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The wolf was confused.
The woman in the red jacket did not smell particularly like anything the wolf had ever before encountered, but it was familiar all the same. The wolf could compare it in essence with nothing he could remember, but catching her scent nonetheless reminded him of the prickle of pressure before a storm that raised the fur all along his spine, and of the first splinter of sunlight above the horizon to pierce the morning fog, and of the still held breath before the pack leapt to break cover in the hunt. None of those things were the same to his nose, in his ears, or on his tongue, and yet she was all of them and more.
It was confusing, but more pointedly her presence made him aware that he was alone, and that was not as it should have been.
So as the woman piloted her vehicle along the road out of town, without hesitation the wolf walked into the road near the furthest boundary of his territory and planted himself directly in her path. When the car careened off the roadway to avoid him, only to crash into the sign at the town’s border, the wolf tilted his head back to howl his victory and call for aid, though he wasn’t at all certain they would hear. After a short time, the wolf darted into the woods as another car approached out of the fog. The shine of lights from the sheriff’s vehicle lit his eyes just as the right one suddenly burned as red as the woman’s jacket.
It was a beginning. She was a beginning.
His packbrother might not yet know what he needed to do, but he would, in time. Neither of them was meant to be alone, and now the woman was here. The Huntsman just needed to remember how to find his people.
The First Law of the Pack: Mark the boundaries and breadth of your territory for all to see.
In a small town like Storybrooke, outsiders could only mean trouble—of this Graham Humbert was certain. The town didn’t court tourists or serve as a center of commerce, and as a result they got by all on their own and preferred it that way. Yet something he couldn’t quite put his finger on—a sheriff’s intuition, perhaps—had convinced him to see that the stranger actually made her way back out of town once he heard the rumor that she’d left the mayor’s house the night before. Finding her and her vehicle in disarray had stirred a mix of concern for her wellbeing, dismay for the damage to the town’s welcome sign, and worry about what her presence might continue to mean here.
(Something entirely separate from them both—a fierce sort of proprietary protectiveness that was deeply confusing and which he attempted to quash immediately—was too strange to dwell upon.)
“Regina’s drinks were a little stronger than we thought,” he said to her, this Emma, with a knowing smile. He was glad to see her up and about in the cell, giving him a look of annoyance. She’d recovered admirably from her accident last night, and her challenging, frank stare made him smile even wider despite himself.
“I wasn’t drunk. There was a wolf in the road.” Her matter-of-fact statement stilled Graham for a moment.
“A wolf,” he echoed doubtfully, expression frozen even as a chill of discomfort drifted up his spine.
“There are no wolves in Storybrooke,” Graham continued. He shook his head, as much to clear it as to deny Emma's claim.
“I know what I saw,” she countered firmly. “It was a wolf. A huge one, too.”
“I know this town,” he said. “And you're mistaken.”
Regina's sudden, chill presence quelled their disagreement, even as it prompted another, larger one. Graham was somewhat taken aback by the way that the two women by turns sparked focused anger, mostly directed sharply at one another, or found common ground in their concern for young Henry. As they made the all-too-familiar drive to Regina's house so that he and Emma could search the boy's room, Graham was struck by the notion that both of them had a mother's protective instinct for Henry. Though this Emma's claim to the boy was certainly not a legal one, and he could only allow her to become involved in the matter on Regina's sufferance, he was hard-pressed to reject her help. Graham had always felt a touch uneasy around Henry; Regina's strict rules regarding his visits and her certainty that their relationship, if you could call it such, ought to remain invisible to her son had occasionally pricked Graham's sense of shame for no reason he could identify. He certainly wouldn't know where the boy had gone without doing some digging.
When Emma appeared almost smug at his lack of computer knowledge, her self-assured motions scrolling them effortlessly through Henry's emails and digital footprint, Graham fought the urge to be defensive. He was good at his job. And his job was to know his town, and the people therein, like Mary-Margaret Blanchard. As the digital trail led them back to the real world and the people he knew, Graham's vague feelings of discomfort eased, even as he stepped back to let Regina take the lead as they made their way over to the school so that they could question Henry's teacher. Miss Blanchard was a quiet, timid sort of woman. Pretty, in her way, but she seemed young for her age, and he grimaced uncomfortably at Regina's rude bluster. Even as he felt a surge or protectiveness for the schoolteacher, he didn't dare get between Regina and her target or to chide a mother for her anger. Still, he knew Regina well enough that he could gently divert the mayor's attention when her anger started to build and she snapped at the other women. He glanced backward once at Miss Blanchard and Emma exchanging awkward glances in the empty classroom as he followed Regina out the door, the faintest of frowns creasing his expression.
