Once Upon a Time 1. Prologue

Author's note: I got this plot bunny that basically is 'what if Belle wasn't locked up because Regina wanted to use her as a pawn? What if she really needed to be in a mental institution?' And this was born. It's AU fic with Gold as a psychiatrist and Belle as a patient. Eventually there will be shippiness but it is more of a drama with a romance aspect, as opposed to a romane. Many other familiar people from Storybrooke feature in the story as well.

Warning: This is a fic that takes place in an mental institution. I am not an expert, but my degree is in psychology and I am attempting to keep things as real as possible. There will be triggers in future chapters, including cutting, mentions of suicidal thought and child abuse. I will give warnings at the start of chapters that contain triggers, but any questions please ask. Also, please don't self diagnose. There should never be any shame in seeking out help if you need it.

* * *

"Doctor Gold, if you have a moment please?" The voice that stopped him as he walked down the hall was cool and clipped. Unfortunately it was the one person he couldn't simply pretend not to hear, and continue walking. That didn't mean he had to be nice about it.

"Do I look like I have a free moment?" He carried half a dozen files in his free hand, and leaned impatiently on his cane. He had about five minutes to make it to his office for a one on one session with Mr. Booth, before a group session, another one on one, and at some point a meeting with Doctor Hopper so he could lend his opinion on a file. There was also a stack of reports due a week ago that needed to be finished at some point.

"If you wouldn't mind stepping inside my office for just one minute, you'll be on your way that much sooner." Either she didn't understand sarcasm or she didn't give a damn. Probably the latter. It wasn't Regina's job to make sure the place ran on schedule; she was more concerned about getting enough well paying clients to keep the doors open. And getting enough recognition for her work, preferably in the form of bonuses or magazine articles. Actually helping people was far down on her list of things that mattered, if it was on her list at all.

"Your sixty seconds start now," he grumbled as he stepped through the doorway. And stopped. There were three people in the room, but only one held his interest. The two men, one close to his own age, one young and cocky, were both watching him too closely. Gold dismissed them instantly. It was the girl folded into the chair, arms knotted around her legs to keep them close to her chest and eyes downcast that he watched. She sat so still that it was hard to see her even breathing. One of the two men made a noise and she looked up; her eyes were an intense blue that reminded him of the lochs he used to swim in, on warm summer mornings when he was a boy. The eyes told him nothing of the girl; she'd hidden herself too well.

"Mr. French, this is Dr. Gold. He's head of the psychiatry staff here, and will be personally seeing to your daughter's care." He turned to glare at Regina. His hands were full already; she knew he wasn't taking on more patients. He looked at the older man, father or guardian, and the subtle signs of wealth evident in the Italian leather shoes and tailored clothing. Old money, obviously; Regina's favorite kind. He looked at the daughter, her blue eyes once again hidden behind a curtain of brunette hair as she looked away from everyone else in the room. There was something about her that stopped him from arguing.

"Dr. Gold, may I introduce you to…"

"I'm late for a session. You can have Graham let me know when she's settled and I'll meet her then." The men that had brought her, with their smug confidence in their own sanity, did not warrant any of his precious time. Regina was welcome to them.

It wasn't until he was standing outside his own office that he realized he didn't even know the name of the girl with the haunting blue eyes.


	2. Not My Home

When your father was friends with a judge of the Maine Supreme Court it didn't matter if you were twenty-three and old enough to make your own choices. Maurice French, better known as 'Moe' to his friends, had instructed his lawyer to draft up conservatorship papers giving him the rights to make all legal and medical decisions for his only daughter. Judge Spencer had signed the papers yesterday, over the drinks that followed the round of golf he and Moe played every Sunday. Less than twenty-four hours later, Belle's bags were packed and she was walking up the steps to the Storybrooke Home for Mental Wholeness with her father on one side of her and Gaston on the other.

Apparently not even being crazy was enough to scare her fiance away from the lure of her inheritance.

The woman who greeted them was sleek and sophisticated, her black suit without decoration and yet eye catching, perhaps because of the simplicity. That, or the way it fitted; Gaston didn't even try to hide the way he watched her ass when she turned to lead them to her office, probably because women who were about to be committed weren't supposed to notice such things. She noticed, but didn't care; Gaston was her father's choice for her, not her own.

Despite the lower register of Director Mills' voice Belle still heard nails on a chalkboard. Nothing the Director said mattered anyway, since her freedom was already gone, so Belle did what she always did when the world was too much. She ignored it. For a moment there was a voice like a warm breeze that pulled her out of her own mind, but the man was gone so quickly that she almost thought she'd imagined the warm brown eyes.

"Orderly Graham will show you to your room." The red nails only rested lightly against her shoulder, but Belle felt as if they were digging into her skin like claws. She stood up for no reason other than to avoid the touch and the fake red smile the woman gave her.

"They'll take good care of you, princess. They'll help make you better, and then you can come home to me." Her father looked at her expectantly, but she knew it wasn't forgiveness he was waiting for. Once a decision was made, Moe French didn't have regrets.

"I love you, papa." Dutifully she kissed his cheek, ever the good daughter. She hadn't even argued when he'd told her about the court order and the plans he'd made for her. She had hidden in her closet, though, and missed dinner.

"This place is practically a resort. Maybe I should get myself a mental condition; we could be roommates." Gaston's kiss had no more real feeling than the one she'd given her father. She smiled weakly at his joke.

"I'm sure I'll be home soon. Try not to beat papa too much in your golf game next week." Stroking his ego was something she barely had to think about. He was easy enough to get along with, as long as she said the right thing.

"Ms. French, if you'll come with me, please?" The voice was a pleasant one, with a gentle lilt that made her unafraid, even though the man was almost a foot taller than her and leading her away from her family and deeper into the bowels of a mental hospital. They could name it what they wanted, but that's what it was; a mental hospital, an insane asylum.

She waited until they were starting up the stairs before peering at him thoughtfully. "No straightjacket?"

"I'm sure I could find one if you like, but the robes we offer are more comfortable." The orderly, surprisingly, had recognized her dry wit, his polite smile turning into a genuine one.

"I suppose a robe will do." Actually a bed would do nicely; she'd been pulled from her own a little after six. Her father had cleared his morning schedule, but had afternoon meetings that couldn't be missed.

"The only time anyone here is restrained is when they're a danger to themselves or others. It doesn't happen often." He was quick to reassure her. "You have a certain amount of freedom, to start, and more is earned. Right now you're restricted to the building but the grounds are extensive, and if you behave you can spend time outdoors. Your doctor will explain everything. This morning, though, I need to ask that you stay in your room until someone comes to give you orientation. Alright?"

"I don't have anyplace else to be." She waited behind him while he knocked on a door, listening for an answer that didn't come. He gave it a good minute before opening the door and letting her in.

"Your roommate must be down in the sunroom or outside. Her name's Astrid." He nodded at the right hand bed, covered in a pale pink quilt. "That's her bed. The other one is yours. If you need anything the phone on the table will automatically dial the front desk. It won't call out of the building."

"Thank you. Graham, wasn't it?" He stayed at the edge of the room, not coming in. Belle wondered if it was respect, hospital rules or something else that kept him from crossing that invisible border.

"It is. I'll be around if you need anything." He closed the door when he left, and Belle sunk onto the edge of the white iron bed. The room, with its yellow walls and brightly colored throw rug between the beds, at least attempted to be something other than institutional. It wasn't her bedroom though, or her home. Even her skin felt too tight, as if it didn't belong to her either. She curled up on a ball in the middle of the bed and closed her eyes, hoping for the familiar oblivion of sleep.

"Is it safe to come out?" The voice was a whisper, but it was enough to get her attention.

"What?" She opened her eyes again, but nothing in the room had changed.

"No boys allowed in the room. The fairies don't like it. Is he gone?"

"Graham?" She was able to pinpoint the sound this time. It wasn't a very big room, and the voice was coming from her right. Only the bed was big enough to hide a person. "He left. I'm the only person here."

"Nu-uh. I'm here too." A small hand appeared on the floor, fingers brushing against the rug. The arm it was attached to was thin and pale. The face that peeked out from under the bed was equally pale, and mostly seemed to be taken up by large brown eyes. "Hello."

"Astrid?" She recalled the name that Graham had given as belonging to her roommate.

"The fairies call me Nova, because I'm like a shining star, but everyone else calls me Astrid. Did the Evil Queen capture you too?" The girl, who was probably close to her in age but seemed much younger, rested her chin on her open hands and stayed mostly tucked under the bed.

"The evil queen?"

"She pretends to be Director Mills, but the fairies know the truth." Astrid spoke knowingly, like someone who completely believed what they were saying.

"Oh." Instead of feeling concerned Belle felt relieved; if Astrid was what crazy looked like then Belle had nothing to worry about. Her father would soon figure out that this was not the place for her, and bring her home.


	3. Orientating

Author's Note: Thak you so much to everyone for the kind reviews, and the well thought out ones!

* * *

Gold never read patient's files before he met them. It was a quirk of his that made Dr. Carabosse roll her eyes and even Dr. Hopper had a hard time understanding. They wanted to go into a meeting knowing what to expect. Gold wanted a clean slate; if you had a preconceived notion of what was wrong then you also thought from the start that you knew how to fix it, and that was usually a false notion.

When the new patient's file was delivered to him shortly after his session with August he only opened it up for long enough to find out her name and what medications she was taking. The name is one he knows he won't forget easily. The drugs he was less pleased with, but he'd tinker with them as he did everything else.

As a matter of habit he locked his office door when he left. Most patients wouldn't dare enter unless they were there for a session, but one of Mal's patients was a clepto. And then there was Regina, who thought that anything happening inside the walls of Storybrooke was her purview. He's caught her in his office before, supposedly waiting for him but he wasn't blind to papers stacked just a little differently then they had been. He hasn't had a problem since installing the second lock that only he had a key to, fortunately.

Belle French, twenty-three years old and lost enough to now call Storybrooke her temporary home, had a room in the West wing. He's convinced that Regina scatters his patients around the building as much as possible, just to make him walk farther. He's also convinced that she's the reason the elevator took three weeks to get fixed last month. It's not paranoia; even the patients know to take a step back when Doctor Gold and Director Mills are in the same place.

When he knocked on the door of the bedroom it was Belle who answered. There was a fluttering motion that he caught from the corner of his eye, and he turned to the much more lived in bed. "Astrid, I believe you and Doctor Hopper have talked about this. Your room is a safe place. You may use your quilt if it makes you feel better, but no hiding under the bed."

There was silence for a minute as he ignored his new patient. It didn't do to issue an instruction and not make sure it was obeyed. Finally Astrid peaked out from the other side of the bed. "Sorry, Doctor Gold."

"You don't owe me an apology. I will have to tell your doctor, though." One benefit of working at a small hospital with only a few dozen patients was the fact that he was able to keep apprised of all of them without too much trouble. Mal was a little tight lipped, sometimes, but Archie shared almost everything. If his mood was right or there was a shot of whiskey involved there was virtually nothing he couldn't learn from the man.

"I won't do it again," she said in a small voice as she climbed on top of her bed and almost immediately pulled the quilt over her.

"I'm sure you'll try your best, dearie." At least under the bed was a step better than hiding in her closet, as she'd done often when she'd first arrived. "Miss French, if you'll come with me please?"

"Graham said someone would be coming to give me orientation." She hesitated, her hand still on the door handle.

"It will be rather hard to give you that orientation if you don't leave your room." His fingers moved impatiently on the handle of his cane. Standing here having her stare at him wasn't going to tell him much about her. "If we could begin, please?"

"Yes, sir." With a backward glance at her mouse of a roommate she stepped out of the room, pulling her cardigan around her as if it could offer her protection.

"We'll start by learning the path from here to my office. You'll meet with me starting tomorrow morning at ten. We'll decide from there how many weekly sessions are needed. You've been in therapy previously?" He walked briskly down the hall until they reached the elevator that would take them down one flight.

"I see someone once a week, for an hour. Dr. D'Arque." There was a flash of something, a slight downturn of her mouth and wrinkling of her nose before she covered it.

"Liked him, did you?" He pushed the elevator button, watching her closely for any reaction. The fact that she didn't mind when the door closed, not even when she was for a brief time trapped with him, was a good sign. They wouldn't get anywhere if she didn't trust him, at least a little.

"I couldn't tell him anything without worrying it would get back to my father. They were friends." She waited until he left the elevator before following him.

"There will be times when you don't like me, Miss. French, but I assure you that anything you tell me will remain in the strictest confidence unless I think you're going to hurt yourself or anyone else." Even if it wasn't part of his job description he wouldn't have told tales about her. It was unprofessional and unhelpful. He made a mental note to look into this D'Arque, and make a few appropriate phone calls if necessary.

"I don't really have that much to talk about." They stood at his office door, denoted as such by a small plaque that read 'Dr. N. Gold.'

"I sincerely doubt that's true. If nothing else you can tell me how you feel about being here, and how you're settling in. Even if we talk about nothing more than the weather you have no excuse not to be right here tomorrow morning at ten a.m. Understand?" He'd been known to hunt out and find patients who tried to skip their sessions; it didn't take them long to understand that it was easier to show up on time.

"Yes, Dr. Gold."

"Good. Now let me show you around the rest of the building. We won't concern ourselves with outside yet since you won't be leaving the building alone until you've earned the privilege, but once you do there's both a flower garden and a functioning vegetable garden some of the patients chose to help with. There's trails that lead into the small woods at the north end of the property, and a pond that we rather grandiosely refer to as a lake. When I know you can be trusted you'll be allowed to spend your free time out there as you like." The fact that they were far enough from town that it was not completely tamed was a perk of Storybrooke, in his opinion. His own home, a few miles away, was even farther from town and surrounded by trees on three sides.

"No going outside on my own. I understand." She repeated the rule in an almost monotone voice that made him frown, but he only took a mental note of it. When he got back to his office later he'd work up a list of questions, and tomorrow after her session he'd go through her file with a fine tooth comb. For now there was a tour to conduct.

The cafeteria was empty, as it was too late for lunch and not yet dinner time. He pointed out the fruit on the middle table, rolling his eyes at the prominent display of apples. Regina had an unhealthy obsession with them that he'd love to get into with her sometime. "Meals are served three times a day, for one hour. The kitchen is closed to patients outside of those times but the fruit is always available."

She only nodded, and he led her to the art room, where half a dozen people were working on separate projects, including Jefferson and one of his infernal hats.

"First one this week," he said as they walked past him, and Gold nodded. They had a deal that he was allowed no more than one new hat a week; after that he had to make do with pictures or cutting them out of magazines. Soon Gold hoped to cut him down to every ten days, in an effort to wean him from the obsession.

"You can spend as much as your free time as you like in here, Miss. French. In addition there are sometimes group activities to participate in, or therapy assignments involving artistic expression. Scissors are not to leave this room. They're counted often to make sure they're accounted for." It was the only place they were accessible to patients, and therefore special attention was paid to them, just like the knives in the kitchen and the gardening utensils. There had been a close call, a few years ago, involving a pair of gardening shears and a suicidal patient. There were also a few cutters amongst the current patients, though they were usually a little sneakier about what they used since they cared more about not getting caught.

"I won't steal any scissors," Belle promised. She seemed vaguely interested in the watercolors as they walked past a blond woman with long hair covering a page with flowers, but only slightly.

The day room, with the television and board games, didn't seem to spark his new patient. The most animated he saw her was the last stop of the tour, the room they called the library. There was a fireplace, though it was never lit, and a floor to ceiling bookcase along one wall. Most of the room was taken up with overstuffed armchairs, some with footstools, and large pillows for those that preferred to read on the floor.

"We can spend our free time here as well?" she asked, looking around the empty room.

"You can. You can also take books from here and read them anywhere you like. It's an honor code to return them before you chose a new one." He smiled, just a little, as he watched her touch the spines of the ratty paperbacks and public library castoffs. His own library at home was far more extensive and in far better condition. "You like to read, obviously."

"You can go anywhere you want, in a book. Be anyone you want." She didn't look at him, still touching the books without removing any of them.

"Who do you want to be?" He asked softly, not wanting to disturb her, hoping that while she was distracted he might get a glimpse into her psyche. Sometimes it was the little moments, rather than the focused sessions, that told him the most.

"When I was little I wanted to be a hero." Her voice was wistful.

"And now?' he prompted.

"Now I just like the temporary escape."


	4. We're All Mad Here

Author's note: Thank you everyone for the kind and well thought out reviews! And not to meet some of the other residents of Storybrooke Home for Mental Wholeness...

* * *

"Fresh meat," someone shouted as she came into the cafeteria. Belle tried not to look around as she went up to the counter and picked out a slice of quiche and a bowl of fruit salad. There was no coffee, but she made a cup of herbal tea. It looked like caffeine was on the 'no' list at Storybrooke.

"Twinkle twinkle little bat, how I wonder what you're at." She was halfway to one of the empty tables in the middle of the room when someone jumped in front of her, making an oddly elegant bow, sending the ends of his tattered scarf waving. She vaguely recognized the man from the day before in the arts and crafts room.

"Leave her alone, Jeff." A woman tugged him away, pushing him back in the direction of the table where he'd been sitting, then turned her smile towards Belle. She was, perhaps, one of the most beautiful people Belle had ever seen. Her dark hair, as straight as Belle sometimes wished her own was, was streaked with red the same color as her lace top.

"Sorry about him. Jefferson gets a little excited sometimes. Join us?" She gestured at the table where four other people sat. "I promise none of us bite."

"That's not what I heard about you, Red." The only other guy at the table raised one eyebrow suggestively.

