Fic: Deal-Maker and Truth-Speaker
Title: Deal-Maker and Truth-Speaker
Rating: T
Word count: ~11,280
Characters/Pairings: Rumplestiltskin, Belle, brief appearances from the Queen, Snow White, Prince James, and Emma Swan.
Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise belongs to me, including characters and borrowed storylines.
Notes: First Once Upon A Time fic. New fandom love!
Summary: “Why did you come back?” he asks her. Her first answer dies on her lips; she cannot trick the trickster. “I met a woman on the road,” she says.
“Why did you come back?” he asks her, leaning close - so close she can feel his breath on her face. Curious, confused. So confused, she thinks, because she’s right. Since his son, he has loved nobody and nobody has loved him.
Her first answer dies on her lips; her first response is squashed. She cannot trick the trickster, has no wish to try. If she kisses him now, as she wants to, without telling him what she has been told…to trick him like that would be to lose him, she thinks. He deserves honesty from her, even if he never gives it in return.
“I met a woman on the road,” she says, and he pulls back a little, his curiosity growing. “She was…I didn’t like her, really. She was…” Belle tries to find the right words to describe that dark woman, who wore power like a cloak. So unlike Rumplestiltskin, who is immensely powerful but doesn’t always show it.
“What did she look like?” Rumplestiltskin asks her, an unpleasant note in his voice, and she shivers despite herself.
“Tall,” she says. “Dark hair…she was…she said she would walk with me, and I couldn’t stop her.” Rumplestiltskin’s anger is growing, but Belle hurries to speak, tries to explain. “She said…a lot of things, but she talked about curses and - and that true love’s kiss could break any curse.”
That stops his anger, at least for now. He tilts his head, frowns at her. “True love’s kiss?” he repeats. “What a quaint notion. Well, many curses, I suppose, but not all, by any means.” He bares teeth for a moment, shakes his head. “That woman,” he says clearly, “is the Queen. She means me harm, dearie.” Then he rises, the anger returning, and Belle scrambles to her feet, steps back from him. “Is that why you came back?” he demands. “To break my curse? She sent you back here to destroy me!”
“No!” Belle cries, but he isn’t listening.
“Damn that woman!” he rages, and he takes a cup from the tray on the table, hurls it against the wall. It smashes into a hundred pieces and Belle flinches before she finds her courage and steps towards him. Grasps his sleeve and refuses to back down when he glowers at her.
“I came back because I - I - I knew you wouldn’t expect me to,” she says. “Not to trick you, or destroy you. I didn’t even know if - if you -”
He is still suddenly, calm. So changeable, so utterly unpredictable. One moment he is raging, and the next he is looking at her in that way he does sometimes, as if he doesn’t understand her.
“You came back,” he murmurs. “Not…not because of her?” Belle shakes her head, mute, and Rumplestiltskin lifts his hand, traces a line down her cheek. She closes her eyes for a moment, feels his finger on her lips.
“Would it work?” she murmurs, and his finger moves with her lip. He doesn’t pull away, keeps that small point of contact between them. His finger at her mouth, her hand on his arm. “If I kissed you, would it…”
“No,” he says after a long moment, and she opens her eyes, tries not to hide her disappointment. “No, dearie,” he says softly. “Not this curse.” There’s something there, in his words, but it takes a moment for her to realise what it is. The curse can’t be broken with true love’s kiss - but he does not deny that he loves her.
It feels like her heart is expanding, as if she can’t breathe. And he is waiting for her now, waiting to see what she will do. She releases her grasp on his arm, lets her hand drop to her side, but he keeps his finger at her lips, almost as if cautioning her to silence.
“You’re not a man,” she whispers. “Can you love as a man loves?” He says nothing at first, but something flashes in his eyes, something dangerous. Belle swallows, waits. This is uncharted territory, perhaps for them both.
“No,” he says at last. “Not as a man.”
“If I asked you to kiss me, would you?” she asks, and Rumplestiltskin smiles his strange, crooked smile, at last pulls his hand away.
“That sounds like a deal, dearie,” he says. “Be careful.” But she shakes her head, frowns at the idea. This isn’t a deal; this is something else. She doesn’t like him reducing it to such crudeness. “No?” he says. “But what do I get for it, hm?”
“Don’t you want to kiss me?” she asks, and is gratified to see him flinch, just a little. Yes, he wants to kiss her. But he doesn’t - perhaps he won’t let himself. Perhaps he cannot accept happiness, cannot understand that she wants him to kiss her, that she loves him.
Then again, she hasn’t said the words yet. Magic words, she thinks, in many ways. Three small words.
Belle tries to be brave, but the words die in her mouth as Rumplestiltskin watches her. She can’t say it, not without some indication that he feels the same way.
But he wants to kiss her. That must be enough, that is a start. She puts her hands on his shoulders, lifts her face to his. Presses her lips to his mouth and kisses him, and after a moment she feels gentle pressure as he responds. Slow, hesitant, as if he is trying to remember what this is.
It doesn’t break his curse, of course, and for a moment she wonders if it’s because that wasn’t true love’s kiss.
Then Rumplestiltskin’s arms come around her waist and he pulls her close to him, kisses her again. Sharp teeth and warm tongue and Belle thinks that this is what happiness tastes like.
* * *
Things change after that. Belle still does her chores, still keeps the castle clean and cooks his meals - because if she didn’t, she thinks he would forget that he needs to eat - but they spend more time together. Share meals, talk…sometimes when she’s curled up in a chair in the library, he comes and sits at her feet, listens to her reading.
Sometimes she catches him watching her. He stands in a doorway and watches, until she flushes and becomes clumsy from the intensity of it.
They don’t speak of curses or true love’s kiss again, They kiss, often. At night before they part for bed; in the morning when she lays the table for breakfast. Sometimes he surprises her, catches her around the waist and kisses her mouth, her face, her neck. Sometimes they simply hold each other, Belle’s forehead resting against his shoulder and his hands warm and tight at her waist.
He starts bringing her gifts. Some are little, like the rose he’d given her that day, the very first present. Some cloth for a new dress; a book he thought she’d like. Sometimes flowers appear in her room.
Some gifts are bigger, more significant.
He gives her a necklace made from strands of his gold plaited together, and tells her if she sees the Queen again, the necklace will give her some protection. Tells her that if she’s wearing it, he will hear her calling his name from anywhere in the world.
He gives her a garden - sweeps back the untended wildness that surrounds his castle and reveals flower beds, lawns, even a small hedge maze. It’s a display of power that is astonishing, and she is a little nervous, asks what is the price of such magic. But Rumplestiltskin shakes his head, says nothing, and Belle lets it be forgotten, goes into the garden every day to tend her plants.
He gives her himself, bit by bit, piece by piece. With every day that passes, he gives a little more of himself, reveals a little more. He tells her of his son, of the time before he became what he is. Tells her of his long-dead wife. Sometimes - not often - he tells her of places he’s been, people he’s made deals with.
