#bigbyxreader

Bigby knew it was a little selfish of him to want to be the only four-legged canine in your life, but he couldn’t help it. It didn’t help that the dog clearly didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. In fact, if it wasn’t abstaining from waking you up in the middle of the night, the Sheriff was certain the massive pile of fluff would be growling at him. He always barked when Bigby was approaching the apartment, and growled at him when he entered, unless you were asleep.

“I’m not gonna steal something,” Bigby grumbled, as if the canine was capable of understanding. In response, the creature lolled its massive tongue out and wagged its tail. 

Pure evil. 

After he was escorted to the bedroom, any irritation Bigby was feeling faded easily at the sight of you star-fished in the bed, fast asleep. Slipping off his tie, he did his best not to wake you. He wasn’t usually successful, and tonight was no exception. You rose into the half-way point between awake and asleep, where the lines between dream and reality were just a little blurred. Even then, you wrapped your arms around him and tugged him closer, a silent demand that the wolf was more than happy to oblige. “Warm,” you mumbled sleepily, and Bigby did his best to hold back his laugh. After receiving a tired kiss to his jaw, he let his eyes flutter close.

For those brief, few seconds, Bigby was at peace. That was until -

“Ow!” The noise of protest slipped out his mouth as a quiet hiss when the ginormous dog leapt up on the bed, directly between the two of you. His brows furrowed as you barely even reacted, simply fidgeting to make room for the dog before you threw an arm over its giant form, your fingers tangling into its thick coat. The man was overcome with the insatiable urge to pick you up and carry you into another room entirely, shutting the door behind him. He wanted to be alone with you, hold you tightly in his arms and be without interruption. Goddammit, Bigby wanted your hands in his hair.

Sighing, he rolled to lie flat on his back and stare at the ceiling of the apartment. He was jealous. Of a dog. Was that really what his life had come to? Closing his eyes, he tried hard to be content. At least you were close, at least you were safe, and at least he would be here in the morning when you woke up. It was a comforting enough thought that he could finally fall asleep, despite the snoring of the St. Bernard beside him.

The Sheriff was awoken in quite possibly his favourite way, with your fingers running through his hair. For a minute, he kept his eyes closed and feigned sleep just so that he could savour the feeling. Finally, he opened his eyes and was met with the pleasant sight of yours staring down at him. “Morning,” he greeted you, and his voice was rough with sleep. The feeling of your mouth crashing against his was more than enough to wake him up suddenly, and he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close against his body.

“Good morning,” you whispered against his mouth, and the wolf retaliated by flipping you over and pinning you against the bed.

“It is now,” Bigby agreed, a grin breaking out on his face. His eyes glowed golden as he regarded you, just taking in the sight of you for a long moment before his mouth met yours. It was beginning to feel like an entirely perfect morning until a bark resounded from outside of the bedroom. Hoping that if he didn’t acknowledge it, he might be able to distract you enough to ignore it too, Bigby pressed kisses to your neck, resisting the urge to mark your skin so that everyone could see that you were his.

A second bark.

He heard a sigh escape your lips before he felt your hand pressed against his chest. The wolf schooled his expression, trying his best to mask his disappointment. “Sargent probably needs a walk, or maybe he’s just hungry,” you explained and Bigby nodded, getting up from the bed and letting you escape. The wolf showered and got dressed, acutely aware of how much more enjoyable the activities would have been if you were with him. Straightening his tie knot, he emerged into the kitchen where you were turned away from him, busying yourself with the toaster. Sargent was eating from his bowl, having now been fed and watered. Bigby resisted the strong urge to give the animal the middle finger. He hadn’t sunk quite that low yet.

More importantly, you were beautiful in the morning. As you turned around to face him, Bigby felt like his heart had stopped. Unfortunately for him, he had a whole hoard of tasks to do today, including getting into contact with some Fables that were pretty hard to find. He knew it would take at least all day to find them, but if he was being realistic, he knew that he wouldn’t see you until the next day at the earliest. “Leaving so soon, Sheriff?” You teased him, and Bigby nodded regretfully.

“I don’t know when I’ll see you again,” he admitted, “might be a day or two.”

“You know, you really deserve a pay rise.” You pointed at him, and that finally managed to make Bigby smile.

“Tell me about it,” he grumbled and pulled you in for a quick kiss before heading toward the door. He knew that if he kissed you for any longer, or held you any tighter, he would end up refusing to leave whatsoever. While that did seem like a great option, he had gained the foresight to know that getting a lecture from Snow was not worth it under any circumstance. He was stopped in the doorway, however, and a piece of toast was placed into his hand, a kiss was placed on his cheek and a smile on his face.

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

Bigby’s smile lasted all the way until he reached the elevator (which, really, was quite good considering that the wolf was not a happy person), before being joined by Bluebeard for the ride down instantly crushed his mood. “Toast?” The other man sneered, and it was probably for the best that his hand was occupied by the food, since he was already itching to put the man through the metal walls of the box. The Sheriff couldn’t bring himself to respond, which was not uncommon, especially in response to half of the condescending bullshit that left Bluebeard’s mouth. Besides, Bigby couldn’t help but harbour a spark of joy as he consumed the simple breakfast, though that had more to do with the source. It was an unexpected perk of being in love, that not only did the Sheriff get to look after someone, they looked after him too.

The elevator walls slid open, and Bigby exited the lift at as swift a pace possible, eager to get away from the slippery son of a bitch behind him. Besides, he had work to do, and he intended to take care of it as quickly as possible.

 You

Clipping a lead to Sargent’s collar, you grinned at the dog. He was your best friend, your family, and he had been your lifeline more times than you could count. When you had found the dog a few years back, you had never expected to keep it. But after you found out his owner had died, what initially started as a hesitant agreement to look after him for a few days until a new home was found became a commitment that you had never regretted. Fabletown was a scary place. You wished it wasn’t, but even with Bigby doing his very best to keep it safe, the place was always on the edge of corruption, and always violent.

Before you found Sargent, you were alone. So many Fables had been displaced from their friends, their family and their community after they left the Homelands and you were one of them. When King Cole spoke about the move to New York at special events, like remembrance, it was easy to think about it as a massive event that changed their history forever. But for most of the Fables, it wasn’t some historical event that was dead and gone, but a ripple that caused them to face daily consequences each and every day. The majority of the Fables didn’t find some new purpose here in New York, they simply faded into the background, and got lost.

You were one of them.

In the few short days that you had the dog, you were reminded of what it was to be together. To have a friend. To come home to someone at the end of the day. He protected you from harm, growling at the door if he so much as heard a sound outside of the rickety apartment block that you lived in, and for the first time in the many years that had passed since the war, you slept peacefully. For the first time since you could remember, you felt safe. Sargent gave you a reason to make a better life for the two of you, when you didn’t have the heart to make one for yourself. When you felt worthless, and tired and broken, you got up in the morning and hauled your ass to work, because it wasn’t just you that would go hungry if you didn’t. Sargent had given you priceless gifts – friendship, purpose and security. And you loved him unconditionally.

