DISCLAIMER: Alas I own nothing (if I did, Rumple and Belle would rule the world).

THAT WHICH WE CALL A ROSE

It was raining.

Rumplestiltskin – That is, Rumplestiltskin in his Storybrooke guise as Mr. Gold, was not best pleased.

True, Maine was not lauded for its unbroken, lengthy dry spells with requisite sunshine and puffy white clouds, but on the first day when mayhem and madness had not been the order of the day in Storybrooke he had thought to spend it in the best way he could possibly comprehend – a quiet, intimate lunch with his beloved in a secluded spot of the forest that bordered their odd little town.

Fate had never been kind in the hands it had dealt Rumpelstiltskin before, why should she behave any differently now? Now, when his skin was as far from grey-green and shimmering as possible, now when the leg injury that Magic had so beautifully erased had returned with a vengeance, now when he had held his heart in his mouth, twisted, misused little thing that it was and tried to send his beloved, his Belle away from him because it was the best thing to do for her in this brave new world of theirs.

Now, when she had smilingly refused his offer and was everywhere, chestnut waves and sparkling blue eyes, white hands that seemed to be perpetually reaching out to his, slipping between his fingers, over his knuckles, clasping his wrists.

I'm here, those caresses said to him in half-whispered tones, I'm here.

The picnic basket sat abandoned on the table by the door, the optimistic checkered tablecloth peeking out from under the wicker lid mocked by the shadowy waterfall cast by raindrops cascading down the stained glass of the front door. Gold sighed irritably, standing in the hallway with both hands clenched over the gold handle of his cane. A frustrated toss of his head led him to catch his reflection in the oval mirror that presided over the picnic basket. He frowned. He'd found the mirror in an otherwise unremarkable yard sale, unusual thing that it was, complete with two ornate doors of solid mahogany that closed like wings over the face of the glass when it was not needed. Appreciative of the doors that would render the potential spy portal useless to anyone peeking from the other end, he'd bought it on a whim. It had never been opened.

The glass that confronted him was practically sparkling.

She'd been cleaning again.

His reflection mocked him. No, certainly no reptilian sheen to his face now, no unnerving too-large irises staring back him, no mottled teeth bared like a mouth full of rotting rhubarb stalks. But still the hooked nose, the haunted, angry eyes, the thin line of a mouth held tight like the seam of a jealous purse. The malicious glint of gold over narrow teeth.

An old beast, then. A monster now.

"You're scowling again"

The lilting voice from above shook him from his self-scrutiny. She came down the stairs in swaying, sprightly steps, one fair hand on the banister, the other's fingertips grazing the air beneath it.

The dress he'd bought her clung like a glove, the dark blue lace about her shoulders and neck, the little belt that nipped in her waist gently, the whisper of the taffeta underskirt tapping her knees, all drew the eye and ear to her like magpies. Her pale legs were on show, slender ankles playfully flexing into feet tucked into the heels she'd initially proclaimed as impossible to walk in and now refused to leave the house without. Even now she tottered ever so slightly, and the miniscule half-suggestion that she could fall from the air and into his arms all violets and every warm, sweet thing he'd never had was robbing the breath from his lungs and dotting the tops of his knuckles with white.

Then she was in front of him and her hands were over his, holding them as he held his cane, tightly, as if she were the one in need of support.

"Aren't you happy I'm here?"

She is probably joking, in her smiling, warm way, jesting with him for his bad moods and angry looks. Wagging a knowing, teasing finger at the jaws of the beast, daring it to strike and knowing it won't. When he finally finds himself able to speak though, he cannot help but take her question seriously, his voice suddenly husky, its rhythms erratic.

"Of course I am, so happy my Belle, you've no idea-"

The kiss that presses itself to his mouth leaves it smiling as hers is.

"That's better. The scowl has its own fiendish little charm, but your smiles are so much more-" Her beautiful face transformed into a mask of contemplative thought. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, resisting the urge to kiss it before the dark strands left his fingers.

"-Now you're not about to say charming, are you, dearest?"

Her face brightened into an enlightened smile. She was dazzling.

"That's just it. Charming. And handsome"

Gold shook off the laugh that her words provoked and grimaced instead.

"I think you'll find yourself alone in your appreciation of my meager attractions"

This time it was she who frowned.

