AN: what up, bitches. if you hadn't gathered so far, there will be substance abuse in this fic. idk if I warned for that already but in case I didn't. here it is! also, didn't edit this because I prefer to play dinosaur games sue me.
Bigby ended up at the Trip Trap after a half hour walk.
Because after a day of being a human (read: useless) he needed a fucking drink.
Despite Holly's assurances from last time he was here, Bigby still hesitated at the door. Gren could probably give him a good kicking if he set his mind to it. Woody, too. Didn't know about Holly, but trolls had a fearsome reputation.
Bigby sighed, pushed the palm of his hand against his forehead, where an ache had burrowed into his skull and made a home for itself just above his left eye.
Which was when the door swung open to reveal Gren, beckoning him with a bottle in each hand, one of which was shoved at Bigby, 'C'mon, you comin' in or what?'
Taking the bottle before Gren could drop it, Bigby raised a brow, 'Sure.'
'Thank the Lady of the Drinks,' Gren backed into the bar, gesturing towards Holly who glared at him, somehow managing to be exasperated and fond at once.
Bigby just about managed to stop his eye roll as he followed Gren into the Trip Trap. Woody wasn't there, but perhaps it was too early for him. If anyone could be sleeping off a hangover at seven, it'd be Woody.
'You here on business?' Holly asked as he sat at the bar, fetching a glass.
'Just to say there's a robber,' He said, 'Someone new. Wears a wide-brimmed hat, mask and bulky clothes.'
'I'll let you know if we hear anything,' She put the cup away as Bigby popped the bottle open and took a swig.
Gren slumped onto the stool next to him, nursing his own drink.
The two started talking soon after, leaving Bigby with his thoughts and the pisswater Gren handed him.
He should move on soon, ask more people. Perhaps go back to Food N' Fangs. If they had any regulars then they might be worth questioning. And that Egg kid, too.
If he was allowed on the Farm, he'd go poking around there too. Maybe he could recruit someone to go for him. Or get Collin sent there and report back when he inevitably escaped.
Unfortunately, nothing but the till cash had been stolen, so he couldn't even poke around pawn shops. With how confrontational Jersey had been even in the Woodlands, a trip to his shop sounded like it'd be fun.
Bigby went to take another sip, but his bottle was empty already, and he barely felt tipsy.
The night was still young, he could get smashed after finding something useful. Like a fight to break up.
Or money, since he only had loose change in his pockets. Bigby groaned, fished around in his trousers, coat. Yanked out a dollar and three cents. Glowered at the pathetic little pile on the bar.
Holly glanced over, 'Gren got you that round. Don't worry about it.'
Gren spluttered, beer spewing out his nose and Holly backed up, barely avoiding getting any of the alcoholic snot on her apron, 'You mind?'
When he stopped coughing, face wet and blotchy, Gren exclaimed, 'I got him-'
Holly nudged him, 'Yes you did.'
It felt a lot like pity, but Bigby barely had enough to rent a room in the Woodlands. Food, cab fares (which really should've been coming from the Business Office, not his own pocket) and cigs on top of that... He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
'Thanks,' He said, nodding at Holly, then stood, 'Call me if there's trouble.'
''Course,' She replied, cloth in hand.
Gren grumbled, 'Sure, big guy.'
With that, Bigby left. He doubted a burglar who'd picked on the Food N' Fangs would go up against a bar owned by a troll and frequented by Beowulf's famous adversary, along with a host of other equally dangerous denizens of Fabletown. And even if said burglar tried to cross Holly and the Trip Trap, he wouldn't get far. In fact, Bigby was almost hoping the bastard would try it. Solve the case for him.
But until then, he'd have to make do with asking around.
Looking up at the sky, it didn't look too late. Perhaps Johann would still be at the Cut Above? Despite the Crooked Man business, he had been doing well the past few weeks, as he got everything up and running again. Bigby wasn't a big fan of the butcher (he'd been an arse at the trial), but it was a logical target for robbery. No intimidating trolls or violent regulars.
It wasn't a long walk from the Trip Trap. Back alleys and piles of rubbish and the occasional car. Bigby trudged along, lit up a cig out of habit.
When he arrived a few minutes later, the Cut Above was clearly closed. With the dark windows, abandoned counter and uninviting atmosphere, the little sign in the door wasn't necessary.
