Disclaimer: I don't own anything

Prompt: From thatsillyginger "Time is what you make of it, take a chance."

A/N: Title taken from Hide and Seek by Imogen Heap; crying increased tenfold if played while reading...

Summary: There comes a day when Mr. French learns where his daughter is; Mr. Gold was finishing his Windsor knot.

"(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands"
- E. E. Cummings

Mr. Gold wakes up satisfied in spite of the fact that the opposite side of his rather large bed is unoccupied. Belle had said something the night before about getting an early start, off to the library or some such. Gold sits up stretching and smells something sweet and warm and knows he'll find a baked good awaiting him downstairs, in their neat and tidy kitchen.

Last night, as her hand slipped up his leg, it came to rest for just a moment at his knee—his own cupped her small and perfect breast, but that part was understood. "Will it rain," she asked, with not an inch of malice or mocking. Even this, she's made the best out of. "I think not, dearie." She smiled and the hand moved on, upward, ever upward. "Good, because I have plans for us." He smirked and whispered to that favorite part between neck and shoulder that he loves to taste so very often, "Oh really, what kind of plans?" She whispered back a reply, and he knew it would be the last they spoke on mundane (but not mundane at all) reality for the night, "I thought a picnic would be nice."

His life is good. He has the woman he loves and though they have walked a path filled with many snares, they've escaped (largely, but not entirely) unscathed. They're happy—he for perhaps the first time in his life. So, when he wakes up alone, he knows that today will be a good day, because now, they all have that general commonality.

However, what Gold does not know is that this also happens to be the day that her father learns where she is.

Or perhaps Moe French has known for some time his daughter's whereabouts, but has only worked up the courage on this day to storm the castle, or rather his Victorian bay-and-gable, as the case may be.

He is finishing the second round of his Windsor knot (not half, he has time enough for the full knot; what he doesn't have time for, is retying the damn thing halfway through his day—a loose knot is of course, much less intimidating by far) when he hears the unwelcome intrusion.

"I know you're in there, Isabelle."

So French was outside his house, hollering. Gold chuckles darkly, pulling the tie taught. This should be interesting.

Gold takes his time, giving a little extra care to his cufflinks and the folding of his pocket square. He's just slipped on his jacket before heading downstairs, when he catches a bit more through his well-insulated walls (but not enough to keep out this dark wind, apparently).

"Thought I wouldn't find out who you were living with, did you? Goddamn it, come out and answer me face to face!"

"You, French, are hardly the reason we opted for discretion." Gold mumbles to himself; he hasn't been able to shake this tendency of his, though Belle gives him more than enough teasing for it. "You are negligible. You are so small that I could crush you." Gold hears a bang and wonders if his mailbox is still standing. "And just might if you keep on with that racket."

"How much did he offer you? Come out and tell me what he's done to get you to pick him over your family."

Gold takes the stairs, cracking his neck from side to side. "Some family you are."

"Girl, you're no daughter of mine. The man attacked me. He's a monster!"

Not the first time the man has gone that route, but then the pawnshop owner has never pegged the once upon a time ruler for having much imagination, after all. "Yes, yes, steady on, French."

"Afraid to come out? Afraid to face the one you're hurting by all of this? Have you no shame, girl? Aren't you sorry for what this does to me?"

"Oh, just you wait." He's glad Belle isn't home; he might just do something he'll regret if the man continues. "I'll show you sorry, you son-of-a-bitch."

"Don't," she says.

He stops on the last step, his hand gripping the rail. He can't see his Belle, but her voice sounds as if she stands right in front of him. His eyes scan the room, and then finally find her.

She's crouched on the floor in the fetal position, beside the umbrella stand and almost as small, hiding from a man who has smoked her out more than one rabbit hole. And he called me the beast, Gold thinks to himself.

His love is wearing one of his shirts, as she's prone to do in the mornings and evenings about the house, over tiny, denim shorts. She's no makeup on, and he can tell that she hasn't showered. So, she's been there since the morning. He should have known.

He smells whatever she'd been baking before the storm, but it's taken on a slight burnt scent (more than once he's had to call to tell the fire department everything's fine, just overdone biscuits or pie. The part he doesn't tell is that it's because the nightmares caught up with her and she's gone to hide under the stairs with the oven mitts still about her hands). "How long?"

"An hour," Belle shrugs, "two maybe?"

He makes a grumble. "Bastard." He takes in a breath and lets it out slowly. "He'll pay—"

"How long's this been going on? Since when, Isabelle? Tell me that, at least? When did he buy this deal from you?"

