A/N: AU, no magic, set in present day. I've aged Emma (and, therefore, Regina) up a bit to fit the story.
As far as hangovers went, Emma Swan had endured worse.
Her pounding head and achingly dry mouth were mitigated by the fact she woke up with her head pillowed against a young, firm and generously sized naked breast. Opening her other eye, she spied its twin, in equally lush condition.
"Good morning," a silvery voice purred.
Emma tried to place it but couldn't, her brain quickly registering the fact that she was naked, along with her bedmate, whose warm limbs wrapped her in a firm embrace. She shifted her legs slightly, her mind cataloging another tidbit: Emma and her acquaintance had enjoyed a thoroughly good time last night.
"Hey," Emma groaned. She propped herself up onto an elbow to assess her companion.
"I'm not a hooker," the young woman declared softly.
"What?" Emma's training kicked in immediately as she appraised the woman. Young - very young - early '20s, she surmised. Shoulder-length, jet-black hair, brown eyes, olive skin. Something ethnic. Light-skinned Hispanic? Biracial, for sure.
"Your friends, they didn't pay me to sleep with you. They just paid for the dances. This…" she explained, waving a hand around the bed, "this was something I wanted. I dance, but I don't trick."
Ah. The mention of a dance brought most of the evening back in a flash: her going-away party. The guys in the barracks had taken Emma out for one last swing around town to get her good and pissed before she left for her new job. There was dinner at the Capital Grille, but the real festivities began later in the back room at Duggan's Tap. A $500 gift card to L.L. Bean ("More flannel, Swan!" Smitty roared), an Elmer Fudd-esque hunting hat and a series of lap dances from her new friend, which apparently progressed to a bed.
Friends and colleagues were shocked at Emma's decision to leave the State Police. At 36, she was on a meteoric rise. Already a captain, those who liked to speculate were taking money she'd be running the entire agency within 10 years. She was any PR-obsessed politician's dream: beautiful, female and gay – the perfect combination for the progressive state.
Long-accused of being an insular, crooked, lazy, patriarchal organization of glorified ticket writers on the Mass Pike, any governor would be able to roll out his well-spoken, college-educated, decorated officer and easily diffuse any charge of sexism or exclusion. How terrible could the State Police of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts be if it was under the direction of Colonel Emma Swan?
Colonel Emma Swan. It certainly had a ring to it, and the title was one that the talented, ambitious trooper found endlessly alluring. Until, that is, Emma Swan realized she wanted more. In the end Emma wasn't sure what it was that made a born-and-raised Boston girl suddenly yearn for a slower way of life. Maybe it was all her work with the gang unit, which depressed her beyond belief watching young life after young life ruined at best, ended at worst. Perhaps it was the drug trade, which was growing more deadly and dangerous each year. And the events of last April, well, they just went to prove that even her beloved city wasn't immune to the insanity of the world.
Her friends urged her to hang on, only a few more years in the field – five, tops – after which she'd be promoted to a rank in which she would be behind a desk. But that wasn't where Emma wanted to be, nor did she relish the fact that she was destined to be a token promotion. She was outstanding at her job and earned every accolade, but Emma knew she would never have been seen solely on her merits. There would always be some asshole who would think she got the stars on her shoulders because she was a woman - and a gay one, at that. Emma refused to hide her sexuality – if asked she would tell, without hesitation or shame. Yet neither did she parade it around. Even in the 21st century sadly she knew she faced an uphill battle - a woman in law enforcement. Because if someone was sexist, there's a good chance they were homophobic, too.
"Oh, yeah, well, I wasn't…I didn't." Emma stammered, unsure of how to proceed. "Where are we?" She looked around; it was obvious they were in a hotel room, but where?
"Holiday Inn, Somerville."
"How did we get here?"
"The cops."
"My guys? We didn't get pulled over, right?" A touch of panic seeped into her voice. "Shit, did you let me drive?"
The brunette chuckled, slowly rolling on top of her nervous new friend, their naked bodies pressing against each other deliciously sternum to toe. "You're even cuter when you're not being so butch. No, baby, you didn't drive. Although, I can't imagine anyone could ever talk you out of something you set your mind to. One of your friends drove us: big, tall, black. Had the…" The dancer moved her hands over her head, mimicking the high-and-tight, nearly shaved crew cuts favored by cops. Robert.
"Yeah, he's a friend."
"You and I were having such a good time at The Tap, we decided to take the after-party here," she husked, leaning down to capture Emma's lips in a slow kiss. Her tongue snaked out, lazily stroking every millimeter of the blonde's mouth.
"Mmmmm," Emma hummed into the kiss, breaking away reluctantly. "What's your name?"
"Madison."
Emma grinned. "What's your real name?"
A pink flush tinted the young woman's cheeks as she dropped her head in embarrassment. "Nicole."
Placing her fingers under the woman's chin Emma lifted her head to meet now-shy eyes.
