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Andalasia had a Queen Narissa problem.
Rumplestiltskin would have one, too, if Narissa befriended Regina. So, he saw no harm in divulging during their dealings that that vindictive little snipe already had a tumultuous relationship with her other fire-breathing friend. Ensuring Narissa was out of play gave him some peace of mind, though taming a dragon didn't mean you wouldn't have to slay it eventually.
But strategically positioning himself in Narissa's good graces had its drawbacks.
He got invited to a ball.
And Belle saw the damned invitation.
He shut his eyes and hung his head the moment her face lit up.
What was he supposed to do? Say no?
Of course, he didn't want to go. It was all the way in Andalasia, none of the chores would get done while they were gone, Belle would wear a gown so beautiful he'd feel dumb as a rock all night, and everyone in attendance had to check their magic at the door. Why would he willingly enter a castle that suppressed his magic just to see Belle smile, shimmer, and twirl under a chandelier?
He had a ballroom. With a fresco. And a bigger chandelier.
And he didn't have to surrender his magic.
What's worse, Belle would understand.
Because she did that—she did that infuriating thing where she would understand, and then he'd want to do exactly what he said he wouldn't because he didn't want her understanding, he wanted her reverence. He wanted to make a sacrifice for her that she would value.
Gods help me.
One hour. In and out.
With Belle on his arm, it would be no time at all.
There was no need to dust up his little maid on ballroom etiquette; she was a princess before she was his. She knew how to hold herself with confidence, grace, and charm in the company of flatterers, and she was breathtaking in her gentle blue gown, layered in petals frosted in starlight.
"Oh, it's beautiful," she said of the ballroom when they arrived.
Rumplestiltskin glanced at Belle out of the corner of his eye, hiding his smirk in the opposite corner of his mouth. Yes, it is.
He cleared his throat. "I will indulge you for one dance and no more."
Belle's eyebrows rose. "You want to dance?"
Now she was splitting hairs.
"I said I would indulge you; I didn't say I want to."
Belle wrenched her jaw shut. She let go of Rumplestiltskin's arm and swept into his path, drawing the attention of a few curious onlookers.
"Admit you want to dance with me."
Rumplestiltskin's voice curled an octave higher, dangerously amused. "Excuse me?"
"Admit you want to dance with me," Belle demanded, giving him a cool once-over, "or I won't indulge you."
Mouthy, mouthy—
"Belle?"
Rumplestiltskin's eyes snapped up when Belle turned toward the familiar voice—
"Milo?"
—and his heart sank.
It was him—the lanky linguist with the round glasses and moppy peanut hair who had assisted Belle when she rolled her ankle in the village. The one who had an effortless camaraderie with Belle twenty seconds after meeting her because they had sooo much in common.
Why was he in Andalasia?
Why was he touching Belle again?
"It's so good to see you!" Belle said, happy for the hug. "What are you doing here?"
"Yes!" Rumplestiltskin said, voice cracking like a whip between them. His eyes glittered as the joy drained from Milo's face. "Whatever brings you to Andalasia, dear boy?"
"D—Uh, h-h-hi," Milo stammered. He gulped but forced his smile wider. "Good evening, sir. Dark One, sir. It's good to see you again, too."
A menacing giggle. "Is it, dearie?"
Belle rolled her eyes.
"Rumple, behave."
"I gave this man the key to fulfilling his life's work," Rumplestiltskin said, folding his hands behind his back as he met Milo's gaze. "He must have translated something incorrectly to be in Andalasia and not Atlantisss."
"Oh, no, it's not a mistake," Milo said, easing back into his own skin. "Ancient Andalasian magic is actually a close relative of Atlantean magic, so I was—"
"I don't care," Rumplestiltskin said.
"Oh. But you just said—"
"I don't care."
Belle sighed. There was a forbidden appeal to attending a ball on Rumplestiltskin's arm, in being the prized possession he flaunted—of people formally attaching them to one another by their proximity. A night like this was when she wanted to belong to him.
But his aggressive jealousy grew tedious.
Belle wrapped her gloved hand around Milo's arm, drawing his attention back to her warm smile.
"Would you like to dance with me?"
Something bitter twisted in Rumplestiltskin's chest. Like a poisoned blade.
"W—Yeah, if…" Milo swallowed as he met Rumplestiltskin's eye. "If you weren't—"
"The Dark One isn't ready to indulge me yet," Belle said, overly demure as she pretended to spare him a glance before batting her eyelashes at Milo. "Perhaps you'd be so kind?"
Milo still looked to Rumplestiltskin.
And Rumplestiltskin, stricken by the resignation welling from that bitter wound, reluctantly inclined his head, lips pressed into a line.
"Bring her back on one piece this time. Or I'll leave you in several."
Despite the tepidness of the threat, Belle scoffed and led Milo toward the dance floor, a powdery veil of stars trailing behind her. By the time they fell in step with the other dancers, Rumplestiltskin was stone-faced.
