By the time the sun rose the next morning, Rumpelstiltskin decided that it was futile to stay locked up in his bedroom forever while waiting for this sensitivity issue to take its toll.
For one thing, it was boring in there! All he did to pass the time was pace, stare blankly out the window, and bounce his pillows into the air like Bae used to do whenever he was deeply upset. Rumpelstiltskin was a creature of entertainment. He thrived on it like ordinary people required water and bread to live. It came with the immortality and living alone in a castle for centuries.
Furthermore, he barely got any sleep. What was the point in wasting the day away if he could use that time to work on the curse that would take him to Bae? It was bad enough that he had to divide his time between creating the Dark Curse and making deals.
The deals were the reason he was staying awake at night, not the heightened sensitivity.
One thing he learned about human nature over the centuries was that people never stopped wanting. Even more baffling was the realization that those same people often confused want with need. It was never 'I want you to take my brother away because he pulled my pigtails' or 'I want a dress that will make my archenemy jealous at the next royal ball.' It was always I need you to take my brother away and I need that dress.
It was downright irritating! Their moans and groans and cries were worse than the grind of steel on stone.
The moment that Rumpel flopped into bed last night, he was summoned by a new mother who had just given birth to a stillborn son. For ten whole minutes, he heard nothing but wah-wah-wah and but-but-but as she wailed in her birthing bed. The piercing screams drove nails into his brain, bringing him to his knees. In the end, he was forced to suck out her voice and trap it in a pickle jar long enough to explain to the sobbing woman that magic could do much, but it was not powerful enough to bring back the dead. It only made her scream silently, her mouth working like an oversized fish.
Rumpel had handed her wire-thin farmer husband the jar and told him to smash it once he left. Even so, he thought he heard the painful shattering of glass before he made it back to his own bed.
At midnight, an old maid called on him to demand that he shower beauty on her so that she may win the heart of her archenemy's lover to smite her. In exchange, he made her blind and warned her that her beauty would only last several days. It was amusing to park himself on the sidelines and watch her stumble into a ditch. At least he managed to get rid of that gruesome wart on her nose….until he realized it was actually her nose.
The next hour, it was a peasant who wanted money, money, money. After that, it was King Midas who wished to marry his daughter off to Rumpelstiltskin. Obviously the poor fellow had one too many drinks before bed. He almost succeeded in turning Rumpel into a gold water-squirting fountain since the king forgot to wear the glove that always covered his golden hand.
Who knew that man was such a hugger?
The deals never stopped. It made Rumpel sigh with relief as the sunlight broke out across the windowsill and the appetizing smell of breakfast teased his nose from the kitchen. He rubbed his empty belly, which growled until every limb on his body quaked. Perhaps I'll join Belle for breakfast this morning, he thought as he strived to dress for the day. He chose his loosest silk shirt so it wouldn't cling to his skin. Surely I'll get used to the stimuli of her company soon. It's not like I haven't seen an attractive woman before.
Rumpel slipped out into the hallway, blinking a few times to adjust to the brightness of the hall. It was such a stark contrast to the dim shadows of his bedchamber. Was that stone actually white? He always assumed it was a displeasing shade of gray. A yawn overwhelmed him as he reached the stairs, his jaw aching from the way it stretched wide. He began to descend the stairs, his boots slapping the cold steps.
Halfway down, he heard something odd. It was barely a whisper, brushing over his mind with the delicacy of leaves swirling in a spring breeze. Rumpelstiltskin…
At first, he thought the cry might have belonged to Belle, but he cocked his head to the side to listen to the sound of her cooking in the kitchen. Her steps were unhurried, her breathing regular, the scrape of utensils on plates the only sound to make him cringe. There was a sloshing of water, a roar of fire…Nothing to suggest panic.
Besides, the calling of his name wasn't spoken out of fear or panic. It wasn't uttered in the throes of passion, either, as sometimes happened during a maiden's lusty daydream. Some women in this realm had strange taste in men. The calling had been gentle, almost sweet, and…experimental. Like someone waiting to see if it would bring about the desired effect.
Was it one of the children in the villages sprinkled about the Enchanted Forest performing a dare to see if the malevolent Dark One would come sweeping down on them like a banshee? Foolish children. He'd given a handful of them nightmares before, rendering them mute for months at a time. Not intentionally, of course. Even when he tried to be nice and offer sweets, they screamed for help.
Rumpelstiltskin…
This time, the voice was stronger, louder in volume. It was most certainly not Belle's voice. It held the same innocent sweetness of Belle, but it wasn't her. That meant it was someone summoning him for a deal.
Oh, no. He wasn't zipping off to listen to someone else's problems. Not again.
He stood still as a statue on the stairs, arms crossed and pouting. This morning, he was going to enjoy a delicious meal with Belle. Anyone who didn't like it could leave a written complaint as his door, anonymously if they didn't want him running their carriage off the road. He used every ounce of his energy to keep his feet planted firmly in his castle.
He smirked as the voice began to fade into the corners of his mind.
Hah! See that? You lose, I win. I refuse to be disturbed by some whiny ne'er do well or a pompous royal whose only interest is money and marriage. I am going to sit in my chair, I am going to eat Belle's breakfast, and there is nothing you can do to change my mind. I don't care if you scream.
He descended another step.
Rumpelstiltskin!
The impact of the scream inside his head startled him to the point of swaying like a drunken fool. His foot came crashing down on the step, only it wasn't a step anymore. It was a patch of brown grass. The sun beat down harshly over his head, blinding him momentarily. When his vision returned, he saw that he was standing in a small field with an old cottage not too far off.
He felt a presence standing close behind him, probably the old sap who voiced his name. He took three guesses as to what this was about. Revenge, wealth, or children. It was usually one of the three. Occasionally it was a maiden who hadn't known when to stop drinking at the tavern and suffocated him with her lips and sloppy promises of a good time, often taking a stick to pry her off.
