Chapter 16

That Skipping-Thing

Belle has begun to pose for Rumple and found it to be a surprisingly erotic experience. As she becomes more comfortable, she begins a slow process of disrobing and things (finally) culminate in mutually satisfying consummation. Rumple finds that his association with Belle is fueling his creative energies and he has never felt more productive. He is alone in the apartment when someone rings the doorbell.

The doorbell rang, and rang and rang. Someone was frantic to get his attention.

He peeked out and . . .

It was Milah.

He sighed and opened the door. Suddenly all warmth and sunshine felt cooled and dimmed by the arrival of his ex-wife.

"Yes, dearie?" he asked as she stalked by him and flopped down on the sofa.

"It's a disaster. It's a goddamn fuckin' disaster," she announced.

Always the lady, Rumple thought and he closed the door behind her. He went and poured her some of his best whiskey and a second one for himself. He sat down across from her.

"You're not looking good," he informed her. And sure enough, his usually well coifed, put-together svelte ex-wife was dressed in sweatpants, an old teeshirt and her dark hair hung lank about her shoulders.

"Fuck you," she responded.

He sat back, folding his arms, knowing that soon enough she would start talking – it was her nature.

On his third sip of whiskey, she started. "All right. Killian's been working on this goddamn play for . . . what? . . . about eight years, you know? He got all the backing he needed for his play, especially after you came through. He's got the theater lined up, the dialogue's pitch-perfect. It's cast. It's choreographed." She sighed. "Everything is going fine, going along on schedule, ahead of schedule, right? But . . . it's so fuckin' apparent - most of the songs suck, really, really suck the big one and you just can't have that in a musical."

Rumple didn't answer. His heart had sunk into his shoes. He was guessing where this might be going. He didn't like it, but he had a pretty good idea of what was to come next. He watched Milah. She finished the first glass of whiskey and he poured her a second one.

She sniffed, wiped away tears and sniffed again.

"Rumple, I know this would be an enormous, gigantic . . . huge imposition, but . . . but . . . is there any way you could . . . I don't know . . . it was the only thing we could think of . . . could you maybe look over the songs and . . . you know . . . help?" she lifted her tear-filled eyes to his.

"You just want me to look over the songs and make a few suggestions?" he asked hopefully.

"Yeah, that would be great," she agreed quickly. Then she added, "And maybe spruce some of them up and add to a few of them and . . . and maybe write a few."

"Let me get this straight. You want me to write a couple of songs for a Broadway musical. You just thought, you could drop by and I'd be willing and able to do that for you just like . . .?" He waved a hand as if to invoke The Magic.

"You've done it before," she reminded him.

"Yeah, but that was, what, more than twenty years ago and I was doing music twenty-four/seven then. I haven't written music in years."

"But you still can, I know you can," she told him.

He shook his head, "Bu. . uut, now . . . tell me, why should I?"

"To keep your investment and, if the play is successful, then Killian and I will get married and you won't have to pay alimony anymore," she reminded him. "It would be worth it, wouldn't it?" she asked.

"How many songs are we looking at?" he asked. He had loved this woman once, at least, he'd thought he was in love with her. She was beautiful and vivacious and there had been a time when he could refuse her nothing.

"I don't know. I know Killian wants a kick-ass opening number and a great closing anthem kind of thing. The ones he has now are lame-ass. And I would guess some of the songs he has could work or would, if you took them in hand."

He considered his ex-wife's proposition. "Can you get me a copy of the script?" he asked.

Milah shook her head, "Sure," and she dug in her Birkin bag and pulled out a rat-eared stapled ream of paper. "But, you know, it would be best if you could come to New York. It shouldn't be any longer than six weeks," she promised.

"Six weeks?" He didn't buy it. "Milah, you know what New York does to me – it's too much. It crushed me. And I've got a life here that is working for me." He shook his head. "I'd have to think about relocating to New York, even if it's just for six weeks."

"But you'll think about it?" she pressed him.

He sighed, finished his drink. "Yes, I'll think about it."

