Isabelle cannot stop thinking about the strange man. He scared her so the first time, almost knocking her off her feet as he flung his arms around her, crushing her in an embrace and muttering the girl's name over and over. He was so sure she knew him, but there was no chance of it, of course.
Her fascination borders on obsession, for she spends hours remembering their short encounters. He's nothing she expected, not the sinister powerful demon everyone thinks him to be. Oh, she can feel the power but there're so many other layers to him. He was different both times she saw him, going from a nearly-weeping broken shell of a man to the dark dealmaker, from an enticer to spooked lover, from a suggestive prankster to an entrapped innocent when she kissed him first. She cannot figure him out, whether he speaks quietly or when his voice gets pitched and he gestures wildly. Isabelle doesn't know what to expect of him next. She is intrigued and against all common sense, she is keen on seeing him again.
She knows that dealing with the Dark One is dangerous, yet both times she got more than she wished for. Well, almost. She was mortified when he asked for the kiss on the first meeting; she looked at his large eyes (she shivered when she saw them, initially mistaking the pupils for the vertical ones of a snake) to his putrefied teeth. She loathed the idea of marrying the Duke's son but she possibly desired to kiss that creature even less; yet, imagining that she declined his offer only to suffer through a lifetime of sloppy smooches and attentions from Gaston made the choice easy. What was the worst he could do? It wasn't like he'd suck her soul out.
So she shut her eyes when the Dark One stepped into her personal space, bracing herself for his foul breath and his groping hands but none of it came. He smelt of leather and smoke and slightly of dust, and it was a bit familiar and not entirely unpleasant, especially if she kept her eyes closed. He wasn't forceful and when his lips brushed hers... Suddenly Isabelle found it was her kissing him. She may be innocent, but the girl wasn't foolish. She knew the butterflies in her stomach had nothing to do with her nerves, or even of fear. She felt the connection that she had never believed in before. She enjoyed the kiss and if she was honest with herself, if her father's voice didn't break them apart, she doesn't know how much more she would let the imp do to her, how much further she wanted to take things. The idea of him touching her was darkly exciting, making her dizzy. It was wrong and prohibited and the frenzy of thoughts and possible scenarios made a dull ache burn low in her stomach.
Not that Rumpelstiltskin was interested, of course. She spent days fantasizing about that kiss, sneaking into the quietness of the gardens, hoping he'd return to the place where they met. He hadn't, but she still came, growing bolder in her daydreaming each time until he appeared out of nowhere, creeping up behind her. Isabelle's skin prickled at the memory of his proximity and in a rush, her mind tried to draw up an excuse for calling him there. She kept blushing and dropping things, hoping he was not able to read her thoughts and on a deeper level, but longing he would. He was so gathered and confident and she was certain he'd ask for a kiss or perhaps double his price (a condition she was too eager to comply with). But Rumpelstiltskin asked for a flower, as if he couldn't pick any flower he desired, as if the world's supply of plants was scarce and the only place he could find them was in her garden and he needed to receive her permission for it.
Isabelle thought she misunderstood the whole thing, that she just imagined it all and that he was never interested, never attracted to her. She swore to herself that she'd try one more thing and if that trick didn't work, she'd let it go and try to forget. So she kissed him, sliding her lips across his cheek when her courage failed her and she couldn't just kiss him on the lips, and he froze and looked hopeful and astonished and at a loss for words. She got her confirmation and she cheered inside, leaving him alone, acknowledging that the last word was hers.
Whatever was happening between them, she liked it. And she had to see him again.
The book she traded for is old and holds only dry words. She knows he's not a blood-thirsty imp, he cannot feast on babies when his eyes hold so much warmth when he looks at her, and she wants to know him, to truly see him, but the book provides no assistance in that.
The girl thinks that the main problem is that she requires nothing. She can always ask him for a dress or jewelry or shoes but she doesn't want Rumpelstiltskin to think she's silly. Clothes are nice and gems can be too but it's not what she wants. Isabelle wishes she could just call him to talk, but she is unable to come up with a subject that could hold his attention.
