A/N: Hello, fine readers. First off, I'm glad to see that so many people enjoyed the first chapter and here's to hoping you'll stay around for the rest of the fun. I think this chapter is where Rumpel's real trouble begins. There's plenty of Belle involved—but how will he handle it? Well….enjoy!
Rumpelstiltskin would be the first to admit that he was a teensy bit possessive of any and all assets to which he staked claim. That was the point of calling them 'possessions', wasn't it? Possessions: as in his sole ownership, to be defended from all those who coveted them. Look, don't touch. Hands off, unless that was some twisted hidden desire to be severed at the wrist, clean through the bone with a snap of his scaly golden fingers. It'd be easy as taking the vile tongue out of the head of that louse of a Sheriff.
Apparently, the guy wasn't a big fan of the game 'Rumpel's Got Your Tongue.'
The name inscribed on that cursed blade was his alone—no sensible mother in this entire realm would grant her child the same name unless she wanted him popping unannounced into her birthing room. The leather pants he often donned, combined with the best of dragon hide vests and cloaks in deep blood red and nighttime black hues were his signature style—no one else dared replicate it unless they wished to be strung up by the laces of their boots in the center of their village. This was his power, his gift, his curse—no one else could claim it. This was his castle, his territory, his breeding ground, his sanctuary. Belle was his caretaker, his prisoner, made to obey his every whim while he magically shielded her precious kingdom from the ongoing Ogre War.
His possessions. His treasures. His, his, his.
Or at least, Belle was his prisoner yesterday.
It wasn't that the contract had been made null and void or that she tried a foolish escape. It was the fact that this inconvenient mishap of increased sensitivity resulted in a change of circumstances within the castle. Role-reversal, so to speak. Unbeknownst to her, Rumpelstiltskin had become her prisoner instead of the other way around. There was absolutely no escaping her.
Every step on stone, no matter how meek, every sweet hum of a tune, every snap of a book closing as she juggled reading and carrying out her early morning chores…It was enough to make him stick his head under his pillow, which felt more like a sack of flour instead of a pillow. With the rosy stripes of sunlight fluttering through the gaps in the curtained window to signal the dawning day, it was harder to ignore the goings-on of the castle.
The distinct aroma of frying eggs tunneled underneath his chamber door, wormed its way under his pillow, and teased his nostrils until a damp circle spread across his mattress. He scrubbed it out with his fingertips. It was bad enough he had a nasty habit of sleeping with his mouth open and drooled over his pillow like a newborn babe. That was another reason he refused to let Belle handle his sheets and pillows—he didn't want anyone to know the Dark One drooled on his pillow. She might not be able to spread it by word of mouth, but there was always a stray dove willing to carry a message if persuaded with crumbs.
The wafting scent of Belle's special tea joined the tantalizing scent of the food and he had to sit upright in bed before another string of saliva dribbled down his chin.
Over the course of the past sleepless hours, Rumpel had begun to understand this sensitivity dilemma. He still hated it, but he could at least come to terms with its meaning. It seemed desires and dislikes were heightened as much as his senses, as they often stemmed from the five senses. Some people didn't favor lemons after having their lips pucker from the sour taste on their tongues. The odor of waste and lack of hygiene was displeasing to the point of nausea, just as the aroma of freshly baked bread dragged one by the nose to the kitchen. Likewise, the sound of a lover's voice had enough power over a man to make him crawl on his knees. The caress of fingertips along the length of his spine often issued a groan from his lips, not that he had that happen recently.
It was all in the senses.
As with the variety of touch, taste, smell, hearing, and sight, Rumpel learned that the sensitivity still took into account all things good and bad in the world. There were pleasurable sensations—now heightened to really pleasurable sensations—and bad sensations which were downgraded to really bad sensations.
If he transported to Regina's castle at the wrong time and caught her in all her naked glory whilst dressing in her gaudy black skirts, it might have been enough to make him skip meals for a week. With his newfound sensitivity, his heart was in danger of overload with that type of disturbing stimuli and he could drop dead. Or, as dead as he could possibly be. Regina would be proud of herself and in turn sicken him to the bone.
As for Belle…everything she was currently doing in all her innocence was immediately labeled under Extremely Pleasurable Sensations. It was driving him up the wall. It made the thought of leaving the tolerable comfort of his bedroom that much harder to grasp.
What was he to do?
The logical thing to do was pretend that everything was normal in the workings of the Dark Castle. Buck it up, puff out his chest, be a man and stomp down the stairs like the master of the castle he was and ultimately give Belle no reason to suspect any weakness. Once the monster's weaknesses were revealed, the hero—or in this case heroine—always went in for the kill.
