A/N: Hello, everyone! I know this is a bit after Christmas Day, but this idea came to me a little late, and the time to write it came soon after, as life would normally allow. This is a little experiment exploring and challenging Cogsworth's character, and I can't wait to delve a bit deeper in the next four chapters of this short story. I would love to hear what you guys think, and I definitely would appreciate feedback on this one! Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter One: The Day Before

To the many, the anticipation for Christmas brings family and friends together to appreciate each other selflessly in honor of the birth of the prophet who grew to save his people from their sins.

To Cogsworth, it was an unending migraine while his nerves were torn to shreds.

"What—What on earth?" The majordomo stood aghast at the empty three-story Christmas tree that stood at the center of the ballroom's mass of windows. "Where are the ornaments? The candles? Tinsel? My goodness' gracious! Angélique!"

He heard the sound of hurrying footsteps behind him as Angélique ran the distance. "I am… terribly sorry, monsieur," she apologized sincerely, clearly flustered and out-of-breath.

"What have you been doing?" he questioned, shocked at this behavior coming from her, who had always been so diligent in her work.

She drew a sigh. "I was with… Fife."

"With-?" Of course. As she had approached him, he had watched her quickly straighten her periwinkle blue dress in a fashion that Cogsworth had seen Babette imitate on numerous accounts.

Now he couldn't tell if her cheeks were flushed from embarrassment or from her rendezvous.

Furrowing his brow at the thought, Cogsworth admonished sternly, "This is very unlike you, Miss Garnier."

Her shoulders visibly slumped. "Je sais, je sais! Believe me, I am just as surprised as you are."

"You do realize Christmas Eve is tomorrow night!" he reminded. "The tree is the pinnacle! We can't have it bare for another evening! Have you even gathered others to assist you?"

"I will scour the château for help right now," Angélique assured, becoming determined. "The ballroom will be finished before the evening is out."

Cogsworth took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. "Please ensure that it is done. No more distractions."

Angélique pursed her lips. "Oui, monsieur."

As she left the ballroom in a power walk, Cogsworth pinched the bridge of his nose. She had been off with Fife, the conductor? Of all occasions to shirk from the tasks at hand, naturally a typically focused young woman would become distracted by the allure of romance around the grandest event of the year that they hosted.

He shook the thoughts away. Pray the gardens are in a better state.

One step out of doors, and Cogsworth could see only the steps and a tiny portion of the path was shoveled.

"This is outrageous," he muttered with a shiver. He rubbed his forearms for warmth as he spotted the head gardener just sitting on a stone bench cleared of snow next to the steps, looking out over the gardens covered in white.

"Excuse me!" Cogsworth called to him pointedly over the bannister. "Might there be a reason for why the snow isn't cleared yet?"

The gardener stood in surprise as he glanced up, his face falling. "Oh, monsieur! I understand what this may look like—"

"Oh ho ho, yes, indeed," the majordomo interrupted, feeling a culprit on his hands as he walked down the steps to be at the gardener's level. "Now tell me, Florent, is this exactly what it looks like?"

"Please, monsieur," Florent pleaded, shaken by Cogsworth's intimidation. "I began to shovel the paths just as you had asked, but the Master and Mistress Belle asked me not to until they were finished!"

"Wait, wait," Cogsworth stopped, completely thrown off by this explanation. "Did you say… the Master and Mistress told you not to?"

"Oui, monsieur. They—"

"Well what could they be doing?!" Cogsworth demanded, absolutely baffled.

Florent pointed further out towards the west edge of the gardens. There, Adam, Belle, and Chip were in the process of building a snowman, but as they watched, Belle threw a snowball at Adam while his back was turned, catching him close to his neck. Chip joined in Belle's volley as Adam took cover behind a tree. The servants could hear their laughter from where they stood.

"They had taken a walk earlier," Florent explained, "but Chip soon came out and they have been in that spot of the gardens ever since. They have not told me I was permitted to return to work," he added as Cogsworth looked back at him with his mouth in a frown.

