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"Emma-" one of the paramedics says softly, sympathy written across her face. "-you need to let him go, alright, honey?"
She can't find it in her to respond, to remove her arms from him, to look away from his face. He's pale, and he looks like he's peacefully asleep. Her tears splash onto his face, rolling down his cheeks as if they were his own.
"Thank you." he'd whispered gratefully, a tear rolling down his cheek and his hands gentle on her face.
Another sob escapes her, and one of her trembling hands reaches up to wipe her tears off of his face, before moving up to his hair, lightly combing her fingers through it, trying to smooth the curls off of his forehead. She wonders if she'd have been able to run her fingers through it more often if she'd given into her feelings sooner, if she hadn't kept pushing him away. They would've had more time, they should've had more time.
Emma moves her hand from his hair to lightly run her fingers over his brows, then down the slope of his nose, then delicately over one of his cheeks, and lastly, she brushes her fingertips over his lips. The lips she had been kissing not even fifteen minutes ago, the lips that sent a tingle straight to her toes and made her want more, made her want to fall-
She couldn't, no, wouldn't allow herself to think such thoughts. Not anymore.
Her hands leave his body- the paramedic is gently pulling her away. She wonders how long she's been sat there, cradling Graham's not quite cold body, just waiting for his chest to rise and fall, for him to open his eyes, for him to smile at her and brush away her tears, to tell her that he's alright.
He doesn't.
She stares as they put him onto the stretcher, as they zip the bag over him, as his face disappears. Numb is perhaps the best word she can use to describe how she feels as she watches the paramedics leave the Sheriff's Station with his body. Perhaps it hasn't quite sunk in, perhaps it never will. Her chest aches with the absence she hasn't quite processed yet, her heart seems to recognise the absence of Graham Humbert in her life already. The paramedics don't say anything to her, just give her pitying looks as she sits there; sobs quietening down to silent tears.
For a moment, she thinks of Henry, of how he believed everyone in this town was a Fairy tale character. She wonders who Graham would've been. She wonders his place in the story. She squeezes her hands into fists on her lap, a soft hiccup escaping her.
Henry must be wrong, for there are no happy endings or miracles to be had here.
For the next few days, she goes through the motions. She shows up to work every day, fills in paperwork, sees to any disturbances in the town. There's almost none that week. But it gives her something to do; a reason to get out of bed. Graham would want her to go to work, to see that the town doesn't fall to shit without a competent (temporary) sheriff.
She tells this to Mary Margaret one night over dinner, and the woman shakes her head softly at her.
"Graham would want you to grieve too, Emma," she points out, sympathy written over her face. "You should-"
"I'm fine." Emma mutters, shaking her head. She's sure she looks anything but; dark circles under her eyes, hair unstyled, and a permanent frown on her lips.
"His funeral's tomorrow-"
"I don't need to go." she tells Mary Margaret firmly, gripping her fork tightly.
"Emma," she sighs, shaking her head again. "You deserve to say goodbye to him-"
Emma slams down her fork. "I'm not sure if you've forgotten, Mary Margaret, but I held him when he died. I got enough of a goodbye." I don't want to see him lowered into the ground with some hideous flowers he'd hate and Regina shedding her damn crocodile tears and making it about her.
She leaves the table and heads to her room, feeling a little guilty over snapping at Mary Margaret. She'll apologise later when she's not thinking about Graham so much.
His warm smile, the way he'd arch his brows when he was sarcastic, his stupid little jokes that she never should've found as funny as she did, bringing her coffees with the perfect amount of sugar, the caring way he acted with Henry, the small ways he stood up to Regina, the smell of his aftershave and the leather of his jacket, the way his lips felt against hers, how his hands felt whenever he touched her, the soft lilt of his voice, the fact that he encouraged her to stay, that he offered her a job, that he never doubted her, that he felt something with her-
Emma slams her hand over her mouth to stifle the sob threatening to break free from her throat. She stumbles over to her bed, collapsing onto it and squeezing her eyes shut tight.
