Bridget Jones as a Sith Lord
Dec. 14th, 2011 04:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficI will make this alternate character interpretation of Regina Mills official unofficial fanon.
Regina walked home in a haze. Her lip tingling where that cow had punched her was the only way she had of knowing she wasn’t on some sort of opiate. She knew, of course, that Graham’s heart was behind her, that he’d been within minutes of finding her secret, that he’d rejected her for Emma no matter how much he denied it, because even though this world was where she could be happy, Emma wouldn’t get with the program and she got everything Regina wanted. I’ve killed men for less, she thought, although the exact memory eluded her. Nonetheless, she was sure she had. Evil Queen, of course. That’s what they called her.
Really, killing Graham would be his own fault. She’d warned him, warned Emma, given them every chance to get with the program. They’d be happy that way. Not as happy as her, of course, but she deserved it more, the way she’d suffered. She’d even invited that… hippie into her bed. Now he and Emma were probably being disgustingly cloy together, bandaging each others’ wounds and making googoo eyes with their raw, burning Hallmark card sexuality. It’d be pure justice if she crushed Graham’s heart under her heel, hopefully killing him right on top of Emma and giving her a neurosis in the process. It’d serve her right, the slut.
Regina was just about to turn her car around (having climbed in and keyed the ignition in a vengeful haze) when she saw that damned wolf of his. Hadn’t she let Graham keep his ridiculous spirit guide or whatever it was back in the kingdom? And of course, he’d still never made the first move. There she was, with the finest silks money could buy and a little (very little) magic in the chest area and he couldn’t be a goddamn alpha male to save his life. She had to imply he was her consort just to save face, when she could’ve made him her king. Honestly, her romance with Maleficient was steamier, and she wasn’t even a lesbian. Just debauched, as any good evil queen should be.
All these past offenses flashed through Regina’s mind in an instance. The wolf was in the middle of the road, the other lane to be precise. With a single “Ha!” of would-be manical laughter, Regina jerked the wheel to the side. Her car swerved into the nonexistent oncoming traffic, but the wolf was quicker. It bounded out of the way and Regina found her tires skidding with the sudden motion anyway, shrieking like a disappointed chorus. She spun the wheel back toward her lane, then remembered the brakes, and somehow all of her impeccable driving skills sent the car into a skid. Thankfully, she didn’t go off-road—the town’s tow-truck operator was a witch, and she didn’t want to spend all night going over the gingerbread house collection.
But her back tires did plow through the gravel on the side of the road, eventually making a loud crack just as the car came to a stop, one Regina couldn’t place. She looked over her shoulder and saw the Welcome to Storybrooke sign—which she had just replaced—wobbling, teetering, falling.
Numbly putting the car in Park, Regina got out. She walked around to the back of it. The sign was down and out. The damage, a long crack right through the middle, had been concealed by the backseat. Even if she managed to get the sign upright again, it would probably split apart. What an apt fucking metaphor. Lolling up at the night sky like Graham’s stupid, flea-ridden, un-house-trained, worse-than-a-cat-in-every-conceviable-way wolf, Regina spat out the longest string of curses she had ever uttered in her adult life, a majority of them centering on Emma, her parentage, and her parenting skills (which consisted of laying her eggs in someone else’s loving, supportive, financially stable nest and then coming back later to reclaim her brood without so much as a babysitting tip, like that bird Regina couldn’t remember the name of. The asshole one).
“Uh, Madam Mayor? Is everything alright?”
It was Archie, he of the newfound backbone. Driving a Volvo. Stopped in the road like the picture of concern, as if he hadn’t probably already taken a picture to e-mail to Emma. Probably with a caption like ‘herp derp’ or ‘i have a stupid’ and why did she even let the Internet into her perfect world? It was full of perverts and men pretending to be women. If she ever did this again, she was putting her world in the 1950s. And adopting a daughter.
Regina looked at Archie for another half-second, thinking of baby girl names, then gave him the finger. “Go fuck yourself, Archibald!”
He drove away, rolling the window up.
Regina spent an almost-catharic minute stomping on the sign, only stopping when one of her heels snapped. She was becoming Emma. That was it. A magic spell had been cast, probably by that little dip Mr. Gold, and now Emma was claiming her life. She was becoming a successful, independent, strong woman in charge of her sexuality, and Regina was becoming a loser with a GED. That was the only explanation. That was why they’d both destroyed the sign (which Regina had never liked anyway).
