Archie had just hung up the phone, and was making a note in his appointment book when Dr. Whale burst in, face flushed and cursing...really very creatively. It caught Archie by surprise, but only for a moment; all things considered, it wasn't the most dramatic entrance his office had ever seen. So he waited until it seemed that Dr. Whale was losing steam, and then set down his pen and went to the mini-fridge he kept in the corner of his office and took out a bottle of water. He held it out, and Dr. Whale took it, yanking angrily at his tie before he cracked the bottle open and drank deeply. "Thanks."
"Perhaps you should sit down," Archie suggested. Presumably, there was only so red a person could get before passing out.
Dr. Whale shook his head, one sharp jerk, breathed in and out, hard. "No. Thanks. I'll stand, I'm used to standing. I'm used to running around all day." He paused, holding up a hand as he closed his eyes for a moment. "I don't know what the hell has been going on in my hospital, Hopper, but I swear to god — I swear — " He stopped and began pacing back and forth, visible anger made momentum.
Archie said, "You're here to tell me something about Cecelia French."
Dr. Whale gave a short, bitter laugh. "How'd you guess?"
Archie sat down, and waited. Still pacing, Dr. Whale told him about it.
He calmed down a little as he did, until he slowed, stopped, and eventually sat down and drank the rest of his water. Some of the furious redness faded from his face, as well, though Archie, watching and listening, could see that Dr. Whale did not lose any of his anger. It did not fade so much as focus, until Dr. Whale was once again cool and polished. The man did not let go of anger, he forged it, and it made Archie realize that he did not know Dr. Whale very well. That he had perhaps been too willing to accept the glossy, distant, and slightly harried surface of the man.
There was a quiet moment when Dr. Whale finished, and then he asked, "So what's the plan?"
Archie blinked, rather taken aback. "You — you're asking me?"
"I'm just the doctor," Whale said. "You're the psychiatrist."
"Yes." He was. And he had to admit that it made a certain amount of sense, the way Dr. Whale said it. And, as long as he was admitting things, before the doctor's dramatic entrance, Archie had been…well, not planning, because the people in charge made plans. But more a next step. There was a woman in the hospital who, one way or another, was going to need quite a bit of help, and as Archie intended to help, he might as well get started. But that wasn't a plan.
Archie stopped, knowing himself well enough to know his mind could go round like this for far too long. Besides, the next step was clear.
"Now we call Emma," he said.
The sheriff was there in under ten minutes. She tossed her windblown hair over her shoulder as she strode in, taking in Archie, and then Dr. Whale, in a single smooth glance. She didn't say anything, she simply plunked herself down on one of the caramel-colored couches, and crossed her long, long legs, and waited. Dr. Whale glanced at him (at him) (again), and Archie, attempting to appear as calm and composed as Emma and Dr. Whale looked, nodded. Dr. Whale turned to Emma, and began, "I have some concerns about Cecelia French. I examined Miss French yesterday, when she was brought in following her…altercation with Mr. Reve's vehicle. Her recent injuries are about what you'd expect for a young woman who deliberately overdosed and was then hit by a car — all in all, you could say she got lucky. Thankfully." Dr. Whale began twisting the cap on the water bottle, on and off. After a moment, he appeared to force himself to stop, the plastic crackling under his white-knuckled fingers, and said bluntly, "In the course of my examination, I discovered evidence of long term neglect and malnutrition. Long term. X-rays revealed an old break along her collarbone — several years old, if I had to guess — and I do because there is absolutely no mention of it in her file. She has a scar, by her hairline, the kind that would have required treatment, the kind that would have needed to be sutured closed by a doctor, by someone who took an oath, in my hospital — "
"Let me guess," Emma said. "No record."
"No. She was treated that way — by one of my staff — and I didn't know about it." Whale set the plastic bottle deliberately down on the coffee table. "We had what you might call an incident, about an hour ago. Miss French woke up, and she was not happy to be back in the hospital. We had to sedate her."
