*Author's Note: This story will probably end up being two or three chapters (maybe more, I'm not quite sure yet). Please try to be patient with me about updates though, I will do the best I can.

Please be warned, this chapter contains some references to suicide/suicidal thoughts.

The Beast knew he was dying.

Moments ago, the knife wound in his back burned with excruciating pain. He had felt every laborious beat of his heart, his body fighting rather perversely to keep him alive while his spirit had surrendered long ago. He had felt the cold hard stone of the balcony beneath him, though Belle tried to cradle his head. As if being uncomfortable was of any consequence while he bled to death in her arms.

But now—he didn't feel anything. Not cold, or pain, or even fear. The only sensation was the faint warmth of Belle's tiny, delicate hands as she held one of his massive uncouth paws in them.

"Maybe—maybe it's better this way," he told her, gasping a little for breath. He couldn't understand the horror and denial in her eyes. It's alright, Belle, he wanted to say, but speaking was suddenly difficult. Don't cry. I'm just grateful not to die alone. "At least I got to see you one last time."

He wanted to keep himself alert until the very end, to look into those warm brown eyes—ones that saw him without disgust or fear—the eyes of a friend. But he couldn't keep himself awake any longer. His eyes slid closed, wanting so badly just to sleep.

"No, please. Please don't leave me…I love you."

The words seemed to come to him from a great distance. But even from the void that he was slipping into, he registered dimly that these were the words he'd been waiting to hear. The impossible words.

He'd felt so wretchedly exhausted and ready to accept death, as if seeing Belle's face was the only thing he needed to feel complete. But now—if these words were really true—then there was a point to everything, there was a reason to fight. There was something to lose.

He could no longer hear the rain softly falling around them.

No, no, no, I want to stay with you, he tried to say. He tried to reach for her, to touch her cheek and tell her everything would be alright, but he was paralyzed.

Just as he started to struggle to stay conscious, the darkness claimed him completely, and he heard nothing more.

The weightless nothingness seemed to last forever.

Was this death? Did Beasts even have souls? Perhaps that was why he was trapped here in some sort of limbo—the afterlife was only for humans. But at least he had memories to treasure to keep him company.

Belle had come back. She came back to warn him of the danger, and had reached for him so tenderly. And she wept for him as he lay dying. He could hold onto that last image of her—long brown hair loose and disheveled in the rain, trying to keep a brave face and tell him that everything was going to be alright.

But he wasn't afraid, not even of death. Not if he was with her.

Eventually there was a light in the darkness. It was blurry and faint, but warm and golden, like firelight.

He blinked, and the light grew clearer. Shapes formed before him—no, a single shape, a human silhouette bending over him.

He no longer felt weightless; in fact, he was aware of heavy limbs and numb fingertips and something soft beneath him. He seemed to be lying on his side. When he tried to move, he realized why and regretted it: that burning, searing pain at the small of his back. He couldn't quite suppress a groan.

"Try not to move. You might tear your stitches."

He knew that voice. He forced himself to focus. It was hard to see, either because he was still disoriented or because the candlelight was dim—but he knew those soft brown eyes staring back at him.

"Belle," he breathed. "You're here. Then I'm…not dead?"

She laughed softly. "You're always so dramatic," she said, but her voice was fond. "You're going to be fine. I promise."

He searched her face hungrily. There was none of the fear or dread or kind lies, like the last time she had promised him that. In fact, her eyes showed exhaustion and profound relief.

Without moving his head, he couldn't see much of their surroundings, except for the bedside table behind Belle, which was stacked with books and rolls of bandages and small vials. There was a soft down quilt tucked around him, embroidered in gold thread with a floral design. He suspected that they were in her old room in the castle.

He noticed that she was dressed differently—in that pale green gown he remembered from the day he'd shown her the library, the one that made her brown eyes look hazel—so he guessed some time had passed. He tried to remember how long ago he had almost died, but his head throbbed too much.

"What day is it today, Belle?"

"The fifth of January."

A humorless laugh escaped his lips before he could suppress it. He was twenty-one years old now. These claws and fangs were permanently a part of him, and there was no undoing it.

"How long have I been…?"

"Two days," she said, her eyes tightening. "But I finally got the bleeding stopped."

"Ah." That explained the pain. "So all that…all that really happened? I got stabbed in the back?"

"Yes."

"And you saved me."

He reached for her hand. For once, his felt feeble, and hers impossibly strong. Now that he was more awake, every muscle in his body seemed to ache, and he doubted he could lift his head up from the pillow even if Belle would allow him to try.

"So you stitched up my wounds—how did you learn how to do that? Have you been a physician all this time, and I never knew it?"

"After all the accidents my father's gotten into in his workshop, believe me, I had to learn how to patch him up."

"Hmm. I guess that makes sense." He frowned. He hadn't thought he could admire her any more than he already did. "But how did you even get me here?" Surely her tiny frame would've been crushed under his dead weight—he had to be at least five times her size.

