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Chapter Two: I Have to Kill a Man!

Jefferson Hattigan kneeled and tilted his head up, swallowing harshly as he watched a very thick blade be sharpened into a very deadly edge, and he was certain at this point it was only the grips of the guards on either side of him that kept him from morphing into a boneless puddle.

The people watching the spectacle looked eager. The executioner, perhaps, far too eager.

Before Jefferson could watch the whetstone pass under the axe for the thousandth time, one of the guards grabbed the hair at the back of his head and shoved his face down against a wooden block.

"Off with his head!"

The crowd cheered.

Belle sighed as she cradled her face in the palm of her hand, the other aimlessly stirring a spoon around the circumference of a teacup. "It was horrible."

Ruby, across the diner's bar from her, pursed her lips in annoyance, "Of course it was horrible, he's horrible."

"That doesn't mean it's right to…" Belle waved her hand in a feeble attempt to express what it wasn't right to do.

"What? The rent thing?" Ruby threw a dish towel on the counter, placing her hands on her hips, "Trust me, that's the least offensive thing on the list of things Gold's got coming to him."

"Still," Belle sighed, raising the cup to her lips and taking an experimental sip, "He did give me the business loan…"

"Because he's the only one that does business loans in a twenty mile radius. It's robbery," Ruby cast a glance around the diner, and, seeing no one, made for a more comfortable lean against the counter, "And what he's put your dad through…"

"Right, papa." Belle groaned inwardly at the sorry state of affairs Moe French had fallen himself into. He was late on his rent, his storefront rent, and payments on his business loan and delivery truck. That, coupled with a few bad investments before the harder part of the recession hit, made for a man desperately close to bankruptcy. And that was before Gold heightened his interest rates and late fees.

Half of Belle knew that the lease, as terribly obtuse as it had been written, was still legally binding and Moe was obligated to pay, but the other half was tired of seeing her father constantly struggling while people like business tycoon Gold made off with their earnings. "I should have just asked him to reconsider the lease agreements," Belle groaned, "Or for an extension on the payments. How did I let you talk me into the rent thing?"

Ruby scoffed, "Don't pin this on me, Belle. You were the one going on about making a point and setting an example."

She sighed, "That was terribly heroic of me, wasn't it?" Belle deadpanned with a sort of self-deprecating smile.

Ruby snorted, but returned the expression, "Our knight in fiscal armor."

Belle slumped again, "Too bad that knight's going to be making a short charge on their steed."

Ruby raised an eyebrow.

"He's going to send me a subpoena."

"A what?"

Belle rolled her eyes, "He's suing me."

The waitress bolted straight up, "No way!"

Belle's only response was pushing the now empty tea cup forward, "I think I'll need the stronger blend."

"What's he suing you for?!"

She gave a sad lift of her shoulders, "I imagine the 22% I didn't pay, plus some made up charges like taking time from his work."

Ruby bit her lower lip, a guilty expression filtering through her face, "Can you afford that? I know the store's been…"

"The 22%, yes. The court fees and the other charges…," Belle inhaled. The idea had been to teach a bully a lesson, to…to stick it to the man, as Ruby had said. Not to put her business in jeopardy. She gave a somewhat bitter laugh, "I might need to take out another loan. The irony."

"Like hell you will!" Ruby protested, taking the tea cup and going to refill it, "Don't worry, I have some money saved up-"

"Ruby-"

"Don't Ruby me. Granny always Rubys me." Ruby turned around and gently placed it in front of Belle, "I'm not going to leave my friend to the wolves, got it?"

Belle smiled, taking the tea cup, "Got it."

"Good. Now. I think someone needs a slice of cheesecake," she grinned, going to grab some from the display case.

"Is cheesecake the traditional food for someone being brought to civil court?" Belle mused out loud, hating her situation but despite of it all starting to feel better. There would be a way out of this…kerfluffle. Even if it meant groveling. The only thing Belle knew she wouldn't do is close the shop or allow her father to declare bankruptcy. Both had been fought over for too long to just let them slide.

"I think it's more like the traditional food for someone having a bad day," Ruby said with a wink, setting down a plate, "It's also the traditional food to split, so if you don't mind-" she grabbed the extra fork and dug it into the cheesecake, smirking around her bite with red lips.

Belle wrinkled her nose, but the giggle escaped never the less. Yes, she thought, allowing herself some modicum of hope, things could be alright.

The bookstore owner went to take a bite when the bell by the door of the diner sounded off, both women turning around to see who had entered.

In charged a young boy, who Belle recognized as the Mayor's son Henry, and he made a beeline to the counter, placing both hands on top with finality.

