A/N: This is my favorite chapter so far. It was lots of fun to write.
"I don't like this."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Gold."
"… No, you're not."
Archie shrugged, hid the smile on his face, and unlocked his front door.
"Don't worry," he assured Mr. Gold, who was standing a few feet away from the doorstep and frowning deeply. "We aren't going to stay long. We're just here for the necessities."
He motioned for Gold to follow him inside and flicked on a few lights. Belatedly, Archie wished he'd thought to stow the cricket trinkets somewhere else. Oh, and that cricket-themed clock. And the cricket salt-shakers. And the cricket-shaped cricket bat. But that was new, and he was secretly a little pleased to show it off.
"What the hell is this?" asked Mr. Gold. Archie turned around to see the other man prodding at a group of fat pillows, most of which had feelers and bendy green legs.
"Cricket throw pillows," Archie said.
"Cricket what?"
"They're for the couches," Archie explained. "They're … padding. Or decoration. Or something."
It occurred to him that he didn't know what throw pillows were for.
"If they're meant for couches," Gold said skeptically, "why are they crowded together on the shelf?"
Archie chose not to answer; not precisely. "I like crickets, okay?" he said defensively. "I'm sure you've got a favorite animal."
"Well, not a favorite insect."
A bit grumpily, Archie moved down the hall to the den. Gold followed him.
"I had to dissect crickets in high school," the pawnbroker mused. "They were so soaked in formaldehyde they were brown. Their insides are actually quite hamburger-like, did you know that?"
"Please stop."
Gold smiled. "We tore off their legs."
With a barely stifled moan, Archie shoved Mr. Gold's words out of mind and headed for his objective – the paint cans in the corner. He could feel Gold's eyes tracking him; he could always feel Gold's stare when it got that intensely sharp.
It was Gold's "I'll kill you" look.
Archie bent and hoisted three cans of paint off the ground. He kicked a package of newly purchased brushes across the floor to Mr. Gold's feet.
Very deliberately, the pawnbroker pushed his cane against the plastic casing and slid the brushes back across the room. They skidded under the couch. Archie just watched them go, and when they disappeared, he turned to Gold with a completely neutral expression.
"Well," he said, "I was going to ask you if you'd prefer to finger paint, but clearly you are so eager you didn't wait for me to offer."
Gold sneered.
"Here." Archie handed him one of the cans, pretending not to notice when the much smaller man stumbled and was nearly weighed down. Gold lifted the can to eye-level with some difficulty and glared at the label.
"Newberry red?"
"Beautiful color," Archie said. Gold let the can swing down to his side. He was looking at the cans Archie held.
"What colors do you have? And why?"
"I have teal green and bright lemon. And because we're painting."
"Obviously," Gold snapped. "What are we painting?"
Archie let a toothy smile spread across his face. "We're painting a picture," he said.
There was an old train trestle located deep in the woods, running several hundred feet over Storybrooke's river. The trestle hadn't been used in years – not since Archie was a child – and the boards were mostly rotted, with moss covering them generously.
Off to the side of the old train trestle, connected by a few iron beams, was a newly built bridge. It ran the length of the trestle, and its boards were fresh and clean and strong.
Well, mostly clean.
"Graffiti," Gold said drily, looking at the brightly colored pictures and names on the bridge. "You brought me out here … for graffiti."
He looked first at the can in his own hand, then at the two in Archie's.
"I can't help but feel this isn't how it's normally done," he remarked. Archie just shrugged, smiling brightly.
"I wasn't sure spray cans would work if you angled them toward the ground. I've never actually used them before. Besides, you've got loads more control with a paint brush – or – or your fingers."
Archie let his cans of paint thud to the ground and knelt next to them, prying off the lids. Then he motioned for Gold's can.
Gold let it fall on Archie's fingers.
"Sorry," he said carelessly, barely audible over Archie's yelps.
"That's fine!" the doctor gasped, cradling his hand. "Tha – that's fine."
Keeping the damaged hand tucked safely away, Archie started on the slightly more arduous task of opening a can of paint with only one hand. Mr. Gold eventually took pity on him and smashed the lid in with his cane, which was one way of doing things.
"The whole bridge is covered," the pawnbroker said after a while, scanning up and down the colorful boards. "Unless we're 'tagging,' Doctor, I don't think there's much we can do."
