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His name was Gideon.
Gideon French.
Gideon French.
The name taunted him, it mocked him, it damned him.
Gideon had been a valiant warrior, defeating the Midianites with a mere 300 soldiers, his faith in God leading him to victory. The name was an insult meant to shame him with his own cowardice. Father Joseph Gold was anything but valiant.
He wasn’t sure where he had first heard the name, only that he’d become aware of it through some small town osmosis. He’d known Belle was pregnant, of course. No matter that she’d stopped attending church some months back, it was hard not to notice the change. She hadn’t said anything to him, hadn’t approached him, and so he’d left her alone. If the child was his, she would certainly come to him.
No, Belle must have some other lover in town, someone free to be with her as she deserved. No matter that he never saw her with anyone else. No matter that she seemed smaller, and wanner and lonelier with every passing week.
It was really none of his business. He was her priest, and not even that anymore, not since the final Sunday she’d shown up in his pews, some time in mid March.
For that, at least, he could take full blame.
After the midnight service last Christmas Eve, he’d panicked. Following their tryst on the altar, Belle had come back to his small rectory behind the church, braving the cold for the warmth of his hearth…and his bed. They’d made use of that bed. At the time, he’d been so drunk on Belle’s kisses, on her presence, on her very being, that he had no space for shame or fear. But Christmas morning dawned cold and bright and oh so clear. The snow melted away to a muddy sludge and Belle had slipped away just as easily.
She had appeared on the third pew that following Sunday, her face downcast, as if she feared to look at him. And he knew, then and there, that she regretted what had happened between them. How could she not? So he kept his distance. Belle stopped volunteering for bake sales and Sunday school classes, and eventually he stopped seeing her in church altogether.
It soon became clear why. Belle, so perfectly petite, a fact he had once delighted in, could not long hide the belly burgeoning beneath her blouses. Even without the idle gossip that followed her down the street, he’d have had to be a blind man not to notice. And he knew, knew without a shadow of a doubt, the child was his.
The first time he’d seen her in that state, outside Granny’s diner on a warm spring day, he’d wanted to run to her. For one wild moment, he’d wanted to tell the world this beautiful woman was bearing his child. He’d wanted to hold her in his arms, tell the church to fuck off, and beg her to marry him.
But then their eyes had met across the street and before he could approach her, she’d hurried off in the opposite direction.
And Belle never approached him. She never showed up at the church doors late at night to accuse him, to demand he acknowledge what he had done. She never found him in the diner or spoke to him at all. And so he let himself believe that she had found another lover. That perhaps some strong, handsome, younger man, a man who was available to her, had shown up in town. That must be the reason. Belle would tell him if the child was truly his. Soon there would be a diamond sparkling on her ring finger and he would be called on to oversee her nuptials to this mystery man. He would do it, do it with as much of a smile as he could muster. He would see his Belle happy, even if, especially if, it wasn’t with him.
But he was never approached for his professional services either. He never saw Belle on the arm of another man and no news reached his ears of a boyfriend or fiance. Quite the opposite in fact.
Over the course of several months Belle went from a liked and vital member of the community to the town pariah. It was remarkable that in this modern world, a town like Storybrooke could still be so backward. He heard confession from most of the sinners in town. He knew exactly what they got up to better than anyone else. To see them shun Belle for one simple mistake, one he was probably at fault for, shattered his heart more than anything else.
It seemed the central reason for their hatred of Belle was her refusal to name a father for her baby. Every woman in town imagined it was her husband who had done the deed and they hated the beautiful Belle for it. Every man who had harbored dreams of claiming Belle for themselves resented that she’d clearly chosen someone else. No one had the slightest idea of who the father could be, and so it was everyone and no one. If she’d just named a man, everything would calm down.
But she never did.
And he never asked because he was afraid. He was afraid she would regret their night together, and even more afraid that she wouldn’t. Because if she didn’t, he would be forced to make a choice, a choice he was neither prepared nor willing to make.
It was a weary walk the few yards to his home that Christmas Eve night. Belle hadn’t been in the congregation for that evening’s service, nor had he expected her to be. But he couldn’t help but think of her tonight of all nights. What was she doing even now? Putting her son to bed, whispering to him about the wonders the next day would bring? Rocking him as she sang carols in her slightly off tune voice? He’d never seen the child up close, but he imagined he had dark eyes, golden brown as they gazed up at the blue eyes of his mother. It was a serene scene, a beautiful one, one with no place for him.
