It was only nine-thirty, but the bar was already in full swing. Laughter and good-natured arguing rang out in all directions, while glasses clinked and darts thunk!ed into target boards. The warm light pouring from the evening lamps lent the place homey comfortable atmosphere—a complete one-eighty from the seedy, smoky dump it had been before. Not everyone appreciated the changes he'd made, but Jefferson stood by his decisions: it was better for business when customers didn't have to worry about getting knifed on their way to the bathroom.

The Rabbit Hole had once acted as the unofficial hangout for all the town's shadiest members: the creeps, the criminals, the guys who wore leather and chains for no apparent reason. Regina had been ready to tear it down, but Jefferson had seen the potential in the crumbling building and bought it out. "No wonder they call you the Mad Hatter," Regina had scoffed when presented with his proposal documents; even so, she had signed them and allowed him to start construction. A year later, The White Rabbit was established, and Jefferson kicked back to watch the money roll in.

And roll in, it did—especially tonight. The alcohol sales must have been skyrocketing, because Jefferson had never seen a drunker crowd. The holidays were usually good for business, what with the back-to-back celebrations, but this was spectacular.

Ruby was smiling as she sashayed up and down her counter, carrying drinks and collecting tips. When she saw Jefferson, she beamed, patted an empty space at the counter, then turned around and started preparing his drink. Though he didn't have a specific order, Ruby always seemed to know what kind of drink he was feeling. It was an intuition that didn't have much use outside of a bar, but it made her the most skilled bartender he had ever employed.

Hooking his foot around a stool to pull it out, Jefferson dropped into a seat and swiveled around, surveying his customers. No one seemed to be getting into any violent shenanigans, but he wanted to keep an eye on Emma and Robin. The two of them had started a sort of dart tournament among the other drunks with bad aim. So far, only the wall seemed injured, but if darts started flying into people's heads, he was going to have to say something.

"Okay, try this."

Jefferson turned around, raising his eyebrows at the odd-looking drink before him. It was bright yellow with a rim of—what was that? Red pepper?

"It's mango, pineapple, and tequila with Tajin around the rim," she explained. "I had it for breakfast this morning, and thought it would make a good drink."

"You had tequila for breakfast?"

"Oh, my God, so funny," she drawled sarcastically. With an impatient wave of her hand, she added, "Go on, go on! Tell me how it is."

It was sweet, cut with a crisp bitterness, with salty, spicy finish that hit every tastebud perfectly. "Put it on the menu," Jefferson decided. "Feature it as a special and if it sells, I'll buy the recipe from you."

"If I decide to sell it to you," Ruby replied with a shrewd smile, though she looked rather pleased.

Jefferson hmphed in amusement. He twirled a straw in his drink, and glanced around. "So, how's everything going over here?" he asked. "Everyone behaving themselves?"

"For the most part," she shrugged. "Graham seems a little upset today, so I'm watching that he doesn't lose his temper." She glanced at Jefferson's surprised expression, and snorted. "What, you've never seen him drunk before?"

Actually he hadn't. Jefferson had been trapped in his house for the better part of thirty years, so he'd really only known Graham for a few months. In that time, Graham had never shown himself to be anything but impossibly polite and adorably oblivious.

"What happens when he's drunk?" Jefferson asked, trying not to sound too intrigued. Clearly, he failed, because Ruby grinned widely and leaned over the counter, as if gossiping with a girlfriend.

"Well," she said in a hushed voice, "the last time I saw him get this drunk, he nearly speared Emma in the forehead with a dart. Mm-hmm—" she nodded at his incredulous look—"he's still got perfect aim when he's smashed."

"That's kinda hot," Jefferson mused. He peered over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Graham doing something sexy.

He wasn't entirely disappointed: Graham had chosen to sit on a bar stool with a dark, brooding expression as he drank hard liquor. There was a pile of darts beside him on the table, and he looked liable to stab the next offender in the heart with them.

"What's he so upset about?" Jefferson whispered. "It looks super-dramatic from this angle."

"I don't know," Ruby exhaled, looking frustrated. "I've been trying to get it out of Emma, but all she told me was that she was tired of everyone's sexual frustration making them act like assholes. I don't know if that was a dig at me or Graham, but that's all I got."

Jefferson nodded thoughtfully. It wouldn't surprise him if Graham was sexually frustrated, considering how much he seemed to repressing. Maybe it wasn't Jefferson's place, but he had definitely gotten vibes from Graham. What was he so afraid of?

