amicustenebris | PSL - For Archie, Set After 4a

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PSL - For Archie, Set After 4a

With a kind of numbness that he hadn't felt since he cast Belle out of his castle and destroyed half his collection, Rumpelstiltskin made his way to civilization the very same night he was sent away. Once he hit the interstate it was not long before someone pulled over to offer help to the hobbling man, who looked like he'd wandered from a wreck. The stranger said they'd seen an abandoned car down the way a bit and offered to get him into town to call a tow truck.

He took advantage of his good fortune and was quickly able to access food, an ATM, a cane, and finally a place to collapse and eventually rent a car the following morning. He had thoughts of what he would have to do to figure out a way back over the town line. He understood the magic at work there, knew he could only go back in if summoned back in. But already the scheming began. Belle didn't understand his motivations, and he'd been incapable of correctly explaining. That was all there was to it. Part of him believed if he could say it right, if he could make sense of it all himself -- if he could just convince her that all she'd seen never meant he didn't love her? Then he could fix everything. Then he could be home with his wife, able to visit his son, able to walk and use magic.

He tried to call her from the phone in the motel. No answer. He tried a few times. There was an answer once. He couldn't speak.

Gold haunted that little hamlet outside of Ogunquit for a few days, with limited access to the internet or contact, just hoping he'd find some loophole that'd let him back in, afraid to wander out too far lest he lose his chance.

As far as he knew, Belle never caught on that he was calling. If she did, then she was patient. She stayed on the line longer than she needed. Spoke, and waited. Spoke. Then said goodbye. He couldn't work out why he could never say anything back, or even beg forgiveness. He kept doing it, knowing he couldn't stop himself crying afterward, knowing it was going to hurt every time, because he'd gotten so used to hearing her in the morning when she woke. And now when he called just to hear her it came with apprehension, certainty he'd hear that litany of accusations all over again, but he needed to. Maybe if he did speak, if he did let her know it was him, and he allowed it to happen, she might see he was sincere. She would forgive him. Remember she loved him. He would hand her the dagger and be her slave, be everything Zelena wanted him to be for her if that was what it took.

But he couldn't even bring himself to do that. It took him days to figure out why. That was when he headed south.

His rental car died just inside of Vermont. There were questions about his license. He switched to travel by bus from there -- crowded (good that he was traveling light), slow as sin -- he saw far more of the state than he really ever cared to. It felt ridiculously long for where he was headed, given how short a trip it had been by plane, but he didn't know if he could handle flying again. Not alone.

In Manhattan, the first place that he tried was Neal's old apartment, of course, and he did not expect to find it occupied -- by the Queen's married beau and his family, no less. They offered to leave it to him, which he declined. After a cursory search of the place, he found one or two familiar baubles, things his son held onto from his childhood all these years, somehow, things from their world, and he pocketed those, feeling an uncomfortable tightness that told him to get away, and he left as quickly as his legs could carry him.

Marion seemed especially keen to convince him to stay, at least until he found better accommodations.

He didn't trust it. He got away.

Crossing out into the evening air, he felt a rush of pent emotion and memory. Unkind words said in this very place. Hook's attack and his near death.

Then his actual death.

Then Neal's.

He went numb.

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"So compromise with her. It's what all married couples need to do when they fight. Talk to her about coming up with boundaries you both can agree upon which won't require her to impel you with the dagger. Bring in a neutral third party if you need to."

"You are already speaking far ahead of what lies in the realm of possibility right now." All of that she would have to agree to. And as much as he wants to see her. Wants to hear something other than a venturing 'Hello?' on the phone line. Part of him also doesn't. And that part he doesn't fully comprehend, yet.

Perhaps it just feels wrong and foolish to hurt when he's the one that hurt her.

"And so are you," Archie pointed out. "You don't know what's waiting for you. It's obvious I don't know much about what's running through your head, but I do know that not knowing what's going to happen is causing you stress you don't need right now.

"Right now I think it'd be best if you focused on healing enough to at least reach the next step instead of trying to look so far ahead."

"Why don't you tell the dog not to use his sense of smell, while you're at it." There's humor in that somewhere, buried far down. Telling someone who is anxious not to be never stopped them, either, after all.

Archie closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to compose himself. Gold wasn't the first person who'd dug his heels in when Archie had made a suggestion for improvement, clinging to what was unhealthy but familiar like a twisted security blanket.

"I'm not saying 'don't worry'. Anxiety doesn't just go away like that. I'm saying to focus that energy towards taking steps for your body to heal. Meditation to clear your mind so you can properly rest, for example."

"I used to be able to do that quite readily," he murmured.

"Do you think you could do it again? Not right now but whenever you decided to take a nap?"

A halfhearted, almost pained tug at the corner of his lips. "No. I don't imagine I am ever going to do that again."

"Why not? Have you forgotten how or is it something else?"

Spinning was always something he had been very good at. Effortlessly so. It was relaxing. And then the magic came to him and it became a way to pour everything negative out of himself. To turn it into something tangible and valuable.

And then of course it became a tool for someone else.

"I'd rather not talk about it. Suffice to say that it doesn't work anymore."

"All right, but if you change your mind, I might be able to show you a way to meditate that might help."

He wasn't sure why Gold's meditation method wouldn't work anymore, but now wasn't the time to push. He'd done enough.

He didn't dignify that with a response. It seemed the sort of thing that didn't require an immediate answer anyhow. His eyes flickered to the television screen and he realized that having cursed memories did not stop it all from seeming a tad confounding to him.

"...Thank you again. For the food. If you haven't eaten today, you should."

