A/N: As always, thanks to my friend, Alaska829Snow, for the beta and answering my near-endless stream of odd questions. Thanks also to the lovely Guest reviewers whom I cannot thank individually.
It was the last week of August in Storybrooke, Maine, which meant one final wave of summer tourists – and accompanying police calls - in the seaside town. They'd continue to get tourists after Labor Day, but now it would be mostly quiet couples and fall foliage senior bus tours. The raucous feel of hot summer nights and carefree vacationers would ebb as the start of another school year loomed, washing away the lucrative glut of tourists like the tide.
Joining the department well into tourist season was like hitting the ground running, but Emma liked it, it forced her to get up to speed quickly. She realized that with Storybrooke she would have the best of both worlds: bustling summer hot spot and quiet winter hamlet. There would always be challenges but they would keep her and her officers from getting bored and their skills dull. Cooper's cows could always be counted on to find the hole in the fence and roam Burnt Hill Road, just like the occasional tourist brave with drink would need an escort out of the Quarterdeck on quarter draft night.
The relatively quiet Wednesday night found the Chief riding shotgun with Bravo-1, Officer Graham Humbert. She had taken to joining each officer on patrol once a week as a way to get to know her staff and the town. It was also an easygoing, casual way to get more background on what made the town – and its characters - tick: who was feuding with whom, what neighborhoods or residences were perpetual trouble, which bars were the sources of the most calls. For the latter, the answer was quite clear.
"Bravo-2, 10-10, 155 Hutch Road."
"10-4. 10-10, 155 Hutch Road," came the gravelly reply across the radio. Emma could practically hear the smile stretch across the stubble on the stout officer's face. She had learned – and seen firsthand – that he loved nothing more than busting up a fight between drunks.
Emma chuckled. You didn't have to be in town long to know the address. "Why does Don always send Petit to The Rabbit Hole?"
Humbert reached the end of Park and took a right onto Mifflin. "Would you want to mess with him?" he asked. "Plus, Choo-Choo says I'm too pretty." Emma snorted.
Second-shift dispatcher Don Landress called himself a "model train enthusiast." "Pffft," Petit scoffed when the man's nickname was explained to the Chief. "He's a grown-ass man who plays with trains."
A mischievous glint sparkled in Humbert's eyes. "Let's poke Petit," he grinned, keying the mic. "Bravo-2: Bravo-1, Delta-1, 10-12. 10-78?" Emma barked out a laugh as soon as the mic was off; Humbert had asked the officer if he needed their help.
The underlying tone was evident in the quick, gruff reply. "10-1, Bravo-1, Delta-1." 10-1: "Unable to copy" aka, "I can't hear you." Translation: "Fuck off."
The pair was still snickering as they passed 108 Mifflin Street. "That the mayor's house?" Emma knew it was, but playing dumb would allow her to ask more questions.
"Yup."
"Awful big house for one woman and a little boy."
"Yeah, it was her family's house. She and Daniel had a cute place over on Spruce. She moved in with her parents after he was killed, before the boy was born. Her parents died in a car accident less than a year later."
"Jesus," Emma breathed. She knew the Mayor was a widow, but not that she had lost her parents soon after. She noted a lone light shining in the second-floor window of the otherwise-dark, impressive mansion. "Poor woman. What happened to her husband?"
Graham rubbed his thin beard, the large, white house disappearing from view as the patrol car turned on Pine, heading for a spin around the waterfront dining and drinking district. "Daniel Gendreau," he recalled, wistful. "He was a really good guy. He managed Mills Lumber; the Mayor's family were old-time lumber barons, owned most of the county. Made a ton of money."
"Bravo-2: 10-15, 10-19."
"Heh," Graham chuckled. "Choo-Choo's going to have company tonight. Anyway, Daniel was deep in the woods outside town marking an area they were thinking about clear-cutting. The best we figure is he came across someone – or something – he shouldn't have because he never returned. We went out looking when he didn't go home that night, found him with his head bashed in. Terrible." The man shook his head, as if that would wipe away the memory.
"Did you find the perps?"
"No, fucking Ezra."
"Who?"
"Ezra Lincoln, was on my shift. We get out there and he fucked up the scene. There were some tire tracks and boot prints in the mud and that dumb fucker…" Graham smacked the steering wheel in frustration, his wedding band catching the glint of a streetlight. "Sorry, it still pisses me off. That dumb fuck walked across them, contaminated the whole scene. We brought the state crime scene guys in to help and even they couldn't get anything."
The cruiser rolled past the waterfront; everyone was behaving. Patrons walked in and out of shops, restaurants and bars, reveling in the clear night and the salty smell of the ocean in the warm, summer air.
