Belle awoke slowly, groaning as she put her hand to her pounding head. She pushed herself up, her limbs stiff and sore, and remembered that she had been taken prisoner. She had struggled desperately when they had taken her from the wagon, and she remembered being struck on the back of the skull. She felt her head, wincing as her fingers found a lump and matted hair where she had bled. Belle looked around with bleary eyes, taking in her surroundings. She was in a small, stone room, on a simple cot with a pillow and blanket. The room was cool rather than cold, and light was coming in from a small window high on the wall. Belle thought she must be in a tower; she could see nothing but the sky from the window. One of the towers at the Queen's palace, then. She stood up, wobbling a little, and walked around the room. Apart from the bed, a chamber pot, a pitcher and bowl with a cake of soap for washing and a set of towels and clean clothes, the cell was empty, the door of thick oak reinforced with iron bands and locked tight. Belle sat back down, then smiled to herself. This was a temporary incarceration; she knew what she needed to do.
"Rumplestiltskin," she said aloud, and waited for him to appear. Nothing. She frowned. "Rumplestiltskin!" she called, louder, and her heart began to thump harder with fear. Why would he not come? Did he really not want her?
"Well, that's not going to work!" The grating of the lock startled Belle, and she backed away from the door as the Queen entered, resplendent in deep red velvet and a necklace made of strings of garnets on silver wire so thin it was all but invisible. The garnets resembled beads of blood scattered across her throat, and Belle had the sudden, unpleasant thought that Regina had stood too close to the executioner at a beheading. The Queen smiled widely at her.
"He can't hear you," she said pleasantly. "I've cast an enchantment on the tower. I'm afraid you're not going anywhere."
"What do you want with me?" asked Belle stonily, and Regina pursed her lips, pacing back and forth slowly within the cell.
"You're what we might call…leverage," she said. "I never thought I'd have any, but then you came along. If Rumple behaves himself, I may let you go someday."
Belle gave her a flat, disbelieving look. "Doesn't matter what you do," she said witheringly. "He'll come for me, and when he does, I may not be able to stop him from killing you."
Regina smiled again. "He won't be looking for you, dear," she said sympathetically. "I told him you were dead." She clutched her chest and stuck out her lower lip in mock dismay. "It broke his little heart!" She laughed quietly. "Funny – I never knew he had one." She picked up a dark blue tunic from the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, looking it over, her lip curling slightly. "What exactly do you see in him? Is it the power thing?" She eyed Belle curiously, and Belle set her jaw.
"He's my true love," she declared. "Something about which you know nothing."
The smile fell from Regina's face then, and she dropped the dress back on the pile.
"I assure you, you're very wrong," she said quietly. "I've known true love, albeit briefly."
Despite herself, Belle was intrigued. "What happened?" she asked curiously.
"He was murdered." Regina's voice was flat, her face hard, and Belle looked down.
"I'm sorry," she muttered, and Regina seemed to dismiss the matter immediately.
"Well, I think you have bigger problems than worrying about mine right now," she said briskly. "Like I said, you're here until I need you, and dear Rumple has no clue you're still alive." She smiled again. "Quite sad, really. You know, he really does love you."
Belle lifted her chin. "I don't need you to tell me that," she said coldly. "Do your worst, but you won't keep us apart." She glared at Regina, who leant towards Belle, her face inches away.
"Wrong again," she said softly, and swept from the room.
Days passed slowly in captivity. Belle managed to get Claude, one of the guards, to bring her a book, but even that was taken away when she was caught writing notes on the pages in her own blood and throwing them out of the window in a desperate bid to attract help. She kept a record of her days by marking the wall, and kept active by pacing her cell and exercising. She made an attempt at escape, hitting one of the guards over the head with her heavy pitcher when he brought food. She made it to the foot of the tower stairs before being trapped by another locked door, and then had to endure the indignity of Claude carrying her back up over his shoulder, laughing as he squeezed her buttocks with rough hands. Regina seemed displeased at his man-handling of her, but gave Belle a choice between being chained up or spending a night with Claude. Belle chose the chains. After the incident with the pitcher, her meals were brought by a female servant who neither spoke to her nor met her gaze. Belle was pleased to have no more contact with the leering, odious Claude, but as the months passed and the monotony increased, she grew listless, pale, and ever more depressed.
