#went looking for something in my destiny tag and came across the original art i did.... reminded me just how much of a meal Y2/Y3 was

[glassedplanets]

Can you do it, Drifter? Can you make the Man with the Golden Gun the villain in the eyes of those who would tempt the Dark?

redraw!

[theonceoverthinker]

"Can You Deny Us the Triumph in Store?" (Rumbelle) (1/?)

Summary: The lifeblood of Belle’s very existence is the opera. Since her mother introduced it to her at five years old, she’s loved it with all her heart. Now, as a grown woman with dreams of writing the Paris Opera House’s next great success and a magnum opus nearing its completion, she’ll need to contend with obstacles almost more dramatic than the work of fiction she pens. Things take a turn when two men take an interest in her work, and suddenly, Belle finds herself on a journey of trust, forgiveness, and perhaps even love. 

AO3           Fanfiction.net

A/N: Hi! This is my first ever Rumbelle fic -- happy to be here with all you lovely folks!

I started this idea from the jumping off point of “Could a Rumbelle ‘Phantom of the Opera’ AU work in a scenario where Rumple was Raoul?” As a longtime Phantom of the Opera fan (All versions), I feel like over the years, I’ve grown to not only like, but really respect and admire the Christine/Raoul pairing and that’s something I wanted to play around with here. And what I came up with ended up feeling pretty true to Rumple and Belle’s characters as well as a fun mix of OUAT, Beauty and the Beast, and of course, The Phantom of the Opera, all alongside a different, more shorthand-based writing style that I’m really excited to try out here. I hope you feel the same way about it too!

Tagging @mrs-stiltskin! If you want to be tagged in future installments as well, please let me know!

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CHAPTER ONE: MELODIE DE PARIS

The year 1890 exists within an age of discoveries, an epoch that sheds light on all manners of beauty. From walks of human life across the world’s surface, possibilities of exactly what people can create with their hands, minds, and hearts are explored in a way they’ve never been before. And of all the lands that this age touches, few places capture the modern ideals of this time better than the city of lights. Paris is experiencing a renaissance of art, music, vibrancy, and knowledge, and the epitome of the city’s progress and lust for life and love is the Paris Opera House. What lays inside the doors of this majestic theatre is a bustling community in itself with all manner of singers, dancers, designers of every kind, stagehands, business people, and others who rush across halls, stages, and balconies as they go about living their lives. 

It is in this palace of music -- where the creative people of Paris come to make magic a reality -- a woman, underestimated in all that she does, but exceptional in what she brings life into spends her days.

Her name is Belle Ébréché.

Belle Ébréché, a woman of twenty-three years, is a dancer at the Paris Opera House. For hours upon hours every day, whether at the behest of an audience or not, she and ten other girls work their feet to the bone as they further strive to perfect their craft. However, her dream is not fulfilled -- not completely in any event. While talented on her feet, definitely enough to earn her keep in the ballet, her ambitions don’t lie with her toes to the floor of a stage. Instead, they reside with a quill that’s as much a part of her body as her lungs to a sheet of parchment...for you see, Belle wishes to write an opera.

Belle’s love of the opera began relatively early, though not through her eventual chosen avenue of expression itself at first. No, the seeds of her love of stories and storytelling were originally planted by her mother, Colette. Night after night starting from her first evening wails, Belle was sent off to the realm of dreams with passages from books that soothed and lulled her to sleep just as well as the very cradle that held her form. And as she grew, Belle’s love of books created an equal love for the imaginations of men and women and their many artistic achievements. Finally, when she was five, as if the heavens themselves arranged it to forever cement that love, Belle was introduced to something that would forever change her life -- The Opera.

While Belle had always loved stories, operas were stories taken to a new level. They were windows to lives she could never dream of that not only painted vivid visions in her mind of stories, characters, and lines, but allowed those visions to exist in a way even her imagination couldn’t accomplish. As Belle took in all the opera had to offer, she was entranced by the sets that took her to foreign lands, the sweeping tales of romance, history, and adventure, and the music that made her heart swell and unlock emotions never before known to her. By the time her first opera, “Béatrice et Bénédict” was through, Belle knew she wanted nothing more in life than to be a part of the experience that opened her world to new possibilities.

However, such happiness, as happiness tends to be, was too good to last. After two years of bi-annual trips to the opera, following the death of the very source of that happiness, they stopped. Collette’s passing left Belle crushed and while grief overtook most of her headspace, her determination to become part of the opera was still as present as ever. Now, it was her deepest wish -- no, more than that. Now, it was her destiny, one Belle knew her mother would want for her.

But Belle found herself quite alone in that mindset. 

As her convictions and desires for a life in the opera grew ever stronger, her father, Maurice’s patience for her passions only weakened. In truth, complications between Maurice and Belle weren’t uncommon even when Colette was still alive, but with a mother and a wife taken from them, a crucial part of their bond went with her.

And part of that waning bond was a disregard for Belle’s passion for the arts, which he deemed as ‘flights of fantasy.’ Maurice was never won over by operas to begin with, but grief turned his indifference into a means to mock his daughter. For years, that misery is how they went about their days, and while Maurice had fully succumbed to feelings of bitterness, Belle fought them off in the name of achieving her life’s purpose.

But even the strongest of resolves could grow weary under the constant duress of those without faith in them. Eventually, after years of enduring such constant belittling, Belle understood that her only hope for peace and a true chance at following her dream was to leave home. So, with only some scant essentials and a few mementos of her mother, Belle took off for where she knew her calling would be: The Paris Opera House. 

