A/N: Riskpig prompted: emails from the Oxford professor

Anonymous prompted: In an attempt to help free the fairies, Hook attempts to chat with the Oxford professor as well. Rumple accidentally calls him dearie.

Belle let herself into the house with a sigh, kicking off her shoes and stretching her toes with relief. She padded through to the kitchen in stockinged feet, shrugging off her coat and hanging it over the back of a chair as she went to the fridge. If Rumple had been there, he would have taken it from her shoulders, his breath cool on the back of her neck and his fingertips sending shivers through her as they brushed against her. She stopped for a second, eyes closed, remembering, then shook her head as though that would dislodge the thought of him, the memories of what they had shared in their brief time of happiness. It made her want to cry, and she was heartily sick of crying, so she tried to distract herself with food.

She bit her lip, taking some cheese and tomatoes from the fridge and preparing herself a sandwich for supper. It was probably not the most nutritionally-sound choice, but frankly it was a new development for her to be eating three meals a day, so her body would have to take it or leave it. She poured herself a large glass of red wine, too. That wasn't anything new.

Heaving a sigh, and rolling her shoulders to work out the kinks, she made her way through to Rumple's study – her study; she had to stop thinking of the rooms as his, as impossible as that was. Mary Margaret had gently suggested to her that she might want to live somewhere else, somewhere that was not so full of the memories of him, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She loved this house, the house that had been her sanctuary when she was released from the asylum, that house in which they had loved one another for the first time, and so many times since. She still couldn't look at the kitchen table without blushing. She smiled at the memory, then ruthlessly tried to cast it from her mind. He was gone. They were ended. That was the truth of it.

She sat down at the antique desk, where her laptop sat, waiting for her. She had scoured the books in the library, coming up with no answers to the puzzle they had to solve. The internet, however… Not for the first time, Belle marvelled over how this world dealt with a lack of magic. That one could type words on a screen in one's house, and have that message seen by thousands, perhaps millions of others, within seconds, was incredible to her. Her first, tentative steps into chatrooms and websites had had mixed results; she had closed the laptop firmly when one man started to take his clothes off in front of her, but overall she found the people on the sites she visited friendly, welcoming, and extremely resourceful. Her favourite networking site was . It was there that she had first heard the name Dr Rush.

Belle had been chatting with a person who used the URL cyberskunk95, someone she had spoken to previously. He had posted a photograph of an inscription on a tombstone, which she had recognised, and sent him a translation back. He had been profuse in his thanks, and she had sent him a copy of the spell to unlock the hat. Cyberskunk95 had sent a regretful message back:

"Sorry, this is WAY beyond me! You might want to check Dr Rush out, though. He's the expert in this sort of thing, but he hardly ever speaks to anyone. If you can get a response that isn't sarcastic, I owe you a drink."

Belle was immediately intrigued.

"Who is he?" she typed.

"Some professor at Oxford. Expert in linguistics. He's been coming on here for a while now tearing everyone to shreds over their sloppy translations. Then he disappears for a bit. Seriously, your problem? See if Rush can help you solve it. But be nice: if you sass him, he'll just blow you off."

Belle had wrinkled her brow at that, but cyberskunk95 had sent her the URL of the elusive Professor Rush. She had looked him up, and had giggled over some of the comments he had posted.

"If you think that that carving is a prayer to the goddess Hecate, you're even more of an imbecile than your icon would have me believe. It's a form of graffiti praising the charms of a prostitute, you idiot."

"For the love of all the Gods, would you people please stop assuming that everyone who came before you was devoutly religious! This 'blessing' as you call it, is actually a plea to rid the caster of gonorrhoea and gift it to his rival."

"No, historyslittlebitch87, that's a fucking shopping list. Do your research. And while you're at it, sort out the punctuation in your URL, it's giving me a headache."

Despite the man's snarky disposition, it was clear that when it came to ancient inscriptions, his knowledge was second-to-none, and Belle had sent off a politely-worded message to him on the off-chance.

Dear Professor Rush

I recently came into possession of a collection of artefacts, and I understand that you're an expert on ancient languages. I have attached a picture of the page of a book I'm particularly interested in. The script seems to be runic, but while it appears to show some similarities with Norse runes, it doesn't quite match. I'm very interested to read what it says, and I would really appreciate any help that you could give me.

