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smartgirlsaremean · 7 years

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At First...

Happy RCIJ to @avatoh! I’m your Secret Santa! I hope you enjoy this collection of Rumbelle Dark Castle Firsts!

AO3

Rating: T

Summary: A collection of “first” moments from the Dark Castle.

...Sight

Every now and then Rumplestiltskin brushed off his gift and sifted through his future. All of it - not even attempting to separate what would be from what could be. It was a bit like leafing through a book, except the stories always changed with the whims and decisions of the people involved. Flashes and snippets of men and women, humans and beasties, the magical and the mundane, skipped before his eyes and filled his senses.

On certain days one face flashed more before his eyes than any other - a young woman of exceptional beauty with eyes like the clearest sky and skin of smoothest cream. He was often tempted to extract those memories and discover what she meant for his future, but he resisted the temptation. He knew the dangers of “knowing” one’s future, after all: that knowledge was never complete and rarely helpful.

Besides, his centuries had taught him that beautiful women at best were attracted to his power and at worst ran screaming from his presence. The same held true of not-so-beautiful women, in fact. And men...and children...and babes…and the odd sheepdog.

No matter.

None of it mattered. Bae mattered. That was all.

...Contact

The letter from Sir Maurice of the Marchlands would not ordinarily have caught his attention. He received dozens of messages daily, all petitioning for his dark services, all pleading for his help. The petitions held a sort of bitter amusement for him, considering that he would arrive, make them deals to solve their problems, and then insist they keep their part of the bargain; and in return, they would call him evil and dark, revile and hate him, spread stories about his ruthlessness and cunning.

It didn’t help his image - or perhaps it did, depending on how one looked at it - that he was something of a trafficker of children. Having lost his son to his own fear and weakness, he was somewhat obsessed with discovering the value other parents placed on their children’s lives, and the results were terribly, horribly disheartening. One baby was worth a marriage to a rich lord, another six healthy oxen. One desperately foolish farmer bartered a twin boy for rich soil, as if there was no other way to enrich the soil of one’s land.

As far as requests went, Sir Maurice’s was depressingly routine. The ogres were acting up again and attacking the Marchlands. According to this missive Avonlea was dangerously close to falling, and the Marchlands were in dire peril. Rumplestiltskin read the promises of gold with a long-suffering sigh and was about to toss the letter into a pile when his hand brushed across the lord’s signature and his fingers tingled. A vision of the future assailed him - pert little nose - cerulean eyes - creamy pink lips - a face alternately glowing with happiness and gaunt with sorrow.

His eyesight cleared and he shook his head, a wicked smile gleaming on his face. So the mysterious beauty was a Marchlands maid? And not just any maid, if the connection to the lord was to be believed, but a high-born lady. Better and better. His grin grew as he realized he was about to discover what this woman would mean to his future.

Rumplestiltskin sent a perfunctory acceptance of their request and set out to discover what he could about Sir Maurice and his daughter. Disguised as various royal subjects from peasant to noble he stalked about the town, listening to court gossip. Almost all of the peasants lauded the lord and young lady as kind and just; there was little of the envy and pettiness so often found in the lower orders of a kingdom. The nobles were to a man loyal to their lord and quite a few of them, Rumplestiltskin discovered, ratherly desperately in love with his daughter. One young knight had been heard composing a very bad sonnet about the lady whose name was the best descriptor of her person.

Belle.

She was said to be, quite literally, beauty personified.

Which would make his plans all the more enjoyable: a lady, pampered and petted and praised to the skies all of her young, simple life, forced to clean and serve for the vilest being in her world.

It was delicious.

He waited until Avonlea had fallen before he made his characteristic grand entrance - knocking on the doors, disappearing before they were opened, and reappearing in the war room chuckling at the backs of the soldiers and noblemen staring down the hallway in anticipation.

“Well, that was a bit of a let down,” he chirped, and they all swiveled to stare at him. “You sent me a message. Something about ‘Help! Help! We’re dying! Can you save us?’” One of the oafs advanced on him, his sword drawn, and Rumplestiltskin impatiently batted it away. “Well, the answer is...Yes, I can. Yes, I can protect your little town. For a price.”

The men in the room glanced at each other uneasily. Maurice looked baffled. “We sent you a promise of gold.”

“Ah…” Rumplestiltskin smiled and spoke slowly, as if to a small child. “Now, you see, I, uh, make gold. What I want is something a bit more...special. My price...is her.”

