Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If music be the food of love, play on!

“That’s a good start, right?”

“No editorializing! Just read it, please.”

“Okay, okay.” Ruby cleared her throat, straightening the paper in front of her. Belle’s fingers kept adjusting their hold on nothing, a nervous tic, like her fidgeting atop the stool. “Oh Belle, this photo they’ve used is really nice!”

“Ruby…”

“Right, right. Here goes.”

The Boston Symphony never fails to delight, and my reviews in the past have never failed to pull punches. We at the Boston Gazette believe in, to use the colloquial, calling a spade a spade. It is that commitment to honest and critical feedback that allows me to say the following –

“….Uh oh.”

“What? What does it say?”

“I don’t know, but after that I’m not sure if I want to be the one reading it anymore.”

“Oh give it here!” Leroy snarled, snatching the paper from her grasp. Up to this point he’d been pretending a deep interest in his cup of coffee.

“No way,” Whale said, reaching over his head. “Can you even pronounce the word ‘colloquial’?”

“Knock it off!” Ruby said, snatching the paper back. “If you two can’t behave I’m kicking you out and charging you double.”

“I’ll kick him out myself… literally!”

Belle sighed. “Leroy, Victor…. I appreciate you being here as moral support, but I’m dying of suspense. Please Rubes, either read it or hand it over.”

“Okay, okay… Here goes.”

…that allows me to say the following – Belle French’s solo violin performance this Saturday night, part of the Orchestra’s ongoing charity series for the Children’s Hospital, was an extraordinary triumph.

Ruby and Victor grinned; Belle sighed in relief. 

However it must be said that Miss French has terribly poor taste. The Maine resident chose Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D Major, a trite and overplayed piece that cannot hold the heavy title of ‘classical music’ on its own merits. Apart from this failing, (and what a failing indeed), -

“I’m gonna go find this guy and shove that paper-”

“Leroy! Keep going, Rubes.”

Apart from this failing… I can find nothing to criticize.

Faithful readers of this publication will no doubt find that hard to believe. I have never balked at censure, and more than once I’ve received threats over the harsh truths I put in print, but on this occasion I can say nothing else that might move Miss French’s mother to tears.

She walks in music the way we mortals walk in air.

That might sound like nonsense from a critic, but if part of my job is to convey to the reader a sense of the performance, then I must first convey my perceptions of the musician.

I can’t help but think of an old rhyme – “Rings on her fingers, bells on her toes, she shall have music wherever she goes.” Well, my strong imagination sees Miss French adorned in a similar fashion; if gold were talent, she’d be dripping! And if she were not such a humble, sweet presence before and after performance, one would be certain that such decadent talent had thoroughly ruined her character.

Speaking of her performance, if diamonds had poured forth from her bow with each perfectly strung note, her playing would not be more valuable. Miss French plays with a sincerity that is lacking from our modern, technological world.Her eyes were closed as she played, fingers dancing on strings like faeries working desperate magic before midnight. Magic is indeed the best way to describe her playing – like a force inside her that must needs be expressed on pain of torment. An ocean of song inside a beautiful wee creature – that’s Belle French. 

Therefore I end wherein I began. If music be the food of love, Miss French must play on at her own peril, or else the world over will be at her door with roses.

Editor’s Note: There are three remaining chances to see Miss French play for the charity series. Information on ticket sales can be found on the Orchestra’s website.

Silence in the diner.

“Wow. Belle, that was-”

“Wow,” Whale said, sitting on the seat beside the tiny librarian. “I haven’t even seen you play, and I’m half in love with you.”

“That diamond thing sounded like an insult to me,” Leroy growled.

“No, it wasn’t,” Belle said, her unblinking stare directed at the wall behind the counter. “It was actually the nicest thing anyone’s…” She drifted off. After a moment, Ruby snapped her fingers and Belle jolted back to reality. “Thanks for being here, guys. I’ve gotta go.”

She grabbed up her coat and bag, bolting out the door as fast as her knock-off Louboutins could carry her. She turned right, heading towards the library, and a strong breeze caught the edge of the scarf shoved haphazardly in her bag. It lifted the thing right out, the vivid red hanging in the air like a musical note. It landed on the concrete and stayed, waiting.