Kind regards

B…

She had hesitated, unsure what to type. She had been so proud to sign her name as Gold in the brief time they had been married, to prove to the world, as much as herself, that she was his, that she was enough for him. The pain lanced through her again, the memory of his face at the town line, before she turned her back. The memory of his last words to her, the fear in his eyes. Unconsciously, her thumb had gone to the third finger of her left hand, where his ring had sat, for too brief a time. It was now on the nightstand, where she could look at it before falling asleep. At some point, she thought, she would move it into the drawer. But not yet. She had swallowed, tears starting in her eyes once more, and had angrily brushed them away, reaching for the keyboard. He wasn't coming back.

Belle French, she typed, and had hesitated before hitting send.

Rumple had been laying his plans for some time. He knew, of course, that they would try to free the fairies. He didn't need his foresight to tell him that. He also knew that the only spell in Storybrooke that was suitable for the task was in a language Belle didn't know. Which meant that no one else knew it, either. The first thing he did upon reaching New York was sell his cufflinks. This had brought him enough money to buy the services of a spotty young man with a waistline that numbered double the amount in inches than he had in years. Rumple had perched, uncomfortable, on the edge of a bed in a squalid studio flat in Brooklyn, while the man ate Cheetos and set up his new alter ego on the computer, complete with backstory, a PhD and historical presence in a few related websites that, after some prompting by the man, Rumple thought Belle might try. The name of the 'distinguished Oxford professor' had been picked at random from headlines in the sports pages, spread on the floor of his new ally's den. He thought it sounded suitably innocuous. Dr Nicholas Rush, professor of linguistics.

He had been pleased to leave the apartment, with its rank smell of body odour and stale nachos, but he had to admit to having had a fair bit of amusement while playing Dr Rush in the weeks since. Some of the questions he had been asked had been so asinine that he couldn't resist answering with all the sarcasm he could muster. Every day, he had waited and hoped for her message. Every day, he had been disappointed. Ursula came and went, curling her lip every evening when she returned and found him huddled before the computer again. He longed for a word from Belle, one word, so he would know she was safe, that she was well.

He had been giving up hope, and was standing in a borrowed bathrobe, with all the indignity that entailed, waiting for the cursed microwave to finish heating up the swill that Ursula called food, when the laptop made the cheerful ping sound that meant he had a message. Praying that it wasn't historyslittlebitch87 again, who seemed to have taken his last sarcastic comment as some sort of come-on, he settled himself at the chair and took a mouthful of noodles, clicking on the little envelope.

He almost broke when he saw her email address, and tears stung his eyes as he read her few short, polite lines. He reached out to the screen with shaking fingers, blinking rapidly as he caressed her name. Belle French. It hurt that she was using her old name. It shouldn't hurt, after what he'd done, but oh gods, it burned!

"What the hell are you doing?" asked Ursula suspiciously. "Are you stroking the computer?" She put her hands on her hips. "Oh my God! Is this what you do all day? The Dark One, and his grand plans? Really you're just holed up in my apartment eating my food and watching porn?"

He glared at her, irritated. "Of course not! It's a message, dearie. One I've been waiting for. This is the start of our journey. The way to all our happy endings."

Ursula sniffed disbelievingly. "Whatever. Did you eat all the goddamn ramen again?"

Rumple ignored her, focusing on the screen, and tuned her muttering out as he composed a reply to Belle. His fingers hesitated over the keys, his breath coming a little quicker than normal as he thought about what to write.

My dear Ms French

Thank you for your message, and for the remarkably clear photograph you sent me. This is a very interesting piece of runic writing, and I would be interested to see what else you have in this collection that you mention.

I take it from your message that you have some knowledge of runic script. You are quite correct in that this shows some similarities with Norse runes. It is a rare dialect, one of the oldest that we have a record of, so any new evidence of its use is, of course, of great interest to academics such as myself.

He hesitated, unsure whether he should type what he was thinking, unsure whether he had the right. He swallowed hard, clenching his jaw. He had the right. She was still his wife, no matter their differences.

If it would not be too much trouble, he typed. I should be grateful if you would send me any further inscriptions that you may have. I attach a copy of the page you sent, with my translation beneath it. There is some disagreement amongst academics over the last two symbols. I had a heated argument with Professor Young regarding this matter the other day which almost came to blows. I believe my interpretation to be correct, but you must make up your own mind on the subject.

