Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It felt like it had taken her ages, but she had finally done it. Or almost, in any case. She was one paycheck away from the full amount, and she was getting paid in a couple of days. In the nick of time too, considering the state of the library. It had been months since the heavy spring rains had exposed heavy filtrations in the library’s ceiling, located specially along the still-dilapidated clock tower- she had never quite gotten the council approval to have it back to working order- and her life had spiralled into some sort of ever-growing nightmare.

She had thought at first that it was only a matter of getting Regina to approve the use of emergency funds to patch up the ceiling, but that had quickly turned into some sort of pipe dream. The mayor, clearly, had some sort of strange vendetta against the library and would not budge or release even a bit of funds, not even enough for an estimate on the repair costs. When the first spot of damp had appeared in the corner of the fiction section- meaning the spot had originated inside her closet right above it- Belle had paid for the estimate herself, thinking that a more detailed and concrete plan of action regarding the needs of the library would convince Madam Mayor of the urgency before the spot could get any worse.

She had been convinced, alright, but it had not changed her stance on the subject. She had gone as far as to imply that Belle was responsible for the upkeep of the apartment above the library, and when that had failed she had pivoted to argue that the situation did not qualify for the use of the discretionary emergency budget and the best that could be done is include the repair cost in the discussion of the upcoming budget. But that wasn’t due for months, and as the damp spot grew and began to turn black with mould Belle realised she was not going to make it. The damp would surely ruin books, not to mention her own clothing, which she now kept in a corner of her living-room, as far away from the problem as possible. But above all the damp meant rotting walls and rotting foundations, things that could get a building condemned. And Regina, she knew now, would swoop in at the chance of closing up the library. If the damp forced her to temporarily close up she knew she would never reopen.

She had tried to organise some sort of campaign to force the issue, to trigger an emergency budget meeting, but had found almost no support. No one was interested in signing petitions or, even less, in getting involved in any small way, like calling the town council or even sending a letter, not even when Belle offered to write sample letters they could simply sign.

She was surprised, but tried not to take it personally, that people didn’t think keeping the library open was in their best interest. It was just that no one thought for a moment about all they used it for, its value to both the elementary school and the high school, the computer literacy classes for adults, the many local clubs that used the building as a meeting place, the movie collection people relied on in a town with no video rental and a distaste for paying for streaming services. People just hadn’t considered all they would lose if the damp didn’t get fixed, but it did not deter her. There was time to begin building an awareness of the library’s many valuable resources after the problem was solved.

She then resolved to simply save the money. She earned a very decent salary, and had savings as well, so a few months of scraping by would surely get her where she needed to be. That soon turned out to be more problematic when, two months into her scheme, Ruby came to her in tears, begging for money because Granny and her were short on the rent. Ruby’s car, her baby, had needed a bit of upkeep- and, personally, Belle thought it did not hurt that the new mechanic in town, Dorothy, was exactly Ruby’s type- and she had spent the money, thinking things would be tight but not dire. But then their oven had broken down, meaning Granny had found out she had used their emergency funds on her car and that they would have to use part of the rent money to fix the appliance. It was a series of unfortunate events, and Belle could not in good conscience leave the Lucas women on the lurch. Ruby and Granny had been the first people to make her feel welcome in town, after all.

She had considered getting a part time job after that, something temporary that she could do in her spare time, but there always seemed to be one activity or the other that ate up any free time she had. The local animal shelter was always seeking her out to volunteer- and it was difficult to say no to puppies and kittens-, not to mention meetings to organise school activities that involved the library and town events that needed anyone who could donate their time and attention.

A fundraiser was her next idea, something that would peak the people’s interest. It was hard to get anyone to care, or to truly grasp the urgency of the matter. In the end she had managed to organise a bake sale with Mary Margaret, who taught fourth grade at the local elementary school. Half of the proceeds would go towards a school trip to a nearby farm and the rest would go towards the library. It was not much, but it was something.

That had turned out to be a bust, however. Though originally Mary Margaret had promised a couple of the students’ parents and herself would help her bake, but that got downsized to just Mary Margaret and herself and, a couple of days before the event, Belle turned out to be the only baker still standing, Mary Margaret profusely apologising for forgetting that the weekend they had assigned for the baking her husband had planned a little getaway that could not possibly be rearranged. It meant that, come that weekend, Belle had only herself and a few ingredients guiltily donated by the parents who had stepped down to make everything for the sale. Thankfully Granny let her use the diner’s kitchen, along with their supplies, as a thank you for the money she had lent them. It still meant she had spent over 24 hours baking continuously, but she would not have to dip into her own money to buy supplies at least.

Mary Margaret was back in time for the sale itself, and at first Belle had been glad of it. But then, near the end of the event, Mother Superior had arrived to tearfully commiserate with anyone who would listen to her about an unfortunate- and nebulous- situation that meant the convent did not have enough money for the rent and Mr Gold was surely eager to turn them out the moment the month was up. From what Belle gathered later the “unfortunate situation” was months and months of unpaid rent, which had eventually led the pawnbroker to threaten eviction, as it was his legal right.

Mary Margaret, apparently overcome with generosity upon hearing Mother Superior, announced then and there that the proceeds of the bake sale would go to the convent. The children, she said, would understand, and they would have their field day trip later. She did not mention the library till Belle approached her directly. 

“Oh, you don’t mind Belle, do you? We’ll figure something out for the library later.”

She didn’t, provided further help to the library would come, but it never did, and Mary Margaret soon became perpetually too busy to speak with her. So she gritted her teeth and tightened her belt more, urgency bolstering her resolve as she did away with anything that wasn’t a need, including food outside the essentials and, sadly, heating. Thankfully the chimney on her living-room worked, so she got into the habit of taking walks along the forest when she had some free time to collect fallen branches and the like for use as firewood. Sleeping by the side of the fire was definitely less romantic than she had imagined, but it was doable.

But all that was behind her. After her new paycheck she’d be able to expand her eating habits beyond crackers, tea and stretched-thin soup and turn up her dusty thermostat. Go back to sleeping in her bed, and even treat herself to a bottle of medium-priced Cabernet Sauvignon. The possibilities were endless. And, most importantly, she could finally stop waking up each morning with that pit of anxiety that made it difficult to breathe. She would be able to relax, to move forward.

She was so happy she did not care much when she got a call at 2 AM in the morning. Her father didn’t call often but when he did he always forgot that there was a 14 hour difference between Storybrooke and Melbourne. She had given up on reminding him, especially because it was so unusual that he took the initiative to contact her. It felt nice that he decided to call.

Or it would’ve been, if her dad didn’t sound so angry and panicked, making it almost impossible to follow him. It took a lot of patience and a little shouting to get him to somewhat calm down, at least enough to explain himself. And when he did her stomach sank to the floor, discovering a new level of dread she had not previously known existed. He told her about his flower shop doing poorly for the last couple of years, and how he had been trying to cope but had not been keeping up with his payments well, which meant he had gotten behind on the mortgage and now the bank was threatening to take the house. The house where Belle had grown up, where her mother had spent her last days. The house he had chosen to use as collateral to expand his business later on. A house that he considered precious, but apparently not enough to keep it safe.

“It’s all I have left of your mother, buttercup, I can’t lose it.”

She was all that he had left of her mother, and yet he seldom called, and when he did he did not show any interest in her life. There was always usually a request or other attached to his calls, but never something this big.

“I… I have some savings.”

She tried to will the words back into her mouth, but the palpable relief in her father’s tone kept her from backpedalling. And, after all, the notion of never setting foot in her childhood home did not sit well with her.

“I’ll transfer the money first thing tomorrow. Yes, I promise. No, it’s no trouble. Don’t worry about it papa.”

“I knew I could count on you, buttercup.”

The rest of the week she floated around, as if her consciousness was only loosely attached to her body. She was constantly thinking about the damp spot, picturing it in her mind growing bigger and bigger till it swallowed up the library entirely and she with it. She obsessed over the expanding mould, her eyes starting towards its colonised corner with increasing dread. She reconsidered all of her options, thought about anything she might have missed, but she came up blank.

The one thing she did become painfully aware of, even as the rest of the week passed her in a blur of worry, was how little people seemed to notice about her anxiety. To her it felt like she walked around with all her anxiety written across her face, in the shadows beneath her eyes that no amount of concealer could fully cover, in the sallow look of her skin, a product of little sleep and little food, and in the way she was constantly frowning, distress making her twitchy and tense. But no one mentioned anything. Not Mary Margaret when she came to discuss if the library could coordinate summer reading lists for the kids so as to allocate a portion of the budget for purchases towards extra copies of the books in question, not Ruby when Belle stopped by the diner so the waitress could tell her all about he new crush, even after she was forced to fish around her purse for the money to pay for the tea she’d ordered and kept rejecting invites to go out to the Rabbit Hole, muttering about the expense, nor David when she agreed to fill in for the volunteer who helped put away the sacks of food for the dogs, the effort making her more dizzy than it ever had.

She felt… unseen . Like people stared right past her whenever they didn’t need something out of her, or after they had gotten it. But it was unfair, she told herself. Everyone had their own lives to live, their problems to take care of. It was wrong to be mad that people were not coddling her or rushing to her aid, especially when she was so bad at vocalising her distress. She couldn’t expect people to be mind readers. She was an adult, capable of solving her own problems.

And there was, after all, a universal solution to any problem in Storybrooke. A generic ‘break in case of emergency’ failsafe that she hadn’t allowed herself to even consider for the longest time.

Mr Gold.

Anyone who spent any length of time in Storybrooke knew of Mr Gold, the town’s own boogie man and magician, a man with the ability to do anything… for a price. Belle had been warned about him almost as soon as she had moved into the apartment above the library, first by Ruby and her Granny and later, little by little, by everyone else. People had built Mr Gold in her mind to be a veritable beast, some sort of greedy misanthrope who kicked puppies and stole lollipops from babies. A sombre figure dressed entirely in black, speaking in a soft voice with an uncomprehending accent and striking deals like he was the devil himself.

Their first meeting, in that sense, had been a bit of a letdown. Mr Gold was indeed dressed in black, she supposed, and he had an accent, but the black was paired with elegant pops of colour in the burgundy of his shirt and pocket square and his accent was pleasantly Scottish, a burr that Belle found more than a bit charming. And the man himself, past his prickly exterior, was not what people said either. Cultured and funny, with the sort of sharp sense of humour that some might find off putting or even mocking but that she tended to favour.

And he had always been polite to her. A bit biting in his initial dealings, but gentlemanly nevertheless. One of the few people who consistently visited the library, once a month at least and often twice, either taking out research material for his antiques business or works of fiction for recreational purposes, with an interesting penchant for legal thrillers- perhaps to be expected- and also folklore, a combination that said something about him that Belle was still trying to decipher and reconcile with the rest of him.

When he visited the library he made a point of talking to her. Nothing much, a five or ten minute conversation, related to books, that was sometimes the highlight of her day. He was a delightful conversationalist, allowing her to stretch mental muscles that she seldom exercised anywhere else in town. Still, Belle was aware that in reality she knew little of Mr Gold. Despite having a library card she didn’t even know his name, his file reading simply “AU Gold”, which let her know, if nothing else, that he had either very witty parents or unusually cruel ones. Mr Gold remained mostly a stranger to her, a mystery to uncover, but what little she had glimpsed of the man beyond the mask he wore conflicted with the image the town painted of him.

She hadn’t wanted to go to him for help because, in a way, it would completely change the dynamic of their relationship, as shallow and perfunctory as it was. She did not fear making a deal. Mr Gold never took more than agreed upon, and most of the complaints people had with his agreements seemed to stem from not having read or understood the terms. She wasn’t about to make that mistake. 

There was no other bridge to cross, however, no other stone to turn. Mr Gold was her one and only hope. With that in mind she closed the library the slightest bit early on Wednesday night, freshened up a bit to look less like the mess she felt, grabbed the folder with all the documentation she thought she might need and made her way across the street, where the sign for Mr Gold’s shop was still lit from below.

Mr Gold was alone, as she had expected. No one in town went into the shop for anything other than a deal. Belle did not imagine the business did a lot, or any, selling, but the Scotsman still opened it up at 8AM and stayed even beyond closing time at 6PM, leaving usually an hour or two later. Clearly he did something at the shop, beyond staring at the hoard of things he’d amassed and looking at his property portfolio.