"Shut it, puppet boy. You'll scare off the noobie." The woman, possibly named Red, sat back at the table and patted the spot next to her on the bench. "You don't want to start out eating alone, sweetie. It sends out a wrong message."

"It really does." A woman with short hair that might have been black or a very dark brown chimed in. "It's easier here if people think you already have friends looking out for you. We could do that."

"You don't even know me." She was puzzled as she looked at all of them, such an oddly mismatched group. All of them were looking at her without trying to disguise the fact that they were staring, except for the blond at the far corner of the table, staring at her plate.

"Don't mind Ella. She has a calorie count she has to meet before she's allowed to leave the cafeteria, and if she doesn't focus she'll be here for hours. She's cool, even if she is the only dragon in the group." The woman who she only knew so far as Red speared a strawberry with her fork and ate it in little bites as she talked.

"She's a... what?" Belle already had a roommate talking about fairies, she didn't think she could manage dragons as well. What kind of place was this?

"One of the ways we identify ourselves here is by doctor. Ella's with Carabosse; she takes anyone with an eating disorder, because she used to work for some anorexia hospital or something. I'm a cricket. Jeff, August and Mary Margaret are all dearies."

"Dragons, cricket and dearies?" She remembered, finally, that there was food in front of her and took a bite of the quiche.

"Dr. Carabosse collects dragon figurines. Dr. Hopper has pet crickets he keeps in his office and you really won't want to make a joke about feeding them to anything bigger." The guy that, by process of elimination, had to be August was the one to answer this time. "Gold calls people dearie, especially when he's annoyed."

"Or concerned," Mary Margaret chimed in.

"So which one are you? I'm guessing cricket." August barely tilted his head in acknowledgement of the woman's contribution, but quickly turned his attention back to Belle. "You seem Hopper's type."

"I'm supposed to meet Dr. Gold at his office this morning?" Belle was used to quiet meals, either by herself during the day or with her father or Gaston, sometimes both, for dinner. Every few months her father would bring home a business associate, but even those dinners were ordered and sedate, with everyone taking turns speaking and Belle rarely saying much at all. She certainly wasn't used to so many questions being asked in such a rapid fire manner.

"You're a dearie, then, like Jefferson and August and me. We'll be in group together." The smile Mary Margaret offered was sweet and friendly. Somehow Belle managed a small smile back.

"Group?" She was beginning to feel like an echo.

"All of us see our shrink alone, anywhere from two to five times a week. Twice a week we have group sessions; all of Gold's patients meet together, all of Hoppers, all of Carabosse's. Usually it's one circle, where everyone sits and talks..."

"The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things, of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings." Jefferson waved his fork, a piece of ham at one end of it, in time to his recitation.

"And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings." August looked almost lethargic until the fork came closer. He snatched the ham and popped it in his mouth just after he said 'pig,' then continued as if there had been no interruption. "And one informal activity where they encourage 'bonding' among the patients. The fun around here never stops."

"You're just bitter because yesterday's group involved climbing."

"Ruby, be nice. You're not even supposed to know what our group was doing." Belle took note of the fact that the women who had first greeted her was apparently Ruby, not Red. She also couldn't help but think that Mary Margaret sounded like a mother gently scolding her child.

"Nothing stays secret around this place for long. And she's not wrong." August's face was almost expressionless as he got up, holding onto the table for a moment before picking up his plate. He took three steps, halting and slow, his left leg dragging each time he stepped with the right. Another step and he staggered, only keeping himself from falling with a hand to the back of a chair.

"Why..." Belle bit her lip; it wasn't any of her business.

"Why what, princess?" He didn't turn, but looked over his shoulder at her. Belle had to swallow against the bile in her throat before answering.

"Why don't you have a cane or something, to help you?" She couldn't quite make herself meet his eyes.

"Conversion disorder; my brain tells my body I'm paralyzed from the thigh down but medically there's nothing wrong. Gold says letting myself rely on something only makes the paralysis more deeply rooted. I'd love to take his cane sometime and see how well he manages without it." There's bitterness but not hate in his voice as he sets his jaw and once again walks away to return his plate to the counter.

"Poor guy," Mary Margaret said once he was out of hearing range. "Stress always makes his leg worse, and his dad wasn't able to visit this week because he was sick. They're really close, and he worries."

"Don't worry, he's one of the saner ones around here. That's about as bad as he gets. On his really bad days when he can't get out of bed because of his leg he just gets quiet." Ruby's plate was clear, somehow, thought Belle had barely noticed her eating. "You know, we haven't gotten your name yet."

"Belle," she said, without thinking about whether she should tell or not. "It's Belle French."

"Welcome to Storybrooke, Belle."

"We're all mad here." Jefferson's grin turned hard as he looked at her. Belle, without thinking, leaned back a little, trying to put distance between them. She was glad when she looked up at the clock and realized that she could use her impending appointment with Dr. Gold to leave the cafeteria.

She didn't belong in this place.


	5. Friendship and Fumblings

By the time he was halfway through reading Belle French's file Gold was ready to light the whole thing on fire. By the time he finished he wanted to light it on fire and throw it through the windows of every medical professional Belle had ever seen. He also wanted to call the licensing board and do his best to decimate the career of Dr. D'Arque.

His first session with Belle had ended three hours ago. There had been nothing remarkable about it. She presented with the same flat aspect he'd already observed, and he knew from the medication she was on that she'd been diagnosed with depression. She answered his questions but almost never went into detail unless he asked follow up questions. She was polite, respectful, and almost completely closed down.

Gold was a psychiatrist. He believed in pharmaceuticals. In the same way a person with diabetes or cancer needed medication, so did a person with depression or schizophrenia. It was a physical condition, and the fact that the symptoms were often emotional and the imbalances were in the brain rather than the body did not change that. Just like any other medical condition, though, it was important to know what the hell you were doing when prescribing medication. You needed to be aware of the impact they had on a person as a whole, and you needed to periodically evaluate the effectiveness of the medication. You also needed to consider the fact that there was no point prescribing valium when an aspirin would do. D'Arque and all of Belle's other former doctors had missed that lesson.

"I'll come back later." There was a shuffling of feet and a polite coughing, which knowing Archie meant he'd probably spent at least a couple of minutes in quite observation before making any noise.

"You needed something?" He slapped the file closed, glad of the excuse to be done with the thing for at least a little while.

"I was going to see if you had any interest in a late lunch, but the last time I saw that look on your face one of your antique vases ended up smashed against the wall. Should I close your door?" Archie had, for some reason, insisted on invitations to lunch, drinks after work, traded books and all the other little pleasantries that had led to something of a friendship between the two men. Even now, after more than a decade of being coworkers and friends, Gold wasn't sure why he'd done it. He knew from stories told and barbeques attended that Archie was not lacking friends. He was, however, glad of the friendship even if he rarely said so.

"All the more reason to get out of here. I don't have anything scheduled until four." Except a meeting with Regina, but that was easy enough to ignore. He pushed back his chair and reached for his cane, his hand tensing around the handle with more force than was necessary. Archie was not wrong about the cause of his vase breaking; he had something of a temper, but he never unleashed it around patients and he only broke his own things, so Regina overlooked it. Laughed at it actually, he was pretty sure.

"So do you want me to ask, or ignore the elephant?" Archie waited until they were seated at the restaurant to ask any serious questions.

"Incompetent idiots should not be allowed access to prescription pads. Or medical school. Or people." He skimmed through the menu, not even stopping to look at the salads or pasta dishes. He was getting a steak, damn it, and a rare one at that.

"Any particular idiots, or just all of them in general?" Well used to the occasional diatribes, Archie sipped at his water as he listened.

"All of the ones that have mismanaged the case of my newest patient, to start with. They're all damned fools, and now I'm expected to repair what's been done over the course of a dozen years." He thought of the pretty girl and the dull blue eyes, and wondered what she'd be now if she hadn't been buried under layers of prescription medication and shoddy therapy.

"Why is she your patient, by the way? I thought you weren't taking anyone on, and I've had a spot open for a month now." Archie quietly ordered a club sandwich when the waitress came by, and waited for his answer while Gold ordered his steak and potato.

"Regina, doing the two things she does best; playing up to rich men and fucking with me however possible." Which was ironic, because he was in his own right the kind of wealthy person Regina would have shoved and push and twisted to reach, and play him with her twisted smile. She didn't know, though, just what the name Nicodemus Gold meant in certain circles. It amused him to keep her in the dark.

"I think the two of you enjoy goading each other," Archie mused.

"And I think you're getting perilously close to that no analysing your co-worker rule, dearie. Do you want to know what I think about you and your cricket obsession?" he snarked.

"Not while we're eating, thanks." Gold was about to reply that their food hadn't yet arrived, but Archie crooked an eyebrow at him. "Why don't you tell me about this auction you're dragging me to this weekend instead?"

II

Between therapy sessions and paperwork Gold managed to avoid Regina, who he had to admit that he did enjoy goading, but hated to be goaded by, until five o'clock.

"You missed our meeting, Dr. Gold." Her nose wrinkled a little as she called him by name, as it generally did. The title of Doctor, he often thought, rankled her; she might be the director around here but she wasn't the most knowledgeable or useful person on staff. If the clinic ever became less profitable or slipped in reputation she would be out and someone else would step in; he'd be the first one in line cheering.

"Did I? I'm afraid I must have forgotten about that. I've been busy, dearie, what with that extra patient you decided I needed on top of everything else." He looked down at the tea cup in his hand, the freshly brewed tea the reason he'd left his office. Half an hour more and he would have escaped completely without seeing her.

"You were supposed to..."

"Speaking of, I see Miss French is coming down the stairs right now. Perfect timing, since I was hoping to check in with her before I left for the night." Even better timing, since he loved an excuse to interrupt or otherwise annoy Regina when it was in the 'best interests' of his work. "You don't mind if we continue this conversation later, do you? I know how you gave your personal guarantee to Mr. French that his daughter's health was your utmost concern, so I'm certain you'll understand."

"We'll reschedule this for the morning," she said with a tilt of her head, as if she was being magnanimous.

"I'll see you tomorrow." And if he was lucky, he thought as he walked away, 'see' was all that he'd do. He had better things to do than play Regina's little games, and since she hadn't asked for him to bring any reports he had a good idea that games were exactly what she was up to. He'd heard something from Mal about a reporter and some kind of fluff piece; if that was true than he really didn't want anything to do with it.

"Heading for dinner?" He was able to catch Belle easily as she crossed the lobby. He could all but feel Regina watching them, and hoped he could stretch out a conversation with his newest patient at least a few minutes; after that the Director would get bored. He'd be able to finish up his last odds and ends and head home for the day.

"Dr. Gold. No, I'm not hungry. Yet," she hastily added. "I was going to wait until closer to the end of meal time."

"Perhaps a walk might stimulate your appetite a little? I don't believe you've had a chance to see much of the grounds yet. Would you care to see the lake?" He wasn't quite sure why he made the offer; it wasn't something he normally did, unless he was in an actual session, and then he sometimes used walking therapy. Not often, though, and even the short walk would extend his work day by at least another thirty minutes.

"It would be nice to see outside. Thank you." She drew her lower lip into her mouth for a moment. "It is alright, isn't it? I know you said something about privileges?"

"It's gratifying to know that I wasn't just talking to hear my own voice. Yes, you're alright going outside as long as you're with me. The same goes for being accompanied by Doctors Hopper or Carabosse, though there's not much of a reason for that to happen."

"Is it far to the lake?"

"Not at all. Just through that break in the trees." He nodded out the windows that lined one side of the building, letting in plenty of light during the day. They didn't quite match the Victorian architecture, but sunshine was good for the patients. He tried to take a sip of his tea before they headed for the door, but it was still a bit warm. There didn't seem to be a reason not to take it with him; the path the the lake was almost as even and well maintained as a city sidewalk.

They walked in silence, their pace set by the tap of his cane as she stayed at his side and half a step behind. He had to wonder if it was due to intimidation or if it was a normal habit; he'd have to observe her to find out, sometime when she was unaware.

"How are you settling in?" he asked finally, to break the silence. If he was going to spend more time with her it might as well be useful.

"Fine." It was the same monosyllabic answer she'd given that morning.

"Miss. Blanchard mentioned that you joined her and a few others for breakfast." The young woman had been in a eager and chatty mood, this afternoon when they'd met, unlike his current companion.

"They seem nice." Nice. Fine. Insipid words, lacking any real emotion or commitment. It didn't surprise him, but it did annoy him, an annoyance directed, as he'd shared with Archie earlier, at the medical community in general and Belle's doctors in particular. Belle French had been prescribed Prozac when she was eleven years old, and had not been off medication since. The last dozen years of her life were mapped out in anti-depressants, anti-anxiety medication, sleeping pills, vitamins, and for one brief period antipsychotics.

"Miss. French, I would like you to..." He didn't even have a chance to mention the word journal when the whole of her weight was pushing against his arm, her arms flailing. A rock, a pockmark in the ground, or her own clumsiness had sent Belle French falling. Somehow she managed to right herself, and he had his cane to lean on before becoming an inelegant heap on the ground. The china teacup he'd been carrying wasn't so lucky. Still steaming tea sloshed out onto the dirt path half a second before the louder thud of the cup itself.

At the sound of a strangled cry he canted his head to the left. His patient, a moment ago so unemotional as to be almost robotic, was staring down at the cup with a look of horror on her face. Distracted by the expression it took him a moment to realize she was whispering. "...so sorry."

"I'm sure you are, dearie, but there's nothing to worry about. It's just a cup. If you wouldn't mind picking it up for me, though, I would appreciate it." Stooping down wasn't the easiest or most graceful thing. He'd rather avoid it if he could.

"It was an accident." She stood as still as a statue, still staring, barely even blinking.

"Of course it was, Miss. French. It doesn't even appear to be badly damaged." At the moment he was less worried about the cup than the girl. She barely seemed to notice him, despite her apologies.

"Miss French. Belle," he intoned a little sharper. It seemed to work, as she knelt down to collect the cup, cradling it between her hands.

"It's chipped." Her voice trembled as she looked up at him. When she held her hand high enough to reach for easily he picked up the offering.

"It's barely noticeable. No matter." He used his pocket handkerchief to dry away the drops of tea that clung tenaciously to the porcelain, wrapped the kerchief around the cup, and slipped it in his pocket. There didn't seem to be a point in mentioning that the cup was part of a set that had been shipped to the states somewhere around the time Lincoln had been president; he didn't want her feeling worse.

"Come." He gestured at her to follow him, but didn't wait to see if she did before he continued down the path to the lake. He was sitting at the bench just at the shore for more than a minute before joining him. He nodded brusquely. "Have a seat, Miss. French."

"Dr. Gold," she started softly once she was sitting.

He shook his head, stopping her. "Water is a very relaxing thing, I think. We're going to sit here for a few minutes simply enjoying it. Anything you want to talk about can be brought up at your session tomorrow. Understand?"

When she didn't respond he turned to look at her. That placid mask of hers had slipped back into place. her eyes flicked over to him as she felt herself being observed. She nodded. "I like water."

"Good." He turned back to the lake, his favorite feature on the campus, and added what he'd just observed to what he already knew of his newest patient. There was something about Belle French that made him even more curious than usual to figure her out.


	6. Tea and Ginger Cookies

**Author's Note**: Thank you so much for the reviews. I'm glad people liked the twist on the chipped cup thing, and the Archie/Gold friendship. I have to say that I love writing the two of them having much more of a friendship then on the show.

**Trigger warning**: This chapter contains discussion about the death of a parent. Cutting/self harm is also a part of this chapter.

* * *

He served tea. It was waiting for them when she entered the office that looked more like a museum curator's than a psychiatrist's. Everything else looked the same as it always did, except for the tea, but even after a week she found the room odd. Not unsettling; it was, in fact, probably the most comfortable psychiatrist's office she'd been in, and there had been many. Most doctors seemed to prefer austere surroundings, with diplomas and awards on the wall and few decorations other than thick books. There were books in Gold's office, but they were novels and anthologies, encyclopedias and atlases as well as the usual psychology references.

"It's peppermint. It should help soothe your stomach." He'd been behind his desk when she'd first opened the door, but he didn't stay there. He never did. That was another strange things about him, that he'd sit in an armchair across from her, rather than behind the imposing oak desk, almost as if they were two friends talking.

"It hasn't been so bad today. I haven't thrown up at all." She settled into a chair before he did, but didn't move to pour the tea. The last time she'd touched one of his teacups she's broken it, or at least chipped it. Chipped the rim, just like one of the two cups on the table. "You kept it?"

"Not all things lose value just because they're scarred. In fact, I think it adds a little character." He poured them each a cup of tea out of a pot that matched, white and delicate, and oddly suited to him. He didn't seem to even pay attention to what he was doing, so practiced was the gesture, but she couldn't seem to stop looking at his hands. His fingers were long and thin, and seemed as if they were always in motioned. She wondered if he played an instrument. She'd taken piano lessons, once upon a time, and her mother had sat in a chair beside her to listen to her practice.

"Thank you." She wasn't sure if she was relieved or confused when he gave her the normal tea cup and kept the chipped one for himself. Either way it felt strange; for a week she'd been drinking out of plastic, and at home her favorite mug was thick and oversized. She shared morning coffee with her father, but tea was usually by herself, something to drink as she read or at night when sleep was slow to come.

"How are you sleeping?" He asked almost as if he'd read her mind.

"Better, maybe, but it's hard to get through the afternoons without a nap. I've been going to the art room, because being in my room or the library makes it too easy to fall asleep." They'd agreed, four days ago, to start reducing some of her medications. The sleeping pills were first. Staying awake all day was part of the plan they'd come up with for her to be able to sleep naturally. She hadn't realized how hard it would be, just to stay awake for the length of a normal day.

