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lesetoilesfous · 4 years ago

Note

Fic prompt: M!Hawke/Anders, “I should have told you a long time ago.”

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: m!Handers

Characters: Garrett Hawke, Anders

Tags: end of act 2, mild angst, mostly fluff, declarations of love

Rating: Mature

For the first time in nearly six years, when Hawke gets to Darktown the light outside Anders’ clinic is out. There’s no queue spilling out onto the landing, and instead the earthen floor is eerily empty as the setting sun spills in bolts of pink and yellow silk across the dust. Hawke doesn’t make the decision to start running consciously, but he climbs the steps to the clinic in a heartbeat, and throws the thin wooden doors open in a crashing rattle that startles a pair of pigeons out of the rafters by the wall and into the pink sky that squeezes between the cliffs of Kirkwall.

Inside, the clinic is dark, stretchers empty and counters clear of everything - there are no rolled bandages, or brewed potions, not even clean basins and flasks for the next day’s work. Hawke can feel his heart sitting heavily on the back of his tongue as he steps into the velvet dark and breathes in the smell of soap and cotton and mildew. “ANDERS!”

His voice bellows against the wooden rafters, and Hawke really can’t find it in himself to care. He keeps thinking about coming back from the Deep Roads and finding Bethany gone. He keeps thinking about coming home to lilies and a vase and no mother in the parlour. He keeps thinking about Lothering, and the smouldering ruin blackening the horizon to greet him when he came back from the hunt.

Hawke strides forward through the cots, pushing the rickety wooden structures aside too hard, so they crash into each other, and stares wildly into the dark. “ANDERS!”

“I have neighbours, you know.” Anders’ voice is quiet and exhausted and Hawke doesn’t care. He turns to see the mage standing in the doorway, a bag full of green leafy roots slung over his shoulder, and crosses the space in three long loping strides that feel like they take a lifetime. And then he’s wrapping his arms around Anders’ too-thin body, crushing him close as he buries his face into his shoulder and breathes in the familiar scent of honey-sweet elfroot and sweat.

“Maker, I thought -” Hawke manages, when his heart has approached a pace he thinks he can survive. He pulls back to see Anders frowning at him, his long sharp face cast in shadow by the dark belly of his clinic. “What - why is the lantern out?”

Anders’ expression darkens, and he pulls himself roughly out of Hawke’s arms, walking into the clinic and lighting a candle with an impatient flick of his wrist. “Why do you think, Garrett? Would you trust me with your child, such as I am?” Anders looks up, and in the candlelight his face is gaunt and hollow, pressed with deep purple bruises of sleeplessness beneath his brown eyes. “I wouldn’t.”

Hawke’s chest lurches, and he turns back toward Anders, feeling like a mabari on a leash. “Anders -”

Anders laughs once, bitterly, and raises a hand in a swift gesture as he dumps the bag of roots onto the cot. “Don’t. Just, don’t. If I wanted hollow platitudes I’d go to the Chantry.”

Hawke bites his tongue, and watches as Anders unpacks the bag: elfroot, mostly, with a few spiky silver branches of Spindleweed. Behind them, in the Undercity, there’s the shrieking sound of a scream, and no way to tell whether it’s in jest or honest fright. With a feeling like falling, Hawke presses on. “What’s going on?”

Anders shakes his head, pursing his lips as he begins to slice the elfroot with quick, practiced motions in a series of soft thumps. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m leaving.”

All at once, Hawke is weightless. He stares, as if the sight of this man is the only thing keeping his feet anchored to the earth. “What?” If his voice sounds strained, Anders doesn’t seem to notice, mouth pressing into a thin line as he chops the elfroot faster.

“I’m leaving. I’m taking myself out of the equation. I almost -” Anders’ voice gets louder, and his hand pauses in the chopping before resuming with new vigour as his shoulders hunch. “I will not let myself hurt anyone else. I won’t. So, I’m going.”

“What about the underground?” Hawke manages, pushing the words like sandpaper over his dry tongue.

Anders barks a laugh that rings against the clinic’s rafters. In the corner, by the door, there’s a sudden flurry of movement as a rat disappears into the wall. “It’s over. They found our way in. Everyone involved is dead or -” Anders’ voice breaks, and he ducks his head, hair slipping out of his loose ponytail in great chunks as he glares at the elfroot he’s chopping. “Or worse.” He looks up then, and it’s hard to tell in the dark and glimmer of the candlelight, but Hawke thinks his eyes are shining.

