A/N:I do not own Once Upon a Time or the genius that is Plunkett and Macleane. This chapter is longer than the rest and hopefully they will be about this length from now on. I've reread it a million times and never change anything but I am nervous about this one for some reason. If you have strong opinions let me know haha. Now on with the show.

Chapter 3:

Plunkett chucked the sack of Belle's jewelry and the smaller leather pouch of the old man's gold on the bed in the corner of the room as Macleane came in the door behind him. The second man had his head tilted back and a blood soaked cloth pressed to it as he made his way to the closest chair, mumbling complaints all the way. The ride home had been awful, each bounce of the horse causing Macleane to issue a string of curses as he rode blind, his eyes facing the stars in an effort to stop the blood flow. The house was dark and the first thing Plunkett did was stroll to the table his partner was seated at and light a small oil lamp, twisting the knob to make the flame as small as possible while still allowing for optimal sight. Lamp oil wasn't free and every extra purchase added up when it came to their nest egg for the America's. Macleane hit the table with a fist, shaking the lamp, as he tried to remove the cloth and found that it was still bleeding and his nose exploded in pain.

Plunkett didn't so much as jump but just chuckled. His friend looked ridiculous. He took off his jacket and holster, setting them on the table by the lamp before turning, "Here, let me see."

Macleane removed his hand slowly as Plunkett reached up to take the cloth from him. "Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah. Easy!" He hissed again and kept his head back as his friend assessed the situation.

"Oh hush it." Plunkett chuckled as he looked it over. He was not a doctor so he wasn't sure if his nose was broken or not; they would know if it healed crooked that was for sure. He picked up a tattered shirt from the floor and took the end of the sleeve tightly in his teeth, ripping it apart at the seams with multiple short jerks. He balled it up in his hand and pressed it to Macleane's nose, "Here, hold this." As the other man took it from him he went over to the small bucket of water on the second wooden table in the corner of the room. Ripping a smaller strip of cloth, he dipped it in the water and rung it out. He then bent and picked up a small, latched leather bound box and put it in the crook of his arm. Macleane mumbled as if his face were pressed lightly into a pillow once Plunkett was back at his side, "Ruddy wench. Who the hell does she think she is?"

Plunkett removed the second bloody cloth and tossed it on the table beside the box after undoing the latches. "Well your hands did wonder to somewhere they shouldn't have been mate." He chuckled hard enough that he bit his lower lip in an effort to stop before he wounded the beaten man's ego further.

"What are you talking about? I didn't even get to cop a feel before her fist collided with my face!" He winced again as Plunkett wiped most of the blood away from his nostrils so he could manage a better look. "Besides," Macleane huffed, "her tits were too small anyway."

Laughing again Plunkett, grabbed a bottle from the leather box and dabbed a gel onto a clean bit of cloth. "Her tits were fine mate, you're just scorned. Keep ye' head back and be still, ya tosser."

As he dabbed the herb infused gel onto Macleane's nostrils he thought back to the woman they had just robbed. Her father had yelled 'Belle' at her when she punched Macleane, so that must have been her name. Belle. Well that certainly rolled off the tongue nicely didn't it? Belle. She hadn't cried, begged them to stop and repent, or hidden behind her father. How very strange now that he thought about it. Instead, she assaulted one of them. He recalled the vision of her breathless excitement, borderline rage, after she punched his partner, how her curls flared around her, how her chest moved as she breathed quickly and deep, trying to keep her composure. His mind focused on that part in particular for an extra few seconds and his statement remained true. There was absolutely nothing wrong with her breasts, tits was no word to describe a woman like that, they were quite nice actually. He shook his head and brought himself back to the present. The blood had finally stopped and he dropped a pinch of powder into a cup of water before handing it to Macleane. "Drink this," he mumbled as he closed the box and latched it after piling up the bloody cloths to be discarded later.

Macleane drank it down before standing slowly and going to the looking glass next to the door and inspecting it. His pathetic nose was red, slightly swollen and still very painful. Resisting the urge to touch it, he asked, "Do you think it's broken?"

Plunkett nodded, "Aye, you'll be horribly disfigured. Rebecca will never want to lay eyes on you again. She'll leave you for a good lookin' bloke and no lass around will bed you without a large amount of coin." He ducked as his friend threw the rag he was holding at his head and then smirked when the quick movement caused him to wince. Served the pup right. He walked over to the small bed in the corner and sat down, one leg bent towards him, while the other dangled on the floor for balance.

"What did she have anyway?" He asked, grabbing the burlap sack. He dumped the jewelry onto the mattress and pulled out a small eyeglass to inspect the individual gems. He worked slowly and quietly, checking the cut, the weight of them in his hand and the clarity of the stone as well as he could in the dim lamp light. They were all real. Why was he not surprised?

"What are you talking about?" Macleane finished inspecting his nose in the mirror and turned around, tossing his coat over the back of the chair.

"Down her dress. What did she have that you were after?" He looked up from his work to the other man.

