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depressedstressedlemonzest · 8 hours ago

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⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Author: stella artois

Prompts: heart condition; room with a fireplace; wild eyed

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Something Sweet

It started with lemon scones. Belle, desperate for feedback other than praise from her dad, had rushed a batch freshly cooled over to Mr. Gold’s shop and begged him to try one. He’d agreed on the condition that Belle clean up any mess, which was the easiest yes considering she didn’t think Mr. Gold had ever created a crumb in his entire pristine life.

“Why is it flat?” he’d asked, breaking it in half and studying it.

Finally, someone who knew what they were talking about.

“I don’t know.”

He broke off a corner and placed it on his tongue, closing his mouth around it.

“Too much liquid,” he’d declared. “Did you measure your lemon juice?”

Belle flushed. “The recipe said it was about the juice of one lemon.”

The disappointed look Mr. Gold turned on her only fueled her. Next time, it would be better.

—

Next time was not better, and neither was the time after that. She brought him chocolate chip cookies that were crunchy on the bottoms and sides, doughy blueberry muffins, orange scones that he described as “one-note,” and a dry chocolate cake.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked after suffering through sandy shortbread, gazing at the offending treat, wounded. “Is this payback for something?”

She hadn’t told anyone why she was baking. Not her father, not Ruby, not random strangers on the internet.

“That’s my new price,” he said when she still didn’t answer. “And I don’t want this ‘I’m trying to improve.’ That’s a lie.”

Belle licked her lips, tired of throwing out bad batches and stuffing okay batches into her packed freezer. She wanted to get something right.

“I’m making a career change.”

His jaw pulsed, probably with the effort it took not to be rude. She appreciated that. Whatever was coming would not be intended to devastate her, and she knew it was because, secretly, Mr. Gold enjoyed that she stopped by every few days to force feed him baking disasters.

“Perhaps pastry school,” he said eventually. “You’re a smart woman. You like school.”

She did like school. She had spent the last two years taking business classes at the nearest community college in her limited free time between working at her dad’s flower shop and waitressing at Granny’s.

“I’m not going to be a baker,” she said.

Mr. Gold, always dramatic, made a show of wiping a hand across his brow. “That’s a relief.”

—

What she wasn’t telling anyone was that an old building she loved had gone up for sale two months ago. It was two storeys with a rickety spiral staircase, shelves built in to the walls, and a gorgeous brick fireplace.

It was Belle’s dream location for the bookstore cafe she’d been taking business classes to open, and it had gone on sale well before she was ready.

She’d wanted to buy it outright, but though every cent she made at Granny’s went into savings, she couldn’t even scratch the surface. But the bank had approved. They liked her business plan. They loved her record of paying bills on time and that she was desperate enough to accept a 15% interest rate.

So the building was hers, but all she had was a spiral staircase, a fireplace, and built-in shelves.

—

“Do you even like baking?” Mr. Gold asked, setting a gritty cheesecake down after one bite.

“I just don’t understand how this happened.” She’d thought the cheesecake, a no-bake recipe, would be a cinch. Was it fair to want to sell a cheesecake she hadn’t even put in an oven in her bookstore cafe? Who cared? She was desperate.

Mr. Gold, a braver man than she’d realized, scraped off another bite, and Belle could see him rolling it around on his tongue even though his lips were closed. No matter how badly she fucked up, Mr. Gold gave each and every item his careful attention.

“If you baked a cheesecake, the sugar would melt,” he said. “It wouldn’t be gritty. What is your career change?”

She couldn’t tell Mr. Gold about the bookstore. It had been over a month since she’d bought it, and she hadn’t made one single item that he liked.

“I’m still thinking about it.”

Mr. Gold narrowed his eyes. She waited for him to press it, to tell her he knew she was lying. Instead, he pushed the plate away from him.

“This one is for the garbage.”

—

With more of her loan, she’d installed a bakery case, a counter, and coffee equipment. This was a fool’s errand. The building was bare, the spiral staircase needed a professional to reinforce it, and she didn’t know how to make espresso, but she didn’t even have nice carpets. What was the theme? Who would want to sit in such a tragic building and read while drinking burnt coffee and one-note scones?

—

So, yes, Belle was crying into a bowl of pumpkin bread batter into which she’d poured peppermint extract instead of vanilla. And yes, that was why she ignored the knocking.

Sue her. She didn’t want Ruby or her dad to know that she had tied all of her self-worth to baking something that didn’t suck.

But the knock was insistent, and after three minutes of wallowing, she had to stand up.

“Just a minute!”

After hiding the offending bowl in the microwave, she opened the door and nearly fell over.

“Mr. Gold!” She wished she’d taken a moment to wipe the flour off her face or splash water on her eyes. “Is everything okay?��

He looked, as always, ready for a photoshoot. Suit fitted, not a hair out of place, shoes shined, and here he was, stepping into Belle’s sugar-coated disaster apartment.