From outside the clinic, through the broken walls of Darktown, there’s the ringing crash of the sea. Anders looks at Hawke, and the space between them feels as vast as an ocean. “There’s nothing for me here, Garrett. I should have left a long time ago.”

Hawke feels the words sink into his chest like a hand grabbing his heart and twisting. He moves forward, setting his fingers on Anders’ thin wrists. Anders stops chopping, and looks up at him. This close, Hawke can see the dark track of tears on his cheeks. In the shadows beyond the candlelight, Anders’ stubble is almost silver. Hawke wants that, suddenly, fiercely: wants to live with this man long enough to see him go grey.

The smell of elfroot is thick and sweet between them as honey or molasses, the dark green leaves going darker where they bleed into the chopping board. The candle flame jumps and flickers in the wind that rushes through the buried streets. Hawke’s fingers tighten around Anders’ wrists. “That’s not true.” The words are a whisper, and Hawke has to swallow past the lump of his heart in his throat before he can continue, feeling Anders’ attention on him stretched thin as spider silk, liable to break with the wrong breath. “It’s not true that there’s nothing for you here. I’m here.”

For a second, Hawke thinks Anders believes him. But then his expression crumbles into a mask of impassivity, and he pulls back, turning away from him and walking toward the sink in the wall. The crash of water falling into the basin is loud as a thunderclap in the empty clinic. Hawke stands frozen over the butchered elfroot, feeling as if his feet have been rooted to the ground. He glances down to check that they haven’t, and looks up in time to see Anders’ drying his hands on a rag and lifting his chin.

“Your friendship has meant a lot to me, Garrett, truly, but -”

Anders’ voice is distant, almost cold, and that would sting more if Hawke wasn’t so distracted by the fact that he hadn’t apparently heard what he was saying.

“No, Anders, I’m in love with you.”

Never let it be said that Garrett Hawke was a man who thought before he spoke. Anders had frozen like a halla in a hunter’s sights, and was staring at him with wide eyes and an odd kind of vulnerability that made him look like a man in his late 20s, not his mid 40s. Hawke soldiered on, walking around the table and crossing the clinic to stand in front of Anders in the dark. He looks into those clever brown eyes, almost black in the shadow, and takes a deep breath.

“I should have told you a long time ago. I love you. I love everything you do. I love your laugh, and that little scar on your chin. I love the perpetual stubble, and the greys in your hair. I love the holes in your clothes and the wrinkles at the corners of your eyes. I love your freckles, and your hands, and the way you look like Andraste herself in the middle of a fight, burning brighter than any star I’ve ever seen. I love your terrible sense of humour and your worse poker face. I love your obsession with cats and I love how much you care about everyone around you with every ounce of everything you arw. I love you, and I love Justice, and I love you and Justice, and I don’t want you to leave. Please, Anders. Don’t leave me.”

Behind them, through the broken walls of darktown, the silver moon rises over the Waking Sea. Blue light flickers over Anders’ cheek. And then he’s moving, and his long, calloused, crooked hands are grabbing Hawke’s face, and he’s bending and kissing him like it’s the only way to breathe, and Hawke has a moment to register the fact that the man even tastes like elfroot, before he’s wrapping his arms around Anders’ chest and pressing him close, hard, licking a broad stripe into Anders’ hot mouth and feeling his knees go weak at the moan that elicits as long fingers push into his hair and scratch against the back of his head. The world spins, and Hawke feels for the first time in a long time as if he’s finally done something right. Then Anders is pulling back, laughing, pressing his forehead against Hawke’s, and his long nose is hard against Hawke’s cheek and cold and wet with tears, and his laughter is breathless and shivering, and Hawke holds him tighter because he doesn’t want him to cry but he doesn’t know what else to do.

Anders presses another kiss to his lips, and Hawke follows him when he moves away, breath tickling his chin. “You smell like a fucking mabari.”

Laughter rises in Hawke’s chest like a firework, and he leans back and picks Anders easily up off the ground, spinning him around as he yelps and then folds into Hawke’s embrace with a laugh and a sigh, resting his arms on Hawke’s shoulders, hands linked loosely behind his neck. Hawke puts him down, but doesn’t let him go, still seized by the irrational notion that if he does this strange, flawed, brave, beautiful man will disappear from his life like mist at sunrise. So instead he squeezes him closer, and kisses his sharp, stubbled jaw, before pressing a series of kisses up his cheek and against his ear as Anders snorts and makes no effort to pull away.

