Yet another domestic Rumbelle fic, this one was inspired by last night's failed attempt at macaroni & cheese from scratch. Thank you all for your kind reviews. I'm glad you enjoy reading as much as I love writing.

Something smelled very good—that was the first thing that Mr. Gold noticed as he let himself into his home. He had learned, however, that good smells could be deceiving. Just last week Belle had attempted macaroni and cheese from scratch, and it had certainly smelled good when he walked in the door. But the sauce was thicker than she'd expected, and something about the taste of the paprika (or was it the Worcestershire sauce?) hadn't set well. He should've expected trouble when she'd called him at the shop to ask what a roux was. The whole thing congealed quickly, and he had consoled her with a hamburger at Granny's.

"Sweetheart?" he called, leaving his overcoat on the rack in the entry and making his way toward the scent of food.

"In here, Rumple," she replied, rewarding him with a sunny smile as he leaned his cane against the counter and joined her at the counter. A baking sheet was waiting, dough spread out and pre-cut triangles waiting to be rolled. "I cheated with the dinner rolls," she admitted the obvious, not even bothering to sweep aside the mangled tube.

He stepped behind her, easily sweeping aside her tresses and dropping three warm kisses against the curve where her neck met her shoulder and moving toward the nape. "You don't have to make everything. We could hire a cook if you wanted," he murmured against her skin.

"I like learning it," she countered, easily rolling the dough and lining each piece on the waiting sheet. "And are you implying my cooking is sub-par?" came the light and teasing reply. She held no illusions about her lacking skills in the kitchen, but when she had decided she wanted to improve, he had bought her any and all ingredients and an apron all her own.

A soft chuckle, and he gave her hip an affectionate pat. "I would never," he swore.

"Technically true, but you didn't deny it, either," Belle easily countered, giving him a grin over her shoulder. "C'mon, if you're going to stand there, you may as well help."

"As my lady commands," he gave a little half bow, nothing like his deep, affected bow in their old world, but enough to stir the memory of a certain afternoon and a foolish man-child turned rose. Brushing off the memory, he settled into the familiarity of her humming some light, airy tune while he washed his hands and saw to the salad. "And what's on the menu, tonight?"

Before she could answer, the timer went off. "Oh, could you get it out of the oven?" she asked. "The Dutch oven is hard to manage."

"Of course," he answered, thinking it might be better this way. For one, despite his lean build, he had much more upper body strength than she did. He might have to look into a smaller, lighter Dutch oven for her. He hated to think about Belle struggling with it, much less when it was hot from the oven. And, at least this way he could get a sneak peek at the food—if it hadn't turned out right, he could let her down gently.

Gold opened the oven and pulled out two potholders. Shifting his weight carefully, he eased the rack enough to reach in and take hold of the handles. He transferred it to the stovetop smoothly and closed up the oven before lifting the lid. The smell was divine. "Coq a vin?" he asked, eyebrows raised in surprise. The dish was a little messy, but the chicken looked as though it was thoroughly cooked, and the pearl onions were a warm golden hue.

"Mhmm." She was by his side in a moment, blue eyes lit up. "Oooh, it looks so lovely."

"When did you learn to make this?" he asked, still shocked. She'd managed a good chicken and noodles, mastered spaghetti and its sauce, roast, and several casseroles. He knew Granny had given her several lessons in the basics and intermediate dishes. But this was her most ambitious dish.

She nodded to the tablet that he had bought her a few weeks ago. "I found it on that. There's a … channel, right? Like on Ruby's television?"

"Yes, channel," he assured her, leaning against the counter as she explained.

"Every day this woman comes on the show, Julie Child, and she demonstrates how to cook the food. Some of it I can't do, yet. Granny explained some of things to me—blanching and cooking things. Anyway, yesterday she showed how to make this one. So today I went back and … well, made it."

"It looks delicious," he assured her, setting the lid aside so she could see for herself while he hunted down a bottle of wine and two glasses.

Her grin grew as she realized he wasn't being kind for her sake—that it truly had turned out nicely. "Do you think we can travel sometime to her home?"

"Whose?" Gold asked distractedly as he fished the corkscrew out of the drawer.

"Julia. Julia Child. Some place called Cambridge—I looked it up, it's not terribly far. Not like California. Do you think we can travel some day and visit her? I'd like to meet her, she's very funny."

Silently cursing, he set down the bottle on the counter and stepped closer. "Belle… that show was recorded some time ago. Years and years, in fact."

"Oh?" she answered, taking the sheet of rolls and sliding them into the oven.

He gave her a moment to set the timer before continuing. "Yes, in fact probably fifteen, twenty years or more ago."

"But… I see a new one every day," she had turned to face him now, forehead wrinkling in confusion. "That's not… part of the curse? I thought only Storybrooke was affected?"

"No, it doesn't have to do with the curse," he struggled to explain this gently. "Shows were recorded and the record was stored, sort of like the library stores books. People can read a book many, many years even after it was written. These shows can be put online years and years after they were recorded."

Her face fell, bottom lip trembling just once before she said what he was trying not to say. "She died."

Gold nodded. "Some time ago."

"Oh," came the soft answer, apparently the only words she could find to say. His book worm was at a loss for words, and that rarely happened. He hated that a friend—one sided though the friendship had been—was torn from her. And he wished he had thought of this earlier—explaining that things from a long time ago could be there, to watch and read.

He drew her close, pleased when she rested her head in the crook of his neck. Please that he could comfort her like this, even if he couldn't wholly ease the disappointment. They relaxed like that, and he savored the minutes until the rolls were finished. In the last minute before the timer, he guided her to the waiting glasses and the wine that had been breathing in the meantime.

Pouring easily, he handed over a glass for her and took the second. "To Julia Child," he said quietly, clinking his glass against hers. Only later would he realize she didn't understand this custom with the toast, but she seemed to grasp the importance of the moment and followed his lead.

She gave him a small nod. "Bon appétit," Belle incanted before taking a sip like he had, to seal the memory and the moment.