"Grilled cheese to go please!" Henry beamed, smile breaking out across his face.

Ruby returned the expression, reaching under the counter and grabbing a brown paper bag, "I'm guessing you're late to school?"

"You could say that, I got…" Henry winced, "Distracted."

Ruby laughed, "Distracted? With what?"

Belle watched with no small amount of amusement as the boy's face lit up, "I got this bow and arrow set from Grandpa David for my birthday and it is the absolute coolest thing on the planet-!"

As Ruby and Henry began an animated discussion about Henry's new toy, as well as his upcoming visit to his mother's, Belle took a slow bite of cheesecake and allowed herself to become lost in her thoughts.

She could figure this all out. Her papa didn't need to lose his store, she didn't need to become a criminal, and maybe, just maybe Gold could be reasoned with. Staring inappropriately notwithstanding.

…or maybe she'd need another slice of cheesecake before this afternoon was through.

The executioner hefted the axe over his shoulder. He stood to his side.

Jefferson took a deep breath. He could hear the sound of the axe scrapping against the ground as the executioner swung it for the full swing, felt the slightest puff of air as it descended towards his neck, and the-

…and was that a knock?

Emma was sure her fist was going to punch through the crappy, flimsy door if that damned moron didn't answer soon. It was late, so late it was early, and this had been the sixth consecutive week of this shit. Since she had moved in, Emma had been woken up at all odd hours of the night, the thin wall between her apartment and the one next door doing little to dampen the noise of what was obviously some kind of psychotic breakdown. At first she had ignored it. Her neighbor's business was her neighbor's business, but the strange sounds of plates breaking, angry shouting, and heavy thumbs continued. And continued. And continued continuing. And now it was 3am on a Tuesday night and, damn it, Emma was putting a stop to this nonsense now.

"Hey, open up," it occurred to her that in trying to attract their attention she was making just as much of a disturbance, but she reconciled the fact with the knowledge that this should be a one-time affair.

Should being the operative word. Emma vaguely remembered the sound of a man's voice chanting "get it to work, get it to work" over and over again for three hours last month. Not exactly a bastion of confidence in the sanity department. Just her luck, she moves from Chicago for a peaceful environment, she gets saddled with the eccentric homicidal murderer next door.

No wonder the rent was cheap.

Emma huffed, blowing strands of blonde hair out of her face as she raised her fist to knock again-

-the door slammed open, then back shut slightly. There was a chain on it that apparently the owner had forgotten. Emma was greeted with the disturbing sight of one eye staring through the crack.

"Who are you?" It asked.

Emma crossed her arms over her bathrobed-chest. "An annoyed neighbor."

"Oh." The eye hesitated. "Go away then."

"No."

"No?"

"Absolutely no."

It disappeared, and the door slammed shut. Emma could feel the frustration boiling under her like pressure in a volcano, "Look. You're being loud and rude as hell at all hours of the morning, and-"

The sound of a chain being slid was unmistakable, and it was quickly followed by the door swinging open. Emma had barely enough time to dodge out of its way. "The hell-?"

"I'd like to see you try being so calm and collected when you have to kill a man!"

The man looked. Well, he looked exactly like Emma expected a crazy man to look. He was a few years older than her, with brown hair matted in tufts on either side of his face. On the tip of his nose there was a pair of small, round reading glasses, fastened to his head with a thin gold chain. And he was wearing…was that an ascot? Who the hell wore an ascot? At three in the morning? Was the man expecting tea and crumpets and yachting and whatever the hell else people who wore ascots did?

At least the dark circles under his eyes implied that he had gotten about as much sleep as Emma. That was comforting. Sort of. Unless it gave more evidence to him being the serial killer neighbor.

"Believe me, it's getting tempting," was all she muttered, leaning on one of her legs. "And I have no idea whether to take you serious on that statement."

The man rolled his eyes and stomped back into his apartment. Seeing as he left the door open, Emma took that as an invitation to follow.

And then she wished she hadn't.

The apartment appeared completely normal for the first few steps. Clean kitchen, tidy dining area, and then the illusion of a sane man shattered completely when Emma took in what she guessed was the guy's work space or heinous plotting area. Either or.

A small work desk sat in the corner, holding a typewriter and a ream of blank, white paper.

Covering nearly every surface of the walls, floor, table, and yes, ceiling, were post-it notes.

Emma felt her jaw drop as she took another step in. God help her, she was legitimately curious now, "What the hell is all of this?"

"Notes," the man muttered, almost to himself, "I've got to get it to work."

