Chapter Text
She set her book down on the nightstand beside her, jostling the tall stack of previously read books as she did so. Her eyes felt wide and dry, rimmed with the hours of sleep she’d just missed. She anticipated more sleepless hours to come. She thought reading would help. It helped with everything else that caused her stress, anyway. But she’d heard somewhere that reading in bed actually prevented one from getting a good night’s sleep . . . an article she’d probably read in bed, while struggling for sleep. She chuckled to herself dryly.
She stretched and tossed off her covers. The room was bathed in soft yellow from her lamp and she knew that simply turning it off to invite darkness wouldn’t help. It didn’t help last night, or the night before that, or the night before that. Lately, the only thing that had been helping was a good walk.
Her boots were already waiting for her at the front door. She could practically hear them calling to her as she made her way down the staircase, lazily ducking her head into an oversized sweater and pulling her arms through. After tucking her feet into the boots and donning a coat, she went out to greet the night.
The air was chill and the breath she took in felt sharp and satisfying. It drifted before her in a glistening cloud. Her eyes still hurt, and the memories of just what was keeping her up these several nights kept prickling at the back of her mind. She tried to avoid the thoughts, instead focusing on the story of the book she’d just been reading and on the dark night ahead of her. The silver of the moon was a beautiful contrast to the yellow of her bed table lamp, anyway.
Names, she thought to herself, listening to the soft padding of her boots on the pavement. There are many forms of love and affection, some people can spend their whole lives together without knowing each other’s names, her book had said, and she couldn’t shake it. She almost wished she hadn’t read it. Because he never used her name, he only called her Miss French, and it was equally infuriating and provocative. He said it when he was being kind, he said it when his tone was clipped, he said it in warm greeting, he said it with indifference. Miss French. Miss French. Miss French.
The Rabbit Hole was one way, her library and his shop the other. The forest was ahead. She didn’t want the low hum of red light offered by the bar, and the darkness that blanketed the forest felt unnerving. So she followed the path she’d taken the previous night’s walks before, down to her territory, and down to his. The street lights overhead pooled their welcome in greeting to the familiar midnight tenant.
Miss French, his voice echoed in her head, and the memories she’d been avoiding came flooding back.
It had been a month since she’d accidentally walked in on the two of them bickering over partially fulfilled rent payments, he and her father. He’d appeared to be in his element, hunched darkly over his cane with Belle’s father awkwardly leaning forward while sitting on an overturned bucket, hands rhythmically wiping the sweat from his palms up and down his thighs. Bits of stems and crushed petals lined the floor around him, evidence of the barely afloat flower shop.
Her father had never been a particularly strong man; she’d grown up having to carry all the strength between the two of them, ever since Mom died when she was just a girl. She’d have to do it now, too. Face their landlord and his prodding for what he very well knew her father couldn’t produce. She had taken a breath and stepped forward to make her presence known in their conversation.
But his demeanor had changed upon seeing her, back to the lighter air he carried when approaching her for her own rent. Perhaps because she was always on time and always with the full amount, his stop with Belle was often a jovial one, allowing for a fair amount of small talk before he departed to put back on his dealer’s mask and terrorize the town’s other residents. But seeing that face with her father was hitting too close to home.
Ready with strong words and to stomp her foot if necessary, either possibility was cut short as he breezed an exit past Belle with a smile and something about having a lovely afternoon. The smile was false and the words were jagged, but nevertheless softer than what her father had just endured. A week after the incident Belle had scrounged enough money to slip quietly into an envelope that, after some light refusal on his part, her father finally accepted as help to keep the flower shop alive a little longer.
She’d always heard that the pawn shop owner was a monster. That was name the town had given him, though her friend Ruby had a choice more vulgar words she often chose to fling his way when he wasn’t actually in view. Belle had never thought of him like that, though. She’d given him other names. Mystery. Layered. And somewhere, surely, underneath those crisp suits and menacing stares, Good. But here she was, finally on the receiving end of just what it was everyone hated him for, however indirectly.
She didn’t blame him, she blamed her father. But that didn’t mean seeing the faltering in her father’s expression and the desperation in his voice didn’t sway her soft heart.
