In Her Eyes

A/N: Much of this fic was written and inspired by the amazing Josh Groban and his song, In Her Eyes, which I feel describes perfectly my favorite couple. Video of Rumbelle and song can be found on youtube, listen as you read! As always, I own nothing, and this fic was written with the greatest love and respect for Robert Carlyle and Emilie DeRavin. And if the show doesn't give us a wedding night, perhaps this will satisfy us dearies. Enjoy!

"Welcome home, Mrs. Gold," her husband purred in her ear, as he opened the car door of his vintage Cadillac, and held out a hand for his new wife to take.

Belle placed her hand in his, and her touch sent frissions of passion followed by a terrible nervousness down his spine. She gazed up at him, her lovely cerulean eyes shimmering with love for him.

Even now, when she wore her wedding ring upon her finger, he could not comprehend what she saw in him—the old monster, the beast of the fairytales, the Dark One—who had been resurrected by means of a trick by the heartless and cruel Zelena, who had been that witch's prisoner for over a year, forced to bow to her every whim, at her mercy, of which she had none. He gave Belle a smile, trying for her sake to feel happy. He was happy, and yet . . .he was also dreading being alone with her. Because Zelena had broken something within him . . .crushed his fragile self-esteem . . . and had turned what should have been the happiest night of his life into . . .stomach churning anxiety.

She doesn't know . . . not yet . . . but she will soon . . . for how can she avoid seeing . . . he thought bitterly. Damn you, Zelena! Damn you to the eternal fires of hell! He could, of course use magic to disguise them, but he didn't want to use magic, not on this of all nights. He wanted—as much as possible—to be the good man Belle had always seen in him, the man he had been before all the dark curses. He bit his lip as they walked up to his salmon pink Victorian and he fished the key from the pocket of his suit and unlocked the door.

He shoved it open, and just as Belle started to go inside, he put a hand out to bar her way. "Wait, sweetheart."

"Rumple?" she queried, his name like a song upon her lips.

"There's a tradition here that I'd like to uphold. It's said that all new grooms carry their brides across the threshold of their new home—for luck and happiness. I'd . . . I'd like to try it." He smiled at her, wishing the butterflies would go away.

"Of course!" she laughed, and then she put her arm about his neck.

Rumple lifted her carefully in his arms, holding her as if she were his precious chipped cup. "Ready, Mrs. Gold?"

"Always, Mr. Gold!" she teased, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. She loved being held by him, his sinewy yet strong arms always made her feel safe . . . and most of all . . . loved.

Rumple stepped across the threshold, careful not to stumble on the small step into the Victorian's foyer. As he did so, he felt the familiar tingle of the protective wards he'd created last night. The wards were designed to protect the occupants from magical attacks and also mundane ones. He mentally nudged the wards up a notch, ensuring that they would have no interruptions or disturbances of any kind tonight. Let the Charmings and Storybrooke's citizens solve their own problems and tie their own shoes for once. He was going to celebrate his wedding night.

He set Belle down, and she kicked off her heels, toeing them off to the side so neither of them would trip over them . . . something she almost always did since she was usually preoccupied reading or thinking. He occasionally did as well, when he was distracted by some magical formula or some legal text he'd been perusing. Few in Storybrooke cared to recall he was an attorney, but despite not having any clients at the moment, he still liked to keep on top of the latest cases and rulings.

"Are you hungry, darling?" she asked him then, since they had come straight home from the wishing well and had opted not to go and eat anything at Granny's.

"Uh . . ." he paused to consider, and his stomach let out a loud long-suffering growl.

"I guess that answers my question!" she chuckled. "Actually, I am too."

Her laughter warmed the empty spaces in his soul, and he said, "I . . . uh . . . got a little something for us to eat . . . nothing really fancy . . . just some fruit, cheese, crackers, and chocolate. Unless you'd rather have something more substantial? Like a hamburger?"

Belle shook her head, her lush tresses gleaming like the embers of dying fire in the soft light of the foyer. "No. What you have prepared will be just fine, Rumple."

"Let me fetch it," he said, and went to get the food and assemble it upon a chased antique silver tray.

Belle went to sit down in the den, which was one of the most comfortable rooms in the house, with its comfy wood paneling and soft brown leather sectional and the carved stone fireplace, which had a small fire crackling still in the grate. She sank into plushy softness of the couch, and thought dreamily about how beautiful the ceremony had been. It had been just the two of them, and her father and Archie, because the others were busy with welcoming the Charming's new prince, Neal, to Storybrooke. And that was how Rumple had wanted it. A private ceremony.

