"We have a new one today, Mr. Gold," Isabelle French called enticingly the moment he set foot in the ice cream parlor. Not that she needed to entice; he'd come in for a small cone every day since she'd started working at the little shop. Her new boss had nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of the pawnbroker and abandoned her immediately, muttering something about inventory. Izzy couldn't understand why. Mr. Gold was a perfectly charming man, even if he had an odd quirk or two.

Like his refusal to call her by her first name. "What's this one, Miss French?" His eyebrows quirked with apparent interest as he made his halting way to the counter. Izzy quickly handed Dr. Hopper his change before turning her attention to her favorite customer.

"Mango peach," she answered, already dipping up a sample spoonful. Holding it out temptingly, she gestured to her name badge with her free hand, "And it's Izzy. How many times do I have to remind you?"

"Once more," he countered, as he always did. He leaned one hand on the display case, admiring the orangish concoction on the spoon, then nodded to her expectantly.

Izzy giggled a little and raised the spoon to her lips, carefully swallowing half the mouthful. Mr. Gold watched her mouth intently as she rolled the sweet treat over her tongue and licked her lips, making sure she hadn't missed any. "Well?" His voice was rough.

"It's more peach than mango," Izzy decided, doing her best to describe the flavor, "Sweet and juicy, but then the mango kicks in at the very end, just a slightly bitter taste that keeps it from cloying."

He hummed in appreciation, and Izzy held out the spoon, her gaze locking with his as he took the half-eaten bite in his own mouth, eating from her hand like a pampered pet. He ran his tongue carefully over the spoon, following the same trail her own tongue had blazed. "Delicious," he breathed, never looking away from her, and Izzy's stomach fluttered.

The jangle of the bell over the door broke the moment, and Izzy flushed, wondering what the rest of the town would think if they ever saw the private ritual. They'd probably whisper that Izzy French was doing a lot more than just dipping ice cream cones for Mr. Gold. Embarrassed in a way she'd never been around him, she quickly dipped him a mango peach cone, pressing an extra scoop to the top for luck as she always did, even though she couldn't quite meet his eyes when she handed it to him. "Here you go, Mr. Gold."

"Thank you, Miss French," he murmured, placing a ten dollar bill on the counter to pay for his two dollar cone, "Keep the change."

She flushed scarlet, feeling like she was being paid for doing something illicit. Barely mumbling a goodbye, she turned her attention to her next customer, trying to convince herself that she'd done nothing wrong. Mr. Gold was picky about his ice cream, that was all. She was his own private taste tester.

Despite her attempts to reassure herself, Izzy was out of sorts all afternoon, only coming close to achieving her normal cheerful equilibrium at the end of the night when the shop was emptying out. Her boss left her alone to close, and the soothing routine of covering the various containers and balancing the cash drawer did more for her mood than her hours-long self pep talk had.

She jumped when she heard the bell jangle, but she didn't have to look up to recognize Mr. Gold's distinctive step. "I've upset you," he remarked from the doorway, and although his tone seemed flat, Izzy recognized the concern in it.

"No. No, you didn't. I upset myself," she assured him, feeling ashamed of the conclusions she'd jumped to. Mr. Gold was a gentleman, and he was fond of her. He certainly didn't look at her like she was some kind of hooker with a heart of frozen custard. "What can I get you, Mr. Gold?"

"Aren't you closed?" he inquired, stepping further into the shop despite his words.

Izzy found a smile for him, a genuine one this time. Darting around him, she locked the door and switched off all but one set of the lights. "Yes, but there's always time for one last cone. For my favorite customer."

This was the first time they'd stood together without the counter between them, and he seemed much closer than distance actually justified. "Your favorite," he said in a near-whisper, "Give me a cone of your favorite."

It only took her a moment to dip a luridly-pink cone, but in the meantime he'd seated himself at one of the small tables along the window, the sparing glow from the streetlights turning him into a figure of mystery in the shadows. "Sit with me?"

Izzy took the chair opposite him, proffering the cone. "Teaberry."