“I know,” he said.

Belle frowned. “You know what?”

“I know you bought the old millinery.”

Perhaps if she hadn’t just yesterday fed him eggy lemon bars, or if she hadn’t put peppermint in her pumpkin bread, or if she had bought just one rug for her bookstore, she might not have stumbled back to her couch where she could continue weeping without the effort of holding herself up.

Expecting Mr. Gold to avoid this situation like the plague, it only made her cry harder when she heard the door shut and then saw him looming over her. God, how embarrassing.

“Belle—”

“How do you know?” She couldn’t look at him.

“I know everything.”

Of course. She could keep a secret from everyone else in Storybrooke, but not Mr. Gold.

She cried for another minute while he stood before her like an uncomfortable statue, and then she sniffled and wiped her eyes.

“Do you want to sit?” She gestured to the couch.

He looked around her tiny living room, toward her tiny kitchen, and sat himself in a chair there, amidst a disaster of bowls and dirty spoons.

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

She didn’t want to. She felt stupid enough for doing all this on barely more than a whim. Yes, she’d had a plan, and yes, this was her dream, but she’d barely finished her business classes. She wasn’t ready.

“I’ve been baking so much because I have a heart condition—” she began, but then stopped because the remainder of a lie didn’t come to her. Mr. Gold waited. She tried again. “My doctor said—”

“Are you opening a bakery?”

She swallowed. Shook her head. He settled.

“A bookstore?”

“How did you know?” she asked again, even though if Mr. Gold had read her mind, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

He shook his head, mouth tilted in a wry grin. “I know you. You’ve been preparing for this for years.”

Belle blinked, tears disappearing. How did he know that? Ruby didn’t even know why she was taking business classes.

He sighed, though she hadn’t said a word. “A man does not become like me without paying attention. You have asked me about running a business more times than I can count.”

Belle frowned. “I have?”

He crossed his hands over his cane. “I can’t help you if you aren’t honest.”

Her cheeks heated. Mr. Gold had come to her apartment to help her? He had gone out of his way, climbed a flight of stairs, and sat in her tiny kitchen that smelled like burnt sugar and mint, and it wasn’t just to talk her out of baking?

“Why do you want to help me?” she asked.

He licked his lips. “Perhaps I’ve grown tired of dry cake,” he said, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

—

With the story off her chest once and for all, Belle almost felt silly. Laid out before Mr. Gold like this, it didn’t seem like much at all. So she needed rugs, so what? She’d find rugs. She could make coffee. High schoolers worked in coffee shops all over the world, and she was thirty. She could learn.

The books, she’d taken care of. She was starting with just the bottom floor, which also meant she didn’t need to refinish the staircase yet.

Everything was going to be fine.

So why was Mr. Gold looking at her like she was wild-eyed and crazy, like she was about to lop his head off?

—

“Belle,” he said gently, again like she might attack. “Why not just buy from a bakery?”

Belle scowled. “No. This is supposed to be local.”

He heaved a sigh. “There are plenty of bakeries in Maine that most people would still consider local. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

“No.” Why was she so stubborn? “No, I will find something you like.”

He stared at her. She stared back. She wasn’t crying anymore, and after getting it all out in the open, she felt so light, she didn’t think she’d cry no matter what he said.

“Fine.” He stood, studying her apartment, and her heart sank. He was leaving already?

“Thanks for listening,” she said to the floor, the weight settling back onto her chest. She swallowed, trying to push it down. It didn’t matter if Mr. Gold stayed or went.

“Show me today’s recipe.”

She looked up, and Mr. Gold was eyeing her kitchen now, all the dirty dishes and open bags of flour and sugar and cornstarch.

Without a word, she retrieved her bowl from the microwave, and he looked at it with interest until she presented it to him and he got a whiff of mint.

“Okay, first note. We read the bottles before we pour them into the bowl.”

Amusement bubbled up, and suddenly, instead of crying, all Belle could do was laugh. She covered her mouth, but it wasn’t quick enough to miss the way Mr. Gold’s lip wavered on the edge of a grin.

“Aye, aye, Captain.” She saluted, and he pursed his lips, but his eyes crinkled at the corners.

—

It turned out that there were things recipes expected the baker to know. For example, Belle didn’t consider that ovens could be wildly different, or that there was a right and wrong way to measure. She also did not know that flour had a variable moisture content.

Next on the docket was a custard tart. Due to the variable moisture content of flour, the amount of water needed in the crust was not exact, something she wouldn’t have known without Mr. Gold. Things were already looking up.

But when she pulled out two knives to cut the butter into the flour, he frowned.

“What are you doing? Use your fingers.”