Belle isn’t sure what she gives him in return, but then this is a relationship, not a deal. There are no bargains to be struck, no handshake will cement the arrangement. But he seems to be getting something out of it. Sometimes she catches him watching her, when he thinks she isn’t looking, and the expression on his face is strange. Loving.
A new facet to the feared Rumplestiltskin, but this is all for her. He does not show this face to anyone else. That pleases her, somehow, even though she feels perhaps it shouldn’t. But still it does please her, to know that this is for her and her alone.
They are learning each other.
Things continue to change, sometimes slow and sometimes fast. One day he lets her try to spin, cackles at her failure to turn the straw into gold and his mirth is contagious. Another day, she drags him from his wheel and takes him for a picnic in the garden, and they lie together on the warm grass, mark the time with languid kisses.
One day she goes into the town again, to fetch more straw and to buy those essentials that do not appear magically in the kitchen cupboards overnight. Milk, butter, flour. Some things the castle’s magic cannot master, but Rumplestiltskin cannot - or perhaps will not - tell her why.
She is aware of him watching her as she goes, aware of his thoughts and fears, but Belle’s heart is light this time as she walks the road into the town. This time she knows she will return, and so she does, reaches the castle in the evening just as the light is beginning to fade. Rumplestiltskin’s relief is visible this time, and he asks if she encountered the Queen again.
Not this time, and Belle hopes she will never see that woman again. She had been, she thinks, so close to losing Rumplestiltskin that day when she’d almost kissed him in the hope it would break his curse. Because it would have been a trick, and he’d been so quick to assume the Queen had sent her even without that falseness between them.
He takes her in his arms then, murmurs words against her skin, scrapes teeth against her throat. Belle banishes thoughts of the Queen, embraces her love and is grateful to have him. She could have lost him that day.
After that, he is less cautious, less watchful. She does not often leave the castle, has little reason for it, but on those rare occasions when she does, he watches her because he wants to, and not because he is afraid she will not return.
And when he returns from his own outings, when he comes back from making the deals that have caused him to be so feared, Belle welcomes him back with a smile and a kiss, and hides away the fear that one day he will not come back.
Because she knows the Queen is his enemy, and Belle is not so foolish as to think there are no other enemies. He has made many, in the long years since he became what he is, the long years of deals that always - always - turn out to be for his own benefit.
It’s not his fault if they don’t think things through, he claims, but Belle knows his ways, knows his tricks. She knows it has created enemies for him, and she dreads the day when they find a way to stop him.
* * *
One night she cannot sleep, lies tossing and turning in her bed. It is too hot, even flinging aside her blankets. She rises, goes to open the window as wide as it can go, leans out for a moment hoping for a breath of wind. But there is no wind, so Belle sighs, withdraws. She looks at her bed, the crumpled sheets so unappealing, and then leaves her room in search of a glass of milk to cool her down.
Rumplestiltskin is spinning; she can hear him as she passes the doors to the great hall. She pauses just for a moment, and then slips through the door that’s been left ajar - almost in invitation, she thinks, and Rumplestiltskin does not look up as she walks towards him, bare feet almost silent on the flagstone floor.
“Can’t sleep, dearie?”
“No,” she answers, and goes to sit next to him. Her accustomed seat now, and he no longer flinches at her proximity as he once did. She leans her head against his shoulder, watches as he spins straw into gold, his movements deft and practiced.
“You won’t sleep sitting upright,” he points out, and Belle laughs a little, nods but doesn’t move.
“I know,” she says. “But I wasn’t getting to sleep anyway. I’d rather be here than tossing and turning in bed.” The wheel slowly stops spinning, and Rumplestiltskin’s hands cease their movement. Her plain words have startled him a little, she thinks. He is still so unused to the idea that she likes spending time with him. That doing so is preferable to being alone.
He turns slightly, places his arm around her, and Belle smiles.
“What if I wasn’t here?” he asks her. “You’d stay in bed then.” Her smile fades; she doesn’t like thinking of the business that takes him away from the castle at irregular hours. Sometimes she wakes to find him gone. Occasionally something, intuition or a sixth sense, makes him stop in the middle of a conversation, listening to something only he can hear with his head tilted to one side. Then he drops everything, leaves her alone in the castle and goes wherever he is required.
She doesn’t like it, but it is part of him, so she is working hard to accept it.
“How do you know?” she asked idly then. “When someone wants to make a deal, how do you know?”
“Why do you want to know, dearie?” he asks, a caustic note in his voice, and Belle sighs, closes her eyes and leans closer to him.
“I want to know you,” she says. “All of you. But you don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.” She won’t push, knows better. There are some things he tells her easily, now. Some questions she can ask and know that she will get an answer. Other things…other things are still hidden, and will remain so. His power is one of those things, something shrouded in mystery.
He told her, once, that all magic has a price. She thinks part of his price is silence, and wonders how much it costs him.
“I hear them,” he says at last. “I hear my name.” He lifts his free hand, snakes a finger down the line of her necklace, grazing against her skin. “The same kind of magic as this. But different.” Belle nods, doesn’t really understand but doesn’t really need to. It was only idle curiosity, after all.
“You should go back to bed,” he says then, giggles his high-pitched giggle. She has long given up wondering what he finds so amusing, so she just smiles at him and shrugs her shoulders.
“I know,” she says. “But I’m still not tired.” His hand is still at her throat, fingers resting on the gold necklace, and she lifts her hand, entwines their fingers. “Won’t you let me stay with you?”
“Of course,” he says, “as long as you wish.” The words seem to escape before he can think better of them, because as soon as he realises what he’s said he looks away from her, pulls his hand from hers.
“Forever,” Belle whispers. “How does forever sound?” She, too, has spoken without thinking, but she does not regret it.
Rumplestiltskin snarls a little, pushes her away from him and stands up, paces away from the spinning wheel. “You made a deal,” he reminds her. “Forever is already mine.”
“I’m not a prisoner here any longer,” Belle points out, but he’s right. She made that deal, and she was perfectly determined to see it through. Still, she wants him to know that’s not why she stays, wants him to understand. She rises, goes to his side, lifts her hands to cup his face and coaxes him to look at her. “Forever,” she whispers. “I - I love you. Don’t you know that, you silly man?”
“I’m not a man,” he mutters, but it’s rote, it’s recited, and he looks at her with mingled awe and disbelief. “I’ll hold you to it, dearie,” he says then. “I’m the deal-maker. All deals are final.”
“This isn’t a deal,” she says, a little irritated. “This is love. It’s simple. Do you love me?” He says nothing, but there’s a tiny nod, barely a movement of his head, and if she didn’t have her hands on his cheeks she wouldn’t even see it. “Then I’m going to stay with you,” she says. “Forever.”
“Forever,” he repeats. “That’s a long time, you know,” But his hands fall to her waist, he holds her tightly, and she thinks he would like to never let her go.
“Forever,” she whispers, and kisses him.
