Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from this show. Nor do I own Tic-Tacs or Windex or any of the brands I mention. If I did, I'd give free Tic-Tacs to everyone who reviewed this story.


Emma was glad she went with the pink dress. Scumbags liked the pink dress. Pink was sexier than white but more innocent than red.

Scumbags liked sexy but innocent. They liked young. Prepubescent even. In the pink dress, she looked young.

The restaurant her target picked was young, and hip too. Low lighting, clean lined furniture in dark woods and leather, a decent DJ manning the music. As she wove her way through the crowd, she counted more booths than tables. Booths afforded more privacy. Young, hip restaurants only offered so much privacy when casual hookups and cheap champagne were on the menu.

So as she glided over to the table, smooth and steady on her stilettos, she kept her expression shy, eyes flitting from the ground to the table. Emma recognized the man sitting there immediately. Same Wahl one-cut brown hair, same handsome, though unkind face. The mug shot really hadn't done him justice.

Ryan Burke. Young, hip, worth about thirty grand to her. More to his wife and kids.

Freshly manicured fingers sliding up the banister, Emma giggled like a blushing bride, hoping to get Burke's attention. And goddamn, did it work. He looked up from the table and his whole face lit up, first at the sight of the pink dress, then at her timid smile. Then the dress again. And again.

Yep, scumbag.

A mid-thirties, business casual, cuckolding scumbag. Easy as pie.

"Emma?" he questioned breathlessly as he stumbled to his feet, stumbling eagerly in her direction. Emma played her part perfectly, tilting her head to the side like an inquisitive bird.

"Ryan?" she replied, giggling when he nodded. "You look relieved."

Ryan (god, what a jock name) tipped his chin to the table. Not out of shyness or embarrassment. No, that was all guilt over the lie about to spill out of him. It didn't take a psychologist to figure that out.

"Uh, well, it is the internet," Ryan informed her, kind of snidely to be honest. "Pictures can be –"

"Fake, outdated, stolen from a Victoria's Secret Catalog," she offered quickly as she sat down. She didn't bother pulling her chair to the table. Neither of them would be staying long. But still, she crossed her legs, smiling a closed-mouth grin at Ryan's leer.

"Exactly, so… um, tell me about yourself, Emma," Ryan the scumbag countered politely, like he actually gave a shit. The lingering once-over he gave her chest suggested otherwise. But what the hell. She could play along.

"Today's my birthday," Emma admitted bashfully, looking down at the tablecloth. She used that line often, though it actually was her birthday (and what a birthday it was turning out to be).

"And you're spending it with me?" Ryan came back at her with, gawking like it was his birthday. "What about your friends?"

"Kind of a loner," she sighed, but she covered her unhappy tenor by shaking out her porn star curls and tipping her head again. Her smile dimmed a bit though, the corners of her mouth pinching unpleasantly. It was her birthday, damn it. She wasn't supposed to be here, chasing down scum. She had more, was worth more than that.

"And… you don't like your family?"

Emma's heart clenched tight, a slight prick of pain flashing through the organ, reflected by her hands fisting in her lap. Most of her jobs involved blatant dishonesty, this one no different. So yeah, she could lie, but that didn't make it easy, didn't make it hurt any less.

"No family to like." The smile dropped. Ryan's smile fell a bit too. Emma felt both of their acts slipping. Nothing brought a cheater down like a date with a dash of reality. He kept up the small talk however, his blind lust bowing to real lust for the skin under her pink dress.

"Oh, come on. Everyone has a family." She almost wanted to applaud him for pretending to care. Kudos to him for trying and all that, but it was her birthday, and she felt less than charitable at that moment. It was her birthday, she was spending it with a complete scumbag, and damn it, her dress felt a touch too tight.

"Well, yeah, but not everyone knows who they are," she managed to say with a grin. Woops, there went another lie. "Ready to run yet?"

"Oh, not a chance," Ryan chuckled and adjusted the napkin in his lap. "You, Emma, are, by far, the sexiest, friendless orphan I have ever met."

She laughed at that, because her only other option was to bend him over and slam her knee into his throat. Beneath the table, her hands opened into claws over her thighs, fingernails pressing deep into her knees. It's just a joke, she told herself. A really tasteless joke.

"Okay, your turn," she cooed. "No, wait. Let me guess. Um, you are handsome, charming…"

Ryan's eyebrows cocked towards his hairline. He was handsome, charming, and eating out of the palm of her hand. Time to go in for the kill.

"The kind of guy who – and stop me if I get this wrong – embezzled from your employer, got arrested and skipped town before they were able to throw your ass in jail."