Naming is a difficult and time-consuming process; it concerns essences, and it means power. She couldn’t pry her memories and her book apart anymore. Power meant everything to him, that was clear. He’d almost looked happy at her father cowering before him, and that look on his face was what had been keeping her up these nights. Of course the suddenly tight bills weren’t helping, what with the aid she now offered her father. But that face . . . would he ever look that way at her, that dark crooked smile, those hands gripping his cane, fingers flexing, if she ever missed a payment? Would he offer her that gleeful look of anticipation at her failure? It was making her sick.
She’d been avoiding his name in her head during this walk, and each nightly walk before that. But here she was now, in front of his shop, the name scrawled along the top.
“Mr. Gold,” she whispered, unsure what tone to give to the name.
A light was on, despite the late hour. The soft yellow was the same of her bedroom lamp when her sleeplessness was getting the better of her. It seemed she wasn’t the only insomniac in town. His soft light had been on every night she came wandering over his way, and she sometimes saw his shadow working beneath it.
“Mr. Gold,” she whispered again, deciding ferocity was the appropriate tone.
“Mr. Gold,” this time with an exasperated sigh.
“Miss French,” came a voice behind her, and she jumped violently, biting her tongue so as not to gasp aloud. The sharp taste of copper bristled in her mouth.
He was behind her, wearing his usual crisp suit accompanied by a heavy wool coat and scarf and she was briefly distracted by the handsomeness of it all. She was also briefly embarrassed by the appearance of her bedclothes and had to remind herself it was perfectly acceptable to be wearing such in the middle of the night, even if her location was strange. She couldn’t even picture him in bedclothes, she realized.
The look on his face was not the one that’d been keeping her up at night, but one of deep interest, and they stared at each other for a long moment before either spoke. His eyes swept over the skintight fabric on her legs and she persuaded herself it was not so different than the tights she wore during the day, so she shouldn’t allow embarrassment to stain her cheeks. She was grateful for the baggy sweater and pea coat that hopefully hid her braless state.
“Mr. Gold,” she said, trying to hide the budding red in her mouth, “you startled me.”
“Apologies, dearie,” he said, that unwavering gaze on her, “but you startled me. I have regular business hours, you know.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Well, this isn’t the ideal hour for satisfying your sudden itch for antiquing.”
She shook her head a little. She liked to think she was one to keep up with his quips, and hated that her hazy sleepless state had slowed her down.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said with a sheepish smile. “Sometimes a walk . . . however late the hour . . . helps to clear my head.”
“Helps you to forget,” he said in a low voice.
“Yes,” she said, though try as she could, no forgetting was getting done. “Your shop wasn’t my destination, I’m sorry, it was just . . . along the way.”
“I see. And what was your destination?”
She hesitated, then laughed something quiet and throaty. “Inner peace,” she said, the sarcasm light on her breath.
He tilted his head. “The map to that destination has yet to be drawn.”
She did not respond to him, but instead watched as he flexed his fingers over his cane, in a way she was familiar with, in a way that somehow eased the situation.
“You’re quite underdressed,” he said, running a hand down his own coat. “You’ll catch your death out here.”
He was right. Despite her coat and sweater, when she wasn’t moving she was shivering, and her layers were nothing compared to the many he wore clearly keeping him snug.
“Yeah, well,” she started, fumbling, “because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me,” she said, then immediately felt sheepish and quite stupid. Had she just recited poetry at him?
He raised his eyebrows. “Of course the town librarian would be wandering alone at night and quoting Emily Dickinson.”
She laughed softly. Thank god he hadn’t rolled his eyes at her. “I’m sorry, like I said, you startled me.”
“Startled you into poetry recitation. Can’t quite say I’ve received that reaction before.”
She laughed again, looser this time, and he finally smiled at her. It was a smile she was used to, the one he gave her when they chatted at the library.
“Let’s get you out of this cold, dearie,” he said, stepping in closer, but moving on past her towards his shop like he intended her to follow. To her surprise, she did.
Dearie. He called her that often. He called everyone that. It was the condescending name he gave everyone, and she didn’t like it, but she didn’t want to walk away. Here she was, out in the night, sleepless and stressing over this very man, and here he was, awake in his own dreamless state, wandering the black streets. It all seemed too good an opportunity to pass up.
The door to his shop opened with the gentle chime of bells, and he held it for her in an unspoken invitation. Her hands were buried in her coat pockets and they clenched into hidden fists. She eyed him warily, not really able to see his face against the shop light glowing behind him. She entered anyway.
