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The Sandman has two umbrellas: one with pleasant dreams and one with nightmares—and eternal sleep.
Rumplestiltskin acquires the latter.
If he can extract enough of that magic, he could craft an unprecedented sleeping curse.
But all magic comes with a price: tampering with this artifact distorts one's perception of dreams and reality. Blurs the lines between nightmares and memories with consequences far worse than lost sleep.
"That's why it's best if you keep out until I say," he tells Belle when she shows up with tea at his tower door. "Don't even set foot on the staircase. Do you understand?"
Belle eyes the umbrella from the tower's threshold. It's an unassuming thing, black with a hooked handle. But she's seen and learned a lot living in the Dark Castle, the most crucial of these lessons being: never judge by appearances and heed Rumplestiltskin's warnings.
Still, she worries. Because he doesn't. Not enough.
"Won't it affect you?" she asks.
A haughty giggle. "I'm the Dark One. I'd like to see it try."
Belle raises an eyebrow.
He scowls. Her concern is always as annoying as it is endearing.
"I might get a headache," he relents. "Slightly fatigued. Mildly delirious. Nothing I can't handle." She doesn't look convinced, so he changes the subject. "You'll be close?"
"I planned to replenish your mushroom stock today."
He nods. He does need mushrooms.
"Keep to the outskirts of the Black Forest."
He flicks his wrist, braiding Belle's hair with the ivory ribbon he'd charmed with a locator spell last summer. She smiles. So long ago, it might have been a chain. Now, it is a kindness. A thread of trust to ensure they didn't lose each other.
"You'll be back before dusk?" he asks.
Belle grins, handing him the tea tray. "Yes."
Gods, he loves hearing her say that word.
"Go on, then, little maid."
"Good morning."
Rumplestiltskin grunts through the pleasantries. He rubs his stinging eyes, breathes deep to stretch his stiff back. He jumps when he feels Belle's hand glide across his shoulder blades, sparks skittering wildly under his skin for such a casual touch. He falls into his chair, holding his head, telling himself to shut up.
"Sorry." Belle slowly sets his breakfast before him. "Did you sleep well?"
"Not a wink," he mutters.
"You're still working on that umbrella?"
He nods, drops his hand, brings his plate into focus. Rolls the crick in his neck.
It's been two days. He hasn't had a magical artifact give him this much guff in a while. He knew it was powerful, but his usual safeguards aren't working. He's nursing more than a headache, too, which means he's more susceptible than he anticipated. He doesn't notice anything off yet, but he senses it.
Like the edges of the fire have sharpened.
Like the air has a shape.
Like Belle isn't pouring the tea right. She's doing it correctly, but she isn't doing it right. Which is ridiculous because she's just pouring tea.
Her movements are smooth and practiced. She's in sync with the rhythm of her day already—a subtle, confident dance, rare and becoming for such a bumbling dear.
At times, a surprising one as well.
"You need to find a better way to tire yourself out."
Rumplestiltskin's eyes flash at her coy flippancy. Her smile doesn't catch, doesn't falter. There are no nerves behind it. She knows what she's saying.
So, they were openly flirting over breakfast now, were they?
He smirks. Drags his voice through velvet.
"Are you volunteering?"
She blushes.
He's too tired to fight about her fixing his cravat. The rhythm nearly lulls him to sleep.
"Why do you need this curse?" she asks.
"Sleeping curses are a hot commodity. Always in demand."
Best to keep one handy.
Though he's beginning to wonder if it's worth it. It might take much longer than he thought. But the longer he has that umbrella, the stranger things are going to get, and they're already strange.
Belle's finished tying the cravat, but her hand lingers. Flattens on his chest. He can feel the teardrop pendant of her mother's necklace pressing into his sternum, burning like a brand—a reminder that she gave him a piece of herself to protect. A duty he's taken to heart.
She looks thoughtful, voice small.
"Would you like me to come to your room tonight?"
Rumplestiltskin's heart lurches into his throat. He stares at her, eyes huge and voice hollow.
"What?"
"With dinner," she says, meeting his eye. "So, you can work."
His whole chest caves in, slow and shuddering.
Of course. Of course, that's what she meant. Good gods, man.
He opens his mouth, trying to remember the shape of words.
"…I'll come down."
A beautiful smile breaks across her face.
"Wonderful! Would you prefer roast pork or lamb?" Before he can reply, she gasps. "Oh! What if I made them into meat pies? Some comfort food will help things along. Maybe a little marzipan for dessert."
"Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, I'd… like that."
She kisses his cheek. He's so tired, it doesn't derail him. Instead, it feels like the warmth of routine blanketing him, effortless and true, like he's wanted for so long.
That's the part that derails him.
Because he just stares at the umbrella the rest of the afternoon.
Because he did want her to come to his room.
Because he can't think about anything but the fire under his skin, and it's making a madman out of him.
A madman who wants to be touched again.
