Another long one, but I have a feeling most of you will be very pleased with this chapter. It got off to a slow start, but as I got into the, shall we say, "nitty-gritty" it came much easier. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
CHAPTER 9
Graham's memorial service was held a little more than a week after his death. He had been buried in a private graveside service the day after his body had been autopsied and released by the coroner. Mr. Gold had taken care of the arrangements. Somehow, he had felt that Graham wouldn't want the Mayor, who had controlled him in life, to be in charge of his final exit. So it had been the pawnbroker who chose his casket, a simple but dignified mahogany affair. It had been Mr. Gold who paid for his final resting place in the town's lone cemetery, and ordered the headstone. Like the casket, the stone was simple but dignified, a marble obelisk containing only the man's name and dates of birth and death.
Mayor Mills had been most displeased when she discovered that Mr. Gold had already handled the Sheriff's final arrangements, but by the time she found out there had been nothing she could do. Gold didn't care one way or the other. Indeed, he took a perverse joy in the mayor's outrage, and believed that Graham would have done the same. He had just been beginning to emerge from under her thumb when his life was cut so brutally short. Gold regretted deeply that the young sheriff had been struck down before he fully realized his own strength. Who knew what he could have done for the town to loosen it from the mayor's grasp? Well, there was still Miss Swan.
As a way to deal with her own not-inconsiderable grief, as well as to ease her smarting ego, Mayor Mills had arranged the public memorial service. Gold allowed her to proceed with this without interference. He did so not for her, but for the rest of the town. Storybrooke deserved the chance to say farewell to one of their own.
So it was that the day after Christmas, the entire town gathered in the auditorium of the high school to say goodbye to the sheriff. A large picture of Graham rested on an easel on the stage; the Mayor had already declared it would be hung in the lobby of City Hall after the service. There were few flowers. Most people had chosen instead to donate to the animal shelter, knowing Graham had enjoyed volunteering there in his spare time. However, a few people had sent floral tributes as well. Mary Margaret Blanchard had sent a tall white wicker basket of old-fashioned red climbing roses. Dr. Hopper had bought a giant peace lily, Marco a large arrangement of daisies. Gold himself had given Amy his credit card and told her to order something for the both of them. He hadn't been too surprised when he saw the large spray of blue delphinium and yellow daffodils she had chosen. Blue and gold…it was most appropriate, and very like her. The floral arrangements looked lovely grouped around Graham's picture.
Amy…he turned to look at her, sitting by his side here in the back row of the auditorium. He couldn't help thinking she looked especially lovely today, herself. She wore a simple navy-blue knit maternity dress, the only dress she had bought when he had told her to choose a maternity wardrobe. Though it was plain to the point of severity, she was most fetching in it, at least to his eyes. A simple strand of pearls caressed her throat, and matching pearl studs shone in her ears. He had given her the jewelry himself, telling her it had come from his shop, which it had. Knowing she wouldn't accept the pearls if he just gave them to her, he had presented them to her as a Christmas gift. She had protested a bit—"You've done so much for me, Mr. Gold. You didn't have to give me a Christmas present"—but in the end she had accepted them with gratitude. Her inky hair was swept up in a French twist. She had even put on a touch of makeup for the occasion, mascara that brought out her pretty gray-blue eyes and a rose-colored lipstick. Amy today wore a dignity about her that he had never seen before, which sat upon her well. She cried quietly during the eulogy, but there was no hysterical outpouring of grief today. Doc had only agreed she could attend the memorial service if she promised not to let her emotions get out of hand, and if she returned home as soon as the service ended. So far, she was holding up her end of the deal admirably.
He wore his customary black suit with a royal-blue shirt and her own Christmas presents to him—a blue paisley-print Hermes tie and matching pocket square. He had been surprised and touched when she presented the gifts to him yesterday morning, though he had chastised her a bit for spending so much money on him. "Don't start," she had told him. "You've done so much for me these past few months, I wanted to get you the best gift I could. I'm only sorry it isn't more." He had assured her, entirely truthfully, that the fact she had gotten him a present at all was more than enough present for him. And he was truly pleased with her choice. If he had had the past several months to learn about her and her likes and tastes, she had had those same months to learn about his as well.
He had chosen these seats in the back row so they would be able to leave as soon as the service concluded, per Dr. Dockery's orders. He had also chosen them to be as inconspicuous as possible. The auditorium had begun buzzing at their appearance; the whispers had begun the minute they entered the auditorium arm in arm. Every head in the place had turned to watch him lead her to a seat, take her coat as she sat down, and take his seat beside her. Her obvious ease with him had only added fuel to the fire. He knew they would once again be the talk of Storybrooke after this rare public appearance. He couldn't do anything about the talk, but he could at least limit her exposure to it. In the back row, no one would be able to turn in their seat and stare openly at the two of them, not without being horribly rude.
A few brave souls actually came up to speak to them. Mrs. Woods, Ruby, and Ashley naturally came first. He thought to himself that he had never seen Ruby wearing more clothes or less makeup. Unlike most young women who resorted to such attention-getting fashion choices, she was actually far more beautiful without the paint and revealing clothes. They had spoken warmly to Amy and politely to him, which he considered an improvement over their former disdain and outright fear.
After Amy's best friends broke the taboo, so to speak, others followed. Mary Margaret Blanchard and Emma Swan were the next to approach. Amy held out her arms to Emma, and the blonde went into them wordlessly. They held onto each other for a brief moment. When they finally parted, both had tears in their eyes.
"If you need anything, anything at all…"Amy said to Emma. "Even if you just need to talk, you know where to find me." It was the sort of thing everyone said at such a time, but everyone in the small group knew that Amy truly meant it.
"Thanks," Emma said, swiping quickly at her eyes. "I might just take you up on that. MM's been a huge help"—she smiled at her roommate—"but I know I'm wearing her out. Some fresh ears would do us both good."
"Well, my ears are always open," Amy informed her. She turned to the attractive young schoolteacher. "Miss Blanchard, it's so good to see you."
Mary Margaret enfolded her in another hug. "Amy, please," she said with a small laugh. "I'm not your teacher anymore. You're a grown woman now, for Pete's sake. I think you can call me Mary Margaret."
Emma's brow furrowed a bit. The action escaped everyone except, of course, Mr. Gold. He knew what she was thinking: how could Mary Margaret, who was twenty-five at the most, have been Amy's fourth-grade teacher a decade earlier? When the young deputy saw him looking at her, she frowned a bit and looked away.
