A SwanQueen Christmas story, loosely inspired by the movie Bad Santa. AU. NSFW.

Striped tights. Tight skirt. Tunic top. Black belt. Hip flask… Emma took a swig of whiskey, hoping it would dull the mortification caused by the ribbons braided into her hair. It didn't. Pointed boots. Perky hat. Layers and layers of concealer. Emma lit a cigarette and examined her nails. Chipped red polish. Festive. Lipstick-

Her battered VW bug chose this moment to stutter, splutter, and shudder to a halt.

"FUCKING MOTHER FUCKING CUNT FACED BASTARD!"

Emma flipped the bird to the several onlookers (her windows weren't soundproof even when they were closed) and got out of the car, waving ineffectually at the copious amounts of black smoke coming from her engine.

"START, YOU SHITHEAD!"

She kicked the car, adding another dent to the bumper, and popped the hood. Ignoring the honking of about fifty disgruntled drivers, she fiddled with parts like she knew what she was doing (she might, sober), tried not to get engine oil on her costume, gave up on that, punched, cursed, and generally horrified her audience until, maybe out of shame, the car lurched back to life.

Brookside Mall was huge, glassy, and about as fancy as a shopping mall could be. Just outside the affluent suburb of Storybrooke (and about an hour from Boston) it attracted the creme de la creme of Christmas shoppers (and their snot nosed brats). Emma parked in the customer lot (because the staff one was just too fucking far), pulled on her red leather jacket, had a gulp of whiskey, and lit a cigarette for the short walk inside.

"You're late," taunted Killian, the greasy security guard.

"You got rejected to work at Abercrombie and Fitch. And cried about it."

"Skank!" he called after her.

Emma threw her cigarette butt at him and strolled over to the grotto, where kids and their parents were already queuing up. She ducked inside, popping a breath mint in a half hearted effort to appear professional, and looked around. The place was deserted, but for her bespectacled manager.

"Hey, where's Santa?" she demanded.

He was practically shaking. Normally, Emma would have enjoyed watching him be terrified of her, but right now she had other things on her mind.

"He, ah, he checked himself into rehab last night."

"Rehab? What the fuck?"

The manager wiped his sweaty brow with a silken handkerchief and wondered how it had possibly come to this.

"This time of year means every Santa this side of Boston is entirely booked. Emma, you're going to have to run the show by yourself."

"No. Fucking. Way."

The manager took a deep breath. He was far from happy with the situation either.

"D-d-double pay," he stuttered.

Emma raised her eyebrows. "Fuck it," she sighed.

"Does that mean yes?"

Emma rolled her eyes and took out her whiskey.

"Sure."

"Emma! You can't drink on the job!"

Another eye roll. "Calm your tits. It's water."

He was too fucking easy.

"O-okay. Ruby will take the pictures. Be… Please be nice."

"Sure. Whatever."

Emma shrugged out of her jacket and examined the oil smears. They weren't that bad. And elves had to work, building toys and such. Especially if they were covering for Santa. She hid her flask in the waistband of her skirt and walked (staggered) out to the grotto. Hm. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Double pay, and a huge-ass chair. She flopped into it, belched into the back of her hand, and gestured to Ruby to send the first kid.

"Where's Santa?" it asked.

"Rehab."

"What's rehab?"

"Hell on earth."

The kid looked worried.

"Was he bad?"

"Sure. Come on, get your picture."

"Who are you?"

"What does it look like?"

"Uh…"

"I'm an elf, dumbass!"

Snap, swig, repeat. Emma scared the children, Ruby took the pictures, and by lunchtime it was a miracle Emma was conscious. She refilled her flask from the bottle in her jacket pocket and wandered around (cased the joint) until it was time to go back to work. Well, ten minutes after time to go back, but who was counting? Emma was their only option.

Just after 3pm, Emma was interrupted from a much needed snooze by someone staring at her.

"Stop watching me sleep, it's creepy," she shouted at a little boy. He looked about 8. Or maybe 6. Or 10.

"Am I supposed to sit on your knee?" he asked dubiously.

