Belle had been sitting in the dungeon for three days since Rumpelstiltskin had insisted she leave. She had delivered her lecture, given him the cutting remarks he deserved for trying to break her heart, but in the end, she had refused to go. He had kicked and screamed and made quite a lot of sense, but Belle knew in her heart that she had much more sense than he did, so she had closed her mouth and her eyes, and taken a seat on the bench in her cell. When she'd opened her eyes, Rumpelstiltskin was gone.

For three days, there had been no sign of him. He had not brought food nor water, had not even walked down to check on her. Part of her was afraid that he was retaliating by starving her to death, but the rest of her had faith. He may have been hotheaded and unreasonable, but despite what he had said, he loved her, and he would never let her waste away.

She sat, hands clasped in her lap with the resolution of one awaiting execution. Her hunger and thirst was making her dizzy, but she dealt with that by sitting still and closing her eyes.

That evening, when she awoke from a brief dizzy-spelled nap, she found a pitcher of water and a clean glass next to her on the bench.

The water had restored some of her strength. By the fourth day, the dizziness was coming less frequently, and her hope had swelled. She took the water to be a symbol of truce, though he did not yet have the courage to face her, and the fact that it never emptied meant that he wanted her to live.

As much as she hated this, she had to admit that she understood it. She shouldn't have expected him to come to grips with his feelings—there had only been a few hours between him setting her free and her returning to turn his world upside down. Showing a man who believed himself a monster that he was cared for and loved took time and patience. She should have confessed it to herself before confessing to him, and then she might not have taken him so off-guard. He would have been able to see it in every gesture, every remark, every touch.

Even had that been the case, though, she understood that he needed to reject her. Being in love, and catering to the whims of True Love, was something that took control away from him, and she had brought it on him too fast. He needed to feel the control so that he could learn to get around it, to give some of it up, to come to grips with the fact that love had found him and wasn't leaving.

It was this that made her stay. Part of her felt like a doormat for staying when he had hurt her so, but another part, a part just as defiant, wanted to prove him wrong. She could love him. She did love him. She would always love him.

On the morning of the fifth day, Belle noticed that the sunlight was a little brighter, a little fresher. When she looked at the window, it looked as though it had tripled in size. The bars were now far apart enough for her to fit through. Belle smiled and settled in to watch the sunrise.

That evening, there was a knock on her cell door. Belle hadn't used her voice in five days, and she was weak with hunger, so she didn't trust herself to answer. It didn't matter, because he would have come in anyway. The door opened of its own accord to reveal Rumpelstiltskin standing in front of it, carrying a tray of covered dishes. His back was as straight as the bars on her window, and he was looking ahead as though she didn't exist.

She took a sip of water. "Hello, Rumpelstiltskin." Her voice was hoarse, and she saw him close his eyes. It was like watching him stitch himself together—first his eyes closed, then he took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, shook his head, and opened them again. When he did, his impish smile was on.

"I thought you might be hungry, dearie, so I brought you a crust of bread." He giggled his evil giggle, the one he hadn't used near her in months.

She turned her head away.

And just like that, the ball was in her court. He followed her with his gaze like their heads were connected by a thread, and she forced herself not to react. He didn't speak, and she could tell he wanted to. She let the silence drag for an entire minute before turning her head to look at him.

"You know my name," she said.

Whatever he had been expecting her to say, it didn't seem to be this. He almost dropped the tray, but recovered it and cleared his throat.

"I thought you might be hungry—Belle—so I brought you a crust of bread." He did not giggle this time, and instead stretched his lips across his tombstone teeth in a humorless grin.

"You may leave it on the bench, Rumpelstiltskin." She didn't move, just watched him with a plain, unabashed gaze.

He set the tray down where indicated, and before she could thank him, vanished in a puff of smoke. The door replaced itself.

It had not been perfect, but it was a start. Belle looked at the tray, and licked her lips. It may only have been a crust of bread, but she was willing to bet that it would be the best bread crust she'd ever eaten.

When she opened the lid, however, there was no crust. Instead, he had filled a bowl to the brim with leftover stew, washed half a dozen strawberries, and removed the crusts from three slices of bread. The chuckle had barely left her mouth before she was tearing in.

