Guest Reviews

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Title: Sunday Morning Breakfast
Summary: Getting Graham used to the routine.
Note: Skagengiirl's prompt: "I've been rereading some RH chapters and I just finished Storm. I can't remember if you've written the actual "moving in" conversation. If not, is it something you'd consider writing?" I think other people have requested this, too, (including you all the way back at Storm!) and I am finally getting around to it :) It's short, but I am getting the muse back in shape.

Graham clicked across the screen, scrolling through the report. The words were dry and placed, the investigating officer writing almost as if using canned responses to each piece of evidence. He growled at the back of his throat, irritated at the lack of effort that was put into it the first time around.

She'd just been a kid. Just a little older than Henry.

He glanced up over the hood of his laptop. Henry was on the couch across from him, feet curled up underneath and game controller in hand. His hair was messy, and he was still in his band t-shirt and pajamas, brow furrowed in concentration.

Graham hesitated, rolling the cursor over the words again before glancing up. "I promise I'm almost done."

Henry hit the pause and gave a half smile. "No rush." He sat up a bit and eyed him. "What kinda case is it?"

Graham rubbed the back of his neck and considered his answer. "About fifteen years old. A girl went missing near Julliard and was found near 101st."

Henry's face dimmed a bit before he nodded knowingly. "Oh, so an old homicide?"

He nodded with a grimace. "And the first guy really didn't know what he was looking for," he grumbled. He sighed heavily and clicked from the initial report to the witness list.

"Is that why you got called in yesterday? Even though there was the storm?" he asked.

"Exactly why," he said and ran his hand through his hair. He blew out a low breath. "Lazo thought she caught something in the photos and wanted back up for interviews. But it ended up being a dead end. Now I need to comb through it again and see if I can come up with a few new theories before Monday's meeting."

Henry perked up. "Can I help?"

He winced, already feeling like he would be in trouble with Emma for saying as much as he did. "Let's ask your mom when she gets back."

He slumped against the back of the couch and flicked his game back to active. He didn't even glance up as he responded, "she wanted to ask you something, so I'm sure she'll be back soon."

He raised an eyebrow. "Ah, really? Do you know what that something is?"

Henry's face was suddenly impassive, the click on the buttons loud as the TV boomed with answering explosions. "I have an idea."

Graham snickered, expecting that the lad had much more than an idea. Emma had been brimming with excitement when he showed up for breakfast, though it quickly turned sour when she'd gotten a call. She had made him promise to work in the living room until she got back. He also didn't miss the look shared between mother and son, the silent conversation that took place that he only half caught on to – the 'save it' that was just interpretable.

"D'you have to go out a lot like that? I mean, get called in for stuff even at night and weekends and stuff?" Henry asked, the sounds of shooting and demons dying nearly drowning his words.

Graham highlighted a witness and linked the report, and then nodded absently to Henry's question. "Not a whole lot, but it's still part of the job. If I was in a different unit, it'd happen a lot more frequently, but usually we have some more leeway in cold cases."

"Well … I guess that's better," Henry said at length. "Is it dangerous?"

Graham looked up again. Henry was deliberately not looking at him, though he noticed his Adam's apple bobbing. He closed the laptop and set it to the side. "It can be," he answered honestly. "But I know how to keep myself safe, too."

Henry sighed and paused his game again. He turned in his seat and met his eye. "I know. All the guys down at the precinct say you're good at this."

The air was heavy after he said it, words unspoken that Graham didn't have to read into. "It's easier than having to keep alive in the woods," he said and cracked a smile.

Henry didn't smile back, and instead slumped back onto the couch. "Graham …," he trailed off, collecting his thoughts. "Did—did you—"

He waited calmly as Henry collected his thoughts.

He blew out a low breath and his green eyes shaded. "Were you in Heaven?"

Graham startled a bit. Oh, that. "I think you've been watching too much TV," he said, a lame attempt at lightening the mood.

Henry didn't fall for it, dark eyes wide and steady on his.

He rubbed the back of his neck and rose, pacing the length of the couch before sitting next to him. He stared at his hands a long moment, piecing through his memories. He didn't want to give the boy any less than what he really thought. "No, I don't think so," he began, squinting as he tried to focus. It felt … hazy. Not like Storybrooke memories, but hazy nonetheless. "I don't think I was in the other place, either. But it was dark and cold and … I think I was just waiting."

Henry seemed to think that over. "Maybe because you were meant to come back to us?" he asked hesitantly.