His obsession exhausts him. The umbrella's magic tugs at his frayed nerves. He's strung-out and restless. Irritable toward inanimate objects.
So, he spins.
Until Belle appears in the doorway—in nothing but a shirt.
His shirt.
Silk, fine and flowing. A dark, decadent shade of champagne that accentuates her long legs and loose curls. It's billowing yet flattering, slouching off her left shoulder, the hem hitting right where it needs to.
The wheel slows.
He's never dreamt of Belle like this.
His dreams of her revolve more around losing her than having her. The good dreams are the ones where he knows they're together, even if she's not there: the ones where he leaves a flower on the windowsill for her or sees her shadow at the bottom of the stairs. He recalls slipping her gown off her shoulder once to skim his lips along her skin, and perhaps, a heated moment or two, but nothing as bold as this.
Because he knows this is a dream. He recognizes that on some plane, while remaining submerged in its fantasy, lucid and captive all at once.
And because this is a dream, he abandons his propriety and does not look away.
"Hope you don't mind." She shrugs her bare shoulder, aloof and beautiful. "Mine are on the line."
His mouth is watering.
"Please," he rasps, gravitating to her. "You look exquisite."
She backs into the doorframe, and his fingers sink into her hip.
"The question is," he lilts, "can you pull it off?"
She grins mischievously, hand on his neck, pulling him down—
And he jerks awake at his wheel.
It's dark. He's cold. Shaking. He's shaking.
Rumplestiltskin's eyes flick to the empty doorway.
He blinks. Rubs his face. Exhales.
What the hell.
She's drinking from his teacup.
The deep circles under Rumplestiltskin's eyes only serve to pronounce his effrontery. It's so bizarre, so brazen, he's impressed. But unamused.
Belle licks the tea from her lips. Unbothered. Like she hadn't just devastated him with that peeping little kitten lick. He wants to yell at her for it.
"You really should get some rest," she says, ignorant of the feral intensity of his gaze. "Away from that umbrella. You look horrid."
"I'm fine." (He's not fine.)
"Promise me you'll get some sleep tonight," Belle says.
He blinks, shakes his head to clear his vision. "I'm fine."
Belle pouts.
(Pouts! While holding his teacup and licking her lips?! What is she playing at?)
Then, she says, "Don't make me beg."
It is a herculean feat not to say the eighteen things that immediately leap to his tongue. Or think about the eighteen things he could do to her with his tongue.
If he so much as spied another drop of tea on her lips—
"Rumple?"
Does he need an excuse?
"Are you okay?"
He sucks in a stuttering breath. "No. Yes. Yes, I'm fine," he says quickly. "I said so. Several times, in fact, I believe, so—I'm fine."
He starts backing away, dizzy. Twitching. Looking anywhere but at her.
"Are you—"
"Don't drink out of my teacup again," he says sharply. "Ever. Don't do it."
Belle freezes. She slowly puts the teacup down, shrinking at his tone.
"I'm sorry," she breathes. "I'm sorry."
"I don't like it."
"I'm sorry."
He swallows, still backing away.
"Good. Good, go—go clean something, then. Now."
He needs something to be normal. Belle, most of all. She needs to be cleaning and not drinking out of his teacup. Not licking her lips.
"Do you want me t—"
"I don't care what you do," he snaps. "Just do it! What part of now don't you understand?"
"Okay! Okay, I—"
She hesitates, still stunned, forgetting how deeply his voice could cut. Then, she spins and stiffly starts packing the tea tray in silence, hands trembling, adamantly averting her gaze.
Rumplestiltskin shuts his eyes. Guilt wrenches in his chest.
"Belle…"
"I know," she says. "It's the umbrella."
Rumplestiltskin slows at the thickness of her voice. Is she crying? Is she crying because of him? She hasn't done that in…eons, at least. He thinks. He doesn't like it when she cries. He likes it less when he's the one who's done it.
"No—I-I'll sleep tonight," he hears himself say. "In my chambers. Away from the umbrella. I promise."
It probably won't help much, but if it gives her peace of mind, he'll do it. He'd do anything for her.
Belle eyes him, gauging his sincerity. Eventually—thankfully—she nods.
"I think that's a good idea."
He must have the wrong umbrella; these are good dreams.
Though they might kill him.
She's on his balcony in a downpour—in his shirt.
Just his shirt. Again. The way it clings leaves nothing to the imagination.
It is wrong and wonderful that she's making his blood this hot.
He's wanted her for so long now. He has daydreams and fantasies, and they are not innocent, but here, she's shaped as an offering, as if she hasn't always been temptation incarnate. As if she were already his. Her lips are redder. Her silhouette is perfect. Her curls and curves are soft and supple, waiting to fit against him.
She leaves a glistening trail of footprints on the polished marble in her approach. He stifles a moan when her lips brush his jaw, pricking little kisses up to his ear.
He shouldn't want this much. Not when it's not his to want.
"You should get me out of these wet things."
Then, the dream shifts.
