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crystalirises · 4 years

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Did He Ever Love Me?

Edit: This is a repost since my tumblr is being weird and for some reason my posts are not showing up??? Help ;-; (also repost since I posted it on the day of the wedding and I wanted to scream about that for a while :) )

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Hi guys… I know the wedding is gonna drop soon…

Just kidding, I couldn’t write wholesome Fundywastaken or angst wedding times to save my life. I just can’t write wedding angst guys. I can’t ;-;

Anyway, this is just a scenario that occurs within the DadSchlatt AU I’m making, some of the details are in the link below:

And yeah I hope you guys like this! @oakskull and @meismom, I posted it yay!

(Edit: removed Ao3 tag cause maybe that’s causing my post not to show up in tags???)

"Fuuuuuuuundy, there you are! Holy shit, I’ve been looking all over for you." He froze, tucking his diary within his pocket as a practiced grin formed on his face. He turned to see Schlatt, surprisingly sober as he strode towards him. There was a weary look on the ram hybrid's face, one that Fundy wasn't sure he liked compared to the man's usual smirk. "I need to talk to you in my office. Now."

"Mr. President, it's an honor for you to come yourself but you usually send a guard when you... want to summon someone." Did Schlatt know? Did he know that Fundy was a spy...? He sucked in a quivering breathe, hoping that the man doesn't notice his sudden bout of nervousness. He stood up from the fence post he had been sitting on, his shoes thumping loudly against the ground.

A flash of emotion crossed Schlatt's eyes, a flicker in his gaze that Fundy couldn't pinpoint. A hand landed on his shoulder as red piercing eyes stared into his soul. If Schlatt didn't stab him right then and there, he might as well have died from the man’s intense gaze. "Just... Come with me. It was best that I... It's better that I come to get you myself. This won't be pleasant, Fundy."

He could do nothing but follow Schlatt towards his office, scenarios of his terrible demise flashing within his mind. Schlatt... was strange. At times, he could barely predict what the ram was going to do. Fundy tried not to trip on his own two feet as the building to Schlatt's office began to appear within sight. He didn't want to die. He needed to apologize to so many people. To Niki. To Eret. To Tommy. He didn't even get the chance to apologize to his dad about–

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as thoughts of his dad surfaced. He didn't mean it. He didn't mean to disown him. He needed to gain Schlatt's trust… but that didn't matter now, did it? Schlatt was going to corner him into his office, taunt him for thinking he could have escaped Schlatt's suspicions and slit his throat, leaving him to choke on his own blood. He wouldn't get a burial. Would anyone even care if he died? No… They wouldn’t care for a traitor like him…

He shuddered to a stop, willing his tears to dry as Schlatt abruptly paused. A scowl reached his lips as a single tear cascaded down his cheek. With the back of his sleeve, he wiped the traitorous tear away just as Schlatt turned to face him. Fundy blinked, Schlatt looked nervous. The man shuffled continuously on his feet, his lips pressed into a thin line as if contemplating the words he were about to say. “Fundy. I need you to stay calm throughout this, but I won’t blame you if you start to… uh… ya know… fuck.”

"Of course." He didn't know why Schlatt was mocking him with false display of care. Stay calm? Yeah, he'll stay completely calm even as Schlatt decides to stab him. Fundy wrapped his arms around his chest, as if consoling himself as he followed Schlatt into the building. The cold of the chipped marble floor beneath seemed to seep past the soles of his shoes, the pristine white walls a stark reminder of how they reflected a lie. This entire land was covered in blood yet was so perfectly hidden by the falseness of serenity.

George and Punz stood at the office's doorway, swords sheathed at their sides as they gave Schlatt a nod. For a moment, Fundy caught George's eye. The human's usual exhaustion replaced by weariness and pity. Oh, of course George would know he was about to die. Great. Fundy turned his eyes away, choosing to look down at the floor instead as he entered his death room. The oaken door closed with a soft click that resounded in Fundy's nervously twitching ears, it sounded like the toll of a final bell.

