Chapter 1
Heartless
There are two things vital to understand about Rumplestiltskin's relationship with Belle.
The first is an absolute truth: "You love me."
He nods in confirmation of her words, no hesitation, no doubt.
The second is an unquestionable lie: "I love you."
"Belle..."
"You believe me," she says, "you do." To a certain extent, yes.
"I love you." She enunciates each word like maybe if she says it enough times it will become a fact.
"Don't."
"Kiss me," she says, because for Belle this apathy is something they can overcome and should make the most of.
Belle always makes the most of any situation.
"Kiss me," she repeats, "and we'll always remember."
Always remember their first kiss, their only kisses, were founded on lies and convenience.
He turns away from her. She doesn't understand, not like he does, not like Regina does. Magic is not as profound or intimate to her as it is to them.
A heartless girl cannot love, no matter how logically she knows she does.
Crash.
Thud.
Whimper.
The splash of blood falling to the floor.
These are the sounds Rumplestiltskin's been listening to for a solid half hour now and he can't really say they're music to his ears but they do help to unravel the tension headache he's had for the past seventy four hours.
The source of these onomatopoeias is lying flat on the ceiling and he has to stand directly beneath her because her hair is obscuring her face and he wants to look into her eyes.
It's only been a few years they've been at odds and barely several days of hatred between them so it feels off that they've reached this point already.
But she's earned her pain and blood loss. She's earned her concussion and bruises.
She has, but just to clarify, so there's no misunderstandings, "You understand why I'm doing this?"
She must. She is the Evil Queen and if anyone knows the burning want to hurt the person who stood between you and happiness, who is standing between you and happily ever after, it is the woman who's spent her adult life haunting a small child.
Queen Snow White.
Regina says nothing and it's like ice running through his veins.
"Of course you do," he says, "of course, of course."
Rumplestiltskin is not a creature of instinct. He's pure calculation, reevaluation and structure. He's a chess match, not an artist, but he can feel, with each brush stroke of chilled blood coursing over his bones, that this impressively obnoxious silence of Regina's is more than pride.
He carries on because he so loves a show, "You see, your Majesty – pay attention, now. This is important – this," he says, gesturing between the two of them, the two of them and then the room at large, "isn't fun for me." Hmm... "either."
And it isn't, this isn't Rumplestiltskin's style.
There's a fairy flying around, the catalyst of the most profound and defining moment of his life, the orchestrator of all his anger and cruelty, because he never ripped off her wings. He never made the Reul Ghorm bleed, it's unthinkable that Regina, Regina, is the one he's torturing.
Physically.
But Regina has something she can provide where the Reul Ghorm does not.
"Then," Regina says, breathless and low, "Get to your point."
For a moment he thinks she doesn't know. That he's missed a fantastic speech giving moment of dramatics.
Ah, but no. She's too smooth for that. People like them, they don't throw out questions they don't know the answers to.
"Where is it?"
"Let me go." He likes this retaliation of hers. They know each other so well; contracts, transactions and brokered deals.
He can't believe she doesn't catch herself when gravity slams her to the floor. She knew where that request was going to lead.
Regina struggles to collect herself. She has to brace her hands against the wall to stand up and as she wipes the blood from her lips she admonishes, "Mature, Gold. Very mature."
It's like ice.
This glibness of hers is superficial.
This flippant retort is a sham.
It is.
... But however fine an actress Regina may or may not be, she still needs a script in order to sell the part. She knows something he doesn't. She has something he's not aware of.
"'Gold'?" he asks, "Are we still playing that game, dear? Will the angry mob be chanting for 'Mayor Mills' when they light their pitchforks?"
She falters. The threat of Storybrooke's revenge alarms her even though she's standing beside him, full in the knowledge that her life is forfeit to him, tonight.
Regina doesn't flinch when he closes the distance between them and she doesn't baulk when he puts his fingers under her chin. He turns her head this way and that way and her eyes are bright and calculating no matter what angle he views them in. "Where is it?"
"You'll have to be more specific."
"No more games!" His fingers close around her jaw, forcing her focus, "Where's Belle's heart?"
"Oh," Regina says, "That."
Oh.
That.
He wants nothing more than an I'll-Do-Anything moment of terror from her. He wants to make her grovel. But she hasn't yet and that might just mean she's never going to.
"My Queen," he says, "My dear Queen," it's the first time he's heard a song in his voice in twenty nine years, "Don't make me beg." A gorgeous Kodak moment of having her cut her own throat takes root and is unshakable. He says, "Plea-"
Regina raises her hand and puts her fingers to his lips, "Shh, shh, shh..." It's the first time he's seen the Queen in her eyes, "Try me."
