Love & Other Bedlam
Author: pizzapizza Group F: unlikely savior; tangerine; aim a little higher
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On a moonless summer's eve, high in the mountains of the Black Forest, a warm, starry wind stirred through the Dark Castle's gardens and carried its sweetness into the chamber above.
Notes of lavender and lily drifted through the lancet windows—through stained-glass chimes, rosy cream veils, and the honey-brown locks of a girl long past her bedtime.
"But Papa, my doll," she pouted. "My magic ate it. I can't get it back."
Rumplestiltskin glanced at her dwindling pile of playthings as he tucked her in. He thought of Belle's disappearing books. Of half the stores missing from his tower. He hadn't any luck retrieving what her magic "ate," either.
"It'll turn up, darling." He kissed her forehead—her small, silky cheek. His eyebrows rose as the dog jumped up, bedding down beside her. "Sultan will suffice in the meantime, hm?"
"What if he gets eaten, too?"
"Goodnight, Lettie."
At the door, as he hushed the candelabra on her mantel, she called for him again.
"Papa?"
"Yes?"
"What if my magic never listens to me?"
Rumplestiltskin's lips thinned. That was the question.
"We'll make it listen," he told her. "Go to sleep, now."
Lettie rolled over, snuggled into Sultan's fur, and sighed.
"Goodnight, Papa."
"Goodnight, sweetheart."
- - -
Gideon was born with magic. Lettie was not.
So, when this contented little girl started spouting smoke and sparkles six weeks ago, it was rather alarming. Belle feared a curse, but, upon closer study, Rumplestiltskin determined their daughter was merely a late bloomer.
And her magic was unruly. Chaotic.
This, coming from the Dark One—six weeks on.
In the West Wing, Rumplestiltskin found his chamber door ajar, an indulgent amber glow spilling into the corridor.
Inside, firelight breathed over polished wood and brocade, clock faces and silver. A robust fire rippled with purple wisps threading its flames—a summertide spell to temper its heat whilst preserving its radiance for long, balmy nights.
At the table near the balcony, Belle pored over a letter in a shapeless cotton shift, her hair swept up to relish the night air on her neck. On a scalloped tea plate between a goblet and vase of wilting wildflowers lay slices of the little orange fruit she favored of late. She ate another without looking up, absently sucking the juice from her fingertips.
Rumplestiltskin smiled.
To fathom all the ways the love of this headstrong princess had saved him was beyond comprehension. All the ways she still did. All the ways she still could. Her redamancy was nothing short of an anomaly.
Belle was never meant to happen to someone like him, whatever True Love deigned.
Yet here they were, in the middle of a life together.
A soft golden shimmer revived the tired bouquet out of the corner of Belle's eye.
She grinned—at the flowers, then him.
"Lettie down?" she asked.
"Finally." He glanced at the letter, already unbuttoning his waistcoat. "Is that from Gideon?"
"It is," Belle said. "My father is taking him on a hunt next week."
Rumplestiltskin snorted as he opened the wardrobe. Gideon was as much a hunter as he was a milkmaid. He looked over his shoulder at Belle, waiting for her retort, but the twist in her smile betrayed her. Rumplestiltskin, for once, took the high road.
"He's ten. A hunt will do him good."
"Because you benefited from many a hunt in your youth," Belle quipped.
Rumplestiltskin smirked. His long lace cravat came off with a swish, the hem of his burgundy shirt freed with a great, end-of-day sigh.
"The summer will pass quickly," he said. "The library will be there come autumn."
"Our library? Or my father's?"
Rumplestiltskin stilled, heart thudding. Belle's gaze fell away when he turned, her thumb worrying the rough edge of the parchment.
"She isn't improving, is she?"
A terrible ache gripped Rumplestiltskin's chest. He wanted to tell her it was safe for Gideon to come home. But he would not invite her despair with half-truths.
"She's a child, Belle."
"How did she do today?"
Rumplestiltskin hesitated. But the breeze answered for him—ruffling the wide neck of his shirt enough to bare the bright purple scorch mark over his heart.
Damn it.
"Wait—"
Belle backed him into the wardrobe. Its doors clacked, a handle jabbing his spine. He arched away with a grimace, then tensed when the cool air hit his skin from her pulling his shirt aside. Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes.
Must she gasp so loudly?
