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He had arranged for a place to live for the two of them. He had money. Transferring those accounts had taken mere moments. Everything had been set and ready to for them to begin their new life. He would have his magic and he would have his wife and they would have the life she deserved and he wanted for her and for himself.
And then, inevitably, everything had come crashing down around his ears. He was alone now. He had lost everything. Belle, his freedom, his magic, his grandson, even the town that had been his home and prison for thirty years was lost to him now.
He had lost everything before. But before there had been hope. When he let go of Baelfire and his son vanished through the portal he had sworn to find his son no matter the cost. He had found his boy eventually though it had cost him, and others, dearly. He wasn’t certain there was any hope of forgiveness or reconciliation this time but he had to try. Laying down to die, though it had been sorely tempting when he was first across the town line, wasn’t an option. Not yet, anyway.
He had a lot of time to think as he made his way from a lonely road in Maine to New York. There was plenty to think on. Where he went wrong. How he went wrong. How terribly wrong he had been and perhaps would always be. He had meant to have a car for this part, not to mention a companion. Instead he made do with other, less pleasant, modes of transportation once he managed to limp his way to the diner down the road. He made two calls from the payphone there. The first was to Belle’s cell phone. It didn’t connect and the voice on the other end telling him he had dialed incorrectly had him wanting to punch the wall or sob. Perhaps both. The second was to a cab company that had conveniently placed an advertisement on the wall. The cab ride to the bus station was barely long enough to merit mention. The bus ride to Manhattan, however, was long and thoroughly unpleasant. He had disliked flying when last he visited the city. Now he found himself thinking of the experience almost fondly when his thoughts weren’t filled with self-loathing.
When he arrived at the Port Authority he stumbled getting off the bus. His first purchase in Manhattan was a cane. Hardly a substitute for the one that had supported him in Storybrooke but this would do for now.
His son’s apartment had been vacant since Neal left it. Rumplestiltskin bought it outright once he realized this. Belle, he thought, would have liked to see it. To see how and where his son had lived since she’d had precious little time with him before he was lost a final time. He wrote to her the first time sitting in the apartment on his first night there, alone.
I didn’t mean for this to happen….
He didn’t send the letter. It was carefully folded and tucked away inside a hidden drawer in his desk.
It took some time to get situated. Storybrooke had been a different experience than the Enchanted Forest but Manhattan was an altogether different beast. He had money enough to live on. He had seen to that. But living in New York required more than simply finances and an apartment. He needed more. Nothing so mundane as a job. What he needed was a life. After a few days of wallowing in self pity he began to build one though it bore no resemblance to any life he’d had before.
He availed himself of the public library early on. Obtaining a library card had been the first of what he hoped would be many small victories. The second letter he wrote to Belle he wrote while sitting in the stacks his second trip there. This one went unsent as well and soon joined the first in the desk’s hidden drawer.
He spent more time in the library and less in the apartment as the days turned into weeks. There was an astonishing amount of information to be had and information was a precious commodity in his quest to regain his life. The librarians and pages soon came to recognize him. He wasn’t friendly but he didn’t try and frighten any of them away as he might have done in a previous life. When questioned about what he was researching he told them he was an author. It seemed a fitting lie.
The letters to Belle continued when he wasn’t plotting his return to Storybrooke. The hidden drawer was quickly filled and soon enough the stationery threatened to overtake the entire desk. They all said the same thing; he was sorry and he loved her. Eventually they contained other things as well. A description of the library. A harrowing tale of riding the subway in the wee hours of the morning. Some letters, particularly those written late at night early in his exile, were angry. He considered typing them on the laptop his son had left behind but using a pen was more cathartic even if some of his pen strokes tore the paper.
Several weeks into his exile in Manhattan Rumplestiltskin made a breakthrough. He’d found one of the women he been looking for. He was sure Belle wouldn’t approve of his methods but he was desperate and desperation had always driven him to extremes.
I’ve almost found a way home, that night’s letter began. I can only hope these last few transgressions, done so that I might begin the process of repairing so many previous misdeeds, do not damage your view of me any further. I can explain all of it if you’ll only allow me the chance. I don’t expect forgiveness. I am not that much of a fool all appearances to the contrary. I only want to explain what happened as I should have done so many months ago. Please. You may banish me from your presence once more but allow me a few moments to speak before you do. I love you. I have always loved you. I will always love you.
While her wayward husband spent his days sequestered in the NYPL or roaming New York City in pursuit of something that would allow him to return to Storybrooke, Belle busied herself with her own library and, to a lesser extent, the pawnshop. That was almost enough, almost, to fill the gaping hole that Rumplestiltskin’s absence created. She slept in her old apartment, unwilling to return to a bed that the two of them had shared. The apartment had been entirely her space even if he had gifted it to her, along with the library.
She interacted with the rest of the town sparingly. She didn’t tell anyone what had happened. They guessed and gossiped and she ignored it as best she could. If others needed something from the pawn shop she was willing to oblige but she kept the transactions brief and as businesslike as possible. Library patrons found Belle friendlier but only when conversations were kept strictly to the subject of books.