"My guess?" Ruby went on in a low voice. "It's something to do with Dr. Whale."

"You think?"

"Yeah, pretty much everyone thinks they're sleeping together," she shrugged. "Like, you can't talk about it to their faces, but it's kind of obvious that they're ready to jump each other's bones. Plus, I've seen Graham at the gym, and if he walks around shirtless at home…?"

"You think he's into Whale?" Jefferson said, somewhat disappointed. "Not…anyone else?"

Ruby smiled gently. "You really want me to answer that?"

Jefferson considered for a minute, then shook his head. "Nah, forget it. Let's talk about something else." He cast his gaze around, looking for a topic of conversation.

And then a topic of conversation walked right through his doors and took the smile off his face: Cora Mills.

She was a petite, pretty woman, like a little china doll. Except Jefferson had never wanted to rip out the throat of a china doll and set her on fire. Cora had been the cruel Queen of Hearts, who had kept him from his daughter, driven him to madness, and gave him the scar across his neck. And here she was, walking around his bar like she owned the bloody place.

His gaze, burning with fury, moved behind her to Regina. She had a tight grip on her mother and was scanning the crowd, her mouth in a thin line. When she saw Jefferson, she hissed something at her mother, and the two of them began making their way through the crowd.

Don't you dare, Regina, don't you dar bring her over here, Jefferson thought, minutely shaking his head. But Regina didn't pick up on it; she stopped in front of him, still holding her mother by the arm, and greeted him with a brisk, "Where's Robin?"

Jefferson frowned. "How the hell should I know?"

"Jefferson!" Cora beamed at him. "Do you own this establishment? It's very impressive."

"Don't talk to me," Jefferson said, flipping up a hand. "Regina, what is she doing here?"

"She's not staying, calm down." Regina steered Cora to a barstool and forced her to sit. "I couldn't leave her home alone, and I needed to pick up Robin. The sooner I find him, the sooner we're out. Now, where is he?"

"I don't know—go look for him!" Jefferson said, waving his hand at the crowd. Regina turned her head, pursing her lips as she surveyed the various circles of drinking games and dart tournaments.

"The peasants seem particularly unruly tonight," she muttered. She braced both hands on her mother's shoulder and said through her teeth, "Stay here."

Cora shrugged an agreement.

"Good." Regina straightened and loosened her grip. "Ruby, get her a ginger ale or something."

Cora's brow twitched. "Ruby…" she echoed.

"I'll be back. Mother, behave yourself. Jefferson, could you—?" Regina gestured for him to watch her. Jefferson sputtered in protest.

"Regina, I'm not going to babysit—!"

Regina held two fingers and mouthed, Two minutes, okay?

"No! Not okay!" Jefferson stood up from his seat, fuming as Regina took off. "Regina!"

"Oh, do calm down, Jefferson," Cora said irritably, as though he were being completely unreasonable. "Sit down and have a drink, there's a good boy."

"Shut. Up." It wouldn't do to strangle a woman in front of all his customers, it was bad for business. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, gathering all his self-control. "Ruby. Shot. Now."

"Ah, yes, Ruby!" Cora's eyes sparkled with malice as she leaned forward, watching Ruby work. "Have we met, dear? You seem so familiar."

Ruby barely glanced up from the tequila she was pouring. "No."

"Are you sure?" Cora pressed. "Perhaps we've run in the same circles. I'm sure you know my daughter, Regina?"

"I don't know—kind of." Ruby pushed Jefferson's shot over, avoiding Cora's gaze.

"We must have some mutual friends, then." Cora's smile was unnervingly sweet—dangerous, even. "I used to run around with a rather handsome young man, you might know him. Killian Jones—?"

"Never heard of him," Ruby interrupted, and quickly turned around, looking for something else to do. Jefferson stretched forward to take it, muttering as he did so, "Leave her alone, Cora."

"I'm not doing anything, " said Cora innocently, her eyes following Ruby like a predator's. "I'm just trying to get to know the girl."

"No, you're trying to scare the shit out of her," Jefferson corrected.

"By asking simple questions?"

"By being an infamous witch-queen asking questions," he muttered through his teeth, jaw clenched with growing irritation. "I won't have you interrogating my staff. Not while they're on the clock."

