#winterswanderlust

Rum groaned again and turned his alarm off and got up; a quick shower and slice of buttered toast later he was on the subway.  Day in and day out this was his life.  Get up before the sun was up, ride down to the waterfront and then fight with the tricky lock on the door that lead into the state of the art kitchen of one of the swankiest restaurants in the city.  An hour after he’d dragged himself out of his bed he was ready for the day just as some people were going to sleep.

After storing his stuff in his staff locker he took a moment to look around the large empty kitchen.  Two or so hours ago the kitchen had been bustling with energy as chefs finishing up orders.  It would have been a chaotic mess of sounds and smells, pans sizzling with vegetables and meats, the clanking of pans as the plongeur attempted to keep up with the hustle and bustle of a kitchen that needed to be spotless at all times.  The Avonlea was high end in every meaning of the word; the only flawed thing in the restaurant was the lock in the back that seemed to refuse to be fixed.  That was why they had all of their breads and doughs made fresh every morning.

Now it was silent, the guests were gone, the chefs had left after them, and those that had to clean had soon followed too.  It was just him now.  This was the way Rum liked it; he’d never been good with people, not like he was with baking.  Baking was simple, if something went wrong it was easy to tell where a mistake had been made in the recipe, people were harder.  It wasn’t that he didn’t like people, but he didn’t know how to talk to them. If it came down to it he’d rather try making a dozen soufflés with a tap-dance recital happening next door then fumble his way through a conversation.  That was why the early hours didn’t bother him too much, baking made sense, people did not.

Stretching out his arms, getting ready for a long day of lifting and kneading, Rum opened the state of the art pantry to gather the things he’d need to make the several breads and pastries for the day.  In the fridge there were several that needed to rest over night before being finished and baked, he’d deal with them once he had made more to replace them for the next day and then…

The sound of a door opening broke his train of thought and almost made him drop the carton of eggs he was holding.  His heart began to race as he backed up in the pantry.  There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else there.  The idea of someone breaking in for money or food crossed his mind and the skin on the back of his neck stood up as anxiety slithered threw him and his stomach sank.  The alarm should have gone off if it was a burglar, but not if the back door hadn’t closed, had he checked?  Of course he had, he checked every day, or did he forget?  Was he thinking of yesterday?  He tried to take a deep breath to calm down.  It was possible he and another baker had been double scheduled, that had happened once in the past.  The only problem with that theory was that all bakers worth their salt and sugar knew that to wear heels on the job and he could hear the distinctive click of heels on the kitchen’s sheet rubber floor.  Heels that were heading towards the pantry he was cowering in.

Slowly the heavy pantry door opened and Rum tensed as the intruder stepped into the frame of the door.  The woman was dressed rather smartly in a blouse and skirt with her chestnut hair pulled back from her face.  She was looking down at a clipboard as she stepped further into the pantry and Rum began to feel weak with relief.  This wasn’t a well-dressed burglar; it was the owner and head chef’s daughter. Maurice French had told them she’d be coming back from collage soon and would be helping out with keeping track of inventory and things of that nature.  He shifted a little uncomfortably at realizing the daughter of his boss was going to find him hiding in the pantry; no doubt that would be shared with anyone and everyone that would listen, and if he wasn’t fired for being lazy he’d be laughed at by the rest of the staff.  It was ridiculous to care about what people he barely saw were saying about him, but now that he was thinking about it he couldn’t stop.

His thoughts were interrupted by the floor creaking under him, causing the woman to look up. They locked eyes and she jumped in surprise with a little squeak escaping between her lips.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” She said, her colour a bit high in her cheeks.  “I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s okay,” Rum replied with a weak smile she returned his smile with one much brighter and stepped a little closer to hold out her hand.

“You must be our baker; I’m Belle French, Chef Maurice’s daughter.”  He looked at her hand for a second and then reached out to take it.  “It’s so good to meet you.”  She said as he did.  “Papa told me someone else would be here at 3 but I lost track of time.  Sorry again for startling you.”

Words seemed to flow out of Belle in a nonstop rush and Rum was beginning to feel a bit awkward, he wasn’t used to being the centre of attention, especially when that attention was coming from a woman with bright blue eyes that sparkled with verve. They were still shaking hands, but he couldn’t seem to be the first to pull away as she continued to explain who she was.  Then finally she broke contact with a self-conscious laugh as she realized they had been shaking hands for longer than was normal.

“I’m sorry, listen to me go on, I haven’t even asked for your name.” Belle said, holding her clipboard to her chest like a shield as her cheeks turned pink.

“Chef Rumbert Gold, at your service.”  Rum managed to reply, he could feel his own cheeks beginning to heat.

“It’s nice to meet you, Chef Gold.”

“You can just call me Rum.”  He said, the words leaving him before he had a chance to think better of them, the way Belle’s smile widened seemed to make his moment of daring worth it.  Clearing his throat he ducked his head.  “I should probably get back to work.”

“Oh, of course, I’m so sorry, I should go back to work too.”  She seemed somewhat flustered as she turned to leave and then turned back to look at him one last time before leaving the panty.  “It was nice to meet you, Rum.”  Then she was gone with a little wave.

He returned her wave with one of his own, feeling silly as he did so but being unable to stop himself.  Rum wasn’t sure he’d ever met anyone like Belle French; her easy smile made him what to return it with one of his own.  After just a short conversation he couldn’t seem to get her out of his mind.  He tried to push thoughts of her away and focus on his work, but while he rolled out dough and glazed fluffy pastries with honey his mind strayed to her.

Over the weeks that followed his infatuation only seemed to grow.  Belle always stayed late after the restaurant closed so she was there when he came in and soon it became a new part of his routine to spend a few minutes with her talking about anything and everything.  It started with simple things, talking about the weather, or lamenting being up so early, but soon their conversations turned to new topics. A favourite of his was when Belle talked about the latest book she was reading, her eyes would light up as she described the world and the people that inhabited it and acted out the story that had her so entranced.  More than a few times he’d found a copy of the book she was in the middle of to read for himself, it made the conversations more lively when he was able to make informed replies, or even argue an opinion.

