It was Thursday morning, a little after eight. Mrs. Potts had just arrived for work and was in the middle of reviewing Mr. Gold's schedule for the day when someone set a chipped tea cup on her desk.

"I need you to find a copy of this exact tea cup and order it," Mr. Gold said. "I don't care how much it is or how long it takes you to find, just do it. And I need it by tomorrow evening, Monday at the latest."

Considering that this was one of the odder requests he'd ever made, Mrs. Potts lifted her eyes and gave Mr. Gold a quick look over. He'd been acting very out of character lately. In fact, he'd been acting strangely ever since he'd started teaching that spinning class last Wednesday. He'd been coming in to the office either late or several hours before she showed up at 8:00, and once it'd appeared that he'd stayed all night at the office and never gone home. Even more surprising, a couple times she'd caught him staring off into space—something that she'd never thought Mr. Gold would ever do—and he'd been much moodier which, taking into account how temperamental he'd been before, was a frightening prospect indeed. Mrs. Potts couldn't help but pity those with whom he'd conducted business the past seven days.

And then there was the whole tea thing.

Before last Wednesday, Mr. Gold had guzzled down his strong tea like a child his sweets. She'd always made several fresh pots a day. But lately, Mr. Gold's tea intake had dramatically decreased. Most days, he hadn't drunk more than a cup or two and one day he'd drunk nothing at all. She'd wondered if he was trying to cut down on the caffeine, but Mr. Gold wasn't the sort of man to let go of his day-to-day habits and she'd caught him on Tuesday staring at the cup she'd set on his desk with such a look of uncertainty and, dare she say, yearning that she wasn't sure what to think anymore.

And now he had just set a chipped tea cup on his desk. It had to be related somehow.

Mrs. Potts was a naturally curious woman, and a curious affair was surely afoot.

"When you say you want an exact copy, does that include the chip?" she asked when he'd started to turn away and lurk back to his den.

He gave her a look. "An undamaged copy, if you can, dearie," he said, sarcasm creeping into his voice. He turned back around and started to his office when he stopped yet again. His voice, this time, was softer. "And use that cup from now on for my tea." He paused. "Please." Then he disappeared.

Mrs. Potts stared at his closed door. Had he just said "please"? Had the great and formidable, gruff and domineering Mr. Gold just been…pleasant? And why, when he had his impressive Shelley tea set he'd used for years, would he ask for his tea to be delivered in a chipped, cheap cup?

Yes, something curious was in the works.

As Mrs. Potts got up and made her way to the office kitchen to prepare the first pot of the day, carrying the peculiar chipped cup with her, she wondered what could have come over the man. Could it be that he'd found a lady at this spinning class? The idea was nearly impossible to imagine. For the past three years Mrs. Potts had worked for him, she'd known what Mr. Gold did nearly every hour of his life, and there'd never been any time set aside for companionship of any kind. But if Mrs. Potts had to trust her womanly instinct, she'd say that Mr. Gold's heart was being touched by a feminine hand, and the thought made her own old motherly heart quicken.

Regardless, whatever or whoever it was, it was clear that there was something there that wasn't there before.

Belle knew now. She knew about his ruthless reputation in the world of business. She knew why he was a man to be feared, never to be crossed. She'd learned, at least in part, why he deserved to be called a beast.

Yet she'd let him touch her hands when he had reached for the chipped cup. She'd offered him tea. She'd spoken freely with him about Henry James and Milton and T. S. Eliot. She'd accepted him.

And he'd barely been able to contain himself.

What were in those cerulean depths that bewitched him so? What was in that unconditional smile that weakened him thus, in her lovely voice that called like siren song to his blackened heart?

When he'd walked into the lounge and startled her, and she'd leaned over and offered up the broken cup with both her dainty hands, her face marred with uncertainty, he'd scarcely been able to move or think. She was so, so beautiful. And perfect. A perfect, little light.

