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Once Upon A Time	By : Madame_Lazla Category: +1 through F > Beauty and the Beast (Disney) > Beauty and the Beast (Disney) Views: 11063 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Beauty and the Beast, nor do I own any of the characters in it. I only own the pervertedness. In conjunction, this is a work of pleasure - I make no money from it

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Once Upon A Time…Adam Had To Decide
Being a prince was a curse. A horrible affliction that Adam would have wished away if it were not selfish and un-prince like for him to do. Princes were self-sacrificing to a fault, forever conscientious and eternally chivalrous. A true prince would always put others before himself and carelessly risk their lives for women they’d just met (only to marry her immediately).
A true prince would certainly never think of dumping a man back into a river he’d just saved him from.
Prince Adam gazed at his arch-nemesis. The fool was barely moving, his chest rising and falling so slightly one could miss it if they weren’t looking closely. The deep blue that had once covered his body had faded into a deathly grey. The bloating had decreased significantly, but his fingers, toes and cheeks were still pruned and soft and would have expelled water if Adam squeezed them. However, Adam felt no need to breathe the same air as the mongrel, let alone allow skin-to-skin. And yet he could not pry his eyes away, could not turn his heel and march out of the makeshift infirmary. He didn’t even have the heart to find something remotely blunt to bash the buffoon’s brains out. All he could do was helplessly stare at the pathetically helpless man as he fought for his life.
He awoke with a headache. In the pitch black darkness as he tried shifting his limbs off the bed, Adam realised that all of him seemed to hurt. The prince woozily stood upon only to fall promptly back into the sheets. The world spun faster than he could manage. His throat grated with every sharp intake – he needed water. He needed food. He needed to know what happened to the man. Was he alive? Who was he?
Gaston…wasn’t it? What a waste of such a handsome name. It didn’t suit him, or rather, it didn’t suit his personality. From what Adam recalled seeing during their first – rather heated – encounter, the man hadn’t been bad-looking. Mind, it was very rainy and windy out and there was very little time to focus on a face that was trying to kill you.
Cogsworth was being evasive. He was like that, especially if he knew of something that might upset his master. He’d bumble and blanch and look everywhere but at his master’s face.
“W-well, you see, Master…in your c-c-current state, perhaps…not t-that we’re h-h-h-…hiding something or anything….”
Adam huffed, his eyes going uncharacteristically narrow. He didn’t like not knowing things, especially when they concerned him. And, if memory served correctly, the last time his servants plotted against him, a certain brunette found a way into his heart…
“Cogsworth…” he snarled baring the point of an unnaturally sharp canine, “I need not remind you who the Master of this house is.”
“N-nnnnot at all, Master!” the man’s pupil’s dilated.
“WHERE. IS. HE. Do not make me ask again.”
“B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-but..!” the manservant shivered at the animalistic look in his prince’s eyes before mumbling dejectedly, “he’s in the West Wing, Sire.”
“The West Wing? Is this some kind of joke?” Said Sire felt an anger boiling in his heart, “The West Wing I had SPECIFICALLY curtained off? THAT WEST WING!?”
Cogsworth was shivering in earnest when Adam had reached for his throat. The irate prince watched the fat little man squirm and squeal under his grasp, the skin on the man’s face turning a sickly white as he suffocated. Good. Let the conniving little clock choke on his own saliva.
Adam caught himself in time – this was not the most regal way to deal with anger or betrayal. It still didn’t stop him being angry though, nor did it quell the tingle of satisfaction he felt as he lessened his grip and tossed his gasping manservant out of the way.
“Pray to GOD I don’t snap you like a twig the next time I see you.”
The West Wing held too many memories; too many truths about the monster he had become. He hadn’t changed it either – he wouldn’t allow himself to forget. There was still his portrait, ripped from corner to corner, still visible layers of dust hanging on every surface. There were shreds of rich velvet curtains and throws hanging from broken pieces of foundation and that rose…that damned rose. What was left of it lay crumpled under its glass container, dead petals strewn everywhere. Adam shivered from a slight gust of cold wind that had found its way into the room. Even though the balcony doors were shut, there was a large part of glass missing from the bay window. From their first encounter, Adam remembered.
He felt the world, once again, rocking back and forth in a nauseating fashion. That face…bloated though it was there was no mistaking who lay in his West Wing, in his bed.
“How could you not wake me,” it wasn’t a question, but a silent demand that was directed at Mrs Potts. The poor woman looked slightly insulted, but mostly hurt, at the address.
“You’ve been unconscious for two days, Master. Forgive me in thinking that you’d need to recuperate FULLY before receiving the news.”
Adam wanted to shout at her, throw her against something and yell until his nanny wet herself. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it to the woman who was like a mother to him. He couldn’t find the strength to hold himself up. He turned to the still figure.
“I should kill him where he stands,” the prince heard a voice resonate in the room. It couldn’t have been his, because he would never say something so ghastly.
Mrs Potts’ double chin wobbled in worry. She stepped forward, hesitantly raising her small hand to place on his forearm. “Master?”
She had yet to touch him, but Adam already shied away. His mind was set on one thought alone.
“Leave me.”
Mrs Potts took a step back. Was she really hearing this?
“Leave me woman!” his whisper had become a deep resonating growl. The royal nanny wasted no time in rushing out the West Wing as fast as she could, giving a last reproachful glance at the prince as she hurried out the door.
