A/N: Again, thank you so much to all of my readers, hearing you are enjoying my writing is really encouraging and I look forward to reading your comments and seeing all of the favorites/add notifications I get in my email. I am continually surprised, and am so glad I get to update so soon, particularly because I think this chapter is perhaps my favorite so far! I don't own OUaT, but if I did, I would have included a scene like this in "Skin Deep" for sure! Enjoy!
After recovering from perhaps the worst illness in her memory, Belle was glad to be up and about again – even if it meant going back to cleaning. Certainly, her list of duties was revised to more accurately convey what Rumpelstiltskin thought she was capable of without putting herself into significant danger; of course, his teasing on the issue was not at all welcome. Apparently, he felt the need to offer her a suit of armor, should she think of taking on kitchen grime, for fear she might be slain. A roll of her eyes and his chuckle dismissed any negative feelings between them as a result.
She found herself feeling less apprehensive around him. He was not quite so scary as she originally thought – not half the beast everyone had made him out to be. She was now positive he did not eat children – as she prepared all of his meals, and never once had baby appeared on the menu, and even more than that, despite his general propensity toward coldness, he never laid a hand on her. He was, by all accounts, an aloof gentleman, even though he was prone to temper tantrums.
Sometimes, she even found herself craving his company. At first, she was so engrossed with what she had to do – determined to be the best caretaker one had ever seen (Belle never backed down from a challenge), but now, she had other things on her mind –it got terribly lonely, scrubbing floors and beating rugs… It got even worse when he was gone.
If there was one thing she hated more than being ill, it was being alone. She had never been left alone as a princess; there were people everywhere, all of the time. Even if she didn't like them, they were there. Now, she was left for days on end, with only herself, books, and cleaning to keep her company. The scrubbing brush was not quite the master of repartee that Rumpelstiltskin was…
And he disappeared at the oddest of times. Even more odd were his returning hours. Sometimes, she would be sitting in front of the fire in the main hall, having fallen asleep with the tea set on the edge of the wooden table, and he'd gently wake her – always barely touching. They seldom touched more than a brief brush. Belle had never been particularly moved to physical expressions was keenly aware of how much it bothered her that he seemed to go out of his way to avoid even brushing up against her in passing.
For some reason, she found herself feeling self-conscious. Had she done something wrong? Was this some kind of strange psychological torture? With so little company and so much… space, she felt so isolated. When he was home (how odd she thought of this as home more and more often), she found herself spending more and more time in his company, and closer.
One afternoon, after a full morning of cleaning, Belle decided she would place herself on the floor near the spinning wheel. She had decided to change after cleaning for the morning, and when she walked into the room, skirt swishing over the crisp white petticoat, her hair tied back still retaining its loose curls, she smiled, holding her book in her hand. The dress was the latest in her quickly growing collection of dresses, all practical with only hints of elegance. This one was a bit different, though, it's three-quarter length sleeves with bows at the elbows and just a peek of lace was not meant for work. Even the bodice was a little more intricate than she was used to here, with a square cut neckline, edged in delicate lace, a silk rose at the center.
It was Rumpelstiltksin's turn to be surprised by an entrance, and when he glanced up from his wheel, his deft hands stopped working. The wheel stilled, and he seemed frozen. Belle smiled, a sweet little smile, and felt herself practically strutting. "Good afternoon," she greeted cheerfully, using her resolve to approach and do exactly what she intended: she was going to sit near him.
When it appeared he could respond, obviously getting over the fact she had surprised him, he gruffly shrugged his shoulders and grunted a greeting – bad mood, she noted – and turned his eyes directly back toward his spinning. "Good to see you too," she laughed, non-fazed, and drops onto the ground, far more gracefully than she expected, and smoothed out the folds so it wouldn't wrinkle too terrible.
"Don't you have scrubbing to attend to?" he asked with irritation. "Or something to dust?" he offered up, not looking at her, even for a second.
Belle flipped the pages of the book open, a pressed flower as her bookmark. "I've finished my chores until dinner." She sighed – chapter three, her favorite. Of all of the books she found in his library, this had quickly become one of her favorites – magic, mystery, adventure, romance – the stuff dreams were made of! Pursing her lips for a moment, she looked up at him, placing the flower back in the page. "Have you read this?" she turned over the leather bound cover in her hands, it must have been worth so much.
He glanced over briefly and laughed. "I don't read fairy stories, dearie," he said, almost condescending. "Everyone knows happy endings are for children." His voice is bitter, he practically spits out the last sentiment. Belle sees something other than bitterness written on his face though, there's heaviness and sadness there.
Belle shakes her head softly clicking her tongue, "They are not," she disagrees adamantly as she traces her fingers over the title, emblazoned in gold on the front, "all the best stories are about adults," she pointed out with a happy sigh, opening up cover, and holding it up to show him the illustration of the two adult protagonists in an intimate embrace.
