Disclaimer: I don't own anything. The Juniper Tree is not mine... nor is it the Brother's Grimm... they just collected it.

Summary: Whether children or armies, it's all the same, Belle thinks. It's the second child Rumpelstiltskin has brought to her. Follow-up to Things Not Grown on Trees.

Prompts:
Rumbelle Special Attack Prompt: Belle Deals with Mood Swings (only three weeks late… whatever)
Marchie: "One can't sleep, the other one helps" (but also works for her joke prompt of "BABIES, BABIES, BABIES!"


In the dark castle, Belle thinks oddly enough of her mother, and often at that. Though she's slight enough memories. She has two to be exact, the first being the memory of her mother waiting out one of Belle's few and far between tantrums. The woman had simply stood by, as Belle had thrashed about on the stone floor, over some forgotten woe. When the little princess had tired, her queen mother had said—and this Belle remembered quite clearly—if you're quite finished, I'd be happy to dry your tears, if you'll act like a big girl and tell me just exactly why you're so distraught.

The second memory Belle has is of falling asleep on her mother's lap, the feeling of her mother's hands in her hair.

It was strange to her to spend so much time thinking on a woman she'd hardly known, but she couldn't stop. Her mother had been from a rather unexceptional background, the daughter of two court families of average name and status. However the woman had made an exceptional queen, decisive and regal in bearing. From what Belle had been told, her mother had ordered about servants and courtiers, armies, and even her father, the king, before dying all too young. The queen left a husband lacking a tactical mind and daughter with two bone-thin memories and an outdated gold necklace by which to remember her.

Belle had always wondered over the necklace's origin, but none had known from where her mother had gotten the thing. That afternoon, the princess sits sitting on the kitchen stool, thinking over asking her master to take a look at the piece, peeling potatoes, when the employer in question enters silently. "Expecting an army tonight, dearie?"

She jumps, dropping the slippery potato, as well as her knife, just grazing her thumb. She looks it over, but she's not drawn blood.

Rumpelstiltskin giggles, "Didn't startle you, did I, dearie?

"'Course you did," Belle says, grabbing the dropped potato off the floor. Rubbing it off with her dirty apron, she tosses it into the bucket with the rest. "What about an army?"

"I asked if you were expecting one—for you've certainly enough potatoes to feed one."

She looks down at the bucket. Oh, right. Guess she'd gotten carried away. Well she supposes they would be having potato dishes for a few days. Belle ticks off all the ways she knows to prepare them: baked, mashed, soup, shepherd's pie. Belle tries to keep the look of frustration off her face; she hates when Rumpelstiltskin gets the best of her. Not to mention, it's the first she's seen him in two days.

"Never bad to plan ahead. Don't you think?" Belle looks up and sees that he's a child on his hip. "Oh—" Then, she groans. "Lord, not again."

He smiles wickedly, "Quite."

She stands wiping her hands and sets the knife an appropriate distance from the edge—for now she'd little hands to consider. She steps forward tentatively to get a better look at the babe—who isn't really a babe, perhaps a year or two old from the look of things, and it's a he. "A bit older than the last one."

"Yes, tragedy has a tendency to strike at any age." The boy child has golden curls and large, chocolate eyes. His nose and cheeks are red, and his eyes watery. He's been crying, but he's curled a little fist around Rumpelstiltskin's neck. Lastly, his little thumb sports dried spit, Belle notes, "Ah, he sucks at his thumb."

The imp eyes her oddly. "Indeed, how observant of you."

"We'll have to fix that." She reaches out her arms at the little cherub, who watches her. The child does not reach for her, but neither does he cry when she takes him. He's sticky with sleep-sweat, his fine clothes damp and wrinkled. "What's his name?" she asks, brushing wet curls away from his face.

He paces around her with his general theatricality, but his audience is unaware—all eyes on the little thing he's brought home. "Oughtn't do that dearie; you're just for the in-between."

Belle holds in a smile at his slip of the tongue. It's the first she's heard him refer to them as we, something of a pair. She works up her irritation and asks, "What am I to call him, with no name?"

"He's of noble birth. That's all you need know. Call him what you will, but no names." He waggles a finger in front of her nose—as if she is the child.

"Because names have power," she whispers more to herself than him, but the statement unsettles Rumpelstiltskin. He spares a glance at her peering knife on the counter, but finds it run-of-the-mill. A good thing, that. "You know what to do. Keep him fed, and he'll be off and away before you know it."

"Will I see you at dinner, or can I expect you to go into hiding, like last time?" she asks.

He turns in the doorway and the sight of a woman, man-child in arms, is almost too much, even with the off-coloring of both parties. "I wouldn't hold my breathe, dearie."


