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It's frustrating, feeling so lost; and Graham has never been so lost in his life, like he's completely beyond control of himself.

But something had happened when he kissed Emma.

There were things he'd seen, things he'd felt (and he hasn't felt in so long that it scares him), and things that were so familiar to him, he was sure they'd actually happened. Somehow.

After Emma leaves, Graham stands rooted in front of Storybrooke's one-and-only gas station for a moment helpless, confused, and in some very strange way: exhilarated. It's like he's suddenly filled with something, that emptiness and complacency gone. It's a weight that doesn't drag him down but rather keeps him rooted, giving him some new sense of grounding.

It's like suddenly realizing that you belong somewhere. That there is a purpose for you. That you aren't just aimlessly floating about in a space that means very little.

And the wolf ...

But the feeling is quickly dissipating and he can almost feel it leave; it is emptying like a jug of water being tipped over and spilling out of him.

He can't let that feeling go. He can't return to an empty, complacent husk of himself.

Instantly addicted, Graham tries to hold on to the images and the feelings for as long as he can before realizing that there is only one other person with whom he's felt at least something similar, and it might just be enough for right now until he can take a breath and clear his head, maybe comprehend what he'd seen and why it was Emma (why it always seems to be her) that made him see it at all.

He doesn't want to go after Emma, not after she'd made it clear she didn't want to see him. He likes her enough to respect her space, even if it hurts and even if the only thing he wants to do is explain himself, get her to understand to help him understand -- what little good that might do.

He'll figure this out on his own.

He'll give Emma that space.

And then maybe she'll ... what?

Graham shakes his head, lets out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and crosses the street that will take him towards the suburban neighbourhood where the Mayor lives.

He only hopes that Henry is asleep.


*


He's surrounded by trees.

There's the sound of air being cut through and then the plunk! of something dropping, something soft and fleshy.

There's a young buck lying on its side, an arrow stuck in its flesh. There is very little blood, which he knows is what happens when you aim for the right place.

He is suddenly beside the animal, his hand resting against its still-warm body. There's a wetness on his face, which he quickly realizes are his own tears.

"You have died so that I may live," he can hear himself say. "Forgive me. Your sacrifice is honourable. I thank you."

There's the sound of twigs crunching, the soft panting of a familiar being.

A wolf.

He has one red eye and one ink-black eye. He watches him from the trees then approaches the small clearing on all fours, where he - the hunter, the Huntsman - shot the deer. They look at each other. There's understanding there. Familiarity.

He knows this wolf like he knows these woods and knows himself.

"Don't worry boy. You won't go hungry tonight."


*

Graham wakes with a start.

He's drenched in sweat in a bed that is unfamiliar yet familiar to him.

Beside him: dark hair and a blue slip. Soft, pale skin and quiet breathing.

He's gasping for breath, which wakes Regina from her sleep too.

She asks him what's wrong, and Graham tells her about the dream.

Because it is just a dream, isn't it? No, even he knows better than that. Somewhere in his 'heart of hearts' (for lack of a better phrase), he knows it's so much more than that. It's that wolf again, the one he'd seen when he kissed Emma ...

"It felt like a memory," he finds himself saying aloud.

He suddenly feels alert, sleep being the very last thing on his mind. If he can figure out what these dreams mean, who this wolf is, why he'd dreamed of killing deer and living in the forest, why these things felt so real to him -

"I need some air. I need to think."

He excuses himself, not caring what time it is, because his mind is buzzing and his heart is racing. He left his car at Granny's anyway.

Quickly, he grabs his belongings and leaves the room.

He never once looks back, doesn't say 'goodbye' or anything.


*


The night is chilly. It's colder still when Graham feels the breeze against his heated skin.

He finds his car where he'd left it, by Granny's, which is now closed. The inside is dark, with the exception of the soft glow of the cake-refrigerator. He doesn't think about how normal it feels, being out this late because he'd done it a thousand times on his patrols.

He doesn't think of anything but the images of forests and deer and arrows.

Graham fishes for his keys, his fingers shaking when he goes for the right one. The entire ring slips from his grasp and lands on the asphalt, and when Graham bends down to pick them up, he suddenly hears a soft panting and a small whine like in his dream.

He looks up.

It's the wolf with one red and black eye.

It looks at him, studies him for a moment, then pads off.

Graham collapses to the ground, his heart beating a million miles an hour, and watches it.

Real, he thinks. It was all real. And that wolf must have answers to his questions.

Graham is glad to be walking as he makes his way to the Mayor's house.

He might have had one too many drinks at Milliways Bar before returning to Storybrooke, and a walk will help to work some of that off, maybe allow him to think a little clearer. (Though he isn't exactly counting on it.)

The evening is cool and the sky is cloudless: it's a dark, solid indigo blue that will verge on the edge of black as the hours start to pass. Graham hardly notices it, save for the breeze that winds itself through his hair, cooling the flush of alcohol from his face.