Had they been in a different setting, Gold might have told her that there were a lot of things about Storybrooke, Maine that didn't quite add up. She had no doubt realized this during her time here, but she had only lived here for a couple of months. She couldn't know just how off Storybrooke was. For a long time, Gold himself hadn't realized the extent of the strangeness in the town. Certainly he had perceived the small oddities here and there: how none of the permanent residents ever seemed to move away, how vague everyone's memories of their pasts were. But somehow it had never seemed all that important to him, occupied as he was by his own dealings.
Since Graham's death, though, he had thought much more about the peculiarities of the small town, and had even comprehended some which had escaped him before. No one seemed to age in Storybrooke, he had realized. Mrs. Woods hadn't aged a day in…all the years he had known her. Mayor Mills had been the mayor for as long as he could remember, even though she was only in her early thirties. He had been in Storybrooke for well over twenty years; he should have been able to remember the mayor as a teenager, and Mrs. Woods as a middle-aged woman. For that matter, he should have been able to remember himself as a young man, for he would have been so when he arrived in the town. Never interested in the past before, Gold now found himself constantly trying to remember it. And always there was the same result: he could remember roughly the past ten years with relative clarity, but the rest…it was as though a swirling mist fogged his brain every time he tried to think back any further. There were flashes here and there, like his memories of Amy's parents, but that was all.
It disturbed him, and he was not a man who was easily disturbed. He felt as though he was trying to solve a large, complicated jigsaw puzzle, but too many of the pieces were missing. When he did happen across another piece, it only made the puzzle as a whole more complex and impossible to solve. This new piece of the puzzle—discovering Mary Margaret Blanchard had been Amy's fourth-grade teacher, though she couldn't be any more than five or six years older than the nineteen-year-old—was no exception.
Add to this the other memories that flickered randomly through his mind—the ones he thought of as "sense-memories," such as the déjà vu he experienced whenever he held Amy in his arms or stroked her hair—and Gold found himself a most confused man. The myriad strangenesses of Storybrooke might be like a jigsaw puzzle, but the other memories…of a past life?…gave him the sense of pulling on a locked door. The door had been firmly barred at first, but bit by bit it was starting to give way. What could be waiting on the other side?
He had not discussed any of this with Amy. He believed she would understand, but he felt, somehow, that to enlighten her could put her in harm's way. He found it odd that she had never appeared to notice any of this, or at least hadn't mentioned it if she had. Had it never occurred to her that a girl with her near-eidetic abilities should remember far more of her life than the past few years of it? Had she never noticed the inconsistencies in ages, the hazy collective memories of the townspeople, the fact that no one ever left?
She had mentioned to him earlier, as they were leaving for the service, that she had never been to a funeral before. He had thought then that there was something wrong with the statement, but now it hit him. Mr. Boyd. She hadn't attended the funeral of the father of one of her best friends? She would have been in middle school at the time, certainly old enough to attend a funeral. He remembered now her trip down memory lane on Thanksgiving night; she had only spoken of Ashley's father in passing. When she did speak of him, she had been quite matter-of-fact. "Ashley's father was already dead by then," she had said as an aside during one of her stories. That didn't fit at all with the rest of what he knew about her. Amy Miller cried over sad books. He had seen her weep over a Hallmark commercial. Surely the thought of her best friend's late father should have provoked a few fond reminiscences at the very least. It was almost as if the memories were so painful she had buried them deeply…or as if she had never really known the man at all. Same thing with the baby's father. She spoke of the young man who had called himself Todd Prince as if she had known him many years before, instead of only a few months, and there was little feeling in her recollections.
It was very strange, indeed, that Amy had never noticed any of these things. But he wasn't going to point them out to her, at least not for the time being. At best, it would confuse her. At worst, it would upset her, and after the preterm labor scare he was definitely not going to cause her any undue emotional distress. And though he couldn't put his finger on it, he had a strong feeling that if Amy were to realize just how rotten things were in Denmark, she would be in grave danger.
So he put the thoughts from his mind as best he could. This really wasn't the time. Today was about saying goodbye to the Sheriff. (Although there was something suspicious there, too, he thought; a vigorously healthy young man dying of 'natural causes'? Gold wasn't sure if Graham's death had anything to do with the mystery of Storybrooke, but he suspected as much.)
During his ponderings, young Henry Mills had joined Emma and Mary Margaret. Gold glanced towards the front of the auditorium and wasn't surprised to see Mayor Mills, looking quite regal in a black suit and small pillbox hat with a veil, glaring at their small group. He allowed a small smile to cross his lips and raised one eyebrow at her sardonically. She flushed and made a show of turning to face forward once again.
Gold turned his attention to the conversation that was going on between the Mayor's son and Amy. "How are things going with…you know?" Amy asked the boy. Gold's interest was raised.
It was piqued even further when Henry replied, dejectedly, "We're kind of on a break from that right now."
Amy nodded, seeming to understand. Lowering her voice, she said "Did you ever figure out what we talked about that day?"
The boy leaned in closer, a spark of excitement momentarily lighting up his glum face. "Not yet," he whispered. "I found something interesting, though. Some of the pages are missing from the book. I never noticed it before. Whoever took them out did a really good job, like with an X-Acto knife or something. I think maybe you were in those pages"—he glanced at Mr. Gold—"maybe him too."
Gold was officially intrigued and more than a little mystified. He hid it well, however; he knew instinctively that whatever Henry was talking about was meant for Amy's ears only. So he purposely didn't look in their direction, gazing instead around the auditorium. He acted as though he hadn't heard a single word of the whispered conversation.
"Henry," Emma said presently, "Regina's staring at us again. You'd better get back up there before she does the Darth Vader force-choke on one of us."
Out of the corner of his eye Gold observed the look Henry gave his birth mother at the offhand remark; it looked as if the boy truly believed his adoptive mother would attempt such a thing. He might not be too far off at that, the pawnbroker mused. After a hasty farewell he scampered away to rejoin his mother in the front row.
"I take it he's finally starting to realize the truth about the fairy-tale thing?" Amy murmured to Emma once Henry had gone. Gold was listening closer than ever now, while appearing to not be listening at all; a skill of his which had come in handy more times than he could count.
"Maybe," Emma whispered. "I don't know. He wants to give up on Operation Cobra for right now, but I don't think it's because he's starting to outgrow it. He says it's too dangerous. I haven't been able to get him to talk about it much, but I'm pretty sure he believes Regina had something to do with…what happened."
Amy winced. "And he's scared that she'll go after you next," she finished the blonde's unspoken thought. "Poor little guy."
"I know," Emma said quietly. "I wish he'd open up to me, so I could at least try to convince him that it was…nothing to do with her. I'm thinking of talking to Dr. Hopper about it. Maybe he can convince him that it was just one of those things."
