A/N: I'm not really sure where this came from, but I guess I had some angst that needed to get out. I was listening to the song by DMB, "Grace is Gone" and I had this image of the bartender at The Rabbit Hole watching something a little different about one of his patrons. It's most likely going to stay as a one-shot, but who knows.

…. Excuse me please, one more drink

Could you make it strong

Cause I don't need to think…

Bartender

By Caillean

They come in here often enough, at least once a week. Sometime they show up in a crowd, but more often than not they show up together, dark and light the pair of them. He blends into the shadows, with his dark clothing and hair; his bright blue eyes the only hint of color on his features. She, the exact opposite, with long golden silk hair and blinding smile radiant dressed in primary colors.

They are the center of this mass of stars, the man in leather and the woman with the wide eyes. We learn their names of course, as any good bartender would, but names are unimportant here. We have titles for those who approach us from the other end of the great wooden divide. Some are known by their drinks, (Whiskey Sour, Raspberry Cosmo), while others are known by their personalities.

These two are different.

We call her the Princess, he the Pirate.

As it turns out, they are also accurate titles. A side benefit of working in Storybrooke, I suppose.

Personally, I like to think that bartenders, at least those of us who are good at what we do, would make excellent shrinks. It's a type of psychology, standing behind that bar every night, the patrons safely on the other side, pouring out their lives to us without having to get too close. Another beer, they'll say. Another round for my friends. Another drink to wipe away my fears, my anger, my loss.

But these two, they don't interact with us. Instead, they revolve in their own orbit, binary stars inseparable and confined to their own universe. One will come to order the drinks (Rum, neat, scotch on the rocks), pay quietly, then go back to a table in the corner, oblivious to all that happens around them.

We read the people who come into our bars; we base judgments on how they behave here in our realm. We see the fights, the hookups, the things people want hidden from the light of day and only feel safe exploring in the smoky depths of our bar. We see the celebrations after a victory, and the commiseration after defeat.

There was such a somber moment last week, when a group of the leaders of the town came in and ordered drinks one after another. Eyes downcast and heavy hearts, they drank to forget.

Since then, the Pirate comes by himself every night. He doesn't drink much, maybe a glass or two, but he stares into the amber liquid before him for hours as if he expects to find some answer inside. He started at the same table he shared with the Princess, but tonight, tonight he sits at the bar himself, across from me.

"What'll it be?"

He looks up at me, perhaps not registering my face. "Rum, make it a double."

I've already grabbed his favorite brand, pouring a generous double portion into a lowball glass and slide it across to him.

"Thanks, mate."

Tonight, again, she doesn't join him, doesn't show. Perhaps he sneaks a glance at the door once or twice, but I can't be sure. After a few minutes of filling orders, I walk back over to his side of the bar.

"What to talk about it?" I ask casually, wiping away water rings from the lacquered wood.

"Nothing to talk about," he mutters down into his glass, "she's gone."

I can recognize a cue, so pick up the towel and lean across the bar. "Look, I'd say that means there's everything to talk about." As he downs the last of his drink in one sip, I reach under the bar for the bottle and refill his glass.

He picks up the glass, staring at the liquid inside and swirls it around before taking another sip, setting the glass down on the bar and meeting my gaze straight on.

After a few moments of silence, he sighs and begins to speak.

"They're holding a wake for her tomorrow…."