So, that last one was interesting wasn't it? ;) Yeah, I too have mixed feelings about it. But it's up and it's there. Ain't much I can do about it now xD

I'm finding I'm procrastinating the angst-y and moody chapters and putting up fluffy ones instead.. I'll try not to clump all the angst-y ones together.. try

*Warning contains mentions of PTSD, blood, slight gore (I don't consider it to be gore, but some of you might)

Summary: It's been decades since the war and it's been nearly two decades into their marriage. Gaston may not ever be used to the flashbacks but he's now used to Belle seeing him at his worst.
Number of years married: 19
Sons: 5
Daughters: 3


~:~ Captain Gaston ~:~

The house was alive with laughter and carefree children - with the exception of a few grumpy teens. Belle was in the bedroom taking a reprieve from the mayhem his rabble caused. And Gaston was in the washroom tidying up after a month's worth of neglecting his stubble.

He mixed his shaving cream and looked into the mirror. His eyes were at his jaw but he made the mistake of meeting his own gaze. His own distant grey eyes that looked as troubled as the day-

His throat closed.

"Get up! Get up!"

He was roughly yanked to his feet and he stumbled. "Captain-"

A slap stung his face. "Get up!" A meaty hand gripped the back of his neck and geared his head toward the slain soldiers. "Look at what you've done! Look at what you've allowed to happen!"

He shut his eyes.

"This is your fault! These men are dead because of your foolishness!" The man struck him again.

He shook with cowardice.

The voice was fierce with hot venom. "Mothers have lost their sons! Wives have lost their husbands!" The man shoved him down onto the ground at the start of the still bodies. "I warned Captain Jeremie about giving you the title of captain. Young whippersnapper who only thinks of himself-"

He found his voice and his courage and his anger. "This, Captain, was unavoidable!"

"Lies!"

He hardly flinched when his ear was cuffed. "Tell me, where were you when they ambushed us? Were you quite literally holed up in your tent that you couldn't be so damned bothered to help your dying men?" He found his footing and pushed his elder to the ground. "You are just as at fault as I am!"

A soldier kicked the back of his knee and he fell to the earth.

A hand fisted in his hair and dragged him forward, shoving his face to look at his fine work. "This is your doing. Not mine! You will live with these boys' blood on your hands until the day you die!" He pulled him up. "You can forget about sending those letters to your woman back home. You'll never see her again!"

His heart stuttered and his throat ran dry.

"I will make sure you die on this battlefield."

Belle quietly closed the bedroom door behind her. It was too soon for her children to hear she was up from her rest. Then she noticed the washroom door was still open and her husband's shadow was still standing. She stopped short when she noticed he was not present.

His hand was clenched around the shaving blade tightly - so tightly his knuckles were white. She hesitantly stepped into the washroom and closed the door. "Gaston?" she called softly.

His shoulders were tense and he didn't move. His breath was short and tight and labored. He was stuck in a trance.

She pressed her hand to his bloodied one. She tried to pull him back with her soft voice. "Gaston, come back. Come back, my love. Come back home." She repeated herself until he heard her.

His hand suddenly shook as pain finally registered. He dropped the blade in haste. He looked down at his injured hand, wincing when a clean cloth was pressed into his palm. His eyes watched the soft pale hand apply pressure to his wound. Then he trailed up to the arm then to their face.

He met her brown eyes.

She held no judgment, no fear, no pity. Nothing. Just kindness.

A crash followed by a scuffle then shouting sounded from the kitchen. Their peaceful understanding was over. Belle sighed, "That'll be the end of my break." She gently squeezed his shoulder as she left.

Thirty minutes - thirty painfully slow minutes for those who were in trouble - passed before Belle heard a delighted squeal. She looked up in time to see Gaston, hand bandaged and face shaven, lift up little Amelia and press kisses to her soft cheeks.

"Gaston, put her down, she in time-out," she scolded.

"What?" he chuckled in mock-disbelief. "This little girl? My sweet innocent little girl?"

"Yes, put her down," she repeated. She trusted he would do as she said and continued to make supper. Then as an after thought she looked up again, "And don't speak to Jonathan and Gilbert and Cedric. They're also in trouble."

His hearty chuckle continued as he stepped outside.

She watched him through the window. After years and years and years of watching him endure such terrors, she learned to not push him. That he would tell her of his dreams when he was ready.

But for now, seeing his smile and hearing his laugh was enough to tell her he was okay.


It's not my intention to offend anyone with PTSD.