The group at the counter began to bicker, Ruby smacking Whale over the head with the folded Arts and Leisure section. None of them noticed the figure in the corner as he rose from his booth, took a crisp twenty out of his wallet, and tucked it beneath his coffee cup. He made it swiftly outside with the use of his cane and picked up the cashmere. He held it tightly in his fist, snuck a quick look into the diner and, with no eyes on him, turned left.

Chapter Text

Belle had spent the whole afternoon scouring the internet with no results.

Now the sun was setting and she was due home, her dog not being one of the patient breeds. Tomorrow she’d look through the microfiche and card catalogs, but Storybrooke’s limited resources were unlikely to turn anything up. Maybe this weekend she’d have Ruby look after Sheep and she could go into Boston…

She sighed, throwing herself back into the chair behind the circulation desk with a growl.

“Toger B. Lord… Who ever heard of such a ridiculous, pompous name?!”

“His mother, presumably.”

Belle jumped. “Oh! Mr. Gold! Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You seemed deep in thought.”

“I was. Nothing important, though. Can I help you?”

“Just came to pick up that book I requested on Mozart.”

“The autobiography, right. I’ll just grab it.” She ducked back to the hold section. By the time she reappeared, her mind was already wandering back to the problem at hand. She had to ask Gold to repeat his question.

“I was wondering who this Mr. Lord is. Some paramour of yours?”

She snorted. “No, but apparently he’d like to be. Not that the bastard had the decency to… If I ever find him, I’m going to slap the pen out of his hand and then maybe I’ll put it to good use as an implement of torture!”

She saw his eyebrows drawn together, and forced a smile. “Sorry. He reviewed my performance in Boston, that’s all.”

“An unfavorable review?”

“No, a great one, actually.”

“But you didn’t like it?”

“I don’t like the anonymity the critic is cloaked in, especially considering that he felt entitled to comment on my appearance in his little review.”

“Oh. Well, perhaps you could call the paper.”

“I have! They offered to pass along my comments, but won’t let me talk to him myself. I just… I know I should feel flattered, and on some level I do… but I also feel helpless. And I have the worst feeling in my gut, like something bad is about to…” She trailed off. After a moment of tense silence, she laughed nervously and waved her hand as if to dismiss the idea, but the smile didn’t stretch to her eyes. “I must sound like a loon. Alright, Mr. Gold, here’s your book.”

“I hope you have a good evening, Ms. French.”

“Thank you, and you too.” She followed him around the desk, shutting the door with him on the other side. She flipped the sign to closed and twist the lock. For just a moment she lay her head against the cool panes of glass, willing them to cool the fever in her blood. She always seemed to heat up around Mr. Gold, a man so collected and resilient that he put an icy chill into the souls of everyone else in town.

But not Belle.

She shook her head. It was time to head home. Sheep. Food. Sleep.

Belle slipped her coat on, reaching into her bag for the red scarf she’d chosen so carefully this morning to match the soles of her shoes. She rooted around, tossing aside tampons and gum and lip gloss, but she couldn’t find it. It was gone.

Belle groaned. She must have dropped it at the diner. Well, at least it was an excuse to get takeout …

Gold dropped down onto the stool in the back room with a grimace.

He hadn’t given the scarf back. He’d held it in his fist, inside his pocket, through their whole conversation. The thing reeked of her, of her skin and her lilac soap; could she not smell it? Even clutched in his terrible hand, masked by his villainy, it was still a miracle that the thing had escaped her detection.

Oh, the beautiful Belle French. Mistress of his dreams, torturer of his heart. She played him like that wooden toy of hers, plucking at his dusty strings which had long ago gone quiet.

And he had right pissed her off.

What had seemed to him like a last desperate move, an exodus of poetic expression, a final bid to win her heart – to her it was cowardice. He hid behind his nom de plume the way Cyrano used a sword and soldier, never believing he was worth the love he so desperately sought.

What flack. What drivel, what vile dramatization! He was just a bitter old perv and Belle had seen right through him.

