Cry Consciously, Conscience
Rating: K+ for some heavy angst and emotional turmoil.
Characters/Pairings: Archie Hopper/Jiminy Cricket, August Wayne Booth/The Stranger/Pinocchio. Implied Emma/August.
Disclaimer: Once Upon A Time does not belong to me.
Spoilers: Season Finale, "A Land Without Magic". Have you watched The Avengers yet? There's a scene where Loki gets tossed around like a ragdoll - now substitute "Loki" with "your emotions" and this is what the finale will do to you. Go watch it already.
Notes: Guys, I mean this in a non-shipping (and shipping if that floats your boat) way: we need more stuff with Archie and August together. I decided to write this after I decided I'd board that tiny raft myself, but I wanted more depth than just focusing on two characters and their interaction. What if it was one character, after they have regained their memories, struggled with accepting those and the ones that were false as well?
Also, there is a deliberate gaping plot hole the size of Russia once you reach the end. You'll figure out what it is and you'll wonder "then how did that even happen?" but I'll leave that up to creative interpretation. Enjoy!
He had found him, but something was wrong.
He wasn't waking up. After what had just commenced throughout the land, he of all humans, of all beings – he should be awake. He should be alive. He should be real.
All Archie – no. Not Archie. Maybe before, not even thirty minutes ago, he was Archie. Specifically, Storybrooke's psychiatrist Dr. Archibald Hopper, who had just finished up for that day, who was going to go visit the Marine Garage to help out his good friend Marco, since his new assistant was absent without any prior warning today (something that had seemed to bother Marco, judging from the hint of his tone over the phone).
And Archie had just finished closing the door of his office, before something had happened and in some unknown amount of time that had lapsed (seconds? How many seconds?), memories he did not even realize were there had suddenly come back with a simple whoosh, as though a wave of magic had cleansed Storybrooke completely of any obstacle that had stood in the way of them before. It was then and there that Archie realized that he was not actually Dr. Archibald Hopper, who had just finished up for that day, had just finished closing the door to his office, and was going to visit his good friend Marco – no, not Marco, Gepetto – Gepetto, since his new assistant was –
Pinocchio.
This was the third name that Jiminy Cricket had recalled to mind in the moment it took him to remember that he was Jiminy Cricket and that Marco was Gepetto. Jiminy's eyes had widened considerably, his eyebrows shooting upwards, before he had dropped his bag of leftover food from Granny's he had saved for Marco (no, not Marco, Gepetto), gave his umbrella a quick twirl, and started pacing hurriedly down the street not to re-absorb his former surroundings, but wonder where that boy had ended up if all the pieces of the puzzle were rapidly fitting together correctly in his head.
If they were, that would mean they, all of them, were in the exact world that the Evil Queen had cursed them all into. And as promised by the Dark One himself – who always keeps his word despite all evil intention he holds – the Savior; Emma Swan, heiress and daughter to Queen Snow White and King James Charming, whom Pinocchio was entrusted to protect at all costs until her 28th birthday; had finally arrived, especially if the cricket was still trying to connect all of what had just happened with what he last remembered back home.
Well, if he was a cricket, and it was far too delayed a reaction when he realized that the flowers and the grass were much shorter than he. He had remembered stopping dead in his tracks, before he had slung his umbrella around a wrist and practically yanked off his gloves to gawk open-mouthed at the lack of green exoskeleton underneath. In its place was the familiar look and feel of warm, peachy human flesh and skin, something that had become a little foreign to Jiminy after all his time as a cricket. Jiminy had remembered blinking his eyelids curiously, pursing his human lips together before smacking them, running his tongue along his molars.
To be human again was certainly surreal, he had remembered concluding as he had squished his own cheeks and pinched the bridge of his nose –
Pinocchio.
He had remembered just spinning around on the street in indecisive panic on where to go for at least five seconds, babbling incoherently as thoughts raced through his human brain how on Earth he was going to find Pinocchio. That dalmation at his house (no, Archie's house, not Jiminy's) could possibly sniff him out if he was still human. But, how would Pongo (Pongo, that was the name of his – no, Archie's – dog) know how to even find Pinocchio if he had never even been in the presence of the boy before?
Was Pinocchio even still a boy?
Jiminy had remembered pausing, before he had grabbed his umbrella again and resumed pacing in order to scrutinize what he knew. Who did he know very well was still of that age in the confinement they were in, the town of Storybrooke?
An image of the Savior's son, also that of the Evil Queen but not by blood, had appeared in his mind there and then, trying to convince him (no, Archie back then) that he was not Archie Hopper but Jiminy Cricket, and it made sense except that Henry did not feel like Pinocchio. The boy had a gift and a destiny ahead of him, but despite all good intention within his conscience, he was not Marco's (no, not Marco, Gepetto's) son.
