AN: Trigger warning, dubcon, not Belle/Rum

Fyi, 17K+

Belle wakes up first. Her heartbeat quickens—she had slept beside the Dark One, and what's more, she had invited him. Holding her breath, she listens, but Rumpelstiltskin sleeps on, his own breathing catching in his throat. Her lips quirk upward—a smile threatening at the sound of the little snores from her employer. He always pretended to ferocity, but here, he seemed quite human. She swallows such things back down.

Her hand rests on his chest, atop his heart. Running her fingers lightly over the spot, she feels the rich brocade vest he wears, the fine threads feeling so grand under the pads of her fingers. Even her borrowed-tunic feels soft about her arms and chest. At that moment, Belle recalls she's no undergarments beneath his stolen clothes, her cheeks coloring at the remembrance.

Her eyes slip over the lines of his form. It would be so simple, she thinks, face and neck hot, feeling each of his even breaths lift her slightly only to fall on his exhale. It would be so very simple to wake him.

She wonders over the man. She remembers (but only just) his form, the first day they had met, dark eyes and dirty hair, wrapped in rags as she. The boy had his bright eyes, but little else. She wonders over Baelfire's mother. What had she looked like, that other half of her master's child? What kind of woman would entice Rumpelstiltskin to marriage? A pretty thing, surely, if Bae's sweet nose was anything by which to judge. Her own mother had been soft, but to the point—the voice of reason in their home, amid their father's latest dreams and schemes. It had been a balance.

This house however…

At every turn the man beneath her rose in defense of himself. What balance had been struck in the days of his marital felicity? 'Mayhaps a kind woman, but more like a harpy, Belle imagines. Quite the pair they must have made, she nearly snickers. Quick to anger and slow to apologize—full of pride (and little love, perhaps?) and little else to warm their bellies. It would have made for a loud, tense heap of a home.

However, the little boy felt none of the effects of any such domestic disharmony, thank the gods. Thoughts of Master Baelfire give her pause—lying abed mid-day with the father. With the fine house so quiet—too quiet—where was Baelfire—they shouldn't stay like this. Would he catch them? Frowning, she imagines perhaps the boy already had. She tenses, knowing not quite how to move, how to wake her master, but the shift in her body or breathing does the dreaded work for her.

Rumpelstiltskin awakens.

Belle knows the minute he realizes where he is and who he sleeps 'aside. He goes rigid. He does not move, his breathing pulling to a halt.

Swallowing, Belle tilts her chin upward. She can't look at him, only the stiff lines of his mottled neck can she manage. If he weren't so ugly, he'd be near beautiful, all scaled and untouchable. Holding herself as still as possible excepting her hand, she slowly—ever so slowly—traces the line from his heart, up his shoulder and down, down, down his arm, to pluck at his fingers. Daring, she takes his hand into her own.

He gasps. She does not stop.

Clasping it, she feels quite heady with the touch. She slips her fingers alongside his own, pulling the hand closer to her view. She sighs, noticing just how dirty they are. "There's blood under your nails," she speaks the words casually, near-silently, eyeing his long, strange fingernails (what's more, she feels little surprise).

The moment breaks.

Huffing through his nose, He tugs his hand away, but Belle holds fast, not letting go, "You need not hide from me." She thumbs at his thick, black nails, toying with their pointed tips. There is no rush to her movements, unhurried and determined, "'Tisn't it a funny thing, Rumpelstiltskin, that you should know all my secrets, and I, none of yours?" The question is distant, and she hears the words as if spoken far away (and suddenly, Belle feels a wave of tiredness).

These words, these whispers, still him.

He had awaken to his secret dream. This touch, her touch, was like every one of his fantasies—yet so unlike. She, not he, had grabbed his wrist—the mirrored reverse of his imaginings. Gruff and dry comes his answer, "My secrets are best kept hidden, dearie."

Now, she does shift, moving to dare look him in the eye. Staring, Belle thinks of his arms, she thinks of the scrape she suffered at his hands and the shaking. She thinks of the hidden, bloodied-shirts. She thinks of Bae and she thinks of the time the spinner checked her blind stitches. She thinks of gold string and smoke and the riverbed. The man is self-indulgent and prone to pity, but so is she—they cannot stay in this moment, and there are only two paths forward, forgetting or forging. She has cleaned blood from linen for him, and kept his secret, what's more. She's no intent to harm him (but that's not always the key to the matter).

She dares to fathom the chance—holding it in her mind, how simple it would be to slip her hand between his legs, move the two of them down this new path, to take control of the moment.

She could do the brave thing, take the turn, perhaps bravery would follow.

She was no maiden, but this time it felt strange, the stillness to their touch—this time she felt the oddest sense of pull, the sense to roll atop this strange creature, aye, but also to catch his lips with her own. She felt the desire, even, to wait for him to brush against her. "Rumpelstiltskin?" she whispers.

"Yes?"

The words slip from her mouth before she can stop them (before she can understand quite why she cares to know his answer): "Would you have me?"

A gasp—a hiss—and the man does not speak. Two beats, but all she can hear is the roar of her pulse in her own ears. After ages, he offers, "Aye, I would have you."

Belle had not the faintest notion of what comes next.

She slips upward, onto her elbow, the movement bringing their faces close, sharing the same stale, humid air. The dust motes and speckles of his skin reflect the noonday light (even his mottled eyes with their bloodshot corners). He looks like an animal, afraid and on edge, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

Surely, she must look the same.

The moment breaks—when the window shatters. They jump apart. Rumpelstiltskin jumps so high, he falls off the bed, straight to the ground with a loud thud.

"Are you alright?" Belle asks. She scoots to the edge of the bed, looking down at him. "What was that?"

A strange sound, like little echoes, turns their heads: Baelfire's ball slowly jump-rolls away from the broken window, bouncing against a wall, slowly inching toward Rumpelstiltskin on the floor.

"Sorry!" their boy's shout carries from outside.

"Godsbedamned, Bae," his father grumbles. "Now don't you be running off!" he shouts. Standing, he takes up the ball and moves to the broken window, assessing the damage. Glass was strewn about, even a few leadlight strips scatter the ground. He grumbles, holding up the pig's bladder ball and looking out the window at his sheepish boy. "Now, what have I said about playing too close to the house?"

"Not to do it—" the boy begins, "but you're back." There's an impish smile in the corner of his mouth.

Rumpelstiltskin melts. Sighing, the father works to push back, "Aye, I'm back, but you know better'an to be kicking this near the windows." He gives the ball a little shake.

"Aye, papa," The rueful smile slips back up, undeterred, "but you can fix it, can't you?"

Now, his boy wanted magic. Frowning, he raises an eyebrow, "'Tisn't the point, Bae."

"But you can do it?" the adolescent presses.

Then, the father smiles too. He tosses the ball toward his son and begins to raise his hand up to fix the window, but Baelfire stops him, "I'm glad you're back, papa."

"Me too, son." With the twinkling sound of chimes, the latticework and glass repair back together again. Alone once more, he grumbles, returning 'round the corner, "That boy'll be the death of me." However, he truly is alone: the bed is empty and the maid is gone.

Belle goes to him at nightfall. Slipping through the camp, along the soldiers' tents, her heart pounds inside her chest. She wears a dark cloak, Gaston's 'o course, for she's no other to wear. The heat of the day has not relaxed, but the damp, tepid air only risen further about them all. It surrounds her, through her clothes, stifling and inescapable.

Reaching the entrance to the doctor's tent, Belle stops, and swallowing, she searches for her courage. Closing her eyes, she works to calm herself, but it wasn't every day one committed high treason.

The flaps open, "What are you doing?" The harsh whisper, so quiet and sharp, makes Belle jump. "Get inside, before someone takes notice." He grasps her arm and brings her into his tent.

She wonders at his words, at his fear—had not he offered protection from the dangers of the men's camp?

"Come into the light," he orders, letting go of her arm and crossing toward his work table and single chair, "see what I've done with your ring."

She moves beside him as he holds up Gaston's ring for her inspection. True enough, he has fashioned the small gem and metal setting alongside a latch and miniscule compartment. The size is so insignificant that no one would take notice of the changes to the trinket.

So insignificant that with but a sleight of the hand, death could slip past the heat of battle, straight to the heart.

He opens it most gently, showing her the precious few drops of liquid inside. "What do you think?" he asks, smiling.

She cannot fathom how he convinced a blacksmith to do this in so short a time, but he has. A man of knowledge and science, he is proud of his work, Belle thinks, and what's more, of the wager he has made. She gives him the answer he craves, "It's perfect."

"Indeed, no one could know." Closing the clasp, he slips the ring onto her finger, and running his thumb over her knuckles, admires his own work (Belle tries and fails not to think of the last time a man slipped this ring onto her finger. She tries not to think of what Gaston would say if he could see her now). "When shall you do it?" he asks the dark question, toying with the metal hinge. He does not open it.

"When I must." At Belle's words, the doctor catches her eye. She's no idea what he finds there, but she sees steadiness (and perhaps resignation too) looking back in his.

"Well then, let us use the time we have most wisely." Dropping her hand and licking his forefinger and thumb, he snuffs out the only candle in the tent with a pinch, and darkness overtakes them.

As Belle's eyes adjust to the change, she feels rather than sees his hands at the strings beginning at the top of her corset. Stepping back, she holds up her own, "Wait. I—I don't even know your name."

He gives only the faintest of a chuckle, hardly a breath, "Victor, my name is Victor Baleine."

"Victor."

"Yes, or Doctor Baleine, whichever you prefer." Maybe she imagines it, but she almost hears a preference for the latter in his words. "And you are Belle of the Southlands." He steps to her again, tugging at her laces.

A second time, Belle moves a hand to his wrist, "Wait."

"There's no need to be nervous, girl."

"I'm not nervous," she snips, defensive, "It's only, I don't—I don't want to come with child." Admitting the fear, suddenly feels strange, and hardly grown, but she could not go further without reckoning with it.

"Ah," the doctor chuckles and with little swagger tells her, "You won't, but if you were to come with child, I could take care of that—the benefits of modern medicine, as they say."

Frowning, she nods though he can hardly see her in the dark, though she does not understand his words, but because he spoke them with such a finality—and what was she to do, in questioning the good doctor? She wants his end of the bargain as much as he wants hers.

(Perhaps even more).

