Chapter Text
August isn't sure why he did it. Maybe because lying has become second nature to him. Maybe because he misses his papa so much. He regrets it almost immediately.
"You were right, Bae," says Mr. Gold. "You were always right."
August looks away. He hadn't planned for this. He hadn't planned for the Dark One to appear so kind, so honest. These words aren't for him. They're for the real Baelfire, for Neal, who August knows and has met, and who deserves to hear them instead of him, even if he won't want to.
"I was a coward. And I never should have let you go."
It's those words that start to chip away at him. They make him forget about what the real Baelfire is doing, about Emma, and all that's at stake. He shakes his head slightly, his breath quickening.
"I know it's little consolation, but I want you to know ever since you left...ever since you crossed the barriers of time and space..." These words almost fit him. August's dishonest heart canters. "...in every waking moment, I've been looking for you."
What he would give to hear this from his own papa. To hear it spoken with the same sincerity and pain. He almost looks at Mr. Gold then, but stops himself, wanting to sit with the fantasy a moment longer. Wanting to be the son who travelled through space and time and whose father looked for him, instead of being the son who travelled through space and time and was forgotten. He holds back his tears.
"Now that I've finally found you," Mr. Gold says shakily. "I know I can't make up for... for the past, for the lost time..."
A lifetime thinks August. I grew up without you. You were supposed to raise me, but I had no one. I was alone in this world, and you left me and I had no one. He looks at the trees in the distance as his body shakes. He's glad it's dark, though he's sure Mr. Gold can tell he's shaking.
The leaves crunch underfoot as Mr. Gold inches closer. "All I can do..." He's moving into August's eyeline, and August doesn't want him to, "...is to ask you to do what you've always done. And that's to be the bigger man."
To be the real boy. To champion the truth in return for your humanity. Be the bigger man and look after Emma.
"And forgive me."
August inhales.
"I'm so sorry, son."
I'm sorry for sending you away. I'm sorry for asking you, a seven-year-old child, to take care of an infant. I'm sorry for being so afraid. Until this moment, August hadn't realised how angry he is with his papa for putting him into that wardrobe and sending him here. He didn't know how much he needed his father to speak the same words Mr. Gold is speaking. He sighs. He can't stop the tears now.
Mr. Gold is crying too. "I'm so sorry, Bae."
And August can't help himself. However cruel, however deceitful, he needs this. Head down so he doesn't have to look Mr. Gold in the eye, he crosses the space between them and hugs him, imagining that it's his papa in his arms.
Mr. Gold clings to him, sobbing, "My boy. My beautiful boy. Can you truly, truly forgive me?"
Yes. A thousand times yes. August keeps his eyes tightly shut and hugs back - hugs for all the thousands of hugs he never got, for all the years he'll never have. "I forgive you, Papa."
***
A lie keeps growing and growing, the Blue Fairy told him, long ago, and she was right. Within minutes, the lie grows too big and August is too weak to stop it. He can't help but admit that he's given up on ever getting magic to come to Storybrooke. Emma Swan will never believe. And now he can't even bring himself to manipulate the Dark One. Because the Dark One, this cruel, evil man who caused so much torment, smiles at August the way Papa used to when he was proud. And August will be dead soon anyway, so what difference does it make, this little white lie?
The plan is a bust. They don't go looking for the knife. They go to Granny's diner and Mr. Gold buys him pancakes. Big ones, with maple syrup and blueberries on top. They sit across from each other. August avoids Mr. Gold's eyes.
"You've gone all shy." Mr. Gold says, chuckling, as he watches him with bright eyes. It's hard to believe that this man was very same creature locked up in the Dwarven mines, by order of Snow White and Prince Charming. "You had no problem looking at me when you crept into the back of my shop. You were looking for the knife, weren't you? You wanted to see if I still had it. You don't have to worry. That knife is gone. Besides there's no magic in this world. It doesn't work."
"Doesn't work?" August looks up, notices the adoring gleam in Mr. Gold's eyes, and quickly looks away. "That's - That's good."
The plan, truly, is a bust.
"So," Mr. Gold says after a moment. "What have you been doing all these years?"
August flinches. What had he been doing? Making a disgrace of himself. "I -"
"No, no," Mr. Gold says hastily, averting his gaze. "You're right. We shouldn't focus on what's past. We should focus on the here and now. How do you like your pancakes?"
