The first time he brought home a child, she is horrified. She hasn't been with him long, hasn't had time to fully realize the heart beating inside his chest, while battered and fierce, is distinctly human. In the future, it would shame her to admit it, but now she is worried the squalling infant is destined for his cauldron, to be a key ingredient in some dark potion. He presses the fussy babe into her arms, muttering that she won't need to care for it long. Her jaw drops open but he reaches gently under her chin, and coaxes her mouth closed, whispering, "Careful, Dearie. You'll catch flies."

As he strides quickly away, leaving her clutching the infant, she finally finds her voice, "Where on earth did you get it, Rumplestiltskin?" she demands. It's a moment before he turns, and slowly walks back to her. His eyes study the floor stones, and she thinks perhaps he is ashamed. But when his gaze finally meet hers, she is taken aback by the raw pain she sees writ in his strange amber eyes. In a voice far more human than she is used to, he says simply, "He wasn't wanted." And then he is gone, and she is left rocking the fussy child, wondering how on earth one cares for such a tiny, new life.

She gets used to it. He's provided milk and the means to feed it to the child by way of cloths that the child learns to suckle. It's much less fussy when its belly is full. She enjoys bathing him – the warm water soothes him almost as well as a meal, and she marvels at the softness of his skin. He splashes his chubby little legs, drenching her hair. She knows she's a mess, but she can't help but laugh. The sensation of being watched prickles against her skin, and she turns to find him leaning against the doorway. It's gone in a heartbeat, but she would swear she saw a look of longing travel across his countenance. She wraps the babe in a towel and holds him out to The Dark One.

"Will you take him for a moment, please?"

If her request surprises him, he hides it well. He takes the child from her, and tucks it protectively against his chest. She notes the way he cradles the child's head, supporting it easily without holding too tight. Suddenly she is absolutely certain he's done this before. He was a father. He's never been comfortable being looked at for too long, and there is a slight edge to his voice when he asks her "Something the matter, Dearie?" She looks away, toweling her hair which has started to frizz abominably.

"He likes you."

"Yes, well, he likes warm things and things that feed him. Babies aren't exactly sterling judges of character. And anyways, he'll be gone tomorrow."
He sees her stiffen, and knows she's trying to formulate a question. She doesn't want to offend him, wants to think the best of him, but he can't blame her for seeing a monster. Still, it rankles him. He has done very little good in the world, but it still hurts to have his every motive questioned. He understands it, but he doesn't like it. Before she can give voice to her concerns, he barks, "No harm will come to the child. I may be a monster, but I'm not completely heartless."

She startles. She wonders, sometimes, if he can read her thoughts. It unsettles her. Still, she is brave. She pushes her trepidation to the side, and moves closer to him.. Rumple glowers at her, but the effect is ruined when the child reaches up and begins to tug at his hair. Belle laughs, more enthusiastically than is strictly ladylike. He does not laugh, but he stops glaring at her, and instead looks down at the child in his arms. Her laugh makes his heart clench and he has to remind himself she is not laughing AT him. Belle is many things, but cruelty is not in her nature. The fight goes out of him and he quietly tells her he has found a suitable family for the child. If she is surprised, she does not show it, but she does smile widely at him. Her smile undoes him. He hands her the child and flees the room, careful to keep his steps slow enough to seem natural. No one likes a coward.

He allows her to accompany him when he gives the child over to its new family. He knows she relishes the chance to leave the castle, even when it's only to visit a humble village on the edge of his lands. If he's honest, he takes her along because he doesn't wish her to worry over the child's fate. Or he doesn't wish her to bother him with her worry, which is nearly the same thing. He takes the child from her arms, careful not to brush against her in the exchange, and presents him to his new parents. The baker and his wife beam happily and express their thanks. Belle smiles, comforted, but she feels a little tug in her heart. Her hand subconsciously strays to her belly. She'll miss the child more than she expected. The baker and his wife retreat inside and Belle and Rumple make their way back through the forest. Feeling impulsive, she reaches for his arm. Part of him wants to shake her off and sneer; another wants to draw her closer. He compromises, and lets her thread her arm through his, their sides brushing as they walk. She breaks the silence first. "They seemed happy."
"They've wanted a child for a long time."

"What did they offer you in exchange for the boy?"

He doesn't want to have this conversation with her. He has few soft spots, few weaknesses, and it goes against his nature to share them willingly. He could bend the truth, but he doesn't wish to lie to her, either. It's hard to lie when he's looking into those impossibly big, innocent blue eyes.

"They offered to give him a loving home. They aren't wealthy, but he'll always have bread, and he'll always be warm."

Love, food, and warmth. She wonders how many of those he did without as a child. She wants to hold him, then. Calm him. Settle him, just like she did with the babe in her arms. She knows it's reckless and ill-advised, but Belle has always favored bravery. Without any warning, she throws her arms around his neck and draws him into an embrace. He stiffens, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides, but she just holds him tighter. After long, drawn out seconds, she feels his arms rise. He lays one across her upper back, and, tentatively, around her waist. His touch is so light, she almost thinks it exists only in her imagination. She leans slightly back, and his arms fall away – it's almost as if he's afraid to hold her. As if he expects her to come to her senses and bolt from him. Instead she leans up and presses her soft, warm lips against his cheek in a chaste kiss. She whispers, "You've done a very good thing, Rumplestilstkin."
His thoughts at the moment are very far from chaste. He may be The Dark One, but he's still a man. His blood runs hot when she touches him. He'd still like to feel her moving underneath him. Or above him. Oh gods, the image burns itself into the back of his eyelids and he sighs bodily, his forehead lowering to rest against hers. And then HE'S the one coming to his senses. She's giving him an innocent kiss of gratitude and he's imagining himself inside her. A wave of self-loathing swells in the pit of his stomach and he flinches back from her. She deserves better than his filthy imaginings. She, more than all the people he's ever come across in his many years, deserves his respect. He steps from her arms stiffly, and clears his throat. "We should be getting back to the castle."
He's about to magic them back into his demesne, when she once again steps closer and takes his hand. She looks up at him with concern as she says "Rumple, you're shaking."

His traitorous body leaps at her touch. Hard as a rock, and humiliated beyond measure, he envelops them in a purple cloud of magic. When her eyes blink open she is alone in her library and he is nowhere to be seen.