He scoffed, turning his head away from the picture, and Belle frowned. She heard him murmur something to himself, though his voice was low, and she furrowed her brows. "What's wrong?" she asked, curiously, but also a little miffed that he should find her favorite book so laughable – so inconsequential and childish.
He shook his head at her. "Have you not seen enough in your life?" he poses it to her in a flat tone. "Enough to see… that," he stops spinning for a brief second, motioning to the book with a sharp wave of his hand, "isn't real."
Belle feels a bubble of anger in her chest. Her kingdom, before he showed up, was being devastated and ravaged by ogres. They were practically unstoppable, she had been forced into an engagement with a man she did not – and could not – love, and was watching her father worry himself to death over the state of affairs in their holdings. He did not know anything of what she had seen, even if he pretended to know so much, and she bit the inside of her cheek. "I would hate to be so lost in tragedy that I couldn't believe there is something better out there," she declared out loud, flipping the pages.
There was a silence between them, and she heard the wheel stop spinning. She did not look up, but she could feel a hot gaze on the back of her neck. Her hair felt like it was standing on end and she slowly drew her hand over the fine paper, feeling just how expensive it was, and admiring the craftsmanship. It was not just a repository of words, after all, but a beautiful object – too long covered by dust and unappreciated here, like so many things in this place. "Still hoping for an 'out there'?" he asks with a harsh, bark of a laugh.
She scowled, perhaps for the first time, truly angry at him. And she let out a deep breath through her nose, trying not to feel self-righteous, like she did when she was at home. She hated feeling insulted, and reminding herself she was no longer entitled to being treated like a princess was a difficult concept to grasp, particularly when his behavior was so erratic. He would patiently and gently attend to her one day, and then dismiss her as a foolish little girl the next. That's what that laugh was, really, a dismissal.
Belle would not be dismissed. "I endeavor to be happy wherever I am," she said primly, looking at the first page of the first chapter. The 'O' was ornately decorated and between the chapter number and the first sentences was a small illustration, a young woman from behind, gazing out over a valley, nestled between hills, her arms out and ready.
Even though he was making her so frightfully angry, she was not going to leave this spot and give him the satisfaction. She believed in happy endings, even if she had to make it herself. "You have certainly had your work cut out for you," he quipped in return, this time smiling at her, so devious – so much in an effort to paint himself as this horrible creature that delighted on her misery. She knew this was not the case – he cared, just a little, even if he denied it.
"I have made more with less," she shrugged – dismissing him this time. He sniffed, obviously off put by the comment, perhaps disbelieving – though she could not see how he could not believe her – even he was aware of the basic situation of the life that seemed to be removed by lifetimes.
She remembered sitting silently, as she was instructed, at the table negotiating her engagement. How she had wished to cry mercilessly as her father and Gaston negotiated her hand, military support and money in exchange for her hand. She did not cry though, no matter how hard she wished to, no matter how hopeless the prospect of marrying Gaston seemed. She'd tried to make the best of it, of course, that did not mean that she didn't find something better (was it better?) at the first available opportunity.
When she looked up at him, under thick lashes, he looked contemplative, and befuddled. There was something not quite… right. He glanced over at her and his expression softened, though she did not know why, and he sighed. "You may read aloud, if you like," he finally said, as though he could read her mind.
She wouldn't put it past him if he could, and she cleared her throat, trying not to blush too deeply, tried not to giggle too loudly. But, she couldn't help herself. She giggled and looked at him, feeling more playful and amused than she had in weeks, "You want me to read it," she practically sang with triumph, "I'm willing to wager deep down, you love this book as much as I do - maybe more!"
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Dearie," his lips quirked into a smirk. "You already owe me for lifetimes – you needn't have another debt on your head." He spins, slower now, but with careful hands and steadfast eyes. There is something so graceful about him when he spins – she lacked that grace, and always felt all elbows and knees, especially tripping up around here.
But, she giggled regardless and shook her head, lowering her eyes to the text that was made to read aloud. After all, what were fairy stories you couldn't share? "I do not hear any denial, Rumpelstiltskin," she teased, looking up at him with an expression she is sure could melt stone and cause teeth to rot – she felt so rotten and sugary-sweet. Somehow, he brought this wicked streak out of her.
She saw the struggle on his face – trying so hard not to smile, and Belle laughed so brightly, and he resolved even further to not smile, even if it meant twisting his face into the most absurd expression she had ever seen. "I'll retract my offer…" he threatened, though lamely.
Belle knew better, though and rolled her eyes at him – he always looked so surprised every time. She supposed many people did not roll their eyes at the 'Dark One.' But, she was not just anyone, and even in the face of a man so feared, she could not be cowed into submission. So, she lovingly flattened the page, and tilted her head, licking her bottom lip before she began… "Once upon a time…"