#ah nurse sistine chapel

[mygalfriday]

i’ll be your man if you got love to get done

{ao3}

Eden Loft is a quiet little café just off Carnaby Street in Soho, all crumbling brick and choking vines on the outside. It looks almost abandoned from the outside, its wild exterior concealing a warm, cozy interior filled with small round tables, leather sofa, and worn armchairs. Potted plants line the bookshelves, the windowsills, and the countertop. The scent of warm scones and coffee fills the air, mixing with the verdant plant life to create an atmosphere both soothing and invigorating. It’s one of Anthony Crowley’s favorite places to stop for a caffeine fix.

This afternoon, however, he lingers outside on the pavement, reluctant to venture inside. With the afternoon sunshine filtering in through the expansive windows, it would be easy to glance inside and spot his date. The only thing stopping him is knowing the sight of whichever poor sod Anathema has guilted into this blind date will make him turn on his heel and leg it back home. He doesn’t even know why he’d agreed to this. The last time his friend had set him up on a date, Crowley had ended up spending an entire evening with some pillock who never touched his food and barely looked up from his mobile.

It’s just so difficult to meet people when he spends all his time working his arse off to make sure his club isn’t a complete failure. Even though The Serpent has been open for a few years now and even though it’s a packed house nearly every night, the nightclub still requires almost all of his time and attention. So Crowley isn’t asking for the love of his life or anything. He doubts such a person even exists. But a few months of shagging someone he can actually have a conversation with would be a nice change of pace.

And that’s what he’s doing loitering outside Eden Loft on a Sunday afternoon.

Crowley groans and reaches for the door.

He steps inside and the scent of fresh pastry and the rich aroma of expensive, organic coffee wafts over him. Tucking his sunglasses into the neck of his black t-shirt, he scans the crowded space for the man Anathema had described. Blond, she’d said. A bit old-fashioned. Crowley had taken that to mean no shagging until the third date but his eyes land on a man who looks like he just returned from tea in the Victorian era and he just knows he’s found his date. Ezra Fell.

Fucking Anathema.

Gritting his teeth, Crowley braces himself for another date from hell and saunters reluctantly across the café. The table where his date sits is beside the bookshelves on the back wall and it appears he’d plucked a novel from the shelf to keep himself occupied while he waited. He seems thoroughly engrossed in whatever it is, flipping through it as Crowley approaches, and doesn’t even look up until Crowley’s shadow falls over the page.

He lifts his head, a pleasant, absent-minded smile on his face. And Crowley’s breath catches painfully in his throat. He’s beautiful. His short blond curls look astonishingly soft and his blue eyes are bright and kind. Though his hands look manicured and soft as they rest against the crisp pages of his book, his chest is broad and sturdy and Crowley imagines he’s deceptively strong beneath that prim waistcoat. Pink-cheeked and full-lipped, Ezra Fell looks like something Michaelangelo might have painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. His clothes are utterly ridiculous, of course, and he isn’t at all Crowley’s usual type but nevertheless, he’s…beautiful.

“Anthony Crowley, I presume?”

Realizing he’s been standing in one spot staring at him like a simpleton for fuck knows how long, Crowley unclenches his jaw and forces himself to blink. “I - yeah. Ezra, is it?”

Ezra beams, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he gestures to the seat across from him. “Please, sit.”

Disarmed by that wide smile - Christ alive, Crowley could swear the room grows a few shades brighter - there is no other option but to sit. He sinks gracelessly into the chair across from Ezra, long limbs sprawling. Sitting closer does nothing to make Ezra less attractive, only gives Crowley a better view of his perfection. It’s ridiculous. He looks like he just stepped out of an Oscar Wilde novel. Why can’t he stop staring?

“I already ordered for you,” Ezra says, oblivious to Crowley’s internal struggle to regain use of his tongue as he gestures to the cup and plate across the table. “I hope you don’t mind. It just gets so terribly crowded in here on Sundays. I didn’t want you to have to wait.”

Ezra watches him hopefully, as if expecting Crowley might be annoyed. And fucking hell, speak. “No,” Crowley manages, relieved when his voice comes out relatively normal. “S’fine. You’ve uh, you’ve been here before then?”

Surely Crowley would have noticed him at some point. He’d have looked up from his mobile one morning and saw him across the café, standing in line waiting for his tea or sitting at a table like this one reading another book. He’d have noticed a man like Ezra if they’d ever been in the same room together before. He may not have approached him but he’d have stared just as he is now - probably from behind his sunglasses and over the top of a newspaper he wasn’t actually reading - and been just as charmed by his quiet grace and sunny smile.

“Oh, quite often.” Ezra shuts his book and folds his hands primly over the cover. “But only on Sundays, I’m afraid.”

Ah, that explains how they’ve never run into each other. Sunday mornings are usually when Crowley is lounging about in bed, nursing a hangover after kicking out whoever he’d brought home with him the night before. Crowley’s usual type isn’t the sort to stay for breakfast anyway.

Ezra cuts off a bite of his pastry with a knife and fork, focusing on the task with an intensity Crowley has never seen given to food before. “The rest of the week, I usually get my tea from the museum’s café. Though it isn’t nearly as good as it is here.” He brings the bite of pastry to his mouth and sighs as he chews, his eyes fluttering a bit and a low hum in his throat. He even wiggles a bit in his seat.

Captivated, Crowley rests his chin in the palm of his hand and watches him eat. “Right,” he says, forcing at least a small portion of his brain into focusing on the conversation. “You work at the British Museum. How’s that?”

“Oh, lovely.” Ezra dabs neatly at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I oversee the archival department, preserving and maintaining all of our historical documents.”

It sounds utterly dull to Crowley but the way Ezra lights up as he talks about his job is far from boring. He smiles and gestures as he talks, regaling Crowley with a tale about a shipment of letters the museum had received earlier that week. They’d been uncovered in the attic of some ancestor of one of Hemingway’s secret lovers and apparently, they’re going to rock the literary world on its axis. Ezra talks about the contents of these letters like someone else might relay a bit of scandalous gossip and Crowley finds himself listening intently. He doesn’t even think about touching his food or his coffee, chin in hand as he gazes across the table and watches Ezra gesture as he talks and take delicate little bites of his pastry.

