He sits at the foot of his bed, again, staring down the door like it's a living enemy. All it really is is the gateway to the real enemy, he tells himself again, the forest of thorns leading up to the dragon. Instead of flames and snapping jaws, it inflicts upon him a warm, elated feeling that is only pleasant if he doesn't think about it for very long, and he must think about it for long.

He loves Belle. Once that burrowed in and made its way into his system like a tick, it at least explained everything, primarily this compulsion to give her what she wants, to go out of his way to give her what she wants, usually. Last night only became enjoyable when she was smiling, laughing, forgetting herself and the setting in favor of having a good time. It explained these last four months flying by, certainly.

But, with love and all the syrupy mess that it brings with it, regret is a side effect, this damn urge to make things right. She shouldn't be here. Not in the way she was brought here, anyway. The selflessness of love demanded he turn her loose and she return to her father and her village, knowing full well she would never come back. And who wants that? But denying her that, keeping her here ... Tea time. Pinching the blanket, he groans and prepares for...he doesn't know what.

"There you are," she says. "I haven't seen much of you today. I was afraid you were just as hungover as I'm sure all the other guests are."

"I'm surprised at you. I have single-handedly changed the course of history a hundred times over, transfigured and conjured beyond people's dreams, and you think it possible I could even get...tipsy?"

She shrugs.

"So then it's safe to assume you did not partake in the 'spirited' refreshments either?"

"Just the punch. I was afraid the others would turn me into a frog," she mutters, embarrassed. She paces around the table, to the window, and back. Frog curses can be easily broken with a kiss, and not even True Love's Kiss, he considers saying, but that may give her the wrong idea, the right idea, actually, but wrong. Very, very wrong. Kissing her would be the point of no return, would be most ill-thought, weak-willed, mind-blowing, absolutely-blissful action possible.

She props herself up on the table, looking almost coy as he sips, but she appears to be searching for words.

"Why did you want me here?"

"The place was filthy."

"I think you were lonely. Any man would be lonely."

He lets himself fall back against the edge of the table, right next to her.

"I'm not a man." And don't forget it, he chides himself. Whatever your pants are telling you. Belle looks away, some inner battle, the corner of his eye tells him. Coming right out and saying whatever she wanted to say would be far better than this, and it's not like her to hold back much.

"So I've had a couple of months to look around, you know, and upstairs there's clothing, small, as if for a child?" Oh. Oh, thank you so much for that, Belle, he thinks his entire head now feeling heavy. As if taking my heart isn't enough, you have to stick pins in it. "Was it yours or was there a son?"

But he can't say no to her. He turns so he can find her eyes, always so kind and curious it reassures him she has no idea how the whole situation torments him. "There was," he finds himself saying. "I lost him, as I did his mother."

"I'm sorry," she breathes, looking away again and biting her lip. "So, you were a man once, an ordinary man."

Ordinary. How he loathes and yet cherishes that word. He traces the chip in the cup, making a lap around the rim.

"If I'm never to know another person in my whole life, can't I at least know you?" He's not sure he can stomach this, this sudden push. It's been four months of getting to know him, getting to know her, but they've never crossed the vague, ambiguous barrier made up of certain questions. And now she seems to want it to crumble into a million pieces. Why? His heart skips a beat right before his head wishes it could be cut out.

"Perhaps. Perhaps you just want to learn the monster's weaknesses!" he hisses, standing, ready to win whatever game she's starting. Prompting after prompting, she only smiles at him.

"You're not a monster. You think you're uglier than you are. That's why you cover all the mirrors up, isn't it?" She gestures at the floor-length one in the corner. "Hmm?" One of the reasons, he thinks, unable to speak. Too many years of repulsion, fear, people refusing to look him in the eye begs to differ with her. Some have lost control of their bodily functions in his presence, others draw swords—she smirks and waits for acknowledgment for having the upper hand. And here comes what always follows, he thinks, a desire to reward her, to thank her, and that squirming inner conflict of whether to kiss the hem of her dress or shove the tablecloth away and have her on her back in seconds.

Pounding on the door composes him, and not a moment too soon, he realizes. A deal. A lowly traveler lulled into a false sense of hope from the flower sprouts out front is just what this day could use.