Regina busied herself with some paperwork as she waited to hear of the next attack. It was a pity Gold's little girlfriend had been away from the library when the creature made its first appearance. It would be resting now, absorbing the power from the heart it had consumed. She would have to wait a little longer for her vengeance, it seemed, although she calculated it would soon be on its way to choose its next victim. Within the next day or so, perhaps. This slow, drawn-out revenge on the townsfolk was turning out to be fun. She would choose to make her move, to save them, once Emma was dead. The creature needed to consume seven hearts to reach its full size and power. Surely the sheriff would be next. She started at a knock at the door.
"Gold," said Regina flatly, as she held open the door. "What do you want?"
He walked in slowly, his expression neutral.
"I thought I'd ask you if you have any idea what caused the spate of unusual deaths that seem to have occurred while I was away," he said easily, and she frowned.
"I have no idea," she said curtly. "Although I assume everyone will automatically think I had something to do with it, as hearts were ripped out."
"I already told them that wasn't you," he assured her. "I'm interested in finding out what did cause it."
Regina sighed impatiently and brushed past him to replace a file in the cupboard by the door. "I don't know," she said abruptly, as she walked back to her desk. "And as you can see, I have things to do, so unless there's anything else…"
"Actually, there is." He turned briefly towards the cabinet across from her and gestured at the decanter of whisky. "May I?"
She inclined her head and he stood with his back to her, pouring measures into two glasses and turning back to hold one out to her. Immediately she frowned, and reached for the other. He tutted impatiently, but surrendered the glass to her grip.
"Really, dearie, poison isn't my style. If I wanted to kill you I can think of far more satisfying ways of doing it."
"I can't be too careful these days." They both drank, and she looked him up and down with sudden amusement. "You look tired, Rumple. Aren't you getting enough sleep?"
He sighed. "The last few days have been somewhat – wearing, for all concerned," he admitted, and she smiled.
"So your poor, dear Belle turns to you for some cold comfort, does she?" she taunted. "How nice for you." Her smile widened, her eyes sparkling with amusement, as she gestured with her glass. "Perhaps that's what really ripped her father's heart from his chest, imagining her with you. I must admit it's a vision my mind refuses to hold."
He ignored her gibe. "Why don't you tell me what you did, and I'll leave you in peace," he suggested pleasantly.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said dismissively, taking another sip of her drink.
"I know the seven that died at the same time used to be your guards, in another life." he said calmly, watching her. A muscle twitched in one smooth cheek, but her expression remained unchanged, faintly bored. "And we both know that the spell used to kill all seven at once must have been a powerful one." He downed his drink. "I know it wasn't me, so that leaves you."
Regina smirked. "Why don't you ask your new protégée Miss Swan?" she enquired. "As I understand it she's also quite adept at dark magic now – after you manipulated her into being the saviour, of course." She tapped her lips thoughtfully with a finger. "Funny how everyone who gets mixed up with you ends up turning to darkness," she mused, and her smile widened. "I wonder how long it'll be before Belle asks you to teach her something." She put her head to the side, her gaze calculating. "Perhaps she already has."
"Don't play games with me, dearie," he said menacingly. "Tell me what you did, or there will be consequences."
Regina barked a short, humourless laugh. "Like what?" she said witheringly. "You won't kill me, as that would break your promise to your precious Belle." She leaned on the desk, her eyes taunting. "Making promises to her always seems to end badly for you, doesn't it? You promised not to kill Hook, and then look what happened. Ever wonder why it is that you have to suffer this way? Why she can't just accept you for who you truly are?"
His mouth twitched in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps she's the only one who does see what I truly am," he said softly, and she straightened up and laughed again, a look of derision on her face.
"Really?" she said sarcastically. "So we didn't see the real you in Neverland?" She put her hands on her hips. "Have you even told her? Does she even know what you did?" He didn't answer, but a twitch in the corner of his mouth gave her the negative, and she smiled triumphantly. "I thought not. What would she do if she found out?"
"Belle's capacity for understanding and forgiveness is far greater than yours," he said quietly. "As is mine for change."
Regina laughed out loud, her eyes gleaming. "No," she whispered. "You've been full to the brim with dark magic for centuries, and if you think that you can just hide that away for the sake of a pretty girl, you're as deluded as she is." She walked slowly towards him, her smile mocking him. "You're skating around the edge of an abyss, Gold, and you and I both know it'll only take one slip to make you fall, you and that sweet, pure soul you seem so determined to corrupt!"
