Or, the one where Graham is (alive and) immortal, and Emma finds she has time for his story. At an antique's shop across the East River, an NYPD detective discovers that she, too, has time for a long story.
For arianakristine and argylepirateWD.
Not familiar with one of these shows? I gotchu, fam.
What you should know from OUAT: Emma and her son, Henry, are magically given new memories as they leave a crumbling Storybrooke, Maine (which happens to be a magical, cursed town. Iunno man, I'm not the one who writes the scripts.)
They're not supposed to remember anything from their lives, there, but somehow, someway, Emma remembers Sheriff Graham (who, spoiler alert, died early on into the first season).
What you should know from Forever: Henry Morgan is the chief M.E. for the NYPD. He's also over two hundred years old, immortal, and comes back to life in water, stark naked, every time he dies. Jo Martinez is his partner and close friend, who, over the course of about a year, discovers that Henry's hiding something from her. They solve cases together, aided by Henry's vivid memories of his past. (I swear, the show's infinitely better than that craptastic summary.)
Long author's note is long and ending now. Hope you enjoy!
"Graham?" She asks when their gazes meet, connect. His hair's wet, curls hanging heavier over his forehead than usual. She thinks his eyes are more gray than blue today, depths of them dark and almost…almost haunted with something. But it's him. It's him, and her heart beats a little harder when she remembers he's not supposed to feel like that - he's not supposed to feel anything. Hell, he's not even supposed to be here. The wrongness of it all hits her hard, then, because something in her's screaming that he's not supposed to be here. In yet, he is.
And he's naked. Very, very naked.
"What the hell?"
He offers her a wry smile and murmurs, "I uh…I sleep walk" in that warm, soft lilt of his.
"You sleep walk?" Emma echoes with a disbelieving tilt of her head. "And what, you just end up in the East River naked?"
She's not looking. She's really, seriously not. But that doesn't mean she isn't thinking about it.
Graham just nods in answer and explains that he doesn't have much control over where he ends up. She can believe that, if only somewhat, because she has this distant feeling that she knew someone, before, who slept walk every night of their life. But every time she tries to think about it, about life before New York, her ears fill with static and her mind draws a blank. It's terrifying, that blank, so she just lives her life trying not to think about "before" Neal, before New York, for too long. And Graham reminds her of before, somehow - so she tries not to think about him too much, either.
"It's because I sleep naked." He says, then.
Emma blinks once, twice at that, all thoughts of her late husband fading. When she says that she didn't ask, he says that she was not-asking very loudly.
The wind picks up once more, a frigid chill moving over them from the river. She thinks it must've been freezing. He chances a glance back at the water a moment, eyes darkening with that same haunted something from a minute ago.
He seems to catch her looking at him, too, because he murmurs, "It's a long story" around the ghost of a smile and a shake of his head. She thinks that somehow, she already knew that. And she isn't supposed to, just like he isn't supposed to be here. But she does, and he is. The wrongness of the moment, of her whole life, dissipates, then, if only for an instant. Because he's here when he shouldn't be, can't be, and that's enough for her, for now.
"Always is, with you." She says as the wrongness falls away and stays away, smile matching his as she tugs on his arm and murmurs, "Come on, I've got a blanket stashed in my car."
They're walking by the river a few weeks later, coffee cups in hand and laughter in their voices, when they hear it: a splash. Passerby around them pay no mind to the sound, but they exchange a quick glance when it comes again.
"If it's him..." Graham starts, eyes heating and warming with the memory of the bet they'd made earlier. If it's the same M.E. the police have been hauling from the East River every few weeks, then she owes Graham a cup of coffee. And she's been trying not to think of the implications around coffee, of what could happen over the steam of their drinks and soft, easy conversation. But if it isn't the same guy, or even another skinny dipper at all, then he owes her and Henry a movie night. Avengers themed.
"C'mon, it's not gonna be him." Emma says around a smile as she nudges his shoulder with hers. Even so, though, both look about them to check, to make sure.
