Day 4 – Morning (Four Days Remain)

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

The steady, staccato rhythm of a… of…

What was that?

Still groggy with sleep, Belle sat up in bed and rubbed her forehead. Bright, aching sunlight flooded the room as fuzzy memories of the night before flooded her mind, filling the sleepy darkness behind her eyes. Remembering her tender moments with Gaston warmed her body and she pressed her fingertips to her heart, forcing herself to steady the quickened beating, reminding herself that this was the same chauvinistic Gatson that terrorized her well-being on a regular basis–figuratively, of course.

Her cheeks flushed at remembering their intimate interlude, nonetheless.

The sound continued, erratic and reverberating through the house. It sounded like a hammer. A hope blossomed inside of Belle. Was her father home and working on another invention already? She hastily dressed and brushed her hair before rushing downstairs to greet him, ignoring the throbbing pain in her skull.

"Papa, I–"

She stopped at the foot of the stairs at the same moment the hammering ceased. All around her, the cottage had been–clumsily–tidied up. Save for a pile of books on the table, haphazardly stacked, and ashy bootprints trailing throughout the kitchen and foyer. Belle was reminded of the once-been stable and gulped. The knocking picked up again, coming from the roof.

"Papa?"

The inventor's daughter wandered outside, searching for the source of the noise. She wrinkled her nose and shielded her eyes with a flat hand against the sun's rays. The hammer went silent once more, and before Belle could call out, Gaston leapt from the roof and landed in front of her on the porch.

"Gaston!" she cried out stupidly, stumbling backwards and nearly losing her balance. He beamed at her. Belle noticed a pattern; it seemed he was always grinning when he saw her.

"Good morning, Belle," he sang out, the deep tenor of his voice reverberating through the early morning atmosphere. She wrinkled her nose. Slung over his shoulder was a sack of what she assumed was tools.

"Gaston, what–this–" At a loss for words, Belle gestured around to the house, and, finally, to–

"The roof? Missing a few tiles. A real fixer-upper. You'd have been in real trouble with the first rains of the season." Gaston smiled again. Despite herself, Belle smiled back and crossed her arms. Incredulous, she cocked her head at him and chuckled in absolute bewilderment and disbelief. Incroyable.

After a couple of content moments of them smiling dumbly at one another, Gaston finally cleared his throat and spoke up. "And, I brought this!"

He held the burlap sack up to eye level. Intrigued, Belle raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what, may I ask, is 'this'?"

Without warning, Gaston marched past Belle, into the house, and dumped the contents of the bag onto the table. The freshly killed carcass of a wild boar plopped onto the wooden surface with a sickening, squishy thump. Belle gasped and covered her mouth, simultaneously pinching her nose. The hunter stood proudly with his fists on his hips. Basking in his glory.

"Gaston… you shouldn't have."

"But I did," he purred. Considering that Belle was up and walking, he assumed that she must be feeling fine. "You can work on this while I finish the roof."

"Excuse me?" Belle chirped. Gaston, who was already waltzing away, faced her.

"Well, I was going to do it before you woke up, but now… I mean, since you're awake… and feeling well… you do it," he explained, obviously befuddled.

Belle scoffed and opened the nearest windowpane. The stench of death was quickly filling the tiny living space.

"What makes you think I'm feeling well? Or that you can boss me around? I'm not your wife, Gaston," she snapped.

"Not yet."

"Not ever."

"Don't talk to me that way!" Gaston's puzzled expression gave way to passive rage at being spoken to in such a dictating manner by a woman. A woman who wasn't even his wife.

"I'll speak to you however I'd like, this is my house!"

"Your father's house," Gaston corrected, subconsciously noting that Maurice should've returned days ago. Belle noticed this as well. She rose to her full height and wiped her hands on her apron before jabbing an accusing finger into the hunter's solid chest.

"My father is away, and while he is away I am in charge, do you hear me? You can't just come barging in here like you own the place, dumping dead animals and telling me what to do!" Tears pricked at her eyes.

Why does he infuriate me so?

"You didn't seem to mind last night when I barged in here to save your life."

"I... I… "

That single statement ended the standoff quite abruptly. Belle's face softened. Gaston removed one of his gloves and smoothed his face with his hand. A frustrated sigh escaped his lips.

"I'm sorry," Belle whispered. She was being sincere. He'd done so much for her in the last few days, and what had she done to repay him except reprimand him for just being himself? She saw that the hand he'd rubbed his face with was the injured one, the bandage soaked through with dried blood. Reaching up, she took his larger hand in her two smaller ones and looked at it thoughtfully. Gaston's breath hitched at the contact.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she said at last, smiling weakly at him with sparkling amber eyes. Her smile said everything that the hunter needed to know; she was grateful to him, and appreciated all that he had done and was going to do for her. More importantly, she wanted him to stay. At least for today.