After turning the child over to his housekeeper, Rumpelstiltskin gives them both a wide berth.

He had a tough time of it in the land he'd spirited the bastard child away from. The imp had arrived just in time, for the lady had been sharpening her knife and bringing the water to a boil.

The child had gone willingly enough. The thing had had a tough road, born a bastard. The country lord had replaced his bed warmer with a more cunning whore, however. She'd weaseled her way into the role of a proper wife, giving birth before grass had grown over the boy's mother's grave. The lady of the house had named the daughter Marlinchen. A rather fitting name for the creeping usurper, Rumpelstiltskin thought.

Suffice to say it, the boy would be better off with his new family. He had just the couple in mind. A youngish girl who longed ever so much for a son, and since her marriage at the ripe age of thirteen had for the past few years produced nothing more than half-made babes and tears. It was a common enough malady for young brides, such as she, and one that she would grow out of as soon as her hips widened, but the sire was growing impatient. So a son they shall have.

However, all of that didn't make it any easier to bear a bouncing boy under his rather large roof. He chronically skips dinner, opting to work on this potion and that poison. Finally he starts finding trays in the library with the note: don't starve yourself. I still need someone to refill the pantry.


It's been a while by the time Rumpelstiltskin goes to look for Belle. His favorite shirt needs mending. Though he's left it out for days, obviously enough, the girl has yet to take it from his chamber—an effort to smoke him out, he suspects.

He goes first to the kitchen, followed by the great hall. After that he reconciles himself to looking in her room, a place he generally avoids—though that isn't to say he hasn't snooped around in the past.

He pops into the hallway where Belle resides, only to find the door open, but no caretaker. What he does find is significantly less satisfying.

The damn baby is curled up on her bed asleep.

At least if the brat is here, she can't be that far away. Rumpelstiltskin steps into the room fully (she'd gained a room a few days after her arrival—I'm not sleeping in a dungeon. It's ridiculous, when you've hundreds of unused rooms, just sitting around collecting dust). "Belle?"

No reply. He peeks his head into the attached washroom. Still no Belle.

"Oh, good. You've decided to come out of hiding."

He turns back and sees her standing in the doorway, barefoot, with her dress knotted up on either side. Peculiar.

Decidedly not odd is the fact that her legs are bare, for she wears no stockings today. That's anything but odd. Torturous more like. "So it would seem."

"Since you've finally decided to grace us with your presence, I need you to watch him for a bit. He'll be waking up soon from his nap."

"I think not, dearie." He points to her feet. "Misplaced your shoes and stockings?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, you will, and no, I haven't. I'm scrubbing the stairs and the entryway. Make sure he doesn't try to go down them until they dry, and that goes for you too!"

Belle steps in and grabs a large swath of cloth on the chest of drawers. As she moves he catches the nicest view of her shapely calves. At the door she turns back, "Watch him, and I'll fix your shirt. Deal?"

He sighs, waving a hand, "I suppose."

Rumpelstiltskin crosses his arms over his chest. The audacity of her, leaving him to tend the thing. "Careful with that deal-making, dearie, needn't learn the hard way that there's always more to the fine print."

Well, if she was going to be like that, then he supposes he'd just have to make the best of it. "I suppose, I'll just have to have a look about your room." He says to himself, but in reply, he hears a child's gurgles. He looks to the bed, where he finds that the boy is sitting up, watching him. "Well, well, look who has finally decided to wake up."

The boy looks to and fro, presumably for his usual tender.

"She's not here; I know you'd rather her than I. That makes two of us."

The child is still watching him.

"You really ought to be more afraid of me. I wonder…"

He jumps toward the child, making a face. The boy remains unperturbed. No fun in that. "Not very bright are you?"

Rumpelstiltskin taps his foot, impatient and bored. Then he has an idea. He knows exactly how he is going to entertain himself. He walks over to Belle's armoire, "Let's see what's in here, shall we?"

He opens the closet and finds little to peak his interest. The few clothes he's procured for her, as well as the gown in which she'd arrived. No skeletons, sadly. He goes to the chest of drawers and starts sorting through, one by one. However, again they turn up nothing out of the ordinary. He turns back to the babe, peaking under the bed. Nothing. "Now, were would you hide all your secrets if you were living with a beast, hm?"

"The snuffbox in the false bottom of the stocking drawer," Belle yells flippantly, passing by, leaving a drippy trail in her wake.

Damn, he should have heard her. Bastard's fault. Unnerving him and all.

He reopens her stocking drawer and yes, there, a false bottom. He takes out the mildly ornate snuffbox that he doesn't remember owning, but knows had to have come from his collection. He opens it and is hit with the scent of pine.

The findings are shockingly scant.

