Summary: Concerned that Belle is bored with living in the Dark Castle, Rumplestiltskin chooses an activity she doesn't seem to mind—laundry. But how many dirty clothes can the Dark One make?
A/N: I needed some fluffy Dark Castle.
After hours of soaking, scrubbing, and ironing, all the laundry was finished.
Belle blew damp tendrils of hair off her forehead and shoved the clothing press into the work closet, then heaved a satisfied sigh. It was time to relax and indulge in a book from her new library. Balancing a steaming teacup and plate of cookies in one hand and a fat, leather-bound book in the other, she made her way to the great hall and her favorite chaise, her eyes glued to the pages.
Rumplestiltskin had chastised her about walking while reading, especially when her hands were full, but she was too transfixed to pay his instructions any mind. Her breath quickened with excitement—she'd just reached the part of the story where the bold, adventurous heroine was about to reveal her presence to the unsuspecting hero in disguise, and she simply couldn't put the book down. Her foot caught, and Belle tripped, landing on her stomach in pile of something soft. Face-down in a familiar navy nightshirt, she looked around with a gasp of dismay. Her tea and cookies had spilled, the cup lay in shattered pieces on the stone floor, and the book that had so captivated her moments ago had flown into the fireplace, its onionskin pages now crackling and popping in the blaze.
So much for relaxing before supper.
Belle pushed up to her elbows with a groan, then twisted around to survey the mountain of fabric that had appeared around her. Another pile of clothes?
She chewed her lower lip and picked up one of Rumplestiltskin's shirts. She brushed off the cookie crumbs, then rubbed the silky, saffron-toned fabric between thumb and forefinger. She should get up and straighten up this mess, but while she was down here on the floor... Her eyes darted around the room, making sure no one had entered the hall. Satisfied she was alone, she brought the garment to her nose and inhaled. The clean, tangy scent of Rumplestiltskin blended with the sweet pungency of magic, making her feel warm and a touch lightheaded.
Belle staggered to her feet like a drunkard, shaking the cobwebs from her mind and ignoring the nagging tingle in her lower belly. Hadn't she just pressed some of the items in this very pile? Her hands swam in front of her unfocused eyes, fingers still wrinkled and red from hours of scrubbing her master's clothes against the washboard down at the stream.
She lifted her foot and lurched backward, almost sprawling into the pile of clothes once more. Belle gasped, finding a pair of Rumplestiltskin's smallclothes wound around the ankle strap of her shoe. Softer than a baby's diaper, they were, spun from the most luxurious cloth she had ever felt against her skin. Not even the royal ladies of her acquaintance in Avonlea owned anything so fine. Heat flooded her cheeks; she was always careful not to touch Rumplestiltskin's underthings too much. Whenever she did, her thoughts melted into unladylike fantasies about what he would look like without them. Imagining her master naked wasn't on her list of duties, no matter how distracting his ensembles were.
He favored billowing poets' shirts that exposed the sparkling green-gold skin of his chest. Bright, paisley-patterned vests accentuated his large, unusual amber eyes and his trim, sculpted torso. And those body-hugging leather pants were deliciously tight against his firm buttocks—no doubt her clever master used magic to wrestle those buttery leather trousers into place. Belle fanned her hot cheeks with the wide sleeve of a crimson shirt stained with some sort of electric purple goo.
Despite his beastly reputation, Rumplestiltskin was the picture of elegant grace and gentlemanly charm. To Belle he was like a god—golden and glowing and devastatingly unaware of his effect on women. He was also one of the sloppiest people she had ever met.
Spilling food, dribbling tea, and dragging his sleeves through the potions he brewed were daily occurrences. With every mishap came a complete wardrobe change. And he teased her for being clumsy? Belle smiled and shook her head. Some days, it seemed every time she turned around he was wearing a fresh ensemble and tossing soiled garments in her direction.
The Dark Castle could be a lonely place, but she was content here. She had her books and plenty of solitude in which to enjoy them, and she rather liked Rumplestiltskin. Belle's cheeks heated again. All right, she really liked him. She only wished he would spend time with her, instead of ordering her to the stream to wash clothes every time she was within shouting distance. At least when she was in the great hall dusting, mopping the floors, or serving tea, she could be near him. He wove fascinating stories when he was in a good mood, and she could always tell when a deal had gone in his favor by the spring in his step and the off-key tune he hummed. When things hadn't going his way, however, he would stomp over to his spinning wheel to sulk in silence, then furiously transform straw into fat piles of shimmering gold long into the night.
