Disclaimer: I don't own OUaT

Rating: M

Summary: Abandoned by father and country, Belle needs a home, but she returns changed. You've ruined me. She asks Rumpelstiltskin to finish the job he started. They seek an answer: can the ruined find solace? Who can know? A/U Smut.

(Ugh, this was supposed to be a short, dark, angst and sex filled misadventure. However, some fluff wandered in, and then promptly vomited glitter and little confetti hearts. Also, because I was avoiding smut it grew exponentially—20 pages, wtf? Everyone is out of character, including me.)

Written to:
Johnny Flynn – Drum
Lana Del Rey – Born to Die
Mumford and Sons – Home
Devotchka – Undone
Greg Laswell – Off I Go
Erin McNamee – 1917 and Siuil a Ruin

The song Belle sings is: Mo Ghile Mear by Sean Clarach Mac Domhnail. Here is the translation:
"Once I was gentle maiden,
But now I'm a spent, worn-out widow,
My consort strongly plowing the waves,
Over the hills and far away."

The Evil Queen comes to see him, as he knew she would, but he's not ready for the words she has to tell him. "Well, you can rest assured I had nothing to do with that tragedy."

Rumpelstiltskin's hands drop the thread—the first time in perhaps a century. "What tragedy?"

"You don't know? Well, after she got home her fiancé had gone missing, and after her stay here—her association with you—no one would want her of course. Her father shunned her. Cut her off. Shut her out."

He could hardly hold back the words, so much as the sun rising. "So she needs… a home?"

"He was cruel to her." Words continue coming from that woman's god-awful mouth, but Rumpelstiltskin hears them not.

The whore is lying. He can always tell with her, always could. That's why they make such good enemies: they know each other better than they often knew themselves. The queen saw his… affection for Belle; the imp knew she was lying through her teeth. They form a rather perverse symmetry, and he's grown tired of her games and machinations (there's only room for one spellcaster in these lands, dearie).

"We're done." He doesn't have time to meddle with word play. There is too much to be done.

He had warned her of course, before leaving. The queen, she will come for you. So you'd best be prepared. She'll try to use you against me. You can't go back, that's all there is to it, dearie. That's exactly where she'll look.

I've ruined you.

The innocent had looked at him with pain and regret. No. Not regret, her eyes held pity. Rumpelstiltskin hated nothing more than pity. I don't want you anymore, dearie.

He didn't want her love, but he certainly didn't want her a pawn in his enemy's hands.

She leaves and it's all he can do not to burn the damned place and purge it of her lingering memory and smell.

He doesn't, of course, and later that night he succumbs.

He sits in his room (torn apart in a tantrum) and imagines Belle at an inn. He imagines that she's not been foolhardy enough to take the main road, instead going through the hill-country to the north, in the direction of the sea—enough free cities there to suffice a noble girl with quick hands and a quicker mind.

He imagines her tired and dirty. The people of the inn eye her—isn't that, no couldn't possibly be that girl. The thing would never have let her go—but give her food and lodge all the same. It's a small single room, where she stays, only a single candle and a smallish window with a shade she promptly shuts.

There will of course be a basin with warm water in the room, awaiting her. And after having locked her door—she is after all a cautious woman—she'll strip off her clothes, covered in sweat from exertion and fear from his castle, so she can wipe down her pale limbs, sore from the journey, eyes shut tight.

He's watched her change clothes only twice. The first was an accident, the second was… a secret—he's seen enough to picture the rest of her.

She touches her breasts with the rag and then lower. There's no blush on her face when she touches herself: it's practicality. Utility, that's all. He likes the look of her boldness; she was never one to be afraid, after all.

Next, she props first one and then the other, of her long legs onto the one chair in the room. She washes them, paying close attention to where her stockings fall and the mud splashed up. After finishing her legs, she rinses and wrings out the washcloth with her little hands, made for holding fans, but more used to holding a broom or a quill. She runs the rag down her tear-streaked face. She scrubs the front and back of her neck, twisting her ringlets high above her head into a style that in her past life, would have been held in place by a crown (but which crown? The crown of a proper queen, or the crown of the consort to a monstrosity feared above all, across many lands?).

Rumpelstiltskin finishes this most private task and sleeps, no doubt in his mind that she took the paths through hill-country.

I've ruined you, he had told her.

In more than one way had remained unsaid. She didn't hear those words, not yet anyway.

He told her that the woman of the road would be looking for her, that she couldn't go home again, ever. Of course, Belle doesn't believe him. Who would have? He had screamed and thrown by far the worst of his fits she's ever seen—for she has weathered his tantrums before, but nothing, nothing, of this caliber.

Belle leaves the castle grounds and her feet begin to take her home. To her bed. To her father. To something that smelled familiar.

She is smart enough to avoid the main road, instead heading straight through the forest. It's a bloody cold day for springtime, and what's more she ran off without her cloak. Gods be damned.

