Chapter 21

Archie's Office, 10 am

"I must apologize for my presumptuousness," Archie begins as Belle removes her sweater and settles back on the couch. "I've been calling you 'Belle,' because that's how we know you, but I should have asked what you would like to be called."

She picks at a loose button on her sweater. "Everyone says my name is Belle French. My library card says 'Belle French.' My insurance card says 'Belle French.' So I know that must be my name, but I cringe whenever I hear it. Archie, that name doesn't feel right to me, any more than 'Jane Doe' does."

"Names carry power, it's said. And in this country, we believe in self-determination and fresh starts. That's why state laws make it easy for adults to change their names. You have that right to choose your own name and your own identity. You tell us who you are, and the rest of us will follow your lead. Is there a name that you feel comfortable with?"

She gnaws on her lip. "I've spent hours thinking about nothing else. I feel like if I could just remember my name, the curtain would be raised, you know? And other memories would come back."

Given the cause of her memory loss, Archie can't agree with her. No illness, injury or trauma is blocking access to her memory; her memory's been taken. It's gone. If the magic could be reversed, or if the stolen memory could be tracked down and returned to its owner, he's sure Gold would have made it happen. He can encourage her to give up and create a false identity for herself; he can encourage her to chase a false hope, wasting her time and risking severe depression when she learns the truth; or he can push her to accept the identity that others hand to her, despite her discomfort with it. Any of those options would be a lie.

"For the time being, just until you're able to tell us what you'd like to be called, if you can tolerate it, I'll continue to call you 'Belle.' I'm afraid that's what the rest of the community will do. Can you tolerate that?"

She shrugs. "I need a name, I suppose." But beads of sweat break out on her forehead and she's worked that loose button right off the sweater.

He has to lessen the pressure. He steers the conversation to something easy to give her a break. "How are you enjoying your stay at Granny's?"

"My room is great." She brightens. "It faces east, so I get the sun in the mornings and when I wake up and open my window, I can smell coffee and bacon cooking. Granny is taking good care of me, and Ruby and I are planning to go to the movies tomorrow night. She brought a bunch of stuff—clothes and books and makeup and stuff—for me. She said it was mine and came from my apartment."

"When you're ready, you and I will go to that apartment and look around. But there's no rush in moving you back there; I'd recommend you continue at Granny's for a while."

"Ruby says I had a job, before. It might be good for me to go back to it, don't you think? I need to make a living."

"You don't need to worry about that. Your expenses are being covered. I'm not sure you're ready to resume your old job—it was quite an undertaking. But I agree, it could help you to feel normal again if you had some work. Maybe a part-time volunteer position somewhere."

"I'll walk around town a bit today and see what's available. I need to feel useful. I can't just sit around watching old movies all day. I—" Suddenly her face goes blank.

He leans forward. "Belle?"

"Last night I was watching an old movie. I didn't remember it, but the movie felt important to me."

"How so?"

"Well, I didn't recognize the plot or any of the lines, but—the feelings. The way the movie made me feel—I knew I'd felt those feelings when I watched that movie before. One of those feelings was—it felt like being held. You know what I mean? Like being in the arms of someone I was supposed to be in the arms of." She picks up the sweater and clutches it against her chest. "I want that back, just as much as I want my name and my job back. That letter Slightly brought to me yesterday—Archie, I'm going to go to the hospital tonight to see Mr. Gold."

"You don't have to rush," Archie assures her. "That could be very emotional; maybe you ought to wait a while."

"Emotions might be a good thing."

"Yes, but when he came to your hospital room, he frightened you. If you really feel you have to go, shall I go with you?"

"I'm not afraid."

Storybrooke General Room 304, 11 am

If anyone were to ask him to name his primary duty as Mr. Gold's handyman, Dove would say, "Waiting." He doesn't mind at all; patience is a quality that the curse somehow preserved when it brought Frank Dove to Storybrooke.

And so he doesn't mind at all waiting in the hallway until the visiting hour is over and Bae, Snow and Henry are chased out by the zealous orderly, who chastises them for breaking the two-visitor rule. Henry gives her his puppy eyes and chirps, "Thank you for letting me see my grampa," and she melts. "Don't forget, you can come back at 7 tonight," she encourages.

"I'm meeting David and Emma for lunch," Snow announces to Bae. "Would you like to join us?"

"Thanks. I'd like that," Bae answers, though in truth, he wouldn't: he feels uncomfortable around David. For one thing, the prince is kind of old-fashioned and, as Emma would say, "judgy" about the baby-outside-of-marriage thing. And though Snow and Emma stubbornly say, "We're family now," and Henry has taken to calling Bae "Dad" without a second thought, there's no term to define Bae's relationship to these people. Whether you're talking law or biology, they're related only tangentially. He can't call these people in-laws—and thinking of that reminds Bae of Gold's warning concerning Henry's custody. If it comes down to a court battle, Bae will have to decide whether to back Emma's petition or put forth one of his own. Snow is a sharp woman: she probably realizes that, and hence her attempt to bring Bae onto Team Emma.

