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It is one of those nasty little curses, the ones that burrow and slide beneath your skin, that turn your bones to ash and ice, that burns like wildfire.
But even in that moment, when the poisoned coffee touches his tongue and the magic seethes to life, he is aware of it and binds it and tames its lashing tendrils, because he is Rumplestiltskin, and this is not the first time that someone has attempted to bring about his death.
Whoever wrought this had only rude skill in curse-making, he thinks as his legs give out, his bad knee wrenching with agony - there is no subtlety, there is no joy in the making of it- as he breaks his fall with clumsy hands, only to see all the tiny bones in his fingers shatter and grind and shift - you were a fool to drink it, a fool, always a fool.
It was certainly her handwriting, that neat and lovely way of forming her strokes, the joy and boldness in the way she signed her name. Belle.
“Belle…” He tries to say, but the word is a mangled, twisted howl and he snaps his jaws shut to cut it off.
The cup of coffee he assumed to be her gift - how dare he assume such a thing, that she would be thinking of him at all, with her books, in her sunlight - and like the thrice-damned fool that he is, he drank it without thinking. And now he pays the price, and it is a bitter taste indeed.
As to the enemy who brewed this little mouthful…
His growl is vicious and vibrates all through his chest. And it is a Good Feeling, as Good as trying out his fangs on the length of wood abandoned on the floor, shaking out any life it might have had. He dreams it as a stoat, a weasel, some sly, slinking low-belly creature, and he worries it and chews it until the blood would be flowing up to his eyes.
It is the bell which gives him pause, that freezes him in place with his tail upright and stiff-legged. It is a Man, wrapped against the cold, and another, shivering, stinking with fear.
“It worked! Thank the gods it worked. Go in and get him, Patrick.”
“Are you crazy, Moe? He’s huge! Look at his teeth!”
Moe French, says a quiet voice in his head, like the rasp of leaves on lizard-skin, like cold and death and old blood on the snow. He raises his hackles, and shows the Men his teeth.
“You’re the dogcatcher! It’s your responsibility-“
“To catch dogs, not the Dark One! You’re no lord now to force me to go in there with that beast!”
“Patrick…”
“If you want him, you catch him yourself!”
Moe French, the voice whispers again, and the rage in it is so vast and deep that he almost whimpers, tucks tail and flees.
The Man takes a step towards him, with a stout pole in one hand.
To dig into your throat and stop the breath. To keep you from the chase, the swift-kill, the forest. He pins back his ears at the horror of it, and fear makes him slaver and snarl, and pace back and forth. Beyond Moe is the open door, and the wild wood and the wind that promises a world of ice and secrets.
Moe swipes at him, and a noose whistles past his head, catching him a blow on one ear. His fear explodes into a blank, unwitting terror, and he launches himself at the Man with a roar of hatred that is not of his feeling, but surges from beneath. Moe falls, screaming, bleeding, as his teeth sink past cloth into hot flinching flesh.
Kill - the voice howls for a moment, hurting his flattened ears, then it changes - No, no, run, the door, run. Late - we will be too late!
And so he finds himself racing, his legs stretching and leaping, low to the ground to increase his speed, as though he were closing in on something furry in which pumped the hot blood.
But it is not the forest he is running to, despite the maddening urge that thrums in his veins. Instead he is gathering himself and slamming into cold glass, his weight forcing the wall away from him. He bursts into the brightly lit space, his paws scrabbling for purchase on the slick floor, the air burning in his lungs.
There are shrieks from around him. There are Men everywhere, jumping to their feet, and he can smell burned meat and the hunger pinching his belly only makes him more frightened.
But through the horror, and the milling and shoving of the Men, there cuts a sweet sound that calms his shaking limbs.
“You’re scaring him!”
Belle, the voice keens with a hunger and a need that he does not understand. Belle.
It even borrows his tongue and tries to form that sound, again and again.
He stands, ready to run, ready to fight, but it is She that emerges from the crowd of Men, and She is delicate and quiet and unafraid.
He has never seen anything on legs that was so gentle, and yet so bold. He belly-crawls to her, wagging his tail, and lets her run her hands over his head and back. Her eyes are troubled, and he can only snatch glances of them, as She strokes his black fur, and bends her face to his pricked ear.
“Rumplestiltskin?” She asks, and he whines long and sadly in his throat.
Yes. The voice murmurs, and now it is less loud and less angry, and there is a sadness in it beyond his knowledge.
He follows her when She stands, unwilling to be left behind with the Men so near - though one smells faintly like a wolf-sister, an intriguing scent he cannot investigate further- and the voice is silent, though he can sense the sorrow still.
She gives him something delicious out in the street, with meat and leaves and hot chewy bread, while She waits on a wooden bench. She is eating the same, he can smell it, but She gives it to him only half-eaten, and he licks her hand to show her She is Good.
When he finishes, She sighs and rests her chin on her gloved hands, and watches him.
“Just once,” She begins, and though the voice has not spoken he can feel it listening, “just once, Rumple, I wish we could finish a date without something disastrous happening. I don’t know what happened to you - a spell, or…a curse?”
He barks once, and lays his head on his front paws to watch her.
“A curse, then. Gods, sometimes I think we’re the ones that are cursed.”
She stands then, and begins to walk away. He is about to follow, but the voice says very softly, No.
He whines gently to himself, indecisive. White flakes begin to drift down from the black sky, dotting his dark coat.
Then she turns, with snowflakes in her long hair, and pats her thigh with a smile.
“What are you waiting for? Come on!”
His own simple joy at being called by her is matched by a tendril of hope curling from a hidden place. He races to her side, putting his nose into her hand, and She laughs at his enthusiasm.
“You can sleep this off at my apartment. And then we can try again tomorrow night. Say, seven-thirty?”
He bounds and leaps like a puppy, a foolish thing in a Beast his age.
She studies him, her white teeth flashing under the streetlights.
“You know, you are quite cute like that. But I would prefer you to have hands… and other things, of course.”
Then she ducks her head and blushes, actually blushes, and her cheeks bloom like roses.