How hard could it be? All he had to do was ignore the heightened yearnings of the Really Good Sensations and the mind-numbing discomfort of the Really Bad Sensations. That was how he'd separated them: Really Good and Really Bad. The Really Good Sensations could leave him weak at the knees and shivering with pleasure while the Really Bad ones sent icy chills down his spine like Death's claws and have him bent at the waist heaving for mercy.
There was no use complaining. What good had it done him through the seemingly never-ending night? There was no time or way to afford it. Put a brave face on, he counseled himself.
But that was the problem.
Rumpelstiltskin was notoriously fearsome, powerful, dark like no other being in the realm, and perhaps a little too flamboyant for the society of the kingdoms to handle during marriage ceremonies, but he had never been brave. He might not be the first to admit it, but it was true all the same. Why, his own father was a coward; it ran in the blood of his veins. He had tried so hard to fight it during his human years, but in the end the apple never fell far from the tree. No matter how he strived to convince himself otherwise—and he did every chance he got—his human side would resurface when it was most inconvenient.
There was no fathomable way he could bear to go out there, face Belle, and act like nothing had changed since the last time he stood in her presence. He wouldn't even last the morning with the silvery sound of her singing and the unnerving scrapes of the raw bristles of the broom sweeping across the stone floor. Then there was that dreadful, crisp snip-snip of the shears as she tended to the vase of roses in his foyer. It was a task he learned she had a talent for and one he seriously regretted with every cell of his body now.
No, he would never be able to survive a whole day of it. So, he resolved to take the next logical step: lock himself in his chamber and hope this potion wore off in time. That was the tricky part of his concoction. Some magical potions came with time constraints, in which case the effects might wear off after three days and nights. Others required a trigger in order to break, much like curses.
Gods, he hoped this was the type with time constraints. He could last three days and nights, but indefinitely? He might stab himself with his own dagger, especially if he didn't know what the trigger was. It could be anything from a moral lesson to downing a suspicious brew that was only made in the far corners of a different realm while hopping on one foot.
He pulled his legs into a stiff cross-legged position on the mattress. The patch of leather over his most sensitive organ strained uncomfortably and he breathed through the uneasiness. It throbbed in the worst way and heated up until he had no choice but to shift his position to a less painful one. It was either that or rub it. He wasn't ready for that Really Good Sensation quite yet.
The clothes had been the lesser of two evils when the temperature steadily dropped to frigid degrees in the dead of the night. Already the day was growing warm again, but he couldn't very well stride about his castle naked, could he? He'd give Belle the fright of her life and her heart might give out right where she stood. No more maid; that would be the second one he killed. This one wouldn't even be on purpose!
Experimentally, he pressed his thumb to his middle finger, preparing to snap. He never admired how his skin was so luxuriously soft even if his fingernails were suddenly black ingrown razors. That special white rose oil Jefferson brought back from Wonderland really paid off.
Focus, he berated himself and immediately stopped caressing his fingers together like he was demanding money from a customer. These Really Good Sensations were proving to be as meddlesome as those Really Bad Sensations. Why couldn't the potion have simply made him numb? He could live with that…maybe.
He snapped his fingers, trying to invoke his magic over the sensitivity. It was the equivalent of a roll of thunder in the suffocating silence of his bedroom. One second passed, two seconds, three…He stretched his mind for a sense of change, rolling his eyes back and forth in their sockets. Everything was still in sharp detail, but maybe that took some time to wear off.
"My name is—ughh!" Still overly shrill, still sensitive. He glared at his fingers, as if it were their fault the counter-spell backfired. He sucked in a deep breath—a gust of icy wind expanding his lungs—and braced his fingers to try again. Perhaps he had to put a little more feeling into it. Hah, right.
My senses are dull as a flattened doornail. Remind me to never admit that aloud. Where was I? My hearing is not keen, my eyes are not focused and magnified times ten; they are bleary and rheumy. My tongue is not as tasteful, the icky metallic taste on the roof of my mouth not so apparent, my—
His eyelids snapped open, two shutters jolting upright to expose the amber windows of his darkened soul. His meditation had been disrupted by…he cocked his head to the side. Was he already going mad…der? Hallucinating sounds that weren't even there?
No—there it was again. A hesitant step on the grand staircase that led to the second floor.
Was his maid done with her chores at such an early hour and heading to the library for a book? If so, why was she so unsure when she had never thought twice about it before? Some days he was convinced books were glued to her hands.
He pitched forward as he realized her footsteps were carrying her down the hall to his bedroom, the very opposite of the library. He stiffened on his mattress as she drew closer with every graceful step. She's near the balustrade….she's halfway down the hall….she's outside my door…
In a mere three strides, he leaped off the bed and crossed the room to the door. He pressed his ear flat against it. The morning light seeping under his door dimmed as her shadow flitted across it. And yet, she made little sound to give away her presence. He could almost picture her on the other side; meek, hesitant, wringing her hands together as she debated about disturbing him for whatever trifling matter concerned her mind.
