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thatlassiegotglassedfics · 12 years ago

Text

On Mountaintops in Russia (7?)

Chapter title: Ruby Slippers Author: Thatlassiegotglassed (CruiseControl) Pairing: Renbelle (James Bond/OUAT) Rated: M

Read from the beginning: [FF.NET] or [AO3]

Chapter Summary: To get through to Belle, Renard takes her back to the beginning. And she starts to see, what you believe isn't always black and white.

A/N: Woo! 6 days in between chapters! That is like a record! A huge, huge thank you to Beeeinyourbonnet (her AO3 and Tumblr handle, go check her out she is amazing) for picking apart this chapter and finding what I could not. It was super important and you guys really do owe her.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called and grabbed the throw cover off of the footboard and held it to her chest before opening the door.

Renard stood in the doorway, fitted t-shirt under his trusty leather jacket, sunglasses hanging off of his chest pocket; he was rearing to go. He took in her appearance and snarled at how opposite it was. Her curls were a frizzy mess and she had managed to find a pair of black sleep shorts and a long sleeve sweater to match.

“Why aren’t you ready?” he asked, still trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“I wasn’t aware we had a schedule,” she pushed the hair out of her eyes. That was right, her promise to Renard of the night before. And here he was bright and early to collect, she shouldn’t have been surprised. “Can you give me a few minutes?”

He nodded before saying gruffly, “Hurry up.” Belle watched him walk down the corridor before she shut her door and tossed the blanket back on the bed. Her feet threatened to freeze, perhaps she should talk him into some rugs; just because he couldn’t feel the hard wood didn’t mean she should have to suffer.

Having no idea where he was taking her, she stared blankly at the handful of clothes that were in her dresser drawer. They didn’t even belong to her, she had found them in the bottom, but they fit well enough. Wherever they ended up today it was bound to be cold; she doubted she would ever be anywhere warm again.

She dressed quickly and zipped up her boots, tossing a scarf over her shoulders for good measure. The one thing she didn’t have was a coat; this could be problematic. Her concerns were washed away however as she hurried down the stairs and saw Renard standing at the bottom, a long woolen trench coat thrown over his forearm.

“Is that for me?” she asked quietly. If she called him out on the fact that the gesture was almost nice he was likely to burn the coat in front of her and pretend it never happened. He nodded and tossed it to her, over judging his force, and she caught it clumsily. The day was not starting on the right foot after his care for her arm last night.

The mansion was eerily quiet; they were the only two awake in the entire place and Belle fought back a yawn as they walked towards the front. He slowed his stride and allowed her to walk beside him with ease.

“Does it fit?” he grumbled.

She nodded, “Yes, thank you.” Instead of walking through the front like she was accustomed, he turned and walked into a garage. It was large, probably triple the size of her entire flat back in the city, and with a flick of his wrist the concrete room was lit with flickering, florescent white-light. Sleek, black cars that she didn’t know the names of filled the garage along with motorcycles, and other ATVs. There was money to be made in whatever it was Renard did for a living, and judging by his estate and the hardware, business was good.

He picked a set of keys off a nail on the wall and threw his leg over a motorbike near the garage door. He picked a full faced helmet off of the back and held it out to her. She looked from the helmet to him and back again, shaking her head slowly.

“You’re joking?”she said quietly.

“Of course not,” he held it forward a bit more.

“It’s freezing,” she shook her head again and put a hand on the window of the car nearest to her.

“Don’t be difficult,” He sat the helmet down on the seat beside him; his hand poised over the handgun at his hip. He could threaten her. Make her climb on so they could quit stalling, but that was the opposite effect he wanted. He tried again, it was becoming apparent that snideness would get him nowhere.

“It’s perfectly safe and this is the quickest way,” he forced his glare to soften and he cleared his throat. “Get on.” He looked at her and waited, his patience was wearing thin. She had blanched at the sight of the motorcycle in such a way that he considered other options and almost felt bad for asking...almost.

Belle bit her lip and walked forward timidly. She took the helmet from him and raised a eyebrow, “Where’s yours?”

“There’s not really a point in me wearing one,” he waited while she climbed on, piling all of her hair into the helmet and sliding the faceplate down as he opened the door and the cold entered the insulated garage. The world was the deep blue of the early morning, the snow taking on a similar shade and as the bike growled to life, Renard flipped on the single headlight.

“Ready?” he glanced over his shoulder at her and she nodded slightly, wrapping her arms around his waist. He looked down to make sure she was holding on, unable to feel it when she did. She gave another small nod and they were off.

Belle had huddled against the back of Renard as they whipped around the mountains. He had gone slowly at first but once they hit an open road he had opened the throttle. The helmet protected her from the intense wind but he didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. They had passed through trees that soon turned into cities and eventually turned into tiny towns; all clumped together and all practically deserted in the early morning hours.

He wove in and out of the narrow roads and Belle tightened her grip ever so slightly. The blacktop soon gave way to gravel and Renard came to a complete stop.

“We walk from here.” Once the engine was turned off, the headlight grew dim and they were left in the dark. He swung his leg over and helped her climb off, noticing a slight tremor in her hands as she accepted his help and climbed down. She slid off the helmet and her hair fell down around her shoulders as she gave her pupils time to adjust.

“What about the bike? Won’t it be stol-“

“No.” he said simply and walked off down the dirt path. He knew she would follow.

Birds chirped in the woods that surrounded them and Belle pulled her coat around her tightly, retying the cloth belt as she caught up to him. Outside the mountains the snow was considerably less. The slush beneath their feet was a gritty mixture of melted drifts and the sand of the gravel. It didn’t stop it from being cold though and she considered thanking him again for the coat. While she contemplated how to coax a conversation out of him, he beat her to it.

“What do you know about the Russian government Ms. French?”

“I’m- I’m sorry, come again?” she crossed her arms under her breasts to keep the warmth closer.

“The Russian government,” he snapped before pausing and adding more civilly, “What do you know about it?”

Truth was she didn’t know anything about the country’s government other than the fact that it was a disaster. It wasn’t a priority of MI6, at least it hadn’t been for the last three decades according to the agency’s records.

“Nothing. I’m sorry, I don’t know much-“

“How disappointing.” he grumbled and Belle felt her cheeks grow red. She was intelligent, many thought her to be too intelligent and somehow he was making her feel inferior.

“I know it’s a mess. ‘A bloody disaster’,” she watched him carefully, not wanting to offend him before adding, “My boss’s words, not mine.”

Renard let out a short laugh and the noise startled Belle. She didn’t know he was capable of making such a noise and she couldn’t help but stare at him in startled emptiness. “Well your boss sounds like a smart man.”

Woman. Belle almost corrected but stopped herself. She was still the quartermaster in his eyes. If he knew that M was her boss, through his dealings with Elektra King, he would know she was really a double-oh; and that would mean trouble. For the first time since her abduction he was volunteering information and she didn’t dare obstruct his speech with something as trivial as M’s gender.

“It’s a democracy,” she piped up, hoping to redeem herself a bit.

His upper lip moved in an snarl and he shook his head, “They like to think that.”

Belle leaned forward as they took a large hill head on and their conversation died off, using their breath for the climb instead of words. The sun had finally started to rise behind them and she hoped it would cause the temperature to warm up; she doubted it, but she could hope. As they reached the top of the hill Belle stopped and looked to Renard in confusion. They had happened upon a small village, lamps still flickering in the corners of the dirt streets, having yet to be extinguished as the inhabitants awoke for the day.

