A/N: Several days post "Beauty" I'm still grappling with a lot of emotion, so this may not even make any sense. Based on my self-comforting head-canon that Belle and Rumple celebrated well over 100 years of marriage, thanks to him using the dagger occasionally, not to offer immortality, but to make her life just a little longer.
A brilliant ray of sunshine peeks through the crack between the closed curtains, illuminating a fresh streak of silver in Belle's hair. Rumplestiltskin frowns at the soft, white strands, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He is curled against her side in bed, propped up on an elbow, enthralled in watching his wife of twenty-seven years sleep. The sweet warmth of her breath washes over his chest, and her soft, rose-scented hair tickles his outstretched arm. She shifts onto her back and giggles in her sleep, hugging the pillow against her chest, and he can't help but grin at the joyful noise. Tiny lines are etched into her soft skin, the marks of a life well-lived. She is a vision, brighter and more lovely than he can comprehend, and he sighs, weary yet blissfully content. Every day with Belle is a blessing, and whether they're off on adventures together or spending a quiet season at home, the years since Gideon was returned to them as a baby have been the happiest he's ever known. He wouldn't exchange a moment with his family for all the power in all the realms.
For generations, he spent sleepless nights haunting the floors of his castle, his basement, his study, or his shop, restless with plans, striving for a peace he could not name. But this home is theirs, built together in love on the outer edges of existence. Every beam of wood hammered into place with their hands, every photograph and memento collected on their travels. In the evenings, the two of them stretch out on a blanket in the front yard to talk and eat and play games, their cheeks gently warmed by the eternal summer day.
No change time makes to Belle's body can make her any less beautiful in his eyes. With each passing day, he loves her more, and he wishes he could murder all the years he wasted, stumbling through a winter of his own making, craving power, chasing control.
Old habits aren't easy to escape, though, and when the time comes, letting Belle go will be the hardest thing he ever does.
The long-buried beast roars at the thought of losing her, and he curls his fingers in her nightgown, clenching his fists in the fabric and wanting to smother her tight against his chest. Sometimes, he wants to bar the door and block out the light, ignoring the endless days stretching out before him like a macabre parade. Can he mount the sun like a stallion and force its descent beneath the horizon?
No. He and Belle have settled in a place where the sun never sets and the light never dims. Where the skies are a sweeping tapestry of blues and pink, mauve and gold, more breathtaking than anything he's ever seen swirled upon a canvas. "It's like living in a place called Alaska," Belle once told him, her eyes shining with girlish enthusiasm. "Instead of eighty days of uninterrupted brightness, we'll have eighty years!"
But the sun that orders his days isn't the one in the sky. His Sun is snoring in the bed next to him.
Rumplestiltskin frowns again at the newest lock of grey hair on Belle's head, then searches her face anxiously. Another soft snore whistles past her lips, and he reaches for the dagger. He holds up the blade in the meager light of the darkened bedroom, then traces the outline of his name with a fingertip. His love is aging, and this loathsome dagger keeps him from doing the same. Last week Belle sneezed, and he hurriedly wove a spell of healing power into a new blue shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders, protecting her from catching a cold. While she was lost in her reading the other day, a new wrinkle broke out on her soft brow, and he smoothed it with a wave of his hand. Tonight, in between her deep, even breaths, his ears prick at the creak of her bones, the swell of her joints. It's not appearances he worries about—True Love has never been about the way they look—it's knowing that every beat of her mortal heart carries her father away from him, hastening the day when she will leave him behind.
He circles her head with the dagger, and the lock of silver hair turns chestnut brown once more. Relief mingles with guilt and he brushes his mouth against her cheek. "Oh, Belle," he whispers against her temple, "forgive me for my weakness."
Tomorrow, he'll swallow the lie and pray she doesn't notice what he's done. Belle doesn't want to live forever, and neither does he. To outlive Gideon and their grandchildren would be a soul-crushing blow he would never recover from. But a few extra years to extend their happiness?
It's a minor price to pay to cheat death for just a little while.
xoxo
Belle dabs moisturizer under her eyes and squints at her reflection in the afternoon light, then gathers her hair in a loose ponytail, tilting her head to the side. She's groggy from her nap, but weren't the grooves bracketing her mouth deeper yesterday? Behind her, she catches Rumple watching her in the mirror, the telltale tick in his jaw betraying his concern.
She knows that sheepish look; last night he used the dagger, making her younger while she slept. In all their years together, he's rarely touched the blade except to heal Gideon from a serious illness, but since she sprained her wrist hauling a bucket of water from the well down the hill a few months ago, Rumple has grown cautious and protective, urging her to rest more, snapping photographs every day, prowling along the cliff to scan the horizon for hints of the sunset.
But they both know the truth. Here on the Edge of Realms, only she is subject to the passage of time.
Belle shrugs and offers her husband a reassuring smile, then heads to the kitchen to start dinner while Rumple goes outside to put a fresh coat of stain on the front deck. Her changing looks and slower steps don't trouble her. Age is but a number and physical beauty a fleeting pleasure. Now at fifty-two, she looks like the older spouse, but Rumple is somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred and sixty. Sometimes she teases him about being the older woman, poking his ribs and declaring that she's robbed the cradle. He always rewards her jokes with a good-natured chuckle, but she knows deep down it frightens him, the idea of her growing older.
If Rumple is ever to be free of the dagger's thrall, however, the fairy prophesy that led them here to the ends of the worlds demands her obedience: "When the Dark One finds Eternal Love at the Sun's brightest set where time stops, the path will appear to where the Darkness should rest."
She began their relationship as his servant as the ransom for her people, and someday, when she dies, she will be the ransom for him. As fulfilling as their as their life together is, her fondest wish is for Rumple to finally be free. Her earthly death is only a temporary end to their story.
