(A/N): I know there are like a thousand dozen of these but, you know, everyone has different handwriting and everyone's going to have different ideas.

So these are mine.

And I hope you enjoy them.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Disney.

Beauty and the Beast - Could Have Fooled Me.

He always found her in some hidden alcove. Anywhere - even the 'oh-so forbidden' sections of the castle.

But he supposed she'd seen the rose, she'd seen the portrait - she'd seen everything that he had tried to hide from her. There was little point screaming her out of the castle again.

That did mean, however, that she was always bloody exploring. Just - wandering. Down corridors and climbing up onto windowsills and wandering into wardrobes. Disappearing into them for ten minutes at a time. He'd come across her sitting serenely in the most unlikely of places. She wouldn't even look up. He would slow down, but she would remain silent. Fixated on the text in front of her. As though he didn't even exist.

He found himself wishing she would run. Or at least look at him with some form of horror. At least that made him feel valid.

He turned a corner now - and found her. She had buried herself into an alcove, under an empty torch bracket and against a tiny, stained glass window that looked out onto a few sparse, dead trees. Her knees were pressed against her chest and her nose buried in a book.

The same book that she always had. Usually tucked under an arm.

"Haven't you - er - finished it yet?"

He didn't know what possessed him to ask. To talk to her. Casually. Like he knew her. Like they were friends. Maybe just for some validation – he needed it -

He'd kidnapped her for goodness sake.

And yet...she could have left him in the woods. She could have run away on that horse and left him to bleed out. It would have been kind for them both.

But she had brought him back. Nursed him. And stayed.

What on earth did that mean?

The sound of his voice - always too loud and too angry, no matter what he did - made her jump. He always made her jump, despite the huge claws and heavy footprints on the floors. Not as though she felt threatened or frightened - as though he had been pulled out of some reverie.

She looked up at him, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and regarded him with a mix of intrigue and disdain for a long moment.

He shouldn't have spoken to her. He shouldn't ever speak to her. She was so high above him. He should probably just let her leave.

But she had come back.

If he opened the door - would she leave or stay?

Something stirred in the back of his mind about a bird on a string. About not having the heart to let it go completely. Perhaps a poem he had read, before-

This.

"It's the same book."

He came out of his thought process to blink at her. She was staring at him steadily.

She didn't flinch. Not anymore. She had only done it the once. The first time.

"But-" he struggled to find his words. It happened often. He hadn't wanted to speak for a long time. "But – yesterday you were at the end. You finished it whilst –"

Ignoring me at dinner. They sat either end of the huge table and she read whilst he brooded. A display of their talents.

"Yes," she still spoke slowly, as though she was holding each word in her mouth before releasing it. "It's the only book I have with me. You see, I hardly had time to pack and none of your servants seem to be bookshelves, so…"

He scratched his arm awkwardly, still flinching at the claws. After so many years he would have thought it would be easy to remember that; since he brooded so often…

"I see," he said. Lamely. And there was that little half-grunt when he sighed – just to add to her horror.

But she didn't even raise an eyebrow. She unfolded herself neatly from the nook, and stood. Her head barely came to his shoulder-

And yet, she had yelled at him. Face to face.

She was walking past him now. Holding the book to her chest like he would steal it. Her eyes were half-closed, her eyelashes creating black curls and she watched the floor – like she wasn't bothered at all. Like she was melancholy.

Her dress swished around her knees. He stared at the hem; the curves of her shins. She had perfect shins.

He should really have gotten out more. Now he thought that this girl – who he had forced to stay with him – had wonderful shins.

"My name is Belle."

Her voice rung out again. Like a bell.

"What?"

It came out as an embarassing grunt.

The girl sighed, and turned to him, her eyebrows creased together like she was concerned.

Like she pitied him.

"My name. You've never asked. It's Belle."

"Oh."

He was full of his usual eloquence today. He tried to nod nonchalantly but nodding made his shoulders shrug up and down, which made his arms jerk because they were gangly and ungainly.

He felt the tail swish behind him and just – stopped - trying. He looked away from her. It was him. He was the problem. The fact that he couldn't move or act like a normal person. Not even like a monster either. He was sure that even Quasimodo was more co-ordinated than he ever was. This body – this body that he had had for years was still so awkward to him. Still like wearing someone else's skin.

Would it be like that forever? This girl – Belle – was hardly going to fall in love with the jerk who didn't even ask her name before kidnapping her. He would be doomed to forever trip up over his own feet like a clumsy child.

"And yours?"

She had done it again. Asked him a question whilst he was brooding – wasn't it obvious he was busy? He wanted to shout at her-

He wanted to talk to her. Be with her. A person. A human. Someone who looked-

Beautiful.

