A/N: Hello, dearies! :) I took a brief break from Cabbages to write this little one shot involving a very AU scenario to contribute to the outbreak of angst going on. I hope you enjoy it as much as you have enjoyed Cabbages, and please R&R! I love hearing what you all think. Also, don't own, sadly enough.
"Rumpelstiltskin..." Belle's voice, normally so steady and unemotional, quivered anxiously, trying to garner his attention from his log book. She was sure her name appeared somewhere in those pages, a dark dealing that was. She felt a pang in her chest, reduced to a completed payment…
His dark eyes scanned the pages, only glancing up at her momentarily. He had taken her back, but there was no warmth there anymore. He didn't have to say anything when he regarded her; his eyes were bored, verging on impatient. Belle took a deep breath, shaking her head and lowering her eyes, "Nothing."
He sighed with disgust and turned his attention back to his book, making a violent mark on one of the pages. The scratching of the quill accompanied her walk away. Where he had once made her feel light and happy, she felt heavy and disheartened now. He didn't subject her to outside tortures, but she did not imagine they would feel any worse than this.
"Do not kiss me."
So, they did not kiss. They had explored every other part of one another now, all parts except their lips. Belle lost that sense of shame, of embarrassment, and girlish excitement. She also lost the curiosity about what it would feel like to kiss him – she imagined it would be just as empty and hallowing as everything else. She was, after all, just the Beast's whore. When she had left, it was whispered wherever she went, drifting along the roads she traveled and simultaneously provided for her, while also being exceptionally isolating. No one would deny her, but at the same token, no one talked to her, for fear of retribution.
It was clever, if he even intended it. He had cursed her, inadvertently. And true love, if such a concept existed, would not restore her. Honestly, all of this was not what she imagined in her romantic daydreams of old. In every fairytale, it all started with a kiss.
There was no kissing here, and no fairy tale.
Embraces were not intimate, touches were not soft or gentle, and more than once she had been bruised and sore, kind words, or any words at all, were not exchanged; the whole act was purely physical and selfish, for both of them. When it was over, when they were both spent, neither spoke a word to the other. And she didn't stay - she never stayed. There was no secret or shame in her slow trudge away every evening, not even bothering to clutch her nightgown to herself: her body was his for the taking, nothing sacred or pristine, like so many stories suggested. Then she would crawl into her bed and lay awake, staring at the ceiling, sometimes curled up on her side, looking at the wall.
She did not cry though. She refused to cry. After all, if one did not care, they couldn't cry; at least that's what she told herself. She repeated to herself over and over the feelings of being used, and betrayed, and hurt, and empty every single time. Reassurances that she was not craving anything but physicality were daily mantras, sometimes silent and sometimes quiet whispers while she worked. But, these utterances died on her lips when she saw him, the feeling of being wrenched apart from the chest too strong for even her words to combat.
She was not brave anymore.
This was cowardice in its finest, and he had pulled her into it. Taking refuge in the arms of one who did not love her – it felt like every dance she had ever engaged in at court. It was about performing, and it never seemed like either of them got much more than a quick thrill out of it.
They had overlooked a simple complication, however. At first, she had been so oblivious. She blamed arduous work for her fatigue and her feelings were the root of her nausea. The fact that she had so many memories attributed to certain meals was obviously the reason for her disdain for particular bits of fare. Then, of course, there was something she could not explain. Its absence perplexed her, but rather than turn to her master, she turned to the library. When she read, Belle cursed herself – wished for anything else, just anything, even death. But this was not death, even if she felt like t.
He still did not know. Belle twisted with anxiety every time they were in a room together, and sometimes she could not help but run out of the room, clutching back the bile and keeping this secret safe. She had been so young – and so naive… he should have known that, but then, how well did he really know her? He had denied her and declared her love impossible. He didn't know her at all.
And she paid the price.
That evening she took up knitting needles near the fire. She would take the plain, cream colored yarn and weave it into a series of simple squares. She'd make dozens of them, she resolved, and put them together. She could make something out of this – she had made more out of less, she thought bitterly.
When he threw the doors open, Belle did not even flinch. His antics did not thrill or surprise her anymore. She would not be disturbed, so much so that she already had his tea on the tray, so she did not have to lift her eyes from her work.
The knitting needles clicked and clacked against one another, a rhythm she found somewhat comforting in all of the madness she was experiencing in her head. Maybe she had gone crazy, she reasoned, maybe that was why she felt so lost and alone, and stupid. She had never felt stupid before, and she cursed herself repeatedly, only to immediately rescind every curse and preserve what little she had left.
