A/N: Oh. My. Gosh. Wow! Thanks to EVERYONE who has reviewed this story in like... droves. I never would have imagined getting over 100 reviews for anything - lots and lots of love for this fandom! It's kind of insane to me, haha, and I don't really have the words to actually like... properly thank you guys for making me feel so many warm fuzzies! I really appreciate all of the feedback (and yes, FFool, haha, my tenses do shift - I've been trying to work on it... oops!), and I'm just glad everyone has had such positive things to say and I hope that you continue to read and enjoy! Thank you so much, continue to enjoy and I look forward to hearing from you!

He went away again. This time, all he did was leave a note that business had come up in the middle of the night. Belle was not naïve. She might have been the daughter of a noble, but she wasn't vapid like other girls. She lived in a province, far from the courts of extravagant ball gowns and heavy jewelry, but she also didn't live like a pauper either, to be certain. She had what she needed – and she was never alone.

It seemed so unfair now, to be alone for days, with only a note to inform her. He could have come to her, at the very least, to let her know in person. He was being a coward.

If he had given her the chance, she wanted to apologize, or at least make a peace offering. Now, as she dusted and cleaned by herself, she had time to think about it. She might apologize, but she also had to think about what she wanted.

A deal was a deal, after all, and he owed her. It was not often, she figured, that Rumpelstiltskin was not the one biding his time, waiting for the moment that he would be asked something. No, Belle had him in the palm of her hand and he could request anything.

Trying to think of something worth asking for took up most of her day, or at least accompanied almost every task she found herself completing. While she wiped down the shelves, she thought and talked to herself. Scrubbing the floor, she'd speak to her reflection in the gleaming surfaces trying to piece together her desires. The problem was, she felt like she had everything already!

She had no need or desire for material items: what would she need a pretty ball gown or impossible slippers for? What purpose would a diamond or two serve her? She didn't desire those things before, to wish for them now, well – that was just not what she wanted from him. So, she moved on from the thought. She was already granted access to everywhere in the castle, and she had a garden that she was allowed to change – she supposed she could ask for more flowers, but she had a sneaking suspicion she could get those without having a favor.

It was possible to ask for the same story, but that upset him. It would also be underhanded, and though she did not necessarily mind being underhanded most of the time, particularly when dealing with him, he was her friend (at least she thought so), and what she knew of friendship suggested that was not how one went about treating their friends. Then there was Gaston, and he wasn't her friend, really, but she had treated him civilly, even if he was…

Well. He wasn't her prince, or knight in shining armor, that was for certain. Maybe, he would make some other woman very happy, but Belle was not that woman.

So, the question remained, with all of the things she didn't want to ask for, or didn't want, or couldn't do to him, what would she ask for? Days passed, four lonely days that she stared at the doors when she wasn't realizing it, and feeling her heart jump whenever she thought she heard a noise – apparently old castles were notorious for making noises. She had just about given up looking over her shoulder at every creak when eventually, the doors did open and Rumpelstiltskin strolled through the doors, looking every bit pleased as pleased with himself as he ever had.

Belle was in the middle of polishing the sword that sat on display in the main room – it was looking a bit tarnished, and looked up, betraying her excitement for company with a bright smile. "Welcome back," she breathed, somehow in a matter of four days forgetting that he made her feel like her blood was somehow thicker and lightening went down her spine when he turned his eyes on her.

He looked down at the table and ran his finger over it, bringing it up to eye level. "Kept yourself busy, I see?" His greeting certainly left Belle wanting. She pursed he lips and was suddenly, as if stricken by some cosmic force. She almost most certainly knew what she was going to ask for.

Belle nodded, "I think," she cast a glance at him as she dragged the rag over the blade, hearing the sheen of the thing – it was obviously very sharp, but she had deft hands, as long as she didn't need to use them and her feet at the same time, "there was extra dust, just to keep me busy."

He raised his eyebrows, "Imagine that," and laughed. He laughed! Belle crossed her arms. She was going to wait to declare what she wanted, but she shook her head.

"I figured out what I want from you," she announced decidedly. No sympathy for him now, she was sure. Maybe he was still cross, but he seemed to stroll in with a good mood – and she felt almost a little vindicated that she should remember after four days, have come up with something she really wanted, and put it in front of him when he stepped in.

Of course, his expression was one of surprise, and then immediately aggravation. He twisted his neck and she heard a little crack – he was not pleased, but Belle found herself suddenly displeased, blaming the negative energy squarely on him. "What is it, Dearie?"

