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I.
One sunny spring day, Rumplestiltskin left the Dark Castle behind to brood for him so as to join his little maid on a stroll through the flowering wood. He was in a fair mood, one lenient enough that he was not vexed by the hope kindling in what remained of his heart. So, this once, he allowed himself her company.
Beside him, Belle lowered the hood of her green traveling cloak with a light gasp. Tugging his eyes away from a white petal that had fallen on her beautiful curls, he followed her line of sight to a colorful bird on a low branch with a long, curved beak. A black band wrapped over its eyes like a mask while the splendid gradient of a vivid sunset painted it from top to tail.
Rumplestiltskin had never seen such a creature.
"What the devil is that?" he asked.
"It's a bee bird," Belle said. She gathered her hem and stepped over a puddle for a closer look, smiling at its bright trill. "They're very rare. I haven't seen one since I was a girl."
The urge to summon a birdcage made the magic in Rumplestiltskin's hands twitch. He folded them behind his back. Not only did he not want to appear presumptuous, but he wasn't entirely sure he was on board with what he was about to suggest.
"Would you like to keep it?"
Belle laughed softly. "No, I couldn't. It's too special to be kept."
Rumplestiltskin's gaze fell away. He swallowed.
It wasn't a barb. But the fact that it felt like one perturbed him.
"What is so special about this bird?"
"Many things," she said, rejoining him when the bee bird flitted to another tree. "But in Avonlea, if this bird crosses the path of two young lovers, it is said to be a blessing of their love."
Rumplestiltskin went very still. He side-eyed Belle as she took his arm, her smile radiant to have thwarted him so. He felt something surreptitious in the way her grip briefly faltered. Something harmless she needed courage for.
"It is also good luck," she said, "to kiss before the bird flies away."
Rumplestiltskin looked at the bird. Poppycock.
He resumed their walk as the bee bird darted into the forest. The treetops rustled, sprinkling sunlight on their path.
"You know, you really should thank me for taking you away from a place with such absurd customs."
"Why?" Belle teased, drawing closer. "Are you opposed to a kiss for luck, Dark One?"
"I'm opposed to requiring a bird as an excuse to do so."
"Then what excuse do you require?"
Rumplestiltskin glanced at her lips, then away.
"A better one."
II.
When one gifted the object of his desire with an entire library, giving her more books to put in it was a natural extension of said gift. Each one made her smile, yes, but in some respects, it made Rumplestiltskin feel like a one-trick pony. Except his princess did not tire of this trick, ever, so he routinely found reasons to perform.
He waited for a rainy day, knowing they made her glum. His gift would be more appreciated, and her smile would chase the gray away.
He found her on a chaise in the great hall, mending clothes. Once she shook out the shirt in her lap and added it to the basket on the floor, he waved the laundry and her sewing kit away, approaching with his hands behind his back.
Belle gave him a tired, grateful smile, letting her aching shoulders round.
"I wasn't finished."
"You can be for now."
He revealed the book, bound in a striking scarlet leather, and presented it with his hands framing its short edges. He braced for the involuntary flip his heart did when she was delighted with him, but she reacted more reverently than he was used to, blinking as she stood to accept it. Then, something of a secret smile crossed her lips. A hint of pink dusted her cheeks.
Rumplestiltskin bent his brow.
He was all for making the girl blush, but there were other goings-on in that smile.
"What's wrong? Why do you look like that?" he asked. "What is that face?"
"Nothing," Belle said quickly, though she made no effort to temper her grin. "It's just…in Avonlea, when a gentleman gives a lady a book this red, it is a discreet yet resounding declaration of how intensely his passion burns for her."
Rumplestiltskin recoiled. "Madam."
He'd given her a dozen red books!
…Though maybe this was not the time to point that out?
He stared at her as her fingers trailed down the spine with a bashful chuckle.
"Gold filigree, a ribbon, exactly 285 pages…Gracious."
Rumplestiltskin's heart beat faster with every piece of evidence she introduced. His panic snagged on the last one, however, neck craning to glimpse the last page before she opened the book fully.
"Are you including the table of contents—?"
Belle's gasp cut him off.
Rumplestiltskin's expression continued to twist in confusion as all humor drained from her face. Her eyebrows climbed. Her lips rounded. She pinched the end of a second ribbon lying between the pages—and turned as red as the book in her hand.
"Well…" She cleared her throat. "Aren't you forward?"
"What!"
Belle snapped the book shut. She hugged it to her chest and slipped past Rumplestiltskin without meeting his eye, reducing him to a stammering fool so concerned with whatever scandalous proposition he'd just made that he couldn't string two words together.
"Belle! Wait!" This was madness! "I'm not—You are—It's a ribbon!"
Belle whirled back around, holding up her hand.
"A silk ribbon, if you please."
"What does that even mean?"
"I couldn't possibly say," she whispered fretfully. She shrugged, like the matter was regrettably out of her hands. "I have every right to behead you for this—"
"For what?"