"There you are Schlatt, you know it's rude to keep me waiting! You know I-I-I love what you've done with the place, really captures your style and— oh! You brought my traitor son with you!" His head snapped up, nausea climbing its way to his throat as he locked eyes with his da— with Wilbur. No. No. No. No. Why was he here? Why was Wilbur here? He turned to Schlatt, his breath harsher than he wanted it to be. Sensing his panic, Schlatt placed a hand on the top of his head, as if the gesture was meant to calm him down.

“I’m sorry, sir, but w-what is this?” Fundy doesn’t miss the manic gleam in Wilbur’s eyes. The frantic and frenzied movement he made as he stared fiercely at the hand on top of Fundy’s head. Fundy’s ears were pressed close to his head, the rising need to rush out of the room and hide inside his bunker slowly took over his senses. He only snapped out of it as Schlatt’s hand moved to his shoulder, his grip tight enough to keep him in place. He couldn’t even leave. He wanted to leave. “Why is he here?”

“Your president invited me.” Wilbur let out a chuckle, sitting himself on one of the chairs that circled the long presidential table. Fundy couldn’t help but look at his father, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. His brown trenchcoat was draped heavily across his shoulders, the man’s thin limbs sending a pang of guilt to Fundy’s heart. Wilbur looked like an absolute wreck. “So… Schlatt! Did you invite me to flaunt your little victory in my face? I’ve heard the people love your proposal. A festival! How festive of you, hm?”

Schlatt’s usual smirk was nowhere to be seen. He felt Schlatt’s hand drop from his shoulder and Fundy watched as the ram’s scowl deepened with every word that came from Wilbur’s mouth, his fists were clenched so tightly at his sides that Fundy feared they would begin to bleed soon. He began to back away, his hands clawing the door’s wooden surface as Schlatt began to advance towards the table. Schlatt had a temper. He knew that… but he’s never actually seen him furious before.

“WILBUR!” Fundy jumped as Schlatt slammed his fist onto the table, a small crack forming at its surface. Fundy wished he was anywhere else but there. Wilbur looked up, a perplexed look on his face as he forced himself to look at Schlatt. “I have had my suspicions since I first came here, and I want you to clear them up. For your sake and for Fundy’s. Fundy, I know you don’t consider Wilbur your father but Tubbo clearly says otherwise and I doubt he would lie to me. Fundy, what do you remember of your childhood?”

“I— uh… that’s kind of a personal question…” Fundy laughed awkwardly, trying to dispel the tense atmosphere. “Um… I-I can’t say I really recall much, Schlatt… uh, it was kind of a long time ago, you know?”

“What’s your earliest memory?” Schlatt didn’t want to let this go, huh? Fundy shuffled on his feet, uncomfortable to be under Schlatt’s scrutiny. Wilbur looked between the two of them, a blank look on his face as if the confrontation bored him. Fundy averted his gaze from both of them, concentrating on remembering his earliest memory. He remembered the bitter scent of potions, his feet scuffing loudly against the marble floor of the hto dog van. He remembers Wilbur, reaching down to hold him in his arms.

Life was simpler back then, before that bloody war... Before he had been forced into a role he never wanted to play in the first place. Back then, his father didn't dream of independence or glory. No. His father looked at him as if he was all that mattered, as if he was worth more than the entire world itself. Now... He looks up at his father - at Wilbur - and sees a hollow shell of the man he once called his dad. He can't bring himself to look at Schlatt, choosing to disappear into the memory of a better time. To a better life.

"I remember the... camarvan and... I remember Wil." Fundy tries to keep the sweet nostalgia out of his voice, Schlatt could still peg and label him for a traitor if he showed a semblance of regret. "That's it."

"Good. Good." He didn't see how any of that was good. Schlatt laid a hand on the table, his sharp gaze snapping to Wilbur. "Remember those daring adventures we used to have, Wil? All those strange lands we traversed. I have to say, the rising lava one was my favorite. You remember those times, Wil? Just you and me, two idiots thinking they could outrun the world."

