Tidying Up

Chapter 13

After sharing proposal and wedding fantasies with her best friends, Belle is overcome with a sense that her life is going nowhere and has a quiet meltdown in Rumple's apartment. Finding the distraught young woman eating ice cream, watching an old movie, and crying on his sofa, Rumple calls his best friend for advice. Jefferson suggests he take her out for supper, listen sympathetically, but under no circumstances should he engage in any physical intimacies. Belle and Rumple go out for a lovely dinner which is briefly interrupted by a sleazy photographer, but is otherwise pleasant and does perk up Belle. Back at his apartment, both of them drunk, they lean in for a kiss.

It was feather-light at first, lips just barely grazing as if he wanted to be sure his attentions were welcome. When she made no protest, he began pressing into her, his mouth fastening onto hers, nudging her lips open, tasting her.

She was dizzy and knew she was clinging to him, kissing him back.

Belle was remembering Rumple's expression when she had come through the door. He had liked how she looked, no question. His eyes had lite up and he had been stymied for words. She was, after all, wearing the most slutty dress she'd ever worn. And she looked good in it – she knew she looked good. And Rumple had been a wonderful, delightful companion for the rest of the evening and she had felt, oh, so special.

She knew they shouldn't kiss. That it would be wrong, but she had never felt more aware of him as a man, an attractive, desirable man, than she was standing there in the hall with him.

But she knew she wasn't the type of woman he liked. She'd seen the kind of women he dated, that he associated with – all very sophisticated, experienced in the ways of the world, elegant. She was . . . she was just Belle. She knew her friends would describe her as sweet, not sophisticated - nice, not elegant.

And besides, she knew that boinking your boss could never work out well.

But . . .

She so wanted to kiss him, to kiss him back.

And she was doing just that.

The Morning After

Belle stirred. She felt warm and relaxed and . . . oh yes, so, so satisfied.

She felt someone wrapped around her, his legs over hers and his arm over her body. She gently rolled over and . . .

"Oh no, oh no, oh no!"

What had she done?! What had happened?!

"Oh god, oh god," she pulled away from him. She had awakened in bed with Rumple Stiltskin, her boss, the one man she didn't want to wake up with.

She replayed the events of the previous evening. She had been upset, then had drank too much wine, so she was drunk and he was drunk, a little drunk, not as drunk as she was, and he had pushed her against the door and he had kissed her and she had kissed him back. And it was fantastic. The man knew how to kiss, rendering all the other slobbering, sloppy kisses she'd ever gotten from any of her boyfriends as pale imitations of what a kiss should be. His kisses had been slow and heated and seemed to pull her soul out of her, soothing her and worshiping her all at the same time.

She didn't remember, but at some point they had begun pulling off each other's outerwear, both clumsy and frantic.

And somehow they had gotten back to the bedroom and had fallen into his bed together and then . . . and then . . .

She didn't remember.

"Whaaa?" the man stirred and opened one brown eye. "What?"

"Did we . . . did we? I mean . . . what happened here? Did we sleep together? What a disaster! I can't have spent the night with you! It's too awful to contemplate!"

Rumple frowned and rolled onto his back, "Well, women have been known to survive," he told her dryly.

"But . . . it's all wrong. It's the worst thing that could have happened between us," she told him. "You're my boss and you're . . . you're you and I'm me and oh no! I can't be sleeping with you. With my dad, my money, well, right now my life is a big, fat dumpster fire. And as far as relationships go, you're a train wreck. We can't . . . I mean . . . there can't be . . . shouldn't be . . . it's a disaster!" she wailed and plopped back down onto the pillow.

Rumple rolled onto his side, listening to her rant. He gently laid his hand on the side of her face. "Miss French, do you really think we shared a night of passion and then put all of our clothes back on? Look! We're both fully clothed except for our shoes. My pants are still fastened and, well, I mean, I'm not going to check, but you still have your knickers on, right?"

"What?" Belle dropped her hand to her waist. Yes, she was still wearing the fancy cream lace thong that Regina had insisted she buy to wear under this dress. She felt further up her body. Still wearing her bra. She was fully clothed – except for her shoes. She looked down at Rumple. He was still dressed in his suit pants, shirt and vest. His tie had been loosened but was still around his neck. He still wore his socks and, she glanced down, his pants were still fastened.