He pointed at the exquisitely beautiful creature beside the lord. He had been pretending not to notice her, but as she was the exact image of the woman in his visions he had of course been aware of her from the first moment. She looked absurdly out of place in the war room wearing her elaborate golden ball gown with her dark hair cascading about her shoulders in ringlets. Oh, yes, he thought, this would be fun. Images of her scrubbing floors in that stupid gown danced in his head. Silly, pampered little girl.

“No!” Maurice shouted.

The tallest of the oafs placed a protective arm in front of her. “The lady is engaged to me.” Of course she was. Beautiful auburn-haired women always married handsome brainless dolts.

“I didn’t ask if she was engaged,” giggled Rumplestiltskin. “I’m not looking for love! I’m looking for a caretaker for my rather large estate. It’s her, or no deal.”

“Get out,” Maurice growled, and Rumplestiltskin grinned to himself. “Leave!” the lord insisted, pointing to the door.

Rumplestiltskin shrugged. “As you wish,” he purred, heading for the door. With each step he expected to hear the lord’s desperate cry, but the man remained silent and the Dark One felt a grudging respect for the first father in his experience who placed his child’s welfare above his own or his kingdom’s. He was almost to the door when a voice finally broke the silence.

“No, wait!” It was not the voice he had expected. He turned in some surprise to watch Lady Belle advancing on him, her chin held high. “I will go with him.”

Rumplestiltskin gave his customary shrill trill of delight.

“I forbid it, Belle!” the oaf cried.

The lady shot him a look that must have turned his blood to ice. “No one decides my fate but me,” she snapped. “I shall go.”

Oh, she was feisty, this one. “It’s forever, dearie,” Rumplestiltskin felt obliged to warn her.

“My family, my friends. They will all live?”

“You have my word.”

“Then you have mine. I will go with you. Forever.”

“Deal!” Rumplestiltskin crowed.

“Belle,” Maurice pleaded, “you cannot do this. Please! You cannot go with this….beast!”

Rumplestiltskin placed a hand to his breast, affecting a wounded expression.

“Father, Gaston, it’s been decided,” the lady said softly.

“You know, she’s right. The deal is struck.” Rumplestiltskin slipped an arm around the lady’s waist and began to sweep her out the door. “Oh! Congratulations on your little war!”

He had conjured a carriage to meet them at the castle gates. He could very easily have transported them, but he was a showman as well as a businessman, and he wanted the populace to see their lady driven away to live with a monster. He wanted her to have hours and hours to think about the dreary, lonely life she was about to lead. He wanted them all to suffer.

If he had hoped for tears or curses, however, he found he had underestimated this particular lady. She met the horrified stares of her populace with regal nods and the occasional small wave. Her chin remained lifted, her face a calm mask.

As the carriage skirted the outer walls of the town, the lady gazed out the window for a final glimpse of her castle, gasping when the shimmering walls of Rumplestiltskin’s protective enchantment formed a dome around the city. She turned to him with shining eyes, a small smile forming on her lips, and Rumplestiltskin wondered, for a fraction of a second, if he had just made a colossal mistake.

...Snark

A terrific crash sounded throughout the castle and Rumplestiltskin looked up unhurriedly from his spinning. His new maid was unexpectedly clumsy for a lady, and he wondered in a detached manner what disaster she’d caused this time. This morning she’d burnt his breakfast almost beyond recognition and, when he’d pointed that out, had proceeded to break almost an entire cabinet’s worth of dishes.

Come to think of it, that might not have been an accident.

Another crash rang through the halls, but Rumplestiltskin ignored it. The loud, vulgar curse that shortly followed, however, drew his interest. Giggling to himself, he hunted his maid down and found her sitting inelegantly among piles of swords and shields, a number more spilling out of the open closet beside her.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Looking for a broom,” she snapped. “Why do you need so many swords?”

“I don’t need them, dearie. I collect them.”

“And shove them in broom closets?”

“Well.” He was, for once, at a bit of a loss for words. “I was all out of sword closets.”

She snorted what might have been a laugh and struggled to her feet while he stared in surprise. “If you want these floors swept, I need a broom.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Rumplestiltskin flicked his wrist and a broom appeared in his hand. He handed it to the lady, who took it and began to walk away. “Ah, ah, dearie! You’ve got a little mess to clean up here. Maids are supposed to clean messes, not cause them.”