All Belle did was stare blankly at him, so he sighed, and before she could wrap her head around what was happening, he’d unbuttoned his cuffs and pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. Belle flushed as if he’d stripped to his underwear.

“I thought I was clear, I am only instructing from a distance,” he said as he washed his hands.

“I didn’t ask you to get up.”

He narrowed his eyes, but soon he was at the bowl, deft fingers crumbling the butter and flour together.

“You see?”

She did see, but she couldn’t speak. She mumbled her agreement, and then she must have moved too fast to take his place, because instead of seamlessly transitioning the bowl, their fingers tangled together. Mr. Gold jumped, and they both ripped their hands out, flinging pea-sized butter-flour droplets around the kitchen.

Belle stared at Mr. Gold, and he stared back, and both of them were breathing with such effort, their shoulders moved.

“You have butter in your eyebrow,” Belle said.

“You have butter in your hair.”

Belle let out a snicker, then Mr. Gold did as well, and then they were both laughing. If anyone saw Mr. Gold in her dinky kitchen, thousand-dollar-suit covered in food, they would never pay him rent on time again.

“Here, let me.” She tried to clean a spot on her finger to wipe the butter off, but all she succeeded in doing was slicking his eyebrow down.

“How do you feed yourself?” Mr. Gold asked. He grabbed her wrist when she reached with her other hand, and they both stopped laughing.

“I’m an excellent cook.” She watched his eyes, and he watched hers. “That’s why baking is so frustrating.”

“Ah.”

He didn’t let go of her wrist. Watching him, she took a step closer and raised her other hand to his face. He didn’t grab her until she had already lain her fingers on his cheek.

“After this, I could make my specialty,” she said softly.

“What’s your specialty?”

This would leave a floury print on his cheek, but he didn’t pull away. She took a step closer, and then another until they were nearly nose-to-nose.

“Spaghetti and sauce from a jar,” she said. “But the secret is I grate the parmesan myself.”

He stared for a beat, then laughed. Belle grinned back, and then, because Mr. Gold had been listening to her for years and he’d gamely eaten everything she’d baked, and then he’d come over and rolled his sleeves up and let her fling butter onto him, she couldn’t stop herself from kissing him.

He kissed her back, and when his buttery hands found their way to her hair, hers found their way to his, and he didn’t seem to mind that this might ruin his suit.

“You know,” he kissed the corner of her mouth and then her bottom lip, “You’re not a bad baker. You’re just not a professional.”

“You’re only saying that because you want me to keep kissing you.”

His cheeks reddened, and Belle grinned.

“I do want that,” he said softly. “But I also want you to build your dream business. And you will.”

She nodded, tightening her grip on him. “I know.” She smiled. “Thanks to you.”

He shook his head. “You don’t need me.”

Maybe she didn’t. She had gotten this far on her own, hadn’t she? Written up her business plan, gotten the loan, started work on the building? But then, what was all that if she had no one to share it with?

“I need you to stop distracting me so I can bake this tart,” she said, but when he disentangled himself, all she did was pull him in for another kiss.

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depressedstressedlemonzest · 8 hours ago

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⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Author: Bookstore Cat

Prompts: heart condition; room with a fireplace; wild eyed

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Lighthearted

For the first time since arriving at the Dark Castle, Belle was afraid.

It was winter, and snow cloaked the castle grounds, muting the sounds of the animals and birds that still ventured out in the cold. Belle walked in the gardens once a day, but the wind was too bitter to do so for long. Besides, it was lonely, without Rumplestiltskin strolling beside her. He had begun joining her daily walk as the leaves turned, often amusing her with quips, and tales of deals past. Lately, he had walked in silence, head down, seemingly lost in thought. It had been on one such occasion that he had fallen unexpectedly, and when she moved to help him, he disappeared in a deep red cloud of magic. He had not ventured outside the castle since, nor answered her questions about his fall, and had instead shut himself up in his workroom, where she knew he was growing magic beans.

He had eventually told her why he wanted the beans: a son lost to a land without magic, a lifetime of regret, and she had hugged him instinctively at the end of his tale. It always seemed to surprise him when she touched him. He was nervous, unsettled, his fingers twisting awkwardly in the air until she said something to put him at ease. She wondered how long it had been since someone had touched him out of concern, or friendship, or affection. Perhaps his son had been the last person to show him any love. Perhaps no one had loved him since.

Magic beans, he explained, could be used to take you anywhere you wanted to go, and he intended to grow a supply of them in case his first search proved futile. He tended the plants carefully, coaxing them up tall structures of woven willow, and they had thrived under his care. The first pods were beginning to grow.

