The best place by the fire

He had never quite grown out of his cowardice, not completely. He had grown tougher, and meaner, but in his heart of hearts he was still someone whose first instinct was to run and hide, to protect himself. He had had to fight to suppress it, to acquire enough power to drown the impulse. In this he felt like he didn’t much differ from the young whelp that Belle had known all those years ago.

He still found situations where emotional vulnerability was needed the hardest to confront, so it was a testament to his determination that he made it into the library the day after his conversation with Zoso. He chose the time right after closing, having taken a gander that Belle would not close the library doors promptly at six. He looked around as he passed the circulation desk, noticing all the cosy, personal touches everywhere. The posters on the wall, the worn but well-kept furniture, the homey reading corners all around. Exactly the sort of library he had imagined when they talked about their future, and what they wanted from it. It had taken him thirty years, but he had finally been able to see it come to life.

“Robbie.”

He forced himself not to tense, turning around to stare at her. Knowing for certain that it was her did not diminish the initial impact of being in her presence. She was just as he remembered her, down to her preference for flirty skirts and high heels, but there was a look about her eyes, as if she had cried recently. And, he wagered, if not for some well-placed concealer he would see the bags under her eyes, or her wan complexion. He felt a pang of guilt at running away, taking into account he’d only thought of his own comfort and feelings. He hadn’t really allowed himself for the longest time to consider the librarian could be his Belle, the real one, that he hadn’t felt it necessary to think about what she might be going through. And either she had always been easy to read, his Belle, or he hadn’t forgotten how to do it, for he could see the anxiety and worry written all over her face. The reality of her hit him then, like a bolt of lightning. He stumbled forward, clumsy in his state of emotional distress, and reached out to touch her shoulder. She was warm and solid.

“You’re real.” He paused, words getting stuck in his throat, words he did not want to say but suddenly couldn’t hold back. “You’re alive.”

It had been one of his darkest fears, one that had grown as time passed and the possibility that Belle French no longer existed in this world became more likely. He was surprised when she tentatively touched his face, her fingers ghosting over the faint stubble on his cheek and brushed the sides of his hair.

“You too. I was so afraid, when I couldn’t find you...”

She trailed off, smiling while her eyes filled with tears and he stamped down the impulse to hug her. They were virtual strangers, the two of them. He needed to remember that. He wondered what he looked like to her: well dressed, certainly, and more educated, with more elegance than he had as a still-growing lad. But older, too, his hair with more grey in it than he likely noticed. The cane in his right hand was another unwelcome change, as were the roping scars on his ankle. He felt that everything that defined him was new to her. She, on the other hand, had not changed a bit. Not enough time had passed to mark her in any visible way. She dressed more modernly, and her make-up was a bit different, but she even smelled like he recalled. And the way she moved, the way she looked, the emotions playing across her face, were all achingly familiar.

“Please, come in. We need to talk.”

She dropped her hand from his face and ushered him further in, inviting him to her private office. She had an electric kettle and a few other basic items in one corner that seemed to serve as a modest kitchenette, and he watched her fill the kettle and prepare the cups and other tea things in silence. He had watched her do that a hundred times before in dilapidated first apartment, their little routine from when he came home from work, bone-tired and needing something warm and sweet. He rather felt like that at the moment too, and appreciated the cup when she handed it to him, along with the milk and sugar.  

The silence that settled over them as they both prepared their cups was awkward, made more so by how unnatural it felt to be uncomfortable with each other. He studied her over the rim of his cup, noticing she still had a preference for jewel tones and mixing patterns with solid colours. She looked out of place in a town such as Storybrooke, where fashion sense was something only seen in movies, but at the same time she seemed to fit right in.

“Do you believe me now? About the book? Is that why you’re here?”

The words were not accusatory but hopeful, which made him feel somehow worse. He nodded, struggling to decide where to focus her gaze to avoid her eyes without looking like that’s what he was doing. 

“I have all sorts of contacts in the antiques world. A reputable curator who specialises in rather rare items confirmed its existence. It’s, apparently, a very sought-after item in certain unsavory circles.” He paused, trying to remove most of the concern out of his voice, aiming for a perfunctory tone. “I’d suggest you stop looking into the matter. You might wound up on the radar of someone dangerous.”

She nodded, a tentative, fragile smile crossing her face.