Belle had always been quite good at racing toward what she wanted (she had also been quite good at getting into trouble, stuck up trees, caught in towers and book rooms, and playing when she ought to have been laundering). She hardly ever looked back on her decisions, at least before the death of her mother, but ever since she has grown prone to worry and bouts of indecision. Even now, after sure words and walking all this way, she stands rather unsure of the price she is determined to pay for her poison.

Best, she thinks, to race on.

She pushes with more force than necessary, the simple vest from his shoulders (and truly, it does still his hands a moment from unlacing her simple gown). Next, she tugs on his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the floor. Her corset takes longer, but between the two of them, she stands in little else but a petticoat and her well-worn boots in mere moments.

Moving her backward, he kisses her, unexpectedly before setting her down on his cot. He tastes of mead and spices—decidedly unlike the super served by the camp cook. So, along with clean water, he takes different food, Belle thinks. She wonders if that may come with the ring and bedding as well. He does not taste ill, but she is clumsy in their kiss. It is different from Gaston, though not from lack of practice, as she imagines it had been for her youthful beau, and when he palms her breast, she briefly wonders what she ought to do with her own hands. Pressing her back against the bed, he toes off his boots, each one dropping to the dirt with a thud. Hearing, Belle makes to mimicry, but the last she can't quite kick off the cot, and she feels it beside her foot, dirtying the bed.

Without bothering to remove her underskirts, he slips his hand between her legs. Though Belle knew to expect this, she does indeed jump. Gaston and she had not gotten so far as this during their clumsy fumbles. Wet kisses, harried caresses, but not this. "Damn," the doctor—Victor—says dropping his head, "You're dry." He pulls away.

"What?" Belle sits up, "what did I do?"

"Easy now," he holds his hand up, silencing her. She can barely see it, in the darkened tent, but it is there. He rummages through a chest with tiny bottles, for though Belle cannot see in the dark, she can hear them, clinking together. So too can she hear him uncork a bottle and then rub his hands together—rubbing something on his hands.

She tilts her head, "What are you doing?"

"Oil to smooth the way," he quickly replies, and she can hear him too, slip off his pants and rub the same concoction on himself. She can hear him touching skin elsewhere.

There.

She blushes at the turn of phrase and the sound, but when he moves atop her once again, his fingers press against her with more ease. And then he's there, hard and pressing. It does not hurt, not exactly, but she turns her head from his kiss, gasping all the same, because it is strange and not quite comfortable—and then he is inside her.

There is pain, but not howling—she feels hollow, in her heart and elsewhere. It is not a moment—the maids in town had always said the first time it would be but a moment—but as he rocks to and fro, it is tolerable, in moments, perhaps even pleasant.

Indeed, it is not a moment, and Belle still knows not what to do with her hands. Finally, resting them on his back, she waits as he shifts above her, huffing and panting. She wonders over the gearshift in the war machine, she imagines a smaller bolt would do better. She wonders at Gaston, what this might have been like with him. She thinks of her home. She thinks of the outcropping tower.

Sighing, she thinks she should very much like to sleep now.

The doctor's voice rises only a touch, the pace changing, and then his weight is on her fully and he is breathing heavy. After a few moments he rolls off to lie beside her.

"Was—was that it?" she asks him.

Chuckling lightly, the doctor turns to her, "Unless you're waiting for the second coming of Only Host, then indeed, that 'twas it." He scoffs, "Not exactly the best reception I have ever had." She nods, not knowing what else to say, and rolls to get up, but his hand on her arm stops her. She can feel it, hot over her skin, over the gooseflesh and raised hairs there. "Where are you going?"

"My tent?"

"Oh no, this time you will certainly be seen. Sleep here. I promise to get you back before first light." Nodding, though he can't possible see her, she lies back down, mind racing. She shall never sleep (never sleep again), but somehow, she does.

The next morning, she is sore, with a ring about her finger and her fate in her hands.

When she returns, the maid wears her own clothes, even her prim and white little cap. Rumpelstiltskin chances a glance in her direction, from where he sits in his bed. She is a little wrinkled, but seemingly no worse for wear. He could hardly imagine this to be the same woman who stole his bed for seven days and nights.

Nor, the one who invited him back into it.

She drags two, full water buckets with her, and not bothering to shut the door, she takes them to the hearth, refilling the jar there. Rumpelstiltskin glares at her back. The bed had smelt of her, and though exhausted, he could not fall back to sleep after Baelfire's broken window escapade. He wonders briefly if her clothes are still damp. As she mills about, stoking the fire, gathering soiled dishes, he wonders if perhaps he had dreamed it up, after all.

"So—how was your trip?" her words come out stilted and awkward.

Ah, he had not been dreaming; she's embarrassed. Chuckling, with a hand to his mouth, he indulges himself, "I must say, I'm surprised you noticed my being gone what with your little, how shall we say, bout of madness?"

That hits its mark, the rigid line of her back freezing, "I am sorry." Standing, she turns to look at him. She can just barely see him from her vantage point at the dining table. Obscured by the shadow of the door, she cannot make out his face, but his skin shines as ever. "I don't know what came over me."

The words, Rumpelstiltskin suddenly realizes could mean quite many a thing, "You don't know what came over you?" He stands, a finger pointed at her, "You're foolhardy and near-mad yourself—"

She sets the stack of stone and clay bowls down on the table, they clang against one another nicely, "Twice now you've called me mad—don't do it again."

Crossing over to the table he leans forward just a touch to look her in the eye, "Are you threatening me?"

"No, but I am telling." She can feel her hands shaking. The words had slipped out and she had not the energies to retract them now. She doesn't understand, her mind easing back into life, but slowly, looking at his ragged face, she wagers a guess, "You're angry at me?"

"Aye, I am. You scared my boy half to death himself, you did."

"You brought me here," Belle near-on yells, but chancing a look at the open door she lowers her voice, "you knew what I was like that day, and if you were so worried why did you leave Bae here with me?"

Banging a hand on the table, he yells, "What else was I to do, mum? Leave you there with your dead father decaying on the ground?"

Looking away, Belle tugs at the roots of her hair, feeling what little peace she had found in waking this morning leaking away and her anger rising, "I told you what I was!" she cries out, holding up the ring on her hand in front of his face, "You knew what I was, so why did you care?" She is crying then, and when he does not answer, she asks him again, "Why do you care?"

"I—I don't." Shaking his head, he bats her hand out of his face. Grasping, he changes the subject, "Let's not lie to one another, I'm under no delusions that this is anythin' more than a temporary stop until you can plan for your next disappearing act, now that you've nothing to keep you here."

The words sting far more than the slap to her hand, "Is that what you think of me?"

"Not think, dearie, know," the words are smug and cold, and Rumpelstiltskin crosses his arms over his chest.

Perhaps she is foolhardy. Perhaps she has gone a touch mad (or perhaps she meant what she had said that morning). Her next words are quiet, slow and easy to speak (but nearly a whisper), "But what if I'm not going any place?"

Rumpelstiltskin does not move. He does not breath. Stunned, his mouth finally drops, but no words come out.

Making up for lost time, Belle gathers up the bowls, slipping past her employer and out the open door, but on the threshold, she stops, turning back, a thought occurring to her, "Rumpelstiltskin, will you show me the grave?"

That, at least, he can accept. Without thought, two waves of his hand and the bowls stand on the ground and they behind Saorla's drafty hovel.

She stumbles on the uneven ground and with the loss of the weight of the pots in her arms. His hand to her shoulder steadies her. "I didn't mean now! You could have at least warned me." He looks at her strangely. "What?" she asks.

"Just waiting for you to start screaming again."

She shakes his hand from her shoulder, "He was my father."

"Aye, and you poisoned him." She opens her mouth to spew a retort, but he holds up a hand. "I'm not saying it 'twasn't a mercy."

"He asked me."

"So you said," Rumpelstiltskin tilts his head, taking up her hand, flicking the empty ring open, "Now, where did you get something like this?"

She sneers just a little, "During the war."

"Of course, but I want to know how. This," he gives her hand a little shake, "or anything like, was only a legend. I know, because I searched for it."

"No, you wouldn't have found it, because it was made just for me."

"How would you get something like that? High treason deserting the war, be it running, maiming or death."

She tells him, because she has nothing left to lose, "I made a deal."

"The clean water?"

"Yes, that too."

Rumpelstiltskin drops her hand, "And who would risk their neck for you?"

"A benefactor."

He laughs then, "Such folk rarely are as noble as they seem."

"Oh, I learned that much," she looks down at the ring on her finger, "but I got what I wanted."

He feels that she hides something from him (she usually does), but he does not press, the talk of benefactors putting him on guard. Not wishing to tempt the voice inside his head, he simply nods and points behind her, "There."

"What?"

"The grave, dearie." Turning, she sees the patch of unsettled dirt, where Maurice rests. She steps toward it, slowly, in three strides. Staring at her rumpled back he offers, "You could not have continued dragging him all about the world."

He does not see the tears that Belle cannot hold back, "He said he was letting me go. He said he wanted to be with my mother again."

Rumpelstiltskin frowns, he had heard that one before, and yet, this felt so very different from when his own father had let him go. He says the only thing he can: "What's done is done."

"I never thank you, for—for this." She gestures to the upturned earth, "The grave looks very fine. My mother would have liked it," Belle says, more to herself than he. She slowly kneels down, running her hand over the soft ground.

"And the old man?"

There's a smile in her voice, "If mama liked it, it would have been well-enough for papa." She traces lines in the dirt, "It's my fault, all this time on the run: it made it so much worse."

"Dearie, he was a sick man."

"He could have had more."

"We could all have more," indeed, he wants so much more, but war and poverty make wanting such things impossible for most. "'Tisn't the way the world works."

"He wasn't always mad."

"I know," Rumpelstiltskin says, though he had wondered after that very question, but his last talk with the man had given him a glimpse of the inventor's sanity—and intellect. "War is hell."

"Yes," she agrees, and falls silent.

The Dark One knows the life of the inventor's pretty and poor daughter had never been destined for greatness. The best she could have hoped for was to leverage her looks into a better marriage with a merchantman, care for her parents into their old age, and birth children enough to survive infancy and carry on the family's shop in town. Instead, her father had gotten her entangled in a fool's war, and she had narrowly chased death only to escape it time and again with ignominy, infamy and steadily, obscurity. She was the strangest creature he had ever met. She was inscrutable, and yet he could not stop wondering over her. "Do you need something?"

Turning her head to look up at him, she asks, "Need?"