Emma let out a long sigh, and leaned forward, raking a hand through her bright hair as she looked to Archie. "What do we do now, doc?"
Archie wasn't surprised, not really; after all, he had called her here. Even so, he tried not to show how unsettling it was to have Emma turn to him. After all, he did have a logical next step, as it were. "I made an appointment to speak to Judge Arnaud. I a-am going to request that he order an official evaluation of Cecelia French, either by me or by another licensed and qualified psychiatrist. I believe there are sufficient grounds to do so; I spent last night speaking with the Department of Mental Health about the official and — and legal methods of commitment. They are extensive, and they are continual. It is not simply a matter putting someone in — "
"A dungeon," Emma said.
"A dungeon," Archie reluctantly agreed, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose, "and then turning the key. I have yet to find any evidence that anyone involved in Miss French's care followed these procedures in any way." He forced himself to add, "Though it is still early days."
Emma snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure Regina is hiding all the files for the Storybrooke crazies in her linen closet."
"I have not spoken to the Mayor about this. I did not think that would be…wise," Archie said, which was probably the best way to put it, under the circumstances. "I considered speaking to Mr. French. As-as Lacey's father he might hold some sway. But I am inclined to think that would be futile."
Emma cocked an eyebrow at the doctor. "Has Mr. French even been to visit yet?"
"No," Dr. Whale said, the single word making it clear exactly what he thought of the situation.
"My appointment with the Judge is tomorrow at eleven. I wanted to ask if the two of you would accompany me. To speak to him as well, if he required it, and give your opinions on the matter. On Miss French's treatment, and her…flight," Archie finished, not wanting to say escape.
Emma pinned him with that frank, fearless gaze of hers, and said, "Whatever you need." She didn't even didn't hesitate, and for a moment Archie felt a twist of…not quite envy, and not entirely sorrow, but something between the two. He wondered what it must be like to have that confidence, to be so sure of yourself that you would do what you thought was right and did not blink.
He had blinked so many times over the years, that trying not to sometimes felt impossible. But less impossible than having to look in the mirror after he gave in.
Archie chose not to examine too deeply when that had changed, and why.
Dr. Whale was silent for a long moment, then he looked at Emma and then Archie. And then nodded. "Whatever you need."
The bell on the door jingled late into afternoon, as Gold was sweeping up the broken glass. He did not bother to look up. "The shop is closed."
"And no wonder," the Mayor remarked, stepping delicately around the puddles of glass. "It looks like a twister's been though here. What — if I may ask — exactly happened?"
He turned back to his sweeping. He forced himself to continue. "I said we are closed. Leave now, or I shall call the sheriff."
"You're upset with me." The Mayor gave that exaggerated little pout. He didn't have to look at her to know she did; he could hear it. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised. Though I must say it is rather ungrateful of you — "
"Ungrateful." He could not let himself look at her. He stared down at the glittering shards of glass scattered on the floor. He imagined picking one up and plunging it into her heart. He wondered, if he did so, if there would be blood or merely dust. He imagined pulling her head back and slicing her pretty throat so he would never need hear that voice again.
But that would be...reacting, not deciding. That would be letting her pull the strings. And he did not want to simply react; if he simply reacted it would be over too soon.
So he would wait. Wait until he could think. Wait until he could plan.
"I thought you would be happy. She once was dead, but is now alive again." The Mayor waved an elegantly manicured hand. "I thought you would be thrilled at the chance to have your…what's her name?" When he didn't answer, she pursed her lips as if thinking, and then snapped her fingers. "Your Belle back again."
He did look at her now. Not in the least bit surprised. "'Chance,'" he said.
The Mayor gave an innocent little shrug. "The girl has been in a mental institution for twelve years — "
"Twenty-eight." Twenty-eight years.
