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Gold adjusted his magnifying lens fractionally, manipulating the tweezers in his other hand with a precise skill honed by years of practice.
He hummed softly in triumph as the clasp of the antique gold bracelet he had discovered and acquired online last month snapped shut with a soft, gratifying clink. The series of fine, thin gold links once again formed a perfect circle, attached to which, spaced at irregular intervals, were six open-book charms, each charm representing a different piece of classical literature. With his magnifying glass, Gold could just read the lines inscribed on the open pages of each of the charms, actual quotations from the books themselves--a level of detail that had driven up the price of the piece, broken clasp notwithstanding.
Not that Gold begrudged the cost. In truth, he had spent far more on countless other occasions, either to secure an interesting item for the shop that he could restore--thus recouping his outlay, and then some—or to add to his private collections at home. The latter were extensive and varied, for Gold was a collector of all things rare and the beautiful.
The bracelet easily fit that category in Gold’s mind, but it would not suit just anyone. It was, however, the perfect gift for a bibliophile. Gold fingered each link slowly, his mind turning, as it did so often these days, to thoughts of the particular bibliophile whose wrist he hoped the bracelet would soon adorn.
To call his fascination with Belle French an obsession was, Gold acknowledged, rather understating the matter. Gold had found himself drawn to Storybrooke’s new librarian from the moment he first saw her, almost half a year ago. The reason for that initial attraction was no mystery. Belle more than lived up to her name. Chestnut curls framed a heart-shaped face from out of which beamed two almost obscenely blue eyes, all topping a perfectly proportioned figure that was of a scale to make even the physically diminutive Mr. Gold seem a giant beside her. Gold could now admit—to himself, anyway—that he’d wanted Belle at first glance. He was, after all, a purveyor of fine things—they were his livelihood, as well as his hobby. So it was only natural that after first spying the pretty, petite librarian, he would continue to watch her at every opportunity.
And with all that watching, it was inevitable that Gold should fall completely under her spell.
For, unlikely as it seemed, Gold quickly discovered that Belle’s inner spirit was more than a match for her outer physique. Belle was literally kindness itself, as if that attribute had decided to take on human form and wander the Earth, like something out of Greek mythology. Gold had watched Belle helping old Mrs. Nolan with her groceries in the parking lot of Storybrooke’s only supermarket, her girlish, slight frame lifting the older woman’s purchases into her waiting vehicle with a sunny smile and an insistent declaration that it was her pleasure to be of assistance. Gold had watched as, one day in Granny’s Café, Belle gently but firmly removed Ashley Boyd’s screaming infant from that overwrought young mother’s arms, offering to stroll the colicky baby up and down Main Street while Ashley had a cup of coffee and a grown-up gossip with waitress Ruby. And Gold had, of course, watched Belle in the library, where her cheerful disposition as much as her thoughtful reading recommendations to patrons had served to do the remarkable: double the circulation data of what had formerly been a failing public service, all in less than six months.
It was while watching her at the library that Gold had first been caught by the object of his endless scrutiny, and he still shuddered inwardly at the memory. He’d been so discreet in his Belle-viewing until then—even now he couldn’t think what had caused her to look up so suddenly. But look up she had, those clear blue eyes orbs chancing to glance up straight into his surely panic stricken face. Belle had handled the incident professionally, of course, moving over to try and engage him in a discussion of books. He remembered he had barely answered her questions--couldn’t seem to get his mouth to open, even to say a simple “yes” or “no.” She hadn’t seemed to mind, though. No--she was far too kind to let on for even one second how unnerved she must have been, finding herself being leered at by a crippled man twice her age--the beast of Storybrooke.
Gold had had many nicknames in the small town he’d called home for over twenty years: the beast was the most common, followed closely by “monster,” “skinflint” and “that bastard.” Gold couldn’t even argue with the monikers, as he had certainly done his best over the years to fulfill the spirit of the sentiments thus expressed. He was in truth a merciless landlord, constitutionally allergic altering any contract in any way that did not directly benefit him--a dealmaker second only to the Devil himself in cunning and ruthlessness. The idea that sweet, lovely young Belle French could ever consider him worthy of her romantic attention—or, even more laughable, could ever reciprocate his feelings for her--was as absurd a concept as the notion that Gold would one day be able to take a medal in catapulting at the Olympics.
