Once Upon A Time Fanfic: "Anchor"
Title: Anchor
Fandom: Once Upon A Time
Characters: Rumple/Belle
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1780
Summary: When he faces her again he has both hands pressed tightly over the knob of his cane, his long fingers white with the effort. "There now," he says. "A nice bath will go a long way toward setting you to rights."
Notes: Post Season One. Written for 10_fics for the prompt "water"
Anchor
by Severina
It used to take her maid and several of the kitchen girls an hour to fill her bath, trekking up and down the stone steps of the castle with pots of water heated over the fire. By the time they made enough circuits to fill the tub the water would be luke-warm at best, and she'd be shivering by the time she was finished rubbing a rough cloth over her body.
In this new land, the tub fills with steaming hot water at a touch. Belle watches, awed, as Rumplestiltskin adjusts the temperature with a deft twist of his wrist, then bends to add a potion that fills the air with a sharp and spicy scent and froths into bubbles in the cascading water. His cane taps lightly at the tiles as he brushes past her to heap thick fluffy towels on the vanity next to the wash basin, his movements smooth and precise.
He hasn't looked at her since he brought her to this large room of shiny porcelain and gleaming metal, but she cannot look away from him. He's her Rumplestiltskin, but not - his hair smooth and glossy where it should hang in twisting curls, his body clothed in layers of soft fabric instead of spiky leather and scales. The hand that presses against the towels should shine golden-green under the light and be tipped with thick black nails, not tan and with the nails clipped precisely short and blunt. The dichotomy between what she sees and what should be makes her blink, suddenly dizzy in the warmth of the room.
"Belle?"
"I'm fine," she lies. He's finally met her eyes, at last, searching hers for a sign of what caused her to sway. The hand that had fluttered out to steady her drops back to his side when she shakes her head, swallows to give herself a moment to regain her equilibrium. "It's just a lot to take in."
"Overwhelming, I'm sure," he agrees. He turns his back to her and bends over the tub, and the flow of water trickles and stops. When he faces her again he has both hands pressed tightly over the knob of his cane, his long fingers white with the effort. "There now," he says. "A nice bath will go a long way toward setting you to rights."
"Yes," Belle says, if only to ease his anxiety if not her own. The ease with which they embraced at their reunion in the forest has somehow vanished in the ride back to his home, and she is at a loss on how to get it back. Then she firms her chin. The water will ease her aching muscles, and the thin shift she's wearing sticks to her skin with days of grime and dried sweat. Soaking in the hot water and washing her hair will go far in making her feel like herself again. It will be the first of many steps in rediscovering herself.
But when Rumplestiltskin nods and moves to leave, the fear returns, sudden and unbidden. She has had dreams like this, where she is safe and warm, and then awoken to Regina's cell, to Regina's ruthless red lips shaping cruel words.
"Rumplestiltskin," she says, and her voice cracks on his name. "You'll be… nearby?"
"I'll move a chair into the hall and I'll be right outside the door. If you need anything you just call my name, all right?"
She doesn't tell him that she spent weeks calling his name. Every morning, after she had scratched a mark on the wall. Every evening, after she curled on her cot and covered herself with the blanket. First in her head, then under her breath, and finally aloud when she realized that the guards cared little of what she said. He never came for her. And so finally she stopped trying.
"Thank you," she says, and watches him close the door partway, listens to the tap of his cane as he moves down the hall and returns, the clunk as he does as he's promised and sets a chair against the wall. She closes her eyes and breathes in the scented steam of the room, pictures him sitting straight-backed outside her door. Perhaps with his cane resting over his knees; perhaps with his head leaning back and his eyes closed. Perhaps as frightened as she.
Then she straightens her spine, opens her eyes and starts sorting herself out. She drops the sweat-stained clothes one at a time in the corner of the room, wrinkling her nose as each one falls. She never wants to see them again, wonders if she could convince Rumplestiltskin to let her burn them on a bonfire in the yard. The image makes her smile as she eases into the hot water. The bubbles cover her from neck to toes, and the urge to simply lay back and close her eyes is nearly irresistible. But she forces herself to practicalities first; takes up the soap and lathers it across her body and does her best to wash away every sour, unpleasant memory of her confinement along with the scrim of dirt.