In three days time she arrives home, a muddy mess, having slept on the cold ground, bathed in the near freezing streams, and eaten little more than a few herbs, wild apples and berries found along the way. She was hungry, in a foul mood, and had cried an ocean, but somehow a smile broke on her face at the sight of the walled city.

However, Belle knew the instant that she saw the first face (someone she had never met her whole life through) that Rumpelstiltskin had been right. Oh, so right. She should never have tried to come home. Here, she was… ruined.

He's ruined me.

It's then that she sees the guards.

After getting rid of the queen, Rumpelstiltskin sets out to find her.

It takes two days, and by the end of it he's allowed the ogres to continue on their rampage on the landlocked patch of sanctimonious dirt they dare call a kingdom. He may or may not have conjured an image of the king and off-handedly mentioned how tender his flesh, in particular, would taste.

It's near nightfall when he finds her.

Honestly, he would have rather had her crawl back to him, tail between her legs. Well, well, well, look what the dragon dragged in. No room for the hero back home, dearie? He would have whispered these and a hundred other un-kindnesses, to only then hate himself for it later, except that then she would have feared him and needed him—love would play no part in their new arrangement, the other two outweighing the one.

As it was, he accepts that finding her and acting the superior will have to do. The part won't be much of a stretch. In any event, she'd be tethered to him, so he'd get what he wanted in the end, no matter.

She's run away to the forest, clearly the worse for wear, at the hands of her father's court, no less. She doesn't see him until he's standing directly in front of her, sitting outside her little hovel, built into a tree hollow—her hands weren't made for this.

When she looks up, she doesn't jump (and from the look of things, it would take more than standing close, a raised hand at least, to elicit more of a response). "If you've come to deal, I've nothing left with which to bargain." So, she's some fire left, after all.

You've ruined me lies unspoken between them. It's heard nonetheless.

He quickly recovers. "No matter, I still require the services of a housekeeper. You did well enough at it the first time and will do so again, if you can follow orders." He examines his fingernails in disinterest. He wonders if she's fooled any more than he, "after all, good help is so hard to find." He jests with her, surprisingly. This wasn't the intimidating demand he had fashioned in his mind this morning, but it'll do, he supposes. "Will you work, in exchange for roof and food—and from the look of things, clothing?"

She scoffs. Her eyes are glassy and far away.

She's still yet to look at him. This isn't how it's supposed to go. "I've not got all day," he says impatiently.

Belle stares at the ground, the way he does when he's trying to make something (or someone) spontaneously combust. "It's just… I don't know if I can stand. My ankle." She offers no further explanation.

So, she's injured as well. "Give me your hand," he says. He'd like to carry her, but knows she won't allow it. The line of her mouth is grim, but all the same, she raises a hand and with no difficulty at all, Rumpelstiltskin places her arm around his neck, taking the most of her inconsequential weight. He transports them back to the castle with his magic. He sees no cost in the action—at least not a cost more than his life and son and future—but then of course, there's still time to be proven wrong, some price still left to pay.

That night he takes her to an actual room, nothing exquisite, it's basic, small and functional. And like the rest of the place, it's red.

He expects her to question it, but when she doesn't, he speaks instead, "Sleep, I've no use for a dead servant."

She does so and once he is sure she's asleep he leaves her to go about his business (today he has none, so instead he wanders the house lost and in the mood to make mischief, especially now there's someone to clean up the trouble he leaves in his wake once again).

She doesn't rouse for the larger part of the next day and it's past nightfall when he enters the room—it's hard to call it hers when she's yet to claim it, nor make any mark upon it—without knocking (it is his house, after all).

She's not asleep; her breathing betrays that much. He walks to her side, "As I've said before, I've no use for you dead. Come and eat." The girl rolls over and stands. As she begins to limp her way to the door, he remembers the ankle. He takes her wrist, without gallantry or care for gentility, and forces her to sit at the edge of the bed. He himself kneels (a Dark One kneeling, who'd have fancied that?) on the ground and takes her ankle into his hands. He examines it, running his thumb around the bone. It's swollen, and there may even be a small break. He grasps tightly around her dirty ankle and begins with his magic.

It mends easily enough, and at first, she feels a searing heat (though she knows searing and it's not), followed by frigid cold, which she only recognizes because it's colder than the rest of her body. She's cold all the time now.

I've been ruined.

"That'll do for now," he says, though what he really wants is the tale of her escape, daring to be sure. Or perhaps how he could make her stop looking at everything but him with that hollow look.

The girl neither stands nor makes to thank him. He is at a loss. Perhaps she's forgotten why he came to her in the first place. Finally, he breaks the silence, pulling from the kitchen with his power the tray he prepared for her. Still sitting on the edge of the bed, he places the tray on her lap without words. For a moment he wonders if her mind even registers the action.

