Whale stumbled through the front door, nearly tripping over his aching feet. He was so exhausted….ugh, and he had to go back in four hours. Working in a hospital was really fulfilling and all, but he would be lying if he said he hadn't considered pulling the plug on a few people, just so he could get some rest.

Yawning widely, he ran his hand over the wall, fumbling for the light switch. He was going to make a nice pot of coffee, have a solid meal of Cocoa Puffs, and then sleep for as long as—

"Gah!"

"Hello, Victor."

Whale clutched his chest, staring with wide eyes at a morose-looking Graham seated at the kitchen table. "W-w-what are you doing?" he asked breathlessly. "Jesus Christ, Graham, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"No, Victor; that artificial fried crap you eat nearly gave you a heart attack," Graham said with a dejected sigh. "I don't know why a doctor, of all people, insists on eating that rubbish. When are you going to try one of my egg white omelets?"

"When are you going to stop nagging me about egg white omelets?" Whale countered, pulling out the chair next to him. "What's going on? Why are you all…mopey and shit?"

"I'm not mopey, I'm just…" Graham bit his lip. "I'm having a small mental crisis."

"Okay," Whale frowned. "What's the crisis?"

"No, no," Graham said, shaking his head. "You're tired, I don't want to bother you—"

"Graham," Whale said impatiently. "I'm tired, so just get to the point. What's the crisis?"

"Just…" He exhaled heavily, running a hand over his curls.

His luscious curls.

His luscious, caramel-colored curls that looked so soft; framing that innocent angel-face with smoldering eyes. Smoldering eyes that went so well with those strong shoulders…those abs, those rock-hard abs…

Jesus, Whale thought, shaking his head. Am I gay or what?

"…Emma and Henry kept asking me questions, and I was just, like, 'Where did all this come from?' But they're pelting me with questions, like, 'Are you two doing it?' and 'Are you going out?' and I'm like, 'We're just friends!', but they're insisting that we're gay—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Whale said, holding up his hand. "Who's gay? What are we talking about?"

"Me and Jefferson," Graham said exasperatedly. "God, Victor, have you been listening to me at all?"

"Yeah, I just…" Whale scratched behind his ear, trying to ignore the jealous little voice in his head saying, Jefferson? What is this Jefferson bullshit? "S-so why were they asking about Jefferson? I thought you guys were…friends."

"We are friends," Graham said. "But I just had to mention that we were going for coffee, and then Henry got involved, and he was like, 'Oh, isn't this the friend that tried to kiss you?' And then Emma started in on me, and now she's irritated that I didn't tell her I was gay because we could have talked about so much—"

"So, you are gay?"

"No!" Graham cried. "No, I'm not gay! I mean, do I think Jeff is an attractive guy? Sure! Do I want to have sex with him? No!"

"Okay, so—"

"I mean, maybe, if I got drunk enough. I could be persuaded, I suppose." Graham gave his head a little shake. "Okay, clearly I'm sleep-deprived. I don't know where that came from."

"Maybe from latent homosexuality."

"What?"

"What?"

Graham frowned. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'What?'"

"No, before that."

"Nothing."

"No, you said something. What was it?"

"I don't know," Whale exhaled. "It's nothing, Graham, just forget it."

"Something about latent homosexuality?"

"Yeah, I just meant… Never mind."

It was an awkward subject to discuss: someone's else sexual-identity journey. If Graham was gay, he was gay; if he was straight, he was straight; if he was bi or pan or demi or whatever else there was, then that's what he was. But that was Graham's self-discovery, not Whale's; and frankly, he wasn't sure that their relationship was progressed enough for him to involve himself. They only lived together. It wasn't like they were married…or dating…or even all that close. They were roommates.

Who occasionally saw each other shirtless.

Who occasionally enjoyed seeing each other shirtless.

At least, Whale did (rock-hard abs!). Because Graham probably didn't even think of Whale like that. He probably wasn't even gay.

Well, maybe he was. Maybe he was gayer than Elton John in a rainbow suit riding a pink, fluffy unicorn.

Maybe he was gay for Jefferson.

Is that jealousy, I detect? a snide voice asked in the back of his mind.

What? Whale scoffed. No…

I think…yes.

Whale chose to ignore the voice, humming over it with "Mr. Sandman"(it was stuck in his head, but it was such a dapper little song, he didn't mind). "Sounds like you could benefit from some personal time," he said to Graham, getting up from the table. "You've clearly got a lot to figure out, so I'm just going to leave you to it and go to bed—"

"Victor!" Graham shot his hand out and gripped his elbow, looking at him pleadingly. "Please! I-I need you."