Sometimes she encouraged him to confide in her, but all she received in reply was a glare and a snarled, caustic remark. "You should remember your place, little maid," he would crow, "cleaning mine."
On those days, he may as well have hung a sign around his neck that declared, "Stay away."
With a longsuffering sigh, Belle fetched her laundry basket and the lavender soap Rumplestiltskin favored from the kitchen, then returned to the great hall to wrangle the enormous pile of clothes. She took a last, longing look at the remains of the book in the fireplace, now burned to crispy embers, then headed for the stream behind the estate.
xoxo
Rumplestiltskin looked down at his starched white shirt and shiny boots with a scowl; his outfit was far too clean and tidy after a full day of deal-making. No, this would never do. A snap of his fingers and his clothing was splattered with wet, sticky mud. He nodded at the mess in satisfaction, and hollered for his maid. "Belle!" he bellowed. "Belle!"
She entered the foyer from the direction of the kitchen, balancing a tray filled with cakes, a steaming pot of tea, and two cups. Her pretty blue eyes widened in surprise as she took in his dirt-caked clothes. "Rumplestiltskin what have you done to yourself?"
"You know how we monsters are." He tittered and bent at the waist in a slight, ironic bow. "Always rolling about in the mud."
Belle snorted and set down the tray on the large, round table in the center of the foyer. "The only thing monstrous about you is the amount of laundry you produce." She knelt at his feet to peel off his filthy boots, muttering to herself as she began unlacing, her small hands curving around his calves.
"Grumbling about our duties again, are we?" He raised an eyebrow to cover his discomfiture; he thought Belle liked washing clothes. The gods knew she was a terrible housekeeper otherwise; hell, laundry was the only household activity she excelled at. His food was always burnt, dirty dishes overflowed the sink, and he could have written an entire curse across the dust-covered furniture. But his clothes were another matter. They were always soft, freshly pressed, and scented with lavender and crushed rose petals.
He liked that, and he thought she did, too.
Well, it was no matter. Whether Belle realized it or not, she needed to feel useful. "Need I remind you of your pledge to serve me forever?" he asked, arching a brow.
She frowned at him. "You don't have to be so arrogant about it, I was simply saying…"
"…because I'll need these clothes laundered as soon as possible." He kicked the dirty boots to the side and they both watched the thick, grass-flecked mud ooze off the soles and onto the marble floor.
"I've just come from the creek with a load of fresh clothes," she protested, hands flying to her shapely hips. She worried her lower lip, turning it a fetching shade of red that twisted his stomach into knots. "I could have sworn I washed them all this morning. And another huge bundle yesterday."
"So now I'm a pig and a liar." He ignored the butterflies dancing in his stomach and crossed his arms over his dirt-splattered chest with a menacing frown.
She leveled him with an icy stare of her own, a look few beings had ever given the Dark One and lived. "Do not put words in my mouth, Rumplestiltskin."
And with those parting words, she spun on her heel and stalked away, his muddy boots flapping against her hip and dirtying her pristine blue workdress.
"Don't forget my coat," he called, hiding his grin behind his hand. He flung the heavy garment toward her and she dropped the boots to catch it, the oversized black feathers around the collar slapping her lightly across the cheeks. She glared at him, her eyes dark with fury, and he grinned back. "I'll send the rest of these filthy things outside after I've changed."
He leaned against the table in the foyer and listened to her mutter to herself until she slammed the back door, then popped an apricot teacake into his mouth, swallowing it in one bite.
His Belle was spirited, with her heaving chest and snapping blue eyes, and vexing her proved an endless source of entertainment. Tomorrow, he decided, he would threaten to turn her into a snail. Would she glare at him some more? Stomp her tiny feet? Maybe stick her tongue out at him when she thought he wasn't looking?
