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eirian-houpe · 3 years

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Disparate Pathways - Chapter 28

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Chapter 28 - Cat and Mouse

Gold, in spite of the very late night - or perhaps that should be, ‘early morning,’ - woke at his usual time, rose and went briskly, but quietly about his morning toilette. Before heading downstairs, he knocked quietly on the door to the guest room, and when no answer came, carefully opened the door to check on Belle.

She was sleeping heavily, thanks in part to the pharmaceutical assistance that he slipped into her last cup of tea; something for the pain as well as to aid in a good night’s sleep. He surmised, too, that a relief of a kind aided in her slumber. Yes, perhaps she did not feel completely at ease, but she must recognize safety, and with that, let go of consciousness.

He closed the door silently, and after slipping into the guest bathroom, even though he didn’t think he needed such care, placed a tube of arnica gel on the bathroom counter beside the sink, where Belle was certain to find it if when she woke and came through to to perform her own ablutions. He was a man of his word after all.

Then he went downstairs, and down again to reach the basement, where he checked on what further equipment he would need to bring home from the shop. Some few items that might prove useful he supposed, on a ‘just in case’ basis.

As he stood taking inventory, he also noticed the slight nip in the air. The seasons were definitely on the change, and he wanted to make sure that the old, and somewhat draughty Victorian, was warm enough for his guest. The boiler was only just a step or two away, so he shuffled over to nudge it up a notch or two.

The drive into town after breakfast was a short pleasant enough journey, in spite of the many things he had on his mind. He had yet to hear from MacCalmain, which worried him, but there was little he could do except wait, at least until he could get to the shop where he could send a text message. Calling his faithful comrade was, after all, pointless if he expected any kind of explanation.

Pulling in to his regular parking spot at the side of the pawn shop, he was surprised to see the sheriff leaning not-so-casually against the side of the building.

“Five minutes past nine, Gold,” she said as she peeled herself away from the wall, and followed him around to the front door as he pointedly tried to ignore her. “Not like you.”

“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” he answer, letting the sarcasm drip from his lips as he spoke, “but I wasn’t aware that my decision to take a personal day was a crime.” He turned his head so that he could see her, flicking his long hair back from his face before he said, “My shop, my rules.”

“Well now, that depends,” she answered, not at all intimidated, it seemed, by his somewhat aggressive response, “on whether I can prove that you’ve been anywhere near the hospital in the last 24 hours, because then it would be your shop, my rules.”

With the door finally unlocked, Gold pushed it open and began to lift his foot to take a step inside, but Sheriff Swan’s arm shot out faster than he had anticipated it might, and barred his way in.

“Excuse me, Miss Swan,” he said as if nothing of an untoward nature had even occurred, “I believe you’re in my way.”

“Oh, save it, Gold!” she spat, removing her arm, but following him barely a step behind as he moved into the shop. “We both know this is about you threatening Doctor Whale.”

“Threatening Doctor Whale?” he echoed, genuinely confused. “Now, why would I do a thing like that?”

“You tell me,” she answered,” though I expect you’ll tell me you’ve been nowhere near the hospital.”

“No, no,” Gold admitted, and more than happy to do so. “I was at the hospital just yesterday. I was picking up the prescription for my leg, you see.” He tapped the side of his shoe with the end of his cane, then wrinkled his nose as he added, “Terrible ache when the weather’s on the change.”

Miss Swan seemed unimpressed; unswayed by his, quite reasonable, explanation.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “So, you didn’t talk to Whale—”

“No, I did,” he said, tipping his head to one side, “While I was there, I happened to see Victor, and there was a matter I needed to discuss with him. He seemed to have a moment so I—”

“So you threw a gurney at him,” Emma cut in. “Am I right?”

As he left the hospital pharmacy, Gold thought he saw the familiar, staggering gait of Doctor Whale hurrying along the corridor ahead of him. The man had obviously seen Gold as he stood waiting for the dispensary to finish up fulfilling the prescription, and had taken off at that speed that was half way between a brisk walk and a run, but in a circumspect way as he tried to avoid being noticed.

