Author's Note: My deepest thanks to Baroness Orc for beta-ing this chapter. Thanks also to all who have read and reviewed too! I don't own much of this at all. Not the characters, or the setting, at least (even though I did give the valet some lines...) If you're as big of a Beauty and the Beast geek as I am, please check out my reworking of the tale, Wolf-Maiden. And please, PLEASE, PLEASE, REVIEW!!! I promise to get the chapters out faster if I get a few... ;)
The four men followed the Beast through the hall of the West Wing and down a grand flight of stairs into a more cheerful part of the castle. Although the ornate Baroque paintings and furnishings were elegant, they were also unusual-there were no statues of paintings depicting humans, and no mirrors anywhere to be found.
The Beast stopped short when he found a very round woman who was shaped like a teapot. Or rather, she was a teapot. Her torso was bulbous, she wore a lid-like hat, and where her legs where supposed to be, she had a base. When she saw the Beast and his visitors, she moved, or, rather, hopped, toward them.
"Mrs. Potts," the Beast commanded, "prepare some rooms for these men. They will be our guests for quite some time."
Mrs. Potts took the appearance of several strangely dressed gentlemen and being bossed around by a beast in stride. Of course, since she happened to be a teapot, it must have taken a great deal to startle her.
"Yes, master," she answered in a warm British accent. "Right away then."
The Beast stalked off in the direction of the West Wing.
"Lumiere," Mrs. Potts called, "Cogsworth?"
The gentlemen standing there looked at each other, not sure what a Lumiere and Cogsworth were. Sir Percy examined his eyeglass, Mister Darcy wondered how he had managed to make his way into this insanity, Edward Cullen was trying to think of where he had heard Mrs. Potts voice before, and Han Solo's hand went back to the blaster on his hip.
Two men, or what were vaguely shaped like men came, one running, one hopping, down the corridor. One, was golden and shaped like a candelabra—his hands and face were waxy and a wick on the top of his head was on fire.
The other was a clock: his body was a cabinet, and his face was the face of the clock. On the clock-man's back, there was even a handle to keep him wound. And he seemed to be wound tightly.
"This is Lumiere," Mrs. Potts said, gesturing to the candelabra-man. "And Cogsworth." The clock-man bowed stiffly. He seemed not to have many joints.
"Pleased to serve you," Cogsworth said crisply. "Now please follow me, so that I may take you to your rooms. Lumiere, have the rooms on the third floor made ready."
"Now, now, Cogsworth," Lumiere said in his hearty French accent, "certainly not the third floor. We should be more hospitable to our guests than that. Come now, our best rooms for these gentlemen."
Cogworth pulled Lumiere away from the others. "I have a feeling," he muttered, "that the master would not want us to put these gentlemen in rooms next to her."
"Ah, no, it shall not hurt anything," Lumiere wheedled. "We just want the men to be comfortable here. After all, if the girl meets them, she will wonder why they are not being treated well and she will want to know why. Listen to me, my friend. After all, what will it hurt?"
"Fine," Cogsworth said resignedly. "But if the master finds out, you are going to pay for this. Just like the time when the old man came to stay…" They turned back to the others, who had been pretending not to listen. Edward Cullen, in particular, tried to act uninterested. "Mrs. Potts," he asked, trying to fill the awkward silence, "were you ever in a West-End production of a musical where a barber murders people and his accomplice puts the bodies of his victims into pies?"
"I don't believe so, dear," she replied. "Now, follow me down the hall and we'll find you dearies each a room.
"Yes," Cogsworth sniffed, "right away, I believe that they are cleaning the rooms in question" he paused to glare at his cohort, "as we speak."
"We'll make you all comfortable, dears," Mrs. Potts said sweetly as she led them through the castle.
~*~
"You put them where?" The Beast roared at Lumiere and Cogsworth.
"His fault!" Cogsworth squeaked, hiding behind Lumiere.
"Master," Lumiere chuckled awkwardly, "I only thought to make them comfortable. Like with the girl. People tend to think more kindly if they are not locked in dungeons."
