Archive of Our Own

One evening, many semesters ago, Professor Gold had Ms. French sitting on the other side of his desk during a feedback meeting for a paper for one of his classes. She talked at length about alveolar trills, centralized vowels, velarization preceding back vowels – the whole phonological lot – while he nodded and tried not to smile or laugh too much. It wasn’t easy. Because he didn’t teach phonology. He taught European Modernist Literature, and her paper was on Henri Bergson’s theory of Duration and its influence on certain authors. The young woman had just been enthusing about his accent. Shamelessly, even. She knew he was watering it down, she said. She wished he would just go all out and never mind the bloody Americans, she said. He spent exactly two minutes on actual feedback, and then she asked if she could come in after the weekend to show him her revised version, as if any of the changes he’d suggested were significant at all. While he could have just told her to e-mail it, he nodded. Nodded, smiled, and told her of course; his door was always open. Which was complete and utter nonsense. He locked it every chance he got.

About three years later, Belle French had come bursting through his metaphorical door in a rather spectacular manner that night she had pushed her body flush against his, all warmth and softness and promise. She made the most delicious noises in his embrace, and it made the thought of kissing her and silencing her bittersweet, but then it turned out she was more than willing to mewl her little cries into his mouth, and he was lost, well and fucking truly lost. She held him between her thighs like she was scared he’d up and leave in the middle of it, and her nails and teeth marked him painlessly, ferocious and demanding in his bed. He was worried he would crush her smaller body under his, but her arms came flying around his neck and pulled him right the fuck back down when he tried to spare her the full weight of his upper body. She was relentless. She breathed and moaned into his ear and against his lips, and he didn’t believe in God, but there was no way in hell it wasn’t divine intervention when he somehow managed not to come right then and there when the words ‘fuck me’ came falling from her devilishly red lips.

And then she wound him up again, and again, and again, and his body obeyed her commanding touches and pleading whispers as if he were a man half his age. He’d never been bad, but he’d never been that good either, so the way Belle kept coming and coming around his cock and his fingers and his tongue made it seem like her body was built and fine-tuned just for that purpose. Just to come. Or maybe he was built just to make her. Beautifully, loudly, shaking underneath him, trying to pull him even deeper.

There was lipstick all over him and condom wrappers reflecting light in a pool of faint morning sun like obscene makeshift confetti on the floor, and when she joined him in the shower that morning with another condom between her smirking lips, he burst out into laughter because really? Again? And yes. Again. And his ankle was killing him, but she was so delectable with the water streaming down her face and over her parted lips as he held her up against the shower wall and drove himself into her the way she begged him to with her husky whispers that he couldn’t find a single fuck to give.

He made them breakfast, as promised. Fried eggs and toast, plenty of coffee. She tried to run her bare foot up his leg under the table as they ate, but he laughed and pushed back his chair, shaking his head. She was insatiable, and for some inconceivable reason, he was the banquet.

She shrugged, grinned and said, “Didn’t hurt to try. But I’ll behave.”

“Good. Not for too long, mind.”

He slid his chair back under the table, and the pain in his ankle was sharp and hellish and sudden and, oh – there was his sense of mortality again, because he’d just rebuffed the sexual advances of a gorgeous young woman and aggravated his faulty ankle all within seconds. He felt a thousand years old and held together with gum and rubber bands. He must have hissed or groaned or something, because she was crouching at his side now, hands on his arm, frighteningly blue eyes full of worry and something else he wouldn’t allow himself to identify.

“It’s nothing. Just put a little too much weight on it.”

“Mine? In the shower?” she asked, with a little smile that wavered at the corners of her mouth in a way that told Gold she was gearing up to apologize for fucking him six ways to Sunday, and it was imperative that she never, ever do that. That amount of absurdity would surely tear a hole in the fabric of reality and doom them all, should that ever come to pass.

“I just haven’t been using my cane, sweetheart. Not your fault.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. He did have a cane. He did use it on occasion. He hadn’t been using it at often as he should have. But it was definitely their little shower moment that had been the last straw, and there was no doubt about it. He didn’t think for a moment that he had Belle fooled, but she didn’t call him out on it either. She just gave him a certain look, squeezed his arm, gathered their empty plates and went off into the kitchen.

“Did you really not have any plans for today?” she asked him, calling out from the kitchen. “Cause I’ll get out of your hair if you want.”

“I quite like you in my hair,” he replied, smiling at the sound of her laughter.

When she came back out again, she sat herself down in his lap as if she’d done it a million times before and draped her arm over his shoulder, fingers of one hand tugging gently on the hair at his nape, the other hand cupping his cheek. His arms fit perfectly around her waist.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it. I don’t want to go home, but I will if you need your space.”

He chuckled silently and stared up at her in disbelief. It was silly at this point to doubt that she was serious, or that she was even real and not some extremely complex trick of the eye his tired old brain had managed to conjure up for some reason (hallucinogens in the water supply?) but he couldn’t help but marvel at her nonetheless. Warm and willing in his lap. Eyes that made him want to read poetry, for fuck’s sake. Whitman or something.

“What are you looking at me like that for?”

Why would you think I’d ever want you to leave this house?

“Just thinking. I do like you in my shirt, but perhaps you’d like to pick up a change of clothes? Or several?”

