Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. Please don't sue me. I can't afford a lawyer.

I bloody love the Fables series. Whether or not this story is a one-shot or a continued thing depends entirely on the response I get; not to be finicky, but why perform for a disinterested audience, y'know? Besides, I wasn't particularly planning on continuing it, but, it is an open-ended oneshot, I guess.

Enjoy.

"Have I ever told you that I hate New York?"

Bigby Wolf slowly raised his head from the report he'd been scanning. Snow White was standing beside the office window and gazing blankly outside, perhaps at the dense river of mundies that flooded the pavements. It was a Tuesday evening, in the midst of December. The grubby city was smothered in frost; in the early hours of the morning - with the fresh layers of snow settling - it almost managed to look clean. This illusion was trampled by the time lunchtime rolled around, however.

He took a moment to consider his response. She was expressing very little emotion in both scent and appearance, and the secrecy put him on edge. "No. Why's that, Snow?"

"Haven't you heard the common mundy name for it?" She asked softly, moving only to trace patterns against the window frame with her index finger. When he did not reply, she chuckled, so quietly and dryly that it might have easily been mistaken for a rasp. "They call it the big apple."

Bigby stole a regretful glance back down at his reports, before standing up and attempting to drift casually towards her. She remained transfixed, not seeming to notice his approach, but moving to begin thumbing shapes onto the glass. He stared at her thumb as he spoke. "Uhm," he coughed into his clenched fist, clearing the discomfort from his tone and beginning again. "Must be pretty shitty to be reminded of your mistakes like that."

A few moments passed. She didn't respond, so he continued. "Look, Snow, it's been a pretty long day. You were here at six, it's been seventeen hours. Would you let me walk you home so you can get some shuteye?" Her face began to crumple slightly, but her gaze remained frozen.

"I can't," she stated, letting her arm fall to her side. Her expression became neat again, and authority clouded her tone. "I've still got paperwork to do. It can't wait, not after I -"

"What happened to the mundy today was not your fault," Bigby snapped, gripping her shoulder and pulling both her body and her stare towards him. It took several gentle shakes to get her to focus her gaze, at which point he cupped her cold, fragile cheeks with his calloused hands, as gently as possible. His forehead touched hers. His tone was firm. "She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was nothing to do with you, you weren't holding the gun, you didn't squeeze the trigger. This isn't on your head, do you understand?"

There was a silence. The lazy orange glow of a nearby street lamp began to flicker out, but it's struggling light continued to stream in through the window. For a few seconds at a time, the couple were bathed in the glare, and as tears grew and steadily streamed down Snow's cheeks, they seemed to quiver, too, reflecting stunning neon in one moment and bitter regret in the next. Bigby caught them with his thumb and wiped them away, before slowly releasing her.

"I tried to talk to her husband. The man who was walking with her?"

"Snow, stop, you can't -"

"Her name was Jessica." Snow said firmly, cutting him off. "And as acting sheriff, Bigby Wolf, I expect you to find Tweedle Dee. It doesn't matter that he was aiming for you, he's a murderer. God knows how we're going to sort this out with the mundies..."

She lifted her head, only to see him begin to light a cigarette she hadn't noticed him retrieving. She scowled and snapped. "Were you listening? Put that away."

Catching her murderous look, he grumbled weakly to himself and replaced the lighter. Fresh tears were still falling. How could such a heartbroken woman look so damned intimidating? "Anything you say, boss," he mumbled. "You should really go home, though."

She began to cry a little harder, but forced the fragility from her voice, for the most part. "I don't want to be alone. I mean, not like that. I just, I think I might dream about her, but I've got to sleep, y'know? I feel like an idiot."

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The atmosphere was thick with grief, mostly belonging to Snow, because Bigby was more experienced with this kind of misery. He was not proud. Then, as she choked a sob and quickly turned away from him, likely out of shame, he reached for her shoulder. "Snow, I can't stand to see you like this, I, uh," he paused for a moment. "If you think it would help, I mean, I could stay at your apartment. Just so you'd have someone there if you dream about her. I'll sleep on the couch, or floor. Anything to get you out of this fucking office."

Subconsciously, she shot him a dirty look for the curse, but said nothing. Then, after a few seconds of consideration, she replied. "We're colleagues, that would be extremely unprofessional."

"Well, there's nothing professional about working yourself to death, or not accepting help when you need it." He saw her open her mouth with intense speed and cut her off before she could speak. "Yes, yes, I know you can look after yourself. But this day has been shitty, and this office is shitty, and I'm not offering to look after you. I'm offering to sleep on your couch, probably eat your food, and stink out your apartment with a shitty brand of cigarettes."

The corner of Snow's lips twitched for a moment, and then she adopted a disgruntled expression. She shut the blinds and cut the thick orange light from the room. "Well," she sighed, quickly. "I suppose that would be an acceptable arrangement, Mr. Wolf. Assuming our actions remain entirely proper, that is. And no smoking."

Bigby held a lit cigarette between his lips, having skilfully lit it without attracting her attention. She looked unimpressed,and so did he. "I'll hail down a taxi," he said, smirking at her and shoving his hands into his pockets. "Get your coat."