"Nothing happened," he assured her. "Well, we kissed and maybe if we hadn't been so drunk, we would have done something, but we . . . we passed out drunk and . . . Miss French, nothing happened."

Belle sighed. "Thank goodness," she said and she rubbed her head. "I guess I should fix us both my hangover cure."

"Probably," he agreed. But then, he laid his hand on her arm, "Miss French, if we had . . . if we hadn't passed out and had . . . gone ahead with things . . . would it really be so bad?"

Belle looked up at him. "It's not you, you know it's not you. It's . . . it's the whole thing. I want to go to college and I can't be in a relationship with anyone. Too complicated. I can't be with you."

"Am I so objectionable?"

"Yes," she answered without thinking but then immediately relented. "I mean, for me you are. You're my boss and I need, I really need this job and it would just make things so awkward if . . ."

"You became my mistress?" he finished deliberately.

She glanced at him and nodded.

"But if I were just a neighbor that you'd gotten close to or someone you'd met in a coffee shop . . . it might be . . . all right . . . for us to . . .?

Belle's eyes briefly connected again with his and very, very slightly, she nodded.

"How close are you to being ready to go on to the university?" he asked thoughtfully.

"I have some scholarship money and, probably, I could get a couple of student loans, but that won't be enough for me to live on. It's really helped that I don't have to worry about my father's medical expenses but it's not enough - yet. I've been trying to save up enough money to live on – for a room at the university, the meal plan, and so on. I'm getting close. I just need enough to make it a year, maybe just half a year. I'm pretty close to getting my degree."

"Well, I could raise your pay. Or perhaps I could just lend it to you?" he asked suddenly.

"What? Oh, I don't know." This type of arrangement would almost certainly have strings attached.

"We could work out something. You could live here and commute and still keep my toilets clean," he added. "That you save you some living expenses."

"I. . . I don't know." The offer was tempting. It would mean she'd be able to start right away in the mid-year semester, after the New Year, and not have to wait another year . . . or more.

"Hey, I've given more money to far less worthy causes – starting with my ex-wife's lover. Miss French, I want you to have your chance, your opportunity to go to school, get that better job. Of course, you don't belong scrubbing my toilets when you're forty."

"What kind of interest rate?" She was nothing if not canny.

"Point five," he answered promptly.

"Let me think about it?" she asked.

"Sure." He had rolled over so he was now looking down at her. He traced his fingers down her arm. "I remember kissing you last night."

This was dangerous territory. "Yes," she answered and scrambled out of his bed and out of his bedroom.

"Oh, my dear, do you think for a moment that if I had gotten you out of your panties that I would have given them back to you?" he asked the now empty room.

He laid back in his bed and stretched. She had been everything he had anticipated – sweet tinkling notes and the rich smells of vanilla and roses and colors all swirling white and gold with a hint of pink. He remembered the kiss in the hallway and stripping off his jacket and the straggling back to his bedroom. He remembered her running her hand up his thigh, letting the back of her hand brush against his very hardened member and hearing her whimper with need. She had whispered, "please, please," in his ear and he had been more than eager to comply with her demands. He had planned to respond to her need, to give her what they both wanted, release and pleasure, but she had abruptly passed out.

There had been a tiny moment of moral indecision, and now, finally, the thundering voice of his best friend prevailing over all the other music, the voice that had advised against this action. He had reminded himself that he had never been the kind of man who wanted a woman who wasn't a hundred percent willing and he certainly wanted anything, everything he could get with this woman to be aware and consensual and mutual. He had groaned and laid himself down next to her. If he couldn't make love to her, then he could at least hold her, could at least touch her.

Back to Routine

The next day, things had returned to routine with just the slightest tenseness in the air between them. Belle had laundry to take care of, the fridge to clean out, and floors to sweep and mop or vacuum. She took her grocery list and went out for a few things later in the morning and wasn't there when Regina swooped in about eleven.

"Have you seen them?" she demanded.

Rumple looked at his agent, consultant, financial advisor and whatever else Regina was to him with a blank stare.

"Them?" he questioned.

Regina pulled her phone out and handed it to him.

Sure enough there were pictures of himself and Belle at the restaurant, walking down the street together, one with him with his hand on her back as he escorted her somewhere. They all looked very cozy.

"After mother's party, the rumor was that you were dating a university professor," Regina told him.