"What do you want? You want money? You want your pitiful farm to last through another winter? You want to marry your child off to me in hopes you'll gain a portion of my wealth? Midas already tried that one last night. Take your pick, dearie," he snapped, spinning around to face the man—
Only it wasn't a man. It was a little girl.
He blinked. Was this a trick? An illusion? One of Regina's clever disguises in order to make a fool of him? Only she didn't look a thing like Regina. Whenever Regina practiced disguising herself in front of him, she always left something out to give her away. This girl showed no sign of Regina's raven black hair or her tart attitude or even a drop of her cleavage.
The girl tilted her head at him expectantly. She was younger than Bae had been the last time he saw his boy. Ten, he guessed. Plain, dry strands of sandy hair framed her heart-shaped face, which was mostly shielded by the hood of the tattered cloak on her shoulders. She was standing under one of the trees of the forest surrounding her home. She kept her chin raised and her eyes never wavered from his snakelike ones, but he could smell the fear rising off her in waves.
This must be one of those dares. He looked around for signs of other pesky children, but saw no one else. It was very quiet in this part of the forest. Was this girl really alone or were her little friends waiting to jump out and attack him with wooden swords in a childishly heroic attempt to slay the beast?
Whatever happened to the classic dares of shopping in the market naked or dropping a rat in the hair of the girl you fancied?
"If you called to inquire about my taste in fashion before you sneak off with the boy of your dreams, let me be the first to warn you…that cloak does not work well with your dress," he mocked, waving his hand toward her terribly thin frame. The girl buttoned up her cloak to hide her dress underneath.
"I'm sorry…sir," she whispered softly, adding a little curtsy. He recognized the voice immediately as the one that shrieked inside his head. How did this little girl have so much lung capacity to shout the way she did? It puzzled him to watch her politeness and anxiousness unfold. "I didn't know who else to call for help. If I told my papa, he wouldn't be happy with me. He's trying to make shoes so that we'll have enough to eat this week."
A sob story. How delightful. He should have brought his tissues. The girl began to pick at her nails under his impatient leer. Click-click-click-click…
"Let me guess: you wish to make a deal with me so that I'll sneak into your house in the middle of the night and fix your dear old papa a glorious mountain of shoes to fill your belly with corn and bread? Do I look like an elf, by any chance?"
He cupped his chin, rotating his head this way and that for her examination. The girl took the question seriously and shook her head. Apparently, her sarcasm detector was broken. Click-click-click-click—
"Stop doing that! It's driving me mad!" The girl jumped a mile in the air. Now she was shaking visibly. He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to compose his stormy thoughts.
"I-I didn't call you so that you'll h-help my papa, though I wouldn't mind if you did," she stuttered. She blinked innocently from underneath her eyelashes. Of course you wouldn't mind, he thought bitterly and flexed his fingers in front of his face with the cottage a blur in the distance. You owe me, little one. I needed a new pair of boots, anyway.
"Then what happens to be the problem? Did some boy in your town tug your pigtails? It happens. It's our manly way of saying I like you at that age," he said.
Truth be told, he tugged only one pair of pigtails as a lad and got slapped silly for it. He never tried it again and if he did it today, the maiden of his choice would probably run screaming for the hills. The girl chewed nervously on her lip. Did he break her or something?
"Speak! What is it you want? Do you fancy an afternoon tea party with the Dark One? Sorry, sweetie, I'm booked."
He didn't have time to play guessing games with little Mary-Ann. He didn't know her name, but she kind of looked like a Mary-Ann. In any case, it was sweltering out here. He was already sweating in places he didn't need to sweat. He turned with the intention of leaving, only to feel something warm slip into his hand. He looked down to find Mary-Ann latched onto his hand. She was tugging it insistently. It shocked him into silence. No child had ever willingly spoke to him, let alone held his hand. Was she blind?
"I need to get my cat out of the tree," she said. There was that need again.
She pointed to the tree she'd been standing under, where a cat rested on one of the higher branches, its black tail flipping back and forth lazily. He glanced at it with its narrowed, luminescent eyes and then stared at Mary-Ann in bewilderment.
Cat? Tree? Was this what his reputation as the Dark One amounted to now? A rescuer for animals in jeopardy? He would've favored the wooden swords.
"I was just sitting here under the tree, reading a book. I do that sometimes when my papa's busy working on shoes. Mittens leaped off my lap and jumped into the tree. My papa told me I could keep him as long as I care for him, but he won't come down! Please?"
He opened his mouth to refuse, but her eyes grew impossibly wide, pleading with her entire heart and soul. He tried to avoid looking at that doll face of hers, but it was like trying to lick your elbow. It couldn't be done. Rumpelstiltskin tried that one as a child, too.
"If he won't come down for you, what makes you think he'd come down for me? Do I smell like milk and roses?" He took a step away from the girl before she got it in her head to sniff him. Her eyes welled up with water and the fear of what she would say to her father. A stubborn thing, she began a chant of pleases to goad him.
"Please, please, please, please, please, please, please…?" What did parents teach their children these days? He never remembered the children in his village being this annoying before he became the Dark One. Did Mary-Ann ever run out of air?
Finally, his patience ran out.
"Fine! If I say yes, will you promise to stop your caterwauling?" For a minute, he thought he might have to explain what the word caterwauling meant. But Mary-Ann nodded agreeably. With a snap of his fingers, the cat was lifted into the air and plopped down on the ground at Mary-Ann's feet.
"Thank you—"
She went to scoop up the cat, but it took off faster than a jackrabbit. It swerved around her legs, pounced onto the tree, and scrambled back up the branch that it was forced to vacate only a moment ago. This time, it turned its back to Mary-Ann and Rumpel.