But then she takes up the silverware and eats. Rumpelstiltskin stays to make sure that she eats everything. It's not the first, but rather the first in a very long time that he has had to coax someone to eat.

She finishes and is staring lamely into her wine glass, half full. She hasn't spoken a word since the forest.

He breaks first. This, of course, is a new change between them. "Enlighten me, however did you escape?"

She makes no movement, still staring at the damned glass. "A man who was once my father came in the night and opened the door, washing his hands of me, for good or ill, who can know?"

He's quiet for a long while. He'll kill the man, of that Rumpelstiltskin is quite sure. He breaks the silence to strike out at her himself. "Quite the luck I hadn't filled the position."

She scoffs and it's the second time, but a sound that is so very foreign to her lips. "Oh, I'm sure there are plenty of wars from which to gather an entire staff."

So, she's bitter. Well, better than innocent ignorance, he thinks—or so he tells himself. That, and you're nothing of staff. "In my opinion, bitterness suits better than naïveté."

"I didn't ask you."

"'Course not," comes his sharp reply, sharp as his teeth. However, then he softens, "but that never stopped me before."

"Before." The word hangs limply in the air.

When you ruined me.

He snaps his fingers and the tray disappears. "Speaking of before: now, that you really are here for… the rest of the time, we must discuss the changes." He waits for a reaction. She gives none, so he continues without, "First, never, never look into that mirror. You know the one."

"The woman?"

"Quite. She's meddled entirely too much for this lifetime. Also, under no circumstances are you to leave this castle." This is something new. She'd slowly gained a freedom last time that this new threat to her undermines—he can't lose her again. "And lastly, I've no interest in breaking the curse, so if you would be so kind as to… refrain."

Then that scoff again. "I hardly think it would work this time," she says.

He wonders to which participant she is referring.

A week passes and he watches Belle ghost through his halls. She cleans, but will stop and stare, and he knows she's full of dark thoughts and darker memories (she's not the first of his household to fear a parent and to wear that haggard look).

She doesn't speak unless spoken to. She eats, but there is no relief in the act, and her cheeks are still too sunken down. Oh, and there's the little problem of the smell.

Rumpelstiltskin presses the issue one evening as she stokes the fire—can hardly lift the damn tongs, but will she let him do it? Oh no. "You can't wear that any longer."

Between pants she answers dispassionately, "It's all I have."

He clenches his fists. Why does she make it so difficult? "Don't be daft on purpose; it doesn't suit you, and it grates on my nerves. You'll find clothes in the room." He maintains that it is not yet hers, as she ghosts through it much the same as the rest of the house. "Wash, make yourself presentable."

She takes a break, sitting back on her haunches. She wipes the sweat from her forehead, leaving a dark smudge of ash there instead, as if she's just come from Lent season Mass—she was always rather good at the deed of sacrifice. "For who?"

For me, who else? For I did… feel you and won't look at you like this. "For yourself, of course. You can't spend the rest of your life in mourning." He twirls an empty wine goblet through his fingers, rather sort of hoping he'll drop it, just to get her closer. "So it happened; there's no way to undo it, dearie, not even with my magic." He sets the glass down. There's been enough of breaking. "Rest in the knowledge that it won't again."

The ruined still draw breath, even if they'd rather not.

She yanks hard on the tongs and for a moment he thinks a log will catch and come flying out, and he really doesn't want to put out fires tonight. But, the tool come loose and she tosses them to the ground, leaving more black marks. "That's to give me comfort?"

"No that's truth." He raises an eyebrow, standing, "If I wanted to comfort you, I would go about it in an entirely different way." He gives a smirk to the girl on the ground, "However, as it is, I can't stand too close, what with the flies and all."

For the first time he sees an emotion he recalls out of her, embarrassment. "You exaggerate."

"Not by much, dearie."

She nods and stands to leave, with more power in her limbs and color in her cheeks than he has yet to see. She walks to the door, but stops suddenly. He voice is strained, when she asks the question she's been dying to hear answered this past week. "Why did you take me back?"

He sighs. He had hopped she wouldn't ask (dreamed this moment more than tenfold). Still his mouth betrays him, "Don't ask questions to which you already well know the answers." He doesn't watch her nod. He doesn't watch leave. Instead he cleans her mess, thinks twice on magic-ing a way to watch her in the bathtub, and goes to bed wondering if tomorrow will be better still.

Tomorrow is better. As is the next day, and the next, after. On the third there's a bit of a stumbling block (her tantrum, not his), but they manage well enough. Two weeks from now another (his this time), but there's life again, and she begins to not look so gaunt and ghostly.