"As far as I recall, I remember nearly falling into lava and nearly drowning because you refused to hide your damn horns." Wilbur growled, low and harsh. "Those hunters wouldn't stop chasing us because you— I told you to hide them but you chose to keep them on full display for the world to see and nearly killed me in the process!"

"Yeah... I remember that." A deep chuckle resounded throughout the room as Schlatt walked towards Fundy. "I'm just surprised, you know? When I found out you had a son, I was expecting a human kid but then... Here's Fundy! Glad to see you didn't try to force the kid into wearing a stupid hat... Oh wait! You did! Didn't take your advice either, did he?"

"What is this about, Schlatt? You want me to apologize? Is that it, hm? You want me to say sorry to you for trying to keep you alive?"

"How does a human have a kit for a son?"

The tension in the room grew heavier at the question, almost suffocating as Fundy processed Schlatt's question. Fundy shivered, watching as the manic gleam in Wilbur's eyes turned practically murderous. Fundy didn't understand where Schlatt was going within this. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. His hand gripped at his arms, nearly breaking his skin as he found his voice. "Why are you asking that Schlatt...?"

"Just... I'm really sorry, Fundy. But I think this matter should be settled now." Schlatt didn't even give him the choice, and from what Fundy could tell, Wilbur didn't get a choice either. "Wilbur, we travelled through many lands together and I know you. I know what you're like. When I ask you this, I want to hear the truth. How the fuck did you get a kit for a son? What the fuck did you do Wilbur?"

“What did I… What are you asking me about, Schlatt?” Wilbur stood up, small tremors wracking through his body as he grips the edge of the table. The shine of insanity dancing in his gaze has disappeared, replaced by the look of a man who’s about to lose everything again. “Wha— Don’t you dare—"

“What’s the best way to get people to love you? To show you’re a revolutionary who fights for the freedom of all? I would say having a hybrid for a son would definitely give you some points, huh? Look at General Wilbur. How noble of him to adopt a kit!” Fundy swallowed down the bitter taste of bile climbing up his throat, Schlatt’s words tearing at his heart. “But did you, Wilbur? Did you adopt or did you kill a family and take their child? As far as I’m aware, fox hybrids would fight tooth and nail for their children.”

Fundy took a breath. Schlatt was a liar, Wilbur would never… But then… Schlatt knows Fundy was loyal to him. What did he have to gain by lying? No. No. No. Schlatt was lying, right? He had to be! Wilbur wasn’t—

Wasn’t what, Fundy?

“You’re joking, Schlatt. How dare you—” Fundy’s ears twitched, why was Wilbur glancing off the question? “This is a really funny joke, Schlatt. You're just— you're just twisting this situation into your favor, you-you—”

“Answer the damn question, Wilbur.” Schlatt rolled his eyes, a subtle grin playing on his lips as he leaned closer towards Fundy. “No more running, lover boy. Did you or did you not kidnap a kit from his family?”

“I—”

Fundy fell to his knees, the slight hesitation in Wilbur’s voice the final straw. He curled up into himself, sniffling as he thoughts about the implications. He wanted Wilbur to deny it. He wanted Wilbur to be furious. He… He… He began to wail. Why couldn’t Wilbur just answer the question? Why couldn’t he just say the fucking truth? Fundy’s hands gripped at his ears, tugging them as he tried to abate the horrible thoughts that circled his mind. His heart felt as if it was burning. His whole body felt as if it was on fire.

“No answer. Alright.” Schlatt’s footsteps were muffled under Fundy’s wailing, but he could hear them no matter how much Fundy tried to escape the situation. “You know I was expecting you to defend yourself there, Wilbur. Believe me, I wanted you to defend yourself. Now look what you’ve done. Does this satisfy you, Wilbur? Does seeing your so-called son cry give you joy? ‘Cause I didn’t want this either, Wilbur.”

“If you didn’t want this then you wouldn’t have arranged this meeting. If you didn’t want this you would have left my damn son out of this.” A scathing growl tore itself from Wilbur’s throat, though Fundy barely heard it. Fundy had no choice but to listen to every word that reached his ears, had no choice but to listen as his father’s voice began to rise. “You were my best friend and now you’re accusing me of-of kidnapping?! You think I— Fundy shouldn’t be here. He’s young. You’re filling his head with nonsense—"

“SHUT UP!” Fundy snapped, shutting his eyes to stop his tears. He didn’t want to hear whatever the fuck Wilbur had to say. His avoidance of the question was answer enough. “Just… shut up, Wil. Just shut up.”