Soon they began taking their breaks at the same time and their conversations drifted from books to more personal things.  Belle had noticed he often ended up limping near the end of his shifts and he opened up to her about the accident he’d been in as a younger man that had crushed his ankle. It wasn’t something he liked to talk about, but something about Belle made him want to share with her.  He told her about the brace he had to wear most days so he could stand for so long.  She’d reached for his hand across the table after he’d finished telling her his story, he looked up into her bright blue eyes and for the first time in his life he didn’t feel the same shame he always did when thinking about his lame leg.

Every day they talked, and every day he became a little more smitten.  Rum knew it wouldn’t amount to anything.  Belle was young and vibrant and could have any man she wanted, she wouldn’t give him a second look; and even if by some chance she did feel for him as he felt for her, it wasn’t possible for them to be together.  As a co-worker and the daughter of his boss it would be highly inappropriate for them to be in a relationship.  He would have to continue being content with their daily discussions, it was enough for him, it was more than he ever expected when their first met.

Rum expected nothing to ever change, until it suddenly did.

He was in the middle of washing his hands up to his elbows between desserts when there was a sudden crash and scream from the dining room where Belle did her work.  He turned away from the sink, removing his foot from the lever that replaced the usual faucet.  It was handy to keep ones hands clean after taking care to wash them, and in this case it allowed him to dash out of the kitchen without having to take a second to turn off the water.

Rum pushed his way through the door mere seconds after Belle had screamed and found her standing several feet away from a broken light fixture that had fallen from the ceiling. He felt his heart sink as he took in the scene before him.  The dining room was a beautiful mix of deep reds and golds, the décor was immaculate, nary a thing out of place most days.  Today wasn’t one of those days.  If Belle had been sitting one table over she would have been crushed by the heavy light.

“Belle!”  He ran to her side, his hands hovering over her as he checked her for injuries.  “Are you alright?”  Rum asked, some of the fear he felt slipping into his voice.  She was still looking at the light and the broken table under it until he touched her shoulder.  “Belle?”

“What?  Oh, y-yes, I’m okay.”  She said, turning to look at him as if he’d broken some kind of trance.  “I almost sat there.”  Belle told him and he felt his stomach twist at the thought of losing her.

Her eyes seemed to study him for a long moment and then, before he knew it her arms where around him and her lips were against his.  Surprise made him freeze and feeling his still lips against hers Belle began to pull away, an apology on her tongue, but he stopped her with a kiss of his own.  The kiss was desperate and frantic and a little messy, it was perfect.  Rum’s hands trembled as he pulled her closer while they kissed.  He had never imagined this would happen, and having it happen so soon after her brush with disaster was too much for him.  He could have lost her, he almost had.  As he kissed her the thought occurred to him that Belle herself might be overwhelmed by what had just happened.

As he pulled away her lips followed his.  “Belle,” He murmured.  “You’ve had a shock.”

Belle pulled away herself this time, but her arms still stayed wrapped around his shoulders. “I have, but I’ve wanted to do this for weeks now.”

“Y-you have?” Rum asked.  She nodded and he swallowed hard.  “I have too.”  He admitted.

She smiled, her eyes sparkling; then she was kissing him and he lost sight of her eyes as they closed, but he kept his open.  Rum was still unable to believe that Belle was kissing him, that she wanted to kiss him.  He savoured the feeling of her in his arms, enjoying the swell of her breasts against his chest and the way she seemed to fit against him perfectly. Belle sighed into his kiss and he let his tongue tease her lips open for him. Both of them moaned as he flicked the tip of his tongue against the roof of her mouth.  In return Belle tangled her hands in his hair, letting her nails scratch his scalp; he groaned low in his throat.

Between them his cock pressed insistently against her thigh as she wiggled and then pulled away. His stomach twisted in shame as she left his embrace.  He’d ruined it, his body’s excitement had scared her away and now she was going to never let him touch her again.  He opened his mouth to apologize but the words got stuck in his throat as she hopped up on the table she’d been sitting at before the light had fallen and pulled him closer to capture his mouth in another fierce kiss.  Belle’s legs wrapped around his waist as she did so, her skirt hiking up as she did so.  Rum pressed a hand to the table to keep balance as the other one grasped her bare thigh, her nylon stockings only went up past her knees.  Moaning again he broke their kiss to presses desperate adulations long her jaw and down her neck, stopping to nibble at a spot that made her gasp and roll her hips against his.  His hand was squeezing her thigh now, if he wasn’t careful he’d mark her creamy skin but he couldn’t seem to stop, she drove him mad.

One of Belle hands moved from his hair to grasp his hand on her thigh and began to move it higher up until he could feel the heat from her core through her underwear.

“Rum, touch me.” She said, her voice breathless and needy.

Whimpering helplessly he had no choice but to obey, Belle’s wishes were his command.  He was rewarded by a soft whine of his name as he teased her through the cotton of her panties.  Rum watched her bite her lower lip as she moved against his hand, trying her best to get him to touch her where she wanted him.  He continued his ministrations, trying to drive her as mad as she was driving him.  The hand resting on the table moved to grasp her hip and then move up her side, then down again; his other hand mimicking his movements, up almost to her straining desperate bundle of nerves that so needed his attention, and then down to her entrance to circle, then all over again.  She felt as strung tight as a bow string, her body quivering in his arms. Working with dough every day gave him strong and sure fingers with total control over how he touched her.

“Do you want me to touch you?”  He asked. It was bold, more daring then he was, but Belle brought out things in him he hadn’t even known he was capable of.

“Yes,”  Belle sobbed in want and frustration.

With nary another word he pinched her clit making her whimper, her nails digging into his shoulder as the other returned to his hair to pull.  The pain made him gasp but he ignored the siren song of ecstasy and focused on Belle.  Rum rubbed her swollen nub as she tensed and shook in his arms, prolong the pleasure he had managed to give her.  Her lower lip was red and abused from how hard she had been biting it and he couldn’t help but lean down and take it between his lips for sipping kisses.  She kissed him back languidly as her breathing returned to normal and then leaned back to catch her breath.