Gold couldn’t decide whether to be amused or insulted, so he did the next best thing, and gave a casual push against a trolley that was against the wall of the corridor, sending it gliding into the path of Whale’s hurried, attempted escape.

He needed to remind the doctor of his previous request, after all; remind him of the obligation that Whale had to him.

Gold gave a small, self deprecating laugh. “Ah, that,” he said.

It was late when Belle woke, and for a time she lay listening to the sounds of the house around her. It might have been nice if she could have woken from such a deep slumber to find that the events of the past several days had all been a terrible nightmare, and that she was safe and just as warm and comfortable at home, in her own bed. All too soon, thoughts and memories came flooding back. Her insides lurched, and she opened her eyes, and slowly sat up.

She had been so exhausted the night before that she hadn’t really taken in her surroundings. She did now, and discovered herself in an opulent room filled with antique furniture, with impeccable furnishings, all of which created a feeling of welcome, of belonging. She couldn’t help but feel… what? Safe in spite of her condition?

At the thought, her eyes took in the reality of the bandages on her hands, and the throbbing ache in them, and in her shoulder and the front of her chest that clamored for attention. Then, as if drawn to them by the awareness of her pain, her gaze strayed to the nightstand, and the opened bottle of pain killers and the glass of water that Mister Gold had left for her. She felt herself flush with answering emotion at the gesture.

After resting for a short while longer to allow at least some effect from the medication, she slowly climbed from the bed and made her was along the hallway to where Gold had shown her the bathroom the night before. There, she found a new toothbrush, toothpaste and a tube of arnica for the bruise that she could just feel spreading over her cheek. She must look quite the sight, she thought.

The growling of her stomach reminded her that it had been some time since she had last eaten. Listening again for the sound of movement from downstairs, and hearing none, she dressed as best she was able, and made her way down to the kitchen, where she found the note that Gold had left to tell her he needed to visit the town but wouldn’t be long. In the meanwhile, he had written in a flowing cursive as neat and tidy as his expensive suit, help yourself to whatever you need. My home is yours. He went on to list the location of a few essentials - the most urgent of which, at least in that moment, was a teapot and some loose-leaf tea.

“I’m waiting,” Emma Swan growled.

“There was a gurney, yes,” Gold admitted. “In my haste to catch up to Doctor Whale, I stumbled into it. Left quite the bruise, as I’m sure you can imagine.” He took in the skeptical look on the sheriff’s face, and so added, “I can show you, if you’d like.”

At this, he took off his jacket, and draped it over the nearby counter before reaching for the buckle of his belt in preparation for dropping his pants. It was a risky move, trying to bluff Miss Swan, but one in which - by his accounting - the potential benefit outweighed the risk.

“Gold!” she barked in alarm. “Seriously. No need.”

Her staccato expression of discomfort dropped like pebbles tossed to the ground before him, and looking down at his now opened belt buckle, he asked, “You’re sure?”

“Quite certain, yes,” she insisted, and he watched relief spread over her face as he carefully refastened the leather at his waist.

“So,” he said as he picked up his jacket and slipped it back on over his arms, shrugging slightly to settle it at his shoulders. “If there’s nothing else that I can help you with, It seems I do have business to attend to, after all.”

“Be my guest,” she spread her hands in invitation, but her voice held an edge that led him to believe that her suspicions were not quite assuaged. A fact she confirmed - at least in his opinion - when she added in the next moment, “May I ask…?”

“Yes?”

“Why was it that you wanted to speak to Whale?”

“A personal matter,” he said in a tone to brook no argument, “and one I’d rather not discuss.”

“Right… well…” He couldn’t decide what it was that Emma Swan had fixed in her mind as the reason for needing the consultation, but it was one that clearly embarrassed her, surprising him all the more, until she added, “If I find you’re up to something…”

She let the end of the sentence hang in the air between them, and he grabbed the thread and tugged. “Up to something? I can assure you, Sheriff, if I were, and it was something you needed to aware of…” his voice became the quiet hiss of an enraged panther. “…you’d be the last to know.” Then he gave her a viper smile. “Good day, Sheriff Swan.”