“Come on, boy,” you cajoled the large dog with a scratch behind the ears and headed for the apartment door, ready for your morning walk. As you left the apartment block, you bumped into a man you didn’t recognise in the lobby. He was tall with dark hair and wearing a dark purple coat that went down to his knees. You apologised, and tried to place his face, but you have no luck.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologised, glancing nervously at the dog by your side who was beginning to growl lowly, “I was just looking for the Sheriff, do you know where I can find him?” His tone was polite, and he offered you a smile that was so big that it was unnerving. You didn’t know where Bigby is, and you weren’t in the habit of giving his location away to total strangers, anyway.

“No, I’m sorry. You should head to the Business Office and speak to someone there, he’ll probably turn up there soon if he hasn’t already,” you directed him to the correct channel for contacting the Sheriff and began to back away. The longer you thought about it, the weirder it was with this guy. If he had really been looking for Bigby, how the fuck did he end up at your apartment block? Who would have told him that Bigby was there?

“Have a good day,” you gave him a polite wave and began walking out of the building quickly, making a mental note to tell Bigby about it later. There was no way he would answer a call now, but you figured you could drop a message to his phone in his office later on in the hopes that he might be there. Thankfully, the man made no effort to leave the building and follow you, which gave you a deep sense of relief. The man had been big, much taller and much stronger than you were, and you weren’t entirely sure you could have held your own if it came to it.

Sargent led the way down the cement sidewalk, confident in the direction that they were taking. He knew this circuit like the back of his hand by now, and it was usually more like he was walking you than the other way around in the mornings. Pushing the creepy man out of your mind, you thought over the morning and felt a pang of guilt. Poor Bigby, you had barely had time to give him a kiss and a piece of toast this morning, but Sargent was family. He was like your child, and you could never leave him hanging when he needed you. You knew by the confused expression on Bigby’s face that he wore whenever he thought you weren’t looking that he didn’t understand.

After all, Fables lived for a seriously long time. In fact, you didn’t know a single other Fable who even owned a pet. For Fables, a decade or two wasn’t a particularly substantial length of time for someone, or something, to be in your life, and when you coupled that with the task of keeping it happy and healthy when the majority of Fables struggled to make ends meet, it was a little nonsensical. But you didn’t think he would ever be able to really understand why their relationship surpassed those logical reasons. After all, how could he? Bigby had more than his fair share of struggles during the move to New York, more than anyone should have to bear, in your opinion. But he had never had to feel unsafe in the way that other Fables did. That sounded contrary, considering the nature of his job, but Bigby could go home every evening and know that he was more than capable of protecting himself; he could rip the limbs off of someone and barely be out of breath. He wouldn’t exactly relate to the need for protection.

Returning home to the apartment block, you and the canine headed up the stairs so that you could drop Sargent off and head off to work. Holding the lead in one hand, you fumbled with your keys for a moment before sliding them into the lock.

The door was already open.

Immediately, you felt a sick sort of feeling in your stomach. You definitely had remembered to lock it after you left in the morning, you were always careful to do so. The lead trembled in your hand as Sargent started growling by your side, sensing or smelling that something was very wrong. You began to turn around, convinced that whatever was going on was enough to make you head straight over to the business office and wait for Bigby to investigate when the door swung open. In the doorway stood the creep from the lobby, with a smile on his face and a gun in his hand. “Ah, come in. I’ve been expecting you!” He laughed at his own joke and gestured for you to come inside with the gun, and you hesitated, your body completely paralysed with fear. That wiped the smile off of his face and he went stone cold in a second, pointing the gun at you. Slowly, you stepped inside of the apartment, pulling Sargent along with you. Even if you could recover from the bullet, Sargent would have much more trouble with it, and it wasn’t worth the risk. The dog didn’t seem to care, however, immediately lunging toward the man with a snarl. His teeth sunk into the flesh of the man’s leg, and he cried out in pain before he kicked the St. Bernard, ripping a yelp from his throat.

The man snarled as you pulled back Sargent, desperately trying to protect him. “Now, let’s take care of one mutt at a time, hm? I’m really not fond of dogs,” he said the word like it was a slur, with a shiver of disgust. He raised the gun and pointed it at Sargent, to which you cried out and moved to stand in front him, raising your hands in a plea.

“Don’t!” You shouted at him, and Sargent barked from behind you anxiously.

“Why?” The man smiled again, seemingly amused by your desperation. Your breathing slowed and you set your jaw as you stared him down. Summoning all of your courage, you spoke lowly and clearly.

“Because when Bigby gets here, like you so clearly want, he’s going to rip your fucking head of your body and tear the ligaments from your bones one by one. And if you kill my fucking dog, I’m not going to stop him.”

The man attempted to school his features, but you watched him swallow, hard. Lowering the gun, he gestured for you to sit down in one of the kitchen chairs that he had dragged into the middle of the room and set about taping you to it, your hands secured firmly behind your back. “Control your mutt,” he sneered at you, tying the lead tightly to the chair, “or he’ll get a bullet in the head.” Sargent obeyed your commands to lie down and be quiet, if somewhat reluctantly. He clearly didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to attack the man who was so clearly dangerous, but you counted your blessings as he obeys.

“Now,” he picked up the phone and started putting in the number for the business office, giving you another face-splitting grin, “to call the Sheriff. You make him come home, and if I think that he knows I’m here, you’ll regret it. You’ll be dead long before he can get here. He could rip my limbs off then and it still wouldn’t bring you back.”

The phone began to ring, and he held it to your ear, causing you to flinch at the close proximity. After a few rings, Bigby mercifully picked up on the other end and you heard his voice. “Sheriff’s office.” You had kept your emotions in check so far, but as soon as you heard Bigby’s voice, it all came crashing down. You felt your ears sting with tears, and you fight to hold them back.

“It’s me, Bigby,” you fought to keep your voice from trembling, “do you have a minute?”

“Not really,” his voice was gruff on the other end of the line, and you could tell that he had a cigarette in his mouth, “the guys I’m trying to find are assholes.” He elaborated and sighed into the receiver. That made him smile ironically. I think I found one of them Bigby. A second later he spoke again, “do you need me?” He was worried by your silence; you could tell and your heart skips a beat. He would drop anything for you, you knew it. But now you had to make him feel like you needed him without letting him catch on.

“Can you come home?” You asked him, trying to think of an excuse, “I got some really bad news, I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. I just really need you right now.” Maybe it was the very real fear in your voice that convinced the wolf that you needed him, but he growled.

