#sheriff wolf

What he did not have in his life, saving one more person from danger made up for.

The grateful were only a few, if any.

It was as if these exiled yet powerful individuals always chased after the thrill, after their basic necessities had been met.

Some of them were not that lucky - resorting to many forms of making ends meet, on much different life paths than intended.

He, of all creatures, knew that sometimes you had to do what was unthinkable to get up and keep going.

He respected the hustle, above all. He knew the struggle of adapting to a semblance of normal, mortal life, something he had yet to overcome.

He did not respect what Fables were capable of doing to each other, when they had thought no one was looking.

His feet dragged him in an almost frantic manner towards the entrance of the apartment building, passing the usual congregation of Fables lining up around his corridor with their complaints.

They would have to wait, Bigby would mumble under his breath, as he followed Snow, whose rapid steps had an air of timidness beneath - something not many could tell.

The slightly raised commotion of complaints he left behind made him wonder just how much longer the forsaken Fables could hold themselves before a fight broke loose.

“Where?” he asked, the pace quickening.

“Front steps,” Snow responded, without looking back. “At the entrance gate.”

That night, the crisp air of New York was laced with an eerie feel - not one of fear, not quite yet, but something akin to an unraveling. The streetlights gleamed their muted orange, casting a glow onto the brick walls across once the door opened to reveal the entrance walkway.

Had Snow not been there, his hand would be fast to grab his pack of cigarettes.

That night, the moment a short-lived breeze hit his face with his first step outside, let itself known that it would be different.

Almost as if a certain scent lingered in the air that he could not quite shake.

Scent of perfume, and of fear.

Fear, he had known - tasted it, bathed in it for years, exploited even the weakest.

Perfume?

Snow herself could never stand those bottled illusions of rose and powder, but he would have recognized hers from a mile away regardless.

Realization would dawn on him as he turned around before proceeding further, an exhale leaving his lips, dark eyes locking into yours.

He had told you to stay back - but of course, you could not listen to the Sheriff the one time he had asked nicely.

And yet, there you stood, your arms gently crossed in an attempt to warm yourself, half behind the column of the entrance doors.

Chills running rampant under your skin told you what no one could.

The rising feeling of uncertainty, laced with flashbacks of backroom conversations muffled over club music engulfing your mind.

With each click of your heels against wood, trying to catch up to their pace, you had known you were walking towards the inevitable, something you had heard whispers of in planning.

Something you could not disclose to any other soul.

“Stay back there,” Bigby said, quietly. Not an order, not exactly, yet, it sounded every bit like one.

“You should not be here.”

That, you knew.

Snow’s eyes would meet yours, as she had stayed a few paces back from Bigby, who had promptly made his way towards the uncanny object at the bottom of the steps.

A rare look of gentle warning surrounding her beautiful blues.

A quiet reassuring, as there were more pressing matters in hand.

Bigby found himself not wanting to move for a long second, a slight tension in his body after the events trailing up to that moment in time.

Yet, who else would, if he had not?

He crouched, his worn shirt pulling at the seam, his world narrowed down to the focal point of his attention - the bulge covered by a security uniform jacket. With hesitant fingers, he would lift up to reveal what he thought would never see.

A sharp draw of his breath echoed through the night air.

“Oh, God,” Snow would whisper under her breath, unable to look his direction, hands covering her eyes.

However, none would compare to the way your entire body turned into ice, a stone cold shiver running down your spine. A hand would reach out to grab onto the column for support, as your knees threatened to give out.

And as you stole more gazes, nothing could have prepared you for the shock that roamed your whole being.

It stood there, like a gift meant for no other than just the three of you - deliberately placed. The faint smell of dried blood trailing along the steps, her face ever so soft under the faint glimmer of the streets. Eyelashes fluttered to a close, hints of faintly healing bruises across the skin.

Faith.

Her ribbon, a shade of purple that you could never mistake for anything else.

Below the familiar silk, besides the fragments of cartilage and blood, a sheer nothing.

Throat tightening, you felt the chains grasp at your skin even further, eyes watering as a tear already made its way down your cheek.

Not like this.

Steps ahead, Bigby stayed crouched, aiming to direct his senses towards the leftover piece of her. He did not touch her, not yet, as he examined with his bare eyes- the sheriff in him did not like the idea of fingerprints on a crime scene.

A boiling anger rose within him, recognizing her from the earlier showdown with the Woodsman, his jaw tightening.

“We should call Crane,” came Snow’s more controlled voice, after she had managed to compose herself - something that usually did not take her too long to do as long as she adhered to her rules.

“In a minute,” Bigby answered, seemingly pensive, as if the fleeting nature of all that had happened that night slowly caught up to him. Questions lighting up his thoughts one by one.

Feet not resisting your urges any longer, you would make your way to what was left of her, besides the almost silent protest from Snow.

The world around you seemed to revolve in slow motion, as if nothing mattered. Not the clients that were booked for later that evening, in the wee hours of dawn, nor the wrath that you would face upon returning to the club.

All perspective hollowed down to the pale curve of your friend’s cheek, the faint glimmer of makeup on her lids.

“What do you know?”

Mouth agape, breath hitching in your throat as his question made you freeze mid-step.

Bigby’s voice cut through the haze, not loud, not demanding. He did not need to be.

It already carried the weight of a certain curiosity, one stemming from your earlier conversation - or lack thereof - in his office.

Still crouched, yet his body shifted to find your eyes, his stare a light amber in the night. Searching, yet shaken - even a sherriff who dealt with unruly Fables on the regular did not expect a crime of this sort at his doorstep.

One look into his eyes, and it was clear that he knew.

He repeated himself once, steadily, his attention slipping to the slight shake of your hand.

“What do you know?”

Pleading eyes looked up at his, a certain desperation laced with hopelessness coating your gaze.

If only you could.

A faint voice came through your lips, a futile yet noble effort to reveal. The words desperately hung in your throat, in your mind, aching to be released into the void for him to hear - yet, the snag of the silk against skin was proving to be too taut.

Another tear slid down your face, as the magic pulled you into despair. A soundless gasp escaped your mouth. It was as if your skin burnt from the magic running through your body, emanating to the depths of your soul, tearing apart anything in its path.

And, at that moment, something flickered beneath the amber flames coating Bigby’s eyes - a look of sheer understanding.

He rose to his full height, slowly, deliberately, as if he had been conscious not to frighten you.

“Hey - you are okay,” he let out, an act of gentle kindness - though his voice had been rougher than most.

You were not. In fact, fate would prove over and over to you again that you would never be, in this lifetime.

Yet another tear slipped down your cheek, unable to stop them from escaping, as you would take another glance at her, shaking your head in a silent denial.

A hand found your ribbon again, as if pointing him to the culprit of all evil. His eyes immediately making their way over to your fingers tracing the silk.

The cursed words that had followed you through your worst nightmares made themselves known in the night air, a cruel echo of your pain.

“These lips are sealed.”

The scene stilled, breaths halting for a moment. Snow’s heels clicked against the stone as the turned around, stepping back inside to talk to the guard.

Sheriff Wolf, however, chose to stay right there. Questions beckoning to his lips, his head turning in confusion and shock. None of that stopped him from noticing just how the pain made your jaw twitch, panic fueled from desperation welling up at your lashes.

Instead, he chose to ask the one question he had already deemed an answer to.

“It’s the ribbon, isn’t it?”

And, when you met his eyes with that certain look of silent validation, he knew he was right.

Bigby had never been the type to assume certainty so quickly.