A/N: WOW! Can I just say: a HUGE thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed! Like omgosh, I so appreciate every kind word and bit of excitement - I'm so sad to see this story coming to a close. I hope everyone who has been faithfully R&R'ing will continue to do so, and stick with it until the end! We still have one chapter left after this! Before this chapter starts: thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!
She did not know how long it is before she woke up. But, it was dark. There was a fire quietly crackling in the fireplace and her eyes flutter open and the shut again, letting out a sigh, thinking perhaps everything was a dream. After all, she was no longer drenched in sweat and the room smelled clean… her sheets were soft against her skin and she stretched – or at least started to. A sharp pain seized her, her muscles clenching and she instantly knew she had not dreamed.
Of course, then a panic set in. Her eyes shot open and she looked around the room, feeling wild and scared. It took a long moment, her blood rushed through her body with such speed and intensity it was all she could hear, and she saw stars, any call for help died on her lips as she was drowned out by the sound of her own blood.
When her eyes did adjust, Belle could not stop the tears that leaked out of the corner of her eyes. Rumpelstiltskin sat by the fire, in her chair with the bundle in his arms, still wrapped in the creamy soft blanket. He was dozing, as it appeared her – their – daughter was as well, so peaceful and, illuminated by the flames, breathtaking. He looked softer too, the lines of his face eased. Belle still ached to hold her though – she without a name, she thought for a moment and gasped when the bundle started to move, a whine on her perfect lips.
The sound was soft at first and Belle longed to get up and grab her, but her body was still spent and searing with pain. She used just about all the strength she could to sit up taller and sighed when the baby's protests got louder. Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, eyes blinked and gasped at the sound.
He instantly looked over at Belle and apologetically smiled, adjusting the bundle in his arms before standing, securing her so tightly as though he feared dropping her and remained calm despite her high-pitched cries. He pursed his lips. "I do believe," he murmured softly, "the little miss is hungry," he approached.
Belle looked at him nervously, and her arms were most assuredly shaking as he transferred the little miss, as he called her, into her arms. It was the closest Belle had seen her, and she was beautiful, even while crying. Her eyes were closed, so she could not see just how dark they were, but she could see the dark tufts of hair upon her soft head, and her round, rosy cheeks with thin, but shapely lips. "How do you know?" she asked, looking at him nervously – suddenly concerned she would not figure any of this out.
"Previous experience," he said simply and she flushed, remembering the story of his lost son. Belle's stomach fluttered as the newborn wriggled in her arms, crying and searching for its main desire, food. Instinct overtook (with a healthy dose of instruction from her previous research), and though fumbling and guilt for not moving faster, the child took to her and she felt such a rush of pure… was it joy? She knew she had made the right choice.
He did not immediately retreat, and Belle was actually glad for it. They were both looking at the face of the sum of their parts. Something did not sit well with her though, and she looked at him with furrowed brow and pursed lips, "What did Yaga mean, Rumpelstiltskin?"
He looked stricken for a moment, ripped out of the reality of watching their daughter and his eyes moved to Belle's face. He swallowed hard, Belle could see, and her jaw set. Her suspicion was being confirmed merely by his facial expressions. "You need not worry about it, dearie," he glazed over the issue.
Belle was not ready to drop it. However much she wanted to send her moments cooing and smiling and crying, she did not like what she had heard. "Rumpelstiltskin," he stopped at his name – Belle remembered his words: names have power. "What did Yaga mean?" she was not playing around, and she hoped her tone perfectly conveyed that to him.
"Our deal was dependent upon your choice and," his voice dropped, eyes trailing up and over her head, as though he was looking at something in the distance, "no one breaks deals with me." His voice was hard enough that she could only imagine what had occurred, but it still did not answer her question – at least not to her satisfaction.
She would have pressed, but the little miss appeared to be done and Belle lifted her face closer to her own, slowly and carefully, patting her back – her hand was almost as wide as the little girl's back. It was a wonder, a miracle, and she patted softly, like she had read, as the little girl fussed. "She wanted her?" Belle asked straight out, looking at the beautiful little bundle in her arms.
"She has a… propensity… toward taking the fruits of her efforts," he rolled his words delicately, but always so theatrical, pauses and all. Belle felt the corners of her eyes prick and her nasal passage was all pressure. She shook her head, looking at her little girl and was pleased that she had settled. Soreness be damned, she was just happy to holding her and feeling her. Her fingers ran over the little girl's soft skin and it made Belle shiver.
She finally dropped the subject when her small eyelids fluttered open, and Belle felt such a rush. Her eyes were chocolate and gold, and catching a glimpse of them, even for a moment was more than enough for Belle to be overwhelmed. Everything else seemed so insignificant in that moment. Belle giggled softly, so enamored with the little beauty that she could not help but press a tender kiss to the girl's forehead. "She is not green and scaly," she finally says, glancing at him only for a moment.
"She is not," his voice was full and thick, the accent he did so much to try to hide seeping through his usual tone. She giggled and he smiled – one of those rare grins, the kind she remembered from before, "she's also a she, so it appears neither of us are going to be doing any fortune telling in the near future." He poked fun at her! After everything, he was poking fun and Belle pouted. He smiled, and she could not hold onto her expression.
Their eyes met and time passed awkwardly for a moment, tension hanging in the air. He broke first – he almost always did. "I," he paused, and reconsidered, "would it be fair, to start over?" he asked, leaning over the bed and doing an awfully poor job at looking comfortable.
Belle knows what he meant, but she was not a woman who would dare let him get away with not explaining himself. "What do you mean?" she asked, feigning innocence, and speaking in the voice she would always use on the baby, the nameless infant in front of them, taking more to her than him, "what ever could he mean, little miss?" she repeated with a giggle, tickling under her chin, causing the bundle to squirm.
He cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable, adjusting his collar. He did that when he was thinking of what to say and he sighed. "You know what I mean," he sounded agitated and she sighed. Pride was something they both suffered so violently with, and when wounded, they did not back down.
"I don't think I do," she pressed her nose against the tiny button of a nose of their daughter and breathed in her smell – so new and fresh to the world. Everything about her was intoxicating, and Belle could be drunk on her forever, she decided, running the back of her index finger over her cheek as she softly rocked her. Pulling her face back enough to glance up at him, "well?"
He sniffed and leaned forward, his hand brushing one of her messy curls from her face, sitting on the bed next to her, his arm seamlessly draped behind her and around her shoulders and back. She didn't move away, instead, leaned into his warmth, sighing. "She is bonnie," he lilted quietly, leaning his temple against hers. Belle nodded, and looked at him, her blue eyes accusing him, and he sighed – powerless. "I am sorry," he finally said it – for the first time.
A wave of relief passed through her and her shoulders dropped, leaning her head against him, enjoying the feeling of being in a situation where she does not feel the need to strangle him, or yell, or cry, and simply smiles. "Me too." He had to say it first.
"She needs a name," He pointed out, the arm that was not drawing small circles on her upper arm curled around her elbow and rested against her hand, supporting the miniscule weight of the child. Belle nodded and shifted her fingers so they interchange, hers and his, almost as though interlocked, but supporting the child in her arms.
Belle rested her head comfortably on his chest, and he pressed his lips to her temple. How she yearned to kiss him, but refrained, understanding their circumstance – and nodded. "I need more time," she declared with a rueful smile, glancing up at him through heavy lidded eyes and thick lashes.