A/N: Wow, the feedback from you guys was just - wow! Not that I bathe in your tears or anything, but I was doing a lot of happy dances. Thank you so, so much! Sorry for making so many of you cry. And for killing the deer. I'm afraid it was necessary. Anyway, on to the morning after.

Nightmares plagued Belle, when she finally managed to sleep, and she was almost relieved to wake, gasping and sweating, her heart pounding, after managing to drift off for a couple of hours and being tormented by disturbing dreams of being chased by a crushing darkness, or of weeping alone, chained in a cold, stone tower. For a few brief, blissful, moments upon awakening, she had no memory of what had happened in the pink house at the edge of town, no memory of the cruel, cutting words that had been fired, bleak and emotionless, from his mouth, thrown like daggers to lodge in her heart and bleed her dry. A moment or two of consciousness, however, and all of the pain, all of the hurt and disbelief and agony within pierced her anew, and she clutched at her chest, her breath catching in her throat as she tried not to burst into fresh tears. She could not break down again. Not now.

Pushing herself up wearily, she got out of bed, rubbing her swollen eyes. She had thought that she had no more tears in her when she left Ruby's, but upon lying down in the dark of the night, she had remembered every awful, terrible thing he had said to her. He had slipped long, dark fingers into her soul and dug around until he had unearthed every insecurity, had played on every fear and doubt she had ever had about their relationship, had ripped each one out of her and brought it to grinning, malevolent life before her eyes. The memory of his face had filled her head, his eyes blank and cold, the unrelieved black of his suit and shirt coiled around his thin frame, wrapping him in darkness, shutting her out. She had wept anew, until her eyes stung and her throat hurt, her pillows wet with her tears, sticky with salt as they dried. In the cold light of day, however, she just felt numb. She figured this was probably better.

Groping her way along the bedroom wall, her legs weak from lack of sleep, she made her way to the bathroom. A long shower helped her to feel a little more refreshed, but her body still felt heavy, leaden, as though it were full of tears she couldn't shed. It was Sunday, so at least she didn't have school, which was a small comfort. Having checked on her father, she made breakfast for him (all she could stand to take herself was a cup of tea) and changed the bedpan. The paper had been delivered, and she brought that up to him with his tea and toast, curling up with a book beside his bed and taking in not a word as he flicked through the pages of the newspaper. He made the odd comment, snorting at the stupidity of the politicians or bemoaning the lack of progress his favourite football team was making.

Belle sat with her feet curled under her, her book open on her lap and the mug cradled in her hands. She watched the surface of the tea rippling slightly as she moved, the light reflecting off it. The tea was growing cold, she knew, but she didn't have the energy to drink it.

"Belle?" Her father's voice made her jerk, the tea sloshing in its cup and almost spilling. He was looking at her, curiosity warring with tiredness in his face, and she tried to smile, setting her cup aside.

"I'm sorry, I was miles away," she said. "Did you say something?"

"You've been crying, love," he observed, his face falling, and she looked away.

"I'm okay," she said, getting up. "How about some coffee? I might fix myself a cup."

"Angel," he said gently, and she bit her lip as it wobbled, unable to stand the tone of his voice, the concern in it.

"Back in a minute," she mumbled, and snatched up his plate and the cups, almost tripping in her haste to get out of the room. She stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen, shoving the dishes on the counter and leaning hard on it, head down as she took deep, shuddering breaths, her eyes stinging with tears. Eventually, the urge to break down and curl into a ball on the kitchen floor passed, and she dashed away the few tears that had leaked out with the heel of her hand, taking a deep breath and busying herself with the coffee. By the time it had brewed, and she had poured two cups, she was feeling more calm, and she carried the cups upstairs to her father's room.

"I don't want you tiring yourself out today, Papa," she chided, trying to make her voice cheerful. "We can play cards after lunch, if you like, but I want you to get some rest, okay?"

He was watching her worriedly, but appeared to pick up on her mood, and the fact that she clearly didn't want to talk about whatever it was that had upset her.

"I'm done with the paper," he said. "Why don't you sit and talk for a while? Tell me how school's going."

Belle hesitated, sliding into the chair beside him and drawing up her knees as she breathed in the scent of fresh coffee.

