A Curse Upon Thee 6

Chapter 6: The Boy and the Book

Working at Gold’s shop over the next few weeks and seeing the place in the fresh light of day only reaffirmed that the place was a special kind of oogie-boogie.

The kind that crawled under your skin and laid eggs even, never making you forget exactly how creepy it was no matter how many times you stepped inside. Being honest, he was pretty sure other people in Storybrooke felt the same, considering he’d never seen the guy get any business. How… how does he keep the place open? 

Small town economics aside, Finn’s new "job" (and he used that term loosely, because "gofer to a possibly-demonic pawnbroker" just didn't roll off the tongue the way he'd like) was mostly hauling dusty crates that hummed. A low miserable fuzzzzz that felt like a nest of dead bees, a vibration seeping right into his palms and making his teeth itch in the back of his jaw.

They were heavy, too.

A bit too heavy for their size, honestly.

Not like that came close to even stopping him. Being real, all he needed was a little bit of faith, trust and Cursed Energy reinforcement and the boxes found themselves moving no matter what they wanted. 

Barely. 

It was still pushing at his limits, considering he was only using just enough CE to keep his arms from being ripped out of their sockets. Unless he wanted to go full out and drain himself dry, it was a constant low-grade strain that left him sweating and pissed off by noon.

Could be worse.

That wasn't really all that bad, though.

Then there was the polishing.

Not like that was bad, either.

Just… kinda boring. 

Sometimes.

Sometimes, it was less boring.

Like, he could've sworn on a full inch of his hair that the little porcelain shepherdess on the top shelf (the thing covered with some kind of ash that he couldn’t clean off no matter how hard he tried) turned her head when he walked by this morning.

He didn't look back.

Rule one of dealing with Cursed Objects: don't give 'em the time of day unless you want their attention.

Past the Objects, though, Gold himself was a constant gliding presence. A shark in a suit, just circling. Just the soft thump-thump-thump of his cane on floorboards and Finn would know he was there, watching; even before the man opened his mouth to speak.

"My, my, my, young Mr. McHale," Gold hummed a few days in, the man a big fan of stretching the vowels in his name out for no real reason Finn could figure. "Once again hard at work with such resilience. And here I was worried my work offer was a bit premature, hmmm…” Those piercing-searching-roaming eyes flicked over to the wooden box Finn was currently carrying, a crate that definitely weighed more than he did, “but you seem to have bounced back from your little… accident… remarkably well."

Finn didn’t even shrug as the man spoke, too used to Gold’s own oddities. He was so used to it, in fact, that the redhead didn’t even waste a second looking over, not breaking his rhythm as he hefted the box around. As relaxed as he tried to make himself look, sweat was already thick on his forehead after moving so many of these around in what felt like a futile attempt to open up more space. "Clean living, pops. Lots of kale. You should try it."

"One might wonder," Gold's voice dropped down to that almost-whisper that made Finn want to roll his eyes at how hard this guy tried to come off as mysterious, "how clean said living would have to be to walk off being the second party in an accident such as yours."

"Really?" Finn set the crate down with a thud, straightening up as he smiled back with all teeth and no humor behind it. "And who's the one?"

Gold didn't say anything back to that, just gave Finn a small thin-lipped smile of his own. But the way the man looked at him… those looks said more than Gold ever did with words. The eyes, chico. They never lie.

Either way, over the next few days, he learned fast: you don't build a wall against a guy like Gold. A wall just gives him something to break, something to test and prod at until he finds the weak spot. You build a fog instead. You can't psychoanalyze cheerful useless sarcastic smoke. You let him think he's dealing with a dumb-ass kid with a strong back and a smart mouth, nothing more than that.

It was the easiest way to deal with a guy who was so obviously hiding his own deck of fucked-up probably-magical secrets. Some might call it the 'baffle them with bullshit' plan but Finn didn't have that much bullshit at his disposal. Unless you counted knowing half of Scarface by heart, which… probably didn't count for much here.

So, he had to make do.

But it wasn’t like he had to make do for all that long.

Soon as the clock struck three-thirty and Gold waved him off with that thin smile and a dismissive flick of his cane, Finn's feet hit the street. He gulped down the clean forest-filtered air of Storybrooke and headed for his new watering hole: a booth at Granny's Diner.

Half-burnt coffee and cheap, filling food was all he could ask for. More than that, the view wasn’t half bad and usually right around his line of sight to make it even better. Best of all, the diner was the town's central nervous system, letting him learn a little more about the sleepy little cursed town he somehow got dropped in out of nowhere. With no laptop or phone or even Netflix to take his attention, he could pretty much just sit, nurse a mug, and simply… listen. To all the background conversations, the way people interacted (or, sometimes, just didn't interact) with each other until the bell rang and the diner closed.

As if on cue, a bell did ring. The door bell, at least. 

Finn blinked, glancing up from his own thoughts, and… ah, hell.