He knew everyone in this town, from the mayor on down—except now for this Emma Swan.
But he was determined to know her better, if she was going to be sticking around.
The Second Law of the Pack: Never back down from a challenge made in earnest.
Graham took no pleasure in arresting Emma Swan.
Dr. Hopper had been quite subdued in his normally ebullient mannerisms when making his complaint about the theft of his records by Henry's birth mother. Regina had stood by as he had made his grim report, her face an impassive mask, but the anger fairly rolling off her in waves; and as well she might be angry, Graham reasoned. Henry had problems, after all, and though he felt confident in his gut-instinct assessment of Emma Swan's intentions being well-meant, she couldn't just barge into the matter of Henry's psychological treatment.
Even as he brought Emma down to the station in cuffs and walked her through the booking process he tried to keep his manner light, gently dismissing her accusations of a frame job being responsible for her arrest. Still, her accusation that the mayor had her hands in the police jolted him, making him feel wrong-footed and momentarily putting him at a loss for words. Her wild stories about conspiracies in a small town sounded like nothing but fiction; but there was of course a kernel of truth in her challenge. Regina did have a direct connection to the law in this town, just like everything else. But what they had was personal, wasn't it? Not about the jobs they both had, responsible for the welfare of the community...
Henry and Miss Blanchard's imminent arrival saved him from having to directly answer, thank God. He wasn't entirely sure what would have slipped past his lips, given Emma's frank and critical stare. She held out her handcuffed wrists to him in challenge, and though he ought to have formally taken the bail payment from Mary-Margaret first, he hesitated only a moment before removing the cuffs and letting Emma leave the station, too dumbfounded by her challenge to even warn her to be on her best behavior.
He was fairly certain it wouldn't do any good, anyway.
Later that evening, as he cleaned up the wreckage of Regina's apple tree from Emma Swan's depredations—where in God's name had the woman gotten her hands on a chainsaw, anyway?—he ran a thumb thoughtfully over the smooth edge of a sheered-off branch. Emma certainly knew how to cut to the heart of the matter, and seemed unlikely to back down from a challenge. Whatever struggle continued to build between the two women, Graham was beginning to wonder where he was to be found in this quite serious game; he was beginning to fear it was perhaps as a pawn.
The Third Law of the Pack: Provide for the pack’s welfare.
“I regret to inform you that some of the stereotypes are, in fact, true,” Graham said apologetically as he proffered the box of doughnuts to Emma. She arched an eyebrow curiously.
“What's the occasion?” she asked doubtfully, though she began eyeing the selection with intent, to his amusement.
“Can't a man…sheriff want to treat his favorite deputy?” In fact, he'd meant to use the pastries to ask a favor, originally. Regina wanted him to come over tonight. Really, she'd just about demanded that he appear, but somehow the need to ask Emma to cover his shift was faltering in the face of his sudden strange satisfaction in seeing her take a bite of bear claw with undisguised pleasure.
“Come out with me tonight,” Graham blurted out abruptly, before he could check the impulse. Emma paused mid-chew to fix him with a wary look.
“I mean, if we're…to be working together, we should get to know each other a bit. I promise, nothing too strenuous, just a beer at the Rabbit Hole,” he added. Emma finished chewing and deliberately brushed crumbs from her fingers, frowning.
“If we're both having a beer, who will be on-duty?”
“Call it a working lunch. Of sorts!” he said gamely. “You need to know the regular visitors to the drunk tank besides our friendliest face, Leroy, after all.”
He met every one of her doubts and questions with a mildness that felt forced, for all the impulsiveness of the offer in the first place. But the notion of letting on how powerfully he felt moved to see her settled into the town's normal day-to-day life made him uncomfortable.
Later, Graham would be grateful when his message to Regina—that he needed to “keep an eye on" Emma, given circumstances, instead of visiting her that night—was met with more appreciation than annoyance. It wasn't in his nature to lie, and he wasn't good at it, but something compelled him to make his excuses. But that relief couldn't compare with his buoyant mood when Emma actually laughed at his weak attempt at a joke over a round of beers he bought for them both later that night. The thrill of real pleasure he experienced at the sound had been as dazzling as her smile.
