Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The stale smell of smoke, old and new, clung to the corners of the Woodlands’ shoebox-sized security office. Behind a battered desk, the Big Bad Wolf pushed pencils, trying his best to keep his heavy eyes open and focused on words that refused to stay still.

It had been a long week. Bigby hadn’t rested in three- no, four days. He hadn’t even seen the inside of his apartment in that time. Any hints of sleep he’d gotten had been snatched in the back of cabs between crime scenes and suspects. 

His aching hips and calves were thankful for the chance to sit, but the rest of him was much more restless. 

Bigby hated paperwork.

The idle documentation of his investigations only served to piss him off. He could be doing something useful, chasing leads, scaring suspects, but instead, he was stuck here so Snow would stay off his back. 

At least his nose got a break in here. No perfume, no sewer steam, no lies sweating through cologne. Just the stale stink of cigarette smoke and the grounding comfort of his own scent layered into every surface.

With his patience already shot, when Bluebeard let himself into his office for the third time that week, smelling like old money and expensive tastes, he didn’t look up. Just grunted. “Door was closed for a reason.”

Bigby wrinkled his nose. So much for the break.

“Yes, yes. Privacy. Confidentiality.” Bluebeard’s voice was as smooth as always, like wine poured over velvet. “And yet, the lock remains tragically unused.”

Bigby didn’t answer. He was halfway through a report Snow had marked “URGENT” with three underlines. Which meant it probably wasn’t, but would be if he didn’t finish it before heading home.

Bluebeard took the liberty of seating himself. He was in one of those ridiculous tailored coats again, all gold trim and smug posture. Bigby could feel his gaze crawling up his neck.

“You’ve been keeping yourself scarce, Bigby,” Bluebeard said, primly folding one leg over the other. “Solving crimes. Guarding Fabletown’s virtue. Looking…” He paused delicately. “Worn.”

Bigby paused to look up at the well-dressed man, blinking harshly as his eyes refused to refocus. “I’ve been working.”

“Of course you have. Heroism becomes you. But surely even the Big Bad Wolf is allowed a break now and then.”

Bluebeard leaned forward, smile just sharp enough to raise a few internal alarms, alarms Bigby, in all his social brilliance and sheer exhaustion, completely ignored.

“I was thinking,” Bluebeard purred, “we might dine together. My place. Rare steak, aged wine, and conversation that doesn’t involve blood spatters. Doesn’t that sound... civil?”

Bigby frowned. “You need to tell me something?”

Bluebeard blinked once. Then once again. When he spoke, it was slowly, as if he was talking to a small child, or a particularly dull adult. “No. I am inviting you. To dinner.”

“Right.” Bigby rubbed the back of his neck. “You want to discuss… town budgets?”

“Gods, you’re charming,” Bluebeard sighed with fond exasperation, sitting back again. “No, Sheriff. I want to watch you eat something that isn’t a cold sandwich and cigarette ash. Preferably in a setting with candlelight.”

Bigby froze. That… That sounded like a date.

But that couldn’t be right.

No one wanted to date him. People barely wanted to speak to him. Most of Fabletown still looked at him like he might snap and rip their throats out, and not entirely without reason.

“…Are you threatening me?” he asked with no malice. He was genuinely confused.

Bluebeard actually laughed. Not mockingly, not cruelly. Just… laughed. “Gods, no. I’m flirting.”

Bigby’s ears burned. “Oh.”

Like the light switch connected to his nose had been flipped, he was suddenly drowning in the musk of Bluebeard’s… interest.

He straightened in his seat, feeling oddly self-conscious of the sight he must make. Unshowered, exhausted, and probably tattered from his latest escapades chasing god-knows-what through Fabletown’s underbelly.  

Bluebeard stood, straightening his coat, smugness settling around him like a favorite scarf. “Don’t strain yourself thinking about it. If you decide to say yes, I’ll have something tailored for you. Something black. You’d look devastating in black.”

He winked, an actual wink, and left.

Bigby stared after him, dazed.

He forgot to finish the report.

Chapter Text

Bigby had faced down serial killers, corrupt politicians, and actual monsters with more grace than he was managing outside Snow White’s office.

His palms were sweating. His mouth was dry. His nose itched with the whiffs of her perfume he could catch drifting from under the door. 

He opened the door without knocking. He never bothered to. 

Snow White didn’t look up, just kept reading whatever report she was absorbed in. “Make it fast, Bigby, I’m swamped.”

He stepped in and shut the door behind him. He didn’t need Flycatcher or Boy Blue hearing this.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, awkward and unsure where to start.

“…It’s not about a case.”

Now she looked up, brow furrowed. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes… no? Look. It’s about-” He hesitated, ears burning. “Bluebeard.”

She went still. “What did he do?”

“I think…” Bigby hesitated, like saying the words out loud would make it real. “I think he asked me out.”

The words felt foreign on his tongue, and his heart stuttered as Bluebeard's scent and the way he had looked at him flashed through his mind. Confident and amused. Lingering in a way that screamed intent. 

Snow stared at him.

Bigby scratched the back of his neck, daring to continue. “To dinner. At his place. He said he’d ‘tailor something black’ for me. Then he winked.”

“Okay. First of all,” Snow said, standing up and putting both hands on her hips, “of course he did. You’re handsome, you’re grumpy, and you’re emotionally stunted. He probably thinks you’re a challenge.”

“I’m handsome?”

She moved on, arching an eyebrow. “Do you want to go?”

“I-” Bigby started. “I don’t not want to. I just…” he sighed, “I don’t know how to tell if he’s messing with me.”

“Oh, he’s definitely messing with you,” Snow said. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not also into you.”

“…That’s worse.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Bigby. He’s flirted with you. He's been in your office- what, three times this week?”

“…Four.”

She gave him a long look. “Wear something black. Take a breath mint. And for gods’ sake, don’t bring a case file to the table.”

“I’m not that bad.”

Snow gave him a look. “I’ve seen you eat your lunch in the middle of a crime scene, Bigby.”

“…Okay. Yeah. I’ll leave the evidence bag at home.”

He paused at the door.

“…Thanks.”

Chapter Text

Bigby groaned as he collapsed into his chair. 

He sipped his beer. No case breathing down his neck, no bodies waiting for him in alleys, no menagerie of scent and sound clawing at his senses. Just silence.

Finally.

He’d finished filing the last of the paperwork from the last case too, which meant the night was his.

He had just started reaching for his remote, ready to put on something mindless to fill the silence, when the phone rang.

He stood with a groan, his tired body protesting the movement. He took his time getting to the phone, and answered with a huff, “Wolf residence.”

“Bigby.” Bluebeard's velvet voice purred through the speaker. 

Bigby slammed the phone down in fright. 

He stood there in stunned silence, heart pounding.

“Did I really just do that?”

Before he could pick up the receiver to call back, the phone started to ring again. 

Bigby sighed and fished a cigarette from his pocket.

He lit it, took a long drag, then picked up the phone again. 

“Sorry, I dropped the phone.”

He heard a quiet chuckle drift through the receiver, “You slammed the receiver like I’d proposed marriage.”

Bigby was glad Bluebeard wasn’t in front of him. There's no way he’d be able to hide the blush that warmed his face. 

“What do you want, Blue?”

There was another quiet laugh, Bigby wondered what the man found so amusing.

“Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice when it wasn’t snarling through paperwork. Although, I hope you’ve given my proposal some thought.”

Bigby exhaled smoke through his nose. “You mean the one with steak, candles, and the opportunity for blackmail?”

“Oh, so you have been thinking about it.” Bluebeard’s voice dripped with triumph. “I’m flattered.”

Bigby huffed, rolling his eyes. The man was talking like Bigby had already agreed to go. 

“I’m not saying yes.”

“But you’re also not saying no.” Bluebeard so helpfully pointed out. 

Bigby groaned, pausing to take another lungful of smoke and scratching at his stubble. 

He was thankful for the silence Bluebeard didn’t rush to fill. It gave him time to think. To settle his nerves. 

“I’m saying… if I were to show up… it wouldn’t mean anything, right?”

Bluebeard was quick to reassure, “Of course not. Just two friends. Sharing a meal. While you look devastating in black.”

Bigby exhaled slowly, sending a cloud to bounce off the receiver, “I don’t really own anything like that. My uh… My last suit got worn out.”

What he didn’t say was that it had gotten shredded after a blackout bender, a bar fight, and an ill-timed transformation.

He’d woken up in his apartment the morning after still dressed in its scraps. 

Bluebeard just hummed, “Yes, I figured that’d be the case. Well, that or you’d interpret ‘Black’ as ‘something fit for a steakout’ not a black tie dinner. I'll just send over my tailor.”

Bigby’s face scrunched in confusion, as he stubbed his cigarette out, pausing to light another.

“Your what? ”

“My tailor!” Bluebeard repeated as if he had said something completely normal, “He can head to your apartment or office tomorrow morning, take your measurements, and have something made by the end of the week!”

Bigby looked around his apartment. Beer bottles, takeout boxes, full ashtrays, and cigarette butts littered every available surface. His office was in a better state, but not by much. 

“No.”

“Bigby-”

“I said no. I’m not letting some stranger poke around my space and measure me like I’m-”

“A man attending a dinner in polite society?”

“A petting zoo.”

Bluebeard sighed dramatically. “Fine. How does going to him sound?”

Bigby didn’t answer right away. He flicked ash into the nearest tray, jaw tight.

“You can’t just throw money at me and expect me to play dress-up.”

Bluebeard let out another sigh, but this time it was a little more exasperated. The small sound of irritation made bigby’s hackles raise. 

“Come now, it’s just a suit.”

“Exactly. A suit I can’t afford.”

“It’s a gift.”

“It’s a favor. And favors come with strings. Especially from people like you.”

A beat of silence. The sound of a deep, calming breath being taken wooshed quietly through the speaker. Bigby couldn’t help but copy it. Then Bluebeard spoke, his voice much softer than before.

“Bigby. It’s a dinner, not a contract. I don’t expect you to wear a collar and do tricks.”

Bigby snorted, half-amused, half-agitated. “You sure? Because this whole thing is starting to feel like a leash.”

“I’m offering you a tailored suit and a night off, not a life sentence.”

“You don’t get it,” Bigby muttered, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t like being bought.”

“Then don’t think of it that way.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve probably never paid for anything in your damn life.”

“You wound me.” Bluebeard’s tone was dry. “But if it helps your conscience, consider it an investment to the aesthetics of my night.”

Bigby let out a long sigh, smoke curling from his nose. “...He’s not coming here.”

“Of course not. You’ll go to his business tomorrow. I’ll send the address.”

“Fine.” Bigby pinched the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t a date.”

“Of course not,” Bluebeard replied with faux-innocence. “But you’ll still look good for me, won’t you?”

Bigby slammed the receiver down again.

Chapter Text

The tailor shop was a small place on the same street as The Cut Above. 

Bigby wasn’t surprised he’d never noticed it.

Before today, he’d only imagined walking into a tailor to look at a body.

The bell above the door chimed with precision. Not a cheerful ding, but a dry little tchk- like it was as worn out as he was these days.

Bigby stepped inside. The air was warm and moist, clinging too close to his skin. The place looked expensive. Everything smelled like polished wood and smugness.

A tall man in a pinstriped vest glanced up from a measuring table stacked with swatches of black fabric. His fingers didn’t stop moving, not even to acknowledge Bigby’s presence.

“Sheriff Wolf,” he said, eyes narrowing with a glint that could’ve cut cloth. “I’m Ludwig. I was told to expect someone difficult. You’re early.”

Bigby grunted. “I just want to get this over with.”

The tailor looked him up and down, seemingly taking in the state of his usual outfit, “For someone who seems allergic to laundry soap, I suppose that counts.”

