It's Always Sunny in Storybrooke!

CHAPTER 2

Hook blearily opened his eyes, raising a hand against the offensive rays of sunlight that had the audacity to shine right in his face. He looked around himself, puzzled: why was he lying on the floor? Usually when he woke up there, it was because the night before he was too drunk to remember how to get into bed. But his head wasn't pounding the way it usually did when he was hungover. In fact, he felt surprisingly well rested, for sleeping on the floor.

Maybe the pillow had helped. Hook frowned, pulling it out from under his head, and stared at it. Had he done that? It seemed odd: if he'd bothered to make himself comfortable, wouldn't he have just slept in his bed?

He raised his left arm against the obtrusive sunlight...hold on, why was he still wearing his hook? No matter how drunk he got, he always remembered to remove it. Hook knew himself, and he wasn't too proud to admit he was a restless sleeper. If he started waving his arms around in his sleep, he could very well scratch up that pretty face, and he wouldn't be able to get out of half the things he did.

And then he saw something that made his heart drop.

His sleeve.

Was.

Gone.

* * * * * *

There is a quaint little town in Maine, where everyone knows everyone. Each day, the sun rises to give warmth to the crisp cool air. The sky softens to a pale, but unmistakeable blue. Birds chirp, serenading the early risers as they start their day, nodding Good mornings's to each other.

Today is like any other day. The townsfolk are awake, cheerfully preparing for the day ahead. The breeze weaves in and out of windows, delicately fogging the windows. The birds sing greetings to each other as the sun rises to bring light to the world.

And then a scream shatters the silence. Hell has come to Storybrooke.

* * * * * *

"NEAL!" Hook pounded on the door, struggling to breathe through his fury. He'd been less upset when his brother had died. Briefly, he wondered if that made him a bad person (he was leaning toward "yes"), but then the door opened and he could only think about the fact that some monster had destroyed his beautiful coat.

Neal looked far too innocent and surprised for Hook to believe he was either. "Hey, buddy," he yawned. "What's up?"

Hook shoved the coat in his face. "What's up?" he hissed. He strode into the room, forcefully enough to make Neal stumble back. "WHAT'S UP?"

Neal tried a nervous smile. "So you saw the coat."

"Yes, I saw the coat."

"And you're clearly upset."

"Yes, I am upset."

Neal nodded. "Well," he said finally, clearing his throat, "just so you know..."

Hook glared at him. Neal seemed to be gathering his courage.

"It was Emma's fault," he said quickly, throwing the coat back. Hook stared down at it, breathing unevenly. Slowly, he raised his eyes. Neal must have seen the rage in them because he met his gaze for a brief moment—then flicked his eyes to the side, and back. Hook knew what he was going to do and lunged forward, but Neal darted out of the way and raced for the door. Hook caught him around the ankle, and he dropped like a stone.

"YOU'RE DEAD, CASSIDY!"

"NO! GET OFF!"

"YOU'VE KILLED IT!"

"IT'S A COAT, GET OVER IT!"

"I WILL HAVE VENGEANCE!"

"NOBODY TALKS LIKE THAT, YOU IDIOT!"