#i would leave a pile of kibble on the back porch for him

[aemiron-main]

me: I take my creel analysis very seriously

also me: joking about victor creel eating wet food

[ezwhump]

Russell meets Lennon - pet whump, collars, swearing

Russell thought that maybe some kind of odd prank was being played on him when he pulled up to the trailer. Sure, he’d been in worse places, but there was something off-putting about the whole scenario; driving to some dingy scrapyard on the outskirts of town was supposed to help him close up a business deal? Christ. 

A solitary streetlight lit up most of the property, washing everything in a muted yellow and making the encroaching darkness seem even more sinister. Russell turned off the car, making sure it was locked a few times before he steeled himself. 

“It’s just business.” 

A gangly man in a truckers hat and a heavy jean jacket met him at the door, swiping his sleeve under his nose and spitting out onto the dirt in front of Russell. 

“Y’here for the account papers?” 

Russell couldn’t help but pick up on everything going on behind the man; more washy yellow light concentrated from dusty mismatched lamps, the trailer's kitchenette barely spanning 3 feet, dishes piled in the sink. He pulled his eyes to meet the man, setting his shoulders. 

“Yeah. Russell Barlowe.”

“Stu.”

Stu turned into the trailer, leaving Russell in the doorway, still a little on edge. He was going to have to call Pete after this, if only to penalize him for offering up a “middle man to make the transaction smoother” that turned out to be a grizzled, secluded trucker. 

This Stu guy better be a fucking finance wizard. 

“Y’comin’ in or y’gonna piss on my porch all night?” 

Russell almost choked, taking a few halted steps inside and breathing deep to adjust as fast as possible. It smelled like tobacco, stale sweat, and kibble. The couches were stained and a little torn up, singed foam jutting out at the end cushions, but Russell took a seat anyway. 

“Y’want somethin’ to drink? I gotta print some shit out before we wrap this up.” 

Russell remembered the sink. “I’m alright, thanks.” 

That’s when he spotted the food bowl. A flimsy silver dish, about the size of a bread plate, with the name ‘Lennon’ crudely carved on the lip. It looked like the only clean thing in the entire trailer. 

“You got a dog?”

Stu snorted, hacking up a cough and spitting again, this time into the sink. Russell kept his face neutral. 

“Hck, yeah.” And then he stalked into the back of the trailer, presumably where his printer was.

Russell busied himself by thumbing through the calendar on his phone, trying to memorize his schedule for tomorrow, what meetings with who, when to call Pete and lay into him, but he was interrupted.

A shape was moving out of the back of the trailer, and Russell leaned forward on the couch, offering out his hand for Stu’s dog to sniff. To show he wasn’t a threat. 

A boy shuffled along the grimy particleboard on all fours, keeping pressed to the wall, and Russell stood up. 

“What the fuck.” It came out as a whisper, a sharp release of air. 

The boy was rangy and thin, dirty like the rest of the place, his hair slightly matted. Scars and bruises littered his skin, visible even beneath his ragged white t-shirt and boxers. The material was too thin to leave anything to the imagination. His eyes were huge and blue and teary, skittering from Russell to the back room over and over again. But Russell was laser-focused on the thing around the boy's neck. A thick, wrought-iron collar with a chain that fed into the back room, but was long enough that the boy could crawl to the food bowl. To Russell. 

“Git.” 

The boy scrambled back into the dark room, and Stu emerged holding a fresh manila folder.

“Sorry ‘bout that. He’s a nosy fucker. Got him too young.”

Russell tried to slow his breathing, to appear unfazed. Stu had a pet. 

“How old is he?” It felt like an unobtrusive enough question. 

Stu took off his hat and scratched through his hat-hair with long fingernails. 

“Old enough.” 

Russell didn’t know much about pets, but he was sure that it was illegal to own a pet under eighteen. The kid looked like he’d been here for years.

“Right.” Russell cleared his throat and took the folder from Stu, ready to get the hell out of there. “Thanks.” 

Stu spat into the sink. “Not a problem, Mr. Barlowe, sir.”