Busted, her smirk said as it reached toward her eyes.

"What?" the scumbag had the gall to chuckle, as if she was asking for directions in broken English. Holy crap, he still thought he had a chance with her.

Emma dropped the act and pressed on. Enough was enough. "And the worst part about this is your wife. Your wife who loves you so much that she bailed you out, and how do you repay that loyalty? You're on a date."

Scumbag-Ryan dropped the act too. The smirk too. "Who are you?"

Scoffing, Emma leaned back in her chair with a sly grin.

"The chick who put up the rest of the money."

"You're a bail bondsman," he stated more than asked. He knew how the night was going to end.

"Bail bonds-person," Emma corrected automatically. Bail bondsmen couldn't rock a sheath gown, but bail bondswoman sounded like the title of a late-night movie on Cinemax.

Without as much as a whimper, Bryan… Ryan? Whatever his name, the scumbag gave her one last look and flipped the table over, sending water glasses, napkins and those little sugar packets into her lap as he ran off. They always ran.

And even though they always ran, she couldn't help but look around the room, and ask herself the same question she'd asked… well, coming up on eighty-something times.

"Really?"

There was no point in running after him. She may have been wearing mile-high stilettos, but he couldn't outrun her boot. Plus, walking calmly just looked so cool, like something from James Bond. All that was missing was a huge chemical fire.

Sauntering out the front door, she jaywalked her way towards the late-model coupe parallel parked on the other side of the street, her nose wrinkling with her first deep breath. This part of town, much as she loved the area, always stunk of dirty water and cigarette smoke. The stench wafted past her face as she walked across the street, well, more like obstructed traffic, but luckily Ryan Burke hadn't gotten far. The boot made sure of that.

Acrid smoke rose up from the car's front end, and the engine roared with the gasoline flooding it. The idiot was still trying to floor it out of there. By the time Emma made it to the car, one hand against the coupe's roof, the whole street smelled like burning rubber. From his open window, Ryan looked at her with a desperate, angry look in his eye.

"Look, you don't have to do this, okay?" he pleaded, eyes narrowing as Emma snorted. Scumbags always ran, and they always told her she didn't have to do this. "I can pay you. I've got money."

"No, you don't," she laughed, "and if you did, you should give it to your wife to take care of your family."

Good men took care of their wives, their families. Bad men, like Ryan Burke and most of the men she knew, didn't.

Those unkind features tightened and harshened as he glowered at her. "What the hell do you know about family, huh?"

Ooh. Ooooh. Prick.

Reaching through the window, Emma grabbed Ryan by the nape of his neck and slammed his head into the steering wheel. It was more of an involuntary reaction than an active decision, so she didn't feel too bad about physically assaulting the pretty-boy scumbag. Ryan dropped like a fly, drooling into the luxury leather, unconscious and dead to the world; and though he was unconscious, she still felt the need to respond.

"More than you ever will."


By the time she made it back to the apartment, her feet ached, along with her stomach. The dress only fit like a glove if she skipped breakfast, lunch, and coffee, so she was starving and tired. Thankfully, the sushi place by her apartment was open until two, even though raw fish and seaweed weren't exactly filling. Everything else in her fridge required cooking, and with thirty minutes until midnight, cooking wasn't an option.

"Toast doesn't require that much effort," she muttered as she shouldered her way into the dark foyer, paper bag under her arm. As soon as she walked through the door, she kicked off her heels, hissing as her pinched toes pressed down on the cool hardwood floor. Her heels started to throb as she moved past the coat closet and air conditioning control. The a/c's digital screen read sixty-eight degrees, lower than she liked, she idly noted from the corner of her eye. Hell, lower than she allowed. Someone had been fumbling with it while she was gone.

Ah, well, worse things happened every day.

Plunking the bag down onto the granite island separating her kitchen and dining room, she rested her hip against the cool stone, took one look at the microwave's clock and closed her eyes with a wince. 11:37. The number alone amped Emma's exhaustion level up to fifty, until the need to collapse seeped from her very pores. But if she didn't eat something soon, she'd be nursing a massive migraine until morning. "Eel sushi and toast with apple butter doesn't sound so bad."

"Actually, it sounds disgusting," a small, sweet voice smartly informed her from the living room. "At least, not as good as yellow cake with chocolate frosting."

Yellow cake with chocolate frosting?

Oh. Right. It was her birthday.

Blinking sleepily, Emma smiled and cocked her head towards the couch, quickly finding the warmest set of brown eyes this side of the Atlantic, set in a pale, freckled face. Brown hair, ten-years-old, Cheshire grin. Her kid. Her son.

Her Henry.