Claiming he needed a refuge as well as spending money, Henry began working after school at the pawn shop once more. He wanted to know what had happened and he wanted news of his grandfather ”We could try emailing him,” he suggested one day as he swept the floor. “That should still work.”
“He doesn’t like computers,” Belle answered.
“He has email though,” Henry told her. “I set it up.” It had been an attempt to see if his grandfather would give up information about the Author. It had had failed, like every other attempt.
“You can email whoever you like,” Belle said, closing a ledger a bit too firmly. “Time to close up. You should head home.” She went home herself immediately after Henry left and opened up her email. Of course she rarely got anything other than the odd advertisement from Granny’s or her father’s flower shop but she still made sure to check it just in case. Today there was nothing, not even something poorly spelled trying to sell her medications for body parts she didn’t possess. Undeterred, she hit “compose” and began doing just that.
How could you do this to me? Again? It began.
She didn’t send the email she wrote. She had nowhere to send it to. Instead she clicked on “delete” and shut the computer down for the night. She felt better having written but the next time she thought she would write a proper letter. Even if its intended recipient never read it, putting the words down on paper would help her sort through her complicated and contradictory thoughts.
She started writing letters the next day. Some were about how angry she was. Or how disappointed she was. Some were simply a description of her day. She didn’t send any. Even if she’d had an address to mail a letter to she wasn’t ready to establish communication yet. She wasn’t sure if she ever would be. Not that it mattered. He was gone because of her actions and there was no way for him to return. Often the letters said nothing more than “I miss you.”
One day, while Henry was working at untangling a box of necklaces, Belle handed him a piece of paper. “Write it down for me,” she said. “The email.”
“You sure?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Want me to see if it works first?”
Belle smiled at him. She hadn’t smiled so genuinely in weeks and it felt unfamiliar on her face. “Actually, yes.” She wasn’t sure she could bear it if an attempt at communication failed. She loved Rumplestiltskin in spite of herself, in spite of himself as well. Her heart wouldn’t listen to what her head said and she wasn’t sure she wanted it to.
Without another word Henry dropped the tangle of jewelry back in the box, grabbed his backpack from the floor behind the counter and ran out the door, flipping the sign to closed on his way out.
After his meeting with the sea-witch Rumplestiltskin made his way back to his son’s apartment. He still thought of it as Baelfire’s even after so many weeks of occupying it and even longer owning it. He always would. He’d changed very little about it. He was even, occasionally, using his son’s computer. He had it open tonight, checking the hours of an establishment he thought me might need to visit tomorrow. It chimed once and he looked at the screen, startled. He had an email address but it was almost exclusively used so the library could inform him of the status of items he had requested and it was most assuredly after the time when they would be emailing him.
The subject line said “Grandpa.” That was an immediate and obvious clue though one that was nearly as startling as the communication itself.
Does this still work? Are you there? was all that was in the body of the email.
He typed a one word reply and hit send.
Great! was the immediate response. Where are you?
Why do you want to know? he wasn’t sure he wanted his grandson to know his whereabouts. He might tell his mother, or his other mother. Miss Swan, he thought, could likely cross the town line with impunity. What if she came after him? Though he wasn’t sure what she would do if she found him.
Because you’ve been gone 6 weeks and I wasn’t sure if you were even still alive. You’re not a ghost are you?
I am reasonably certain ghosts do not type, Henry.
“It works,” Henry reported to Belle the next day after school when he arrived at the pawn shop. “Here you go.” He put a slip of paper on the counter with the email address written on it.
“Thank you, Henry.” Belle’s smile today felt forced. She didn’t need to use the email but now it was there and she would be tempted and if they started talking who knew what might happen? Unsent letters were one thing. They would never be read and so there was no risk. But if she allowed Rumplestiltskin back in, even a little, he had the power to hurt her. He also, one stubborn part of her insisted, had the power to make things better.
It took her a week to send an email. She wrote and deleted several before that. What did you say in this situation? How did you start a conversation with someone you had literally forced out of your life?
Hello Rumple. Henry tells me you’ll be able to read this. I wanted to test that for myself. That seemed safe enough. She wasn’t sure what else to say and this method of communication was so impersonal that she wasn’t comfortable saying anything of import. She could hardly confess to missing him desperately over the internet.
The next morning when Rumplestiltskin checked his inbox to see if there were any messages from the library there was only one message and it was from an unfamiliar address with a blank subject line. He opened it, expecting some gibberish about medications from Canada. He slammed the laptop shut immediately. He wasn’t ready to talk to her, not even this way.
Belle had waited beside her computer for hours hoping for a reply. She didn’t get one that night, nor the next morning. After the second day she asked Henry if she was sure he had written it down correctly. He assured her he had and sent an email of his own to follow up.
Why aren’t you answering her?
Why indeed? It wasn’t that simple. She had cast him out in spite of his pleas. She hadn’t given him a chance to explain. She’d hurt him more deeply than anyone had in hundreds of years. She had, in short, treated him exactly the way he had once treated her. He loved her not despite what she had done but even more because of it. If she hadn’t acted as she had she wouldn’t be the woman he loved.