Whale tried to ignore the backflips his stomach was performing, but the words "I need you" kept echoing in his head. He needed him? What did that mean? There were so many ways to take that!

He hovered on his feet, caught between the urge to sit down and let Graham confide every last detail of his anxiety, and the instinct to flee and maintain that careful platonic-ness between them.

"For what?" he asked finally. "Come on, you know I'm not good at this stuff. I don't know how to be sensitive, Graham. I'm a firm believer in eating your feelings."

"I can't be alone! I'm too confused to be alone right now!"

"See…" Whale carefully pried his hand off his elbow. "You're confused, so you should be alone right now. Let yourself figure things out."

"Victor…"

"Trust me," Whale said. "You sit there long enough, realization will come around and kick you in the ass."

Graham looked at him helplessly. "But what if I realize that I'm basically dating Jefferson?" he asked. "Especially after I made a deal out of him trying to kiss me and all?"

"Then you guys have a great meet-cute story," Whale shrugged. "In the meantime, I'm going to get some sleep. I've only got four hours before I have to pretend I care about the people of Storybrooke."

Regina grimaced at the pain in her back, and irritably jerked the covers up to her chin. Robin exhaled, and with great deliberation, tugged them back.

"You're hogging the blanket, my love," he said through clenched teeth.

"I'm freezing. More importantly, our daughter is freezing." Regina yanked the blanket back, and held it tightly in her fists.

"Regina, honestly!" Robin snapped. "It's ten degrees, tops! Are you really going to do this now? Do you want me to freeze to death?"

"How about a fireball?" Regina spat. "That should warm you up, just fine!"

"Argh!" Robin threw back the covers, fighting the sheets twisted around his leg and—"Shit!"— went sprawling out of the bed.

Regina immediately took the opportunity to bundle the blankets around her and burrow against her pillow; meanwhile, Robin was still muttering and growling under his breath as he fumbled to a stand.

"Wha—really?" he demanded.

"Get out of my bedroom," Regina said, keeping her eyes firmly closed. "I have an entire town to run, I need my sleep. And I can't keep growing an entire person with you bitching in my ear and stealing my blankets—I need to focus."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Robin!" she snapped, whirling around. "Be useful! Go get me ice cream with pork rinds!"

Robin stared at her as if she'd gone completely mad. "But you loathe pork rinds!"

"Yeah, well, she doesn't!" Regina shot back, pointing at her stomach. "Now, hurry up, before I set off an explosion!"

"Pregnancy cravings are grounds for an explosion now?" Robin scoffed. "Sometimes, I really think you milk this Baby-Witch-thing for more than it's worth."

Regina's eyebrows rose at his impudence. "Excuse me, but where exactly is this attitude coming from?" she demanded. "I must say, Robin: I find your spontaneous boldness both disturbing and extremely distasteful!"

"It's four in the morning, Regina!" Robin spat. "Forgive me, but I'm not a middle-of-the-night person!"

"Well, you better get used to it!" Regina said. "Because this child is going to be waking up in the middle of the night, and I'm going to be depending on you to help—"

"I KNOW HOW TO TAKE CARE OF A BABY, REGINA!"

"Awfully hard to sleep with all the YELLING!"

Robin glared at her, and snatched his pillow off the bed. "I'm sleeping on the couch!"

"Fine!" Regina scoffed. "Sleep on the couch! Like I give a damn where you sleep!"

"You are an impossible woman!"

"And you're an imbecile!"

"Well, it's four o'clock in the bloody morning—"

"Quarter after, actually! And you still haven't gotten me my pork rinds and ice cream, imbecile!"

Robin made a strangled noise, as if choking on his own rage. "Marian was never this tyrannical!" he shouted. "That woman was a saint, pregnant or not! And you, Regina—you're a holy terror!"

Regina's eyes widened at the M-word. "That's it!" she flared, slamming her hands down. "You're sleeping on the couch!"

"I already knew that!" he snapped, and flourishing his pillow behind him like a diva does her fur coat, he stalked out of the room. Regina glared as the door slammed behind him, and furiously threw herself under the covers again.

She lay there for a moment, utterly still and seething with rage. How dare he! She was pregnant—you weren't allowed to yell at pregnant ladies! She was a fucking vessel for Life here, goddamn it!

"ASSHOLE!" she shouted viciously.