When scarcely a week after their second deal, her horse, Phillipe, injures his leg, she feels guilty for experiencing almost-joy. She's horrified when she realizes it, the poor animal is in pain but she's restless, unable to concentrate on anything and counting seconds until nightfall. Because then she can call for Rumpelstiltskin. Of course, she could summon him – presuming he will answer her call – at any time, but she doesn't want to be seen, not because she's ashamed of how he looks or of how anyone can take her odd acquaintance, but she doesn't want her father to know; he would lock her away to keep them apart, even more so if he ever knew the man kissed her. Oh please let him ask for a kiss this evening too.
Isabelle will never admit it but she spends a bit longer in front of her vanity mirror than she usually would; she instructs her maid to carefully braid her hair, using the long blue ribbon that matches the shade of her eyes and the dress. It's not for Rumpelstiltskin, she tells herself, to attract his attention to her features; she simply needs to be presentable when meeting someone as powerful as he. She keeps telling herself this even when she mashes a blackberry and carefully paints her lips with the sticky juice. Yes, it's all solely for the purpose of being presentable. She pinches her cheeks several times to bring colour to them – because she looks too pale and nervous even to herself and quickly tiptoes past her dozing maid and off to the gardens.
She is prepared this time as she feels the air shift behind her and grow a bit colder. The girl turns just in time to see the purple smoke dissolve around him. Rumpelstiltskin is not wearing his dark red coat; this time he is clothed in a tight-fitting brown jacket which nevertheless holds a pattern of squares that still eerily remind her of scales. It hugs his body like a second skin but he does not seem restricted as he moves his hands in a flourish gesture and gives her a bow.
"Good evening," she says and there is less awkwardness between them and she cannot hold a genuine smile as she is glad to see him.
"I've always thought I could recognize a desperate soul but I have never anticipated that you, my dear, would require an ongoing need for my services." Rumpelstiltskin speaks coolly and his voice is flat, but she can tell by the glint of mirth in his eyes that he doesn't mean it; he may not be happy to be here but he is not unhappy either. After all, he could simply choose to ignore her, yet he is still in her gardens. "How may I be of assistance this time?" His normally pitched voice drops lower at the word this and Isabelle wonders if she is busted.
"Come, I'll show you," she replies and reaches out for his hand. His body goes rigid and he blinks several times, staring down at her fingers in his palm, but then she tugs him forward gently and he follows her obediently and without another word.
They walk into the stables and Rumpelstiltskin wrinkles his nose up at the smell but does not otherwise object.
"Do you mistake me for a vet?" he asks resentfully when she explains what she wants him to do.
"No," she says, upset that he takes everything the wrong way.
"And you realize that the horse's leg would heal perfectly fine by itself?"
"He's suffering," she protests, "when there is no need for it."
Rumpelstiltskin makes a show of rolling his eyes and she bites her lip in frustration.
"So can you do it?"
"Of course I can do it, dearie, do you doubt my powers?" he purses his lips as if a mere idea of the girl questioning his magic is insulting.
"No, I'm not! But will you do it?"
He studies her and then flicks his wrist.
"There. Happy now?" Isabelle bends down to inspect the wound only to find it's no longer there. She knew that magic could do much, but still seeing it cast is marvelous. "Can we leave now? Unless you ask me to clean the stables as well," he grumbles and she laughs. Not because she finds his words funny but rather at the way he casually says we. It makes her ridiculously warm inside and she knows her cheeks will soon begin to hurt from smiling.
Isabelle is so occupied by her thoughts that she nearly bumps into him when he stops abruptly a few steps outside.
"I'll take your ribbon," he informs her and for a moment she cannot understand what he is talking about.
"My ribbon?" she repeats and Rumpelstiltskin turns around.
"Precisely. As my payment," he adds and makes a strange trilling giggle that makes her involuntarily snicker too.
She has absolutely no clue as to why he needs her ribbon. Her behavior has been nothing but reckless, escalating from cautiousness and signing contracts to asking him to do random things without even bothering about the price. Isabelle knows what kind of price she hopes for but what he demands leaves her a bit disappointed. Yet her fingers fly to the end of her plait and after a few tugs she undoes the knot of the bow and slowly begins unbraiding her hair.
She looks up at Rumpelstiltskin and her breath is caught in her throat. His eyes are fixed on her, and his gaze is so intent that she shivers. She feels her face getting warmer and although they are not touching, the moment feels strangely sensual, almost intimate and she squeezes the strands of hair harder to calm the tremor in her fingers. Isabelle manages to undo her braid and holds out the blue satin ribbon for him.