"They're -" August swallows. He hasn't eaten a bite. He laughs and nearly chokes. "They're great."
Mr. Gold looks him up and down and hums.
***
They don't talk about it. It makes it easier for the lie to keep on growing, and for August to keep on indulging in it. They do talk about the Enchanted Forest though, and it feels so freeing to be with someone who knows the truth and isn't pretending not to. August can mention trolls and giants and not be looked at strangely or laughed at. It feels good to be with his own kind, even if his own kind is a person he should hate.
The morning after their 'reunion,' they go walking through town. They walk at the same pace; Mr. Gold supporting his limp on his cane, and August trying to disguise what's happening to his leg.
He sees Emma and ignores the look she gives him when she sees who he's with. Maybe later, when he's in less of a slump, he'll go after her again and try to get her to believe. Without the knife, that's his only shot at survival. But for now he just wants to be with someone who knows a tiny piece of what he's going through. He's so, so tired.
"I miss magic," he admits in a low voice.
Mr. Gold sighs. "So do I, son, so do I."
August feels a little weight lift off his shoulders.
"Tell me," Mr. Gold continues as they pass the disused library, "where are you staying at the moment?"
"At Granny's Bed and Breakfast."
Mr. Gold pulls a face. "Well, that won't do. You're moving in with me."
"Oh no, I couldn't."
"You've been alone for years," Mr. Gold says, and August freezes without meaning to, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. Given how Mr. Gold's gaze goes tender all over again, August knows the truth of it is plain. Plain as the nose on his face. Mr. Gold rests his warm hands on August's shoulders and smiles at him. "Pack your belongings. You're staying with me."
***
With his duffel bag of clothes slung on one shoulder and the wooden box with his typewriter under his arm, August lingers in the entry hall in Mr. Gold's house. It's strange to be in this space, like stepping into a bear's cave.
"Plenty of room," The Dark One is saying. August barely notices. He's taking in how... normal everything looks. He was surprised to see the outside of the house to be a salmon pink, rather than black. He half-expected the windows to be cracked and there to be a cartoonish thunderclap when he arrived. Mr. Gold stops at the foot of the stairs and turns to him, brows raised. "Where are the rest of your belongings?"
"This is all I have."
"Ah. Never mind." Mr. Gold says awkwardly and August laughs.
"It's fine. I, uh, prefer to travel light."
"Fair enough." With a crook of his finger, Mr. Gold gestures for August to follow him up the stairs. He shows him to a spare bedroom. The bed is already made up with fresh sheets. The closet is empty, waiting to be filled. It brings back memories of his brief time in foster care, where he was welcomed into spaces that weren't his, could never be his, and told that he was loved when the only love he wanted was that of his papa. He'd run from his third foster home and hadn't been offered his own room since.
The only difference is that the room hasn't been cleaned in a while. There's a fine layer of dust on everything. This room, with its bed and its carefully chosen upholstery, has been ready for a long time.
"You really were looking," he murmurs.
Mr. Gold stares at him. "Of course," he breathes. "Of course!"
August looks at him through the corner of his eye, unable to look at him head-on when he's like this. He senses Mr. Gold is about to reach for him, to touch him again, and he skirts to the desk so he can avoid it. He puts down the typewriter. He has a feeling Mr. Gold is watching him as he does it, trembling the way he had done in the woods.
"What's in the box?" he asks, and he must be shaking because his voice is. He sounds like he's trying to hide it but can't.
"My typewriter," August replies.
"You write?"
"Sometimes. All the time."
Mr. Gold comes closer, body swaying more than usual thanks to his cane sinking into the thick carpet. "Stories inspired by home, I presume?"
August huffs. "Yeah. That's it exactly."
Just like in the woods, exactly like in the woods, Mr. Gold is coming into his peripheral again, and August turns away, which is a mistake because then he's looking through the window and he can see his motorcycle sitting on the driveway and there's this feeling spinning in his chest that he can't quite name.
He'd been homeless for a while, still is technically, but he had been the without-a-roof kind of homeless as a teen and that sort of experience doesn't leave. It was one of the reasons he was so insistent that Emma return home, when he'd found her on the streets as a kid. He hadn't been gifted a room since he was in foster care.
