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thestraggletag · 5 days ago

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As Certain Dark Things are to be Loved, Part 1

Summary: Rowan Gold knew there were three certain things in life: death, taxes and his innate inability to be loved. Which is why he hardly believed it when he found himself, pushing fifty and a pariah in the town he lived in, sparking with the local town librarian, after an accidental public touch that left them both reeling. Belle French was everything he wasn't: beautiful, kind and loved. And now a stone around his neck he can't wait to rid himself of. Love made you sick, after all. Made you weak.

Soulmate AU

Rating: M

He sat somewhere closer to the back, in case things got boring enough to merit an early exit. Town meetings were a chore, but a necessary one, in particular for someone who owned most of the real estate property inside the town borders. There was nothing pressing in the calendar, nothing that had caught his eye, but he still felt the need to put on an appearance, lest people think he had gone lax.

As people settled around him he surveyed the scene, locating and studying the key players. He was up on local gossip enough to pick up on how the Nolans were not sitting together. According to what he had heard deputy Nolan had matched with mousy little Mary Margaret Blanchard when she chaperoned her classroom around the local shelter, where good old David volunteered during his spare time. All it had taken was a brush of their forearms as they helped the kids wash their hands after feeding the goats for their marks to appear. And now a once-solid marriage was in shambles as a result. He spotted the good deputy with his new mate, both huddled in a corner, trying obviously not to attract attention while Abigail sat on the opposite side of the room, looking proud and indifferent next to her father, though he could spot a tightness around her eyes, a flatness to her expression that spoke of a carefully-controlled facade.

There was nothing for it, though. Everyone knew that an outside mark was a deathblow to even the strongest of marriages. His own hadn’t survived even the possibility of it. One day Milly was fawning over sappy soulmark stories that she read online and the next she was gone, leaving a note about how she couldn’t “settle” for a life with him anymore.

He then spotted Regina, looking somewhat less kept together than she had been when they had first met. Back then she had been an ambitious young thing, who he had seen advance from council member to mayor, always thick in the midst of politicking. Now she split her time between her mayor duties and being a stepparent to little Ronald, the son of her mate. At least no marriage had been broken with that sparking, Robin having been widowed for over a year before he had matched with Regina.

And yet, this did not mean the sparking hadn’t come at a cost. Regina, he had soon surmised, had lost her edge. The ambition that had served her so well before was now dampened by biological impulses, by that irrational imperative people called true love. Hogwash, really. An absurdity he had believed in, once upon a time, when he was a wee lad, small and poor and unloved, left behind by both his parents, driven away from the only comfortable home he had known by a system that saw him as nothing more than a case number. Back then he had yearned to spark, had wished for the fantasy of a mate that would love him for who he was. Someone who would never leave him.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The place was getting packed, fewer seats left open. Two people motioned as if to occupy the spare seats next to him and so he casually flexed the hand on top of his cane, his moonstone ring glinting and drawing attention to the fact that his hands were bare. An extreme faux pas in polite society, where unbreakable bonds were forged with the merest brush of skin against skin, and where skin touch in general, even for people who were matched, was reserved for family members and close bonds. But he enjoyed the way people would scramble out of his way or squirm and avoid shaking his hand in the off chance they might get shackled to one such as him for life.

He knew no such thing would happen. It was something he had struggled to learn growing up, but the lesson had since sunk deep and was now a comfort of sorts. He was unlovable and incapable of love. There was no mystical other half waiting for him to mark them, no fated meeting of the souls waiting just around the corner. And realising that had been liberating, in the long term. Had allowed him to become the man he was today. Powerful. Rich. Influential. Storybrooke was his little fiefdom, and he liked exerting his power in the shadows, pulling strings so things went just as he wanted them to.

He leaned back against his seat once the unwelcome interlopers scurried away, making sure he had a good grasp of the room. Next to Midas he saw King, surly and taciturn as always, and then Dr Hopper, close to the stage- he moderated town meetings to keep the set schedule, which was the one time the pawnbroker heard the psychiatrist talk without stuttering- and next to him, shuffling some cue-cards, the new librarian. Well, not new. She had arrived in Storybrooke over two years ago, but in a town where nothing happened a newcomer tended to stay that way for long.

