"There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in"
"Anthem," Leonard Cohen
A/N. This story takes place right after the tea cup scene in 2.12.
My heart leaping into my throat, I paused a long moment, my hand frozen on the knob, before I finally opened the door. I feared who—or what—waited on the other side: I hoped it might be Regina, that she had seen the headlines or overhead a conversation and now knew she'd been cleared of the charges of my abduction, but it could just as easily be Hook, come to finish the job he'd started on me.
Or it could be Cora. It could be Cora and I would never know. She could be standing on the other side of that door as Regina or Henry or Emma or Ruby or. . . .
I needed someone to talk to. Understandably, I was exhibiting the signs of PTSD.
I glanced at Pongo, who was now sitting up, his tail wagging. When I didn't open the door, he stood and whined a little. With a deep sigh I buttoned my waistcoat and opened my office door.
Perhaps Pongo wasn't the judge of character I thought him to be. Standing in the hall in one of his impeccable suits (five grand, the tailor told me once, and that was without the shirt and tie) was Mr. Gold.
"Uh, good evening, Mr., uh—Gold? Rumplestiltskin?" One of the small hassles that came with the return of our Enchanted Forest memories was the confusion of names. No one knew any more how others wished to be addressed.
He didn't clarify it for me. I guess I really didn't expect him to; he was, after all, the most secretive man—imp?—I'd ever met.
"Good evening, Doctor." With Gold there's always an undertone of irony in everything he says, so I wasn't sure if his reference to me as "doctor" was a slight or not. I chose to ignore it altogether.
I almost asked him if he'd come for the rent—a little dig of my own—but that would have been unprofessional, not to mention stupid. You don't want to hack off Gold. "What can I do for you?"
Although his face remained immobile, his feet shifted. He was nervous! The last time I'd seen him like that, he'd confessed to me he had a son—and feared his son wanted to kill him. He hadn't come back to me after that, so I was eager to know how it had worked out; since Gold was obviously still alive, and the only individual he'd been seen walking with on the streets was Belle, I had assumed he'd been in error about the son. Still, it would be interesting to hear the details. . . .
"May I speak with you?"
Ah. I might get the chance to hear that story after all. I stood aside, holding the door wide.
He entered and stood in the middle of the floor, waiting an invitation to be seated, his manners as flawless as his suit. But then in an instant I caught a glimpse of a whole other Gold: Pongo trotted over to him and thrust his wet nose against Gold's hand, and Gold knelt—wincing at the pain it caused his knee—why had the breaking of the curse not restored him to his former self? Or any of us? Just goes to show how little I know (how little I want to know) about magic.
Huh. Pongo liked him. Trusted him. Asked to be petted by him and remained beside him during his entire visit. Huh.
I offered him a seat—whereas most visitors take the couch (stereotyped perceptions of psychotherapy, I suppose), he took the chair opposite mine, as he had done in his previous visit, and he sat now as he had then, leaning forward, arms on his knees, a self-protective, secretive posture. Pongo stretched out at his feet, his nose resting on Gold's Italian leather shoe (nine hundred a pair; Pongo had better not slobber on them). Dumb dog. Traitor dog.
I adjusted my glasses—I'll tell you a secret: I don't really need the glasses; they're part of the fake identity Regina created for me and I've kept them because they give me a sort of barrier behind which I can safely study the world. They're my self-protective posture, I suppose. I offered him coffee, which he politely refused, so I sat across from him in my usual chair, resisting the temptation to reach for my notebook, at least until I determined the purpose of his call. It wasn't social, I knew that much.
"You seem to have recovered from your ordeal." This was as close to an apology as I was going to get, though he owed me one, and the rest of the town, for Hook's presence here—and a whole lot of other things.
"I'm better, thanks." Subtly, I tapped my leg, encouraging Pongo to come to me. He didn't even look up from that $450 shoe. Dumb dog.
"Yes, well." He set his cane aside and reached into his suit jacket. I have to admit, I jerked back—PTSD makes people assume the worst. "I've come to ask you to take Belle on as a patient."
"I'm not really sure—she hasn't asked for psychiatric help, and her father hasn't stepped forward—"
"Must the rules always be obeyed, Doctor?" He withdrew his hand from his jacket; there was a decorative thing in it, the sort of thing people hang on their walls when they're going for a Southwestern motif. He laid the decoration in his lap. "Belle needs help, desperately. The kind of help only a man of your profession can give. All I can do for her"—was his voice shaking?—"is to pay for whatever she needs. Anything. I can't. . . magic can't. . . ." he broke eye contact with me and shifted in the chair. Pongo, the traitor, sat up and laid his head on Gold's knee, and Gold welcomed the distraction, scratching his head, tugging his ears fondly. Gold—fondly, two words I never thought I'd use together.
"It was magic that caused this. Traditional treatments won't work. I don't know how to help her," I admitted. It was a blow to me too: although I'd spent very little time with her, I thought highly of Belle, the Monster Tamer, the Cricket Rescuer. I would have gladly treated her, rules or no rules, if I only knew how.
