I've mostly got this image of Belle struggling to come to terms with how many things this new world has and her sudden freedom of space. So, this oneshot happened.
Things
Belle flung herself out of bed and across a dresser the first night alone. Glass shattered and crunched underneath her back, and a book corners stabbed her spine. There was blood and cotton covering her back, books—oh so many lovely books about things she's never even dreamed of—scattered around her, and drops of day old water dripped down her nose from the cup she sent flying. The window was large and open. Breezes warmer than anything she's felt in ages fluttered through the curtains.
This was not a cell.
Belle took a breath. Heavy footsteps below her window wandered away, and she let out a shaky breath. No unnecessary knocks at her door. No soft, insincere apologies whispered through the slot.
She could turn them away now.
Her hands, shuddering in the dim light from the open window, slid across the floor. Slivers of glass and water beaded up on the wooden floors crept between her fingers, and Belle brushed them away. She pushed herself off the floor with one hand on the overturned dresser. The twisted, wet bed sheets bunched beneath her feet. She'd have to wash them.
She had things to wash.
Belle shook her head. Her hair whipped against her cheeks and flecks of glass littered the ground around her. She could deal with this. Belle smiled and hopped across the ruined floor.
She had things to deal with.
A warm, rumbling feeling settled in the pit of her stomach as she padded down the hallway. Her fingers trailed down the bare blue walls of her hallway. Precarious stacks of books and boxes full of crumbling paperbacks teetered as she hummed and darted towards the sink. The scents of paper, ink, and dust were pleasant, oh so pleasant, changes from the stale, stagnant air filled with alcohol and sweat and—
"Do the brave thing," Belle said to herself, flicking through the pages of worn book on her kitchen counter.
She tucked it under one arm, and pulled a blanket that still smelled like the bed and breakfast from the floor. Her fingers touched the coat closet door. She could be brave.
"Do the brave thing."
Belle opened it a crack and tugged the string to the light down. It flickered, dull and half blocked by shelves, and she sidled through the crack. Knees to her chest and nose a hair's breadth from the book, she blinked until the words didn't swim across the page. The corners of the closet cradled her shoulders, and Belle focused on the even, oh so impossibly even, lines of print until her hands didn't shake.
Too many things.
She could be brave tomorrow.