He pulls out a number of dried flowers. He finds a few letters from her father, all ones he's already read through prior to her receiving them, as well as some scribblings he hasn't seen.

Intrigued he reads through them. They aren't love letters, as he'd been expecting.

Good, his mind says, though he's not sure why.

Rather, they are lines of verse. Some are copied from tomes he recognizes, popular verse of the day, and some are new. He wonders if she has written them herself, but a few lines reveal that to be likely.

A child stolen off a hill,
With the selling worth a mill…

Yes, surely she's written that. Her hand is not as delicate as he had expected. He finds an embroidered handkerchief, as well as a ring he vaguely recalls her wearing. He wonders if it's from her betrothed.

"If you're done prying, you could go and set the table for dinner." Belle says. She's still barefoot, the bottom half of her tied-up dress, wet and sticking to her legs. She walks over to the bed and reaches to pick up the little blight. "That is if you're finished hiding."

The sight is no less painful; he ignores her question. Rumpelstiltskin quickly drops her things back into the box. "Why the need for the hidden drawer if you've nothing scandalous to hide?"

"I like secrets. Not all of them are bad, you know." She sets the boy on the ground and starts untying her skirts, sadly covering up what precious little skin she'd been sporting. "So are you going to join us tonight?"

"I'll keep to myself, thank you." With that he leaves. He doesn't eat super, though she leaves some outside his door. He works until the wee hours, when a tapping at his window catches him by surprise. The letter is ironically born by a stork.


In the night, Belle awakens at the sound of a crash, quickly followed by another, and another, and another. They've finally come for us, she thinks, and in her panic she doesn't even register that once again she has grouped herself and Rumpelstiltskin together in her mind.

The banging does not cease and her master must be gone (or worse) because he'd never let it go on, and this worries her most of all. Belle knows time is of the essence; she can't simply lie there and hope for the best. She hops out of bed and takes the still sleeping child in her arms. She slips a blanket around him and sets him in the bottom of her armoire. It's the best she can do with so little time.

Next she exits her room, locking her door behind her.

On the way to the great hall, for that's where the sounds seem to be stemming from, she grabs a sword off a suit of armor.

With silent feet she creeps through the halls, down the (freshly scrubbed, though it matters little now) stairs and to the door. It's not fully shut, a sliver of light streaming out. Slowly, she nudges it open, sword aloft. What she finds are not invaders as she expected, but something else entirely.

Rumpelstiltskin is destroying the room one piece of furniture at a time.

Belle is in shock at the sight. She's seen his tantrums before, but nothing of this caliber. He tosses his rather large chair to the fireplace, missing only by a few inches. She wonders if the aim was intentional. She drops the sword and yells, "Rumpelstiltskin."

At the sound of his name, he turns, face a picture of rage incarnate.

His eyes take her in, and Belle remembers that she's in nothing but her nightgown. However she makes no move to cover herself, instead saying, "What in the name of the gods are you doing?"

At her words, any calm her sudden appearance had bestowed is lost. He shakes his head and stalks to the dining table, overturning it with an angry mumble she can't make out. She jumps a little as it clatters on the floor.

"Stop. Now."

His head snaps to her. "Do not order me about, madam." He pushes over his chair at the head of the table and kicks out at the table for good measure.

"I at least deserve to know why you're raising hell at this ungodly hour." She puts her hands on her hips. She's seen men throw hissy fits before (though never this large) and he would not be getting the best of her tonight, or morning, whichever it was.

"You want to know what's wrong, aye?" He laughs, a frightening and dark sound, "Princess wants to know what's wrong." He stalks, or skips, to the fireplace and takes up the fire stoker. Belle does her best not to shake. However he skips over to the dining table. "I'll tell you what's wrong," Rumpelstiltskin begins to pummel the table, wood chunks flying, "The bitch is pregnant. That's what's wrong."

"What? Who are you talking about?"

He doesn't stop in trying to kill his table dead. "She's pregnant and doesn't want any part of the deal. Should have known."

Ah, Belle finally begins to realize what's truly at play here. "They don't want him, anymore," she says quietly.

"Right you are. Congratulations!" He waves the fire stoker in the air and gives her a mock bow before landing a handful more blows into his ruined table, each more violent than the last. "And now, I don't know what the hell to do with it!" At that he throws the metal tool down and begins to pace, fisting his hands in his tangled hair.

Belle takes a few steps, but before she can bring herself close enough, Rumpelstiltskin has unleashed himself on the pedestals at the far end of the hall. He knocks the over and throws the items they'd boasted against the wall. Belle does not move closer. "You'll find another… deal." She cringes as clock wines, springs flying forth.