He drew in a breath. "This may help." He raised the wall decoration so I could see it. It was a pretty and simple thing, a wire circle with feathers attached to the outer edges; inside, thinner wires interconnected in swirls.
"I've seen those in novelty shops."
"It's far more than a novelty, I assure you. It can't restore memories, but it can reveal them, even fake ones." He replaced the piece in his jacket and collected his cane. "Will you come with me to the hospital? Now?"
"It's past visit hours—"
He brought his fist down on the arm of the chair, startling Pongo. "Damn the rules! Can't you imagine how she's suffering? The terror of not knowing who you are, who anyone else is; she doesn't even have fake memories to fall back on. Regina left her with nothing, not even a name! Doctor, please!" His voice shuddered and his eyes were wild. The flawlessly veneered Mr. Gold was cracking. He needed help too. At least him, I could do something for. But he was right: I had to try; I was a healer, and a hero in my own unrecognized way. But first do no harm. . . and I wasn't so sure about that wall decoration.
"All right." I stood and picked up my notebook.
The nurses, recognizing me as a health care professional, allowed me in despite the hour, and they allowed him in only because he'd come with me. They scowled at him, and told me he'd caused quite a disturbance earlier, not to mention a bit of a mess: he'd upset their patient so badly she'd thrown a cup at him and had to be sedated. She was resting now and shouldn't be disturbed. I said I would only have a quick look at her and her medical chart, as she would come under my care as soon as she'd been discharged.
"Another two or three days, Dr. Whale says," a nurse told me. "She's fully recovered—physically. But we have nowhere to release her to and her father hasn't returned our calls, so there's no one to release her to."
"Me," Gold interrupted. "I can take care of her. I can hire home health care workers. Whatever she needs—"
"She needs to go into a mental treatment facility," the nurse snapped. "Augusta." But she knew as well as Gold and I did, none of us could take her. "Besides, you're not a relative, and it's pretty clear from the way she reacts every time you come near her that you aren't even a friend." She gave a little smirk before walking away.
Everyone had to get their little digs in. I could feel sorry for him, if only he didn't have such anger management issues. . . trust issues. . . passive-aggressive tendencies. . . . I could do a lot for that man, if he'd only ask.
But he was asking for Belle right now, so I supposed that was a start.
We entered the hospital room. I started with her medical chart, making notes in my pad of all the information I found there. Whale would share the full records with me later, but before I tried anything, especially this stunt of Gold's, I needed to know what drugs were in her system.
When I had finished, I dropped the notebook into my jacket pocket and moved to her bedside. Gold was already there, still and silent as stone; he wouldn't risk disturbing her after all the trouble he'd caused with his earlier visits. On the drive over in that cushy Cadillac of his, he'd explained about this dream catcher device and how he'd used it on Pongo. That story didn't raise my confidence any, since it almost got Regina jailed for my murder—and almost got me actually killed as a consequence. I had no doubt, if the town had gotten distracted with another "murder" investigation, no one would have come looking for me. Belle was the reason I was here, in more ways than one.
I'd examined the dream catcher, though, and it seemed harmless in itself: it was the magic I was worried about. Whatever Gold and Emma had done to "film" (that's how Gold explained it) Pongo's memories hadn't disturbed the dog—unless you want to count the way he now fawned all over Gold. Dumb dog.
I read the monitors to which Belle was hooked up: her blood pressure was slightly elevated. I studied her face: her eyelids twitched; she was in REM sleep, and she was frowning: a nightmare, though not a fretful one. I knew her history, here and in the old land: Gold had filled me in. I'd seen enough of them together in this world to know she'd loved him sincerely—everything Belle did was sincere. And I'd seen her performing the miracle of cracking through his defenses, like a flower breaking through hard ground. I could help Gold, but she could help him more. Perhaps she should come into practice with me, if she ever recovered.
I tried to catch Gold's eye, but he was locked on her. He seemed to have forgotten me. His free hand rested beside her pillow; it was written all over his face that he would have given every cent in his sizeable bank account if only he could touch her, if only she would allow it.
He looked vulnerable. I knew not to take heart from that: when his guard's down is when he's most dangerous.
I waited and made some more notes.
Finally he seemed to wake up. He straightened, took the dream catcher from his jacket. He peered at her again, but he hadn't disturbed her, so with a little hesitation he held the dream catcher over her forehead, allowing the feathers to touch her lightly, and he dragged the device down her face, her chest. He held it still for a moment, then lifted it and put it back into his jacket. With a glance at me, he picked up his cane and walked out into the corridor.
We left the hospital; he didn't want anyone spying on us. Back in my office, he lowered the window blind as I locked the door behind us. We sat down on the couch, side by side—I'd known this man, in the old land and here, for two centuries, and I'd never come within arm's length of him before now. He removed the dream catcher from his jacket and held it up to the florescent lights overhead. His hand was steady but his foot was jittery. Pongo whined and came over to him. With his free hand he patted the dog, and it seemed to help them both.
