#‘Rich dark hair. Black eyes that refuse to accept anyone’s praise. The pleasing sway of his body.’ wow this is something lestat would say

[blueiight]

rererererewatching redacted & im fr jtfo at how bison is literally just a posse of gay boys.

[mariequitecontrarie]

The Picnic

Summary: Belle bakes to ease her loneliness. One day, several months into her time at the Dark Castle, she plans a picnic to celebrate Rumple’s return from a trip. Rating: G  Word Count: 2,400 A/N: Dark Castle fluff for my 1,000 follower promptathon, @magnoliatattoo prompted: A few months after arriving at the Dark Castle, Belle plans a picnic. Kudos to Mag–she even betas her own prompts because I am trash.

Read on AO3

Belle pushed a sweaty tendril of hair out of her eyes and opened the oven to remove a tray of apple cinnamon sweet rolls.

Flour had settled into the pleats of her skirt and she swatted it away with a sigh. She wished she could beat loneliness out of her soul as easily as she could flour dust from her dress. Oh, she missed her father, her friends, and her home, but those feelings were more the desire for familiarity than true fondness. Right now there was only one person she was truly missing: Rumplestiltskin. She missed him so much that her chest ached and her shoulders sagged; even her hair seemed limp when he was away. He’d been gone for several days on a deal-making expedition and to celebrate his return, she had prepared a picnic and baked some of his favorite sweets.

By all accounts, she was a pitiful cook, but when she’d come to the Dark Castle as Rumplestiltskin’s price for saving her village, Belle discovered a hidden talent for creating delicious, oven-baked delights. One day soon after her arrival, she remembered a recipe for peach cobbler that her mother used to adore. Guessing at ingredients and quantities, she baked and served it to Rumplestiltskin with his tea. He’d pronounced it “halfway decent” and devoured the entire pan in one sitting.

Baking soon became a habit. Cream-stuffed profiteroles, banana bread topped with streusel, and Mama’s favorite petite-fours were a few of her specialties. Belle’s piecrust was flaky and flavorful, her cakes moist and fluffy. Thanks to Rumplestiltskin’s enchantments, her workload as the castle’s sole maid was light and easy, and the larder at the Dark Castle was always filled with the finest quality ingredients. Whenever she was sad, in a few short minutes she could have the oven fires blazing and the kitchens perfumed with aromas that both tempted and comforted.

She would stir together a batch of chocolate-studded cookies or slice fruit to assemble a tart, falling into a kind of happy trance as she traded her troubles for the joys of mixing and measuring and creating something as beautiful as it was delicious.

But by far the best part of baking was sharing her creations with Rumplestiltskin.

Belle blushed as she dumped sugar-encrusted popovers onto a wire rack. Rumple had a powerful sweet tooth. He never admitted it outright—in fact his compliments were grudging at best—but she knew he liked her baking by how quickly it disappeared. Whenever he was home she worked overtime trying to invent a recipe that would earn his praise.

“How is this batch?” she would ask, placing a dish of thumbprint cookies at his elbow, their jam-filled centers as bright and rich as jewels.

“Tolerable,” he would reply around a mouthful. But before she turned around, he had consumed another half dozen.

“Do you like these better with buttermilk or buckwheat?” she would ask at dinner, as he slathered his fourth light-as-air biscuit in butter while his bowl of beef stew grew cold and lumpy.

“Both better than sawdust, dearie,” he would say with a smirk, then reach for another.

The rebuffs weren’t so bad—at least bringing a basket of warm muffins to the laboratory or serving a golden wedge of cake while he worked at the spinning wheel presented an excuse to talk to him. The Dark Castle was a vast, desolate place and he often left her alone when he went out on a deal, sometimes for days at a time. When he was gone, she grew depressed and ate all her home-baked goodies by herself.  

But when Rumplestiltskin was about, the shadows retreated and the cold and dreary citadel seemed almost cozy—bathed with warmth and light. Plus his voracious appetite kept her from eating too many sweets.

With a rueful chuckle, she shook off her melancholy. Today was a special day, and Belle was determined to make it enjoyable. Birds were chirping and the rich loamy smell of dirt hugged the air. Their long winter of discontent was over; spring had officially arrived. She set her jaw in a stubborn line as she stuffed the picnic basket with treats, already prepared for Rumple to refuse. Well, she wouldn’t allow him to say no, and that was that.  

“What’s this?” he barked, barging into the kitchen on cue. His boots thumped loudly across the worn wooden floors.