I know you're there, dearie. I can hear you breathing, he thought to himself, the delicate sighs of her breath distracting him further. She was breathing in and out through the nose and in his mind he imagined that little button of a thing twitching.
Tap-tap-tap. The sound of her knocking echoed through his chambers and ricocheted off his eardrums. Only that wasn't quite right at all. That tapping was more like the whomp-whomp-whomp of an axe blunting a tree trunk, loud enough to make him regret pressing his ear to the door. He reeled back, almost falling on his butt, holding a clammy palm to his right ear. The world was ringing.
"I'm sorry to bother you so early. I just wondered…are you alright?" Belle's honeyed voice—the caramel Australian accent more poignant this morning—fought its way through the barrier of the door. He laid a shoulder against it, as if that could drive her overwhelming presence away.
"Peachy, dearie," he sardonically replied.
It fell silent beyond the door. What was she waiting for? He refused to open the door and expose himself to stimuli that would most certainly egg on the sensitivity to overload. That sky blue dress he had fashioned for her, after all, was the brightest thing in this entire castle. It would blind him with one glance, never mind the supple body it sheathed. Not that he ever cared to notice….especially during those hours she bent over the dining room table to scrub it clean before dinner.
"You needed something, I assume?" Or else, why would you be here?
"Oh, yes," she murmured dreamily, as though she would love nothing more than to dwell outside his chambers all day. Unlikely. "You never came down for your breakfast like you usually do. I was wondering if you were feeling under the weather…or if you were too busy."
His eyebrows rose to his hairline. Those last words were an afterthought strictly meant to shield her true purpose, he was sure of it. She was worried…about his health? How sweet. Was his absence so greatly noted? Or was she simply hoping for a day off due to his failure to leave his bedchamber? With the way Belle ordinarily worked to the bone, he doubted it, but you never could be too sure of good help these days.
Fortunately for him, she had unknowingly provided him an escape route to this sensitivity matter. At least the part that concerned spending an entire day with Miss Stimuli herself.
"Come to think of it, I'm not feeling well at all. Pounding headache, sore throat, abnormal discharge…." He deliberately coughed into his fist and cranked his voice up on the shrill scale to give it that raspy touch. It also brought water to his eyes and he blinked it away. It didn't usually hurt to talk that way after he had been doing it for the past three centuries. The shrillness made him cough for real and he nearly choked up a lung right then and there.
"Is there anything I can get you? A cup of tea might soothe your throat." He licked his lips hungrily, imagining the heavenly taste of Belle's tea. Never had he met anyone who made tea half as well as he did. On the other hand, was it worth opening the door for?
Well…..nah, not worth it.
"No, thank you," he answered firmly, fighting to keep his voice from rising in volume more than was necessary. "Why not spend the day in the library? Curl up with a good book?" One might think it was a generous offer on his part, but it was borne purely out of selfish means. This way, she would stay on the other side of the castle, the farthest from him she could ever be without terminating her contract.
He expected her to be thrilled with the idea of a day in the library instead of carrying out monotonous chores, but there was hardly a noise in the hall. No running toward the library, no cheerful cry, no quick acceptance. Panic seized him. Had she detected something off about his behavior? Were her blue eyes boring into the door in that inquisitive way of hers? He studied the shadow under the door, but it wasn't moving.
Had he shocked her to the point of muteness?
"Thank you," she exclaimed sincerely, breathily. You'd think he just promised her a trove of sapphires, emeralds, and rubies that spelled out her name in big shining letters. The shadow lingered for a second longer before fading. He listened intently as her feet traveled to the tower of the library and mounted the creaky stairs one at a time.
"Phew," he whistled, collapsing against the door. He wiped a hand across his brow in relief and found it damp with sweat, each bead rolling over his brow not going unnoticed. There were three beads on his ring finger; he counted.
That was one small problem dealt with. Now…how to calm his racing heart before it exploded straight through his best silk?
…..
He tried every spell and counter-spell he could think of. A transparent glass case had seemingly encircled his body, preventing all other magic from passing through. He searched through every tome in his room and tossed them aside furiously when they failed to provide an answer. He tested every silly superstition he overheard the children in the villages gabbling about on his outings for deals, including one where he pinched his tongue and said his own name three times.
Nothing worked.
He swore to stop eating vegetables in hopes of ruining his vision. It might not be so hard if he chose to never emerge from his room again. Starvation, like many other things in this world, wouldn't kill him. Only the stab of his mythical dagger had the power to do that. He'd be troubled by hunger pains, muscle weakness, dizzy spells, and his metabolism would be shot to hell, but it wouldn't mean death.
Sometimes, immortality wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
Rumpelstiltskin knew only one thing: he needed to get into his library. There were countless spellbooks of old wisdom stacked on the highest shelves, capped vials of various potions that might be his saving grace even if it meant a different catastrophe. Whatever it was couldn't possibly be as frustrating as oversensitivity. If the answers could be found in his castle, it would be in his library.
