11 May 2014
This was Regina's week with Henry. As soon as school let out, he'd ride his bike the ten blocks to her house (she still thought about it as their house, though he was a part-time resident), park the bike in the garage next to her Mercedes, gallop across the lawn (maybe testing his athleticism by leaping over the hedges), throw the front door open, yell, "Mom! I'm home," drop his backpack onto the console table in the foyer, gallop up the steps to the dining room and then to the kitchen, where she'd be waiting with iced tea and lemon tarts from the bakery. They'd talk about school, his friends, his progress with Game of War: Fire Age, and what they would have for dinner that night. After they'd gotten dinner started, they'd crash in the family room to watch some TV until the meal was ready. It was Leave It to Beaver and The Donna Reed Show and Ozzie and Harriet rolled into one; it was everything she'd ever wanted from family life, ever since she'd arrived in Storybrooke in 1983 and got Americanized from watching sitcoms. It was hard-won, however; this dreamt-of lifestyle with her son had come to Regina only recently, only after she'd chosen to follow the hero's path. Before that—well, let's not go there.
So Regina mixed a pitcher of iced tea and plated the lemon tarts and waited for that door to bang open. She'd prepared for his arrival, bringing in the cleaning service a day early to scour the mansion spotless; stocking the fridge with his favorites, along with nutritious foods; carefully refolding the clothes in his dresser to smooth out any wrinkles. In truth, Henry really didn't care about any of these things and would barely notice them, but she needed to fill her day somehow. Now that she was no longer mayor—and, thanks to the wealth the curse had bequeathed her, had no need to seek employment—she had a lot of time on her hands.
There was an expression she used to hear people say: "Get a life." She'd been thinking about that expression lately.
Three hours and twenty minutes 'til Henry. She wandered through her house, straightening picture frames, plumping cushions, rearranging flowers. She wandered out into the garden, hoping to find a weed her gardener had overlooked or a snail that needed crushing. She inspected her apple trees, admiring the shine on the skins of the heavy fruit. And then she heard voices, a man's and a woman's, laughing in the park across the street and she wandered over to her hedge to peek across, because she recognized those voices, and it was strange, very strange, to hear Gold laughing. In fact, in all these years in Storybrooke, she couldn't remember ever hearing him laugh. Snicker, yes; chuckle, on occasion; but never laugh.
She conjured a pair of binoculars so she could see exactly what was making her old mentor laugh. No, she wasn't being nosey; as a leader of this town, she needed to keep abreast of changes, particularly in the behavior of powerful people, and for Gold to laugh—after all Zelena had put him through, and while he was still in mourning, dressing head-to-toe in black (though, who'd notice? He'd always worn dark colors)—called for her attention. Besides, he should be at work, this time of day. So she peeked. Then she downright looked. And listened.
In the Henry Mills, Sr., Memorial Park (that was the proper name, as Regina frustratedly reminded people, but most folks referred to it as Moncton Park, after the street that bordered its southern edge), on a red-and-white checked blanket, Belle lay on her belly, kicking her feet in the air lazily as she read aloud. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the cover said. Beside her, stretched out flat on his back and barefoot, lay her husband, his eyes closed, though he'd open them occasionally to look up into her face. Behind them were a wicker basket and the remains of picnic (a baguette, some kind of cheese, wine, grapes).
On the far end of the park, kids played on the swings and the merry-go-round, tweens played basketball and Archie walked Pongo, but here, on the side of the park closest to the Mills Mansion, only the Golds dared. Were the rest of the park players afraid to come within eyeshot of the Mills Mansion, or were they steering clear of the Golds? (Was Belle going by "Gold" now? Or were they using last names at all? According to the Mirror, 42% of the Enchanted Forest ex-pats had gone back to using their original names exclusively; 6% were using their Storybrooke names exclusively; 29% were using their original first names with their Storybrooke surnames, and the rest were still confused. An editorial in the Mirror claimed the name problem was just the tip of the confusion iceberg as, three years past the breaking of the curse, Storybrookers tried to sort out their identities, their families and their friends. "Emma Swan did us no favors," the editor wrote.)