Well, it wouldn’t work. Gathering herself, Regina straightened her clothes, slid back behind the wheel of her car, and drove home. Let Emma have Graham. He was literally as emotionally unavailable as a man could be (the thought that this was Regina’s fault for having his heart in a box occurred to her, but she consoled herself that she would’ve given it back if she wasn’t sure he would’ve immediately turned around and stuffed it in Emma’s panties. Or however that metaphor went). Oh, and let Emma prance around out in the open, fucking Graham (who was her boss, after all). Let her see how moralistic the average ex-fairy tale could be. Pretty soon it’d get around that Emma Swan spread like cream cheese, and then what court would give her Henry? Yes, this was all coming together!
Arriving in her driveway just in time for her rear bumper to fall off, along with a taillight, (Regina would order Henry to clean it up. That was one of the joys of having kids, after all. Free labor), Regina walked her crisply-in-charge-of-the-world walk to her front door, displaying to her audience of none that she was still the Mayor and she was still a BAMF (as the stupid internet put it) and she certainly hadn’t been dumped for some bottle-blonde trash. No, no killing. She’d let the two lovebirds suffer instead, with their meaningless sex and their… stupid faces!
Regina decided a glass of white wine was called for, to reward herself for her saint-like behavior (not very evil queenish, she knew) and her masterful manipulation of the situation to screw her ex-boyfriend and his whore lover (much more evil queenish).
Halfway through the second bottle, the doorbell rang. “Henry, get the door!” Regina shouted, then remembered he was in bed. Was he really that tired out by putting one little bumper in the trash? Probably just faking it to get out of more work. Probably learned that from Emma. In no time at all, he’d start wearing tanktops and flaunting his little boy cleavage to get what he wanted, just like mommy.
Standing—and wobbling a little before remembering that she was a strong, assertive woman and could handle her liquor like some kind of saint of drinking—Regina glided her way to the front door, with all the course corrections a hang glider might get from thermal updrafts and trying to avoid flying into a mountain. She opened it, after puzzling out how to work the doorknob with her brilliant, computer-like mind.
Graham. And his stupid, can’t-figure-out-how-to-work-a-razor-because-of-stupidity face.
“Regina, Archie called about you being in a wreck, are you alright…? Is this a bad time?”
She stabbed her finger into his chest. “It was a pity fuck. They were all pity fucks.”
Slamming the door in his face, she went to congratulate her own stylish, Hepburn-esque handling of the situation with some red wine, which had to be feeling neglected by then. She might’ve erred with the kid, the sheriff, and the internet, but getting a house with a wine cellar was a perfect display of the kind of criminal genius that made her such a dangerous, completely-justified villain.
To be continued...
Regina walked home in a haze. Her lip tingling where that cow had punched her was the only way she had of knowing she wasn’t on some sort of opiate. She knew, of course, that Graham’s heart was behind her, that he’d been within minutes of finding her secret, that he’d rejected her for Emma no matter how much he denied it, because even though this world was where she could be happy, Emma wouldn’t get with the program and she got everything Regina wanted. I’ve killed men for less, she thought, although the exact memory eluded her. Nonetheless, she was sure she had. Evil Queen, of course. That’s what they called her.
Really, killing Graham would be his own fault. She’d warned him, warned Emma, given them every chance to get with the program. They’d be happy that way. Not as happy as her, of course, but she deserved it more, the way she’d suffered. She’d even invited that… hippie into her bed. Now he and Emma were probably being disgustingly cloy together, bandaging each others’ wounds and making googoo eyes with their raw, burning Hallmark card sexuality. It’d be pure justice if she crushed Graham’s heart under her heel, hopefully killing him right on top of Emma and giving her a neurosis in the process. It’d serve her right, the slut.
Regina was just about to turn her car around (having climbed in and keyed the ignition in a vengeful haze) when she saw that damned wolf of his. Hadn’t she let Graham keep his ridiculous spirit guide or whatever it was back in the kingdom? And of course, he’d still never made the first move. There she was, with the finest silks money could buy and a little (very little) magic in the chest area and he couldn’t be a goddamn alpha male to save his life. She had to imply he was her consort just to save face, when she could’ve made him her king. Honestly, her romance with Maleficient was steamier, and she wasn’t even a lesbian. Just debauched, as any good evil queen should be.
All these past offenses flashed through Regina’s mind in an instance. The wolf was in the middle of the road, the other lane to be precise. With a single “Ha!” of would-be manical laughter, Regina jerked the wheel to the side. Her car swerved into the nonexistent oncoming traffic, but the wolf was quicker. It bounded out of the way and Regina found her tires skidding with the sudden motion anyway, shrieking like a disappointed chorus. She spun the wheel back toward her lane, then remembered the brakes, and somehow all of her impeccable driving skills sent the car into a skid. Thankfully, she didn’t go off-road—the town’s tow-truck operator was a witch, and she didn’t want to spend all night going over the gingerbread house collection.