“It doesn’t seem as important to find it now, anyway.”

She left the rest unsaid, but the weight of what she had not spoken still hung in the air between them. He kept automatically bringing the cup of tea in his hands to his lips to take a sip, if only to find something to do that would absolve him from talking. He didn’t know what to say, what he wanted out of this meeting. There was a part of him that simply wanted closure, that wanted what he had been denied decades later: the chance to part ways with Belle face to face, knowing that she hadn’t left him and that nothing horrid had happened to her. Hopefully, it would allow him to begin to heal what had been broken all those years ago, and would allow him to truly move on.

Another part of him, a part that he despised, that he scarcely allowed himself to acknowledge, wanted to see if anything about their relationship could possibly be resurrected. That wanted to toss everything aside, the time that had passed, the fact that he was a completely different person, the veritable sea of time and circumstance that seemed to separate them, and simply resume things where they had left off. 

Nevermind the fact that he was pretty sure that such a thing would be impossible, and almost assuredly not good for either of them. That it was foolish to even contemplate it.

“What really happened to you, then? What’s the real story of how I met you?”

He listened carefully, noticing the similarities and differences from what he could recall Belle had told him all those years ago. True to her nature, she had lied as little as possible, most of the details correct. She described finding the book and travelling back in time, landing inside the same shop years in the past. Told him about her first few days of denial, and the difficulties surviving in a world where she had no documentation, no support, no safety net. 

She talked about meeting him, and feeling a connection to someone for the first time since her father had passed. Talked about how she had struggled for the longest time between returning to her time, to the life she had left behind, the friends and dreams she had left in her present, and staying there.

After that shattering little revelation the silence stretched between them, filled with the clinking of china and the rustle of fabric as they both fidgeted, uncertain on how to proceed. He was still trying to process what he was feeling at the moment, the sense of abandonment he still felt after all those years battling with the revelation that not only had she not left him, she’d been prepared to give up her entire life to stay there with him.

“So…” Her voice surprised him, making him flinch, having gotten too deep into his thoughts. She, the kind soul she was, pretended not to notice. “You got your antiques shop. Looks lovely, by the way. I would like to see it from the inside, if that’s alright.”

It was a lifeline, what she was throwing him, a chance to start the conversation in a place that wasn’t his shattered ankle or the fact that he was now decades older than her. He took it, talking about coming to Storybrooke to settle down, after living a few years in New York, attracted at first by the real estate in and around the town, which was looking to appreciate in the future. He alluded, in a roundabout way, to some of his shadier past in the city, and was surprised by how unsurprised Belle looked. He had been a harmless lad when he’d known her, after all.

When she made a halting attempt at enquiring about his ankle he changed the subject swiftly, and was happy when she did not comment. He told her instead about the house he lived in, and how he conducted his antiques business from the town. It was a sanitised summary of the last thirty fucking years of his life and yet it was the most anyone on Earth knew about him, the most he had ever shared with another soul about himself. 

She told him about her own life, about what was true of what she had told him about her and what she had fudged or otherwise made up. He didn’t comment on how he knew most of it, given the research he had commissioned on her. As she spoke he took her in, trying to get used to her presence, with little in the way of success. No matter how many years had passed since he had last met her, Belle was still a force of nature to him. The pull of attraction in the pit of his stomach was as familiar as it was surprising. It seemed that no matter how much time had passed, no matter how old or jaded he’d become,  he was taken in by Belle the same as he had when he was but a wee lad. She still exerted that invisible pull that he couldn’t understand or control.

He knew then and there that a friendship, or a casual acquaintance, would be impossible between them. It would only end with him getting hurt, with him wanting more than he could get. It’d be foolish, for sure, not to mention emotionally devastating. 

He told himself that it would be enough, in the long run, after he was done processing everything, he’d be able to at least take comfort in the notion that he now knew she hadn’t abandoned him. That she hadn’t left because he hadn’t been enough.

“My shop. I need to open it back up. I’ve been gone for too long.”

He stood up, feeling a bit like he was on autopilot, thinking about the quickest escape route that wouldn’t make it look like he was fleeing.

“Oh, I thought, maybe we could talk some more?”

“Perhaps. Later. When it’s more convenient.” He backed away with as much dignity as he could muster, trying to appear unruffled. He paused by the exit, doorknob in hand, but did not turn around, did not look at her. If he did, he was lost.