Graham would love to say that was the reason, wanted so much to reassure him with that. But he had never really thought of himself with a purpose more than a cog. Luck was all he would attribute to what he was allowed to have here. "I don't know about that, Henry," he said finally, and then leaned back against the cushions. "Something must have happened when the spell was cast and undone. But I just don't know what that was. What's harder … I don't know if we'll ever know for sure why I'm able to be here with you guys."

Henry frowned, obviously unsatisfied with the answer. "But you're glad to be here, right?"

Graham grinned, the sudden flood of happiness sharp and poignant. He threw an arm around Henry's shoulders and squeezed him in. "Absolutely, Henry. I couldn't imagine anywhere better."

Henry peeked up and grinned back, eyes light and happy. "Okay," he said, and then tossed an arm around to make the hug real. "I'm glad you're here, too," he said, muffled into his shirt.

The door creaked and clattered, and Emma bounded in, muttering under her breath. She paused when she saw them and swiped a hand through her messy curls. "Good. You're here. Now we can get back to breakfast."

Henry popped his head up, beaming. "I'll get the cocoa!"

Graham blinked in bewilderment at the sudden flurry of activity as Emma joined him in the kitchen. "Uh, what's going on?" he asked.

Emma clattered a pan onto the stovetop and turned with a glint in her eye. "Breakfast."

"This is our routine!" Henry chimed in from deep in the fridge. He came out with arms laden with eggs and milk and a package of bacon. "Every Sunday we do this, because it's when we have the most time together."

"Sudden call-ins notwithstanding," Emma said sullenly, then leaned over to kiss her son's forehead. "We get a big breakfast together, one that'll last for a couple meals. Then we pile on the couch and watch a good-bad movie or two, then decide what special treat we want during the week."

"Special treat?" he asked.

Henry nodded and went back to the fridge. "Since mom works a lot and I get a lot of homework, we get to choose one special treat so that we're sure to do something together that's just for fun."

"Like a level of his video game, or a night out to Jacob's, or the planetarium, or out to a museum," Emma supplied.

"But that's not until later, and that always changes. This part is always the same except for the food!" Henry called from the depths of the fridge.

Graham grinned and stood up, brushing off his pants as he approached the counter. "Well, then, can I help? Or would I be breaking the routine?"

Henry popped back up with a handful of vegetables. "You can help dice," he cocked his head to the side. "I haven't seen you cook a lot yet, but we gotta find something for you to do every Sunday."

"Hey, now, I can cook—" His eyebrow popped up as the statement hit him, and he looked over to Emma. She was avoiding his eyes, whisking eggs in a big yellow bowl. "Every Sunday?" he asked.

She huffed a sigh and set down the bowl, and then placed her hands on her hips. "Well, yeah. That is if you wanna stay here."

"Huh?" he asked, brows furrowing.

Henry dropped his elbows on the counter and then placed his chin in his hands. "We want to ask you to move in," he said simply.

"Move—" he looked sharply to Emma.

She gave a half-smirk, and shrugged one shoulder. Emma reached and tugged through Henry's hair anxiously. "The kid and I discussed yesterday. We thought it might be easier if you didn't have to go back to an empty apartment at the end of the day. And we kinda like you. It'd be nice to have you here all the time."

Graham opened his mouth, but no words came. He pushed against the counter and pressed his lips together a moment before responding. "You guys are settled here, I don't want to impose—"

"Who said you're imposing?" Emma said. She pushed the eggs over and glanced at him pointedly. "So long as you help."

He looked over them both, catching the equal amounts of nervous, excited energy. Slowly, a smile began to tweak at his lips, so much that he had no control over it. "You'd want me here?"

"We need to stick together," Henry replied with a sharp nod.

Graham grabbed the bowl. "Really?"

"Really," Henry chirped.

"Really," Emma reiterated, then handed him a pepper grinder from beside the burners. "We're all here for some weird, cosmic reason. I like the idea of being together on purpose."

He looked down at the bowl of eggs and carefully began adding the spices. "Well, I guess I should get packing."

Henry perked up. "For real?"

Graham laughed, still feeling a little disbelief. "Why wouldn't I want to be with you and your mom?" He ruffled his hair playfully. "I like the idea of being together on purpose, too."

"Good," Emma said, her sparkling eyes betraying the attempt at nonchalance. She moved around the island and stepped on tiptoes to peck at his lips. "We'll have you pick the movie, then."

If this was the reason he was here, he couldn't say it was a bad one.

Maybe he'd even eventually believe they were meant for this: together.