“Perhaps you should’ve bargained for an actual maid, then,” the lady muttered to herself as she leaned the broom against the wall and bent to pick up the swords scattered on the floor.

She did have a tongue on her, didn’t she? He mused that many others would have been turned into snails or worse by now, but she was actually an entertaining little thing and could cause him no real harm. His wits might be sharpened if he had someone to argue with on occasion. Still, she ought to be taught to remember her place.

“I will expect my tea at exactly four o’clock,” he said sternly, “and this hall had better. Be. Spotless.” He could feel her glare hot on his back as he walked away. Breakfast had been nothing short of appalling, but he hoped she could at least handle tea. Or maybe not. Needling her was turning out to be a great deal of fun, and she did look absolutely ridiculous cleaning in her ballgown. Already there were smudges of dirt and little tears on the hem, and her delicate heels must surely be murdering her feet.

Served the spoiled little wench right.

...Laundry Day

One afternoon about a month into their deal, Rumplestiltskin was irritated to look up from his wheel and find no tea tray on the table. He was further irritated to discover that his maid wasn’t even in the kitchen rushing to complete her tasks. She could usually be trusted to get tea right at least. He had wandered into the kitchen to see what had kept her, but the fireplace was empty and the stove cold.

“Belle!”

No answer.

“Belle!”

Where was she? Why wasn’t she answering? A fission of fear worked its way into his anger. Had something happened to her? He clattered down the stairs toward her room.

“Belle!”

“What?” Her voice was muffled behind the heavy door, but at least it proved she was there. In his relief he decided to forgive her less than respectful tone.

“It’s past time for tea, dearie. Did you get lost in one of your books again?” Though why she would be reading down here instead of in her - his - library was a mystery.

“No.”

“Then why is there no tea tray on my table?” He heard her mutter something. “What was that, dearie?”

“Nothing.” More muttering.

“Belle, I can’t hear you. Come out here and resume your duties.”

“I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

The door creaked open a sliver and her head appeared in the tiny opening. “It was laundry day yesterday,” she said in the exceedingly patient tone one might use with a recalcitrant toddler.

He stared at her. She stared back. “And?” he prompted finally.

She huffed. “I only have one dress, Rumplestiltskin. You didn’t give me much time to pack when we left the Marchlands. I let it go as long as I could, but it needed washing desperately.”

His brow creased. If she only had the one dress, what was she…

Oh.

Oh dear.

Apparently Belle mistook his blank look of shock for confusion, because she felt compelled to elaborate.

“I can’t exactly clean the castle in nothing but my -”

“Yes, yes, I understand!” he interrupted, an edge of panic to his voice. Gods knew he didn’t need that mental image.

“I mean, I suppose I could wear my cloak, but it doesn’t really fasten all the -”

“Shut up.”

“Or there are my bedsheets -”

With a growl Rumplestiltskin disappeared in a cloud of smoke, but not before he heard her giggle. Impertinent, disrespectful baggage. He’d been thinking of magicking her dress dry, but now she could forget it. She could just wait down there in the cold, the chill air causing her skin to prickle and tighten and…

Seven hells, he had really, truly, desperately not needed the image.

He absolutely did not hide in his tower laboratory until he could be reasonably certain that his maid was decent again. The Dark One did not hide. He had work to do, after all. And when she called from the bottom of the stairs that his dinner was ready, he certainly didn’t jump and fumble with the glassware. No, he calmly and collectedly appeared in his chair to partake of his evening meal.

He noticed that the golden gown, though so very recently laundered, was still decidedly shabby and stained. The sight didn’t give him quite as much satisfaction as it had the day before.

...Illness

Breakfast was late the next morning, and Rumplestiltskin was quite frankly baffled. What excuse could she possibly give this time? He had his answer when she shuffled into the Great Hall, her eyes bleary and her nose a most unattractive shade of red.

“You look terrible,” he snapped.

Instead of snapping back, Belle shrugged and muttered what sounded like an actual apology. The girl apologized for the strangest things. She placed a dish before him and turned abruptly away to shield him and his food from a sudden racking cough that shook her tiny frame.

“Belle,” Rumplestiltskin said in a gentle voice rusty from disuse, “go back to bed.”

“Can’t. Too much work to do.”

“The work’ll keep.”

“Can’t you just make me better?”

“Well, I could, but as you know all too well, all magic comes with a price. A little cold isn’t a job for magic. If you get worse I’ll think about it. Maybe.”

