A/N. OK. So this story was going to be a one-shot deal. But then a reviewer asked for an update (Thank you!), so I started thinking. And about 20 different directions later, this is what I came up with. I hope you enjoy. And thank you for reading.
Fiona strode among the Miners' Day vendors looking for her friends. She'd promised to meet them twenty minutes ago, but Ma had been on a rampage all morning. The triplets had set up an elaborate rigging system designed to rain marbles down on Fiona's unsuspecting head; they caught their mother instead. But when Ma had finished firmly speaking to them about why practical jokes were inappropriate, and sent them to three separate living room corners for 10 minutes (OMG! They must really be in trouble. NOT!), she had started in on her daughter's choice of low rise jeans, and a belly T that quite nicely displayed a fake belly ring. But it wasn't until Ma had yanked her arm and complained, "Are you even listening to me?" that the teen realized Ma was talking to her. She nodded her head, because apparently that was what Ma wanted, but she had no idea what she was agreeing to. Something about a change of clothing?
The teen trudged up to her room to change, secure in the knowledge of one thing and one thing only: My name is not Fiona.
And now, bundled up against the cold (and Ma's wrath), she saw the people she had known since moving into Storybrooke six years ago. (Or thirty four, if Mr. Gold was correct and the town had been asleep for twenty eight years.) And she knew their names, and at the same time, she had no idea who most of them were. I'm going insane…. Entire towns don't sleep for twenty eight years. You can't live that long and not age! Even Rip Van Winkle grew old…. She edged past a stall where the drunk guy who gave her the whiskey and Miss Blanchard were (not) selling candles. Her name's not Miss Blanchard. And her hair isn't boy-short, it's almost as long as mine! Fiona reached a hand around to her back and gave a long pull on the single braid she had forced her hair into. She pulled until the tears in her eyes were from the pain and not the cold and wind.
Maybe since she couldn't find her friends, she could find Mr. Gold. She'd call from her iPhone, but Ma and Da went over the bill number by number to make sure she wasn't using it inappropriately. And his shop number showing up would definitely be inappropriate. She could go to the shop itself, but half the town watched the front half of his shop, and the other half watched the back; Ma and Da would find out before she could ask a single question. Of course, he'd probably just tell her, and them, she was crazy anyways, and that he'd never told her that the town was asleep. I'm not crazy. I'm not.
She found her way to an empty park bench, and sat. She slouched into her coat, pulling the collar up over her mouth and nose, and shoved her gloveless hands into her pockets to warm them up. A body sat down on the bench beside her and a soft voice asked, "And how is our whiskey drinker this morning?"
Fiona sat up straight. "Mr. Gold!" she blurted out.
"Guilty as charged."
"I never thanked you. For not turning me in to the police."
"I thought the effects of overindulging in cheap whiskey would be punishment enough, don't you?" He wasn't opening his mouth very much and he was talking very softly. Anyone not too close wouldn't see that they were actually talking if she imitated him.
"Yeah, about that," she muttered. "Did you really tell me this town was asleep?"
"Yes."
"Are they still asleep? I mean, are we still the only ones awake? Cause something else weird is going on…."
"Time has started moving again. As far as I know there are five people awake. What weird things? And why didn't you call me to tell me this?"
Fiona hesitated. It was one thing to puke in front of the man, another thing entirely to tell him she didn't even know her own name….. "I can't call; my parents will," just in time, she replaced a swear with a more innocuous word, "Flip the big one if they see your number in my phone. And, well… I'm pretty sure…. I don't think my name is Fiona…."
"It probably isn't," he agreed. "Most of us got new names when we went to sleep. Gold is certainly not the name my father gave me…."
"What?" she screeched, turning around to glare at him.
"Calm down, Dearie! You're calling attention to our little tête-à-tête, and we can't have that. " Fiona forced herself to sit back and look ahead. "I will figure out some way for you to contact me when you have questions. In the meantime, I suggest you find a way to get yourself back in control. The sack races are over there." And with that, he left her alone on the bench.
Not even a minute passed before an exuberant PJ bounded up, "There you are! Been looking for you all over!"
"Hey there," Fiona answered. "Ma shit a pile of bricks this morning; the trips got her instead of me."
"So they were busted, for what, like 3 minutes?" PJ grinned; he knew full well how little discipline the triplets received.
"No… Ma was flipping mad. She gave them ten minutes. But then she lit into me for having a fake belly button ring."
"I'd like to see that," he said making the most lecherous face he could.
"In your dreams." Fiona smiled a very insincere smile and changed topics. "Where is everyone?"
"They'll find us eventually. Come on. Let's go play one of those carnival games; I'll win you a stuffy."
Several hours (and dollars) later, they were still stuffy-less. And Fiona was trying very hard not to be hurt. They had run into Bobby and Cassie laughing and munching on cotton candy. The two girls blanched, started babbling about having to babysit Bobby's (nonexistent) younger siblings, and ran off.
"What did I do?" Fiona whispered.
