One Day Out There (Part the Second)
Title: One Day Out There
Fandom: Crossover (HoND/Aladdin/Beauty and the Beast)
Prompt: See Part the First.
Quasi couldn't stop staring at his hands. They were so small, and so soft. Most of his bell-ringing callouses were gone, and… He snapped his fingers. He could hear. He'd never been able to hear very well, surrounded by the noise of the bells as he was, but now...
"Wow."
"Ya know, Quasi, if you want to seem normal, you might want to try saying stuff other than 'wow.'"
"Oh. Right."
"And maybe with a few more syllables."
"What-What do I look like?"
Genie snapped his fingers and made a mirror appear. Quasi ran his hands over his face. He hadn't seen it often, only when Frollo wanted to remind him of why he needed to stay in his tower. Most of his idea of what he looked like came from touch - the lump over his eye, his squished nose, the way his hair parted in the middle. All of that was gone. He touched his new face with his new hands and almost wished himself back.
"You look great, kid," said Genie, throwing an arm over his shoulders. "But you need a new wardrobe."
He was right. His shoes were too big, and his shirt was comically huge, baring his chest and shoulders as it slid off his too-small frame.
"Do I have to wish for that, too?" asked Quasi.
"Well, see, that would be an interesting question," said Genie. He winked at him. "You asked me to make you look normal. And you certainly won't look normal with those clothes, will you? So, then, let's get cracking!"
---
Five minutes and a lot of purple sparks later, Quasi was walking along the streets of Paris, dressed in the finest clothes he'd ever worn in his life. It was so strange, to be standing so close to people he'd only ever seen from a distance. There was the shepherd, who smelled of sheep if you were near enough, and the butcher, who had stains on his apron. Living so high up, Quasi had never breathed in flour with his air, or heard such outlandish music as the gypsies played. He spent an hour just wandering the different streets, and counted himself lucky that Genie was there, disguised as a puff of smoke, to keep him from getting lost. The world seemed so different when he was in it and not above it.
He crossed onto on of the main streets. If he looked up, he could see Notre Dame looming over him like a hovering mother. He was so busy staring at it, at home, that he didn’t notice that he was walking into someone until he - and she - were both on the ground.
“Oh, gosh,” he said, picking up his hat and wringing it in his hands. “I am so, so sorry, Miss-”
“Belle,” she said, smiling at him. “Don’t worry, I should have been watching where I was going, instead of reading.” She picked up her book off the ground and wiped it on her apron.
Quasi found himself - again - struck completely dumb. There was a girl - a pretty girl - who was not only talking to him, but smiling at him and not running away in fear. This is what happens when you’re not ugly, he realized. People smile at you and acknowledge you, instead of yelling at you for knocking things over or breaking things. He smiled back. “No, really, it’s my fault. You, you were busy. I was just… admiring the sights. I don’t get out much.”
“No, really-” she started to say, but she stopped. He saw fear flicker over her face. For a moment, he thought he might have changed back, and was about to run, before he realized that she was looking behind him. He turned around to look, but all he saw were a some townspeople: a woman in a dirty apron, a tall man with dark hair, a few giggling tavern wenches, and a short, pudgy man with buckteeth.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, not quite bringing himself to touch her, as much as he wanted to.
“Come with me,” she said abruptly, grabbing his hand. Before he could even pause to wonder whether this was a good idea, whether she could be trusted or if he had any business following her, he was chasing after her, her hand firmly in his.
She pulled him into a side street, through a narrow corridor, down more than a few dark alleys, and then wove back and forth through a series of stalls until they were lost in the crush of people going to see the Festival of Fools.
When she finally stopped, Quasi was panting for breath. This new body wasn’t as sturdy as his old one. “W-w-why are we running?”
Her frown vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “No reason. I just wanted to see the festival. Come on!” She pulled him deeper into the crowd, where a group of gypsies were juggling geese.
Quasi shrugged inwardly. She was keeping a secret - and not keeping it well - but if she didn’t want to tell him, there had to be a good reason. It wasn’t his place to ask.
“So,” she said, pulling him from his thoughts, “I told you my name. What’s yours?”
“Ahh,” he said. He hadn’t thought about his name. Frollo had, when he was little, told him how his mother had abandoned him as a child, and how Frollo had given him a unique name, a name that was all his own, so he could be distinguished from all the lowly townsfolk. But now that unique name would instantly identify him. He rushed to think of a different one. “Ah, ah, Thomas. My name is Thomas.” He needed a surname. “Thomas du Clocher.”
“So, Thomas,” said Belle, slipping her arm through his, “Have you ever been to the Feast of Fools?’
“Oh, no, er, yes, well, I’ve seen it from a distance once or twice, but I’ve always been too busy - my master wouldn’t let me - no, no I haven’t.”
“Well, neither have I. Why don’t we see it together?”
Quasi grinned. “I would like that very much.”
