More than Any Disease
The sun was setting over the Marchlands. Golden light set wisps of cloud afire with hues of pink and orange while the yawning expanse of sky overhead began to bruise into purple, blue and black. Much like the sunset, the clerics' scourges had set her skin afire with wounds weeping red tears and arching, finger-like bruises of purple and blue. And the flaying . . . Belle watched the sun set from her tiny tower window, the night's breeze tugging at her snarled mane of sweat-stiffened, blood-matted chestnut curls and the stained, shapeless shift of unbleached linen only the penitent wore. Unlike the sunset, her pain did not end with cool touch of night. No, pain was a fire wyrm curled around her heart, the tendrils of a diseased flower taken root in her flesh.
She gave them nothing, unmoved by the clerics' methodical dismantling of body and soul, untouched by her Papa's weeping pleas or the Queen's dripping red smile. She did not scream; she would not give them the satisfaction of knowing they hurt her. Instead she bit her lip until blood trickled down her chin. No, she locked the memories into a golden box, and maybe, when she finally shattered into madness, the two of them could race in mad, wild glee through the tangled wreckage of her mind—whole and together. But not this night.
Tonight, the cleric responsible for securing her chains had forgotten to latch the manacles. Quick, horrible twists of two dislocated wrists and she was free. A fierce manic grin he would be proud of touched her abused lips. No one decided her fate but her. The night air embraced her in sweet, cool softness, and Belle abandoned herself to its keeping. She flew, watching freedom approach in the form of a courtyard where she'd learned to ride a pony under her father's proud eye. The wind whipped tears from her eyes and she gave voice to the wicked name, her last hope: "Rumplestil-"
With a sobbing cry, Rumplestiltskin surged upright in the chair where he'd fallen asleep. Gods, he couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. Not thinking of the horrible sudden stop that ended her, of the mangled body at the foot of a tower, of the sound- Rumplestiltskin clawed at the tie encircling his throat in a perfect Windsor knot, lurching to his feet and staggering for the chilly sanctuary of the bathroom. Without his cane, he leaned heavily against the sink, hot bolts of pain shooting up from the crippled knee stiffened by inactivity. Shaking hands twisted on the tap and splashed ice cold water on his face, once, twice, thrice.
The dangling end of his navy blue hung in the water pooling at the sink's drain and Rumplestiltskin watched, trying to claw his way back to cold, sterile sanity. Looking at his gaunt reflection was enough to settle his thoughts into Mr. Gold's tranquil reserve. His breathing evened. Mr. Gold had lost a love long ago. The florist's daughter had strolled into his shop and stolen his heart along with the chipped cup she insisted on paying for when she broke it, or rather, working off her debt as his shop assistant. Mr. Gold, like Rumplestiltskin, had made a deal he didn't understand. Smiles and shared jokes, saving her from a nasty fall on a patch of Maine ice, a kiss under the stars . . . then Moe French grew a conscience, horrified that his little girl was seen sticking her tongue down the pawnbroker's throat. Whispers of 'pedophile' and 'Stockholm Syndrome,' culminated in Izzy's disappearance. It was a week later that the Mayor announced her untimely suicide in her family's house. Regina had always been a spiteful bitch. Here it was the swinging end of a rope, not a horrific, endless fall, a sudden stop.
A whimper rose in throat, one wet hand raking a path through his hair. Perhaps in casting the curse, Regina had minimized Rumplestiltskin's role in Belle's end. The Evil Queen thought her former teacher devoid of any vestige of human emotion; she thought Belle as only a chess piece, a pawn on the far side of the board. He knew different. She was his queen.
"Belle . . ." he uttered the name with hushed reverence, his one truest prayer chanted during the long hours watching for her return from his tower window. Names had power, and words were the bread of his trade. In these still hours of the night, he hoarded every syllable she uttered, even those that pierced him with her furious honesty.
You're a coward, Rumplestiltskin. And no matter how thick you make your skin, that doesn't change.
Now you've made your choice. And you're going to regret it. Forever.
"Oh yes. I regret it. You haunt me," he said aloud.
The man staring back at him had dark, haunted eyes, his narrow, foxlike face seamed with the cares of centuries. In the old world, he was the Dark One, the Spinner, the Deal-maker. Here, he was just a sad old dragon leaning on his cane. Rumplestiltskin limped back to the hated chair, retrieving his cane and throwing back the last of the scotch in his glass. It burned a sweet path down his throat. It might as well have been horse piss next to the goblin whiskey he swilled from his flask in the old world. His sodden tie clung to his chest, his hair hanging in limp, damp clumps. Barefoot and panting, he hardly looked like Storybrooke's resident villain.
