Disclaimer: I have no rights to this show or these characters; therefore, I am not making any money from writing about them.
Thrill of the Chase
Support hose and a lightweight cardigan couldn't fool the small flock of ewes. Instinct warned them they grazed in the presence of a predator, even though the wolf was wrapped in the skin of a sharp-witted grandmother wearing half-moon spectacles and a tea-length skirt. Positioned at the farthest corner of their enclosed field, the sheep continued to eat. Occasionally the head ewe bleated out her warning not to stray, but it wasn't a panicked sound. None of the sheep appeared perturbed enough to surrender their appetite to fear.
Their relative indifference was insulting. There had been a time when prey fled or cowered under her stare. Was she so un-intimidating now? Had they forgotten she was still an apex predator of the food chain?
"Mutton's going on next week's menu," Granny grumbled under her breath.
She had to replace her planned special – a savory farm-to-table quiche – with something. There wouldn't be enough eggs. Farmer Dell had just lost another five chickens to senseless violence, and the sheriff had been unable to pin down the culprit. To think, amid evil queens and curses, there were still common criminals who carried out more deplorable crimes like poisoning helpless livestock.
Sure, in her time, Granny had sampled the bounties of many farmers' fields. No point in lying about it now. But, as a new werewolf, she hadn't had the control to overpower her animalistic desire to hunt. Once she'd learned to steer her transformations, she never killed another animal…only nipped at their heels to make them run with her - the activity she had enjoyed most while roaming on four paws.
There was no excuse for the recent string of foul play. Granny had a mind to start her own investigation, except her justice wouldn't involve handcuffs, a few nights at the sheriff's station, and a fine. The type of justice she dealt only required one item: her crossbow.
Her ears tickled with the crunch of boots on gravel long before the pirate rounded the driveway leading from the farmhouse. When he was within earshot, she asked, "Aren't you and the sheriff joined at the hip?"
He came to stand beside her, resting his forearms on the wooden fence and leaning his weight against it. "Emma is occupied with taking the farmer's statement. I thought I'd stretch my legs," he explained, then nodded at the sheep. "Have I disrupted your count?"
She rolled her eyes. "I'm not counting them."
He remained quiet for a moment, watching the flock across the paddock. Then she felt those blue eyes turning their attention back to her, studying her with the same curiosity.
She clucked her tongue, confronting him with a huff and a hand on her hip. "Spit it out."
"Your gaze is rather intense for mere observation," he commented, rubbing the curve of his jaw with the heel of his hand.
"Your point?"
He turned back to the sheep and cleared his throat before responding. "You gaze upon those animals as I do the sea when I've been too long ashore."
Sometimes she slipped, forgetting the handsome rogue was a wise old man wearing a sheepskin. His was more well preserved. Unlike Sheriff Swan and many others in Storybrooke, he recognized the wolf lying not-quite-dormant in her stiff and aching bones. He understood her unspoken desire to relive her glory days.
Squinting her eyes against the sun, Granny pursed her lips as she considered him. "Hard to run with a bum knee."
His eyes twinkled with mischief, contained, but ablaze. "If you could?"
Her shoulders relaxed and she found herself involuntarily licking her lips, salivating at the very idea. With her own smirk she returned, "I'd give those sheep something to bleat about."
"That's the spirit." Without warning or preamble, he hurdled himself over the fence, sending up a string of warning calls from the sheep.
"What are you doing?"
A devilish grin flashed in her direction, making her wonder if there wasn't a bit of wolf – or coyote – in him after all. "I told you: I'm stretching my legs."
With that, he took off, running full-speed ahead at the flock of ewes. It was quite the picture: arms flailing, jacket flapping in a wind he created for himself, feet bounding over mounds of poo. Halfway between the fence and the flock he threw his head back and howled. It was the most enthusiastic imitation she had ever heard – though that didn't mean it was any good.
"You sound like a wounded cow!" she shouted.
The sheep cried for help over the intruder. They scattered as the pirate dashed this way and that, intermittently laughing and half-howling. To see those fluffy woolen creatures running in panic and alarm – it made her feel young again. She recalled wild runs with her late husband, who had sprinted through the woods and clearings with just as much careless abandon as the captain currently making a fool of himself for her entertainment.
All the ruckus had drawn the attention of Farmer Dell and the sheriff. Emma jogged to her side, her eyes never leaving the cavorting pirate. "What the–?" she began before shouting: "Killian, what are you doing?"
From across the field, he looked over his shoulder and shouted her name in return…then promptly tripped and tumbled to the ground, head over boots, landing on his stomach. Several sheep vaulted over top of him. A moment later, the pirate popped up, assuring the onlookers by exclaiming, "I'm intact!"
"Why is he acting like a lunatic?" The sheriff was baffled, yet a thread of mirth crept into her voice. "Did someone cast a curse when I wasn't looking?"
Having caught his second wind with the fall, Hook took off again, continuing to chase the ewes from one end to the other. "Emma, love, join me!"
The young woman looked at her, wide-eyed and completely lost as to a course of action. Granny shrugged in return. "Don't look at me. He's your nincompoop."
"I don't want to agree with you…" She trailed off on a sigh, but the smile lifting the apples of her cheeks betrayed her true feelings – he may be a nincompoop, but he was her nincompoop and Emma wouldn't have it any other way. Taking matters into her own hands, she hopped the fence with ease. She marched across the field, yelling, "Stop. Bothering. The. Sheep!"
The authoritative punctuation of her demand was lost when Killian directed the bleating, baa-ing mass toward her. She let out a short yelp, turned, and fled just like the sheep. The mini-stampede followed behind her. Both the sheep and the pirate quickly caught up and eclipsed the sheriff. Her initial exasperation turned into laughter as she ran after him. How could she not find humor in such ridiculous antics?
It was a scene like so many Granny remembered sharing with Mr. Lucas: running amid and around frantic sheep, chasing one another as much as the livestock, eventually ending up out of breath and splayed next to one another in the grass. Those were the days. Even if she had no such moments to look forward to anymore, at least the tradition continued.
"That's it," Dell grumbled. "I'm going to get my gun."
"You leave them be," Granny instructed in a tone that didn't invite argument.
The disgruntled farmer muttered on about insurance and trespassing, but he didn't move toward the house. All the while, Granny couldn't wipe the grin from her face.
Review?