Chapter 22

A Corner Picnic Table

Rumple has (finally) proposed – on a carriage ride with a light, late season snow falling and has been enthusiastically accepted. He had flown up their friends, Ruby and Jefferson, as well as Emma and Neal to be part of the ceremony. They spend one last night apart as singles.

Wedding

With Milah's assistance, Belle had found a several shops that sold vintage gowns. Ruby and Emma had helped her pick out an embroidered sheath gown with narrow straps embellished with a little beading. It dated from the early 80's but was in no way typical of the overblown style of that decade. The fabric wasn't as frail as some of the truly old gowns she had looked at and the dress had a little shape to it. The cream color flattered Belle's complexion.

The wedding was indeed short and sweet, up sky high with a panoramic view of the city surrounding them, under the watchful eye of a security team (who'd all been provided with theater tickets).

Rumple had stood waiting with his son and his best friend for his bride.

"Nervous, Dad?" Neal had asked him, standing by as Best Man.

"Actually no. I thought I would be, but . . . I'm feeling that this is the smartest, best thing I've ever done in my life. I feel great," Rumple told him.

And Jefferson on a portable keyboard began playing the theme music from the Lady of Lake (from Rumple's Jurgen play and now one of Belle's favorite pieces). Emma came in, followed by Ruby, the Maid of Honor, and then . . . Rumple realized he wasn't breathing . . . then he saw Belle.

It seemed to him that she was a fairy creature, not quite human, stepping lightly into this realm, crossing over, crossing over to be . . . to be with him.

Belle was struggling not to cry. She had not expected to be this emotional at her wedding, but then, she hadn't expected that there would ever be . . . her wedding. Weddings happened to her friends and to acquaintenances and to strangers, but not to her. And the man waiting for her – strong, and brilliant and, there was no doubt, supportive and loving, was more than she had ever imagined. He was there, waiting . . . for her, this pillar of strength and comfort and . . . love.

They had written their own vows.

Belle promised her love, her support, her faithfulness. She wiped her nose on her wrist, brushing away her tears, but kept eye contact with her Rumple, who reached into his tuxedo pocket to pull out a handkerchief which he handed over to his weeping bride with an indulgent smile.

And Rumple, when it was his turn, he stammered a moment, letting everyone know that he didn't think he deserved this woman, not this woman, who had changed his life, who had given him his life back. He also promised his love, his support, his faithfulness.

There was more music (another one of Rumple's songs) provided by Jefferson on a small, portable keyboard.

Afterwards, they celebrated at Fat Angels along with the cast and crew from Jurgen, folks from the art gallery, sundry others from New York's arty scene, as well as a torrid of reporters and photographers. The little coffee and wine bar was crammed with celebrants.

Rumple was concerned about the photographers and reporters mobbing his bride. He had been watching the situation, concerned about her well-being, having been a target for blue press in the past; however, they all seemed to adore her. The woman had just the right touch of giving them some good shots and quick interviews so, for the most part, they behaved themselves around her. Damn, but this was his Belle, capable of charming all manner of beasts, even the papparazi.

Later, they were relaxing in his suite at the hotel, both more than a little tipsy.

"I'll have to owe you a formal honeymoon," he promised her. "Niagara's fine, but you know, it's anywhere you want to go: Tahiti, the Faroe Islands, Cleveland, you got it. Get your degree and we're off for a month."

"Anywhere?" she asked. "Really, anywhere?"

"Sure. You married a wealthy man even if you did insist on an iron-clad pre-nup before you'd commit."

"Well, I didn't want people to think I was marrying you for your money," she told him reaching around to unzip the dress.

He stopped her. "No, I want to undress you." But then he paused, "But not just yet."

He was looking at her in that intense, smoldering way that he had – was she the only woman who felt the fire? She felt hot, perhaps she was blushing.

He motioned her to come to him and she did, standing next to him as he sat in one of the plush hotel chairs. He pulled her onto his lap and she sat comfortably, leaning against him.

He stroked her arm. "You have never been more beautiful than you are to me right now . . . but I want to tell you that every time I see you."