His hand itched to slap her; he fought to remain calm, pushing his anger down until it was a small, seething ball in the pit of his stomach.
"You did your best to corrupt her, and it didn't work," he said menacingly. "I still need to pay you back for that one, dearie, so you might want to bear that in mind."
Regina curled her lip. "You filthy hypocrite!" she said disgustedly. "Don't tell me you weren't enjoying Lacey's appetites twenty-four-seven, because I know damn well you were! You should be thanking me. I must admit I never expected her to go for you, but I suppose taste is always subjective. I guess she's just as screwed up on that score as Belle." She smirked, sipping her whisky and running the tip of her tongue over her lips. "Love is the strangest thing, don't you find?"
"Yes indeed," he agreed, with a cold smile. "All the men you've ever loved seem to get their hearts ripped from their chests." He tilted his head to the side, raising an eyebrow curiously. "I wonder how long it'll take before the same thing happens to Henry."
Regina's nostrils flared, and there was anger in her eyes. "Henry will always be kept safe!" she snapped. "I will always put him first! Now if you don't mind, Gold, I have things to do." She turned away from him dismissively.
"I'll find out what you're up to," he said, smiling with effort. "And when I do, you'll beg for my help. Believe it, Regina."
"Good luck with that," she said, her expression innocent. "When you find nothing I'll be happy to accept your apology, but in the meantime, I'm busy." She sat back down at her desk and riffled through some papers, tapping her pen against her deep red lips as she read.
Gold left the town hall in a towering rage that he worked hard to repress as he drove out of the town centre to the cemetery. By the time he had parked the car and walked to Regina's mausoleum his normal calm exterior had returned, but he was still furious with Regina for her digs at Belle and her refusal to explain her actions. He knew she was behind the attacks; he had been getting flashes of something that he was unable to make out, but he knew that Regina was to blame for the deaths. He hesitated outside the door to the vault, and reached out with his hand, feeling the air delicately. As expected, she had cast spells of protection, spells that would alert her to any intruder. He could simply burst through them, of course, but it would be easier if he didn't have to deal with her just now; he wasn't sure he could trust himself to be restrained. He pushed at the barrier experimentally, feeling it bend before him, and looked for the way in, the part of the spell that could be unravelled. Having taught Regina the majority of spells that she performed, he knew her style and, more importantly, how her spell could be temporarily unpicked. He found the weak spot, and used a sliver of magic to pull apart the barrier, creating a hole wide enough to step through. Once inside, he released the magic, the hole closing up behind him, the barrier restored. With any luck, the subtlety of his work would not have triggered the alarm built into the spell, which was designed to respond to an all-out attack. Smiling to himself, he opened the door to the mausoleum, and made his way down into the vault. He felt for the traces of magic that would have been used in casting the sort of spell that would have been required for the sacrifice of seven, and was drawn to a box shoved onto one of the shelves. He picked up a stone figurine in the shape of a serpent, realisation slowly dawning. That was what had been summoned. It was Regina. And she had summoned the creature for a purpose. He debated calling Emma, but something told him to wait. Something told him that Regina would come to him. There were still two days before the creature would need to feed again, and now that he knew what it was, he could prepare. He needed to get to the shop.
When he returned home the house was dark, but for a light in the bedroom. He climbed the stairs and found Belle dressed and sitting on the bed reading, an empty bottle of wine on the dresser and a freshly-opened one beside her.
"You're late," she said absently, her words somewhat unsteady. "I didn't make dinner and I don't want any, so you'll have to see to yourself."
"I'll make us both something in a while," he said, hanging his jacket in the wardrobe.
"I just said I don't want anything," she said impatiently. "Pay attention!"
Enough. It was time.
"Sweetheart, we need to talk," he began, and she looked at him over the rim of her glass.
"About what?"
"About what happened to your father."
She pulled a face, taking another drink.
"I don't want to talk about that."
"Very well." He shifted his position slightly, both hands on his cane. "I have to say, I thought better of you."
Her eyebrows shot up, and she raised her eyes to his. "What?"
He shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, I expected you could have spared him at least one or two thoughts after his brutal murder."
Belle threw down her book and pushed herself up from the bed. "The last thing I need is a lecture on family loyalty from the likes of you, Rumple," she sneered. "Why are we in this world? Oh, that's right, because you chose magic over your son's love and tried to make up for it ever since. Until you lost him. Again." She gave him a withering glance, hands on hips. "Get your own crap in order before you criticise me."