“And Anathema tells me you own a nightclub?” Ezra sips at his tea, watching Crowley with that same focus he'd given his food. It’s startling enough to make Crowley straighten from his slouch and wipe his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans. “It sounds terribly exciting.”

Looking at him, Crowley doubts the man has ever set foot on the same street as a nightclub but he rather loves that he’d bothered asking about it. The Serpent may be an exhausting, soul-sucking venture but it also happens to be Crowley’s baby. He tells Ezra a bit about the club, detailing how quickly it has grown and how much work it takes to keep it at the top of everyone’s list. He talks about the type of people who frequent the place, the live music they have every night, and how much he loves being his own boss.

Ezra listens to every word, asks questions in all the right places, and never once tries to interrupt and make the conversation about himself again. “It must keep you quite busy,” he says after Crowley tells him about his upcoming open interviews to hire staff for the busy season. He eyes Crowley with concern, as though trying to decide if he eats enough or gets enough sleep. It’s such a quiet, protective glance that Crowley feels something warm and foreign bloom inside his chest.

He shrugs, glancing away with his heart in his throat. “I don’t mind,” he says. “I like keeping busy.”

“Yes, I understand. My work is very important to me. But I must admit I’ve found myself craving a bit of companionship recently.” Ezra glances down into his teacup, then looks at Crowley through his lashes. Crowley stares again, helplessly charmed. “I can’t imagine you have similar difficulties finding pleasing company.”

Fucking hell. The man out of time is flirting with him.

Crowley swallows.

“May I ask why you agreed to this setup?” Ezra presses, glancing away again. “Surely you have plenty of opportunities to meet people in your line of work. I, however, am confined to the back rooms of a museum all day.”

Meeting people, yes. Loads of them. In the past three months, Crowley has brought home a lead guitarist, one of the Serpent’s bouncers, a grad school student in leather trousers, a barrister looking for a cheap thrill, and one of his bartenders. Not one of them has managed to hold his attention the way Ezra Fell seems to so effortlessly. Crowley wants to know everything about him. Why did he choose archival work? Why does he dress like a bloody regency dandy? Why are his eyes so kind and blue? Why is he so interested in every word Crowley says? Why did he choose that particular book from the shelf? How does he take his tea? What is it about him that makes that pastry look so much more tempting when it’s sliding between his soft pink lips?

Crowley wants to bring him home and study him, take him apart under his hands until he understands what makes him tick, and then tenderly put him back together again. He wants to stroke his blond hair and nuzzle his throat and call him all sorts of endearments he’s never used before on anyone. He wants Ezra, in all the ways he never expected to want anyone after a lifetime of being alone and convincing himself he liked it better that way when all along, he was just afraid no one would want him back.

Outwardly, he only shrugs again, his eyes lingering meaningfully on Ezra as he says, “Suppose I’ve been meeting the wrong people.”

Ezra blushes. 

They linger over their tea, discussing everything from politics to what they studied at university to their childhoods. Crowley tells Ezra about being an orphan churned out of the system by the age of seventeen and Ezra confides in him about his conservative Catholic upbringing and his ongoing struggle to overcome the subsequent stain of guilt religion left behind long after he shed its chains.

When the tea has grown cold and the pastries have been eaten, Crowley insists on paying the bill. And suddenly they’re standing outside on the pavement, the afternoon sun gone soft and hazy. It slants gently across Ezra’s blond curls like a halo and Crowley stares at him longingly. Angel, he thinks, and his heart skips several beats.

“I do appreciate you meeting with me, you know. I’m aware I can’t be what you were hoping for.” Ezra wrings his hands and Crowley has the sudden wild urge to clasp them between his own. “I told Anathema you couldn’t possibly-”

“You’re perfect,” Crowley blurts, before he can stop himself.

Fuck. Very smooth.

That sort of line would get him laughed at by just about anyone else but Ezra stills, gazing up at him wonderingly. As if Crowley had just reached up and plucked a star out of the sky just for him and handed it over on a silver platter. “I-” He squares his shoulders, meeting Crowley’s gaze. “I do hope I’m not being too forward but… I would like to see you again, Anthony. If you’re amendable.”

Christ, he even talks like he belongs in an Austen novel. Crowley is utterly gone on him already.

Looming over him, Crowley peers into sweet, hopeful blue eyes and swallows roughly. “I’m amendable,” he murmurs. “Very.”

“Oh.” Ezra breathes out a relieved little noise and sways toward him, his smile breathtaking. Literally. Crowley cannot breathe. “Good.”

Reaching for him with a shaking hand, Crowley cups his pink cheek and watches Ezra’s eyes widen. “This all right?”

“Yes,” comes the immediate reply. Ezra licks his lips and Crowley nearly hisses. “Quite.”

With permission, Crowley closes the gap between them and captures that enticing mouth with his own. He tastes exactly like raspberries and flaky pastry and tea. Crowley usually takes his tea without any sugar at all but Ezra tastes like five lumps of sugar and a dash of milk. His mouth opens eagerly and Crowley groans. He presses closer, leaning against Ezra’s broad chest and burying his hands in soft blond curls.

It should be impossible to taste this warm and sweet and absolutely fucking perfect but Crowley knows with sudden certainty that kissing Ezra Fell is like drinking directly from the sun itself. He loses himself in the slick, hot slide of their mouths and their grasping hands. Everything around him blurs and time loses all meaning. He isn’t aware of where they’re standing on the pavement in front of Eden Loft, he doesn’t notice the disgruntled people passing them by or the warm late afternoon breeze ruffling his hair. There is only Ezra clutching at his t-shirt and making those delightful little noises, wriggling adorably under Crowley’s wandering hands.

When they finally break apart, panting, the world feels different. As though an entire solar system has rearranged itself, orienting now around Ezra Fell. Crowley noses at his cheek, struggling to find his voice as Ezra keeps one hand curled tightly at his waist. Clearing his throat, he rasps, “Anathema told me you were old-fashioned.”