"I remember." he'd breathed, looking stunned. She'd been confused, but then he'd looked at her with wet eyes and a hopeful smile. "I remember." he'd repeated, stepping closer to her. She'd smiled with confusion, her own eyes wet for reasons she didn't understand. "Thank you." he'd whispered, voice barely audible. A tear fell from his eyes, and he gently cupped her face, leaning in to kiss her again.
"I'm leaving you for me." he'd told Regina, his hands trembling by his side, but his voice stern. He'd made up his mind, and it was clear that nothing or no one would change it. Emma couldn't help but admire his bravery; standing up to the woman he seemed to intimidated by.
She'd gently pressed her hand to his chest, feeling its steady beat beneath her palm. She'd moved his hand there, a small smile pulling at her lips. "See?" he had a heart.
"I didn't... I didn't want you to look at me the way you are now." he'd admitted, sheepish, ashamed, perhaps. He'd kissed her, and she'd let him. Before snapping to her senses and pushing him away.
"You can finish my shift," she told him, voice wavering as she looked at him. His messy hair, his partially unbuttoned shirt, his undone vest and tie. She'd felt sick, disgusted, jealous. Perhaps it wasn't because he was having sex, but moreso about who it was with. "I'm done working nights." she throws the keys at him, before turning and marching off, trying to keep the tears at bay. She didn't care. She couldn't. She wouldn't.
"You're lucky you're..." she'd been about to say 'cute'. She saves herself by grabbing a bear claw from the doughnut box. "You bought a bear claw." she finished, taking a bite from it and keeping her eyes locked with his. There was an almost hopeful smile on his lips, his eyes bright with a mixture of amusement and... lust?
He'd gently pulled her to him once she was out of the mine, gripping onto her tightly before pulling away and holding her at arms length to look her over for any injuries. But he could tell that her attention kept falling to Henry, so he'd given her shoulder a squeeze. "Go." he told her, and she did, her hand lingering on his forearm a moment, both trying to ignore the sparks from feeling their skin touch.
The horror and panic on his face as their eyes met over Mary Margaret giving CPR to John Doe, as she tried to shield Henry from looking. Briefly, she couldn't help but think of how she hoped she'd never see Graham in such a way.
"There's dental," he'd grin ned, squinting at her through the sun, a curl falling across his forehead. She'd itched to brush it back.
"I'm afraid, Miss Swan, you're under arrest," he said with amusement, gently cuffing her. "Again." he'd smirked, eyes shining.
"Ah, so you decided to stay?" he asked her, smirking and reclining in his seat, appraising her. She's mostly impressed that he figured out she likes cinnamon on her hot chocolate. They go back and forth; he tells terrible jokes. And he's clearly a flirt... until it's revealed that he's not the one who bought her the hot chocolate with cinnamon. And... sure, it's a little embarrassing. But thankfully, he never brings it up again, not even to tease her.
"Sweet boy, wouldn't you say?" he'd asked, leaning against her car. How he'd known it was hers, she wasn't sure. But he'd looked nothing short of sinful as he stood there, and she'd cursed herself for thinking such a thing about a guy even remotely involved in her son's- Henry's life. His eyes were dark, they were sizing her up, despite her conflicting feelings, she rather liked the way he looked at her.
The way he'd looked coming down the stairs. She hadn't been able to help but stare a little. He'd noticed, but hadn't acknowledged her with nothing more than a polite smile before leaving the Mayor's mansion.
The tears fall fast and freely down her cheeks, and she lays down, burying her face in a pillow. She sobs quietly into it, hyper aware that Mary Margaret is downstairs. Knowing her, she'd come up and try to comfort Emma. Which... is the last thing she wants right now.
She feels as though if she sees anyone, then she'll try to ignore her grief, try to insist that she's perfectly fine. But she isn't, and she can't ignore this any longer. To do so would be an insult to Graham's life, his memory. And she won't let that happen.
No, no one will forget Graham, not as long as she's around.
So, she cries. Cries and remembers him; the good and the bad. She does, however, try to not think about how he'd felt in her arms as he'd died. And she mostly succeeds. Mostly. She keeps thinking about the funeral, about how she'd planned on not going.
She has to. For Graham.
Emma falls asleep with tears still streaming down her cheeks, and she dreams of dark, sea blue eyes and whispers of remembering.