The night Belle arrived at the Opera House was cold and damp, the product of a miserable storm. With wet clothes and shoes that plopped against the charcoal-colored rain, she stepped towards the building. It was only than a feeling of unease set in Belle’s heart. Apart from a love of opera, she had no experience in performance -- just a few pages of ideas for operas. 

What would The Paris Opera House of all places want with her?

Had she made a mistake running from home?

Struck by fear, Belle drifted towards a curb by the eastern side of the building, huddling her shoulders close to her for the first time since the rain fell, but for reasons she knew had nothing to do with the trickling water. She sat down on the curb and looked ahead at the dream that was now so close to her, but quite possibly impossible to ask for.

As Belle started shaking in fear, a door opened, glowing Belle and the curb she sat on with a hue of oak. And from out of that door stepped a girl, no older than Belle, holding a bag of what looked to be garbage as she looked towards a disposal bin not far from where Belle sat. The girl wore a rose-colored dress and upon seeing Belle, concern overtook her features. 

She came over to Belle, and offered her hand, introducing herself as Ruby. With a gentleness Belle hadn’t truly felt since she last saw her mother, Ruby asked what she was doing in the rain. Upon hearing Belle’s story, Ruby took Belle’s shoulder into her hand and invited her inside The Opera House, saying that she would take care of her.

And take care of her is exactly what Ruby did. 

Ruby was a young dancer-in-training, and her grandmother Madame Lucas, a dance instructor. And she just happened to know of an opening that needed filling for another new dancer.

It was late at night when Belle met Madame Lucas. While originally grouchy at the prospect of a spontaneous visitor, Madame Lucas quickly came around upon seeing Belle’s fragile and wet form, welcoming her into the room where the ballet dancers slept. The following morning, after Belle had the chance to explain what brought her to the Paris Opera House, Madame Lucas invited her to train alongside Ruby and the other dancers. There, she would live, train, and work under her care. Madame Lucas warned Belle that it would be hard work, but it seemed that even her attempts to appear tough on Belle seemed to only be a facade, she seemed to immediately know that Belle would be up to the challenge. 

And Belle, to this day, makes her living at The Paris Opera House, practicing and performing alongside Ruby and some of Paris’ finest dancers, a population that now includes them. Belle and the others work Madame Lucas’ regimen as if it were second nature. And through years upon years spent perfecting her craft and furthering her studies, she’s grown far more experienced in the ways of The Opera House. She now knows what it’s like to work from dawn to dusk and retire for the evening with barely the ability to speak. She now knows what it’s like to repeat the same moves dozens upon dozens of times and still see Madame Lucas unsatisfied. She now knows what it’s like to wait in anticipation of the latest reviews of the newest operas, understanding that her very way of life could be on the line should things go sour.

But Belle still loves all things having to do with the opera. In fact, she loves it even more than she did when she first heard those opening orchestral notes all those years ago. 

Now though, her dream is more focused. She’s not about to give up her work in the ballet so soon, but Belle knows her destiny is to not dance in operas, but to pen them. 

She’s the only one who thinks so either. Ruby and Madame Lucas know she’s talented, too. Whether intentional or not, Belle’s made it rather easy for them to follow her work. They hear her comment on the stories and compositions of the operas they perform with the intelligence of Paris’ most talented writers. It’s impossible for either of them to not notice Belle stay up well past curfew most every night scribbling and tossing away pages of filled sheets of music and scripts, and ones that are already pretty good at that. The way Belle hums invisible notes only to excuse herself from dinner and rush to write them down in one of her notebooks is predictable to the point of mundanity. 

And she’s only getting better.

Lately, fewer and fewer pieces of paper are being thrown away. Complete lyrics and melodies are being muttered, hummed, and sung under Belle’s breath. Story threads are finally starting to come together and make sense. One night, Madame Lucas sneaks a peek at the notebook Belle’s been frequenting the most lately as an excited Ruby -- who may or may not have told her where it was -- waits just outside for details. 

Yes, Belle’s shaping up to be quite the talented composer -- a stand out creator of her era.

However, nothing’s that simple.

No matter the year nor all the undiscovered wonders of this world that entice those who yearn for them, the brilliant ideas of women are fought every step of the way for their day in the sun, if they’re even listened to at all. Belle’s works, unfortunately, are no exception. She’s regularly brushed off by the managers every time she requests that they so much as look at or listen to one of her songs.

But fuel is only added to the fires of Belle’s difficulties as she’s forced to not only compete for the management’s attention with the operatic composers of the past who haunt her like ghosts with their established renown, but with a modern composer who haunts her present. For all she knows -- nor cares -- he knows not of her existence, but she’s more than familiar of his. His operas have been performed four times in as many years. He oversees each and every one of them, combing over details and punishing anyone he finds to be subpar and vulnerable, like a hawk waiting to snatch up his prey. Those who toil to meet his almost impossible demands consider him a manager in his own right, one to be avoided and feared beyond either of the two actual yielders of the title. But for as utterly charmless as he is to all beneath him, nothing is done to hinder his merciless mission for perfection at any cost. This is because in addition to being the Opera House’s rising star, he’s also its most generous patron.

So despite Belle’s talents with a quill, through no fault of her own, this game of patriarchal superiority and wealth leaves her outmatched to the point of making her naught but an obscurity in the grander scope of the Opera House.

After all, just how can she compete with the likes of Bertrand, the Vicomte de Friper?

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Bertrand de Friper isn’t a people person. 

His personality is often deemed as “testy” at best, his appearance is rather unconventional, and his ancestry leaves a lot to be desired.

It’s a multi-layered problem.

That’s not to say that there exist no advantages to being him. After all, what does a Vicomte have if not money, and all the power, influence, and sometimes freedom that money can grant?

