whispers that transcend walls
whispers that transcend walls
mr. gold/belle (once upon a time); pg-13
~1,200 words
Sometimes she would cry without realizing it, wake up with a dying scream upon her lips. Other times she would feel nothing at all. He would disappear and reappear and she’d idly wonder if those hands belonged to him. She would trace her fingers over her thigh and imagine it was him, whoever he was; she must have known long ago, she was sure she must have.
notes: thanks to the lovely saturninepen for reading over it and letting me flail and freak out to her about how i had no idea where this came from but it must be written. i have way too many feelings about these two, i had to get them out somehow.
There are times at night when she feels hands ghosting over her skin. Or at least she thinks she does. Hands she thought she once knew, long and delicate and precise. She wakes up, startled, and blinks away the colors she had been blinded by in her dreams. Or were they memories? She could hardly tell anymore. In fact there were very few things she was sure of. Her only references to time were the three grimy, barred windows. They just barely filtered in light but they were enough to tell the difference between night and day. At first she had started to count the days but they stretched for so long that it eventually became useless, and instead she let them wash over her, blending together in a blur.
She was also aware of the cold and the way that her dressing gown had started to slip off her shoulders, of the way she could feel the frost in the air seep into her bones. Her fingers became aware of the roughness of her lips as she pushed food desperately into her mouth whenever a meal was delivered, the food always stiff and rubbery but food nonetheless. Her lips were chapped and whenever she finished eating and wiped the back of her hand across, it came back with a smear of blood.
It was only what she needed, however. She had forgotten how to crave. She didn’t want anymore. These barren, concrete walls were all she knew. How could she want what she didn’t know? Fresh air, the warmth of a fireplace, a hairbrush against her scalp, soothing hot chocolate down her throat. But there were moments. Captivating, brief moments where she suddenly possessed a burst of curiosity, a feeling she thought she had once known so well. These moments came when she felt the hand, softly -
- cradling the empty cup, he opened the cabinet and delicately placed it inside. It gleams through the glass and its placement, in front of all else, gives it a sense of importance, though no one will ever know how much, disregarding it for its chip, giving him strange looks for the flashes on his face when his heart beats just a little bit faster every time he sees it. There had been a hand clutching his heart, seizing it with an icy fear, until the moment Regina had pulled the cup out of her purse, still in perfect condition, chip and all.
When his fingers curled around it, holding it as if it were a lifeline, that hand around his heart let go, released him, allowed him to breathe again. He spoke to Regina, her majesty, his words automatic, muted in his head. All he could recognize was the feel of the cup in his hands once more. Regina’s words could slither all they wanted, laced with traces of superiority but there was so much she didn’t know. She had no power over him. She fueled him and soon she would realize that and understand how weak she really was.
As he limped out of the station, acutely aware that he held his only remembrance of her in his hands, he only just registers Emma’s voice trying to ask him what it is. He’s out the door before she can finish the question. He had spent too long in that cell. He needed to resume his normal business. It had been much too long a time to be alone with his thoughts and memories, letting them run through his mind over and over again. Desperate to know where it was, going crazy -
- they said, whispers that seemed to transcend walls. She had started out pacing the cell, the bottoms of her feet calloused and raw from the stone. She would always end at the iron door and place a hand delicately upon it, as if it would yield to her touch in some way. With an ear up against it, she shut her eyes tightly and drowned in murmurs.
She didn’t feel crazy. She just felt lost, confused, betrayed. No one would ever speak to her when she heard footsteps outside the cell or when the hatch would open to spill a sliver of light into the room. No, the words were only ever about her, not to her. She kept hearing him, over and over again, and she would fall asleep to a faceless figure, dreaming about a castle and running her fingertips over the leather bindings of books in a library, hearing a high-pitched laughter that would normally frighten someone but left her with feelings of overwhelming sorrow.