"Something to mourn the dead?" Unsure, he suggests, "flowers?"

She pauses, thinking, but ultimately declines, "No, I stopped believing in my mother's gods a long time ago."

He laughs a little at that, "Aye, let the dead keep themselves."

She frowns at that, but he's no idea why. Without warning, she blurts, "Can we go back now?" He nods and begins to raise a hand, but Belle stops him, "Wait, can we just walk back?" After a moment, she adds, "Please?"

He knows not why she rejects his magic, but reaching out a hand he helps her to her feet, and they start the walk back toward home.

Baelfire slipped into town after the window. Waking up, it had been a surprise, strange and grand, to find his papa not only home, but sleeping beside their maid. He had gone outside, a mild heat on his cheeks. He had asked Belle once if she and his father spoke as parents do. She had said no, but now, after what he had found, perhaps they could be like that after all. Perhaps he had found something that wasn't there before.

Breaking the window had not been part of the plan.

They hadn't always had windows. Playing ball had been far simpler when their home boasted no glass—not that Baelfire had much time to play in those days during and before the war.

Narrowly avoiding true censure from his papa, he chooses to escape and wile away some time in town. He does not stay long, he buys a little sweetbread and plays ball with Lachlann. They hardly notice the clouds growing overhead and the heat building above the village. The first drops startle them. They are large, splashing the dusty road intermittently.

"This storm's nothing," his friend insists, and then the thunder growls—it lasts ten counts.

"I should get home," Bae announces, pretending the thunder hadn't made him jump. He steadily kicks the toy through the village lane, but as the drops pick up, Baelfire bends to pick up the ball and hurries his steps, knowing his father will worry. Eyeing the storm front, he thinks he can beat it home. Perhaps Belle will be awake. Maybe he can show them his reading. He has been practicing after all, with little else to be done after the sheep shearing, the days hot and Belle still sick. Perhaps things would be back to normal when he got home (perhaps they would be even better).

Truly, he reaches the forest as the raindrops only make a little song upon the canopy of tree leaves. He will reach home in time.

Their walk is unhurried and silent, with only the sounds of the forest to speak to them. There is little to say and much to consider. As the fine cottage comes into view, and the trees about them clear, they begin to feel the rain. Stopping him, a hand to his wrist, she finally breaks their silence, "Thank you, Rumpelstiltskin."

It is not the first time she has dared to use his name, but this time it somehow strikes him as different, as almost kind. "'Tis no matter," he stops, looking at her and chooses to reply with the same, "Belle."

She smiles at him, but then her eyes slip past his shoulder. "What? What is it?" Turning, the spinner finds what caught her eye: Baelfire races toward them, a dark storm hard upon his heels. The tower of the storm is dark, a gray-green, unpleasant and heavy. The clouds roil and roll in on one another, so great and large behind their boy.

He is quite close, but the clouds break upon them all. The rain pours, coming down in sheets. They wait for him, and when he reaches them, finally, they are all soaked to the bone.

Baelfire smiles at them, mischief dancing in his eyes, water dripping from his hair down his cheeks, "Are you feeling better Belle?"

She blinks her eyes, shaking the fear from her face. "Yes, Master Bae," She runs a hand through the boy's messy hair, "Now let's get inside!" She has to raise her voice over the growing din of the storm.

Inside, she shoos the men to their corners of the house, and she leaves for the hearth to build up their fire. She leans down on her haunches, and losing herself to the dance of the flames, she allows herself to worry over what she saw. Belle was not one for faith and superstitions, but she admitted to magic in many forms. She knew the moment she had chanced her eye to Baelfire running from the squall, that she had fallen upon an ill omen. Though not all premonitions come to pass, she frets, poking at the fire. Thick raindrops, pounding so hard upon the roof, these might clean the dust and sweat from the village. The rain may water her ruined garden and draw weeds to grow over her father's barren grave, but it could not wash away this dreadful feeling of fear.

The rain eases just before sundown. Baelfire hunches at the open window, watching the storm pass, the rain a gentle patter where before it had been a howling gale, listening for the intermittent growls of thunder and counting the beats on his fingers before he can spot the accompanying flash of lightning.

He hunches at the mended window.

"Close that up, boy," Rumpelstiltskin calls from where he sits by the fire, a pipe in hand, "you'll catch your death'a cold, son." He props his bad leg up on another chair, despite the curse, he can nary quite grow used to the silence from his leg. A storm like this would have had him near-doubled over in pain. 'Tis strange this body.

'Tis strange this life, a monster of infinite power, puffing his spinner's pipe, a maid flittering around him, his son, safe and robed in fine clothing. He feels no pain, and he'd always a hideous face and cruel streak, hardly a price at all for such a life as this.

"He's right, the night air's not good for you," Belle agrees, slipping the washed bowls and cutlery into a cabinet. They had survived their fall, Rumpelstiltskin magic-ing them to the ground from her hands, to wait for them to all come back home again. "Darker than usual," she says, moving to light candles throughout the cottage. They breathe smoky at first, but putter to a lighter flame anon. She yawns, unused to such work after many days abed.

He watches her work out the corner of his eye, a speck, all brown and creamy whites, moving from shadow to shadow—a hand cleaning the table, at his son's shoulder, placing linens in a chest. She moves seamlessly about them. Her days away in the world of grief had shocked him and frightened his son. Baelfire looks quite at ease now, with the world returned to as it should be. The boy does not fault their maid, the child's mind quick to forget.

But who sits, smoking with a full belly? Rumpelstiltskin too has fallen into a peace at the hands of their caretaker. They had been rather lost without her. Flummoxed, Rumpelstiltskin wonders when it had become so.

With a heavy—and, the father dares imagine, a rather put on—sigh, Baelfire stands, closing the window. This time of night had always been difficult for his son, the child an active and energized boy. Winding down in the evenings had been something of a power struggle, particularly in the years before Milha's untimely departure. She had never quite excelled at cajoling their boy into the more mundane activities of waning hours, nor to an early sleep (their night-owl habits, a tendency shared among both the mother and son).

"Bae, mayhaps you could practice your letters a bit, hm?" Belle gently suggests.

Of course, the boy races (only tripping over his own feet once) to grab his primer and bring it back to the dining table. Rumpelstiltskin looks between the boy and the maid, the ease with which she drew his attention from the window and storm to a task to bridge waking and rest.

Belle catches his gaze, and guessing its meaning offers him a smile and wink, from where she peers over Baelfire's shoulder across the table, to watch his work. Ruffling his hair, she tells him, "Someone's been practicing. Soon, your father's going need to bring home more books for you to read." Noting her employer's continued stare, a gentle blush rises to her cheeks. Eyes darting, she chuckles a little, nervous, under his eye, and crosses the room. She gathers up laundry—the son having a habit of leaving clothes on any and every surface of the middling-sized cottage. Belle manages the door open, arms full of clothing. She huffs, noting, the still-steady pitter-patter of the rain. The ground a veritable wetlands of mud and tiny rivulets, "No point in laundering this evening."

"Too wet?" Bae asks.

"Yes, Master Bae, quite the mess," she agrees, dropping the clothing in a basket in the corner beside the desk.

"Too wet…" the boy ventures, "to walk home?"

Instantly stilled, Belle thinks, in that moment, oh gods, what have we done?

"You can have my bed, Belle," he offers, "I don't mind sleeping on the hearth." He is sweet and all that is kind in the world. Belle has only felt more afraid twice in her life—before the explosions and afterward.

"You can't sleep on the hearth, boy," Rumpelstiltskin sits, pulling his leg from the chair opposite and the pipe from his mouth.

"You did," he retorts, "for days."

At the revelation of his sacrifice to his maid's comfort in her mourning madness, the Dark One grumbles, grinding his teeth, 'Tisn't a game of piper's chair Baelfire," he tells him between ground teeth, more than a little exasperated. "Besides, Bae, she'd hardly want to sleep in that old loft."

"What's so bad about my loft?" the boy squawks. His father had offered him a new room, but the boy had demanded a loft, just like the last in their old, decrepit home, when Rumpelstiltskin had this new cottage fashioned for them.

"Aye, just the fact that I wake up with a crick in my neck e'er time I sleep there," the father bites back.

Belle watches the exchange. She had never shared quite so common a speech with her parents, even on the run as deserters, there had been too much fear and too little comfort between her father and she, to chaff at one another in such a way. It sets her on edge, this toying. What's more, her presence is perhaps only welcomed by half the company; her eyes blink too quick, at their banter. This wasn't her family. "No, Bae, I'll be fine in my place."

Both men look up. Suddenly, it's not Saorla's place—she had called that gross hovel her own.

"Don't be—" the father begins, but stutters to a stop. Instead, Rumpelstiltskin chances a different tact, "In this weather?"

Belle frowns, "It's rained before." She puts a hand to the door, ajar, "Never concerned you before."

These words are the most daring she has chanced before Baelfire, and his silence confirms it: this is not her place.

This is not her home.

She gives him a sad nod, "If you've no further need, I will be leaving—by your leave, sir?"

His eyes widen, his mouth dropping, but for only a moment before he raises his hand, gesturing her on, "As you will, dearie."

Raising her eyebrows, she nods and turns to walk home in the rain. She does not turn back, even as she hears Bae's call, even as she feels the chill in the air, and even as she knows she had seen a touch of sadness in Rumpelstiltskin's eyes.

She trudges to her hovel (she doesn't cry, but the rain on her face makes it feel quite like) and when she arrives, pushing open the shite door, she finds it cold, the fire long since dead, and the roof leaking, but when she lays down head, sleeps comes (and she's not like to turn her nose up at it, even if it only comes in fits and starts).

The next day, the children accost Belle.

She is in her garden pulling weeds (her muscles aching and worse for the wearing after a night's sleep. She has grown soft after a week spent in Rumpelstiltskin's bed. She forces herself to remain kneeling and take her punishment without complaint).

"Why didn't you stay?"

Sighing, she sits back on her haunches, "Well met, Master Baelfire." She rubs her forearm over her sweating brow (for it is high summer and near high noon and damn hot all day long) and stares into the sun, the young ones nothing more than blights before her eyes. She can't make out their features, but she knows they are disappointed. She waits them out with her silence. She had avoided father and son successfully throughout the morning, but she knew that could not last forever.

"Belle," he whines.

Her smile droops and she takes a deep breath through her nose (she is young and can yet remember the feeling of youth, but in this moment she is so very annoyed at this boy), "Bae, this is not my place."