Bigby tried the door anyway, sighed when it refused to budge. He wanted to kick it in. Smash his foot through the glass and get straight to the point. Confront Johann, get his answers and be on his way.
Instead, he knocked. A lot more gentle than he would've liked to, but it seemed to be enough.
Somehow hearing him from the locker, Johann poked his head out the door behind the counter. He scanned his shop, brow furrowing. It wasn't hard to tell when he caught sight of Bigby - face paled, eyes widened and knuckles whitened.
After a long stretch of hesitation, Johann slunk into the room and made his way to the front door. Placed a heavy hand against it and slowly turned the lock, opening it only a crack.
'Bigby,' He finally greeted, 'What are you doing here?'
'Got some questions for you,' He responded, crowding closer, shoulder pushing against the door, 'Mind if I come in?'
Johann glared but opened the door, 'Not like I've got a choice.'
Bigby entered, scanning the room. It wasn't much different from the last time he'd been here, except that the meat was no longer grey and rotting.
'What do you want?' Johann turned to him, back against his counter, 'It's nearly eight and I should be home already.'
'Have you been robbed recently?' He asked, fishing his notebook and pencil out of a pocket and scratching his chin.
Johann's brows raised, 'Robbed? No.'
Bigby studied him. The confused eyes and relaxed set to his shoulders. Not lying, then.
'Will I be?' And now he was anxious, hands held in front of him, fiddling with his apron.
'Maybe,' Bigby jotted a few things down, put his notepad back, 'If you are, call the Business Office.'
Of course the little bastard got angry for nothing.
'So you're not going to protect my shop?' Johann said, hands fisting at his sides as he seemingly forgot to be nervous, 'You know something'll happen and you're not doing anything?!'
Bigby pinched the bridge of his nose to avoid punching the whiny fuck.
'I am doing something,' He finally ground out.
Johann snorted in derision, lifting the gate and putting the counter between them. At least he had some common sense.
'Well when my store is robbed and I'm beaten black and blue, I'll call you so you can come and do the same!'
'I haven't touched you!' Bigby's hands were on his hips and how dare this little shit accuse him like that? Fingers digging into his sides because otherwise they'd be slamming that smug fucker's face through his own glass display. Then he forcefully relaxed, 'Just call me if it happens. Or if you see a man in a wide-brimmed hat.'
Johann glared at him, weighing up his non-existent options. 'Fine,' He said after a drawn-out pause.
Bigby nodded, leaning back and turning away from the butcher. One down, a fuckton left to go.
Lighting up, he left the shop. Johann started muttering about no-smoking signs but was cut off as the door closed.
Nothing then. A waste of time and energy. He sighed, took a drag and felt the smoke curl around his mouth, puffed out through his lips and floated away into the darkening sky.
Where else could he go? Bigby wasn't exactly the social type, he didn't know where Fables met up. Unless it was for drinks and troublemaking.
The Woodlands usually attracted pretty much everyone, either because they lived there, worked there or had a complaint. But it was hours past the Business Office's closing time. The Security Office's too, but here he was working overtime.
That bridge Lily had been burnt under, perhaps? In the Upper West Side, it was out of the way for Mundies and Holly seemed to have known about it beforehand. When Bigby had been there, magic had been in the air. Either from the ancient troll burial or the gently flickering candles or being regularly inhabited by Fables, he couldn't tell.
It was as good a guess as any and not too to walk.
Bigby chewed on his cig, hauled in another lungful of smoke and set off, one heavy foot in front of the other.
The Cut Above wasn't in a nice part of town, but it could certainly be mistaken for it compared to the rest of Fabletown. A block over from the Woodlands and without litter crunching under every step, it was certainly better off than the Trip Trap.
As Bigby walked, scattering stubs as he went, the state of the buildings and pavement and cars and everything else fell into disrepair. Windows boarded up, crisp packets blowing in the wind and bottles crackling underfoot. An urban wasteland, complete with its own varieties of tumbleweed.
When he reached the bridge there was none of the somewhat inviting aura it had held the last time he visited. No candles lending the construction site a magical glow. No soft talking and crackling fire.
Instead it was empty. Soulless. The gap in the fence was ominous to say the least, leading to darkness and towering piles of boxes and discarded scaffolding.
Voices, barely audible, drifted out from the gap. Not quite as empty as it seemed.