"Bae," pleads Mr. Gold, "Son. I did look for you. This room...it's yours now. It's been waiting for you a long time."
August finally summons the strength to look him in the eye. "I can tell."
Mr. Gold looks sheepish. "I, ah...I'll clean it up."
"No. It's fine." Augusts says, surprising himself. "I want to do it. I think the honest work will help me settle in. If you can show me to your cleaning supplies, that is?"
Mr. Gold shows him the cleaning supplies and settles down in the lounge reading the Storybrooke Daily Mirror. August throws his duffel bag into the closet without unpacking because he isn't sure how long this will last and gets to work. When he's done, he still feels unsettled.
Later that evening, he drags out the pots and pans from the kitchen cupboards. Mr. Gold looks at him in surprise, but doesn't protest when August informs him that he's cooking dinner. Learning to cook is one of the few good things he's managed to do with his life since arriving in this world and even though Mr. Gold isn't his papa - will never be his papa - he wants to show him that he's done something good. While he's pretending.
***
The disadvantage to living with someone is that August's capital-P Problem becomes that much harder to conceal. August is lucky that Mr. Gold walks with a limp and understands not to pry about August's own struggles walking, which grow more obvious with each passing day.
The worst of it happens in the middle of the night, his fourth night in the house, when he wakes with a terrible pain in his calf. He jolts upright, crying out. It's like someone has put a heavy-duty wheel clamp on his leg. He can't move anything below his left knee, but he can still feel - and what he feels is weight and the flesh around it struggling to hold it.
There's a knock at the bedroom door. "Bae?"
"It's nothing!" He shouts, willing the cramping to stop. It won't. His skin is turning to wood. Every day, his hardened flesh expands further up his leg. Soon his entire body will revert back to being the wooden puppet. He bites on his knuckles to stop himself from crying out, but the pain is so bad his body shudders with it. He falls to the floor. His elbow smacks the bedside table, causing it to wobble, and the lamp falls off the top and shatters as it lands next to him.
"Bae!" Mr. Gold opens the door, eyes widening when he sees him there. "Bae, what happened?"
August struggles to sit up. "I'm fine," he says, tucking his wooden leg under the bed where Mr. Gold can't see it. August is wearing long-legged pyjamas, but he doesn't want to risk them riding up and revealing his secret so soon.
Mr. Gold hobbles closer. "Bae," he says helplessly. He carefully sets his cane against the wall and reaches for him.
August holds up his hands to ward him away. "I said I'm fine." He smiles, bitterly, feeling sweat drip from his forehead. "Go back to bed, Papa."
"Bae, please. Let me help you."
August winces. Why is the Dark One so tender? Why does he have to act as loving as August's own papa had? He can't stand it. He also can't stand and knows that Mr. Gold is too stubborn to leave him like this. He sighs. "Can I - Can I borrow your cane?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Put your arm across my shoulders. Come on. I've got you."
It's slow, careful work, getting August back onto the bed again. He makes sure his pant leg stays all the way down. He's wearing socks, of course, which Mr. Gold points out and tells him he'll turn up the heating. Mr. Gold cards his fingers through August's hair before he leaves - leaving August alone and wishing for the man who used to tell him off for wearing socks to bed, the man who used to card his fingers through his hair and kiss him goodnight.
***
He tries again to get Emma to believe. He takes her to the diner he brought her to when she was a baby. He tells her that he was the 7-year-old boy that found her. He takes her to the woods where the magical wardrobe sent them when they first came to this world. He tells her that this is where he found her. He tells her the things only the 7-year-old boy would have known.
She doesn't believe him. He shows her his wooden leg and she still doesn't believe him. Her denial is deeper than he thought, so deep that she can’t see the smooth wood replacing his flesh. She won't believe. She refuses to believe that she is the one to save them.
“After everything you’ve seen, why can’t you just do it?!”
“Why is it so important to you that I do?”
“Because I – the town – everyone! – needs you!”
He can’t believe he has failed so spectacularly.
"Then you're all screwed," Emma tells him. She’s wrong. Not all of them. Only him.
Afterwards, he goes to the only place he wants to. He goes to see Papa in his workshop. In this world, he's not called Geppetto. He's called Marco.
