Disclaimer: I own nothing from Once Upon A Time. No infringement is intended.
Time Frame: (I don't really remember the episode's name for now) this is set around the episode where Regina masks as a peasant with the cloaking spell Rumple gives her. And the story literally occurs after she stomps onto the Dark Castle to tell off our dear imp for tricking her once again. He mentions "his maid", so I, as a Rumbelle devoted follower, wrote this in hopes it would fit.
I hope you like it. :D
Some Wonders
Belle smiles over the rim of her cup as he steps past the double oaken doors; a small, curling switch of her lips as she spots him. Steam rises and twirls from the rich, warm mixture of tea she just served them dutifully and if Rumpelstiltskin is brutally honest with himself—the image, the normalcy of the situation, her smile—it's driving him mad.
Madder than usual.
"So, who it was?" she asks. She tilts her head toward the door, sky-blue eyes peeking over his shoulder not-so-discreetly to see. Always curious, this strange girl, always asking. Damn too much.
"Why?" Rumpelstiltskin trills. He pulls back his upper lip and grins in what he hopes in a cruel rotten leer, enough to startle her. Hopes. Waits. And loses. Always. Because the beauty with skies for eyes is hardly fazed, hardly unsettled now for what it's right—what's normal. "So eager to leave, dearie?" He weaves his fingers on the air, a giggle half-way formed. But she interjects before he even takes a breath to add: A disappointment, isn't it, to be hoarded by the beast?
"Not really." She huffs. Brown tresses unraveling as she shakes her head. Gestures toward the kettle, and her cup, and his chipped cup laid out on the table. "I'm drinking tea, you see, and I'm not very fond on the idea of leaving it to grow cold. It's actually good," she eyes him under black, thick eyelashes—skies unblemished and clear, without a lurking, misshapen shadow, deceit he already knows would not be there—"You'll know it if you just stop prowling around answering doors and just sit and drink it."
That stops him short. He glares hard, unrelenting, like the beast he is. "I don't prowl." he states matter-of-factly. Hand flourishing once, an end retort.
Belle fiddles with the sugar, blue birds skitter sideways, teasing him with the split view. "Of course not." she replies calmly, as if any other notion is ludicrous. Deliberately, she hefts her cup and sips with more regal regard than most nobles can do in a lifetime of enforced grace. And it maddens him further. How can she be so clumsy he's sometimes afraid she'll fall in the endless stairs leading to the Library "he borrowed her" and then be as graceful and dignified as the Lady she was born to be while she plays at being a caretaker for a beast all the while?
Rumpelstiltskin rolls his eyes. He doesn't even try to understand anymore. Simply stomps, signaling his frustration, toward her - certainly not to her. Yet he still walks in direction of the head of the table, where she sits as if imprisonment is just a word, and masters and monsters are haughty weather musings. "And, if you may know, you were just doors away from a very unstable and quite irked evil queen." he points out, taking the opportunity to snatch his cup away. "Quite dangerous too."
"I'm assuming the 'irk' comes from dealing with you." He can't help it, he feels the corner of his lips quirking upwards and her eyes twinkle at the sight and then his quirked half-smile is swipe away quickly (old habits die hard) and his hand freezes—as it tends to vexingly do—when the skies are cloudless and light in them is as bright as pulsing beacons—and then he continues as if nothing is wrong, serving his tea, and they both ignore the giant elephant on the room.
Rumpelstiltskin chooses to take a seat not-so-far but certainly not-so-close. It's his table. He adamantly refuses to be intimidated by trifle things such as distances from mouthy, pretty-eyed caretakers. He cradles his cup and places it carefully on the table, being thoroughly sure it is not close to the edge where it could fall down, then he sits.
Not because she wanted him to.
Oh no.
Certainly not.
And he does not add only three sugars – instead of five – because last week she told him to measure his sugar intake a little more and added with a sparkling grin that she didn't need a more energized, sugar-induced imp prancing on and about causing mischief when she has enough with the infuriating cobweb infestation.
Absolutely not.
Rumpelstiltskin clears his throat. That catches the attention of Belle from the flickering flames on the hearth she's fond of watching and making – since she loathes the cold – more because of her newness with the actual climate than anything. "I was actually very cordial to her," he titter-tatters his head, squints his eyes, lowers them, and sips once. Still, the uplifted corner of his mouth, the smirk dangling mischievously on the edges, gives him away.
"Were you?" Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Belle arch a brown brow in mock question. Her question is flat, almost knowing, amused, following his words.