"Don't sound so excited about it," Emma said sarcastically. She was almost hurt. "You know, there are literally hundreds of people who'd pay for the pleasure to sit on my knee."

The boy took a cautious step towards her.

"Can I ask you for things, like I would ask Santa?"

"Sure, I'll pass it right along. What do you want? Stamp collection? Encyclopedia?" (He looked like a dork. His t-shirt was tucked into his jeans.)

"I want my mom."

"Dude, there's no point asking for your mom. She's right outside."

"Actually, she's at home. I came by myself. And anyway, she's not my real mom. I'm adopted."

Emma groaned. "I am so not equipped to deal with this, kid."

His eyes widened to puppy-like proportions.

"But you know Santa! Isn't Santa magic?"

"Uh, I guess?"

"He is! And you have to tell him, I want him to bring me my mom."

Emma let out a long, resigned breath. "Fine. I'll tell him."

Ruby snapped the picture. The kid didn't move.

"Go on, off you go. Santa doesn't grant wishes til Christmas, you've got almost a week to wait."

The kid frowned, nodded, and slipped off her lap. The next kid appeared, the day dragged on, Emma wondered what shagging Ruby would be like, and then they were packing up to go home.

Emma lit a cigarette, gave Killian a cheery wave as she blew smoke in his face, and yawned her way to her car. Miraculously, it started on the first try. She set off for the motel, in a strangely good mood as she admired the Christmas lights on the houses she passed. Christmas was a materialistic, commercialised holiday, but some of those trees were kind of nice…

If she hadn't been looking at the trees she wouldn't have seen him. And on any other day, even if she had seen him, she wouldn't have stopped. But there he was, shoulders hunched, eyes down, illuminated by Christmassy colours as he slowly froze solid.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," Emma muttered as she pulled up beside him. She gave him a horribly fake smile. "Hey, kid."

He looked up, his face flooding with relief for a moment before it went back to miserable.

"Hello," he said.

"What are you doing?"

"Waiting."

"For what?"

"What do you think? I'm at a bus stop."

Emma saw the sign. So he was. He did not look like the sort of kid who rode the bus. Way too fancy.

"Didn't a bus go by already?"

He bit his lip. "Yes. But I didn't have enough money."

"What kind of fucktard driver won't take a kid home at Christmas?" Emma blurted. They were both surprised, the kid at the swearing, Emma at the thought that she might actually care. She gave herself a shake. "Wait, if the bus didn't take you, why are you still waiting?"

"Maybe the next driver will be nicer."

"Yeah, that attitude will get you exactly fucking nowhere. Why don't you just call your mom, have her come get you?"

There was a pregnant pause.

"I don't have a cell phone," he said finally.

"And she didn't know you went to the mall today," Emma added for him.

"How did you know?"

"I'm smart like that."

She should call the cops. But cops and Emma did not get along. They'd ask her questions, they'd want her ID. No, no cops.

"Please don't call the cops," the little mind reader said quietly. Emma pretended to find the decision difficult.

"Where do you live, kid?"

"Storybrooke."

"Uh-huh. Where in Storybrooke?"

"Mifflin," the kid mumbled.

"Shit," Emma whistled. "You really are a rich kid. Well, look. I'm going your way. I'll give you a ride."

He paused. "You're a stranger."

"I'm an elf. I work for Santa. You can't get more legit than that."

He didn't seem convinced, but he opened the passenger door, brushed the trash off of the seat, and clambered in. Unlike Emma, he fastened his seatbelt.

"Cigarette?" she offered, lighting one of her own.

"I'm nine."

"I smoked when I was nine."

"You're weird. What's your name?"

"Emma."

"That's a nice name. I'm Henry. Henry Daniel Mills."

"It's a pleasure," she drawled.

"The pleasure is all mine," he said in a silly voice. Emma laughed.

"You're not bad, for a kid."

"You're not bad either. Will you really tell Santa about my mom?"

Emma sighed. "You really believe that'll work?" she asked, turning to him at the next stop sign.