"You, kid, should be in bed," she groused with no real venom, arms crossed under her chest. "It's nearly midnight."

Henry, her baby, smiled bright as the sun and all but launched himself over the couch, barreling towards her at breakneck speed. Kid was a racehorse sometimes, all excitement and spidery legs. Bracing herself against the counter, she chuckled as he flung his arms around her waist and pressed his cheek into her belly. God, what a relief it was to feel him wrapped around her, like the lining of her favorite leather coat.

"Happy birthday, Mom," he whispered, and suddenly her date with Ryan wasn't even a blip on her radar. Tears in her eyes, Emma pressed one hand between Henry's shoulder blades and threaded the other through his hair. It was as soft as ever and slightly damp, and the breath she huffed in through her nose smelled of white soap and mint. In the time she was gone, he'd baked a cake, cleaned up the mess and taken a shower. Knowing Henry and his complete lack of stamina, he must've been one good yawn away from collapsing.

"That's sweet, but you should still be in bed," Emma mumbled as she stroked the back of his neck. He needed to be in bed, but she wasn't about to send him, not now when she needed him more than her next breath. "But you know I can be persuaded. Especially with a cake that somehow features your favorite flavors and not mine."

Shrugging one thin shoulder, Henry unwrapped his arms from her waist, took her hand in his and tugged her to the couch. He paid no heed to her tired feet, urging her along as fast as he could. Emma stopped putting up a (weak) fight as soon as she saw a bunch of cupcakes, probably twelve or so, arranged on a paper plate, since she didn't own her own set of dishes.

And every single one of those cupcakes had about eight candles jab into the top. There were more candles than frosting. She stopped counting at three dozen.

"Seriously, kid. How old do you think I am?" Emma sighed as she plopped down onto the couch, sinking into the leather cushions with a pleased groan. "I'm twenty-eight, not fifty-eight."

Henry crawled onto the sofa next to her, curling into a ball against her side. She knew he was tired, felt it in the way her pressed his face into her shoulder. He probably felt her fatigue when she rested her cheek against his hair. So maybe her feet needed to be cut off, and her stomach was about to digest itself, but for a few moments all she wanted was to cuddle her son. If the way he sagged against her way any indication, he did too.

"You're bombed, kid," she eventually murmured against his hairline while nosing his forehead. Underneath his shampoo he still smelled of cake batter. "I think we should pull a Bill Cosby and have chocolate cake for breakfast."

Her son, wonderful boy that he was, wrapped himself around her tighter and shook his head. "Nuh-uh. It won't be your birthday tomorrow."

"But I'll still be twenty-eight, so we're good on that account." Emma strummed her fingers against his spine, the sound muffled by his fuzzy pajamas. The fleece Bruins set trapped heat like a greenhouse, but they were his favorite. That's probably why the a/c was so low.

"Tell you what," she soothed as she moved her hand to his side, firming her grip there as she lightly shook him. "If you go to bed, we'll have the cake for breakfast, candles and all, and then we'll go to Fenway. Sox are playing the Rays, and Lester's pitching. Should be a fun game."

"Who's pitching for the Rays?" Henry asked as he tipped his head to look at her.

"Like you know," Emma quipped and pinched him lightly. "Unless it's the Yankees, you don't care who's pitching. Or batting for that matter, as long as I buy you nachos."

"With extra cheese?" Henry turned up his eyes with puppy dog sweetness, something he rarely did, being a good kid and all. That's probably why she folded so easily.

"Always," she assured Henry with a kiss pressed against his forehead. "Always."

With extra cheese promised, Henry kissed his mother on the cheek before trouncing off to bed. Emma watched until the door closed and the light bleeding beneath it flickered off. She almost wished he'd stuck around as she ate her lukewarm sushi (yep, definitely not filling), and one of the cupcakes – though she didn't light the candles. She'd wait for Henry to do that.

Sushi eaten and stomach satisfied, Emma toed her way into her bedroom, peeling off the pink dress and all the memories attached to it as she nudged the door shut with her foot. She dropped it to the ground, and reach behind her back to unsnap her bra, and…

And, holy fuck, every inch of her bedroom furniture was covered in clean laundry. The chaise lounge by the window, her night stands, the bench at the foot of her bed, all of it was awash in crisp cotton and the scent of Tide.

"Mother fucker," she groaned as she took in the bras, panties and jeans spread flat on every available surface. Camisoles hung from the lamps, for Christ's sake.

God damn it, she forgot it was laundry day. Friday was always laundry day, and she'd forgotten to put away the stuff she laid out to air dry. Mother fucker.

