Fits of Jealousy (for onceaheroine)
There were things about this cursed land that Mr. Gold liked. He liked takeaway food and sauna bathtubs. He liked fine Irish linen and silk sheets. He liked walking down the street and seeing people scatter, afraid of him for a reason they couldn't have explained if they'd been asked. He liked that no matter how much power Regina welded it wasn't as much as his own power and fear, and it was growing weaker thanks to Ms. Swan. Yes, being Mr. Gold had certain advantages. His leg was not one of them.
For a man who hated showing weakness, his knee was a glaring neon sign that he could be hurt. He could not chase, could not stand tall without the assistance of a cane, and sometimes at the end of the day he couldn't even face the stairs leading to his bedroom. His knee, perfectly functional for three hundred years, was easily his least favorite part of being Mr. Gold. A
Worse than the knee or the cane was the need for pain medication. He hated those small while pills. Hated that he needed them and hated that he needed a prescription for them. Dr. Whale was discreet but he was also annoyingly thorough, making Gold visit every six month in order to get another refill for his script. Despite the fact that nothing ever changed (why should it, on a injury three centuries old) he insisted on poking and prodding, making him remove his trousers to reveal the scar tissue covered and ill formed knee.
That six month point had come once again, seemingly faster this time. He was in a bad temper when he rapped his cane on Dr. Whale's office door, not pausing before opening the door. His temper swelled tenfold when he found that Whale was not alone. The doctor was standing so close to his Belle that they could have easily touched.
"Back away from her," he ordered.
For a man who hated showing weakness, his knee was a glaring neon sign that he could be hurt. He could not chase, could not stand tall without the assistance of a cane, and sometimes at the end of the day he couldn't even face the stairs leading to his bedroom. His knee, perfectly functional for three hundred years, was easily his least favorite part of being Mr. Gold. A
Worse than the knee or the cane was the need for pain medication. He hated those small while pills. Hated that he needed them and hated that he needed a prescription for them. Dr. Whale was discreet but he was also annoyingly thorough, making Gold visit every six month in order to get another refill for his script. Despite the fact that nothing ever changed (why should it, on a injury three centuries old) he insisted on poking and prodding, making him remove his trousers to reveal the scar tissue covered and ill formed knee.
That six month point had come once again, seemingly faster this time. He was in a bad temper when he rapped his cane on Dr. Whale's office door, not pausing before opening the door. His temper swelled tenfold when he found that Whale was not alone. The doctor was standing so close to his Belle that they could have easily touched.
"Back away from her," he ordered.