Once Upon a Time Fanfic: "Engagement Photo"
Title: Engagement Photo
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Characters: Rumple/Belle
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1686 words
Summary: When Belle wants a proper engagement photo taken, Rumplestiltskin does his best to make her happy. For a time.
Notes: Written for getyourwordsout bingo, for this
Engagement Photo
by Severina
"Come on, Rumple," Belle said, tugging at his hand.
Rumplestiltskin planted his heels at the entrance to the room. "Belle, is this really necessary?"
"You asked me to marry you," Belle said.
As if he could ever forget the way the tears had threatened to overspill her eyes, or the smile that had lit the shop, or the feel of her warm in his arms when she said yes. The image of her in that moment is seared in his memory, there to be taken out and fondled whenever he needed it. Which was more often than he wished.
"That's a very big deal," Belle continued. "So yes, Rumple, this is very necessary."
He could mention that couples have been getting married for millennia without all this fuss and bother, but when she smiled at him like that he found most of his resolve trickling down his spine. And when her fingers curled around his and pulled again, gently, he forced away his protests and allowed her to tow him into the studio.
A white silk sheet draped across the back wall. Bright lights set up on long metal stands. It was nothing he had ever seen in his persona of Mr. Gold, yet the arrangement was strangely familiar. He made a circuit of the room and it came to him. Replace the lights with candelabra and the camera with an easel, and the room was eerily similar to those set up by the portrait painters of the Enchanted Forest, those charlatans who roamed from court to court charging extravagant sums to create images that resembled those sitting for them only if you squinted and stood at fifty paces. The worst of them had been an odious little creature called-
"Ah yes, you're here, wonderful," a thin, reedy voice called out.
"Fiero," Rumplestiltskin sneered. He turned on his heel, eyed the jittery fellow. "Couldn't find anyone to bilk out of a dozen gold coins? No one wanted twenty pounds dropped and a less bulbous nose today?"
"Ah, photography is the name of the game these days, my good…er… man?" Fiero said. He cocked his head, scratched at the five remaining hairs on his scalp.
"Hmm. And how much is this photography going to cost me?"
"Only a thousand dollars, Rumple," Belle answered before the erstwhile painter could open his mouth.
"Only? I wouldn't give ten dollars to this pathetic excuse for a-"
Belle's hand on his arm stopped him before he could continue. "Rumple," she said, lowering her voice, "Mr. Fiero comes highly recommended. And a thousand dollars isn't so much for the perfect engagement photo, is it?"
Rumplestiltskin sighed. It wasn't the money; while he couldn't exactly use the gold he could spin in Storybrooke, twenty eight years of rent collections did amass into a pretty penny in one's bank account. It was, quite simply, the principle of the thing. The very thought of giving one dime to a sniveling cretin like Fiero made his skin crawl.
But Belle knew nothing of how Fiero scurried from realm to realm, using his persuasive wiles to lure even the most savvy kings and queens into handing him piles of coin from their coffers. Why, if memory served there was a portrait of Regina gathering dust beneath a sheet in one of the lowermost dungeons of her castle - a portrait in which she resembled less an elegant queen and more a freshly washed spaniel.
And frankly, he didn't want to disappoint his fiancé.
"Of course, sweetheart," he said. He clenched his teeth, turned to the scruffy little painter. "A bargain."
He paid little attention as Fiero brought out a stool and made adjustments to the lights. He focused on Belle instead: how she flushed charmingly when Fiero complimented her choice of attire, the brightness of her eyes when she smiled, her curious questions about apertures and lens - most of which the swindler could not answer, of course. He watched her perch on the stool, his eyes following the curve of her shapely ankle, and only roused himself when Fiero spoke to him.
"Now…erm… Rumpl… Mr. Stiltski… Mr. Gold. If you could just stand slightly to the left of Belle-"
"Miss French," Rumplestiltskin corrected, pleased when the hoary old portrait painter flushed.
"Erm, yes, of course, Miss French. Now then, stand there, yes, that's right… now lift your chin, mmm, yes… and drape your arm over her shoulder thusly-"
"And why would I do that?"
"Rumple," Belle hushed.
Rumplestiltskin resolutely ignored the pained look she gave him over her shoulder. "It is an awkward position," he said, directing his comments to Fiero, "and one which we would never normally assume. Why should I-"
"Artistic license," the painter interrupted.
"Artistic license," Rumplestiltskin gritted out.