"Probably wouldn't have mattered," Emma remarked, "contamination of the scene would have disallowed any evidence collected."
"I know," he sighed. "It just pisses me off. He was a good guy and he had a kid on the way and poor Regina…"
"Do you know her well?"
"Used to. Daniel was in our dart league at The Rabbit Hole and used to come out for drinks. They had Ruby and me over for dinner a few times. She was always a little formal, you know, but we were friends; we all grew up here. His death crushed her. She had the baby a few months later and maybe six months after that her parents were killed."
The cruiser was stopped at a red light in front of Lobster Joe's when a Jeep in the next lane waved and yelled through the open window: "How do we get to the lighthouse?"
"Follow the scenic road signs, can't miss it," Emma yelled back. She tried to hold back a smirk as she pointed to the large sign just ahead bearing: SCENIC ROAD – LIGHTHOUSE and an arrow.
The deep thrum of the cruiser engines purred as the light turned green and Humbert pulled away, heading toward Main. "It was terrible," he continued. "They sent me and Pastor Pat to go tell her; I will never forget her face. She's never been the same since. Now she keeps to herself, lives for work and Henry. She's polite and nice and all, but it doesn't feel real, you know. Ruby tries to get her to socialize a couple of times a year but she always has an excuse."
Emma thought about the interactions she'd seen between the Mayor, residents and town employees. They were polite and professional, but never personal. She'd smile, but the emotion would never reach her eyes, which always seem to look sad. Then she thought about her meetings with the woman. The Mayor wasn't warm or effusive – hell, she still refused to call Emma anything other than "Chief" – but she did appear a touch more relaxed.
"She's doesn't seem that way to me," the blonde noted.
"Of course not, Henry's president of your fan club," he snickered. "If you want to get in good with the Mayor, Henry's the fastest, best and probably the only way – he's the center of her universe."
"I'm not trying to get in good with the Mayor," Emma rebutted, more defensively than she intended.
"Well, you may not be trying but if that kid adores you like I hear he does, you're 10 steps ahead of everyone else. Listen, we're a bunch of old, crotchety Yankees up here, we don't do emotion like you Flatlanders. In this neck of the woods we like results, which is why Regina has been Mayor for so long. She gets results and cuts through all the crap."
Emma tilted her head in confusion. "Why isn't she Mayor Gendreau?"
"Regina always went by Mills, she was proud of it. Henry is a Mills, too."
"Not Gendreau?"
"Ruby got her to go out once after Henry was born. She had a couple of drinks and let it slip that it would hurt too much to hear it." Graham snorted, ruefully. "Wouldn't have mattered much, the boy looks just like him."
Emma shook her head as the cruiser pulled up to Granny's. "That's just terrible."
"Coffee?"
Emma nodded and reached for the mic. "Bravo-1, Delta-1, 10-7."
"10-4, Delta-1."
The officers climbed out of the cruiser and headed toward the door.
"What happened to Ezra?"
Humbert raised an eyebrow as he caught Emma's eyes: "Disappeared."
"Like, dead?"
"Edgar fired him for fucking up the crime scene. Ezra packed up his shit and moved out of his apartment the next day. Well, they think he did. No one saw him leave and no one's seen him since." The man shook his head in disgust and walked into the diner.
Well, there's more to that story. Emma made a note to pull the Gendreau file next time Martha was out on a smoke break.
XXXX
"Why so serious, Nolan? You look like you your dog died."
"'S nothing, just the softball league ends this weekend."
"Do you need a day off to work through your feelings?"
Bell snorted in the background. A pencil flew at her head; she easily batted it away.
"We're not made of goddamn pencils, David!" Martha snapped. "The next time—" The dispatcher's voice switched from angry grandmother to professional robot in a millisecond as a call interrupted her scolding: "Storybrooke Police, you're being recorded…" Martha had been especially testy since Emma made her turn in her shotgun. The Chief gave her a Taser, but she grumbled it wasn't the same.
Emma caught her lieutenant discretely flip off his fellow officer before continuing. "Brian Briggs went down, twisted an ankle falling off a dock. Dumbass."
"First base," Bell supplied.
"Now we're down a man and we're playing Town Hall."
"And we love to beat Town Hall," Bell added with a hint of malice. "Paper pushers."
Emma leaned in with a conspiratorial smile and a whisper. "What about Martha?"
The officers snickered. "We have her sit on the bench and glare at the other team. Psychological weapon."
"Maybe we could pull Edgar off the lake," Bell joked.
Emma's eyes widened comically. "He played?" She tried to picture the former chief – 62 and pushing 300 lbs – running the bases.
"He coached," David noted, curling his fingers into air quotes.
"That means he mostly drank all the beer in our cooler before the game ended," Bell explained.