No, it was too much to hope he’d ever have a real relationship with Belle—romantically, or in any other way. Watching her would have to be enough—but he’d have to be more circumspect. Otherwise, he’d be sure to be caught staring again, which likely would make Belle uncomfortable. Maybe make her want to leave Storybrooke altogether. Gold couldn’t have that. Just by existing, Belle had returned to Gold an interest for life. It was a feeling that increased each time he saw her, a feeling he’d thought had been lost forever when Bae had left him… If Belle were ever to leave too, that bit of life in him she’d reawakened would surely shrivel up and blow away—perhaps this time forever.
Gold had been doing all right this week with his self-enforced limitations on Belle viewing, decidedly not gazing at her surreptitiously between hardcovers on the library shelves since being caught, as it were “red-eyed” nearly a fortnight ago. But when he had come across the bracelet online Gold had been arrested by the immediate, unshakeable conviction that the piece was meant for Belle. It belonged to her somehow--it was just waiting to be reunited with its true mistress.
And so the idea had been born.
Just because Gold knew he could never risk telling Belle about his feelings for her didn’t mean he couldn’t express his intense admiration for the librarian in some other, tangible-yet-completely-anonymous way. This bracelet would be that way. Gold fell into a pleasurable fantasy of waiting to check out a library book, Belle assisting him at the front desk, his gift fastened securely around her slender wrist, her admiring gaze on it as he perhaps dared to comment on the charming accessory…Belle’s eyes might take on a distant gleam as she acknowledged to him the impeccable taste of her secret admirer, and he would get to observe her at close range fiddling with the charms as he did now…
Gold’s breath caught in his throat as his innocent fantasy took a sudden, delicious turn. A vision of Belle’s hands in his hair, fingering the locks with the same care she took with the charms. Those same hands, bracelet around the left wrist, sliding to more southerly parts of his anatomy, the charms jingling lightly as she held him, gently at first then firmer, stroking—
Gold gasped as his eyes flew open. He shook his head once, twice in quick succession, trying to clear his treacherous mind of any lingering traces of the decadent images. He needed to get a grip on himself.
Well, yes—that too.
But what he really needed to do now was focus. Gold stole a glance at the clock on the mantle. He wouldn’t have enough time to wrap the bracelet and make sure of its delivery tonight if he didn’t get a move on. And that would be the end of any part of his fantasies about Belle coming to life. It had to be tonight—that much he was sure of. A man could be a woman’s secret admirer on Valentine’s Day—could leave an anonymous, expensive gift and not be the creepy stalker he might be mistaken for on any other day of the year.
Yes, it had to be tonight, the night before Valentine’s Day. He’d deliver the gift tonight, and Belle would wake up to it first thing tomorrow. Gold nodded in satisfaction at the thought, then set to work placing the bracelet gently into its slim case, before wrapping the whole expertly in some lovely pink paper overlain with an intricate gold pattern.
Done, Gold stood, pulling on his coat, scarf and gloves against the February chill. Gold collected the delicate package, balancing it against his body with one hand while clutching his cane in the other. Taking another glance at the clock, he consciously took a deep breath, willing his shoulders to sink down from their tense, hunched position, and headed out the door.
It was time.
0 0 0
Belle looked up from her iPad to check the time on her bedside clock.
11:30.
Time to be off to the land of Nod. Past time, in fact—she’d been up at 5am that morning, needing to be sure the library doors were unlocked so the Loxsmith installation crew could get the new security system for the library up and running before official opening time.