"Rumple," Belle said, turning to face him, "I'm sure Mr. Fiero knows what he's doing."
Her voice was calm and soothing, and with her back to the painter she sounded oh so reasonable. Charming, even. But the fire in her eyes told another story, and Rumplestiltskin had no desire to sleep on the sofa this night.
He reluctantly took the assigned position. And then the next. He arched his back, pointed his right foot in the required direction, tipped his head so far back he was staring at the ceiling, and generally contorted his frame like an acrobat at the circus. Belle, he noticed, never had to extend her left leg while twisting her upper torso to the right and raising her elbow at a precise seventy three degree angle. Belle merely had to sit prettily on the stool, at most being told to lift her chin or lower her left shoulder.
Rumplestiltskin began to think that he was being played.
Still, it made Belle happy. So he kept at it far longer than he would have expected possible. He sweated under the lights so much that he unobtrusively set out a little cooling spell, and extended it to Belle when he saw the perspiration dotting her temples. And still Fiero snapped away, swapping lenses and adjusting measurements until he had to have taken a hundred photographs.
"Erm, yes," Fiero said. "Now for this next group-"
"Oh, please!" Rumplestiltskin huffed out. "There must be a perfectly acceptable shot among the photos you've already taken!"
"Artistic lic-"
"I've had enough of your artistic license," Rumplestiltskin fumed. His back hurt, his hip ached, and he wasn't sure his elbow would ever return to its natural state. "Let us see the photographs. We'll judge whether we need any more of your artistic license."
"Oh, but…" Fiero turned his oversized eyes to Belle. "Surely, Belle… erm, Miss French, of course, always Miss French… surely you must see that a photographer, an artist, needs to have complete control of his work until-"
"Actually, Mr. Fiero," Belle interrupted, "you have taken quite a few photographs. I would like to see them myself."
Fiero's eyes darted between them. He made a lunge for the camera, clearly meaning to hug it to his chest. But Rumplestiltskin merely had to wave a finger - his sore elbow could not prevent that - and the cumbersome device appeared in Belle's arms. "Now then," he said, leaning over her shoulder and eying Fiero carefully, "let's take a look, shall we?"
There were, indeed, over a hundred photographs.
Of Belle.
Oh, he appeared in a few of them. A hand on her shoulder here, a torso there. Once, in the background, there was a fuzzy shape that may have been his chin and part of his tie.
"Fiero," Rumple said softly.
Belle apparently recognized the tone. "Now, Rumple," she began.
"I will kill you."
Belle rose so quickly that the stool toppled behind her and she reached out quickly to snatch at his hand, already raised to smite the repulsive toadstool down. "Let's stay calm, Rumple," she said.
"Calm?" he snapped. "He's fixated on you, Belle. What do you suppose he was going to do with these, hmm? The repugnant little snail has..." He smiled at the thought that occurred, turned to Fiero and jabbed a finger in his direction. "That's it. I'll turn you into a snail!"
"You'll do no so thing, Rumplestiltskin!" Belle said, grabbing for his free hand. "What you will do is report Mr. Fiero to the authorities so that he can't swindle any other couples."
"Report him?" Rumplestiltskin spun toward her. "Belle!"
"And he will of course refund our money," Belle said. She gave him a final searing look before turning to the photographer. "And give us the negatives. Those, Rumple," she said over her shoulder, "you can burn."
"But Belle! He deserves--"
"Oh yes," Belle said coolly. "He deserves to be transformed into the snake he is for lying to us, and for whatever perverted things he was going to get up to with those pictures. But we are not like him, Rumple. We are going to take the higher road here."
Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth to protest, closed it abruptly when he caught the look in Belle's eyes. His fingers twitched, the magic oh-so-close to hand, and he shoved it back with an effort that could only be considered herculean. His Belle wished to be a hero. And while he was certainly not heroic, in this he could at least serve as her squire. It was, he must remember, Belle's honour that was tarnished here. It was therefore Belle's choice in how to deal with it.
He kept quiet while the execrable worm dumped an armful of negatives onto the floor, but could not withhold his glee entirely when he set it alight.
* * *
Two days later, Henry showed up after school with his polaroid instamatic and took a lovely photo of the two of them in the shop. When it was printed on the front page of the newspaper the next day, Belle's eyes shone and her smile lit the room. She carefully clipped the photo and accompanying article and placed it in her scrapbook.
For his part, Rumplestiltskin gladly paid Henry for the original. It was one thousand dollars well spent.
