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I just want to say that I love this fanfic.
Can you write about Lumiere finding out that Plumette is preagnent?
He hasn’t seen her around for several hours—”no, you fool, it’s only been minutes,” says Cogsworth, but Lumiere knows he is wrong and it has actually been hours, because that’s what it feels like—and he is getting concerned.
“Is she hiding from me??” he asks Cogsworth. “Could I have done something to offend her????”
“It has been THREE MINUTES,” says Cogsworth.
“It has been days,” and Lumiere weeps, great messy tears spilling down his nose. Cogsworth would be concerned if he hadn’t also seen Lumiere dramatically crying over misplaced porcelain, a ball change that didn’t go as planned, and a puppet show Chip did once where it took more than two acts for the lovers to get together.
“Four minutes,” says Cogsworth.
“Perhaps I have not appeared devoted enough,” Lumiere worries. “Perhaps I am not good enough in bed!”
“THAT’S QUITE ENOUGH OF THAT—”
“Cogsworth, no, don’t go, let’s practice, perhaps I have grown weak with my seductions, you be Plumette and I’ll—”
“No no no no no no!” Cogsworth cannot run very fast, but he is somehow managing now.
“He’ll break a leg, going that quick,” observes Mrs. Potts.
“He may break every bone in his body,” says Lumiere, “and it will mean nothing if I do not reconcile with Plumette. I have not seen her in twenty five years—”
“IT HAS BEEN,” yells Cogsworth, from somewhere deep inside the castle, “A TOTAL OF FIVE MINUTES AND FOURTEEN SECONDS—”
“—and I shall die without her love to guide me.”
“You shall do what, mon trésor?”
“Plumette! Ah, Plumette, you are a vision.” And she is—flushed with excitement, her curls bouncing, feathers stuck in her hair as they are always, now. She keeps plucking them out, but they keep coming back in again. She doesn’t mind it, much, and Lumiere adores it.
“Mon amour, I have something I must tell you,” and she seems shy, and Lumiere worries he is going to set himself on fire with love of her. Mrs. Potts seems worried, too; she is reaching for a water bucket and glancing at the top of his head. He must be smoking again. Ah, well.
“What is it? Chérie, what is it?” Now Plumette is bouncing on her heels, and now she leans forward to whisper in his ears. He is going to be—she is whispering that he is going to be—Lumiere is going to be—
“ON FIRE,” yells Mrs. Potts, “he’s finally done it, he’s on fire. Why on earth did you have to tell him in here, Plumette?! My lord, saint’s alive, Chip, fetch another bucket. Oh, lord, I’ve soaked your best coat, and the wig, oh, Lumiere, whatever shall I do with you—”
Lumiere doesn’t care what Mrs. Potts shall do with him. He is dripping wet, and his Plumette is a miracle, and he’s soon to be a father, and comme c’est beau! He is the luckiest man in the world.
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