A/N – My writing is usually inspired by music, that's why I like to put lyrics in the end in case someone is an audio type like I myself and wants some mood music to go with the story. I've discovered this particular song (The Highest Cost by Son of Rust) a few days ago, and it just screamed curse!Jefferson to me so I decided to use it with an idea I've been toying with for a while. As it happened, it took the story in an entire different direction (style-wise) than I initially planned and I'm actually quite happy with how it turned out in the end. So, yeah, I definitely recommend giving it a listen…
I'm dabbling in time-travel a bit in the end. Probably the result of too much Doctor Who. So just… bear with me, ok? :)
[the highest cost]
On the morning of October 23rd, 1983, Jefferson wakes up with a horrible headache. He tangles himself out of bed (though he's fairly certain he's been in the Red Queen's workshop just a moment ago, and he doesn't quite know where he is now because this bed is softer than anything he'd slept in for years and his surroundings are completely alien to him) and follows a subconscious ritual he is both amazed at and completely unfazed by. As if he is two different people, one Jefferson acting as if he'd been doing the same thing every day of his life, knowing exactly which way to turn and which door to go through, and another peeking from behind those same eyes, staring in open awe and confusion at the unfamiliar house and objects different from anything he'd seen in any of the places he'd traveled. Panic sets in soon enough and the confused Jefferson is suddenly wide awake as he (they?) looks through a window and it's not sickeningly colorful like that awful world he's been trapped in, but not Enchanted Forest either (close enough, but not quite). And he takes running through the house (like Wonderland in small, really, full of hallways and doors and staircases, maddening and so annoyingly huge!) screaming for his Grace. His daughter. His precious little girl. The other Jefferson wrestles control away from him as he (they!) reaches the front door. 'What daughter!?' he demands. He has no daughter (of course we do!). He has never been married, hell – he'd never even had a steady girlfriend for more than a month at a time! But there is an image of a delicate little face with honey-colored hair and honey-colored eyes and a sweet, sweet smile burned into that other Jefferson's memory as well even though he can't really tell where from.
Confused. We're just confused. Because it can't be possible that both of us are real, that both of us exist. Can it? But it's okay, it's only our first day. We'll figure this out with time.
Hands shaking and back sticky with cold, cold sweat, he pops two of the little white pellets from a small orange bottle into his mouth (the Jefferson who knows these strange, foreign things says they're called pills) and slumps on a plush sofa in one of the rooms before drifting back into unconsciousness.
This is Regina's doing.
Somehow, subconsciously, he knows. His sentiments for the Queen have had time to develop from casual interest to distrust to passionate hatred fueled further and further to near-vengeful obsession with each day he'd spent separated from his daughter because of her. Like Wonderland wasn't enough to drive him mad, she had to bring him to this absurd place he doesn't even know the name of, stick another person in his head and watch him free-fall into insanity with such speed and intensity that even if he found a way back to his little girl soon, he'd be no fit to even appear in front of her.
It's a hatred of such ferocity, of such power that even the other Jefferson finds in the recesses of his mind a faint memory of blood-red lips and luxurious dark hair and sharp nails clawing at his back as she rubs her body against his.
After a week or so, he manages to force some sort of order to his fractured psyche and survives a day without the dazed fuzziness of medication. He explores the enormous house. But when he reaches the front door, he finds himself unable to step outside. There is no physical barrier to keep him trapped, it's just… something inside of him stopping him crossing the threshold.
(He'll try again the next day. And the next. And the next. After a month or so, the furthest he'll go is the far end of his back garden. The garden that never overgrows or gets infested by weeds or bugs or brings flowers or fruit.)
There was a promise of a house on a hill with a huge garden once. Something snug and moderate, a comfortable place to call home. It was 'once', at first, then 'when we marry', then 'before the baby is born', yet somehow there was never time for that, never quite the time to stop gallivanting from one adventure to another, until there was no time at all, not with them together at least, and now they ended up here in a huge house, in the woods, on a hill, with an even huger garden full of flowers that never grow nor wilt, just them two Jeffersons in this world familiar and foreign at the same time.
He concludes he's lost. A portal jumper lost in a world he knows nothing of, how disgraceful! Jefferson the stuck-up rich boy from New York dissolves into peals of laughter and calls him crazy and says he's only lost in his own head and what the hell is a 'portal jumper' anyway.