Bigby scanned the street. Litter, potholes and a parked car or two, but no-one else. Not even a Mundy. Careful to avoid touching the fence, Bigby stepped inside. Despite his wildly impractical loafers (at Snow's insistence), he didn't make a sound apart from the hushed rustle of his coat and torn shirt.
Inside, it was even more gloomy. The bridge was a vague, dark shape far above and towers of equipment created the dark, maze-like corridor Bigby walked through. A few things had been moved since last time but not enough to make it completely unfamiliar. Treading carefully over the discarded metal sheets and corrugated iron, Bigby soon stood at the entrance to the clearing Lily had been burnt in.
He'd been correct; there were people.
Watching from the shadows of the stacked boxes, it felt oddly similar to back in the Homelands. Before the Exodus and the Adversary. Before no-one ventured into the Black Forest. When happy families and woodsmen and adventurous teens would prance into the outskirts of Bigby's home and sit down for a picnic, completely unaware of curious, golden eyes.
Back then, the invaders hadn't been smoking weed and passing a bottle of definitely-not-water and Bigby barely held back a sigh, shaking the memories away.
Sat in a circle on various bits of rubbish, there were six in total. Almost all of them had a fag or a spliff clasped between fingers or hanging from their lips. In the centre, a tiny campfire threw sparks upwards, bathing the clearing in flickering warmth and a soft orange glow.
He didn't recognise everyone but it was hard to mistake Flycatcher's hat for anything else.
Holding a softly glowing spliff and sat on an old tyre, Flycatcher was talking, hands waving in grand gestures that seemed out of place for the usually shy Fable.
'Me too!' He exclaimed, reaching for the half-empty bottle, which then got handed round the group until Fly grabbed it, took a swig and passed it on, a few more drinking on the way.
Other than Fly there weren't many he knew. A woman with long blonde hair who looked familiar and the taxi driver Bigby saw around the Woodlands. Everyone else drew a blank.
The ginger ended up with the bottle and opened his mouth to talk, but froze as his eyes landed on Bigby.
'Oh fuck,' He whispered and the circle turned to look towards where the Sheriff stood, arms crossed and an unimpressed look on his face.
Bigby watched as they collectively became pale and stamped out their joints. Just as Fly opened his mouth to plead their innocence, he interrupted with; 'I don't care you're smoking weed.'
They relaxed pretty much immediately and a few stared forlornly at their extinguished spliffs. Fucking stoners.
'Oh,' Flycatcher said, then his face lit up with a toothy grin that Bigby hadn't seen before, 'Come sit?' He shuffled over, patting the space next to him on the tyre. The circle unanimously glared at Fly, their wary gazes tracking Bigby as he stepped into their clearing.
He didn't sit on the tyre, but he did stand next to Flycatcher, arms crossed and assessing the group. How had he not heard of this before? Evidently the gathering wasn't unusual - before he'd been spotted the atmosphere had been relaxed. Though being stoned might have had something to do with it.
But as far as he was concerned they weren't doing anything illegal. Mundy drugs weren't Sheriff business, thankfully.
Bigby was here for a purpose and he'd stick to it, despite how intriguing this whole meet-up was. How much did he not know about Fabletown?
'I'm looking for someone,' He said into the silence that had stretched on long enough, 'A man in bulky clothing wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a black mask.'
No-one answered. Of course.
Perhaps they'd take some persuading. Rough up their little meeting place a little-
From the looks of it, they were silent because they had no idea who he was talking about. Bigby sighed and dug around in his pockets for a fag. This was why Snow had collared him. They hadn't done anything remotely wrong and his first thought had been to fuck with them.
'If anyone sees anything, tell me,' He said, cig and lighter in hand as he turned to go. Useless fucking Sheriff if he couldn't talk to people without threatening them. What sort of protector was he?
The circle nodded in unison, stiff-backed and alert.
Bigby glanced around once more as he cupped his cig and lit it, sucking in a lungful of smoke. There was nothing here, again. It was starting to seem like there were absolutely no leads. None.
Smoke swirling around his head, Bigby left. Back through the maze of abandoned materials and stacks of boxes until he was spat out onto the deserted street.
No leads. Not even anything to suggest where he should look next. He'd be angrier if the crime had been worse. A vicious beating, a Homelands item stolen, black market glamours again. And that was the intriguing thing, wasn't it? Why steal just the till money? There hadn't been much and the items of actual value were left untouched!