"Okay, I guess," she said. "I'll start practice SAT papers soon. Ruby and Emma are going to come over and study next week, if that's okay."

"Oh, I'd like to see them." He looked more cheerful. "That's good, darling. You should see your friends. Not be holed up with me all the time, it's not healthy."

"I like being holed up with you!" she protested, putting a hand on his arm. "I don't stay in and play cards with you because I have to! I want to, while…"

While I can. While you're still with me. She didn't say it, but his eyes lost their brief sparkle, and her unspoken words hung between them, heavy with gloom. Belle swallowed, stroking his arm, feeling his soft hair beneath her fingertips, the warmth of his skin, trying to remind herself that he was still alive, that he was still there, a comforting, familiar presence. She wanted him to hold her, to hug her to him as he so often had and whisper that everything was going to be alright, that he would live, that she wouldn't be alone. She wanted him to lie to her.

Astrid was her usual bright, cheerful self when she arrived at two, and she helped to lighten Belle's mood a little, chatting to her about her husband's latest attempts at cooking, which had been somewhat unsuccessful.

"He tries really, really hard," she said pensively, pausing with an armful of bedding to be washed. "But i can't convince him to taste stuff as he's going along, you know? We've had some - weird things - to eat recently."

"Maybe you could cook together," suggested Belle. "Make it a thing, once a week, spend some time together."

Astrid giggled, starting to load the washing machine. "Well, that might be nice," she admitted. "It's going to be Christmas soon, and I don't want to be stuck with making the entire dinner, but I don't want him deciding to stuff the turkey with sardines, or something."

Belle wrinkled her nose, and Astrid shrugged.

"He's done weirder combinations," she said ominously, and shut the door to the machine.

"I guess you won't be here over Christmas," said Belle carefully. She had been unsure how to broach the subject of Astrid working there. Although Gold had said she and Carella would be paid for as long as they were needed, she couldn't trust that he would follow through on that. Certainly not after everything else he had said. The thought of losing Astrid filled her with dread, but the young nurse beamed at her.

"I'm here as long as you want me," she said brightly. "The agency's been paid up to New Year. I'll take Christmas Day off, if that's okay, though."

"Sure," said Belle, secretly thinking that she may have no need of a nurse by the time Christmas came around. Doctor Whale was looking grimmer every time she saw him, and her father was getting weaker. It was only a matter of time. She chewed her lip, fingers twitching around the book she had been holding for half an hour and still hadn't opened. Astrid put her head to the side, her gaze curious.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You seem - you don't seem yourself, today."

"Oh." Well, there's an understatement. "I'm - I'm okay."

The lie was bitter on her tongue, and Astrid raised an eyebrow.

"You sure? Sometimes it's better to talk to a stranger, you know."

"You're not a stranger," said Belle immediately. "It's just…"

Astrid waited patiently, and Belle swallowed, hesitating before she answered. "Have - have you ever had your heart broken?"

"Ah." The word was spoken in a flat tone, and Astrid nodded understandingly, a wry smile twisting her mouth. "Oh, yes. Three times, actually. I'd almost completely given up on guys when I met Leroy." She gave Belle a sympathetic look. "First time?"

"Yeah," whispered Belle, looking down, her voice catching, lower lip wobbling. "For a lot of things."

She could feel concern rolling off Astrid in waves, and it made her want to cry all over again, so she cleared her throat, making herself look up. Astrid was watching her with a tiny, encouraging smile.

"It passes," she said gently. "Eventually. Keep busy, so you don't have to think about it. You can always cry at night, if you have to. No shame in it."

"Yeah," said Belle thickly, but nodded. She opened the book and pretended to read while Astrid finished dealing with the laundry and picked up the basket of neatly folded sheets, fresh from the drier, trotting back upstairs. Belle threw down the book, closing her eyes and taking deep, calming breaths. Eventually she raised her head with a determined expression, pushing back her chair and going to the cupboards to get out the ingredients for Moe's favourite cookies. She could cry at night.