Ludwig set down his shears and walked over, measuring tape already in hand. He didn’t offer a handshake. Didn’t ask for permission. Just started circling like a tailor-shaped shark.

Bigby held his breath, forcing down a growl. The way Ludwig circled him, eyes sharp and hands calculating, made him feel like prey.

Maybe he was, in a sense. 

“Stand still,” Ludwig said, circling him. “You’re shorter than I expected.”

Bigby narrowed his eyes. “You want to say that again?”

Ludwig shook his head, “It’s not a complaint, it's a compliment. Compact is useful. Less fabric. Tighter silhouette. Good for intimidation .” He tilted his head, tape flicking across Bigby’s shoulders. Then his hands settled, kneading in a way that made Bigby raise an eyebrow.

“All coiled muscles and bad decisions. You wear brutality like most men wear cologne .”

Bigby shifted his weight, trying not to look as uncomfortable as he felt while Ludwig muttered measurements under his breath.

“Chest like a whiskey barrel. Shoulders built for breaking doors. Hmm. Yes. We’ll need something forgiving in the arms. Do you sweat when nervous?”

“Huh?”

“Noted.” Ludwig scribbled a mark on the tape with a wax pencil. “Silk lining. Breathable, easily cleaned , doesn’t trap the smell of dog.”

Bigby exhaled a sharp breath through his nose, eyes narrowing. Ludwig was hard to read, part predator, part craftsman. He seemed to go from feeling him up in one moment, to sending jabs his way the next. Even with his growing irritation, the tailor had yet to actively be hostile towards him, and he’d had centuries of practice keeping his cool. “Bluebeard order suits from you often?”

Ludwig hummed, crouching to measure his legs with quick, practiced movements. “Only for himself. This is the first time he’s asked me to make something for someone else.”

That gave Bigby pause. He blinked, uncertain how to take that, not sure if it was flattering, suspicious, or both. Assuming Ludwig was even telling the truth.

He settled on moving on, to say something else to fill the silence, “ So , some rich guy just throws money at you and expects a suit on a silver platter?”

Ludwig nodded, folding his tape with a practiced flick. “ Exactly . He pays. You pose. I deliver results .” He tilted his head, gaze cool and amused. “He wanted velvet, by the way. I said no,” Ludwig smiled, continuing suavely. “You’re not a stage magician. You’re a wolf. Wolves wear tweed .”

Bigby couldn’t fight his smirk, “You talk like this to all your clients?”

“Only the ones who bite.”

Ludwig reached for two identical bolts of deep black cloth and lifted them to Bigby’s chest in comparison. His expression turned from amused to something focused.

“He thinks he wants you to look dangerous,” Ludwig said softly, almost like an afterthought. “But I think you already do. What he wants is for you to look handsome while you do it.”

Bigby didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure how to. He hated how quiet the room was, how loud the fabric sounded when Ludwig moved it.

“Hm.” Ludwig dropped one of the bolts and moved to drape the other over his shoulder. “Yes. This will do nicely.”

-

The various scents of the tailor shop still clung to Bigby’s clothes.

He’d been home for hours, but the polished wood and fabric starch had burrowed into the seams. Too clean, too rich, too foreign . 

He cracked the window to let the night air in and lit a cigarette. The familiar burn settled in his lungs like gravel. Much better.

It had been hours since the fitting, but it still stuck to him like a bruise. He hadn’t been manhandled like that since his last brawl. At least Ludwig had the decency to use a tape measure instead of a chair.

Bigby collapsed onto the couch with a grunt. Beer bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other. The room was quiet. Too quiet. He kept thinking about tweed and silk and Ludwig’s weird little smirk as he poked and prodded at him. 

“This is the first time he’s asked me to make something for someone else.”

Bigby scowled.

He wasn’t in the mood for games. Bluebeard had probably fed Ludwig that line just to mess with him. 

The phone rang.

He flinched, then glared at it like it had just accused him of something. Letting it ring three times before dragging himself over.

“…Wolf residence.”

“Bigby,” Bluebeard’s voice purred down the line, smooth and unhurried. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

Bigby blinked. “…What?”

“For going to the fitting,” Bluebeard continued, as though he were discussing a favor from a neighbor. “I know it’s not your natural habitat , but I appreciate the effort.”

Bigby rubbed his face in tired confusion. “ You’re the one paying for it.”

“Yes, and you’re the one who played nice long enough for it to happen . That’s rarer than money, in my experience.”

Bigby grunted and took a long pull from his cigarette.

Bluebeard chuckled. “I hope Ludwig wasn’t too unpleasant.”

“He was fine. Sharp. Quiet. Talked a lot.”

“That sounds contradictory.”

“You’d know a lot about that.” Bigby said without heat. 

There was a beat of amused silence, then Bluebeard broke it. His voice was genuine and gentle in a way that made Bigby’s heart stutter and his face warm. 

“I’m glad you went.”

Bigby stared at the receiver. “ Why ?”

“You didn’t have to. That means something.”

Bigby didn’t know what to do with that, so he stubbed out his cigarette and said nothing.

Bluebeard didn’t push. Just hummed, then added, “I’ll let you know when the suit’s ready. You’re going to have a wonderful time , Sheriff.”

“We’ll see,” Bigby grumbled, then joked, “I hope you’re making enough food for a wolf .”

Bluebeard laughed. Bigby’s stomach fluttered. 

“Don’t worry your pretty head about that. I hope you like dry-aged ribeye!”

Then the line went dead.

Bigby stood there for a moment, face still burning, still holding the receiver, then lit another cigarette. “What the hell is a dry-aged ribeye?”

Chapter Text

It had been four days since Bluebeard invited himself into his office. Three since Snow's advice. Two since the tailor. Now, Bigby was face to face with a little white box, all wrapped in a dark blue ribbon, settled daintily on his desk. 

It had been a long day. He'd caught a few loose punches at the Trip Trap, gotten thrown through a wall settling a domestic between trolls, and chased the Cheshire Cat halfway across the city before finally bargaining a pizza for some stolen goods.

His brief pause between cases had ended. He was now in the middle of trying to find a rogue witch who’s been illegally making and distributing love spells, wreaking havoc in the Fable community. 

And now, after all that, this stupid little box had the nerve to just sit there. Waiting.

Bigby sat heavily in his chair. His hands reached for a cigarette, and placed it between his lips, but he didn’t light it yet. He wanted his senses clear. 

The box reeked of Bluebeard’s cologne. The smug bastard probably gave it a few sprays when he was packing it. 

Bigby caught himself taking deep lungfuls of the scent before he forced himself to focus and open the damned thing . 

He carefully pulled at the ribbon, undoing the pretty little bow and giving himself access to the lid.

Lifting it revealed dark blue tissue paper covering a number of items. A red bow tie and pocket square set, a sleek silver watch with a black dial, a pair of diamond earrings, and a pair of dark leather loafers. 

The bottom of the box held a card. In a graceful, looping, script it read, “ A gentleman always arrives dressed for the occasion. A wolf, I suppose, needs a little more help. Consider these appetizers. I can’t wait to see how you look when the main course arrives. -B ”

Bigby blinked at the expensive array. The diamonds sparkled in the light like they knew they didn’t belong here. Too clean. Too precious. 

He turned one over in his hand, then froze. He didn’t even have pierced ears. What the hell was he doing admiring them?

These were very expensive gifts. Far too expensive for him to accept. They’d agreed that Bigby would wear the suit for Bluebeard's sake, and the same argument could be made about the shoes and tie, he guessed. But earrings and a watch? Those seemed excessive. 

He carefully packed up the items back into the box as he found them and started getting ready to leave, hoping nobody would see him and start asking questions. 

He’d just locked his office door for the night when Snow’s voice lilted from behind him.

“Oh, Bigby! Bluebeard left a box in your office. What’d he give you?”

Bigby groaned without stopping. “Not now, Snow.”

She followed anyway, heels clicking beside him as they walked toward the elevator.

“I saw him drop it off,” she said with a smirk. “He looked pleased with himself. Whistled all the way down the hall.”

“Of course he did.”

The elevator opened. She held the door, trapping him in the conversation.

He glared. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Absolutely.”

For a moment, the two just stared at each other.

Then she smirked. Tilted her head, “So… are you guys dating ?”

“ Snow !”

-

The second the door to his apartment creaked open, Bigby stopped in his tracks.

The scent hit him like a truck, sharp and rich and wrong. Not just cologne this time, but the underlying musk that clung to Bluebeard’s clothes, his skin . The way his scent now mingled with Bigby’s own in the air was like some goddamn pheromonal lovesong .

Bigby stepped inside, shoulders tense, the gift box still tucked under his arm. He half-expected to see Bluebeard lounging on the couch, suave and confident.

Instead, the room was empty. Cold in a way that Bigby had never felt before. 

In his frustration with his disappointment, he’d almost sat on the suit bag draped neatly over the back of his chair.

A folded note was pinned to the front.

“The main course. 8pm tomorrow. Sharp. I can’t wait to devour you, with my eyes of course. -B”

Bigby stood there for a long moment, glaring at the bag like it might explode. Then he set the box down, lit a cigarette with shaking hands, and picked up the phone.

It barely rang once before Bluebeard’s voice purred through the line, “Sheriff. I trust you’ve received my little surprise?”

“I told you not to send anyone to my place.” Bigby blurted, barely giving the man time to finish. 

“And I didn’t. I came myself,” Bluebeard purred, as if that was any better. 

Bigby growled under his breath. “You’re included in ‘Anyone’ dumbass. And what the hell is this box!?”

Bluebeard’s voice was light “You didn’t have a suit. I simply assumed you didn’t have the accessories that go with one either . I do insist you wear everything. The tie, the shoes, the watch-”

“You should take them back,” Bigby cut in, voice rough. “They’re too much.”

There was a brief pause. Then, smoothly, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m serious! A watch? Diamond earrings? That’s not ‘helping someone get dressed,’ that’s a goddamn bribe.”

Bluebeard gave a soft, amused sigh. “If I were bribing you, Sheriff, you’d know it. This is just... aesthetic generosity. Remember? ”

Bigby gritted his teeth. “I’m not some doll you can throw accessories at until I match your furniture.”

“You’re right. You’re far more interesting than furniture.” A pause. “And I don’t give gifts to people I don’t want to look at.”

Bigby scowled, trying not to let the heat crawl into his face.

“Now. As I was saying...” Bluebeard’s voice smoothed again. “The tie, the shoes, the watch-”

“My ears aren’t pierced.” Bigby cut in before he could stop himself. 

There was a pause before Bluebeard spoke again. This time sounding uncharacteristically thrown off. 

“…They’re not?”

Another pause. Bigby could almost hear the moment of stunned recalibration, then his voice floated through the speaker once again. Much smoother and more confident than the moment before.

“Well. That’s an oversight I’m eager to correct. I suppose clip-ons can be arranged. Bring the earrings tomorrow night. I’d send a car, but considering we live in the same building, I’ll just have to settle for accompanying you myself.”

Bigby sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t a date.” He felt like a broken record with how often he’d been repeating that lately. 

Bluebeard chuckled. “Of course not. Just two neighbors... dressing up... sharing a romantic meal... alone .”

Bigby scowled at the receiver. “I’m not letting you knock on my door with flowers, Blue.”

“Noted. I’ll knock with champagne instead.”

Bigby ignored that. “You don’t have to try this hard to get under my skin.”

There was a pause, long enough to make him wonder if the call had dropped. Then Bluebeard’s voice came through, softer now, but smug as ever.

“It’s already working, isn’t it?”

Bigby growled, face hot, and slammed the receiver down.

Chapter Text

The suit, infuriatingly , was very comfortable.

Bigby had wanted to hate it, he really had. But it wasn’t itchy or stiff. It was soft in all the right places, snug without being tight, the collar pressed just enough to be proper without choking him.