He's still standing in the middle of what he knows to be his room but isn't, except now, there's a corner to his right, and he's watching himself frisk her. His other self is still fully clothed, positioned so that it only just preserves her modesty from his vantage point. He sees her leg hook over his hip, his hand dive, her head fall back with a gasp he can't hear—
"Such a good girl…"
And it shifts again, giving her back: lying her face down on the bed with his weight on top of her, murmuring filth in her ear that elicits lewd moans. He laughs like a victor, deep and smug and devilish, feeling her hips roll in want of him.
"Patience, little maid," he purrs, twisting a lock of her hair around his finger. "Doesn't Master always take such good care of you?"
"Mmhmm—"
He curls his finger, tugging her hair, relishing in her wanton whimper.
"Use your words, darling."
"Mm—Yes…"
Another tug. A darker tone.
"Louder."
"Yes!"
Rumplestiltskin groans into her shoulder.
Gods, he loves hearing her say that word—
And then it ends.
Before it even starts, it ends.
Rumplestiltskin wakes up, throat dry, trembling with want.
And he's cast adrift in the night, confused and alone with the echo of her voice.
He's afraid to sleep.
He went looking for a sleeping curse. Now, sleep itself is a curse.
The umbrella has cracked his psyche wide enough for things he didn't even know he'd buried to come flooding back, and they don't let go when he wakes up. They fade but leave fractures.
They fade, and he falls apart.
He braces for old ghosts: Bae. Milah. Hook. Cora. Familiar players in his worst imaginings. Belle, too, but never with that smile. That smile that lets him think he's in control. She's the only one who shows up, though.
He can still tell dreams from reality. The lines are smudged, but visible. What unsettles him is how easy it is to want the dream, though that's exactly how the umbrella's meant to work. That's the magic of manipulation. Dream Belle is supposed to be The Belle.
But she's not His Belle.
When he wakes, he's sick with guilt because he already has the real thing. The weight that drops in his stomach when he sees her—that's how he knows he's awake.
But since he's had the umbrella, His Belle feels like echoes on the wind. Sweeter, bolder. And she is bold, but in noble ways, not novel ones. But she's initiating the touches and teases now, which must mean he's projecting Dream Belle on her. Which enrages him because it implies she isn't enough when she is everything.
Then again, what if Dream Belle is only a glimpse of something she's never shown him? He likes to think he could gauge that facet of her by now, but after seeing Dream Belle? He's not sure what he knows. He knows Belle has a deviousness about her that she would as readily deny as he would his cowardice, so how far-fetched is the dream? How real does he know it to be?
He wants to confide in her, but what is he supposed to say? Something's wrong, but not really. It's just a side effect. Technically, it's flattery. He could sell that. But he'd rather not mention this until, oh, say, fifteen years into their marriage if at all possible.
Hey, sweetheart, remember that time I had an enchanted nightmare umbrella? Yeah, you were my—nightmare…
Twenty years. Just to get the wording right.
He can't remember what led to it, but they're silently dancing in the ballroom one dim afternoon, late autumn snow glancing off the towering windows with the rain. It's surreal and comfortable. A gentle thing to cradle in his hands.
She's lovely, of course, in that deep rose gown with the ruffles. Eyes bluer than blue. Piercing, but in a singular way, advantageous and calculating, yet still her. He should kiss her right now, in this gray quiet. Let it be a small thing. Just this once. He won't tell.
But he stares at her, lost. His face is haggard, rough, and haunted, and his spirit is in shambles.
"Won't it affect you?"
"I'd like to see it try."
Oh, it's trying. It's trying to taint the very essence of how he perceives her. She's been purged of her books and innocence. What remains stalks, watches, and wants. Like she's waiting for him to misstep. He has to wonder if he's awake.
He hates it. He craves it.
He wants to be her object—possessed more than he already is.
"Do you think about me when you're alone?"
"Do you want me to?"
He is unraveling. Fast.
She's always in his shirt. Always poised just so. A ready, resplendent opponent.
He is always dressed, always straining against restraint. At most, he's without his coat, and it's very unfair. But his finery bolsters his authority, and that never fails to sharpen his arousal.
The dreams shift constantly; there's no telling how many he's had. Sometimes he's watching himself step between her legs at the dining table. Sometimes he's pulling his claws down her back so slowly he goes insane.
Sometimes he arrives already basking in the afterglow, curled on his side as he dots kisses down her ribs and suckles the flesh at her waist.
Other nights, he's sitting in the dark next to the fireplace, watching her writhe in silk and firelight as he tells her what to think and how to touch.
He tells her she's beautiful like this.
He tells her, "You're mine."
He backs her into a mirror and drops to his knees, saying, "Open up, pet," breath hot on her thigh.
He's done a slew of unholy things.
But he can't recall taking her. Or kissing her lips. It's all foreplay and filth; nothing actually happens. It's all build and no release.
His dream self is not denied these things. Dream Rumple gets to swallow her shrieks as he defiles her on the throne and taste the honeyed sighs he coaxes from her in the den.