An Opera House isn’t an easy place to spend one’s days when they’re not a people person. However, when one’s chosen to dedicate their life to creating operas, where else could they go?

Composing operas does something for Bertrand that nothing else finds itself able to do -- it gives him something that’s all his own. It gives him something clean of his family’s influence — apart from the money used to finance it — and a chance at a legacy that might not be as tarnished as it would be without it. 

Opera speaks to Bertrand -- its blending of performances, sets, design, and musical numbers allows room for complexity. His works aim for that same complexity, as it’s a complexity he sees in himself, and because of that, he acts as if it’s a mirror of the very person he wishes he could be. And that inspires his every flick of the quill.

He’s more hands on than most other composers. Bertrand knows that to be true. In his own defense though, most other composers are no longer around to see their work come to life. 

So why should he waste his time as nothing more than a silent creator when he can do so much more to make them as majestic as he knows they could be? He’s written and paid for these operas and damnit, he’s going to make sure his vision sees the light of day in the exact way he wants it to! And if that means he’s gonna sit in on every rehearsal and talk the managers’ ears off and nitpick the lighting whenever he finds the slightest flaw, then he’ll do it with all the gusto of a late December’s snowstorm. And he’ll fire anyone who refuses to meet his demands without the backbone to tell him why they can’t be so.

But understandably, it also does no good for Bertrand because that work is the closest thing he’s got to any manner of a real social life, and that cruelty does little to better himself as something even resembling a people person. And his family is of little help in breeding any genetic social charisma, whether through genetics or renown. His parents are rather cutthroat and it’s given them a bit of a reputation that’s followed Bertrand socially. 

Things have never been easy with his family. They’re rich and have a status of nobility, but that status has come from means that were...less than admirable. There are rumors -- some true, some not -- of deals made under the table with much of the city’s criminal underbelly, raises in savings at their bank that line up just too closely with news of a robbery at a bank not two miles down the road, and price gouging at legal firms that the patriarch of the Friper family just happens to own. But money is money. Their titles were granted more out of obligation because of their wealth than any interest in making them part of high society, and it shows to this day. They’re often shunned, but never directly -- kind of in that indirect way that the upper class tend to do. They’ll always be invited to a party, but tables had a way of never having enough space for one of them and invites for other gathering to elude their grasps.

However, Bertrand’s parents liked to show that right back in the most passive aggressive and manipulative ways.

...And maybe he did too.

Okay, he definitely did.

And that’s why, for all his success in business and art, Bertrand de Friper is not a people person.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

The Paris Opera House is often bustling, but never has it been as bustling than the week following the managers’ abruptly announced retirement. 

What kind of long-standing managers only give a week’s notice before retiring?

Well, they’ve never been the greatest communicators -- that’s what Belle’s grasped at least over her tenure here -- and so now, thanks to their rash decision, the entire Opera House drops everything and scrambles to arrange some sort of send off for them. Madame Lucas has them up early every day practicing to put on a dance from one of their favorite operas. The breaks aren’t plentiful and by the end of the day, Belle has to find the strength to eat dinner before she falls asleep. Outside of their space, Belle can hear stringing and tuning of instruments most everywhere she goes and stagehands arguing with each other and gossiping about who's taking over. It’s all quite hectic. 

Everyone’s relieved when the change is finally made and the new managers take up their posts. Those not forced by their positions to socialize with the new management take off for desperately needed breaks and those unfortunate enough to need look like they’re in need of a nap as they push themselves towards their new bosses.

The new managers seem okay. Belle’s not overly optimistic that this management team will be any more receptive to her ideas than the old ones were, but she’ll take a gamble on that in due time. For now, though, it seems like everyone and their mother who holds a higher position than a dancer, a chorus girl, or a stagehand wants to talk to them, so Belle’s content waiting. 

As a matter of fact, Belle’s more than content waiting. In all the business of the past week, she’s had to neglect her opera. But now, there’s time to work on it, and Belle’s not about to waste even a second of her newly recovered free time.

Melodies swim through her mind like guppies in a school. Things have been coming together on one of her final uncompleted pieces so nicely. She almost can’t stand how proud she is of her own work.  

In her excitement, Belle allows a few bars to escape her lips and movements leave her feet as she casually makes her way back to her room.

But all the while as she lightly sings and moves through her trip, Belle, for the briefest of moments, finds herself unaware of the fact that she’s not the only member of her impromptu performance’s audience.

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Bertrand’s not sure what to make of the new managers. They don’t seem too different than the old ones, but appearances are nothing but deceiving -- though if he’s to believe the opinions of most everyone he’s ever known, he’d likely believe that to be a lie.

He tries not to believe it himself.

Not one to give himself an air of brown nosing, Bertrand watches the new managers’ introductions from afar. While in truth, he’d wanted to wait a few days to further acquaint himself with his latest opera’s opening night on the horizon and nagging at him with the force of the sunlight on a hot summer’s day, Betrand knows he doesn’t have the luxury of delaying his introductions. So as soon as the company at large is dismissed for the day, Bertrand moves past stagehands, chorus girls, and ballet dancers alike as he sets out towards his new coworkers. At the very least, he wishes to find a later time when they can talk further, but he imagines that his status as The Opera House’s biggest patron will immediately garner himself the lion’s share of their attention. 

It’s by no means a fun way to spend an afternoon, but Bertrand focuses on how after today, he’ll be able to work to further perfect his opera once more.

And that is what’s going to get him through the day.

