Chapter four, at last! Happy New Year, all. So, I said in chapter one that this fic would be about five chapters long. Hahahaha, no it's not. Will definitely be longer. No more than eight, I should think. (Let's see how long that lasts.) Thank you for all the reviews, follows and faves! I really did not expect this story to be popular.
A rumble broke through Belle's sleep. For a second she wondered if it was an earthquake. The thought wasn't enough to stir her. Her mind remained in a haze until another rumble bounded through the sky like a legion of horses. That wasn't the sound of an earthquake. Belle pried her eyes open.
The dungeon wasn't as bright as the other had been yesterday. Sunlight didn't dance across the stones or cast shadows in the corners. Clouds hid the sun, and only an incidental lightning flash brightened the room. Belle groaned at the grim weather and nuzzled into her arm. She pulled at the warmth covering her shoulder and brought it higher up. The floor was still terribly cold, but the blanket helped stave off the chill a little.
Her eyes flew open. Belle sat up. She ignored her stretching, aching muscles and looked down at the dark blue blanket covering her. Where did this come from?
No answer came, but the squeaky creak of wood did. Belle knew that noise. Slowly she peered up.
Rumplestiltskin sat in the middle of the cell, his back to her, hands working the wheel and a mountain of gold already flanking him. Around him straw stacks taller than him circled like the wall of a citadel. The scene, familiar yet still bizarre, woke up Belle entirely.
After noticing the blanket, the imp and the straw, Belle also realized that the sorcerer wasn't wearing his dragonhide coat. Even in the gray light of a stormy day, his gold silk shirt simmered. The burgundy vest, richly brocaded, provided a more somber accent to his otherwise flamboyant wardrobe. When he leaned forward to adjust the feed of the straw and twine through the spindle, something else caught her eye. Two braces peeked into view when his vest rode up. They started from the back of his leather trousers and traveled up underneath the vest. They kept the garment from falling down. Good heavens, was the man incapable of wearing trousers that properly fit him?
What a temptation to say that outright. Instead Belle asked, "No coat today?"
Rumplestiltskin glanced out the side of his eye. "Didn't I say dragonhide is difficult to move in?"
"I guess you did." Belle hugged the blanket around her. It gave off a comforting scent she couldn't place. The fabric was woven from soft wool. Not exactly the sort of thing a king obsessed with wealth would have in his castle, nor did it appear to be the sort of thing provided to prisoners. No holes or ratty edges anywhere. Belle still couldn't identify what these odors were. Still, sniffing it evoked memories of picnics in the woods on summer evenings, fresh air and hands smudged with plucked grass.
The sudden pattering of rain disrupted her recollection. Wrapping the blanket around her for warmth and modesty, Belle joined Rumplestiltskin's side but kept her eye on the window. It was too narrow and indented in the wall for the rain to get in—how nice that Dathomir would at least not let her drown.
"A bit chillier today," noted the wizard.
Unable to resist any longer, Belle chuckled. He hadn't meant to amuse her, she knew, but that didn't mean she didn't grasp the humor of the situation. "You don't need to tell me," she said with a smile. She turned to meet his eye. He giggled and looked her way, his gaze flitting up and down quickly. Rumplestiltskin didn't look at all surprised that she had a blanket. Belle had an idea what that meant; she said nothing, not even to herself. Her attention quickly moved to the second stool Rumplestiltskin had positioned to his right. She sent a questioning look.
"Since you seem to enjoy keeping me company," he explained, infusing his words with mocking incredulity that Belle suspected masked real confusion, "I thought I might as well save your delicate rump some pain."
Belle's heart lifted like the rising sun, and a heat like what she experienced last night rekindled. The infamous Rumplestiltskin welcomed her company and had taken her comfort into consideration. Well, no use questioning it for now. Belle showered her companion with another smile and settled down on the stool.
The imp flinched, then cleared his throat. "Oh. Actually, I thought you were going to take it over there. By the gold. So you could . . ."
