A\N: Think of this as an Office/Underground Subway AU with hints of Lieutenant Duckling.
(Day One)
There is a large poster that sits upon the section of wall that faces the precise spot where Emma Swan waits for her train every afternoon. If one were to stand perpendicular to the poster frame's left edge, they would be perfectly positioned to welcome the first set of opening doors on the second to last car. The indicator is surprising accurate—one discovered through a series of trial-and-errors since she moved into the city all those months ago—and each evening Emma is greeted to a selection of empty seats where she can take her pick during her commute home.
But she's been standing at this very spot for what feels like an hour (when in actuality it is closer to 15 minutes). Emma, clutching at her handbag with such a force that it digs even more uncomfortably into her shoulder, checks her watch for the sixth time and exhales sharply. Her train is late.
The balls of her feet ache from the pressure of her high heels as she shifts impatiently from side to side. The platform gets more and more populated as the minutes pass, and Emma chances a glance around to see the new strap-hangers that have come to join her. One person in particular stands out to her: a young man, roughly her age, with jet black hair and scruff to match, with deep blue eyes and a tiredness in his posture that likely mirrors her own. She takes note of his reaction to the accumulated crowd: initial confusion that steadily builds into an exhausted frustration at the prospect of dealing with a cramped train and getting to his destination later than he would have liked.
It's during one of these scans that Emma catches a glimpse at the poster behind her. The ad features a woman—skinny with perfect skin, Photoshopped makeup and tailored clothes—sitting on a bench holding a cup of coffee. A single word rests on the side of the model's head, stark against the pale white background just begging to be graffitied: shine. Emma snickers, turning back around just in time for the wind from the oncoming train to gust directly into her face, tendrils of blonde hair floating around and landing haphazardly back into place.
The train is packed. As she squeezes herself between a surly gentleman who manages to sweat through all three layers of his business suit, and a babbling teenager whose conversation over the phone consists mostly of abbreviated words and excited squeals, Emma looks out through the door window and sees the poster model staring back at her, her neutral expression apt for Emma's projections. The woman is mocking her, she decides, and she sneers at the ad until the train pulls out of the station.
.