As she curled her toes under her, she thought of how shocked and moved her husband had been when he heard the name the Charmings had chosen for their son. They had done so to honor Baelfire, to honor what he had done for them all, and she knew Rumple had been very touched by the gesture—he, the spinner of names. He would have blessed the child, she thought, if he'd been certain the gesture wouldn't have been rejected. Belle had hoped he would, but he had not.

She longed to have a wedding night to cherish, but though she loved Rumple with every fiber of her being, she feared his anxiety might destroy the fragile moment. She didn't know half of what he had endured at that . . . dark witch's hand. He had refused to tell her . . . insisting he could deal with it, making her even more concerned.

She at least was grateful Zelena was dead. The Wicked Witch of the West had died twice . . . first at Rumple's hand after Regina had knocked her flying, Rumple had snatched up his dagger and slit her throat with it, hard, fast, and deadly.

"A merciful death and now Bae's ghost can rest!" he'd spat.

The others—Charming, Regina, Hook, even Emma—were startled and horrified.

"You . . . you killed her!" Regina had cried.

"Yes. Did you really expect me to just . . . let her go? After what she did to my son . . . to me . . . even to Snow's baby?" he'd growled.

"But . . . but . . . heroes don't kill . . ." Regina whimpered.

Rumple bared his teeth. "Don't whine, it doesn't become you," he snapped. "And heroes do what must be done . . . and live with the cost afterwards. She was a mad dog, Regina, and there's only one thing to do with a mad dog, dearie. Kill it."

But no sooner had the words left his mouth then the emerald glowed in Regina's hand and Zelena regenerated and activated her accursed portal.

"She's alive!" Regina cried. "How?"

"The emerald!" Rumple cried. "You should have destroyed it."

For the emerald was her touchstone, the seat of all her power, Belle thought. And it had required Emma and Hook chasing the green sorceress through time in order to catch her before she changed the past beyond all recognition, and once they had, dragging her back with them to face a final justice, where she had been tried and condemned by a jury, and sentenced to death.

Regina had crushed the emerald then, assuming responsibility for her half-sister's atrocities in that fashion, and Zelena's final death should have brought Rumple a measure of peace. But Belle had seen firsthand that he was still haunted and hurting, harmed deeply by what that green wench had done to him. And then of course there was Bae, but neither of them could bear opening up that can of worms tonight. Though she knew sometime in the near future that too would need to be dealt with. For the loss of his son had left a gaping hole in their hearts.

Belle had hoped that her agreeing to marry him would assuage some of his demons, show him that she still loved and trusted him, no matter what he had gone through . . .and he had seemed happy for a time . . .helping her choose a dress and letting her pick out a suit for him . . .normal things other couples did . . .she had even managed to get her stubborn father to see that Rumple had changed despite being under the dagger curse, and to give her away at the wishing well.

But now . . . now that they were alone . . .she was unsure what to expect from him . . . or even from herself. She was still, despite all they had gone through, a virgin bride, hard as that seemed for some to believe. She had wanted to save herself for her husband . . . intending all along to marry Rumple or no one at all . . .and she had never regretted that decision, save for when Pan had immobilized her and she thought she was going to die . . . but instead had been forced to watch her beloved die instead.

I have lost you so many times—to darkness, to weakness, and even to death . . . the words she had spoken at the wishing well rang in her ears. Her nails bit into her palms. But she had him now . . . and she was never letting him go. She stared into the fire, and imagined his hands—so gentle and strong, able to spin the finest thread and straw into gold, and yet strong enough to catch her when she fell off the ladder adjusting the drapes in the Dark Castle—running all over her, caressing, enticing, loving her . . .she lost herself for a brief moment in her midnight fantasy, her eyes drifting shut as she conjured images of herself and her husband in their marriage bed . . .

Rumple busied himself in the kitchen, arranging things with meticulous precision upon the tray. A round of brie topped with apples and walnuts, some buttery crackers encircling it, a small spreader beside it. Chocolate dipped strawberries were arranged along with small spears of cantaloupe and kiwi, and a log of cinnamon cranberry goat cheese beside that. He'd chilled a bottle of fine Moscato D'oro Asti and poured it into a loving cup, a beautiful silver goblet carved with claddaghs and eternity symbols, with two handles, meant to be drunk together by newlyweds. That and the remainder of the bottle went upon the tray as well, along with some forks and small porcelain Royal Dalton plates.

Fussing with the refreshments gave him time to relax, to silence the butterflies fluttering in his stomach, to quiet the whispers of tainted, unfit, unworthy that hissed and spat in the back of his mind, stirring up a cauldron of bitter and wretched memories that he tried unsuccessfully to send back to sleep.