The shifts come faster, fevered: licking wine from the insides of her knees, sinking ink-streaked hands into her hair when she kneels. There's a green shimmer to the shirt when he tears it open after burning potatoes in the kitchen. A lilac halo of moonlight fused to their silhouettes as they tangle in the fountain.
"Do you like it when I behave, Master?"
Her gasp makes his eyebrows flash.
"Do you like it when you behave?"
He obeys just as readily. Experiments in unlocking inhibitions and cultivating his confidence to surrender. Choosing to be powerless like this enthralls him. It is everything to let her, not just command her.
He has always been at her mercy.
"Open up, pet."
And he chokes out for more.
But the ecstasy curdles.
It's become overwhelming, to the point of desensitization.
He barely flinches when the dream shifts anymore. His body braces, but his mind is numb, complicit. He's blissed out and bewitched, gorging himself sick, but he dares not refuse the flesh offered him. He still opens his arms every time.
What if it's his only chance?
What if this is all he ever gets?
Rumplestiltskin is losing. Paranoid, but so, so stubborn; he knows he's delusional enough to believe he can still best this umbrella, so he might as well stick it out.
He doesn't believe he can, but he pretends he does.
Because when the umbrella is gone, these dreams will fade with the magic. He'll remember feelings but not features. He can't afford to let go yet; if these dreams are all he gets, even just for a little while, he wants them.
He wants her.
He wants her so badly, he's a gaunt shell of himself now, harsh and hollowed by his insatiable lust. He doesn't speak, doesn't eat, doesn't sleep. He just…drifts. His eyes are blank, red-rimmed, tethered to nothing. All he sees are unlit corridors and the cold light in his windows that wants to burn him.
He starts when he realizes Belle's at his side. Belatedly remembers she's been walking with him since they left the great hall and recoils indignantly when she furrows her brow at him. He is not a thing to be cornered right now.
"When are you going to kiss me?" she asks.
Rumplestiltskin stops. A spark catches in his crazed eyes.
He's awake. She's not wearing the shirt.
But there's no heat in her voice. No stakes. It's odd because Belle's impatience isn't flat—it's a circle of pikes at your throat.
This is flippancy. A dare without teeth.
A take-it-or-leave-it.
Oh, fool girl.
He's gotten so good at taking.
Rumplestiltskin backs her into the stone wall, chuckling on a depraved growl when the heat of her startled gasp hits his face. He firmly grips her waist, holding her in place as he drags his claws through her hair, his voice a breathless, agitated purr.
"You wouldn't be the first princess I've ruined," he says. "You're all the same, you know? Bored on your thrones, in your solars…Squirming at the thought of some stable boy when all you want is a real man who can make you tremble—"
"Rumple!"
His smirk grazes her ear, numb with want.
"Blush for me, darling. You know I'm right."
"I-I have never—"
"Don't. Lie."
He sneers, pushing his hand back into her hair. Making her look at him. Everything is a lie right now, but this won't be. She is not going to lie about wanting him.
"I see the way you look at me, Belle," and this is not the hot rasp of someone in control. "That twitch of curiosity deep in your belly. The disappointment every time I don't pin you to the nearest surface and ruck up your skirts."
She gasps as he yanks her head back further, dragging his breath down her delectable neck, needful and knowing.
"You want to tremble, don't you, princess?"
His open-mouthed kiss at the base of her throat makes her moan. He mocks her with a pitied whine, nuzzling into her neck.
"Ohh…You need to, poor thing."
Belle finally grips his shirt, wordlessly pleading for him to stop because she doesn't trust the sounds coming out of her to convey that. He nips the spot he kissed before brushing his lips over hers without capturing them.
"You don't want to be kissed," he says, lifting his head to bore into her glossy eyes. "You want to be clutched and caressed. You want blissss."
He squeezes her hip and gasps with her.
He is going to die like this, and he is fine, just fine with that.
"Does Her Highness want to forget her name for a little while? I fear it won't be for long," he murmured at her temple, "for I might not be able to stop saying it."
Belle gulps, eyes wide and cheeks aflame. She's in way over her head but stubbornly refuses to drown—refuses to succumb to her own desperate aches and desires.
She puts her hand on his chest and shakes her head at him, voice unsteady.
"Rumple, this isn't you. You're not well."
His demeanor darkens with the fantasy she's so thoughtlessly fractured, and he looms over her.
"If you say one more word about that umbrella—"
"I'm worried about you!" she says. "Look at you! Look at what you're doing!"
He doesn't. He only looks at her. She's the one pleading, but something in her eyes is chasing him, and he leans away, unnerved, magic pinging wildly under his skin. A beat later, his hand retreats from her hip like an apology, but his expression remains unchanged.
"Something isn't right," comes his bitter whisper. It hasn't been for a while. "I'm not right. I don't know how to be right—"
Belle gently takes him by the shoulders, grounding him. "You need to sleep."