He felt himself smile as he took in her flushed cheeks and mussed hair.  Then she looked at him and smiled mischievously, pulling him back to her for a searing kiss that made his smile fell away as he groaned. Belle’s hands had made their way to the buckle of his pants.  His hips bucked against her hands and then hissed as she pulled his cock out from his boxers. She pushed until his pants and underwear were around his ankles and then took grasp of his throbbing member to place her between her legs, with her other hand she pushed aside her underwear and guided him into her molten core.  With a shuddering sigh he slowly began to trust deeper into her.  He pressed his forehead against hers as he tried to keep himself in check.

Belle tilted her head up and kissed him again.  “It’s your turn.”  She whispered against his lips.

“Belle,” He moaned. “Oh Belle.”

Shakily Rum began to slowly move deeper into Belle’s welcoming passage.  The heat her body threatened to burn him alive, but there would be no sweeter way to go then held in her arms.  He was sure he had worked with ovens less scorching then Belle’s kisses and tasted confections less sweet then the airy sounds she made as he used shallow and deliberate thrusts to prolong the pleasure of being with her. With each thrust he panted her name, he couldn’t seem to stop.  Every word he’d ever known was replaced with her name as the feel of her surrounding him, holding him, drove him mad.  Even at his slow and measured pace he could feel his end racing towards him, to stave off the inevitable Rum rested more weight on his band ankle, the pain letting him focus on bringing Belle more pleasure.  Her nails where leaving lines of fire along his scalp again and she sighed and whimpered; she had wrapped her legs around him more tightly at some point and was grinding her hips against his, she urged him on moaning for him to go faster and he complied.

Hearing her gasping his name the warm breath of her words a gentle puff against his ear, was too much for him.  Rum was holding onto sanity by a mere thread, soon he would explode from sheer bliss, but he desperately wanted Belle to be there with him too.  He moved one his hands that had found its way to her hip down to tease and play with her clit, pulling a low whine from her throat.  He felt her hips jerk against his; she was so close, Rum could feel it, her inner walls beginning to flutter around his thrust cock.  Shifting his angle he thrust a few more times, it was only a miracle he was able to last until he hit the spot he had been aiming for.  Belle tensed in his arms and let out a sob, her inner muscles clamping down on him hard at the same moment he felt his pleasure rip through him. Lights burst behind his eyes as he squeezed them closed and pressed Belle close to his chest, his heart feeling like it would burst out of his chest.  When the waves of pleasure began to subside he realized he was breathless like he’d run a marathon.

Rum nuzzled Belle’s cheek, too weak to kiss her as she ran her hands slowly across his back. They stayed together for a long moment, enjoying the feeling of simply being together.  When they could finally move without worry of falling down Belle and Rum looked at each other and began to giggle uncontrollably.  They shared another kiss and rubbed their noses together.

The town of Storybrooke was considered small, by American standards, but large enough that she was still finding her way around after almost a week of exploring. She thought that she was starting to make friends, though. Ruby, one of the waitresses at Granny’s Diner, was sweet, with a ready smile and kind nature, and Belle had only had to order takeout coffees twice before she was invited to the regular Friday girls’ night at the local bar.  Ruby had also offered her a job waiting tables, working shifts with her and another girl called Ashley, but Belle had politely declined. She had a job in the flower shop that her father had rented as a fallback, but had her sights set elsewhere.

Her career plans required a visit to the Town Hall to make some enquiries with whoever was responsible for municipal services, and Belle hurried along the street, clutching her too-thin coat around herself and glancing anxiously up at the iron-grey sky that was threatening rain. She ducked inside the Town Hall with relief, and, having explained what she was enquiring about, was asked to wait for the relevant clerk. Dorothy Gale was a pretty, no-nonsense young woman with an air of efficiency, dark brown hair braided into two side-plaits. She eyed Belle with growing approval as she explained what it was that she wanted.

“I’d have to run it past the Mayor,” said Ms Gale. “Perhaps before the next Council meeting. There are certainly funds in the budget to cover the post, and God knows it would be good to get that resource going for the kids in this town. We just haven’t had a suitable candidate raise the issue. The place has been closed for as long as I can remember.”

“Well, I can show you my qualifications,” said Belle anxiously. “I had a job working part-time in the Melbourne library since I graduated last year, and—”

Ms Gale raised a hand, cutting her off.

“I don’t doubt you’re qualified,” she said. “But save it for the Mayor. If she wants to raise it at the meeting, of course. I don’t want to make any promises; there have been a lot of calls on town funding this past year.”

“Well, I appreciate your honesty,” said Belle. “But I’m sure you’ll agree that the children of this town deserve a dedicated library facility with all that would entail. Reading classes, story time, opportunities for after-school study sessions…”

Ms Gale was smiling.

“Like I said, save it for the Mayor,” she said. “You don’t have to convince me.”

“Okay.”

Belle sat back, feeling pleased. Ms Gale finished what she was writing, and looked up with a quirk of one eyebrow.

“You’ll need to convince Mr Gold, though,” she said.

Belle’s eyebrows drew down.

“Mr Gold?” she said, in puzzlement. “Isn’t that - I think that’s our landlord.”

“Yeah, I don’t doubt it,” said Ms Gale, straightening up and flicking her braids back over her shoulders. “He owns almost all the property in town. Including the library. The post would be funded by the town, but he would need to agree to the library being reopened. Which he’s so far failed to do.”

“What?” Belle blinked, surprised. “He doesn’t want the town to have a library?”

Ms Gale shrugged.

“I can think of six people off the top of my head who’ve asked him to rent the place to them,” she said. “Not for a library, admittedly, but someone wanted to turn it into a bookstore. Another person wanted to open up one of those books-and-coffee places. He turned them all down.”

“Oh.” Belle fidgeted, tugging at the hem of her skirt. “Do you know why?”

She shook her head, braids swinging.

“Maybe their business plans were bad, although you’d think any rent he could get for the place would be better than none.”