Adam felt his back stiffly fall against the back of a broken chair, unaware of how he had managed to move himself on the other side of the room – especially since his eyes had never left his slumbering nemesis. If there ever was an opportunity, now was it. He could take out all his anger and depression with a simple swipe of a blade – revenge would surely provide some comfort. Right?
He made to move, to execute his plan, but his body had conspired against him. He stayed rigid in his chair, his jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. Would it truly be the best choice? Kill a dying man? Where was the honour in slaying a human being who could not even defend himself?
The prince clenched his fist. As much as he hated the man, this…imbecile…deserved a chance at life.
The door creaked open slightly, and Mrs Potts’ nightcap popped into Adam’s line of vision. He exhaled a resigned sigh, before beckoning her in. The sweet British woman hesitantly trotted in and stopped to glance nervously at the bed.
“Yes, he’s still alive,” Adam mumbled impatiently. His legs seemed to be working again as he pulled himself off the chair and stiffly laboured himself towards the door.
“Just until he’s better, alright? Then…I’ll see,” Mrs Potts gave her annoyingly wise I-Just-Knew-You’d-Do-The-Right-Thing smile as the Prince sulked towards the door. Being a prince was horrible.
“And…I’m sorry if I came across as somewhat… rude.”
“It’s alright, Master. Now go get some rest.”
Yes – being a prince was – dare he say it? – pure damnation.
***
“It’s been seven days.”
“Um…” Cogsworth bit his rather thin lips thinner. He’d been a bit of wreck these past seven days. Well, more of a wreck than usual. Adam would’ve been worried about the man’s general health, if he wasn’t extremely peeved.
“Seven WHOLE days,” the prince reiterated.
“Well, my liege, if you could consider the situation, being what it is…” Lumière magickally appeared behind his rotund friend, looking very ruffled and very satisfied. Babette was certainly making up for lost time, that skanky little maid. Adam swung his legs off the window ledge and shut the little blue book that had become like a Bible to him. He spoke again, slamming said book on the table with every syllable.
“The situation is simple. It. Has. Been. Seven. Days. And qu’est-ce qu’il a fait? Nothing, you tell me! He hasn’t even had the decency to wake up!”
Mrs Potts slid into view from behind Lumière. How did she manage to hide all that bulk? “Do bear in mind, dear, that the poor boy’s recovering from a severe case of hypothermia.”
Adam rolled his eyes and slumped into his chair, “But really, no reaction from him? The lummox has had professionals – foreign professionals! – looming over him, ensuring his speedy recovery for SEVEN DAYS. Should he not at least be twitching?” A pleasant thought crossed his mind and he leaned forward eagerly, “Is he dead?”
“Unfortunately not,” Cogsworth looked as disappointed as Adam was, “But comatose is just as good, right? Why should we rush into things?”
“Because the longer he’s in a coma, the longer he permeates my air!” Adam snapped, launching himself off the chair and out the library. The little nuisance wasn’t waking up and getting healthy – and he wouldn’t even DIE, for God’s sake. How long did he think he was going to get away with lounging around semi-conscious, living off the tacit kindness of his greatest enemy?
Adam’s deerskin boots hardly touched the marble floor as he practically flew towards the West Wing for the first time in seven days. He wasn’t too sure what he intended to do. His mind had settled on shoving the useless man off the bed and kicking him until he woke up or – better yet – died, as he forced the double doors open.
It took a while for his eyes to settle to the dark lighting of the room – the entire castle had been blindingly bright since the spell had broken. He moved across the fraying carpet towards the very still bed. So he had yet to move after all, the loathsome creature. At least he’s looking better, thought Adam as he stopped to inspect.
From what the sparse lighting would allow, it seemed that the bloating had passed and a fair amount of colour had returned to his – surprisingly handsome – body. He was really good-looking, almost gorgeous in fact, Adam mused as he watched the sleeping figure. Against his better judgement his eyes trailed over what parts he could see, appraising whatever his gaze fell on. Large callused hands, nails bitten down to the quick; thick, surprisingly hairless arms draped over a broad chest. A rather thick neck that seemed to throb with lifeblood. Matted raven hair stuck at all angles around the pillow and in the man’s face. Adam didn’t know what possessed him to lean forward and gingerly brush the stray locks from his face.
Furthermore, Adam’s hand seemed to move on its own accord as it traced over the side of his foe’s face, feeling the sharpness of the jaw, the swell cleft in the hairy chin. What thick eyebrows! Whatever caused that broken nose? And must those expressive lips hover in such an unsightly frown?
That was when he felt it. It was as if a bucket of mountain water had been emptied above him and was seeping into his skin. It was worse than a shiver running up his spine and resting on the nape of his neck.
His eyes left his patient’s lips (had he really been staring so intensely?) and were shocked to find a pair of rather dilated, rather glassy ice cubes struggling to focus on him.
Adam was stunned, hovering over the reclining figure of his arch nemesis. What to do? The man was obviously drugged and buggered to Heaven and back. And yet he was still trying to speak, his mouth twisting awkwardly and his voice coming out in rather deep croaks.
Lord knows how many days of lack of food and hygiene created the odour that seeped into the air between them. All Adam knew was that it was enough to shake the bizarre watery feeling from his body and curtly march right out the West Wing.
At least the buffoon was awake.
***
A/N: Qu’est-ce qu’il a fait? = What has he done?
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Once Upon A Time