Chapter 2
A/N. I'd hoped to finally have a correct prediction, but the sneak peaks for 2.16 have shown me I guessed wrong again. Egads! But I've got this story all planned out and I think it's going to be pretty good, a balance of angst and adventure, with my favorite themes underlying the action, so I'm going to tell this tale anyway and I hope you'll come along for the ride.
New York, 12:52 pm
"How do we find an invisible ship?"
Neal unsnaps his seat belt and pops his door open. "Not as hard as you'd think. Just look for the seabirds." He studies the sky, then points. "It's there." He runs around to the back of the car and pulls the door open.
"You just gonna leave the Beamer here?" Emma can't help asking; it's a Beamer, after all, even if it is Tamara's. . .Tamara, Neal's fiancée. Tamara, Neal's new love.
"As soon as we get on board, I'll call Tamara and tell her where I parked. She'll come for it. Help me get him out." Emma notices he doesn't say "my father" or "papa" or even "Rumplestiltskin."
Gold is able to walk, with their help, and they make their way down the dock. As they step hesitantly up the invisible steps to the ship, a freckled hand reaches out to them and Emma draws back in surprise. She reaches for her gun—remembers she doesn't have it—and barks, "Hook! I thought I—"
"Hook?" A freckled face pops into view. "Lady, you insult me!"
Neal, panting as he half-carries his father up the steps, makes a hasty introduction. "Emma, this is a friend of mine, Slightly. I called him and some of my old shipmates. I can't run this ship alone, and they're an experienced crew."
Emma starts to protest; the second-to-last thing they need is a bunch of strangers nosing in on their business. Neal cuts her complaint off at the pass. "They can be trusted. They know about him." He jabs his head in the direction of Gold, who's being aided down the steps by Henry and Slightly. He scowls at her scowl. "I got this, Emma. I know what I'm doing. I had about three hundred years of living before I got to this world."
That doesn't make Emma feel better. In fact, it makes her stomach churn as she realizes she, at age 18, slept with a 300-year-old. Repeatedly. And enjoyed it. She takes small comfort in wondering whether Tamara ever thinks the same thought.
Storybrooke 1:03 pm
Regina shows her mother where the bathroom is and explains how the plumbing works. It's a bother to have to explain everything, but at the same time, it serves as a less-than-subtle reminder to Cora that this is Regina's world and Cora would do well to remember she's just a guest here. Still, Cora turns up her nose. "You do that inside your house?!" She likes the bath tub, though, and she takes a nice long soak, with bubbles. She takes the dagger into the bathroom with her and locks the door behind her.
Regina growls to find she's been locked out like some common handmaid. Well, just let mommy dearest try to find the towels on her own.
Jolly Roger 1:03 pm
I have no interest in talking to you.
Gold's mind is messing with him. It wants to wander, sometimes into brightly lit rooms where moments from the past wait to suck him in and take him prisoner, sometimes into nothingness. The latter is especially appealing. Since he has no idea what ingredients Hook used in the poison, he isn't sure whether he should fight to remain in the present—staying clear-headed apparently being too much of a challenge—or allow his mind to retreat from the pain. He figures he could permit himself to rest; he trusts Emma and Bae to take care of him, especially Emma, who has no choice but to do the right thing, not with the blood of both Prince David and Queen Snow coursing through her veins. Poor kid, born to be good. At least she got to play on the other side of the fence for a little while. Destiny. What a bitch.
He's having trouble focusing on the voices right now. Sometimes he can hear everything clearly, even manage to make sounds that resemble words, but at the moment there's a disconnect between his body and his brain, and he has to allow others to do the work, drag him down into the holds of this stinking ship—it smells like Hook! Good gods, they're taking him to the captain's quarters. He tries to complain: he'd just as soon be dumped in the galley as be deposited on Hook's bed in Hook's private room. At least Henry has the presence of mind to tear off Hook's blankets and pillow, and re-make the bed with Bae's.
