This was built outside my house for unexplained reasons. No I dont know what its mouth is made of but I suspect blood. #cryptid #cryptids #evilsnowman https://www.instagram.com/p/B7aSfgNBuygL6FO-Zx0n09Rgb_dMvzfq7ndjZU0/?igshid=1plkctp7dpqaa
They stood inside the shop, with the door closed behind them and the sign flipped to closed to keep away any prying eyes and ears. In a small town like Storybrooke, Maine, news traveled fast. And it would travel even faster with Mary-Margaret driving the carriage.
Belle put the thought of town gossip out of her mind. Nothing to be done about that now. And, what did it matter if her secret was out? Once she had her book back, there would be nothing keeping her here, not really. She could get another job somewhere else and leave long before people grew tired of the scandal and moved onto someone or something new.
She had never cared about what people thought of her, never listened to gossip – not even the most vicious kind. You didn’t enter a fertility clinic at only twenty-one years of age and left with a complete stranger’s child growing inside you, if you valued other people’s opinions of you that highly or feared their judgement.
Belle was no stranger to hostile glances and harsh judgement. It came with the territory of being who she was, but her fate was hers, and hers alone to decide, and she had had a long five weeks to make up her mind.
He cleared his throat and yanked her back to the present reality of his dimly lit shop full of curious knickknacks and wondrous treasure.
Belle raised her chin defiantly.
“So...” He avoided her gaze, his fingers drumming out a fast rhythm against the expensive pink bakery box before he set it down on the counter.
He had motioned her toward the curtain, toward the back of the shop, but she had declined the invitation with a firm shake of her head. He already had home-turf advantage and she didn’t need the reminder. She never wanted to think of that morning again; her silly tears, his stupid arms around her, the weight of his warm hand on her lower back–
“So ... the book?” Belle felt her eyes prickle dangerously, but there was no hint of it in her voice just yet, and she was glad for it. She would not cry. Not in front of him. Not again.
He drew a sharp breath and let it out.
“Miss French–“
She pursed her lips.
Her eyes trained anywhere but on his face, she watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. A vein pulsed in his neck, just above the purple tie. It seemed to be bothering him, but he didn’t loosen it.
“Please, wait here.”
She couldn’t risk looking at him, couldn’t blink, so she just watched the blurry pine stripes move away from her and vanish behind the curtain.
Ever since the disastrous reveal and the radio silence that followed, she had fought so hard to keep him out of her thoughts; to erase the foolish fantasies from her mind. If she went back there with him now, it would only remind her of how delusional, how naive, she had been to dream it all up in the first place. A sperm bank was hardly the place to start a fairy tale; it wasn’t what Happily Ever Afters were made of. It was barely the place to start a family. The word burned in the back of her throat as she thought it.
Looking down, in the general direction of where her shoes would have been, Belle listened to the sound of his walking stick on the floor – tap, tap, tap, pause, tap, tap, tap, long pause – and closed her eyes, breathing long steadying breaths in and out through her nose.
“Oh!”
Far stronger than the early butterflies and popping bubbles, she felt the baby move and turn around then, her belly popping out and stretching to make room. Her hand flew to the movement and she smiled, running the other across her eyes quickly.
“Sorry about this,” she whispered. The little one was starting up a racket in there. He hadn’t been this active in days. Perhaps it was all the white sugar they were having, Belle thought, wetting her lips and worrying them. “Mama will just get her book back and then–“
A hard downward kick shut her right up. If Mr. Gold didn’t hurry up, she would have to go in after him – or risk peeing her pants. “Excuse me, now is not a good time–“ She took an involuntary step deeper into the shop and her son aimed another good kick at her bladder. Maybe he’d grow up to be a famous footy player. “Hey, you!”
***
She was smiling when she looked up. Her smile wasn’t meant for him, Gold knew that. Still, it made him go weak at the knees so fast and so unexpectedly, he had to clutch his cane painfully hard to keep his balance.
Sure, you had to be a blind man not to notice that her name fit Belle French like a kidskin glove, but he hadn’t truly appreciated just how radiant she was before; the bright sun of her very own universe.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he approached slowly, watching her face cloud over as if in slow motion. He had that effect on women.
“Miss French?”
He held out her book in front of him; a peace offering for a white-tailed deer, and she frowned; then stared down at it in wide-eyed awe. He was a master of his craft and had outdone himself without meaning to.
“As promised,” he rasped, his stomach in knots and heart in his mouth, muffling his words. “I am a man of my word, Miss French.”
Lips parted slightly, she gazed at him, her face open and full of unspoken questions. “It’s...” She blinked rapidly, color rising to her cheeks. “Beautiful.”
Her book changed hands at last, skin brushing skin. He watched her cradle it in her arms, rocking it ever so gently, running a finger along the spine and tracing the gold lettering with the lightest touch, like a feather; her smile warm and genuine, and full of love for the precious heirloom. It warmed his heart.
“I, erm, I–“
With the force of a tidal wave, emotions washed over him, leaving him soaked to the skin and disoriented.
“I assume that our... agreement has been executed to your satisfaction?” He blurted, his eyes darting from her face to her mother’s book to her belly and back again. Had it just... moved?
She gaped at him, mouthing something he didn’t catch, then sucked in a breath. Her mouth a white line, she clutched the book tighter to her chest and spun on her heels, nearly knocking over the fine china tea set on display.
It wouldn’t have mattered. One of the cups was already chipped.
Her hand on the doorknob, she turned, and Gold felt a jolt go right through him. Her beautiful face had crumpled, tears glistening on her cheeks.