The alarm system was being implemented for her safety, Belle had been assured. Well, for the safety of Storybrooke city property, of course--but as Belle lived on city property, literally directly above her work, she was accruing all the benefits of extra security measures and none of the expense. You should be grateful, Mayor Regina Mills had said, when Belle had protested halfheartedly that she had never felt unsafe in her not-quite-six months in the apartment so far--nor had she ever heard of the library experiencing a break-in. But Regina had insisted, and in the end Belle had no choice in the matter. The city council had approved Regina’s plan unanimously. If anyone had thought it just a tad suspicious that Regina’s insistence on new security measures being implemented all over Storybrooke coincided pretty neatly with the beginning of her relationship with Robin Loxsley--who owned the only security company in town, and hence was profiting significantly from all the new installations--Belle hadn’t heard it.
Even assuming the two facts were connected, Belle couldn’t find it in her to push the issue. Robin was a good man, a widower with a young son. He could use the extra income, not to mention the companionship—such as it was. Belle thought he could certainly do better than Regina, but in the end that was his business, not hers.
At least neither of them would be alone tomorrow, like Belle would be.
On Valentine’s Day.
Belle fought back a sigh and glanced back down at her iPad, careful to mark her place before shutting down the device. At least she had the latest offering from author Fae Mallory to keep her company tomorrow night. Belle had recently acquired quite a taste for the writer. Mallory’s sensual, romantic tales were consistently engrossing, more than capable of keeping Belle up well into the night, as this one had tonight and likely would again tomorrow evening. Unless--
Unless Belle could be strong enough—brave enough—to do what needed to be done.
Confront Mr. Gold.
Not that a confrontation was exactly what Belle hoped to have with the infamous pawnbroker and landlord, Storybrooke’s most powerful man. They would have a—a discussion. Yes, that was more like it. She would just walk right into his shop, Gold’s Antiques, and start things off.
Mr. Gold’s shop was only two streets over from her apartment entrance, a distance with which Belle had grown rather intimate lately, given the view of the backroom of Mr. Gold’s shop afforded by the little window above and to the right of her bathroom sink. Not that she ever spied on him through that window. Not too often, anyway. Yes, she had seen him there this evening—as she did most evenings, and not a few mornings--but was she to blame if the man always seemed to be working in his backroom? And if her eyes just occasionally happened to stray over to that particular window once she completed her morning or evening ablutions, and if her gaze just happened to linger over the smart cut of the Mr. Gold’s apparently endless supply of beautifully tailored suits--.
Well. A girl couldn’t be blamed for that.
Nor could Belle be blamed for feeling her pulse quicken at the thought of striding into Mr. Gold’s shop tomorrow, into his private domain, where no doubt the very air would be thick with his scent, air that she would breathe deeply into her lungs as she stood there, prepared to say—
Belle let out in a great rush the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her heart rate almost stilling in her sudden trepidation.
What would she say to him?
“Why do you keep staring at me?”
“Why haven’t you ever asked me out?”
“Would it be all right with you if I jumped you right here and now?”
In her wildest dreams Belle couldn’t imagine herself saying any of those things--particularly the last one. Why, she’d be lucky if Mr. Gold didn’t call Sheriff Swan on the spot to have Belle hauled away on assault charges.
Of course, he could decide to haul her away himself…into the backroom…and her fingers would be at liberty to finally run themselves through the hair she’d been practically lusting over for months now…Belle moaned softly at the achingly clear image her mind presented.
She was going insane.
Belle had never really bought Elizabeth Bennett’s assertion not to understand why Mr. Darcy kept staring at her—it had almost seemed too disingenuous to Belle to be believable. Lizzie was no fool, after all, and a man simply did not stare at a woman, and keep staring at her, unless he liked what he saw.
Did he?
Now that she was in a similar situation, Belle suddenly found herself in sympathy with the heroine of Austen’s greatest tome. Belle was a natural optimist, always ready to give people the benefit of the doubt, to hope for the best in any situation that came along. But even Belle’s sunny outlook could hardly dare draw any firm conclusions from Mr. Gold’s steady, persistent staring.
