Giftee: @notalwayslate
Merry Christmas, dearie! I have had the most fun being your Santa. I've seen many years of RSS come and go, but this is my first year participating and I couldn't have asked for a better giftee and prompt. Writing this fic has brought a lot of joy to my holiday season and I can only hope that it brings a little bit to yours too ♥
| AO3 LINK |
Prompt: "her picture in a locket"
Summary: Rumplestiltskin's heart beats with a singular purpose – to reunite with his lost son. But his heart only has so many beats left before it fully gives into the Darkness. An enchanted locket known as "The Heart's Caretaker" may be his only chance to save what little light still burns within him. He just needs it to reveal the one person in the realm destined to banish his shadows and bring love back into his world.
| 'Skin Deep' prologue, very Rumple centric, character studies, canon divergence, verbal sparring, Marchlands world-building, Jefferson & Rumple friendship, background Papafire, hyper-fluffy epilogue |
"Portrait of the Heart"
| (5/5) | (12.7k) | AO3 LINK |
🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
For @notalwayslate for Rumbelle Secredt Santa 2022. So sorry to be late, but hope you enjoy anyway Summary: Belle’s secret boyfriend, Library Commissioner and town curmudgeon, Mr. Gold comes with a lot of baggage: Legal disputes with his ex; a tween son he’s trying to get visitation with: and it turns out a car full of actual baggage. Belle handles it all with panache and her superpower -- research skills!
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply<br />Relationships: Belle (Once Upon a Time)/Nicholas Rush
Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Nicholas Rush, OC
Additional Tags: Teacher-Student Relationship
Summary: Rush is drinking away his frustration at not being able to find the key to the Ninth Chevron. Too drunk to drive home, Belle, a student in his math class, insists on driving him home. He invites her in for a nightcap, where both of them act upon secret desires they have been suppressing for too long.
Merry Christmas @notalwayslate, it is I, your Secret Santa, delivering your gift. I hope that you enjoy it!
Read on AO3
(In)discreet Math
Rush groaned, tossed back another tumbler of bad whiskey, tore out another page from his notebook, and crumpled the paper into a small ball that he slipped into his jacket pocket. Then he began to write out the entire equation again. He really shouldn’t be drunk off his ass, much less still drinking. He was both, and the cheery croon of the holiday music grated on his last nerve.
By rights, as a faculty member, he shouldn’t be propping up the Students’ Union bar; shouldn’t be in the Students’ Union at all, but it was closer than his car and any other form of conveyance that could take him to a different place that would no doubt have a higher quality of liquor that would doubtless be able to distract him from his current dilemmas better than the shite he was presently throwing down.
He scribbled another few symbols into his notebook, crossed them out and then turned the page and started over. Figuring out the truth of the ninth chevron was, quite literally, going to be the death of him - or of his career at least, which considering it was all he had left, was pretty much the same thing.
He looked up then, and across the room caught sight of the object of his distraction. He really shouldn’t be thinking about that particular student and the way her too blue eyes made it seem as though she was hanging on his every word in any lecture he’d ever given, nor the way that her creamy thighs were barely covered by the tiny little skirt she was ‘wearing’ - and he used the term under advisement.
He really shouldn’t be watching said student.
**
Giggling, only the slightest bit tipsy if she were honest, Belle leaned toward Ruby and said, “Can you keep a secret?”
At Ruby’s nod, Belle leaned closer still, and whispered the words before she could change her mind.
“Belle!” Ruby yelped. “Oh, my God! Seriously, T. M. eye, girl!” Ruby’s undeniably squicked reaction brought more laughter from Belle, at least until her friend asked, a wicked twinkle in her eyes, “So how was Imaginary!Rush?”
“Ruby!” Belle blushed to the tips of her ears, glad of the relative darkness of the Students’ Union Bar, not to mention the current of sound that flowed in and out of the bar’s patrons, affording the privacy to have conversation like this one.
“Well, don’t look now,” Ruby added, nodding behind Belle, “but the object of your nocturnal fantasies is staring right now.”
“What!” Belle yelped and began to turn around, until Ruby caught her arm.
“I said don’t look,” she said. “Jesus, Belle, what the fuck!”
“What is he doing now?” she asked, shifting first one way, and then the other to try and catch sight of him in the mirrored decor of the bar. She couldn’t see.
“Writing something in that stupid notebook of his,” Ruby scoffed.
Belle huffed, picked up her drink and knocked it back in one swallow, gasping afterwards to catch her breath. “Right!” she said after a moment, and picked up her clutch from its place on the table, and took a step or two toward the bar before Ruby caught her arm again.
“What,” her friend said, “are you doing?”
“Going over there,” Belle said.
“Are you crazy?”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” she said with a shrug to hide the delicious shiver that went down her spine at the thought of what she wanted to happen… mingled only with the smallest sliver of guilt that she might be about to try and take advantage of a drunken man.
**
He didn’t see her coming.
After he realized he was staring, he dragged his attention back to his notebook and began, in greater earnest, to work through the lines of his calculations as if they were the only thing that was going to keep his head above water, above whiskey, he thought wryly as he tossed back the contents of yet another glass.
The first he knew she was there was when the fingers of a cool hand slid over the back of his wrist and plucked the pencil from his fingers. When he half turned to protest the trespass it was to see the short, dark skirt ride up still higher on the pale skin of her thighs as she mounted the stool at his side, and slid his notebook toward her.
“Really, Miss French, I—”
Words died in his mouth as he watched her tapping the end of the pencil against her lips as her eyes ran over his figures and symbols. It was almost mesmerizing, and pulled at his loins in a way that made him shift uncomfortably in his seat, and he tried to get the end of the sentence to emerge from his brain, the part that told her he had to be getting home. It was late, and he really had to get some sleep before tomorrow’s meeting with the dean. The words wouldn’t come, instead he watched with growing fascination and increasing arousal as she slowly began to write down the next line in the equation.
“You were saying, Doctor Rush?” She looked up from the notebook, pencil poised and blue eyes warm and inviting, a tropical ocean just waiting for him to dive in.
“I… should,” he began slowly, sliding his eyes upward until he could find hers, not at all pausing to take in the way her shirt hugged tightly against her firm curves, “be getting away home.”
He reached his hand into his pocket, as much to adjust and hide the obviousness of his reactions to her being beside him as to reach for his car keys - even though there was no way he’d pass a sobriety check if he got pulled over.
In answer, she closed the notebook, and slid it, and the pencil across the bar toward him. Then she hopped off the stool and held out her hand, palm upward. He looked at her and frowned.
“Keys,” she said firmly.
“I really don’t think—” he began, and staggered slightly as if got off his own bar stool, forcing him to reach for the top of the bar, where, in cover of his inebriation, he snatched up the notebook and pencil.
“You either give me the keys, or I will reach into your pocket and find them myself,” she said, “There’s no way I’m letting you drive home like this.”
He shivered. Part of him wanted to be angry and indignant at the suggestion that he needed to be driven home like some teenager that couldn’t hold his liquor. A larger part of him - the part that was overwhelmed by loneliness and had been for as long now as he could remember - wanted to reach out, hold on, and never let go.
“Well?” Belle raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her hand still steady in the air between them.
**
It was sheer luck that the math came to her as she looked at the notebook, total coincidence that she’d been studying similar equations just before Ruby came to drag her out instead of letting her study in private.
After that, she had no idea. Sheer ballsy determination to try and rid her of the midnight notions she kept on having, night after night. The threat had slipped from her lips unbidden, and once uttered she couldn’t take it back, and then she started to be curious as to what Rush might actually do.