“I’m glad you’re well.”

Then he opened the door and was gone.

Belle watched him go, a sinking feeling spreading across the pit of her stomach. Her worst fears seemed to be coming true, the pessimistic daydreams she had had since coming back to her present and starting her search for Robbie seeming to coalesce into reality in front of her eyes. 

Ever since she had started looking for Robbie she’d had two fears, both looming large on the back of her mind. The first was the fear that he was dead. After all, Robbie had lived a rather precarious life in a dodgy part of London, and had gotten in a few scrapes while she was with him, pub brawls and such. Their first meeting had involved a robber threatening him with a knife. 

But she had pushed through that. Had told herself that she’d want to know either way. That it would at least provide some form of closure. But every time she’d tracked Robert Golds across cementerios and obituaries and they weren’t him she’d been relieved.

The second fear was that he would feel little to nothing upon meeting again. Either because he resented her, her sudden and unexplained parting, or because he had just outgrown her. That he simply would be in another phase of his life, having simply moved beyond their relationship, and uninterested in revisiting it, leaving her behind to try and get over him by herself. 

That seemed to be the case. But at least they’d been able to talk. She’d been able to successfully explain what had happened and, against all odds, he had believed her. Hopefully there was some closure to be found there, even if she wasn’t able to feel it right away. She distracted herself by shelving books, telling herself as she pushed the cart in between the stacks that she should be happy. Robbie was alive. He had gotten his antiques shop, like he’d always wanted. He didn’t seem to struggle for money, or comfort. And the notion of him pining after her for years was selfish. She should be glad he had moved on with his life, and had managed to build a good life without her.

Maybe, over time, they’d be able to be friends, or at least acquaintances. Close neighbours who orbited each other’s lives, who saw each other a few times a week, perhaps, and said hi from opposite sides of the street. Maybe she’d be able to visit his shop, or he’d stop by the library to check out a book every once in a while, and they would talk for a few minutes, and she’d get a glimpse into his past, perhaps, or his daily life. 

That should be enough.

‘But it isn’t, is it?’

The thought snuck by her as she shelved the last book on her cart, a heavy encyclopaedia a couple of kids had taken out to research a project. She knew it immediately to be true, in the way some things just are, with no grey areas or space for different interpretations. Before, when the idea of meeting Robbie again wasn’t a guarantee as much as a pipe dream, she hadn’t really known for sure what she’d feel like if she saw him again, what expectations she’d have. 

Now she knew. Knew that yes, the Robbie that had been in her library moments ago might be older, and different, but his eyes were still her Robbie’s. He still had the same shaggy hair, longer than what was fashionable. And he still spoke with the same familiar burr, only softened.

The pull of attraction was still there too. Something about him that drew her in like nothing else, no matter how many differences there were between the man she’d known thirty years ago and the one she’d seen that day.

 And she wasn’t stupid. She knew that, objectively, the man she’d seen a few hours ago was in many ways diametrically different from the Robbie she had fallen in love with. That he’d lived entire decades without her. He had been through things she had no knowledge of. That he was different in ways she hadn’t been able to even glimpse earlier, that wouldn’t have been obvious in the brief conversations they had shared. 

She knew that and didn’t really care. All she could think about was how unlikely their reunion had been. He had moved to an entirely new continent, and to a small town to boot. She wagered his digital footprint was small, and well-concealed, he seemed to value privacy and have the means to ensure it. She doubted she could’ve ever raised enough money to afford the kind of investigator that could go deep into the databases that would’ve allowed her to find him. 

She had gotten cosmically lucky in a way that felt surreal, that felt like an impossibility, something too good to ignore. She couldn’t just pass up the opportunity because she was afraid. Afraid of him not feeling the same way, or that they’d give it a go, it would end in disappointment and heartache. That they’d find themselves too incompatible. And that, at the end of it, it would taint what they had had.

She wanted to take the risk.

She clocked out of her shift as soon as she was able, grabbing her coat before sprinting across the street to the pawnshop. She didn’t allow herself a moment to stop, fearing that she’d lose her courage, and stormed rather inelegantly inside the store, trying to build herself up to what she wanted to do.