Whatever he did wasn’t evident when she walked in. Mr Gold was near his antique cash register, polishing something with careful movements. It was delightfully toasty inside the shop, something Belle had come to greatly appreciate recently, so he was without his jacket, something she had never seen. Her eyes zeroed in on what looked at first like armbands but she quickly recognised as sleeve garters, something she had never seen someone wear outside a period drama. They were clearly aimed at lifting the cuffs of Mr Gold’s shirt slightly away from his wrists to keep the garment clean as he worked on one antique or the other. 

“Good evening, Miss French. What a lovely surprise.”

It didn’t sound like a surprise at all, and looking at him there was no trace of it on his face. Mr Gold looked like he had been expecting her all along.

“Good evening, Mr Gold.” Her mind blanked as to how to conduct the conversation, whether to make small talk or be straightforward. She didn’t know what he would prefer. “It’s lovely in here. I can’t believe I haven’t been inside before.”

She meant it, of course, and judging by how his eyes softened he believed her too. The inside of the pawnshop was dimly lit, which she didn’t think was good for selling trinkets but added to the ambiance in a positive way. The room felt at first glance cluttered and messy, but looking further revealed a cosiness and a certain order to things. Jewellery together along the curios further from the door, antique toys clustered in a corner, silverware in a far cabinet and the like. The initial chaotic impression seemed almost like an invitation to explore, though Belle could not imagine anyone in Storybrooke doing so. Not when the cave of wonders had a dragon.

“You’re too kind. And what brings you here this evening?”

The opening was kindly given, and Belle was grateful for it. She forced herself to relax and take a deep breath, knowing the words she was going to say next could never be unspoken.

“I’m here to make a deal.”

Trying not to rush or to become emotional the librarian presented the bare bones of the situation: the rains, the leaky roof, the damp. How she had gone to Regina for funding and been rejected, her other attempts at raising money and, finally, her decision to do it on her own.

“I was aware of the basics of the situation, yes. But I thought you would have scraped together all the money you needed by now.” He was nonchalant as he spoke, part of his attention still on the antique he was polishing. Belle thought it looked like a Royal Doulton fox. 

“God knows you’ve been starving yourself long enough to have managed it.”

The comment startled her, and she had to fight the natural impulse to touch her face. She had taken pains to reapply her concealer and add a little bit of blush before she had come, to hide her rather unfortunate complexion. Mr Gold, noticing her bewilderment, ghosted a finger near her cheekbones. She blinked, embarrassed to feel her eyes well up with tears. What a nonsensical reaction.

“Your features have sharpened rather noticeably these past few months. A simple observation.”

An observation no one else had made, but she didn’t tell him that. She had the feeling she didn’t need to. Instead she told him, in the vaguest terms possible, about her father’s late night phone call a few days ago, and his predicament. Surprisingly Mr Gold seemed to react angrily at that, muttering something about parents being the ones to look out for their children and not the other way around. Belle felt the need to defend her father, but could not deny that their dynamic had tended towards her taking care of him rather than the opposite, ever since her mother had died and Moe French had been left adrift. She had done it willingly, gladly, but she did not think that would change Mr Gold’s poor opinion of her father at all.

Finally, haltingly, she told him that she could not come up with any other solution. That she feared that if the problem wasn’t fixed they would close down the library, and make it permanent. That the mayor was rather counting on it, for some reason she could not quite understand.

“You’re right about that. Madame Mayor was never too keen on the library, not since she’s gotten bigger ambitions for the town. I, on the other hand, am partial to keeping it open.” He smiled, a gesture that did not reach his eyes, and she got the idea she was meant to see how shallow it was. “It’s good for property values.”

She supposed she was meant to take offence but all Belle could feel at the moment was validated. She wasn’t imagining things, she wasn’t being paranoid or delusional. Regina Mills was actually out to get her, or at least the library, and she had been right to assume she was running against time to find a way to fix the problem herself before she allowed the mayor the opportunity to strike.

He asked for the budget estimates then, reading over the documentation she had brought with the expert eye of someone used to dealing with property issues, finally commenting that it seemed thorough and fairly-priced. Marco always did an excellent job too, which he could guarantee first-hand. And she was also right that, without the repairs being performed quickly, the building would not pass an inspection, and the cost for the fix would increase the longer it took.

“And how much of the money for the repairs do you actually have?”

She took a deep breath. This was the moment of truth.

“None of it. That’s why I’m here. I want to make a deal for the money.”

Belle watched him as he pulled another trinket to polish from beneath the counter, this time an antique pocket watch. His movements were slow, unhurried, his entire posture oozing nonchalance. While some might have thought it degrading or insulting Belle was rather glad for this, it put her at ease somehow.

“It seems rather silly to become indebted to me to repair a public building that the people of this town don’t seem to appreciate. A building that should be maintained with public funds. A little too self-sacrificial for my taste.”

A moue of disdain crossed his face, and the librarian had the notion she was meant to see it. Mr Gold was a consummate performer when he negotiated a deal, always knowing what part to play to get things to go his way.

“People here depend on the library, they just don’t realise how important it is for the town. It’s my responsibility to keep it open. Besides-” she paused, trying to get a hold of herself, feeling like she was getting too emotional-”I’m doing this for me too. I like the library. And the town. I don’t wish to move.”

As much as she felt a bit let down by her friends and other residents, Belle really did like Storybrooke. She had fought hard the last few years to make it her home. She didn’t wish to leave Ruby, or Granny, or the children from the elementary school who visited often for school projects or for reading time. Or even Leroy, who came to the library sporadically to use the computer and sometimes just for some peace and quiet while he nursed a hangover.

Or even Mr Gold, whose conversations were so fun, though perhaps the deal would change things between them. Looking at him she could almost tell he had softened somehow, though she could not be sure. The man had an amazing poker face, managing to look both completely uninterested in what she was saying but also like he had not missed a word of it.

“Can you help me?”

It wasn’t a matter of whether he could, but whether he wanted to. Still, Belle thought phrasing it in such a way would work against her. For what it felt like forever silence stretched across them, flooding every inch of the room. The librarian forced herself to breathe evenly and wait, let Mr Gold make the first move. And then he did, taking out a notebook and a pencil and detailing sums as he explained to her that the town had discretionary funds for situations like hers, different from the emergency money under Regina’s direct control, and he happened to be one of three town council members in charge of their administration. He could easily get Midas on board to approve the release of the funds for the repairs if he agreed to donate the rest of the money. Midas always liked avoiding bigger expenses in the future and he went with whatever made financial sense. That would leave Albert Spencer, Regina’s lapdog, outvoted. It would all be quick, and work could start therefore as early as next week, if she so wished.

He said all so nonchalant, as if he wasn’t pulling what felt to Belle like a miracle. It was the first time in a long time that she felt the problem could be solved, that there was a solution in reach. The only thing that remained unknown was the price, but she could not imagine anything Mr Gold could ask that she wouldn’t part with gladly.

“What do you want in exchange?” She paused, wondering whether she should offer a few suggestions, let him know what she had that could potentially be worth it. “I-I could pay you back. We could set up a payment plan, with interest rates and-”

“I don’t want your money, Miss French. I have no need for it.”

Dread curled in her stomach, either because she was afraid she had nothing else to offer him or because he was prepared to ask for something else, something that would give her pause.

“So what do you want?”

He paused, leaning slightly over the counter and finally looking at her in the eyes.

“I want your time, Miss French. Any you can spare, whenever you’re not working. For whatever I may need you for. At the shop, during a trip, in my house.”

“Like… like a caretaker? Or a maid? Or a secretary?”

“Something like that. I want your time, for you to be available to me whenever I have need of you, as long as it’s reasonable, of course.”

She knew what Ruby would say. She would paint the situation as sordid, with Mr Gold implying all manner of nefarious deeds that he would have her do. Belle didn’t know whether that would be entirely wrong either. She barely knew Mr Gold, after all, outside their sporadic and brief chats at the library, and his reputation was dark enough to give credence to the less charitable interpretation of his meaning. Still, Belle could not quite convince herself of the worst. And it wasn’t like it mattered. She had no other choice. This was her last chance.

“The library… it would be repaired entirely? No shortcuts or work half-done? Would it be brought entirely up to code?”

“You have my word.”

“Then you have mine.”

Chapter Text

At first Belle thought it was a power move, to have her about. The first time he called she was very apprehensive, but nowhere near regretting her deal with Mr Gold. Marco and his crew had been to the library just the day before, taking measurements and making a more thorough assessment of the work needed, going as far as to check the work done on the roof, determined not only to fix the damage the water had made on the building but to also ensure it would not happen again. He seemed to hold little esteem for the people the town had hired to do the original patching on the roof, but was too polite to say something about it. He had even gone above and beyond and done a general assessment of the building itself, commenting on the poor-quality glass installed on the windows of her apartment, letting her know it would be wise to replace them as soon as possible, as he doubted they would resist many more Maine storms in the state they were. 

Mr Gold had delivered on his promise almost at once, so Belle felt a bit glad to finally be able to start paying him back. The first time he called her it was to his shop after hours. She clocked out promptly at six PM, which she usually did not do, preferring to organise some section or do some minor cleaning until right before dinner time, and went across the street towards the pawnshop. The inside was dimly lit, contrasting with the well-lit street outside and to Belle it felt a bit like stepping into a cave of wonders. She hadn’t been flattering Mr Gold when she complimented him on his shop. The place was fascinating, full of character and hidden gems, secrets to be discovered. The way the curios created a labyrinth, the clutter accentuated by the busy yet elegant pattern wallpaper, the myriad of old pieces of furniture that overflowed with items at the top, it all had its charm. Then there was the fact that no item that she could see was ordinary. Everything was antique or unusual, belonging to some sort of bygone era that made them foreign yet recognisable.

She told herself not to look, but it was so difficult. Everything seemed to catch her eye, from the dusty books on the shelves to the sparkles of the pieces of jewellery strewn about. But the most intriguing thing was the man standing beside the cash register. Mr Gold looked composed, almost indifferent to her presence yet acutely aware of it at the same time. He was dressed sharply, as always, but once more without his suit jacket, his shirt cuffs pulled back from his wrist by the golden sleeve garters he wore. He was very much like his shop, familiar and yet someone out of time, beyond the normalcy she knew.

After exchanging basic pleasantries he instructed her to take a seat on a nearby desk. It contained the only 21st century piece of technology: a sleek, shiny laptop.

“I need to do some work to get a couple of candelabras I’ve sold up to snuff before they’re delivered, and I don’t have the time to catch up on some basic paperwork. I wish for you to update the inventory. But please make a pot of tea first, you’ll find everything you need in the back room.”

His tone was not unkind, but it did not invite chatter and there was an air of authority in it that Belle noticed right away. She made her way to the back room of the shop, noticing that it was too littered with stuff, noticeably either broken pieces or things that had not been polished or cleaned yet. There was a small kitchenette in a corner, where she found small boxes of loose-leaf tea, meticulously labelled, a complete tea set and an electric kettle, along with sugar, honey and a small carton of milk in the nearby mini-fridge. 

Determined to give him his money’s worth and prove her usefulness Belle set out to prepare the tea, finding a darjeeling that smelled ripe and fruity that she liked, taking care to warm the pot before putting the tea in and pouring the water. She found a lovely wooden tray big enough and piled on the honey, sugar, the milk in its little pitcher, a saucer, cup and silver spoon, along with the full pot, mindful Mr Gold would likely want more than one cup. When she brought it over, rather proud of how good it all looked- the tea set was rather lovely, bone china with a delicate blue and gold pattern- he barely glanced at it.

“Pour me a cup, please.”

The please seemed rather perfunctory, perhaps, but the librarian didn’t mind. She prepared the cup carefully, put a spoonful of sugar when he asked for it and held it out to him. Belatedly she remembered that she hadn’t offered him milk, and hurriedly did so.

“I prefer the blood of newborns, but milk is fine.”

The comment startled her into dropping the cup, her nerves finally getting the best of her. He frowned, for the first time showing an emotion that wasn’t mild interest, and clarified:

“It was a quip. Not serious.”

She knew that. Even if she thought the worst of Mr Gold, which she didn’t, she would not have assumed anything that shocking or garish to be true. It had simply caught her by surprise. Her grip on the cup loosened, sending it crashing to the floor. Panic immediately flooded her. The cup was clearly expensive and, as far as she had been able to tell, the tea set had been complete and intact a second ago. She picked it up, happy to see that it hadn’t shattered to pieces, but anxious about the sizable chip it had on a side. This would certainly draw Mr Gold’s anger. The man clearly had a passion for antiques, and even if half of the town rumours about his temper turned out to be false, it still didn’t look good for her.