Meanwhile, there's nothing wrong with stretching out her days to ease Rumple's mind. If he vanishes a grey or dissolves a wrinkle, what harm does it do? Before Gideon was born, she shamed him far too often for turning to his power for solutions. Now she knows better. These are the allowance you make, the grace you offer when you glimpse the reflection of forever in the eyes of someone who loves you.
He comes through the front door, smelling of leather and sweat, and her heart flips over at the sight of his precious, dimpled grin—the special smile he reserves for her alone. Even after all these years of marriage, he never fails to make her pulse skitter just by entering a room.
They sit down for dinner and while they eat and chat, she looks around the tidy Victorian cottage they built together with a satisfied smile. She's so proud of him, of the man he's become. There's a softness about him now, a lightness in his step. The cold confidence of the Dark One has melted away, revealing a sensitive man who is quick with a kind word, and easy with a boyish smile. After so many years of cloaking himself in dark suits, he's back to wearing the bright vests, flowing shirts, and form-fitting trousers he favored in the Dark Castle.
Belle isn't complaining.
After they wash and put away the dishes, Rumple retires to his spinning wheel, and Belle settles on the sofa with a blanket and thumbs through a cookbook, looking for recipes. Tomorrow Jefferson and Grace are coming to visit, and marmalade-smothered chicken is their favorite.
Rumple shifts on his stool, and the wheel stops with a creak. When she looks at him, his gaze is moving over her again, sharp and serious. She sticks her tongue out, breaking the tension, and he laughs.
With a mischievous light in his eyes, he stands and approaches with a slow, easy stride, a lion lazily stalking its prey. She runs her teeth over her lower lip, admiring his compact thighs and the curve of his backside as he bends over the phonograph machine to start the music. His confidence falters when he faces her, and he rubs his fingers together in the nervous gesture she adores.
"May I have this dance, Mrs. Gold?" He offers his hand, his eyes ancient and soulful, and filled with so much love that she struggles for breath.
"Always." She drops her book to the floor and clasps his warm fingers as he draws her off the sofa and into his gentle, practiced embrace. She'll never grow tired of dancing in his arms.
He leads her in a graceful promenade, and for a few minutes they dance in comfortable silence, pressed hip-to-hip, bodies swaying softly to the music.
"Belle, I have a confession to make." Looking abashed, he swallows hard, then fingers a lock of her hair. "I've been—at night while you sleep, sometimes I use the dagger. Mostly to heal you from sickness or prevent an injury, but sometimes to turn back the clock." He bows his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't—"
She lifts his chin with her fingertips, and stops his excuses with a tender kiss. "Rumple, I haven't been sick in over ten years; did you really think I didn't know?"
His eyes widen and his cheeks flush beneath his tan. "You did?"
"Yes, and I understand." She glides her hands up his shoulders and into his hair. "It's all right to be afraid, darling. And it's natural to want as many years together as possible. You've been worried about this for a long time, haven't you?"
He nods miserably. "There's nothing else the dagger is good for, except giving us more time." He glances at the bureau where they store the blade, his voice wobbling. "The sun still hasn't set, but tonight I realized something—you're my constant, sweetheart. Not the sun, not the stars in the sky, you. My true north. For centuries I walked in darkness, I lost Bae, and I rotted in solitude, without any goodness to guide me. Then you came along, my flicker of light, my sunshine. I don't ever want to forget the man you've helped me become."
"And you won't. You're a good man with a pure heart, and a little magic doesn't change that." She cradles his cheek and soothes him with another kiss. "Neither one of us is perfect, Rumple, and this is my fault as much as yours. I could have eased your mind by telling you I knew."
"You trusted me to come to you when I was ready." Still swaying to the music, he lifts her hand from his shoulder and brushes her knuckles with a kiss.
She knows how much her trust means to him, and tears prick her eyes. Oh, how far they've come. The smile they share is one of relief, and they wipe tears away from each other's eyes, and continue the dance.
xoxo
Arm in arm, they float upstairs to their bedroom on the final sweet strains of the melody.
Rumplestiltskin's blood boils thick with desire, but he undresses Belle with slow deliberation, stopping to look his fill, covering every bit of exposed skin with kisses. She opens her arms with a welcoming moan and he shrouds her with his body, then glides into her depths.
They haven't always been good at communicating, but this, their physical connection has always transcended words. Her response to his touch is as exuberant as when she first became his bride, and he presses tight against her, claiming her mouth with a savage hunger that both devours and begs to be consumed. Fire erupts in his veins, their joining rough and urgent, then he pours himself inside her with a shout.
He stays with her, panting against her neck while their bodies cool and their breaths slow. She brushes wetness off his cheeks, and only then does he realize he's been crying.
"Are you all right?" Belle whispers, tightening her arms around his back.
He nods, but his lower lip trembles, and fresh tears roll down his cheeks, hot and salty. She pulls him closer still, encouraging him to weep, rocking him like she used to rock Gideon, until all the tension melts from his shoulders and he is boneless and exhausted.
Belle moves to rise, and he makes an embarrassing sound of protest, not wanting to let go.
"Shhh, I'll be right back." Quickly she shuts the curtains, plunging the room into blackness, and returns to him, sliding back under the covers.
He smiles wryly in the dark. There's no need for the light outside when his eternal, blazing sun burns right here in this room.
Soon Belle falls into a pleasure-drugged slumber, and he feels sleep pulling at him, too. Contentment floods him and he croons nonsense against her ear, comforting them both. "You'll always be my sunshine, Belle."
Many years from now, Belle will pass from this world, and he will journey to find the guardian so he can join her forever—his sunshine, his peace. He can't help but be grateful today is not that day. He tightens the covers around her shoulders and wraps his arms around her securely, his light, his true love, his salvation.
And he sleeps.
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