If the Savior herself was at the age of awakening, would that mean that Pinocchio had aged too, had he remained human and avoided all temptations and evils that Jiminy remembered telling the boy to watch out for – before he and the Savior had disappeared into the foreseen future, just before they had all been egressed to that elsewhere, blanketed by the suffocating thickness of black magic? Where would Pinocchio be now? Was he even in the containment that was Storybrooke? Magic forbid, did that boy ever try to leave Storybrooke? What did his face look like now? Did he look like Marco?
No, not Marco, Gepetto.
Gepetto had spoken warmly about his recent assistant and brought him up during a conversation with Jiminy when he had been inspecting the headlights of a rather aged automobile. Jiminy had remembered the smile – almost as bright as the morning sun – that had graced the older man's visage when he spoke about this man, as though he was more than an extra pair of hands; as though he had been speaking about his own child. Perhaps he did all this, not even having the slightest thought cross his detail-focused mind that the man who told him intimate stories about wanting to atone for old mistakes and make his father proud, that Marco himself (this was beginning to get on Jiminy's nerves, Gepetto himself) had willingly shared with Jiminy with the somber concern of any good father, was probably Pinocchio.
August.
The name had been dropped a few times from those who had known him the moment he had appeared in Storybrooke, particularly Emma who seemed closest to him, and of course Gepetto as the stranger's stay remained within Storybrooke. As a matter of fact, Jiminy distinctly remembered Gepetto even saying this stranger's full name once.
August...something else. What was it?
Was it important to know his whole name? Jiminy could have gone to Mr. Gold's to find out the man's full name since Mr. Gold knew everything – except right after the notion crossed his mind, Mr. Gold's face became that monster's face, and any intention of visiting the man who controlled everyone's rent, pawned antiques, and was actually the Dark One swiftly vanished as Jiminy simply set off to the next best place.
Granny's Bed and Breakfast Inn.
For whatever reason the moment he had practically sprinted there, Granny and Ruby (Red Riding Hood, he remembered; attractive but dangerous every full moon) had been absent from the front desk. It took about a good half-minute for Jiminy to finally convince himself it would be in his best interest to go through the papers at the front desk and flip open the guestbook.
Room 2: August W. Booth.
A.W.B – a wooden boy.
Clever child, Jiminy had recalled with nothing but relief as his shoulders lost tension, and he grabbed what he hoped would be the master key before making his way to Room 2.
Except the door had already been opened, and inside, lying on a bed, was a wooden mannequin of a man, its glass eyes containing the faintest remnants of human emotion that could only be described as renewed hope.
It was him. Jiminy could feel it. Jiminy knew by the brief flicker of something familiar, deep within his soul and his heart, that by this magical feeling he felt and he knew that this man was him. August was Pinocchio. Pinocchio was August. He was here, Pinocchio was here. And Jiminy, thank the spirits and good magic, had found him, and he was right in front of his careful eyes and not lost elsewhere, being mischievous after tying him inside the cuckoo clock or trapping him in a jar.
But why, Jiminy had uttered brokenly, in a voice low enough to be heard by only his ears in the dead aura of silence that hung in the air. Why like this?
He had slowly stepped towards the bed, unsure if perhaps what was in front of him was not in fact real.
I'm sorry I was not there to help guide you, but after helping bring the Savior here, surely even any wrong you have done, you deserve the magic she has given back to us?
Maybe this was a deception – trickery caused by the Evil Queen herself, an illusion to play against Jiminy's emotions based on mistakes from the past because of his own parents' deception, that cost the lives of Gepetto's parents? Maybe, perhaps, Jiminy was dreaming. Perhaps the Savior did not break the curse yet; perhaps there was a limbo to go through, a second stage to pass before they would all truly awaken. That would explain why he was human and Pinocchio was not. Surely, surely...
The Savior, she gave back magic to us, ALL of us. She of all people would have wanted YOU to have some of that; surely you would have received it...
Yet when Jiminy's warm, human hands made contact with the mannequin's cold, wooden ones – Jiminy knew that this was no terrible nightmare, no illusion or trickery.
He had found him, but something was wrong.
He wasn't waking up. After what had just commenced throughout the land, he of all humans, of all beings – he should be awake. He should be alive. He should be real.
All Jiminy knew was that everything about this was wrong.
Surely, surely, Jiminy had begged, staring in hopelessness at the wooden man gazing in hopefulness towards the ceiling, the skies, the heavens, he WILL be real, he WILL become human again! Yes, just a few seconds more, maybe Emma's magic hasn't fully settled! Maybe this is why I'm not a cricket; maybe this is why we're not back home, our true home! Oh, Pinocchio, Jiminy had exclaimed, desperation and forced bravado being the only things curving the corners of his mouth as he had grasped his childhood friend's wooden fingers. Don't you want to go back home? Gepetto will surely want to see you again, how much you've grown and how you HAVE made him proud! We can all sing and dance together, and he'll play the accordion for you, and the cuckoo clocks will make the noises they do that you remember so well!
