Fun with Gaston came not often, but when it did, it trumpeted its arrival and did not let up until it chose to, which she did like to a degree. He took her horseback riding, out to track animals with him—adventures, and, while her heart never really melted, she hoped all the while his was and that behind the arrogance, the patronizing tone he used when he refused to teach her something about his world, he was falling in love with her. Because she was sure she wouldn't be able to hate a man who loved her. A superficial heart couldn't love.
"Won't your father be angry you're all wet?" he asks once they reach the courtyard's overhang. He hands her his cape and marches to the window, watching his reflection finger-comb his hair.
"Not at all. It was good to let the horses run around a bit before the rain." She wrings her hair and pats the cape against her face, her riding clothes feeling ten times heavier than before. Biting her lip, she considers teasing him about his preening. "You know, the statues on the grounds still cut a stately figure even when it rains."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, your handsomeness isn't going to wash away." She tries a laugh to show his bewildered face she is being lighthearted. Instead of sharing it, he approaches her, although not with an irritated expression.
"Gods, Belle, you're so beautiful." Her back tenses at the sensation of his hand climbing up it, pulling her to him. Their foreheads touch, and it should be one of those secret moments to treasure, she thinks. But she pries his hand off her thigh instead.
"Kiss me," he gasps out to her. She complies with tight lips, eyes open, taking him in for only a few seconds before wrenching herself free. He clutches her arm and brings her back to him, his kiss more forceful now, smashing her lips. Angling her neck and lowering her head until it's too awkward for him to continue, she folds the cape under her arm and heads inside without a word.
A damp cloth now presses against her lips, Rumpelstiltskin's face blank as he dabs her cut. It banishes the memory she was visiting.
"Are you sure you still want the chickens inside?"
She nods, the cloth and the pain preventing her from speaking. Rolling his eyes, he puts the cloth in the bowl of water and takes what looks like a salt shaker in his hand. Gray powder falls into the water.
"Just something to make it heal a little faster," he says before she can ask. She would have preferred the tried-and-true method rather than magic, but her lip throbs harder, so it seems to want to argue that point with her. She tries not to regard his face the same way she tries not to regard any other. One should be weighed and measured by character, not a face, not the shell. No recipe she's ever come across requires the eggshell. Listen to yourself, eggs on the brain. No wonder the girls were a little defensive this morning. She exhales.
"What?" He pulls the cloth away for her to speak.
"Nothing. Is it almost finished?" Since he motions he's about to press it against her again, she closes her eyes and groans. "One might say something comforting at a time like this," she muffles. Her lips push back on the cloth, puckered a fraction.
"You really need me to kiss it and make it feel all better?" he scoffs. "You're finished anyway."
She paws her lip and stares at him for a moment. That hadn't sounded all that bad, really.
"Thank you."