Archie frowned. He wasn't sure how therapeutic it was to … to …
"What's 'tagging?'" Archie asked. Gold just rolled his eyes. He grabbed a can of paint – the Newberry red – and before Archie's panicking eyes, stepped over the barricade between bridge and trestle, walked lithely over the pitted iron beam, and crossed over to the rotten boards on the other side.
"It's clear over here," Gold told him. He set the can down, looked at the mossy boards thoughtfully, and glanced back at Archie. "Are you coming?"
Archie shook his head. Several times. Very, very fast. Gold just rolled his eyes and gave him a patronizing look.
"It's perfectly safe, Doctor," he said. "If you're afraid of the boards, you can always just stand on the beams. Those are sturdy enough, I'm sure."
He laid his cane aside and crouched down, bringing one hand musingly to his chin. Archie hesitated; on the one hand, he feared death. On the other, Gold really looked like he might start painting, which was something that most likely wouldn't happen under different circumstances.
Archie hoisted himself over the barricade and lowered himself very carefully so he was straddling the iron beam Gold had stridden across earlier. Clutching it tightly, Archie slid inch by inch to the other side.
Mr. Gold pretended not to see him. Archie stalled halfway across, where 'sturdy iron beam' gave way to 'how long has this been corroding?' He stared at the jagged, fragile looking metal and slid back a few more inches.
"Um," he called, raising his voice. Gold didn't look over. "Um, right now, we're – we're gonna try and – and paint your feelings. Okay?"
"I need teal green," Gold responded. For a moment, Archie was bewildered. Then he looked behind him and realized with a sinking heart that he'd left the cans of paint behind.
He looked back at Mr. Gold.
"Why do you need teal green?" he asked, hoping to talk him out of it. Gold's answer was swift and matter-of-fact.
"I can't use red for never-ending sorrow and despair."
True enough.
"Do – do you feel lots of sorrow and despair?" Archie asked.
"Loads."
"Well, maybe there's a more dominant feeling. Like anger. Anger is Newberry red."
Gold looked at the can of paint beside him speculatively and shook his head.
"No. It's definitely a teal-green type of day."
Archie was feeling plenty of despair himself right about then. He looked back at the paint. How the heck was he supposed to slide backwards? Or was he supposed to just turn around? No way. He'd lose his balance. He'd fall.
He could feel a nosebleed of fear coming on.
"Just gotta turn around," he told himself, staring down at his hands. "Just gotta … turn around."
His eyes roamed from his hands to the endless abyss of water and sharp, pointy rocks beneath him. Those rocks hadn't been so pointy before, but then again, they might actually be shark teeth. He'd heard something recently about sharks in freshwater rivers.
"Dr. Hopper?" Gold called. "My inspiration is starting to lag. You might want to hurry with the teal green."
"Anger is fun to paint," Archie tried again.
"No. Sorrow and despair. Hurry along."
With a deep, deep breath, Archie started to scoot backwards. He didn't like it. What if part of the beam had rotted while his back was turned? What if a bird perched behind him and he ran into it and it attacked his head? He'd fall! And worse, he'd have his eyes pecked out first. Although, if his eyes were pecked out he might fall unconscious, which would make the plunge to his death a tad more pleasant –
Archie bit back a squeak. He made it another inch before his muscles froze up and he found himself unable to move a centimeter.
"Oh, for goodness' sake," said Gold shortly. "I'll get it myself."
Archie's head shot up, eyes wide. Mr. Gold stepped out onto the beam.
"NO!" Archie screamed, hugging the iron in front of him regardless of how dirty it was. Gold froze. "NO, IT CAN'T HOLD TWO! GET OFF! GET OFF!"
"Archie, it's held a train," Gold snapped. "Stop bawling."
"GET AWAY!"
Gold muttered something under his breath and took a step closer. Archie pressed his cheek to the beam and screamed as loudly as he could. The pawnbroker faltered and covered his ears.
"WE'RE GONNA DIE!" Archie shrieked. "GET OFF THE BEAM! WE'RE GONNA FALL! WE'RE GONNA GET EATEN BY SHARKS!"
He heard a grumble and then felt a foot planted squarely on his back as Gold stepped over him. Archie went completely still out of fear. He stayed where he was until he felt the foot on his back again, this time made even heavier by the can of paint.