* * *
The Queen comes to visit.
Rumplestiltskin is out, and Belle is polishing the dining room table when the Queen comes in as if she is accustomed to coming and going as she likes, the doors opening without a touch and closing in the same manner.
Belle straightens, puts the lid on the pot of polish and refuses to be intimidated. She has Rumplestiltskin’s necklace around her neck, and the feel of his hands at her waist.
“I thought you’d be long gone,” says the Queen, and she trails a hand across the tabletop, smears the polish and grimaces when she finds it on her finger. “Did you try what I suggested?” Belle says nothing, lifts her chin slightly and watches this dangerous woman. The Queen smirks, just a little, although it’s possible she intends it as a smile. “I’m sorry. I thought for sure it was true love.”
“Did you want something?” Belle asks, won’t rise to the bait. What she and Rumplestiltskin have is private, and still fragile. It’s not something she would willingly discuss with someone she likes, let alone someone who Rumplestiltskin calls enemy.
“Is he here?” the Queen asks after a moment. “Does he trust you alone?” The smile develops fully into a smirk, and she tilts her head, sashays closer to Belle. “I suppose he did let you go once, so I suppose he must trust you a little.”
Belle wants to put space between them, wants to back away but knows it would be seen as a weakness. She manufactures a smile, fake and fixed, and shakes her head.
“He isn’t here at the moment,” she says. “I’ll tell him you called.”
“Oh, I think I’ll wait,” says the Queen. “I have important business with him. Won’t you offer me some tea?” Belle says nothing; she would not, she thinks, offer this woman so much as a mat to wipe her feet on. She will not leave the Queen alone while she goes to the kitchen and prepares tea - knows Rumplestiltskin does not trust her an inch, would not like her to be alone in his castle.
The Queen sneers, seems to sense Belle’s opposition to her. “Frankly,” she says, “I’m amazed you’re still here. I thought he would have grown bored of you by now.”
Belle keeps smiling her pleasant, fake smile. “Take a seat,” she suggests. “He may be some time. Excuse me, I have to finish this.” She picks up her cloth, turns her back on the Queen and resumes polishing the table. Turning her back is not, perhaps, the smartest thing to do, but she thinks it reflects how she feels. Reflects her attitude towards the Queen, this woman who is Rumplestiltskin’s enemy.
This evil woman, for he’s told Belle a little of the Queen’s deeds and misdeeds. Belle knows what kind of person this is.
A hand on her arm, and Belle tries to pull from the Queen’s grasp but the woman is deceptively strong, and Belle ceases her struggle almost as soon as it begins. She stares up at the Queen, feels fear curdling in her stomach and then banishes it as she remembers her necklace.
“Let me go,” she says, voice low and clear, and the Queen smirks again. She thinks she has the upper hand, but Belle is unafraid, and it must show, because the smirk turns into a scowl and the grip on her arm loosens.
“That necklace you’re wearing,” she says, and Belle lifts her head proudly. “Where did you get it?”
“Rumplestiltskin,” says Belle, a mere whisper of his name. She hopes it is enough, but even if he does not come, it makes the Queen back away a pace. Makes her look at Belle as if trying to work out how Belle fits in.
The door opens, and Rumplestiltskin walks into the dining room, carefree and disinterested. Feigning disinterest, for Belle sees the tension in his hands, the way his eyes move from her to the Queen and back again.
“What an unexpected…surprise,” he says, and giggles his high-pitched giggle. The Queen steps away from Belle, frowning in displeasure, and Rumplestiltskin comes to Belle’s side. Brushes his fingers against her sleeve, as if reassuring himself that she is unharmed. “But I’m afraid,” he continues, “I’m not at home today.” He giggles again, and Belle bites the inside of her mouth, is afraid now as she was not before.
She does not think that antagonising the Queen can do him any good.
But this is their fight, not hers; she cannot get between them.
“I came to see you about a mermaid,” says the Queen sourly. “Belle and I have been passing the time of day. But I think it can wait.” She draws herself up, glances Belle over again. Her expression is pitying, but Belle thinks it is as false as her earlier pretence at sympathy. “Too bad about true love’s kiss,” she said. “Still, if you can’t have true love, I suppose a physical relationship is the next best thing.”
She leaves; Belle closes her eyes. She feels exhausted, sways slightly. Rumplestiltskin touches her, runs his hands down her arms, over her face.
“You’re alright,” he mutters. “You’re alright.”
“I’m fine,” she whispers. The Queen’s parting words echo around her mind, and she opens her eyes, looks at him. Sees the desperation he’d hidden so well when the Queen was here, the fear he felt.
The Queen is wrong, she decides. This is true love. It can’t break his curse, but that isn’t because it isn’t true love, isn’t because the kiss lacks power. It’s simply that his curse is stronger.
It’s true love, and she knows it when he folds her into his arms, mutters apologies and reassurances that he would never dream of speaking to anyone else.
* * *
“What do you want?” he asks her one night as they lie in bed together, his fingers tracing whirling patterns on her skin. She feels sluggish, sated, has to take a moment to force her mind to engage.
“What do you mean?” she asks at last.
“Everybody wants something,” he says, a snap in his voice, a bite. “That’s why they come to me. They want something.”
Belle opens her eyes, looks up at him. His head is propped up on one hand, his eyes dark as he gazes at her. She feels, for a moment, horribly exposed. The blanket at her waist but no higher, baring her breasts to him. Nothing he hasn’t seen before, but when he looks like this she remembers who he is. What he is.
It hurts a little that even now - even as her time with him is beginning to be counted in years, not months - he thinks she must want something, thinks there must be some deal here. She had hoped that he was beginning to trust her, a little. Perhaps he is; perhaps he simply doesn’t understand.
“What do I want?” she says slowly, and sees him tense, sees his eyes narrow and his lip curl “I want…rain for my garden.” He frowns, confused, and Belle continues. “I want a pair of boots that don’t have to be worn in. I want a comfortable rocking chair, so I can sit by the fire. I want -”
He cuts her off then, kisses her, fierce and possessive, and she wraps an arm around his neck, pulls him down so he covers her body with his. Skin against skin, and if his skin is darker than hers, a little rougher, she doesn’t mind.
He isn’t a man, and doesn’t love as a man, but he does love.
Skin against skin, hands roaming across her body, seeking out the familiar places to make her cry out. Blankets pushed aside, Belle’s fingers digging into his shoulders as he moves within her, gasps and moans swallowed in his mouth as he kisses her.
Afterwards she can’t remember what they were speaking of, but Rumplestiltskin watches her again, a strange look on his face. Curiosity, bewilderment, and Belle reaches out to him, strokes her fingers down his cheek.
“What do you want?” he asks her again, and Belle sighs, shakes her head.
“Nothing,” she says. “I have everything I want, right here.” She pulls the blankets higher, rolls closer to him and rests her head against his chest.
“There must be something,” he argues. “Everybody wants something. Some little thing you’ve always dreamed of…you wanted to see the world, dearie, didn’t you say that?”