There was a long, awkward moment where she stood with her hand outstretched, and then he leaned toward her, and with a heated growl pressed, “My keys, my car,” right against her ear, the heat of him close beside her rushing straight to her core at the challenge.
Without thinking about it - because if she did she was certain she’d lose her nerve - she grabbed the front of his shirt in one hand, and pushed her other hand deep into his jeans pocket, her fingers searching. She found heat and the hardening shape of his trapped member, that made the heavy, settled warmth between her own thighs pulse needfully. She smoothed the pads of her fingers along it, down deeper still into the tight pocket.
“Belle,” he growled, and his fingers clamped suddenly around her wrist, and tugged her hand away and out of his pocket, but he didn’t let go. Not until he’d pulled his keys - and a couple of bills for his bar tab - from the other pocket and pressed the keys into her hand.
**
He knew what he was doing was really stupid and could get him fired, but as he slipped his hand down to the small of her back to guide her toward the exit, he was too blinded by the feeling of the way her fingers had felt against him, even through his jeans - to really care too much about that. She certainly didn’t resist.
As he pushed open the door, however, the outside air was like a slap in the face, and went a long way toward sobering him with caution.
“Miss French—”
“It was Belle a minute ago,” she said, “and I”m still not letting you drive home, so…”
She shivered, hardly surprising given what little clothing covered her, and without even a thought he slipped off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. For a moment he watched her standing, looking around her, a lost look on her face - though he noted she did tug his jacket closer around herself.
“So…” he began as she ended her last sentence to him, “how are you planning to drive me home if you can’t even find m’car?”
“You,” she said, “are going to take me to your car, and then tell me your address so that I can drive there.”
He started walking in the direction of the faculty car park. “And if I can’t find it?” he asked, and he wasn’t sure in that moment if he was teasing or serious.
“Well then you’re drunker than even I thought,” she answered, adding, “and we’re both fucked,” under her breath.
**
Desire warred with something far more dangerous as Rush wrapped his jacket around her against the cold. She told herself she shouldn’t read anything into it more than the lingering remnants of a gentleman somewhere underneath the alcohol dulled veneer. Honestly she couldn’t tell which side of him had a greater hold on her in that moment: the sarcastic, hard to please professor, or this hard nosed, soft centered, smoldering inebriate that was leading her to his car.
The car itself was nothing to write home about. It was practical. It was well used, and it was parked in the farthest corner of the staff lot that it was possible to reach.
“Jesus,” she huffed under her breath, “Even your car is antisocial.”
He laughed; she melted, but she couldn’t let him see that his mirth had somehow reached deep inside of her and squeezed her emotions until they came bubbling almost to the surface.
“Anti-social?” he queried as the laughter died away. “Is that really how you see me?”
She unlocked the car, and with a nod of her head told him wordlessly to get into the passenger side. She spent the time it took for him to walk around the car to do as he was told adjusting the seat so that she could reach the pedals. She also thanked all the gods she could name in that moment that he didn’t drive a stick.
“Address?” she said as she buckled the seat belt and waited for him to do the same.
“You didn’t answer my question.” He answered.
“Most of the students, yes,” she answered. “Address?”
“Most,” he echoed. “Including you?”
“Right now, I think you’re being an irritating bastard,” she snapped, starting the car and putting it into reverse ready to back out of the parking space. “Doctor Rush, don’t make me ask you ag—”
“Nicholas,” he cut her off.
“What?” She blinked. She hadn’t expected that. Hoped, yes, but not expected.
“It’s my name,” he said, “You know damn well it’s my name, so if you’re going to be driving me home, and insulting me to boot, you can use it.”
“All right,” she nodded, and hoped like hell he couldn’t tell she was blushing almost a neon red in the dark corner of the parking lot, “Nicholas… but I’m not going to be driving you anywhere if you don’t—”
He cut her off again, this time by answering her question and giving her his address, and a strange kind of relief stole over her as she began to drive away. Luckily she knew how to get to that area of town, though she didn’t know the neighborhood itself. An old boyfriend of hers lived on the outskirts of it, a boorish idiot that she was much better off without.
It wasn’t that long of a drive, and he fell silent as they turned out of the college and onto the main street, and he remained that way, so she spent the whole of the journey stealing surreptitious glances at him out of the corner of her eye.
**
By the time they reached the car, he wasn’t nearly as drunk as he had been when they left the bar and he probably could have gotten away with driving himself home, except that he strongly doubted that Belle would have allowed it. Why she cared though? That was a mystery to him. Washed up has been. He hated that he got maudlin as he started to sober up after a evening like this one.
He glanced out of the corner of his eye as they drove in silence, taking in the concentration on her face in an effort to stop his gaze from drifting down to take in the way her thighs moved as she accelerated, or pushed the brake pedal to slow them down. It wouldn’t do. It just wouldn’t do at all.
He shifted in the seat, trying to adjust himself without being obvious. Then he broke his silence at last. “It’s up ahead, second left from here.” She followed his directions, and then as they came up on the driveway, added, “You can pull up on the drive.”
A deeper silence descended as Belle parked the car on the driveway and turned off the engine. It didn’t take long for the cold of the outside to seep in on the warm nest the car had become, pricking slender, frigid fingers inside his shirt and drawing a shiver from him involuntarily as his nipples pebbled. Embracing the cold, and the respite it provided from his rising inner heat, he opened the car door, then turned his head to look over at Belle as he said, “I may be an irritating bastard, but I’m not a complete philistine. Please… come inside for a nightcap - cocoa, I promise, while I call a cab for you, to get you home.”
“Thank you,” Belle answered, and he thought he detected a slight wobble in her voice.
“No,” he said, “thank you. It’s been too long since someone gave a damn.”
Before he gave her time to respond, not wanting to hear the awkwardness of his impromptu confession he reached and took the keys from the ignition, backed out of the car again, and led the way to the front door, trusting Belle to follow.
Warmth embraced him as he stood holding the door for her. He closed it behind her, and nodding toward what passed for his lounge, said a soft, “Make yourself at home, I’ll… go make the cocoa.”
As he walked along the hallway toward the kitchen, he took a mental inventory of what she would find in the lounge. He didn’t remember leaving it in too bad of a state, mostly on account of the Christmas tree he’d made himself put up this year. It had forced him to tidy the room to make it fit; it stood in the corner where the end wall met the bay window. The curtains were open, and there was a fire laid in the hearth. In fact, the state of the room made him seem positively normal. Not so much the office, but there was no reason for her to go in there.
**
The Christmas tree was a surprise; not at all what she expected. However, he’d said to make herself at home, so she followed the wire at the bottom of the tree all the way to the switch and turned them on. Then she pulled the drapes across the bay window, transforming the lounge into somewhere inviting.
She perched on the couch, finding herself filled with a kind of nervous energy, uncertainty what made the want that settled inside of her all the more acute. She hadn’t missed the fact that he’d laid a fire in the hearth. It would be too much to light it, wouldn’t it?
“I wasn’t sure how you’d want it.” His sudden presence made her jump, and in starting, she came to her feet, but he shook his head. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Looks good, cozy.” He added, gesturing to the lit tree with one of the cups he held, then as if that made him remember them both, he held one out in her direction.
“Thank you,” she said, and took the cup, cradling it between her two hands. “You have a nice home,” she added a moment later.
He made a face, and she read denial in it. “It’s not usually,” he gestured again with a cocoa mug and the rich, chocolaty liquid sloshed in the cup, in danger of escaping onto the area rug beneath their feet. “Only looks this way because of the tree. Y’should see the study…” he trailed off.
“I’d like to,” she said softly, and he looked at her, long and hard until she felt the blush climbing upward from her neck and onto her cheeks.
“Serious?” he breathed, still staring at her intently, as though he couldn’t believe what she’d just said.