"So you don't want to stay?" the boy's voice is soft and full of water, like a drop of dew, all hope and little promise; Belle's head aches with the sound.

With a grunt and a groan, she stands, her muscles crying out. She pulls off her dirtied kerchief and wipes her muddy hands with it, "It's not that I don't want to stay, but there's more to it than that." They look at her not comprehending. "You're not the only member of the household, Baelfire."

"Maybe he wanted you to stay," Morraine offers.

She can see them now, Baelfire and his dearest friend. Their faces are so bright, too bright. She tilts her head at her young charges, "What gossip have you two been sharing?" The thoughtless question slips out despite Belle not really desiring the answer. They both shrug, a captured look on their smooth faces. She knows then that Bae had most certainly seen her and Rumpelstiltskin yesterday morn (she had always known he had seen, but had placed mistaken hopes on the ridiculous notion that he had taken no notice of their sleeping postures. It was stupid of her, as usual).

Toeing the dirt in front her, the pretty girl with the flaxen hair eyes her idle tracings, "Maybe he was afraid to ask you to stay." The whispered words give Belle pause—much as she'd like them to not.

It wouldn't be the first that he'd played the coward.

Shaking such thoughts from her head, she bids them, "I find it hard to believe that neither of you have tasks on which to better spend your time." Hands on her hips, she raises an eyebrow, "Shall I find you some?"

Deep frowns and a look exchanged between the half-grown pair has them racing away, waving to her, "Bye Belle."

"Uh huh, as I thought," she replies more to herself than they. Bending down, she gathers her vegetable basket. The peppers and parsnips were doing nicely, but the lettuce was nearly done and gone to seed, the shoots sprouting like wild and harried beanstalks—bitter to the taste and tough under the blade. She moves to the larder to clean and cut her pickings, but Morraine's words follow her.

Belle certainly knew fear. She even knew the fear to love. There had been no mystery to Gaston—he was a distraction at best (and dull most other days). She had feared the insanity of loving one like him and loving one of his station. So she didn't.

Perhaps she couldn't love at all.

The very idea of Rumpelstiltskin, the Dark One, afraid to take her up on her offer of a shared bed (and the small possibility of a shared heart) strikes Belle as ludicrous, but then he was a man once, a cowardly, lame man. Her employer all too often needed a push in the right direction—one that Belle provided sparingly and with resignation. Too, he had no fear to yell at her, when the mood took him. Could he need a push now?

(Did she even want to give him one?)

He had come home from violence and mischief of some sort, though he shared none the details with the likes of her, and still she had felt the slow rush of desire, lying beside him. That feeling she had hardly expected to ever feel again. It was a strange thing, desiring the ugly creature. What's more she had nearly promised to stay here, in this place. Those were words Belle had never expected to feel, nonetheless utter (and most assuredly not to him).

In that moment, she thinks of the sellslove's words: what game was Belle playing at? How long could she play it? Did she want to stop?

Too entrenched in her thoughts, she does not hear the small feet approach her. She jumps, at the quiet words: "Does he hurt you?"

Turning round, Belle lets out a laugh at herself, at her own fear at being startled, "Morraine, you frightened me."

She asks, not bothering to apologize, her eyes intense, "Is that why you didn't want to stay?"

Belle tilts her head, finally catching her meaning, and peering behind the girl, she does not see Baelfire anywhere. Listening, she can hear her boy playing not far off, but Morraine has given him the slip.

Morraine has given him the slip to check on her safety. Stepping closer, the girl asks again, "Is he kind to you?"

The intensity hangs in the humid air around them—their shared knowledge of the war (Morraine may be a child, but in this at least, they are peers). She hardly knows how to give an answer to the girl's serious mien, and so she answers truthfully, "Sometimes."

Of course, she understands. Nodding—and perhaps, a little self-conscious, for she toys with the tips of her hair—she offers, "They'll be going to sell the wool soon. You could go with them?"

Titling her head, Belle considers the suggestion. The idea had merit. She need not stay at the cottage, but a travel to town would be a glimpse: a chance to consider possibilities. Smiling, she says, "Thank you, Morraine."

She nods and runs off to find her partner—she does not beam (Morraine is long since past beaming), but her smile was sweet, nearly childlike.

This morning, Rumpelstiltskin had awoken warm, well-rested, and in a maudlin mood. The activity of day had not fared much better.

He was still annoyed that his trip had brought him little news of Milha and the pirate company—despite persuasive discussion with more than one person in dark corners. The freemartin had gotten away from the rest of the flock and had been an irritant to chase back. Decidedly stubborn, that one.

(He toyed with the idea of naming her after another stubborn lass with a mean streak).

Last, and not least Baelfire had been decidedly not nearly as helpful this year with the wool preparation. 'O course, the green boy had been plenty keen on the shearing, but the sorting, cleaning, and combing, well…

The boy lets out a holler and a giggle, outside. Rumpelstiltskin sighs, looking out the window, his hand stilling from their carding. His boy was happy. His boy had a full belly. His boy had friends.

He could finish the wool on his own.

"They're sweet, aren't they?"

He starts, but tries to hide his surprise at the maid in his doorway. She carried a basket of laundering (she always carried a basket of laundering), perched high on her hip. The posture gave the most interesting curve to her, and even in her plain dress, sweaty, nearly dripping from the day, Rumpelstiltskin feels his cock give a jump.

Scowling, he swallows and decidedly ignores it, returning to the carding. However, even he has to admit: "Aye, they are."

She crosses the fine floors, her feet tapping out where she is (because he is not watching her), distributing their fresh linens and depositing the basket to its prescribed corner—waiting for Baelfire to race through all his clean clothes like a naughty, untrained beast. One would think the boy more prudential after the privations of his childhood, but he had a true talent for mischief of the messy variety. However, when her footsteps fail to continue back out the door, stopping instead before him, he looks up and positively spits, "What?"

Belle blinks, the harsh statement throwing her off-balance.

Good, he thinks. Let her feel wrong-footed for once.

She recovers however, taking a breath, and asks, "How goes it?"

Rumpelstiltskin gives her a strange look, holding up his hand cards, "This?"

She nods and looks, to him, in earnest. He indulges her, shrugging, "Well enough, I suppose." Feeling more at east, discussing his former craft, "'Tis the last batch of the woolen."

"So soon? What about the worsted?"

"We finished the coarse some time back, left the fine for last, and just in time too." Lowering his eyes, he adds, "We worked in the evenings; you were… otherwise engaged." He knows not how to refer to her time in his house and in his bed. At his words, she only looks a touch shamefaced.

She tarries, and he feels the heat of the blood in his cheeks and brow at her stare. He wonders what she's on about. His temper growing thin, he asks, "Something you needed, dearie?"

That causes her to flinch, the fire to his tone, but she takes one of those deep huffs again, "Actually yes. You'll be going to sell it soon: take me with you."

He doesn't answer right away, his head tilting at the request, and then all at once he chuckles, low and cold, "Oh, I don't think so."

"Why not?" she asks.

Losing what little hold he had on his control, he tosses the carding combs on his desk with a clatter and crossing his arms over his chest, he spits back, "You must think me daft. Else why would I give you a head a start on leaving?"

"Leaving?"

"Aye, and if you think I'm about to help you steal away into the night while our heads are turned in town, you've got another thing coming." The plural slips out unintentional, his thoughts already to Bae's pain when she inevitably runs away. Reclining, he puts on a slick smile, "But really, lass, wouldn't it be better to make your escape while I'm off—slip away? You'd be leagues gone before me and my boy returned to pick up the mess." His features scrunch together in a sneer, "Better for all, if you do it like that."

She looks like she wants to strangle him where he sits.

Good, let her try, the Dark One thinks.

However, shockingly, her words are composed and quiet, "I don't want to go with you to run away." She stares directly at him, and he, oddly, can see tears in her eyes and disgust around her mouth, "I don't want to be left behind, but it's good to know what you think of me." The maid turns on her heel.

"Belle—" he begins, but she can't hear him over the slamming of the door. He does not call her back again.

They do not speak. She comes in the mornings and leaves in the evenings. She knows that Rumpelstiltskin watches her steps. She does not dignify the attention with comment.

However, Belle knows her anger to only be partially justified. Before the morning of his most recent return, her eventual departure had been something of an unspoken agreement between the two of them. She had agreed not to speak of an uncertain future to Baelfire, but that had all changed with Maurice.

She was free now.

Bile rises to the top of her throat at such a thought (and not for the first time), but it is true enough. She was no longer tied to this place and these people, but for once she does not revel in the chance to slip away to new cities, new sights, and new ports of call.

She wonders if she had meant what she said the morning of his return (all of it). At the time, she thought she had, but Morraine in her concern and Rumpelstiltskin with his spite have reminded Belle that his kindness is not a certainty. Rather, there are brief flickers, some more lasting than others.

There had been blood under his nails, but far worse, he thought her false and one to use him. She was angry over the presumption.

When Rumpelstiltskin leaves after breaking his fast, at first she is glad of it, free from his stares, but as the day drags on, she wonders over what he can possibly be doing. Perhaps he went alone, without even Baelfire, to sell his wares, she wonders, but after checking, she finds the wool stacked tidy, off the ground, still awaiting market day.

Annoyingly, despite all her best efforts, her thoughts keep turning to him, and when Rumpelstiltskin saunters in, just after dinner, the words slip out: "Where have you been?"

"Why, I've been in the village," he holds up two satchels, smirking, "and busy too."

"Presents?" the son asks. The youth had taken quickly to the pleasure of trinkets from his father from his travels. Toys and curiosities—but rarely clothing, after the first few days in the wealth that power brings.

"Purchased with true coin and made by craftsmen's own hand, my boy." He tosses the first to Baelfire, and walking more slowly, simply passes the second to Belle, "'Tis time to sell the wool."

She waits, not really daring to believe the implication. The son does not, tearing into his bag, but pulling forth his gift, he lets out a wail of disappointment. "Clothes," he grumbles.

Rolling his eyes, Rumpestiltskin sighs at his son, "Not long ago, you would have jumped for joy at new shoes, but there's more, go outside and see to it—if you can find it."

The boy gives his father a rueful look, moving past him and out the door on this newest adventure.

Belle is also, not sure what to make of Rumpelstiltskin's gift, "What is this?"

