Emma dropped into her chair miserably. Seriously? Gold hadn't been here five minutes, and he was already firing people for some stupid little Broadway brat? What was she going to do? She couldn't just up and fire someone!

Jeff…

No! she scolded herself, forcing the admittedly tempting thought away. Jeff— however much of a jackass he was—was a good writer and he'd been working with her from the beginning. She couldn't fire him.

Maybe she could convince Gold to just let her keep everyone, and make room in the budget elsewhere? Maybe they could lose some break room commodities—like straws! They were all adults, they didn't need straws!

Would straws be enough to cover a writer?

Maybe she should come up with some more ideas, just to be safe.

Although, it wasn't like they had so any break room commodities for her to cut.

Really just the straws.

Damn it.

Emma let out a frustrated breath, throwing her head in her hands. She had to think—think, you idiot, think! she urged herself. If she didn't figure something out, Gold would make her fire someone and who knew how everyone else would react? They'd shun her, they'd call her names—even more than usual! Not to mention, someone would lose their job, and of course, that sucked, too—

"Emma!"

Emma's head snapped up as Killian stormed in, followed by a glaring Belle French, head of the wardrobe department. Her heart sank at the furious indignation on his face

"Kil," she said wearily. "Please, I don't have time to worry about—"

"Belle is telling me I can't wear the trench coat for the clown sketch!"

"But there is no trench coat in the clown sketch! God, why does everybody want to…?" Emma shook her head, exhaling in exasperation. "Look, you can't wear a trench coat, okay?"

"I've been telling him that for the past hour!" Belle snapped. "He either doesn't believe me, or he thinks blatantly ignoring me is going to get him what he wants!"

"Funny, that's also his approach to dating," Emma muttered. Killian laughed sarcastically.

"Ha, ha, ha—we have a disaster here, Emma! Focus!"

Belle let out an incredulous laugh."It's not a disaster if you don't wear a trench coat, you self-centered, spoiled—"

"You shrill, bossy—"

"—childish, egotistical—"

"—nasty, cold-hearted—"

"—prima donna son of a bitch!"

"—midget!"

Belle gasped. "How dare you!"

"How dare you!" Killian spat back.

"Guys!" Emma exclaimed. "I don't have time for this! Everybody get out, I need to think!"

Belle shot Killian a withering look before turning on her heel and stalking out. Killian didn't move; he stood still, the glare on his face softening as he realized Emma was actually stressed about something other than his costume changes.

"What's wrong with you, Swan? Your face is all…growly."

"It's Gold," Emma grumbled.

"Who?"

"Gold, Rumford Gold! The new bossman!"

Killian's eyes grew wide. "Oh, God…did he fire you?"

"No, but he's making cuts, and he wants me to get rid of one of the writers." Emma looked up at him miserably. "I can't fire someone, they'll mutiny against me."

"Jeff?"

"I can't!" Emma said wildly. "I don't know what I'm going to do! He's bringing in this new girl—Rory Something-Or-Other—and she's 'star quality', so he's cutting people to make room in the budget for her—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Killian interrupted, holding up his hand. "Rory Phillips?"

"What? Yeah, something like that—"

"Rory Phillips?" he repeated angrily. "The former child-star, turned Broadway, turned small-screen?"

"Yeah," Emma said, a little surprised. "He wants to bring her on the show."

"Bring her on—?" Killian broke off, choking on his rage. "You mean…a co-star?"

"We're all making sacrifices, Kil," Emma said through her teeth.

"UGH!" Killian flung his head back to glower at the ceiling. "I can't believe this! Can you imagine what I must be going through right now?"

"My condolences."

"And you!" Killian sat up, looking at her with sudden sympathy. "They'll have your head, Swan! They'll run a bloody mutiny against you!"

"I know, I already said that." Emma buried her head in her hands, sighing heavily. "I don't know what to do here."

They sat in silence, contemplating the disaster of their situation, the only sound coming from Killian's fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest.

"Coffee," he said finally.

"What?" Emma lifted her head, squinting at him. "The hell are you talking about?"

"It's a caffeine-charged hot beverage brewed from the exotic coffee bean," Killian said, nonplussed. "Affectionately known as 'java', 'cuppa Joe', 'jitter juice'—"

"Concept grasped, thank you," Emma said dryly. "What does this have to do with my impending doom?"

"Nothing. It's time for my morning mocha." Killian stood up with a little sigh, carefully brushing his hair back. "I'd've sent Ruby, but I could use some fresh air. Come with me, and I'll buy you a donut or a bagel or whatever complex carbs tickle your fancy today."

