Cool trickles of early dawn light seeped in welcomingly through thin cracks in the rotted wooden boards nailed along the windows of the underground strip club the Dirty Dozen. Hazy autumn rays danced obliquely across the dirty cream colored tiled floor in thin slants of golden luminance that filled the disreputable club with real sunlight and fresh air for the first time in long months.

In the desolation thick gray motes of dust wafted down softly through the rays of tawny gold before tumbling away like fresh snow upon the unkempt floor. With the light of dawn the club seemed like an unearthed tomb of yore, cracked open for the first time in centuries.

Upturned chrome chairs with ripped padded seat cushions clustered above old rickety tables that were in need of new varnish to hide away the aged water rings that scoured their brown faces. The silver pole jutting out in the center of the runway gleamed with the slants of light that filtered brightly through the yawned opened doors and cracks in the window boards.

Carefully, the stoic new deputy of Storybrooke, Emma Swann stalked betwixt the tables like a prowling lioness on the hot trail of wounded prey. A ponderous frown tugged lightly upon her disapproving pink lips as she took her time snaking through the club for clues. Keen winter blue eyes gazed intently about the gentleman's club with an expert air of her bounty hunter days as she examined the illegal business neatly splayed before her.

The bar tucked away on the eastern wall was clean and untouched by greedy drunken hands that would have happily looted the expensive liquor. Pricey bottles in a multitude of hues remained locked up tight behind thick panes of glass to display their wares. There was no sign of struggle on the gaudy stage or in the back amongst the worn dressing rooms filled with old feather boas in endless colors and skimpy clothes for the desperate dancers. What illegal toxins and paraphernalia might have been stashed under loose tiles and boards had long been since cleaned out by expert dealers but bereft of the tale tell marks a disagreement left behind.

From what Emma learned no one truly spoke ill about the clandestine club save for disapproving elderly ladies in town. The pay was fair, the customers were satisfied, and everyone knew not to ruin a good thing by spoiling for fights or getting too handsy with the dancers.

So why was there a rotting corpse festering in the back room?

The thought burned like a blazing comet through Emma's tactile mind as she finished her first raw, perusing look about the gentleman's club. Padding near the door, the deputy leaned against the paint shipped wall, granting her full access to see all the club. Someone wanted the muscled man in the back room dead, but given the mild reputation of the club, the who and why someone shot the poor soul was a growing enigma every second.

Thin tendrils of opaque steam glided languidly into the sickly stench filled air mingling with the cool crisp wind that happily filtered from the outside forest world as the deputy finished her observation. The scent of fresh brewed coffee mingled with the wafting odor of decay lingered in her senses in some odd perfume that tickled her nose.

A discontent sigh fell from Emma Swann's lips as she savored her second cup of coffee in the all too early morning. Her right gloved hand gripped the tall, white Styrofoam as though the cup was a precious gemstone. After getting the call right as she entered the police station, the hot liquid seemed an invaluable ally as she worked the case.

Ruminating pleasantly on the warm cup, the lovely deputy ran her mind through the series of information dealt her on the gruesome case. Some guy looking for the dead man for times when the club would reopen found the strip club owner on the office floor at about 4:30 in the all too early morning. When she and Graham had finally gotten to the old club, the scene was a nauseating one.

The body laid face down and rotting amongst shot glass shards and cheap alcohol. Dried blood cracked like old paint on the office floor and plump maggots infested the deteriorating skin around the bullet wound of the once well muscled soul. Ravenous rats had greedily gnawed at the fingertips revealing slivers of bone beneath the untrimmed nails. The length of decay raised such a miserable vomit inducing stench that even the stoic sheriff heaved from the toxic aroma.

A grim smile etched Emma's lips as she nursed her warm cup thankfully. Coffee was the only salvation in making the onerous trial through the morning with a settled stomach and a clear mind to piece together what had occurred to the dead man. But clear mind or no, the case was a confusing one.