He whips around to face her, "Another deal, she says." He laughs that giggle; it's terrifying. "As if it's just that simple." He then goes to the cabinet and begins to toss the breakable items about the room—though, she notes, nowhere near her person.

Belle stands there, keeping an even breathing pattern, and thinks of her mother.

She stands and waits for him to exhaust the emotions that have nowhere else to go but the wall in the shattered pieces of the baubles he's collected. She lets his tantrum wash over her, and thinks of her dead mother's words of wisdom: Children and generals, it's all the same—let them wear themselves out and move the breakables.

Well, Belle thinks, at least she can do the first.

It's a long time before Rumpelstiltskin's arms and legs begin to tire; Belle's bare feet had gone cold sometime before. He's still muttering to himself when he sinks to the floor by the fire.

She goes to him. She sits close enough to touch, but not too close, he did after all just destroy the living room. She tucks her feet into her nightgown, giving him time to get used to her proximity. "Rumpelstiltskin," she says evenly, without emotion. "I don't understand why you are so upset. Please explain it to me."

The imp huffs, and for a moment Belle thinks he's going to start exploding again, but then he speaks the forced words slowly, "A new deal will take time."

Belle wants to ask a million questions, quickly, but holds back, not wanting to offset his precarious calm, "Why does that matter, exactly?"

"Don't you see," the words come through clenched teeth. "It could be," he sighs, fisting and un-fisting his hands (not claws, she thinks, because what he's doing looks like what angry children with children's hands). "Some time before it leaves."

"Weeks?"

He does not answer.

"Months?"

"Or longer."

Belle sighs. Yes, that would be a difficulty.

All the king's horses and all the king's men,
Could not find a manger for the baby to lie in.

She takes in a deep breath and lets it out. They could do this. They had to do this. "We'll manage."

The words catch his attention—specifically we.

"You'll have to let him go when the time comes." He says, and in his eyes, she notes concern. He was worried over how this would affect her.

"I can do it."

He nods and goes back to staring at the fire. Belle doesn't have to wonder what he sees, for there's a room upstairs full of child's things that she thinks he'd rather her not have found. This is difficult for the both of them, but they'd weather it.

After a few more moments of silence, she stands and looks around, deciding where to start. Belle first lifts up the chair next to the fireplace, then the rack of fire care items. After that, she finds him looking at her confused. "Come on then, I can't do it alone. Help me put it all back together."

She doesn't know what he'll do, but after only a few seconds, Rumpelstiltskin stands and starts to clean. They do much of it by hand, righting this trinket and that, but he uses magic on the broken relics and the wood he's turned to shards from the table.

Light is just beginning to come through the window, when Belle finally works up the courage to tell him. "I'm going to need a name."

He gives her a look and opens his mouth to protest, but she raises a hand. "Don't start. I am doing what I have to do, but you have to do your part also." He sighs, and she continues, "If he's to be here for longer, I have to call him something."

Rumpelstiltskin leans back against the newly reassembled table, nodding. "Juniper."

Belle frowns, "Strange name for a baby son."

He shrugs. "Don't ask me, dearie, apparently it was the last word his common mother spoke before bleeding out."

She nods. She'd asked for a name and gotten one. "One more thing: you have to come to dinners."

He gives her a frown. "And why pray tell must I?"

"Because you're not the only one this is difficult for."

The words give him pause, but finally the imp waves his hand with a flourish, "I'll see what I can do."

Belle yawns and walks over to the window to take in the sunrise. She wonders how late she'll sleep in, and whether the child—Juniper—will let her. She jumps and turns at the sound of Rumpelstiltskin crying out, as if in pain.

She goes to him as he slumps into the chair. "What's wrong?"

He's breathing heavily and shaking a touch. "Me, apparently, the godsdamnit."

She looks at him with confusion, kneeling beside his chair. He looks at her and remembers the posture from the night he'd met her, only that it had been her father's throne she'd been kneeling before. However, the look of concern in her eyes softens him. What was to be lost from telling her anyway? "I attempted to peer into the thing's future. Without luck, I might add."

"You—you can see the future."

"At times, I may be blessed with a touch of foresight. But, like all magic it comes with a price." Pain, to be specific. Not a pound of flesh, but still.

Her look of concern does not ebb. Strange. "What did you see?"

"Nothing useful." Scrolls and war rooms and ladies tittering, but nothing so specific as a bloody dot on a map.

"Is there nothing to be done?"

"No, it'll pass." With time. It had been a stupid, insipid effort, shot too far with too little information to start with. He hears a bird outside. Oh good, another day. "You'd best get back to your charge."

Belle wants to correct him, tell him it's their charge, however she does not. Instead, she stands, and says though soft in voice giving no less strong an instruction, "See you at dinner."


