A/N: To be perfectly honest, I ripped the idea of this story straight from a webseries I once wrote, but never made. But I loved the characters too much to see them fade away into obscurity. So here you go. May they live on in your hearts.

Me being my fickle self, you should expect weekly updates, and consider anything more than that a joyous aberration.

1. Destitution, Despair, and Dr Phil.

Emma Swan had gotten some pretty crappy letters in her time.

There was the time in fourth grade when a letter had been slipped inside her pencil case from the boy she liked, professing his undying love for her in the form of a "Roses are Red, Violets are Blue" type poem. Of course, it later turned out not to have been from him at all, but a particularly vindictive little nine year old called Andie, who'd been out to embarrass her. Which, naturally, Emma only discovered once she'd... written him back...

And then there were the cards that had been jammed into her mailbox every month since she'd moved in, from her elderly downstairs neighbors. They came on this ornate card stock, with this super fancy calligraphy script kindly informing her that if she didn't learn to control her dog, they were going to write to the council to petition to get it put down. Every month without fail, she'd find another one stuffed in between her electricity bill and her newest copy of Real Crime.

Emma. Didn't. Even. Own. A. Dog.

She didn't even like dogs.

So yes, Emma had been on the receiving end of some craptastic letters in her time; just truly terrible examples of human correspondence. But at least some effort had been made! Andie had thought to paste star stickers with smiley faces on her fake love letter. Even the constant threats to the continued existence of her (mythical) canine companion were almost worth it for the quality of penmanship alone.

But when Emma Swan finally received the the worst letter of her life, there weren't any decorative motifs to blunt the news. Just a crumpled envelope with her name scribbled on it in blue ballpoint pen, unceremoniously jammed into her in-tray whilst she had been in the break room, fixing her fourth cup of coffee for the day.

Even an e-mail would have been preferable.

But no.

Dear Miss Swan,

It is with regret that we inform you, that due to recent structural changes within our company, your position as a Journalist within our company has become untenable, and you have been let go. We would ask you to clear your work space by the end of the day.

This decision is not a reflection of your work performance or work ethic, and you should not consider it as such. You have been a valued member of our staff.

Our newspaper has worked hard to adapt to the challenges of an industry-wide shift to 24 hour, online reporting. As such, it has become necessary to downsize our print media division to allow for a greater focus on our new media departments.

Blah blah blah, We wish you all the best, blah blah blah are happy to provide references blah blah see attached pages for severance blah blah blah.

So... that happened.

Which might explain how the Boston Sentinel's former rising star crime reporter, Emma Swan, came to be lazing on her couch at around about Ellen time, having just consumed an entire packet of Oreos. Or three.

Okay, so maybe all this wasn't entirely unexpected. Her newspaper, The Boston Sentinel, a bastion of well-researched, hard-hitting journalism in an age of click-bait gossip mongers, had been bought out by a particularly evil multinational a few months ago.

You know the one.

And ever since that fated day, Emma had seen more and more "editorial suggestions" popping up in her inbox. The kind she usually tended to delete without reading.

She remembered one such "suggestion" from her Editor, the beleaguered Sidney Glass, that she had stupidly opened after she ran a piece on drug abuse within the police department, thinking it might be, god forbid, praise for a job well done. Instead, the email informed her in no uncertain terms that the paper's new "editorial culture" was much more interested in reporting on low-level street crime, as it directly affected citizens, rather than on "top-down conspiracy theories."

She'd helped to spearhead an internal review of drug abuse in the public service, and they wanted her to cover muggings on the T?

Apparently.

So here she was. On the couch. Out of a job. To be quickly followed by the inevitable descent into destitution, despair, and Dr. Phil.

It was about then that the sugar high of the Oreos began to wear off, to be replaced with a cold grip of panic tightening around her throat.

She couldn't be unemployed! She had expenses!

She had rent to pay! She had a wayward brother to keep on the straight and narrow! She had an Agatha Christie book club subscription! She had houseplants to look after! She cast a sideways glance at the wilted fern which sat on the end table, begging to be put out of its misery. Okay. So maybe not so much with the houseplants. Still. She had a gym membership! That she fully intended to use one day! A Starbucks habit! A Netflix subscription! A burning desire to not screw up everything she'd worked so hard for!

That was when her heart truly sank.

She was fucked.

Technically speaking, Emma did have a roommate. Contrary to popular belief, a fledgling career in print journalism does not get you a two bedroom apartment in Mission Hill, without having to share a bathroom with someone. And the person Emma shared custody of her hairdryer with? None other than her brother, August. Not her real brother, exactly. Not by blood, and certainly not by law. Only in all the other ways that mattered. But he hadn't been around to watch Emma's downward spiral, seeing as he was currently on some sojourn of a dubious nature to Vietnam. Or was it Laos? Somewhere tropical, anyway, where the idea of stepping on an active landmine was more than a fleeting concern.