That was in the beginning. Now images ran through her mind but they passed and faded so quickly. None of them made sense no matter how hard she tried to make sense of them. She would sit in a corner of the cell, any corner, and pull her legs up to her chest, arms wrapped around herself, imagining what it would feel like to have arms wrapped around her. Her mind would go blank and the only things that she could feel were the beating of her heart and the rush of the blood in her veins to let her know this was real.
Sometimes she would cry without realizing it, wake up with a dying scream upon her lips. Other times she would feel nothing at all. He would disappear and reappear and she’d idly wonder if those hands belonged to him. She would trace her fingers over her thigh and imagine it was him, whoever he was; she must have known long ago, she was sure she must have. She would fall asleep without -
- her on his mind, the days seemed easier. He would spend his time in Storybrooke, limping with a cane, and watch everyone who was so unaware. Sometimes he found himself wishing he could join them. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. The chipped cup would become nothing more than that, would not bring him regret and agony and love. Despite himself, he would not see her face every time he fell asleep. Perhaps this was his own curse. So he consciously fought against it, chose to try and forget her each morning he woke up, plagued by dreams of her.
He would put on a bold face that no one could read and no one could suspect. No one knew his story because, as far as he was concerned, he had no story to tell. He dealt in deals and intimidation, walls surrounding him at all times. He knew he was talked about, feared, hardly respected and he let it slip past him. Their words were meaningless to him. They were hollow and naïve and he preferred it that way.
But the words changed when it got out that he had spent the night in jail. Suddenly he became more aware of them, listened closely when he kept hearing her. There were so many voices and eyes now and when he noticed -
- the feeling of a presence as she knelt by the window, searching -
- for a way to make it all stop, he felt himself suffocating -
- from the deafening silence that made her look out to try and find -
- her, he had tried to find her, he had looked everywhere, but she was gone, no trace -
- of hope, it was faint but it was there and she grasped the bars desperately, her breath -
- taken out of him, replaced by a deep-rooted grief, knowing -
- she was not alone, it made her heart quicken for he was there, he was -
- alone.
mr. gold/belle (once upon a time); pg-13
~1,200 words
Sometimes she would cry without realizing it, wake up with a dying scream upon her lips. Other times she would feel nothing at all. He would disappear and reappear and she’d idly wonder if those hands belonged to him. She would trace her fingers over her thigh and imagine it was him, whoever he was; she must have known long ago, she was sure she must have.
notes: thanks to the lovely saturninepen for reading over it and letting me flail and freak out to her about how i had no idea where this came from but it must be written. i have way too many feelings about these two, i had to get them out somehow.
There are times at night when she feels hands ghosting over her skin. Or at least she thinks she does. Hands she thought she once knew, long and delicate and precise. She wakes up, startled, and blinks away the colors she had been blinded by in her dreams. Or were they memories? She could hardly tell anymore. In fact there were very few things she was sure of. Her only references to time were the three grimy, barred windows. They just barely filtered in light but they were enough to tell the difference between night and day. At first she had started to count the days but they stretched for so long that it eventually became useless, and instead she let them wash over her, blending together in a blur.
She was also aware of the cold and the way that her dressing gown had started to slip off her shoulders, of the way she could feel the frost in the air seep into her bones. Her fingers became aware of the roughness of her lips as she pushed food desperately into her mouth whenever a meal was delivered, the food always stiff and rubbery but food nonetheless. Her lips were chapped and whenever she finished eating and wiped the back of her hand across, it came back with a smear of blood.
It was only what she needed, however. She had forgotten how to crave. She didn’t want anymore. These barren, concrete walls were all she knew. How could she want what she didn’t know? Fresh air, the warmth of a fireplace, a hairbrush against her scalp, soothing hot chocolate down her throat. But there were moments. Captivating, brief moments where she suddenly possessed a burst of curiosity, a feeling she thought she had once known so well. These moments came when she felt the hand, softly -
- cradling the empty cup, he opened the cabinet and delicately placed it inside. It gleams through the glass and its placement, in front of all else, gives it a sense of importance, though no one will ever know how much, disregarding it for its chip, giving him strange looks for the flashes on his face when his heart beats just a little bit faster every time he sees it. There had been a hand clutching his heart, seizing it with an icy fear, until the moment Regina had pulled the cup out of her purse, still in perfect condition, chip and all.
