats’ bowls. “Helps them to visit more often. I feel as though I’m rattling around in here the rest of the time, but it’s comfortable and convenient.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said honestly. “And overlooking the park, too. Excellent for morning runs.”
“I’d have to take your word for that,” he said, with a wry smile.
“Walks, then,” she amended, unwinding the scarf from around her neck. “Either way, it beats my tiny house share next to a pub.”
“Speaking of, can I offer you a drink?”
“I’m still a little tipsy,” she admitted. “Maybe later?”
“Later.”
He came closer, seeming a little awkward now that they were there together. Belle put her head to one side.
“Which bedroom is yours?” she asked, and he gestured towards the door Belle had spied, his hand shaking a little.
“The one at the end.”
“Great. Do you have condoms?”
“I—” He cut off, swallowing hard. “You’re very forthright.”
“Yeah, life is short.” Her voice was matter of fact.
“Right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t have any. I wasn’t exactly expecting this.”
“Don’t worry, I have some.” She patted her handbag. “Be prepared, that’s what I say.”
“Right.”
“Shall we?”
She sauntered off, hearing him take a step after her, and grinned to herself.
Gold’s bedroom was as sumptuous as the rest of the apartment; a king-sized bed with crisp cotton sheets faced high windows hung with deep red curtains, and a large wardrobe in shining wood stood beside an antique dresser, opposite another of the ornate fireplaces. Belle tossed a few condoms onto the nightstand before exploring further. A door at the end led to an ensuite bathroom with a walk-in shower and slipper bath, tiled in pale grey marble. She took a few minutes to freshen up before heading back into the bedroom. Gold had removed his heavy wool coat and suit jacket, the sleeves of his shirt held up with gold garters just above his elbows. The sight of him made her want to lick her lips. He shook back his hair as he glanced across at her.
“So,” he said. “Here we are. I – uh – it’s been a while, Belle, I’m not gonna lie.”
“For me, too,” she said. “We’ll be fine.”
He nodded, smiling, and she shrugged out of her coat, letting him take it from her shoulders and drape it over the dresser chair. Her suit jacket followed, leaving her in a sleeveless black dress that skimmed her slender figure. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, making her shiver.
“Unzip me,” she whispered, hearing his breath catch. Cool fingers brushed the nape of her neck, delicious against her warm skin, and he found the zipper, drawing it down to the small of her back. His breathing had quickened, and Belle gasped as soft lips found her shoulder, kisses trailing across to her earlobe. A tiny moan escaped her, desire tugging at her lower belly.
“Take it off,” she breathed, and his fingers slid beneath the dress, pushing it from her shoulders and down over her hips. She stepped out of it, and it went to join the jacket.
“Let me look at you,” whispered Gold, and she turned in her heels, clad only in her bra, panties and tights. His eyes roamed over her, dark and hungry, and the tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, and reached up to cup her face, bending to kiss her.
Belle pressed herself against him as the kiss deepened, his tongue pushing into her mouth and stroking against hers. She could feel him hardening against her, his firm length pressing into her belly, and she wanted him inside her, wanted to feel every inch of him deep within. She moaned, reaching up to twist her fingers through his hair, and the kiss grew frantic, Gold lurching forward to slam her back against the wall. She gasped into his mouth, opening her legs to wrap one around his waist and feel more of him pressed against her core. His hands cupped her breasts, thumbs rubbing over the nipples in slow circles, sending jolts of sensation down through her body. He pulled his mouth from hers, kissing down her neck, lips pulling at the skin and making her moan. Hands scrabbled at the back of her bra, struggling with the clasp until she reached behind and unhooked it for him, tossing it aside and moaning as his soft, wet mouth clamped around her right nipple.
Belle rose up on her toes, nails scraping his scalp, her breath heaving, and his fingers hooked inside the top of her tights, pulling them down her legs with her panties. She kicked off her heels so he could take them off, leaving her naked before him. Gold gazed up at her, his eyes roving over her naked skin, hands sliding slowly up her thighs.
“Beautiful,” he said again, his eyes soft, and then put his mouth to her, tongue slipping between her soft folds.
Belle arched into him with a moan, fingers tugging at her hair. His tongue moved in slow circles, slipping over her clit, pushing inside her. It felt incredible, her skin tingling, a wave of pleasure beginning to build inside her. He slipped an arm behind one leg, hooking it over his shoulder, and let out a low growl as it allowed him to taste more of her, one finger sliding deep inside her as his tongue swept over her tender flesh. She let out a tiny cry, tugging him against her, wanting all of him, wanting him to devour her, and a second finger joined the first, pushing deep. Pleasure rose up through her, a wave of bliss building, and Belle threw back her head with a cry as it crashed over her, stars bursting behind her eyes and cheeks flushing with heat. He growled again, tongue swirling over her as her cries faded into ragged breathing.