“It’s-it’s chipped.” She paused, licking her lips and looking at it. “I mean… You can hardly see it.”

She didn’t know why she said that, given the size of the missing chip, but Mr Gold merely shrugged, unperturbed. 

“It’s just a cup.” He went back to his work, instructing her to simply get another cup.

“Two, if you please. I do not like to drink tea alone if I have company. And bring some biscuits. They’re in the red tin next to the stove.”

Belle was too relieved to question his insistence on her taking tea. Besides the tea did smell rather lovely, and it had been ages since she had allowed herself the luxury of good honey. She brought back the two cups requested, along with the shortbread cookies she had found and served them both, trying to commit Mr Gold’s preferences when it came to tea to memory. Then she settled down to do the data entry he requested, enjoying the couple of cookies she had taken for herself, the salty-buttery taste of the shortbread complimenting the fruity flavour of the tea. 

It was, she had to admit, less eventful than what she thought it would be. A bit awkward, with all the silence, but otherwise rather enjoyable. Data entry was something Belle could do with barely any need to concentrate, so she had been able to focus on the tea and the biscuits, on enjoying the warmth inside the shop and the cosiness of it.

The next few times were spent much in the same way, and Belle soon grew less anxious about the encounters and more bored with the stifling silence. Besides that she would actually say she enjoyed her time at the shop. Mr Gold would always have her prepare tea or heat up whatever lunch he had for the day, and there was always plenty to go around and an offhand comment for her to eat too, which more than suited Belle. Between tasks she’d be able to roam around the shop and explore and whenever she did have to do something, it was never too tasking, or unseemly. File some papers, do some data entry, ready an antique that was about to be shipped the way Mr Gold had shown her. She didn’t think any of it was worth the favour Mr Gold had done her in return, but she theorised it was perhaps a power thing, to have her about and give orders to. 

Once she moved past her initial apprehension Belle felt determined to make conversation with the pawnbroker, which she knew from their previous encounters at the library was possible. Mr Gold, either on purpose or being true to his nature, responded first with monosyllables, but she would not give up, recalling the books he had taken out previously and enquiring about them, cajoling longer and longer responses from the pawnbroker till he felt compelled to ask her things in return, even if it was only to give himself a break from talking.

Once the conversation started flowing it was pleasant. More than. Mr Gold was witty, with a biting sense of humour that sometimes ran towards the macabre, but that was something they both had in common. He was also well-read, beyond just the books he had favoured in visits to the library, and rather well-travelled. They found they had a lot in common as expats adapting to American culture, and shared a love for history, theatre and period dramas. The more she talked with Mr Gold the more layers of him she uncovered, bits and pieces of the man behind the mask. None of it was personal at all, mostly superficial stuff, but still, Belle began to feel like she was the person in Storybrooke that knew Mr Gold best.

The first weekend he summoned her to his home the nervousness returned tenfold. It wasn’t just the change of venue but also the intimacy of it. What would he have her do in his home? She knew what Ruby would say and it was almost absurd, but the anxiety still lingered. The icy walk towards the edge of town, where Mr Gold lived seemed daunting, and even the eccentric colour scheme of the pawnbroker’s house could not shift her mood. Inside the house was warm, though, and beautiful to behold, a truly well-preserved Queen Anne with gorgeous ceilings, expensive Persian rugs and all sorts of interesting antiques that made it a natural extension of Mr Gold’s shop.

Once Mr Gold had helped her take off her coat, scarf and gloves- the later were dreadfully threadbare, but she did not have the money for a good quality replacement and she didn’t want to spend money on cheap gloves that would barely last her the winter- he directed her to the kitchen, which was a lovely combination of old and new, with ultra-modern appliances designed to fit into the decor instead of standing out like metallic eyesores. She saw that, on the counter, there were a myriad of supplies, including flour, fresh blueberries and sugar.

“What you do you want me to do, Mr Gold?”

He looked at her, a bit puzzled.

“I thought it rather obvious. I want you to bake. I greatly enjoyed the bakesale you organised, though in retrospect, knowing where the money ended up in, I regret purchasing so much. As I have understood you did all the baking.” 

Belle did recall Mr Gold purchasing a lot of stuff, including several of her blueberry muffins, a special family recipe. Given what she now knew about his eating habits and what she had known for a while about his extreme dislike for the nuns- she sort of understood that one, after Mother Superior’s manipulative appropriation of the funds she had raised for the library- none of what he said surprised her and she gladly set out to bake. It was a vastly different experience from the rushed, anxious baking she had to do for the doomed sale. Mr Gold’s kitchen was bright and airy, with a lovely view of the backyard from the many windows that let sunlight in. She was also not pressed for time and did not have to make dozens of treats, so she could take her time with the muffins, making sure they came out perfect. Baking was something that reminded her of her mother, who had taught her when Belle was younger and Colette had yet to get sick. 

At some point the faint sound of music- something by Clara Schumann, one of her piano concertos- reached her ears, adding to the pleasant feeling and also to her growing knowledge of Mr Gold. Soon enough the kitchen was full of the pleasant aroma of freshly-baked and cooling muffins, and she set out to make tea unprompted, knowing by then Mr Gold’s afternoon-time habits, deciding to serve it in the kitchen. The dining-room felt too cavernous.

When she called the man for tea, knocking on his study before entering, she was a bit happy to see she had surprised him, but he followed her easily enough, not even protesting at being made to take tea on the kitchen island, though he did inquire about the location.

“The dining-room looks fit for a state dinner. This is cosier.”

She enjoyed one of her muffins, but did not expect the rest to appear on their shop tea rotation the next week, thinking Mr Gold might want to keep them all to himself. It soon became a routine for her to go to his house on weekends, sometimes one day and sometimes both, to bake or simply hang around waiting for deliveries that he ‘could not be bothered with’. To Belle it meant lounging around gorgeous rooms full of amazing antiques and perusing Mr Gold’s collection of not-quite-collectible-but-still–very-old books, finding a treasure trove of interesting books about botany, a subject she had previously not known Mr Gold to favour. He also seemed to collect old cookbooks, some which looked rather well-worn, ranging from delicate French cuisine to more peasant fare dishes and Victorian cooking staples. There was always something in the fridge to warm up for lunch, and something yummy for tea, which meant Belle ate better those days than during the rest of the week.

It was a bit of a holiday, it felt like. When she stayed home invariably someone always seemed to come knocking in need of her time, either David with some emergency at the animal shelter or Leroy needing someone to help him with some convent initiative he- for some reason he refused to tell her- signed up for even though he lacked the skills or time for it.

But no one was looking for her at Mr Gold’s. She could relax knowing the sound of the doorbell did not bring with it some desperate friend in need of her time and attention. It did not mean people did not pester her for her time during weekdays, which left her having to improvise excuse after excuse, but though she didn’t like lying, what she had always found difficult about saying no to people was the feeling of guilt afterwards. She did not feel that now, with her time conveniently taken up by her deal with Mr Gold.

She began to be happy about the arrangement for something other than the visible improvements being done to the library, even though friends and acquaintances were growing a bit frosty with her, recriminating her for her lack of help, acting a like they were entitled to her time and leaving her wondering whether she had ever said no to people before.

She must have, surely, though she could not recall a specific example.

“What’s your first name?”

The question came out of nowhere, but once she said it she could not take it back. She was in Mr Gold’s shop, taking a pause from the task he had given her to drink her tea. It was ghastly outside, rainy and windy, and even the short walk between the library and the pawnshop had ruined her pristine appearance. Her hair, frizzy from the humidity, did not seem to want to cooperate with her and settled tucked behind her ears, which was irking her.

“My own business.”

The Scotsman’s response was caustic, but Belle had grown used to his dry tone. He was all bark and no bite when he was like that.

“I promise not to tell anyone.”

“Not knowing it will help you keep that promise.”

She could not help the unbecoming snort of laughter at that, but she had grown comfortable enough around the pawnbroker not to care about it. Instead she attempted to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear yet again, frustrated by how it refused to stay out of her face.

“What harm could there possibly be? This is not some folk tale where giving your name to the fairies has consequences or something.”

“You do look a bit fae-like. Bright eyes, delicate features.”

The unexpected compliment, in the midst of their banter, made her blush and look down, her hands grabbing the inkpot he had left for her, along with the pen he had instructed her to refill with ink. She delicately unscrewed the Montblanc, making sure the cartridge was empty and the spring lowered down before she dipped it into the pot, rotating the tip of the cartridge to fill it up. Her unruly lock of hair chose that moment to leave its perch behind her ear, flopping almost straight into the ink. 

“Careful there.”

She hadn’t heard Mr Gold get closer, but suddenly he was right next to her, carefully lifting up the unruly lock of hair and fixing it in place with something he placed on her hair. Belle touched the thing carefully, feeling something that felt like small stones or maybe pearls. It was a barrette. She removed it, noticing it was a beautiful piece, with small stones that seemed like diamonds and perfect little pearls, making up flowers and leaves. The style was very Art Nouveau, soft and romantic. Which meant it was likely very expensive, and her first instinct was to give it back. Or try to.

“Oh, Mr Gold, you shouldn’t bother. I can’t accept it, what if I break it or something? Like your cup?”

“It’s a trivial little trinket I’ve had lying around for ages. And it keeps me from fearing that lock might find its way into my tea later.”

“Nothing in this shop is a trinket. Take it back.”

She held out the barrette again, frustrated when her hair decided to do her dirty and obscure her face again. Mr Gold rolled his eyes, studying her to gauge how determined she was about the topic before his gaze turned predatory and a dealer’s smile began to inch its way across his face.

“I’ll make you a deal, Miss French.” He paused, perhaps for effect, and Belle had to tell herself not to focus on the way his voice turned into a soft, beguiling purr when he was proposing a deal. Something to unsettle his potential victim, she supposed, and it did unsettle her, but not in the way she thought he intended. “I’ll give you my name if you accept the hair clip.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to think about the catch. This deal did not seem to benefit Mr Gold at all, except the pawnbroker never made a deal he did not stand to gain from, so there had to be something there that she wasn’t seeing. Nothing materialised, but she did not spot a hidden trap either. She may not know why Mr Gold wanted her to have both the barrette and his name, but she would benefit anyway.

“Deal.”

Carefully, trying to make her frizzy hair look artfully teased instead, she combed through it before placing the barrette to both secure the hair and the style she had put it into.

“There, done. Now you.”

“My name’s Alexander Uilleam. A constant reminder of my dead father.”

“That was also his name?”

“No. He hated me.”

Belle did not have to ask what he meant by that. After all, she had always half-jokingly thought so. And it did not necessarily come as a shock that a man as abrasive and prickly as Mr Gold had not had a happy or easy childhood. She could tell that the reveal had left him a bit discomfited, vulnerable, so she thought to put him at ease.

“Alexander is a lovely name. Elegant. It suits you.” She paused, glad when she caught a hint of a pleased smile on the edge of his lips. “May I use it, when it’s just us?”

“If you must.”

It didn’t take long for Belle to realise her deal with Mr Gold- Alexander - was not about power. If anything, he strived to be discreet when it came to their arrangement, never requiring anything of her that would expose their interactions to the judgemental people of Storybrooke. So she began to theorise that Mr Gold was lonely, which is why he kept her around. He tried to pretend otherwise, sometimes ignoring her and other times acting like her attempts at conversing with him or her mere presence was an annoyance he bravely chose to bear, but it was a poor act, at least now that she could read him better.

Her theory seemed to confirm itself when he began to take her to auctions and estate sales. She had known before that Mr Gold sometimes made those trips- people tended to make a big deal out of him being out of Storybrooke and, therefore, not able to pop out of nowhere to ask for people’s rents or whatever else they thought he did- but she had never given it much thought until he had told her she would accompany him to an event in Lewiston, some sort of estate sale. He would take her of the clothing, since this was a business event and so it was his responsibility to provide her with appropriate attire, and gave her the details for a Bergdorf account, telling her to order whatever she pleased. Her polite but immediate refusal was met with an offhand comment about how their deal was for her time, and he could not take her to the auction unless she purchased suitable clothing. Therefore, her refusal to buy clothes would be a breach of contract.

Belle’s sense of wounded pride at the notion that she was lacking quality clothes to wear to a special occasion was somehow lessened by the fact that she had lost a good part of her wardrobe to the damp and rot inside her closet, and the fact that she had sold some of her best shoes and dresses just a few weeks before she had made her deal with Mr Gold, needing that extra bit of cash to push her over what she thought at the time was the finishing line of her funds for the library, before they had mostly gone to her father. She had been able to afford some of her more expensive pieces by restoring antique books in her spare time, but she didn’t have any at the moment, hadn’t had for a while. Her wardrobe was severely limited at the moment, and Mr Gold was so blindingly rich he probably wouldn’t notice the change in his bank account even if she bought half the clothing her size on the website.