"Oh, all right," he relented. "Her aim… stands to improve."
"Does it hurt?"
"'Tis but a scratch."
Belle shook her head, fingers skimming where Lettie's agitated magic still thrummed under his skin—where the gold flecks she counted as she fell asleep had been burned away.
Rumplestiltskin gently covered her hand with his own. He pressed it to the mark, letting her feel his heartbeat beneath the magic's dull pulse.
"The Dark One was struck by a five-year-old's rogue energy blast," he muttered, wry but warm. "I think I'll live."
"What happened?" she demanded. "Exactly?"
"I had her adjust for a target. She aimed higher, but"—there's the rub—"her magic didn't listen."
Belle sighed. "What if it never does, Rumple?"
A small, helpless smile surfaced. He smoothed a fallen curl back into place. Admired her brilliant blue eyes as the fire cracked over the forest's evensong.
"Oh, ye of little faith." He drew her close, pliant under the warmth of her weight and the peace it put in his heart. "You sound just like your daughter."
"Be it I was blithe…"
Rumplestiltskin caught her face when she tried to look away. She pursed her lips as he cupped her jaw and reunited their gaze, stroking her cheek with his thumb until the corner of her mouth rose.
Courage, dear heart.
"Have any of your books returned?" he asked.
A dim smile. "No. Any of your ingredients?"
"No. Though I'd settle for the Jabberwocky heart."
Belle's fingers closed around his wrist, grazing his pulse. A knot cinched in her stomach as her gaze strayed to the scorch mark again.
"What does it say that the Dark One can't control his own child's magic?"
Rumplestiltskin kissed the crease between her furrowed brows.
"It breeds patience, my love."
Belle closed her eyes as their foreheads touched. She breathed him in, noses brushing, and finally settled into his embrace.
"She will be fine," he said.
"I know she will."
"I promise."
Belle tilted her mouth up just so. The hand at her cheek slipped into her hair as he obliged, capturing her sticky-sweet lips in a firm, reassuring kiss. When it broke, an uncertain breath lingered between them—stillness weighed against stirrings.
Rumplestiltskin kissed her again.
A chord opened. From it, a song.
Belle stepped in when she heard it, hands climbing his bared chest with heat and hunger, a swell of fervor too sharp to ignore. Her touch encouraged his own, and he angled her face to deepen their kiss, to savor the citrus and sweet red on her tongue.
To slowly sip her fire until they frayed beyond restraint.
A velvety growl rumbled low in his throat. Rumplestiltskin tore away.
He hooked an arm behind her knees and scooped her up—"Rumple!"—whirling toward the bed with a wicked grin. Her glittering eyes darkened in return, piercing low, stoking his appetite.
Lettie did want a little sister—
"Papa, I did it!"
Rumplestiltskin pitched forward, feet tangling. Belle clung to his neck with a squeak as he stumbled, expecting the crash, but by some miracle, he didn't drop her. They looked at one another once he regained his footing, chests heaving, then turned toward their daughter's voice.
"Lettie—?"
Rumplestiltskin froze.
In the middle of the bed, Lettie held up her doll, seated atop the sprawling mountain of things her magic had "eaten": books, blocks, bottles, brushes. Three tapestries. A suit of armor. Chicken feed and candlewicks. Behind her, Sultan sniffed and barked, tail wagging furiously as he unearthed his favorite ball.
Belle slowly brought her hand to her mouth.
Lettie stood, catching herself on Sultan's back when she wobbled. Pewter pots and loose buttons trickled and clanged underfoot, but she posed proudly, her little chin held high.
"I did it all by myself!" she said. "I yelled at my magic, and I made it listen!"
Rumplestiltskin blinked.
"…You yelled at it."
"Yes!"
Rumplestiltskin's eyes shifted.
How, precisely, did one yell at magic?
Belle snickered as he set her down. He shot her a mildly exasperated look—one that clearly said we did this.
She beamed and hid her face in his neck, shaking with silent laughter as their arms wrapped around one another. It melted his bewilderment into beguilement; gods help whoever crossed their daughter.
"She acts just like you," Rumplestiltskin said.
Belle lifted her head. "Me?"
Sultan barked at something. Lettie bent to pick it up.
The dagger's glint caught Rumplestiltskin's eye—and he lunged.
"Papa, it has your name on it—!"
"Give me that!"
