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It wasn't often that Rumplestiltskin happened upon Belle in the halls late at night.
In the year she'd lived in the castle, their paths rarely crossed after dinner. If they came close, Rumplestiltskin was unaware; she might have turned the same corner moments after he did. Some nights, she stayed in the library; others, he remained at his spinning wheel. Often, there wasn't even an opportunity for it to happen.
He supposed his coarseness made it easy for Belle to ensure it didn't happen. He begrudged that his castle was, in the crudest sense of the word, her "home" now, but she did not presume to take liberties he did not explicitly grant her—including, it seemed, violating a self-imposed curfew.
He'd hardly scold her. She lived here.
He didn't want her to think of this place as her home. That word was too cozy in her mouth; it implied too much and expected a lot.
He wanted her to be comfortable. He wanted her to follow the rules.
But he didn't want her to attach sentiment to it.
It gave him too much hope.
It was while a-sea with these thoughts one night passing through the foyer that Rumplestiltskin glimpsed a ghostly white flutter in the gallery—flickers of candlelight glancing off the silk shoulders and long sleeves of a nightgown.
Belle's nightgown.
There was a little jump in his chest, a little ping from that intrinsic, juvenile notion that they were unexpectedly in the same room. He tried to defy it, to continue on his way without acknowledging her further (because why would he?), but Rumplestiltskin's gaze inevitably attached itself to her, and he slowed.
His brow deepened.
Belle's gait was off. She shuffled in the opposite direction of her room, a lumbersome sway so unlike her purposeful strides or distracted strolls. Her hands, usually clasped at her waist when she walked, hung heavy at her sides, and her dark tresses framed a perfectly blank expression, her vacant eyes fixed somewhere on an unseen plane.
Rumplestiltskin set his lips in a hard, bemused line as the clocks chimed midnight.
"You're going to turn into a pumpkin, dearie!"
For a moment, he thought Belle had heard him, but she drifted toward his voice like it had echoed from a dream, not the hall. At the balcony, she placed her hand on a cold marble pillar and peered into the foyer, eerie and ethereal with her candlelit curls spilling right out of an oil painting.
But she was still trapped behind the glaze in her eyes.
Belle pulled herself up onto the ledge.
Rumplestiltskin froze.
"Belle?"
She took a step.
A strained giggle skewed sideways in Rumplestiltskin's throat. Every muscle in his body tensed.
"What are you doing?"
Her slender hand slid from the opaline pillar as if letting go of a lover's.
Rumplestiltskin's eyes sharpened as she took a step.
"Ah—No, Belle, wait—"
Another step.
The long hem of her nightgown brushed under and around her bare feet.
Rumplestiltskin's chest clenched.
"Belle!"
She slipped.
Rumplestiltskin surged forward.
Belle caught herself on one knee in the supple pool created by her nightgown's skirt.
She clutched the glossy marble ledge on either side, face still unnervingly blank as she teetered, fighting to regain her balance.
But the momentum was too great.
Her skirt slipped out from under her with a swish, taking her with it.
"Belle!"
Rumplestiltskin hurled a crackling cobalt orb through the stagnant air. It broke apart beneath her, a diamond-bright dust catching and suspending her midair in a translucent blue cocoon of magic.
Belle collapsed within, severed from her dreamscape.
Rumplestiltskin held the spell with an outstretched hand, cold adrenaline coursing against his magic.
His hand began to tremble.
Positioning himself directly below her, Rumplestiltskin slowly drew his hand in, guiding Belle within reach. He put his arms out under her floating form, and the magic shimmered away when she fell into them, staining the floor in cinder-silver specks.
Rumplestiltskin pitched forward with a grunt.
"My, my," he tutted dryly. He readjusted her dead weight and headed up the grand staircase. "No more late-night trips to the kitchens for you!"
Belle said nothing.
She remained limp in his arms, her breath soft, silent, and distracting on the base of Rumplestiltskin's exposed neck.