He clawed for anger, for something raw and untapped, but the shock of being doused in Belle's coldness proved difficult to overcome.
He huffed. What did she hope to gain? Did she think she'd show him a thing or two by running away to Atlantis for a weekend to translate ancient texts and study maps with that twig?
When this trip was over, she went home with him.
When the ball was over, she left with him.
When the song was over—
Would she dance with him?
He gave up his magic for this!
And yet, when Rumplestiltskin saw Belle laughing in Milo's arms, out there, happily whisked about in that soft sea of silver and silk, he knew he should have given up more.
A pang of unworthiness knocked the wind out of him.
Why didn't he make her smile like that?
Why didn't he make her smile like that every day?
One dance turned to two.
Two turned to three.
By the fourth, he was too stung by her smile to stay.
It shouldn't have bothered him this much. He knew Belle was just trying to get a rise out of him, that this silly side romance his jealousy had invented held no water. But the fear of losing her was real. The regret.
At the bottom of a secluded staircase, Rumplestiltskin meandered toward the gentle breeze to his right. The large doors were wide open, showcasing the orchards with enchanted lighting and soft arcs of skipping water along the paths. Centered in the distance was the clock tower, its ivory face hung like the moon against the deep blue night.
The hour he'd promised was almost up.
Rumplestiltskin came to the threshold and took a deep breath.
He'd lost all control tonight: of Belle, of his magic, the situation, everything.
All for a chance to dance with her.
All for him to sabotage himself again.
He certainly didn't need Milo Thatch's help for that.
Everything had been going so well in recent months. He'd kissed her. Several times. Just mistletoe and a playful peck now and again. Nothing of any great consequence. He made her a crown.
(Did she even know how much work went into making a crown? He'd bet she didn't.)
It scared him.
It scared him more than the fact that they had almost buried one another since Yule. She was hit with a mythical curse; he was impaled on a throne.
This woman wept over him.
Why wasn't that enough? Why hadn't he honored that by now?
"Rumplestiltskin!"
The clock struck the hour. Rumplestiltskin's blood curdled. Milo.
"Hey! Hey, he's down here!"
Rumplestiltskin's reveries misted away, leaving his feelings untethered. When he looked back at the top of the staircase, he saw that pinwheeling poindexter wave Belle into view. Her heels clicked and curls bounced, that beautiful dress floating beneath her. The oddest sense of pride stung the back of his throat.
He gulped.
She was going to say it. She was going to leave him—
"Rumple! We've been looking everywhere for you!"
She picked up her skirts with both hands and started down the stairs in earnest, without the weight of earlier tensions suppressing her smile. He turned toward it like a mortal to the sun, and received a gift:
"I saved the last dance for you."
Rumplestiltskin's chest heaved.
"Why?" he asked.
Belle laughed, still trotting down the steps toward him.
"Why do you thi—Ah!"
"Belle!"
She slipped on her starry skirt, too far up the stairs for Rumplestiltskin to break her fall. He watched her land on the hard edges of the sleek marble stairs in gut-wrenching slow motion.
Her initial cry turned to a grunt as she had the breath knocked out of her. Her elbows and knees hit at odd angles, shooting pain through limbs while her skin was pinched beneath her, promising bruises.
Rumplestiltskin caught the waist of her cloudy dress in one arm, pulled her to him, and dropped to the stairs to counter the momentum. She slumped against him with a whine, eyes shut and head ringing. He felt her holding her breath, too, as if she wanted to sob.
"Alright, hang on."
A moan as he righted her.
Milo's footfalls came up fast behind them.
"Belle! Belle, your head!"
Rumplestiltskin's pulse spiked, ready to hunt through her hair for a wound, when he saw several large drops of blood seeping into the celestial chiffon layers of her skirt, turning the soft blue tones to an ashen grey.
Rumplestiltskin looked over his shoulder.
Red smears of blood stained the four nearest stairs.
Belle groaned, feeling Rumple's arm tighten around her as she swayed.
"H—What?"
"Your head," Milo said, kneeling beside her quickly. "Your head, here. Here."
Milo caught the side of Belle's face and pressed a white handkerchief to her forehead. She winced at the sudden pressure, breathing through the burn as Milo smoothed her hair out of her face.
"Sorry, sorry!" He peeked under the kerchief to determine the shape of the wound, gentling his voice. "It's, uh, not too deep. Here, let me—"
"Take a walk, Galahad." Rumplestiltskin fluttered his hand between their faces, shooing Milo away and taking his spot in front of Belle.
Milo leveled his brow—his most egregious display of dissent to date.
"Why are you like this?"
Rumplestiltskin snatched the handkerchief from Milo, boring into him with sharp yellow eyes until he held up his hands and took a step back. Milo glanced at Belle as Rumplestiltskin returned the kerchief to her cut, and her lips pulled to the side flatly.