His quips and airs suddenly left him. How could he appear confident and cunning one minute, then stumble over his words like a nervous schoolboy the next? And why did Belle feel compelled to spare him embarrassment? Maybe she liked those little moments of vulnerability, and she didn't want him to cover them up by her taking advantage. Even if he liked unnerving her, she wouldn't return the favor unless it was justified.
She furrowed her brow in feigned apology. "Sorry. I didn't realize wrapping gold was such an important task."
"Oh, it is," said Rumplestiltskin with a dramatic nod. "Helps me keep track of how much gold I spin . . . and it keeps you busy so you don't distract me."
"Really? I distract you?"
"Yes, with your . . . chatting." He wiggled a finger at her on the last word, and his nose twitched like a rabbit's.
Belle gave a miffed huff. "Well, I am sorry you find my conversation so disagreeable—"
"I didn't say that."
She let the annoyed façade fall away. "No?"
"I simply said it was distracting." He motioned with his eyes to the gold pile. "Now, if you please . . ."
Belle's playful grin returned, though she dialed it back to avoid racketing up Rumplestiltskin's nerves. She picked up the stool and made a show of walking around the magic spinner toward the gold. A few moments were spared to examine the tumbleweed of threads. Belle was pleased to catch Rumplestiltskin watching her in bemused exasperation. Yet he didn't lose his temper over this. When had this turned into a game, Belle wondered. Nor could she say she didn't enjoy it a little after all the teasing she'd endured. She was determined to score a few points.
A pause in the wheel's motion warned Belle that her companion's patience was waning. "Does it pass inspection?"
"Hmm . . . I think so." Belle waited a few seconds, then set the stool down on Rumplestiltskin's direct left. She left enough room so he could continue to spin without physical interference, but he would not be able to dismiss her at this proximity. And she could still reach and roll up the gold.
He'd been right, she admitted with a small smile as both their hands set to work while they communed in comfortable silence. For all his teasing and deal-making, Belle enjoyed Rumplestiltskin's presence. Isolation, while not always loathsome, left a cold sensation in her bones under these circumstances. She had no family and probably few friends left on the outside, making her solitary state that much more permanent. Rumplestiltskin was not her friend, of course, but she could imagine worse company. He kept her mind alert and quick. Being the enigma he was, he provided something other than her own captivity to occupy her thoughts. As the quiet minutes passed, she let her gaze shift between the gold and its creator. The strands glittered as beautifully as ever, but Rumplestiltskin's features captured her interest with greater force. He must have been a man of sorts, regardless what his skin and magic powers indicated. His behavior did not deviate much from most men; no oddly animalistic noises slipped into his speech—just the infantile giggles. Maybe that was it; Rumplestiltskin was more of an overgrown child than a man. Maybe that was all that separated him from other people.
She couldn't be sure. The creases in his scale-encrusted face deepened, lending him a much older attitude while he stared undisturbed at his wheel. He must have been buried in thought. Reliving years of deals and . . . and what? She knew nothing else about him or his life. Not a shocking fact, considering how long they'd known each other. But Belle felt inexplicably ashamed that she hadn't yet asked. If this arrangement was going to be prolonged by Dathomir's greed, she might as well try to glimpse into this strange man's world. It would help her understand his motives and predict what he might do or say. She needed to feel at ease with someone who intended on continuing his services as her stand-in spinner and share such close quarters with her nearly every day.
After she had finished rolling up the first long strand of gold and exchanged it for a new one, she spoke without turning toward Rumplestiltskin. "May I ask where you're from?"
The imp's head flicked toward her, the wavy tresses bouncing against his face and hiding his eyes. "Why do you need to know?"
"I don't need to know," she rejoined. "I'd just like to."
He knit his brows. "Why?" He rotated a little more. A smirked flickered across his lips. "Planning to ask the king to invade my home? Or do you fancy paying me a visit when this is over?"
"Certainly not the first one." Belle pointed a scowl at him for the unnecessary jest. Then she softened her brow and shrugged. "Is it wrong I want to know a little more about you?"
"Most people might think so."
"You mean no one's ever asked?"
Dark eyes shrunk to slits. "The people I do deals with are not interested in me personally. They're interested in what I can do for them."