Her smile turned into a bright, joyous grin, and she was back into her blue dress and into his car within minutes. Driving with his injury acting up was intensely painful and it was difficult to mask, but Belle chatted throughout and he could respond with nods and affirmative noises, which seemed to be good enough for her. She’d left the little stuffed crocodile toy she had won (with a little help of a dirty trick from Gold’s extensive oeuvre) in the car the night before, and now she held it on her lap, promising to keep it safe in her room.

He waited in the car while she made her way inside, and he was finally free to grimace and hiss at will, at least for a few minutes. He’d have to do something about the pain, soon, he knew. And then she flew back into his car with a small duffel bag, now wearing a skirt shorter than her blue dress had been. She kissed him on the cheek as if they were seeing each other for the first time that day, and the pained expression on his face melted away effortlessly.

“Professor Snappy’s in my bed now,” said Belle.

“You’ve called it Professor Snappy?”

“Him. Yes. I think it’s cute.”

“And it’s in your bed?”

“He. Of course. Where else would I keep a stuffed toy?”

“God. You sure like sleeping with professors, don’t you?”

She gasped, gave him a playful push and then laughed until he reached over, held her face in his hands and kissed her.

“Just the one,” she murmured against his lips in between soft kisses. “Or two.”

They sat and kissed in his car for a while, unhurried, almost chaste – just a charming moment of calm in the stormy sea that was Belle’s intense physicality. And he had felt so much like a rusty little boat tossed around mercilessly on her waves. She hadn’t surprised him exactly – he’d known her long enough to know that she was brave, strong and determined – but she had absolutely overwhelmed him. It wasn’t that he was passive, God no; he had been the one to lunge. But to say she gave as good as she got would be a massive understatement, because she’d taken what he had given her and pushed back twice as hard. He could never have imagined her the way she was the night before. And that morning.

And yes, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t tried to imagine it. Just because he spent years convincing himself he was reading too much into her flirtatious looks and smiles and her seemingly endless supply of excuses to come see him in his office or keep him chatting with her after class, doesn’t mean he wasn’t wondering how she’d react if he just took her hands and pulled her close, or crowded her body with his against the desk until she hoisted herself up and scooted back so he could stand between her legs, and in his imagination, she was no blushing, wide-eyed innocent (Gold was not that kind of man) but there was just no way for him to have known that she was a force of nature. Partly because he didn’t dare imagine she really wanted him. Really, truly wanted him.

And now it was getting difficult to deny that she did.

He adored and admired what she had unleashed. He adored and admired the softness that was still there when the storm passed. And now, in his car, with her head stilled between his hands and her sea calmed, Gold felt safe in her waters. From the way she leaned against him at every opportunity and trusted him to take what she was willing to give, Gold knew that she felt safe in his, too. Whatever it was that he was feeling, the thing he wouldn’t put into words, he could almost put it into perspective when he told himself that it hadn’t just been one night; it had been a wave traversing the open sea for four years that came to a head and crashed into the rocky cliffs last night. That way, the strong pull at his heart whenever she turned those impossible eyes to him and smiled made a little more sense.

He let her soft lips capture his one more time and then started the engine.

He was glad she was too busy bouncing up to his front door, duffel bag in hand, to witness him having to hoist himself up out of his car with a tortured grimace, but then she turned and saw him limp after her, and the carefree smile on her face made place for another one of her worried looks. Ah, fuck.

“Is it bad?”

He didn’t answer right away, and the look she gave him once they were back inside told him that it would be useless to lie and try to placate her, so he meekly nodded and didn’t object when she took his arm and led him to his own sofa, where he sank down and lifted his bum leg up to ease the pressure off.

“Have you got any pain medication here somewhere I can get for you?”

“Maybe. In a sense. But I won’t... I mean, it depends.”

Gold couldn’t help but laugh at her then, because her compassionate look of concern was displaced completely by an almost exasperated scowl, her hands firmly on her hips. His laughter only made her brows knit closer together, and he willed it down.

“Sorry, sweetheart. You don’t like me being vague, do you?”

“Not when I’m trying to help, no.”

Gold sighed and muttered, “Middle drawer in that dresser over there,” in his best apologetic tone, motioning with his hand. Belle rewarded him with a little smile, then turned and headed towards the dresser. He watched her rummage through it for a few seconds, until she made a soft sound of recognition.

“Oh, I see,” she almost sang. When she turned around with his stash in her hand and a mock disapproving look on her face, he gave her a little guilty smile.

“Is this your pain relief?” she asked.

“It is. I was being vague because I- … What are you doing?”

She had sat herself down on the floor, next to his coffee table, quite near to his spot on the sofa.

“I’m going to roll you a spliff.”

“Belle, wait. I won’t smoke alone, and I don’t want you to feel obliged to join in.”

“I want to. Stop worrying.”

“Are you sure you’re not just saying that to-”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“I could just take some ibuprofen. You shouldn’t-”

“I can make my own decisions, can’t I?”

Oh, she looked fierce in that moment, her pretty blue eyes wide, icy and unwavering in their hard stare. She saw right the fuck through him, didn’t she? He swallowed down his selfish objections, rooted in his bottomless well of self-esteem issues, and nodded.

“I’m sorry. You’re right.”