His hand banged into a plate, causing a clatter, and he swore under his breath.

Belle awoke with a jolt upon the couch and called softly, "Rumple? What fell?"

"Nothing, dearie," he reassured her, keeping his tone even. She must not suspect. Not yet. He wanted things to be perfect for her.

He shut his eyes and counted to ten. Over and over, until his breathing evened out and he was reasonably sure he wouldn't fall apart. Coward! He sneered. This is your wedding night! Try to enjoy it!

He made himself pick up the plate and bring it into the den. His stomach was still fluttering and growling, though he wasn't sure if it was because he was hungry or nervous.

He smiled when he saw Belle sitting curled up on the couch, gazing sleepily into the fire. My Belle. My beautiful blushing bride, a rose beyond compare . . . . I love you with all of my heart, and yet . . . yet I feel it shall never be enough . . .

"Rumple, that looks delicious," she murmured, helping him set the tray down.

Their hands brushed, the briefest contact, yet it sent flickers of lightning through her. And she longed then to be in his arms.

His eyes met hers, and though she could still see love within them, she also saw something else within their depths.

Anxiety.

It pierced her to the core.

Oh, Rumple! What the hell did she do to you? she wondered, her heart aching for him, as it had ever since he had come home, a shadow of his former self, even though the dagger was now in his possession.

He took a plate and handed it to her, along with a fork. "Here. You can choose whatever you like . . .I picked all of our favorites." He indicated the repast upon the tray. "And in here . . . is some Moscato . . .your favorite dessert wine . . ."

Her lips curved in a timeless smile of tenderness. "You always take such good care of me . . ."

He chuckled softly. "As you do of me," he replied, and spread some brie upon a cracker and bit it.

The creamy cheese and crunchy walnuts and tart sweet apple settled his grumbling stomach, and together he and Belle fed each other fruit and cheese with crackers, sating each other's hunger.

Then he reached for the cup, and said, "To us. May we be happy." Then he held out the cup to her.

She placed her lips upon it and he did upon the opposite side, then together they drank.

The wine hit his stomach like a jolt of sweet fire, reminding him of the way his healing magic sometime felt. He swallowed rapturously, and then their eyes met over the cup.

The love and understanding in her eyes warmed him, chasing away the shadows for an instant. I love you, Rumple.

She spoke without words, and he understood, for those who loved truly could speak with silence, for the heart's language was one that could be felt intuitively, without the need for words that stumbled and tripped up the tongue.

He drank again . . . and this time their lips met, and he kissed her tentatively, tasting her along with the tang of the champagne. She tasted of strawberries and chocolate with a creamy hint of brie and buttery crackers.

I love you, Belle.

The wine hit the back of his throat in a bittersweet caress, and he swallowed rapturously, enjoying the taste and also the way she was looking at him over the cup, with those sapphire come-hither eyes. They beckoned and teased, inviting him to come closer, to take liberties he'd only dreamed of.

She gently reached out with her hand, sliding her thumb along the edge of the cup, until it touched his hand. His skin was warm, almost fevered, and she relished his touch. She wanted him . . . and at the same time she was hesitant. She didn't want to rush him, didn't want to pressure him, or make him feel uncomfortable.

"Rumple . . ." she spoke his name with infinite tenderness, such as she imagined his mother had when he was small.

He shivered. The way she said his name made him feel cherished, loved. "Belle . . ."

He spoke hers with a voice like rough velvet, one that made her quiver down to her toes, the richness of spun gold with hints of midnight silk.

At her touch, his hand shook, and he set the cup down lest he spill the dregs that remained in it. His hand curled around hers. "Do you want—"

The question hung in the air.

"When you're ready," she responded, trying to give him a choice, to allow him the freedom he had been denied so long in Zelena's cage.

He opened his mouth to say they should go upstairs, to begin their wedding night . . . but the words froze upon his tongue as Belle's sweet enquiring expression was replaced by one that was filled with envy and gloating, hard eyes of amber, that shone with a sick desire that wished to dominate and humiliate because he refused to love her the way she thought he ought to.

In the flicker of an instant he was no longer in his own home, beside Belle on the couch, but back in that cage, barely large enough for him to sit upright, crouching on the floor spread with newsprint stinking of damp earth, kneeling in his own filth, awaiting her next command, his will subsumed, crushed . . .

Belle stared in alarm as she saw Rumple's eyes go glassy, his breath coming in shallow pants, as he relived some horror only his eyes could see. He went rigid, all the muscles in his neck and shoulders standing out against his shirt in sharp relief. His jaw clenched, as if bracing himself for a blow.