"You could open it and find out." She simply stares at him, and just as with his son, he gives her a tired sigh, "'Tis true that word has spread of the new Dark One," he gives a little toying-bow, arms outstretched, "some even say he has a boy, a son." Raising a finger, he continues this merry dance, "but a band of three? Merchants, traveling to sell their wares, that would cause far less comment."

She's not convinced, "But you said—"

"I know what I said," the spinner cuts her off, but it is resignedly soft (and perhaps even, a touch remorseful), "just open it." Then, belatedly he adds, "please."

Belle, still looking at her master, opens her own parcel, pulling out the gift. Slowly, she unwraps it, letting it fall toward the wood floor, revealing a thick blue fabric, fine enough for tapestry, but light enough for the thick summer airs, adorned with even paler blue florets and trimmed in a tawny brown. She runs her hands over the fine cloth and embroidery, soft as silk but strong and well-made (famously paid for, she is sure). With the exception of her maid's uniform, she had not had new clothes since before her mother's passing, nor any quite so fine.

"There's more, dearie," he nigh on whispers.

Indeed, she pulls a light gossamer chemise from the bag, with a tiny row of lace and eyelets edging along the neck and cap-sleeve arms. Delicate and dainty and nothing so fine as Belle has seen in years long since past. Likewise, she pulls forth an underskirt and the smallest set of panniers she has ever seen. Really, it is more akin to a belt than a skirt, the side hoops in such a shape as to make the blue skirt flair only a faint touch on each side, rising to above her ankle, she imagines. The length is not indecent, but practical: a dress for purposeful movement.

A fine dress, and it is clear the kind of lady it was made to bedeck: merchant class, well-off but in need of mobility to move about her shop and assist her family in the signing of contracts and the moving of capital and product. She is active, if refined. You can find her in warehouses doing inventory or tucking in her child in a nursery. She works at her husband's side and perhaps a fine dowry solidified her husband's business endeavors. Young enough to be his second wife, she even dares imagine.

"Do you like it?"

Belle shakes herself of the glossy dream. "Yes," she admits, honest. "It's beautiful."

"There are slippers and a cloak too. Would you like to see them?" He gestures a hand toward the door, allowing her to lead the way. Belle wonders, moving out the door and down the path from the house, unsure of what she's meant to find, but she follows Baelfire's voice, and there, just at the edge of the forest, he stands with a sturdy wagon

Before, they had always pulled their own hay cart to market. A clunky and heavy bastard of a thing, the wagon before them was made for greater folk. Bae however, is entranced by the gentle, gray donkey harnessed to it. Belle circles the wagon, taking in the painted trim and the metal axel, before giving the creature a lazy scratch behind the ear. The animal leans in to her touch, and she resists being charmed. Do the brave thing. "You really think this spoiled creature shall get us to market?" she asks.

"He'll do," he too, joins them to lavish a bit of lazy attention on the donkey.

"And just how far are we going?"

He smiles at her, knowing amends have been made, "Longbourne market—the finest market in these parts. A half-day's ride to the north."

The donkey gives a snort—giving Bae a case of the chuckles—and Belle to give a skeptical look to her employer, "I hope you didn't pay too much for this one. I don't like the look of him," but she smiles when she says it, all bark and no bite.

"Oh, the wainwright charged me a hefty sum."

"You were cheated, Rumpelstitlskin."

Tilting his head, he concedes, "Perhaps." Holding up a finger, "Which is why such gifts are not without cost."

She tilts her head, but he has turned away from her. With a flourish of the hand, she hears a large thud behind them. Looking up the hill toward the house, she spots the dining table and chairs—even the dinner bowls—standing just outside the front steps. Turning, she finds that Rumpelstiltskin holds up two large buckets in his hand, "One cannot go to market smelling of sheep—even with the finest wool this village has to offer. Let's remedy that." He gives Baelfire a pointed look and starts to ruffle his hair, but pulls his hand back, "Ah—you sweaty thing."

Bae laughs at his father, "Sorry, papa."

"You're not," he passes him one of the buckets, "but perhaps gathering water will help your contrition."

Groaning, he trudges toward the creek. Moving past him, Rumpelstiltskin gives the other bucket to Belle, "If you would be so kind?"

Catching on, Belle imagines she'll find an unfortunately large bathtub has replaced their dining set. She accepts the bucket, but narrowing an eye, asks, "But couldn't you just," she snaps her fingers to demonstrate, "fill it with your magic?"

"I could, but Baelfire, has recently expressed his deep disinterest in my methods."

"You still use magic every day." She thinks of the broken window and their broken moment.

"Yes, but not when it's on him." He points to her dress, "Real clothes." He taps the bucket, "Real water."

"Happy son."

"Aye, happy son."

She turns to begin, but flips back, "Why aren't you helping?"

A hand to his chest and a put on look of disbelief, "Me? Dearie, I have to see to the wagon."

Inside, Rumpelstiltskin is pleased with his work. A fine copper tub stands beside the fireplace, and their maid has strung up the clothesline to offer substantial privacy. Filling the tub had been simple enough—if time consuming. It had given him a kick, putting them to work filling the gargantuan tub. If the mending of the window had not been enough, perhaps this would serve as a reminder of all the good that magic could bring their lives.

They had fallen into a balance of sorts. Bae had always been wary of Rumpelstiltskin's newfound power, but had been at least open to the opportunities. Seeing straw spun into gold was more miracle than magic—it was a blessing. What's more, it intrigued his brilliant boy. However, after Belle had left the night of the storm, that all had changed.

Rumpelstiltskin had thought his son asleep—his mind preoccupied by the maid and the morning (and perhaps even Milha)—when washing his face, hands and arms with a rag at his basin stand. He had been wrong.

"That's blood."

Looking up, the father finds Bae staring at the dirtied—bloodied—water in the basin, from where he had cleaned beneath his nails. His son knew now, no matter how well Rumpelstiltskin had tried to hide, the true nature of his father's trips, "Bae, I can explain."

The boy waits, but his father, of course, has nothing else to say. Finally, the son speaks, "You hurt people." The words are sure, and not entirely surprised—he had clearly at the very least wondered over frequent Rumpelstiltskin's absences. "You hurt people all the time with your magic."

"I also help people—I've provided us with good food and a fine home. We're warm and safe because of magic!"

The boy shakes his head, "The cost is too high if you're hurting others to do it!"

"Bae, what are you saying?"

"I don't want your magic anymore." He takes his father by the wrists, "I love you, but I don't want you to use magic for me."

"Ah," Rumpelstiltskin gripes, "you don't mean that."

"I do." The son gives his father a serious look. "Please, papa, promise me—no magic."

The sound melts the Dark One's resolve, "Alright son—as you wish. No more magic."

Rumpelstiltskin thinks back to that night. Since, true to his word, he had nary conjured a bauble, nor cursed a villager. For himself, true, he continued to use magic, and Bae, made no mention of these slights of hand. He paid with magic coin, but aye, the goods were real enough. The bathtub swap had bent their rules, but he thought his son would forgive him just this once.

However, real water, real soap, and real scrubbing stones had barely been enough to entice his son into the bath. As Belle boiled each bucket of water, transferring it into the copper bathtub, she and Rumpelstiltskin worked against Baelfire's resolve, telling him how nice it would feel and how fine he would look in his new clothes, but in the end, only his father's declaration that he could not go to town without a bath, forced the boy into the water.

"And I expect you to scrub everything," he calls across the curtain to his boy.

Belle laughs at them, heading outside to gather the bowls still sitting on the misplaced table. Rumpelstiltskin follows her, "You don't seem to share my son's aversion to a good bath?"

She chuckles, "Oh no, my father created the most wonderful invention to catch the rain water. When we needed to bath, a pipe would lead to a boiler, which led to another pipe, leading to the tub. Mama dearly loved that one." He can see the very moment she remembers that her father and mother are dead and gone. Her face falls, but only a little. Brushing off her darker thoughts, she goes on, "Anyway, I think that invention might actually take off."

Pulling out one of the chairs, Rumpelstiltskin takes a seat, watching her work. Feeling his gaze, she looks up at him, "Yes?"

He falters, giving a touch of a smile, "Well—I was thinking, with you joining us, we'll need someone to look after the animals." She leans over the table, waiting for him. "What about Bae's little friend? Give her something for her time?"

Her bright smile battles with the darkening eve—and wins, "I think that's wonderful."

"Good," he nods, though he knows not why—he need not her approval of his choice for temporary caretaker, "good thing."

(He doesn't mind it, all the same).

Giving him a strange look, she pulls out another chair and sits, slowly. She plucks Baelfire's new boots from the table, where he had discarded them after the initial cooing. Using her apron, she brushes off what little dust has gathered from the boy running them from the wagon to the house. Then, she runs her hand over the pounded leather. He knows what she feels—the silken texture of the oil-rubbed leather boots. He paid a mighty sum to the cobbler, but for whatever reason, Rumpelstiltskin had not the heart to bother with a fight over coin; his boy would have those shoes.

(Mercer Barclay was another matter—true his things were quite fine, but not for the price he liked to play at for his clothing).

"Thank you," she says out of nowhere.

He shrugs, suddenly a little embarrassed over the extravagances. "'Twas nothing, lass."

"Not just the clothes." She catches his eye, and he knows that she understands the amends he had been trying to make. They are of an accord.

He should say it. He should say the words—apologize and make it real, but for some reason, his mouth is wooly-dry, his brain dumb. (His pride stiff).

Instead he does the next best he can manage: "You can have the water, after Bae. I don't mind waiting till last."

She smirks at that, "A bath sounds wonderful."

Sticking a hand into the tub, Belle finds the water decidedly tepid. Not necessarily a bad thing—she sets a pot of water to boil over the fire to add to the tub. She is happy however, to find that Baelfire, the messy boy, has left the water fairly clear. She gathers up his dirtied clothing from the floor, setting them to the side. She would launder all their things when they returned from market.

She hears the curtain rustle, without looking up, she asks, "Forget something, Master Bae?"

"No," Rumpelstiltskin replies.

She stands straighter, watching as he moves to the hearth. Slowly, but with a practiced hand, he removes the pot from the heat. Furrowing her brow, she asks, "What are you doing?"

The lights are low, Belle neglecting to light the evening candles with all the fuss. Only the fire illuminates them, bouncing and dancing. The light plays strange on his face, his sharp features softened, the mottled coloring, more an intriguing glow. She blinks, the room heavy with the steam from the water and the usual smoke from the fire, condensed from the privacy screen, she'd hung. He bears no emotion (and strangely, his traveling cloak has been removed, she oddly notes) when he asks, quiet and solemn, "I thought you might wish for new water."