He was still struggling with the bowtie in his bathroom mirror when a knock came from his door. 

He could smell Bluebeard’s cologne as he approached. He checked the time, 7:45, then cracked the door open to answer through the chain. 

“You’re early.”

Bluebeard beamed back at him. “I know. How dreadfully uncouth of me. But I couldn’t wait a moment longer to see you.”

Bigby sent him an unconvinced glare, he had no reason to doubt him really, but the idea that someone could be so eager to spend time with him was hard to believe. His nose could only pick up eagerness with a hint of lust under the other’s cologne. 

“I’m not ready,” Bigby explained, motioning to the ends of his bowtie, wrinkled by his attempts to wrangle it into shape. 

Bluebeard smiled and shook his head, “That's no problem, Bigby. May I come in?”

Bigby hesitated, turning to look at the shabby state of his apartment, but before he could decline, Bluebeard helpfully reminded him, “I’ve already been in your apartment, Bigby.”

Bigby sighed in defeat. If Bluebeard had already seen the messy state of his life, there was no point in turning him away now.

He unhooked the chain, then stepped aside to let the man in. 

Bluebeard stepped inside with a pleased hum. Without the door between them, Bigby could see he was carrying a small basket piled high with berries.

Bigby blinked. “Are those… blueberries? ”

Bluebeard smiled without a hint of shame. “Not flowers, as promised. Wolves like them, don’t they?”

Bigby squinted suspiciously. “I thought you were bringing champagne.”

“I didn’t want to be predictable,” Bluebeard replied smoothly, pushing some takeout boxes aside to make room, then setting the basket down on Bigby’s cluttered table. “Besides, I caught a glimpse of your fridge when I dropped off the suit. I figured I’d bring something you could put in it that isn't beer, takeout, or cigarettes .”

Bigby shut the door with more force than necessary. “You were snooping in my fridge?”

Bluebeard scoffed. “Snooping? I was merely assessing the battlefield. A man deserves to know what he’s up against when it comes to feeding a wolf .”

“This isn’t a date.”

“Of course not,” Bluebeard said lightly. “It’s just a neighborly offering of berries. Nothing more.” 

Bigby squinted at the other man, doubtful, but not bothered enough to push the matter. Besides, blueberries were a favorite of his. 

He grabbed a handful to pop into his mouth as the posh man wasted no time making himself comfortable, lounging in Bigby’s chair. Bigby tried to ignore the primal satisfaction that stirred in his chest at the sight.

He stood dumbly for a moment, fidgeting with his hands, unsure what to do with them in the lull. 

“Bigby, what else did you need to do to be ready?” Bluebeard broke the silence. 

Bigby jolted, remembering what he was doing before the interruption. 

“I uh, I was having some trouble with my tie.” Bigby admitted, scratching at his stubble sheepishly. He’d never had trouble with neckties, he wore one almost every day, but bowties were an entirely different beast. He could count the number of occasions he’d had to wear one on one hand, and every time Snow had been the one wrangling him into it. He had no idea how to tie one for himself. 

Bluebeard stood, delighted for a reason Bigby couldn’t name. “Allow me.”

His voice was smooth, but Bigby could smell the way his excitement and desire grew. The taller man crossed the room to lean into Bigby’s personal space in three long strides. 

Bigby flinched when Bluebeard’s fingers brushed his collarbone. A part of him wanted to growl at the forwardness, but he didn’t. Couldn’t, really. Not when it felt like someone was striking a match against his skin. 

He could feel the heat radiating off the other man. Could smell the scent of his cologne, his skin, his every emotion. Too close. Too tempting.

Bigby’s stomach fluttered like he’d eaten a live rabbit whole.

He resisted the urge to step back, or worse, lean forward . To rest his nose into the crook of Bluebeard’s neck and drown his senses in the man in front of him. 

Then his bowtie was pulled tight with a flourish, and Bluebeard was leaning back.

And Bigby was following him. 

He didn’t mean to . His body moved on instinct, pulled by the warmth he didn’t want to want .

He caught himself, pulling back, taking a few steps back for good measure. But judging by the heat in his face, the smug look on Bluebeard’s, and the strengthening of his musk in the air, the lapse of control definitely didn’t go unnoticed. 

In a panic, Bigby did the only thing he could think of to save face. Cross his arms and turn away, scraping together what little dignity he had left.

“This isn’t a date!” he grumbled, he tried to sound pissed, but it just came out sounding petulant. He could almost imagine how it sounded to Bluebeard. 

“Of course not.” Bluebeard said kindly, “I hope you’ll allow me to give you one last gift regardless.”

Bigby huffed and turned. Might as well see it through.

“ Please don’t give me something expensive.” He’d never beg, but it was close. He didn’t think his pounding heart could take another far too extravagant gift.

Bluebeard laughed. “Fear not, Bigby. These didn’t cost much. Do you have the diamond earrings?”

Bigby nodded, fishing them out of one of the pockets on his suit. He handed them over to Bluebeard, who fiddled with them for a moment, then held them up triumphantly, now fitted with delicate gold clips.

Then, with a smile, he invaded Bigby’s personal space again. 

This time, Bigby was more prepared. He closed his eyes and held his breath, and didn’t open them again until the heat beside him had retreated.

Opening his eyes revealed Bluebeard examining him with a smile. It was gentle, full of fondness and something else Bigby couldn’t identify. 

He shook his head, as if to refocus, then spoke “Well? Go see!”

Bigby nodded before the words even registered, already halfway to the bathroom. 

He wasn’t sure what he expected. A trick? A joke? Something he wouldn’t recognize in the glass?

The mirror revealed him wearing the earrings, and looking closer, he saw that they had been clipped gently into place by the clips Bluebeard had attached to them.

Bigby scowled at his reflection, half out of habit, half out of principle.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, but he didn’t take them off. He took the time to examine himself fully. 

He looked… good. Maybe a little different than how he’d usually dress.

Okay , maybe a lot different. But it wasn’t bad.

It was clean, sharp . The outfit as a whole fit like it had been built around the way he stood when he wasn’t thinking about it. Even the earrings didn’t look as ridiculous as he’d expected. They glinted at him in the mirror, daring him to try and disparage himself.

Behind him, he could hear Bluebeard moving around the apartment, quiet, confident, totally at ease in a space that had been solely Bigby’s. And yet... the scent of his skin still hung in the air, mingling with his own like a promise.

Bigby rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, giving the mirror one last look. Then stepped out of the bathroom.

“I guess I look… fine.” He grunted, trying to sound unimpressed.

Bluebeard turned. And for a heartbeat, he said nothing. Just looked. Really looked.

Then he smiled, soft and warm. “Beautiful,” he said, voice low. “Utterly.”

Bigby bristled automatically, unsure what to do with the flutters he felt in his belly. 

“I look like a boiled egg.”

“And yet,” Bluebeard said, stepping closer, “I can’t take my eyes off you.”

Bigby huffed, crossing his arms as if to shield himself from the gaze that seemed to strip him bare. “Alright, that's enough. Weren’t you going to feed me or somethin’?”

Bluebeard laughed, “That is the plan, my dear.” He moved to stand by Bigby’s side, in his personal space again, and offered his arm for Bigby to hold like he’d seen working girls hang off their clients. 

“Yeah, no thanks.” He growled, moving to walk out the door himself. It’d be bad enough if he bumped into anyone dressed the way he did. He didn’t need to be caught hanging off Bluebeard like a hooker. 

Bluebeard caught up smoothly, muttering a quiet, “Of course.”

Chapter Text

They walked side by side toward the lift, Bluebeard all quiet elegance, Bigby all barely-contained nerves.

The halls were mercifully quiet, no nosy neighbors, no wide eyes. Just the soft click of expensive shoes and the echo of his own heartbeat thudding in his ears. His luck held, for now. They made it to Bluebeard’s apartment unimpeded. No doors creaked open, no scents, fable or otherwise, drifted down the hall. 

Bluebeard opened the door with a flourish, ever the showman. Bigby didn’t bother to act impressed. He’d seen it before on the job, though he’d never exactly been a guest before tonight.

“You always this dramatic?” Bigby muttered to fill the quiet as Bluebeard swung the door open.

"Only when I have someone to impress," came the reply, maddeningly soft.

Bigby rolled his eyes, not letting the comment get to him. He only made it a few steps in, nose twitching at the various scents, before Bluebeard stopped him, shrugging off his jacket and motioning for Bigby to do the same. 

They were taking them off already? “What was even the point of wearing the damned thing?” he muttered before he could stop himself. 

Bluebeard chuckled, unoffended, “To unwrap you, of course.” He answered like it should have been obvious. 

Bigby grunted and turned away, face burning. That one got to him . 

He took a deep breath to compose himself, and caught a whiff of something missing. A scent that should have been there, but wasn’t.

“Where’s, uh... your butler guy?” Bigby asked, voice rougher than he meant it to be as he handed the other man his jacket.

“Oh, Hobbes? I gave him the night off. I figured you’d be more comfortable if it was just the two of us.”

Bigby nodded, he appreciated the thought. 

After their jackets were hung safely on the coat rack, Bigby jumped, a startled snarl bursting from his throat as Bluebeard’s hand found its way to the small of his back. 

The hand was snatched back quickly. Outwardly, Bluebeard didn’t seem affected by his outburst, but Bigby could smell his growing concern and embarrassment. He was glad there was no trace of fear. 

“... Sorry.”

He wasn’t past the entryway and he was already making Bluebeard uncomfortable. 

To his credit, Bluebeard took it in stride.

He shook his head. “No, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have presumed you’d be okay with me touching you like that.” His voice was genuine and kind, doing wonders to put Bigby at ease after the hiccup. 

He opened his mouth to deflect, then shut it. He didn’t want to lie, but he also didn’t want Bluebeard thinking he had to handle him like some feral beast . He glanced at Bluebeard’s hands, now clasped in front of his stomach like they didn’t know where else to go.

He hated that.

He offered his hand, a middle ground. 

Bluebeard took it with a glint in his eyes, then bowed to plant a kiss on his wrist. The contact at the exocrine point sent a tingle up his arm that seemed to u-turn to flutter in his belly and strike straight between his thighs.

“Don’t push it.” Bigby laughed a little nervously.  

Bluebeard smirked, as if he knew exactly what the contact was doing to Bigby, then turned to guide him deeper into the apartment. 

Apartment was definitely the wrong word. Bluebeard’s castle seemed to get bigger and more confusing every time he’d visit it. The assortment of portraits, statues, furniture, and other decor that lined the halls did little to give Bigby a landmark as they navigated the halls. All they managed was driving Bigby’s anxiety higher as he focused on being careful enough to not disturb anything. 

Finally they made it to a rather unassuming door compared to the opulence around them. The smells drifting up from under it made his mouth water.

Bluebeard gave him a proud, and slightly smug, smile as he opened the door for them. 

The room he was led to was all soft lighting and antique furniture, gold fixtures, a roaring fireplace, and luxurious fur rugs that probably cost more than Bigby’s yearly salary.

There was music, something low and jazzy, playing from an old radio. The scents of meat, potatoes, and cooked vegetables wafted from the covered dishes on a small dining table already set with silver cutlery and tall glasses of wine. Bluebeard’s alluring scent was layered heavily on every surface, stuck to the rich fabrics and furs. This was a room the man would spend a lot of time in. 

Bluebeard led him to the table and pulled out a chair. He pushed it in for him then wasted no time preparing him a plate.

In the blank of an eye, Bigby found himself faced with a plate piled high with assorted rare cuts of meat, including one that smelt a little staler than the rest. Bigby assumed this was the “Dry aged ribeye” Bluebeard had promised him. There were also some perfectly roasted carrots, and baked potatoes that looked and smelt wonderfully golden and buttery. 

There was a silence between them thick enough to cut with a knife as Bluebeard moved to take his own seat at the other end of the dining table.