In truth, it had made Belle a bit uncomfortable at first. His gaze was so unflinching, so penetrating. He hardly seemed to take any steps to hide his watching, and he’d watched her everywhere. At the grocer’s, at Granny’s café, at the library—especially at the library. Mr. Gold was constantly staring at her at the library, from in between books in the stacks, or over the top of a volume that rested, forgotten, in his hands. His hands…Belle had begun daydreaming about those hands almost right off. She’d been attracted soon enough by his other attributes, of course—those suits, that hair—but those hands. Those hands were her undoing.
But his staring made her pause. It was inexplicable, and seemed so out of character. From everything she’d heard about him (culled mainly from gossip from Ruby and Granny which Belle took with the requisite grain of salt) Mr. Gold was a rather—direct--man. Brusque, perhaps. Not always inclined to consider of the feelings of his recipient before speaking or acting.
Belle didn’t think the less of him for that. A successful business man was, obliged to act decisively and unpopularly at times, and would certainly make enemies along the way. That one of his rumored enemies was Mayor Mills rather softened Belle towards Mr. Gold, even before they first met. The Mayor had been decidedly against any of the changes Belle had lobbied hard for in the library system during her first few weeks of work. That the support of the notorious Mr. Gold had helped push through some of the favorable decisions for library funding on the City Council more than predisposed Belle to like the man. Anyone who could stand against Regina to guarantee basic funding to cover the library’s operational costs couldn’t be all bad, no matter what the rumor mill suggested—and he had to be used to tackling issues head on. Shyness seemed the opposite of his character.
But what other explanation could there possibly be for his continued, constant gazing at her, coupled with his absolute failure to make any attempt at an approach? Common sense dictated that he must be looking because he liked what he saw. On the surface, the idea that Mr. Gold was simply too reticent to act on his attraction to her seemed laughable.
The fearsome Mr. Gold, afraid? Of her?
The more time went on though, the more Belle became slowly convinced that this must be the truth of the matter. Well, 90% convinced, in any case. Particularly after catching him outright last week in the library. Belle had always been careful to avoid his eyes before that day—she didn’t have a clue what she would say or do if she should catch him in one of his intense observations of her person. Belle had never before been the pursuer in a relationship, and the shift in dynamic was enough to throw her off balance for a while. But that day some impulse had struck and would not be denied. Belle had been conscious of his scrutiny for some time—she had almost developed a sixth sense about it now. Looking up suddenly to where she knew he stood, one row of stacks in, she met his eyes boldly, only to see the infamous Mr. Gold, the terror of Storybrooke, freeze under her gaze.
He had looked so exquisitely uncomfortable in fact that Belle had gone to him almost immediately, trying her best to put him at ease, speaking of the book he’d been holding, the library events occurring that week—anything, really, to make the moment less acutely embarrassing than he obviously felt it to be. Belle was fairly sure her efforts had met with only partial success, at best. Mr. Gold had been terse in his replies, mostly one word responses, before heading abruptly for the exit.
It was this latest encounter that had decided Belle. Things couldn’t go on this way. If Mr. Gold couldn’t—or wouldn’t—broach the subject of his possible (95% probable) attraction to her, Belle would do it for him. While informing him, at the same time, of her 100% certain attraction to him.
She didn’t know what would happen after that. She thought it rather serendipitous that tomorrow—the day she had self-appointed as The Day for their talk--was Valentine’s Day. If it all ended up going horribly wrong, if her 5% doubt about Mr. Gold’s motivations in looking at her so long and so often in the end proved warranted, perhaps she could pass it off as some poor attempt at holiday humor.
Belle swallowed hard, her mouth dry with nerves. She would never keep her resolution to act tomorrow if she didn’t stop worrying and get some sleep now. At the same time, she felt sleep had never been further out of reach. Sighing softly, Belle placed her iPad gently on the nightstand, then reached out to her lamp and switched it off, casting the room into darkness.
That was when all Hell broke loose.
0 0 0
It was Hell to get old.
Gold winced as the wind whipped his coat around his legs, the fabric’s touch against his knee reminding him of the likely sequelae to this midnight stroll. The joint would be killing him tomorrow. At least for now the weather had rendered him mostly numb. It was when he was finally at home again, thawing out, that the pain would truly set in.