Belle risked leaning an inch toward him, also squinting, but with nowhere near as much menace. "Or maybe they're just too afraid to ask. You do like to be intimidating."
Rumplestiltskin paused his spinning long enough to scoff. "What? Me? Perish the thought."
It was no use fighting the urge to giggle. So giggle Belle did, earning a prolonged look from the sorcerer. His lingering grin was pleasant, though it grew uncertain the longer it remained. Belle returned his stare, still smiling, and kept it up even after he withdrew back to the wheel.
When it seemed as though he would continue to refrain from answering, Belle tried another question. "Do you have any family? At home or elsewhere?"
The wheel paused again. No playful quips flew her way. Rumplestiltskin stilled like a statue, frozen in a pensive, gloom pose with his eyes turned downward and mouth sealed shut with words he dared not speak. She'd touched on a sensitive topic, and Belle instantly regretted it.
"I-I'm sorry. Forget I asked. I just . . . there's a chance you will be the last person I'll ever spend time with for the rest of my life. Dathomir has made no promise to release me. So . . . if I'm to know no one else, can't I get to know you?"
Another wordless moment passed. Rumplestiltskin finally acknowledged her with his gaze. "Maybe . . . maybe you want to find out the monster's weaknesses. Huh?"
His tone, while comical, cut her to the quick. Not because Belle believed he thought she was scoping out his weaknesses, but because of his word choice. Monster. Rumplestiltskin was many things; Belle could've sat there all day composing a list of appropriate adjectives and appositives as long as both her arms. 'Monster' would not have shown up on that list. She admitted there was something a dash beastly, but not in the truly ugly sense. He was obviously not an ordinary man, and he used his powers to questionable ends. But would a monster have forgone asking for a valuable favor when he could've extracted one, and instead take her dress as payment? Would a monster have brought an extra stool so she would not have to sit on the floor all the time? She did not doubt there was something dark, dangerous, and maybe even evil about him. Could he be all bad, though, when his awkward moments and ridiculous quips brought her laughter after she had lost so much?
"I don't think you're a monster," she said, not waiting to turn the words over in her mind first.
Rumplestiltskin's eyes widened for a fleeting moment. "What you think and what is true may not be the same thing."
Nipping her lip, Belle did not try to retort. She didn't have much to offer to the contrary. Well, there were a few things, but their time together had been too short to convince him that what years and years had already impressed upon him might not be so.
She suddenly had new question. "Could you at least tell me how old you are?"
The imp squinted an eye. "Somewhere in the three hundreds would be my guess. I've sort of lost track."
Belle dropped her jaw. "Wow. You . . . you look good for your age."
He chortled. "I don't age, dearie." Out of nowhere his forefinger tapped her on the nose. "But I appreciate the compliment."
Her face heated up with embarrassment, and from the playful gesture.
Their previous silence resumed for a while. Thunder intensified as morning wore into afternoon. Now and then rain sprinkled in through the window, to which Rumplestiltskin responded by conjuring up an invisible shield over the window. Just as before, the guard came with Belle's meal, never laying eyes on the peculiar man in her company. Rumplestiltskin's vanishing was all the warning she received beforehand. It gave her barely the adequate time to control her nerves and behave normally when the helmeted figure glanced through the window in the door. And, of course, Rumplestiltskin did not reappear in the same place as he disappeared. He couldn't, actually, since Belle took his spot at the wheel and pretended to be taking a breather from her labors. She got up after the guard left to fetch the tray. When she turned back around, Rumplestiltskin still hadn't reappeared. "He's gone," she assured him, foolish as it was to say. He was staying out of sight on purpose. Sighing and shaking her head, she returned to her original seat and, while managing to hold up the blanket around her shoulders, set the tray on her lap and slurped down her soup. It tasted as awful as usual, and not at all substantial, but her stomach growled in appreciation.
Her nose wasn't nearly as appreciative when Rumplestiltskin announced, "You wind these very nicely!" into her left ear, and she snorted the last gulp of soup up the back of her throat. Belle dropped the bowl, coughing and gasping. Her sinuses and windpipe burned. A half-restrained giggle sounded next to her.