The only problem was that Belle was holed up in the library. There was no telling when she might leave its solace, especially if she had plunged headfirst into a book. His only hope without seeking her out himself was the point in time in which she took a break from reading to prepare dinner. Belle was not so careless as to lose track of the time when meals were supposed to be on the table.
All he had to do was wait.
And wait.
Perhaps when she was finished with the next page….or chapter…Was she going to make him rush down there and correct her? Belle, he learned, was a quick learner and never slacked after she got a handle on what was expected of her.
Usually, he would try a spell to lure her out, but his brain had short-circuited with the sensitivity and restless wracking to think of any appropriate ones. He could start a small fire in the kitchen…but he didn't want to be responsible for the damage of his castle if Belle's nose was too deep in her book. Throwing his voice to command her to get out of the library wasn't an option, either. Whenever he threw his voice, it came out of the oddest of places. Having his voice pop out of her book might frighten the girl or else she would think her books were finally feeding her a nugget of knowledge without the task of flipping pages.
Rumpelstiltskin paced as he waited. The muscles in his thighs quickly grew strained and burned from the effort of his quick stride, but he did not slow in pace. The clap of his boots was ominous to his ears, his nails clicking together as he tented his fingers.
At long last, he jumped a foot in the air when the foretelling creak of the library stairs joined the clomp-clomp-clomp of his boots. She was descending the stairs one at a time, as painstakingly slow as a bride marching down the aisle. Part of him wanted to stick his head into the hall and yell just be done with it already!
She paused at the very top of the flight of stairs leading to the main hall. In a few steps, he had his ear cocked against the door, though not as terribly close as before in case Belle decided to come knocking again. Was she looking toward his bedroom? Was she compelled to check on him like a doting mother to a sickly child? Or was she merely fixing the lace of her bodice, smoothing down her skirts, trying to recall something she may have forgotten?
That must have been it since she carried on her way, albeit a little speedier than when she descended the library stairs. He listened without taking a breath as she crossed the foyer to the narrow hall branching off of it that opened up into the kitchen and pantry. She'd be almost directly below his feet by now, prepared to cook an evening meal with the assumption in mind that he was dining with her tonight.
Unfortunately, that was another tasty meal he would be skipping, at least while she set a place for herself at the dining room table. Ever since the night she arrived, he had requested her presence at the table during meals—to spare her a miserable meal in the lonely confines of her dungeon cell.
She shouldn't be too disappointed with his absence.
He patiently counted to ten in his head until he caught the crackling of flames in the kitchen followed by a bit of scratchy jostling as Belle stoked the fire. Trying to keep as quiet on his feet as possible, he cracked his door open and slinked into the hallway. He didn't know if he was doing a good job of stealth since every miniscule sound he made was magnified by tenfold in his head, but Belle didn't come rushing from the kitchens to confront him.
He made a rapid beeline for the library stairs. He had to clap a hand over his nose to block out the mouth-watering scents of food from the kitchens as he passed the foyer. His stomach betrayed him, unleashing an earthquake. He climbed the stairs two at a time, scowling at the shadowy corners on each step. Belle would have to clean these stairs tomorrow. There were dust motes, nearly invisible strings of spider-web hanging down over his head, and there was a funny smell he couldn't place but clogged his nostrils all the same.
It might have been Desperation of Regina—a horribly musky stench.
Truth be told, Rumpelstiltskin shared Belle's love of the library; not so much for the books, but the serenity it offered. It was one of his favorite places in the Dark Castle, apart from the dining hall where he did most of his spinning. He despised the emptiness of his chambers, where he did not often allow any sunshine to dwell. Nor was he granted the luxury of a woman's beauty in his bed. It was just…hollow.
But the library filled that void with its airy aura, golden streams of sunlight in the tower windows, and a breeze that was not formidable in the winter and was a blessing in the summer heat. It seemed to hold a magic all its own. It was the closest thing in which he attached the word home since the night he...that Bae…
Really Bad Sensation, Really Bad Sensation. His vision blurred as though he were peering through a cloud of fog and he impatiently wiped the moisture away from his eyelids. The grief in his heart was sore to the point of moaning.
Rumpelstiltskin focused on the task at hand, gliding over to the first floor-to-wall bookcase that housed countless volumes and journals from years past. The bindings were coarse to the pads of his fingers, some of the pages brittle enough to crumble into ash. The ink was faded in spots, yet fresh as the day it was penned in other places.
He grabbed up book after book, sifting through them rapidly. The moment they proved useless, he blindly tossed it over it his shoulder, where it landed in a heap with a cringe-worthy thump. He didn't have time to casually set the volumes in an organized pile or linger over the pages a second more, even if it gave him a headache. The sooner he found his answer, the sooner this sensitivity would be a nightmare gone by.
