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The first snowstorm of the season buried the castle grounds over the course of an afternoon. The surrounding mountaintops, usually stark white and sharp, were ashen waves against a heather gray sky in the reduced visibility. The snow accumulated rapidly, and a heavy hush settled on the Dark Castle.
Rumplestiltskin approached one of the great hall windows as dusk dimmed the mountainside. He regarded the curtains of dense snow with consternation, surprised at how fast it was coming down.
It had been a cold, clear morning. The sun hung in an icy blue sky, its fractured rays spilling into the room. They'd given Belle's hair a harsher shine than was flattering, but then she smiled, and he couldn't give a damn about the sun.
He hadn't seen her since then—since breakfast. It wasn't unusual; she had chores, he had deals. She read; he spun. They could spend weeks in this castle and never see each other. Probably live whole lives. But he liked to see her, even just in passing. Just to know he hadn't dreamed her.
Because winter made a person crave more than the fire's warmth. They sought the warmth of heart and spirit, the comfort of the company they kept under shelter. And Rumplestiltskin undoubtedly kept good company, for there was no heart warmer than Belle's.
She probably wouldn't say the same.
Well, she would, probably, to be polite, but she wouldn't mean it. Not like he did.
Rumplestiltskin frowned at the falling snow.
He wanted to do something for her.
But what?
Something that, selfishly, was for him, too.
He could do that. He was the master—
Rumplestiltskin shook his head at himself, muttering as he paced before the windows.
That's not what he wanted to convey. This wasn't about power, position, or station. He wanted to show her kindness, not benevolence.
That he was good company. Company worth keeping.
It would have to be something simple. No grand gestures: he wanted this to speak to her, not shout. It would be a small act she didn't see coming that would melt those lovely eyes wide open and thaw a little more of his heart in return.
Rumplestiltskin perked up when he glimpsed the tea tray at the far end of the table.
Tea. He could make her tea.
But not tea.
Something more special. A treat.
A light entered Rumplestiltskin's eyes. He snapped his fingers.
Two mugs of piping hot cider appeared mid-air, garnished with apple slices, orange peel, rosemary, and cinnamon. Sweet curls of steam rose from the spiced amber liquid, giving away the nip of brandy that truly made it a treat. After all, at the end of a long day tucked away inside a cold castle, a person craved more than the fire's warmth.
A pleased giggle. Perfect.
Rumplestiltskin wrapped his hands around the mugs' handles and made his way to the library.
No teleporting, he told himself. This wasn't about power.
He crossed the foyer with purpose, careful not to upset the drinks as the butterflies in his stomach began to swarm. When he looked down at the drinks, the butterflies turned to lead.
He shouldn't be doing this.
He didn't even know if she liked cider. Or if she was in the library.
Or if she even liked him today, because she had those days—
The lock on the front door disengaged.
Rumplestiltskin stopped, brow bent fiercely.
A deep yawn stretched into the foyer as the door opened.
Rumplestiltskin squinted into the blustery gust, wondering how the hell he was supposed to explain how domestic this looked when Belle's hazy silhouette emerged from the bitter winterscape.
She was stiff and stilted, clinging to the door, her cloak drenched and her hair sopping. Mud caked her sage green skirts halfway up her thighs and streaked her pale face. She shivered uncontrollably as she dragged herself inside, a blue tint to her split lip and vacancy to her eyes that shot alarm directly into Rumplestiltskin's chest.
"Belle?"
He abandoned the cider on the accent table, mugs clattering against the large vase of red roses as he fled to her. She slurred something as he pulled her inside, but he couldn't make it out. She nearly sank to the floor before he caught her shoulders and searched her eyes for a spark of clarity.
"Belle? What happened to you?"
She shuddered. Hard.
Rumplestiltskin cupped her face, then slid his hands down her neck. Her skin was far too cold. Cold enough that her fingers couldn't unclasp her cloak. Cold enough that his panic manifested as utter exasperation in his voice.
"Where were you?" he demanded, unfastening her cloak. It was so heavy that he pushed it off her shoulders to the floor, and it hit with a thick, rippling slap.