Bluebeard continued to look at him like he’d look at a venison flank. Bigby was starting to feel like a deer in a wolf’s den. 

He wasn’t sure if he’d come here to eat, or be eaten.

“This uhh, this looks good. You cook this yourself?” Bigby asked, voice high with nerves. 

Bluebeard answered with a purr. “Of course I did. I’d only want the best for you, Bigby. You’re far too important to be fed by anyone but myself.”

Bigby’s face was on fire. The smell of Bluebeard in front of him, his skin, his lust, became almost too much as he clenched his thighs together under the table. 

“… You’re really serious about this. ” Bigby muttered, stunned, the concept of someone desiring him refusing to stick in his rattled brain.

Bluebeard raised his glass. “I’m glad we’re finally on the same page.”

“I’m not on any page,” Bigby mumbled. “I’m still trying to figure out if you’re trying to poison me.”

Bluebeard gave him a long, amused look. “Is it truly that hard to believe that someone might find you attractive, Bigby?”

Bigby didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” He didn’t mean to say it so fast, but it was the truth.

Bluebeard choked out a laugh, seemingly surprised by his answer. “ Well . Lucky for you, I enjoy the chase.” He picked up his fork, “now please . Eat , Bigby.”

Bigby huffed, moving to pick up his fork. The silver stung the moment his fingers wrapped around it, earning a surprised huff. He dropped it fast, the prongs clinking noisily against his plate.

Bluebeard was up and by his side in an instant, “Damn! Ah, sorry , Bigby. I forgot about your-” He sighed, cradling Bigby’s hand in his own. “I’m sorry.”

Bigby flexed his fingers, trying to hide the reddening skin from Bluebeard’s careful hands. “It’s fine,” he mumbled. “No big deal. I’ve had way worse.”

He wasn’t sure how to handle the hovering. He’d walked off far worse than something as small as this. He should have expected someone like Bluebeard would have some actual real silver silverware. 

“It is a big deal, Bigby.” Bluebeard hissed. “Forgive me, I should have been more considerate.”

Bigby could smell frustration, but it didn’t seem to be directed at him. His face was unreadable as he continued to inspect the small, blistered, wound. He rose and looked over the table, his hands still cradling Bigby’s as he did the same. 

Everything there gleamed. Polished. Painful. 

Finally, Bluebeard turned to him with something unreadable behind his smile. “Stay.”

Bigby hesitated. “Huh?”

“I said,” Bluebeard repeated sternly, “ stay .”

Bluebeard smelled like warmth and command. Bigby stared at him, something unreadable tightening in his chest. An ancient urge to be obedient, good. Then, slowly, Bigby nodded.

Bluebeard scooped up anything that even had a chance of being silver on the table, then disappeared with an odd sort of smirk. A minute later, he returned with an ordinary fork, dull metal, mismatched from the rest of the set. Clearly grabbed from somewhere far less refined than the parts of the castle they’d been in tonight.

He laid it beside Bigby’s plate with a theatrical flourish.

“I don’t usually serve guests using the help’s drawers,” he said. “But for you, I’ll make an exception.”

Bigby picked it up carefully. “Thanks. For cooking, and for… you know. Not poisoning me. Or killing me with cutlery.”

“It’s my pleasure , Bigby,” Bluebeard said smoothly. Then he leaned in, voice dropping to a purr. “The only danger you’re in with me is being spoiled .”

Bigby rolled his eyes with his smile. “Yeah? Like what? Gonna keep me stuffed on fancy dinners till I can’t move?”

“Oh, I have a few other ways to fill you up.”

Bigby choked on his wine.

Bluebeard chuckled, utterly pleased with himself, and turned his attention back to his own meal.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Not entirely. But Bigby could feel the weight of Bluebeard’s gaze every now and then. When he cut into his steak, when he wiped his mouth, when he licked wine from the corner of his lips like a sated mutt.

“Why are you doing this?” he finally asked, voice low.

Bluebeard tilted his head. “Dinner?”

“All of it. The flirting. The… attention.”

Bluebeard set his knife and fork down delicately. “Because you fascinate me, Bigby. You’re more than strong enough to rip a man apart, and yet you hesitate every time you do. You flinch from kindness like it’s a trap -”

“Isn’t it?” Bigby muttered, more to himself than Bluebeard.

“Sometimes,” Bluebeard mused. “But not always. But it’s that .” He made a sweeping motion with his hands. “That way you’re so cynical , but so… full of care for the creatures around you. That's what makes you interesting .”

Bigby looked down at his plate. The fork felt too small in his hand.

“I’m not good at this.”

“I know,” Bluebeard said, surprisingly gentle.

There was a beat of silence, then Bigby added,“…But I can try?”

Bigby didn’t look up. Didn’t think he could. Even still, he could smell the shock of delight Bluebeard felt. 

“That’s all I ask.”

Chapter Text

“Okay… So maybe this is a date. A little.”

The words were said timidly, Bluebeard almost didn’t hear them under the crackling of the fireplace. 

Bluebeard was more than comfortable to count dinner as a rousing success. He’d devoured the sight of Bigby, all dressed up just for him in a suit he’d provided, indulging in a meal carefully prepared with his own hands. 

After the meal had finished, the two had migrated to the couch in front of the fireplace. They had started out simply talking. Bluebeard had gotten Bigby to open up about his day, something he was immensely proud of, and Bigby had surprised him by showing genuine interest in his own in turn.

As the hour started getting late, he’d noticed Bigby flagging. Whether it was the long day he’d had leading up, or the comfort of a warm meal with someone he, at the very least, wasn’t too suspicious of, Bluebeard didn’t know. But he soon found himself with Bigby settled on top of him, body warm, loose, and heavy as he lounged like a lazy, satiated hound. His nose was pressed into his throat, the warmth of his steady breathing making Bluebeard’s heart pound. 

Now the two were curled together on the loveseat, bellies full, in front of a roaring fire. 

If he had known earlier that the fastest path to Bigby’s heart was through his stomach, he’d have arranged something like this a long time ago. 

Bluebeard didn’t reply to Bigby’s admission right away. The words washed over him in a wave of warmth. Small, quiet, and deeply satisfying. He turned his head slightly, just enough to feel the brush of Bigby’s hair against his cheek.

“Only a little?” he teased.

Bluebeard was a greedy person by nature, and even now, he tested the waters, venturing to bring a hand up to scratch behind Bigby’s ears. He was pleased when the only reaction he got was a pleased hum before Bigby responded.  

“Don’t get used to it.” His voice held a teasing note that softened as he continued. “This is nice. You’re nice . I don’t… hate this.”

He hadn’t expected this much trust, not so soon, not from someone like Bigby. And yet, here he was, draped across him like they’d done this a hundred times before.

Bigby pressed his head closer to Bluebeard’s hand with a small noise of contentment. A sound that Bluebeard knew he’d be playing over and over in his head for the next month . He wanted to drag his nails through Bigby’s hair, tilt his chin up, and kiss him senseless, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t . He was playing the long game. Move too quickly and Bigby would be gone. Right now, this was more than enough.

All too soon, the steady rhythm of Bigby’s breathing began to slow. As much as Bluebeard would love nothing more than to fall asleep blanketed by the warm body on top of him, he knew they both were far too old to be sleeping on a couch. So to save Bigby’s back, and his own, he reluctantly moved the hand buried in the wolf's auburn hair to instead tap lightly on his shoulder.

Bigby roused quickly with a heavy sigh. Bluebeard couldn’t suppress his smirk as he felt Bigby huff into his neck, undoubtedly thoroughly scenting him, before he made a muffled, sleepy, questioning noise instead of answering him properly. 

“You’re falling asleep, Bigby.”

He made another muffled noise, this time along the lines of, “and?”

Bluebeard chuckled, unable to resist the urge to return his hands to their place behind Bigby’s ears and scratch, earning another pleased rumble. 

“Bigby,” he started, trying to get through to the stubborn wolf, “as comfortable as I am right now, I won’t have you sleeping on my couch. We both know we'll be regretting it come morning.”

That seemed to finally reach the sleepy creature. Bigby made a low, mournful noise, almost a whine, then finally, reluctantly, rolled off of Bluebeard to stand and stretch, giving Bluebeard a wonderful view of his muscles shifting under his, now rumpled, clothes. 

Bluebeard didn’t blame him for the theatrics, he was already missing the warmth and steady pressure of another body himself. 

“I guess I’d better head back to my apartment then.” Bigby resigned.

If it were anyone else in front of him right now, Bluebeard would have offered his bed, tried to keep the night going.

But this was Bigby, who had work in the morning, and who would probably panic at such a forward proposition. And while Bluebeard was sure he’d blush so prettily at the offer, he wouldn’t risk undoing all the work he’d done tonight trying to get past the sheriff's endless amount of walls. 

Bluebeard nodded, “Yes, unfortunately, it is getting rather late. I’m sure you’d like to head to bed. I’ll escort you home.”

Bluebeard offered his hand with a smile, a gesture that Bigby responded to by eyeing it wearily, then taking it, causing Bluebeard to chuckle. Bigby was fine drooling on his neck, but holding hands was toeing the line? Bluebeard wondered, was it the intimacy of the gesture? Or the fact that others may catch them holding hands in the hall, that made him pause.

Either way, Bluebeard savored the feeling of Bigby’s strong, calloused hand in his own. The power in those fingers, the lives they’ve ended, were now cupped securely in his own. 

Bigby’s awkward cough brought him back to reality, and looking at the smaller man’s beet-red face brought Bluebeard to realise he’d been silently staring at their joined hands for over a minute. 

He smiled, wide and confident, which only seemed to fluster Bigby more. He huffed, attempted to cover his flaming cheeks with his free hand, and started pulling Bluebeard towards the door. 

Neither of them said a word as they left the apartment. It was as if some strange spell had been cast over them. Despite his previous reluctance, Bigby’s grip on Bluebeard’s hand was firm. Possessive, even. Like if he let go, the spell would break.

The hallway was quiet, the hour far too early for anyone to be up. Their footsteps echoed, a soft duet of carpet and expensive leather. Bigby kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, expression unreadable. But the way he kept close to Bluebeard’s side, almost leaning against him, betrayed how he truly felt.

Bluebeard could have said something flippant, made another teasing comment. But he didn’t. Not now. Not when Bigby looked like he was holding himself down with pure will. Teasing him now would only worsen the poor thing's anxiety. 

They reached Bigby’s door sooner than either of them seemed to want.

Bigby let go of his hand, slowly. His fingers lingering much like the two of them were. 

“You gonna be smug about this tomorrow?” he asked, voice low and a little rough.

Bluebeard’s smirk softened into something quieter, fond. “Only in the privacy of my own thoughts.”

Bigby huffed, shaking his head like he didn’t believe him, but the corner of his mouth twitched, threatening Bluebeard with the prospect of a smile.

“Goodnight, Blue. Thanks for dinner. And… everything else.” 

“It was my pleasure, Bigby," Bluebeard replied honestly. "I’d love to do this again.” 

Bigby nodded, seeming to like the idea, “Me too.” He placed his hand on the doorknob, then hesitated, not quite turning it.

Before Bluebeard could react, Bigby was hugging him. The smaller man’s strong arms were tight around his body. His inhuman body heat was pressed against his front as he nosed once more into his neck, taking a deep, heavy breath. A primal sound somewhere between a sigh and a low growl rumbling in his chest. 

Then, as soon as it started, Bigby was gone.

A click of the lock, then silence.

Bluebeard stood motionless in the hallway, throat flushed where Bigby’s breath had warmed his skin.

He swallowed hard, trying to will the tension out of his spine and the heat from coiling low in his belly.

Chapter Text

Bigby hadn’t meant to wake up late.

And he definitely hadn’t meant to wake up with Bluebeard’s scent still clinging to him like a second skin.