She rolled her eyes, a good sign that she wasn’t actually at death’s door.

“Go get some sleep.”

She shuffled away, and Rumplestiltskin took care of his own needs for the first time in a month. He tried to enjoy the peace and quiet, but he was on edge, always listening for sounds (crashes and footsteps and laughter and off-tune humming) that never came. Gods save him, had he actually learned to enjoy having the little bluebird around?

He hadn’t heard a single peep from her all day, and he decided it couldn’t hurt just to check in, maybe tease her a bit about malingering. He appeared before her door and was immediately unsure what to do. Ought he to knock? But whoever heard of the Dark One politely knocking on a dungeon door in his own castle? Yet he was curiously reluctant to just barge in. He settled for calling her name.

She didn’t answer.

“Belle?”

Silence. He was getting deja vu.

“Belle!” With a huff of exasperation he pulled the door open and stormed into the cell. “Really, dearie, how many times must I…”

Belle was wrapped tightly in her bedsheets, a fine sheen of sweat on her deathly pale face. Her eyes were glassy and unseeing and her breath came in little pants from chapped lips. Her fingers clutched the edges of her sheets, trembling and blue.

Cursing foully, Rumplestiltskin swept her up into his arms - she felt as if she were on fire - and in an instant they were in one of the castle’s abandoned bedrooms, the fire springing to life. He placed her gently amongst the blankets on the bed and smoothed a sticky lock of hair from her brow.

“Dammit, Belle,” he whispered, “why didn’t you tell me…” but his voice trailed away.

Tell him what, exactly? That she was sick? That her dungeon was damp and cold? That she had nothing to wear but the ridiculous ballgown currently drenched in perspiration? That catching her death of cold in that forsaken deathtrap of a dungeon was basically inevitable? He’d known all of that. Delighted in some of it, occasionally. As he watched her twitch and fret feverishly, his stomach rolled with an emotion that took a few seconds to identify.

Guilt.

He hadn’t felt guilty since - well, for a couple hundred years or so. Of course, he hadn’t actually been responsible for the welfare of another in all that long while. Was that what he was? Responsible for this wee termagant who defied and challenged him at every opportunity? He supposed he was, and he settled it with the Darkness that she was his to destroy if he wished - he simply didn’t wish it.

Belle began to cough again, and Rumplestiltskin had had enough. He placed a hand on her brow - he hissed at the heat of it - and willed healing magic to flow throughout her body. Her fever cooled, her breaths came more naturally, and her skin regained its color. Despite the magic, her body would need rest to recover, so he cast a small spell that would render her unwakeable until she was fully healed. She would no doubt be ravenous when she woke, but they would deal with that later. As she sank into her enchanted sleep, she rolled onto one side and breathed deeply, a small smile blooming on her lips.

Rumplestiltskin stared gloomily at her for a few moments, and around him the room began to change. The stone floor was covered by a thick pale yellow rug, the bed became a handsome cherry four-poster with blue hangings and a soft white quilt, curtains and pictures and lamps and vases of flowers appeared on the windows and the walls and the mantle and a few end tables. A cherry wardrobe appeared, followed by a large dressing table on one side of the fireplace and a deep blue armchair on the other. Belle’s golden ball gown wavered and in its place was a warm cotton nightdress, a thick woolen robe appearing to drape over the chair by the fire. And through it all Rumplestiltskin stood motionless, gazing at his housekeeper.

The sound of Belle crying out his name was one he’d started imagining every now and then (much to his shame), but in general her cries ceased when he opened his eyes, and their tone was not usually so panicked. He snapped to full awareness when he realized that she sounded terrified, and the sound was coming, not from his own head, but from the bedroom down the hall. Without stopping to wonder whether this was a good idea, he instantly transported himself to her room, where he found Belle crouched in a corner in the cotton nightgown he’d conjured for her, trembling and staring about with wide eyes. At the sight of him she leapt from her position and threw her arms around him.

“Oh, thank the gods,” she gasped, and he took her by the shoulders and very gently pushed her away from him.

“What’s the matter, dearie?” he asked in a low, urgent voice.

“What’s the matter?” she stammered disbelievingly. “Where are we? Who brought me here? What do they want? How could anyone take me from the Dark Castle?”

“Ah. You, ah, haven’t left the Dark Castle, dearie.” She stood before the fire, the glow silhouetting her form inside the gown in the most distracting manner. Averting his eyes, he grabbed the woolen robe from the chair and tossed it to her. She clutched it before her and stared at him as if he were speaking in tongues.