PJ snorted. "You didn't do anything. I asked them to stay away." When she looked at him uncomprehendingly, he exploded. "God, Fee! For someone so smart, you really are dumb! I asked you to hang out with me today. Me." He jabbed a finger at his chest. Then he reached out, and took her hand. "I asked you to go out with me, Fiona."
"Like a date? You asked me on a date?"
"Yeah, a date. What else is a guy supposed to do when he has a massive crush on the girl who's been his best friend since he was twelve? He asks her out and pleads with her BFFs to take a hike." When Fiona didn't say anything for a few minutes, he began pleading. "Don't leave me hanging here, Fee."
She smiled and blushed and bit her lip. "Yeah… Yes I'll go out with you." She tilted her head up and closed her eyes as his lips swooped down to touch hers. Her whole body jolted in surprise; PJ deepened the kiss, pressing his lips more firmly on hers. Their lips clung, parted, and resettled on each other, explored the other's taste and texture. Her fingers tangled in his hair while his hands were busy smoothing her jacket against her back. Eventually he lifted his head enough to kiss her nose, then her forehead as she snuggled into his embrace.
"Wow. That was..."
"Amazing."
"Perfect."
"Perfect."
As soon as Ma and Da found out she was dating, they implemented a no boys policy. (Which Fiona wished included her brothers.) No boys were allowed in the house at any time, for any reason including but not limited to school projects, TV marathons, and dying. PJ's parents issued a similar rule, except that she could come into the house to call 911 in the sole case that he was dying. Which made dating rather a challenge. Storybrooke wasn't really designed for teenagers to hang out in: no malls with quiet corners, no cool teen stores with a clerk who would look the other way. So being alone together pretty much meant hanging out at the docks or the beach, where only a quarter of the town could see them at any given time. Or for almost complete privacy they could go walking through the forest. But even in a relatively mild Maine spring, like this one was, this meant wearing heavy parkas with gloves, hats, scarves and boots. They discovered quite rapidly that kissing was not as pleasurable as one might think when various body parts were slowly being frozen. They usually settled for meeting at Granny's where at least they could hold hands while sipping hot chocolate and sharing a basket of fries.
But sitting at Granny's made for interesting times, at least for Fiona. Henry Mills, the mayor's kid, met up with the new sheriff (also his birth mother), Emma Swan, there almost daily. And while they did whisper most of the time, sometimes they talked in normal tones that carried over to other booths about a book of fairy tales that were supposedly true. According to Henry, the entire town was from a land called the Enchanted Forest where magic was real; they had been transported to Maine and cursed by the mayor so that they didn't know who they really were. And, most importantly to Henry, Sheriff Swan was supposed to be the one to break the curse. Also, according to Henry, Miss Blanchard (his teacher and Sheriff Swan's roommate) was really Snow White (and the sheriff's mother). It was obvious that the sheriff didn't believe Henry. Neither did Miss Blanchard. The few times Fiona discussed it with PJ, he made it quite clear he too thought the kid was delusional.
But to Fiona, it made complete sense. Thinking of Miss Blanchard as Snow White gave Fiona a vision (a memory?) of Snow White in a beautiful, feathery, white wedding dress, her hair all done up in elaborate curls with little flowers. Her husband-to-be wore a silver jacket embroidered with gold or bronze thread (it was hard to see through the throng of people in the room) over black pants and looked an awful lot like Mr. Nolan, the former coma patient who became Miss Blanchard's lover. (And was currently married to, and possibly divorcing from, the woman who Miss Blanchard was accused of killing until Mrs. Nolan showed up, bruised and battered but still alive, in an alleyway.)
And yet somehow, to Fiona, the tangled web of teacher, coma patient, and not-murdered wife seemed more unreal than the idea that Miss Blanchard was a cursed Snow White.
"All right ladies!" the gym teacher yelled. "Put your height and weight next to your name. Add an inch or two if you're wearing heels to graduation. And print, PRINT, your name the way you want it written on your diploma. Then take guards, a quiver, a bow and head on out to the targets. DO NOT touch the arrows!" Almost the entire class started groaning either over having to write their weight for the rest of creation to see or because archery was one of the very few gym class activities that you were not allowed to skip and walk the track instead. When it became Fiona's turn, she wrote 5'6" (adding a bit of height for heels), 120 (subtracting some weight), and Fiona Greer MacDonald (wishing that she knew her real name and could write that instead). Then she grabbed her equipment and walked out to the field.
Several students already out at the field were playing with their bows, mock shooting imaginary arrows at human shaped targets instead of the straw ones with boldly painted concentric circles on them. Fiona slid the quiver and bow onto the stand staked into the grass and strapped on the guard for her left forearm almost without thinking. She slid the three middle fingers of her right hand into the finger guard and tightened the piece that wrapped around her wrist. She picked up the bow and gave a cautious pull on its string, testing for tension. An arrow chosen from the quiver snugged against the bow string, breathe in and out, draw the string back to the cheek, breathe in and hold, see where the arrow would land, release. THWACK! The arrow wobbled back and forth, embedded halfway down its length on the lower side of the black ring surrounding the bull's-eye. Fiona wasn't sure if she was happy that she shot as well as she did, considering the piece-of-crap bow she was using, or disappointed that the arrow wasn't centered in the target. She had just decided that she was pleased with her shot when the teacher screamed, "Fiona! Office! Detention! NOW!"