Belle was dreading going to school on Monday, but comforted herself with the fact that at least she wasn't in Gold's classes anymore. She wouldn't be able to avoid him completely, of course, but she certainly intended to try. Grief had overwhelmed her when she was alone in her bed, and she had wept again, dry, choking sobs in the middle of the night. Her throat was raw with it, her eyes shadowed. Sleep was more elusive than ever, and the result of her insomnia, her pain, was a chilling numbness, as though she was wearing someone else's skin and couldn't fully sense the world around her. She felt insubstantial, a being made of feathered ice crystals and gossamer, in danger of breaking apart at the slightest breath of wind.

The weather had turned colder, snow still lying on the ground from the weekend, and she wrapped up warmly in thick tights and a wool dress and sweater, all in dark shades of blue and green, a scarf at her throat to push her chin into. She pulled a black cloche hat down over her hair and slipped out of the house earlier than usual to make her way slowly towards the diner, her feet moving automatically on the frozen ground, heavy boots keeping out the worst of the chill.

Ruby eyed her worriedly when she arrived at the diner, but Belle immediately started talking about their Biology homework, and Ruby picked up on the fact that she didn't want to discuss anything more personal. She grabbed their coffees and joined in the discussion on the piece of work Mrs Schumann had set them, and Belle kept the conversation light and meaningless as they approached the school. Her belly was taut with nerves as she mounted the steps, hugging her books to her chest like a shield, ears straining for the tap of his cane, the low sound of his voice, the strange hush that would fall over groups of chattering students as he passed, a hawk casting its familiar, dreadful shadow over tiny, squeaking prey.

She was distracted the whole time she was in class, and when walking the corridors she kept glancing from left to right at every turn, like a nervous deer. She didn't see him, though, and when the final bell rang on Tuesday she breathed a sigh of relief. Despite sending her anxious, sympathetic looks throughout the two days they were in school together, Ruby hadn't said a thing to her about her breakdown on Saturday, and Belle was grateful for it. Emma and Mary had no clue what had happened, of course, and Belle preferred to keep it that way. It didn't stop any of them worrying about her in more general terms, however. At lunch, all three girls had watched with tiny frowns as Belle picked at her chilli, and she was not surprised when Emma threw an arm around her shoulders as they left the main building and informed her that she was going to the diner with them.

"You're getting a burger," she announced. "No ifs, no buts, honey. We're all having one. Plus more sugar than you can handle."

"Ashley experimented with the shakes yesterday," put in Ruby. "She made this thing with ginger ice cream and crunched up honeycomb that you practically have to eat with a spoon. It's pretty awesome."

Belle sent them a wan smile.

"If I eat some, will it make you guys feel better?" she asked, and her smile widened as Ruby and Mary piled in to hug her. They made their way unsteadily out of the gates, Belle surrounded by their warmth and love. She didn't look back at the school.

Gold watched her go from his office window, fingers parting two of the blinds to peer out, rubbing a hand absently over the sharp, tugging pain in his chest as he sighed heavily, breath misting the window pane and hiding her from view. He had studiously avoided her for the past two days, although given the raging hangover he had suffered on Monday morning he was surprised that he hadn't accidentally bumped into her as he stumbled along the corridors. All he had caught was the odd glimpse of her through the cold glass of his window, and what he saw made the guilt pulse and grow within him, gnawing at his insides. She was deathly pale, her eyes dark and full of pain, her inner light diminished. He himself had spent the weekend alternating between drinking, sobbing, and throwing up spectacularly, before passing out and waking up early on Monday morning feeling as though he'd been hit by a train. He knew that he looked like shit; no amount of showering, shaving and careful dressing could disguise the fact that he'd been on the mother of all benders. Nottingham had sniffed ostentatiously when he reached past him for coffee before the first class of the day.

"You know," he said confidentially. "I hear that if you drink vodka, it doesn't smell on your breath. Friendly advice, Gold. The kids finally got to you, huh?"

He had clapped him on the shoulder with false heartiness, and Gold's jaw had clenched, knuckles turning white on his cane. Only Jefferson's noisy arrival in the teachers' lounge had prevented him from making a very serious error of judgement.