Henry. Sharp kid for an eleven-year-old. People smart. Bae was smart at age eleven, but street smart. Bae had kind of a distain for people, given how the villagers treated him and his father. Bae was more at home running around the fields with the sheep and the dogs and the cattle, fending off wolves with his pocketful of rocks. He could hit a wolf smack between the eyes from 100 yards, that one. David, back when he was a raw kid running around his own fields, was like that. Made it harder for Rumple to take him away from Ruth. He'd had to get a bit sloshed before he could bring himself to present that deal, even though it was for the best, wasn't it? For everyone concerned. If not for that deal, David would never have become a prince, never have found his true calling as a dragon fighter and true love to a queen. If not for that deal, the savior wouldn't have been born, nor Henry.
Henry. Sharp kid. The Kid Who Killed Me. Should be the title of one of those pulp westerns that Gold likes to pluck off the rack in Clark's store and hide under his other purchases. Gold always glares at Clark as the westerns are being rung up: go on, I dare you to rat me out, you yellow-bellied varmint. Your rent'll jump faster than Wyatt Earp's six-shooter, you sidewinder.
Gold likes his westerns.
He reminds himself he doesn't like Henry. Why was that again? It's hard to focus; thoughts slither by him like rattlers; they shake their tails to get his attention and then they slither away before he can shoot them. Oh yeah. The seer's prediction. Henry the Undoer. Henry who has killed the immortal Rumplestiltskin. He'll be remembered in song and legend for that, generations from now. If the Dark One doesn't kill him first.
But the Boy Who Killed Me is bringing him water. Has pulled up a creaky chair from Hook's creaky, map-covered desk. Is sitting beside him, holding his hand, saying something he can't hear, while the adults scurry about, the mangy curs.
Hatred. That's a good thing to focus on. It stirs the blood. Hate Henry. Hate Hook. Hate Cora. Hate Regina—always a good fall-back plan: blame Regina. Hate the Charmings and their dimples and their squeaky clean ways—they probably floss after every meal. Hate Bae, because if Bae had done what he was supposed to—if he'd followed the script that Rumple had been writing into their destiny for three hundred years—they would've caught the first flight out of JFK and they'd be eating airplane peanuts right now, with Hook standing helplessly in that dingy apartment entranceway, whining and whimpering because his prey had escaped. If Bae had done what he was supposed to. Like that damn puppet did (I guess all the lying can stop, Papa. I forgive you, Papa.)
Hate that puppet, for stealing the apology that belonged to Bae. Even more, hate the puppet for his lie that built Rumple's hope for forgiveness.
Get out my apartment!
Hate the savior, that she saved everyone else but not Belle and not Rumple.
Storybrooke 1:22 pm
Regina has just finished loading the dishwasher when a screech nearly causes her to drop a glass. She runs to the bathroom and raps on the door. "Mother? Are you all right? Did you fall?"
When there's no immediate answer, Regina slaps her hand against the door to increase the sound. "Mother?" A horrid thought flashes into her mind: what if Cora's had a heart attack or a stroke? Only the Dark One is immortal, and Cora (though she's never revealed her age) must be pushing 200; Regina herself is 103. Or thereabouts; it's hard to keep track after the first hundred years. If Cora dies, Regina will be alone and even farther from Henry than before. Even more ostracized. "Mother?"
The door finally squeaks open. Cora's found the towels—she's wrapped her hair in one—and Regina's favorite bathrobe. Regina bites her lip to keep from complaining, but being an only child she's never been willing to share her belongings, and besides, a robe is such a personal thing, something you wear against your naked body. Eew.
"I'm fine," Cora assures her, "but Rumplestiltskin is not." She holds the dagger in both hands and lifts it for Regina to see.
Regina looks but doesn't understand and says so.
Cora points at the engraved name, focusing on the "R." Or what would have been the "R"—it's now fading away.
"What does it mean, Mother?"
"He's dying."
"What do we do?"
