Hook finished in the washroom, parting with some reluctance from the closet with the clear door and hot water. Emma had left a change of contemporary clothing on the dresser in the guest quarters. He studied his reflection in the fog-rimmed mirror. Blood-shot eyes and tired skin.

Drunken wretch.

Hook pushed his fingertips against his pounding temples. He winced when someone knocked on the bedroom door.

Emma entered. She looked him over and actually smiled. "Jeans! That's a good sign."

Hook didn't feel like laughing. He avoided her as he returned to the mirror and finished dressing—a cotton shirt with truncated sleeves and the dark vest made of fabric, not leather.

By furtive glances in the mirror, he saw her slip her hands into her rear pockets. "Feeling better?"

"I am sober." He dropped into a wingback chair and made a show of putting on the cotton stockings everyone deemed such an indispensable part of the attire around here. As he did so, he asked, "Where are my real clothes?"

"Mary Margaret is washing them. Goodness knows how long it's been since they were cleaned."

Hook straightened. "You can't simply submerge leather in a tub of lard and water, Swan."

"Which is why I'm not doing it. I was putting them into the top-loader when she stopped me."

Hook leaned forward over his knees and pressed his head into his hands. It had been a long time since he'd been unsuccessful at holding his own with alcohol, yet failed he had not once, but twice, in one month. He would blush to admit such a thing to his crew.

Emma sat on the end of the bed. Although he made no effort to look or speak to her, he felt her eyes studying him.

At last she said in a tone that invited response, "I get the vibe you're still spiraling."

Hook sighed into his hands. "I'm not in the best form for conversation."

Emma let that one hang in the air. The bed creaked when she stood. Hook watched her pick up his corded medallion from the dresser and offered it to him. As he took it, she caught his eyes and said, "It's okay."

Hook knew what she meant. He looked away and just shook his head.

Emma took the medallion back. When he knitted his brow, she crouched in front of him and held his eyes with her own. She held the medallion out to him in the spirit of making a point, not offering to relinquish it.

"You are adapting to a new environment and making peace with losses. I think you're doing fine."

He didn't have an answer for that. She commanded his attention for several moments longer before she released his eyes and reached her arms around his neck. At first he thought it was an embrace, but then he felt her fingers moving and understood she tied his medallion in place. In another humor, he would have pressed the situation, but he did not feel like horseplay today.

"I meant what I said at the merchant palace," Hook said quietly when she was done. "I wish to be Killian Jones again, but I fear I cannot. I feel . . . without direction."

Emma grunted. Now would be a really good time, her conscience nagged.

But I haven't decided yet, she protested.

Oh, leave off. It's a good idea and you know it.

Nobody else is going to like this.

Give them time. Give him time. He'll win them over.

Whatever. It's on you if this doesn't work.

Uh, doesn't that mean it's on you, too?

Shut up.

Fine. One more thing, her conscience continued. It's time for the name change.

But—

Now, Swan. Or else the offer won't mean anything to him.

I really hate this.

I'm waiting…

Emma cleared her throat. She rolled her eyes at her conscience—her conscience stuck its tongue out back at her—before she took a breath. "Killian."

His head lifted like he'd been poked with a hot iron.

"I'd like you to help me with something."

He was too busy staring at her to really respond, but his brows lifted which indicated he was listening.

Emma removed the metal star badge from her back pocket and handed it to him. He was speechless as he pressed the points into his fingertip.

"I want you to work with me—us. David and I. As a deputy."

"Of the law?" The disbelief in his snort was as audible as his accent. "Surely you jest."

"You need a job. Something to give you purpose here. I think you would be good at this."

"Swan, what makes you think three hundred years of pillaging and stealing—not to mention a fair amount of lying and stabbing—qualifies me to be an officer of the law?" Emma noticed that the shock on his face notwithstanding, he had not returned the badge.

"Because I believe you are a good man, Killian Jones."

And from that moment on, he would always be Killian Jones to her. The officer hiding in a pirate's clothes.

Killian fingered the badge. "No one will trust this, Swan. Your own father will be reticent."

"They'll change their minds."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because you're not a liability."

Killian closed his fingers around the badge. He thought for some time, tracing the insignia pressed into the metal with his thumb. "Will I be with you?"

Emma smiled. "Every day. As far as Storybrook goes, it's about the most excitement you can find around here. But you don't have to do this. You should know—it can be dangerous. I've dealt with my share of threats."

The smile that spread over Killian's face was all heart and just a little bit eyebrow. "Then how could I say no?"

Author's confession: Clearly, my sense of direction is waning, as evidenced by how long it took to get this one up. I intended this to be a series of loosely connected one-shots, but my perfectionists tendencies insisted they be connected, and thus they have become bogged. Rather than dilute with uninspired filler, I intend to write two remaining scenes that are still poignant in my mind before turning my attention to another project. Perhaps a Captain Swan AU to occupy my attention during the fast-approaching break.