It's unlikely the world has stopped to indulge this moment between them, but it's so very quiet, so very still. It's like the universe obeys when Regina tells it to be silent.
Not even air disturbs two of the most powerful beings alive during a standoff, it mustn't and that's why he doesn't breathe.
Rumplestiltskin stares into Regina's eyes, into the windows of her soul, like maybe he can burn out her thoughts and know what sabotage she has planned.
Regina says, "I want to make a deal," and the moment shatters.
The universe falls back into place, the colors brighten, the sounds of the city outside blare and Rumplestiltskin draws breath to laugh.
She can't outwit him. It is laughable to entertain it. He's the master of words, of loop holes and fine print. It would take but a moment to find the perfect phrasing, the airtight command that could not be deviated from.
Her confidence is all bravado.
But, then...
He can visualize, with absolute clarity, a crystal clear image of Regina crying. Regina crying over her father's body. Regina crying over her child's body. All of her Henry's dead.
Because of him.
She doesn't forgive. She never forgives.
She asks, "What will it be, Rumple?"
Her eyes are as malicious as he's ever seen them.
He has the words and she has the revenge.
He lets her go and she rubs her jaw where his fingers have bruised, "Good boy."
She's fucking pushing it.
"A deal?" There is not a soul in existence he trusts less than hers and, directly following Regina, a truly desperate soul.
And, of course, Regina has to be both. She always has to crowd the stage. Desperation in concert with power.
The moment he has what he wants she's dead and she knows it. There's nothing to stop her doing everything in her power to destroy Belle and there's nothing to suggest she can't pull it off.
"Or aren't there two interested parties?"
Heh.
Bitch.
"A blind deal." She says.
A blind deal... "Oh, is that all you want?" She's asking for anything, for everything, for surprise twists and turns and him.
Regina says, "I'll wait while you consider your options."
Well, well, well. So this is how people feel when dealing with him. So much on the line that they'll say 'anything. Whatever you want. Name it.'
"For her heart?"
"Once I'm satisfied."
"For Belle's heart, Regina."
He can't remember the last time he used her name.
She's not quite evil enough to laugh, "For the return of your lover's safe, whole, unbroken heart," she confirms in that precise and exact manner he so loves to hear when dealing.
Then adds, "Well. No more broken than how I found it."
She won't sign a contract, oh no, nothing written by him, so when she holds out her hand Rumplestiltskin takes it and they shake, business partners once again. He leans in close and she doesn't move away even when their noses touch, but he didn't really expect her to. He says, "Your Majesty?"
"Hmm?"
"I'm going to destroy you."
Regina's fingers tighten around his hand, "My house has more room, but, as you say, the angry mob will be coming. Shall I pack?"
Surprise Number One: Protection.
Storybrooke is Regina's story. Regina's and, perhaps, his. They created it, cultivated it, nurtured it like stern and loving parents for 28 years.
The honeymoon ends and the bickering starts until the inevitable you-have-been-served divorce papers roll in and the custody battle for their precious child begins. Worlds are razed, lives are lost.
Storybrooke is Regina's story, it has to be, because otherwise her life belongs to another.
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
Regina's name isn't even in it. 'Queen' 'Witch' 'Stepmother.'
Beauty and the Beast
Well, at least he's a title character, but his story is Belle's. The audience sits back and watches her fall in love and nobody asks what the Beast thinks about it. She is Beauty and he should be so lucky.
But he is and he knows it, so when he walks in the door with Regina in tow and Belle cringes he doesn't tell her that she's the alimony.
Belle says, "What... I don't understand, what is she doing here?"
He should have called. He doesn't think Belle was crazy so she can probably work a phone from implanted knowledge of this realm. But he hasn't asked if no one questioned her quarantine because Regina had them under her thumb or because it was medically necessary.
"Belle-"
Regina interrupts, "You've lost weight, dear. Isn't he feeding you?"
They need ground rules.
Belle says, "Meals at eight, twelve and six."
"Witty girl."
He wants to step in. He wants to dashingly tell the Queen about sticks and stones and broken bones but Belle's feigning nonchalance and he's afraid of making her look weak by standing up for her. That the implication of telling Regina to spare them her passive aggressive arrogance will translate into 'Belle needs protection from any and all.'
And, anyways, he knows intimately that Belle can handle taunts.
It doesn't stop his hands curling into fists or his teeth clenching.
Or interrupting.
When Rumplestiltskin gestures past the entry way his hand parts them, "Drawing Room," he says, pointing across the way. "Office," left, "Dining Room," right, "kitchen," left again, "cellar," down-
"Guest room," Regina says, pointing up the stairs. "I know. I made this house."