Sheriff Handsome walked in as Finn rolled his eyes, the man’s shoulders slumped in his tan uniform. His eyes roamed the diner for a second or two, the man clearly looking for something or someone.

Don’t look over here. Don’t look over here. Don’t… The man spotted Finn in the booth and his jaw tightened, eyes narrowed as he walked forward. Damn it.

Clearly here for Finn, the sherrif of Storybrooke made a beeline, expression somewhere between "my job sucks" and "I really don't want to do this." And yet, he still did it anyway.

Great. Just great.

Finn let his head fall back against the cracked vinyl with a soft thump. Mendokusē.

Graham slid into the booth across from him with a grunt and one syllable. "Finn."

"Sheriff." Finn didn't lift his head, just looked at the man sideways. "What's the word? Good or bad? Found my long-lost identical twin yet?"

Graham let out a long-suffering sigh. A sound that seemed to come from his boots, deep and heavy. "Look, kid, I'm just… I'm trying to figure you out."

"Join the club, pops. We've got jackets."

"Look, I’ve spent the last two weeks doing almost nothing but calling around.”

Finn scoffed low, rolling his eyes. “Makes sense, small town, not much to do. Figured the sheriff would delegate something like that, though.”

"I’ve been calling around,” Graham repeated his words, ignoring the sarcasm as he pulled out that little notepad like it was a shield. 

On instinct, Finn's fingers tapped his pocket where Dr Whale's pickpocketed prized pen still rested. Still got it. 

"A bunch of places,” the sheriff began to list each one off with a frown, “Bangor, Blue Hill, Surrey, Camden… even Belfast."

Finn's head lifted at that, frowning for a split second. Belfast? Why the fuck… The redhead shook his head, a laugh almost spilling out of his mouth. "No, huh? No missing red-heads with amnesia and stunning good looks?"

"No," Graham breathed out from his nose, low and slow, jaw tight. "No one's filed a report matching your name or your description."

Finn rolled his shoulders and took a sip from his coffee as he met the sheriff's eyes over the rim of his mug. "Maybe I'm from farther away. You try Portland? Boston?"

The name Boston felt right. It felt… warm, like the word "home" was supposed to feel. But the second he tried to grab it, he might as well have held on to smoke. Hmm.

Graham's eyes narrowed at him, frown turning further down into a scowl that looked downright stormy. "Come on, let's be real. The odds that you walked a week from Portland to Storybrooke is ridiculous." He rose a little from his seat, hands flat on the table. "Son, if you would just coopera-

"Cooperate with what?" Finn's voice went hard, the clunk of his mug as he set it down punctuating his words. "I told you. I don't remember. Bugging me about it every five seconds won't fix any of that, so what part of 'amnesia' is actually kicking your ass, man?"

"I just wanna know what some Irish kid is doing miles away from anywhere else," Graham huffed, the man’s accent getting a good bit thicker all of a sudden.

"And I wanna know why some Irish guy is the sheriff in a small town in Maine," the redhead shot back, tone a near-perfect match to the sheriff’s. 

Graham's mouth opened, eyes going dark as he leaned further over, fists curled on the tabletop until he was almost looming over a smirking Finn.

"Sheriff?"

A hand, small and pale, landed on Graham's chest. Finn's eyes flicked to the woman suddenly standing there; very short dark hair, pretty much a pixie cut. Her expression was all concerned, like a kindergarten teacher about to break up a playground fight. What is she, a Jehovah's Witness? Who dresses like that?

Graham just… deflated. The anger went out of him like air from a balloon, leaving just the tired hollow shell. He looked at her hand on his chest, then at her face; his expression going all… soft.

Oh. Finn blinked, glancing between them as understanding clicked into place.

It's like that, huh?

Graham shook his head slow, the man clicking his tongue as he turned to the side. “It’s… it’s fine, Mary Margaret. I was just… leaving.” He slid out of the booth without another look at Finn, boots heavy on the floor as he walked out.

The woman watched Graham go, her face all screwed up in worry. Then she turned to Finn and the expression she wore slid back to a gentle smile, soft at the edges. "I'm sorry about that. Our sheriff… he has a lot on his plate."

"Yeah, I get that."

"I'm Mary Margaret Blanchard," she said, holding out her hand. Small, pale fingers extended towards him. "I teach elementary at the local school."

Oh. Finn's brain clicked as several things suddenly made sense, outfit included. He snapped his fingers, a sharp crack in the diner. "Mary Margaret. Right. Emma told me she was moving in with you, right? Off the lumpy-ass mattress at Granny's." The blonde had left the B&B a couple weeks back and he hadn't really given a shit about it. Honestly, Finn hadn't expected to meet the roommate so quick.

Mary Margaret's smile widened, genuine this time. "Yes, that's right. She's… a great person. I'm just getting used to her quirks."

"Tell me about it."

"And you must be Finn McHale. The one she…" she trailed off, her cheeks going a little pink.