Tentatively, she put out a hand, touched him lightly. "Rumplestiltskin!" she called. "Rumplestiltskin, come back! You're free! Come back, love!"

As if drawn by an invisible tether, Rumple shuddered and then blinked. He gradually became aware of the warmth of the fire, the sleek leather of the couch beneath him, and Belle touching him, infusing him with warmth. Cold to the marrow of his bones, he half-cringed in shame, and rasped, "I'm sorry, Belle! So sorry . . .!"

"It's all right—" she began.

"No!" he declared hoarsely, abruptly turning away from her. "It isn't! This . . . isn't how it should be . . .do you think I don't know that? This should be something . . . filled with joy . . . for one moment I felt it . . . and then . . . she came . . ." His hand clenched upon the arm of the couch.

"Rumple, it was a flashback," Belle soothed. "I know . . . I get them too . . . sometimes . . ."

" . . . not right . . . she's dead . . . gone . . . and still I'm not free . . ." He shook his head. "Some deal you've gotten . . .a broken . . .cowardly sorcerer . . ." The words dripped bitter venom from his tongue.

"You . . . are . . . not . . . a . . . coward!" she enunciated each word to be sure he heard them clearly. "You've been injured, hurt, wounded in body and spirit . . .what you've endured would have killed anyone else . . . and yet here you are . . ."

"Yes. Here I am. A shadow of myself . . .a part of me trapped in that damned cage . . ." He lowered his head, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. "Why do you stay? Why don't you leave?"

"Because . . . it doesn't matter to me what she did . . . you're alive and together we'll get through this. I will never stop fighting for you . . . because I love you, Rumplestiltskin Gold. Even the broken parts."

"I . . . don't know why . . .I'm not a hero . . .I'm not an angel . . .I'm just a man . . ."

She draped her arms about his neck, resting her chin upon his shoulder. She breathed in the spicy scent of his aftershave, the cool scent of his aqua rush shampoo. Her fingers began to massage his neck and shoulders, working diligently at the knotted muscles, while she spoke into his ear.

"Listen to me. I didn't fall in love with a hero . . . or an angel . . .or a monster . . . I fell in love with a man . . . an imperfect flawed man . . .and it's that man I love, that man I fight for . . . every hour of every day . . . because you are worth it, Rumple . . ."

He laughed mockingly. "Will you still say that . . . a month from now . . . a year from now . . .?"

"I will say it . . . a thousand years from now . . .I will say it every morning when I wake beside you . . . and every night when I fall asleep listening to you breathe . . ." Her hands continued kneading and rubbing. "Even when you terrified me in the Dark Castle, there was a part of me that knew no matter how you raged, you would not harm me . . .when I went with you, I promised you forever . . . and I promised it again at the wishing well . . .you are the mystery I was searching for, the puzzle I could not solve, and it is you I have loved all along . . .and if you are broken then I shall mend you . . . because I will not let her win . . . you died once for me, Rumplestiltskin, and I'll be damned if I'll let it happen again!"

Her hands closed upon his shoulders and he gasped as the muscles snapped and unwound, releasing the tension coiled there. Afraid she had hurt him, she immediately hugged him, crying, "Did I hurt you? Rumple, I'm sorry . . .!"

His hand came up to grasp hers. "It's all right. I've had worse," he murmured.

Her lips met the hollow between his neck and shoulder, and she kissed him softly. "I just wanted you to relax . . . to try and forget . . . what she's done . . .not for me . . . but for you . . ."

He heaved a sigh. "Forgive me. Tonight should be the stuff of dreams . . . and instead it's the stuff of my nightmares." His voice thickened slightly. "I wanted to . . . make this perfect for you . . .and like everything else, I've gone and ruined it . . ."

"No! You haven't ruined it. This is your night as well as mine. And we have time, Rumple, all the time in the world. I can wait . . .it doesn't matter to me if we . . .sleep together tonight or tomorrow night or a week from now. What matters most is you." She kissed him again, behind his ear, a delicate kiss, one that could have been a prelude to something more, but for now was just a kiss.

"Belle . . ." he turned his head, meeting her eyes. "I want . . . and yet I . . .cannot find my way out of the darkness . . . I'm sorry . . ."

The misery in his eyes tore her apart inside.

She put a finger to his lips. "Hush. No more apologizing. She put you in hell. She cast you into darkness. But I will reclaim you. I will. No matter how long it takes."

"Are you sure I'm worth it?" he asked sardonically.