It is only when she has lain back in the tub and let herself soak up the delicious heat that she realizes how quiet it is. Not a sound from rooms beyond this one, not a peep from outside the window. No birdsong, no wind, no breath other than her own. It is exactly like the tower, when hours upon hours could go by without a sign that there was another person alive but herself, when she covered her ears with her hands to try to block out the endless monotonous nothing. A person could go mad from it.
A person could go mad from it, and dream herself into a faraway land where hot water spews from hidden springs at the touch of a hand, and one's true love is transformed into a simple man with a gentle brogue and a limp.
Belle sits up suddenly, ignorant of the water sloshing over the edge of the tub and soaking the floorboards. "Rumplestiltskin!"
She doesn't like the hysterical edge of her voice, lifts a hand to her chest to try to still the rapid beating of her heart. But she hears the creak of the chair as he levers himself up, sees his lean shadow against the wall as he comes to stand outside the door.
"Belle? Are you all right?"
She is not; hasn't been since they got back into his car to return to this strange little town with its bright lights and odd clothing. She grips the edge of the tub while her mind churns with contradictory memories, from the dank and shadowy cellar and the weak trickle of a chilly shower, to the basin and towel of a cold tower room. And in each place the Queen, ruby lips and kohl-darkened eyes.
She has to swallow twice before she can speak, but at least her voice is steady. "Can you come in, please?"
The quality of the light changes when Rumplestiltskin pushes open the door, and a cool breeze wafts in from the hallway. It helps to clear her head; brings with it the scent of him, of straw and wood-smoke and the pin-prickling aura that a part of her recognizes as his magic. She never felt that, in the other places. His scent, yes; her mind could bring forth the smell of his skin, the taste of his lips. But not his magic - that is a sensation just below the surface, a thrumming in her veins.
Belle lets out a shuddering breath, releases her death grip on the tub. He is hovering just inside the door now, looking everywhere but at her. Small of stature but larger than life, giving her air when she has none, filling the hole in her heart that she didn't even know existed until a few scant hours ago. It comes to her that the last time they met he had sent her away, and she had gone. That love to him does not necessarily always mean commitment, or loyalty, or fidelity. That he fears that she will leave again once she has acclimatized to this peculiar land, and steels himself to let her.
It comes to her that if she wants him, she will have to claim him.
"I'm sorry," she says, gesturing with a dripping hand. "My back. I can't reach. Will you wash it for me?"
She sees him stutter in place, a hand clutching convulsively at the cane before he recovers himself and turns toward her. His gaze flits instinctively the length of her body before flicking back to her eyes, and despite the bold notions flickering through her mind she slides a little further into the tub so that the water covers the tops of her breasts. She studies the bubbles on the surface of the water, and it's only when she hears the rattle of the cane on the floor and he sinks down onto his knees at her side that she lets herself straighten slightly.
His hand quivers as he lifts the fall of her hair and moves it to her shoulder; his fingertips tremble at the nape of her neck, making her shiver. Then his hand is on her back, his palm pressed between her shoulder blades, and she lets out a shaking sigh.
This is what she needs. His touch is the anchor that keeps her grounded. Cold towers and gloomy asylum walls fall away at the smooth slide of his hand guiding the soap, at the flutter of his fingers at the small of her back. His breath is as shallow as hers, his heart no doubt beating as swiftly as hers; and when he presses a hesitant kiss to the curve of her shoulder it is all she can do not to whimper aloud.
She needs to tell him - that she knows their love is true, that she will never leave him again, that nothing will tear them apart. That in her he will know faithfulness, and laughter, and strength. That she is his as much as he is hers, and that she always will be. She lifts her head and opens her mouth to tell him all these things so that he may never doubt, and-
"Rumple," she breathes.
"Belle. Oh, Belle," he murmurs just before their lips meet.
It is more than the first tentative touch of lips at the wheel, more than the fervent embrace at finding each other again. It is a fresh start, a new beginning, a shedding of all that came before. It is renewal.