Had the owners been roughed up? Was this some sort of sick test on Bluebeard's part? Trying to trick him into doing something he shouldn't, get him shipped off to the Farm?!
No.
That was paranoia talking and succumbing to that would get him nowhere.
Someone cleared their throat behind him and Bigby spun around, fists coming up to ward off a blow.
When none came, he finally registered the ginger standing before him, shrinking backwards with wide, terrified eyes.
Bigby sighed, running a hand over his face as he relaxed, 'Cryer, right?' He asked.
Slowly the taxi driver nodded, warily gaze locked onto Bigby's hands. Flicked up to meet his eyes then latched onto the collar, confusion furrowing his brow.
'Yeah,' He eventually said.
Bigby waited for him to spit it out, but the anxious little shit just stood there, 'Did you want to tell me something…?'
'Oh,' Cryer tore his gaze away from the collar and looked away, twisting his hands together, 'I overheard from Jack that Jersey is going around stealing things. For his shop, you know?'
Useful, but Bigby was pretty certain the culprit wasn't Jersey - Grim would've smelled that sweaty fuck from a mile away and he wouldn't have left such a clearly valuable painting.
Breaking him from his thoughts, Cryer continued; 'I heard he was going after Fables who've been sent off to the Farm. Jack said something about-'
'Toad's place,' Bigby cut him off, back straightening.
'Uh, yeah,' He nodded hastily, 'I didn't say anything though, if Jack asks?'
Bigby nodded vaguely, waving Cryer off as he turned away.
Toad's place. It was somewhere to look, at least. Other crimes didn't up and disappear whilst working on a case, much to his annoyance.
Bigby sighed, digging around in his pockets for a smoke as Cryer inched away, back into the maze leading to his friends. Had they been gathering for long? How had he not heard of them before?
Unimportant for now. Maybe he'd find something at Toad's. Or Jersey would break along with his nose and tell Bigby something useful.
Fuck. No. He couldn't solve this by intimidating everyone! That's what had landed him in this mess!
Bigby wanted to snarl, wanted to let out his frustration somehow. But the sound wouldn't come out and the collar burnt into his throat. Settled for squeezing his fists and glaring at the pavement.
Eventually, the blank haze of uselessness and rage simmered down and Bigby heaved in a breath. Felt something crinkle in his grip and uncurled his fingers to see a crushed cig. Beside it, indents from his nails on the palm of his hand.
'Fuck,' He grumbled, casting it aside and fishing around for another. Began the long trudge towards Toad's old apartment building.
Nothing made sense.
Nothing made sense, and Bigby needed to get better at being the Sheriff.
When he finally arrived, Jersey wasn't even trying to hide what he was up to.
Sleazy bastard was clearly visible from the street, lights obnoxiously bright in a street full of derelict, empty buildings. A small pile had built up outside the broken window, chucked there from inside. A lamp, a small tin, some of Junior's bug collection and other rubbish.
Bigby made his way to the window frame, glass crunching beneath his feet and stood before the house. Crossed his arms and assessed the damage.
Jersey had his back turned - fiddling with something on the end table, right next to the door. Around him, Toad's home lay in ruins.
The couch had been thoroughly torn up, the table next to it was knocked over, long furrows had been dug into the floor by who-knew-what and ash from the fireplace had been spread over everything. It had never been pretty. Or even clean, but its current, ransacked appearance was the worst Bigby had seen it. Even after that Tweedle came round and roughed it up.
Jersey turned round, mantlepiece clock clasped in his spindly, thieving grasp and promptly froze.
Bigby raised a brow, sardonic expression firmly in place.
As quickly as he froze, Jersey's face twisted into a fearsome scowl, yellow teeth poking out from his upper lip.
'What you lookin' at, lapdog?' He spat out, clutching the clock closer, 'Never seen a bailiff?'
'You're a pawnbroker,' Bigby pointed out.
'Money's tight,' He said, 'Workin' two jobs aint a crime now, is it?'
Bigby sighed, 'And who're you collecting for?'
Jersey glared.
'No-one?'
'Fuck you.'
'Put Toad's shit back and-'
'Snow yankin' your chain?' Jersey interrupted, 'Can't be trusted to roam Fabletown without a muzzle?'
Bigby stalked forwards, ignoring the stream of insults and jibes coming from the bastard. Climbed through the window, hands stinging from the broken glass.
'Put Toad's shit back,' He barked, fists clenched and shoulders tense.