“Where are we?” she said quietly, the dawn and flickering light feeling suddenly very intimate.

“Does it matter?” he said gruffly. His harsh words had Belle almost convinced that she had imagined the softer lines on his face moments before. With that, he took off down the hill without her. She hurried to catch up and fought to keep her balance on the icy gravel. Renard appeared to have no trouble with the elements and a small part deep inside of her hated him for it.

As they entered through the main road, small, decrepit houses lined the street and Belle couldn’t help the way she turned up her nose at the alleys filled with trash and the signs that were so worn they were no longer legible. When she realized the expression she was giving the poor village, she looked down at her feet in shame and was unaware of Renard observing her. Whatever he saw on her face seemed to please him.

“Is something the matter, Ms. French?”

He knew perfectly well what she was thinking but he wanted to hear her say it. Wanted the sweet, petite quartermaster to admit the place he brought her was an eyesore, wrought with disease. She shook her head in silence and continued to observe. The splash of running water caused them both to turn. A boy in ratted clothes wiped the sleep from his eyes and leaned heavily on a water pump outside what appeared to be a medicine shop. He raised his head to look at them and once he caught sight of Renard, dropped his bucket for water and ran quickly inside the building.

Belle looked up and saw an old woman watching them from her chair at a window. Deep, worried lines covered her face and she quickly closed the curtain before she made eye contact. Mothers pulled their young ones inside quickly and anyone who wondered around completing morning chores stared at the dirt. Belle felt sick at the thought that any one person could strike this much fear into innocents. They were afraid of Renard and by association, they were afraid of her.

“These people are terrified of you.” she said accusingly, not sure of why she was scolding him but she knew this kind of behavior wasn’t right.

He turned and gave her a look with cool grey eyes. The same look that Anderson had given her yesterday, the look that said she was a child in their world and she didn’t understand the painfully obvious. She wished everyone would quit doing that.

It was as if the people in the front of the town had spread the word of their arrival down the street. The road quickly became vacant and as the sun rose fully; everyone remained in their homes. He pulled up short at a tiny house at the end of the street. It was squashed between two large abandoned buildings and honestly Belle would have missed it if she had just been casually walking by.

Bricks where missing and the door was hardly enough to keep out the drafts. The small dwelling however did have new windows. Where many places on the street had cardboard covered holes, this one had what appeared to be sturdy, well-cared for glass panes. Renard walked up the one step and knocked firmly, too hard at first, not being able to judge the pressure of his knock, but softer towards the end.

A small woman answered the door. Her hands, riddled with arthritis, clutched the handle and looked at the pair of them with tired eyes. Renard said something quietly in Russian and the old woman waved them both in out of the cold. The inside of the home was chilly, not as cold as the street but close enough, the fire in the wood stove barely keeping up. Belle was thankful the woman hadn’t offered to take their coats.

She watched as the woman answered him in the same language and she wished she had taken the time to learn more Russian before joining the agency. The woman gathered her tattered skirts in one fist while putting a laundry basket on her hip and climbing the stairs leaving Renard and Belle alone in the barren kitchen.

Renard turned and opened his mouth to say something but was stopped by the sound of much smaller feet hurrying down the wooden steps. “Renard? Renard!” a higher, much younger voice called, accent laying heavy on the ‘d’ at the end of his name. The man in question turned as a young girl collided with his legs, throwing her twig-like arms around his knees. Renard didn’t stumble but he did look down, allowing the child to squeeze him like a dainty blonde boa.

She took off in rapid Russian and Renard stopped her short, “Sylvia, Sylvia. I need you to speak English,” he glanced at Belle before back down, “I’m not alone.”

She nodded and raised her head to him, “I can try. Papa- has been...teaching me.” Her words tilted at the end, almost as if she was asking a question, unsure of her abilities in something that was not her native tongue.

Belle watched in silence, almost certain she was imagining the whole thing. Renard was one of the scariest men in the world according to MI6. Ruthless, intelligent and almost super-human, waiting out the days until his death and growing stronger every second until the clock struck midnight. The reaction of the citizens on the street, now that was what Belle had expected, not this. As the little girl raised up and let go of Renard, she saw the reason she was unafraid.

Under her mop of messy blond curls, her eyes looked blankly above Belle’s right shoulder, almost looking at Belle herself but not quite. Her iris’s were a murky white; Sylvia was blind. To the small girl, Renard was not a scarred, imposing terrorist, he was his voice, quiet, slightly muttled accent and the hand at her back, guiding her from his legs and passing her off to Belle.

“Renard-“ Belle said quietly as Sylvia extended a hand. Belle did the only thing she could and touched the girl’s hand lightly so she could move in the right direction.

He ignored her and directed his question to Sylvia, “Your father is upstairs, correct? Stay here and entertain my-“ he paused on what to call Belle in front of Sylvia, somehow prisoner wouldn’t be acceptable, “...guest.”

Still holding tightly to Belle’s right hand, the small girl nodded and sat down at the rickety, handmade table. Belle sat as well and watched as Renard adjusted his jacket and went up the narrow stairs and disappeared into the dark of the house.

“What is your name?” Sylvia looked blankly in Belle’s direction once more but smiled nonetheless. She over accented her t’s and s’s but so far her English was by far better than Belle’s Russian.

“It’s uh- it’s Belle,” she finally managed to say as she stared at her new companion in confused wonder. Her clothes hung too big in places and Belle was no doctor but even she knew the girl was too thin. However the young thing swung her legs on the chair and mulled over the pronunciation of Belle’s name with cheerful interest.

“Like the- like the thing on top,” she held her hand up high above her head and made a slight swaying motion. “On top of church?”

Belle found herself smiling and nodding, realizing Sylvia couldn’t see either and speaking up, “Yes, close enough.” She looped the belt of her coat through her fingers and bit her lip gently. “How do you know Renard?”

Sylvia smiled again at the mention of the terrorist and Belle thought at any moment she would wake up from what was turning out to be a bizarre dream. “He works with my father. How do you know him?”

“He-“ she began. How the hell would she explain this? And to a girl no older than six or seven. She swallowed hard and tried again, “We work together.” It was a lame, feeble explanation and Belle mentally winced at how far it was from the truth. Sylvia jumped up and reached out, her hand laying on Belle’s arm gently before she clambered into her lap slowly and with more grace than Belle had expected. “What are you doing?”

She held her hands just in front of Belle’s face and looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry I should have asked, c-can I?”

Belle agreed to whatever Sylvia was implying. She wanted to wipe the insecurity from her voice and hold her tightly. Take her from the cold and the dark and read to her for the rest of their days. If it only took the child ten minutes to work her way into the heart of a stranger then she must have had Renard wrapped around her finger after years of his business with her father.

Sylvia reached up and her tiny fingers grazed Belle’s curls, deft hands following their shape and softness. “Color?” She whispered softly.

“Brown.” Belle said in the same tone.

“More like the dark, wooden oak of trees. Rich in color and too expensive to touch.”

Both girls in the chair turned at the male voice at the opposite side of the room. Renard stood in the doorway with a metal briefcase clutched in his left hand. His business had been quick, still not trusting Belle on her own for more than a few fleeting moments, especially after yesterdays events. His words reached Belle’s ears but there were foreign, if she hadn’t have watched him say such a thing, she never would have believed it.

“Come now Ms. French,” he nodded to Sylvia and his fingers gestured to his own eyes. “You have to be a bit more specific.”