"Yes. You are worth everything. I knew it the first time I saw you spin, and was made even more certain when you gave me the library. The day you caught me in your arms when I fell off the ladder . . . I knew then you were the one for me. The only one. Why do you think I married you?"

"I'll be damned if I know. You could have had so many better men than me."

"I didn't want anyone better. I wanted you. Because I wasn't looking for some . . . paragon . . . some perfect noble man . . .I was looking for someone who would challenge me . . . who would love me even when I was being the most annoying pain . . .who would love me despite my flaws . . . and that, my dear Rumple, was you." Her hand stroked his hair lovingly, carding it between her fingers like she would have wool. "I don't want perfect. Perfect is boring. I fell in love with a man . . . and I love him still."

Her words eased some of the guilt he was feeling, and he leaned back against her, allowing her to hold him, to give him some measure of comfort, to be the flicker of light in his ocean of darkness . . . and gradually he relaxed against her.

And the butterflies stopped fluttering and were still, as he dozed lightly in her embrace, while the fire burned down to embers in the grate, and she rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes closing as well.

He turned his face to her, nuzzling her, and the wrinkles of anxiety faded from his face as he slept, safe and sound, at last, in the arms of one who loved him just as he was.

Page~*~*~*~*~Break

Belle woke up slightly stiff and looked at the antique mantel clock. It was somewhere around one o'clock in the morning and she had been sleeping with Rumple curled up against her for about two hours. She would have continued sleeping contentedly, but all the wine she had drunk was making itself felt and she needed the bathroom.

She tried to shift Rumple and not wake him, but her movements, small as they were, made him stir and open his eyes.

"Belle? Is it morning?" he yawned blearily.

"Only just. Go back to sleep," she whispered, and placed a kiss upon his brow before sliding herself out from under him and heading to the bathroom.

When she returned, she found him sitting up, his brown hair tousled from sleep, his eyes half-mast. He looked at his rumpled suit with mild disgust.

"I need to get changed," he grunted, rising. Ever since being a prisoner he couldn't abide rumpled clothing.

"Me too," she agreed. "I don't want to ruin this dress." It was a vintage 1940's Chanel.

Rumple went upstairs first, and Belle followed.

The master suite had a bathroom, small sitting room and bedroom. Belle went and found the silky bridal gown that Ruby had helped her pick out. It was pure silk with blue lace along the bodice and hem, with a slit up the side so she could move easily and silky straps to hold it up. Belle had to admit she had never worn anything so . . . provocative before.

She examined herself in the mirror in front of the dresser, turning this way and that, wondering if it was normal to show so much cleavage? She felt like she was falling out of the damn nightie! Then she reminded herself she was supposed to be sexy on her wedding night. She was supposed to want Rumple to look at her.

She looked down at her chest. Her eyes were drawn to the small circular scar just before her left breast, where they had put electrodes on her . . . supposedly to take an EKG in the asylum, but in reality it was to give her electroshock treatments. She recalled the burning searing pain and remembered whimpering and screaming for it to stop. Her face heated as she recalled how she had lost control of her bodily functions also.

She covered the small scar with her hand, feeling as if someone had branded her like a cow. Marked. She was marked from her time in the asylum.

Wanting to brush her teeth, she headed over to the bathroom. As she walked in, Rumple's back was to her, shirtless, he was shaving in the mirror, the water running in the sink covering the sound of her approach.

Belle hesitated, not wanting to invade his privacy, but then she saw something that made the breath catch in her throat. She put a hand to her mouth to muffle her gasp of horror.

For Rumple's back was crisscrossed with scars, thin white marks, from a whip.

Belle's eyes filled with tears. She beat him . . . like an animal. Or a slave.

She had known in the back of her head that Rumple's captivity had not merely been one of deprivation and compulsion. That given Zelena's mercurial temper, he must have suffered some physical abuse as well. But she had not wanted to think about it, had allowed herself to pretend that perhaps such an atrocity had not occurred.

But now she could no longer deny the evidence before her eyes.

Tears coursed down her cheeks, and she cursed Zelena to the deepest circle of hell for what she had done to her beloved.

Some sixth sense caused Rumple to glance up as he rinsed his shaver. And there, reflected in the mirror, was Belle, in a beautiful negligee.

His heart quickened for a moment as he saw her shapely curves . . . but then he noticed the tears on her cheeks and all of his desire withered and died.

Oh God. She's crying because she doesn't want to sleep with me . . . He felt the old feeling of inadequacy stir within him and he buried his face in a hand towel to hide his shameful flush, pretending to pat his face dry. You're still a monster, Rumplestiltskin.