She curls up tighter, smaller if that's even possible, eyes shut, hands tangled in a mop of would-be, morning-sex hair. He can't help imagining those hands curling in his own hair, if it wasn't for the pained expression she is wearing. "He started with the guilt. How lonely he was. How sorry he was. How much he missed me, loved me." She squeezes her eyes, washing away who knew what—she's enough black memories from which to choose. "Asked why I hated him. That went on for a while."

Gold nods, hands clenched.

"Then he started in with this. The anger. Nothing new."

"You little bitch, come out and face me."

As Moe French speaks, Mr. Gold watches the daughter rock just ever so slightly, clutching at her hair, as if it's the only thing keeping her from her blood and bones within her body. He knows there's a small patch at back of her neck, where she pulls and tugs with restless hands, a living-scar that won't quite lay flat no matter how much time passes. The patch at her neck goes bare from time to time, when the anxiety peaks. He's more than once held her wrist to stop the nervous outlet, with a strength replacing his usual gentle way of handling her, but if she wanted, she could escape his grip—she never does.

"Don't ignore me. I know you're in there. With him. Did he tell you what he did to me? Stole from me, he did. Hit me with that cane of his! I was in the hospital for weeks!"

She chokes out a small sob. Gold shakes his head—how dare that gluttonous mass speak of weeks when he'd locked her away for time out of mind.

You're the bloody reason she takes antidepressants like candy, French. And why she has little love for sitting in front of fires and why she likes little spaces where no one can reach her, he thinks. Gold's simmering now, but thinks he can keep back the rage. He feels as if he's about to be struck by lightening, his hair standing on end, but then a look at her—his channeling rod—and he can breath again.

"Just can't believe you'd whore yourself out to the scourge of the town for money. He near beat me to death. You know if your mother was alive, she'd be ashamed of you."

Gold loses it.

First, he hears only: whore, scourge, beat, and death. Then he hears the howl that breaks through her lips at the mention of her dead mother.

In seconds, he's out the door and down the steps, nearly tripping on the second to last. He's about two feet away from the man when he tosses his cane upward enough to grab it by the middle. He'll bludgeon the bastard for drawing that sound out of Belle's already fractured soul—and I won't stop this time.

He's pulling back to land the first blow when a little hand (smaller than the rain) is on his shoulder. Gold, and the demon within, stills instantly.

He turns just enough to see her just behind his left shoulder. She's looking at the ground; he can't see whether or not she's crying. "He's not worth it."

Gold physically has to slow his breathing; it takes all his efforts. He knows that they are surrounded by citizens of Storybrooke, waiting for this new saga to unfold. Sherriff Swan will be here soon enough with questions and irritations. Despite it all, she's still his channeling point, the eye of all his storms. Calm and blue.

He lowers his arm.

Belle's right—it wouldn't be worth it, even to hear the wails of pain and see the pretty patterns his blood makes on the sidewalk—like always, she's right.

"Go inside, love. I'll be right behind," Gold tells the girl who despite hell and heckling loves him for some god-only-knows reason.

His not-quite-broken Belle nods, almost imperceptibly, but he's had practice in watching her movements, and walks with halting steps back up to the house. Gold looks back to Moe French, her father. The man is still cowering, but has witnessed his daughter once again place herself between the two of them for the sake of a father who betrayed her in not one life but two.

French begins to stand and Gold is just turning around to stumble back into the bright house, bright enough to hold the brightest of stars, luckily, dimmed only a little by life and trials, when he speaks up, "Don't think this is over, Gold."

The anger's back, but it's like smoldering coals—he can keep it from alighting this time. "Oh, I never rule anything out, but," he turns around to face the only person he's ever met who is more a coward than himself, "you hear me, French." Then he raises his cane just below the man's chin. To the other man's credit he only jumps marginally. "The only reason I don't kill you is because of her. So just think of all this, every day, every minute, you live, as borrowed time," he shrugs looking for the word, "as a gift from your daughter. So if I were you, I wouldn't waste it. Never know when my good charity on her behalf will run out."

Then, amazingly, he walks away, ignoring the murmurs of the crowd all around him. It isn't the first time that he has held the attention of a crowd, be it a ballroom or courtroom or even front yard. He doesn't have time for exposition today, however. Because, today, he planned on taking his own advice.

Tomorrow, there would be explanations to make, and deals to collect upon and of course, a restraining order to pursue, but today, his time with his Belle, is a gift, and certainly one he doesn't intend to waste.