"I thought you said no magic?" she asks. Out of nowhere her mind reminds her that Baelfire is asleep, worn out from the excitement and calmed by the bath.

The man does not mince words, nor play with them as the Dark One is often wont to do. He offers simply: "You're not Baelfire."

Her back prickles and she swallows, but after a beat, she cannot help but nod, "Yes, please."

Inclining his head, he snaps his finger—no smirk, no smoke—and, Belle stepping close to look into the tub, sees that indeed he has freshened the water. Peering down into the crystal clear bath, she says, "I think you've vanished the soap as well."

"Ah, of course." The turn of the wrist, that looked like magic, but perhaps was simple slight of hand, he reveals a fresh chunk.

She takes it from his outstretched hand, their fingers brushing.

"Well, I'll leave you to it." She can't see it, but imagines a flush rising to his neck.

She feels it too.

With an awkward nod, Rumpelstiltskin slips behind the makeshift curtain, leaving her to her bathing. She watches him go, and listening for him, notes the door opening and shutting. Still, Belle first dampens the fire even lower, before disrobing and slipping into the tub. She gasps at the heat of the water—nearly scalding, she has not felt such a thing since before her mother passed.

The soap too is a long since forgotten luxury—manufactured from the guildmasters and licensed and taxed throughout the kingdom. In addition, her foot stumbles upon an unexpected rock at the bottom of the tub. She pulls it up and finds it to be a pumice stone. Between the soap and the stone, her skin feels fresh and a little raw, and after washing her long hair, she reclines against the edge of the tub, enjoying the ebbing heat of the water.

Rumpelstiltskin mills about the animal pens as long as he dares, the night air and darkness surrounding him—he does not care to be out during the nights when he finds himself home. Nights are when the voices grow too loud, and when held by compare to the warmth of his home and his bed, he much prefers the latter.

Returning, he feels ill at ease. He can see her shadowed head, just above the outline of the tub. The light is low, but he can watch her. Not knowing quite what to do with himself, he sits on his bed, and try as he might, he cannot stop himself from tracing her shadow.

The smell of the fine soap fills the tight cottage and unnerves him.

Without, desire or forethought, he slips into sleep, dust from the day still about him. He had not thought sleep would come so easily, but it does and it feels like much time, when with a jolt, he awakens. Blinking up at her, his words are of course, inane and sleep-addled, "I waited, in case you fell asleep in the bath."

She chokes on a little laugh, "No, that was just you." Then, biting her lip she adds, "I'm sorry—I took too long."

"'Tis no matter, dearie," he mumbles, wanting nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep. When the girl turns to leave, he catches her wrist, asking her own question: "Stay?"

He is already falling, but he can still feel it as she settles next him, hair wet and smelling vaguely floral. He tightens his arms around her.

Rumpelstiltskin awakens to the most pleasant dream. Stretching and burrowing back into the blankets, the waking is slow.

Then he jolts—had she stayed?

Had it been a dream?

He thinks it had been real, but daren't trust himself. Sitting up he stretches, finding the curtain still hung. He walks through, finding the tub full of cold water.

"You're awake."

Turning, he finds Belle dressed in her new garb, the blue dress bringing out the color to her eyes. She wears the hoops and heeled shoes. She looks lovely, but he can't find the words to tell her so.

At his appraisal, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with a nervous hand and moves past him reaching for the fire poker. Rumpelstiltskin stops her with a hand to her wrist, "You need not—you wouldn't want to sully your new things now." He takes the poker from her hands, rousing the fire on his own.

"Thank you," she tells him. "Now, you need to hurry and clean up—else we'll be late." Raising her eyebrows, she turns on her dainty heel and brushes past the curtain. The curl to her shoulders, the corner of her smile—they held an answer, but he had been too afraid to ask.

Belle had returned to her habits rather quickly, rising early and requiring little sleep. She had slipped from his arms early, taking only a brief moment to stay in the warmth. Readying herself had been simple and leaving Rumpelstiltskin to his bath, likewise. Even rousing Bae, calling up to his loft, had been simpler than usual—the excitement drawing him downstairs for his new clothing.

After dressing, Baelfire races outside. Despite his zeal, Belle thinks he looks rather smart in his embroidered vest and short pants. Slipping on his leather boots at the door, he races to get the donkey hitched to the wagon. He doesn't head straight to the pen, and she can hear him rummaging at the side of the house.

Ah, she thinks, he's nicking one of my carrots.

Rumpelstiltskin hollers, emerging from the curtain, as the boy runs past the door again, "Well done—leaving with both arms empty." Shaking his head, he turns to find the maid staring.

"Better?" she asks.

"Aye, much." He gathers up as much of their wares as he can and heads out. Belle follows suit.

Despite not helping load their wagon, Baelfire has certainly gotten everything ready to depart, and after a few more trips and donning their cloaks, the party of three is ready to set off. "Your girl will be by later today?" he asks his son.

Baelfire rolls his eyes, "It's Morraine, and aye, papa, she'll tend the animals today and next."

Nodding, "Very good." He had sent Bae running to the village before his bath to make arrangements with the girl. Adjusting his cloak (and the dagger where it rests beneath his vest, looking like nothing more than a little protection for the road), he realizes he's forgotten something—something important. Without pronouncement, he waves a hand and suddenly, he's himself again.

Belle and his boy stare, wide eyed.

"Papa, you're—"

"Me?" he asks, hoping he got the spell right.

The boy nods with a sweet smile, "Perfect."

Turning to Belle he asks if indeed, he has magic-ed himself into his old appearance as the hobbling Spinner—though without the hobble this time, "Well? Is it as you recall?"

Belatedly, shaking herself from her staring, she too nods, "Yes, the self-same."

"Good, can't have the Dark One traipsing around with an entourage, now can we?" He asks to no one in particular. "Let's be off, shall we?" Rumpelstiltskin takes the reigns and Baelfire jumps in back, and after only a moment's hesitation, the spinner reaches a hand down to help her up to sit beside him.

The wagon is smooth, despite the mediocre road. Fine ride and fine livery, it's feels like a dream to Belle as they amble down the road, but when they pass Hangman's Tree, where the path meets up with the village main and crosses with the road to Longbourne, the figure waiting there makes Belle realize this most certainly be no dream.

Carlotta the sellslove leans against a signpost, waiting, even in the early morn to offer her services to weary and lonesome travelers. Bored and rumpled from a night's work, she spots them.

It only takes a moment before she recognizes the party. The look to her reminds the maid of Bitter Buttons, and with a daring smile on her lips, the woman dares to wave as they drive on past.

Belle turns around to stare back at her—Bae had waved, innocent as ever, and leans over the edge of the wagon to the driver's bench, "Who is that, papa?"

"Carlotta, son." The words are hard pressed from the spinner, "Lady of the night—you need not know her."

Baelfire blushes and returns to the back, to watch the road, but Belle is ill at ease.

Rumpelstiltskin can guess at the feeling, "You know her?"

She nods, and the woman is little more than a speck in the distance now, growing smaller and smaller, with each jolt forward, "Yes, I met her in town."

He snorts, "A mouth on her, that one."

Tilting her head, she looks at him, and briefly, just for a moment, she wonders at how he knows the sellslove, but it passes.

It's no matter, in any case, she decides.

The woman's words return to her, and true Belle committed no misdeed this day, driving with her employer and his son, in her fine gifts—she merely was playing house, playing the part of a family in their rich garb and the Dark One wearing a poor man's face.

After all, in the end, it had not been Rumpelstiltskin, but she to ask the inevitable question. She had been the one to invite him to lie with her, not that any would guess as much.

They meet few highwaymen, but a little before noontime, they begin to be joined by other merchants off to sell their own goods at market. Longbourne was a fine place, near enough for half a day's ride, but far and great enough to be in their economic interest to sell there and not in the village.

"Here we are," he tells them, driving into the entrance of the town. Rumpelstiltskin sighs, heavy and tired already, with a perfunctory wave of the hand, "Longbourne."

Belle exchanges a smile and with Baelfire, their excitement brimming. Daring, she nudges Rumpelstiltskin's shoulder, "Don't sound so pleased about it."

"Oh, I'm not."

The entrance to the city is stone, covered in ivy, speaking to the age and little prestige of the place. She had not stumbled through this spot, dragging her father to and fro on their run about the kingdoms.

She shakes herself, centering on the now, the crush of wagon and folk all moving to the grand marketplace, smelling the air—cooking food and spices, thick summer air, flowers about the walls of the two-story buildings and of course, the night soil and sewer water caressing any large town. They should have arrived earlier, she thinks.

When Rumpelstiltskin answers, she realizes she had spoken aloud, "Aye, dearie, but we're not here to set up a stand. I sell to the same bastard every year—blind as a bat, but he knows his wool, can tell the quality just by the feel—couldn't cheat him if I tried. We'll drop ours all in one exchange."

"But we'll stay, won't we, papa?" Bae pipes up from the back, he pushes between them, his head darting at the sights and sounds.

The father sighs but can hardly deny his boy, "If you wish."

It is then that Belle spots something she has not seen in some time: a book binder and lender (perhaps a printer too). Her eyes widen with thirst—one she would very much like to slake. So she dares to ask, "Would we have time to look at the books?" She points to the simple shop.

Rumpelstiltskin follows her finger, and without much expression, he gestures a hand, "Have at it." His eyes look about to the people surrounding them, his shoulders drawn at the hub-bub of the city, and Belle thinks surely he must despise it all.

"Really?"

"Aye, Bae and I can deal with the wool." He looks at her in earnest then, "Meet back at the square?" His words are more than a question—they ask for a promise.

Without thinking too long over the gesture, she slips a hand to his knee, "Yes, in the square." She will come back.

Looking from her face to the offending hand, he pulls the wagon to a sharp halt. He inclines his head, "Off to it, then."

Bae gripes in back, "Can't I go with Belle?"

As Belle slips off the rig, the father tells him, "No, son, you have to learn this part of the craft—the going price of wool."

He groans, so, leaning over the edge of the wagon, Belle eases him into the notion, "Perhaps after you're finished selling your wool, your father can show you around the town, hm?" She gives Rumpelstiltskin a pointed look, and Bae a bright smile, "besides, I'll bring you back a present." Winking, she leaves them, making her way to the door. Her hand on the doorknob, she finds them again in the crowd; they don't look back at her.