The suit had been neatly placed back in its bag and hung on the back of one of his kitchen chairs. It held most of Bluebeard’s scent. Understandable, considering it had been practically, and literally , pressed against him all night.

Just the thought of Bluebeard had his face growing warm again. Bigby didn’t want to think about how much the idea of his scent being a permanent fixture of his home didn’t bother him.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, scratched at his stubble, and tried to focus on the important things. Like the fact that he was ten minutes behind schedule, hadn’t had coffee yet, and there was still a witch somewhere in Fabletown peddling black-market love spells to desperate idiots.

And how Snow White was absolutely going to corner him for details the moment he stepped through the door.

His head throbbed. He desperately needed a shower. 

He pointedly ignored how his instincts rebelled against the thought.

By the time he pushed into the Business Office, hair damp, tie loose, and shirt far more rumpled than usual, he was already crafting excuses. Not for being late. For the other thing.

The thing that was definitely not a date.

Except maybe it was. A little.

Not that he would let Snow in on that. 

Not when Snow was already leaning against the edge of her desk with her arms crossed and that look on her face.

“You’re late,” she said with a smirk. She took in his rumpled appearance with a knowing quirk of a brow. “Up late last night?”

Bigby groaned. “Good morning to you too.” He ignored her question in favor of grabbing their current casefile off her desk to flip through. He’d already memorized all the information they’d had, he just wanted to give his hands something to do until Snow’d let them move on. 

“Mmhmm.” She rolled her eyes and pushed off the desk. “You smell like cologne. Expensive cologne.” Her gaze sharpened. “Bluebeard’s?”

Bigby didn’t answer right away. He pushed down the pulse of satisfaction he got from someone being able to smell Bluebeard on him, then offered weakly, “I showered.”

“Not well enough.” Snow crossed her arms again, grinning like a cat with cream. “So? How was your date?”

“There was no date ,” he said shortly, reading over a witness statement he could recite by heart. “We just had some dinner. It was nice.”

“Uh-huh.” She plucked the papers from his hands. Bigby groaned, what was it about his love life that had Snow this invested?

“Bigby! You can’t convince me you just ate and went home to sleep in your chair! Did he compliment your eyes? Try to get you into his bedchambers ?”

Bigby cringed and shot her a flat look. “He doesn’t call it that! And don’t we have a witch to find!”

“ Yes , but my best friend just went on his first date! You can’t blame me for being excited!” Her grin softened just a touch. “So? Are you seeing him again?”

Bigby paused, then held out his hand for the folder.

When it had finally been handed back to him, he relented. 

“We…” He sighed, “It was a good night. Not like that. ” He shut down her suggestive smirk quickly. “We had dinner, and talked , and… yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

Snow smiled at him, “Aww, that’s sweet!” 

Bigby groaned, dragging a hand down his rapidly reddening face.

Snow continued, utterly unapologetic. “That sounds like just the kind of date you’d need!”

“Don’t make it a thing,” he muttered, already regretting saying anything at all. “It was just a dinner.”

Snow huffed. “C’mon Bigby. You deserve a little happiness. Even if it is coming from the most dramatic man in the building.”

“He cooked, he didn’t perform sonnets,” Bigby muttered, thumbing through the case file to hide the way his ears were still burning.

Snow was mercifully quiet for a moment before speaking again. “So? When’s the next one?”

“What?”

“Your next date!”

Bigby paused. “We didn’t talk about it. We were kind of… busy.”

Snow’s brow lifted. “Busy, huh?”

“ Talking .” He slammed the folder shut. “Can we please get back to the part where there’s a witch illegally enchanting people?”

“Alright, alright,” she said, holding up her hands. “Back to work.”

She turned toward her desk, but not before tossing one last look over her shoulder. “But seriously, Bigby. You look happy. Which is honestly kind of creepy.” She joked. 

He didn’t reply. He just shook his head, opened the file again, and muttered, “Let’s just find this damn witch before this place turns into a goddamn soap opera.”

-

Snowflakes littered the air as Bigby smoked. The cherry of his cigarette casting light over his face as he observed his mark. 

The motel was one of those seedy in and out places. A place where people paid by the hour instead of the night. 

Bigby had to dig deep for a tip on this place. Most of the witch’s customers weren’t exactly ready to admit they’d even bought a love spell, let alone rat out their dealer, but Bigby had gotten lucky. A buyer had come to him, they’d bought the spell, but had lost their nerve. 

They’d gotten spooked after hearing what happened to another couple. A messy affair that had led to a murder. Gave up everything they knew in exchange for anonymity and avoiding charges. 

He scoped out the alleys around the building first, finding nothing of interest, then decided to walk though the front door. 

The first thing he noticed was that the place smelt like a barn. The musk of caprine was so heavy in the air Bigby half expected to turn a corner and bump into a shepherd. 

A young woman at the front desk perked up as he entered. Bigby could smell that she was a Fable, but he couldn’t place her face. 

“Sheriff Wolf!” Her voice was pleasant, but tinged with surprise, “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Bigby stepped up to the counter, keeping his demeanor cool. He figured asking outright was best. Revealing what he knew might rattle her enough to get her to talk. Although there’s always the possibility that she might not be in on it. 

“I’m looking for a witch. Someone with experience in love spells.”

She folded her hands on the desk like she had nothing to hide. “Oh, there’s nobody like that here.” Her perfume was floral and sweet. It made Bigby’s nose itch. 

He narrowed his eyes just a little. “I’m sure you won't mind if I look around then?”

The woman smiled, “Of course not, Sheriff.”

Bigby hummed in response, then began his search. 

He made his way upstairs, his nose wrinkled from the smells in the air. The barn smell was gone, but Bigby almost missed it compared to the new smells that littered the air. Perfume, cologne, and of course, sex. He was tempted to light another cigarette to drown the rancid mixture out, but he couldn’t risk dampening his senses and missing some crucial clue.

Even now, he could smell that there was something lingering just under the surface. 

Floral and syrupy. Unnatural . Just like the clerks perfume but much more concentrated. Allowing him to finally place it.  

Magic . 

Following his nose led him to the end of the hall, where he found scratches, thin as spider silk, covering the wall from floor to ceiling. 

Runes . 

He didn’t have a clue what their function was. But they hummed. Not out loud, at least not in a way most people would hear. It was the kind of buzz that crawled under your skin. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he inspected them.

Bigby reached out, letting his fingers hover just above the marks. His fangs itched in his jaw. He was never a big fan of magic.

He dared to touch his hand to them. The runes didn’t react to his touch, no flash, no resistance. But the wall felt wrong. Too cold, too smooth. He could see the texture of the plaster, but under his hand was something else.

He stepped back and sniffed the air again. That syrupy, floral stench was stronger here, almost cloying.

On a whim, he pressed a hand in the center of the wall, right in the middle of the thickest patch of scratches. He arched a brow when he heard a click.

A thin, glowing seam appeared in the wallpaper near the edges. Running up then turning sharply to form a rectangular silhouette. A door shimmered into view under his hand.

“Huh. Cool.”

He grabbed the doorknob, pleased to find it unlocked, then pushed the door open. 

The smell inside the room was overpowering with sweetness and florals. Bigby finally allowed himself to light a cigarette to try and block out the stomach turning smell and let him concentrate. 

The room was small, closer to a closet, but there was a makeshift work desk made from a dresser pushed against the back wall and taking up most of the space. The drawers were stuffed full with an odd mixture of plants and junk. Things Bigby assumed were various spell ingredients. 

On top of the desk were tiny jars, all filled with a sparkling, crimson, dust. Bigby opened one and sniffed, growling when he caught the scent.

He’d seen this before. 

Heart’s Claim.

Extremely potent, ultra rare, and banned since the last attempted love hex exploded into a mass murder-suicide.

Bigby was so absorbed in the shock of what he’d found, he didn’t hear the footsteps running up behind him. 

What he did hear, was the whoosh of something being swung at the back of his head.

Bigby pivoted, bringing up his left arm to block. He hissed as a knife embedded itself in his forearm, the familiar burn of silver making the wound agonising. His vision swam for half a second, and the iron scent of his own blood overpowered everything else.

He shoved blindly with a snarl, trying to gain precious space as he realized he was cornered at the end of the hall. 

His attacker, who he could now see was the woman from the front desk, quickly recovered from the shove. She tried to bring the knife down again, but Bigby was faster. He grabbed her wrist and twisted, making her cry out as the knife fell from her grasp, and used his strength to force her to the floor unless she wanted her arm broken.

Bigby huffed, trying to calm his racing heart, as she whimpered beneath him from his iron grip. 

His body was tense in its half shifted state. He could feel hot blood running down his free hand, could smell the iron as it dripped to soak into the carpet. 

“What… The fuck.” He panted, kicking the knife down the hall and far out of reach. 

The woman started to cry, the messy tears a stark difference from the cold hate that had just been on her face. 

“I didn’t want to!” She sobbed, “I’m sorry! The witch made me!” 

Bigby rolled his eyes, squeezing his wrist hard enough that he could feel the bones creak. He wasn’t born yesterday.

“Would you shut up! I know you’re the witch!” He yelled, completely done. 

The tears stopped like a tap turned off. Her expression reset, cool and razor-sharp, like a mask sliding back into place. She sent him an irritated glare, like he was a particularly persistent fly. The way she was able to flip on a dime sent a shiver down Bigby’s spine. 

He hauled her up by her arm and slammed her against the wall. It was a little difficult to cuff her with one arm, his left lacerated and bleeding profusely, but he’d managed.

“You’re not going to question me or something? The witch asked with confusion evident in her voice. 

“No.”

Bigby grunted and turned her toward the door. The wound burned like acid, the silver slowing his healing. He could smell his own blood trailing behind them in thick, wet drops.

He wasn’t going to waste time by trying to question her now. He needed to get her back to the woodlands before the bloodloss started getting to him.

As they reached the front lobby, there was a crash . A door behind the counter flew open, a figure rushing towards them. This Fable, despite his human glamor, Bigby recognized. 

It was Phillip, the youngest of seven goats. Six of which, Bigby was personally responsible for their deaths. 

With his body lagging from the bloodloss, Bigby had no hope of moving out of the way. He barely had the time or energy to shove the witch away before the man rammed into him. 

Pain exploded across his chest and back as he was slammed against the wall behind him. He screamed as another silver blade sank deep into his right side, serrated and hot, like fire inside his ribs. 

“Get him in the heart!” the witch shrieked from somewhere to his right.

Phillip didn’t speak. Just growled, low and furious, tearing the knife out to strike again.

Bigby caught their arm before the second strike. Twisted. And focused all his remaining strength into throwing the goat-man off of him.

His vision was blurred and dark from blood loss and his ears rang from the pain, but the sound of something crashing into the front desk was loud, solid, and heavy.

He snarled, already looking for the witch, but she was already gone. The door swinging in her wake.

Typical.

He turned back to the desk just in time to watch Phillip drag himself up over the remains of the counter. Bigby half expected him to lunge again, and braced himself in turn, but he didn’t.

It seemed without the backup from his associate, Phillip was just as cowardly as he remembered. The goat-turned man turned tail and left. Racing out the door to follow the witch. 

Bigby sighed, finally allowing himself to put pressure on his bleeding side, hissing when the movement made his butchered arm scream. 

He needed to get home.

To lie down and lick his wounds. 

He shuffled to the rubble that used to be the front desk, sighing in relief when he saw the phone was still in one piece. He used the wall to slide himself to the floor. 

Black spots threatened to consume his vision, even that short trek took far too much out of him. He didn’t remember dialing. His fingers had moved on instinct. The phone rang in his ear, and through the buzz of early shock, he thought he could already smell cologne.

After a few rings, Bluebeard’s tired voice echoed through the receiver. “This better be important.”