Sylvia smiled, unable to visually notice the tension between the two adults and she turned back to Belle. She moved and gently touched the curve of Belle’s cheeks, one hand positioned a little lower on her jaw. “Eyes?”

“Like the sea,” Renard walked into the room and put the case on the table.

The child was practically bursting with excitement at Renard’s descriptions; they were relatively simple but much more than just colors. It made Belle believe that once upon a time the tiny thing in her lap had the gift of sight. She started to ask more detail but stopped as her name was called from the other room. She responded in Russian before hoping out of Belle’s lap, she stopped by Renard and said quietly, “I knew she was pretty; the voice always gives them away. You’ll come back?”

Renard stayed quiet and Belle answered, “Maybe,” she doubted the truth of her words but she found herself taking comfort in the small lie.

She hugged his leg once more before going up the stairs.

Once she was gone Renard’s expression changed to one that was more familiar. His eyes closed down into emotionless orbs, the right one drooping in disinterest. He picked up the case and said deeply. “Ready to go?”

Belle watched as he checked the contents of the case and she saw the sleek gun sitting in the black protective foam. A custom German handgun from the looks of it, complete with silencer. “So that’s what her father does for you? You have an innocent village doing your gun running for you?” She got up and walked to him, lowering her voice and ducking her head in an effort to make him look at her.

“Don’t be ridiculous, they couldn’t supply all the weapons I need to run my business.” he scoffed and she waited for him to continue his explanation. “When anyone in this town comes in possession of an item I could use, I pay them triple the market value. Without me, they would starve.”

“Do they know what you do?”

“They don’t care what I do.”

“It’s not right-“

“When good people have no choice but to do bad things that is what is not right. Where is your justice now Ms. French? Everything is not as easy as you-“ he stopped and glared at her, “You know nothing.”

He left it at that but she wasn’t satisfied.

“Why did you bring me here?” she couldn’t figure it out and she didn’t like the uneasy feeling. The feeling of sadness that the broken village and it’s people left her with. The way her heart ached for Sylvia, her faceless father and whatever Renard had to do with this disheveled family. She hated all of it and she blamed him. “Why show me this, knowing what I would think? What any decent human being would think!” She threw her hands out, gesturing to the patchwork house and fought to stay quiet when what she really wanted was to yell, to scream, anything to stop him from being so indifferent.

He ignored her building anger and walked out the door. She followed him, “Renard!” She refused to be ignored, to be shoved aside like the lackeys on his payroll. Closing the door behind her, she chased him out into the street and grabbed his arm, turning him back around. “I’m talking to-“

The look he gave her stole her words. No matter how he saved her on the mountain, how he bandaged her wound, allowed Sylvia to touch him, he was still dangerous. Instead of a man, he was more like a caged tiger that nuzzled its trainer only to lick its chops and demand a fresh kill. She was still his prisoner, still his pawn and that look reminded her to know her place before he helped to remind her with the barrel of a gun.

“This is what exists outside your office building. This is the real world Ms. French. You and the British Secret Service fight to take down men like me while I fight to take down the real criminals.” He gripped her arm and pulled her close, lowering his voice.

“The chaos I cause may be for personal gain, may cost lives and level cities, but I leave people like this,” he gestured outward, “out of it. Can you say the same?”

He let her go and straightened his collar, putting his sunglasses over his eyes and walking forward. The crunch of his boots grew steadily distant and she looked around as a few townspeople shamelessly the interactions of her and her captor. His question echoed in her ears. Left a sour taste on her lips and the worst part was, she didn’t have an answer for him.

Belle sat on the leather couch in the library on the same floor as her bedroom. Upon their return to the mansion, Renard had left her alone with her thoughts and a manilla envelope filled to the brim with paperwork, tax records and photos of the members of Russian parliament and its rulers. She only assumed he had wordlessly shoved the folder in her arms so she could ‘educate herself’.

She had been right about the democracy, well about the fact that was the label the government gave itself. Other than that, it was merely a word. It seemed simple, the people chose a president, the president chose a prime minister to be approved by parliament. If they weren’t approved, well, there were ways around the people’s wishes and once they had the job, both men chose to do as they wished with the money and the laws. It was messy but then again so was every country.

After hours of reading and not being able to figure out exactly what he wanted her to see, she gathered up the papers and clutched them to her chest. She walked down the corridor and up the stairs, her boots echoing off the concrete and the feminine sound gaining looks from everyone she passed on her way to Renard’s room on the third floor.

“Out of my way-“ she said quietly to the few guards between her and the large door. “Please.” she added.

They exchanged looks before moving silently and opening the door for her, allowing her to walk inside. Renard stood by the window, watching the moon light dance across the snow; the only light in the room a flickering candelabra on a lamp stand, She had never been inside his room. It was decorated in rich golds and whites. She wanted to explore, to poke at the mystery of his bedchamber but she refrained. His back was to her and Belle was glad.

“What is your game Renard? Out with it now because I am tired of playing.”

“Did you read the file?” he said and didn’t turn to face her.

“Of course I read the file. So what? I know how your country works now. You didn’t kidnap me to give me a political science lesson.” she waved the hand that was not clutching the papers. His shoulders tensed but that was his only movement.

“What is it that you want? Me to help you take down an entire government!” She added the last as a quip, a jest; she gave a small, sarcastic snort at her own joke and crossed her arms. But as he turned slightly and looked at her over his shoulder and she knew her joke was more or less spot on. “Oh you’ve got to be kidding...” she whispered and dropped her arms to her sides heavily.

He held his fist in front of his chest and examined the skin he couldn’t feel and said quietly, “How is it right that one group of men is allowed to destroy so many lives?”

“Cut the theatrics. It’s not right but it doesn’t mean that you can play God, it doesn’t mean that you can kill-“

“MI6 has killed thousands. How are they so righteous with your morality?”

“That’s not the point! We-“ She was grasping at straws, forced to suddenly argue moral high ground with a famed terrorist; something no one was ever prepared to do.

He turned and pointed to her, “You said you would help! You said you would decode the disk-“

“Yes I did! I didn’t say I would help you assassinate the Russian Prime Minister!” she threw down the folder at his feet and the papers scattered, the photos of two older men on top with bright red X’s through their faces. He looked at the files on the ground and stayed silent, she once again thought of the tiger in its cage but she pressed on.

She walked towards him and stopped about a foot from his broad chest, looking up to stare him in the face, “You knew. You knew the whole time, since you abducted me from MI6. This was your plan. To kill and murder those in power that you didn’t think were doing a good job. You knew I wouldn’t go along, so, what? You dangled Sylvia in front of me?! A blind child living in poverty to show me that the men in suits are the devil and you are the saint. Is that it? Is that what you did to Elektra? How you convinced her to join your cause before you ruined her? You disgust me- you-..you-“

Her anger grew with every sentence and she couldn’t have stopped herself if she tried. There were plenty of things she wanted to call him but none left her lips as she pulled her hand back and slapped him hard across the face. The slap echoed and she knew he didn’t feel it but it made her feel immensely better and she thought about doing it again.

His hands shot out and gripped her upper arms painfully tight, yanking her to him and shaking her slightly as he snarled in her face, “Don’t speak about her!”

