A/N: I'm having fun with this :) Okay, so Belle has agreed to go on a date, and Ives is hungry. Here's what happened next.


Once Ives had walked Belle to the bank and seen her safely inside, he bid her goodbye until that evening, taking the keys to his new place from her. He then returned to Granny's and paid for a second night. He had little in the way of luggage, and he was going to need some more clothes if he was to stay any length of time, but he decided to wait a day or two before looking into that. Once he had confirmed his sleeping arrangements for the evening, he carried his leather bag over to the house, placing it in the dark and roomy basement, and then decided to explore the town. It was bigger than it appeared at first glance, and he spent several hours walking the streets, memorising which shops were where, and the point at which businesses gave way to residential properties. He drew some curious looks from the inhabitants, and he smiled and touched his hat to them, causing surprised but friendly nods in return.

The day was cold yet sunny and pleasant, despite the freezing temperatures, but there was a dark, angry bank of clouds building near the horizon. He suspected that another storm was blowing in, and that it would be upon them within a day or so. It would mean more snow on top of what was already on the ground, and made it far less likely that the townsfolk would venture out of doors. He would need to make his move that evening, then, if he were not to miss his chance. For now, however, the weather was calm, if bitterly cold, and the sun's glare off the thick snow was harsh on his eyes. It was with some relief that he entered the cool darkness of the Rabbit Hole, the only bar in the whole of Storybrooke.

Ruby had told him it was a dump, and it certainly smelt stale, of spilt beer and cigarettes. He saw a couple of the patrons smoking, and as no one seemed to mind, he drew out one of his thin cigars, sitting down at the bar. A quick word to the bartender was enough to get him a glass of beer, frothy and refreshing, and he nodded his thanks as he surveyed the occupants.

"New in town, huh?" The bartender was unremarkable, a somewhat heavy man with dark hair and a forgettable face. He failed to hold Ives's interest.

"We don't get many visitors here," the man added, and Ives nodded.

"So I hear. The town isn't that isolated, surely?"

"There are bigger and prettier towns further down the coast," said the bartender, placing an ashtray in front of him with a shrug. "Not much to attract people to Storybrooke, I guess; we're kind of off the tourist route. What brings you here, Mr…?"

"A little rest and relaxation, that's all." Ives drank some of his beer, pleasantly surprised at the flavour. Condensation ran down the side of the glass, pooling at the bottom as he set it down on the bar, and he put the cigar between his lips and scratched a match, the brief scent of sulphur stinging his nostrils as flame burst upwards. He pulled in smoke and the flavour of tobacco, the end of the cigar glowing deep orange. The action was soothing, and he let looping whorls of smoke stream from his mouth as he looked around, casting his eye over the patrons. Two men were playing pool, dressed in jeans and leather jackets, one complaining about the shot the other had just taken. There were a few others, all with the slightly glazed look of men who'd been there since opening time and would likely be there until the place closed. Ives tried to refrain from curling his lip at the scent of beer and stale sweat coming off them.

"I'm told this is the only bar in town," he mused, tapping ash from the end of his cigar with the flick of his thumb.

"Well, you can get a drink at Granny's," acknowledged the bartender, wiping a glass with a cloth and leaving thick streaks on it. "This is the only place to have a good time, though. You should come along in the evenings; we have pool contests, music… plus there are quite a lot of cute girls in this town, if you know what I'm saying."

Ives gave a non-committed shrug, taking another pull on his cigar, and the bartender took the hint and left him alone, going to serve a group of men at the other end of the bar. Ives sat quietly, fingers tapping on the edge of his beer glass, letting the smoke drift from his nostrils and curl around the side of his face in the slight draught. His body was tense, his instincts readying him for the hunt, for the kill. But he had to be careful. No reckless moves. A stranger would be the first to be suspected. He watched the others in the bar, listened to their conversations, and assessed their weaknesses as he blew out smoke in a thin, bluish stream.


It was just after one when Belle shoved open the door to the diner, huffing a little from the cold air that scorched her lungs. The weather was freezing, but the inside of the diner was warm, and she hurriedly pulled off her hat and unwound the scarf from around her throat. The diner was busy; it seemed that many of the residents of Storybrooke had decided on a hot lunch rather than sandwiches, and she couldn't blame them.

