"Before we get to your homework, I'd like to ask you a question. It has to do with your Rorschachs last session. What's your sexual preference?"

"The bed. Or the mayor's desk, I'm not choosy."

"… No."

Gold blinked in confusion while Archie pinched the bridge of his own nose and shook his head.

"Just … no," he said. "That's not what I meant. You know, LGBT? Or S?"

A crease appeared between Gold's eyebrows. His lips moved silently in utter bewilderment. Finally, "… G?"

Archie's own eyebrows shot up into his hair. His hands lifted, momentarily forgetting that there was nowhere for him to write this down – he'd left the clipboard in his office.

"Really?" he managed eventually, realizing Gold was uncomfortably waiting for him to speak. "I … I didn't know that about you, Mr. Gold."

Gold nodded once, slowly. Feeling a bit flustered – he'd never expected to get a confession like that without a fight – Archie tried to think of something else to say. The pawnbroker beat him to it.

"I don't understand," he said slowly, almost apologetically (but mostly annoyed that he didn't understand). "What do the letters stand for?"

Archie's mouth fell open.

Gold waited.

Archie sagged. "You mean you don't know what you picked?" he asked weakly.

"G," said Gold simply, eyebrows furrowing in a scowl. "For Gold."

"… No."

"No?"

"No." Archie shook his head. His face was flaming red. "I'm asking you what sex you prefer."

Realization lit up Gold's face, quickly followed by a brief look of scandalized disgust, like he wanted to ask why on earth Archie would make somebody tell him that. Then he shook his head.

"If the letters stand for sexual preference," he said, "shouldn't they just be H and H?"

For a moment, Archie didn't understand. "What …," he said, "homosexual and heterosexual?"

Gold nodded.

"You know there's more than just those two, right?" Archie checked. Gold threw up his hands in frustration, falling back against his couch. Archie flinched.

"No, I don't," Gold said, exasperated. "This town is doing a pitiful job of keeping me informed."

He glared over his doctor's shoulder. Archie coughed once, quietly, and rubbed the back of his neck.

"So you're straight?" he checked.

"Yes."

"Right." Archie gestured toward the object by Gold's side, willing to leave the whole embarrassing incident behind them. "Um, let's move on to your homework."

"I didn't do it."

"I can see it!" Archie protested.

Gold just stared at him, face stony.

"Show and tell," Archie ordered, gritting his teeth. "Now."

Rolling his eyes, Gold grabbed his object and gestured to it in a way that was somehow both pragmatic and flamboyant, like he was subtly making fun.

"This," he announced caustically, "is my beating stick."

Archie's eyes dropped down to the stick.

"On occasion," said Gold, "I have been known to beat people…"

Archie gulped.

"…with this beating stick," said Gold. He nodded curtly, as if to punctuate his brief speech, and passed the walking stick to Archie. It wasn't really a stick, Archie supposed – if anything, it was a staff, and it was well-worn from age and usage over the years. The wood was smooth and fine, white and almost pretty.

Archie turned it over in his hands, trying to think of any reason this 'beating stick' might be sentimental. His eyes flickered down to Gold's lacquered cane.

"Is this stick … from your shop?" he asked, forcing his eyes from Gold's bad leg. The pawnbroker studied him carefully, the barest hint of a crooked smile on his face.

"Why, doctor," he said finally, "I thought you had more faith in me than that. I was to bring an object special to me, wasn't I? A trinket from my shop would hardly do."

Archie hummed in agreement – but uncertainly - and handed the stick back to Gold.

"Tell me about it," he said. Gold handed it right back.

"Already did."

Archie held it out again. "Tell me what it means to you. Why it's important."

Gold refused to take the staff, his eyes turning steely. "I already did."

"You told me you beat people with it!" Archie protested.

"Well, maybe I do!"

"Oh, come on –"

Gold snatched the staff roughly from Archie's hands, snapped it right-side-up, and tucked it away beside the couch. He glared at the doctor, daring him to say something. Archie bit back an exasperated cry – the man clearly wanted to talk about it if he brought the freaking thing – and forced himself to speak calmly.

"Tell me about it," Archie insisted, refusing to be cowed. There was a long pause. Gold's arms were crossed and his fingers were clenching the material of his jacket tightly, knuckles turning white. His gaze was averted, eyes glazed, expression stormy. Archie realized with a jolt that Gold was actually – maybe – potentially – going to share something with him.