Amy nodded. "I hope so," she replied. "I wanted him to realize the truth, of course. But not like this."
"No," Emma said sadly, "not like this."
"What was that all about?" Mr. Gold whispered once Emma and Mary Margaret had returned to their seats.
Amy had realized the entire time that he had been listening. He could fool everyone else with his elaborate show of disinterest, but she knew better. The more he seemed not to be paying attention, the closer he was actually doing so. "Tell you later," she whispered back.
Marco, the kindly town handyman, came up to say hello then. For once his best friend Dr. Hopper wasn't with him. Dr. Hopper, it transpired, was backstage doing a final run-through of the eulogy he had prepared for Graham. Amy and Mr. Gold were both pleased that Dr. Hopper, rather than the mayor, would perform the eulogy. From there their thoughts diverged. Mr. Gold was thinking that Marco, as well, hadn't aged a day in all the years since he'd come to Storybrooke. Amy was thinking how much she had always liked the elderly man. It was well known in town that Marco loved children, and had never been able to have any. Even if she hadn't known this previously, Amy would have been able to guess this easily from his actions. His sad face had brightened at the sight of her pregnant belly. As he often did when he was emotional, the handyman had lapsed into his native Italian. Amy only understood a handful of the words—bella, carissima, and bambina—but from those few phrases and his wide smile, she pretty well got the gist of what he was saying. She thought fleetingly that if only Marco was a few decades younger and his wife was still living, she would want him to adopt her baby. Her daughter would undoubtedly have been cherished growing up in that home. Alas, that wasn't possible. But she would find the right family for her child. She made a mental note to ask Mr. Gold again later about his progress with the prospective couples.
As Marco left them the music began. Rather than the funereal organ music she'd been expecting, the piped-in music was a string arrangement, light and lovely. The music played long enough for everyone to find their seats. The auditorium was packed; Graham had had a good turnout. Amy was obscurely pleased by this.
She was pleased, too, with Dr. Hopper's eulogy. Though he hadn't known the sheriff well, the psychiatrist had managed to put together a moving tribute. He spoke of Graham's unfailing kindness, his loyalty to the town of Storybrooke and its citizens, his dedication to his job. He brought up Graham's love of animals and the countless hours he'd spent volunteering at the animal shelter. "'The true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good'," Dr. Hopper quoted. "In his short time on this earth, Sheriff Graham proved himself to be a mountain of a man."
Amy thought this was beautiful and eloquent. Gold, however, had to resist the urge to squirm in his seat. He had no quibble with the sentiment or its application towards the late sheriff; but it hit a nerve. Had he ever once gone out of his way to help someone without thinking about how it would benefit him in the long run? Had he ever given anyone aid or succor without strings attached?
Yes, came the surprising answer. You used to be the sort of man who would give the shirt off his back without expecting anything in return, even gratitude. But you learned the error of your ways eventually.
It was one of those brief, teasing flashes that had come to him more and more in the past few weeks. Instinctively he knew it to be true, but when he cast about in his mind, he could find no correlating memory. Oh, it was frustrating. He had racked his brain for hours on end, trying to recall the past he had previously shut out; but it simply would not come. He was even thinking of speaking to Dr. Hopper about the matter; perhaps the psychiatrist could help him unlock the secrets of his own mind, or at least recommend a good hypnotherapist. If anyone had suggested to Gold six months ago that he would be considering such drastic solutions, he would have thought them insane.
After concluding the eulogy, Dr. Hopper announced that there would be a reception immediately following at Granny's Diner. Amy would have liked to go, but she knew better than to mention it. Mr. Gold originally hadn't even wanted her to come to the service; it had only been after much pleading on her part that he had consulted Dr. Dockery and gotten the OB-GYN's blessing. And Doc had been very clear that she was to attend the service only, and return to home and bed immediately after. Attending the reception was out of the question.
The very instant the "moment of silence" that concluded the memorial service came to an end, she felt Mr. Gold's hand on her arm. "Come, dear," he whispered, "let's get out to the parking lot before the crowd disperses." Obediently she stood, shrugged on her coat, and allowed him to escort her to the double doors of the auditorium. There, however, she nearly collided with someone else.
She turned to the person with a polite "Excuse me" on her lips. But the words died in her throat as she saw who she had almost crashed into.
Joe Miller had similarly been trying to beat a hasty retreat; whether to avoid the rush or his daughter, who could say? In his rush to leave, however, he had inadvertently come face-to-face with the one person he had hoped to avoid.
For one confused moment he thought that it was Grace. She looked almost exactly as Grace had during the final months of the pregnancy that had taken her life: rosy, blooming with health, and utterly beautiful.
Briefly, Joe Miller thought a miracle had been visited upon him; that his beloved wife had somehow, inexplicably returned to him. His hard expression softened just the tiniest bit. Then the vision spoke. Just one word, beseeching: "Daddy…"
He came crashing back to reality then. It wasn't Grace. Grace was lost to him for good; what stood before him now was the author of her demise, looking at him with those familiar gray-blue eyes, bright with a painful mixture of anxiety and hope. The face was very like the one he had fallen in love with all those years ago, but the hair, the same near-black as his own, gave her away. There she stood, the child who had cost him his wife, her belly bloated with the bastard with whom she had shamed him in front of the entire town (your grandchild, some inner voice tried to remind him before he cut it off).
Amy's shoulders sagged with despair as the momentary softness on her father's face vanished. Still she tried once more, reaching out to him tentatively. "Daddy…"
Another expression ghosted across the man's face, unreadable to Amy. Only Mr. Gold, right behind her, saw the expression for what it was. It momentarily threw him; it wasn't what he'd been expecting to see at all. For just the briefest instant, Joe Miller's face twisted with naked, powerful sorrow.
Then the expression was gone as quickly as if it had never been. Wordlessly, the man whirled around and left the auditorium.
Amy was dimly aware of the buzz of voices behind her. She realized that all of Storybrooke had been witness to the scene. The realization brought her no embarrassment; she was beyond that now. So enveloped was she in her misery that she didn't realize that the whispers and murmurs were those of sympathy. There wasn't a person in that crowd who wouldn't have liked to punch Joe Miller in the face at that moment. There wasn't a person in that crowd who didn't want to come forward and reassure his daughter that she was a wonderful girl, worth ten of him.
She could have moved into anyone's arms at that moment. Indeed, Granny, Ruby and Ashley had fought their way to the forefront of the mob. The trio stood waiting for Amy to crumble, to collapse, to seek comfort with one of them. They were ready to give it.
But Amy did none of these things. There was only one pair of arms she sought as her heart shattered in her breast; and it just happened to be the pair of arms that were most readily available. The crowd gasped as one as the girl spun around and blindly flung herself at Mr. Gold.
