"Marshalllll," Lily called, closing the door to the apartment behind her and dropping her school bag unceremoniously next to the doorway. She kicked off her shoes and threw her coat on the coat rack with a grunt, then shuffled into the kitchen to grab a beer. After expertly removing the cap, she took a swig of it, belched loudly, and flopped onto the couch. 

"Did you take a bite out of my apricot?"

Jess was not yet aware of the fact that she had an active saboteur in her life, so when she'd awakened that morning to find that the coffee table was broken, the sink was out of order, and there was a bite out of the apricot she was going to eat for breakfast, it did not occur to her that it might be Charlie proving his love.

As Nick staggered into the kitchen, that morning, she turned to him, the sweet, tangy ball in hand and held it up for his inspection.  On second thought, judging by the confused expression on Nick's face, when she showed him the fruit, Jess had another idea.  "It was probably Winston.  I mean, Schmidt would never leave half-eaten fruit lying around all night.  I need to have a real talk with Winston about this.  If he wants the apricot, he can have it, but don't leave it with a bite taken out of it.  That's just...gross."  With a sigh, she chucked it into the sink.

"No, Lorelai, I can't let you do this."

It was an ongoing discussion, through the whole sixteen years of their relationship, and one that Luke primarily let lapse, but occasionally felt compelled to bring up again.  It was her quip about grease that had reintroduced the topic to his mind.

"Rory is still a growing child.  She needs to eat properly."  Usually, he would have broken in, about now, to address Rory, herself, on the topic, but Rory was at Chilton, at the moment, forcing Luke to try bargaining with Lorelai, even though he knew just how far that tactic had always gotten him in the past.  "Do you know what the government oks?  I just read an article about the direct link between alzheimers and gmos.  Please, reconsider."

The inscrutable look on Lorelai's face gave him the answer, and Luke might have relented just then, had a tow-headed young man, sporting an admittedly nice brown leather coat and - was that Dean Forester?  He carried himself differently, somehow - stepped inside.  With a conceited smirk, the leather-clad one sank into the seat beside Lorelai.  "Oh, good, a lecture on the virtues of salads.  Save it.  Burgers are what America runs on.  We're real people with real lives.  We don't eat rabbit food."

Belle was starting to get a hang of the woods.  Generally, she tried to be sure she was always close enough to at least one of the gang (usually Robin) that she could find her way to them and get back, at the least, but she did feel confident enough, now, that she would sometimes venture just out of sight of the camp and return without even the most mild concern of getting lost.  She was also absolutely determined to be a help.  If she was going to live on their kindness, she could at least do her part.  Fortunately, her time with Rumple had ensured that, despite being born a princess, she was far from useless where upkeep was concerned.

Today she'd volunteered to help Much with the food and, returning with a basketful of berries, she heard some commotion.  Robin, she realized, must be back.  He'd taken a few of his people and gone on some expedition and, putting the basket down hastily, she hurried to meet him.  What she found was not what she might have expected.

Robin stood, arms crossed, staring down a...pirate.  No sooner had she come upon them than said pirate looked up and spotted her.  Interest dawned in his face and she realized with a sinking feeling that he'd recognized her.  However, he wasn't the only one.

"Ah, Princess Belle of the Enchanted Forest.  It's a pleasure to finally meet you...even under such," he cast a dubious glance at his bonds.  "Circumstances.  I have to tell you, I can see much more of the family resemblance in person."

Casting a confused glance at Robin, Belle came closer and shook her head, "What're you talking about?"

"Your sister, naturally.  Do you know, I happen to be carrying some incredibly precious cargo in my hold.  Rather, in a safe location nearby.  In any case, I'd be willing to part with it, or should I say, her...For a price."

"My sister?" whispered Belle.  Her breath caught in her throat and she felt almost as if she were floating.  It was utterly surreal.  Yes, she had thought they might come here for refuge, but this was the furthest thing from the kind of reunion she'd been expecting.  

"Why, yes.  The very sister you gave up everything to save.  I do hope you remembered me to the Dark One."

"Aurora.  You have Aurora?  What price?  I have nothing left.  What could you possibly want?"

"You're not the only one, Your Majesty," the pirate began, mockingly.  "Who has history with that crocodile.  I will give you back your sister in exchange for the Dark One.  Do we have a deal?"

"He sent me away.  I don't have any power over him," said Belle softly.

"I would settle for his location."

Belle's eyes narrowed, taking him in.  A roguish smile, a shock of unruly dark hair, and most obvious of all, a silver hook where a hand ought to have been.  "You're Captain Hook!  You've haunted our borders long enough for me to know something of you."

