A/N: Wow! The responses you all have had to my story have been so encouraging, I can barely wait to write more whenever I sit down. Thanks to all my readers and reviewers, I hope you like this next chapter!

She was vacillating between hot and cold so quickly. When she had woken up, she was wrapped so tightly in blankets she couldn't move either way, and fifteen minutes, she was free of the bedding and sweating. The fire continued to burn, and the sun came up, all the same, but Belle could not move from the bed. She was coughing, her lungs aching with every puff of air.

Though she wanted to get out of bed, when she tried her knees were weak and head was light. Her hands were, fortunately, mended – and without mark – but even undoing the bandages was enough to exhaust the sickly young woman.

It was not an option though, and Belle pushed herself out of bed, lazily getting dressed – not nearly to the standards she might have on any other day, and felt so tired. Between the flashes of extreme hot and cold, the ache in her muscles from her previous day's extreme task, and the fullness of her chest, Belle could not believe how terribly she felt.

If servants felt like this, if she were ever able to return home, she would most certainly beg their forgiveness a thousand times over for having to do her washing and keep up with her demands. Never had she thought it would be quite so hard – while she struggled, as a young princess, to learn the rules of polite and proper conversation, she thought she would have rather done anything. Now, she would give the world to go back to elocution lessons.

There was so much to do and she couldn't risk not doing it – it would just accumulate and then be entirely impossible – rather than the manageable task she had made cleaning into, it'd go back to being an overwhelming, huge expanse of work to do and she wouldn't know where to start again – and it was sun-up… it was time to make breakfast.

As she descended the stairs, Belle felt her knees shaking and she gripped tight on the banister, labored breaths accompanying her as she went. She was so close to the bottom when – her head was swimming, her legs went weak, and Belle felt almost removed from herself – like she could watch herself falling down the stairs from some position above the stairs.

Her throat burned as her automatic reaction was to scream, and she felt each thump against the stairwell. She tried to protect her head, bringing her arms up, and whimpered as she finally lay still at the bottom of the staircase.

She was dizzy, everything seemed to be a haze, and she could feel herself moving, but couldn't register what was going on. It was like the fever suddenly became too much and her body just decided that it would not go any further, and that it certainly wasn't going to prepare breakfast.

The next time she woke up, Belle realized she was not on the hard floor. She felt warm, and comfortable. She turned her head slowly, trying to gauge where she was, and realized she was back in her room. Her blankets were pulled up around her, she still felt clammy and if she were to move her eyes too fast, she got a rush in her head. She stretched her arm, just a little above her head and heard a sound in the corner of the room.

Slowly, very slowly, she looked, and her eyes opened wide. "Rumpelstiltskin," she breathes, her throat burns with words, but she says it anyway. She was so surprised, and it appeared he was too, as he spun so quickly it nearly made her dizzy!

"Ah, you're awake, dearie," his voice was low, much more pleasing to her pulsating mind than the high pitched tone he took when he was trying to scare people. Sometimes, she thought his deep voice was more unsettling, and the way he slowly walked to the side of the bed, like a prowling cat, "you took a bit of a tumble," he explained, "And seem to be worse for wear."

Belle chuckled, but her chest tightened, halting her mid laugh. "Throwing me to the wolves?" she asked in a raspy voice, sighing deeply and shifting, uncomfortably warm. She pushed the blankets back and yawned – coughing again. Her eyes fluttered downward, realizing that her nightgown was on over her chemise. She did not know if the flush was from the heat or her embarrassment.

Rumpelstiltskin appeared to be unfazed by any of this, however, and stood near the fire, prodding it with a poker. She squinted, through bleary eyes, and could see a small pot in the hearth. "You might think that more pleasant," he mused quietly, stirring the contents – which, once Belle caught the scent made her grimace and moan.

He looked over his shoulder at her, something dark in his already dark features, turning into concern and a more vigorous stirring of that pot. "You'll have to drink all of it," he explained, "or the chill will not subside."

For a moment, she thought she heard him laugh, and Belle, in her fevered state, felt a sudden rush of emotion she might not have, were she in her right mind. Normally, she did not mind when he laughed at her, but she felt so miserable – and in such a state… wasn't she allowed dignity? "Don't laugh at me," she demanded, impetuous in her current state.

He continued to laugh at her. Belle whined, and he looked at her, leveling a look at her that made her feel like a child. She almost instantly felt foolish, but reasoned she was right in doing so – she was not feeling well. For all the grace and poise a princess was supposed to possess, Belle had never been a good patient. "I'm serious," she pouts, before another fit of coughs comes upon her – she closed her eyes with a troubled sigh.

"Of course you are, dearie," he responded coolly. It didn't sound like he doubted her, at all, but she could practically feel the smile on his face. How atrocious of him. She tried to turn herself over and onto her side, but grunted with the effort it took and fell back onto her back. "Don't strain yourself," he offered, though sounded more like an order than a calm, soothing remark.

She settled on her back, turning her head to the other side, trying to relieve herself of some of the heat – suddenly feeling feverish again, and she felt like she sounded and looked pitiful. Little hisses of pain, whimpers, and constant movement all suggesting discomfort. "I will never do laundry again!" she practically cried, feeling so forlorn about being in bed and feeling so miserable.

"If this is the result every time, certainly not," Rumpelstiltskin quipped, causing Belle to groan. She heard whatever he was using to stir strike the side of the pot and some clanking from near the fire. He must have been moving whatever it was – doing something else to it – she could certainly smell it closer. The sound of liquid hitting another surface – presumably the intended one, as she heard no curses muttered from his lips. And then steps – forward, forward…

She forced her eyes opened and let out a shaky breath. He was carrying the largest mug she had seen and it was steaming in his hands. He put it down on the stand next to the bed and pursed his lips. Without what seemed like a second thought, he gently slipped his hands under her back and legs to help her sit up. She held in a whimper and even attempted to push herself up, though her arms were like wet noodles. He humored her, raising his eyebrows but making no mention of her efforts.