As Bertrand passes through the groups of gossiping men and women, something catches his ear -- something that makes him stop dead in his tracks. It’s a lone voice, within yet at the same time somehow distant from the crowd of dancers. Bertrand’s hearing is strong. It has to be for him to do his job as well as he does, but right now, the talent is being used to hone in on strings of notes and lyrics.

The melody he hears from that voice...Bertrand’s utterly captivated by it.

It’s exciting. 

It’s memorable.

But most of all, it’s different from everything he’s ever heard before.

Bertrand knows how rare compliments like that are. While he’s personally been no stranger to them, he’s well aware that so few composers in this age of discoveries have but only longed for words even close to them to be directed their way. 

And Bertrand himself -- by his own admission -- is a man of few compliments to spare on a good day. 

So for him to describe naught but a scant number of bars and lines in such a way, they are bars and lines that are truly something to behold.

He needs to know where the voice that produces such notes is yesterday.

Bertrand follows his ears like a leaf follows an autumn breeze’s path until he’s able to latch onto one woman. Her back is turned, but the fact that it’s her voice making such music is unmistakable by the way her feet move in time with her bursts of singing.

There’s no hesitation in Bertrand -- not an oddity, but also not a regularity by any means -- as he taps on the woman’s shoulder. She practically jumps in her spot, surprised, before turning around to face him.

If Bertrand is to describe his initial impression of the woman who stands before him during those first few seconds before they’ve exchanged a single word, it would be ‘soft.’ She seems surprised, but a residual happiness from her music is as clear as day on her face, creating a soft sense of contentment all around her. Soft dark brown curls cascade just below her soft shoulders deprived of nearly all manner of tension. A dress of a soft pink shade -- one that matches those worn by the other women of the ballet -- covers her form, giving her something of a heavenly air about her. Even as her sky-shaded eyes turn curious and almost dark whilst she takes him in, there’s still an unexplained softness to them.

And just like that, before he’s even talked to this woman, Bertrand de Friper’s absolutely smitten with her.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

If there’s anything that can absolutely ruin Belle’s day, it’s a reminder that Bertrand de Friper exists.

That said, seeing him appear before her, smiling of all things...is strange. 

Belle’s been lucky to have never had direct contact with him thus far in her opera career. Most of his critiques towards the ballet have been made through Madame Lucas. Belle, Ruby, and the rest of the ballet have seen many a heated debate between them over choreography, schedules, and positions. Yes, Madame Lucas may answer to him on some level, but he does not by any means control her and she’s not at all afraid to stand up for herself. Belle admires that.

Bertrand de Friper, however, is someone that she does not admire.

“Can I help you, Monsieur le Vicomte?” she asks, her tone perfectly even as to not show fear, but also to keep any sass on her end at bay. 

Scenarios play in her mind over what brings his attention to her of all people. Was her dancing off during the old manager’s send off performance? Is there an issue with her costume?

There’s an interesting glint in Bertrand’s eyes. He looks almost bewildered by her.

Belle can only hazard a guess at what that could possibly mean.

But if she’s honest, she’s beyond curious to find out.

“That music -- what you were singing and humming to -- what was that from?”

Out of all the questions Belle expects him to ask, that’s just about the last one on this Earth that she can think of.

She’s speechless. There have been times, she’ll admit, where she’s fantasized about what it would be like to be approached about her opera. Usually, they involve the managers, sometimes, it’s a singer, and rarely, it’s a director of another Opera House who then takes her to a far off exotic land where she can spend the rest of the days writing masterpieces with all the creative control she could ever ask for.

Never though have a single one of those fantasies involved Bertrand.

...Well, apart from a bit of gloating at him whilst reveling in her success, that is.

Despite preparing speeches and pitches in her mind right before she’s gone to sleep every night since she was twelve, she’s not sure how to answer now that a similar inquiry’s been thrown at her feet by the very last person she would expect it to come from.

It’s mostly a fear of a response, she reasons. Apart from the family she’s made with the Lucas’, most everyone involved in her life has mocked her dream in some way, shape, or form. She has a hard skin for it these days, but laughter still hurts and with the new managers having just started, it could be detrimental to her hopes of her work ever being heard out. 

But Bertrand has asked her a question and he’s just persnickety enough to bother her to the point of insanity if she lies or tries to dodge it.

Belle takes a sigh and speaks.

“I wrote it,” she says carefully. “It’s part of an opera I’m writing.”

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An opera. 

This woman, a woman whose name he hasn’t even learned, is writing an opera.

It’s as if God above hasn’t already given Bertrand enough of a reason to fall for her.

She truly is a woman after his own heart.

And dammit, she’s succeeding in the endeavor. 

Bertrand feels himself smile. It’s been a while since he’s done that for a reason outside of his own success in quite some time. His face crinkles to reflect his bewilderment.

He’s simply amazed.

She’s written an opera, and by those bits of music he’s been blessed enough to hear, it’s one that may very well have no rival.

“I can’t believe it.” An innocent laughter bubbles under his throat. “Th-” 

The words he’s about to say die on his lips.

Her expression has changed from skeptical to enraged in a single heartbeat.

Crap. 

Bertrand’s never been the most straightforward man when it comes to communicating his approval of others and their works -- a rarity in its own right. 

And unfortunately, the meaning behind his words has been once more betrayed as a result of that.

He rushes to elaborate on his intentions, but he’s not offered the chance.

“Excuse me!” the woman interrupts, a fire in her speech that matches the flames that burn behind her ice-colored eyes as she all but shouts her protest. “How DARE you imply that it’s somehow unbelievable for me to write an opera?” A finger points directly in the direction of Bertrand’s nose, unwavering and menacing. 

Fear isn’t an emotion unfamiliar to Bertrand. He’s afraid of many a thing, but never would he have imagined that a pointed finger of all things would halt a mouth he’s seldom ever bereft of a voice when one has been wanted.

