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Henry Mills likes to think of himself as a peaceful boy. He doesn’t anger easily. Preferring to talk things out rather than get physical. It became a necessity after about the third kidnapping. His mothers’ being some of the most powerful magical users in the realms painted quite the pretty target on their magicless son.
They couldn’t have spared just a little bit for him? Just enough so he could dramatically poof away as they were so fond of doing. But, no. So, he learnt to improvise. To use words instead of swords and still manage to cut twice as deep.
Gramps is still teaching him to fight as a last resort anyway. It’s slow going. He didn’t inherit Ma’s natural ability with a blade, they are always a bit too long for his short stature or too heavy to swing with any real impact. He did get Mom’s affinity for dramatic speeches though.
Often coming to school sporting new bruises he doesn’t let Mom heal away. How will he get better if he doesn’t remember how it feels when he’s not? Besides, the look in his friends’ eyes when he spins an epic tale of how he got them almost makes it worth it.
He still prefers diplomacy though.
That’s why it is such a shock when he practically mauls another child at 3:47 pm on an unusually wet Thursday in August. Well, it’s not a massive surprise. There is only one thing he’s that touchy over. That makes his vision narrow and mind empty and knuckles yearn for flesh.
No one insults his Mom.
The kid is a couple years older than Henry and full of teenage bullshit where his brain should be. He stands in the carpark talking obnoxiously into flip phone from about 2004. Technology has been slowly improving in Storybrooke in the few years since Ma broke the curse. He stands there not even trying to hide his voice and describes how he’ll ‘fix’ Mom, that ‘bitches like someone taking charge’ and ‘pretend they don’t”. How grateful she’ll be.
Henry doesn’t even feel sick. He bypasses that completely, entire body goes numb, basic human processes stop dead. The only thing that keeps going is his heart. It siphons power from everywhere else and beats three times as fast and twice as loud. It’s the only thing he feels as he tackles the kid into the concrete, straddles his stomach and destroys his face. He can see himself moving, small fists connecting solidly but doesn’t feel anything. Certainly not, better. So, he keeps going.
Sure Henry wasn’t the best son for a while there but he knows now that she’s changed. She’s trying so hard to be good. Why can’t people see that? She’s his Mom. The one who let him crawl into her bed after a nightmare and always made banana waffles the next morning.
“Henry!”
He can’t stop. Keeps punching. Arm, chest, ear. Anything in reach.
The kid gets smaller as Henry is hauled back, arms still swinging. Someone pins them to his side as he struggles. “Stop. It’s ok, stop now.” Ma’s face materialises in front of him, eyes full of concern it’s practically leaking out of them.
He flings both arms tightly around her neck. She hugs back harder as he sobs into her shoulder.
His hands ache.
Henry really hates fighting.