"I cannot do this right now," she mumbled grumpily as she pulled a pair of flannel pajamas (Bruins, of course) from her ceiling fan, the lone items hanging there. Muscle memory had them tugged over her bare skin in no time flat, and she relished the feel of the soft fabric slithering over her skin. It kept her from focusing on the wardrobe explosion she called a bedroom. "I should join a nudist colony."

In seconds, she'd cleared away two blazers and three pairs of dress slacks from her bed, plus enough socks to clothe an army. As the last set of tights fluttered to the ground, she pulled back the blanket and collapsed onto her bed, sinking into the squishy, Swedish foam mattress. She pulled the velvet coverlet and damask silk sheets over her slim form even quicker, impatient for heat. Luxury linens were one of her biggest weakness, and as she slid in beneath the cool fabric, she felt no need to justify the cost.

Peeking from beneath her comforter, she caught a glimpse of her alarm clock. 12:02, it glowed brightly.

"Bye bye, birthday," Emma yawned as she pressed her face into the pillow. She had barely drifted off when she heard her door creak open, followed by footsteps slipping around laundry baskets and piles of gym pants. Then, behind her, the bed dipped lightly. She felt a brief rush of cold air as the covers peeled back, before the sheets crinkled under the weight of a small body.

"Mom?" Henry asked quietly, scooting towards her until his hip was tucked into the small of her back, shoulder to shoulder. She heard his question clearly, even if he hadn't asked it.

"Of course you can stay," she sighed, tugging the blanket up around her neck. "Just don't hog the covers, 'kay? You're the one who turned down the a/c."

"I won't," Henry quickly promised before falling silent, and within seconds his breath turned deep and even. Emma listened to each and every exhale, counting them instead of sheep. Then, and only then, did she fell asleep, knowing that her kid was behind her, and that he always would be.


She thought Henry was going to wake her up at the crack of dawn, what with the cupcakes, but he let her sleep late. If eight a.m. could be counted as late.

"You've got a text," he called from the kitchen, his voice carrying over the clanging of pots and pans, probably a whisk judging by the scraping sound. Henry liked eggs in the morning, and he knew that she hated making them more than she hated cleaning up the mess he made.

Emma rolled over to her back, groaning against the stiffness in her joints and muscles. Eight hours of sleep was more than she was used to, and still not nearly enough.

"Could you bring it to me?" she yelled back as she rubbed the crud and leftover mascara from her eyelashes. Blinking against the grey light pouring through her window (rain clouds – no baseball today), Emma rolled to her back and arched her spine up, popping several vertebrae and the kinks in her shoulders. The ceiling fan whirling above her head wobbled, which always freaked her out, even though the electrician told her that was normal. Henry in the kitchen, her poorly engineered ceiling fan, the cars honking and skidding outside her window, they were all the sounds of easy mornings. Had Henry not woken her up, she could've slept until noon.

Spreading her arms and legs out like an octopus, she closed her eyes as Henry's steps thundered towards her door, quick and heavy. He'd never be a ninja. Eh, that was fine. He was sneaky enough when he really wanted something.

Door opening with the harsh bang on metal on drywall, Henry crossed the room quickly and hopped onto the bed. She bounced under the impact, but she laughed despite the jarring ache it sent through her, eyes still closed. Henry wormed his way up to her and plopped the iPhone down on her forehead, the weirdo.

"Did you check the screen?" Emma groused, relaxing her eyebrows to keep the phone from slipping.

"Nah," Henry quipped, quickly flopping down onto the other pillow. "But 'Out Here in the Fields' started playing. Made it to something about fields before fading out."

It took a minute for her sleep-addled mind to catch up, but when it did, she felt like she'd taken a sledgehammer to the gut.

"It's called Baba O'Riley," she muttered as she snatched the phone up, her thumb quickly swiping over the screen. She tried to tease him, mumbling under her breath about buying him every album by The Who, but she was distracted. Baba O'Riley was her only distinctive ring tone. Every other call sounded like an alarm clock. Baba O'Riley was Robert Reilly's ringtone. A terrible pun, but every text from the fellow bail bondsman contained equally terrible news.

Henry jabbered on about buying her a new Red Sox hat at the game today as she flicked her nail across the iPhone's gorilla glass. Her inbox had only one message from someone other than Henry. Robert Reilly, 7:46 a.m. eastern time,

Bad news, it began. Her throat clenched, then her stomach, and finally her heart by the time she'd finished the next sentence.

Neal's no longer under house arrest and has been seen in Rhode Island.

"Sorry kid," she interjected quickly, before Henry got too carried away. "We can't go to the game today."


