A/N: If you're looking for something that is true-to-period, this is not for you. At all. I don't do nearly enough research to write well for something set in the time of Ladyhawke (medieval France). So...I guess this is me disclaiming...myself. Heh. But if you're looking for a story about family and friendship with these characters I have frankly come to adore, well...this is the best I got. : )
This story starts just a few weeks after the curse is lifted and the movie ends.
Oh, hey, and I did do enough research to find out that Matthew Broderick was like twenty-three years old when he did this movie. Yeah. Mouse is definitely not twenty three here. He's probably fifteen or sixteen maybe. I can't be sorry about that. After all, Matthew Broderick did Ferris Bueller a year or two after this movie I think, and he was playing a seventeen or eighteen year old then. So. I feel pretty justified in my mistake, lol.
"Phillipe Gaston!" The angry, scolding shout startled him thoroughly, nearly tipping the ladder he was on, and he watched in a helpless, fascinated sort of horror as the vase he'd been trying to reach around on the highest shelf plummeted to a sure and certain…Crash! Broken pieces of porcelain exploded outward, tinkering across the stone floor of the library in no doubt very expensive shards.
Nothing else in the room moved for a moment. Then Phillipe Gaston, better known as The Mouse had to blink. "I'm sorry! I'm so very sorry!" And he was climbing down the ladder with frantic feet.
"Don't move!" the man thundered. "Don't you dare move! You stay right where you are!" Etienne Navarre may have been the former captain of the royal guard, but he hadn't lost anything when it came to his commanding bellow. If Mouse hadn't known any better, he would've said the reverberating shout had rattled the whole room, but he couldn't be entirely convinced it wasn't just his knees shaking. He froze on the last rung of the ladder.
"I can clean it up," he babbled, blood pounding through his chest, through his head, making his vision pulse a bit. "I can replace it. Just give me a few days. I know a man in-in DeuMont who owes me a favor. At least, I think I can convince him he does. …If he doesn't remember what happened in Chaperalle." He winced. "Twice. But he didn't remember after the first time after all, and I can't imagine time has added anything to his faculties…"
"Your feet, you fool," Navarre interrupted, still stern and angry, though he'd lowered his voice considerably. "Do you want to end up slicing them to ribbons?"
Mouse stared uncomprehendingly.
"There's broken glassware all over the floor," the man pointed out with remarkable patience.
The boy nodded fervently, and he was breathing hard, and he could feel the heat in his face. "I'll fetch the broom…" He went to step down.
"Stop!" The sharp shout stopped him short. Navarre stood a few feet away, and the lines of anger morphed into something altogether different. "You're not listening." He sighed. It was a tired, regretful sigh that made Mouse feel guilty inside. "You," he pointed at him. "Do not move." He waited until Mouse nodded quickly and spared him one last unreadable look before he stepped from the room, purpose in his strides.
Mouse sat clumsily on the third step of the ladder, feeling the trembling of the ebbing shock and still-present fear in his limbs. "Not good, not good," he said to himself. This was bad. Navarre took his things very seriously, and very likely that vase had been some sort of heirloom like the former captain's precious sword. When Navarre had thought Mouse lost that he'd shoved him and landed him in the snow, and Mouse had been sure the man was going to hit him. He swallowed. Already his body felt so heavy and achy, and this wouldn't be good, this wouldn't be good at all.
Navarre appeared a moment later with a heavy broom in his hand. Mouse stared at it. The blood drained from his face. Well, this is it, Lord, he thought dizzily. I'll see you soon. Of all the ways. Secretly he thought the vase was an ugly thing to begin with.
The man approached, and Mouse's hands tightened around the rickety frame of the ladder he was seated on, his shoulders hunching a bit in involuntary anticipation.
But Navarre stopped a little ways from him, and without hardly sparing him a glance, began sweeping up the broken pieces. Quick, no-nonsense strokes of the broom in steady, strong hands. Mouse watched, mesmerized. There was a roiling in his stomach, but he felt oddly detached from it. Any moment, those quick, strong strokes would turn to quick, strong swings. Any moment.
He wondered if he should be allowed to stay after he was left bruised and bloody. Surely he shouldn't want to. He wasn't pathetic after all. He had…standards. But what was one beating in the grand scheme? He deserved it after all. Navarre and Isabeau both were absurdly, embarrassingly kind to him most of the time. Unless this was the last straw and Navarre had simply had enough of him. Everyone had limits. There ought to be more shouting, oughtn't there? He'd have thought…
A rough, calloused hand caught him gently by the chin, and his face was turned toward blue eyes. "Did you hear me?" There was concern in the voice, and Mouse didn't understand. Come to think of it, there was that rather loud rushing sound in his ears. "I asked, 'Are you hurt anywhere?'"
Hurt? Of course he wasn't hurt yet. Had he been hit already? He hadn't felt it. Actually he felt a bit numb. He couldn't turn his face what with the large man's grip on his chin, but he turned his eyes to the heavy broom handle. It was good he felt numb, he thought.
