A/N: A continued thanks to all of you reading my story! I really appreciate all of your kind words and encouragement! It means a lot to me, and I've really been working on becoming a better writer, and all of you have helped so much! So thank you, and please continue to enjoy! I really look forward to hearing everything you guys have to say! And maybe, just maybe, if you send me a good idea for one of these little scenes it MIGHT show up ;) hehe. Enjoy!

The clouds had been accumulating all morning. It started with a few like gray fluffy ones, then some darker clouds started to roll in, and finally the sky was a veritable quilt of varying shades from gray to black, pulsing and ready to break open. With every minute they got thicker, it got hotter, and Belle had to go inside before long. She thought she would wilt from the heat.

But, sitting on the ledge of one of the windows as the deep rumbles sounded in the distance, cracks of fire in the sky so far away, sent shivers down her spine.

The storms at home were terrible, people always died, whether from the fires or the rivers overflowing. She liked spring showers, the kinds that made the crops grow and the flowers flourish, but these summer storms – they were destructive.

She retreated as the drops began to fall, slowly at first, and the latch clicked shut. Letting out a deep breath, she dropped onto the ground in front of the window. She folded her arms across the ledge, resting her chin as she half-sat, half-kneeled with heavy eyelids. She continued to gaze out, and up, watching the fat drops collect on the window and slip down in paths.

Some of them raced, others sat in waiting until they crashed down with all their might, and soon enough, the rain was coming down so fast and hard, there were no more races, just an onslaught of weather and Belle scrambled back from the window as the first lighting whip struck the ground with a restrained squeak.

From somewhere behind her, a dark chuckle rolled out of the only other occupant of the castle, mimicking the ominous rolls of thunder outside the windows. "What's this?" he teased, "Brave Belle afraid of a little storm?" he raised his eyebrows, challenging her. She couldn't be sure if her heart was thumping so hard because of the anticipation of the next crash of thunder or the way her name rolled off the tip of his tongue – he rarely used it, and she seized up for a moment.

"I don't like storms," she affirmed, though did not acknowledge she was afraid; after all, she wasn't afraid for herself. They were in a citadel of stone. He would think her concern childish, she was sure. He always did.

The expression on his face was clearly not belief, however, and he pressed forward, the next bright explosion of lightening cast her imagination into the village below them, the very same one that often played music and made her time outside so comfortable. She imagined the huts erupting in flames and she gritted her teeth to avoid jumping as the thunder roared. "I think that is an understatement," Rumpelstiltskin commented, searching her face.

He was standing so close to her, she could almost feel his breath on her nose, and she met his eyes for only a moment, trying not to let him see the tears she knew were shimmering over. Belle closed her eyes and took a breath, steadying herself in the wake of the next explosion of light, energy, and sound. Her blood pounded in her ears. "It's just… the village," she breathed out, finally. He always got her to say what she did not want to, for some reason.

"The village?" he echoed with confusion, as though he misheard her under the oppressive pattering of the rain on the windows and the constantly rumbling thunder that chipped at her resolve.

She nodded vigorously, eyes still closed, taking a deep breath in through her nose. "Storms," she said in a hushed, reverent whisper, "they destroy so much," her eyes fluttered open to catch the next bright light and crack of thunder, causing her to cringe. "They kill people."

She felt so simple saying it, but it was true. She didn't like death, the thought of it – especially those that were helpless. His expression was not one of ridicule now though, instead, he looked contemplative. "You're worried about the villagers?" he asked, more for clarity's sake than anything, she thought and she nodded, almost embarrassed. "Dear girl, why would you be worried about them?"

Belle licked her lips, resolving that she would do her best to not pay attention to the raging storm. "Their homes will burn," she stated quietly, resigned and sad, "or get washed away… their crops the same… animals run away," she shook her head, "and they can't do anything about it…" She sniffed, holding back a strangled sound in her throat.

"They could build stronger homes," he was playing devil's advocate, as always, "or fences." Belle shook her head. It wasn't as though he was being cruel, he was just being truthful, but Belle did not believe they had those capabilities, not with everything peasants were responsible for.

Coming from a small province, she had played with the children when she was young, and she lived closely to them, saw the things they went through. "They can't," she countered, voice shaking. "They can't – but…" her eyes flitted up to his face, "you can," she breathed. "You can help them."