"Get what to work?" Emma picked up one of the post-its. Buried alive was written on it.

She slowly put the post-it back on the wall.

"I have to kill Nicholas Gold."

Oh god. He was actually going to kill someone.

Trying to remember where she had put the pepper-spray in her apartment, Emma cleared her throat, "Look. Neighbor. Guy-"

"Jefferson," he replied quickly in his distracted tone, the man beginning to pace the length of his crazy person's post-it wall while rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"-Jefferson," Emma amended for reasons she wasn't entirely certain of, "I'm just here about the noise, okay?"

"What noise?"

"The ones you make every morning at-"

"What do you think about getting your head chopped off?"

Jefferson stopped, turning to look at her as he asked the question. Emma stood there with her expression twisted into one that, if nothing else, clearly conveyed the sentiment of what the fuck.

"I…think badly…of it?"

Jefferson waved the answer off, and began to pace again, "Some say it's the most humane way of death. Relatively painless. A human body can die in seconds from deprived oxygen to the brain-"

Okay. That was it.

"Give me one reason why I'm not calling the cops right now," Emma growled.

He stopped, frowning, "I own the building?"

Emma choked, "Seriously?"

A resolute nod.

Well, that explained why he hadn't been evicted. "Okay, one more reason."

The man who may have been a decapitating axe-murderer sighed, scratching his hair and causing it to go into a style even more disarrayed than his previous one, "I have a deadline to make next month."

Emma looked at him, then to the typewriter, then the post-its. Finally, something clicked. "You're a writer?"

Jefferson glared, pacing to his typewriter and sitting behind it, "Novelist."

"And that…Gold guy, he's not a real person?"

The novelist rolled his eyes, "I don't make a habit of decapitating real people, nosy neighbor-"

"Emma."

"-Emma. Remarkably poor manners."

Dumbstruck, but definitely relieved, Emma pulled out a kitchen chair and sat in it, "So…all the noise?"

Jefferson winced, as if in physical pain. "Writer's block."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Emma looked around at all the post-its again, giving a low whistle, "So, hypothetically speaking, nothing is going to be done if I issue a noise complaint because you own the building?"

"I wouldn't say nothing." At her hopeful stare his mouth quirked into a grin, "I might use the back of it for notes."

Emma groaned, "Okay. Continuing this hypothetical question- you'll shut up if you…figure out how to kill this completely fictional guy?"

A moment's hesitation, and then a nod.

She closed her eyes. Why was she doing this. Why was she doing this at 3 am. "Okay. Then let's kill him."

"What?"

"Don't tell me you're going deaf after all this. Let's get this show on the road and kill your character."

Jefferson stared at her, slack-jawed, "I didn't ask for you to-"

"I didn't ask to be woken up every o'dark thirty because a maniac in an ascot is thinking about decapitation too loudly." She said curtly, "So let's go. Killing this guy."

The novelist…pouted. "He's unkillable. I've tried it all. Hook to the heart. Poisoned apples. Nothing works."

"Something's got to."

"Nothing-"

"Something's. Got to." She yawned, "Or I'm initiating a hostile takeover of this place." She looked at the clock on the wall, "You have a half hour of my undivided attention before I go to bed. Get going."

Jefferson stared at her, as if he didn't understand why this strange woman would-

"Well? Start plotting or whatever you eccentric writer-types do."

Dutifully, Jefferson started to sort through his post-its.

"I think you should take some vacation," there. Archie had finally said it, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth he had to fight down the urge to break the eye contact he had established with Mr. Gold. Eye contact was crucial with propositions like this.

Mr. Gold looked up from a settlement he was currently addressing, eyeing his accountant from across his back office, "Is that so, Dr. Hopper?"

Archie swallowed, his bow tie bobbing up and down with the motion, "You haven't been yourself."

As Nicholas sat in his office, eyes narrowed with irritation, he couldn't help but wonder why he was allowing this man to state the obvious. Of course Mr. Gold wasn't himself. Mr. Gold didn't give the wrong prices to merchandise. Mr. Gold didn't fantasize about long, wooden tables in the backs of dusty bookstores-

"Your concern is touching," Gold sneered, pen jabbing into the paper perhaps a little too forcefully.

Archie sighed, a finger tapping the sum total button on his adding machine. Aside from the Lucas and French accounts, things were looking balanced for that Tuesday, "Have you…ever taken vacation? Ever?"

Vacation. An insipid word to Mr. Gold. He didn't know why he continued to indulge this man with a response.