The word makes him flinch. Dulls the daggers in his eyes.
"I can't." And this look of horror befalls him, making his face twitch. Making him cold. "I can't sleep, Belle. I won't. I won't. Don't make me."
She frowns, confused. "I'm not."
"Don't make me—don't let me." He shudders hard. "Don't let me, please—"
"Rumplestiltskin!"
He falls back against the wall, breath panicked and broken.
"I won't," he whispers again, staring through her bodice. "I won't go back there, Belle. I won't come back. I won't come back, I can't sleep, I—"
"Rumple. Stop."
She grabs his face and makes him look at her. His breath is still trembling through his teeth, eyes still wide, glazed, unblinking. She brushes his hair aside as his fear softens in her solace, and she slides her hands down his arms, squeezing his hands.
"It's time to get rid of the umbrella."
He hesitates. Just long enough that she knows she's got him.
"No—"
"It's not worth it," she cuts in. "You're driving yourself mad." Her breath catches. "You're scaring me."
Rumplestiltskin turns his head out of her grasp. Snarls, angry at himself. He's so tired. And he just said all those things to her. Damn it.
He hangs his head. Her thumbs smooth circles into his arms above his elbows. It's meant to soothe him, and he feels nothing. Not a damn thing.
He can't stand this disconnect.
This magic has warped her aura, stolen something else, and concealed the best parts of her. She's goading the vulgar lech he's become. She's passive but not, concerned but not. He feels like he's losing her, like something's already been severed, and it hurts.
He just wants her back. Just her. As she was.
She's the only one who can put him back together.
Belle touches her forehead to his.
It's enough.
"I'll go in the morning."
It's another nondescript room he knows is his but isn't.
Belle is in his bed beside him, all satin skin and champagne silk. Lying in rose petals, lying in wait—smug, spunky, eager to be unwrapped.
His stomach suddenly fills with the taste of all the salt he's tried to scour from her skin. There's rot in his throat and chills in his face, and gods, he wishes she'd stop smiling at him like that.
"Aren't you going to take care of me, Master?"
The cords in his neck tighten. He blinks. Shakes his head. Please.
Belle pouts. "Don't make me beg."
Rumplestiltskin shuts his eyes. Sucks in a breath and lets it stutter out of his nose. He tenses as her hand comes to his chest, then crawls up his throat like smoke. Smooths his hair out of his face.
He has got to get rid of this umbrella.
And he will. In the morning.
Rumplestiltskin looks at Belle.
Morning is so far away.
He rolls toward her, weak, aching, and unmade.
What if this is his last chance?
What if this is all he ever gets?
He cups one side of her neck and dips to the other, brushing his breath up and down her creamy skin, gathering his courage, her scent. His lips drag under her jaw—not quite kisses, not quite pressure. Up, up until his tongue curls behind her earlobe, pulling it between his teeth.
Belle moans, and he's starting to want this again.
He shouldn't. But he's going to.
He kisses her pulse, latches on; slowly takes his medicine, one soft sweep of his tongue at a time. The guilt eases. Knots unfurl. As her breaths grow ragged, the good feelings come back, pouring into his belly, and it's like he never lost the taste for it at all.
He's got her riled up now. She's trying to guide his hand where she needs it, but he deftly rolls his wrist from her grasp, snickering. When she tries to do it herself, he snatches her hands away, holding them to her chest.
"Nah ah, nooo touching!" he chirps before his voice rumbles in her ear. "That belongs to Master."
Belle defiantly cants her hips, growling.
A delighted Dark giggle rings out.
"You're so fun when you're frrrustrated!"
He keeps at her neck, laving and feasting until she's keening and coiling. She's on the verge of staging a coup, of putting him on his back like the queen that she is, but he doesn't deserve that yet.
He has to earn it.
He rolls on top of her, silken petals tumbling off his shoulders as he pins her wrists to stay in control. His wicked grin blooms against her throat, denying her friction.
"Ready to beg, princess?"
"Yes." A moan. "Y-Yes, gods—"
"Then do it—"
He jolts upright with a gasp. Alone. Empty.
She's vanished right out from under him—her heat, her scent, her skin. Everything.
The echo of her moan fades before he can remember it.
"No…"
The sheets are drenched with sweat, damp hair clinging to clammy skin like the rose petals on the back of his neck. He stares at the dying embers, fisting his sheets as her voice dissolves in the dark. He feels betrayed, but it is his own betrayal that fouls his mouth; he didn't even try to wake up.
He couldn't. Eternal sleep was creeping in. Beatifying hellish dreamscapes just enough to make him want to stay. One night, he wouldn't wake up.
Rumplestiltskin throws back his covers and teleports to his tower. The cold stone floor shocks him out of his stupor as he approaches the Sandman's umbrella with disdain—and respect.
I yield.
And then he sighs, like he's finally been given permission to breathe. A tease of autonomy, but the rest would come.
He would be free soon.