Russell sat in his idling car, staring blankly through the windshield into the dark surrounding the trailer, the folder untouched in the passenger seat. He should be pulling out of here, getting home, taking a fucking shower. 

Adrenaline made him shake, his hands tight on the wheel, the stench of the trailer still lingering. What the hell was he supposed to do? Charge back in there and snatch the kid? Call the police? Animal control? 

“Fuck. Fuck. Okay.” It took him a few minutes to gather himself, to come to a decision that would alleviate whatever burning pyre of responsibility he suddenly felt for this kid. For a pet. 

He’d do the only thing he really knew how to do when it boiled down to it.

 He’d make a deal with Stu. 

[aprettystrangeblog]

Home

It was small, but it was home.

Nestled far down in the streets of uptown New York, in an unassuming leaf-brown apartment building at the end of the block, Bucky Barnes threw his front door open with a sigh. The door knocker clanged softly in welcome, the simple brass wrought in the shape of a hand whacking itself against the mark it had worn into the yellow paint of the door. The thing was the color of a kindergartner's crayon sun, and it had a couple shallow dents in it from the few times he’d yanked the door open too hard, but it was still a shining beacon of safety. Home.

“Hey, Stars ‘n Stripes,” he mumbled, tossing his keys into a bowl beside the front door. A slightly tubby tabby cat made a soft ‘mrrp’ sound in reply, nestled safe in his favorite bed beneath the key bowl’s shelf.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Bucky smiled, giving the cat an affectionate scratch on the chin with his gloved left hand. Stars ‘n Stripes stretched, his shadows-in-a-forest fur rippling contentedly as Bucky pulled back to rip his glove off and toss it aside.

He was home. No one but the cats here to see the glint of silver metal.

It was nice.

“Spots? Hey, hey—“

Bucky lunged forwards as another cat— a tiny little black and white thing— shot out from under the couch to snatch up Bucky’s glove in her tiny toothy jaws.

“Hey!”

Spots shot back under the couch with a proud glint in her eye, back paws scrabbling against faded hardwood flooring to get back under the sofa.

“Fine, fine, keep it,” Bucky relented, eyes crinkling as peered at the glowing yellow slits in the darkness and wobbled back to his feet. She’d feel accomplished, at least. Everyone needed that sometimes.

Bucky let her be and stretched upwards, inhaling the scent of home. Old carpet and dusty paper and clean linen and fur, and under it all the barest hint of the fresh loaves of bread he’d baked yesterday. Everything smelled calm and soft old and new at the same time, the way a log cabin should, or a museum exhibit that’s been up just a little too long. 

The worn leather jacket was shrugged onto the hook by the sofa, the rugged boots kicked off onto the carpet. The sun-bleached rug belched a cloud of dust and thread into the air as the soles of his shoes landed on it, but Bucky almost welcomed the sneeze it caused him. He nudged a couple of fallen Sudoku books aside with his toe as he wound between cat toys and other stranded objects on the floor in order to get into the kitchen, humming a vaguely 40s jazz tune to himself as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

Steve was right— having a routine like this really did help. It was a huge comfort to slip into the familiar, safe motions of grabbing the twin cat food dishes from the sink and measuring out a quarter cup of Meow Mix into each, then perching himself on the counter rather like a cat himself as Spots and Stars ‘n Stripes pattered their way over to eat.

Comforting.

Bucky watched the evening sunlight pour in from the window above the sink contentedly, idly fiddling with a loose thread in his sweatshirt. Something had changed after getting his own place, after feeling as though he’d finally settled into some sort of strange domestic life.

Not that the compound and everyone there wasn’t a welcoming prospect, of course. But here… Bucky could forget. Not that he ever truly did, or wanted to. But here he could let go and grab onto something new. Different. Here he could sit and watch the stars for hours— the same stars that watched over him in Siberia, the same stars that kept him sane. The same lights that lit the sky the night he found himself again.

Spots meowed on the floor, having mostly polished her bowl of food off already, interrupting Bucky’s train of thought.

“Already? Really?” Bucky picked up the dish, giving the tuxedo cat’s ear a tickle. “I dunno where you put that all away, little lady. Dang.”