He had had other falls since that day in the gardens; they were becoming more frequent, with his skin taking on a strange pallor, and she was afraid for him. He had been quieter around her, with far less of the giggling, mischievous imp with his grand gestures and snide comments. She suspected that was a mask anyway, a fake persona he put on to unnerve those he dealt with. Over the past few months, she felt that she had been coaxing the man out from the cloak of the Dark One. He had even opened his library to her, and instructed her to read whatever she liked. But lately…

She shook her head in irritation as she turned into the kitchen gardens and snipped a few straggly herbs from the thyme and sage bushes. A tea brewed with the herbs and lots of honey would be soothing, although she knew that whatever was wrong with him was more than a simple cold. She made her way back into the kitchens, feet crunching on the new crust of ice atop the blanket of snow. The warmth of the kitchen fire wrapped around her, and she shrugged out of her coat and scarf, reaching down to pet the mother cat and her kittens, curled up in their basket. The kittens were half-grown now, playful and affectionate, and it amused Belle to watch them get tangled up in Rumplestiltskin’s yarn, or crawl into his lap as he sat at his spinning wheel. It occurred to her that she had not seen him spin in days.

“I’ll make him some tea with honey,” she told the cats, filling the kettle with water. “Perhaps he’d like some brandy in it, too. My father always enjoyed that when he was sick.”

Fifteen minutes later, she was climbing the stairs to his room, carrying a tray with the tea, the brandy bottle, and a plate of small cakes, the cats scampering after her. The door to his bedroom swung open as she approached, and Belle’s eyes widened as she saw Rumplestiltskin sprawled face-down on the floor by the crackling fire.

“Rumple!” She shoved the tray onto the dresser and fell at his side. “Are you hurt?”

He didn’t respond, and she pushed him onto his back, anxious hands feeling for his pulse, his breath, his temperature. His eyes flickered open at her touch.

“Belle,” he breathed, and she huffed in relief.

“Gods, you scared me!” she exclaimed, sitting back on her heels. “Will you please tell me what’s wrong? And don’t say ‘nothing’, like you always do, I’m not an idiot!”

“You’re certainly not an idiot,” he said, in his usual dry tone. “Inquisitive, that’s what you are. Interfering, some might say.”

Belle rolled her eyes.

“Yes, excuse me for caring whether you live or die,” she said sarcastically, and held out a hand for him to grasp. She pulled him to his feet, tucking herself in by his side with his arm around her shoulders. The way he was leaning on her made her fear rise.

“Let’s get you into bed,” she asked gently. “Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk,” he said loftily, and promptly staggered and almost fell again. Belle sighed and steered him towards the bed, drawing back the covers.

“I made you some tea,” she said. “Honey and herbs. I was going to put a drop of brandy in it.”

“I’ll have more than a drop, thank you.” He waved his hand, and when the cloud of magic had dissipated, he was in the bed and clad in his silk nightshirt. Belle smiled.

“You can still use magic, then,” she said, and he gave a rueful chuckle.

“Oh yes,” he said quietly. “I can still use that.”

The cats, seeing that he was in bed, took it in turns to scramble up beside him, and by the time Belle had poured the tea and added brandy, they were nestled at his side or on his lap, purring. Rumplestiltskin petted heads and scratched ears as she set his tea on the nightstand. He glanced up at her with golden eyes, his expression a strange mix of anxiety and resignation.

“Will you – join me?” he asked hesitantly.

For a moment, Belle thought he was asking her to get into bed with him, and she felt her cheeks heat as she opened her mouth.

“There are brandy glasses on the dresser,” he added, and she snapped her mouth shut, thanking all the gods that she hadn’t said what she was thinking.

“Thank you,” she said. “Have one of those cakes.”

He ate one of the bite-size almond cakes, but she suspected he only did so to please her. She poured herself a measure of brandy, and sipped at it while Rumplestiltskin drank the herb-and-honey mixture. When he had finished, she took away the cup and replaced it with a brandy glass, and he nodded his thanks. Belle leaned towards him.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” she said gently, and he sighed.

“It’s my fault,” he said heavily. “All of it. Magic comes with a price, Belle, and it’s finally my turn to pay. And just when I was getting so close to finding Bae. Serves me right.”

He took a swallow of brandy, and Belle shook her head.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “What price are you paying? For using magic? Why should that make you ill, you’ve been using it for centuries.”

Rumplestiltskin let his head fall back against the pillows with a sigh. She watched his throat bob as he swallowed, the firelight gleaming on his gold-flecked skin.

“You don’t understand,” he said tiredly. “How could you, pure of heart as you are?”

Belle hid a snort in the brandy glass.

“Well, I’m not sure I’m all that pure-hearted,” she remarked. “I remember thinking some very impure things at times, and—” She cut off, blushing, but Rumplestiltskin didn’t seem to notice.

