Title: A Price To Be Paid
Rating: M
Word count: ~107,300
Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.
Belle tries to hide her shock, her disturbed thoughts, when she returns to the castle. It's made easier for her, because Rumplestiltskin does not appear from his work room until lunch, and so Belle has several precious hours to gather herself, to hide the knowledge away deep down inside.
It's not that she wishes to lie to him about it – indeed, she will hardly be able to conceal it from him, if all she knows of pregnancy is true. Most women, she knows, have sickness with pregnancy, and while she may be able to hide a growing belly beneath corsets and dresses for a while, she will eventually need larger dresses, will have to discard her corsets.
She does not wish to lie to him, and knows to attempt to do so would be a mistake, and yet she cannot quite grasp it. She had thought of it, of course, but she had, perhaps naively, assumed it was not possible yet.
Edith may be wrong. That is the thought that means Belle cannot, will not, speak of it to Rumplestiltskin. He'd spoken of her derisively, as having small power, and Belle cannot escape the notion that Edith may be wrong. Even a skilled midwife, she knows, cannot tell such a thing so soon. Belle can only be a few days pregnant if it's true, and even a midwife who is also a witch surely cannot tell such a thing so soon.
If she does not bleed, she resolves, she will tell him. That's the surest sign of such a thing – even she, in her ignorance, knows that. If she does not bleed within a week, she will tell him. Because she cannot keep secrets from him, even the barest possibility of it. She'd promised herself as much, for she knows how he'd react to it.
He comes to the kitchen at lunch, when Belle is heating up leftover stew, and when she's safely away from the fire he clasps her in his arms and kisses her, as if all he ever wished to do is kiss her.
It makes guilt creep into her heart, but she hardens her resolve; she will not tell him until she is sure. She cannot forget the quiet, grieving way he'd spoken of his lost son, and she knows, as she stands here in his arms, that she cannot raise his hopes until she is absolutely certain.
"You came back early," he says when they part, when he withdraws to allow her to breathe. "Was town not to your liking?"
Belle smiles, shakes her head. "You'll think me foolish," she says, "but I…I did not wish to be gone long, in case you finished your work earlier than you thought." She can tell by the pleased glint in his eye, the way the corners of his mouth lift into the smallest of smiles, that he doesn't think her foolish, that he's pleased by it.
And it's not a lie, not quite. There's truth in her words, although she hadn't realised it until she spoke them. After long days of his absence, she does not want him to think that she preferred being at the market to being with him.
"But," she adds, "I did enjoy it." She lifts herself up, kisses his cheek. "Thank you," she says, and leaves unsaid what she's thanking him for. Then she turns, goes to the kitchen table to cut bread. "I was terribly frivolous," she tells him as he comes to sit at the table. "I bought a pair of slippers, from Mary. And a new pen."
"Ah," Rumplestiltskin says, "thank you for reminding me. You have letters." He flutters his fingers, as if intending to reach for the letters but finds them absent. "I left them upstairs," he confesses. "I'll fetch them after lunch."
Belle smiles, goes to fetch bowls and spoons, and then to pull the stew pot from the fire.
"Thank you," she says. "I wouldn't read them until later, anyway."
"They arrived while I was gone," he tells her as she joins him at the table, and he looks chagrined. "I had not anticipated that," he says. "The pigeons will come directly to you, in future."
A further kindness, more generosity, and Belle sits quietly for a long moment, finds herself unable to speak. He has shown her more trust this day than ever before, and she is repaying it by concealing from him the suspicion – the fact, perhaps – that she is with child.
She feels utterly wretched, and she can't conceal it from him. He makes a sound, rises from his chair so abruptly it almost tips over, and comes around the table to kneel at her side. He takes her hands in his, frowns up at her, and Belle struggles to conquer herself.
"Belle," he says, and his use of her name, so rare and precious, almost brings tears to her eyes. "What has upset you so?" he asks her. "Surely you want to send letters freely."
"Yes," Belle manages. "Yes. I'm sorry, I'm…" She closes her eyes, shakes her head.
"Did something happen in the town?" he asks, and there's something urgent in his voice now, something darker. "Or while I was gone?"