She was part way through mentally congratulating herself when Belle heard the first sound, a soft thump from below, where she presumed there was a basement. It sounded not unlike something falling; as though someone unfamiliar with the layout of the space had accidentally knocked into something and it had toppled over.

Gathering what courage she could muster, she pulled the wrap she was wearing draped over her shoulders more tightly around her, and opened the back door to step out onto the patio. Once outside, she followed, cautiously, along the concrete walkway around the building to where - framed by the ribbon of grass and the narrow shady drop between the greenery and the lower half of the building - windows revealed the interior of the darkened basement. It was too dim to see inside, but she fancied that somewhere in the deeper shadows than were not illumined by the outside light, some unseen prowler moved. Clandestine and sinister in their intent and—

For goodness sake, Belle, stop! she berated herself and her unsettled imagination that was already filling the unknown spaces of her refuge with fanciful threats. Pushing up from her crouch, she retraced her steps and went back inside. Still, she leaned against the patio doors once she had closed them, her back cushioned against the chill of the glass panes by the sheer curtain gathered in the center of each door. Then when she had caught her breath, faced them again and turned the key to lock them. Ignoring the lance of pain as he hands sang their protest.

Afterwards, she made herself go about the motions of preparing the pot and the cups - in case Gold should return before the tea was made - while turning on the gas beneath the kettle to heat the water.

The ordinariness of the ritual had almost calmed her when the second sound came, this time from above. The scuff of a footstep. The creak of a floorboard disturbed by unfamiliar tread. They had somehow followed her and Jefferson to Storybrooke after all, and now… now they were in the house; had sneaked upstairs when she had gone outside to investigate the basement - a diversion then. She jumped at the sound of another soft thump from above, in the direction she knew her room must be, and a soft sound of distress escaped her lips before she clapped a hand over her mouth, as if to hold in any further sound; to hold in her breath. She stood very still. Her ears strained to pick up any further sound. Whoever was there was more stealthy than she could have imagined a person to be.

In her mind she saw their eyes, their hands, moving over all the evidence of her presence - the extra toothbrush, the hairbrush, the tube of arnica, and in her bedroom the rumpled covers, and the discarded clothes of the day before. Each image twisted a strand of tension into already knotted muscles so that when it came - the thu-thump of two footsteps - she bolted to find a place of imagined safety.

The smug calm that possessed Gold as he walked toward the house evaporated the moment he reached the top step of the front porch and heard the scream of the kettle from within. He examined the door for signs of forced entry even as he unlocked and opened it, and hurried - though with a heightened sense of caution - to turn off the heat beneath the kettle that had almost boiled itself dry by the time he reached it, limping badly as he hefted his cane like a weapon.

In the silence that fell he strained his ears for sounds of invasion, for any sounds that should not have been within the Pink Victorian. Nothing.

“Miss French?” he called out, and then a moment later as he began moving again, this time toward the stairs, “Belle…? Belle!”

One hand had barely touched the banister rail when he heard the soft sound of a muffled sob coming from the left of him, and only then he noticed that the door to the closed off under-stair space - it could hardly be called a cupboard, due to its size - was not quite closed all the way.

“Belle…?” he said, more softly this time as he slowly opened the door and pushed aside the short stack of heavy boxes that had been pulled toward the narrower corner of the already tiny space. “Belle, it’s all right.”

Couching, he spotted the pale taupe of the wrap as the light hit it, and followed it upwards, beyond the shadow of her hair, to the frightened mask of her face. He reached out a slow and hesitant hand toward her.

“It’s all right. You’re safe,” he told her. “I’m home. You’re not alone any more.”

She squeaked, a soft sound of protest, that hovered in the space between them, and he couldn’t imagine what might have happened. Then she reached hesitantly back toward him until the fabric of the gauze bandages met his skin.