While Bertrand wants nothing more than to stop this rant before it can continue, the words refuse to come out.

And unfortunately for him, the woman’s words are more than happy to compensate for his silence.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been studying opera since I was five years old! I’ve worked here for over ten years, read dozens of operatic pieces ranging from Shakespearean adaptations to “Ghiselle,” talked with most every person in this Opera House at length about their jobs -- probably to the point where I could do any of them upon request -- and personally tested out every bit of my opera too many times to count.”

“Bu-”

Bertrand’s cut off before more than even one more syllable can escape him, only stopping out of fear that his intrusion will only make things worse. 

“I am MORE than qualified to write an opera and I won’t have yet ANOTHER aristocratic man whose likely worked HALF as hard as me for double the accolades telling me that I can’t out of some chauvinistic mindset! So instead of believing those ideals of the past, start believing that I’ll be the one selling out this theatre instead of you soon enough. I promise you, I won’t be the only person happy to see you overthrown.”

The woman then turns away and starts walking in the opposite direction for him.

Bertrand follows her, keeping at somewhat of a distance to prevent bringing her fury to a head once more.

“Please, wait!” he half cries, though only to prevent a scene. “I didn’t mean it that way. I-I’m sorry! Your work’s good -- better than good, great!”

She doesn’t seem to spare him a thought as she retreats back to the ballet’s quarters. Bertrand stops as she goes beyond where he could respectfully follow. 

In an Opera House full of people -- even those that don’t particularly like him -- never has Bertrand felt so alone.

But right before she escapes his vision, Bertrand sees her hesitate. She almost looks like she’s about to turn back, like she’s accepted his apology and corrections as truth, but she seems to decide against it, walking through and closing the door closest to her.

Bertrand’s about to throw respect to the wind and go after her when suddenly, he hears a scream. It’s blood curdling and sounds like it’s coming from the stage.

Though somewhat reluctant due to the woman now running through his thoughts like a wolf in a forest, Bertrand does go to the stage to investigate. A girl who Bertrand can tell by her costume is part of the chorus lays on the floor. Her foot is crushed underneath and mangled by a sandbag that’s at least twenty-five pounds in weight. According to her cries as two stagehands attempt to remove the obtrusive menace, she heard a snap upon the sandbag’s contact with her foot. The cries are given evidence by an unnatural appearance her ankle presents as it once more meets the lights of the stage. Whispers emerge with the ankle, and there’s an all-to present fear amongst those who’ve responded to her wails that she may never walk wholly again.

A rope suddenly falls from atop the rafters, clearly one that once held up the sandbag. Most present on the stage not helping the chorus girl look up to the apparent scene of the crime for some semblance of a clue as to what happened. There’s no one above there, but light specks of dust fall like snow.

While the ‘why’ of the matter remains unsolved, the ‘who’ is as clear as day, for this is not a crime that’s new to The Paris Opera House.

Over the past few months, things like this have had a tendency to occur. Sandbags untouched for years as evidenced by the dust they’ve accumulated have been falling around and now on unsuspecting workers. Costumes have been mangled with scissors practically starving for fabric. Grand set pieces have been made hazards by artificially faulty support beams.

And just as with any dangerous oddity, they find themselves the subject of rumors, and The Paris Opera House has taken all of these incidents and made a demon of their own. 

This latest of crimes is the work of the culprit that those in The Paris Opera House have dubbed as “The Phantom of the Opera.”

[unfolded73]

This Graceful Path (19/19)

Wow, what a bittersweet day, to be posting the last chapter of this fic. Thanks to everyone who read along - your tags and comments were so gratifying!

Summary: Emma has just moved in with Mary Margaret and started working as a deputy in the Storybrooke sheriff’s department when she meets Killian Jones, the town’s introverted harbormaster. When a prominent Storybrooke resident is found murdered, Emma tries to juggle solving the case with new friendships, parenthood, and romance. A Season 1 Cursed!Killian AU.

Rating: Explicit per CSBB guidelines (violence, sex); more of an M on unfolded73’s scale. The sex, when we get there, is not extremely graphic in nature. Same with the violence.

Content Warning: This fic contains two major character deaths, one canon and one not. (You’re already past them.) Sexual content in this chapter!

Total word count: ~ 75,000

Acknowledgements: Thank you to @j-philly-b for betaing this monstrosity. Thank you to @caprelloidea  for all of the read-throughs and cheerleading; not sure I could have written it without your excitement early on. Thank you to @teruel-a-witch for the original prompt on tumblr which sparked this fic. Thank you to @pompeiiablaze for the wonderful art which accompanies Chapters 3, 9, and 16. Thanks to the CSBB mods ( @sambethe in particular, who had to look at my check-ins) for your support and for enduring my neuroses.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 – AO3 Link

Chapter 19

Emma moved the last of the stack of file folders from her desk to the banker’s box, putting the lid on top.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” she said, hefting the box into her arms to carry it to storage. “The Gold murder case, closed due to lack of evidence.”

David snorted. “Lack of evidence?”

“Well, it was either that or write down that he was killed with a magical dagger which turned to dust when a big evil cloud was confined to Pandora’s box. I know this town isn’t on the map, but just in case somehow the state of Maine ever discovers we exist, I’d rather not have that in writing. Or the fact that the killer wasn’t in his right mind due to a magical curse.”

“Fair enough.”

Emma carried the box into a storage room and put on as high a shelf as she could reach, standing on her tip-toes. “Goodbye, Dark One,” she murmured, turning off the lights and closing the door.