Rumpelstiltskin plucks it from her palm and runs the smooth piece between his fingers, making the material cover and slide over his glittering skin.
"Beautiful," he murmurs so quietly she'd not have caught it if she hadn't stepped closer to him at that moment. She is grateful for the little light outside as her face must be beet-red by now; she doesn't know if he was talking about the ribbon or her hair but secretly hopes he complimented her.
Isabelle approaches him as close as she dares to – and she feels quite audacious tonight – and looks up at the man. She cannot explain why she is doing it, but she feels intoxicated by challenging him, by pushing him further each time, by catching him off guard even though it must be unacceptable and wrong on so many levels.
"Is it all you wanted?" she asks and she knows he understands exactly what she implies. The man doesn't take the bait and she shakes his hand a little sadly instead.
"What was it all about? Back there in the stables?" he ignores her question, posing one of his own.
"About healing my horse," she replies defensively with a lot more force than needed and both of them know it's not completely true.
"And remedying the wretched animal was so urgent because….?"
"Because I wanted to go horse-riding," she shoots back at him and Rumpelstiltskin snorts.
"How about the rest of your father's horses?"
"Phillipe is my favourite. Have you heard of loyalty?" Isabelle knows she's taking too many liberties but he makes her feel silly and she dreads his reaction if he were to find out her actual motives.
"And have you heard of honesty?" he raises his eyebrows as he puts on a face of exaggerated concern.
Isabelle sighs and tries to bend her head to avoid his stare but his fingers catch her under her chin and she has no choice but to meet his solemn eyes.
"The question still stands," Rumpelstiltskin says and his breath fans her face as he enunciates words slowly and clearly. His voice is silky-smooth and shockingly rich, caressing her ears and she fights the whim to close her eyes and bury her face in his palm. "What is this about?"
He expects an answer and she thinks it would be fair to give him one.
"About having a friend," she offers softly and his hand drops from her face as he flicks his wrist in irritation.
"Why does everyone just assume that…," he snaps, taking a few steps back (and why does it feel like he's trying to run?), "…that I need a friend?" Rumpelstiltskin spits the last word out like it's venom and she flinches at the contempt in his voice.
"No!" she hurriedly steps to him, "I was talking about myself."
"What?" he seems so surprised he doesn't register that fact she practically presses herself against him.
"I need a friend," she explains and he looks even more bewildered.
"You couldn't find anybody else for this role?"
"I do not want to find anyone else."
"I am not apt for it," he protests.
"Why?" she asks simply and he blinks at her.
"What do you mean, why? Isabelle…"
"Belle," she corrects him and he closes his eyes as if the name causes him pain. But isn't it what he thought it was, isn't it what he wants it to be? Rumpelstiltskin sucks in air through his clenched teeth and she can see a muscle twitch in his cheek.
Without thinking, she reaches up and cups the side of his face. He doesn't open his eyes and his curly hair feels exceptionally soft on the back of her hand. She wants to run her fingers through it but she hasn't gathered up her courage for it yet.
"You do not understand," he says meekly but she has already decided.
His skin is warm and rough under her touch, like a stone that has spent a day in the sun. She gently strokes her thumb across his face and his eyes fly open. The girl holds his gaze as she slowly rises to the tips of her toes and nudges her face inch by inch closer to his.
Rumpelstiltskin tries to pull away but she's determined; she stops a breath away and just holds there, her lips not touching his skin.
"You do not know what you're doing," the man tries to reason with her, still tense and unyielding. In her sound mind she would laugh at it – she, born and raised as a lady, is trying to earn a kiss from the Dark One who resists and tries to advise her against it; but Belle is not in her right mind.
"I do," she reassures him, raising her other hand and placing it on his chest. The rough leather scratches against her skin but she pays it no mind. "Please," she begs, not caring that the plea makes her sound desperate.
The word breaks him and she doesn't know who moves forward first, but their lips meet and the butterflies in her stomach flutter madly as the rest of her body melts against him. Ironically, she does think it must be magic and then there are no more thoughts, only the pressure of his lips and the sheer joy when his arms wrap around her waist and Rumpelstiltskin holds her closer.