"Drinking on the job Miss Swann? For shame." Graham tsked mockingly serious as he dipped under the tapped off office of the gentleman's club.

Vibrant streaks of red rimmed his greenish-gray eyes as he lumbered sleepily towards his new deputy. His crisply ironed clothes and his normally neatly trimmed beard were ruffled holding testament that he too had been disturbed from what should have been a calm, normal day in the small town where most crime came from rowdy drunks and people parked in no parking zones not quizzical murder scenes.

A smile tugged widely upon the blonde's lips as she handed the sheriff the extra cup in her grip. "Just don't tell my boss. He might ban bear claws." She parried neatly, her smile fading as soon as the grin came.

Sighing tiredly, the blonde crossed her red leather clad arms and leaned against a faded wall. Her head nudged faintly to the taped off door as she took a precarious sip of the hot brew. "So what's the info on the poor guy in there?" She asked mildly curious.

Lips contorting into a thoughtful frown, the sheriff looked down to his deliciously steaming coffee. Focusing intently on the warm cup he tentatively gave his synopsis. "His name was Guy Stone. He owned the place after his father died." He explained lowly, rolling the cup between his hands. "Aside from a few brush ins with the law and owning this place, he wasn't into anything terribly crooked. A few of his best customer will miss him, but that's all."

Absorbing the information stoically, the stalwart blonde nodded as she tucked the perhaps critical information away. Motioning her hand to the barren club, her brow quirked slightly. "Any jealous girlfriends, angry employees, or drunken patrons ever give him trouble?" She inquired tactfully behind the rim of her cup.

"Not that I can scrounge up. But perhaps there's another motive. Our victim had sleep inducing drugs on him." The sheriff heaved his shoulders in a shrug. "That's reason enough for someone in this town to kill. From what I can tell he might have used those pills on any number of women. Whoever killed him might be hailed a hero to his victims if there are any."

A snort of mirthless humor echoed from the deputy's mouth. Shifting her weight from one foot to the left thoughtfully, she glanced to the sheriff incredulously. "Are you saying he deserved it?"

"Most likely." Graham conceded emotionlessly. "I'm not saying the murder isn't a crime, but no one is crying too hard over his death. All that's left now is to figure out who did us the favor."

"Mr. Gold?" Emma queried lowly. Her mouth puckered disdainfully at the name. Sourness laced her tongue at the very mention of the wily fiend of Storybrooke. More and more she was finding how much she disliked the gang lord who ruled the quaint province under the cover of innocence.

Shaking his head, the sheriff stared blankly at the empty club. "Gold wouldn't do such sloppy work. Neither would Jefferson."

"Jefferson?" The blonde's brow wrinkled with confusion at the new name.

"Mr. Gold's hit man." Graham explained casually, his words brimming with vast distaste of the moniker. "Just like Gold we can't prove he does the murdering for him, but everyone knows he's the man who keeps the competition scared."

Another languid sigh passed the deputy's lips, her mouth twisting sardonically at his ill boding words. Her boot scuffed at the floor sending a plume of grayish dust into the air as she brought her thoughts together. "So we have a brand new accomplice in the mix?"

"Possibly." He admitted offhandedly, his mind working through the information. "Could be the same person who snuck the money into the bank."

"So we're dealing with an unknown here." Emma spat acidly, her voice low. Muttering a low curse the deputy ran a tired hand through her golden tresses, her shoulders slumping with the motion. "I hate unknowns."

Having someone that no one in the close knit town could identify as the new worker for the leader of the Dark One's was bad news for everyone. Who could be trusted with an unknown now mingling with Mr. Gold's craven ilk? A spy could be anywhere, lurking just within ear shot to give Gold every bit of information he desired.

Leaning close to the deputy, the sheriff held out his hand as though to console the blonde. "Not so unknown." He chuckled quietly. His fingers unfurled revealing a silver casing rolling in his calloused palm.

The casing was cast in pure silver, something that might have belonged to a gun of a long ago age.