“Alright, I’m on my way, okay? Just hold on.” His voice was reassuring, if a little strained, and you could have cried with relief.

“Okay, I’ll see you soon.” I love you. You’ve never said it before, and you regretted it more than anything. You couldn’t help but think that if you died now, Bigby would never know. A long tone indicated that Bigby hung up the call and tears finally spilled over your cheeks. Fuck. Fuck. You loved the way he ran his hands through his hair to push it back, and the way he took a long drag of his cigarette whenever he didn’t want to answer a question. The way his eyes changed, and his teeth sharpened whenever you drove him crazy and the way he’d never admit that sleeping in an armchair was uncomfortable as fuck. You closed your eyes and swore to yourself that if you survived this, you’d tell him every single day.

“Now, now, there’s no need to cry,” your captor mocked you in a sing-song voice, “the big, bad wolf will be here soon. And maybe, after I kill him, I’ll even let you live.”

“Who are you?” You looked up at him, desperately trying to figure out his identity. If you could only figure out who he was, then maybe you could figure out what he wanted and help keep Bigby out of danger.

“Let’s just say that your Sheriff took something from me and my friends, and now he can pay for what he did, or I’ll take something from him.” He tapped the gun and flashed his teeth again. That smile sent shivers down your spine; it was unnatural. “Silver.” Your blood ran cold, and your level of panic skyrocketed immediately. If Bigby got a well-placed shot of silver, you knew that he might never get up. Shit, shit, shit.

It was only a matter of minutes before Bigby would reach the apartment block, and if this asshole decided to unload a round into him before giving him a chance to react, there would be nothing you could do. You began to struggle in earnest, no longer so confident in your certainty that Bigby would rip this man to pieces without breaking a sweat. The tall man laughed as he watched you struggle, and faintly, the ding of the elevator announced that someone had arrived on the floor. Sargent began to growl, ever so quietly beside you and you hushed him immediately, shaking your head violently. Your heart rate began to rise up rapidly, and it felt like there was a ringing in your ears. A sick feeling grew in your stomach and it felt like time stretched out as you waited for Bigby to open the door.

Silence.

A loud crash ripped the silence apart, as Bigby kicked the door down. The man jumped back in shock and fumbled with the gun, giving the Sheriff time to lock eyes with him. He stood in the doorway, the picture of strength and power, and your heart filled with hope. His wolfish features were already emerging, claws sharp and eyes flaming yellow. “He has silver bullets!” You cried out, relaying the only helpful information that you possess.

“Cheshire,” Bigby addressed your captor in a snarl, “you can either put the gun down, or give me an excuse to rip your fucking lungs out of your chest. I’m hoping you’ll pick the latter.”

This time, his smile moved beyond the point of disturbing and straight into the realm of insanity. Raising his gun once more, you cried out, terrified that Bigby was going to get shot. All of a sudden, you felt the floor slide out from underneath you and you crashed against the hardwood floor. Your head hit the ground, but with the world blurring, you could briefly make out the silhouette of Sargent leaping at the attacker, having ripped free of the chair and pulling it over in the process. Your head was stinging with pain, but it was nothing compared to the relief that flooded your body when Cheshire cried out in pain, dropping the gun as their dog’s teeth sunk into his forearm. That gave Bigby enough time to run forward, sinking his claws straight into the man’s chest.

By the time your head stopped ringing and your vision was clear, there was a bleeding body on your floor, and two canines staring at you in worry. “Good boy,” you managed to get out, struggling to get out of your restraints.

“You better not be talking about me.” Bigby drawled sardonically, but the concern in his eyes gave him away, as he leaned forward and freed you from the tape. As soon as you were freed, you sat yourself up and threw yourself into Bigby’s arms. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly. Within a few seconds, Sargant whined and began to paw at the both of you, deeply offended that he was not included in the victory celebrations, especially after all of his brave work. To your deep surprise, Bigby was the one who broke the hug and ruffled the dog’s head, giving him a pat. “Thanks, buddy.”

You wrapped your arms around the loyal St. Bernard and hugged him tight, causing his tail to wag like crazy. The three of you stayed there, kneeling on the ground and enjoying the feeling of being alive for a long moment, before you set about fixing things.

Doctor Swineheart was called, as before long Cheshire was healing. He was escorted by Bigby and Snow to the Business Office building, where he would await his trial and punishment. It all made sense after his identity was revealed – the Cheshire Cat. Among many of the Wonderlands Fables, unrest and anger had been rising after everything that had happened between Bigby and the Tweedles. They’d finally found the means and the courage to act on it.

That evening, as the Sun set, you thought over the daily events. “One thing I don’t get,” you said as you sat down in Bigby’s lap in the armchair. After all, your apartment was missing a door, so you couldn’t exactly stay there. The two of you were nursing glasses of whiskey, cheap and acrid, but it did the job. He raised an eyebrow at you, prompting you to continue. “How did you even know something was wrong?”

Bigby smiled, clearly amused, and you got the feeling he had been waiting for you to ask. Gesturing to Sargent, who was curled up and snoozing on the floor, the wolf explained, “Every time I come to your apartment, that damn dog barks. And when I step inside, he growls. But when I walked up to your apartment, there was silence. I knew something was wrong.” You realised that the impossible had happened – Bigby finally got what it meant to have a dog.

Grinning widely, you tucked your face into his neck as he took a long drink from his whiskey. The smell of smoke and whiskey surrounded you, as well as something that was distinctly Bigby. The apartment was dark, and cramped, and the city was loud beyond the window. It was perfect. “I love you.” You made good on your promise, letting the words tumble from your lips like they had been begging to escape. The man practically choked on his drink, taken by surprise. It took a long moment for Bigby to gather a response, setting down his glass on the nearby table.

“I love you, too.”

You hid your smile by pressing your lips against Bigby, and his face was rough against your own. Your hands pressed against his chest; your fingers curled into the coarse material of his button up. For once, Sargent slept on, undisturbed, as you tugged on his tie, as if you could become even closer than being tangled in his arms. You shifted so that you straddled the wolf’s lap as the kiss became more heated, tangling your hands in his messy hair. Despite everything that had happened, none of it mattered now that you were safe and there in Bigby’s arms.

When you woke up in the morning, you shifted uncomfortably, and groaned. Bigby’s eyes fluttered open at the noise and he stared at you sleepily. “If you ever tell me this isn’t uncomfortable as fuck again, I’m going to deck you,” you warned him, letting your eyes close again as he rumbled with laughter underneath you.

“Sorry, I’m a little cold,” she apologised immediately, seemingly embarrassed by the incident as she hurriedly shoved her hands deep into her pockets. Bigby regretted letting his expression of surprise show so clearly on his face and masked it, though it was too late. 