His breath came raggedly as he gripped her and she allowed him a few moments of silence before she said softly but stern, “You’re hurting me.” He could have shot her. Killed her right then and there. He had killed for less than a red cheek and a bruised ego but he didn’t. His fingers let go of her slowly and he walked back to the window. There had to be a better way to handle this; but like always, dealing with Renard was like defusing a bomb. If she didn’t help him in some way he would dispose of her and continue in his quest; perhaps causing more death and destruction without her there to try and reign in him. She thought of Sylvia’s tiny hands in her hair, Renard’s descriptions and knew there was something there that she had missed.

With a deep breath, she tried again, “What’s on the disk? The one you want me to decode.”

Renard raised his head at her attempt at a different path, it caught him off guard but she hadn’t stormed out of the room and he was grateful. He pulled the disk from his pocket and held it in front of his face, speaking to the plastic instead of facing her, “Money, Ms. French.”

She didn’t understand, it seemed like such monetary things would hold no value to Renard so she remained quiet and allowed him to finish his explanation.

“It’s what makes the world go around is it not? If I can crack this I can unlock the doors to Russia’s finances. Bank accounts, federal reserves, credit, all at my fingertips. Rich, poor, old young; I’ll wipe it all. Everyone starts at ground zero.”

“What will you do with it?”

“Me? Oh I don’t want it. I will put it back into the country.” He finally looked away from the disk and to her.

Chaos. He was talking about pure chaos. But it was calm compared to what is could have been. Instead of destroying lives, he was destroying pocketbooks. He was tired of watching his beloved Russia crumble at the hands of men who didn’t love it half as much as he did. Tired of watching innocents die hungry while their leaders turned a blind eye. He was hitting the reset button on the entire nation and was asking for her help. If he succeeded, it probably wouldn’t be long before the country set itself to rights again, but it might be enough to open the eyes of those in power. Is that all he wanted? And if she helped, perhaps he would honor his promise to return her to London.

“How many more people have to die Renard?” she asked, her answer riding on his response.

“None, Ms. French,” he seemed to rethink his answer, “None have to die, but I cannot promise that they will not.”

Her mouth threatened to fall open as she watched his face and body riddled with such seriousness. “You do know this is a terrible, terrible plan. It literally will not work. We’re talking doomed from phase one. And if you can’t promise me more people won’t die then I cannot promise you MI6 won’t swoop in and destroy all of your hard work.”

He watched her carefully before finally saying, “Let me worry about that.”

She appreciated his honesty and walked to him again. He raised the disk and held it in front of her in silent question. She bit her lip before reaching out and taking it from between his fingers, quietly adding, “I’m not doing this for you. I want you to know that.”

“I never assumed you were,” he lowered his hand, “Solve the disk and I return you to London. You’re doing this for you.” She nodded, not sure which one of them needed convincing at this point and she turned and walked away from him.

She would probably need the files that were now scattered on the floor but her pride kept her from bending over and gathering them up. As she left, she clutched the plastic in her fist. She thought of Sylvia and her thin arms, her white eyes and cold home. She thought of the people in the street and those who resorted to becoming accessories to anarchy just to survive the night. It made her angry, angry at Renard, angry at the men who chose not to see the sadness and horror that she was shown today. It was pure, unbridled, justified anger and she gripped it tightly, preferring it over other emotions at the moment.

She made her way to her blue bedroom and threw open the door forcefully and stumbled at the sight that awaited her. Rugs. Large, dark rugs littered her cold floors in a variety of blues and textures. Shag, coarse, woven, she had her pick of carpeting and her frozen feet rejoiced in her boots as her heart remained slightly cracked.

#Renbelle #Anyelle #James Bond #OUAT #Renbelle fic #belle french #Victor Zokas #Renard

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ace-cf-cups · 9 months ago

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Almost a year ago I wrote this ficlet and I’ve been meaning to turn it into a longer fic/write the aftermath ever since.

Well, now I'm maybe... maybe moving in that direction because I’m not sure yet about that multichap aftermath fic but I do want to write in this verse.

So I would be very very grateful if you sent prompts for ficlets (you can use lists under the tag 'prompt list' on my blog which I'm putting below or you can make up your own) set in this AU/verse and questions for Belle and Alan.

Let's call it TMI Thursday 😁

( I also wouldn't mind questions/prompts for Renard and Belle, as usual )

#prompt list #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #his ray of light verse #his ray of light rumbelle verse #anyelle #renbelle #this was originally in the tags of my reblog #but I also decided to post it separately so more people will see it

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beeeinyourbonnet · 7 months ago

Note

1. the last sentence you wrote

11. a WIP you’d like to finish someday

24. how do you recharge when you’re not feeling creative?

27. your favorite part of the writing process

Ths isn't the last sentence but I cannot send the last sentence, so here is a nearby-to-the-last sentence xD "She laughed, then covered her mouth—did that count as a noise?"

11. I would like to finish my Bellish fic, The Beginning of a New Book, and the rumbelle fics By Hook or By Crook, In-Between, and maybe Intentional Fallacy. Also possibly Great Wide Somewhere (renbelle). Also many of my original WIPs, although I don't know if I count those bc most of them, if they get finished, will be rewrites of what's currently written instead of finishings...if that makes sense. Also I assume this was for WIPs I am not currently working on bc obviously I aim to finish those xD

24. Ugh I don't even know. Watching people talk about creative works helps so I watch a lot of booktube and that's inspiring x] Sometimes just having a deadline helps (never am I more inspired than when I have to leave the house in fifteen minutes). I went through a yearslong creative bankruptcy and DND got me out of that slump. Doing something creative unrealted to my usual creative outlet can help. Something that feels lower stakes. My partner recommends freewriting.

27. Drafting!

#fic ask game

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beeeinyourbonnet · 6 months ago

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Fic questions??

What are the different ways you write anyelle ships vs rumbelle. Obviously aside from Belle they're different characters, but are there any differences/similarities you try to include or not across all the different ships?

Also, do you have any hot takes about any characters?

Hi Bee 💖

Hi friend <3 <3

Hmmm i think the only real difference is that, because I see anyelle as kind of an AU rumbelle situation already, I don't tend to think of other AUs for anyelle. That said, I have written plenty of AUs for them in the past xD but they were all prompted and not from my own brain. Like I wrote a mermaid renbelle that was all courtesy of @kanlaughingalonewithawatermelon. Actually I feel like if I go back and look at the first prompt of most AUs, they're all klaw....xD

I don't think I have any hot takes lolol. If I think of any, I'll let you know xD

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beeeinyourbonnet · 10 months ago

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Mermaid!Renbelle: another mermaid sneaks after Belle and sees them together

Hi! I would totally try to fill a mermaid!renbelle prompt, but I have actually written this as an arc already :D Here are the three fics:

Discovery Follow-up Priorities

Happy to fill other prompts though!

#renbelle #anyelle

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thatlassiegotglassedfics · 12 years ago

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Mountaintops in Russia (6/?)

Chapter Title: Shoot to Kill Pairing: Renbelle (James Bond/OUAT) Read from the Beginning on AO3 or FF.NET

Summary: Not knowing if Renard will ever unlock her door again, Belle decides its time to leave.

Belle sat on the bed in silence as the sun rose. Golden light poured in from the large French windows and onto the wooden part of the floor that stood in front of the reading area cut out of the wall. The colors playing against the light oak gave off a false sense of warmth and if you curled in the rays it would have been just as cold there as it was in the rest of the large room. It would have been a good place to read, provided you had a large amount of quilts, but the room was empty of literature and Belle would have given anything for a better look inside Renard’s library from the day before.