"Hey, Belle." Ruby looked over from where she was delivering burgers to two hungry diners, dark hair swinging. "I'll be right with you, okay?"

"I just need a grilled cheese and an iced tea," said Belle, and Ruby set two cups of coffee down and spun away from the table.

"Coming right up," she said, winking at Belle, and jotted the order on a pad, tearing it off and giving it to one of the other waitresses as she bustled through to the kitchens. Belle pushed herself up onto one of the bar stools, one foot tucked behind the other, and Ruby leant on the bar, a grin on her face.

"Book club tomorrow night?" she asked, and Belle returned the grin.

"Wine and snacks already bought," she confirmed. "How did you like the book?"

"I loved it!" said Ruby enthusiastically. "Captain Wentworth is my new fictional crush, by the way, so hands off, missy!"

Belle giggled. "Mary Margaret will be pleased he was such a hit," she remarked. "Remember it's your choice for next time."

Ruby pouted. "Fine. I'll try to pick something that doesn't make us all cry. Unlike you."

"Hey, you said you liked that book!" protested Belle, and Ruby shrugged.

"I did. Mascara down my face is so not a good look, though. Maybe I'll suggest Terry Pratchett, or something. Magic, fun - something to make us laugh."

"Fine with me." Belle shrugged off her coat, and Ruby waited patiently until she had draped it over the stool and sat back down.

"So?" she said, and Belle raised an eyebrow.

"So - what?"

Ruby looked put-upon, straightening up and slapping the bar with the flat of her hands.

"So - have you seen our mysterious stranger?" she demanded, and Belle blushed.

"Yes," she admitted.

"And?" persisted Ruby. "What do you think? He's pretty charming, right? Good tipper, too. A little short for my tastes and probably way too old, but beggars can't be choosers in this dump." She winked at Belle. "Probably the perfect height for you to smooch, though, Belle."

Belle shot her a wry look, but inclined her head.

"I - um - have a date with him, actually," she admitted, and Ruby squeaked in excitement, eyes widening.

"Awesome! It's about time you got back on the scene after that asshole left."

Belle shot her a look.

"I'm not getting back on any scene," she said. "It's dinner, that's all."

"Dinner, a little kissing, maybe some groping…" Ruby squawked as Belle shoved her. "What? I'm thinking of your welfare. Maybe he'll keep Creepy Keith off your ass!"

"The thought of Keith anywhere near my ass is repulsive," said Belle, sticking out her tongue. "But I don't need anyone to keep him away from me, thank you, I can take care of myself."

"Hmm." Ruby poured her iced tea, dropping a lemon slice in the top of the glass. "So where's the mysterious Colonel Ives taking you?"

"I've no idea," said Belle, honestly. "I guess there aren't many alternatives, are there? We're meeting at seven."

Ruby slid the glass across the bar to her, a little tea spilling over the top and running down the sides as she did so.

"What's your first impression?" she asked, and Belle frowned slightly.

"I'm not sure," she said slowly. "It's weird, it's like - it's kind of like I trust him."

"You trust everyone," said Ruby dismissively, wiping the bar with a cloth, and Belle stuck out her tongue again.

"I do not. I mean it, though. I feel safe with him."

"Good." Ruby tucked the cloth into the back pocket of her shorts. "If he tries anything that changes that, I'll kick his ass, okay?"

"Understood." Belle rolled her eyes a little, and Ruby winked at her.

"Tomorrow, I want all the details," she said with relish, and Belle grinned, stirring her drink with a straw before putting her lips to it.


Ives made his way back to Granny's at six, having spent a few hours in the Rabbit Hole, then tracing and memorising a path along the back streets between there and his new home. He saw no one, which pleased him. It was unlikely that there would be any witnesses to what he planned. The only thing that remained was to select his target.

Upon returning to the inn, he showered and shaved, trimming his beard and moustache, and changed into narrow black pants and a white shirt beneath a black waistcoat. Ives preferred a cravat over a regular tie, and he looped a length of black silk around his neck, wrapping it around the winged collar of the shirt and knotting it. The overall effect was old-fashioned, he knew, but he felt that there was a certain charm to it. He had certainly never enjoyed feeling ordinary. Not that that would ever be an issue, of course. Drawing on a black jacket, he straightened the sleeves and brushed his hair back, brown strands shining in the lamplight and falling almost to his shoulders. He leant on the dresser, surveying himself in the mirror. Dark eyes looked back out of a slightly tanned face, the light reflecting off high cheekbones. He nodded curtly, and drew on his overcoat, tucking a couple of cigars and his wallet into the inside pocket.