Caught off guard himself, Mr. Gold nevertheless reacted quickly. His arms came up to catch her in a firm embrace. He held her tightly against him as the dam finally broke and she began to sob. As she wept against his suit jacket a flurry of emotions passed through him. His heart wrung with sympathy for her. He wanted to follow her father into the parking lot and beat the man to death with his cane. He was pleased that she had turned to him for comfort first, even with all her friends close by. Part of him exalted at the fact that the citizens of Storybrooke looked by and large horrified at the sight of her embracing the man they thought of as a monster. Though she didn't know it and probably wouldn't care if she did, Amy had effectively cooked her own goose with the majority of the townspeople.
Underneath it all was the faintest glimmer of hope. Amy had turned to him first. She had come straight to him with no hesitation, knowing he would be there to lean on. Could it possibly be that she felt something for him beyond friendship and gratitude? Was there the slightest chance that her feelings for him mirrored his for her?
These thoughts would have to wait, however. Right now he had more urgent matters on his mind, mainly getting Amy to the car and safely home. "Come, dearest," he whispered into her ear, "Let's get you home."
An eternity seemed to pass before Amy finally broke away from him, though it was only a few seconds. Looking utterly defeated, she nodded in acquiescence. Putting a protective arm around her, taking no notice of the crowd surrounding them, Gold began to carefully maneuver her once again to the double doors. It was slow going, with his bad leg and Amy sagging against him, practically dead weight.
Someone came forward and stood at Amy's other side. "I'll help," said a low voice. It was Ruby.
Looking into the young waitress's face, Gold was surprised to see no hatred or censure. Rather, the young woman looked…understanding. Gold had the uncomfortable thought that Storybrooke's official "wild child" knew just how he felt about the stricken girl who leaned heavily on him. Once again, not able to help himself, he searched her face for any trace of disapproval. Once again, he found none. There was anger, but he knew instinctively that it was directed not at him, but at Amy's father. There was concern for Amy, of course. And there was that knowing look that so discombobulated him.
Ruby raised her eyes to meet his, then, and he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that she knew the exact nature of his feelings for Amy, and didn't judge him for it. "Of course you love her," those eyes seemed to say. "How could you not?"
If it wasn't exactly a blessing, it was good enough for Gold. He nodded slightly at the young woman. Those surrounding them thought he was merely assenting to her offer of help. Only the two of them knew otherwise.
Together, they managed to help Amy to the car. Together they settled her into the passenger seat. Before closing the door, Ruby leaned in and gave her friend a brief, tight hug. "It'll be OK, Amelia," she whispered. Amy roused herself enough to give her a weak smile.
After shutting the car door Ruby looked at Mr. Gold over the roof. "Take care of her," the young woman said simply.
"I will," he promised. "Ruby?"
She looked at him expectantly.
He almost asked her Does Amy feel the same about me as I do about her? But he thought better of it. He knew she would tell him the truth, but he was afraid of what that truth might be. If Amy did love him, if she didn't, either way he was damned. So he said instead, "Thank you."
She shrugged. "Don't mention it." Without further ado she turned and headed back into the auditorium.
As Gold took his place behind the wheel of the car, it occurred to him that, like her best friend, there was a lot more to Ruby Woods than met the eye.
…
As they drove home in silence, Gold seethed inwardly with anger. Surprisingly, it wasn't directed at Joe Miller; though there had been a brief moment when he would have liked to kill the man, he had seen the fleeting sorrow in his face as he looked upon his estranged daughter. There was a part of the man, Gold thought, perhaps the shadow of that happy young man who had died along with his wife, that had longed to respond to the girl, had wanted to embrace her and forgive her, and seek forgiveness himself. But something had held him back. It was almost as though he was a marionette, one whose strings were invisible, but who was still controlled by the actions of another.
No, his anger was all for himself. He never should have allowed Amy to go to the memorial service. He should have foreseen what might happen, what had happened. Amy didn't understand that a part of her father wanted to reconcile with her. She hadn't comprehended that spark of pain and remorse in his eyes. To her it seemed as if her father had rejected her once again, this time in front of the entire town.
He should have stuck to his guns and refused to take her to the service. But she had begged and carried on so, he had been afraid she would work herself into a state again. So after getting Dr. Dockery's reluctant approval, he had given in. Now look what had happened. Amy wasn't crying now, but what she was doing was far worse. She was, quite simply, doing nothing at all. She stared blankly out the window, not moving, not speaking. It was as though there was a mannequin sitting in the seat beside him. He would have infinitely preferred the tears.
As they neared his estate, he wondered what on earth he would do if he had to carry her into the house. He knew he couldn't do it alone. He had only been able to get her into the car with Ruby's help. How would he ever manage to get her back out of the car and into the house, much less to the master suite? He should have asked Ruby to come along and help him.
Luckily it proved to be an unnecessary worry. Amy brightened infinitesimally as they started up the long driveway to the house. She thought of this as home now, he realized. She felt safe here, secure as an animal in its den. She obviously felt protected with him as well. Knowing she felt this way brought him some consolation.
"We're home, dear," he said gently as he parked in the circular entrance. He was relieved beyond words when she unbuckled herself and opened the car door of her own accord. Even so, he linked his arm through hers as he guided her into the house. He was terrified that she would collapse at any moment.
Once they had reached the master suite without incident, however, he felt certain that she was going to be all right. She wasn't gearing up for a fit of hysterics. Rather, it seemed as though she had simply retreated into her own mind for a bit, until she was better able to process the events of the day. She was already beginning to emerge from the fugue. When they reached what was her room for the time being, she sighed with relief as she kicked off her navy flats.
"Why don't you change into something more comfortable," he suggested, "and I'll go make us something to eat."
"I'm not hungry," she said. She wasn't being argumentative, only stating a fact.
"You still need to eat," he told her. "You have to think of the baby." It was the one argument that always worked with her, and it didn't fail him this time. She nodded her agreement as she moved to the large chest of drawers in search of one of her many lounging outfits.
By the time he returned with bowls of vegetable soup (made by Mrs. Woods and frozen "for a rainy day") along with crusty bread and two tall glasses of milk, Amy was clad in her familiar uniform of lounging pants and an oversize, wash-faded T-shirt, this one proclaiming "More Cowbell". She had removed her jewelry and washed her face, and her hair was loose from its twist. Sitting on the bed channel-surfing, she looked once again entirely herself.
She even managed a smile when he carried in the food. "Smells good," she said appreciatively.
They ate in silence for a little while, watching the CSI rerun she had finally settled on. When it went off and was replaced by a talk show (the topic: "Born-Again Bikers Sleeping with Their Mothers-In-Law") she switched the TV off.