He's tired that night and sits slouching at the reassembled dinner table, which shines he notices. She must have polished it today, he imagines, finishing another glass of wine. She'd said he must to attend dinner. She hadn't said he must do so in sobriety.

Rumpelstiltskin had done little that day, the attempt at prophecy sapping him of energy, and all for naught. He had paid for the smoky images with the power of his limbs, and for what? Images of soldiers at practice and scrolls in stacks, but not a bloody name of a city or royal line.

He's thinking over the girl-child that's finally likely to have a babe of her own, when he looks to the woman on his right, cutting up beef and potatoes for the little bastard. It suddenly shocks him that the woman of his house is nigh on twice as old as the child who just reneged on a deal with him. "Belle," he says the name quietly. "Why didn't you ever marry?"

She doesn't look up from the child's plate, just out of reach of the baby on her lap. "I was engaged, you know that."

"I didn't ask if you were engaged." He tosses the fork he'd been toying with onto the half empty plate, making a racket. He did ever so much hate not being the center of attention. The sound finally draws her gaze. "Why didn't the two love birds tie the knot, as they say?"

"We didn't have the time, I suppose. Gaston had been on and off the front lines for years."

"If I know anything of men, and I do, you had time." He eyes her wickedly. "All's needed is a night, after all," he says, making her blush. "Twenty-seven, a little old, don't you think? Why ever not bearing children yet?"

The last causes her to scowl. "Twenty-eight."

"What?"

"I'm twenty-eight."

"Since when?"

"Since last week. Monday specifically."

Oh. His face falls, as she goes back to cutting meat. "You could have mentioned it."

"And spoiled your little bout? I didn't see the need."

Rumpelstiltskin feels that familiar twinge. He daren't even name it, for he hates that feeling. It always signals more spinning to be done. In any event, he'd have to bring her something the next time he away-ed. "Well, twenty-eight then. A rather long time to put off matrimony and all that."

She sighs and looks to the ceiling, shrugging. "Oh, I don't know. I just wasn't in a hurry, I suppose." The little boy on her lap raises his chubby fists, gently knocking Belle on the chin. She laughs and jiggles him on her knee. "Moot point now."

He feels that twinge again and remembers his first thought at reading the girl-child's note of decline: the longer it's here, the more she'll come to care for it, and she won't be able to let it go.

He looks at her then, feeding the boy. She's young enough still. Young enough to be a mother, but in shame he looks away, for the woman on his right would never be a mother. She would never be a mother because of him.

"You were alone, on your birth-date," he says. It's as close to an apology as he'll give and not for the reason his words state.

"I wasn't alone; I had this little one, remember?" She turns to the child, "Isn't that right, Juniper?"

Yes. Best to find a new deal quickly.


"Can't you see I'm busy?" he says. He'd been reading runes and packing for his next round of searching for a barren woman with power and possession, when Belle had stomped in, sweaty and disheveled.

And purple. Well, not entirely.

"Yes, and if you haven't noticed so am I." Belle stands, holding out the boy with purple hands and forearms—though really the color's more of an indigo, or mandragora even. Rumpelstiltskin notices a smudge on the child's nose.

"With what, painting?" She's caught him with his half-moon spectacles on, which is infuriating enough, and now asking him to watch the brat. Needless to say, he's not keen on cooperating.

Her eyes darken, and she scowls, "I'm making soap, thank you very much, and if I don't get back to it, I'll have to throw out the whole pot and start from scratch. It'll take twice as long, and then we'll be a week without soap. I know you'd be quite alright with that, but I'm not."

Ah, now it makes sense, for she's a sheen of sweat on her forehead, and her hair is curlier than usual from the steam of boiling lard. However, what he doesn't understand is how she doesn't smell of animal fat and ashes, but of flowers. Odd. Not to mention, he still has no idea what indigo arms has to do with soap-making. "Yes, but why are you purple?"

"Because I didn't know orchanet stains—would you just bloody take him?"

Rumpelstiltskin says nothing, but waves his hand dismissively. She sets the boy down and turns on her heel, leaving.

Once he knows she's well enough away, he answers, "I wouldn't be fine with it either, dearie." He looks down at the child, sucking on his vaguely tinted thumb. "Stop that. She'll know, and then we'll both be in trouble."

The child stares. The thumb does not budge.

"What's more, it'll ruin your mouth, and then who will take you?" All the same, he lets the child alone to find comfort in the habit. Not that the search was going any better. As it is, Rumpelstiltskin worries they have an extended house guest on their hands. "Hm? No ideas? 'Course not."

The babe remains sitting, seemingly content with staring down the demon. Rumpelstiltskin sighs, "Suit yourself." He goes back to measuring out a portion of devil's claw small enough to travel with.