With one arm braced around Anders’ waist, Hawke moves his other hand to cup his sharp chin, pulling his face down to look at him. “Don’t leave.” Hawke’s voice is rough and low with the demand, and Anders’ eyes skate over his brow and nose and chin, before fluttering shut as he smiles.

“Alright.” Anders opens his eyes, and looks at Hawke with something terrifyingly close to wonder. Hawke’s arm tightens around his waist, and Anders’ mouth quirks upward in a grin. “Alright. I’ll stay.”

Hawke ducks forward, and kisses the smile from his lips.

The candle goes out.

#dadwc #my fic #handers #hawke #anders #da2 #hollyand-writes #hollyand writes

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timelordthirteen · 4 years ago

Text

Desperate Souls 2/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit

Summary: A broke and heartbroken Belle French comes to an agreement with Mr. Gold to do a little modeling, just for him, in exchange for the money she desperately needs, but it isn’t long before they both realize they’ve made a deal they didn’t understand. Based on this prompt.

Chapter Summary: A deal is made.

Notes: DON'T HATE ME. I'm not sure anyone thought that this was where this is going, but this is where it's going. Gold is a bastard, and he knows it. This is peak S1 Gold and Skin Deep-esque Belle, I hope that comes through. If there are any tags or warnings anyone thinks needs to be added to this, please let me know. I am always trying to be conscious of consent issues.

[AO3]

Alastair Gold sat in the back of his shop, scowling at the ledger on his desk.

His pen trailed along the edge of the paper, the tip guiding his eyes as he mentally added up the numbers. He wrote the total at the bottom of the column, -$450, and then, before he could contemplate what he was going to do about the debt he was owed, the bell over the shop door clanged loudly. Using his cane, he pushed to his feet and moved to the doorway between the backroom he used as an office and extra storage and the front of the shop to find a peculiar sight.

Belle French stood in the middle of the room in her red wool coat, her arms full of what appeared to be clothing. Her purse had fallen and was hanging from her elbow, and her hair was messier than usual. She looked harried and tired, and even at this distance he could see the redness in her eyes. One of his more responsible and courteous tenants, she was always ready with a smile and a kind word, even for someone like him. He didn’t understand why she went out of her way to speak to him whenever they were in the same location, or why she treated him like he wasn’t the complete bastard everyone knew he was, but the fact that she did secretly delighted and tormented him in equal measure. He might even admit to himself that he harbored the smallest bit of affection for her, a tiny crush that he buried down deep and never entertained as anything other than a fantasy.

“Miss French?” he said, folding his hands over the handle of his cane. “How can I help you?”

She took a breath and seemed to square her shoulders before she came up to the counter and dumped the contents of her arms across it. “I want to sell these.” Then she rummaged in her purse for a few seconds, and pulled out a small, black velvet box which she set down on top of the clothes. “And this.”

Gold’s eyebrows lifted as he surveyed the items. She appeared to have brought in a collection of...undergarments, and he felt a tinge of heat creep up his neck. He cleared his throat. “I see.”

He moved behind the counter and leaned his cane against it before picking up the jewelry box. Flipping it open revealed a surprise, and his eyes darted quickly to her left hand and then back to the ring.

“I presume this means you are no longer the future Mrs. Gaston?” he asked, eyes fixed on the sparkling diamonds.

“Yeah, he, uh, he left,” she replied, looking to the side at the old gramophone that sat at the end of the counter. Then she turned back to Gold, her expression hardening. “And he took our shared bank account with him.”

Gold glanced up in surprise. Though he couldn’t say he was shocked that her engagement to Garrett Gaston had ended, given that the man was an idiot and frequently a chauvinistic jerk, he was taken aback by the fact that Gaston had also stolen money from his fiance in the process. It certainly explained why Miss French had come to his shop, and it also started to form a very shameful idea in his mind that nearly distracted him from the matter at hand.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he managed.

She gave a short nod. “That’s why I’m here. I, uh, I need money.”

He smiled crookedly. “Well, let’s see what we can do.”