He stared into the center of the dream catcher, and the hand holding its edges glowed with magic. I looked too. A swirling gold miasma appeared within the circle; slowly it clarified, and it was as he had described it: like watching a color film from a very good security camera.
We saw a bedraggled girl in a thin white nightgown, sitting on an iron cot, her back against a whitewashed wall, her knees drawn up to her chest, her head bent over her knees. It was evident just from her hair that she badly needed a bath and several good meals. She just sat there, doing nothing, until we heard the jangle of keys and the creak of an opening door. She looked up at her visitors, and with a muffled whimper she tried to skitter away, but a pair of beefy hands seized her, and a hand in a white sleeve slapped her, and she whimpered again but stopped moving.
The white-sleeved hand came back with a hypodermic needle, which it injected into Belle's neck. Whatever evil potion that needle contained, it was quick-acting; Belle slumped, her eyes glazed, and the beefy arms let her fall back on the cot.
And then a voice started on her. Even as she fought to keep her eyes open, even as she tossed her head and drooled into her pillow, the voice droned on, reeling out some story about a horrible monster who snuck into the homes of poor people in the middle of the night and snatched slumbering babies from their cribs—to take them off into the deep woods and bash their heads in with rocks and roast their bodies over a spit. "The Baby Eater Rumplestiltskin. . . you know him, girl; you've seen him; his claws reach out for you as you sleep. The jaws of a crocodile, the eyes of a cobra, the talons of a vulture. He eats babies, girl, and he would yank your heart from your chest and eat it as you watched."
"N-n-n," Belle blubbered; she couldn't form a full word.
"He's coming for you now, girl. He's in disguise. He can take any form, any face. He's coming through that door. Do you see him? He seems so harmless, a gentleman in a dark suit, the businessman Mr. Gold, he calls himself. He leans on a cane and you think he can do no harm. You almost feel sorry for him. He seems weak and tired, but look into his eyes, girl: the eyes of the cobra. His magic curls around you and locks you in manacles. He will wrap his talons around your throat and squeeze until you can't scream. And as the breath leaves your body, he raises that cane and"—the white-sleeved hand slammed against the metal of the cot, over and over and over, and Belle shrieked but she couldn't move.
"He beats you senseless. He beats you until all you want is for him to kill you to make the pain stop. He leans over you and smiles his crocodile smile, sharp teeth that will tear your bleeding flesh. His magic reaches its talons into your brain and takes everything you ever knew, and now you don't even know your own name. Now you are completely helpless, at the mercy of a monster who has no mercy, who will devour your bleeding heart right before your eyes.
"You can't remember anything else, but you'll remember those eyes—forever. And when you see them again, you will want to die."
As Belle screamed, the beefy hands and the white-sleeved hands withdrew. The keys jangled, the door opened, and the voice laughed. "Have a nice nap, girl. We'll be back for your afternoon treatment."
Gold dropped the dream catcher. Pongo sniffed at it but then returned his attention to Gold, pressing his nose against the man's hand. Good dog. Gold dropped his head into his hands so I couldn't see his face. His shoulders shook silently.
I stood and went to the window, peeking out through the blinds and wondering who the hell these "health care professionals" were, and where the hell their hell was hidden. Our sheriffs needed to investigate immediately.
But Gold didn't care about that. The damage was done. At least we understood now the figures in Belle's tortured mind.
Gods, I wanted to grab that cane away from Gold and run back to the hospital where the pirate lay chained to a bed, and I wanted to do to him what I'd heard Gold had done, not just for Belle, but for myself, for what Hook and Cora had done to me. But even if I could do that sort of damage, it wouldn't help any of us.
I let go of the blinds and turned back to Gold. If "medicine" had planted those false memories in Belle, maybe I could do something about that. But to take those away would leave Belle with absolutely nothing. Magic had taken everything else from her, and I had no cure for magic.
But there was something. . .something in that "n-n-n" sound she made, that half a "no." And I put it together with everything I heard about true love and everything I'd seen in them when Gold and Belle had gone walking through town together, before Hook. Something. . . what if magic hadn't reached in with its talons and clawed out her memories? What if instead, it had wrapped itself around her memories like a cobra, squeezing so that her mind couldn't access them?
What if that "n-n-n" was a denial, a rejection of the implanted story, an indication that a crack existed in the magic?
"Mr. Gold."
His shoulders had stopped shaking but he didn't look up.
"For the time being, until I can break through those false memories—"
He nodded. "I understand." He stood, picked up his cane and the dream catcher. He still didn't look at me. "You have my phone number. You'll call if anything—"
"Yes. I'll let you know when it's safe for her to see you again."
"'When,'" he repeated. He bent to scratch Pongo's ears. He needed a pet, I thought. Rumplestiltskin would have done well with a cat, but Gold needed a dog. A Scottish terrier, maybe.
"I'll be leaving town," he said. "If I stay here, I won't be able to stay away from her. Or keep my promise to her."
I wondered what that promise was. Maybe someday he'd trust me enough to tell me. "Where will you go?"
His hand on the door knob, he glanced back at me, allowed me to see the red cracks in his eyes. "To look for my son."
Ah.