"What do you know of it?" the Beast growled. "Leave me!"
The two servants scampered out of the room. The beast went to the table that held his rose. He didn't like the idea of the gentlemen being housed so near the girl, but the only alternative he had was to move either them or the girl and since he couldn't do that without great offense, his only alternative was to let everyone stay as they were. With a shudder, he remembered the last person he had offended—the enchantress.
Suddenly, the Beast picked up his magic mirror. "Show me the…" he shook his head. "Belle," he added less gruffly.
A swirl of silver swept across the face of the mirror. It now showed Belle sitting on the floor in her room. The wardrobe was having a rather one-sided conversation about the importance of matching dresses with the occasion while Belle was silently staring out the window. It may have been the Beast's imagination, but he thought that he saw a single tear slip down Belle's cheek.
The Beast's first impressions of the gentlemen who had shown up on his balcony wasn't altogether comforting. They were all much better looking than he was. Surely they had faults, but the Beast doubted that their faults were as terrible as his ugliness or his temper. And if they all wound up being princes or having the most florid manners, or being the most suave with the ladies, so be it—if they had been telling the truth when he had interrogated them. Still, the Beast would have to match them, have to have better manners than the rest. Like it or not, he would have to become a gentleman.
~*~
Once each man was in his room, each found a similar outfit laid out for him: dark brown breeches, tall white stockings, buckled shoes, a lace-less cravat, and a billowy white shirt.
When the animated coat rack—valet—entered Edward Cullen's room to help him dress, he was in for a surprise. Edward, already fully dressed, was slicking his hair back into a queue. He looked like he could be one of the villagers nearby, except for his pale granite skin and the leather cuff that he still wore.
"Your cuff, sir?" The valet said, gesturing to the vampire's wrist.
"My family crest," Edward said firmly. "It stays…Alas for t-shirts and comfortable shoes."
Shaking his head, the valet departed for the next room.
Sir Percy stood next to his bed, examining the clothes set out for him with evident distaste.
"This is France, demm me," Sir Percy muttered irately. "They are supposed to be at the height of fashion, are they not?"
"Er, well, sir…" The valet said, attempting to answer.
"It was a rhetorical question," Sir Percy sighed dramatically. "But I suppose, when in France, dress like a Frenchie, even if it means giving my Hessian boots up for a while."
The valet just nodded, not knowing how to answer. When it came time for Sir Percy to put on his cravat, Percy revolted. He grabbed his exquisitely expensive (and very frilly) cravat and deftly tied it around his neck before the valet could even blink.
"Very important, the cravat," Sir Percy drawled. "You can always tell a man by his necktie, what. Sink me," he said, putting the final touches on the huge bow that he had tied, "'tis a masterpiece!"
The valet began to take Sir Percy's other belongings away, because that is what valets did.
"Wait a moment," Sir Percy said, deftly grabbing his quizzing glass from the moving coat rack. "I must have my quizzing glass. However else will I manage to look foppish?" He held up the glass and tried a few poses.
Realizing that this too was a rhetorical question, the valet did his best to shrug and then left the room.
Mister Darcy was easier to dress than Sir Percy. The valet even managed to force Mr. Darcy's excessively curly hair into a queue—a style of which Darcy was not overly fond. But even polite, genteel Darcy had his limits.
"No," he said firmly. "You shall not take my hat from me. My sister Georgiana and I bought it the last time we were in town. Poor girl, losing both her father and mother, and now me. Please hand me the hat."
The valet did as he was told. Mr. Darcy placed it atop his head and nodded in satisfaction. "Thank you, you are dismissed."
Han Solo was a different case; the valet wanted to groan in frustration. He had managed to convince Han to wear the billowing shirt, the stockings and the buckled shoes, but the breeches and the cravat were a different story.
"What galaxy are we in, anyway? I'm not wearing some girly breeches—although I can think of some ladies who would look good in them. And I don't see why we're being asked to dress like this in the first place. I mean, I'm Han Solo, captain of the Millennium Falcon, the fastest ship in the gal—"
"Sir, may we strike an accord?" the valet asked, weary but polite.
