Bubble Battle
Here is my Rumbelle Secret Santa entry for adaughterofzion. She prompted Rumbelle Baby bubble bath. I decided to twist it a bit to tell of story of Belle and Rumple as very little children. It didn't quite make it to 1,000 words so I included a doodle of the end of the story. I hope everyone enjoys.
It is 7:00 pm. Downstairs, a father cleans the supper dishes. He listens to his favorite radio program as he washes and dries. He is quiet, contemplative, at peace. Upstairs there is a different story.
Two children meet on the battlefield, eyes locked across the porcelain expanse. They are hardened and weary, but most of all, they are dirty. The girl's hands and feet, and perhaps the edges of her skirt, are caked in mud. The boy is worse. It is easier to say that only his eyes and the tip of his nose do not have mud. He lost, you see, earlier in the afternoon, during The Great Mudfight of Our Times. But he feels no shame at having lost to this girl.
He is small, she is smaller. He is fidgety, she is fierce. He moves with a careful grace, she gambols like a colt. Together, they are wild. Today, they have battled. Right now, they need a bath.
Her cool eyes dare him to be the first into the tub. He cannot resist her, but as climbs over the great edge he sees her dart to the cupboard. In triumph does she pull out the bubble bath, brandishing it like a great weapon of old, now reclaimed. His eyes widen in anticipation – does the maiden wish the day's battle to continue?
His question is answered as she pours in half the bottle, then a bit more for good measure. The running water churns the bubbles into a towering mountain, and the lad realizes the lass's error before she does. She has provided camouflage. He sinks down into the bubbles, to lay in wait.
He see a little hand reach down from above. Her fingers fumble in the water, searching for her foe. He grabs it and, with a great swoosh, heaves a tremendous wave at the little maiden.
She splutters and moves to stand back, but he holds her fast. Her horror dawns as she looks into his eyes. The lad remembers. He remembers earlier today with no mercy in the mud. She shall see no mercy this night.
With his other hand he grabs her shoulder and pulls her into the bath. Her indignant shriek rings out, then is lost.
There is thrashing and splashing. Someone's hair is pulled. Someone else has bubbles in his eyes and must retreat for a moment. The battle maiden presses her advantage. She throws a washcloth with wild abandon. It makes a wet slurk! sound when it adheres to the side of the lad's head.
But she has given him the means to clear his eyes, and her attack is defeated, nay, rebounded, as he flings the cloth back, landing just so to span the entirety of her face. She falls back and in retaliation kicks her feet in the water, again and again, churning it into great splashes.
He ducks but is not daunted. The tub is long enough for two to manage this attack, and he flails his skinny legs with abandon, determined to win this round. Water and bubbles erupt out and onto the floor.
Soon the warriors are panting and tired, and a momentary truce is called. Each eyes the other across the steaming bubbles, wary of attack. He wears a crown of white on his head, she sports a jaunty beard that drips back into the water. The washcloth floats between them. The lad breaks eye contact to look for another method of attack. He dismisses the rubber yellow duck, the one item sacred to bath times everywhere, but his eyes catch on the towel hanging to the sides. Hmm.
The little maiden lunges at the same time as he, but he reaches the towel first. She catches the end though, soon the towel is soaked in their tug-of-war. His bubble crown is askew, her beard now on only one side of her face, and somehow both manage to look fierce. He even bares his teeth.
But then he thinks he may know how to win. Loosening his hold, he waits for her to slip back at the loss of his resistance. As she falls back, he hesitates, and all is almost lost. But he remembers his promise to the lass – no mercy this night. He tosses the soaked towel up and over her head, the briefly, very briefly, pushes her under.
She pops back up, covered in towel, spitting and coughing. She renews her earlier kicks while he relies on hands and arms to push great waves of water over her. The battle continues on, the little warriors near the ends of their strength when, finally, she capitulates.
She is waterlogged, they both are, really. Her hair falls in lank, soggy strands down around her face. She heaves her arms and head over the side of the bathtub and lets out a mighty, battle-weary sigh. The equally sodden lad slumps over his side.
The battle is over and he has won. The little warriors share a look of soldierly brotherhood, then reach across to touch hands, their friendship renewed.
