AN: Title after the Brothers Bright song, which I feel is a very Mr. Gold song. Written in response to the wonderful season 6 finale, which made me cry all the tears.
Mr. Gold is in a terrible mood. His personal physician, Dr. Whale, is dithering in the corner, sprouting off nonsense. He wants the cold, harsh truth. He wants answers and solutions. But Whale is blabbering on and on and his patience is wearing thin, so he snaps his fingers.
"The pain." He says, through gritted teeth. "It's getting worse. You're my doctor. Tell me what to do."
"Mr. Gold." Whale sounds nervous, hands trembling. "Unless you're willing to try opiates, this is all I have for you."
"I shan't." His brogue thickens as he recalls the darkest days of his life. "No drugs, you know this."
"If the pain is getting worse, Mr. Gold, I cannot do anything if you don't let me prescribe you something." He's begging now and Gold grabs his cane, resisting the urge to swing at Whale's head.
"Then you're useless to me." He spits, heading for the door. "And I'll be taking my services elsewhere."
"Wait!" Whale cries, as Gold's hand hovers over the doorknob, trying to call him back just as he'd thought he would. "There might be… Something. I don't know if you're willing to try it."
"Is it drugs?" Gold demands coldly, not bothering to turn.
"No. Not drugs."
"Then tell me."
"There's a physical therapist." Whale says haltingly, unsure that this won't also get him a blow to the head. "She was one of the hospital's best. She left and opened a yoga studio, just a couple blocks from your office. She's very New Age but she's properly trained. She's young and gorgeous-" Gold snorts. Of course Whale knows every pretty young girl in the city, gold band on his hand be damned. "And she works."
"You want me…" Gold says slowly, rounding on Whale like he's prey. "To go sit in some yoga class with a bunch of pot smoking millennial hipsters to relieve the pain in my knee?"
"You can do it privately." Whale is scrambling now, trying his hardest to backtrack. "It was just a suggestion, if you need something else, I can-" He falls silent when Gold sticks his hand out.
"Give me her number." He says quietly and Whale stares at his hand, utterly bewildered.
"What?"
"Her number. Hand it over, if you can so willingly part with it." Gold's voice drips with distaste. Whale snatches a business card from his desk and hands it to him. Gold looks down and registers the bright colors, the golden lotus flower, and a name.
Belle French.
"Mr. Gold, sir, if there's anything else…" Whale trails off as Gold leaves his office, cane taping on the tiled floor. He tucks the card in the breast pocket of his suit and walks out of the hospital, waiting for his car. The days are getting brisk and soon the leaves will change. He'd appreciate fall in Manhattan more if the cooling weather didn't send stabbing pains into his knee. During the ride to his office, he gently massages the joint, hoping that will do him some good.
He walks into the office at a fast pace, nodding to his doorman. When he's in the elevator, heading to the top floor, he allows himself to sag, just slightly, against the wall. Today will not be a day for venturing out around the city. When the doors open however, he is tall and proud once more.
"Good morning Mr. Gold." His assistant, Mary Margaret, is already waiting for his with her ever-cheerful smile. He'd been apathetic to her when he'd first hired her on a whim to take calls, but after she'd weathered a scandal of stepping out with freshly divorced David Nolan, his estimation of her had risen. She'd never once lost her sunny disposition and had shown him a steel backbone that he found himself amused by.
"Ms. Blanchard."
"Did your appointment go well this morning?" She enquires, handing him a sheaf of papers as he goes to sit behind his large mahogany desk.
"Dr. Whale is an incompetent idiot who only made it through medical school by sharing the last name of his far brighter father."
"So not well." Mary Margaret doesn't skip a beat. "I'll bring you a warm compress for your knee when your coffee arrives." Before he can protest she breezes out, responding to the shrill call of the phone. He sighs, stretches his leg out, allows himself to admit that yes, a compress would be nice, before sorting through the papers on his desk.
