Author's Note: New fandom for me. Spoilers through 1.07, which is how far I've seen.
Graham prowls through his darkened apartment stalking sleep, but his prey eludes him. His restless steps tread the path between the worn sofa and the pathetic refrigerator, with its cold beer and half-empty condiment bottles. He feels empty. Incomplete. And yet he can think of nothing that will fill the ache inside of him.
It's four in the morning. He should sleep. The day ahead of him is long, and even a few hours' sleep will make a world of difference.
Graham sighs, scratching at his beard, and returns to the claustrophobic bedroom. He lays down, determined. But the stench of his own sweat on the crumpled sheets makes him nauseous. He shoves them aside, rolling violently away, and goes to the window. He cracks it open and lets the sweet smell of the night forest flood the tiny room.
On a sheriff's salary, Graham can't afford much. It's a shitty apartment with an even shittier landlord, but at least the trees press right up to the window. It soothes him to know the woods are only a few steps beyond. Graham heaves the windowpane up, opening it as far as it'll go, and leans out, breathing deep. It's frigid, this late at night, but the cold drives the spiderwebs from his head. He's wide awake now, and the cold air steadies him enough to face the tangled sheets on the narrow bed.
Earlier that night, he'd been tangled in different sheets. He'd been kissing Regina, lying with her in her queen-sized bed with its slippery, silken sheets. And Graham had drifted. Gradually, his mind receded from what he was doing. He lost focus as the world around him blurred. Everything unreal, as if he'd stepped through a window in his mind and found he was somewhere else. Someone else.
Then, shockingly sharp, the scratch of her fingernail on his chest brought him back. One perfectly manicured nail digging into the flesh over his heart, and he jerked, snapping back. She had the oddest expression on her face as she looked up at him. Possession, anger. Hatred? Then she smiled and his heart constricted at the sight of it. His pulse beat louder, and he could think only of all that smooth milky skin. He'd smiled back. When he had bent back to her, the rhythm had come again easily enough.
Remembering, something snaps. He is trapped, caught in a web just as tangled at his own sheets. For too many nights, he's gone to her bed and crept back, ashamed, to his own bed. There's something wrong here, something far darker than the taint of political corruption that their relationship implies. He doesn't want to do this anymore. Graham can't deny the way his body responds to her, but he feels no love. He's so tired of being only empty.
Graham rips the sheets off the bed and takes them to the hall. He can't stand to look at them anymore. Into the washing machine they go, with half a bottle of detergent to be sure. It'll probably overflow, leaking out over cracked linoleum in a stream of sudsy bubbles, but he's tired of feeling dirty. Graham remembers Regina's dark smile, full of so much he doesn't understand. A thump, as the washer starts its cycle, and he prays that next time, he'll be strong enough to resist.