He took the cone from her hand, running his tongue up over the heaping scoop. As she watched, he rolled the bite around in his mouth, a faint smile blooming there. "Pink and innocent on the outside. Someone who didn't know better would expect strawberry, something commonplace. You'd never make that mistake once you got closer though. It's refreshing and too astringent to be really sweet, but it's compelling. One bite could never be enough."

Dimly, Izzy became aware she was breathing raggedly through her mouth, but before she had a chance to flush, Mr. Gold held the cone out to her, and it was her turn to eat from his hand. She took a long swipe with her tongue, flicking the tip against the top of the scoop, and she didn't think she was imagining his indrawn breath.

They took turns, each of them licking the same path the other had taken in a phantom kiss. The noise from the street faded away until all Izzy was aware of was the soft hum of the freezers and the way Mr. Gold sighed each time her tongue darted out to steal a drip. She nibbled with sharp teeth once they worked their way down to the cone itself, and he stifled a groan, his free hand covering hers on the table. "Miss French..."

"Izzy," she pleaded. This wasn't about ice cream, hadn't been about ice cream for weeks, and she couldn't bear the thought of him calling her by her surname in the midst of it.

He shook his head, taking his own bite out of the cone. "It doesn't suit you at all. It's frivolous. It's a strawberry ice cream kind of name."

"If Izzy is strawberry, then Miss French is vanilla," she countered, "What then? No one calls me Isabelle."

"Closer, a chocolate cherry sort of name. Rich, but not quite right." Some of the ice cream was dripping on his fingers from the half-eaten cone, but he didn't seem to notice. Swallowing hard, he suggested, "Belle."

"Belle," she tried the syllable out for herself, liking the unique ring of it. "A very teaberry name." Without thinking about it, she caught his wrist in her hand and lifted it to her mouth, licking the melting ice cream off his fingers.

His deep groan tore through the silence. "Belle..."

"Yes," she breathed, not sure what she was agreeing to. Whatever it was, she wanted it more than generous tips and teaberry ice cream. She wanted him.

He yanked on her hand until she was leaning across the small table and caught her mouth with his own. For all his apparent confidence, the kiss was gentle, his tongue brushing tentatively across her lips, pleading for entrance instead of demanding it. She granted it at once, and he explored her mouth with loving care, tasting her as thoroughly as he did the ice cream. She pressed forward when he would have retreated, doing some sampling of her own. "Rum raisin," she whispered when they broke apart for breath.

"Pardon me?" He blinked at her, then looked at the mostly-ruined cone in his hand. With a shrug, he took a bite, then offered the last bit to her. Izzy swallowed hastily, wanting to share her idea. "If I'm teaberry, you're rum raisin. Smokey and unusual, and not a huge seller-"

Even in the dim light, she could see the flash of hurt on his face, and she hastened to complete her thought, "But the people who like rum raisin, really like rum raisin."

"And do you?" he asked, his accent more pronounced than she'd ever heard it.

Izzy- Belle smiled. "It's my new favorite."

Until that moment, Belle hadn't been sure if Mr. Gold could smile, not really smile, but clearly he could, and it lit up his face, making him look years younger. "A new name for me?"

"If you can call me Belle, I can call you Rum," she decided, meaning only to tease, but the name sounded strangely right on her lips, and some deep part of her being whispered yes, "Unless you want to tell me your given name."

His smile turned slightly odd, and he was looking at her with an almost feverish intensity as though he expected to see the answer to some mystery in her eyes. After a moment, he shook his head, "I think Rum suits me well."

"Rum," she tried again, taking his hand in hers once again. His fingers were sticky from the melted cone, and she lifted them to her lips, running her tongue over them before sucking on each one, cleaning him up. Vaguely, she wondered where this side of her was coming from. She didn't do things like this; she was a good girl, but Rum was looking at her like she was a goddess and breathing like he was dying, and she decided that virtue was overrated. "I want you."

"Then you shall have me," he whispered roughly, "You shall have everything you want, Belle."