For so many years—too many—he'd shut out the world, and he'd done a mighty fine job at doing it. He'd become wealthy. Powerful. He'd become the figure of authority and respect and dread which he'd imagined for himself as an angry lad of seventeen, leaving Scotland behind. No longer was he forced to play to the whims of those higher than he. He was the highest. He bowed to no one.

But for all his might, he still went home to a dark house every night.

Mr. Gold ground his teeth. He didn't know why that part of Dr. Hopper's conversation two weeks ago kept haunting his mind—that every night he returned to his house, it was empty, dark. It'd never bothered him before until he'd met Belle. Oh, how she could lighten up that darkness, his darkness!

A knock came at the door and he straightened up, shuffling his papers so that it would look like he'd been working. "Yes, Mrs. Potts?" he called, kicking himself for his foolish thoughts.

She walked in with a file in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. His Belle's cup.

"The EPS file you requested and your tea," she said, handing both to him. "And Dr. Hopper is on line one. Should I have him call back later?"

"No, I'll take it." Mr. Gold picked up the phone as soon as Mrs. Potts had left. "Dr. Hopper," he said, looking down at the chipped cup on his desk. It was a dainty, pretty little cup, with a golden rim, slender handle, and a simple blue flower design on the front—blue, like her eyes.

Gold for him, blue for her, he wryly thought.

"How are you doing, Mr. Gold?" Dr. Hopper asked in his calm, soft voice, interrupting his musings.

Mr. Gold cleared his throat and tore his eyes away. "Calling to check up on me, dearie?" he asked, ignoring the man's first question. "Before you ask, let me report that I've been a very good little boy and attended every detention you've assigned me at SSU where I've done my level best to be on my best behavior."

The last wasn't the complete truth, but at least he hadn't skinned any of his ducklings yet, however tempting it had been at times. And he hadn't hit Gaston. He deserved a bloody medal.

"Yes, Mary Margaret said that you seemed to be getting along well," Dr. Hopper said. "She also said that several of the attendees have come up to her and said that they're learning a lot from the class. She's very grateful."

He was getting compliments? He'd been expecting massive complaints by now. Maybe he was doing something wrong.

"I'm glad I've met with her approval," Mr. Gold said, rather sarcastically. If Dr. Hopper heard the derision, he chose to ignore it.

"And how do you feel the class is going?" Dr. Hopper asked.

Great. Now the little man was going to go all psycho-babble-y on him. Mr. Gold pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I'm very impressed with the group. They know their right hand from their left," he said, the derision now very heavy and evident in his voice.

"But what about you?" Dr. Hopper persisted. "Have you enjoyed it?"

Mr. Gold's eyes involuntarily crept to the chipped cup on his desk. One finger snuck out to trace the rim, dipping over the jagged chip. Gold and blue…

"Mr. Gold?"

"I do believe it wins over the underwater basket weaving class," he said, referring back to their conversation two weeks ago.

There was a brief pause, and Mr. Gold could tell that Dr. Hopper was debating on whether he should push for more information or let Mr. Gold be. To Mr. Gold's great consternation, the man went for the middle ground.

"I was hoping to come visit the class tomorrow to see how things are going," he said. "It'd allow me to be more specific and draw on examples for my letter to the board."

Mr. Gold grimaced. There was nothing less he wanted than for a shrink to be running loose in his classroom. But this was about the evaluation, about knocking Regina off her throne and onto her pretty little—

"I mean, I'll still be giving you a positive evaluation—I promised as much," Dr. Hopper quickly corrected. "But this way I can write a more convincing letter."

"Then by all means, Doctor, come by," Mr. Gold forced through clenched teeth.

"That's wonderful. I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Gold."

"But of course, dearie," Mr. Gold said, hanging the phone up. He stared at it for a moment and then his eyes wandered back to the cup. At least there was one thing to look forward to on Friday, he thought as he gently, reverently picked it up and took a sip. He hummed approval, deep in his chest.