"I'm sorry," she said for probably the millionth time as The Bug crossed the border out of Vermont, wincing at the first road sign they passed. 'WELCOME TO MAINE – The Way Life Should Be.' More like 'WELCOME TO MAINE – Hit That Moose and Say Goodbye to Your Engine.'

Henry shrugged his shoulders and pressed his forehead against the window. "S'okay. Maine's supposed to have pretty good lobster."

God, she felt like shit, eyes narrowed guiltily behind her Ray Bans. She kept them fixed on the winding, two-lane highway, expecting a deer or maybe even a bear to cross the road, what with the trees blocking out the sun. Seriously, it was like they were driving through the Enchanted Forest. But hey, anything north of Massachusetts was just southern Canada.

"This is the last move, I swear. We're sticking around for a while." Or until Neal forced them into the Yukon.

"Don't worry about it. Why don't you tell me about where we're heading?"

A hot flash of tears slicked over her eyes at the soothing tone of Henry's voice. She always ripped him away from his friends, never offered him a true home, and yet he felt the need to comfort her. If she weren't so busy feeling guilty, she'd be proud of him for being such an amazing kid.

"It's some town I've never heard of. Burgess or Burbank or something. They've got some of the best apples and raw honey in the state." She didn't mention that she'd picked the town randomly after seeing a picture and two-hundred words about it in the travel section of New England House and Garden a couple weeks back. A quick Google search the night before revealed practically no crime and high scores for those statewide, standardized tests she took as a kid.

"Is there a job there?" Henry questioned on a yawn. He was probably tired after packing up everything they owned before piling into the car. They'd started shoving things in gym bags and suitcases as soon as she finished reading the text, only staying one more night in Boston before she ushered him to the Bug around six in the morning.

"No, but I don't have a job in Boston anymore. I got let go yesterday. Apparently I cost too much money," she answered easily, despite lying through her fucking teeth. She hadn't been let go, she'd quit, despite her boss's begging. Indeed, she cost too much money, but she always brought in the big bucks. "He gave me some great references." After she threatened his pork and beans like Lorena Bobbitt.

Henry was quiet for a minute before she felt the weight of his brown eyes on her, and she knew, just knew the next question about to pop out of his mouth. He always asked it a couple hours into their road trips.

"Dad knows we're moving, right? You gave him our new address?"

Oh God. Oh dear God. Shit.

"Not yet, but you know those letters spend a week at his ship's central mail depot in Maryland before being sent out. I'll send them our new address once we get settled in."

"Got it," Henry replied a bit more lively, probably because he loved hearing her talk about his dad, even if it was just a few sentences. "He should still be in South Africa right now."

Of course I know.

"Really? That sounds pretty cool," Emma murmured, her voice as watery as her eyes. Oblivious to her discomfort, Henry turned back to the window, peering at the tree canopy extending over the road.

"He's there for two weeks. Can we stop for some food? Like, a real restaurant with tables and waitresses?"

"No problem," she breathed in relief, thankful enough to praise every deity for the change in subject. Hell, finding a real restaurant was the least she could do for tearing him away from the home he'd had for nearly two years. "Just read me the next couple of road signs and you tell me what sounds good to you."

Taking his task to heart, Henry kept his eyes peeled billboards and road signs. The first six exits had nothing but gas stations, Starbucks coffee and greasy fast food. Being this close to the coast, she'd hoped for charming seafood joints and roadside shrimp shacks.

"There's a couple of places ahead," he said of thirty minutes of rubbernecking. "Applebee's in Bucksport, and a few places in Storybrooke."

"Anything that sounds like a chain?" Emma asked, sneaking a peak at Henry, who had both hands against the passenger's window as he looked for more road signs. "You can use my phone if you want to know more."

"There were a few bakeries and some place called Granny's. I didn't recognize anything, but I could really go for a bear claw right about now."

Bear claws sounded good, good enough that she slowed down, turned on her blinker and exited onto F.M 496.

"As long as you eat some real food first."


Hello, OUAT crowd! I've stalked the stories here ever since I started watching Once Upon a Time, and with the Captain Swan virus going around this spring, I thought I'd jump on board.

This story is inspired by the movie Dear Frankie, starring the lovely Emily Mortimer and dreamy Gerard Butler, so go ahead and see that if you want to get an idea of where this is going. Some quick notes if you don't though: this story is entirely AU. There's no Enchanted Forest, no curse, and most importantly, Snow and Charming are NOT Emma's parents. Her real parents are the anonymous assholes she always thought they were.

I hope to update about twice a week, but just so you know, the romance in this story burns slowly. Stick with it, and your reward will be great.