Disclaimer: I own none of it.
AN: The first bit, I felt, could stand alone... but then I kept thinking, and maybe not. I'm starting to get a better hang of Rumpelstiltskin, I think, but if you note anything OOC, please let me know.
Zoso sulks while Rumpelstiltskin spins. It's an arrangement they share, though Zoso never agreed to it and Rumpelstiltskin never asked.
A pansy hobby, Zoso mutters between long bouts of silence. Spinning like a girl.
"The girl who stabbed you in the heart, as I recall." He raises his voice into the lilting squeal that makes kings tremble.
Zoso mutters wordlessly, but he retreats back into silence and leaves Rumpelstiltskin with the soft whirr of the spinning wheel. He doesn't look up again until his pile of straw has dwindled to a few wisps and his spool is heavy with gold.
And then he sees her, not quite inside the chamber, her hand curled delicately around the edge of the door frame. She wears an old gown of hers that he believed he might have been able to trade away, which he absolutely did not clutch to his chest and sob into when Zoso was preoccupied with other thoughts. Her hair is tousled and unwashed, and with his sharp intake of breath he inhales a lungful of her scent—and intermingled with it the cloying smell of fear.
She's afraid of him.
Of course she is.
"Awake at last, dearie." His voice hasn't fallen from the old falsetto.
"No." She shakes her head. Slowly. "No I'm not. I'm dreaming again."
When she blinks he vanishes, reappearing on her other side, just out of arm's reach. She flinches away from him, curling closer against the stone. "I assure you, you're quite awake."
"That's what you said last time." She shuts her eyes and breathes deep, bracing herself like she expects him to lash out at her. It leaves him inexplicably angry.
"If you don't want to be here, there's the door." He points it out with a flourish, knowing full well she could navigate it in her sleep. But when her eyes open, Belle's shoulders are stiff, her jaw set, her knuckles white as she clutches the stone.
"I'm not leaving," she says. "Not this time. And you can't make me." He leans back and gives her a halfhearted sneer, but that only spurs her on. "This is my dream, Rumpelstiltskin. And until that sun rises—" She stabs her finger at the window, though this time the curtains have been fastened with so many nails that the stone is perforated. "—I am not going anywhere."
Seeing her standing there— so brave and so afraid, staring at him like she'll strike him down—cuts him deep and leaves him raw and hollow. Rescuing her came easy when she was unconscious, when he didn't have to look her in the eyes and see the accusation there, when he can't feel the wound in his hand like a felon's brand. The cut won't heed his magic and heal, and each throb of pain hisses through him: you hurt her.
In the back of his head, Zoso is laughing.
Rumpelstiltskin retreats into himself, wrapping himself in armor made from squeals and dramatics.
"So you've been dreaming about me, dearie?" he cackles. "Oh, do tell."
"Don't mock me," she says, and his shrill giggles die in his throat. He thinks it's that look in her eye, the fire in her voice, but even Zoso's taunting has stopped, and he's not one for sympathy.
Oh hell, his patron mutters. By the burning blazes of hell, Rumpelstiltskin, what did you do?
Rumpelstiltskin doesn't intend to humor him with a response, but the glint of steel catches his eye, and suddenly he's asking himself the same thing.
In her hand she's clutching a dagger, its edges carved into waves, its flat engraved with a name.
His name.
He lays one hand on his chest, as though he's mortified. "Wouldn't dream of it, dearie. Simply curious." Under his fingertips he feels the hollow of his chest. The emptier-than-it-usually-is hollow.
Shit.
He shuts his eyes, barely a blink, but visions of the past are always faster and clearer than glimpses into the future. He takes her hand from under the shroud, presses the dagger into her fingers. Hesitates, then slices into his hand (the wound throbs at the reminder).
And then he replaces her hand under the shroud, dagger and all. He isn't thinking clearly, his mind still reeling with desperation and self-loathing, his faculties drained from twisting too much magic too quickly. And then she's whole again, perfect and beautiful and her, and he's too busy committing her to memory to notice the dagger half-hidden under her naked thigh.
He opens his eyes again to see her clear blue eyes turned down, somewhere below his navel, and he's left wondering just how long he's been staring at the memory of her body on his bed.
"What happened to your hand?" she asks.
Apparently there is a God.
He waves his hand with a flourish. "This, dearie? Nothing important." But her face twists into concern.
"You can't be serious," she says. "Here, let me see it." This time he feels the compulsion like an itch under his skin, a half-forgotten sunburn that can flare into open pain at any moment. He lays his hand in hers, and she brings it carefully to her face, studying it in the most minute detail. "You can't leave it like this—it'll get infected for sure. Is there anything you can do—you know, with magic?"