She never said she was going anywhere! He thought she was here! How was he to know she had gone? She didn't wear her ribbon! How could she be so inconsiderate and naïve?
Belle hugged herself, soaked and soiled from head to toe, shaking. She shuffled closer and closer until she was huddled right up against his body, leeching his warmth to quell her violent shivers. He nearly gasped at the contact, at how quickly his clothes absorbed the cold and wet from her muddied dress.
But his protests died in his throat as she laid her head on his shoulder and gingerly wrapped her arms around his waist. He bore the brunt of her weight as she made fists of his shirt to brace herself against the shivers. It was all very instinctual, very much steeped in survival, but his heart still hammered like it was a confession.
Rumplestiltskin carefully grasped her elbows.
"What happened?" he asked again, lower now.
"I wanted to get supplies from the market before the st-storm set in," Belle said, teeth chattering as goosebumps swept over her burning skin. "I took Philippe, but he threw a shoe and me, and I rolled into a boggy ditch, a-and…"
She planted her face in his shoulder and whined.
"Gods, I'm so cold, Rumple. I can't stop shaking."
"Here."
Rumplestiltskin summoned a grand crimson cloak with a fox fur mantle—a recent acquisition from a deal struck with Charming. It swallowed Belle whole. Several inches of fabric pooled around her, and she had to bunch some of it into her fists to pull it taut over her back.
She put her arms around Rumplestiltskin again, now trapping his heat. He froze; he suddenly had no idea what to do with his hands, and it felt wrong to figure that out right now.
Rumplestiltskin wet his lips and gently stepped back.
"Let's get you by the fire."
"I-I'm sorry," she said. "You told me not to disturb you today."
Rumplestiltskin guided her toward the great hall, feigning ignorance.
"Doesn't sound like me."
She let a breathy chuckle stutter out of her nose.
Rumplestiltskin waved his hand as they crossed the threshold into the hall, and the fire flared with more heat, more height. He ushered Belle into the fire's glow and brought her to face him.
"From now on, I know when you leave the castle."
Belle nodded as he reached for the neck of the cloak with a question. She loosened her grip, allowing him to open it. A hint of color returned to her cheeks as his yellow eyes swept over her sodden form, making her feel embarrassed by her appearance.
Rumplestiltskin raised a shimmering hand above her head and passed it down her body.
"I should always know when you leave the castle," he amended.
Belle blinked in astonishment as the water evaporated from her body. Her wet tresses tightened and shrank on her shoulders into light, supple curls. All the mud and slop caked into the creases of her dress vanished, too, leaving it more pristine than the day she got it.
"In fact, how did we get away from that?" Rumplestiltskin wondered suddenly. "When did we get away from permission to leave the castle?"
Belle combed her fingers through the ends of her hair. Fanned the folds of her skirt to feel its lightness, to feel the heat of the fire on her legs.
She smiled as she smoothed the front of her dress.
"I don't know," she said absently.
She hadn't even heard what he said. It felt too good to be free of the oppressive weight of the water, even if she was still shivering hard enough that her abdomen ached.
Belle looked up to thank Rumplestiltskin but found his gaze fixed most peculiarly on her hands. She stared as he reverently drew them to his chest.
"Your hands are like ice."
Belle held her breath, disoriented by the combined tenderness of his tone and touch. Before she could find her voice, a gentle pulse of warmth traveled up her arms and through her frozen veins. Belle's skin tingled with feeling again, the heady sensation compelling a breathy laugh and a fresh crop of goosebumps to ripple up her spine. Her eyelashes fluttered as the sensations subsided, blinking away the dizzy stars dotting her vision.
Belle looked at the white-gold glow of her hands in Rumplestiltskin's grasp, realizing the magic flowed from his chest, not his hands. An entirely different warmth flared through her skin—one of captivation, of delighted stirrings and daring wishes.
She'd never experienced magic like this before. He had healed her more times than she cared to admit, but this was different. Like he'd given himself for the good of her, and in doing so, made himself more human.
When Rumplestiltskin looked up, he found her radiant and dreamy-eyed and was made breathless. It also made him step closer, a fond, faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"There you are." He pulled one of her curls straight on her shoulder and let it spring back. "You clean up well, little maid."