He took the ring out of the box and set it down on a square of padded velvet before retrieving a jeweler’s glass from behind the counter. She watched silently as he took his time examining the ring, which he made a bit of a show about, considering he had assessed the value of it the first time he saw it on her finger. It was a touch too gaudy for his taste, and he suspected it might be so for her as well, based on how she usually dressed. It was big, showy, and fake, not unlike Gaston himself, and Gold knew he would never see a return on it. He had suspected the stones weren’t real the first time he saw it, but he was willing to give Gaston the benefit of the doubt and not say anything. It was the kind of ring that would probably sit in his shop for years, and he considered that he might be better off to remove the stones and set them in something more suitable.

“Three hundred,” he said matter of factly, and set the ring back in its box.

Belle frowned. “For the ring?”

He nodded and her frown deepened.

“What? No!” She shook her head and put her hands on her hips. “That ring cost over three thousand dollars, and you’re going to give me a tenth of its value?”

Gold sighed. “Look, Miss French,” he began, “the value of a thing is only what someone is willing to pay. It’s devoid of the sentimental attachments we may have to the object, or the -”

“I do not,” she snapped, “have any sentimental attachment to anything that asshole gave me. I just want what is fair.”

“And I am telling you that what was originally paid for this ring is nowhere near three thousand dollars.” She continued to regard him with anger and confusion, and he sighed again. “Given the type of gold it’s made of, which of course is an alloy, and the fact that the stones are lab created white sapphires, albeit very high quality, that is the best I can offer you.”

Belle looked like she wanted to cry, and her loud sniffle told Gold she almost had, but she once again squared her shoulders. “So Garrett got me coming and going then.”

He gave her a sympathetic look. “It would appear so.”

“What about this stuff?” she asked, lifting what appeared to be some kind of chemise from the stack of undergarments.

Gold stared at her hand and what it was holding for a long moment, and then met her eyes. “Nothing. I don’t want it.”

She dropped the silky nightgown, letting it spill across the counter. “But...it’s all new. Half of it still has the tags on. I haven’t even worn any of it yet!”

He flashed his teeth. “A pity indeed, but clothing rarely sells in my shop, even the cast off designer items from Mayor Mills, and I can hardly put anything like that,” - he nodded towards the puddle of black silk - “on display for the public.”

Her mouth hung open as she stared at him.

“Do we have a deal?” he asked, forcing his eyes away from the lingerie and curling his right hand into a fist to keep from touching it.

He wanted to feel the cool softness of it with his fingertips as it slid over his skin. It was a shame no one would see her in it, but since the only option for that had been that lummox Gaston, he considered it only a small loss.

“I guess I don’t have a choice.”

Gold exhaled and closed the ring box. “You could take the ring to another shop, or go back to the original retailer. Perhaps they would give you a better price, but I would be surprised if he paid more than three hundred for it.”

She let out a humorless laugh and shook her head. “I don’t have the receipt, nor do I have the money for the gas to get me there, and it wouldn’t be worth it anyway. The rent is due next week, I need to buy food, and I promised my father I’d give him some money...” She sniffed again. “You don’t need to hear this, sorry.”

“You’re giving your father money?” he asked, curious, and she nodded.

“Yeah, it’s just for him to buy extra stock for Valentine’s Day. The shop always does well that week, and he’ll pay me back, he always does, but I have literally thirty-seven dollars to my name right now."

She gave him a flat smile and shrugged with her arms out to either side, and then let them slap sadly against her sides as she sighed. Gold regarded her for a moment. Moe French borrowing money from his daughter was not exactly a surprise. The man borrowed from anyone who would lend to him, and in fact the four hundred and fifty dollar debt in the ledger still open on his desk was from Mr. French. Moe had even used the same reason with him, that he needed to purchase more stock for the upcoming Valentine’s Day orders. Gold suspected that the loan Belle would give her father would be used to pay the debt to him. It was robbing from Peter to pay Paul.

Her hands went to her collar and she pulled out the short necklace she was always wearing. It was gold with a teardrop shaped pearl, a simple but beautifully elegant thing, that he had always thought suited her perfectly.

“How - how much for this?” she asked, her voice shaking as she pulled the pearl up and away from her neck.

His eyes narrowed. The fact that she wore the necklace everyday had to mean it was important to her, and the waver in her voice gave it away. “Are you sure you want to sell it?”

She let the necklace drop and it settled out of sight behind the wide, thick collar of her coat. “No,” she sighed. Then she ran a hand through her hair and blew out a breath as she tried to keep herself calm. “Look, I know you don’t give extensions, but, maybe I could - I could get a loan from you to cover it? I get paid again in two weeks, and I could pay you back half out of that, or - or - shit, I don’t know. Help me out here? Mr. Gold?”