At once jittery and exhausted, Rumplestiltskin rambled about the empty house. The empty pink house. The empty pink house whose only bedrooms were up a narrow flight of stairs. Add petty to being a spiteful bitch. His leg was on fire by the time he limped into his bedroom and stripped down to his boxers. Crawling into the embrace of a downy mattress and a heap of quilts, Rumplestiltskin heaved a sigh into the creaking quiet of the old house, as cold and lonely as a tomb. Comfort and a good life, that's what he'd asked for. Wealth, power, and two precious names inscribed on his heart.
All you'll have is an empty heart and chipped cup.
Wind teased the curtains, creating hypnotizing patterns of moonlight and shadow on the walls and ceiling. He could make out her shape clothed in shadow, the product of decades of longing. Rumplestiltskin sat up, squinting into the darkness until his eyes watered, terror gripping his heart. Would she haunt him, mangled and wounded from her terrible fall or bearing a necklace of braided rope marring her perfect skin? Her image did not waver, whole and perfect and so beautiful his heart broke into tiny little chips. How had he forgotten that cowlick at the crown of her head that made her hair swoop down her forehead like that? He adored her small, neat shape, made to fit with his. His True Love.
"Gods, Belle. I love you. I always will." His voice was small, unsteady, a weak thread of sound. Unmoved by his confession of love, the specter only blinked at him, generous lips thinned in a quivering line. The curtains undulated around her, cold air pouring in from the open window.
You were freeing yourself.
A helpless fury raged against the pain, against the specter of blue eyes and chestnut curls. Rumplestiltskin rose from the bed, clinging to the bedpost to keep himself upright.
"Let's not forget your part in this, dearie. You never truly loved me." Rumplestiltskin pressed a hand over his heart, which hammered wildly. It had been so long since he'd seen a vision of her. The insecurity was a deeply rooted one, a bruise she'd pressed on with her whisper of 'It's working!'
"A lame, cowardly spinner could not save your village." A sudden, horrible thought occurred to him. His exhaled breath transformed into a bitter laugh.
"I couldn't even catch you if you fell! My power made me what you loved. You said yourself you weren't going to come back! I waited all day for you and you weren't going to come back! But no, you wanted to save me, make me human!" he sneered the words, feeling cornered and vicious and hurting—hurting so fucking badly he wanted to impale himself on his dagger. The anger burned away, leaving a withered husk. His sawing breaths sounded abnormally loud in the stillness.
"The only one who loved that spinner was a little boy. And boys cannot choose their fathers. You were right, Belle. I loved nothing and no one after I lost my boy. Until you. Don't you see? I needed the power to get him back!" Wild-eyed and desperate, he pleaded with the beautiful goddess bathed in moonlight to offer him reprieve.
"That why I . . . gods, I missed you so much. Then she told me you'd died. There was a Belle-shaped hole in the world, how could she lie?"
The specter floated closer and inwardly Rumplestiltskin congratulated his fevered imagination. The baggy hospital scrubs were a nice touch, this world's translation of a penitent's robe. And her hair, her beautiful hair was so long and wild, he wanted to bury his hands in it, hide in its warmth and softness. Moonlight and shadow warred for supremacy on her form, and she looked like some fey, wild creature, more magical than Mr. Gold's lean, unlovely form. The vision of her blurred as tears welled up and fell.
"Belle," he whispered. Her hand lifted and with sad certainty, Rumplestiltskin bowed his head. In all his fantasies, she never touched him. He woke weeping or he woke hard, tortured by the pain or the longing. Her palm was cool and soft against his stubbled cheek. Rumplestiltskin flinched, eyes flying open in time to see pain crease her beloved features.
"Rum." Her voice was hoarse, weak, as if she had gone some time without speaking. Gods, had he truly gone mad, as he had in Snow and Charming's cell, tormented by iron bars and the clamor of his own memories?
"Belle?" his own voice scarcely had enough breath behind it to make a sound. His entire body quivered, but with cold or joy or terror, he didn't know. Hesitant, wary, as if approaching a cornered beast, the hand lifted and cupped his cheek. Real. Alive.
"Rum." A whisper, a croon. A thousand questions crowded his mind. How? Where? Dark-fire eyes and a smug red smile danced in his mind's eye. Endless, burning rage wakened from a long sleep. This old dragon still had some fire left, enough to make a petty, spiteful bitch scream for mercy. No thoughts of vengeance now, not when Belle was here and alive and touching him. Real. Alive. Now, he could do it right.
"I love you," he said, kissing her captured palm. That was all he deserved, after all. A sinner's kiss on the palm of his deity, not a lover's kiss on her mouth. He would never deserve that again. An expression of perfect, luminous happiness graced her face and he ached for the words. Gods, he ached for them. Forgiveness, love, all those perfect, unattainable things hung like stars above him. He'd settle for tolerance, for apathy. Anything she wanted to give him, he'd take.
