A/N: Thank you everyone for the kind words, favorites and follows! I really appreciate it and hope my stories continue to please, as well as continue to get your fantastic feedback. This chapter is on the short side, but the next is really fun. (Yes, temptation.) Obligatory do not own statement , and with that, on with the show!


She did not sleep that night, and it was not for the normal reasons. She did not climb the stairs to his room, she did not engage in that empty, meaninglessness. Belle was all alone, well, she thought bitterly, not really. Curses and blessings interchangeably left her mouth as she talked to herself, trying to piece together what was to become of her – of her… their…child.

When he left the room, she flung her cloak over the mirror. She knew how all of he mirrors in this place worked, and she didn't want him to watch her struggle – wage another war with herself while she had to constantly wage war against him. She had learned from both her father and Gaston a two front war was the surest path to destruction.

If she was not on the path to destruction, she did not know what would take her there. No one decides my fate but me. She laughed at herself, so simple then – so consumed with the desire to be a heroine. It had made her the consort to a false villain and a villain by association. A lesser one, she reasoned, as her spite and bitterness only came after she had offered him everything and he had thrown it all away.

She lay on her side, her hands splayed on the flat plane of her lower abdomen. It was harder than it had been, but nothing noticeable. He had suggested she get rid of the child – there were things she could take… many thoughts of the sort crossed her mind, she longed to spite him in that way – show him just how easy it was to get rid of parts of him so interwoven with her.

All of it was motivated by spite though, and when she reminded herself of that – that she would be destroying something just to destroy him, she couldn't… it made her sick to her stomach. It was not fair to the newest consideration in her life. She felt like she was the only one who had to make this consideration. He offered her choices to make his interactions in this arena less filled with guilt. Whatever she decided, she realized, was hers to own: he was not going to take responsibility.

She twisted in her bed, her thoughts playing over and over, weighing the pros and cons she had to consider until before she knew it, there was light streaming in through the window. She had fallen asleep, despite her unease, and realized she did not feel rested at all. Sleep was apparently not enough, and her unease was clouding any relaxation she could have had. Then there was that feeling…

Belle pushed herself out her bed, tripping over her nightgown and stumbling to relieve her nausea. Though she tried not to her, her eyes were stinging and as she wretched, tears slipping down her cheeks – and her hair entirely in the way. It was not because of her rush of emotions that in an instant that she was sobbing – she just felt so awful.

No conclusions had been reached, and here she was, crouched on the ground, retching into another room's abandoned chamber pot that she had swiped for the purpose. Her shoulders heaved and Belle choked on her sobs, wondering what she was in store for in the next six months. Was this the worst it was to be? She hoped so.

Wiping her eyes, she stood and was instantly aware she had to bathe. She slipped her feet into her leather booties and exited her room, quietly as possible. If she could escape seeing him this morning, seeing him like this she would – and she did. He was probably avoiding her as well. They had so little to talk about.

And indeed, they continued to walk circles around one another. Avoidance became the dance of the days, then weeks. They barely spent even a meal together. Belle delivered his on the tray, and she ate in the kitchen. It was her choice, of course, she dictated most around here. He might have ruled with an iron fist and fear outside of the castle, but inside, Belle was the mistress of the house, and she dictated its patterns. It was just another aspect of their war.

When she was not cooking, she was reading – and after finding an empty, leather bound book, she started writing. She wrote everything she was feeling, she wrote letters to the child that was growing inside of her, she wrote letters to her empty lover, it was everything and nothing in a notebook.

It was not until three weeks later that another word was spoken between them. It was made easier by the fact he had disappeared for much of it, about two weeks on 'business.' When he got back, he smelled of alcohol and looked a complete fright. He did not emerge from his room for two days after his stumbling return. Belle sighed, whenever she looked at him, she hoped he saw what was clearly written all over her face: coward.

His suffering did not concern her right now. She was selfish, and unabashedly so. Her dresses were growing tight, both on the top and bottom, and she was so uncomfortable. She had tried to let the out as much as she could, but no amount of stitching was going to help anymore. She groused to herself and wore her laces loose when she could. When he was not home, she stole his shirts and wore them instead. They smelled like him, she thought: was she pining?

No. She scowled at herself. She did not pine for him. They were not like that anymore. It was foolish to think so. It was just… whatever was going on with the child, she assured herself. She was uncomfortable, and emotional. So, when he finally emerged from his drunken isolation, Belle had a practical matter to attend to.

"I need new dresses," she said pointedly, pouring tea in that damnable cup. It was the only one of its set left – he had smashed all of the others. That temper, she rolled her eyes, laying her hand on her stomach, she hoped the little one did not inherit that particular trait. She could not say what she wanted out of him or her – she went back and forth daily (sometimes hourly) on whether or not she actually wanted the little him or her.

Rumpelstiltskin regarded her with a careful eye. He did not speak immediately, probably to his advantage and nodded slowly. "I can see that." Belle looked at him crossly. His lips twitched – was that a smile? It died on his lips when she glared and his shoulders rose and fell with a silent breath. "I will fetch them for you tomorrow."

She nodded, her expression softening into indifference. She was not feeling particularly cross, except when he looked at her like she was foolish and then tried to make a fool of her. As she got older – she felt decades older – she took on more and more qualities of the woman she only vaguely remembered as her mother. She had been so proud and regal. She liked to think, when she walked tall, her chin held high – she embodied her heritage. She was the royal one here, and she did not wish for him to forget it.

For once, the silence between them was not fraught with vibrating tension. Belle took a seat by the fire, letting out a deep breath as she kicked her shoes off. He glanced over at her. "Are you alright?" His question was not directly filled with concern, but his eyes betrayed him.

She shrugged. "Fine," all of her replies were simple now. She did not detail, at length anything she was doing or how she was feeling. She just gave him what he needed to know and kept the rest of it to herself. Most of her feelings over-flowed onto the pages of her diary, her handwriting scrunched and scrawling, preserving as much space as possible. She anticipated needing it for a long time.

He was just nodding and looking into his teacup. The steam traveled up his nose, and she imagined the sweet smell of honey and lemon was pricking the inside of his nose. It was her favorite. She supposed he tolerated it, merely for the fact that she was quite obviously pregnant and ornery.

The only sound between them was the crackling of the embers. Rumpelstiltskin clicked his tongue. "Have you made a choice, yet?" he asked, glancing at her. She had quite a lot of time to think about it, at least from what she heard about the deals he made. Most of the deals did not get this kind of consideration. They needed to make a choice the second it was offered. He was not a patient man, but here he was, offering all the time in the world.

He would always offer her that time. "No." He disappeared into his teacup, and she put hers down, trading it in for her knitting needles and creamy white yarn. "I need more time." Click-clack.