He is the king of the castle here, atop his tower, looking out over the New York skyline. He'd fought and clawed his way here to the top, the owner of half the buildings in the city over the last decade. He had once been one of the many people in the floors below, staying on their level. He'd risen above by being a ruthless and shrewd businessman, able to cut a deal with ease. He'd started small, a couple properties here and there. Then he'd grown his empire until half the island of Manhattan was owned, operated, or leased by Gold Estates. His pride and joy, his business.
He's halfway through the cup of coffee Mary Margaret has brought him, adjusting the compress, when he gets his first call of the morning. He answers it with a bellow, yelling at the owner of some apartment complex that if the rent is due, the rent is due, and there isn't a force in the world that will convince him to change his mind. He slams his phone down and in response, his assistant simply places a cinnamon muffin on his desk.
He's hardly made it through the first stack of papers when she drops a second one off, smiling easily as she does, without fear. He knows how he's talked about, outside the domain of the office. He's the beast out there, a snarling man who denies vacation time and holidays. He doesn't mind it. Fear is a better motivator than love, he's found out over the years.
"Mary Margaret!" He yells, when his assistant doesn't respond to his high priority emails.
"Sir." She pops her head around the door, a polite but firm smile on her face. "I am leaving for lunch. Would you like me to order something to be delivered for you or will you be dining out?"
"Who in the blazes are you going to lunch with?" He thunders, slamming his fist. "I need you here!"
"David is taking me to lunch." She doesn't budge and her smile doesn't slip. "I would be happy to order you something. Otherwise I will be leaving."
"Order me something then, you infernal woman." He says, but it's without the bite he had before.
"Of course sir." She bobs her head and ducks back out. He flinches as his knee twinges. For a brief second, his hands shake and ache for something that could take it all away. Then he reaches inside his suit pocket and pulls out the card Whale had given him, swallowing his pride and dialing the number.
"Shanti Yoga, this is Belle, how can I help you?" Her voice is sweet, with an accent he can't quite place yet. She has the same everlasting cheerful tone as his assistant and for a second, he debates hanging up.
"Ms. French. This is RMS Gold. My physician, Dr. Whale put me in contact with you." He says stiffly, not sure now what his plan is.
"Yes, Mr. Gold! Dr. Whale informed me you might be calling." She has an uncanny knack for making him feel like he can sense that she's beaming, even just through the phone. "He gave me a couple details about your case."
"And what did he tell you?" He demands through clenched teeth. He's a private man and if Whale told her anything out of line, he'd have the man's credentials ripped from him so fast his head would spin.
"Just that you were looking for some therapy for an old injury. He suggested that I take a personal interest in your case." He resists the insane urge to smile at that. Whale had probably begged her to do something, anything to make his most wealthy patient quit threatening to sue him. "I would be happy to meet with you to discuss things personally."
"Would you?" He asks, tapping his fingers idly on his desk.
"Of course. I like to get to know everyone that walks through the doors here. My studio hours are located online, if there's a time that fits for you. Or we can arrange a meeting, I can-"
"How about lunch?" The words are off his lips before he can catch them and he curses internally. Idiot mistake.
"Right now?" There's a brief moment of clicking, like nails on a keyboard. "Sure. I'm free until a class at 2:30. Where would you like to meet?"
"Your choice, dearie." He says, already regretting what he's done.
"Well there's a wonderful little hole in the wall a couple blocks from me. Are you in any way adverse to sushi?" She asks him and again, the words fly out before he can stop them.
"Not at all. Give me the name of the place and I'll meet you there."
"Oh, wonderful!" She sounds surprised but gives him the name and hangs up. Gritting his teeth, having given his word and now obligated to make good on it, he stands and grabs his cane.
"Sir, I ordered you your favorite-" Mary Margaret says, as he sweeps out.
"Cancel it." He barks and she's taken aback. "I've decided to go out for lunch today Ms. Blanchard."
"Well, alright." She dashes after him to catch the elevator, fingers tapping her phone rapidly, coat flying behind her. "I'll call your car right now, where are you planning to go?"
"To get sushi." He says tightly and she nearly topples over.