"And how old are you, Nicole?"
"21."
"License, please."
The dancer rolled off Emma with a chuckle. "Wow, you really are a cop." She hung one arm over the bed to reach for her purse, the other gently stroking the long planes of Emma's abs. Emma halted the touching, and with an expectant look took the license when it was handed over. She was indeed 21. Phew.
"Do I pass?" Nicole teased, once again rolling onto Emma, this time sitting up, straddling her hips.
"Yeah. Sorry, can't be too careful."
"Do you have to be anywhere for a while?" The brunette leaned over, teasingly rubbing her sex against Emma's while she traced the corded muscles of her neck with an insistent tongue. Sleek black hair felt like silk tickling Emma's chest and shoulders.
She looked at the clock: 7:30 a.m. "I got time," Emma smiled innocently. "Did you have something in mind?" She reached her hands up to thread them through the smooth black hair just within arm's reach, only to have her progress stopped.
"So you're really a cop?"
"Off-duty."
"Where?" Nicole kissed down Emma's chest as the blonde's fingers reached their destination, buried in the sleek locks. Emma moaned as she felt an eager, warm, wet mouth engulf her breast, teeth raking a nipple.
"Mmmm. Sta—" Emma began on instinct, then quickly corrected herself. "I'm the Chief of Police of Storybrooke, Maine."
XXXX
Sunglasses on and headset in ear, Emma turned the key in the ignition of her canary-yellow 2010 Ford Mustang GT and heard the V8 roar to life. It was a ridiculous purchase – not her at all – but the muscle car had called to her when she saw it on the lot. It was a lone, fun purchase in a serious, thought-out, hard-working life. Why not? Thanks to road and Logan details she had plenty of money and only the condo mortgage to worry about. Plus, Emma considered it a service to her fellow troopers, nearly all of who drove a truck: They loved giving her shit about it. Even now, years later, she could barely look at it without hearing Donagan's initial heckle: "Shit, they can see that fucker from space."
Emma hit a button on the headset and stated "Dial Robert" as she backed out of the garage. Pulling out of her driveway for the last time, she stopped in the street for one final look. The condo was nice enough, but she learned early on in her life that she didn't have the luxury or disposition for nostalgia or sentimentality. A home is a place to keep your stuff. Period.
Emma's call connected to the sound of a deep baritone laughing knowingly as she headed toward Cambridge and the Mass Pike.
"Have a good night, Sleeping Beauty?"
"My morning was even better."
"Jesus, girl. What I wouldn't give for your talents."
"What your girlfriend wouldn't give, you mean." Emma unleased a dirty chuckle, pleased with her comeback.
"And not too hungover to be cocky, well done."
Emma smiled, she was truly going to miss their easy banter. She didn't let many people in her life, yet Robert made it past her natural defenses easily. "I believe I screwed all the alcohol out of my system this morning."
She could hear her friend's grin over the phone. "You know, I bet you're gonna move to East Bumfuckbrooke or wherever the hell you're headed and find a nice, gigantic lumberjill and settle down."
Emma nearly spit out her coffee. She swallowed quickly, then recovered. "Uh, you know I like the more lady-looking ladies," she noted, placing her travel mug in the holder and merging onto the Pike; she needed both hands to drive.
"Right, I forgot, you da man. Got it. You driving that banana of yours naaaaahth?" Robert asked, affecting the most grating Boston accent he could muster.
"Yes, I will be gracing New Hampshire, then Maine, with my beautiful vehicle. So fill me in on last night, or do I not want to know?"
"So dinner, then The Tap. We all drank way too much whiskey and your new friend…"
"Nicole," Emma supplied.
"Thought it was M-something."
"That was her stage name."
"Ah, anyway, Nicole came in, rode you like a cowboy and put you away wet, so to speak."
"So to speak."
Emma shifted into third as she flew east past Fenway Park, nodding a solemn farewell. Go Sox.
"We didn't get too crazy, did we?"
Robert snorted. "Nothing that you'd put on YouTube but nothing that would wreck your career."
"That's a larger-than-I'm-comfortable-with area."
"Hey, I wasn't the one giving her a throat culture. After a couple of dances, you started makin' out and quickly retired to the ladies room. We didn't see you for a good half-hour."
Emma shook her head at the report; it meshed with bits and pieces of her memory, as well as an oddly bruised spot on her lower back. Thank Christ I don't have to work with those guys anymore.
"You came out grinnin' like an idiot, then we bought you and your, um, friend some drinks. By last call, you guys wanted to continue your party, so I got you a room at the Hop-on-Inn, figured you didn't want her at your old place."
Emma exhaled. Coulda been worse. "Thanks, man. Yeah, definitely not at the condo. All I left unpacked was a sleeping bag and the mattress. The movers grabbed everything this morning bright and early. I'll get you back for the room."
"Fuck off, it's a gift."
"That's so weird, I swear I read that exact phrase on a birthday card."