Rumpel scowled at the mangy feline. That was a bit aggravating. Mary-Ann sniffled. She had better not be ready to unleash the waterworks on him. Rumpel was having none of that while he was in earshot. He was still convinced that his hearing in one ear was off after dealing with that grieving mother.
Don't tell me I have to do this the old-fashioned way, he grumbled in his head, eyeing the branches of the tree. He was never much of a tree-climber even before the incident with his lame leg. But Mary-Ann was sniffling and he could almost hear the sob crawling in her throat. I'm going, I'm going, I'm going.
Rumpelstiltskin placed his hands around the trunk of the tree as if he were embracing it. Really, he was fumbling around for any groove or spot that would allow him support to climb. Mary-Ann giggled behind him, but he silenced her with a condescending look over his shoulder. He spotted a branch above his head and reached for it, only to realize he was too short. Curse his small stature! It had always been his Achilles' heel. He jumped, but his fingers just barely brushed the bottom of the branch.
Was that another giggle behind him? He peered over his shoulder, but little Mary-Ann was twiddling her thumbs.
Planting one foot flat on the trunk of the tree, Rumpel made an earnest effort to scale the tree. He leaped into the air, scrambling far enough to grasp the branch. His feet dangled precariously in the air, pumping and whooshing as though treading through water. The muscles in his arms screamed from struggling to hold onto the branch. His chin dragged over the rough bark, scraping the skin. Just when he thought he would plunge into open air, he hoisted himself onto the branch.
His ribs hurt, his chin hurt, and he thought he might have pulled a muscle somewhere. He spit out a leaf that had fallen in his mouth.
The miserable cat sprawled over the length of the branch. One white paw hung limply while his tail flicked back and forth almost playfully. Two yellow eyes turned to slits as Rumpel slid closer. The bark under his legs did not mix with tight leather pants. If anyone witnessed the Dark One rescuing a cat from a tree, I'd never live it down.
He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his dragon-hide cloak—not only from anxiousness, but because the sun happened to shine its rays directly on this branch. It made the cat's black fur seem shiny and sleek. Just a couple inches closer…slide…ow…slide…ow…
How was he supposed to get the cat down from the tree without tumbling out himself? Cats were such arrogant, independent animals that would sooner bite you than bend to your will. He felt foolish calling it, but there was no safer option.
"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," he cooed, loathing every syllable that escaped from between his dark lips. If only Belle could see him now. He steadied himself on the branch, his thighs squeezing it, and he stretched out a hand to the furry feline. What did Mary-Ann say his name was? Oh, right. Mittens. How clever. "Hello there, Mittens. Come to Papa Rumpel—"
The minute his golden-grey fingers dared to touch the silky black cat's spine, a deadly transformation overtook the animal. A fearsome hiss, similar to steam after water has been poured on a raging fire, exploded from the cat's pink mouth. Those black ears flattened against its head, the fangs were bared, the white paws flashed miniature daggers, and every ounce of fur stood on end. Before Rumpel could retreat, the cat lashed out at his extended arm, latching onto it with a deathly grip. Those nails mercilessly dug into his skin, drawing blood instantly.
"Get off, get off, get off!" Rumpel howled, waving his arm madly in the air in hopes of flinging the cat away. It only made Mittens hold on tighter. Then he made the mistake of raising his arm above his head. The cat released his arm, dropping down onto Rumpel's face.
It was dark! There was nothing but warm black fur in front of his eyes! The smell of pine and sap invaded his nose, choking him with its sickly sweetness. And those claws! If the Ogre Wars had angry kittens on their side, the Ogres wouldn't know what hit them.
Rumpel temporarily forgot all about the fact that he was perched on a branch in a tree. Both of his arms flailed and flew to his face to pry the cat off. Its heart was beating against his cheek, racing faster than horse's hooves. His balance suddenly left him and his body swung sharply to the left, flying into open air.
The air drove out of his lungs as his back collided with the hard earth. For several seconds, all he could do was stare mindlessly up at the sky as the cat trotted over his chest. Here he thought stars only came out at night. There was a red one…and a yellow one…and a blue one…He whipped his arm to bat that one away.
The cat darted for the tree, but this time Mary-Ann snatched him up into her arms. Mittens growled disappointingly, but put up less of a fight than he did with Rumpel. Mary-Ann loomed over the fallen dealmaker with eyes full of sympathy. Rumpel's face burned as if someone took a torch to it. He didn't even want to think about checking out his reflection in a mirror.
"Sorry," the girl apologized quietly. She stroked Mittens' fur, who seemed to be torn between growling and purring. "He doesn't like strangers." Oh, really? Rumpel never would have guessed. She didn't think to mention it before? His lip felt swollen. He touched a finger to it and it came away bloody.
Rumpel rolled onto his side to get up. His throat convulsed and he hacked and heaved over the dry ground. Fur-ball. He gradually rose to his feet and dusted his clothes off. That is the last time I ever save a cat from a tree, he vowed. I don't care how many pleases there are!
"Sun," he sighed irritably. The girl's expression was perplexed. He pointed to the branch. "Your demon cat enjoys the sunlight. There's nothing but shade underneath this tree, warm as it may be. The sun was shining on that branch, so your kitten climbed up there to reach it." He shielded his eyes from the sun and studied Mary-Ann's cottage in the distance. Just as he suspected, there were no windows open. Did her father believe looters would steal all his fantastic shoes? "A tiny suggestion, if I may: try opening up the windows once in a while. Let Mittens lay on the sill. The sun might adjust his attitude as well."
The girl nodded fervently.
"Can I ask you a question?" He inclined his head skeptically, wondering what it was she wanted to inquire about. He wasn't exactly the symbol of honesty and camaraderie in this realm.
"Well, you can ask all you want, but I can't promise I'll answer," he replied swiftly. Not truthfully, anyway, he added in his head, where little Mary-Ann would never intrude. She bit the inside of her cheek and seemed to pay close attention to his hands and neck. What, she'd never seen a short green-gray-gold skinned man before?