Gold’s eyebrows lifted as he met her pleading gaze. He knew what it was like to be down to your last dollar, the desperation and anxiety that came with it, and he knew what people might be willing to do in that situation. He had done things he wasn’t proud of, and he had failings as a parent that had left him with a more distant relationship with his son than he wanted, but unlike Moe French he had never lied to borrow money from his own child.

His eyes trailed down to the pile of lingerie still sitting on the counter. It was a shame that it wouldn’t sell in his shop. He might enjoy seeing it everyday, imagining what Belle might have looked like if she’d gotten a chance to wear it, knowing that each piece was something she liked, something she wanted to wear for her lover.

The sensation of the chemise against his palm when he finally touched it was a shock, and he blinked as a terrible idea formed in his mind. “Perhaps...” he started, drawing his gaze from the fabric to settle on her face again, “Perhaps we could come to an...arrangement.”

Belle swallowed and shifted from one foot to the other, her eyes darting from where his fingers were running back and forth over the black silk to meet his eyes. “What - what do you mean?”

He glanced down at the undergarments again and then up. “You said you’d never worn any of it?” She shook her head. “Would you want to?”

Her eyes widened. “How do you mean?”

Gold licked his lips. Something about the fear in her voice pulled at the darkest parts of him, the spread of silk and lace in front of him like a siren call to his deepest thoughts and desires. He was exactly as beastly and terrible as everyone said, and no amount of Belle French’s sweet conversation could change that. If she agreed to what he was asking then afterwards there would be no more of that, not for him, but for a little while, perhaps, he could indulge his baser notions.

“Would you want to,” he repeated, his lips curving into the slightest of smiles, “for a price?”

She took a step backwards and eyed him. “What? Just like - like modeling?”

He braced both hands on the counter to either side, and leaned towards her. His shaggy hair slipped forward, shadowing his face and darkening his sharp features. “Of a sort, yes.”

Her chest rose and fell steadily, her gaze scrutinizing. “For you?”

His lips twitched. “Yes.”

“For - money?”

He smiled briefly, a flash of teeth in the low light as he spoke that had her hand tightening on the strap of her purse. “Yes.”

Her face seemed to go through several expressions in a matter of seconds, from surprise to confusion to disgust.

“No!” She took another step back and frowned. “Why - what? No. No.”

“I assure you it would be quite worth your while,” he said, finding himself oddly entertained by her reaction. She was seeing the side of him that others saw, the facade she had constructed of him possibly being a good man, the one that allowed her to talk to him so sweetly when they met, falling away. “You could make up everything you’ve lost, and more.”

Belle hesitated at that, and he could see that her mind was warring with itself in spite of her immediate rejection of the idea.

“What would - how would -?” She stopped and pressed her lips together before shaking her head. “No.”

Then, abruptly, she lunged forward and snatched the ring box off the counter, followed by the lingerie, her hands gathering it up without regard for how creased it might get and tucking it into the crook of her arm. Spinning on her heel, she stalked out of the shop, leaving Gold staring after her with a bemused grin.

Belle stalked through the door of the pawn shop, trying to hold her coat closed, her purse on her shoulder, and keep the lingerie against her chest where no one would see what she was carrying.

She had never expected Mr. Gold to proposition her, not like that. His reputation varied by person, but most were in some agreement that he was a bastard through and through, ruthless and hard, inconsiderate and merciless. She had always felt they were exaggerating, that their bad experiences of late rent and unpaid loans clouded their judgement. After all, it wasn’t Gold’s fault if someone couldn’t keep to their contract, was it? She had been prepared for him to protest an extension, to threaten her with a late fee or even eviction if it came to it, and he would have been legally within his rights, even if it made him a little heartless, but to suggest that she - that she would -

Her heels skidded in a patch of slushy snow on the sidewalk, and she reached out to catch herself against the pole of a streetlight. The cold air was making her nose run and she sniffed loudly as she straightened.

She was halfway across the street when she stopped and looked up at the lights from her apartment over the library, glowing through the window in the little galley kitchen. It wouldn’t be her apartment for long at this rate. She’d have to move in with her father again or sleep in her car, neither of which were attractive options.

You could make up everything you’ve lost and more.