“Yes,” she said. Her insides trembled with a sudden sense of warmth and anticipation that chased away the chill she had been feeling. Before she could think on it too hard, however and talk herself out of the desire - the need to see him as he really was - the warmth of his hand closed around hers and he began to lead her from the lounge and to a closed door almost opposite.
“Behold,” he said as he let go of her hand and reached for the handle, “the mess that is Nicholas Rush.”
He pushed open the door and a whole new world leaped into existence before her. Gone was the ordered neatness of the lounge. Everything inside was chaos. The walls were covered in sticky-notes of all colors, each of those covered in the hieroglyphs of mathematical symbols she was more used to seeing in the lecture hall and seminar rooms where Doctor Rush conducted class. On the desk, piles of papers spilled over onto a desk calendar that was filled with appointments, yet in the margins, all around the printed squares were fragments of equations and scribbled words.
As if in a daze, she moved slowly forward, turning full circle to take everything in. She brought the cup to her lips as she did, and drank slowly from the cup. Spotting something from the corner of her eye, she moved toward one of the walls, where a string of symbols dripped like lime down toward the ground Written on three linked sticky notes, the math made her frown, then she snatched up a pencil from a nearby cup that was filled with pencils, like some kind of strange arrangement of flowers, only useful; they stood on a nearby shelf, sharpened and waiting to be used.
Her mind still flashing with strings of numbers and equations, she added to the sticky notes, her handwriting legible in contrast to the spider scrawl of Rush’s work. Once more she turned, and on another string of numbers, expressions that were only half complete, she made her mark, adding to the cacophony of logic that existed within the room.
Finally she turned back to Rush, who leaned in the doorway, a strange, half smile on his face.
“What?” she asked.
“That’s the second time you’ve done that tonight,” he answered completely without anything other than vulnerable honesty. “Added to my work.”
“I… just…”
“It’s fine,” he said with a half laugh. “More than fine.”
She set down her cup in a space on top of a cabinet. “Come inside. Come here,” she murmured softly.
**
He hesitated to move at the first, but at the second, soft calling he crossed the threshold, setting down his cup as he came on an empty shelf in the narrow book case by the door. He moved to stand in front of her, looking down. He took in her face, her eyes… the heat he saw there. A silent moan escaped him as his lips parted, as if to speak.
She reached up, a hand either side of his face, silk against his soft scruff. Her fingers pushed into his hair, and she guided his face toward hers. In the instant before she captured his mouth with hers, he felt as if the universe had paused on an indrawn breath. Then all the desire rushed out from him, and he reached to crush her closer, taking control of the kiss and advancing toward the desk, pushing her back, even as she let her hands slip from his hair to grasp the front of his shirt.
His tongue delved deep into her mouth, and she moaned softly, the vibration of the sound against his lips urging him on. He lifted her as they neared the desk, not caring about the papers covering its surface. He moaned in his own turn, a soft growl as her clasping hands tugged his shirt, heedless of the buttons, and then ran her fingers over his chest. He leaned over her, releasing her mouth, trailing heated, open mouthed kisses over her cheek, down onto her neck, nipping sharply before he soothed the sharpness with his tongue; he tasted her, wanting more.
His abs twitched beneath her fingers as she trailed them down toward his belt, fumbling with the buckle in her haste to reach him. He glided his fingers upward along the soft skin of her inner thigh, toward her heat, feeling the damp of her panties against the back of his hand as he teased, letting his thumb explore her covered folds until she gasped his name, and finally got the button of his jeans free of his button hole.
“Fuck, Belle!”
His ears began to ring as her questing fingers pushed inside his underwear, finding his cock and circling their way around until the head of him met the palm of her hand, and he pushed against the touch.
“Want you,” she gasped. “Want you deep—”
Her words cut off suddenly at the insistent sound of the doorbell, and only then did he realize that the ringing sound was not the result of his need, but of whoever-the-fuck it was that was hanging on his bell. He cursed again, this time at the interruption, not at the surge of desire she brought from him, and with a frustrated sigh, pushed away from her.
“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll get rid of them.”
She nodded, still, it seemed, fighting to get her breathing under control, and with a final look back at her flushed face, at her clothing in disarray from the touch of his hand as he’d cupped her full breast, he slipped through the barely opened door, fastening his jeans, and rearranging his shirt the best he could with no buttons to keep it closed.
He pulled open the front door, he would like to have thought, with more vigor than he intended, but no, the force with which he opened it was entirely intended. He frowned as he saw the colleague with whom he had been arguing earlier about the possibility of FTL travel.
“Nicholas, hi,” the man said, then frowned, evidently taking in his still slightly disheveled state. “Am I disturbing you?” he asked then.
“Yes,” Rush said, one hand on the door, the other high on the door frame, making a barrier of his body.
“May I come in?”
“No,” he said in the exact same tone.
“Only I thought—”
“I’m busy,” he snapped.
“Oh,” the other professor sounded disappointed for a moment then understanding dawned over his face in a red blush as he drew out the sound of the second, “Oh.”
“Yeah,” he breathed out the word as a sigh. Rumors of his conquest of some unknown woman would be circulating the department before class the following Monday.
“Well, I’ll… I’ll leave you too it, then,” the other man said almost apologetically, while trying to peer past him, and through the barely cracked open door of the study.
“Yeah,” he said. “Fuck off.”
He closed the door before anything else could be said, and then leaned his forehead against the wood. She deserved better than he had been about to serve her; not that he wanted her any the less.
Acting before he could think too much of it, he turned, not to the study, but to the lounge, where he lit the fire - made easier by the fire-lighter nestled in the midst of the kindling, before pulling the cushions from the couch and the chair and making a bed of them before the growing flames. Almost starting out of his skin when Belle spoke from behind him, from the doorway.
“I should maybe—”
Still kneeling on the cushions he held out his hand to her. “C’mere,” he said, and tugged her down when she crossed the room to take his hand.
**
When Doctor Rush left the room, Belle let out a long, slow breath and sat up, straightening her clothes. What the hell was she doing, What I’ve wanted to do for months, she answered her own question, then wondered on why she shouldn’t. They were both adults. They clearly both wanted the other… so there was the slight issue of the fact that he was her professor, and that sleeping with students was likely to get him fired, if they found out, and… she growled softly in frustration, and listened to the stilted conversation from the front door. Who the hell came calling at this time of night?
She ran her fingers through her hair. This was probably a really bad idea, but she wanted him so much she ached. She squeezed her thighs together as she stood waiting, hoping to dull that ache so that she could think clearly, and do the right thing. The front door closed, and she expected the study door to open any second, only… it didn’t. After another several minutes, having resolved that no matter how much she wanted to stay, she should probably leave, she went in search of Rush.
She didn’t have to look far. The moment she opened the door to the study she could see him. The fire was lit in the grate and he had pulled the cushions from the couch to make a bed of sorts in front of it. Her belly lurched, and her good intentions began to melt.
“I should maybe—” she began, and she saw him start slightly, then he turned, still kneeling, and held out his hand to her, inviting her closer. What resolve she had remaining evaporated and she crossed the room to take his hand, allowing him to tug her down onto the nest of cushions he had made.
“This is nice,” she said after a time of sitting, gazing into the fire, still holding his hand, and he had made no move to let go either. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did,” he argued softly, cutting her off and releasing her hand, finally, but only to reach and turn her toward him. Then he cupped her face between gentle hands, teasing his fingers into her hair. “You… deserve better than I was about to give you back there.” He ran a thumb across her cheek as it heated in a blush.
“As I recall,” she answered, finding her voice thickening with new desire, “I was the one started it.”