"My name?" he was blinking at her stupidly. He should stop that. "Quasimodo."

The girl raised an eyebrow. But she was smiling a little. At the corner of her mouth. It ruined the rosebud shape of her pout.

"Okay, sorry – Iago," he said instead.

The smile increased a little. And made her eye twinkle slightly.

"Iago does not sound like a French name," she remarked. And there was an edge of playfulness in her voice. She shifted slightly, her skirts twirling around her.

This is what it would be like. To tease a girl if he were normal. If he were a Prince.

He wouldn't have met this girl. This remarkable, fearless, witty girl. Just shells. Girls who wore high wigs and powdered their faces and hid behind fans.

"No, it's not French, it's-" he stumbled. He had heard the name. He had heard it from somewhere-

"Italian. From Othello," Belle said. She closed her mouth before she could continue, made a small, abrupt movement as though she were about to leave, then turned back. "So would you say that Iago is the true monster of the play, instead of Othello?"

He didn't know. He didn't know anything about the play. He might have read it once. Before.

He went for an awkward shrug and even that was wrong because Belle frowned.

"Because I feel that it's the whole folly of people's opinions of the play since it's creation. From what we see of Othello in act one, and indeed, even in act two and parts of act three – we can see that the Othello at the end of the play is vastly changed. And the change did not come, as critics seem to fantasize, from the fact that he is a Moor. His station sees to that, obviously – rather, it is Iago that brings about this change. If he had not planted the seeds of doubt in Othello's mind then Othello would never have grown jealous. Indeed, he never would have even fired 'a one Michael Cassio.' Give Iago's lack of reasoning about why he hates Othello, we can also assume that he plays the malcontent stereotype, and is therefore the villain of the play," Belle seemed to say it all in one breath. Then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled slightly. "But enough games. Your name, monsieur?"

"You need never put a 'monsieur' before it," he grumbled, brushing past her. Suddenly he had a bad taste in his mouth. He wanted to talk to her, but- "Richard, Caliban, Calibos – I'm sure you can think of some monster to compare me to."

"Whoever said that you were a monster?"

She asked it with a kind of forced politeness. He wanted to believe there was a touch of earnestness – of honesty –

But he laughed out loud. It was an ugly laugh. Like a mad villain. A laugh that hung in the air too long and made his mouth taste foul.

He shouldn't do that.

"You did," he said. "You said Iago was a monster. Not me."

And he strode down the hallway with as much dignity and fury as he could muster.

It was her fault. She was just like everybody else-

He heard her footsteps following him. Like a light rain patter.

"I wanted to talk to you," her voice was stronger than her footsteps.

He slowed slightly. She managed to catch up to him, walking double the amount of his steps.

"You see, I only assumed that you were listing –" she left the word out. "-Because you started with Quasimodo, therefore I assumed that you know who Iago was-"

"Stop doing that!" he snapped, turning on her like a tornado. He always just snapped with her. It was inconceivable. One minute he was fine and the next - back to square one.

"What?" she blinked at him. Her eyes were hazel, he realised now. Not brown. Not green. Hazel.

"Using all those – that fancy language. Like – therefore and…all that…" he muttered, already feeling guilty. Those words weren't really that fancy. Just normal. It had been a while since someone talking to him like that.

It just wasn't decent. He wasn't decent. To treat her like this. He scratched the back of his neck and tried to seem less huge. Like he didn't fill the whole hallway when he yelled.

"I thought – given the castle – that you were…well-educated…" Belle's words trailed off, and she fiddled with the end of her ponytail. "More so than…the people back home…they never…mentioned Shakespeare."

But she was still meeting his gaze. Her eyes hadn't left his face. They never did.

Somehow, despite all the odds, she was still willing to stand in front of him and let him try.

"That was a long time ago," he said. He went to step around her, then thought better of it. She was letting him try. "I - stopped all that when my parents...left."

Belle stared at him for a long moment with an unreadable expression.

He could read so little of her emotions. He never could tell what she was thinking.

The silence was worse than the question he knew was coming - Left? Do you mean died? - he should have let her go there and then. Carried her all the way back to her village. Let them come after him. It would have been better than this.

It wasn't like they were even friends. He had stopped trying to woo her a long time ago. But even friends seemed an impossible stretch of the imagination.

"When my mother..." Belle said suddenly, and she glanced at him, for the first time looking fearful. For the first time looking vulnerable. "Left-" she used his word. "-That's when I began to read. It helped to-"

"'Ease the pain'?"

He hadn't meant to be quite so sarcastic. A little sarcastic, yes, but not that much. It had just dripped out of him. Like venom.