There was a hum of conversation coming from the diner when he entered, and as he had thirty minutes or so before he had to meet Belle, he walked up to the bar and ordered a whisky. Ruby poured him a large one, winking at him before going back to her waitressing, and he told himself to give her a generous tip. Sipping the whisky, he let the atmosphere surround him, listening with half an ear to the conversation between the diners. It reminded him how hungry he was.

"Who are you?" A piping voice made him turn slowly, and he saw that a young boy, bundled up in a duffle-coat and grey and red scarf, was staring at him suspiciously. Gloves hung on strings out of the sleeves of his jacket, and Ives smiled at him.

"I'm Colonel Ives, young man," he said kindly. "And you are?"

"How did you get into Storybrooke?" asked the boy, without answering, and Ives felt his brow crinkle.

"I walked," he said simply, and the boy shook his head.

"No one ever comes here," he said urgently. "How did you do it? You shouldn't stay here, you might not be able to leave again if you do."

"Henry!" A woman's sharp voice made both of them look to the door, and the same dark haired woman that Ives remembered holding the door open for that morning hurried up.

"What did I tell you about punctuality?" she demanded, and the boy shrugged. The woman - his mother, Ives presumed - rolled her eyes.

"You'll be late for your session with Archie," she said firmly.

"I was just talking to Colonel Ives," said Henry brightly, gesturing to him. "He's new in town, Mom. Isn't that neat?"

The woman straightened up slowly, appearing to notice Ives for the first time. She was a beautiful creature, he thought. Eyes as dark as his, with flawless skin and full red lips. There was a hardness to her, though, which he admired, but which he had no desire to try to get past. She looked him over, frowning slightly.

"What are you doing in Storybrooke?" she demanded, with more hostility than he thought warranted.

"Enjoying the peace and quiet," he said, the left side of his mouth curving upwards slightly in amusement. An odd hush had fallen over the diner, the customers eyeing them as they pushed food around their plates without eating.

"How did you get here?" she demanded frostily, and Ives made an ostentatious show of looking behind himself, as though she couldn't possibly be addressing him in that manner. He turned back to her with a small grin.

"I walked in," he said abruptly. "Which from the reactions I've had, appears to be highly unusual, although I can't imagine why."

"No strangers ever come to this town," she said coldly.

"Well, perhaps that will change," he said easily, his hand flicking towards her, fingers curling inward as he pointed. "Assuming you permit them entry, of course. I noticed a distinct lack of watchtowers and armed sentries on my approach, though it's possible I missed your heavily-defended border. The storm, you know." He showed his teeth.

Her eyes narrowed, and he decided to show that he had better manners than she.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he said smoothly, extending a hand. "My name is Colonel Ives."

The woman studied him intently, frowning, as though she were looking for something and not finding it. All at once she broke into a sweet, insincere smile, her lips curving upwards.

"Regina Mills, Mayor of Storybrooke," she said, in honeyed tones, and shook his hand briefly. "Are you staying at the inn?"

"Just one more night," he said, still smiling. "I managed to find a place to rent for a few months."

"So you're staying for some time?" Her voice had an edge to it, before she seemed to recollect herself, the smile returning. He shrugged, looking around.

"It seems a quaint little place," he said, gesturing to the room. "Quiet little town, sea air, friendly locals." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Perfect for a little - recuperation, wouldn't you agree?"

"Of course." She was still studying him, still smiling, but there was a slight, puzzled crinkle in her brow. He wondered what on earth was bothering her.

"Well, I certainly hope the townsfolk make you welcome," she said pleasantly, and put her hands on her son's shoulders, steering him towards the door. "Come, Henry. Do enjoy your stay, Colonel Ives."

That last was said over her shoulder, with a final, brief look, and he watched as she led Henry out of the diner and off down the street.

"So, you met the lovely Mayor." Ruby's voice made him turn, and he shrugged.