Cora pursed her lips. "When does she take her break?"

"Just shut up and drink your ginger ale."

It was eight o'clock. The channel was set, the chair positioned, and the Lean Cuisine steamed and waiting on his T.V. tray. Whale was looking forward to an evening of blissful boredom, during which he would watch house-flipping shows and munch on poorly-prepared chicken kiev without a single thought of anything.

He sighed happily, fetching himself a beer from the fridge before settling into his comfy old chair. It was nice to have the house to himself for the night: Graham had gone out and wouldn't be popping in and out of the room in various states of undress to distract him. Just once, his mind could relax without trying to push back dirty thoughts about his roommate.

Whale smiled as the opening notes of the House Flippers Down Under! (Australia Edition) theme song started to play. The host—a spiky-haired man in his forties who was clearly trying to recapture the days of his youth from the nineties—beamed at the camera.

"Hey, everyone, Nigel Ricky here—"

"Hey, Nigel Ricky," Whale mumbled through a mouthful of chicken.

"We're here with Jonah and his wife, Christine, and boy, have they got a project for us!"

Whale stirred his fork around, watching as Nigel took his crew through the house and praised the open space and potential. He admired Nigel's passion: few people could get so excited over staircases—

Wait.

Whale stopped his show, frowning as a strange clicking sound came from the door, as if someone were trying to fit the wrong key in the lock. He was about to investigate, but the lock released and the door was wrenched open, before—

SLAM!

Whale jumped in his seat, his chicken kiev flying out of his lap, as Graham strode furiously into the room, smelling like he'd just bathed in liquor. He ripped off his jacket, threw it, and then collapsed onto couch and glared at the ceiling.

Whale stared at him in awe. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he growled.

"Are you drunk?"

"No!" Graham glanced at Whale's skeptical face, then muttered grudgingly, "A bit."

Whale considered him for a moment, weighing his options: he could either flee to his room and leave Graham to stew in his drunken anger, or he could get the man some black coffee, so he didn't punch a hole in the wall.

"Oh, God, Victor, I can't do this anymore!" Graham suddenly cried out, burying his face in hands.

Black coffee, it is. Whale exhaled and got up from his chair. "Come on," he said, nodding his head toward the kitchen. "Let's get some coffee in you, and you can tell me all about what you can't do anymore."

Graham wearily followed him into kitchen. As Whale began to prepare the coffee, Graham sank into a chair and huddled into it, covering his head with his forearms. Whale resisted the urge to brush his hand over Graham's thick caramel curls, and pulled out two cups to set on the table.

"All right," he said, once the coffee had finished brewing. He took the carafe in hand, poured a cup for each of them, and sat down. "Drink. It'll help."

Graham lifted his head, his eyes blearily focusing on the cup of black coffee before him. "No sugar?" he mumbled.

"It's better this way," Whale assured him. "Just drink."

Graham took his cup in a shaky hand and lifted it to his lips, which pulled in a grimace after he took a sip. "Gah," he coughed. "It's like battery acid." But he took another sip, and then another, and another. It seemed to be settling him down, though whether it was from the caffeine clearing his mind or simply the comfort of holding a warm drink was unclear. Hopefully, he was settled enough that he wouldn't need to talk about his feelings, because that really wasn't in Whale's repertoire.

"I can't do this anymore."

Whale sighed in resignation. And here we go. "You mentioned that," he said. "And I get it, okay? Seasonal depression is a bitch, and I have it, like, every season, so I—"

"No." Graham's voice was like stone, his gaze cold and bitter. "I mean, the rumors."

Whale raised his eyebrows, waiting. Graham may have thought that was sufficient clarification, but half of Whale's nurses were nosy sixty-year-old woman: he'd heard every rumor going around town at least three times.

"About us." Graham refused to meet his eyes: he looked down, gripping his cup so tightly, it threatened to crack. "That we're… more than roommates."

"What, that?" Whale gave a little shrug of his shoulders, as if to dismiss the very thought. "It's just because you're single. The rumors will stop once you settle down—don't let it bother you."

"But it does bother me," Graham persisted. "Everyone insisting that I'm gay, and you're gay, and we're gay for each other? It bothers me a lot."