Ezra makes a soft, contrary noise and turns his head to press his lips to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “Only in dress,” he murmurs, somehow managing to sound prim despite the arousal Crowley can feel pressing into his hip. “I assure you.”

Swallowing laughter, Crowley pulls back just enough to look into his eyes. “My place then?”

As Crowley lifts a hand to stroke his cheek, Ezra smiles. “After you.”

[ifishouldvanish]

The Boston Hour (8/?)

In which Belle is an Antiques Roadshow super-fan and Gold is her favorite appraiser.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Belle and Rumford leave the bar and spend some time alone together. RATING: T WORDS: 7,205 A/N: Hahahahaaaa this took me five billion years to wrap up and edit for no reason. Hopefully I haven’t missed any glaring errors :-)))) You can catch up on TMI's here, if you're into that sort of thing. - [x].

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Read on AO3]

Belle was coming down.

Things were becoming less funny, less interesting, and for the last half hour, she’d been quietly listening to the conversation at the table rather than actively participating. Everything seemed to have gotten louder and it was as if all the energy she had been spending on her nerves all day had finally dried up. Me than once, the thought of resting her head on Rumford's shoulder crossed her mind, but sure wasn't feeling as brave now as she was before.

Oh, God.

She’d made a complete fool of herself, hadn't she? Her mind slowly replayed bits and pieces of the evening thus far. There was her comment about him… smelling really sexy. The thing about the mustaches. Her knocking over her glass.

How embarrassing, she thought. There's no way Rumford would want to kiss her now. He probably thought she was a wacko. A wacko whose breath probably also stunk of alcohol.

She frowned at the glass of ice water she'd been nursing. Parched as she was, she was reluctant to drink it all and have to pee again. Rumford had also ordered an appetizer for the table, but it was clear that everyone was waiting for her to eat the lion's share of it.

God, was she really that bad?

She snuck a glance at him then, catching his profile as he listened to Dorothy recount another amusing tale about a customer who had visited her shop a few months ago. He huffed a little laugh and smiled when she reached the punchline of the story, and Belle’s heart skipped a beat. His smiles were beautiful. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself, and what if this could actually be a thing?

“Alright.” Ruby said, grabbing the bottle of beer Dorothy had just finished and sliding it to the center of the table with the others. “You've had more than enough shitty beer, Miss Gale. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're stalling.”

Dorothy snorted. “That's where you're wrong.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Because I'm definitely stalling.”

Ruby grinned and closed the small bit of distance left between them. “Dance floor. Now.”

Dorothy quickly turned away, giving herself a chance to wipe the smile off of her face. “You’re serious?”

“You bet your ass I am.” Ruby said, starting to push her out of the booth so she could get out herself. “I'm getting up there and shakin’ my groove thang whether you like it or not.”

“And I support you.” She laughed.

Ruby swat some imaginary detritus off of her bottom and turned to face her. “It would be way more fun if you joined me...” she sang, holding out her hand.

Dorothy looked out at the dance floor and sighed. “Alright.” She said, taking her hand. “You got your dance partner.”

“Yes!” Ruby squealed and bounced on her toes. “What about you? You coming Belles?” She paused and wiggled her brows at Rumford. “...Dr Gold?”

Rumford choked out a weak laugh. For a moment, he just blinked and stared down at the table, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Then he swallowed and cleared his throat. “I ah… I don't think this one's quite up to it.” He said, flashing a polite smile and patting Belle's hand.

Belle shook her head in agreement. She wanted to dance with Rumford, certainly. But the music was all wrong. Covers of nineties party hits? No, no. Their first dance would be slow and romantic and nothing short of magical.

Ruby gave an exaggerated sigh. “Alright, alright– be squares.” She teased.

Dorothy gave Belle and Rumford a look of longing as Ruby lured her out to the dance floor, and they returned apologetic smiles. She stood uncomfortably, off to the side with her arms wrapped around herself, while Ruby did what Belle was pretty sure was a mashed potato. Ruby's smiles were always contagious though, and soon Dorothy was struggling to hold back one of her own. Ruby offered her hands, and Dorothy hesitantly accepted, letting her twirl about her as the band played on.

Belle watched them with a smile, snorting out a laugh when Ruby moved on to doing the Swim, which Dorothy mirrored half-heartedly. She then turned to Rumford, and he flinched as their eyes met.

“Oh. M-miss French–” he stammered, his cheeks flushing pink while he looked away.

“It's okay, I don't mind–” she cut herself off and clapped a hand over her face. I don't you staring at me. True as it may be, it probably wasn't the best thing to say. She slowly peeled her hand off of her face, and there he was again with his warm eyes fixed on her. He had a slight smile on his face, and she couldn't not smile back.

God, he was so handsome.

They were totally having a moment, Belle thought. Staring at each other and smiling? Like something straight out of a movie, for sure. Except if this was a movie, he'd totally be professing his love and pulling her in for a kiss right now. Which he wasn't.

But that was okay, because he was really, really handsome.

Yes. Looking was just fine. With his sharp, pointed nose, warm sable eyes, and cheekbones that had to have been sculpted by the gods themselves. And his hair. It looked so soft and silky, and the way the length of it brushed his shoulders had Belle's fingers practically twitching with the urge to comb through it. Maybe. One day…

He'd show up at the library. She'd be busy shelving or– no no. She'd be in her own office that she'd totally have, and he'd knock on the door frame, asking to come in. Into her office. Oh yes, she could see the engraved plaque on the door now– Belle French, Library Director. Or perhaps even… Belle Gold.

...French-Gold?

Or maybe she'd keep her name and he'd become Rumford French.

Or Gold-French.

No, no. French-Gold sounded much better.

Anyway.

“Oh, Rumford! Come in,” she'd say, surprised to see him, but not like, too surprised. Because he'd totally stop by to see her all the time. Playing coy would just be part of the little game they'd play. “Close the door behind you, please,” she'd tell him, because they'd want privacy for what they were about to do. “What brings you into my office?” She'd ask– but she'd already know.