Made, yes, but it's more likely she's used her blasted keys to snoop around.
"I'll get my things," Belle says, giving her room to the wicked witch.
For a moment it nags at him that her relocation will take one trip. He should have showered her with stuff the moment he realized she was alive, but she barely has a handful of items to call her own.
Just like old times.
As Belle walks past them Regina follows behind, takes a quick extra step closer and leans in close to whisper something in her ear...
Rumplestiltskin grips her arm and stops her, Belle none the wiser, "No tomfoolery, dearie."
"I like this protective streak in you. It's so... manly." Louder then she asks, "Which of you will be slitting my throat while I sleep?"
Belle can't get away from Regina fast enough.
Belle has nightmares.
Tossing and turning with fear, despair, sweat and tears.
In the morning she walks around in a zombie haze, a pallid flush to her skin that dissipates around ten o'clock and she says, "Would you stop worrying. I'll get over it."
She's a broken record; Don't Worry, Don't Worry, Don't Worry. Always so quick to assure him he has no blame. She's always there to remind him he could not have known.
She means it, he knows, every word. She's sincere in her insincerity and she's not acting, not really, though not even insomniacs watching infomercials would believe her performance.
And then the nightmares are gone and Rumplestiltskin tells her how beautiful she looks when she's well rested.
Rumplestiltskin knows a thing or two about the perfect timing evil has, so he's unsurprised when the wretched hag is there to scoff, "The shining image of perfection, hmm?"
Belle glares and sighs and he knows she's truthful, even if her eyes are listless.
Regina has a mess of papers that she holds inches from him, "Tell her something she doesn't know."
His nails brush Regina's as he takes the papers. It's hard to put bite in such a small motion, but the sentiment is there.
Written is a novel of madness. Scribbles in the margins, words circling, skipping and diagonally spaced over the college-ruled lines like she's failed the elementary lessons of writing between them. There are equations shoved between magical principles, words crossed out, written over each other, math and bylaws and spells and curses and pictures proving Regina is no artist.
This is insane, but he sees the hypothesis: attempting to combine two realms worth of vastly different schooling.
Potions brewing in cauldrons don't exist here.
Mathematical theorems don't exist there.
And there's not a sentence that doesn't endeavor to combine the two. It's pure incoherent chaos, "Gone off the deep end, then." But Rumplestiltskin still tries to sus it out.
There's an energy about Regina that can lead to nowhere good. She sits across from him, next to Belle, and it distracts him instantly.
He's the only one who notices, both staring, intent and curious, for his analysis.
Very well.
Back to homework, then.
There's a pattern, so disarrayed he questions if the woman who wrote it is aware.
He has to turn the papers around and around to read them and he glares at Regina each time he does.
He's read, scrutinized, interpreted and perfected the workings of men driven mad in their genius. Women wholly incomprehensible in their virtuosity, but this is-
Click.
The moment madness finds method.
His mind rearranges what he's reading, catalogues and reorganizes Regina's... small glimmer of perhaps something akin to brilliance... into a clear translation.
Regina. Oh, Regina.
She's like a child playing a game, thinking him the cheat code override. "Pure magic can't be contained." Directed, yes, influenced, but never tamed. He can't imagine how, in the accumulation of three hundred years, she supposes this idea never swept through his head. "If it could be done," he tells her, "I would have done it."
No one knows what it's like to be a god better than he – well, perhaps Reul Ghorm – but this is... hah! He chuckles at first and when he meets her eyes, shining and obsessive, he laughs.
"Have I told you how endearing your self-image is?" Regina asks.
She has, but, "Never so politely, dearie."
Belle leans forward to look at the notes and Rumplestiltskin slides them to her. She doesn't have a hope of deciphering them but he doesn't like his love being shunned out of the circle if she wants to be inside.
Regina says, "The ground work is already laid," you're welcome, "The magic from the Well is untainted. Flawless. No corruption, no contamination."
Pure.
Innocent.
Uninfected.
This is her thesis.
Corruption. Contamination. Poisoning the magic Well with spores or germs or viruses. Tying an infection so tightly to the magic that it can never be separated, and then...
Infections cannot function without a host and to have a host a parasite must be able to recognize, to instinctively know, where to find suitable conditions; serviceable homes in which to remain sentient.
And everything sentient has the hard-wired instinct to survive.
But diseases spread plague. They must be quarantined least they infect a nation.
There's something Regina hasn't taken into account, however: viruses are not harmless things.
"It'll kill you, dearie." Devour her from the inside out, take control of her body, mind and soul until nothing remains.
Just like, say, cursed knives.
If, of course, if it is cursed.