"Oh," Macleane sat back down. "She took it off her wrist, so I am guessing it was a bracelet." He paused and poured a small glass of liquor and sighed. "Imagine it Plunkett, whatever it was had to be bloody valuable. Who takes on a Highwayman for a trinket?"

Plunkett nodded. Macleane might have been onto something. The girl had a strong stomach that was for sure. But the point was whatever she had hidden was gone now and there was none sense in both of them mourning its loss. He looked back down to the items in his lap. The necklace was heavy; she was so small, he wondered how it hadn't caused her to fall over. He smiled to himself as he thought again about how the dainty thing had actually knocked Macleane on his arse. He pooled the trinket in his palm and put it back inside the sack. It had looked lovely perched atop her smooth chest; almost a pity they had to sell them. Almost. He shook his head and deposited both bags in the large trunk at the foot of the bed. It was best to forget about her, odds were he would never see her again.

A week later Plunkett had accompanied Macleane to the weekly card game at Rochester's. Plunkett was leaning against the wall watching the game, although it wasn't a game at all, more like a slaughter. Macleane was sweating chips and wasn't going to last much longer. As much as he liked to think he could play with the big boys, his partner was an amateur. Macleane tossed the cards into the middle of the table, folding yet once again; that was the last of his pile of coin and he was out for the night. If he asked for anymore to buy back in, Plunkett would have the strong urge to break his nose all over again.

As a matter of fact, Macleane's face had healed rather nicely. There was still bruising around the insides of his eyes but the swelling had all but vanished. Not broken per say but perhaps there had been a fracture because it failed to be perfectly symmetrical with the rest of his face. As bad as it sounded, Plunkett couldn't help but be glad that the remnants of his friends' injury would remain, for every time he looked at Macleane's nose he was reminded of the dainty powerhouse named Belle and he couldn't help but chuckle quietly to himself.

Plunkett smoothed his dark brown hair back from his face and tied it in a small knot at the nape of his neck. Pulling out his pipe to prepare for the ride home he glanced up as Rochester stood, throwing his beloved bull dogs a piece of chocolate. Back when he owned his apothecary he know enough that certain types of animals had reactions to the human treat. Those poor little bastards would probably be dead before the month was out. But such were the ways of their dear flamboyant friend. Rochester was most easily the most decorated man in London. Dressing like he belonged with the gypsies instead of the royals, he often waltzed in and out of the most prestigious of parties draped in purples and pastels. A small metal stud with a heart perched at the end pierced the edge of his eyebrow, setting off just how different he was from those around him.

"Good to see you again my man, as always." Rochester added at the end with a smirk and a waggle of his eyebrows as he approached Plunkett with Macleane at his heels.

Plunkett shook his head but smiled anyway. Rochester's preference in bed wasn't hard to guess but somehow the man never failed to put a smile on his face.

"You will be attending the ball tomorrow, gentlemen?" He looked between them both, pausing as he put more weight on his jewel encrusted cane. "Supposed the party of the year. Mousier Moe French is holding a masquerade in honor of his daughter's engagement."

Plunkett paused. Moe French? Why did that name sound so familiar? Macleane answered after a wide smile spread across his face, "Party of the year you say?" He paused and looked at his friend. "Could be fun, wouldn't you say Plunkett?"

"Oh yes. Loads." Plunkett forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Even though another party was destined to bring them more "clients", it also meant another night of being Macleane's lackey. Of being the servant while his partner played the gentleman. Not that he really minded but the charade often become tiring after a night of fetching Macleane more drink. Macleane was no more a gentleman than he was and yet he was stuck playing the sidekick. What would make tomorrow night any different?

The next night both men arrived at the party fashionably late with Rochester at their side. Plunkett slipped on the simple black masquerade mask that Rochester handed him and said a silent prayer of thanks that it was not as glittery or as purple as the man's was himself. After making sure his hair was tied back and wouldn't get in the way of the mask, Plunkett scanned the room.

"What's the plan?" Macleane leaned over after putting on his own mask and whispered to Plunkett as they were announced upon walking through the grand doors.

"Same as always I figure. You prance around entertaining the most expensive tossers in the room while I lurk in silence trying to find out information strictly through eavesdropping." Plunkett smirked and held up a hand, waggling his fingers. "With maybe a little pick pocketing on the side"

Macleane nodded and adjusted his waist coat, putting his expensive looking cane a step in front of him. "Meet me in an hour back here.

As his partner drifted off, Plunkett made his way along the outside of the room. He observed the nobles as they laughed and drank away the early hours of the night. The women decorated in jewels and dresses that could house a small number of children, while the men wore pants a bit too tight and wigs more than a tad too large. Fashion, for what it was worth, was something that Plunkett never understood. One of the many reasons he had concluded that he was "uncivilized".