Her words cut him, but he carried on.
"Well, this really isn't about me, is it?" he said calmly. "This is about how terribly disappointed your father must be in his only child not giving a damn that his heart was ripped from his chest."
She glared at him, then hooded her eyes behind painted lids. "People deal with grief in different ways," she said coldly, turning from him.
"Yes, but they do deal with it." His voice made her stop, and he dropped it to a whisper. "I think you're afraid of yours."
She spun around. "Yeah, well, you've been wrong before, Rumple."
"Not about this," he eyed her steadily, and she glared at him, eyes flashing.
"Well, I suppose this whole affair makes things easier for you," she said accusingly. "You've always hated my father and now he's dead!"
He chuckled mirthlessly. "I didn't hate him," he said mildly. "Once I found out that Regina had lied to me about what had happened to you after you left me, I never really thought about him at all. He hated me, I was never interested enough in what he thought to hate him back."
"He did hate you!" she blurted, snatching up her wineglass. "He begged me to leave you and I wouldn't! We fought, the day he died, over you!" She gestured with the glass and slopped wine over her hand, thin red streams like blood dripping onto the rug.
"Do you know how difficult it'll be to get those stains out?" he asked dryly, pointing at the floor, and she glared at him, slamming the glass down on the dresser.
"I don't give a crap about the bloody housekeeping!" she said, through her teeth.
"Fair enough." He shifted his weight to the other foot. "Then let's get back to what we were talking about. Do you wonder what was going through his mind as his heart was torn out? Whether he thought of you in his final moments?" He smiled, holding up one finger, as though an idea had just occurred to him. "Although, come to think of it, perhaps he didn't have time, I mean, there was blood everywhere…"
"Shut up!" Her voice was low and fierce.
"It must have been horribly painful," he continued. "And to suffer all that, to have your only daughter care so little that she can't even pretend to cry." He smiled again, opening his hand and spreading the fingers invitingly. "Or perhaps you never really loved him."
Belle bristled. "How dare you!" Her voice shook. "He was – "
"Was what?" he scoffed. "The most important person in your life? We both know that's not true. How often did you go to see him? I forget…"
"You – you can't say that to me!" Her fists clenched, her jaw protruding.
"Well, let's look at the evidence," he suggested calmly, as if they were solving a puzzle. "He tried to marry you off to an imbecile. He didn't understand or care what you wanted from life. And most importantly, he let you be taken away by me."
"That was my choice!" she blurted. "I made the deal with you, not him!"
"Yes," he admitted. "And yet he never tried to make another. To trade himself for you, for example."
"You would never have accepted…"
"He didn't know that. Any parent worth a damn would offer their own life to spare their child." He watched her closely. "He obviously didn't care enough to try."
"That's a hateful thing to say!" she spat. "You're an asshole!"
He laughed quietly. "Never doubt it," he said, amused.
"I miss him so much," she said, pain etched in every feature of her face. His heart ached for her, but he knew that she couldn't continue to hold out. She was close to breaking, he could tell.
"Come, Belle," he said easily. "Things are much easier for you now that he's gone, that's evident from your behaviour these last few days."
"He was the best father ever!" she blurted defensively, and his laugh was soft derision, making her want to pound her fists into his face.
"Really?" he chuckled. "Do describe his many fine qualities to me, as it's something I confess you've never bothered to do before. I'm guessing you can't even come up with five."
She trembled with rage, her jaw working as he looked at her enquiringly.
"He – was very good to me after my mother died," she began, and he puffed air through his lips in wry amusement, looking at his fingernails for effect.
"As, no doubt, your servants were."
"He always wanted what was best for me," she added loudly. "He supported me and loved me."
He waved a dismissive hand. "Empty platitudes," he said scornfully, his voice taking on a taunting lilt. "Why don't you tell me something that couldn't be found on any shop-bought greetings card?"
"You bastard!" She was shaking with rage, her fists opening and closing. She wanted to rend his face with her nails, shake his hatefully calm demeanour, make him hurt. His smile widened.
"Sticks and stones, dearie."
"Don't call me that!" she shouted. "I'm not one of your deals!"
"Of course you are, dearie," he drawled lazily. "Or have you forgotten how we met?"
"I hate you like this!" she blurted, her eyes flashing.