“Pure of heart,” he insisted, wagging a finger. “Whereas I—all the centuries I’ve lived, the terrible things I’ve done—they take a toll. They darken your heart.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means that when the light in my heart goes out,” he said, “whatever is left in me that might call itself a man dies, and only the Dark One remains.”

Belle shook her head, biting her lip.

“The – the light in your heart?”

Rumplestiltskin eyed her for a moment, then pushed a hand into his chest. Belle gasped, jerking backwards, brandy slopping over her hand.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s fine,” he said. ��A simple spell. I’ll put it back in a moment”

He pulled the hand from his chest, a dark, almost black lump held in his palm, his fingers cradling it. Belle stared.

“Is that – is that your heart?” she whispered, and he nodded, holding it out to her. She hesitated, but took it gently, cupped in both palms. It was warm, almost hot, and beating with a slow, rhythmic thump. The surface was hard and gleaming, like obsidian, but there was a deep red glow at its centre, like an ember.

“The light in your heart,” she said softly.

“Yes.” His voice was low, real. “Belle, you must leave. Tomorrow, if you can.”

“Leave?” She hugged the heart to her chest protectively. “I can’t leave you when you’re sick!”

“I’m not sick,” he said patiently. “I’m dying.”

She shook her head, her own heart thumping in her chest, and he nodded.

“I’m dying,” he repeated. “And I don’t want you to be here when that light goes out. I don’t want you to be alone with the Dark One. Take the cats, and go. I’ll give you a carriage, all the gold you can carry. You’ll want for nothing, I promise.”

“I want to stay with you!” she insisted. “I made a promise, and I mean to keep it!”

“It’s not safe!” he growled. “I’m not safe!”

“You could never hurt me,” she said firmly. “I won’t believe it.”

Something seemed to break in his expression then, his face crumpling a little.

“I would never want to hurt you,” he whispered. “But it won’t be me. Whatever I am, whatever I was—that will all be gone.”

Belle felt her eyes sting, tears pricking at them, and she swallowed hard.

“Are you certain?” she asked. “Has that – has it happened to other Dark Ones?”

“All of them.” He took a drink. “Some lasted months, some a few years, but all of them, in the end. Those that couldn’t find a – a desperate soul to kill them and take on the curse before it happened, that is. They knew what was coming.”

“But—” She shook her head in confusion. “But you told me you’d been alive for centuries.”

“And so I have.”

“Well, that’s decidedly more than a few years,” she said. “Why have you lived all that time when the other Dark Ones couldn’t?”

He hesitated.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Belle looked down at the heart, warm and pulsing in her hands. The soft, red light at the centre of it gleamed, pushing against the darkness around it. A beacon of hope.

“I think I know,” she said slowly. “It’s your son. This.” She held up the heart. “This light here, it’s your love for him. True love is the most powerful magic of all, I’ve read about it. Powerful enough to keep the most terrible darkness at bay for centuries!”

Rumplestiltskin shook his head, and she reached out to grasp his hand.

“Why else could you have survived all this time?” she asked. “Months or years the others had, you just told me that! And here you are, having lived whole lifetimes! Don’t you understand how wonderful that is? All that time you’ve been desperate to save your son, and – and in a way, he’s been saving you, too.”

There was something in his expression that she had only caught glimpses of before, a light in his eyes, a faint hope for something once thought lost, and he squeezed her hand with his own.

“Thank you, Belle,” he whispered. “That gives me comfort. I hope – I hope it hasn’t been too terrible. Living here with me.”

“These past months have been a wonderful adventure,” she said softly. “And I’m not going anywhere. I want to stay with you.”

He was already shaking his head.

“It’s not safe—” he began, and she put a finger on his lips, silencing him. It made his eyebrows shoot upwards, and she leaned in close as the hand fell back to her lap, wrapping around his heart.

“No one decides my fate but me, Rumplestiltskin,” she said.

His eyes met hers, golden and blue, and the air seemed to hum, a heavy atmosphere cloaking them, as though a storm was coming. She could feel her heart thumping, her pulse throbbing in her throat, in her loins. His lips parted, moist from the tip of his tongue, and she felt a tug of desire in her abdomen. She leaned forward, her lips finding his in a soft kiss. He made a tiny noise of surprise, but then his hand reached up to cup her cheek, fingers stroking through her hair as she tasted him. The storm broke in a pulse of energy, and Belle pulled back as a plume of light radiated out from them, making her skin tingle and the air hum. Rumplestiltskin was staring at her, wild-eyed and breathing heavily, and she gasped as his face began to change, the strange, sparkling skin and golden eyes fading away, to reveal dark eyes and soft, brown hair falling around high cheekbones. He was staring at her in shock.

“What did you do?” he whispered.

