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As a result of an ambush in their travels, Belle was struck with a debilitating curse too powerful for her mortal soul to absorb. Though Rumplestiltskin was eventually able to counter it and wake her, remnants of this particular black spell would remain in her veins for months—a morbid consolation prize in case of meddling spell-reversers. It left Belle's body stiff, inflamed, and weak with pain, too impaired to perform many of her duties.
That was when Beatrice came into the picture.
Belle was still asleep when she first arrived. She glimpsed the fuzzy shape of a petite woman behind Rumplestiltskin as she drifted in and out of consciousness, handing him things, bringing food. When Belle finally broke the surface, Rumplestiltskin was slumped in the stool at her bedside, gaunt, exhausted, and relieved.
"You had a brush there, dearie."
He didn't elaborate. This curse had put him through his paces, demanding a few tricks pretty far up his sleeve, but he'd won. Belle would be weak for a while, but she'd live.
The door opened. In rattled the tea cart.
Belle pushed herself up to see over Rumplestiltskin's shoulder. A dainty young woman with tidy blonde hair and a black dress came forward, clasping her hands. She was steadfast and winsome, smiling kindly as Rumplestiltskin introduced her.
"Until you're well," he announced, "Beatrice will assist you with the more demanding chores."
The gesture moved Belle; not only had Rumplestiltskin gotten someone else to help around the castle, but there was another girl to talk to now. A confidant. The chance at something she never thought she'd have again: a friend. And if Beatrice did well enough, surely the pair of them could convince Rumplestiltskin to keep her on after Belle fully recovered.
"How did you come to know Rumplestiltskin?" Belle asked her one afternoon. She was mending a tablecloth at the dining room table while Beatrice dusted sconces on a ladder with prim, thorough flicks of the feather duster.
"Same as you," Beatrice said. "We made a deal."
"If it's not too bold of me, may I ask why?"
Beatrice stepped down and slid the ladder along the wall. "I used to serve a cruel master. After I escaped him, Rumplestiltskin helped me. In exchange, I owed him a favor of his choosing and would fulfill it at a moment's notice."
Belle hummed, pulling her next stitch through as Beatrice climbed to the next sconce.
"Does your family miss you?"
"I haven't any, my lady."
"Haven't you anyone?"
Beatrice paused. She straightened on the ladder and looked over her shoulder at Belle with a sad, wistful smile.
"A young man, once. He helped me escape my old master." She swallowed, voice tight. "Kept him distracted so I could get away."
Belle's heart sank. She thought of her mother, of her sacrifice so that Belle may live, and felt a solemn, unspoken bond manifest between her and Beatrice.
"I'm so sorry."
"Jean was a good man," Beatrice said quietly. "And he wouldn't want me to waste away the time he gave me consumed with grief, so I try to honor him in that way."
Belle hid a wince, shifting as the pain in her hips flared.
"He'd be proud you've kept your word to Rumplestiltskin. A lot of people don't because they're too frightened of him."
"That's because they don't know my former master," Beatrice said sagely. A tiny grin. "The Dark One is a door mouse by comparison."
They shared a quiet laugh, one that somehow did not go unnoticed by said Dark One. He passed the dining room doors a moment later, shouting from the hall, "Don't make me separate you two!"
They laughed more.
They got on well like this at first, tackling odd jobs Belle hadn't the time to get to on her own. Time flew by with someone to chat with, too, which made their endless to-do list much less daunting.
As Beatrice adapted to the routine, she proved impressively methodical, organized, and thorough in her work—impressive enough to warrant Rumplestiltskin's attention.
"That stain was there for over two hundred years. Well done."
"I've been looking for this for months! Wherever did you find it?"
"You've outdone yourself, Busy Bea."
The pride Belle initially felt when Rumplestiltskin praised her new assistant's work ethic soured with each compliment she'd never received, each word they exchanged after she started walking away.
It wasn't flirting, but it cut the same way. Beatrice seemed to bring out a softness in Rumple that he didn't fight like he did with her, and it was so effortless and organic that it made Belle's heart ugly.
The dreams in which he was devastatingly tender toward her didn't help.
Drawing her into a slow kiss in a quiet corridor, like it was the castle's secret to keep.
Sometimes she woke up wondering if they were just being careful.
Part of her blamed the lingering curse for what she was feeling. It wasn't like her. It had impacted her whole body—why not her heart and mind? She wasn't herself yet. Not entirely.
But part of her also knew it was foolish not to assume some responsibility.
He chose her to be here with him when the silence got too loud, when the walls grew too close.
Now, it felt like he'd chosen someone else.