At least it wasn’t snowing this year, he thought as he trudged up the lane to his front door, the weedy overgrowth on the cobblestones dried and brown and crunching beneath his steps. Despite the cold, it had been a sunny day giving way to a cloudless starry night. There would be no white Christmas, no getting snowed in. It was for the best.
The rectory was dark, quiet, and cold as he entered, shutting the door behind him and shrugging off his coat to hang it on a hook beside the door. He flicked the lights on and the modest little house came brightly into view. The first floor was a small living room open to a kitchen with a rickety wooden table, older than Gold himself, wedged in beside the fridge. Narrow stairs at the back of the house led upstairs to his bedroom. He closed his eyes at the sight. A year ago tonight he’d been stumbling up those stairs with Belle’s arms around his neck, their mouths fused together as though they’d never get another chance and couldn’t stop kissing for one moment, even for breath. They’d been right, it turned out.
He turned away from the sight of the stairs, going instead to strike up a fire in the hearth, the little stone fireplace enough to keep the small space warm once it got going. Once there was a nice blaze sapping the chill from the air, he slapped his hands against his thighs, glancing around for a distraction. There was the TV, not that he got many channels, and not that he was much in the mood for The Grinch or Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer or any other holiday special that would be airing tonight. He could read a book. He could plan out his sermons for the new year. Or…
He had a bottle of whisky, gathering dust in the back of his cupboards.
Gold took an unconscious step back toward the kitchen. Before he knew it, he’d thrown open the cupboard doors, pushing aside the tinned vegetables and ravioli until he spotted it. He shouldn’t imbibe, he knew. It was a slippery slope, one he’d seen his father ski down as fast as humanly possible. It was in his blood. He could all too easily be just like his father, a drunk who abandoned his own son.
The thought sent bile creeping up the back of his throat.
No . Gideon wasn’t his child. Belle would have told him. She would have said something over the past year, given him some sign.
His fingers itched for the bottle. He wasn’t certain why he even kept it in his home. It was almost as though he was constantly testing himself, testing his own will. He would hold fast in this, even though he’d failed so spectacularly in other tests of his self control.
A knock on the door startled him, and he slapped the cupboard door closed. A quick glance down at his wristwatch told him it was nearly 8:30. He could only imagine the desperate soul driven to his doorstep so late on Christmas Eve. It was no doubt someone looking for counsel in this season of togetherness. It could certainly make one feel alone, he knew.
This was good, Gold reasoned, a distraction. He would offer an ear and advice to his parishioner and then head to bed. Tomorrow was another day, one with no less painful memories of Belle. But time would ease this heartache, time would ease everything.
He opened the door with a benign smile on his face, one that fell almost immediately into a look of shock. The object of his recent thoughts and all his desires was standing on his doorstep.
She looked different from this time last year. Gone was the festive little red dress with gold accents. In its place, a long down puffer coat that covered most of her small body. It seemed after a full winter in Maine, Belle had finally invested in weather appropriate clothing.
“Hey,” he said, otherwise struck dumb by her presence.
“Hey,” she replied.
They stood there for a tense moment, just staring at each other. Eventually Belle asked, “May I come in?”
“Of course,” Gold said, backing out of her way and letting her into his small living quarters.
“Where’s Gid– your baby?” he asked, stumbling over the words. If Belle noticed, she didn’t let on.
“Mary-Margaret is with him,” she said. “Thinks I’m running a last minute errand.”
“Ah,” he said, by way of answer. Mary-Margaret Blanchard was another town pariah like Belle, after her affair with the married David Nolan had resulted in his divorce. It made sense the two women would band together.
“Here,” she said, thrusting out her hands, and Gold realized for the first time that she was holding a small bundle wrapped in plastic wrap. He reached out for it, instinctually.
“Fruitcake,” she said with a nod as Gold took the package. It was hard and quite a bit heavier than its size would let on. “It’s probably terrible. I’m not much of a cook. But it’s Christmas and fruitcake seems to be the type of thing you make at Christmas even if no one really likes it or wants it. I suppose I could have done gingerbread or sugar cookies or something more crowd pleasing but I’ve always been a bit off I guess.”
