Fishing
No slash. Yes, I'm actually writing a non-Rumpel/Gold centric piece. Though, I can't promise he won't crop up…
Set three years before Emma comes to Storybrooke.
Props to my lovely, lovely, brilliant beta, OldRomantic, who had to send this to me twice because my Yahoo! is stupid.
-XXX-
The water is golden on this rare, sunny afternoon in the midst of Maine. Luminescent dragonflies skirted the water's surface, their jeweled wings reflecting emerald gems and amethyst silks for all the world to envy. Long brass reeds flicker in the breeze, whispering along with the silver-green needles of the surrounding pines. The air is sweet. Summer is here, once and for all.
He isn't sure what compelled him to ask- - - no, beg - - -Regina to allow him to take Henry fishing for the afternoon. Early in the year, Graham decided to take the kid out as much as he could. He is, the sheriff, after all. It was his duty to see that the city was in peace-and a lonely kid could quickly grow to a disgruntled vandal.
Or that's what Graham kept telling himself.
The kid needed a dad figure, anyways. And if was going to be with Regina, well…it couldn't hurt to get on the good side of Henry, could it?
He likes the boy. Henry is brave. He's got spunk. That dreamy quality of his young mind reminds Graham of himself. A quirky, fatherless kid raised by a strained mother. A familiar story. Perhaps that is what drew the sheriff to the Mills kid.
The kid had been restless. Impossibly bored. It is summer, and there weren't any vacations or roadtrips scheduled for the young Mills. Not that he minded that so much. No, Henry was simply bored stupid. Between babysitters, sit-ins on city council meetings, a strict and exasperated Regina didn't help matters much. Aside from that, at seven years of age, Henry was far from popular among his schoolmates. From what Graham had seen and what Regina had said, the other second graders avoided the imaginative mayor's son. "Bright, but weird," was the collective opinion throughout not only the school-aged, but the town as a whole.
Weird he had yet to see. So far today, the kid has been quiet. He held the pole loosely, staring at the red-and-white bobber dip up and down. As of yet,So far nothing has bitten; there hadn't even been nibbles. Graham sighs, turning the reel's handle once, drawing the line in an inch or so. He wonders if perhaps there aren't any fish in this particular pond. Mr. Gold didn't mentionhadn't mentioned it yesterday when Graham asked yesterday if he could take the Mills boy fishing over the weekend. Surely the man would know;, it is his property after all. What would be the point of a fish-less pond, anyways? That would be just their luck….
"Does it usually take this long?" the boy asks.
Graham looks down on the kid nestled in the reeds beside him. Henry is toeing the rounded pebbles that line the soft bank with his formerly white tennis shoes.
"It can," the sheriff explains softly. "but you should be patient. Sometimes, waiting will lend you the best rewards."
Henry ponders this, nodding. "Okay."
They're quiet once more. A dragonfly zooms past Graham's ear. He shifts, hoping to avoid the glittery bug. Insects are not his favourite creatures, not by a long shot. In the mossy water near them, a Pickerel frog rises from the green depths to emit a high-pitch squeak, calling to its hidden fellows. Its large olive eyes flicker, gooey jet pupils glazed. After several seconds, several faint squeaks are returned. Graham looks to his young companion to see a small smiling tugging the corners of Henry's mouth.
"Did you hear that?"
"Yeah."
"They're talking to each other," Graham says. "warning the pond that there are guests."
"I thought they were telling each other hello."
"Probably that too," the sheriff grins. "Yes, that would make more sense."
Henry nods sagely, gaze returning to his pole. Still nothing. Not even a minnow was biting. The wind musses his hair. For someone so young, Graham muses, he sure is serious. Another similar trait between them. Graham can recall a certain level of grimness his own mother remarked upon seeing in him. Though, she hadn't liked it, he has no doubt Regina would have bred such a feature in any child of hers. Humor isn't something the mayor greatly appreciates. A grave woman in her work, he can just imagine what stern lectures the boy may have already received at home. Nothing too severe; Regina isn't abusive, he's sure of it. She genuinely loves her son. But the mayor simply doesn't know how to mother. She's not maternal. He's vaguely reminded of a play he read once, when he was in high school.