He managed to get through his classes without too much difficulty, due largely to the fact that some of his students hadn't done the homework and so he could turn some of his self-loathing outwards in the form of biting sarcasm. His guilt made him more snappish and cutting than ever, and a couple of students fled the room in tears, leaving those behind shifting in their seats and watching him nervously. He also had the nagging, ever-present thought that Belle might decide to report him, to tell Regina of his seduction of her, his perverse targeting of a young girl for his own pleasure. He could imagine the Principal's face, triumph at his downfall warring with concern for her student. A call to the police, for sure, and him being cuffed and taken away, never to work in a school again. It was no more than he deserved, of course, and he wondered if she'd do it.

The faint plume of his breath cleared from the glass, and Belle was revealed to him once more, making her way unsteadily up the road with her three friends wrapped around her, the Nolan boy trailing behind them. He wondered if they knew. She would confide in her friends, surely.

"Looking for anyone in particular?" Regina's voice made him jump, the blinds snapping into place as he stepped back. His pulse thumped in his throat as he turned to face her. Was this it, then? Had Belle told her? He raised his eyes to Regina's, trying to steady his nerves, and her lips curved upwards in a smile.

"Guilty conscience, Mr Gold?" she asked lightly, and he let his face relax into its usual calmness.

"You startled me," he said evenly. "Was there something you wanted, Ms Mills?"

She pursed her lips, shrugging.

"I hear you're having a bad day," she said, and he curled his lip.

"Really? From whom, may I ask?"

"Oh, pretty much anyone who's had the misfortune to cross your path," she said airily, walking slowly into his room and running her eyes over everything. "Anything you need to talk about?"

"With you?" He chuckled in dry amusement. "I hardly think so, thank you, dearie."

"Suit yourself." She picked up the paperweight on his desk, a ball of glass with a lacy pattern inside, blue veins as fine as silk within the heavy dome. His eyebrows drew down in annoyance, and he wished she'd leave.

"I had three students crying in my office today," she went on, and he shrugged, turning back to the window so that he wouldn't have to see her lacquered fingernails touching his things.

"Perhaps you should be nicer to them," he said, and grinned to himself as he felt her glare.

"They were crying because of you!" she snapped. "I don't know what your problem is, Gold, but if I have to spend my precious time dealing with parents' complaints about the way you treat their offspring…"

"Isn't that your job?" he asked coldly, turning. He tilted his head, conceding a point. "Perhaps I was a little harsh, but that Gaston kid deserved it, for one."

Regina rolled her eyes.

"Just go home and get it out of your system, whatever it is," she said bluntly. "I have important business to attend to, and I don't need my time wasted with crying students because you're having a mid-life crisis!"

He swept her a mocking bow, flourishing his arms, and she curled her lip and stalked out of the room, her high heels clacking on the floor outside. Gold turned back to the window, but Belle was nowhere to be seen, and he let his head drop with a sigh.

The next day he was no better, not least because he knew he wouldn't see her. He wasn't sure whether it was more tortuous when she was at the school, when he could bump into her at any moment, or when she was at home, where there was no chance of him seeing her at all. For the hundredth time, he told himself to get a grip. He had barely slept again, and his fourth night of little rest made him light-headed and more irritable than usual. His leg was also killing him, the product of the cold weather and too little rest, and it took him far longer to walk to class, the pain making him stop and catch his breath.

Gold's students were growing restless as the minutes ticked by. He had never been late for a lesson since he had started at the school, and a few were outspoken in their hopes that some emergency had kept him at home.

"Maybe he's sick," said David hopefully, but Mary shook her head.

"I saw him on my way over. He's here," she said, and David groaned, leaning back in his chair and throwing his pen down. He looked at Mary.

"Did you do the work?" he asked awkwardly. "I wasn't sure about question seven, what did you put?"

She gave him a wry look. "You want to copy my paper, don't you? Why didn't you do the homework?"

