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Every day at precisely four o’clock, Mrs. Belle Gold shared tea with her husband in their parlor. She prepared the pretty silver tray she’d polished to a mirror’s shine, gathered the delicate bone china teapot and matching cups, one always affectionately chipped to accommodate the fine earl grey creme tea leaves, and brought along lemon and honey to taste. Belle thought that preparing their tea service was a little chore compared to helping their son with his mathematics problems in his homework, a prospect that gave her a headache just thinking about it. Her husband had a wonderful mind for numbers, though, and sat with Baelfire at the dining table, his patient voice a quiet murmur of encouragement as the boy wrote in his worksheets diligently.
Bae was folding up his notebook and stray papers as Belle walked past, sparing a smile for both of them. Mr. Gold glanced up, mid-sentence, as she passed and winked at her. Blushing under her husband’s dark gaze, she ducked her head and went into the parlor, setting the tray upon the table before the sofa.
“All ready for your test, Bae?” Belle asked over her shoulder, hearing the chairs move over the hardwood and the quiet tap of a cane.
“I think so,” Bae said hesitantly, gathering his backpack as he followed his parents. The boy ran his hand through his hair, which became fluffier with every muss of his hand. He frowned, muttering, “I’m not very good with decimals though.”
“You will be,” Mr. Gold promised, sitting down upon the couch nearest the fireplace, stretching his leg out towards the fire. Belle could see in his posture and hear in his thin voice how tired he was, but he smiled gently at his son, murmuring, “You’re brilliant, you’re just catching up to the other children.”
Belle nodded, pouring the tea in their cups and smiling over at Bae as the boy plucked the strings on his father’s cello resting in the corner. She could remember him teaching her how to play, once, when she only knew him as ‘Mr. Gold.’ “You are. You’ve just got a lot to make up for, not being able to start with the others. It takes a lot, to learn so much so quickly,” Belle seated herself primly on the edge of the overstuffed cushion beside her husband, her knee brushing his and pretending not to notice his warm little smile as her hands fussed his away to make his tea the way he liked it. “Besides, it’s not as if you’re not trying. You work harder than any other student.”
Bae rubbed the back of his head, lazily turning on his heel to look out the front windows that overlooked the snowy front yard. He was unused to encouragement, to praise of any kind. Belle knew that Rumpelstiltskin had been a wonderful father to the boy before his curse took him away, she could see it behind his dark eyes and the way he was ever vigilant over his son. But that had been a hard time, during war, and it was so long ago. Belle knew, better than anyone, that in moments of despair and desperation, the soul could forget the gentler things.
“I guess so,” he allowed quietly, but both husband and wife could hear the satisfied, if bashful tone to the boy’s voice, and shared a brief smile between them when he wasn’t looking.
“Baelfire, won’t you get your sister?” Belle asked gently, stirring the honey into her tea. The gentle tinkling sound of the silver meeting porcelain was quiet and reassuring, a familiar thing. After so long of enduring unpredictable twists in their lives, Belle found comfort in such small trivialities, and brought her cup to her lips with a warm hum of enjoyment.
“Amelia!” Bae called, shuffling out of the parlor and up the stairs, leaving his parents alone.
Belle’s eyes flickered over to her husband as his hand, warm and dry, slipped under the hem of her deep plaid skirt, circling her knee, his fingers playing along the inside of her thigh. She blushed brightly when he leaned close, nibbling at her neck quietly. She could smell his cologne, and the traces of magic in the air, and her eyes fluttered closed with a sigh as his lips kissed along the hollow of her throat beneath her jaw. “Can I help you, Mr. Gold?” she whispered, quite breathless.
“Mmm,” his fingers danced beneath her skirt, enjoying the aimless journey along the creamy skin of her leg where he found the frilly hem of a garter. “I think I’m finding everything to my... satisfaction,” he plucked her tea to set it safely on the tray before resuming his kisses and his hand’s delightful dance up the inside of her leg. Belle bit her lip, swallowing any noises she was tempted to make when his hand found a rather sweet little spot at the top of her thigh where delicate lace met silky skin, and she pressed her knees together to trap his hand warmly in place.
Gold chuckled against her where neck met jaw, nipping her earlobe. His was a husky laugh, his other hand sliding behind her back between her blouse and the sofa, and Belle felt pleasantly hazy as he pulled her closer. She turned and captured his lips with her own, his hair dusting her cheeks as she slumped back against the couch and pulled him closer, her hands curling along the lapels of his suit jacket. It felt wonderful and warm when he pressed close, and she was tempted to find a spot in his lap, the fire warming at her back and the rain pattering on the windows just beyond their cozy nest.
“Ow, ow- ow!”
Mr. Gold broke apart from his wife first, tilting his head up just enough over the couch to look beyond the parlor and into the foyer where he could hear his son, before slowly sitting up, clearing his throat. Belle watched him with a bemused smile, suppressing a giggle. “What’s wrong?” she asked with no small amount of sauciness, the toe of her high heel rubbing the inside of his pant leg. “Shy?”