Bigby exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He didn’t know if it had been a good idea to call Bluebeard, rather than Snow, but he didn’t have time to reconsider. 

“Bleeding. Bring a car.”

Confusion, “Bigby?” Then sharpness, “where.”

Bigby mumbled the address, his voice slurring on the last syllable. It was getting hard to breathe. 

“I’m on my way.”

Click .

Bigby let the phone slide from his hand and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. The floral stench was fading. Or maybe he was.

He closed his eyes. Just for a second.

Chapter Text

The first thing Bigby became aware of was his chair. 

It was solid underneath him in a way that let him count on it more than anything else in his life. 

He loved his chair. 

The second thing he noticed was the terrible state his body was in.

He felt like someone had gone in and ripped out all his wires, just to shove them back in wrong. His arms were heavy, his legs heavier, and his head was… somewhere else. Orbiting the moon with a mouth stuffed full of cotton. 

The worst was his chest. It was hard to breathe, like something was sitting on him. And taking breaths too deep sent a pain pulsing through him so intense that even whatever drug they'd pumped him with couldn’t touch it. 

Voices tuned in and out of his ears, his mind too slippery to catch them.

“…tore the muscle. Could’ve punctured a lung…”

Swineheart. Clinical, annoyed.

“…was supposed to be investigating!”

Snow. Sharp and furious.

“…well, he called me, not you, so maybe keep your ego out of…”

Bluebeard. Smug, venomous.

Bigby groaned. Or tried to. It came out more like a wheeze through a dry throat. Someone had turned his tongue into felt and stapled it to the roof of his mouth.

Still, the sound made the voices across the room pause.

Footsteps. More than one set. He could smell them now. Soap, perfume, antiseptic, and that damn cologne. He managed to peel his eyes open, but focusing them was still out of his control.

The light was too sharp. He closed them again.

Someone touched his forehead.

He didn’t growl. That would take too much effort.

“He’s burning up,” Snow murmured. Her voice was low, tight with concern.

Swineheart’s voice was kind, how he usually was with Snow, “That’s normal with silver exposure. The fever’s coming down, just slowly.”

A beat of silence. Snow’s hand left him. He mourned the loss of comfort. 

“He shouldn’t have been alone,” Snow said. Bigby could hear how she was beating herself up. If only he could get his limbs to cooperate. He didn’t want her thinking like that. 

Bluebeard spoke where he couldn't, his tone gentle. “You can’t blame yourself for his stubborn streak. Bigby’s a wolf. He does things his way, no matter how much it worries the rest of us.”

Bigby opened his eyes again against the light. He blinked slowly, trying, and failing, to follow the conversation going on around him. His gaze slid over Bluebeard, the man was closer than he’d realized, and he tried to focus on the weird stain taking over the front of his shirt. The edges of the cloth looked crusted, especially around his cuffs and the center of his breast, and there was a bit smeared on Bluebeard's face in a splotch that begged to be licked up.

For a blink, the thought cut through the fog.

Blood.

Then it melted back into the soup behind his eyes as Bluebeard continued. 

“Besides, I arrived as quickly as humanly possible and got him to Swineheart. He’s going to be okay.” Bluebeard’s voice was rough with something Bigby had no hope of identifying from the moon. It was gone when he spoke again. 

“You should’ve seen the blood, Snow. I’m honestly impressed he managed to dial anyone before passing out. Almost romantic .” His tone was teasingly dramatic. 

Snow huffed. “Romantic? No. Stupid? Absolutely. He should’ve called me.”

“He called me because he knew I’d actually hurry,” Bluebeard said, smug. “And because he likes me better.”

Snow scoffed. “He was delirious.”

Bigby managed a croaky, mumbled, “Fuck off.” He’d show them delirious!

Bluebeard chuckled, sounding far too pleased. “There's our wolf.”

Bigby squirmed, trying to will his limbs into obeying him. 

He barely managed to heave himself upright, every muscle protesting, and his side screaming, before firm hands pressed him back down onto the recliner by his shoulders.

Swineheart seemed to have mastered teleportation, or maybe he’d just been standing out of his view the whole time. 

“Hey.” Was he greeting or protesting? Bigby wasn’t sure. 

“Hello, Bigby.” He sounded tired. 

As he addressed Bluebeard and Snow, he pressed a small black case into Snow's hands. Bigby could hear the rattle of the pills inside, “as you can see, I’ve given him some strong painkillers, as well as some antibiotics. He’ll need to take the morphine until the worst of the laceration heals. And since we all know he won't, he'll at least need something over the counter for the pain. The antibiotics are crucial, though, and he needs to take all of them on schedule. I don't care if you have to hold him down or sneak them to him.”

He left Bigby's view again, but he could still hear his voice carrying through the room. “His healing shouldn’t take as long as it would for one of us, but because the wounds were caused by silver, he's going to need more time and care to heal than his usual. He’ll need someone here full-time to help him in the meantime.”

“I can do it. I’m already here all day.” Colin’s voice carried from somewhere nearby. Bigby blinked groggily toward the source of the voice. Colin was just at the farm. Was everyone teleporting today?

He tried to sit up and catch sight of the pig, but Swineheart’s hands, once again, stopped him from getting up. This time, he mustered the energy for a quiet, broken, growl, which promptly got ignored. 

Swineheart shook his head, the motion making Bigby dizzy as he unconsciously tried to mirror it. “No offense, Colin, but I’d prefer someone with thumbs to be here with him.”

Snow cut in, “Aren’t you supposed to be on the farm anyway? How long have you been here?”

“None taken, Swiney. And I let myself in this morning.”

Bluebeard coughed. Bigby turned to look at him, making him wince as it pulled on the stitches in his side. He let out a contented noise as Blubeard's hand buried itself in his hair, soothing him.

“If we can get back to the matter at hand, I’d be more than happy to care for our wounded wolf in his time of need.”

Snow scoffed, shaking her head. “That’s not happening.”

“Why not? ” Bluebeard asked, as if genuinely baffled. “You have a job, Snow. A very demanding one. I, on the other hand, do not. I’ve all the time in the world to watch over him.”

Snow opened her mouth, then shut it. Bigby would've protested himself if his head wasn’t full of soup. The most he could do was weakly bat his hand out of his hair, something he immediately regretted when his molasses mind made the connection that no hand meant no scritches. 

“I could take care of him during the day,” Bluebeard went on, too cheerfully. “Administer his meds, change his bandages. Read to him, if he asks nicely.”

“I’ll bi-chu,” Bigby slurred from the recliner, voice trailing off, too weak to fight Swineheart’s hold, but trying anyway.

“Not with those ribs, you won’t,” Bluebeard said smoothly, without looking at him.

Swineheart sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is exactly why most patients don’t recover in front of an audience.”

“I’m not an audience,” Bluebeard said. “I’m a dedicated, caring-”

“-narcissist,” Snow cut in, rolling her eyes.

Bluebeard raised a brow, clearly unbothered. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Snow. I’d offer to share him, but I doubt you’re his type.”

Swineheart made a noise like he was choking on his own disapproval. “Alright. Enough.” He stepped in between them like a harried teacher breaking up a hallway brawl. “You both clearly care. Wonderful. But if you’d actually like Bigby to get better, you’re going to have to work together. ”

Snow huffed, but didn’t argue.

Bluebeard blinked, then shrugged. “I can be civil.”

Bigby croaked out a laugh, wincing slightly from his chest. Bluebeard and Civil didn't belong in the same book. 

Swineheart ignored them in favor of continuing. “Snow, you have a demanding job. Bluebeard, you don’t. You’ll take the daytime shift. Snow, nights. That way, neither of you burns out, and I don’t get called back here because someone forgot to give him his antibiotics or change his dressings, and he caught an infection.”

Snow crossed her arms. “I don’t like it.”

“Tough,” Swineheart said flatly, already packing his bag.

“M'... not a pup,” Bigby grumbled weakly.

“You’re not even conscious,” Snow replied, reaching over to pull the blanket that had fallen into his lap over his shoulders and tuck him in. When did that get there?

Warm. 

He loved his blanket.

Bluebeard hummed with satisfaction. “Daytime it is.”

Swineheart snapped his bag closed. “Great. Now, one of you get him some water. The other? Figure out a damn schedule before he tries to chew through his stitches.”

-

Snow smiled as Bigby drifted off under the blanket, reminding her of covering a bird cage to let the little animal sleep. 

“I swear, if he tries to get up…” Snow muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Bluebeard’s voice was smooth, amused. “He’ll stubbornly insist he’s fine, as always. You know Bigby.”

Snow snorted. “Yeah, and then he’ll fall flat on his face and blame the floor.”

Bluebeard chuckled quietly, then looked over at her. “When would you like me back?”

Snow blinked, caught off guard. “Hm?”

“For the day shift,” he clarified, softer now. “Do you want me back in the morning? I can be here first thing. We should work out a formal schedule.”

Snow raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t expected him to take this so seriously.

“…We’ll figure it out in the morning,” she said eventually. “But yeah. Come back tomorrow morning. Preferably before eight.”

Bluebeard nodded. “Alright. I’ll bring breakfast.” His eyes lingered on Bigby’s sleeping face for a long moment. He moved to adjust the blanket carefully. Like Bigby was something breakable.

Snow watched him, her expression unreadable, caught off guard by the genuine tenderness in his gaze. She'd expected him to be treating whatever the two of them were doing together as just another distraction. Another pursuit, another performance. But something about the way he looked at Bigby now, quiet, focused, worried, made her question everything she thought she knew about the man. 

When Bluebeard stepped back from the recliner, Snow took in the carnage that covered his clothing. His hands were clean, but his shirt and cuffs were stiff with dried blood, dark and crusted in places where it had soaked clean through the fabric to stick, tacky, against his skin. Bigby’s blood. There was a faint rust-brown smear along his jaw where he must have brushed his face without thinking.

Snow had gotten there after Bigby was stable, already having been stitched up, given antibiotics, and dosed with analgesics that had him sleeping like a log. But Snow could tell he hadn’t just carried Bigby in, he’d been elbow-deep in the mess, helping Swineheart, working just as hard to keep him breathing.

And now he was adjusting the blanket like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he wasn’t still covered in gore.

Snow found herself staring. Bluebeard didn’t notice, or didn’t care, his attention fixed on Bigby’s sleeping face.

Once the door clicked shut behind him, Snow was left alone with the quiet hum of the apartment and the slow, even sound of Bigby’s quiet snores.

Getting the call that Bigby had been hurt, finding out that he hadn’t called her for help, that’d been hard. 

She was glad Bluebeard had been able to get him to swineheart so quickly, of course, but a part of her still felt a twist in her stomach every time she thought about it.

He’d called Bluebeard. Not her.

He’d been delirious. Injured, out of it. He probably hadn’t even known what number he was dialing.

Still, it stung.

She had been with him through everything. Through the exodus, the compact, the building of Fabletown. She was the one who had stood by him when everyone else had turned away.

Had she done something to push him away?

Snow folded her arms and looked away from the recliner, like turning from a question she didn’t want the answer to.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe she’d become a symbol of authority to him. The mayor’s office. The rules. Expectations.

Bluebeard, on the other hand, had no rules. No expectations. Just food and kind smiles and too much charm for his own good.

Snow sighed quietly, brushing a stray hair out of Bigby’s sleeping face.

She’d take the night shift. She’d be here when he woke. And maybe, when he was ready, they’d finally talk.

Chapter Text

When Bigby woke again, it was due to the throbbing pain in his side. The burn of silver dragged him to consciousness, and churned his empty stomach. His wolf metabolism must have finally burned off whatever Swineheart had given him for the pain. 

His mouth was a desert. His tongue was sandpaper. He desperately needed a beer. 

He hissed, trying to brace his arms on his recliner to stand without using his core muscles, when Snow rushed over from the direction of his kitchen.