But even as he did so, he recalled that he had his shirt off . . . and those awful shameful scars were visible.

Belle had seen his back.

Seen the scars he bore of servitude . . .the scars of a slave punished by a cruel mistress . . .

He shut his eyes and wished he were dead rather than allow her to see him like this.

An old scarred monster. Some prize I am.

Belle suddenly saw how he was standing, stiffly and with his head bent. Oh no! He thinks . . . he thinks I find him . . . repulsive . . .when nothing could be further from the truth.

She quickly drew her hands down her face, wiping the tears away. Then she walked over to him and deliberately put her arms about him.

"What . . . what are you doing?" he hissed.

"Hugging you," she answered, her voice a quiet echo now that he had shut off the water. She leaned her face against his back, unmindful of the scars.

"Belle . . . you don't have to . . .I know what I am . . ."

"Yes, I do. Because we both have scars, Rumple. Within and without."

Then, acting purely on instinct, she began to gently kiss the scars on his back.

Her kisses were like the delicate brush of a butterfly's wing, yet they seared him like a branding iron.

He gasped, wondering why on earth she was kissing him like this . . .why she wasn't repulsed by the ridged flesh, which for some reason he could not heal.

Belle kissed her way down one shoulder and then across his back to the other one, and as she did so, she thought about how much she loved her husband and wished him to heal from this ordeal.

And something began to happen.

Rumple felt an odd warmth on his back, almost like the sun was beating down upon him, though it was night and he was inside.

Belle was almost to the middle of his back now when she felt an odd sensation run through her . . .of warmth and light.

She paused in the act of kissing Rumple's last scar and looked again at his poor back.

Only to see the jagged scars etched with white light . . . which then caused them to fade.

Hardly able to believe her eyes, she set her hand upon his back. And encountered smooth unblemished skin.

"R-Rumple . . ."

Hearing something odd in her tone, he half-turned around. "What is it?"

"Your . . . your back . . ."

"It's dreadful, I know. You don't have to look at it if you don't want to . . ." he snapped his fingers, summoning a soft heather pajama top to him.

"No . . . no you don't understand . . . the scars . . . where she beat you . . . they're gone . . ."

"Gone? Sweetheart, you don't have to pretend to me . . ." he began.

"I'm not! I kissed them . . . and there was this . . . light and heat . . . and now they're gone!"

"That's crazy! I haven't been able to heal them at all since . . ." he twisted around, trying to see what she meant.

But he couldn't see his back right from the angle.

"Look in the mirror, Rumple."

So he did, turning around just enough so he faced the mirror.

And he saw . . .his back was free of scars. His eyes widened.

"How . . .?"

"I don't—" she started to say and then halted. "True love, Rumple. I kissed you to show that your scars don't matter to me, that I love you whether or not you have them . . . and somehow . . . I . . . healed them . . ."

He turned around then, the pajama top forgotten upon the counter, and caught her in his embrace. "Ah, Belle . . ." He held her close and tears dampened her dark auburn tresses. If her love could heal the scars of his past . . . then perhaps, just perhaps . . .there was hope after all . . .for them to have a happy ending.

Belle nestled against him, her ear resting on his chest, feeling his heart beat, his chest rise and fall, and she allowed herself to just be held, her breathing slowing unconsciously to match his. She felt as though she were drifting in a warm haze, cradled in the arms of the one who loved her best of all.

Rumple buried his face in her hair, loving the smell of coconuts and sunshine that wafted into his nostrils. He blinked away his tears, then reminded himself that he had a miracle occur and he shouldn't be sniveling over it.

He placed a kiss on the top of her head and then just stood there, holding her, and reveling in how well she fit against him, like two halves of a whole.

They remained that way for several minutes, until Belle shifted and said, "Do you want . . . to go to sleep now?"

"If you like," he said, and then he added, "We can just sleep if . . . you want."

"Whatever you wish, Rumple," she said, letting him decide what they would do.

"Let's go to bed," he murmured, and as she turned to look into his eyes, he lowered his head and kissed her.

His kiss was like ambrosia on her tongue and fire in her blood, it coaxed and teased, gentle and fierce by turns, and it made her heart race and her toes curl.

She kissed him back, sultry and sweet, letting him know the only way she could that she desired him . . . all of him . . . old and new . . . dark and light . . .

He lifted a hand and it tangled in her hair as he tilted her head back and kissed her again, claiming her with his mouth, making her head spin with the sensations he aroused in her.

When they at last broke apart, his eyes were drawn to her breasts, which to him were perfect and he went to gently stroke them and saw the scar upon her.

"What's that?" he queried, incensed that anything should mar her delicate skin.