Belle's not as light-hearted as she once was. That's gone, surely as a dead prince, but then there's always some way to pick up the pieces (a twin or some other ruse—he's played it all before). A fortnight and she finally laughs, not that fire and knives scoff, but a real Belle laugh. He's working on a potion (what's it do? Plenty and then some. But who's it for? Never you mind, dearie), she's up on the ladder, the topmost rung, reaching, a foot extended. It's all the imp—the man, really—can do not to stare. Her skirt, after all, angles just so as to grace him with such a nice view. His hand slips and half the bottle of witch hazel rolls down.

Boom!

The contents of the clay jar vaporize instantly, smoke clouding around his head. "Fuck!"

She comes down in less than an instant, like magic. "Rumpel, are you alright?"

He coughs, but manages to answer, "No, I'm not fine. That's the last of the snake scales, gods be damned."

She grabs his arm, turning him so as to get a good look, and then she starts to laugh. "Your—" She can't stop. "Your face!" She laughs and laughs and laughs.

"What, pray, are you going on about?" She can't answer and has to put her hands on her knees to support the falling peals of laughter. He pulls a hand mirror from his room (bottom drawer, buried) and a chortle slips out. His face is covered in purple smoke. He looks ridiculous, at least more so than usual.

Hearing him laugh at himself, Belle begins, with even stronger hysterics.

"It's not that funny," but the words lack the rough edges he'd intended.

"Oh yes it is." Shaking her head and wiping a few tears from the corner of her eyes, Belle picks up a cleaning cloth from the table and walks up to him. "You haven't gone and poisoned yourself, have you?"

"Not quite," he says, eyebrow raised at her, as she steps closer. "Whatever are you doing, dearie?"

"Cleaning you up, silly."

He's thought about her touch enough, but can he manage it without losing reserve, that is (always) the question, after all. "Fine," he grumbles—he's never been one to say not to a wager.

She works close and concentrated, looking at the problem, taking in neither him, nor where his eyes are looking. He takes the chance to take stock of her. He's dressed her well enough. She came in a beggar and now she's dressed in practical finery. It's a switch with which he's more than pleased.

However, as his eyes linger on the slope of her chest, he knows it's not the only switch he wants to come to pass.

We're ruined. And out of ruins, what comes next?

He's gone from monster to master and back again twice now, but the change from master to… lover is much more challenging territory (is that what he wants? Yes, so much, says the voice at night that conjures images worthy of blue redder than the drapes in the great hall, redder than that lip color she's wearing once again. But is it what she wants?) that he hardly knows how to embark upon.

"There, all done."

With my ruined face, so soon?

She starts cleaning the glass from the table, and he knows in his head he must be off for scales before the sun goes down, for snakes don't sun themselves in the moon, but he can't seem to let go of her with his eyes.

"Ow!" she hisses. She looks at her finger; she's cut it on a glass vial, the witch hazel he'd dropped.

With enchanted speed he's got her hand in both of his, examining the finger. "Witch hazel. Nothing deadly in that, dear."

"Stings like a—" Belle stops herself and pink colors her cheeks.

"You were saying?" He pries, his maniacal giggle just waiting for her to say it.

She whispers, "stings like a bitch." There, he laughs that impish sound, a word she'd never have said before, but they are both different now—what's the great matter in that?

The blood on her finger pools. It'll fall to the side in a second, a river of red, any second now. Can't have that, can we? What he does next comes naturally.

She gasps as he puts her finger in his mouth. She tries to pull her hand out of his grasp, but he holds tight. He looks at her, raising an eyebrow, daring her to challenge him. Rumpelstiltskin sucks gently, no longer tasting her metallic blood. He eyes his bonnie lass—she's blinking fast, trying ever so hard not to close her eyes, mouth limp and breathing a touch too quick.

His and ruined for the same.

He runs his tongue along the bottom of the digit. She makes a squeak He's satisfied with that much (for now, says a dark voice in his mind, always in his mind).

He releases the hand, and Belle draws it to her chest, running her thumb over the slight cut. "There, dearie. Any poison's gone by now, surely."

"Thank you," she whispers.

Smirking (he's done this once before, but bearing a rose and a secret) he bows to her and disappears, off to find those ever elusive scales.

He leaves for a trip, and she wishes he wouldn't,

To be honest, Belle questions herself all the more, this time around. She's enough anger to curse herself from here to the sea. She'd be lying if she said she didn't blame him, but then too she's seen the face of the demon responsible for her pain and it shares her eyes and ears and dimpled chin, a man at whose thrown she once kneeled, to give him solace and take his pain upon her own shoulders. She was strong for him and he killed her.

I'm ruined now.

The demons speak in louder tongues when Rumpelstiltskin is away. Still, she keeps his castle and her sanity as best she can. She doesn't sleep at night, but she can't place that entirely on his absence.

Of course, there are ways to stay occupied, books to read by the fire until morning, baking and washing and mending, and last, that most secret way of calming the nerves. When he's gone she sleeps on the rug in the great hall, and in the night she touches herself and imagines it's his magic hands performing this spell upon her. It's not the first time. She did this before at her once upon a time home to the face of this knight or that lordling, and then with more frequency the first time she lived with Rumpelstiltskin.

