•A Different Story•

Chapter Two

"You must have a word with him," said Mrs. Potts sternly.

"Don't want to have a word with him," the beast sulked. "I don't want to have anything to do with him."

"But you 'ave to do somesing!" wailed Babette. "'E nearly pulled out all my feazers!"

"What were you doing there, anyway?" said the beast. "I don't need my dungeons dusted."

Babette tossed her head. "Zat is not ze point."

The beast snorted. It was easy enough to see why Babette had been risking her feathers in the muck of the dungeon. Babette had always had an eye for handsome men; she would not have overlooked the prisoner's lean, muscled legs, his broad expanse of chest, his thick, dark hair that you itched to run your fingers through -- not that Babette had fingers, as such, nowadays.

The beast looked at his hands and turned them over unhappily. His own fingers were not much good for running through hair, either.

Lumiere unwisely chose this moment to speak. "Enh, Master," he said, "zere is somesing in what zey say. You cannot simply --"

"Don't tell me what I can or can't do," barked the beast.

Lumiere went even paler than wax, and began to edge backwards, gesticulating rapidly. "Of course not, Master," he said. "I didn't mean to say --"

"Then why are you still TALKING?" the beast roared. "Get out! All of you! Leave me ALONE!"

They did, and the beast took out his feelings on inanimate furniture instead. In about half an hour, he had a fair pile of kindling, and felt somewhat calmer.

That afternoon, his tea was cold, and the biscuits stale leftovers. His dinner was late, and burnt. His bed, when he retired to it, was unmade, and the books on his bedside table pointedly un-dusted. Grumbling under his breath, the beast went to visit his prisoner.

He made his most terrifying entrance when he got to the cell -- creeping along on all fours, then drawing himself up to his full height with a roar. But the prisoner just settled against the wall, tilted his head back, and began to pick his teeth. And where in those tight pants or shirt had he found room to hide so much as a toothpick -- the beast hated being ignored. He hated it so much it was giving him an erection.

"You," the beast snarled, "have been interfering with my servants."

"I haven't seen a single servant since you brought me here," said the prisoner. "I'm in a dungeon, remember? Or is the whole castle this much of a dump?"

The beast refused to be distracted, either by the prisoner's insults or by the way the torchlight played on the chiseled planes of his face. "A teacup," the beast said, holding his hands slightly apart, "this high. Chip on the rim. His mother found him passed out in a puddle of cheap brandy. He didn't get that from my cellars."

"I'm not responsible for how your dishes decide to spend their time," sneered the prisoner. "Do I look like a busboy?"

The beast dropped his voice to a quiet rasp. "You look," he said, reaching through the bars to trace one claw along the prisoner's jaw, "Delicious."

The prisoner swallowed, unsettled at last. "Whereas you," he said, nearly succeeding in regaining his former cool, "would look marvelous stuffed and mounted next to my fireplace."

That did it. The beast threw open the door of the cell and stalked inside. "The only one getting mounted around here is you," he growled.