"It's okay, Milo," she said. "Rumple's got it."
"Yes, Rumple's got it," Rumplestiltskin said. Though he'd have it better in hand if he could just magic the wound away. "What Rumple doesn't got is a lot of patience—"
"Oh, hush," Belle snapped. "Must you be such a petulant little goblin?"
Rumplestiltskin slowly lifted the kerchief from Belle's forehead, eyes narrowing.
Where did that come from?
"…Did you just call me a goblin—?"
"A petulant goblin," Belle said.
"Oh, I take no umbrage with the petulant part," Rumple said with a haughty snicker.
"Oookay," Milo said, loudly announcing his departure. His eyes darted between the two of them as he backed away, out of the charged air. "Uh, Belle, if you're good, I'll see you—"
"Never."
Belle glared at Rumplestiltskin. He beamed.
"See? No problems whatsoever being petulant. Now, quit crinkling your forehead."
"It hurts."
"It'll hurt more if you crinkle!"
Belle sighed. She relaxed her scowl fractionally as he dabbed her wound, swearing she could feel the bruises blossoming on her ribs. She was suddenly missing Rumplestiltskin's magic as much as he was and couldn't wait for a proper pain-relieving spell once they were in the carriage.
Feeling Milo's eyes on her, Belle looked up and gave him a reassuring smile. She flicked her eyes at Rumplestiltskin, and her smile melted into a helpless, lopsided grin.
Milo's eyes grew as a rosy, telltale blush crept into Belle's cheeks.
What! he mouthed.
Belle barely withheld her laughter as Milo glanced between her and Rumplestiltskin, reeling at her guilty glow.
"Don't you have an expedition to plan?" Rumplestiltskin asked Milo. There was a surprising lack of bite to his tone—not altogether gone, but aware.
"Uh, yeah," Milo said, suppressing a chuckle. "Yeah, he's right. I've got a… a big, big expedition to plan, so I'll leave you to it."
Belle's blush deepened in thanks.
"Goodnight, Milo," she said.
"Goodnight, Belle." A smirk. "Mr. Stiltskin."
Rumplestiltskin made a face but ultimately decided to appreciate the respect shown him. In return, he turned his head toward Milo's retreating footsteps without looking up; it was all the gratitude his pride would allow him.
And since his pride was taking hits: "I suppose I should have danced with you when I had the chance."
The words felt foreign in his mouth. Absurdly soft.
Belle slowly looked at him, a man adrift in his doubts. Rumplestiltskin didn't meet her eye, either; he checked her cut again and, apparently seeing the bleeding had stopped, folded the blood stain into the kerchief.
If she'd expected him to say it, she hadn't expected it like this.
Belle touched his hand, reviving the hopeful spark in his heart with her tenderness.
"You know," she said, "you do have a ballroom of your very own."
"I do." Rumplestiltskin's eyebrows rose. "With a fresco."
Belle smiled. "With a fresco."
"And a bigger chandelier."
She laughed. "Perhaps we should have a ball of our own."
Rumplestiltskin nodded vacantly. And he would be able to keep his magic.
"Can we invite Milo?"
Rumplestiltskin's expression darkened so fast that Belle couldn't hold a straight face.
"That depends," came his curt drawl. "Can we invite Beatrice?"
Belle leveled her brow but was unable to smother her smile fully. Touché.
"Something for ourselves, then," she said, grunting with a hand pressed to her side as Rumple helped her stand.
"That's a lot of ballroom to clean for one dance," he said.
Belle tugged at his cravat, mischief curling in her smile.
"Then you better make it worth my while, Mr. Stiltskin."
His smile grew sly, enamored.
He was going to spin her a dress made of gold.
"Ready to go?" Belle asked, taking his arm.
Rumplestiltskin covered her hand with his and led her toward the hall.
"Get me out of this gods-forsaken castle."
The carriage gently rolled to a stop.
Belle blinked as if waking from a spell, flushed and floating in Rumplestiltskin's lap. Skirt bunched, hair ruined, lipstick gone. Clutching his lapels in her fists.
Rumplestiltskin stared through the hollow of her kiss-bitten neck, sated and stunned. No lines or layers had been crossed, yet still their chests heaved against one another, hard and breathless.
He slowly uncurled his trembling fingers from her hips.
A residual shudder lit through him when she shifted. He swallowed thickly, eyes still black and blown wide as he lifted them to hers.
"I think it best," he whispered hoarsely, "that this stay in the carriage."
"Probably," she agreed.
"Definitely."
His heart stuttered again as she leaned close, the scent of wine and sweat caught in her loose curls. Something hungry emerged from the haze in her eyes. She took his hand—and guided it under the stars and tulle.
Rumplestiltskin stopped breathing.
Belle's lips grazed his ear.
"Then don't get out yet."