"Don't . . . do that!" she cried between hearty coughs.
"Sorry," said Rumplestiltskin, not sounding sorry at all. Yet Belle felt his hand on her back. It rubbed up and down her spine, and then in circles to soothe her heaving torso. The blanket shifted under his caress, making her worry for half a moment. There was nothing to fear; he pulled away as soon as she started breathing normally and returned to his stool.
For that he didn't deserve any share of her bread. That's what Belle wanted to say—to use it as a punishment. Considering that he turned down her offer yesterday, however, it would not have been much of a reprisal. She permitted some time to go by before deciding that it was silly to hold a grudge. The bread crumbled as she broke it in two. She held up one half to Rumplestiltskin's eye. "Hungry today?"
The imp turned to the food. Just like before, he gave a horrified grimace. "Not anymore."
"I told you, it's not that bad! Not even a nibble?"
"Are you trying to poison me?"
Belle rolled her eyes and took a bite out of her half. She struggled not to wince. The texture felt gritty and dry, and the flavor was that of brickdust (even though Belle had never sampled brickdust even as a curious child). The pungent tang was the only notable trait. The bread was otherwise bland.
Observing her strained reaction, Rumplestiltskin's own expression became more pained. "You eat that every day?"
"I don't have much choice, do I?" Belle swallowed down the lump. It threatened to solidify into rock if she didn't get it down to her stomach fast enough.
"Well . . ." Rumplestiltskin craned his head, eyes alight with resurging mischief. "We could always make another deal."
"No."
"It'll save your stomach a world of pain—"
"No. I'm fine."
Her insides gurgled in an unusual way. Belle blushed but held her resolve in the face of the imp's I-told-you-so look. "They wouldn't poison me yet. The king wants the gold, after all. How does the saying go? 'Don't kill the golden goose'?"
"Sure, as long as the golden eggs keep coming."
Lightning cast a white glare into the dungeon. Since Rumplestiltskin was closer to the window, his face fell into shadow while the space around them brightened. Thunder followed, cracking the sky apart. Belle shivered inside the blanket, though it still insulated her body heat.
"Right. So, what does that mean for tomorrow? You agreed to spin for today if I gave you my dress. What about later?"
The notion of offering herself again like she had last night—sort of—crossed her mind. She brushed it aside. Desperation didn't have quite as strong a hold on her as before, even if her situation hadn't really improved. But the thought that last night had been an act of clemency niggled in the depths of Belle's brain. Dangerous thought, as was any other that wanted to believe Rumplestiltskin was showing her charity. He might not have been a monster, but he was a self-interested, cunning man by all accounts. The way he had presented himself that first day reminded Belle of politicians who, while not employing the same outer level of theatricality, utilize similar techniques of commiseration and persuasion to gain allies, favors and bargains. Her tutors had prepared her well with the history of her country and the biographers of many famous and respected diplomats and courtiers. It turned morality into a fuzzy blur of conflicting motives and dark deeds carried out for the greater good. Belle had read much on the subject; she had to, since her father had no sons who would be expected to secure their land holdings and noble title. And Belle would never let anyone take her for a fool if she could help it.
Not that she'd been spared that embarrassment by either Rumplestiltskin or Dathomir. Rumplestiltskin was a more difficult case. The king Belle could dislike with perfect ease. This wizard . . . she liked being near him, though his keen remarks could drive her away, and his rude antics could rile her up. But there had been kindness, hadn't there? The stool, the dress, the blanket. Yes, there was no doubt about the blanket. Who else could it have been? And more than that, he mostly treated her with dignity. He'd asked if she'd been ill. He appeared quite bothered knowing what sort of food she ate as part of her imprisonment. Why he cared, that was harder to ascertain. Not knowing couldn't eradicate the fact that they seemed to get along in their own strange way, and Belle rather liked it.
Maybe she was a hopeless fool after all. Maybe her emotions and need for a friend were clouding her judgment. All that may be—she still wanted to give him a chance. So she scooted across her seat an inch closer to him to look into his eyes for his answer. The disproportional irises, luminous even in darkness, stared back. They tried to blank out all feelings by holding still. Much good it did. His facial muscles continued to drop clues. They tensed up, particularly in the forehead and around the eyes.