He helps him fix a jammed clock and tells him that his papa taught him how to do it when he was a child. A part of him pleads for Marco to recognise him, but the story doesn't trigger any memories. Marco tells him his father would be proud. Proud, as if August hadn't spent his entire life running from the promise he made. He asks Marco if he wants an assistant, for free, and the relief that courses through him when Marco agrees is nearly as crippling as the pain of turning into wood. Maybe he can finally start fixing this.
It's only the next afternoon when he learns that Emma has taken Henry and left Storybrooke.
***
August finds his remaining his days split between Mr. Gold and Marco. It's not as bad as he expected. Mr. Gold spends his day in his shop and August spends his with Marco. August avoids Mr. Gold by leaving early in the morning to help Marco open the workshop and staying on late in the evenings.
It goes on like that for about two weeks before Mr. Gold catches him coming home after midnight. He's waiting for him in the lounge and flicks on a light as August tries to creep through the dark entryway to the stairs.
"And what sort of a time do you call this?" he says, only faintly sarcastic.
August feigns worry. "It's late, Papa. What are you doing up?"
"I'm waiting for my son. I've found dinner particularly lonesome the past two weeks." Leaning on his cane, he rises. "Where have you been?"
"I told you I've started volunteering at Marco's."
"Volunteering?" Mr. Gold laughs drily. "He works you from dawn 'til dusk without a wage. That's not volunteering, sunshine, that's a sweatshop."
"I'm happy to do it. It's honest work. It’s good for the soul."
"You're being taken advantage of."
August scowls. "Marco isn't the kind of man to take advantage of anyone."
"You're too optimistic."
"And you're too cynical. You don't know anything abou -" A sharp pain shoots up his left leg. He staggers, catching the banister to keep himself upright.
Mr. Gold tuts as he crosses the open-plan lounge and into the hall. "See where working so hard has gotten you."
August breathes through his teeth. "I like doing it. What's it matter to you?"
"It matters to me because I hardly see you anymore." Mr. Gold says with exasperation, like he can't believe he's having this conversation. Neither can August. He's having a fight the way teens on TV have fights with their parents, the way that's probably based on reality, but August wouldn't know because he's never argued with his papa about breaking curfew, they've only ever argued inside a whale and that was a fake argument. "And frankly, sunshine, I miss your cooking."
The laugh that bursts out of him startles August so much that it sends a jolt through his knee. He winces.
Mr. Gold notices, smirk fading.
"I'll think about reducing my hours," August says before any questions can arise.
"Ah, ah." Mr. Gold raises his finger. There's a hint of the Dark One there, in his eyes. "Not 'think' about. You will reduce your hours, or I'll be speaking to Marco myself. And he won't enjoy it."
The threat, exaggerated or not, is there. August is loathed to agree. Agreeing means spending less time with Marco, his real papa, when his days are already numbered as is. Emma and Henry still haven't been found. Regina is beside herself, or so he's heard.
But the last thing he wants is the Dark One going near his papa.
August sighs. "Fine."
***
Turns out, Mr. Gold is the affectionate kind of father. He likes to see that August is dressed neatly before he leaves for work. Likes to put his hands on his shoulders and smooth down his sleeves. Likes to straighten his neck scarf. Physical affection isn’t something August has had since he was a child, and he can’t help but enjoy it a little bit.
He doesn't really know how to be a son. He does what he can. He fixes little things around the house that are in need of repair. When he returns after volunteering at Marco's, he cooks dinner. Mr. Gold stands in the kitchen and watches him, silently at first like he doesn't know what to say, but soon asks him where he learned to cook. August tells him the truth. He tells him that he started reheating half eaten burgers over a flame in a metal barrel while he was homeless and then volunteered in a soup kitchen and, later, as a cleaner in a restaurant where he was fired for spending more time shadowing the cooks than washing the dishes - that he didn't really start learning to cook properly until he was living in Thailand, where some kindly ladies who owned a street stall taught him what they knew.
And that turns into August showing Mr. Gold how to cook and taking over command of the grocery shopping so they can get some better food in. It shouldn't surprise him that someone as thin as Mr. Gold doesn't eat well. If Mr. Gold had spent any time being a wooden puppet, or even as a homeless human, he'd know better than to not appreciate a good meal.
One night they're bickering over how much galangal is too much when August realises that starting petty, half-hearted arguments while cooking in the kitchen is something families do.