Suddenly, a patch of yellow catches his eye.

Rumpelstiltskin looks up, his hands freezing—the babe's halfway up a stack of books, in the general altitude of the open window. "Oh no you don't," he says, racing to beat the child.

He grabs him about the waist, the boy squealing. "I know. I know, but no one gets away from me," he says, turning the boy around to look him in the eyes. "Couldn't just sit there, could you?" Rumpelstiltskin takes the grubby baby back to the table. With a snap, he vanishes the herbs he'd been portioning out and sets the child on the edge.

He watches the baby suck his thumb, eyes full of unshed tears. Weepy little thing.

Suddenly, Rumpelstiltskin has an idea.

He doesn't know why he didn't think of this sooner—that's the trouble with the boys. They unnerve him, can't think straight.

He pulls a vial from thin air, and holding against the boy's cheek, he catches a tear. He seals it, scratching a claw against the glass, causing an unpleasant sound. The boy doesn't protest the noise. "Not skittish, that I'll give you."

Next, he assesses the child's fair mien, running a thumb across his forehead. He leans in and takes a quick sniff of the boy's head.

Then Rumpelstiltskin takes the boy's right wrist, pulling it away from his mouth. There is some resistance. "I know, but it has to be this one, lad." He unclenches the baby's fist, rubbing his scaly thumb over the tiny lines. Palmistry is a tricky enough art, but with one so small there's little to be deduced. "Too early to tell—but a greater measure of intelligence, perhaps."

He takes the boy onto his hip and walks to the cabinet of herbs. "Let's see what you're made of, shall we?" He pulls three bottles and a bag of tea leaves out and goes back to his table. He summons the teapot from the kitchen, on the off chance Belle's used it recently. He's in luck, for it's still hot.

"Hope she hadn't been using this," Rumpelstiltskin says, smiling at the idea.

In two cups he mixes a brew of black tea leaves, with juniper and almond. He pours in the steaming water, and in the child's cup tops it off with the tear—no two futures alike, after all. He watches the tea steep and the boy suck his thumb, wondering if this is all for nothing. Tasseography, like the palm reading, isn't known for its reliability. However, it's less draining than trying to scry again.

After a few minutes, Rumpelstiltskin takes his own cup, finishing the near-burning liquid in a few gulps. Setting down the cup, he takes up the bastard's, swirling it three times and topping it with a saucer. He pulls the boy onto his hip and goes back over to the window. Rumpelstiltskin pours the excess liquid out the window, but retains the muck.

He overturns the cup and sets it on the ledge. Saucer, covered by leafy-remains, in hand, he says, "Let's have a look."

He spots the fox first, for cunning. That was expected. Hen and thimble, promising family—now to find them. "Ah, there." Rumpelstiltskin sees it: a tern. Likely to be a port city. That certainly narrows it down.

"What else, what else?" He turns the little plate this way and that, searching for further clues. "That's odd," he says, spotting three more symbols. A signet, scepter, and bishop.

But no crown. So not a prince then.

"Well, you'll proclamate and lead and play at war games, it seems, but not as a royal." He sets the plate down, satisfied as he'd ever be. "As parting words," Rumpelstiltskin says, for he had seen what may have been a rake, "I'd stay well away from Lippe and its princess. Do that and I daresay, you've a good chance at not turning into bones beneath your namesake before cutting first tooth."

The child's expression does not change.

"Now, about that thumb." He returns them to the table and uncorks the last jar.

The boy furrows his little brow as Rumpelstiltskin pulls the thumb out again. However, he does not cry this time. "Now don't look at me like that. You're no prince, and grand viziers and brigadier generals must be striking to win over testy courts, along with the sharp minds." He dips the lad's thumb into the last jar, holding it there a few minutes. "You ought thank me for this, but I doubt you will."

Finally, the imp releases the boy's hand and vanishes the bottle. Immediately the thumb pops back into his mouth.

And goes right back out. Juniper starts to holler, loudly.

"Told you." The sound does not stop. "Cinchona tincture doesn't wash off either."

The wailing continues; Rumpelstiltskin hates wailing. Rubbing the spot on his forehead where a headache is starting, he says, "Do be quiet, boy."

The bastard does not acquiesce.

He'd have to do this the hard way, apparently, for he still had one trick up his sleeve. He takes the child in both arms and tosses him in the air, then again, a little higher. Then again a little higher still.

The wails stop, and soon he's giggling. "You like that, eh? I thought so."


At dinner that night, Belle is not surprised when Rumpelstiltskin says he will be going away for a while.

Well, she is surprised, but only that he's deigned to mention it to her.

