#mr potts

[fieriframes]

[Here Mr Potts come here you little idiot!]

[fierifiction]

Here Mr Potts come here you little idiot! I've been living my life! Well why did I change your mind just now? I am going to be the one to tell you about my secret. Just wait till you see 'em again! he said excitedly, with such a smile he was the one who could make you feel like you were in a good mood, and he wouldn't leave you alone like this.

[fieriframes]

[Here Mr Potts come here you little idiot!]

[naturepointstheway]

books and pottery

I’d always wanted to write a little something about when Jean first met Belle when she’s new to Villeneuve, and so here it is. 

@tinydooms @sweetfayetanner @astudyinchocolate @gryffindorbraids et al.

The sun has barely popped up over the horizon when Jean Potts sees the new young girl in Villeneuve, a basket in one hand and a book in the other. She navigates around the farmer’s marauding chickens, and the gossipy triplets--who turn to gape after her--Clothilde with her stinky fish wares, and even the way-too-loud ribbon seller, without a misstep or stumble. 

Jean is the last person in the world one could accuse of being a bookworm, but even he can spot a bookworm when he sees one. And this new girl--young woman, really--in town is certainly one. Her nose stuck in a book, her feet carry her along, fingers flicking over the pages at an impressive pace. Who reads that fast? Bookworms, clearly. He’ll never understand how. 

He returns his attention to his wares, expecting as always that twinge of loss when he glances over the teapots for sale. He has lost count how long he’s always had that deep feeling of loss when he casts eyes on a teapot set, but he’s almost used to it now. Almost. He’s not sure he’ll ever be completely used to that old twinge of emptiness, like a part of him is gone. 

The old potter is in the middle of rearranging a display of plates when he spots the new villager, book under her arm, approaching his stall. She stands with one hand on her hip as she surveys the available wares, a thoughtful frown on her face. Behind her, a couple of gossiping old ladies with baskets of laundry stop and whisper at each other, eyes taking in the new girl. They shake their heads with disapproving frowns and mutter over their laundry, hobbling along. The new villager doesn’t appear to notice, of if she does, she takes no heed of them. 

Jean decides he may as well do the polite thing and make at least some small talk. 

“You’re new here,” he says abruptly as he leaves the stand he’d been straightening, “Haven’t seen you here before.” 

She looks up, shifting her book around so it is held protectively against her chest. 

“I’m new here,” she confirms, voice carefully neutral, “Came here not long ago with my father. He makes music boxes.” 

Jean folds his arms, nodding at the book in her arms. “You love reading.” 

A small, but cautious, smile. “Very much. My father taught me to read.” 

“Don’t tell the headmaster that,” Jean can hear the school bell ringing off in the distance, “He doesn’t like girls who read.” 

She stiffens at this. “I take it you don’t too?” 

“Long as it keeps you happy, I don’t care what you do, long as you don’t break any of my wares.” Jean recalls overhearing about the chapel with its small collection of books. “Pere Robert has a small collection of books. I’m sure he’ll have something for you to read if you need anything.” 

Her face lights up, the small smile now reaching to her eyes. “Really?” 

“I haven’t read any of it, words jump around and everything, you know? His chapel isn’t far from here.” 

“I’ll have to visit it, then,” the young woman says, now looking even happier than before. 

“Pere Robert is a good fella, he’ll help you out. He doesn’t judge a woman who reads.” 

“Thanks, Monsieur--” 

“Monsieur Jean.”

“Monsieur Jean,” she echoes, “Pleased to meet you.” 

“And your name?” 

“Belle.” 

“A good name,” he comments, “Belle suits you.” 

“Thank you,” she says as she picks up a teapot to examine it closely. “This is a beautiful teapot.” 

“You can keep it for free,” he tells her, “You’re new here and everything, you may as well--”

It’s what they would’ve done. What she would’ve done. 

He ignores this errant thought, straying from some forgotten memory.

“Oh no, I can pay--” Belle insists. 

“No, no, don’t bother--it’s yours for free.” 