“Wonderful!” She was smiling again, and Quasi reveled in the fact that she was smiling because of him. “Let’s go see the clowns!”
A picture of Frollo appeared in his head. His master was always talking about how gypsies ensnared the mind with their disgusting displays of merriment and vulgarity, how their dancing exaggerated the female form and inflamed all sorts of base humors and emotions. Quasi banished those thoughts. He was here, he was safe, and what Frollo didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
“Sure,” he said. He took her hand and let her lead him farther into the crowd.
---
Meanwhile, in the Palace of Justice, Frollo was hearing petitions.
“My lord,” said the merchant before him, “While my apprentice was buying new goods to sell, he was attacked by three men and robbed of his money, a sum of fifteen gold pieces.”
“Never fear,” said Frollo, “We will find whoever stole your money. I suspect that gypsies were the criminals who did this: they have done it before. Rest assured that your capital will be restored twice over.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said the merchant, bowing on his way out the door.
“Bring in the next one,” said Frollo to his guard. His next petitioner was a tall man, ruggedly handsome with long, black hair. His servant stood beside him. The man bowed low.
“My lord, I come to you with a sad tale. I come from a small village not too far from here. I married a year ago, but my wife, though beautiful, was not very bright, never wanting to submit to me, as is my right as her husband. Three months ago, she disappeared in the middle of the night, and I suspect that she joined a gypsy caravan to come here. I am willing to offer my services to you, if you would help me find her.”
Frollo eyed the man approvingly. He was strong, and moreover, he seemed malleable. He was a man who would follow orders if his ego was stroked enough. He smiled.
“Of course, sir,” said Frollo. “I have been looking for a new captain of the guard since the last one, er, left my service abruptly. You seem perfect for the job. And your first assignment is to help me find the gypsies who stole your wife. I’ve heard that they have, if you will, a nest, a place where they shelter runaways and fugitives. I’m sure they are hiding your wife there. Find their hiding place, Captain, and I’m sure you’ll find your wife.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the man, snapping a sharp salute. As I suspected, thought Frollo. Malleable.
“Tell me, Captain, what is your name?”
“My name is Gaston le Mauvaise,” said his new captain of the guard.
“And who shall we tell your soldiers to look for?”
“She’s, oh, perhaps this tall, her eyes and hair are brown, and, to be sure it is her, check her belongings. If she is carrying a book, you’ll have the right woman - she devotes herself to reading instead of normal womanly pursuits.”
“And her name?”
“Belle.”
Fandom: Crossover (HoND/Aladdin/Beauty and the Beast)
Prompt: See Part the First.
Quasi couldn't stop staring at his hands. They were so small, and so soft. Most of his bell-ringing callouses were gone, and… He snapped his fingers. He could hear. He'd never been able to hear very well, surrounded by the noise of the bells as he was, but now...
"Wow."
"Ya know, Quasi, if you want to seem normal, you might want to try saying stuff other than 'wow.'"
"Oh. Right."
"And maybe with a few more syllables."
"What-What do I look like?"
Genie snapped his fingers and made a mirror appear. Quasi ran his hands over his face. He hadn't seen it often, only when Frollo wanted to remind him of why he needed to stay in his tower. Most of his idea of what he looked like came from touch - the lump over his eye, his squished nose, the way his hair parted in the middle. All of that was gone. He touched his new face with his new hands and almost wished himself back.
"You look great, kid," said Genie, throwing an arm over his shoulders. "But you need a new wardrobe."
He was right. His shoes were too big, and his shirt was comically huge, baring his chest and shoulders as it slid off his too-small frame.
"Do I have to wish for that, too?" asked Quasi.
"Well, see, that would be an interesting question," said Genie. He winked at him. "You asked me to make you look normal. And you certainly won't look normal with those clothes, will you? So, then, let's get cracking!"
---
Five minutes and a lot of purple sparks later, Quasi was walking along the streets of Paris, dressed in the finest clothes he'd ever worn in his life. It was so strange, to be standing so close to people he'd only ever seen from a distance. There was the shepherd, who smelled of sheep if you were near enough, and the butcher, who had stains on his apron. Living so high up, Quasi had never breathed in flour with his air, or heard such outlandish music as the gypsies played. He spent an hour just wandering the different streets, and counted himself lucky that Genie was there, disguised as a puff of smoke, to keep him from getting lost. The world seemed so different when he was in it and not above it.
He crossed onto on of the main streets. If he looked up, he could see Notre Dame looming over him like a hovering mother. He was so busy staring at it, at home, that he didn’t notice that he was walking into someone until he - and she - were both on the ground.
“Oh, gosh,” he said, picking up his hat and wringing it in his hands. “I am so, so sorry, Miss-”
“Belle,” she said, smiling at him. “Don’t worry, I should have been watching where I was going, instead of reading.” She picked up her book off the ground and wiped it on her apron.