She finished off her rambling, twisting her now empty hands together. Gold stared down at the fruitcake.
“Thank you,” he said after a moment. “For thinking of me.”
“Of course,” she said with a nod. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” he returned.
They stood there for a long moment, the silence hanging between them like something tangible. It had been ages since they’d seen each other, even longer since they’d exchanged more than a word. Yet here she was, looking up at him with those crystal clear blue eyes, the ones that haunted his dreams. Then Belle spun around moving through his small living space, stopping at the framed painting of the Virgin Mary hung above his second hand television set.
“She must have been terrified, huh?” she asked, still looking at the painting with her back to him.
“I beg your pardon?” Gold asked, not following her train of thought.
“She was alone,” Belle continued. “An angel springs up and tells you you’re going to have a baby, immaculately conceived. I bet no one believed her. They probably all thought she was a harlot. I bet she faced stares and condemnation.”
Gold set the fruitcake down on his kitchen table with a louder than expected thump before crossing the small living room to where Belle was standing.
“I know that feeling,” Belle said, her voice so quiet he almost couldn’t hear her, despite the close space. His mouth went dry at her words, silence enveloping them but for the crackle of the fire.
“Belle,” he began, his voice rough.
“I’m moving away,” she said suddenly, turning to face him.
He felt his stomach drop, as though he’d missed a step going downstairs and was now in free fall.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“I’m moving,” she said again. “In the new year.”
“I see,” he said, dumbly. He didn’t see. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t fathom that Belle would disappear from his life altogether, no matter that their relationship had been nonexistent over the past year.
“I…” she began, before trailing off. “Do you have anything else to say?”
“Where?” he blurted out.
“Boston,” she replied with a wry twist of her lips. “The anonymity of city life seems appealing for some reason.”
Gold nodded. Boston. That wasn’t too far. It wasn’t the other side of the country. Perhaps she could visit. Perhaps he would see her again.
“Why?” he asked, rather dumbly. Belle gave him a choice eyebrow.
“You know why,” she returned, stepping over to the squashy loveseat beside the fire and sinking down on it. Gold remained standing where he was. “There’s no future for me here.”
“Not with that attitude,” Gold quipped and Belle gave him something that was almost a smile.
“If it was just me, I could stay,” she said, softly. “I could bear the weight of the stares and whispers. But it’s not just me. They’ll treat my son differently. He’ll always be the boy without a father. In Boston, no one will care.”
“The boy without a father,” he repeated, the words rasping out of his dry throat. He’d once been called the same.
“Yes,” Belle said with a nod, her gaze steady and piercing until he could no longer look at her. He stared into the fire instead, the flames dancing and licking against the wood until spots formed in his vision.
“Well, I suppose that’s the real reason I came here tonight,” Belle said, standing up once more, her energy restless. “Horrible fruitcake notwithstanding. I didn’t want you to hear it through the grapevine that I was gone. I wanted to tell you face to face.”
“Why?” he couldn’t help but blurt out. He and Belle had shared one magical night a year ago and had barely seen each other since. No one would think it odd for her to leave town without notice to him. There was only one reason she would tell him. There was only one reason for him to know.
Belle’s eyes widened for a second, before she schooled her features.
“Because I care about you,” she said with a little shrug. “And if our positions were reversed, I’d want you to tell me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, needlessly. Of course he wasn’t going anywhere. He’d been in the same position in the same church for two decades. He didn’t move on, up or out. He stayed in his comfort zone, like the coward he’d always been.
“I know,” she said, with a wan little smile. “I wouldn’t want you to. Storybrooke suits you. I can’t imagine it without you.”
“It could suit you too,” he said in a small voice. “It seemed to, once upon a time.”
The sad smile fell from Belle’s face as she shook her head.
“Not anymore. And I have to do what’s best for Gideon, give him his best chance.”