He searched for an appropriate topic of conversation. He didn't really want to discuss the memorial service, and he definitely didn't want to bring up her disastrous "reunion" with her father. If she wanted to talk about it he was willing to listen, but he sensed she wasn't ready for that yet. When he recalled her strange conversations with Henry Mills and Emma Swan, he decided that would do.
"What on earth were you talking about with Henry and Deputy Swan earlier?" he asked.
This gambit opened up a most interesting avenue of discussion. Amy finally revealed to him Henry's theory that all the residents of Storybrooke were, in fact, denizens of the fairy-tale world, placed under a curse by an evil queen. Gold couldn't suppress a smirk when she told him that in Henry's mind, the "evil queen" was none other than Regina Mills.
"He may have a point there," he said dryly.
Amy actually giggled. "That's exactly what I thought when he first told me about it," she confessed.
He had figured out the fairy-tale identities of some of the people in town, she told him, but others were still a mystery.
"Like you and me," he said.
She grinned. "Well…yeah. Emma suggested that you might be King Midas, but Henry shot that down pretty quick. Apparently you don't look anything like the illustration of King Midas in his book."
"Darn," he deadpanned. "I would have liked to be Midas." She laughed. "Perhaps you're Snow White," he suggested. "You look something like her: 'hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow…'"
No, he thought suddenly. She's not Snow White, any more than you're King Midas. He jumped a bit at the thought. Where had it come from, and what did it mean? Certainly he didn't believe this crazy idea of Henry's…so why did it seem to make such perfect sense?
"No, Mary Margaret is Snow White," Amy said, not noticing the odd look on his face as even odder thoughts swam through his head. "Ashley is Cinderella, and Ruby is Little Red Riding Hood—he figured that one out just a few weeks ago, by the way. I guess that makes Granny the grandmother who got eaten by the wolf. He says he still can't figure the two of us out, though. He thinks we may be in the pages that are missing from the book."
Once again silence fell between them. They were each lost in their own thoughts. They had no way of knowing that, as was so often the case with them, their thoughts paralleled one another up to a certain point.
What ran through both their minds was the classic fairy tale "Beauty and the Beast". Though their situation wasn't exactly like that presented in the old story, they each realized that it was close. Only the small details differed: Amy wasn't his prisoner, and she hadn't come to him to take the place of her beloved father. Rather, she had turned to him after her father sent her away. Still, the lovely young girl had come to the home of the monster, only to discover that perhaps he wasn't such a monster at all. The similarities were disconcerting, to say the least.
Once again, their thoughts diverged. I'm no beauty, Amy thought. I'm no prince under a spell, Gold thought. Then their thoughts melded again: He could never love me. She could never love me.
The knowledge wasn't terribly painful for Amy. She had long since accepted that Gold felt nothing more for her than a platonic, protective affection. Though she would never stop wishing it could be different, she was happy he felt that much for her.
But it nearly destroyed him. He was starting to suspect that Amy did indeed love him, but the knowledge brought him no joy. He knew she didn't love him as he truly was. Rather, she loved the man she believed him to be; the man he had dared to believe in his more fanciful moments that he could be. But just as a leopard couldn't change its spots, a villain couldn't suddenly transform into a hero. And he was a villain; there was no doubt of that. Perhaps he hadn't always been so, but he had played the role too long, and found that it suited him too well. He could never be the man Amy needed. He could never be the man she deserved.
But I do love her, he thought almost desperately. Doesn't that prove something? Doesn't it prove that maybe, deep down, I'm not truly a monster?
The answer hit him with such force it seemed to come from outside himself. As he comprehended the truth of it he sank into despair.
It proves only that a monster can love, too.
…
He left her shortly after that. Amy understood him well enough to realize he was deeply disturbed about something, but she assumed it was the events of the day that had upset him so. She had no idea of the darkness that had descended upon his soul.
Surprisingly, he didn't return for the rest of the evening. For the first time in weeks, Amy was alone with her own company. She had never minded solitude before, but she found now that it was unbearable. She tried to occupy herself. She attempted to read, but found herself staring at the same page for half an hour, having absorbed none of the words. She turned on the TV, but found nothing on that captured her attention. The laptop likewise held no interest for her.
Around ten she heard his slow, careful footsteps coming down the hall, punctuated by the thump of his cane. He hesitated outside her door, and she expected him to knock.
After a moment, though, the footsteps moved on, and she heard the door to the guest room open and shut. So he wasn't planning to come back. She felt a wave of disappointment, but she understood. He was obviously tired. It had been an exhausting day. Perhaps a good night's sleep was what they both needed.
Bored as she was, long and trying as the day had been, she expected to fall asleep quickly. But for the first time since she became pregnant, sleep eluded her. The room was too warm, for one thing. Even with the fireplace turned off, the temperature in the room was almost stifling. She tossed and turned a bit, trying and failing to get comfortable. Maybe if I change into something cooler, she thought.
Rifling through the dresser, she found the coolest sleepwear she had: the pale blue satin nightie Mr. Gold had given her when she was in the hospital. With a sigh of relief she discarded the T-shirt and flannel pants and slipped the gown on along with its matching panties. Yes, that was much better.
She climbed back into bed. Surely now she would be able to fall asleep. But though she was more comfortable now, sleep still didn't come. What came in its place were the memories of the day she had just spent. She had managed to put the events of the day out of her mind, but now they returned with a vengeance. No matter what she tried to think of instead, the memories flooded in and crowded out her would-be pleasant, sleep-inducing thoughts. Finally, with a sigh, she stopped fighting and let them simply wash over her.
…
He woke from his fitful doze to the unmistakable sound of weeping coming from the next room. The sound didn't surprise him, but it bothered him. He shouldn't have left her alone for so many hours. He should have stayed with her, talked with her about what had happened. Left alone, he should have realized, she would naturally ruminate on the events of the day: the memorial, which was bad enough, and then her run-in with her father. As tender-hearted as she was, he should have known that she would torment herself over her father's latest rejection. But he had needed to be alone with his own demons, so he had left her to face hers on her own. Gold was a man just learning to feel again; it was natural that he would make some mistakes along the way, but he should have known better.
There was only one thing to do now. Painfully, he rose from the narrow twin bed of the guest room and fumbled for his cane. He had left her alone at probably the worst possible time, but he could go to her now, try to offer some belated comfort to her. As he made his excruciating, pain-fogged way to what used to be his own bedroom, the weeping growing louder with each step he took, he took some solace in the realization that he would have moved to act at the sound no matter whom it issued from. Then again, only the blackest heart could have heard those plaintive cries without being moved. Perhaps there was hope for him yet. Maybe there was just enough man left inside the monster.
