Title: The Line of Her Collarbone, the Crown of Her Head

Pairing: Belle/Rumpelstiltskin

Genre: drama/romance

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply. May not be available in Wisconsin.

Summary: In these dark months of living with him, every so often she gets a glimpse of the light.

A/N: Filling a prompt for tasteandtrash. The word was "extremities."

Belle wakes to find her shoes missing. She wanders from her chambers, tucking a shawl around her, blinking slowly with the remnants of muzzled sleep. Through the long corridors with their barred, elegant windows— she's cleaned those windows— treading as lightly as possible on the intricately-flagged stone— she's washed those floors— towards the chamber wherein her captor always has his breakfast. He can wait a bit; she'll get it after she locates her shoes. Burned eggs and toast aren't much to be impatient about, anyway.

He's standing at the window— she's dusted that casement— with his back to her. His hands are clasped behind him, his head tilted to the side. He does not stir, and yet she knows he knows she's there. Her steps are not silent.

"I can't find my shoes," she says.

"Breakfast can wait," he informs her, as though this is a logical reply. He lifts one hand and waves it, negating any further attempts at conversation. He's turned to her, now, and she's unsure how to feel at the expression on his face. "Come with me, dearie."

She follows him back out the door and through the hallways, holding her dress in both hands. Her barefoot steps sound curiously soft and empty. "Where are we going?"

"To the front doors."

"I just dusted them yesterday," she objects, trotting a little faster to come up beside him. "And I polished the handles."

"You misunderstand me. I'm not dissatisfied with your cleaning habits." He glances upwards, thoughtfully. "And I've said nothing about your not polishing the handles. Hmm— whatever can I be thinking?" One hand snakes sideways and tucks around her elbow, pulling her a little closer. "The doors are just doors," he says, voice low. "We're going outside."

"Outside?" Belle repeats, disbelieving. "But— I told you, my shoes have gone missing."

He waves a hand. "No matter."

"No matter? The snow's only just melted."

"Not important."

"Perhaps not to you," she tells him, casting a glance downward at his boots. "But having my feet frozen is very important to me. I'd like to prevent it."

All he does is say, "Hmm," again, in that half-joking, half-supercilious way, as though she's done something silly. They've reached the front doors now, and he lets her go to fling them open. Then he stands, back straight, and with a smile that just stops short of being mocking, he extends one hand to gesture her forward.

"Beauty before age," he says.

Belle rolls her eyes and grumbles, but does as he says, stepping out onto the stone laid before the castle doors. She gasps at the feeling of it— so far from the freeze she'd expected. The stone is no more than cool to the touch, and she stands in her bare feet for a moment, acclimating. Then, several strides forward, and she's down to the dirt at the side, her arms spread wide. There's green things beginning to poke upwards; the earth is radiating heat. It spreads through her toes and feet and up her legs; above her, the sun stretches forth fingers to caress Belle's shoulders as the shawl slips away, the line of her collarbone, the crown of her head.

"The first warm day of the year," he says, from behind her. She turns her head to the side, not quite enough to see him, just to sense his presence. She thinks perhaps his head is tilted upward, face turned towards the vast and brilliant sky.

She had come to him in the extremities of the year, the last dirges of December. All through the winter, she'd remained— she'd lived. These past few months—

She thinks briefly of him, stealing into her chambers to sneak her shoes from the creaking wardrobe, minding the silence and touching things gently. It flushes her with warmth. She calls it the sun.