“Fundy—”

“Oh! Maybe I have this all wrong.” Fundy wished that Schlatt would just stop, the ram had gotten his point across. He got what he wanted, didn’t he? Fundy looked up at Schlatt, but the man continued, “Maybe you didn’t kidnap a poor kit from his family. No. No. No. How could I forget the second option? Maybe… Maybe you killed his real parents. Maybe you killed them and took Fundy for yourself, huh? Maybe—"

Schlatt placed a hand on Fundy’s head, fondly caressing his hair. Wilbur went livid. He leapt from behind the table, a crash echoing through the room as Wilbur pushed against his chair, knocking it over. Schlatt didn’t get the chance to continue as Wilbur punched him on the cheek, the ram collapsing onto the ground. Wilbur’s back was all Fundy could see, as if Wilbur was putting space between the two of them.

“How dare you.” Wilbur seethed. His hand rising to strike once more. If he had a sword, he would have killed the ram right then and there. Fundy felt fear and so did Schlatt. “HOW FUCKING DARE YOU—"

“GEORGE! PUNZ!” Fundy’s voice echoed through the room and surely out into the hall. Wilbur froze on the spot, turning to Fundy with betrayed shock in his eyes but all he sees in his son’s face is terror. Terror directed at him. At him. Schlatt laughed quietly, picking himself up from the floor just as George and Punz rushed into the room. They took one good look at Schlatt’s bleeding cheek and quickly apprehended Wilbur, the man snarling and cursing as the two finally managed to hold his arms behind his back.

“Fundy… My son…” Wilbur tried to reach out to Fundy, struggling in the two guard’s hold. Fundy looked away, his heart heavy in his chest. He didn’t know what to think, but he knows he didn’t want to see Wilbur. Not now. “I would never… I-I-I love you, Fundy. I would never… I… I… I can prove it. I can prove that you’re my son. Just tell them to let me go.”

“Take him away.” The words taste like poison on Fundy’s tongue.

“That’s right. Get him out of here. Make sure he doesn’t take another step in Manburg ever again.” Schlatt placed himself between Fundy and Wilbur, his lips curled into a sneer. “Mark my words, Wilbur. As long as I live, I will make sure you stay the hell away from Fundy.”

“NO! NO! NO!” Wilbur’s voice began to fade away, Fundy’s ears twitching as he still hears the man screaming his name out in the hallway. “FUNDY! FUNDY! MY SON!”

Fundy breaks down once more, cursing his good hearing as he listen’s to his father’s heartwrenching cries. Maybe the man did care for him… maybe… Fundy didn’t know.

He feels a presence at his side, a hand rubbing up and down his back. Schlatt doesn’t look at him and Fundy doesn’t look at the man either. What could they say?

After a moment of silence.

“Why would you do this, Schlatt?”

“Because I was worried, Fundy.”

“Why?”

“I do care for everyone in the cabinet, Fundy. Believe me.”

“You should have told me what this was about.”

“I know.”

“Was this planned from the beginning?”

“I was planning to confront Wilbur when he first introduced you to me.”

“Do you… do you think he loved me?”

“Maybe he eventually did, Fundy. Maybe he did.”

He feels Schlatt pull him into a warm and comforting embrace.

“It hurts.”

“I’m sorry, Fundy. I’m so so sorry.”

The residents of Manburg watch as a lone fox stands before a roaring bonfire, the smell of burning paper wafting through the air.

With his hat in his hands, he stares into the flames.

He doesn't toss it in.

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So yeah that’s just a scenario that happens within the AU I’m making. So this is a very ambiguous situation. Is Schlatt being genuine? Is he manipulating Fundy? Is Wilbur the bad guy here? I’d love to hear your interpretations!