"I had soccer practice!" he protested, and she rolled her eyes as the door opened and Gold swept into the room, cane tapping on the floor as he made his way to the front and set his leather case on the desk. Ruby thought that he was limping harder than usual, his tread weary, and she narrowed her eyes, looking for other differences, wondering if, as David had suggested, he was ill. He was as immaculately dressed as ever, but when he faced them and took out the previous lesson's work, she could see that he looked incredibly tired and drawn, and around ten years older than he had looked the previous week. His eyes were shadowed, with heavy bags beneath them and, she thought, filled with a terrible sadness. Perhaps he'd had some bad news. She hoped not. Despite her initial dislike of him, she had grudgingly conceded that he actually wanted the class to do well. She had been working hard at Chemistry since the first few disastrous lessons, and he had favoured her with a rare, wide smile the previous week when she had answered every question he had asked her. Bastard he may be, but she couldn't deny that he was a very good teacher.

Gold began handing back the homework in silence, dropping Ruby's onto the desk in front of her. She was delighted to see a B-plus on it, but he failed to give her the tiny smile she had come to expect from him when she did well. She caught a whiff of his cologne as he reached over to give Emma her work, and the scent of it tickled something in the back of her mind. It was gone almost immediately. Without a word, he strode to the whiteboard and began copying out a question.

"No doubt you're all fully prepared and eager to impress me," he said dryly, as he wrote, the black marker squeaking. "Mr Nolan, do you have an answer to this question, or do you need to check with Miss Blanchard first?"

David wriggled uncomfortably in his seat, but Ruby came to his rescue.

"Sir?" she asked tentatively. "That's last week's question. We talked through that on Thursday."

Gold hesitated, pen poised as his brow wrinkled.

"Ah," he said, after a moment. "You are of course correct, Miss Lucas. My apologies."

He wiped off what he had written, pinching his nose with a sigh, and began rummaging in his bag again. The class waited silently, and Gold's hands stilled, long fingers curved over the leather sides, staring down at nothing.

"It appears I'm the one that's unprepared," he said quietly. "I can only apologise. Miss Lucas, may I borrow your question sheet?"

Ruby whipped it out of her folder hastily, offering it to him, and he plucked the paper from her hand between two outstretched fingers. She put her head to the side as he met her eyes, the sadness in them overwhelming.

"Are you okay, Mr Gold?" she asked carefully. "You don't look well."

His mouth twisted as he turned away from her.

"I'm fine," he said curtly, turning back to the whiteboard. "Now, if we could turn to question one?"

"But sir, you…"

"Thank you for your concern, dearie," he interrupted. "Let's get back to the lesson, shall we? If I fall over dead, you have my permission to say 'I told you so'." He finished writing out the question, and put his pen down on the desk.

"Now, where was I…?" he mused, and turned slowly to face them, gold tooth glinting as he smiled coldly. "Ah, yes. Mr Nolan."

Ruby rolled her eyes, exchanging a wry look with Emma and Mary as David slid lower in his seat. A good teacher, but still a bastard.

Gold was attempting to drown his sorrows, and was on his third large whisky. His normally immaculate lounge was strewn with the clothes he had taken off the previous night, when he couldn't be bothered to walk up the stairs to bed, and a couple of blankets that he had pulled over himself before curling up on the couch. The blankets now lay partly on the floor, his jacket draped over the arm of the couch and his tie crumpled in a heap beside him. Gold himself was seated on the rug in his suit pants and with his shirt unbuttoned to halfway down his chest. His feet were bare, his socks and shoes dumped in the centre of the rug, and he slouched back against the couch, head rolled back on the cushions as he listened to Madama Butterfly. Possibly it wasn't the best choice of music, given his current mood and the likelihood that he would burst into tears at any moment, but there was a comforting melancholy in listening to the woes of others, and he closed his eyes as Un Bel Di rolled over him in glorious waves of tragic, doomed hope. Tears stung his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, lifting his head to take another drink and distract himself. A knock at the door made him scowl.

"Fuck off!" he muttered, and the knock came again, more urgently. Growling under his breath, he pushed himself to his feet with the use of his cane, and padded to the door to wrench it open.

Carella had been expecting Gold to be in his usual after-work attire, which was almost exactly the same as his at-work attire, apart from the removal of his tie and the opening of a button or two at his throat. She had not expected him to peer out, bleary-eyed and scowling, with bare feet and a face that looked as though he had had no rest for a week.

"Good Lord," said Carella, with feeling, looking him up and down, and he glowered at her.