The two had come down to dinner looking all tucked and not the least disheveled, which was decidedly not how they'd looked a few hours ago when Belle passed by the library to scrub indigo and dried soap from her arms. She had finally finished with the soap, learning that watching the process take place and doing it were two entirely different things. However, the finished product, she'd poured into molds to harden had been to her liking, blue from indigo and the ( staining ) orchanet, scented with lavender. She'd even done a little batch with roses, for the baby.

After finishing, she had thought to give the little one his bath early, only to find Rumpelstiltskin playing with Juniper, tossing him in the air. She crept away, deciding it best not to disturb the pair.

She knew then that the child would be leaving soon—her employer would never have let himself be that free otherwise.

"Is that so?" she asks.

Rumpelstiltskin does not answer. Belle continues to cut carrots into bite sizes for the little boy. Leaning down, she whispers in his ear, "Where ever could he be going, Juni, I wonder?"

They pass a few minutes in silence, the only sound being Belle's knife hitting against porcelain.

"Give me that." He abruptly pulls the plate out from under her knife and fork. "You've eaten cold meals for weeks. I'll feed it tonight."

Belle's dumbfounded. She's still staring at him and the plate, when as he reaches across for the boy, he taps the bottom of her chin. "That's not for catching flies, mind."


It only takes two days.

It's late, and Belle's sitting in front of the fire with a novel, Juniper asleep in her lap. Between pages she runs a hand through his blond curls.

Rumpelstiltskin at least gives her the decency of hearing him, popping into the hallway outside so as to enter the room manually.

She looks up expectantly. "So?"

As she waits for an answer, her eyes flicker down to the bundle on her lap. Does she know she's holding her breath, he wonders. "A deal's been made."

She nods, "When?"

"Now."

She blinks and opens her mouth, but he raises a hand. "It's a matter of some delicacy, and time is of the essence."

She sighs and sets the book aside. "Tell me of them."

"The chancellor and keeper of the seal to the king of Brysa. He and his wife have been away for sometime. Returning with a child would be no matter."

He can see she wants more, so he obliges her. "They've wanted for a child for many a year. The prince of the land's a fool in the making; someone will have to play steward in a few years—they'll raise him to move armies and write treaties in Latin, all while dancing and spouting verse, I'm sure."

Belle stands, smiling. The child doesn't wake.

"Not royalty, but it'll do, I suppose," Rumpelstiltskin mutters.

They'll love him more than royals would.

As he takes the child from her arms, she says, "I'll get my cloak."

"Whatever for?"

"I'm coming too."

This could be a problem, but she'd seemed so agreeable just moments ago. "I don't think that wise, dearie."

"Consider this my birthday present."

Rumpelstiltskin sighs. Clever girl. "Well if you must. Just be sure not to let your hood off."


He whisks them away, an arm around both boons, and within the blink of an eye, they find themselves besides the cook's entrance of a crossroad's inn.

Belle's head flits about, curious as ever. It's the first time she's been outside the dark castle, Rumpelstiltskin belatedly realizes.

Perhaps this is all some trick to skirt you, the Dark One cackles.

Hush, Rumpelstiltskin replies. All the same, he thinks, grabbing Belle's arm. "Here, take him." He passes her the still-sleeping baby and tugs on her hood, "And for godsake, I said keep that hood down."

He leads her not so gently through the back entrance and up a staircase to the let-ed rooms of the inn.

"So this is how you make your dramatic entrances, hm?"

"Quiet."

He pushes her flush against the wall, and peers around the corner.

Suddenly, Belle has déjà vu, hearing a line she recognizes.

"My lord, I don't think he's coming."

"No, please we'll wait longer," a female voice pleads.

"This sounds familiar," she whispers, but turns to see that Rumpelstiltskin is gone.

"Doubting me so soon?"

Belle rolls her eyes, hearing Rumpelstiltskin's voice around the corner. She's half tempted to just walk in and spoil his chicanery, but she doesn't, because this deal is bigger than seeing his face as she pulls the rug out from under him.

"Leave us," the voice sounds as if it's used to being obeyed. The lord in question, Belle assumes.

"My lord." In her mind, she can see him performing his mocking bow. "Forgive the tardiness."

The woman's voice again, "But where is our child? You said—"

"Yes, a deals a deal. Have you brought what I've asked for?"

The lord answers, "Yes, here." She can here sounds of rummaging.

"Ah—" Rumpelstiltskin gives a giggle. "Very good. Very good."

"Now trickster, our child," the woman speaks again.

"My wife is anxious," the lord says.

"Have some faith in me, dear lady." Belle hears Rumpelstiltskin snap his fingers, and suddenly she's standing in the room, a great fire and two would-be parent's standing before her.

The nobleman puts an arm protectively around his wife. She takes them in. They are well-dressed and fair. And lovely, though with too many wrinkles for their years, she thinks.