Her stare turned soft again, and her fond smile made its return. He watched her lay out the weed, his tobacco, and his rolling papers. She folded one of the papers in half and set to work on sprinkling his emergency high quality indica across the length of it. Royally.

“It’s okay,” she said, sounding very determined for some reason. “We both mean the best. You’re being careful, and I’m being impatient,” she explained, adding a thin layer of tobacco on top of her construction, “and if we remember that each of us has our reasons for doing what we do, well, then you can be maddeningly vague and uncertain, because you are, and I can overcompensate for that, impose myself and give you a stress headache, because that’s what I do, and we’ll still be able to like one another. Because we trust we mean the best.”

Oh, really now. Why be so perfect? Why be so sweet, kind, ferocious, perceptive, demanding and absolutely right? And why be all of those things here with him of all people? Better not say that last bit out loud. He wasn’t sure if he could take another one of those piercing stares so soon after the first one.

“You haven’t given me a stress headache.”

“I might, still. You haven’t gone book shopping with me yet.”

“You haven’t imposed yourself, either.”

“You say that because you don’t know how many things I can fit into that duffel bag,” she teased.

“Well, I suppose your skirts can’t take up that much room,” he teased right back, giving her a lopsided smirk and looking her up and down in an obviously over-the-top way.

She laughed, then licked the rolling paper with an equally theatrical and lascivious wink that he, with a mixture of shame and a certain thrill, couldn’t deny stirred something within. God, look at him. Twitching even at her purposely campy flirting, like a woefully oversexed sixteen-year-old. Good thing his ankle was still screaming, or he’d have other priorities.

She held up the finished product for him to assess, and he grinned. She had done a fine job of it. He fished a lighter out of his pocket and offered it to her, but she reached out and closed his fingers around it instead, pressing it into his palm. On her knees on the floor, in front of him, with the joint between her faintly smiling lips, she leaned in and up, and he knew for sure he would die before he could tire of staring at her pale white neck arching towards him. He held the flame to the end and heard her inhale.

“Ashtray?” she asked, handing him the joint.

“Same drawer.”

She gave him a curious look, but stood up and went to retrieve it nonetheless.

“You smoke cigarettes too, though, right? Not the handiest place to keep an ashtray.”

“Only on occasion. And I go outside to smoke those, usually.”

“So that’s why I never really smelled it on you.”

“You were smelling me?” he asked in his best mock-indignant tone.

“Shut up!” she giggled. “You know what I mean.”

He sucked in a mouthful of smoke, pushed it out just past his lips and pulled it back in again, not unlike a cat playing with its prey, before inhaling deep and screwing his eyes shut. It’d kick in soon, and he wouldn’t feel quite as broken and useless. And if the high slowed her down a little, well, then perhaps he could keep up. God, how he wanted to keep up with her. When she came back with the ashtray and plopped it down on the coffee table near him, he wrapped his hand around her wrist.

“You’re not going to sit on the floor again, are you?”

She smiled, shook her head. Good. Because he couldn’t have her near enough right now.

They found a way to make it work, somehow. His good foot on the floor, the other leg up on the sofa, and Belle willingly captive underneath. So with his leg in her lap and at least one of her warm hands on his knee at all times, they smoked in the pool of light cast by the midday sun in the middle of his living room. The windows were open, the sound of birds and wind chimes floating in on a lazy breeze, filling his house with the promise of summer. With her so close to him and her pleasant conversation distracting him from the burning ache in his ankle, it didn’t take very long for the weed to do its job and dull the pain. A comforting sort of numbness.

“Feeling better?” she asked, squeezing his knee just a little bit.

“Mhm. Thanks, love.”

That made her laugh, for some reason. She laughed a lot, didn’t she? He loved that. He must have been staring, because she explained, “I like ‘love’. ‘Sweetheart’ sounds perfect when you say it, but ‘love’ is nice, too. I should come up with things to call you.”

“Oh no, no, you really shouldn’t.”

“Oh, but I will. Would you like me to call you by your first name? Only I rather like ‘Gold.’”

“Whatever you like, honestly. Fuck, you could call me Cindy and I’d come running. Running, Belle.”

She laughed again. He felt strangely proud of himself.

“Maybe something’ll come up organically. ‘Handsome’ still suits you, so that one’s staying.”

He didn’t dare object, this time. Perhaps he’d suggest a visit to an optometrist, soon.

“Or lover.”

Could she not have waited until he’d exhaled before saying that? Because now he was a coughing, laughing mess, and she had to rescue his sofa from a cigarette burn by snatching away the joint as he tried to steady himself.

“Don’t laugh!” she cried, but there was laughter in her own voice, and it didn’t help to calm him down much. “It could work if I time it well!”

“Oh, sweetheart. Just call me whatever you like, but please forgive me if it strikes me as completely absurd and I don’t quite manage to keep from pissing myself. Alright?”

She stared, her eyes narrowed but amusement written all over her face. She nodded, placed the cigarette between her lips and inhaled deep.

“Alright, handsome.”

Oh, really now. Maybe the poor thing was myopic? He never did see her sit anywhere other than in the front row. Feasible theory. Unutterable theory.

