What if Batb 2017 characters accidentally went though a time portal to modern times to find that the castle is now full of tourists?
but also, wouldn’t they ????:
meet belle and adam’s descendants, whoever the fuck they are
notice that the tour guide is an unusually exuberant fellow with a thick Parisian accent and expressive hands
introduce themselves to the gift shop proprietor, an older gentleman who thinks this batch of tourists is all dressed highly irregularly
almost trip over a little boy who’s so pumped to be visiting this castle. he heard a local legend about a monster who lived here, but his mother tells him that it can’t possibly be true
pretend not to see that the first tour guide is totally in love with the second tour guide. they’re literally abandoned halfway through the tour because two somebodies disappear into a closet
there’s an asshole tourist in the group who is aggressively going after belle, but he seems to fall off about the time they’re going over one of the bridges, so they never see him again
somebody’s opened a restaurant down in the village to feed the tourists. the angry genius behind the bar insists he could make masterpieces, but these ignorant lizards only ever want french fries
the man at the coat check compliments chapeau on his excellent taste, and they have a fascinating conversation about fashion standards. or at least, i mean, the coat check man nods significantly, and chapeau nods back, and that does the trick for both of them.
there are two buskers singing and playing on a little electronic keyboard outside the castle, and cadenza tips them generously
lefou and stanley aren’t at this. as soon as they realized they were in modern times they ran off to join Parisian pride week, so i don’t know what to tell you
(Plumiere prompt) Shalalalalala my oh my, looks like the boy's too shy, ain't gonna kiss the girl~
HAHAHAHAH OMFG YOU NERD.
“I’m—I’m not good with boats—”
“Hold that! No, not that one—that one there—oh no!”
They both barely recover. There’s a little water in the bottom of the rowboat, now, but at least they haven’t capsized. Plumette has Lumiere by his coat and isn’t letting go; he has one hand around her waist, and hopes that if he doesn’t breathe, they might drift to the lagoon’s bank without an issue.
“Can you—can you reach the paddles?” Plumette asks. They’re still standing. The slimy rowboat sides seem awfully far away.
“No. And I’m afraid our sandwiches are ruined.” Lumiere looks sadly at his picnic-basket, floating a little ways away from the boat. “Unless you think lagoon-water pairs well with tomatoes.”
Plumette manages to get one hand on the rowlock. Lumiere eases to sitting, one hand still around his darling.
“Those Danish men,” he groans. “They swore this would be romantic. Said it worked perfectly fine whenever they went to woo a lady.”
“Well, maybe they know more about boats than you do, mon amour,” says Plumette. She’s gotten one of the paddles, now; she’s not sure which way goes into the water, but she gets the not-ridiculous-looking end poking down into the mud. Using it as a stick, she carefully pushes them forward.
“And is it romantic? At least a little? Despite the ruined sandwiches?” He looks up into her face. It’s a little hard to see—her hat is partially covered by a water-willow, that got stuck in it the first time they almost went over—but he thinks he sees a giggle bubbling up.
“It’s perfectly romantic, Lumiere. Just don’t let go. I’m not standing very well.”
“Mon ange! If I ever let you go, you may exile me from east to west.” He gestures, broadly, to show the extent of his banishment. He catches her just in time, though the paddle is quite lost, and a little red sea crab—perched up on a reed, as if to give them rowing advice—is quite submerged in the splash.
She sits on his lap, quite safe, and trusts the fishes to get them back to shore.
“No more boats, eh, ma chérie?”
“No more boats. Did you hear that?”
“Hear this,” says Plumette, and kisses him before he is prepared.
It’s a little damp; there’s still some water-weed dripping in her face. But so, so sweet; and he laughs when she comes away, looking quite pleased with herself.
“Did you think I was too shy to kiss you myself?”
“You never know,” says Plumette. “Those Danish women, giving the wrong impression entirely.“
Would you care to write a drabble of the castle redoing Mrs. and Mr. Potts's wedding because Chip found his mother's wedding dress and was bummed that he missed it?
THIS! IS SO! FUCKING CUTE!!!!
WHAT THE FUCK!!! WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT!
“Oof.” Lumiere sneezes. “I try
not to go up to this attic, much—”
“Why? Worried you’re going to
find an old flame?” Plumette teases.
“No! No. Where do you hear such stories?! I never dated a Christmas
ornament, I told you that never
“Mm-hmm. So why do you live in
terror of the attic?”
“It’s not terr—AGH.” Lumiere sees
a spider and leaps. Stubborn, still, as he stands on top of a chair: “It’s not terror. I just…don’t like old
The two of them stand, surrounded
by the dusting heaps of objects. Unmoving hat stands, cutlery, trunks, closets,
knick-knacks: it is all too silent for Lumiere, too dead. Nothing here moves or
feels or glows. Nothing has a heartbeat.
It reminds him too much of the
night of the curse.
Plumette sees his eyes start to
glance toward a dusty, broken feather-duster, and sidesteps in front of it so
all he sees are her skirts. “Mon amour! Come, now. We don’t have to stay. She
just wants her old trunk, to get the linens from it—”
“Oui! Oui.” He starts from
reverie and jumps toward the old trunk, hauled up in the back of the attic.
“Beatrice” is inscribed on it, hard nails in cracked leather; and it still
smells like tea and clean muslin and English-garden-rosemary. “I suppose she
hasn’t had this out since she came across the channel—uff.”
Lumiere has never been strong in his arms. They get it down the stairs—where Adam, thank heaven, is there to pick it up with ease—and the maître d'sighs and massages his limbs.