"Your smart city mouth's gonna be a big hit in the sticks."
Robert laughed, but was sighing internally. He was really going to miss this woman. While state troopers didn't have partners like traditional police, Robert and Emma often worked closely together, first out of H-5 in Brighton, then on specialized operations with the gang and drug units.
They had recently moved to emergency response, just in time to get thrown into the deep end of the marathon bombing. The pair were called into the initial insanity at the scene, then lived at the barracks for the next four days, hot-bunking with every officer in their troop – plus assorted feds - while everyone tried to figure out who bombed the finish line and why. Contrary to TV, the average officer rarely fires his gun in the line of duty, which is why Robert would never forget hiding behind a cruiser full of bullets in Watertown, Emma at his side, both of them emptying clip after clip at a runaway bomb-tossing car rampaging through Watertown. When the smoke cleared, they both looked at each other, shellshocked.
"This shit happens on TV," Emma sputtered, as the sirens wailed and lights flashed signaling what looked like the beginning of World War III. Robert laughed; the situation was so absurd he couldn't help it. "If the zombies show up," he giggled, "we're really fucked."
He thought Emma was never quite the same after that week. Smiles came a little slower, laughs a little softer. Maybe that was why she took a job in the boondocks. He never shared his observations with a soul nor asked her. You didn't have to know Emma Swan well to see that she wasn't a person to spill her guts, even to one of her best friends. She suffered in silence. He wished she wouldn't, but it wasn't up to him. The woman was a classic loner and he worried she would find too much alone time in a tiny town on the coast of Maine.
"Hey, I am all-business on duty, you know that." The trooper was snapped back from his reverie with Emma's retort.
"That I do. Listen, I gotta fly. I'm on at 3 and I still smell like a three-day-old floater in July. Call me - I want to hear all about your adventures arresting drunken lobstermen and rescuing cats from pine trees."
"I will. I'm keeping this number and not getting a landline, so you know how to reach me."
"Oh, hey, Em! Hold up. I need to hear more about your fine new boss. Goddamn it. I saw that picture last night and woo!" Robert whistled low and slow. "I was gonna say I couldn't imagine you moving all the way to friggin' Maine to chase tail but, girl, I get it now. Be safe."
Robert ended the call before a confused Emma could answer. Huh? The blonde's bewilderment was put on hold as she took the Pike through Boston, watching the skyline disappear in the rear-view mirror as she hit Route 1 north.
My boss? Oh…oh. Another flash from last night returned: She was sitting at a table with her colleagues – pre-Nicole - when Marty held up his phone triumphantly.
"Swan! I know why you're going to the middle of the mother-fucking-nowhere!"
"Hey!" Rivera snapped in Emma's defense. "It's the middle-of-motherfucking-nowhere-brooke."
Emma rolled her eyes and finished her latest drink. What was this, she wondered, eyeing the glass. 3? 4?
Marty held up his smartphone, which displayed a large, smug-looking headshot of her new boss. A wave of noise erupted from the dozen men in attendance, a combination of wolf whistles, off-color promises and animal-sounding hoots.
"Shit, girl. You're chasing pussy up 95!" Chang teased in approval.
"That's why she's goin' down…" Tanner bellowed, "…east."
Another roar, this time followed by high-fives at their ingenuity.
"Fuck off, you losers," Emma smiled. She truly would miss these idiots. "But, Marty, I am really proud of you for figuring out how to finally unlock your phone. Your 5-year-old granddaughter's a good teacher."
Shit, do I have some alcohol-induced PTSD? Emma laughed to herself as she crossed the New Hampshire border. It didn't matter, she just proactively scheduled six months' worth of boozing into one night. Lord knows she wouldn't be getting such opportunities in Storybrooke. "Proactively scheduled" - that sounded like a phrase her new boss would like. Emma's grin grew wider and her eyes twinkled behind her aviators. Marty was right: Regina Mills was possibly the hottest woman she had ever seen. But she was completely, utterly off-limits.
The tiny corner of New Hampshire tucked between Massachusetts and Maine was blink-and-you-miss it, which meant a half-hour later, Emma was across the border in her new state of residence, at a table at the Maine Diner in Wells. After a greasy late-lunch/early dinner designed to soak up any excess alcohol, a bathroom break and a quick stretch of the legs, Emma was back in her car, listening to the rev of her engine as she shifted from fourth to fifth. God I love this car.
She spied the clock on the dashboard – 4 p.m. By now the movers would be almost done unloading her stuff into the new apartment; she'd be rolling in a little after 6 p.m. That would give her plenty of time to grab the keys and crash on her mattress to sleep off the rest of this godforsaken hangover.
Emma felt her car eat up the miles of 95 North as she drove and listened to a welcomed classic rock station found by the always-faithful Scan button. Off to the right she spied yet another tourism sign proclaiming the virtues of the state – "Maine: The Way Life Should Be."
I certainly hope so.
TBC
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