She huddled in her green sweater and pulled the edge of the sleeve over her fingertips to wipe at her face furiously; getting rid of the sleep and the grogginess in her eyes after a night spent wide awake and fighting back tears. She got up from the bed and pulled on her thick boots that Renard had provided earlier.

The only noise in the room was the howl of the wind; it had finally stopped snowing. From the view at her window it was easy to see a good three feet covered the ground in all directions, it could have easily been more in some parts and nearly impassible in areas further in the mountains. She bit her lip and craned her neck, trying to peak around the edge of the building and to the ground beneath her. With steady hands, she reached up and tried the window.

The latch held fast and refused to open as she jiggled it lightly at first then with as much force as she had; still nothing. With a bite of her lip, she looked around the room before walking back to the large four poster bed. She shook the pillowcase off of one of the giant goose down pillows and tossed it aside, gripping the case tightly in her hands and walking back to the window. With the pillow case wrapped around her hand three times, Belle made a fist and put it through the largest pane of glass.

It hurt. It was the dull ache of colliding your knuckles with a tabletop and Belle flinched back from the cracked glass. Looking over her shoulder, she paused waiting for any signs of movement outside her door but heard nothing.

The light breeze that came in through the broken pane was frigid and raised goose bumps on her skin as she reached through and unlatched the window. It was a good drop to the ground and Belle decided to take her chances. The snow pillowed her fall and she sunk down into it. The frozen water quickly soaked through her sweater and the denim material of her jeans.

"O-oh! F-fr-.." the words were stolen from her lips in a high pitched gasp brought on by the cold. Her exclamations brought the attentions of a guard standing watch on the east corner of the building. She scrambled from her hole in the drift as he came running towards her with his standard rifle in hand.

He mumbled something into the radio at his shoulder before yelling for her; in a few moments the entire castle would know she was outside the stone walls. "Stop! You!" he pointed to her and she faced him head on, knocking the gun from his hand.

His surprise to her bravery was so great he struck without thought and she used it to her advantage, ducking under his arm and jumping up, wrapping her small arms around his neck tightly. The large oaf struggled and cursed loudly as she applied pressure to the nerve in the bend of his shoulder and held tightly.

"Quiet, quiet," she begged as he slowly lost consciousness and slumped to the ground. Rolling off of his still form and gaining her ground again, Belle ran along the wall of Renard's fortress. Shouts could be heard and the crackle of walkie talkies coming to life were sure signs that her movements were known.

She hid in an alcove as a handful of guards ran past her and around the east wing. It wasn't until the pavilion at the front of the building came into view that she skidded to a stop. The area was deserted and perched on top of it, covered in weather resistant, black tarps was the answer to her troubles.

Belle ripped the material away to reveal a sleek, black and metallic snow mobile. A perfect machine for Renard's men to make the rounds and was now a perfect tool to aid in her escape. With nimble fingers, she felt along the bottom rail until she reached a small box. Ripping it from the underside and popping it open, a key fell in her hand and her eyes stung with tears of utter relief.

"GIRL!"

A shout yelled from behind her and she wasted no time hopping on and revving the engine, rocketing off across the mountains.

Renard stood silent watch from his bedroom window and he clenched his fists behind his back as he saw Belle speed off into the snow. A soft knock came at his door and he inhaled slowly and closed his eyes, calling on his non-existent patience. The knock was no doubt a guard coming to inform him of the painfully obvious. Show her kindness and she escapes; what was the saying about giving them an inch?

"Boss-" the man said meekly as he adjusted the strap of his gun on his shoulder. Renard didn't grace him with a response and shoved passed him. He would fix this. Like with all important tasks, he would do it himself; he would brave the cold and bring her back kicking and screaming if he had to.

Anderson, a stout man of obvious past military status, stereotypical crew-cut as butch as the square of his shoulders, hurried up to Renard’s side. He breathed a little harder than was probably normal for the little force he had exerted of meeting Renard in the middle of the staircase, an obvious sign of too many nights spent on the leather couches in front of the TV in one of the many dens.

"The girl-" his deep raspy voice said as he paused to take a breath. "We shouldn't have underestimated her." He didn't state the obvious of her escape; there was a reason he was second in command behind Felix.

"Gather a few men, go to the roof. She couldn't have gone far. Be my eyes and reach me over the radio if she is in sight." Renard said.

"You're going after her alone?"

Renard nodded as they reached the large doors leading to the outside pavilion. Anderson continued, "If we see her, shoot to kill?" He huddled in his black windbreaker as Renard opened the doors and the wind blew inside. Renard stopped short. Although the wind was not what gave him pause, it's not like he could feel it, Anderson's words were not what he expected. The stocky man in front of him was ruthless but the suggestion seemed a little rash, even to Renard.

"No," he blurted and kept his face indifferent to his surprise. "Absolutely not. I need her alive. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Renard." With a flick of his fingers from the corner of his eye outward, he stood up straighter and turned on heel to take up his post with his boss's instruction.

Renard walked out the door, leaving it open. He watched as the men either retreated or held their positions around the perimeter, no doubt informed of his wishes over their personal radios. Making sure his gun was secured to his hip, he warmed up the nearest snow mobile and pressed the throttle gently with his thumb. The machine glided easily over the tightly packed snow and he squinted as the bright sun reflected brilliantly off of the ground, making sight increasingly difficult. He was still hopeful on finding Belle rather quickly. She was in his world now and MI6 or not, living in the densely populated area of London did not prepare a person for the untamed wilderness that he called home.

The wide expanse of yard around the castle soon faded into dense forests and he followed the path through the trees, slowing down slightly to observe the fresh tracks of another mobile. The parallel lines were crisp and could clearly be seen winding through the pines and around the mountains; it was like shooting fish in a barrel. He ducked under a branch and pressed the gas again, standing up on the rails for a better look as he continued.

"You can run Ms. French," he said low with a small smirk as he told the men on his radio to stand by.

Belle sped along the expanse of land around the area and stomped the rail angrily as she was forced to stop at another blocked path. She forcefully threw the vehicle into reverse and tried another way; she had escaped a locked room, slipped through the hands of countless trained personnel, and her downfall was going to be the fact that she had no idea where she was going. Who the hell willingly chose to live in such a place?

The second path proved equally useless and she opted for the one thing she hadn't tried yet: the thick woods that were located directly behind the house. The deep green, slumping pine trees, branches weighed down by too much snow, offered a good chance to hide while she figured out the safest way out of the mountains. However, the further she ventured into the woods, the possibility of becoming even more completely and totally lost than she already was increased.

The distant purr of another mobile caused her heart to race as she picked up speed. Any decent path within the woods was becoming steadily more narrow but Belle pressed on. The overgrown thickets provided sight only about five feet ahead. So when the line of trees finally broke open, Belle couldn't control the scream that came from her lips. The forest simply ended, stopped short and dropped off into nothing. The nothingness was a mixture of brisk air and an empty canyon that stretched in every direction and ended miles downward in what appeared it be dark rapids partially concealed by a think fog.

Belle squeezed the brakes tight enough that they threatened to break under her grip but it still wasn't sufficient. The snow on the edge of the cliff gave under her weight and she jumped from the seat as the snow mobile plummeted into the canyon. With arms extended she managed to grab onto a protruding root and cried out as her body swung forward and collided with the rocks. She heard the distant splash of her escape falling into the icy waters and she held on for her life and closed her eyes tightly, straining her muscles to keep her grip. This was it, after everything she had been through with the agency, she was going to die at the hands of gravity.