However, it's different now. Tangible.

I'm ruined now, and there's a dark in me I can't keep down.

Like last time, Belle never knows when he will return. So she keeps his room ever ready to greet him. She enters his chamber and puts back the shirts of his she has washed and pressed. Then she dusts. Lastly, she polishes his mirror.

His is the only room, excepting the great hall, which boasts a full-length mirror. This surprised her, but this time around, she's trying to give up being surprised by his choices.

Belle hasn't seen the reflection of her body, not her new body anyway. She's seen the angry red skin reflected in her bath water, but that's not a clear picture of her appearance.

She's morbidly curious (always has been) and surely he won't be home for days, so what's the harm? She decides to have a look.

The formal royal unlaces her bodice (a beautiful, heavy fabric, that rather looks like those damned curtains she got rid of ages ago) and slips out of the dress and chemise.

Briefly she wonders if he keeps tab on his room with magic. That would be so like him. It would also be rather like him to come home at just this second—but would she really mind that so much?

But I'm ruined.

In the mirror, Belle takes a good look at herself. She's gained back most of her previous weight, whether that's for good or naught, she doesn't know. Gaston (yes, her dark mind pipes up, you forget so quickly your lost fiancé, ever wonder just who was behind that, hm?) had said to his valet once how he thought her perhaps a little full for a courtly lady, she'd been reading in a corner and had overhead, so very, very long ago.

She takes a steadying breath before turning to the see the scars. There, on her back, not that many, but present just the same. Lines glare at her in the mirror, running down her back, crossing trails, going who the hell knows where.

And on the back of her thighs, the brands (he had asked to tend the fire, but she pulled away; she'd not have any hands on fire-tools but her own). She sighs, touching the topmost scar on the line that ends her right thigh.

They've ruined me.

"No wonder he doesn't want me."

She huffs, pushing away the self-pity—she's much better at doing that now. She turns around makes a face in the mirror at the prospect of putting her dress back on. Then she thinks up an idea. Opening Rumpelstiltskin's clothes dresser, she pulls out a pair of thin breeches and his least flamboyant shirt.

She slips on the new outfit. The pants don't fit quite right, but it's much better than all those laces. And of course, they smell familiar, like him (like home). She picks her clothing up off his floor and wonders when he'll be coming back.

It takes two more days for Rumpelstiltskin to return. Bad business to the west. He goes straight to his room, for he is sore and tired and has little patience—so not too different from his usual demeanor.

He senses her particular kind of magic the minute he pops into the room. She isn't there, but she has been, recently. Very recently. He smirks at the idea, but then remembers that she never knows when he is coming back and consequently keeps his room in order for his return at any time. His pleasure diminishes a bit. No matter.

He walks through the large archway that leads to his private bath. They always think that he and other creatures of darkness live in gruesome places with muck and spiders and pitchfork decorations. They always find it so hard to believe that he too might enjoy the finer things in life. Simpletons.

The room is largely marble. And it shines. Good, at least she hasn't lost her touch for cleaning and details. He begins to strip off his jacket when the door opens.

"Seal dá rabhas im' mhaighdean shéimh," She's singing. "'S anois im' bhaintreach chaite thréith," she continues, kicking the door shut with her foot. "Mo chéile ag treabhadh na dtonn go tréan."

He watches her, frozen with his hands on the third button of his leather doublet. It's a sound he has craved like a dying man in the desert, but didn't know until this moment.

I thought I'd ruined you.

She doesn't see him until after she's put away a stack of his pressed shirts into the dresser. "De bharr na gcnoc is in imigéin."

Belle looks up and jumps, making a surprised noise (not fear, just shock). Clutching her chest, breathing heavy, she says, "You're back."

"I am," He says, and then with an eyebrow raised, "and you are wearing my clothing."

She looks down at herself, "Oh, yes I suppose I am, aren't I?"

"Indeed, you are, and why is that, I wonder?"

"I found it less likely for me to fall to my death while cleaning the rafters." She goes to his closet and hangs up two of his jackets.

"Rafters?"

"Yes, in the kitchens. Right nasty business that, but did they ever need it." She's finished with the clothing and now stands about unsure what to do. She fiddles with her hands. "Glad you're back," she swallows, "safe and all."

"Worried, where we?"

"No need to be a prat about it." She frowns at him, "I'll come back when you're finished so just leave the clothes on the floor. I'll pick them up before dinner." She turns to leave in a huff.

He always forgets that she's been worn by all this and sometimes calluses are more sensitive than open wounds. "Belle."

She stops, and it takes a few minutes for her to turn back. "I'm not unhappy, to be back."

I didn't mean to ruin it.