He moved awkwardly, but Belle was grateful for it, because it gave her a chance to process what was coming as Rum slowly moved to sit on the floor at her feet, pressing his lips gently to her knee where it was bared by the skirt of her work uniform. He rubbed his cheek against the same spot, and Belle's breath caught at the rough touch of his stubble against her skin. It felt strange and prickly and ticklish and real, and she felt her insides turn to molten gold. "Oh, yes."

"Yes?" he questioned, his breath a warm rush against her skin as he coaxed her to part her legs for him. "Yes, what?"

He brushed his fingers over the damp fabric of her panties, and Belle moaned, wanting more. She was too happy to be embarrassed; this was too right to allow room for any second thoughts. She ran her fingers through his hair, frowning when she realized he'd stopped, resting his cheek on her knee as he looked up at her with a mixture of lust and mischief. "Yes... please?" she offered, hoping that was the right response.

His eyes closed at her polite plea, and he breathed in harshly, his face tight as he struggled for control. "Not... quite," he gritted out, "Yes, what, Belle?"

There was the tiniest extra emphasis on the name he'd given her, and it was hint enough. Belle sighed, sliding down in the chair a little more until her hips were on the very edge of the seat. "Yes, Rum. Please."

"Keep saying my name," he ordered as he pushed her skirt up nearly to her waist and eased her panties down her legs until she was bared to his sight. "Oh, my lovely Belle."

He parted her folds with one long, slow lick, and Belle gasped, her head falling back in shocked pleasure. She'd never felt anything like this, never imagined anything feeling like this, and even if he hadn't asked her to say his name, there wasn't a single other thought in her head. "Rum... oh Rum, yes..."

With a choked noise he pressed closer, his tongue everywhere, licking her like his daily ice cream cone, but he'd never shown half this much enthusiasm even for their best flavors. His hands clutched her hips, and she could feel them trembling. For a moment she wondered which of them he was trying to keep grounded, then he found a spot that made her yelp and clutch at his hair, and she stopped thinking again.

The way she was pulling should have hurt him, but Rum just groaned, taking one hand off her hip so he could slide a finger into her, crooking it slightly and rubbing against something inside her that made her see stars. "Yes! Rum, yes, more... oh, please more..."

Two fingers, then three, and Belle's hips were moving instinctively, riding his hand like she suddenly wished she was riding another part of his anatomy. Between her legs, Rum was moaning like she was doing just that, and she could feel the reverberation all through her. He lapped at her eagerly, then gave her a tiny, gentle nibble, and Belle fell apart.

Her body clenched around his fingers, holding him in place as firmly as her hands held his head. She cried something that might have been his name, her entire body quivering as she climaxed, her mind shattering.

When she came back to herself, she was slumped in the chair, Rum still running his tongue gently over her, drawing out her pleasure to an almost painful degree. His fingers were still inside her, but he had released his hold on her hip. It wasn't until he shuddered and groaned into her that she realized what he was doing.

"Rum..." she breathed, sliding out of the chair to land beside him on the floor, sitting curled around each other under the small metal table.

"Yes, my Belle?" He nuzzled his face into her hair, then hesitantly held the fingers he'd used to bring her so much pleasure to her lips.

Without a second thought, Belle took them in her mouth, tasting herself on him. She ran her tongue over every millimeter of his skin before releasing him. "Well?" he rasped.

"It's musky and dark, like the air after fireworks when you can taste the sulfur and sparks even though you can't see them anymore, and moist like a summer's night just before it rains." She barely recognized her own voice as she spoke, and when he sucked his fingers into his mouth, searching for the last traces of her flavor, she forgot how to speak completely.

"Delicious," he breathed, holding her gaze.

"Do you-" she had to stop and clear her throat before continuing, "Do you have a new favorite?"

"Oh yes," he nodded, his eyes dark. "You... won't serve anyone but me. Will you?"

He sounded almost shy as he said it, and Belle could hear their future in that one question. Come home with me. Love me. Make me yours as you are mine. She smiled, not quite ready yet for that step. Not yet, but soon. "Well, you are my favorite customer," she teased gently, and he rewarded her with a kiss that was far better than teaberry ice cream.