"No, I – " She falters again, lifts his hand and kisses it. "I'm being silly," she says. "Nothing happened while you were gone. I – I cleaned, and I played with the kittens, and I read. All very dull and boring." She opens her eyes; he's watching her, and she doesn't think she's ever seen him look so concerned before.
And that's what it is, it's concern – concern and caring, and it's overwhelming, because this is Rumplestiltskin, the deal-maker and trickster, and he is her husband and she – she –
She is growing to care for him more than she thought possible. And he, in turn, is growing to care for her. She is more than just the price of a deal, she thinks. Surely she's more than that, now.
"How long have I been here?" she asks suddenly. The question takes him by surprise; he raises his eyebrows, releases her hands. Belle wishes the question unsaid, but it's too late for that now.
"A month," he says, after a long pause. "Exactly a month."
And Belle had bled before she'd been here a week, she remembers. It must be three weeks since her cycle had finished, and Belle knows her body, knows what to expect of it. A month exactly, and she should have bled three days ago at least. Her monthly cycle has been steady and regular almost since her body began to prove it was adult, never late or unpredictable.
It is late now. She should have bled three days ago.
"Belle," says Rumplestiltskin, firm and insistent, and she tries to smile, tries to bring herself back to him. She reaches for him, and he rises onto his knees, embraces her, pets her hair. It's clear he's confused, but the comfort is freely offered, and she can't speak as she hides her face against his high collar and clutches at him.
"Dear one," he croons, and her breath hitches. She will not cry, she tells herself. There's no reason to cry, and he does not want a – what was it he'd said? A weeping, snivelling wife. She won't be that, not now, not with how far they've come.
"I'm sorry," she mutters, and she pulls away from him, wipes a hand angrily across her eyes. "I'm fine." It's not enough, it can't be enough, not with the way Rumplestiltskin looks at her, waiting with infinite patience. Belle casts around for something to say, finds words dragged from her mouth before she really has time to think them. "It's ridiculous," she says. "I think I'm just tired. I haven't slept well."
His mouth is a thin line as he looks at her, and for a moment she thinks he doesn't believe her, thinks he'll demand the truth. She's not sure what would be worse – to be discovered in a lie, or to escape detection. She hates lying to him; she'd resolved never to lie to him, after all, because of the reaction he's sure to have when he finds out the truth.
But then he smiles, bared teeth and sparkling eyes, and Belle feels something ease within her.
"Miss me, did you?" he teases, and she huffs a laugh, says nothing and lets her silence answer for her. It's true enough, though – without him beside her, she's found it extraordinarily difficult to get to sleep. "Don't cry," he says then, soft again. "I – it does not please me, dear one."
She understands what he's struggling to say, and she smiles, reaches out and kisses him. He does not like to see her cry, and it's more than his distaste for a weeping bride. He does not like it because he does not want her to be unhappy, because he is beginning to care for her, and that knowledge makes it easy for Belle to push down her anxiety and her secret hope and fear.
She kisses him, and he holds her close again, lifts a hand to her face. It's gentle, this kiss, and full of things she can't say, things she thinks he will never say. His mouth is soft against hers, swallowing her hum of pleasure when his tongue flicks out to taste her. She closes her eyes to better concentrate on the feelings, on his mouth at hers and his fingers fluttering against her cheek.
And then it deepens, and she's not sure whether it's at her instigation or his, but he makes a sound and nudges her knees apart so he can come even closer to her. Chest to chest, and he stops kissing her when she's gasping for air, only to nuzzle at her neck, nip at her throat, his clever tongue lapping at the grazes he leaves.
Belle tilts her head back, inhales. Heat builds in her, a spark that, ten days ago, she'd had no idea could exist. Rumplestiltskin mouths at her skin, across the flesh bared by the neckline of her gown, comes back to kiss her once more. She's dizzy from breathlessness, her corset a tight restriction, but she wouldn't stop this for anything.
Then she feels his hand at her ankle, sliding up her leg, warm through her stocking. She breaks away from him, finds him watching her with a wicked smirk. Wicked but not cruel, not malicious – simply amused, devilish, as if he enjoys shocking her.