Curses come with blackened cruel intent and there's nothing to say this is the case. He never has figured out who made the knife. How. Perhaps it is not evil, perhaps it's simply the cause and effect of magic so powerful it's angry to be ensnared.
But he can't tell Regina this and, anyways, she's already intimately aware small magic's can have a deadly price.
And this is not small.
Regina drums her fingers on the table like he's speaking nonsense and maybe he is.
He supposes she wouldn't have come to him if she wasn't already aware and obvious facts are a bit silly to use as threats.
It is insanely and absolutely maddening that this childish witch, with less than two decades of magical knowledge, has found components he's never considered.
Though these rules only apply in this realm.
That's how he comforts himself. He never failed to put two-and-two together, he's never failed to realize this, not for all his years, Regina just got to the formal science of the matter before him.
He'd call her a savant if he didn't want to choke her on her own notes.
"Devil's advocate," he says.
"Sure."
"Assuming you could bind pure magic," he holds up a stern finger, "born of True Love, mind you, and isolate it into a vessel-"
"Like you did."
"No." No, he didn't and she knows that, "A human body could never survive it."
She raises her eyebrow like she can't believe he just brought that up. If she had all the variables needed to accomplish this on her own, she would.
Variables.
There's a great deal of science needed for this and Mayor Mills doesn't have the education for that. Neither, for that matter, does Mr. Gold.
He glances at Belle, quiet and not quite following.
She'll be hopeless too, then.
This could take years.
"A new deal-"
"No new deals," Regina snaps, passionate and unbending.
There's a quiet lull and with it Belle believes it safe to interrupt, "What's it mean?" she asks, "What's it say?"
Regina latches onto Belle's interest, "A heartless girl can't love, Rumplestiltskin."
Ouch.
He doesn't look at Belle, very carefully doesn't throw any of this burdening weight on her, but... maybe that is exactly what he wanted to hear. Maybe that is his excuse. No one can fault him if there exists an altruistic reason for his actions.
Out of the goodness of his heart, for his true love, he'll create unthinkable evil.
Belle finds him that night in the den, trying to organize Regina's ideas into something cohesive that can be laid out, charted and divvied into ranks. He's trying to find the starting point angle that will give them the best route to follow.
"You don't have to sleep on the couch," she says.
He looks up and dear god, she's a Dali masterpiece.
Out of place, abstract and profound in his nightwear. The silk shirt, his silk, hanging too large off her and the pants, his pants, falling low, unable to get a proper grip no matter how tight the drawstring.
"Sleep! Is that what you think we're doing, dearie?"
Belle smiles, taking the quip as it's meant, "She needs you," Belle relocates papers to sit beside him on the couch.
She's close enough that he can smell the sterile isolation scent clinging to her hair that his shampoo just won't evict.
He turns on the stereo because mood music is a wonderful cliché in this realm. "Not in one piece, she doesn't." Smooth Jazz, 106.4 SB FM. Lovely.
"Her door's locked and I don't think she-" Belle jumps in surprise and, in turn, it startles him. "Oh! I thought we were alone."
He checks his periphery and sees no reason to question otherwise. "We are."
She frowns, cocks her head and gives him a peculiar look like he's so very bizarre.
It takes him a moment to put it together and when he does he finds the answer to his unasked question: the true diagnosis of Belle's sanity.
He laughs at her because it's just easier and points to the entertainment center, "It's a 'sound system'," he says, complete with air quotes, "it plays sound." Or, perhaps... He gestures dramatically, in a way he hasn't done in decades, "Or there are little men inside playing instruments."
She is so long suffering and oh, how he has missed the look she gives him (now, right now, in the present and right in front of him), to inform him thusly.
She looks at the stereo with intense interest, eyebrows raised and curious.
It's the same look she gave the refrigerator, when he'd thought her amused at its bachelor contents. It's the same way she had looked at the cars when he thought her interested in the makes and models. It's the same as the bathrooms and the clothes.
Belle wasn't crazy. She just wasn't reformatted in preparation for new data storage. She was static, like everyone else, for 28 years, but lacking the necessary patch to mend the holes.
Regina made her static, existing as a mysterious girl in a mysterious ward with a mysterious purpose.
Regina's terrible at patience but a pro at underhanded cunning, so she saved Belle until she had a reason to activate her. To give her purpose.
Belle waited, for 28 years, to be real.
Belle's adaptable. She's adaptable here as she was in the Dark Castle when he never bothered to explain his home; a place so completely different from where she'd grown up. He'd assumed, correctly, that she would just figure it out on her own. Shrugged it off because, while it was controlled by magic in a way she'd never borne witness to (The candles that never dimmed, the temperature that remained always perfect, the way the water was always warm and the pantry was always stocked) it was also relatively straight forward.