Robin's voice was muffled, but she was fairly confident he returned an appallingly rude retort—definitely not one for children's ears. Regina protectively put her hands on either side of her stomach.

"Don't you ever repeat that," she said sternly; then immediately felt ridiculous. Dr. Whale had shown her the charts and diagrams, given her books on the exact physiology of pregnancy—essentially, taught a crash course of everything he knew about babies and mothers (surprisingly, very little, for a doctor, even if he was only a surgeon). And from what she knew, it was still a good six or seven weeks before the fetal blob of tissue could hear anything.

The baby couldn't hear.

So who was she talking to?

Wait… she frowned, struck by a sudden thought. Baby can't hear…but she can do magic? All those explosions—random spells—the little fireballs—how was she pulling it off? Regina was hardly an expert, but she was pretty sure that the baby was basically a pinto bean with half a spinal cord. Was that even enough of a person to be able to do magic at all?

Unless Hopper's right, and all that "magic" you're going on about is really just hormones, a voice suggested reasonably in the back of her mind (it sounded annoyingly like Dr. Whale's). It's possible, Regina.

Shut up, Victor, she said witheringly.

Excuse me? The voice was confused. I…don't know a Victor.

Well, fine, who are you, then? she snapped.

I…don't know. I'm… The voice paused, then continued in a patronizing tone: You—you do know I'm not real, right? That I'm not actually a voice in your head? This is just how you're choosing to process—

SHUT UP, I'M PREGNANT, MY HORMONES ARE THROWING ME OFF, WHAT'S YOUR EXCUSE?

I don't need one. Again…I'm not real.

Regina let out a frustrated shout, and sat bolt upright, throwing a handful of flames at the opposite wall. Instantly, the wallpaper burned red, sparks scattering as the fire burrowed through the wall.

"Shit!" Regina stared at the wall, wondering what on earth had possessed her to do something like that. She quickly waved her hand to banish the flames, leaving a still-smoking blackened hole in the wall; and slowly lowered her arm, her eyes still wide and staring.

There was a hole in her wall.

A random fireball had burned a hole in her wall. She hadn't been thinking it or planning—hadn't even taken a split second to conceptualize it. She'd simply felt, reacted, and burned a hole in her wall.

She put a hand to her stomach. "That wasn't you, was it?" she whispered.

There was no response; only silence. Then—

Wait, are you talking to me? Because I thought we established I was a construct of your imagination, so I don't—

"Oh, my God, shut up!" Regina said exasperatedly.

I'm not real, and yet you keep talking to me. I'm worried.

"Oh, really? Well, you're not real, and you keep talking in general!"

Good point. Except, since I'm a construct of your imagination, I'm still worried. Which means, you're worried. Which means, what's bothering you, Regina?

"You're bothering me!"

Someone rapped sharply on the door. "Regina?" Robin's voice said, slightly muffled. "Are you all right? I heard voices."

"Go. Away," she said through clenched teeth.

Robin opened the door anyway, poking his head in with a concerned look on his face. "What's going on? I heard you shouting, but I wasn't even in the room, so I thought…" A suspicious look overtook his face. "Was there a burglar or something?"

"No, there wasn't a burglar," Regina said witheringly, knowing exactly what he was implying. "I'm angry, and sleep-deprived, and strange things are happening inside my head right now, but there's no burglar." She gave him a sour look, crossing her arms over her chest. "Don't you have a couch pillow to cry into?"

Robin raised his eyebrows coolly. "You want me to fetch you those pork rinds first?" he said. "Served with…ice cream, wasn't it?"

"No, thank you." Regina held her head high, trying to retain as much dignity as possible in the face of her pork-rind craving. "You can leave now."

Robin smiled sarcastically. "Sleep well, my Queen," he said, taking the door handle. "Don't let the bed bugs bite."

"My house does not have bugs," Regina scoffed. "I exterminate bimonthly."

"Old habits die hard," Robin said nastily.

Regina's eyes narrowed. "And what is that supposed to mean?" she asked.

"Nothing, my love. Who mentioned anything about village massacres?"

The door shut behind him: not slammed this time, but with an infuriating deliberation that made her want to rip his head off. As it was, she found her hand curling into a clawed fist, sparks building in her palm—

"Stop!" she admonished herself, quickly putting it out. She gave her head a little shake, trying to clear it, and shifted back to her side. The voice in her head had (mercifully) shut up, but she still couldn't help her mind wandering back to Archie's words from the party:

"Please don't tell me you're trying to use this child as a scapegoat for your emotional instability. I'm still recommending you come in for anger management, regardless of who's fault you think it is."