"Mouse?" He flinched at the name. And suddenly there was real shame and guilt all welling up, and it was just an accident, and he was sorry, and it was getting harder to remember what he'd done wrong, but he thought there was disappointment in the blue eyes, and that was worse, that was worse even than the broom handle. "What's wrong?" Navarre was looking at Mouse so intently, and then his gaze was also on the broom, and he looked positively ill, and Mouse cringed. He'd done it now. He'd finally done it, and likely it had been coming for days. He waited for the grip to become crushing, for the voice to turn to steel.
"Well now," the man said softly, slowly, as though he were a frightened animal. "Let's put this away, shall we?" And he let go of Mouse's face to turn away and place the broom out of reach, out of sight, in the corner between the wall and a case that held his armor. Mouse stared at it, and then there were blue eyes in his line of sight again. They looked tired and wounded. Had Mouse done that?
He swallowed. "I'm sorry." And he just couldn't understand. He thought he was usually better at understanding than this.
The man regarded him for a moment. "How about we get you back to bed, little Mouse."
There was too much softness and gentleness and sympathy, and none of that was right, and none of it made sense. "Don't call me that," he begged and was surprised to hear his voice break a little.
"What's that?" the man asked, confused.
"You call me that when you like me," he said, and even though his head was muddled and throbbing a bit, he was positive about that. "Phillipe" was for when he was being annoying, "Phillipe Gaston" when he was in trouble. "Mouse" was for when things were happy and playful and for all-around, everyday use. And "Little Mouse" for those fond, quiet, affectionate moments when he felt safe and cared for and left to wonder very, very internally if this was perhaps what it was like to have a family.
"I like you now," the man said simply, and his hand went to Mouse's forehead, and Mouse waited. For hurt or curses or belittling or something. "Your fever's up again," Navarre said, dismayed.
"I'm sorry." And Mouse felt the stinging heat in his eyes, and he was sorry. He was very sorry.
A cool hand gripped the back of his neck. "For what?"
"The…the…the…" What was it? "The vase," he blurted. "And making you upset and sad. I can do better." He'd never done better, and why would these people ever want him in their home leeching their happiness? "I could…I could…" Why couldn't he think of anything? Like his thoughts were treading through mud. "I'll prove it. I promise. I'll think of something. Later. I just need…some days…"
He suddenly found himself pulled against a broad chest, and instead of blows raining down, there was a hand kneading soothingly across his heavy, aching head. That didn't make any sense, but it was better. And he just felt very upset, and it was confusing, and he didn't think it was usually this hard to not fall apart. The arm around his back squeezed him a bit. "You are a sick little Mouse, aren't you?"
Mouse nodded quietly his remorse.
There was a sigh that was a bit like quiet laughter, but somehow it sounded sad. "Come on," he said gently. "Let's get you sorted. You shouldn't even be out of bed."
A bit of adjusting, and he was pulled off the ladder, bare feet dangling above the floor, head resting securely against a steady shoulder. He felt very small and weak, and the heat in his eyes was unbearable. The world swayed a bit, and his stinging eyes closed. Next thing he knew, he was being settled under blankets, and there was a cool hand on his forehead, brushing his hair back. He opened his eyes to a stone-faced former captain fussing with his pillows. "I'll fix it," Mouse promised in a whisper.
"You've fixed quite enough, my friend," Navarre said in a rare, soft tone, brusquely thumbing away tears Mouse hadn't realized he'd cried. He thought he should be embarrassed, but he was just too tired. "And if I thought for a moment you'd remember any of this later, I'd tell you what a foolish thing you are for thinking there is a heart that beats within this household that could ever allow, let alone wish, even the slightest harm to befall the one who played such a part in restoring what we'd thought lost forever. You are infinitely more important than any vase or trinket, and I would tear down this entire fortress brick by brick if it could aid in restoring your health." He sighed and sat back in the chair by the bed, letting one hand rest lightly on Mouse's arm. "You rest now. I'll keep watch. And if you've a mind to get out of bed again to climb any more ladders, I'll break your knees."
Mouse had a difficult time sorting out all the words, but the gentle tone was soothing and sounded safe and reassuring. He thought he remembered being frightened, but he couldn't remember now what for, and whatever it was seemed silly now. He thought perhaps it was possible that Navarre wouldn't let anything hurt him. He'd never thought that way before, but the man sounded very sure, so he nodded his thick head agreeably and pulled his mouth into a smile. "It was ugly anyway," he confided loftily. He remembered thinking something was ugly.
There was a low chuckle. "Go to sleep, little Mouse."
Mouse didn't usually like to comply so easily. It wasn't good to have people getting used to that sort of thing. But there was a hand stroking his hair in a soothing, repetitive motion, and there didn't seem after that to be much use fighting the sleep that so immediately called after him.