They'd developed a sort of routine, the little maid and the Dark One. Each morning at dawn, she would rise and prepare breakfast. When she first began cooking, she only served simple meals at the start of the day, such as porridge or toast. As the months ticked by in her servitude, she gained an aptitude for more intricate dishes, consisting of eggs, mutton, dried peas, and various fruits. After the first few weeks he had allowed her to sit and join him while they enjoyed their morning feast. After they were finished, she promptly washed the dishes and fetched her master's dirty clothes for a proper cleaning—the imp had always magicked away the mess before and she insisted that he was sure to leave dirt and sweat between the seams. Of course, cleaning his dragonhide coat always left her wondering if perhaps a little magic would not hurt. With the clothes hanging to dry, Belle would wash her arms and face and season a veal or turkey or whatever Rumpelstiltskin had in his rather large cabinets, which kept the food unspoiled, and then she would place the meat in the oven to cook for a few hours. During that time, she would arrange a myriad of other fruits, careful to add variation to the morning's selection and not use the same food twice in one day. If all of this was completed soon enough, she would have time to read a little while until the food was cooked. She would then serve the new feast to Rumpelstiltskin and eat with him—for some time after allowing her to have breakfast with him he relented that a shared lunch was deserved as well. Once another meal lay in their bellies, she would sweep and dust and scrub all of the unlocked rooms, a task which took up most of the afternoon. She would wash up again, and set to making dinner, usually a much grander meat such as wild boar, beef—roasted or otherwise—or on a very rare occasion, steak—he preferred his rare while she took it well-done. They dined together at night as well, for if she was eating with him in the morning and afternoon it only seemed fitting that they share the evening together as well. And when they were not dining or conversing after a meal, Rumpelstiltskin would be up in his tower or out on a deal.

But not today.

Something was wrong. Belle knew it when her master did not come down for breakfast. She told herself that he was probably working up in his tower and continued with her daily chores, but when he skipped both lunch and their afternoon tea she began to worry. He could not have gone out on a deal, he always told her beforehand. Nor could he have simply forgotten. After months of eating together every day there was no way he could have missed three in a row.

The concern of invading his privacy kept the little maid from going to see him for the entire day, but when suppertime came and went Belle stood from the table and marched up to his tower.

Each step seemed to grow higher and higher, and the closer she got to his lab the more tightly she clenched her fists, sometimes kneading her skirt.

The door stood before her like a wall. Her hand ghosted over the handle several times before she finally grasped it, and then it took several long breaths before she finally opened it, calling softly, "Rumpelstiltskin?"

The room before her was not as she had expected.

Rumpelstiltskin was a naturally haphazard person. The few times he had allowed her into his study, books had been spread out all over the floor, some of them turning their own pages, and on his cabinets and shelves sat strange artifacts and vials, one smoking next to another sparking. The poor girl had to jump around to avoid stepping on anything, and three times she nearly knocked over some sort of potion that he claimed "could have some nasty effects on her skin."

But this was beyond even his chaotic norm.

Torn pages, broken glass, and charred wood surrounded her. A bubbling maroon concoction seemed to have spilled on the floor, and had now eaten through almost half-an-inch of the floorboards. Darkness consumed the spaces which were usually filled to the brim with candlelight. The only light in the room, save the starlight streaming in from the locked windows, came from a tiny little candle on the sorcerer's work table, which seemed to be the only piece of furniture unturned.

Belle lifted her skirt and stepped cautiously through the wreck at her feet, taking care to avoid the sizzling pool of red liquid. Just as she thought she had made her way through, her foot hit something. A short, thin wooden stick lay by the table. When Belle picked it up to examine it, her fingers felt an array of notches, beginning maybe a foot off of the bottom and reaching close to the top.

The light from the candle danced on her face as her brow furrowed. She turned the stick over in her hand once—twice before she heard a soft sound that had been cloaked by the bubbling of the potion.

Turning to find the source of the sound, Belle spotted a small figure in the corner, curled up in a ball, eyes wild, though the face was hidden behind his knees, and breathe coming in quiet little pants.

Belle set the rod on the table and cooed softly, "Rumpelstiltskin?"

