heavenssakesisthataspot:
There was dust on the banisters. Mrs. Potts touched a finger tentatively to the old wood, then drew her hand back as if it were fire, not a staircase. There had been dust on the stairs for years; the castle was cursed just as the people were inside it, and things fell apart faster than she could put them together. Besides, Master liked the dust, she could tell. And the ripped tapestries, the broken glass. Well, maybe liked was too strong a word. He lived with it, that’s what she did.
When Belle was here, everyone snapped right into shape. Lumiere put on shows with Cogsworth halfheartedly protesting. Everyone listened to Mrs. Potts when she told them to clean. Within weeks of her arrival, the place was looking like a proper castle. Within months, everything felt back to normal, except for the times when she accidentally caught her reflection on the floor, in a window. She saw a teapot, absurd as it was, and it was like some awful joke gone wrong but she always startled when she saw herself. She knew everyone else saw themselves as objects too, though everyone kept that part about themselves quiet. Except for Cogsworth; she knew he was a handsome, stately old clock. She could just tell that about him.
The light left with Belle, and the gentle humming in the morning while she made the beds, and the smiles in the evening when sometimes she let Chip stay up just because. Belle took every sweet moment inside the castle with her, and the dust came back overnight, like it grew up out of the floorboards and spread like a disease.
Mrs. Potts wrung her hands together as she pushed on the heavy door. She had seen Master’s dark moods a hundred times over, heard him roar, cleaned up pieces of broken furniture. It was a routine now, so then why was she so afraid?
“Master,” she began, taking one step, then two. She realized she should have brought tea and cursed herself for it. “Master, I have something I need to tell you.”
Even upon hearing Mrs Pott’s voice, as usual Adam made no indication that he had heard her, aside from the barest tilt of his head. He noted, however, that her footsteps were not being accompanied by the sound of the serving cart, so she wasn’t there to bring him tea. The elderly woman wasn’t about to launch into a tirade about how he should go after Belle somehow, or else contact her in some way, was she? He had heard it all before, from her and Cogsworth and Lumiere. Even if he had wanted to bring Belle back - and he didn’t, because how could he how could he bring her back to what was essentially a prison, no matter how Belle might have felt right before she left - it wasn’t as though he could ever leave.
(Why they still persisted in their encouragement of some plan of action, he didn’t know. Did they forget that he wasn't someone who could be trusted to walk off the castle grounds and not tear someone apart with teeth and claws?)
In Mrs Potts' next words, Adam detected a note of alarm. Letting out a harsh, heavy breath, Adam strode in the opposite direction, away from Mrs Potts. If he ignored her, she would leave. They always did, eventually. He took about five steps before he felt something shiver against his ribcage, like insect wings. A vague feeling of unease, joining efforts with his conscience to propel him back to her.
“…”
Mouth working uselessly, Adam had attempted to respond, but no words came out. Maybe it was just that he’d gone for so long without speaking. Maybe it was another sign that the curse had progressed. His face contorted as he struggled to make a sound (and he might have, would have, begun to feel impatient, lost his temper, if it wasn’t for his current overwhelming feeling of despair). Then, finally, his voice came out, raspy from disuse. “…What is it?"