Milah beamed at him. She stood, "I'm in town for just a couple of days to settle some things about my old house. I'll see if I can get Killian to get the songs he has together and get him to email them to you. You've got my number."

He had stood when she had and he walked her to the door. Milah hesitated but then, awkwardly, gave him a quick hug. "You know, you're a much better ex-husband than you ever were a husband." She stepped back and looked at him closely. "You've been doing your maid, haven't you – that pretty little thing?"

"My private life is no . . ." he began.

"Yeah," she interrupted him. And she leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "And I just won the pool," she smiled at him before leaving.

A Second Visitor

Rumple had poured himself a second drink to help him recover from Milah, when the doorbell rang again.

Oh yes, he'd forgotten this appointment, remembering it as soon as he answered the door. It was Deputy Emma with her portfolio.

He invited her in.

"I've just got a little while. It's my lunch time," Emma apologized. "I really appreciate you doing this for me. I guess I just want to know if you think I have any real talent. I don't know that I'd ever want to make my living at it, but maybe, I could make a little extra money or do pictures for my friends as gifts and not be embarrassed that I was giving them trash." She was nervous and babbling.

He looked over her drawings – her style was very different from his, but he could see that she had The Eye, the insight a true artist needs.

"You draw from love, Miss Swan," he told her.

"Is that bad?"

"No. You should recognize the source of your talent. The source of my own talent. . . well, it's something darker and somehow . . . sweeter . . . like old wine."

"So, I do have some talent?" she asked.

"As long as you love what you're working on. Some of these," he picked out a landscape, "look like school projects. Everything is there where it's supposed to be, but there's no spirit, no heart." He put a few aside, "These are no good." He picked up some others, "But these others, they have life in them." He was thumbing through the second stack of pictures and stopped. "Why do you have a portrait of my son?" he asked.

"Your son? But that's my boyfriend, Neal," she told him.

"Neal – he's my son," Rumple told her.

The two looked at each other. Belle's warning comments to him came flooding back – this was why she had told him not to 'definitely not hook up' with Emma.

Emma sat down, "So Neal is your son? I never thought – the different last name."

Rumple sat down across from her, "He took on his grandmother's maiden name. We were having a particularly rough patch and he wanted to distance himself from me."

Emma regarding him closely, "Well, this explains a lot. I know he's just now talking about introducing me to his parents."

"Well, he did tell me he had a feisty girlfriend and he wanted us to meet."

"So, feisty, huh?" Emma smiled at him, "Should we be surprised when he introduces us or should we just go ahead and out each other?"

"Belle . . . Miss French has taught me that it's better to be honest in relationships, so, do you tell him . . . or do I?"

"I will," Emma had grown thoughtful and she narrowed her eyes. "Has something changed between you and Belle?"

"I can see that you make a very good police officer, Miss Swan," he dodged the question. "You're always suspicious." He looked at the wall clock. "I think your lunch hour is over." He stood.

"Yeah," she agreed and collected her drawings. Once out the door, she called Ruby, "Rubes," she began. "I think you might have just won the pool."

Luncheon Proposition

Regina had called Belle. She wanted to have lunch with her and, at Belle's suggestion, they arranged to meet at The Laughing Seed.

Regina met her there and the two women sat down and ordered.

"Do you have any idea of why I wanted to meet with you?" she asked Belle.

"No ma'am," Belle answered. She was beginning to get used to meeting with people that were connected with her employer. Usually they wanted something from Mr. Stiltskin.

"You have been modeling for Rumple, haven't you?" Privately Regina thought that Belle looked great, flushed even, energetic and . . . relaxed . . . and satisfied. Regina blinked. Damn, Milah had won the pool.

Belle nodded, "He's done a couple of things where he's had me pose."

"Well, I haven't seen anything he's done recently, but some of those early drawings he did of you, Belle, they were inspired. They were some of the best things I've seen him do in a long while – a long while."

"I thought they were very flattering," Belle agreed.

"They're magnificent," Regina told her. "I want him to have a showing, but he said I would have to get your permission, since all the drawings were of you."

"A showing?" Belle repeated.