"I had no idea you liked sushi." She says, recovering quickly. "I'll be sure to make a note of that, if in the future you'd like reservations."
"Do that." He doesn't bother to correct her and they fall quiet, until the doors open and he strides across the foyer, Mary Margaret's heels clicking along quickly behind him.
"Text me if you need anything." Mary Margaret says, as the driver opens the door for him.
"I will." He says shortly. "And Mary Margaret?" She glances at him, having been ready to hail a cab. "Tell Mr. Nolan hello."
"I will, sir." She says, smiling before the door slams shut. The entire ride, his hands are sweaty for no apparent reason and he fiddles with his cane, an old bad habit. When they finally arrive at the place, he's worked himself into a foul mood and he slams the door, marching inside.
"I'm here to meet a Belle French." He snaps at the longhaired youth who's positioned at the front door.
"Right this way, sir." He's unfazed by Gold's scowl, leading him to a back, secluded corner. "Here she is."
Belle French rises from the booth, turning and smiling at him. For a second, he's quite forgotten how to breathe. She's short, having to look up to him, something he's rather unused to. Her auburn hair is pulled away from her face in a neat braid, but the baby hairs that line her forehead are curly. She's not wearing a drop of makeup, not even mascara to line her bright, ocean blue eyes. She's wearing a wrap like a ballet dancer might, with brightly colored leggings and little boots. Her lips are turned up in a knowing smile and before he can blink, she has his hands in hers with a large smile.
"Mr. Gold, it's nice to meet you. I'm so glad you could see me. Please, sit." She ushers him into the booth before turning to the waiting woman. "We'll have two waters please."
"I presume you to be Miss French?" He says dryly, once his throat unsticks.
"That I am." He was right to assume over the phone that she's constantly smiling. It's a genuine, wide smile, not the fake, forced cunning ones he sees all day. "I have to admit, I was a little surprised but delighted that you wanted to meet for lunch so soon."
"No sense in waiting." He says shortly, not wanting to explain himself.
"This is true." She doesn't seem put off, but more so amused. "So, while we wait for food, would you like to talk about your needs?"
"My needs." For some reason, his mouth has gone dry again and he snatches the water their waitress has brought them. "What do you think my needs are, Miss French?"
"Could we have an order of edamame?" Belle asks the hovering woman politely. "I think we'll be ready to order then."'
"Of course." The waitress smiles warmly and he wonders idly if Belle is well known here that it's a personal thing or if she is simply so warm and inviting to everyone, they feel like a close friends after just moments.
"Sorry if you feel I'm being bossy." She apologizes as he opens a menu, unsure of even where to start. "But this is my favorite place to eat."
"What do you recommend then?" He asks, hoping to avoid looking foolish by having no clue what to order.
"Well, I always get the JB roll." Her eyes light up and she leans across the table, pointing to it on the menu. "I love salmon and if you don't like cold sushi, it's delicious. But I also like the samurai roll, and the blue sun roll is amazing too. It all depends. Do you like tuna or eel or veggies?"
"You've done such a good job ordering so far, dearie." He closes his menu in an attempt to look haughty and hide his ignorance. "Don't let me snap your streak now."
"Well alright then." Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "You'll just have to trust me then."
"It seems so." He says jerkily and she consults the menu for a moment longer before closing it with a smile.
"Now where were we?" She muses, pursing her lips and he chances a glance at them, noticing the fullness. "Oh, yes. I was about to discuss your needs."
"Yes, that was where." His stomach is in all forms of knots, twisting as she thoughtfully sucks her straw.
"You, Mr. Gold, seem like a man with many needs." He clenches his cane beneath the table and wishes for an impassive expression. "You must be a man of patience to deal with the bumbling oaf that is Dr. Whale, but not too much patience, if the amount of fear in his tone is anything to go off of." He watches her in amazement. She's got him pegged after only minutes, and she knows it. She's grinning, a smirk in the corners.
"Observant." He says, with a touch of wariness and a touch of admiration. He appreciates it when someone can keep up with him, a rare occurrence. She shrugs, not denying it.