She was an odd one too, which he imagined didn’t help her assimilate. And he didn’t mean the accent. People talked about how she read too much, often while walking around or even doing her shopping, and how she tended to befriend people in the fringes or deemed undesirable, like the sassy waitress, Ruby, too scantily-clad and unapologetic about living her single, unmarked life to the fullest, or the miner, too brash and rough for polite company. Rumour had it the librarian liked going out drinking with them, and held her own. So wrapped-up in her library that she missed town events and didn’t even seem interested in dating, even though she was unmarked and, therefore, it wasn’t a social taboo for her to do so. Quite the contrary. The expectation for the unmarked, especially when they were young and beautiful as Miss French was, was for them to seek out potential mates, to chase the dream of the ultimate life bond. Nevermind that sparkings were rare, and that it was normal for people past their thirties to get married and move on from chasing a pipe dream.

Apparently the local stud, a brainless small-town hero called Gaston Legume, had contrived to touch her skin days after meeting her, in a manner both forceful and very public. That, for anyone else, would��ve meant sexual assault charges, but when the good sheriff had interviewed all witnesses they all seemed to recall the event differently, and believe firmly it had all been quite accidental. Miss French had, wisely, declined to press charges, though she seemed rather relieved no sparking had taken place. Not that such proof had deterred Gaston. No, the idiot seemed under the impression that the touch just “hadn’t been long enough” and had, apparently, attempted another accidental brush on at least four separate occasions.

He didn’t know much about the librarian, but he was glad she had been spared a lifetime with Legume. She was always kind to him when he withdrew books or passed her on the street, as if she wasn’t aware of his beastly reputation. Smart of her, of course, to play nice with a member of the town council. Trying to get on his good side would serve her well as a person in charge of one of the few public buildings in town.

The meeting started soon after and, like he had already guessed, the first item on the agenda was a request from the library for the allocation of funds to start a computer literacy program. The notion would later be formally put forth for the town council to decide on, but he guessed Miss French was hoping to garner some popular support to put pressure on the council to vote in her favour. One glance around the room told him that she wasn’t having much success. The mayor looked bored to death of the whole thing, Midas was talking with his daughter and he was pretty sure King was trying to surreptitiously watch a basketball match on his phone. No one else seemed very supportive, with the exception of the ever-loyal Ruby, who was nodding furiously at every point the librarian made, and, strangely, Leroy, the drunk fisherman, who he could not imagine ever being even in the same room as a computer.

After Miss French finished and people broke into truly tepid applause, the meeting moved on, with Dr Whale taking the podium to talk about an annual blood drive he wanted to set-up. He was half-listening, his mind already on the organisation for that month’s rent day, trying to remember which tenants were behind and by how much, to see who would have to be threatened with eviction notices, when he felt rather than saw someone sit down next to him. It was the damn librarian, maintaining a respectful distance between them but clearly unbothered by his presence. It would have bothered him, but the other available seat he could spot was next to Mr Legume, so he figured he could allow the girl a certain amount of leeway, given the circumstances.

Sadly for her it seemed her ploy to escape him was in vain, with Gaston casually strolling to where they were and unceremoniously shoving Mr Clark out of his seat so he could occupy it instead, with Whale shouting into the microphone in order to try and get people’s attention back on his pet project. He saw the librarian tense, her entire body language screaming her discomfort, yet only Ruby, too far away to be of any real assistance, seemed to notice or care, her face indignant as Gaston removed her gloves and tried none-too-gently to grab at one of Miss French’s forearms under the pretence of pointing something out. The librarian, likely wishing she had put on something other than a three-quarter sleeve cardigan, was attempting to either pull her gloves as high as they went or shove her sleeves down as much as possible, though neither was helping much.

The meeting droned on and on, one insipid proposal or trivial town nonsense after the other, with people breaking into their own private conversation, contributing to a low murmur that he strained to listen to, just in case he caught something useful, something he could tuck away in his mind to use later. That’s why he wasn’t paying much attention to what was happening right next to him, aware only of some peripheral movement. He wasn’t quite aware of how it happened. Only that Miss French stood up, apparently determined to politely ask him to go past him and out, banking on Gaston being too afraid of the pawnbroker to follow her. But before she could the lummox lounged at her, forcing her to scramble out of his way in a hurry. He reached out, an automatic reflex, to grab her before she stumbled into him. He was barely aware he had done it before a searing pain flared in his hand and shot up his arm, as if lightning was travelling through his blood.