With a grimace he poked the button that turned on the computer, and the little one which made his screen light up. After a few minutes he was in his email. There were three little glowing envelopes, all from his editor.

Rob – Got a call from your latest victim. She’s pissed. If it keeps up, the bigwigs might ask you to print an apology. By the way, I haven’t read the piece. How badly did you eviscerate that poor girl?

He rolled his eyes, clicked to the next one.

She’s called three times, Robert. I read the piece – are you feverish? Communicate, O Great Incommunicado!

And the last.

I spoke to that girl myself. I don’t know what you were smoking the night of the concert but she strikes me as nothing less than a pernicious, indefatigable, remorseless dog! I mean that in the best way, of course. I’ve never been so terrified or so titillated. Something smells rotten in Denmark, Old Man… Email me ASAP! Or I’ll march myself out to that boondock you call a home and-

He quit reading and clicked the arrow for response.

Jeff – I told you I didn’t want the assignment in the first place. Send a man into fire and he’ll come back burned. Deal with it.

He allowed himself a little chuckle. Could an old man use slang like that?

And then his phone rang.

God damn it.

“What?”

“Don’t give me that you old codger! Why didn’t you want the assignment?”

“Because I didn’t. Next?”

“You have to tell me, Robert.”

“Or I could just quit.”

“Come on…”

“Drop it.”

He could hear his eccentric friend groaning for a solid minute, minute and a half.

“Wait… You’re from Maine.”

“…..Yes…..”

“This violinist, she’s from Maine.”

“Oh, is she? I didn’t know-”

“I read it in your article! You did know!”

“Maine is a big state-”

“YOU KNOW HER. DO YOU KNOW HER?!”

Gold’s instincts took over and he ended the call.

It rang again.

“GOLD GOLDRICKSON YOU TELL ME HOW YOU KNOW TH-”

He hung up again. He let the next rings go unanswered. The “missed call” symbol popped up. Then silence, until….

Ring ring.

This time, Gold picked up. The line was quiet.

“Have you calmed down?”

“….Yes.”

“Are you ready to ask nicely?”

“I was wondering if you and the violinist might come from the same small town.”

“Yes, we do. I know Miss French. That’s why I asked- nay, begged to get off of this assignment. And do you remember what you said to me, Jefferson?”

“I said-”

“You said, and I quote, ‘Tough turnips.’ Tough turnips! Then you said, ‘This is life in the journalism world, and if you can’t cut it today, you’ll be in the dumpster tomorrow!’”

“I don’t think-”

“That is exactly what you said, and I remember because you used a 1920s ‘mobster’ accent and then you told me I had lots of ‘moxie’.”

“….Okay, I vaguely remember that conversation. But-”

“No buts, Jefferson! I didn’t want to do it, and you made me anyway, and now you’re going to be fielding calls from Belle French until you die. I’ll have my editorial on the museum opening on your desk by Thursday, and I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth before that. Goodbye, Jefferson.”

This time he turned his phone off-off, just in case the top hat-wearing editor couldn’t take a hint, and he dropped the bloody thing into a desk drawer, shutting it with a resounding THWACK!

He sighed, pulling the scarf from his pocket. He really needed to return it. But…. Not today.

Winding it around one hand, Gold wheeled himself over to his workbench. There were a multitude of gadgets to choose from, each one needing a little TLC. He let his fingers wander over the metal surfaces, humming softly to himself.

He plucked up a locket, mother of pearl. “Good morning, love. Today is your day to shine…”

Chapter Text

They made it one day- one whole day before the urge to meddle became overwhelming.

Belle sighed as she reached the library’s front doors, a long-stemmed red rose stuck through the handles. She took it out, fingers catching the little white tag tied around the stem. It read, “Sorry sister, not my idea.”

She groaned. Leroy’s meaning became clear as she stepped inside. They must have blown their paychecks – all of them - on the dozens of roses that filled the circulation area. There were two enormous bouquets on top of the desk, petals strewn across the floor as if tossed by an over-eager flower girl; there were individual roses tucked between the books for the first few shelves at least, and Belle winced, hoping they were thornless. Finally her eyes flitted to the archway that led to the little back office she called home – roses were hung from the ceiling in small bouquets.