He thought.

"My father," Gold said slowly (Archie jumped to attention at the words), "used to beat me with that stick."

The doctor's jaw went slack. Gold shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his therapist's eyes.

"I was born lame," he said shortly, "and … when he called me or when he wanted me to do something, and I couldn't do it fast enough … he'd take that stick and beat me 'till I couldn't move. Sometimes the blood dried around my eyelids so I couldn't see 'till Mum decided to wash it off … and that sometimes took days."

Archie's mouth was open in horror. Gold's lips were trembling now; he tightened his grip on his own jacket even more.

"One day –" he started, and choked. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and steadied himself, and started again. "One day … when I was nine – when we were in the market place – I was trying to keep up with him, and I dropped the bag of food. It ripped, and everything went rolling. …It was the only food we could afford for the week, and I'd ruined it all. So … in the middle of the marketplace …"

The rest of his words were cut off as he tensed, exhaling slowly and trying to calm down. Archie's tears of sympathy were blurring his vision, making Gold's face temporarily obscure.

When his vision cleared again, Gold's lips were still trembling. But then they stopped and he finally let out what he'd been holding in all this time – a smile.

"Kidding," he said lightly.

He smiled. Archie stared. Gold was relaxed again, all traces of sadness – and it had really just been suppressed laughter, hadn't it? – gone. He lounged before Archie on his couch, one hand pulling his cane lazily back and forth across the floor.

Archie stood, left the room, and locked the front door.

He went back past the living room, saw Gold's puzzled frown and thundered past it, and locked the back door.

He went around the house and locked every window. Then, expression furious and firm, he acted as though he was going to sit again – and at the last minute, stole both the staff and Mr. Gold's cane.

"We," he growled right into Gold's look of shock, "are not leaving."

Gold opened his mouth to protest; Archie talked over him.

"We are not leaving this house," he said stridently, "and we are not leaving this ROOM, until you, Mr. Gold, tell me why. The staff. Is special. Got it?"

Gold scowled at him. Smiling a very creepy smile, Archie sat back and waited.

He watched Gold. Gold glared back.

Archie tucked the cane and staff underneath his knees, putting all his weight on them. Gold followed the movement with his eyes, looking positively enraged.

Archie waited.

"You're being ridiculous," said Gold, his mouth a tight and angry line.

"Nope," said Archie.

"Yes." Gold was seething. "It's a stick, Doctor. It's nothing to get bloody maniacal about –"

"I disagree. Clearly, it's an object of sentiment for you."

"Oh, really?" Gold snarled through clenched teeth. "And how did you come to that conclusion?"

There was a brief pause.

"Um," said Archie, "you … brought it in for sentimental Show and Tell?"

There was another pause as Gold admitted to himself that he couldn't argue with that.

"Very well, then," he said, moving on with a new and very dangerous calm. "Well, it's regrettable, Doctor –"

Archie scooted a little further into the seat.

"—but I'm afraid I'll have to shoot you where you sit."

He didn't move as he said it; just sat where he was with his elbows on his knees and his feet planted, fingers interlaced. Archie's mouth went dry.

"You wouldn't," he said. He shifted uncomfortably, gripping the armrests. "What – tell me what the staff means."

Gold reached into his suit. This time, Archie's shifting was less uncomfortable and more panicked.

"Mr. Gold," he said quickly, eyes tracking the other man's hand, "I trust you. As your doctor, I mean, and you as my patient, I have faith in you. I think you're a good person. I – I'd even say I think you don't like shooting people-"

Gold paused, hand in his suit jacket and eyebrow cocked.

"-much," Archie said. He swallowed. "I want to help you," he went on. "I – I want to – to make you see yourself in a – a better way. Um – um –"

Gold's hand shifted, digging further.

"You won't shoot me!" Archie cried, still refusing to get up off the staff and cane. He squinched his eyes shut and flinched backward, pressing into the chair. "You're a good man! (Deep down.) You wouldn't kill me! You're not a monster, for heaven's sake!"

Gold froze.

Archie held his breath.

Then, very slowly, Gold removed his hand from his pocket – and there was no gun in sight.

Archie deflated in utter relief. He breathed hard, heart racing. Gold just shrugged.

"Left it in my other suit," he said.