"You should try putting rose petals in your bath," she suggested. "My mama used to do that with me when I was a baby. Maybe it'll help with your skin. Or you could always try flour." Rose petals? Flour?
His mouth fell open and he gawked at her as though she spawned three extra heads. Did this child just advise him about how to treat his skin? She thought….it was a disease? The sad part was, Mary-Ann had no clue how unsettled he was by her suggestion. The way she blinked and smiled cheerily told him she was convinced she was being helpful to him in her innocent way.
"I'll take your word for it," he muttered. There was no way he was going to stop on the side of the road and pick rose petals to put in his bath, nor was he going to pat flour over his body. What would Belle say if she caught him sprinkling petals into the tub? Was she even the type of woman who liked that sort of thing?
"Oh…okay. I was only trying to help." She lowered her head in shame. "Thank you, sir. Now, what do I need to do?" He tilted his head at her, blinking uncomprehendingly.
"Do?" He pronounced the word as if it belonged to an unfamiliar language. The girl shifted the cat in her arms. Mittens glared spitefully at Rumpel and he flitted back a step in case it had any ideas about lunging again. He was fairly certain half his nose was missing already from those claws.
"To pay you," she clarified. "Papa says you're dangerous because you never do anything for free."
That wasn't true! H just didn't anything for anyone else for free. Why, he breathed for free, didn't he? Granted, the only reason he was still breathing was because of the Dark One curse…Otherwise, his miserable bones would have been ground to dust by now with little green worms vacationing in his coffin.
Magic certainly wasn't free; a rule that nobody knew better than him. Just look at him now. Who would have ever believed that the Dark One turned out to be the most sensitive person in the Enchanted Forest? Literally?
Rumpel scrutinized Mary-Ann up and down. Her eyes turned down to the ground under his sharp gaze.
"You've managed to stop screeching," he remarked, waving his hands in her direction. This didn't seem to satisfy the girl. Good grief, he was dealing with a Good Samaritan. He prayed Regina never crossed paths with her. He rapped his knuckles on his forehead, contemplating. "Alright, alright. You mentioned you were reading a book, yes? Good. Hand it over."
He held out his hands for it, but the silly girl made no move to retrieve it. She stared at him as if he just broke out into song and dance. Obviously, she thought the petty price for rescuing her cat must be a trick.
"You want…my book?" Her voice shot up several notches in her confusion. Was there an echo out here? Rumpel rolled his eyes to the milky sky.
"Yes, yes, yes, your book," he snapped. He made a gesture of flipping through pages. "Just give me your book and we'll call it a deal. I have a…girl…uh, friend…who enjoys reading as well."
He mentally berated himself for that spill of information. Why was it any of Mary-Ann's business why he wanted the book? What was it about children that established a soft spot in his armor? It always came down to the memory of Bae.
Mary-Ann's lips stretched upwards at the mention of his girl…uh, friend…No, this wasn't right at all! Belle was only his caretaker, nothing more. Then, why didn't I say that in the first place? She's my maid. Maid, maid, maid. Get it together, you old imp. This was what happened when he didn't have his morning tea; his head grew fuzzy.
Mary-Ann tucked Mittens under one arm and removed a thin book from inside her cloak with the other. She offered it to him and his eyebrows rose at the gold-scripted title on the cover.
"The Odyssey?" This was a ten or so year old's choice of reading material? He gave Mary-Ann a suspicious once-over. There weren't even any pictures in this book! She shrugged and cradled a grumpy Mittens like an infant, rocking the black cat back and forth.
"I like stories about adventure. Plus, it belonged to my mama before she…" It was all Mary-Ann said before the words trailed off into the wind, her lip trembling. Rumpel threw his fists in the air.
"Not the tears! What do I have to do, sing you a lullaby? Don't answer that; it was sarcasm." The girl wiped her nose with her sleeve. For the first time, he got a good look at how vulnerable she was, standing before the Dark One. The trick to the heightened eyesight was the difference between seeing and truly seeing.
As for Mary-Ann, she was probably the bravest child he'd met since Morraine, Bae's little childhood sweetheart. Come to think of it, she sort of reminded him a little of Morraine. He knew Morraine had grown up after Bae's disappearance, been betrothed to one of the village boys, and popped out a handful of children before succumbing to a fatal disease. He would have gladly cured it, but her husband had been too thick-headed and stubborn to beg the Dark One when their family could barely make it through their last winter.
Rumpel wondered if Mary-Ann was one of Morraine's descendants.
A strange ache started in his chest. Sympathy? Pity? No, that was ridiculous. But…he wished he could tell little Mary-Ann to be brave like Belle and Morraine. He wished he could encourage her to venture off on her adventures or share a nugget of wisdom to brace her for the harsh world out there.
He might have…but Rumpelstiltskin was no longer a soft-spoken man of comfort, if he had ever truly been at all. He was not that type of man, so all he did was slip the book inside his vest where its flat weight rested over his heart and shooed Mary-Ann off.
"Run off, now. Skedaddle," he urged her onward, though he refused to physically touch her. He wasn't sure he could handle that kind of human contact twice in one morning. Mary-Ann bowed once more, thanked him politely for the umpteenth time, and made for her cottage with Mittens' plump rump showing from under her arm. "And don't even think of calling my name again! The last thing I need is your bragging rights in front of your little friends about how I saved your kitty! I have a reputation to uphold!"
He didn't know if she heard him or would ever heed his words. He watched her race off to her tiny cottage where her papa was most likely kissing the floor in respect of whichever gods bestowed him with a pile of well-crafted shoes. Rumpel probably put some elves out of a job.