"Old injury. Left knee." She says and his leg twitches in response. "It's flaring up in the cold, isn't it? I have just two questions, Mr. Gold and I hope you will answer them, though I truly understand if you don't." She leans forward and her blue eyes take him in, finding himself swimming in the depths.
"Yes, dearie?"
"How did you come about this injury?" It's quiet, without judgment, but he still tenses all the same. She doesn't take the question back but she doesn't push, simply watching him quietly.
"That's a long story." He responds, after a long pause.
"Most are." She says simply. "Perhaps it's one to be told a different time." She straightens up, picking up her straw wrapper and folding it.
"What is the second question?" He asks, curious despite himself.
"You're a wealthy man, Mr. Gold." She states it factually, without hatred or greed. "Surely you can afford the best medications there are. With an injury like this, chronic, surely Dr. Whale has tried to recommend a regimen of painkillers. Since you sit before me with clenched teeth and a strong grip on that cane, I know you're not taking a one. Why?"
"No." He says and he's even surprised at how harsh it sounds. Belle simply pauses in her folding, and then resumes.
"I didn't mean to pry. Most come to my services because they dislike drugs or seek natural treatment. I simply wanted to feel out which you were." She finishes folding the wrapper and then, with a cheeky grin not befitting the tense mood, flicks it across the aisle, watching as it lands on the plate of an older couple already looking sour.
"Miss French." He admonishes before he can help himself.
"I'll give you a dollar if you can make it on his food." She says lowly and he gapes at her. She raises an eyebrow in an unspoken challenge, so he snatches the wrapper and begins to fold it. Then, with ease, he flicks the paper in a soaring arch. It lands perfectly in the soy sauce dish.
"And that is how it's done." He says smugly and she claps quietly.
"You get more impressive by the minute Mr. Gold." She comments and he refuses to let himself be flattered.
"Glad to know my education, vast wealth, business smarts, or years of experience are not what impresses you Ms. French, but my ability to flick garbage." He says dryly.
"It's far more interesting." She responds teasingly, then beams when their waitress returns with a small bowl of what look like pea pods covered in salt. "Thank you Maggie!" So it was familiarity then. "Could we get a JB roll, half a California roll, and the Unagi roll?"
"Of course." Maggie jots it down then smiles at them. "You yell if you need anything."
"Sure." Belle grins as she walks away, and then grabs a pea pod. "Have some." She encourages him and he stays still, waiting to see what she does. He nearly falls off his seat when she pops the pea pod in her mouth and sucks, eyes closing for just a moment before discarding the empty shell on a napkin. "Really, please have some! I got it to share."
"If you insist." He takes a small one, feeling slightly unrefined as he puts it in his mouth. It's salty and buttery in the best possible way, and when the pods slip from the shell, they taste fresh. He can't imagine that he looks as well as Belle when he eats it, but it's good all the same.
"Do you like it?" She's watching him with a little smile.
"Yes, it's rather… Different. But good." He says slowly.
"Good." She says happily, taking another. "They're my favorite snack ever, plus they're salty enough that I stop craving chips."
"I can imagine as a yoga instructor, you are very health orientated." He guesses, watching her reaction, feeling like he deserves to know some things about her since she's figured him out.
"Of course." She smiles, open and inviting. "As a kid, I was kind of chubby. My mom died young, so it was just my dad to raise me. A lot of pizza and mac and cheese. Edamame isn't as delicious as Pringles, but it's a lot easier to keep down in a yoga class."
"I am so sorry about your mother." He says honestly, stunned that she's opened up to him in a matter of minutes. She shrugs.
"It was a long time ago. Besides, I know she'd be proud of me if she was here." Her smile has slipped just slightly and he sees the sadness that darkens her eyes to a stormy blue.
"By opening your own studio?" He asks, trying to turn the conversation back to the positive.
"No, though I'm sure she'd be amused by the idea." Belle's smile returns and he finds himself glad. "She was the one who pushed me towards medicine. She was always encouraging me to read and write and learn. The day I graduated, I knew she was looking down in joy."