But her back tires did plow through the gravel on the side of the road, eventually making a loud crack just as the car came to a stop, one Regina couldn’t place. She looked over her shoulder and saw the Welcome to Storybrooke sign—which she had just replaced—wobbling, teetering, falling.
Numbly putting the car in Park, Regina got out. She walked around to the back of it. The sign was down and out. The damage, a long crack right through the middle, had been concealed by the backseat. Even if she managed to get the sign upright again, it would probably split apart. What an apt fucking metaphor. Lolling up at the night sky like Graham’s stupid, flea-ridden, un-house-trained, worse-than-a-cat-in-every-conceviable-way wolf, Regina spat out the longest string of curses she had ever uttered in her adult life, a majority of them centering on Emma, her parentage, and her parenting skills (which consisted of laying her eggs in someone else’s loving, supportive, financially stable nest and then coming back later to reclaim her brood without so much as a babysitting tip, like that bird Regina couldn’t remember the name of. The asshole one).
“Uh, Madam Mayor? Is everything alright?”
It was Archie, he of the newfound backbone. Driving a Volvo. Stopped in the road like the picture of concern, as if he hadn’t probably already taken a picture to e-mail to Emma. Probably with a caption like ‘herp derp’ or ‘i have a stupid’ and why did she even let the Internet into her perfect world? It was full of perverts and men pretending to be women. If she ever did this again, she was putting her world in the 1950s. And adopting a daughter.
Regina looked at Archie for another half-second, thinking of baby girl names, then gave him the finger. “Go fuck yourself, Archibald!”
He drove away, rolling the window up.
Regina spent an almost-catharic minute stomping on the sign, only stopping when one of her heels snapped. She was becoming Emma. That was it. A magic spell had been cast, probably by that little dip Mr. Gold, and now Emma was claiming her life. She was becoming a successful, independent, strong woman in charge of her sexuality, and Regina was becoming a loser with a GED. That was the only explanation. That was why they’d both destroyed the sign (which Regina had never liked anyway).
Well, it wouldn’t work. Gathering herself, Regina straightened her clothes, slid back behind the wheel of her car, and drove home. Let Emma have Graham. He was literally as emotionally unavailable as a man could be (the thought that this was Regina’s fault for having his heart in a box occurred to her, but she consoled herself that she would’ve given it back if she wasn’t sure he would’ve immediately turned around and stuffed it in Emma’s panties. Or however that metaphor went). Oh, and let Emma prance around out in the open, fucking Graham (who was her boss, after all). Let her see how moralistic the average ex-fairy tale could be. Pretty soon it’d get around that Emma Swan spread like cream cheese, and then what court would give her Henry? Yes, this was all coming together!
Arriving in her driveway just in time for her rear bumper to fall off, along with a taillight, (Regina would order Henry to clean it up. That was one of the joys of having kids, after all. Free labor), Regina walked her crisply-in-charge-of-the-world walk to her front door, displaying to her audience of none that she was still the Mayor and she was still a BAMF (as the stupid internet put it) and she certainly hadn’t been dumped for some bottle-blonde trash. No, no killing. She’d let the two lovebirds suffer instead, with their meaningless sex and their… stupid faces!
Regina decided a glass of white wine was called for, to reward herself for her saint-like behavior (not very evil queenish, she knew) and her masterful manipulation of the situation to screw her ex-boyfriend and his whore lover (much more evil queenish).
Halfway through the second bottle, the doorbell rang. “Henry, get the door!” Regina shouted, then remembered he was in bed. Was he really that tired out by putting one little bumper in the trash? Probably just faking it to get out of more work. Probably learned that from Emma. In no time at all, he’d start wearing tanktops and flaunting his little boy cleavage to get what he wanted, just like mommy.
Standing—and wobbling a little before remembering that she was a strong, assertive woman and could handle her liquor like some kind of saint of drinking—Regina glided her way to the front door, with all the course corrections a hang glider might get from thermal updrafts and trying to avoid flying into a mountain. She opened it, after puzzling out how to work the doorknob with her brilliant, computer-like mind.
Graham. And his stupid, can’t-figure-out-how-to-work-a-razor-because-of-stupidity face.
“Regina, Archie called about you being in a wreck, are you alright…? Is this a bad time?”
She stabbed her finger into his chest. “It was a pity fuck. They were all pity fucks.”
Slamming the door in his face, she went to congratulate her own stylish, Hepburn-esque handling of the situation with some red wine, which had to be feeling neglected by then. She might’ve erred with the kid, the sheriff, and the internet, but getting a house with a wine cellar was a perfect display of the kind of criminal genius that made her such a dangerous, completely-justified villain.
To be continued...
