A/N: Just so you guys know, each session will have a follow-up chapter (or two) with things like Archie's notes on the session, police reports concerning the session, or, on occasion, Mr. Gold's homework from the session. I'll try to make sure the follow-up is posted the same day as the session, that way I don't do that thing I do where there are no updates for months and when you finally get it, it's notes.

Just.

Notes.

Yeah, won't happen.

"I don't normally make house calls, Mr. Gold."

"Tough titty."

"… Please don't say that."

Archie shifted a little on the ancient couch. He was sitting in Mr. Gold's living room, which was sparse and very dark. There were heavy sheets of burlap nailed over the windows. Gold was seated in a plush armchair opposite his therapist, but Archie was relegated to the antique sofa sitting just in front of the scratchy curtains.

The cushions were so soft he felt like he was floating. Or sinking, if he shifted slightly to the left. In contrast, the burlap behind his head felt like it would set his hair on fire if there was too much friction.

"Comfortable?" Gold asked.

Archie shook his head, but he might as well have just agreed for all Gold seemed to care.

"Tell me," Archie said, propping himself away from the sinkhole to his left. "Why are we meeting in your house instead of the office? I mean, it looks like you did a lot of cleaning just so I could come here. Why go through the trouble?"

Gold looked around the living room. When Archie said 'clean,' he used the term very loosely. Un-lived-in was a better word for it. The floorboards were dusty but bare, and the furniture was dusty and unused. The burlap looked new, though. And when Archie thought about it, not everything was bare. There were little clean spots where antiques had sat and gotten dusty instead.

Vaguely, Archie wondered where those antiques were now.

"It was no trouble," Gold told him lightly, lounging in his chair. "I hired Moe French to do it. I figured since he no longer has a business, he could use a job."

Archie paled. "You paid a man with a broken arm, a sprained neck, and a broken leg to clean your house?"

Gold smiled thinly. "I didn't say I paid him."

There was a long pause.

"Right," said Archie. "Well. About this burlap …"

Mr. Gold pulled a long face. "Yes," he said, "a sad replacement for the curtains."

"… What happened to the curtains?"

Gold waved one hand in a vague, circular motion. "Fire."

Archie decided not to question that. He returned back to his first inquiry. "Would you like to tell me why we're meeting here instead of at the office?"

Mr. Gold let out a long-suffering sigh. "I'm afraid a certain … irritating public figure likes to hang around your office as of late. I don't like to be annoyed."

Frowning, Archie thought about anyone who'd been spending an unnecessary amount of time around his office. "Sheriff Swan?" he guessed.

"No. Mayor Mills."

"Her son has therapy with me," Archie explained.

"I know." Gold stood suddenly, fetching his cane with a sort of lazy grace. "Would you like something to drink, Dr. Hopper?" he asked. Archie floundered for a moment as one train of thought was derailed in favor of another.

"Um," he said. "Um, no. No, thanks."

Gold shrugged and headed toward the kitchen. He returned with a tumbler of scotch.

"No alcohol during therapy," said Archie instantly. Gold raised an eyebrow at him.

"It's my house."

"But it's therapy."

"But it's my house."

Archie sighed. "I'm sensing that you feel uncomfortable," he said, ignoring Mr. Gold's rolling eyes. "Is that why you feel the need to drink?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Doctor, I'm not an alcoholic. I'm just thirsty."

"Alcohol is dehydrating," Archie informed him.

For a long moment, Mr. Gold sat with one hand covering his face. Then he sat back, blank-faced, and took a drink of scotch.

"OK," Archie muttered. "Next thing, then."

He reached to his left and yanked the sinkhole cushion off the couch. He pretended not to see the beetles living underneath it.

"Mr. Gold," he said, holding the cushion out far in front of him, "Sheriff Swan – and quite a few other people, in fact – tell me you have anger issues."

"So you rip out cushions from my antique sofa?" Gold asked. Archie gawked at him.

"There are beetles in it!"

Gold shrugged. "It's a fixer-upper."

Archie shook his head in disbelief and reminded himself firmly of the next exercise.