Part of him craved to stick around to observe her papa's reaction to her tall tale. Most people would not be pleased if their child came home announcing 'Rumpelstiltskin saved my kitty.' No doubt her father would have a panic attack thinking the cruel, loathsome Dark One tricked his sweet daughter into becoming his bride when she flowered into womanhood. But, alas, it was not meant to be. There was a cup of Belle's special tea calling his name.
With a jarring snap of his fingers, he disappeared with a puff of purple smoke. He wondered if anyone else lapsed into a coughing fit whenever he popped in and out magically.
….
The table in the dining hall was set for breakfast when Rumpel popped into his castle.
As he emerged from the violet flume of fog, he stumbled into the table, nearly knocking the bowls and goblets over and sending an intense pain shooting up what used to be his bad leg. He was greeted with an army of scents: butter, bacon, eggs, tarts, the lavender of Belle's skirts, the sweet aroma of the roses on the table, the muskiness of the castle's interior. He smelled home.
It was short-lived when he started coughing and wheezing from the smoke. It seeped into his lungs and pricked his eyelids with water. Next time, he would resort to flying over the Enchanted Forest with an umbrella. Maybe he would borrow the one the talking cricket always carried around.
"Are you alright?"
Someone—Belle, for who else would it be?—rubbed his back to soothe away the spasms of his coughing. The movement of her fingers on his spine felt nothing short of blissful. He turned his head and his lips very nearly brushed hers, she was so close. He sputtered once more, this time out of nervousness and wriggled away from her sensual touch.
"Never been better. It's not like I haven't transported magically before. Perhaps this place is getting a bit too dusty," he retorted, harsher than he meant.
Belle slowly pulled back, stunned as she was by the barb. Even he realized it had been a bit unfair given the way she strived to please him with hard work day in and out, but his conflicting desires stopped him from crossing the distance between their bodies.
Of course, there was one thing he was sure would bring a smile to her face. Part of him longed to witness her joy. Dipping his hand into his vest, he revealed the book. He wouldn't be surprised if he had a square outline fused on his skin from the way it pressed into his chest.
"Uh…I…This should preoccupy you for the afternoon," he said, holding out the book. Belle's cornflower blue eyes glimmered at the sight of the book and she reached out to accept it. It was a treasure more valuable than gold in her world.
For a brief instant, as her hands slipped under the book to lift it up, her fingers lightly caressed his, making his nerves tingle. Even more startling, she didn't recoil from him, but kept her hands there a moment longer than any rightful-minded person would. In fact, he thought he felt one of her nails trace his finger teasingly.
The book bumped his chest. Was she…getting closer? Not moving away? It frightened him to hear his heart pounding in his ears and to have to fight the urge to drift closer to Belle. Fear was also what stopped him from doing that, the fear that he would make a move toward her and logic would return to her, forcing her to recoil.
So, he recoiled enough for both of them before she could. He whipped his hands away so fast that the book tumbled out of Belle's hands and smacked on the ground.
"I'll get it," she reassured him a split second before she knelt to pick up the book. Oh, my.
It was the longest second of Rumpelstiltskin's life. As Belle bent at his feet, the soft flesh of her breasts spilled over the top of her bodice. Those milky mounds rose and fell with each breath in his ear. He leaned on the table before he grew weak at the knees, his black nails grinding into the wood until there were deep scratches in the surface and flecks of it under his nails. The sting of slivers held no contest against the heat pooling between his legs. His most precious organ throbbed against the tight leather restriction of his pants, demanding release.
Oh…my…gods…
Time returned to normal as Belle straightened with the book tucked to her chest. He envied that book, instead imagining a darkened room and a massive bed dressed with silk, and Belle's delicate arms squeezing his torso…
What was wrong with him? Maybe the potion affected more than his five basic senses. Maybe it had a hold on his sanity, his lust, his weakness to womanly wiles.
"Let me guess: you fought tooth and nail for the last book in the market?" What was she going on about? She was scrutinizing his face, her eyes scrolling from his forehead to his nose to his chin and back up again. It was a moment later that he realized she wasn't searching for a particular reaction, but inquiring with subtlety about the scratches on his face.
"You're admiring my complexion?" With a flick of his wrist, a wave of relief washed over his face like the splash of cool water as the lacerations healed. Curse Mittens, the arrogant cat with the attitude problem. Should he tell Belle the truth about the origin of the scratches? He debated telling her he fell face-first in a rosebush, but his tongue apparently had a mind of its own. "It seems cats are not very fond of me. I rescued one from a tree and it tried making mincemeat out of me."
"You rescued a cat from a tree?"
He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable laughter. It would come, he just knew it. The mocking laughter of hearing how the Dark One scaled a tree to save a kitten. If she weren't resigned to stay in his castle, she would tell everyone in the nearest village. He waited for the jeering, the poking of fun at his expense, the condescending tsk-tsk-tsk…
Instead, he felt Belle's hand land on his cheek. His eyes snapped open only to be taken aback by the brilliance of her smile. He couldn't think straight with her fingers cupping his cheek that way, almost in the manner of a lover.
"I think you should be proud to bear those marks. It's a sign that there might be some good in you somewhere," she murmured. Words eluded him, baffled as he was by her unexpected praise. Belle was the one to remove her hand from his face. "Would you care to have breakfast here in the dining hall? Or should I carry it up to your room again?"
Rumpel searched Belle's face for some sign of contempt, but only discovered earnest concern. He eyed his favorite chair longingly. The gloominess of his bedchambers wasn't very appealing and he didn't trust his self-control enough to let Belle anywhere near his bedroom door, at least while there was throbbing down there. Ooh, he could barely walk.
"I'd prefer to have my meal…here," he decided and turned his back to her, heading for his chair. The sooner he was sitting, the better. Gods, did Belle even notice that he…that his pants…there must be a bulge…It was torturous work to pretend nothing was going on in his lower regions while walking the length of the table.