It all looked like a magical, if over-zealous, wonderland. But she felt no joy looking at the sea of red petals – just sorrow and foreboding.

“Surprise!”

Belle whirled around. Ruby, Whale, Leroy, Archie, and Ariel, a whole gaggle of interlopers, were standing in the doorway with their smartphones out.

“Smile for the cameras!” Whale shouted, Ariel giggling as she struggled to get a photo (or six) of her own.

Belle forced the bile down her throat. Her lips curved tight into a plastic smile, her body contorting into a familiar, non-threatening pose.

Pictures done, she managed to get them out of the library before the tears began to prick behind her eyes.

“You promise you’re not mad?” Ruby said, leaning back to hug Belle as she was shooed out the front door.

“I’ll see you for dinner,” she said, ducking the question.

The moment the doors closed, she dropped to the ground; her arms wrapped around her knees and her fingers pressed deep into her skin.

“Plath. Dickinson. Millay. Hope is the thing with feathers. I am not resigned. Out of the ashes I rise…”

Her voice continued in recitation for some time. Eventually she got up, reapplied her makeup in the bathroom, flipped the sign to ‘open’, and began cleaning up the flowers. She moved them to the reading areas, to the bathrooms, anywhere people could enjoy them. Other people.

And of course once the town found out about the scheme, the library became exceedingly popular! Children, senior citizens, and everyone in between wanted to see the elegant prank in full splendor, but happily settled for the fragrant bunches of roses placed all over the building. Belle had dug out every vase, cup, and mug to fill with water, though truly she wouldn’t mind if the flowers all died today.

“What was it like? Was it magical?” a little girl asked. Belle forced the smile she’d been wearing all day.

An expert at avoidance. “…It sure was something!”

When Belle arrived at the diner that evening, she felt a hot ball of lead drop into her stomach. Everyone was clustered around Ruby and her phone – a sight that never boded well.

“I can’t believe it. Twelve thousand?! There aren’t even twelve thousand people in this dirt town…”

“And that’s just the shares and posts! It doesn’t count the likes, or how many people are seeing it on other sites…”

“Belle! You have to come look at this!”

Each step drained the air from her lungs.

“What’s up?”

Ruby grinned, waving her fingers in gesticulation. “You know those little trending stories on Facebook? Well guess what’s up at the top of the list!”

“Storybrooke!” Archie blurted out. He wasn’t one for suspense.

“Storybrooke? Why are we, um, ‘trending’?”

“Because of you!”

The sharp intake of breath was mistaken by her friends as excitement.

“The review has gone viral! AP picked it up from the Gazette, and then Buzzfeed and Huffpost and… well just look!”

Ruby tapped on the trending icon and it redirected to a link with a description.

“I don’t think I can read that…”

“I’ll read it to you!” Ruby chirped helpfully. “Attention Hollywood! We’ve got the scoop on your next rom-com: smitten critic at the Boston Gazette writes anonymous love letter to local violinist. And as if it couldn’t get any better, it’s all for charity!” She nudged Belle’s shoulder with her elbow and the librarian swayed on her feet. “Isn’t it sweet? And if you click on it they go into even more detail… Buzzfeed already included it in their “Most Romantic Gestures” listicle!”

A wave of nausea hit Belle French. Hard.

“---I have to go.” Her voice trembled with the effort of staying even.

“No Belle, wait! We have to celebrate!”

“I can’t… I have to let Sheep out. I’ll see you all later.” She was out the door before they could question her further, and her feet carried her so quickly down the street that she resembled little more than a blur.

Tears were pouring freely by the time she reached her front porch. She couldn’t see the lock but her key fit all the same, and she collapsed as soon as the door was shut. Her back pressed firm against the wood, she drew up her knees and abandoned herself to weeping.

It was at least ten minutes before the sobs subsided and her lips could form words. With shaky breath she began the recitation.

“Plath. Dickinson. Millay. Angelou. Out of the ash I rise. Hope is the thing with feathers. I am not resigned. The caged bird sings…”

She whispered names and lines until her throat was dry and aching.