"Last time you showed your anger," he said, "was when you, ah, blew up at Mr. French. Would you like to tell me why you chose Mr. French for that particular … explosion?"

"For heaven's sake, Doctor, I'm not a volcano."

"You're avoiding the answer," Archie said. "Although, I am sorry if I caused you any offense."

Gold scoffed.

"Explosion?" Archie prompted. With an exaggerated sigh, Gold relented.

"Mr. French stole from me," he said simply. "He deserved what he got."

"You think stealing is punishable by a beating?"

Gold didn't answer.

"That unnerves me a little," said Archie honestly. "I mean, I did tell you about my parents, right? They were thieves."

Mr. Gold just gave him an exasperated look. Archie shifted uncomfortably and held the cushion out again.

"All right," he said. "Well, for this exercise, Mr. Gold, I want you to know that anger is okay. You can scream and yell. You can rant, or swear, or cry. You can even, uh, beat things up. But all I ask is that all of your anger be directed … at this pillow."

There was a long pause.

"Cushion," Gold corrected.

"Cushion," Archie agreed. "Sorry. It's normally a pillow."

"You want me … to rant at a cushion."

"Yes," said Archie.

"With you present."

"… Yes."

Gold stared at him. Archie shook the cushion in a sort of happy, encouraging jig.

"I'm not doing that," Gold said.

"Do you feel uncomfortable –"

"Yes!" Gold interrupted, a muscle in his cheek jumping. "It's a bloody cushion, Dr. Hopper. What the hell am I supposed to get angry about?"

Archie turned the cushion around so he could see it. He looked it up and down, searching for any irritating qualities.

"Pretend it's someone you're angry with," he suggested finally. Gold gave him a disparaging glare. "Here," said Archie. "I'll go first."

He cleared his throat and held the cushion out at arm's length, putting on a stern look.

"Now, Pongo," he said to it, trying to see a Dalmation's spots in one of the various stains, "you know you are not to use Daddy's bed as the backyard. Bad dog. Bad."

He whacked the cushion smartly on the … well, not on the nose, exactly, but … well, he whacked it.

"See?" he said to Gold.

"Seek therapy," Gold said. Archie smiled softly and held the cushion out again, presenting it to Mr. Gold.

"Who are you angry at?" he asked him. Gold gave him a sardonic look that seemed to say 'are you serious?' "It can be anyone. You don't even need to be mad at them right now – just make it someone you can get mad at quickly, and do to the pillow what you wish you could do to them."

"In anger," Gold checked.

"Yes."

There was a long silence. Gold was not forthcoming; he just stared at Archie, eyes narrowed.

"Pretend it's your parents," Archie suggested. "Pretend it's Moe French, or one of your other debtors. Pretend it's a – a bully you knew when you were little. Or heck, you can even pretend it's yourself."

There was another long pause.

"Step away from the cushion, Dr. Hopper," Gold advised. Archie just blinked for a moment; then, with a silent decision not to question, he propped the cushion up and moved to the other side of the room.

With the calm movements of a man well-suited to his actions, Gold pulled out his gun and shot the cushion three times.

Archie's jaw dropped and his mouth worked silently as the smoke cleared and little bits of singed fluff floated to the ground. Mr. Gold put the gun back into his suit pocket, apparently unaffected.

Archie squeaked.

"No firearms!" he managed finally, vaguely aware that he was frantically waving his arms. "What the hell, man? You can't just – just shoot a pillow!"

"You said I could do anything to it," Gold said calmly.

"Not that!"

Gold just shrugged. Swallowing hard, Archie edged the cushion off the couch, stomped out the little curls of fire, and sat down gingerly. Mr. Gold took another sip of scotch.

"So," said Archie when his hands had stopped trembling, "can I ask who you were imagining?"

A slight pause; Mr. Gold seemed to consider his scotch for a moment.

"Moe French," he said smoothly, with a note in his voice that seemed to apologize for being so predictable. For a moment, Archie was simply very glad that Sheriff Swan had rescued Moe French when she did.

It wasn't until later that he thought Gold might be lying.