A/N – For trigger warnings, please check the story tags over on Archive of our Own.

"You know, Belle… you're nearly as beautiful undressed as I imagined you'd be."

Belle pulled the sheets tighter around her, curled in on herself as she faced the wall. Her hands trembled as a terrible ache pulsed through the most tender parts of her. It had been worse… so much worse than she'd even imagined.

"My father," she managed. Her throat was dry, everything spent on tears shed in the darkness when he'd finally fallen asleep. She swallowed, and went on. "You promised."

"And I always keep my promises." She heard his heavy boot falls come close. "Come, let's fetch him together."

She flinched when the bed sank beside her, and every muscle in her body stiffened as his hand reached beneath the covers and found its way to her skin. "Do try to look presentable before we leave the house," he said, rough fingers brushing up her shoulders and pushing the hair away from her face. "I would very much like to show you off today."

Belle said nothing. And so he leaned close, and whispered her ear. "Can you do that for me, Madame Gaston?"

The panic gripped Belle before she was fully awake. She seemed to feel it all at once, blood pounding through the veins of her neck and the ends of her fingers, breath tight and raging against her damaged ribs. Her stomach was in knots, and she could feel a bead of sweat trailing down her temple.

"Madame?"

Madame Gaston. She heard heavy footfalls, and the terror swelled in her breast until she finally opened her eyes saw who they belonged to. It was the great creature who had rescued her; that giant, gentle stranger her mind must have conjured up as a final act of desperation. Though he seemed unlike anything she would have imagined on her own.

He was kneeling beside her now, heavy brows pushed close together and ruffling the fur between them. It was mostly a chestnut brown, that fur, but for some patches of grey that had gathered along his chin and around the horns atop his head. Strange how the sight of his fur and claws only set her heart at ease. No doubt this being could ravish her, tear her limb from limb, even cook her up for dinner if he wished…

But at least it wasn't him.

"Madame, are you well?"

Madame Gaston. Belle sucked in a careful breath, remembering her ribs. "Yes," she said, coming back to the present. "I'm all right."

"You're shaking." His hand—or paw, she supposed—was holding hers now, grip firm as one thumb pressed against her wrist. "And your pulse is high. Are you sure you're—"

"It's always like that." She sighed, closing her eyes. "Forgive me. It's just I have a… weak disposition, is all."

A weak disposition. Or in other words, how she always woke in a panic; how she couldn't quite remember things she felt she should; how she hadn't managed to calm her trembling fingers in years. Things a younger version of herself would have laughed at.

Weak. That girl had never been weak.

Belle felt something soft touch her forehead. She opened her eyes again, surprised to see the great beast with his own closed while he felt her brow. He held the back of his paw there for another moment, then nodded to himself and pulled away. "No fever," he said. "But are you certain you're well?"

"I promise, this is quite normal."

He hummed deeply, but didn't argue the point any further. "Well, you should eat something at least, now that you're awake," he said.

"Actually…" Belle trailed off, grunting as she attempted to sit up. She made it halfway and stopped, breathless as she looked up. "You wouldn't happen to have a, um… privy, would you?"

He blinked, then his eyes went wide. "Oh! Of course, I—of course, forgive me," he stammered. He looked even more embarrassed than she felt, hands hovering about her shoulders as though uncertain exactly what they should do.

Good lord, I wish he'd let those wolves kill me, Belle thought.

But then his expression changed, and he closed the distance. How hands so large and clawed could feel gentle was a mystery, but Belle let him steady her. And in the same moment, she realized that her vision had grown blurry. "I'm sorry," she said, reaching around to grasp at her aching side now burning like fire against her. She blinked away the foolish tears, frustrated with her weakness all over again and how she couldn't even keep herself together in front of a stranger.

Something shifted beneath the blankets. Then, in one grand motion, he gathered her against his chest and rose to his feet. Belle should have fought this, if only to protect her own dignity, but she only grew limp against him as he made for the door. She had nearly cried from pain in front of him, and was literally being carried to the privy at this moment. Not to mention what he'd stopped her from doing last night…

Belle squeezed her eyes shut, fighting more tears and realizing she didn't have any dignity left to save.

When he opened the door, the cold hit like a slap to the face—well, almost, Belle thought darkly—and she turned towards his chest as he plowed downhill through the fresh powder. He was wearing a shirt now, she realized. He hadn't been before, had he? The collar was terribly worn, and there was a hole in the fabric beside her fingers. He must have sewn these giant clothes himself… but if so, then why not repair them?

Belle glanced up, and finding him focused on the trail ahead, she reached out to touch the fabric. It was impossibly soft, and must have once been very fine.

How peculiar.

"I apologize. It's nothing much," he was saying, and Belle turned to see a rather large—if lopsided—outhouse at the edge of the woods. He put her down gently on her feet, throwing the furs over his shoulder and quickly replacing them with his cloak. Belle reached out and pulled the thin fabric closer around her with one hand, raising the other to her head. She felt dizzy.