“I haven’t? But where am I? I’ve never seen this room before.”

“Well, get familiar with it. It’s yours.”

It didn’t seem possible that her eyes could go even wider, but they did, and she turned in a slow circle, gazing about her in wonder. “Mine? But...why?”

“What, you want - you want to stay in the dungeon?”

“No.”

“Well.”

She stepped forward and began to walk around the room, her bare toes sinking into the plush carpet, the fingers of one hand trailing over the richly-colored wood of the bed, her eyes taking in all of the little decorations he’d conjured up for her. When she turned to face him again, finally shrugging into the robe, her face was a picture of surprised pleasure.

“It’s beautiful.”

He shrugged. “Compared to the dungeon, anything’s beautiful.”

“No, I mean...it’s perfect. The colors and the flowers and pictures...it’s everything I could have wanted.”

He was absurdly pleased and couldn’t quite stop his proud smile from making an appearance, but he managed a careless wave of his hand.

“Why?” she asked again.

“I need room for other desperate souls in the dungeon, dearie. You were taking up valuable space down there.”

Belle gave a soft snort of laughter (a sound now categorized among his very favorites) and shook her head. Swiftly she closed the space between them and he took an alarmed step back, fearing another of her ferocious hugs. Instead, smiling gently, she placed her hands on his shoulders and, stretching up on her wee toes, pressed a quick kiss onto his cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her breath warm on his skin, and he stepped back in good earnest, forcing her hands to fall back to her sides.

“It’s no matter,” he mumbled. “Go back to sleep.” When she had turned away from him he traveled back to his own room, where, amidst the cold gray stone, thoughts of her smiles and touches and the phantom pressure of her lips on his skin could be banished properly.

...Flirtation

“Have you cleaned anything today?” Rumplestiltskin grumbled when he found his little maid tucked away in the library - again.

“‘Course I have. Floors are swept and mopped, laundry’s on the line, collection’s dusted.” She didn’t even look up from the book she held in her lap.

“And, ah, my straw?”

She looked up. “Are you out of straw?”

He fidgeted a little under her clear, direct gaze. “Almost.”

“I put a fresh bale in your basket last night.”

“Well, I spun a great deal last night. And this morning.”

“So you climbed four flights of stairs to tell me you were almost out of straw?”

He glared, forcing his twitching fingers to be still.

“When you could have just magicked more straw or, gods forbid, fetched it yourself?”

“I could have done those things, dearie, but you see, I have a little creature known as a maid, and it is her job to fetch me whatever I need!” His voice rose almost to a shout at the last, but Belle merely rolled her eyes, carefully marked her place in her book, and rose gracefully from her seat. She approached the shelf and gently pushed the book back into place, her fingers brushing the spine briefly as if in farewell.

“Why do you do that?” Rumplestiltskin asked, the words leaping from his mouth before he could stop them.

“Do what?”

He stepped up next to her and pulled the book out of its place; stepping back, he gestured for her to push it back in again. With a puzzled glance, she reached out and nudged the book back in place, her fingers once again caressing it gently.

“That,” he said, ignoring the warm shiver that traveled his own spine. “Why do you do that?”

“Oh.” Belle studied her hand, as if surprised by her own actions. “I suppose - I suppose because I think of books as my friends.”

“Friends?” he giggled. “These blocks of tree pulp and ink?”

Her jewel-like eyes flashed. “Yes,” she said stoutly, pulling one book at random and caressing the cover. “These windows to the world, these talismans against ignorance, these treasures of mind and heart and soul. How can you just dismiss them like that?”

“They’re only words, dearie,” he murmured, ever-so-slightly enchanted by her passionate response.

“Only words?” she snorted. “Now you’re just baiting me. Of all men, Rumplestiltskin, you, the Dark One, the Sorcerer, the Deal Maker should know the immutable power of words. How many of your deals hinge upon a single word?” She shook her head and replaced the book, and the shiver that overtook him when she caressed it was more pronounced than ever.

“And do you bid farewell to your living friends the same way you do your inanimate ones?” his unruly tongue asked before he could stop it.

She blinked at him, surprised, and then a corner of her mouth turned up. “I guess you’d have to become my friend to find out.”