“Yes,” Belle concedes. “But that’s not something I want from you. Not the way you mean. I mean…of course, you’re right, there are things I want. But not like that.” She lifts her head, looks up at him seriously. “I made my deal with you, Rumplestiltskin,” she reminds him softly. “I don’t want any others. I just want you.”
His mouth is pressed in a thin line; he doesn’t believe her. But she can’t change his mind for him, so she rests her head on his chest again, closes her eyes.
“Alright,” she says eventually. “Something I want. I want you to be safe.”
“Beg pardon, dearie?”
“She scares me,” Belle says. “The Queen. Not because of what she could do to me; because of what she wants to do to you.”
“She can’t harm me, dearie,” Rumplestiltskin says, an assurance that she’s sure he believes. She’s sure he believes himself beyond the Queen’s power, and perhaps he’s right. Perhaps neither the Queen nor any of his other enemies can harm him.
“You can’t know that,” she whispers. “You can’t know.” He says nothing, but he holds her tightly. No, he can’t know. Nobody can know the future, not all of it. Not all the possible twists and permutations. Rumplestiltskin can perhaps see some of those twists better than most people, but even he can’t know.
And there is dread in Belle’s heart and mind, a deep and enduring dread that she can’t seem to shake off. The Queen’s visit had started it, so long ago now, but other things have added to it. Deals Rumplestiltskin mentions in passing, news she occasionally hears of the world outside.
Even the Dark Castle isn’t impenetrable.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” she says suddenly, pushes away from him and sits up, wraps her arms around herself. Deals are something he understands; if he agrees to this one, he will keep it. “Whatever happens, whatever she does…don’t think about me. Just be safe.”
He says nothing, sits up and touches her shoulder with a gentle hand. “Can’t promise that, dearie,” he says, his voice unnaturally soft.
“That’s what I want!” she says, hears the note of hysteria rising in her voice, hates herself for it. She’s never been someone who depends on a companion, never someone to define herself by the man beside her, but the thought of being without him terrifies her.
“No deal, I’m afraid,” he murmurs, presses a kiss to her shoulder. “Don’t fear, dearie. She won’t get me.” He draws her back down, tucks the blankets around her. “Not her, dearie. She has no idea. Calm now, hm? Sleep.”
Belle obeys, but the fear remains, cold ice in her stomach.
* * *
She isn’t aging, Belle realises one day. She’s at the kitchen table, pinning a paper pattern to a bolt of cloth that Rumplestiltskin had left on the bed earlier, and drops a handful of pins onto it, lifts her hands to her face. No lines, no wrinkles. Nothing has changed, and she has been here…
A long time. More than months. More than years? Time slips by so easily here, with Rumplestiltskin her only companion. She goes into the town occasionally, true, but the people there…they aren’t comfortable with her. They knew where she lives, who she lives with, and they are afraid of her, although she has never given them a reason to be. Still, their fear and discomfort has meant Belle hasn’t interacted with them much. She searches her memory now, tries to think if the faces have changed. Tries to remember how much the children have grown.
She goes to Rumplestiltskin then, leaves the pattern and cloth on the kitchen table and makes her way up to his study. He is writing when she enters, but holds out his hand for her, and she crosses the room to take it in hers.
“Rumple,” she says, “how long have I been here?”
He stops writing then, puts the quill down and tilts his head as he looks at her. “Why do you want to know, dearie?” he asks cagily, and Belle purses her lips. Whenever he answers a question with a question, she knows he’s hiding something. Knows there’s something he doesn’t want her to know.
“Tell me,” she insists, and he scowls at her, pulls away and rests his hands on his desk.
“Long,” he says at last. “A long, long time.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
Belle nods slowly, lifts a hand to her head and closes her eyes. She can’t look at him right now, has to take a moment to accept that. Years. Not just months, years. How had she not realised that? How had time slipped past so quickly?
This castle, she thought. This magic castle.
“My father,” she says then. “Everyone I knew.”
“He’s dead,” he says quietly, and Belle nods, doesn’t open her eyes, not yet. She thinks about her father, and wonders why she feels little grief. It’s not real, she thinks, but then…then she’s hardly thought of him at all since coming here. She had made the deal with Rumplestiltskin to save him, and everyone in her village, but she has hardly thought of them at all since entering this castle. She wonders if that’s magic as well, or simply the evolution of a girl who never wanted the life she had been forced to lead before she came here.
“If I left the castle,” she said then, opens her eyes in time to see his flinch, “would I start aging again?”
Rumplestiltskin takes his time answering. He rises, goes to the window, bows his head. Belle stays by the desk, clenches her hands into fists and breathes a little quicker as she waits for his answer.
“Yes,” he says eventually. “Yes, you would.”
Belle considers that. She has no plans to leave, which is clearly what he fears - but why should she leave? She no longer has any connection to the outside world. Still, she has other questions, and she has to ask them. She crosses the room to him, stands by his side but makes no attempt to touch him.
The window looks out onto her garden; she wonders how often he stands here watching her.
“Why didn’t I know?” she asks softly. “That so much time was passing? The castle - it’s strange, I know that, but surely I should have known? I think about all the time since I’ve been here, and I can remember it all, but it doesn’t seem like years.”
“Magic is strange, dearie,” says Rumplestiltskin, quiet and subdued in a way that’s so completely unnatural for him. “It has the same effect on me. More or less.” He hums for a moment. “I go out more.”
“What’s the price?” she whispers. “All the magic in this castle…what does it cost?”
“Your last laugh, and your first tears,” he says, and it provokes her, the nonsensical answer. She turns to him, pokes his shoulder.
“Be serious,” she says. “Please.”
“Never more so, dearie,” he protests. “That’s the price. Your last laugh, your first tears…” He glances at her then, mouth twisted into a grimace. “Life takes life,” he tells her. “You’ll never have a child while you live here.”
Belle is stunned for a moment. She touches her stomach, shakes her head slowly. She and Rumplestiltskin have been together so long, now, and yet she has never fallen pregnant. She has, on occasion, wondered whether there is something wrong with her. Whether she is unable to carry children, because they spend their nights in bed together and that’s usually followed by children.
She’s thought of children, with her hair and his skin. His eyes and his wicked sense of humour. She’s thought of being a family with him, of raising their children together.
All magic has a price. She isn’t sure whether this is a price she can easily pay.
“Alright,” she whispers at last. “Thank you for telling me.”
“You’re still free to go,” he says, doesn’t look at her. “Choice is yours, dearie. The deal’s long gone.”
“The choice is mine,” Belle agrees, “and I’m staying.” She takes his hand, entwines their fingers and looks out at her garden. “I was thinking of putting in some more roses,” she says. “Maybe some white ones. And a greenhouse. If I had a greenhouse, I could grow all sorts of things.”
“Whatever you want, dearie.”
Yes, Belle thinks, she is denied children and old age, denied a family beyond him. But whatever else she wants, he gives her.