“Speaking of the big evil cloud,” David said as she came back, “how is our resident pirate captain?”

Emma grimaced. “Avoiding me, I think.”

“Why?”

“Guilt? Self-loathing? Take your pick.” She plopped down in a chair across from David’s desk. “I thought I’d gotten through to him the other morning, but then he fell asleep, and since then he’s not returning my calls or texts. Ruby said he stopped by for takeout yesterday, though, so I know he’s not dead.”

“Fell asleep?” David asked in with an affected nonchalance. “So you two are back to…”

Emma groaned. “We just slept, not that it’s any of your business.”

He looked suitably chastened.

The door to the station opened. “Hello!” Mary Margaret called. “Lunch is served!” She came in bearing a picnic basket.

“You really didn’t have to do this, Mom.”

Mary Margaret waved her hand. “Nonsense. I’ve got the day off from school, and my two favorite people need to eat.” She started unpacking several plastic containers onto David’s desk as he dutifully moved his paperwork out of the way to accommodate her.

“Can I ask you guys something?” Emma said after they’d eaten a small fraction of the food Mary Margaret had brought, which was enough to feed the proverbial army.

“Of course, sweetie,” Mary Margaret responded.

“After the sleeping curse was broken, when you knew it was true love between you… what did that mean, exactly? Like, did Dad automatically propose, just because some weird exploding rainbow wind thing said you were meant to be?”

David grinned, looking at Mary Margaret with that look he got sometimes. “I mean, it wasn’t long after that I proposed. But I already knew I loved her, so I didn’t need true love’s kiss to tell me that I’d met the love of my life.”

“Yeah, I felt the same way,” Mary Margaret said with a smile, leaning over and kissing her father.

“And you didn’t feel pressured to, I don’t know, live up to destiny? And what about now? Do you think it means you’ll always be compatible? Do you think you’re divorce-proof?”

“Emma, where’s all this coming from?” Mary Margaret asked, and then her expression shifted. “It wasn’t the spell.”

“What?” David asked.

“You didn’t get the darkness out of Killian with a spell. I should have known; Regina isn’t really the type to minimize her own accomplishments. You kissed Killian and it broke the curse. That’s why you’re asking all these questions about true love. Oh, Emma—”

Emma shot up out of her chair, uncomfortable. “Don’t, I can’t… I don’t wanna talk about this.”

“But why not?” Mary Margaret asked. “It’s exciting! True love—”

“With a pirate—”

“Oh, big deal, this isn’t the Enchanted Forest, David. And they might have fallen in love while he was cursed — doubly cursed, actually — but now all the curses are broken and they’re free to be together.” Her beaming smile almost made Emma smile in return.

Fallen in love, Emma thought. She hadn’t imagined those words applied to herself since she was a teenager. She wasn’t even sure she knew what being in love was supposed to feel like.

Her father sighed heavily. “Go find him. Get him to talk to you. I can handle things here for the rest of the day.” He began helping Mary Margaret to pack up the leftovers of their lunch. “But for the record, I’m still not sure I approve of this.”

Emma grabbed her coat. “Thanks, Dad.”

She found Killian in his apartment again, although this time he wasn’t drinking; he was cleaning: mopping the kitchen floor, to be precise. “This place got into quite a state over the last few months,” he explained as he led her into the apartment. He looked much healthier than he had… well, ever, or at least for as long as she’d known him.

“If you say so.” She stood nervously next to him, her hands shoved in her pockets. “I’m sorry to show up uninvited; I was trying to give you the space you needed, but—”

“No, I’m glad you came over.” His cheeks were tinged with pink. “I’ve almost called you half a hundred times over the last few days.”

“Why didn’t you?” she asked.

“Cowardice.” He indicated that she should sit down, and the two of them faced each other across the expanse of his sofa. “The more time that went by, the more I realized how badly I wanted to see you. And the more I wanted to see you, the more I began to convince myself that you had probably decided that the last thing you needed in your life was an old pirate like me.”

“Do you know what I thought of you before the curse was broken?” she asked.

“I shudder to think.”

“I thought you drank too much, for one.”

“True, and I intend to work on that.”

“I thought you were easy to talk to, at least once I got to know you, and that you were a kind person who seemed to genuinely care about my son,” she went on. “And I thought you were really hot.”

He laughed. “Well, that last part’s true. And it’s true that I care for Henry. The rest…”

“Now I know that you’re someone else, that you’re… Captain Hook, which is crazy, but no crazier than my parents being Snow White and Prince Charming. You’ve got an ugly past, but you’re also still the same kind, easy-to-talk-to person who I like spending time with. Aren’t you?”

His expression was filled with longing. “I hope that I am.”

“Then can we start there and move forward? Forget what’s in the past, forget this true love thing because it’s way too much pressure for me, and just… be together and see what happens?” She looked down at her hands, which she rubbed restlessly against her jeans. “I’m not like my parents; I’m not someone who can leap in with both feet. I’ve got too many scars for that. But I can be here. With you. That’s what I can do.”

He moved closer to her on the sofa, ducking his head to catch her glance and draw it upward. “When I remembered who I was, one of the first things I felt was an overwhelming guilt for forgetting Milah. It was losing her, the first real love of my life, that drove me for so long. I always assumed it would drive me forever. I assumed that love wasn’t in the cards for me, not anymore. When I realized that I had allowed myself to develop feelings for you, I wanted to deny it. I wanted to pretend that it was all because of the curse. And the darkness inside me fed that belief. Now I know it did that because it knew that together, we were capable of destroying the darkness forever.

“But I would see you, and even with the darkness whispering in my ear, even with all my denials that I could never love again, I knew deep down that it wasn’t true. That my feelings for you were real. That I did… that I do love you, Emma.