Gold felt himself nodding, as if against his own will. It felt as though he was watching his own body from somewhere far away, unable to control his own movements. He wanted to yell at her to stay. He wanted to demand an answer to the question that had been burning on the tip of his tongue ever since that day last spring when he’d spotted her outside of Granny’s, her white button down shirt straining across her midsection. She couldn’t just leave. She couldn’t take away his son, not if the three month old babe he saw her pushing around town in a pram had even the slightest potential of being his.
But his cowardice choked him.
Belle reached out a hand, her knuckles brushing against the back of his hand. He wanted to grab her hand, to pull her back to him, to keep her with him. Instead he balled his hand into a fist.
“Okay,” she said, looking up at him a little wistfully. “I guess this is goodbye then.”
He didn’t say anything as she stepped away, back toward his front door. She was about to leave, forever. He would never know Gideon’s paternity and it would haunt him until his dying day. She was leaving.
Idiot! He felt his subconscious yelling at him. Stop her! You fucking idiot!
“Belle, wait,” he called after her.
She stopped, turning back to face him with a wary look on her face.
“Is…is he…”
Belle crossed the few steps between them, pressing a finger to his lips before he could finish his question.
“Don’t ask me something you don’t want the answer to.”
His hand came up to take hers, pulling it away from his lips. He held her small hand loosely in his own and she didn’t pull away.
“Is he mine?” he asked, his voice low but sure, all traces of fear and nervousness gone.
Belle let out a shallow breath, her exquisite eyes wet and shining and she looked up at him.
“You know he is,” she said in a whisper.
It was like a dam had broken. He knew, had always known, of course he did. But he’d had plausible deniability until this moment. He had a son. A son! And he’d lost so much time with him already.
His hand tightened around Belle’s, pulling her closer to him.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t want to ruin your life.”
“So you’d ruin our son’s instead?” he demanded.
Belle blanched at his words. Our son .
“You never said anything,” she countered. “That morning, a year ago, you could barely stand to look at me. I took advantage of you. I made you break your vows! You hate me!”
“You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do,” he said, his free hand coming up to cup her cheek. “And I could never hate you.”
Belle looked up at him, wide eyed.
“Then why did you cut me out? Why were you so cold?”
“I thought you must regret it, in the cold light of day. Even if I was…available, you could do so much better than me.”
She shook her head, tears spilling on her flushed cheeks. “I don’t regret it. I could never regret it.”
He pulled her to him, pressing his forehead against hers and breathing her in, the sweet scent of her hair and skin and breath, everything a lure to draw him in.
“I’ve been so stupid,” he said with a sigh.
“No,” she said, pulling back to look at him. “Why would you up end your life, everything you’ve ever known, for me?”
“Because I love you,” he said simply. “I have done from the first moment I saw you.”
Belle sucked in a ragged gasp.
“You love me?” she asked, her voice small and wavering, as if she could scarce believe it.
Gold could do nothing but nod, tears springing to his eyes and choking his speech. God, he loved her. He’d always loved her. Why did he ever question it? Why would he not admit it, even to himself? He felt unburdened suddenly, as though a loadstone had been taken from around his neck. This was love, real love, a rare and precious gift. God could never condemn such beauty. His feelings for Belle could never be a sin. He wanted to tell her again and again. But he’d settle for kissing her.
He pulled her firmly against his chest, kissing her hard on the mouth. Belle didn’t resist, her arms winding around his neck as she melted into him.
His hands trailed down over her curves, hidden beneath the thick down of her coat. He wanted to rip the offending garment off her, he wanted to take her to his bedroom and show her with his body how much he loved and adored and missed her. But a moment later, Belle was pulling away, a firm but gentle hand against his chest.
“I can’t do this again,” she said, breathlessly. “We can’t do this.”
“Why not?” he begged, his hands still gripping her through her coat.
“Because it won’t change anything,” she said with a shake of her head. “It won’t change our circumstances. It’ll just make it harder for me to leave.”
“Then don’t leave,” he said, pulling her into another kiss. She gave in for longer this time, her hands tracing over his chest, going to wrap around his waist. He pushed her coat open, his hands skimming over her sweater, pulling at it until he could feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers. Belle shivered beneath his inexpert touches, her mouth opening and her tongue tangling with his. Their kisses were messy, and hungry, and devouring. Belle’s coat hit the floor a moment later and then he was maneuvering her back onto the loveseat, blanketing her body with his.