"I don't get tired of hearing it," she assured him.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he asked.

"I ask that question about you," she had dropped her head on his shoulder, both of them just enjoying the closeness.

"When did you fall in love with me?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, I don't know. It was such a slow process. I know when you helped me out of my ice cream funk, I began to think about you differently and when you came back on your premiere night . . . when my daddy had died . . . I realized then, for sure, that I was deeply in love with you." She looked at him. "You, when did you fall in love with me?"

"When I saw you out with Will What's His Name, on that stupid date. I think I'd decided then that I didn't want you to ever be out with another man. I don't know that it was love then, but it was something. And since that time, my feelings have gotten deeper and bigger and . . . more. What I feel for you is . . . singular . . . special . . . higher," he struggled to explain.

"Wow, that's . . . really nice," she told him.

They sat quietly together for a long moment.

"Let me tell you how I'd like this night to go," he then began.

When she didn't say anything, he continued, "I'd like to first have you in this very pretty dress. You think it can manage a little rough handling?"

"I do. It's old but it's not an antique," she let him know.

"I'd like to touch you and taste you." He heard her giggle.

"I'd like to touch and taste you, too," and she lifted her head to run her tongue up his neck and along his chin to end things in a sloppy kiss.

When she drew back, he gave her a quick kiss on the nose. "Nice. Then, I'd like to take the dress off of you."

"Ruby helped me pick out some special underwear," Belle confessed.

He stilled, "Ruby did?"

"Uh huh," she murmured, addressing herself to kissing the hallow of his neck, first breathing onto the spot, then licking him, and then finishing off with a wet kiss.

"I suppose I have something to look forward to then." He gave up trying to imagine what his Belle's slutty friend might have talked her into buying.

"I thought it was a little . . . a lot . . . over the top, but she promised me you'd love it."

"I'm sure I will," he readily agreed.

"I had to have help getting into the darn thing," Belle told him disarmingly. "So, I'll probably need your help unlacing it."

Rumple groaned. He had pulled her dress up so that it was now bunched up on her thighs. He could already tell she was wearing lace topped stockings hooked onto a garter belt.

He took a couple of deep breaths. "At this point, I'd prefer to carry you over to the bed, but I'm afraid my leg won't let me."

"I've noticed you seem to be doing better with getting around on that leg."

Hardly wedding night talk. "Yeah, I think it has something to do with my maid," he told her. "She keeps me to regular hours, expects me to eat right, exercise, reduce my drug and alcohol intake – all in all, my overall health has improved and I'm certainly getting around better," he admitted.

"So, it's not hurting you so much?" she asked, her eyes big and round and reflecting her genuine concern.

"No, it's not hurting so much," he agreed. "So, I'm not so dependent on that damn cane."

Satisfied, she slipped off his lap and led him over to the king-sized bed that dominated the room.

She sat down on the side of the bed and he dropped to his knees, gently pulling her knees apart and running his hands up her silk-covered legs. Belle reached over and dropped a pillow onto the floor.

"Think I'm going to be here awhile?" he asked, glancing down at the pillow.

"I just want you to be comfortable while you're there," she explained.

"Always thinking of me," he muttered, but he pulled the pillow under his knees. And then, looking up at her, he dropped his hands so that they were touching her on the insides of her thighs, now reaching above the tops of her stockings.

She purred and closed her eyes, knowing well what was to come. She reached down to touch his face, tracing around his ears and running her fingers through his hair.

He did this well, moving slowly but deliberately, using his finger tips and his lips and, eventually, his tongue, working his way along her inner thighs, stopping now and again to breath in her essence. He found there was a little scrap of fabric in his way and he was able to ease it aside to give him access to his desired objective.

He stopped, surprised. Belle was blushing, the pink flushing her entire body.

"Ruby and Milah . . . they made me go get waxed," she told him.

Well, he might miss his little au natural girl, but this made things considerably easier at the moment.

He continued his efforts, still using his fingertips, his lips, his tongue, lapping her, flicking over her wet, sensitized mound and cleft, her little nub so swollen that it was peeking out of her folds. She was usually too sensitive to tolerate direct contact quickly, but he decided to push her limits and startled her by latching on, gently holding onto her.