She nods. "I know."

Then, perhaps it's the fact that they're in his room and this hasn't happened before, remarkably enough. Or that she's in his clothing, the pants made for a slim man and not her very womanly shape, the shirt betraying the outline of breasts he's glimpsed all too briefly and imagined more than a million times (of course they look better than in his fiendish mind. He'll have to be getting some men's clothing for her, he supposes). He decides to be wicked, feeling bold and broken, but like the cold part of the night when you know sunrise is nigh near. "I'll be having my clothes back now, dearie."

Her blush is instant, but besides that, her reaction is not at all what he had been expecting (but hasn't she always had away of bucking his expectations with alarming regularity?), instead, he instantly regrets his words and more.

I've ruined you; I'm sorry.

She looks as if she'll cry. That's something he's yet to see, and he can't decide whether he craves or wants to run from it. "Why do you do that?"

"Whatever do you mean, dearie?" his voice mocks as if this is just another deal he's come to collect.

"Play at this, when you know it confuses me and that you've no intention…" her words drop off, as she shakes her head.

You've ruined me, and refuse to finish the task.

He answers her with an honesty he'd forgotten he possessed, "Perhaps it's all I know how to do." He shrugs.

"I'm not the girl who plays the hero any more. Can't you see that?"

"I see it."

I've ruined you.

"Things cannot stay as they are. I'll go mad."

At that he eyes her darkly. "Aren't we all mad here?"

A tired chuckle passes through, like so much else with her. "Then what's the great matter?"

"You don't know what you're asking for, dearie," he warns her.

"Nothing that you haven't done already."

"Not there, love. Never there." And finally, they are speaking of what they have shunned with a vengeance (like a father shuns his ruined daughter). He wonders at this newest whim, but it's not a whim for it's been there too long for that. Rumpelstiltskin isn't the first to find this confusing (Papa, why do the dragons and beasts want the stupid princess in the first place—Well, son, maybe they're just as lonely as the kings and princes. Now go clean up for supper).

Then he shuts the door on it. "Go, I am tired and need to wash."

"Sending me away again, I see," she says, but only to hurt him. She leaves him to his bath, slamming the door just a little.

Rumpelstiltskin sighs and disrobes, and of course, thinks of her and what she's asking. It brings him too little solace. He's gone too far and she's revealed too much. He just wants more.

But I've ruined you once. Next time, I'll break you.

They pass the next few days in terse silence. He finds the clothing of his that she wore washed and pressed, atop his dresser the next day. He regrets that he won't be seeing her in the revealing costume again.

They do not touch, loosing the ease, though static-filled, with which they used to exchange hands, fingers grazing as she passes the peas or he asks for the scissors. It's like before, but worse.

Once again, following their new precedent, he breaks first.

It's teatime and she's absorbed in a book about the hill-countries behind his dark castle. Perhaps he'll take her there someday, when he's some trifling deal to contend with, none of his darker works. "Did you find the clothes?"

She looks up, "What?"

"The clothes, in your room." It's finally become her room, though when the change occurred the imp could not say. "Pants, for when you've more strenuous tasks and few shirts, of course."

"No, I hadn't noticed." What are you saying?

"Well, you never were very perceptive. Pity." He feels her eyes staring, but does not turn to meet it. "At least you've a skill or two to commend you. You can start on the rafters in here tomorrow."

"I'll need the ladder."

"Of course, you will."

We're ruined, but we've some life still to be lived.

Belle comes to him that night.

He awakens instantly. This is unexpected (it's not. He's seen the hungry look in her eyes since the day he found her, that of a tarnished youth, full of yearning to feel something, anything, and of course, he's felt it too, in his bones, hands, head and eyes. A cut only her mouth can soothe).

She stands about four steps from his bed, but that's only a guess—for he's yet to turn to look at her—in a dressing gown and who knows what else beneath.

"Whatever could bring you here at this time of night, I wonder?"

It'll ruin you.

"You know why I'm here."

Yes, he knows, of course he knows. "Are you quite sure about this, dearie?"

"I'm ruined, in any event." There, she said it, finally. The words are finally free to fly away from where they've hung above both their heads for months. They can stop dancing, silently beneath.

Can the ruined find solace? Who can know?

"Not in this way." Though none would believe it, he leaves unsaid. "At least not yet."

"I know what I'm doing, and everyone thinks we've done this, so might as well prove them right."

"That's no reason to let a monster be the first to bed you." Is that the only reason? His desire for her wages with his desire for her to want him in return, though he'd be hard pressed to admit it. This is no fairy tale, but he still has something of the man (and coward) left, too much perhaps.

"You're not a monster. I don't quite know what you are, but you're not that." It's a pardon, and she shouldn't have to be the strong one now, but it helps. "And who says you're my first."

He scoffs at that, "Every move you make, dearie."