"It's . . . a scar," she answered, flushing.

"From what?"

"The asylum . . . they . . . used to . . . electroshock me."

"What for? That's only supposed to be used in rare cases . . . like for schizophrenia or something," he cried.

Belle sighed. "Well . . .my . . . doctors thought I was delusional . . . and that's what they did . . ."

The mere thought of them performing such cruelty upon her made him long to hunt down those responsible and skin them. But he restrained himself. He didn't want to upset Belle, not on this night, not anymore than he already had.

"Idiots!" he hissed angrily. Then he did to her what she had done to him. He kissed the scar, summoning all the love and healing potential within him.

And like she had done before him, the scar was outlined with a flicker of light, and then it faded as he watched.

"Look, dearie. It's all gone."

She cupped his face in her hands. "A kiss to make it better." Her blue eyes sparkled.

He laughed huskily. Then he kissed her again, until she felt her knees grow weak.

Smirking wickedly he swept her up in his arms and carried her over to the bed, where he placed her gently on one side, then crawled in beside her.

"You let me know if you want to stop . . . and I will," he reassured her. For he knew this was her first time and he was not inconsiderate of that.

Then he lifted her foot, and began delicately playing with it, his slender fingers rubbing the arch and massaging her toes, making her squirm with pleasure.

"Rumple . . .!" she cried.

He walked his fingers up her ankle, muttering, "Shall I stop?"

She shook her head. "Don't stop!"

His fingers caressed her foot, sliding up and around her ankle, circling it with the barest touch of his hand, and making her gasp with pleasure. She arched backwards as his hand travelled up her leg, stroking her calf, indulging himself with the sight of her well-muscled sexy leg.

"Rumplestiltskin!" she panted, saying his name as if it were the last mystery she needed to uncover.

He slanted her a glance, his mouth curving up in an impish grin of wicked delight. "Like that, do you?"

She nodded unable to quite articulate how he made her feel, her body was drunk on the sensations he aroused in her, a lyre plucked by a master's hand, a torch that burned with a fire that consumed all.

His slender fingers slipped up her leg, to the waistband of her panties, and tugged them down, peeling them off her in a slow silken glide, while he pulled her leg up onto his shoulder and then to trail kisses down her leg, teasing her with his mouth until she cried out in ecstasy.

"Rumplestiltskin!"

"Yes, dearie?" he purred, his eyes dark with desire.

His tongue flicked, taunted, tasted.

She trembled, wondering how it was possible for him to make love to her just by kissing her leg?

"That feels . . .incredible!"

The impish smirk deepened, and he switched his seduction from her feet to her head. He stroked her hair, tangling lovingly in her auburn tresses, massaging with long slow flicks of his fingers, making her quiver all over.

"I love your hair, Belle. It's like chestnut fire," he whispered, his voice velvety soft, with that faint burr she loved so well. He continued caressing her hair, each slow stroke of his hands making her sigh happily.

"Rumple . . . that feels so good!" she groaned.

Soon his caresses moved from her head to her shoulders, his hands gliding across her skin, loving how she felt like hot silk beneath his fingers. He saw her eyes darken with pleasure and love.

His hands lingered upon the spot where her scar had been, his kisses branding her with a slow burning heat that spread throughout her in a crescendo.

On fire with need, she reached for him, wanting to give back as much pleasure as he had given her.

She took his hand, that sensuous poet's hand, running her tongue teasingly over his palm and inbetween his fingers.

"How do I taste, dearie?"

"Sweetly satisfying," she crooned, and nibbled his way down to his wrist.

He gasped as her love bites made him ache with longing.

He kissed her again, adoring the fact that she wished always to be with him, flawed imperfect thing that he was, drowning in the sensations she coaxed in him. Sensations he had not felt . . .in a lifetime of forevers, if at all.

His eyes smoky, he whispered, "Make me forget . . .erase the past year . . .work your own magic . . . and help me to be . . .what you have always wished for . . ."

Belle twined her arms about Rumple's neck, pulling his head down, while simultaneously hitching herself forward, sliding over the gold satin sheets, devouring him as much as he did her.

She could smell the spicy scent of the soap he used, as well as the sweet scent of dark chocolate and strawberries, and taste it too, upon his lips and tongue.

"How's that? Are you forgetting?"

"What?"

She smiled sweetly, "Let go. Let her go. She is gone . . . now and forever . . . a phantom who wails alone in the dark . . .but you are here . . .with me . . . and she cannot harm you . . . not ever again . . ."

