Things are not as she imagined they would be.
The Dark Castle is foreboding, but little slivers of light have wound themselves into the corners, stretching sore, ill-used fingers, reaching into new crevices and hollows. They creep, slowly, into the crook of Rumplestiltskin's mouth, forming themselves in little grimaces, half-smiles, afraid of what they might be if they take root.
Time is slow here, almost nonexistent. She wakes; she cleans; she goes to bed. She dreams. Her dreams are fitful, and filled with things that cannot be.
Her Master is the Dark One. He covers himself head-to-toe, tight and wound up, giggles and gestures, dissembling and pretending. But sometimes, when those fingers of light make their presence known, the facade fades, and she finds herself face-to-face with a man. He has sad eyes.
He watches her when she cleans. She dreams of unwinding him, slowly, like the yarn he spins with such care. It's a bad idea.
He catches her, to prevent a fall, but she falls anyway, there in his arms. His hands are small, limber, flexible, and they cradle her with care. She has never seen a man so terrified as Rumplestiltskin, holding her in his arms. He lets her go, stumbles away. She thinks she sees his hand shake.
Things change, after that.
Tea becomes a touchstone. It is simple, easy, constant. It is complicated, laced with hidden meaning. Tea is more than a drink, more than a break from spinning webs around the country. It is a symbol. Tea is an excuse to speak, to talk, to be more than they could be otherwise. Tea is a chipped cup he cradles just as carefully as her body, in trembling fingers, his thumb tracing the evidence of her clumsiness, her unmistakable humanity. Tea is Belle taking time to do something just for him, because she wants to, because she needs this as badly as he does.
She is balancing once, an acrobat, cleaning high places, feet perched precariously on a footstool, when she hears him approach. She knows what he will say when he sees her; that she is clumsy; that she will fall; that she should not be there. She braces herself for the bite of his tongue, sharper than the rest of him, unconcerned with the glancing blows it makes.
His tongue never strikes. His hands, his small hands, curl themselves instead at her waist, steadying her. She can feel his presence behind her, as though he is taller than he is, filling the room with his presence. She swallows a gasp, but cannot help but pause, absorbing the warmth of him, the feel of his hands against her through the thickness of her clothing. She can feel that he wants to step away, that he is second-guessing himself, that he is hating himself, as he often does.
She moves her hand, the duster continuing its path. His insecurities do not pass, but he remains, protecting her against her own inability to balance herself, finding an excuse to touch her, whichever it may be. His right palm flexes against her waist; she shudders. Belle finishes her cleaning, and steps back, off the footstool. She can feel the whole of him now, behind her, his head next to hers, his chest against her back, and every part of her wants nothing more than to surrender.
He breathes, loudly, and the feel of it against her neck makes her tremble violently. Then his hands are gone. When she turns, he has already disappeared.
Belle is not unafraid. She thinks he might love her. She thinks he will hurt her, one day.
Love is not a gentle light to him, suffusing everything in its glow. Love is not letting those creeping fingers in, finding a home. Love is terrifying. Love is something he does not believe he deserves.
He watches her, and she goes about her business, and she thinks, yes, this man will hurt her one day.
It does not deter her. She hopes, hopes with every fiber of her being, that she is wrong, and hope allows her to continue on. They have tea. Tea means something new, deeper, every time they drink. Maybe, she thinks, if they drink enough, all the darkness will be chased away. Tea itself is light.
She feels his battle, feels his eyes, his hands, his hopes, pressing against her, pulling and pushing. He cannot make her love him. He cannot do anything but hope, and drown. So, he asks her to fetch straw, one day. She is shocked. She is frightened. She is drawn, and pushed, and has no idea which way to go. She leaves.
When she turns back around, she is not unafraid. But she places one foot in front of the other, back towards him, back towards the light, and the darkness, and tea, and windows that are curtainless and mirrors that are covered. If he will hurt her, he will hurt her today.
Belle hopes.