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Toad calls, yelling, angry. It’s all an annoying echo, tinny voice shouting from the phone receiver. It’s been… what, 3 days now without sleep? The Vigil is starting to take its wear.
Get the fuck over here, Toad is screaming. Something about the Woodsman.
Bigby goes.
About fucking time, Toad yells. Toad is also unglamored, and barely passes Bigby’s knee. Bigby reminds himself that amphibians are stringy and not worth the effort of catching. And even full grown, Toad could barely be called a snack. Although, he admits, as his stomach gives a low gurgle, a snack is better than nothing...
No. Toad probably tastes terrible.
There’s yelling going on upstairs—probably whatever is going on with the Woodsman—but the shouts are still building in volume. He’s got time. Toad is still yelling, but Bigby says, low and rough, “Where’s your fucking glamor, Toad.”
The tune changes: Oh, they’re just so hard to get, so fucking expensive and it’s not like I’m parading around outside, now am I? What’s the fucking point of them if they’re so hard to keep?
Bigby doesn’t care about the glamor; he finds it amusing, really, that the Mundies are so far from their Fable counterparts that talking animals seem absurd (who do those two-leggers think taught them how to speak in the first place?). He finds it less amusing that they have to hide themselves for Mundie comforts. The hell if he’s telling Toad that, though.
“Get a glamor, Toad,” He commands. He turns and heads up the stairs.
Toad yells something after him, probably about “doing his job”.
Yeah, his fucking job. What a laugh.
Two voices, from behind the Woodsman’s door. He scents the air: perfume, alcohol, sharp metal.
The Woodsman is yelling, Do you know who I am? And the woman—whoever she is—is shouting back, Don’t fucking touch me, what’s your fucking problem, asshole.
Dial tone. Phone’s off the hook. Toad, probably. Bigby hangs it back up, just to stop that fucking shrill beeping. Shouts are about to peak.
He breaks the door down, just in time to see the Woodsman lay a heavy strike across the woman’s—or girl’s, really—face.
He only gets that one hit in, because then Bigby’s got him up against the wall. Funny how that works, ain’t it?
Fucking dog, the Woodsman is spitting, struggling. Bigby doesn’t roll his eyes but it’s a near thing. How many centuries, and this fucking yokel can’t come up with any new material? But then the Woodsman says That Word, and well, Bigby has to hit him.
The two are still arguing, even with Bigby between them. Girl wants her fucking money: obviously irate. Woodsman wants to fucking hit her again: obviously drunk and probably raised in a barn. Bigby wants to fucking sleep: obviously doesn’t give a shit.
The Woodsman throws him off—see what not paying attention gets you?—and then they’re fighting, just like old times. He puts the Woodsman through his own sink, dodges a lamp. They break the bookshelf. They go out the window. Take parts of the wall with them. Bigby lands on a fucking car.
Gods, this is ridiculous. He never had to put up with this shit in the Forest. Fucking asphalt and streetlights. Fucking cars.
Toad comes running. Yelling about the car. His car. Oops.
The Woodsman—who landed on the street, how the fuck is he up quicker than Bigby, that fucking lughead—pulls him from the ruined car hood and slams him against the building.
Fucking two-leggers.
Then the girl is there, and the Woodsman gets his own axe to the skull. Talk about humiliating. And ironic.
It’s a good laugh, but the girl looks like she wants the bastard dead, so Bigby steps in.
“I need that money,” the girl says, after finding nothing but change in the Woodsman’s pockets. Up close, she smells like perfume (too much), fur (dusty and forgotten) and wood (blood-soaked). The fur gives him pause, but she’s not one of his, smells too much like prey. Maybe a selkie or something. Says her name is Faith, and she can’t go home without that money.
Bigby’s got less than $60. Girl’s unimpressed, but it’s not like she’s got anything else. Not like he needs the money either. Fucking two-leggers and their paper.
Faith takes the money. Says he’s nicer than they say. Says she's going back “home”. Bigby watches her go, wondering how he got pegged as "nice" when he's three days without sleep and almost out of cigarettes, before he puts it out of mind. He makes his own way back to the Woodlands. Back “home”.
The fucking Woodlands. It’s all posturing and snobbery. Throw the Wolf in the cage, put him in shoes and a tie, show him off like he’s tamed. Fucking two-leggers.
His nameplate—a godsdamned post-it, who are they trying to kid?—gets slammed back onto the placard. Ugh.
There’s a line at the Business Office. He walks past it.
Someone’s not too happy about that. A hand catches him by the arm and he scents the air, quick: old wood and dank water. Fucking Grendel. Bigby shrugs him off and goes in. To do his fucking job.
First thing he smells: fur, musk, booze. Bufkin. Second thing: Snow.
Bigby likes Snow, as much as he can like a two-legger.
After that whole thing with the prince and her sister, she’s become harsher. Harder. She smells like iced-over flowers and a soft perfume.
In some other world, some other place, she could be pack. He could love her even, in the way love was Before. She gives him shit and doesn’t take any of his like the best kind of partner a wolf could hope for. But she and the rest of the two-legged Fables, to them he’s a commodity. A tool. They point and he goes, like the fucking dog he is.
He can’t help but hate her for it, a little.
Crane’s there too, and they’re arguing. Crane smells like old books, sweat and terror. The Headless Horseman left his mark pretty clearly. Crane’s yelling something, Snow is snapping something back. Bufkin is probably drinking somewhere.
Crane storms out. Bufkin comes out of hiding, with a bottle of booze. Gold fucking star, Bigby.