A little cold? Sure, it was December, but it wasn’t cold in the building. Shrugging it off, he waved her apology away and they began walking down the hallway. “Takes more than a little cold to bother me,” he assured her, his words slightly muffled from his cigarette now that his hands were full with the box. 

“How’s that?” She asked curiously, and he was surprised again at the question. Most of the Fables would have known the answer, seen or heard about what he was capable of.

Setting the box down so that he could open the door to the business office, he removed his cigarette so that his words were now crystal clear.

“Haven’t you heard? I’m the big, bad wolf.” He answered her in a low voice, swinging the door open and swiping the box off of the ground once more. To his slight annoyance, she proceeded to laugh at him and follow him into the large office.

“Alright, well, right now the ‘big, bad wolf’ is carrying my desk toys, so I’m not exactly shaking in my boots.” She teased him, and that startled a small smile out of the Sheriff. It wasn’t often that he came across someone who taunted him in good faith the first time they met him. The more common reaction to his presence was fear, anger, or some combination of the two. The office was empty, meaning Snow must have stepped out to take care of some matter or other and inexplicably, Bigby felt a small spark of excitement at being alone with the new assistant for a little longer. 

“What I am scared of,” she continued, sitting down on top of the desk and swinging her legs where they didn’t meet the ground, “is my first day on the job. You’re the Sheriff, you must know Snow pretty well, right? Is there anything in particular that I should do, or more importantly, not do? Like does she hate grammar errors or have an allergy to desk plants or something?” She stopped talking all of a sudden, and her pale cheeks made the light flush breaking out on them obvious. She flashed him an embarrassed smile to apologise for her nervous rambling. 

Bigby couldn’t help but stare, listening intently to her every word. The way her legs swung was almost child-like, she seemed so innocent. He was struck by the desire to pick up her box of things again and walk her out of this place before she saw anything less than pleasant. The business office was a hell of a lot less corrupt than it used to be, but the nature of the crimes and issues discussed in this room were still oftentimes disturbing. He didn’t want her to see that.

Or maybe, he didn’t want her to see him like that. 

“You’ll be fine,” he cursed himself for his absolute ineptitude as she listens to his utterly pathetic piece of advice. Was that supposed to be reassuring? She was going to think he was some kind of psychopath. Reminding himself that was exactly how he was meant to be perceived, Bigby finally extinguished his cigarette and looked away. 

To his surprise, when he turned back, she was smiling. “Thank you.” 

Bigby could tell when someone was lying and when someone was being ingenuine, and to his absolute disbelief, she was sincere. She stood from the desk and offered him a hand to shake, looking up at him with a sense of determination that didn’t shine as brightly as before. “You can call me Ro. I don’t feel as nervous anymore, now that I have you.” Her voice was bright and casual - it was nothing but an offhand expression of gratitude, but Bigby’s heart went still in his chest. 

His hand enveloped her small one almost completely, each of her digits branding a searing coldness into his warm skin. Bigby didn’t want to let go, he wanted to keep them there until they were warm. 

He didn’t.

They shook hands and pulled away, and she turned away from him and started pulling things out of the box, placing them on the wooden surface with care. Dumbstruck, Bigby stood like a statue for what felt like an hour but was thankfully only seconds, before he turned and walked away. Slowly, he closed his palm into a fist, swearing that he could still feel her hand in his. Whether that was from the cold, or for another reason, he didn’t want to consider. 

The wolf was already out of the building before he realised that he hadn’t even accomplished what he meant to do in the business office. He resolved to do it at another time, and as he raised a packet of cigarettes, he couldn’t help but smile just ever so slightly. If he tried, he could pretend it was the prospect of a cigarette and not the prospect of seeing her again. 

It was the next day before he finally got around to tracking Snow down again, and as he headed down the corridor to the business office, he could hear the faint sound of laughter behind the door. It was rare to hear Snow laugh at work, and he knew it must be Ro’s doing. Bigby didn’t know why he was getting nervous before he opened the door, he’d never been that way before, even when he knew he was on his way to be reprimanded by the deputy mayor herself. 

The Sheriff opened to door to a scene of veritable chaos. The new assistant was precariously balanced on one of the bookshelves, as Bufkin hovered nearby, concerned. Snow was laughing as she pulled one of the heavy ladders up to the shelves and he caught the tail-end of a discussion before they noted his entry. 

“- would’ve been fine, these bookshelves aren’t too hard to climb.”

“Next time that Bufkin is asleep on the job, you wake him up. Or, at least use a ladder.” Even if Snow was telling both of her teammates off, her voice was full of amusement for the two of them. With a triumphant grin, Ro swiped the desired book off the shelf before obediently returning to the ground via the ladder that Snow had provided. As he feet hit the ground, she saw him over Snow’s shoulder and her face brightened with a smile.

It made Bigby’s chest feel tight, that she was happy to see him. 

Snow turned around and gave him a wave, which he returned with a nod. Making his way over to the deputy mayor, he tried not to be distracted by the sound of his obsession’s voice, discussing some sort of financial matter with Bufkin as he reported to Snow. The princess preferred to be kept in the loop about the happenings of Fabletown, considering the criminal ongoing of the community often affected who walked in and out of her door needing a favour, and Bigby was happy to comply. Snow had proved herself a worthy partner, and mayor, many times over. 

Once they were finished, Bigby turned to leave slowly, hoping that he could think of some reason to stay a little longer, an excuse to speak to her. It would turn out that wasn’t necessary, as a call of his name met his ears. Ro waved him over to her desk and he raised his eyebrows at the sight. No wonder that box had been so damn heavy for her, the surface was covered in trinkets and ornaments. 

A garish mug that held her pens proclaimed, “I love NY!” Next to that, a glass jar of candies with the lid off, an offering to anyone waiting to see Snow. It was an odd and thoughtful gesture that he didn’t recall seeing anywhere before in Fabletown. An elegant wooden picture frame faced away from him, preventing the wolf from seeing the picture inside, sparking his curiosity. Besides the frame sat a small but ornate snowglobe, and he was afraid to pick it up, fearing that he’d be too rough and break it. Finally, a gathering of tiny plant pots congregated in the corner; a succulent, a Chinese money plant and a cactus. 

He huffed in amusement at the sight of it, “that is the ugliest fucking mug I have ever seen.”

Ro scowled at him, but her eyes were sparkling. “Shut up, Bigby, this is a very impressive collection, alright?”

“I’ll take your word for it,” The wolf’s words were sarcastic, but he raised an eyebrow in question, betraying his curiosity. He ended up leaning against the desk, fixated on her as she told him the story behind every object.

The mug was the first thing that she had bought after everything that happened, ending with all of the Fables moving to the city. 