“That’s as maybe,” he said, “but that doesn’t give me permission to be a Neanderthal about it.”
She couldn’t help but chuckle a little bit, and he smiled. It changed the whole of his face, and her stomach tightened around a new feeling. She liked it. She reached out to caress the skin of his chest where his shirt had fallen open again. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. He let out the breath slowly, and drew her closer, sliding one arm around her waist, and one more deeply into her hair, and then his lips met hers again. Slowly this time, the softness of his lips in contrast with the prickle of his scruff, or short beard, depending on your perspective, she lost herself to the kiss, and to him, as his tongue swept into her mouth to tangle with her own. Supporting her, he laid her back on the cushions, never once breaking the kiss, and stretched out half over her, enough to feel him swell against her hip where he covered her.
She tugged the back of his shirt fully out from his pants and ran her fingers over the skin of his back, feeling the ridge of each vertebrae, and suddenly thinking he was too thin. The thought was fleeting, however, as his fingers slipped beneath her small shirt and teased at the curve of her lace covered breast, just his fingertips brushing against her through the lace. She gasped softly, breaking the kiss and arched enough to encourage him to take more of her breast into his hand.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured as he cupped her, the maddening brush of his fingertips now teasing her nipple into life. She moaned softly at the touch, pressing her lips against his neck, before lifting her face to his to capture his mouth once more.
Her fingers teased around the waistband of his jeans, creeping slowly toward his belt again, wanting him free, wanting to cup him in her hand. She wanted the heavy heat of him hard against her palm, and loosened the belt at last, then slipped her fingers in to find him risen and wanting.
He moaned deeply, pushing against her touch and pulled away from the kiss, abandoning her breast to slip both hands beneath her shirt and tug it off over her head as she lifted her shoulders to help him. He took a moment to shrug off his own shirt, and she took the opportunity to unclasp her bra and cast it aside, watching the smoldering hunger kindle in his eyes as he looked on her, uncovered as she was.
He returned to her then, to cup her breast and lift it to his waiting mouth as he leaned over her. She let out a soft cry at the hot, wet sweep of his tongue over her nipple, arched into his touch and squirmed beneath him, rolling her hips against the hardness there, before returning her hand to the fastenings of his jeans, and freeing him from the confines of his clothing.
“God, Belle,” he breathed against her nipple, pulling away from one to give equal attention to the other, while his fingers began a slow and teasing climb between her thighs. She blushed again to know how wet her would find her, how swollen with need - a desire that spread into her belly in a soft, but insistent ache.
**
Light flared inside him the moment her hand closed around his cock. It had been so long, and he wanted, so much, to sink himself inside of her, but even to feel her long, slow caress once she had freed him from his pants left him breathless against where he nipped and teased at her breast. She was beautiful, perfect… and she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
At last, his fingers met the soaked lace of her panties, drawing a moan from him as he thought again of sinking into that wet heat. She pushed against his touch, and not wanting to deny her, he slipped his fingers beneath the lace, to tease between her soft folds.
“Nicholas,” she breathed, arching beneath him. Her hand faltered, but barely, on the glide over his hardness. He turned his hand, just slightly, to circle the swollen bud of her clit with his thumb, as he slowly eased a finger inside of her. She keened quietly and he let out a growl as her walls squeezed against his touch. He withdrew the digit, added another and then stroked more deeply. She bucked beneath him, and he repeated the teasing glide, in and out of her, teasing with his thumb more firmly, then lighter, before withdrawing the touch altogether, to reach for the waistband of her underwear, and her skirt, and tugged both down her legs.
Without her hand surrounding him, he felt bereft, but he could bear it for the promise of what they would share. Before returning to her, he kicked off his jeans and underwear, and she reached for him as he rose over her; she parted her thighs for him, and drew him against her with the press of her heels against the back of his legs.
“Belle,” he murmured.
“I want you,” she answered, moving beneath him to bring the head of his cock closer to where she needed him to be. Then, with a mutual cry, he sank inside of her, the tight clasp of her muscles caressing every inch of him as he took her deeply.
“Fuck,” he breathed, dropping his head to her shoulder, and stilled a moment to allow them both a breath.
When they next moved it was as one. She pushed her hips against him, and he drew back, to claim her again, with slow, deep thrusts. She gave little mewling cries and gasps to answer the breathy moans that escaped him, and her hands were everywhere on him at once. His thrusts became swifter and shallower, his breath as heated as the passion burning in him. He wanted to last.
“Wait… wait…”
She slowed her movements beneath him, reached up to caress his face, draw him down for a soft kiss, and then pushed at his shoulder, without warning, though not violently, but enough to give them momentum to turn, until he found himself beneath her.
**
Belle could sense the passion, and the tension growing in him, because she felt it in herself. Tight, like a piano wire, with sensations coursing through her. She felt a delicious fullness that stoked the fires of her need and filled her with the tingling awareness of sharing herself with him. Each thrust increased the tingling and the tightness that subsumed her as a part of itself. The weight of his body against hers, the heat of his sac press tightly to her behind whenever he pressed close, everything driving her toward that sweet madness; the trembling that began in her grew until, with breathy urgency, he whispered “Wait… wait…” and stilled, pressed tightly against her, and she slowed her own movements, then stopped to reach up and caress him; kiss him.
She wanted control, to lead the dance of passion they shared; she pushed at his shoulder, at the same time lifting one hip to begin the roll that would reverse their positions, lifting herself to allow him to readjust on the pillows.
Then she straddled him, teased him with her wet folds gliding against his cock that pulsed, proud against his lower belly. He moaned, then chuckled.
“Keep that up,” he murmured, “And I’m not gonnae last.”
His accent thickened, and she moaned softly, clasped his hands from where they rested at her hips, supporting her, and linking their fingers, leaned over him, pressing his hands above his head.
Then kissing him deeply, she took him inside of her again, a soft growl in her throat at the depth with which he filled her as she sank down onto him. She barely stilled before she began a slow, rolling, circling wave of movement over him. He raised his shoulders, fighting against her restraining hands, until he could kiss her neck. Hot, open mouthed kisses traversed her throat and the side of her neck, her shoulders, until she couldn’t stand the pleasure of it as it coursed through her to meet deep in her belly with the pleasure from taking Rush to the hilt.
She moved harder and faster over him, in time releasing his hands, wanting to feel them on her body. She leaned her hands on his chest, rose and fell with increasing abandon until they were both of them gasping and panting in time, and a swirling mass of white heat gathered in her core.
“Nicholas,” she moaned.
“Right here, sweetheart,” he gasped in answer, and suddenly sat up beneath her, keeping her close and thrusting up into her as their flesh slapped together. “Oh, God!”
The gathered pleasure burst inside her, taking all of her and breaking her apart with the intensity of it, followed barely a heartbeat after with a second wash of heat as he spilled himself inside of her, then wrapped her tightly in his arms, both of them panting for breath.
She turned her head and pressed her cheek against the front of his shoulder, and he tangled his fingers into her hair, and whispered against the top of her head, “You beautiful, beautiful woman,” and they remained, wrapped up there together, breathing as one as they slowly drifted back to Earth.
Presently he softened inside of her, and lifted her a little to exit her body, though he kept her in his lap.
“Stay,” he said quietly, and she nodded; She didn’t want to leave.
Tenderly, he lay her down, then padded, unselfconsciously naked, to add more fuel to the fire, returning to her with a downy blanket that he snatched from the back of the couch and lay it over them as he gathered her close.
**
Rush breathed out a long, slow sigh as Belle moved closer and rested her head on his shoulder. He tucked the blanket around her more securely, then nuzzled at the top of her head. Never, in many long years had he felt he would be able to let his guard down like this - not again - but with Belle it was almost as though everything in him demanded it.