That hit a wrong note. Somewhere in him, Whale felt a small ripple of anger. He folded his arms, eyeing Graham suspiciously. "Why?" he asked. "Because I am gay, so if that's going to be an issue—"

"No, no, you've got it all backwards, mate!" Graham said impatiently. "I haven't got a problem with people thinking I'm gay—it's people telling me I am. It's one thing if they asked, but they don't ask—they insist. Like they've figured it all out for me already and they're just having the decency to let me know who and what I am. And…" He stopped, looking at the ceiling in helpless frustration. "Oh, hell, I don't know."

"Figure it out," Whale said flatly, still regarding him with narrowed eyes.

Graham was silent for a long time, a concentrated frown on his face as he chose his words. "The thing is," he said finally, "I had my heart ripped out for over thirty years. Someone else was telling me what to do, what to think, what to feel. And it was like that for so long, I feel like I've forgotten how to be myself. I'm not even sure I know myself." He swallowed, fighting to keep his voice steady. "So here am, still trying to figure out who I am as a person, as a functioning member of this society, and everyone is coming at me and shoving their own opinions at me: what I think, what I feel, what I want. This is supposed to be mine to figure out, and it's like they're trying to take them from me again."

"Graham." Whale leaned forward, staring at him incredulously. "No one's trying to take anything from you. These people are your friends."

"They're not, though!" Graham argued. "I-I don't know any of these people! They don't know me! They're so different from when I last knew them, now that they've had their memories returned, and they've spent years with each other. I'm a complete stranger to them. They know my face, they know my name—that's it. You're the only person in this entire town who has spent enough time with me to…" He paused, choosing his words with care; then looked up. "You're the closest thing I have to a real friend."

Whale blinked. There was no way to respond to this. What could he have possibly said? Thank you?

It didn't matter, because Graham wasn't looking for a reaction: he continued, his words coming out faster now, as though there were too many fighting to get out of his head at once. "And that's why I get so angry when someone implies that we're more than roommates. Things like that can ruin a friendship, even if there's no truth to it. It can make things awkward or confusing or uncomfortable, introducing all sorts of questions and ruining the dynamic. It's enough to end a friendship. And since I've only got just the one…" He looked at Whale helplessly, giving a little shrug. "I can't lose it, you know?"

"I…" Whale looked down at his hands, lightly clasped in his lap and oddly still. Graham's words were unsettling: and not just because that sexy accent sent all sorts of tingles down Whale's spine. But now, there was an emotional responsibility to be his roommate, and Whale wasn't prepared to take it on—but he couldn't ignore it, either. He realized, in that moment, that what he felt for Graham was more than just lust. He actually gave a shit.

He…cared. Right now, he saw Whale as someone he could confide in; someone he could trust; someone safe. He couldn't take that away.

The silence lingered, tension turning the atmosphere stiff and stale. Whale searched himself for something reassuring to say, something that could turn this evening around, but his own mind was struggling to absorb the flood of insights Graham had just given him.

"…these floors are going to be transformed, and it's just going to add to the whole room," Nigel Ricky's voice drifted from the other room. Whale glanced up, listening as Nigel went on about cedar panes and varnish. It was a good distraction: a good, neutral, mindless distraction.

"You ever watch this show?" he asked Graham, jutting his head toward the television.

Graham looked up, meeting his eyes questioningly. Whale gave the briefest of smiles.

If Graham wanted to be friends, they were going to be friends. That meant, watching stupid television shows together; laughing at other people; eating junk food late at night. It meant, not pushing the other to talk; giving them space; waiting to be needed.

It meant, doing nothing; talking about anything; being aware of everything.

And Whale had never thought of himself as friend material, but…this was different. It mattered to him what Graham needed. He hadn't realized how much before, he'd thought it was just a sexual attraction because—well, because, Graham. But it went beyond that. And trying to figure out why or when that even happened didn't seem to matter so much: what mattered right now, was watching this stupid house-flipping show with Graham and letting him forget about everything else.

"Let's order pizza," Whale decided, pulling out his phone. "I'm feeling extra cheese tonight—you?"

"Victor…" Graham looked over, half a smile on his face. He looked weary and disheveled, his hair sticking up and his clothes all rumples and wrinkles; but he looked at peace. "Look…"

Whale raised his eyebrows, phone in hand, determinedly nonchalant. Graham ducked his head and laughed, emerging with a wider and brighter smile than Whale had ever seen on him.

"Extra cheese is just extra fat." Graham tugged the phone out of his hand. "Stop trying to sabotage your arteries. We're getting regular cheese."