Chapter Text
“All I’m saying is that if we cut any more of the assistance budget, Beauty is actually going to ask for your apartment.” Bigby explains, playfully glaring at Snow when she sighs and goes to light her own cigarette (she knows that’s Bigby’s job).
“I can’t take it,” she shakes her head, leaning into his offer, draped over the chair more casually than usual. The forced proximity is the only upside to never being home anymore, he gets to see her when she’s too tired to front. “I really don’t want to move them again. If they just wait things out we’ll be able to catch up from Crane's ....” She pauses to think, “I don’t even know. I still can’t believe how much he embezzled for rent alone.”
“Seriously,” Bigby agrees, spinning around to hand Snow a stack of manilla folders, “these are actually all the same, by the way. Must’ve kept filing a report till we answered.”
“Oh?” Snow rifles through them, pleased, “we can leave if it’s finished then?”
Bigby playfully nods, kicking the wheel on her chair to push her towards the door. “Get out of here.”
She laughs, light and sweet, giving him a look before standing and taking her bag. “You get out of here,” there’s a hard pause when she gets to the door, “what time are you getting to Toad’s tomorrow?”
“Dunno. Early though. Like seven? And then I’m seeing Swineheart after work.”
Snow nods thoughtfully, and turns on her heel to leave. Time is passing quickly, and Bigby is starting to truly consider her to be his first actual dear friend. She’s the reason he’s concerned about having silver poisoning, what a pleasure to be worried about.
“Then I’ll see you sometime around nine.” she says more to herself than him, the particular lady that she is, “Okay. Bye.”
“Bye Snow.”
The second she leaves, Bigby starts finishing up, closing up the office for the both of them. He locks the door, steps outside, and walks out towards his apartment. Snow goes to talk to some of their clients, most nights, all voluntary-desperate to keep herself busy, he’s sure. They’re busy enough as it is when he hardly has time to drink alone at home anymore.
Tonight, he goes straight to bed, staring up at the ceiling like he does most instead of sleeping. He’s almost certain his old flesh wounds are infected, and it seems to be triggering this nightmare-anxiety response regarding Mary. Things have been bleak despite the uptick of work, and slow rise of positive change. He and Snow haven’t talked about Crane, for instance, not really. Or about how he hasn’t been quite right since everything went down in the alley, though it’s been less than two weeks. Hell, he spent three hours fixing the dishwasher at the Trip Trap just because they promised they’d help Fables with everything and anything. Not to say there wasn’t a time where he would’ve begged on his knees for community: it’s just that even now, loneliness clings to him like a second skin.
———
Morning comes suddenly, and it’s ten, and dear god, the pounding on his door absolutely has to be Snow.
Except when Bigby sits up to get the door and deliver the most panicked apology she’s ever seen, pain shoots through the entirety of his torso, red hot and twisted like a bloodied cattle brand. He can’t help but gag at the feeling, and the memories that come flooding back with it (the drag of the axe alone is enough to make his ears ring), and by the time he yanks the door open, she doesn’t even look angry like he expects.
“I told you not to put it off,” she clearly skips to the middle of the scene, not bothering to lecture him about missing his appointment with Toad, or getting to the business office before the line starts forming. “Get back inside.”
“I’m so sick,” he murmurs, confessing to it like a crime, “fuck-“ he leans forward and grabs the back of his kitchen chair, and Snow hurries to his side.
She presses up against him to catch him, wrapping her arm around his ribs, right against his underbelly, giving Bigby a head rush.
Bigby twists into it, arms around her shoulders and face pressed into her neck. Her body is warming the spot where he was once split viciously apart, all blood and guts and the inside of himself outside.
Embarrassingly enough it makes him press helplessly into her, his lifelong desire to be safe, warm, and kept flaring up at the small taste of affection.
“You’re burning up,” she murmurs, twisting to feel his neck, and Bigby realizes she was trying to help him stay standing, and walk over to the couch, not wrap him in up her arms. Obviously. Fuck his life. “Are you feeling delirious?"
Bigby puts space between them, but still needs to have an arm around her shoulders. When he turns, they’re nose to nose. “Yeah,” he answers, honestly, but also trying to save his ass a little. His face is burning hot, and Snow suddenly has four eyes. His blood starts to feel like it's zig-zagging. “Shit. Shit shit-“ there goes the space, he’s clinging to her now, unable to stand.
Snow gathers him up, bringing them both down together, slow and safe. “It’s alright, it’s just a little silver poisoning,” Snow assures him, “Swineheart says it always feels worse than it is.”
“Yeah,” Bigby nods because he knows she’s right, and he’s really trying not to panic. “But call him now, please. Like now now now-“
Snow leans over him to pick up the landline, and Bigby shuts his eyes, curling into her arms further. “Sorry-such a waste of time.”
“I told you to have him look at it sooner,” Snow scolds, nursing the phone with her shoulder, yeah, yeah whatever. “You won’t be able to help me with anything if you’re dead.”
Bigby doesn’t respond because she’s right, and brings his knees up to curl into a ball. His eyes squeeze shut, a sudden heat beating down on him like the sun is in his skull. Her scent surrounds him, soft and comforting, almost to the same length as her voice. It’s the only time they’re openly physically affectionate (they’re both horribly touch averse, for different but similar reasons, Bigby knows) and despite the shooting pain he basks in it a bit, like a cat in a sun sliver.
“He can take you now,” Snow nudges Bigby, looking devastatingly stressed. She’s got enough to worry about. “So I’m having Bufkin watch the office. I don’t want to deal with asking Bluebeard for anything.”
“Just go,” Bigby huffs into her lap, similar to the way he begged her to start running back in the alley. “He can deal with me when he gets here.”