Once inside, Belle blinked a few times as her eyes adjusted to the light, dim as it was. When she looked Mr. Gold in the face again, she saw that his eyes also looked wide and dry, red-rimmed and sleep deprived. But he didn’t look hazy the way she felt; he looked jittery. She wondered what was keeping him up each night.
“Are you all right?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He paused, having walked ahead of her, and turned back to face her, “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
He came up behind her, offering to take her coat. She obliged, until she suddenly remembered her bare breasts and clearly visible nipples underneath her oversized sweater. Unable to protest in time without bringing direct attention to the matter, she quickly folded her arms over her chest as he hung her coat on the rack, then joined it with his own.
“You don’t even look tired,” she noted.
“Been drinking coffee all night. It’s time for tea. Would you care for some?” he asked, his voice quiet as he turned around again. They both let their previous questions go unanswered.
“. . . yes, I would, thank you,” she said.
He stepped around his counter and disappeared behind a curtain. She tried to busy herself in his absence by looking over his shop, leaning back against the glass case and facing out. Her exhaustion was catching up to her, now that she was enveloped in the warmth of his shop rather than the crisp night air. Her body wanted to lie down, but her eyes protested when she tried to close them, their dry rims burning. It was for the better; if he found her snuggled against the floor of his shop who knew what he’d say.
She had only been in his shop once or twice, and was charmed to remember how cozy it looked. Warm hues of red and brown layered themselves about the shop, and the place had a spicy musk to it, with each item on display free of dust or fingerprints. She expected no less from the meticulous Mr. Gold.
He returned several minutes later with a tray surrounded by equally pristine tea things. Proper tea, she noticed, loose leaf and smelling wonderful. When he handed her her cup, he did so in the same manner she employed when handing him a library book – slightly brushing his fingers as she withdrew her hand. The gesture wasn’t lost on her, and she looked up to see his eyes meeting hers in a way she couldn’t quite read.
They drank in silence, and the more he watched her, the more self conscious she felt. So she countered his look, staring right back at him.
“It’s strange seeing you at night,” she started softly. “Like I get to see another part of you. A secret. Though you’re just as immaculate at night as you are during the day,” she said, gesturing to his suit.
He smiled. “Just haven’t had time to go home yet. You though,” he gestured back, “this is quite a different look for you. I’m the one who’s indulging in a secret.”
“Oh, this was just thrown together for my walk, I normally don’t wear anything to bed,” she said, only fully realizing what she’d just said moments later. She silently cursed herself, cheeks staining.
“Fascinating,” he said, biting his cheeks to keep back a wicked grin.
She buried her face in her hands. Her eyes stung and her head ached with a dull, raw feeling. The embarrassment wasn’t helping. “I’m sorry. I haven’t slept proper in ages. And being here with you, it’s a little unnerving.”
“Really? You’re the last person I ever thought I’d unnerve.”
“Usually that’s the case,” she muttered, “but we’re out of our elements, aren’t we? I’m not surrounded by my books, and you’re not surrounded by your mountains of gold.”
“I’m not Scrooge McDuck, you know.”
She giggled.
“Besides,” he said, “this is my element. My pawn shop. This is where the naïve come to strike a deal with me.”
She bit her lip. The conversation was heading directly where she didn’t want it to, her conflict and confusion rising with each step they took closer to acknowledging how he’d treated her father.
He noticed the shift in her mood. “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?” he said, and his face was so warm that she knew she couldn’t. The feelings rising in her and keeping her awake at night were a combination of longing for him, anger with him, anger with her father . . . and god, the way he was looking at her was only making it worse.
She ignored his question. “What’s keeping you up? Why haven’t you gone home yet?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but hesitated. “There’s a lot around here I need to finish before I can go home.”
“Perhaps you should hire a shop assistant.”
“Are you offering your services?”
She smiled at the way half of his mouth crooked up while saying that. “But then who would supply the community of Storybrooke with knowledge only the pages of books can supply?”
“Wikipedia, I imagine.”
She mock scoffed at him. “Well, between that and eBay, you and I are likely to be irrelevant soon then, aren’t we?”
He laughed gently, and she found the sound perfect, a realization both wonderful and uncomfortable.
“At least unknot that tie,” she said, surprised at her own boldness. He gave her a funny smile, but reached up to his neck to oblige. He unlaced the thing from about his neck, and let it rest on the counter, undoing a button or two until a small triangle of flesh was exposed. “Better?”