He liked to watch her get steadily giddier, loved seeing every bit of tension flowing from her body and leaving her mellow and practically boneless on his sofa. She refused the tail end of the spliff just as she had on the roof (“I’m serious, I can’t. It’s too hot. I don’t know how you do it. Do you have a dragon in your family tree somewhere?”) and then sort of slithered down from under his leg, off the sofa, onto her knees on the floor to roll them another one. It didn’t take very long, and she slid right back under his leg once she’d finished. His ankle was fine at that point, but the proximity was nice.

“You’re getting better and better at rolling these,” he muttered, half grinning as he lit it for her. She inhaled and tried not to smile around the cigarette. Pure white smoked floating up from those pretty rounded lips, and she spoke, “I’m a fast learner. But you know that, right, Professor?”

Fucking hell. The lilt in her voice when she said that. A quick look at the twitching corners of her mouth told him she knew exactly what she was doing. He narrowed his eyes at her.

“I’ll be sure to remember that for later, minx.”

“Remember what?”

“Where you were heading with that.”

“And where was I heading?”

“You know fully well where you were heading, Ms. French.”

It seemed like Belle could never quite pull off a complete look of innocence; there was always some part of her face betraying her true meaning, and this time, it was her lips that gave her away. Good try, though, with those eyes wide open and her eyebrows raised. But, he thought, reaching over to poke at the corner of her mouth where he could tell a grin was about to appear, she could never really stop her truths shining through. Ah, and there was that grin, just as he thought.

Maybe that was why he had practically fallen over himself to open up to her. Her openness like a mildly inconveniencing but extremely infectious disease, sneaking past his immune system and making him sneeze and cough out his secrets. And, alright, admittedly, that wasn’t too charming a simile, but Gold felt like he really ought to make a conscious effort to keep the flowery prose in check. Otherwise he might start describing her honesty as a warm light too bright to dim. Inviting, soothing, somehow more intriguing than mystery and darkness ever could be. Made him want to...

Oh.

Oh fuck.

He was in trouble.

But the weed was slowing them both down, and he was glad. He didn’t have to hold on to any ill-timed realizations because he could just as easily let his thoughts slip through his fingers like sand. It was a distinct body high, magicking away all tension, limiting their entire world to the sofa and its immediate surroundings. The air was warm and thick with smoke and a sense of timelessness – the only indicator of time was the cigarette shrinking.

“Have the rest,” she said, her voice softer than he had ever heard it. “Too hot.”

He took the joint between his fingers, then looked from the burning end to her lips and back again. Even through the thick layer of haze in his head, an idea began to form.

“Belle?”

“Hm?”

“Have you ever shotgunned a hit?”

She blinked at him, frowned in confusion, then chuckled, “What’s that?”

Well, fuck. This was all sorts of wrong. There she was, a woman in her mid-twenties, fresh out of university (just not formally, yet,) and he, her professor, was the one to push her off the straight and narrow just a little bit. Holding her hand, leading her astray, about to teach her a trick that had been getting countless teenagers snogged and stoned for decades.

“Well, there’s more than one way, but...”

“But what?”

“The one I’m thinking of, well... To make it less hot, I could...”

“Are you too stoned to talk or are you being shy again?” she giggled.

“It’s...”

He sighed. It’s too embarrassing to say out loud, that’s what it is. But she was staring at him now, her brows raising steadily higher, and he knew he had to finish his sentence. … Or perhaps not. He lifted his leg from her lap to sit on the sofa properly. They were thigh to thigh now, and he angled his body to hers just a little bit. With the joint hanging loosely between his lips, he gently hooked a finger under her chin and guided her face closer.

“C’mere.”

She looked curious, a little unsure, but then she grinned and it seemed as if she’d gotten the picture already, because her eyes were fluttering to his lips. Quick on the uptake, his Belle. (His? No, hush, not now.)

“Open your mouth just a little, sweetheart,” he murmured.

He took a drag but kept the smoke in his mouth, to the back of his throat, took in a little more air to cool it, then leaned in and gently put his parted lips to hers. Barely making contact. The most delicate of touches. He pushed the smoke out slow and she inhaled deep, and in that moment, he was certain he’d never hear anything quite as beautiful as that. His breath and their secret vice in her lungs.

Fuck, she was beautiful, and when he pulled away, she was staring right into his eyes with a look he recognized from the night before. And yes, he was laughably insecure for a successful, intelligent man with a decent wardrobe and a head full of hair, but that look was impossible to deny. Lust, pure and simple. Want. She wanted him.

“Again,” she demanded.

He inhaled. Her fingers slipped into his hair, and she angled his head just a little so the smoke seemed to be falling from his lips to hers. And then she kissed him. That was definitely a kiss. She moved her lips away from his to breathe out the smoke, and then she kissed him again. Properly. He didn’t know why she kept catching his bottom lip in hers but he loved it. She could keep doing that forever if she wanted. His lips were hers.

He’d gotten high and kissed before, and more. But that had been meaningless, and this was Belle French, and it was completely different. She was his bravest, most clever student. No, scratch that. Fuck that. She was the bravest, brightest person he knew, and she had never ever feared him the way everyone else seemed to. No, not her. And he had her on his sofa, clutching at his hair, angling his head, moving her tongue against his with a force that told him she had decided that something was going to happen. He knew what it was. And even though he thought she’d worn his body out the night before and that morning, even though usually this particular strain of weed wiped him out for a couple of hours, he was slowly getting hard.