"Can I?" he asked her, almost too seriously. Belle could see the wheels behind his eyes turning, and she felt her skin crawl with every lightening strike on the landscape surrounding them.

"You can," her voice was stronger and she put her hands up, resting them on the lapel of his leather vest. She could feel heat even through the layers of silk and dragon hide, pleading him with her eyes, "please, keep them safe?" she asked, "even just once."

His muscles tensed under her fingers and he sucked in a deep breath, pushing her hands toward herself, but she let them remain, her fingers playing at clutching the extensively decorated and done edging on the vest, far finer than anything even in her own province had worn. "You know that's impossible."

"It's not!" she protested, clutching harder at the lapel. "Whatever price, I will pay it," she was being irrational, but it was the first storm of the season and while was used to death and suffering, it was usually soldiers. They were in the business of death, but women and children, the elderly… she had been comforted by the walls of this place, and though removed from them, felt a kinship with the people below who had produced her garments, any trinket he brought for her, and the music she so loved to hear in the garden. "Just help them."

He considered for a moment and let out a deep breath, Belle's hands moved forward with him and she took a small step to follow, barely brushing up against him. She was so hopeful and he seemed conflicted. "Dearie, to make a deal, one has to have something the other wants."

Belle's shoulders dropped and she let her hands fall, no longer touching him, no longer feeling the heat of him under her palms and a strange feeling in the heart of her. She only felt an ache for the people in the village. "Right," she said, defeated, and jumped back as the next crash of thunder was so loud and powerful that the room shook. "Of course," she added, sulking back toward a chair in front of the fire.

He moved toward his spinning wheel, and they were silent. She tried to read, but her mind kept drifting down the hill, following the trail of the water, toward the river and rushing through the fields, sweeping up whatever was in its path, a sheep or cow, maybe a fence, half of a field, or worst of all a house. They'd all float down in a mix of debris and screams – and then the straw would go up, and yes, it was raining, but it wouldn't be enough – and even desperate attempts wouldn't save it… When she closed her eyes, the images got more vivid and Belle felt sick to her stomach.

She wondered how he could sit there at his wheel and not pay any mind to the suffering outside. Perhaps he had no more sense of it, and Belle retreated from the main room, only mentioning she did not feel well and would be in her room, should he need anything.

No knock ever came. Outside of the sounds of the storm and her own sobs (however much she tried to hold them back), it was deathly quiet.

She lay on her bed, listening to the sounds of the storm ebb away and leave behind a soft rain. The heat broke as well, leaving Belle only physically comfortable while her mind raged, trying to push out the images of a small village that would have to put itself together again in the morning.

Until then, her eyes closed and she fell asleep to the sound of rain lapping at the windows and wind knocking at the latches.

There was no sun to wake up to the next morning. It was dark and damp, residual rain clouds loomed in the sky. Summer storms did not usually carry on like this, but it had been particularly horrific the previous day. She slugged through her morning tasks, getting dressed and going to prepare a quick breakfast.

Part of her wished she didn't have to use the croissant dough she prepared. They were his favorite and he most assuredly did not deserve them. But, she prepared them anyhow – it would be a waste of her effort. At least she could refuse to put blackberry jam with them, she thought, and assembled the tray of tea and morning pastry – a tired and sad trudge up the stairs to the main hall.

He was sitting there already, waiting for her, and Belle sighed, placing the tray on the table. It was a ritual, pouring the tea, assembling plates, all of the things she did every day, but she went about it with lethargy today, not meeting his eyes as she placed three croissants and his tea cup in front of him. "Morning," he finally greeted – she supposed he had been waiting for her to greet him.

"Morning," was the hollow echo of a reply, and she sat on the table, cradling her cup. She was hungry, but somehow didn't really feel the desire to eat, like it repulsed her. So, she sat on the table and sipped at her tea, left with nothing else to do.

He also grabbed up his tea, holding it close to his face. "I was already in town this morning," he lilted, looking at her over the rim of the teacup. She looked at him, her lips pulled tight and chin tilted up. She did not respond, at least not verbally. "Despite its intensity, apparently the storm was unremarkable and it seems business as usual."

Her jaw dropped and he grabbed a croissant off the plate in front of him, having dropped the news as though it were raising bread prices, and Belle put down her teacup. She pushed herself off the table and headed straight out of the room. An occasion like this certainly required some blackberry preserves.