Spots purred softly, deciding to thank Bucky for dinner by chewing happily on his metal fingers.

“Geez, you’re a feisty thing,” Bucky chuckled, the sound still timid and quiet after finally being found again after so long. “Let go sweetheart, I should go feed the others.”

Spots gave him a reproachful kitty glare and marched across the floor to try and mooch kibble off of Stars ‘n Stripes, leaving Bucky to gather up the half empty food bag and tiptoe out of the kitchen.

Down the hall, past the bathroom, past his cozy bedroom with the pinstripe blue sheets he and Steve found at Walmart and the framed photos on the walls, down to the back door to the itty bitty outdoor porch. Perks of having to rent the only available first-floor apartment, Bucky supposed.

He cracked the door open, peering outside at the weather-worn wooden deck. A skinny black cat was curled up on the nearest guard rail, one eye lazily blinking open upon hearing the creak of the hinges.

“Oh, Steve 2,” Bucky murmured conversationally, slipping outside lightly. “Didn’t expect to see you out here. Where’s the other strays, mm?”

Steve 2 blinked slowly, huffing a sigh before stretching back out across the railing.

“Good talk, good talk,” Bucky waved, lowering himself to sit cross-legged on the greying wood. “How about we feed you guys, huh?”

Bucky raised his hands to his mouth and made a kissy noise, not particularly caring if the neighbors saw or heard. They were probably used to this by now.

And so were the strays— several of them poked their heads out from under the deck or the surrounding foliage, ears perked up at the call that meant the crazy cat man with the metal arm was here to feed them again.

There was the soft headbutt from behind, and Bucky swiveled himself around to face a battle-scarred grey tomcat, his whiskers twitching amiably.

“Hey, Grandpa Tom—“ Bucky reached forwards, giving the feline a gentle pat before feeling for its front right paw. It was neatly wrapped in bandages, a little dirty by now, but Bucky was proud to see his handiwork from yesterday was still holding strong.

“How’s the paw?” he asked Tom, carefully checking the wrappings to make sure they were alright for now. “I’ll come back out and rebandage you back up later, but let’s feed you guys first.”

Bucky reached his hand into the bag and poured a handful of Meow Mix onto the deck in front of Tom, who twitched his tail silently and sniffed at Bucky’s fingers gratefully before bowing his head towards the food.

A twin chorus of meows started up from the other side of Bucky’s food bag, announcing the arrival of Bella and Stella, the resident sister-like orange kittens who approached with their bottlebrush tails held high.

“Aw, it’s my favorite girls, back again.” Bucky smiled, reaching back into the bag of kibble to distribute food out to the newcomers. “Who else wants dinner?”

A patchy siamese chittered in reply, skittering out from a bush and across the splintery wooden planks to wind around Bucky’s arm.

“Steve 3, nice of you to come by. I heard you broke into the neighbor’s car yesterday morning, did you get cold again?” Bucky poured out an extra helping of food for the scruffy cat, giving it an affectionate scratch on the tiny bald patch behind its ear as it clambered across his metal fingers in excitement.

“I’ve been saving up for a sweater for you, y’know. Steve told me I should take up knitting instead of getting one off Amazon, even showed me the yarn aisle at the store. Can’t believe they actually have those now.” The dark haired man shook his head, the hair in his messy bun coming a bit looser. “What would you think of that, huh? Ex soldier knitting his cold cat a sweater? Guess it might be good for mental health. Solid hobby, y’know. Rainbow yarn might suit ya.”

Steve 3 ‘mrrrrp’ed softly at the ramblings of his human companion, content to hunker down and snack on the food he’d brought.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky chuckled, getting up to spread the last of the food out into small piles on the edge of the deck for the more timid strays— Steve 4 and 5, the elusive Bamboo, and Wizard, the reddish one with a missing tail who only ever showed up once in a while. Bucky still left him his pile of Meow Mix regardless.

