Ennui. Belle had picked up that word from some book whose contents had otherwise left no impression on her, and the word fit perfectly, she thought, the sluggish atmosphere that had settled over Storybrooke in recent years, like a heavy summer humidity that sapped all the energy right out of the entire town. Not that she wasn't happy—on the contrary, of course she was happy, content with the peace that now reigned over their lives, delighted with the daily miracles she saw in her child, grateful every minute for the admiration and affection her husband the Sorcerer showered upon her. And it wasn't that there were no surprises: how could there be a lack of the unexpected when her husband was the "New Merlin" and her daughter at just seven years of age already outpaced her elders in her ability to manipulate the weather? And of course there were the nonmagical, but just as precious, offerings of this life: her work in the library, her friends, her lovely home. Of course she was happy, and yet. . . .
As she sipped her tea and pretended to read the newspaper spread across her lap, she daydreamed. Her husband, seated beside her, idly pushed the glider swing back and forth with one foot as he fondly watched their daughter and her friends build castles in the sandbox in the sprawling back garden. (Those were his roses crawling up the trellises—his, red and yellow, raised by hand, not magic. Who, other than Belle, would've imagined such a domestic hobby for the former Dark One? When teased about it by Charming, Rumple had merely shrugged. "Merlin kept a flower garden.")
But Belle had been thinking. . . For a long time, she had been thinking, she needed a little something to shake them up a bit. No more "EPs," as the citizens of Storybrooke had come to refer to their Enemies From the Past—there had been so many, no one used the unabbreviated phrase any more. Of course not. But something. . . .
"What are you daydreaming about, sweetheart?" They'd been together so long, a single glance could reveal the most complex moods.
"Monsters," she confessed.
"Monsters."
"Trying to remember how long it's been."
"Ah."
"Since the last one. Cecil the Sea Serpent, wasn't it? That crushed the Jolly Roger?"
"I think that was two monsters ago. Or three. After the Catwomen from the Moon but before the Pillsbury Dough Boy. No, I'm pretty sure the most recent was Mothra. Remember? Henry'd seen the movie, so it was his idea that we conjure Godzilla to defeat the loathsome insect."
"Oh, yes. . . . And then we had to use Jefferson's hat to send Godzilla through a portal to Monster Island."
"Beans, dear. We used beans on Godzilla, the hat for the Big Bad Wolf."
"Oh. Yes, I remember now."
"So: monsters?"
"Not that I want them in our lives."
"Good, because there aren't any left. I think we've run out."
"It's just that, well." She waved her hand at the garden. "Nice. Maybe everything's too nice."
"Orderly."
"Yeah."
"Not enough challenges. Battles. You are, after all, a born hero."
"No, not that. Chantal gives me enough battles."
He chuckled. "She is rather headstrong."
"Just. . . Maybe we ought raise daisies instead of roses next year—". At his pout, she backpedaled. "Or paint the house or something. Take a trip to Toledo. Or learn to parasail. Or something."
His expression grew thoughtful as he continued to rock the glider with his toes. "Maybe. . . . Maybe we should start small, see how it goes, before we make any big changes."
"What do you suggest?" She scooted closer to him.
He suddenly grinned. "Let's surprise each other. Tomorrow after work, go out on our own, then come back home with—something different. Nothing drastic, just different."
Belle bounced on the swing as she threw her arms around him. "Yes! Thank you! I can't wait to see what you come up with!"
He pursed his lips. "Me neither."
"I have a dozen ideas already, but I think I'll wait until tomorrow night to decide. Let inspiration strike."
"Uhm. . . Yeah. . . "
The grandfather clock in the corner of his shop bonged six times. Time to go home. For the first time, he dreaded closing up. He'd been wracking his imagination all day for some surprise he could bring home, something big enough to satisfy Belle but not so big that he couldn't live with it. He locked the door behind him, then started the not-long-enough walk home, staring into each storefront he passed for some idea of how to fulfill his end of the bargain. He passed his tailor's: a new tie, maybe? The sporting goods store: surely she'd love some tennis rackets. They could take lessons. The karate school: she'd look so cute in one of those little white jackets, her feet bare. Granny's: if he brought home lasagne from Granny's instead of burgers, would that count?
The last shop that still had its lights on was the barber's. He ran his hand through his locks: it was about time for a trim. That would be a good excuse: "Honey, I needed a haircut—you remember how shaggy it was getting. And by the time I came out of Barney's, all the stores were closed. I'll try again tomorrow for that surprise." Right. And her surprise for him would be a one-way ticket to the doghouse. With a deep sigh he plunked down into the leather chair. He stared at the walls, at all the photos of manly-men models showing off the wide assortment of hairstyles that today's men could choose from and still appear masculine. There was The Prince Charming, The Robin Hood, The Whale. . . .
And then Rumple had his answer. Sure, why not? If he hated it, it would always grow back.
"Your usual, Mr. Gold?"
"Barney, I think I'll try something a little different today."
Waiting for inspiration to strike, Belle locked the library doors and sauntered down the quiet city sidewalks, humming to herself. Marine's Garage: she could buy that 1952 hot rod Dan Marine had been restoring. The Candy Dish: she could invite the Seven Dwarfs over for a taffy pull. Storybrooke Bakery: she recalled a very romantic and slightly naughty scene from a movie that involved a man, a woman and a table covered in flour.
Nah. Nothing felt right.
Until she paused in front of Rapunzel's.
"Belle! How good to see you! Need a trim?"
"You know, Zel, I was thinking of trying something different this time. . . ."
"Rumple, I'm home!"
"In the kitchen. Sweetheart, I think you're going to love my surprise. At least, I did something really different."
"Rumplestiltskin," her tone warned as she rounded the corner from the dining room, "if your idea of 'different' is lasagne instead of—Eeep!"
As Chantal giggled and pointed from one parent to the other, the Golds gaped, frozen in their tracks.
"Rumple, you, you—I can see your ears!"
"Aren't they cute, Mama? I didn't know Papa has pointy ears! Just like an elf!"
"Belle! You—my gods, you—you're blonde!"
"And now we should call Mama 'Goldilocks Gold'!"
They rushed forward, not to kiss, as usual, but to thrust their hands into each other's hair (or, in his case, lack thereof). "Do you like it?" He and she asked at the same time.
"It's beautiful." He scooped her now chin-length locks from her face. "Like spun gold."
"That's why I did it. For my gold spinner." She twirled, the overhead light bouncing off her inverted bob.
"Is mine okay?" Rumple patted his buzz cut.
"It's different. . . ." Then she realized what this change must have cost him emotionally, to give up a hairstyle he'd worn for decades, a look he'd been a bit vain about, and she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. "Rumple! You did it for me!"
"Hmm!" He cocked an eyebrow when she finally let him up for air. "Well then! If a haircut earns me a kiss like that, I wonder what a mustache would get me?"
She slapped his arm playfully. "The haircut's enough for now. Let me get used to it before we start talking facial hair."
He grinned at her. "Feeling better, sweetheart? The ennui's cured?"
"For now, but. . . have you noticed that '52 hot rod Dan Marine's got for sale?"