The flush that crept up his neck from beneath his collar was all the answer she needed. “Of course not,” he scoffed, smirking before leaning back down, both his hands planted on either side of her head as he reclaimed her mouth for his own, drawing out a breathy moan. He brushed his nose to hers as he pulled back, whispering, “But I doubt the kind of music I’d end up making with you is child appropriate, little dove.”
Belle did giggle then, just as Baelfire came back into the parlor, his little sister on his back with her arms wrapped securely about his neck. Her milk chocolate brown hair was secured in a loose braid, wisps falling free to curl about her face, and her white floral dress wrinkled as she giggled and squirmed on her brother’s back. “Faster, Bae!” she begged, tugging gently at the ends of his hair. The little girl was, by nature, quiet, never speaking often nor very loud, but within the safety and confines of their home, she blossomed and animated happily under the loving care of her parents and the cheerful adoration of her brother.
“I won’t carry you anywhere if you keep pulling at me,” the boy grumbled, depositing his sister in the armchair by the window.
Amelia fidgeted, ducking her head meekly. Hardly ever a cause for trouble, the little girl was never a problem for anyone, and she was quite unused to correction. In fact, she took it all too personally, and had more than once sought solace in her mama’s arms, her feelings bruised and hurt. From her brother, it was even more poignant. When her face turned somber, she looked almost more like her father than Baelfire ever could. She had the same dark honeyed brown eyes, the thin nose, speckled with freckles. The only thing Belle could see of herself in the little girl, physically, was the dimpled smile she was so cautious sharing. Her cheeks, full and round and flushed from laughter, puckered when her smile fell quickly, “I’m sorry.”
Bae ran his hand through his hair, letting out a deep breath as he watched his little sister slip out of the chair under the reprimand. He pursed his lips in a bemused smile, mussing her hair affectionately, “It’s fine.”
Mr. Gold smirked, sharing a brief look with his wife, who winked at him behind the pastry she nibbled on.
Baelfire arranged himself on the piano bench, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows and sighing. Belle watched, amused, as Amelia shuffled over without shoes, her white stockings making her slip and slide like a disoriented kitten as she climbed up onto the bench to sit beside her brother. Hushed whispers of “Move over!” and “Ow!” floated between them, but Belle couldn’t tell who said what.
While she enjoyed the idea of her children being musical, it had been at Rumpelstiltskin’s behest that they learn music to begin with. Amelia loved to sing, even when she was smaller and couldn’t form the words just right, and it was the only time she ever really seemed to open up willingly. Belle had been amazed, the wonder of children dazing her, when their babe would babble and gurgle along to songs and music, and even more so when Rumpelstiltskin seemed to have a knack for bringing it out in her. Belle herself wasn’t musical, save for a bit of knowledge with the violin and a mediocre tilt to her voice when she sang. Baelfire needed prodding to play the piano or sing at all, but once he warmed up, he seemed to enjoy it well enough.
Belle suspected he enjoyed it more because he was so very good at it.
The tinkling of the ivories started quietly and grew increasingly more confident, as did little Amelia’s notes. She was dreadfully off key, but she remembered the do-re-me-so signs she’d learned at school. Sitting beside her brother as he played, she practiced them, her chubby hands and little fingers making the gestures accordingly.
Beside her, Rumpelstiltskin leaned back against the couch, humming almost too quietly to hear, teacup to his lips and half glancing out the window into the rainy, blustery afternoon. Belle sighed quietly, a warmth spreading through her, up from her toes to her belly to her heart as she watched her husband, both of them listening to their children. She sat back, nestling into his arm, and closed her eyes when she felt his lips kiss her hair.
After the scales, Baelfire began plunking out little diddies like ‘The Itsy Bitsy Spider’ and ‘Heart and Soul’ (two songs which they’d heard a cringe-worthy amount of times), to which both mother and father watched their children swinging their legs and bobbing their heads as they both sang along. Belle slid her hand between the cushions and up her husband’s leg to catch his hand in hers, and she felt him smile against her ear, whispering, “I think we’ve done quite well, Mrs. Gold.”
“Mmm, I concur, Mr. Gold,” Belle hummed, turning her face just a fraction to nuzzle his neck beneath his jaw. She felt her husband give a gentle shudder of delight, his eyes closing as she breathed him in and pressed a sweet kiss at his throat, inhaling fresh soap, cologne, and a deeper, earthier scent she recalled from the Enchanted Forest, something that was just purely Rumpelstiltskin and made her rub her knees together where they pillowed against his thigh. “Our nest is quite full.”
Rumpelstiltskin brought their joined hands to his lips, kissing where her thumb crossed his own. His eyes watched their little girl kick her white stockinged feet happily, and he smiled against their hands, murmuring, “For now, hm?”