Without his bidding, his eyes drifted to the mantle, where stood the one picture of Gloria he had managed to rescue from his grief-filled rage. In the photograph she was smiling, and for the first time he felt peace contemplating what had happened, and though he didn’t believe in much beyond the physical limitations of living, he fancied the smile was meant in benediction.
“What was her name?” Belle’s voice softly interrupted his introspection.
He turned his gaze down to find her looking in the same direction he had been, looking at the photograph.
“Gloria,” he said, then with a slight chuckle he voiced the though that had come, unbidden, into his mind. “She woulda liked you.”
Belle shook her head. “She was beautiful.”
“She was,” he agreed softly, and for the first time since her death, he found himself thinking, and speaking of her without bitterness and anger. He was certain being with Belle was something to do with that, and equally as unbidden as the other thought, he found his eyes stinging with tears, but they were tears of wonder - or something close. “And so are you,” he breathed, tightening his arms around her.
“It’s all right,” Belle said, and he frowned down at her in confusion. “She was your wife,” she explained. “Just because we made love, doesn’t mean I expect you to forget all about her, or never speak of her.”
For a moment, overwhelming emotion filled him, attraction and desire for the young woman in his arms deepening to something more, something real
“Oh, Belle,” he whispered, the only way he could voice the feeling.
“Nicholas…”
“Nick,” he corrected, his belly knotting for barely a moment as he gave her concession, permission, to use his shortened name; not since Gloria—
“Nick,” she echoed softly, and then leaned up, her lips finding his, their long, slow kiss freed the knot, and the fear that it might have been a step too far.
When the kiss broke, he reached up to gently cradle her face in his hands, looking deeply into her eyes and seeing the reflection of the lights on the tree sparkling in them. He held her gaze for a long while, several long breaths, before she wriggled at his side to settled down again with her head pillowed on his chest.
“So,” she said, her breath puffing across his sternum as she spoke, “you plan on us staying here all night?”
There was mischief in her voice.
“Why not?” he asked in answer. “We’ve the tree, the fireplace, a soft, warm blanket…”
“Don’t tell me you don’t have a bed,” she teased, leaning up again to give him an exaggerated look of horrified disbelief.
“I have a bed,” he laughed, “Ye wee minx!”
She chuckled with him for a moment more, before settling down again and adding quietly. “And each other.”
“Hmm?” he asked.
“And we have each other,” she repeated, almost too soft for him to hear.
“Aye,” he murmured, holding her more tightly, and kissing the top of her head. “We have each other.”
She caught his eye as soon as she walked into his shop, his head jerking up as soon as the bell over the door rang.
Her name was Belle French and she was in town visiting her parents who owned the flower shop ‘Game of Thorns’ down the street. He had seen her around town a lot as of late; but he never quite had gotten the chance to talk to her since she’d been back, which was odd since they always had conversations that lasted for hours within a day or two of her arriving back into town. Her presence had been a yearly occurrence for nearly a decade, for as long as her parents, the older couple had lived in Storybrooke. Sometimes Belle was in town for as long as three months, sometimes she just stayed a week or two but she was always around during Christmas.
He had first stumbled upon her when he was collecting rent at the flower shop about 8 years ago. She had been covering the counter while her parents were away and he still remembered the day as if it were yesterday. She had been trimming the stems off of a bushel of roses and making a huge bouquet, very intent in her work. He had been absolutely stunning. There was a ray of light shining into the shop, hitting her just right, highlighting her chestnut curls and eyelashes as she intently focused on her work. The moment had been all too surreal, like it was out of a dream or movie of some sort. He hesitated to walk closer, afraid of running the moment. He felt something stir inside him for the first time in a long time that day that would be the bud of almost a decade of on again, off again, pinning and emotional suffering; of the anguish of never quite finding the right words to tell her how he really felt.
They made a bit of a connection that first day as he and she exchanged a handful of words. She didn’t fear him and made him exercise his mind and trip over his words as they spoke. She caught him off guard and twisted his tongue and made him feel like she had the upper hand on him when it was usually him who had the upper hand on everybody else. One thing for sure was that she was a most peculiar woman.
Belle never stayed quite long enough for him to scare her off or to succumb to town gossip. “It’s nice to see you again Mr. Gold!” is always what she would say without fail when she came back into town. Being around her made him feel shy and she almost always caught him off guard, which was a super strange thing for him since usually he considered himself quite the guarded person. There was just something about her that made him stumble and feel quite like a fool.
There had been a number of attempts on his part to appear collected and resolute when talking to her, but always she said or spoke of things that made him take a long pause to think about his next words and even on a few occasions, she made him stutter, which was very unbecoming of him. Belle had a way with her words and a unique way of thinking that he admired. But he would be remiss to not notice that there was always some weird sort of tension and awkwardness between them whenever they spoke or interacted. He could have sworn that she liked trying to get the upper hand on him and for some reason, it didn’t annoy him in the slightest, simply because it was her.
“Miss French. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he said as she walked further into his shop.
“I was just wondering if you wanted to accompany me to the town hall Christmas ball on Sunday?”
“Excuse me?” She'd been back in town about a week, hadn’t spoken to him, hadn’t even waved to him or seen him in the street and now she was here in his show inviting him to a dance when they hadn’t acknowledged each other in 7 months. Was he hearing her correctly? “You’re inviting me to the Christmas dance? You know I never go.”
“Maybe you can go this year. With me,” she added.
“Why?” he asked her cautiously.
“Why not?”
Once again she really had caught him off guard in the most unexpected way. “Very well,” he said without giving the proposal much of a second thought.
“Really!”
“Sure.”
Belle quickly reached out her hand to shake his. “Alright. You can’t go back on your word now, we shook on it. Pick me up at 6 on Sunday.” She turned to leave. “Good to see you again, by the way.”
“You as well, Miss French.” He gave her a bit of a nod and found himself cracking a bit of a smile as she left, immediately feeling panic set in. He was going to be going to a dance with Belle. Why had she chosen him over all the men in Storybrooke, surely there were men more suited to her tastes that she probably had more in common with than him? He never went to the town gatherings, much less dances. What if this was an elaborate joke at his expense? She wouldn’t do that, he told himself, but this was still an odd thing to ask of him. He usually hated these sorts of things.
It was a Tuesday. He still had some time to think about her offer, still some time to back out to spend the evening alone. He didn’t hate Christmas and dances per-say, but a lot of people made a bigger deal about it than they should. Christmas was a fine holiday but all the Christmas movies, songs, the red and green, the oversaturation of it all seemed like a bit too much most of the time. It was a good time for his Pawnshop and Antiques business, he supposed.
This wasn’t a date: he had told himself this Tuesday night, a few hours after her invitation. This wasn’t a date, how could it be? They were just two acquaintances that saw each other every now and then who had nice conversations that he really looked forward to. They were friends of sorts, if he could even call it that. A date would mean that they had feelings for each other. He had admitted to himself years back that he did indeed have feelings for her, but she never gave so much of an indication that she did as well for him.
If he was going to be honest with himself, he didn’t give her really any indication that he liked her as well. She wasn’t even around all year round, she clearly had something to go back to. He remembered years back that once she brought up the fact she had a boyfriend, he wasn't sure if she still had one, but she could. He tried his best to not think of her like that following that occasion. Despite this, he always just seemed a wreck whenever she came into town, he would be fine then his world would completely change in an instant as soon as he laid eyes on her again.