The third or so bookcase Rumpelstiltskin perused, he opened a particularly ancient book and a flume of dust and stink of mold soared up into his nose. Immediately, his nose twitched as the pressure of an oncoming sneeze built inside it. The book trembled in his hands until he had no choice but to let it fall and crash on the floor.
"Ah…ah…."
It was coming, faster, faster, almost here now. The bridge of his nose felt like it was ready to burst. He thrust a finger under his nose to stall it. His body rose on his toes as the pressure made even his feet curl inside his boots. He was sure the sneeze would make good on its threat even with his finger pressed under his nose like a fake mustache…and then the pressure ceased. His feet landed back on the floor and his nose stopped twitching. He removed his finger and sniffed. Phew, that was a close one—
"Ah-atchoo!"
The sneeze rocketed through his nose with a vengeance before he could stop it. His brain rattled inside his head—he was almost sure it flipped upside down at one point. His eyes shed more tears than all of Regina's victims put together. His body swayed weakly against the bookshelf before collapsing to the floor.
Oh, gods, he couldn't see through the water and he couldn't hear through the popping of his ears. Was this his only solution for escaping the sensitivity temporarily? Develop allergies? Maybe he should sneak onto farms and sniff horses or sheep until his brain leaked from his ears from the sneezing.
His hearing gradually returned—not that he was happy about it—and his head stopped spinning. He gathered himself up from the floor, dusted his cloak off, and vowed never to sneeze again if he could help it. Bending over—ooh, the leather!—he collected the fallen tome.
Now, where was he before he was so rudely interrupted? Ah, yes—
"What have you done?" The outraged voice startled him into dropping the book a second time. Somehow, it sounded heavier than the first time it landed at his feet.
Every cell in his body froze up, his throat grew dry as sandpaper, and the hair on the back of his neck rose with static the way it often did when someone was burning holes into the back of his head. She must have been standing there for a full minute or so when his hearing had been dulled from the sneeze or else he would have heard her climb the stairs.
Slowly, he turned around to face a red-cheeked Belle. It was not the modest blush he sometimes found whenever she was caught studying him or whenever he said something unexpected to her ears. This was the color of raw anger. Her skin was red as a fresh tomato. In fact, it was getting redder the longer he looked. He could see the pink hues diffusing over her milky skin. Never had she ever truly questioned or defied anything he had chosen to do in his castle, which was why he was astonished to the point of immobility.
"The library," she cried, sweeping forward to examine it by spinning in circles. He wondered whether he should stay out of her way while she assessed the damage or ask her to dance. Her wide, soft blue eyes flew from the tented books and loose pages on the floor to the empty slots on the shelves. The only way this could possibly be worse for him was if he tore the bookshelves from the wall. "You've made a mess of it!"
"Lower your voice," he reprimanded, rubbing his earlobes. Belle revolved fully and gaped openly at him. It was oddly similar to that expression she wore when he claimed he wanted her to skin the children he collected for their pelts. Except this one was definitely not a quip.
"Lower my voice?" Was there an echo in here? If so, he needed to silence it pronto. It encouraged his headache, even if Belle's accented voice was more pleasant to listen to than most. Belle sunk to her knees and picked up an overturned blue book, its pages rustling as her fingers caressed them. "The books…they're…and the pages…" She was torn between the blue book and collecting the loose pages together.
Rumpel frowned. She seemed incapable of comprehending the new look of the library. He returned to searching the shelves for an answer to his problem—it was certainly more important than a couple of scattered books. Despite his direct attention on a black book that looked more like a diary, he still sensed her eyes boring into his back.
"You ruined them," she whispered throatily. He rolled his eyes and never realized how many muscles were used to do just that.
"Frigid fairies, they're just books! Silence!" He thumbed through another page, tossed it over his shoulder. It never hit the floor, but from the rough scuffle behind him Belle must have caught it. When he checked over his shoulder, she was cradling it to her chest like a child. Her lip trembled in her horror.
"Just…?" Without removing his eyes from her face, he lifted another book from the shelf. The crease in her brow smoothed out and her chin lowered. Her nails ground into the binding of the book. Scratch-scratch-scratch…"My mistake. It's your library. I suppose…you're entitled to ravage it." She choked out the word 'ravage,' as if it were bitter on her tongue.
"You're right—it is. Plus, I can always straighten it up with magic, dearie. It's not like my power is wasting away as we speak. You won't even notice a wear in the book bindings," he replied carelessly. She might not, but there was no question that these books were in worn shape to his eyes.
There was a soft whoosh of air as Belle huffed.
"Magic is your solution for everything," she retorted.
Was that meant to instill a change of heart in him? Magic may have a few blips here and there like turning his hair snow-white and making him suffer with sensitivity, but it made his life much easier for the most part. Or was this a trap to discover one of the monster's weaknesses? In that case, he had to deflect it.