So pls do tell me what your interpretations are 👉👈

Anyway, hope you guys liked it!

#fundy #wilbur soot #jschlatt #mcyt #pls appear in tags this is the eleventh time ;-;

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killingkueen · 8 years

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Stitches Part 2

Part 1

Summary: Belle continues to make a fool of herself. Oh, and she gets her sweater back.

Also on AO3, of you’re into that sort of thing.

Today was going to be a good day.

It had to be, with the dress she was wearing.

It was one of her favorites and only brought out when she was in dire need: dark blue circle lace with a burgundy belt. She had even pulled on her spanx, so everything looked if not slim, then at least tight. As a matter of fact, the nice slope of her waist was interrupted by her wide belly, but Belle couldn't help but appreciate the large curve as she looked at it in the mirror. It made the skirt hang just above her knees and it felt so delightfully flirty. She loved the ripple in the fabric when she moved.

However, Belle wished she had been able to buy those brown leather boots. That was what would really have made her outfit work, was that pair of boots she found on sale on her last trip to Portland. Sadly, she couldn't zip them up past her calf so she was forced to settle for the bright red closed toe pumps.

It wasn't a bad trade off, but it was the principal of the thing. She hadn't owned a pair of boots since she was in grade school, and those were the snow boots her dad made her wear whenever she came to visit him in Maine (she hardly needed them in Australia).

Regardless of her footwear, Belle felt nice. She felt, dare she say it, pretty.

Plus, the dress had sleeves that didn’t stretch too tight across her back and shoulders, and it had pockets.

She couldn't do much better than that.

Even if the only reason she was at work in the first place was because she had to be.

God, Belle’s life was a mess. She couldn't (accidentally) set fire to her toaster trying to make grilled cheese without knowing that on some level. The black smoke billowing out of her appliance had been the last straw, if she were honest—there were only so many grievances she could take, brought upon by herself or otherwise.

That's where the dress came in. So what if she were too embarrassed to ever show her face in front of the one man in the entire state that had struck her fancy? Her dress had pockets, and that was all a woman needed in the world. Well, that and grilled cheese, but she knew how that turned out, and she wasn’t going to be attempting life hacks she found on internet listicles again anytime soon.

The state of her kitchen appliances aside, Belle couldn’t help but feel that her life was looking up as she peeked into the book return. There were three entire books there, which was more than there had been at one time in months.

Yes, today was going to be a good day, indeed.

After checking the books back in, she scooped them up and wandered the stacks, taking her time in finding where they went.

Really, she didn’t mind the quiet of the library. She couldn’t deny that it’d be nice if she had more patrons (the hours had been cut to part-time for a reason, after all), and especially nice if she had a budget to buy new books, but with as light a workload as she had, she was able to pick and choose books off the shelves to read at her leisure.

A librarian who had time to read. Who ever heard of such a thing?

Besides, with the lack of patrons—most notably Mr. Gold—Belle could take comfort in the fact that she could mess up on all of the input forms or drop all the books she wanted with only herself as witness. Not that she wanted to drop any books. She wasn’t a monster.

Belle had made it to the end of the row before she realized she didn’t actually know where the books she had went. Shaking her head at herself, she turned the one on top so she could read the spine. Once Upon a Time by Issac Hellar. A look at the shelf on her right told her she was in the Ys now, so that meant—

The clearing of a throat from behind her caused her to jump, and as she whirled around to see who could possibly be in the library, she let go of the books in her hands. Belle couldn’t help but think that the dull thud they made when they landed on the ground was rather anticlimactic.

“Mr. Gold,” she squeaked.

She should have just stayed in bed that morning.

“Miss French,” he greeted. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Startle was one word for it. Personally, Belle would call it appearing suddenly and flaunting your complete and utter unreachability by reminding me why I will never be interesting or coordinated enough to deserve you. But yes. Startle.

“Quite alright,” she said, amazed she was able to utter a single word with her dry throat, let alone two. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“Aren’t you open?” Gold frowned. To be fair to him, the lights were on. Places of business were usually open when the lights were on.

“No,” she said, then quickly, “I mean yes! Of course I’m open!”