She looks surprised at this, “Are you sure?” 

He waves a hand at her. “Have it. Yours.” 

“That’s really nice of you,” Belle remarks, setting her book down a moment to carefully put the teapot in her basket, and, once satisfied it was safely in, does the same with her book.

“Just trying to do something decent, you know.” 

She gives him a polite nod, clearly done with perusing his wares. 

“Thanks, Monsieur Jean.” 

“Just doing the decent thing, Belle. Good day to you.” 

With that, she is off again, disappearing with teapot, book, and all into the crowd of villagers who mill and stare after her, shaking their heads and whispering to each other. 

It’s what she would’ve done, his thoughts whisper again, speaking from some lost memory of something or someone, She would’ve done the same. 

[noramachwitz]

lachlan calling doug “mr potts” is just surreal lmao

[naturepointstheway]

Together

Just a sweet little post-curse Potts Family fic. 

@tinydooms @sweetfayetanner @gryffindorbraids @astudyinchocolate et al.

The scent of tea rouses Jean from a dream that quickly dissipates like mist in the warmth of sunrise. He doesn’t open his eyes yet, letting the aroma of tea drift into his nose, a scent that had been long absent from his home. He can’t help but smile when he feels fingers rake through his hair, pushing it back from his face with a soft, loving touch. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know it is his Beatrice who touches him, long fingers lost in graying curls, mussed from a long night’s deep sleep. 

Opening bleary eyes, he squints up at his beloved wife gazing down at him from where she rests with her back cushioned by pillows against the headboard. Though her hair is unbrushed and she still has the mask of sleepiness about her eyes and corners of her mouth, Beatrice looks beautiful in his eyes, always, no matter what. She has already wrapped herself in a dressing gown, stretching her legs out over the unmade blankets, her bare feet stretching and flexing in tune to the rays of the rising sun that peeps through the partially opened curtains. 

“Good morning,” she greets him, voice still husky with sleep, hand stilling a little in his hair. “How was your sleep?” 

Better than it had been since he remembered her again. A deeper, more peaceful sleep, his bed no longer feeling strangely wrong without someone else’s weary head upon the pillows, body curled up under the blankets, back just touching him. 

“Good,” he says, “Better now that you’re here again.” 

She removes her hand from his hair to lean over to her side table to pick up a steaming cup of tea. The curling steam catches the sunlight, forming ringlets of gold that rise to the ceiling. 

“Good?” she echoes, “Good as in alright, or good as in much better now we’re together again and you remember me?” 

He extracts a hand from the sheets and rests it lightly on her elbow, thumb rubbing gently against the soft fabric of her dressing gown. 

“The latter,” Jean assures her, “How long have you been awake?” 

“Not long. Just long enough to make a cup of tea.” 

“Did you make one for me?” 

She drains the last of her tea, replacing it on the sidetable. “The teapot will still be hot. I’ll bring you some tea directly too.” 

Mrs Potts shifts her legs off the bed, planting her feet on the floor, pushing herself up to a standing position. That side of the bed empty again, Jean has a second’s urge to ask her to stay just a minute or two longer. But she already has the empty teacup in her hands, and she reaches out one hand to slip it in his with a little squeeze. 

“I won’t be long, dear,” she promises, “Weak tea with milk as always?” 

“Hasn’t changed, Beatrice.” 

“I’ll be back--I won’t come across any Enchantresses on the way to the kitchen.” 

“Is Chip awake?” he asks just as she reaches the door. 

She turns her head back to look at him, “No, I think he’s still fast asleep, but he’s sure to wake up soon and come seek us out.” 

With that, she disappears, her dressing gown the last he sees of her, and the reminder of the Enchantress pulses in his heart. He knows the likelihood of her coming across Agathe while in the house is next to nil, and yet a needle of fear that somehow he’ll forget her again pricks his mind. He really does not wish to forget his Beatrice again, his beloved wife whom he’d known for over two decades.

