Two months after Rumple "hires" Belle. . .
Belle is preparing their tea.
Their tea. She's training herself to think "their" because if it sinks in, if she can convince herself that this castle is hers now too (after all, she in her cleaning excursions sees more of it than he does. The dust she's swept away proves that he hasn't set foot in half these rooms in donkey's years) she will begin to feel at home here. And if she can begin to feel at home here, she can work up the nerve to begin to ask the questions she needs to ask–and demand answers.
So she is preparing their tea to take into their great hall and serve in their china cups– including this cracked one he favors.
She's studied the cup, and she's figured it out, she thinks. Most men wouldn't show the slightest interest in a piece of china, unless it had some monetary value, and Belle knows enough about the value of household objects to see that this tea set is neither antique nor imported; she could find one just like it in the village at the foot of their castle. So why is Rumplestiltskin so attached to it? She finally figured it out when she caught him staring at her one day: it's not her cup, the cup she cracked, that he's attached to. It's her.
Armed with that knowledge, she has decided today she will have some answers–by showing him that if he truly wants to protect that which he treasures, he will arm her with the truth. Besides, she thinks she understands his point of view.
As she sets the tea tray on the dining table, he rises from his spinning wheel to come to the table. She has prepared the most fragrant tea in their cupboard: she's learned his nose is master of his appetite. To accompany the tea, she's baked strawberry tarts, a sweet that never fails to elevate his mood. And she's wearing the blue dress, which she is counting on to provoke his memory of the day she fell and he caught her. . . and held her a little longer than necessary.
He lifts the lid on the teapot and sniffs, humming his appreciation. He reaches for a plate with one hand and a tart with the other as she pours the tea into their chipped cup, adding a splash of cream and a lump of sugar, just as he likes it. He's already biting into the tart as she prepares her own cup and seats herself in the chair she insisted on dragging to the table and parking next to his–setting it down so firmly that he understood she'd brook no argument about it. That was a month ago; she's never heard a word of complaint about it.
"Are the tarts to your liking?" she begins, for her strategy is to get him to see that the boon she's about to ask is, really, also to his liking and for his benefit.
"Delicious, dear heart," he replies as crumbs fall all over his silk shirt. "You are a wizard in the kitchen."
"Thank you, kind sir. My mother taught me. She was a bit of a rebel that way; she thought even a noblewoman should have practical skills."
"Most wise," Rumple agrees, reaching for another tart.
"My father saw the wisdom in that too," Belle leans forward conspiratorially. "Especially when she baked chocolate cakes." They both chuckle.
"Remind me to thank him when next we visit." A third tart makes its way to his plate.
"A wise man," Belle says thoughtfully (and carefully: Rumple won't know for sure if she's referring to her father or her employer). "More tea?" He surrenders their cup to her for refilling. "Even though his holdings and his power are small–especially compared to this"–she waves at the castle surrounding her and Rumplestiltskin flushes with pride for just a moment before he schools his expression. "Though he's only a border knight, he's had to become a quick and perceptive judge of character. Every day, it seems, someone approaches him for favors. Sometimes they wheedle, sometimes they beg, sometimes they bargain–some even dare to threaten, as though they can scare him into giving them what they want!"
Rumple snorts and nods in understanding–and she knows she's got him. "And when they couldn't get to him, sometimes they'd try their tricks on me."
Rumple scowls. "You have been threatened?" She can feel the heat of anger arise from his scaly skin. "If it ever happens again–"
"Oh, I will," she assure him. "I'll come to you immediately, just as I did him, when I was at home." She allows a trace of wistfulness into her voice, as if to suggest homesickness. He starts to worry, so she adds quickly, "Of course, the Dark Castle is home to me now."
"I'm glad you feel that way."
"I do." She leans forward again, this time urgently. "It occurs to me, as many beggars and wheedlers and threateners as pester my father, a simple knight, how many more must pester the most powerful sorcerer in the world?"
Rumple drops his fourth tart to listen.
"Of course, I'm sure you know how to handle them, and who would dare try to con you?"
"You'd be surprised, dear heart, " he mumbles. "The world is filled with fools."
"And if they can't get to you. . . ."
Alarm fills his large eyes. Hastily he pushes his plate aside and grasps her hand. "Belle! We need to talk. I can't always be here to protect you from the scum who might use you to get to me."
"Teach me, please, Rumplestiltskin." (She finds not even he is immune to the power of names). "Don't let me become a liability to you. Teach me how to recognize your enemies so that they can't use me against you, and so that protecting me doesn't have to become such a preoccupation as to interfere with your work. Let me know why they're your enemies and how they can harm us, so I can see through their tricks."
He nods anxiously. "Belle, we have to talk. I have many enemies; there are even more opportunists who might put you in danger to force me to do their will. Let me teach you, Belle, please, for both our sakes."
She nods too. "I need to learn. You'll find, I think, I'm already a good judge of character, thanks to my father. But where magic is involved-"
"Even the wisest of us can be tricked," he finishes. He leans back, making himself comfortable in his tall-backed chair: they're going to be here a while, his body is saying; he has a long tale to tell. "It all begins, dear heart, and, if my plans succeed, ends with Bae. . . ."