“I – I don’t know,” she stammered, and he ran his hands over his face before examining his palms and the backs of his hands, the callused fingers with lightly tanned and very human skin. Belle glanced down at the heart in her hands, and gasped. The warm, red light was pushing outwards, filling his heart, banishing the darkness.

“You – you broke my curse,” he breathed. “You broke the Dark One’s curse.”

“I didn’t – mean to,” she faltered, unsure if he was angry, but when he looked up his eyes were alight with joy.

“There’s only one thing that can break any curse,” he said. “I never dared to hope… Belle, is it true?”

“True love,” she whispered, and the tears that had been threatening to fall spilled over. “Oh yes! I love you, Rumplestiltskin! I love you!”

He laughed aloud, and cradled her face in his hands, his expression tender.

“And I love you too,” he said sincerely.

He kissed her again, his mouth hungry for her, and she could taste the salt of his tears on her tongue. His lips pulled at hers as she drew back, and then he took the heart from her with an expression of awe, examining its new, warm red colour before pushing it back into his chest.

“Well,” he said softly. “That feels different.”

Belle put her hands on his shoulders, smiling up at him.

“We’re going to find your son,” she said. “Together.”

“Together,” he agreed.

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depressedstressedlemonzest · 8 hours ago

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⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Author: redvelvet

Prompts: heart condition; room with a fireplace; wild eyed

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Chainlink

It came as no surprise that Belle was struggling with the castle doors. They were heavy wood on stubborn hinges and nigh impossible to move without magic, which Rumplestiltskin normally considered a feature, not a hindrance.

“And what exactly is going on here?”

Belle glared over her shoulder. “Oh, now you can hear me? I’ve been calling for five minutes.” She gave the handle another tug. “At least!”

When it had been decided that he was now at his maid’s beck and call? He must have missed it. “I was busy. I would have come sooner, had I realized that you were mounting an escape.”

She rolled her eyes. “Someone’s knocking. We can’t leave them out in the storm.”

“Where did you get that notion?” He frowned. “We certainly can.” It could be argued that no sane person would be out in this weather, that the closest village was miles away, that it was more likely a trick than anything else. Unfortunately, when Belle had her mind set, she was as stubborn as the doors.

As if to underline that, she made another attempt. It didn’t budge. “Fine,” he sighed. If she hurt herself trying, who was going to bring him tea? “Stand back.”

The doors swung inward, yielding to his will and a nasty gust of wind, both. And Belle was right; the storm wasn’t the only thing on their doorstep.

“Dark One! Thank the heavens!” The wild eyed woman at his door looked as desperate as they came, dressed in rags that wouldn’t have been appropriate in a light flurry, and certainly not a blizzard. She stood, frozen in place, holding a large bundle close to her chest.

“Come in, come in,” Rumplestiltskin said, fully allowing impatience to creep into his tone. There was already a drift forming in his foyer. If the doors were open any longer, he would have no choice but to tack snow removal onto Belle’s duties.

Of course, she couldn’t do that now, busy as she was playing full welcoming committee. She threw one of his good blankets over the poor wretch’s shoulders and usher her inside. Rumplestiltskin turned back to the doors, triangulating how he might use the least amount of effort to counter the wind.

“Oh my gods,” he heard Belle gasp from behind him. “What’s happened to him?”

Him?

The doors closed with a clang, and he whirled on his heel.

Now unfettered by the blinding, driving snow, Rumplestiltskin could see that the lump of rags was a child, lips blue against ashen skin, eyelashes tipped in hoarfrost.

—

“We were harvesting rose hips.” The woman stared blankly at the flames flickering in the fireplace, cradling her boy at the edge of the hearth. “I told him not to touch it, but it was too late.” She shook her head at Belle’s offer of a cup of tea and cast a pleading look at Rumplestiltskin instead. “He’s my only child. Please, can you help him?”

Belle answered before he could even open his mouth.

“Of course, we will!” She set the teacup down at the woman’s side, then fixed Rumplestiltskin with a look at her own. “Won’t we?”

He stared right back, tapping his fingers. We.

The mother touched her son’s white cheek. “I’ll do anything,” she said, breaking into a sob. “Anything.”

A lump formed, but he swallowed it down.

“Yes, yes, of course you will.” Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat. “Belle.” With a tilt of his head at the dining table for emphasis, he added, “tea?”

Belle followed him over, picking up the teapot as he settled into his chair.

“It’s best practice to watch where you’re pouring,” he commented; she was so preoccupied with staring him down that she nearly overfilled his cup.

“So.” She didn’t so much set the teapot down on the tray as allow it to fall. He winced. “What are we going to do?”

“There’s very little we—I—can do,” he replied, watching the steam curl above his tea instead of facing the accusation in her eyes. “He’s been strung by ice nettle. In short order, his heart will be completely frozen over.”

“Couldn’t you, I don’t know—” Belle fisted her hands into her apron. “Unfreeze it?”