Which is not to say she's not being nice for the sake of being nice. Bae will accept her proffered olive branch and do his best to win David over. After all, they may be running into each other quite often from now on.

"Good morning, Frank," Bae greets the waiting handyman, and Snow echoes the greeting.

"Good morning, Bae." There's a question in Dove's expression, but he won't ask it in front of Snow and Henry.

Bae catches on anyway. It's an odd thing, but of all the people who have come into his life in the past twenty-four hours, he feels most relaxed—least judged—by the one he isn't related to. Maybe it's just because neither he nor Dove have anything to lose from each other. "Good visit," Bae says, and Dove understands this to mean so far, the lines of communication between father and son remain open, unblocked by anger and guilt. "He's feeling better," Bae adds. "Not sleeping, though."

"I may have a few things that will help," Dove pats the two sacks he's brought along.

"Let the guys know I'll be back after lunch?" Bae asks, and Dove nods.

Although the visiting hour has ended, silent Mr. Dove slips into room 304 unnoticed. He finds his employer sitting up, staring off into space—and almost fully dressed. Only the jacket and shoes are missing. Dove's lips twitch as he fights off a smile in finding that his boss, just one day gone from his trip to death's door, appears ready to pose in the Hospital Edition of GQ.

Then Dove worries just a bit when Gold fails to react to his approach. Dove decides he had better plan on resuming guard duty, since Gold's senses seem a little off. "Mr. Gold?" He sets the two sacks on the foot of the bed and starts to unpack them.

The boss finally blinks and draws in a deep breath. "Mr. Dove. Ah, good, you've brought the accounts." He reaches out, aiming for the ledger that came from the larger bag, but then he sees the small sack. He sniffs. "Clam chowder?"

Dove nods.

Gold's hand changes direction and takes the Granny's bag. As he retrieves a spoon from his over-bed hospital tray, he grins wickedly, and Dove stops worrying about him. Gold tears the bag open. "A double portion," he observes.

"I thought you might be hungry."

"Good man, Mr. Dove." He sighs as the first spoonful reaches his tongue.

Dove removes from the large sack the requested poker book, a box of playing cards and an envelope. "News concerning one of your properties." He shakes a half-dozen photos from the envelope onto the blanket, then pats them into a stack and hands them to Gold. "Camelot Apartments, number 202."

Gold pauses in his appreciation of the soup. "Formerly occupied by Sidney Glass."

"The incident with the Mills women took place there."

"Damage, I presume." After another spoonful of chowder, Gold sorts through the photos and scowls—though at the same time a snort of laughter escapes. "'Capitalist pig'—that's all she could come up with for me? Regina, you need to get your nasty on. 'Crack whores'? Hardly what I would expect from a two-hundred-year-old queen." He passes the photos back. "Very well, Mr. Dove. Hire a painter and a cleaning crew—and send the invoices to Her Majesty."

"Seems the act of a desperate individual. One could almost feel sorry for her."

Gold smirks. "One could—but one won't."

Dove and Gold have a comfortable arrangement to their working relationship: Gold tells Dove what to do, and Dove does it quietly, effectively and efficiently. Dove never casts doubt on Gold's decisions; he questions only when he needs to know how or when, never why. But sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—Dove realizes Gold needs—not guidance, not advice, of course not; Gold is the boss—but a hint. A nudge to the memory. Dove would never presume to say anything along those lines, nor would Gold tolerate such insolence, but sometimes a small demonstration is appropriate. And that's the last object Dove has brought along: a subtle suggestion that the boss ought to allow himself to sleep. Casually, he takes hold of the wire handles on the larger bag, and that draws Gold's attention to it.

"Something else, Mr. Dove?" Gold judges by the apparent bulk of the bag, "Something large?"

Without a word Dove removes the final thing he's brought from the pink house, and as he offers it, he wins a smile from his boss. "Thank you, Mr. Dove. Very thoughtful of you."

For Dove has brought a pillow from Gold's bed. He can't know it, of course—Gold himself doesn't know it until he accepts the pillow and catches the faint, fading scent of lemon verbena—but this was Belle's pillow, the one she slept on during the too few nights they'd had together before Hook.

As soon as Gold touches the pillow, he catches the scent, and he nearly breaks. He covers his sudden vulnerability by quickly diverting his attention to the accounts ledger.

Well, he's tired; people get emotional when they're tired. But he keeps sneaking glances at that pillow.

Granny's B & B, Room 7, noon

Jane—or Belle, as people keep wanting to call her; and she's tired of fighting it, and why would they lie, anyway? —all right, then: Belle is lying against her headboard, a pillow held tight in her arms, that letter in her lap. She's not afraid. It's the truth she wants, even if it unhinges her, but no one seems willing to give it to her. Oh, they're just being protective, she gets that, but even her shrink withholds the truth: gentle Archie, who's supposed to guide her back to health—or if not to a return to the woman she used to be, then at least to an identity she can work with. She searches her memory as far back as she can go: two weeks. In that time, only two people have dared to come close to giving her the whole truth: the freckle-faced guy that brought her the letter. . . and the writer of the letter.