"A university professor," Rumple repeated. "Miss French would like that."

"But where did all these come from?" Regina demanded. "I had thought we'd seen the last of this type of blue press with the few that came out of my mother's party, but these are different. It's a different dress she's wearing – one I remember picking out."

"Smee," he answered shortly.

"Of course, Smee. But what were you doing out with your maid? That is her, isn't it? I barely recognize her."

"That's her. She had gotten in a funk. I got her to put on the dress and . . . and I took her out for supper. That was all there was to it."

"Well, according to the chatter, you two were seen in an 'intimate setting, laughing and sharing, for several hours.' They want to know who this new lady in the life of one of the premiere artists of our time is."

"They're still calling me a 'premiere artist'?" he asked. "Ignore them. It will blow over. And it means nothing. I'd already warned Miss French that she might have her face plastered about on some media channels. She's okay with it."

Regina sighed and sat down. "Rum, you understand that I just don't want you to start down that negative publicity path again. It nearly undid you last time," she reminded him softly. "I was hoping they'd forgotten about you."

"Me too," he confessed.

Regina sat quietly, looking at him. He did look better since the little maid had come into his life. His apartment was clean, hell, he was clean – and not just body clean, but his mind was clearer, less befuddled by drugs and alcohol. She'd been good for him.

Out of curiosity, she began, "I know you. You're always sketching. Have you done any pictures of her?"

He shrugged, dismissing Regina. "Maybe a few. I think I've stuck most of them in one of my studio drawers." He led Regina into his studio. It was not nearly as tidy as the rest of the apartment.

"Why hasn't she done a better job keeping this room clean?" she asked him.

"She's not allowed in here," Rumple told her. "It was part of our initial deal that this was to be a respected place and she couldn't come in here, well, unless I invited her."

"Why not? It's not like you ever empty the trash."

"It was just a thing I had with her at the time." He was rummaging back in one drawer, then tried another and then a third. At the fourth place, he began to pull out some of his sketches.

Regina nearly gasped. There were perhaps fifty, possibly more, of the little sketches, mostly pencil, some inked, some charcoal, some pastel. All captured Belle doing little homey tasks – reading, mixing up something in a bowl, looking over a flower, simple things.

But they were all amazing – superior examples of his work, even the little pencil etchings were astonishing. He had captured something, that thing that made him an artist as opposed to the rest of people who merely reproduced what they saw.

Regina slowly went through them. She picked up one of Belle sleeping and nearly gasped. It was astonishing. "Is this all?"

"Oh, hardly. They're all around here in different places," he again waved her off.

"These are the best things you produced in . . . decades," Regina told him. "Why isn't she modeling for you?"

"Because she's my maid," he answered shortly.

"She's wasted as your maid . . . " Regina began.

"Hardly. You've seen what she's done in the rest of my apartment." He seemed determined to be difficult.

"She should be your model. I'd like to gather these up, get them framed and do a little showing," she told him.

"No, no," he reached for his work. "I'm not . . . " not what? Ready to share? "I don't know how Miss French would feel about a showing. We'd have to check with her first."

"Well, where is she?" Regina always was someone who didn't the grass grow under her feet. "I'll talk with her today."

"She's gone, uh, out, uh, grocery shopping, I think. I don't know when she'll be back."

Regina frowned at him. "I'd wait for her but I have another appointment. Will you ask her about showing your pictures of her?"

"Sure, yeah, I'll run it by her," he told Regina.

Regina stood and turned to go. She stopped at the door. "I won't let this drop, you know. This is some of your best work. It's what people want to see from you."

"All right," he answered neutrally.

Another Phone Call

It had been a week. Things had remained awkward between them. They both felt it, but neither one said a word. They avoided each other when they could. They spoke formally together, exchanged necessary pleasantries, but they did not converse. They did not engage.

He had gone out, mentioning that it was something Regina was having him work on when The Phone Call came in.

"Mr. Stiltskin's residence," Belle answered.

"Hey, this is Neal. Is my dad there?" Belle had had a few brief conversations with Rumple's son, usually just to confirm with him that his father was available.

"Hello Neal. Mr. Stiltskin is out for the moment."

There was a short silence. "Well, it wasn't anything important. Do you know when he'll be back in?"

"No, sir," Belle answered. "He just said he was going to meet with Miss Mills. May I give you her number?"