"Would you say you're sleeping has been any worse these last few nights?" He played with his pen more than he used it to write. She wondered if he realized that. Did psychiatrists analyze their own behavior, ever?

"I only woke up once last night. Three times, the night before, but Astrid was having nightmares. She thought she was a fairy, and had been caught in a bell jar by the director." Her roommate, who seemed at most times to be a girl of nine or ten despite the fact that she was twenty, was terrified of the director. Belle, who knew of the friendly masks evil could wear, didn't blame her. Maybe Regina Mills wasn't evil, but she was cold and intimidating.

"I'm sure Director Mills has better thing to do than chase down one of the wee fair folk, but I'll let Doctor Hopper know that she's bothered. I'd hate to think of her being afraid of anyone here; Storybrooke is a safe haven, for everyone." He let his notebook and pen rest in his lap as he sipped his tea. His writing was such a scrawl that she couldn't read it upside down, even if she wanted to try. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what he thought of her.

"She felt better after a glass of water." And a story as well, though Belle didn't see a need to mention that. She'd never been allowed to babysit, her father not liking the idea of her in stranger's houses, especially at night, but sitting at the edge of Astrid's bed and telling her of the brave princess who lived in a tall tower felt like what she'd imagined babysitting to be like. What happened to a woman to make her revert into a child again? Or had Astrid simply stopped growing, emotionally, at some point? "Is she always going to be like that?"

"Astrid? I can't tell you anything about her case, just as I wouldn't tell any other patient your secrets." Gold picked up the plate she'd barely noticed, offering her one of the cookies sitting on it. She wasn't hungry, but there didn't seem to be a polite way of saying no. She accepted one, and took a bite. Ginger, which if she remembered correctly was also good for nausea, and very moist and chewy. This wasn't just tea, it was tea meant especially for her. It was hard to believe that he'd go out of his way for her like that; it certainly wasn't part of his job.

"I don't know if it would be terrible or wonderful, not to grow up. Like Peter Pan." She'd loved that book when she was little. Now it made her sad, because Peter forgot about Wendy, Tinker Bell, and even Captain Hook. She'd always had a soft spot for Hook.

"If we don't grow than we never change. We become stagnant." He took a cookie for himself, but played with it much as he had the pen, rather than eating it. "How old would you want to be, if you could go back in your own lifetime?"

"Ten," she answered without hesitation.

"Before your mother died." Gold set down the cookie, and sat oddly still, for him. "What happened to her?"

"Cancer." She hadn't understood what sadness was, when she was ten. The worst things that had happened to her were her hamster dying and being teased in school for being a bookworm. Then, just a month after her eleventh birthday, everything changed. "It was too far progressed when they discovered it. We had a little less than four months together, after that."

"You were close?" He was prodding. It was gentle, not like the others who had asked before, but she could still feel the probing at the edge of a wound never completely healed. She was tempted to snap that yes, of course they were close, as all mothers and daughters were. She knew, though, that that wasn't always true.

"Papa was away so much on business, when I was small. Mama and I did everything together. She let me help cook, and helped me with my homework, and was the leader for my Girl Scout troop. Every night she read me a story, and sometimes on weekends we'd make forts out of sheets and pillows that took up the whole living room." Their house then had been smaller, but Belle didn't remember minding that at all. Now she and her father live in a house verging on mansion sized; it had never felt like home. Nowhere did, not since she was eleven.

"You saw a psychiatrist for the first time, after your mother died." She wondered if he knew from her file, or if it was a guess. She nodded. She hadn't even known what a psychiatrist was, that first time.

"My father took me. On Christmas, that first year without her, I locked myself in my bedroom. I wouldn't even come out to eat. He was worried. He wanted me to feel better." She spent most the day curled up in the back of her closet, covering her ears each time her father knocked and begged her to come open presents, or eat, or at least let him see that she was alright. Though she'd come out late at night, just before going to bed, she never had unwrapped any of the gifts stacked under the tree. He must have, because they'd been in a neat stack on the table a week later, the same morning he'd told her about going to see Dr. Erikson.

"Did you?" He took the cup she was holding, empty now, and filled it again. The heat as she clung to it made her realize how cold she was.

"He said I was happier." Those months were a little fuzzy, to her. She'd stopped crying, so much, but that was the only way she could think to judge that she'd been happier. The pills had numbed the pain, at that was all she'd cared about. That, and doing what made her father happy.

"I didn't ask what your father felt. His emotions only matter here when they affect you. How did _you_ feel?" Belle looked up when he spoke. There was a tone to his voice that surprised her. People, whether they liked Moe French or not, always understood that his opinion was the important one. Even Gaston listened to her father's opinions before her own. Dr. Gold sounded like he didn't give a damn.

"I don't know. Everything changed after that. We moved, still in the same town but in a bigger house, far enough away that I went to a different school. We had a housekeeper, Mrs. Potts, and she took care of me while my father was gone. She was very nice, but she wasn't mama. Sometimes it felt like everything that had come before was just a dream." And sometimes it seemed like she was stuck in a dream now, waiting to wake up.

"I'm going to give you some homework, since it's almost time for you to go. We have group tomorrow morning, but since it's the weekend we won't be having a one on one until Monday." Gold bent over his pad of paper, taking less than a minute to write a handful of words in his spidery and old fashioned looking script. He handed the paper to her, waiting until she set down the teacup.

It was a simple list of words. Joy. Trust. Sadness. Fear. Anger. Anticipation. Surprise. Disgust. She read through the list twice before looking back at him, waiting for the explanation she was sure he had ready.

"Between now and Sunday night I want you to write down one memory for each emotion on that list. It doesn't have to be too detailed, but I want you to be able to tell me about them on Monday., alright? I'd like them to be from after your mother died, but anytime from then to the present will be fine." His head was tilted to one side as he studied her, as if he really wasn't sure if she understood or not. Belle folded the paper in half and nodded.

"I understand." In theory she did, at least. In practice there were some words on the list that might take some thinking about to have something.

"Good. That's good." His head bobbed a little, his hand moving along the edge of the chair almost as if he wanted to reach out and give her a friendly pat. "Was there anything else you wanted to discuss this afternoon before you leave?"

"No. I'm meeting Ruby in the art room in ten minutes." She wasn't sure how that arrangement had been made, just as she wasn't sure how she'd ended up sitting with Ruby and her friends once or twice a day at meals. The woman was a force to be reckoned with, and almost impossible to say no to.

"I'm glad you're starting to make friends. It's important to have connections to other people. There's plenty of cookies left; why don't you take a few to share," he offered.

"Thank you. They're very good." He made a gesture with his hand, waving the fingers when she only took two. She took two more.

"I'll let my son know; he's the baker in the family. He's also somewhat convinced that I don't know how to feed myself without his help, and brings by far more than I can eat every time he visits." He smiled when he spoke of his son, perhaps the first real smile she'd seen from him in the ten days since she'd arrived. It was strange, imagining him with a son. She'd never thought about what his life was like once he left for the day. He was, in her mind, inexorably linked to either his office, or the lake where they'd walked a few times.

"Thank you for sharing." Her smile was smaller, barely an upturn at the corner of her mouth, but it was genuine as well.

When she left his office, leaving the door open at his request, she was greeted by a small boy sitting on the bench against the closest wall. She'd never been around children enough to know much about them, but he was older than seven, she thought, but not yet in high school.

"Hello." He grinned at her as his feet swung, kicking the backpack on the floor. "You must be new. I'm Henry."

"Belle," she offered, after a brief moment of trying to figure out why there was a child here, of all places. She couldn't fathom a reason.

"That's a cool name. Are you settling in here alright? Has anyone taken you to the lake yet? It's the best place to be, if you can get permission or someone to take you." He sounded so much like an adult that Belle questioned her earlier exclusion of high school as a guess at his age. Maybe he was just really short.

"Dr. Gold takes me for walks sometimes." She had five minutes before meeting Ruby, but it felt strange leaving the boy alone. This was a strange enough place for adults, let alone a child.

"Would you like a cookie?" she offered, holding out her hand.

"My mom would yell at me for ruining my dinner. Maybe we don't have to tell her?" His grin was so full of mischief that Belle almost laughed. Her mom had smiled like that, when they'd whispered secrets together in their fort, or snuck tastes of dessert before dinner was served.

"Henry Daniel Mills, do we need to go over the rules again? You are not supposed to be bothering anyone." Belle frozen, feeling more worried than the boy looked when she heard the director's voice behind her. Very close behind her. "I hope my son wasn't bothering you, Miss French."

"No, Director. He was just saying hello as I walked past." Belle looked around, glad that Director Mills was still half a step behind her and couldn't see the look on her face, concern and, a moment later, relief at the tapping sound of a cane against the floor. Dr. Gold looked as if he'd just happened to have chosen that moment to come out of the office, but for a moment Belle caught a calculating look in his eyes.

"Hello, Henry. Having a good day so far?" Belle could almost feel the director's muscles tense when the doctor and boy greeted each other with a amusingly formal handshake. The affection between the two was clear to see, and Belle knew that she was catching a glimpse of the dad, rather than the doctor, that Gold must be when he was at home.

"I got an A on my history test. My mom's taking me to dinner to celebrate, but first she has stuff to do. Can I look at the book?" Henry's voice was animated and pleasant, his manner as relaxed as his mother's was stiff. Belle was finding it easier to believe that her doctor was a parent, and harder to imagine that the director was one.

"It's in the usual place, as long as it's okay with your mother."

"Fifteen minutes, Henry, and then we're leaving." Permission was grudgingly given. Henry didn't waste a moment before running into the office.

"He's rather taken with a volume of mine on King Arthur and the knights of Camelot." He was look at both women; Belle wasn't sure who he was speaking to. She wasn't sure it mattered.

"I should go meet Ruby." She had no desire to linger Director Mills' presence, or get caught between the director and Dr. Gold. The air seemed colder than it had a minute ago with Henry to act as buffer to the adults.

"Actually, Miss French, it's rather fortuitous that I ran into you, as it saves me finding you later. Your father called just a little while ago. There's been a change in plans and he will be able to come to family day tomorrow. I assured him that you'd be pleased to hear the news." Regina's smile was self-satisfied, as if she knew that Belle had been relieved when her father said he couldn't make it for a visit this first time. From the corner of her eye she could see Dr. Gold stiffen and frown.

"Thank you," she said softly. "It's nice of you to let me know."

"Of course, dear. I like to think of myself as a friend to all the residents here in Storybrooke." Belle wondered if, in her mind, the director replaced 'residents' with 'bank accounts.' Or perhaps 'cockroaches.'

"I could do with stretching my legs a bit. Perhaps I'll walk with you to the art room. Regina, don't worry about your boy; he knows what he can and cannot touch in my office." He took two steps closer to Belle, looking at her as carefully as he had during their session and ignoring the director completely. Regina Mills did not like being ignored, and turned in a tight circle, her heels sounding out a staccato beat as she returned to her office.

"Perhaps there's something you want to talk about on the way?" he asked, his voice dropped down low despite the fact that they were now alone in the hall.

"I'm fine." It was suddenly all too much.. She muttered something about seeing him in the morning for group, then headed away as quickly as she could without running. She didn't go to the art room, or even the library, instead heading for the safety of her room. Her empty room, fortunately, which was sometimes a rare thing as Astrid often needed the same sanctuary that Belle now sought.

Hiding in the closet was, she assumed, no more encouraged than Astrid's hiding under the bed. She didn't care, pushing the shoes out of the way and folding herself into the tight space. Talking about her mother, about that first terrible Christmas, and moving dug up memories she didn't want to deal with. Knowing that her father was coming, that he'd see her in this place, was no easier.

She wanted to sleep, but knew that even if she hadn't given Dr. Gold her promise to stay awake during the day sleep would not come so easily. There was only one thing that always helped when she felt like this. In the dim light of the closet she felt for the shoebox she kept there, opening the lid and letting her fingers close around the thin piece of metal. It had been, until a week and a half ago, a spring under her mattress. She'd flattened it, and spent hours sharpening it. It wasn't a true blade, but when she pulled up her shirt and raked it across her belly she could feel the sting. Even in the halflight she could see the gathering droplets of blood.

Relief swept through her as pain overwhelmed agitation.

For a few minutes she was able to concentrate on nothing but the path of the wire against her skin, skirting around the other raised and thin lines, mostly from a razor but there were round bumps from pins and a few jagged marks from her fingernails. Her stomach and the inside of her thighs were an intricate spider web pattern, a history of her silent escapes from emotions.

When she was done, the makeshift tool put away, she felt calmer. In a little while she'd be able to make herself get out of the closet. Maybe she'd even find Ruby and apologize. For now she closed her eyes, her hand pressed against her stomach, and breathed.


	7. Sons and Daughters

Author's Note: I loved writing Granny in this chapter. And Bay, who showed up sooner than I was expecting. I hope you enjoy some of the guest faces.

* * *

"You are worse than a five year old when you're left alone. Cookies, really?" The back door opened and closed without preamble as Bailey Gold walked into the kitchen. Gold looked up from his tea and shrugged.

"They're good cookies." They were also convenient. Lunch was usually something he picked up in the cafeteria. Dinner was eaten out, or something he couldn't mess up like a steak or a microwaved meal, or once a week he and Bailey ate together. Breakfast, though, was generally tea and whatever was laying around. Sometimes it was cereal, or fruit. More often it was toast. Today the leftover ginger cookies were calling to him. Cooking wasn't really a strength of his.

"I don't know why I even try." Bailey rolled his eyes, but slung an arm over his pop's shoulder. Sometimes it seemed as if the rolls had gotten reversed around the time Bay was twelve. He'd started cooking then, and was soon taking over making most of their meals. It was self defense, he'd often claimed, to protect his taste buds from being permanently ruined. He also scolded when his father stayed up until the wee hours, fell asleep at his desk, or went to work on a Sunday for anything less than a true emergency.

"I'm afraid that I am a lost cause," he said with an insincere sigh, taking a bite of his cookie in mock defiance.

"It's a good thing I love you, then, or I'd give up completely." As expected Bailey took the cookie from Gold's hand, tossing the half eaten thing in the trash. "Do you have time for a proper breakfast, or just eggs?"

"I don't have to be at Storybrooke for another hour. It's visitor's day." His Saturdays were usually limited to a few hours, and on the rare occasion he didn't go in at all. Once a month the families of the patients came out en mass for a visit, though, and he, Archie and Mal were always on hand to answer questions and observe the interactions. Some patients didn't do well when reminded of the outside world, and some made positive breakthroughs. Always there was information to be learned by watching and listening.

"I thought so. I brought a tray of cookies for you to take. To share," Bay added, waving a spatula at him. "How you've managed to avoid diabetes I have no idea."

"Good genes, for which you should be grateful, boy." He'd always liked his desserts, but when his son was a wee little tot sugar meant quick energy. Cookies and candy bars were easy to grab and eat, and gave him the extra buzz he needed to tend to a child on his own with not enough sleep and a bum knee. Now it was just habit and a fondness for the taste.

"I'm just glad it wasn't your cooking skills, or lack thereof, that I inherited." He laughed as he turned back to the now hot skillet. Gold leaned back with his tea in one hand, and watched. Bailey in the kitchen was like any artist in their studio. He moved with a fluidity and grace that was like a dancer, reaching for ingredients, mixing, sauteeing and seasoning without measurements or recipe. He was more at home in his father's kitchen then Gold ever was, despite the fact that it had been a decade since he'd lived at home.

Gold's contribution to breakfast was limited to setting the table and making more tea. He was just slicing up the lemon when Bailey served up crepes stuffed with thinly sliced ham, caramelized onions, peppers and jack cheese. There was a side of sliced apples in a cinnamon and brown sugar sauce as well, in deference to his father's sweet tooth.

"I hope you brought some of those ginger cookies with you," he said just before taking his first bite. He could have sworn he didn't even have half the ingredients in his kitchen, but then Bailey always was a miracle worker when it came to food.

"I thought you liked the white chocolate and dried blueberry best?"

"I do, but I have a new patient who is having trouble keeping food down at the moment. Your cookies are an exception." Not the healthiest thing, as Bailey had already pointed out, but there were times when just getting calories was important. If he could tempt her into eating cookies in addition to what she was able to eat at meal times he'd do it. "She's too thin, even without taking the nausea into account."

"Poor kid. There's some on the tray. If you need more mid-week, though, you know where to find me." Bay knew better than to ask many questions; he'd grown up with patient doctor confidentiality being a matter of course when it came to his father's work.

"I think I might remember, yes." Seven years ago Bailey had come to his father with a business proposal, asking for a loan to start up a bakery. While he had complete faith in his boy's baking abilities and sound head for business, it was the fact that Bailey was planning on staying in town that had him more than happy to put up the money, but as a silent investment rather than a loan. Six months later Queen of Tarts had opened. Though the shop had done well enough for Bay to hire a full time pastry chef he still spent a great deal of his time there, as well as living in an apartment above the shop.

"Tell Archie there's oatmeal cookies without raisins in this batch. And no," Bailey added as he blew on his too hot tea, "Oatmeal cookies don't count as breakfast either."

II

"He knew me today." Alice Hatter offered him a ghost of a smile before glancing over her shoulder to look at her husband. It was one of his better days, his movements calm except for the fluttering of his hands as he sat at one of the tables set up for guests. "I didn't have to tell him my name, and he remembered that we were married."

