ANONYMOUS WONDERED:

Prohibition era CS. Hook the police academy dropout turned mob boss versus Emma Swan the undercover Fed (FBI was the Bureau of Investigation back then).

This really helped me get out of my rut anon. Thank you for the prompt. I hope you like it. Here's some prohibition era terminology:

dead solider - an empty beer bottle hard boiled - a really tough guy high hat - snub hooch - bootleg liquor moll - a gangster's girl sheik - guy with sex appeal you slay me - how funny/amusing get a wiggle on - dance or leave edge - intoxicated

Hook had been doing this for a long time. They'd saunter into his territory playing games as they made their way around the room talking to the women high on jazz; every nark was hoping to catch a break. They were always hard boiled. Real wet blankets putting a damper on everyone else's good time. Thinking they were smart, but being so arrogant about it. Hook could spot a nark a mile away. Always stiff, and far too serious.

The one tonight wore a suit, and the desire to be in blue was evident on his face. A nark is guaranteed the blue depending on the bounty of information he acquired. That's why they sported the dapper disguise. They could almost taste the metal of that badge, he figured; so they'd high hat the patrons for being in the club. Hook learned when he first came to Chicago, you don't drill those looking to feed you. Nobody in his hall dared to give anything up. When the nark reached him at the booth, he smiled. He always smiled at them. Drove them all crazy.

"Looking for a man. Some know him as Mr. Jones."

Five years and the boys were still in the dark. He hadn't been Killian Jones in a long time. "Don't know any Jones."

"Yeah. Seems no one here do. Word on the street is that he's known by some kinda deranged nickname."

At that, he'd always shake his head. "What might that be?"

"Calls himself Hook. Some say it's literal. Lost it after his Moll bit the big one. Cut off his own hand."

His eyes became large. The blue of them shined in the sparkling lights. "A gangster in a music hall!" He laughed with his boys in the booth. The nark stood unimpressed. "You slay me. Anyone here is praying to get lucky enough to wiggle with a dame." Then he waggled his eyebrows. "Myself included."

He appeared to buy that as he eyed his face."Yeah. You're a real sheik. Your luck ain't running out no time soon."

Now he was beaming, and this time he tossed in a wink to seal the deal. The nark did one more round before he bounced. He pulled his left arm from under the table. The red cloth had been added to each table right after he lost his hand. One night, a nark had commented on how it made the place fancy. Quite fancy for concealing.

"Mr. Smee." He turned to the man to the right of him. William Smee. Old timer; his first mate. "The night is young and music's hot. Let's add an edge. Shall we?"

"Aye Aye Cap 'n." His crew always called him that. Funny how the narks only knew him as Hook. None of them would utter Captain aloud. Not now, not ever.

The floorboards came up, and the crowd cheered. Only half were permitted in the cellar. One came out, another went in. Half his crew lingered on top while the other kept an eye out below. He thanked his lucky stars each night for prohibition. Who would have thought pirating booze would earn him an empire? What a business. The cash flowed in and never stopped. People in this city relished in the copacetic speakeasies. Chicago was his thanks to the law.

"Mr. Starkey." He summoned a lanky member of his crew with the cigar in his hand. "That woman. The one in red. Send her over a cigg."

"Aye Cap'n."

He'd seen her several times now. Blonde haired beauty with sad sad eyes. Kept to herself most nights. Never went below. Never danced. Always left with a different man. The loneliness hit too close to his heart for comfort.

When the server presented the silver tray with the ciggs her eyes met his. Her eyebrows furrowed together in confusion as if she were attempting to figure something out. He watched as she plucked a cigg from the tray and leaned in to have it lit. One long drag followed by a dancing swirl of smoke. She offered him a nod which he reciprocated. Twenty minutes later and she exiting with a different fella.

It was the same routine the next night.

And the one after.

"What's your name, handsome?"

Hook didn't expect her to approach him. It caught him off guard. She was in blue tonight with her elbows pressed on the table of his booth leaning in toward his face. The smirk was there, but it didn't meet her eyes. He had noticed the first night, her smiles never reached her eyes. Just like him she wore a mask.

"Killian." He held a lighter up toward her cigg. "But you already knew that."

"Did I?" She leaned in closer letting the flame catch the paper. "I may have assumed."

"Am I lucky enough to get your name, love?"

"It's Emma."

Emma. The sound of her voice kissed his ears. "We're already on a first name basis. Exhilarating."

At that she laughed, and for a moment he swore it reflected in those green gems of hers. She moved next to him without a word, and Hook caught the concerned look from his man at the door. He waved it off and briefly eyed the cellar. He gave the signal. Nobody was allowed out of the cellar.

"Quite the lovely little nark." She leaned in closer to his shoulders and he caught whiff of her scent. Cinnamon sticks.

"Funny word." She replied taking another drag. "Underneath it all I'm just a lonely girl surrounding herself with a crowd." True. Everything about her demeanor screamed it was true, but he knew what she was. He spotted it the first day, and warned himself to remember. "What better way to hide from myself?"

He contemplated her words. After losing Liam, he had been the same. You weren't lonely if you pretended the feelings didn't exist. He'd replace one dead soldier and drown out another till everything around him was numb. This dame, this Emma and the men she strolled out of his hall with each night were her escape and had nothing to do with busting him.

He stopped going below entirely, leaving the care of his hooch to Mr. Smee. Nights were spent taking in jazz, relishing cigars, and savoring the precious time Emma'd grant him. She was bold and he loved it; she was like him, and it scared him shitless. The two were kindred spirits sailing through their own sea of misery. Both had worked hard to claw their way out of the disappointments of the past. He had built an empire from the ground up, and it piqued his interest to know what she had done to escape. Who was Emma underneath the glitz and facade image of their time? All he knew for certain was-

"You're a nark." He remarked for the 100th time. "Nothing illegal here, love. All is well above." He gestured toward the elevated stage where the band played.

"Yes." She smiled, and this time he caught that it was backed with something genuine. A glimpse of emotion he desperately wanted to explore and hold on to. She blinked, and it was gone. Emma brushed the tips of her fingers against his jaw. "But what of below."

"You aren't going to stop are you?" He chuckled leaning into her touch. "You'll return tomorrow?"

She gasped as his warm breath tickled against her cheek. "Killian, you couldn't be rid of me if you tried."