She inched over, stepping around the scraps on the floor, and knelt down beside him. The imp was clutching a dagger in his right hand and hiding his left wrist under his armpit.

"Rumpelstiltskin, will you please put down the knife?" she chided.

Not taking his eyes off of her, he flung it across the room. The clatter it made on the wall made her jump, but she quickly pushed her alarm aside.

She offered a soft smile. "Thank you. Can I look at your other hand?"

For several long seconds, she thought that he would not move. He surprised her though when he pulled his face out from his knees and offered his arm. She took it in her hands and gasped as a sticky liquid touched her fingers and the scent of metal filled the air. Rumpelstiltskin winced when she traced her finger over the open wound that stretched down his wrist.

Belle stared at the laceration with her mouth open. "My God!" she gasped.

Unsure of what else to do, she released his arm and yanked at her skirt before a long piece tore off. Taking his hand back and having him hold it up for her, she wrapped the cloth around it multiple times, murmuring a string of apologies when she pulled it tight.

"Come with me," she whispered. "We'll go get a proper bandage."

She took his right hand in hers and prompted him to his feet. Together the stepped over the mess and out of the room. Neither spoke a word as they trudged down the stairs, but occasionally Rumpelstiltskin would whimper softly. At first, she would give his hand a soft squeeze when he did so, but after three times she stopped, put her arm around him, and continued on.

She led him into the kitchen and had him sit on a stool while she boiled some water and brought out a few clean rags. In the light she could see the blood that coated his entire arm and the side of his silk tunic. After some consideration, she took a bottle of wine from the cupboard.

Upon removing his makeshift bandage, she despaired. The wound was bleeding still. In fact it was bleeding very much.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" He looked at her without feeling, but his eyelids were bright red, a startling contrast to his gold skin. "I'm going to have to sew it," she explained. "But first I need to clean it. It's going to hurt an awful lot. Why don't you have a few sips of wine before I begin?" She held up the bottle, but still he only looked at her. "Alright then," she sighed.

Belle unlaced her master's vest and tunic as quickly and carefully as possible and removed them. At the sight of his body she gasped. All along his torso, abdomen, and arms were long, thin scars, not unlike the wound he was currently sporting. Her unthinkingly fingers traced over him, touching each scar like a feather. His eyes squeezed shut for the first time.

"How many are there?" she murmured without realizing it.

"Hundreds," he breathed, so quietly she could barely hear.

Shaking her head, Belle snatched up one of the rags and dipped it in the water. The next hour was made up by a myriad of wincing and whimpering on his part, and apologies and croons on hers as she washed the wound, first with water then with wine, and then sewed and bound it.

She took the used rags and tossed them in the pot of water—she would have to clean it anyways—and took the scrap of her skirt over to the fire to burn. There was no saving that piece.

Suddenly, he snapped his head up. "You ruined your dress," he stated.

With another smile, she brushed it off. "It's not that important. I can fix it later."

He began shaking. "You ruined your dress!" he hissed again. His body seemed to almost convulse as violent sobs racked through him, taking Belle by surprise.

Without a second thought, she rushed over to her employer and wrapped her arms around him. His arms encircled her waist as he wept into her shoulder. She stroked the back of his head, crooning and whispering gently, "I've got you," "I'm here," but never, "It's okay."

She lost track of time as he clutched her tightly. Whether it was an hour later or five when he finally calmed down she never knew. For a while after she continued to hold him and run her fingers through his tangled hair.

Finally, she stepped back, still keeping her hands on his shoulders. "Why don't we get you off to bed?" she tried.

He sniffed loudly and nodded.

He held onto her tightly as they trekked to his chambers. Inside, she helped him unlace his boots and found him a nightshirt, which he put on before removing his breeches. She had him lie down on his bed, and she tucked him in.

"Do you want to talk at all?"

He shook his head.

"Would you like to be alone?"

He shook his head.

Belle stroked his face once before walking to the other side of the bed. She pulled off her heels and settled under the covers. When he drew close to her, she wrapped her arms around him and let him rest in her embrace.

The rumble of her stomach woke them both.

"You're hungry," he said plainly.

With a nod and a yawn, she remarked, "You must be as well."

He shrugged. "I suppose I am."

"I shall go get us something to eat, then."