He remembers again the letters he had come across while the curse had still weighed heavy on the village and the castle. Most of the letters had been from Beatrice, courteous and polite, not overly flowery and full of love-lorn prose. He apparently had not been--and still wasn’t--the most eloquent of letter writers either. A few words in response with some affection, but not overly so. In contrast with his letters, Beatrice’s had looked downright poetic, written in the light of a glowing full moon pouring onto the page. 

Jean hears her footsteps padding back in the direction of their bedroom, and he pushes himself up till he is half sitting up under the blankets. Tucking the pillows up behind him, he settles back against them, waiting for his own cup of tea to arrive. He can already smell it from down the hallway, carried in the soft, caring hands of his wife. 

She emerges into the bedroom, a wooden tray in her hands, the two cups of tea hot and freshly brewed. His heart skips a beat as it always does when she beams at him the way she did only for him. The apples of her cheeks are dusted with light pink from the warmth of tea and a mild summer morning. 

Setting the tray down on her side table, she picks up a teacup and carefully brings it forward to him, the liquid never once sloshing over the scalloped rim. Bringing the cup to his lips, he takes a tiny sip. Milky and weak, just the way he always liked it.

“Perfect,” he says, “Thank you, dear.” 

She pulls back her blankets, straightening the tangled sheet out again, and, satisfied, slips back into bed. She wriggles her legs under the blankets as if to find a comfortable position, one of her feet brushing against his, unintentionally, but the second brush against his foot is clearly intentional. Settled next to him, she reaches a hand out to retrieve her freshly filled cup of tea, balancing it between her hands as she rests her back against her pillows. 

“I’ve spent so much time as a teapot I nearly forgot how soft beds are,” she remarks, her shoulder leaning gently against his, “Or how good it is to share one with someone you love.” 

“Same,” Jean agrees, “Not the teapot part, of course.” 

She takes a sip of her tea, lips pursing on the rim as she catches sight of a bird hopping around on the window sill, cocking its head side to side, dark eyes trapping morning light in their irises.

“I’ve missed this,” Beatrice sighs, the teacup clinking back on its saucer, “I’ve missed this so much, just spending a while longer in bed, watching the morning awaken. I might just stay here all morning.” 

Jean gives her a little nudge with his elbow. “Did I just hear Mrs Beatrice ‘what a waste to stay in bed all morning’ Potts say that?” 

She closes her eyes, the lines stenciled in her forehead becoming a little deeper. “When you’ve spent so long as porcelain, wondering when you’ll feel a soft bed again...I think I’ve gained my right to stay in a little longer. Chip too--I tell you, I was more worried for him more than I was for me.” 

Jean remembers back to the talk they’d had the other night about the curse and all that happened during it. He shakes his head in disbelief. 

“Our boy turned into a teacup. With his energy, it’s a wonder he never--” he stops himself in time from saying “shattered”. It would not do to remind her of that.

“I’ll never understand why the Enchantress chose a teacup form for him. He’s a rambunctious boy, our Chip. Teacups are surprisingly fragile.”

“As are teapots,” Jean adds, recalling the night of the castle battle, “What made you think you could survive a fall from a chandelier as a teapot?” 

Beatrice winces. “Yes, well, I clearly didn’t think that through did I?” 

“No.” 

She raises an eyebrow as she looks over at him. “You haven’t lost your keenness for a blunt answer, have you, Jean?” But a smile manages to emerge nevertheless, deepening the crows feet at the borders of her eyes. 

His cup of tea finished, he sets it aside on his side table. “I haven’t seen the point of it otherwise, Beatrice. But I would never hurt you with words, you know that.” 

“Oh, maybe once or twice you have, back when we were in our twenties,” Beatrice says, “Good thing I’ve always been unafraid to let you know, if you do.” 

The clinking of her empty teacup and saucer as she sets it back on the side table brings his mind back again to the curse. 

“A teapot,” he marvels again, taking one of his wife’s hands--was she always this warm before?--cradling it between his own two. He’d always loved how long her fingers were, a contrast to his own short, stubby ones. Her nails were always clean and tidy, kept short for practical purposes--she was, after all, a housekeeper.