Part Two
Rating: T
Word count: ~11,280
Characters/Pairings: Rumplestiltskin, Belle, brief appearances from the Queen, Snow White, Prince James, and Emma Swan.
Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise belongs to me, including characters and borrowed storylines.
Notes: First Once Upon A Time fic. New fandom love!
Summary: “Why did you come back?” he asks her. Her first answer dies on her lips; she cannot trick the trickster. “I met a woman on the road,” she says.
“Why did you come back?” he asks her, leaning close - so close she can feel his breath on her face. Curious, confused. So confused, she thinks, because she’s right. Since his son, he has loved nobody and nobody has loved him.
Her first answer dies on her lips; her first response is squashed. She cannot trick the trickster, has no wish to try. If she kisses him now, as she wants to, without telling him what she has been told…to trick him like that would be to lose him, she thinks. He deserves honesty from her, even if he never gives it in return.
“I met a woman on the road,” she says, and he pulls back a little, his curiosity growing. “She was…I didn’t like her, really. She was…” Belle tries to find the right words to describe that dark woman, who wore power like a cloak. So unlike Rumplestiltskin, who is immensely powerful but doesn’t always show it.
“What did she look like?” Rumplestiltskin asks her, an unpleasant note in his voice, and she shivers despite herself.
“Tall,” she says. “Dark hair…she was…she said she would walk with me, and I couldn’t stop her.” Rumplestiltskin’s anger is growing, but Belle hurries to speak, tries to explain. “She said…a lot of things, but she talked about curses and - and that true love’s kiss could break any curse.”
That stops his anger, at least for now. He tilts his head, frowns at her. “True love’s kiss?” he repeats. “What a quaint notion. Well, many curses, I suppose, but not all, by any means.” He bares teeth for a moment, shakes his head. “That woman,” he says clearly, “is the Queen. She means me harm, dearie.” Then he rises, the anger returning, and Belle scrambles to her feet, steps back from him. “Is that why you came back?” he demands. “To break my curse? She sent you back here to destroy me!”
“No!” Belle cries, but he isn’t listening.
“Damn that woman!” he rages, and he takes a cup from the tray on the table, hurls it against the wall. It smashes into a hundred pieces and Belle flinches before she finds her courage and steps towards him. Grasps his sleeve and refuses to back down when he glowers at her.
“I came back because I - I - I knew you wouldn’t expect me to,” she says. “Not to trick you, or destroy you. I didn’t even know if - if you -”
He is still suddenly, calm. So changeable, so utterly unpredictable. One moment he is raging, and the next he is looking at her in that way he does sometimes, as if he doesn’t understand her.
“You came back,” he murmurs. “Not…not because of her?” Belle shakes her head, mute, and Rumplestiltskin lifts his hand, traces a line down her cheek. She closes her eyes for a moment, feels his finger on her lips.
“Would it work?” she murmurs, and his finger moves with her lip. He doesn’t pull away, keeps that small point of contact between them. His finger at her mouth, her hand on his arm. “If I kissed you, would it…”
“No,” he says after a long moment, and she opens her eyes, tries not to hide her disappointment. “No, dearie,” he says softly. “Not this curse.” There’s something there, in his words, but it takes a moment for her to realise what it is. The curse can’t be broken with true love’s kiss - but he does not deny that he loves her.
It feels like her heart is expanding, as if she can’t breathe. And he is waiting for her now, waiting to see what she will do. She releases her grasp on his arm, lets her hand drop to her side, but he keeps his finger at her lips, almost as if cautioning her to silence.
“You’re not a man,” she whispers. “Can you love as a man loves?” He says nothing at first, but something flashes in his eyes, something dangerous. Belle swallows, waits. This is uncharted territory, perhaps for them both.
“No,” he says at last. “Not as a man.”
“If I asked you to kiss me, would you?” she asks, and Rumplestiltskin smiles his strange, crooked smile, at last pulls his hand away.
“That sounds like a deal, dearie,” he says. “Be careful.” But she shakes her head, frowns at the idea. This isn’t a deal; this is something else. She doesn’t like him reducing it to such crudeness. “No?” he says. “But what do I get for it, hm?”
“Don’t you want to kiss me?” she asks, and is gratified to see him flinch, just a little. Yes, he wants to kiss her. But he doesn’t - perhaps he won’t let himself. Perhaps he cannot accept happiness, cannot understand that she wants him to kiss her, that she loves him.
Then again, she hasn’t said the words yet. Magic words, she thinks, in many ways. Three small words.
Belle tries to be brave, but the words die in her mouth as Rumplestiltskin watches her. She can’t say it, not without some indication that he feels the same way.
But he wants to kiss her. That must be enough, that is a start. She puts her hands on his shoulders, lifts her face to his. Presses her lips to his mouth and kisses him, and after a moment she feels gentle pressure as he responds. Slow, hesitant, as if he is trying to remember what this is.
It doesn’t break his curse, of course, and for a moment she wonders if it’s because that wasn’t true love’s kiss.
Then Rumplestiltskin’s arms come around her waist and he pulls her close to him, kisses her again. Sharp teeth and warm tongue and Belle thinks that this is what happiness tastes like.
* * *
Things change after that. Belle still does her chores, still keeps the castle clean and cooks his meals - because if she didn’t, she thinks he would forget that he needs to eat - but they spend more time together. Share meals, talk…sometimes when she’s curled up in a chair in the library, he comes and sits at her feet, listens to her reading.
Sometimes she catches him watching her. He stands in a doorway and watches, until she flushes and becomes clumsy from the intensity of it.
They don’t speak of curses or true love’s kiss again, They kiss, often. At night before they part for bed; in the morning when she lays the table for breakfast. Sometimes he surprises her, catches her around the waist and kisses her mouth, her face, her neck. Sometimes they simply hold each other, Belle’s forehead resting against his shoulder and his hands warm and tight at her waist.
He starts bringing her gifts. Some are little, like the rose he’d given her that day, the very first present. Some cloth for a new dress; a book he thought she’d like. Sometimes flowers appear in her room.
Some gifts are bigger, more significant.
He gives her a necklace made from strands of his gold plaited together, and tells her if she sees the Queen again, the necklace will give her some protection. Tells her that if she’s wearing it, he will hear her calling his name from anywhere in the world.
He gives her a garden - sweeps back the untended wildness that surrounds his castle and reveals flower beds, lawns, even a small hedge maze. It’s a display of power that is astonishing, and she is a little nervous, asks what is the price of such magic. But Rumplestiltskin shakes his head, says nothing, and Belle lets it be forgotten, goes into the garden every day to tend her plants.
He gives her himself, bit by bit, piece by piece. With every day that passes, he gives a little more of himself, reveals a little more. He tells her of his son, of the time before he became what he is. Tells her of his long-dead wife. Sometimes - not often - he tells her of places he’s been, people he’s made deals with.