"What?"
"Please, sir," the valet pleaded, "wear the breeches for now, and I shall see if I can find something better for you to wear soon."
"Fine," Han huffed. "But I keep my blaster. Who knows what else is lurking around here."
"Very well, sir," the valet said, relieved that that particular battle was over. "Now, for your cravat…"
"But if I wear that, how will the ladies be able to ogle my chest hair?"
Fortunately for Han, the valet had excellent self-control.
Not long after, Mrs. Potts announced to each of the men that she had laid out a bit of supper for them in one of the drawing rooms nearby. After all, they must be hungry after arriving her so suddenly.
After a quick and mostly silent supper, all of the men found themselves in Sir Percy's room.
"Well, gentlemen," Sir Percy said, sizing up each of the men in his quizzing glass, "I believe I may have found a solution to our predicament."
"You have?" said Edward.
"Yeah, when Tatooine freezes over," Han smirked.
"Do tell, sir," Darcy added.
Sir Percy cleared his throat. "I suggest that the wisest course of action…"
"Yes?" the other three asked together.
"The wisest course of action would be to teach the Beast to become a gentleman."
"What?"
"Why?"
"After the way he treated us?"
"Perhaps if we were to help the Beast," Percy drawled, "we could then be magicked back to our respective homes. And sink me, he seems like a nice chap under all of the fur and minus the roaring. Odds fish," Percy chuckled, "I think he could come around quite nicely."
The men looked at each other for a moment.
"Well, we were plucked out of time and space for a reason," Darcy said logically. "To help this beast is as good a reason as any."
"After all," Edward Cullen added, "it isn't as if we had anything to lose."
"Very true," Percy said evenly. "Are we all agreed, then?"
"I'm in."
"As am I."
All eyes fixed on Han Solo.
"I guess I'm in too," Han Solo shrugged.
"What must we do?" Mr. Darcy asked.
"We shall form a league for this purpose," Sir Percy said grandly and much less foppishly than before. "Any ideas for a name, then?"
"The Courteous Coven," suggested Edward.
"The Punctilious Party," Darcy shrugged.
"The Intergalactic Individuals of Illustriousness," Han snorted. "What?" he said defensively. "I've read a books before…"
Percy was tapping his quizzing glass on his chin, trying to think. "Sink me!" He shouted, brandishing his quizzing glass. "I believe I have it now. We shall be called 'The League of Gentlemanly Gentlemen'."
"Huzzah!" shouted Darcy, flinging his hat into the air. Sheepishly he caught it and sat back down. Han and Edward glanced at one other and tried to keep from breaking into hysterical laughter.
"We all shall appreciate your enthusiasm, Darcy," Sir Percy said approvingly. "Now, concerning the formation of the league: one to lead and nineteen…ahem…three to obey."
Sir Percy and Mister Darcy turned to Han, clearly expecting another outburst. Han shrugged innocently. This time, however, the outburst came from Edward Cullen.
"So we're appointing you as our leader?" Edward scoffed. "I'm the oldest, the super fast one, the most adept, the most perceptive, and the most handsome."
"And the most cocky," Han said under his breath.
"Personally, I stand behind Sir Blakeney," Darcy said firmly.
"I guess we'll have to agree…for once," Han said with a nod.
"I abstain from voting," Sir Percy said somewhat nobly, "but it would seem that the majority rules, good fellow."
Edward Cullen's face became stony. And not in the marble, god-like sense, either.
"Trust me on this, gentlemen," Sir Percy said most unfoppishly. "Here is the plan…"
~*~
Once the plan was discussed and the meeting ended, the men dispersed. "It will never work," Edward Cullen muttered as he walked out of the room; he was still stinging from his earlier defeat.
"I would have said the same thing a few minutes ago, kid," Han Solo said, coming up behind him.
"Who are you calling kid?" Edward Cullen said, personally affronted. "I happen to be almost one hundred years old."
"Touchy." Han Solo rolled his eyes.
Author's Note: Again, I'm begging for reviews. If this brought a smile to your face, please review. It's my reward for all my hard work.