"Wherever he is, he'll come running back, if he can, to access his magic, to save himself." Cora stares thoughtfully at the dagger. There's a faraway look in her eyes that stirs Regina's curiosity. . . a dance of hatred and longing that Regina recognizes in herself. Perhaps when the battle is won, they will sit and talk over a pitcher of Bloody Marys, and perhaps Regina will learn the specifics of the long and complex relationship between her mother and their common mentor.
Cora slips the dagger into the robe's pocket and brushes past Regina. She sashays into Regina's bedroom as though it's her own, seats herself so gracefully on the cushioned bench at Regina's vanity table, picks up Regina's hairbrush, unwraps Regina's towel and brushes out her hair.
Regina cringes. But as she watches her mother in the mirror becoming more beautiful by the minute, she can't but admire the woman she's looked up to all her life. So graceful and feminine: "She doesn't walk, she floats," Regina's father would gush, and every male, be he liveryman or nobleman, would drool as the duchess floated by, even when her face was lined with age. When she was small, Regina would beg Cora, "Teach me to walk pretty like you," but Cora would toss her head and laugh a ladylike tinkling laugh. "Oh, darling, grace is something a woman is born with. But if you'll give up your smelly horses, I will try to teach you the mechanics of it."
Regina chose the horses.
"What do we do, Mother? Do we go after him, drag him back here and make him well again?"
Cora sighs as though pained by the ignorant inquiry. "Have you forgotten already? If we leave Storybrooke, we become as powerless as he is now."
Regina clamps her mouth shut. She won't risk the ridicule of asking another question.
"No." The hairbrush moves slowly through Cora's damp hair. Hypnotized just as she was a child, Regina can't resist: she removes the hairbrush from Cora's soft white hand and takes on the task herself. Cora leans back in bliss. "Ah, thank you, darling. You've always been my best hairdresser."
Hairdresser. Regina grinds her teeth. She's the queen, not Cora. This is her house, her town, her life that Cora has moved right in on. Hairdresser!
"This is just a little set-back requiring a change in plans. For the best anyway, I'm sure; Rumple is such a mule-headed old thing, controlling him would be more work than it's worth. No, we watch and wait, as we have been, and as soon as he walks—or is carried-into town. . . ." Cora fishes the dagger from Regina's pocket in Regina's robe. "As soon as he returns and takes back his magic, I'll know it. I know the vibrations of his magic like I know my own. And as soon as he's reclaimed his powers, we'll take them from him."
"Kill him," Regina says plainly.
"If you must be so crass about it. Yes, that's the way one takes the Dark One's powers."
"And become a hideous monster. It's only here that he looks human, Mother."
"Don't you think I know that?" Cora snaps. "But with his magic, a glamour will be effortless to retain. Why he never would do that for himself, back in the old land, is beyond me." She shudders. "Who would willingly walk around looking like that?"
Regina stops brushing. "Which one of us, Mother, will kill him?" Regina is actually asking, Which one of us will take all that power for herself?
Cora smiles at her through the mirror and pats her hand—not an effort to comfort, but a signal to resume the hair brushing. But Regina makes her wait, just as Cora makes her wait for an answer. Cora's tone is self-sacrificing. "I shall. After all, I've lived my life. You're much too young, my dear, to look so hideous."
Regina begins to brush again. "What if he doesn't come back? What if he dies out there?"
Cora laughs. "He won't. I've known him a very long time, Regina, a very long time. If you knew him as I do, you wouldn't have asked that question." There! Cora must compete against Regina even in this, her close knowledge of the Dark One. She speaks a tone a mother usually uses on a four-year-old. "There is only one thing the Dark One truly cares about, and that's himself. And there is one motivation that drives him: his own welfare. Whatever tricks or threats or bribes it takes, he'll make it back here, and then you'll distract him while I kill him."
She holds the dagger up to the sunlight pouring in through the windows in the mansion that Regina designed and still owns. Her fingernail taps on the engraved name: now the "U" is gone.