Satisfied, Bucky lounged back on the slats of the deck, stretching out on his legs. Feeding the strays out here every night, sitting and feeling the fresh air on his face and the moon begin to rise as the color faded… it was nice. More peaceful than he’d felt in a long time. As dumb as it might have been, Bucky felt valuable here. Worth something more than the sum of his parts— even if it just meant he was the crazy cat dad to a small herd of strays.

“Mmmrow?”

“Hm?” Bucky tore his eyes away from the horizon to look down at his lap, where a tiny, snow white kitten had appeared.

“Oh, hello Happy—“

The kitten ‘mrrrrp’ed pleasantly and clambered onto Bucky’s lap— perhaps not the most elegantly, as it was missing the lower half of one of its front legs, but made itself comfortable regardless.

“You and me both, huh,” Bucky murmured, touching the cat’s leg with the gentlest of forefingers. “We should get matching prosthetics, you and me. Tony could probably put a little cat silhouette on yours, yeah?”

Happy merely yawned, snuggling his tiny nose into the crook of Bucky’s elbow without further comment.

“Okay, yeah, I don’t mind being a pillow for—“

A jazzy version of the national anthem blared from Bucky’s back pocket, cutting off his sentence and startling the tiny cat. Careful not to move Happy from the snuggly position on his lap, he shifted slightly so he could yank his ringing phone out from where it was sandwiched between himself and the deck, hitting the ‘accept call’ button in one smooth motion.

“Steve?”

“Hey Buck—“

Bucky smiled at the nickname, scratching Happy behind the ears as he settled back against the deck railing. “What’s up?”

“Just calling to check up on you. Everything alright over at your place?”

“Yeah, definitely—!” He leaned back, scooching Happy closer to the crook of his elbow so he could cross one of his legs. “Just fed the cats dinner, and now I’m sitting out on the deck just watching the sun go down. You’re right, being outside at this time of night is… really calming.”

Steve’s voice on the other end of the line sounded like sunshine after a storm. “Little things really help, huh?”

“Yeah. They really do.”

“Man. I’m so proud of you, Buck.” Steve shifted on the other end of the phone, his voice crackling like an old record. “Really.”

“Geez, well I, uh—“ Bucky bit his lip, flustered, unsure of how exactly to respond to praise. After all this time it still felt foreign, alien. But Steve’s words made him feel warm all the same.

“Thanks, Steve,” he murmured softly after a moment, a few strands of dark hair falling down onto his face.

“You deserve it.” Bucky could almost hear him smiling on the other side. “Hey, have you eaten tonight though?”

“Uh, no, not yet, I wanted to sit outside for a bit first.”

“How ‘bout I come pick you up for some dinner, then? There’s this great take-out place a couple blocks away from your place. Yelp says it had great reviews, and I— god, I still can’t believe there’s a whole site dedicated to reviewing places, right? It’s makes things so easy!”

Bucky laughed, tossing his head back to get the hair out of his face. “I’d really like that,” he admitted quietly, shifting to hold Happy better in his arm.

“Awesome. Seven thirty sound good?”

“Seven thirty it is.”

“Okay Buck. See you soon.”

“See ya, Stevie.”

Click.

Bucky lowered his phone, setting it down on the deck for a moment. Dinner. Dinner with Steve.

“Ya hear that, Happy?” He tickled the sleepy kitten’s nose, making him blink upwards at him. “Steve’s gonna take me out for dinner.”

Happy made a squeaking noise.

“Right, right, I should probably go put something nicer than this ragged old sweatshirt on—“

Bucky collected Happy in his arms and stood up, trying to juggle his phone and the white kitten in his hands at the same time.

“You wanna come inside for tonight?” Bucky asked Happy, nestling the cat onto his shoulder. “I’ll set up a heating pad for you at the end of my bed, just like Monday. Yeah?”

Happy mrowed out something that sounded enough like a noise of agreement to make Bucky chuckle.

“Alright, let’s go on inside.”