None of the stories he had read as a child came even close to the reality of it. The sheer shock, the way the moment seemed to stretch on forever, like time stopped. His senses stilled until he was only aware of where his hand still held onto her forearm, of her harsh breathing close to him, of how she smelled. Then, a moment later, he was dumped back into reality, like someone had splashed ice water over him. He recoiled back, letting go of the librarian’s arm as if it was on fire, uncaring about the way she slumped to the floor without his support. Around them both a crowd was forming, people’s whispers growing loud as word spread around that the librarian had sparked with the town monster. He stared at his hand, seeing the beginnings of a mark, like the electricity that had passed through him had left a burn on his skin. It was painful, raw and red and strangely ugly, not like the ones he had seen in drawings as a child. He hated it instantly.

Like a wounded animal trying to suss out danger he glanced around, seeing all eyes on him. Him and Miss French, who was lying on the floor, looking at her forearm, too shocked to move, it seemed. He should care, shouldn’t he? He should want to help her up, shouldn’t he? But all he wanted to do was run. He felt too exposed, too raw. Like he was cut open and everyone was gaping at his insides. He wanted to run. And so he did, using his cane to prop himself up even though his legs felt like they wouldn’t be able to support him, barking at people to get out of his way, pleased when others scrambled to clear a path for him, his reputation wrapping itself around him like a shield.

Even though the brisk walk home was hell on his ankle he was glad he had not driven to the meeting, since he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to keep his hands from shaking enough to drive. The moment he was in the safety of his Queen Anne he shed his overcoat and poured himself a drink, having to use his left hand since his right one felt pretty much useless at the moment. It took three glasses of whiskey for the initial tremors to subside and two more for him to gain enough courage to shed his suit jacket and roll up his right sleeve, exposing the totality of the soulmark. It was similar to an electric burn on wood, and though it was still red and swollen if he turned his arm a certain way it seemed to glint gold. It wasn’t the pretty swirls he had once envisioned, to shark and jagged in places, more an injury than a work of art. And long, reaching up his forearm and almost to his shoulder.

He wondered, rather ironically, whether he had any gloves he could use, to cover the only part of the mark anyone would be able to see. He would order some in the morning, he told himself. Or maybe, hopefully, he’d wake up and find out he had dreamed up the whole bloody mess. He poured himself another glass, wondering how many would erase the memory of the librarian, left behind to fend for herself, from his mind.

He woke up in the morning with a splitting headache, which he told himself was because of the whiskey. He felt tempted, for a second, to go downstairs to fetch the rest of the bottle and give himself a day off to lick his wounds in peace, but in the end he forced himself to power through, taking a couple of aspirin along with his coffee and resolutely ignoring, as much as he could, the feeling beneath the pain, something on the back of his mind, like a flicker. Something that he knew didn’t belong to him.

Following routine allowed him to clear his thoughts, and as a blessed side-effect it meant he could avoid interaction with most people. He drove his Caddy to the shop, studiously avoiding even a glance at the library across the street, where he balanced his books and restored antiques, pausing only to eat lunch that he had Dove fetch for him from Granny’s, the one deviation from the norm. The tall giant, thankfully, didn’t question the change or mention anything about recent development, even as he grew more ornery and short-tempered as the days dragged on and his headache grew, along with the pain radiating from his right hand, which he dutifully bandaged every morning, to keep it from prying eyes in the off chance someone thought to wander into his shop.

Someone did, at last. Sheriff Swan burst into his shop early one morning, looking fresh as a daisy, something he could not help but envy. Even though he showered, shaved and dressed that morning, like every morning, taking care with every aspect of his morning self-care routine, he knew he looked as awful as he felt. Dark circles under his eyes, wan complexion, sharp features looking sharper from his rather recent loss of appetite. Everything tasted like ashes to him now.

“You know what I’m here for, Gold.”

“And good morning to you too, sheriff.”

He knew, of course, what the blonde woman was talking about, even though he had been trying hard not to think about it. Mates needed to register, just like people who got married did, the principle was the same. Such a union needed to come along with a change of legal status, to avoid a clusterfuck of issues if a mated person died without declaring their bond to their partner. But registering contradicted his very solid plan of ignoring the situation until it went away, so he had decided there wasn’t any need for it. Nothing had changed, after all, with the exception of the unsightly mark on his right arm and the faint buzzing on the back of his head, beneath the ever-present headache he was now beginning to get used to.

“Cut the bullshit, Gold. I have better things to do with my day than to harass you into signing paperwork you know you’re supposed to in the first place. I’m not a clerk, I’m not your errand boy, I have real responsibilities waiting for me out there, so let’s make this quick.”

She pulled up a few forms tucked into a manila folder, along with a cheap-looking pen that advertised the Marine Garage.

“I’ll be happy to pay the fine and let you get on with your day, sheriff.”