“Bigby! No!” She pushed him down by applying gentle pressure to his shoulders. “No standing!”

“I’m thirsty.” Bigby rolled his eyes, but humored her, sitting again with a sigh. At least his chair was comfortable. 

Snow pulled the blanket that had fallen to the floor back over his legs, tucking it in lightly in a way that would make him laugh if it wouldn't make his side scream. 

“That’s why I’m here. Stay.” She disappeared from view.

Bigby could hear her in his kitchen. The clink of a glass, the splash of the sink. Her opening his freezer, then the huff when she found his empty ice tray.

Then she was back in front of him with a glass full of precious liquid. 

He took the cup gratefully, draining it in three deep gulps. 

“How long was I asleep? What time is it?”  

“About seven thirty.” Snow took the empty glass from him. “Swineheart gave you some medicine around midnight, and you've been in and out since. They left a couple of hours ago.” 

They? His brow furrowed, but as he opened his mouth to question, the familiar sound of lazy hoofsteps derailed his train of thought. 

Colin sauntered into view, looking far too happy for this early in the morning. “Morning, big guy! Glad to see you’re awake. You got your eggs scrambled last night. How ya feelin’?”

Bigby blinked at him, trying to piece together how the hell the pig had even gotten in. The scents of hay and mud on Colin’s hide were faint enough to tell him that Colin had been here a while. 

“When the hell did you get here?”

Colin shrugged, settling himself in his usual spot next to the TV. “Couple hours ago. Door wasn’t locked. I figured you could use some company. Guess I was right, the place was way too quiet without me, at least until Bluebeard and Swineheart carried you through the door.”

The memory was faint, slippery, but it was there. Him fumbling with the phone, the iron tang of his own blood thick in the air, Bluebeard’s voice in his ears, low and reassuring. 

Bigby’s gut twisted itself into a knot. “They… carried me in?”

Colin nodded, then shook his head. “Bluebeard carried you, really. Swineheart had his arms full of supplies and stuff.”

Bigby groaned, pressing his palms over his burning face. He’d curl into a ball if the pain of moving so much wouldn’t make him pass out. 

The room was quiet for a moment, save for the soft rustle of footsteps approaching. Snow appeared at his side, holding another glass and two bottles of pills. She shot Colin a sharp look over her shoulder.

“You’re supposed to be on the Farm, Colin.”

“Yeah, and you’re supposed to not hover over him like a mother hen, but here we are,” Colin said, completely unfazed.

Snow rolled her eyes, turning to ignore Colin and address Bigby. She gave him another cup of water and opened the case to reveal a pair of medicine bottles.

“Swineheart wants you to take an antibiotic for the next couple weeks. Something about the silver suppressing your immune system? I also have some ibuprofen.”

Bigby eyed the bottles like they might bite him. “Do I really need both right now?”

“Yes,” Snow said firmly, shaking two pills from each bottle into her hand. “The antibiotic’s non-negotiable. And if you don’t take the ibuprofen, you’ll regret it.”

He muttered something under his breath but took the pills anyway, washing them down with the rest of the water. His face twisted at the chalky taste that clung to his tongue and the phantom feeling of them stuck in his throat.

“Good,” Snow said, satisfied. “Bluebeard and I worked out a schedule. He’ll be here during the day, I’ll handle the evenings, and Swineheart will come by every couple of days to check in. You are not to be left alone until you’re stable. Understood?”

Bigby snorted. “You make it sound like I’m on house arrest.”

“You basically are,” she said briskly, already gathering her coat from his kitchen table and adjusting the collar. She smoothed her hair in the reflection of his darkened TV screen, clearly preparing to head out.

Before Bigby could fire off another protest, the front door clicked open. Bluebeard stepped inside as though he owned the place, arms full of paper bags that smelled unmistakably of coffee and fried food.

Colin rolled his eyes from the floor, “Oh, perfect, Prince Charming’s here.” 

“Ah, good. We’re all awake,” Bluebeard said smoothly, shutting the door with his heel. “I thought you three might appreciate a proper breakfast, given Bigby’s fridge holds little more than beer and cigarettes.”

Colin raised a brow, “Welp, you won me over.”

The scent of eggs, bacon, and butter hit Bigby’s nose all at once, and his stomach, empty for far too long, answered with a sharp growl.

Snow smiled at the noise, giving him a fond ruffle of his hair while she addressed Bluebeard. “Right on time. And good thinking with breakfast, seems like someone's hungry.” 

Bigby scoffed, rolling his eyes but enduring her friendly touch. 

“Of course,” Bluebeard answered smoothly, setting the bags on the table. “I’d hate to be late and hold up town business.” He picked a specific bag out of the bunch to hand to Snow. 

She took the bag with a smile. “Thank you. I’ve already given him his morning meds. He’ll be ready for another dose at two. Until then, please remember what Swineheart said about letting him get up.”

Bluebeard nodded, serious, “You have my word. He’ll have no need to even lift a finger while I’m around.”

Bigby rolled his eyes. It felt like Snow was handing over his leash. And he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about being alone with Bluebeard after apparently bleeding all over him like some damsel in distress. 

Snow nodded, apparently satisfied, “Good. I’ll be back tonight around eight.” Then with one last ruffle of Bigby’s hair, Snow was out the door. 

Bigby sighed in his recliner, the scent of fried food in the air, the weight of Bluebeard’s eyes on him heavier still. He wasn’t sure what he hated more, that he was stuck here with the man, or that part of him really didn’t mind. At least Colin being around made Bigby fairly confident that Bluebeard wouldn’t try to get him to talk about last night's events. 

Bluebeard moved with a kind of infuriating leisure, setting his coat over the back of a chair before grabbing a takeout box out of a bag and handing it to Bigby. He then dug into another bag to find a plasticware set for him to eat with. His cologne was subtle, expensive, and maddeningly familiar.

“She worries about you,” Bluebeard said lightly, he stooped to place another takeout box in front of Colin, ignoring the thanks he got in favor of continuing. “But she’s not the one who dragged your half-dead carcass back here, is she. And she’s also not the one with you now .”

Bluebeard grabbed a chair from the kitchen table, moving it to sit across from Bigby, their knees threatening to touch.

“Funny, isn’t it? Fate leaves you in my hands, of all people.”

Bigby’s lip curled. “Yeah. Hilarious.”

Colin crunched on a fry, watching them with amusement. “Don’t mind him, Bigby. He’s just fishing for a ‘thank-you.’”

“I don’t need thanks,” Bluebeard said smoothly, reclining in the wooden chair like it was a throne, heel resting on his knee and the arm he wasn’t holding a fork with thrown over the back.

“The look on his face when he realized I’d actually come to save him was reward enough.”

Bigby scowled, fork halfway to his mouth. “Fuck you.”

Bluebeard’s smile sharpened, pleased at the reaction, then softened, as though he’d only been teasing. He leaned forward, voice lowering.

“Oh Bigby, you know I’d never let your needs slip through the cracks. You deserve far better than that. Someone who cares enough to carry you properly.”

Bigby rolled his eyes. “You mean someone like you?”

“Yes.”

Bigby huffed, face red. “You make it sound like I was helpless.”

“You were,” Bluebeard said simply, without hesitation. “And there’s no shame in that. Not when you fought as hard as you did.” His gaze lingered on Bigby’s hunched shoulders, something almost fond warming his eyes. “Besides… it suits you, for once. Letting someone else bear the weight.”

Bigby muttered a curse under his breath, but he didn’t look up.

Bluebeard smiled faintly, as though he’d won.

“Wow,” Colin said, breaking the silence. “Romance is alive and well. Real inspiring, Beard. Can’t wait to put that one on a Hallmark card.”

Bigby snorted into his food, the tension breaking just enough for him to take another bite.

Chapter Text

He wasn’t sure when he’d drifted off, but the first thing he saw when he cracked his eyes open again was Bluebeard, sitting too close, book in hand. He was pretending to be absorbed in the text, but Bigby knew when he was being watched. 

Colin must have dozed off too while Bigby was out, the pig was curled up in his usual spot in the corner, snoring softly. The apartment was quiet, the only noises keeping the ringing in his ears at bay being the occasional flutter of pages and the rumble of Colin’s breathing.

Bigby stared at Bluebeard until the man glanced up at him from his book, trying to be subtle. He smiled when his eyes met Bigby’s, realizing he'd been caught.

“The hell are you lookin’ at.” Bigby rasped, his throat rough from sleep.

“Something very beautiful,” Bluebeard said, snapping the book shut with an irritating amount of grace. “You make a very peaceful picture when you’re not snarling at everyone.”

Bigby groaned and tried to push himself upright, his legs were starting to hurt from lack of use and he needed to piss. His ribs protested instantly, a fiery stab that made him grit his teeth.

Before he could push through it to stand, Bluebeard was already leaning in, one hand bracing his shoulder.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said, quiet but firm. “You’ll tear your stitches.”

Bigby wanted to shove him off, tell him where to stick his help, but the hand on his shoulder was steady, warm, and annoyingly soothing. He sagged back with a frustrated exhale.

“I can walk. I need the bathroom.” 

Bluebeard didn’t so much as blink. “Then you’ll need my arm.”

Bigby scowled. “I’ve got legs.”

“Yes, and you also have a hole in your side. Humor me.”

Before Bigby could argue further, Bluebeard slipped an arm around him and coaxed him upright with infuriating gentleness. The shift made his ribs burn, forcing a whimper out of him before he could stop it.

The soothing sound Bluebeard made as he steadied him, and the closeness to the wonderful scents of his cologne and natural musk did wonders to help soothe the pain. The burning fading to a throb. He was half-drunk on the warmth pressed against his side, the steady hand at his waist.

“Stop enjoying this,” Bigby muttered through his teeth as they staggered a few steps.

“I’m not enjoying it,” Bluebeard lied smoothly, though the smug curve of his mouth betrayed him. “I’m simply fulfilling my duties as your caretaker.”

Bluebeard held almost all of his weight, but still their trip across the smallest apartment in the woodlands took a lot of energy. When they finally made it to the bathroom, Bigby found himself short of breath as he tried to push Bluebeard off.

“I can take it from here.”

Bluebeard arched a brow, a mischievous smile painting his face. “Are you sure? How are you going to get up again? What if you fall or tear your stitches? I think I should come with you.”

“Out,” Bigby growled, shoving him weakly toward the wall.

Bluebeard only chuckled, retreating a few steps with his hands raised. “As you wish. I’ll be right here if you faint and crack your head on the tile.”

Bigby took a lot of pleasure in slamming the door in his stupid, handsome, face. 

By the time Bigby came back out, pale and sweat-damp from the effort of standing from the toilet unassisted and being upright in general, Bluebeard was waiting exactly where he’d promised. He slid back under Bigby’s arm, then wrapped his other arm under Bigby’s knees without waiting for permission, scooping him into a bridal carry.

Bigby didn’t have the energy to argue, simply going limp until he was gently placed on his recliner with infuriating care. “Maybe you should get into scrapes more often. You’re a lot nicer when you're suffering from bloodloss.” He adjusted a pillow behind Bigby’s back, tugged the blanket back over his knees, then cupped Bigby’s face to peer into his eyes, assessing his color.

“Though, pallor doesn’t suit you as much as your usual healthy glow,” he teased.

Bigby’s ears burned. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Bluebeard smiled faintly, almost tender. “What can I say? You're letting me close, and I happen to like being close.”

From the corner, Colin snorted. “Can you keep it down with the foreplay! I’m trying to sleep!”

Bigby groaned and covered his face with his hands, but Bluebeard only laughed, low, pleased, and completely unbothered.

-

The afternoon stretched on in a strange, quiet rhythm. He wasn’t used to being still, to being confined to a chair, unable to even walk the ten steps to the bathroom without help. Bluebeard, irritatingly enough, seemed adamant to not let Bigby stew in his own misery, providing enough distraction to keep his spirits up.