He turned back to the table and sighed. "You know, Dearie," he sounded very exasperated, though she could see, even in her fevered state there was no malice in his eyes, "I am beginning to think I am the caretaker here," he could not help but let his lips twitch into a smile.

"I guess," she smiled weakly, coughing still, "I have wracked up a lifetime of debts to you, then," she felt in good humor for a moment, looking up at him while he was being so attentive.

He rolled his eyes at her, "I lost count after three lifetimes." He looked at her, then the bed, and then a chair, seeming to consider his options. He stood, next to the edge, and frowned. "Pinch your nose and drink," he instructed – not giving her time to actually do so before he put the mug to her face. She gasped, the smell was terrible – herbs and whatever else he used boiled in water… she felt her stomach heave. "The longer you wait, the worse it will be," he said with some level of impatience.

Belle licked her lips and reached up, doing her best to pinch her nose closed as tight as she could before taking a drink. Even with her nose plugged, even drinking as quickly as she could, the mixture was vile. Her face felt hot and the back of her neck clammy as her stomach did flops in her abdomen. "This is terrible," she gasped, sputtering and coughing, trying not to gag.

If he was disturbed, he did not let on – and just stood, patiently while she adjusted, "Keep going," he urged, pushing it forward. Though Belle knew he was right, she did not want to keep going. Her desire to be rebellious was directly challenged by her desire to not be sick. "Anytime now, dearie," he sighed, so much impatience and she looked up at him through thick lashes as she took another deep drink – two more like it and it would be gone.

Belle resigned herself to this task, just like so many others she had gotten thrust at her since she had come here – making the transition that much worse over the winter. But, the disgusting concoction was gone. Her stomach felt full and unsettled, she groaned and her head dipped a little, the feeling definitely taking a toll. "Bed for the rest of the day," he finally came out and said, "I'll make another for you tonight," she went to open her mouth and he cut her off with the swift wave of his hand, "until then, you sleep."

He was gone without another word from her, and Belle slid down into the silky sheets, feeling miserable, her stomach jerking around in her core, and head entering that hazy period between being awake and asleep. Whatever was in that mixture was working its magic to her core and she felt disoriented and strange – her head was light, but not necessarily in a bad way. All she wanted to do was sleep. And sleep she did.

Rumpelstiltskin administered the same regiment to her for what felt like days. Time moved slowly, awkwardly, and she couldn't tell whether it was night or day. He brought her bread to eat, though she seldom touched it, and that mix… whatever it was, that made her fall into that hazy place. She could feel, sometimes, her cheeks wet and her hand would brush against her wet cheek – it was almost like feeling mist – she knew it was wet, but it was so distant…

The passage of time was dimly marked by the light peeking through the curtains, not that she could always tell. It seemed like the fever was getting worse, and sometimes, remotely, she reached out and cried, but the one she was supposed to be caretaking was diligent in what he was to do, and did not linger. She sometimes felt warmth on her forehead, then a cool swipe of something soft and damp. She leaned into it whenever it came, and sometimes there would be a presence next to her that she tried to cling to. But, whenever she reached out – it was gone…

Her moments of lucidity were only defined by that horrible concoction, until finally, she was starting to feel a bit better… until she no longer felt chills even though everything burnt, and she could tell the difference between hours and minutes… seconds and what felt like ages. It was all coming back together, and the next time he came in, from the last time she remembered him, he looked at her for a moment. "How are you doing this afternoon?" he asked, not even pausing before he started the fire with a snap of his fingers, deftly working to begin the brew.

"It's afternoon?" she asked with a small, tired smile. She was able to push her hair back, feeling it was all messy and greasy… she would love a bath… He looked at her, the corner of his mouth pulled into a smirk with a brief laugh. "I will take that as a yes," she said with a lazy smile, her eyelids half-shut as she sat up in the bed by herself for the first time in however long she had been sick – she could only figure several days.

He sighed, the chair by the fire in his employ as he continued to stir. "Two more days in bed and you should be well," he informed her, sounding quite hopeful. "It's a good thing too," he added, "or the castle would look like it did when you first arrived."

Belle laughed weakly, still feeling the cough in her chest, though her throat no longer burned. "I will be very busy once I'm well," she sighed, but did not pout. She was terribly bored, even the book laying on the side table was not enough for her – her head was still hazy and full, she couldn't concentrate for more than a paragraph or so.

"Most assuredly, dearie," he looked over his shoulder, smiling at her. "I'm sure no one has ever told you this, but may I be the first to say: you are a terrible patient." It was perhaps the longest sentence he had ever said to her, and Belle felt a flush immediately rush to her cheeks. She pursed her lips, not wanting to admit it, and her eyebrows pulled together to form a deep furrow. "I stand corrected," he grinned, "Let me guess: nurses a plenty as a young girl, bowing to your every fevered whine…"

Belle's hard expression turned to a deep curiosity… her jaw slackened a little and then a thought struck her. Her eyebrows shot up and she leaned forward, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing to worry about," he repeated twice, lilting off into a giggle at the end. Belle felt suddenly hot – what had she said? Was this some kind of joke? Biting the inside of her cheek, she felt flustered and frustrated.

"Horrid man!" she announced, taking the smallest pillow to her side and without a thought, pulled her arm back to throw it. Despite her effort, the pillow does not go very far, and Rumpelstiltskin laughs so hard that he actually grabbed his stomach to reign himself in.

Belle flushes even deeper pink and he pours the awful mix into the mug that she has learned to hate. "Like I said – you are a terrible patient."