"A weird casing? That's not much." The cunning blonde observed wryly. A shell could be used as evidence if the gun as still about, but knowing Gold he probably had the gun demolished with no way to track he even owned the particular firearm.

Shrugging, the sheriff tucked the shell securely in his breast pocket. Chagrin donned his bearded lips as he shrugged helplessly. "Nothing ever is when Mr. Gold is involved."

"I've been meaning to ask about that." Her mouth quirked slightly to the left. "How come no one has taken that guy out yet? After all he's done, the lives he's ruined, the people that fear him, why hasn't you or anyone just did the deed and let life go on from under his heel?"

Stiffly shaking his head the sheriff stared blankly out. His fingers absently toyed with the bronze star at his belt thoughtfully. "We uphold the law, Emma. We can't go around doing those things we need to set an example no matter how distasteful." Graham remarked sourly, his mouth his mouth a thin line hidden beneath his beard. "As far as the people go they've feared him since for as long as I can remember. No one will dare go against him."

Tossing her empty cup in a nearby bin, the blonde shook her head firmly. Having Gold run amok for so long was not acceptable. He held the entire community enthralled with terror that no one would even speak up against a murder.

"That needs to change." Her blue eyes glimmered fiercely like a knight of old. "He needs to know not everyone is afraid of him and that people around here actually have a spine."

Someone had to stand up to the beast.

~8~8~

Recovery. Grimly, Mr. Gold rolled the desolate, heartless word in his mind like a sour wine dashed upon his tongue. Recovery was a long an arduous thing for anyone to undergo. Two weeks had passed since his Belle had killed a man and her recovery was slow but steady.

In the days passing the murder, the truth of what she had done came faltering from her lips in melancholic confession. Her words had been insipid and numb as they tumbled from her frowning mouth. Though the words admitted her treachery to him, they came uncaring of reprisal from his hand. She had left to warn Guy Stone, not kill him.

Defying the gang lord's hard, murderous commands with the threat of unpleasantness lingering over her like the hand of death, she blatantly, bravely went to reveal the plan of assassination but the owner had turned on her wanting only to fuel his lustful desires denied him when he once courted her long ago.

To any other who admitted such rebellion to him, the gang lord would have made certain they never lived to speak such traitorous words again, but she only fortified his trust for her with her admission. After that night not an inkling of suspicion rankled through him for his lucky smuggler. He would have trusted her with his life that moment he held her shuddering body against his. Her agony assured him enough she was no traitor and never would be.

But the cost…. The cost of such assurance was nearly too much.

Pain flared rabidly through the fiend as the images of the night she stumbled into his establishment flashed before him in horrific detail. She had been dispirited, disheartened, beaten into the ground by her unwitting actions.

The hefty toll nearly unwound her beautiful soul at the very epicenter of her warm, kind heart and turned her into a barren shell of the woman she once was. Her only solid links to justification was that the despicable brute had tried to force himself upon her and through all her sleepless nights the gang lord was there to console her grief and tame the nightmares that galloped freely in her restless repose.

Every nightmare she awoke too was told to him in vivid recount by her lush, stammering lips. Her sleepless nights, pacing and jittery, were his own. Her regretful tears were ones he shed on the inside as he made her a cup of tea and they talked well into the night in the confines of his dimly lit shop when she couldn't force herself to turn home and too bed where terror anxiously awaited behind her eyelids.

Never in his life had he been there for another, but he was there for the woman who had killed when all she wished to do was save a life. Never in his days had he felt ashamed of a death, but he regretted every word he spoke to her that day. If he had not ordered the brutes death, she would have never gone to the club and none of her pain would have occurred.

He blamed himself fully and utterly, he knew ashamedly. The fault lay on his shoulders and his alone, not hers by any means.

Elbows against the counter in his shop, the gang lord frowned darkly in the dim confines of his lair. Frustrated, he rapped his wiry fingers rhythmically against the glass in a steady tempo. His maple brown eyes stared thoughtfully at the black phone laid out before him like some ancient puzzle box as he anxiously awaited for the phone to buzz.