Quasi found himself - again - struck completely dumb. There was a girl - a pretty girl - who was not only talking to him, but smiling at him and not running away in fear. This is what happens when you’re not ugly, he realized. People smile at you and acknowledge you, instead of yelling at you for knocking things over or breaking things. He smiled back. “No, really, it’s my fault. You, you were busy. I was just… admiring the sights. I don’t get out much.”
“No, really-” she started to say, but she stopped. He saw fear flicker over her face. For a moment, he thought he might have changed back, and was about to run, before he realized that she was looking behind him. He turned around to look, but all he saw were a some townspeople: a woman in a dirty apron, a tall man with dark hair, a few giggling tavern wenches, and a short, pudgy man with buckteeth.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, not quite bringing himself to touch her, as much as he wanted to.
“Come with me,” she said abruptly, grabbing his hand. Before he could even pause to wonder whether this was a good idea, whether she could be trusted or if he had any business following her, he was chasing after her, her hand firmly in his.
She pulled him into a side street, through a narrow corridor, down more than a few dark alleys, and then wove back and forth through a series of stalls until they were lost in the crush of people going to see the Festival of Fools.
When she finally stopped, Quasi was panting for breath. This new body wasn’t as sturdy as his old one. “W-w-why are we running?”
Her frown vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “No reason. I just wanted to see the festival. Come on!” She pulled him deeper into the crowd, where a group of gypsies were juggling geese.
Quasi shrugged inwardly. She was keeping a secret - and not keeping it well - but if she didn’t want to tell him, there had to be a good reason. It wasn’t his place to ask.
“So,” she said, pulling him from his thoughts, “I told you my name. What’s yours?”
“Ahh,” he said. He hadn’t thought about his name. Frollo had, when he was little, told him how his mother had abandoned him as a child, and how Frollo had given him a unique name, a name that was all his own, so he could be distinguished from all the lowly townsfolk. But now that unique name would instantly identify him. He rushed to think of a different one. “Ah, ah, Thomas. My name is Thomas.” He needed a surname. “Thomas du Clocher.”
“So, Thomas,” said Belle, slipping her arm through his, “Have you ever been to the Feast of Fools?’
“Oh, no, er, yes, well, I’ve seen it from a distance once or twice, but I’ve always been too busy - my master wouldn’t let me - no, no I haven’t.”
“Well, neither have I. Why don’t we see it together?”
Quasi grinned. “I would like that very much.”
“Wonderful!” She was smiling again, and Quasi reveled in the fact that she was smiling because of him. “Let’s go see the clowns!”
A picture of Frollo appeared in his head. His master was always talking about how gypsies ensnared the mind with their disgusting displays of merriment and vulgarity, how their dancing exaggerated the female form and inflamed all sorts of base humors and emotions. Quasi banished those thoughts. He was here, he was safe, and what Frollo didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
“Sure,” he said. He took her hand and let her lead him farther into the crowd.
---
Meanwhile, in the Palace of Justice, Frollo was hearing petitions.
“My lord,” said the merchant before him, “While my apprentice was buying new goods to sell, he was attacked by three men and robbed of his money, a sum of fifteen gold pieces.”
“Never fear,” said Frollo, “We will find whoever stole your money. I suspect that gypsies were the criminals who did this: they have done it before. Rest assured that your capital will be restored twice over.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said the merchant, bowing on his way out the door.
“Bring in the next one,” said Frollo to his guard. His next petitioner was a tall man, ruggedly handsome with long, black hair. His servant stood beside him. The man bowed low.
“My lord, I come to you with a sad tale. I come from a small village not too far from here. I married a year ago, but my wife, though beautiful, was not very bright, never wanting to submit to me, as is my right as her husband. Three months ago, she disappeared in the middle of the night, and I suspect that she joined a gypsy caravan to come here. I am willing to offer my services to you, if you would help me find her.”
Frollo eyed the man approvingly. He was strong, and moreover, he seemed malleable. He was a man who would follow orders if his ego was stroked enough. He smiled.
“Of course, sir,” said Frollo. “I have been looking for a new captain of the guard since the last one, er, left my service abruptly. You seem perfect for the job. And your first assignment is to help me find the gypsies who stole your wife. I’ve heard that they have, if you will, a nest, a place where they shelter runaways and fugitives. I’m sure they are hiding your wife there. Find their hiding place, Captain, and I’m sure you’ll find your wife.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the man, snapping a sharp salute. As I suspected, thought Frollo. Malleable.
“Tell me, Captain, what is your name?”
“My name is Gaston le Mauvaise,” said his new captain of the guard.
“And who shall we tell your soldiers to look for?”
“She’s, oh, perhaps this tall, her eyes and hair are brown, and, to be sure it is her, check her belongings. If she is carrying a book, you’ll have the right woman - she devotes herself to reading instead of normal womanly pursuits.”
“And her name?”
“Belle.”