Belle relaxed the weapon back onto its stand and put the rag on top of the pedestal before clasping her hands behind her back. She strolled forward, sticking her chin out and glancing up at his face through her thick, dark lashes. "I want you to dance with me." She imagined the smile on her face was the most innocent and sweet thing she could conjure for a request that would surely startle him.

For the briefest moment he was completely blank faced, unsure of what to say. He recovered himself though, standing up taller and mimicking her, perhaps, put his hands behind his back as well. "A dance?" he sneered, though Belle could see that it wasn't genuine, she had seen his genuine displeasure. He was confused, but not angry. "You only get one deed, dearie. And…" he leaned down a little to meet her eyes, "I do have magic."

"Oh, I know," she smiled, "but every bit of magic has a price." She smiled and he looked puzzled. Belle giggled softly and bit her bottom lip, "I do not wish to pay."

Rumpelstiltskin was silent. Perhaps for the first time in many weeks he seemed to be unsure of what to say to her. Generally, even if it was not something nice, he always had a retort. But he moved his jaw like he was searching for some moisture in his mouth and the muscles near his neck tensed. Belle observed all of these ticks with fascination – it was when he showed these signs, when he couldn't be clever that she enjoyed his company most. He was very much human, no matter how much he denied it.

So, Belle took it upon herself. She unlaced her fingers from behind her back and grasped the edges of her blue skirt, lifting it to show off her silver shoes. Dipping low, she curtseyed, and if he didn't respond, well, he wasn't half the gentleman he pretended he wasn't. "Sir?" she smiled sweetly – and he bent like a sapling to the wind.

He bent at the waist and held out his hand to her, a strange tingle shooting right through her core as she put her hand in it. "A polonaise, Madame? Or would you prefer a quadrille?" he asked with raised eyebrows, anticipating the space and comfort such formulaic dances might provide. She could see the wheels in his head turning. But Belle shook her head, earning another curious look.

"A waltz," she said simply and guided his hand seamlessly to her waist and she put her hand on his shoulder. She pushed for proper form and felt strangely hot as they were flush against one another.

There was no music, but that was no matter. Rumpelstiltskin, for all of his coarseness was a graceful creature, and led. Belle followed and kept her eyes trained on his face, at least at first. She closed her eyes, following his movements (despite the awkward steps) and tried to imagine being in front of people, dancing in a room where no one stopped looking, and when her imagination turned her eyes toward the person she danced with, she thought she might imagine someone else – but he was even in her mind, golden skin and brown eyes, beaming in that wicked way – like he had something that everyone else coveted.

The blush that rose to her cheeks could have been from that or the little sound he made when she stepped on his toes again and she snapped out of her daydream. She might not have been the best partner, but his grace certainly helped her own. There was a lump in her throat and she beamed at him. His lips quirked upward awkwardly for a moment before he seemed to concentrate more heavily on the actual movement of the dance.

He moved quickly, stepping lightly and it caused Belle to laugh more than once, tripping to follow, and he patiently held on. When she clung to him for balance his touch became feather soft and Belle eased, just to feel him grab her tighter. His hand on her waist was ever present and her pulse was so quick – the exertion of dancing, really.

It could only last so long though, before Belle tripped over her feet, having crushed his toes more than once and spilled into his arms. His grasp was protective, tight on her waist, but still, at a distance. "I see your dancing has not improved," this time his smile was rueful – real, even though he was still holding her at arms length.

Belle laughed as well, feeling it bubbling all the way up to her eyes and she stood up straight, finally, said to feel the soft pressure of his hands come off her weight and instead a feeling of loss taking its place. "Neither have your manners," she teased, smoothing out the pale violet fabric.

He played at being offended; the same look he gave her father when he called him a beast and Belle wrinkled her nose at him. The 'offense' turned into a wicked grin, his teeth – that she had first construed as rotting, but now just saw as discolored, like the rest of him, peeking out from behind his thin lips. "Oh, I was not aware I was a kettle, Ms. Pot," he jabbed at her, and it was Belle's turn to feign offense.

The momentary expression melted into a cascade of giggles and Belle swayed from side to side, feeling almost shy with her skirt gripped in her hands, small smile on her rosy lips. "It is fitting, I think," she commented, a mystery behind her blue eyes, daring him to ask.

And he does, without hesitation. "What is fitting, dearie?"

"That we should both be black."