With a chuckle, Rumplestiltskin headed for his laboratory to change his clothes and continue his work, his thoughts pleasantly consumed with his maid.
xoxo
Belle lay in her bed wide awake, rubbing her chapped, red hands and listening to the maddening tick of the clock on the bedside table. She had tried reading by the light of the fire's glow, but instead of imagining the scenes in the story, all she could see was an endless parade of dirty nightshirts, so stiff from filth they were walking themselves down to the stream to be washed. In her long hours of blinking up at the ceiling, she'd come to one, inevitable conclusion: either she was losing her mind—a distinct possibility here at the Dark One's remote, mountaintop estate—or Rumplestiltskin was soiling all the clothes in the castle on purpose. After lying awake for hours, she drifted into a fitful, frustrated sleep.
When she woke, sweaty and tangled in the bedclothes from a nightmare about running out of laundry soap, the moon was still full and high in the sky. She threw back the covers and gathered her robe from the corner of the bed.
Something had to be done about all those dirty clothes.
Belle walked to the window and threw it open, peering unseeing into the blackness. An owl hooted and the treetops, and she could almost see the loathsome clothesline swaying in the breeze. Then the answer came to her on a gust of fresh, spring air. She would sew Rumplestiltskin an apron to keep his clothes clean!
Pleased with her solution, Belle tiptoed downstairs to the kitchens, gathered some empty flour sacks from the pantry floor, and took them back to her bedroom. Tongue between her teeth, she threaded the needle and began stitching the sacks together by the light of the fire. She tried to remember her childhood sewing lessons, but her samplers and projects always wound up as bookmarks, since she was far more interested in reading than stitching. Still, she did the best she could to tack together a respectable apron. When she was finished, Belle examined her work in the firelight and frowned. The rough fabric was a drab, mousy shade of brown. Ugly and misshapen, it resembled exactly none of the fine garments Rumplestiltskin owned. She straightened her shoulders and considered the apron again. It wasn't that bad, was it? Besides, it was a gift, and the best she could do.
She would keep it with her, and the next time Rumplestiltskin presented her with a mountain of dirty clothes, she would give it to him.
xoxo
Rumplestiltskin paused his work at the spinning wheel and gave his tea another noisy slurp, prompting no reaction from Belle. She was curled up on her favorite chaise, her nose shoved far too deep in a book. Her refusal to acknowledge his presence vexed him; as the Dark One, he was accustomed to dramatic flourishes and magical appearances in poofs of colorful smoke. To be ignored by his maid frustrated him to no end.
"No more wash to do?" he asked peevishly. He pushed the treadle down hard and the wheel whirled too fast, causing it to squeak harshly in the quiet hall. Still Belle didn't notice.
"All done." She glanced up from her book with distracted, unfocused eyes and shrugged. "I'm taking a break."
This "break" of hers had lasted too long already; he couldn't let her read all the bloody day. What if she discovered his weakness for her sweet smile and beautiful blue eyes and took unfair advantage? After all, he was still the Dark One, not some brainless, besotted fop who flocked to her father's court before the Ogres War, begging to marry her.
He frowned and rubbed his fingers together, searching for a task to occupy her time. Cooking was out of the question—he wanted to keep what was left of his teeth. When she dusted, her nose became red as a cherry and she sneezed—five tiny, adorable sneezes in rapid succession for every shelf she cleaned. It was a terrible distraction. And it seemed plain cruel to force her to wash his enormous marble tub more than once a week. But he had to ensure she had enough work to do, or else she might become bored and ask to go home to her father and fiancé, and then where would he be?
He'd already lost his son and selfish as it was, the thought of Belle leaving him alone in this dark, drafty mausoleum was more than he could bear. So then—more laundry it would be. Aye, his maid would do well to remember who was in charge around here.
To prove his point, he tossed the contents of his teacup across his chest, then watched the warm, brown rivulets roll down his leathers and patter to the floor.
"Oh! Look what I've done. This was my last clean lambskin vest, too," he lamented, easing out the garment. "Clean it for me, would you?"
Belle bit back a cry of frustration. She'd been so happy sitting there reading while he spun, enjoying their companionable silence. Then he'd had to go and spill his tea and ruin everything.
"Wouldn't you rather use magic on the clothes, like you do with so many other chores?" Belle asked hopefully, pretending not to see the soiled garment he dangled in front of her face. "I could brew more tea right away."
"Never mind that, dear." He patted her shoulder and laid the dirty vest carefully across her apron, and Belle noticed he took care not to touch her dress. "I'll make the tea, since I'm the one who spilled it."
