Chapter Text
The Dark Castle was so damned tired.
For decades, it had watched Rumplestiltskin scheme and spell, and it had tried not to get involved. After all, it was a dark, dusty old thing, but at least it had somebody living in it. Everyone knew that houses and hovels and castles alike needed occupants to make them what they were, to strengthen and expand them with emotions and memories and magic and life. And there were lots of unlucky would-be homes, the Castle knew, that sat empty and unneeded until they simply crumbled away. And at least Rumplestiltskin was someone, was something.
But the Castle also knew that there was nothing that made a home happier than to see its occupants happy themselves and, when it conversed with the other homes, felt their stories carried to it on the wind, heard the bustle of pets, the laughter of children and friends, the urgent whispered words of lovers -- it knew something was missing.
The man who lived in it was feared and powerful, could be cruel and exacting, and the Castle could have lived with that if that was all there was to him. But the Castle knew its Rumplestiltskin was also wounded, frightened, desperate and, above all, lonely. The Castle felt for him, wanted him to be the man it knew he could be, to be kind and generous and good. And it was so damned tired of watching him, again and again, close his heart and bury his head in the sand for nothing except the click of a spinning wheel and the emptiness of his soul.
So, the Castle went on strike.
It had usually cleaned for him, cooked for him, put everything back in place the way he needed it, even spoken to him when he needed a listening wall. Rumplestiltskin's magic and its own storied origins gave it capabilities beyond that of many homes, and it was happy to experiment, in a way, and see where it could be useful and needed.
But useful and needed had not helped its occupant find happiness, and so it devised a plan to...stop.
And, oh, how the man had raged.
The Castle had watched with satisfaction as Rumplestiltskin screamed and swore and threatened, but he couldn't hurt it. It was even older than him, after all, and while it wasn't the all-powerful Dark One, it had its own magic to use. (It also suspected, not without evidence, that Rumplestiltskin simply didn't want to hurt it. The lonely, desperate man couldn't hurt what was functionally his best and only friend, even if that friend wasn't exactly a person.)
The Castle had descended into disarray and filth, but it had held strong.
Stop this nonsense! Rumplestiltskin had demanded. You are meant to serve me!
I am not obligated to serve you. The Castle had let wind through its window to scatter papers, blow dust in from the curtains, chill the underground stream the man bathed in. And I grow tired of your petulance. If you wish to be served, give me the respect of another occupant to share my duties. Someone to speak to, and not just be ordered around by.
And, after one below-freezing bath, Rumplestiltskin had finally acquiesced, disappearing as he grumbled something about putting an end to the backchat.
The Castle wondered who he would bring back. It expected some older man or woman, a peasant used to hard labor whom Rumplestiltskin could order around without much effort, who would cower and slave away and be grateful that at least they hadn't been turned into a puppet.
It would take whatever tiny victory it could get, the Castle decided. Maybe, with another person around -- even if he didn't respect them -- Rumplestiltskin would at least be forced to bear some measure of responsibility for someone, forced to regularly interact with them and exercise parts of his mind and social graces long thought lost.
Yes, a tiny victory.
Which is why the Castle was very surprised to see, when Rumplestiltskin returned, that he was in the company of a beautiful young woman. And it was even more surprised to see that, even as he mocked her and threw her into the dungeon, Rumplestiltskin had, just a little while later, visited the dungeon to present the woman -- Belle, her name was Belle -- with a soft, fancy little pillow.
He said it was to stop her crying, but he had shifted uncomfortably, like he knew he was doing something unnecessarily kind, even apologetic, and Belle had looked at him in the very-most-slightly-different way as she offered a begrudging-but-genuine thanks.
And the Castle had been the most surprised of all to feel the air soften, nearly imperceptibly, between them, and all at once it had suddenly known.
And, all of a sudden, it had a new plan.
And this one was going to be the biggest victory of all...true love.
If the Castle had been able to, it would have smiled wide. But, instead, it oh-so-gently, oh-so-innocently, let the breezy night air pull its occupants' scents from their skin and their clothes, let it trail behind the other so that, as they retired to their beds and slept, Belle would find her dreams colored by the memory of leather, straw, and so-slightly-softened eyes, and Rumplestiltskin would find his tinged with thoughts of a defiant blue gaze, shimmering golden fabric, and the barest hint of a grateful smile.
The Castle could play its games as well as Rumplestiltskin, and nobody had ever said it had to play fair.