'You gonna make me?'
Bigby stared Jersey down, didn't answer.
'Yeah, show how trustworthy you are! Wail on me, prove everyone right!'
Bigby stepped forwards, 'Put-'
Jersey snorted, 'Fuck this,' His grip tightened on the clock, leant forwards and this was not good.
'I can take you, lapdog.'
One moment, Jersey was across the room and up some steps. The next, he was
launching at Bigby, knuckles white as he swung the heavy timepiece.
A sway to the side and he felt the rush of air as it passed him. Bigby swung, twisting with his momentum to slam a fist into Jersey's side.
With a grunt he stumbled back, dropping the clock and doubling over. Didn't deter him though, as Jersey straightened back up, a vicious smirk firmly in place, 'That it?'
Smashing his nose in whilst he was down was probably a smart idea, but this whole thing was about Bigby not using violence.
So he waited. Let Jersey straighten up and smirk and jibe at him. Let him have the time to think about what he was getting himself in for - not that he would think, but Bigby gave him the chance to. That counted, right?
Instead of backing down or any other sensible response, Jersey came at him again.
Bigby grabbed the arm automatically. Round the wrist and bones ground together as he squeezed. Made to turn it, slam the elbow against his knee and snap the joint.
Jersey barged into him, sharp nails of his free hand searching out Bigby's eyes and dug in, forcing him to let go.
Stabbing pain and blankness and Bigby flung blind punches, some connecting with dull thuds, most flying wide. Grabbed at the hand on his face and yanked. Fingers out of his eyes and they began to heal, just enough to see.
Not that it helped him much - a moment of Jersey's face uncomfortably close, nails digging into his shoulder, a knee in his abdomen and then a fist smashed into his face and Bigby stumbled back. A grinding, sharp pain in his nose and he raised his arms, warding off another blow.
'This is pathetic,' Jersey spat somewhere in front of him, 'Fucking animal. Snow's taken the one thing that made you useful and-'
Bigby charged, shoulder slamming into Jersey's chest, sending him flying. Stalked after him as he collected himself, leaning against the wall he'd been flung into.
Reached him and, before Jersey could register who stood before him, Bigby slammed a foot into his torso and felt ribs crack, accompanied by a spluttering cough that left blood on Jersey's lips and dribbling down his chin.
But Fables were resilient and he batted Bigby away, as if having his fucking ribcage stomped was nothing.
Compared to the force an un-collared Bigby would've been able to put behind that blow, perhaps it was nothing.
Jersey dropped his glamour with a ripple of sickly green light and cackled, rolling his shoulders. The antler Bigby had snapped off hadn't regrown, but that didn't seem to be bothering him.
'Dumb fucking animal,' Jersey snarled, stretching. Enjoying being in his own skin.
Bigby buried his jealousy.
Launched at the Devil, ducking under swiping claws and grabbed the fallen mantlepiece clock, smash it into Jersey's side but there was a huge hand around his throat. Crushing his windpipe and usually this wouldn't be a problem because Bigby really didn't need to breathe but now he did and-
'Couldn't even pretend to be human, could you?' Jersey was talking. Blurry, but the meaning came across well enough.
Everything was spinning. Were his feet even on the floor? He couldn't tell. Light was fuzzy, the crushing in his neck and lungs seemed to be trickling through a long tube. Distant and irrelevant.
Was Jersey right?
He had been last time. About the Crooked Man - all Bigby's fighting and smashing and roaring hadn't brought those girls back. Just got him fear. Then a collar.
Snow wanted him to be 'civilised'. Human, really. Because anything else was less. She also wanted the strength to keep Fabletown safe.
Big Bad Wolf, safe and civilised were three things that didn't fucking mix but Bigby was trying and-
And the pressure around his neck was gone.
Coughing, Bigby was slumped on the uneven wooden floorboards of Toad's old flat.
From above him, words. Gruff and deep and familiar.
'-fuck, Wolf,' They said, 'What're you thinking?!'
Bigby groaned in response, rubbing his throat and pulling away when he felt that fucking strap of silver and leather.
'Woody?' He managed to get out, rasping and painful, 'What're you doing here?'
'I live here,' The Woodsman grabbed Bigby by the shoulder, heaving him upright, 'What're you doing here?'
'Where's Jersey?'
'Out,' Woody didn't let go, even though Bigby was standing and he didn't know whether to shrug him off or be thankful for the support.