"Are you sore?" The question made him halt in his tracks. Was his hearing off? He whirled around and thanked the gods she wasn't looking anywhere below his face.
"Excuse me?" His voice came out shrill in his astonishment. She blinked as innocently as Mary-Ann had when the girl mentioned the rose petals.
"Are you sore? You seem to be in pain when you walk," she noted. Please don't ask to relieve it, please don't ask to relieve it, he pleaded silently, while the throbbing only picked up pace. "If you're still recovering—" He breathed out a sigh. She thought he was still ill.
"No, I'm fine. Just…pulled a muscle climbing the tree," he said, rolling his shoulders. As a matter of fact, there were several knots in his shoulders, but he refused to ask Belle to rub them out. The stimuli would make his brain explode. He shied away from those Really Good Sensations.
"Perhaps you should run a warm bath after your breakfast. The warm water will help with the ache," she advised. Somehow, he severely doubted it.
…..
If ever he had to have one last meal in this world, he secretly hoped Belle was the one cooking it. Unlikely, but not impossible.
Most of the princesses in this realm were so self-absorbed and clueless that they would they would set their own backsides on fire in the kitchens, but Belle was a talented cook. Knowing her, she probably devoured every book and written text that involved ancient ways of preparing meals before trying it herself firsthand.
His tongue didn't know how to handle all the mouth-watering flavors. It was like sucking a lemon and having your lips pucker, but instead of being too sour, the food was almost too delicious on his palate. The roof of his mouth was coated in pleasurable tastes, his tongue writhing over his gums and still unable to lick up every last drop of goodness.
The sensitivity made the food nearly too enjoyable to the point of being a challenge to swallow it. Oh, but it was so delicious. It was an edible orgasm.
The bacon's grease lined the inside of his cheeks, lingering long after it traveled to his stomach. The eggs made him swoon in his chair and the tea…if he weren't sitting, he'd end up on the floor like poor old Chip.
"You seem to be enjoying your breakfast. You're moaning," Belle said from the opposite end of the table. His tongue ran eagerly over his lips, lapping every last bit of flavor in the corners. That was when his ears picked up the sound of his moans rising from his throat, moans derived purely from pleasure.
"Oh, I am," he sighed delightfully, rubbing his stomach. "How is the book?"
Belle's blue eyes rose over the top of her new book. She had asked his permission to read it during breakfast so as not to seem rude, to which he generously ushered her nose into its pages. If anything, it would keep her mind busy and her focus from roaming to him, as it often did. Belle readily smiled.
"It's excellent so far," she exclaimed, turning another page before taking a small bite of her food. If ever her eyes fell upon a man the way they did a book, that man would be very happy. "I always wanted to have an adventure of my own."
A twinge of guilt swept through Rumpel, dampening his mood when he remembered the reason Belle would likely never have that sort of adventure. Even when they were pursuing Robin Hood through the Enchanted Forest, she had enjoyed the scenery from their carriage.
Rumpel dipped his head forward, returning to his breakfast in sullen silence. He wiggled around in his seat. It seemed the sensitivity wouldn't let him get comfortable, especially when his rump started getting pins and needles from sitting in one position too long. It also didn't help that his leather pants had a nasty habit of riding up in all the wrong places.
He started in on the warm broth Belle made, but the constant clink of his utensils and necessary slurping unnerved him. It was a strenuous battle—his taste-buds greedily desired the broth, but the scraping of his spoon on the bottom of the bowl hindered his efforts.
"Do you still have a headache?" Belle carefully placed the book down on the table, caressing it like a slab of gold. He squirmed under her unwavering gaze. "You wince every time your spoon scrapes the bowl."
Was Belle that observant? He never appreciated it before. What else did she notice about him?
"I suppose you can say that," he mumbled, kneading his knuckles over his forehead.
Belle took up her own spoon and he tensed automatically. Was she planning to torture him cruelly? Bring him to his knees? Prove that the Dark One was not as powerful as people believed? She wouldn't, he scoffed bitterly. Would she? He had his doubts, but he knew from his own experience that people with power often sought to use that power.
A moment later, Belle put the spoon back down and wrapped her hands around her own bowl of broth.
"Why not try eating it this way?"
As he watched, she lifted the bowl to her lips and drank deeply from the rim. There was no sound of slurping, though he admired the way her swan-like throat rippled and convulsed as the broth ran its course. She put the bowl down, gently wiped her chin, and eyed him expectantly.
After a moment's hesitation, he mirrored her demonstration by taking his bowl into his hands. The broth sloshed over the edge and dripped on the table, but soon it was tunneling its way down his throat, a thick hot river that warmed his belly. This method of eating went easy on his ears.
For the first time, he wasn't suffering under the reign of his senses. The only think worth concentrating on was the flavor bursting in his mouth and the delicious smell of it in his nose. The bowl was empty too soon, the last few rivulets of liquid spilling down his chin. He settled back in his chair and reveled in the fullness of his belly.
"Thank you…Belle," he whispered. He knew she heard from the way her head tilted in acknowledgment before she returned to the riveting tale of adventure and heroism that was The Odyssey. Little did she realize he meant the words more than he could ever say.
…..
It was nearly every woman's innermost dream: to be swept off her feet by a valiant, handsome Prince Charming and be whisked away to happy ever after. They often fooled themselves into thinking there would come a day when they would ride off into the sunset astride a noble steed without a care in the world with their hero holding the reigns.
Perhaps they would do their daily chores at the well, sing a little tune to a couple of birds in their loneliness, and Prince Charming would appear, mesmerized as he was by the maiden's singing voice. Perhaps they would open their window one bright spring morning, air out their evil stepmother's laundry, and accidentally fall over the windowsill only to be caught from certain misery by Prince Charming.