He'd answer with something cute, like having an overdue book, and she'd come back with an offer to pardon his fees in exchange for a kiss. She'd get up and drape her arms over his shoulders, entwine her fingers through that silken hair– lightly scraping his scalp the way (she imagined) he liked– close her eyes, lean in, and–

“Miss French?”

Belle jolted and blinked, shaking herself out of her trance. “I'm sorry, what?”

Rumford's lips moved, but she couldn't make out what he was saying over the music. She squinted her eyes, as if that might help her hear better. “...What?”

He leaned in a little and spoke up. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Oh!” She nodded. “Yeah!”

“I was–” he scoffed and leaned in further, raising his voice some more, “I was a wee bit concerned earlier.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She closed her eyes and shook her head again. “No, I'm good now. I think.”

“That's good.” He said with a tight-lipped smile.

“...Yeah.” Belle nibbled her lip and continued to gaze into his brown eyes in silence.

Belle Gold. Definitely Belle Gold, Library Director. Married to Rumford Gold, and oh! what a husband he'd (probably) be. Her coworkers would vent to her about their spouses’ subpar hygiene, their casual disinterest in the runnings of the library, their poor taste in matters of aesthetics, their lackluster performance in the bedroom. But never she about her Rumford. No, no. He'd (probably) be like a trophy husband. Always immaculate, witty, and charming. Always supporting her in everything she did. He'd (probably) have flowers delivered to her office ‘just because.’ Stop by with some sort of heirloom necklace from his shop to give her, and when she asked him what the occasion was, he'd (probably) just string it around her neck, kiss her shoulder, and say something like, “the occasion is us, sweetheart.”

She could already feel her loins stirring at the thought.

Definitely, definitely Belle Gold.

They stared dopily at each other for a few more seconds before both cracking and letting out a little chuckle.

Did that count as a moment too? Was it the electricity of all the unbridled sexual tension in the air between them, or were they just being awkward?

Awkward, probably, Belle decided, quickly turning away to watch Ruby and Dorothy on the dance floor again. Now they were doing the Twist. Dorothy was laughing and shaking her head at how ridiculous she still felt, but she seemed to be coming out of her shell nonetheless.

Rumford cleared his throat. “H-have you–”

Belle whipped her head back around, almost pulling a muscle in her neck. “Yes?”

He shyly glanced down at the table. “Well, I just wanted to ask you if– if you'd read any good... books? Recently?” He said, looking back up at her with a slight, lopsided smile.

How could one man be so cute?

Belle took a deep breath and did her best not to smile to broadly. She didn't want to look completely mad. “As a matter of fact… I have...” She answered as calmly as she could.

His grin widened and he shifted a little to face her better. “Well, Miss French– I would ah, love to hear about them.”

And she'd love to talk about them.

There was the one about the woman who gets wrongfully accused of murder, the one about the thief who gets stolen from, the narrative nonfiction about how Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel, the one covering the presence of trans people in various parts of the world, and then her favorite romance novel that she'd read for the twenty-third time about a prince in disguise.

He nodded along, making comments and asking questions at the appropriate times. Several times he had to repeat himself so she could hear him over the band playing. Belle went on and on until her throat was sore from raising her voice, and it finally occurred to her that at this point, she'd be enjoying their date a lot more if they were someplace quiet. Someplace more romantic. For kissing. Or just talking.

What would Ruby do? Belle wondered. Of course, drinking and channeling her inner Ruby proved to be ill-advised, but she was basically sober now. Surely it would be worth another try? It was time for an exit maneuver, and if anyone knew how to wrap things up in favor of going someplace more private, it was Ruby. Right?

She cleared her throat and whipped her hair out of her face in a manner she hoped looked flirtatious. Sexy. Enticing. “You um…”  She began to hesitate then, already feeling her heart dropping into her stomach. No, no. Confidence. Commit. “You wanna get outta here?”

That was a thing people said, right?

She was pretty sure someone said it in a movie once, at least.

Rumford furrowed his brows and leaned in closely. “What was that?”

Oh God. Now she was going to have to say it again?

She hesitated and tried to think of a less embarrassing way to phrase it, but drew a blank.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” She repeated as loudly as she could without yelling.

He pulled back to look at her, brows raised, and gave a little nod. His lips moved, but she couldn't hear him.

She leaned in and tried not to indulge herself in the heady scent of his cologne too much. Failed. Musky, but citrusy. Sandalwood? Would it be creepy to ask him what it was? Maybe Sephora carried it and she could request a sample.

She clenched her eyes shut. Focus, Belle. “Um. ...What?”

He chuckled and leaned into her ear. “I'd like that.”

She practically squirmed at the sensation of his breath landing on her neck. Good grief . What else might he like? If she asked him to repeat himself again, would he get even closer?

She shook the thought away and let out an awkward chuckle. “...Me too.”

His eyes drifted over to the dance floor, then back to the table. “Ah… When do you think you might like to–”

“We can go now.” She blurted. She wanted to leave, he wanted to leave. They should leave.

Rumford blinked. “...Oh.” He shifted in his seat and pulled out his wallet, grabbing a wad of bills and tucking them under one of the empty glasses. “Well then ah… whenever you're ready.”

Leaving the bar with Dr Rumford Gold?

She was born ready.

Belle looked for Ruby as they made their way toward the exit, and her friend's face lit up when their eyes met. She mouthed what Belle assumed was a, “you go girl!” and winked, making a shooing gesture at the two of them.

Belle rolled her eyes and laughed as she and Rumford slipped out the door. A wave of relief washed over her as they stepped out onto the much quieter street, and judging by the way Rumford's shoulders relaxed, he must have felt the same way.

Street lights and storefronts illuminated the sidewalks, which had their share of slow but steady foot traffic consisting of couples and other small groups. A few cars whirred by, drowning out the soft music coming from a street performer further down the block. It was warm, but with a cool and gentle breeze– which was perfect, Belle thought. Maybe, if she was lucky enough, she’d get cold and Rumford would offer her his jacket. Though she supposed it was comfortable enough that she could pretend to be cold, and in the event that he did offer her his jacket, she could still wear it without completely sweating to death for the remainder of the evening.