He grins. Pleased. Lounging at the attention. "Certainly." He giggles an impish 'nah'. "I manage to contain myself on commenting her awful appearance…a little." His voice rises, grow high-pitched as he flays his arm dramatically. "And there were no comments regarding her perpetual ugliness."
"Oh aye," Belle chortles, dares to roll her eyes and he preens. "What a lucky soul." She places the cup back on the table. And asks just because she's Belle and there's always a question, "You said she was a—" Nose wrinkled. His chest leaps ahead of him. "—'Evil Queen'?"
Of course she'd be curious. Of course. Rumpelstiltskin wracks their words and notices he mentioned her. Wonderful. He inwardly groans. Well, not much to do now. She wouldn't understand either way.
"Yes." Rumpelstiltskin curls his lips but it feels more than a little forced now. He doesn't enjoy their new topic of conversation at all.
"Was she really a queen or is it only her pseudonym?"
"She's a queen." He flatly states. Waves a hand vaguely. Better to be blunt. "She kills. She tortures. She enjoys—it—" A flash of appall crosses Belle's face and he continues, outwardly unfazed (squashing the little hissing voice on his head telling him she will look at him with the same disgust-laced expression soon enough) and ends with, "And there isn't much to her that's intriguing, really." He leaves unsaid how much more captivating she is than Regina and says instead, "Except, of course, her unhealthy dose of hate for runaway stepdaughter."
"Runaway…stepdaughter?" Belle frowns, there goes the nose-crinkle thing again and he tightens his grip on the cup—her cup? His cup? The cup?—and fidgets at the strange warmness on his stomach and pull on his chest.
"It's complicated," He waves his hand. Nonchalant. Quite worried but hiding it well in fact—he's an old beast after all. He's weighted down by worries and thoughts every day like the masses of clouds above the Dark Castle weight and hold the load of the upcoming winter. He's worried how much more he could tell if Belle, curious creature, continues to ask—and something inside of him tells and warms him and hisses angrily at him about how she could ask thousands of excellent questions and undo him in the space in-between with seconds to spare. So, he swiftly revolves the topics. Better to speak about her than him, the less ammunition she has, the better. She wouldn't understand either way, he reminds himself, whatever he spills of his grander schemes. It's too complex. Too intertwined. Even the quite sharp mind he sometimes manages to glimpse wouldn't catch and connect the dots. A conversation among thousands.
"I see you've finally given those brooms a needed rest, hm?" Rumpelstiltskin says. Eyebrow raised. Belle, in return, flushes slightly. A red hue blossoming in her cheekbones and spreading down to her exposed collar—which he doesn't notice at all, of course. At her obvious embarrassment, he smirks, fingers drumming on his cup.
This is the first afternoon, in fact, where she has accompanied him with their usual—and unmentioned—cup of tea once again. Precisely three weeks ago he gave her the dust-laden temple of books (borrowed—borrowed!) and for those twenty-one days his bright-eyed caretaker had taken upon herself to engage into a battle against decades of teeny dirt specks – and, well, he's yet to surmise who would win. He uses the time alone—peaceful without the chatter, the questions and the gentle prodding he's come to know and expect on the last weeks—to spin or to brew potions for the desperate. But every now and then, he seeks her out—to see her progress on her duties of course and make an off-hand quip about dirt-faced caretakers losing battle terrain in the Historical fiction line—and pries her from the buckets and rags for a second so she eats, drinks or, really, to asses her mental state since someone who dives so enthusiastically toward cleaning a place makes you question certain things. Can't have fainting fair damsels under my citadel anyway.
A tide swivels on itself as Belle rolls the oceans in feigned vexation. "The place is beyond filthy, Rumpelstiltskin." Her tone is almost accusatory. And he finds it amusing despite himself and it soothes him—he leaves the question why for later fretting—to hear her be bold, to know she feels at peace enough in here with him to berate him for trivialities. She continues, humming, "You can end wars with a thought but you can't combat dust bunnies, it seems." She stands up, gathers the plates to clean while she laughs softly—a soft tune. "I think half of my forever will be spend cleaning and searching for all the beautiful tomes in that place. The gods know you wouldn't."
Rumpelstiltskin snorts. "I'm the Dark One, dearie, I certainly don't do cleaning."
"You don't prowl, you don't clean, you don't dance…" she spins on her heels, shortening the space between him and her, and cocks her head as she eyes him unabashedly, a small curl of her lips deepening the lonesome dimple on her cheek. "What exactly do you do with your time, Rumpelstiltskin?"