.
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Characters: Rumple/Belle
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1686 words
Summary: When Belle wants a proper engagement photo taken, Rumplestiltskin does his best to make her happy. For a time.
Notes: Written for getyourwordsout bingo, for this
Engagement Photo
by Severina
"Come on, Rumple," Belle said, tugging at his hand.
Rumplestiltskin planted his heels at the entrance to the room. "Belle, is this really necessary?"
"You asked me to marry you," Belle said.
As if he could ever forget the way the tears had threatened to overspill her eyes, or the smile that had lit the shop, or the feel of her warm in his arms when she said yes. The image of her in that moment is seared in his memory, there to be taken out and fondled whenever he needed it. Which was more often than he wished.
"That's a very big deal," Belle continued. "So yes, Rumple, this is very necessary."
He could mention that couples have been getting married for millennia without all this fuss and bother, but when she smiled at him like that he found most of his resolve trickling down his spine. And when her fingers curled around his and pulled again, gently, he forced away his protests and allowed her to tow him into the studio.
A white silk sheet draped across the back wall. Bright lights set up on long metal stands. It was nothing he had ever seen in his persona of Mr. Gold, yet the arrangement was strangely familiar. He made a circuit of the room and it came to him. Replace the lights with candelabra and the camera with an easel, and the room was eerily similar to those set up by the portrait painters of the Enchanted Forest, those charlatans who roamed from court to court charging extravagant sums to create images that resembled those sitting for them only if you squinted and stood at fifty paces. The worst of them had been an odious little creature called-
"Ah yes, you're here, wonderful," a thin, reedy voice called out.
"Fiero," Rumplestiltskin sneered. He turned on his heel, eyed the jittery fellow. "Couldn't find anyone to bilk out of a dozen gold coins? No one wanted twenty pounds dropped and a less bulbous nose today?"
"Ah, photography is the name of the game these days, my good…er… man?" Fiero said. He cocked his head, scratched at the five remaining hairs on his scalp.
"Hmm. And how much is this photography going to cost me?"
"Only a thousand dollars, Rumple," Belle answered before the erstwhile painter could open his mouth.
"Only? I wouldn't give ten dollars to this pathetic excuse for a-"
Belle's hand on his arm stopped him before he could continue. "Rumple," she said, lowering her voice, "Mr. Fiero comes highly recommended. And a thousand dollars isn't so much for the perfect engagement photo, is it?"
Rumplestiltskin sighed. It wasn't the money; while he couldn't exactly use the gold he could spin in Storybrooke, twenty eight years of rent collections did amass into a pretty penny in one's bank account. It was, quite simply, the principle of the thing. The very thought of giving one dime to a sniveling cretin like Fiero made his skin crawl.
But Belle knew nothing of how Fiero scurried from realm to realm, using his persuasive wiles to lure even the most savvy kings and queens into handing him piles of coin from their coffers. Why, if memory served there was a portrait of Regina gathering dust beneath a sheet in one of the lowermost dungeons of her castle - a portrait in which she resembled less an elegant queen and more a freshly washed spaniel.
And frankly, he didn't want to disappoint his fiancé.
"Of course, sweetheart," he said. He clenched his teeth, turned to the scruffy little painter. "A bargain."
He paid little attention as Fiero brought out a stool and made adjustments to the lights. He focused on Belle instead: how she flushed charmingly when Fiero complimented her choice of attire, the brightness of her eyes when she smiled, her curious questions about apertures and lens - most of which the swindler could not answer, of course. He watched her perch on the stool, his eyes following the curve of her shapely ankle, and only roused himself when Fiero spoke to him.
"Now…erm… Rumpl… Mr. Stiltski… Mr. Gold. If you could just stand slightly to the left of Belle-"
"Miss French," Rumplestiltskin corrected, pleased when the hoary old portrait painter flushed.
"Erm, yes, of course, Miss French. Now then, stand there, yes, that's right… now lift your chin, mmm, yes… and drape your arm over her shoulder thusly-"
"And why would I do that?"
"Rumple," Belle hushed.
Rumplestiltskin resolutely ignored the pained look she gave him over her shoulder. "It is an awkward position," he said, directing his comments to Fiero, "and one which we would never normally assume. Why should I-"
"Artistic license," the painter interrupted.
"Artistic license," Rumplestiltskin gritted out.
"Rumple," Belle said, turning to face him, "I'm sure Mr. Fiero knows what he's doing."