Ideal conditions, really.

He was studying the menu in the window of a neighboring restaurant, his hands deep in his pockets. She stepped beside him, bumping into him when another person brushed past her to get inside. The movement grabbed Rumford’s attention, and he braced her arm to keep her steady.

“Sorry,” she said. “It was just um, getting really loud in there?”

He returned an apologetic smile and step aside so they weren’t so close to the door. “Agreed.”

Belle nibbled her lip, trying not to let her eyes wander down his neck and to the Windsor knot nested at the base of his throat. The last thing she needed to think about right now was loosening his tie for him. And undoing a button or two on his shirt. Would his chest be hairy? Or would he be smooth?

If she were a betting woman, her money would be on smooth.

“So.” She began, trying to steer her thoughts away from what he might look like naked.

“So…” He was smoothing out his tie, but seemed to catch himself and stopped. “Where would you like to…”

“You know… I um, I think there's supposed to be a park around the block from here?” She hedged, shifting on her feet. “Maybe we could um…”

“Aye, definitely. I know it.” He said. “But ah, you should probably let your friend know where we're headed?”

“...Yes.” Belle smiled and pointed a finger at him, then plunged her hand into her purse to grab her phone. “Yeah, totally. Good idea.”

“I've been known to have those from time to time.” He joked.

She snorted and tapped a quick message to Ruby. “And… Done!” She said, dropping her phone back into her bag and clutching the strap tightly.

Rumford's eyes bored into hers for a stretch that was beginning to border on uncomfortable before suddenly darting to the death grip she had on her purse instead. He took a deep breath and let out a little scoff, then offered her his arm. “M-miss French?”

Belle nibbled her lip and hesitated a moment. This was it. This was her time. This was her moment. A romantic evening stroll with Rumford Gold.

She slowly locked her trembling arm with his, and then her eyes. “Okay.”

“...Okay.” He said breathlessly, staring down at their joined arms with a lopsided smile.

God, how she just wanted to reach up on her toes and kiss him senseless already. “Well, then I guess uh, let's go.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” he said with a blush, and the two of them finally fell in step together. They made it halfway down the block before Belle suddenly become aware of the silence between them. Should she say something? Make conversation?

She should probably definitely say something.

“I'm… I'm really sorry.” She mumbled, looking at her feet. “For um, back there. If I made you uncomfortable.”

Yes. Clear the air with an apology. For practically eating him alive earlier. A good, natural place to start.

“Well,” he glanced away and chuckled. “I admit I ah, hadn't been quite prepared for that, but… but it's fine, please don't feel–”

“Just, you know. It would have made me uncomfortable, is all.”

He shrugged and cleared his throat. “Aye, well… apology accepted, I suppose.”

They fell silent again, and with her apology out of the way, Belle was eager to change to subject to something– literally, anything– other than what a touchy drunk she was. “So… How did you um, how did you get into antiques? Is it a family thing? Or…”

“Oh–” he shook his head. “No, no. Well– I mean... i-in a way?”

Belle looked at him with a knowing smile. “Sounds like a long story.”

“Aye.” He chuckled. “I suppose it is.”

“I'd love to hear it, if you wouldn't mind telling it.”

Rumford looked at her hesitantly, his lips pressed tightly together. “The thing is, I ah, never knew my mother.” He began, fixing his eyes on the ground. “And my father was… well, not a good man. Spent all his time at the pub, gambling his wages away, and if not that, he was spending the night in jail. When I was eight years old, he dropped me off at our neighbor's and never came back for me. Haven't seen him since.”

“O–.” Belle coughed and pulled away from him, looking at the ground and letting her hair fall in her face. “I am so sorry, I didn't realize– you don't have to–”

“No, no, no, no!” Rumford rushed to assure her, cupping his hand over hers. “I-it's no bother.”

Belle looked back up at him tentatively, not quite meeting his eyes.

“You see... they were the ones who really raised me,” he said. He brushed her hair out of her face and she parted her lips.

She wet them then, and they stuck together slightly. She should have drank more water.

“Edith and Ainsley.” He continued. “Lovely couple. They were seamstresses by trade, but they did it all, really. Sewing, drawing and painting, pottery, you name it. I suppose you could say they were ah...  hoarders.” He admitted with a chuckle.

Belle finally relaxed when she saw the fond smile blooming across his face. He loved his artsy crafty adoptive lesbian hoarder moms. Choosing for the moment to ignore his use of the past tense, she just smiled back at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I always liked staying at their house while my da was out because it was filled with all kinds of art and these unique things they'd collected over the years. I was always so fascinated by them all– curious, ye know? But I always had to remind myself to sit on my hands, because my father…” he trailed off and cleared his throat. “Anyway, one afternoon they saw me eyeing this old spinning wheel of theirs. Huge, magnificent thing, it was. And they told me– what it was, what it did, how old, how it'd come into their possession. Showed me how to use it. I suppose you could say that’s what started it.”

“Your first appearance on the show,” Belle recalled. “You looked at a spinning wheel.”

He scoffed and raised a brow at her. “You remember that? That was right around a decade ago!”

“Mhmm!” Belle laughed. “I watched that episode with my mom when it first aired!”

“Gods,” he hiked his brows and looked off into the distance. “That's embarrassing.”

“No…” she said. “You were wonderful. And the way you spoke about it, I could see how passionate you were.” She hesitated and have him a sidelong look. “I've uh, had a crush on you ever since.”

Rumford swallowed. “Oh.”

“But go on...” She said, nudging his shoulder and letting her hand wander from his elbow to his wrist. “It's a good story.”

He hesitated before smiling and accepting her offered hand, and she gave him a little squeeze. Whether she meant it as an encouraging gesture or if it only served to confirm that he was actually there, she couldn’t say.

“Well... Every day after that, I'd pick something out from one of their shelves and I'd ask them, ‘What's that one? Auntie Edith, can ye tell me about that one there?’ And so they'd take it down and let me touch– ‘be careful now,’ ye know?” He chuckled. “...And then they'd tell me everything they knew. It was amazing, really, that they could remember the histories of these things in such vivid detail.”