The short trip seemed to take an eternity. At long last he stood before the door to the master suite. He raised his hand to knock, but instead simply pushed open the door.
She stood at the window by the bed, staring out into the blackness beyond. Her back was to him, but he could see how tightly her arms were wrapped around herself, and the shaking of her shoulders. When she heard him enter she turned, startled. One hand rose to her throat in her customary gesture of surprise.
At the sight of her, Gold's heart sank. Perhaps coming to her had been the wrong thing to do, after all. She looked so indescribably beautiful silhouetted against the window, clad only in the nightgown he had given her a little over a month before. It had been fairly unrevealing then, but now, with her seventh month on the horizon, it left very little to the imagination. The mound of her abdomen strained against the delicate satin; her breasts, he noticed uncomfortably, did the same. Her nipples were plain under the sheer fabric. She might as well have been naked. Her dark hair cascaded around her shoulders. Even with the tears in her eyes and streaking her cheeks, she was a sight to behold. Watching her, Gold was dismayed to feel a tongue of flame uncoiling itself in his lower belly.
For a moment Amy wondered if Mr. Gold was sleepwalking; his face was that blank. When she saw the cane in his hand she doubted it, though it would be just like him to carry the thing in his sleep as well. His pajamas were different, she thought inanely. Rather than the burgundy ones he had been wearing when he came to tell her about Graham, these were forest green. Like the others, though, these were also silk and embroidered with the gold G.
As it had been on the other night, his long, gold-streaked brown hair was messy from sleep. For the first time since she had known him, he needed a shave. His cheeks and chin were covered with silvery stubble. She couldn't help thinking it became him. Without his usual suit-and-tie armor he looked younger, even with the gray that flecked his day's growth of beard. He looked younger, softer, and—even in her misery she couldn't deny it—achingly sexy. With his hair all a mess and the stubble sparkling against his skin, he looked unsettlingly like the Mr. Gold she still saw in her dreams from time to time. Her tears forgotten for the moment, she stared at him, mesmerized.
As she drank him in, he seemed to come to life before her eyes. Awareness came back into those large brown eyes. "Amy," he said in a voice still gritty with sleep.
She suddenly realized that her crying must have woken him. On the heels of this realization came the uncomfortable awareness that she was, in the skimpy gown, as good as naked. Her face flamed. "Mr. Gold," she murmured, dropping her eyes. "I must've woken you. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," he said, limping carefully into the room. She saw immediately that his bad leg was troubling him more than usual. "I'm the one who's sorry, my dear."
She was honestly confused. "For what?"
"For leaving you earlier," he said, finally stopping a couple of feet away from her. "I should have stayed with you, I realize that now. You needed me, but I wanted to be alone with my own thoughts. I should have been thinking of you. You've been through far too much today."
She knew he was speaking not only of the memorial, but of her encounter with her father. At the memory, her eyes filled again.
He was distressed as the tears spilled over her cheeks once more. "Amy," he said, seeming to have great difficulty speaking. With a start she saw that he was…not crying, exactly, but overcome with emotion in a way she had never expected to see from him. "Amy, don't." He took another faltering step forward.
He tried to think what to say next. Platitudes swam through his mind, but none of them were right, none of them conveyed what he wanted to tell her. For once completely at a loss for words, he simply held out his arms. His cane dropped forgotten to the floor.
Mr. Gold's dark eyes were soft with concern. His voice was so gentle, tender almost. When he held out his arms to her, Amy went right into them without a second thought.
He held her wordlessly as she wept into his shoulder. His arms circled her gently but firmly. His hands moved up and down her back, the broad palms pleasantly rough against her skin. He didn't have the hands of a wealthy businessman, Amy couldn't help thinking. Though they were perfectly manicured and finely shaped, there was nothing soft or delicate about them. His palms were hard and puffy with muscle; she could definitely sense the steel-wire strength in those long, slender fingers. Like his eyes and mouth, his hands were hard, severe, some might say cruel. But also like his eyes and mouth, they were capable of gentleness, of kindness. Amy wondered if anyone else in the world besides her knew this.
Barely daring to breathe, wondering what on earth had come over him, Gold held the beautiful weeping girl. His mind may not have known what he was doing, but his body had no such problem. Of its own volition one of his hands moved to stroke the mass of almost-black hair. It did feel like fleece, he thought, fleece that had already been brushed and cleaned, the softest fleece from a lamb. The faintest scent of lavender clung to it, and against his mind's will he lowered his face to the top of her head and inhaled.
Something else was happening against his will, too. He shifted a bit as he felt the hardness in his groin. Did she feel it? Probably not, he decided. If she had been as slender as she'd been when he first met her, she most definitely would feel it, but now there was a nearly seven-months-pregnant belly in the way. Although, as his arousal continued to grow, he realized that eventually she would know. If he continued to hold her it would be pressing against her stomach before long; if he stepped away from her she would see it. It was a dilemma. For perhaps the first time in his life he didn't know what to do, so he did nothing.
It was she who solved his problem, albeit unknowingly. Lifting her head from his shoulder, she drew away just a bit but remained in his arms. He looked down at her tear-streaked face, that face he had come to see as beautiful even when it wasn't smiling, and his heart melted. He brought his hands around to tenderly wipe the tear tracks from her cheeks. More tears swam in her cobalt eyes and sparkled on her dark lashes, but they didn't fall. She gazed up at him for what seemed an eternity, her expression impossible to read. He gazed back, unsure of what to say or do next. But his blood knew.
Slowly, like a man in a dream, he leaned forward and kissed her softy on the lips.
In his haze he expected her to scream, to slap him, to do something. She didn't. She stood stock-still, holding his gaze with her own. Relieved by her non-reaction, suddenly certain that he was dreaming, he dared to plant another feather-light kiss on her lips.
This time, she kissed him back.
It was as though a dam had broken. For a few moments they continued to brush one another's lips lightly; then he parted his mouth slightly and she followed suit. Now absolutely sure he was dreaming, he slid his tongue into her mouth and was rewarded when she made a soft sound in her throat, her hands coming up to tangle themselves in his hair.
When she did this his own hands, which had been resting against her upper arms, were suddenly grazing the sides of her breasts instead. If he were awake, he thought fuzzily, he would end this immediately. But this was only a dream, a wonderful, incredible dream, and he would pursue it to its ultimate conclusion without guilt.
He broke the kiss, smirking at the slight sound of protest that came from her. Slowly, slowly, he lowered the spaghetti straps of her gown. Her eyes widened, but he knew instinctively it wasn't from shock or fear. He freed her arms from the straps and tugged the gown down until her breasts were fully revealed.