"Then why did you leave the hospital?" He asks curiously and waits for her to recoil and tell him that it's none of his business. Instead, she makes a funny face and chuckles.
"Would you believe me if I said I hated it? Good money, I know. Comfortable apartment, nice car, new clothes, all that stuff. But it was…" She plays with her straw. "It was boring. I hated feeling like I was this robot, another cog in the big hospital machine. So I decided that I would do something that I love. I'd taken up yoga in high school, after I couldn't dance anymore, and yoga and therapy went hand in hand. Now I wake up every day and I love what I do." She gives him a brilliant smile.
"Well," He pronounces, a little lamely, because how can he follow that? "I hope to benefit from what you do Miss French, but I have to warn you, my mobility may be limited."
"Oh, that's not an issue." She waves a hand. "I have a plan."
"Pray, tell me." He leans forward and she follows his lead, grinning, inches from him. He gets a whiff of something earthy, like sandalwood, mixed with cinnamon. It's a heady combination.
"Does that mean you intend to engage my services, Mr. Gold?" She asks playfully and he firmly stops his mind from wandering anywhere it shouldn't go.
"If you're more effective than the idiot Dr. Whale, you will find yourself handsomely rewarded Ms. French." He says lowly and she throws her head back, laughing. He finds himself missing her closeness. She's like a breath of fresh air or a little personal sun.
"That shouldn't be difficult." She looks amused, holding her hands in front of her. "Well, depending on the depth of your pain, I think we should begin with three sessions a week. I have time Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday in my schedule for private sessions. They will include gentle, restorative yoga, therapy, and a massage."
"Well." He's looking at her in surprise, because he's not sure what to say. "Is there anything else I should be prepared for? Chakra cleansing? Crystal healing? Hot stones?"
"You think I'm a sham." She says, a little coolly and he winces at his choice of words and tone.
"No, that's not it. It's just… As you notice, I'm not young." He struggles to pick his words. "And I'm not exactly… Comfortable with this."
"I get that." She's forgiven him already, nodding along. "I understand. But I just want you to have an open mind about all this. If it turns out to not work at all and I'm an utter failure, well then I'm sure you'll just jack up my rent." He chokes on his water and she grins, delighted in the fact of surprising him.
"So you know who I am?" He says, trying to stop himself from gasping and look like an oaf.
"Of course." She says easily, offering him the last edamame. He waves it off, eyes watering. "Everyone knows about you, the real estate mogul of the whole island. I guessed from the amount of panic in Dr. Whale's voice that you were fairly important and when I heard your name, well, it's not hard to put 2 and 2 together, you know."
"Smart girl." He says approvingly. "Well, since you know, I'm sure you'll understand that I require absolutely privacy. Our sessions are to remain completely private. If word leaks to the press, I will assume it was you and our parting will be less than pleasant. I won't have those tabloid vultures knowing my business, not if you think it will line your pockets or pay off a student loan."
"You know, I did go to medical school." She says mildly. "I do know the ins and outs of patient confidentiality. I assure you, your privacy is of utmost importance to me. I will not betray you." Her words are passionate and he's quite glad that Maggie arrives to clear their table before sushi so he doesn't have to say anything in response.
Belle was right, he finds himself loving the sushi. She cajoles him into trying hers, with eel, and they split the California roll. While they eat, they keep polite conversation, talking mostly about Belle's years at the hospital. They've both got enough stories of Dr. Whale's incompetence to last the whole lunch. He finds himself, for the first time in what must be ages, smiling and laughing. He may even be flirting, but it's been so long, he's not sure.
"I'll take the check." He says, when Maggie circles back to them at the sight of their empty plates.
"Oh, not necessary." Belle insists, grabbing her purse. "It was my idea to eat here, I can pay."
"I won't hear of it." He brushes her hand away and hands Maggie a credit card. "Consider it a thank you, for opening my eyes to this place." Reluctantly, she sets her purse back down.