Every instance of them meeting for the first time in awhile was like how he felt the first time he had seen her. There was just something about her presence that just resonated with him and made him want to get to know here better. Getting to know her was a whole other story though. He was constantly choked up around her. And when he did open his mouth, every word and topic just seemed increasingly awkward and unlike him. He remembered their infamous chance meeting at Grannies Dinner 4 years back when he ranted about ketchup for a solid three minutes like the fool in love that he was. He was his own biggest annoyance and knew on Sunday he was going to be the most awkward man alive on the planet. Not that it mattered anyway.
The days ticked on and eventually Friday fell; he still hadn’t seen Belle since the incident, but he did keep an eye out for her when he was around town but he never happened to see her. Friday was the day he was due to collect rent at her parent’s Flower shop, he kept on thinking about what he would say if he saw her there. Something along the lines of, “See you on Sunday,” to confirm that they were indeed still on for Sunday but he had to say it in a way that wouldn’t look too over-eager, but still acknowledged that he was aware that they had a planned outing together.
Game of Thorns was next place to collect on his list and he was dreading and looking forward to the possibility of seeing Belle. She usually was around when he was there to collect rent and this is when they usually chatted. A coincidence, it probably was, but he couldn’t say for sure.
He walked into the small shop and was met with Colette French at the counter. He frowned with disappointment, now this was odd. “Oh, Hello, Mr. Gold.”
“Hello, Mrs. French. I’ve come for the rent.”
“As usual,” Colette said, handing over a wad of cash in a folder that he slipped into his breast pocket.
“Thank you,” Gold said, about to leave.
“Mr. Gold,” Colette prompted, making him falter.
“Yes? What is it?”
“My daughter,” she said. “You are going to take her to the dance on Sunday, is that true? She’s very excited and won’t stop talking about it. Told me to say “hi” for her and that she’s sorry you two couldn’t have a chat today but she’s off with one of those friends of hers shopping for a dress.”
“Ah.” Gold paused, not expecting that.
“It’s just all so strange,” Colette said.
“What do you mean?” He had to keep his defenses up and at least address that last jab from Collette.
“Oh, heavens, I mean nothing by the word ‘strange’, just poor choice of words; it’s just that she hardly talks about wanting to go out with single men nowadays and all the years I’ve lived here I’ve never once seen you go out with anyone…”
“You’ve never seen me go out with someone? Oh, I see That’s actually none of your concern.”
There was an awkwardness in the air, Colette opened her mouth to respond but he just left. So, Belle was telling her parents, or at least her mother that she was going to the dance with him, and that she was excited by it, no less. This was thrilling news, to be sure. He had felt a bit rude about how he responded to Collette French’s comment. That was what usually happened when people made comments about it being strange that people would want to spend time with him, ect. His words are what he used to defend and protect himself but they often hurt him more than they helped him. Being far too quick and curt with no sort of response back is probably how he had managed to shun and separate himself from most of Storybrooke society. Perhaps he’d apologize next time he saw the elder Mrs, French or just slip back some of the rent money. How he spoke to her was exactly why he was hated. It was probably a good thing he couldn't speak with his usually ferocity around Belle.
The day of the ball, Gold could hardly work, usually he spent Sundays crunching numbers for his various enterprises, but he could hardly focus as the time ticked on. Ultimately, he had to call it a day a lot earlier than usual on account if not getting anything done. It would be better to focus on getting ready for the ball anyway. In the days prior, he had gotten his suit cleaned and a small trim at the barbers, all he had to do was decide between the two ties he was thinking of then pick out a complimentary pocket square to complete the look.
He was ready and dressed quite early and was just sitting there in his suit hours before he needed to be.The thought of drinking crossed his mind, but he forwent that idea. The minutes ticked by and soon it was only a half hour until he was due to pickup Belle. He could hardly wait any longer and decided that he would head over early. Hopefully he wouldn’t be such a nervous wreck once he saw her. He had practically been panicking for hours and it was quite unbecoming of him; she shouldn’t see him like that.
Gold arrived at “Game of Thorns’ and the house that was attached to it to find the building quite empty. No lights, no sign of movement. Gold had gone around back to the house and fear crept in his mind once again. What if Colette French were to open the door and was mad at him for the way he spoke to her? He’d have to apologize and then explain to Belle how he had been awful to her mother and l undeserving of her, it's what he should do regardless if the woman opened the door or not. What if Maurice French opened the door and didn’t expect to see him there or know that he was taking his daughter to the ball? The man would probably never forgive him for that. He crossed his fingers as he knocked on the door, hopping not to have to deal with more awkwardness than Belle.
“Just a minute!” he heard Belle’s voice call out to his relief. Her reply was accompanied by a few loud thuds and a sound of clattering. Belle opened the door a few moments later and she looked gorgeous. “Come on in, I’m just finishing my makeup.”
He hesitated at the threshold. “If you don’t mind, I think I rather-”
“Nonsense!” Belle pulled him in. “Nobody else is home anyway, if that’s what you’re worried about. Please sit, it’s far too cold outside and I’ll only be a moment longer.” She disappeared into the next room over. Gold looked around. He had been in this house and room a few times while collecting rent, but he mostly did his collecting in the attached flower shop. It had changed since he had last seen it. He didn’t know whether to keep his eyes transfixed on an object in front of him or to allow himself to look around. He stayed mainly focused at the wall in front of him but started to look around as the minutes ticked on.
Belle had shocked him so much when he met her at the door. She had dressed up considerably, he couldn’t really remember seeing her pull out all the belles and whistles like this, even at the previous dances that he had only seen in passing. She was stunning regularly but now she had on jewelry, a nice rose scented perfume, and the most gorgeous satin green dress that most certainly made him feel things. Once again, she had left him speechless and in awe of her.
Belle had been a little longer than five minutes when she finally came out again. This time she had a shawl on and had finished her makeup. Her lips were candy apple red but looked more delectable than the sweet treat itself. “Sorry, I took a little longer than I expected,” she said a little sheepishly.
Gold was up on his feet in a fraction of a second. “No worries.” He should tell her how beautiful she looks, he thought. “You look stunning,” he said quickly before realizing that the words had left his mouth.
“Oh, thank you. You look quite dashing yourself. It looks like we match too.”
He looked down at his tie and pocket square which complimented her dress and bright red lips and was glad that he had chosen this ensemble. “It appears so.”
Belle let out a little laugh. “It’s good to chat with you again Mr. Gold. How about we finish catching up in the car?”
The ride to the ball couldn’t have felt shorter.
It was a good 15 minutes to the town hall with the roads he took but the two of them were still comfortably chatting in the car 15 minutes after they had parked. Most of the awkwardness had melted away and the two of them had gotten to talk with one another, uninterrupted, awkwardly, longer than they had ever before. It was nice and the conversation flowed smoothly.
“Is there a reason that you decided to go to the ball with me, Belle?” he asked her. It had been the question on his mind, after all.
“Well, I wanted some arm candy to keep me company,” she teased. A false answer.
That was immediately when he became a mess again, stumbling over his words until he finally said they should probably get going and get to the dance. His confidence continued to falter as he felt that all eyes were on them. “Gold and her!? That poor girl,” he heard somebody say. Perhaps it was even what he deserved to hear, but it was something he wouldn’t stand for. He snapped back his head in the direction of the voice but couldn’t tell who it came from as everyone in the vicinity shrunk back in recoil. He was about to open up his mouth and shout at them when he felt Belle’s hand rest on his elbow, pulling him back.
“Don’t mind them. Please, let’s continue on.”
He felt his anger melt right out of his body. “Ok,” he said plainly. He was then introduced to some of Belle’s friends, women around her age and perhaps around his age who he had seen around town but hadn’t really talked to before due to not having any business dealings with him. They were polite, welcoming, and nice to both of them. They stood gathered in a group with them for about an hour before people began to break off and dance or mingle elsewhere. His leg being the way it was made him a clumsy dancer and he had spent the previous week hoping that she wouldn’t actually ask him to dance at the dance but knew the question would probably be unavoidable.