The Fourth Law of the Pack: Accept the aid of your packmates.
Graham had fully intended for his evening out with Emma to be collegial camaraderie and nothing more. While what he had with Regina Mills couldn't be termed a dating relationship, exactly, it was certainly exclusive on his part. He misliked the idea of making it otherwise, even as the mayor had consistently resisted any attempts to make it more than a casual hookup sort of thing.
(How long had they been doing…whatever it was they were doing, exactly? He couldn't recall, and that was unsettling. There might have been a time when he would have flirted with Ruby at the diner, he thought, but he never had. Before Regina, maybe? But for some reason it felt as if he been entangled with her forever.)
“What made you decide to get involved with the other side of the law? Bounty hunting isn't exactly an easy profession to pursue,” Graham observed, sipping his beer. They'd meant to stop at one round, but one had turned to two had turned to three, and here they still were.
“I'm good at it,” Emma replied, her eyes sparkling with challenge, daring him to suggest otherwise.
“Oh, I don't doubt it. I've seen you at work, maybe I should offer you a job,” he replied dryly.
“But you had to get good, you had to work at it,” he insisted. Emma shrugged.
“Pays well. It was worth the effort.” Graham hummed noncommittally. It wasn't the real answer. Emma narrowed her eyes, reading doubt in his expression, and at down her own pint glass.
“I like it. Catching the bad guys. I fought and struggled my way to being in a position to pick and choose at least some of the time, and I choose the ones who really hurt people. The ones who leave innocents holding the bag for their crimes…or least their bail.” Graham swallowed heavily and looked away from her intent gaze.
“It’s not always clean-cut. No matter how much you might wish it was, not everything—not anything—is simple, not with people,” he said hoarsely.
As opposed to…what? a small voice echoed in the neck of his mind. He wasn't sure how to answer it, but that he needed to, and soon, weighed upon him. Emma pushed her glass away and got to her feet.
“I think we're done for tonight,” she said evenly. Dropping some cash on the bar, she turned and headed straight for the door. Graham hastened to pay and follow, nearly stumbling up the stairs to catch her.
“Emma, wait! Wait. I'm sorry,” he called, catching up to her next to her bright yellow car.
“I didn't mean to push,” Graham apologized, running his fingers through his hair fitfully. He didn't want her to leave. She couldn't, not yet. He wasn't sure why, but he was sure.
“It’s just…I understand. Not exactly. Your business is yours, but what you said. I feel the same way. Always have. It means a lot, to know I'm not the only one,” he said, shooting Emma a plaintive look. Her expression was opaque to him.
“But please. Don't go,” he murmured. Moving slowly, telegraphing his every move just as he did with the most skittish of his charges at the animal shelter, he leaned in and gently pressed his mouth to hers.
After the slightest of hesitations, she kissed him back. From the moment he felt her really return the kiss he shuddered, a sensation like lightning vibrating him from head to heel. His whole life was returned to him, his memories lighting up like an explosive bonfire suddenly casting every corner of a shadowed cave into sharp and perfect relief. Gasping, he clutched at her shoulders, nearly staggering under the weight of every lie and falsehood of the past decades being swept aside under an onslaught of understanding.
“Graham! Hey, hey, are you okay? What is it? Graham?” Emma was calling him, and from the look of near panic in her expression she'd been trying to get his attention for a while now. He smiled, tears welling up in his eyes at the truth of the answer.
“Oh, Emma,” he breathed, cupping her face in his hands reverently, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones and wiping away the tear that had leaked from her eye as he'd become unresponsive and distant, heedless of wet the tracks running down his own face. But he was back, now. Little did she know how far he'd come, and all because of her.
“I'm more than okay. Thank you.” She shook her head slowly, wrapping a hand around his wrist.
"I don't—" she cut off with a sudden inhale, her eyes widening, as a massive gray wolf walked into the splash of illumination cast by the streetlight and fixed her with an intent expression.
"Emma?" he hummed her name as a question, smiling through his tears. As her wide eyes flicked back to his own, he crouched down and laid his hand on his brother's head softly.
"You were right about the wolf. My mistake."
