Well, I've been sitting on this one a long time. It's much longer than any fic I've posted on here before, more involved, and has a completely AU non-magic setting, which I've never tried before. It's meant to be intense and suspenseful with some slow burn romance building as it goes along. There are elements of different movies I love, from 'The Bodyguard' to 'Sister Act' in here, and most of the police/FBI knowledge I'm using comes from television, but I hope it still melds into its own unique thing and that readers will enjoy it. Definitely still CS, and I'd definitely still love to hear what people think as it goes along.
"I'd Know You Anywhere"
by: TutorGirlml
Prologue
'Keep going…faster…don't look back,' her mind repeats in terror as her feet hit the pavement over and over. Emma Swan clutches her son's small hand in hers even tighter. She is desperate, knowing he is stumbling, tired, and confused, but not daring to slow down or stop. "Just a little further, Henry," she breathes, trying to comfort him, though her mind is its own horrified blank, and she doesn't know what she's doing or where she's going.
'Think Emma,' she orders herself, forcing a deep breath and trying to focus.
People call out bets, various machines ring and whir, coins rattle and clink, men and women push in all around them until she and Henry are like salmon swimming upstream. All Emma Swan can do is keep looking over her shoulder, praying they haven't been followed, praying they won't be caught.
She had only wanted to ask a question. Things had been routine, normal. She had gone to Spencer's office, wanting to make sure she had the correct job assignments for the day. As head of security at The Kingdom, Vegas' ritziest hotel and casino, and proud of the position which was admittedly an unusual one for a woman, Emma liked to make sure the owner, George Spencer, was pleased, and that she and her team were aware of any new problems or red flags which might be on her boss' radar. She had given her customary curt knock, thought she had heard no answer, and stepped in – as she often did. What she had seen instead shattered her reality in one sweeping moment.
Where she had been expecting Spencer's aged but still imposing figure sitting behind his rich, mahogany desk, Emma had instead seen him holding a revolver against the temple of a very familiar figure, held in place by two of his henchmen, Greg and James.
Emma is no naïve innocent; she'd always known there were shady dealings at her place of employ – though she had never been involved in any of them. Walking in on cold-blooded murder, however, is still a nightmare she can hardly believe. She had frozen for a second, thankfully making no noise, and she honestly isn't sure if she was seen or not. She had quickly backed out, and let the door close silently, then she was running to she, Graham, and Henry's living quarters.
Tears keep streaming down her face, and Emma can only hope that Henry doesn't see; she doesn't want him to be any more traumatized than he must be already. Her hands shake beyond her control, no matter how valiantly she fights to stay calm for her little boy. She simply can't stop seeing the blood, hearing Graham's body thump against the floor, and the horror of that silent moment, viewing her boss' evil look of self-satisfaction and fearing she had been detected. It had taken her only seconds to reach the elevator up a floor, mere minutes to slip into the room she had left Henry contentedly playing in, and scoop all the clean clothes in her dresser drawer and then Henry's into a large duffle, tell her son (with what she'd attempted to make a look of bright-eyed excitement) that they were going on an adventure, take his hand, pull him to the door, scan the hall, and then slide them both into the elevator again unseen.
"What happened, Mama?" Henry looks up at her now, confusion plain in his open, trusting gaze. She doesn't want to frighten him, but she can't risk slowing down to explain, or for them to be heard, so she leans down to give him a quick, gentle squeeze and rub his arm.
"It's okay, Baby," she whispers, looking him right in the eyes, willing her little boy to believe her. "Mama won't let anything happen to you. It's gonna be fine. But we have to be very quiet right now. Can you do that for me?"
Henry nods seriously, as sweet and agreeable as always. For a second, Emma is unnerved once more by the feeling she sometimes has, that her child is a small adult trapped in a five-year-old body. At any rate, Henry says no more, simply holds onto her trembling hand, clutching his beloved Snow White and the Seven Dwarves picture book under his other arm.
The elevator pings as they reach the lower basement level of the casino and the employee car park. Emma debates frantically for a moment whether she should try to find Graham's battered Jeep or not. 'He certainly can't need it anymore,' her tangled thoughts weep bitterly. She decides against the search though, realizing that the parking garage is large and full, and she will waste valuable minutes hunting. Yes, they can make better time driving than on foot, but only if they get into the vehicle and away before someone finds them. Instead, she pulls Henry at her side up out of the lower level onto the packed city street.
Rushing, but not running conspicuously, down the Vegas strip, the night drapes around them in flickering shadows lit and spun by the dancing lights of casinos, quickie chapels, all-night diners, and hotels. Henry trips and nearly goes down, only the fact that she's clutching his hand so tightly prevents his fall. Crying out sharply, he forces Emma to stop for a second, seeing that he has dropped his favorite story. She stoops to grab it before some passerby can knock it away, then scoops both it and Henry up in her arms and keeps going.
She still glances behind her constantly, praying she won't see the known faces of any of Spencer's goons. There have been no running feet following them or angry voices shouting for her to stop, but Emma can't slow the racing of her heart or shake the sense of being chased, of not being far enough away to be safe.
Seconds, minutes, and then nearly an hour slide by. Emma is almost stumbling from exhaustion as well, exertion from hurry, fear, and carrying Henry nearly pushing her beyond the limits of her endurance. Her little boy hasn't made any more noise; she knows he is trying to do as she asked, but she can feel his slender little shoulders shaking beneath the hand she rests on his back, and feels his silent tears wetting the skin at her neck where he has buried his face. "It's okay, Baby," she soothes in a panted whisper. "We're about to stop and rest."
Emma feels his nod, agreeing with her as he always does. Her heart breaks a bit more for her little boy. How is she going to tell him that "Papa" is gone? That they no longer have a home to go to? That she is as lost and scared as he is?
They are nearing the edges of the gaudily-packed street now; there are still bars and restaurants and motels, but the whirl of beckoning bulbs and cacophony of sounds have faded a bit. She stumbles into the most nondescript – and admittedly seedy – motel in sight and makes her way straight to the check-in desk.
"Single room for one night," she states simply, keeping her head down and face partially hidden behind Henry's body. The clerk doesn't ask any questions, simply takes her cash, hands her a key, and slides a clipboard with the sign-in sheet across the desk to her. Thinking quickly, Emma writes 'Mary White' as her name, hoping it's much more common than 'Emma Swan', though she doesn't quite know how the alias comes to mind so quickly.
Nodding to the clerk, she turns away and heads down the hall, letting herself and Henry into the simple room at the far end. She bolts the door firmly behind them and tries to quell the fear inside her insisting they can't stop, they aren't far enough from danger yet. 'Henry's only five,' her mind berates. 'You have to let him rest. And you have to make a plan, calm down, regroup. They didn't see you leave, they can't trace cash, and you used a false name. You don't even know that they're after you.'
Sighing tiredly, Emma lays Henry down on the bed, takes off his sneakers, and then covers him up warmly. She slides out of her own boots and work blazer, leaving her tank and slacks on, in case they have to leave suddenly. It is nearing midnight, but she sets her alarm for four a.m. anyway, wanting to be moving on again before the rest of this nocturnal pit stirs. She isn't at all sure she will sleep anyway – not without sickening images replaying in her head – but she can push her body no further tonight. Where they go from here is a question she has no answer for yet.