Before the House Call
Summary: My first story set in present-day Storybrooke! "Deleted scene" from Season 2, Episode 7, "Child of the Moon." Regina calls Rumplestiltskin for help with Henry's nightmares. More of a drabble than anything else. Contains a reference to my story "Wake Me Up Inside." My thanks to highlyillogical for suggesting this.
Regina can't believe she's doing this. She wonders if Henry would even care, if he knew how much this was costing her pride.
Probably not.
But that's not what it's important right now. What's important is that her son needs help, and if she can't provide it, well then, at least she knows someone who can.
Even if that someone is the man who recently tried to kill her.
The phone is answered after only a few rings, and his voice is brusque and professional. At least he's been able to tear himself away from Belle long enough to pick up the line. But then, she had heard his true love had moved out of his home, so …
Oh what the hell does she even care about that anyway?
"It's me," she says without preamble. There's a pause.
"And just what to you want, your majesty?"
She takes a deep breath. "Henry's been having nightmares."
"Have you tried giving him a glass of warm milk? I hear it –"
"Shut up and listen! His hand was burned."
He instantly drops his sarcastic tone. "How bad?"
"Nothing that won't heal, but … I think it must be some side effect of the sleeping curse."
He sighs. "I warned you that your sleeping curse would –"
"It wasn't my sleeping curse, it was Maleficent's," she counters. "And the point is, I don't want Henry to get hurt anymore, but I … I don't know what to do for him."
This isn't the first time Regina has wanted him to soothe bad dreams. But it had been different then. Many things had been different then. The dreams hadn't been caused by a sleeping curse, but by the simple pain of living.
And they hadn't been her son's. They'd been her own.
He brushes the memory aside, tinged as it is with bitterness and anger and something else that he will not name.
"So you're in over your head, and you're asking for my magical expertise," he says smugly.
"Yes," she snaps, though it pains her to admit it. Then in a softer tone, she adds, "Can you help me?"
The first time she'd asked him that question, she was dressed all in white, and she had seemed … guileless, and naïve, and sad, as his hands had brushed her soft skin.
So kind, so gentle …
His jaw clenches, and he reminds himself of all she's done, how she imprisoned his true love and made him think she was dead.
"Help you? Never." His voice is hard. "But I will help Henry."
"Fine," she says flatly. "We're at Mary Margaret's apartment."
"I'll be there in a few moments," he says, and hangs up.
Yes, he will help him. He'll help the boy that's reminded him so much of Baelfire over the years.
He'll do it for Henry, not for her. Never for her.
Never again.