"I'm more sure about this than any other thing. Please don't send me away."

Never. He rolls to his side at that and pulls back the covers. "Come on then," he says, with put on reluctance. They're always playing at feeling less than they actually do. Perhaps someday they won't have to.

She stays rooted in place. "Before, I just have to ask. Did you do it?" She can't speak the name of the dead man she didn't, couldn't, love.

He sighs and his dark anger flares low in his belly (along with that other feeling). He doesn't want to tell her. Doesn't want her to run from his chamber. Honesty has never been his strong suit, but all magic comes with a price, and perhaps this is the one he must pay tonight.

He smirks at her, "Yes, of course I did." He speaks in spite and jest. It's for the best; she ought know just exactly who she's asking to get into bed with.

She nods, her eyes dry. "The rose?"

He chuckles. "Smart girl." The fool would never have touched you like I will, you know. Nor would he have understood this darker side of yours—the side that would deign to ask a Dark One to freely take her maidenhead.

"I just had to know for certain."

"Yes, and now you do." He stares at her in the dark, "Whatever will you do with this newfound knowledge, I wonder?" He dares her. He dares her to run and leave and never touch that doorknob again. "Doubting yourself, perhaps?"

She drops the robe. He watches the slither to the floor and sees that she's naked beneath, thankfully. It's dark, a new moon night. He considers briefly lighting a candle—he does love ever so much to inspect his gains from his dealings—but then realizes she'd see him by the same token. He leaves the room unlit.

She takes the last four steps and slips into his bed (silk, with a feather mattress and matching pillows). As Belle pulls the covers back to cover her pale body, he says, "You know, I won't love you."

"If you think that's what I'm asking for, naked in your bed in the middle of the night, then you're twice the fool I'd thought you were," she replies harshly.

They both know the other lies, but then that's the way this must go; it's the way of the damned, full of lies and falsehoods, but perhaps some comfort too, in this and other charades.

Ruined, but not finished.

He chuckles, "Careful dearie, honey, not vinegar and all that."

"But I've no need to catch you now—" her words catch as his hand ghosts its way across her shoulder, brushing back her locks.

"You were saying?"

"Bastard."

He laughs, but then suddenly, he grabs hold of her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes, because they are playing with fire tonight. "All the same, don't kiss me." He suffices with running a thumb along her blood-colored lips.

She nods into his hand, mouth open, in anticipation. He smirks at the effect he is having on her and moves to kiss up the line of her jaw. Then, he follows her artery down her neck into the crook of her shoulder. As his mouth works on her collarbone, he skims his hand along the underside of her breast. It's softer than the silk of his sheets.

Belle gasps at the touch. It's all she's wanted; it's not nearly enough.

Ruin me. Please ruin me.

Her hands come alive, slipping into the collar of his loose tunic. He almost loses his concentration at the feeling. Her hands are cold, but he's warm enough for the two of them. Her hands move upward and tangle in his hair, as Rumpelstiltskin thinks, you've no idea what I'm capable of, do you, dear.

He smirks, and goes lower. His hands hold her steady at the waist, because this is a dance she's yet to learn. As he nips at her collarbone, she makes a tiny moan. He decides now or never and goes to the first point of no return—they can forget kisses, they pretend to have done so already, but there are certain things that change the state of their little life here in his dark castle. He takes her right breast into his mouth, gentle at first, but then more insistent. He sucks, as he did with that little cut on her little finger. As his tongue circles her nipple, he hears he pant, "Oh god."

Looking up with an evil grin, he says, "Not quite, love."

Her hands spread across his back, trying to pull him closer—he's still yet to put his weight on her, instead resting on his side as he attends to her.

She starts to tug on his shirt, but he pulls back, "What are you doing?"

"Trying to take your shirt off."

"Taking the shirt off your back is generally what I do, dearie." He's afraid to be in a state of undress with her, but he knows if he presses it any further, she'll start in with the comforting and he just can't. So he sits up and slips off the over large tunic.

He's lanky and his skin is no different from his face and neck. It's what she expected. It doesn't disappoint, and she wonders briefly how many people would think her mad, including herself. But she's not mad, and if she is then she'd rather not be sane with the rest of the world for all the gold he's spun and ever could. "Better," she whispers. Her hands now take free roam over his chest, back and upper arms.

His hands wander, taking their time. He dreamt of these places on her body, of touching their silk, tasting their salt. He tries not to shake (and focus; he's been hard for ages it seems like) as he moves his hands downward—mustn't scare the girl.

He lets his hand wander, caressing the expanse of her stomach, and it's all she can do to hold her tongue from asking and stop her hands from pushing his to where she truly wants them. It's like her can see right through her; maybe he can. He draws little circles on her inner thighs. "Is this what you want, dearie?"

She whimpers a response, but he's going to make her do more. He always does. "Tell me what you want."

"Please, you know what I want."