"She seemed not to like me all that much," he observed, and Ruby sniffed, collecting glasses and stacking them on the tray she was carrying.

"Yeah, don't take it personally, she doesn't like anyone all that much, except maybe Sheriff Graham. And Henry, of course."

She straightened up, resting the tray on her hip and fixing him with a beady eye.

"So, where are you taking my best girl tonight?" she demanded, and he blinked.

"Ah," he said. "You're friends with Miss French?"

"Best friends," corrected Ruby. "And despite the fact that you're a guest, I'm here to tell you that if you try anything funny I will beat you to death with ten pounds of frozen sausage meat, okay?" She smiled sweetly, and he couldn't help grinning.

"Then perhaps you can assist me in choosing a venue," he said, and Ruby shifted the tray of glasses to her other arm.

"Not much choice," she admitted. "Marco's is your best bet. The food's great, the service is good, and it's small enough to feel - intimate." She waggled her eyebrows at him. "I could book you a table, if you like."

"Is there a reason you're being so helpful?" he asked dryly, and her grin widened.

"I want her to have a good time, that's all," she said. "Make sure you're interesting and attentive."

She spun on the balls of her feet, flouncing off to the kitchen, and he watched her go, amused. She came running back shortly afterwards to tell him they were booked in for seven-thirty, and he nodded his thanks and drank the rest of his whisky. He had five minutes to get over to the library, and he always liked to be punctual, so he set down his glass, slipped some money underneath it, and made his way out into the cold night air.

The street outside was eerily quiet, the sound of the diner cutting off as the door closed, and he pulled out a cigar and lit it, watching the empty street. The cold was trying to get through his clothes, its thin claws probing and rummaging, but he tried his best to ignore it as he waited for some sign of movement near the library. He was looking forward to the evening; a meal with a beautiful woman was something he hadn't experienced in some time, and he intended to enjoy it. Quite how the evening would end was something he hadn't settled on. He didn't want to kill her, though. He had already decided that.

He took another draw on the cigar as he waited, and a man shuffled up the street across from him, the leather jacket he was wearing poor protection against the weather. Ives recognised him as one of the patrons of the Rabbit Hole, a whiny, aggressive bully who tried to start fights when he lost at pool. He dropped his eyes, focusing on the thin, trampled crust of snow on the top step, where the hot ash of his cigar fell and briefly melted the ice. The sound of the library door opening made him look up, and he watched with a growing smile as Belle stepped out, locking the door behind her, a hat pulled down on her head.

"Well, hey there!"

Ives frowned as the man across the street from him straightened up and stepped near Belle. She sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Library's closed," she said, in quelling tones, and he grinned.

"Good. Then you're free, right?"

"Actually no, I'm busy." She was putting her keys back in her bag, and Ives started to make his way down the steps, carefully watching the man across the street.

"I was just heading to the Rabbit Hole," the man went on.

"Really? Good for you." Belle looked up and down the street a little anxiously, and Ives wondered if he should make his presence known.

"Come on, Belle, come for a drink." The man was standing too close to her, and he watched her shrink back a little, clearly intimidated.

"I already told you no a dozen times," she said firmly, her shoulders a little hunched.

"Yeah, but you didn't tell me why," the man persisted.

"Because I'm not interested, Keith, that's why."

"Why the hell not? Think you're too good for me?"

Belle was silent, and Ives could tell that her desire not to lie was warring with her sense of self-preservation. He stepped onto the road on silent feet.

"Miss French?" he said, and two heads whipped around to stare at him, a growing sense of relief in Belle's expression. The man scowled.

"Take yourself elsewhere, we're talking," he growled, and Ives looked at him steadily.

"He's my date," said Belle tartly. "Good evening, Colonel, I was just locking up."

Ives continued to lock eyes with the other man as he drew on his cigar, his gaze unblinking, and his adversary eventually dropped his eyes.

"I'd have to be desperate, anyway," he muttered. "Hope you like 'em frigid, man."

Ives felt rage flare in him, an unusual and somewhat exhilarating feeling, and his fists clenched as the man turned his back and carried on down the street. It would be the work of an instant to step up behind him and break his neck…

"Sorry about that." Belle's voice cut through his murderous thoughts. "He's been pestering me for months, I'd hoped he would have moved on to someone else."

