Disclaimer: I do not own Once Upon a Time; ABC does. The characters of Rumpelstiltskin and Belle are not mine.
A/N: So, I came up with this idea while re-watching the season 2 episode "Lacey". It occurred to me that Rumpel as the Dark One has heightened senses due to the fact that his spinning is disturbed when he hears Belle crying in her dungeon and I wanted to play off the idea of how troublesome his heightened senses might be. Thus, this story was born. If any of you have read my story "Sunshine and Rain", it will be in that same humorous vein. In other words, I hope everyone enjoys it.
Sensitivity
The Dark One curse was a seductive blend of immortality, magic, and power. The most selfish and corrupt monarchs in the realm only ever dreamed of losing themselves in its delectable darkness whilst cowering on their knees, reduced to common beggars before the man who currently possessed the curse. Its reputation was beheld by every breathing soul in the realm, its ferocity the source of nightmares in the heads of children and adults alike.
Rumpelstiltskin learned a long time ago that—dreary as the curse may be—it had its unbeatable benefits. The magic alone was only slightly more addictive than opium. For the past three centuries, all he had to do was snap his fingers and he would have anything he desired apart from compromising one's free will and bringing the dead back to life. How easy was that?
How much precious time had he wasted as a petty human over the most mundane things? Now he only resorted to manual labor for the sole purpose of cooking and that was because magic and food mixed about as well as cats and water. Even the mute Enora had scraped together more savory meals than the cardboard glop that never resembled scrambled eggs, half-awake or otherwise.
Furthermore, he could wondrously transport to any spot in the Enchanted Forest so long as he clearly pictured the destination in his mind. He learned the hard way that thinking things like I remember it being next to a lake would land him in the lake. He supposed he should be lucky this world didn't have any active volcanoes.
All of his senses were heightened—not to the point of madness, but a tiny boost in level. Taste, touch, smell, hearing, sight; the entire kittenkaboodle. It made for a good alarm system in his castle. He never aged, though you could hardly appreciate it under his scaly golden complexion and unsettling lizard pupils.
Of course, there were always two sides to every coin. The Dark One curse certainly had its downsides that trumped the beneficial qualities some days.
It wasn't even the fact that he was burdened with his shame for losing Bae for nearly three hundred years or having to pop in and out of his sanctuary every time some lousy wretch dared voice his true name. Oh, how he despised the rumor mill. Oh, did you hear that Rumpelstiltskin—pop! I think I'll buy these leather pants because I spotted Rumpelstiltskin—pop!
No, that wasn't even the worst part of it, really. No, the part that truly grated on his nerves was the heightened sense of hearing. It was as much his bane as it was his benefit.
During the early days of the curse, if a stray rooster so much as squawked outside his window in the morning, he would tumble out of bed like his sheets were on fire because that single screechy squawk resembled an army of roosters in his ears. He kissed the floor more times than he cared to admit.
Eventually he adjusted to the sensitivity, breaking it in like a new set of leather boots, but that was before he brought the sweet, brave Belle to his castle to stay. In the blink of an eye, he reverted to those early days of the curse. He hadn't lived under the same roof with anyone in 300 years. He forgot how much he hated company in his castle.
At first, all she did was sob in her dismal cell at night. He heard every frantic gasp, every moist drawn-out sniffle, and every cry of anguish from the comfort of his stool at the wheel. It made spinning impossible. He had to toss her a pillow to stifle the weeping sessions.
It was maddening, but thankfully short-lived.
Until he started to tolerate her presence and she became accustomed to calling this miserable castle home, that is.
The sobs relented, only to be replaced with cheerful humming! She hummed while cooking, she hummed while scrubbing, she even hummed while laundering his clothes! Every note, every melodic chord that flowed from her swanlike throat…and she wondered why he never seemed to run out of straw.
Maddening, maddening, maddening.