Everything and more. It was exactly what she needed, but the thought of parading around for him in her underwear seemed beyond the pale. What had made him even suggest it? Was it out of cruelty or some streak of perverted amusement? She couldn’t begin to understand his motivation, but now that she was standing in the cold, her bare knees battered by the wind and her arms full of what amounted to useless trinkets, she considered that perhaps she didn’t care.

Mr. Gold had always been very exacting in his words, his agreements legally iron clad and always leaning a bit in his favor. He had said he wanted her to wear them, for him, nothing else. She’d asked if he meant modeling, and he’d said ‘of a sort.’ Modeling she could do, she thought, particularly for money, especially since most of the lingerie she was holding was fairly basic catalog stuff, nothing too risque or weird. There were a couple of items that she’d considered special, but those could be easily stowed away somewhere or shoved in the bottom of the trash before she agreed.

Belle closed her eyes and turned around. The shop glowed bright in the darkness as she slowly made her way towards it. She couldn’t believe she was considering this, but her alternatives were few, and consisted almost entirely of being homeless or hawking everything she owned. Unfortunately, what she owned was barely worth anything. Her engagement ring, such as it was, might as well have come out of one of the vending machines at the Dark Star Pharmacy. Garrett could have gotten a cheap ring and a temporary tattoo in a tribal pattern for fifty cents.

The thought, sad as it was, made her laugh, but her smile faded as soon as she came to the door of Gold’s shop. This was it, a moment of truth. She was either going to accept his deal and humiliate herself, or take the two hundred dollars for the ring and starve for the next month. She reached up with her free hand and touched the pearl at her throat, her mother’s necklace which she’d actually considered selling just a few minutes ago, and exhaled.

Do the brave thing, she thought, and pushed open the door.

Gold was still behind the counter, and he looked up as the bell rang out. “Miss French.”

His voice was as smooth and even as it always was, with no tinge of surprise at her return. She regarded him for a moment and then closed the distance, her arms tightening around the undergarments she was still holding.

“How much?” she asked quickly.

His eyes widened, but his expression was otherwise unchanged. “For each time or in total?”

“Each time?”

He smiled slightly. “One item, one night, each week until it’s all been worn.”

She swallowed and took another step forward. “Each time then. In - in case -”

“In case you want to stop?” he asked, and she nodded.

Then he took a pen from inside his suit jacket, tore off one of the pawn tickets from the pad beside the cash register, and wrote something on the back of it before setting it on the counter, facing her.

“I will pay you two hundred for the ring as well,” he added. “If you still wish to sell it.”

She inched closer until she could read it, and gasped when she saw the amount he’d written. It was more than enough to cover all her expenses for a month, and if he intended to pay her for each piece of lingerie, then in all it was definitely everything she’d lost and much more.

“Is that sufficient?”

She looked up and met his eyes, his mouth curving gently as he smirked, and for a second the sickening dip in her stomach made her feel as though she was about to sell her soul. “W-where? When?”

Gold pulled the scrap of paper back and took the time to fold it neatly before tucking it away in his pocket along with the pen. “My house, say, next Thursday evening?”

Belle pressed her lips together and then nodded. “Okay, um, do I need to sign something or -?”

He gave a slight shake of his head. “Not necessary. Unlike some people in this town, I know I can take you at your word.”

She frowned at that and took another step forward, holding out her hand towards him. He glanced down at it, and then extended his as well. They shook hands briefly, and then she turned to leave, wanting to hurry home before she got sick or started crying again.

“Miss French,” he called out before she’d made it more than two steps. She turned back to face him, and he nodded towards the bundle in her arms. “You can leave those with me.”

“Oh...” She looked down at the now rather mangled and creased underthings as she moved back to the counter. “Uh, sure.”

She relaxed her arms and let the garments fall from her arms, in a messier pile than when she’d first brought them in. Somehow their disarray and the cramping in her arms made her feel even worse. Then she fished the ring box out of her purse again and set it down.

“If you wait a moment,” he said, taking up his cane, “I’ll get the money for the ring from the safe.”

“No no,” she replied. “I, um, I need to get home. Can I - can I get it on Monday?”

Gold inclined his head. “As you wish.”

Belle turned on her heel and hurried out of the shop, her shoes loud on the old wood floor. She heard Gold’s voice bid her a good evening as she pulled the door open, but she didn’t look back or return the sentiment. She had done the brave thing, and now she could only hope that it didn’t backfire.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #belle x mr. gold #lemon fic #my rumbelle fic #fic #desperate souls #also of course i made a banner #i'm the worst

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