[mariequitecontrarie]

Meet Me in the Courtyard: Part 5

Summary: Belle takes her new friend Leroy’s advice and shows up at Gold’s with dinner—unannounced and uninvited.   The Fic: Belle hosts a monthly movie night in Storybrooke, always leaving the seat next to her empty. Gold loathes movies, yet movie night at the library is the one community event even he can’t seem to resist.  Rating: T A/N: Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling prompt: “Please don’t tell anyone.” I know it’s been forever and you’re probably wondering if I was ever going to update. Thanks to @still-searching47 for looking over this for me!

{On AO3} Previous parts: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |  Chapter 4

Branan Gold was a terrible excuse for a fugitive.

In the past two weeks, he had played duck and weave at the park, pretended to study a display of star fruit in the grocery store, and even crouched behind his display case in the shop, the tips of his ears burning with shame as he waited for a certain auburn-haired beauty to cross the street and pass by on the sidewalk.

Gold had been avoiding Belle French for exactly 13 days, ever since the pornography incident in his back room. The circumstances went far beyond his discomfiture at the X-rated seventies film his son Neal had loaded on the old-fashioned projector. Gold had behaved like an overgrown child, letting Ruby Lucas worm under his skin like an infection with her sardonic humor and cutting remarks. All he’d cared about in the moment was getting his pound of flesh on his own turf, but he’d regretted volleying back Ms. Lucas’s insults every day since.

Mostly he regretted embarrassing Belle, but he didn’t know quite how to apologize.

Besides getting tongue-tied in her presence, he was absolute garbage at playing inconspicuous. His bad knee made quick moves impossible, and his penchant for bespoke Italian wool caused him to stand out in a crowd. The worst part was, he didn’t want to avoid Belle—not really. Each time he’d seen her, he’d been unable to stop himself from staring—drinking in her remarkable beauty had become a habit he couldn’t seem to break. He’d longed to reach out, to say hello, tease her into speaking first. He was half agony and half hope that she would walk up to him and slap his smug face or yell at him at the top of her lungs. Anything to break the tense silence between them. But other than waiting for Belle to make the first move, what other option was available?

Leaning heavily on his cane, Gold poured himself another healthy glass of scotch—his third of the evening—and wondered not for the first time why he was such an unmitigated ass. It’s self-preservation, nothing more.

Another plaintive whine came from the back porch from the half-grown puppy he’d found in the alley between his shop and the Fish and Chips place next door. The dog had shown up about a month ago, fur muddy and smelling of sewage. He’d rolled up his shirtsleeves and given him a bath in the sanitary tub and a bowl of kibble, and the puppy had come around every morning for a week, whimpering at Gold with wet, melting brown eyes. One afternoon he had followed Gold home and set up camp on the porch. Little savage. He could hang around outside of the house all he liked, but if he didn’t leave off the crying and scratching at the door, Gold was going to make good on his repeated threats to call Animal Control.

Ignoring the whimpering pup, he limped over to his favorite leather recliner, settled against the worn leather, then pulled an afghan over his legs. Hell, maybe he’d even sleep downstairs tonight. It seemed like exactly the sort of thing a crabby old bastard would do. His bad knee was tired, loose and wobbly from the effects of the alcohol, warm and languid in his veins.

He flipped on the television and leafed through the channels till he found something mindless. The Cooking Channel was doing a foodumentary on the history of popcorn—his ex-wife’s favorite. Foul, disgusting excuse for a snack. He slumped deeper into chair and forced himself to watch the program, disgust keeping him from drifting back into daydreams of Belle using his shoulder as a pillow while their fingers intertwined inside a box of Junior Mints.

Another insistent whine filtered through the back wall of the house, and when the mewls turned to howls, Gold drained his glass of scotch in one fiery gulp and peered at the blank screen of his cell phone. What a pathetic sack he was.

There was no point in pursuing this thing with Belle, only to be cast aside when she discovered what everyone else already had—he was too boring to bother truly knowing and too damaged inside to be worth the trouble. He was like one of those vases that eager, star-eyed innocents took onto Antiques Roadshow, hoping to strike it big with a valuable piece—the veneer was smooth and polished, but the vessel itself worth the grand total of $20 and change.

Gold glanced at the back windows; it was only September—still warm enough outside for an animal to be safe and comfortable—but maybe he should let the dog in for a couple of hours.

