Please select color preferences.

Emma clicked on the drop down menu to see her choices.

Whoa. How could there be so many shades of green?

She squeezed one eye shut as she appraised her kitchen walls, projecting the shades along the counter tops and under the windows and around the white fridge. After several attempts, she shut the laptop. Her head found the desk and her folded arms with a huff.

Mary Margaret wanted a new kitchen? Fine. She could pick the color. Emma would put it on the walls. Home decorating was not her forte. Her expertise tended towards hopping fences and chasing lowlifes through backstreets. Clearly, her mother—she winced—Mary Margaret—had suffered a lapse of sanity when she suggested over her freshly-squeezed orange juice and homemade toast that Emma branch out.

Yeah. She was a homemaking success story just waiting to be discovered.

Emma glanced at her watch. 10:30 am on a Friday morning. Bored already.

She pinched her nose bridge. No more vacation days. No matter how much David insisted.

With her chin in her hand, she stared at her car keys, perched atop the kitchen counter several feet away from the kitchen computer, calling to her like one of Mary Margaret's twirping little bird friends. It's not like he could forcibly remove her from the station. She just had to get in before he saw her and locked the front door.

Then again, the pile of folders on the coffee table needed attention. Incident reports, mostly. Small-time stuff for a small-time town—except for the occasions when people tried to ignite each other, turn loved ones into small mammals, poison enemies, cast love spells on stubborn flames, rip out hearts, or steal precious property for personal nefarious purposes.

Emma sighed. Okay, maybe a day off wasn't such a bad idea. She could read a book. Go for a hike. Buy some new clothes. (When was the last time I went shopping?) Work out. Go for a run. Henry would be home in the afternoon; they could go somewhere.

She warmed to the last two ideas. A heavy knock interrupted her.

When she opened the door, she caught her breath. "What did you do?"

Gold stood in her doorway, scowling. Hook was with him, bearing an even deeper scowl. His hands were cuffed behind his back and Gold had a sharp grip on his elbow.

Hook threw his shoulder back, trying to catch Gold, but clearly this wasn't the first attempt as Gold just shifted his body away. Hook swayed on his feet, slurring out sounds that were probably meant to represent, "Get your bloody claws off me, crocodile."

Emma groaned. "Hook."

"Your pirate," Gold said in a dry tone, "is drunk."

She gave him a look. "I noticed that. Hey, wait, he is not my—"

"I found him stumbling through the middle of an intersection. He was brushed by a car."

Emma glanced at him again. The corners of his mouth lifted. And then his eyes rolled.

"He's fine," Gold answered. "Either you do something with him, or I will. I am only offering once."

Emma took over steadying the pirate. Once he had crossed the threshold, Hook leaned to the left and smiled. "Thank you, crocodile," he burbled, "for showing me to the lady's quarters. I believe I can handle it from here." With rolling eyes, Hook hovered behind her, nosing the skin just below her ear and kissing her cheek. "Swan, you look," he hiccuped, "beautiful, as always."

Emma muttered, "I'm gonna kill him."

"Get in line, dearie." Gold turned to go.

"Gold." Emma caught his eyes. "Thank you."

Gold looked at his cane.

"This will make Belle proud."

When Gold looked up, he wore his version of a smile. "Well," he whispered, tossing a nod at the pirate, "I certainly didn't do it for him."

They smiled between them—"smile" was probably too generous; they looked moderately pleasant—before Gold departed and Emma hauled Hook inside.

"Easy on the goods, love."