Oddly, she shivers.

Belle shakes off the feeling, attributing it to the strangeness of being amongst so many people (surely, she had not been so surrounded since the camp), and enters the bookstore. She smiles, when a tiny bell rings upon her entrance. Charming.

"Good morning!" A tall man greets. His hair is red and curled, and what's more a pair of spectacles sit upon his nose.

She offers a little curtsy, falling into court etiquette.

Old habits die hard.

"Can I help you find anything?" he says with only the slightest of stutter, "Or did you bring a book to exchange for a lending loan?"

Opening her palms, she tells him, "Only coin, I'm afraid." It is true, Rumpelstiltskin had slipped her a little extra coin on the journey, should anything catch your fancy, he had explained, in a mocking voice.

The owner laughs a little, "Oh, there's nothing wrong with that." A speckled dog sidles up next to the man, all black and white spotted.

"I'm looking for a book on alchemy," she tells him, standing straight, "and a some primers."

The exchange is completed rather quickly—not helped at all by the fact that Bae can neither feign interest in the sale, nor keep from touching everything in the warehouse. He's shocked when they escape only with the money for the wool and nothing lost from his son's eager and clumsy hands.

"Stay close now," he tells Baelfire, taking hold of the neck of his cloak. Rumpelstiltskin's heart skips a beat at his son in such a throng of folk. He wasn't about to lose him.

"Papa, look!" He points to a crowd in one of the alleys, "What are they doing, papa?"

The man rolls his eyes, taking in the sight, "Gambling, son."

"Can I see?"

The question grates at Rumpelstiltskin's nerves. "Oh, please, son, let's not lollygag."

"Please, papa—I've never seen it!"

He's not seen half of what is going on in the city center, but the father refrains from saying so. The spinner hated gambling, with a passion, "Fine, but just a look." As they near closer, he catches sight and recognizes the game instantly: follow the lady.

His father taught him well, after all. They watch, over the shoulders of the onlookers (Bae on tiptoes), as the dealer wields his ill-craft. He's not the slowest dealer Rumpelstiltskin has ever seen, but then, his bar was higher than most. Eyes checking out the crowd, he spots the two shills, one at play, another in the crowd, and perhaps a third with a hand to his chin watching from a distance.

Aye, most definitely in on the con, Rumpelstiltskin thinks when the man with a hand to his chin comes to stand next to him, having openly taken in his fine clothes. He rolls his eyes, amateurs.

"Easy money, looks like, eh?" he asks, elbowing the old spinner—looking everything like a to-do merchantman.

"Don't touch me." He is not to be trifled with—and he's played enough for a lifetimes worth, but then a notion takes him, and when the play ends, the tiny bet taken (to draw in those foolish enough to buy the song and dance), he speaks up, "Can I have a go?"

"Papa?" Bae asks, bewildered and wary—he had never seen his father play a game of chance outside their own home.

The dealer catches eyes with his compatriot, who gives the slightest of nod.

Fools.

"Why yes, good sir, do sit. Play our little game."

The father moves to sit, the crowd parting for him. Playing the fool, he even asks, "Now how does this go?" The corner of the dealer's mouth tilts up, just a smidge, and Rumpelstiltskin knows he's got him.

The hand is dealt,

It only takes a touch of magic, to change faces, and when the dealer reveals his chose card, other hand already reaching for the coins on the table, the queen smiles up at him.

The dealer is aghast, "You cheated!"

"Is that so?" he chuckles.

"No, papa," Bae begins, well-knowing this tone. It usually spoke of smoke and snails.

Not today, however. Rumpelstiltskin grabs the offending wrist, and pulls the hidden cards from it. "Now, look lively, all of you," he turns addressing the crowd, "this is what charlatan games get you." He lets the man go, just hard enough for him to hit the back of the brick wall. "Peddle your tricks somewhere else." The glares suggest that they may need more convincing, but turning about, he finds the three partners have made scarce.

Then, the dealer dares to laugh, "You're good."

"Aye, and faster than you."

"Who taught you?" the dealer asks.

It was not asked in maliciousness, but mere curiosity. It still sets him off, "'Twas before your time." His eye turns serious, "Now, be off, before I really show you what I can do." Such a conman knows a dark tone—one he would rather not face—when he hears it, and scurries away.

Presumably to a new town to set up all over again.

"You didn't hurt him."

The words are shocked, and Baelfire's face too, looks absolutely stunned. It stabs a little, the disbelief, but Rumpelstiltskin scoffs, replying, "They weren't worth it."

"They?"

"Aye, they," he teaches, numbering the swindlers on his fingers, "the dealer—the one playing when we first arrived—the one who spoke to me—and the one with the starched collar."

"All of them? In on it?"

He laughs truly then, "Indeed, son. That's a con for you. You must have the player to trick others to make it look like easy coin, and then your onlookers to watch for soldiers and likely targets—marks we called 'em."

"You did this?"

Realizing his mistake, he sighs, "Yes, unfortunately, as a boy. The card part 'tis the easiest."

"Will you show me?"

The question strikes him quick and painful, but all the same he tells his son, "I suppose, when we return home."

Bae's smile is bright and beautiful and Rumpelstiltskin can't help but mimic it. "I like seeing your face again, papa."

"Why?" the words catching him off guard, "I'm nothing to look at, son." He had always been an ugly man (and an ugly boy long before).

The boy shrugs, not fighting against his father still holding his hand like he was a young child, "I like your face."

The words are the sweetest of poisons. Rumpelstiltskin shakes off the feeling, "You would be the first, I'd wager—"

A noise on the air catches his son's attention, "Oh, papa, look at that!"

The boy points to a wagon, shifting positions for the evening crowd, laden with goods and trinkets and oddities from the world over. It belongs to a tinker, sparkling in the high sunlight, and of course Baelfire is charmed.

The father's head droops, but he obliges all the same, "Fine, fine, let us go and spend our hard earned coin on some shiny, worthless bauble."

They shop.

And shop.

After taking their ridiculous tokens back to the wagon—what once-impoverished father could dare deny his son when coin and gold thread be plenty—Bae and he find the strangest man making sweet ices. They purchase two, not three ("But what about Belle, papa?" "No—son—it'll damn-well melt in an instant in this heat… fine, we can take her back when we meet up") and sit on the edge of the town well. 'Tis more like a fountain, carved faces splashing their clean water into the larger pool, waiting for fish wives to fetch and fill their jars before supper. They eat their ices quickly, but they still melt and run down their hands and wrists.

A caravan marches past. "Are they leaving already?" his boy asks.

Indeed, it's too early to pack up, though most merchants have broken up from the bustle of their peek hours in the mid-morn, to take a supper and nap. Rumpelstiltskin explains, "No, they are likely going to set up for the night market. It runs along a different path. Begins about sunset and goes till dawn."

Baelfire smiles again, sticky and smudged, "Woa, I'd like to see it."

"Well, mayhaps you shall." He spins a picture for his son, fine as any wooly thread, "the night smells even greater of spices, for they cook all night long over open flames, food on sticks to tempt passers-by. The merchants are bolder, shouting even louder, and on the edges, you can buy things you would hardly find in the light of day."

The boy's eyes widen, "Papa, we must go."

"Dances too."

"Really?"

"Aye, with ribbons and jumping and spinning. All manner of revelry. Your little maid would have a high time, I think."

Bae laughs, "Belle's not my maid." He stops then, looking up at Rumpelstiltskin, "She doesn't have to be a maid, you know."

The father's face falls, and he fails to note when his ice melts rapidly all over his hand, "Bae—"

Baelfire, finishing his ice in one ginormous bite, raises his hands in mock misunderstanding, "I bet she likes your face too."

Rumpelstiltskin realizes instantly when the blush hits him—he can feel, but worse, far, far worse, his son laughs at him, "Ha, ha, very funny." It's been some time since blush had been visible for the likes of him.

The child getting himself under control gives his papa a more serious look, "I wish we could stay like this forever."

Without intending to, he replies in kind, "Me too, Bae."

"Would you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Stay like this?"

The severity in the words sit ill—live like this, to-do merchants, traveling to towns to sell and see, with nothing but their wit and hands to protect them, "I—I don't—that feels a lot like running, son." Shaking his head, he adds, "Besides, can't be done, you know that, Bae." Absently, he pats the dagger hidden at his waist.

"But if it could be done?"

"I—" he stops, as a shadow covers them both.

When Belle leaves the bookshop at long last, smelling of parchment, velum and ink, she returns to the square. Her burden is heavy, the shoulder bag full of her purchases. The center of town was a little distance from the shop, his location not exactly prime—his wares not exactly popular.

It is well after the noon hour.

She knows because a bell tolls, in the center of town. The bell is above a chapel.

'Tis a sight Belle has not seen in many, many years. True, she and her father passed the occasional shrine and chapel, but the chance to step inside the place her mother loved best, after their own home, had been elusive—and what's more, she had let go of her belief a long time ago.

Her steps move her forward without truly any realization on her part and up the pale, white stone steps. They bow in the center, from age and overuse, and she can feel how slick the stone has been rubbed through her blue shoes with their tiny heel.

They clack a sound that reverberates through the chapel, the white stone reflecting the light from the stained glass windows. Vivid red stands out, depicting tortured saints, flayed bodies, and hands lifted in prayer in violet vestments. It is beautiful as any chapel from her youth. She walks to the front, all too aware of the sound she makes in the empty worship hall. At the front, Belle takes in the dais, the shrine and the book, placed out of reach of worshippers and onlookers. The book is strange, a palimpsest of the past and present, pages yellowed and curling, their verses hard to make out. She would love to get a better look, but dares not press any closer.

"You need a candle, sister?"

Belle laughs at that—she's no sister of the faith—but he was right, "Yes, I do. I need two." She turns to find a balding man, with a thick black bear holding a tray of skinny prayer candles.

"Well?" he asks impatient, "you going to buy one of these or not?"

"Oh—yes." She rummages with her coin purse, setting her bag of books on the cold, stone floor. She looks up, "How much?"

He holds up four fingers, "Two each, sister."

Belle quirks an eyebrow at him, "You're not a cleric, are you?" If he was, in his scowl and his candle tray, he was the strangest cleric she had ever seen.

"Oh no—I'm just the custodian for this fine establishment." He rolls his eyes, "Clerics are at lunch. Won't be back until evening chants."