Her hands glided across his back, and he sucked in a breath as she touched him, her fingers chasing away the shadows that lingered, sending them fleeing into the dark, as she conjured light and life within his shattered spirit, reweaving the broken threads whole once more.

"Sometimes the best teacups . . . are chipped . . ."

She slowly worked her way down his face, and he shut his eyes and gave a kind of whimper, for her tongue sent shockwaves through him.

"Belle . . . ahh . . .Belle . . ."

She paused. "Am I . . .doing it right . . .I'm not . . . hurting you . .. ?"

"No . . . your touch mends the broken places . . ."

Her hands glided lower and he purred like a cat.

They slowly started to untie the drawstring on his gray pants.

Grinning he whispered, "Allow me," and he shed them with one slow undulating shimmy.

She stared at him, unabashed, her eyes taking him in curiously.

And he found that he was no longer ashamed, for what was done, was done, and he could either let it hold him prisoner, and torture himself worse than Zelena had ever done . . . or he could do as Belle had said . . . and let it go.

"See something you like?"

"Something?" One eyebrow quirked. "I like . . . everything." She licked her lips. "You are like . . .a classical sculpture . . .hewn rough from the stone . . . and shaped to perfection."

He laughed huskily. "Hardly that. Your eyes see me through love's gaze . . ."

She knelt upon the bed, her hair swaying about her like a fiery curtain across her negligee. "My eyes . . . see true . . .as they always have . . .for love makes the imperfect perfect . . ."

He reached for her, understanding at last love's greatest mystery.

His hands caressed her, undoing the straps on her nightie, the fabric melting away like smoke between his fingers. "Sometimes the best book . . . has the dustiest jacket . . ."

"Yes." Their eyes met, in a shared passion and an understanding beyond words. "And only together . . . are they complete."

Their mouths met again in a kiss that stole the breath from their bodies . . . and then returned it, as they gave each unto the other the deepest part of themselves, without reservation, holding nothing back. It was a kiss that seared them with its tempestuous fire, the magic of true love irrevocably binding them together forever.

He laughed, straddling her, and proceeded to grant her wish, loving her with every fiber of his being, at turns wild and tender, sweet and satisfying, conjuring magic with the merest brush of his fingers against her sensitive skin, completing her, until they lay spent, entwined in each other's arms, one heart, one soul, one being, their love rekindled and spun anew upon the golden spindle of fate, reborn out of the ashes of despair and darkness, never to be denied again.

A pure white light washed over them then, and when it faded, Rumple could feel his connection to Belle intensify. For the drawing of five heartbeats he could feel her abiding love for him, it filled the hollow spaces in his heart and soul, completing him, and he knew his love for her did the same.

And in that moment, a moment of pure joy, unfettered, love's magic freed him at last from the centuries old chains that bound him, and he felt the shadows and darkness that clutched his soul in their implacable grip suddenly fall away, for true love breaks all curses, and the spectre of the Dark One was driven away, sent howling into the void, and the light reclaimed at last his tattered soul.

Rumplestiltskin gasped. "Belle . . .my curse . . ."

"What's happened?" She sat up, still feeling the afterglow of their lovemaking.

He slipped from the bed and waved a hand, calling forth the dagger from the protective spell he'd encased it in.

It appeared in a flash of purple smoke, and he gripped it in a fist. He knew every inch of it, from the leather wrapped hilt to the wavy blade and tip, knew it like he knew his own name. His eyes were drawn to the etching upon the blade, the runes of death and destruction, that had bound him for so long. He could feel the otherworldly chill emanating from it, and then he turned the dagger over, expecting to see his name upon the surface, as it had been for over three hundred years.

But the blade's face was . . . blank.

"Free . . . I am free . . ."

"In all ways," she cried, tears of joy running down her face.

"At last," he murmured and his own face was wet.

Then he sent the dagger back into the ether, binding it with even stronger protection spells than before.

He was unsure what he was now—mortal or immortal, sorcerer or spinner. Yet one thing he did know. In her eyes he was a man, imperfect and flawed, yet perfect to her.

"I love you, Belle."

"And I love you, Rumplestiltskin." She held out her arms to him. "Now come back to bed. I'm cold."

"Then I'll warm you," he promised, and came into her arms, at peace with himself, his wayward soul come home, safe and sound at last.

Belle held him close, thinking that at last the beauty had claimed her beast, mended what was broken, found her heart at the bottom of a chipped cup, adventure beyond the pages of a book, and her soul in the man beside her. Tonight had been a night of fiery passion, promises kept, and dreams come true. But this was only the beginning, for love's greatest adventure was not in the seeking, but in living.

A/N: so who liked my surprise ending?