He was standing too close to her and the room was too bloody warm. That was how he explained the flush of heat climbing up his neck. Her eyes were growing brighter and her smile wider, and his brain scrambled for something to say in return. No one befriended the Dark One - never had, never would - so what could she mean by insinuating that she would welcome his friendship? And the thought of her caressing him in farewell, her lovely fingers brushing through his hair or down his cheek...He had been silent far too long. Dropping his eyes from hers, he stepped back.

“Unlikely, dearie,” he said, his voice every so slightly unsteady, “if my basket continues to fall empty. Now, scat.”

The minx bit down a smile and turned to descend the tower steps. Released from whatever spell she’d put him under, he grinned wickedly and waited until he knew she had entered the dungeon cell in which the straw was kept. With a flick of his wrist he pictured the basket next to his spinning wheel filling with straw. A few moments later…

“Rumplestiltskin!!!”

He chuckled to himself and whisked away to his laboratory.

...Touch

Rumplestiltskin cursed himself for an idiot. He prided himself on having a good many failings, but stupidity was not usually one of them, and now he had fallen prey to it with a vengeance.

It had been bound to happen.

Belle was a beautiful woman - achingly, ethereally lovely - and he was a man...more or less. They lived in fairly tight quarters; despite the size of the Dark Castle, only a few rooms were habitually used and they saw each other every moment of every day. He had seen her doze off in the chaise in the library, a book perpetually in her hand. He had heard her hum tunelessly to herself as she mended his shirts. He had wandered into the kitchens to find her waltzing with a mop, and then delighted in the fiery blush that stole over her cheeks when she realized he was watching her.

Her beauty, however, was not bound to be his undoing, he rather thought. No, he had seen many a comely woman and, with the rare extraordinary exception, had never been in danger from any of them. Her innate goodness and kindness, her insistence on thinking well of him, her determination to see him as something more than the Dark One, were all infinitely more dangerous to him than her sparkling eyes and sunny smile.

Even with all of that, though, he would probably have contented himself with admiring and liking her - he liked so few people these days, and liking at least one person was rather a relief. Her presence in his castle would not have given him a moment’s pause if it weren’t for a third very striking circumstance.

She had touched him.

She was an affectionate creature, his little caretaker. Since the day he had let Robin Hood escape and she had hugged him impulsively, her casual touches had become more frequent. She bumped his shoulder with hers in friendly camaraderie, swatted his arm when he made a macabre joke, smoothed his hair when he came in from out of the wind, straightened his collars and smoothed his lapels before he left on a journey, laid a hand on his when she wanted him to pay particular attention to her words. Once, she had even leaned her head on his shoulder and fallen asleep as they traveled back from a rare trip to town.

It was enough to try the fortitude of any regular man. Rumplestiltskin was not, by any means, a regular man, and he had never had much fortitude even when he had been.

And now he had the memory of her warm and soft in his arms to drive him to distraction. Why had he not simply frozen her in midair? Or magicked a pile of cushions beneath her, or set her safely back atop the ladder, or...or any number of magical solutions that were not catching her and then gazing at her as if he’d never seen a woman before? Why, several days later, could he not shake the feeling that she was watching him more closely, smiling more sweetly, speaking more warmly?

She had not looked repulsed at having him so close to her, he recalled. She had not leapt from his arms the way she had leapt away from a spider making its peaceful away across the flagstone floor. She hadn’t wrinkled her nose and cringed as he’d seen her do when confronted with slugs in the garden. Far from being disgusted by him, she had always been the one to initiate any sort of contact between them. In all his unnaturally long life he had never been touched as much as he had been in the few months she’d spent under his roof.

He began to wonder how she would respond if he touched her. He wondered if she would mind if he were to offer her his hand to help her down from stools and ladders. Or perhaps she would allow him to brush dust off her skirts when she was a little too enthusiastic with the broom. Could he offer her his arm if they walked together in the garden or village? Could he tuck unruly curls behind her ears or wipe smudges of soot from her face? Once those thoughts took hold it was nearly impossible to banish them, and he found himself watching her, imagining her reaction to his touch, hoping for opportunities to reach out.

His chance finally came when he saw that she’d discovered a book about palmistry and fortune-telling in his library. In those first years after Bae was lost, Rumplestiltskin had collected as many books as he could find on all magical topics. The seer who’d foretold his fate had not been easy to find, so he had also studied all methods of seeing the future, to determine whether he could learn the skill himself. Many of those methods were pure chicanery, as he’d discovered to his cost. He chuckled when he found her poring over the tome as if it held the answers to all life’s questions.