Yes, Juniper would fit in nicely to their portraits.

"My lord, my lady, here is the child, as promised."

The woman reaches out a hand, taking a step, but stops hesitant. She looks to the imp.

"By all means," Rumpelstiltskin gestures to his housekeeper, but there's something in his eye, that makes Belle wonder if he is unsure at this moment what she'll do.

Do the brave thing.

As the gentlewoman walks up, Belle takes a better look. Her eyes are sad, but they are sharp and bright. She does not look young, but young enough for a child this size.

She reaches out her arms to Belle, but they shake. Belle presents the sleeping baby into them. The woman takes the child, pulling him into her chest. "Thank you."

Something in the way she looks at Belle makes her realize something. Oh, she thinks I'm the mother.

Belle wants to speak, to say something. To explain. Explain she would never give up her own child, but realizes it's not important. Instead, she tells the new mother, "He's Juniper."

The lady smiles and looks years younger. "Juniper," she whispers, rocking the child. "Thank you," she says again, eyes only on her son.


Rumpelstiltskin is surprised; Belle does not cry when they leave. She may have sniffled, held back a sob or two, but arrives outside the inn intact. After he's helped her up the two steps and into the carriage, he does not follow. "I've some words with the coachman," he says off-handedly, shutting the door on her.

When he returns, she's composed. Whether or not she's cried in the time he's given her, he knows not. He has a guess from looking at her red nose and puffy eyes, but he knows not.

He settles himself beside her and with a hand out the window motioning the driver, they are on their way. "They'll see us to the edge of the kingdom. It'll take a few hours, at least."

When the mighty lord offered his coach to take them to the border and he agreed, Rumpelstiltskin hardly knew why. He could have magic-ed them back with a snap. Who knows? Maybe he was tired, though a rough carriage ride would hardly help with that.

Or maybe the thought of the dark castle and how dark it would be at this time of night (and empty) gave him reason to accept the offer.

They've been riding in silence for little less than half an hour when Belle feels they are safe enough away to ask, "Who was he?"

"The bastard son of a lord, with a dead mother. Story hardly ever changes. You ought to know that," he says, but Belle keeps looking at him expectantly. He continues, "New lady of the house, wanted the fife for her own offspring. I was the last resort before the thing took a tumble and ended up on the cook's chopping board for potato stew."

"Turned over for his little brother. That's terrible."

"His sister. Half."

"No less terrible."

"Aye." They are silent again, but on a whim, Rumpelstiltskin adds, "It'll be hours before we make it to the edge. Try to sleep."


Belle's been sliding off his shoulder every five minutes for the past hour, half-waking each time.

Rumpelstiltskin feels the slide. Wait for it.

She throws her head back, this time, knocking him in the chin. "Sorry," she mumbles, drowsily into his sleeve, falling back asleep quickly.

"Enough of this," he sighs. He takes her by the shoulders and moves her so that her head is resting in his lap. There, he thinks, we'll both finally get some rest.

Then they hit a sharp bump in the road.

Belle jumps, pulling herself up. She looks around and starts to ask a question, "Where's—"

She stops abruptly—remembering—and starts to finally cry.

Rumpelstiltskin takes her again by the shoulders "Tut. Tut. It had to be done." He makes her lie again in his lap. "You'll forget, soon enough."

She cries against him for a while, all the emotions of the past weeks pouring out of her, as he awkwardly pets first her shoulder, and when that seems to help, or at least, certainly doesn't make it worse, he moves his hand to her head. Tentatively, Rumpelstiltskin moves the wet hair from her face.

Belle's breathing evens. "My mother used to do that."

His hand flies away.

"No, don't stop." She reaches up and takes his hand, dragging it from her brow, up past her crown, and back into her hair. "Like this."

She lets go, and he repeats the pattern hesitantly. He hears her release a breathe, a sigh perhaps.

"She used to put me to sleep like this." Another sigh. She mumbles one last sentence, "Remind me to ask you something tomorrow. 'Bout my mother." Then Belle stills, sleeping.

Rumpelstiltskin's hand doesn't stop.


A/N: The little boy is lifted from The Juniper Tree – thanks Grimm bros.

Thumb sucking, it's true what they say, it'll ruin your mouth. Game me TMJ. Had jaw surgery this past summer. A week's hospital stay and my head swelled up the size of a balloon… best decision of my life, but a better decision would have been NOT SUCKING MY THUMB!

Some of the plant and place notes:
Orchanet – another name for Alkanet. A purple flower used as dye in southern France
Cinchona – plant used to make quinine.
Lippe – a German city in Westphalia known for its gin distilled from Juniper
Brysa – a suburb of Carthage