". .. Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
Of direst cruelty."
Lady Macbeth's desires for a cool nature strike him to be similar to Regina's cold appearance. However, he shakes this off. Regina has a heart and soul; she can be loving. It's simply not her forte. She has to work for it.
Henry could be affectionate, if given the chance. He's simply quiet and serious, a sober little boy who has a hard time making friends. Much, Graham speculates, like his adoptive mother. She scares people to a distance with power; Henry pushes people away simply through being, well, unique.
That's the difference, Graham thinks.
"What are they telling one another, Henry?" Graham asks after another round of silence. "Can you understand them?"
The boy tilts his head as though listening closely. "They're telling stories. About dragonflies and snakes."
"Oh?"
"They're sad because someone was eaten by a garter snake. But they're happy because of the dragonflies. They think they're really pretty."
Graham winds in his line to recast with a sharp twist of his wrist. Henry mimics.
"They are, aren't they?"
Silence again. But this time it's less awkward, more companionable.
"You work with my mom, right, Graham?"
"Yes, I do," he responds, wondering where this train is going.
"Oh."
And that's it. He is a little taken aback. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason."
"No, c'mon, Henry. What is up?"
The kid shakes his head. Graham smiles slowly. "It's tough, isn't it? Being the mayor's son. Everyone knows who you are. Expectations…."
"Sometimes I don't think she even cares about me," the boy says softly.
Well, he's not too surprised. "She's busy, Henry. Trying to make the town safe. And nice. Better for you. You can't blame her."
"But she's mean!" he blurts, eyes wide. "She doesn't do anything nice for anyone!"
Concern furrows Graham's brow. He runs one hand through his sandy curls. "Well, she is stressed. Your mom works really hard. Sometimes she may not be the nicest person. But you can't expect her to be…perfect. You're not perfect, are you?"
"I guess not,"." he mumbles. In his tone, Graham senses that perfection may not go beyond a clean room and regularly brushed teeth in Henry's world. "But she's so-so-"
It is then that it happens. A sharp pull on the line. Henry's bobber turns in the water. It jerks forward. Graham shouts gleefully, instructing his young companion to pull up and reel in. Henry follows breathlessly, tugging the pole backward. The fish isn't about to resign itself to the deep fryer, however, and puts up quite a fight. So much of a fight, that the seven-year-old is nearly toppled into the pond. His shoes are soaked and muddied before Graham manages to grab him by the waist. When retrieved, the boy proudly displays his twenty-inch largemouth bass, wriggling on the line.
The sheriff shows him how to hold the fish, then remove the hook carefully. At first, Henry is reluctant to touch his prize, and Graham has to coax him gently to it. The cool skin makes him giggle.
"Shall we keep him?" Graham asks after several seconds. "Or throw him back?"
Henry considers. "Why would we keep him?"
"To eat, of course. I'm sure Ruby could fry him up at the café. Or I could make him, at my house. We could have him for lunch."
The kid thinks it over. "No. Let's throw him back. I think his family would miss him a lot. Maybe we could just buy some fish sticks?"
A slow grin dawns on the young sheriff's face. "Yeah. That sounds great. Want me to show you how to release?"
One finger pinching the jaw, careful to avoid the gills, and the bass is toss back into the pond. Back to his family.
And that's the difference, Graham thinks quietly, watching the green-grey- bodied fish sail high up over the water before landing with a definite splash. Then it's time to bait the hooks again. He'll need to convince Henry that the worms really don't feel it when you cut them in half. And then watch to make sure the line doesn't get tangled in the cattails when the boy casts. No matter.
-XXX-
Before you ask, I did research frogs native to Maine. I tried to find native pond fish, but failed miserably. Bass are not native, but they have been introduced and are found throughout the state. Which is good, as they taste good.
Please review!
LATER EDIT: It was pointed out to me that in merging files, my computer squished some words together. I think I've fixed them all, but my apologies if you find any.