August did that a lot. Just packed a bag and took off. Officially, he was a freelance journalist, with his work appearing in a number of magazines and blogs, so it wasn't like he had a steady job to stick around for. Emma still suspected he sometimes came up with his half of the rent in slightly more creative ways, which weren't always, strictly speaking, legal. And though prying was her specialty, there were some things she was willing to remain ignorant about when it came to August. All she knew, was that now and then he went off and did questionable things with questionable people, and Emma's only clue as to his whereabouts would be a cryptic postcard arriving in the mail, depicting some exotic locale. It was frustrating. He was frustrating. But no matter what, he always came back. It's what separated him from the rest.

She hadn't seen him in five weeks.

It had been two weeks since she'd been fired.

That's 14 days.

10 Episodes of Ellen.

10 Episodes of Dr Phil.

10 Episodes of Dr. Oz

More golf than should ever be watched by someone under the age of 65, who couldn't even say what a birdie was, let alone an albatross.

After 14 days of pseudo-psychology from an evangelistic Texan with suspiciously white teeth, Emma had to face facts. Daytime television wasn't the answer. It couldn't be. So she went searching for a new answer. One she found sitting under a thin layer of dust, right at the back of the cereal cupboard, behind a box of Cheerios that had passed their use by date sometime back in 2013. Right where she left it.

Frangelico.

This particular bottle hailed from their housewarming party, back when they'd first moved into the apartment. She couldn't remember exactly who'd given it to her, the night had been such a blur. It might have been a gift from her boyfriend at the time, Walsh. He'd never really been one to take her own tastes and opinions into account. Which explained why it was two years later, he had long since been kicked to the curb, and Emma only just remembered she had it.

She'd never really considered herself a fan of hazelnut liqueur. But after four liberal glasses over ice, she was beginning to see the appeal. In fact, everything in her life had begun to take on a warm, fuzzy consistency by the time the knock came on her apartment door. So much so that she had already risen shakily to her feet and reached out to flick open the deadbolt, before she realized that she was still dressed in her pajamas at 5pm, and hadn't washed her hair since Monday.

The knock sounded again, a little more insistent this time.

Not August. He had a key. And even if he'd left it on a bus somewhere in the Golden Triangle, which would not be viciously out of character, he would at least try to pick the lock before he considered knocking. He always forgot about the deadbolt.

Nor had she ordered in, though suddenly the idea of some cold sesame noodles was starting to sound pretty good.

Who else would dare interrupt Emma in the middle of her pity party?

Curiosity getting the best of her, Emma stepped forward to peer through the peephole at her unexpected guest.

It was Killian Jones. Killian Jones was standing outside her door.

"Fuck."

Emma clapped her hands over her mouth, but it was too late. The expletive had already made its way out into the universe.

"Swan?" She froze as she heard his voice permeate through the door. Maybe if she made no sudden movements, he would just leave. She held her breath in hope. "Lass, I can see your shadow shifting in front of the door. Open up."

Fuckety fuck.

Killian Jones, for lack of a better term, was August's best friend. His former roommate, Killian was the guy who would bail August out when Emma was otherwise unavailable. A law school drop out, Killian was now a pretty middling Private Detective by all accounts, with premises above a laundromat on Mass Ave. They made an unlikely pair, really. Though Killian had a louche kind of appeal, with that whole tall, dark, and leather thing going on, and the accent to match, it had always been her brother who'd been the more disruptive influence. Killian was a secret neat freak who alphabetized their DVD collection. August let used coffee mugs fester for weeks, until they contained cultures with Bronze Age levels of sophistication. Their apartment had certainly been a study of contrasts. And yet, even now, across continents, the friendship endured.

Technically speaking, he was kind of Emma's friend too, if sharing a love for dark spirits and a bitter bar game rivalry could be considered friendly activities. But he was not the kind of friend who showed up on Emma's doorstep unannounced.

"What are you doing here?" She asked through the door at last.

"Ah! She speaks!" came the animated reply. "I was following along with your mental meltdown via Twitter. And then I figured if you were going to drink yourself to death, you should at least have a decent drop." She put her eye back to the peephole just in time to see him waving a promising looking object in a brown paper bag in front of the door.

Ah yes, the Twitter meltdown. If her network of friends and associates hadn't already been informed as to the recent change in her employment status, they certainly were now. Still. Something didn't ring quite true with his words.

"What are you really doing here?" She called, letting a note of suspicion into her tone.

A sigh. A nervous rake of a hand through his hair. A necessary summoning of courage. "Err... August wired me $50 to come and make sure you're alright?"

And there it was.

So wherever August was, he had wifi. That was interesting to know. Emma unclicked the deadbolt, letting the door swing open.

"As you can see, I'm fine," she replied to her brother's proxy question, letting her arms cross rather determinedly over her flannel pajama clad chest. "You've done your friendly duties. Now go and enjoy your 50 bucks without guilt."

But he didn't take her none-too subtle suggestion. Instead, he took a careful step forward, letting his gaze sweep from her unwashed hair, which was sticking up at some pretty interesting angles, to the mismatched socks she was wearing with the hole in the toe.

Emma bitterly regretted opening that door.

"Christ, Swan. I knew you'd fallen off the wagon, but this is something else."

This story takes its name from the rather excellent song of the same name by Laura Jane Grace (credited as Tom Gabel). There is a certain amount of irony in naming my funniest fic yet after such an angsty song.