"Magic is a tricky mistress, I'm afraid." The words surprise him when they leave his mouth. He's got a sneaking suspicion Zoso thought up that particular metaphor, but he forces himself not to react to it. "This is a wound it will not heal."
A twinge of discomfort crosses her features, but it vanishes with a shake of her head. "Then the old-fashioned way will have to do. I'm sure some stitches—"
He tries to pull his hand away, but the dagger's magic won't let him. Instead he lifts his mouth into a sneer. "I'd rather not."
She gives him a look like he's being a grand old baby, but she concedes with a roll of her eyes. "Well, at least let me wrap it. Do you have any camphor? Rosemary?" She hasn't even been out of the damned tower for a full day, barely awake for five minutes, and her first concern is his well-being. Typical. He nods, and she drops his hand like it's made of fire. "Still in your study, right?"
He can only even begin to nod before she darts off like she owns the place. She's been gone for months. How on earth does she remember where he keeps the camphor? How does she know he hasn't moved anything since then? For all she knows, he's added another entire wing to the estate. Magic can do that, you know.
Not that he's actually done any of that. But still. It's the principle of the thing. He's the master of the house, after all.
And she's his master, now that she's holding the dagger. The thought sends a jolt through his stomach.
You imbecile, Zoso mutters. Rumpelstiltskin doesn't get a chance to reply before Belle descends from the steps, entirely too much piled into her arms. The dagger is gone.
"Come over here and let me take a look at it again," she says, and he's on his way to her side, pulling rolls of gauze and jars of camphor out of her arms before she can drop the whole load.
"You are allowed to rest, you know," he says flatly. "Nobody said anything about you being my maid this time around." But she juts out her chin at him.
"Maybe I don't want to rest." She shoves aside one of the curtains and deposits her supplies on a windowsill. Billows of dust dance through the sudden sunlight, so bright that she winces away. "Wow, that's bright."
"Well, yes. It's the sun. It's known for lighting things up."
She throws her head back and basks in the glow, but only for a second before she turns her attention back to him. "Now then. Before I forget. Where were we?"
The sunlight streams through her chestnut hair, glitters in her eyes, glows across her newly mended skin, and for a moment he's struck by an impulse that has nothing at all to do with magic. His hand unfolds, and all he wants is to touch her again, to hold her close—but when he reaches out to her she snatches his hand in hers and sets to work, cleaning his wound with stinging alcohol.
He lets out a sharp hiss of pain, and her gaze flicks to his face. The scent of fear hasn't left her yet, and for a moment he can see it mirrored in her eyes.
"It hurts," he explains, his voice lower than he intended.
"It's going to sting a bit." Her entire face radiates gentleness. "But it will get better, I promise. And it won't last long at all." She watches him carefully as she spreads the camphor and rosemary over the cut. Zoso is swearing up a storm, but Rumpelstiltskin remains utterly still, his eyes locked on hers. The salves sent shooting pains into his hand, but he can barely feel them anymore.
She breaks away from his stare to watch his hands as he applies the gauze. Her lips are curled into a thoughtful pout.
"I don't want to apologize," she says, almost as if she's thinking aloud. Maybe she is. "I meant what I said, and I don't think I did anything wrong."
Rumpelstiltskin keeps his face carefully blank, but she doesn't look at him.
"But I did hurt you," she continues. "And don't even try denying it, because I know you better than that. I could see it in your eyes." The imminent protest dissolves on his lips. "And for that, I am sorry." She tucks the end of the gauze under the rest of the bandage, though she doesn't let go of his hand. Her thumb traces a silky pattern over the scales on his knuckles.
A hypnotic rhythm.
He leans forward, and it seems to be just what she was waiting for. Her eyes flutter shut, her jaw relaxes, and she inches closer to him, tugging his hand to rest on her waist as he closes the distance between them. And then he sidesteps just slightly, his lips gliding past her cheek and to her ear.
He's practically drowning in the smell of her, dizzy with the spice of lust that's gathering under her fear. He could do plenty to do away with that anxiety, dearie. Plenty. Instead he exhales, his hot breath tickling her ear, and she shudders against his hand.
"You aren't dreaming, Belle."
She goes still.
"You're home with me, where you belong. I found your tower and stole you back, as per the terms of our contract."
Lies. The contract is broken, dissolved in her father's blood.
"You're mine forever, if you recall." His voice rises into a singsong. "And this time I don't intend to let you go."
That does the trick. The passion drains out of her, and in its place settles familiar resignation. She faced this cage with courage before, and he knows she'll make the best of it again. He can't stop himself from loving her, but he can keep them both from acting on it, and this time he knows the signs to look for. This time he'll be ready for her.
She's still got the dagger, of course—that will complicate things—but he can't help thinking that this is going to be an interesting game.