“Just the one outfit.”

“And a coat, don’t forget.”

She ended up buying a Givenchy powder-blue knit mini-dress, which she could pair with a plum-coloured cardigan and black booties she already had, and after much fighting she added a Burbery cashmere trench coat, something that she could get a lot of use out of without ever looking out of place. A few days later he had called her over to his shop to hand her the packages, without a hint of reproach in his face at the expense of it all.

“I forgot to ask you to add gloves, so I took the liberty to order a pair for you. I apologise for the presumption.”

The dress fit like a dream, and the coat was incredibly warm. But the gloves were her favourite part: exactly to her taste, a pair of woven leather and cashmere gloves that fit her hands perfectly and were soft like butter. But above all, they let her know that Mr Gold had cared about her comfort and took the time to ensure she would be warm while on their outing.

The outing itself was more fun than she had expected. The ride was amenable enough, with Belle in charge of the thermos of tea and the conversation and Mr Gold in the mood to be conversational. He clearly had a passion for antiques and did not mind indulging her curiosity on the subject, coming across both as knowledgeable and engaging. As for the event itself, Belle never quite understood what the point was of her being there. Her only expertise were books, and she did feel rather proud when she could point out a few neglected but salvageable first and second editions amongst the things sold from the library of the estate. He didn’t seem to mind, though, seeming to need her only for chatter while he perused everything with a calculated eye, sometimes pausing over a particular lamp or a certain piece of furniture.

Once they had made two full tours of the place- with Mr Gold perhaps leaning a bit on her, to hide his more pronounced limp, given the amount of walking they had done-he seemed to have made up his mind, quickly arranging the purchase of two lamps, a clock and three Bohemian crystal pieces, a decanter, a jar and a vase. It was a thing of beauty to watch him haggle, inscrutable as he pointed out a flaw or minor cosmetic detail and argued about the sellability of some of the pieces in the market. In the end he got exactly what he wanted at a good price, judging from the satisfied turn of his lips, and he was even kind enough to invite her to a late tea in a charming little cottage-style inn on the road back to Storybrooke.

There was no mistaking her enthusiasm when he brought up another trip, this time to an auction, and she did not even put up much of a fuss when he insisted she get herself a new outfit. She would find a way to return the clothes to Mr Gold once their deal was done and he could not stop her, and in the meantime she had come to have a better grasp of his fortune, which was bigger than what she had previously imagined. He truly did mean it when he said her purchases were of little consequence to him. Soon she had amassed a modest array of dresses, blouses, skirts and a few accessories, which she tried to expand with a few tasteful pieces from her own wardrobe. It was the sort of clothing she has always dreamed of wearing every day but had never had the funds for. And her guilt at spending Alexander’s money lessened by the obvious pleasure in his face every time he saw her in a new outfit, especially when she made subtle efforts to match him. A few times he would present her with a scarf or a similar accessory, saying something about the weather or some other excuse in an offhand manner, knowing she did not believe him but would not comment on it. It was sweet, and his taste was impeccable.

And though dressing up was fun, and the antiques were fascinating, it was Alexander that made each trip worthwhile. He was a great companion, more than eager to share his knowledge and explain his decisions as they both studied each item on display. He would defer to her when it came to books, and she was happy when he made a few purchases explicitly because she had recommended them.

Once or twice he took her to gallery openings in Portland or formal dinner events, where obviously the underlying purpose was to network and socialise. She had been hesitant at first about looking for dresses, till she finally managed to snag a four thousand dollar Marchesa crepe gown in deep red at under half the price. She had told him so the next day, over the moon about the steal.

“But was that the dress you liked best?”

“It was for that price.”

The night in question, when she had shown up to the pawnshop with her hair artfully teased and swept up and her make-up impeccable, he had a box from Louboutin in his hands.

“What is this?”

“Well, you did save all that money with the dress, so I needed something to do with the leftovers.”

The shoes inside were stupidly gorgeous, shimmery strass fabric pumps with a 4-inch heel, more than easy for her to manage. 

“This is not what I was hoping for when I bought the dress, you know.”

“No, you were hoping to get one over me. I hope you realise there is no doing that, Miss French.”

“Belle, please. I can’t have you buying me shoes and not using my given name, at least.”

Had she known Alexander less she would’ve thought this was a way to flex his power over her once more, but now she saw it as a kindness from a person unused to expressing positive feelings to other people. That night had been particularly pleasant. He required her to only look good and contribute to the conversation when appropriate, and they both delighted in people-watching whenever he did not need to socialise. Belle even got him to dance, just a little, even if he had to lean rather heavily on her. When he had driven her back to her home, the Cadillac barely gaining on the dawning morning sun, she had felt almost unwilling to leave.

“You know, you don’t have to get me things for me to enjoy spending time with you.”

“I don’t? That’s not usually my experience.”

In an act of what she would later categorise as temporary madness she reached over to kiss his cheek. He was warm, and smelt still of his sandalwood cologne.

“I mean it. I rather like spending time with you. More than with anyone else, really.”

Something, she wasn’t sure what, had changed between them after that innocent little kiss. On the one hand Alexander himself seemed… softer, more at ease, less likely to dodge personal questions using quips or non-answers. She found herself opening up to him about her mother, who had died when she was very young, and how that had conditioned her, she supposed, to hide her troubles.

“She was sick for so long that I didn’t want her or dad to worry about me. It was easy to push things aside and try to find ways to help. Mom would always know, though, when something was wrong with me. She wasn’t fooled, and wasn’t deterred. She would often tell me she was my mom and it was her job to worry over me and not mine to worry over her.”

“A rather exemplary mother, then. I’m glad.”

They were having tea, both deciding at the same time to abandon their respective tasks, given the late hour. They were sharing the last scone between them, huddled together near the radiator in the back of the shop. The weather had turned frightful, and it was forecasted to continue so.

“But when she died… dad was left alone. And he didn’t have mom’s sixth sense for these sorts of things, he was rather helpless. I enjoyed being useful, finding ways to contribute. I didn’t expect that to create a- a rift of sorts. I love him and I know he loves me but… I don’t think he knows me very much, or how to interact with me. And I don’t know how to interact with him on a more real basis. Tell him when something is bothering me or I have a problem.”

Alexander, Belle had quickly surmised, had an abysmal opinion of her father. She had also assumed correctly that his own had not been great either.

“It’s a father’s responsibility to care for their child. There’s no excuse for shirking parental responsibilities.”

“Is this about your own father?”

He had talked briefly about his childhood, mostly about the two old women who had brought him up till they had died when he had been around fourteen, and had only mentioned his mother had died in childbirth.

“No, but he certainly wasn’t father of the year. Would make your own look downright decent.” He paused, pouring himself another cup of tea slowly, as if trying to make time. “I had a son. He was the world to me. I cannot imagine a parent, any parent, not being willing to do whatever it took to ensure their child’s happiness.”

In spite of the myriad of rumours going around Storybrooke about Mr Gold, many centred around his past before he came to town, Belle had never heard any about a child.

“You have a son?”

“Had. Balfour. A lovely boy, bright and full of life. His mother left us soon after he was born, but I made sure he never once felt her absence.” Alexander’s voice sounded soft and affectionate, his accent more pronounced as he told the story. “He was full of plans. Wanted to be an architect, a lawyer, and a doctor. Like kids often do. I worked hard so he would have the choice to be whoever he wanted, to be the supportive father I had always wanted my own da to be.” He paused, hands tightening around the repaired cup he favoured- why he insisted on using the one she chipped she had no idea- to the point she feared he might shatter the delicate china and hurt himself. “But it didn’t matter in the end. There was a car accident- a driver fell asleep at the wheel, I was told. He didn’t make it, and neither did Bae. I got out of it intact. Well, mostly.”

She didn’t have to ask him to clarify with the way he glanced at his ever-present cane, propped up right next to his chair.

“Did it happen here, in Storybrooke?”

Surely not. Belle could not imagine people would hate the pawnbroker so unabashedly if they knew what had happened to him.

“Yes. Less than a year after we moved in. Bae is buried on the edge of the local cemetery. He wasn’t baptised and Mother Superior pitched a fit at the notion that he would be buried on consecrated ground. So I bought the land right next to the cemetery, and made it look like it was part of it. Commissioned a bench so I could sit with him from time to time, but it got harder and harder to do so over time.”

It was no wonder there was an all-out war between the convent and the pawnbroker. Belle was rather amazed the Scotsman hadn’t evicted them ages ago.

“Would you like to go there sometime?”

Alexander looked up at her, surprised, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that he did not need to visit the grave alone.

“I couldn’t possibly use our arrangement in that way. It would be too much of an imposition.”

“It would be outside the boundaries of our arrangement. Of my own free will.”

“Why?”

Had Belle now known Alexander better she would’ve been tempted to find the question insulting. But to the pawnbroker the idea that someone would do anything for him without getting something in return seemed an impossibility.

“Because I want to.”

He did not press her, but smiled sadly into his cup, determined to avoid eye contact, likely feeling rather vulnerable and raw.

“You’re too good a person. I’ve always thought so.”

He let the subject drop after, pointedly beginning to muse out loud about the upcoming weather, a clear message for her to move along.

She didn’t bring it up afterwards, and neither did he, but something seemed to loosen up about him, some invincible barrier he had struggled hard to maintain between them dissolving into nothing. He no longer felt the need to pretend he didn’t like it when she interrupted his work with a cup of tea, chiding him about his long hours, or pretend he did not buy strawberry jam for their scones because she preferred it to the blackberry one he usually kept.

Other things changed. She no longer waited for a summons, sometimes stopping by his shop simply to avoid having lunch alone or to share something she had recently baked- she seemed to have a lot of spare time now that people seemed to have stopped asking her to do things for them, and she felt a bit bad that she was rather enjoying it. He never turned her away or commented on her unexpected presence, and Belle theorised he was scared she would stop doing it. Alexander was a man used to loneliness, but he clearly craved social contact. And physical touch, which had rather surprised her. She was a very tactile person herself, but she had tried to refrain herself from touching the pawnbroker too much at first, convinced she was imposing herself on him, only for it soon to become clear to her that he welcomed the touch. It was easy to see in the way he seemed to subconsciously lean on it, sometimes chasing her hand as it retreated. 

When she realised he was not adverse to her touch but rather the opposite she increased it, determined to bring some much-needed human contact back into Alexander’s life. She grew used to walking but his side leaning slightly against him, arms linked together, noticing he leaned right back, or to linger when she touched him to get his attention. With time she even grew comfortable straightening his tie and setting his hair to rights when the wind made a mess of his veritable mane. She enjoyed it too, the growing bits of intimacy that made her feel nervous in a way she hadn’t in years. 

She didn’t allow herself to delve too deep into what it all meant.

“Hey, long time no see stranger.”

Belle looked up from her half-finished piece of French toast, smiling up at Ruby in what she hoped was a placating way. She had been too busy with Alexander and the crew at the library putting the finishing touches on their work, which sometimes meant letting them into her apartment, to visit the diner, which meant she had not seen Ruby in a while. She was hoping her friend wouldn’t read too much into it.

“Hey, Ruby, sorry about that. It’s been a bit crazy at the library with all the work going on.”

It was more than a passable excuse and she thought it would be more than enough to dispel the shadow of suspicion in Ruby’s eyes. But it seemed to merely give her an opening to plop down on the seat in front of hers and lean on the table, her hair perilously close to her food.

“Speaking of that I’ve been meaning to ask you… How on Earth did you get the money for the fix? I mean, you were really worried about it a while ago.”

It would’ve been easy to hide, to say that she had managed to squirrel the money together over time. She hadn’t told Ruby about her dad’s financial woes, after all, so it would be believable. But all Belle could think about was that she could not believe Ruby was interested about that now, after months of very obviously trying to avoid the subject and redirecting the conversation when it did come up. Belle had told herself that her friend wasn’t being insensitive, she just didn’t understand how much she was worrying over the matter. It seemed she had been wrong.

“Now you want to talk about that? Because I thought you didn’t care. You certainly acted like you didn’t all those times I tried to talk to you about it before.”

“Hey, hey, let’s not get defensive! I was just asking, trying to be a good friend. It’s just that I haven’t seen you in a while and wanted to know how things were going. Granny and I miss you.”