“We’ve found you your trunk!” he calls to Mrs. Potts. “And about ten thousand pounds of dust. Did you secretly want to kill me? You know I’m allergic—”
“You’re just French, that’s what, no backbone for the harsher things in life,” says the housekeeper, bustling forward and smiling at the chest. “Now! Look at that! You’ve done wonderfully, Lumiere, Plumette. Hold it there, there’s a lock—”
The trunk flies open, with another cloud of dust. Lumiere sneezes in misery and stands back.
The whole castle has gathered for the momentous occasion of opening Mrs. Potts’ bridal trunk—Belle and Chapeau and Adam and Chip and all the rest, to see Mrs. Potts’ old life in all its dust and rosemary. She herself hasn’t looked at it for years; but she wants the linens, now, the ones her mother wove for her. They’ll look nice, out on the table. Mrs. Potts doesn’t like to hide things away, any more—she has the good china out at every meal, and lets Chip run around to his heart’s content.
He is not running now, though. He peers into the box with an eager face.
“I don’t see any linens,” he says.
“It’s not pirate treasure, dear, I told you,” says Mrs. Potts, digging down inside. “Just a trunk, with a few old secrets. Like—oh!—that.” She takes out an old, English-style Christmas ornament—a hammered-tin angel, with cunning eyes.
“I told you,” Plumette whispers, poking at Lumiere. He pretends to sneeze and looks away.
“Now let’s see, this isn’t table cloths—nor this either—now! Dear! What’s this?”
She draws it out, with careful fingers. A beautiful, light-blue dress—of the old sort, the kind from thirty, forty years ago, the kind Belle knows from the sketches of her mother. It’s a costly dress, for Mrs. Potts; it would have taken a year’s salary for a miller’s daughter to afford such a gown, though it looks plain enough in Adam’s hall.
Chip gapes. “Is it a fairy-gown?”
“No, dear, though it might have fit through a thimble once—my mother made this lace herself.” Mrs. Potts smiles, and fingers the fading fabric. “I got married, in this dress. To Mr. Potts himself. Pretty, isn’t it?”
“You—got married in this?” Chip’s eyes wander over the little English primroses embroidered on the silk.
“Yes, dear. My mother cried to see it.”
“Why wasn’t I there?” he demands.
“Luv! You weren’t born, yet.”
“Well, why didn’t you wait until I was born?” Chip is inexhaustible. Plumette hides a laugh, and Belle’s close-lipped smile tucks up in one corner.
“Oh, dear, it was such a long time ago. You wouldn’t have wanted to be there for it.”
“But I did! I do! Oh, mum, please! Can you do it again? So I don’t miss it this time?”
Mrs. Potts starts to say no. But then she remembers—don’t hide anything away—and Chip is so eager, so happy, as he holds the dress made by a woman he will never know.
“Well,” says Mrs. Potts, “my mother surely wouldn’t mind. She always said we’d have to do it again, do it proper, without the cats all crawling on the altar.”
She doesn’t let Lumiere help. Plumette, she does—“Because you’re a rational soul, dear, and don’t get these extravagant ideas”—but she keeps a steady order to things, and turns down the buckets of roses and the twenty bridesmaids and the gold-trimmed invitations the maid suggests.
“No, no, that won’t do at all,” she says. “We’re honest folk, me and Mr. Potts. We’ll get married in the ordinary fashion.”
“But a swan cut from ice is the ordinary fashion—”
“In Paris, maybe. But we’ll have a Yorkshire wedding, here in Villeneuve.”
So they trim up Pere Robert’s little church, and order in blackberry ice cream, the kind that Stanley makes himself. (he’s taken to new hobbies, since the old ones went out of style.) Belle researches old English vows, and together with Adam cobbles together some little promises the two old lovers can keep—to keep a steady hob, and love each other beyond curses and broken crockery. Mrs. Potts gets out the dress, and looks at the seams with a furrowed brow, and carefully lets it out an inch here, and an inch there. She washes the lace and tucks it up on a chair, with little rose-bundle sachets to keep it sweet.
Chip is everywhere. He cannot be stopped. The castle gives up on keeping up with him—he slips past Adam’s fingers, and skyrockets past Lumiere’s, and Belle can only get him to sit down after giving him peas to shell, or rings to polish, or shoes to shine. He is never happier than when his father asks him to pick out a proper corsage—“no enchanted roses, now; there’s my boy.”
The wedding is held on a morning. Plumette insists that late afternoon would be more fashionable, but Mrs. Potts maintains that afternoon weddings are always rainy. Never mind if that was in Yorkshire—she has a morning wedding, and Chapeau’s sisters help her get dressed.
Chip is perched in the front row. His legs won’t stop jiggling. He grins at the church’s high ceiling, and the fresh-scrubbed altar, and Belle standing there with her fingers on her lips.
Mrs. Potts looks beautiful. The old dress suits her perfectly; and Mr. Potts cries to see her, and opens his arms, and lets Adam give her away. Cogsworth dabs his eyes, and hands the two the rings—crafted to look like two clasped hands, and the ones they’ve worn forever, but shined to look new by Chip. And they say the gentle vows that Belle wrote, and Pere Robert blesses them, right as it starts to rain.
“Oh! This is lovely,” whispers Mrs. Potts, slipping on her ring. “My mother would be so proud.”
“I know she would, love,” says Mr. Potts. “And—oh! Oh! Dear!”
There are cats flocking all over the alter, tipping over the candles and strewing the bread. Chip stands by, an open sack in one hand, another cat crawling across the other.
“I thought,” he says, beaming at his mum and dad, “if I spoiled it again, we could have another wedding every year. Like your mum would want!”
And the Yorkshire rain—come just to Villeneuve to say hello to Mrs. Potts—can’t drown out the laughter in the little church.