"Okay," Emma shrugged, pushing back from her chair to grab her coat. Perhaps a little burst of caffeine would give her some inspiration on how to deal with Gold.

"Be a lady, Swan—hold the door open for me."

"Of course. We wouldn't want you to strain yourself." Emma yanked the door open, and swept him a deep, mocking bow. "No, no, please—after you."

Killian glided through the door, his chin held high with an air of regality; Emma followed, somewhat less gracefully.

"Grabbing a coffee break," she said, in response to the raised eyebrows she got from Jefferson and Merlin. "Keep working on that clown sketch, I'll be back in ten."

"Bring me back a scone," Jeff called after her.

"And a latte," Merlin added.

"Will do."

She always felt mildly embarrassed, walking alongside Killian with his long, dramatic strides. It was like she was part of his entourage while he went around, prima donna screaming from every gesture he made, practically flicking a feather boa over his shoulder. Killian made a decent buck for the company, but he wasn't nearly so large a star as he seemed to think: but then, stardom was more about ego and nerve than actual talent—and ego and nerve, Kil had plenty of.

Tact, however, was something he was definitely lacking in, Emma reflected dryly as they made their way down to the lobby, headed for the coffee stand. Trust "Milady" (as she privately called him) to take offense at the mere suggestion of a costar, then abruptly forget Emma's concerns in favor of his caffeine needs. Had she not had caffeine needs of her own, she would have torched his autographed photo of Beyonce.

"I think I'm feeling a bagel today," Emma decided as they turned down the hallway. "Maybe a blueberry one. And a hot chocolate. With whipped cream."

Killian scoffed. "Do you know how many calories—?"

"Do I care how many calories?" Emma countered. "Besides, you said…"

She stopped, her insides freezing as she realized who was behind the coffee counter today. Oh, damn it, she thought. Oh, damn it, damn it, damn it!

"Emma?" Killian frowned, turning half-way around when he realized she wasn't moving. "Coffee's this way, why are you stopping?"

"It's Cute Bagel Guy."

"What?"

"Cute Bagel Guy!" she hissed. "That's him, that's the guy I was telling you about!"

Killian turned his head to take another look at the scruffy, dark-haired man behind the counter. "I don't recognize him. Is he new?"

"Yes, he's new! Don't you remember anything I told you?" Emma snapped. "Do you listen at all when I talk? I've neurotically discussed this at least seven times in the past thirty-six hours!"

"If he's new, he's not going to know how to make my mocha the right way," Killian said worriedly. "He'll probably use the full-fat milk, the real sugar…that whipped cream that tastes like lightly sugared pillow fluff."

"Hey!" Emma smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. "This is not about you! This is about me, right now!"

"I thought it was about New Guy."

"It's about me and New Guy—and he's not 'New Guy', he's 'Cute Bagel Guy'."

"Why do you call him 'Cute Bagel Guy'? Does 'cute' refer to the bagels or the guy?"

"The guy, obviously—you seriously don't remember anything I told you?"

"Was it about me?"

"No, it was about Cute Bagel Guy."

"Then why would I remember?"

"Because you're supposed to be my best friend?"

"'Supposed to be…' Oh, but, Swan, that phrase indicates constraints of morality, and you know how I feel about constraints of morality!"

"I know how you feel about constraints of morality."

"What if I'm playing a character with no morality? I cannot bind myself to operating within society's bounds of decency! To do that, would be first-degree murder to the arts!"

"Just forget it, okay?" Emma said exasperatedly. "Get me a blueberry bagel, a latte and a scone, and meet me upstairs."

Killian knit his brow. "Are you avoiding Cute Bagel Guy or something?"

"Yes, and if you bothered to pay attention, you'd know that."

"Well…" Killian stole another glance over his shoulder, where Cute Bagel Guy was busy mixing up a couple of iced coffees for a customer. "Tell me now, so I can decide whether or not it's worth pushing you to talk to him."

"You don't have to—"

"Before I lose interest, Swan, hurry up."

Emma hesitated for a moment, shifting on her feet. "I went British."

"Sorry?"

"I went British," she repeated, spectacularly humiliated. "Last Monday. I was in a rush, so I was already kind of flustered. I get up to the counter and there's this guy, this amazing guy with a pretty face and an ironic T-shirt, surrounded by bread and pastries—"

"Everything you ever wanted in a man," Killian nodded.