“I didn’t move to another town, Ruby. The library is right across the street, you could come in at any point to visit.”

“Well, I-I don’t get many breaks. You know how much of a hardass Granny is.”

“Have you seen the library’s working hours? I’m the only librarian, Ruby, if the library is open then I’m working. Yet I’ve always made the effort to come in here, to spend money I do not have on tea and a scone so we could chat a bit and you could complain about your grandmother, your job or your love-life, and conveniently avoid asking me about my own. So why the sudden interest?”

There was something in there, something in Ruby’s eyes. Something that wasn’t the genuine concern of a friend, and she hated that she was pretending to care about things Belle had wanted her to care for a long time to get it out of her.

“Because I think I know! I know you did something, something bad! You made a deal with Gold, didn’t you?”

The waitress hissed those last words quietly, and the diner was almost deserted, but Belle still found herself looking around, making sure that no one had heard. She was not embarrassed or ashamed about her deal with Alexander, didn’t mind that people would judge her if they knew. But whatever that deal had created, whatever the relationship between them was now, she knew she wanted to keep it private, like something precious that wasn’t meant for other people to see.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

It felt wrong to lie to Ruby more than to anyone else, but the surprising anger she felt towards her helped with that feeling. Belle had not known she had been accumulating so much resentment, small things piling on top of each other, anecdotes and slights weaving together, things she hadn’t thought about much at the time but that had clearly stayed with her, adding to the rift that she now saw growing between her and the person she thought of as her best friend. It wasn’t just that she hadn’t had the time to visit Ruby recently, it was that she hadn’t felt the urge to. Even before she had made the deal with Alexander, coming into Granny’s had felt more like a chore. Ruby would preemptively beg her not to talk about the library, remarking she was tired of hearing about it and dismissively assuring her it was a non-issue and the council would come around and pay for the repairs in time.

“Meanwhile you’re scaring the customers away every time they come. They’re tired of hearing about it Belle, and Granny cannot afford to lose her regulars.”

Belle had accepted it at the time as Ruby looking out for her Gran and trying to boost her confidence about the council funds reaching her in time. But it had meant she could not talk about anything going on in her life, all of it consumed with the situation. So she had kept quiet, and tried to ignore the sting when Ruby didn’t seem to notice or mind that Belle was not telling her anything about her life, or that she was growing thin and pale and seemed vaguely anxious all the time. It hadn’t seemed to matter at the time, but, suddenly, it did.

“I saw you! The other night, all dolled up and getting out of his monster of a car in front of the library, at almost five in the morning. I couldn't believe it, so I was trying to give you the opportunity to explain yourself!”

She knew exactly what Ruby had seen. There had been a party a few nights ago that Alexander had wanted to use as an excuse to show around a newly-restored a blue-glass scarab necklace by Lalique, hoping it would catch the interest of someone and he would be able to sell it directly instead of having to negotiate it being put up for auction in an upcoming catalogue of Christie’s. She had purchased a lovely De la Renta made out of gold lame for the occasion, strapless with a sweetheart neckline to let the necklace shine and had put up her hair in a rather fetching imitation of a Gibson Girl bouffant. It had been a lovely night, draped over Alexander’s arm, both of them people-watching to pass the time whenever it was not mandatory for them to mingle. By the end of the night she had been pleasantly tipsy and he had confided in her that he had an informal offer for the necklace. ‘A little south of six figures’ he had told her, smiling that predatory smile at her, a little bit softened by the obvious admiration in his eyes at what he saw as her accomplishment. It was the first time Belle had consciously thought she wanted to kiss him, wanted him to lean close enough that she could reach his hair to pull him close and press her lips against his. 

And now Ruby was making it all sound something that wasn’t. Something unseemly.

“Whatever you think you saw it wasn’t what you’re trying to imply.”

She fished out her wallet from her purse, glad she did not have to scrounge up enough for the food and the tip amongst the loose change in her purse.

“And I don’t have to stay here and hear you imply I’m selling myself for the library or something. You know where to find me if you want to see me, but don’t feel rushed to do so.”

She waved at Granny on her way out, head held high and a weight off her chest.

Chapter Text

The sound of glass breaking woke her up from a fitful sleep in the dead of night. It was pitch black, and the wind outside made what felt like an unreasonable amount of noise in the room. Belle snuggled further into her bed, trying to go back to sleep. But soon she began to notice the temperature drop considerably as wind began to rattle inside her room, knocking a few of her trinkets and flapping books open. Reluctant to leave the dwindling warmth of her bed but worried about what was going on she wrapped herself up in a spare quilt and walked blindly around the room, blinking to try to adjust her eyes to the darkness. It was pitch-black inside the apartment, but what little light got in came from the windows, which allowed her to easily spot the broken pane in one of the small windows in the room. Her bedroom was the only part of the apartment with windows, including a balconette that was directly below the library clock, and though she usually loved that at the moment she wished she had kept all the windows boarded up like she had found them when she had first moved in.

She moved closer to try and gauge the damage, hoping it wasn’t too bad and a bit of cardboard and some tape would see her through the night when she flinched, a previously-hidden bit of glass that fell on top of her vanity scraping against her skin as she leaned against the piece of furniture, scratching her arm. She swore, blindingly searching for the light switch till she managed to find it and flip it on. By that time she could already feel wetness on her skin, and a look confirmed she had cut herself, though thankfully it looked shallow and did not hurt as bad as it looked. Clumsily, given the location of the wound, she cleaned herself up as best she could and wrapped gauze around it, trying to think about her choices.

She could not stay there. It was raining out, so she would have to patch the hole somehow no matter what, but even if she managed to do a good job of it, good enough to keep the rain out at least, it would not help the freezing cold wind from coming in, and cranking the heat up would not help much. She set out to work, finding a box cutter, some tape and the used boxes she kept from book deliveries, working methodically as she thought about what to do after.

She could call Ruby, but they had not parted on the best of terms the last time they’d seen each other and it would be awkward, if not downright unpleasant, to call her, though she had no doubt she would offer her a place to sleep. Leroy was another option, if he was not too drunk to pick up the phone, but his place was cramped and filthy, at least from what she remembered, and there was likely to be no food in the fridge and perhaps not even a sofa for the night. She was certain she would not feel comfortable there. She would not feel comfortable anywhere, really, except perhaps-

Belle knew Alexander was a bit of a night owl, or at least their conversations seemed to have indicated such. He operated on little sleep in general, and preferred a quick kip after lunch than a restful eight hours at night. He was likely awake, and she didn’t doubt he would take her in. Still, calling him felt a bit much so Belle decided to send him a message instead, so he would only see it if he was awake, with his phone nearby, and whether he wanted to answer her at all.

She didn’t expect to hear from him right away, much less to call her, but her phone rang not even a minute after sending the text.

“Belle, what’s going on? Are you alright?”

The worry in his voice somehow unlocked something in her, because she began to choke up, which was silly. She was okay, everything was okay, she was just having a rather unfortunate night and now she was worrying Alexander over nothing.

“It’s nothing, sorry I bothered you, just-”

“It’s not nothing. Tell me.”

Before she could think better of it the entire story spilled out, from the warning Marco had given her about the windows to what she had woken up to an hour or so ago, and how freezing the apartment was. The more she talked the more she thought she had made a mountain out of a molehill and she could tough it out and try to sleep downstairs in the living room, even though she had no bedroom door and therefore no way to block the incoming cold air. 

“Could I-could I stay with you tonight? I won’t be a bother, I promise. You’ll barely notice I’m there, I have a key so you don’t have to even stay up if you were about to go to bed and-”

“Belle.” Alexander’s voice cut through her ramblings, firm but not severe. “Come over. I’ll be waiting.”

She thanked him and hurriedly put on some thick socks, her rain boots and a hideous parka that she had purchased in a thrift shop when she had moved to Maine, since her lovely Burberry coat wasn’t waterproof. When she felt ready to face the elements she packed a few things she would need into a bag and exited the library. Outside the wind was even worse than she had experienced inside her room, blowing the rain sideways so it would soak her in spite of the hood she struggled to keep over her head. Alexander’s house was, unfortunately, on the outskirts of town, near the forest, and though it was usually a lovely walk at night when it was pouring it was a different experience altogether.

When she finally arrived her fingers felt too numb to manage to even fumble in her pockets for the key. She knocked instead, a bit startled when the door opened right away and she was flooded with warmth and light. A second later a hand was pressed against her cheek, and Alexander was wincing, looking vaguely angry.

“Belle? Christ, you’re fucking freezing. Come inside.”

She mumbled something about being wet and ruining his hardwood floors, but he paid no attention to her protests, gently ushering her in and towards the kitchen so she could take off her coat and hang it up in the laundry room adjacent. 

“What’s that?”

Belle paused in the process of hanging up her coat, looking around to see what Alexander might be asking about. It took her a few seconds to realise the sleeves of her pyjama and the heavy cardigan she had thrown on top of it had rolled up, partially exposing her shoddy bandaging on her right arm.

“Oh, that’s nothing, I just cut myself with the glass.”

She tried to move the sleeves back to cover the wound but Alexander would have none of it, gently but firmly taking her arm and inspecting the bandage carefully, obviously noticing the blood was starting to stain even the top layer of gauze and that the tape was coming loose. He ghosted his fingers over the edge of the bandage, humming as he did so.

“This needs checking. I’ll go run a bath for you, your skin is like ice, and while the tub fills I’ll rebandage this for you. I’ll have something prepared for both of us for when you’re out of the bath, something warm. How does that sound?”

It sounded heavenly, even as guilt over the fuss he was making over her threatened to overwhelm her. She bit her lip as he limped upstairs to start the bath, fighting the impulse to make herself and her problems small, to shy away from the help he was offering and she desperately wanted. He came down a few minutes later with a first aid kit and proceeded to unwrap and inspect her wound.

“It doesn’t look like it’ll need stitches. I’ll have to disinfect it again, just in case, so I apologise for the discomfort.”

He made soothing noises when she squirmed at the pain of the antiseptic seeping into her fresh cut, the fingers of his left hand, that were holding her arm in place, gently massaging her skin, willing her to relax. Belle could not remember the last time someone had taken care of her in such a way, and in that moment the idea that people saw Alexander as a soulless monster was incomprehensible. Ruby often liked to say the pawnbroker did not have feelings beyond greed and malice, but to her it seemed rather the opposite: he felt deeply. She saw it in the way he was soft with her, in how carefully he bandaged the cut and applied a clear plastic film over the fresh gauze.

“That’s better. Now up and into the bath, and don’t forget to peel the protection film off once you’re dry, so it’s not uncomfortable. I left you some clothes as well, so you can change out of those wet pyjamas.”

She found the bathroom easily, even though she had not set foot in the upstairs of the house. It was a lovely, spacious room with a clawfoot tub filled to the brim with lavender-scented water. It took her no time to peel her clothes off, noticing only then how muddy the pants of her pyjama were, and soaked with rainwater. It was heavenly to get rid of everything and sink into the hot water, feeling returning to her frozen feet and hands as her clenched muscles began to relax, the anxiety of the past hour seeping out of her and melting into the water. She hummed, trying to remember the last time she had had a bath, a proper one with bubble bath and bath oils, but could not remember. She either hadn’t had the time in a while or the energy for anything more than a perfunctory shower, plus a proper bath required at least some investment and she still had trouble getting used to spending money like she wasn’t on survival mode anymore.

It was only when the water started to turn lukewarm that Belle took stock of the other products in the room, noticing some lovely-smelling shampoo from a brand that she had always wanted to try. It smelt citrusy, not like the sandalwood she associated with Alexander, and looked unused, almost as if it had been waiting for her. Feeling daring she decided her hair could use a wash, lathering her scalp as the bathtub drained and rinsing with fresh water from the faucet. 

Afterwards she wrapped herself in the biggest towel she had ever seen, fluffy and warm and began to look around for the clothing Alexander had promised her, glad she had thought to grab some clean underwear along with her toothbrush and other necessities on the way there. She found some pyjamas neatly folded near the towel rack, and when she unfolded them she knew at once they weren’t Alexander’s. They were new, for one, a bit small for him and not his style at all. They were silk, like the set he was wearing beneath the robe he had on, but a turquoise instead of a navy blue and they had exquisitely-drawn crocodiles in shades of green, pale pink and baby blue. She snorted, seeing Alexander’s brand of humour all over the purchase. She glanced at the tag- Olivia Von Halle, no way those pyjamas were less than five hundred dollars- and noticed it was her exact size. He had bought them for her, for some reason. And though she thought she should feel wary of it or even creeped out she didn’t. She felt… something else. Effervescent almost.