Yours ever

Dr N Rush PhD

Rumple sighed as he typed the salutation, hoping that Belle would soon read it, and that his plans would unfold as he had predicted.

Ursula had gone to work the next day, glowering at Rumple from the kitchen as he turned on the laptop again.

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to clean up in here every now and then," she said coldly, as he ate cereal. Rumple curled a lip at her.

"You're doing your part, dearie, I'm doing mine," he said acerbically. "I think my talents can be put to better use than picking up your crap, thank you."

"Most of the 'crap' is yours!" she snapped. "At least do the damn dishes!"

She slammed the door on her way out, muttering something about the Dark One making a terrible house guest. Rumple ignored her, watching the computer screen, and waiting for the inevitable email.

Belle was excited to get a response, and in terms far politer than she had believed she would receive from the irascible Dr Rush. She immediately sent him an email of thanks.

Dear Dr Rush

Thank you SO much for your quick reply! I was very excited to read your response, it really helps my research in this area. Obviously I'm not sure when I'll have need for a spell to unlock magic, but you never know :)

If I have any more translations, I'll send them through to you, but you have to let me know if I'm bothering you, and I'll leave you alone.

Kindest regards

Belle

Rumple smiled when the message came through, imagining the glee on her face as she received new knowledge. He had always adored seeing her learn something new; her thirst for knowledge had led to some – interesting – times for them both. It made him hurt inside all over again to think of it, so he tried not to.

The pleasure was entirely mine, Ms French, he typed, and sat back with a grin. Time to assemble his team. He had a feeling that his input would be sought again very soon, and smirked to think of how the town would deal with the Chernabog. Idly, he wondered who it would target. Just as well he wasn't there, really, he supposed.

Belle hurried to the library, opening up the computer and waiting impatiently for it to boot up. She cast anxious glances towards the doors, but the demon that had been released by the hat was nowhere in sight. Hoping and praying that Dr Rush would be picking up his emails, she hurriedly typed out a message.

Dear Dr Rush

She bit her lip as she pondered what to write. How to tell an Oxford professor that the translation he gave you had not only worked and undone a powerful spell, but had released a demon into the town? She wasn't sure there was any sort of protocol for this, so she decided to go with a little misdirection.

I'm so sorry to bother you again, but I thought of a question. That translation you gave me. Is there any chance it could be reversed and if so, could you send me the translation for that?

Rumple grinned widely as he looked at Cruella's phone. Hers was far more modern than his, and had internet access and a colourful screen. It had taken him a little time to get used to it. He smirked as he composed a reply.

Ms French, I hope you're not telling me that you cast a spell and loosed something evil on the world?

Her response made him grin more widely.

That would make me a crazy person, right?

If anyone calls you crazy, they can deal with me. A little over the top, perhaps, but he hadn't forgotten her time in the asylum. He scowled at the memory, and waited for her to respond.

"Any luck?" Hook, bursting in through the library doors, made Belle jump, and she shook her head.

"Not yet. I'm emailing Dr Rush again, see if he has a – a counter-spell, I guess." She shrugged. "If not, we'll have to find another way."

"Give me that." Hook reached over the keyboard. "So, whatever I type here gets sent through the magic box to the professor, right?"

Belle rolled her eyes. "If you want to boil it down to magic boxes, then yes."

"Okay. His name's Rush?" Hook started typing with one finger, frowning at the keyboard as though it might bite him.

Prof Rush

Don't spose you could hurry it up a bit mate? We're kind of on a schedule here.

KJ

Rumple felt rage burn through him as the poorly-worded email popped up. He supposed it was surprising the pirate could read, but the thought of him being in the library with Belle… He wanted to reach through the phone with magic, tear out the pirate's respiratory system through the throat and beat him to death with it.

Get your uneducated hands off that fucking computer and don't presume to speak to me again unless it's though a bloody interpreter. I don't have time for this, dearie.

He hesitated, finger raised, and then deleted the last word. No point in pushing his luck.

Belle gasped indignantly as the message popped up. "Look what you've done! I hope he knows that wasn't me!"