"Oh." Belle forced a smile. "That's, um, very gracious of you, Rumplestiltskin."
"You just get those clothes soaking before they stain." He waggled a finger in front of her face. "Tea stains are for carpets, not for clothing. Don't forget to use that lavender saddle soap I like on my leathers."
"But I…"
"You are a caretaker, aren't you?" he sneered.
Belle stiffened. The man's temperament shifted with the breeze. "Well, yes."
"Then take care of it."
Oh, but he could get under her skin like no other person could! Belle tried in vain not to notice the graceful sway of his slender fingers, or the gentle way he touched her shoulder, even as he snapped at her, baring his teeth. Instead, she focused all her energy on her indignation. Suddenly she remembered! This was her chance to give him the apron. "Rumplestiltskin, wait. I have something—"
"Never mind that now," he said hastily, cutting her off.
"If you'll just wait a moment!" She scrambled to pull out the apron she'd made.
He hissed, startling her, then snapped his fingers in her face.
Belle looked around. Once more she was outside next to the clotheslines, the birds in the trees around the yard chirping a merry tune, the stream babbling happily behind her.
"Oh, be quiet," she groused.
The birds quieted, then flew away, leaving Belle alone in the yard with her laundry.
xoxo
Rumplestiltskin was torn. It was the most haphazard sewing job he had ever seen, the material coarse and cruel, a rough flour sack material he hadn't exposed his skin to in over one hundred years. He paused his spinning and stroked the apron thoughtfully, trying to decide how to respond. Belle was beaming, her face bright and expectant.
"It's so you can keep your clothes clean," she explained, her dimples popping out.
His heart softened and he made a small, noncommittal noise. The girl had tried. Besides, when was the last time anyone had given him anything except his due, let alone a present? Not since the long ago winter evening when Baelfire had made him a cornhusk doll, urging him to cuddle it at night. "So you're not lonely, Papa," the boy had said. Bae. He thrust his loneliness far back into the recesses of his mind, feeding it to the darkness to feast upon.
Now Belle was looking at him with earnest, liquid eyes, waiting for him to comment, asking for acceptance. Helpless, he stared back, unable to find the words she was looking for.
"Do you hate me so very much then?" she asked at last. The light in her eyes dulled as she sank onto the chaise in defeat, twisting her fingers in her lap.
His head snapped up in surprise. "Hate you? What are you talking about, foolish girl? I let you live, didn't I? For months you've been here, barely lifting a finger; eating fine meals, drinking excellent tea. I've even relocated you from the dungeon to the finest guest suite in my castle. It's more than most employers would do!"
"That's not what I'm talking about." She shook her head, tiny lines creasing her forehead. "You take care of me but you don't care about me. There's a difference."
"How so?" Confused but defensive, he folded his arms across his chest.
"You're always sending me into the yard to wash clothes," she said in a small voice.
"So you're complaining about hard work?" He sighed. "Must I explain the definition of a job, again, dear?"
She winced at his condescending tone. "It's not about the work. Anytime we have an idle moment to sit together and talk, you push me away. I don't think there was so much laundry done on the entire estate back in Avonlea, and there were dozens of people living there! You're doing it on purpose so you don't have to share yourself with me, and what's worse is you think I'm so stupid I wouldn't know it." She frowned. "I suppose it was too much to hope that we might…get to know each other."
His heart thudded against his ribs. He was keeping her at arm's length, but only so she wouldn't discover the full extent of his beastliness and decide to leave. "I see." He relented, dropping his guarded expression. "What do you propose?"
Belle squinted, as if trying to read his thoughts, then smiled. "I'm not sure. Perhaps we could just talk and see what happens, Rumple? Do you mind if I call you Rumple?"
"Talk?" He stiffened. What could she possibly want to discuss? Did she need something? Magic, a potion, a spell? Did she want to return to her true home? A deal was a deal, but if she asked his permission to leave and go back to that idiot Gaston and her life as a noblewoman, he knew he would say yes.
He'd have given her anything her heart desired.
"Yes, talk." Her wry tone pulled him out of his dark thoughts. "It's a civilized form of communication," she continued, her eyes sparkling with merriment. "First you say something, then I respond to what you've said…"
"I know how talking works, girl," he muttered in the most cantankerous voice he could muster.