It wasn't the problem of annoyance, though he wished he could tune her out for even a minute of the day. It was the matter of fondness. He liked listening to her hum her gentle notes and watching her prance swiftly around his castle with a duster in one hand and a book in the other. That was inconceivable. He tried covering his ears with pillows and stuffing them full with wads of spare silk. Gods, he even resorted to sticking the straw in his ears, but nothing worked.
She was trapped inside his head without giving any indication of leaving.
Finally, there came a day when Rumpelstiltskin could no longer take it.
Once his beautiful maid had retired to her chamber for the evening, he locked himself in the tower that hosted his circular library and worked feverishly into the night to concoct a potion that would lessen the sensitivity a bit. Even if it was temporary, he would gladly take regular doses if it meant regaining a shred of sanity from this flu.
His palms always grew sweaty, his heart raced like a wild horse, he jumped up from his seat every time he heard her coming his way. How many times had he drifted off from his work, snagged by whichever tune Belle was singing on the first floor? How many times had he caught himself humming the exact same song under his breath when he knew the words and tapping his shoe on the floor?
Too many to count, that was for sure.
He held the colorful glass vial up to the moonlight, the cerulean liquid shimmering as it sloshed inside. A layer of frothy foam coated the surface, the bubbles rising to the rim. He sniffed it suspiciously—odorless. Good enough to drink? He would see in a moment. It wasn't as if it could kill him. Regardless of what most people believed, there were worse things than death.
He had never tried this particular potion before, but what was life without a few risks to keep things exciting? In one upended flourish of the wrist, he sucked down the contents until there was nothing left on his tongue but his own saliva. He set the vial down on a table and blinked curiously, waiting for something to happen.
He blinked.
He waited. Hmm.
Well, he didn't feel any different. He examined himself from every angle in an ornate full-length mirror, searching for any external side effects. It was infuriating how often that happened. One time he messed up a spell so horribly that it turned his gold-brown hair the color of winter's first snow and he had to wear a turban for a week.
But this…this was going rather well. Every last body part was in the correct spot, there were no funny discolorations, he had all his teeth, askew as they may be…
"Tralala," he tested his voice, but it came out just as shrill as he meant it to be. It wasn't grating or unpleasant in pitch. Two plus two equals four. I am Rumpelstiltskin, the all-powerful Dark One, vanquisher of pesky jellyfish with wings, he thought to himself. Okay, so his brain wasn't a sluggish mess, either. He hooked his thumbs in his vest and smirked boldly at his reflection. I think you've outdone yourself this time, Mr. 'Stiltskin.
Nothing like a perfect brew before bed. Either that or a potion that was disappointingly inert. Perhaps it needed extra time to adjust the settings. Was there a slight change in his hearing or was that his imagination playing cruel tricks on his mind?
It occurred to him upon descending the library stairs that it was supremely quiet in his castle. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. More specifically, not even the mouse that lived in his dungeon. He cocked his head to the side to listen. No sobbing, no screaming, no humming, no snoring…
Nothing. He smiled proudly, his unsatisfactory teeth flashing in the moonlight.
Peace and quiet.
Just the way I like it.
….
Rumpelstiltskin usually never obtained much sleep during the night since the Dark One curse acted as an everlasting boost of energy. Two hours for him would easily replenish his energy in the way seven hours would for any other mortal being. But tonight he was completely restless. He did nothing but toss and turn, flipping between the sheets worse than a fish frying in a pan.
There was something wrong with the blanket.
He realized it after an hour of flopping. The way it rubbed nonstop across the length of his body irritated him until he ground his teeth together. Even though it was woven from the finest silks this land could offer, it felt more like he was covered in rough patches of straw. It itched, it chafed, it was too hot and heavy.
It was odd because he never experienced this problem prior to tonight. It wasn't because of Belle, either, since she was strictly forbidden access to his private chambers. He simply zipped his clothes down to the front hall on her washing days via magic.