“So you think I’m wasting my time?” asked Belle, somewhat crestfallen, and Ms Gale shrugged again.

“Just saying don’t get your hopes up,” she said. “Even if he says yes, it could need some work doing before it would be suitable for use as a public building again. I imagine you’d need his agreement to cover that before the Mayor would even consider offering you the post.”

“Oh.” Belle chewed her lip. “Oh. Well, in that case, I’d better go try to convince him. Where can I find him?”

Ms Gale gestured with her pen.

“Back down to Main Street, go past Granny’s and the bakery. He owns the pawnshop on the corner. Can’t miss it.”

“Right.” Belle pushed back her chair. “Well, thank you. You’ve been a big help.”

“A moment.” Ms Gale set down her pen, folding her arms on the desk. “I should warn you. Gold’s not known for his generosity. Everything comes with a price with him. He likes to stick to the letter of any agreement he makes, and he and the Mayor are not on the best of terms.”

“Oh.” Belle felt a sliver of unease work its way beneath her skin. “Oh, well I - I guess I’ll have to do my best!”

“Good luck,” said Ms Gale. “If he agrees, come back and let me know.”

Belle walked back out onto the street, rain from the seemingly ever-present clouds just starting to spit. It grew heavier as she walked back towards Main Street, and she shivered a little, tugging her coat around herself and wishing that she had thought to buy an umbrella. She suspected that the few winter clothes she had purchased in advance of travelling to Maine would be both ineffective and insufficient, and she resolved to get a proper winter coat and some sturdier boots. Just as soon as she could be sure of earning her living as a librarian.

At just after four-thirty in the afternoon, it was already growing dark, the thick clouds adding to the sense of approaching night. Rain was drumming against the sidewalk by the time she scurried past Granny’s, and she shot the diner a furtive glance, its cheerful, warm light tempting her to duck inside and wait out the downpour. After a week in this town, however, she was well aware that the rain was probably only just getting started, and from the directions Ms Gale had given her, Mr Gold’s shop was not far. She pushed her chin down into her collar, hunching her shoulders, and quickened her pace, feeling a wave of relief go through her as she spotted the lit sign hanging outside her destination. Mr. Gold: Pawnbroker and Antiquities Dealer.

The shop was faced with sea-green clapboard, and she grasped at the rain-spattered door handle, pushing open the door. A bell above tinkled merrily as she ducked inside, and she quickly shut the door behind her to keep out the rain. She shook the water from her palm, instinctively wiping it against her coat as she looked around. The shop was quiet and seemingly empty, its floor laid with shining dark wood. It smelt of beeswax and very faintly of the musty scent of old books. A counter was in front of her, with an ancient cash register placed to one side of it. Paintings in a myriad of sizes were hung on the wall behind in ornate gold-painted frames: landscapes and bowls of fruit and people in clothes that were two centuries old or more. Clocks ticked in a low, comforting rhythm, and lamps with shades of coloured glass and painted silk sat in sconces on the walls, sending out a yellowish light that gave the place an air of something out of its time, pulled from the nineteenth century into modern day America, a tiny capsule of the past frozen in the present. The shelves of the shop held a myriad of objects: porcelain figurines and glittering glass vases, ancient toys in scuffed cardboard boxes, old books and silver plate. Glass counters stood in front of the shelves, shining warm light onto the treasures within, tea sets and trinkets, necklaces and netsuke, jade and jewellery.

“May I help you?”

Belle jumped, her head turning towards the back of the shop. A man had appeared, standing in front of a thick, patterned curtain, his hands folded over a gold-handled cane with a dark, gleaming shaft. He was short and slight, dressed in a slim-fitting dark suit that had to have been made for him. It was a three piece, the waistcoat over a silk shirt the colour of rich claret, the tie a lustrous black. His face was angular, with high cheekbones and a long nose, framed by soft sweeps of brown hair just starting to turn silver at the temples. Dark eyes ran over her before snapping back up to meet hers, and she was suddenly very aware that her hair was plastered to her head and rainwater was dripping from her coat in a steady stream to pool on the floor around her.

“Are you Mr Gold?” she asked, and his mouth lifted at one corner.

“Well, it is my shop.”

His voice was low, a growling whisper, thickened with the burr of a Scottish accent, and Belle could feel herself blush, her heart starting to thump as his eyes gleamed at her.

“Of - of course,” she stammered. “Sorry, I just—”

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he interrupted, and took a step forward, the cane tapping against the floor. “I suspect you’re Mr French’s daughter, yes?”

“I - yes.” Belle licked a droplet of rainwater from her lip. “How did you guess?”

“The accent is something of a giveaway,” he said, with a tiny grin. “How may I help you?”

“I, uh—”  Belle shook water from her hands, droplets spattering on the floor. “I understand I need to talk to you about reopening the library building.”

One of his eyebrows flicked, the merest indication of surprise.

“That place hasn’t been open in years,” he said, and his voice was suddenly, strangely flat. Emotionless.

“Yeah, so I heard,” said Belle. “Do you know why?”

“Because I chose not to open it,” he said simply.

“That’s - kind of a circular answer,” she said, and his mouth thinned, fingers opening and closing on the cane, irritation plain in the set of his jaw.

“My reasons are my own, Miss French.”

“Oh, of course!” she said hastily. “It’s your property, and - and I don’t mean to pry, it’s just - well, I just moved here, and I saw it, and I couldn’t help thinking that the town needed a library, and - and I’m looking for a job, so it just seemed a perfect fit, that’s all.”

Mr Gold eyed her in silence for a moment.

“Well, I do own the building,” he said eventually. “You’re a librarian?”

“I am.”

She drew herself up, feeling a swell of pride as she always did when she spoke of her profession. Mr Gold looked her over again, his gaze calculating, and she wondered what it was that he saw beyond her wet hair and unsuitable clothing.

“You’d need to get the Mayor to agree to pay the rent and to hire you,” he said then. “I have no say in how she chooses to allocate town funds.”

“Oh, I know that,” she said. “But - but I need you to agree to open it up for business first, right?”