He would have his world back. His Belle. The one who smelled like books and bread, not silk and sin.
He would also be incinerating every umbrella on sight for the rest of his life. That wasn't up for discussion.
He picks up the umbrella and squeezes it in his hands, resisting the urge to snap it.
Just give her back. Please.
He's ready to leave at dawn. He'll think of a deal to make before he arrives, but he's not above chucking the thing at the gate and teleporting away. He won't, but his decorum has been questionable lately.
So, he dresses respectfully. Calls for the carriage. Glamours his face to look less ghastly, though his head remains hazy and heavy. Just deciding to part ways with it has him feeling saner, but he won't be until it's gone. He goes to the library, umbrella in hand; he won't let Belle come with him, but he promised to tell her when he leaves.
"Belle, I'm going," he says as he opens the door. "I'll be back t—"
Rumplestiltskin drops the umbrella.
Oh, fucking hell.
Belle is there. Sitting on the chaise.
Wearing his shirt.
It's the same shirt from his dreams: that warm hue of champagne that bridges the tones of her milky skin and luscious curls perfectly.
Rumplestiltskin's heart stops.
He's awake. He has to be.
…Unless he never woke up at all.
Belle turns a page without looking up.
"You're staring, Rumplestiltskin," she singsongs.
Or maybe she's just lost her damn mind, thinking she can toy with him like this.
Maybe she can. Maybe he'll let her.
Rumplestiltskin prowls closer, circling, flexing and fisting his hungry hands. His eyes are black.
"You're mine to stare at."
"Do you like what you see?"
Rumplestiltskin snickers. Dangerously. Manically. She's not playing with fire—she is the fire. She knows she's consuming what's left of his sanity, which, somehow, makes him want her even more. Like he's proud. Because there's nothing left. She's burned him out. Burned it all. And he feels as light as ash on the wind, ready to go anywhere against his will.
He does like what he sees. He wants what he sees.
And he's gotten so good at taking.
Belle finally looks up.
Something inside him snaps. A split, clean and cataclysmic.
Final.
Rumplestiltskin surges forward.
Belle's loftiness vanishes instantly. She drops her book as he bears down on her, shrinks into the chaise, and yelps when he snatches her up.
"Rumple—!"
His mouth is on her before her back hits the bookshelves, mining for everything he's forfeited at every encounter. She's kissing back, enthusiastic but not nearly as fierce; he's a mess, spilled and spiraling, and he needs her to see that. He needs her to know that lust doesn't just rip through a person like this. He is a demon desperate to be made whole, and she is the only way that will ever happen.
When they break for air, their eyes meet, chests heaving.
Belle chuckles. Gives him a once-over. Flashes her eyebrows.
"Not bad for a stable boy."
He's so offended, he's in love.
"Oh, sweetheart," he purrs, dragging a claw down her middle, "I'm just breaking you in." His voice drops to a hypnotic whisper. "Then I'm going to break you. Put you back together and do it all over again. Until all you know how to do is beg for my touch."
He hooks her leg on his hip and steps closer, eyes never leaving hers. He dips his face to her neck, tormenting her with his teeth.
"Oh, you'll be so good at it, too," he coos, brushing her hair aside. "So pretty."
She groans as he marks her neck, smoothing his hand up the outside of her thigh, just under the hem to her hip. He squeezes, and she closes her eyes, sending a sultry moan into the ceiling.
"Gods, Rumple—"
"I can't decide which I like more," he professes casually. "I've taken you so many times in that little blue dress, I've lost count. But I do love the idea of you flushed and flustered in nothing but a crown."
"Yes," she breathes, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling him close. "I don't care how you want me," she whimpers against his lips, "just that you do."
He lifts her higher. Presses in.
He can feel the control slipping in his voice.
"You know I do," he whispers hoarsely as she nuzzles against his cheek, kissing his jaw. Chills trickle over his skin at the words he tastes on his tongue, and he lets them engulf and numb him.
"I'd do anything for you, Belle. Do you know that?"
"Of course, I do." Her breath ghosts over his ear as she catches his wrist. "But I wouldn't do that if I were you. Master."
Rumplestiltskin's blood freezes.
There's a shift—a slam, like his soul has cracked open.
Something is Wrong.
It's so wrong that time feels convex, that the air feels inside out. His eyes are fixed on the spine of a book, and he's twitching again, terror-stricken, his breath caught and trembling in his throat.
A warm chuckle nudges closer—velvety, vain, victorious.
Eviscerating.
He's asleep.
Oh, gods, please let him be asleep.
She's only worn the shirt in the dreams.
She's only called him Master in his dreams—
Red waves fall in his periphery, brushing the side of his face.
His stomach turns.
"Darling, you made it too easy—"
Rumplestiltskin seizes Zelena's neck, shoving her head into the shelves without looking away from the spine of that book. A strangled gasp crackles out of her, and he streamlines his shame into an anger so raw, so visceral, he can feel the very walls of the castle shake.