So, as the curse in her waned, Belle sought refuge in her chores. She spoke less, kept her head down, let the distance grow between her and them. It was childish for Belle to root her dislike of Beatrice in her own insecurities, but that didn't stop her from doing so. And she didn't want that petulance to get in the way of Rumple's happiness.
Belle sat on her bed, wiping tears from her eyes with her aching wrists.
Why did it have to hurt so much?
A large swirl of deep crimson smoke materialized in front of her. Belle froze as Rumplestiltskin emerged, pinning her with yellow, hawkish eyes before she could raise her defenses.
"You and I need to have a chat, dearie."
"Oh?" Belle sniffed, wrapped her arms tightly around herself, and went to her window. No stars. "What about?"
"You've grown positively frosty toward that sweet girl I hired to help lighten your load."
Gods, she hated it when he said it like that. Like she begged for the kindest soul in Misthaven to chirp at her heels while doing her job so much better than her.
"Beatrice is a lovely girl," Belle managed civilly. "Her help is much appreciated."
"But not her company."
Belle swallowed, looking away.
"You enjoy her company plenty for the both of us."
Her comment hung between them. Rumplestiltskin's eyes hardened.
"Tread lightly," he warned, overenunciating.
Belle shook her head. Her fingers curled into her skirts, but her voice still shook.
"I can't."
She couldn't walk on eggshells anymore.
"I see the way you are with her, Rumple. In fact, I think you want me to see. She can do no wrong, and she is so good at everything. I don't even know why you keep me here anymore when you have someone who is much more obedient and respectful and pretty a-and not clumsy—"
Rumplestiltskin put his finger under Belle's chin. The intense clarity of his eyes startled her. Belle held her breath as his gaze pressed into hers, forbidding misinterpretation of what he was about to say.
"She's not you."
Belle's heart surged into her throat, rendering her speechless.
That should have been enough. Under any other circumstances, it would be enough. But they'd done this song and dance before, and she was tired. For once, it was Belle's turn to run from whatever sincerity she thought she gleaned from his remark.
She removed her chin from Rumplestiltskin's grasp, muttering as she turned away.
"And it's worked greatly to her advantage."
Rumplestiltskin's eyes narrowed, nicked by her tone—her dismissal.
The Dark One was not dismissed. Certainly not by the likes of her.
He billowed up behind Belle like a great storm she couldn't possibly hope to reckon with.
"And just what, pray tell, do you imagine these advantages to be, little maid? Are you worried she's earned herself a bigger library than you?"
"I am not worried about anything—"
Rumplestiltskin met her scoff with a pleased giggle and a bright, "Good! Then you won't mind setting two places for my dinner tomorrow night."
Belle spun as if she'd been struck.
Rumplestiltskin slinked a step closer, dropping his voice to a thin purr.
"I'll be expecting a guessst."
Belle's eyes glazed at the arrogant curl in the corner of Rumplestiltskin's smirk. The residual pain from the curse flared, and she forced a stiff nod to get him to go away. He flashed a triumphant smile.
"You're a peach."
Belle's body shook as he walked away, lungs searing with angry, withheld sobs.
"She likes the venison!" he called at her room's threshold. "And something for dessert. Something… honey-y." He feigned a forgetful pout and pointed at Belle. "She likes honey, doesn't she?"
Belle looked positively murderous.
"I suppose," she rasped, voice thick with tears.
"Well, find out. No, wait, don't find out," he said. A laugh. "Don't want you spoiling the surprise! You will keep to the kitchens tomorrow and just… follow your heart. I'm sure whatever you choose to make will be satisfactory."
Belle said nothing.
After a suffocating stand-off, Rumplestiltskin ceased fire.
He fixed Belle with a glare so cold she could feel it if she wasn't going to look at him. He wasn't the only one who had drawn blood tonight.
"Sweet dreams, little maid."
The castle hadn't smelled this good since before Belle was struck by the Curse that Brought Beatrice. Belle thought she'd abhor the idea of spending a day confined to the kitchens, but it meant not having to see Rumple or his "Busy Bea," and it felt good to have a long day of work after two months of weakness. If any good came from this, it was getting her strength back.
And she would need to be strong.
Belle sighed as she pushed a serving cart into the butler's pantry and began plating the first course. She couldn't believe Rumple was making her serve them dinner. And because "it's forever, dearie!", she would have to serve them dinner for the rest of her life. He was cruel.
And yet, what she wouldn't give to be the sole name in his heart.
A week before that curse struck her, they'd kissed. For the first time. She thought it had meant something, even if they were chalking it up to a silly holiday tradition to pretend otherwise.