When his fingers curled around it, holding it as if it were a lifeline, that hand around his heart let go, released him, allowed him to breathe again. He spoke to Regina, her majesty, his words automatic, muted in his head. All he could recognize was the feel of the cup in his hands once more. Regina’s words could slither all they wanted, laced with traces of superiority but there was so much she didn’t know. She had no power over him. She fueled him and soon she would realize that and understand how weak she really was.
As he limped out of the station, acutely aware that he held his only remembrance of her in his hands, he only just registers Emma’s voice trying to ask him what it is. He’s out the door before she can finish the question. He had spent too long in that cell. He needed to resume his normal business. It had been much too long a time to be alone with his thoughts and memories, letting them run through his mind over and over again. Desperate to know where it was, going crazy -
- they said, whispers that seemed to transcend walls. She had started out pacing the cell, the bottoms of her feet calloused and raw from the stone. She would always end at the iron door and place a hand delicately upon it, as if it would yield to her touch in some way. With an ear up against it, she shut her eyes tightly and drowned in murmurs.
She didn’t feel crazy. She just felt lost, confused, betrayed. No one would ever speak to her when she heard footsteps outside the cell or when the hatch would open to spill a sliver of light into the room. No, the words were only ever about her, not to her. She kept hearing him, over and over again, and she would fall asleep to a faceless figure, dreaming about a castle and running her fingertips over the leather bindings of books in a library, hearing a high-pitched laughter that would normally frighten someone but left her with feelings of overwhelming sorrow.
That was in the beginning. Now images ran through her mind but they passed and faded so quickly. None of them made sense no matter how hard she tried to make sense of them. She would sit in a corner of the cell, any corner, and pull her legs up to her chest, arms wrapped around herself, imagining what it would feel like to have arms wrapped around her. Her mind would go blank and the only things that she could feel were the beating of her heart and the rush of the blood in her veins to let her know this was real.
Sometimes she would cry without realizing it, wake up with a dying scream upon her lips. Other times she would feel nothing at all. He would disappear and reappear and she’d idly wonder if those hands belonged to him. She would trace her fingers over her thigh and imagine it was him, whoever he was; she must have known long ago, she was sure she must have. She would fall asleep without -
- her on his mind, the days seemed easier. He would spend his time in Storybrooke, limping with a cane, and watch everyone who was so unaware. Sometimes he found himself wishing he could join them. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. The chipped cup would become nothing more than that, would not bring him regret and agony and love. Despite himself, he would not see her face every time he fell asleep. Perhaps this was his own curse. So he consciously fought against it, chose to try and forget her each morning he woke up, plagued by dreams of her.
He would put on a bold face that no one could read and no one could suspect. No one knew his story because, as far as he was concerned, he had no story to tell. He dealt in deals and intimidation, walls surrounding him at all times. He knew he was talked about, feared, hardly respected and he let it slip past him. Their words were meaningless to him. They were hollow and naïve and he preferred it that way.
But the words changed when it got out that he had spent the night in jail. Suddenly he became more aware of them, listened closely when he kept hearing her. There were so many voices and eyes now and when he noticed -
- the feeling of a presence as she knelt by the window, searching -
- for a way to make it all stop, he felt himself suffocating -
- from the deafening silence that made her look out to try and find -
- her, he had tried to find her, he had looked everywhere, but she was gone, no trace -
- of hope, it was faint but it was there and she grasped the bars desperately, her breath -
- taken out of him, replaced by a deep-rooted grief, knowing -
- she was not alone, it made her heart quicken for he was there, he was -
- alone.