Nodding, he muttered, "It doesn't have to be all that big. Some toast and jam will do fine."

"Very well." She had to admit, the idea of slaving over the stove for an hour did not feel all that appealing at the moment.

Not half an hour later, she carried a tray with tea, toast, and jam out to the table. Rumpelstiltskin was seated in his chair, already in new clothes. He thanked her when she poured his tea, and for several moments after she sat he remained silent.

She was still trying to figure out what to say to him when he said, "Belle."

Glancing up at him, she replied, "Yes?"

His fingers drummed the table near his untouched toast. "Belle, I must apologize for my behavior last night. I was not myself."

Belle opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked down and bit her lip. When she looked up again, she said, "It was not trouble."

Silence returned.

They finished their breakfast without so much as one more glance at one another. Belle promptly cleared the dishes when they finished.

With them soaking in the kitchen, she came to him and curtly inquired, "Will you be needing anything else today?"

He looked at her, his brow furrowing for a moment, before quickly replying, "Uh, no. No I will not. . . . And I will not be needing more tea later. Or lunch."

With a nod, she said, "Then I shall go begin my chores."

Most of her chores ended up half-done as she could not banish the previous night from her mind. Dinner was terribly silent, and the only contact they had was when their eyes accidentally met once or twice when they were stealing glances at one another. When they had finished, he quickly excused himself and went to spin in another room.

Belle bathed after washing the dishes, sitting in the water for far longer than was usual as confused thoughts battered around her brain. She lay in her bed for a little under an hour, tossing and turning before throwing off the covers and rushing to her door with a purpose.

"Just to see if he's okay," she assured herself.

She threw it open to see Rumpelstiltskin standing there already.

The woman yelped and both of them jumped.

"I'm sorry—I—" he shook his head. "I apologize. This was a poor idea."

He was squeezing his left arm.

"Wait," she protested. "Is your—does it . . . ."

Bowing his head, he mumbled, "It hurts."

Belle took his good hand and led him to the kitchen. He did not weep, but they did spend the night in his bed, with him holding her as though his life depended on it while she stroked his hair and the back of his neck.

This became their new routine. Every night she would come up to his bedchambers after changing into her nightgown. She never came without permission from him, waiting for him to ask her to stay with him. Sometimes they would talk. They spoke of all sorts of things, interests, hopes, strange dreams, but never that night. Each morning, they acted as though nothing had happened. Three weeks had passed when their old banter and playfulness returned, and still they spent the night together, holding one another, though not as desperately as before.

He told her he had a deal to settle. One that would take him a few days.

She nodded and wished him well, and he left.

Her meals were quiet and boring, and she found herself cooking too much food. And while she did enjoy a little time to herself in the gardens, she could not help but miss his morbid jokes about the snails in the soil. The nights were the worst part though.

For the first time in the months since that night, she used her own bed. It felt strange, too soft, and not warm enough. She rolled over, trying every position possible. She lit a fire. She slept backwards. She slept in her covers, out of her covers, half in half out, and yet she could not sleep.

In the day, she could fool herself. But at night she knew the truth. It was not his jokes that she missed. It was not that her bed was uncomfortable. It was not that it was too cold. It was him. She missed his company, his warmth, his smell, of his arms around her waist.

Belle missed Rumpelstiltskin.

He returned when she was having tea.

When he strolled into the dining room she spun around in her chair and beamed at him.

"Well," the imp trilled. "Somebody looks like she's been having fun."

Belle pushed the past few days out of her mind. "Well, someone else looks like he had a good deal."

"Indeed I did," he giggled, holding up a tiny golden key. "It took me ages to convince them to give it to me but I got it."

"And what is 'it,' Rumple?"

Strutting over to his maid, he playfully pointed his finger between her eyes and whispered, "The key to a chest I found buried in the snow, years ago."

She rolled her eyes. "What is in the chest?"

With another laugh, the imp quipped, "Well we must wait until I have quite unlocked it and opened the lid, mustn't we?"

She laughed with him. "You're hopeless."

Quiet fell over them. The imp shuffled his feet and the key disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"Would you like some tea?" Belle offered, hoping to ease the tension. "I have plenty left over."

"Uh," he frowned and twiddled his fingers. "No thank you, dear. I have some matters to attend to in my study."