"Of course. So naturally, I panicked when he asked me what I wanted, and I went British. I asked for a bagel in a British accent, and…" Emma closed her eyes, exhaling. "I think I called him 'ducky'."

"You called him—?" Killian threw back his head, laughing hysterically. "You called him 'ducky'?"

"Shut up!" Emma hissed furiously, looking around with wide eyes. "People are staring!"

"What, did you think it would impress him? Oh, God…Thank you, Emma. this is exactly what I needed to cheer me up." Killian beamed at the ceiling, pressing two fingers to his lips and sending a kiss to the heavens. "Lord, I thank you for sending me Emma Swan. I will never again question your love for me."

"You're a jerk," Emma said witheringly.

"I love being friends with you," Killian said, slinging his arm around her shoulder as he started walking toward the coffee stand. Emma frantically tried to pull away, but Killian ignored her efforts, choosing instead to prop up her confidence with comments like, "I feel so much better about myself around you" and "I admire you, Swan: for not giving up and killing yourself. It takes a lot of courage to face the humiliation of your existence day after day after day."

"Please stop talking!" she begged in a desperate whisper as they reached the stand, perfectly within earshot of Cute Bagel Guy. "Don't do this to me, Kil, please."

"I'm helping you," Killian muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "You'll thank me for this, Swan. Hello!" he said brightly, directing his attention to Cute Bagel Guy.

Cute Bagel Guy—who, Emma noticed, was wearing a name-tag that said: "Neal" (Ahh….Neal, she thought dreamily)—looked up with raised eyebrows. "Morning," he said, tapping a few buttons on the register. "What can I get you?"

Killian dropped his arm from Emma's shoulders and absently wiped his hand down his jacket, as though brushing something distasteful off. "How skilled are you at making customized mochas?" he asked.

"Uh…" Neal looked at him, as if trying to determine whether or not he was joking. "Fairly skilled?"

"Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm," Killian murmured, nodding in approval. "Well, then—" he made a show of checking the name-tag—"Neal, is it? I would like a fat-free, Splenda-sweetened mocha, no whip. And my girlfriend here—"

"Girlfriend?" Emma whispered furiously, looking at him with wide eyes. "What the hell are you doing? I'm not his girlfriend," she said quickly, turning to Neal. "He's a compulsive liar. He's not my boyfriend. I-I don't have one of those."

"Hey," Neal frowned, slowly pointing a finger at her. "What happened to your accent?"

"I don't have one of those, either," Emma said, red-faced.

"But…" Neal shook his head. "No, no, I remember you. You definitely had an accent before."

"I assimilated," Emma said queasily, feeling the blood rush to her head.

"In two days?"

"Thirty-six hours, actually," she said quietly.

"What?"

"Be more pathetic, Swan, I dare you," Killian muttered through his teeth.

"I'll take a bagel," she said abruptly.

Neal blinked, startled. Killian exhaled exasperatedly.

"Nice segway, that sounded very natural," he said under his breath.

"A blueberry bagel," Emma went on. "All blueberries. Just…blueberry all day, every day." It seemed she had no control over her mouth right now, it was just running of its own accord: finding words and spitting them out. "Blueberry bagel, and throw in a hot chocolate. With whipped cream. A-and cinnamon. And whipped cream—wait, did I already say that?"

"Yep," Neal said, punching her order in.

"And a latte. That one's not for me, it's for my friend, Toofer. I mean, 'Merlin'—his name isn't actually 'Toofer', we just call him that sometimes. And I don't mean friend—he works for me. He is my friend, but I'm also his boss. B-but I'm not a mean boss, I'm a nice boss. that's why I do things like picking up lattes for my friend, Toofer. Who works for me. I mean, Jefferson. I mean, Toofer works for me, but the latte might be for Jefferson. Who also works for me. Or did he want a bagel? Was it a bagel? No, wait, I wanted the bagel. Jefferson wanted the scone. Or Toofer. Not that he wanted Toofer—mind you, Toofer is pretty sexy, so maybe he does, but I don't think Jeff is gay. I meant, maybe Toofer wanted the scone, and Jefferson wanted the latte. But between the two of them, Toofer seems more likely to want the latte. Who wanted the hot chocolate again?"

"That was you," Neal said, lifting his eyebrows.

"Was it?" Emma said nervously. "Oh. Okay. Well, good, then I don't have to order two. Unless you want one, Killian?"

"I've got my mocha, ducky."

Emma dug her elbow in his ribs, and hissed, "You're not helping."

"No. I'm not," Killian agreed, nonplussed.