Belle blinked, surprise flickering across her face as her husband hummed against her hand, but before she could press him for meaning, Amelia slipped off the bench, bustling over to her parents. As tired as he seemed, Mr. Gold leaned forward and lifted the little thing to sit on his knee, singing softly with her. His own voice was not talented, but it was deep and smooth, calming, and resonated in Belle’s chest, mingling with the sweeter pitch of the little girl bouncing on his knee, “I fell in love with you, heart and soul,” children and father sang, “The way a fool would do madly, because you held me tight!”
Snickering into her teacup, Belle took another sip. She knew that Rumpelstiltskin detested the little diddies, and only endured them, especially plunked out so gracelessly, because his children enjoyed them. He had more of a fondness for his crackling old records and a more subdued style of song than the plucky little tunes Bae and Amelia shared. She also knew he’d be humming it for the rest of the evening, much to his own chagrin, and buried her smile into the porcelain as she finished her tea.
Amelia curled her feet up beneath her father’s leg, leaning her shoulder against his chest and playing with the ring on his hand as he sat so comfortably with her in his lap. Quiet and meek like a little mouse, Rumpelstiltskin had worried to Belle on more than one occasion that their girl had inherited his lack of bravery. Gazing at her, the mother in her thought it too early to tell, but even if she did...no, even if her child grew to be a coward, she would still love her, unconditionally. To know that Rumpelstiltskin had that fear broke Belle’s heart if she thought too long on it.
It still amazed Belle that he seemed so content there, relaxed by the fire with a little one on his leg, prodding and poking and playing with him as if he were a puppet for her own amusement. The most powerful man in the world who commanded magic and the darkest spells, who could make mountains tremble and cities quake and turn worlds between his fingers-and he could desire nothing more than the simplicity of a safe, warm place for his family to be with him.
Baelfire soon abandoned the piano, the gentle rhythm of the rain sheeting against the house and the crackling fire spitting in the hearth enough music for them. He sprawled on the expansive sofa without preamble, falling onto his side and wriggling until his head rested comfortably on Belle’s leg. She smiled, happy with his comfort and easy acceptance with her, even after so long of being in his life. It would never grow old, and Belle knew she would never tire of the boy’s affection. She drew her hand through his hair soothingly, as much for his calm as her own (a gesture both son and father practically purred at in appreciation), and she watched the rain wash through the trees beyond the front windows of the house.
Her mind began to drift, and her thoughts brought her to her own father. Moe French, in this world, Sir Maurice in another, and his lack of mercy still curdled Belle’s stomach. Curses broken and true loves resurrected had not made him any kinder to their family, but Belle’s father had found love and acceptance for her children, at least, if not for her husband. It hurt her deeply, deeper than even her husband knew, that her father detested where she chose to put her faith and her trust, who she chose to love. Belle didn’t know how to bridge the gap, how to heal what had been done. Rumpelstiltskin was convinced there was nothing she could do, but that it lay with her father alone, and, while he might be right, Belle couldn’t stand the thought of being able to do nothing.
Sir Maurice had nearly ruined Belle once, to protect her from who he thought would do her harm by trying to sacrifice her memories. Perhaps, then, Belle wondered, that parents did things for their children no matter what was at stake, if they believed it right. Belle couldn’t imagine compromising herself in such a way, nor could she ever think it would be possible to justify her children’s unhappiness. Was a broken heart worth Baelfire’s anger, or little Amelia’s tears?
If her husband had taught her anything, Belle had learned that it was not the will of the father and mother that governed the house, but the object of where their love laid. For Rumpelstiltskin, it was to see his children grow and learn and blossom in safety, in comfort. He would bear the annoyance of repetitive children’s songs, test his patience under broken china and horseplay, even at his wit’s end. Belle had seen that much. No one had patience like her husband.
Was it then, a kindness for what a child wanted that made the father, or his determination to protect them at all costs? Rumpelstiltskin had learned that tale, had become the very riddle that Belle wished to solve. He had lost Baelfire, in the wake of what he’d wanted against what they had both needed. Now that he’d found him again, Belle knew what his answer would be.
Her fingers stilled in the hair of the very boy who’d taken up her thoughts when she realized he’d fallen asleep from her careful ministrations. A smile grew across her face, and she turned to whisper to her husband only to find him fallen into dreaming as well, slumped back into the well of the couch. His head was tucked to one side, silky hair shielding half his face. He didn’t look very comfortable, especially still fully clothed in his fine black suit, but Belle didn’t wish to wake him. The little girl curled against his arm lay quietly, sleeping peacefully with her ear pressed to her father’s chest, her breathing matched to his own.
With the least amount of movement she could muster, Belle reached the downy throw that draped across the back of the couch and covered both her and her husband’s legs, tucking them in tight and securing Baelfire closer against her. The boy rested his head back against her stomach, and Belle smiled contentedly, resting her own head on her husband’s shoulder. Her legs would be asleep and her back would scream when she would finally be allowed to get up, but for that moment, she wouldn’t have moved for all the magic and money in all the worlds combined.
Because Mrs. Gold was, undoubtedly and completely, happy.