He didn't want to talk about this. He should have just pushed past her. Because he hated to tease her -

But he also hated how she worded it. As though she didn't understand. As though she was saying what someone else had told her-

"No."

Belle stared up at him. He watched her blink. An unconscious movement.

She seemed to wait. Maybe for him to explode.

He found himself deflating instead.

"It didn't ease the pain," she said. "I still hurt all over. Like a - horse ran all over me - or, like I was drowning but parched at the same time...but reading - gave me something to concentrate on. Something to hide in. I could try to remember her voice and make her read to me."

He stayed silent. He didn't want to ruin this moment. He just tried to look at her with all the empathy and intrigue that he could muster, because she had never spoken this softly before. Never had her voice broken slightly.

He probably looked hideous. Ugly. He always did. Esmerelda never could stand the sight of Quasimodo.

"It... hurt more when I stopped. Because there was that awful 'oh' moment. Because then I would remember and the horse would plough into me again. All I did those days was-"

"Cry."

It had just stumbled out.

They stared at each other, both looking equally surprised at the word. The common ground that bridged the abyss between them.

Should he step onto it?

"I'd hide from the tutors," he said. His voice sounded too rough and too heavy handed to talk about something so soft. "In their room. Under the bed or in the wardrobes. And I'd just sit and cry."

She studied his face. Not revolted. Almost intrigued.

"How old were you?" she asked. Her voice barely more than a whisper.

"Ten," he said.

"Five," she finally dropped her gaze. And she looked almost guilty. "I can't even remember her now...five more years...the pain would have been...inconceivable."

He didn't say anything. Didn't say the obvious. He couldn't think of a single thing to say.

She stepped forward, half raised her arms in an awkward motion, and rested her forehead against his chest. His fur.

His arms moved of their own accord. Plucking muscle memories from a life he'd tried to forget - because she was right. Concentrating on something else had put the thoughts away for a time -

And now it was rushing back with an -

Oh. They were gone.

They stayed there. Hugging for a time. Not talking. Just hugging. And breathing. He could feel the rise and fall of her stomach. Of her ribs. It seemed incredible to him. That she was alive. And there. And breathing.

Like a butterfly had landed on him. Something soft and small and fragile that he couldn't scare away.

"I didn't mean to call you a monster," Belle said eventually. "I don't think you're a monster."

He laughed then. And it was a horrible, glass-shattering laugh. A laugh that smashed the moment between them into a thousand pieces as he pulled away.

"You shouldn't lie. You don't have to," he said. Snapped. Because she could never say the right thing. "You should tell the truth."

"I'm being truthful," she said. And when he looked at her he saw that she had crossed her arms. "You're not a monster. You've just got an anger issue because you're a puppy who has been kicked too frequently."

"And you're an expert in that too, I suppose?" he asked. Hating how spiteful he sounded but also relishing in it - and hating that he relished in it.

"I...don't actually talk to that many people at home...so I wouldn't know about people at all..." she said. She stepped forward, so that they were both looking out the window. At the dying grounds. Leaves decomposing on top of each other in a mountain of decay. "But I know when someone is hurting."

"Someone like you must have friends," he said. And then looked away so that he wouldn't catch her eye. She probably wouldn't like that.

"I read too much," Belle said. "They don't agree with it - girls and reading. That I find the company of Lysistrata and Hamlet better friends than they are."

"Don't stop," he said. One of his claws tapped the windowsill as he rested his paw upon it. He wanted the words to break through to her - for her to really understand that he meant it with all of his being. "Don't ever stop reading. Developing your mind. You're one of the most remarkable women I've ever met."

Like she would ever take anything that he said in earnest. She laughed.

"You must not have met many decent women then," she said.

"Not for ten years, no," he said, and allowed himself a chuckle. It felt so much better to laugh with her than to yell at her. Why hadn't he tried that before?

She laughed again, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear- such a simple action, but one that left his gaze lingering on the wispy strands of hair at the back of her neck-

Then she frowned.

"Ten years...then, Lumiere said...it can't have been that long after your parents...that you were..."

She left out the big words. The words that seemed to heavy.

He shrugged, and scratched the back of his neck. It only reminded him how much hair was there. How he hunched slightly. Gross.

He didn't want to talk about this.

"A boy who'd just lost his parents was cursed..." Belle murmured. "That seems slightly unfair."

"It's because I wasn't a good person," he said. "I'm not a good person."

"You could have fooled me," Belle said. "I said it, didn't I? A puppy who's been kicked too many times and too blindly."

And she placed a hand on his. Very lightly. More of a hover than actually touching it. His own hand hovered under hers – going to pull away from instinct – because she can't have wanted to touch him-

But she had.

And now she smiled at him slightly.

