A/N. This story was inspired by a comment that Robert Carlyle made; he said that Rumplestiltskin wishes he were Prince Charming. Belle here answers that wish on behalf of us fangirls.

In the first year of his power, he looked into a mirror nineteen times. In what would have been an impressive act of sheer will, if anyone had known about it, he forced himself to stand stock-still and stare unflinching, studiously examining every feature one by one. Even in his prime, in his twenties, he had never caused hearts to flutter or eyelashes to bat, but now, with the scaly greenish-gray skin and frizzy hair and alien eyes and rotten teeth (gods, those teeth! Why did they, of all his cursed features, disturb him the most?) he wasn't just the Dark One; he was the Hideous One.

But he got used to it.

He found there were advantages to it. For one, his looks shocked people on first encounter and continued to distract them on repeat visits, giving him a huge advantage in the bargaining process. When he'd become more experienced with negotiation, more skillful with words, he no longer needed that advantage, but by then he'd found it had added much to his reputation, so that by the time he made an appearance, the summoner was already shaking in dread.

He even began to like his hideousness. It put off those who might otherwise be tempted to wrap their smooth, soft hands around his scrawny, scaly neck (for it was the upper-crust who usually summoned him, and it was they who, accustomed to getting whatever they demanded, would dare think of punishing him when they were disappointed with their bargain. And they were always disappointed with their bargain). It also put off those who would mistake his short stature and slight build for physical weakness: like a cat raising its fur to appear larger than it really is, his ugliness made him appear oversized, and if followed by a small display of magic–a reminder of his power–overwhelming indeed.

Deep down, however, when he stopped looking into mirrors, it was probably because he realized he was never going to get any prettier.

He wondered sometimes, if he'd been a handsome lad before The Change, would his cursed appearance be harder for him to accept or easier? He would have at least had memories of compliments and encouraging smiles to fall back on. As it was, when he sometimes longed for white teeth, smooth skin, straight nose and hair, he-man height and muscles, the best he could do was to remember that Milah had smiled when he undressed. Sometimes, she had even helped him. At least, before. When his ankle was straight and strong and his leg unscarred.

In the third year of his power, as he had grown past the everyday surprises of discovering magic and had delved deep into the study of it (and after a lost year he can barely remember now, howling in mourning and madness) he forgot about mirrors, except for a brief exploration of their magical properties. That was the one area of magic he never fully examined; he told himself it was because mirrors were shimmery things, unstable; delicate, vulnerable to scratching and breakage. And that was the truth (for Rumplestiltskin never lied, even to himself). Partly the truth.

Now, so many years later that countless generations had been born, raised and buried, he was thinking about mirrors again. Not because Regina had made them a centerpiece of her arsenal–he'd kind of brought that on himself, having given her her first magic mirror–but because his housekeeper wanted one. Expected one, as part of her morning ablutions and her dinnertime dressing. She was perplexed as to why he owned several but kept them covered and though she'd accepted his explanation ("because mirrors have functions other than those you can think of, poppet") she still craved a reflection of herself with which to correct some flaw–tiny; any flaw of hers could only be tiny–in her appearance. Not that she was vain, but she had standards. So in his refusal to grant her use of his mirrors, she was disappointed.

He'd come to accept the fact that he hated to disappoint her, so he'd come up with a solution (one they both found. . . satisfying): as she brushed her hair or straightened her bows, his eyes would serve as her mirror. A touch of magic would increase the reflective properties in his oversized eyes. Laying a hand lightly on his shoulder, she would turn this way and that, examining the little images of herself reflected in his eyes. When she had finished with herself, she would make small corrections for him, straightening his collar, smoothing his hair. He enjoyed this domestic duty very much.

But it brought back doubts. Not that she ever revealed disappointment in his appearance–on the contrary: he knew what her reactions meant, the sudden hitch in her breath when she touched him, the reluctance to release him after she'd finished fixing him. It was just that that made him remember he was hideous, because everything about her made him want to be better in every way, made him want her to be proud to stand beside him, made him want her to keep on touching him. Made him want to be handsome.