The sweets, she explained, were for anyone who was mad at having to wait in a line for so long and especially for Toad’s son, who was, “extremely adorable,” according to her. 

Her tone was soft as she remarked on the snow globe, describing it only as, “a gift,” in a small voice that made Bigby want to find whoever had made her feel that way and rip their arms off of their body. Without thinking, he reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder. Once again, she was positively freezing to the touch, and this time he even felt minute tremours wracking her frame. Looking up to meet his eyes, she didn’t pull away from him for a long moment. It was nice, to not be feared. 

The tension between them mounted, but he found himself unable to pull away from her. Thankfully, she did and brushed over the photograph, reaching for the cactus instead. “This reminds me of you.” She stated factually, holding it up to him. 

“How?” Bigby questioned, falling into her trap and watching the mischievous grin of delight appear on her face. 

“Prickly,” she laughed when he responded by flipping her off, which only made it worse. 

Bigby had to leave after that, heading over to one of the many bars in Fabletown to break up some sort of fight that was breaking out. After receiving a call from the owner, who had yelled down the phone that if Bigby didn’t get there soon then there wouldn’t be a bar left to save, he knew he was in for a fight. Fables didn’t give up easy, especially when they were pissed and drunk. It was not going to be a pleasant evening. 

When he returned home much later, with blackened eyes and bleeding knuckles, he stopped by his office to grab some case files before heading up to his room. 

There on his desk was the little cactus. 

A kind of warmth that started in his stomach crept through his body like it was travelling in his veins, reaching his heart and making it hurt. This was bad. Bigby had it really, really, bad. 

The next time that he saw her, it was snowing. A soft dusting of white was beginning to layer on the sidewalks and rooftops outside of the business office, where she stood on the side of the road. Darkness was falling as she attempted to hail a cab, but rush hour traffic meant that she could be waiting for a little while. Approaching, Bigby noted that she was shaking, even more violently than the last time they had met and frowned to himself. “Ro,” he greeted her, as not to frighten her as he came closer.

“Bigby!” She greeted him with a wide smile, despite her chattering teeth. 

“It’s getting dark. I’ll wait with you.” He stated, leaving no room for an argument or dispute. Fabletown was a shithole and he wasn’t about to abandon her on the side of the road as dusk fell. She heard his tone and didn’t bother to put up a fight, opting to instead enjoy his company. Once again, she shivered and Bigby couldn’t take it anymore. Uncaring if he was crossing any boundaries, he shrugged off the long coat that he wore in the Wintertime and draped it over her shoulders, still warm from the heat of his body. He was a wolf, he didn’t exactly run cold.

Her mouth fell open in surprise at the sudden weight around her shoulders, and she glanced at him with wide eyes. “You’ll be cold,” she protested, but the shivering had stopped. Bigby would do it a hundred times over.

“I’ll be fine. You’re fucking freezing at the best of times,” he pointed out and she sighed with disappointment at the reminder. It made him curious. “Is there a reason?” He pushed for more information and didn’t receive an answer. The silence stretched out between them and he immediately regretted his decision to ask. After a minute, he felt a pressure at his side. 

She was leaning against him. 

Bigby felt a surge of panic as he wondered if she could hear his heart beating rapidly in his chest when she was so close like this, which only made it beat faster. Her cold frame was tucked into his side, and he thought he might die on the spot. “I don’t want you to get cold,” her voice was soft. Bigby didn’t care that her temperature didn’t exactly provide him with any real warmth, the hot blood rising in his cheeks was enough to make him feel warm with embarrassment. He counted his blessings that her eyes remained on the street ahead, scanning for a cab.

Eventually, one pulled up on the curb and Bigby stepped forward, opening the door for her. Taking off his coat, she folded it carefully before handing it back to him. So careful with his things, she treated the old, beaten coat like it was of the finest silk. She stepped inside the car and he lingered for a moment, arm resting on the door, the freezing metal no different from Ro’s body temperature. 

“Goodnight, Bigby.” She hesitated before leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Her lips were like ice and he wondered how they weren’t blue. He liked it anyway. Stepping back and shutting the door, Bigby waited on the sidewalk until the taxi was long out of sight before he turned and headed indoors. 

He was starting to like the cold.

That night he couldn’t sleep. He had so many questions about who she was, what her Fable was, that it was impossible to take his mind of her as he laid awake in his chair, his eyes fixated on the ceiling. He knew that it must be something to do with her temperature - how else could she be so freezing to the touch all the time? She was constantly shivering and shaking, and it only seemed to be getting worse each time he saw her.

Closing his eyes, he remembered how she felt against his side. Her touch was addictive, worse than the nicotine in his cigarettes. Every time that they came close, it made him need it all the more. His fingers came up to hover over his cheek, where he had kissed him. In his mind, she hadn’t stepped into the cab at all. In his mind, he had taken her into his arms there and then, and kissed her senseless. She would be here in his apartment, pressed up against him and they would be more than warm as - 

Bigby shook his head fervently to rid himself of the thoughts, feeling guilty. Tomorrow, he would get answers, he promised himself.

The sun hadn’t fully risen in the sky as he left his apartment the following morning. Heading straight for the business office, he wasted no time in using his keys and opening the door. Switching on the lights, he stepped into the room and looked around. “Bufkin?” He called out, wondering if the winged creature would be present, or awake. There was no answer, so he headed toward the stacks.

This was going to be difficult, considering he didn’t even know her name. That made using the mirror a fruitless task, and while what Bigby was doing by looking her up wasn’t exactly moral per se, looking at her while she was most likely asleep was not a good idea.

Heading over to her desk, he wondered if she would have her real name somewhere. Bigby didn’t spot it, and he was distracted by her collection of things. A fond smile crossed his face, and he picked up the little snowglobe, holding it carefully in his palm. Inspecting it more closely, it was a field covered in snow, and in the centre, there were two figures. A boy and girl, who seemed to be dancing, while he played the flute. Shaking it, he watched the glittery flakes dance and flurry around the little glass sphere.

Thankfully, he had placed it down on the desk before a cough resounded from behind him. “Fuck!” He swore as he spun around to see Bufkin, swallowing his surprise and glaring instead.

“Bigby?” The flying monkey was surprised to see him, “what are you doing?”

“Well,” Bigby hesitated before explaining, which is exactly how he knew what he was doing was a terrible idea, “I was trying to find Ro’s fable. But I don’t know her real name.”

“Ah, I see,” Bufkin seemed thoughtful before he answered, “as always, if you find her real name then I will help you as much as I can, but I can’t help but suggest that you ask her. I’m not sure that she’ll appreciate if you find out without her knowing.” 