Her voice was calm and soothing, and with her back to the painter she sounded oh so reasonable. Charming, even. But the fire in her eyes told another story, and Rumplestiltskin had no desire to sleep on the sofa this night.
He reluctantly took the assigned position. And then the next. He arched his back, pointed his right foot in the required direction, tipped his head so far back he was staring at the ceiling, and generally contorted his frame like an acrobat at the circus. Belle, he noticed, never had to extend her left leg while twisting her upper torso to the right and raising her elbow at a precise seventy three degree angle. Belle merely had to sit prettily on the stool, at most being told to lift her chin or lower her left shoulder.
Rumplestiltskin began to think that he was being played.
Still, it made Belle happy. So he kept at it far longer than he would have expected possible. He sweated under the lights so much that he unobtrusively set out a little cooling spell, and extended it to Belle when he saw the perspiration dotting her temples. And still Fiero snapped away, swapping lenses and adjusting measurements until he had to have taken a hundred photographs.
"Erm, yes," Fiero said. "Now for this next group-"
"Oh, please!" Rumplestiltskin huffed out. "There must be a perfectly acceptable shot among the photos you've already taken!"
"Artistic lic-"
"I've had enough of your artistic license," Rumplestiltskin fumed. His back hurt, his hip ached, and he wasn't sure his elbow would ever return to its natural state. "Let us see the photographs. We'll judge whether we need any more of your artistic license."
"Oh, but…" Fiero turned his oversized eyes to Belle. "Surely, Belle… erm, Miss French, of course, always Miss French… surely you must see that a photographer, an artist, needs to have complete control of his work until-"
"Actually, Mr. Fiero," Belle interrupted, "you have taken quite a few photographs. I would like to see them myself."
Fiero's eyes darted between them. He made a lunge for the camera, clearly meaning to hug it to his chest. But Rumplestiltskin merely had to wave a finger - his sore elbow could not prevent that - and the cumbersome device appeared in Belle's arms. "Now then," he said, leaning over her shoulder and eying Fiero carefully, "let's take a look, shall we?"
There were, indeed, over a hundred photographs.
Of Belle.
Oh, he appeared in a few of them. A hand on her shoulder here, a torso there. Once, in the background, there was a fuzzy shape that may have been his chin and part of his tie.
"Fiero," Rumple said softly.
Belle apparently recognized the tone. "Now, Rumple," she began.
"I will kill you."
Belle rose so quickly that the stool toppled behind her and she reached out quickly to snatch at his hand, already raised to smite the repulsive toadstool down. "Let's stay calm, Rumple," she said.
"Calm?" he snapped. "He's fixated on you, Belle. What do you suppose he was going to do with these, hmm? The repugnant little snail has..." He smiled at the thought that occurred, turned to Fiero and jabbed a finger in his direction. "That's it. I'll turn you into a snail!"
"You'll do no so thing, Rumplestiltskin!" Belle said, grabbing for his free hand. "What you will do is report Mr. Fiero to the authorities so that he can't swindle any other couples."
"Report him?" Rumplestiltskin spun toward her. "Belle!"
"And he will of course refund our money," Belle said. She gave him a final searing look before turning to the photographer. "And give us the negatives. Those, Rumple," she said over her shoulder, "you can burn."
"But Belle! He deserves--"
"Oh yes," Belle said coolly. "He deserves to be transformed into the snake he is for lying to us, and for whatever perverted things he was going to get up to with those pictures. But we are not like him, Rumple. We are going to take the higher road here."
Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth to protest, closed it abruptly when he caught the look in Belle's eyes. His fingers twitched, the magic oh-so-close to hand, and he shoved it back with an effort that could only be considered herculean. His Belle wished to be a hero. And while he was certainly not heroic, in this he could at least serve as her squire. It was, he must remember, Belle's honour that was tarnished here. It was therefore Belle's choice in how to deal with it.
He kept quiet while the execrable worm dumped an armful of negatives onto the floor, but could not withhold his glee entirely when he set it alight.
* * *
Two days later, Henry showed up after school with his polaroid instamatic and took a lovely photo of the two of them in the shop. When it was printed on the front page of the newspaper the next day, Belle's eyes shone and her smile lit the room. She carefully clipped the photo and accompanying article and placed it in her scrapbook.
For his part, Rumplestiltskin gladly paid Henry for the original. It was one thousand dollars well spent.
.