Belle blushed. "Thank you."
"One last thing."
Belle tensed as his gaze dropped to her lips. Keeping her right hand at his heart, Rumplestiltskin reached out, fingers hovering so close to her jaw she felt their warmth. She waited for his touch, for that beautiful cue to close her eyes, when he smoothed away the split in her lip.
The slow, silky sweep of his thumb numbed Belle's face and bent the stars at strange angles, like an intimacy that rewrote constellations. When he lowered his hand, Belle blinked herself back into the present and touched her healed lip, first with her fingers, then the tip of her tongue.
Her heartbeat loudened, feeling his eyes on her, and she glanced up through her lashes to find them as hazed as hers. Like maybe she'd rearranged the heavens and, like her, he had no idea what to do with that information.
Like nothing existed beyond this moment.
Rumplestiltskin felt the pull.
Felt it break his voice when he resisted.
"You must be tired," came his hoarse whisper.
Belle's eyes shone. "Not yet."
"Well,"—he cleared his throat—"I know I am—"
"Then, we should sit."
Rumplestiltskin looked at her hand on his arm. Blinked.
"Should we?"
Belle did the brave thing: "We should."
Except Rumplestiltskin looked like he'd rather jump in the fire, which was fair. Hurtful, but fair. He'd already tried to escape once.
"I mean, you don't have to," Belle said quickly, withdrawing her hand. She looked down, shrinking into the cloak again. "If you're tired, you should—"
Rumplestiltskin held up his hand. With a twitch of his finger, a deep red mahogany settee shimmered into existence behind them, low, elegant, and plush.
His eyes twinkled as Belle buttoned her smile. He stood back and grandly presented it, inviting her to take a seat.
"I think I feel a bit of a second wind coming on."
"How strong of a wind?" Belle quipped as she removed the cloak and sat.
Two fresh mugs of hot cider poofed into Rumplestiltskin's hands. He looked at her as he weighed them against each other and asked, "How strong do you want it?"
Belle laughed. "Not very, please."
Rumplestiltskin extended the mug in his right hand with a polite grin and sat down beside her. He tugged the fox fur half of the cloak over his legs. His stomach knotted in anticipation of Belle's voice, of insinuations and accusations he would absolutely die denying, but it didn't come.
Instead, Belle scooted closer.
Drew the cloak around them.
Sank back against him with a sigh until her head was on his shoulder.
And his arm—his traitorous arm—slid around her waist.
Like it was the normalest thing in the world.
Rumplestiltskin stared at the fire, wild-eyed. I've made a mistake.
But he didn't stop her.
A silence pressed in. Soft pops and cracks from the fire accompanied the low, distant howl of the storm outside. A clock ticked. Their hearts pounded.
And, slowly, they adjusted and relaxed.
Belle pulled her knees to her chest. Rumplestiltskin carefully crossed one leg over the other. He leaned into the side of the settee to escape the tempting spill of her hair, but she just cozied back into him, sealing his fate.
He supposed there were worse ways to go.
There was victory in surrender.
"Still cold, dearie?"
"A little." She lolled her head against his neck, heart a-thrum at the fit—and the fact that he didn't flinch. "Getting warmer."
Belle let the mug warm her hands as she breathed in the syrupy steam and admired the extravagant garnish. She took the apple slice and stirred it in the cider before eating it. She hummed approvingly as the spices and brandy mingled with the sweetness of the apple. She sat up, catching the smug twist in Rumplestiltskin's brow.
"You make a delicious cider, Dark One."
Rumplestiltskin bit his cheek.
Delicious.
How dare she use such a word in its proper context.
"Technically, I conjured it," he said, tapping his cinnamon stick against the rim of the mug. "But it was conjured with lots of—effort."
A slow, knowing smile softened Belle's face.
He wasn't wrong to use that word. Not at all.
This was an effort. Gods knew it was.
Because this fire, the flirting, falling asleep curled at his side—it wasn't easy. For either of them. It was something they couldn't say aloud yet. Something that would take time to adequately voice.
But as Rumplestiltskin's arm quietly asked her closer, wordlessly folding her into the safety of his warmth, she knew there would never be an effort more worth making.