Still, every night, medication or not, they slip into the comfortingly habitual routine of hat-making because it's the only possible way out he can think of.
To one Jefferson, it is prescribed therapy. To the other, an obsession slowly and surely destroying him.
There are pieces of equipment in the house for every hobby or activity imaginable. Musical instruments and croquet mallets. Empty canvases and paint of every color that exists. A library rivaled only by the one he had seen in an imp-like sorcerer's castle once (In a dream? It must have been a dream. But then, at the same time, he is absolutely certain it's not, as Jefferson the Hatter creeps at the edges of Jefferson the big city playboy's gaze). There are other objects too, weird mechanical things Jefferson the Hatter doesn't know what are for, but the other Jefferson names 'television' and 'sound system' and 'kitchen appliances' and knows which buttons to press (even when they change periodically on their own accord to adjust to the recent trends in regard to his (their!) taste and eccentric house décor.
The Jefferson who belongs to this world will never notice anything strange, but it will drive Jefferson the Hatter mad because even with his limited knowledge of magic he cannot explain any of it).
He admires an expensive looking telescope, a fine craftsmanship that could put to shame all those intricate sailing gimcracks on the pirate ships in Neverland. It is sleek and shiny and a rich, warm, reddish gold color. What was that metal called again? Copper? Brass? Bronze?
The one the color of Alice's hair, remember? Of course you do. I do too.
That evening, he finds Grace. He finds a bunch of other people he knows (he knew, or at least Jefferson the Hatter did), and he doesn't even know what he's looking for until he sees her skipping down the main street and he nearly breaks the precious item, he grips it so desperately. He follows her to a house and watches her enter, reads her lips as she addresses her 'Mom' and 'Dad' and presses kisses to their cheeks while the sound of every single 'Papa' from the very first time her toddler-self had uttered it years ago echoes through his (their!) memories and it hurts! It hurts so bad, hurts the way it hurt those two times Jefferson the Hatter lost the most important people in his life, hurts like he thought could never hurt again, hurts more than Jefferson the spoilt, shallow pleasure-seeker thought anything could possibly hurt. He breaks down that night as well, curls on the floor underneath the windowsill with his knees drawn to his chin and his arms over his head and sobs uncontrollably until he feels raw and spent and actually physically sick.
Her name is Paige here. She is not your daughter. There is no Grace, not anymore.
The other Jefferson, the brusque, self-destructive, wicked Jefferson who's seen and knows all the highest highs and lowest lows of this world, finds the liquor cabinet and pops pills between mouthfuls of whiskey as if they were cherries and summer wine. Jefferson the Hatter whimpers behind his eyelids and hurls the bottle across the room when his head starts to swim and his stomach's had more than it can handle. It's of no use, really. There is another bottle to replace the broken one and the shattered glass will disappear with the morning light when he wakes up once again in the luxurious bed upstairs after passing out here on the ground floor.
There you go again, judging me. You think we are so different, but we're not. You are me. You would have been me, had she not come and gave a beat to your stone cold heart.
Alice. She is a constant as well, one of those clear, definite things in both of their memories. Clever, spirited Alice with her deep jade eyes and fiery curls and a strong, decided mind and there is no doubt she would have pulled profligate, libertine-Jefferson out of his pit of arrogance and boredom too.
It's only ever been Alice. Alice on the window to greet you as soon as your feet round the last corner before reaching the house. Alice with the forest reflected in her eyes, melting against the backdrop of coral twilight. Alice with the sun rising beyond the hill of her naked shoulder while you count the freckles on her back in the blush of the dawn. Your own personal dream catcher, watching over your sleep and keeping the demons at bay.
There are only nightmares now, and he wakes deaf with his own anguished screams only to find that daylight brings no relief. It's merely slipping from one dark abyss of madness into another, quite possibly even more twisted and terrifying. Desperately, he grips the sheets in search of a warm body to hold on to, the smell of her hair to comfort him, her tender hands to ghost over his face and calm his racing heart, her bright smile and sleep-hooded eyes and a lazy kiss of her soft, soft lips and a softer voice telling him everything is perfectly fine.
You are so weak, so dependent. It would have been touching if it wasn't so pathetic, the way you need her, and to think you never even realized it until she was gone.