Yes. Mrs. Potts knew how to make a dang good cup of tea. Not like his Belle's, though. His secretary's was more bitter, stronger—perfect for work. And Belle's? Still strong but with the hint of something sweet. Perfect for his precious thirty minutes with his Belle in the lounge.

A voice inside of him was yelling, screaming at him to stay away, to protect her by never getting too close. But surely, surely, she was simply humoring him. She couldn't care for him. No one could. So what harm was there in him taking their thirty minutes?

He took a second sip, pulled out his work, and settled in for a long day of negotiations.

When Friday's class arrived, it couldn't have gone less according to plan.

"Will it be quicker if I walk?" Mr. Gold asked his chauffeur with stiff irritation, looking at the long line of crowded cars ahead of them. Because of an important overseas phone call he'd received at 4:50 that evening, Mr. Gold hadn't even left Mills and Associates until 5:30 which would have still given him just enough time to make it to the class on time, but now they were stuck in traffic. What bloody luck.

"I believe the car will be quicker, sir," his chauffeur said, all seriousness.

Mr. Gold sat back in the seat and pulled out his cell phone. After a little bit of digging around to find the information he needed, he dialed and waited.

"Hello?" a bright cheery voice asked.

"Ms. Blanchard," he said by way of greeting. "I am stuck in traffic and will most likely be—"

He looked up to his chauffeur who estimated that they'd be about ten minutes late.

"—fifteen minutes late today."

"Oh, I'm very sorry, Mr. Gold!" she cried as though a national emergency had befallen the highway. "I'll call Archie right away and have him tell the students. If you need anything else, I can—"

Without another word, he hung up the phone and leaned back over the seat divider. "Get there by 6:15," he growled.

They arrived at 6:11. Mr. Gold grabbed his cane, left his briefcase on the seat, and stepped out as soon as the car had pulled to the curb. Wincing as he hobbled up the stairs more quickly than he'd prefer, he took a breath at the third-floor landing and then entered his domain.

"Up front!" he barked, and as everyone gathered round his demonstration wheel, he noticed a frizzle-red-haired man with an umbrella sitting in the corner of the room. Dr. Hopper caught his eye and gave him a smile. Mr. Gold ignored him.

"Today, you're going solo," he said as he started up the wheel with a twist of his hand. "Most of you sorry lot aren't ready—"

That was only mostly true. He'd never admit it out loud, but he was impressed with the progress they'd made. It was much more than he'd have ever expected.

"—but I only have three more classes to try and pound passable spinners out of you, so catch up and stay up or check out."

He showed the class yet again what to watch out for, both by demonstrating himself and by picking on a few students to spin in front of the class so that he could point out the errors he'd most likely see everyone make, and then he sent them off to their individual wheels. As he lurked about the room, critiquing with his usual zest, he was dissatisfied to see that, because of the short number of wheels, four attendees had to couple up and take turns practicing. Belle and Ruby were amongst them, and he knew that it'd be difficult for the four of them to keep up if they only had half the time to work. Sure enough, when Belle took Ruby's place halfway through the first half of class, she was already behind the others. She was a clever girl, Mr. Gold knew, but she didn't seem to be the most coordinated of the group. And she was still holding the wool too close.

"Now Ms. French," he said, pulling up alongside her as it neared 7:15. "What is it going to take for you to remember to hold the wool further away from the orifice?"

"As long as it takes for you to stop calling me Ms. French," she said, returning his teasing tone and speaking quietly enough that her voice didn't carry past his ears. She was smiling. Of course she was smiling. She was always smiling. During class, in the lounge, on the stairs, in his dreams…

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he frowned. Few people—a precious few—had this number. Something was wrong.

"Excuse me, Ms. French," he said, stepping to the side and pulling out the phone. He noticed the number and frowned. If his overseas deal fell through now…

He checked his watch and saw that it was 7:13. Too bad.

"Off to your break now, dearies," he said to the class. "My gift to you—an extra few minutes. Don't be late at 7:45."