She got dressed quickly, deciding she had taken too long in the bath already, and came downstairs with a comb in her hand, trying to look like she was not regretting not having hunted around for some conditioner to untangle her hair, which was abundant but also impossible to tame. She hadn’t cut it in a while, only trimmed it herself from time to time, and it was showing.

“I should cut it all off, get rid of the bother.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Alexander came out of the kitchen with a mug of something that did not look like tea, ushering her into the living room so they could sit on the sofa. Another cup of the mystery liquid was already on top of a coaster on the coffee table, along with a plate of the shortbread cookies she loved.

“I’m never going to untangle it.”

“Not with that attitude. Sit down, I made you a hot toddy to warm you up. I’ll strong-arm your hair into submission while you drink. Want to make sure you don’t catch anything from the cold, your skin was like ice when you got here.”

She accepted the drink gratefully, blowing into the hot liquid to give herself something to do while she felt Alexander settle behind her, gently taking in a lock of her hair and patiently combing it, moving from the ends upwards so as to not drag the knots. It felt shockingly intimate, for some reason, even though he was only touching her hair. He was so careful with it, though, as if it was spun gold, and she could feel the full weight of his focus on her, a heavy but not unwelcome feeling. She sipped her drink, idly realising the alcohol wasn’t hitting her quite as hard as Alexander’s gentle touches.

“It’d be a shame to cut hair like yours.”

His voice was a low, throaty purr, his accent thickening as she had always imagined it did when he was tired. At some point he finished detangling her hair, switching from combing it to brushing it, making sure to keep it away from her back as it dried. Belle finished her drink, feeling at once drowsy from the warmth of the house and the alcohol and electrified by Alexander’s gentle touch.

“Tell me what happened tonight.”

She told him all of it, including Marco’s previous warning regarding the windows. She had hoped to have more saved up to replace them all at once but clearly that would not do. She could go bit by bit, perhaps, if Marco was amenable. A window at a time, beginning with the broken one.

“I’ll call Marco in the morning and deal with it myself. All glass needs to be replaced as soon as possible. I will not have you wake up to a broken pane again.”

She made a move to turn, but he tutted and softly tugged on her hair to instruct her to remain as she was.

“I can’t possibly ask you to do that. This is my problem, I’ll deal with it. I have a plan.”

“Nonsense. I was supposed to bring the library up to code, make sure that it was left in working order.”

“And you did. This isn’t part of the deal, you don’t have to-”

She felt one of his hands fist on the fabric of her pyjamas by her hip, his forehead pressing slightly between her shoulder blades as he leant forward.

“Please, let me do this.” His voice was rough and low and Belle had to take a deep breath to try and centre herself. “Let me take care of you.”

He said it as if he was desperate to help her, as if she would hurt him by rejecting his offer. Tentatively she took the hand that was holding onto the side of her pyjama top and stroked her thumb across his knuckles, willing him to loosen his grip.

“Alright. You can call Marco.”

She felt him relax against her, his forehead pressing more against her back as he practically slumped forward, holding himself back at the last second.

“Thank you, sweet girl.”

Something about how he said it, the genuine gratitude mingled with something she could not quite name, something intense and dark and deep, stuck to the back of Belle’s mind, bothering her, but the rest of her could only concentrate on Alexander’s presence behind her, all power and energy barely contained, like a tiger ready to spring. And yet she did not feel afraid, but excited. The air between them felt charged as he continued to brush her hair, eventually discarding the brush to run his fingers down her mostly-dried curls.

“Let’s get you to bed. You’ve had quite a night.”

She let him lead her upstairs, marvelling at his strength as he carried her almost limply to the bedroom he had prepared for her, one hand on his cane and the other around her waist. Once there he tucked her in, bending down and, after a small flicker of hesitation, pressing his lips against her forehead.

“Thank you for taking me in.”

He was almost out the door before the words slipped past her lips, almost slurred as she fought with her fatigue.

“Thank you for calling me.”

The events of that night replayed themselves over and over again the following days, occupying her thoughts entirely. Marco showed up promptly the day after, in the afternoon, ready to replace the broken window that day and work out with her the best time to replace the others. But after he left there was nothing to keep her from obsessing over what Alexander had told her, the way in which he had desperately pleaded with her to let him help. It meant something, something profound, something she had gotten glimpses of before but never like that, never so raw and exposed.

She was thinking about it while shelving books one slow afternoon when she was startled by a tap on her shoulder. She jumped, the heavy encyclopaedia tome she was about to shelf with its sisters falling to the ground with a loud thud.

“Jesus, Belle, it’s me!”

Ruby backed away from her slightly, holding her hands up in an exaggerated gesture of innocence. She was dressed in her waitress uniform, a long red puffer coat and woollen hat thrown over to keep her warm. She looked sheepish and sort of downcast, clearly not there to pick a fight. Belle was glad of it.

“Can we talk? Are you free? I got us some chocolate and cookies to sweeten the deal.”

She took out a small thermos and a paper bag from inside her jacket, holding them out like offerings to an angry god. Belle sighed, trying to put on a reassuring smile.

“No eating or drinking in the library. Let’s go to my office, I have some mugs there and a plate for the cookies.”

It was incredibly awkward at first, both women stuck inside the small room, sipping chocolate and looking at each other, expecting the other to speak first. After a while, though, Ruby took a deep breath and set her cup of hot chocolate down.

“I’m sorry, Belle. About everything, including how long it took me to get here to apologise.”

Belle blinked, surprised. She knew that Ruby showing up with food was meant to soften things between them, a sign that her friend wanted a reconciliation, but she had not thought it would include a direct apology. Perhaps a “I hate it when we fight, let’s forget about it, okay?” or a half-hearted, indirect admission of partial guilt. Nothing more. 

“You were right, about everything. I thought you weren’t at first and I was so angry but I talked about it with Granny and I was surprised that she did not feel the same as I did. I mean, not about Gold, I didn’t tell her about that part, but the rest. Looking back I see you were not okay, not for a long time, but I didn’t wanna see it. I just thought… You’re so independent. You could handle anything. But just because you can doesn’t mean you should. I was just unwilling to get out of my comfort zone and see that maybe our relationship had always been one-sided.”

Belle bit back the natural instinct to contradict her friend, to tell her that their relationship hadn’t always been unbalanced, but she held herself back. It wouldn’t do to lie and minimise the hurt after all that struggle to express it in the first place. And clearly it had taken a lot for her friend to come to the library as well, she should hear her out completely and honestly.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t see you struggle. That I didn’t see you suffer. That I minimised your worries. I thought about what it would’ve meant for the library to close and all I could think about was how much I’d miss you.”

Ruby burst into tears then, leaning over to give her a hug. The strength of it spoke of her genuine contrition, making Belle start crying herself. As much as it had felt good to give the waitress a piece of her mind it felt even better to be acknowledged and validated, and she was relieved that her friend had chosen to apologise instead of doubling down. Ruby was a genuinely good person, and she had been her rock during that first year at Storybrooke, before things had gotten uneven between them. And Belle had to acknowledge she herself had somehow encouraged that by giving without taking, falling into familiar relationship patterns that replicated those she had learned as a child, especially after her mother’s death. It didn’t absolve the waitress from her guilt but it did let Belle know what she needed to look out for going forward.

“I’m glad you kept fighting for this town even when everyone in it turned their backs on you.”

“Not everyone.”

The librarian very much wished she could control the blush she felt creeping across her face, wondering if she could pass it off as the result of the steam from the hot chocolate hitting her face. The waitress arched an eyebrow, smiling tentatively, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

“Am I now allowed to ask after Mr Gold now? I promise to keep an open mind. I’m sorry about what I implied before, but something is going on and I want to know, if you want to tell me.”

Belle hesitated, desperately needing to talk with someone about whatever was going on between her and Alexander but at the same time refusing to do so before she understood it herself.

“I want to, but I’m not ready yet. Later.” She looked up to notice Ruby frowning and rushed to reassure her. “I’m just not ready to talk about it but I will. I promise. Thank you for the offer Ruby. And the apology.”

“So… are we back to being friends? Because I’ve been miserable these past few weeks and Granny is about to kick me out over my moping.”

“She would never. But yes, we’re friends again. Better friends than before, I hope.”

Ruby gave her a characteristic wolfish smile before leaning close for another fierce hug.

“You bet.”

“Did Marco finish replacing the windows in your flat?”

Belle looked up from the chessboard, studying Alexander as he fiddled with the white queen he had taken off the board a couple of moves earlier with his remaining knight.

“Yes. He’s confident the windows can withstand a hurricane at this point and it does feel like the apartment is more insulated, warmer. Thank you again for that, by the way.”

“My pleasure.”

He smiled, still refusing to meet her gaze, and moved a bishop across the board to threaten one of her rooks. A bold move, but she had expected it. He was a rather aggressive chess player, which made him deadly in the short term but beatable if she managed to sidestep his brutal attacks.

“About that, I think I’ve figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

She moved her pawn, watching as he swept his bishop to take her rook. If she could manage to keep him distracted it would only take a couple more moves for her to get her queen back, and then the last piece would be in position for a checkmate.

“Why you made that deal with me. A deal for my time. A deal that hasn’t seemed to benefit you at all.”

Her words finally managed to make him lift his eyes off the board and settle on her. He looked composed at first glance, but Belle had had months to learn how to read him and she could easily spy the flicker of nervousness in the corner of his eyes, the tense setting of his jaw.

“Whatever do you mean?”

She moved her pawn again, trying to appear nonchalant.

“I thought it was a power move at first, but that didn’t last long. You never flexed your deal to others or treated me with anything but respect and courtesy, not to mention that I got to know you and realised that just wasn’t something you seemed to want.”

She gestured towards the board and watched him as he moved his knight to a rather random position. She doubted that it was a calculated move.

“Then I thought you were lonely. And I was right about that, so I was convinced for the longest time I had figured it out. You just wanted a companion. But that wasn’t true either.”

She moved her pawn again, reaching the end of his side of the board and reclaiming her queen from his rather lax grip.

“This deal- it wasn’t about power, or about loneliness. I think-I think it’s about you taking care of me.”

“What a ridiculous notion.”

Belle moved her queen to threaten both his wandering bishop and the pawn keeping her rook from checking his king.

"Everything you’ve done has been to take care of me. The food, the clothes, the free time. You’ve tricked me into comfort, somehow. And I could not see it, not until you made it obvious. Till the other night.”

He moved his pawn forward, sacrificing his bishop to her queen. She took it quickly, her mind already mapping out the final moves, making sure he had no wiggle room left. He was slippery and violent when cornered, after all.

“And so what if I did? You’re a proud woman, Belle, and so terribly unused to unburdening yourself to others or accepting help. You were literally starving yourself trying to do things alone, thinking no one noticed. But I noticed. Every fucking day. So when the opportunity presented itself to help you I took it. I’m not apologising for that. I only wish you would’ve asked sooner.”

He snarled the last part, though Belle sensed none of his animosity was directed at her, not really. She knew there was a violent side to Alexander, that wasn’t just town gossip gone wild. But she knew, instinctually, that he would never hurt her. The most she had to fear was him being violent in her name, for her sake.

“Is this some- some pity thing?” This was her greatest fear, and now that she had voiced it she wished she could take it all back. She didn’t want to know. As long as he didn’t tell her outright that he felt sorry for her she could pretend he didn’t and nothing would change in their relationship. His pity would devastate her.

“It’s not fucking pity. No one who’s ever known you could pity you.”

“Then what is it? Is it kindness? You were just being kind?”

“Could we please drop it?”

His words were a nervous whine, with an edge of a warning at the end. Usually that level of distress would be enough to make her stop but Belle was determined to get an answer. If he felt sorry for her she would rather know then and there and deal with that before it was too late.

“Just tell me what this is. I deserve to know.”

“It’s just-” Abruptly he got up, knocking a few pieces off the chessboard in the process. It was just as well, they both knew she had won the game already. Just as they both knew that she would win whatever power struggle was happening between them now.

“Just what?”

“Can’t we speak about something else?”

“Just what, Alexander?”

“I love it. Taking care of you. Watching the tiredness and anxiety seep out of you. Watching you regain colour and vitality. Laugh more, indulge more. Love taking you to new places and giving you beautiful clothes, things that you deserve. It’s a power that I marvel at.”

