Occupations
DISCLAIMER: OUAT doesn't belong to me. Psh.
Belle/ Rumpel, one-shot.
Enjoy, please review!
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"What are you doing?"
He doesn't break his focus for a single second. "What does it look like I'm doing, dearie?"
She tilts her head. Is she actually taking the time to examine his activity? "Oh my, clearly the princess was not one for labor." Still, she's not been around enough basic household chores to recognize that task at hand. Curious. She's done well enough, cleaning the castle. It's only been two weeks and the girl has already dusted every level, mopped, aired out the tapestries, beaten the rugs, etc. If she truly had no notion of housework, she has done a good job of hiding it.
"Spinning, but- - -" Belle stoops down. "What?"
Rumpelstilksin allows one sparkling thread to run over the pad of his fingers. It glitters, even in the dim light of the great hall. "Gold, m'dear."
Her gasp is low.
He raises a brow, still not looking away from the wheel. Belle's gaze is also trapped on the spinning round of wood- - -not the golden thread, as he would've expected - - -her dark pupils following the circular motion.
"I told your father, did I not, that my occupation was making gold? Have you not heard the stories?"
"Well, yes- - " She starts again, then falters. "But I didn't think-"
"It was true?" He smirks. "That's the beauty. So many facets in my story, few could believe them all."
"So, they're all true?"
Rumpelstilskin ignores her. But Belle is not deterred, creeping closer.
"How do you do it?"
At this, his fingers halt. The thread goes slack, dripping down to touch the wooden base. With unnaturally wide pupils, he stares up at her. Belle, in turn, stares straight back. She's bent down with hands on knees, inches from him. It's unsettling, but he lets the feeling pass.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Can't a girl be curious?"
Baring yellow, glinting teeth, he leans forward. "I don't know. Can she?"
Belle takes this as an invitation to sit. She pulls up the small stool that rests nearby. For a moment, he waits, then he takes up the thread again, pushing the petal at a constant pace, watching the string for any tangles or flaws. He watches her from the corner of his eye, waiting to see….something. But the princess merely sits still, observing the seemingly monotonous task with what he could only describe as keen interest.
-XXX-
Some days, he thinks perhaps spinning wasn't so bad. Better, anyways, than being the owner of a painfully dull pawnshop. The last twenty-eight years have been a complete drag of patterned days-wake, eat a bland breakfast, dress, leave for the shop, arrive at the shop, sit in the shop, eat a bland lunch, sit in the shop some more, maybe polish something, leave the shop, collect rent, go home, eat a bland dinner, read the town paper, perhaps listen to the radio, tea before bed, then, finally, bed.
Bed. Where he would dream, vividly, of the past. Of a circular stone castle. A spinning wheel that could make golden thread. Of a wide valley, filled with deliciously scented pines. Of Bae, of Belle. Of his life before Storybrook.
That is, if he could sleep at all.
Truth be told, it wasn't as though his life in the world before had been much better. In fact, that life had been significantly worse-he'd started with no power. Crippled, then ugly, he spent a great deal of his time avoiding the world at large. And those brief-very brief-moments when he was happy were mere blips, in the scheme of things.
But there were happier times. Times when he was a husband- -
Mora.
- - -and times when he was a father- - -
Bae.
- - - -and, then, that brief period when he was almost a lover- - -
Belle.
- - - almost.
Those days are passed. Never to return.
Owning a shop is not so horrid. There are parts he does enjoy. The scared look in his renter's eyes, for instance. The way voices automatically hush when he enters a room. The way their eyes flicker, twitching, like those of a dying rabbit caught in a trap, whenever he's speaking to them. And then, the quiet. Few enter Mr. Gold's Pawn and Antiquities. Therefore, the atmosphere has a grand element of peace. He doesn't mind this particular part in the least. If being the town's biggest villain qualifies him for eternal loneliness, he cannot complain.
No, he doesn't quite hate his occupation. Rather- - -
He loathes what it represents.
The little details added to it. Things that, ultimately, creature his character as the evil landlord. Manipulative old man. Sketchy pawnbroker.
And among other things, he cannot stand his house. Yes, a lovely estate, in the prettiest section of the valley, yes, yes. But it becomes significantly less pretty once he spent every night, every morning, there….alone. No human voices to woke him. No one to say "good night!" Holidays were useless spaces taken up on calendars. Extra bedrooms serve simply as dull reminders for what he doesn't have, what he shall never have, never, ever again- - -
Companionship.
-XXX-
"Why do you spin so much?"
"I like to watch the wheel. It helps me forget."
"Forget what?
He paused. "Well….I guess it worked!"
-XXX-
When she watches again, he slows slightly. Not to show her how it was done, but….because his hands are tired. Or, that was what he tells himself.
From the angle he sits, he can just make out the reflection of gold sparkling in her eyes. The gold contrasts nicely with her blue-green orbs. It's rather pretty, he decides. Like stars.
"How long have you done this?" Her voice startles him. "You don't even have to look, your hands just know. My nurse, Sophie, used to be able to do that with mending. And weaving."
Had he been staring? Well, it wouldn't happen again.
"A long time," He finally says. "Far longer than you've been on this earth."
Belle scoots closer. "What…what do you do with all of this?" She gestures to the bundles and bundles of metallic thread that surround the wheel. "Weave?"
"Weave." Rumpelstilskin scoffs. "No, no….sell, perhaps. Trade. The castle doesn't supply itself."
"It doesn't?"
He gives her a very "Oh-please-must-you-be-so-dull?" look. Without answering, he adjusts the string.
"Do you….like it?"
The imp considers this question for so long, that she fears he did not hear her.
"I suppose," He begins slowly. "There are worse occupations."
Belle continues watching, listening to the squeak of the wheel, and gentle thrush of the thread moving against wood. She doesn't quite comprehend- - -yet. But nevertheless, the girl nods, still watching the glittering string slide between green-grey fingers.
-XXX-
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