Title: What Once was Lost

Summary: After an altercation at the town line, Belle is in the hospital. Sans memories. Dr. Whale explained it would be normal for her to have conditioned responses. Feelings without context. None were more powerful or more curious than her reaction to Mr. Gold.

Author's Note: Set around season 2 just after Gold left for NYC; will depart from canon. Rating may fluctuate. It's been a few years since I've written anything. Please be gentle. :)


Senses seemed to return one by one as she awoke in Storybrooke General. Belle blinked through the painful white haze that was her vision and began to take in her surroundings. It was so bright. Sunlight bled through plastic blinds to illuminate glittering screens of the plastic machinery next to the plastic bars of the plastic bed. Gradually noise filtered in to more recognizable clutter: the beeping of machinery, the smacks of shoes on bright white tile, the gentle rustle of conversation occasionally cut by fuzzy summons through the intercom. As she breathed the unnatural clean of the hospital almost stung in her nostrils. The pale yellow gown felt insufficient under ragged blankets and goosebumps slowly formed as the body heat generated from her slumber gently evaporated. Her throat felt dry from thirst. She licked her lips and reached for the water pitcher beside the bed. As she sat up, an IV chord resisted against her skin and she felt the plastic of the ID bracelet. She poured the water into a cup and upon pressing it to her lips was pleasantly surprised by how sweet the cool liquid tasted as it slaked her thirst. She was beginning to feel more awake.

In spite of the many confusing developments over the past few days, Belle was sure that she was not a morning person.

It had been a week since her admission to the hospital and things weren't adding up.

In the beginning, she didn't know why everyone called her Belle.

"What would you prefer we call you?" Dr. Whale had asked, not seeming surprised by her objection to the title.

Her protests stopped with the realization that she didn't have an alternative to provide the hospital staff. The absence of a name had puzzled her. She didn't seem to be able to articulate anything about herself before that night. Dr. Whale didn't seem surprised.

Belle heard him summarizing to a group of strangers who had inexplicably gathered outside her room for updates on her condition. They'd huddled close together with worried expressions, but snippets of Whale's explanation floated out from the group and Belle pretended not to hear.

"…like we were before. Of course, she didn't develop her backstory nearly as well as the other people in town. If Belle had no memories or loved ones, she won't feel as much of a connection to Storybrooke…no drive to join the town. So she would stay. It's simple really. If Belle didn't ask questions, didn't even have questions to ask, Belle would have no reason to leave the asylum."

At the word "asylum" Belle's mind conjured up the poorly lit 6-by-8 feet room, limited human interactions, and the ambiguous passage of time. She would never go back. Dr. Whale had said fewer questions meant a decreased likelihood of leaving that place. So Belle didn't stop asking questions.

How had she come to be here?

Belle's consciousness had faded in and out that night. She remembered cold, wet pavement, pain, and the realization that she was bleeding. She remembered the look of panic on the older man's face. She remembered his healing touch. A speeding car. A ball of fire.

Ruby stressed upon visiting that the medication administered to Belle could have strange side-effects. But if Belle hadn't been injured, why was Belle given medicine? And why was she now in the hospital?

...Were they going to lock her up again? In fact:

Who was she?

Belle tried as hard as she could to remember. Maybe establishing a firm identity, a place where she could go, a contribution she could provide to the town would be the key to staying out. She racked her brain for answers ad nauseum. Apart from that night, memories felt like providing letters in a spelling bee. Vague. Factual. Without feeling.

Belle was admitted to the asylum when she was only a girl. She would receive three meals per day. No one was to speak to her. Time would occasionally be broken by strangers glancing in on her through a thin panel in the door...or...

Had that...

If she tried too hard she grew confused and it felt as if her brain was to shatter in to a million pieces, bits scattering like shards of broken glass from a broken mirror. As dizzying as it was, the question of her identity wasn't the query she dreaded most.

Who was that man?

"Mr. Gold" he had been called. The man who had been with her that night. The man who hovered by the door when he wasn't in the room. The man with fire.

The sleek and polished exterior clashed so severely with his words. His speech was frenzied. He spun elaborate tales of past connections, his breathless whispers coalescing to images of strange lands. He confused her, infuriated her. Urged her to look at different objects. Came in while she slept to smooth her hair or straighten sheets and refill the water pitcher. He was a man who many seemed to fear, who few could compel to leave her side. But she could always push him away.

He'd look so hurt.

Dr. Whale explained in one of her early examinations that Belle may have "conditioned responses" to different places, to different things, or to different people. Reactions to familiar stimuli. Feelings without context. What frightened her more than any other aspect of Mr. Gold's visits was the overwhelming typhoon of feeling. Her hands shook. Her legs felt weak. Her palms were sweaty. Each breath caught in her throat. Every part of her hummed and her stomach flooded with battery acid.

Mr. Gold. The man with fire.

She'd need to avoid the bizarre things he requested, his strange vocalizations. Charms, castles, chipped cups. How could they be true?

And yet, as much as she fought him to leave and take his eccentricities with him...there was almost electricity each time he acquiesced and backed out of her room. It was like pulling apart magnets: there was a force, an attraction, and time itself turned to jello until he was through the door. The day he pushed the tiny teacup in to her hands, they'd touched. When their fingers brushed together it was like two wires completing a circuit and she felt an electric shock through her whole person. She threw the cup away to rid herself of the sensation. None of it made sense. She needed it gone. She needed him out.

Dr. Whale's entrance snapped her out of her habitual contemplation. Whale clicked his pen and flipped through the rainbow of papers pinned to his clipboard.

"Good morning, Belle. How are you feeling today? Do you have any pain?" The same three questions he asked each morning. She smiled up at him, her dark brown curls rustling as she shook her head no.

"I'm feeling very good, Dr. Whale. When may I leave?" The same conversation each morning. Dr. Whale always winced and glanced at the door.

"Soon. We'd like to keep you for observation." They assured her she would owe nothing; Mr. Gold spared no expense for her care. The revelation of her benefactor naturally provided little comfort. After delaying her release, Whale would summarize numbers that meant little to Belle, and execute a few pokes and prods before a hurried exit.

As much as the slow awakening and brief encounters with Whale were becoming a regular dance over the past week, there was an obviously missed cue. Gold had not come around in two days. Others stopped by with good wishes or gifts without warning. Gold was almost like clockwork as visiting hours began. Arrived at 9am for five days. Then nothing.

Belle bit her lip and glanced at the clock before watching the door.

Day eight overall.

9am.

Day three with no Gold.

She should feel relieved. Not...