" — who knows what that does to a person's mind. I can't even imagine what a fragile state she must be in right now, but I understand one's mental health is a very delicate thing. Taking into account her recent dramatics, it's entirely possible that she will need to be confined for quite some time. It's entirely possible that her treatment will need to be escalated. Do you know that in some institutions they still subject patients to shock treatment? Can you imagine what that's like? What that does to a person? I hear it can alter a person's brain. The…whatever they call them. Pathways." She waved an elegantly manicured hand. "I hear that sometimes it can alter them to such a degree that the one you get back isn't even the one you lost." She leaned a hip against a mostly intact counter, casually. Simply two people, having a casual chat. "I also hear it can be quite painful, if not done properly."
"What do you want?" Gold asked.
The Mayor smiled. "Oh, a great many things. But we'll start with…" She tapped a finger against her slickly painted lips, and then held out a hand. "A truce."
Gold gripped the broom, feeling it tremble under his fingers. Feeling it crack. He heard himself say, "Afraid, dearie?"
The Mayor glanced at his hands, and gave a little shrug. "No. Of course not. I am only asking that we logical about this. Now I know that some people might be thinking of revenge. Not you, obviously."
"Obviously," Gold agreed.
"Just as you obviously didn't care for that cracked little teacup Mr. French liberated from your home oh so recently. But someone short-sighted — someone who let themselves be blinded to who has the power, and over whom — well, that someone might think of revenge. And that would be foolish. And fruitless. Those people would do well to remember that mental health is, as I said, a very delicate thing. That there are any number of reasons a person might need to be confined for their own well-being. That there are worse things that being left alone in a cell. Like not being left alone." She smiled at him, and it almost covered the look in her eyes. "Come, Rumple, let's be adults about this."
When he didn't respond, the Mayor pulled back her hand with a condescendingly maternal look. "I understand. Why don't you take a few days to consider the matter? After all, Miss French won't be going anywhere for the present. I understand she still needs quite a bit of treatment."
She strolled out, then turned to wave her fingers at him through the window before heading back down the street towards City Hall.
Gold went back to sweeping; there was quite a bit to clean up. And then…then he would think.
He had been prepared to make an entrance. Something dramatic, but fairly standard. Perhaps harkening back to when he first met her — the doors swinging wide, just impressive and creaky enough to draw her attention, and then appearing behind her when she wasn't looking. But...no, it wouldn't do to repeat himself. So instead he simply had himself appear in a suitably elaborate puff of smoke in the main parlor.
Belle wasn't there.
She wasn't in the kitchen, either. Or the pantry, the library, the music room, the long gallery, the short gallery, the dungeons, the torture room, the torture supply closet (to be inventoried weekly, tools to be cleaned and oiled no less than twelve full hours after use). And now this was ridiculous, winking all over the place, trying to find a foolish little girl, who had clearly broken her word.
No — and he ignored the sudden panic, the lurch in his chest that was not fear — she would not leave. She would not, she promised. He was not sure why knew that, but he did.
And, knowing that, he could smell it now. The roses in the air. She always smelled of roses, though he had no idea how. She had nothing but the clothes on her back and a pillow and blanket for her cot in the dungeon, both of which he had given her. He closed his eyes, and reached out with his magic, and now that he could focus, he could sense her. Not in the castle, not as such, but on the grounds.
She was in the garden, hanging laundry on the line.
He stayed back, in the shadows, and watched her as she worked. The whole front of her gown was soaked through with soapy water, and her hair was bundled up on top of her head. She was talking to herself, which she did sometimes when she thought she was alone. He never mentioned it, because the silly girl would likely grow nervous and stop. "…nine days. Not counting today, of course." She flicked out a bed sheet of his and draped it over the line. She was getting better at that. "Nine and a half, then, which is nearly ten, when you think about it. Which is nearly two whole weeks…"
Rumplestiltskin turned then, not wanting to hear anymore. Not wanting to know that she was counting the days he had been gone. Silly little girl was only doing it because she was glad of it. Grateful for the time alone. It was foolish — foolish — to think she missed him.
He went to his study in the tower, and stayed there.