After the conversation with the group had filtered out and only a few of the uncoupled people they were talking to remained, he suggested out loud that Belle take one of them out on the dancefloor so he wouldn’t have to. Despite wanting to stay in her company, she did deserve to have a bit of fun for herself. “Oh, I was hoping to dance with you if that’s something you’re interested in?”
Gold shook his head. “I have two left feet and don’t make a great dance partner,” he said as he tapped his cane on the ground for emphasis.
“Does it hurt you to dance?”
“No.”
“You just don’t want to?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just been quite awhile and I can’t quite move certain ways or as fast as my partner.”
“Oh,” Belle said. “I don’t mind that at all. Would you be willing to try a slower song?”
“I’ll think about it, if the opportunity arises.” Not but one song later, the tempo of the new song signaled her to ask again, He reluctantly agreed to dance with her. She made him give in so easily. They danced to two songs before they retired to an alcove alone.
“That was fun.”
“It was,” Gold agreed. “But I need a bit of a break now.”
“That’s understandable, I’m a bit tired myself.”
They sat looking out at the crowd.
“Thank you,” Gold said.
“What for.”
“I- thank you for your company. I don’t really go to these sorts of things but I had fun tonight.”
“I did too, but the night’s not over.”
“True. But every time I see you, time feels too short. You always leave just when-”
“Just when what?”
“Just when I think you’re going to stay and grow used to your company.”
“I’m leaving the first week of the New Year. There’s still some time left.”
“But I want to get to know you better, have for years,” Gold said. “I-” he paused, fighting through the next few words. “Even though you are only going to be here a bit longer, would you consider going out with me again?”
“On a date?” Belle asked.
“Yes. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take you out on a date.”
“I’d like that very much Mr. Gold. I never thought you’d ask; that’s why i thought I’d be the one to ask you first, here.”
Gold flushed. “Is this a…”
“Well it didn’t have to be.” Belle was equally as red. “But I liked to think it was, and is, if you don’t mind. Each year I hoped you would ask me, but you never did, so it had to be me to ask you now. I- There’s something about you. From the moment I saw you I just couldn’t get over you and I'd like to get to know you better as well. I want to learn more about you and grow used to you if you’ll permit it.”
“I-”
“Merry Christmas,” Belle said, bringing her face closer towards his for a kiss.
It is I, your Santa, so pleased and delighted to present to you your gift:
The Best Things
This has been SO much fun for me. I don’t want to give this away for anyone else, so the prompt will be at the very end note on this story for anyone who’s curious.
That said, instructions and a link are needed. This is a multimedia gift!!
When you get to the chapter indicating you should search out a thing... go here!
Summary: Belle French doesn't fit. No one needs a new friend and the library's funding just dried up. After her genius plan for raising an operating budget for her library fails miserably, Belle finds support from an unlikely source.
***
Anyone with any sense was off the street. Socked in well below freezing for weeks now, the town would have looked deserted if not for the glowing windows. Glowing windows behind which gathered friends, loved-ones, people who wanted to be in each other’s company. People with plans already.
So not Belle.
Snow covered everything and new was falling in the afternoon gloaming of the northern latitude in winter. It would be dark in about thirty minutes and then it would be even colder.
Tears were freezing on Belle’s cheeks above where she had her scarf wrapped around her face.
In thirty minutes, it would get even colder and there was no one around. Graham wasn’t at the station and Belle wasn’t going to call nine-one-one for an emotional emergency. She just wasn’t going to do that.
But she wanted to.
Maybe it was childish, but the slight Australian without the right winter clothes had had just about all she could take. She’d tried, they’d been polite, and she was left alone, without plans.
Infinite realms, similar, yet completely different
Note almost unrelated to the fic: Have you ever get too late to a party that even the after party cleanning is already done?
My gift for @notalwayslate for the Rumbelle Christmas In July 2018.
Prompt: One last time, he whispered
Read on AO3
Rumple
Rumplestiltskin cried thinking of all those times when he made ridiculous plans to do something evil and it never went well. Every time he tried to do something shady it somehow backfired spectacularly. It seemed that not been able to complete the cast of the dark course had created some sort of karma now his plan, the darkest plan ever planned by the dark one would work.
Unless he did the unthinkable, unless he paid the ultimate price to save everyone… he had known the moment he discovered the plan of the dark one that the only one who could stop him would be him. But at his core, he was what he had always been, a coward…
His tears are bitter, and he knows that if he does this he would never see her again, he has failed her again. He can’t do this; he needs her comfort and love, her faith on him. He doesn’t deserve her but he needs her. He needs to see her face, to hear her voice, once more.
He feels drained and empty. As he sees in the dream catcher his memories of the wedding, how beautiful, how utterly perfect she looked, he cries for the time he wasted with her, for the time he could have been happy and was wasted.
He thinks in the words he heard of unknown source, infinite combinations… he heard it somewhere, somehow, he is not sure, was it Henry? Or has his Belle who told him? Maybe it was Gideon in one of his breaks from the academy. He is not sure about it but he remembers some words:
Infinite realms, similar, yet completely different. Like this “Whish Realm” that have turned oh so real, where the curse was never casted. One universe where we exist, one where we don’t. Infinite alternatives.
He sees the dream catcher and an idea comes to him. Those universes connected by the tiniest of threads, but connected nonetheless. He should be able to call them, it could take more magic that he is comfortable with but he has nothing to lose at this point.
He tries to call them, this alternatives, to his dream catcher, those other times he met her and tries to see happiness even if is only a little.
He knows he would do whatever it takes to stop this man, this beast that represents the worst of him, the man he tried to forget he was and the man he could have become without belle, without the memories of her love and her kisses, and he would never saw her again so he want the memory of her smile to give him strength because that’s what she is, his strength.
It’s working, he could feel it, the images are coming…
Tess
She needed to get pregnant or all of this would have been for nothing, Nassedo was dead and now all the responsibility to carry their plan to fruition was in her shoulders. It had been so difficult! Zan, her beloved Zan was in love with a human girl uhgg, that stupid Liz!
But she had been working, time and charms would get her the prize, after all for all that she loved Zan, he didn’t need to love her back to get her pregnant. She just needed one night, or day, one night when his defenses were low enough so feelings from his previous life would resurface and she would be there to comfort her and show him her undying love.
She needed one opportunity and she needed to do everything right when the opportunity present because she was under no illusions that she was going to have more than one try.
That was the reason she was here in this horrible city instead of Roswell, another horrible city in this backward planet, with Zan, looking for the only creature that would help her to fertile the moment when she and Zan got together.
She heard the sounds getting closer and closer, a childish laugh that crossed her back and gave her goosebumps.
-Oh, oh. What do we have here?
A reptilian, one of the last survivors of an ancient race now almost extinct, famous for their knowledge… and their deals. It was rumored they could give you whatever your heart desired… for a price.
Tess stilled herself. She had come to this point and she wasn’t going to go back to Roswell without the means to complete her plan.
-I have come to make a deal.
The image was cut abruptly, the reminder of the other him, the dark one, completely unwelcome. Even if the images make him remember his first encounter with his beautiful Belle. No, this wasn’t what he wanted to see; he wanted to see something else, something better. He concentrated in his wish calling the visions of the times he wanted to see…
Hierophant
It was official. There was a new serial killer in the Heights.
After the roller-coaster that was the investigation about the candy killer almost two years ago Weaver was thinking he would have a little peace and his life would go back to normal after hearings, testifying in court and an endless pile of late reports to catch up. And now he had a new serial killer case in his hands.