“Oh, no, because that just kicks the problem further down the line. And I’m not coming here for this again.” She opened the folder, gesturing to the places where he was supposed to write his name and sign. “Look, Belle filled up her side days ago, with no fuss. Dr Hopper is right outside, ready to notarise everything so there is no further delay. You can get this over and done right here, right now, or we can drag this off for days, or weeks, wasting your money and both our time. Which is not happening. Sign the damn forms.”

He thought seriously about refusing, both to piss off the good sheriff and to have another opportunity to reject what was happening. He didn’t want the damn bond, and he certainly didn’t want anything else that went with it.

But, in the end, she made a damn good point. All that would do was compound the problem, make it bigger and bigger till he was forced to deal with it. And, if it ever got out that he had fought, and lost, that petty little tug-o-war, it would hurt his reputation. Better to get it over with quickly, and forget about it. With that in mind he took the papers, noticing how his hands trembled. He was getting more and more unsteady each day, and had to force himself to hold the pen- his Montblanc, there was no way he was going to sign anything with that piece of plastic the sheriff had provided- between his fingers without it shaking. As he did he saw the irritation in Sheriff Swan’s face melt into a look of pity and hated her for it, shoving the folder back in her hands the moment he was done with it. She, in turn, took a couple of pamphlets from her back pocket and laid them over the counter, looking solemn.

“Look, I know you’re going to do whatever the fuck you want, but I strongly recommend you read up on bonds and go to your doctor so they can explain to you all the potential side-effects and must-dos of your new condition. A lot of popular knowledge is utter bullshit but some of it is very true, including that people who bond late in life have more trouble adjusting than younger people.” She gave him a pointed look. “I mean, Belle looks better than you, that’s for certain.”

“You’ve seen her?”

He never meant to ask, the words tumbling out of his mouth without his permission, and hated himself for it. He didn’t care, so why did he ask?

“She’s doing okay, all things considered. The bit of mark you can see around her neck seems to be losing some of its angry red colour.” She paused and sighed, as if she was reluctant to say whatever else she was thinking about. In the end, her stubbornness won out. “She’s a nice person, Gold, better than you deserve. I’m guessing she’s trying to give you space, given how evident it was to her, and to everyone else there that night, how not okay you were with the whole thing in the first place. But by ignoring her, and it, you’re hurting her and you both. So please get your head out of your ass and deal with this like a responsible adult and not a petulant child.”

With that last little insult the sheriff departed, and he told himself the entire dreadful interaction was his own fault. He should’ve registered voluntarily. It would have taken him five minutes at Dr Hopper’s office, and given how timid the psychiatrist was, and how afraid of him too, he wouldn’t have had to deal with any attitude.

And, if he had, he wouldn’t have had to expose his weakness to Sheriff Swan. He could have suffered in peace, without anyone being the wiser about his condition. He reached out, taking the copy of the signed forms the sheriff had left with him, and studied it, his eyes unwillingly drawn to the spaces where the librarian had filled out her information. She had lovely penmanship, looping and elegant without being too overdone. A posh cursive if he ever saw one, the kind that spoke of an expensive education. Another stark difference between them, giving further ammunition to the idea that they weren’t compatible.

His eyes, unwillingly, scanned her date of birth, the math easy to do in his head. He was surprised to realise she was almost in her mid-thirties. He had thought her to be younger. It made him a bit relieved, made him feel less like an old creep, even though he had no real interest in her, not in any way that mattered.

He shoved the papers in his safe, with the idea that out of sight, out of mind, and went back to his work, the pounding in his head a constant reminder of what he was trying to push away.

He made it all the way to noon the next day before he caught himself wavering in his resolution to ignore what was happening altogether. He felt truly awful, muscle pains now accompanying the splitting pain in his skull, with a healthy dose of nausea that meant he had barely been able to keep food down since yesterday. It reminded him of the time he had tried to quit smoking, the same jittery sort of anxiety barely masked by the way his entire body had ached, demanding nicotine. He gritted his teeth, considering briefly going to the doctor before dismissing the idea altogether. There was nothing that Whale could do for him that would justify showing weakness in front of that quack. He had read the damn pamphlets the sheriff had shoved into his hands the other day, and had done more independent research, and it seemed that there was nothing out of the ordinary happening to him. He was experiencing all the textbook symptoms of what academically known as “early bond separation” but was known colloquially as “yearning pains” and the only cure for it was currently shelving books at the library. There was no way he would ever drag himself there to beg for touch like a fool. It would have to be enough the way his symptoms lessened, compared to what they were when he was at home.