He barely moved when he inhaled. Or perhaps he'd been holding his breath. "We'll get there when we get there," he muttered.
Belle sighed through her nose. The exhaled air batted his hair like a little tropic breeze. It grazed his eyelids, making them flutter. The electrifying sensation of being so close, albeit without touching, rushed through Belle's body. Her first instinct told her to pull away. She should respect his personal space. The fact he didn't move either, however, egged her on. Nervously she wet her lips.
"Is there nothing about you you'd be willing to tell me?"
The wall in his eyes crumbled away. When he dared to aim them completely at hers, they'd never looked so frightened. Belle silently begged him not to be afraid. She wasn't going to hurt him. How could she?
"I . . . I'm originally from the Frontlands."
She sat up. The motion put a few more inches between them. "Really? So close! But you don't live there now."
Rumplestiltskin shook his head the bare minimum amount.
"I see. You didn't like it there?"
"Too close to the ogres."
Her breath left her all at once. "Of course. You were right up there next to the border." The ogres had harassed the border duchies for many years. Only in the recent decade had the creatures moved southward and directed their focus on the more heavily populated areas. "That must have been terrifying, being that close to the war."
Rumplestiltskin seemed to shrink before her eyes. "Yes . . . it was."
An understated admission, quietly uttered. Belle's hands ached to touch him reassuringly. But they were still occupied with wrapping the gold. She didn't have quite enough bravery to try any other form of contact, so she settled for, "I'm sorry." A very unsatisfactory alternative.
The gloomy mood brought an end to conversation. The pair spent time instead in steady progress. When Rumplestiltskin went through his pile of straw for spinning, Belle fetched more. The immense quantity that surrounded them reminded them to keep up the pace. The walls slowly diminished, and the gold became so much that Belle not only wound it, but took it upon herself to stack it to conserve room. The rain helped fill the silence, though Belle was glad thunder claps no longer intruded.
Rumplestiltskin's hands still drew Belle's notice whenever she came back to her stool after placing more straw at his feet. They were slight hands, graceful in their own way, and hardly ever needing rest even between batches. They seemed to crave motion as much as land beasts crave air; to be still meant to be rendered obselete, dead. Useless. So they worked and worked. No wonder Rumplestiltskin liked to gesture with them. No wonder he liked to be in control of his deals. He was so used to working with his hands that touch and handling had become ingrained in his personality.
What are you thinking, you silly girl? Belle chided herself. She needed to let her mind rest and not waste time drawing far-flung conclusions.
She didn't know how they managed, but the remaining straw had dwindled to a single stack when the clouds parted and the setting sun dumped exquisite golden light into the dungeon. Straw and gold radiated in the sunrays, as did Rumplestiltskin's skin. Belle angled her head for a better look at his face while he was wrapped up in concentration. Was it just the scales doing that, or was he also perspiring? He was too busy to notice, let alone tell her. She kept watching him until she noticed a bead glide down from his temple over his cheekbone. A grin played on her lips. Even with his reptilian skin, he still sweated. Belle put aside the gold she was rolling up and plucked up the bottom of her petticoat. The strain of ripping apart the fabric required turning away from the sorcerer so she wouldn't prod him with her elbows. The cloth still proved a challenge to her unconditioned muscles. She ground her teeth and contorted her face for a good minute. Her arms burned and throbbed with exertion. Finally a satisfying rip tore through the air, and the skirt gave way under her tugging.
"What are you doing?" Rumplestiltskin asked, sounding a little disturbed.
Belle finished freeing a very rough square of of cloth from her garment, then turned back around. "I was just going to mop your brow, if that's all right."
Rumplestiltskin glanced at the fabric in her hand, astonished. "You didn't have to rip up your skirt. I could have magicked one up."