Rumpelstiltskin had heard that particular detail pop up countless times in word-of-mouth fantastical stories in the villages. Even some of the books Belle found in his library dealt with the heroic act of rescuing a fair maiden just as she's at her most frightened, spiraling down in a flurry of skirts. How often in this world did girls fly off towers?
It was supposed to be charming, hence the name. Rumpelstiltskin saw it as a bad case of showing off.
For one thing, those stories never revealed the gritty truth of the price for catching the girl in midair. It was nothing but dazzling smiles, gratifying kisses on the cheek, and modesty in the form of something like 'as you wish, m'lady.' After that, the prince and maiden were supposed to get hitched, discover true love together, and live happily ever after.
Ah, the logic of fairytales. The truth wasn't so magnificent to behold.
Catching a maiden that was falling through the air was no easy feat. In fact, Rumpel would gladly call any of the countless Prince Charmings liars if they even implied that it could be done in their sleep.
On the contrary, saving a girl that way would put any man in a world of hurt. It wasn't like catching a pillow or a piece of clothing—this was a living, breathing, vastly accelerating human girl. If anything, the girl would use Prince Charming as a cushion to break her fall. That tremendous, sudden weight crashing into your arms would nearly break your limbs off and make every known or unknown muscle in your body scream. And not in the good way, either.
Rumpelstiltskin knew. He learned it the hard way that very day.
After the strange scene between him and Belle in the library the day before, he planned to lie low. He wasn't going to retreat to his bedroom, especially since he missed spinning, but he would keep to the dining hall-slash-trophy room. It wasn't Belle's day to dust that room, which meant he should have been free to spin in peace without alarming the sensitivity any more than necessary.
He should have…until Belle decided differently.
After an hour of steady work, he had gradually adjusted to the rickety creaks of the spinning wheel. It was almost melodic. The rough spindles of straw slipped through his fingers, transforming into gleaming gold. His palm caressed the smooth wood of the wheel as it circled. Its power over him increased with time, his admiration for the task growing with every ounce of straw.
Creeeeaak. The wheel stopped. That sound hadn't come from his wheel. He prodded it anyway with a finger, just to make sure it wasn't seconds away from toppling over him and crushing him. It didn't appear ready to fall apart, but the thing was going on 100 years old. He couldn't bear to part with it. Screeeeeech.
He clenched his teeth together and slapped his hands over his ears. Nope, that definitely wasn't his wheel. Oh, the torture of such a grating noise on his eardrums! He was sure that the wet, warm sensation on his fingers was blood from his swollen ears.
Prying open his eyelids, he noticed that Belle had edged open the dining room's door—the mystery creak he heard earlier. The terrible screech came from the tall ladder she was dragging behind her through the door. What in seven hells did she think she was doing?
Screeeeeeech. The ladder dragged across the ground as she made her way into the room. His hands offered little protection. He blinked and suddenly he was on his side on the floor. He must have tumbled over. Low heee noises escaped his lips while his body rocked side to side. One thousand paper cuts were nothing compared to the liquid fire that used to be his brain.
"I'm so sorry," that honey voice fought for his attention, the red haze of agony dissipating temporarily. "It was a terrible sound. I was dragging the ladder in here and I didn't want to disturb you—"
Too late for that. It was the reason he was so eager to spin today, to escape her. No one else disturbed his thoughts as much as she did with a single blink in his direction. For the past few days or so, maybe longer if he cared to admit it, Belle had been the only thing constantly on his mind.
Now her hand was lifting his arm in an attempt to help him to his feet. It burned where she touched him while also giving him a wave of ice-cold relief, as if she were the water his parched throat craved in a desert. He roughly jerked away from her touch and stumbled to his feet before she could affect him more than she had already.
"It's fine. Just…carry on with whatever you're doing, but for the sake of the gods, do it quietly!"
Without awaiting her answer, he returned to his wheel and used the creaking of the wheel to block her presence out. He closed his eyes and concentrated solely on the thrumming of straw through his fingers, trying to separate it from all other sounds in his castle.
Thump!
His eyes shot open as Belle leaned the ladder against the wall. Then she steadily began to climb. Every rung groaned under her unfamiliar weight. She climbed almost to the top until she reached the highest point of the drapes shielding the windows.
As soon as she stopped moving, Rumpel became uninterested in whatever she was doing way up there. At least the swish of the curtains wasn't so disruptive. But in a few moments of determined tugging, the curtains grew still again.
"Why do you spin so much?"
The question caught him off-guard, abrupt as it was. It was brimming with child-like wonder. He offered her a sideways glance over his shoulder. What did he tell her about going about her business quietly? Now her curiosity was running amok. She must have sensed that he was reluctant to answer.
"Sorry. It's just…you spin more gold than you can ever spend."
His lips quirked the tiniest bit. That sounded like a challenge. He could always waste the gold on another castle…or a lifetime supply of alcohol to quell the loneliness and misery that was the Dark One curse. There were carriages, leather attire, renovating one of his rooms into one full of mirrors…Though, with all that ale, he'd likely have a blackout and create some sort of new fashion where one could wear clever sayings like 'like what you see, dearie?' and 'you want this' on one's rear end.
He laid a hand on the top of the wheel. He could feel Belle's eyes boring into his back, waiting. He had to give her something or else her curiosity would never wane.
"I like to watch the wheel turn. Helps me forget," he murmured, mostly to himself.
"Forget what?" He should have anticipated that follow-up question.
He willed the invading memories away. Memories of Bae as a boy playing with the ball his papa so tediously made from scratch, of Milah placing his newborn boy in his arms and his whispered oath of protection, of crude black stitches and lightning blue eyes embedded in the palms of a young girl, and that fateful night on the battlefield when he had truly been deemed a coward. His nostrils flared in seething anger, the old sting stabbing his heart, but he refused to let Belle witness his weakness.