Hanging his head, Bigby sighed, “I know.” Considering the way he did his job, Bigby wasn’t much used to having the truth withheld from him for long. In the instances when it was, he had never done nothing about it. This was different, he should know that. Looking back at the desk, he saw the space where the cactus used to be and felt ashamed. She had been kinder to him than anyone he had ever met, the first person not to assume he was every bit the beast he once was, and he was already proving to her that she should have treated him like a monster all along. 

Bufkin patted his shoulder warily, seemingly relieved that the wolf had come to his senses. Bigby started to walk away from his desk when the sound of keys entering the lock made him freeze. At that moment, Bigby had two options. He could stand there and face whoever it was head-on, or he could try and hide. It was fight or flight, and Bigby had never been much of a flyer. 

Upon realising that the door was already open, the person on the other side entered the room. Of course, it was Ro. She stared at him in surprise, obviously shocked to see him in the office so early and without the presence of Snow. “Bigby?” The confusion was evident in her tone, “can I help you with anything?”

His guilt intensified. Only she would assume he was here for a noble cause, for a case he was working on or an urgent business matter. Of course, her first question would not be what he was doing but how she could help. He didn’t know how he ever thought he could deserve a chance with her. Well, this was his chance to ruin it.

“I came here to find your fable. I wanted to know who you are.” Bigby stated bluntly, and he watched as her face fell. Her usually bright eyes went dim, and her ever-bright smile went cold. It was a crushing pain, but it was almost tinged with relief. He had known he wasn’t good enough, known that he was a monster.

At least now that she knew, he could stop pretending. 

She didn’t say anything as he walked past her and left.

You

The slam of the door shutting behind him rang in your ears, as you struggled to process the information. You feel tears beginning to sting your eyes, and you’re glad that the wolf walked out so that he didn’t see them. How could he do that to you? 

You keep your gaze on the floor as you head to your desk, embarrassed by the display of emotion and not wanting Bufkin to see them. Slamming your papers down on your desk a little harder than you would normally, you sat down and tried to work, but the words were blurry in front of you. Bufkin is quiet behind you, offering a few words of consolation, “If it helps, Miss, he didn’t succeed. In fact, he stopped what he was doing of his own accord before you arrived.”

It was nice of Bufkin to try and comfort you, but his words didn’t fix things, and you were afraid of what kind of sound would come out if you opened in your mouth. You started your paperwork in silence and went about confirming Snow’s schedule for the day until she arrived later. As soon as she arrived, she could tell that something wasn’t right. You greeting was a little quiet, your smile not as genuine, no matter how much you tried to put up a front.

I guess I’m not like Bigby, you thought to yourself bitterly, I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not.

Snow didn’t comment on the situation until after you’ve left and returned from the office, delivering papers to the thirteenth floor. When you returned, it was obvious that Bufkin must have reported to Snow what had happened by the pitying look in her eyes. “Don’t,” you pleaded with her, not ready to talk about it and too embarrassed to explain. 

“Okay,” she agreed, before biting her lip. “I’ve known Bigby a long time, and you know what that means for a Fable. I’ve seen him grow and change from a heartless monster into a man that cares about Fabletown - maybe even more than anyone else. But he has a funny way of showing it. He yells, and he fights and he pushes everyone away, but at the end of the day, he’s the one out there in the dead of night keeping us safe.”

“What’s your point?” You asked and your voice was tired.

“My point,” she continued patiently, “is that Bigby as a friend is a lot like Bigby as a Sheriff. Even though he pushes you away, he really cares. Now, I think that’s something worth fighting for, and I do, God knows we’ve argued in the past. That doesn’t mean you have to, but it would mean a lot to me if you’d consider it.” After she was done, she continued with her business, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

That woman was a damned good politician. 

The next few days were torture. Bigby avoided the business office, and you avoided him. His presence in the Woodlands was already scarce, but now it seemed that he was never home. The few glimpses of him you caught in hallways were brief, and neither of you met one another’s eye line. The closest you come is when you see him enter the elevator as you walk into the building.

This time, you didn’t call for him to wait and he doesn’t. 

But you did meet his eyes, not on purpose, as the doors were closing and it made your throat constrict. They were filled with guilt. For a split second, you think of saying something, anything. Of calling his name and having it out right then. But the doors closed, and he was gone again. You started to shiver, feeling colder than you ever have before.

The next time you saw him, you thought that he was dead. He was collapsed in a chair in the business office, as Doctor Swineheart’s elegant fingers moved back and forth. He performed surgery like he was playing the harp, his digits moving surely and gracefully across the strings, the thread following his crescendos up and down, in and out of Bigby’s skin. You wanted him to open his eyes so badly that you could no longer breathe. You closed your eyes and wished you had called out at the elevator. You called out now.

“Bigby!” 

Snow, Bufkin and the Doctor turned to look at you. The latter didn’t bat another eye, simply returning to his suturing while the other two gave you a sympathetic glance, but their concern was lying in front of them. As you got closer, you could see the rise and fall of his chest underneath all the blood, and you felt all of the air leave your lungs. The relief was crushing you, and you could have wept if you were able to take your eyes off of him. 

“Bigby,” you whispered again, and it’s a broken hush at this point. Reaching out your hand to touch him, you stopped yourself, withdrawing. Your hands were ice, they wouldn’t be any comfort to him. Useless. 

At the sound of your voice, he stirred. Eyelids flickering ever so slightly, a low and pained grown escaped his battered mouth. The Doctor was apparently done with him, even though there seemed to be copious amounts of blood to deal with and stood up. “No silver,” he announced, and his tone was calm enough to reassure you all, “he’ll be just fine. I could waste my breath and tell him to take it easy, but I think we all have better things to do.” A chorus of gratitudes accompanied his exit and Snow sighed with frustration. 

“He never learns,” she attempted to sound angry, but there was no heat behind it. “Can you take him upstairs? I need to deal with the culprits.” At this time, Bigby finally opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings with a slight air of panic. Once he recognised the faces around him, he calmed, but it was clear that his body is on fire from the pain. Nevertheless, he pushed himself to his feet, clenching his teeth to prevent the howl of pain from escaping. Rushing forward, you placed yourself underneath his shoulder, and he couldn’t help but lean on you for support. Together, you managed to stumble to his apartment, and you patted him down for his keys. Retrieving them from his front pocket, you managed to open the door and turn on the light, revealing the cramped apartment. 

It suited him. 

You managed to push Bigby into the only available armchair and stood in front of him. Tiredly, he met your eyes and offered you a bloody mockery of a smile. It was a horrible sight. 

“Shame they had to go and ruin your pretty face,” you broke the silence, too worried and horrified to put up any defences against the man. Not tonight. You cupped his swollen jaw with one of your hands and he let out a strangled moan, leaning into the touch.