"Okay, okay—wait—"
His sneer warps, feral with rage when he finally looks at her.
The restraint he has in this moment easily outpaces every temptation offered to him in the last week. Because now it all makes sense. Now the dissonance has found its resolution, and there's a fleeting sense of relief knowing the umbrella's magic never compromised Belle. She was wrong because she wasn't Belle. And he knew it in his bones the whole time.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't end your miserable life right now!"
Zelena gulps. "I have Belle."
Rumplestiltskin seethes, tightening the vice. He wants to watch the blood vessels break in her eyes.
"And when I get her back?!"
"I'll give her back."
"NOW!"
"Oh, don't be like that." Zelena pouts. "We were having so much fun—"
Rumplestiltskin draws her away from the bookshelf and slams her into it again. This woman is so dead, it's hysterical.
"You…" His growl is unholy, monstrous. "You thought you could deceive me—"
"I did deceive y—Ach!"
"You're being strangled right now, in case you forgot!" he barks. "Anything else clever to say, dearie?!" She gags when he lifts her off her feet. "About invading my mind, desecrating my dreams, disgracing her name with your filth? Go on and chirp, you contemptible rat!"
Zelena's hands claw at his, feet trying to catch on the shelves.
"I wasn't… in them," she wheezes. "That was…all you."
"The hell it was!"
She influenced them, exploited them at a time when she knew he would be fragile, questioning everything and nothing because of the magic he was trying to bottle. She was in them enough to see. To wield the words she stole right out of them.
"I took advantage of your dreams," she pants, "but not you."
Rumplestiltskin yanks Zelena back down to her feet and bares his teeth in her face.
She didn't get to decide that.
"Bring. Her. Back!"
Zelena's expression cools. She dares to meet his eye before green smoke envelops her. When it dissipates, Belle is in his chokehold. His Belle.
Rumplestiltskin recoils in horror, catching her as she collapses into a coughing fit.
"Belle!"
Mushrooms tumble over his feet, soft thumps rolling across the floor. Rumplestiltskin then looks at Belle's hair, finding the ivory locator ribbon still woven into her braid. Another wave of guilt pounds into his gut; he never tried to reach out to it once. He didn't think to. Why would he?
He cradles her face with one hand. She's disoriented but otherwise fine, frozen in time since her abduction. But the lines in her irises are spaced correctly now. Her aura immerses him in peace, blue, gentle, and safe.
It's her. Gods be good, it's her.
Belle turns her face out of his hand, toward the door. He follows her line of sight to Zelena, standing there in his shirt with the Sandman's umbrella in her hand. He takes a step forward, then hesitates, one hand reflexively reaching for the umbrella while the other keeps Belle behind him.
"Hate to cut and run, darling," Zelena says airily, "but there's a certain Sandman missing a certain umbrella. And he is not happy with you."
"Yes, well, I'm not exactly thrilled with him, either," Rumplestiltskin snarls. Of course this wretch would cozy up to another powerful man for power of her own. "He knows where to find me."
"I'll be sure to let him know." Zelena smirks, blows a kiss. "Toodle-oo."
With that, she disappears. When the green smoke clears, she and the umbrella are gone.
His shirt ripples to the ground.
Rumplestiltskin stares at it for a time, letting the quiet settle in the room and in him. Already, he can feel what grips him beginning to ease, slowly, like a tide. Zelena's magic fades more quickly, still lingering, but now he can tell hers from the umbrella's. He hates that she was telling the truth.
She wasn't in his dreams, just watching. Echoing them just enough in reality to blur the lines beyond the umbrella's influence. She could have stolen it without the whole charade. But she had to toy with him. Show him he wasn't always clever—that he made mistakes, like rejecting her for Regina.
That wasn't a mistake.
But this was.
A huge, huge, terrible mistake…
Belle narrows her eyes at the pool of poisoned champagne by the door.
"Is that… your shirt?"
Rumplestiltskin wilts at the sound of her voice.
It's her. It's right.
His soul recalibrates. And he lunges.
He grabs Belle's face, breaches her lips, and swallows her squeals.
It's not relief or guilt or love—it's purging Zelena from his tongue. And he is very thorough. Very frantic. The more Belle squirms, the stronger his hold and the deeper his kiss. He knows he's bruising her lips, but he'll kiss them better later. He can't slow down or it'll Mean Something, and he's not looking for meaning right now, just shelter.
When the kiss breaks, Belle reels, stumbling back, stunned and starry-eyed.
"Rumplestiltskin!"
He points at her when she rounds him, voice low and eyes hard as he catches his breath.
"Ah, ah! Take it or leave it, dearie, because we are not talking about this! Ever!"
Her mouth falls open, ready to launch into an argument, when something in his tone registers differently. She pauses, blinking as a trace of vulnerability crosses his face, tightening her throat. She looks at the shirt, then back at him, already making some disturbing deductions.
"Rumplestiltskin, what happened?"