While he'd much rather be in the workshop with Papa, starting arguments over woodcarving technique, he realises he likes this too. He likes being Mr. Gold's son. And he hates himself for liking it. He hates that he's put himself in this situation with his ridiculous longing and his pathetic lies. He hates how all of this could have been avoided if he'd been selfless, brave, and true, and stayed with baby Emma like he'd promised his papa all those years ago.
"You're going to burn the fish," Mr. Gold scoffs, taking the handle of the frying pan off him and lifting it off the hob while August snaps out of his stupor and turns down the heat. "What's on your mind?"
August shakes his head.
Mr. Gold raises his eyebrows, an expression that commands to be answered.
"I just wish... I had more time."
"More time?"
"To do the things that sons do with their fathers." His tears drip off his chin before he realises he's crying. "Ah -" He scrubs at the tears. Grins. Laughs at himself. "That's embarrassing."
"You've seen me cry plenty of times,” says Mr. Gold, "It's okay, sunshine.”
"It's not. It's not." His voice is hoarse. He clears his throat and shakes himself. “Um. Let me…” fix it. He reaches for the pan, but Mr. Gold pulls it away from him.
“Ah, ah. I’ll finish this. What, you don’t trust me to fry some fish?”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Go lay the table. Go on.”
On his way towards the dining room. August pauses. “Um. Thank you.” It’s strange saying it, but he can’t deny that he appreciates that the Dark One didn’t berate him for crying.
When they sit down to eat, it’s not comfortable exactly – though it isn’t uncomfortable either. In fact, it’s the familiarity of it that makes August uncomfortable. He discovers he can make the Dark One laugh by telling him stories of Pleasure Island, though he leaves out the part about it being on Pleasure Island, and it's soothing to learn that he though he regards that part of his life with shame, the Dark One won’t judge him for it.
“You shouldn’t laugh,” he says lightly. “I was a terrible person back then.”
The Dark One spreads his hands. “We’ve all been terrible people, sunshine.”
August shakes his head fondly and keeps eating.
The Dark One rests his chin on his fingers and tilts his head at him.
After they’ve eaten, they pack the plates and utensils into the dishwasher – a miracle machine, the closest thing there is to magic in this world. What can’t be put in the machine, August washes by hand while Mr. Gold dries.
“You know I… I think you’ve got a point.” Mr. Gold looks at the pan he’s drying with something akin to fascination. “Honest work. Good for the soul.”
August rinses the last pot and drains the sink. His heart starts to kick. “They do say honesty is the best policy...”
“Do they?” Mr. Gold sounds almost sardonic.
Quickly August dries his hands and takes himself up to his bedroom. He pounds useless words onto his typewriter until he falls asleep, still upright in his chair.
***
The next morning, when August is stepping out of the front door and Mr. Gold stops him per usual to smooth down his rumpled sleeves, he does something he know he’ll regret. He waits for Mr. Gold to stop fussing and then turns and he hugs him. He hugs him almost as tightly as he had in the woods.
Because August can't hug Marco, he's a stranger to him, but he can hug Mr. Gold and pretend.
***
“Tell me about these stories you’re always writing,” Mr. Gold asks him one evening, gazing at him from across the table.
August smiles ruefully. “You wouldn’t like them. They all end with happily ever after.”
Mr. Gold huffs, amused. “How unoriginal.”
August tells him one anyway. An original story he’d been writing on and off for a while now. Mr. Gold listens in silence. “I haven’t quite figured out how to get to the fairy tale ending,” August finishes, teetering off. “It has been harder to write lately.”
Mr. Gold hums. “I can’t help you there.” After a moment, he adds, “I had someone. A long time ago. She would have been able to help. She loved books.”
August stares at him. I had someone, not I knew someone. It’s obvious what Mr. Gold is trying to tell him. “I didn’t know you’d found someone,” he murmurs, frowning. He’d done his research. He’d traced everyone from the old world, he's sure of it. And he'd learned so, so much about the Dark One in preparation for his plan.
“Well. She died.” Mr. Gold refills his empty glass. They’re on whiskey tonight. He swirls the golden liquid.
"But you still love her,” says August kindly.
"I do," he admits quietly. “That’s the part you writers never include in your stories. The part after happily ever after.”