"Guess it worked," he quipped dryly, followed by his trade high-pitched giggle. Ugh, that was unpleasant to endure. The shrillness, the unnatural pitch, the creepy way it reverberated off the walls…Was this how his customers felt whenever he giggled that way? So long as this sensitivity lasted, he would never giggle like that again.
Something even more shocking happened two seconds later: Belle laughed.
Her laugh spiraled down his spine in a good way. It was soft, subtle, yet silvery. The sound of it erased any idea of spinning from his mind, his back stiff as he perched on his stool. No one had laughed with him in a long, long, long time.
Belle had gone back to the drapes, but Rumpel could not stop watching her. Before he knew it, his legs took over and rose from the stool, drifting to the ladder. He tilted his head up at her, but she was too busy insistently tugging the drapes to notice. Did she not like those drapes? If she only asked, he would wave his hand and have a whole curtain fashion show for her. The fabric rustled with a swish, swish, swish.
"What are you doing?" Now he was the curious one.
He dared to drift a little closer. From the right angle, he ended up seeing more of Belle than ever before, even though she did not realize it. Warmth crawled up the back of his neck and his eyes dropped to the floor. He wondered which was worse: the view of Belle way up high or Belle on her knees in front of him.
"Opening these," she replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Perhaps he didn't consider it because he'd lived so long in the darkness. "It's almost spring. We should let some light in." Swish, swish, swish…
As Belle shook the curtain, a cloud of dust swirled around his face, threatening to make him sneeze again. He squeezed the bridge of his nose tightly. He wasn't ready to relive that awful experience. His brain had rattled around enough for one century; any more rattling and he might go permanently insane.
Belle gave a frustrated sigh and looked down upon him.
"What did you do? Nail them down?"
"Yeah," he answered immediately. It was a good thing, too, otherwise he would have had to adjust to the rays of sunlight every morning. Yet Belle would not relent. He fidgeted in his spot, waiting to see whether the curtains would hold.
Swish, swish, swi—
Without warning, the drapes ripped free of the wall, taking Belle with them. Almost in slow motion, her body leaned too far over the edge of the ladder, her small feet lifting off the step, her hand opening wide to release the cloth as her arms flailed for nonexistent support. He saw her falling forward, stretched out his arms to catch her, and—
Holy flaming fairies!
He cursed inside his head as his arms accommodated Belle's weight. The impact of her body jarred his limbs and made him stumble. He was pretty sure his stomach just fell in an avalanche to his boots. He bit down forcibly on the inside of his cheek to keep from showing just how uncomfortable stopping that fall had been.
Heroes made it look so easy.
That wasn't even the worst part. An extraordinary amount of sunlight streamed through the curtain-free windows, taking him by surprise. He couldn't even see anything! In exchange for seeing everything with his heightened eyesight, now he was blind like an old beggar on the streets.
There was only white, a thick wall of white as though he had dunked his head in a tub of cow's milk with his eyes open. Then, from that unbearable whiteness came two beautiful shining blue gems, followed by a mane of flowing auburn hair. Creamy skin with a hint of rose, petal-soft lips slightly parted in awe, a gentle hand around his neck. Blinking dazedly, he looked down to where Belle should be, still in his arms. It was the equivalent of an angel floating from the heavens above.
The whiteness dimmed and suddenly there was Belle in full form, the bodice of her sky blue dress rising with shaky breaths. Belle, in his arms. She was smiling and the adoration reflected in her eyes almost made him check over his shoulder to see if a royal Prince Charming snuck into his castle. She was so real and quite heavy in his arms, yet he bore her weight gladly.
Gods, this was the closest he'd been to a woman since…ever. It scared him a little and excited him at the same time.
"Thank you," she whispered breathily. His heart hammered in his chest, so much that he was convinced she could hear it even without any heightened senses. Blood drummed in his ears, his breath hitched in his throat to stall any bumbling words he might have said, and the muscles in his arms protested against bearing Belle's weight any longer. Oh, her hair smelled so good when it was this close to his face and her skin was so glorious in the sunlight.
Before he dropped her on the ground—not very chivalrous—he carefully set her down on her feet. She brushed off her skirts, which he now knew to be silky and light to the touch. A fabric easily donned and shed. She was still smiling at him as she would a handsome prince. It made him self-conscious and nervous and he prayed she didn't notice his blush. He pulled at the collar of his silk shirt; was it just him or was it too warm in this castle all of a sudden?
"I'll put the curtains back up," she promised, bending to scoop them up. He averted his eyes.
"There's really no need. I'll get used to it," he replied, much to both of their astonishment. After all, his eyes were still twitching from the sunlight. Maybe he just wanted Belle to stop bending so voluptuously. Maybe he enjoyed the way the sunlight made Belle's skin glow. Or maybe he really was going mad.
Either way, he left her staring after him in perplexity. He had no idea what this odd sensation was that was overtaking him slowly but surely. It definitely earned a spot in the Really Good Sensation category, but this went far beyond simple fondness. It made his knees weak, it made his belly all fluttery and twisty, it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end—hairs that he didn't even know existed until then.
Whatever that had been, it shook him to the bone. There must be an easier way of dealing with the agonizing stimuli that was Belle. There had to be a way to numb this sensitivity, escape it, forget it for one measly night. Some substance, some concoction, some…
Then the idea hit him much harder than Belle crashing into his arms. It was stupid, it was risky…It was far too tempting to resist. Surely, the sensitivity would be no match for this world's magical ingredient of guaranteed numbness in a bottle.
He had to get drunk.
…..
Shout-outs are in order. For such great reviews in my inbox, I'd like to thank Huntress4455, zenobia2, ZombiesloveMangoes, Revenessa, Newland Archer, CloverKitten06, Claire, Grace5231973, cheesyteal'c, DragonRose4, SakuraBlossom58, and SwanQueen4055. Some of you gave me interesting suggestions for the story, too, which I appreciate. Thank you, everyone, for reading.