Everyday her calls were getting shorter. The shock was departing and finally she saw through the milky haze of the gun smoke. Through all her torn emotions shredding about her soul, she was getting better and learning to cope with her erroneous actions bit by tortuous bit.

She was getting better, but even in her progression; the horror of what she had done still glared through her sky blue orbs and down to her tormented soul. The abject shame of that night was nearly too heavy to bear, he knew grimly, but he had shouldered as much of her melancholy as he could grasp.

Part of his darkness could not help but feel foolish since the entire shooting. In his time coaxing her back to the Belle before the death, he had skimped on his normal doings. Shipments went uncared for in their cases; money piled up in the back room of his shop till the point moving about in the safe-like room was getting difficult.

He had tossed everything aside for the woman he knew only for a summer, and in truth, he regretted nothing of turning his attention to her and her alone.

Abruptly, the bell above his shop rang out tugging his train of thought off their desolate rails. Jerking his head upwards the fiend glowered at the soul who traipsed about his den fearlessly.

"Morning Gold." Emma bit out dryly to the gang lord as she entered his lair. Marching closer to the counter, the blonde stared icily at the false businessman. Fearlessness blazed courageously in her cerulean eyes as she stared him down with as much silent hatred as he did her.

A thin smile slashed upon the gang lord's lips as he smoothly slid the phone from the counter from view. "What a pleasant surprise, Miss Swann. Are you looking for something or just here to harass me again?"

"Actually I am looking for something." She rebuffed flatly. Stepping close to the glass, the deputy opened her hand. A sharp patter of silver rang out from the quiet shop as the deputy laid forth her evidence upon the glass counter. The shell rattled tenuously upon the thick glass as she leaned her elbows against the counter, looming over the shell. "Tell me where that came from." She demanded lowly, her mouth a thin line.

Dry amusement marbled the fiend's weathered features as he toyed with the casing like a child with a new toy. Plucking the hollow point up expertly, his fingers tapered over the silver shell in an examining manner. Putting the case up to his eye, the fiend squinted as though trying to figure out what the silver was. "If I had to guess where this came from, I'd say a gun." He teased cruelly, his lips spread in a taunting smirk.

"Quit the crap, you know what I mean." Emma growled lowly, her eyes pinioned upon him with a murderous glare.

Shaking his head the gang lord flicked the shell off the counter. A small ping whispered through the air as the silver casing rolled about at the blonde's brown boots.

A dangerous grin brimming with threat etched his thin lips as he stared darkly at the deputy who challenged his rule. The mention of the shooter launched his thoughts back to the beauty. His promise echoed back in his head with just as much emotion as he had given his oath that night. "No I don't now please get out of my shop. I don't take kindly to loitering even from police with nothing better to do with their time."

She had no evidence attaching him to anything. Jefferson had cleaned up what little evidence there had been, but left the casing just as one taunting clue. They would never cobble together what had occurred unless he wished them to do so.

"I will say this though." He dared brazenly, his tone black and cold as a mid winters night. "Who ever this bullet was used upon deserved his death and far more."

After Belle explained what Guy had tried to do, if the brute had lived by some errant miracle, he would have gone to finish the job personally.

Anger seeped into the deputy at the bold statement that skirted almost along the lines of confession. "These deeds are going to catch up to you one day Gold." Emma swore darkly as she knelt to pick up the casing.

Even as the words sailed from her lips, the bell above the shop jangled again. The brown shades rustled with the sudden gust of ill wind sailing though the shop like a whisper of danger.

Flickering his icy brown gaze back to the door, the gang lord paused to see the figure caught before him on his threshold. A short man in dark clothes stood at the entrance like a boulder wedged in the door.

Light cascaded from behind him, cloaking most of his features in an adumbrated glow. Tears coursed down his haggard, drug sunken cheeks as he glared murder at the gang lord. A small boot pistol trembled in his thick grip as he raised the weapon to the fiend. "You killed Guy!" The dark haired soul cried raggedly.

