[This scene has already been done before, and done beautifully, but I wanted to try my hand at it. Please bear with me :o

(c) Disney

"I'm...angry!" Giselle exclaimed, with the look of one who had just won the lottery. "I'm angry!" She giggled.

She moved closer to him, Robert, who looked only slightly bemused. After all, there was no anger for the 'princess-to-be's in fairy tales. Then her hand reached out, so suddenly, and he felt a liquid shock within his ribs at the touch of her fingers on his chest. He stood there, looking at her, her face, full of an emotion that had in it some confusion, a shock at the novel feeling she was feeling. Her hand moved down the part of his chest that showed through the gap in his robe; he just stood there. This...they did not have in fairy tales either.

He moved towards her, just that tiny inch, just hovering on the point where he would have let it all go - his proposal to Nancy, her Prince who was so surely arriving - and given everything to her. He would have kissed her, that beautiful, delicate, princess face of hers, he would have put his hand over hers, held it to his chest - he would have - he would -

"Ok," he said, and his breathing was slightly uneven. "Good night." he gave her a last look before turning away, standing in his pajamas in the middle of the room, breath caught, hand still raised in that delicate position.

He shut his door and sat down on his bed, pulling his robe together, shutting his eyes. Why...why did she...? She had discovered anger, and perhaps - perhaps that other emotion, that one so devastating yet jubilating to mankind.

There was blame in him, and guilt. Because it was he who had walked out there with his robe on. Despite all he might reason with himself, there was that part of himself who had set out not to innocently thank her for her attentions to Morgan. That part of himself had made him go to her, in his robe, after his shower, hoping against all hopes that she might initiate something. For he dared not start. He dared not; she was a beautiful fairy-tale, whose Prince was coming to rescue her and bring her home to be wed.

His excuse for going there seemed so flimsy now. Surely she had seen through his smile, his false gestures; "That was a really nice story you told Morgan." What kind of...what had he meant by that?

So she had done something. He had gone out there like that, everything so subconsciously inviting her - to do what was something he still wondered himself - and she had done something, and he had left her. Everything was so goddamn contradicting in him.

He yanked the covers over his head and turned on his side, almost hugging his knees in the foetal position. The worst thing was how to behave the next day. Like nothing had happened. Nothing at all, though that strange invitation lingered in his stomach, his chest, his body. And the guilt was there as well. Could he forgive himself if he married Nancy feeling like...this?