“Do we have a problem here Ms. French?”

Belle raised her eyes to the edge of the cliff and cursed softly. Readjusting her grip on the root, she laid her forehead against the icy rock in defeat. “Of course,” she whispered and closed her eyes; Renard had found her. He made no move to help her up but instead crouched down balancing on the balls of his feet and looking at her rather smugly.

“Going somewhere?” he said. He offered her a hand and she looked at it silently before raising her gaze to him in a glare that he deserved. He chuckled and nodded past her shoulder, “It’s me or oblivion. I have a feeling you have no interest in dying today.”

She was cold, caught and he was right. She took his hand and he gripped her tightly, using his other hand to hook under her arm pit and jerk her to the surface as a few frozen clumps of earth fell in her wake. As she set herself to rights, once again on steady ground, she didn’t offer him her gratitude.

He squeezed the button on his walkie talkie, “Anderson, stand down. I got her.”

“Copy that Boss.” the radio crackled back. Renard kept his hold on Belle as he fished through the pocket of his windbreaker. He pulled out a zip tie; did he seriously carry the things around with him? She thought the caution was ridiculous, its not like she was going anywhere. He pulled her hands in front of her and pressed her wrists together, she was small enough that he held both with one hand easily. “Don’t look at me like that girl, you’re lucky I found you. There are worse things in these woods than me, I can assure you.”

He leaned down and pulled the zip tight with his teeth and spoke with the material in his mouth as he adjusted it.“Is that really necessary?” she said quietly as he wrapped the thin plastic around her hands.

“You’re the one who ran away. Seems we have an issue of trust now, don’t we?” Grabbing her by the forearm again, he pulled her to the snow mobile and allowed her to climb on. He sat behind her and when he grabbed the handles, the bulk of his arms formed a sort of fleshy barrier, making sure there was no way she could fall off. Belle felt this was no accident, he wouldn’t make any mistake that she could use to her advantage from now on, as far as escaping went, she had missed her chance.

They rode in silence and trees whipped past them in a blur of greens and browns. He knew the terrain better than she ever hoped to and it took them no time at all to return to the mansion. She had half expected the calvary to be outside waiting in full force for their return and ready to shoot her on sight. But there was no one. They trusted in their leader. Most countries trusted in God, anarchists had no country, so naturally the same rules didn’t apply. In Renard we trust. Belle fought the urge to laugh at the thought and as a small snigger escaped her lips, the man in question gave her a puzzled look.

“What are you laughing about?”

She shook her head as he helped her off the vehicle. When she didn’t answer his question he walked a little faster, knowing she couldn’t match his stride, and half dragged her back through the large front entrance. Applause met them as the guards lounged in the front hall, draped over the stairs and leather couches and Belle felt her cheeks grow red. She felt like a prized kill, brought back from a victorious hunt, to be stuffed and mounted over the fireplace.

With a glare from their employer, the men quieted and went about their duties. He passed her off to a stocky man who she could only assume was Anderson and shrugged out of his windbreaker. “Put her in the den. I’ll be back.” With that, he walked up the stairs and out of sight. Belle watched him go as she was dragged in the opposite direction; she was getting pretty tired of being dragged about.

The fire crackled under the hearth and was a major source of light for the entire room. While Belle had sat patiently on the leather couch and awaited Renard’s return to no doubt scold her for her actions of the morning, the sun had started to dip past the horizon. Daylight turned into dark quickly here; she missed London.

Lamps littered the room on wooden end tables but she didn’t move to turn them on. She was still tied and she moved her wrists under the plastic periodically to keep them from falling asleep. It was looser than the first time he zipped her and she wondered if that had been a conscious decision on his part. Anderson stood at his post in front of the door, uzi slung across his back and poised in the standard guard position: hands in front of him, one hand clamped over the opposite wrist, eyes alert but unmoving from a spot on the wall.

“How long have you worked for Renard?” Belle prompted after many moments of silence

“Why do you care?” he said, not looking away from the wall.

In truth, she didn’t, she had simply wanted to fill the quiet. If there was one thing Belle had been taught her whole life, go for honesty. “I don’t.”

Her response must have shocked him because he looked at her then and raised an eyebrow. “How does someone like you become the Quartermaster of MI6?” he spat the name of the agency. Someone like you. She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that.

“Why do you care?” she said flatly, giving his words right back to him. He paused and opened his mouth. Belle could see he had a retort balancing on his tongue but he swallowed it.

“I don’t.” he nodded as if that helped make the statement more true when in fact she would have bet money he was just being petty. Men of uniform always wanted to know how she had gained her title, it was if most of them couldn’t believe that one could be pleasing to the eyes and intelligent to boot. Silence fell between them once again but Belle could have sworn she saw a ghost of a smile cross the man’s lips.

A door slammed outside the den and Anderson straightened his back, it seemed like an action born of many years of doing it. He opened the door slightly and peered out the crack before turning back to Belle. “He’s not that bad you know.”

Belle looked up at him, confusion written on her face, “Renard?” She gave him a you’ve-gotta-be-kidding expression and let the question hang in the air.

Anderson nodded, “Yeah, look, just go easy on him okay?”

Now she was certain she had missed something somewhere along the way. Having no idea what he was talking about, she leaned forward on the couch a bit and raised an eyebrow. “Whoa, me? Go easy on Renard? Your boss, the wanted criminal slash terrorist?”

He gave her what appeared to be a disappointed look, the kind of sad smile you give to a child when it doesn’t understand a very simple concept. “Don’t judge things you don’t understand little lady,” his face turned into something that Belle couldn’t quite decode. “The last time a pair of tits and pretty eyes walked into this mansion, it nearly destroyed him.” And that was that. As soon as the words left his lips the door opened and Renard walked in, allowing Anderson to take his leave. It was as if the conversation had never happened, and Belle felt that was how the guard had intended it.

Renard shut the door with a soft click and turned, eyebrow raised in question, “Getting to know my staff are you?”

“Am I not allowed to do that either?” she snapped.

He sighed heavily and walked into the room. Crossing over to the table by the window, he took the stopper off a square-cut glass jar filled with some sort of bourbon that Belle could smell from her seat on the couch. “You’re allowed to do anything, Ms. French,” he looked at her over his shoulder as he poured a small amount in the bottom of a glass, “Except leave.” After a moment he poured two and carried them by the rims with one hand, walking back to her.

He set hers on the table by her side and flipped open a small pocket knife, bending forward to cut her loose. The plastic snapped, fell to the ground and Belle rubbed her wrists; there were no indentations. He had never said she wasn’t allowed to do anything, that much was true but he had locked her door the other night and if there was one thing that Belle hated more than anything, it was being locked up.

“You came with me willingly remember?” he continued. Belle scoffed at the phrase. ‘Willingly’ was putting it loosely and if he didn’t see that then he was delusional. “I brought you here to do a job. Think of yourself as an employee.”

“I’m just not allowed to leave?”

“Correct.” He raised his glass to her slightly and nodded in agreement as he swallowed the entire contents in one sip. He poured himself another and leaned against the table. Belle looked at her own drink and felt him watching her over the rim. She reached for it, anything to get him to stop watching her like a hawk, and pulled up short. The heat from the fire had finally melted the chill off of her and she now felt a great pain in her right arm. Her breath came in a hiss between her teeth as she raised her arm and saw a decent amount of blood had soaked through the fabric of the sweater.