"The man clearly has neither subtlety nor manners," was all he said, feeling his fists unclench, a slight pain where his nails had dug into the palms of his hands.

"Yeah, well, that's Storybrooke for you." Belle's voice was dry. "Forget about the leering vileness that is Keith Nott. Shall we go?"

"Of course." He turned from where he had been watching the hulking idiot make his retreat, and offered her his arm.

"I - had your friend book us a table for the evening," he added. "Marco's. She said that would be best."

Belle gave him a sidelong look.

"You spoke to Ruby?" she asked suspiciously. "And she booked us a table? What the hell is she up to?"

He grinned. "I did ask that. Apparently I am to be - ah - interesting and attentive." His fingers danced in the air, smoke spiralling up from the cigar. "I can promise at least one of those."

Belle chuckled, squeezing his arm. "Well, okay then. I'll kill her later."

"I think she cares about you a lot," he said thoughtfully. "There are certainly worse traits in a friend."

They walked along the street. Her arm was snug in his, her scent drifting out in the air and working its way into his mind. The swell of her breast was pressing against his arm, even through her coat, and he was enjoying her closeness, the feel of her hip brushing his as they walked. He finished the cigar, grinding the butt on the snow-covered rim of a trashcan before dropping it in.

"Are you alone, in the library?" he asked, and she sighed.

"Yeah. The Mayor isn't all that generous with funding, so if I'm sick, there's no one to cover." she explained. "I love it, though. I hold a lot of sessions with the kids. They love books! It's so rewarding to see them getting engaged with a story."

Her eyes glinted with excitement, and he couldn't help smiling.

"I met the Mayor's son today," he said, and Belle's eyebrows shot up.

"Oh! You met Henry!" She looked delighted. "Oh, he's such a bright boy! I know I'm not supposed to have favourites, but…" She shrugged, looking a little self-conscious.

"He seems very - inventive," he remarked. "An interesting child."

"He was given a book by his school teacher," said Belle. "I expect you'll meet her soon - Mary Margaret Blanchard. It seems to have kick-started his imagination."

"Hmm."

He was silent for a moment as they walked along, and paused as Belle squeezed his arm, and they stopped outside a restaurant with dark red awnings and a heady scent of garlic and herbs drifting out in the winter air.

"Here we are," she said.

The restaurant was warm and snug, Marco's staff running around with bright smiles and trays of fragrant dishes. Marco himself showed them to a table by the window, and Belle beamed as she sat across from him, spreading out the skirt of her dark blue dress with her hands. She had taken off her hat and the wool coat she had been wearing, revealing a modest amount of pale skin above the neckline of the dress. Her hair was twisted up on her head, coppery strands shining in the light, and for a moment he wondered what it would look like unbound, falling around her naked shoulders. He ran his forefinger over his upper lip, feeling the thick, slightly coarse hair there, wanting to touch her.

"Do you drink, Miss French?" he asked, and she nodded, waving a hand.

"Please, call me Belle," she insisted. "Miss French is so formal - now we're having dinner I think we should be on first name terms, don't you?"

He smiled. "Very well, if you insist. I'm afraid that I'm somewhat old-fashioned."

"Never apologise for good manners," she said, and raised an eyebrow. "So - what do I call you?"

"Ah." Ives sat back a little and tugged at his waistcoat, smoothing the front. "Francis."

Belle smiled. "That's a nice name. It suits you."

"Fortunate." He grinned at her, and motioned to one of the waiters, who hurried over with dishes of bread and olives.

"Why don't I get us a bottle of something?" he suggested, and Belle looked up, her eyes a deep blue in the candlelight.

"I'd prefer red wine, if that's okay," she said, and he nodded. Once they had ordered, and the wine had been poured, Belle shifted a little in her seat, looking over the menu. She was chewing her lower lip as she concentrated, and he watched her with an intensity that surprised him. There was something about her, something beyond her pure beauty and her good nature. Something calling to him. He pulled his eyes from her, looking at the menu to distract himself.

"I'll have the sausage rigatoni," Belle said decidedly. "I can recommend it, by the way, it's really good."

"Actually, I was thinking of the orecchiette with broccoli," he said, and she looked surprised.

"Oh, are you vegetarian? I didn't know."