"Rumple, I can't stand this," she protested, her fingers locking in his hair.

But she didn't try to pull him off, so, still maneuvering as delicately as he could, he began to apply a little suction. Her legs locked around his back, the heels of her shoes digging into him. He began to use his tongue to give her more stimulation and she began to shiver and shake.

"Rumple. . . Rumple . . . I can't . . . I . . . I . . ." and she cried out, her body tensing and shaking as she gave herself over to him.

He released her then and used his tongue to tease her, tasting her sultry, sweet nectar. She had fallen backwards onto the bed and was unresisting as he pulled himself up and along her body, stopping only long enough to release himself from his clothing, before driving into her. Her body was still halfway off the bed and they both knew this position allowed for continued strong, steady stimulation of her already sensitized tissues.

She was kissing him as she could, befuddled and not able to think clearly. The steady, hard pushing, rocking motion soon set her off a second time and he nearly lost himself as her inner walls massaged and encouraged him to let go.

Later, the dress came off and he made a mental note to buy Ruby some flowers . . . or tickets to his show . . . or a house. She had done well with getting his usually reserved bride into a naughty piece of white lace nonsense. Getting her out of it did take some time, slowing him up when he wanted to go fast – he guessed that might have been the point of the garment. He was biting his lip in frustration, cussing silk, when unpicking the ribbon lacing and ended up popping one of the ribbons off before he could dislodge the garment from her body.

Once free, Belle had turned on him and pushed him down onto the bed and climbed on top of him, dropping herself onto his ever-ready cock. He didn't protest – this was easily one of his favorite positions. He slid his hands along her still silk-clad thighs and up her body to cup her breasts, supporting them while she rocked and slid back and forth against him, his thumbs brushing against the engorged nipples.

"That's nice," she managed to murmur.

He pulled her down so he could kiss her. "This is perfect, you know. All the sounds, the sights, everything is perfect – all in harmony. I can't ask for any more."

Belle just smiled. She was panting and pulled her hair back and away from her neck. She dropped herself, suppoting her weight on her arms to continue and gasped when he slipped his hand to rest between their bodies, giving her more stimulation.

She heard it this time, when they broke against each other and before she fell down to rest on him, nearly falling asleep. She'd heard a small warm sound, like a cello moaning and building filling her brain with its mellow notes and she realized it had been the sound of their coming together. And falling along with the sounds were sweet smells of salty ocean mixed with caramel and fresh air.

"You all right?" he asked, catching the bewildered look on her face.

"Do you smell caramel?" she asked him.

He shook his head, "No, with you, I smell vanilla and roses."

"Well, I just had the oddest experience," she told him. "I heard . . . like a cello and then there were these smells coming over me – nice ones, but definitely there. Is was alittle . . . overwhelming. Is that . . . is that what it's like for you?"

"All the time, so many things, so much . . . coming in, pouring in. But it's all good with you." He looked deep into her eyes, "It's all good, Belle. It's hard to explain, but I've always felt like I was on fire, burning up from the inside, my energy like flames. But with you," he struggled to put it into words, "I'm still on fire, but I'm not . . . I'm not being consumed. There's a focus now. It's good, really good."

Belle nestled against him. No wonder this man walked that fine line between genius and insanity. She hoped she was going to be able to manage this marriage – but then she realized she had their love to help.

It was going to be all right.

A Year Later

"What do you think?" he held up the latest pastel he had quickly finished.

"You never cease to amaze me, you know that?" she said to him looking over the sweet drawing he'd done.

It was herself holding their two-month old son. Rumple had managed to capture the distinct air of trust and comfort the two had with each other, mother and child. As he portrayed them so often, they both looked like fairy creatures, creatures of light and magic.

They were living north of Asheville in the Blue Ridge Mountains. They had a small cabin up a winding road. He'd made sure they had connections with the outside world, including electricity and indoor plumbing, and they still had his loft in the city, but this had become the place where they spent most of their time. It was quiet and peaceful.