"You could have left me in those woods to die - but you came back for me," she said. "And really; you made all those silly rules to protect me..."

"Why did you come back?" he asked. He suddenly ached to know. "You should have left me."

"Someone had to bring you home," she said. The tips of her fingers touched his fur. "If I'm honest…I'm not ready to go back…"

"But it's your home."

"You're far better company," Belle said, and smiled ruefully again. "Now that we're past all the shouting and fighting and you've saved me and I've saved you...now you're being my friend instead of my captor."

"But I am," he said. Then felt his face grow hot. "Your captor, I mean."

"Are you?"

She turned to him with another one of her unreadable expressions. Her eyes seemed to scrutinise every aspect of his face.

"You could have fooled me," she said again, then turned away and started to walk back down the corridor.

He stared after her. She was incredible. She was honest – she was like fire when she needed to be but soft like this when she was in earnest. When she was with a friend-

That was what she had implied, wasn't it? That they were friends. He didn't know what to do about that. He hadn't had a friend in so long – had completely abandoned the possibility.

But here she was. Smiling with him and teasing him and opening her heart to him. Like friends do. She wanted to be friends with him.

And he wanted to be friends with her. Friends with this pretty, witty girl who seemed to see him. As more than this. Who wasn't afraid. He couldn't think of a story where the woman was not afraid of the monster.2

Truly incredible.

He couldn't ask her to love him. She was already kind enough to speak to him. To touch him like he was normal. To be his friend. That was enough. More than enough. She had given him a bright flame that he would treasure even if he remained a beast forever.

He would give her something. He had to give her something. To show how grateful he was. But he was never good with words. Or letters. He would have to give her something physical.

He'd give her another book to read. That would give her something to do. Something to explore.

Heck, why not more than that-

Why not give her the whole library?

It had worked. He was astonished that it worked.

She had broken the curse.

Though he thought she did that a long time ago. Really. When her bright sunlight had begun to thaw its way into the banks of snow that covered his heart.

She was, currently, choking him. Her arms were so tight around his ribs that he could barely breathe. His normal sized ribs that felt so easily crushable. Her face was buried against his chest - all wet hair and wet eyelashes.

She felt so fragile. She had always seemed small before. When he was –

But now, she felt unbreakable. Like rock. Much more sturdy than him.

Human.

He was human. Only a little above her height. And cold, suddenly, from the lack of fur.

"I thought you were dead," Belle whispered into his shirt. Thank goodness he still had something to cover himself. It would have been awkward to have shuffled around to try to find clothes after such a dramatic transformation.

"I thought so too," he said. Truthfully. "You saved me."

Belle pulled away slightly. Sniffed. Her hair hung in her face and, on instinct, he pushed it away. With fingertips. Not claws. He couldn't hurt her by touching her.

Her hair was so silky.

His hand fit around her cheek so nicely. Her cheeks welled up so nicely as she smiled at him – like she would never be able to stop smiling. And her eyes were glistening with tears but they looked like the stars.

He would never see anything more beautiful than her in this moment.

"I don't know your name," she said. "You never told me."

"It was – deliberate," he said. "I didn't want you to ever associate a name with – him."

"You," Belle said. "But it was all you. All along."

His gaze stuck on her mouth. The droplets of rain running over her lips. Pink lips.

He could kiss her. He was human.

He leant forward. He could hardly hold himself up. His forehead nudged hers. He was still cradling her cheek. It was so soft.

Standing there, with thunder rumbling in the distance, and the rain pouring around them – soaking them both to the bone –

He whispered his name.

(A/N): SO - the reason I mentioned Hunchback of Notre Dame so much is because it's a novel within that century. Actually I think it would have come out like 70 years later - but that was closer than the Phantom of the Opera and - you don't understand I'm an english lit student I have to talk about english lit all the time. (And Belle is totally in Out There there's a whole theory linking the two)

I kind of started writing this knowing that I had a bunch of other stuff to finish but I got really hooked on writing it - it helped that I got given my first uni assignment and thought - fanfiction over actual work -

Because it's a lot easier to have people on the internet judge your work than people sat right in front of you. vuv

Anyway - I kind of wanted to play with the idea that we never learn Beast's name (I know the fandom have a basically canon name for him, but, you know...). And I just - wanted to see these two interact a little and play with some misconceptions people have. (the whole stolkholm syndrome thing...) because at the end of the day, you can only show so much in a film.

I don't know how often I'll update this, but I hope you enjoyed this first installment. I have a couple of other girls lined up - Snow White and Cinderella, but I'm totally open to requests on this. (If I can think of something to say, that is.)

Many thanks for reading this far, God Bless you and have a wonderful week. xx