He supposed he should be grateful that at least it wasn’t snowing. Gratitude, however, was not an emotion with which he had any real familiarity. To be grateful was to acknowledge a debt owed, to put oneself completely into the power of another. Both concepts were anathema to Gold. He neither asked for nor granted favors, much preferring a quid pro quo contract--legal parties of the first part paying (preferably in cash) for whatever the parties of the second part had that was worth the price. Everything had its price, after all, and in all his long and varied life, Gold had never been inspired to change this fundamental point of view.
Until he’d encountered Belle French, that is. From their first meeting, the lovely librarian had enslaved him, and Gold would never, could never do enough to repay her for just—being Belle. The kindest, most beautiful woman he’d ever known. A miracle of a woman. True, he hadn’t had much direct interaction with her—but in observing her so closely, he couldn’t escape the feeling that somehow he knew her better than anyone else in Storybrooke.
He could and would at least attempt to become worthy of her, even if she never realized the effort for what it was. Not that he would ever be completely worthy of such a creature—Gold knew himself well enough to know he’d never change that much. If any of his daydreams about Belle were to ever come true, Gold knew he would always be indebted to her for choosing him, of all men, on whom to bestow her favor.
It was a notion that, given his history and lifelong convictions, should have inspired some fear. But all Gold felt was a longing that had become familiar through habit, just gaining in intensity over time. Longing, mixed with the tiniest thrill of anticipation. To be indebted to Belle would mean she had given him something of herself--that she had confided to him her fears, or conferred on him her regard, or entrusted to him her person in some way. In any way, it would be the greatest and most humbling of honors, and Gold could think of nothing he desired more.
Holding the package with her gift inside close to his body, Gold continued to pick his slow, careful way towards the library building two streets away. Streetlamps in Storybrooke were few and far between, necessitating the rather slow progress Gold was now making. He had submitted proposals the city council himself time and again, lobbying for decent lighting for the town’s streets, arguing the hazard insufficient or nonexistent lighting posed to both drivers and pedestrians, particularly in the long nights of winter in Maine. Regina had successfully blocked the proposals each time, insisting that part of the quaint charm of their town was the relative lack of modern conveniences (Gold’s words) used regularly in other cities. Strorybrooke was the only town for miles in any direction, Regina asserted, where one could stroll down Main Street of an evening and stargaze all at once.
Which was probably true, but not, Gold would rebut, worth a fall and a broken bone or two when the first tourist missed a step because the darkness obscured everything less than a foot in front of his face.
Gold allowed the surface of his brain to become preoccupied with the topic of his ongoing tug of war with Mayor Mills for control of the city council, the familiar pattern his thoughts thus falling into helping to calm his nerves as he drew nearer to the library—and to Belle’s apartment. Gold had always allowed Regina the occasional minor victory when it came to running the city. The latest streetlamp tussle had been an example of this policy, not to mention his quiet acquiescence in funding the new security systems all over the town that would give Regina’s new boyfriend some much needed business.
Such victories offset the balance of issues on which Gold was determined to have his way, as with the recent allotment of necessary funding for the library that, if Gold had anything to say about it, would be Belle’s livelihood for a long time to come. They also sweetened Regina’s temper, which generally made life pleasanter for those around the mayor. In short, they were charitable impulses Gold didn’t believe it worthwhile to suppress.
After all, it was not as if he suffered an overabundance of them.
Gold stepped up onto the sidewalk outside the library proper, nerves returning in full force as he felt along the wall for the waist-high opening that would be the letter drop into the main library foyer. Gold had decided that would be the best place to make delivery for Belle’s Valentine gift. The package was slim enough to fit through, and it would pass the night safe within shelter, saving it from any possible exposure to the elements. Gold had added a single red rose to his offering, secured loosely to the package itself. Belle liked flowers, and he’d noticed her preference for red roses.
Gold’s hand passed over the letter drop opening, and he stopped, turning towards the wall. Slowly, positioning the package just so, he pushed it through the invisible opening, following the through with his both hands to ensure a gentle landing for the jewelry.