“It won’t thaw. It’ll melt. And then so will he and that won’t be pretty.” Rumplestiltskin shook his head. “Better that his last moments be peaceful ones.”

Belle was appalled. “That can’t be it. There must be another way, something—”

“The only cure is the warmth of another.” Belle glanced over at the hearth, then opened her mouth again. “Another heart.”

Her eyes widened.

“You mean, an actual—?” He tapped his nails on his cup by way of an answer. “You’d need to remove a heart from someone, then give it to him?”

“Well, lend. For a time.” The horror on her face abated a little. “Until the danger passes.”

“Then… why don’t we do that?”

He reached for the sugar bowl. “Harvesting hearts from the innocent is a rather nefarious business, Belle.”

“Well, obviously, but… well, if you used hers? I’m sure she would—”

“Hers is in no condition for the likes of that. She’s half frozen herself.”

Belle leaned heavily against the table and stared at the hearth. Only the softest of sounds drifted through the space between them: the crackle of the fire, the tink-tink of his spoon. The mother’s muffled sobs.

“Rumplestiltskin,” she said, finally. He looked up, and her spine straightened. “I’m warm. Use mine.”

—

“Good as new,” Rumplestiltskin declared, rising from a crouch at what was no longer a sick bed. It had taken a full three days and the duration of the storm, but a flush returned to the boy’s cheeks. The frost melted from his lashes, and the rest of him had not.

“Mama,” the boy said, squirming under the covers. “I don’t want to sleep. I want to play.”

“You will, my darling. In a moment.” His mother pulled him close, holding him firmly as she met Rumplestiltskin’s gaze with no small amount of trepidation. “How can I repay you?”

Rumplestiltskin clicked his tongue. “The price for a heart is a heart,” he trilled, but he didn't make the poor woman squirm too long over the aforemade promise of anything before clarifying. “The trinket around your neck will do.”

Her hand flew up reflexively. The heart-shaped locket was badly tarnished and hanging open, but it sang out to him, its value clear even if the reason for it was not. She hesitated, but just for a moment. “For his life,” she said, resolutely yanking it from her neck, “it’s a bargain.”

He wound the chain around his wrist for safekeeping, satisfied by its heft. That done, he turned to the boy.

“One last thing. Are you brave, lad?”

The child nodded, assuming the utmost gravity.

A swift jab and a swifter pull meant that it was all over before the shock fully registered. “Well done. Now.” Rumplestiltskin examined the heart in his hand, relieved to find it still warm, pink, and flawless. “The sun’s shining. Go and play.”

—

Rumplestiltskin found Belle seated at the hearth, staring vacantly into its bare, cold depths. If she felt the chill, it didn’t show; more likely, though, she wasn’t feeling much of anything.

“Are they off?” she asked, not looking up even as the doors closed noisily behind him.

“As of five minutes ago,” he said, approaching with caution. She’d been perfectly pleasant during this whole ordeal, of course. Quiet. The ideal help.

It had been the longest three days in recent memory.

“And you sent them with a blanket?”

He nodded. There was no need to admit that he’d sent them with two. “Are you ready?” he asked, instead.

“Uh. Yeah.”

Good enough. She dropped her hand into his, limply, and he pulled her to her feet.

“Now, I can’t promise that this will be pleasant.”

“I know, I—”

She gasped, very nearly screamed. Still, there was solace to be found in returning precious cargo to where it belonged, safe and sound.

“I feel…” she stammered, eyes wet. Her chest heaved, and she swallowed. “I feel alive again.”

Funny. So did he.

Belle’s gaze flicked downward, then. The locket slammed against his arm as he reeled back from her breastbone like it was a hot pan.

“So, uh.” She smoothed down the front of her skirt, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Did you get what you wanted?”

Rumplestiltskin ran his own hand over his waistcoat, pretending to consider.

“You know, as a matter of fact—I did.”

—

“I’m just saying, why even bother with someone who doesn’t reciprocate?”

The door slammed shut in their wake, bell jangling.

Because it was his son, he wanted to say. But because getting into that with Lacey was not going to bear fruit, Rumplestiltskin grunted noncommittally and reached for two crystal tumblers. He poured a finger of whiskey for himself and two for her, then turned to the shelves.

“What’re you looking for?”

He located the jewelry box, took it down, and set it on the glass countertop.

“A gift,” he said, opening the top drawer. It was inside, somewhere. “One that was given in exchange for another.”

“What was that?”

No luck. He tried the second, and there it was. He lifted the locket from the flocking and laid it out on the counter.

“A great sacrifice for a stranger.”

“And that’s what was offered in return?” Lacey scoffed, then took a sip of her drink. Swallowing, she added, “Pretty sad condition. That's gratitude for you.”