The doorbell rang, its obnoxious peal echoing through the house. Gold scowled; no one ever came to visit, so it was either a sales call or his son. The boy was always forgetting his key; it was a miracle he had survived three years of college in Boston. All he’d managed to accomplish was spending $200,000 in tuition for a pre-law degree and getting expelled a semester before graduation. Neal’s lock-picking skills weren’t appreciated—particularly when executed on university property.

At 22, the boy was taking a year to find himself. Translation: he was situated at the top of the stairs in his old bedroom, spending his days playing video games and his evenings doodling in a notebook and making eyes at Emma Swan. So much wasted potential.

Muttering as he padded into the hallway, Gold threw open the door.

To Belle French.

“I’ve brought Chinese,” she announced, peeking over the top of a huge brown paper bag.

Shoots of steam snaked into the cooling evening air, causing curly tendrils of hair to stick to her forehead. Gold took a half-step backward in surprise. He’d never expected her to show up here. Every lousy excuse he’d made about why continuing their friendship was a terrible idea flew out of his brain like bats swarming out of a cave at dusk.

Yes, he was a terrible fugitive indeed.

“I hope you haven’t had dinner yet.” The question in her muffled voice came from behind the bag.

His stomach gurgled on command, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He’d thought to simply polish off the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and pass out in his recliner, but he decided against sharing such pitiful plans.

Gold sniffed the air in appreciation. “Sizzling garlic shrimp?”

The bag lowered, and her face split in a wide smile, all shell pink lips and gleaming white teeth. “I wouldn’t dare darken your door without it.”

He hefted the bag from her arms with a short laugh. The scotch had done its job, and he was a little tipsy, his head fuzzy. “Come on in,” he said, leading the way through the foyer into the kitchen.

The bag seemed bottomless as Belle pulled out an endless parade of white square cartons, lining them up on the counter like little soldiers. Auburn curls were tousled around her shoulders, and she looked deliciously at home in his kitchen in blue jeans and a fitted white oxford shirt unbuttoned almost to the middle of her chest. A frilly pink tank top accentuated her lovely breasts and creamy skin. He shifted his weight and clenched the handle of his cane.

“You’ve enough to feed an army in here,” he said, dragging his gaze away from her décolletage. A pamphlet fluttered to the floor and he swiped it up, relieved to have something useful to do. “And dry cleaning coupons?”

“Those are for you. Compliments of Leroy over at Snowy White’s.” Another one of her sunny smiles lit up the dreary room.

“I’ve never gotten a coupon from Leroy in ten years of taking my suits there. He must really like you.” Instead of staring at her like a halfwit, he busied himself with fetching napkins and silverware, while Belle dished up plates piled high with garlic shrimp, Singapore noodles, fried rice, and boneless spare ribs.

The steam rolled off the food in white, puffy waves, making his forehead tingle. A few minutes later they were ready to sit down, and his buzz was already wearing off. He leaned against the counter for support; his face felt numb, his tongue two sizes too big for his mouth. How stupid would he look if he dropped his food? His sweaty hands tightened around the edges of his plate as he shuffled toward the kitchen table.

“I’m hot,” he blurted, his leg twitching when Belle chose the chair beside his. “I meant the food is hot. Not me. I’m not hot…” His upper lip prickled with sweat, and he blotted his face with a napkin.

Belle set her fork down. “Gold?”

“Yes?”

She smiled, her azure eyes soft and kind. “Relax, okay? It’s just takeout, not an interrogation.”

“I appreciate that, Belle, but I need to say something.”

“All right.” She folded her hands and bit down on her lower lip.

“I’m really sorry for my behavior at the shop a couple of weeks ago.”  He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “The movie was inexcusable, but so was my treatment of Miss Lucas.”

“It’s all right. I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. Ruby was rude to both of us, and it made me so angry I couldn’t see straight. And then I saw you out at the market and on the street, but I didn’t know what to say. So many times I started to walk over and talk to you, but I couldn’t get the words out.”  She bit her lip again. “Then a friend gave me some advice. He told me if I truly cared about this—us—I had to find a way in, break the tension. So here I am.”

