This is my first OAUT fic, so please be kind. I love Rumbelle dearly, and I'm so glad it's cannon. These characters do not belong to me! Reviews are cherished. Rumbelle on, friends…
For many years now, Rumplestiltskin had tried very carefully not to consider what he was missing. As soon as he had learned that she had thrown herself from the tower, he had locked away that little chink of vulnerability, buried it. Dead was dead, and he knew better than anyone that there was no way to bring it back. Why try?
The possibility of Belle in Storybrooke had never once crossed his mind. He'd never indulged in such idle pastimes of what it might be like to have her here, in his home, part of this strange world. He hadn't lived for the fleeting glances of a memory-robbed, petite brunette slipping into Granny's for a meal or casting a longing glance at the long-forgotten library. Although he might be lying if he didn't admit that he felt it was right that the library ought to remain closed up. It hinted at her, and he was more than content to let it be. How terribly ironic that this is where he chose to hide the most powerful magic. Dragon in the basement, indeed.
And then she appeared like a sprite. The confounded girl, the very one whose exact location he was ever conscious of in his dark castle, all but materialized in his shop. Only his little bell announced her arrival. His Belle. He still wasn't sure how he had managed to stand, shaken to the core both at her presence- her existence- and then at her condition.
She's in his home now, taking up residence on the sheltered third story balcony and nearly asleep in the one and a half size chair he dragged out there for her comfort. It doesn't surprise him in the least that the book in her lap is his car owner manual. The machine both startled and fascinated her. He could only imagine what would happen when she got her hands on a computer or PDA. Chances were, both would end up in parts on the table while she sought to understand its inner workings.
At the moment, however, he was far more concerned with her. "I don't suppose I could convince you to rest, hmmm?" he mused as he draped a light throw over her, tucking it gently around her bare feet. He wasn't sure what he had expected, after all this was to be her haven, but a very big part of him was surprised to return from his shop not even half an hour ago and find her still here. She hadn't been the only one afraid that this all might be a dream. He's still a little convinced it could be a nightmare for both of them.
"It's too beautiful a day to miss," she murmured, offering a sweet smile and following it up with a soft, "thanks."
He pressed a kiss into her hair, unable to resist the dark tresses, needing the physical contact to remind him that she was here. Very real. It was followed by a tea cup and saucer offered carefully, chamomile which was meant to soothe. He- Rumplestiltskin, the Dark One- had fretted over her tea for a full three minutes as he studied the choices in his cupboard, unsure which one Belle of the Enchanted Forrest would prefer. Ludicrous. And yet, she had this strange power to unnerve him in a way no other could.
Rounding the chair, he came to stand against the railing, leaning on it for support and watching closely as she sipped. His mind couldn't stop cataloging every nuance- her color, whether or not her hand trembled, if the circles under her eyes had faded much since the day before, whether she might still be feeling the effects of her stomach ache the night before or her nightmare that made her bolt upright in the small hours of the morning. Captivity had not suited her.
"Rumple, you're staring," she murmured before taking a cautious sip of the tea. Her soft hum of approval put him a bit more at ease. "I'm not a tea cup. I won't crack."
"No, you're worth much more than that and made of far sterner stuff," he agreed. The simple fact that she was as lucid and functional as this was a marvel. Twenty eight years, while only a small fraction of the centuries of his life, was no small amount of time to be isolated. He wanted to know everything-from whether she was kept in total seclusion, what she was fed, and the sordid details of Regina's involvement to who had freed her and how she had ever managed to escape the hospital and navigate the streets of Storybrooke without being stopped. Yes, he was most especially interested in who had freed her and how they knew where to find her. And yet he hesitated to ask, focusing on her and the more immediate concerns. "How are you feeling?"
"A bit tired," Belle admitted, quickly following it up with, "But better, really. I should've slowed down at tea last night... only everything tasted so lovely..." Although he did his best to keep the meals modest, she had eaten heartily, albeit sheepishly. He would have fed her for weeks and conjured up any delicacy her heart desired, but he restrained himself for the sake of her body that wasn't used to processing such rich foods.
"I have more medicine, if you need it," he offered, wishing he could simply magic away the tiredness and wariness that still lingered when she heard unfamiliar sounds. Oh how he wanted to magic it all away, but he was ever so keenly aware that all magic comes with a price- David himself had reminded him of this only a little while ago in his shop when he had stopped in to collect his maps and finish his plans to find Bae. No, he wouldn't pay any more prices like that, not with Belle. Not after their fight, only hours after their reunion, which had sent her into the maelstrom of a wraith and its hunger. He'd hated himself for that, and he drove around for a bit, searching streets and finally returning to his shop with the hope that she had found shelter and was most likely to return there, if she ever returned at all.
Her head shook slightly. "No, and that pink stuff was horrid."
His mouth quirked up into a ghost of a smile at the strength of her reaction. She had stared warily at the bottle for several long moments the night before, eyes bleary as they scrutinized the container. He'd warned her that the taste wasn't ideal, but she had still pulled a face after taking a tentative sip. Despite the chalkiness, she'd dutifully taken the full dose, and it managed to calm her stomach enough to keep her from getting sick and losing the much-needed meal. "But it did the job."