"It's been some time-"

"-because you left the iron on. Earlier," Archie turned fully from the adding machine, hands clasped together, "I noticed when I came back to do your sums. It was left on, something that could've been a horrible accident and not something I think you'd normally do." Archie cleared his throat, psychologist mode fully activated, "When you stray from routine, Mr. Gold, it's commonly associated with stress-"

Gold knew he was stressed, and, quite frankly, he didn't need eight years of additional schooling to tell him he was stressed. Of course he was stressed. Stress was stress.

"I believe it's time to close up shop." He muttered, standing and reaching for the pawn store's keys.

Archie sighed, standing up as well, "If you insist…"

Oh, Mr. Gold was insistent. He wasn't in the mood for coddling. Nor psychoanalysis. Two things that the accountant never fell short upon.

"I do." Gold stood.

As Nicholas Gold prepared to usher out the simpleton accountant, he left his safe's lock unspun-

He swore, backtracking to the safe and spinning the dial, "Damned idiot!" He swore under his breath, hoping the idiotic narrator could hear.

Archie's eyes widened, "Excuse me?"

"Not you," he growled, looking skyward.

The psychologist cleared his throat, "Right. Well. Good night then." He reached for his scarf, tightening it around his neck, "I'll take care of the Lucas account tomorrow?"

Nicholas Gold didn't care if the Lucas accounts were settled tomorrow. Or next week, or the week after. No. Gold's mind drifted to the other debtor, Miss French. Thoughts of the bookstore owner had been plaguing his every moment since their encounter in the bookstore, and, Gold was finding out, his thoughts defied reason. Never before had they been so decided by emotion-

"Shut the hell up!"

Archie coughed awkwardly into his hand, "Are you sure you're alright?"

Gold sighed, rubbing his temples, "Perhaps…perhaps a few days' off would be beneficial."

His employee gave a comforting smile, "I couldn't agree more. You know where to find me if you need me."

"Of course," Gold mumbled, before thinking better of it and tacking on a, "Thank you."

"Goodnight then," Archie nodded, grabbing his jacket and heading out of the shop.

Gold hesitated for a few moments, staring at his ceiling as if daring the voice to speak. Hearing only silence, he then went about the process of closing up his shop and heading home, picking up his mobile and placing it into his pocket.

The streets of Storybrooke were nearly deserted as Gold traveled down them, a slight chill in the air from an earlier rainstorm hit him, causing Gold to shrug his jacket around him tighter. Puddles lined the sides of the road, reflecting the light from the streetlamps as the day faded into night. Gold paid these things no matter, however, as his mind preoccupied.

So preoccupied, that it failed to notice a customer leaving Granny's Diner across the street. A very familiar customer. Who was also the owner of the bookstore and all its property- including long tables. Belle, preoccupied with her own troubles, stared at the ground as she walked parallel to him across the road.

Mr. Gold's Blackberry, sensing a missed opportunity, decided to take action.

Gold frowned, looking up. Just as he was about to start walking again, he felt his mobile begin to ring. With a heavy sigh, he began to fish it out of his jacket's pocket.

The Blackberry grew frustrated, tired with the constant neglect from Mr. Gold.

The phone continued to vibrate as Gold fished for it. Belle kept walking, not noticing him.

For too long it had managed every aspect of Mr. Gold's life. And, truth be told, Mr. Gold's life was impersonal and boring. Here was a chance to change that if only Mr. Gold would listen to his Blackberry-

Gold found the phone, and he brought it to his face. French. Again. He scowled, preparing to flip the phone open when he looked across the street.

And saw the retreating form of Belle French as she turned the corner-

The phone vibrated again, and Gold swore as the sudden buzz disrupted his thoughts, absently dropping the phone. It bounced against the pavement, rolling off of the curb.

Into a puddle.

"Damn it," Gold grit his teeth as he bent down to retrieve it, Belle disappearing from view and a shooting pain gripping his knee as he fished his phone out of the puddle. Irritated beyond belief, he shook the remaining water from the Blackberry and slid it into his pocket.

He'd have to dry it out tonight. Like hell he was going to be purchasing a new phone.

And as Nicholas Gold pocketed the now silenced Blackberry, he began to once again start his trek home. Where he would be greeted by an empty house, a meal for one, and a few short news stories before he retired for bed.

At least the damned voice was beginning to return to a normal narration. One that didn't focus itself on inanimate objects or women who were deliberately failing to pay rent-

But little did he know that the simple, innocuous acts of that evening would eventually lead to his imminent death.

Gold's foot stopped mid-step. His cane scraped to a stop against the sidewalk.

"What."