Clock Chimes

Chapter Four (Part one)

TW: Mentions of drugs. A brief, fleeting thought about suicide, though nothing is seriously considered.

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK CITY, 2024.
Two years after Emma's death.

A rough hand slams a folded newspaper face down on top of his cluttered desk. Henry stares at the gold, brand-name wristwatch and runs his gaze up the arm in front of him, meeting the eyes of his boss. Dark eyes furrowed by thick eyebrows narrow when they meet Henry's green ones.

"Mills, I want a story about our new mayor on my desk first thing tomorrow morning."

Henry leans back in his chair and loosens the tie around his neck. "Seriously? But Jude, didn't you want that article about that college graduate who created that stupid fake news website done tomorrow as well?" His mind is swirling, his eyes are dry and sleepy, and he's on his fourth coffee of the morning. He stifles a yawn.

"Forget about that one. This is more important." Jude taps the newspaper three times with his forefinger.

Henry unsuccessfully masks a new yawn and flips the paper around. A large image of a middle-aged white man waving from behind a podium colored with expensive ink stares back at him. "I didn't even know New York got a new mayor," he muses out loud, ignoring the flabbergasted and exasperated look his boss shoots him. "Why are they all the same-looking white guys? Why don't we get a woman mayor? God knows they get the job done well, sometimes better," he mutters, mind flickering uncomfortably to Regina. When was the last time he visited home?

"Amen," a voice he doesn't recognize quips loudly behind him.

Jude pinches the bridge of his nose harshly and squeezes his eyes shut for several seconds before speaking. "Jesus, Mills, for a journalist, your lack of knowledge of the basic news is unspeakably appalling. Please don't say things like that in front of me."

Henry exhales a short laugh through his nose, glancing up at the man above the rims of his plastic glasses.

"As far as the issue with the non-diversity of mayors, I'd say you found your topic. Please just refrain from pushing your mindset into every other sentence of your article, okay? My desk. Tomorrow morning." With that, his boss pushes off from his desk and returns to his office.

"Hardass," Henry mutters lightly with a half-smile. He likes his boss; working him up is easy and much too fun, and it takes his mind off of home. When he's in the futuristically decorated white office building in the midst of New York, surrounded by coworkers that know him only as Henry Mills, not the son of the Evil Queen and the grandson of Snow White and Prince Charming, he can almost forget about the horrors that nearly constantly plague his mind about his home and late mother. To his coworkers, he's a sarcastic, good guy who always buys the first round at the bar, the guy who picks petty arguments with their boss just for the fun of it. He doesn't feel suffocated. It's almost easy to pretend here.

The facade falls away the moment he opens the door of his dingy little apartment, and he's hit with a thousand-and one-memories of what he's tried to put behind himself. He thought he would be okay, maybe, when he left his mother's house last year, when he tried to use his Author powers to resurrect his Ma. He was a damned mess, but he'd stayed in Storybrooke for a month, nursing his mother through her nightmares and working though a mile-long list of issues with Archie. He thought maybe he could get past this.

Then he'd driven back to New York. That's when he'd seen a yellow Bug on his way home and he'd wrecked his shit on the freeway. He towed his car, caught an Uber back to his apartment, where he found he'd dug himself into a hole with debt. He'd snagged a roommate to help him with the cheap rent, and he thought foolishly that maybe he could keep his head above water. But every night he wakes up in a cold sweat, sometimes even screaming. Then he'd started taking bad shit to silence the dreams, to just sleep, for Jesus' sake, and then he hadn't been able to stop. He's not okay, god, he's not. He scratches his forearm under the crisp white fabric of his button-down shirt.