So Ms French/Mrs. Gold or whoever she was calling herself these days was entertaining her hubby with a novel and he was laughing at the expected parts. The more she listened, though, the more Regina wondered if that laugh was genuine; his eyes weren't crinkling as they should be if he was really amused. Did Belle realize that he was just playing along (and if so, was she flattered)?
Regina squinted. There was something wrong with this picture. She'd had to beat down her inner demons with a heavy stick, day after day, for more than a year, to earn the happiness she had now, and yet, here lay Rumplestiltskin/Gold, still the Dark One, still a villain, enjoying the salad days of his marriage, lazing in the wealth the curse granted him. How come she had to change to get her reward and he didn't?
After the stab of envy passed—and she forced it out of her system quickly, remembering how envy had twisted her half-sister—Regina looked again, adjusting her binoculars so she could look closer. Yes, he was laughing—though it was a forced laugh. Yes, he was watching Belle with affection and admiration—but also with dark-ringed eyes. Deep lines creased his face now; bolts of gray shot through his brown hair. His skin hung loose and sallow on his emaciated frame. He'd gained a wife but lost a son. Maybe he'd paid a heavy enough price for the happiness he had now.
He reached up to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen into Belle's mouth, and impulsively she grasped his hand and kissed the palm. Regina noticed the bride wore dark circles under her eyes too, and the baby fat was gone from her cheeks. Regina had a vague memory of Belle spending a lot of time in the Forest befriending her would-have-been stepson, and another, clearer memory of Belle breaking down at Neal's funeral. That break down had mirrored the one Belle had suffered when Rumple killed himself. And then there was that nasty business with the secret asylum and the Dark Palace tower. . . .Okay. Mrs. French-Gold had paid a price too; maybe she deserved her happiness.
Regina felt a lightness in her chest, a faint smile stretching her lips. Maybe Rumple was still a villain; maybe not. He wasn't a hero, certainly, but maybe his time under Zelena had taken the villainy out of him and left him just a morally ambiguous, ethically confused man like most people. Let the Golds be happy. The one thing Regina had come to realize and accept in the past two years was that happiness was like water; you couldn't hold it in your hand. The best you could do was to freeze a moment in your memory.
She thought about the heart locked in her safe. Who was pure enough to control the heart of the Dark One? Not even Snow White could possess such power without it corrupting her. Belle might be a naif, but she wasn't a good choice for Heart Keeper either; she'd cave in rather than keep her husband in line. Besides, she already had the dagger. Maybe the heart was safest in the possession of someone who recognized villainy in all its permutations, someone who understood its root causes and false hopes, someone who'd been dark as pitch but had struggled her way back to goodness and still struggled every day.
Maybe there should be a balance: innocent Belle holding the dagger while the ex-Evil Queen held the heart. That way, neither could dominate the Dark One. Maybe the heart and the dagger were exactly where they should be, for everyone to remain safe. Including the previous owner.
A soft snore interrupted Belle's reading. She didn't mind the interruption in the least. She closed her book and shifted onto her side so she could watch Rumple sleep. In sleep his features told the truth. She rested her hand on his chest and waited to learn how he was really feeling. He'd been hiding himself from her; she'd expected that; he didn't want to upset her. She'd tried to tell him that nothing he could reveal would drive her away. She'd tried to prove, in every minute of their life together, that he could depend upon her to help him overcome. They weren't there yet. She would be patient, though. They'd get there: the fact that he'd given her his dagger was proof of his perfect trust in her, and she'd never, ever abuse that trust.
Not even if doing so would save him from his nightmares. She thought of the dagger, locked away in an iron box under a loose floorboard in their coat closet at home (any burglar who'd read his fair share of mysteries would think to look there—she was desperate to find a more secure hiding place). With the dagger she could order him to open up. She could push him into therapy. With the dagger she could facilitate the healing that clearly, would never happen without a dramatic catalyst. She could heal him, but she'd lose him in the process; he'd never forgive her for violating his trust.
Villains and heroes, good and evil. Hah. The people of this town may have come from fairy tales, but they were far too complex and their problems far too grave for simple tales. Belle watched a nightmare torment Rumple's exhausted face, and she wondered if, with the dagger, it would be possible to command him to have happy dreams. But no, a benign use of the dagger was still abuse of his trust. She shoved her curiosity about the dagger under the floorboards of her imagination.