Anyway, she didn't seem the type to play a childish prank. He knew he had done nothing to spite her recently. Even if he had, she knew better than anyone alive in this land that the wrath of Rumpelstiltskin was a nasty one, just by witnessing Robin Hood's brief confinement in this castle.
At last, he grew frustrated enough to kick off the blanket and curled up with only a thin sheet cloaking his lean figure. Sleep continued to elude him, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks with the rapid pace of ladybug wings. Bristles—that's what they were. Miniature bristles that raked the skin of his eyelids until they grew sore enough to ache. Who ever knew it was such an impossible task not to blink?
What the hell was wrong with him? Was he ill? Was it some kind of exotic mind-festering disease?
By gods, there was something wrong with the sheet, too!
Growling monstrously, his legs thrust the last layer away, allowing it to pool over the discarded blanket on the floor. Now there was nothing covering him but the clothes on his back. Once more, he closed his eyes and willed sleep to take him away in its peaceful embrace….
His leg was the first limb to move on the mattress, bending and uncoiling in a circular motion. His shoulder rolled, his palm pawed the bed. His whole body writhed and squirmed. His eyes snapped open, glowing furiously in the darkness.
"Ugh!" He groaned to the vaulted ceiling, rubbing the heels of his palms over his eyes.
Whipping the pillow from underneath his head, he buried his face into it and angrily pounded his feet on the mattress. The pillow failed to ease his frustration—it suffocated him cruelly and heated his skin worse than a scorching flame atop his nose. He tossed it away to join the infernal sheets.
What in all the realms was happening here? Now his attire bothered him!
The silky fabric teased his skin, every shift of the material unusual. He might as well have scraped steel tines along his flesh. And the fabric that bunched between his legs…ooh, that did not feel right at all. In a minute, he might be desperate enough to strip free of all clothing, stretch naked atop the bed, and pray that his innocent maid didn't need his immediate assistance until morning.
He glared at the overhead ceiling, loathing every contraction of his muscles. Some contractions felt exquisitely good to the point of mind-numbing ecstasy; others brought cramps. A second later, his brow furrowed. That was strange.
His vision had heightened with the onset of the Dark One curse, but tonight it was incredibly sharp. Sharper than if he held a magnifying glass to his eye, in fact. Nothing escaped his notice, not the fine cracks in the stone or the feathery film of dust settling in the corners or the different shades of gray that he never even realized existed.
Unable to take the stiffness and stillness of his body, he flung himself off the mattress and began to pace like a caged animal. The floor was especially cold underneath his bare feet. It'd be easier to walk on a solid slab of ice. The wind filtering through the window brushed his arm and he shivered from the exuberant caress. He scratched his head quizzically, making a thoughtful hmph.
"Ow, ow, ow!" His nails had somehow transformed into razors, grinding over his skull without mercy. He flexed his fingers in front of his face, examining the curved nails closely. Nothing different there. They were the same length as when he last examined them a few hours ago.
Why was he so sensitive to everything all of a sudden?
Sensitive.
Oh, no.
This was worse than the unspeakable turban incident. There could be only one reasonable explanation for this unnatural bodily change. The potion he drank a mere hour before…this must be the final result. He kicked the shaggy stretch of carpet at his feet, cursing when it practically gave him carpet burn on his toes.
The potion did the exact opposite of what he needed it to do. Somehow, he messed it up. Instead of dulling his senses, it made everything oversensitive. As in: more sensitive than he had been in the first place. Gods, his brain was on the verge of self-destructing from trying to concentrate on all five senses at once!
This was what he deserved for late-night experimenting with magical remedies. Magic apparently didn't solve everything. Everyone in this land assumed it was so easy being him with all this power at his disposal. Hah! Those simpletons had no clue.
Oh, why hadn't he tried the experimental potion on someone else first? The Hatter and Regina were worthy candidates.
He knew one thing for certain. He knew it without a shadow of a doubt, as confidently as he recognized his own name on that burdensome dagger. It would be absolute hell living with Belle tomorrow.
…