"No, no, that is fine," Cogsworth permitted calmly, though the irritation boiling in him was steadily growing. "But now resume shoveling the paths. Wait until the Master and Mistress Belle have left before doing the west end of the gardens."

"Oui, monsieur," Florent said with a nod, but he still seemed to feel guilty. "I am sorry for not taking more action."

Cogsworth sighed, his breath visibly evaporating into the freezing air. "It is not your fault. The Master's and Mistress' wishes can topple my own." He gave a curt, but not unfriendly nod to Florent. "Carry on."

Despite how fond he was of the Prince and Belle, Cogsworth couldn't help but think it rather rude on their part to keep some servants from going about their jobs the day before a major gala event. Why does he seem to be the only one that cares about the ball? He definitely would not be arranging it if it hadn't been upon Adam's request.

It was the first Christmas since the curse was broken, and one of the happy memories the Prince remembered from his youth was the ball his parents would throw on Christmas Eve. Truthfully, it had been about fifteen years, but Cogsworth could still remember the effort the servants had put into it, and the results had been very satisfactory. He even remembered their noble guests commenting on how "spectacular" their Christmas balls had been. Was he the only one?

Cogsworth could feel his heart pound as he thought of the deadline and all of the hindrances that had occurred that day. He made his way to the drawing room where Mrs. Potts always had her mid-afternoon tea break.

Since returning from the state of a mantel clock, he had noticed how much more he needed to relax, despite scuffing at the suggestion from Lumière, who never seemed to have said so out of concern. He had mused the idea of an early retirement before, but it seemed impossible. How could anyone run this household as firmly and in as organized a manner as he? Until that day came, Cogsworth couldn't abandon everyone here. He was much too attached to them to leave them without proper care in good conscience.

But the job had affected his health. Mrs. Potts was certain he had high blood pressure, and she had recommended he not let the little things get to him. Since everyone who knew him agreed that it was far beyond his capacity to do so, Mrs. Potts then offered her services as someone he could vent to. Once he began, Cogsworth realized he did actually feel better after releasing his frustrations regularly. He especially felt comfortable in the company of Mrs. Potts, whom he had known the longest of the staff there. It was also hard not to feel at ease around her, when she was such a motherly and understanding figure.

Without thinking much of it, Cogsworth gave two brief knocks before opening the door to the servants' drawing room. Instead of a cheerful greeting from the housekeeper, he caught Mrs. Potts sitting on the chaise and holding hands with Maurice, their heads bowed in an intimate discussion.

Cogsworth immediately felt his stomach recede as Mrs. Potts' eyes fell on him.

"Charles!" she cried, dropping Maurice's hand in surprise while Belle's father curiously glanced behind him at the visitor.

"I'm—I'm terribly sorry to have intruded," Cogsworth stuttered quietly. "Excuse me."

He just as quickly shut the door, feeling his heart palpitate even worse than before. How mortifying! he thought in horror. Of all the confounded times to not wait for consent!

This was all a disaster! They were behind schedule on the decorations and grounds-keeping, and he could not even properly complain about it for five minutes so he could carry about his day without agonizing over it.

Panic began to rise in him, and that only irritated and upset him more. Well, he had to have the reassurance that at least something was done, and the only thing left was the food.

Perhaps I could—

Cogsworth sighed at the thought. Expressing his frustration to Lumière was never an ideal option, especially when that man hardly ever took anything seriously. The stick of wax could always find an excuse to incessantly tease him about his problems.

However, the majordomo could not deny though that there have been moments where Lumière had been perhaps the only person to calm him down. The maître d' could tell when Cogsworth had an issue troubling him that wasn't related to the stress of his work.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, Cogsworth resigned, before heading off to hit two birds with one stone.

At the kitchen doors, Cogsworth swung one in as he began, "Lumière, please tell me that the food preparations are—"

He froze and cringed at the sight of the maître d' entangled in the embrace of his paramour, Babette.

Cogsworth's face flushed red. "Lumière!"