"What?" asked Hook. "I asked him to hurry up, that's all. There's a bloody great demon flying around outside, or hadn't you noticed?"

Belle glared at him, and closed her eyes as an email popped up.

Ms French, I presume KJ is not you. If you could tell the person concerned that I have no idea what the initials stand for, but I could give a bloody good guess.

Belle bit her lip, eyeing Hook, and typed Killjoy?

Technically one word, but I'll allow it. What about knicker-wearing jester?

Belle snorted in amusement, making Hook's eyes narrow.

"What?" he asked suspiciously. Belle typed quickly.

Technically three words, two hyphenated, but I'll allow it. Knight's jockstrap?

Rumple sniggered, and Cruella and Ursula rolled their eyes at one another.

"If you're reading my tumblr posts, you're a dead man," said Cruella coldly, and he sighed.

"Almost done, ladies." He hurriedly typed in a response.

Last, but by no means least, I offer you knobless joke.

Belle giggled, and Hook glared at her.

"If you two could stop bloody flirting for five minutes, we do have a crisis to deal with!" he snapped, and Belle nodded ruefully.

So, back to my original question? She typed

Ah. I fear there is no – counter-spell – for want of a better word.

She sighed, sitting back in defeat, and shook her head at Hook.

Rumple grinned.

It was very late when Belle finally got home, after the Chernabog had been banished and the town made safe once more, and she kicked off her shoes wearily as she sat down. She had toyed with the idea of bothering Dr Rush again; there was a translation she was having difficulty with, and the man was a mine of information. Making up her mind, she went to her computer, and hurriedly typed out an email.

Dear Dr Rush

I'm attaching a picture of something I think you could be interested in, and if you could look over the translation I've done so far I'd be so grateful.

I hope you don't think I'm rude for sending you stuff like this – I realise this is probably taking up a lot of your time and I don't want to impose. I have a lot more that needs translating, so perhaps we can work something out.

Kind regards

Belle

Rumple smiled at the sight of her name popping up on his laptop. He was at the cabin, seated in a chair with the fire burning pleasantly, a glass of scotch to his side and decent food in the refrigerator. Magic was wonderful. He tried not to think about what Belle was doing up so late, what she might be wearing, whether she would be sitting in bed with her dark hair falling around her shoulders. He typed an answer, instead.

Well, everything has its price, dear.

Belle swallowed as the message flashed up on her screen. It wasn't him, of course not, but the phrase was too similar for her not to feel a sudden stab of pain. Her fingers shook slightly as she typed.

My husband used to say that.

There was a moment of stillness, then the computer beeped again.

My apologies. And here I've been calling you Ms French. Mrs French, then.

She sighed. She didn't know why she felt the need to correct him, but there it was.

Actually it's Mrs Gold.

She waited, certain he'd ask and unsure if she wanted to get into this with a complete stranger.

And yet you signed your email Belle French.

She bit her lip.

I'm recently separated.

Rumple recoiled from the screen at her words. Separated. It sounded so cold, so clinical. The cutting away of something rotten, to halt the spread of corruption. He supposed it was accurate. Tentatively, he reached out again. She'd given him a way in, it seemed.

And how are you dealing with that? Are you well?

There was a moment of silence, and he wondered if she'd been scared away by the over-familiar Professor Rush, but then there was a cheerful beep as her message popped up.

You know, no one's asked me that in a while. I don't know. I miss him. I try not to, but I can't help it.

Tears stung his eyes again.

Your husband is a fool. But I have no doubt he misses you, too.

Belle sighed, trying not to cry. Part of her wished she'd never mentioned anything.

I guess I'll never know. He's not coming back.

She frowned at the computer screen, drumming her fingers on the desk, and added: Have you ever put your trust in someone, only to have them turn around and betray that trust?

There was a long moment of silence, and Belle thought perhaps he had left his computer to go and do whatever professors did when they weren't talking to heartsick young women from half way around the world. The computer beeped.

Yes.

One word, that was all, but Belle suddenly felt a loosening in her chest, as though part of the terrible grief she had been suffering was lessened. She typed hurriedly.

How did you deal with it?

I suggest you not look to me for advice on personal matters. Our situations are quite different, Mrs Gold.

Belle bit her lip, curious.

Why?

The response was almost immediate.

I deserved it.