He cast her a halfhearted glower; she had no right to look so peaceful after the trouble she'd caused. Not when she'd made him worry. Not when that warm curtain of hair tumbling over his arm begged for its scent to be drawn deep into his lungs and craved for all eternity—
It just wasn't right.
It was bad form.
She was just being mean.
Well, he could be mean right back. Very mean.
But he didn't like being mean to Belle. That dissonance resonated in him for days and wreaked havoc on his magic. And then she'd be pouty and aloof and prattle off some defiant monologue about how much she knew him and believed in him and ughh. No one wanted that.
With Belle, Rumplestiltskin preferred threats.
Threats were effective.
In fact, the more inflated his threats, the bigger Belle's smile, so it worked out.
Her chamber door creaked open at his command. A dwindling fire whispered at the foot of her canopied bed, casting pulsing shadows with its solitary glow.
Rumplestiltskin glanced for the nearest candle—on the vanity, to his left—and willed it alight. He lit the one on her nightstand, too, and sent the book on her floor to the winged-back armchair angled in the corner by the vanity.
The heavier outer drapes of her bed were already tied to their four posts, but the sheer ivory veils within were loose, and through them, he could see her covers already rumpled aside.
Rumplestiltskin parted the delicate veils with his back, detecting the muted notes of lavender and chamomile nestled in her sheets from a recent bath. He eased Belle into the downy haven and laid her down, gently cradling the back of her head to straighten her neck.
His finger twitched, asking a question it should not have.
Rumplestiltskin paused.
He didn't even know what the question was.
But when his finger twitched again, he carefully hooked a curl and watched it glide through his thumb and forefinger as he brought his hands away. Lingering flecks of silver magic transferred to his fingers, and when he looked up again, they were everywhere.
Peppering her hair and cheeks. Dotting her nose. Glinting on the slope of her neck.
An inverse of him if he'd ever seen one.
As Belle's skin continued to absorb his magic, Rumplestiltskin smoothed his thumb across her forehead, searching for foreign spells and hexes. He sensed the faint purple aura of a powerful dreaming draught—a trace of residual magic she'd likely contracted cleaning his newly "inherited" alchemy equipment that afternoon.
She hadn't walked in her sleep before this. To his knowledge.
That concerned him.
If he hadn't been where he was tonight, if he'd been two minutes later—
She wouldn't have turned into a pumpkin.
She would have turned into a ghost.
She could be sleepwalking every night for all he knew. If she was, she was remarkably stealthy about it—and that was not a word most people would pair with Belle.
Then again, most people meant him. He was her only people now. And she was not stealthy.
Well. There was the tart incident. He supposed that counted.
Rumplestiltskin looked over his shoulder at Belle's door. He could make it so the doors only locked when Belle was asleep, but there was this nagging feeling that she'd find out.
And Rumplestiltskin found that, much to his annoyance, he disliked upsetting her more and more, regardless of his reasons.
Besides, if he charmed the locks to prevent her from leaving her room at night, he might as well throw her back in the dungeon. They'd made progress. He could trust her to return from the village, and she could trust him to protect and provide for her.
And protecting her took precedence over her trust.
It would hurt them, but she would understand, surely.
And if she didn't, well…
He didn't want her to think of this place as her home, did he?
Belle stirred, a warm, sleepy sigh that nearly sent Rumplestiltskin out of his skin. He held his breath as she stretched through it, big, billowing sleeves sliding down her arms. She then rolled away toward her windows and drew another pillow to her body before quieting again, seams of spell dust murmuring in the creases of her nightgown.
Rumplestiltskin stared at her.
When she didn't move again, something heavy dropped in his chest. Something heavier than guilt or regret.
Something that should not be there because this was the simplest logic in the world: if she was asleep in the room, the spell locked the door. Why he felt like this was some sort of betrayal on her behalf only spoke to the sentiment she'd sprinkled all over the place like those damned silver flecks.
The castle absorbed them.
He absorbed them.
But he'd rather she hate him than find her dead on the foyer floor.
Rumplestiltskin sighed. His magic would be on the fritz for a week after this.
He raised his hand to enchant the lock.
"You're not going to like this."