“I’m glad.” The tightness in his chest loosened and he twirled a forkful of lo mein round and round while it cooled. Knowing he wasn’t alone in his nervousness—or his growing feelings—gave him more hope than he’d had in a long time. “And you don’t owe me an apology, Belle. Nothing that happened was your fault.”

“You know—” she placed her warm, soft hand over his—“we spend an awful lot of our time together apologizing and explaining ourselves. Let’s just eat some dinner and chat about normal things.”

He turned his hand over and squeezed her fingers. “I would like that.”

She scooted closer, until their knees touched under the table. “How was your day at the shop? Have you acquired any fascinating new objects?”

“Knock, knock.” Neal entered through the back door, an arm draped around Emma Swan’s shoulders. “Hiya Pop. Is this a moo shu pork party?”

Perfect.

“It was a party for two,” Gold muttered under his breath. He dropped his fork on a sigh, his hopes of a quiet evening  with Belle dashed. For once, things had been going well and selfishly, he didn’t want to share her or open himself up to embarrassment. “As usual, son, your timing is impeccable.”

“Yeah?” Neal chuckled, eyeing the countertop filled with takeout boxes. “I’ve got a talent for sniffing out Chinese.”

Gold snorted. “I think you mean food in general. Belle, this is Bae, er, Neal, and his girlfriend, Emma.”

“I remember.” Belle grinned at his son and Emma, welcoming and gracious as always. “Join us, please! And help yourselves—I brought plenty.”

xoxo

It hadn’t been the Saturday night she’d planned, but it was the most pleasant one Belle had spent in weeks.

Buoyed by Leroy’s pep talk, she had abandoned her cheeseburger and stomped up Gold’s porch steps, her stilettos clicking in time to the nervous thump of her heart. She rang the doorbell and held her breath, clutching the oversized sack of Chinese food to her chest like a lifeline. She’d never shown up at anyone’s house with dinner unannounced. Maybe she should have called first to make sure he was home, or hadn’t eaten, or if he still liked Chinese food, or…

Belle, you think too much. Leroy’s encouragements echoed in her ears.

But she needn’t have worried. Gold’s home was an extension of his shop—comfortable and resembling a museum in its vast collection of things; teeming with gleaming wall-to-wall hardwood, threadbare area rugs, and antiques of all shapes and sizes. Then there was the man himself who, beneath the grouchy exterior, was so much more than met the eye. His insightful questions about the library and his admiring glances made her feel intelligent and special, and she felt herself redden when he insisted on pulling out her chair when she rose from the table.

After a lively dinner, Belle, Gold, Neal, and Emma moved to the den to nibble on Mr. Wong’s trademark fortune cookies and fresh oranges. Belle sank into the leather loveseat and patted the spot beside her. Gold looked surprised, but he moved his arm over the back of the sofa and edged half an inch closer. Belle frowned; she would have to work harder on putting him at ease and showing him his touch was welcome.

“Thank you for dinner, Belle.” His lips almost grazed her ear and Belle shivered in delight. “Everything was delicious.”

“That Chinese was money and I’m stuffed.” Neal dropped onto the couch opposite the loveseat with a groan. “Caps lock on the delicious, Belle.”

“My pleasure. I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”

“Anyway, how is work at the library? I mean, I don’t really do the thing with the…” Neal mimed turning pages. “Ya know, with the books?”

“Reading?” Gold supplied dryly, and they all laughed.

The younger man was goofy, but his wide grin and the laugh lines bracketing his generous mouth were absolutely charming, reminding Belle of his father’s cautious, lopsided smile. Every so often, Gold grinned wide enough to showcase his generous dimples and Belle’s heart fluttered. She wanted to press a kiss to his cheek and nuzzle her face against his whiskers. She wanted to sink her hands into his hair and pull him in for a kiss, right in front of Neal and Emma.

If she was attracted to Gold before tonight, watching the interactions between father and son had her half in love with him. Their gentle squabbling was endearing, the way Gold pretended to be put out with his son, yet pride was an undercurrent in every word he said.