He breathed in sharply through his nose, and then exhaled through his mouth. With his breath came one word, barely audible: "Beautiful."
One of those elegant hands came gradually up to caress her left breast. As skin touched skin she gasped and closed her eyes. As each second passed with no sign of protest from her, he grew more and more bold. He stroked, squeezed, kneaded. He ran his thumbs lightly over her nipples until they were rock-hard. Her head fell back and her breath came in ragged bursts.
He slid his other hand around to the small of her back, guiding her towards the bed. When they reached it he sat down and drew her into his lap. He gave her one more deep, probing kiss before moving onward and downward. His lips moved over her neck and collarbone, sucking, licking and kissing. Finally he came yet again to her heaving chest. For a moment he simply buried his face in her cleavage, inhaling her scent. At last he lifted his head just enough to take one tender young breast into his mouth. He ran his tongue over her nipple, eliciting a tiny cry from her as she once again tightened her fingers in his hair.
Until then she had passively accepted his ministrations; now she came to life. Suddenly small hands were deftly unbuttoning his pajama top, skimming over his own chest and stomach with the lightest touch. She moved forward to press her breasts against his bare pecs. As she did she captured his lips again with her own.
Her legs were spread wide on either side of him. Her gown, already half-off, had hiked up around her waist when she sat; underneath she wore the pale-blue satin panties that went with it. Their sexes were pressed together now, separated only by a few thin layers of clothing. There was no question she could feel his erection now, the erection he had been trying to think how to hide only a few minutes before. But since her panties were soaked clear through and wetting his pajama bottoms, concealing his arousal was the very last thing on his mind now. Quenching his arousal, on the other hand…ah, that was another matter entirely.
Almost as if she knew what he was thinking, her hand crept slowly between them. Her fingertips brushed against the telltale bulge. A hiss escaped his clenched teeth as his eyes slammed shut. It was a pity, for he didn't see the slightly wicked and very sensual smile that spread across her face as she very deliberately began to stroke him through the material.
He gave a strangled gasp and let his head fall back. If this was a dream, he decided, he never wanted to wake up. Only in his most private fantasies had he dared to imagine something like this ever happening between them, and this put even his most lurid imaginings to shame.
He wanted nothing more than to simply take her right now…to lay her back on the bed, tear the nightgown the rest of the way from her body, and bury himself in her to the hilt. His member throbbed with the need for release. He knew she wouldn't stop him, knew that she wouldn't protest. It was obvious to him that she wanted the exact same thing.
But he wouldn't. That was one line he wasn't willing to cross, at least not yet. Much as he wanted to slake his lust (and hers…there was no doubting that) he wouldn't enter her. It could be dangerous for her and the child. He had no qualms about making love to her while she carried another man's child, but he wouldn't endanger her by doing so. He knew that intercourse could trigger labor. If not for her previous preterm labor, he would have risked it. But knowing it had happened once, he was loath to do anything that might make it happen again. He would die before he would ever cause her harm in any way.
There were other ways, however…plenty of other things they could do to satisfy his lust, and hers. Smiling at the thought, he eased her off his lap and onto the bed, pushing down on her shoulders gently so that she lay on her back.
For a moment he simply admired her. God, she was exquisite. The blue satin gown was still down below her breasts and crumpled above the mound of her abdomen. He remembered how she had looked before the baby became apparent: lean, boyish even, with small breasts and a narrow waist and a flat stomach. He had thought her lovely then. But now, with her swollen breasts, her widening hips and burgeoning belly…oh, she was breathtaking.
She returned his stare, her face flushed, her breath coming in pants, but her eyes calm. 'Do with me what you will,' she seemed to be saying. He needed no further invitation. Lightly he skimmed his fingertips over the crotch of her panties, which were drenched with her arousal. She let out another soft cry as she arched her hips to his touch. Slowly, painfully slowly, he dipped his fingers into the waistband, placing them on her warm center and the silky wetness there. She moaned and ground herself against his hand. Her own hand flew again to his erection and gripped it firmly through the pajama bottoms.
His smile widened. Oh, yes. There were other ways.
He leaned over her and gave her another hard kiss, flicking her clit lightly with his thumb as he did so. She spasmed a bit but didn't go completely over the edge. Good, very good. He withdrew his hand from her, chuckling deep in his throat at her sound of protest. He had other plans for her. It wouldn't do for her to come too quickly.
Her hand, still gripping him, began to slide up and down his shaft. The warmth of her hand, coupled with the friction of the satin pajamas, was pure bliss. It was with a great effort he held off his own orgasm. So long, it had been. Too long. How had ever lived without this? How could he have forgotten what this was like?
Once again he peppered her neck and collarbone with kisses, steadily working his way south. He lingered at her breasts for only a moment this time. There was another area he wanted to taste, to trace his tongue along, and to bury his face in. He had no doubt that she would go off like a rocket once he did so, and it would be enough to finish him as well.
But he was never to know this. As he trailed his lips over her belly, the baby kicked.
The force of the kick was enough to restore his senses. Dear God, what am I doing? It seemed to have restored Amy's reason as well; she sat up, gasping, clutching her stomach.
"Are you all right?" he asked quickly. He prayed she wasn't going into labor again.
She nodded. "Fine," she managed. "Just got the wind knocked out of me, is all. She's never kicked me so hard before."
He rose quickly, straightening his pajamas as best he could. There was no hiding his erection or the large patch of wetness on his pajama bottoms, so he simply pretended they didn't exist. As he attempted to neaten himself, he searched his mind for what to say.
"Amy…" he began, then stopped. What could he say? What was there to say, really?
She looked up at him, still mostly nude. She made no effort to straighten her nightgown. He could see the pink suck marks forming on her neck and breasts, the beard burn on her cheeks. Her lips were swollen and bruised-looking from the force of his kisses. Damn, damn. How could he have done this? How could she have allowed him to do this? How could she still look so beautiful, sitting there covered in the stigmata of his passion?
"I'm sorry," he said finally.
This was obviously not what she had been expecting to hear. A quizzical line formed between her eyebrows.
"This never should have happened," he went on, the words coming easily now though he knew he didn't mean them. "You're very vulnerable right now, and I took advantage of that. I couldn't help myself…you're so lovely, so soft and sweet, and, well, I guess everything that's happened lately has hit me harder than I thought. I should never have allowed it to go as far as it did, though. You needed comfort. So did I, I suppose, but that's not the right kind."
She was shaking her head, no, no. "You weren't taking advantage of me," she said in a low tone, finally pulling the straps of her nightgown back up. "I wanted it."