He was pacing back and forth, like a caged panther, and though Belle felt her heart speed up she knew it wasn’t from apprehension. It was something else, something she could almost taste, like a storm brewing between them. Looking more frenzied the more he thought he sat down again, his hand grabbing the wrist of her outstretched hand, which was fiddling with his black king. His grip was frantic, as if he was afraid she would bolt unless he held onto her.

“It’s not me being kind, it’s more than that. I don’t just want to help you. I want to spoil you. I want to give you everything you deserve, not just what you need. I want to wrap you in expensive silk and satin, fill your arms with bracelets and your neck with chains. I want to see the way diamonds and pearls look against your skin, whether gold or platinum compliments you more. The idea of being able to do it sets my blood on fire . You have no idea about the depths of this depravity of mine, how I’ve had to curtail my baser instincts, my more urgent impulses. I’ve been tame till now, living off of the clothing I was allowed to buy you, and the food I was allowed to feed you.”

Alexander’s hold on her wrist tightened to the point that it was painful, but Belle barely noticed. Her attention was riveted on the pawnbroker’s face as a glint of desperation shone in his eyes. Alexander Gold was nothing if not composed, a man used to always being in control, no matter the time or the circumstance. And yet he was unhinged then, as if something inside him had finally snapped, something that had been quietly building for a while. Something she had managed to catch a glimpse of the night he took her in.

“If you could- if you would ever consider, just consider, letting me- I mean, if you could ever consider indulging me I would drench you in jewellery, surround you in books, lay you in Savoir sheets and drape you in the softest Sarrieri chemises.” He spoke in hushed tones, feverish and almost unintelligible given how his accent had thickened, and yet Belle was focused on his words, his tone, the feel of his fingers as they began to caress her wrist above her thundering heartbeat.

“Nothing would please me more, bring me more joy, than to cook decadent meals for you. Pamper you with whatever you wanted, at whatever time of the day you’d allow it. Buy you expensive shoes, take you out to experience new things, new sights.”

“You would-” Belle paused, trying to wrap her mind around what she was hearing, her efforts hampered by the distraction of his fingers ghosting over the skin of her arm, idly going higher with every pass. “You would give me anything I wanted?”

“Name it and it’s yours.”

She felt an initial rush of power at the offer. Alexander Gold bowed to no one and yet here he was, putting himself in her hands, willing to do whatever she asked him. And he was powerful, his offer was real: if he offered anything it was because he could get anything. After that came and went she began to process what was going on in front of her, what Alexander was trying to say.

“This is- this is a sex thing?”

She winced, wishing that she had found a way to phrase it that didn’t make her sound like some naive, inexperienced idiot. Not that she did have a lot of experience, but she was well-read on the topic. Extremely well-read, some might say.

“It’s not- not that, but it’s beyond that. It’s always been the way I express affection. It hasn’t happened often in my life, and after the disaster that was my last attempt at a romantic relationship in which I took care of my significant other I shut that part of myself away. An annoying quirk I decided I would do better without. Until I met you.”

The way he looked at her, the adoration in his eyes, how had Belle missed it all that time? It wasn’t new, he wasn’t staring at her in some special novel way, it was just that now she understood . Like she had suddenly developed an ability she hadn’t had before. He clung to her still, both hands holding onto her arm, his fingers tracing patterns against the sensitive skin of her inner arm, and the feeling of it grounded her somehow, made it all feel real.

“You’re kind, and brave, and funny, and I could not help myself. I tried. I told myself I would be unwelcome. That you were just being polite when you talked to me, or friendly, the way you would be to anyone else. And that you didn’t need me poking around, giving myself the right to barge in where I was not invited. But I couldn’t help it. I wanted to take care of you.”

Belle could not remember the last time someone had so fiercely felt the need to look after her, not with the single-minded passion she could see in Alexander’s face. It was heady, which was unexpected. She had always prided herself on her independence, and would’ve thought it difficult to even contemplate giving up, even if just a little. And yet-

“So- so it isn’t a sex-”

“Oh, no, it very much is. I haven’t- allowed myself to feed those fantasies, but they’re there, clawing at the last remnants of my self-restraint. It’s- it’s a natural extension, I suppose, wanting to give you pleasure in whatever way it’s possible. Wanting to- to- I can’t quite put it into words. Too-” he paused, as if trying to come up with the right word. “Too intense.”

Belle knew, without a sliver of doubt, that if she simply changed the topic he would drop it. Or that if she made it clear she wanted to hear none of it, he would shut up and never bring it up again.

“Show me, then.”

The words barely made it out of her lips, breathy and thin, but they resonated across the room, as if she had shouted them. Alexander leaned back against his chair, as if to put as much distance between themselves as possible, one of his hands fumbling for his cane, as if even sitting down he felt out of balance.

“What? ”

“You said you couldn’t quite put into words what you wanted to do to me. So… show me .”

Belle took a deep breath, trying to look calm. She kept replaying her manta over and over inside her head: ‘Do the brave thing and bravery will follow.’

“You cannot possibly want me to-”

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. Unless you don’t want to, after all.”

She didn’t know what led her to question his commitment, given how passionately he had spoken about what he wished to do to her, how he wished to bring her pleasure, but it somehow seemed to do the trick, the disbelief leeching off his face to be replaced with single-minded determination. He looked around, seeming to be considering something, shaking his head before standing up and taking her hand.

“Not here. You deserve a bed, at the very least.”

He led her up the stairs, and though she had already been there before it all felt new and exciting to Belle, different from the other night, when she had not had the understanding of Alexander she did then. They bypassed the room she had slept in the other night and went into the next room, which she now realised was his room. It was the way she had imagined his bedroom to be like, the walls a dark burgundy and the room almost entirely dominated by a four-poster bed, with an exquisitely-carved headboard.

“I wanted to bring you here, the other day. Had to talk myself out of it a hundred times. I was afraid of making you uncomfortable, but the thought of you in my bed was almost enough to override my common sense.”

It was wild to Belle how earnest and passionate he sounded, given how well he had hid that part of himself for months. And yet, it was not completely foreign to her, this side of him: Alexander was naturally intense about the things that fascinated him, from antiques to books. She just had never expected to find herself added to the list.

“It’s a lovely room.”

Lovely and warm, which made her feel more than a bit overdressed. She pulled her cardigan off, both in fear of breaking into a rather unsexy sweat, and to perhaps signal her willingness for things to progress further, pleased to have worn one of her nicer shirts- a cream Valentino blouse with a ruffled collar and cap sleeves. She watched his eyes darkened as he took her in, his gaze lingering on the still-healing cut on her arm. Like he had predicted it hadn’t needed stitches, though it was still in the process of closing.

“Does it still hurt?”

Daringly, she extended her arm towards him, letting him ghost a finger over the line.

“Not at all. It’s mostly a bother, but it’s healing fast.” She paused, breath hitching as he leaned down and, gathering her forearm gently between his hands, kissed the tip of the cut. “You took good care of me that night.”

The words made him shudder, and the grip on her arm tightened slightly. His lips trailed across the thin red line, mapping it carefully. It felt very intimate and Belle could hardly believe she was getting turned on from just having her arm kissed. Eventually he moved up again, kissing the crook of her arm, nosing her shoulder and, finally, mouthing the exposed skin of her neck. She could feel his sudden spike of annoyance at how the high neckline of the blouse limited his exploration so she reached behind, undoing the top button on the back of the shirt and guiding the dainty little zipper bellow it down as far as it could go, so that the shirt would gape open at the neck. He rewarded her by clutching her close, no longer keeping some distance between them as he seemed adamant about doing before, his lips firmer as they explored her neck and her now-exposed shoulder, one of his hands, the one not around her waist, untucking her blouse from her pleated rose skirt to slide up her naked back, the contact electric. She gasped, arching against him as she bit back a needy little moan.

“Sweet girl…”

His voice was soft, cajoling, even as his touch became more insistent, more desperate. He explored her clavicle- a zone that before Belle would not have found to be erogenous at all for her- and other shoulder thoroughly before he grew displeased again, the hand on her back grabbing the hem of her and tugging upwards, his intent clear. She tutted in mock reprimand at his rough handling of the garment, dutifully raising her arms so he could slip it off her.

“Careful, I like this shirt!”

“I’ll buy you twenty like it.”

It wasn’t the promise of him lavishing her with designer clothing that had her heart speeding up but rather the desperation in his voice, as if he would die if he was denied more access to her skin. His mouth became frenzied as it seemed to try and map out her entire torso, his teeth nipping at the white bow of her bra, tucked neatly between her breasts.

“If I ruin this lovely bit of lace, would you let me buy you a replacement? I’ve seen some lovely sets at La Perla and Simone Pérèle.”

Belle sunk her hands into his hair, unable to voice her ascent or denial. She was too lost in the feel of his touch and the notion that he had browsed lingerie for her, thinking what would look good on her, what he would want to see her in. 

“Talk to me, sweet girl.” Alexander knelt down, his hands around her waist, his tongue teasing her bellybutton.

“A-about what?”

She could hardly think of anything. She doubted she would be able to tell him her name if he asked.

“Am I pleasing you?”

In almost any different context Belle would have thought such a question during sex to be boastful. But there was genuine curiosity in his tone, mixed with the slightest hint of anxiety she wished to completely vanish.

“ Yes. ” At first that one word is all she could articulate, especially as she felt his fingers working on the hook and zipper of her skirt. She was glad that she had worn thigh-high stockings instead of tights in spite of the cold. She held onto his hair as he gently tugged her now loose skirt down, careful to help her step out of it before he tossed it aside. 

“I need more from you, darling. Tell me what you want. Tell me what to do to make you feel good.”

The way he slurred out the word ‘ good ’, as if he was drunk on her, her body and the experience of being able to touch her and kiss her, was overwhelming. He was kneeling in front of her, looking up at her with both tender admiration and passionate need and the sight was enough to conquer her remaining embarrassment and loosen her tongue and propel her into action. With shaky but determined hands she reached behind, deftly undoing the clasp of her bra, letting it fall to the ground without hesitation. She didn’t want him to think she had any doubts about what they were already doing and about to do. She took one of his hands, the right one with the moonstone ring she had often admired, and pressed it over her left breast.

“I want you to touch me here.” He curled his fingers around her flesh reverently, his thumb gently tracing the red, angry patch of skin right beneath her breast where the underwire of her bra had dug in. As he did this she took his other hand and, after only the briefest hesitation, pressed it against her lace-covered cunt. “And here.”

The sound he made in response to her little bit of daring was inhuman, a growl that she shouldn’t have found as arousing as she did. Now that he had permission he didn’t hesitate, the fingers of his right hand eagerly exploring the soft flesh of her breast while his right hand traced the lace of her panties, playing briefly with the scalloped seams before moving the fabric aside so that flesh could meet flesh. She was wet already, she knew, but it felt even more as Alexander’s fingers glided over her bare cunt. She had grown up next to the beach and had gotten used to waxing, leaving only a strip of hair, what the Americans called a “French bikini”. She had kept the practice out of habit and comfort, though it had been ages since she had last gone to the beach in a bikini, given that she lived in Maine.

“You’re so soft, everywhere.” His voice was rough like gravel, and the way he pressed his face against her bare stomach made it so that she could feel it more than hear it. “Just like I always imagined.”

She wanted to reward his words with some of her own but the stimulation was getting to be too much and all she could concentrate on was on holding onto him to avoid toppling over. Eventually, likely noticing the way her legs shook with increasing violence the more he explored her, he manoeuvred them so a simple, gentle shove landed her on the bed, with Alexander quickly following after. 

It was then that it occurred to Belle that though he had had his fingers inside her, or close enough, they had yet to properly kiss and it was a travesty. Taking advantage of the fact that she now could move more freely she tugged him upwards, swallowing his grunt of protest as she pressed her lips against his. It wasn’t soft as tentative as she had first imagined it would be, nor slow and deep as she had later fantasised. It was violent and hurried, some unknown urgency pushing them both into trying to consume each other. Belle returned one of her hands to his hair, obsessed with the silky feel of it and the way he responded to having it tugged, how in control it made her feel to be able to render him senseless with such a simple gesture.

Though the kiss was frenzied and desperate neither was in a hurry to move on to other things, content to let out months of pent-up frustration with what amounted to heavy-petting. Belle managed to make him lose the jacket and the tie, with his shoes coming off right before his hands busied themselves sliding her stocking down her legs one at a time, his fingers curling around her thighs as he did so. He was still too overdressed while she was clad only in a pair of increasingly-uncomfortable panties, so she eventually, with a low whine at the unfairness of it all, let go of his mouth, shoving him backwards and stopping his determined efforts to resume kissing every inch of her body.