It was still tarnished, still broken—his fault, he supposed, for neglecting to do the simple repair. He pulled out a pair of needle-nose pliers.

The shop fell very, very silent. He fiddled. She took another sip.

“I said the wrong thing, didn’t I.” Lacey’s glass clinked against the counter, and then she was pressed up against his back and threading her arms around his waist. “I’m sure there’s someone out there who would find it lovely, it’s just… not my style.”

Rumplestiltskin tried the clasp. It caught. “No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”

“Or…” The voice behind him suddenly wasn’t quite hers. “Is it?”

His heart slammed against his ribcage.

“Is it?”

Lacey slunk around his side, eyes locked on the heart. He held his breath.

“No… actually, no.” The air seeped from his lungs. I don’t think so.” No, of course not. She ran her hand across his body and tugged at his suit coat until he was facing her. “I know what is, though,” she purred.

“And what’s that?” He dipped his fingertips into her plunging neckline, counting each rib as he moved downward. When he reached her sternum, she redirected his hand to her breast.

“This.”

With that, Lacey captured his lips. He let himself be consumed by flame and power smoke, free of caveats.

He doubted that he’d ever feel warmth again.

—

“The snow fell fast and the wind blew wild; “I’m not scared,” said the Gruffalo’s—”

“Child!” Gideon squealed, twisting an ‘o’ in with the ‘i’ in the way that Rumplestiltskin secretly hoped would never change.

Belle flipped to the next page and Rumplestiltskin tapped on the doorframe to make his presence known.

“It’s almost nine,” he said, glancing down at his wrist, which had of course been bare since just before he’d changed into pajamas.

“Right, right,” Belle said, tousling Gideon’s hair. “We agreed that this is the last book. Right, Gideon?”

Gideon shook his head. “Read it again, after. Please?”

It was well past his bedtime, on top of it having been a big day—the hike to the wishing well took hours with a pair of tiny legs in the mix. It was shocking that Gideon wasn’t already comatose, but…

It was hard to say no to a request like that.

“Well…” Rumplestiltskin started, but Belle stopped him with a chuckle.

“We’ve already read it twice. But we’ll finish it and then, first thing in the morning, we’ll read it again, okay?”

“I want Papa to,” Gideon asserted.

“It’s a deal,” Rumplestiltskin said, hoping it would be enough to stem any further negotiation. Then he picked his way across the room, dodging the stuffed animals’ tea party to lay a kiss on Gideon’s head. “Sweet dreams, Gid.”

Belle looked up long enough to mouth, be right there, and he nodded. That left him just enough time to light the fireplace.

—

“I thought we weren’t doing gifts this year.” Belle said, eyeing the wooden box in his hands warily. “Just cards?”

“Well, this box is ideal for storing cards,” Rumplestiltskin countered, tipping his head toward the empty spot on their bed, next to him. “Besides, it’s wood this year, not paper.”

Playfully rolling her eyes, she slid onto the sheets and took the box from him. “Is there something inside?” He nodded, then watched her eyes widen as she opened the lid. “Oh, Rumple, is this—?”

“Yeah,” he replied, pleased that she remembered. “Not much of a gift, really. It always belonged to you.”

“I don’t know,” she said, tracing her fingers over the gleaming silver heart. “It was your deal. Your magic.”

“And your heart. You earned it, a hundred times over.”

Her eyes glittered. “Well, I couldn’t just let him die.”

He lifted the chain from the box and draped it around her neck. “Of course you couldn’t.” Once the clasp was fastened, he admired his handiwork. The locket looked very pretty dangling above her satin nightgown, if he did say so.

“Well, I love it. Thank you.” She kissed him, and then they stretched out on their bed.

“Happy anniversary,” she sighed, nuzzling his chest. Rumplestiltskin caressed her spine in response, deciding to bask in her warmth and the fire’s glow before, perhaps, venturing elsewhere with his hand. “Actually, I have something for you, too.”

“Oh?” So much for having a monopoly on surprises.

“I’m pregnant.”

Rumplestiltskin’s heart skipped a beat, and the one that followed was so forceful that Belle probably felt as well as heard it.

“I could have wrapped up the test but that’s kind of—oh!” she said, plopping her hand on her forehead. “I should have taken a Polaroid and wrapped that.”

“The words are enough,” he breathed, once he remembered how to form a sentence again. “Oh, Belle. That didn’t take long.”

“I guess a little uninterrupted time together was all we needed.” She grinned up at him. “Are you happy?”

For a moment, he was baffled. How could she even ask that question when she just presented him with another joy after years of pain; another blessing, after years of curses. Another little heart in his life, safe and sound, just waiting to beat.

There was only one way to answer, but he hauled her up for a kiss first, anyway.

“This is,” he murmured into her lips, “exactly what I wanted.”

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