"I'll have you know—"
Before he could utter another syllable, his finger curled around the next page with the intent of turning it over. Only, instead of turning, the page sliced the skin of his forefinger. He hissed and flung the book away. As he watched, his skin split apart with a bright glistening jewel of crimson, the dot blossoming to a teardrop that slid over his gold-grey digit. The metallic, rusty scent of blood irritated his nose until he gagged.
And then the real pain came. He thought he screamed.
"Paper-cut! Paper-cut!"
He waved his finger through the air, but that only made it sting more. His head was filled with cotton, heavy and cloudy, his thoughts drifting apart before he was able to pluck them to the surface. Belle stared at him, stunned, the books tumbling from her arms.
For hired help, now would have been a good time to provide service.
"My dying day has come!"
Oh, it was the most brutal pain in all the realms. This was worse than his self-afflicted human injury of smashing a sledgehammer atop his leg. It was searing, scorching his entire finger down to the webbing without mercy. One thousand tiny steel swords stabbed into his skin. It felt like someone had savagely rubbed his skin raw with an iron brush and then dipped it into a vat of salt! He'd bet his agony trumped the kind Milah always crowed about once a month.
Sweat leaked down over his forehead. Tremors shuddered along his spine. He had no idea how his knees were able to support his weight. And he was still bleeding! His finger was practically gushing blood!
Something latched onto his wrist, the supreme tenderness rivaling the abrasion. Belle clucked her tongue. A few wisps of her hair tickled his hand as her head dipped to examine his wound. It distracted him for all of a second. It had been an incredibly long time since a woman willingly touched him. The hug she once gave him was just a notch above this.
"It's just a paper-cut," she told him, turning his finger this way and that. Her finger brushed it and he shivered. The pain had nothing to do with it. "I know how you feel. I don't like it when I get one, either."
He sought out the delicate pads of her fingers, unmarred by any such cuts. There were the beginnings of calluses on the knuckles from her hard work in the castle, but otherwise her fingers were exquisite.
"Just…just…?" The pain robbed his will to speak coherently. Had she gone mad? This was not just a paper-cut! This was a fatal wound, to say the least.
Belle guided him onto a stool and murmured something about returning in a moment. All he could do was glare at the sticky trail of blood curving over the top of his fingernail. The pain had lessened from tearing-your-heart-out torturous to a more tolerable ache, but still he had to suck in a breath to ward off the fogginess in his head. He supposed he might have healed the cut, but the strength to call on his magic had left him.
If only this were his favorite chair and not a backless stool. The world was spinning wildly as it had when he sneezed, turning on its side…oh, he was tumbling over…the blood was all he could see…there was no way to stop it…
"I've got you," a breathy whisper warmed his ear as a flash of sky blue crossed his vision. He landed safely atop the softest support this world had to offer. Did Belle bring a pillow up to the library? It was so white…no, not just white. Ivory. It was Belle's skin.
Her skin was creamy to the touch. The creamiest of the cream. He nuzzled his cheek into the enticing velvet like a pleased kitten. In fact, a sensual purr might have escaped his throat. Belle gasped as he stroked her neck. That small intake of air sent a ripple through her body and that simple sound of her breath was so delicious that he longed to suck it back out from her lungs.
What kind of sorcery was this? Belle claimed not to know magic, but she had taken the form of an alluring enchantress. Ah, she felt so good…
The fragrance of roses and melted butter teased his nose until he buried it in the hollow of her throat. He inhaled deeply, drowning in the essence of Belle. Oh, my! It came quietly at first, the faint flitter of butterfly's wings. Then it pulsed all around him in a rhythmic melody. He could hear Belle's heart! He closed his eyes peacefully and listened to its drumming while she took the liberty of settling him on his stool again. She laughed and he didn't know which sound was sweeter: the heartbeat or that silvery sound slipping between her lips.
This entire scenario reeked of magic. It was the magic of all women, the powerful seduction that was exploited by sirens on the seas.
"I wasn't aware the mighty Dark One grew queasy at the sight of blood," she teased.
Dark One? Queasy? That was a quip and a half, if only he had the mind to appreciate it. He wasn't bothered by the spilling of blood so long as it wasn't his own. Then again, there was a reason he didn't like visiting Frankenstein. The guy dug up bodies for a living and then decided to perform surgery to remove their organs and—
And his hand was in her lap. Oh, gods, she had taken hold of his hand and it was in her lap. It erased all other thoughts from his mind. My hand is in her lap…my hand is in her lap…Soft skin and cool silk…
The sound of raining water snagged his attention. Belle had brought back a bowl of fresh water, which she had set on his worktable. Her hands wrung out a soaking wet cloth, the stray drops falling with a steady drip-drip-drip into the bowl.