Mr Gold continued to watch her, his fingers drumming slowly on the cane handle.

“I never intended to open the place again,” he said quietly, and she gave him her best smile.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to convince you.”

Mr Gold sucked in his cheeks a little, as though he was thinking it over. A rumble of thunder outside made her jump, and he smiled slightly.

“You seem to have run afoul of the oncoming storm, Miss French,” he said. “Would you like to come through to the back room to dry off? I could make us a drink, if you like.”

He turned on his heels, shining shoes swivelling, the light catching his hair as he pushed the curtain to one side and disappeared. For a moment Belle hesitated, left in the dimly-lit shop with its ticking clocks and the rhythmic drip of water from the sleeves of her coat. She raised her chin, stepping forward to follow him, the woven curtain a little rough against her fingertips as she pushed it aside.

The back room of Mr Gold’s shop was more haphazard than the shop itself. Shelves held a jumble of items, some still in thick cardboard boxes. Heavy ledgers sat in a row on one of the lower shelves, and there were benches with lamps and magnifying glasses and delicate tools that she presumed were for repairing things. Mr Gold was standing in front of a carved mahogany cupboard, and glanced over his shoulder.

“I could make you tea,” he said. “Or given the hour and the fact that you’re drenched, perhaps you’d prefer something stronger?”

“Something stronger sounds good,” she said fervently.

He nodded, reaching into the cupboard and retrieving a bottle of whisky before setting it on the bench and reaching for two cut crystal glasses. Belle watched as he hooked the cane on one arm and opened up the whisky, pouring a measure into each glass. He turned to her and held one out, that tiny smile still twisting his mouth.

“I hope this is satisfactory,” he said.

She nodded, taking it. Not her usual drink, but she’d deal. He took a sip of his own drink, cradling the glass in one hand and looking her over as he took the cane and got it under himself once more. She wondered how he had hurt himself, and whether it was permanent. With a cane as sleek and ornate as that, she suspected that he had been injured for many years. She raised her glass and inhaled the fumes, the sharp burn of whisky in her nostrils, an aftertaste of peat and warm honey. One sip, and fire coursed its way down her throat, smooth after the initial burn, its flames licking over her from within. She shivered, and Mr Gold set down his glass.

“Where are my manners?” he said, almost to himself. “You must be freezing. Let me take your coat.”

He walked over to her, and Belle put her glass on the bench, shrugging off her coat. The rain had soaked through the shoulders, and she cursed her own stupidity at not buying something thicker and more suitable for the Maine weather. Mr Gold’s hands were at her shoulders, drawing the coat down her arms.

“You’re soaked through,” he whispered. “You’ll catch your death. Here.”

Losing the coat made her realise how cold she was, her blouse sticking to her skin where the rain had gotten through, and Mr Gold hung her coat over the back of an old chair, striding swiftly to one of the shelves and retrieving a thick bundle of folded fabric. He shook it out, revealing a patterned woollen shawl in dark green and gold. Belle took it from him gratefully, wrapping it around herself and perching on one of the wooden stools beside the bench. Warmth immediately began to seep into her, and she picked up her glass again, sipping at her whisky.

“Thank you,” she said, and he nodded, taking a drink.

“Now,” he said quietly. “You wanted to talk to me about the library. Convince me to open it.” He gestured to her, fingers splaying outwards. “The floor is yours.”

Belle leaned forwards.

“Well, I’m fully qualified,” she said eagerly. “I was working at a library in Melbourne before we moved over here, although it was only part-time, and I have a ton of ideas that I’d like to try out with the local kids. Book clubs, after-school sessions, that kind of thing.”

“And you wish me to reopen a building that’s been closed for decades in order to facilitate this?”

“I - well, I - I hoped,” she said. “I saw that it was closed, and I - I wondered.”

“Another building wouldn’t suit your purpose, then?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I didn’t see any other places that were vacant, and given that it has a big sign outside saying ‘Library’, I figured I’d go with that one.”

Mr Gold took another drink, watching her over the rim of his glass, an intense, searching look, and she put her head to the side.

“Are you saying you have another suitable building I could use instead?”

“No,” he said abruptly. “Commercial real estate in Storybrooke is somewhat limited.”

“All the more reason to make use of what you have, then.”

His lips twitched, as though he were amused.

“So now we come down to my true interest in this matter,” he said, and raised an eyebrow. “What’s in it for me?”

“What could be more rewarding than knowing you’re helping to provide a valuable public resource?” she said, with wide-eyed innocence, and he grinned.

“Please. Be serious.”

“Well, if you want to be mercenary about it,” she said dryly. “I guess you’d get some rent out of it, too.”

“I don’t need the money.”

“Then you’re not losing anything by it, either.”

Mr Gold took another drink, watching her with the light of interest in his eyes. She wondered what he was thinking. He put down his glass.

“I daresay it’ll need a good clean,” he said.

“Oh, I can do that,” she said hastily. “I mean, as long as there are no major maintenance issues, of course.  If it’s just cleaning…”

“I also imagine that the selection of books in there is less than stellar,” he added. “It certainly hasn’t been added to since the library closed. You might want to ask the Mayor for extra funds.”

“Right.” Belle felt less sure that that request would be successful, but his response made her brighten. “Does that mean you’ll agree to open the building again?”

He gave her a twisted little smile, the fingers of one hand opening out in a fan. He had long fingers, she noticed, with smooth, neatly-trimmed nails.

“Well, it’s just sitting there gathering dust and costing me money,” he said dryly. “If you can make it work, all the better for me. Perhaps it’s time.”

“Right,” she said again, and took another drink, her mind working. He seemed to sense it, and tilted his head.

“Is there something else that you want to ask?”

“I was told that everything comes with a price with you,” she said.

Mr Gold sucked in a breath, tutting softly as he shook his head.

"It appears the townsfolk have been telling dark tales of my rapacity," he said, sounding amused. "What concerns you, Miss French?"

“Well - I guess I’m wondering what your price for this is.”