Her hands were on his thighs and moved slowly up. She knew. He groaned, stubbed the rest of the joint out in the ashtray, then lunged and pushed his open mouth against her neck. Fuck, the sound she made when his teeth grazed her perfect skin.

“Have you ever done this before?” she breathed. She didn’t even have to clarify. It was obvious where this was heading.

“Stoned teenage fumble or two,” he mumbled, then latched back onto her neck.

“What was it like?”

God, he could feel the vibrations in her neck as she talked.

But what was he supposed to say to that? Mostly meaningless? Sometimes thrilling? Terrifying once when the high was mental and not physical and the sudden solipsistic suspicion that the girl leaving a brutal hickey on his neck was just a figment of his imagination essentially meant that he couldn’t get it up because it’s impossible to fuck a mental construct? Disappointing for him but rather enlightening for his best mate that one time? Generally messy? No. It didn’t matter what it was like, then. Different world. There was only him and her, now. Only them.

“Doesn’t matter.”

He helped her sideways onto his lap to sit the way she had that morning, but the intent was different now. And there were those fingers in his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp, sending chills down the back of his skull and racing through his spine. Her lips pressed faint kisses to his forehead, his jaw, his cheek, as he undid the dainty little pearl buttons on her blouse one by one, revealing the skin underneath. The fabric slid off her shoulders like water over smooth polished stone and she had taken off her bra before he could even reach back to unhook it himself. Were his hands cold or did she shiver because she felt that same strange sensation like pleasant pins and needles when his palms brushed past her breasts?

She was staring at him with her eyes hooded. He had to look elsewhere; that piercing blue was just too much. So he stared at her parted lips, her tongue flitting out to wet them, and when she leaned in, he could safely close his eyes and just feel her instead. They were kissing, he supposed, but it was too slow, too languid, too aimless to really be called that. It was just their mouths and lips and tongues and there was no purpose, just sensation. She’d gotten his shirt open somehow and his belt unbuckled, but he had no idea how she had managed to do that without taking her mouth from his. She straddled him. His hands slid up her thighs on their own accord, and she wrapped her hand around his wrist and guided him further under her skirt and mewled and writhed, and oh dear God when had she taken that off?

He didn’t know how long they sat there touching and feeling and winding up before she’d gotten a condom from her skirt pocket (minx), tore it open, threw the wrapper over her shoulder and slid it down over him. And then she sank down, hot and slow, and he forgot how to breathe until she stilled in his lap for just a moment. Deep. Fingertips ghosting over his face told him to open his eyes, and the sight of her half-naked and smiling down at him was a damn near religious experience. He wanted quite desperately to trace her clavicle with his lips, so he did, and her skin was salty with a thin layer of sweat.

It was slow because it had to be. The air was thick around them, tangible and static, and moving through it was like dragging heavy limbs through warm water. Trailing fingertips and fleeting brushes of lips left residual sparks on his skin. It felt exactly like tracing the rim of a wine glass with a wet finger sounded, and the thought vaguely registered as completely ridiculous in the back of his mind, but it was crowded by the smell of her, the feel of her, the sound of her breath, and he found it easy to leave his objections behind and just go with it. God, and if he was this stoned, what was it like for Belle?

And just where do you keep your hands on her? Belle’s hair felt like home for his fingers, her face begged to be cradled, her breasts, her thighs, her hips – every inch of her called out to him, and he couldn’t still his slowly roving hands. Until she did it for him. Their fingers laced together, Belle pushed their hands into the back of the sofa, either side of his head. Perfect.

Her soft, shaky voice came to him as if from across a stormy sea, “I... I think I might... I could...”

“Belle,” he whispered. He had heard what she hadn’t said loud and clear. And again, “Belle.” The unspoken thing was loud as hell and had left his ears ringing and his heart resonating. (It had been four years. Not just one night. Four fucking years.)

Her head fell to his shoulder and she was biting, licking, sucking at the skin, marking him as hers and building herself up slow. How was he even lasting this long? How long had it been? It felt like hours of her moaning and moving in his lap, but that was impossible. She sped up, and she fell silent, her mouth open and breathing erratically, hot against his neck, and then he felt her come – really felt it, felt it everywhere – and when he threw his head back and followed suit, he’d lost himself. He was gone.

Everything was her.

Belle lifted her head from his shoulder, where she had been mouthing at the skin. She breathed heavy, her chest heaving. Like his was. His eyes were shut, his lips parted, and she leaned in to press a very soft kiss to the bottom one. She unlaced their fingers and brushed his hair away from his face, and finally his beautifully deep brown eyes fluttered open to look at her. No words. Just very small smiles and their breath and hearts slowing together.

She lifted up from his lap to sit next to him again, and gently tucked him away with a flustered little laugh. He was just a little embarrassed, too, taking the condom from her and looking around in a mild panic for a place to put it. Ah, but Belle could see a box of tissues on the side table next to the sofa, so she reached over and took a few, handing them all to Gold. He mouthed, ‘thank you,’ and gave her a shy smile, and the wire strung from her heart to his sang.

What had just happened, what she’d just felt, it had been the most amazing thing she had ever experienced. And she knew it was probably a cliché, but she’d never felt quite as connected with someone. It had been draining, though, and her limbs were heavy and she felt like sinking down into the cushions and pulling him with her, so that’s what she did; wrapping her arms around him and sliding down between him and the back rest of the sofa. He held her as they lay there, their legs entwined, his lips against her forehead.