The Fifth Law of the Pack: Take the fight to the enemy's den when battle must be joined.
"This is crazy," Emma murmured softly. Still, her fingers intertwined with his as they stood before Regina's family crypt, her palm pressed firmly against his own. Her warmth anchored him, though the wolf inside him longed both to plunge ahead and to run and hide all at once.
"It is," he agreed. "What she's done, what's been done to everyone here, it's madness. But if Henry's right, even if the curse she laid still holds us all, the real source of her power is in there. We can take that from her." Emma let out a long breath before answering.
"And get your heart back," she said slowly, as if the words tasted strange on her tongue even still, now, after so many days of hushed conversations and detail after detail laid out for her perusal.
"Yes." He stepped forward, hesitating only to be sure that Emma would come with him, reluctantly letting go of her hand to fit the key that Henry had stolen for them to the crypt's lock. He was busy now, making a show of chasing after what he claimed was a stray dog, but was in fact the Huntsman's four-footed brother making swift tracks all over town. Mary-Margaret, heartbroken but hopeful in the face of the truths he had told her about her life as Snow White, was busily entreating David Nolan—her husband, the prince, he reminded himself—to help in the search as the newest animal shelter employee. Regina would be well-distracted by the multitude of threats to the integrity of her curse, and hopefully the last to notice what they were about to do. The door to the crypt swung open with a soft creaking noise, and he beckoned Emma to follow him. His eyes flicked swiftly over the small stone room.
"She comes here often," he said quietly. "But nothing here shows attention or love. This is not a place of mourning," he muttered, running his hands swiftly over each stone, pushing and prodding. When the main stone casket dominating the room pushed aside with a rough scrape of stone-on-stone, Emma stifled a small noise of surprise.
"What the hell?" she hissed, staring down at the narrow stairs revealed below the stone. The Huntsman turned his gaze up to her and reached out to take her hand, ostensibly to support her as they descended into the dimly-lit vault. In truth, it was Emma's touch that steadied his nerves.
"How are there torches burning down here?" she whispered, eyes wide.
"Magic," he said simply, the only answer he could give. "Just like that." He waved his free hand to the wall of drawers that covered the far side of the room, and then paced toward them, his hand still lifted but trembling. Emma went briefly still, and then shook herself visibly before following him. He ran his fingers over each drawer slowly, wondering if he would know, or—
"This one," Emma said suddenly, pulling out one of the drawers seemingly at random, a distant sort of look on her face. The drawer slid out smoothly, soundlessly, and the tiny gasp torn from Emma's throat as she looked down into the drawer was the only sound in the room. It was so quiet, the pressure so taut in this half-dark lair, that he should have heard his own heartbeat thudding in his ears, felt his pulse racing in his veins, but of course he couldn't.
Because his heart was in Emma Swan's hands, now.
"Please, Emma," he said quietly, tugging the buttons of his shirt free to bare his chest. "Put it back."
"How?" she asked, her fingers shaking around the glowing mass of his heart.
He could feel her fingers shaking. He breathed in and then out, stepping close to Emma so that her cupped hands brushed against his chest. He slid his hands up her arms slowly, cupping her head and threading his fingers through her hair.
"Please," he repeated quietly. "I know you can do it, I know it, I—"
It hurt, a dull, sudden pressure like a hammer to his breastbone, as she plunged her hands into his chest, but then it was back. His heart was in his chest, thudding like a drum he could feel echoing throughout his body and setting the beat for every part of his suddenly-raw emotions to set themselves into abrupt and intense waves of feeling. He swayed on his feet, caught between laughing and sobbing, and then fell to his knees. Emma slipped to the stone floor with him, her arms around his shoulders tightly, her cheek pressed against his own. She held him and they rocked together slowly before she tilted her head back and met his gaze, startling a half-smile and laugh from them both. She kissed him then, quickly, sharply, like she couldn't not, and he knew suddenly then that whatever he had thought he felt for her before, now with his heart returned to him, it was so much more.
"It's really real," she whispered into his hair as the kiss dissolved into another tight embrace, her breath stirring against his neck. He nodded slowly, and she fully settled back on her heels, looking up at the wall of ornately-handled drawers stretching up above their heads.
"Looks like we have work to do," she said slowly. Smiling, he grasped her hand in both of his own and kissed it, even as she rose to her feet.
"It looks like we do," he agreed.