"Well, thank you." She says and he inclines his head graciously. While they wait for Maggie to return, he realizes that he doesn't quite want the lunch to end. So when he signs the receipt and leaves Maggie a tip, he manages to ask,
"I have a car waiting. Would you care for a ride back to your studio?"
"Oh no." She smiles widely. "I couldn't inconvenience you like that. I'm sure you have important things to get back to."
"Not at all." He lies, as his phone buzzes in his front pocket. Likely Mary Margaret is wondering if he's dropped dead. Taking lunch and not answering his phone, she probably thinks he's being held against his will or is suffering a mental break. "Besides, if I am going to be spending some significant time there, I'd like to see the facilities."
"Oh." This surprises her and then she smiles. "Well then, how could I say no? A ride would be lovely." She loops her arm with the arm not holding his cane. He's stunned, but says nothing. His driver is waiting, but he's sure to open the door for her, before limping to the other side. She gives the driver the address of the studio and Whale hadn't been exaggerating- it really is mere blocks from his office. And she had been correct- it is one of the properties he owns.
"I will be back out shortly." He instructs his driver, Jefferson, who nods and Belle hops out, smiling as she leads him up an elevator and on one of the higher floors, shows him the space.
"It's small, but it's mine." She says proudly. He looks around, impressed, seeing the open studio with large windows and shiny wooden floors. There's a smell of jasmine in the air and a pretty white desk at the front. He imagines that Belle is usually perched there, beaming at people who enter.
"It is quite lovely." He agrees.
"There's a massage room in the back, and I can heat the studio to 90 degrees fairly easily." She's rambling now, just a little bit. "I can close the shades, that offers a degree of privacy, and as I said, everything will be private, so…"
"Ms. French." He cuts her off gently. "It's quite perfect. You said Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays?"
"Yes." She's a little flustered now, going behind the desk to open a sleek, silver Mac laptop. "Yes. I have times in the morning, I think that would work best, except for Sunday evenings."
"I do work." He reminds her and she looks up at him, completely disregarding the warning tone in his voice.
"Obviously. I'm simply saying that the times I'm suggesting have an hour gap on either side of them. That way no one will be arriving or leaving from a class and chance seeing you." She explains placidly. "As of now, I have two other teachers with their own class times. I can change class times to accommodate your schedule, but I would prefer not to."
"No, that will not do." He feels a little abashed. Of course she was thinking about his strict privacy demands.
"Good. Then I will schedule an hour-long private session at 6 am on Tuesday and Thursday. Sundays work better to do night, say 8 pm?" She offers and he doesn't bother to consult his calendar.
"Here is the number of my assistant, Ms. Blanchard. Please send her appointments. She will coordinate it within my schedule." He instructs, handing her a card. She nods, setting it on her computer.
"Then I will see you tomorrow morning." Se says brightly and he swallows deeply, nodding.
"Yes, at 6 am sharp."
"I'll walk you down." She offers and he waves a hand.
"Quite unnecessary. I think I can see myself out." He hovers awkwardly at the door, not sure of how to walk away from this. "I look forward to tomorrow, and thank you agreeing to take my case."
"Thank you for lunch." She beams, settling herself behind the computer. "It was a real treat. See you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow, Ms. French." He nods and bows out. As he heads for the elevator, he hardly notices his knee. His phone however will not be ignored and as he punches the button for the lobby, he pulls it out. As he had assumed, Mary Margaret is in a tizzy, bewildered as to where he is.
"Sir." She answers his phone in relief. "I was wondering if I had missed something. Is everything alright?"
"Quite." He walks outside and to his waiting car. "I was simply having lunch. You will receive appointments for me shortly from a Ms. French; I will need you to enter them in my schedule. They are my first priority. Move whatever else you need, but I will be attending them, is that clear?"
"Of course." She sounds a little stunned. "Will you be coming back to the office this afternoon?"
"Of course I am, don't ask stupid questions."
"Yes sir."
AN: First OUAT story. Updates will likely be Monday night. Please leave me reviews, I would love to hear thoughts on this!