Pairing: Rumbelle
Warnings: strong language
It looks like King Midas has gone and turned his daughter to gold.
Again.
Imagine that.
Rumpelstiltskin takes another swig from the flask and scowls. He would invest in a larger bucket, but this water doesn't keep its magic for long, and it's easier to keep coming back for more than it is to find a way to make it last until the king's next blunder. He wastes enough energy as it is, nipping away the last few minutes of the girl's memories so she doesn't recall being turned into a fancy lawn ornament.
Again.
If the old bastard weren't such a greedy little coward, he'd have asked for the Golden Fleece already (which is sitting pretty with the rest of Rumpelstiltskin's collection, just waiting to be swapped for something better) and washed the powers away.
But no. Who needs love when you can have power? When you can turn your enemies into weapons and bedding into wealth? No, Midas is a monster, and so is everyone like him.
Ahead of him the trees thin and suddenly part, leaving a narrow ring of clear ground around the spring. The siren is already lounging on the water's surface. Her hair falls in chestnut curls around a painfully familiar face—the same face she wears every time he comes here.
It occurs to him that he should kill her—it would hurt less, wouldn't it?—but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this is the only reason he keeps coming back. The only reason he doesn't keep raising the price of the water until old Midas can't pay.
"Did it again, did he?" the siren asks in Belle's voice.
"It's the curse of fathers, to murder their children." He crouches at the water's edge and dunks the bucket into the spring, bitterness joining alcohol on his breath. He can hear the soft splashes as she rises to her feet, as she crosses the water to stand at his side. He doesn't need to look up to know how the soaked dress clings to her skin and hugs every curve.
She bends down beside him and picks up his flask. Thoughtfully she swishes its contents around. "Funny. You're far too drunk for so little alcohol."
"It's a bottomless flask." His grin would be cruel if he could manage it. "And how would you know how drunk I am?"
"I know last time you could at least walk in a straight line." Belle's mouth curls into a wry grin and she offers him her hand. "You look like you could use cheering up."
"And you look like you could use a meal," he says flatly, though he lets her help him up.
"As if I could actually hurt you." Her hands glide up his arms, his shoulders, the high arches of his collar, and tangle in his hair.
He knows better.
He knows that this isn't Belle. That she's gone and she'll never come back. That this is just some clever trick that he's far too smart to walk into.
But when her lips—Belle's lips—close on his, all he can do is kiss her back. His hands explore her body, his tongue investigates her mouth, and she returns the favor with a passion that's too fiery for a water sprite. He pulls her flush against him and for a few beautiful, crystalline minutes, he can pretend she's alive and whole and really there with him.
But then the moment shatters like teacups on stone, and he shoves her away. The look she gives him is wounded, but patient, and she dons her normal face again.
She knows by now that he can't stand to look at Belle any longer. Too much and he'll go mad.
He grabs his flask and his bucket and stalks away without another word. He struggles to keep moving, despite the urge to curl up into a ball and sob. He tells himself it's the alcohol. That he's simply drunk. That he really should kill that damned siren, because she's a fucking, fucking liar.