"It's all right. I didn't want to disrupt you." Well, it seemed she had, anyway. Belle shooed away embarrassment and, folding the cloth in half, chased down the rogue sweat drop on his cheek. She used the action as an excuse to graze her thumb against his skin. Some parts of his cheek sported raised, scratchy scales, but further down the scales flattened to silky smoothness, like snakeskin. His forehead was the same when she got around to blotting it, too. This subtle inspection brought to her attention how scant his eyebrows were. She hadn't noticed, for he used all of his face to great expressive effect. To find now that he barely had eyebrows to aid him startled and fascinated her all the more. Maybe the fact that his eyes were set deeply in his skull accentuated his expressions, too.
She expected him to throw off her attentions at any moment. It left her all the more surprised when not one but several minutes went by without a word of reprimand. His eyes locked on her. Since she was staring at him just as much, Belle accepted his gaze with a shy, amiable smile. He wasn't leering, and his eyes hardly left her face. He seemed too shocked to look anywhere else. His stillness permitted her to keep roaming his face, even to dab the cloth over his mouth. There she resisted touching his skin. That indeed would've been a step too far.
Her movements slowed when she moved from his chin to his neck. She took longer strokes that went as far as the top of his collar bone, leaving the skin below alone though it was just as exposed by the plunging neckline of the vest and the open shirt. Had his chest been this bare the first time? Maybe. Or maybe he'd been wearing a cravat. With no dragonhide coat in the way, Belle marveled at how much closer she could get to him. The sleeves of his shirt brushed against her arm and felt luxuriantly cool-not like the cold, forbidding shell of the coat's scales. And Rumplestiltskin's scales were not like those of a dragon at all.
Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat. "That's . . . that's enough, thank you."
Belle snapped her hand away. Goodness, she'd let her enthusiasm to be helpful run away from her! Her face started to flush. "Ah! Yes, sorry. I mean, um, you're welcome." She automatically went to tuck the cloth away on her person, but managed to stop. "Umm, would you like this? I know it's filthy now, but . . . if you don't have a handkerchief . . ."
"Yes, yes, that'll do," he said quickly and snatched up the cloth. He stuffed it inside his vest and resumed spinning, not sparing a word or another glance over her.
It appeared she had gone too far. Belle wanted to apologize more, but to do so might spoil any more comfortable intimacy they had achieved today. Her own actions surprised her; somehow she'd overcome her anxieties about touching a man she barely knew. Now that the moment had passed, her shame deepened. But I didn't really touch him that much, she argued as consolation. The rag was in the way. I only touched him enough to know what his skin feels like.
And why did she need to know how it felt?
"All done," announced Rumplestiltskin, interrupting her line of inquiry.
Belle blinked. She looked around to see that all the straw, except for the tiny pile beside the imp, had been spun. "What about that?" she asked with a finger pointed at the pile.
"For you," he said. "Last time you saved some straw for a sleeping place. I take it the floor in here is no more comfortable."
Belle lit up with gratitude. He didn't have to do that, but he actually remembered. True, it'd only been yesterday, but it still was unexpectedly considerate. "Thank you."
"Not at all." He waved his hand, then stood. "I best be off, then."
"Wait!" Her hand caught his wrist. Rumplestiltskin twisted around. His gaze met hers again. For a moment he looked as startled as when she cleared his face of perspiration.
"What about tomorrow?"
Only now did his expression close shut like a clam. "I have other things to attend to, dearie. I'll be back later to discuss a . . . long-term arrangement."
Belle let him go. Giving up the contact sent a chill through her skin. "Very well. Come back as soon as you can."
Rumplestiltskin stepped back, away from her and the spinning wheel, and bowed. "As you wish, milady."
"Belle."
He raised his head to see her but kept his body doubled over. "Sorry?"
"Call me Belle, if you please." She smiled in the hopes some informality would ease the tension.
He straightened and eyed her. His mood turned thoughtful. "We shall see," he said at last. Without his fingers snapping, the magic cloud ascended from the soles of his boots and swallowed him up. He and the cloud disintegrated into nothing.
The last light of the sun warmed Belle's face. Everywhere else she suffered the return of cold solitude. There was nothing to be done but to roll up what remained of the tangled gold strands and wait for Dathomir to check on her.