Belle isn’t sure what she gives him in return, but then this is a relationship, not a deal. There are no bargains to be struck, no handshake will cement the arrangement. But he seems to be getting something out of it. Sometimes she catches him watching her, when he thinks she isn’t looking, and the expression on his face is strange. Loving.
A new facet to the feared Rumplestiltskin, but this is all for her. He does not show this face to anyone else. That pleases her, somehow, even though she feels perhaps it shouldn’t. But still it does please her, to know that this is for her and her alone.
They are learning each other.
Things continue to change, sometimes slow and sometimes fast. One day he lets her try to spin, cackles at her failure to turn the straw into gold and his mirth is contagious. Another day, she drags him from his wheel and takes him for a picnic in the garden, and they lie together on the warm grass, mark the time with languid kisses.
One day she goes into the town again, to fetch more straw and to buy those essentials that do not appear magically in the kitchen cupboards overnight. Milk, butter, flour. Some things the castle’s magic cannot master, but Rumplestiltskin cannot - or perhaps will not - tell her why.
She is aware of him watching her as she goes, aware of his thoughts and fears, but Belle’s heart is light this time as she walks the road into the town. This time she knows she will return, and so she does, reaches the castle in the evening just as the light is beginning to fade. Rumplestiltskin’s relief is visible this time, and he asks if she encountered the Queen again.
Not this time, and Belle hopes she will never see that woman again. She had been, she thinks, so close to losing Rumplestiltskin that day when she’d almost kissed him in the hope it would break his curse. Because it would have been a trick, and he’d been so quick to assume the Queen had sent her even without that falseness between them.
He takes her in his arms then, murmurs words against her skin, scrapes teeth against her throat. Belle banishes thoughts of the Queen, embraces her love and is grateful to have him. She could have lost him that day.
After that, he is less cautious, less watchful. She does not often leave the castle, has little reason for it, but on those rare occasions when she does, he watches her because he wants to, and not because he is afraid she will not return.
And when he returns from his own outings, when he comes back from making the deals that have caused him to be so feared, Belle welcomes him back with a smile and a kiss, and hides away the fear that one day he will not come back.
Because she knows the Queen is his enemy, and Belle is not so foolish as to think there are no other enemies. He has made many, in the long years since he became what he is, the long years of deals that always - always - turn out to be for his own benefit.
It’s not his fault if they don’t think things through, he claims, but Belle knows his ways, knows his tricks. She knows it has created enemies for him, and she dreads the day when they find a way to stop him.
* * *
One night she cannot sleep, lies tossing and turning in her bed. It is too hot, even flinging aside her blankets. She rises, goes to open the window as wide as it can go, leans out for a moment hoping for a breath of wind. But there is no wind, so Belle sighs, withdraws. She looks at her bed, the crumpled sheets so unappealing, and then leaves her room in search of a glass of milk to cool her down.
Rumplestiltskin is spinning; she can hear him as she passes the doors to the great hall. She pauses just for a moment, and then slips through the door that’s been left ajar - almost in invitation, she thinks, and Rumplestiltskin does not look up as she walks towards him, bare feet almost silent on the flagstone floor.
“Can’t sleep, dearie?”
“No,” she answers, and goes to sit next to him. Her accustomed seat now, and he no longer flinches at her proximity as he once did. She leans her head against his shoulder, watches as he spins straw into gold, his movements deft and practiced.
“You won’t sleep sitting upright,” he points out, and Belle laughs a little, nods but doesn’t move.
“I know,” she says. “But I wasn’t getting to sleep anyway. I’d rather be here than tossing and turning in bed.” The wheel slowly stops spinning, and Rumplestiltskin’s hands cease their movement. Her plain words have startled him a little, she thinks. He is still so unused to the idea that she likes spending time with him. That doing so is preferable to being alone.
He turns slightly, places his arm around her, and Belle smiles.
“What if I wasn’t here?” he asks her. “You’d stay in bed then.” Her smile fades; she doesn’t like thinking of the business that takes him away from the castle at irregular hours. Sometimes she wakes to find him gone. Occasionally something, intuition or a sixth sense, makes him stop in the middle of a conversation, listening to something only he can hear with his head tilted to one side. Then he drops everything, leaves her alone in the castle and goes wherever he is required.
She doesn’t like it, but it is part of him, so she is working hard to accept it.
“How do you know?” she asked idly then. “When someone wants to make a deal, how do you know?”
“Why do you want to know, dearie?” he asks, a caustic note in his voice, and Belle sighs, closes her eyes and leans closer to him.
“I want to know you,” she says. “All of you. But you don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.” She won’t push, knows better. There are some things he tells her easily, now. Some questions she can ask and know that she will get an answer. Other things…other things are still hidden, and will remain so. His power is one of those things, something shrouded in mystery.
He told her, once, that all magic has a price. She thinks part of his price is silence, and wonders how much it costs him.
“I hear them,” he says at last. “I hear my name.” He lifts his free hand, snakes a finger down the line of her necklace, grazing against her skin. “The same kind of magic as this. But different.” Belle nods, doesn’t really understand but doesn’t really need to. It was only idle curiosity, after all.
“You should go back to bed,” he says then, giggles his high-pitched giggle. She has long given up wondering what he finds so amusing, so she just smiles at him and shrugs her shoulders.
“I know,” she says. “But I’m still not tired.” His hand is still at her throat, fingers resting on the gold necklace, and she lifts her hand, entwines their fingers. “Won’t you let me stay with you?”
“Of course,” he says, “as long as you wish.” The words seem to escape before he can think better of them, because as soon as he realises what he’s said he looks away from her, pulls his hand from hers.
“Forever,” Belle whispers. “How does forever sound?” She, too, has spoken without thinking, but she does not regret it.
Rumplestiltskin snarls a little, pushes her away from him and stands up, paces away from the spinning wheel. “You made a deal,” he reminds her. “Forever is already mine.”
“I’m not a prisoner here any longer,” Belle points out, but he’s right. She made that deal, and she was perfectly determined to see it through. Still, she wants him to know that’s not why she stays, wants him to understand. She rises, goes to his side, lifts her hands to cup his face and coaxes him to look at her. “Forever,” she whispers. “I - I love you. Don’t you know that, you silly man?”
“I’m not a man,” he mutters, but it’s rote, it’s recited, and he looks at her with mingled awe and disbelief. “I’ll hold you to it, dearie,” he says then. “I’m the deal-maker. All deals are final.”
“This isn’t a deal,” she says, a little irritated. “This is love. It’s simple. Do you love me?” He says nothing, but there’s a tiny nod, barely a movement of his head, and if she didn’t have her hands on his cheeks she wouldn’t even see it. “Then I’m going to stay with you,” she says. “Forever.”
“Forever,” he repeats. “That’s a long time, you know,” But his hands fall to her waist, he holds her tightly, and she thinks he would like to never let her go.
“Forever,” she whispers, and kisses him.
* * *
The Queen comes to visit.