"Well," Emma offered, "I can play."
"You play softball?" David asked incredulously.
If you only knew.
"Yeah, I subbed on my troop's team for the past few years. When I had a steadier schedule I was in an over-30 league."
"What can you play?"
"I'm a terrible pitcher, but I can handle anything else."
"What about 1B?"
"No problem."
David clapped his hands together in excitement. "You're on!"
Four days later, Emma found herself standing near first base, taking grounders from Bell, who was having no success sneaking anything by her. She tried to trip Emma up, smacking a bullet halfway to second base, but Emma smoothly ranged to her right, the ball landing in the web of her glove like it was being pulled by a magnet.
"We're kicking Briggs off the team next year!" Bell announced to no one in particular.
Emma snagged ball after ball until she heard a high-pitch voice yell: "CHIEEEEF!" She followed the noise toward the bench and found Henry, closely trailed by the mayor, resplendent in running shorts, sneakers and a jersey proclaiming TOWN HALL across her generous chest.
Emma gaped.
"Heads-up!"
The blonde turned just in time to avoid being nailed by a line drive, courtesy of Bell.
"Sorry, Chief!"
Emma waved it off with her glove and walked over to the bench. "Hey, buddy, come to cheer me on?"
"He came to cheer me on," Regina noted archly, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, we'll see about that."
"Really now?"
Uninterested in the women's banter, Henry inquired after the one thing on his mind, tugging on Emma's cargo shorts. "Do you have any popsicles?"
"Bell!" Emma hollered at her officer. The blonde ran over, nodding at Regina and Henry. "Do we have any popsicles?"
"We do, Chief. But only for good boys."
"Well, that takes out Nolan," Emma laughed.
"And pretty much every guy on our team." Bell smiled radiantly at the boy. "That would leave them all for you, Mr. Mills."
Henry beamed and was about to sprint to SPD's bench when Regina grabbed him by the back of his T-shirt. "And where do you think you're going, you traitor?" she smiled.
He returned her gaze quizzically. "What's a tray-ta?"
"Someone who has good taste and can be bought for a Popsicle," Emma chuckled, ruffling his hair. "Maybe your Mom will let you come over later?"
"We'll see."
"Depends on how bad we're beating you?"
"You talk a good game, Chief."
Emma had five separate, borderline-inappropriate comebacks on her lips, but wisely held them all back. Instead, she winked and headed for her bench, grabbing an empty spot next to Nolan.
"So Town Hall has Henry for a mascot and we have…Martha?" she whispered, eyeing their dispatcher, who was sitting on the edge of the bench, smoking and trying to give the Mayor the Evil Eye as she walked onto the field.
"Doesn't seem fair, does it?" he laughed in response.
"The Mayor any good?"
The lieutenant nodded solemnly. "Pitcher."
Of course she's a pitcher. Of course.
"I' m surprised she plays. Doesn't seem like her."
"I think she did it in the beginning to show she's a good sport, publicity stunt for the newspaper, that sort of thing. But she became really good. Now I think she just likes striking everyone one out."
Emma and Nolan sat silently, watching Regina warm up. Driving through her hips, she pulled her pitching arm out of her glove, swung it back until it was nearly parallel to the ground and then rocked it toward home base, the ball spinning out of her fingers and into a high arc, somehow moving four different ways a once before landing in the catcher's glove.
"Wow, that's filthy."
"Knuckle curve. Struck me out twice last year with it. Twice. Leroy told me I had to walk home."
"He should talk," Bell added, "small strike zone."
"Bite me, Tink," Petit barked, taking a pull off his beer.
Emma was impressed. The point of slow-pitch softball wasn't speed or power, but tricky ball movement. The batter would be sure he was about to crush the ball right in front of him, only to watch it suddenly drop, curve or dance anywhere other than where he expected.
"As far as I can tell, she's got a cutter, a curveball and that knuckle curve," Nolan explained. "She's easily the best pitcher in the league."
"And she knows it."
The man laughed. "And she knows we know it, too."
Two innings later, Emma met Regina Mills The Pitcher, as she stood in the batter's box and tried to keep her eye on the ball. It wasn't easy, as she had become a big fan of Regina Mills, casual dresser. The woman's running shorts displayed a lovely amount of firm thigh atop tan legs. The shapeless baseball jersey did nothing to hide her curves and Emma thought she could stare at TOWN HALL all day long. She was doing just that when the softball flew right by her torso and landed with a thud in the catcher's mitt.
"Strike 1," yelled the ump.
Shit, pay attention.
Emma took her eyes off the smirk on Regina's face and, focus renewed, watched the ball, which was heading right for the sweet spot of her swing. Emma tightened her grip on the bat and unleashed a mighty cut, only to hear the ball hit the catcher's mitt again. The fucking ball disappeared at the last minute.