He passes Granny's along the way, and then the hardware store, and soon the animal shelter where he told Emma he would be tonight if she took a shift for him. (The lie still settles itself uncomfortably in his chest, a heavy weight that reminds him of what would happen if she discovered the truth.) The sidewalk winds through the main street, pauses between roads and roadsigns, and continues onward - and still, Graham walks.

The Mayor's house on Mifflin Street is easy enough to spot; it's the biggest house on the block, and the most well-maintained. (Which comes to him as no surprise, considering the woman who lives there.) It makes his own shoddy apartment look a bit pathetic in comparison, not that he has ever needed or wanted to compare them. Graham is content to live where he does, and he's never thought twice about it.

He's glad the door he'd come through from Milliways had been his apartment. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he made his way out, realizing that everything that happened since Regina's phonecall that noon hadn't even been that long ago, really. (Though the bit at Milliways has a way of skewing time anyway, with minutes easily turning into hours.)

His head is still feeling a little out of sorts, and that weight in his chest isn't making things any easier, but as he makes his way to the back of the house where the kitchen is, he reminds himself of what Regina can make him feel, when she makes him feel at all, and it's almost enough to distract him.

Graham has his keys in hand and he doesn't let go of them, even if he never ends up actually getting back into the car and finishing the rest of Emma's night-shift.

He definitely looks like a complete mess, like he'd been thrown up by the neighbourhood hedges, his shirt half-buttoned, his vest hanging loose, his tie gone missing. His mind is buzzing, half-caught between exhaustion so great it's a bit like being wired, and a panic so desperate and frenzied, that he couldn't sit still even if he wanted to.

There's just - nothing he can do, nothing to fix or explain the reasons why tonight happened the way it did.

And it's that helplessness, that hopelessness that keeps him far away from calm.

He decides to walk. At first he thinks he'll make a round about the mayor's house before ending back up at the cruiser, and by then he'll be fine enough to drive home and get some sleep. But it's ten minutes ... twenty ... thirty-five before he finds himself heading further from Regina's until he's hitting neighbourhoods he would only ever frequent while in his car. He can do nothing but walk off that energy, walk off that desperation and guilt and anxiety until his body is so tired, it has no choice but to shut down long enough for him to get some sleep, even if it is at the side of the road.

What happened tonight shouldn't have happened. He knows that now, even if the revelation comes too little, too late.

He shouldn't have answered Regina's call. He shouldn't have agreed to it, not if it meant seeing the look on Emma's face, the one he'd been hoping never to see, never to cause - the expression like he'd just betrayed her.

(And god, has it only been this afternoon? Just this noon, Emma had been smiling at him, teasing him, and they'd had coffee together.)

He should have known. It was an unexplainable itch, a sudden heavy feeling in his gut when he offered her doughnuts by way of polite (and, again, teasing) bribery that what he was going to do was ... wrong, somehow. For days now, Graham knew that his arrangement with Regina was off anyway - why would going to her then fix anything? When was the last time, he thinks, Regina even made you feel?

(Had she ever?)

He pauses by the corner stop-sign, red metal still bright in the darkness, illuminated by the streetlamp some paces away, reflective bold white letters telling him to 'STOP'. He rubs his face and comes away with a slight sheen of perspiration. How long had he been walking?

(Of course she had. She must have. You felt for her once. Didn't you?

But Emma ...)

Emma, with her bravery and her guts, that take-no-shit attitude, her stubbornness and her heart - something about her - no, everything. He couldn't stop thinking about her, and he didn't even try.

From the moment he'd arrested her that first time, something clicked. Something happened. Emma reminded him of an existence - a feeling so long gone past, he didn't even remember it was there at all until then.

And now it won't leave him alone, like something growing bigger and brighter, something he can't reach or touch or smell or even acknowledge with any sense of clarity. It is the start of something magnificent, something hopeful - that much he knows.

And it is destroying what little he understands of himself.




The dark black sky begins to turn a cerulean blue, and then there's a smear of soft pink streaking overhead like someone had taken a brush to the sky. By the time Graham stumbles back towards his cruiser, his feet feel like bricks and his head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. His car is still waiting patiently for him the next street over to the mayor's house where Emma had left it before their confrontation. He makes sure to take a detour, walking the other way so no one from 108 Mifflin Street could catch sight of the disheveled Sheriff, then he gets into his car and drives straight home.

He stands under the shower for an inordinate time, letting the hot water run like it might clear away his guilt, which is now nothing more than a dull ache in his chest. It's a sensation he's still getting used to feeling, and it's foreign and horrible as strangely reassuring as it also has become.

He's exhausted when he collapses into bed, barely managing to pull on a pair of pyjama bottoms before he falls, face-down onto his mattress.

An hour later, his alarm goes off.