“You’re more likely to learn to fly than to see the future, dearie,” he said. She started a little and looked reproachfully at him; she hated him to appear without warning. “Seeing is a gift - either you have it or you don’t. Besides, your future is pretty well set, wouldn’t you say?”

Sighing, Belle ran one hand over the page. “I suppose. I know I’m never to leave, but I suppose I wondered if I would ever...if there would ever be…” She shrugged and closed the book. “I don’t know.” Looking up at him, she gave him a small, sad smile. “I suppose you learned palmistry, then?”

“A lifetime ago,” he acknowledged. He approached her, perched on the arm of her chair, and cautiously reached out to take her hand in his. Her eyes widened, but she did not frown or cringe, and she made no move to pull away. Emboldened, he turned her tiny white hand over and traced one blackened fingernail along the lines etched into her palm.

“The lines of the palm are meant to indicate your personality,” he said. “Yours suggest that you do not give your heart easily, but that you express your feelings without reserve. That you are not ruled by destiny, that you are prone to daydreaming, and that you have an adventurous spirit.”

“Do you not agree?” Belle asked, her eyes fixed on his finger on her skin.

“That’s the trouble with palmistry, dearie,” he said. “Am I truly seeing those things in the lines of your palm? Or have I simply deduced that from knowing you? A stranger might spin an entirely different tale. Whether you believe it or not - well, that’s up to you.”

“And...your palm? What does it say?” Belle turned his hand over and he held his breath as she touched one of the lines there.

“It...uh…” She had not recoiled, which made this encounter a victory, but now she was much too close, too bold, and he pulled very lightly. She did not hold him captive, but allowed him to pull his hand away and curl it into a fist. “Monsters’ palms cannot be read.” Her lips pursed and she rolled her eyes, and he stood quickly to escape the heavy atmosphere that had settled around them. “Back to work with you, little maid,” he said, fighting to keep his voice light. “My collection is gathering dust.”

He disappeared in a swirl of smoke before she could say another word.

...Kiss

She would not come back. He repeated this sentence to himself over and over throughout the evening. There was no reason for her to return; he had freed her from her servitude and left the way clear for her to escape.

She would not come back. Her interest in him and his past, her determination to know him, were merely the result of her imprisonment. The charm of his promised history would pall next to the lure of freedom.

She would not come back.

The sun began to set and the moon to rise, and still she did not appear on the road. He didn’t know how long he stood at the window, a sort of resigned despondency seeping into him as the night grew dark and darker and still she was gone. He reminded himself that he had been alone before she came and he had no problem being alone again. If she preferred to be with her oafish suitors and brainless courtesans, so be it. He would not regret…

A small figure seemed to materialize on the road and Rumplestiltskin felt his heart stutter to a stop. The dim light must be playing tricks on his eyes, because the figure was wearing a green cloak and carrying a basket full of straw. She was a mirage, caused by eyestrain and the faint, foolish hope that she cared for him as he did for her.

But mirages did not draw nearer, and they certainly didn’t stumble over a loose clod of dirt in the drive.

She had come back. She had come back!

His heart roared to life again, pounding almost painfully in his chest. He spun away from the window and galloped down the stairs as quickly as his legs would carry him. She had come back! Why...why...why? Because she will not rest until you are dead, the Darkness whispered. No, his heart responded, because she wanted to. Because she liked the castle. Because she liked...him.

He heard the castle doors open and froze on the landing. He didn’t want her to see him rushing to greet her like an overeager boy. That would do his dark image no good at all. He transported himself to his spinning wheel instead, and pretended to be busy when she entered the Great Hall, her basket over her arm.

“Back already?” he chirped. “Good!” Too eager. “Good thing. I’m, ah, almost out of straw.”

Belle smirked at him as she set down her basket. “Come on,” she said coyly. “You’re happy I’m back.”

He fought to keep his smile from growing too wide. “I’m not unhappy,” he demurred, as if his very blood wasn’t humming.

He hoped - gods, how he hoped - that he was not imagining the flirtatious glance she sent him. Every coherent thought scattered to the wind when she walked behind him and gently placed her hands on his shoulders. “And you promised me a story,” she murmured close to his ear.

His head was swimming. “D-Did I?” he stammered.