He lowers his finger. Looks at her mouth.
"I got you back. That's all that matters."
A soft sparkle fills her eyes. She's confused but moved, reprioritizing the questions she wants to ask and wondering if they need to be asked at all yet. Because his eyes drop to her mouth again, and his voice is broken enough to let something real through.
Belle leans in—and he leans away.
It is painfully sobering.
Rumplestiltskin shuts his eyes. Not just because he refused her kiss, but because the pity in her eyes knows why he did. She always was clever, his little bookworm.
"Oh, Rumple…"
"Don't."
Don't look at me like that.
"It's over now," he murmurs. "The magic will let up soon."
Belle wants to touch his arm. She reaches out, and thinks better of it, but he delicately catches her fingertips. His thumb idly sweeps over her middle knuckles once—an apology.
Belle presses her lips together. "Are you going to be okay?"
That remains to be seen.
He wants to fall into her arms and sob, but he lets go of her hand instead.
"I'm going to sleep."
The soft boom of his chamber door echoes through the West Wing.
Rumplestiltskin shuts his eyes, letting it resonate through him.
He hadn't known.
He should have. He would have, if the umbrella's magic hadn't dulled his senses. His instincts had screamed that something was off, and he knows he would have seen it sooner, if not immediately, if not for the distortion.
But he didn't.
And despite that, Belle's safe.
He's mortified by what she must've gleaned: he spent a week unknowingly indulging her impersonator. And it hadn't meant nothing, or he wouldn't be this shaken. She saw it on his face. She parsed the confession from it. He's sure of that.
He's ashamed.
Embarrassed for her, but grateful she'd been spared his appalling behavior.
Thank the gods he hadn't given that stable boy speech to her.
And that he'd wasted no real affection on Zelena.
Rumplestiltskin uncorks a purple potion. He hadn't extracted enough of the umbrella's magic to craft a sleeping curse, but it was enough for a dreamless draught.
He tips the phial to his lips.
For once, he will be glad of Belle's absence when he closes his eyes.
A few days later, Rumplestiltskin struts into the great hall very late to breakfast, preening and handsome and grinning, like he's already back to his old self. Belle knows he isn't; they are both far from getting over this and still a little stilted. But she loves seeing him make the effort, because it makes her want to do the same.
She smirks as he sits, wriggling tall in his chair.
"Did you sleep well?"
His grin grows when she hands him his chipped teacup.
"Like a baby."
She laughs. "Good."
Her plate is empty, but he's not rushing her out. They need to adjust themselves in these silences now if they're going to share them. They'd always been a little loaded, a little charged, but comfortable to endure. Now, an abstract line has been crossed, and they don't quite know what to do with it.
Sometimes, he still looks at her like she's not real. Not with reverence, but suspicion, like Zelena is still wearing her face. Not everything went away with the umbrella. Not yet, at least. He's too tight-lipped about what remains, but she's made more deductions. And she respects him enough not to discuss it, as per his request.
But they are going to talk about that kiss.
"So," she says carefully, "we're, uh, still not talking about the—"
"Ah ah, bup-bup-bup!" he yells, waving his hands at her.
"Because I understand," she continues despite his irritated glare. "Why you did."
Rumplestiltskin's lip curls. "How nice."
"Well, if it had been me, I would have… done it…"
And now that's hanging out there much lower than she anticipated. She only meant to ease his guilt. But his eyebrows have risen in earnest, all too happy to watch her stutter her way through this one.
"Really?"
Now she sees why he didn't want to talk about it.
"Just—drink your tea," she mumbles against the rim of her cup.
"Oh, no no no no no, little maid," he lilts darkly, steepling his fingers. "I need to hear how disappointing my impersonator is to prepare myself for your… enthusiasm."
Belle shuts her eyes, already a telling shade of red.
"That's not necessary."
"Well, suuure it is," he says. "Are we talking chaise or sheets?"
She groans into her hands. "Rumple…"
"Because if it's the chaise—"
"Stop it."
"—I may need to reinforce it—"
"Rumple, please!" she whines. "Stop! Don't make me beg!"
His entire demeanor changes. Swift and sudden as a storm.
"Wha-t?"
"I—" She shakes her head, at a loss for his reaction. "I said, please don't—" Ohh.
OH.
Belle looks at Rumplestiltskin, wide-eyed. His eyes are just as wide and twice as panicked. She can almost see his magic spritzing under his skin in a frenzy.
"R—"
His hand twists into the air abruptly, magicking her away. When the crimson cloud vanishes, her chair is empty. He stares at it like it's going to bite him.
He definitely shouldn't have done that.
Nothing says 'pathetically obvious' like magicking the girl away when things get awkward.
He hears frantic banging at her chamber door. Unintelligible shrieks.
He shakes his head.
No. No, she's not coming out. Absolutely not.
More banging. Muffled shouts.
The corner of Rumplestiltskin's mouth eventually rises.
Well, maybe if she asks real nice…