He'd been so sure—his kiss so firm, his breath so warm as he murmured his tease against her lips.
"Convinced?"
And she'd felt all those stars under her skin. All the small, tiny hopes she'd held for so long finally coming together. She could still feel their twinkle, the deep current that consumed them and had carried them away.
But now, she was stranded ashore, those stars dulled to moonlit pebbles scattered around her on the riverbank.
Belle gripped the cart's handle, shut her eyes, and shook her head.
This was over. She had to accept it. Beatrice really was one of the nicest people Belle had ever met, and she had hope that they would maintain a good relationship as servant and lady of the house. It would also be wise to have an ally as a buffer between her and Rumplestiltskin going forward.
Maybe it was better this way.
And so, forcing her heart to reconcile with this future, Belle pushed the cart into the dining room, stone-faced, until she looked up and slowed.
Rumplestiltskin had really outdone himself.
A charming candelabra provided soft, intimate light. Within its welcoming halo, two places were set, one at the head of the table and one to its right. A maroon table runner halved the sleek mahogany, and a porcelain vase of cream-colored Avonlean roses served as a centerpiece.
At the head of the table, Rumplestiltskin stood tall with his hands folded behind his back. He wore a red damask vest and a clean, ivory shirt that echoed the colors of the table. With a gentlemanly nod, he offered a temporary armistice.
"Good evening, Belle."
Belle shielded herself with a practiced smile. She did not suppress the resignation in her voice.
"Good evening."
Rumplestiltskin gestured to the table with a quarter turn. "What do you think?"
What did she think? She thought a knife to the chest was more merciful.
"It's beautiful."
Rumplestiltskin's eyes followed her as she reached for the first plate.
"It's for you."
Belle's brow furrowed innocently. "What is?" she asked, placing the silver dome before him.
He raised his eyebrows and glanced at the elegant layout.
"This."
Belle frowned, sure she'd misheard. Her drumming heart suggested otherwise, however, embrittling her voice.
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's for you."
Belle's lips parted. Pangs of denial and disbelief warred in her gut, wracking her abdomen as he pulled out the chair across the table.
"Care to join me?"
Belle blinked, shook her head. This was too deliberate—the roses, the lighting, the attire. Surely, he hadn't done all this for her. That made no sense.
"I… I thought this was for Beatrice."
Rumplestiltskin made a face. "Why would it be for Beatrice?" His gaze lingered in admonishment. "She's not you."
Chills raced over Belle's skin: up her spine, down her legs, over her scalp. She wanted to run. Maybe laugh. She turned to get the second plate because what else was she supposed to do? Breathe? Because she couldn't breathe. Her stomach flipped when she caught her reflection in the silver dome.
"Where is Beatrice?"
"Happily employed elsewhere," Rumplestiltskin said, circling back to Belle. He pointed at her when he sensed her about to interject. "And before you start thinking it has anything to do with your sulking,"—because oh yes, he had noticed, wonder of wonders—"I remind you that this was a temporary arrangement. Now that you're nearly well, I think it's time things got back to normal."
"Normal." A smile was ready to burst from the seam of her lips. "Is it normal for us to have dinner together?"
"It could be," he said.
They could have so much more than that.
Gods, the way she blushed did things to him.
Belle's smile brightened, pushing a tear from her eye. She looked at the chair next to Rumplestiltskin's, pride swelling in her chest; just because she believed she belonged there didn't mean she wouldn't strive to earn her place every day.
She picked up a fallen rose petal, smoothing her thumb over its silky face in thought.
"Will you forgive me?" she asked. "I feel so foolish."
The warm weight of Rumplestiltskin's hand on her hip ignited a swarm of butterflies, and his low murmur sent them tumbling deep into her belly.
"That's because you are, dear girl."
His hand lingered a moment longer than necessary, as if he might say something else. But feeling her stomach tense and her eyes fill with questions he was not ready for, Rumplestiltskin let go of her hip and took her hand. Belle's cheeks pinkened as he led her around the table with her hand aloft, as if this were a cotillion and not a confession.
"It would give me grrreat pleasure," Rumplestiltskin crooned, "if you would join me for dinner." He pulled out her chair, inviting her to immerse herself in the crystalline warmth of the table setting. "Please. I did go to all the trouble, so…"
Belle laughed and accepted her seat.
"I cooked the food," she countered.
"Is it poisoned?"
Belle's mouth fell open. "Rumple."
"What's for dessert?" he asked.
"Crème bastarde," Belle said, laying her napkin in her lap. "I, uh, 'followed my heart' to it."
Rumplestiltskin smirked as he took his seat.
"I take it you found that… appropriate."
"Very."