Things had taken longer for her at first, sure, but not that much longer. Things fell into place. But here, now... He should have asked this time. She's no longer that new caretaker who danced for his amusement.
Belle never mentioned, though. Quietly willing to watch and learn. And, well, he can't recall a time she's needed to know and, moreover, he can't recall a time that's been suitable to ask.
Drama, drama, drama. Theirs is a rousing life.
Belle says, "Everyone here has magic, don't they?"
Rumplestiltskin supposes they do.
In a way.
A non-magical way.
Now might be a good time to answer some questions, but first, "What do you mean 'her door's locked', dearie?"
Belle raises her eyebrow like she's not sure that's actually a question so much as a self-explanatory rhetoric.
"Her door," Belle says in an 'I have faith you can figure this out!' tone, "is locked."
He tries again, "What do you mean 'her door's locked'?"
"Oh."
Yes, very good, "Oh." he mimics.
Mockingly.
Belle says, "I checked on her, on my way down." When he says nothing, she quips, "To make sure she was in one piece."
Ah. The reason why Belle was never allowed to learn this new realm, all these common sense earthly things:
"She spoke kindly of you."
Yes, oh yes, he just bets she did.
Rumplestiltskin says, "I know."
It would have been important, so excruciatingly vital, that Belle remained in love with him. It is vital. For thirty two years Regina has known that the minute Belle resents him, the second she reviles him is the moment she becomes a pointless pawn.
You can't make someone love you but you can make them hate and once that happens it's so very hard to get the spark back.
Regina needs that spark.
Belle says, "Maybe, if you tried-"
"No." The request isn't worth a second thought. "She told me you were dead." That's the woman she wants him to coddle.
"I know." Belle's smile is stretched and strained, but it's trying. "'You're alive' gave that away." She reaches for him and even though she's only offering physical contact as a means to manipulate him he doesn't pull away. "But she's here and this anger and quarreling is getting you nowhere." She nods encouragingly, "So, if you tried-"
"It's not going to happen."
"Rumplestiltskin."
"Belle."
She sighs and he says, "Why do you care?"
It's possible he could have said a worse thing but, judging by her stern and betrayed expression, he doubts it.
Bad move for someone who already knows the answer.
Belle never fights. Or, more accurately, she rarely fights. He's never known her to be hostile, not in the face of dungeons or taunting or actions performed solely to rile her.
She finds it stressful. She hates it. She wants to ease the glares and derision and bold threats between the Evil Queen and the Dark One, trapped together, because it hurts her very mentality. It makes her miserable.
She thinks it must weigh heavily on them in turn.
Belle is calm and patient and it had been so very aggravating and taken so very long to appreciate her unrelenting optimism.
Looks like he's going to have to learn to appreciate it all over again. How exciting...
"I don't." She's too mature to actually say 'Fine. Whatever. You win. Happy now?' but it's there, catty and discouraged, "I'm going to bed, if you want..." he shakes his head and she continues, "You could give me a kiss goodnight?"
He turns back to his research and listens to her leave.
It's five in the morning and only one of them has slept.
They leave Belle at his shop, combing through layers of boxes and displays and remnants of the old world's treasures he's squirreled away. There are shelves and shelves and a storage basement full of stuff and what they need most are books.
Belle might not know magic, but she knows her literature.
And the less she's seen with them, Storybrooke's Most Wanted, the happier he is.
Regina takes him to her father's crypt and, inside, places her hands determinedly on a tomb. "Help me move this?"
Secret passage ways, hidden tunnels, underground compartments. He almost smiles.
Actually, he does, but it's wiped off his face before it's fully formed because, when he flicks his fingers, nothing happens.
The coffin blocking the entrance doesn't budge.
He's a clever lad; he figures it out:
Someone able to meticulously take a thing apart is, by default, able to meticulously reassemble it.
Regina so loved his company that she couldn't bear the torturous seconds that ticked by after knocking on his door. The terrible wait before being permitted entrance was too hellish.
Or something.
She liked to break his locks and she did it without the need of skeleton keys.
She used the knowledge of their weaknesses to reinforce her own.
She's toying with him.
"You don't want to fight me, dearie," he warns.
Possibly reminds.
It depends on the point of view.
"What's a small jest between friends?"
He breaks the coffin because, try as she might, his is the superior power. It's a welcome mercy that the tomb is empty, "What's punitive damages?"
The Evil Queen and the Dark One in small claims court.
Down the stairs is an underground temple, shelves of trinkets and slots and boxes, just like his shop but more precious for their sentimentality.