His throat tightens. On the tip of his tongue explanations dangle, they teeter between hard truths and confessions and then quick evasions and spun lies. He wants to tell her and he doesn't. He wants to be alone and he wants to speak to her. Except, every conversation as of late has been ending with the same need to tell her. He knows she won't never see another face outside these doors, a miserable true but a truth nonetheless, and he has enchanted the castle to warm him if even the simplest of slips fall from her pretty mouth. Then again, those that mean he can trust her? Beauty can be deceiving, oh he knows better than most. That's why magic doesn't even try to hide his ugly wickedness that lies from his very core. But beauty hides it. Cages it. Paints beautiful landscapes that only end in black smears.
Except, this is Belle, his strangest deal. The girl who smiles. Whose hugs are warmer than the spring sun. Who coaxes him with her lilting accent. The too young, too kind, sharp-witted Belle…
At the end, the decision is quick.
He flourishes and rises to his feet, leveling the ground since she doesn't play fair, and says, "Ah, well, that's my business, isn't it, dearie?"
"I guess so." answers Belle. She shrugs nonchalantly. Smiles. Rosy lips pulling back to chuckle. Basically drives him mad. "But I guess there's also plenty of time." she adds cryptically.
"Time?" he echoes, the word reverberating in the Grand Hall. His eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Time for what, exactly?" he sneers, distrustful, years upon years hard to shake off, natural responses hard to shove down. His body is taut as it awaits for her reply. What could she possibly mean—?
Belle sighs softly. "Time to learn, Rumpelstiltskin," she tells him quietly. Now, her eyes, the bluest skies, are hazy with sadness. For him? Or for her? Her situation is a sad one indeed. Having to spend the rest of her days as a beast's captive? No future, no happiness. He sets his jaw. Looks away. Angered and perplexed, because why should he care whatever fate the gods have scrawl for her? Still, he listens as she wheedles softly, "There's plenty of time to learn new things, don't you think?"
"And, what in the world could you ever teach an old beast with the likes of me, dearie?" he asks her wearily, exhaling through his nose. Really, it's fool's hope. He had lived long enough to know what to hate and what to not-hate-as-much. He angles toward her to tell her those exact words, however, his rational mind is ushered away and shuts a door on his head, the rattling sound the only thing h notices over the pounding of his heartbeat on his ears. The rush of blood on his face. The split second he has before Belle is in close-range. Too close range. Enough for her unique fragrance to drift: Roses, rosemary and ink?
There are secrets in her eyes. A whole, uncovered world waiting to be pluck out and weave and drifted through the air like threads on the wind, only the finest of them—and where to choose from?—could even chance to be treasured like it deserves.
Her mouth is moving—Rumpelstiltskin somehow realizes that, don't ask him the bloody how—and there are words pouring out. Desperately, he catches the last trail.
"…you know, you're never old enough not to learn."
Rumpelstiltskin arches an eyebrow. Shows his teeth. "Try me." he challenges.
Belle smiles, a thin-lipped smile that someway is warm, and tells him, "Well, just see then, 'old beast'." she imitates his high-pitched accent on the last words—
—and then they're dancing.
The conniving lady with the dazzling smile and skies for eyes steps forward, latches his hand on the air, then takes chance in his astonishment and grabs his shoulder, and then they're dancing. He succumbs to her. Her light blue dress swirling as he moves forward as she steps backwards, and then there's a twist, and Rumpelstiltskin is more than a quarter sure he's dreaming.
And what a dream.
It is a while later, way, way later. Later, when they step back from each other. Later, when shyness seemed to overcome whatever electrified boldness possessed the sky-eyed beauty. Later, when the old beast skitters away with the likes of a spinner from eons ago, back when he was waist-deep in wool. It is later when the beauty somehow reaches for his cup—and he gives it away reluctantly—and takes it to wash it and guard it on the cupboard fort. When she's at the door, she turns, calls his name, and the old beast angles toward her, deeply unsure, golden-speckled finger rubbing together in restless fashion.
The beauty smiles then later—a brightly lit star-studded sky glimmers and it is heralded on her gaze—and he's breathlessly and hopelessly trapped. Neatly folded and well-cared for in her gaze. His heart stutters to a stop when she tells him in a gentle timbre, "Don't overwork yourself, please."
The door shuts behind her quietly. The beast clumps down on his wheel's stool and knows—with a bone-weary, foreboding sigh—that he's in for a lot of trouble.
He hums absent-mindlessly. Black eyes skidding toward the place where the sky and sunlight beamed on his shredded, bloody pulped-thing called heart and sighs, caresses his wheel, and mutters. "Oh boy."