She's read it a hundred times. In the first two readings she gleaned from it the man's feelings for her; in the next ninety-eight she tried her damnedest to let the letter provoke her feelings for him. So frustrating! If his words could only waken the love for him sleeping in her—or the hate; she's ready for that possibility—surely her memory would stir. But after a hundred attempts, she must admit that's not the path that will lead her back.

She will go to see him; she needs him to tell her who she was and where she is. But from this letter she realizes his need is just as strong, and her heart aches that she can't fulfill it. She doesn't love him; she doesn't know him. Maybe Archie's right and she shouldn't go see him—but not for the reason Archie thinks. She's not the one who will get hurt.

She sets the pillow and the letter aside and wanders to her closet. Just in case she does go to the hospital tonight, she'll want a change of clothes. If she can't give him the words he needs to hear, at least she can give him the respect of dressing nicely for the occasion. She wonders if he had any favorites among the dozen outfits Ruby brought from her apartment. As she pushes hanger after hanger aside, she spies something that doesn't fit in with the rest: a blue and white checked shirt, a man's shirt. She takes it from the hanger and holds it against her body: she could wear it as a shirt-dress. It must be his; that's the only explanation for why Ruby had found it in Belle's closet. It must be his—

And oh, crap. Belle suddenly realizes what that must mean.

She sinks on the bed. A drop of wetness falls from the sky and dots the shirt. Then another drop and a third, and she has to admit it: she's crying. She doubles over the shirt.

She knows almost nothing about herself, but what she does know is that casual sex just isn't her thing. She wouldn't sleep with a man unless she loved him. "Oh gods."

That she has his shirt proves she loved him.

She cries until her nose is so stuffed she has to breathe through her mouth. It's an ugly look, but he would find it beautiful because he would know what it means.

When the tears subside, she showers to pull herself together. Her hair dripping, she patters to the closet to select the outfit in which she will greet the man who, she prays, can awaken her. Yes, by damn, she will go to see him, and she will tell him that although she can't even remember his first name, she wants to try to come back to him, because love is too rare and too vital to be walked away from. She will fight for what they had. She reaches for a sleeveless blue lace dress.

No. She spins around and picks up the checked shirt from the bed, and as she slips it over her head and rolls up the sleeves, in the back of her mind she hears a man's chuckle. It makes her skin tingle. A man's soft chuckle in her ear, his warm and comforting chest pressed against her back, his silk-sleeved arms sliding about her waist.

A scent wafts from the collar of the shirt. A cologne that makes her want. Oh gods, she wants him and she doesn't even know his first name.

There's a knock on her door, a firm, insistent, but confident knock; a knock that says, Of course you will let me in. She grabs her jeans from this morning and pulls them on, then opens the door a crack. It should be Ruby: they're supposed to have lunch together. But Ruby doesn't knock: she raps a couple of times impatiently before squealing, "Open up, girl!"

Belle peers out (without her underwear, she isn't ready for company). She finds no one, but on the floor is a whicker basket of juicy red apples. How sweet! A welcome basket from Granny? A get-well gift from Archie? Some lovers' message from Mr. Gold (were apples a thing for them, the way other couples have a special song or movie)? She brings the basket inside and finds a little card tied to the handle with a red ribbon. "We're glad you're feeling better. Your friends at the Rabbit Hole." Under the message someone's drawn a long-eared rabbit emerging from a black hole. Cute. She examines the card closely for clues: who these people are or what the Rabbit Hole is, she has no idea.

With a shrug she gives up guessing. Ruby's running late and Belle's hungry, so she selects the smallest apple, just a little something to stem the tide of her appetite, and she takes a bite. . . .

Storybrooke General, Room 304, 1pm

Gold's body can't fight the need for sleep any more. He's still sitting up, his ledger on his lap, a pen in his hand, when his head slowly dips forward and his chin makes contact with his chest.

With a satisfied smile, Dove carefully removes the pen and the ledger. He sits back down, but the boss is bound to end up with a stiff neck if Dove leaves him like that, so as quietly and gently as he can, Dove presses on his shoulders, urging him back, and Gold's body takes the hint. With his head supported by his own pillow, Gold should be able to rest now. Dove retreats to the hallway. When a nurse comes to take Gold's blood pressure, he sends her away.

Gold is walking down a long hallway. There's no sound, not even his footfalls, not even his breathing. On either side of the hallway is an endless run of closed doors. He stays in the middle of the hallway; he's afraid to touch those doors. But they all swing open, and on the threshold of every one of them stands Milah.

A little boy's voice booms at him. "And Mother? Did she leave you like the knight said? You told me she was dead."

"She is dead," he hisses. He hurries, as fast as his bad ankle can tolerate, searching for a way out.

And on the threshold of every door stands Milah. A man's voice booms at him. "And Mother? Did she leave you like the knight said? You told me she was dead."

"She is dead, she is dead, she is dead."

"You told me she was dead."

He stops and tilts his head back to shout at the sky. "She is dead! I killed her!"

All the Milahs suddenly vanish. He screeches and throws his cane at the wall.