His gaze went downward, and Belle wrapped her arms around her stomach without thinking, as if she could hide herself from view.

“Is...is this a bad time?”

The books. He was looking at the books she had flung about in her surprise. She had half a mind to leave them there, but she figured she had done enough damage by dropping them in the first place.

Besides, Mr. Gold was blocking the aisle, which made it hard to flee gracefully.

She made a point to take her time retrieving the books from the floor if only to clear her head. She was already acting like a complete loon, and the fact that Gold hadn’t left yet was a miracle in itself, but everyone had their limits.

Straightening up, she said in as even a tone as she could manage, “You, uh, don’t usually come to the library. Point of fact, actually,” she said quickly, “no one really does, so I’m sorry if I seem a little, uh, unprepared.”

“I felt inspired,” he explained with an easy shrug.

Belle found herself nodding, even as she tried to pick apart his reasoning. That was good, right? That he’d want to come in after she embarrassed herself utterly in his shop?

Her confusion must have shown on her face because Gold continued: “I saw you walk in from Grannie’s before you opened,” he confessed. “You caught my eye.”

“I wanted toast,” she said, immediately biting down on her lip in the hope she could control her damn mouth. What an inane thing to say.

Gold, ever so polite, nodded as if there were no other reason to go to Grannie’s. “Yes, well, I remembered your sweater that you left in my care, and I thought I should return it.”

Belle looked in his hand and sure enough, there was her sweater, folded with what looked like the upmost care. Ah, so that was it. The wretched thing probably took up too much space in his back room, and he wasn’t willing to wait for her to decide to retrieve it. He was also probably hoping to save some of his other merchandise from destruction.

“Right, yes,” she said, clearing her throat. “I was wondering where that had gotten to.”

Gold smiled in his crooked way, flashing his gold tooth. “Yes, I would have waited for you to come retrieve it, but,” he paused, his lips pressed together and Belle could practically see his mind ticking away. “If I’m honest, I just didn’t want to.”

“Wait, you mean.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Precisely.”

“I see,” she said, holding the books to her chest like a shield. She wondered if this meant he wouldn’t let her loiter by his first editions anymore, since he seemed so intent on keeping her from returning. “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Gold.”

Something in his face seemed to deflate at her words, not that Belle was watching (she was going to have to break that habit anyway).

He cleared his throat. “Yes, and I wanted you to know there were no hard feelings for yesterday.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “Thank you.”

After a long, uncomfortable pause where she refused to make eye contact, Gold finally thrust out his hand. “I...uh...here,” he said, gesturing with her sweater. He didn't seem inclined to move any closer to Belle, so she took the half dozen or so steps to him. When she took the thing, she almost dropped it, so surprised she was at the sudden weight of it. In fact, what kept the library books from plummeting again to the floor was Mr. Gold reaching out and taking them, leaving Belle with her oddly heavy sweater.

“Did you sew weights to the lining?” She asked, perplexed.

“Not exactly,” he coughed.

Belle unwrapped the fabric and there, nestled inside, was a book. An old, familiar book, the leather soft and cool in her hands, the spine floral and striking. In perfect cursive read Sense and Sensibility.

She read the cover, then read it again, her mind not able to process what she was seeing. “I can’t take this.”

His face fell further. “I want you to have it.”

“I don't understand.”

“Do you not like it? You can choose another one, if you'd like.”

Another one. Not a different one. Another. A second first edition, from his collection.

“So, you mean it's okay if I keep visiting your shop?” she asked, looking up.

“Of course. I'd never keep you out,” he said, surprised that she’d come to that conclusion.

Now Belle was sure she was missing something. After all, what sort of man would throw her from his life forever while giving her what was quite possibly the best gift she had ever received? She bit her lip, clutching the book in her hands. Maybe she hadn’t fucked up everything completely yet, and maybe she wasn’t reading the situation correctly.

“Mr. Gold, why are you here?”

He attempted a smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. “I thought maybe I could borrow some of your confidence,” he murmured, no longer meeting her eye. That gave Belle ample opportunity to study his face, which meant she noticed the slight blush that started to creep up his neck and into his cheeks.