"What do you want?" he snarled. She raised an eyebrow, tugging a black, fur-lined coat around herself.

"I came to see you," she said imperiously. "Ursula's out of town giving a lecture on giant squid, I figured you'd be short of company, so here I am. Not a moment too soon, it seems."

"Piss off, I don't want company," growled Gold.

"I didn't say you wanted it," she said dryly, shoving past him. He staggered against the wall as she passed, shoving the door closed with his elbow and scowling after her. She walked into the lounge, curling her lip at what she saw. No, this was most definitely not like him.

"Good God, Rum," she said disapprovingly. "What the bloody hell happened here?"

"I don't give a fuck," he muttered, limping back to the sofa. "You want a drink?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?" she asked airily, and he pulled a face, waving an arm.

"Help yourself. Ice in the kitchen."

She busied herself getting a glass, ice and a slice of lemon, and he sat back down on the floor, leaning back against the couch and mouthing along to the music. She poured herself a large measure of gin and added tonic, ice cubes clinking against the glass, and frowned at the stereo, the soprano voice pouring out of it as the music swelled.

"Well, listening to this, I'm surprised you haven't slit your own throat," she remarked, and switched it off. He made a noise of protest, and she glared at him until he relaxed back with a sigh. Carella pursed her lips, tapping her fingernails against the side of her glass as she eyed him.

"So, I see we're informal tonight," she said lightly, going to sit next to him with a noise of complaint and stretching her long legs out in front of her on the rug. She let her head roll to the side, watching him, and for a moment he met her gaze, a dreadful, haunting sadness in his eyes. He needed to shave, stubble showing on his cheeks and chin and glinting in the light, the lines in his face more prominent. He closed his eyes as though he wished to avoid her stare, breath hissing gently through his nose.

"What's up, you miserable old bastard?" she asked gently, and his face twisted.

"Oh, it's nothing," he said quietly, blinking at her. "Nothing I didn't expect, anyway. Nothing I didn't deserve."

"Regina been on your case again?" she asked, and he smiled wryly.

"Always, but that's nothing new. No, I'm afraid this latest spectacular fuck-up is entirely my own fault." He rubbed the side of his nose with a finger, sighing deeply, and held up his glass, whisky swirling against the sides. "I'm trying to stop the thoughts in my head. Not working."

"Oh." She took a slurp of her gin, figuring that she had some catching up to do. "Do you - want to share them, perhaps?"

He looked away, his hair spreading against the leather cushions of the couch.

"No," he whispered. "No, they're very private."

"Well," she said, trying to keep the mood light. "If you need me to stay and pour you drinks and hold your hair back when you throw up, I'm happy to do that."

Gold let his head roll towards her with a slanting grin, that terrible sadness still in his eyes, but a tiny light of amusement flickering there.

"Thank you," he said dryly, and she grinned.

"It wouldn't be the first time, let's face it," she added, and he pulled a face at her before lapsing back into gloom. She took another drink as they sat in silence.

Gold was surprised to find that he was glad of her company, even if she simply sat there and drank her gin. He had had no companion for days but his own dark thoughts, his own self-loathing, and the presence of another human being was oddly comforting. He sipped at his drink, and Carella nudged him.

"I'm not only here to watch you drown in your secret misery," she said, and rummaged in her bag, fishing out an envelope in thick, cream-coloured paper. "Here. Wedding invitation." She handed it to him with a smirk, and after a moment's hesitation, he took it.

"You are coming," she said, and it wasn't a question. He nodded.

"Yes, of course. Wouldn't miss it."

"And your plus-one?" She was grinning at him now, and he gave her a wry look.

"I'll ask Jefferson. You'll like him. Possibly a little too much."

She chuckled then, and drained her glass, pushing herself up to get another and passing him the whisky bottle. He poured himself a smaller measure, wanting to pace himself. His head was already spinning from the lack of food, sleep, and the alcohol he had already consumed, and while Carella was serious about looking after him while he threw up, that was a humiliation he didn't need on top of everything else. He tried to distract himself as she sat down again, a contented sigh escaping her.

"All set for the wedding?" he asked, and she pouted.