"Don't say that. You're handsome and intelligent and I won't hear otherwise. If no-one else in Storybrooke sees that then they need their eyes checked by a better physician than Dr. Whale"

He dares to kiss her then, to kiss away the hurt and tension in her voice, the uncertain tremor of her throat. His Belle, who would take on the world, tiny clenched fist raised should it suggest that he is not the sum of all her hopes and desires that a man could ever be. Her mouth is warm and soft and invites him in so readily he moans into the back of his throat and decides for the hundredth time that they do not spend enough time like this, holding each other impossibly close, tongues drawing each other into velvet, spiraling heat.

When she pulls back and her hands leave his he is shocked by the emptiness it sends echoing to his very core. He stands dazed without her in his vision until she returns, smiles again and grasps the hand he hadn't realized was reaching out for her, tugging him in the direction of the living room. He numbly realizes she is carrying the picnic basket in the crook of her bent arm.

"Come on, it's time for our picnic, and I'm starving"

He followed her willingly, smirking at the breathless quality of her voice before the weather made itself known again with a rumble of preoccupied thunder.

"Sweetheart, it's a monsoon out there, I'm sorry, we'll have to make it another day…"

His train of thought runs out of steam as he surveyed what had been the living room until a few hours prior.

The furniture had been pushed back to open up the space in the middle of the room. Centre stage was the large Chinese rug that had, until this morning, apparently, been rolled up in plastic and stored with the rest of his collection that had yet to find a space of its own. The deep, forest green of the rug's background threw its ornate, pale blossoms of lotus flowers and chrysanthemums into vivid, unearthly relief. The blooms seemed to float up, spring unbidden from the floor beneath. Plants had been brought down from the windowsills in their pots and adorned the edges of the rug, obscuring such worldly things as table legs and electric sockets from immediate view. The gathering storm outside had darkened the usually bright room, and the sounds of rain against glass and wind in the trees made for a startling intimate soundtrack. All in all Rumpelstiltskin felt as though he'd stumbled onto a secret glen in the Infinite Forest.

Belle smiled to herself at his stunned reaction and knelt on the rug, picnic basket at hand. Briskly she smoothed the lap of her dress before unpacking the contents. He slowly followed her, anchoring his weight into the grip over his cane before sinking gradually to the floor, the ruined leg stretched out before him, the other bent at the knee.

"It seems someone else has been taking lessons in Magic" he quipped, relaxing his hold on the cane to tap it gently against the side of his shoe. Belle blushed into the tea she was pouring before handing the cup to him wordlessly, a pleased smile tugging at her lips. Rumplestiltskin inspected the chip in the fine bone china as he always did before drinking. Anchoring himself.

"I learnt from the best" she shot back, kissing the rim of her cup to his with a tiny, sweet clink.

They drank their tea in silence, enjoying their lunch in similar fashion with only the heavy rain and the occasional rustle of Belle's dress to disturb the precious, stolen quality of their being alone together. If he closed his eyes, he could feel the preposterous house melt away into the familiar surroundings of the Dark Castle, and Belle in her pale blue spring dress, curls half swept away from her face, perched on his dining room table like she'd been there all her life. Rumpelstiltskin breathed slowly in and he was there once more as she leaned in to kiss him, the unwieldy frame of his spinning wheel looming above them both.

Something changed my mind.

When he opened his eyes again he knew without the aid of a mirror that they were different, pupils blown wide, irises darkened. Belle was curled up in the triangular nook his legs formed, her face pressed to his throat. She was shivering slightly, he noticed, her arms curled around her own body, leaning into him with bare shoulders sensitive to the cool air. He shifted slowly and slipped his arms out of the suit jacket, bringing the garment up and around her shoulders in one fluid gesture. His leg made the sinuous swagger of old somewhat difficult, but his hands had not lost what the boy Henry had dubbed "the flick and swish" that he'd used to flourish every sentence with. Belle snuggled into the jacket's depths, murmuring her approval at the heat it had retained from his body.

"Are you happy, Belle?"

He made a point of not looking at her even when he felt her look upwards to see his face fixing his gaze instead on the scrolled arm of the chair pushed to the far wall. He couldn't suppress the flickering spasm that followed her finger tracing the line of his cheek.

"I'm not unhappy"

He laughed then, an uncertain, relieved, whisper of a laugh and bent to kiss her forehead in the same instance she decided to kiss his chin, both of them pleasantly surprised at finding their lips delicately pressed together. When her hand slipped between them and smoothed the place over his heart he knew she could feel its frantic pulse through the silk of his shirt and acquiesced. Cradling her as close as his arms could bear he kissed her again and again, seeking out all the corners of her mouth that made her clutch at his hair and respond in tangible pleasure.

She is here. She is going to stay.

The rain painted the shadows of teardrops on his cheeks.