She nodded. "Alright."

"I may be some time . . . ." Was it her imagination or did he sound apologetic? "Will you—if I'm still not down when it's late, you can go to my chambers. If you like."

Belle glanced out the window. The sun was still high in the sky. "Will it really take that long?"

"Unfortunately. I will, however, be down for dinner," he added. "I'll have to go back upstairs afterward, but I will join you tonight."

She nodded again. "Okay."

That was the first time either of them had mentioned their bedtime ritual.

Dinner was a tense affair. They chatted and smiled as usual, but the conversations were trivial and the smiles never reached their eyes. The pair seemed eager to fill any lull in their conversations as quickly as possible, and with anything except what they really wanted to discuss.

As soon as they had finished, Rumpelstiltskin bade her a good night and rushed to his tower.

Later, Belle made her way to his room in her nightgown. He was not there. Of course he was not there, he said that he would not be. He had to work on . . . something.

Shaking her head, Belle moved over to the bed and slipped into the covers. Though he was not with her, she could detect the scent of spice and herbs that he always seemed to carry. It was faint, but it was something.

Finally, after too many nights of terrible restlessness, exhaustion took her and she fell asleep atop his pillow.

Rumpelstiltskin finished the enchantment far sooner than he had expected. So naturally, he began to spin. His fingers had been itching for his wheel since he left.

No matter what he was doing, he could not keep his mind from turning to her though.

He had hoped that going out on a deal would help, but it had not. The one time he actually tried to sleep he kept reaching out for her, constantly forgetting her absence. Whenever the boy with the key was speaking his mind drifted to thoughts of her. And now, seeing the bags under her eyes, he knew that she had fared no better.

And she lit up so brightly when she saw him.

His brow furrowed as the straw twisted in the wheel. He should put a stop to this. These nights were not good for him. For either of them.

But she was so warm and kind, and she liked to cradle his head to her chest.

The air seemed strange without the hum of her laughs or the smell of lavender from her hair. He had to admit that the scent suited her. A sweet, gentle looking flower, but get too close and you are met with a sharp kick wafting off of it. Not unpleasant, and very subtle, but it was stuck in his mind far more than was healthy.

Several hours had passed when he finally stopped. He should not go to see her, to slide into bed and pull her into is arms, but the temptation was too strong.

He rose and made his way to his quarters.

The echoes of his footsteps seemed too loud, and he had to restrain himself so that he did not simply run or teleport to her.

Then he heard it.

A bloodcurdling scream that turned his skin to ice.

"Belle!" he shouted, transporting himself to her side instantly.

His sweet little maid was thrashing and flailing on his bed, drenched in sweat, covers tangled up in her legs. A string of whimpers and crying flowed from her lungs, and her eyes were squeezed shut.

"Belle! Belle wake up! It's not real! You're just dreaming sweetheart!"

Grabbing her by the shoulders, he held her down and howled, "BELLE!"

Her eyes flew open and she froze. "Ru-Rumple?" she choked. Tears streamed from her crystal blue eyes.

Rumpelstiltskin pulled her into his arms, cradling her head in one and splaying the fingers of the other over her back. She, in turn, wrapped her arms around his chest and sobbed into his shoulder.

"It was so real!" she quaked. "Rumple, it was so real!"

"I know," he whispered, rocking her gently. "Why don't you tell me about it, darling?"

She sniffed loudly. "I was in a cage," she said. "Or a cell, or maybe a cave. I know there were bars. It was dark. I tried to call out. But there was no one there. And I tried to shake the bars, but my hands started to age. I was aging. I just kept getting older. I got so old that I couldn't even stand." She buried her face in the crook of his neck. "Rumple I thought—I just—" she broke off into more sobs.

"Shh," he eased, trying not to sound desperate. "Shh, it's over, sweet. You're not alone, I've got you."

A few minutes passed before she calmed down. When she did, they both laid on top of the covers. He pulled her into his chest.

"I should never have put you in that damn cell," he thought out loud.

She breathed, "You gave me a real room later though."

"That doesn't excuse it, love."

Belle only clung to him harder.

As he began to drift off to sleep, Rumpelstiltskin realized how much they needed one another.