She slumped against the wall, skin tingling as she tried to catch her breath, and Gold placed a final kiss to her and sank back on his heels, wobbling a little on his bad foot. He was grinning, looking extremely pleased with himself, and she let out a contented sigh.
“Your turn,” she said. “Let’s got all those layers off you.”
Undressing him was exciting, peeling off the layers of silk and fine wool to reveal a thin but strong body with a smooth chest and lightly tanned skin. The scent of him was intoxicating: woody, spicy cologne mixed with his own musk, and she licked across his chest, tasting his salt, sucking a nipple in between her lips and feeling him groan in response. His cock was hard against her chest, and she kissed down to skim the head with her tongue.
“Fuck!” he gasped, hands twisting in her dark curls.
“God, yes!” she breathed, and kissed back up his body, reaching for one of the condoms and rolling it on. He was hot and rigid in her hand, and she squeezed gently, grinning as he rasped out another curse.
“Ready?” she asked, and waited for his fervent nod before straddling him.
Gold arched up into her with a groan, hands reaching up to grasp the carved wooden headboard. She sank down onto him, hands braced on his flat belly, enjoying the feel of him inside her, hard and thick. He had pushed deep, rubbing against her and sending ripples of sensation through her, and she moaned as she began to move, hips making slow circles, grinding against him.
“Oh, Belle!” he breathed. “God, you feel amazing!”
“So do you!” she whispered.
Belle kept her rhythm slow and steady, watching the muscles in his arms and chest tensing as his pleasure grew. She could feel her own climax nearing, and quickened her pace, letting it build, a low moan bursting from her lips. Gold released the headboard, fingers twining through hers, hands clasped as his eyes locked onto hers. There was an intensity in his gaze, a connection binding them together in that moment, and he threw his head back against the pillows with a groaning cry, thrusting up into her. His cock pulsed, the sensation pushing her over the edge, and her cries of bliss joined his, bodies pumping against each other until they were spent.
Belle collapsed onto his chest, and they lay in a sticky, sweaty tangle of limbs, their breathing harsh and uneven. She could hear his heart thumping, hot, damp skin against her cheek and his arms around her. Her cheeks were on fire, and she desperately wanted a drink of water, but she was too soft and sated to move. Gold seemed to recover first.
“Well,” he said, a little breathlessly. “Merry fucking Christmas to me.”
Belle burst out laughing, pushing herself up on his chest to eye him with amusement.
“Oh, I think that was a gift for both of us.”
He returned her grin, his eyes heavy-lidded and lazy, but still with that wicked gleam in them. He reached up to cup her cheek, thumb stroking over her skin.
“I’m glad you think so,” he said. “Can I offer you that drink, now?”
“Just water, please. I’m dying of thirst.”
“Of course. I could make some tea as well, if you like.”
“Perfect.”
She bent to kiss him, and he welcomed her with a growl of pleasure, kissing her deeply before flipping her onto her back. Belle ran her fingers through his hair, smelling her own scent on his skin, and Gold pulled at her lips with his before pushing up on his elbows.
“Tea,” he reminded himself, sounding regretful.
“We can pick this up after we’ve had the tea,” she offered. “The night is young, and neither of us has work tomorrow.”
His answering grin was wide.
-
A scratching at the door woke Belle, followed by plaintive mews, and her eyes fluttered open. Gold was curled around her, an arm across her waist, and she stretched, her body aching pleasantly. It had been a long night. She grinned as she remembered it. His lips pressed against her shoulder, his grip tightening.
“Morning.” His murmur was sleepy.
“Morning.” She yawned widely. “I think the cats want feeding.”
“Mm.” He kissed her shoulder again. “Suppose I’d better see to them. Although I’d much rather stay here.”
“Well, if you go, I can do something about this terrible morning breath,” she remarked, and he chuckled.
“Mine’s pretty tragic too,” he said. “There’s a new toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet. You can have it. I’m going to take a shower once I’ve fed the cats. Would you like some coffee?”
“I can make it,” she said, throwing back the covers.
“The machine already has beans in it,” he said. “Let me know if you need a hand working it out.”
“It’ll be fine,” she said. “I worked part time in coffee shops while I was a student, so I’m a barista as well as a barrister. You take your shower.”
He grinned at her, slipping from the bed and grabbing his cane. He went to open the bedroom door, causing both cats to hurtle inside and run between the two of them to receive ear scratches, complaining loudly about the lack of food in their bowls. Belle enjoyed watching Gold’s pert rear as he walked naked to the kitchen, answering the cats’ mews with reassurances that breakfast would soon be provided. She slid her legs over the side of the bed, toes sinking into the thick rug.