And it's him. Same dark head of hair, broad chest, and smooth British accent as word of mouth left on. Though he's dressed today, his hair hangs wet across his forehead and his clothes cling to him in places where the water's not quite dried. When he sees them staring, smiling, he murmurs that he's a somnambulist. They exchange another quick look, then, Graham's midnight blue eyes heating and warming with all he won't say. But Emma can read between the lines.
"Seriously?" She asks, now, the smile that blooms across her face softening some of her usual snark.
Graham nods in answer and murmurs, "Well…if you'll still have me, anyway" around a shy duck of his head. She surprises herself, then, when she says that yeah, maybe she will.
When they turn their attention back to Doctor McBritish, he says only, "Sheriff, might you do me a favor and not say anything to one Detective Martinez?"
He assures him that it's out of his jurisdiction, anyway, to which the doctor heaves a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank Gods…it's a long story, and one I've not quite…"
Graham looks to Emma as the M.E. trails off, here, and the smile that curves his lips is enough to leave her breath hitching in her throat. The warmth in his gaze doesn't help her lungs work right, either.
"One you've not quite found the right words for?" Graham offers as he moves to tuck a stray blonde curl back behind her ear. The doctor's gaze flits over the soft smiles on their faces, no way hidden or muted by the steam rising from their coffee cups, and the way they stand close enough that their gloved hands nearly brush. There's a certain sense of private wonder in his voice when he murmurs that sometimes, in love, there are no right words.
But Emma isn't really listening anymore, adrift in Graham's eyes and the whisper of what they could have, what they could be. And it doesn't scare her anymore, that whisper. Not in the slightest - because as he smiles at her, it feels like one piece of before, one piece of her life, clicks and locks into place. And that's enough for her, for now.
Doctor McBritish slips Graham his number when they aren't quite paying attention, lost to the stardust of the moment. And they do end up getting that coffee together, her and Graham. And the conversation is soft, easy, over the steam of their drinks and hum of classical music. It's all so goddamned easy, and she wants and wishes and aches for the rightness of it all to linger, to stay.
"So Graham Humbert…" She says over the lip of her mug before she takes a long, long sip of her espresso. It's good, warm, and mixed with a shot of rich hot cocoa that makes her brave enough, bold enough, to lean towards him across the table. "What's your story?"
He smiles at her, then, warm and crooked, as he murmurs, "It's a long one. Really, really long." He sips at his own drink a moment, glasses fogging with the steam of it before he sets his mug down to add, "And bad for my credibility down at the station."
"So I've heard." Her smile turns a shade knowing, now, as she murmurs, "But I think you're gonna tell me anyway."
He takes another sip of his coffee, rich and black, before he says that he can try.
"It's kind of impossible, y'know?" Graham says with a tilt of his head, lingering gaze doing funny things to her stomach. She knows impossible, knows it and sees it and feels it with every part of her being, her soul, when they are together. And she thinks it's kind of crazy, but he is the only thing, the only person outside her son, who feels right.
A laugh seeps into Emma's voice as her gaze flickers from his face to the clock on the wall a moment. The rain's still coming down outside, a steady stream of water lining the wide windows of the cafe. But she feels content, here, safe, here, sitting across from him - and it's a rare thing for her, feeling both so equally and fully. The skin beneath her bracelets warms, then, and she feels a whisper of before move through her, over her.
And she lets it come, isn't so afraid of it anymore. So with a shrug of her shoulders and a soft smile, she dares lean ever forward across the table to murmur, "It's a Friday afternoon in Manhattan. I've got time."
His answering smile is wide, white, and so very warm. She thinks she remembers that from before, too, just like the book. The bracelet. And for the first time in a long time, she wants to try and believe in something she cannot see. Because this magic between them - it feels right. It feels real.
At an antique shop across the East River, a Detective with dark hair, warm eyes and a heartbreakingly lovely face knocks on the door. She presents the M.E. there with a two-hundred year old pocket watch and a faded family photograph from the 1940's. And when he murmurs that it's a long story, she too, says that she's got time.
Because the world so needed more AU Season 3B Gremma and more almost-fluffy Mortinez.