It is everything.
.
Fandom: Once Upon A Time
Characters: Rumple/Belle
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1780
Summary: When he faces her again he has both hands pressed tightly over the knob of his cane, his long fingers white with the effort. "There now," he says. "A nice bath will go a long way toward setting you to rights."
Notes: Post Season One. Written for 10_fics for the prompt "water"
Anchor
by Severina
It used to take her maid and several of the kitchen girls an hour to fill her bath, trekking up and down the stone steps of the castle with pots of water heated over the fire. By the time they made enough circuits to fill the tub the water would be luke-warm at best, and she'd be shivering by the time she was finished rubbing a rough cloth over her body.
In this new land, the tub fills with steaming hot water at a touch. Belle watches, awed, as Rumplestiltskin adjusts the temperature with a deft twist of his wrist, then bends to add a potion that fills the air with a sharp and spicy scent and froths into bubbles in the cascading water. His cane taps lightly at the tiles as he brushes past her to heap thick fluffy towels on the vanity next to the wash basin, his movements smooth and precise.
He hasn't looked at her since he brought her to this large room of shiny porcelain and gleaming metal, but she cannot look away from him. He's her Rumplestiltskin, but not - his hair smooth and glossy where it should hang in twisting curls, his body clothed in layers of soft fabric instead of spiky leather and scales. The hand that presses against the towels should shine golden-green under the light and be tipped with thick black nails, not tan and with the nails clipped precisely short and blunt. The dichotomy between what she sees and what should be makes her blink, suddenly dizzy in the warmth of the room.
"Belle?"
"I'm fine," she lies. He's finally met her eyes, at last, searching hers for a sign of what caused her to sway. The hand that had fluttered out to steady her drops back to his side when she shakes her head, swallows to give herself a moment to regain her equilibrium. "It's just a lot to take in."
"Overwhelming, I'm sure," he agrees. He turns his back to her and bends over the tub, and the flow of water trickles and stops. When he faces her again he has both hands pressed tightly over the knob of his cane, his long fingers white with the effort. "There now," he says. "A nice bath will go a long way toward setting you to rights."
"Yes," Belle says, if only to ease his anxiety if not her own. The ease with which they embraced at their reunion in the forest has somehow vanished in the ride back to his home, and she is at a loss on how to get it back. Then she firms her chin. The water will ease her aching muscles, and the thin shift she's wearing sticks to her skin with days of grime and dried sweat. Soaking in the hot water and washing her hair will go far in making her feel like herself again. It will be the first of many steps in rediscovering herself.
But when Rumplestiltskin nods and moves to leave, the fear returns, sudden and unbidden. She has had dreams like this, where she is safe and warm, and then awoken to Regina's cell, to Regina's ruthless red lips shaping cruel words.
"Rumplestiltskin," she says, and her voice cracks on his name. "You'll be… nearby?"
"I'll move a chair into the hall and I'll be right outside the door. If you need anything you just call my name, all right?"
She doesn't tell him that she spent weeks calling his name. Every morning, after she had scratched a mark on the wall. Every evening, after she curled on her cot and covered herself with the blanket. First in her head, then under her breath, and finally aloud when she realized that the guards cared little of what she said. He never came for her. And so finally she stopped trying.
"Thank you," she says, and watches him close the door partway, listens to the tap of his cane as he moves down the hall and returns, the clunk as he does as he's promised and sets a chair against the wall. She closes her eyes and breathes in the scented steam of the room, pictures him sitting straight-backed outside her door. Perhaps with his cane resting over his knees; perhaps with his head leaning back and his eyes closed. Perhaps as frightened as she.
Then she straightens her spine, opens her eyes and starts sorting herself out. She drops the sweat-stained clothes one at a time in the corner of the room, wrinkling her nose as each one falls. She never wants to see them again, wonders if she could convince Rumplestiltskin to let her burn them on a bonfire in the yard. The image makes her smile as she eases into the hot water. The bubbles cover her from neck to toes, and the urge to simply lay back and close her eyes is nearly irresistible. But she forces herself to practicalities first; takes up the soap and lathers it across her body and does her best to wash away every sour, unpleasant memory of her confinement along with the scrim of dirt.