Belle’s legs wrapped around his waist, holding him to her as his mouth slipped away from hers, across her cheek and down her neck. She gasped as he bit lightly at her shoulder, her fingers carding through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. He traced the v-neck of her sweater with his kisses, coming to rest between her breasts, breathing in the sweet scent of her. They were fuller than the last time they’d done this, and he marveled at the change, cupping her breasts with his hands.
“So beautiful,” he said, looking down at her, dark hair spread across the arm of his loveseat.
He massaged her right breast through her sweater and Belle let out a moan, her hands going to grip on to his forearms.
“Don’t do that,” she gasped. “You’ll make my milk let down.”
“Then I’ll lick up every drop,” he said, his voice husky. “I want every part of you, Belle.”
She looked up at him, her eyes blown wide and lips parted. He couldn’t help himself. He had to kiss her again. Kissing her was as necessary as breathing. If only he could kiss her enough, he would prove to her that she should stay, that he loved her and wanted her. That there was no reason to ever leave Storybrooke when she had everything she needed right here, in his arms.
Belle’s hips gyrated against his, her core grinding against his hard cock through all the layers of their clothing as her hands carded through his hair. Her breathing was growing more ragged, her legs tightening around his waist.
She gripped on to him so tightly he thought she’d never let go as she thrust herself against him. His cock was painful trapped inside his trousers. He wanted to be inside her, he wanted to feel her come apart around him as she’d done a year ago, the night they’d made their own miracle in Gideon. But Belle was chasing her bliss, rubbing against him and creating such delicious friction he was certain she was going to make him come in his pants two Christmases running.
He thrust against her, burying his face in her neck as he spilled himself, the feeling of post orgasmic shame attempting to creep in. He quashed down the feeling.
Belle gave a shuddering gasp, throwing her head back against the arm of the loveseat as she came. Her face was rapturous for a second, beautiful and angelic, before it took on a more pained expression. Gold watched the change with a growing sense of dread.
They were both breathless for a moment and Gold pushed Belle's hair back from her sweaty brow, kissing her temple. They were both still fully dressed, no clothing displaced. They'd technically done nothing wrong. And yet Belle's face looked conflicted. He wasn't sure if she was angry about what had happened, or frustrated, or just sad. She certainly didn't look like a woman who'd realized she wanted to stay in a small town and make a life with her parish priest. He felt his heart sink as he watched her.
“I have to go,” she said finally. Gold just stared down at her.
“What?” he asked.
“I have to feed Gideon,” she said. “I have to let Mary-Margaret get home. I’ve already stayed here way too long. I–I didn’t come here for this.”
“I know you didn’t,” he assured her.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a shake of her head as she sat up, gently pushing him off her. He rolled to the side as Belle scooted out from under him, standing up and pulling her sweater straight, fussing over her appearance. There was a love bite blooming on her neck, her hair was mussed, she looked like she'd been up to exactly what she had been. Gold knew he was no better, the front of his pants wet and sticking to him.
“Don’t leave,” he begged again, still lying prone on the love seat. “Don’t take Gideon from me before I even get a chance to know him.”
“Would you claim him?” she asked, finally meeting his eyes. “It would change everything for you. You would lose your job, your home, your whole life as you know it would be destroyed.”
“But I would have you,” he said earnestly, hopping up from the loveseat and reaching for Belle. Weighing the two on a scale wasn’t even fair. Belle and Gideon would win. They would win every time.
“Will you still feel that way tomorrow in the cold light of day?” Belle asked.
“I…” he came up short. She was right. He would be jobless, homeless, he would have nothing to offer either Belle or their child. They were better off without him. They would always be better off without him. He’d never been anything but a burden for the few who’d ever loved him. He loved Belle too much to be her burden.
Belle nodded, accepting his non answer.
“You’re married to the church,” she said, lifting her hand to glance across his cheek, feather soft. “and I’m the other woman. There’s no place for me here.”
She picked her coat up from the floor, wrapping it around herself protectively before looking back at him sadly.
“I love you too, Joseph,” she said, a shiver going through him at the sound of his given name on her lips. “You should know that.”
And then she disappeared into the night. And the coward that he was, he let her go.