Everything about the shop from the inside reminded her immediately of her Robbie and less the man in the suit that had showed up at her library earlier. It was an organised mess, the kind that he’d thrived in, with wallpapered walls, glass curios all over and merchandising all over, some even hanging off the ceiling. There were touches of her Robbie everywhere, from the myriad of antique toys on display- he’d had a passion for banks, especially, spending hours tinkering with the damaged ones he managed to rescue off thrift stores- to the china pieces and gameboard sets, things that required attention to detail and patience to restore. 

She saw other things as well, that spoke of new interests. A fascination for expensive clockwork and jewellery stood out once she examined the curious more closely. Those were glimpses into the Robbie he had become, the one she was as of yet unfamiliar with. But the ornate, old cash register he stood next to was exactly like the one he had always talked about having, and it reassured her. 

He stood behind an old glass counter with wood trimmings, a tumbler next to his right hand, full of a dark amber liquid that she suspected was whiskey. He looked less put together than he had a few hours ago, hair disheveled, as if he had run his hands through it one too many times, and tie loosened. He seemed startled by her appearance, and the vulnerability she saw there, now that he had had no time to mask his face, to school his features, gave her hope that he might be as affected by her as she was by him, in a way that had nothing to do with the supernatural nature of their reunion. 

“I understand if you’re not interested.” The words rushed out of her mouth, her mind forgetting what she had rehearsed just hours ago and deciding she could just wing it instead. “I mean, it was so long for you. I get that you might want nothing to do with me other than, perhaps, closure. I get if you’re uninterested in revisiting a relationship that you probably forgot about long ago.”

“What?”

“I thought that finding you would be enough. I wasn’t looking to pick up where we left off when I began trying to find you. I always understood that you’d lived an entire life without me and were unlikely to be interested in some random fling from the past.”

She took a deep breath, missing completely the flabbergasted look on the pawnbroker’s face, too caught up in trying to make some sort of sense and not blow her chance.

“But meeting you has made me realise that I want to make a go at it again. Or, at least, I want to see whether it’s possible. It may be stupid, and it may not be what you want-” 

“What?”

“But I needed to say it, at least. To vocalise it, to make sure that I at least take a chance.”

“A chance to what?”

She brushed off Robbie’s cold, cutting tone easily, recognising the frostiness as a defence mechanism, an inflection he used when he wanted to mask vulnerability. He seemed to be gearing up for a fight of some kind, the defensiveness in the gesture tugging at her heartstrings.

“To see if we can love each other now like we did back then. With you so different, and me so unchanged.”

He deflated, her words disarming him, leeching the aggression right out of him till there was only a grim certainty left behind. He knew right away that the only possible answer to her proposal was a no. She didn’t know, couldn’t grasp, just how different they were, but he did. So it was up to him to do the right thing and gently, but firmly, set a boundary, a line in the sand they shouldn’t cross. It would be for her own good, even if she couldn’t appreciate it. 

He opened his mouth to do just that, but found himself mumbling instead:

”You want what? To date?”

She smiled, relieved, and nodded.

”Yes, exactly. Just… take things slow. Explore things with little pressure. Get to know each other all over again, see where it leads.”

The way she said it told him about how careful she was being, making sure to try and keep things the right amount of casual, knowing too much would spook him. Her ability to pick the right words, toeing the line between sounding too flippant and too serious, made him nostalgic. He had forgotten what it was like to be so seen by someone else, to be known in a deep, meaningful way. Enough was left of his old self, apparently, for Belle to tug at, gently.

She wrote her number on a piece of paper, and asked for his number in return. Acting as if in autopilot he recited his cellphone number, trying to wrap his head around what he had just agreed to do and what manner of dating activities were there to even do in a small town like Storybrooke. He had never had to consider that before.

”So, when will you be available? It doesn’t have to be right away, or for anything elaborate. I think sharing a meal somewhere familiar should be a nice first step.”

He hesitated, his head suddenly full of second thoughts, imagining all the ways in which dating anyone, much less someone he was as emotionally compromised by as Belle, could go terribly wrong. It seemed too much risk to take for something he was almost certain was a doomed enterprise from the start. He opened his mouth to tell her that, to backpedal smoothly, when he caught sight of her hands, her fingers nervously twisting around each other, the only outward sign of how nervous she truly was, and how much she was trying to be brave.

“Friday night works for me, if it’s alright with you.”