Renard set down his empty highball glass and pushed away from the table, “Are you hurt?”

Belle didn’t take her eyes off the sweater, “Apparently.” It sounded harsh even to her but she cradled her arm against her chest as he approached. She didn’t want his help; she didn't need it.

Renard fished the walkie talkie out of his leather jacket that he tossed on the chair upon entering the room and asked anyone on the first floor to bring him a first aid kit. He set the black speaker on the floor as he knelt in front of her and held his hand out. She remained still and his look of polite interest at her injury turned into a glare. “Don’t be difficult.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“I can see that, that is why you are bleeding all over my couch.” he said sarcastically and continued to hold out his hand for her arm. They were silent for a few breaths before the radio crackled to life on the floor and Belle jumped. Renard ignored it and held her gaze, let them figure it out, he wasn’t about to lose his stare down with a bloody MI6 worker.

“Renard are you in the den or the library?”

“Pretty sure he’s in the den.”

“Did he find the girl?”

“First aid kit, huh? Well does he want the big one or the small one?” “How the hell should I know?”

The muscles at the corner of his eye twitched and Belle fought the urge to smirk as he finally gave in and scooped up the radio. “I don’t care what size it is just bring it to me!” he barked into the speaker before tossing the entire box across the floor. It bounced and the battery pack fell off, causing the radio to fall silent. He desperately wanted to shoot something. The room became still once more and he cleared his throat and extended his hand a little closer to her. “Let me see.”

Belle slowly laid her wrist in his and turned it as best she could, giving him a better view. He couldn’t see anything past the sweater and pulled out his knife again, opening it with his teeth. He paused and looked at her, blade poised at the opening of her sleeve. Was he waiting for her to stop him? Asking permission? How would he know if the blade was too close to her skin? He couldn’t feel it. Belle wondered all of this at once but didn’t voice her thoughts, at least he wasn’t making her strip.

She nodded slowly and he cut the material away from her arm with almost a surgeon’s expertise. It was impressive. The fabric was stuck to her skin with bits of blood that had already started to dry and she winced. He paused, letting her catch her breath before pulling the rest of it off.

“How bad is it?” she whispered.

“Not bad,” he lied. “Looks like you caught it on the rocks.” That was the extent of their conversation. His deft fingers picked out small specks of dirt from the cut and she watched as he carefully used his nails to cause as little pain as possible. The action was almost tender; he had done this before. She jumped again as the door opened and a guard walked in without knocking.

Renard reached up without looking away from Belle and took a small, white, plastic box from the man. With a clean cloth, he doused it in enough alcohol to sting the hairs on Belle’s nostrils. She knew it was coming but noting prepared her for when the disinfectant made contact with the open wound.

“That hurts!” she jumped back and pulled her arm in again. He mumbled something and moved to put the cloth back on her arm and she pulled back once more. “Renard!”

He sat back on his knees and put his hands on his thighs, growling a little in frustration, “Well this wouldn’t have happened if you wouldn’t have run away.”

“Well I wouldn’t have run away if you hadn’t locked me up.” The room, however nice, did not make up for the fact that she had been trapped, alone and frightened, spending the whole night wondering if he would ever again unlock her door.

“And I wouldn’t have done that if you had accepted my offer for dinner. I was trying to be civil.”

“Oh so that is what you do when a woman refuses you? I bet you have them falling at your feet.” she pursed her lips and leaned forward, holding his gaze. He opened his mouth to respond and she cut him off, “You need to learn to control your temper.”

That stopped him. Elektra had always relished his temper, used it for her advantage, stoked the fire until he couldn’t bottle it up any longer and usually someone ended up dead. Belle was now calling him out on it, unafraid, unwavering. Who did she think she was? He opened his mouth again and closed it, looking like a fish gasping for air instead of just a man scrambling for words. He raised on his knees again and took her arm gently once more. She allowed it, no matter how it hurt, it would do her no good to contract an infection.

“Hold still,” he mumbled. “Please.” The last word was barely audible but Belle had heard it and didn’t press him to say it again. The guard at the door coughed and this time Renard was the one who was startled. “Leave...” he said through gritted teeth as he committed the guard’s face and name to memory; if he breathed a word of this to any of the others, he was a dead man. Belle bit her lip and continued to watch him.

Tossing the now bloody cloth aside, he picked up the gauze and started to wrap her forearm. “I don’t think you fully understand why I brought you here.”

And how was that her fault? He wouldn’t tell her anything, didn’t volunteer any extra information and in the few days she had been here he had been elusive for most of it. But she bit her tongue, she knew effort when she saw it. “You’re right,” she nodded. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s more than just the code you know? So much more.” With a small piece of tape, he secured the gauze and rose to his feet. “Is that too tight?”

She shook her head and he gave a small grunt of approval, nothing more. He started to walk to the door but stopped halfway and turned back to her as if he forgot the whole point of the conversation. “Tomorrow. Would you join me?”

“For what?” she asked, turning on the couch a bit and putting one leg underneath her.

“I’d like to share something with you. Show you...why you’re here.” he gestured to her before pulling his hand back quickly and picking up his jacket. “Will you come?”

She observed him and it was as if he wasn’t sure where to put his hands. It was unnerving and slightly endearing all at the same time to see him become something so normal as flustered, something so human.

“Tomorrow?” she said and he nodded in confirmation. “I-...” she stopped but it wasn’t like she had anything else to fill her time. “Yes.” It felt like she should say something else but what else could there be?

He stood waiting for her to turn him down, to defy him as she had with his offer of a meal the night before but once again the petite creature on the couch surprised even him. He picked up the walkie talkie and the batteries and held them in an awkward bundle with his jacket under the crook of his arm. There was nothing more for him to say and he turned in silence and went to the door. He had it opened and was partly through before Belle spoke up and stopped him.

“Thank you,” she said quietly but he heard it all the same. “For saving my life.” She added, as if he didn’t know what she was thanking him for. Even if she had been trying to escape him, she could have died on that cliff. The reason she still drew breath was now frozen in the doorway.

He didn’t look at her but he looked over his shoulder at the ground and mumbled, “You’re welcome.” With that he walked away, leaving her alone once again in the darkening den and the soft crackling of a dying fire.

#Renbelle #James Bond #OUAT #Renbelle fic #belle french #Victor Zokas #Renard #Thatlassiegotglassedfics #anyelle

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beeeinyourbonnet · 12 years ago

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Starved for Touch | Part One

Rating: Idk. T or M.

Pairing: Rumbelle, but also Renbelle, but not in a weird way (that's Renard from The World is Not Enough)

Summary: The Gold family vacation is interrupted when Belle manages to meet a clone of Rumpelstiltskin in a cafe.

Or--Even anarchists eat macarons sometimes.

Nice, France. Monday, March 3. 0952 hours.

The only noises in the café were Edith Piaf’s voice warbling over the speakers, and the sounds Belle’s croissant made as she nibbled at it between page-turning. She was the only person in the small room, having been abandoned to her book by the owner so that he could check on the kitchen. The door was propped open by a chalkboard bearing the specials, letting a balmy breeze gust through.

Rumpelstiltskin would like the café, she decided. It would be the perfect spot for a post-breakfast pick-me-up when he and Bae got back from their father-son boat ride. Maybe Emma and Henry would be done with whatever Henry had dragged his mother off to do by then, too. For now, Belle was content to be alone, since it meant that she was finally getting to do the one thing she wanted—read a book in a quaint café by the French seaside.