“Hi Sheriff,” Bufkin says pleasantly, even as his heartbeat spikes and a shiver runs through him. Bigby likes Bufkin, well enough. Most of the creature Fables can hardly look him in the face, but Bufkin talks to him like he talks to Snow.
Bigby’s not sure if that says more about him or more about Snow.
Bigby reports in, lets Snow rant about Crane a little and then goes the fuck home.
Colin is in his chair.
Bigby can feel a tremble run down his spine, a stripe of fur bristling. He’s in his apartment, the closest thing he’ll get to a den; he doesn’t have to play the stoic human detective anymore. Quickly, almost too quickly, he can feel both his composure and his human skin falling away like leaves in the onset of winter. He knows without looking that the sun has set.
He pulls himself together, barely, briefly. Enough to have hands again, at least.
“Colin,” he says—voice somewhere between ‘man’ and… Not—shaking the pig awake, “Colin, I have not slept in days.”
“Bigby—” Colin starts, but Bigby continues, even louder, “Colin, I’m fucking tired and you’re not supposed to be here and you’re in my chair.”
“C’mon, Bigby,” Colin argues, “The Farm is a fucking prison-”
“Move, Colin.”
Colin moves.
Bigby can feel his arms shaking, fingers spasming with rictus claws. His head is throbbing, his ribs are sore, he might have a concussion: that fucking car. He knows his eyes are glinting, reflecting the light. The fur along his spine is still bristling. Fucking Vigil. Fucking Woodsman.
“Calm the fuck down, Wolf,” he murmurs to himself. He falls into the chair, lets his head tip back, closes his eyes. Fuck. He’s losing it. The Vigil was hard enough back when he Lone. Doing it on top of his duties as Sheriff—gods, all that fucking paperwork—is a trial and a half.
He pops a cigarette out and scoffs when he realizes there's only two more left in the pack. Pulls a beer from the side table. Colin makes a small whuffing noise. Bigby cracks one eye open. Sighs. Gets up, gives Colin the beer.
“Thanks,” Colin mutters, eyes low. Good, whispers Bigby’s brain. Prey should know its place.
Wait, no. Friend. Colin is a friend.
“I’m not gonna fuckin’ send you back, Colin, but you can’t just keep showin’ up like this.”
If Colin answers, Bigby doesn't hear it. He's already back in the armchair, eyes heavy and aching, even as he closes them. Bigby falls asleep.
Snow White is trying to bang his fucking door down.
He opens his eyes and knows it hasn’t been long enough. But he’s the Sheriff of this miserable fucking town. It’ll have to do.
“Come on,” Snow snaps, spinning on her heel the moment Bigby cracks the door open. Bigby follows her. She leads him down to the porch of the Woodlands.
Blood. Wood. Familiar.
Snow’s hidden it from plain sight. Good.
It’s Faith’s head.
“Oh no,” Bigby says.
“You know her,” Snow says.
“Ah, fuck,” Bigby says.
“You know her?” Snow says again, voice strangled.
Bigby’s hardly listening. Faith smells… weird. Still like perfume and dusty fur, but the blood soaked wood smells stronger. Sharper. There’s a blood trail, blood on the fence. Someone from outside. But the blood might be Faith’s – she hopped the fence? But then where’s her body? Why drag it away?
Her ribbon – the one he thought looked nice, for a scrap of string – is in her mouth. There’s a ring tied to the end.
He needs to talk to the Woodsman. He says as much to Snow.
“You think he did this?” Snow asks.
Bigby can’t say No, that axe is too dull for cuts this clean because he doesn’t feel like remembering how he knows that, doesn't feel like remembering the feeling of rough, human fingers grabbing his messily torn flesh and tearing, so instead he says, “I don’t know.”
Half his fucking job is bullshitting. Snow is beside herself with worry, with fear, but she keeps it tamped down. If she were different—or maybe if he was—he’d tell her: Good. Don’t ever let them know you’re afraid.
But Bigby can’t. He and Snow, they’re a lot of things, but That—whatever That is—isn’t one of them.
All he can do is leave her with empty promises and hope his bullshit turns up results.
The Woodsman is at the Trip Trap. Of course he fucking is.
And of course Holly (troll musk, magic and bone) and Grendel (faint mead, old wood and dank water) want to play dumb about it.
The thing is, fucking Grendel—
The thing is, Bigby is a lot more like the two of them—stubborn jackasses, stubborn loyal assholes—than the Woodsman. So he’s not surprised when Grendel drops his glamor, but that doesn’t mean he wants to put up with it.
That calm demeanor lasts about up until Grendel breaks the ceiling fan with Bigby, flinging him around like limp prey.
Bigby oughta rip the little fucker’s arm off. Just about does, but manages to restrain himself, even when all that means is he bites the inside of his cheek so fucking hard until he can’t taste anything but his own blood.
Bigby bites his tongue, and Bigby hates, hates, hates what these fucking two-leggers have turned him into. He hates that they’ve molded him into some mockery of an authority figure, trapped between their laws and his own suppressed instincts and pride. They’ve choked him on a leash, bowed his head and—worst of all—they’ve dulled his fangs and claws.
Police the town, they tell him. Protect the peace, they tell him. But gods forbid he defend himself. Gods forbid he do anything but submit, meek and biddable, else they shake their heads in shame and lament his beastial nature.
So Grendel grabs Bigby and tightens his grip and goes to fuckin’ town, knowing damn well—like all of the Fables know—that the Big Bad Wolf can’t fight back.