Rumplestiltskin is out, and Belle is polishing the dining room table when the Queen comes in as if she is accustomed to coming and going as she likes, the doors opening without a touch and closing in the same manner.
Belle straightens, puts the lid on the pot of polish and refuses to be intimidated. She has Rumplestiltskin’s necklace around her neck, and the feel of his hands at her waist.
“I thought you’d be long gone,” says the Queen, and she trails a hand across the tabletop, smears the polish and grimaces when she finds it on her finger. “Did you try what I suggested?” Belle says nothing, lifts her chin slightly and watches this dangerous woman. The Queen smirks, just a little, although it’s possible she intends it as a smile. “I’m sorry. I thought for sure it was true love.”
“Did you want something?” Belle asks, won’t rise to the bait. What she and Rumplestiltskin have is private, and still fragile. It’s not something she would willingly discuss with someone she likes, let alone someone who Rumplestiltskin calls enemy.
“Is he here?” the Queen asks after a moment. “Does he trust you alone?” The smile develops fully into a smirk, and she tilts her head, sashays closer to Belle. “I suppose he did let you go once, so I suppose he must trust you a little.”
Belle wants to put space between them, wants to back away but knows it would be seen as a weakness. She manufactures a smile, fake and fixed, and shakes her head.
“He isn’t here at the moment,” she says. “I’ll tell him you called.”
“Oh, I think I’ll wait,” says the Queen. “I have important business with him. Won’t you offer me some tea?” Belle says nothing; she would not, she thinks, offer this woman so much as a mat to wipe her feet on. She will not leave the Queen alone while she goes to the kitchen and prepares tea - knows Rumplestiltskin does not trust her an inch, would not like her to be alone in his castle.
The Queen sneers, seems to sense Belle’s opposition to her. “Frankly,” she says, “I’m amazed you’re still here. I thought he would have grown bored of you by now.”
Belle keeps smiling her pleasant, fake smile. “Take a seat,” she suggests. “He may be some time. Excuse me, I have to finish this.” She picks up her cloth, turns her back on the Queen and resumes polishing the table. Turning her back is not, perhaps, the smartest thing to do, but she thinks it reflects how she feels. Reflects her attitude towards the Queen, this woman who is Rumplestiltskin’s enemy.
This evil woman, for he’s told Belle a little of the Queen’s deeds and misdeeds. Belle knows what kind of person this is.
A hand on her arm, and Belle tries to pull from the Queen’s grasp but the woman is deceptively strong, and Belle ceases her struggle almost as soon as it begins. She stares up at the Queen, feels fear curdling in her stomach and then banishes it as she remembers her necklace.
“Let me go,” she says, voice low and clear, and the Queen smirks again. She thinks she has the upper hand, but Belle is unafraid, and it must show, because the smirk turns into a scowl and the grip on her arm loosens.
“That necklace you’re wearing,” she says, and Belle lifts her head proudly. “Where did you get it?”
“Rumplestiltskin,” says Belle, a mere whisper of his name. She hopes it is enough, but even if he does not come, it makes the Queen back away a pace. Makes her look at Belle as if trying to work out how Belle fits in.
The door opens, and Rumplestiltskin walks into the dining room, carefree and disinterested. Feigning disinterest, for Belle sees the tension in his hands, the way his eyes move from her to the Queen and back again.
“What an unexpected…surprise,” he says, and giggles his high-pitched giggle. The Queen steps away from Belle, frowning in displeasure, and Rumplestiltskin comes to Belle’s side. Brushes his fingers against her sleeve, as if reassuring himself that she is unharmed. “But I’m afraid,” he continues, “I’m not at home today.” He giggles again, and Belle bites the inside of her mouth, is afraid now as she was not before.
She does not think that antagonising the Queen can do him any good.
But this is their fight, not hers; she cannot get between them.
“I came to see you about a mermaid,” says the Queen sourly. “Belle and I have been passing the time of day. But I think it can wait.” She draws herself up, glances Belle over again. Her expression is pitying, but Belle thinks it is as false as her earlier pretence at sympathy. “Too bad about true love’s kiss,” she said. “Still, if you can’t have true love, I suppose a physical relationship is the next best thing.”
She leaves; Belle closes her eyes. She feels exhausted, sways slightly. Rumplestiltskin touches her, runs his hands down her arms, over her face.
“You’re alright,” he mutters. “You’re alright.”
“I’m fine,” she whispers. The Queen’s parting words echo around her mind, and she opens her eyes, looks at him. Sees the desperation he’d hidden so well when the Queen was here, the fear he felt.
The Queen is wrong, she decides. This is true love. It can’t break his curse, but that isn’t because it isn’t true love, isn’t because the kiss lacks power. It’s simply that his curse is stronger.
It’s true love, and she knows it when he folds her into his arms, mutters apologies and reassurances that he would never dream of speaking to anyone else.
* * *
“What do you want?” he asks her one night as they lie in bed together, his fingers tracing whirling patterns on her skin. She feels sluggish, sated, has to take a moment to force her mind to engage.
“What do you mean?” she asks at last.
“Everybody wants something,” he says, a snap in his voice, a bite. “That’s why they come to me. They want something.”
Belle opens her eyes, looks up at him. His head is propped up on one hand, his eyes dark as he gazes at her. She feels, for a moment, horribly exposed. The blanket at her waist but no higher, baring her breasts to him. Nothing he hasn’t seen before, but when he looks like this she remembers who he is. What he is.
It hurts a little that even now - even as her time with him is beginning to be counted in years, not months - he thinks she must want something, thinks there must be some deal here. She had hoped that he was beginning to trust her, a little. Perhaps he is; perhaps he simply doesn’t understand.
“What do I want?” she says slowly, and sees him tense, sees his eyes narrow and his lip curl “I want…rain for my garden.” He frowns, confused, and Belle continues. “I want a pair of boots that don’t have to be worn in. I want a comfortable rocking chair, so I can sit by the fire. I want -”
He cuts her off then, kisses her, fierce and possessive, and she wraps an arm around his neck, pulls him down so he covers her body with his. Skin against skin, and if his skin is darker than hers, a little rougher, she doesn’t mind.
He isn’t a man, and doesn’t love as a man, but he does love.
Skin against skin, hands roaming across her body, seeking out the familiar places to make her cry out. Blankets pushed aside, Belle’s fingers digging into his shoulders as he moves within her, gasps and moans swallowed in his mouth as he kisses her.
Afterwards she can’t remember what they were speaking of, but Rumplestiltskin watches her again, a strange look on his face. Curiosity, bewilderment, and Belle reaches out to him, strokes her fingers down his cheek.
“What do you want?” he asks her again, and Belle sighs, shakes her head.
“Nothing,” she says. “I have everything I want, right here.” She pulls the blankets higher, rolls closer to him and rests her head against his chest.
“There must be something,” he argues. “Everybody wants something. Some little thing you’ve always dreamed of…you wanted to see the world, dearie, didn’t you say that?”
