#mini aus

The black labrador was in poor shape. She was limping, one paw loosely and unprofessionally bandaged, and her owner looked somewhat sheepish as David lifted the dog up onto the table.

"So, what happened here, then?" he made like he was asking the dog, which he'd found usually helped set nervy owners at ease.

"She... ah, she got into a bit of a fight," the woman said, fiddling with the ring on her finger nervously. "Ruby's not usually a fighter but she gets antsy around the full moon."

"Ah, I see," David nodded, "Anyone injured?"

"A squirrel got off a little better," the woman snickered. "She can sure pick her fights."

David made a face, "Yeesh, squirrels are aggressive little bastards." He picked up Ruby's paw and started his examination, checking the wound - not infected, luckily - and the bruising - not too extensive, but Ruby whimpered at the prodding and needed her owner to soothe her. "You got off lightly there, girl," he murmured. Ruby gave him a sullen look.

"I'm sorry," he straightened, looking the owner in the eye. She was astonishingly pretty, he thought, with a jet-black pixie cut grown long at the top, sweet olive eyes and a wide, warm smile. She looked like birds would dress her in the morning. "I... didn't catch your name."

"Mary Margaret," she said, and the smile grew wider, and David didn't think he'd ever seen anything more beautiful in his life. "Blanchard. You're Dr Nolan?"

"David," he said, quickly, not wanting this woman to think of him in entirely professional terms. "You can... call me David."

God I can barely remember that remix! Best shot here we come!

Winter in Maine allows for baggy, oversized sweaters: for that Belle is grateful.

Unfortunately, she can't wear them all the time, and sooner or later someone was bound to notice. Emma Swan, thankfully, was discreet, but then why wouldn't she be? Everyone knows shat she was in this same position, when she was younger than Belle is now.

Gold offers to let her stay with him for the duration, but Belle declines. It hurts his pride, she can see, but she's not stupid: he doesn't love her, or their child, and while it's nice to see he does have a sense of duty once in a while that's all it is. Duty. She didn't get rid of it when she could, before she felt so goddamn attatched to the baby in her belly, and now she's stuck with motherhood. Bitterness and cynicism about it are easier than the alternative, she supposes.

But when Regina Mills sees her in her car, heating on full blast and sweater discarded... well, then Belle knows she's done for. But there's radio silence for days, and she wonders, she wonders if Gold is wrong, and the Mayor isn't as cruel as they say.

The Mirror runs a story on it. It makes Belle sick to her stomach, the patronising, cloying, 'oh poor unfortunate soul' tone it takes, with the underlying intrigue of 'who could be the father?' No one knows, of course, and she won't tell. But soon, everyone is asking.

Soon, her father is asking. Loudly, with a fist pounding on the table and murder in his eyes, as he swings wildly between accusing her of whoring around town, and swearing to kill whichever bastard knocked her up and left her high and dry.

The money from Gold's account went into Belle's every month to pay for her expenses. That makes her feel even sicker: like she is a whore, and now he's just paying to keep her from saying his name aloud. What would everyone think, if they knew it was his? What would they do?

"You can still move in," he tells her, when she calls and sobs late that night. Moe is kicking her out the next day, baby or no baby. He won't have the shame on his house, he won't have his daughter acting so unreasonably, he just won't have it. "I have a spare bedroom."

"What would everyone say?"