Far, far more precious as he stares at the compartments in back.
Which one is Belle's, he wonders. Which box contains her heart...
He would have to break their deal to find out.
Young Henry paid the price for Regina's foolish magic and Belle might just pay for his.
Their jests are never innocent.
Of course she put a deadbolt on her father's empty tomb, because so very many trespassers assume coffins are hidden passageways, but these vaults along the walls are of actual import. There's no doubt there are traps, triggers and defensive consequences of opening one.
Regina didn't bring him here to lure and bait him, but it sure as hell feels like it.
Regina's scouring the room, pulling out anything that has the promise to be of use and she doesn't look at him, oh so arrogant, when he runs his fingers over the security boxes locked up tight and dear, "Come here, Rumple."
He expertly conveys, 'burn at the stake, Reggie' with a single look.
"Which one is it?"
"If you ask politely, I'll tell you."
He never, never thought he'd see the day she'd goad him into not saying 'please.'
"So close," she says, "and so far away."
She expertly conveys, 'you first, dearie' with a single look.
She has a dozen books stacked at her feet and this time her request is sincere, "Help me carry these," and, because she's a first class bitch, "please."
There was a time, and it really wasn't so long ago, when they could work together without all this boiling, uncontainable fury. He remembers plotting with her, scheming with her and he remembers the harmony of their laughter and how no one appreciated the melody but them. He remembers tea and biscuits and not having his every other thought filled with ways to hurt her nor his words aimed to break her.
Their civil conversations were not always laced with malice and the want to put the other in their place.
But he doesn't know how to change that, not even with Belle pleading so sweetly in his ear, when he wants nothing more than to crush her.
Creative differences take less than an hour to arise.
Logically, yes, sacrifices will have to be made on both sides to accommodate and adapt to each other's methodology. He knows this and accepts it as fact.
But he's older and wiser. He's more powerful and it's his help Regina needs.
Despite this stellar logic, Regina doesn't relent.
She says it's organized chaos, this shambling mess of books and papers and print out copies of data, but he's not buying it.
Nothing so cluttered can be conducive to production.
Regina says, "I like to see what I'm working on."
Visual cues.
Sophomoric.
"Trees for the forest?" That's a new one, "Power requires elegance. Elegance requires precision. Precision-"
"Screw your Feng Shui, Rumplestiltskin. Buy yourself a loom and meditate with that."
Belle stands on the sidelines, willing to quietly weather out the storm as she looks around the room, at the books, the papers and the laptops sprawled every which way.
Rumplestiltskin takes the fact that she has to step around and crane her head as support for his side.
"I can't work like this," he says with all the put upon ire of an overly appreciated artist, spoiled by acclaim.
"This is how I work and you work for me." She raises her eyebrow, "It's settled."
He seethes, "Oh, do I?"
"I'm sorry, is there confusion on the matter? Shall I spell out the repercussions of your disobedience-"
A series of fast, loud and irritating claps chop through the air and cut her off. Startled, they both turn to the source.
Belle, who hasn't spoken a word in over an hour, is standing there with a glower of frustration. She looks, he thinks, like a mother with children in their Terrible Two's.
He'll go out on a limb as assume she's not applauding them.
"Thank you," she says now that all eyes are on her, "I have a suggestion."
It's only by virtue of his general support for all things Belle that he doesn't share a put upon look with Regina.
"The only problem I see is 'confusion.'" Her eyes are hopeful for agreement but she doesn't give them the chance.
For the best.
"You each need to know what is where and how it goes together." So very hopeful, her nods and movements as she picks up a carefully blank paper, "So why not just color code and number your work? Your efforts are going to become disorganized anyways. Rumplestiltskin, you can work in the attic, and her Majesty in the sitting room."
The attic. The closet she can get to a tower.
She chose the sitting room, not the office, for Regina ...why?
Or perhaps that's paranoia. The sitting room is larger.
Regina shoots Belle a 'that's my girl' look that doesn't sit well with him, but she says, "That's ridiculous, Belle. What we need is-"
"Just try it!" There's a flavor of desperation. "And if it doesn't work," Belle continues, gently contrite, "we can go back to the drawing board?"
Reluctantly, and with far less incentive than he appreciates, they agree.
Rumplestiltskin is positive this will lead to a rainbow of fights and a tug-of-war battle but, at least, Belle looks proud.
Regina's writing is clear now that she has room to think. Her thoughts aren't frantic and filled with the fear that her conceptual design will turn to smoke and waft away if she is not quick enough to keep the embers burning.