That was when all Hell broke loose.
An incessant clanging, so loud as to render Gold momentarily deaf, started up, taking on after a few seconds a timbre more wailing than bell-like, only to return to the clang-clang-clang motif once again, the entire noise output gaining in intensity as each moment passed.
The initial shock had caused Gold to freeze, his hands still pushed all the way through the letter box. The next second saw him hurriedly scramble to maneuver free, part of the wrapping paper tearing in the ensuing struggle. The package dropped with a thud that Gold imagined more than heard, as the alarm sounded over and over.
The security system. He’d forgotten the new security system. As the alarm continued to sound around him, Gold cursed all his charitable impulses.
Go. He had to go—now. As a landlord Gold had some familiarity with alarm systems, of course, and if Loxley’s was at all up to standard, a phone call would shortly be waking Belle. He couldn’t be found loitering outside her home, like some pervert. She might even believe he had tried to break in—
A light within the building switched on, illuminating the darkness around him mercilessly. Gold realized he was standing directly in front of a long row of windows. He looked through the nearest—and saw Belle descending, phone pressed tightly to her ear. He couldn’t make out a word, not with that din still shattering his eardrums, but it was likely she was speaking to the security call center. As quickly as he could he moved over to the door of the library, the nearest space where he would have some protection should Belle choose to peek out the windows into the night.
Of course, if she should open the door itself—
Relief swept over him as the next second brought an end to the cacophony of sound. It seemed to take another moment for his ears to come out of hiding, but as soon as they did Gold could hear Belle’s voice, muffled somewhat but still distinct. She must be standing directly in front of the door—now that his brain was working again, Gold knew that would be the most logical place to install the security system’s control panel. If only she didn’t actually open the door—
“Mrrrow?”
Gold’s head snapped to his right and he felt a chill creep over him that had nothing to do with his current exposure to the elements. Sitting inside on the sill nearest to Gold was Belle’s cat.
Staring directly at him.
Gold froze, the holding the cat’s unblinking gaze with his own, willing the animal with all his mind to look away, look away, just look away—
“Nicodemus?” Belle’s voice sounded just beyond the door. She must have ended her phone call. She moved into Gold’s view and picked up the cat, who continued staring straight at Gold for perhaps another heartbeat of time before finally looking away.
“Did you see something out there, boy?” Belle inquired of the cat, and even outside Gold could hear the slightest tinge of concern to her voice. Well, of course she would be concerned—for all she knew she’d just thwarted an attempted break in. Belle leaned closer to the window, peering out into the night. Gold was to her far right, and as slowly as he dared he hunched back into the doorway, watching her look out into the darkness, scanning to the left…then to the right…
And then he saw her no more, heard her voice only for only a few moments after that, murmuring quiet conciliation to the cat as she retreated back to her apartment above stairs. The light from the window switched off a few seconds later, plunging Gold back into the comfort of darkness. Feeling a bit faint, he almost leaned back against the door frame before catching himself at the last second. With his luck he’d set off the bloody alarm again.
Best to leave, now, as quickly and quietly as possible—resisting even the great temptation to peer through the window in his turn and attempt to learn if Belle had even noticed his Valentine offering. He’d find out soon enough—when he came by the library tomorrow, ostensibly to look for a new work, he’d have the opportunity to see Belle and, almost as importantly, her wrist. On which, if there was any justice at all in the universe, he would see his gift.
It was this thought that sustained Gold as he walked the two blocks back to his shop. Finally achieving the sanctuary of his backroom, he exhaled slowly, leaning against his worktable, still littered with the evidence of his evening’s endeavor. He’d made it, unobserved and undiscovered, the bracelet delivered—and tomorrow would arrive soon enough.
For now, he was safe.
0 0 0
The alarm system had been installed to improve her safety, Belle reminded herself ruefully, having landed in an undignified heap on the floor after an instinctive, panicked leap out of bed. She was up again and halfway to her apartment’s front door before the sound of her phone ringing from her bedroom reminded her of the security system’s automatically triggered call to check on her status. If she didn’t pick up, the police would be notified. In Storybrooke, that meant Sheriff Swan. Belle hadn’t had much interaction with the sole law enforcer in town, but she rather had the idea Sheriff Swan wouldn’t be pleased to be summoned in the middle of the night for a false alarm--which this undoubtedly was.