Before the gang lord could move, before he could reach for the pistol nested under the counter, the gun blazed to life. A sharp crack split the air as the gun shot out thrice in rapid succession. Empty shells rattled to the wooden floor as the stricken soul aimed for the fiend with tear dammed eyes.

The world seemed to speed to an incredible pace as the gun went off, and then the moment was over.

Smoke trailed sinuously like a wily vaporous snake from the barrel as the bullets stopped blazing through the air. The harsh stench of powder lingered along the breeze as the only remnant of the shooting.

Fiery pain blossomed through the gang lords left arm as the bullets found their mark in his flesh. Agony erupted in his wiry figure with the sudden intense torment wrought from the bullets bite. His flesh felt afire and ripped by invisible claws. Blood dribbled from his open flesh, staining the dark blue of his silken shirt a blackish crimson hue.

Falling to his knees, the fiend clutched at the wounded arm with his good hand. Blood oozed thickly between his clenched fingers as he stifled a scream in the back of his throat. Two of the bullets had found their mark, he could tell, while the other had missed entirely. The wounds had not hit anything major but they were bad.

Through the glass counter, the fiend stared into the cold blue orbs of Emma Swann. Shock etched her features from the sudden shooting ringing about her. Her life had only been spared by picking up the bullet casing at that exact moment.

Abruptly as the shock wore off hardness glinted in her sharp azure eyes, giving no offering of pity or aid to the struck gang lord. She knew he was hit by the assailant and didn't care.

"Miss Swann." He stammered her name desperately through barely pried lips.

Shaking her head, the deputy jumped to her feet. She could have stayed with him and called for an ambulance, she could have leapt across the counter to aid him as she would have any other person. Instead she turned away.

Brandishing the gun under the jacket, the blonde raced out the door to half heartedly peruse the shooter. If Mr. Gold, died then so be the circumstance, he deserved help from no one.

Gasps fell falteringly from the gang lord's lips as he watched the deputy disappear out the exit. She walked at an almost leisurely pace as though enjoying the early fall sunshine bearing down over the quaint town.

Laying prone upon the dusty floor of his shop the fiend fought to keep the agony smothered from his lips. The hospital wouldn't help him after what he had done to Whale a few months ago, even if he did want to go to a hospital, the police already abandoned him, and even passersby's would tune out his haggard pleas for aid or drown out his cries with merry laughter and toasts of his inglorious death.

No one would help him, he knew dourly, no one but perhaps…. Immediately, the gang lord stubbornly shook the hopeful thought away. After what he ordered her to do, she would never come.

Still….

Hand trembling the fiend dug into his pocket for the phone. Blood slicked the black plastic casing as he flicked open the cell. His fingers tremulously stabbed in her number as he fought for life.

Breath by breath his conscious was failing from his thoughts. Darkness lurked eagerly at the corner of his mind edging closer with each second like nightfall over a tired world. Blood pounded through his veins ringing dully in his ears like distant war drums. If he reached out for no one he would die slowly upon the floor, he knew grimly. Even if she did not respond to his cries she was his last hope.

Placing the phone to his ear, each shrill ring seemed a lifetime. She wouldn't pick up, the darkness whispered to him, out of all the time he ordered her to actions she loathed she wouldn't….

"Hello?" Belle's voice rang like the songs of heaven in his ears, forcing the disparaging thoughts away from the forefront of his mind. Surprise generously laced her tone as though she was confused as to why he called so early.

Relief suffused his bloodied form as he fought away sweet slumber. "Belle." His voice croaked tremulously in the throes of pain. "I've been shot, I need… I need help." He gasped, his voice strained with tremulous effort. "At the shop… no doctors no police… please come…."

Icy claws of darkness sank their talons into his bloody consciousness pulling him into a world of oblivion with each word. Fighting in vain to keep from falling in the morass of unconsciousness, the phone slowly slid from his blood stained grip as he murmured the last words over in his delirious state.