There's no desperation in her concise and proficient writing and it's easier for Rumplestiltskin to read her work without the ink blots and shaky script of penmanship ruined in the face of white knuckles gripping a pen. Like clenching solid mass is the same as clenching abstract thoughts.
She still slips into standard Gregg shorthand when she loses her patience for prepositions and adjectives but it equates laziness now and not the crafty technique of a woman failing to keep up with her racing intellect.
Everything he sees in her notebook is bland and unimpressive.
Rumplestiltskin doesn't notice it at first, the way she leaves just an extra bit of space between lines, how she never writes in the margins and her quirky annotations of question and exclamation marks in parenthesis. He doesn't realize he's reading homework because he's watching her suffering posture, finger combed hair and far too much knuckle cracking. He sees the determination and ruthless drive and forgets, until page three, that above all Regina is a woman of manipulation.
She hired the Huntsman, framed the Mirror, stole the apple but she has thoughts and brilliance of her own and now that he's seen them it's hard to stomach the knowledge that she's using her connections once again.
Admittedly, it's a grand time having a little helper bee who knows her way around magic, but it's aggravating to have a T.A. capable of leading her own class.
The obsession to figure this out is there, the genius isn't, and he knows why.
Rumplestiltskin comes up behind her and, with that knack for the dramatic that never earns him favors, snatches the notebook from her hands as she's penning some sort of theorem.
He makes a show of skimming it over and says, "You cite your sources." Like a sterile Wikipedia entry.
Her nails scratch his fingers as she tries to take her papers back, "I'm using that."
He ignores her, "I like it. It's cute." He'd pinch her cheeks if he could get away with it, "Adorable. So helpful, thank you your Majesty."
"You're welcome," she deadpans and when he raises the notebook out of her reach she snaps her fingers in a hostile, though painless, gesture, "Now give it-"
"Of course, if I could beg a question?" he turns the notebook around a few times, examining it with all the false pretentiousness it deserves, "shall I grade this in red ink, or blue?"
"What?"
"'What?' Come now, don't be a bore. All this time I'm wasting on you could be better spent teaching Belle how to use the dryer." He leans down, far too close for someone not fond of pain, "That could be useful, hmm?" Useful and something anyone can do.
Regina looks like she has some choice words on this production, but he carries on, "I'm not your master, dearie. You declined that role a long time ago. And isn't that a shame? You might've had some glimmer of confidence to go with your potential."
He winces once the words leave his mouth. Well, he almost winces. Inside, the words pain him because he doesn't want to sit here giving her a pep talk. Rumplestiltskin would much rather have Regina be clever but miserable than encouraged but angry.
"You don't want me to lead," he says, which is true, even though he fully intends to remain in command. But he thinks her capable to take charge with only intelligence on her side and not the cheap mechanics of manipulation, "trust me on that." He mostly sure she's going to take those words with the same seriousness Belle took his warnings on tempting monsters.
He throws the papers at her to make up for being motivational, "Stop asking if you're failing and just fail."
Things don't get better between them after that.
There's a brief moment that he finds Regina delightful when he can find only red pens, but there isn't enough hilarity in it for him to tell her so.
They can't really keep their distance from each other, not living under the same roof, but they make do. They've successfully avoided each other for a full nine hours and probably could have lasted twenty if Rumplestiltskin hadn't noticed Belle's absence and wondered on it.
Armies have fallen before Regina, kings have genuflected in fear before her and she has brought a world to its knees because of one moment in her past. He does not like that Belle is missing while he doesn't know where Regina is.
Of course, his fears pan out.
Regina's voice snaps, "Belle, I have a ten year old who can do this."
But not for long. Will Regina miss Henry's eleventh birthday? He's sure that'll be a miserable day for her and, consequently, for him.
"What was that?"
"This is child's play."
Rumplestiltskin follows the sound of voices into the kitchen.
At first it appears that Regina is threatening Belle, trapping her between her body and the kitchen counter, but Rumplestiltskin gives the scene a second glance, with eyes not primed to see the worst.
Regina may or may not have purposefully pinned Belle down but she is caught between the witch's hideously perfect body and the coffee machine. She's caught, yes, but there's nothing to suggest she's trapped. She neither looks like she's nervous nor like she's trying to be brave.
They don't look awkward together.
Perhaps not natural or comfortable, but there's an ease there, a familiarity that alarms him.
Belle's so much smaller than Regina that she's easily towered over, but Regina still has to stretch to her toes, as she reaches for the cupboard doors above Belle's head, to make up for the fact that there's a grown woman in her way.
Belle doesn't look desensitized to Regina's presence or even stubborn in refusal to move. She looks...
"You have a child?"
More information everyone knows. Everyone except Belle.