“I don’t want to move an inch,” Belle murmured.

“We don’t have to,” he replied, lips brushing against her skin as he spoke.

It was as if gravity had increased somehow, Belle thought. His arm felt so much heavier draped over her waist, her own limbs almost impossible to lift. But it was nice. They were okay, here, on his sofa, in that little patch of sun. Except the sun had moved away, and the breeze coming in through the open windows was just a little chilly, and what had happened to her blouse, come to think of it? But then it seemed Gold had read her mind, because he broke the embrace to take off his unbuttoned shirt completely, then draped it over their bodies and pulled her close and under his chin underneath their makeshift blanket, and she was warm again. Warm, heavy, happy.

He makes me happy.

She closed her eyes and the thought was gone. In its place; something like a shallow slumber, though not quite sleep. His breathing slowed. Hers followed suit. But they weren’t asleep. When she placed her palm against his chest to make sure, he kissed her forehead, and she smiled. He was still there. Silent, but there.

She wasn’t sure how long they lay there, but somehow they managed to disentangle, help each other up and make it into his shower. Again.

“Don’t worry,” she told him, “I won’t jump you this time.”

“Well, what do you know! Finally knackered you out, have I?”

Belle felt like laughing, so she did, and he joined in. The water washed away their sweat and helped clear her mind and sooth whatever it was that made her feel like giggling until her throat was sore, but something in the pit of her stomach burned just as intensely as it had when she had him underneath her and inside of her and whispering her name in response to what she had almost told him. A small flame, a little light. A beacon. Trouble.

“Are you hungry?” he asked her once they’d dried off and gotten dressed. She hadn’t realized, but God yes, she was. “I’m afraid we’ll have to get something delivered. My refrigerator is woefully understocked. I do apologize.”

“Are you kidding me? Let’s order pizza! How does pepperoni sound?”

“Perfect.”

He handed her his phone with a fond, adorable lopsided smile that made her want to kiss him again, but she really was looking forward to that pizza at that point, so her priorities were set. Pizza. Then kisses.

With the order placed, at least half an hour to kill and the sun shining bright, Belle took Gold by the hand and led him outside and into his garden. He’d managed to snatch his cigarettes and a lighter from the counter, apparently, because after she’d taken a look around – beautiful old trees, iron wrought chairs and a stone bench under one of the pine trees – she turned to see him place a cigarette between his lips. He caught her glance and took it out again, eyebrows raised in a questioning look.

“Would you mind if I...”

“Of course not.”

Well, her lips were now in direct competition with a cigarette, sure, but she’d manage. There was some dark part of her that rather liked the look of him when he smoked. The act drew attention to all those parts of him she’d been staring at for all those years; his lips rounding, his cheeks hollowing, his fingers and their practiced motions. It was just an occasional thing, right? Well, that was fine, then.

She wandered over to the stone bench underneath the tree, and Gold followed. He sat down next to her, and she instinctively scooted closer, making him smile around his cigarette. Belle wasn’t sure why she was doing it, but she reached over and took it from between his lips. He frowned in confusion but didn’t say a word, nor did he try to stop her. He just watched her, and she could feel his eyes on her as she put it to her lips. Well, no harm in trying.

She inhaled, frowned, heard him snigger. Yeah, no, she wasn’t going to make a habit of that, she thought to herself as she emptied her lungs of the smoke. She took another deep drag to try and get that dizzy feeling again, then handed the cigarette back to him.

“Belle French, taking a little stroll on the dark side,” he almost sang, fingers brushing against hers as he took his cigarette back. “Imagine that.”

“Next thing you know I’ll be picking locks and stealing champagne,” she teased with narrowed eyes and a smirk she couldn’t quite bite down. “Imagine that.”

His shoulders shook briefly in silent laughter, but he looked down at his feet, now, hair falling in front of his face, and she could tell she’d embarrassed him a little bit.

“I liked it, though. Your little claw machine trick,” she added. Just in case it was more than embarrassment. Shame, perhaps. Was he ashamed?

“That your thing, is it? Professors and petty criminal activity?”

His voice was lower. Belle could tell he was trying to sound as amused as he was before, but she could tell the difference. He didn’t fool her.

“You really made that kid’s night,” she offered, remembering the little boy with his toothy grin, eyes bright as he flew towards the machine.

The smile he gave her then was tired but genuine, and she wished he would finish that bloody cigarette so she could kiss him already, make the dark cloud hanging above his head go away, but he was taking his sweet time with it.

“You said your father taught you?”

He nodded, but then he looked away, and the smile on his face wavered and fell. And that’s when the things he had told her up on the roof started to make a little more sense to Belle. ‘The devil finds work for idle hands,’ he had said as the sun set, practiced and strong as if it was the first line of a poem a teacher had called on him to recite. And when she’d said his father sounded interesting back at the arcade, he had that same look. The one she should have recognized when she saw it the first time.

Belle reached out to put her hand on his arm to try and stop him from drifting further away from her in his thoughts. And oh, how nice it was to see his eyes turn back to her and his smile reappear, just because of her simple touch.