"Please come…." The injured fiend uttered in a raspy, deathly whisper. The phone clacked to the blood pooled upon the floor as he repeated the words through silent lips. "Please come…."

~8~8~

Fear such as Belle had never known filled the quiet beauty's form as she raced down the cold gray streets of Storybrooke. The wondrous morning was lost to the beauty as she threaded her way to the gang lord's shop at the fastest possible pace she could. The smiling townsmen ambling about and bidding her good morning and the dewed world enraptured with falls coming clambered by in a discrepant haze as she flew down the narrow streets. Her hair fluttered like a pennant in the wind with each stride to the gang lord.

His call had come right before she headed off to work at the library. His words gasping for breath filled her with horrid scenes of the night Guy had died before her eyes. In her minds eyes she could see the hulking form of Guy swapped with the slender figure of the gangster. She could almost imagine the blood staining his fine suit and dripping like a leaky faucet on the floor. Now, she felt no other urge but to find him and banish the thought from her mind.

Frightened energy crackled through her form like lightening as she raced down the streets. Her breath came in heavy, large bellows as she ran madly as though the dogs of nightmare bayed upon her heels. The thought of Gold dying….

A violent shudder raced through her form even at the unpleasant thought. Over the longs months of summer, he had been her only companion, the only one who seemed to see pass her oddity.

Jogging to a halt outside his shop, the beauty gazed at the noticeably wrong establishment. The whitewashed door swung open freely in the crisp breeze telling her immediately something was truly amiss. Mr. Gold never left his shop open for the world to gaze inside. Letting her keep the blinds open when she stopped by was a difficult enough chore!

Heart tumbling like a rolling boulder in her chest, the beauty crept into the dimly lit shop. Blood oozed sluggishly through her body as though she were caught amidst a dream. An eerie quiet layered upon the shop as though no sound could penetrate the filth and grime. Sunlight cascaded thought her door showing the amount of dust that gathered on the trinkets.

Steeping inside warily as though she did not belong, the beauty searched for clues of an ambush awaiting her or the gang lord. "Mr. Gold?" The word fell anxiously from her lips as she strode further into his den.

Eyes scanning the shop, immediately, her blue orbs found his body through the glass counter. Half his form lay propped up against the glass counter. His head lay limply to the left and blood bubbled from a portion of his arm in a steady stream.

"Mr. Gold!" Belle all but screamed, her heart dropping in the pit of her stomach at the sight of him.

Racing to his prone form behind the counter, the beauty gazed at the horror. Blood gummed the floor like paint, tainting the wood. Flecks of his bright crimson essence stained the glass counter where he lay half perched. Lying there, he looked akin to a broken marionette tossed away by a surly puppet master. A ghastly pale hue blanched his features, making him seem almost delicately painted by the hand of death.

Kneeling in the sticky pool of his ruby essence, the beauty grasped his limp hand. Her fingers flew to his neck, desperate to feel for a pulse. Terror instilled her very soul as she desperately tried to find a sign of life. He had to be alive, he had to be.

Relief shuddered through her as she located a steady but faint beat throbbing in him. He wasn't dead, not by a long shot. Though his wounds looked terrible he was indeed alive, weak but alive.

Hot tears welled in her azure orbs as she racked her brain on what to do for the gang lord. Thoughts swirled in a terrifying whirlwind of an inferno in her mind. He said no police and no doctor, but then could he have been delirious from the loss of blood?

Could she chance his words were mere babblings from blood loss or had he known before passing out?

Flicking a curling strand of straggly hair from his features, the beauty forced the tears back from her eyes. "You're going to be okay, Mr. Gold, I promise."

Fighting with the idea to call an ambulance, the beauty pilfered through this fine blood splattered black jacket. Her fingers plunged through the silk lined pockets till her hands struck cold metal.

Plucking the keys from his pocket the beauty ran into the back alleyway to start his car. Though she did not own a car herself she could drive and the dark tinted windows would make the perfect cover for driving his vehicle to get him to safety.