"I'm glad you were able to have a good visit, Mrs. Hatter." It was hard not to caution the woman that a single good day was not a reason to get her hopes up. It was still difficult to get Jefferson to take his pills daily, as he was sure they'd change his size or had been poisoned, and until he was taking medication without fail it was impossible to predict his mood. He bore a vivid scar across his neck where he had, according to his own report, tried to decapitated himself. It was that incident that had gotten him admitted to Storybrooke almost a year ago. Still, he had as many good days as bad ones, and sometimes went hours without mentioning hats or heads. He still had trouble with flowers, though, which he was forever convinced were spying on him.

"He won't say Grace's name, or even let me talk about her." The frail blonde's smile slipped a little as she looked down at the wedding band she'd started rubbing with her thumb.

"He will with time. I promise." One of Jefferson's strongest delusions was that his daughter, Grace, had been killed during a home invasion. The one time Gold had gotten him to talk about her in therapy the man had given a very detailed account of the robbery, describing both men, one very tall and thin, one short and plump, both sounding suspiciously like the kidnappers in the dalmatian movie Bay had liked as a boy. He'd also described the way Gracie had been dragged from her room and had, in a struggle, been pushed down the stairs. He could perfectly describe the sickening snapping sound and sudden motionlessness as his daughter landed at the base of the steps, and his wife's shrieks as she realized that the girl was dead.

Grace Hatter, however, was very much alive, to everyone except her father. The truth that Jefferson needed to face, but wasn't yet ready for, was that there had been no burglars, no one at all except for himself, his wife and child. It had been him that had accidentally pushed Grace down the stairs, though the result thankfully had been a broken leg and not a broken neck. He'd run away that night, and had been found three days later in a hotel by a maid, his neck bloody but not fatally wounded.

"Just keep visiting like you have been, and one day he'll be ready." It would be a good day, a true step towards being able to move beyond Storybrooke's walls, his goal for every patient.

"Thank you, Dr. Gold." She tried to smile again, and nodded a little as she turned to return to her husband for the last few minutes of their visit. She was dedicated in a way that few people were, driving more than an hour each way for visits that were, on a bad day, less than fifteen minutes long. She also beamed with pride when she spoke of her daughter, far more of a wife and mother than his ex had ever tried to be. Nora had been glad of an uncontested divorce, and relieved to sign over full custody of the son she'd barely seen after the the papers were signed. The last time had been the week of Bailey's fourteenth birthday, when she'd arrived for a surprise visit, tried to play mom, and gone three days later.

"Dr. Gold." The voice behind him was new, and not nearly as hesitant as Alice Hatter's. Gold turned, his eyes blank for a moment as he tried to remember when he'd seen the well dressed man before. The suit and italian leather loafers were overkill given the surroundings, which helped him remember.

"Mr. French, I believe?" He slid his left hand into his pocket, a seemingly casual gesture that, given his right hand holding his cane, meant he had no hand to offer when the other man started to reach out his own hand.

"I am, and you're the man treating my little girl. I'd like to speak with you, if we could move somewhere a little more private." Though phrased as a request there was more of a tone of command to the words. French was a man used to having his own way. Unfortunately for him, so was Gold.

"I'd be more than glad to schedule some time to meet in my office before you leave. At the moment, though, I need to speak to a few other people also requesting my attention. Is there any question I can answer more immediately for you?" Though it wasn't completely rational, there was something about this man that he did not like, or trust. For all he knew French had been misguided but well intentioned, believing that medical professionals were acting in the best interest of his child when they proscribed such a constant stream of medication. Still, his daughter had spent half her life on medications that masked any problem without, in his opinion, solving them. That he'd waited this long to get his daughter help rubbed Gold the wrong way.

"I'd like to know how her therapy sessions are going. She's being vague when I ask about them, and it's not like my Belle. She knows she can tell me anything."

"She can, but I can't. Patient client confidentiality." He looked across the room, where Belle was sitting with Ruby and her grandmother. Mrs. Lucas seemed to be doing her best to feed both young women some of the fried chicken she'd brought; she never failed to arrive for the monthly family day with a picnic basket of homemade food. When Belle actually took a few bites of food the corner of Gold's mouth turned up; he was far more interested in the behavior of his patient then the demands of his patient's father.

"I'm her father and her conservator, Dr. Gold." The man seemed calm, unless one looked at the vein at the side of his neck. As much as Gold would have liked to speak his mind, there was a fine line between getting his own way and pissing French off enough that he took his daughter out of Storybrooke; that was the last thing Gold wanted.

"I have no doubt you love your daughter, Mr. French, and that it was your love and concern that led you to bringing her here. You need to trust that you made a right decision and give us the time and space we need to help her. I'm certain that you want to be sure that she has her best chance, and that means letting her work through things at her own pace." He was cautious with the way he phrased things, playing up the father aspect even though something about the man rubbed him wrong. "I know how frustrating it is, to want the best for your child and to have to trust that someone else can help."

"You're a father?"

"I am. So I understand, Mr. French." What he understood was that he was close to saying something Regina would regret if the man took much more energy to placate. There was a reason he dealt with patients and not with fundraising or anything political in nature. He had trouble not speaking the truth, especially when it was so obvious to him. It was different with patients; he had a soft touch with them unless more was called for, but so called 'normal' people were often more blind to their faults then the people he saw, who faced their darker sides with honesty and bravery.

"She's my only little girl, Gold. I will be keeping an eye on her progress, and if I decide that someone else can help her better..."

"Any other concerns you have can be answered by Director Mills. She's taken a keen interest in your daughter's welfare." He was glad to find that August's father was waiting patiently a few feet away. It was a convenient excuse to get rid of the man. After a glance around the room he found Regina talking to the man that, if he wasn't mistaken, had been with French the first day he dropped Belle off. The fiance, possibly, except that the way he was looking at Regina made his level of commitment questionable. Regina in turn was looking at him the way she usually looked at any single and rich man that crossed her path. Six months ago it had been Mary Margaret's father that caught her attention. The poor girl still got dagger looks from the director because her father had the good taste to not fall for Regina's dubious charms. "I have another concerned parent to talk to, if you don't mind."

"I think we understand each other well enough. We'll speak soon." It was a promise, or a veiled threat.

"Lovely," Gold muttered under his breath once he was sure French was out of hearing range. He waited a moment before sliding his hand from his pocket and temporarily switching his cane to his left hand so he could offer Marco Boothe a handshake. The man, first generation Italian and very hands on, looked like he had to physically restrain himself from giving a hug instead.

It was fifteen minutes before he was able to make his way over to the table where Ruby, her grandmother and Belle still sat. Archie was just getting up, and Gold took his seat.

"You have a little something here, dearie." He pointed to his mouth, miming a brushing motion, as he caught Archie's eye. His friend was quick to brush away the evidence of the meal he'd obviously just enjoyed; Mrs. Lucas was sure that her granddaughter's doctor was too thin, and made every effort to 'feed him up.' It amused Gold to see Archie walking away with a doggy bag; she'd come even more prepared than usual this time.

"Chicken's all gone, but there's some salad," Mrs. Lucas offered.

"Thank you, dear. That's very kind of you." He helped himself to the home cooking, always a treat, and spent a few minutes chatting idly with all three women, though Belle's contributions to the conversation were few. Ruby was never shy, and her grandmother, the only parent she'd even known, was no different. The younger woman was one of the leaders among the patients, and despite the fact that she could talk a mile a minute she stopped more than once to coax an answer out of Belle. He was glad to see that she'd chosen to take Belle in as a member of her odd little group. His newest patient didn't, as far as he could tell, have many friends. She hadn't mentioned many people outside of Storybrooke other than her father, fiance, and deceased mother.

"Princess, we have to go now. Come walk us out." Moe French did not care that Ruby was in the middle of a story, or that his daughter was, slowly but methodically, eating the food off her plate.

"Yes, papa." She was quick to respond, pushing back the plate, wiping her mouth with a napkin, and standing up when her father pulled back the chair. She only glanced in his direction before nodding at the white haired lady next to her. "Thank you, Mrs. Lucas. Everything you made was delicious."

"Like she could tell, poor child. Not much more than a taste of anything, though she could use a good feeding up. She's too thin, Gold, and too quiet though I'm sure my Liza will do her best to cure her of that." Mrs. Lucas only waited until Belle and her father were out of earshot before speaking her mind. There was only concern and well meaning in the action, though, so Gold saw no harm in it, especially when he agreed with everything she was saying. Not that he'd say anything aloud, of course.

"She's like that cat I brought home when I was little. Remember, Granny? The tabby?" Gold had, over the years, learned that one of the best judges of a patient's behavior was a fellow patient. He, Archie, and Mal saw their respective patients for at best an hour or two a day, perhaps ten or twelve hours a week. No matter how successful that time was it didn't compare to the ten or twelve hours daily the patients saw each other.

"A cat, Miss Lucas?" he enquired.

"Some of the boys in the neighborhood had tied cans to its tail. I kicked them until they ran off and brought the cat home once I caught it. Granny cut off the string and cleaned up the scratches."

"Even when it was healed it was a mangy thing. It never trusted anyone but my Liza, though it lived with us for five years before dying. Hid anytime a man came around, and that spoke of its former life well enough. Animals trust until that trust is broken, then it's almost impossible to gain back again without a great deal of patience and time." It was getting close to time for the guests to leave; as she talked Mrs. Lucas packed away the leftover food, some in her basket and some on a paper plate that he had a feeling was meant for him. Patients weren't allowed to keep food in their rooms other than a few approved snack items. She looked up from her work only once, but it was a pointed look that was impossible to miss. She seemed to understand what Gold was only beginning to suspect.

"I should let you two enjoy the last of your visit. Always a pleasure, Mrs. Lucas." He picked up his cane, using it for balance as he stood. It had been some ten minutes since Belle had left, and she'd yet to come back inside again. Ten minutes wasn't long, considering she had both her father and fiance to say good-bye to after weeks of not seeing them, but it left him feeling uneasy.

As he'd expected he was handed a plate of leftovers before he left. "She's a sad one, that girl. I don't know how you do it, doctor. It makes my heart bleed just seeing the ones like her."

"There are more than a few people who would say I simply don't have a heart." He shrugged as he accepted the plate. He had a well earned reputation for being a bastard when he needed to be.

"I've seen the way you look at them, Gold. If you didn't care you'd be somewhere else, making more money or at least getting more recognition. You try that heartless line on someone a little more oblivious, like your director." As he left Gold had the impression that he'd either had a finger wagged at him for the first time in decades or his head patted like a misbehaving but well meaning boy. His mother would have approved of Mrs. Lucas wholeheartedly.

It wasn't hard, after dropping the food off in his office, to find Belle. She wasn't in front of the building, where the guests parked and other families milled around. His second try was the rose garden, around the back of the building. It was empty except for one lone woman, sitting on a bench. Belle liked the quiet and she liked roses. The other day she'd spent twenty minutes of their time pointing out the differences in the varietals. Under his supervision she'd been allowed pruning shears. Nolan, the groundskeeper, had watched from a distance and nodded in approval as she'd tended to the bushes.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Gold. I know I'm not allowed out here without being accompanied." Belle didn't turn as he approached. He wondered if his gait gave him away, as no one else had a cane, or if something else gave him away.

"The rules are a little slack on family day. I'm sure you were just taking a detour after seeing off your family." He provided her with an excuse, but was just as careful to make it clear that the exception did not extend to normal days. He couldn't have patients breaking the rules just because they liked roses.

"It's quiet out here. I'm not used to so much noise." Even though she'd been alone she was almost at the edge of the bench. When Gold sat near the middle there was still space between them.

"It's quite a bit more than a usual day, isn't it? People are usually glad to see their families; they crowd in and make noise. We can stay out here a little longer, if you like, until the last few people leave." He could use a break from the noise himself. "Did you have a nice visit?"

"It was good to see papa. And Gaston, of course." She spoke as if reading off a script. There were times when she seemed to be able to break through the flat affect that kept her voice so monotone, but now did not seem to be one of those moments.

"He doesn't have to come, you know, if you'd rather just your father visited." Especially with the conservatorship it would be hard to dissuade Mr. French from coming, but Gaston was another matter. Gold wondered if she'd noticed how friendly he was with Regina. If it was just her general apathy that made it sound like she didn't care or if she really didn't feel for her fiance the way a woman should about the man she was planning to marry.

"No, it's fine. He'd be upset if he was barred from coming." She bent down to pick up a rose petal, rubbing it between her thumb and finger. He found himself half distracted by watching the motion.

"What does Gaston do, when he's upset?" he probed, keeping his voice soft. 'Upset' was one of many words he'd heard from patents before that ended up being a gross understatement.

"He doesn't hit me, if that's what you think. He's never touched me in any wrong way; he's not like that." She looks up at him and shrugs. "I don't love him, but he's good to me. He doesn't lie to me, doesn't hurt me, and always takes care of me."

"And you're alright with marrying someone you don't love?" She loved books and roses; he found it hard to believe she didn't want love and romance.

"I watched my papa after mama died. He loved her so much that when he lost her it was like he just stopped being. It took a long time before he could even go a day without crying, longer before he smiled. I don't want that, Dr. Gold. I don't want one person to matter so much that I can't live without them." Though there was little emotion in her voice she squeezed her finger together enough to tear the rose petal.

"You have to let yourself feel things, Miss French, or else you're not really living. I'm sure if you ask your father he would say that he didn't regret a moment of loving while he had your mother." Love never was a thing to regret, until it was gone.

"I'd rather be safe, than risk finding an even darker sadness waiting for me. I've not that brave." She pulled her cardigan more snuggly around her. The sun was setting, replaced by a easterly wind. He wasn't certain that was the cause of her chill, though.

"Few people are, Miss French. What's more important is to try and do the brave thing even when you're scared. You may find that true bravery will follow." He stood, and held his hand out to her. her fingers, when she accepted his help, were chilled like ice.

"My mother used to say 'Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says I'll try again tomorrow.' She liked Kennedy."

"Your mother was a wise woman. I suspect she'd want happiness for you, even if it came with pain sometimes. She wouldn't want you to hide from life, would she?" He would hate knowing that Bailey felt the way this girl did. Love hadn't worked out for him, but that didn't mean it was a failure all around. "Let me walk you to your room. It's too cold out here for you."

"Thank you, Dr. Gold, for sitting out here with me first. It was nice."

"It was, dearie." It also, as usual, left him with as many questions as answers. They would have to wait until Monday, though. She'd earned the respite.


	8. Eight Words

**Author's Note**: Sorry this took so long. It took me some time to figure out how this chapter worked. Fortunately a reread of earlier chapters helped.

**TRIGGER WARNING**: A child dealing with the death of a parent. Also, sexual abuse is hinted at but will soon be more directly brought up.

* * *

**Joy**

_She was five years old, and it was her birthday. There was cake, and presents, and music. The thing that Belle liked best, though, was her new dress. It was pink, and when she spun in circles it flew out around her. She never wanted to stop spinning._

_The doorbell rang, and each time is was someone new. She would say hello, and tell them all about her dress, then show them how she could spin. Sometimes she would get dizzy and fall, but she'd just get up again and start spinning. _

_Once when she fell her papa picked her up and spun her around in the air. It had been like flying._

**Trust**

_Her mother taught her to ice skate, the winter she was seven. Normally winter holidays were spent in Boston, with her grandparents, but that year the little family of three had traveled to California instead. They'd stayed a week in Tahoe, in an A-frame cabin with two bedrooms upstairs and one large open space down below, and a roaring in the fireplace where they'd roasted marshmallows. _

_Her father liked to ski, but she and mama had taken the sky lift up to the top of a mountain. They could see everything from the top, and she'd grown dizzy until mama pointed out that the railings were tall and strong enough to keep them from going over the side. That hadn't stopped Belle from clutching her mama's hand as they stepped onto the ice. She didn't do much, at first, but stay upright as mama pulled her around the rink. Slowly, though, she learned to move one foot at a time and soon she was gliding._

_"I'm right here if you need me, sweetheart." Gently she tugged her gloved hand away, leaving Belle standing on her own. Suddenly gliding didn't seem so easy._

_"Mama?"_

_"You can do it, baby. I know you can." Belle bit her lower lip, but nodded. Mama believed in her, and mama was never wrong. Belle slid one foot, then the other, then the first again. She looked to her side, and found that her mama was still right there. But she was skating on her own._

**Sadness**.

_She stayed home from school, the last week. The doctors said there wasn't much time left, and so papa had brought mama home from the hospital. She didn't want to die there; instead she was in the bed that had been hers since she married. Papa slept on a couch they'd brought into the room._

_Belle was eleven. She knew what was happening, and knew there was nothing she could do to stop it. But she could help. She read to mama when she was awake, and wiped her forehead with a cloth to cool down her skin. When it was time for medicine she opened up the little bottles and got a fresh glass of water, handing them to papa while he carefully raised her head to help her swallow._

_Mama didn't eat anymore. She didn't sing either, not like she used to, so Belle sat at the end of the bed and sang for her. Mama loved music, but not as much as she loved Belle and papa._

_"Take care of papa for me, baby. He's going to be sad, but you make him happier than anyone else. He loves his little princess, and I know you love him too." She had to stop to catch her breath. Belle automatically checked the line to the oxygen tank to make sure there were no kinks in the line._

_"I will, mama. I promise." She'd seen papa crying, once, when he thought he was alone. She hadn't cried yet._

_"I love you, my Belle. It hurts…"_

_"I can get…" She reached, almost without thinking, for the pain medication._

_"No, sweetheart. This is a different pain. I love you and your papa so much. It hurts knowing that you'll both be sad."_

_"Are you sad, mama?" She didn't like to think about what would happen after. 'After' was coming too soon; she wanted more 'now.'_