There were spells for that, many spells; it was a common wish, and so one of the first subjects he'd mastered. He could cast these spells in his sleep, he'd done so many of them. They couldn't last, that was the problem; a couple of days at most. Most of his customers accepted that and made the purchase anyway. Of course, if he cast such a spell on himself, he could renew it every morning, just like brushing his teeth.

It was after a visit from Charming (Mr. Six-Foot-One, Broad Shoulders, White Teeth and so damn young) that for the first time ever, Rumplestiltskin cast a spell upon himself.

He rose, standing behind his chair at the dining table, as he always did when she entered a room. He had worn his gold silk shirt and red waistcoat so that she would have something familiar, to know it was him, and he greeted her with the same welcome as every morning: "Good morning, poppet. Sleep well?"

This time, she dropped the entire tray: cups, saucers, teapot, toast and sugar bowl. Well, perhaps he should've warned her to expect a slight change in his appearance this morning. He kept talking, chattering about nothing, just to assure her that the man standing before her was the one she was expecting, her Rumple.

She froze like a fawn caught in lantern light. Her mouth dropped open.

"Belle?" He spread his hands. "Do you like it?"

He certainly had when he'd peeked beneath the blanketed mirror. Six-foot-two (so he could look down upon Charming), broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, lean muscled (a swordsman's build, not a blacksmith's); smooth sun-kissed skin, roman nose, square jaw, strong chin, round ears, thick, wavy black hair, blue eyes; full lips, manly firm but soft enough for kissing.

He waited, full of hope.

She just stared.

"Belle? It's really me, dearie."

She knelt to begin to gather the broken china. He repaired it all with a wave of his hand. He waited.

She set the table, two slices of toast on his plate, three lumps of sugar in his tea, as always. She didn't set a place for herself. She gathered her skirts, turned her back to him, walked out, heels clattering on the hardwood floor.

He frowned at his teacup, trying to figure it out.

Talking, that's what was needed. After three hundred years of silence, it had taken time for him to learn to communicate, and he was still clumsy in asking for her opinions and feelings, awkward in voicing his own. But he needed to know, so they needed to talk.

He walked downstairs to the kitchens, found her leaning on her hands over the basin. She heard his boots on the stone, of course, but didn't turn around. He watched her shoulders go from rigid to slumped. When they began to shake, he came to her, sliding his broad hands around her waist, stooping (for he was a foot taller than she now; he realized that for the first time and didn't like it) to rest his forehead against her shoulder. "Belle. . .poppet. . .have I done something wrong?"

She covered her face with her hands, then uncovered and turned around for him, let him see her tears. "Is this–" she waved at his new body–"what I make you feel?"

"Yes. No." He didn't understand the question. "I. . . wanted you to like looking at me." He shrugged.

"You think I didn't, before?"

"The Dark One's ugliness serves a purpose. He is meant to appear a nightmare. But for you, I wanted to appear a pleasant dream."

She cupped his face. "Change back."

"You don't prefer this? A handsome young man is what you deserve, poppet. It's what I want to be for you."

"This is not the man whose big smile warms my mornings, whose arms I imagine wrapped around me when I sleep. This is not the man I want to sit beside on a winter's eve, his long fingers spinning while I read to him. This is not the man I trust to catch me when I fall." She stroked his cheek. "This is not my Rumple, who's more charming to me than any prince, more handsome to me than any Adonis."

Without another word, he removed the glamour. She sank her hands into his frizzy hair; she didn't have to stand on her toes to peer into his alien eyes and kiss the tip of his lumpy nose. "Welcome back, my Rumple."

He sank his hands into her silky hair. His head was too cluttered with emotions; he couldn't sort out the words he wanted to give her. He cleared his throat nervously and finally said, his accent thick, "It's winter. Read to me beside the fire while I spin?"

"Someday I will be able to kiss you properly, and then you'll know what you do to me."

He closed his eyes briefly, imagining. "Come then to the tower and read to me while I work on the magic to take us to Bae." His fingers brushed across her lips. "And may we hasten that someday, my poppet."

She linked her arm in his and they ascended the stairs.