a one shot in which plumette and lumiere go on a romantic tryst about the castle in the days following their wedding 💕
“Shhh! Ma chérie, you know they’ll find us there.”
A giggle that is promptly shushed, first by his finger on her lips, than by his lips on hers. Cogsworth looks up from his stamp collection. He would know that mischief-maker’s voice anywhere.
“We have to be discrete,” whispers Plumette’s voice.
“Then you picked the wrong outfit,” mutters the Frenchman, and Cogsworth wants to bury himself in his stamp collection, shut his ears up with book bindings and glue. For the love of….they must be behind the curtains. The curtains! As if they were still small objects who could hide among the household, holding secrets and never noticed. Well, Cogsworth noticed. He always noticed.
A muffled shriek and one of Plumette’s shoes slid across the floor. With haste he packed up his stamp collection, swept up his glue-pots and sheets, and sprinted from the room as fast as his old legs could carry him. Let them have their secrets; all Cogsworth wanted was peace.
Ah, the dining room. A place of peace and contemplation, at least when Lumiere wasn’t in it. Cogsworth sat himself down in the chair—quietly grateful the chairs didn’t move around by themselves anymore, he’d found that disturbing—and pulled out his scrapbook. A quiet day of pasting clippings, yes; he’d started collecting pictures of clocks, he wasn’t sure why, and it soothed him to dip his brush in the glue and carefully lay out the images, labeling them one by one.
Dip, brush, place, label. Dip, brush—
“What? Is it a crime to sample something so luscious in a room meant for tasting? Or is that too tender—let me try here, instead—oh, mademoiselle—”
Far at the other end of the room, a chair moved by itself, as if pushed from below the table. The scrapbooking supplies lay abandoned, the door swinging shut behind running feet, and the giggles landed on empty air.
At least Mrs. Potts was here, in the kitchen. She was supposed to be down in the village, taking a day off with her husband, but she had decided to cook supper for the palace since Lumiere was a little engaged.
“Now, then, you’re just all out of sorts, Mr. Cogsworth,” she cooed, pouring tea and coaxing sugar into him. “Don’t you worry about it, luv—all of them do it.”
“All the time? All over the place?!”
“Well, now, they’ve had longer to wait than most newlyweds.“
“They’ll find us here!” Plumette’s hiss is too loud to be drowned by the wine-cellar door.
“Are you so afraid of being found? What if I found….some other parts….”
“Oh,” and there’s a loud crash from behind the door, and Cogsworth knows he is never going to get to taste that 1735 vintage, now.
“Do you know what,” says Mrs. Potts, with haste, “I think I will go down to the village, after all.”
His room. At last, his room. The one safe haven from the madness of the palace. He pulled out his old woodworking kit—making model carriages is a fine hobby—and set out the wood, the glue bottle, the fine thin knives. He closed the window curtains, tired of the sun, and sat at his desk and took off his shoes. Cogsworth breathed in the stale, musty air of his private chamber. Ah, comfort. Ahh, serenity.
“Ooooh la la!”
Slammed down the wood, the glue bottle. “Can a man,” yelled the major domo, his heartbeat tick-tick-ticking in his temples, “get a day’s rest from this romance, this harried quest for flirtation?!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Lumiere, from somewhere on Cogsworth’s private balcony. Plumette was there, too—pulling up her stays as if they had somehow begun to fall off, of their own accord, though Cogsworth knew enough about that to wager another guess as to how laces came undone and boning went to slip.
“Can you not. Find. Somewhere private,” he said, “to engage in these…these t-tiffs of p-passion?”
“Why, yes, but that’s not as fun,” and the Frenchman beamed, and Cogsworth would have saw fit to murder him if it weren’t impolite to kill a man dressed only in his breeches and his wife’s lace shawl. “We were hoping if we kept on long enough you’d like to advise us on how to proceed properly.” And his russet hair lights up from within, and he’s smiling with all the teeth Cogsworth wants to knock in.
“Get yourselves to a gazebo, somewhere,” he moans. “Just leave the palace for the day.”
“Is that permission to take a honeymoon?” pipes Plumette. “Formal permission? With paid leave? Two weeks of travel?”
“God, yes, anything,” moans Cogsworth, and it’s suddenly silent, and the two are gone. Thank you, says a note pinned to the door. We’ve planned to honeymoon for weeks, but we couldn’t leave without driving you crazy first.
“Sacre bleau,” he says, in words he borrowed from his best friend. What madness comes withmagic.