“I mean, have you watched yourself on the show?” Belle teased.

“Not at all, recently.” He admitted with a shrug.

“Well,” she laced her fingers with his and smiled. “You never fail to amaze me.”

He stopped walking and turned to face her with a curious look, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards into a smile that made Belle's insides squirm in the most pleasant way possible.

Was this it? She wondered. Was she going to finally kiss Rumford Gold? Right here? Right now? She poked her tongue out and swept it along her bottom lip, but his eyes didn't follow. His brown lingered on her blue, but then suddenly caught onto something else.

“Change?”

Belle flinched and spun around, startled by the unfamiliar voice.

It belonged to an older man who wore an unkempt beard and a warm jacket despite the weather. “Spare any change, sir? Miss?”

“O-oh.” She blinked and shook her head, reaching into her purse. Surely she had something.

“I-I’ve no change,” Rumford stammered, “but ah... u-up here,” he said, nodding at a food truck up ahead. “Let me get you something.”

“Oh, that would be very generous, sir,” the man said.

“I-It's no bother.” Rumford said, taking Belle's hand.

They started toward the truck, and the man fell in step with them, mumbling further expressions of gratitude. They quietly stood in line, the three of them all eyeing the menu on the side of the truck.

“You been keeping dry?” Rumford asked. “I only flew in yesterday, but I heard there was a good bit of rain during the week.”

“Yeah. Me and a couple guys have a good spot a few blocks over.”

“That's good.”

“You know, the shelters, they fill up quick.”

“Aye. Aye, I bet.”

“I got some work with a buddy of mine, but it's across town. By the time I get off there, and the time it takes to get to St Matthew’s...” He trailed off.

“How far is it?” Belle asked.

“It’s an hour walk, so you know…”

“There aren't any places closer that that? That’s terrible.”

Rumford stepped forward and cleared his throat. “What would you like?” He asked quietly.

“Uh… a Coke, please.”

“One Coke.” He parroted to the vendor and turned to Belle. “And you? Anything?”

“Hm...” She nibbled her lip and scanned the menu on the side of the truck for a moment. “Oh! A churro would be lovely, thank you.”

“Ah, those are good.” The old man chuckled as the vendor handed Belle her treat.

“Here–” she tore a piece off of the top of her churro and offered it to him.

He threw a hand up. “Oh, no. You enjoy.”

Belle narrowed her eyes at him for a moment. “Well, alright. I won't twist your arm.” She smiled, popping it into her mouth.

“Your Coke.” Rumford chimed in, handing him the chilled red can.

“Thank you so much. God bless you both.” The man said with a little bow before starting down the sidewalk.

“Wait!” Belle busted after him, juggling her churro as she dug through her purse. “It's not much, but…” she shrugged and dropped a assortment of coins into his hand.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Stay safe.” Belle said, bidding the man goodnight and returning to where Rumford was waiting by the truck.

“All set?” He asked.

“Mhmm.” She nodded, locking her arm with his again and starting down the sidewalk. “Thank you for the snack.”

“Of course.”

“You wanna piece?”

“Oh, no thank you.” He said softly.

“Hmm… okay.” She shrugged, sucking the cinnamon sugar off of her fingers before going in for another bite.

The park turned out to be just around the corner, and they were able to find a vacant bench not far from a lamp post without too much searching. Belle settled on one end, and Rumford sat opposite her, leaving more space between them than she cared for. She quickly scoot closer.

“This is nice.” She said, smiling at him. “I'm um, I'm having a nice time. With you.”

“That's good.” He nodded, the corner of his mouth briefly tugging towards into another lopsided grin. He bounced his leg a few times, but quickly stopped. “I'm glad.”

Belle took another bite out of her churro, buying herself a moment as she licked the sugar from her lips. He seemed to be getting tense again, and she wondered what else they could talk about.

“Your uh, your aunties sound like lovely people,” she went with. “I might go so far as to say that they did a wonderful job of raising such a gentleman.” She murmured.

“Oh.” Rumford blushed, looking down at his lap and toying with his cufflinks.

“Did they have any other kids they took in? You know, that are like siblings to you?”

“Oh,” he scoffed, “no, no. It was just me, growing up.”

“So no other family at all?” Belle pouted her lips and stared off across the park. “That must be lonely.”

“Well, I-I I do have a son.” He said, looking back up at her.

“Oh.” She said, nibbling her lip and staring down at her feet. Of course he had a son. And he said he hadn't been out with a woman in a long time. What if he’s still in love with his ex and only agreed to come out on this date to be polite and–

“His mother and I… we ah, separated when he was a boy.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No. No, no. I-it's fine. It's… water under the bridge, really.”

Belle let out a sigh of relief she hoped wasn’t as audible to him as it was to her.  “How um… How old is he?”

“Seventeen.” He said, finally easing comfortably against the bench with a slight smile. “His name’s Neal.”

“And he lives with you?”

He nodded. “For most of the year. He takes his summers in Liverpool to be with his mum, but ah… he’ll be going off to college in the fall.”

“Oh really?” She asked. “Where?”

“Rhode Island School of Design.”

“Wow.” She blinked. “You know they've been ranked the third best school for art and design by– by um…” she smacked her lips and tapped a finger in the air as she struggled to recall the publication.

“Aye,” he chuckled. “I'm sure I read that in one of the brochures at some point.”

Belle dropped her hand and slouched her shoulders, taking the opportunity to nestle a little closer to him. “He must be very talented.”

“Aye ah… he is. Always was. Artistic, I mean. Creative. Certainly didn't get it from me, though.” He chuckled.

“You must be really proud of him.”

He grinned widely at that, and Belle felt weightless for an instant. “I am.”

“What kind of art does he do? What’s he majoring in?”

“It’s been photography most recently. But ah, he's majoring in graphic design. Likes… bring it all together, you now?”

“Mhm.” She nodded and bit off another piece of her churro, the parchment paper around it crinkling a bit. “You miss him already, don't you?”

He raised a brow at her, and she realized she still had a mouthful of churro.