Oh bloody Hell. Fiona ripped off her safety equipment and stomped off the field. I didn't hurt anybody. Hell, I almost shot a freakin' bulls-eye! Neither excuse worked on the vice-principal. Nor Ma. In fact the two of them were perfectly in agreement over the atrocities a student with a bow and arrow could commit without the proper tutelage and supervision which was how Fiona found herself with a home suspension for the remainder of the day and an office as well as a class detention the next day.
The dejected teen walked away from the school, scuffing her sneakers and kicking the occasional rock. It's not fair! That bow, as pathetic as it was, had felt so right in her hands. The tension in her arms and back as she pulled back. The brush of a feather against her cheek. The snapping of the string against the plastic guard on her wrist. It all felt so familiar. But not the same-day-repeating-itself type of familiar. This felt real, like my-name-is-not-Fiona real, like Miss-Blanchard-is-really-Snow-White real. Fiona stopped walking, having reached the end of the sidewalk. She thought about turning around to go home when she noticed the shadow of a store front sign, and realized that she was standing in front of Mr. Gold's Pawnshop. In for a penny, in for a pound! Fiona squared her shoulders, faced the fact that she was going to be dead meat when Ma got home (if not for getting suspended or for not heading straight home from school, then for going into the pawn shop), and opened the door.
A bell over the door tinkled; Fiona blinked a few times to adjust her eyes to the dim interior of the shop after the bright sunlight outside. It looked a lot different through sober eyes than it had with drunk ones. More wood and glass cabinetry, less bed. Still jam packed full of stuff, though. Maybe she was in a different room? Mr. Gold was looking quite elegant for an old guy: a light purple dress shirt with a slightly darker purple tie and a charcoal waistcoat covered by a dark green apron. And he had two gold bands on his upper arms. What are they for? Gold put down a silver tea pot he had been polishing, "Ah, Miss MacDonald. What can I help you with today?"
Fiona debated internally, her emotions flashing across her face. Should she open with a question about Henry and was he right? Did the mayor really curse everyone? Was that why they were all living the same day over and over again? Was everyone in the town some fairy tale character? Or should she ask if Miss Blanchard really was Snow White? And who exactly was Sheriff Swan to Henry and Miss Blanchard? Her mouth opened and closed several times as she decided on a question and immediately discarded it. Great, now I look like a bloody fish. She took a breath and asked the one question that had nothing to do with Henry and curses: "Do you sell archery equipment?"
"The sporting goods store is down the street," he pointed and picked up his polishing rag.
"Yeah, I'm looking for something a bit less modern, I think." She closed her eyes as a picture developed in her mind. Her voice was filled with longing as she whispered what she saw, "Leather guards, arrows made with ash wood, steel tips, and real feathers not those synthetic ones. A wooden bow, re-curved to make it stronger, more powerful. A leather quiver and belt for my waist." As she spoke, Gold limped around his shop gathering the items she bespoke. Fiona opened her eyes, amazed that the exact items she had envisioned were lying on a display case. "How much?" she breathed, stroking a finger down the wood of the bow.
"These are very pricey. More, I think, than a teenager can afford. But for you, I will offer a deal."
"Anything."
"People tend to regret saying that to me." Fiona's panicked blue eyes flew up to meet his brown ones. "Relax. I'm not going to ask for your first born child. I haven't spoken to you since Miner's Day. Tell me what you've learned since then."
So Fiona spoke. About what Henry said about his mother. And his other mother. About the book. And Miss Blanchard. She told him everything she knew and everything she suspected. And when she finished, he nodded thoughtfully, boxed up the archery equipment so she wouldn't be harassed on her way home, and bade her good day. He neither confirmed nor denied anything she said. Which should have been really annoying, but she was only allowing it to be a minor irritant since he didn't charge a penny for any of the stuff in the box she was now cheerfully lugging across town.
Between detentions and groundings, it took a few days for Fiona to escape the parental watchfulness long enough to buy an archery target cover from the sporting goods store. And a few days more, and JP's assistance, to find a hay bale laying 'forgotten' in a field. Together they wriggled the target cover over the bale. Fiona set up a few yards away, and let loose arrow after arrow into a little circle in the center of the bulls-eye. With each arrow she stepped back increasing her distance to the target. Finally the quiver was empty, and Fiona's arm and back muscles burned from disuse. She scuffed her placement in the ground rolling her shoulders to ease the muscle pain and went to collect her arrows. Halfway across the field, she felt something go through her, like a shiver, but external. It was enough to make her stagger a bit; as she straightened, her eyes focused on the neat circle the arrows made in the target.
My name is Merida!