Then he hurried out of the classroom and answered the phone gruffly. Sure enough, there was a minor meltdown in his deal, and he spent the next twenty minutes snarling down the phone, becoming the notorious Mr. Gold—the beast of the business—through and through. And as each second passed, each precious minute he could be spending in the lounge with a certain blue-eyed Aussie, he grew angrier and felt (could he admit it?) a flicker of something close to panic. He carefully concealed it behind his infamously low, menacing voice, refusing to let any weakness show over the phone, but inside he was shattering. He only had three more class periods, ninety more minutes in the lounge, one week of smiles, before he'd never see his Belle again.

And here he was on the phone.

It'd never struck him so hard that his time with the Aussie was grossly limited. Of course their relationship would never continue past the class. How could it? And his time was running out.

As soon as he'd reached a conclusion of sorts, he told the man they'd talk further tomorrow and quickly limped down the hall to the lounge. Ten minutes was better than nothing. But he paused outside when he looked through the window to see Belle laughing with Dr. Hopper. He clenched his jaw. Of course.

He was about to prowl away when Belle noticed him and her entire face brightened. She stood up and opened the door.

"Dr. Hopper was waiting for you," she said.

"Ah, yes, if I might have a word, Mr. Gold?" Dr. Hopper asked.

"I'll leave you two be," Belle said, and though she was smiling, was that a hint of regret in her eyes? Before Mr. Gold could stop her, she slipped away.

"Your teaching style is…unique," Dr. Hopper said as soon as the door had closed.

"Is it?" Mr. Gold distractedly asked, peering out the window to see Belle pause halfway down the hallway and throw him a glance over her shoulder before disappearing into the spinning room. The brief flare of jealousy he'd felt a few seconds ago blew out.

"Yes, it is," Dr. Hopper murmured, suddenly catching the expression on Mr. Gold's face as he stared after the lovely woman who'd just served him tea.

Dr. Hopper had known that forcing Mr. Gold to do the spinning class would be good for the man. But this? He'd never expected this.

Note: Mr. Gold may be in love. Huh.

"Yes, it is," Dr. Hopper repeated, a small smile crossing his face.

When Belle returned to the classroom, she sat down at the wheel and sighed. She'd been so looking forward to tea with Mr. Gold, and now she'd have to wait out the whole weekend before she'd have another chance. She started idly practicing her spinning, but quickly grew frustrated. For some reason, the wool never slid through her hands right, and it kept coming out lumpy. Mr. Gold had told her repeatedly that she'd been holding it wrong, but no matter how hard she tried, her hand seemed to move by itself into the wrong position. It was frustrating. He probably thought she was dumb.

And too young.

And way under his league.

She sighed.

"Belle! Belle, Belle, Belle!" Ruby suddenly cried in a shrill voice, and Belle looked up to see her friend dancing into the room, face alight and body quivering with pent-up excitement.

"What is it?"

"Peter. Asked. Me. Out," Ruby said, emphasizing each word. "It's about time, isn't it?"

"That's great, Ruby," Belle said, trying even harder to conceal her own disappointment. "When is it?"

For the remainder of the break, Ruby related in tiny, oh-so-gooey detail how Peter had asked her and how she'd felt. Belle nodded and smiled and hummed at the right times, but she kept finding herself looking to the door, waiting for Mr. Gold to return. He didn't until right at 7:45, at which time everyone returned to their spinning. The other man, Dr. Hopper, who Belle remembered was Professor Nolan's uncle and who'd found Mr. Gold for the class in the first place, seemed to have left, and Belle wondered why the shy man had come. For some reason, she'd gotten the feeling that he was checking up on Mr. Gold. Come to think of it, Mr. Gold didn't seem the type to want to teach a spinning class. Maybe a torture class, she thought with an amused smile, but definitely not spinning for a room full of intellectuals. Perhaps Dr. Hopper had persuaded Mr. Gold to take on the class for some reason. But why? It was all a bit strange.