"Love," she sighed. The wild, frothing joy drained away as realization dawned. The scrubs, the wild hair, the monosyllables, so unlike his neat, loquacious Belle. The curse. The curse that took what you loved most: her mind, her brilliant, perceptive mind. Was he in there with her, mad and gleeful and happy? Or did he lurk, the dour black-clad employer of Izzy French's memories? Rum could be a nickname for Cameron, if you squinted at it. Just as Belle could be a nickname for Isabelle. Was it really her, or a cursed imitation of her? Dark, delicate brows furrowed over startlingly blue eyes. A thin finger petted the lines scowling carved in his features.
"Sad?" Perhaps perception remained, even in madness.
"No, my love. I'm not sad," he said, smiling to prove it. The endearment wormed through her and she grinned, looking at him through her lashes in a coy, catlike way. Belle melted into him, arms winding around him, nuzzling his throat.
"Love. Rum. Mine," she said in her approximation of fluent speech. Rumplestiltskin's eyes slipped closed, arms snapping tight around his precious, beautiful, insane True Love. Sanity was overrated. Belle was here and she wanted him. That was enough.
"Yes, sweetheart. Yours," he said, kissing her snarled hair. Her hair smelled of harsh soap and sweat. The Storybrooke hospital had no psych ward, to his knowledge. The enormity of her suffering crushed his fragile heart in its enormous fist. Twenty-eight years . . .
"No. No hurting." Belle's voice was emphatic, sharp white teeth nipping at his throat in playful reproach. Belle had always known how to read his moods and tease him from his brooding with her bright curiosity, her wry humor, the blinding beauty of her soul.
A hot lustful jolt surged through him. It was only then he realized that the only guardian of his modesty was a pair of black silk boxers. Their protection was fragile with Belle nestled in his arms, saying 'love' and nipping his neck. Cool, wicked hands wandered over his throat, his chest, his belly, touching with an innocent's devastating sensuality. Rumplestiltskin was at her mercy, assaulted by the pleasure of her grazing touch, his mind melted to incoherency. Her proximity bore its inevitable fruit and her hand wrapped around his erect cock through the thin barrier of silk, somehow both tentative and bold. Gods, yes . . . No, no, no, this wasn't right. She wasn't sane. To slake his lust with a poor, demented creature wearing the face of his beloved would be like taking advantage of a subordinate . . . or a child.
"No, Belle. Stop this, now." Rumplestiltskin's voice sounded much too deep, husky. He gently disengaged her hand from him, unable to form a rational thought with her touching him so intimately. He braided their fingers together, softly kissing the back of her hand. A tortured animal sound of denial rose in her throat, her cherished face crumpled in dismay. Tears glittered in her eyes.
"Please. Want you." Belle dusted his throat and shoulder with kisses, soft and warm and wet and fucking wonderful. Sinuously, she rubbed and nuzzled against him, driving him fucking crazy. Rumplestiltskin grasped for his control, eroded by alcohol and loneliness.
A wild, hopeless desire gripped him. He framed her face with his hand and drew her close. Their lips met, fused. The silken rub of her lips, warm breath, the hot secrets of her mouth beckoning him to tease, to plunder, her hands cupping his skull, his tangled in her hair . . . Rumplestiltskin could have stood there, half-naked, clinging to her with his knee shrieking in pain for the next hundred years or so, if she let him. But even True Love's kiss must end, and he was afraid, so afraid of opening his eyes. Who was he kidding? Mad or sane, Izzy French or Belle of the Marchlands, in any land in any reality, he would love her.
"Love?" her hoarse voice drew him from his thoughts and beheld her, lips lush and rosy from their kiss, eyes like twin gemstones. Was it his imagination, or did she look more present?
"Belle, do you remember who I am?" he asked, willing himself to stillness, to act as if his heart wouldn't shatter if she answered with a single broken word. It hadn't worked for Snow and Charming, but the curse was designed to end their happiness. Maybe the curse could obey its maker . . .
"Love. Rum. Mine."
Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes against the breaking of his heart, against the changing of his world. Yes, he was hers. Body, soul and mind. But she could not be his. Not until this wretched curse was broken. It was his task to protect her until then. Even from herself. He guided her, coaxed her to bed with kisses and lay chaste beside her until she fell asleep. The wisdom he'd given Snow White long ago held true.
Love makes us sick.
A/N: This ficlet was . . . different. It's basically my forum to rant on the state of Rumbelle and I hope it was enjoyable in an angsty way.
While Rumple gets well-deserved flak for tossing Belle out, not many quibble about Belle's role in their falling out. She admits to wanting to change him as her primary motivation for coming back. Not only that but after they reconcile in Storybrooke and he dabbles with magic she Just. Fucking. Leaves. Without saying goodbye, leaving Rumple to gimp around Storybrooke looking for her like a lost puppy! Damn straight he needs to be honest with her and work on the cowardice thing, but seriously Belle? Seriously?
Am I alone in thinking this?
Post-The Outsider:
Ok. That was cruel. Belle, I didn't mean it! You have totally redeemed yourself and I bask in your awesomeness. That is all.