"I always tell the truth and people never appreciate it," he sighed, shaking his head sadly. "The truth is, you offered yourself, because your father didn't have the intelligence or courage to stand up to me. And you say he was the best father ever…"
"He was!"
"Prove it." He looked at her, a bored expression on his face, and raised a questioning eyebrow. "I'm waiting…"
She was almost too enraged to speak, and forced herself to take a deep breath. "When I was small, he sang to me – made up songs which were always a little bit rude, about people we knew," she continued, smiling slightly as she remembered. "He taught me to dance, and to ride, and encouraged me to study after my mother died." She remembered his hands steadying her in the saddle, his voice, gentle but firm, telling her to grip with her knees and sit up straight. She recalled him walking into her room with an armful of books and sitting with her as she had leafed through them with exclamations of delight. There was a strange stinging sensation in her eyes, and she was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. "When I was twelve, I caught a bad fever, and he sat for days by my bed, crying and holding my hand. He said it was one of the worst times of his life." The stinging was getting worse, her eyes were filling with water and her voice was starting to shake. She remembered his arms around her when she had recovered, still weak from the fever, his hug fierce, his familiar scent comforting. "He told me that I was beautiful, he comforted me when I was sad, and he made me feel that I was the most important person in his world. And I never got to say goodbye!" A wave of exhaustion suddenly swept over her; she could not ever remember feeling so tired. Her lip was trembling. "I never got to make things up with him, to make him see in you what I see!" Her voice broke, and Gold took a step towards her, reaching for her.
"I stood in the blood!" she sobbed. "I saw his face!" Her eyes were bright with tears. "I loved him! I loved him and I killed him! He went there to meet me! It should have been me!"
She was shaking as he grasped her shoulder, drawing her to him, and the tears finally came as she fell against him, her body racked with sobs. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as she wept, her tears soaking his shirt. She cried for a long time, and he kissed her forehead, stroking her hair as he whispered to her. He kissed the tears from her eyelids, kissed her cheeks and then her mouth, and she pressed herself against him, her lips seeking his and kissing him passionately as her hands tugged at his belt.
He took her to bed, and she wept in his arms. She sought not oblivion, this time, but solace, and so he was tender with her, his movements slow and deliberate, his touch as gentle as it had been the first time he had taken her, had claimed her for his own. He had kissed the tears from her eyelids then, too, for he had given her pain before the pleasure, despite his tenderness. On that occasion she had smiled at him through her tears, stroking his hair and whispering her love for him. Now she simply wept wordlessly. He kissed her gently until her sobs slowed and finally stopped, but tears continued to pour down her cheeks even as she cried out and clung to him. Afterwards, he folded his arms around her and stroked her hair, kissed her sweet mouth and quieted her with soft words and whispered reassurances. She finally drifted off into a fretful sleep, her head on his chest. She awoke screaming in the night, flailing with her fists until she realised who he was. He held her close as she wept again, calming her and drawing his hand slowly over her face so that she fell into a sleep so deep she would not be troubled by dreams. Despite his eyes feeling grainy with tiredness, he did not sleep after that. He knew that he would soon need to confront Regina. Soon it would end.
The Queen walked into the hallway of her castle, and stopped dead. Rumplestiltskin was standing by the door that led to the tower cells, frowning slightly and tapping his lips with his finger. He was dressed from head to toe in black leather that looked as though it was made from dragon-skin, and he lifted his hand, feeling the air in front of him.
"What are you doing?" asked Regina bluntly, and he turned to her with a smile.
"I'm wondering why you've cast an enchantment over this tower," he said easily. "It seems that it won't allow magic in or out. Why would that be?"
Regina shrugged, hoping her face was as nonchalant as her voice. "I've taken powerful enemies prisoner over the years," she said dismissively. "I'd be a fool if I didn't take steps to protect myself."
He was still looking at the tower door, a frown crinkling his forehead, and she sought to distract him.
"What can I do for you, Rumple?" she asked. "I assume this isn't a social call."
He clutched his chest in mock affront. "Now, why would you say that?"
She gave him a flat, knowing look. "Because you always have an ulterior motive. Why don't you have a drink with me and tell me what it is you really want?" She swept into her favourite lounge, knowing that he would follow, and made her way to the cabinet holding assorted bottles and glassware, selecting a decanter of wine with long, shapely fingers.
"It's nice to see you out and about again," she said, a taunting light in her eyes. "I heard you were still cowering in your castle, pining over that little piece of fluff you lost." She poured wine into two glasses, handing one to him. "Have you killed her father yet?"
