In Storybrooke, Mr. Gold strives to be the man Bae used to love--until Belle is kidnapped to Neverland. If he resumes his Dark One powers to save her, can he control them? In the Enchanted Forest, Emma battles ogres, zombies and her ex to get back h...
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Jeffersonthe Mad Hatter: Remembering is the worst curse (An Apple Red as Blood).
After supper, Archie showed Vincent the upstairs guest bedroom. He'd never had a visitor actually sleep there, but—for as long as he could remember—every other Thursday, he'd changed the sheets. This week brown plaid flannel topped with a forest green comforter would keep his friend snug and warm through the night.
Because I want to, but I know I can't. After less than two hours together, Archie could no longer deny his feelings—and he felt as if he were going crazy. I'm non-sexual, he repeated to himself. Like a dwarf or a fairy. Tonight, to be honest, he was revising his analysis.
He forced himself to assess the room, assure himself it was comfortable. Feather bed fresh and tidy? Check. Oak armoire clean and empty? Check. Antique cherry desk stocked with paper, pens, and pencils? Check. His survey led him to the room's pride-and-joy: his telescope. Right now, Vincent was crouched on the window seat, elbows on the deep, bay window sill, face pressed to the eyepiece, peering into the darkness.
Crikey, is he handsome. Aloud, Archie said, "Too bad it's—it's raining." He coughed. "We have an—an expression about Maine weather. If you don't—don't like it, wait a half hour. It'll change."
Vincent chuckled, acknowledging his joke like the dear sweet man he was. "No point looking at the sky, of course, but I'm getting a good idea of your shoreline. Your house is fantastically situated. You have a marvelous view."
Archie gazed at his own marvelous view—Vincent—and assessed himself. Palms sweating? Check. Heart racing? Check. Light-headed? Check. Instead of staying up talking like we planned, should I say goodnight and immerse myself in a really cold bath? Check.
"I can see the small craft harbor. Not many boats. Wrong season for—hello. What's that?" His friend continued staring through the telescope. "Why, if that's not the cutest... Awwww... Arch, come here. You've got to see this."
Archie couldn't answer. Tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth? Check. Against his years of experience as a royal counselor, against his implanted psychological education and training, against every shred of common sense he possessed, he wedged himself onto the window seat beside Vincent. After a deep, calming breath, he put his eye to the telescope.
At first, Archie saw a blur. He tweaked the eyepiece to accommodate his nearsightedness. Then he said, "Awwww..."
Leroy was on the dock, ambling toward his houseboat. What made the sight so darling was what he was carrying—a woman in a fluffy pink skirt riding piggyback. He held her white-stockinged legs. One of her arms lifted a yellow umbrella over the both of them; the other hugged his chest. At first, Archie's mind drew a blank for who she possibly could be. Then she lay her cheek on Leroy's shoulder, turning her face enough to be recognizable.