"You think you wanted it," he said gently. "Trust me, dear; you would have regretted it eventually. This sort of thing never ends well. Thank God the baby kicked and brought us both back to our senses. If that hadn't happened, who knows how far it would have gone? I might not have…I might not have been able to stop."
"I didn't want you to stop," she said, barely audible.
He sighed. "But I needed to stop. I could have hurt you, Amy. I could have hurt the baby. Not that I would have meant to do it, but sex has been known to bring on labor. If I hadn't stopped, if I had caused injury to you or the baby by not stopping, I would never have been able to forgive myself.
"I'll never forgive myself anyway," he concluded miserably. "I promised myself in the first few days you were here that I would never…touch you…this way. I told myself I would never…" He trailed off as her eyebrows lifted. The gesture reminded him disconcertingly of himself.
"All this time?" she said softly, incredulously. "All this time, you've…wanted me?" Her heart swelled, the pain of the last day forgotten for the moment in the amazing knowledge that he had been feeling the same as she all along.
"No!" he burst out, backing away from her. "No, I…that's not what I meant." At her ever-so-slightly-amused look of disbelief, he began to babble. "I mean, yes, of course I've thought about it before. Who could blame me? You're so beautiful, so kind and gentle, and I'm only a man. You're the only person in this town who treats me like a man, not like I'm…some kind of monster. It's natural that I would develop…those feelings…but I never intended to act upon it!"
Her face softened at his obvious anguish. "Mr. Gold," she said soothingly, stretching out her hands. "It's OK, really. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm of age, I'm certainly not…untouched, and…I've had these feelings too, you know."
"No, no," he insisted, shaking his head. "You think that's what you're feeling. I'm the only man who's shown you any kindness in a long, long time. This is only your way of trying to repay me. Amy, you've got to believe me, I never wanted this from you. I never expected this."
"But it's not," she argued, just as insistent but much calmer. "Yes, you're the first man who's ever treated me this well. And I am grateful to you for that. But these feelings I have…they're different. It has nothing to do with wanting to repay you."
"It does, it does," he groaned. "You may think it doesn't, but you're wrong. You don't want me, Amy. You couldn't possibly want me. You're young, beautiful, good. I'm just an old crippled pawnbroker, crippled in my leg and crippled in my soul. If you knew me, really knew me, you'd want nothing to do with me. You wouldn't be able to stand the sight of me."
"Mr. Gold…" she said softly, carefully. She could never have imagined seeing him in this much agitation. It tore at her heart. Did he really see himself as some kind of monster, some kind of hideous, deformed creature unworthy of love? Could he really not see the elegance, the intellect, the carefully concealed gentleness that had drawn her to him?
He groped around for his cane, the cane he had all but forgotten about only minutes before. As if to remind him exactly why it was needed, his bad leg suddenly throbbed in agony. Hissing in pain, he clutched at the offending limb; doing so caused him to lose his balance and he suddenly found himself sprawled on the floor. It was the worst thing that could have possibly happened. He had never wanted anyone to see him like this: helpless, enslaved by his pain. He never wanted anyone to see him weak and vulnerable, but most especially he had never wanted her to see him this way. Unable to move, he could only close his eyes against the horror and pity he was sure he would see on her face.
Within moments those small, sure hands were on him again. Instead of bringing him to dizzying heights of ecstasy, they moved more prosaically now: helping him to sit up, straightening his pajama top, and brushing the hair from his face. Eyes still closed, he felt her press something into his hand. He recognized the cool metal of the knob of his cane.
At this, his other hand grasped hers in mute gratitude. But he still couldn't bring himself to open his eyes, because he couldn't bear to see the look in hers.
She knew this. "Mr. Gold," she said in a firm, no-nonsense voice he had never heard from her before. In her stern tones he recognized his own patented gentle-yet-commanding tenor. He almost smiled at the sound; she really had absorbed some of him in the past few months. "Mr. Gold, look at me."
Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and focused them on her. He was relieved to see no pity in her face. There was concern, yes, and compassion, but no pity, nor the contempt that went hand-in-hand with it (at least in his mind), nor the revulsion he had been so afraid of. There was a steeliness about her expression, but it was more a thing of resolve than of anything else. He had seen it before, when she talked about giving her baby its best chance for a good life even if that meant giving her up. It was easy to forget about this toughness in her, but it was there. As fragile as she seemed, there was that core of strength deep within her. No matter what her life threw at her she would never break…bend, perhaps, but not break. Seeing this rarely-glimpsed side of her, Gold no longer had any doubt of his feelings towards her. There was no question that he was in love.
"Can you stand?" she asked.
He nodded unsurely. "I think so," he said.
She stood and again held out her hand. He almost protested, but at the look on her face thought better of it. He took the outstretched hand and allowed her to help him to his feet. It escaped neither of them that this time he was the one leaning on her.
"We're going to talk about this later," she said in that firm yet kind tone so eerily like his own. "But not tonight. You're tired, and you're hurting. I'm going to help you back to bed and get you something for the pain."
Still numb from his outburst, slightly dazed at the abrupt reversal in their roles, he allowed himself to be led back to the guest room and tucked into the bed. Once he was settled she went into the small bathroom he'd adopted as his own for the time being, returning momentarily with a glass of water and a bottle of pills—his Vicodin, he saw to his relief. The bottle was nearly full; he loathed narcotics and took the painkiller only when he was well and truly desperate for some relief from the pain. This was one of those times, however. Docile as a sick child, he accepted the two pills she handed him and swallowed them with the water without protest. She perched on the edge of the bed, watching him with all the loving concern of a mother…or a wife.
"You need to get back in bed," he told her finally. "You know you're not supposed to be…up and about." His words were fuzzy. The Vicodin had hit him quickly.
"I know," she said. "I'll go right back to bed. I promise. I really feel OK, though."
"I'm so…sorry," he murmured, the words blurring ever so slightly.
She kissed him then. Not a deep, passionate kiss, but a tender one nonetheless. "You don't have anything to be sorry for," she whispered in his ear. He was too stoned already to argue with her.
She rose then. But before she left, she paused to brush some errant strands of hair back from his face.
"You're no monster, Mr. Gold," she told him. Brushing another kiss across his lips, she finally left him.
Or is he? I think we all know the answer to that by now…or at least we hope we do.
This is definitely going to be non-canon after Sunday's episode. I still can't wait, though! I know I'm going to be squeeing like a demented fangirl all through the entire show. I've watched the preview at least ten times on YouTube already. And I have to agree with the poster who wrote "You're not a difficult man to love to me, my dear."
Once again, I own nothing but my OCs. And as always, hugs and kisses and sexy Rumple dreams to my readers and reviewers.