"I'm already sinking here, was that so very necessary?"

"Not necessary so much as enjoyable. I haven't had a full-fat mocha in years, love, and everyone deserves a treat now and again."

"At my expense?"

"No, but you make it so easy. I barely have to expend any effort at all."

"Oh, that's nice—"

Neal cleared his throat. "So, is that all?" he asked, his finger still hovering over the screen. "Skinny mocha, latte, scone, hot chocolate with whip and cinnamon, and a blueberry bagel with emphasis on the blueberries?"

"That's all," Killian said swiftly, stepping in front of Emma. "Here, take a twenty and keep the change. Buy yourself something pretty."

Neal raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything as he took the twenty and slipped it into the register. "Drinks'll be out in a minute," he told them, and started pulling out syrups and milk to pour into the blender.

Emma closed her eyes, letting out a slow breath. God, that was humiliating, she thought. Killian bumped her with his elbow, silently agreeing with her.

It was bad enough that she had to deal with Gold and a potential mutiny from her remaining writers; but now, she had so thoroughly embarrassed herself in front of Neal, she could never buy coffee here again. She was going to have to track down another coffee stand, and avoid this one like the plague, or she would literally die of humiliation.

"Here you go," Neal said, sliding their orders over the counter. "That's one skinny mocha with Splenda and no whip, a latte, hot chocolate with cinnamon and whip, a scone, and a blueberry-studded bagel."

"Thank you," Killian said, plucking his drink up. He took an experimental sip, frowning slightly as he swilled it around in his mouth. "This is…" He paused to take another careful sip, swallowed, then nodded his head. "Yes, this is to my satisfaction."

"Great." Neal turned to Emma, a little smirk playing around the corner of his mouth. You believe this guy? his eyes said. "You want to give your chocolate a taste, make sure it's up to standards?"

Emma blinked. "Um—I—chocolate—uh—"

"I'm going to head back," Killian said, rescuing her from her stammers and buying her time to collect her thoughts. "Meet you up there, Swan?"

"Yeah, see you," Emma said.

Killian glanced at Neal to make sure he wasn't looking before turning back to Emma with a thumbs-up. You got this! he mouthed.

Emma smiled halfheartedly, raising her hand in farewell as he started walking backwards. I don't "got this." I've never "got this". My entire life, I've never—not once—"got this".

"So, uh—" Neal cleared his throat, not looking up as he wiped down the counter—"that guy really your boyfriend?"

"What, Killian? No. Oh, God, no." Emma shook her head, laughing nervously. "No, no, no, no, no. Definitely not my boyfriend."

"Hmm," Neal nodded slowly. "Interesting."

Emma's eyes widened. "Interesting"? Why is that interesting? He did say "interesting", right? Did he say "interesting"? Wait, what's happening here? Oh, God, I'm freaking out. I am FREAKING OUT.

She tried to think of something to say—anything to say—wracking her brains for any small memory of the English language, but her mind was blank. She couldn't think, not with the word "interesting" rolling around in her head.

"So…" Neal finally put down the cloth, and braced his hands on the counter, looking at the remaining cups and and pastry wrappers. "You, uh—" he nodded at them—"you want your stuff there?"

"Oh. Right. Yeah, my stuff. Let me just—" Emma reached out quickly, trying to snap it all up in swoop. But that proved to be a disastrous mistake, as Neal also reached out, preparing to help her gather it into her hands; hands collided against the cups, slopping hot chocolate and latte over the sides and—

"Gah!" Neal yelped, clapping his hand over his burnt arm.

"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry!" Emma cried. "Here, let me help—"

"No!" Neal said immediately, looking up with wide eyes. "I mean, no. I-I got this, okay?" He gave her a strained smile, backing away slowly. "I'm—I'm gonna get some ice."

"I'm sorry," she tried again.

"Yeah, no, I know, I'm just…" Neal winced, cradling his arm. "I think I need medical attention."

Emma watched him leave, heaving a dejected sigh, She looked down at the puddle of scalding brown liquid, and slowly stepped away from the stand.

This day just keeps getting better and better, she groaned, fighting the urge to hide behind her hands in the elevator. Was it her destiny to live the life of the stereotypical, disaster-prone rom-com girl (obviously, pre-gorgeous-charming-guy-comes-to-her-rescue phase. She'd just spilled hot chocolate over the last one)? Did her life really suck that much, did she just suck at living at it?

The elevator dinged open, but she was the only one unimportant enough to be on such a low floor. It wasn't until she was already halfway down the hall to her office that she realized she had a huge stain on her shirt: backsplash from the chocolate she'd burnt Neal with.