"More or less. The woman making the cake was being a bitch about the decoration, but Ursula talked her around in the end. You'd think no one had ever asked for a golden octopus on a cake before!"

He snorted with laughter, for the first time in days.

"Guest list is growing out of all proportion, of course," she went on, shaking her hair out of her eyes. "We keep making friends with people and feeling obliged to invite them, it's extremely irritating!"

"It's your wedding," he remarked. "You should do what makes you happy."

"Oh, we are, I'm just being grumpy because I like it." She clinked her glass against his. "I invited the lovely Belle French, by the way. She seemed surprised."

"Oh." His heart clenched, and he took a large swallow of whisky. "How - how is she?"

Carella pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"Pale," she said, after a while. "I think she's doing too much. I suggested that we take a break, but she was adamant that she was fine. I suppose her father's getting worse, so it can't be easy for her."

Guilt gnawed at him, twisting in his guts, and he buried his nose in his glass.

"She seemed to worry that I wouldn't be teaching her anymore," she went on. "I imagine she thinks that when he dies, you won't pay my fees."

Gold hesitated. He was unsure whether to send a message would hurt her more, but the uncertainty couldn't be good for her either. Why should she believe him when he said he would pay for Carella, after everything else he had said?

"Please tell Miss French that your bill is paid until she pases her exams," he said quietly. "I don't want her worrying about that."

"I'll tell her." Carella leant back, sipping her drink. "She's doing well, you know, despite everything. You picked a good one there."

"I wanted to help." It wasn't really a response to her statement. He had wanted to help. He had wanted to make her life easier, to keep her away from him, and all he had done was hurt her. And himself. He turned the whisky glass slowly between his fingertips, watching the amber liquid bounce and swirl. He could feel Carella watching him.

"Are you staying?" he asked quietly, and she sniffed.

"As long as your spare room doesn't look like a bombsite, then yes," she agreed, and shoved him with an elbow, making him rock. "Also on the understanding that you make it to bed tonight. I have no intention of coming in here tomorrow morning to see your arse looking at me, thank you."

He smiled at that, flicking his eyes across to her for a moment.

"Agreed. I may need some help with the stairs, though."

"I'll give you a piggy-back," she offered, and he chuckled, before lapsing back into his dark mood. He threw back the whisky, wincing a little at the burn in his throat as he swallowed. Carella shook her head, and put an arm around his shoulders.

"Rum," she said gently. "I know you, you cantankerous old git. This isn't like you. What is it?"

He tried to pull away, to hide behind his usual calm, sardonic mask, but he had drunk too much to hide his emotions, and his lip wobbled, his face crumpling.

"I fucked up," he whispered. "Oh God, I fucked up so badly! I'm an idiot, Carella. I'm a stupid bloody idiot who keeps his fucking conscience in his cock!"

Carella was silent as he ranted, stroking his hair.

"Well, I always knew your conscience had to be pretty small," she said brightly, and he let out a strangled noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. She kissed the top of his head and let him settle on her shoulder.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, and he sighed, shaking his head.

"Not now. Probably not ever. You'd hate me."

"Too late, you big knobhead," she said affectionately. "Shall we just get drunk, then?"

"Sounds good," he agreed, and held up his glass. "I'll have another."

"Don't you have school tomorrow?" she asked. "What about the students?"

"Ah, fuck the students!" he growled, waving a hand. Carella snorted.

"Don't do that, you'll get arrested," she said, and he groaned, running a hand over his face as she giggled.

"Just pour the fucking whisky, will you? I'm still conscious."

Moe had had a bad day.

He had thrown up, his vomit thick and black, and Belle had held him close, wrapped in blankets, while Astrid changed the bed for the second time that day. Pain had wracked him, the medication he was taking no longer holding it back, and Dr Whale had been called, Belle's voice somewhat wobbly as she spoke to him. Having arrived and examined her father, Dr Whale explained gently to Belle that he would be administering morphine, and to that end he immediately gave Moe a capsule of liquid. It didn't take long for the effects to take hold, and Moe relaxed back in his pillows with a sigh, tears leaking from his eyes.