She couldn't take care of him at the shop where people could come to finish the job. But she could take him to a haven where she could readily call a doctor should his condition grow worse.

As the car roared to life, the beauty raced back into the shop. In her race, she grabbed a water bottle from the back and gingerly stepped over his form. Locking the front door, she carefully peeped out of the curtain to make certain none were in the vicinity of his establishment. Things could go downhill fast if anyone saw her tending the monster of Storybrooke or anyone looking to see if he was dead came sniffing about.

Quickly closing shop, she turned her full attention back to the unconscious gang lord. Kneeling the beauty peeled away his jacket. Her unskilled hands tied the fine suit material neatly over the oozing wounds in his arm to stopper the flow. Though she knew little about wounds, even she could tell if he lost anymore blood then she would have to take him to the hospital no matter what he claimed.

Digging into her pocket, the beauty fumbled desperately for her phone. Only one other number was installed in her phone and one she thought she'd never need. Trembling, the worried librarian punched in the numbers with a blood stained hand.

Placing the phone in the crook of her shoulder and held by her ear she focused on attending the fiend with both hands. Dull rings assailed her ears as she fought to scream in the sheer hysteria of it all; Gold wounded and helpless and she was the only one to save him.

Finally, for what seemed like eternity, the phone stopped ringing.

"What?" A bleary voice slurred through the speaker, the slow voice laced with annoyance.

"Jefferson?" She sputtered the name as he picked up.

"Belle?" The hit mans sleepy voice flitted with confusion. Never had Gold's lucky smuggler called him for anything. "Is something wrong?" He asked cautiously.

"Yes, you have to come to Gold's shop. He's been shot and I need to move him." Her hands worked hurriedly to unscrew the water bottle as she talked. Digging into her pocket, she brought forth the kerchief she had never given back to him.

Rustling echoed over the phone as the hatter sighed fighting the sweet coaxing of slumber. "Alright, I'm coming hang on."

"Come from the back." She warned swiftly before he hung up.

Taking the water she splashed the cool liquid on the gang lord's pallid features desperately. Even though he wasn't a built man she couldn't carry him by herself and even if she dared try he could become worse still.

For what seemed like hours, she pressed his damp purple kerchief to his head. Her eyes memorized the feel of his cool flesh and the contours of his features whilst trying to revive him. If he did die, part of her wished to remember everything about him.

"You're going to be alright, Gold. I'm taking you to a place you'll be safe." She uttered words of comfort though he could not hear.

Her gaze strafed to the grandfather clock nestled in the hordes of junk as she dabbed the last bit of water on his face. "Where are you Jefferson?" She mumbled under her breath, her voice laced with panic. They had no time to lose.

As if on cue, footsteps thundered from the back. Restlessness branded the hatters crazed features as he stood over them. A gun hung limply in his right hand as though ready to kill for the gang lord at a moments notice.

Breathing heavily, he stared warily at the limp figure of his employer. Strands of jet black hair wisped in front of his ragged features giving him a dark insane look. Slowly his gaze shifted to the beauty questioningly. "Is he…." He let the unspoken word hang in the air.

"No." Belle replied calmly, forcing the panic from her throat. "Just help me get him into his car."

"Well where are we taking him?" The hatter gingerly stepped over the blood pooled under them.

Flopping the gang lord's arm across her shoulder, the beauty looked up strangely calm. "My place." She decided firmly. "He'll be safe there."

"Whatever you say. You're his lucky smuggler, maybe he will be alright." The hit man claimed. Grabbing the other portion of his body, the hatter helped her haul the limp form of the fiend up.

Her muscles burned as they half dragged half carried the notorious gang lord to the back of the shop and into his car. He needed protection away from those who sought his death and the police who wanted to see him in a casket or in the hospital out of the way.

Now, Belle knew imperatively, was time to smuggle Mr. Gold to safety from those who wished him ill.