Fuck, that meant he'd have to track down the bastard again. He'd been caught red-handed stealing, which meant Bigby had to arrest him and-
Automatically, he started towards the door but Woody's grip stopped him, 'Where do you think you're going?'
Bigby sighed, 'Not now, Woody. We can scrap later, I need-'
'To have a good fuckin' drink by the look of it.'
They weren't constantly at each other's throats anymore, were they? It slipped his mind sometimes.
'C'mon, Wolf,' Woody said, pushing him towards the door. Prodded him through it, then up the stairs and into his dilapidated flat.
Bigby sat on the couch. Springs poked into him and foam rubbed against his trousers, making an infuriating scratching sound when he moved, but it was better than standing. Everything still felt distant and he couldn't tell if it was some delayed effect of strangulation or just him being terrible at general existence.
A hand holding a shot glass shot in front of his face and Bigby took it gratefully. Filled to the brim, it shook and rivulets of amber streamed down the sides. A gulp, two and Woody refilled.
'You alright?' He asked as Bigby nursed his second drink, sitting down next to him. But not too close - a good metre between them. Comfortable.
'Yeah,' Bigby said after downing the second shot and Woody wordlessly poured another.
They sat in semi-awkward silence after that. The Woodsman was observant and not blackout drunk. There was no way in hell he didn't pick up on the fact that Bigby certainly wasn't 'alright', but addressing it wasn't an option.
Instead, Woody apparently decided that his favourite coping mechanism was the best bet; he kept on pouring as Bigby kept on drinking.
Eventually the blank and distant feeling he'd been swimming in was caused by alcohol instead of some deficiency in Bigby himself.
'Better?' Woody asked, leaning back and swigging the last dregs from the bottle.
Bigby nodded, leant forwards and carefully put down the glass on the floor in front of him, swaying forwards as he did. Only a hand on his shoulder kept him from rolling off of the sofa and falling face-first onto the floor.
'I need to catch that robber,' He slurred out, remaining bent over with his head resting against his knees, 'And Jersey.'
'You need to get back to the Woodlands,' Woody corrected, 'Sort out this shit with Snow,' He gestured at the collar.
Bigby grumbled incoherently.
'Okay, suit yourself,' Woody stood and dragged Bigby up with him, keeping him at arm's length, 'But next time you actually put up a fight, alright?'
More grumbling, this time accompanied by a nod.
'This is the last time I'm helping your sorry arse out, Wolf.'
Bigby nodded again and shrugged Woody off, stumbling for the door.
It was going to be an interesting trip to the Woodlands.
Somehow, he made it back in one piece.
Late enough that barely anyone roamed the streets, but not so dark that he couldn't see (because human eyes were fucking useless).
When Bigby finally arrived at the steps of the Woodlands, the moon was high in the sky and the foreboding windows were unlit. All except one - the Business Office.
Trudged up the steps, weaving like a sailor and Grimble was asleep at his desk. Feet up, hat covering his eyes and chest rising and falling with a steadiness Bigby envied. He'd slept not too long ago, but exhaustion was already taking a toll.
Stopped in front of the lift and pressed the call button. Took a few tries but when he finally hit it, it resisted, then stayed stuck in. Someone needed to fix it, just like everything in the ancient building.
Bigby didn't have to wait long until the doors slid open with a ding. Stepped in, waited some more and then exited, turned towards the Business Office. Light poured from the frosted glass panel. Of course Snow was still up.
Stumbled up to the door and leant against it as he pawed at the handle, eventually managing to open it and fell through to a muffled yelp.
'Who-?!' Snow said, and he could imagine the shocked, righteously angry expression as she startled and turned around to glare at the intruder.
'Bigby?' She said, from somewhere above.
He slowly opened his eyes, only for his vision to be completely taken up by cracked stone paving. Groaning, he looked up a little, at Snow's knees, covered somewhat by the skirt of today and hands resting atop it.
'I would say you look peaceful,' Snow said, apparently getting over the shock of him stumbling in, 'But you stink of whiskey.'
Bigby groaned, 'Fuckin' Woody.'
'You're blaming this on him?' Unusually for Snow, she sounded as if she was trying to swallow her laughter, 'I know he's a drunkard, Bigby, but just being around him doesn't make you smell like… This.'
'Fuck you too,' He grumbled in response, resting his forehead against the cold stone floor, 'I hate being a human.'
