•A Different Story•

Chapter Five

Gaston checked himself out in the full-length mirror. Silk shirt and cravat, blindingly white, slim blue jacket and trousers with plenty of gold braid. Knee-high boots shiny enough to see himself in, when out of range of the mirror. With these sorts of replacements, the beast was welcome to rip Gaston's clothes apart any day of the week.

There was a knock on the door. "Ahem," came the fussy voice of the clock who had showed Gaston to this room the night before. "Breakfast is served."
Gaston took a breath to tell the gearbox to shove it. He'd be damned if he came running whenever the beast whistled. Besides, he wasn't finished admiring himself yet. He had barely considered, for instance, the way the scarlet ribbon offset the dark gloss of his hair.

Unfortunately, that intake of breath had brought with it the most amazing variety of smells. Bacon, fried potatoes, stinky cheese, Belgian waffles, Irish coffee - dozens of eggs every morning was all well and good, but sometimes a man wanted something different. Gaston swallowed his pride and the copious amounts of saliva that one sniff had engendered, gave himself one last wink in the mirror, and followed the clock down to the dining room.

There, laid out on the long table, was everything Gaston had smelled and more. He reached out for the coffee urn, only to have it scamper towards him itself, and fill his mug to brimming. He tossed it back as several pairs of tongs rushed back and forth across the table, heaping his plate with a little of everything, and a lot of bacon. Being a prisoner in the dungeons had not been as bad as he'd feared, but being a prisoner with benefits was definitely better.

Not all the ravenous growling was coming from Gaston's stomach. Some of it was coming from the other side of the table. The beast's guzzling, and Gaston's arrested fascination with it, were interrupted by a candlestick which jabbed the beast in the arm with its business end, and muttered something too low for Gaston to hear.

The beast looked up from his plate, the fur around his mouth and chin dripping with - it couldn't have been what it looked like, it was probably just custard. "Er - good morning," he rumbled, and belched loudly.

"Morning," said Gaston. He repressed the urge to determine the truth about the custard or whatever with his tongue, by shoving a double handful of bacon into his mouth instead. This also freed him from the need to make more conversation, which was good as he had absolutely no idea what to say.
The beast was not so lucky. There was more insistent whispering from the candlestick, and the beast said, "You've been a guest in this castle for days now, and I don't even know your name. What is it?"

A guest now, was he? "Gaston," said Gaston, wiping the back of a hand across his mouth. "What's yours?"

The beast's brows drew down, and his claws flexed. A growl started in his throat. Not a welcome question, apparently. "I'm just called the beast," he said gruffly, while at his elbow a teapot hissed something at him. Straining his ears, Gaston caught the last bit: "Control your temper!"