Worst was that he didn’t think this was going to be over anytime soon. There was little evidence to go by, the last three months or so there had been six murders, all had been men; some had faced charges of sexual assault. All murdered in the same area in the same way.
Some officers believed it was a woman, Weaver had his doubts, while a woman would fit in the profile, she would have to be quite skilled to get the job done, and while Weaver didn’t want to be sexist but there were more probability it was a man, the father, brother of even the partner of some rape victim if someone asked him, and he decided to answer, which he didn’t think was bloody likely. After all it was best to keep things close to the vest in ongoing investigations and the press would likely distort anything he said.
What Weaver didn’t understand was why so many people praised their efforts, saying that they were cleaning the streets of the scum the police ignored.
But a murder was a murder and also a crime and his job, whether the people believed he was dedicated to it or not, was to purse and arrest criminals.
He had to question the shop keeper of one of the stores nearest to the site of the crime, a small flower shop, with an even smaller shop keeper, not that Weaver had much moral height to make jokes about short people. But the woman was petite, with luscious blonde curls and an easy smile. She had been sad about not been of much help to the police but the day before the store had been close and she hadn’t witness anything. She had been just a little coquettish and in the end Weaver left the flower shop with a little paper with her phone number, in case he needed to question her further, of course.
Without knowing it, Weaver had just met the hierophant killer.
- One last time -he whispered sounding hoarse even for his ears, the sound was defeating, and the stories seemed to not have a happy ending, was that their destiny? To know each other but never be truly happy with each other. No, he needed to see something, to recover the hope that somewhere, somehow, he and Belle where happy, safe and sound.
-Just one more time…-He could feel the magic accepting to his wishes, looking for an image of hope and happiness.
Claire
How much time the ETM were supposed to take to arrive? The lady was having that baby RIGHT NOW! And they need a doctor. They been him, Det. Weaver, and the pregnant lady. She for obvious reasons, and Weaver so they could check out his hand, he was sure the lady (most like a girl she was too fucking young to be having a child of her own) had already broken one or two bones by holding his hand so freaking tight.
Tears were silently falling from her eyes, and her teeth were pressed together trying to withstand the pain the contractions must be causing her. Weaver has sort of an informal expert in pain and none of the things he had braved seemed to hurt as much as she was hurting right now. And he had been shot once! But all of that would be worth it if the girl delivered the baby safe and sound. But for that they needed the fucking ETM! Why were they taking so long?
Funny thing was that even though the ETM came the lady refused to liberate his hand and he ended accompanying her thought the birthing of her baby, who was a little boy, healthy and rosy pink.
After the ETM had checked out his hand and assured him there was nothing wrong with it, he noticed the new mother waving at him and asking him to come to her.
They talked a little bit, she thanking him for his help and apologizing to him for crushing his hand, Weaver dismissed her concerns, telling her it was part of his duties as a detective.
-And may I know the name of my savior? -She asked smiling. Weaver was still a little dazzled from the whole experience that he didn’t notice to obvious sinister intentions behind her questioning.
-Weaver, Aaron Weaver, -In that moment his reasoning came back and he understood her evil plans- No, no way. Don’t even think about it.
Her smile was proof enough to fundament his fears.
That moment he decided that Roger should never learn about this, the Boy Scout would never let him leave this down.
At the end the snap shot of him with Claire and little Aaron, cut from a newspaper, graced his desk at the station.
He smiled, he had missed the birth of his sons, but that moment was, as Belle would say, a new beginning. He thought of Gideon, and the sadness his passing would cause him, but there was no going back, this was to save him, to save everyone of the corrupted version of himself. He would be okay; at the end everyone would be okay.
Rush & Gideon
For Gideon this is unexpected. After going to the Wish Realm to retrieve the body of his father, he had decided to put him to rest in the same place as his mom, in the rose garden by their home in the Edge of the Realms. After that he had to take care of the house, and some other properties his father still owned.
It had been Alice, a nice girl that reminded him a little of his mother, and he could see why his father had been fond of her, she must have been like the daughter his parents never had, that told him about the apartment his father was given by the course in Hyperon Heights, and about the many objects of sentimental value that could still be there.
He opted for going alone, at list this first time, to be there for the first time, with the belongs of the man his father was cursed to be.
Something must have been wrong with the magic bean, because he hadn’t ended in Hyperon Heights, as planned, but in a big room, with many people and a man that looked so much like his father but wasn’t his father. There was no recognition when Gideon called to him and he had thought this a dream, a strange dream, brought by the pain, but he had fainted before he could do something more and had woken up to the most interesting reality.
He was questioned by a mild mannered man in front of a lot of people, who keep asking about a gate, which gate he wasn’t sure, maybe the portal he had used, maybe not.
It had taken him a while to understand; apparently he was on a ship in space, in space of all things! With a man that looked and sounded like his father but wasn’t his father.
But maybe he is, because the second time he met Rush, the man that looks like his father, after his so embarrassing little unplanned nap, in his confusion and amaze he had dropped his things and the travel book his mother so loving filled with photos of their travels, fell to the floor, and one photo, not glued well enough came lose, and him, Rush picked it up.
It was a favorite of his father, the one where he is a baby and his mother looks slightly annoyed and it’s a little blurry. His mother hated the photo, but papa had always loved it. And Gideon thought it was funny.
He examined the photo for some moments before giving it back, and rushing out of the room, his eyes looking the tiniest bit wet.
So Gideon still guards hope in his heart because he understand what this means, that his father is still alive somehow in this doppelgangers of his. Because he must have recognized his mother and he cried because he is separated from her and looking madly for a way back to her. Maybe there are dozens or hundreds of other doppelgangers in other universes, and times and places where his father is still alive and happy somewhere, with his mother, his brother and him.
The pain of his father’s passing, still fresh, became a little less sharp after this discovering. Because maybe, and just maybe, happy beginnings never end.
Feign surprise, Gold told himself as the emcee announced the winning ticket.
“Number 67.”
Quickly he searched through all 100 of his tickets, his fingers pulling out the intended one. Looking around his eyes searched for a place to discard the losing tickets, as the emcee announced again.
“Is there a 67 out there?”
With no other choice, Mr. Gold shoved the copious amount of tickets into his suit pockets, as he walked up to the counter to claim his prize.
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Gold found himself on a blanket having a picnic lunch with the stunning Belle French.
“I must tell you Mr. Gold I was pleasantly surprised when I saw you won. I didn’t even know you bought a ticket.”
“I’m just lucky, I guess,” he shrugged. Luck and the fact that when he had learned that the town librarian was raffling off a picnic lunch date to raise money for the library, he sent Dove with a handful of money, to buy all 100 tickets, and threats of eviction for anyone who told.
“Well thank you, for taking a chance on me. I’ll let you in on a secret, Mr. Gold. You didn’t have to buy a raffle ticket to have lunch with me.”
Grinning like a fool, he bent over to partake in desert when bundles of raffle tickets tumbled out of his pockets. As he moved to grab them, more continued to stream out, his shame and embarrassment on full display.
Closing his eyes, he waited for her mockery, but was startled not with words but the touch of her lips on his cheek. Opening his eyes, his breath hitched as her warm alluring blue eyes looked at him with warmth and understanding.
He smiled, as realization dawned on him, as he took her hand. It appeared that Ms. French was going to take a chance on him, as well.
AO3 link. To save her village from ogres, Belle’s heart powers a shield strong enough to block any danger from entering. However, doing so drains her life energy, leaving her bedridden and weak. ((Merry Rumbelle Christmas in July! This fic is for @notalwayslate using the prompt “Want to feel your heartbeat.” Hope you like it!))