“That would be the rent that I’ll receive from the municipal funds, as you mentioned,” he said mildly, and raised an eyebrow. “Is there a different price that you’d prefer to pay?”

His eyes were glinting at her, gold flecks of reflected light shining on dark irises, and she licked her lips.

“N-no.”

Mr Gold showed his teeth, a gleam of gold on his lower jaw where one had been replaced.

“Excellent,” he said. “In that case, I suggest you make your case to the Mayor. You may tell her that the proposal has my full support.”

“Thank you.”

She took another drink, and there was a moment of silence. He was watching her, eyes dark and unblinking. The thunder rumbled again, and there was a flash of lightning outside the window. Mr Gold gestured towards the front of the shop.

“I’d offer to show you around the library,” he said. “But perhaps we ought to wait until the rain has died down a little.”

“Does that ever happen?” she asked wryly, and he grinned.

“North-eastern seaboard not to your taste, Miss French?”

“Back home it’d probably be in the seventies, and I’d be seeking out the air-con,” she said, and his grin widened.

“So what brings you to Maine, then?”

“Change of scene, I guess,” she sighed. “My mother died. Dad couldn’t bear to stay in our old place after that, and I - I didn’t feel that I could let him be by himself in a strange country while he was grieving, so…”

She shrugged, taking another drink, and he continued to watch her.

“Moving to the other side of the world is a little drastic,” he said, and she raised an eyebrow.

“You ever lose someone you loved?”

He didn’t answer that, but his eyes glittered, and eventually he glanced away.

“So, your father is a florist,” he said. “I hope his business venture is successful. This world could always use a little more beauty in it.”

“I’ll be helping him set up,” she said. “I’m hoping he’ll be able to take someone else on to help out, though. If the Mayor lets me run the library, that is.”

He took a sip of whisky, amber liquid shining in the glass, and she watched as the tip of his tongue swept a stray droplet from his lower lip. It gave her a familiar sensation in the depths of her abdomen, a tightening that she recognised as arousal. The thought made her cheeks heat, and she buried her nose in her glass to hide her blush. When she raised her eyes, though, Mr Gold was smiling a tiny secretive smile, as though he could read her thoughts, and was amused by them.

“I understand that it’s just you and your father living out at the house he rented from me,” he said. “Did no one else travel with you?”

“It’s just us,” she confirmed. “I’m sure if Dad were ever to decide to take in a lodger, he’d have to get you to okay it, right?”

“Is that likely?”

“Not as long as the shop prospers, no.”

“And how likely is that?”

Belle gave him a flat look.

“You ask a lot of questions,” she said, and he grinned again.

“Well, I’m a curious person. Goes with the territory.”

“Landlord?”

“Pawnbroker,” he clarified. “I lend money. Knowing people’s business is an unfortunate but necessary side-effect of that.”

Belle sighed, but nodded in acknowledgement.

“Dad knows the trade well,” she said. “His shop in Melbourne was always profitable. I guess it depends on how well that knowledge transfers to a town in Maine.”

Mr Gold sat back a little.

“And how are you finding our little town?” he asked. “Met anyone interesting?”

“Oh, yes,” she said dryly, and his smile widened as she failed to elaborate.

“Have you inherited your father’s passion for flowers?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“Well, I like them, and I have a reasonable grasp of the business itself, but I don’t think I have his flair,” she said. “I’m fine with the simpler arrangements, but if it’s something like designing table centrepieces for weddings or something - he’s so much better! I won’t be taking on the family business, that’s for sure.”

“Do you have a favourite flower?”

“Sunflowers,” she said immediately. “They always cheer me up. My mother used to bring bunches back to the house with her, and there were always some in the old cream jug she kept on the table.”

She bit her lip, looking down at the whisky swirling in her glass. Memories flooded into her head, the scent of flowers and herbs in their kitchen, the chirp of insects outside and the hiss of the sprinkler watering the flowerbeds. The sound of her mother singing off-key as she sliced oranges for juicing. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she closed them firmly. She had had enough of crying.

“Miss French.”

Mr Gold’s words were soft, gentle, but she started, eyes flicking open. He was watching her with an unreadable expression.

“I’m sorry if my question caused you pain,” he said quietly, but she shook her head.

“No, it’s just - memories, that’s all. Happy memories, which - which now makes them sad memories, I guess.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Yes, I can understand that.”

She took another drink, almost choking on the whisky, and dashed away a couple of tears. He sipped at his own drink, dark eyes watching her closely, and she turned her glass between her fingertips.

“Do - do you have family?” she asked hesitantly.

“No,” he said abruptly, and set down his own glass before glancing away. “It sounds as though the rain has eased a little. We could try to make a break for it, if you like.”

Curiosity was needling her at his taciturn response, but the thought of a library to explore was an immediate distraction. She drained her glass, licking her lips and beaming at him, and Mr Gold pushed to his feet, gesturing towards the curtain with his free hand. Belle walked through to the shop, noting that the rain was still falling, but seemed lighter.

“Perhaps it was just a shower,” she ventured.

“Perhaps.” He reached behind the counter and retrieved a black umbrella. “I think we’ll take this, though. And the car.”

Mr Gold’s car was an old Cadillac, its black paint and chrome grill shining in the rain, and he held the umbrella over Belle until she was inside before going around to the driver’s side and furling the umbrella. The interior smelled of leather, and she tugged the belt around herself as he got into the seat next to her. She watched the light from the streetlamps shining on the soft sweeps of his hair, and catching the odd silvery fleck of stubble on his cheek. He glanced across at her, eyes dark in the low light, and it made her shiver pleasantly.

“This won’t take long,” he said.

The library wasn’t far from the shop, but Belle was glad to be out of the rain, which, while lighter than it had been, was still falling rapidly. Mr Gold parked up outside the library, and Belle unbuckled her belt. He was staring up at the sky and frowning.

“I thought the storm might be passing us by,” he mused. “But it looks as though another wave will be on us soon. Perhaps we should do this another time.”

“We can make it quick,” said Belle, eager to see the library, now he had agreed to let her reopen it. Mr Gold sucked his teeth.