Belle answered her phone, confirming the password she had just set up that morning, having to yell to be heard over the incessant ringing of the alarm in her ears. The person on the other end, from some remote call center, far from sounding at all concerned about Belle’s situation, seemed rather bored, but informed her that the security system’s installer was also being notified, as records indicated the system was new as of that morning and thus on the watch list for faulty functioning.
Belle shouted back some kind of acknowledgment, the noise level as she made her way downstairs into the library proper intensifying tenfold. Switching on the lights she moved quickly to the key pad by the door, punching in her birth year. Instant silence was her prize. Belle heaved a deep breath, wiling her heart to slow in her chest.
The ringtone of her phone seemed the equivalent of a whisper after that racket, and Belle thumbed it on, likely still speaking too loudly, her eardrums not yet fully recovered from their recent ordeal.
“Belle? It’s Robin—Robin Loxley.” His voice sounded thick with sleep. “I was called, the alarm system went off?”
“Yeah--” Belle answered in the affirmative, but before she could continue she heard a female voice in the background across the line, calling Robin’s name. Belle smirked a bit as she realized who it must be. Well, if Belle and Robin had to be awake dealing with the security system, it was only fair Regina should share in the insomnia. The entire installation had been her idea.
“It’s all right, love, go back to sleep,” Robin’s voice could be heard murmuring, then a soft click which could have been a door closing. “Sorry, Belle,” Robin said again. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” Belle responded, looking around at the windows closest to her and stepping back to get a better look at the ones further down the wall. “Maybe one of the workmen left a window cracked and the wind triggered it or something? Or maybe it just went off—I’ve heard these things can do that sometimes.”
“Well, they’re not foolproof, that’s for sure,” Robin acknowledged ruefully. “I’ll be out first thing tomorrow to look at it, make sure it’s not a wiring problem. You’re sure nothing’s amiss right now?”
“I’m positive,” Belle assured him. “And if you wouldn’t mind, not too early tomorrow morning?”
“No, of course. I’ll show up when the library opens—that’s 10, on Saturdays, right? If anything needs adjusting it can be done tomorrow evening after you close up.”
Belle opened her mouth to remind Robin of the date tomorrow—she had no doubt Regina would have plans for the two of them. But the thought of enduring the system misfiring all through the weekend made her close her mouth again. It wasn’t clear what had caused the alarm to ring tonight, after all. Hopefully, it would be something easily correctable. And if not—well, Regina would just have to lump it for once.
Belle had just finished the thought when her foot connected with an object on the floor, sending it sliding a little ways to the right. She looked down and her brain stopped.
It seemed the alarm hadn’t gone off at random, after all.
On the floor in front of her lay a small pink package, the wrapping on one side torn almost completely off. And a bit to the right and just below the letter slot in the side door entrance lay a single, long stemmed rose.
“Mrrow?”
Belle looked up as Nicodemus made his presence known for the first time that evening. She noted how fixedly he was staring outside.
“Belle? Belle?” Robin’s voice sounding in her ear brought Belle back to the moment.
“Yeah, 10. That sounds great. ‘Night, Robin,” Belle answered a trifle breathlessly, ending the call in the next moment with a quick finger jab.
Belle bent mechanically to retrieve the items from the floor, her eyes eventually moving from contemplation of these to her own reflection staring back at her out of the panes, her form seeming stark backlit by the harsh fluorescent lights of the ceiling. With her free hand she scooped up Nicodemus, cradling the cat as she quickly moved toward their reflections, close enough to stare out into the street outside. But of course without streetlamps she could make next to nothing out of the gloomy midnight darkness.