He gathered up what courage he possessed, opened the email from Belle, and hit reply.
You’ve found me out. He decided to take a playful tone. He was good at deflecting that way. I check this once a day, usually. Should you need to contact me in a timely fashion I’m afraid you’re out of luck. That came out a bit more bitter than intended. I shall try to respond as soon as possible but I am busy here. Banishment has kept me quite occupied.
Belle flinched when she read his response but the fact that it had come at all was, she decided, cause for celebration. She knew she’d made the right choice. That didn’t mean she had to like it and she certainly didn’t expect him to appreciate it.
I’m not sure anything I have to say is time sensitive, she began. I just wanted to assure myself you were still out there somewhere. I won’t bother you further if that’s what you wish. She hoped that wasn’t what he wished. She still clung stubbornly to the idea that he loved her and would somehow make things right. She had no idea how that might be achieved but stubborn hope was something she had practice with.
A message from you is not a bother. Not even after the way we parted.
The emails went on like that for weeks, usually one a day. Neither one of them said anything of importance. It was too soon for that. But this was a beginning. An awkward and stilted beginning but a beginning all the same.
Unbeknownst to each other they also were still composing handwritten letters daily. In those, unlike the emails, they said everything important. Love and hope. Disappointment and fear.
Eventually he confessed to being in New York but then fell silent for several days. Belle fretted over this but told herself he was certainly busy with whatever it was he was plotting there. She was sure he was plotting. He was always plotting. She just hoped his current plot would lead to a more pleasant result.
A more pleasant result was what Rumplestiltskin was hoping for as well. His silence was in fact due to being busy. With the help of the library and the sea witch and her dog-obsessed friend he’d found a way around the spell keeping everyone out of Storybrooke. At least he thought he had. He needed the women’s help but he could rid himself of them once he was back on solid, magical ground. He explained all of this in yet another letter to Belle that joined the ever-growing stash.
He packed up the apartment. The letters went into a briefcase he could barely close. That would come with him as would a few things belonging to his son that he wanted to keep close. Some things he left behind. If things went as planned he would come back here, with Belle, perhaps even with Henry one day. He owned the space and could store things indefinitely. Before he left he sent a final email.
I’m coming back. I hope. I warn you you won’t like my my method of returning but I could hardly live out the rest of my life here alone. I know I have done terrible things. I am a terrible man as I have always warned you. But this terrible man loves you and would see you one last time if you’ll allow it.
She responded immediately. We can meet. Let me know when you’ve arrived.
The feel of magic around him once more as he crossed over the line was like a salve to a wound. Once he had it he whispered a “goodbye dearies” to his companions and disappeared along with his belongings. He reappeared at once in front of the library with the briefcase of letters in hand. He opened the door hesistantly and breathed a sigh of relief to find the desk empty. He left the briefcase there with one letter, the most recent, on top.
There are more letters like this in the briefcase. All are dated. I have written to you nearly every day that we have been apart. Do with them what you will. Read them if you like. Burn them. Shred them. They are yours. I will be at Granny’s all evening. If you would meet me there I would be most grateful. I only want to talk. All I ask is for you to listen. Allow me to explain what I’ve done. I don’t expect, nor do I deserve, forgiveness. With all my love, as always, Rumplestiltskin.
All that was left now was to wait and he did, pacing anxiously outside the diner in spite of the cold and ever increasing glares from Mrs. Lucas. It was all worth it when Belle arrived. He wanted to run to her, wrap her in his arms and never let her go. He settled for staring at her and holding the door open for her to enter in front of him and choose a table.
“You got my letters?” He knew he sounded pathetically hopeful. He didn’t care. Belle was here. He was here. That was all that mattered. He had her for at least a few minutes more.
“I haven’t read them all yet,” she said. “But yes. I have them. I…I’ll read them later. I have some for you as well. I’ve been writing. Not so often as you. Would you like them?” She placed a shoebox on the table in front of her.
“I would like nothing more,” he assured her. Aside from the small matter of forgiveness or reconciliation but he wasn’t delusional. He wasn’t getting that tonight or likely ever.
“I can’t stay long,” she warned him. “So say what you came to say.”
He deserved that. He deserved far worse.
“I was going to explain myself,” he began. “I changed my mind.”
The look she turned on him was disappointed. “Rumplestiltskin…”
“No, let me finish. I could explain everything. Every terrible thing I have done I can justify somehow. I’m good at that. But it’s too late for explanations and I have no desire to sound as if I’m making excuses. Besides I’ve said it all in my letters. Let me just say this now. I do love you. I have always loved you. I will always love you. The gauntlet brought you to my greatest weakness, not my greatest love. Love is not always a weakness. You are not a weakness. Someday I hope you might bring yourself to forgive me. I understand that may not be possible. I’ll go now. You know where to find me should you wish to. Goodnight, Belle.” He stood and turned toward the door.
That was the man she loved shining through the monster. Perhaps that love would be enough after all. “Rumple. Thank you. Perhaps…perhaps we could have dinner? Tomorrow?”
“I would like that. Very much.”