Chapter Text
When he was like this, Mrs Potts was reminded of how he'd been as a boy, of the gentle soul he used to be.
Her master had been bright, curious, peaceful and loving before his mother died. He had been an intelligent and kind boy, who wanted nothing more than to know, to please his parents and just enjoy everything that life had to offer. He'd been an incredbly curious baby and toddler, and had grown into a talented, promising boy.
There had been no malice, no arrogance, no ill will. Just a nice young boy with a whole life to live. And then everything went wrong. That man that called himself his father had twisted him, turned him into something he never had been, hurt him deeply and in many ways. The man he'd become was far from that bright-eyed lad she'd cared for so much.
Now he'd become arrogant, vain and incredibly self-centered. A man full of flaws, who treated others like objects, toys to do his bidding, much like his father had, not that long ago. He'd become a dark shadow of who he was supposed to be, hid his pain and melancholy under a façade of shallowness and gratuituous cruelty.
Many of them had grown to loathe him, despite the affection they once felt for him. It was sad, but all of them have drifted away, and had become cold towards the master, even herself in more than one occasion. It was hard to see anything good under all those layers of disdain and unkindness. Some of them had already given up the hope of there being anything pure left in their master.
But it was moments like these that proved them wrong.
The master had been quiet and withdrawn that morning, but they hadn't paid much attention to it. The staff generally enjoyed those days, because when he was in a talking mood he was often unpleasant towards them. If he didn't want to speak, then it was better for them.
Nobody noticed that apart from the silence, his movements were slower, and his hands shook ever so slightly. Nobody noticed that he'd gone a couple of shades paler, that he'd asked only for a tea for breakfast and left it nearly untouched. Nobody had cared enough to see how sick he was until he fainted in the main hall, almost without making a sound.
He stayed unconscious for a worryingly long while, and a physician was called. The master was placed in his enormous bed, feverish and not exactly aware of where he was and what was happening. The doctor diagnosed an infection of some type, and sent one of the servants to get some medicine. In the mean time, it was Mrs Potts' job to look after the prince.
And right then, he saw him again, the boy she'd missed. With all of his defenses down, completely vulnerable, the prince seemed almost glad to see her, and drew a shy smile when she brought him a cup of tea. His eyes were glassy and unfocused because of the fever, his hands shook too much to be able to hold the cup. She could hear his laboured breathing, that was occasionally interrupted by coughs.
He was too weak, too sick to pretend anymore. And suddenly, Mrs Potts saw more of him, of the real him, the boy who still lived. She could see in his eyes, those terribly expressive blue pools, that he wasn't really happy in that pretentious life, no matter how much he claimed to be. He saw in his gratitude that there was still good in him, despite the way he acted. He saw in his confusion traces of the innocence she thought lost in him.
“Mrs. Potts?”
“Yes, dear?”
“I don't feel good.”
“I know, but don't you worry, master, we will look after you and you will be perfectly fine in no time.”
There he was again, the boy with no mask, the angel he used to be, back with her. Maybe there was hope for him yet, for all of them.
Over the course of the next days, she tended to his fever, delicately cleaning his too-warm forehead, as he let her, only letting out soft moans of complaint. She made some more tea, and gave him what the doctor had brought from the apothecary, hoping for an improvement. Then he started vomiting blood and his fever got worse, and everyone forgot his grievances and worried, hoping the master would pull through.
Nobody knew exactly what ailed him, and Mrs Potts feared it could be what had taken the boy's mother. She feared that he would never get better, and that this was the end of his way. Too short a life, and a big part of it obscured by his father's poisonous influence and his own terrible decisions. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair.
Mrs Potts looked into those hazy blue eyes and asked for a miracle. The master mistook her for his mother and she didn't correct him. She just caressed his face and sang lullabies, stayed with him when the pain was too much, changed the sheets when necessary. Wishing she wouldn't have to, anymore. Even if the man that came back was mean and conceited, she preferred him to this sweet but nearly lifeless version of himself.
No matter what had happened between them, she hated seeing the prince in pain, suffering like that.
Fortunately, she got her wish, and the master recovered after some days in which his future seemed uncertain. The shy smiles and the small voice were gone, and he was back to his pompous ways. But Mrs Potts had seen him, the real him underneath it all, under that mask he wore, and she wouldn't forget that his good heart was still there, somewhere, beating and waiting to freed form that trap he created for himself.
Some day, they would have him back, she knew. They just had to wait, for the right moment, the right act, the right person to come. Somebody that could see who he really was inside, and could bring it back. And when that day came, she would be there offering a cup of tea.
For now, she was just glad to know that the dear blue eyed boy she cared for was in there somewhere. There was hope. And with hope and some tea, and all could be fixed.
All was possible.