“That’s it,” he crooned, “Everything’s all right.”

“There… was…” she began, but got no further before she launched herself out of hiding into the security of his arms, almost toppling the both of them, and whatever else she said was lost as she buried her face into his shoulder. Instinctively he closed his arms around her, murmuring nothing in particular, in soothing tones that took him back to the childhood nightmares he had once chased away with similar susurration.

“There was someone here.” Belle’s voice was steadier as she pulled away, her blue eyes swimming as they met his. “I… I heard them.”

He frowned, and with both hands, smoothed away the hair from the sides of her face before cupping it between them. Then he shook his head looking at her tenderly as he did.

“You’re safe here, Belle,” he told her. “No one would dare to make an assay against you here.”

“But I…” she began, and trailed off.

“No one,” he asserted. He eased her back further, and took her wrists in his hands, turning them over to look down on the slight stain seeping through the gauze. “Sweetheart,” he breathed. “You opened up your hand.”

“But I heard footsteps,” she insisted, though without the same conviction, and allowed him to draw her to her feet and lead her back into the kitchen where he sat her on one of the chairs at the table beside the patio doors.

“Tell me,” he said, as he too sat, gently removed the bandages to tend to her seeping cut.

“Well,” she began, cut off by a slight wince and his apology before she began again. “It was… first it was in the basement,” she said, “and then from upstairs,” as she began to describe what she heard he started to formulate suspicions, and his gaze drifted toward the stairs, where he could just make out the fuzzy gray of a head poking out from between the posts of the stair rails. “And then there was a kind of thu-thu— Oh.”

As though to demonstrate, the gray cat launched itself toward the floor, landing with a soft thu-thump, before she crossed the space between the hallway and where Gold sat in front of Belle, and wound herself first around Gold’s ankles, and then - as if apologetically - around Belle’s.

“Nimrodel,” Gold said, both admonishing the cat and introducing her to his house guest. “I wouldn’t normally allow her inside, but she has proven herself quite the mouser, and with the change in the weather…”

“Nimrodel,” Belle repeated, and slowly reached down toward the cat. The animal hissed softly in warning.

“Careful,” Gold said, and pushed himself up from the seat to move toward the cupboard where he kept the pouches of cat food, and a small dish. “She’s part feral. Less so now, but when I found her in the basement by the furnace last winter, well… let’s just say it’s been a relationship forged in blood, sweat and tears.”

He smiled as Belle let out a soft little chuckle, and when he looked her way, it was to see Nimrodel cautiously sniffing her bandaged hand.

“Here,” he said, setting the dish, now filled with cat food onto the table in front of Belle. “Why don’t you go ahead and give her that, and I’ll finish off the tea that you were making, hmm?

“I feel…”

“Don’t.”

“…foolish.”

“Without need,” he assured her, refilling the kettle and setting it onto the gas burner. “It’s completely understandable to react as you did. You’ve been through a lot. But I promise you, no one from outside will find you here, and no one from Storybrooke would dare to harm you.”

He glanced her way and saw Belle straighten up from setting down the cat food. She moved away from Nimrodel, who began making short work of the food, filling the kitchen with the sound of her purring as she ate, which mixed and mingled with the low singing of the kettle. It was the perfect domestic scene, and it put a fluttering in the pit of his belly as he almost ventured to imagine a time when it might be repeated in a less agitated moment.

He started at the touch that landed between his shoulder blades.

“Rein?”

He turned, and stiffened still more as she molded herself against his form. The thoughts of a moment ago rushed in again to fill his mind, his heart, his resolve to avoid emotional entanglement crumbling still more than when he eased her from beneath the stairs, just as he had coaxed Nimrodel from behind the furnace that first time.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, closing his eyes as he wrapped his arms around her, letting his fingers bury themselves in her hair.

#rumbelle #implied noncon #implied drug use #implied torture #violence #gun violence #angst #hurt/comfort.#Emotional Hurt/Comfort #ust #Eventual romance #eventual smut #first time #Drama #disparate pathways #i will always write jefferson

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