"Nah. He's got his cellphone turned off so I'm guessing he doesn't want to be interrupted."

Well that or the man forgot to charge it or left it in the apartment or some combination of the above, Belle thought.

"Hey," Neal continued. "Are you his new maid? I'd heard he'd hired someone. You're always so pleasant to talk with, I would like to know . . . you."

"I'm Belle French. Your father has employed me as his maid, cook, general caretaker."

"Oh. So, nice to talk with you, Miss French." There was another pause. "I have the feeling that you are taking very good care of my father. Thank you. He rather needs someone looking after him."

What could she say? "He often loses track of everyday essentials," she hedged her answer. "Your father is a genius, you know."

"Yes and he means well, but he can be a bit of arse," Neal confirmed. "Listen, since you've become a big part of my dad's life, I'd really like to meet you."

"Coffee somewhere?" Belle suggested.

"Sure. Three o'clock this afternoon at Bell, Book and Candle?" Neal named the little coffee/bookstore on Broadway.

"I can be there," Belle told him.

She sat at a corner table in the little coffee shop section of the alternative bookstore. She was a regular there, but usually came in for books, not coffee. She had no idea what Neal looked like but, as prearranged, she was wearing pink and looking for a man wearing a blue sweater vest. She spotted him as soon as he walked in – a dark-haired man who favored his mother, Milah.

"Miss French," he offered his hand.

"Call me Belle, please," she told him shaking his hand.

"I go by Neal Cassidy."

"Cassidy?" she had to ask.

"My maternal grandmother's maiden name. Stiltskin is a name with a lot of baggage that I didn't want to have to carry around," he answered.

Belle understood this. Neal asked her if she had ordered and when she told him she had not, he suggested she make a selection and then he put an order in for both of them. He sat back down with her while they waited for their coffee.

"How did you get involved with my dad?" Neal asked her.

"My father couldn't pay his rent and your father made us an alternate deal."

"Nothing perverted or kinky, please tell me," Neal entreated.

"Not at all. He just wanted me to help keep his place clean."

"I'm surprised. He usually avoids having people around him and to hire you as a live-in maid . . ."

"Well, he was pretty drunk at the time," Belle explained.

"Ah, now that would make sense." Their coffee came and they both took sips. "Miss French . . . Belle . . . he seems to be doing much better since you've been around. He's getting to appointments, completing commissions, certainly, he's drinking less."

"I'm just trying to keep things tidied up."

"Well, you have gone a ways towards tidying up his life. I guess I wanted to meet you to thank you. Those of us who care about him, well, we've been concerned that he'd was drinking himself into an early grave."

Belle nodded. She remembered the man she had first come to work for. He could barely put together three words for more than a few hours during the day. The rest of the time he was drunk or passed out.

"Your phone calls are something he looks forward to, you know that," Belle told Neal.

"Yeah. I'm getting more comfortable with talking with him. Things haven't always been good between us but, well, after some things came together in my life, I decided to make a move to reconcile with him. Don't know that we're best buds or anything like that, but we are civil to each other."

"What do you do a living, if I'm not being too personal?" Belle asked.

"Very ordinary stuff. I'm a financial planner."

"Really? One my friends is dating a financial planner. I wonder if you know him."

"Who's the planner?" Neal asked.

"You know, Emma's never mentioned his name."

"Emma? Emma Swan?" asked Neal.

"You know Emma?" Belle asked.

Neal sat back and slowly grinned. "I think I may be the financial planner. I met Emma when that crappy VW of hers had blown a gasket and I did a roadside rescue. We hit it off right away and we've been seeing each other ever since."

"Wow, small world," Belle said.

The two chit-chatted for a bit longer, finished their coffee and parted ways. Belle promised that she would continue to look after Mr. Stiltskin and Neal promised he would continue to call his father regularly.

Thanks to all those who continue to read this little romance. Special thanks to Grace5231973, arynwy, Wondermorena, Erik'sTrueAngel and jewel415 for their continued reviews. Judging by the comments on both the fanfiction site and AO3, Belle's meltdown struck a chord with a number of people – I hope the resolution felt right – I thought that starting a physical relationship under the circumstances would be a disaster – neither one of them are quite ready (but are getting there).

NEXT: Belle begins to face her feelings about Rumple. She warily agrees to a modeling session with him.