At some point she’d slumped over, the hardwood floors cold on her skin and hard on her back. Sheep was lying beside her, whining faintly. She raised a hand and buried it in his soft white fur.

“Hey Sheep,” she said, sniffling. The husky mix raised his head and pressed his nose into her neck. She felt his tongue dart out and giggled at the tickling sensation. She ran her hand up and down his side, his fur soft and soothing.

“We better get you some food, hmm? Then maybe a trip to the park. You’re my good boy, aren’t you?”

Sheep wriggled against her, giving a little woof of agreement. By the time she’d climbed to her feet, Sheep was pressing himself against her legs.

“Come on, you. It’s chow time!”

Mr. Gold had purchased his home on the edge of town precisely for its seclusion. With his son grown and long gone, he had no use for the park at the bottom of the hill.

And yet it was just as the sun was setting that he realized the value of his choice; Ms. French was sitting in the park.

He wasn’t trying to spy, honestly…. But as the rain began to fall, he grew concerned.

He pulled on his coat and a hat, grabbed his keys, and before he could think twice about his actions, he had arrived in the parking lot.

It might not even be her, he told himself. It could be any dark-haired beauty in a crimson skirt and impractically tall heels.

He took one more deep breath, a tradition every time he did something stupid, and left the car.

The dog barked as he got close. A warning. It pulled Belle from her reverie and, God help him, she flashed a smile.

“It’s okay boy, that’s just Mr. Gold.”

“Hey there,” he said, kneeling beside the bench. The dog, as if understanding his mistress, leaned in and let Gold pat his head.

“I didn’t picture you as an animal person, Mr. Gold.”

“Oh, I’ve known a sheepdog or two in my life.”

Belle laughed, the expression momentarily lighting up her face.

“Why is that so funny?”

“His name is Sheep. Technically he is a Sheep dog.”

“Ah,” Gold smiled, straightening up. “That would earn a laugh. May I join you?”

“Please.”

Gold unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat on the damp wood bench, perilously close to the object of his desire.

She sniffled, wiping her nose with her jacket sleeve. It was then Gold noticed the redness around her eyes. The dog had settled back on her feet, its face in her lap.

Gold pulled the dark blue handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

“Oh no, I couldn’t…”

“Please. I’d hate to see you ruin your jacket.”

“Thank you.”

He was careful not to look at her. Belle shifted, the words caught between her tongue and teeth. It was going to be up to Gold to break the silence.

“I know that I have a reputation as a misanthrope, but I’d hoped that, by now, you might know better.”

“…I don’t see you that way.”

“G-Good, I’m glad. You’re…. You’re the one sane person in this town, as far as I’m concerned. Other than myself, of course. And…”

He paused, Belle’s head tipped imperceptibly towards him.

“Well, I don’t have many friends. But I consider you to be one of them.”

Belle cracked, her tears starting fresh, Sheep giving a little whine. Gold felt helpless. He raised his arm jerkily, reaching toward her but simultaneously afraid of breaching her personal space. The point became moot as Belle lurched towards him, displacing her dog as she scooted close and leaned her crying ahead against his chest.

Instinctively his arms wrapped around her. The sobs shook her body and, by extension, his.

Sheep pushed himself between their legs, nose pressing persistently into Belle’s lap. The dog’s pink harness was the only bright thing in sight as night fell and the rain fell faster.

Eventually her breathing evened, but Belle was slow to pull away. Gold kept one arm around her.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not really. It’s… It’s a complicated, sordid, rancid story. And I don’t want you to think less of me.”

“No, Belle. Never. That would never happen. But we don’t have to talk about it. Your secrets are your own.”

“I’m just so tired, Mr. Gold. I’m so tired.”

“I understand. You should go home, make yourself a cup of tea, draw a bath, and tuck in for a nice night’s sleep.”

“That’s good advice. I just wish I hadn’t walked,” she said, standing slowly. Gold felt her absence. He stood beside her, buttoning his jacket once more.

“I’d be honored to give you a lift. And Sheep, too.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gold. I appreciate your kindness.” She patted her thigh and Sheep fell to heel, sticking to Belle’s side as they walked back to the parking lot. “Oh, watch for the mud!” Belle said, taking Gold’s arm. She pulled him softly to her side as they made their way across the grass, only releasing him when they arrived at the Cadillac. Gold moved the seats to let Sheep hop in the back, holding the door open for Belle as well.