“Thank you for the book,” she sniffed. “We won’t be bothering you again.”
“Miss French!” He took a few hurried steps towards her. The little bell above the door jingled. “Belle–– Wait!”
She whirled back around then, framed by the door like a precious photograph; a memento, a memory he’d keep with the others for the rest of his life.
“Why?!” Her voice broke, an accent he wouldn’t soon forget seeping through the cracks and coloring her words as she hurled them across the shop at him. “You have made yourself perfectly clear, Mr. Gold. I am very sorry to have wasted your time and, if you’ll excuse me–“
“No!” He reached her in a few long strides (that he’d pay dearly for later) and threw out an arm to stop the door from closing in his face.
“Oh, come on! What now?!” Exasperated, she rolled her eyes at the ceiling. He stood so close, he could see fresh tears glistening in them.
“Open it,” he said.
“What?”
“The book. Open it.” His words came in breathless pants, which might have been the reason they took an unbearable eternity to register with her.
When they finally did, she threw him one last, very long, dark look – he already half feared she wouldn’t do as he had asked and leave him standing there like the idiot that he was, to eat his words like he deserved – and, after a deep, damp sigh, carefully cracked the covers.
Gold closed his eyes and held his breath.
There it was. His deepest, darkest secret. Proof that all the rumors were true and people were right. The reason she would want to leave no matter what came out of his mouth next.
“Who... who is that?” He barely heard her over the rushing in his ears. His head felt light and hot, his knees threatened to buckle. “He... he looks like you?”
Her voice came from so far away, his eyes flew open at the shock of her touch, her warm hand on his arm nearly enough to make his heart stop for good before it stuttered back to life. It took him a second to focus for near, to tell her concerned face from the overall blur and airless noise, and even then, he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.
With a careful glance at his face, Miss French turned the book so it was no longer upside down for him, and pointed to the photograph he’d slipped in with the dedication.
It was old, the colors slightly faded, but there they were: a younger version of himself holding Bae at about age six. They were both laughing. Bae had his eyes wide open in surprise, his were scrunched shut (the flash?). He was squeezing the boy into him, his short scrawny legs dangling over his knees. He couldn’t remember why the picture had been taken or who took it, or what they were laughing about. Over the years it had become a happy mystery. He preferred not knowing.
Gold sighed deeply.
“Baelfire. His name is Baelfire.”
She gave him a soft smile and squeezed his arm encouragingly, but he couldn’t go on; couldn’t get the words around the heavy weight on his chest.
“You love him very much,” she supplied. Her voice was a gentle caress, so full of compassion, it both hurt and soothed his aching heart.
“Yes.”
“And you miss him.” She swallowed and looked back at the picture. “Every day.”
Something inside him snapped. Coarse and pulled taut for too long, it finally gave way and snapped clean in two, but Gold found he didn’t mind.
“Every day,” he echoed, feeling her press herself to his side for support and allowing her to carry part of the weight.
***
“I’m sorry.” It was no excuse but certainly an explanation; and Belle felt like she owed him one too. “I didn’t know.”
The loss and the grief, she could read it between the lines on his face like a book. It felt like looking in a mirror.
“How–?”
“My fault.” Clipped, but not hostile. Painful honesty.
She nodded. Even if that was true – which she doubted – it didn’t make him the monster he pretended to be.
“I know what that feels like.”
He didn’t believe her. She could see it in his eyes; the way they darted back and forth between hers, trying to catch one of them lying. It was in his knitted brows and twitching mouth; in the way his face hardened as he looked down his slightly crooked nose at her.
Mr. Gold looked at her like men had looked at her her entire life – and it made Belle furious.
“No! No! I do!” She had to put some space between them not to do something spectacularly stupid. “Don’t look at me like I don’t! You don’t get to look at me like that!”
Pacing felt good; and yelling with her whole body – hands, arms, shoulders – so she did. “It was MY FAULT, OKAY?! MINE!”
Steamed up, she gestured at the book and he followed her accusatory finger to the open page in front of him; right to her mother’s last words, set in paper that might as well have been stone.
The black ink stung her eyes and she sniffed, tossing her hair back.
“WHAT?! Do you think you’re the only one with a... a...” Her breath and her words came fast; too fast, making her dizzy.
“Miss–”
He reached for her, but she stepped back, her damp back colliding with cool glass. Waiting for the crash, Belle shuddered. Something behind her hit the ground with a soft thud.
“You’re not the only one with a past, Rum– Rumford Gold!” The name caught on her tongue, tangled up with all the abuse and accusations she wanted to throw at him, but knew weren’t meant for him.
“Belle.” He raised one hand, as if in surprise or surrender, the gesture pulling her skin taut. Her dress clung to her like a layer of milk skin on warm milk with honey.
“It’s alright. I didn’t mean to–“ His voice wavered, betraying his uncertainty. It only made everything so much worse.
“My mother is dead because of me! And, and–“ Belle’s eyes burned. She was tired, she was angry, she should have accepted that cake, and she really, really needed to pee.
All it took was for him to close the book and open his arms for her. Without thinking, Belle flew into them, seeking comfort and shelter once again, burying her face against his neck.
“I’m scared,” she admitted, the confession sluggish and sticky like molasses between her teeth. She had never said those words out loud before. What if – What if she died too? Like her mum? What would happen to her baby then? What would become of her Gideon?
“Shh. That’s quite alright.” His pulse danced against her cheek; they trembled together – an old tree and its last leaf daring the mean October wind, the great unknown. “We can be scared together.”