Ruby spun for the first half, and Belle for the last half, and still, Belle couldn't quite seem to get the tension right. She thought that maybe if she could have her own wheel for the full time she'd probably get it figured out, but there weren't enough wheels to go around, and Ruby and she had decided to team up to give the others a better chance to learn. So as 9:00 came around, Ruby trilled off something about catching a goodnight glimpse of her barista boy as she jumped away, the other attendees gradually dispersed, and Belle was still working, biting her lower lip as she tried to get the wool to move as smoothly as Mr. Gold could.

"Troubles, Ms. French?"

She started and looked up to see Mr. Gold watching her from the far corner of the room. She'd assumed that he'd left with everyone else as soon as 9:00 came around like he always did, but he was still here, an amused expression on his face. He must have been watching her for a few minutes before he'd said anything. Belle felt her breathing immediately quicken.

They were very much alone.

She swallowed. "I can't seem to get this thing to work," she confessed, turning her attention back to the wheel and promptly snarling it up.

"You are a terrible spinner," Mr. Gold observed, his voice and eyes teasing.

"Thanks for pointing out the obvious, oh Master," Belle said with a snort.

"Try again, my apprentice," he mockingly said, standing upright and starting toward her.

Attempting to ignore his ever closer presence, she spun up the wheel and tried again.

"Right hand back," he said, coming just behind her. "Left hand looser."

"Like this?" Belle asked, trying to get it right.

"No, no, looser."

Belle laughed with exasperation when she loosened it too much and he bluntly repeated that she was a terrible spinner. "I'm afraid I'm not so good at this," she said.

"Up, up," he said, a touch of impatience in his voice.

Thinking he was going to tell her to give up, Belle stood up with a frown but stopped her words when Mr. Gold simply turned the bench ninety degrees so that it was running perpendicular to the wheel. He gestured and she sat back down. And then, without another word, he hooked his cane on the wheel next to them and sat behind her. Her back to his chest. His breath on her neck. Her legs closed in on either side by his. His left foot nudging her right on the treadle. And his hands—his long, clever fingers over hers. It was him, all around her, all over her. His touch. His skin. His cologne—subtle, warm. His smell. Him.

His hands froze almost immediately, as though his mind had finally caught up with what he'd done, and Belle could feel his shoulders become rigid. He seemed even more surprised than she by their sudden closeness.

She needed to say something. If she didn't, he'd jump away. He'd throw on the mask, hide the spinner away even deeper than before. And part of her wanted him to do just that because it'd be wise. It'd be safe.

But the other part of her wanted to fall, wanted to plunge, just as she had the first moment she'd seen him on the stairs.

Be brave and bravery will follow, she whispered to herself.

Clearing her throat, she quietly asked, "Can you—can you show me?"

He said nothing, but he didn't need to.

With a touch so gentle Belle wanted to cry, he wrapped his fingers around her right hand and slowly pulled her hand back on the wool. She felt the feather-soft fibers slip through her thumb and two finger, felt the strength in his hand as he directed her, guided her. Then he worked on her left hand, softly massaging her hand until it loosened over the sheep's triangle, tight enough to hold it back but slack enough to let the wool move. And then he started the treadle, the gleaming, smooth black leather of his shoe resting against her bare foot, and the wheel started to spin.

Since the first day of class, Belle had loved the whisper and the movement of the spinner's wheel. She'd loved just sitting and moving the treadle, watching it whirl. She'd loved watching Mr. Gold work even more, to see how smoothly he moved, how expertly. But this? This was her favorite moment by far.

To the whisper of the wheel, she could also hear the whisper of their clothing brushing against each other. And to the movement of its spin, she also saw his hands on hers, teaching her, touching her, caressing her, caressing the wheel, the wool, the wood—everything in front of him.

She finally understood now what he'd meant on the first day of class when he'd told the elephant stomper to treat the treadle like a lover.

Spinning was a shade of love.

"Do you feel that?" Mr. Gold whispered in her ear, his voice low and accent heavy, as he helped her move the treadle at a constant pace, and his hands were gently moving with hers, keeping the line of wool taut but loose, and smoothing it out without bunching it or gripping it too tightly.