"It – it's broad daylight!" Belle says, not quite a protest, for she's thought of it before – thought of lying in her bed in the light, when she can see him above her, see the body that she's coming to learn through touch. Not a protest, and it's not what she means to say, anyway. It's not the daylight she's opposed to, it's their location.
Such things, she thinks, are surely meant only for the bed? And yet she knows that look on his face, knows it already and it makes her shiver deliciously.
"Say no, then," he returns, and his smirk remains in place. He knows she won't refuse him, not now, and his hand continues its travels up her leg. His fingers tickle at the back of her knee and she gives a breathless laugh, shakes her head and gives no further word of protest.
He kisses her again, distracting her just enough, teeth and tongues and shared laughter at their own eagerness. Belle forgets her objections, forgets that they are not in a bed, steadies herself with her hands on his shoulders and forgets all else but kissing him.
Then, quite suddenly, he brings his hand from beneath her skirt, takes her by the waist and rises, picking her up as he stands. Belle gives an undignified shriek and clutches at his shoulders; in a moment he's sitting in her place on the chair, and she's in his lap.
"What –" Belle cuts herself off as he lifts her skirts, digs her fingers into his shoulders as his hand ghosts across her drawers, across the place that, even through cloth, makes her shiver, makes her arch up into his touch. "Oh," she breathes, and Rumplestiltskin huffs a laugh, kisses her again even as his fingers rub against her.
"Like this, dear one, hm?" he murmurs against her mouth.
She's not sure what 'this' means; she's so little experience of such things. But his hand is rubbing against her, flicking against the little nub of nerves that sends such waves of pleasure rippling over her, and it's more than she can do to speak. Rumplestiltskin seems to recognise that; he laughs again, gentle and without any hint of mocking.
Then his hand leaves her, quests higher beneath her skirts, and he tugs at the laces of her drawers. Belle lifts herself from his lap, wriggles free from the undergarments, and then he guides her back onto his lap – astride him this time, skirts hitched up around her waist.
Her face is hot; she can't imagine what she looks like. But Rumplestiltskin doesn't seem to care – indeed he seems to like the sight of her, and she can feel how he desires her, the hardness of him through his trousers.
He insinuates a hand between them, friction at her sensitive flesh, and then he tugs at the laces of his trousers, tries to unknot them. He can't do it with one hand, and Belle finds her embarrassment easing in his frustration. It makes her feel more comfortable, somehow, to see how his impatience makes him clumsy, and she kisses him again before she gently pushes his hand aside and undoes the knot herself. The lace falls easily from its holes then, and in the light of the kitchen Belle can see what she's only felt before.
It's strange, and she has no name for the hard length of him. She could ask, but she's no wish to distract him now, no wish to make him laugh at her innocence, her ignorance.
Belle glances up at him, his watchful eyes and the softness of his mouth as he gazes at her and waits for her to say something, to do something. He is, she thinks suddenly, so very afraid. He's afraid of her – or perhaps not of her, perhaps he's afraid of her reactions, perhaps he's afraid…
She's not sure what he's afraid of, but there is something in the way Rumplestiltskin looks at her that makes her absolutely certain that he is afraid.
"Like this?" she asks, her voice more nervous than she intended, and she touches him, finds moisture at the tip of the hardness and circles it with her thumb.
Rumplestiltskin groans, flings his head back, and his hips jerk just a little. His hands keep her steady in his lap – her feet are barely touching the floor, not enough to give her any stability – but she stops touching him at once, startled by the reaction.
"Belle," he hisses, "my little wanton. No, dear, one," he says then, "like this."
He lifts her up, grasps her by the waist and lifts her as if she weighs nothing more than a feather, and then he guides her down onto him. The angle is strange, and deep, and more intense than anything she's felt before, and Belle can't breathe, can't speak, can't do anything but follow the rocking motion he sets for them and cling onto him as he shows her new pleasure.
It's only afterwards, when she's boneless in his lap, her head resting on her shoulder and sticky dampness between her thighs, that she remembers what she had tried to conceal for him.
Tomorrow, she tells herself. If there's no bleeding by tomorrow, she will speak to him then.