_"I am, sweetheart. I will miss you as much as you miss me."_

_Belle found her throat too choked up to say anything. Instead she curled at her mama's side and held on as tight as she could._

**Fear**

_The new house was big. Her bedroom alone was bigger than her parent's old room. Papa's room, which seems to her to be the same size as their old home, was down another hall, too far away to even see from her bedroom door when the lights were on. They're off now, and Belle is alone in the dark._

_She didn't like the dark. At home, her real home, she had a nightlight. It was leftover from when she was little, and she'd never thought about actually needing it. When they'd packed it had gotten thrown away. When she'd had a light she hadn't thought about how many things could be hiding in the shadows, but now they seemed to be everywhere. Not even her bed was safe._

_Belle jumped out of bed, running across the room to pick up the piano trophy that was the heaviest thing she could think of. Papa would be upset to find her bed empty, but he'd already tucked her in, something he'd done when she was little, but had started again after mama died. The bed wasn't safe. Instead Belle hid in the closet; at least there she could see anything that came for her, and attack it with her trophy. _

_Belle was eleven when she started hiding in closets. She never stopped being afraid of the night._

**Anger**

_Belle hated Doctor D'Arque. She hated him the first time her papa made her come to his office and she hates him again the second time. She sat on the couch with her arms folded and refused to say anything. Questions that were too involved for a yes or no were not answered._

_"Your father is concerned," he said. Belle looked at her long narrow face and shrugged._

_"He thought you might need someone to talk to about your mother." Belle shook her head._

_"You must miss her very much." Again, Belle shrugged. She wasn't talking to this man, this stranger, about her mother. Mama was gone and talking about it was not going to bring her back._

_Talking didn't change anything. She didn't think the pills she'd started taking at papa's insistance did anything either. Nothing Belle could do ever made a difference. _

**Anticipation**

_It was hard to guess what papa's mood would be. The man she remembered from herchildhood, always smiling and sometimes laughing, hugging her and mama the very first thing when he walked in the door didn't exist anymore. _

_Sometimes he laughed, but there was a brittleness to it. Sometimes he headed straight for his office with barely a nod in her direction. There were times he brought home clients to entertain and Belle played hostess, her papa's clients commenting on how grown up and mature she was. Some nights seemed almost like they had, once; Belle would make popcorn and they would watch a movie together. He would ask her about school and she'd tell about a class. If pushed she'd make up some amusing anecdote about a friend that she didn't really have. _

_Some nights he didn't come home until late, his breath reeking of alcohol and his eyes filled with tears. He would apologize, over and over, begging her forgiveness._

_Those were the nights she hated the most._

**Surprise**

_"I've heard a lot about you, Belle. I'm hoping I might be allowed to take you to dinner while I'm visiting?" Papa had just introduced her to his dinner guest Gaston Vartan, tall and well dressed, looking like he'd just walked out of GQ. Belle didn't have the first idea what someone so smooth and good looking could have possibly heard about her to make him ask her out on what almost sounded like a date._

_"I'm sure Belle would like that, wouldn't you princess?" Her father was looking at her expectantly. Belle knew that look; there was only one answer._

_"I would love to have dinner with you, Mr. Vartan," she answered dutifully, making herself smile. She'd rarely been on a date, and never one that he father had arranged. She wasn't sure what had changed now._

_"Please, it's Gaston." He shook her hand, his grip firm. It was hard not to flinch at the touch; so few people touched her except for her father and Mrs. Potts, the housekeeper._

_"Thank you, Gaston."_

II

"You're missing one, dearie." Doctor Gold sat across from her, leaning forward in his armchair with her sheets of paper in one hand. Seven memories, but he'd asked for eight.

"I'm sorry, I thought I brought them all." She didn't look at him as she rubbed her hand up and down her leg. The motion put pressure on the cuts there, a tiny burn that was much needed. It also put her hand perilously close to the single piece of paper in her pocket, the eighth word.

"It's alright. I forget things too. There's a note on my steering wheel right now so that I remember to stop at the store on my way home. Bailey will scold if he finds my refrigerator as empty as it is at the moment." Gold set the pieces of paper on the coffee table, next to his cup of tea. At least once a week, now, there was tea and cookies at one of their sessions. "Why don't you just tell me what it said?"

"I don't remember," she lied. She nibbled at a cookie, hoping to calm her stomach. It didn't work. "My piece of paper got kind of crumpled when I was talking to Henry. Maybe the last word got torn off."

"You gave me joy, trust, sadness, fear, anger, anticipation and surprise. All you're missing is disgust. Don't worry about it being the same as what you might or might not have written earlier. Just tell me something that springs to mind when I say the word disgust." He waited while she stared at her knees.

She should have lied, should have made something up. Even now she tried to think of something harmless; a food that turned her stomach or a time she'd witnessed something gross. Her mind was blank.

"Belle, I need you to look at me." His voice seemed far away, almost like an echo. She tore her gaze away from her knees to look at him. It hurt, to see the concern on his face.

"I don't feel good, Doctor Gold. I'm sorry." She ran from the office to the connected bathroom, barely making it in time. The cup of tea and half a cookie she'd eaten came up, as did the remains of her lunch from an hour ago. It wasn't much; by the third wave she was trembling with dry heaves and the sour taste of stomach acid.

"Shhhh…" Her eyes were closed, but she could feel him behind her, gentle hands brushing back her hair. There was a running of water followed by the coolness of a wet cloth against her face. She had to push it aside to heave again; this time it rested against her neck.

Her mama had tended to her like that when she'd been sick. Her father hadn't handled illness very well.

"Sit up a little, dearie. I'm going to flush." Belle leaned back, suddenly almost too exhausted to even sit. She barely even noticed the flush of the toilet, taking away the food that she, once again, couldn't keep down.

"Sorry," she mumbled as she felt his hand on her shoulder, keeping her up.

"You don't have anything to apologize for. Do you think you're alright to get up?" He held out a hand to her. She, trying to accept it, felt dizzy and fell back to the floor. It took her two more tries to stand. "Just from here to the couch."

Belle nodded her head, leaning on him far too much considering his leg, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. At least once they reached the couch she could sink down onto it for support. It surprised her when Doctor Gold, rather than return to his armchair, sat beside her.

"I want you to forget the words for right now, alright? We're going to return to them later, but for today I want you to forget about all of them except for trust. We're just going to think about ice skating, and try to remember how that feels. Can you do that, Belle? Just tell me one thing about that memory. One word." His voice was gentle and low, his brogue thicker than usual. She remembered his touch, and wondered why it didn't bother her the way touch usually did.

"Safe. I remember my mama…" But she couldn't. It hurt too much to talk about mama, so much more than it had hurt to write the words down earlier and that had taken her hours to get those few words down. She drew her legs up to her chest and bit her lip, but it wasn't enough. She couldn't stop the tears from coming. She couldn't stop the sobs that erupted from her gut. She'd been safe when mama was alive. Nothing had been right since then.

She hated this place, but she hated even more the idea of leaving it, now. Her father had mentioned it was a possibility, on Saturday, and the idea terrified her. She wanted to go home, but that mansion of her father's wasn't home. Gaston's apartment, though intended to be her home after she married, was a foreign place. When she thought of home, and safe, and trust and joy there was only one place, and that was the house she'd lived in when she was little and her mama's arms.

She could barely stand to have anyone else touch her, and yet as her body was racked with sobs she did not protest the wiry strength of the arms that wrapped around her, holding her close. It was his job, her brain told her, but her heart whispered 'safe.'

It was an hour before she was cried out, and had drunk enough water for him to think her rehydrated enough. She managed a few crackers he pulled out of a drawer as well.

"I'm going to walk you to your room now, alright Belle? I think for today we'll make an exception in the no napping rule." he hadn't stopped touching her, since she'd started crying, his hand now resting on her shoulder. "I'm going to check in on you before I leave tonight too."

"Thank you, Doctor Gold." She stood, and at least this time she wasn't dizzy and the taste of vomit was gone from her mouth.

As they left the office she slipped the last piece of paper from her pocket, letting it fall to the floor. Maybe he'd see it when he returned, maybe he wouldn't. She'd leave it to the fates.

II

**Disgust**.

_I don't know why anyone would want to touch me. I can barely stand to touch myself._


	9. Shattered and Broken

**Author's Note**: There's a lot of heavy and emotional subject matter in this chapter. I hope I handled it well. If anyone has concerns they are more than welcome to let me know.

**TRIGGER WARNING**: Child abuse, specifically sexual abuse, is the focus of this chapter. Also self-harm.

* * *

He found the note. Of course he did; his office was cluttered but there was an organization to it that did not include pieces of paper on the floor. A crumpled piece of paper, with a tiny half circle poked through in the middle; her fingernail, he assumed, from holding it so tightly. It was one more piece of the puzzle, forming a picture that he could not deny.

"Son of a bitch." The first thing he touch when he reached out, blindly, was the tea cup Belle had been drinking out of. In a matter of seconds it was shattered on the floor, the last sip of tea dribbling down the wall. A plate of cookies was next. The teapot itself made a more satisfying crash. It was also, probably, the thing that drew Archie's attention.

"Nick." It was only when Archie closed the office door that Gold realized it was still open. Anyone could have walked past and witnessed his rage; in the back of his mind he knew that was the last thing any of his patients needed to see. He could find it in himself to care.

"I want to kill him, Archie. I want to wrap my hands around his fucking throat and watch his face turn purple. And I want him to know. In his last moments I want him to know that someone has seen what a disgusting monster he is, and is not afraid of him." The creamer and sugar bowl made twin crashes against the wall, as a tea set that had survived almost a hundred years became nothing more than broken shards.

As broken as Belle.

Nick Gold picked up the last remaining piece on the table, the teacup he'd been drinking out of. It was the same cup he'd been using almost two weeks ago, when he'd first shown Belle the lake. There was a chip along the edge. He set it down. It felt wrong to destroy it, when he could see Belle's worried expression and hear her haunted 'it's chipped.'

"If he were here right now I really would kill him. I've never thought that before, not even when Bay's mom walked out on us. I've been in fights, I've hated people, but never have I wanted to literally rip someone's throat out." He leaned heavily on his cane, his forehead pulsing, a headache building as he tried to contain his rage. He stood completely still, watching as Archie took one tentative step towards him. He looked like a man approaching a wild animal.

Or a psychiatrist approaching a patient in the middle of a violent episode.

"I would suggest we sit and have some tea but obviously that's not going to happen today." Archie looked pointedly at the carpet, littered with broken bits of white and blue china. "Why don't we just sit, and you can tell me what this is about?"

"Afraid I'll hurt someone if you don't calm me down?" Gold raised an eyebrow. The all consuming rage was passing, but the anger remained. And the ache. How many years had Belle been carrying around her secret? How many people could have helped her, but didn't?

"Afraid you'll hurt yourself." It was a show of faith, perhaps, that Archie sat first. He took the same place on the couch that Belle had occupied, less than an hour ago. "Tell me who 'he' is, Nick. I can't help unless you let me."

"I've been doing this a long time. You know what it's like; you get to the point where you understand them. Bulimia doesn't surprise you because it's a natural progression of someone feeling they have no control. Someone thinking that they're able to fly off the roof means they need medication to better control their schizophrenia. Even things like suicide you can understand, because you've seen how a person's world can seem that hopeless. Even murder, you can understand a person's motives even if you know it's wrong. You begin to see things through their eyes. Impulses and kinks and fetishes and voices that whisper in your ear I can understand." He sunk into his chair, letting his cane fall to the ground. He really should get up and get some aspirin, but that would require walking into the bathroom where he'd just watched Belle puking because she couldn't bear to speak of a shame that shouldn't be her own.

"But some things..." Archie prompted after the brief silence continued for more than a minute.

"I've made mistakes in my life, but there's exactly one thing I've done that's perfect. My boy. I have a son, and he's perfect, and if someone ever tried to hurt him I would destroy them. I would cut my arm off rather than deliberately hurt him, Archie. Any real parent would do the same." Parents were supposed to protect their children. He wasn't naive, he knew the terrible things that happened. He knew about children being beaten and starved, and made to sleep in the garage. There were a thousand things he'd heard, just during his own sessions with patients. But this one was different. He didn't know why, but there had been something about Belle from the very first day that had gripped him. Maybe it was her eyes. She was so damn lost inside herself, but the glimpses he'd seen made him sure that she was worth finding.

"Read this." He held out the piece of paper; one word and two sentences.

It only took archie a moment. He took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, blinked and put the glasses on again. He read the words again as if they might have changed. "Shit. You had Belle this morning, didn't you?"

"Yeah. There's been something off about the way she's talked about her father from the start, but I thought he was just controlling. But she left this in my office today, so I wouldn't find it until I came back." He'd considered the fiancé, but not the father. He'd been too eager to get away from the man the two times they'd met to stop and see the monster lurking there. It didn't matter to him that the man had more than a decade of practice at hiding; he was supposed to know.

"She didn't tell you?" Archie set the paper down on the coffee table. After a moment he used the tips of his fingers to push it farther away, as if that made it less real or at least less potent.

"She talks as if her life ended when her mother died. She was eleven. It was the same time the therapy and pills started. She hasn't been off them since then, Archie. Twelve years she's been kept numb while her father..."

"You can't know for sure, Nick. She hasn't..."

"I know. If I had a single hope that it wasn't true I would cling to it, but you didn't see her. Not today and not on Saturday when he was here." He huffed, a cynical sound that wasn't a laugh, but might have been. "Your Ruby's grandma saw it. Bright lady, that one; said Belle reminded her of a dog they'd had that was rescued from abuse."

"I think..." There was a knock at the door before Archie could finish. While Gold would have ignored it or, failing that, shouted at whoever it was to leave, Archie was more rational. He got up and opened the door. "Could you come back in half an hour, Graham? Doctor Gold and I are discussing a case."

"I don't think this should wait, Doctor Hopper. I'm worried that it's already been too long." There was a flutter of movement, and Archie seemed convinced enough to step out of the way.

"Doctor Gold?" Graham's voice was as soft as it always was. In three years Gold had never heard the man yell, which considering his position as an orderly was quite a feat.

Though he never liked drawing attention to his cane, Gold was forced to bend down and pick it up so he could stand. At least it gave him a moment to pull himself together. "You have a concern?"

"The laundry service just made their delivery, sir. They brought this to my attention." He held out his offering, a shirt of pale blue. It was turned inside out, and along the torso there were stains of a reddish brown. Rust, some people might think. He knew better. Blood, and not the kind that comes from an accident.

A glance at the tag confirmed his worst suspicion. "Belle."

"I knew she was one of your patients, Doctor Gold. There's a second shirt and a pair of pants as well, but I didn't think there was a reason you needed to see them all." He waited with complete stillness for further instructions.

"Send them back and see if they can get the stains out. Or burn them." He waved his free hand dismissively, the other clenching his cane tightly.

"She's a cutter," Archie commented when they were alone again.

"How long has she been screaming for help, Archie? How long has no one listened?" He looked down at the stains on the shirt Graham had left with him. They took away razors and pencil sharpeners, anything that had a blade. They kept careful count of scissors and knives. But people were creative, and could find ways. Belle had.

"Someone's listening now, Nick." Archie spoke with more confidence that Gold felt. "You can help her."

"I need to go up and talk to her." What he really needed was a drink from the whiskey bottle in his lower desk drawer, but he couldn't go to her with the smell of alcohol on his breath. He didn't give a damn about it being professional; she had memories of her father coming home drunk and he'd do anything to disassociate himself from that man.

"I'll come with you, in case Astrid is there. I can take her for a walk." Archie followed Nick from the room, shutting the door behind them. They'd worry about clean up later. Nick locked the door, partially from habit, partially because Regina was a damn snoop and he didn't need to explain himself to her, especially when the chances of a rational and calm conversation were close to nonexistent.

The trip across the main lobby, up the elevator and down the hall of the West Wing was a quiet one. It also seemed both longer and shorter than it had an hour ago when he'd walked Belle to her room. He wondered if she'd slept at all.

"I'll be here if you need to talk, after, alright?" Archie made a point of saying as they stood outside the door to Astrid and Belle's room. It was a well known rule that anyone giving therapy to others needed to be seeing a therapist of their own, and Archie and Nick played that role for each other most of the time.

"Yeah." He knocked on the door and waited for it to open. They tried, unless it was an emergency, to give the patients control over their own rooms. There was a weekly search, but it was done while the patients were at group and everything was returned to its proper place.

Astrid was the one who answered the door. "I wasn't hiding, not even under a blanket."

"That's good, Astrid. I'm proud of you. Why don't you come on a walk with me and tell me about it. We can go on the path through the woods." Archie spoke to his patient while Nick looked beyond the door to the room. Belle's bed was messed up, so perhaps she had napped, but she wasn't in the bed now. He found her standing at the window, looking out.

"Can we look for mushrooms, Doctor Hopper?" Astrid was delighted by the idea of an impromptu walk.

"We can if you promise to tell me three true things about mushrooms, and none of them can be about fairy rings."

"Promise." Astrid all but skipped down the hall. After a moment Archie squeezed Nick's shoulder and turned to follow her.

Gold stood in the doorway and just watched. He wasn't even sure that Belle had noticed him. "Dearie, we need to talk."

"You found it." She didn't turn from the window, but she didn't seem surprised at his voice either.

"The note and the shirt." He limped across the room, leaving the door open, hoping it would help her feel a little less trapped. He pulled the chair out from the desk closest to her bed and sat down. "I need to see it."

"It?" She turned, her face tear stained and pale. Her head fell as she saw what he was holding. "That's my shirt."