Regina ignores the question and brandishes a coffee filter accusingly at Belle, "Let's try this again, shall we?"
Belle takes it from her and mutters something about how time looks different on digital screens and it's ridiculous you'd have to press one button three times.
Admittedly, one of the things Rumplestiltskin loved first about Belle was her readiness to fetch drinks, but he still doesn't like Regina making her do it.
"What's your child's name?" Belle asks, resetting the coffee maker.
"Henry."
Their ability to move with familiarity alarmed him, but the next words out of Belle's mouth surprise him into something akin to dread.
"Oh!" she says, correctly setting the machine to make a perfect pot, "Like your father." Belle turns to face Regina once more and smiles like she finds the naming of Regina's son so very endearing, "Where is he?"
Rumplestiltskin hadn't forgotten that, where Belle had been with him for months, she'd been with the Queen for years, but it never occurred to him, and it never would have, that Belle was there with Regina.
In his head he saw a dungeon, another solitary cell. He saw Belle shivering with blue lips in winter and sweating, gasping for air in summer.
He's so busy reorganizing this new data into terms that make sense that he's failed to notice the sixth sensed witch has become aware of his presence.
"Dead." Regina says, "It's like you said, child. We can't rely on those who love us to always be there to protect us."
Oh, yes. She knows he's here.
But Belle doesn't or she wouldn't be giving Regina a look he thought was all for him; a look of straining tolerance, always used when he'd taken words out of context and warped them to best suit his interests.
It doesn't matter if that's what Regina has done because that sentence has every intention of haunting him for weeks to come.
"I'm so sorry," No, Belle's not, so Rumplestiltskin takes pleasure from that. But he feels a great, overwhelming need to correct her assumption.
But, of course, telling Belle Regina killed her own father is opening the door for an explanation as to why and who had her do so.
If he stays out of sight Regina will supply more information, but she won't do it kindly. "'Sorry'?" he asks, stepping into the kitchen, "Why ever for?"
He can be unkind too.
Regina does not step away so Belle's forced to slip out beneath her, "I'm making coffee." She segues doubtfully. There's a mixed expression on Belle's face, like she's embarrassed to be caught in a compromising situation, but has no idea why it's compromising or worthy of embarrassment.
Belle spares a glance at Regina and then corrects herself, "Or trying to." But it's the thought that counts, "It's almost done. Again."
Belle smiles and so he smiles and then Regina smiles and everything is so strained he could pluck it and watch the vibrations.
Belle gestures past them because, apparently, one is not always in the mood to smooth out tension, and says, "I'll get the china."
Aw, he thinks, busting out the good plates from the curio.
Or perhaps she just hasn't pried through the cupboards and isn't aware there's a tarnished set ready for use.
They let her go. Villains though they may be, there's no reason to force her and, perhaps, without Belle between them they'll do better with co-existence.
For five minutes.
There's a mess of filters and coffee blends and it's such a shame Regina's the only one here because he'd like to share a bemused look with someone.
He doesn't notice how close Regina is until she trails her fingers against his back. Her nails scrape across him again and again.
Even as Rumplestiltskin shrugs her off she keeps at it; straight down, diagonal, across.
Regina leans in close until she can whisper in his ear and he doesn't know what irks him more: that she's so close or that she's stealing his mannerisms.
He's the one who enjoys being too close for comfort.
She adds a flavor of seduction and poison to make it her own, "Why didn't you save her, Rumplestiltskin?"
She knows why and he doesn't want to get dragged into that conversation, even if it means letting her have the last word.
Her nails dig into him, shoulder to hip and he thinks, 'scourges and flaying.'
It doesn't matter.
She's lying.
Regina stole his Belle, trapped her away in some form or another but kept her prisoner from him all the same.
Belle was never dragged before the clerics, she was never tortured and she never jumped. Regina wanted him to stew in self-loathing and second hand anguish and, naively, he did.
Regina laughs, "You still don't know?"
She's lying.
She's had Belle for decades, kept as a hopeful bargaining chip.
Magic snaps a static charge and she hisses, "The words you're looking for are 'thank you.'"
Regina stole Belle.
...But when?
Belle returns to say, "You still have the chipped cup?"
"Oh," Regina says to Belle, in a gossiping tone, "do I have a story for you."
For all his obsessive hatred and scheming revenge there was one possibility Rumplestiltskin failed to consider.
In a way, it should have been his first thought.
But of course it wasn't.
Regina's the air brushed magazine cover of immorality. She's the centerfold of malevolence, the stunning beauty of cruelty and the glamor of gut wrenching agony.
She's sin.
She's torment.
She's evil.
Rumplestiltskin knows how Maurice feels.