Chapter Text
Belle had the magazine laid out face down, fanned out like she would never lay a book. She’d been smiling furtively, stealing glances over the edge of the magazine at him, and with her now gone from the room he was overcome with an urge to discover what had caused her to smirk so. His clever fingers plucked the magazine from the table and flipped it over. It was one of those idiotic quizzes that he’d often heard the red-hooded wolf girl spouting on about. He was surprised his Belle would waste her time with such trash, but he supposed it was one of those things friends did to bond with one another.
His eyes skimmed the page - only to sate his curiosity - and caught on one particular line about halfway down.
Describe your favorite kiss.
Such an inane question. Oh, he’d experienced far more than his fair share of kisses in the centuries he’d been alive - every type encompassing every range of emotion - and if he closed his eyes he could recall the feeling of each one as easily as recalling his own name.
He remembered kisses as cold and lonely as the peak on which his castle stood, stilted and forced. His wife had never been particularly affectionate, and ever since he’d come back from the war with a broken ankle - his coward’s brand - she could barely look at him, much less kiss him. He’d only tried a couple of times after his return, but found his wife distant and unwilling.
He remembered kisses as hot and explosive as The Demon Fields of Iosas. It was like this with Cora. At the time he’d mistaken it for love, because he hadn’t known better. She’d shown him a shadow of what love could be, twisted it between them until it frayed and snapped. Her betrayal had cut him deep, but it was a wound that had healed over thicker. Like a blanket, the scar covered him head to toe so that no one could ever hurt him again. Love was a weakness he could not afford.
And then she had come. He had bargained for a caretaker and received something else entirely. She had carefully dismantled his walls, piece by piece, and rebuilt his soul. He hadn’t even realized it until she’d kissed him, until she’d freed his heart from the prison of his own making. But as always, the darkness within him couldn’t abide any enchantment that wasn’t its own, and there was no doubt that Belle had enchanted him. And so he had destroyed it, demolished any glimmer of hope and light and left only pain and rage. She had bore the brunt of it, and before he could awaken from his angry haze, she was gone.
For thirty years he lived without her, his grief at the news of her demise solidifying his truculence. Her light had been snuffed out, and with it any hope of his salvation. He’d spent most of that time blissfully unaware, though since the Savior’s arrival in Storybrooke he’d spent every moment alone with her memory. Sharp as it was, he could perfectly recall the way her mouth quirked when she playfully teased him - the only creature in all the realms brave enough to do so. He could remember the way her blue eyes lit up when she discovered something wondrous or the knowing way she would tilt her head just so when she delved deeper into his heart than he had believed her capable.
It had been torture that first day, oh so many months ago, when he’d met Emma and the fog of his curse memories had lifted. He’d managed to keep up his carefully crafted facade until he made it home, crumpling under the weight of three centuries of memories and guilt. He’d wept for her then, finally capable of expressing the full measure of his grief without the oppressive heaviness of the Dark One’s curse weighing on his soul.
And then, in a miracle he knew he would never deserve, she’d come back to him. Disheveled, confused, and hesitant...but still Belle. That first kiss in the woods was like being reborn. Her soft sigh against his lips had breathed life into him, and he had wanted to wrap her in his arms and never let go.
There had been many kisses since then; kisses of affection, lust, desperation, relief and every emotion in between. Each one bestowed by his beauty felt like the first, and he couldn’t keep the smile from his lips as he thought about how freely she gave them. He could not possibly pick a favorite, he decided. Each one was special, each one a gift, and he had vowed to spend the rest of his life striving to be deserving of them.
Footsteps on the stairs startled him, and he tossed the magazine back onto the table. He hoped she hadn’t been paying attention when she’d left earlier, but he knew he’d not be that lucky. Belle’s memory was as sharp as his own, and he had no doubt she’d rib him about it soon.
“Someone wanted to say goodnight.”
He turned with a wide smile, taking in the sight of his wife coming down with their daughter on her hip. The girl had recently celebrated her first birthday, and every day he was amazed by the way things had turned out. That Belle had promised to spend her life with him was more than he’d ever dared to hope, but the day she’d told him about their miracle he had wept from the joy of it.
“Come here, princess,” he stood and reached for the infant, her dark hair combed from her bath and her body covered neck to toe in a soft pink onesie gifted from the Charmings. She cooed and reached for him, her fingers grasping lightly around his nose as he transferred her weight from Belle’s hip to his own. “All washed and ready for bed, hmm,” he hummed and kissed her head softly. “I love you, princess.”
Roslyn was all smiles, and he marveled once again at how perfect she was. He’d been afraid that the curse he still carried - though muted in this world - would affect her somehow, and Belle had put up with his frantic worry up to the moment of birth. But perfect she’d been, and perfect she remained. The only concession her genetics made to his darker heritage was the gold flecks in her warm brown eyes. She had likewise inherited his slender fingers and fine hair, though its color she got from her mother along with her smile.
Belle laid her hand on the baby’s back lightly. “Alright, Little Rose, say goodnight to Papa.”
Roslyn tapped his nose with her fingers again. “Papa!”
“That’s right, princess.” He kissed her again. “Papa loves you.”
“Give him a kiss.”
He presented his cheek dutifully, and his daughter leaned forward to press her mouth against it in a sloppy imitation of a kiss. He could feel the moisture she left there but didn’t wipe it away as Belle took their daughter from his arms. He watched them go, Roslyn babbling happily as Belle continued their goodnight ritual.
He sat back down, his heart both fuller and lighter for his part in it. His eyes fell to the magazine still lying precariously on the edge of the table. He fixed it quickly, turning it a bit so that it appeared to be in the exact place Belle had left it. As he did, he remembered the question that had first captured his attention and made his decision.