He is lost again, unable to comprehend that this side of the bed had been empty for almost ten years before he'd been thrust into this hell so specifically designed for him.
Alice curled up like a kitten on the cushions by the fireplace, singing that strange song about wood and birds and burning houses. Never again. The smoke blurs the vision and everything fades to oblivion.
He watches Grace's day on an endless loop and keeps watching even after he already knows the exact number of paces she'll take between her house and the bus stop, the exact moment in which she will brush the hair off her face, the very split second in which she'll trip while crossing the main street, then catch her balance at the last moment and smile sheepishly to no one in particular. His heart still skips a beat every time, like it did the first time he saw it, his limbs half-prepared to break into a run and jump across the entire town in one single leap to catch her before she falls.
But wait! What's that?! You saw it too. You just saw her as well, didn't you!
Regina glances up and looks as if she knows exactly where to look.
Of course she does, she did this to us! She put us here!
And she is across the street already and moving very determinedly towards somewhere and Jefferson the Hatter is shaking with hatred and rage, but the feeling that eventually takes over is panic. Senseless, suffocating panic.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, she's coming! She's coming here!
There's a crunching sound of wheels on the gravel from right outside the house and he is still in the room upstairs, trying to maintain the grip on the telescope with shaking hands slippery with sweat.
Suddenly, the madness blinds him and he runs to find a weapon (the other Jefferson knows where they keep it). It's similar to the mechanical contraption he'd seen once in that awfully depressing world without color so even Jefferson the Hatter knows how to operate it. He doesn't even need to leave the house, he can aim at her from a window (the front door, so she can see him shoot that smirk off her face). But when it comes to them eyeing one another over the barrel of the gun, he can't find it in him to actually pull the trigger. She taunts him further, walks from the driveway up towards the house until she is so close he couldn't miss her if he tried. His knuckles are white and his facial muscles contract in grotesque grimaces twisting his handsome features to an expression of intense physical pain. As if the two Jeffersons are fighting for control, one forcing his finger, the other holding it back, but he is not quite sure which one is doing what. Regina's smirk is cruel and victorious as she walks away, leaving him gasping for breath, watery-eyed and shaking on the threshold of his own personal dungeon.
She spent years watching her lover through the glass of a coffin, blackening her soul further and further with each passing day after that first blow of hope, falsely raised then ruthlessly dashed, delivered by your own hand. You know you're guilty and you know she knows as well. That's why you're now the one watching your daughter through the glass.
He watches Grace (Paige!) twice as intently now. His joy, his heart, his entire world condensed into one small person. The one thing he was proud of, the one thing in his life he did right. The wondrous creature created while he was at his best self, the painful reminder on Alice's patient smiles that will always set him straight when he strays from the path. Just like Alice, Grace always saw him for who he really was and still loved him in spite of all his shortcomings, stuck by him even through his worst failures and temper tantrums. As much as she was dependent of him for home and shelter and parental love, he was even more dependent on her for his very sanity.
Until you lost her as well. Failed her like you did everyone else that mattered, like you did Alice.
But Alice was not his fault! It was the Red Queen's soldiers and the battle and there was so much blood and destruction everywhere! There was nothing he could do.
Except turning back before the situation went out of hand. Then again, you never really did know when to stop pushing your luck.
He went back for her. He spent months trying to find her again. He would have stayed in that horrible place voluntarily for as long as it took if there was any chance, any hope, if there was any other way, but Grace was so tiny and he'd promised to take care of her and try his best so that she'd want for nothing and never ever leave her. And he did. He really did try his best.
But your best was never good enough, was it.
No, he was good! The Queen tricked him. As much as he resisted, she knew how to play on his feelings, manipulated and used him just like she always did, forever executing her vengeance for that one time he had played and manipulated and used her.
Funny how it's always someone else's fault with you.
It was all for Grace. All he ever wanted was to give her everything and then he found he couldn't and it tore him apart to see her gazing longingly at toys and sweets and other children who only needed to point at things that caught their fancy and they could have them in their hands in a matter of moments.
Don't you know money doesn't bring happiness? Didn't Alice teach you that? What would she say? How would she react to your stupid, foolish act of weakness? All those disappointments and broken promises, and yet she was always there, arms open wide with forgiveness and an endless supply of second chances and she never ever asked for any of those things anyway, but then the only thing she did ask was for you to never leave your child parentless and you failed her again, sold your daughter for a promise of wealth and a stuffed toy rabbit when all she truly needed was you.