“I still don’t think that I’m worthy of you. I don’t think I deserve you. But I want to redeem myself. I want to try to make up for the bad things I’ve done and be worthy of your regard. Of your love. I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything, even my revenge against Rumpelstiltskin. I don’t care about destiny or true love, I don’t need any of that. I just need you, Emma Swan.”

She launched herself toward him across the remaining gap between them on the sofa, capturing his mouth and hoping that her acceptance of his words was communicated by her kiss. She’d spent so much of her life alone, always betrayed by those who claimed to care for her. But then Henry found her and brought her to Storybrooke, and since then her life had been filled with people who stayed and who didn’t abandon her: her parents, her son, her friends, and this man. So Emma closed her eyes, and in her imagination she jumped, hoping this time for a graceful path to the ground.

Killian pulled her onto his lap and she went willingly, slinging a leg over his and sinking down, their lips meeting over and over, his tongue devastating as it explored her mouth. She felt his arms wrap around her, his hand and hook pressing on her back, and then just as suddenly he let go with his left arm, his body jerking slightly under hers. Emma looked at him, confused, as he rested his hook on the sofa.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I didn’t mean to…” He lifted his hook. “Touch you with this.”

Emma contemplated it, reaching over and grasping the hook and bringing his arm between them. “It’s been a part of you for a long, long time, hasn’t it?”

“Aye, much longer than I had a hand there,” he said softly, his voice raspy. “But if it bothers you—”

“It doesn’t.” She traced the shape of it with a finger. “It’s pretty. It’s kind of sexy, actually.”

Killian raised his eyebrow, a grin blooming over his features. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “There are other prosthetics you may want to look into, this being the modern world and all, some of which might be more functional. I can help you. But if you want to stick with the hook, that’s fine with me.” She pressed her lips to it, making his breath hitch.

He sat forward suddenly, kissing her hard, his hand weaving into her hair while she continued to hold his other arm between them. “So should I leave it on in bed, then?” he asked seductively.

She could have responded in the same teasing tone, but it was important that she make him understand something. “Sometimes, sure; I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t find that hot.” She squirmed a little bit at even the thought of the smooth metal against her skin. “But I wasn’t afraid of what’s underneath before, and I’m still not. Okay?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Okay.”

“Speaking of bed,” Emma said as she kissed him again, “we should go there. Now.”

“Gods, yes,” he muttered, and she wasn’t sure if two people had ever moved (or undressed) so quickly before.

“Next time,” he said as he unbuckled one of the straps that held his brace on. “I don’t want anything separating my skin from yours right now.”

Emma nodded as she unfastened her bra. She really couldn’t have agreed more.

The sheets were crisp and clean, changed as part of his efforts to tidy up his apartment, she imagined. They got into bed, facing each other on their sides, filled with anticipation as they studied each other’s faces. Killian rested his hand on her hip, and Emma reached down and turned his arm over, tracing her fingers up and down his tattoo.

“I’m sorry that you must see another woman’s name on my arm, love.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t care about that.”

He frowned. “You don’t?”

“She was a hugely important part of who you are, or you wouldn’t have mourned her for so long.” Just as she had with the hook, she brought his arm to her mouth and kissed the red heart of the tattoo. “Besides, I’ll always see the dagger here and remember that we defeated the Dark One, together.”

Killian closed the gap between their bodies, pressing against her with chest and legs and hips as he kissed her again. They writhed against each other for several long minutes, his mouth wet and seeking purchase on her neck and shoulder. Emma scraped her nails through his wiry chest hair, delighting in the way it made him groan and rut his hips against her, his erection rubbing against her skin as he sought any kind of friction. It suddenly hit her how long it had been since the one night they had been together, and how desperately she wanted him.

She was so keyed up that when Killian finally touched her between her legs, she thought she might come on the spot. He seemed content to stroke her slowly, spreading her wetness over her sensitive flesh, but she felt like if he didn’t get inside her soon, she might die.

So she told him so.

“I don’t think you’ll die, Swan,” he teased, his fingers maintaining a steady rhythm that had her trembling with how good it felt.

“I will,” she said, her eyes squeezing shut.

He chuckled, and she decided it was time to turn the tables. Pushing on his shoulder, she forced him onto his back. With a smirk of her own, she rose up on her hands and knees, nosing through his chest hair and down the trail of hair in the center of his stomach as she made her way toward his cock. She drew the tip of him into her mouth, swirling around with her tongue and listening with satisfaction to his choked gasps. Opening wide, she lowered herself and took him deep.

“Emma, gods,” he groaned as she set up a rhythm. “Please, love… I can’t…”

She released him with an obscene, wet pop. “What?”

Killian levered himself up, shifting to sit back against the headboard of the bed. He took her hand and to pull her toward him, and Emma detoured to grab a condom from his bedside drawer before straddling his legs. She rolled the condom on before sliding forward, gripping his shoulders and grinding against him. “This what you wanted?” she asked.

He swore under his breath, his control fraying. “Let me… I need…”

She was just as desperate and didn’t waste any more time raising up on her knees and taking him inside on a slow slide. His arms folded around her, his hand clutching at her back as she started to move, a slow roll of her hips that allowed him to slide out the barest inch before burying himself fully in her again. Their kisses were sloppy, his mouth wide open and tongue lapping as they moved in shallow thrusts together. The position wasn’t giving Emma what she needed to come, but she didn’t mind, wanting to prolong the experience and enjoying the way they could hold each other close. His mouth moved down her neck to her collarbone, teeth dragging against skin, as Emma kissed the beads of sweat from his forehead. Their earlier desperation dissolved into something more tender as they explored each other with hands and lips, small movements where they were still joined keeping their arousal on a slow burn in the background.