She nods and takes the candles, "Thank you." Turning back to the shrine, she kneels to light the candles and place them with their brothers—all at varying heights, about the front steps to the dais. She has not more faith and yet, habit and practice, hold her in place. She stays on her knees, thinking back to the prayers her mother taught her. She stays longer than she had planned, in silence, mind rather empty, but after offering double—holy mother, full of grace, curse breaker, full of grace—for her mother and now, her father, when she stands, Belle feels lighter than she has felt in some time.

She feels nearly put back together.

She is surprised, as she leaves, to hear the bell toll overhead. She can only chuckle at herself for losing so much time and meander her way to the city square. They are easy to spot, the crowds cleared, resting before evening, and she smiles, staring at them openly, the father and son, teasing, laughing—even splashing one another—at the city fountain.

Yes, she feels nearly put back together again.

Then, she thinks of Carlotta. How long can she play at these parts without forgetting it's play-act? Would that really be such a bad thing?

Walking up to them, they don't notice her until she stands before them, her long shadow darkening them both, "So how did the wool sell?" Belle asks.

Staring up at her, more than a little dazed, the man puts a hand to his eyes to shield from the sun, "Oh, same as ever." Eyeing her bag, he tells her, with little bite to it, "Probably about as much as you dropped on those books, lass."

She laughs openly at that, "Impossible man."

He smiles too, "I have been told I'm a difficult man to love."

The words slip out, his running joke (though Milha had never much cared for it and his father had written it), but Belle simply tilts her head, changing the subject, "They weren't terribly priced, but they are rather heavy."

Standing, he takes it from her, "We can take it to the wagon. I've given coin to a lad to watch our things and the donkey. Then some real food, I think?" he looks at Bae, knowingly, as the boy splashes some water on his hands before wiping them on his fine short pants. The father sighs, "So much for your new clothes."

The boy's face reddens, "Sorry, papa."

Making their way back through the winding, cobbled streets, walking three abreast, Belle thinks, no, it would not be such a bad thing at all.

The tavern is noisy, dirty, and the floor is decidedly sticky, but Baelfire has decided this is to be their stop for the evening meal—and Belle certainly has no intention to turn down a glass of beer. She tells (shouts, more like) Rumpelstiltskin so, anyplace with libations can't be all bad, when her sweet heel catches in a knot in the wood floor. She barely catches herself on the edge of the bar.

She also sends a glass mug falling to the floor, shattering.

Gasping, Belle kneels down to assess the damage. Far more than chipped, the damn thing has positively exploded, the noise bring a temporary quiet to the bar before the sounds rise up again in earnest.

"It's just a cup," Rumpelstiltskin says, rolling his eyes at her wide ones. Turning to the barkeep, with only a touch of exasperation, he asks, "How much for the glass?" With a handful of coin, he dispenses with the round and undisturbed barman—he had seen far worse broken things, and far more often, apparently.

The father orders some bread and food, whatever is best that night, and they search for an empty table. 'Tis late enough that the city has risen, but the promised-night markets are yet to enter into full swing. They have just time enough for a spot of dinner. They finally find a place, along the wall and in line with the door. Belle can feel Rumpelstiltskin's relief at not needing to wade deeper into the crowds and noise than he must. She does not pity him.

She does not pity him, until a head pops in the door and cries, "Town players!"

Naturally, the boy is instantly taken with the notion of a little theater. "Oh, papa," Bae practically bounces in his seat, "can I see?"

"Now, son," he raises an eyebrow, and smirking toward Belle, amending, "not by yourself." The boy throws up a whoop and a cheer, sliding out of their bench. He races to the door, the sounds of the town slipping in when he slides out the door, "Bae—wait!"

Shaking his head, he scowls quickly at the maid, and she offers him a smile of her own, raising her new beer mug, "I'll wait for the food." She keeps smiling as she watches the father chase after his son, laughing a little to herself. She drinks her barley wine half down, feeling heady with the sounds and feeling of a new place and a new feeling of peace. Opening her new book, (they had left all but this slim volume at the wagon) Belle begins to read for her own desire, for the first time in a long time.

Leaning over the back of her bench, a voice speaks right into her ear, "Still as in love with those books of yours as ever, I see."

Her heart drops to her stomach. Oh gods—it couldn't be possible.

"And marrying up, too—not your mother's daughter then?" A finger reaches down to toy with the corner of her book, "Miss me?"

She snaps the book shut and stands, jostling the table in her haste. She turns to see the man she had hoped long since dead. "Don't ever speak about my mother?"

Doctor Victor Baleine rolls his eyes, "You were the one who told me that, and let the dead defend their own honor." He gestures between them, "but that would include ourselves, wouldn't it?"

"How did you find me?"

He laughs in full then, "Don't flatter yourself," taking up her forgotten mug, he takes a generous drink, "this is nothing more than jolly happenstance."

Belle finds that hard to believe, "Then what are you doing here?"

His smile takes a sour turn, swallowing down more stolen ale, "As you well know, my dear," leaning forward, he lowers his voice—though hardly necessary in the bustling bar, "deserters are not well-liked."

"You ran?" she asks, shocked.

"Is that such a surprise?" he says, standing, "You ran."

"What about your—" she stops, looking around, and drops her voice, "your poisons?"

"What about them?" he asks pointing to her ring, "I decided I wanted to live, as did you, and yet, there's only a price on my head and none for the inventor and his infamous daughter. Strange, that." He steps closer, drawing his eyes over her form, "I always knew you were alive." Running a daring finger across her cheek, he adds, "You should be more careful who you steal from—you were the only one who could have stolen from my medicine chest."

Belle leans away from his touch, "I needed that."

"And I didn't?"

"I thought you were dead."

"No—you hoped, but the camp was in disarray. You couldn't have known who had breathed their last."

Belle remembers that day, the screams and the blood. She remembers stumbling and half-dragging her father to the edge of the forest. She remembers slipping through the camp, darting between ogres' legs into the tent of Doctor Baleine and taking what little she could carry.

"You know what never made sense to me, after all this time—they only found the inventor's arm, but that was enough to pronounce he and his daughter dead." He speaks the words and she can't help but remember. Shaking and her breath growing into heavy pants, Belle remembers the arms that buffeted her own as she worked on war machines, when the medical tent had no need of him (what needs do the dead and near-dead have for a doctor, anyway?).

She remembered stealing what she would need to cauterize her father's lost limb. Belle had thought about taking the large vial of poison, but at the last moment, she had left it behind her—for him.

"One idiotic foot soldier spots me and suddenly everyone's a bounty hunter." He shrugs, "I did enjoy practicing medicine. Perhaps someday I will make it far enough away that I can open shop once again, but until then I'm just your average lay-about. You, however, have dared put down roots." Smiling again, he asks, "Have you told your new family of your war record? What did your father have to say about all this? New money by the looks of them—would he take kindly to knowing you're worn goods?"

She knows not her movements, but in an instant she's grabbed her mug and tossed what little ale was left onto the doctor. Quicker than she had expected, he grabs the offending hand and flips open the latch on the ring. Letting go, a grin spreads across his face, from ear to ear. Chuckling, he leans close to whisper, "Well, I guess the arm was proof enough for him."

"Belle?"

They both turn to the entrance of the tavern, where Baelfire and Rumpelstiltskin stand, staring at them. The bar, too notes the entrance, but their minds are set to rest: a family squabble, all too common under the roof of a spirits house (and one Rumpelstiltskin knows all too well). They go back to their wine and meat pies.

The boy walks over quickly to her side, "Who is this?"

The father however, takes his time, "Aye, dearie, is he bothering you?"

The doctor smiles and smiles, "Funny you should say that—"

"No," she cuts him off, with more force than necessary, "he isn't." Glaring one last time, she turns away to leave the doctor forever.

Rumpelstiltskin reaches a hand to her shoulder at the sight of her stricken face, "Belle?" The soft sound in his voice and the tender look in his eye, reach her. She might even cry, she thinks.

"How sweet," the doctor says, all too entertained.

With the speed of one who ran in to stop fuses and explosives, between the legs of ogres, Belle pulls a dagger, slim and jagged, from Rumpelstiltskin's waist beneath his cloak, and turning on her heel, she presses it to Victor's neck. She walks them backward, until he is up against the table.

Stiffening, Rumpelstiltskin shivers with the feeling, the silent scrape of metal against skin, of fingers tightening around the gilded hilt.

"Belle, don't—" Baelfire begins, but his father's hand comes down in front of him, stopping him from moving any closer to their maid.

The doctor chuckles, hands up, "Well this is new. Not in the Southlands anymore, are we—ah—"

She pushes the knife tight against the skin of his neck. He hisses, leaning back as far as he can, flinching under the bite of it, "If you tell anyone, I'll kill you."

"You? Kill me?" he manages to ask, still wearing a smile.

"Yes, I'm not going back there." Not as a corpse, nor as a whore or bride, she thinks, which only leaves as a memory. "If you ever speak of me, I'll live to find you and kill you."

"I wasn't such a bad guy, you know—ah—" She presses enough to draw a speck of blood and he bares his teeth to her, his words straining against the knife, "Okay, okay, why would I even want to tell? I skipped out on my royal summons too—revealing you would mean my own death sentence. Now, step back, before I ruin your little holiday."

Belle does so, suddenly feeling the stares all about the tavern and the tension from the two pairs of eyes standing behind her.

The doctor smirks, "See, this has been little more than a pleasant reunion."

She grits her teeth from the desire to cut him down. Instead she turns away and shoves the hilt into Rumpelstiltskin's chest. She stalks toward the exit; she hears the spinner's voice call to her, but cannot make out his words.

The doctor however, cuts through to her, "Oh, your fiancé's looking for you." This stills Belle's grasp on the door handle. "Though I hardly know why, if he knew just what you've been up to."

Her hands clench—she would return to hit him, but she doesn't, because she might not ever stop, and then there would be a dead body in a bar and far too many questions. Instead, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes, she walks outside into the night.

In the half light of sunset, shaking, she tries to remember how to breathe. She jumps when a hand catches her own. Looking down, she finds Baelfire, holding her hand. "Bae?"

"Who was that?" the boy questions.

"Aye, dearie, who was your friend?" Rumpelstiltskin asks in measured, reserved tones.

"He's not my friend," the words come out sharper than she had planned, suddenly hearing the sounds of the city, the songs of summer dances. Sighing, she tries for something softer, "Can we get out of here?"

Nodding, "Aye, lead the way."