The immersed couple jumped at the intrusion. As she gripped her heart from the shock, Babette's cheeks grew rosy at realizing Cogsworth's presence. Lumière, on the other hand, had refused to become embarrassed from being caught in the act, as it happened rather often, even when Cogsworth was the one who unfortunately stumbled upon them.

But from the expression on Cogsworth's face, Lumière knew it was not a laughing matter, as he would normally remark jokingly on the situation.

Calmly, he tried to pacify by saying, "Cogsworth, we have everything we need prepared for tomorrow evening—"

"Wonderful, perfect," Cogsworth snapped, his self-control on the verge of abandon. "That is all I wished to know. Not when a person's limbs become indiscernible from the other's!"

Lumière's jaw dropped, struck dumb by this uncharacteristic reply, while Babette, becoming more mortified by the second, turned away to hide her face from the majordomo.

Instantly sensing something amiss, Lumière became concerned. "What is wrong, mon ami? Is it the stress of the ball?"

"The ball, the snow, the tree!" Cogsworth listed furiously. "Nothing is as it should be at this moment in time! And all anyone can do…" is make goo-goo eyes at each other! he wanted to cry, but he couldn't. He wouldn't mention it. At least he had enough discretion to not make it any worse.

Lumière waited, clearly worried. "'All anyone can do…' is what?" he prompted.

Cogsworth pursed his lips, now sealed like a tomb. He sighed as he felt his fury begin to drain from him. "Nothing that you should concern yourself with."

As Lumière took his comment as a slight, Cogsworth added flatly, "If anyone is even faintly curious of my whereabouts, tell them I've decided to turn in early."

Before either of them could say another word, even if they did, Cogsworth made sure he was out of ears' reach.

No one passed him on his way to his quarters. It was just as well. He couldn't take another confrontation with even the meekest of servants.

Cogsworth went straight toward the cabinet in his vanity, pulling out a glass and his bottle of Armagnac brandy. It was so rare that he felt the urge to calm his nerves with strong alcohol, but this day had been incredibly trying indeed.

He had spoken very much out of turn. How had those words even escaped him? Not when a person's limbs become indiscernible… The utter audacity! What had even caused such a response in him? By now, he should be immune to Lumière and Babette's displays of affection, as with anyone, so why was he so bothered now?

It could be stress. It really could. He felt so unprepared for the cavalcade of hindrances that he had been smacked with. It seemed the ball was no one else's concern but his own, that it was not held to the same importance.

But that was the problem. Something else was deemed more important, something he did not have the luxury to enjoy.

Romance.

Cogsworth tensed at the word, and drank another gulp of his brandy. He did not want to admit it, but it was true, most definitely: Romance had proved to be the worst of distractions. It had intervened at every turn that day to the last degree.

As much as the staff might have believed, he was not devoid of feeling. He had danced in an affair very briefly, but it was not to be. The love and loyalty to his queen, Adam's mother—may she rest in peace—had exceeded the possibility of romance. The decision had been painful, but Queen Beatrice had needed him to follow her across the channel when she had married the Prince's father, Vincent. He did not regret his choice in the slightest.

Don't I?

With a large sip of brandy, Cogsworth stared out of his window at the stars above, a clear winter night. His eyes narrowed.

No, he didn't regret following his monarch's needs over his uncertain love for another, but…

The images of the day flashed across his vision: Belle and Adam laughing together, absolutely carefree; Lumière and Babette wrapped in each other almost inseparably; Mrs. Potts and Maurice holding hands on the chaise while the hearth crackled. A pang stabbed through his gut, a pang of—

No. Jealousy?

No, no it couldn't be, he tried to assure himself. That would be absurd! Laughable, really. Me, jealous.

But he couldn't shake it, and it left him feeling uneasy.

It was preposterous! He had done so well on his own, without romantic companionship, for over twenty years, and he hadn't given it a second thought.

I don't need it, Cogsworth concluded. It is merely a distraction and a hindrance, and others would do well to follow my example! Maybe then things would get done around here!

He spun away from the window to prepare for bed, but not before a fleeting glimpse of a star streaked across the velvety black sky.