Henry studied his knees. "Mom, I mean, my adoptive mom, says there's no such thing as magic, only people pretending things."

"But you disagree?"

"I don't know… But it doesn't hurt to try."

"So you just left?"

"She works a lot, she probably didn't even notice I was gone."

By the six police cars, three ambulances, and two fire trucks parked all along Mifflin, Emma thought differently. She pulled up on the corner.

"Right, kid."

"Henry."

"Whatever, Henry, you gotta go home. Tell the cops whatever you like, but don't tell them my name."

"Why not?"

Emma sighed. It probably wouldn't matter. "Look, I did you a favour, you owe me one, so just do it, okay?"

Henry shrugged. "Okay."

"Now. I'm gonna wait here, and watch until you get inside, so don't try anything, got it?"

"I'm not stupid. Thank you for the lift, Emma."

Emma gave him a small smile, real this time.

"No problem, ki- Henry."

Sunday morning. A morning when Emma Swan, of all people, should not have to work.

Double pay double pay double pay…

She brushed her teeth in the car, which ran perfectly (jerkily, loudly, smokily, but without stopping), traded insults with Killian, threw her jacket away, swallowed some whiskey, and draped herself over her Santa-throne just as the mall opened.

"Are you Emma?"

Emma blinked. Before her was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. She was thirty, maybe, with perfectly styled hair, very dark brown, big dark eyes, and a stern, full mouth with a fascinating scar on the upper lip. She wore a grey dress, black heels, and a businesslike blazer, and her jewellery and purse were definitely designer.

"Depends on who's asking," Emma said huskily. If this was a dream she planned to take full advantage.

"Regina Mills, Mayor of Storybrooke."

Sexy name… Wait, Mills, that sounded-

"Shit!" Emma wriggled into a more dignified position. "I told him not to tell you!"

Regina narrowed her eyes. "You told him not to tell 'the cops'. I am not a cop, I am his mother."

She said "mother" a little too firmly, and Emma felt a bit sorry for her.

"What do you want?" Emma asked finally.

"I… I wanted to thank you," Regina said, suddenly almost nervous. "Your relationship with law enforcement is of no interest to me. You brought my son home. I want to demonstrate my gratitude."

She reached into her purse and produced her checkbook.

"Would a thousand-"

"Put that away," said a woman who was absolutely not Emma Swan.

"It's really no trouble-"

"I don't want your money," Emma said suggestively.

Regina raised an eyebrow to disguise extreme internal conflict. Emma could smell the pheromones. Regina leaned in.

"Are you suggesting that I repay you for returning my son to me by-"

"Hell no!" Emma said, perhaps too loudly. "Not as payment," she continued at a lower volume. "You look like you could use some stress relief. So could I."

"This, I, I don't-"

"Live a little, Madam Mayor."

Regina thought about her life, her complicated son, her domineering mother, her exhausting job, the desolate loneliness of the impending holiday…

"Now?"

Emma jumped out of her seat.

"I'm taking my ten!" she yelled to Ruby.

"You don't get a ten!" Ruby yelled back.

"But I think I'm about to," Emma said with a smirk.

"You're vile," Regina muttered.

"You can pull out at any time. I'm only offering," Emma pointed out.

Regina rolled her eyes. If only the girl weren't quite so hot.

"Your car or mine?" Emma asked, really hoping the answer would be-

"Mine… You look relieved."

"My car is, uh, small."

Regina looked around guiltily before hustling Emma into the passenger seat of a swanky black mercedes. She walked around the car - Emma enjoyed the view - and drove smoothly from the mall.

"Where's the kid?" Emma asked in a half hearted attempt at conversation.

"With his babysitter. I think he likes her more than he likes me."

Emma leaned into the deliciously soft leather seat and tried to think of something useful to say.

"Kids are stupid." She pulled out her cigarettes. "Want one?"

Regina took a cigarette, holding it awkwardly, making no move to light it until she'd pulled a little way up a forest track and stopped the car. She put it down on the dash and looked at Emma with a mixture of seductive confidence and utter disbelief. Emma took a swig of whiskey, put her flask in the cupholder, and leaned in to brush a strand of dark hair behind Regina's ear.