“But I dig on the whole movie thing you’re doing outside,” Neal added, scanning Netflix in search of something for them all to watch.

“Me too,” Emma hollered from the kitchen where she was making hot chocolate. “I like the way you mix new releases in with classics.”

“Papa loves to read, though. He likes orchestra and opera and poetry.” Neal carried a fistful of fried noodles to his mouth. “All that classy shit. Just like you.”

“Your father—and his love of ‘classy shit’—is absolutely charming.” Belle linked her arm through his and sidled closer until she and Gold were seated hip-to-hip, thighs pressed together, his delicious, spicy scent making her nostrils flare and the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Charming, huh?” Another grin split Neal’s face, and he leaned forward, warming to his task of would-be matchmaker. “You know, he’s an animal lover, too.”

Belle squeezed Gold’s knee, delighted when he jumped a bit. He wasn’t as unaffected by her as he pretended to be. “Yes, you have quite a few strays coming to the side door of the shop for scraps, don’t you, Gold? Before you know it, you’ll have a pet of your own.” She cocked her head and sipped her Gewürztraminer, hearing another tiny mewl from outside. “Speaking of animals, I’ve been hearing barking from the direction of the backyard all evening. Do the neighbors have a dog?”

The patter of tiny feet clicked against the floorboards, and a half-grown chocolate brown pug with a square face rounded the back of the sofa and jumped into Gold’s lap.

“Oh!” Belle squealed.

“Your dog was crying outside, Mr. Gold,” Emma called. “So I let him in.”

“This isn’t my dog.” Gold crossed his arms and tried to wriggle away. “He’s just another stray. Take him back outside.”

“Right.” Neal snorted. “You just feed him and let him sleep here. Makes total sense. I suppose that’s not his water bowl out in the pantry, too.” He lifted a stack of mail. “Look, here’s his vet bill—right on top.”

The puppy wormed against Gold’s chest, nudging Belle out of the way with a plaintive moan, then attacked his master’s face with a long pink tongue.

“Oh, he loves you, Gold. Adorable, darling thing!” Belle cooed at the puppy and scratched him behind the ears. An animal lover herself, she spent every Saturday morning at the Storybrooke Animal Shelter. Sometimes she would sit on the tile floor and cuddle the dogs for her entire shift. “What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have a name. He doesn’t live here because he doesn’t belong to me, the little beastie.” To prove his point, Gold scooped the puppy up and deposited him into Belle’s lap.

“Why are you such a hard ass?” Neal shook his head.

“Years of practice.” Gold waved a hand. “But if you don’t like it, feel free to move out of your old bedroom and into your own place.”

“I think he’s hungry,” Belle said, ignoring Gold’s harsh words and gruff demeanor. The grooves in his forehead softened when he looked at that little wrinkled black face, the same way they did when he looked at his son.

“I don’t think we should feed a dog Chinese food,” Emma announced, returning from the kitchen. She tapped the dark frame of her glasses. “Too rich for his stomach.”

Neal nodded. “You’re right, babe. How about a piece of that leftover pizza, instead? Pizza crust is a lot like a bagel.”

“Great idea. I’ll go get it.” Emma went back to the kitchen, her long ponytail swinging behind her, and Belle hid a grin as Neal watched her go. He was head-over-heels with the lovely, no-nonsense blonde, and Belle thought they made an excellent match.

Belle squinted in thought.  She didn’t wish to intrude, but feeding a puppy takeout was never a good idea. “What about puppy chow?” she suggested.

They all looked at Gold, who opened his mouth, then clamped it shut without saying a word.

Neal sent his father another feigned disgusted look. “We don’t have any. He’s not our dog.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Gold muttered. “His food is in the closet at the top of the stairs.” He turned to Belle, his amber eyes wide and beseeching. “Please don’t tell anyone about this.”

“You have my word.” She splayed her hand over her heart, which was now pounding  so hard she thought the entire neighborhood could hear it.

Forget halfway; she was almost certainly three-quarters of the way in love with him.

###