"You're welcome."

He resumed eating. It still didn't taste too good. Either the food was bad or just the emotional rollercoaster had killed any real appreciation for it. A good night's sleep should (hopefully) fix that right up.

Gold wasn't sure when he dropped off but he was as the dead for much of it until sometime past dawn the next day. After washing up, he took a more certain inventory of the suite before calling to order in a small delivery. He might have felt fine venturing out if he were not uncertain about being seen just yet. So having someone willing to pick a few things up was a fair enough thing to pay for, and the hotel seemed willing to provide a few small things to aid with the use of the cooktop.

Perhaps it was a peace offering of sorts, or some ancient instinct he would never shake even as the dark one, Gold remembered that the doctor had been as reluctant to eat as he had been, if not moreso. His first instinct was to make something proper by hand.

In the end it felt relaxing and centering, and what came of the small bag of groceries he asked for was just as much what he felt like eating as what he thought might be edible to someone else.

So when the Doctor emerged into the living area of the suite he might be greeted with the smell of butter and eggs and other breakfast smells. Savory french style toast using sliced challah, simple cheese, sausage, some sauteed mushrooms and cherry tomatoes.

Needless to say that when Gold had started cooking, Pongo had sat attentively close by. Not so close as to be underfoot but ready to pounce on anything that dropped.

He was as intelligent as a human but still a dog. Sue him.

It'd taken a while for Archie to fall asleep the night before, reading on the Kindle until no amount of bumping up the font size could make the words legible. At least when he'd finally dropped off, his demons had decided to give him the night off.

The smell of food had gotten his stomach rumbling, forcing him back to wakefulness. He could really use some coffee right about now, but he'd settle for knowing what that smell was. (The hotel's breakfast was pretty decent but didn't smell this good.)

Gold wasn't in his bed which meant he'd beaten Archie awake. The former cricket put on his glasses and headed into the main living area. "Good morning."

A small acknowledging noise. "I didn't feel much for an assembly line buffet of complimentary breakfasts. This machine here can brew coffee or tea, depending on your tastes."

Coffee had been less of a thing in the Enchanted Forest, of course. And he still quite liked tea but he had developed a taste for the stronger, too.

"Coffee sounds amazing right now." He nearly jumped as his stomach let loose an appreciative growl at the smells coming from the kitchen. "That smells incredible. Thank you for cooking."

Pongo fidgeted, tail whipping back and forth.

Archie pet the dog on the head before grabbing what he needed for Pongo's own breakfast, giving a snort of laughter at the Dalmatian's scathing stare.

He set the pot on after pouring a cup from one that he had already brewed. "I'll make another. The doctor said something about decaf for me for the time being and I decided against testing that."

"I appreciate it."

Archie had never really been a fan of tea, and he suspected he had a slight addiction to caffeine. Trying to wake up on decaf would've been torture.

He doctored his coffee with a bit of milk and took a sip. He blinked, staring into his cup.

"This isn't the instant stuff they provide."

"I ordered a few things in." And it wasn't necessarily that he had expensive tastes, but he understood quality. He finished the last of the food, and none of it was really overly fancy in presentation, maybe even said something of its roots. Rustic, not as concerned with the appearance as doing it correctly.

Once portions were divvied up, there were a few spare sausage patties left in a separate plate. Just in case Archie decided to share some with the dog after all.

"Thanks." Archie smiled. "It all smells amazing."

Pongo's focus was solely on that plate of sausages as if he could levitate it to the floor with his mind alone.

After a moment, Archie shook his head, picked up the plate, and set it down on the floor. "The vet'll have my head for all the human food I let you eat."

Pongo ignored the criticism, too focused on the sausages in case Archie changed his mind.

"Plausible deniability; he could easily have taken something when no one was looking."

He settled down, appetite still an unusual thing for him, but the task of putting it all together made it feel more substantial. Like something simpler for him to tackle.

"He did manage to steal an entire cheeseburger from me once."

Pongo lifted his head just enough to tilt his head to one side, wagging his tail.

"Don't give me that innocent look." Archie looked back to Gold with a wry smile. "Can't speak a word of English but always has a lot to say."

He took a bite of his breakfast, pausing to enjoy the taste. It was simple but delicious. Certainly better than anything he'd eaten recently.

"This is really good."

"...Thank you." In truth, he didn't fully know why he felt this was the best idea. But at the very least, working through the process quieted him. But then all the great writers would say that was how depression, or many other wounds of the mind, worked sometimes. Tasks became paramount and simple because no other thinking need be involved.

And to a man who spent much of his mortal life providing, getting his work down, paying to justify the space he took up in merely existing, it was the most natural pattern to fall into. Even two centuries later.

He ate. He'd finished the last half of his sandwich sometime in the night before he fell asleep. It was, thankfully, starting to feel normal again.

Honestly, one didn't have to be a great writer or anything like that to notice that sometimes doing something mindless could help ease one's mental or emotional pain until they could face whatever was bothering them head-on or talk it out with someone else who could help them do so. The problem was when that momentary coping mechanism became the only coping mechanism. Like a drug that was taken for every little case of the sniffles, the effectiveness of that strategy dulled until it was completely ineffective.

Yesterday's blunder aside, perhaps Archie going after Gold might help the other man in the long run.

For right now, he'd keep it relatively light. "Any major plans for the day? Because right now mine is just periodically walking Pongo and maybe doing another grocery run later if you give me a list." He gave a shrug. "I can cook well enough but it's largely just the same easy things over and over that I cooked in my dorm in college."

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