“I suppose it could be giving us some respite,” he allowed, and got out of the car, walking around to open the door for her.

They had barely made it to the library steps before the rain grew heavier, spraying the umbrella he was holding over their heads and bouncing on the road, silvery droplets jumping upwards with the force of it. Mr Gold unlocked and opened the door, and she ducked inside hurriedly, shoes clicking on the wooden floor. The library had blinds at the windows, and Belle jumped as rain lashed against the glass.

“A very brief respite, it seems,” said Mr Gold, stepping up beside her.

Belle tugged the shawl tighter around herself, the storm outside making her shiver, and looked around. The library was in darkness, racks of shelving looming in the shadows, and she took a step forward, trying to see in the gloom. Mr Gold walked to the left, flicking some switches, and the lights burst into life, sending out a comforting luminescence to make the shadows shrink back. Belle glanced around, noting the numbers of stacks and the old-fashioned circulation desk in polished wood, coated in dust. The floor was dusty too, but she noticed footprints in it, a trail of crisscrossing marks that led from the door to a point in the centre, and no further. She walked to the circulation desk and looked it over, pulling out the drawers to find old library cards, dog-eared and faded. There were ink pads and date stamps, and out of curiosity she picked one up. October 23, 1998.

“Has this place really been closed for twenty years?” she asked, holding up the stamp, and Mr Gold shrugged.

“As I said, I imagine you’ll need to restock.”

“Yeah,” she said absently. If the books were decades old, they may not even be holding together.

He had taken a few steps forward, into the centre of the room where the footprints petered out, and was gazing at the wall opposite, a plain expanse of painted white. Belle put down the stamp, skirting the side of the circulation desk and heading for the stacks of books. She ran a finger along the spines, eyes flicking over the titles as she moved further into the stacks. The books were properly ordered, but dusty, and she pulled one from the shelf, a thick, board-backed book of fairytales. Opening it up was a treat, beautiful illustrations in amongst the pages of text, and it looked to be in good shape. She would definitely need to update the collection, though. Modern classics, non-fiction texts, more children’s books, an LGBTQ section…

Lightning flared outside, and thunder crashed, making her jump. The lights went out with a pop, and Belle squeaked, almost dropping the book.

“Are you alright?”

Mr Gold sounded concerned, his voice seeming to echo strangely now that they were in darkness, and she slid the book back onto its shelf, groping her way out of the stacks. She slammed into a warm body, squeaking in alarm as she fell, and landed on top of Mr Gold, driving his breath from his lungs with a low grunt. They were both breathing heavily, and the scent of his cologne was drifting into her nose, spicy and woody. Her heart was thumping hard, her head spinning a little. Perhaps it was the whisky. For a moment she was frozen in place, feeling the heat from him seep into her and the hard length of his cane between her legs, but then the lightning flashed again and she gasped in shock as his features were revealed, the angular planes of his face and the deep shadows of his eyes, watching her.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry!”

She scrambled to get up, palms on the wooden floor beside him, pushing herself upright and holding out her hands for him to take. He held onto her with one hand, using the other to push himself up with his cane.

“Are you hurt?” she asked anxiously. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea you were there.”

“No matter,” he said, sounding almost amused. “Unintended things can happen when the lights go out.”

Belle let go of his hand as soon as he was upright, shuffling back from him on the wooden floor, mortified that she had knocked him over.

“Well, that’s more excitement than I’m used to of an early evening,” he said dryly. “There’s an apartment above the library for the caretaker, but perhaps we ought to look it over when the power’s back on. There are stairs. And furniture. All manner of things for you to fall over.”

“Yes,” said Belle hurriedly. “Yes, we’ll leave that for now, if you don’t mind. Not that I’m thinking of moving in here tomorrow, but—”

“It’s good to keep your options open,” he finished, and she nodded.

“Something like that.”

He was still standing in the middle of the floor, a slender figure with his hands folded over his cane, illuminated by the lightning flashes, purple and blue in the darkness.

“Would you like me to drive you home?”

“Oh, I don’t want to be any trouble,” she said, and he gave her that tiny grin again.

“Beyond dripping water all over my floor, drinking my whisky and knocking me flat on my back? I think I can handle your sort of trouble, Miss French.”

“Right,” she said, still blushing at the memory of lying on top of him. “Right. Well, okay. Thank you.”

He drove her home in near silence, and Belle sat with her hands folded in her lap, the woollen shawl still around her. She realised that she had left her coat at his shop, but she didn’t feel that she could ask him to turn around and get it. Besides, the thing was soaked through. She could pick it up the next day. Mr Gold changed down the gears as the Cadillac slowed and turned into the road where her father had rented their three-bed house. Heavy rain was making the wipers work hard, and the view through the windshield was a fragmented jumble of shapes and shadows and streaks of light from the streetlamps and houses that flanked the road. Mr Gold slowed to a stop outside her father’s house, and turned his head to face her.

“A moment,” he said.

He reached behind for the umbrella, unfurling it as he got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side to open the door. Belle got out hurriedly, grateful for the shelter. The rain was soaking the shoulders of his suit, and she stepped a little closer so the umbrella covered both of them. He walked her up the path and onto the porch, the cane clicking on the wooden slats, and Belle sighed in relief to be in some relative shelter.

“Thank you,” she said, and made to lift the shawl from her shoulders. Mr Gold shook his head.

“Keep it,” he said. “You can return it tomorrow. Assuming the weather improves.”

“I left my coat in your shop,” she said, and he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Then we can make a fair exchange,” he said. “Until tomorrow, Miss French.”

“My name’s Belle,” she blurted.

He mouthed the name, so softly she could barely hear it, soft lips forming the word. Her heart was thumping again, her breath quickening. There was a strange tingling in the air, electricity between them. It felt almost like anticipation, as though this was the end of a date and she was expecting to be kissed. She licked her lips, and his dark eyes flicked briefly to her mouth before returning to meet her gaze.

“Until tomorrow,” he repeated.