But Alice was not there! She was the strong one, she was the clever one, she always knew the right thing to do and the right words to say, and he missed her so much, it was near impossible to breathe! She was not there because she was taken from him by another Queen. God, how he hated Queens! Black ones, red ones, no matter what color they came in, all they ever brought was pain and misery; all they ever did was trick and deceive and take away those most essential to him when all he wanted was to make them happy.
And all both Alice and Grace needed was you. It was you who was never satisfied, you who always wanted more.
Maybe this was his price to pay for the delinquency of his youth. But even after he recognized his mistakes and regretted them sincerely, it was not enough. One act of remorse after years of egoism and recklessness could not erase all the wrong he did. No matter how much he wanted it to. But why did the cost have to be this high?
No, I was never good enough.
What's the year again? 1993? What's so important about 1993?
Why do I see her so clearly in my mind? Why today after all this time? That smile that wrinkles her nose and dimples her cheeks. The way her hair spills over her shoulders when she throws her head back in laughter. The dulcet tones of her voice, equally melodious in song and in the charming lilt of her accented words.
So much time had passed since those last moments, even in his memory still blurred with tears and just as painful as they were back then, and here he was now with her face so distinctly outlined in front of his eyes.
Her hand caressing this piano here, her figure reclining on that sofa over there, the sound of her excited giggle in his ear and her fingers in his hair as he presses tickling kisses to her neck.
Why is 1993 any different from 1983? Or any other year in-between? Any other of the days that are all one and the same?
Ten years. It's been ten years in this prison.
No, that can't be it. He's only moved here recently (How recently? When exactly? How can you not know?). Some peace and quiet in a remote town in Maine. That's what his family said, anyway, after someone found him passed out in a puddle of his own vomit, pumped to his eyeballs with ecstasy on some underground rave party. (Wasn't it cocaine overdose and disco?)
There is a new device in the house this morning. The other Jefferson calls it a 'PC' and, of course, talks about it as if it has been there forever and not, quite likely, invented while he (they.) has been stuck in this house. There's something called the 'internet' on it and Jefferson reads a story (other Jefferson calls it 'movie synopsis' and reads several of them at once because he has no patience for watching an actual movie) about parallel dimensions that are created in the fabric of reality with every decision people make.
Who knows, maybe there's a different me somewhere and a different her and maybe there's a different version of us that gets to be happy.
October 1993, Oxford, England
It's a warm and sunny autumn and the large Victorian-style mansion is like a vision from an impressionist painting, bathed in light against the backdrop of red-and-golden-crowned tree tops. The mood inside is a little less bright, though, as a young girl groans in frustration; too small and weak to slam the heavy oak double doors of the study and thus enact at least a teeny tiny act of rebellion against the strict rules she is brought up under. The antique fireplace in the furthest end of the room beckons her to come closer and she rushes towards the smell of ashes and old leather as if seeking sanctuary. The mirror above the mantle is almost impossible to look at, as blinding it is with reflection, yet she can't resist touching it. Her hand slips through the glass as easily as breaking the surface of that little duck pond under the old birch tree in the garden. The feeling is peculiar and oddly pleasant. Ten-year-old Alice smiles.
you can't survive it, words can't describe it
choke up and hurry away
as to stay here would be misery
so keep repeating history
and face it - it's always the same
and never good enough to be
the way it was in your memory
Son of Rust – The Highest Cost
[End Note] - This is basically my interpretation of the curse, modified very slightly after I've seen 2x17 (in regard to it actually being the same day over and over again, even though I'm pretty sure the curse was modified in some way when Regina got Henry because it would have been seriously weird for the kid to grow up not only surrounded by people who never age, but also forever stuck in freaking October, repeating the same lesson in school day after day. I actually have a theory worked out, but I'll leave that for another time). Anyway, I strongly believe the curse was designed so that fashion, trends and scientific innovations changed periodically to adjust to the time they were currently in. No one would notice anything, of course, since they were suspended in time without clear perception of it passing, but I suppose it must be so in order for Storybrooke to pass as a normal American town (and for it to be "up-to-date" when Emma arrives in 2011, and not still stuck in the 80s).