Snow blankly ignores him, “Once this is dealt with, I can head to Toads, and then I can still spend at least the rest of the night back at the business office.” she’s rubbing these rhythmic, comforting circles on his waist, almost subconsciously. It’s nice and it’s new.
“Don’t do that.” He coughs, and Snow puts a finger to his mouth to shush him.
“I’m talking to myself, don’t distract me.” She bites her lip in worry, goddamnit, and he can smell Swineheart down the hall before he even approaches the door.
Everything’s a bit hazy, but Swineheart’s back with his toolkit, and Bigby has to restrain himself from biting at his own belly to protect the spot. The same spot of the axe and silver bullet.
“It’s just a little piece, but I can find it quickly due to the infection.” Swineheart explains. Bigby uses every ounce of energy within himself to go limp, and his eyes practically go white at the feeling of the metal being dragged out of him.
“Stay still,” Swineheart scolds him, “that’s part of why you’re so weak already, you’ve already reopened the incision for me.”
“He refuses to stay home when it’s clearly bothering him,” Snow chimes in, and Bigby glares at her.
“Cmon, I don’t need both of you getting at me.”
“I’m going to start taking it out,” Swineheart narrates, ignoring his bitching. Snow takes his hand this time, which is a wonderful distraction.
The whole thing feels like a punishment, though, so he gives her a squeeze. “Seriously, I’m sorry.” He looks her in the eye, which usually isn’t his style. Feral and unsocialized.
“You need to be more careful.” Snow says in response, a weight behind it that he lets wash over him. She leans over to look at his wound, face twisting in what looks to be sadness.
Bigby lets her touch it freely, almost easier than having the doctor around it, staying completely still. “Hopefully that’s the last of it.” He murmurs, sick of dealing with all the trouble it’s caused for him.
“I’ve got a good feeling this time,” Snow agrees, gently touching his waist and helping him up. Bigby must’ve died and gone to heaven. “Don’t be so rough on it.”
Bigby tries not to remember what Mary did in the alley, especially the sound of silver dragging heavy over the rainy street. But Snow cradled him in her arms, broken and frightened, and she was able to actually keep him safe. For the first time, having someone to hide behind, despite his own unimportance and loneliness. After that, he dreams of showing her his wounds every night, sometimes even back in the forest when he was most alone.
“I won’t be.” Bigby promises, and Snow nods curtly, standing at attention. She’s off to bother Swineheart with her usual questions, making Bigby’s adrenaline crash with both hysteria and fondness.
When he wakes up again, she’s in his kitchen, another one of her jackets ruined with his blood. A pang of guilt stings his chest, and doubles down when he sits up and gasps in pain.
“Oh my god,” Snow stands, kitchen chair scratching behind her, “enough tearing yourself up!”
Bigby, regrettably, feels suddenly defensive. “Quit acting like it’s my fault-it comes with the job for me.”
“What? Being careless and reckless and not treating your wounds and not sleeping or eating and drinking—“
“It’s got nothing to do with anything, Snow,” Bigby defends, “you’ve got enough to worry about, okay?”
“Sure,” She sounds pissed, but keeps it clipped and cold. She stands in front of where he’s sitting, “that’s reassuring.”
“Explain what you’re saying.” Bigby blinks, suddenly nervous.
“You keep saying that, and then you keep giving me reasons to worry,” she explains, exasperated, “and especially now that Crane is gone, I don't know if I can do this by myself.”
Nobody’s ever stuck around for her, he remembers terribly well. Snow could probably fix the entire world herself if she absolutely had to, but he knows she might just want a friend just like anybody else. It’s not her fault circumstance gave her someone like him.
“I’m sorry.” Bigby says, flatly, and Snow’s face just pinches, before she grabs her keys and walks out the door.
Bigby almost lasts until the end of the business day before calling her and leaving an apology on her tape, dreading seeing her in the morning. Things have gotten weird and charged between them, and while the shift of human dynamics is weird and fascinating, Bigby absolutely hates it.
He likes dreaming about her, sure, like his happy version of the Bloody Mary Nightmare, where Snow starts telling him that everyone forgives him, while drenched in the scent of his own blood. Soothing her hands up and down his solar plexus, like she could massage the guilt straight out. Her hair, soft and dark, and her voice full of reassuring conviction.
He’s a pack animal, and he can’t help it. But, there seems to be something fundamentally repelling and wrong inside of him, that he struggles to undo.
———
Work isn’t as half as awkward as Bigby would expect it to be, and that makes sense, because Snow was able to stand in the same room as Crane again after everything that had happened. If she stopped compartmentalizing for a second she might be as off the handle as he is, and he wouldn’t blame her.
He’s stuck at his desk all day because of his injuries, and it’s decided that’s the new status quo until they have to go upstate together the following week. He doesn’t refuse to sit, especially not after their talk the day before, and it’s clearly the right thing to do because she softens.
“I just,” Snow lightly taps his arm, friendly, professional, “really don’t want anything to happen to you.”
He feels painfully romantic and puppy-love needy, after being raised in the woods alone, just to be rejected upon first knowing every single person in his new society. So what if it comes from the place of a junkyard dog? Trust, for someone like him, is bound to be addicting.
“How many times do I have to remind you,” he says, fake-annoyed, “I’m not going anywhere.” It’s thrilling, getting to confess this to her. Especially when she looks genuinely touched, and is laughing softly at his fake scolding.
“I know, thanks.” Snow looks at the ground, blushing, pink-sparkling-princess, and smiles, but hurries to leave his office a bit timidly. It’s how she gets sometimes, after everything that’s happened. The same way his stomach fills with stones every time he sees the axe, no matter who’s holding it. The door shuts behind her-back to bury herself in work.