"This might sting a little," she warned, taking his hand into hers while the other armed itself with the damp cloth. His eyebrows shot the ceiling. Sting? A little? What exactly—
"I don't think that's necessary. If you let me wave my hand, I'll—yeoww!"
The cloth pressed over his cut and alarms sounded off in his head. Tendrils of pain spiked through his finger. He whipped his hand away and leaped to his feet, knocking over the stool in the process. He stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked on it, dabbing at the cut with his tongue. His tongue was a wriggling worm digging its way into his flesh, but he didn't care.
"Are you trying to kill me?"
It wouldn't be the first assassination attempt. He supposed he should applaud her, though. No one had ever done it with a bowl of water and a piece of cloth before. Now Belle rose to her feet, the cloth slapping down onto the worktable. Her face grew pink with annoyance.
"I'm only trying to help you," she insisted. She started to reach out for him, but he skittered away. Her nails hooked into her palm.
"Is that so? Well, let me be the first to inform you that you're doing a poor job of it so far!" Belle's arms thrust down to her sides. Her hands balled into fists.
"If you didn't pull away, it might not hurt so much," she boldly fired back. A storm brewed inside his chest, the matter of his sore finger suddenly forgotten. The insolence of her! He stomped his foot on the floorboards.
"Oh, really? Consider this: I might not pull away if you didn't insist in dousing my finger in that venom! Leave me to my own devices," he growled. Childishly, he stuck his finger back into his mouth and sucked feverishly at it. He spat it out a few times. Bleh! That rose oil did not taste well. But it was unnerving Belle, so he kept at it. Until she strode forward and wrenched his finger from his mouth, anyway.
"Stop doing that! It's not healthy," she scolded. For some reason, her coddling ticked him off even more.
"It's my finger—I'll do whatever I please with it," he roared. Just to prove it, he stuck it back in again. Belle tried pulling it out again, but he easily dodged her attack. She planted her hands on her supple hips. He turned his back so as not to fall victim to her charm.
"If you actually trusted someone for once—" Oh, she was going for the tactic of playing to his insecurities, was she? Rumpel feigned calm, though her words bit worse than she knew.
"Hah! I don't even trust my reflection. Why ever would I trust you?" After all, Belle was the one waving the cloth around that may or may not be poisonous. He'd lived alone for so long, forced to accept his role as the beast to the point that allowing his walls to come down was as simple as making the sun rise in the west. Belle drew back a step, her face pinched with pity.
"Maybe you should consider the fact that not everyone wants to kill you," she said. With a ragged sigh, she sunk back into her chair and the cloth sloshed through the water in the bowl. He'd never seen her so dejected before.
To this day, he didn't know why he did it, but the next thing he knew he was on the stool and holding his finger out to her. Belle peered at it from the corner of her eye. A silent moment went by and he thought she would blatantly refuse to help. Instead, the corners of her lips lifted and she gently accepted his hand.
He turned his head away so that he did not have to see the cloth rise from the bowl. There was the sound of trickling water and then the cold wetness of the cloth pressing to his finger. He hissed same as before, but fought against the urge to pull away. Belle began to dab at his paper-cut, squeezing a few drops of water onto it. The initial pain of it eased into something pleasant while she cared for his cut. A slight brush of the fingertip here, the refreshing drips of water there.
That…felt….good.
A tearing sound made his head spin around. It was only Belle stripping a piece of the cloth, so as to tie it snugly over his finger and prevent the cut from being exposed to the outside world. He wiggled his finger experimentally after she finished securing the bandage. It was like sticking a thimble on the end of his finger—it would take a bit of time to forget it was there at all.
"Thank you," he reluctantly yielded. Belle dried her hands on her skirts.
"Now, was that so bad?" She studied him from under her long eyelashes.
He admired the way the sun brought out the red highlights in her chestnut hair and made her eyes glow with the mesmerizing sparkle of diamonds. He shook his head rapidly, pushing away that train of thought. Belle must have a siren lineage in her family.
"…Yes," he maintained his stubbornness.
Belle gave him a knowing smile. If they had thought to make a deal, it would mean he had to do something for her in return. It had become his nature. So, with a flourish of his hand, the misplaced books lifted from the floor and flew back onto the shelves. There was barely a wrinkle left in the pages apart from the ones Belle marked in her reading.
"Thank you," she said, patting his hand. He didn't know how to deal with the sudden rush of warmth in his chest. He tugged the collar of his silk shirt as beads of sweat began to roll over his brow. Was he experiencing some odd kind of heart combustion along with a headache? This sensitivity was becoming nothing but a thorn in his side.
Her hand was so warm and small…
"How do you feel?"
Rumpel was lost in his own euphoria with the way Belle's hand would not leave his own. Part of him didn't want it to move at all. His nerves tingled with something like excitement. His eyelids fluttered closed, his mind swirling in a caramel vortex of pleasure.