It is only when she has lain back in the tub and let herself soak up the delicious heat that she realizes how quiet it is. Not a sound from rooms beyond this one, not a peep from outside the window. No birdsong, no wind, no breath other than her own. It is exactly like the tower, when hours upon hours could go by without a sign that there was another person alive but herself, when she covered her ears with her hands to try to block out the endless monotonous nothing. A person could go mad from it.
A person could go mad from it, and dream herself into a faraway land where hot water spews from hidden springs at the touch of a hand, and one's true love is transformed into a simple man with a gentle brogue and a limp.
Belle sits up suddenly, ignorant of the water sloshing over the edge of the tub and soaking the floorboards. "Rumplestiltskin!"
She doesn't like the hysterical edge of her voice, lifts a hand to her chest to try to still the rapid beating of her heart. But she hears the creak of the chair as he levers himself up, sees his lean shadow against the wall as he comes to stand outside the door.
"Belle? Are you all right?"
She is not; hasn't been since they got back into his car to return to this strange little town with its bright lights and odd clothing. She grips the edge of the tub while her mind churns with contradictory memories, from the dank and shadowy cellar and the weak trickle of a chilly shower, to the basin and towel of a cold tower room. And in each place the Queen, ruby lips and kohl-darkened eyes.
She has to swallow twice before she can speak, but at least her voice is steady. "Can you come in, please?"
The quality of the light changes when Rumplestiltskin pushes open the door, and a cool breeze wafts in from the hallway. It helps to clear her head; brings with it the scent of him, of straw and wood-smoke and the pin-prickling aura that a part of her recognizes as his magic. She never felt that, in the other places. His scent, yes; her mind could bring forth the smell of his skin, the taste of his lips. But not his magic - that is a sensation just below the surface, a thrumming in her veins.
Belle lets out a shuddering breath, releases her death grip on the tub. He is hovering just inside the door now, looking everywhere but at her. Small of stature but larger than life, giving her air when she has none, filling the hole in her heart that she didn't even know existed until a few scant hours ago. It comes to her that the last time they met he had sent her away, and she had gone. That love to him does not necessarily always mean commitment, or loyalty, or fidelity. That he fears that she will leave again once she has acclimatized to this peculiar land, and steels himself to let her.
It comes to her that if she wants him, she will have to claim him.
"I'm sorry," she says, gesturing with a dripping hand. "My back. I can't reach. Will you wash it for me?"
She sees him stutter in place, a hand clutching convulsively at the cane before he recovers himself and turns toward her. His gaze flits instinctively the length of her body before flicking back to her eyes, and despite the bold notions flickering through her mind she slides a little further into the tub so that the water covers the tops of her breasts. She studies the bubbles on the surface of the water, and it's only when she hears the rattle of the cane on the floor and he sinks down onto his knees at her side that she lets herself straighten slightly.
His hand quivers as he lifts the fall of her hair and moves it to her shoulder; his fingertips tremble at the nape of her neck, making her shiver. Then his hand is on her back, his palm pressed between her shoulder blades, and she lets out a shaking sigh.
This is what she needs. His touch is the anchor that keeps her grounded. Cold towers and gloomy asylum walls fall away at the smooth slide of his hand guiding the soap, at the flutter of his fingers at the small of her back. His breath is as shallow as hers, his heart no doubt beating as swiftly as hers; and when he presses a hesitant kiss to the curve of her shoulder it is all she can do not to whimper aloud.
She needs to tell him - that she knows their love is true, that she will never leave him again, that nothing will tear them apart. That in her he will know faithfulness, and laughter, and strength. That she is his as much as he is hers, and that she always will be. She lifts her head and opens her mouth to tell him all these things so that he may never doubt, and-
"Rumple," she breathes.
"Belle. Oh, Belle," he murmurs just before their lips meet.
It is more than the first tentative touch of lips at the wheel, more than the fervent embrace at finding each other again. It is a fresh start, a new beginning, a shedding of all that came before. It is renewal.
It is everything.
.