“He wasn’t a very good man. Or father,” he muttered, taking one last drag of his cigarette before stumping it out on the back of the stone bench and flicking the butt into a nearby empty planter with impressive precision. “But he gave me the only tools he had.”

“But then you got your own, didn’t you?”

Belle’s heart was beating a little faster, because this was new. He had opened up and revealed something, and she wanted desperately for him to be okay with it. For him not to regret showing her his scar. When his melancholy smile grew into a grin that wasn’t nearly as heart-breaking, the ten ton boulder on Belle’s chest simply rolled off, allowed her to breathe again. He draped his arm around her and pulled her close.

“I suppose I did,” he agreed. His hand on her shoulder felt so much like it was meant to be there – had always belonged there – and she simply couldn’t help but feel a little overwhelmed. Because one month ago, Belle was trying to make peace with the thought of never seeing him again. One month ago, she had to tell herself firmly that she simply had to get over her stupid little crush, over and over again until she almost believed she could actually do it. And now he was holding her, kissing her, getting high with her, telling her things she knew he’d never told anyone else, fucking her, letting her crash into his life with a bag stuffed full of clothes and making her want to tell him she had the sneaking suspicion that she could very well love him.

How was this even real?

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’ve run out of things to say, chatterbox.”

“Chatterbox? I’m nothing of the sort!”

“I distinctly remember you going on and on about anything and everything in my office. Anything and everything except what you came in for.”

“Well. You could have kicked me out if you minded,” she replied, lip jutting out just a little bit in a pout.

“That’s right. If I’d minded,” came his voice close to her ear, right before he pressed a soft kiss to her jaw. The precious thing glowing bright in her belly fluttered and made her lean into his touch just a little bit more.

“If I recall correctly, my accent was one of your favorite topics,” teased Gold.

“Was it?” Oh dear. Definitely sounded like something she’d do; shamelessly enthusing until she fully realized what she’d done, hours later. She would suddenly sit up straight in her bed at night sometimes, because those realizations would often hit just as she was about to fall asleep and ruin every chance of a good night’s rest, wide-eyed and mouthing, ‘stupid’ over and over again until she got a grip.

“I believe it was,” he laughed, and Belle felt her face getting just a little bit warmer. Because now that he mentioned it, she could faintly recall sitting in his office, flat out asking him to exaggerate his alveolar trill for her so she could really hear the difference. More than once.

“Well,” she said, trying her best to sound as if she didn’t care one bit, as if she wasn’t retroactively embarrassed with her shameless behavior, “it’s a very interesting subject, after all.”

His soft laughter was closer to her ear, now, and it sent a shiver down her spine.

“Like I said, sweetheart; I didn’t mind. I still don’t.”

She turned her head and found his face near enough to kiss, so she closed the minute distance and caught his lips in hers. Finally. His hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb moving slowly, softly against the skin, and Belle half wanted to throw herself into his lap again. God, this man. What had he done to her? She’d never been this eager, this desperate for someone’s touch, but her body just responded to the presence of his, as if he were a magnet and she a mere paperclip with absolutely no chance of resisting his pull. But no, she told herself quite sternly, better give this man a break, before she wrecked his other ankle or gave him that stress headache she still owed him. Just let him lead for now.

And it was so nice just to let him. He was impossibly gentle with her now – not like before. Not like last night. He was kissing her the way she kissed him in his car, when she’d noticed his pain but didn’t want to call him out on it, when she thought that maybe she could kiss it away if she was just gentle enough, insistent enough. Even with his eyes shut, he found her hand in her lap, and then the other one, and it was only then that Belle realized how big his hands were compared to hers, because he was holding both of them in one of his.

Belle didn’t need anyone to make her feel safe. Never had, never would. But God, this was nice. They sat there like that for a little while, and when they broke the kiss, they softly spoke of pleasant things; of summer memories, the trees in his garden, of half-baked plans to return to that restaurant and finish the date they almost had.

They’d gone back inside to make sure they’d hear the doorbell ring, and when the pizza finally came and Gold was busy paying the delivery boy, Belle noticed a throw blanket folded neatly on a chair and with a little smile, gathered it to her chest. Be a shame to sit inside all day, what with the pleasant breeze and the warm late spring sun, out and bright just for them.

“Can we eat outside?” she asked when the door had fallen shut and Gold reappeared holding their dinner. He smiled as if he hadn’t seen her in ages.

“Anywhere you like.”

She spread the blanket on the grass, and Gold disappeared inside for a brief moment only to return with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Belle couldn’t help but laugh, and he smirked in response. Quite the hedonistic little weekend this was turning out to be. Belle was so eager to get to the pizza she burned the roof of her mouth just a little bit, but she simply couldn’t find it within her to care. Priorities.

“So is it the weed, or is this pizza amazing?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he chuckled, topping up her glass, “because it’ll be the wine, soon.”

“Yeah, about that, do you not like me when I’m sober or something?” she teased. His grin was broad, handsome and devilish as he shrugged.

“I’ll give you two options. Either I’m afraid you’ll run off once you realize who you’re dealing with,” he offered, pausing to slide his piece of pizza into her mouth when he noticed she was about to object, effectively shutting her up, “or it’s a celebration.”

She couldn’t speak with her mouth full, so she settled for frowning while she chewed. He was trying not to laugh at her, she could tell, and it made her giddy.

“Celebration?”