Nevertheless, he had to admit a part of him, a big one, was staggeringly relieved when the door opened and Belle French stepped into his shop. It was cold out so she was wearing a coat, which meant he could not see the mark, even though his eyes sought it out automatically. He found himself annoyed by it, especially when he knew others had been able to see it. Miss Swan had commented on it specifically.

He took the rest of her in as he waited for her to speak, keeping his hands busy polishing an antique jewellery box when he found himself itching to reach out to her. She looked put together at first, certainly more so than he felt at the moment, fresh-faced and well-groomed. But a second look allowed him to see the tell-tale signs of a carefully-constructed mask, the well-concealed bags under her eyes, the slight powdery look around her cheeks and forehead that told him she had applied a rather generous amount of full-coverage foundation. Her movements were also the slightest bit stiff, telling him she was experiencing muscle pains as well.

Good , he thought rather uncharitably, and concentrated on trying to keep his voice from wavering as he greeted her.

“Miss French, what can I do for you?”

“I’ve tried to give you your space, Mr Gold, I hope that you’ve appreciated that, at least. I understand that what- what happened was completely unexpected and very unwelcome, but there’s no turning back the clock now. There’s no ignoring it. It is what it is and there’s no need for it to be uncomfortable, or for either one of us to suffer.”

She paused, clearly hoping he would, at least, acknowledge what was happening to them. He declined, sheer stubbornness keeping his hands from shaking and his face from showing just how much pain he was in. He was not going to lose, not to her. But he did want her to get to whatever point she was trying to make, especially if it would mean he’d feel better. He just needed her to be the one to suggest it, to cave in first.

“Just what are you suggesting, Miss French?”

She held up a book she had apparently brought with her.

“All we need is closeness. Routine, sporadic closeness. So I’ll just sit quietly and read next to you while you do whatever work you want. I’ve read extensively about it and it seems like close contact for around an hour would be enough to last us a week. We can arrange to do this weekly, at least until the bond settles.”

His pulse spiked when she mentioned the bond, and he hated himself and her for it. It was strange to suddenly have impulses and instinctual responses he had never had before and, therefore, had not had time to control and master. He reluctantly went to the back of the shop to pick up a stool similar to the one he used out front, so she could sit down, and didn’t make a comment when she placed it closer to his than he had. Then she took off her coat, leaving her in a sweater over a pleated skirt, tights and boots. The wide neck, baring part of a shoulder, allowed him to finally have a glimpse of her mark and, even though he tried to direct his eyes elsewhere, he couldn’t help staring. It looked pretty much like what he saw in the bathroom mirror after he showered every day and yet, for some reason, he found it infinitely more compelling.

“I’ve heard that it’s better if the marks are exposed while close, even if we don’t touch. I hope you don’t mind.”

He should have minded. He should’ve found the whole thing completely awkward, especially once she sat down and he pulled up his account books to work on them. He didn’t tend to like people in his space, and no one like him invading theirs, but it felt fucking natural to sit quietly beside the librarian, both of them engrossed in their own work while the bond hummed quietly between them, content, it seemed, with their proximity. His headache began to abate, his muscles relaxing for what felt like the first time ever. He breathed deeply, enjoying how his lungs didn’t tighten, how his chest didn’t spasm.

Such newfound health would’ve been worth awkwardly sitting close to a virtual stranger, but it wasn’t awkward at all. Though he had seldom found himself at ease in the company of strangers this felt different. It felt comfortable, even effortless. It was easy to concentrate with her nearby, easier even than alone, at least of late. It even was, dare he say it, nice.

It should have been excruciating, and he resented that it wasn’t. Why the fuck wasn’t it? To have the kind of intimacy it took years and hard work to build just happen because of a biological chemical reaction was disturbing, and he couldn’t imagine why people raved about it. He didn’t like it at all, especially the notion that he didn’t have his guard up the way he should. Mistrust had served him well throughout his life and he felt bare without it.

He hated everything all the more after she was gone and he found himself not enjoying his solitude as much as he should. Not as much as when she was there, quietly beside him, comfortably existing beside him, knowing instinctively that he would not appreciate a conversation being forced between them.

But as much as he disliked the whole ordeal, he felt infinitely better after she left. Even going back to his home, which stretched the bond tight, did not take away the looseness of his limbs or bring back the awful pounding headache, or the nausea. And though a part of him wanted to tell her to get out of his shop when she popped by again a few days later, he didn’t.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #thestraggletag fanfiction #Without knowing how or when or from where

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