"Mhmm," she hummed in agreement. She offered up the manual to him. "Will you show this to me some time?"
He stepped closer and inspected the detailed schematic of his car's engine. Gods only knew how that was going to end. At least if he was present, he could be sure she didn't completely disassemble the entire thing. "Of course. But you must be careful when you look at it. Always make sure it's turned off and that they key isn't in the ignition."
"Ignition?" she asked curiously, already thumbing to the index.
His hand closed gently over hers. "I'll show you before we look at the engine. Some other day." It was rare that he used his car at all, generally preferring to walk. Walking kept his leg muscles stretched and made his right leg less likely to cramp. It did not ache as much as it had back when he was a mere village coward, and that had been a small comfort in this world that was far different from what he had expected when he conjured up this curse. Despite all of his careful planning, research, and crafting... well, so much was unexpected, unintended.
One delicate hand reached around him, brushing lightly against his suit jacket and feeling. "What do you have?"
"Oh this?" he answered, voice neutral as he let her hand catch his wrist and draw forward a small, plain paper sack. "A gift." He relinquished the bag and watched closely as she gave him that look of confusion before opening it carefully. "It's not combustible, sweetheart."
"Oh," Belle breathed, pulling out four little glass containers that must have seemed to her eyes to be small vials or trinkets. "They're beautiful..." She held each one up, examining the color and the containers and laying them reverently in her lap- a pale pink, a rich burgundy, another with the slightest golden sheen (he really couldn't resist that one in particular), and a final that was clear. With a small smile, she swirled the container, watching as the liquid moved. "I'll put them on the bedside table."
He nearly laughed, and only the thought of her feelings kept the chuckle inside. "They open," he explained, plucking up one and twisting it carefully. He left the upper part setting in place and carefully handed the whole thing to her again.
She lifted the piece to display a tiny brush with the thick liquid dripping from its end and back into the bottle. "It's- oh," she breathed again, this time her nose wrinkling in distaste. "It smells like... like... I don't know what it smells like, but it smells," she finally decided. "I-it's very beautiful, though," Belle tried to compensate, giving him a stern scowl when he laughed aloud this time. "What is it? Paint?"
"In a manner of speaking. They call it nail polish." He pulled another item, rectangular, from his pocket and set it in her palm. "You use this first, to smooth down the edge and surface of the nail, and then you pick your color and then use the clear coat."
Her free hand caught his and examined it closely. "You're not wearing any."
"It is traditionally worn by women." Not that he hadn't heard of men wearing it, but that might be yet another conversation to explore some other time. "Some wear it all of the time. Others on special occasions. Some women do not wear it at all. There are hundreds more colors; this is only a very meager sampling."
She pulled the brush from the burgundy bottle and brushed it over a nail, studying the thick line of color. "And how do they manage the opposite hand? Isn't it a bit... um, messy?"
"Well, my dear, I would hardly know," he chuckled lightly, unable to keep from smiling when she gave him that plaintive look, brilliant blue orbs rolling up toward him in long suffering. Gods, he hoped her patience was the only thing that continued to suffer on his account.
"Rumple..." she warned, mock-fierce.
His smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he bent down, savoring the moment to simple be with her. "There is a shop in Storybrooke where women will do this for you. When you feel up to it, I'll take you there. But I'm sure that with a little practice you'll pick it up nicely."
"Practice?" Belle mused, her gaze dropping to one hand that was clutching his ever-present cane.
"Perhaps I should have been more specific," he muttered, half to himself.
"Perhaps," she teased, giving his hand a squeeze and pulling him down for a chaste kiss. "It's a lovely gift."
"You're a lovely woman."
Her eyes met his, searching for long moments, and again he settled into the depth of the moment, the stillness hovering around them. Without breaking the moment, she managed to twist the lid back into place and set it aside. One hand slid to his shoulder, urging him to bend closer. "You're a very dear man," she murmured, dropping a sweet kiss to his cheek and a sweeter one on his lips as he started to deflect. "And some day I will manage to convince you of that fact."
"You are quite convincing."
She smiled a little, the smile growing wistful as she again recognized his comments for what they were. He was hardly dear, and scarcely a man. In time she would hear the names, the labels that the town used when they thought he wasn't listening. Admittedly, most of their names were rather accurate. He never tried to deny them. "Can I convince you to stay for a bit?"
He recognized her words for what they were—she was asking to not be left alone, and he wouldn't deny her. "Of course." Waiting for her to scoot over slightly, he settled beside her, guiding her feet over his lap and carefully tucking the blanket back into place. "Comfortable?"
"Yes," she murmured, "but not quite sleepy." This proclamation was followed by a yawn, prompting a pointed look from him and her sheepish look was in itself a reply. "Maybe a little sleepier than I thought."
"Close your eyes and rest, sweetheart," he soothed, rubbing her foot gently through the blanket. Although she seemed perfectly at home on this balcony, he couldn't help but pick up on the undercurrent of restlessness. It was a pinch of the anxiety that had her shaking in his shop the day before. He wondered how long it would be, if ever, before these clouded moments vanished altogether.
"You'll be here when I wake up?"
The question squeezed his heart, and he glanced down, half wondering if she was so drowsy that she wasn't completely aware of what she had asked. "Of course. Rest now."