A/N: This was inspired by the day that was. I'm not sure if this is the start of something bigger, or just its own weird thing. I just felt like writing it instead of the myriad of other things that I should be doing.

Breaking In

It's a day that begins like any other. Another day where Killian Jones is cruelly ripped away from his dreams by the blaring of his alarm, loud enough to startle him away from fanciful delirium, right back to cold hard reality. He could have sworn he set his clock radio to radio the night before, instead of alarm, but he must have forgotten. He always seems to forget, because no matter what, it's always the same bloody soundtrack of bugles with which he wakes to greet a new dawn.

Perhaps the contraption is simply broken? Maybe it's not broken enough, his inner voice snarks. If he had any sense, he'd take a mallet to it. He's a bar owner, for chrissakes. If he can't sleep in, who can?

But that isn't how it works. It's 6:30am and he is already dragging himself towards the shower, guided by something greater than his desire to stay in bed.

His morning routine never really alters. Scrambled eggs and bacon cooked over his ancient stove. His toaster manages to burn his toast to a crisp, as always. He always means to buy a new one, but truthfully, he never really seems to remember until the next morning magically arrives, and once again, he's already back to scraping the charred parts off anew with a butter knife. Breakfast is eaten in perfect silence as he peruses the morning's edition of the Storybrooke Mirror, making a commendable stab at the crossword. He never gets it all right. Pop culture trivia remains his downfall. He doesn't remember the last time he rented a movie.

Next is the to-go coffee procured from Granny's on his way to the docks. There's no real reason for this detour, as he watches the local fishermen unload the morning's catch. He can't argue that it's on his way to work, what with the bar being directly below his apartment. There's just something about the glint of sunlight on the waves, the stiff breeze off the water, the briny taste of salt on his tongue when he licks his lips. It's consoling to him, somehow. He lingers on his familiar bench until long after the fishermen are gone. When it's just him and the gulls and the Atlantic Ocean, the sun rising higher and higher into the sky. And then he feels that familiar pull, the one leading him back into town. Back towards his responsibilities. Back to the bar.

The Rabbit Hole is a bit of a dive, he admits. There isn't much of a wine list, and even near a decade after the law changed, everything in the place still reeks of cigarette smoke. He's tried everything. New wallpaper. New paint. New carpet. The smells lingers on, as if it is clinging to the very foundations; the Ghost of Smokers Past. And to be clear, the stupid name wasn't his idea. The Rabbit Hole. It's not an entirely erroneous description of the place, what with the way the main stairs descend below street level, or the way the townspeople like to take advantage of its darkened corners for their lascivious misdeeds. Not that he's one to judge. But if he were, he'd sure have plenty of ammunition.

No, the name was not his idea. It had been called that long before he took over, and it'd surely be called that long after he was gone. He'd considered changing the name once. Something nautical, he thought. More in line with the town's heritage. More in line with his interests. He'd failed to take the small town mentality into account. There was a petition circling by noon. By dusk, Madame Mayor herself had swept down from her ivory tower to quote some obscure Town bylaw his way. There would be no changing the name.

He opens every morning at 11, like clockwork. More dependable than clockwork, actually, if the town's notoriously unreliable Clock Tower is anything to go by. His empty to-go cup wedged into the crook of his elbow as he draws his ring of keys from his pocket, his prosthetic hand wedged again the frame to provide the necessary leverage. One day he'll ring the locksmith, and get a front door lock which doesn't stick. One day he'll-

He's pulled out of the familiar pattern of his thoughts by the foreign crunch of glass underfoot. He freezes, wondering for a moment if he imagined the sound, so out of place in his usual routine. But when he shifts his weight back to his left foot, he knows he isn't imaging it. He lifts one boot off the ground, and sure enough, the ground all around where he is standing is littered with broken glass. He looks down at the mess, frowning. Did one of his boozy regulars break a bottle out here? He hadn't noticed last night, when he'd closed up. But the glass isn't brown, or green, like the bottles he stocks inside. It's dark. Tinted. Much like the-. He looks up and curses, noticing for the first time that the small glass window in the front door is no longer there. Because naturally, it's too busy currently littering the sidewalk. Fearing the worst, he places his palm flat on the door, and gives it an experimental shove. The door swings open with little fanfare, and Killian Jones feels a jolt way down in his stomach as his entire life skips off its intended track.

He feels a little badly for Graham. Storybrooke doesn't have much in the way of crime. Or any, in fact. It's the quintessential sleepy New England town, unfazed by tourist hordes or the ravages of industrial decline. It's too out-of-the-way. Too remote. Too dull.