"Stop worrying," Emma said gently. "It's Christmas."

"I hate Christmas," Regina muttered. She gasped as Emma kissed her neck, catching her pulse point perfectly.

"Me too," Emma smirked.

"But you're an elf-"

Emma cut her off with a heavy kiss.

Regina groaned as hands found her blazer and pulled it away. Emma tasted like booze and fags and political scandals waiting to happen and Regina was impossibly turned on by everything, right up to the crooked red Christmas hat.

Emma tugged at her costume, getting most of it out of the way. Regina found the lever to recline her seat; she did so just as Emma found the zipper of her dress. She wondered how often Emma did this. A lot, probably. She realised she didn't care.

Emma shoved the wonderful dress around Regina's waist, kissing the exposed skin and leaving a trail of bright red lipstick down the Mayor's neck and chest until she reached (and ripped through) a black lacy bra.

The door was digging into her knee, the small of her back bumped against the steering wheel, and Regina tasted like money and desire and-

"Naughty!" Emma cried as Regina bit her lip. Hard. They kissed, longer, deeper, slower. Regina rolled her hips. Emma scraped nails over her shoulder blades, marring smooth, soft skin. Regina ripped her tunic in retaliation, pushing her back against the wheel and devouring her breasts.

Emma followed Regina's lead, rightly deducing that while she was physically on top, it would be foolish to assume she was in control of the situation. Regina nibbled; Emma mewled like a needy kitten. Regina tugged her back down (carefully) by her braid.

Their mouths tangled as their bodies slicked together, sweaty and hungry for contact. Emma flexed her wrist and pushed her hand between them, finding Regina's inner thigh and stroking along it. She pulled past sensible pantyhose and ordinary (if minimalist) underwear (Regina hadn't exactly planned this encounter) to find a smooth, wet-

"Get your fingers inside me before I kick you out of this car and take care of it myself," Regina growled into her ear.

Emma obeyed with enthusiasm. Regina's eyes grew wide.

"You're very bossy," Emma commented, drawing her fingers in and out, two at first but easing in a third after a few strokes. Regina could not summon the language to reply.

"Fuck," she moaned, her features losing the last of their polish as she ground against Emma's hand.

Emma curled her fingers, finding the spot that had Regina squirming and jerking her hips as her eyes became desperate and pleading. Emma knew better than to make a lady beg, though. She rubbed Regina's clit with her thumb; the extra stimulation shattered her in seconds. She came loudly, with a deep, thick moan that tingled in Emma's core.

Emma coaxed Regina through the aftershocks, then withdrew her fingers, licking them languidly. She tasted better than Jack.

"Get in the back," Regina commanded, her eyes still closed as she enjoyed the echoes of pleasure still throbbing through her sex.

Emma did as she was told. Regina followed, somehow elegant despite her ragged state of undress. She pulled down Emma's stripey tights and boy shorts (white with red lettering on the ass saying ho ho hoe - who said Emma couldn't get into the Christmas spirit?) and, not one to waste time, brought her mouth directly to Emma's folds.

"Your cunt tastes a lot better than your mouth," she said, after a thorough exploration. Emma, who thought she might have passed out at one point (when Regina sucked on her clit so skilfully she was going to have to google whether it was possible to have an orgasm within an orgasm) just nodded.

Regina wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and pulled her dress back over her shoulders.

"Do you have to go back to work?"

Emma moved her shoulders in something like a shrug.

"Do you want to get a coffee sometime?" Regina wondered if she sounded pathetic.

"You've fucked women before," Emma said.

"So have you."

"But you're a Mayor."

"And you should move with the times."

"I'll get coffee with you. Are we going to hide in an alley again?"

"This isn't an alley, it's a forest. And no, we will not be hiding, because we will remain clothed."

"Do we have to?"

"Yes," Regina said, although now she wasn't sure.

Notes: Happy Holidays! Please review. Reviews make me write more.