"I'm not," he admitted, putting the menu down. "I just don't eat meat all that often. I - I like to cook it myself, to know where it came from, do you understand?"

"I think so," she nodded. "My dad likes to catch fish, so we eat that quite a bit. I guess you want to know that what you're eating has had a good life, right?"

Ives smiled. "Something like that."

They ordered the meals, handing back the menus and sitting back in their chairs, and Belle sipped at her wine, watching him.

"What part of Scotland are you from?" she asked, and he smiled briefly.

"The wilds," he said, and she giggled.

"Well, for a guy that's been living in the wilds, you dress remarkably well," she noted, and he shrugged.

"There is never an excuse for a man being badly turned out," he said.

"What brought you over here?" she asked, and he sighed.

"It's a long story," he said, scratching his left sideburn. "Perhaps not one for a first date. Do you mind?"

"Not at all." She took another drink of her wine. "I just - it was obvious you weren't from around here, and then I heard the accent…" She waved a hand. "I admit, I was intrigued, but if I'm prying, just tell me to keep my nose out."

She grinned at him, to let him know that she was sincere, but he still felt a little bad for keeping the story from her.

"What about you?" he asked, taking a sip of the wine. It was as dark and rich as blood, but without the power, the fire. It would do. For now.

"Not much to tell," admitted Belle, pushing a crumb of bread around on the plate with her forefinger. "We moved here from Melbourne when I was around ten, I think. Mum had died about six months earlier, and I think Dad just wanted to get away from anything that reminded him of her."

"I'm sorry," he said, and she nodded.

"It's okay, I was very young. I can still remember her, of course, but the pain faded a long time ago. I think it's worse for Dad. I wish he'd date. Since he opened the flower shop he's been on his own, except for me."

Ives popped an olive into his mouth and chewed, the taste salty and rich, heady with garlic and the slightly astringent flavour of dried thyme. He swallowed it down, the tip of his tongue licking the slick sheen of golden oil from his fingertips, and Belle watched him with widening eyes.

"No matchmaking on your part?" he remarked, and she started a little before rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, my history of relationships isn't exactly stellar, so there's no way I'm interfering with his," she remarked dryly.

He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Sounds intriguing."

Belle pulled a face. "Trust me, it really isn't. I've had a few relationships. Nothing that really meant anything. My last boyfriend left town a year or so ago, so maybe that gives you an indication of my success." She looked wry.

"What happened?" he asked, and she sighed.

"The usual. We started dating in school, and we grew apart. We were looking for different things. I wanted to study and travel, and he wanted to settle down."

She turned her wineglass around on the tablecloth, the ruby-red liquid catching the light from the candles, slender fingers stroking rhythmically against the thin stem.

"In the end he said I was spending too much time shut away in the library, and not enough with him," she added. "He told me I had to choose. So - that was that."

"Ultimatums rarely turn out how one would want," he observed, and she shrugged, taking a drink.

"He wasn't a bad person."

"He was a fool," said Ives softly, and she blushed a little, ducking her head self-consciously. He picked up the bottle, pouring more wine for the both of them, and his eyes flicked up to meet hers. He could tell the exact moment when her breath caught in her chest and her heart rate increased. That blush was still in her cheeks, her eyes sparkling, and he felt his own heart quicken in response to the sight of her, something that hadn't happened in… He couldn't remember the last time that had happened. He sat back slowly, trying to process what he was feeling. Belle dropped her eyes, concentrating on the red-checked tablecloth, on a few crumbs that she was pushing around with a fingertip, trying to fit them inside one of the tiny white squares.

"What - um - about you?" she asked, and glanced up at him. "Any tragic tales of relationships gone bad?"

He shrugged, trying to think clearly. "Not much to tell, I'm afraid. All I can say is, it's been a very long time since I went to dinner with anyone."

"Oh." Belle smiled again. "Well, I hope I don't disappoint."

"Impossible." He returned the smile, and raised his glass.


The food was excellent, despite its obvious shortcomings from his perspective, and he was surprised at how easy it was to talk to her. Belle French was a good, pure soul with a dry sense of humour and an obsessive love of books, and she was extremely good company. He found himself looking forward to seeing her again, if she would allow it. He tried not to think about the reactions he was having around her, of how much he wanted to touch her, to kiss her. Of how badly he wanted her. Need - that sort of need - was something he couldn't remember experiencing in - well, he couldn't recall how long. Perhaps that was the problem. Too long on his own. Yes.