"Will you…" he started from behind her, and paw still on her shoulder to steady her. He cleared his throat. "I mean, do you think you can manage… on your own?"

And in that moment Belle realized she'd just discovered one last drop of dignity she could cling to. And lightheaded or not, cling to it should would—fiercely. "Yes," she said, reaching for the door. "Yes, I can."

He nodded, holding the door open while she hobbled inside. With it securely shut behind her, Belle turned and reached for the latrine's wooden lid, bracing herself for a stench. Yet she found none; only the faint smell of hay and, surprisingly, something floral. She glanced into the dark pit with a wary curiosity. It must go very deep into the earth.

Once she'd relieved herself, she peeked back out the door. Her caretaker—perhaps that was how she should think of him—was gone, though she could hear someone lumbering about the small cabin up the hill. And so she shut the door again, paused, then undid the laces of her dress.

It really was bad this time. There was no mirror in this small space, and for that Belle was grateful. She touched the bruises along her waist, wincing, then felt her neck and the skin around her eye. Touching them brought back the memory, and with it the trembling in her hands and a cold terror in her heart. And then those sensations formed into words.

You deserve this, they said. You deserve this and more after what you've done. The beast should have let you die—

A quiet knock jolted her to the present. "Just a moment!" she gasped, pulling her shift back up and pressing it to her chest.

"Take your time," came his voice, muffled through the door. "I've only brought some water and towels, should you need them."

"Oh," she said. Her heart was still racing. "Thank you."

She waited until she heard his heavy footfalls pad away in the snow. Then, with a steadying breath, she cracked open the door once again. A bucket of steaming water sat there, with two spotless mahogany towels hanging over its edge. Belle reached out slowly to touch them; she knew what towels were, but she'd never actually seen one. Even the wealthiest families in the village could never afford such a luxury.

A spell? she wondered, eyes wide. Belle thought of his small house, so strangely built against the rocky cliff, with nothing within to rest on but a pile of furs and one battered armchair. She thought of his clothes, worn nearly to the point of rags. Why use magic for towels, but nothing else?

Or perhaps he's simply a thief, she realized, but quickly put the thought out of her mind. People did worse things. And imagining him stealing from some wealthy house was far more comforting than the alternative.

Belle was pulled from her thoughts by the smell of that sweet something once again. She turned, wondering if it weren't all magic after all, but then she saw the source of it: a small splash of purple color tucked away in the corner that she'd missed before. She reached for it, bringing back a single bar of half-used soap and lifting it to her nose. A bemused smile crossed her lips at the very clear scent of lavender.

Belle quirked a brow, and glanced back in the direction of his odd dwelling. Who was he?

Well, whoever he was, he was waiting for her when she finally emerged, ready to help her back up to the house in the same manner as before. Belle was more awake now after cleaning the grime and dried blood from her skin, and thus even more aware of her current predicament. True, his chest was warm and his arms strong and gentle beneath her, but that only served to make her feel more like a child being carted off to bed.

"I'm quite embarrassed," she admitted.

He glanced down at her, then behind him. "Why?" he asked. "Everyone does it."

Belle cocked her head. "Does…it?" She looked back at the outhouse, blinked once, and laughed. He chuckled himself—a deep laugh, as though it were trapped inside his throat and couldn't quite escape.

"Ah!" she grimaced a moment later, shifting in his arms at the pain in her side. "I forgot. No laughing."

"It was my fault."

"Yes, it was," she agreed, trying to contain a lingering smile. "You should have warned me you are inclined to bathroom humor."

He grimaced—or perhaps it was a smile after all. It was difficult to read such a different sort of face. "I'm… I wouldn't say inclined to it," he said. "I have a wide repertoire."

Belle let herself smile again. What was happening? Had she really laughed—twice—in a single day, when she hadn't done so in years?

Had she really laughed… after what she'd done?

As if reading her thoughts, her caretaker had gone very quiet. She looked up, and caught him staring at her ring finger and the little glimmer of gold she'd forgotten was still there. He cleared his throat, looking back at the house. "Madame, what—"

Madame Gaston. Madame Gaston. Madame—

"Belle," she said suddenly. "My name is Belle."

"Belle," he repeated, and hummed. "That is a fitting name."

People always said that. What else would they say—that it wasn't? "It was more fitting when I was younger," she said, embarrassed as she always by the subject. By the beauty that had ruined her life.

He frowned, glancing down at her briefly. "You can't be twenty-five."

Another nicety, of course. "You are kind. I am thirty-six this spring."

The great being stopped short on the path, looking down at her with what seemed to be genuine surprise. "I'm also…" he began, but swallowed and looked away. "I mean, I also have a spring birthday."

"Oh," she said, puzzled by his reaction. And the fact that someone so mysterious and possibly magical had something as ordinary as a birthday. "You… do?"

"Mm." He continued to walk.