He inclined his head before stepping off the porch back into the rain. Water cascaded over the umbrella, and Belle watched as he walked to the car and got in. He met her eyes as he opened the door, and she felt her breath catch before he ducked inside and out of sight.

There is a room that is locked (but you have the key)

There is a locked room in the big pink house that he calls home.

When he and Belle decided to bring their lovely baby son there it had been easy to forget about that locked room. After all he had just got his family back, and all his energy had been devoted to the little baby and his beautiful Belle. They had passed that room without a second thought; direct to his (their) bedroom, where they slept next to each other with Gideon between them, carefully put in his basket to avoid crushing him.

The first few days it had been easy to not think about anything else that Belle and Gideon, making sure they were comfortable in the house. He sorted the nursery out, unused since Gideon was seven, (but no that hadn’t happened) leaving it ready to host his little son (again, but not again because he never was there to begin with).

Belle (who hadn’t lived here during the short time of the course and who didn’t have any cursed memories of ever been here, who wouldn’t know about the changes that the curse had done) had been marveled at the beautiful nursery.

That day was the first time he thought about the locked room, and promptly had magically removed every reminder of the existence of his son from the house and had sent it to the locked room. That night after Belle had fallen asleep he walked the few steps from his bedroom to the locked room.

He opens the door cautiously as if there was a bomb in the other side, and allows himself a minute to think about the contents of the room, but he doesn’t go further than the threshold of the door.

He feels like crying but he doesn’t know why,

Missing you (even though you are right there)

He holds his little boy and cannot avoid remember about other times.

Belle is impressed at his skills taking care of Gideon, and he cannot stop his bittersweet smile every time she mentions it. She looks him with melancholic eyes, and hugs him softly.

Maybe she thinks that he is thinking about Bae (and in part he is, but in part he isn’t, he is thinking about Gideon).

Gideon is a quiet baby, (but he wasn’t, he remembers interminable nights spent trying to soothe him into sleep) he doesn’t make much fuss (and even if he does this time around he isn’t alone, Belle is here to help).

When Gideon was a baby (in a life that never was) he loved a chestnut haired mammoth plush toy. The toy is there over the dresser of this locked room (Gideon’s room) it´s worn but well loved and in good condition (after all no one has ever used it, not really) and he thinks about giving it to his son (again) and a knot forms in his throat, and it’s silly ‘cause he’s thinking about his boy, the same boy that is sleeping in his cradle in the next room (but at the same time he isn’t). At the end he takes the mammoth and get out of the room, closing the door and wiping his eyes, and goes to the nursery where Belle is reading a story for their son. She looks up from his book to him, and he shows her the mammoth watching an enormous smile spread in her face. She closes the book while he offers the toy to Gideon (and if his heart jumps to his throat she doesn’t notice or ignores it). The baby so little and so beautiful, takes it and hugs it strongly, and he smiles (but he stills wants to cry).

Living through it (and dying a little in the inside)

They spend several weeks blissfully in their home taking care of their little baby, but they have obligations to attend. It was agreed that Gideon would spend the mornings in the library with Belle and the afternoons in the pawnshop with him.

He thinks his work here would help him to be distracted (but that is only wishful thinking and he knows it)

The shop has more mementos of his son that even the house has. His notepads, his half-finished projects, everything there contains (fake) memories of him. And even though his brain knows that his son spent just about 10 hours in this shop, his heart ignores the message.

He wonders if this is his mother last laugh, if she knew something like this could happen and prepared this on purpose to torture him, even in dead.

Sometimes when he is alone in the back room tinkering with some thing or another he raise his eyes expecting to see his boy in the other side of the table but he isn’t there… except that he is there sleeping soundly in his little basket.

It’s in that moment that he decides that he won’t change the sign, after all Gideon would spend some time here anyways.

Am I right? (Because it feels so wrong)

There must be something wrong with him, because he has everything he ever wanted. After all this time he has it all. His relationship with Belle is improving with every new day. He has his little boy back (but he cannot help but miss a time when he was there if only not so little). But he stills feels sad.

Sometimes he goes to the locked room and opens it, and observes the mementos of a life that he didn’t live, and a son that never used any of the things that are there.

He sit and the bed (were his son never slept) and cries, for the life that was erased and for the memories he cannot forget.

He is still there when Belle finds him in the middle of night, he tries to wipe his eyes but the dammed tears won’t stop. Belle enters the room and sit next to him, taking his hands on hers.

–Rumple… -her voice is soft and tentative –is something wrong?

He wants to tell her that nothing is wrong, but he can’t because the words are knotted in this throat and he cannot talk just cry while Belle tries to soothe him, speaking nonsense in his ear.

When he calms enough to speak, he tells her about the contents of the room (because she deserves to know) and he sees her face pale while glancing around. He tried to stop, to tell her that everything is okay, but now that the words started to flow he’s powerless to stop them.

–I tried to denial it at first. Those things, those memories never happen. Gideon was never here, he never used any of those things but I understood that those memories weren’t the only thing bothering me…

Gideon lived during 28 years… a life time and now he is a blank state again and I'm happy that we have our baby, I really am. But I cannot help but be sad for the boy we never have the opportunity to know, for the little kid that was forced to grow up without anyone to love him or support him. My sadness it’s not only for the memories the curse gave me but for our son who was raised for that psychopath, and for whom we couldn’t do anything to help. I failed another of my sons, and that would ever haunt my soul.

Belle hugs him really hard and there are tears running freely in her cheeks, but doesn’t say a word. He knows that she also feels guilty, that she thinks everything that happened to Gideon was her fault, so he hugs her hard too. And in a softer voice he tells her:

–But I’m not in denial any longer. He lived and he had a difficult life, but I won’t let history to repeat itself. I won’t fail my little boy again; I will try and I will be the best father for Gideon.

It’s a promise for Gideon, but also for her (the woman he loves and whom he had hurt so many times in the past) that her son (their son) would be safe forever.

Belle pulls a little apart from their embrace and gives him a soft little kiss, (that tastes like salt and comfort) and after that she smiles behind her tears and tells him.

–Oh Rumple, you already are…