After she had visited the bathroom, given herself a quick wash and cleaned her teeth, she pulled on his discarded shirt, buttoning it loosely and rolling up the sleeves to her elbows. She padded to the kitchen, passing Gold in the doorway and sharing a brief kiss before he went to take his shower. The cats were silent, eating their breakfast, the sounds of chewing interspersed with purrs. Belle eyed the coffee machine, shining black and chrome, with a hopper full of fresh beans and a nozzle for heating and frothing milk. She smirked. Easy peasy.
She was setting cups, teaspoons and a bowl of sugar cubes on the table, when soft footsteps made her smile. Gold’s hand slid around her, cupping a breast before dipping to the curve of her waist. His kiss to the nape of her neck made her shiver.
“That shirt looks much better on you,” he murmured.
“Oh, I don’t know.” She turned in his arms to twine her own around his neck. “I think you dress exceptionally well, Mr Gold.”
“Why thank you, Miss French.”
His hair was wet, brushed back from his forehead, his body naked except for a small towel knotted at his waist, and she raised her chin to meet his mouth with hers as he bent to kiss her. Damp strands of hair began falling forward, tickling her face, and his hand reached up to cup her cheek as the kiss deepened. His cock twitched beneath the towel, and Belle made a noise of approval. Time to go back to bed.
A knock at the front door made them both start, and Gold pulled back with a puzzled expression.
“Are you expecting someone?” asked Belle.
He shook his head, but the knock came again, insistent.
“Hey Papa!” called a voice. “Dad? You awake?”
Gold’s eyes widened, and he swore under his breath, pushing back from Belle and limping out with one hand clutching the towel at his waist as it threatened to slip over his narrow hips. The rattle of a key in the lock made Belle start and leap after him.
“Don’t come in!” shouted Gold, at the same time that the door burst open, and Belle found herself face to face with a dark-haired young man, a young woman with blonde curls cascading from beneath a black, bobble-topped beanie, and a boy of about eight or nine, who waved, beaming.
“Grandpa!” he chirped excitedly. “Merry Christmas! We got an early plane!”
Gold scrabbled at the towel, trying in vain to keep it from slipping further and only succeeding in exposing one firm buttock to Belle. She bit back a giggle.
“Henry,” said Gold desperately. “Neal. Emma. I – uh—”
“Oh my God,” said Neal flatly.
“Bollocks,” said Gold, with feeling.
“Hey, Pops,” said Emma, grinning widely. “Guess you jingled your bells, huh? Very festive of you. You going to introduce us to your friend?”
“Hi,” said Belle awkwardly. “I’m Belle. We – uh – we were arguing the same case in court, and…”
“Insert joke about showing each other your briefs,” said Emma, cackling.
“You’re making it worse, babe,” said Neal.
“Hi, Belle!” said Henry excitedly. “Did you guys have a sleepover? Dad sometimes forgets to pack my PJs, too.”
Emma snorted, and Gold groaned.
“Kill me,” he whispered.
“Hey, I have dibs on being killed,” said Neal, jabbing a thumb at his chest. “Emma, could you do the honours? Or at least gouge my eyes out.”
“I wasn’t expecting you today!” said Gold wretchedly.
“We got an early plane!” said Henry again.
“Which you would know if you checked your messages,” added Emma. “Guess you were busy, huh? Nice to meet you, Belle.”
“Yeah, good to meet you,” said Neal, grinning at her. “Dad, can you, like, put pants on, or something? This is traumatising.”
“Well, if you will just barge in…” Gold threw his arm wide, overbalancing a little and snatching frantically at the towel.
“You two…” sighed Emma. “Neal, your dad has a sex life. Suck it up. Personally, I think it’s great.”
“I – I guess I should be going,” said Belle.
“No,” said Gold hastily. “No, don’t go. Just – just give me a minute.”
“Give him some clothes instead, Belle,” said Neal.
Gold swore under his breath and hurried towards the bedroom, his left buttock still showing.
“Nice ass, Pops!” called Emma.
Belle rushed after him, Emma’s delighted laughter following them. She shut the door behind them and turned to face him, biting back her own amusement. Gold had leaned against the wall with a groan.
“So, that’s your family,” she said. “They seem nice.”
“I’m never gonna live this down,” he said wearily. “Emma’s been trying to encourage me to date for years. Why the hell didn’t I check my fucking phone?”
“Hmm.” She sidled up to him, pressing her palms to his warm chest. “Are we dating?”
He smiled then, looking down at her.
“I think – I think maybe we are,” he said. “That’s – that’s if you want, of course.”
“I want.” She reached up on her toes to kiss him, and he was smiling as their lips parted.
“How would you like to spend Christmas with us?” he asked, and she grinned.
Have you ever had a hamburger?
Yes, of course.
Well, I haven’t. But I hear that Granny’s makes
a great one, maybe… Maybe w e c o u l d t r y it sometime?
I w o u l d l i k e t h a t.
jbbartram-illu
origamiaround
romaincrisis
2087
dededos