“Yes,” Belle concedes. “But that’s not something I want from you. Not the way you mean. I mean…of course, you’re right, there are things I want. But not like that.” She lifts her head, looks up at him seriously. “I made my deal with you, Rumplestiltskin,” she reminds him softly. “I don’t want any others. I just want you.”
His mouth is pressed in a thin line; he doesn’t believe her. But she can’t change his mind for him, so she rests her head on his chest again, closes her eyes.
“Alright,” she says eventually. “Something I want. I want you to be safe.”
“Beg pardon, dearie?”
“She scares me,” Belle says. “The Queen. Not because of what she could do to me; because of what she wants to do to you.”
“She can’t harm me, dearie,” Rumplestiltskin says, an assurance that she’s sure he believes. She’s sure he believes himself beyond the Queen’s power, and perhaps he’s right. Perhaps neither the Queen nor any of his other enemies can harm him.
“You can’t know that,” she whispers. “You can’t know.” He says nothing, but he holds her tightly. No, he can’t know. Nobody can know the future, not all of it. Not all the possible twists and permutations. Rumplestiltskin can perhaps see some of those twists better than most people, but even he can’t know.
And there is dread in Belle’s heart and mind, a deep and enduring dread that she can’t seem to shake off. The Queen’s visit had started it, so long ago now, but other things have added to it. Deals Rumplestiltskin mentions in passing, news she occasionally hears of the world outside.
Even the Dark Castle isn’t impenetrable.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” she says suddenly, pushes away from him and sits up, wraps her arms around herself. Deals are something he understands; if he agrees to this one, he will keep it. “Whatever happens, whatever she does…don’t think about me. Just be safe.”
He says nothing, sits up and touches her shoulder with a gentle hand. “Can’t promise that, dearie,” he says, his voice unnaturally soft.
“That’s what I want!” she says, hears the note of hysteria rising in her voice, hates herself for it. She’s never been someone who depends on a companion, never someone to define herself by the man beside her, but the thought of being without him terrifies her.
“No deal, I’m afraid,” he murmurs, presses a kiss to her shoulder. “Don’t fear, dearie. She won’t get me.” He draws her back down, tucks the blankets around her. “Not her, dearie. She has no idea. Calm now, hm? Sleep.”
Belle obeys, but the fear remains, cold ice in her stomach.
* * *
She isn’t aging, Belle realises one day. She’s at the kitchen table, pinning a paper pattern to a bolt of cloth that Rumplestiltskin had left on the bed earlier, and drops a handful of pins onto it, lifts her hands to her face. No lines, no wrinkles. Nothing has changed, and she has been here…
A long time. More than months. More than years? Time slips by so easily here, with Rumplestiltskin her only companion. She goes into the town occasionally, true, but the people there…they aren’t comfortable with her. They knew where she lives, who she lives with, and they are afraid of her, although she has never given them a reason to be. Still, their fear and discomfort has meant Belle hasn’t interacted with them much. She searches her memory now, tries to think if the faces have changed. Tries to remember how much the children have grown.
She goes to Rumplestiltskin then, leaves the pattern and cloth on the kitchen table and makes her way up to his study. He is writing when she enters, but holds out his hand for her, and she crosses the room to take it in hers.
“Rumple,” she says, “how long have I been here?”
He stops writing then, puts the quill down and tilts his head as he looks at her. “Why do you want to know, dearie?” he asks cagily, and Belle purses her lips. Whenever he answers a question with a question, she knows he’s hiding something. Knows there’s something he doesn’t want her to know.
“Tell me,” she insists, and he scowls at her, pulls away and rests his hands on his desk.
“Long,” he says at last. “A long, long time.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
Belle nods slowly, lifts a hand to her head and closes her eyes. She can’t look at him right now, has to take a moment to accept that. Years. Not just months, years. How had she not realised that? How had time slipped past so quickly?
This castle, she thought. This magic castle.
“My father,” she says then. “Everyone I knew.”
“He’s dead,” he says quietly, and Belle nods, doesn’t open her eyes, not yet. She thinks about her father, and wonders why she feels little grief. It’s not real, she thinks, but then…then she’s hardly thought of him at all since coming here. She had made the deal with Rumplestiltskin to save him, and everyone in her village, but she has hardly thought of them at all since entering this castle. She wonders if that’s magic as well, or simply the evolution of a girl who never wanted the life she had been forced to lead before she came here.
“If I left the castle,” she said then, opens her eyes in time to see his flinch, “would I start aging again?”
Rumplestiltskin takes his time answering. He rises, goes to the window, bows his head. Belle stays by the desk, clenches her hands into fists and breathes a little quicker as she waits for his answer.
“Yes,” he says eventually. “Yes, you would.”
Belle considers that. She has no plans to leave, which is clearly what he fears - but why should she leave? She no longer has any connection to the outside world. Still, she has other questions, and she has to ask them. She crosses the room to him, stands by his side but makes no attempt to touch him.
The window looks out onto her garden; she wonders how often he stands here watching her.
“Why didn’t I know?” she asks softly. “That so much time was passing? The castle - it’s strange, I know that, but surely I should have known? I think about all the time since I’ve been here, and I can remember it all, but it doesn’t seem like years.”
“Magic is strange, dearie,” says Rumplestiltskin, quiet and subdued in a way that’s so completely unnatural for him. “It has the same effect on me. More or less.” He hums for a moment. “I go out more.”
“What’s the price?” she whispers. “All the magic in this castle…what does it cost?”
“Your last laugh, and your first tears,” he says, and it provokes her, the nonsensical answer. She turns to him, pokes his shoulder.
“Be serious,” she says. “Please.”
“Never more so, dearie,” he protests. “That’s the price. Your last laugh, your first tears…” He glances at her then, mouth twisted into a grimace. “Life takes life,” he tells her. “You’ll never have a child while you live here.”
Belle is stunned for a moment. She touches her stomach, shakes her head slowly. She and Rumplestiltskin have been together so long, now, and yet she has never fallen pregnant. She has, on occasion, wondered whether there is something wrong with her. Whether she is unable to carry children, because they spend their nights in bed together and that’s usually followed by children.
She’s thought of children, with her hair and his skin. His eyes and his wicked sense of humour. She’s thought of being a family with him, of raising their children together.
All magic has a price. She isn’t sure whether this is a price she can easily pay.
“Alright,” she whispers at last. “Thank you for telling me.”
“You’re still free to go,” he says, doesn’t look at her. “Choice is yours, dearie. The deal’s long gone.”
“The choice is mine,” Belle agrees, “and I’m staying.” She takes his hand, entwines their fingers and looks out at her garden. “I was thinking of putting in some more roses,” she says. “Maybe some white ones. And a greenhouse. If I had a greenhouse, I could grow all sorts of things.”
“Whatever you want, dearie.”
Yes, Belle thinks, she is denied children and old age, denied a family beyond him. But whatever else she wants, he gives her.
Part Two