"I didn't..." I didn't know. Would Baelfire know? When would this have happened? He’d been an idiot to not ask about Baelfire’s mother, but this can’t be who Mr. Gold is talking about. He would have just said ‘Your mother’ wouldn’t he?
"I wish you would have met her," Mr. Gold adds. "You would have liked her. You remind me of her, actually. Too much optimism."
"There are people I miss too," August says softly.
Mr. Gold looks at him with a curious expression. "There are, aren't there?" He says strangely. He raises his glass. “Here’s to lost ones.”
They clink their glasses together. “Here’s to finding them.”
Mr. Gold snorts. “Unlikely.” He drinks.
"Maybe you should have a little faith," August tells him playfully because if he can't get Emma to believe he might as well try with the Dark One.
***
It’s a hot afternoon when August helps Marco mend an old doll’s house. The doors to the workshop are propped open, allowing the fine breeze to come inside. At one point, Marco stops working and looks past August to something outside of the workshop. "Is that your father over there?"
August turns. Mr. Gold is stood across the road, watching them. August wants to cry out, No, NO, NO. He's not. You are. You are, Papa. Isn't there some part of you that still remembers? He turns back, desperate. "Why'd you say that?"
His papa chuckles. "I've seen you together. It's as plain as the nose on your face."
***
A lie keeps growing and growing, the Blue Fairy said, until it's as plain as the nose on your face. What if it's not the lie that becomes plain? What if it's the undeniability of the lie? That a lie becomes so rooted, like a great oak, that even when it's cut down and cut to pieces that some part of it remains, unchanging, forever? August put forth his lie into the world and the world is changed because of it. It won't matter then if the tree is cut down because there will always be people who remember the oak.
These are the thoughts that plague August as he eats dinner at Mr. Gold's mansion that same evening Mr. Gold had appeared outside the workshop. He's thinking about Papa, about Mr. Gold, and the terrible mess of tangled roots he'd made for himself. Mr. Gold is sort of glaring at him, but he's too wrapped in his worries to think about why.
"I don't want you volunteering at the carpenters anymore," Mr. Gold says abruptly, after watching him for some time.
August looks up from his food in shock. "What? Why?"
"He's upset you."
"No, he hasn't!"
"Regardless, I'm your father and you'll do as I say."
"Wh - what are you talking about? You can't stop me from seeing people. I'm a grown man!" August can't help but raise his voice and before he knows it, he's spilling out everything he'd thought he'd made peace with. "I've lived years without you! I had a whole goddamn life without you, and what, you think that just because I can see you in front of me that it erases that the last twenty-eight years happened? That I'm just going to forget that you sent me away because you were a coward?!"
He expects upset or pleading, but he gets none of that. Mr. Gold simply raises his brows and takes a slow sip of his wine.
August flushes. He sets down his knife and fork, not hungry. "Sorry." He manages, "I'm not angry with you."
Mr. Gold hums. "Clearly."
"You won't stop me from seeing P - Marco," August says after a moment. "I can make my own decisions. Please tell me you understand that."
Mr. Gold's face twists into an ugly sneer. "What could you possibly want from that old man that you haven't already got? That I can't provide for you?"
Everything.
"Nothing," August lies. He notices, but doesn't dare acknowledge, that he can't recall when Mr. Gold stopped calling him by his son's name.
***
The thing is, nothing changes. Mr. Gold continues to smile at him, and maybe those smiles are a touch more sinister, a touch more daring, like he wants August to acknowledge the lies, but Mr. Gold's actions don't change. August suspects blood is in the water. The crocodiles are coming to feed.
But August is dying anyway. If the Dark One kills him first, so what? He won't have to wonder if he'll still be conscious once he's turned to wood or if his papa will ever forgive him.
But the uncertainty… the uncertainty of lies… is enough to drive him mad. When Mr. Gold gets too close, August flinches, but when he’s far away August longs to be held. To be touched. Cared for. Parented.
One afternoon, after a lot of sawing in the workshop, August gets a sniffle. Not a sickness, just a consequence of breathing in too much sawdust. Mr. Gold makes him soup, the way August had taught him, and lets him eat it in his room. While August eats, Mr. Gold sits on the end of the bed and… looks at him. Looks at him like August is an object of study, like there's something he's waiting for. August doesn’t know how to take that. It fills him with dread.