"Wonderful!" She pulled her chaise closer to the fire and patted the empty cushion beside her.
He dragged his feet in her direction, uncertain how he had landed in this mess, but also intrigued. Nobody spoke to him unless they wanted something. All his conversations revolved around deals and transactions, but this sweet, kind young woman wanted to know him. Chased away by her smile, the darkness cowered and hid, allowing a glimmer of the man he once was to shine through.
"Do you enjoy books, Rumple?" she asked as he crossed and uncrossed his legs, trying to make himself comfortable beside her on the small couch.
"Books?" he echoed stupidly, losing himself in her clear blue eyes. He shook his head to clear it. By the gods, she would think him lacking in the most rudimentary conversation skills.
"Yes." She patted the thick tome in her lap. "I'm reading a collection of poems at the moment. Perhaps you might wish to hear a bit aloud?"
"If you wish," he agreed, settling against the back of the couch to listen while she paged through the book looking for a place to begin.
She read two poems, but she stumbled over the words, her tone stilted and uncertain. Rumplestiltskin tensed; something was still troubling her. She fidgeted as she read, wiping her hands on her apron and struggling to turn the pages.
Halfway through the third poem, he stopped her, laying a hand on her wrist. "Speak your mind, Belle."
"What?" Her eyes widened and she set the book down on the couch between them.
"Something is bothering you." He sighed. May as well find out, or he wouldn't know a moment's peace for the rest of the evening.
She pursed her lips and he read indecision in her expression. Then she spoke. "You don't like your apron, do you?"
Damn it. He'd walked right into that. "I don't dislike it," he hedged with a sniff.
She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, evidently unimpressed with his double-speak. "Someone gives you a gift and this is how you behave?"
"It's not a gift for me if it's only helping you," he pointed out churlishly.
"Now you're just being difficult."
"You're the one making both our lives harder, since you'll still have to wash clothes. I've no intention of wearing that thing out in public. It's too long, and that crude fabric doesn't match anything. I have a reputation to uphold!"
She'd baited him into insulting the silly thing, damn her. He was practically shouting now, the vein in his neck beginning to throb.
She tossed her head. "The fashion-conscious Dark One?"
"What is this foolishness really about?" he snapped, waving a hand. "You wish to return to your people?"
"Why can't you give me something else to do?" she countered, ignoring his question. "An errand in town? Some shelves to dust? A bathtub to scrub? No man—even a pig-headed, impossible sorcerer—can possibly make this much laundry!"
"You said you liked to wash clothes!" He stood, then snapped his fingers, willing the box of laundry soap appeared. He shoved it at her.
"Well, I don't!" She refused the box with a shake of her head, pushing it back at him. "My hands are red and chapped, and my arms ache from scrubbing. There's not a more loathsome task than laundry in all the realms!"
He gritted his teeth. "But you said you liked it. I'm quite sure I remember."
"I was being polite!" She drew herself up to her full height, all of 60 inches of her, and puffed out her chest. "And if you want your dragonhide coat brushed again, master, you're going to do it yourself. I'm going to the library to find a new book and then I'm going to bake your bread to a blackened crisp!"
"How would that differ from any other day?" he asked sarcastically, waving the box of soap for emphasis.
She seized the box, wrenching it out of his surprised grasp, and hurled it at his chest. The contents exploded, the air in the great hall turning white as a snowstorm. Flakes of soap flew everywhere, settling on every surface. They both looked around; the mantel, the table, the shelves full of artifacts and trinkets, even the spinning wheel were coated with soap, and the clean, sweet scents of lavender and roses perfumed the air.
Rumplestiltskin choked on the soap dust, then tried to brush it off his clothing, but it was too thick. He glowered down at the mess, then looked at her and barked a laugh. She was completely covered in soap, as well, her hair and clothing as white as snow.
"Strip!" Belle ordered.
His laughter died on his tongue.
"I beg your pardon?" He took a step back, suddenly feeling like a sheep being led to the slaughter.
"You heard me." Her breath was heavy, the skin of her neck and chest flushed scarlet beneath the flakes of soap, but her eyes were as sharp and clear as steel. "You like to wash clothes?" she asked. "Fine! Let's wash some. Take everything off."
###
There could be potential for a second part here.