When a door, a portal, an entryway opens, there's no one-way access. Anna and Elsa might be (hopefully) safely back in Arendelle, but Storybrooke remains the same, and after spending twenty-eight years without magic, clearly, it's trying to catch up. A portal opens. Something goes in. Something comes out.
There's a boy in Belle's library, and she's never been so shocked at how literal magic's transactional nature is.
If there was any commotion over his arrival, if there are any more like him, Belle missed it; Rumplestiltskin has crossed the town line, and in these early days of separation, she's kept to herself, trying to find some sense of normalcy. A notion that feels more and more foolish by the second as she stands in the library's tiny kitchenette, tucked in the back behind the office. A pot of tea steeps on the counter while her hands, unsteady, slice an apple and arrange it next to other fruits on a paper plate.
Belle is certain she does not have a son. Belle is also certain that she shouldn't leave the boy who claims to be such (according to the haphazard debrief she received from the Charmings, who ushered him in and left almost as quickly as they appeared) alone for too long, knowing what magic can do to one's senses and general orientation.
There's a sick feeling dripping into her stomach that this is all Rumple's doing — his way of slipping back through the cracks, his loophole, for all he loves those. The paring knife slips through the fruit, softly thudding against the cutting board. She keeps busy.
Belle doesn't necessarily know what motherly instinct feels like. She'd always wanted children, but that concept seemed so far on the horizon. Even now, it's difficult for her to fathom, but she's experienced enough with other worlds, with stories, to question that potential reality. She reminds herself that in some mythologies, time is cyclical: what is to be, already is.
And so it is.
Plate loaded with fruits and crackers, Belle loads it onto a tray along with the teapot and two paper cups, taking a deep breath and treading into the library proper, toward the table where she'd offered him a seat.
"I hope you like tea," she says, expression curling into a nervous smile as she carefully places the tray on the table. She unstacks the paper cups and nudges one toward him. "I'm — sure you're hungry. There's a little bit of everything."
for ben.
There's a boy in Belle's library, and she's never been so shocked at how literal magic's transactional nature is.
If there was any commotion over his arrival, if there are any more like him, Belle missed it; Rumplestiltskin has crossed the town line, and in these early days of separation, she's kept to herself, trying to find some sense of normalcy. A notion that feels more and more foolish by the second as she stands in the library's tiny kitchenette, tucked in the back behind the office. A pot of tea steeps on the counter while her hands, unsteady, slice an apple and arrange it next to other fruits on a paper plate.
Belle is certain she does not have a son. Belle is also certain that she shouldn't leave the boy who claims to be such (according to the haphazard debrief she received from the Charmings, who ushered him in and left almost as quickly as they appeared) alone for too long, knowing what magic can do to one's senses and general orientation.
There's a sick feeling dripping into her stomach that this is all Rumple's doing — his way of slipping back through the cracks, his loophole, for all he loves those. The paring knife slips through the fruit, softly thudding against the cutting board. She keeps busy.
Belle doesn't necessarily know what motherly instinct feels like. She'd always wanted children, but that concept seemed so far on the horizon. Even now, it's difficult for her to fathom, but she's experienced enough with other worlds, with stories, to question that potential reality. She reminds herself that in some mythologies, time is cyclical: what is to be, already is.
And so it is.
Plate loaded with fruits and crackers, Belle loads it onto a tray along with the teapot and two paper cups, taking a deep breath and treading into the library proper, toward the table where she'd offered him a seat.
"I hope you like tea," she says, expression curling into a nervous smile as she carefully places the tray on the table. She unstacks the paper cups and nudges one toward him. "I'm — sure you're hungry. There's a little bit of everything."