"Why are you doing this?" he whispers.
The Dark One scoffs. "I'm your father."
But you're not and you know it, The words catch in the back of his throat. He swallows them back. Because what if Mr. Gold doesn't know? Confessing would take this away and this lie has grown so big August can't bear to see it break. "I, um..." His voice sounds wheezy.
"Come here," Mr. Gold says softly, pulling August into a hug. His ear is pressed to Mr. Gold's chest. He can hear his heartbeat, steady as a drum.
Trembling, August hugs back. He was warned as a child how the Dark One manipulates, but he didn't expect anything like this. He understands now why everyone was so easily taken in by him.
***
The pain in his leg gets worse. It becomes impossible to hide from the man he's living with, from the man who watches him so keenly.
One morning, he leaves the house and is about to get on his motorcycle, but he can’t. His left knee is wood. He can’t bend his leg, which leaves him leaning over his motorcycle, arms resting on top of it, as he bites back his anguished cries. It’s not just the pain that makes him cry out – it’s knowing he won’t be able to ride his motorcycle again, it’s knowing that he’ll have to call Marco and explain that he won’t be able to work, that his time with him has been cut in half.
Mr. Gold, who had been watching him from the doorstep, crosses the garden path and takes hold of his arm, helping him limp back inside.
"What's wrong with you?" Mr. Gold asks bluntly once he’s deposited August onto an armchair in the lounge.
"I'm dying," admits August, the truth like a drink of water after being parched.
Mr. Gold stares at him, outraged. His voice is a whisper. "What?"
"I'm dying," August repeats. "I don't know how long I have left. Could be months. Could be weeks. Could be hours."
"Is this true?"
August snorts. "Yes! I wish it wasn't. You have no idea how much I wish it wasn't true."
“Worth checking,” mutters Mr. Gold. “And, what, pray tell, is the nature of your affliction?”
Another jolt, like electricity, goes through August’s knee and into his thigh. He digs his fingers into the arms of the chair. “Forget it. I just need to rest a moment.”
Mr. Gold looks at him flatly. “Perhaps you’ll be better off resting in a hospital.”
His heart tumbles with fear. “No! No hospitals! They won’t be able to do anything."
"Then tell me what's wrong with you."
August huffs. He grins snidely at the Dark One. “You want to know? Fine.” He rolls up his trouser leg, revealing his wooden leg hidden beneath.
"Is it a curse?" asks Mr. Gold after a moment.
"No." replies August. "No, it's not a curse. Not technically. It's - it's the truth." He drags his hand down his face. "It's the truth."
“You need magic.”
“I needed Emma Swan to believe. To break Storybrooke's curse and send us home.” August shakes his head, “There is no magic in this world. You said so yourself.”
Mr. Gold straightens. “Very well.”
August’s eyes go wide as Mr. Gold heads for the door. “Where are you going?”
But Mr. Gold does not answer him.
***
August is alone for a long time. Moving is an impossible and painful task. He manages to adjust himself more comfortably onto the chair before he passes out from the pain. When he wakes, hours have gone by. It’s the middle of the night. His torso is wood. He can’t see it, but he can feel it. He sobs. Why did Mr. Gold leave him alone? Is this torture? A punishment for his lies and manipulations? He wants his papa. He wants Mr. Gold to come back. He wants someone to hold him. He doesn't want to die like this.
In the end, he gets what he wants. Late in the evening of the next day, August is dozing off when he hears the key in the front door. He startles awake. The door opens and Mr. Gold steps inside. Under his arm is a golden egg.
August stares at him, hauntingly relieved. “Where have you been?”
Mr. Gold smirks. “Swan hunting.” With a flourish, he holds out his hand to August. “On your feet, dearie.”
August doesn’t move, afraid. He nods his chin at the golden egg. “Is that for me?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Mr. Gold beckons him with his fingers.
August knows he won’t be allowed to stay here. He’s sick to death of staring at the same corner of the house, but he’s terrified of what will happen when he takes Mr. Gold’s hand and follows him to wherever it is he plans to take him.
“Are you going to kill me?”
Mr. Gold frowns. “Considering the circumstances, that would be a waste of energy, don't you think?”