“A picnic.” Belle turned around with a smile.

“Excuse me?” He tapped his ear with a long, black nail.

It always amazed her that such a compact, wiry man could overwhelm the room in such a way. Today he was dressed in soft brown leather trousers, a crimson waistcoat, and a golden silk shirt with billowing sleeves. And standing close. Entirely too close.

“It’s a common enough, um, practice.” Belle stammered, her heart fluttered as the intoxicating, spicy sweet combination of magic and Rumplestiltskin wafted toward her and tickled her nostrils. Ducking her head, she turned away and busied herself with tucking cloth napkins into the top of the wicker hamper. After she’d caught her breath, she lifted her face to his inquiring gaze. “We go outside, spread a blanket, and eat lunch—together.”

“In the grass?” He drew back, brow furrowed and fingers fluttering.

“Yes, there might even be sunshine,” Belle said dryly.

“Can’t.” He snapped his head back in forth. “Business to attend.”

“You cannot spare an hour for your only employee?” Belle pursed her lips, thinking of a way to entice him. “I made apple cinnamon rolls, chess pie, tarts. Besides, even a mage as powerful as you has to eat.” She blinked up at him through her eyelashes.

“Actually,” he corrected, wagging a finger in her face, “I have no need of food. Eating is a pleasantry, not a requirement. I am the Dark One,” he added imperiously, flourishing his hands for effect. His maid needed a reminder that he was a fearsome beast, not some mindless fop with nothing to do but dally in the garden on a stunningly beautiful spring afternoon and stuff his face with sugary treats. Ahem.

“I see,” she said glumly, dropping the basket she’d been clutching with a heavy thud.

“My deepest apologies, Belle.” Satisfied that she understood, he offered a curt nod and tried not to notice the wistful glance she cast toward the open window. Before she could convince the birds to start singing, Rumplestiltskin spun on his heel and bounded up the steps to his tower laboratory.

He was halfway up the stairwell when she called out, “Very well. I can’t allow all this food to go to waste. Luckily Jefferson is stopping in for a visit today. I shall share my picnic with him.”

“Nonsense!” Rumplestiltskin materialized at her side once more, his amber eyes wide and alarmed. “The Hatter loathes roast chicken and he’s allergic to berries. You cannot simply feed him those raspberry tarts.” He sniffed the contents of the hamper. “Or anything else in this basket. Contaminated—all of it!”

“Are you sure? He’s eaten my apple pie on several occasions…”

“I said no!” Rumplestiltskin thundered, cutting her off.

“Oh,” said Belle, the weight of disappointment crushing her spirits. She had so been hoping to pass a pleasant afternoon.

He eyed her askance and released a long sigh. He had a potion to prepare for King Midas, true, but that would have to wait. There was no way in hell he was letting the Mad Hatter near Belle’s tarts—or any other part of her for that matter. If anyone was going to suffer through Belle’s baking experiments, it was going to be him. “I suppose I must forgo my responsibilities and eat with you.”

She brightened instantly, her face glowing with happiness. His brittle, black heart squeezed in his chest like it was made of flesh instead of charcoal. “You would do that for me?”

“It appears I have no choice,” he grumbled. “I can’t have you poisoning my only ally in the Enchanted Forest.”

“You’re a good man, Rumplestiltskin.” With a giggle, Belle curtseyed and accepted his proffered arm, clasping her hands around his lean bicep.

“Hmmmph,” he said, and Belle thought she detected a hint of color on his craggy cheeks. He lifted the hamper as though it weighed no more than a handful of feathers and guided her toward the dining room.

“Outside,” she stressed, digging her heels into the carpet as they crossed the threshold.

“It’s raining,” he lied, then produced a clap of thunder overhead to prove his point. Belle’s lovely blue eyes immediately clouded with dejection, so he gave up the pretense and changed direction. He threw open the back doors of the great hall and led her out into the sunshine.

Bees buzzed around in the grass, sucking nectar from the dandelions while wild heather swayed in the gentle breeze. Feeling happier than she had in ages, Belle hummed as she smoothed the blanket over a sunny patch of grass and opened the picnic basket.

Rumplestiltskin sneezed when they reached the maple copse and shot Belle an accusing look. But when she cocked her head to the side, a smile blossoming on her full, red lips, his words of protest died. His maid looked so content that he couldn’t bring himself to spoil the occasion.  

Pleased to be in your presence? Are you insane?

“Gesundheit, Rumplestiltskin,” she said, grabbing his hand as she sank to her knees. With a gentle tug, she urged him to sit on the ground. “Do the outdoors not agree with you?”