"And what, pray tell, is that?"

"Where did you leave your ship?"

Hook gave a raucous laugh.  "At the dock, obviously.  Where else?"

"You're lying.  I've read about you."  Glancing down at his boots, she shrugged.  "You aren't a common sailor, you're a pirate.  You know what you're sailing into before you go there and you like best waters whose tricks you know well.  If you were truly born here, these waters certainly qualify.  You never leave your ship far behind and, most of all, if you came in at the dock, why are your boots covered in sand?  I know where you left your ship.  I know where my sister is."  A grin spread over her face and, without another word, she turned.

"Even if your coy little tricks did indeed work, my crew would never hand her over to you.  What makes you think, little princess, that you can walk straight into a villainous horde and come back out with your loot?"

Alana let out a deep sigh of contentment as she settled into a booth at Luke's Diner, her hands wrapping around a steaming mug of coffee as thick and as black as Luke could make it. He had taken one look at Alana and set the mug down in front of her without a single word.

It had been one of those days. Filled with pretentious college psych majors and the FBI sending her yet another case to start profiling and a few clients that were teetering on the edge of obnoxious. She could take it every one in a while, but things had been like this for a week straight, and nothing but her near-constant coffee consumption had kept Alana upright.

Niklaus Mikaelson had long ago learned the secret to eternity: enjoy it.  Klaus, for one, did not intend to loose his grasp on eternity and the '20s were proving to hold a spark he'd scarcely seen.  Not only was he operating on a fine plan that would keep ears open for Mikael, he was involved in something that was exciting.  Klaus could brandish readily a mask, flit from face to face, and it gave this era a newness that someone as old as himself had to work hard to maintain.

This dinner party promised to be another such opportunity.  Now, he was to be a gentleman of English extraction, himself, who had come to America for some freshness with his four siblings - yes, now he had but four left to him, having lost Henrik so early and having been, regrettably, forced to dagger Finn in the 1110s.  But it was only his dear Rebekah who would be at his side, tonight, glittering in all her finery.  It would be intriguing, he felt, to think of England again, since it had been so many years since last he'd been there, but he felt no qualms in pulling it off, even with natives fresh from its shores.

The Levinson family was one of the wealthiest in the nation, and he was pleased to call on them.  Afterall, the Mikaelson family fortune was no small feat, itself.  Klaus had borne unspeakable treasures back from the Holy Land during the Crusades and that had been a mere foundation.

"The Bates Motel," announced the cab driver, husky voice wafting to the backseat.  He'd put out his cigarette to chauffeur the pregnant girl, fortunately, but she could still hear smoke in his voice.

"Wow," whispered Claire as he kindly got out of the car to grab her bags from the trunk.  One hand on her swollen belly, she slid awkwardly towards the door, placing a reluctant hand on the panel.

Broad daylight definitely helped the place, sun looming over the Victorian house on the hill.  Its magisterial command of the motel only set it in that much more of a spooky light, however.  The motel itself was a shoddy piece of work, probably belonging to a much earlier era in which it may have looked presentable.  Now, though not falling down, it was grungy and stale.  Each of the cars parked outside were rusty and ancient affairs, save one red car and one vintage Impala, both of which appeared to get a great deal of attention from their owners but only one of which was a fine vehicle.

"Ok," she murmured, opening the door and folding out.  Admittedly, movement wasn't the easiest thing and, as much as she wasn't looking forward to giving birth, she was definitely looking forward to not being pregnant anymore.

"Thanks," she said to the driver as he carelessly dropped her bags on the ground.  Forcing a smile, she put the money into his hands and, with a grunt, he took it and drove away.

Claire cast a glance towards the unsavory place and bit her lip.  This wasn't exactly what she'd expected from America.

Claire was in a fog.  The plane ride had been exhausting and, cramped as it might have been otherwise, this pregnant she felt as if her stomach was about to touch the seat in front of her.  Shuffling off the plane, into a cab, and into this tiny town, she was in a total blur.  She tried to ignore the pitying looks and the judging ones alike and concentrated on breathing in deeply of the cool air in Hillwood.  The Independence Inn looked inviting enough and, lugging her bags onto her shoulders, Claire began shuffling towards the door.

Inside, the man behind the counter sniffed superciliously towards her as Claire let her bags drop onto the floor.  "Hi, um, I'm Claire Littleton," she said.

He rolled his eyes towards her, towards her stomach, and up to her again.  "Ah," was all he said in a heavy French accent and, despite herself, Claire breathed a sigh, her hand instinctively moving to her abdomen.