“Clothes. Off. Now. Or I’m putting mine on and walking out.”

It was the emptiest threat Belle had ever issued and yet, given the ruthless efficiency with which Alexander took off his shirt, undershirt and trousers, it was clearly effective. He paused slightly only when it came to removing his socks, which puzzled Belle till she caught a glimpse of the mass of discoloured scar tissue that was his right ankle. Till then she had all but forgotten Alexander’s limp, had not factored it at all in what they were doing, but the reminder gave her pause. She chewed her lower lip, wondering whether to say anything and risk offence or say nothing and potentially have him overdo himself while refusing to tell her. Finally, when he reached out to kiss her again she took hold of his face so that she could look him in the eye.

“If at any point you’re uncomfortable or in pain let me know, please.” He could see the annoyance and shame flit through his eyes so she reached up to brush her nose against his. “Tell me and I promise to do the same.”

It was a rather disarming argument, something he could not object to and proof that there was no shame in showing vulnerability between them. He nuzzled her back, his lips quirking into an almost unwilling half-smile.

“Deal.”

He slanted his mouth against her as if to seal the promise, and the rushed, desperate feeling from later slowly returned, pecks and caresses turning quicker, harder, bolder. Belle felt a bit overwhelmed by the amount of Alexander’s naked skin nor readily available to her touch and wasted no time mapping his chest, with the sparse and greying chest hairs and the occasional faded scar, which she had to keep herself from asking about. He also had a tattoo on his forearm, a lizard of some sort, which she lovingly mapped as a way to try and distract herself from how good his thigh felt as it pressed against her cunt. 

She wanted to offer him pleasure but he seemed determined to drown her in her own, nipping at the skin just below her breasts as his hands quickly disposed of her now sodden underwear to then delve into her. She was more than ready, drenched in a way that would have made her feel embarrassed if her body wasn’t on fire and her mind completely unable to form coherent thought beyond the need for more , and there , and now . In the end it did not take more than a few minutes with two of his fingers deep inside her and his thumb stroking her slippery clit for her to break apart, the experience far more intense than the mellow orgasms she was used to giving herself. She tried to clamp a hand over her mouth, embarrassed for the sounds coming out of her, but he tore it away almost viciously, looking down at her with such an intense look in his eyes he almost seemed angry, if not for the faint uptilt of his lips.

“I’ve earned those sounds, sweet girl. Don’t deny me them.”

It was hard to let go of the last bit of self-consciousness she had, but it was also exhilarating, and the last remnants of pleasure burning through her bloodstream seemed amplified every time she cried out. He was caring in the aftermath, blanketing her with his body and trading soft, languid kisses while she came down from her high. It was as if the earlier urgency had passed and they could take their time, could explore and gauge each other’s reactions to whatever new they tried. And yet there was a remaining frisson of tension in Belle every time Alexander’s hard cock brushed against her, still hidden behind the Scotsman’s silk boxers. It reminded her that he was still aching, even though he had made her come. Resolute, she tried flipping them over, determined to let him rest his ankle and let her ride him instead, but he shied away, his mouth going lower and lower, living a damp trail in its wake.

“Alex, what- Oh .”

Belle had had someone go down on her before. It wasn’t an entirely new experience by any means, but it was perhaps the aspect of sex she was less familiar with. Most men she had been with seemed to find it undesirable at best and a turn-off at worst, and Belle had never insisted because she had never much seen the appeal of it. In books it always seemed sexy but in real life it was rather underwhelming, and sometimes even uncomfortable. 

But the moment Alexander pressed his mouth against her sex she knew that it would be different. Perhaps because her feelings towards him were so strong, or because he was so good at it, or because he seemed so completely determined to read her every whimper and twitch of her legs to figure out what she liked and how she liked it. It was as if whatever she had experienced before was muted and sloppy, uncoordinated, whereas Alexander was a man on a mission, single-minded in his pursuit of her pleasure. And, she thought giddily, she had always known he had a silver tongue.

“Oh, yes, there, please .”

She didn’t mind whining anymore, or thrashing, liking the way he held her down, anchored her to the bed, one hand between her breasts and the other holding onto one of her legs. Though she thought it would take her time to come again her orgasm built up out of nowhere, taking her completely by surprise. She arched her back, grateful for Alexander’s firm hold on her body keeping her from potentially falling off the bed. He petted her as if to calm her down while his tongue kept constant, almost painful stimulation over her clit, never quite enough to be too much, to be overwhelming, but feeling as if it was always skirting that edge. The orgasm was more drawn-out than the one before, lingering as a pulsating feeling between her legs longs after Alexander was done lapping at her cunt.

“You were so good. So good for me, sweet girl.”

He kept praising her, his hands stroking her legs, her stomach, her arms, whatever they could reach, trying to soothe her. He told her how much he had enjoyed it, how she was a dream come true, how this had been better than the fantasies he had built in his head were nothing compared to the reality of her, her smell, her taste. It would have made her blush, if her body had the energy for it. This is what he had meant by wanting to take care of her, and he had been genuine when he had told her that he would like nothing more. She could tell there was no expectation of more from him, he wasn’t simply scoring points so that she would later go down on him or let him do something that otherwise she wouldn’t have. He was not keeping score at all, or hoping for anything other than what they had done. She was sure that if she told him she was done he would not object, would not act as if she owed him anything.

That just made Belle more determined to take matters into her own hands and so when she felt a bit more in control of herself she rose up, deftly planting both knees on the mattress on either side of Alexander’s narrow hips. She laughed at his startled look, leaning down to give him a reassuring kiss while her hands tugged insistently on his underwear, the intent clear. It took some wiggling and huffing, less graceful than she would have liked but with the aftershocks of two orgasms still in her system Belle found herself unable to care. Finally he was as naked beneath her as she was above him, and though she would have liked time to explore that, to trace the veins of his cock and explore just what part of it was more sensitive to her touch, she knew that Alexander would not stand much more teasing and she would rather he come in her. The way he whined and thrashed when she ghosted the tips of her fingers over the underside of his member told her it was all the foreplay he could possibly stand.

“You ready, darling?”

“Been ready for hours. Days. Weeks.” Alexander took a deep breath when she got a firm hold of his cock, likely trying to keep himself in check. “I’ve been ready since the day I met you.”

“Aren’t you sweet.”

She sunk into him without further ado, loving the way he dug his fingernails into the sides of her waist, his whole body tensing beneath her. He was thick and perhaps if she hadn’t been so thoroughly wet and slick the sudden intrusion of him into her cunt would’ve been uncomfortable, but all she could feel was how perfectly he filled her up, how he stretched her in just the right way. Alexander, meanwhile, did not seem to be enjoying their union as much, thrashing beneath her, clearly eager to move but fiercely determined not to do so without her permission. She leaned down, taking a hold of a lock of his hair and tugging, forcing him to tilt his head back and calm down. Once he stopped moving altogether she pecked him on the lips as a reward.

“Good boy.”

She began to rock then, slow and steady at first, trying to figure out if any sort of movement on her part could potentially jolt his ankle, increasing the pace when she saw no hint of paint bleed into his features. She was surprised to feel the slow burn of arousal build inside her as well, having thought that after two orgasms her body would be too spent and overly-stimulated to allow her to come another time. 

“Harder, Belle, please . Faster.”

Alexander’s hips rose to meet her thrusts, as much as he possibly could while keeping his right leg mostly immobile, and though it was rocky at first they soon found a rhythm, a back and forth that had her gasping, struggling to concentrate on her partner’s pleasure even as her own began to build up. Finally, when the pawnbroker’s slippery fingers began to rub her clit, providing that bit of extra friction she needed, she broke, tipping over the edge just as she could feel him do the same, delighted by the filthy profanity in heavily-accented English that accompanied the Scotsman’s orgasm. She focused on keeping her thrusts, making sure to milk every little bit of pleasure out of him. After they were both spent she fell against him, his hands coming around to cocoon her in warmth.

“Well, that was-”

She struggled for breath, feeling as if she had just ran a marathon. She was certain she would be sore in the morning, but could not find it in herself to mind. Instead she relaxed, complaining a little bit when Alexander nudged her to move so they could both slip under the covers, with her curling against him the moment they were both tucked into bed.

“Perfect.”

The way he said it, a mixture of awed and satisfied, his accent wrapping around the word, made her toes curl. She turned to her side to face him, idly combing his hair into a semblance of order, loving the way he leaned into her touch, like a cat.

“Anything else I can do for you? After a short rest, I beg you.”

“Yes, actually.” She paused, the pawnbroker turning to face her, expectant. “I want to go out. On a date. In public. Here. I-I don’t want to hide this, hide us. Would that- would that be okay?”

The smile that spread across his face was soft and beautiful, and there was surprise there too.

“It would be more than okay.”

They decided that their first public date should be at Granny’s. It was, after all, the point of origin and dissemination of most gossip in town, barring Mrs Nolan’s classroom. Belle had prepared herself for being gaped at and talked about. It wouldn’t bother her, and whoever had a problem with it either was not worth the trouble. Ruby would understand, and Granny. Leroy wouldn’t, but he wouldn’t give her a hard time about it, and as someone who both knew what it was to have a controversial love and what it was to be fodder for town gossip. He would probably get into a fight or two if he caught people talking badly about Belle and her new relationship, even if he privately gave her grief for it.

She dressed carefully, not too flirty but at the same time trying to be clear that she was on a date. She had carefully selected a Miu Miu dress she had bought and paid for herself, a respectable crepe-de-chine mini dress that with her height lost a lot of the scandalous appeal of the hemline and with her modest breast lost also a lot of the impact of its statement v-neckline, paired with a cream, oversized cashmere cardigan that was meant to soften the look and was also something she had gotten from Alexander. She knew now that he enjoyed seeing her in things he purchased for her and she figured him being in a good mood would go a long way in making the evening a success. 

They met just outside the library after closing time, Alexander waiting patiently as she locked the building before offering his arm to escort her to the dinner. They had gotten used to walking that way, with her pressed up against him, but never while in town, and they attracted a fair bit of attention in their short walk. Belle almost burst out laughing when Mother Superior passed by and stared, a shocked look in her face.

“The way she’s gawking you’d think we were doing more than walking arm in arm.”

“Given Mother Superior’s experience this is probably what she considers second base.”

Their laughter garnered them even more attention, especially Alexander’s booming bark, which the people of Storybrooke had perhaps never heard before. Soon enough they were in front of Granny’s and Belle was surprised to see it was packed. Ruby, at her request, had reserved her a small corner booth like she had asked her, but there were no other tables available and most of the bar spots were taken too. She paused, bracing herself when she caught Ruby’s stare, seeing the calculating look in her friend’s eyes and the way she seemed to focus on her close proximity to the pawnbroker.

“You sure you want to do this today, Belle?” Alexander must have interpreted her pause wrong, because he looked at her with gentle understanding. “We can do it another day, when there aren’t as many people around.”

“You would rather wait?”

“I would rather you not be uncomfortable.”

Belle relaxed, understanding. Alexander wasn’t getting cold feet, he was, as always, concerned for her. How she had managed to miss how much he cared for her for months she would never know, not when it was so clear to her now. Emboldened by his little, unconscious show of affection she rose on her tiptoes, hands resting on Alexander’s shoulders to steady herself as she captured his lips with her own. She meant it to be a soft, affectionate peck, a message rather than a spectacle, but she did not count on the way Alexander would always respond to her, how he would turn a goodbye kiss into a ten-minute tug-of-war where Belle struggled to keep her clothes on because she was going to be late and she took her librarian duties very seriously, thank you very much. Like in those occasions when she pulled back he chased her mouth with his, his left hand going around her waist to press her firmly against him, leaving her no choice really but to wrap her arms more firmly around him, fingers tugging on his hair in silent reprimand, which she knew was counterproductive. But it wasn’t her fault that he was such a good kisser, or that his barely-restrained passion made her forget herself and where she was-

A car horn sounded in the distance, bringing her back to reality. Reluctantly but firmly she pushed Alexander away, patting his hair into some semblance of order once she saw how she had mused it. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Ruby’s flabbergasted expression, but noticed she seemed excited rather than outraged. She pointedly did not look at anyone else, deciding that they didn’t matter.

“Shall we go in? I’m dying for one of Granny’s burgers.”

Alexander nodded, looking vaguely dazed and, dared she say it, rather pleased.

“After you, my dear.”