"A gallery showing. Belle, it . . . well, you may be aware, he's in a bit of slump, or, at least, he was in a slump, but since he started drawing you . . . wow, is he ever out of his slump. This is probably the best work he's ever done. You really are making him a better artist."

"I don't do anything except sit where he tells me to and . . . I don't do anything," Belle told her.

"Well, whatever it is you aren't doing, it has the man working and producing. Belle," Regina got serious, "I have to tell you that if you agree to this showing . . . it will put you in the public eye. People will want to know who the model is. There may be some publicity and sometimes, with Rum, the publicity has been a bit . . . mean spirited," Regina was apologetic.

"What do you mean?"

"People will speculate of what your relationship with Rumple is. They'll want to know, they'll assume that you're sleeping together. You may get followed by photographers and sometimes, these photographers can get intrusive and get into your personal life."

Belle considered. "This stops after a while, right? I mean, these people get bored after a while, right?"

"Usually. But," Regina looked down at her lap. "Belle, you're very pretty and the press likes pretty, young women and it could get . . . very intense for you."

Belle considered some more. "But this would be very good for Mr. Stiltskin, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, very good for him," Regina agreed.

"Then let's do it."

"Thank you, Belle. I will do everything I can to keep your identity secret. We'll probably do the showing in New York and there's always a chance the reporters won't be interested enough to track you down."

"Let's hope so," Belle answered. The two women finished their lunches.

Plans

With her father tucked away in a premiere nursing center and doing very well and with Leroy now running the flower shop, along with her income from Mr. Stiltskin, Belle was doing much better financially. A week after her luncheon with Regina, Belle had talked with student services at the university and they were able to help her plan for her final year of study. She would be able to finish in a year, actually about seven months – the Spring Term and one Summer Term. They had suggested she go ahead and get started on her internship with a local library; Belle was to start putting in three afternoons and a couple of Saturdays a month to pick up the required hours. It further cut into the time she had to do routine chores, but she thought it was well worth it.

One of the things really helping her numbers was staying with Mr. Stiltskin and working for him. She had a place to stay and a steady income to pay for everyday expenses. She'd be able to get her degree and . . . and then she could get a real job.

When she'd come back after her meeting, she had tried to talk to Rumple about where her plans stood, but, like so often lately, he seemed distracted and non-communicative. He wasn't interested in finishing his latest painting of her. He ignored her, lost in his own train of thought, when she tried to talk to him. In fact, he seemed startled when he suddenly noticed her in the kitchen with him.

"I'm sorry, Belle. I've had something on my mind and I'm not a very attentive to anything else right now."

"What's going on? Anything I can help with?" she immediately asked, offering her assistance.

He smiled at her. "You always want to help, don't you? That's your first thought – anytime anyone's in pain or having trouble, you want to help."

"Of course," she told him.

"Understand, I'm not used to that. I've been around people all my life that their first thought is, 'How does this affect me?' You are an aberration, a lovely, pleasant, delightful anomaly."

"What is going on?" she asked him suspicious. Something was up.

"Milah wants me to go to New York for six weeks," he told her, things beginning to spill out. "Well, she says it's six weeks, but probably, we're looking at six months, even longer. Killian, the man she left me for, he's putting together a new play and needs help with the music. It's what I used to do, well, you know that, and if I can help them, make the play a success, Milah has promised me that she'll marry Killian, which will end my financial obligation to her – no more alimony. Plus, if the damn thing is a success, I may get a return on my rather sizeable investment. It may be worth it, but it would mean that . . ." he stopped.

"You'd have to go to New York for, maybe, as long as six months?" she asked him.

"Yes," he agreed. He looked up at her. "You wouldn't consider finishing your schooling at some college in New York City, would you? I think they have some colleges there," he speculated.

Belle smiled, "I think there are several colleges in that area, but I'm all set up at the university here and if I change, it could mean losing some credits and I'd be away from my dad and . . ." she looked at him hopelessly.

"So, no. I understand. I don't want to go either. I hated New York. I know many people love the place, but it was just too noisy. . . too much for me. It wasn't a good match. But more than all that . . . Belle, I don't want to be separated from you . . . not now."