Hold on.

“You think I'm confident?”

“Of course I do.”

She shook her head. “I have my moments, I guess, but so does everybody.”

“‘Moments?’” he repeated, incredulous. “Sweetheart, the very core of you exudes such assurance that you know what you're doing, that you're able to do it well. I look at you and I see a woman who could make the very world bow at her feet, if you had an inclination to do so, but instead you give all that you can to those around you, and it’s just—” he stopped and he ducked his head forward, hiding his face behind his shaggy, greying hair. “If I may, Miss French, it’s rather captivating.”

Belle was speechless. She couldn't even feel the steady bump of her heart. For all she knew, it could have stopped.

Mr. Gold thought she was confident. Or did he think she was captivating? Belle didn’t know whether to laugh or—or give him the entire grocery list of all the reasons why she hated herself. Though a part of her wanted to demand his own list of all the reasons she was wrong to do so. She wondered whose would be longer.

But confident. Captivating. She quite liked the sound of it.

“Forgive me, Miss French,” Gold murmured when she had stayed quiet. “I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, Mr. Gold, really,” Belle said, but even to her, her voice sounded forced. “That's just—probably one of the best things someone's said to me? I mean,” she laughed, her hands tightening on the book, her sweater. “I think it might be a little misguided, but I love that. That you would think to say that to me and mean it.”

Gold looked at her then, his head tilted slightly to the side. “Why wouldn’t I mean it?”

Belle’s hands moved to her heart. She pressed her palms against her chest, against the steady fluttering she felt inside her ribcage.

She could feel his gaze, also, like a physical thing that touched and held her, warm and secure. Never had Belle had anyone’s attention so fully, and she found that she liked it. Maybe it was just him that she liked. Yes, that was it. She wanted Mr. Gold’s attention completely, and only his, for as long as he was willing to give it to her.

“I don’t know,” she finally admitted, laughing. Her smile was sudden and god knew she couldn’t hide it. “I think I might just be horribly dense,” Belle said. “I’m sorry, I just want to understand.”

“It’s rather simple,” he shrugged. “I have always wanted to talk with you.”

“Just talk?”

Gold opened his mouth, but he shut it so fast, Belle was sure she heard his teeth snap together. He looked a little lost, actually. Finally, he said, “You see, Miss French,” but trailed off. The poor man was floundering, clearly at a loss.

Belle had a wild thought that he was just as nervous and unsure as she was. To know that they were in this together, in their odd, awkward way, did wonders for her own nerves. It was a relief to think that he wasn’t as out of reach as she always assumed.

“I, uh,” Belle said, forcing the words from her mouth. “I think you’re captivating, too.”

Gold tilted his head, and Belle could only hope that was relief that filled his eyes. “Really?”

“Of course,” she laughed. “You must know I stopped coming to your shop for the books a long time ago.”

“You never...you never said anything to me.”

“I was too busy watching,” she admitted. “Besides, why would you want to talk to me?” she said.

“I think you’d be a fascinating conversationalist.”

Belle couldn’t help but laugh again at that. “You think I’d be...oh, Mr. Gold,” she said, her smile wide. “How about we test that theory?”

Screw it, she thought. Belle had never been pursued before, and she found it a pleasant surprise. Hell, maybe Gold only wanted someone to discuss books with and didn’t feel romantically inclined. It would be worth it all the same, spending time with someone who thought she was confident and captivating, and if he didn’t feel as deeply as she felt for him, she could figure that out later.

All she knew was that she wanted to try being brave. She wanted to try him (in every sense of the word).

Gold was nodding at her, a smile tugging at his mouth in anticipation.

“The library closes for the day at one,” she said. “I was going to throw together a sandwich or a salad in my apartment after, if you wanted to join me?”

“I would love to,” he said before she could even finish the offer. “Shall I meet you back here?”

“That would be perfect,” she agreed, her smile wide.

“Wonderful,” Gold said with his own, relieved smile to match. “That’s just wonderful.”

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #fic: stitches

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