“You ‘fink I’m pretty?” His voice was a slur, due to his broken nose, cut mouth or some combination of the two. At least he hadn’t lost his sense of humour. The pain was making him more candid, you thought. “S’nice,” he continued, “like an icepack.” You realised he was talking about your hands and gave him a strained laugh. At least you could be somewhat helpful. Using the other one to cover his bruised knuckles, you let a silence fall between you again. It wasn’t awkward, anymore. You supposed a near-death experience could do that.

Ignoring his growl of protest, you eventually moved away to grab supplies. A glass of water, towels and real ice. He seemed deeply disappointed in your decision to bring him water of all things. “Whiskey,” he demanded. 

“You know what, how about when you can walk over there and pour yourself a glass, you can have some?” You drawled and he let out a frustrated huff, letting his head drop back against the back of the chair. Slowly, you cleaned the blood away, starting with the cut on his forehead and making your way downward. You applied ice to his bruised lip, and slowly and carefully dabbed at the blood from his bullet wounds. It seemed endless. 

“Jesus, Bigby.” You breathed out, the metallic scent of blood was thick in the air. 

“I’m sorry,” his voice was quiet, unlike how you’d ever heard it before, it was almost frightening.

“Don’t be, you did your job and -”

“Not that.” He cut you off, and stared up at the ceiling, unable to meet your eyes.

“I know.” You cleaned the last of the blood from his chest and decided to wait a while to change the bandages, even though they were already soaking through with blood. After disposing of any blood-soaked materials, you returned to the wolf and carefully pushed his hair back from his forehead. 

“Can I do anything else?” You asked, and he flinched at the words. Perhaps it reminded him of the argument you had, or perhaps he was just in too much pain. 

“Stay,” his voice was certain, his tone commanding, but his eyes were pleading. Begging. How could you refuse? You sat on the arm of the chair, close by his side as if your mere presence would heal him. Even in the short time that had passed, he looked considerably better than he had when you’d seen him lying on the table, especially without the excess blood staining his skin. With great effort, he turned one of his hands so that it was lying palm up. You knew what he wanted, and you slid your hand into his. He hissed at the temperature, and you wondered if the fact that you’re worried sick makes it worse.

“Bigby,” your voice was slow, and it felt like a loaded question when you asked him again, “can I do anything, else?” He clenched his jaw like he was trying to stop himself and can’t, sitting up and leaning close to you, until your lips were an inch away from his. For a long moment, he said nothing, just stared at you while you breathed one another in. He’s alive, you thought, and I’ll never forget it. Eventually, he closed his eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at you anymore.

“Kiss me,” his voice was hoarse. With pain or vulnerability, you didn’t know. But you complied, leaning forward and meeting his lips. He pushed hard and fast, like he had been starved of you for too long, but you pulled back and kept it soft. His poor mouth had been bleeding not too long ago, and you didn’t want to hurt him more. You could tell he didn’t care. Your hands came up to cradle his face, one under his rough jaw and the other firmly gripping his hair. You held him like he was fragile and precious and loved. Slowly, the temperature of your hands started to rise, unnoticeable at first. As you placed gentle kisses on his mouth, and then his cheeks, one on his crooked nose and along his bruised jaw, you felt yourself grow warm, for the first time in your life. It was indescribable. 

“Your hands,” Bigby covered one with his own, marvelling. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you acclimatised to the feeling of not feeling cold, feeling pain, wracked with shivers. The wolf raised a hand to wipe them away, letting himself linger on your cheeks now that they weren’t freezing to the touch. 

When you were ready, you took a breath and explained to him who you were. “Snegurochka is my real name. You can probably see why I shortened it. But the more common name is The Snow Maiden. I was made of snow by an old couple, they were beautiful. Kind and generous and good, but they could have no children. When Father Frost saw how sad they were, he made me real, so that I could be a daughter to them. But I could never,” you paused, struggling to explain, “I was always cold. I felt cold all of the time, no matter how much I loved them. Soon, I found a new kind of love. At least, I thought that was what it was. I think I just wanted to feel it so badly that I made myself believe it. A boy from the village played music for me, and we played in the snow, enjoying Christmas. When Spring came, I thought that our love would be enough. He led me to the village, to the edge of the woods that I had lived in my whole life. I ignored every warning and stepped out into the Sun. It was an indescribable pain, and I could not follow him.”

Bigby stared at you in silence, listening intently. “The next Winter, I waited to see him again, in the woods. But when I saw him, he had taken another. They played together in the snow, where we once did, and I thought then that I would be cold forever.” Your voice trembled as you recounted the story of your heartbreak before you looked at him. 

“But you, you kissed me and meant it. You broke the spell. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you before, about who I was. To be honest, I think I was hoping that you would.” It was a lot to take in, and Bigby seemed speechless for a long moment. Wordlessly, he pulled you close and pressed a hard, forceful kiss to your lips. 

“Never again,” he promised, “you’ll never be cold again.” 

It was a fairly hard task that Bigby had undertaken that night, but he went about it dutifully. You still got cold far more easily than almost anyone else, your fingertips icy and the tips of your ears going red. The wolf liked to cocoon your hands within his, warming them up whenever the two of you stood still in the cold. Before you went outside in foul weather, he would drape a coat around you, or hang a scarf around your neck. More often than not, he would dress you in something of his. He didn’t admit it, but you were fairly sure he just liked to see you marked as his for the rest of the world to see.

It was sweet, the way he pressed kisses to your cold fingertips when nobody was looking and tucked you under his arm if the wind was howling, but really, the cold didn’t bother you anymore.

“It’s a record player,” you reveal, removing the box to properly show off the contraption. 

Bigby looks confused for a moment, his nose scrunching ever so slightly as he formulated his response. “Why would you want one of those?” He asks eventually, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“Bigby!” 

“What?” He leans back in his chair and makes a vague gesture with his hands, “I just don’t understand why anyone would want to come home every day and then be surrounded by more noise.” 

For such a powerful beast, Bigby really was a creature of habit. Before the two of you met, you supposed he spent all of his evenings in silence, accompanied by whiskey and cigarettes as he worked the night away. With the job that he had, which seemed to mainly involve yelling at, or getting yelled at by, other Fables on a daily basis, you could see why the man would appreciate a little quiet when he was finally alone. 

But this was different, music was something that you wanted to share with him. It was another one of the many differences that set you apart, that often prompted other Fables to give the two of you funny stares or to whisper among themselves about just how exactly the two of you managed to make it work. Bigby was comfortable in silence, used to it. You, on the other hand, thrived in chaos and colour and noise. You love music and the sprawling city below your window that was never really quiet, never truly asleep.

“You’ll see,” you promised him determinedly, before leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. It was a simple gesture, but it drew the tension that he didn’t even realise he was holding out of his shoulders, and he melted into your affections. “Come to bed,” you appeal to him quietly while you have his attention, straddling his lap with one leg either side of him. 