Belle backed away from the window and moved slowly towards her staircase, looking closely at the mysterious package that had appeared so recently at what amounted to her front doorstep. A tiny shiver of something she couldn’t quite identify ran up her spine as she mounted the stairs, setting Nicodemus down on the floor upstairs before nearly bolting to her bedroom to examine the package more carefully. It was—or it had been—wrapped neatly in a faded pink lamee paper, the kind that shone when the light hit it just so. The kind of wrapping paper that always made Belle almost sorry to open a gift, it was such lovely stuff. Perhaps she was lucky it was already torn--one of the sides almost entirely exposed to her view, revealing looked to be a case of some kind.
Belle carefully pried the rest of the paper off the case, that tingly feeling growing stronger as she did so. A dull blue velvet case appeared, and Belle’s breath caught as she opened the lid and viewed its contents.
The bracelet was beautiful.
Belle lifted it out of its nesting carefully, admiring first the delicacy of the links before holding it closer to examine the intricate details on each of the book charms. Belle had never adored a piece of jewelry as instantly and completely as she did this one, and she fumbled a bit in her haste to secure the bracelet, one-handed, to her left wrist. Finally succeeding, Belle smiled widely, turning her arm this way and that to get the full effect of the piece from every conceivable angle.
She was never taking it off.
The thought had just finished crossing her mind when Belle remembered abruptly that she had no idea who would have gifted her with such a tasteful, expensive item. Well, all right, she did have one idea—there were few people in Storybrooke with the resources to afford an item of such value as she suspected this was—but the very fact that Belle so desperately wanted the bracelet to be an offering from Mr. Gold seemed to somehow make it less likely that he would turn out to be the giver.
And if it was from Storybrooke’s infamous pawnbroker, why on earth would he have chosen to give it to her anonymously, sneaking it through the letterbox of the library in the dead of night?
A card, Belle realized suddenly. There must have been a card that she’d somehow missed seeing. Belle picked up the discarded wrapping paper, examining it for any sign of an attached card, but found none. She stood, about to head back downstairs—
--and stopped.
The tingling feeling she’d experienced ever since first seeing the package, the wrapping paper, was stronger than ever. And Belle suddenly realized she might know why.
Turning slowly and walking into her apartment’s small bathroom, Belle moved to the small window to the right of her sink. The light she left off. If she was right in her suspicions, the last thing she needed was for him to see her watching him.
Belle let out a breath in frustration. Mr. Gold’s backroom lights were out. The entire block looked dark, for that matter. Stupid to think he would return to his shop—
Belle froze. One street and one back-alley over, Mr. Gold had just come through from the front of his store to the back room. Belle watched, fascinated, as he sagged against the wall, breathing heavily, his cane in one hand and in the other—in his other hand, Mr. Gold was holding pink wrapping paper.
Belle transferred her gaze to the worktable, spying in and instant what her subconscious must have registered since first seeing the package downstairs. More of the wrapping paper littered the table. It was likely her gift on which he had seemed so intent when she had been watching him earlier tonight.
So. She had confirmation of one thing, at least. Whatever Mr. Gold felt for her, it was definitely not indifference.
Turning, she made her way back to bed, reaching out absently once there to stroke Nicodemus. The bracelet’s charms jingled softly as her hand moved over the cat’s spine, inspiring a soft rhythmic purring in the feline. Belle’s breath caught as she suddenly pictured that same hand carding through Mr. Gold’s hair, stroking it back from his face before his lips met hers… Try as she might, Belle couldn’t even begin to imagine what Mr. Gold’s kiss would be like, but somehow she couldn’t shake the feeling that it would be marvelous.
A naughty thought ran across Belle’s brain, of just where else her hand could wander over Mr. Gold, of how the charms would jingle as she… Belle shivered and blushed in the dark before firmly pushing the thought away.
First things first. Sleep. She wanted to be as rested as possible tomorrow, prepared for—well, for any outcome. She’d go to Mr. Gold’s shop tomorrow, just as she’d planned. She’d wear his gift, the gold piece serving as a signal all by itself. Maybe she’d even begin by thanking him for his thoughtfulness, daring him to deny it. And then--
And then, Mr. Gold would have some explaining to do.
Belle couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say.