Her cell phone rang, interrupting Edith’s song, and she fumbled with her book for a few seconds before managing to pull the phone out of her purse. “Hello?”

“Hi, sweetheart. There’s been a small mishap, and it seems we need to return to our hotel room before we can meet you. Are you still at Café Lune?”

“Right where you left me,” she assured him. He’d been nervous about leaving her alone, and tried to insist that she at least go with Emma, but it was the only time she was getting with her book and she was loathe to lose it. “What happened?”

“Ah—Bae caught a fish.”

“That’s great!” She set her book down, settling back in the chair.

“Not with a line.”

Belle didn’t know what this meant, but she could hear Baelfire yelling in the background, so she decided not to ask. “How long do you think you’ll be?”

“Half an hour, at most. We’re back at the hotel now.”

“Great. I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you, Belle.”

Belle smiled, twisting her ring around her finger. “I love you, too, Rumple. See you in a bit.”

“See you.”

Since she had already been interrupted, she figured it was time to replenish her coffee and pastry plate, so she set her book down on the table and stood up. The owner was still in the back, but a man had come in. He stood at the counter, zipped to his chin in a navy blue windbreaker despite the mild warmth outside.

Perhaps, Belle thought, he’s sick. Even through his jacket and bulky pants, she could see how thin he was. He was drumming his hand against his pocket like he had too much energy to be standing in line at a café. It was too much energy for being on the Riviera, no matter what he was doing. She wanted to still his hand.

She sidled up to lean an elbow on the counter, peering around him. He glanced at her, like he wasn’t sure what she was doing. She licked her lips, trying to get her French together in her mind before opening her mouth.

“Um—est-ce que le—homme de café—um—” She chewed her lip, trying to think of any word that would suffice.

Then, he turned to her, and his face looked oddly familiar. “I speak English,” he said, in an accent she couldn’t place.

“Oh, thank goodness.” She smiled. “Is the man in the back still?”

“Ah.” He glanced back, and for the first time, Belle heard muffled thuds and grunts over Edith Piaf. “Yes, I think so.”

A clatter that sounded like forks hitting the ground erupted from the back, and she frowned, straining her ears. “I wonder if something’s wrong?”

He turned sharply toward her, his sunken eyes making him look even more focused on her face. At this angle, with Belle able to see fully the line of his nose and the curve of his jaw, she thought he looked a bit like Rumpelstiltskin—except that this man was bald, and wearing a windbreaker that her fiancé wouldn’t be caught dead in.

“I’m sure everything is—”

Belle cut him off with an “oh!” and the hand not holding her empty coffee cup flew to her mouth. The man’s eyes widened, and he clapped a hand on his hip.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Your head—did you know you’re bleeding?” She searched the counter for napkins and, when she found none, set her coffee down to look elsewhere.

She made it halfway across the room before he spoke again.

“It’s dry blood. A scar.”

“Oh.” She turned back to the counter to find him watching her, and the way he squinted and tilted his head just a fraction—the wonder in his face—reminded her so much of Rumpelstiltskin that she just wanted to gather him in her arms and ask him why he was wearing such a warm jacket on a warm day.

A shout broke through the moment, and Belle snapped her head toward the back room. The Rumple-clone clenched his jaw, keeping his gaze on Belle like he was waiting for her to attack.

“Something’s wrong—we should go help.” She started for the counter, then blushed when she realized she was treating him like Rumple. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed. You don’t have to come back—maybe you can call the police?”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he said.

It had never occurred to Belle that, out in the world without magic, she would encounter people similar to the villains in her own life. She attributed the reason that she didn’t notice the man’s suspicious nonchalance before to this.

Never one to back away from danger, even when she should for her own safety, she narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on back there?”

He met her stare, and she could have sworn that the corners of his mouth twitched. She folded her arms.

“You are nosy,” he said, just as a gunshot rang out from the back.

Belle flinched, the memory of her own shooting still too raw, but refused to back down. As she suspected, the man’s hand kept straying to his hip because he, too, was carrying. He pulled his gun out and leveled it at her chest.

“Are you going to shoot me?” She refused to back down. Captain Hook was a much more terrifying adversary than this man who looked like Rumpelstiltskin, and if she could stand with his gun against her skin, she could stand here.

“Only if I have to.” He jerked his head to the door. “Walk.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending. The noise from the back room had quieted, leaving silence and Edith Piaf in its wake. He smacked his lips with impatience.

“Walk, girl.”

“Walk where?” she asked. He didn’t want to shoot her—he had said as much—so maybe she could stall long enough for Rumple to get there. What he couldn’t save with his cane, he could save with magic.

With no warning, the man leaned over and stuck his boot through the display case glass. Belle jumped, biting her cheek to keep from screaming. He was trying to intimidate her, and she wouldn’t let him, even though all she wanted to do was run away and cry into Rumpelstiltskin’s arms.

She expected him to scream threats once the glass settled, and she prepared for them with every haughty remark in her repertoire. Instead, he waved his gun to the almost undisturbed display.

“What is your favorite macaron flavor? Except strawberry—I think the strawberry has glass in it.”

Belle did not know how to answer that question, because she could not believe that she had heard it correctly.

“What?”

He shrugged, training the gun back on her as he reached for one of the paper bags on the counter. “Fine. I will choose.”

He started dropping macarons into the bag, moving along the rows of colorful cookies methodically. While he was distracted, Belle started inching away, but stopped at the sound of his gun cocking.

“Don’t make me shoot you.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?” she asked, and she wasn’t sure if she was talking about the dessert display that he was raiding, or the fact that she was sure he had just killed someone in the kitchen and was now trying to kidnap her.

“You’d rather I shoot you?” He stood up, bulging bag clutched in his hand, and advanced toward her. She held her ground, figuring if she escaped, he’d have one of his lackeys from the back shoot her anyway.

“Of course not. I just—why are you—oh!”

He pressed the bag into her hand and the gun into her shoulder. Before she could even try to break away, his free arm was locking hers behind her back.

“You are too nosy.”

He started to haul her to the door, keeping the barrel of his gun pressed to her bare arm. When he moved and it pinched the skin of her arm, she hissed, and he loosened his grip.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked again, trying to dig her heels in. Just a few minutes longer—maybe Rumpelstiltskin would be early.

“My name is Victor Zokas. My alias is Renard.” He yanked her out of the doorway, taking advantage of the fact that she stopped struggling because she was surprised. “I was kicked out of the KGB and caused trouble in several middle eastern countries. I kidnapped Elektra King for ransom. My men killed that man back there. And now you know too much, nosy woman, so you will have to come with me.”

He shoved her into the back of a black sports car, then slid in next to her, all the while managing not to remove the gun from her skin.

Belle, for her part, was not doing anything that Rumpelstiltskin would have been proud of. Instead, her mouth hung open, and she was trying to formulate an opinion on what had just happened. “What—I wouldn’t have known any of that if you hadn’t told me!”

He shut and locked the door, then gave an order to the driver in Russian before turning to her with Rumpelstiltskin’s smile.

With all the times she had been kidnapped, Belle could not find it in her to be too alarmed about the situation. All she could think about at the moment was the fact that the man seated next to her, who was reaching over to buckle her in, was going to be dead as soon as her lover found him.

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Belle's Outfit

#renbelle #rumbelle fic #renbelle fic #anyelle #anyelle fic #renard #belle #mr. gold #rumpelstiltskin

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