“Mm-hmm,” she chirped. Plucking the rope out of his nerveless fingers, she seated herself on the base of the wheel, leaned close to him, and - for the love of all things light and dark - placed a hand on his leg. She looked ready to hang on his every word, or - if he wasn’t completely delusional - from his very lips.

“Tell me about your son,” she said gently. At least, that was what he thought she said. She might have started singing in Gnomish for all the sense her behavior made to him. She couldn’t - she couldn’t possibly - there was no possibility in this world or any other…

But she had come back.

“Ah…” With her luminous eyes and sweet smile fixed on him, he found he could not bear to see them dim with disgust. “I lost him,” he said lamely. “There’s...nothing more to tell, really.”

“And since then, you’ve loved no one, and no one has loved you.”

This conversation could not possibly be heading in the direction he thought it was. Incredulously he leaned forward and peered into her eyes as if he could search out her secrets. “Why did you come back?” he whispered.

“I wasn’t going to, but then…” Her breath was coming a little faster, her face alight with expectation, even excitement. “Then something changed my mind.”

Slowly, gently, she leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers.

...Anniversary

“Rumple, I...Rumple?” Belle froze in the dining room archway, her brow contracting in confusion. Before her stretched a room that was far larger than could be reasonably expected in their house...and it was deeply, nearly painfully, familiar to her. The dark wooden floor, the long table, the high-arched windows - she imagined that if she glanced out those windows she would see snow-capped mountains. At the far end of the room was a dais, and upon it…

“Back already!” her husband chirped from behind his spinning wheel. “Good! Good thing. I’m almost out of straw!”

Belle gaped. Whatever illusion Rumplestiltskin had created, it extended to his very person. Seated at the wheel, his skin glittering green and gold, his hair wavy and untamed, his clothes of the finest silk and leather, he was Rumplestiltskin of old, the imp with whom she’d first fallen in love.

“Dearie?” he chirped. “The straw?” Belle met his eyes and saw that he looked nervous, the fingers of one hand rubbing against each other in a familiar gesture.

Belle felt a whisper of magic envelop her and looked down to see that her clothes had been replaced by her old blue maid’s dress and at her feet was a basket of straw. Smiling to herself, she lifted the basket and walked forward into the room. She gave him a cheeky look and set the basket near his wheel, and then turned to smirk at him through the spokes of the wheel. “You’re happy I’m back,” she said, the words tasting bittersweet in her mouth.

“I’m not unhappy,” he demurred, and Belle nearly giggled. Stepping behind him, she placed her hands on his shoulders and felt him take a deep breath.

“And you promised me a story.”

“D-did I?”

“Mm-hmm.” She sat on the bench beside him and placed a hand on his leg. “Tell me about your son.”

His eyes flitted over her face before he took another breath. “I lost him. He hated what I’d become, and wanted me to go with him to a new land - a land without magic, where I could be his father again. I - I let him go, and I have spent every moment of the time since attempting to get him back.”

Belle took his hand in hers and squeezed lightly. “Rumple…”

“I vowed to love nothing else until I found him.”

She had not known that. Belle breathed in shakily as she recognized that this was not a roleplay or game. It was a confession.

An apology.

“Rumple.”

“Why did you come back?” he asked, and she knew he was asking not just as a part of the scene, but to understand why she had come back to him, always come back to him, despite everything.

“Because I love you,” she said, “as you love me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched in a tiny smile. Gently tugging on her hand, he pulled her forward and pressed his lips to hers. “I do love you,” he whispered as her other hand anchored in his hair. “Always have. Always will.”

Belle whimpered as he deepened the kiss and pulled her closer, lifting her and settling her on his knees. When he freed her hand she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and tugged him flush against her, smiling against his lips when he grunted. His hands swept up her back and into her hair; he tugged gently to tilt her head back and expose the column of her throat. His lips explored her there, traveling up to the sensitive spot behind her ear, humming in appreciation when she raked her hands through his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp.

“Mama!”

Their son’s plaintive cry sounded from the teapot on the table, and Rumplestiltskin grumbled against her throat. Belle giggled and pulled back. The enchantment around them shimmered and melted away, and her husband was once again smooth-skinned and brown-eyed with cropped silver hair. Belle stroked her thumb along one sharp cheekbone and pressed a kiss to his lips. “To be continued?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” he rasped, pulling her in again for a fierce kiss. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

Belle smiled and rose with a final tug of his hair. “Happy anniversary, Rumple.”

#Rumbelle Christmas in July #avatoh #dark castle firsts #rumbelle fic

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