"I had plenty of help. But it was still…complicated." She chuckled a little, and the Beast was confronted with an absurd image of dozens of enchanted objects helping her drag him up the stairs.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, but he couldn't help but grin at the ridiculous thought.

But then Belle's amusement faded, and her downcast eyes became pensive.

"You scared me, for a while there," she confessed in a hollow voice, tracing the embroidery on the blanket as she spoke. "I thought I was going to lose you."

"We monsters are pretty hard to kill."

"Don't say that. I know you're teasing, but…please don't." Her voice was thick, as if it hurt to hear him call himself that.

With some difficulty, he reached up and stroked her cheek once carefully. "I'm sorry for putting you through all that worry," he said, sighing. "You look so tired."

"Why didn't you fight back?" she demanded suddenly.

He winced at her accusatory tone, but he couldn't understand the fury flashing in her eyes. "What are you—?"

"You know what I'm talking about," she said, folding her arms and glaring. "When the mob was at your door. When Gaston had his bow trained on you. Why didn't you fight back?" Angry tears had begun to spill over. "I know you're no killer, but you could have at least defended yourself. Why?"

"You're not going to like the answer," he warned her. She raised an eyebrow, stiffly waiting for a complete response. He sighed heavily. "I…I didn't think I would ever see you again. So I just…didn't see the point. I thought this was a fitting end to the story. But then I saw you'd come back, and I—"

She shook her head, as if hoping to deny what she'd just heard. More tears spilled from her closed eyes.

The Beast had contemplated his own death many times over these long, dark years of despair. He was too cowardly to actively seek out an end—after all, he had been taught that self-destruction was a mortal sin—but the errant thought crossed his mind, again and again, how easy it would be to let himself fall from the ramparts of the castle. How poetically appropriate, since he was a creature forever fallen from grace.

Maybe his death would even set the servants free of the curse, maybe it would be the sacrifice to appease the Enchantress. At the very least, they would be happier without his melancholy, sulking presence haunting the castle.

Something had always stopped him from making these plans any more concrete. Something always distracted him—like Mrs. Potts bursting into tell him, full of false cheeriness, that supper was ready, and that he really shouldn't keep watching that rose, it wasn't going to do any good—and then when he was given an opportunity to think it over with a clearer mind, he couldn't bring himself to give up. There was some hope. There was a way to break the spell, a faint pinprick of dawn at the dark horizon.

It had never occurred to him that someone might miss him. But here she was, crying at the thought of his death, scolding him for letting it happen.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry for everything. I guess it was a stupid thing to do. I wasn't trying to hurt you. I didn't think…"

"You have to have some other reason to live besides me," she said. "But we'll talk more about this later. We've got…a lot of things to talk about right now."

She was still glaring at him through her tears, but her anger was beautiful, because it meant she cared, she really cared, she wanted him to be alright, no matter how unworthy he was.

Suddenly desperate to lighten the mood, he said, "You're right, we do. Who was that Gaston fellow, anyways? Friend of yours?"

She snorted, seeming to appreciate his attempt at humor. "I wouldn't exactly say that. He, uh, proposed to me before I came here."

The Beast froze.

"I can't say he asked me to marry him, though, because that implies he had any doubts about whether I would say yes. But I think he got the message when I threw him out of my house," she explained nonchalantly.

He laughed with her, relieved. "I wish I could have seen that," he mused.

She smiled ruefully. "How much do you remember about what happened two days ago?"

"It's a little fuzzy…I remember it was raining. I remember you came back. I remember fighting on the battlements. After that…I'm not sure how much was real, and what I just dreamed up."

They looked at each other a moment with bated breath, waiting for the other to speak first. They both knew what he was referring to.

"Belle…did you really…did you really say…"

"Yes." Her voice shook. "And I meant it." She took a deep breath. "I love you."

He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he exhaled in a sigh. He reached out and touched her cheek—her face was so tiny and delicate compared to his massive paw.

"You know how much I adore you, Belle. Don't you?"

"I think I have some idea," she said wryly.

He had imagined confessing his feelings so many times. He'd come close, that night in the ballroom. It would have been far more romantic in that setting, with the music and candlelight and the cool night air, both of them flushed from dancing and their hearts racing. He'd imagined it would be such a monumental moment, that there would be fireworks and magic and that she would see him as the prince he once had been.

But this was quiet and comparatively humble. It was just two old dear friends, who had been through so much together, admitting that they were so much more.

And yet there was more magic in this intimate domestic moment than he felt there would have been, if he had told her that night under the stars. This woman, this fiercely intelligent, brave, stubborn, reckless, curious, dreamy, beautiful young woman—she loved him.

Love wasn't blind for them. She had seen his flaws, his fears, his weaknesses more clearly than anyone, but she saw more than that, too. She saw something in him worth protecting, worth saving.

She hadn't even known there was ever a chance that they could live a normal life together. How could he tell her that now, when it would break her heart, knowing what might've been?

"I—I wish I could be more for you, Belle," he admitted in a whisper, but she put her finger to his lips to silence him.

"You're more than enough." She touched her forehead to his, closing her eyes. "Please, never doubt that."