“You did graduate. That’s no small matter.”

“I just finished my exams, though.”

“Are you really going to act like you didn’t ace every single thing? Again?”

Belle tried to keep up her frown, but the way he looked at her with a hint of pride in his smiling eyes disarmed her entirely. Her own grin came bursting through as if summoned by his, and she shrugged.

“Suppose not.”

“Good.”

With the pizza gone and a glass of wine down her, it seemed only natural to lie down on their little makeshift picnic blanket and cuddle up close. Her head on his shoulder, his fingers in her hair, gently combing through. The sun was starting to set low, but it was still warm out, and Belle found it difficult to imagine moving an inch. Not like before, when the weed was still heavy on her limbs, physically drawing her down to the sofa, no. She just couldn’t quite find a single reason to move from their spot in the middle of his garden. Let alone his house. How was she supposed to go back to her father’s house now that she’d slept in this beautiful man’s bed and woken up to find him holding her close, and his dark, sleepy eyes watching her wake with a secret smile?

“Belle?” came his voice. She turned her head to look at him, but he seemed to be staring at a passing cloud.

“Hm?”

“Is there somewhere you’d like to go?”

“For a second date, you mean?”

Wait, why was that funny? Because he was laughing now, and her head shook gently as his shoulders did, and it made her want to laugh, too. Even not knowing what on earth had tickled him like that.

“Oh. Well. Now you’ve said that,” he paused to clear his throat, “that does make what I was going to suggest sound a little... mental.”

“Try me,” she replied. “I think we’re in the right state of mind for ‘mental’, aren’t we?”

“What I meant was... anywhere.”

Finally he turned his head. Brown eyes closer than she’d expected, serious but kind.

“Is there anywhere you’d like to go, Belle? Anywhere at all.”

Oh. Oh. No, wait, he couldn’t mean that, could he? Could he really? Belle lifted herself up from his shoulder and turned to lie on her stomach, leaning up on her elbows so she could really see his face. With his arms free, he could fold them up and under his head. His smile was small, uncertain, shy and faltering at the corners of his mouth.

“Like a trip, you mean?”

“That’s what I meant. And then you, rather sensibly, mentioned a second date, and now I realize...” he trailed off, and Belle smiled. She shifted to lie a little closer, and folded her arms on his chest so she could rest her head there and still see what his eyes were telling her that his words weren’t. “Now I realize what I was going to suggest would be sort of like throwing ourselves into the deep end of the pool,” he continued.

That was true, she supposed. Technically, they’d only gone on one date, and if her ex had suggested what Gold just had after their first date, she’d have laughed in his face and told him to back away and stay away. (Would have saved her a lot of time, actually.) But in reality, Belle and Gold had been hovering in each other’s space for years now, knowing and wanting but never acting until the coast was clear and four years of guarded interest and hidden affection came bubbling to the top and bursting through their defenses. And God, she didn’t know how she could ever explain this to her father or even her friends, but she wanted this. More than anything. There was not a single cell in her brain that was telling her this was a bad idea. She wanted to pack her bags and be with him, be with him anywhere. It didn’t even matter where, as long as he was there to kiss her and poke fun at her geeky outbursts, lead her astray just a little bit. As long as she could hook her arm into his and tell him to lighten up when he needed it, as long as she could drag him into a room with a double bed and feel his skin against hers whenever she wanted.

She made her decision.

“Well,” she said, putting on her best assuring grin, “I can swim. Can’t you?”

He seemed genuinely confused, and it made Belle want to kiss his worry away. But then slowly, his guarded little smile grew wider. And he didn’t answer her, really, but his eyes told her all she needed to know, and she leaned in to kiss him on the chin, because it was easy for her to reach.

“But you’re not paying my way.”

“Oh, sweetheart. You’ll just have to try and stop me,” he growled, and the vibrations in his chest made Belle want to giggle, just as she was trying to be ferocious.

“Don’t think I won’t!”

“You’ll find airplane tickets mysteriously upgraded and the room with a street view curiously double booked so that unfortunately, it’s the penthouse for us,” he teased.

Belle suddenly moved to sit astride him, hands at either side of his head. God, that unbearably smug smirk. Why did it make her knees weak?

“Think you can outrun me?”

“Probably not, no,” he chuckled.

“Well then good luck trying to pay for everything.”

He laughed and reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear and said, “Fine. We’ll see. Now where would you like to go?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Belle teased, leaning down close so their lips brushed together as she spoke, “how about your bedroom?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he chortled, his laughter burst forth without warning, and even though once again, Belle wasn’t sure why, she found she really didn’t mind the sound and the feeling of his chest shaking underneath hers when he wrapped his strong arms around her and pulled her down on top of him.

“Really and truly, I think you’re trying to murder me, Belle,” he murmured close to her ear. Well, if he really didn’t want her to keep jumping him like this, he’d seriously have to reconsider the things he did to make her mouth water and her stomach flip, because this simply wasn’t fair.

“Fine,” she sighed dramatically, letting her body relax and drape over his, melting into his embrace, “I’ll give you a break.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ve got ten minutes.”

And when he laughed that time, Belle couldn’t help but join in, but she was dead serious. After four years of waiting, ten minutes to wait for his hands all over her was all she could spare, and he’d just have to deal.

“Lover.”