He opened his eyes just enough to see Gold walk away. Slowly, the mind-numbing terror dulled down and Archie managed to sit up. Gold was crouched on the old trestle, his hand moving slowly but steadily across the moss-covered beams. Archie's curiosity came back with a vengeance.
"I'm painting a masterpiece!" Gold called to him enticingly from the other side of the beam. "Oh, Doctor, you should see it. It's so emotional."
"Describe it!" Archie called back.
"Oh, no, no – this can't be put to words."
Archie moaned.
"You'll have to come see it yourself, Doctor."
Archie bit his lip and decided that, really, he wasn't that big a fan of art anyway.
"It's a vital look into the mind of Mr. Gold," Gold informed him. "Very insightful. Could you hand me the yellow?"
Archie just shook his head, hugging the beam. He felt Gold walk over him twice more, fetching the bright lemon paint. Archie just sat stock-still and shook like a leaf.
"Oh, yes," said Gold in satisfaction. "Perfect. It reads like a book, Doctor. Why, I feel like if you saw this, I would finally feel as though you understood. I might share everything."
Archie gave a shaky, shuddering sigh and very slowly pushed himself back into a sitting position. He looked across the beam to Mr. Gold, who gave him a warm, fatherly, and encouraging nod.
Screwing up all of his courage, Archie dragged himself a little closer.
"That's it, Doctor," Gold encouraged. "Good, Doctor. A little further."
Archie pulled himself further.
"Good, very good. You can do it."
He got to the jagged bit and froze for a moment, all of the earlier fear surging back. But this time, there was nothing to hug himself to, just rusty, broken metal. He looked up again at Mr. Gold and saw nothing but warmth.
"Come on," Gold coaxed, voice soft. "You can do it."
With a deep, deep breath, Archie hoisted himself over the corroded space. He made it to the second barricade and stood on shaky legs. Gold grabbed him by the arms and helped him over, muttering happy platitudes the whole time. When they were finally safe (well, safe on the rotted out boards), Gold patted him on the back.
"There, I told you you could do it," he said. Archie gave a weak smile. "Now, would you like to see the masterpiece?"
Archie brightened instantly. He'd forgotten about the masterpiece. A feeling of warm anticipation lit up in his stomach; Gold's trust was at his fingertips.
The pawnbroker turned him around and pointed at the boards.
In nothing but Newberry red paint was the phrase 'Archie sucks.'
"It took a lot of effort," said Gold, wiping paint-stained fingers on Archie's coat, "but I discovered that if I leaned forward while using my cane for support, I could reach just about anywhere. Even the most rotted bits."
Archie just sagged.
"Well," said Gold lightly, "back across the beam we go. You first."
He pushed Archie toward the barricade.
"Well," said Archie when they'd gained sufficient distance from the trestle and the bridge, "since we … uh, didn't quite complete the assignment –"
Gold made a mild noise of disagreement.
"—I guess I'll have to assign you homework."
Gold froze.
"Mr. Gold," said Archie wearily, "your homework for tonight is to write a poem of twenty or more lines detailing the emotions you felt at an important moment in your life. You're going to read it tomorrow."
"Oh, no," said Gold sarcastically (and with thinly veiled anger), "teacher, not in front of the whole class!"
Archie didn't respond. He was ticked off enough to assign a poem of one hundred lines detailing Gold's most embarrassing sexual experience, but he'd been able to reign himself in enough.
"I don't see why you think I'll do it," Gold sneered. "It's not like you can flunk me."
"I can," said Archie calmly. Gold paused again, his face blank. He looked at Archie searchingly.
"What do you mean, you can?"
"If I decide that you're not properly trying," Archie stressed, "then all I have to do is tell the judge and he gives you back your original sentence. Jail-time."
Gold stared at him.
Archie shrugged.
"Was it nice out there on your iron beam?" asked Gold nastily when they resumed walking. "I thought I saw a little wet spot on your pants, I hope you manage to get it out."
"Was that a problem for you in childhood?" asked Archie mildly. "Wetting your pants? Because many people project their problems on to others –"
"Oh, cut the therapist shit. It's driving me up the wall."
Archie looked pointedly at the large red paint stains on his favorite jacket, then back up at Mr. Gold. The pawnbroker scoffed.
"What, you want an apology?"
"It would be nice," Archie said.
"So would ice cream, right now. But I don't see you offering to buy, so an apology is currently out of your reach."
They walked in silence for a while.
"Two poems," Archie said.