Rumple's eyes darkened, but his face remained impassive. He shoved aside the thoughts that sprang to the front of his mind, the tortuous death he had envisaged for Sir Maurice and the clerics that had broken his Belle. He pushed the violent fantasies that had been haunting him for months far down into the depths of his soul. Following Regina's visit, when she had taunted him with the tale of his true love's demise, he had spent the first two weeks sleeping in Belle's bed; perhaps sleeping was the wrong word, for he had gotten little rest. When he had slept, he had suffered nightmares of Belle, bloodied and screaming, surrounded by dark-robed figures with whips and fire to mark her pale skin, to steal away her beauty, the light in her eyes fading. He had dreamed of Belle curled in a ball of rags and reddened flesh, sobbing in agony, of Belle, empty-eyed and stone-faced, throwing herself from the top of a tower. In those dreams, he reached for her as she fell, only to have her slip through his fingers, and he had awoken with a scream dying in his throat, sweating and shaking, the sheets torn to shreds. In her bed, he had surrounded himself with her scent, pressing his face into her pillows and torturing himself with remembrance of his final words to her. My power means more to me than you. It had been one of his rare lies, and it almost killed him to remember it. He dreamed up many and varied ways of exacting his revenge during those lonely hours, all of them extremely violent, and had revelled in his imaginative cruelty. In the end he had decided, when he had finally stopped crying, that Belle would not have wanted anyone murdered. The worst of it was that he blamed himself, as though his own hand had been on the lash, had marred her perfect skin, had made her scream in agony. Had he not taunted her father that day he came to the castle, she might have been spared. Had he not convinced Maurice that his daughter was ruined by a monster, she might still be alive. He would still be a wretched, sorry excuse for a man, and lonelier than ever, but Belle would be alive. He thought, too, of her final words to him. All you'll have is an empty heart and a chipped cup. She had been proven right. It was almost as though she had cursed him. He took a sip of his wine and strode slowly towards the mirror hanging above the fire, not looking at the Queen.
"Servants are easily replaced." He made his voice dismissive, waving a hand absently, doubting that his nonchalance would fool Regina. When she had told him, gloatingly, of Belle's death, the pain had been too raw, too intense, for him to hide his feelings from her. He put down his wine.
"So you haven't killed him. Interesting." She took a drink. "Then what do you want?"
"I just wondered if you'd had any more thoughts on abandoning your plans for revenge," said Rumple lightly, tapping his forefingers together. "Perhaps you'd like me to train you some more – it might take your mind off this unhealthy obsession with vengeance."
"I've thought about nothing but my revenge!" she said hotly. "And I believe I may have found the solution to all my problems."
A muscle twitched in Rumple's cheek, but other than that he gave no outward sign of his feelings on this new development.
"Really?" he asked softly. "And what might that be?"
Regina smiled widely. "The sleeping curse," she said with relish, and he giggled delightedly, making her frown.
"Well, that's never going to work!" he said gleefully. "Not permanently, that is."
Regina set her glass down, hard. "It will work!" she snapped. "Snow White will fall asleep and suffer for all eternity, and her precious Prince will suffer with her. I can watch them and enjoy their suffering. It's perfect!"
"Oh yes," said Rumple kindly. "I'm sure it will be. Perfect until he kisses her, that is."
"What?" Regina glowered at him, and his smile increased.
"True love, dearie," he explained. "The most powerful magic of all. It can break any curse, as you know. The moment the Prince kisses her, she'll wake up, and all your plans will have come to nothing." He walked away from her back towards the fire, sipping his wine, and she strode after him angrily.
"Then I'll just have to kill him before he can get there!" she spat, and Rumple chuckled softly.
"I wish you well in your efforts, dearie," he said indulgently, making her feel like a less-than-intelligent child playing with toys because she wasn't trusted with adult tasks. She flushed with anger and humiliation, and his smile widened. "When it all goes wrong, why don't you call on me and ask for my help? I'm sure I can think of something to occupy your time in a more productive way."
"It'll work!" she snapped. "And when it does I'll be happy to accept your apology. Now, if you don't mind, I have plans to make!"
He swept her a mocking bow. "I give it a week," he said tauntingly, and disappeared as Regina threw her wine glass at him in rage.
A/N Next time - Regina's plan develops an unfortunate flaw...