For the first time in weeks, August feels hope. He reaches with his functioning arm – his other is wood – and takes hold of Mr. Gold’s hand. Mr. Gold pulls him up, only for August to stagger. He grips Mr. Gold hard, and Mr. Gold slides a hand into his hair. The hope in his belly turns sour. “I – I can’t walk.”
Mr. Gold, of course, had anticipated this. There’s a wheelchair waiting for him on the front steps.
***
Mr. Gold has to push August’s wheelchair because by the time they're in town both August’s arms have turned to wood. They’re heading towards Mr. Gold’s shop. August has a blanket covering him, tucked around his shoulders.
August’s heart is fluttering. He’s almost grateful for it because when his chest turns to wood it won’t be fluttering at all. He can barely breathe now, and the ominous presence of Mr. Gold being so close to his back and August being unable to turn to see what ruminates on his expression. There is no doubt now in his mind that Mr. Gold knows the truth and has probably always known it, or at least known for a very long time. He could have known from the moment August hugged him in the woods and called him papa. After all, he doesn't look anything like Baelfire, and Mr. Gold is not so terrible a father not to recognise his adult son.
“What are you going to do?” August asks stiffly.
“You’ll see.”
He swallows. His Adam’s apple brushes painfully against his wooden throat. The pine is halfway up, closing slowly around his Adam's apple like a noose.
They enter the shop. Mr. Gold pushes the wheelchair into the middle where there is the most space.
“I was certain that the first time you came here you were planning to kill me,” Mr. Gold says casually, releasing the back of the chair and walking past August to the till. “But I was right about one thing. You were looking for the knife. Were you hoping you could command me to cure your condition?”
Saying nothing, August watches Mr. Gold place the golden egg on the counter and open it. He brings out a vial of purple glowing liquid. A magic potion, of that there is no doubt. August’s eyes widen; it’s the only movement he's capable of. Mr. Gold approaches him, walking slowly towards him like a vulture circling a corpse to make sure its dead before it lunges.
“Now if I do this,” he says, “I want to make one thing very, very clear.”
August tries to swallow. His throat is completely stiff. “A-Anything.”
Mr. Gold is about to continue to speak when the bell above the shop door chimes. A look of irritation passes over his face. “The shop is clos –” He looks up sharply. And stops. Staring at whoever is standing in the doorway. He lets out a sharp exhale, “Belle?”
Belle. His beloved. It has to be. August feels tears coming to his eyes as he watches the disbelief, the agony, the hope on Mr. Gold’s face. If he hadn't known already that his lie has grown too far, then he would know it now; he's happy for Mr. Gold. So achingly happy.
Mr. Gold steps past him. August closes his eyes, awaiting his fate. He focuses on thinking about his papa, of their time when he was young that he barely remembers, and of the moments they spent together in the workshop – and those thoughts bleed into thoughts about cooking with Mr. Gold, about Mr. Gold straightening his clothes, and his warm hugs.
"I was told you would protect me," says Belle.
"Yes -" Mr. Gold's voice cracks, "Yes, I'll protect you."
"Who's he?" asks Belle.
"He's -" Mr. Gold breaks off. August opens his eyes. He wishes he could turn around. "Well, he's... He's my son.”
He hears Mr. Gold cross the room. Feels it when he grips the back of the wheelchair and turns him so he’s facing Belle, a young brunette woman, who watches him cautiously.
"He's my son," repeats Mr. Gold, nodding at August.
August stares at him in shock.
And then Mr. Gold has his warm fingers in August's hair. He’s smiling like August's papa used to, and August's heart aches so much that he loathes himself. Loathes it and loves it when Mr. Gold combs his fingers through his hair, warm and kind and, maybe, maybe, a little reassuring. "Go on," he adds a little shakily, "Introduce yourself. It's alright. It's alright."
"A-August." he stutters out, "My name is August." There are tears in his eyes and Belle is staring at him, puzzled and frightened. He must look terrifying to her. "It's nice to meet you. Papa has told me so much about you."
“Are you alright?” She asks him.
“He will be,” answers Mr. Gold. “If you don’t mind, my dear.”
“Oh. Oh, of course.” Belle takes the hold of the wheelchair in Mr. Gold’s stead.
Mr. Gold, with the potion in hand, walks to the door and turns and smiles back at them.
“Where are we going?” asks Belle.
“We’re going to go to a wishing well, dearie, to bring home a little magic.”