Belle wondered about him for a moment, surprised to find herself increasingly curious. It was a feeling she'd once experienced over a great number of things, but hadn't felt in a very long time. "So you live alone?" she found herself asking.

He hummed an affirmative, then stopped in place once more. "Well, not entirely. I have a cow."

Belle brightened. "A cow? All the way up here?"

"She's a mountain breed. I, um… I like cheese." He shrugged.

Belle brightened further, and felt the sudden urge to laugh a third time. She recalled her ribs, however, and held back. "So," she went on. "Just you, and a cow—"

"Bonne."

She smiled. "You, and Bonne."

He nodded, and seemed to brighten a bit himself. He continued up the hill, and soon they were back at the house. He had moved the bed of furs closer to the fire, and several poorly folded blankets now sat nearby.

As he laid her back down, Belle ventured on. "And who is this you?" she asked.

His eyes went wide, and he pulled back. "I…" He hesitated, bringing one giant paw to the back of his neck and glancing sideways. "I'm, um…"

"Forgive me. I shouldn't pry," Belle said quickly, and she meant it. She looked away. "I've burdened you enough as it is."

He shook his head. "No, it's all right," he said. Then he sucked in a sharp breath. "I was once called Adam. But he was a miserable fellow."

Such a normal name. Belle wasn't sure what she'd expected, but it wasn't that. "He cannot have been so bad, I think," she observed.

He offered a great sigh, reaching for one of the blankets and pulling it over her. "Believe me, he was."

Belle still wasn't sure she believed him. And at the moment, she wasn't sure she wanted to believe him. "What about when this Adam was a child?" she asked. "Surely he was not so miserable then."

"I…" He trailed off, looking troubled, and stared towards the window for a long moment. "You're right," he said at last, looking back at her. "He wasn't. Why do you ask?"

Belle settled beneath the warm blanket, watching the flames flicker beside them. "My papa used to tell me something," she said. "That the child never leaves us. That when things seem hopeless, that whenever I felt lost…" She felt her throat grow tight, and the final words were nothing more than a whisper. "That I only needed to find her again."

She should not have said it aloud. It hurt too badly. Hurt too much to speak of the only person in this world who had ever really loved her; hurt too much to know how much she had failed him. Belle turned onto her side, feeling her body curl in on itself as she tried to shut it all away.

But then there was a new warmth covering her head to toe as the great beast draped another quilt over her. "I haven't really needed a name in years," he said quietly. Then he paused. "Bonne doesn't talk, you see."

And for a moment, Belle forgot her hurt and smiled.

"But I suppose…" he went on. "I suppose it would be useful to have one now."

She turned back. "Thank you, Monsieur Adam."

He shook his head. "I'm no monsieur. The name alone is fine."

"As is mine."

At her age, the use of given names was usually reserved for intimate friends. Or husband and wife. And so something seemed to shift between them now, which is perhaps what led him to brave his own question.

"Belle." The word was rich on his tongue, and Belle found herself fond of the way it sounded when he said it. "Why… why do you not fear me?" he asked, frowning. "Truly."

Because I didn't care who or what killed me, Belle realized. Not after what I'd done. "I am familiar with the tales," she said instead. "From what they say, it is foolish to offend a magical being."

Adam looked uncomfortable. "Ah. Yes." He cleared his throat. "You are much wiser than I once was."

Belle blinked. So mysterious!

He cleared his throat. "Supper!" he announced, slapping his thighs and standing in one great motion. "How do you like your eggs?"

"Oh," Belle said, feeling queasy. "Oh, I'm so sorry. But please, anything but eggs."

He had already entered the cellar, but pulled himself back up at her reply. He stared at her for a moment, but only nodded. "No eggs," he agreed. "Eh… I'd probably burn them anyway." He furrowed his brows, and thought. "I need to go milk Bonne. Perhaps some fresh cream and… salted venison, if you can stomach it? I'm sorry, that's all I really have."

"That sounds wonderful," Belle said. "Thank you, Adam."

He was climbing back out of the floor but froze when she spoke, looking up in surprise. Then, as though remembering he'd just told her his name two minutes ago, smiled wryly to himself and continued to shut the door behind him.

Meanwhile, Belle found herself once again thinking about the way it sounded when he'd said her own name. And how she didn't seem to hate it so much when he did.

"Belle?"

Yes, like that. Then she blinked, and looked up. Adam was halfway out the front door, glancing about the room before looking back at her. "I just… will you be all right?" he asked. "For a few minutes… alone."

Belle knew what he meant, and was ashamed. The poor man couldn't even step outside his own house without worrying she would hurt herself. "I will," she promised. "I believe I'm starting to feel like myself again."

Madame Gaston no more. No sir, not me.

He gave a short nod, and shut the door. Once she heard him scampering off down the hill, she reached beneath the covers and slipped off her wedding ring. She didn't need it anymore.

After all, Gaston was dead.