By the sixth night, he had not brought any more food, but she had expected this and rationed out what he had brought the previous night. She ate one strawberry an hour, and then one piece of bread each hour after that. He appeared just after sundown with another tray. This time, he didn't speak, he just set the tray down and retreated to the other corner of the cell. They watched each other for a minute, neither speaking, and then Rumpelstiltskin disappeared.

He began bringing regular meals. On the eighth morning, he brought breakfast. That evening, dinner came again. He added lunch on the tenth. On the eleventh, he brought tea. If they spoke, it was short, and in general, he seemed more content to watch her face for a minute, as if assuring himself that she was real. Then, he would leave, and return only at the next meal time.

It was on the twelfth day that he came between mealtimes, carrying nothing. For once, Belle did not feel as though she had the upper hand, and she frowned in confusion.

"It has come to my attention that locking up one's caretaker is less than efficient." He did not look at her.

"Oh?" She folded her hands in her lap. "And who brought this to your attention?"

He did not speak. Then, "The castle."

Not answering, she stood up and smoothed out her dirty dress, then turned to him expectantly. He didn't look at her, just pivoted to face the door and walked out, leaving it open for her.

She didn't know where he would deem her services necessary, so she followed him in silence. They crossed the main hall, and Belle took in all the wreckage—the broken glass, smashed china, ruined treasures. Had he smashed those? Had someone attacked?

He led her past the kitchen and a few other parlors, up the stairs to the second floor. Their destination turned out to be the room he'd given her after her first week in the dungeons. He opened the door and then stepped aside to let her through.

"I expect dinner on the table in an hour," he said.

Her steps around the room were slow so that she could look it over. It was exactly as she'd left it, down to the marking in the book she'd been reading. When she'd inspected every inch, she circled around to face him, raising her head.

"Do you, now?" she asked, folding her arms with slow, deliberate movements that he followed with his gaze until they stopped, and he had to move his eyes to her face.

"It's your job, dearie. We had a deal."

She shook her head with as much indifference as if they were debating an adjective to describe the weather. "Cooking wasn't mentioned in the initial deal, and to be frank, I don't feel like doing it."

His upper lip twitched and she could see his chest rising and falling with the effort to remain calm.

"We had a deal," he repeated.

"You want to talk about deals?"

He looked wary, but she knew that he would walk into this trap willingly. If anyone else had been this blasé, he'd have turned them to dust, but Belle knew he would not touch her.

"Let's make a deal." She took one step closer to him, the smile on her face not unlike the one he wore when he was in charge.

"What?" he asked, meeting her gaze with narrowed eyes.

"I'll cook again—" She pressed her lips together, watching his eyes narrow.

"I'm listening."

"—when you apologize."

He slammed the door on his way out.

Being confined to her bedroom was much like being confined to the dungeons, except a bit more comfortable. She wandered the room for about an hour, taking solace in the fact that she could now stretch her legs. It may have been a guest room, but it was the biggest one in the castle and it took her at least thirty seconds to do a full circuit of the room. She hadn't felt stir-crazy in the dungeon because she was too unhappy, but now that she had tasted freedom, seen her love, she thought she would burst if she didn't do something.

She conducted a thorough inspection of her room, and it was when she was losing hope that she found the knitting project she had started, tucked away into a drawer. It was meant to be a blanket for Rumpelstiltskin, but she had only gotten a hand-sized square done before everything had occurred. He didn't deserve a blanket right now, but she hoped that, by the time she finished it, he would.

Happy to have something productive to do, she flopped onto her bed with her pile of yarn. It felt wonderful to bury her face into something soft, and she breathed in the clean scent of her pillow.

Then, she breathed it in again, because the scent was different. It smelled like leather and magic and trees. It was a scent she recognized, from falling into its arms and leaning in to kiss it. She would recognize it anywhere.

Rumpelstiltskin, for all that he pretended not to care, had missed her enough to lay on her pillow. That, she thought, was enough reason to deserve a blanket.

His knock came after she had been confined for twenty-four entire hours. It was good that he had knocked, because she had removed her dirty dress, and she took the opportunity to hide his finished blanket and then hide herself under her quilt.