"The one she hit with her car?" Finn grinned, taking her hand. It was soft, warm; but shaky, trembling just a little. "The one and only. Pleasure to finally meet you." He held her gaze, not letting go of her hand. Just… watching her.

Honestly, I can see what the sheriff sees in her. Yeah, even with the short hair. I get it.

Mary Margaret's smile wavered, her face getting redder as she gently tugged her hand free. Pulled it back like he was holding a live wire. "Oh. Well. It's… it's nice to meet you, too, Finn." She started stuttering, words coming out in little bursts. A flush high on her cheeks, spreading down her neck. "I just… I forgot… I need to… water. For my plants. At home. I'll see you around."

She practically fled. A flurry of polite excuses following her out the door, the bell chiming her escape.

Finn grinned after her, leaning back in the booth. The vinyl creaking under his weight. "…she's kinda cute. Like a bunny or something."

He was halfway through a burger that was surprisingly decent (the quiet of the diner almost peaceful, just the clink of dishes and low murmur of the short guys at the counter) when the bell rang again.

Ah, fuck.

Henry Mills. A walking talking migraine with a book.

All serious business (like a ten-year-old had any of that), the kid slid right into the booth that Graham just left from, and dropped said massive storybook on the table in front of his plate with a heavy whump. 

Great. Just great.

At least when Mayor Mom bugged him, he could deal with that considering the lady kept it clean. She'd show up at the inn or on the street (Cursed Energy always and forever still and unmoving, a cold tight fist around her heart) and ask some weird probing question about his "family history" or his "intentions" with those dead shark eyes of hers. 

It only took a few silent blinks, maybe one unbothered maji desu ka?, until she got frustrated by his cheerful trilingual idiocy and glided away on those expensive heels.

Henry… Henry was all kinds of worse. Henry was an avalanche of sincere weaponized nerd energy that you couldn't dodge or deflect. To put it simply, being a dick to a kid just wasn’t fair to the kid.

Especially when the kid wasn’t a dick back.

"Okay," The kid gave him that look he always wore, all tiny fairy tale Sherlock Holmes about to crack the case wide open. 

I better not be Watson.

Ol’ Henry Holmes opened up the book of his with another whump, pages rustling as they landed. "I've cross-referenced everything. You speak Irish…"

Shit. How'd he know that? Finn clicked his tongue, eyes narrowing. This fucking town. Everybody knows everything.

"—you've got red hair, and you're definitely super strong. Like, way stronger than a normal person, since my mom hit you and you just got back up." The kid's eyes were wide, certain; no doubt in them at all. "But you don't remember anything. That's a classic magical situation. A real curse."

Finn nodded his head slow as he took another sip from the coffee that was definitely more than half-burnt. Whaddya know about curses, lil man? A second later, he set the mug down, and looked Henry in his hopeful little face. “Or… or… and just hear me out on this, little man…  it’s a classic case of your birth mom’s Bumblebee headbutting me at thirty miles and some change. Makes a bit more sense, right?”

“No, it doesn’t.” Henry was more insistent than ever as he shook his head. “People only get up after being hit by something like that in comics or stories. And since you don’t have a costume, you have to be from a story.”

“Oh, wow… deductive reasoning.” More Sherlock than he thought.

Henry didn’t respond as he kept flipping through the book, pages filled with super-detailed drawings that looked almost photorealistic the longer Finn stared. “You’re not in here, which is the problem. I thought maybe you were a new story. But the Irish… I looked up Irish stories on my computer since last time, and I learned a lot.” 

“Did you?”

“Yeah, Fionn mac Cumhaill. He was a super cool warrior who all the animals loved. And he had a magic spear and a magic thumb and everytime he bit it, it would make him like, real super smart and tell him anything he needed to know.”

A magic thumb. Great.

“Or,” Henry continued, his eyes still wide as ever as he kept on going, “you could be Cew Cu-lane.“

Finn blinked, his brain translating the horribly mangled pronunciation in a heartbeat. “You mean Cú Chulainn.”

“Yeah, him!” Henry nodded, happier than ever. “He was pretty much Irish Hercules, and he could hulk out in a fight. It could explain why you’re so tough.”

Yeah, I’m definitely Irish Hercules. As much as he tried to hold it back, a scoff escaped Finn’s lips at just how straight up relentless the little guy was. Worse than his mom, Jesus.

“Which do you think it is?” 

Finn leaned forward across the table, voice dropping low as he tried to figure out how to once again let the little guy down easy. “Kid. Kid. I appreciate the hustle. I really, really do. But… it’s just a book.” One finger tapped down on the book’s cover, once-twice-three times as he shook his head. “I’m not from this book of yours, Henry.”

It almost hurt to see the kid’s face crumple up. Not in tears, but with a disappointment to him that looked way too big for his little-kid body. “It’s real,” he said, his voice as stubborn as ever, if a bit smaller. “You just don’t believe yet.”

Finn leaned in, blue eyes meeting brown. “No… no, kid, I don’t.”