"Perfect," she muttered through gritted teeth. "Just perfect."

She stalked down the rest of the way, sending glowers at anyone who crossed her path. Ruby scampered away with a little whimper; Merlin dove behind the printer. Even Jefferson had the good sense to keep his mouth shut and hide behind his laptop.

Her life was a mess. All day, she dealt with snarky writers, stupid interns, demanding network bosses, egotistical actors. The set's wrong, the script's not done, the costume doesn't fit—get it together, Miss Swan! This is a business, not a middle school theater production!

The highlight of her day had been getting her coffee and a bagel, and now even that was ruined! Everything here was a mess! It seemed like her sanity was popping stitches at this point, the seams on her brain splitting and letting madness and chaos escape!

"Hey, Emma," Leroy said through half a salami sandwich, strolling down the hall. "What do you think of—?"

"YOU'RE FIRED, LEROY!" she burst out.

Leroy blinked, stunned. "What?"

"I said, you're fired!" Emma snapped. She glared around the room at all the wide-eyed stares, taking a savage pride in the fear on their faces. "Yeah, that's right!" she went on. "You're fired! I can do that! You know why? Because I'm your boss, Leroy! And my boss wants me to get rid of one of you, so you know what? I pick you!"

"Emma," Leroy said, shaking his head slightly. "I don't understand—did I do something wrong?"

"YES!" she cried exasperatedly. "Yes, Leroy, you did something wrong! You're always doing something wrong! You're always eating sandwiches and leaving pickles and salami trails everywhere you go! You never refill the coffee after you drain it! You never apologize for eating the last donut in the break room! You always wear that stupid hat and that ugly flannel—you look like a lumberjack who still lives at home with his parents on their pickle-and-salami farm! And you know what else?" She took a breather, still glowering. "You're not funny! You don't know how to write a sketch show, because you're not funny, or remotely clever or even slightly entertaining! So pack up your desk, Leroy, and go send some other show's ratings down!"

With that, she stalked past him the rest of the way into her office, slamming the door shut behind her. She kicked her chair away from the desk and threw her head in her hands, glaring through her fingers at the paper-infested desk.

I just fired Leroy, she realized. I called him an untalented, salami-scarfing lumberjack. In front of everyone, I literally screamed about salami.

Well, at least she'd gotten the firing Gold had ordered out of the way.

But Leroy…

And she screamed about salami, of all things.

Not to mention, gave Neal severe burns from her hot chocolate. Which she had ordered in the most ludicrously embarrassing rant that ever escaped a person's mouth.

And after all this, she still had to deal with T.G.I.F drama: Killian and Belle's feud over the trench coat; the extra work her remaining writers were going to have to do to fill Leroy's place; dealing with Gold and Regina Mills in general…

Finding a new coffee place.

And this shirt that she'd just gotten (eight years ago) was ruined.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, pulling her out of the melancholy saturating her brain. Emma heaved a sigh, and got up from her chair to pull the door open.

Gold stood on the doorway, beaming at her. Emma slumped against the door, groaning.

"Mr. Gold, you're crashing my pity party. I was just going to pull out the tiny violin."

"Never mind that, Swan. I need to talk to you," he said, walking right past her. Emma closed her eyes briefly and shut the door behind him; with a weary sigh, she folded her arms over her chest and followed him in.

"What is it now?"

Gold turned around, the brilliant smile still lighting up his face. "I just heard the way you fired that Leroy fellow." He clapped his hands together and let out a cackle. "My God, Swan! You're vicious!"

Emma lifted her eyebrows. "What?"

"I knew there was something about you that I liked!" Gold said delightedly, waggling a finger at her. "You remind me of my first wife. A raging bitch, but damn, she knew how to get things done! I admire that, Miss Swan. It's so rare to find a person who understands the necessity of crushing a person's heart when business is on the line! So many people are consumed by their conscious—but not you! You're a shark!"

Emma felt her heart sink further in her chest. "Crushing a person's heart?" she repeated whimperingly.

"You know, I have to say, I didn't think you had it in you," Gold said thoughtfully. "I thought you were going to try some ridiculous way to get me to change my mind or find a way around the budget, but you surprised me! Congratulations—not many people can say they've surprised me! But you did it, Swan!" He stuck out his hand, beaming at her. "I think, this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, don't you think?"

Emma looked at his hand for a minute, then reluctantly unfolded her own to shake it. "I guess so," she sighed.