"I am Sir Gaston," he hears as soon as he magics the doors. Really? That's all? "And you, Beast, have taken..."

At least the dolt doesn't have to trudge his way back down the mountain, he thinks with a snicker. The long-stemmed rose at his feet doesn't move. Ah, brave soul, he eulogizes in his mind. Coming to rescue your intended just couldn't have gone worse. But find solace in that now you are travel-sized for her convenience.

"Who was that?" Belle asks when he returns.

"Just an old woman selling flowers," he lies, a little too calmly and a little too quickly. "Here. If you'll have it."

Delight. His favorite expression on her, aside from satisfaction. It's almost a coy look, very becoming.

"Why thank you," she says, even curtsying him. Giggling a little and smelling her flower, she heads over to take the shears. You can do this, he cheers himself. Let her go, clean the slate, and none of it will have ever happened. Of course, seeing her not quite so content might help.

"You had a life, Belle," he begins, his mind working at full speed. "Before...this. Friends. Family. What made you choose to come here with me?"

She stops in her tracks for a split second. He notices it only because he decides to sit.

"Heroism. Sacrifice." Her eyebrows are narrowed, the narrowing one does when really contemplating something that might have been felt, might have been known, but never acknowledged. And, as usual, she sees her train of thought through to the end with only his attention to prompt her. "You know there aren't a lot of opportunities for women in this land to show what they can do, to see the world, to be heroes. So when you arrived, that was my chance." She chooses a simple vase, probably the simplest in the whole collection, and comes back to the table. "I always wanted to be brave. I figured, do the brave thing and bravery would follow."

"And is it everything you hoped?" That's all you have to do, Belle. Say you're miserable and we can stop this, whatever this is.

"Well," she gives a shy laugh and hitches up her skirt to sit on the table close to him. Too close. Always too close. "I did want to see the world. That part didn't really work out." Shooting him that smile won't help anyone, dearie. "But I did save my village."

"And what about your betrothed?" Whose...he hoped feet...she had just snipped off. He could hear it now. She'd speak of her great love and how she'd looked forward to a wedding and then he would let slip some information that her would-be-groom wasn't the man she thought he was, not a man at all, and her fury would be her key out of here.

"It was an arranged marriage."

Damn.

"Honestly, I never really cared much for Gaston." Even now he can't stop grinning in spite of himself. No one, especially no dashing-but-brainless knight, had her heart, had her love. "I mean, to me, love is layered, love is a...mystery to be uncovered," she says, her eyes searing into him. "I could never truly give my heart to someone as superficial as he."

She's so beautiful. He's known that all along, of course. One does notice, but now, now she's so beautiful it aches to look at her and not touch her, to not scream out how much he wants her, how much he loves her. He'd do nearly anything to keep her, face nearly any obstacle, but he's not worthy of trying. Wretched creatures are meant to be slain so someone else can win the fair maiden's favor. Her staying is impossible.

"Oh, but, you were going to tell me about your son," she says, so sympathetic, so ready to listen. Her staying is impossible...unless she wants to.

"I'll tell you what. I'll make you a deal. Go to town and fetch me some straw. When you return, I'll share my tale."

She can barely comprehend it, giving him just the slightest moment of gratification. She blinks her eyes, shakes her head, and stutters the words.

"You trust me to come back?"

"Oh no. I expect I'll never see you again." It is a gamble, he knows, and one with the odds stacked against him. It must be her choice, but he knows what she will choose, what anyone would choose, so he can't fault her for it. He won't watch her go, so he rises and hurries into his workspace where she couldn't follow him even if she wanted. Work. That must be his life for however long it takes. There can be nothing else. He reminds himself of that at the same time he wishes, on the verge of praying, that she will return, that this will not be the last time he sees her. There be none of beauty's daughters with a magic like thee. And like music on the waters is thy sweet voice to me. There can be no one else, and yet there already is.

A/N: Thank you so much to all the readers and especially the reviewers. I really had no idea how this story would go over. The italicized words are a snippet of Lord Byron's poem "There Be None of Beauty's Daughters," which is where I got the title. Um, I own nothing, hope you enjoyed it, and thanks again for all the comments, questions, praise, and support.