"I need to know what you've been using, Belle. Will you show it to me?" He didn't want to make demands unless he had to. She, after a moment, headed for her closet. She didn't try to deny, protest, or pretend that she didn't understand. She simply picked up a shoebox and brought it to him. When he opened it he found a piece of wire. A bed spring, straightened out and somehow sharpened at the end, not unlike how a prisoner might make a shiv. She, however, was only hurting herself. Somehow that made it worse.

"We're going to go see the nurse in a little while, alright? We need to make sure none of the cuts are infected." Her stomach, her legs; he wondered where else they would find scars. He'd never seen her in anything less than a long sleeved shirt and pants.

"I'm not trying to kill myself." She took a step back once he had the box in his hands.

"I know you're not, Belle. And I'm glad of that. But I don't want to see you hurting yourself either."

"It's not pain. It's..." She took another step back, and sat on the edge of her bed. "It helps. It's easier than feeling nothing, or..."

"Or other kinds of pain." He knew. He understood. This he could understand so much more than what her father had done. Sometimes self injury was punishment, but sometimes it was a release, as way of trying to let the poison out. only this kind of poison didn't come out in blood. "We need to talk about your father, Belle."

"I won't do it again. The cutting. I promise I won't." Her hand, even now, was pressed to her stomach. He could imagine fresh cuts there, sending pain signals to the brain at the slight pressure, trying to overwhelm the other thoughts.

"We'll talk about that, Belle, but we need to talk about this first. Your father..."

"He loves me. Papa loves me more than anyone else." Although she remained perfectly still he could almost see her drawing in on herself, her psyche trying to protect her from truths no child should have to face.

"There are many kinds of love, dearie, and not all of them are good. A parent is meant to make their child feel strong and whole. They should never hurt their child." It was hard, to keep his voice so calm, to wait and let her say the words without saying them for her. It was just as hard not to wrap his arms around her and protect her from the world.

"He would never hurt me. He loves me." She repeated the words like a mantra. It was the truth she'd been using to protect herself, but it was destroying her. If her papa loved her then nothing that had happened between them was his fault. But pain had to be someone's fault, and if it wasn't his then she only had one person to blame.

"It's not your fault, Belle. None of this is your fault. You told me how much it hurt when your mama died. He was your only parent, Belle. If you wanted his attention that wasn't wrong. If you were glad for his hugs and cuddles that wasn't wrong. Humans need touch, Belle. You needed your father to touch you, but you needed the right kind of touch. If he warped that into something secret that made you ashamed that was his sin, not yours. It was his fault. You're not to blame." She rocked, and wouldn't quite look at him, and so he kept talking. Never had he felt so desperate to find the right words. "He's your father, Belle. It's his job to protect you, not your job to protect him."

"I love him. He's my papa." Tears shimmered in her pale blue eyes as she finally lifted them to him. They did not fall. "He's all I have left."

"You have yourself, Belle. I think, when you get to know her, you'll find that Belle French is a person worth being. A strong person," he insisted. He wanted her to be strong. Hoped for it. "Tell me about your father."

"I..." She closed her eyes and took a breath. When she opened them again a single tear fell down her cheek. "A few months after mama died he started tucking me in at night. He hadn't done that since I was little. I hated nights. Hated the dark. It was harder to forget, when it was dark and I was alone, that mama was dead. But then papa was there, holding my hand. Hugging me. Once I had a nightmare and he held me on his lap until I fell asleep again. That's all it was at first, and I was so relieved. He'd been so quiet, it was almost like I'd lost him too."

"But then something changed," Gold said softly, bracing himself. He remembered how sick she'd been earlier, and wondered if he could prevent himself from reacting the same way.

"He touched my thigh, one night. I told myself there was nothing strange about it, no reason to feel weird. He was my papa. But the next time it was a little higher. And then he started coming into my room without knocking. One time I was changing, and he was there in the doorway, hand on the doorknob, staring. He said I looked like mama, now that I was growing up. After that..."

II

It was late, by the time Gold got home. He'd been with Belle for over three hours, listening to her, talking in soft reassuring words, holding her hair as she threw up again and cleaning her face. He'd taken her to Nurse Whale to have her cuts examined. None of them were infected, a miracle considering the wire she'd been using over and over. They'd started her on a course of antibiotics to be on the safe side.

According to Whale she had scars on her abdomen, the undersides of her breasts, her thighs and the inside of her arms. Graham had tossed her room while they were seeing Whale. He hadn't found any razors or handmade tools. He had removed the beds from the room, though; both women would be sleeping on mattresses without frames for the next little while. they'd have to keep a close eye on Belle for the near future.

Someone would be checking on her every hour through the night, but Gold knew that he would be back earlier than usual, to check on her himself. What he didn't know was how he was going to get any sleep tonight. The answer, he assumed, would be in the bottle of Johnnie Walker that he'd refrained from drinking earlier. And a pain pill, since his knee was throbbing. He'd been ignoring it all day, and it especially protested kneeling on the tile of the bathroom earlier.

The porchlight was on, since he had it on a timer, but the house itself was dark. He didn't bother with the lights; it had been his home for over two decades, and he knew it well. He was halfway down the hall, though, when a lamp clicked on. He spun, an action that made his knee scream in protest.

"Bay?" His son sat up on the couch, his lower half covered with a blanket. Obviously he'd been sleeping, or at least trying to. Gold quickly tried to work out if they'd had plans, but it was a Monday night. They had dinner on Thursdays and brunch on Sundays; he didn't remember making any special plans.

"Archie called. He thought you might need to not be alone tonight." Bailey tossed off the blanket and dragged his hand through the over-long hair he never seemed to get around to having cut. "Rough day?"

"You could say that." His boy. His perfect, healthy, whole boy was sitting in his house, waiting for him. It was enough for the ghost of a smile.

"Knowing you it's been forever since you've eaten, so I'm going to make something. You go ahead and get the whiskey." Just before wrapping him in a hug Bay too a close look at him. "And the pain pills."

"It's late, son, and you have an early morning," he tried to protest, despite the fact that an hour with his son might be the only thing that could relax him enough for sleep.

"Yeah, 'cause you never stayed up late with me when you had an early morning, pops." Bailey rolled his eyes. "I'm cooking, you're eating, and then we can talk. Archie didn't give me any details, of course. You can. Or I can tell you about the woman who yelled at me today because I didn't tell her that there was coffee in the tiramisu cupcakes."

"I love you, son." Gold looked at his boy for a second before heading for the bathroom to get his pills from the medicine cabinet.

"Love you too, pops," he heard Bailey call out after him. It was a balm that soothed, at least a little.


	10. Friends and Family

Trigger warning: Child abuse, specifically sexual abuse, is a focus of this chapter. Also mentions of self-harm.

* * *

"It's not as good as Granny's, but chicken soup still goes down easier than most anything else." Belle, who had been staring at her plate, watched as it was pushed away and replaced with a steaming bowl of soup. A moment later Ruby slid onto the bench next to her, setting her own tray of food down on the table. It looked a lot like the one Belle hadn't been able to stomach.

"There wasn't any soup at the counter." She'd been later than usual to lunch, an extra session with Dr. Gold squeezed in to the late morning, and had expected to eat alone. Ruby and her friends tended to eat at the start of meals, when the food was freshest and hot; no matter how hard they tried the cheeses started to clump oddly and the stews formed a skin over the top before the lunch and dinner periods were over.

"I can be very persuasive," Ruby said with a grin as she took the top slice of bread off her sandwich and proceeded to rebuild it without the pickles, but adding a layer of potato chips.

"What she means was that she flirted with one of the kitchen staff." August was walking better, able to carry his own tray without trouble. Ruby had pointed out his father, on Saturday, and the hugs that they'd shared both in greeting and parting; Belle wondered if that was the reason for the almost cheerful mood today.

"I got what I wanted, didn't I?" There was a laugh, and Belle guessed that Ruby had made a face or stuck out her tongue. Belle was concentrating on making herself dip the spoon into the bowl and eating a bite; it seemed rude not to when Ruby had gone to the trouble. She'd promised Dr. Gold, as well, that she would try and eat a real meal; he'd allowed her to get away with toast at breakfast, and whole grain crackers with her tea during the hour and a half she'd spent with him.

The first bite was small, and barely trickled down the back of her throat. It was warm, though, like the tea Dr. Gold served. Even if she didn't manage the noodles she thought she could at least handle the broth without upsetting her stomach. Her throat was raw from the crying and throwing up; the soup helped there too.

"For when you're done with the soup." Mary Margaret sat at her other side, with her own lunch tray, and set a napkin with chocolate chip cookies on it next to Belle's water glass. "Sometimes chocolate helps."

"Helps?" Belle looked up in horror, finding that Ruby, August, Jefferson, Mary Margaret and Ella were all sitting at the table, and only Ella wasn't looking at her. "Does everyone know?"

"We don't know anything, sweetie." Mary Margaret patted her shoulder, at the same time seeming to keep a watchful eye on the men setting across the table from them, both of whom had a tendency to crack wise.

"Not a thing," August agreed as he tore his sandwich in half, somehow making it look as neat as if he'd done it was a knife.

"We know that something happened, but we don't know what and we don't need to know. We've all been there." Ruby looked around the table. Everyone nodded, even Ella.

"I had to be force feed, for two weeks, when I first got here." It was the first time that Ella volunteered more than a word or two.

"I had to be under twenty-four hour watch once," Ruby said softly, not quite looking Belle in the eye. Belle had been checked on every hour throughout the night; she couldn't imagine what it would take to have someone watching full time. Ruby seemed so normal. Belle hadn't thought about it much, but now that she did she realized that she didn't know what the reason was for her to be here.

"I really like jell-o." Jefferson picked a bright blue cube of the jiggly substance out of a bowl before sliding the rest over to her. Moving a finger at a time he made it dance across the back of his hand, from one side to the other. Belle couldn't look away from the odd almost dance it seemed to be doing.

"Remember how I explained earlier about being supportive, Jeff? This isn't it." Ruby glared at him, and pushed the bowl back across the table.

"When I was a kid I thought jell-o was magic." Jefferson continued as if Ruby hadn't spoken.

"It's not liquid, but not solid. You poke it and it springs back. Light goes through it like stained glass. And no matter how bad you feel it's hard not to smile at the wiggle of a piece of jell-o." With two fingers he passed it from hand to hand, the strange little cube jiggling as it caught the light. After a moment he tossed it high, looked up and cleanly caught it in his mouth. The were bits of blue on his teeth when he grinned at her. Belle found herself smiling back. It wasn't until the smile faded that she realized how long it had been since she had smiled in anything other than a polite and expected way.

"Thank you," she said as Jefferson slid the jell-o even closer to her. He tipped his head in her direction, making a gesture with his hand as if doffing a hat. In another time and place he might have been an elegant gentleman. Unlike Ruby, though, Belle knew enough of his story to understand that 'elegant' was hardly a word for him. She hoped that someday he remembered his daughter. He obviously loved her very much; it would be terrible if they lost each other permanently. Little girls needed their fathers.

"Excuse me." The soup she'd managed so far threatened to come up again. Belle pushed back her chair and hurried to the bathroom, hiding in one of the stalls even when the wave of nausea passed. The urge to find something sharp and cut, just a little, was strong. She tried pinching the inside of her arm but the old cuts were almost all healed; it had been three days since she'd cut herself, two since Gold had found out her secret. All of her secrets.

"Belle?" Ruby called to her softly, a moment after the door opened and closed.

"I-I'll be out in a minute." Ruby knew something was wrong. They all did. Belle stared at the tiles on the floor and wondered how long it would be before everyone knew the truth. Dr. Gold had spoke to her about filing a report and getting a restraining order. She didn't know if she could. Her father would be so upset. Everyone would be disgusted. No one would ever look at her again without seeing what she was.

"You don't have to come out, if you don't want to. No one is looking for you yet." They both knew that someone would, eventually. The bathroom nearest the cafeteria, especially, was carefully monitored because of the patients with eating disorders.

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright." Through the gap at the bottom of the stall Belle could only see Ruby's feet and lower legs. She stood calmly, but sounded worried.

"I'm fine." She had to cover her mouth to keep a hysterical laugh from escaping. Fine? She didn't even remember what the word meant, let alone what it felt like.

"It's okay, you know. Not to be fine. Dr. Hopper taught me that." There was a sound of running water. A moment later a wet paper towel was offered under the door. The cool dampness felt good against Belle's face. She wasn't sure why Ruby thought she needed it, but she was grateful.

"You seem fine." It was a statement, not an accusation. She wanted to be calm, cool and collected like Ruby.

"I am, most days, as long as I don't think too much about leaving this place. Dr. Hopper thinks I might be ready for a day pass, though, and just thinking about that makes me want to run to my room and hide."

"Don't you want to go home?" She'd met Ruby's Granny. There was only affection between them. Belle had gotten good at reading people's moods, and there didn't seem to be any trouble in that relationship between grandmother and granddaughter.

"More than anything, but only if it's safe." The confession was almost a whisper. It was only the echoing acoustics of the bathroom that made it loud enough to hear.

"Safe?" Belle's gut clenched again, but it wasn't nausea this time. She opened the stall door and stared at Ruby, worried.

"Not safe for me. Safe for everyone else." For the first time the confident woman that Belle was in awe of was gone. The Ruby staring at the mirror, at herself, was quieter and in some ways almost smaller than usual.

"I don't understand."

"I killed someone. That's why I'm here. I don't remember it, Hopper said that it's my mind's way of protecting me." Ruby's eyes met hers in the mirror. Belle could see the unshed tears. "His name was Peter. We were friends for years, but had only just started dating. There was a party and I..."

"You don't have to tell me." She took a step forward, not daring to touch the other woman but standing close enough that she could, if Ruby reached out.

"It doesn't hurt any less to keep it inside." Ruby sighed, and pressed her lips together.

"I thought he was a wolf. That's the one thing from that night I remember vividly. I thought a wolf was going to attack me, so I got a knife out of the block on the counter and I attacked it first. They wouldn't tell me how many stab wounds there were, but when I woke up the next morning there was blood everywhere. Granny's the one that woke me up, but I don't remember that. I just remember the blood, and the screaming." She rubbed her neck with two fingers, as if trying to soothe the sore throat from two years ago. "The doctors said there might have been something in one of my drinks, that was gone before they drew my blood. But they don't know for sure. Maybe it was just me on my own, and if it was then I'm a monster."

"You're not a monster." There wasn't much she was sure of, right now, but she did not hesitate. Ruby was the closest to a friend she'd had in a long time. Her friend wasn't a monster, no matter what she'd done. Belle knew what monsters looked like, under the surface. "I trust you."

"Yeah, well, as Jefferson says we're all mad here." Ruby crossed her arms in front of herself, a protective gesture that Belle knew intimately. She wished she was brave enough to give the other woman a hug. She wasn't.

"Jefferson spent last week with a pillowcase wrapped around his neck and talks about bowling with cabbages and kings." He was everything she'd grown up thinking 'crazy' looked like. And yet he known how to make her smile, when things were getting too tense. Even now thinking of him made her smile a little. "Maybe it's the rest of the world that's crazy, and we're the sane ones."

"Maybe." Ruby didn't seem completely convinced, but she looked sideways at Belle instead of only though the mirror, and shrugged "Want to go eat those cookies Mary Margaret snatched for us?"

"Yeah, we can do that." She was relieved that Ruby didn't seem to expect anything in exchange of her own story. Maybe someday Belle would be able to tell someone what she'd gone through, someone besides Dr. Gold. Somehow she doubted it. She was just glad that the test hadn't come today.

II

"I've come to bring you home, princess. These people can't care for you the way I can." Director Mills was the one that brought her father into the arts and crafts room. The smile on her face reminded Belle of the Cheshire Cat that Jefferson had been talking about earlier.

"I don't think I'm ready yet, papa. You were right when you said they could help me not to be so sad. I'm getting better." She stood perfectly still, trying not to shake. She'd been worrying for a week that her father might do this, but not so soon. He'd only hinted at the idea of Storybrooke not being the right place for her.

What if he knew what she'd told Gold? He would know, once the papers were signed, but they hadn't even been drawn up yet. She hadn't done anything but promise to think about signing them.

She wasn't ready for this. Not when she hadn't had time to prepare, or better yet run and hide. She couldn't do this again. Couldn't let him touch her again. She'd disappear inside herself, this time, and no one would be able to help her. "Where's Dr. Gold?"

"He's at a conference, remember dear? He'll be back to work in two days; perhaps you'd like to leave him a note? Or I can deliver a message if you'd rather." Regina tapped her red nails against the back of a chair. "Perhaps a message would be better; we don't want to keep your father waiting, after all."

"I've missed you, my flower. I want things to be just like they were; we can be a happy family again, I know we can." Her father held out his hand, encircling her wrist with his fingers.

"Please, I'm not ready yet." She tried to pull away, but his grip was too firm. He was too strong; she'd never escape him.

"You're mine, princess. Just mine." Director Mills smiled. Her father held her tighter. No one else came to help, not the friends she'd made, or the other doctors. And not Dr. Gold.

Belle woke with a start, almost falling off the bed, not that it mattered since 'bed' was now a mattress on the floor and there wouldn't have been far to fall. They'd taken away the bed frames, and anything else sharp in the room. She couldn't cut herself.

She shouldn't cut herself. What she shouldn't do and what she wanted to do, though, were very different things.

Astrid was sleeping on her mattress, curled up on her side. She thought mattresses were an adventure, like camping. Belle thought of her own full sized bed in her bedroom with the canopy hung in white lace, and wondered if she'd ever sleep in it, or a real bed, again. She didn't want to sleep in any bed, at the moment. They weren't supposed to wander after lights out, but she couldn't stay in the room and risk falling asleep again. Risk dreaming. Belle pulled on her slippers and crept from the room.