"Come in."

He opened the door, but did not step inside.

"Can I help you?" she asked, drawing the quilt more tightly around her thinning frame.

"Will you at least dust?"

She gave him a soft smile, and he looked away. "Yes. I will dust."

All of the dirt had been piling up from neglect, and it took her over an hour to dust the entire castle. When she finally returned to her room, she was coughing and sneezing, trying to keep her eyes from watering.

She started to pull off the smock she'd put on, when something on her pillow caught her eye. There was a folded letter, sealed in black wax with what was unmistakably the seal of the Dark One. Having no idea what it could contain, but curious, she slid a finger across the seal to break it. It was a large paper, and she prepared for the worst, but when it was open to its full extent, there were only two words.

I'm sorry.

She read it three times to let it sink in, and then a smile spread across her face. After ripping the words off, she searched her room for something to write with. She came up with a quill from her drawer and a bottle of what she hoped was red ink, not blood.

She didn't have magic, so she couldn't deliver the letter quite like he had, but she hoped her method was effective. Just under the ripped edge, she wrote I forgive you. Then, she folded it back up and slid it under the door.

It was only a minute before she heard him walk by and pick it up. The door handle moved as though he was about to open it, but then his footsteps started up again and he walked away.

Still, Belle smiled.

After she served him breakfast the next morning, he found her cleaning up in the kitchen. She didn't notice him until she turned to replace a dish on a shelf. When she did, she dropped the plate in surprise.

"You startled me," she said, forgoing an apology over the broken plate in favor of scolding him. He could always use a good scolding anyway.

"Accompany me on a walk."

She looked him up and down. She couldn't help but feel like he was about to lead her to the gallows, even though she knew that he wasn't. It was the stiffness of his back, the harshness of his seemingly nice words, the lack of endearment.

"Where are we going?" She bent down to pick up the pieces of the plate, watching him so that he wouldn't get startled or back away, thinking her indifferent.

Instead of answering, he spun on his toes and started out the door.

"Curiosity killed the cat, dearie. I'll meet you at the doors in three minutes."

She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing, and shook her head at the floor.

"Well then, it's very lucky I'm not a cat, isn't it?" she called after him.

They walked in silence, two feet of space between them. He started them on the driveway, but as soon as the shrubbery cleared enough to fit a person, he guided her out to the grounds. It looked just as it did from her window—pretty and green, but altogether plain. He had a few trees here and there, but the only flower was the heather that grew naturally.

He broke the silence near the back of the castle, where the trees had thinned and the grounds were covered in gnarly, half-dead roots. "I have a job for you, dearie."

Hands clasped together in front of her, she looked at his profile. For once, he didn't look like he was trying to avoid her. Instead, he was surveying his grounds, fingers together at his chest. When his gaze did return to her, he whipped his head away like she'd spat on him.

"Yes?" she said.

"The garden." He swept his hand out, taking it all in. "It's a little bare for my tastes."

She continued to watch his profile, eyes narrowed. She didn't know exactly how old the Dark One was, but she had the feeling that he had been living in harmony with his bare garden for decades, at least.

"And what are your tastes for it?"

"Oh, I'm easy to please, dearie." He whipped his head to glare at her when she snorted with laughter. "Plant whatever you'd like. Tend to it. Make sure it doesn't all die."

Belle stopped walking. On a basic level, he was asking her to be a gardener as well as a housekeeper, but that wasn't what gave her pause. It was the fact that he was asking for her opinion, for her to put her personal touch on something so big—for her to stay long enough to watch the garden grow and flourish.

"Something wrong, dearie?" He was not looking at her, though, and she knew that he knew what she was thinking. He knew what he was asking.

If she said anything about what she knew, she would upset the delicate balance that they had struck. She also might cry. This next sentence had to be perfect. She started walking again.

"Do you like cherry blossom trees?"

He glanced at her. "If you like them, I'm sure I will eventually."

She wasn't sure if that was a no, or just a way of skirting the question. She tried another. "I'm fond of roses. What about rose bushes surrounding the castle walls? I could plant different colors."