“Perhaps it’s the perfume you wear, maid,” he grumbled, settling next to her on the blanket. Her blue work dress billowed around her tiny body, soft and light, and she looked like a morning glory opening to the dawn, beautiful and pristine.

“Oh, come here,” Belle chided softly, her hands fluttering around his shoulders. Her fingers found their perch, digging into his vest, and she eased him closer. “Lay against me, and prop your head up. There.” She fussed over him, situating his head on her lap.

Too stunned to resist, Rumplestiltskin obeyed, swinging his legs to the side and resting his cheek against her thigh. “Close your eyes,” she said. He did as she bid him. A moment later he felt something pressed against his lips. He opened his mouth, and the sweet-tart bite of apples and the spicy tingle of cinnamon tickled his tongue. It was one of the apple cinnamon rolls that had been cooling when he’d entered the kitchen, before she’d bewitched him into joining her for a picnic and reclining with his head in her lap. Crafty wench.

“Do you like it?” she asked, an unmistakable eagerness in her tone.

Like it? It was the most sensational thing he’d ever put in his mouth. Second only to her chocolate cake, her cream cheese pastries, her peach cobbler…hellfire and damnation, he loved it all. “I’ve had worse,” he replied airily.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, sounding like she was on the edge of laughter.

Before he realized what was happening, all the rolls were gone and Belle’s hands were buried in his hair, stroking the strands from root to tip. Uncertain about the sudden turn of events, he stiffened, but she made a noise in her throat that resembled a purr and he relaxed once more. If she wanted to feed him sweets and touch his hair, who was he to deny her pleasure?

Belle was elated. Her stomach growled with hunger, but food could wait. Rumplestiltskin’s head was in her lap, her nails were scratching his scalp, and she wouldn’t have moved for anything in the world. Well, perhaps for a kiss from her favorite sorcerer, but she would take their friendship one step at a time.

At some point she’d grown accustomed to his sarcastic snaps and snarls, and to his wild halo of frizzy brown hair that was so soft between her fingertips. All she wanted was to be near him. It wasn’t baking that eased her loneliness, Belle realized as she brushed a bit of hair off his forehead. Cakes and pies and cookies were merely a means to an end, a way of sharing herself with this man she’d grown to care for, perhaps even love.

“Belle, these past several months…” Rumplestiltskin stopped speaking and cleared his throat, grateful for the opportunity to hide his face in her skirt. She’d seemed forlorn lately and it was easier to have this conversation without looking into her eyes. “Have you been all right? Here. With me?”

“Yes. I’ve been more than all right, actually. It’s only that…” she trailed off.

“What?” He’d heard the hesitation in her voice and began to panic. Gods, no! Would she beg him to send her home to Avonlea?

“The castle is lonely when you’re not here,” she admitted, glad he couldn’t see her flushed cheeks. “I miss…you.”

“Oh?” She couldn’t mean it. He swallowed thickly. “But I’m here now, yes?”

“Yes, and I’m quite happy to have you home. And you?”

Home. Belle thought of this gloomy old place as home.

“I’m not unhappy,” he whispered, allowing his eyes to drift closed once more. His fingers found the hem of her skirt and he worried the fabric between his nails. “Perhaps I will take fewer trips. Surely the people can get along without my skills. I cannot solve all their troubles now, can I?”

“I suppose not,” she replied. Belle’s heart quickened, close to bursting with happiness. Surely his decision to stay at home more often meant…well, Belle would unpack his intentions later. At the moment she was too overjoyed to care. “Thank you for agreeing to an afternoon of leisure, Rumple. I know how busy you are with your work.”

“Well I have earned my rest,” he declared. “You, on the other hand, have a task to complete.”

“And what does my master require of me?” she asked in a low, teasing voice.

With a snap of his wrist he produced a book and handed it to her. “Read,” he commanded. “Lest I fall asleep. These outdoors of yours are making me drowsy. In a while, I suppose I could be persuaded to eat one of those raspberries tarts you made. I’ll pick the seeds from my teeth later.”

Belle choked back delighted laughter. Rumplestiltskin attempted to act put upon, but she suspected he was enjoying their picnic more than he cared to admit. Maybe even as much as she was.

“All right,” she agreed, eager to indulge in a pastime she loved even more than baking, her impossible sorcerer cradled in her arms. She flipped to the opening page and began the tale.

“There was once a very rich merchant, who had six children, three sons, and three daughters…”

###