Belle had come to understand that her husband was inundated with sensory input and he was much saner and more functional in a quieter environment. He was still painting and drawing, but he had also gone back to composing music, increasingly complex, sophisticated music, now able to separate out some of the sounds that were constantly barraging him. He was also writing again, compelled as always to produce, produce, produce. He couldn't stop himself – the nature of his genius was not something he could turn off but, at best, he could channel it. He was also keeping regular hours and had cut back on his drinking to the occasional after-dinner repast. He was clear-eyed and lucid during his waking hours and he'd grown far less grumpy around others.

Belle herself was volunteering three days a week in a small community library. The area was populated mostly by young couples and older couples who had wanted to get away from the city, but still craved learning and stimulation, so she had moved into an old gas station, renovating it and adding shelves. There had been some money available from the county and this was combined with a community drive to raise money to stock the shelves. Rumple had quietly double-matched the funds. Belle had taken suggestions as to what books the community would like to have available. She was just beginning to offer additional services, such as starting a book club, a writer's group, a children's hour and the library was open to other groups who just wanted a place to meet. She wanted to get in attorneys to talk about different legal issues, maybe some plant specialists, and some craft people to do presentations, but hadn't gotten these ideas off the ground yet.

That evening, she sat on her deck, watching her husband rock their baby, and looked out over the breath-taking vista.

"Your mother called to let me know she wanted to come and visit. She asked if there was a nice restaurant we could meet her in to have lunch," Belle told him.

"I'll call and see if I can get reservations for us at Clayle's Bait Shop," Rumple said offhandedly. "Maybe get a corner picnic table."

Belle shook her head, "Oh, I don't know. That place used to be an actual bait shop . . . and it still smells like one."

"But they serve fresh caught rainbow trout," Rumple reminded her. "Best food for forty miles," he praised the little business that had been converted from an unsuccessful bait shop into a successful lunch bar for the area residents.

"I just have difficulties imagining your mother in her Prada clothes and Louboutins sitting at one of Clayle's wooden picnic tables, drinking a PBR out of a can and eating deep-fried, breaded fish and curly fries from a cheap, paper-lined plastic basket."

"I'd recommend she get a side of cole slaw, too," Rumple said mildly. Then, he added, "I guess, I could ask Clayle if he could serve her out of one of the expensive paper-lined plastic baskets."

Belle sighed in exasperation. "You just try to irritate her, don't you?"

He considered and had to agree, "Probably." He sipped his lemonade that his wife had made earlier that afternoon. "You know, you've been good for both of us. We talked about it one time – we both decided that you're some kind of a witch . . . or a fairy, or something."

"Me? No, you're the one with magical powers. I'm just an involved second party who tries to get you to do good with your talents."

He snorted, "If that's true, then you've done a great job. My mother's happy and I don't think she ever was before. And my dad too."

"And you?" she asked him.

"Do you have to ask? I've never been happier. Every day . . . in every way." He looked down at his infant son. "And you? Are you happy?" he whispered this question, almost as if he was afraid of the answer.

"Do you have to ask?" she repeated his words. "Although, at some point, I might like to have a little daughter, maybe with your big brown eyes."

He nodded, "Well, if she looks like her mother, oh man, I know I'll be in trouble."

They both rocked quietly for a while.

"This is turning out to be a nice life, I think," she told him.

"I've had several lives, you know, and I would have to agree," he answered. "This is a nice life."

Thanks to all those people who graciously left reviews for this story, including selasalexa,Tinuviel Undomiel, Guest (with flavour), and especially to Erik'sTrueAngel, Wondermorena, Grace5231973, jewel415, and arynwy who offered support, insight and kind comments for the entire duration of this little fluffy story. Rumbelle fluff is always fun to write. Rumple's mother, in particular, turned out to be such a fascinating character (and she was not in my original draft written about two yeas ago).

My next story should be up shortly. It's Still (a movie remix of the 1951 The Day the Earth Stood Still with a smarter heroine and a hotter would-be savior alien, along with a special guest appearance by Dr. Nicholas Rush).