"—but as you are ignorant of your actions," she continued civilly, "I will forgive you, and we will speak of it no more. Good day."
With that, Belle turned on her heel again and marched out of the great hall.
Rumplestiltskin blinked, shook himself from his stupor, and stalked in the opposite direction.
What are they teaching princesses these days?
III.
Rumplestiltskin may or may not have been responsible for melting Belle's favorite reading chair.
She took it in stride as she did most things. But her disappointment was palpable, and he didn't like it. So, in an improvised gesture that in no way suggested culpability but rather magnanimity, Rumplestiltskin magicked a deep and comfortable golden chair into the den for her.
Belle touched his arm when she saw it. His stomach fluttered.
"Rumple, it's lovely," she said. "Thank you."
"Well…Having one's chair melted can be upsetting."
He didn't like it when she was upset.
Belle pointed at the chair. Her other hand was still on his arm.
"Did you intend to put it here?"
Rumplestiltskin knitted his brow. "Do you wish it somewhere else?"
"I don't think that's for me to decide." She slipped from his side to inspect the chair, lightly running her fingers over the textured upholstery. "The question is, do you want it somewhere else?"
Rumplestiltskin's expression flattened. "Don't be tedious. What're you on about?"
"I should think it obvious," she said with a chuckle as she sat. "The gift of a chair beside one's hearth is an offer of a permanent place in the home."
"In Avonlea?" he snipped.
"In most places, I would assume."
"Of course." He'd about had it up to here with this doltish whimsy. He crossed to his own chair, straightening his cuffs before he sat. "What a relief it is to know, then, that you've already secured a permanent place in the home—as my maid."
Belle gave him a look. She reached for her knitting basket.
"Be coy if it suits, Rumplestiltskin," she said, spacing the stitches on her needle. "You know what I mean."
Rumplestiltskin did not reply. He magicked a fire in the hearth, conjured his knitting, and let the swish of their needles and the crackle of the fire fill the silence.
"What does yellow mean?" he eventually grumbled.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Don't tell me it doesn't mean anything. What does it mean?"
Belle bit her lip and turned her work.
"Joy."
IV.
As soon as Belle finished dusting the table in the middle of the foyer, a swirl of wine-red smoke materialized on top of it, revealing an exquisite bouquet of pink tulips in a crystal vase. Rumplestiltskin leaned out from behind it at a sharp angle, coaxing a bemused chuckle from her. She laid down her feather duster, pretending to untwist perfectly straight leaves because she knew he secretly liked her fussing over his magic.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"A little bee bird told me," he lilted as he came around the table, "about another silly custom your kingdom observes where matters of the heart are concerned."
Belle's eyes flicked to the tulips. She slowly lowered her hands.
Rumplestiltskin grinned.
"I, for the life of me, cannot seem to grasp how pink tulips became the definitive measure of a suitor's intent in a kingdom known for its enchanted roses," he mused, pacing closely behind her. His voice dropped near her ear, warm. "I thought I'd consult with an authority."
The most satisfying moment of hesitation followed.
But Belle was always up for a challenge.
"Well," she began, casually removing herself from his shadow, "I don't have to tell you, in a kingdom full of enchanted roses, how rare pink tulips are."
Rumplestiltskin smirked. He inclined his head, waiting.
She found her footing that quickly, her voice settling into a confident, conspiratorial cadence as she centered the vase.
"The significance lies in the number of blooms presented to one's pursuit."
"I see."
She was good at this. And, to his amusement, she continued unprompted, looking up as if trying to recall what she had not yet improvised, ticking off her fingers.
"Three is admiration, five is affection, seven is devotion—"
"What about twelve?" he asked, gesturing to the bouquet.
Belle pressed her lips into a strained smile.
"I fear you've pledged at least six sons."
"Six is a bit steep, don't you think?"
Belle shrugged. "I don't make the rules."
His eyes flashed at that. She was very good at this.
Rumplestiltskin held her gaze as he carefully slid one tulip from the arrangement. Belle gaped in horror, and he giggled wickedly, holding the flower out of her reach when she tried to snatch it from him.
"Rumple. Put that back."
"What does eleven mean?" he asked.
Belle's eyes hardened. "It–is–forbidden."
"Tell me why, or I'm leaving it like this."
"You will not."
"Oh, I most certainly will."
Belle huffed, put her hands on her hips, and rolled her eyes, making a show of indignation to buy time. Rumplestiltskin's triumphant grin vanished when she yanked his vest, cupped her hand around his ear, and whispered.
His eyes widened. "You can't be serious."
Belle solemnly relieved him of the tulip and slipped it back into the vase.
"You asked."
V.
Sunsets were breathtaking in the Maritime Kingdom. Purples, pinks, and oranges painted the shimmering midnight waves as far as the eye could see, while gulls cried and bells chimed up and down the coast.