"So good," he murmured.
Belle's hand slid across his palm. In the next second, there was nothing there except the cool air filling the empty space where her hand had been. Had he somehow said the wrong thing? Damn these Really Good Sensations. He cleared his throat and struggled for something appropriate to say.
"Hem-hem…uh…I'm still feeling a little under the weather. I think…it'll be best if I return to my bedchambers."
He stood to do just that, but Belle mirrored his movements. She wrung her fingers together like a ladder, the crack of a knuckle making him wince.
"You're going without supper?" For a moment, he was convinced she was concerned. That was ridiculous. Maybe what she was really asking was if it would be okay for her to eat her supper without him. She could pig out on the entire contents of the kitchen for all he cared; most of the shelves magically restocked during the night, anyway.
"I'm not very hungry," he replied. "But feel free to enjoy your own meal."
Belle inclined her head gratefully, though something about her still seemed solemn. It must be a trick of the light. He suddenly longed for the quiet and dimness of his bedroom. Spinning on his heel, Rumpelstiltskin could not escape the library fast enough.
….
Pound-pound-pound.
Not half an hour after he fled the library, there came an intense—or in reality, light—knocking at his door. It was probably no louder than the grace of her footsteps, but she might as well have been toppling a tree into it. A growl of frustration climbed in his throat. It was short-lived, since it resembled a ballad of angry bees mixed with the grittiness of saws chewing through wood.
Couldn't she take a hint? Didn't she have a book to dig her nose into right about now? Or several? Didn't she realize he wanted to be left alone, as in no one here but him and his shadow? Besides, every time he even looked her way he nearly collapsed of heart palpitations. That entire scene in the library hadn't left his mind for a split second. Why, his heart was rocking against his ribs as he even reminisced about any close proximity to Belle.
Ow, ow, ow.
It was too quiet on the other side of that door. There was a distinct pitter-patter as her feet glided back down the hallway. By the sounds of it, she wasn't coming back, either. Had she given up already? That was very unlike her. Maybe she was the one coming down with the cold. If that were the case, she had better stay far away from him. The last thing he needed was a drawn-out battle against a cold that wouldn't break.
Much like poor Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, his curiosity got the better of him. He shimmied over to the door and held his breath as he listened to the sounds of the hallway. Not even a whisper of wind.
Inch by inch, the door creaked open. There was not a speck of sky blue fabric to be found. He thrust the door wide open and poked his head into the hallway. Left, right, left…nothing. Well, whatever had been on Belle's mind mustn't have been very important.
He was about to close the door again when something on the ground caught his eye.
It was a silver tray, the handles gleaming in the sinking sunlight. There was a deep bowl filled to the brim with stew, the steam still curling. Oh, he could smell it from here. His nose twitched like a rabbit's. It…smelled…wonderful. The rich aroma of melted butter blended with it and he spied a basket of fresh croissants still slick with the stuff. A teacup waited in one corner of the tray, the herbal tea inside begging to be gulped immediately.
It was hard to ignore the cacophony of his grumbling stomach as he processed the sudden offer of this tray of food, but somehow he managed it while rubbing a hand flat over his belly. Gods, he was practically on all fours like a dog, salivating at the mouth.
He had to stop and think about this. Belle left a tray of food at his door. First the paper-cut, now this. No one had ever gone out of their way for him. Was she afraid of compromising her deal with him if she neglected to offer him the tray of food? Or was she sincerely concerned for his well-being?
Her reaction to him—or lack, thereof—troubled him far worse than the sensitivity ever could. The last time someone had been selfless and kind in his presence was…let's see…carry the one…why, centuries ago!
The demand for food consumption overpowered his logical thinking and he would have gladly stuffed his face full of buttered bread and rich stew right there on the threshold of his bedroom if he hadn't noticed the slip of parchment tucked under the basket of croissants. Bending on one knee—tight leather pants, tight leather pants—he carefully retrieved the note, deftly pinching it between his fingers so as not to repeat the dreaded paper-cut incident.
He quickly unfolded it, read it, and read it again. All the while, he admired the inky elegant loops and curves of Belle's handwriting. He wondered what his name would look like in her penmanship.
I didn't think it would be wise to leave the master of the castle wanting. I hope you feel better soon. –Belle.
His thumb traced over her written name the same instant it fell from his lips in one harmonious note. Gratefully, he carried the tray of food inside and kicked the door closed.
Bang! Ow.
…
Shout-outs (for such amazing reviews) go to: Huntress4455, Revenessa, SweetCinnamon, Guest, SwanQueen4055, Claire, Newland Archer, Leona, Grace5231973, and SakuraBlossom58. I appreciated all the wonderful comments in my inbox and I hope everyone enjoyed reading this chapter as well.