Do you remember the clocks, Pinocchio? Do you remember the gears that ground together to make the clock operate, the way that your father would explain how to work them to you? How to make that clock go 'cuc-koo'? How you used to find me when you thought I was being too much of a nuisance and tie me to the inside? Or you'd trap me in a jar while you go gallivanting off doing other things? I know you didn't mean it, you were just a child. You didn't know better, but...
But Jiminy was left unanswered by the man in front of him that was not a man anymore. The Savior's magic had worked, and it should have bypassed the rules that the Blue Fairy had placed on Pinocchio – but it wasn't. For whatever reason, be it something Pinocchio did or whatever cruel fate had decided, the magic had granted mortality back to Jiminy Cricket, but it denied mortality for Pinocchio.
I should have known better for you.
Yes, Pinocchio was here, but now Pinocchio was gone.
And the mere thought of losing what was right in front of him had brought Jiminy to his knees, and he had fervently gripped the enchanted wooden hands that were enchanted no more as he squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed, not wanting to come to terms with the fact that he was gone, no, he can't be, bring him back! Bring Pinocchio back! He doesn't deserve this, his FATHER doesn't deserve this! What would I possibly tell Marco – no, NO, that's NOT his name! Jiminy had cried, pressing his head into the bones of his own human fingers wrapped around Pinocchio's own. None of it was real, Marco wasn't real, Archie wasn't real! We're not real, we weren't real, but, but we're real now...
Aren't we?
A glimpse of reminiscence passed where he allowed himself to think momentarily, and Jiminy could not help but remember each and every friend or acquaintance from Storybrooke that had come to his office as Archie, or even knocked at his door during his off-hours. He would allow them in because that was the kind of person he was as Archie; perhaps even as he was now. He remembered these people he knew when he did not really know them, and he remembered their emotions – bitterness, sorrow, anger, frustration, catharsis, relief, recovery, serenity, happiness, joy. He remembered how genuine they had been, how honest and true these feelings from these people were.
He recalled the laughter that echoed in his ears. It was laughter from his own mouth; he as Archie, and Marco's, intermingled together because Archie could not figure out why the windshield fluid was spraying in his face and Marco probably knew, that cheeky old man, but he was laughing so damn hard he couldn't even care to fix it himself. He remembered how genuine that laughter was, how real those moments spent with friends and familiar folk were.
He remembered it all, and he would always remember it.
Pinocchio.
Without Marco (yes, Marco), he would not have found Pinocchio. He would not have guessed that Marco's new assistant, who he would speak so fondly about like he was his own son, was indeed his own son. He would not have known that Pinocchio had gone by August W. Booth; perhaps he had given himself the alias to stay hidden from the Evil Queen or the Dark One. He would not have found August here now, in front of him, with hope still in his eyes that he, too, would be saved with everyone else.
August, Archie pleaded, and closed his eyes again, grasping the stranger's hands in one more prayer. We ARE real. We were ALWAYS real. Your father, me, Emma, Henry, everyone...
You deserve to be real with us again. Please, August, come back.
And as he sniffed and tried to calm his sobs, lost in his own mourning for the boy he promised his closest friend that he'd take care of with all his heart, mourning for failed amends for the past sins he had committed, he did not even notice the sudden heat that warmed his palms and the texture of polished bark and grain shift into another form – until human fingers clasped his own human fingers back and Archie's tear-stained, swollen blue eyes flew wide open and gazed back at a breathing, living man in front of him with equally as blue eyes.
The man called August blinked his eyelids curiously, pursed his human lips together before smacking them, and ran his tongue along his molars. His free hand lifted up from his side and massaged the sides of his cheeks, before he pinched the bridge of his nose. Interestingly enough, he patted the front of his nose as well, and tapped his fingers through the air in front of it, as though there might be something there that could potentially be there.
It was then that he looked back at Archie, and his gaze softened. She did it, he had whispered, his voice trembling with mirth, and all Archie did was nod dumbly in response before August's smile became just a little smaller. You're Archie, aren't you?
And Archie, as soon as he recovered from his shock and as soon as he had rubbed his sleeved arm across his eyes quickly, had nodded swiftly in response. Yes, yes, he had practically croaked, and only hesitated not even a second before he had added, I am Archie.
August had nodded back as well. Then, his smile had returned, more friendly than before and more familiar than Archie had ever seen it, and he had asked him, are you my conscience?
And Archie could not help the grin that flashed on his teeth as tears resumed their journey down his cheeks.
Who, me? Jiminy Cricket had replied lightheartedly, and that was all he said before laughter replaced all words between them and he was pulled into a tight, welcoming embrace by Pinocchio – who was awake, who was alive, who was real; just as real as he was.
The End