Chapter Text
This came from a prompt on tumblr: "Gold is crying, Belle comforts him."
Belle woke slowly, and was confused for a moment: she was lying on something soft, warmth wrapped all around her. Her nest in the woods was cold and brown, and her cell was cold and dank—no—it was white and chilly, but she had never slept elsewhere. She blinked and looked around the dim room, recognizing it at last. She was in the pawnbroker’s house—Mr. Gold. The soft sheets were a deep red color, the walls a soft rose. All sorts of knickknacks lined the walls, vases and statuettes and pictures that she had missed last night, in her exhaustion and fear.
She was naked, her dirty, wet clothes left on the bathroom floor and the towel she’d wrapped herself in lying on the floor, but the sheets and comforter on the bed left her warm enough. She was sore, where he’d been inside her, and there was stickiness between her thighs. A touch there, and a sniff of her fingers, told her it was blood. Sometime, someone had told her about that: women bled. She smeared the blood on her hip, to clean her fingers, and huddled back down. She was reluctant to leave the safety of the covers, go back to her cold, lonely, little nest.
The door creaked open, slowly, and she turned, holding the covers up to her chin, to see Mr. Gold in the doorway, staring stricken at her. He was leaning heavily on his cane. He did not say anything, though his face was troubled.
“Do you want me to leave?” she asked, voice small but steady. Their bargain was fulfilled: the dim light in the room was the rising sun. A warm place for the night, and some food. That his touch had been gentle, and his closeness so good it nearly broke her heart, did not matter.
“No!” he said sharply, then sighed. “No, please, let me get you some food and clothes. You can stay as long as you like.” He spread his hand out, looking helpless, and Belle nodded. He turned and left the doorway, limping away, but returned in a few minutes with women’s clothing that would more or less fit her. He deposited it on the edge of the bed, as if afraid to come nearer, and turned his back. Belle reached for the clothes and put them on, leaving the warm bed with a twinge of regret.
“I think I bled on your sheets,” she said, straightening her long skirt and sweater. “I’m sorry.” He flinched as though she had struck him, and turned, face pained.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said, voice low, and held his hand to indicate she should precede him out of the room. “I’ll make you breakfast.”
His house was crowded and still, like his shop, the wooden floorboards cool but not cold beneath her bare feet. She was hungry again: a dish of oatmeal, with brown sugar and apple bits, waited for her on a table in the kitchen, and she smelled the bitter scent that the nurses sometimes brought, that wafted out of the diner in the mornings.
The oatmeal was far better than what she was given in her cell, the grains soft, sweetened with the dark sugar. The pawnbroker watched her intently, fidgeting with his cane, a mug of the steaming, bitter black liquid untouched before him.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly. “I didn’t hurt you too badly?” Guilt tinged his voice, and beyond lurked some other emotion, something she didn’t recognize. Belle shook her head and smiled timidly at him.
“No, I’m fine,” she said, wondering why he was so diffident. “Thank you for the clothes.” He nodded, looking away.
“Of course. May I speak with you?” He sat down opposite her and she nodded slowly.
“Belle,” he began, still not looking right at her. “How did you end up coming to my shop last night?”
“It was very cold,” she said, and he reached across the table and touched her wrist briefly, finally looking at her eyes.
“Where have you been?” His dark eyes were haunted, as if he were asking the answer to some other, incomprehensible question. Belle blinked back at him, mesmerized.
“I was at the hospital,” she said, after a long minute. “I don’t know why.” He nodded grimly, let go of her wrist, and walked around the table to touch her head gently.
“I’m going to find out for you, all right?” His hand brushed through her tangled hair, so softly she could hardly feel his fingers. “Will you stay here with me?” She twisted her fingers together, staring down at the breakfast he’d made her.
“I’m fine,” she rasped. “I can’t ask you for more.” She could, and she would pay his price again, but he was in such an odd mood, fright pouring off him, that she didn’t want to ask. “Though… your bed wasn’t unpleasant. It was nice, being so close.” She stopped, heart pounding fearfully, and he wrapped his hands around one of hers and squeezed it, sinking into a chair next to her.
“Oh, Belle,” he said, and she saw tears form in his eyes, for some reason. His hand shook, still clutching hers, and she reached her free hand out to touch the side of his face, unsure about his tears.
“It’s okay,” she said uncertainly. A few hot tears dripped over her fingers, and she brushed clumsily at the corners of his eyes.
“It’s not,” he said shakily. “But it will be, I promise.”