“Oh–” she covered her mouth. “Sorry.”

“You're fine. Just–” He chuckled and reached a hand over, brushing a piece of sugar from her cheek with his thumb.

She finished chewing and swallowed hard, staring back at him. Took a deep breath. He just touched you, Belle. Rumford Gold touched you. On the face. Again.

He dusted the crumb off on his pant leg and sighed. “It's just… I always imagined when he was a boy, that he'd grow up to be like his Papa, you know? That the shop could become… a family business. Father and son. But…” he trailed off and gave a half shrug.

“Well,” Belle shrugged. “Whatever makes him happy, right?”

“Aye.” He smiled. “Precisely.”

“I'm sure he’s gonna miss you too.”

“I'm not quite so sure.” Rumford scoffed. “Boy can hardly wait to get out of the house.”

“Oh, come on!” Belle laughed, giving his shoulder a light shove. “He's just excited! I would have loved to have gone away for college!”

He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head at her. “Why didn't you?”

Belle frowned. “My dad.” She sighed. “He um, had a heart attack my senior year of high school. I wanted to stay close to him after that, you know?”

He nodded. “Certainly.”

“He just– it's been hard on him. Since mom–” she cut herself off. Don't start talking about your dead mom, Belle.

“I... understand.” He slid a hand over hers, and the damned parchment crinkled again.

“So… you guys are going to Richmond next?”

He pulled his hand away and nodded. “Aye.”

Belle shrugged. “I've never been.”

“Well,” he chuckled, “if it's any consolation, I've never really experienced much of it myself. Most of the places we visit just sort of blur together, you know?”

“How does that work, anyway?” She asked. “Do you stay in each city and go straight to the next, or do you go back home in between?”

He scowled and hiked his brows. “Stay at a hotel for weeks–months at a time?” He scoffed. “No thank you, Miss French. I'll be flying back home tomorrow night.”

“Oh.” Belle’s heart sank in her chest at the reminder of the geographical distance between them. She knew he lived in Syracuse, but she just didn't want their time together to end. It was a blissful dream she never wanted to wake from. She took another bite, giving herself a moment to think of what else to say as she chewed.

Oh. Oh, of course.

She swallowed and smacked her lips. “Do you um… have any plans tomorrow morning? Before you leave?”

He bobbed his head from side to side for a moment. “There's a flea market on the other side of town that I like.” He said. “I always try to visit when I'm in the area.”

“Oh, that's cool.” She mumbled around another mouthful of her food.

He huffed out a little laugh. “I'm sort of... friends with one of the vendors there.”

“Really?” She asked, quickly throwing her hand over her mouth again.

“Oh, yes.” He laughed. “Strange fellow. Always has such beautiful pieces, though– I get a lot of my inventory from him. He ah… drives a hard bargain, but I haven't let him get the better of me yet.” He winked.

Belle swallowed and nibbled on her lip. “Maybe– maybe I could join you? If you um, if you wouldn't mind…”

He gave her a sidelong look. “So you can study my negotiation tactics?” He teased.

“Well, now that you mention it…” she giggled, “I wouldn't mind watching you haggle a price on an antique vase or something. ...I think it could be highly educational.” She added, lifting her chin.

He tilted his head and furrowed his brows. “I… I'd like that.”

Belle smiled so widely her cheeks began to feel sore. She turned away for a moment to collect herself. “Okay then,” she said, looking back at him with another, hopefully much less deranged-looking, smile. “It's a date then?”

“Aye.” He nodded. “I… suppose it is.”

She bit down on her lips to keep her crazed smile from returning. She'd just made plans! To see him! Rumford! Again! Tomorrow!

They were staring at each other again, and Belle took a deep breath. Was this it? Was this the part where they kissed?

No, no. She needed a line. To bat her lashes and say something like, I can't wait. Lick her lips and murmur a seductive, should be fun.

The bunched up parchment paper crinkled in her grip again and she froze. She had to finish this stupid thing and throw it out already. It would ruin the kiss if she was preoccupied with holding it, nevermind the obnoxious sounds it could make. No, no. The churro had to go.

She looked down at her lap and eyed what was left of it. Two or three bites. One, if she really committed herself. Or would that be… unbecoming of her? She sighed and tore it into two pieces, popping one of them into her mouth and closing her eyes.

God damn, it was so good.

She opened her eyes to find Rumford still staring at her and stopped chewing.

“Good?” He asked with a little smirk.

She nodded. “So good,” she said, her voice muffled again.

Dammit, Belle. Stop talking with food in your mouth.

She continued chewing slowly, as if she could hide the fact that she was chewing at all, and swallowed. “It's good.”

He just smiled back without a word.

Well there goes your moment, Belle. You've ruined it. No kiss.

“Um…” she wet her lips and glanced down the last piece with reluctance. “Sure you don't wanna bite? Because it's um… it's good.”

He hesitated and let out a scoff. “I suppose I can't argue with such a ringing endorsement as that, now can I?”

How was he so charming? She was a walking disaster and yet here he was, smiling and… being cute. Pretending not to notice how weird she was. What a saint.

“No,” Belle laughed. “You can't.”

She shifted on the bench and by the time she realized what the hell she was doing, Rumford was already opening his mouth so she could feed him.

Oh yes. She was painfully aware of the situation as she popped the last piece into his mouth. The way his lips closed around it, brushing against the tip of her finger as she pulled away.

He closed his eyes and let out a soft hum as he chewed, and Belle really needed to stop looking at his mouth. Or the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Lord have mercy.

He looked at her and wet his lips. “You're right. That is good.”

Belle blinked owlishly at him. This wasn't real. Couldn't be. She was dreaming. It probably wasn't even Saturday. This entire day had been a hallucination. It was the only logical explanation.

“Miss French?”

She blinked and raised her brows expectantly.

“It's getting late.” He said. “When do you think you'd like to head back?”

“Oh. Uh… now? Now is good.” He could walk her back to her hotel. That would be her next and last chance for a kiss, wouldn't it? Saying goodnight? “I mean– whatever you wanna do.” She blurted. “I'm up for whatever, you know?”