Orderly Graham was in the hall, when she rounded the corner. She'd seen a lot more of him, the last few days; enough that she wondered just when he slept, since he'd been talking with Regina when she'd gone to her room the night before, and he was usually in the cafeteria when she went down to breakfast. Since it was not quite five he'd either left and returned or he just didn't sleep.

"I was just..." Belle couldn't think of a reason to be out of her room and headed away from the bathrooms.

"There's a meteor shower tonight. You might be able to see some shooting stars from the window." He nodded to the one at the end of the hall, the window frame wide enough that people sometimes sat on it.

"Aren't you going to tell me that it's past curfew and I should go to bed?" She hadn't heard him say much, unless directly asked a question, or on her first day when he was explaining some of the rules.

"You seem to know the rules on your own. Besides, it can't hurt to be out of bed as long as you have a proper escort." He walked beside her, but kept a good foot of space between them. He'd always been careful not to get too close. It was nice, not having to be on her guard, but able to trust instinctively that he'd remain outside of her personal space.

"Is there really a meteor shower?" Her mother had woken her up, once and they'd taken a blanket to the backyard and watched the stars rain down. She'd fallen asleep under the night sky, and had woken to her father carrying her up the stairs. It hurt that even those memories were suspect now. Had her father ever thought of touching her then? Would he have ever done what he did, had her mother lived? Molestation. She rejected the word almost before she thought it. The word had been on Gold's reports but it left a bitter taste in her mouth. If he loved her how could he do such a thing? But he had.

Did that mean he didn't love her?

"Usually is, this time of year. I figure the sky is celebrating the end of winter as much as we are." Belle looked sideways at Graham, who was looking out the window. He didn't seem to be joking.

"You don't like winter?" She did. It meant no one thought it was weird that she wore layers of clothing and never short sleeves. It meant hot tea and warm fires and not being expected to go out on Gaston's boat. He always laughed when she said that she was seasick even on calm days, and said practice would make it better.

"I like to camp, most weekends. Sometimes it's too cold or the snow's too wet. Look," he pointed up, as a meteor shot across the sky. "I think it's supposed to be lucky to make a wish."

"I don't make wishes." She'd wished for her mama back, on every star and birthday candle until she was sixteen. That was the birthday when her father had taken her to New York to celebrate, with dinner at Le Bernardin and a room at the St. Regis. He'd said she was a woman after that, and not a child. She looked more and more like her mother every day, he'd said. Belle had quietly accepted then that nothing was ever going to change, and that wishes were pointless.

"The meteors are pretty, though." She didn't want to seem rude, not when he was being so kind to her. "Wouldn't it be nice to hold onto their tails and see what they see?"

"I'd rather have solid ground beneath my feet. I'm not much of one for heights, and neither is Wolf."

"You have a wolf?" She hadn't heard that right, had she?

"He's half wolf and technically half huskie, but he likes to pretend that half doesn't exist. He's not very good with other dogs, but with people he's a lamb. I rescued him after an underground dog fighting ring had been busted." They watched in silence, as more meteors shot across the sky, sometimes two and three at a time. They blazed, and then were gone. From the window they could only see a patch of sky. It might have been the trees obstructing part of their view that prompted Graham to speak again. "We might see more, from the windows in the lobby."

"I don't want to get you in trouble. I don't think Director Mills would approve." The sky might be a shade lighter, but it was still only five in the morning. She'd never been downstairs this early.

"Regina never gets in before eight; she takes Henry to school on her way in here." He shrugged, seemingly not worried about the Director's opinion. Belle thought the woman was terrifying, but that could have been the lingering effects of the nightmare. "We can stay here, if you'd rather. Or I can walk you back to your room."

"Not my room." She wasn't ready for that, not until it was necessary, tonight. She could make it through the day on the almost six hours of sleep she'd had. "I'd like to see more, from downstairs."

The lobby did offer a better and broader view. Belle stood at the middle window, one hand resting on the glass and the other in the pocket of the robe as she watched. She barely noticed the sky was lightening until she had to squint to make out the tail of a meteor.

"You're up early, dearie." Belle, somehow, wasn't surprised to hear Doctor Gold's voice. She was almost relieved. For all that she knew nothing in her nightmare could be real it had almost seemed prophetic; she'd been afraid that he really would be gone, and if he was gone then her father might show up and there would be no one to stop him.

"I couldn't sleep. Graham was keeping me company because I didn't want to go back to my room." She was less worried about getting Graham in trouble with Gold, but it seemed only fair that it was clear she was the reason they were in the lobby.

"That was very kind of him. If my company is as tolerable I was going to put a pot of tea on. I have croissants, just out of the oven, if you'd care to join us Graham." Belle wasn't quite sure what the look that passed between the two men signified, but Graham shook his head.

"Thanks, but I think I'd better make my rounds. I'll take a croissant though, if you don't mind." With a polite nod the orderly took his pastry and left. Gold led the way to his office, unlocking it with his key.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked softly as he filled an electric kettle with water. The teapot he'd been using the last few days was a different one from the one he'd used since she arrived. Belle wondered if he changed often, or if there was a reason to it.

"I didn't nap at all yesterday," she said, not wanting him to think she'd broken their deal.

"I know you didn't." The croissants he set out on two plates were still warm. The jam to took from his mini refrigerator was in a glass jar with a homemade label. His son's handiwork, he'd mentioned once when she asked. He didn't seem to do much cooking of his own, from the stories he told. "If you need a sleeping pill right now it would be understandable."

"No." Belle shook her head. Pills to sleep and pills not to hurt and pills to keep her from feeling too much; she'd taken so many pills that she was only just starting to understand that the fog she'd walked around in wasn't normal. "No, I can do this."

"Promise me that you'll remember that it's an option. There's no shame in needing help, Belle." He set a tea cup in front of her; she knew without asking that it already had honey added. "If it was anything other than insomnia you can talk about it with me."

"I'd rather hear about your son's pastry shop. Are there other people there so early in the morning?" She understood what he meant; it probably wasn't hard for him to guess that there was a nightmare involved. She'd told him of them before, but she was still wary of this one, as if speaking about it might make it come true.

"You promise to talk about it later if you need to?" he asked, watching her carefully.

"I promise." Later it might not feel so real. Then again later it might feel too real, and she might need to tell him so she could relax enough to sleep.

He nodded before visibly relaxing against the back of the couch. "Bailey's bakery is called The Queen of Tarts..."

II

Belle slept better that night, despite not telling Gold of her dream. She slept soundly enough, she was sure, that the dream had faded. Her anxiety had as well; she didn't have to peak around each corner before moving forward, and even crossed the lobby once when Regina was within sight. She ate her meals with Ruby and everyone, though they were small meals. She struggled to have any kind of appetite. Between her meals and her twice daily sessions with Gold, always served with something from the bakery, she was managing an acceptable amount of calories at least.

The second morning after the meteor shower Belle woke again from virtually the same nightmare. Her first thought, since it was almost seven, was to seek out Gold. A cup of tea might help calm her, and if she was brave enough she might tell him about the nightmare. She dressed quickly and ran a brush through her hair, braiding it as she ran down the stairs. And came up short.

Director Mills was standing in the middle of the lobby, and talking to her in the charcoal grey suit that Belle herself had picked out was her father.

"Belle." Moe held his hand out to her, as he had hundreds of times when she'd walked into a room to find him waiting. His business partners teased home about the affectionate gesture, but also told Belle what a loving father she had. Suffocating was a better word. "I've come to take you home, princess."

Belle stood, frozen, and looked around for someone to help her. It was early, though, and no one was in the lobby other that Mills, her father and herself. She didn't have a chance.

She was lost.


	11. Masks Slip Away

**Author's Note:** There is a scene in here that I have been waiting to write since chapter one.

**TRIGGER WARNING**: I can not stress enough that there are triggers here for sexual child abuse. Not details, but the references in this chapter are harsh ones. Also trigger for self harm and mentions of suicide.

* * *

It was seven, when Gold parked his Cadillac and reached over to the passenger seat for his cane and the bag of muffins. He'd been making a habit of coming in an hour earlier, ever since he'd found out about Belle French's cutting and molestation. Part of it was the fact that an extra session every day added more time to an already full calendar, but mostly it was a feeling that he needed to be there if she needed him. The fact that he'd found her in the lobby two days ago only reinforced the need to arrive early. Any success they'd been able to make in attaining a more healthy sleep cycle had been at least temporarily ruined by this current upheaval. He suspected there were nightmares as well, but he didn't push her to tell him.

It was strange to see Regina's car in the parking lot. He wondered what reason she would have to come in early, and if it meant poor Henry had been dragged out of bed an hour earlier than usual as well. He felt sorry for the boy, always at the whims of his mother. At least he had a few extra muffins, and could offer one to the boy.

Spring had arrived, finally, but mornings were still bitterly cold. He moved a little slower, until his knee warmed up. The half a dozen steps up to the front door were inconvenient, but he refused to walk up the ramp instead, especially as Regina could be watching.

Intent on opening the door without dropping his cane, briefcase or pastries Gold didn't notice at first that the lobby was occupied. When he looked up it took everything in him not to swear. Or yell. Belle was looking more like a scared rabbit than she had since that first day in Regina's office, and the reason why was obvious. Her father. Son of a bitch. The bastard's hand rested on his daughter's shoulder. Gold wanted to swat it away. He wanted to punch the man in the face.

What he really wanted involved the dullest knife in the kitchen and some impromptu surgery involving a body part Moe French should never be allowed to use again. And not a drop of anesthesia.

Belle's head was bowed. Submissive. He doubted she'd even heard him come in, or was listening to the conversation between Regina and her father. He hated to think about what was going on in her head right at this moment. He'd promised himself that he would keep her safe. He'd failed her, but he would make up for it now.

"I'm sorry, but it's too early for visiting hours Mr. French." He wanted the man gone with the least amount of fuss possible. Later he could make sure it was permanent; now he just needed to stop Belle from breathing in the same air as her father.

"Mr. French is here to make arrangements to take his daughter home. He no longer thinks that Storybrooke is the right place for her." There was a gleam in Regina's eye, and Gold felt a knife twist in his stomach. Inpatient therapy at Storybrooke was not cheap. There was no reason for the Director to be pleased to lose that money, unless there was something else at play.

It was seven in the morning and Regina was already at work.

She'd planned this. He didn't give a damn what her motive was, though he suspected it was to hurt him for some perceived wrong. It didn't matter; she'd planned to send an innocent woman home with a monster. That made her every bit as evil as Moe French, in his book.

"I need a word with my patient, if you don't mind. We'll be in my office." He brushed past Moe, forcing him to move his hand. He didn't want to have to touch Belle at all, not when it wasn't her choice, but expediency was a factor. He pressed his hand to the small of her back and guided her to his office, knowing that French and Regina were watching but not giving a damn. He shut the door behind them, and for good measure locked it.

His first order of business was to call down to the Sheriff's station and have someone dispatched. Belle was not going anywhere. Once what was taken care of he turned his attention to Belle, who was curled up in the corner of the couch, taking up the least amount of space she possibly could. If she could have made herself invisible she probably would have.

"Belle, dearie?" He sat on the couch next to her, careful to keep a few inches of distance between them. When she didn't respond he spoke again, gently. "You're safe, Belle. I promise you that you're going to be safe. I won't let him near you again."

At first he thought she wasn't going to speak, that she was too traumatized and he was going to have to find another way to reach her. He hated, considering her history, to have to use drugs but there were options. She spoke, finally, after taking a deep breath. "I dreamed of this."

"Your father coming?" He winced, wondering if it as the nightmare from two nights ago. Graham had said she'd been restless and pale, when he'd first seen her, and it had taken her some time to be able to relax.

"My father, and Director Mills being there. In my dream you're gone." She held a small pillow to her chest, and looked down at her lap. She looked almost like a small child.

"I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you." He'd camp out on his damn sofa, if that was what it took to make her feel safe. "We're both staying here."

"He wants me at home. He said he's found a psychiatrist to come and do daily sessions at the house, but he thinks it would be better for me to be in my own home. He misses me." Her voice was flat, as if she was mimicking what she'd heard. She'd been paying more attention to Moe and Regina than he'd thought.

"Belle, I'm going to ask you one very important question and I want you to answer me honestly, alright?" It was a struggle to keep his voice calm. "I don't want you to think about me, or your father, or anyone else. Just you. Can you do that?"

She looked at his shoulder, which was better than her own lap, but still worried him. When she nodded he still waited, needing more than that. "Yes," she finally whispered.

"Belle, look at me." Her blue eyes were dry, when she raised them to meet his. He took a breath, his training and professional obligation warring with his need to just get her as far away from Moe French as he could, and damn the circumstances. "Belle, do you want to go home with your father?"

"He wants me to come home." When she tried to look away he reached for her hand, but stopped, instead holding it open and palm up. A silent offer for support. She had a lifetime of conditioning to fight against, if she was going to do what was right for herself and not anyone else.

"This isn't about what he wants, or what I want. It's about you, Belle. What do you want?" He knew the answer, but she needed to say it for herself. This was her life, and for the first time she needed to be the one to control it.

"I think I'll die, if I go back there. I don't want to die." Her eyes closed, before she was done speaking. Her lower lip was almost white where she bit into it. But she was holding tight to his proffered hand, as if it was the only thing keeping her anchored.

"You're not going to die." Rules and propriety be damned. She was shaking, and scared, so close to the precipice. He wouldn't let her fall and he wouldn't let her be alone. Gold wrapped his arms around Belle and held her tightly, whispering nonsense until she stopped trembling. Even then he was reluctant to let go, but someone from the sheriff's station would be there soon and they needed to go over a few points.

"I want to stay here, please. I don't want to go." She still held onto his hand.

"You're going to stay here. I have a temporary protection order, remember, from Judge Dove. We only have to have it served to your father for it to take effect. I was going to wait until you were ready, but we can't wait any longer. The door is locked, and no one can come in here. It's going to stay locked until someone from the sheriff's office arrives, and I'll have to talk to them but you can stay in here, alright?" The papers had been on his desk for two days, but he'd been reluctant to bring the subject up to her.

"I don't want to be alone." Her nails dug into his skin, but he did not flinch.

"You don't need to see him again, Belle. I promise you'll only be alone for a few minutes, and I'll only be just outside the door."

"No one will get past you?" She reminded him of Bay, when he was younger, just after the divorce. He'd needed constant reassurance that his papa would be home for dinner and to tuck him in. Every morning he promised to see him at dinner, and every night he promised they would have breakfast together.

"Not a single soul. They wouldn't dare." He'd just like to see anyone try, right now. Those knives in the kitchen weren't out of the question yet.

"He didn't really bring me here to get better, did he?" She looked at the closed door almost as if she could see the man on the other side.

"I think on some level he must have known what he was doing was destroying his child, and no real father wants that. That's why he brought you here. Maybe that's the reason he kept trying to push you and Gaston together as well; to get you somewhere safe." He couldn't believe that he was defending a single action of Moe French's, but this was about Belle, not anyone else. "But he's sick, and he's weak. What he's done is a crime, and it's a craving, and he's not strong enough to fight against it. He's not like you. You're going to get better, Belle. One day you're going to walk out of here, and you're going to have a good life. A life you chose for yourself. It's not his life anymore, Belle. It's yours."

The knock on the door was ill timed, but he had to answer it. "Ten minutes at the most, and I'll be back in here. I'll clear my calendar for the day and if you need to stay in here you can. Or we can take a walk to the lake; I'm sure there's some bread in the kitchen we can steal for the ducks."

"Ten minutes," Belle repeated. The moment he stood up she pulled her legs up to her chest, a tight ball. He wondered if she'd cover her ears, too, once he was on the other side of the door.

"You're Gold?" The woman waiting for him on the other side of the door was dressed in slacks and a red leather jacket. It was hardly what he'd call professional attire, but there was a badge clipped to her waist and that was the only thing that really mattered.

"I'm Dr. Gold, Sheriff…"

"Swan. Dispatch said you needed some non-emergency but time sensitive help?" Everything from the tilt of her head to the way her hip jutted out said 'attitude' to him. In this case it might be more of a help than a hindrance, even if his professional opinion was that she'd do well to talk to someone about whatever it was that weighed on her so heavily.

"The gentleman standing over by our director is a man named Moe French. He's come to pick up his daughter, who is under his conservatorship. I have a protection order, signed by a judge, that will stop him. I simply need someone to serve it to him." He held out the papers.

"He have any idea this is coming?" She raised an eyebrow, but otherwise her expression stayed neutral.

"If he had a clue I'm sure the lobby would be filled to the brim with lawyers." He had no doubt there would be lawyers, and probably the judge Belle had mentioned being friends with her father. Gold had been very careful to make sure every technicality was taken care of. Moe French wasn't the only one who had powerful friends. He wouldn be able to fight the temporary order, or the more permanent one they had an appointment to get.

"This is going to be fun," the sheriff said with a roll of her eyes, but she took the paper. Gold stayed near the door, like a dragon guarding his treasure, and let Swan do her job. He could tell the very second Moe read the order and understood what it meant. He got very still, for a moment. And then he exploded.

"That bastard is not keeping me from my daughter with whatever fucking lies he's been telling." The order was ripped up and tossed on the ground, is if the action of destroying it changed anything. The paper was signed by a judge and delivered by an officer of the law. It was in effect and Belle was, for the moment at least, safe.

