His modest maid has become bold of late, free with her light touches, her fingers brushing his as she passes him their chipped cup, free with her lingering looks as, leaning over him, hands easy on his shoulders, she admires the work of his spinning wheel.
Still, is it reality or is it a mid-summer night's dream when she comes to him in her sleeping gown, calling his name–"Rumplestiltskin," not "Dark One," never does she acknowledge him by his title–"Rumplestiltskin, I summon thee."
"What would you have of me, milady?" He ekes out through cracked lips.
"A bargain." He can see her heart throbbing in her throat.
"Name your–" he dares to say it, has to–"desire."
"Use your books of spells, your potions, your enchantments, I beg of you–"
He swallows hard. "Yes, Belle?"
"To find a way that we can kiss without breaking your curse." She clasps her hands–he adores those hands–quietly before her as she comes closer.
He's dizzy with imaginings. "All magic–"
"Yes. This is my payment: make it possible for us to kiss, and I'll kiss you as no one has ever kissed you before, and when my kisses have taken your breath away, I'll kiss you again."
"Ohhh."
"Do we have a deal, Rumplestiltskin?"
His magic leaps to his fingertips. It's a good deal, a very good deal, even the Dark One can see that. "We have a deal, milady." He bows and she dips in a curtsey. "Oh, do we ever."