"Yes," Belle managed to say.

And that was all he said for an incalculable moment. Belle had no idea how long they stayed that way. She only knew that every touch, every breath—sinking into her flushed skin with tingling, sweet sting—would be in her memory for ages to come.

After they reached a joint, smooth tempo, hands and feet working together, Belle realized that she was still tense from when he'd first sat behind her. She consciously loosened the muscles in her neck and shoulders, and felt herself lean back a bit, into his chest. And slowly, ever so slowly, she felt him loosen behind her. His arms relaxed over hers, releasing their stiffness, and with painful caution, his head came to rest next to her ear. She moved her head to the side, giving him room, and after a hundred more revolutions of the wheel, she caught her breath when he lowered his head and his nose brushed her neck with the softest of touch. Little by little, he moved up to her jaw, making her shiver, and she felt his breath on her skin, warm and quick. First his left hand and then his right hand strayed up her arms to the crooks of her elbows, her shoulders, her neck, and her eyes fluttered closed.

"Have dinner with me."

The voice in her ear was low and rough. She opened her eyes to see that the wheel had stopped.

"Tomorrow."

He was looking at her, his eyes dark, his face scant inches away.

"Yes," she breathed.

"At my house."

"Yes."

"I will have someone pick you up at 6:45."

"Yes."

A smile ghosted over his face. "You're a very difficult woman."

She felt dizzy. "You can cook?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I order out."

"No."

His brow furrowed. "And here I said you weren't difficult."

She smiled. "I'll cook."

He returned the smile, but it was spoiled with sarcasm. "I may be a beast, dearie, but I don't expect my guests to work for their—"

Without even thinking about it, she found her fingers over his lips, silencing him. His eyes flashed, darted down to her own mouth. "I'll cook," she repeated. Her heart was pounding. Soft…so soft…

"If you insist," he lowly said against her fingers. The feeling made her stomach twist. She quickly pulled her fingers away and was unable to restrain a quick glance down to his mouth.

She needed to leave. She needed to leave now.

"You can do the dessert," she said, trying to sound like they were just two associates figuring out the details to a luncheon, but her voice was too bright. "Do you have the usual kitchen stuff? Pots? Pans? Salt and pepper?" The last came out a bit teasingly.

"What kind of kitchen doesn't," he said after the briefest of pauses.

"Then it's a date," she said, smiling and beginning to stand up when he grabbed her hand. She felt her breathing abruptly increase again as she looked down at their joined hands and then up to his face. Slowly, he brought her hand up to his mouth.

"A date, Ms. French," he repeated, brushing his lips over her knuckles. He held on to her hand for a moment, his dark eyes locking onto hers, all intensity, then he released it.

"Tomorrow. 7:00," she whispered. And she stood up and left the room.

Mr. Gold sat there on the wooden bench, next to the wheel, staring at the now empty hallway.

She'd said yes.

What had he been thinking?

He staggered up, got his cane, and flipped out the light as he left. As soon as he reached the car and his chauffeur had opened the door for him, not asking what had kept him so long, Mr. Gold situated himself and pulled out his phone.

"Mr. Gold?" a confused voice asked after the call connected.

"Mrs. Potts?"

"Yes," she said, still confused. "Do you need something?"

He paused. His Belle was coming tomorrow and she was cooking and she'd need pots and pans and salt and pepper. "I need a favor," he said.

"A favor?" Now her voice was downright surprised, and for good reason. She'd never, not once, ever heard such words from his mouth. "What do you need?"

He took a deep breath. "How much do you know about stocking a kitchen?"

[btw – I DON'T OWN OUAT OR ITS CHARACTERS. And that's a good thing. Because if I did, I'd start playing with Rumpelstiltskin's potions and probably blow myself up. btw#2 – I also don't own the movie Return to Me. Catch the reference? Kudos to CloverKitten06 for the Sabrina ref last chapter. | Ever eternally, thanks for the reviews.]