Finally, he rolled her onto her back, a move with some amount of finesse, but not enough for him to stay inside her. Killian hovered over her, his hand gripping her thigh and pulling it over his hip to spread her open so he could slide into her again, both of them groaning at the sensation. His thrusts were long and deep now, speeding up as the flames between them suddenly flared higher. Every push inside brought his pelvis where she needed it, every drag out eliciting sparks of sensation radiating through her body. She was on the edge again in no time, her fingernails scraping against his skin as she cried out, not holding anything back. Her pleasure peaked and he fucked her through it, everything bright and pulsing and perfect. Opening her eyes in time to see his orgasm hit, she watched the way he gritted his teeth and tightened every muscle, his voice a raspy, pained groan.

Emma lay splayed out on the bed, her chest heaving as Killian got up to throw away the condom. She drifted, floating on a sea of happy contentment until he returned, moving her arm out of the way to make room for himself next to her in the bed.

“Don’t let me fall asleep,” she mumbled. “I’ll be worthless the rest of the day.”

His fingers trailed down between her breasts, palm settling on her belly with a warm, comforting weight. “What would you like to do then, love? I’m at your service.”

She grinned at that. “Maybe go for a walk on the beach?”

He hummed, leaning over to kiss her. “That sounds lovely.”

“Then have sex again?” she said, arching an eyebrow.

With a chuckle, he nodded. “Then I can make us some dinner.”

“And we can watch some TV?”

“Or just go back to bed,” he murmured, his nose brushing against her cheek.

“Yeah, or that.” She was still smiling; couldn’t stop smiling if she tried. “Sounds perfect.”

“Aye, love. Perfect.”

~*~

“Now,” Killian said once the small sailboat was untethered. “Henry and I are going to man the sails; your job will be to steer.”

Emma looked at him with wide eyes. “I don’t know how to steer.”

“You can do it, Mom!” Henry said cheerfully, his eyes bright with excitement, his hair tousled by the wind.

“It’s easy,” Kilian said, tapping his hook on the handle of the rudder. “This is the rudder. Sit right there,” he said, and directed her to grab the handle. “Hold it straight like that, unless I tell you to turn to port or starboard.”

“And that is?”

“Port is left, starboard is right,” Henry told her, clearly proud to show off his knowledge.

“Why don’t you just say left and right, then?” she grumbled.

There was enough breeze to get a good wind under his sails, and Killian was able to take them out far enough into the bay that Storybrooke felt distant; unimportant, even. The wind was cool enough to bring spots of color to Emma’s cheeks, but not so cold that any of them were uncomfortable. The sun was high in the sky, making the water sparkle like jewels.

Every day, Killian thought of Rumpelstiltskin. As much as Emma seemed to have accepted that Rumpelstiltskin’s death was the price they had to pay to defeat the darkness, Killian knew that what had been in his heart that day wasn’t any kind of noble cause — it was revenge. Maybe he would have killed the man if he’d been in his right mind and maybe he wouldn’t have, and the fact that he didn’t know the answer haunted him. What he did know was that he still had a long way to go before he’d truly redeemed himself for what he’d done. For now, though, he allowed himself to feel a small measure of peace and freedom. The burden of his quest for redemption would still be there when they returned to shore.

Once they were far enough out, he dropped the sails and secured them, guiding Henry and letting him do some of the work under close supervision. With the boat now bobbing in the water, he went over to sit next to Emma. “You can relax, love,” he said, prying her fingers off the rudder and interlacing them with his own.

Emma smiled, her shoulders lowering. “Sorry; I don’t have any experience with boats.” She looked around, turning her face up to the sun and closing her eyes. “It’s nice out here, though. Peaceful.”

“Exactly my thoughts. I figured you would probably enjoy some peace and quiet after the last few days.”

She hummed, leaning over and resting her head on his shoulder. “Yeah.” Emma had finally found an apartment, not too far from his own, and she and Henry had been quite busy in the evening unpacking boxes and shopping for essentials that she hadn’t needed while living with her parents. Between that and her duties as Sheriff and her magic lessons with Regina, she���d been busy, to say the least. And he had to admit, as much as he genuinely loved spending time with Emma’s son, he was also looking forward to his upcoming week with Regina, when he and Emma could properly christen her new bed.

Henry dashed from one side of the sailboat to the other, pointing out a dolphin fin in the distance or a pelican gliding overhead while he and Emma sat, holding hands and soaking in the calm as small waves lapping against the side of the craft. Killian focused on the way Emma’s fingers felt in between his own, his thumb absently stroking the soft skin on the top of her hand.

With a deep sigh, Emma picked her head up, turning to look at him. “Thank you for this. Really.”

Killian leaned over, kissing her softly on the lips. “It’s my pleasure, love.”

“Eww, you promised you wouldn’t do that,” Henry called.

“I’m a pirate, lad; I’m a scurvy dog with no honor,” Killian responded as Emma laughed.

“Come on, you scurvy dogs,” she said, placing a smacking kiss on Killian’s cheek. “We should probably get back so we can have some dinner.”

“Can I steer on the way back?” Henry asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Of course you can.” He raised the mainsail, instructing Emma how to tie it off, his hook trailing up and down the thin material of her shirt as he did so. She shivered, giving him a look that said she would get him back for his teasing later. He grinned wickedly back at her as if to say, I’m looking forward to it.

He turned the sail to catch the wind and the boat picked up speed, skimming across the water, carrying them toward the shore. Toward home.

END