Especially kissing you. That was on the top of the list of things she was up for.

“Well, I... I wouldn't want to keep you up late.” He said, starting to get up.

Belle barked out an awkward laugh. Sweet, naive, beautiful man. She would be more than happy to have him keep her up all night long. “...Yeah.” She coughed. “You're right.”

“Here–” he said, gesturing at the finally empty parchment paper in her lap. “Let me get that for you.”

He tossed it in a nearby bin and helped her up. They did a lap around the park, arm in arm, while he told her about some of the things he’s found at the flea market over the years, and his favorite sorts of items to carry in his shop. While they headed back to her hotel, the topic of conversation drifted back to flea markets, and which cities had best (or worst) shops. Belle countered with her list of grievances against the way the library in Storybrooke was being run, and all the things she would make to change if she was in charge. She started walking more slowly as they approached the hotel, but soon it was time to stop completely.

“Well uh, this is where I’m staying.” Belle mumbled.

He stopped walking and frowned. “Oh.”

“Thanks for um, coming out tonight.” She said, shifting on her feet.

“Aye.” He nodded. “Thank you. For ah, inviting me.”

“I had a really good time.”

He was trying not to smile, but the tightly rounded apples of his cheeks gave him away. “Me too.”

She stared at his mouth and wet her lips. This had to be the part where they kissed, right? Any second now, he was gonna put his mouth on her? Would it be gentle and soft? Or might he surprise her with something more ravaging? Would she even be able to handle that? This was Dr Rumford Gold, after all. The cultured and sexy silver fox who occupied many a late night fantasy. Good God– would she faint?

“I'll ah… Pick you up?” He asked, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Tomorrow morning? Around ten? For the um, flea market?”

“...Oh!” She chuckled. “Yeah! That sounds perfect. I can't wait to do you.”

His eyes went wide as saucers. “Pardon?”

Oh. Oh. “Did I say–?” She laughed. “No, no. I mean I can't wait to do that . With you. As in going to the flea market. Not…” she trailed off and cleared her throat. “...Yeah.”

His lips rounded into an oh and he nodded slowly. “I… believe I understand.”

“Yeah. So um… goodnight, I guess?”

“Aye,” he said. “Goodnight, Miss French.”

“Belle.” She corrected him.

He smiled, and under the light from the street lamp above them, she could see that he was blushing. “...Belle.”

“Goodnight, Mr Gold.”

“Oh, please.” He chuckled softly and gently tugged on her hand, beginning to rub his thumb back and forth over her knuckles. “...Call me Rumford.”

Belle chewed her lip in lieu of smiling. “...Rumford.” She watched him wet his lips and she  could feel her insides practically vibrating with anticipation. Kiss, kiss, kiss! Let me suck your stupid, perfect face!

He held her hand up and brushed his thumb across her knuckles again. Then she watched, utterly transfixed, as he dipped down and pressed a kiss to her hand. He closed his eyes and let his lips linger there a moment before slowly– she might dare say reluctantly– pulling away. He glanced up at her, the corner of his mouth curled into a lopsided little smile.

“It's been a pleasure,” he said softly. “Belle.”

She gaped at him as he stood upright again, her mouth hanging open.

He just bowed and kissed her on the hand? How dare he? How dare he just transport her into a God damned Jane Austen novel like this?

“Uh…”

He furrowed his brows and tilted his head, taking a half step closer. “Belle?”

She shook her head. “Yes?”

“You're alright?”

“Oh. Yeah.” She laughed. “Oh, I'm fantastic. You're fantastic.”

“Oh. Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then.” He said.

“Yes.”

“I… I look forward to it.” He said, rubbing his free hand over the back of his neck. “Very much.”

She nibbled her lip. “Me too.”

“Goodnight, Belle.”

“Goodnight, Mr– Rumford.”

It was definitely time to let go of his hand. Belle knew that much. But she seemed to have this irrational fear that once she did, he would turn to dust and disappear from her life forever. That she'd wake up from the dream.

“I'm um, I'm gonna go in now.” She said.

He nodded. “Right.”

“So um…” She slowly released her grip on his hand and clutched the strap of her purse– because she needed to hold onto something. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“I'm gonna–” she pointed a thumb over her shoulder at the the hotel.

“Of course.”

She took a step backwards toward the doors, still not ready to take her eyes off of him. “Bye.” She said with a little wave.

He nodded and waved back.

She took another step back, missing the crack in the sidewalk and stumbling. Rumford leapt forward to catch her, but she managed to find her balance herself.

“Haha… whoa...” She chuckled, hoping to God that she wasn't turning beet red.

“Alright?” He asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.” She said. “Happens all the time.”

It did not happen all the time.

“Oh.” He said, furrowing his brows. “Well ah, perhaps tomorrow... you might want to um, wear something… flatter?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Def–definitely. Good idea.”

“Just it's um… A lot of walking. And partially outdoors, with ah... dirt.”

“Right?” She said in agreement, despite the fact that she'd never been to the place before and has no idea what it was like.

“I just see those are suede, is all.” He said, gesturing at her feet and blushing. “I'd ah, hate for them to get ruined.”

He noticed her shoes!

“Yeah, me too.” She snorted. “They cost me like, a whole rent payment, so you know.”

He looked back down at her feet and let out a little chuckle, hiking his brows. “Well. I won't keep you any longer.” He said. “You ought to get some sleep.”

“Yeah. You too.”

“Goodnight, Belle.”

She bit down on her lip in hesitation, then inched closer so she could give him a peck on the cheek. “Goodnight, Rumford.” She said as she pulled away, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with a trembling hand.

He was trying not to smile again. “G-goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” She took another, much more careful, step backwards. “I'm um… I'm gonna go then. For real now.”

“Aye.” He nodded. “Goodnight.”

She backed up against the front door and waved again. “Goodnight.”

Good God, she realized. Ruby was right.

She shook her head and quickly slipped through the door, managing to take three steps into the lobby before spinning around and waving at him again.

He waved back and then– then– she allowed herself to disappear down the hall to the elevators.