It was February 12.
Toph glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearing midnight.
He would be here soon.
Ignoring his other patrons in their varying stages of drunkenness, Toph pulled out his best scotch and started to pour it into his cleanest glass. Few people in Storybrooke ever ordered this drink. Few could even afford it, for that matter. But of course money wasn't a problem for this particular customer. The man owned most of the city. Heck, he even owned the deed to The Rabbit Hole. But even so, there were only two times Mr. Gold ever stepped foot in the bar: once a month when he came to collect money and once a year on the twelfth of February.
Toph carried the drink over to the shady, dark corner Mr. Gold always chose. Leroy was sitting there.
"I need you to move, Leroy," Toph said.
Leroy's head was bent over his beer. "Make me," he growled.
Toph leaned forward. "That's Mr. Gold's seat."
At the mention of Storybrooke's most feared, Leroy gave a huff but stumbled away. Toph quickly wiped off the area, making sure it looked perfectly clean, then set the glass down in the middle of the table on top of a napkin. Even in the shadows, the color of the scotch was rich amber, as though the liquid had been infused with gilded light.
Double checking that everything was as it should be, Toph moved back behind the bar and waited. It was a Tuesday night so there weren't too many people about. Just the regulars—Leroy, Dr. Whale, a few sailors, a handful of others. A song by Celine Dion was playing on the jukebox. It was the second time that night her clear, pure voice had serenaded Storybrooke's finest drunkards, and Toph assumed that Leroy was to blame. The gruff man had an odd affinity for the woman.
The door opened and Toph heard a hush fall over the bar as people saw who it was. One man even started to slink toward the back door.
It was Mr. Gold. Right on time.
Under a black overcoat, he was wearing a dark three-piece suit with a shirt and tie which were a few shades shy of midnight black. The only color was the chocolaty brown silk scarf about the collar of his coat, and the flash of gold on his cane under his leather-clad hand. Nothing was out of place, not even a hair. He was the picture of authority, of terror.
He stood there for a moment, meeting everyone's eyes with cool apathy until they were forced to look away, down to their drinks. Seeing them sufficiently cowed, Mr. Gold limped across the still room to his shadowy corner, not deigning to recognize Toph or give any sign he was pleased that Toph had already prepared his drink. But then again, Mr. Gold never did.
It had taken several years before Toph had realized that Mr. Gold's very infrequent visit to The Rabbit Hole always happened to coincide on the same day every year. And when he had realized, Toph had been very quick to ensure that everything would be right for each annual visit. He would make sure Mr. Gold's brand of scotch was in stock, that the entire bar would be deep-cleaned on the tenth of every February (close enough that it'd be spotless but no lingering scent of cleaning supplies would be present), and that Mr. Gold's seat and drink would be prepared by midnight. It was Toph's most important night of the year, even more important than St. Patrick's Day and all other holidays. February 12 was Mr. Gold's night. And it always went the same way.
Out of the corner of his eye, Toph watched as Mr. Gold hooked his cane on the table and sat down with relative grace. He sat there for several minutes, turning the scotch in his cup and watching it swirl with dark eyes, before he suddenly brought it to his mouth and drained the whole burning liquid in one take. Then he upturned the glass and set it in the corner past his arm, and Toph knew better than to take the empty glass until Mr. Gold had left for the night. Instead, Toph prepared a new glass and, without a word, deposited it in front of the man.
And then came the part that, when it had happened the first time, had shocked Toph and every person in sight.
Mr. Gold got up, gripped his cane, and limped to the jukebox. Celine was still playing, but without a pause, Mr. Gold leaned over and unplugged the machine.
Leroy didn't dare protest. No one would.
Then Mr. Gold plugged it back in, slipped a few quarters into the slot, and made a selection. The jukebox whirred a bit and then the soft, lonely guitar notes filled the bar.
Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah."
Mr. Gold stood there, head bowed, long hair concealing his eyes, until the voice started singing. He straightened up and made his careful way back to his shadowy corner, the small thump of his cane sounding above the soft music.
I've heard there was a secret chord that David played, and it pleased the Lord. But you don't really care for music, do you? It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift—the baffled king composing Hallelujah.
He threw back another scotch. Upended it next to the first. Picked up the third glass which Toph had placed in front of him. Swirled it, stared at it.
Your faith was strong but you needed proof; you saw her bathing on the roof. Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you. She tied you to a kitchen chair, she broke your throne, and she cut your hair. And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah.
Toph didn't get it. He'd seen Mr. Gold do this over and over again, and each time, he was no closer to understanding. And that confused Toph even more because he realized that the Mr. Gold sitting in the corner, getting drunk over scotch while listening to the puzzling lyrics of a puzzling song—that this Mr. Gold was more true than the Mr. Gold that prowled the streets of Storybrooke, hunting for rent. This Mr. Gold was laid bare, somehow. Naked. Vulnerable.
His brown eyes were lost, weighed down by a world of painful secrets. His shoulders hunched. His face had lost its flint, consumed by what Toph could only think was agony, guilt.
Toph could see Mr. Gold every day for a year. He could give the man rent, hear all the rumors surrounding him, visit his shop. Toph could watch the man every day for the rest of his life, but he realized that he only saw the faintest glimmer of the true Mr. Gold on this day, the twelfth of every February.
Baby, I have been here before. I know this room, I've walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you. I've seen your flag on the marble arch. Love is not a victory march: it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
Another glass drained. Another swirled in its place.
Maybe there's a God above. But all I've ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you. It's not a cry you can hear at night; it's not somebody who has seen the light; it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
And now the tears.
Toph knew that no one else in the room could see it, and he wondered if he was the only man in Storybrooke to have ever seen the beast cry. Mr. Gold's face was creased with an anguish and torture that Toph knew he himself had never ever felt in his own life. It was a grief that surpassed grief, and Toph idly wondered if maybe only beasts knew what true grief was. He wondered if maybe the seemingly ever-apathetic Mr. Gold knew more about emotion, about humanity than any other living man.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
The song ended. The room was quiet. Three scotch glasses were upended by Mr. Gold's elbow. The fourth, still full, was sitting on the napkin.
It was done.
Mr. Gold grabbed his cane and when he stood up, his face was blank, empty. He reached into his wallet and pulled out two crisp, fresh $100 bills. He set them, almost gently, next to the remaining full glass.
"Goodbye, Belle."
Two words, so soft, so eternally pained, Toph had only caught them once before.
Then Mr. Gold, the beast of Storybrooke, turned on his heel and limped out the door.
[btw – I DON'T OWN OUAT OR ITS CHARACTERS or COHEN'S LYRICS TO "HALLELUJAH" or THE SMALL BAR SCENE IN INTERPRETER. btw#2 – February 12th was the original air date of "Skin Deep."]