But on this quiet bluff, Belle rested her head on Rumplestiltskin's shoulder with a contented sigh. Something must have bewitched him into wrapping his arm around her lower back—something powerful that let him relax into her embrace when she held him in return. It felt right. Peaceful. An alarming realization, best ignored by all involved.
Naturally, that's when Rumplestiltskin sensed a shift.
He felt Belle's smile spread slowly—mischievously—against his chest.
"You know," she drawled playfully, "in Avonlea—"
"Woman, I am not in Avonlea," he snapped, only to be met with soft giggles. "In fact, I am currently in a land where booting you off this cliff would be seen as character building. But please, do tell me how I am inadvertently wooing you this time."
It took her a moment to compose herself. He did his best to remain annoyed.
"A seaside proposal at sunset is tradition in Avonlea," she managed. "Otherwise, it doesn't count."
"Avonlea is landlocked."
"That's what makes it so special!"
Rumplestiltskin's jaw clenched. He slid his hand to her waist and stepped back enough to allow the balmy salt breeze between them. Belle had enough color in her cheeks to suggest that even she thought herself audacious for broaching the subject, so he let her stew a moment, admiring how the sunset lent a violet hue to her brilliant blue eyes.
"And if one were to…proceed with such tradition," he purred, feeling her spine stiffen when he guided her a step closer, "how—exactly—might one go about it?"
"Oh. Well, there are…many things involved," she said with a broken chuckle.
Then, Rumplestiltskin pulled one of her silken curls through his fingers, rendering her speechless.
"Do tell, dearie," he said, keeping his voice in that velvety register. "You've been so eager to educate me on all these customs"—his hand snaked into the back of her hair—"that I'm beginning to make some rather wild and egregious assumptions."
The trace of panic in her eyes did nothing to stop her melting into him.
"What assumptions are those?" she dared.
"Come, come," he chided, slowly grazing a talon along her jaw. "What would you do with six sons? Aren't you busy enough? Never mind the daughters likely to be interspersed amongst them. Though I suppose they all could help you with the chores." A frown. "Have I just solved the labor problem at home?"
Belle snorted. She wrapped her arms around his neck.
"What?" he demanded. "There would be enough of them to manage the castle themselves. More time for you to read books with ribbons in your yellow chair while that bug bird chirps at your window."
"Bee bird."
"Whatever."
He looked up as a ship's sails passed in front of the last thread of sun on the horizon. Suddenly, he felt his rambling hypothetical take shape, sink in his chest, and root there, giving him pause. Belle's smile only grew.
"You would be in so much trouble if we were in Avonlea," she said.
Rumplestiltskin waved his hand to teleport them home. He was in trouble now.
"I have no doubt."
VI.
Midsummer neared. The days were long, warm, and very tiring, but that didn't stop Belle from staying up late with a good book. When she reached the end of her chapter and saw it was almost midnight, she stood, stretched, and wandered out onto the balcony, where the scent of the damp forest hung heavy in the air, and the occasional star could be spotted between the retreating rainclouds.
Rumplestiltskin appeared next to her without a sound. Belle gave him a side-long smirk.
"Teleporting into a lady's chambers at this hour?" She wrapped her robe tighter, turning her shoulder at him. "I took my master for a gentleman."
Rumplestiltskin's smile widened, sly. His hands were behind his back again.
"It is because I am a gentleman that I am here, princess."
"Is that so?"
The clock in her room struck midnight.
Rumplestiltskin held her gaze—and revealed a single red rosebud.
Belle's playful demeanor immediately vanished. Her breath caught. When she found it again, words abandoned her entirely. Her heart knocked loudly against her ribs as the clock continued to chime somewhere to her right, each ring driving this moment further into reality.
Belle slowly lifted her wide eyes to Rumplestiltskin's.
"Per Avonlean custom"—he extended the rose—"one red rosebud at midnight."
Belle wet her lips, heat flooding her cheeks.
"Rumple…This is a formal request to begin a courtship."
"I'm aware."
"No, I mean it actually is—"
"I know."
He extended the rose again, giving it a little shake. Belle laughed and, swallowing around the emotion gathering low in her throat, finally accepted his most humble and sincere offering. Still, he looked utterly pleased with himself and, maybe, just a tad smitten.
"I've observed another custom as well." He drifted a step closer, bringing the faint scent of ink and embers through the petrichor. "Ancient and revered. Only for the most dedicated men to endure."
Belle hid her smile behind the bud, fingers tightening around its stem to stop it trembling. "What is it?"
Rumplestiltskin drove his gaze right into hers.
"Humoring the lady."
Belle nodded—conceded. He had humored her spectacularly. Her blush rose as he took her in his arms properly, drank in the sight of her openly.
"By that logic," she said, "we've been courting for a while."
"We are so behind on sons."
"Rumple…"
"Get thee to a seaside."
Belle burst into laughter.
Rumplestiltskin kissed her before she could recover.