"Thank you," he whispered drowsily. Belle sat by him, clutching his hand as he drifted off. Dr Whale was explaining the dosage to Astrid, and Belle listened as he mentioned the possible need for injections, when the capsules ceased to have the same effect. Astrid was nodding, her face calm.

"I'll see myself out, Belle," announced Dr Whale. "He'll be sleepy, but he won't be in pain. You may find that he starts hallucinating again, though. I'll come back tomorrow."

"Thank you," said Belle, trying to smile at him, and he nodded briskly, snapping his bag shut and sweeping out. Astrid shot her a brief, worried look, and busied herself cleaning up. Belle turned back to her father, leaning in to rest her cheek against his wasted chest and breathing in the cloying smell that constantly surrounded him, but was not his.

Moe woke just before Astrid left, smiling sleepily and saying that he felt rested. Astrid gave him another capsule, and Belle made him tea and took it up to him, squeezing Astrid's hand as she left. Moe did look brighter, having no pain and his first good, long sleep in days. She sat down beside him, planting a kiss on his cheek and making him chuckle.

"Carella invited me to her wedding next month," she said, trying to keep her voice cheerful, and he smiled.

"Good. Take some money from the bank and get yourself a nice dress."

"Papa, i don't have to go!" she protested. "I can stay in with you. We'll play cards, and you can cheat me the way you always do."

He looked at her steadily, and she dropped her gaze, concentrating on a spot on the blankets, so that she wouldn't see his expression, the sad inevitability in his eyes.

"I want you to go," he said calmly. "Do you have a date?"

"No." She shook her head with a hollow laugh, fidgeting awkwardly. "I mean, the card says 'plus one', but…"

"So find one," he suggested. "There must be someone you like at school."

She chewed her lip.

"Not really," she said uncomfortably. "I don't - I don't think I'll go, anyway. It's kind of her, but…"

"Belle," he said quietly, firmly, and her mouth flattened as she raised her eyes to the ceiling, trying not to look at him, tears welling. He folded his large hand around her small fist, squeezing her.

"I'm dying, my girl," he said gently. "It won't be long now."

She shook her head, her mouth twisting, trying not to cry, and he reached up to stroke her cheek.

"You're so good to me, Belle," he whispered. "You're so brave, my darling. I know you'll be okay when I'm gone. I know you'll do the most amazing things with your life, and I wish I could be there to see them. You're a beautiful girl, inside and out."

She leant into his touch, reaching up to press his hand to her face as her lip trembled.

"I don't want you to go," she whimpered. "I don't want to be alone, Papa."

"You'll never be alone," he assured her. "You have your friends, and Granny, and everyone in this town who loves you. There'll be others, darling. The ones you meet in the future. And the one. The one you're meant to be with."

She shook her head, pulling a face.

"I don't want that," she said dully. "It hurts too much to lose the ones I love, I don't want that again!"

"But you will," he said firmly. "Love is wonderful, Belle, that's why the loss of it causes you pain."

She looked down, not wanting to meet his eyes, and he sighed.

"I'm lucky enough to have had two true loves in my life," he said. "First there was your mother, and then you came along, and I loved you both so much! I know how much you miss her, sweetheart, and I know how much you'll miss me, but it's time for me to join her."

Her face crumpled, tears welling in her eyes as he brushed the back of his finger against the tip of her nose.

"Who loves you, poppet?" he asked gently, and she bit back a sob as he repeated the endearment he had used so often when she was small.

"My Papa," she whimpered, her voice high and whisper-light, sounding like the little girl she had been, the toddler clinging to her father, comforted by his warm embrace and his scent of tobacco and shaving cream. She felt the tears spill over, running down her face in thin streams as she reached out to touch his cheek, to try to hold onto him and keep him with her. He stroked her hair tenderly.

"So listen to what your Papa tells you," he said gently. "Don't let yourself shut down, Belle. Live. Love. Take that big heart of yours and find something to fill it when I'm gone."

She was crying properly now, and he put his arms around her and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head as her tears flowed. She let the dam of her grief burst open, weeping for him, for the loss of her family, for the death of her childhood and her fear of the dark, cold world that lay ahead.

A/N: It - will get less angsty. Eventually

Next time: Belle and Gold meet for the first time since he told her that big bunch of lies