“Better,” she said quietly. “Now I don’t feel so frumpy.”
“There are many words I’d use to describe the way you look tonight, but frumpy isn’t one of them,” he said. He was nuzzling the fabric of his discarded tie between his index and middle finger, his hand dangerously close to the blanketing fabric of her sweater pooled near. With a transition she didn’t quite catch in its process, he wasn’t fingering his tie anymore, but the edge of her sweater near her wrist. The move was smooth and natural, because it was one she’d allowed before.
They’d both done it to each other, treating their clothes like introductory skin. In the library he’d note how fond he was of a particular color she was wearing, and would reach up to brush the fabric between his fingers, gently, with an expression trying to read itself as offhand. And she would return it in kind with a touch to his pocket square or his tie, occasionally the fabric at his elbow or collar. They hadn’t played this game since she’d encountered him with her father, though. The reminder cast a shadow over his face.
She pressed the question again. “Are you all right?”
He hesitated before responding. “An old pain, nothing new,” he said with a dismissive hand. “Some scars simply don’t heal.”
It would have been easy to guess what was wrong. He was a man who struck many deals, and drew a hard line with each one. Being the town terror probably offered many sleepless nights, if one was wrestling with their conscience.
“Let’s strike a deal,” she said, causing him to raise a single brow. “I’ll stop asking what’s bothering you if you stop asking what’s bothering me.”
He sniggered slightly, then nodded.
His first answer rolled around in her head, though. When he’d mentioned scars she was aware he wasn’t referring to his leg, but she now caught him absently rubbing at his knee, a gesture that immediately reminded her of her father, back when he rubbed his legs in absent desperation as Gold pounded down on him. The memory soured her mood, and she told herself she should tip her scales of opinion of Mr. Gold towards anger rather than whatever crush this was she had on him. So she made a plan to hastily finish her tea and make her exit, but through the haziness of her thoughts she realized he had spoken.
“My name,” he’d said.
“I’m sorry, what?” she blurted, embarrassed to have been caught lost in her mind again.
“You said my name, earlier,” he said, cupping his tea in his long fingers and not looking at her, “when I bumped into you out there.”
She felt her face turn red, and as she reached forward for her tea cup to drain the last sip, she accidentally knocked it to the floor.
She quickly stammered an apology and knelt down to retrieve the cup, where he joined her in an attempt to get the cup himself. He hesitated when they were on all fours grasping together for the cup and looking at one other, and she realized her sweater was gaping wide open at the neck, giving him a full view of her chest. He said nothing, and she quickly rose.
“Your name,” she said, her red deeper than ever. “I had just been, er, just reading your front sign, aloud,” she said. “You know me, I, eh, like reading.” She couldn’t have felt more stupid if she had broken his teacup . . . which she apparently had.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured once he’d risen to join her, wincing from the pain in his leg. “It’s chipped, I’m so sorry. You, you can hardly see it.”
He sighed and engulfed her hand and the cup with his own hands, steadying her. “It’s just a cup,” he said.
Between a bitten tongue, a chipped cup, and flashing her chest at Mr. Gold, Belle was thoroughly ready to crawl back into her covers and die.
“I should be going . . .” she said.
He didn’t try to stop her, not right away. “May I walk you home, Miss French?”
“Belle,” she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.
“Pardon?” he said.
Her mind was so rough and drained from her insomnia. She offered up a silent prayer for the ability to reclaim at least some of her wits for her next sentence. His triangle of exposed skin, tan and lovely, wasn’t helping.
“My name is Belle. You’ve caught me wandering in the dead of night, you’ve shared your tea with me, and you’ve likely seen . . .” she started, looking down at her shirt, then shook her head before she said something stupid again, “please, you never use my name, just . . . you can call me Belle.”
He nodded, circling her chipped cup in his hands and keeping his eyes trained on hers, not allowing them to dip down to where she’d just been looking. “Belle,” he said in a firm whisper. “Goodnight, Belle.”
But on the wild nights who can call you home? Only the one who knows your name.
“Goodnight . . .” she said.
She’d wanted to return the goodnight with his name, but he hadn’t offered it to her as she’d hoped. So she left his shop, offer ignored, bell tinkling, and made her way back to her home. To her soft yellow lamp, and her book whose pages wouldn’t rid themselves of her mind. She realized then that neither she, nor anyone she knew, knew Mr. Gold’s first name.