Beatrice leans her head against his, her other hand laying itself atop his hand. “I could handle myself just fine, you know.” 

“This Enchantress is fond of irony, don’t you think? One of the strongest women I’ve known, relegated to being a fragile, porcelain teapot.” 

“Believe me, when you’re dealing with the prince, you have to be strong. He could be very stubborn, you know.” A little laugh, and he is sure there’s a catch of sadness there--bittersweet. “He’s changed for the better, Jean, he’s so much like that little boy I once knew again. All thanks to Belle. Speaking of Belle--how had you come to know her?” 

“She moved into the village with her father,” he explains, “I’d seen her on the regular--was good to those who were good to her. Questionable tastes in books, but kind all the same.” 

Beatrice’s shoulders shake a little with quiet amusement. “I believe Prince Adam found her taste in Romeo and Juliet questionable too. You’re not alone.” 

“Clever girl that Belle--inventing, teaching girls to read, reading while walking through the town without getting knocked over. I’ve never understood how people who love reading can manage that.”

“Nor have I,” Mrs Potts concurs, “It’s a sure way to pick out the people who love books, I find. I remember Adam, when he was five or six, doing the same thing. Walk down the stairs, navigate around the staff, all of that, and never hurt himself. I shouldn’t be surprised if we find him or Belle doing that--at the same time, I shouldn’t wonder--around the castle a lot more now everything’s alright again.” 

They fall into a comfortable silence, grey head resting against auburn, their hands clasped together, fingers interlocked between each other. The rays of morning stretch out and smooth out the blankets, wipe away the last dregs of sleepiness that catch in their lined faces. The bird on the windowsill turns its tail to the window, flutters its black wings and tucks its head under to preen its feathers. 

A couple minutes pass, and both Jean and Beatrice perk up, smiles alighting on their faces, eyes brightening with happiness as little feet scamper down the hallway, and seconds later, Chip has pushed the door open, not even bothering to knock. 

“Good morning!” he shouts, frightening the bird on the windowsill into flight. “I’m still human!” 

Both his parents chuckle, Beatrice stretching an arm out to him in an unmistakeable invitation for a snuggle. 

“Morning, Chip,” she greets him as he clambers up onto the bed, snuggling up under her arm. “Good sleep?” 

An enthused nod, “I like sleeping in a bed again, mama--it’s better than sleeping in a cupboard.” 

“It is, isn’t it,” his mother agrees, dropping a kiss on his head. 

“And--” Chip adds, his voice softer, “I missed morning cuddles.” 

She plants another tender kiss on his head, brushing back his hair. 

“I think we all have, dear.” 

“I don’t want to be a teacup again, mama,” he whispers, “I missed being a little boy.” 

“I reckon it won’t happen again,” Jean says, “Your mother will make sure of it.” 

Chip seems to be assured by this, and cuddles under his mother’s arm, his head resting on her chest, a smile on his face. 

“I like being a boy,” he murmurs, “It’s nice to run around and sleep and cuddle again.” 

His parents catch each other’s eyes and smile relieved smiles, their hands holding on just a little bit firmer than they might have before the curse had happened. If they held on a little tighter, both their hearts seemed to reason, and if they clung a little closer to each other at night, then no curse could separate them again. 

[naturepointstheway]

BatB headcanon (during curse):

Headcanon that Mr Potts’ feeling that he’s lost something is at its strongest on certain dates, which, when the curse is lifted for good and he remembers his wife and son, would turn out to be days like his and Mrs Potts’ wedding anniversary, Mrs Potts’ birthday, and Chip’s birthday.

@tinydooms @sweetfayetanner 

[naturepointstheway]

Just cropped one of my favourite screencaps from this site. And I can tell you, my skin is clear, my crops are watered, there is fresh rain coming to drive away the drought, my writing Muses are merry and bright, 2018 will be an amazing year, and all will be well.