Having paid, and waved away her offer of splitting the cost, he walked her home, the night air clinging to them and making Belle shiver. He wanted to smoke, but had decided to wait until he was on his way home, until he left her at the door of her apartment. Until he was alone once more. Belle glanced up at him, eyes shining from beneath her lashes, and his urge to kiss her, to taste her, was growing. He thought she would allow it. As they reached the door of the stairwell that led up to her apartment, Belle pulled her arm gently from his and turned on the balls of her feet.

"Well," she said decidedly. "Are you going to kiss me?"

He blinked. "Yes."

She smiled at him encouragingly, and so he stepped forward a little, wishing his hands were not so cold. His fingers cupped her cheeks, his hair falling forward a little as he bent his head, his mouth finding hers. She was softness and warmth and life, her lips yielding to him, parting at the first touch of his tongue, and Belle moaned a little as his hands moved down her shoulders, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her close. She was sweet, a hint of the rich wine still on her tongue, and he deepened the kiss, aroused by the sound she made and the feel of her body against his. Eventually he pulled back, his lips tugging at hers a little as he withdrew, and Belle let her hands slip from his shoulders, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright.

"Whoa," she whispered, and he grinned widely.

"I second that reaction," he breathed and she giggled a little, her hands slipping to his waist and curling over his hips. It was a pleasant feeling, and he let his forehead rest against hers for a moment, inhaling her scent.

"Do you - want to come up?" she asked a little breathlessly. She was looking up at him from beneath her lashes, and he wanted her desperately, a dark and pulsing desire that was almost frightening in its intensity.

"Yes!" he rasped, and kissed her again. She clung to him a moment, the kiss deepening, and she was panting as he pulled back.

"But I won't," he added softly, his lips brushing lightly over hers, and was gratified by her disappointed expression.

"Oh." She slipped out of his arms, taking a step back. "Oh. Okay."

"It's not that I don't want to," he assured her. "It's just. Well, it's our first date. It would be inappropriate of me to take advantage in that way."

He smiled a little awkwardly, and she sighed, amused and somewhat exasperated.

"And the second date, Colonel Ives?" she asked innocently, and he grinned.

"Ah. Then I'm ashamed to say that all bets are off."

Belle giggled, a delightful sound bubbling up out of her, and he gave her a brief, short bow, still smiling.

"So," she said, stepping forward again and wrapping her arms around his neck. "There will be a second date, then?"

He winked. "Oh, I think so."

"Hm." She pursed her lips, as though she wanted him to kiss her again. "I'm afraid to say that we have already been to the best place to eat in Storybrooke. Unless you want to get a burger at Granny's, of course."

"Then perhaps I can cook you dinner," he suggested. "Tomorrow night?"

Belle shook her head.

"I can't, it's girls' night," she said.

"Saturday, then."

"I'd like that." Her smile widened, and she kissed him again.

"Eight o'clock?" he asked, and she nodded, stepping back and turning to unlock the door. She looked over her shoulder at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips full and dark from the pressure of his mouth.

"Goodnight, Francis," she said, and he smiled.

"Goodnight, Belle."

He watched her go, the door closing behind her, and turned back up the street with the taste of her still in his mouth. Slipping a cigar from his inside pocket, he lit up, the smoke suggesting a warmth that he didn't feel. The wind was picking up again, the scent of snow lying heavy and sharp in the air, and he put his head down a little and turned into one of the back streets of Storybrooke, heading for the one place that he might find what he was looking for.


He heard the Rabbit Hole before he saw it, the loud screech of electric guitars somewhat distorted by the closed double doors, and he waited outside for a moment to finish his cigar. His senses were heightened, his instincts sharp. This was a place of danger, of violence. He could feel it. He revelled in it.

One of the doors banged open, making him step backwards, and a man lurched out and promptly threw up within a few feet of him. Ives curled his lip.

"You're such a fucking pussy!" Another man barged out, and Ives's brows narrowed as he recognised the man who had been harassing Belle earlier that evening. Nott, had she called him? The man who had vomited was still lying on the ground, groaning a little, and the other sighed, straightening up. His eyes flicked to Ives, and he scowled.