She'd already agreed to consider giving the anger management a chance, but she and Archie both knew that was hardly something she was going to commit to. Maybe for the first few weeks, just to humor him, but group therapy was simply not Regina's style. But private counseling…?

I can't go to private counseling, she scoffed. Hook goes to private counseling. I'm not like Hook.

But, like Hook, you're clearly sick in the head, the voice said gently. You keep pulling magic, and you don't even realize you're doing it. It's like you have pregnancy-influenced dissociative identity.

Regina frowned. Is that even a thing?

Probably not. It sounded smart, and you tend to intellectualize things.

Yes, she mused. I do that….

Should you call Archie?

I always say I'm going to call Archie, I never do it, she thought, shaking her head. But everybody says that. It's really more of a figure of speech, in this town.

Okay, but the fireballs are becoming a problem.

That's true, but if Robin didn't have a sass-attack in the middle of the night, I wouldn't have gotten upset. So this is really his fault.

You externalize blame a lot, did you notice that? It's always someone else's fault. "I didn't do that, it was Baby Witch." "Robin made me upset, it's his fault." "Snow told Cora about Daniel, it's not my fault I had to avenge him and curse the whole kingdom."

Regina closed her eyes, burying her face into the pillow. Shut up, Victor.

Please stop calling me "Victor".

Stop psychoanalyzing me.

Actually, like I've told you at least three times now, you created me. So you're psychoanalyzing. So there's really no need to get an attitude with me, is there?

Regina slowly opened her eyes, glaring at the digital clock: 4:27 a.m., the analog numbers flashed. That was three and a half hours before she had to get up. Three and a half hours of no sleep, because how did you tell your own head to shut up?

Especially since, that voice…kinda had a point.

David cracked his eyes open: it was still dark, and his vision was fuzzy with that familiar middle-of-the-night exhaustion, but something had woken him up. He listened for a minute, his fingers slowly traveling to the holster that lay on the dresser next to him. There was…something. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something was out of place, something was—

Creak!

He flung himself out of bed, startling Snow awake. "David!" she gasped. "What? What is it?"

"Someone's downstairs," he muttered, loading the gun with a decisive click! "Don't move. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, crawl out the fire escape and tap on Neal's window."

Snow stared at him with wide eyes. "It's Storybrooke," she said. "Who's going to break in here that you need a gun? David, you haven't touched that thing in weeks—do you even still know how to use it?"

"Just because I can julienne-slice peppers to perfection now, doesn't mean I forgot how to be a cop," he frowned.

"David—"

He put a finger to his lips, and toed the door open. Snow threw her hands up exasperatedly as he lifted the gun with both hands ("Stupid," he heard her curse under her breath, but he didn't have time to respond when there was a possible burglar—or worse—in the house).

Slowly, he stepped out: knees bent, ready to run after a perpetrator; slightly ducking in anticipation of attack. There were footsteps downstairs, now shuffling freely around the kitchen. Someone was definitely in the house—and apparently hungry, David thought, as he heard the fridge door swing open.

Ignoring the the stray logical thought that floated through his head (Would a burglar really stop to make a snack?), he silently moved down the stairs, raising his gun. Even through the hazy darkness, he could see a tall, skinny shadow moving around the kitchen. David's eyes widened: the burglar!

"HANDS IN THE AIR!" he shouted, leaping from the stairs. A bowl clattered to the ground as a girl shrieked, scrabbling backward. David immediately flipped the switch, keeping his gun trained on—

He frowned, dropping his hands. "Ruby?"

"David!" Ruby gasped, putting a hand to her heart. "Jesus Christ, what's wrong with you?"

"I had someone break into my house, I'm a little on edge!" he said heatedly. "Ruby, what are you doing?"

"You have a gun?" she said, looking at him incredulously. "David, you pulled a gun on me?"

"You broke into my house!"

"You pulled a gun on me!"

"You broke into my house!"

"I didn't break in, I picked the lock!" Ruby snapped. "I snuck into your house!"

"Why?" David said, throwing his arms up helplessly. "Why did you have to sneak into my house? You have your own house!"

"Because I…." Ruby faltered, shifting between her feet; she dropped her head and mumbled something about Granny.

David frowned, leaning forward to hear her better. "Granny did what now?"

"She didn't do anything, she's just…" Ruby exhaled. "She's just being Granny. Like, I'm really glad we're not fighting and stuff now, because I love her and shit, but now she's just being really annoying and I needed to…not be around her."