Snow paused, even the soft rustling of her clothes stopped. Then she said, tentative and without the restrained mirth from before; 'It's not that bad.'
Bigby tried to sit up to look her in the eye. Levered himself up, twisted to get his legs in front of him and fell to the side, much to Snow's amusement. Eventually, he managed to prop himself into a reasonable position, legs awkwardly splayed and head lolling a little.
'It's not bad?' He slurred, stumbling over the words.
'Well,' Snow had sat down too, far more elegantly than Bigby, 'It's preferable to being an animal.'
'Says you, human.'
'Better than shitting in a ditch and eating raw meat.'
'I liked shitting in a ditch,' Bigby grumbled, arms giving out and he flopped back to lying on his back, top of his head resting against the Business Office door.
Snow chuckled, 'You're a talkative drunk, then?'
'Glad you're enjoying my pain.'
'It was your choice to drink, Bigby.'
'The collar wasn't.'
Snow didn't reply. Instead, her heels clacked away, off towards her desk no doubt. Then came back. Pacing?
Another voice, sleepy; 'Miss Snow?'
'Buffkin, do you have any suggestions?'
Flapping wings, padding feet and then a green, monkey face appeared above Bigby's, 'He's drunk, Miss Snow,' He said, slowly and hesitantly, turning to look up at her.
She sighed, 'I know! Sober him up.'
'Or don't,' Bigby said from the floor.
'You don't get a say in this,' She was probably glaring, 'You can't even sit up properly.'
Bigby shoved himself up in protest. Balancing precariously, he pulled his legs into a semblance of crossed, 'How do you guys cope,' He bemoaned, 'So gangly and-... And annoying.'
'Thumbs,' Snow said. Bigby frowned, her meaning escaping him until Snow sighed again, 'Opposable thumbs. We can pick things up.'
'Mouth,' He replied, 'Hands are overcomplicating it.'
'Mouth? And cover everything in spit? That's disgusting, Bigby.'
He waved a hand dismissively, 'Don't even have tails. How do you balance. At all.'
Snow rolled her eyes, turned to Buffkin, 'Suggestions?'
'Sleep,' The monkey shrugged, then smiled, 'And finding more of whatever he had.'
'I need Fabletown's Sheriff in working order now, Buffkin.'
He looked down, abashed, 'Bread and cheese. And water.'
Snow stared for a moment, then shook her head with a sigh, 'I suppose you have some?'
'Of course, Miss Snow!' Buffkin flapped away.
'I'm surrounded by fools and alcoholics.'
'I'm a wolf not a fool,' Bigby protested from the floor.
'Alcoholic?'
'This is the first time I've gotten drunk in years!'
'Smoker, then.'
'Still different.'
Snow sighed again, utterly exasperated and rubbing at her temples, 'I am banning you from the Trip Trap.'
'Lots of Sheriff business there.'
Instead of some witty reply, Snow just watched him. Scanning him, until she finally seemed to take notice of the huge, claw-shaped bruises ringing his neck.
'What happened, Bigby?'
'Got in a fight.'
'But you can usually handle that! Were you drinking beforehand? Bigby, you need to look after yourself-'
'No, I'm just useless with this fucking collar, Snow!' He glared and stood, wobbling.
Which, of course, was when Buffkin reappeared with bread and cheese in hand. Dropped down onto the desk watching them both cautiously, 'Is this a bad time?'
'No,' Bigby said before Snow could try and pry more out of him. He was too drunk for this and he'd probably already said things he'd regret tomorrow. Held out his arms to Buffkin, 'Pass.'
An 'are you sure' look later and Bigby caught the food, began tearing into it.
'Bigby…' Snow said quietly, unsure and brows tilted upwards, 'I'm sorry about it, you know I am. But-'
'There's no other choice,' Bigby said between mouthfuls, suddenly tired, all the fight leaving him, 'I know.'
'I can't just ignore what the Fables want.'
Bigby nodded jerkily and turned to go, 'I know.'
Snow was about to say something else, which was when the phone rang. Obnoxiously loud in the relative quiet. She opened her mouth, then closed it with an apologetic look. Speed walked to the receiver and picked it up, held it to her ear, professional mask firmly in place.
Looked up, back at Bigby, 'It's for you.'
AN: there ya go the promised angst! if you liked, review. if you didn't also review I will take anything at this point. thank you and g'night!