"But it would be for what? Six months, at the most?"

"Well, maybe I would be finished in six weeks, that would take us up to Thanksgiving. You could certainly stay here while I'm away and come up to New York on alternate weekends."

Belle stood quietly a moment, absorbing the news. She could see that Rumple was torn as to what to do. "You don't need my permission, you know," she told him.

"But I want it," he shared immediately.

"As I hear it, this is something that will cost you some time and some . . . distress, but could really pay off big-time – financially and . . . what? emotionally – bringing some closure to an old broken relationship."

"Exactly. I adore how you understand me . . . and stuff," he seemed relieved.

"Then it all sounds workable," she agreed. "And, if you are still in New York when I'm back at school, well, we could always see each other during school breaks and whenever you can get away from the play . . ."

"Yeah, that sounds good," he agreed. "And we can do that, what do they call it? that skipping-thing?"

Belle bit her lip. "Skyping," she corrected him. "It sounds good," she agreed.

"Yeah, it sounds good." he told her.

"Then why do I feel that we may be saying goodbye to each other?"

"I don't know," he looked at her and then drew her into his arms. "I feel the same way. I don't want to be separated from you for a day, much less six months. And I don't know how to skype," he confessed. "I'm not good with electronic stuff and . . . if this goes into next year then you're going to need to study and write papers and stuff and I'm going to need to be writing and, oh god, probably working with crazy choreographers – they're the worse - and we won't really have a lot of time."

"Rumple," she looked at him. "I know you told me that I didn't have to say anything, but I want you to know . . . I love you too. And if what we have is real, we'll manage this. If it's not, we need to know, so we can both move on." She kissed him lightly. "This might be a good thing, you know? Maybe being separated will help us get to our goals – we won't be distracting each other."

Rumple was not convinced. "I like being distracted by you," he muttered.

Into November

It had been another week before he'd left and they were now maintaining separate residences.

The first night apart had been the most difficult. Belle had curled up in Rumple's bed, hugging his pillow to her so she could wrap herself in his scent. It was most comforting. Rumple had called her that night as soon as he got settled into his hotel in New York. He was grumpy and difficult, but then Belle reminded him of one of their times together, the time when she had pushed him back onto the bed and straddled him. She heard him chuckle.

"That was the time that you wore that little green dress and when you took it off, you naughty girl, I found out that you hadn't been wearing anything anything underneath it. From that day on, I've been left wondering what you might have on underneath your clothes. It drives me crazy."

Belle had to smile but she had to wonder if she would have enough dirty stories to sustain them.

One week became two and two became three. They talked together a lot, often exchanging titillating stories – Belle might share what she was wearing and Rumple would share exactly how (and with what) he would be touching her, were he with her. Then there were those times when he would tell her exactly how he wanted her to touch herself, that he wanted to hear the little whimpering noises she would make when she was about to come for him. Other times, Belle would talk about some of their past liaisons, how she'd felt when he'd slammed her against the door, or when he'd taken her on the floor of the living room and even those times when she had slipped to her knees to explore him with her tongue and her mouth – he really seemed to enjoy those particular chats.

As satisfying as these talks were, she still missed the corporeal reality of the man.

Rumple also complained a lot about what a total bitch the whole New York thing was. He told her how Killian was an idiot and the choreographer was insane and Milah was a pain. As a counterpoint, Belle regaled him with stories about Ruby, about Jefferson and even about Regina, who had swept through and collected his drawings of her, so that they could be framed and sent up to some swank New York gallery.

As Rumple had feared, the six weeks of song writing wasn't finished by Thanksgiving, but he had insisted on taking a break to get back to Asheville to connect with Belle (plus he had the obligatory Lunch with Mother to tick off his To-Do List). He flew into the small Asheville airport and scanned the crowd once he'd gotten off the plane.