For some reason, beyond all reason, she felt so protective of this. Like it was something she could cling to. And she wanted to provide as much as she could. It was not as though he looked at her enough to see any differences in her anyway. And the warm glow people spoke of certainly didn't color her skin – she felt sallow and sad, and whenever she looked in the mirror, she saw everything she felt staring back out at her.
When he walked in, he barely looked at her, and gruffly muttered some greeting or another – she didn't pay him mind. She seldom ever returned a greeting, and rarely spoke first anymore. Better to be seen and not heard, only speak when spoken to, all of that nonsense. If he wanted a demure housekeeper and whore, he would have that. She only went along with it because she knew it was precisely what he did not want. He had hurt her, and she found empty relief in spite.
"What is that?" he asked with a sneer, motioning to the three squares of white, weaved fabric already on the ground.
Belle did not look up from her project – the clicking and clacking continuing under her watchful, light eyes, "Knitted squares."
"I can see that," he growled. Obviously her simple answer was not pleasing to him, and he walked toward her. In a moment she was looking at the toe of his leather boot tapping right in front of her. Part of her was surprised he did not kick her. She could certainly see his muscles pulled taught with agitation under his tight pants and thin shirt. "What are the squares for?" he clarified with a growl deep in the back of his throat.
Her answer required only two words, "A bastard."
The needles continued to click, and she did not look up. But his foot stopped tapping. His stillness did not intimidate her, and all along she just clicked and clacked. Anger hummed in his throat and he stalked away from her, stopping a few feet, turning back toward her, just to walk away, a roar of frustration ripping out his throat. All she did was click-clack.
Rumpelstiltskin picked up one of the remaining, mismatched teacups and threw it across the room. It crashed on the wall behind her. She did not look up. Click-Clack. Another flew over her head, and crashed into the wall in the same way. Click-Clack.
She heard the clink of the last cup come off of the tray. Only now did she look up, seeing the chipped cup in his tense hand. He looked so angry, conflict clearly registering on his grey-gold face. Belle's expression was blank. "Go ahead," she said calmly, "it's just a cup."
He snarled at her provocation and put the cup back on the tray. She wished he would have done it – she wished he would have thrown it right at her, so she could reassure herself once again that all of this was empty, and all of her hurt feelings could disappear. Instead, she felt her chest muscles tighten and her eyes sting. "What have you done?" he practically bellowed, crouching over her, meeting her cool eyes with his blazing, angry, hurt ones.
She stopped knitting now. Her hands folded demurely on her lap as she looked up at him, unafraid of him. He would not hurt her, she had begged for it so many times in her sleepless nights – it would give her so much relief, but no relief came. "Correct me if I am wrong," she quirked one eyebrow, the rest of her face remained unchanging, "but I believe it takes two."
He raised his hand, his fingers twitched, all of the muscles in his body clenched to avoid doing what he very clearly wanted to do. She could see how he wished to smack her for her insolence. And, instead of flinching, she turned her head and offered her cheek. Her eyes blazed, hit me. She dared him; hit me.
Instead, he stood up and stalked away again. She knew he wouldn't do it. "What are you going to do to me?" she hissed after him, throwing the needles on the floor before she pushed herself up. "Going to throw me out again?" she flung the accusation at him without remorse, "Or magic up some kind of deal – wrench this away from me too? Tell me," she stalked after him – he was now very still, perhaps shocked that this was the most she had said to him in a single period since she had come back, "does it thrill you? Do you delight in ripping my heart to pieces, Rumpelstiltskin?"
His face was dark and he grabbed her by both arms in a second – she almost didn't see him move, and he squeezed. She tried not to gasp, but failed. "You're a funny one to ask such a question," he spat, his lip curling and he let her go, shoving her away from him. His hands now found hold in his wiry hair. He was seething, like a cornered animal. She looked on bitterly: as though he was the one who should feel so ensnared.
Belle rubbed her upper arm and shook her head. She would surely bruise. An occasion, from what she generally knew, usually marked with gentle embraces and affection was so heated and violent. "You have no heart," words were the broken heart's best weapon, and she leaned down to pick up the knitted squares, her needles, and the ball of yarn. She clutched them fiercely.
He barked a laugh at her, trying to show her he didn't chip with every cruel word she said. She knew better – his shell cracked just as much as hers did whenever they were cruel to one another. "I am going to my room," she informed him, lifting her chin with the grace of a queen. She saw him look at her, the anger dissolving for only a second, before it came back in full force, and she opened her mouth before him. "Find whatever deal you can," she said dismissively, "I'm sure you won't mind getting rid of this problem, just like all of the others."
And with that, she strode out of the room, leaving him dumbfounded behind her. He did not know well enough to chase – to do anything. Belle's knuckles were white around the needles and yarn, and she willed herself to avoid crying. She would not give him the satisfaction.