He caught snippets of conversation here and pieced it together with other bits from there, but nothing truly useful popped up as he made his first lap around the room without being noticed. As he came back to the door, he stopped as he set eyes on her. She was small. Dainty yet well rounded. The silk of her golden dress poured over her shoulders and waist like a second skin, before falling around her hips like a waterfall. Thin gold bangles decorated each wrist by the dozens, while golden chandelier earrings peaked out from her chestnut curls. Her neck however was bare, but Plunkett hardly thought that was a bad thing. The smooth expanse of flesh seemed offered to the room as a gift so coveted, no one was allowed to touch. It was the woman that had punched Macleane. Belle. It had to be, Plunkett was sure of it.

"May I help you?" Belle closed her golden fan gently as she broke away from the crowd to address the man that was silently gawking at her. "Sir?" She prodded again as he didn't reply.

Plunkett snapped out of his trance at the sound of her voice and tried to incoherently piece together a sentence but it was as if his brain had forgotten how to function and had so left him to look like a fool. He sighed giving up on anything articulate and offered an apology instead.

Belle didn't make fun of him in the least but instead blushed gently beneath her ornate mask. Her blue eyes glittered more than the gems on the mask ever could and Plunkett was awestruck. Glancing over her shoulder, she tensed and gave a face wrought with worry before grabbing Plunkett by the hand and hauling him through the crowd onto the middle of the dance floor. She spun around and their hands fell into place. "Dance with me." It was a statement, not a question Plunkett noted and knew in that moment he was likely to do whatever she commanded. She paused, waiting for his nod before she stepped back as he stepped forward beginning their graceful waltz.

After a moment's pause, checking to make sure whoever she had spotted moments before was no longer around; she looked up at his face and gave a small smile. "Thank you. I-I needed out-…" She took a breath and tried again. "I'm Belle."

Plunkett almost responded with 'I know' but bit his tongue, "William."

"Well then, it's nice to meet you William." She smiled again as he twirled her out and pulled her back in.

Once she was pressed against the front of his body, he smirked gently and nodded, "Likewise."

Belle raised an eyebrow, catching on quickly after a moment's pause. "We've never met and this is not my first ball. So one can see how that would be odd. What is your last name?"

Plunkett chuckled and shook his head. Clever girl did not waste any time. "Are you always this forward?"

"Every day of the week and twice on the Sabbath." Belle nodded without a moment's hesitation. "Does that make me wicked?"

'Oh you definitely are something.' Plunkett thought and he changed their direction, realizing that for the first time the fact that he could dance better than Macleane was paying off. "Not at all my lady," he said with a reassuring smile.

"So I'll ask again, what is your full name?"

She was relentless. And something inside Plunkett knew this was important. From these few moments of conversation he knew Belle was not a maiden to be forgotten. She was not one to take society lying on her back and though she intrigued him, he could almost guarantee her personality gave her hell inside the aristocratic crowds. She was trouble; and if Plunkett had any sense at all he knew he should have released her and strolled out of the ballroom. But instead he pulled her close abruptly. She let out a small yip as the fronts of their bodies were pressed against one another tight enough that if she inhaled deeply, her chest pressed against his. He placed a hand on the small of her back and dipped her down slowly, letting her curls cascade almost to the marble floor. Upon pulling her back up he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "Perhaps another time."

Belle looked him in the eyes, breath and words failing her at the moment as he lowered her towards the floor with such strength that somehow she knew he would never drop her. He denied her second attempt at discovering his true name and she was honestly baffled. Who was he?

"Plunkett!"

Belle watched as his eyes widened behind his mask and she pieced the two together with a smirk of her own. Plunkett saw her full, ruby lips tilt up with realization as Macleane gave away the answer to her question. She had won; they both knew it. Macleane moved through the crowd slowly and when he eventually reached them Plunkett released Belle slowly, his hands sliding along the fabric of her bodice, memorizing the feel of her in his arms.

"We need to leave, Rebecca-…" He paused, seeing Belle and knowing he should not speak more information than absolutely necessary to this new pair of ears.

Plunkett glared at Macleane before returning his gaze to Belle. Before he could open his mouth she nodded, "Thank you for the dance. It was very enjoyable…William Plunkett." She added the last bit with a smirk as she curtsied gracefully in front of him.

Macleane gave him a look that told him to hurry as he turned and made his way back through the crowd; Plunkett would so get him back for this. He took a deep breath and took her hand gently, kissing the back of it. "It's been a pleasure M'lady," he said with a small bow as well, his accent leaking out slightly as she had ruffled his composure.

Belle's heart stopped as she jerked her hand back from his lips and her eyes widened behind her mask. "W-what did you say?" She whispered breathlessly.

Plunkett swallowed hard as it dawned on him what phrase he had repeated. Surely she didn't know who he was, she wasn't that observant; no one was that observant surely. Belle reached up and grabbed the edge of his mask sliding from his face as she paused, oblivious to everyone around them.

"It's you…" she said almost inaudibly.

Plunkett panicked as Macleane yelled for him again. Snatching the mask out of her hands, he slid it back on his face and all but ran out of the ballroom. She knew. She was too intelligent for her own good and when that was mixed with his carelessness of the evening it had resulted in his doom. She knew and Macleane was going to kill him.