"Strike 2."
Emma pointed her bat at Regina. "You're disgusting," she laughed in mock anger. She looked over at Nolan, who nodded: "Knuckle curve."
Regina smiled serenely. "You're welcome, dear."
She is not striking me out.
Emma watched the ball leave Regina's hand one more time and swung through, sending it down the third-base line. She sprinted for first base, beating the throw by half a step.
Regina looked over, brows raised in surprise. Emma saluted with a proud smirk.
Halfway through the game, Henry decided he was done waiting and snuck over to the police department's bench. He was sitting proudly next to Emma, happily lapping a Popsicle, when Regina caught his eye and opened her mouth in faux shock, following with a mock scowl.
The boy giggled and his mother wound up, sending a dancing curveball toward the batter. Humbert got a piece of the ball, which was just enough to send it rocketing out of bounds toward the police bench, heading straight for Henry.
"HEADS!" Bell hollered.
Emma instinctively turned to shield the boy with her body, the ball landing smack on her left flank, square on the ribs. She hissed in pain upon contact, while Henry laughed, thinking they were playing a game. "No tickle!"
"Time!" Nolan yelled, as he and everyone on the bench descended on Emma and the boy. Regina sprinted in from of the mound. "Henry!"
"Hi, Momma!" Regina ran her hands over her son and finding him no worse for wear, approached Emma, who had tied her jersey just under her sports bra to inspect the damage; a large, angry welt was already rising on the side of her taut torso. Regina wasn't sure what was most impressive, the swelling bruise or the rock-hard six-pack to its right.
"Wow," Bell whistled.
Emma craned her neck, she couldn't get a good look at the area. "That bad?"
"No, I mean your abs. Wow. What do you do?"
"Ah!" Emma gasped in the middle of an eye roll as Petit pressed a wet, ice-cold beer onto the welt.
"Are you in pain?" Regina looked on, worried.
"Gah! That beer is cold!"
Martha walked over and probed the area surprisingly gently with her fingers. "Mighta caught a rib. Get an X-ray."
Looking Emma straight in the eye, Nolan ordered, "Take a deep breath." Emma did just that and nodded. "Doesn't hurt to breathe, doesn't feel broken."
"You might have cracked it, let's get you to the ER."
Mary-Margaret appeared out of nowhere with a bottle of ibuprofen. Emma grabbed three and chased them down with a swig of beer. "I'll be fine. I can play."
Emma caught Regina's eyes and smirked. "We can't lose to these guys."
The brunette's lips turned up at a corner at the cocky reply. "Seriously, are you alright?"
"I think so, it just stings right now. If I feel anything bad, I'll sit out."
"Thank you, Chief." Regina shook her head in dismay. "That could have been—"
"But it wasn't." Both women were surprised to find Emma's hand had landed on Regina's arm in comfort. "Don't, you know, worry about things that might have happened. Protect and serve, right?"
Regina smiled warmly. "Thank you."
Emma was about to suggest the game restart when Henry cleared his throat, looked up at the two women and proudly held up an empty stick. "Got any more popsicles?"
XXXX
Later that night, Emma sat on her couch, an icepack tucked into her side. After the game, she decided to skip the trip to The Rabbit Hole and follow Martha's advice for an X-ray. Her side had stiffened considerably and she couldn't determine what was bruise-pain and what might be a cracked rib.
"Would you like me to take you?" Regina offered when she heard the news.
"Aw, thanks. I'll drag Bell, she's got nothing to do." Emma smiled as the woman in question laughed in the background: "Hey!"
"Call me tonight, let me know what happens?" Regina's voice was surprisingly soft and tentative with the request. "Do you have your phone?"
Emma silently produced it, watching Regina type in her contact information. "That's my personal cell. Please call me when you can." Emma nodded, dumbfounded, their fingers brushing as Regina handed back the phone.
The ER had been busy, and since an x-ray for a possible cracked rib ranked low on the list, Emma hadn't been seen for hours. By the time she got home, it was later than she felt comfortable calling.
Wasn't sure when Henry goes to bed, didn't want to call. No fracture. I'm OK.
A reply followed so quickly, Emma wondered if Regina had been staring at the phone.
Good. How is the pain?
I'll live.
Your team played well today. Not enough to win…
Wow, taunting an injured player via text? That is literally insult upon injury. We came pretty close.
That you did. That was the closest game we've had all season.
We'll get you next summer.
The Popsicle fan and I will have to find a way to make it up to you.
I would like that.
I'll be in touch, good night.
Good night.
Emma smiled to herself. I really would like that. And therein lie the problem. I might like it too much.
TBC
Reviews sincerely appreciated.