They drove in mostly silence, the windshield wipers moved methodically, and a little garbled jazz coming in over the radio. By the time they arrived at Belle’s house, she was crying again. Gold put the car in park. The streetlights were just turning on to abate the gloom.

Belle was rigid, facing forward, but her hand found Gold’s and gripped it.

“You don’t strike me as the Facebook type, Mr. Gold.”

“No, I can barely use my email.”

“Well, do you know what it means when stories go ‘viral’?”

“That’s about popularity, isn’t it?”

“Mhmm. It means that thousands, hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions of people have all seen the same thing. That they’re talking about you, sharing your story inviting themselves into your life-”

Her voice shook and she force several deep breaths.

“The review I told you about went viral. It’s being seen as some great romantic gesture… This is what I was worried about! I can’t… I hate…”

“Shh, Belle. It’s alright.”

“No, it isn’t! As soon as I read that review I knew something like this would happen… It was too much! And it’s only going to get worse! If someone finds out…”

There was a long pause.

“…Finds out what, Belle?”

Another pause. Belle flexed her fingers, but kept a hold of his hand.

“Do you know what Revenge Porn is, Mr. Gold?”

He felt the physical anger before her words had even quite registered with his brain. His free hand clutched the wheel until his knuckles were white, his teeth ground against one another, and if it had been a little colder, she could have seen the steam from his heavy breaths.

“My ex,” she said, continuing, “took videos of us… Well, you know. I didn’t know he was… I didn’t consent. And then when I broke it off…”

“He… he sold the tapes?!”

Belle scoffed, a harsh sound. “Not even. He posted them online, for free, for anyone to see. He posted the links on every social media site, he emailed them to my boss, my coworkers, my friends, my family… He tried to ruin everything in my life.”

“I’m so sorry, Belle.”

“I’m from Ohio, Mr. Gold. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“I used to be a teacher. My name was Isabella, I went by Izzie. But you can’t be a teacher and a pornstar…”

Gold clutched her hand tighter.

“So I moved, spent my savings getting the videos taken down, took out loans and went back to school to become a librarian. I had my name legally changed to Belle. And I hated at first, it was so hard to get used to, but then…”

But then I heard you say it, she thought, but the words wouldn’t come.

Gold turned, moving her hand between both of his. “I am so sorry that happened to you, Belle. It was not your fault. And I’m so sorry for… for this review bringing back bad memories. If I can help in any way, please let me know.”

Belle pulled out the handkerchief and wiped her nose. “Thank you for listening, Mr. Gold. Nobody… Nobody here knows about it, about me. I didn’t tell them.”

“I won’t breathe a word.”

“No, I know that… I meant, thank you for being the one person I can talk to. It isn’t fair to you, but I may need to talk again.”

“And you will know where to find me. Anytime, Belle. Day or night.”

She smiled, hand on the door. “Thank you.”

Gold stepped out of the car as she did, watching as she guided Sheep out of the car. The eager dog bounded up the porch and waited by the door.

“Belle,” he said, stopping her as she turned to follow. “I…I….” He sighed, the words not coming. Not his own, anyway. “…All my laurels you have riven away, and my roses; yet in spite of you, there is one crown I bear away with me... One thing without stain, unspotted from the world, in spite of doom mine own! And that is... my white plume.”

“Cyrano,” she said with a small smile. “But I don’t see any ‘white plumes’ or badges of honor on my own chest.”

“Really? I could name a few dozen. Your dignity, to start. The bravery that it takes to start a new life. No one can ever take that away from you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gold. Goodnight.”

He watched her walk up the steps and enter her house. He climbed back in his car. A swirling mix of emotions held him in thrall – anger at Belle’s ex, anger at himself, guilt and shame and regret…

Home. A tumbler of scotch and a call to his editor. He’d make Jefferson retract the damn thing, print an apology, burn the internet to the ground…

Anything to make it better. Anything to take back what he’d done.