There's Leroy, of course, his best customer. Every bar has one. A resident alcoholic who can't quite drown the demons, but never gives up trying. He ought to be waking up in his customary bunk in the Storybrooke lock-up right about now. Hell, he's probably got his name embroidered on the pillow by now. But that's really more a precautionary measure, than anything. Even at his worst, Killian's never seen the man get into trouble for anything more serious than public urination, and though unseemly, it's hardly a federal crime.

But breaking and entering? Theft? These are not the markers of The Sleepiest Town On Earth. And as he descends the stairs into the main bar, the more he is realizing that this isn't a bit of harmless fun. The place is in a right state. Tables overturned, chairs scattered. The mirrors behind the bar have been shattered, and plenty of the bottles of spirits too. The remains of the spilled spirits have mingled into the carpet, something and sharp and flammable assaulting the back of Killian's throat, making him gag. Black spray paint is obscuring half of his oh-so-carefully selected wallpaper in nonsensical patterns. That too, assaults his senses in the worst of ways, causing him to take a step back as he is hit by a wall of fumes.

The whole place smells like a tinderbox, set for ignition, and it sets his teeth on edge. He brings his shirt up to cover his nose and mouth, and presses on, knowing he still has his office to check. His safe.

The office has been rifled through, that's for sure. Papers lay scattered in all directions, drawers flung open. With a deep breath, he kneels down and pushes his office chair to the side, and lifts away the square of carpet which hides his floor safe. It seems untouched, secure. But he's rattled. So rattled it takes three tries before he gets the combination right, his fingers are shaking so much.

Yesterday's taking are still intact, bundled together by denomination, along with the day's receipts. His relief is a palpable thing, escaping out his mouth in a loud sigh. A bungled robbery, he thinks. Destructive, but ultimately unsuccessful. And then he remembers what else the safe contains, and feels the sudden need to check. Just to make sure. Surely no thief would be interested in such a thing. But his desire to see it safe suddenly is all-consuming, and he leans forward to trace his fingers along the bottom of the safe, waiting for his fingers to catch on that familiar edge. But they don't catch. They just slide right into the steel edge. He leans down further, panic beginning to turn his movements into something jerky and uncertain. He traces his whole palm against the bottom of the safe, left to right, right to left. Nothing. Frustrated, he grabs his phone out of his pocket and lights the torch, shining it down into the hole in the floor. Shiny steel is all that he sees reflected back at him.

It's not there.

It's not there.

He opens every cupboard, every refrigerator, every storage closet, until his is certain he is alone. Then he goes back upstairs and calls Graham on his cellphone from the front stoop. The urge to sweep away the broken glass is overwhelming, but he knows he shouldn't. He tamps down the urge, instead focusing on the rings, before there is a whirring sound, and the call diverts to voicemail.

"You've reached Storybrooke Sheriff's Department," comes Graham's familiar lilt over the line. "We aren't available to take your call right now, but if you leave a message with your name, number and the reason for your call, we'll get back to you as soon as we can. Just a reminder that this is a line for everyday police matters. If this is a life-threatening emergency, the number is 911. And no, Ruby, a devastating lack of hot, eligible men in town does not constitute a life-threatening emergency. Stop calling."

He waits for the beep and leaves a short message, before sliding down the brick wall beside the door to wait for the cavalry. After twenty minutes, his legs are starting to go numb so he tracks downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. Surely the good folks behind CSI will forgive him. He's just taken his first sip of Earl Gray when he hears the telltale clomp of boots on the stairs.

"Careful, mate. There's bloody glass everywhere. Kettle's boiled. Do you fancy a-" His words abruptly trail off, when instead of the imposing form of his friend filling the doorway, Killian instead finds himself face to face with a blonde woman he's never met. A rather attractive blonde woman he's never met, if he's being honest with himself.

"You're... not Graham."

The woman leans her slender frame against the doorway, as if she belongs there, arms crossed over her chest, the suggestion of a smile tugging at her lips. "Well, aren't we perceptive?"

Sarcasm. Oh joy. It's only been five seconds, and the lass already thinks he's a doddering fool. Whoever she is.

It's this particular thought which gets his brain back into gear, and before he knows it he's taken a step forward, raising his right hand in front of him.

"Killian Jones, unfortunate proprietor of this here establishment. And who might you be, beautiful?"

At once, all traces of a smile vanish from her face, and her arms fall down by her sides, his hand purposefully left hanging in mid-air.

"The name's Emma Swan," she says, her tone positively stony. "I'm Storybrooke's newest Deputy. I hear there was a break-in?"