David raised an eyebrow. "At four in the morning? You needed to not be around her at four in the morning?"

"I can hear her breathing," Ruby said, a faraway look of venom in her eyes. "Breathing, snoring….inhale, exhale…so loud…all night long." Her fist tightened. "All. Night. Long."

David took a cautious step back, a little unnerved by the murderous glint in her eyes. "Granny is still breathing, right?"

"Yes," Ruby glowered at him. "I'm not going to kill her after we just made up. And I told you, I love her and shit."

"Okay," David said, not altogether convinced. He pulled out a chair, pushing the one across from it with his foot. "But maybe you want to sit down…talk through some of those frustrations before you go home, so Granny keeps breathing."

"I don't want to talk, I want pie," Ruby said. "Point me in the right direction, and I'll be on my way."

"But I'm legally obligated to prevent you from what I suspect is a potentially fatal situation," David said, gently pulling her down to a seat. "You had wolfs time—what was it? A few days ago? Your emotions—"

"Are no worse than usual," Ruby frowned. "And I had wolfs time over a week ago, David, I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I also have Resting Bitch Face Syndrome."

David shrugged, a skeptical smile on his face. "I'm still here, in case you want to just kvetch about your grandmother. I know you want to, Ruby."

"Mmmm….nope. Nope, not really."

"Then why are you really here?" A horrible thought crossed David's mind. "Oh, God. You weren't…you weren't gathering props or anything, were you?"

"Props?" she repeated, knitting her brow.

"You know, for…" David shifted uncomfortably, and lowered his voice. "Lovemaking."

"For what?" Ruby looked severely disturbed, staring at him with wide eyes. "Eww, David, did you just say that?"

"I did," he said, feeling rather sick now. "But I know that Hook's a few doors down, and you two have a tendency—"

"No!" Ruby said, looking horrified. "David, stop—stop talking! Stop talking now!"

"—I understand you guys have needs, but enough is enough—"

"David, please!" Ruby begged. "Stop!"

David closed his mouth with a grimace, feeling his stomach roil. Ruby was something of a little sister to him. He'd always felt protective of her, and seeing her behave in …certain ways greatly disturbed him. Yeah, she was an adult, and yeah, she could make her own choices and all that—but that didn't stop him from feeling sick when thoughts about what went on between Hook and Ruby threatened the edge of his mind. It was like a lesser version of knowing that certain things went on between Emma and Neal.

"Okay," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "I was just saying…"

"Well, don't," Ruby said, looking rather ill herself. "I can't talk about this with you!"

"I'm actually really happy about that."

"Besides," she said, "you saw what happened at the party. You really think I'm such a slut that I'd completely disregard all that, just to get laid?"

"Oh," David frowned. "I thought that was just an elaborate roleplay."

Ruby's eyebrows shot up. "You thought what?"

"Like, it was something you guys did, so you could—" David coughed into his fist "—make up later."

"…No."

"Okay." David nodded, somewhat relieved. "Okay, that's good to hear."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. David awkwardly picked at his nails while Ruby shifted her gaze around, exhaling.

"So," she said finally. "How about that pie?"

"Pie?"

"Yes. Pie. I came for pie. I require pie."

"Yeah, I know, but…" David cocked his head, lifting a skeptical eyebrow."You sure this is really about pie? You sure you don't actually want to talk about the Granny drama?"

"Not really. I just want pie."

"At four in the morning?"

"Girls get weird cravings on their period," Ruby said flatly. "You really want to keep talking about this, David?"

"Wait, you're…?" He frowned, feeling confused. "But I thought you had wolfs time over a week ago."

"I did."

"So—you had wolfs time…and now you have your—" he waved his hand—"lady situation?"

"Menstruation and lycanthropy are two completely different afflictions," Ruby deadpanned. "I can give you all the excruciating details, of course—"

"You know what, that's okay!" he said quickly.

Ruby flicked her eyes derisively, and stood up from her chair. "I have to go," she said. "Forget pie—I need my sleep. I have to talk to Hook in a few hours, and we all know how exhausting that is."

David wrinkled his nose. "That's not a euphemism, is it?"

"Oh, my God—David!" Ruby whined, hitting him. "Stop making everything weird!"

"I'm making things weird?" he scoffed, twisting around to stare after her as she stalked out the door. "You broke into my house at four in the morning for pie! That's weird!"

The door slammed shut behind her. David shrugged defensively, turning back around in his seat.

"No one breaks in for pie," he grumbled to himself. "Who the hell commits a felony for pie?"