She stood out like a beacon, dressed in a purple and blue patterned dress with a lace endowed over-jacket. She wore blue stockings and little blue suede shoes with round toes, a strap and a petite bow. One of her handknit slouch hats sat on her head. But she stood out from the crowd, not because of the clothing, but because, in his eyes, she glowed. She spotted him a moment after he had seen her.

He was afraid seeing her again would be awkward but instead, it was like coming home, coming home to a warm, welcoming place. She had smiled at him and rushed into his arms. He had wrapped himself around her and in front of others at the airport had kissed her – he didn't care who saw them, what they thought. He had so missed this, missed her.

"You cut your hair," she told him, her hand reaching up to feel around his neck.

"It seemed the thing to do," he explained. "I told you, New York does strange things to my psyche."

"I like it. It brings out your eyes," she told him. They separated and walked over to pick up his single suitcase. "I was afraid that seeing you again would be awkward, but it's not. It's like . . ." she struggled.

"I've come home," he suggested and she nodded eagerly.

Once his bag was retrieved, they walked to the car and began the drive back to the city. Belle had taken the driver's seat.

"You know I had just planned for a quiet Thanksgiving for us, with you, me and my dad," she began slowly as she drove, taking the turn onto I-26.

"And that sounds perfect. Just the three of us, watching the parade, the dog show, some stupid early Christmas special while we're eating a little turkey and dressing and pecan pie," he told her.

"Well," she was hesitant.

"Something's changed?" he asked.

"Well, my dad is coming, at least I've arranged for one us, both of us, to go get him early Thursday morning. He's got a day pass, so that part's still happening."

"But?" he asked. She was clearly holding back.

"Well, a couple of days ago, Neal called and wanted to join us and, of course, he also wants to bring Emma."

"He's still seeing Emma, your little artist-deputy friend – pretty blonde?" Rumple asked her.

Belle nodded, "It's serious, really serious. Emma's missed a couple of Girls' Nights Out because she's doing something with Neal. I'm wondering if he's planning to announce their engagement."

"You think?!" Rumple was surprised. He considered. His son was old enough to be thinking of marriage, older than he had been when he and Milah had gotten married – of course, that had not worked out too well. "You told him that he and Emma could join us?" he asked Belle.

"Certainly," Belle assured him. "I knew you'd take any and every opportunity to be with your son."

"Well, that's not too bad. Just the five of us."

Belle looked uncomfortable, "Uhm, Rumple . . ." she began.

"Who else did you invite?" he asked.

"Jefferson called and he sounded so pitiful – his daughter is spending the holiday with her mother and he is going to be all alone since, apparently, all of his floozies are going home to their mommas for the long weekend."

"So, you invited Jefferson."

"Yeah, I invited Jefferson," she confirmed. She didn't say anything more.

"Anyone else?" Rumple was beginning to get an uncomfortable feeling about this Thanksgiving.

"Okay," Belle sighed and began. "Your father called."

"No, Belle, no. I don't want to have him over for Thanksgiving. Growing up, that son of bitch's idea of Thanksgiving was a Taco Bell gordita and a bottle of tequila."

"I know, I know. He was a terrible father."

"And a terrible human being," Rumple added.

"But we aren't. . . terrible human beings. And he is all alone."

"Deserves to be. He's mistreated everyone he should have loved and cared for."

"He has and he knows that and he might even be sorry."

Rumple closed his eyes. "You asked him to come," he stated flatly.

"I did," she admitted. "I was looking at a group of seven and I figured we could seat him far, far away from you. You won't have to speak to him or anything."

"Shit," Rumple was not happy.

"He is your father, even if he is terrible," she reminded him.

"You are too nice, Belle," he told her.

He waited a moment longer and again the uncomfortable feeling began to grow. "There's more isn't there?" he asked.

Belle didn't look at him.

"Isn't there?" he asked again.

"Maybe," she answered cringing just a little.

A.N. Thx (as always) to those of you who continue to read this little Rumbelle romcom. Special thanks to Wondermorena, arynwy, Grace5231975, jewel415 and Erik'sTrueAngel who left reviews on this site.

NEXT: Belle reveals the entire Thanksgiving Invitation List

And Rumple and Belle enjoy a little reunion sex