"Yes, I do, but I'd very much like to hear you say it." He tempts her further, watching her face as he moves to briefly cup her sex.

She gasps, "Please, touch me."

Then he does. He finds that place—a place she'd never known existed for so long and now would be nigh near impossible to ever forget—with his too-long finger, moving just once across it. As his finger stills, she cries out, and she feels him smirk into her neck. He's always been one to do something for the response. He slides across and through her quickly, making her body warm rapidly, the warmest she's been in so long. He's rather good at this. "How do you know…" she can hardly speak her words, "this?"

Now he's the one to scoff. He slows his hand, but does not stop completely, moving rhythmically. "You shouldn't ask such questions at a time like this, but as they say, practice makes perfect."

Belle blushes. Ah, of course. She's the one who is new at all of this.

"Is this everything you desired?"

"Soon."

He moves his head back to his efforts on her breasts. He does not speak, but stops as she keeps tugging on him—or rather, his remaining clothing. She fumbles with the drawstring of his pants, but doesn't quite understand how they work, and she's having trouble thinking about anything other than what he's doing with his hand.

He pulls back, catching her wrist. "All in good time, dearie."

"It's rather a bit different from my ties."

An understatement, that. "Your dusty books neglected to mention the finer points o the male wardrobe?"

"They were more informative than you'd think," she says, still catching her breath.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"The books from your library paid particular attention to anatomy."

"Oh did they now? And did they enlighten your nighttime rituals?"

"No, the male anatomy." She avoids the word "man" like the plague.

"Oh really," he says, but tires of talk, and now his own anatomy is throbbing, begging for her, he decides the time for leisure is over—at least for tonight, but this is just the beginning, after all. (It's forever, dearie).

He moves his hand fast over her, as she clutches to his upper arms, mouth agape, eyes tight shut, lost to everything but his touch. He can tell she's very close now, when he whispers, right beside her ear. "Ask me again."

"Please."

With a final push, she falls crying out and shaking, clinging to him like driftwood at sea during a storm. He watches as her breath finally slows, the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead catching what little light there is in his room. He can't look away, the sight of her stronger than any spell.

Her hands slide down his arms to his stomach, slower this time and still shaking—she's tired after all. She leans up to kiss his chest, and he closes his eyes at the contact with her lips. He can feel her little bud of a tongue slip out and just barely graze his chest. Rumpelstiltskin takes her by the wrists, she's still fumbling—the girl never learns, but for now at least there's time. And kisses each palm. "Enough, I'm full grown and can undress myself."

He rolls over to the other side of the bed and sits up. Quickly enough he unties the loose breeches and slips them off his minimal form, and wonders if she'll know that he's likely to come all too soon. Rolling back, he stops beside her once again, preparing to tell her a thing or two, but before he can open his mouth, she's at his chest again, taking hold of his arms and pulling him down.

Caught off guard he falls atop her; that wasn't what he'd had in mind. She squeaks against him as she feels his manhood full against that most sensitive area, a bit too sensitive after what he's just done to her.

He pulls back just enough to look at her flushed face, which he can hardly see, but he knows she's looking at him expectantly. "This will hurt just a bit, you know."

"I'm not worried." He is. "I trust you." That doesn't help.

"Not your best decision, dearie."

"It's too late for all that now."

She buries her head in his neck and clutches her arms around his back, preparing herself for whatever lay ahead. In that moment, despite her fear and despite his apprehension, there's (always) comfort in her arms.

Ruined, blessedly ruined.

He holds her too, with his left, with the right he finds her entrance. He takes a breath (better to do it fast and get the pain over with. Like his deals, Sign and be done. Pay quick; live to forget, if you can) and pushes. I love you.

She cries out, not in the higher tones but the low, betraying that yes, there is pain to be paid. The price for the key to this brand of magic.

When he's entered her fully, he waits a moment for her to adjust to him, and to regain composure, because she's warm and so ready for him—he's seen to that more than well enough. Then he moves. He finds his rhythm and between his own groans of pleasure (it's been too long since this and it's so much better) he hears her echo back her own. Good.

Ruined, but mine.

It's not long at all before he can't hold back any longer, and clutching at her hair, a little too hard, but he can't stop, and he must hold on to something or he'll fall through the center of this earth and be consumed by who knows what.

He comes, calling out her name, once and then again. Then he collapses against her, entirely spent.

When the world starts turning again, he raises up on an elbow, a much as he can, to look at her. He opens his mouth to speak some absurdity, but before he can do so, she places a tiny palm to cup his cheek and rises to kiss the other. Then, of course, there are no words.

Ruined. Thank you.

He slips from her and instead, turns her on her side and pulls her snug against him. There will be sheets to clean and more than a little soreness on her part tomorrow morn, yet, here in this bed, where they both lie ruined and spent, neither could want for more, at least in this world.