“I can’t,” he refuses, but his voice is strained as you run one of your hands through his hair, and begin to place slow and deliberate kisses over his jaw. 

“Come to bed, Bigby,” you repeat, your voice more firm the second time, and he wordlessly agrees, his body melting into yours in his submission. He rests a head on your shoulder and sighs. 

“Okay.” 

Effortlessly, despite his lack of sleep, he stands up and carries you with him and you wrap your legs around his waist. He places you down onto the bed and you try to tone down your smile, internally celebrating your victory. Looking all too happy with your success would only drive him back to his desk, so instead, you sit up and tug him closer by his tie. He allows you to slip the knot undone and pull it away from his body and undo his wrinkled shirt buttons one by one, sliding it off his broad shoulders. It’s an intimate act, but not a sexual one as you undress him and you follow your actions with kisses, gentle and certain. 

When he finally falls into bed next to you, pulling you close into his arms, you think to yourself that this is worth it. It doesn’t always go like this, where Bigby concedes so beautifully and with so little coercion. It’s more often a hell of a lot more difficult. And there are nights when it’s an impossible task, where you push too hard and he snaps at you. But on the nights that you lay together, breathing together, being together, you would make the trade a million times over. 

The next morning, you implement your plan. Fabletown seems content to hold off its daily disasters for a few sweet hours, so you slip out of bed early and start making breakfast for the both of you. Accompanied by the lilting tone of Frank Sinatra, you waltz about the cramped kitchen as much as possible as you mix ingredients and avidly look over frying pans. Before long, the smell of bacon lures the wolf out of your bedroom and he stops in the doorway of the kitchen, regarding you in silence for a long moment before he speaks. 

“I don’t deserve you,” Bigby says, watching you lay down bacon, scrambled eggs, pancakes and a steaming pot of coffee. It’s a sentiment that he shares a little too often for your taste. 

“You deserve better,” you argue as he makes his way over to you, wrapping his arms around you from behind and letting his headrest on your shoulder. 

He growls uncomfortably at your response and you laugh, “Now you know how stupid you sound when you say that.” You point out and the two of you sit down to eat. The vinyl player spins on unobtrusively as Bigby enjoys your offering with a smile on his face, a rare and beautiful sight for such an early hour. Still, he eats quickly and stands, dropping a kiss to your forehead and grimacing. 

“I have to go,” he states.

“I know.”

With one last to kiss to your lips, he turns around to leave, before he stops and turns to face you once more. “You know, the only thing that could have made this breakfast better would have been if you turned that damn thing off.” He gives you a sly grin and disappears out of the door before you can come up with a rebuttal.

That bastard. 

For the next couple of weeks, the record player becomes almost a form of competition between the two of you. You turn it on whenever you’re at his apartment, bringing different records over with all kinds of genres (some of which Bigby despises a lot more than others) and trying to coax him into singing or humming the lines along with you, or giving you a twirl. In return, he attempts to take the needle off whenever you look away for too long and even resorted to putting a large scratch in the absolutely deafening heavy rock record you had bought over. 

“Oops,” had been his deadpan response when you showed him the very suspiciously fingernail looking scratch on the disc. 

Occasionally, you think you have him. One night, he arrives home delightfully early and calls you to share the good news. As soon as you’re finished with your work, you go straight to his place. Arriving home before the dead of the night puts Bigby in a comparatively joyous state compared to his usual broodiness, and you put on a record as soon as you enter. It’s almost force of habit by now. He lets out a totally overdramatic groan of disapproval at your action, but you ignore him completely and take him in your arms. 

Pulling him close to you, you begin to sway lightly to the sound of Paul Anka’s rendition of Put Your Head On My Shoulder. Bigby stiffens, shaking his head a little as you wind your arms around his shoulders. “I can’t dance,” he grumbles. 

“Neither can I,” you confide, “not a fucking clue,” which pulls a small smile out of him. The two of you turn about the cramped living room with a complete lack of grace and even rhythm at times, occasionally standing on one another and muttering hurried apologies. Eventually, Bigby starts to loosen up slightly, holding you closer to him and allowing you to pull him around the room. By the end of the song, he’s even bold enough to invite you to twirl and you do so as a finishing flourish. 

The music fades, but neither of you pulls away for a long moment, staying entwined in the centre of the living space. “I like having you close. Right here, right in front of me where nothing else can interfere. Mine.” Bigby doesn’t meet your eyes as he confesses his inner thoughts, his voice deep and his words slow. He emphasises his point by tightening his grip on your waist and pressing a hard kiss to your lips. It’s not often the wolf lets slip how he feels, especially when its a somewhat primal and basal thought, but you love it.

You cup his rough jaw with one hand and kiss him back, bodies pressed close and reassure him.

“Yours.” 

It’s only after a long moment that you pull away from the kiss and Bigby murmurs more lowly in your ear, “I can think of another way I get just as close to you, without that damn machine.” He presses himself closer to you and smiles suggestively, but it’s warm love in his eyes before burning desire and you grin. You know that you’re winning. 

It’s another week before you catch him, taking him by surprise as you turn up at his place. He swings the door open with a frown already fixed into his face, sure it was going to be some Fable asking for one favour or another. The frown clears when he sees you standing on his doorstep and his eyes brighten. Without hesitating, he pulls you inside and closes the door before promptly pushing you up against it. His actions are urgent and forceful, but he waits for you to kiss him first before he allows himself to place a hand either side of your head and devour your mouth. 

His teeth, quickly sharpening, bite at your lower lip before his tongue soothes the sting away. Your own hands are soon twisted in his hair, his curls soft between your fingers as you tug on them, trying to pull him impossibly closer. When he finally allows you a moment, you grin at him. “Bad day?”

“Bad day,” he confirms, “about to get a lot better.” 

Finally able to think straight now that Bigby’s mouth wasn’t on yours, you register the sound of music floating through the apartment. An expression of pure, unadulterated joy appears on your face and the Sheriff baulks, realising his mistake as it dawns upon your face. 

“You’re listening to music!” It’s almost an accusation as you cry out victoriously and Bigby hangs his head.

“Alright, alright. I put it on when I got home. It’s kinda like a cigarette,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand shamefully, “it’s a noise that blocks out the other shit.” You notice that the usually overflowing ashtrays have depleted somewhat, an additional bonus that you had not expected.

“It grows on you, right?” You punch his shoulder lightly and he rolls his eyes and nods.

“I guess you could say that.” 

As he pulls you in for another kiss, more concerned with getting both of you out of any clothes that will prevent him from turning his day around, he keeps to himself that it wasn’t that he liked the music, and it wasn’t that he preferred it to his cigarettes.