A/N: This is my first published OUAT story! I am hopelessly obsessed with Rumbelle and how cute they are. I've written other stories for them on pen and paper but this is the only one told from first person POV. It takes place around the time of Skin Deep and was inspired by a picture on DeviantArt of Rumple and Belle sharing a chair. It's fun to read this in Belle's accent. Hope you enjoy! Here's…
Urgh
A Rumbelle
[3 AM] The stars are out and the shadows are long, but I'm not in the least bit tired. The hearth's flame flickers as it casts its glow onto the page, making the letters dance. Velvet whispers against the front cover of the fat mahogany novel as I turn the page. The characters are plucky and irresistible, the writing is incredible, and the imagery is first-rate. I've gone through nearly four hundred pages today and don't intend to stop there. The climax is drawing other nearer, and the castle is quiet. There are no clothes to wash, no curtains to dust, no bloodstains to scrub out. This cushy seat, just the right distance from the fireplace, is so comfortable. I have tea, cozy slippers, and time to spare. There is only one earthly reason that could possibly compel me to look up before dawn. A few minutes later, it slouches through the doorway.
Rumplestiltskin. Owner of this grand, opulent estate. Darkest magic master in all the land. Torturer, manipulator, and schemer extraordinaire. My boss. I think he's rather cute, in a brooding and scale-encrusted sort of way..not that I'd ever tell him as much. He may have a wounded soul, but Rumple is as egotistical as they come. But he isn't strutting now. He's walking quickly, obviously eager to arrive at his destination, but his stride's a bit off. He's hunched slightly, as if he's just taken a kick to the gut but is reluctant to give his opponent the satisfaction of seeing him in pain. I pry my eyes away and look up. Rumple's face is always glistening; that's nothing new. But he's paler than usual, and his great big dark eyes are bleary.
I sit up, keeping my place in the book with one finger. "What's wrong?" His curly locks are disheveled, which only makes him look more tired and pitiful. "Nothing that concerns you, dearie." Translation: I don't want to talk about it. The hypothesis that I formed earlier is correct. Just after it got too dark to read by the window, I heard him on the stairs on my way to the sitting room. Squeak. The tile just outside the master bathroom squeaks; its sound carries to the first floor on a quiet day. I didn't give it mind. Squeak. He exited. I'd kept on reading. Then, not twenty minutes later..squeak. And so it had gone on all night, at intervals. Squeak. Creeeak. Squeak. Out of respect for his privacy, I hadn't gone up and checked up on him.
Now, it was fairly obvious that he was unwell. The tall magic master flicks his dominant hand dismissively. "Now move." My concern evaporates. "I'm sorry?" He speaks with more deliberation, as if I hadn't grasped his command the first time around and he is reluctant to waste breath elaborating. "You're in my chair." Unconsciously, my arms fold across my breast. The book, abandoned for the moment, slips shut. "I was here first." The surprise in his eyes quickly morphs into undisguised annoyance. "This is my favorite chair," he hisses, pointing one unclipped nail at the left arm. "And this is the one time of the day that I'm off my feet." Our stares meet. Rumple's eyes narrow. "Move." I tip my head to one side. "You move." "No, you move." "No, you move." His pointed teeth glint. Then, abruptly, he marches up to the chair and climbs over one of the arms. His arms hook under my armpits; the book in my lap pitches. If he thinks that he's going to dump me onto the carpet, he's sadly mistaken. I dig my heels into the carpet and brace my arms.
The tension lasts an eternal thirty seconds. Then, all at once, Rumple heaves a snarl of a sigh and my resistance is redundant. A booted foot clomps down on either side of the cushion, and a second bottom sinks onto the velvet. I'm scooted forward just a bit, but I still have plenty of room. Alright then. Turning my overheated face to the fire, I pick up my book again. A not uncomfortable silence follows, punctuated by the nearly imperceptible crackle of the fire in the hearth. A low growl emanates from Rumple's lower body. His shoulders hunch. "Urgh." Guided by sympathy, I turn partway in the chair. "Do you want a cup of tea?" He nods. Even from here, I can feel that his forehead is a little sweaty. "Why not."
I reach for the pot and a clean cup, but Rumple's arms snakes out faster. His fingers find my warm, half-filled cup and raise the chipped side to his lips. He drinks a few sips' worth and sets the cup down before promptly slumping forward and falling into an exhausted sleep. Um. Alrighty. Careful not to disturb him, I lean forward to put the pot down on the side table. Rumple sways forward anyway. His face plonks into my shoulder, and his arms slump on either side of me. Well. Trembling, I refill my cup and set the pot down. Instinctively, I start to lean back. Rumple's breath hitches, and I hold mine. Then he exhales a warm, caressing sigh and snuggles up, clasping me in a sleep-hug. My heart makes an earnest attempt to escape and make its way into the outside world. Feeling as warm all over as the tea, I tremblingly turn to the next page and try to get lost once more in the storyline.
For about fifteen minutes, sitting like this feels cozy and nice and right. After half an hour, my neck starts to hurt. Once an hour has passed, I'm about done. Rumple is sweaty and his added body heat makes the warm sitting room uncomfortable. And, most of all, he's got a skull like a cannonball. "Rumplestiltskin." No response. I jog his shoulder gently. "Rumple." Nothing. I'm finished with the book. The excitement of the conclusion has worn off, and my eyelids are heavy. I touch his cheek, hoping to stir him. There is drool on my shoulder. He's begun snoring, which REALLY tickles my neck. "Rumplestiltskin," I plead, "I want to go to bed." I may as well not have spoken. Rumple snoozes on, lost in dreams. There is no way I can carry him upstairs.
If I move, I run the risk of waking him. I'll have to be careful. Taking one last sip of tea from the non-chipped side of the cup, I slip the book under my arm and slowly slide forward. Rumple's trailing hands falter, then follow me forward. His arms tighten, and I tumble back into his hug. O-kay. That didn't work. I would try again in a minute. But first I want to close my eyes, just rest them for a blink or two…****
[Okay, you can turn the accent off now] Belle's head lolled around the time that her breathing deepened. Her cheek nestled against the top of Rumplestiltskin's head. The charismatic creeper raised his head and adjusted her into a position that would be easier on her neck. He'd power-napped off the worst of his tummyache twenty minutes ago, but he saw no reason why he should move. In the glow of the dimming flames, Rumple smiled. This was, after all, his favorite chair.
(Belle's end note: If he'd asked civilly, I would have gladly given him the chair. Yet I can't find it in me to be irritated with him… His wife died so long ago. How long has it been since he's had a cuddle?)
(Rumple's end note: Oh, thanks SO much for telling the whole fandom that I was stricken with diarrhea. I'm just glad that she wasn't awake to see me smile. If she had been….oy.)