Sometimes it was with idle conversation. Small talk that required almost no effort from Bigby to keep up with, pointless anecdotes about Fabletown gossip, stories from centuries past that bordered on bragging, a sardonic remark tossed at Colin when the pig piped in from his corner.

When Bigby was too tired to talk, Bluebeard read aloud from the book in his hand, his voice smooth and deliberate, carrying through the room like a performance meant for a much larger audience. 

When Bigby’s attention wandered, Bluebeard somehow always managed to reel it back. A story about the castle he once owned, a memory of a grand ball, some ridiculous tale of Fabletown politics. All of it kept Bigby’s restless mind from sinking into the ache of his body. Even Colin had given up on his nap, much more interested in heckling Bluebeard’s stories with the occasional dry remark that earned a huff of pained laughter from Bigby.

It wasn’t exactly lively, but it kept Bigby’s mind off the sharp ache that flared whenever he shifted too much. He hated to admit it, but Bluebeard was good at keeping the atmosphere just light enough that the stillness didn’t press down on him like a weight. Bigby found himself half-listening, half-dozing, lulled into a rhythm that almost felt domestic if he didn’t think too hard about it.

Time blurred this way, and Bigby found himself strangely grateful that the man was there. He hated being still, he hated being watched more, but this was so much better than drowning alone in his own thoughts. 

As the sunlight stretched across the floorboards and into the late afternoon haze, Bluebeard was watching the clock more than his book.

Bigby had just started to doze again, Colin had already fallen back asleep after Bluebeard had made them lunch, but the throbbing in his side reminded him it was nearly time for his next round of pills. 

As if on cue, Bluebeard set his book aside, stood, and crossed the room with easy grace, fetching a glass of water and the small case Snow had left on the counter.

Bigby caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and groaned under his breath. “Already?” he muttered, just to be annoying, he knew what time it was.

Bluebeard didn’t bother answering, just shook the bottles so the pills rattled against the plastic like a reminder. With the same easy authority he used when steering a conversation, he crossed the room and placed the glass of water on the table within Bigby’s reach.

“Two o’clock,” he said simply, like that was all the justification needed. “Doctor’s orders. Open wide.”

Bigby slouched further into his chair, glaring at the ceiling. It had barely been a day since he’d gotten hurt, but Bigby was already hating this.

Every hour parceled out between sleeping, eating, hurting, and swallowing whatever cocktail Swineheart insisted on. But when Bluebeard tipped his scheduled dose into his palm and offered them with a look that managed to be both smug and oddly gentle, Bigby sighed, resigned.

He held out his hand. Bluebeard’s lithe fingers cupped his own to not lose any pills in the process of transferring them. It was such a small contact, but it sent waves of warmth through Bigby’s body regardless. 

Bluebeard chuckled, placing a hand in his hair and running his fingers though the auburn strands. Scratching his scalp in a way that had him melting his chair, “Good boy.” 

Bigby ignored the comment, taking the pills with the water and swallowing hard to force them down his throat, the bitter aftertaste clinging to his tongue. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, more to cover the heat crawling up his neck than anything else. “Don’t get used to this,” he muttered, voice rough. “I won’t need you playing nursemaid for long.”

Bluebeard closed the pill case with a harsh zip, his smile sharp but unreadable. “But I'm having so much fun.” He whined facetiously as he sat, crossing his legs and leaning back in the chair like he wasn’t watching Bigby’s every twitch, like the words weren’t a deliberate poke.

Bigby snorted, rolling his head against the back of the couch. “I’m sure it’s so fun shoving pills down my throat and treating my apartment like a petting zoo, yeah. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Funny,” Bluebeard drawled, picking up his book, thumbing idly along its spine, “the last time I pet you, you huffed me like a teenager sniffing paint fumes then bolted before I could even get a word in.” His gaze flicked up, lazy and knowing. “Now look at you, can’t run anywhere now.”

Bigby’s jaw tightened. He hated how much his gaze made him want to bolt, how the words hung in the air like smoke he couldn’t wave away. The worst part was he couldn’t even deny them. 

From the corner came a loud snort. Colin cracked one eye open, looking between the two of them with the kind of smug amusement only a pig could muster. “Wow. You two gonna kiss? should I leave the room?”

Bigby groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“I was,” Colin said, stretching his stubby legs. “But it’s hard to nap when Bluebeard’s laying it on thicker than the ash in your carpet.”

Bluebeard only smiled faintly, his eyes never leaving Bigby’s face. The eyes of a predator. “You can glower all you like, but I’m not going to abandon you. You’ll just have to get used to me being here.”

Colin let out a sharp snort. “Oh, that sounded weirdly romantic. Should I start looking at chapels for you two?”

Bigby’s head snapped toward him, his piercing glare enough to nail him to the wall. Colin only laughed, thoroughly pleased with himself.

Chapter Text

The scent of Snow’s perfume drifted in first, crisp and cool, waking Bigby from his doze. It was followed by the soft sound of her heels on the hall carpet.

The door clicking open roused Bigby fully. He sat up and stretched as much as his wounds would allow. Already, he could tell they were finally beginning to heal. The throbbing pain reduced to only being apparent when he breathed or moved, rather than being constant. 

The sound of the door stirred Bluebeard, as well. The man shifted in the chair he’d half-dozed off in, book slipping slightly in his lap. He blinked awake, then straightened smoothly as though he hadn’t been caught sleeping at all.

“Snow,” he greeted, low and cordial.

She was dressed in her usual work clothes and held a grocery bag in one hand. Her gaze flicked first to Bigby, sprawled in his recliner, then back to Bluebeard. “How was he?”

“Stubborn, but manageable,” Bluebeard said with a faint smirk. He set the book aside, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. He crossed to Bigby, leaned down before the wolf could react, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

The brush of lips against his skin sent heat crawling instantly up Bigby’s ears. “Fuck you,” he growled, low and rough.

Bluebeard only smiled, smug, satisfied, utterly unbothered, and turned toward the door. “Rest well, Bigby. Snow.” With that, he slipped out into the hall, leaving behind only the echo of cologne and infuriating charm.

Bigby grumbled low in his chest, dragging a hand over his face as though he could scrub the heat out of his ears. He didn’t dare look at Snow, but he could feel the weight of her gaze anyway, her eyes following him with quiet scrutiny.

Without comment, she set her bag down on the counter and moved easily to his cramped kitchen, shedding her coat and rolling up her sleeves. The soft sounds of cabinet doors opening, the scrape of a pot, the hiss of the burner. Domestic noises that didn’t belong in his apartment and yet settled around him like a blanket.

He shifted in his recliner, wincing at the pull in his ribs. “You don’t have to bother.” It felt weird to have Snow cooking for him. 

“It's not a bother,” Snow replied evenly, pulling ingredients from the bag she’d brought with her. “I’m making sure you eat something that isn’t fried grease or three-day-old takeout. You know, nutrients.”

Bigby grunted but didn’t argue, letting his eyes drift shut again. The quiet clatter of Snow moving around his kitchen filled the silence. The creak of his ancient oven door, the muffled thud of something being set inside. Then her footsteps returned, stopping just in front of him.

He cracked his eyes open to find her watching him, expression tight, as though there was far more she wanted to say than she could put into words. Bigby squirmed slightly in his recliner, tugging at the blanket in a feeble attempt to shield himself, a small, almost instinctive act of resistance.

“You know,” she started, voice quiet but steady, “I was a little surprised when I got the call from Swineheart. And to find out that you’d called Bluebeard to pick you up.”

Bigby exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I mean, I didn’t exactly have the presence of mind to start flipping through my rolodex, Snow.” His tone was dry, bordering on dismissive, but there was no heat in it.

Snow arched one brow. “Still. You called Bluebeard.”

“And?” Bigby muttered. “I was half out of it. He showed up. That’s all.”

Her silence stretched, heavy but not accusatory, just… disappointed. Bigby could feel it like a weight pressing into his ribs harder than any bandage.

“You’re my partner, Bigby. My friend,” she said finally, softer now. “I would’ve dropped everything to help you. You know that.”

He looked away, jaw tight. “I didn’t think about it. Wasn’t thinking at all, really. Lucky I didn’t just bleed out on the carpet.”

Snow’s gaze softened, the disappointment giving way to something quieter, curious. “Alright,” she said finally, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “In that case, how… are you two? You two went on a date. You’ve been seeing each other, right?”

Bigby’s ears hackles raised immediately. “No. We’re just- We’re just friendly.” His voice was sharp, but it carried a hint of panic under the surface.

Snow didn’t miss the flinch, but she held her expression steady, arms crossed, leaning slightly against the counter. “Uh-huh,” she said dryly. “So Bluebeard’s been carrying you around, bringing you breakfast, planting kisses on you, and that’s all… friendly?”

“Yep.” Bigby grunted, shifting under the blanket. “He’s a- he’s a…” He waved a hand vaguely in the air. “Complicated acquaintance. Nothing else.”

Snow laughed. “You make it sound like he’s a particularly persistent stray,” she said dryly.

“That’s not far off,” Bigby shot back.

Before Snow could press further, a sharp snort came from the corner. Colin, who had apparently been awake longer than either of them realized, cracked one eye open and grinned.

“Stray, huh? That ‘stray’ tucked you into bed, carried you from the can, and has been doting on you like you’re his blushing bride,” the pig said with relish.

Snow’s brow lifted slightly, her lips twitching as if she were holding back a smile. “Is that so?”

Bigby pinched the bridge of his nose, growling low under his breath. “He’s exaggerating.”

“Am I?” Colin pressed, eyes glinting. “Cause last I checked, you didn’t complain when Bluebeard carried you around like a princess.”

Bigby’s ears burned. “I was tired.”

Snow stepped closer again, her expression carefully neutral, though amusement threatened at the edges. “Well… tired or not, it sounds like you’ve been having a good time together.”

Bigby groaned, shoving his face in the blanket to block them both out. “This is harassment,” he mumbled into the fabric.

Colin barked a laugh. “Oh no, Bigby. This is payback for making me watch you two make goo-goo eyes at each other all night.”

Snow’s gaze softened at his embarrassment. She reached down to pat his head, her voice gentle again. “Alright, Bigby. All I’m saying is next time, don’t forget you can lean on me too, not just him. I’m your friend. I want to be there for you.”

Bigby peeked out from under the blanket, meeting her eyes for a beat. He couldn’t quite find words, so he settled for a small grunt of acknowledgement, hoping it was enough to ease the guilt pressing against his ribs harder than the pain ever did.

“Alright, alright,” he sighed sarcastically, his voice muffled by the blanket. “I get it. I’m not a one-man wolf pack, apparently.”

Snow tilted her head, lips twitching faintly at his grumble, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she straightened, eyes scanning the floor with that pragmatic resolve Bigby had learned to recognize.

Before he could ask what she was planning, she bent down and pulled a rolled sleeping bag from out of the bag, unfurling it across his floor.

Bigby frowned. “You don’t need to do that. I’m fine. Go home.”

“You’re not fine,” she said evenly, smoothing it out with brisk efficiency. “And you’re not going to be left alone. That’s the arrangement.”

Bigby let out a frustrated huff. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on the witch? The goat? This is wasting your time.”

Snow glanced up, her expression softening just slightly. “I can do more than one thing at a time, Bigby. I’ve already got people searching. You’re not pulling me away from anything.” She stood with a quiet finality. “You’re my responsibility too.”

Bigby groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but didn’t argue further. The stubborn set of her jaw told him it was pointless.

Colin snorted from his corner. “Guess she’s the one calling the shots now, huh?”

“Guess that puts you on the next ride out to the Farm,” Bigby shot back without opening his eyes.

Snow sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as she retreated to the kitchen to check on dinner. “This is going to be a long night.”