Regina was seething, and he could well imagine what she was wishing she could to do him right now. Not even when Henry ran to greet him did Regina look so angry. It was a good thing that his job was untouchable, or he'd be unemployed right about now. It really killed her that control over the board of directors meant she couldn't go over his head and get him fired. He flashed her a smile, until Moe decided to stop arguing with the Swan woman and came for him. Apparently his attempt to bribe her into 'forgetting' about the protection order had failed. He had to admire the woman who turned down a virtual blank check.

"I knew I didn't like you, you son of a bitch. I don't care what kind of filth have you been filling my daughter's head with, she is mine and she's coming home with me. You might have lied well enough to get some ignorant judge to sign your pathetic paper but it doesn't mean anything. Belle is mine and you're not keeping her from me." Moe's face was turning a florid shade as he came close and closer to the office door. Gold took two steps towards him to keep Belle's father that much farther from her.

"There's a hundred foot minimum distance in that restraining order, Mr. French. I'm afraid you'll have to leave now." His hand gripping his cane was white from the force of staying still and not calling French out like the miserable coward that he was. "And Belle is not yours or anyone elses. She is her own person."

"She's my daughter, and not only will she come home with me but I will buy this place and tear it down brick by brick. I will make sure no one will ever hire you. I will have your license stripped from you. By the time I'm done with you you'll be a broken shell of a man, sitting on a street corner begging for spare change."

"You mean as broken as your daughter is, because of you?" The threats against himself didn't matter. It was the idea of him taking home Belle that had Gold speaking in what some people might have thought was a calm voice. Those that knew him would have heard the sharpened threat beneath the words. Swan seemed to catch the danger, or at least recognized that having the two men in the same place was a bad idea.

"I'll walk you out, Mr. French," she said in a no-nonsense tone voice.

"I'm not leaving without my daughter. This place is trying to poison her." He dared to take a step towards Gold's closed office door. Swan shifted her hand to rest on her handcuffs.

"You'll have to figure that out with the courts. Right now the best thing for everybody is for you to leave now." She nodded towards the front door. "I can walk you out or I can take you for a ride to the station. Pretty sure you'd rather leave here on your own."

"I'll leave, but I'll be back." Gold would bet good money that Moe French was on the phone with his lawyers before he left the parking lot. All that mattered at the moment, though, was that he was leaving, and Belle was safe. The man didn't even ask how his daughter was, or show a speck of shame as he strode out of the building. The sheriff followed moments later after handing Gold her card, in case of questions or concerns. He had many of both, but none that she could help him with.

"What the hell was that, Gold?" Regina had tried, and failed, to apologize to French before he left. her eyes when she turned around flashed dark.

"That was me, protecting my patient from the cause of her illness." His gut still churned from the idea that Moe French had had his hand on Belle today.

"What about protecting this place? Do you know how much money we stand to lose if…"

"Do you think I give a fuck about money? That man hurt his daughter in ways that would make even you flinch, Regina, and if you try a second time to undermine my authority with my patients I will tell you each and every thing he did, and you can have nightmares about what would happen if a bastard like that ever got hold of your boy." It was a cruelty that was normally below him, to even hint at harm to a person's child. Not even Regina deserved the nightmares he'd had this week, about Bay and Belle and a complete inability to protect them from monsters like Moe. Except that Regina had willingly given Belle back to her father. Regina had gone behind his back, and if he hadn't come in early they might have been gone before he could stop them.

He might have never gotten Belle back, or it might have been too late. He'd seen the despair in her eyes when she said she couldn't go back there. He'd seen the cuts she'd made when trying to escape pain, and had to wonder if she would have found a final escape, with no one else to protect her from her father. "I'll be in my office, trying to fix the damage you've done to my patient. Do whatever you need to to fix this, but stay the hell out of my way."

He was glad when he saw Mal coming through the door. Regina would either bitch to her about the morning or use her as an emotional punching bag; Mal could take it and return it with aplomb. Either way Regina would be distracted, and he could get back to Belle. He was pretty sure the ten minutes he'd promised were close to being over.

"Dearie?" He opened the door to the office, glad of the old building that meant solid wood doors; she couldn't have overheard anything more than the rise and fall of voices.

"Am I leaving?" She hadn't moved the whole time, still tucked into the corner of the couch, a pillow against her side and blanket across her lap as if she couldn't risk even the room seeing her.

"I promised, remember?" He would fight Moe, Regina, and anyone else necessary to keep her at Storybrooke. "Your father is gone. The sheriff escorted him out."

"He'll be back." It was the only thing so far she'd said with confidence.

"If he comes back we'll have him escorted away again. I'll get someone stationed here full time if that's what it takes to make sure you're safe." He sat on the coffee table, facing her. They'd taken a giant step backwards today, and he needed to make sure she remembered that she could trust him. He reached out to touch her, to make a connection. She flinched. "Belle?"

"I didn't mean to do it." She didn't take her eyes off the blanket that covered her from the middle of her torso down. Gold frowned as he took the edge of the blanket in one hand. When she didn't protest he pulled it away. There was blood dripping down her arm, drops of blood from four half moon patterns. She'd clawed her own skin with her nails, not unlike an animal in a trap trying to bite off its own leg. He gently turned her arm over and found another raw wound where she'd raked her thumb nail over her forearm until it bled. "I'm sorry. I know I promised. I'm sorry."

"It's alright, dearie. It's going to be alright." He led her into the bathroom to clean her arm, apply antiseptic and wrap the wounds. Tears shimmered in her eyes; when he was done with the bandage he used a kleenex to dab them away. Maybe it was because he'd been thinking about Bay, or maybe it was something else entirely, but he found himself kissing her forehead. It was unprofessional and not paternal, though that would have been a handy excuse. He shouldn't have done it. He didn't regret it. "I'm going to make us some tea, to start with. If you feel up to it there's muffins, too, that Bay made this morning."

"We can stay right here, in your office?" She didn't not pull away, as he escorted her back to the sofa.

"All day, if you like. This is a safe place, Belle. I promise." He'd be damned if he'd let anyone hurt her again.

II

He'd gotten Belle to eat, a few times during the day. Not as much as he'd have liked, but between the small meals and the high calorie supplement she'd drunk at lunch time he wasn't worried about her physical health too much. Her mental well being was a different matter. Every time they'd left his office, to eat in the cafeteria or take a walk amongst the roses, she'd scanned the area as if she was sure that Moe was going to be waiting for her. It didn't matter how many times he's reassured her that he was gone. He'd caught her, a few times, pressing on her bandages where her fresh wounds would have hurt with a little pressure; each time he'd gently peeled her hands away from her arm. She'd looked ashamed, but a habit of years was a hard one to break and pain was an ingrained part of too much of her life. The longest she'd been out of his sight was an hour; there was one session that couldn't, for the good of the patient, reschedule. Archie had watched both her and Ruby having a quiet conversation in the library. He hoped that the reminder that Belle had friends and people she could trust had helped.

It was after eight, when he left work. He'd waited until Belle was ready for bed, and had even walked her to her room. Astrid was already there; he wasn't sure if the girl's presence was a comfort of not, but isolating Belle by putting her in her own room wouldn't be a good idea. He'd lingered for just a moment, at her door; for some reason a simple 'goodnight dearie' hadn't felt adequate. He didn't know what else to say, though. He'd tried with words and actions to reassure her all day. Finally he'd simply squeezed her shoulder and left her with a promise to see her first thing in the morning.

The twenty minute drive from Storybrooke to home was one he'd driven thousands of times, and could do without paying much attention. Bach's Cello Suite number five was playing, and he let himself get lost in the music. Music had always been one of the ways he'd disconnected from his work. Psychiatrist all had their tricks, be it showers, a glass of wine, or some other ritual. For Archie it was a walk with his dog when he first got home. When Bay had been young time with his son had automatically drawn him away from his work and into the present. It was harder now, with only an empty house, but because of that it was even more important. A doctor who couldn't leave his work behind would make himself sick, either physically or mentally.

He hadn't been able to leave his work behind for a week, at least. Or at least one part of his work; he'd had patients he's worried about before, and times when he couldn't stop trying to figure out a treatment. Never, though, had a patient gotten past his defences. He'd dreamed about Belle every night, and each had turned into a nightmare where he was helpless to protect her. His nightmares had come too close to coming true, today.

Between the music and the thoughts he was attempting to free himself from, Gold didn't notice that the car following him shortly after he left work was still following as he turned into the driveway of his renovated Queen Anne's period home. It wasn't until he was reaching for his briefcase, the car door already open, that he sensed something was wrong. His grip tightened on his cane as he turned around and saw the black Lincoln slide into place at the base of his driveway, effectively boxing him in. He didn't have to wonder who it was; all he had to decide was if he got back into the car and made himself a sitting duck, tried to get into the house, or turned and faced the man. He'd never make it to the house, not with the steps and his knee. And he never was good at just sitting.

"Mr. French," he said, slipping his phone from his bag and holding it in his left hand. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"We're done playing games, Gold. You're going to undo this little protection order of yours. I've brought the paperwork." At the end of a street, his house standing on more than an acre of land, there weren't many lights. The single streetlight and the few from the house did little to illuminate Moe French, dressed as he was in a suit of charcoal gray. The dark red tie was the only color; in the dim light it looked almost like blood.

"You can burn that or rip it up, French. I sure as hell am not signing it." He had a gun in his house; for the first time in his life he almost wished he carried it with him. There was a look of determination on the other man's face that was unsettling.

"You are not going to keep my daughter from me. We can do this the easy way, or I can tear you apart, but by the end of the week my Belle will be home with me. We're going to the Hamptons for the summer. I'm sure all she needs is some rest and the company of her friends." He smiled, as he spoke of the Hamptons. There was nothing malicious about it. Gold had to wonder just how delusional that man was, to have convinced himself that everything would be so simple. The man needed help. Gold didn't give a damn; he could find therapy somewhere else. In hell, preferably.

"I don't make deals to give innocents back to monsters. There is nothing you can say or do that would induce me to sign whatever manipulative document you've gotten your lawyer to draw up. I will take care of Belle the way you should have, all these years. And since you obviously don't understand what that means, I'm referring to protecting her, not raping her." Moe's face contorted, as the almost dazed smile twisted into anger. Gold took a step back.

"Are you sure about that, Gold? I saw the way you looked at her this morning. If you're not fucking her already you sure as hell have thought about it." He held out the paper and a silver pen. "You'll make sure I get my daughter back, Gold, or I will not only make sure you don't practice medicine again, but I'll bust your other leg and make sure you don't ever walk again."

"Get the fuck off my property before I have you arrested for trespassing." Gold felt like he needed a shower. With bleach. He'd worried that he was letting Belle lean on him too much, that holding her as she cried might be close to a professional line. But the insinuation that he would even think about taking advantage of the girl in the same way her father did made him sick.

"You're going to sign this admission that you coerced my daughter into saying things that weren't true. False memory syndrome, my lawyer called it." Moe grabbed his arm, shoving the papers at him. "Sign them."

"What about your memories, French? There's nothing false about knowing that you crawled into your little girls bed and forced her to play wife for you." He knocked the papers out of Moe's hand and tried to pull away. Moe was taller, though, and had a good grip on him. His left hand was still free, though, and still holding the phone. Gold was glad for the single button that enabled emergency calls even when the phone was locked. He held it down, and hoped that there wasn't a cat in a tree on the other side of town, or some other mess that the Sheriff's department in such a tiny place would find important.

"Pick them up." Moe let go of him in order to try and push him down. It was just enough of a shift to let him take a half a step back and swing his cane.

"Fuck." The strike, somewhere near the man's thigh, made him stagger slightly. Only slightly, though, and only enough to make him angry. He swung one meaty hand at Gold's face, striking his jaw. The pain radiated through his head and down his neck. He barely kept himself from falling.

"Must be unusual for you, fighting a man instead of a defenseless girl." He swung the cane with both hands this time, and managed to hit the side of Moe's knee. A second time and Moe fell to the ground. He didn't stop fighting, though. A kick to Gold's leg almost felled him, if he hadn't gotten the cane down quickly enough to balance on. His leg was going to ache in the morning.

"She's my daughter. I never hurt her." Moe was trying to pull himself up. Gold aimed the cane at his arm. It was dark, but now that Moe was on the ground and not attacking him, Gold could aim better. He could stop Moe from getting up.

"She's your daughter. You had her love and you twisted it into something perverted. You hurt her." An image of Belle, head lowered, not even believing that it was worth trying to get away from her father filled Gold's mind. He lashed out, not knowing where he hit, only knowing from the dull thud that he did.

"She's all I have left. Her mother…"

"Would be sickened by you. Disgusted. You hurt her daughter." Another swing, this time followed by a crack.

"You hurt Belle." Belle, crying. Belle, blaming herself. Belle, puking in a toilet because just thinking about telling someone what Moe had done hurt so badly. Gold lashed out over and over again, as if each strike could erase even a moment of Belle's pain. "It's your fault."

"Stop." A hand around his wrist halted another strike with his cane. He struggled against it, but the hld was a strong one and he was drained from the day and the fight. It was a moment before his brain was able to make enough sense of what was happening to realize that it was Sheriff Swan who had stopped him.

He almost wished he hadn't called for help.

II

"You're lucky, Gold. Hospital says that French is going to make it. Apparently you managed to avoid hitting anything vital. Organs, that it. He has a fair number of broken bones." Swan entered office with a cup in each hand. When she got closer he could smell the coffee. She offered one through the bars.

"Lucky. Right. Not exactly what I would have called it." He didn't want the weight of a man's death on his shoulders, though he wouldn't feel any guilt over relieving the world of a bastard like Moe French. He was behind bars, though, and incapable of keeping his promise to see Belle in the morning. There was also the fact that his leg throbbed like a son of a bitch even sitting, forget standing for more than a minute, and his cheek when he'd glanced in the rear view mirror of the cop car was already turning purple. Even taking a sip of the coffee hurt. He hadn't realized that his cheek moved when he swallowed.

"You ready to tell me why you almost beat a man to death, Gold." She perched on the edge of the couch, not looking unsympathetic.

"That wasn't a man, Sheriff. It was a monster, wearing the face of a man." He would make sure that the world knew just what he was. Tonight had, perhaps, put his job and license at risk, but if it meant that Belle was safe, as well as anyone else Moe might ever hope to get close to, it was worth it.

"This is about the girl." Emma Swan seemed to be strictly no nonsense, but she didn't blink at the idea of a man being a monster. He wondered, for the second time, about her background.

"This is about…"

"Pops?" The Sheriff's station was a small place; only moments after the slamming of the front door a third person burst into the office. Bailey, who went to bed early in order to be up to bake in the predawn hours, obviously hadn't even stopped to brush his hair after receiving his father's phone call. Gold suspected that the shirt he wore was actually his pajamas, and he hadn't done more than throw on jeans and shoes.

"I'm here, son. Sheriff Swan and I were just having a discussion over coffee." He held up his cup, aiming for a lighter tone. He had been reluctant to worry Bay, but more reluctant to stay behind bars any longer than necessary.

"You didn't say you were hurt. Why aren't you somewhere getting that looked at?" He glared briefly in the sheriff's direction before looking back at his father. "You should have a doctor, not a jail cell."

"I am a doctor remember? It's fine. Just some bruising." He tried to reassure Bay, though his son was a born worrier and wouldn't be happy with the answer.

"You say that, but you almost fainted when I broke my leg that time we visited the farm and I fell off the donkey." Bay reached through the bars, touching his shoulder as if not believing he was really there.

"I did not almost faint, and that's was different. I'm peculiar about not wanting my son to be hurt." Bay had been eight at the time. There had been blood, and for the first time he'd lost his cool head and panicked when it came to a medical situation. His boy was all that he had in the world; he tended to get a little irrational at times when it came to his safety.

"Sure, pops, you keep thinking that." Bay laughed, and though the smile hurt his cheek, Gold was relieved that his boy was looking a little more relaxed. "It's late and my father is obviously hurting, Sheriff. What do I need to do to take him home?"

"You're posting bail?" Swan watched them both with interest as they spoke. She looked a little confused at the byplay between them, but brushed it off.

"Of course. Can't let my old man rot in here."

"Watch who you're calling old, boy." He winced as he stood, though, and had to hold onto the bars with his free hand. He felt old.

"I have some forms for you to fill out, and Gold needs to write out a statement for me. I can't imagine I have to say anything about not leaving town." Swan unlocked the door of the cell.

"I'm not going anywhere." Gold stepped out, and tried not to look like he was inches away from collapsing. The coffee, quickly drained, did little to combat his exhaustion and the aspirin Swan had given him were about as useful for the pain in his leg as a steak knife would be in cutting down a tree. He gave himself a moment before heading for the chair in front of the sheriff's desk. He hoped a brief statement would do.

II

"Are you going to tell me what this is about?" Bay asked as he pulled up in front of Gold's house almost an hour later. It took Gold three tries before he was able to stand, and he didn't have it in him to object when Bay slid an arm around his waist.

"You know I can't tell you much when it involves patient confidentiality." They made their way slowly up the steps, one at a time.

"A patient did this? Pops, I really hate…"

"Not a patient." He'd been attacked once, shortly before he'd made the decision to move himself and Bay to Maine. It had been one of the deciding factors, in fact; the small town and private practice seemed like a safer idea when raising a son on his own. "A patient's father. He followed me home because I got a restraining order to protect his daughter from him."

"One of the bad ones?" Once they made it to the porch Bay let them both inside, and without asking led the way to the downstairs guest room. The flight of stairs to him own room was too much to deal with, at the moment.

"I hope you never have to understand just how bad, son." He'd done his best to protect his son from people like Moe. He would never stop. He would protect his boy. He would protect Belle.

Moe would not win.


End file.

Once Upon a Time, Angst, Drama