"But you… are feeling well?" Gaston asked, concerned. Belle looked up at the hunter from where she knelt before him, enjoying the attention for once.

"Yes. I am."

After his hand had been re-bandaged and Belle rolled up her sleeves to begin the arduous task of gutting and butchering the pig, a smug thought crossed Gaston's mind; maybe she'd be the perfect little obedient wife after all. That thought dissolved just as swiftly as it came. Belle was still her own woman: fiercely independent, a wild mare that needed to be tamed. Perhaps that was what drew him to her so forcefully- like a moth to a candle.

–

There's something sweet,

And almost kind,

But he was mean and he was coarse and unrefined;

And now he's dear, and so unsure,

I wonder why I didn't see it there before?

–

Day 4 – Afternoon

Unnamed, intangible feelings of Belle in all colors and intensities swirled and mixed in Gaston's brain as he waltzed into town that day. Every nerve felt electrified, every hair stood on end. He couldn't explain it. With each step down the cobblestone street carrying him farther away from the cottage, he felt weaker. Heavier.

He found that his body could function on its own, too lost in his thoughts to realize that he had stopped at the baker, and the grocer, and only snapped out of his daze when someone called his name. Once. Twice. Three times.

Not realizing that he had been standing in front of the bookshop, gazing longingly into the window, Gaston turned, slowly, to see the same group of men from the bar, hungover and hanging out against the usual wall. As if not believing their presence, Gaston sauntered over to them cautiously.

"We missed you at the Boar's Head last night, Gaston!"

One of the men reached up to greet the hunter with a friendly, masculine slap on the back, but reeled when he saw the ghastly expression on Gaston's face. It was unlike any they had ever seen.

"Hey, uhh… you a'right, Gaston?"

Like a clock striking midnight, he was suddenly alert. He quickly and stealthily transformed back to his old self, letting out a bellowing laugh that shook the shutters.

"Of course I am! Never been better!"

The men exchanged nervous glances. One of them mustered the courage to speak up.

"Where… where were you last night?"

Gaston, with a broad smile, opened his mouth to answer. But then his eyes went wide, and he registered for the first time exactly who he was speaking to.

Everything felt disconnected. LeFou wasn't beside him. These men were from the tavern. Where he had made a bet. A bet to marry Belle in under a week. How many days did he have left? Three? Four? How could he have forgotten? What had happened to him?

His alpha male instincts kicked in and he puffed out his chest. He leaned in, slyly, and elbowed the pudgy man nearest to him.

"Well, if you must know… I was at Maurice's last night."

Three jaws dropped at once.

"But… but… Maurice is–out of town! He–"

"I know."

Something flickered across the men's eyes: the realization that Belle had been left alone in her cottage, unattended and unsupervised, and had spent the evening with Gaston.

They all burst out cackling at once.

"You dirty dog!"

"No one's slick as Gaston!"

"No one's quick as Gaston!"

"What a guy!"

What they didn't know was that although what Gaston said was true, nothing of a sexual nature had occurred between Belle and himself. Yes, they'd shared intimacy when they spoke in Belle's room, brushing hands and whispering as if Maurice was home and asleep in the next room. And yes, he had stayed there, leaving only to walk his horse home across town to his cabin, and once more to survey the damage of the former stable on Maurice's property. That was the extent of the evening. But they couldn't know that. He had a reputation to keep.

And a bet still to win.

"As a specimen, yes, I'm intimidating," Gaston chuckled when at last the men had settled down.

One of them mumbled "ladykiller." Another sighed.

"Ev'ry guy here'd love to be you, Gaston," the pudgy one mused, noticing for the first time the bandage on the bulky hunter's hand. The man next to him noticed as well and looked at it, puzzled.

"You know, Thomas said he saw smoke coming from Maurice's last night," the one in the middle interjected. Gaston raised an eyebrow at him, as if in warning. "I mean, ha, what did you get up to last night?"

The men laughed dryly at the humor. Although Gaston had always been one for good innuendo, the joke fell flat, and suddenly, the entire conversation–based on false assumptions– felt disgusting. Belle was an honorable, untried young woman. Why was he here, lying to impress these fools, defacing her name and reputation by supporting the belief that she had given herself away before marriage?

Was it really worth it to sell out his future wife in such a way?

Gaston felt sick. "I gotta go."

He spun on his heel and practically ran back to the inventor's cottage on the outskirts of town.

"We'll see you tonight, right, Gaston?"

When he didn't respond, the man yelled again, louder this time: "Don't forget the bet!"