Summary: Rumpelstiltskin makes it difficult for Belle to pay attention. Two can play at that game.
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Focus
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Oh, gods, I've shrunk them, Belle realized as she stared in horror at Rumpelstiltskin's leather-clad backside.
Why hadn't he said anything? Had he just not noticed? Or was he waiting for her to apologize of her own volition? And how exactly would that conversation go? I couldn't help but notice your pants are clinging to you much tighter than normal…
No. Their working relationship may have progressed to something approaching…well, friendliness would seem to be the closest word, but it had definitely not reached the realm of by the way, I occasionally ogle parts of your anatomy when you're not looking. Why did he have to catch her when she fell from the ladder? A broken neck would have saved her from this embarrassment.
"Is something the matter, dearie?" he asked mischievously. "That teapot isn't going to pour itself."
Belle quickly shifted the direction of her gaze and willed herself not to blush. "Right, sorry."
Organizing the tea set – still on the tray in her hands – made for a great excuse to get her thoughts under control. She sneaked a look at him out of the corner of her eye, but only to check on whether he noticed that his pants were tighter since he sat at the table. Perhaps he didn't notice before because he was standing?
But still, there was no reaction. Maybe she was just imagining things.
"I'm surprised you don't have an enchanted teapot, or at least a talking clock as majordomo," she teased lightly.
"And waste the caretaker I got from a perfectly good deal?" he replied, gesturing up and down at her from his high backed chair. "Worry not, your job is secure."
As she poured the tea into the cup in front of him – she had learned to avoid delivering a full cup to him considering his propensity for inappropriate quips; there were still traces of a stain on the intricately woven rug beneath them – she happened to glance away from the cup before she could help herself. That settled it: this was no flight of fancy she had dreamed up for lack of something better to worry about.
The leather was indeed tighter. Tight enough that a certain area was drawing her attention. Briefly, she found herself wondering exactly how accurate her romance novels from back home were about said areas…
It was official: this trumped the time she had ruined his wool cloak. Who knew that using hot water wasn't a good idea? Well, beside every maid who had ever laundered clothing? It also hadn't helped that she had rested the cloak on the back of a suit of armor that had spent a good portion of the day being heated by the sun's rays.
After that she had been so careful, especially with the leather. It would hardly do if Rumpelstiltskin appeared to make deals in brightly colored silk – he had a reputation to uphold, and it was her duty as caretaker to see it through. She'd used smooth, even strokes with a damp cloth and then dried it just as carefully before conditioning the leathers. She was so certain she had done everything right – where had she gone wrong?
With an inaudible sigh, she looked back up to catch Rumpelstiltskin in a self-satisfied smirk before he schooled his features into a mask of indifference; the very image of the cat that swallowed the canary. Exactly what did he have to be so smug about...?
No. He wouldn't. Would he? It took half a moment's reflection before she decided that he would. That cheeky devil! The corners of her lips quirked upward in spite of the fact that she knew she should have been angry, she should have been worried that the darkest sorcerer in all the lands wanted her to look so much that he had shrunk his own pants on purpose. Instead, only one thought went through her head: Two could play at that game.
Placing the teapot to the side, she pulled herself up on the edge of the table to face him – close enough that he couldn't ignore her while still giving him enough room that she wasn't in his way – and crossed her legs.
Floor length skirts were hardly practical when taking care of an estate the size of the Dark Castle. Not so for ankle length. She could climb up and down ladders with nary a worry – unless, of course, one happened to nail down the curtains so that nothing short of magic or a life threatening tug with all her body weight could remove them. They also had another, less practical, use.
As she crossed one leg over the other, the fabric of her skirt rode up to show off the bare expanse of her calves. She shifted a little, pretending to get comfortable, and used the opportunity to raise the hem a little more while he very pointedly did not look.
Then, feigning obliviousness, she smiled. "You don't mind, do you? It's just that I know you don't like me to move the chair from its spot by the fire."
Rumpelstiltskin reached for his cup, chancing a peek at her legs in the process. "Not at all," he said, and brought it to his lips. The liquid didn't go down in spite of his throat bobbing as if he had swallowed.
Slowly, she uncrossed her legs and hopped off the table, straightening her dress after she landed. "Thanks, I needed to rest my feet. Do you need anything else?"
"Go," he said, waving her away.
There may not have been any uncovered mirrors around to confirm, but she had no doubt that his eyes followed her on her way out the room.