"If you insist on making the dark castle colorful, then I suppose it shall be done."

She looked at him, and he was watching her out of the corner of his eye, impish grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"You know, the grounds are very large. It'll be difficult for me to spruce up the whole thing all by myself. Perhaps it would be more practical if we did it together?" She clasped her hands in front of her.

It was Rumpelstiltskin's turn to stop walking. He pivoted to face her, and she shifted slowly until she mirrored his stance. It was like the first time they'd kissed—he scoured her face like it was a treasure map with a hidden riddle, searching for a message buried in the depths. As she had then, Belle tried to keep herself open. She didn't want to hide anything from him, because she wanted him to believe. It may have seemed useless, but she knew he could—she just had to believe in him first.

"Why did you stay?" he whispered.

Belle had to smile. "For the same reason I came back."

He looked at her, his wide, black eyes boring into her own blue ones, his face smoothing with every passing second that he watched her.

"My power doesn't mean more to me than you do."

Even though she had said this to herself hundreds, thousands of times, the relief that coursed through her to hear the sentiment from her true love's own mouth made her laugh. He looked alarmed at this, like a scared animal preparing to back away, until she placed a cold hand on either cheek.

"Belle—"

"Rumpelstiltskin, I love you."

"And I love you, but—"

She started to push herself onto her toes, preparing to close the distance between them with what they'd both been waiting for, but he turned his head.

"Rumpelstiltskin—?"

"I can't let you break the curse."

His voice was low and hoarse enough that she would have liked to pretend that she hadn't heard him correctly, but she knew exactly what he'd said. She felt like the seams inside of her were tearing, like her ribcage was folding itself backward to expose her heart so that it could be ripped out at will. She let her hands slide down his cheeks, taking a step back.

Then, he looked at her, and the bald misery in his eyes forced her to stitch herself back together, at least for now.

"Why not?"

There were thousands of things she might have expected him to say—he wasn't ready to let go, or he needed to make just one more deal, or he didn't want to be weak. What she was not expecting was what he said.

"My son."

She was so shocked that even the tears welling up behind her eyes stopped what they were doing. For the first time in months, she took a long, hard look at him. No matter how green his skin or how bug-like his eyes, he had never looked more human.

"What?"

"I need to find my son." He looked at her, pleading. "I lost him, because I couldn't give up my power, and now I need it to find him again."

Belle's heart ached, a feeling that she thought only existed as metaphor, but which she had learned was all too real. It ached for Rumpelstiltskin, the imp who was also a man, who was also a father, who was also the love of Belle's life. She wanted to press his hand to her heart, to try and fill it with warmth and assure him that it would always be his. She wanted to cup his cheek, to tell him that he would find his son, and she would help him, stand by him always.

"Please, Belle—"

She threw herself into his arms, wrapping her own around his shoulders so that it was easier to bury her face in his mottled chest, slicking it with tears because his shirt was unbuttoned in just such a way that it did not shield him from her eyes.

"Belle!" Instead of wrapping his arms around her, as he should have, he took hold of her shoulders and pulled her off of him, bending down to look at her face. "Belle? What's wrong?"

"You. Your son. You miss your son. You miss your son."

She knew he must have been confused. She'd been so careful never to let him see her cry, never to do this in front of him, even when she had a reason, and now here she was, weeping on him like a child because he missed his son and she was sentimental.

"Belle—please—I do love you, I'm not pushing you away, I swear—"

"I know." She forced a smile, so that he would know that they weren't tears of sadness, but tears of sympathy, of empathy, of catharsis.

"You do?"

She took one of his hands off of her arm, and pressed it to the top of her dress, where even she could feel her heart pounding.

"Belle?"

"My heart is yours, Rumpelstiltskin, and even if I cannot kiss you and cannot break the curse, I will stay by your side. I will do whatever I can to help you find your son. I won't leave you."

"Oh, Belle." His voice was so hoarse, it was hardly there. "Belle." He drew her closer, watching her tear-stained face. "Belle." He buried his face in her chest, wrapping his arms around her and repeating her name, over and over, like a chanted blessing.

Belle threaded her fingers through his hair, and whispered, "Rumpelstiltskin."