"Oh, it's you," he said belligerently. "What the fuck do you want?"

Ives shrugged, and blew out smoke in a thin stream, making Nott's scowl deepen. Ives flicked ash at him, smiled, and turned on his heel, walking at a slow pace down the alley that ran along the side of the club.

"Hey asshole, wait up!" The man was lurching after him, the thump of his feet loud on the packed snow, and Ives ran his gaze over the alleyway, assessing the possible consequences of what he planned.

"I said wait up!" A hand grasped his shoulder, pulling him around, and Ives tried to restrain his anger as he came face to face with Nott. He was young and well-built, and Ives supposed that women would find him attractive. Physically, at least. Dark hair curled over his brow, his face flushed from alcohol. The stink of beer and cigarettes was rolling off him, and Ives curled his lip.

"Is there something I can help you with?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, you can stay away from Belle," growled Nott. "I've been chasing her for months, got it?"

"Then she's clearly not interested," said Ives coldly. "I asked her once, she said yes. Why don't you leave her alone?"

He could sense a certain level of intelligence in the man, and had he not been drunk, the night could have ended very differently. As it was, Nott chose to swing a punch at him, and Ives ducked it smoothly and rammed the lit cigar butt into his eye. The man opened his mouth to scream, and Ives punched him in the throat, stealing his voice and making him stagger backwards and slam against the alley wall. His head connected with the cold stone with a dull, wet thunk, and he slumped to the floor with a groaning sound that issued up from deep within his chest. Ives walked casually behind him, squatting down and wrapping his arm around Nott's throat, squeezing. There was blood on the back of his head, the scent of it drifting through Ives's nostrils, singing to him, making his heart thump and his mouth water with the promise of the power to come. His victim's dying breath was a hollow rattle in the back of his throat, and Ives tightened his grip, squeezing the last of the life from him even as he ran his tongue over the seeping wound on his skull. The flavour was incredible, the first fresh blood he had tasted in weeks, and he moaned a little as his tongue swirled over the ragged edges of the bleeding flesh.

Nott's feet drummed on the frozen ground, and then stilled. The brief trickle of blood slowed and stopped, and Ives licked up the last of it, regretting that he had only had a taste, but recognising that hauling a bleeding body across town wasn't conducive to evading suspicion. He straightened up, heaving the body with him, and flipped it over his shoulder, its weight an easy load with the added fire the fresh blood had given him. Looking around himself, and seeing no one, he made his way casually to the mouth of the alleyway.

It was starting to snow as he traversed the back streets of Storybrooke, picking his way along the path he had already chosen, which wound between empty shops and outbuildings. Luck was on his side, and he passed no one, although he thought he had the weather to thank for the empty streets. He approached his new home from the rear, going straight to the basement and dumping the body across a wooden workbench that sat there. Dusting off his hands, he carefully drew the blinds that covered the small windows, shutting out the night, and took off his coat and jacket, unfolding a leather apron that he had hung on the back of the door for this very purpose. Reaching beneath the workbench, he lifted up his leather bag, and took out a large, leather-wrapped bundle. Placing it carefully on the bench, he unwrapped it, the light reflecting off a number of large knives, a cleaver, and a shiny steel hook.

Ives looked up, to where a number of smaller hooks hung from the ceiling, ready to take coils of rope, or hang canoes and fishing gear. He slotted the looped end of the hook over one of them, giving it a sharp tug with his hand to test it, and smiled to himself as it held firm.

"Come along then," he said quietly, and hoisted the body up until the hook bit into the soft flesh beneath the chin. It sank in, crunching through bone into the base of the skull, and the body swung dolefully, Nott's glazed eyes staring lifelessly back at him. Ives dusted off his hands, looked the body over, and began undressing it, debating what part to eat first. He hummed contentedly as he worked, a cheerful tune that made him smile as he reached for the largest of the knives.


A/N: Yep, Keith gets to be dinner first!

FYI I realise Marco doesn't run a restaurant in Storybrooke, but it's my headcanon that he does, and that he and Granny flirt by swapping old family recipes.

Next time: Ives meets some more people that irritate him (which won't be good for them), and Belle gets quizzed on her date.