"...You sure you wanna go?" Mary Margaret asks her that morning, clad in a black dress and coat. It's such a stark contrast to her usual pastels, that Emma did a double take when she'd first come downstairs.
"I don't want to but I..." she smooths down her black skirt- borrowed from Mary Margaret- and clears her throat. "It doesn't feel right not to."
Mary Margaret nods, before sniffing. Emma feels guilt that she'd been so wrapped up in her own grief, that she'd forgotten Graham had been Mary Margaret's friend for years. So, she pulls her into a hug, holding her close and idly swaying a little as she rubs her back.
"I'm sorry-" Mary Margaret chokes out, quickly pulling away and wiping her eyes. "-I... I know he was important to you, I shouldn't-"
"He was your friend long before I came along." Emma whispers, giving her an awkward looking smile. "Don't feel like you have to hide your grief to shield me or something, Mary Margaret, please." the woman nods, and they sit in silence for a few minutes, until they notice the time. It's almost time.
His coffin had been a dark wood with silver embellishments. Emma thinks Graham would have hated it; along with the white roses. The colours don't suit him, the funeral itself is short with no opportunities for anyone to really get up and talk about him.
Regina cries; dark lines of mascara rolling down her cheeks. Bitterly, Emma wonders if she spent last night trying on different mascaras to see which one would have the best effect. Bizarrely, Henry is missing from the funeral.
When Emma asks Regina about it, the woman gives her a look and tells her that Henry shouldn't have to watch someone he'd known buried. Emma supposes she has a point, but... Henry would've wanted to say goodbye, she thinks. Would've wanted to even talk about Graham at the funeral.
"Ready to go?" Mary Margaret asks her as everyone slowly starts to leave the graveyard. Granny's is hosting the wake.
Emma is busy staring at the dirt, at the flowers everyone had left, at the spot where she's sure his gravestone will go. Her heart aches. "You go on ahead. I'll catch up."
Mary Margaret squeezes her shoulder, and leaves her to it.
Emma fiddles with the small plant pot in her hands, oddly nervous, even though Graham isn't here to say a word. No one had brought up that instead of a bouquet or a foam arrangement, Emma had brought a plant pot with purple pansies.
"I know it's... it's not a typical funeral type of... gift? Can I call it a gift when you're..." she trails off, looking at the pot in her hands. "...I looked it up. I wanted... you deserve something that would last a while. And turns out pansies are resilient little guys. They uh... meaning you're thinking of someone; be it remembrance or living." she clears her throat, crouching beside the grave, gently resting her palm on the dirt. "The uh... the purple means a bunch of different things too. I've read it's from 'memories' to even royalty which... yes, I'm well aware you weren't." a little chuckle escapes her, and her eyes wet with tears. "I thought it'd be nice. People can interpret it however they want but... to me I'm going to say it represents that I'll remember you, Graham."
Her voice cracks around his name, and she squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, clutching the plant pot a little tighter. "I'll never forget you either, ever. I just... figured this would be a nice way to symbolise that. I like to think you'd agree, even if it was only to stop me rambling." she smiles, brushing her fingers along the delicate purple petals. "I should've brought gloves or something for this, really." she shakes her head at herself, before moving to the top of his grave and gently digging the plant pot into the dirt. She pulls it out, and depots the pansy plant into the hole left behind.
"Hope no one removes it," she mutters, dusting off her hands and picking up the empty plant pot. She lingers at his graveside for a few more minutes, unsure of what to say. No, she knows what she wants to say... but she can't.
She turns and starts to leave, feeling her heart clench painfully and her walls go back up with each and every step.
"It's been a while." is the first thing Emma says when she arrives at the grave. The dirt is now covered in grass, there is now a stone headstone. It just says his name and date of birth and death.
At least there's something that he'd like; a simple headstone. She wouldn't have put it past Regina to try and make it more extravagant than it needed to be.
She sits down, ignoring the feeling of the wet earth soaking through her jeans. "The pansies seem to be doing good." she smiles, looking at the cheery little patch of flowers. There was nothing else there, no other flowers or anything. "I imagine they probably wouldn't be your first choice of decoration, but come on, they lighten up the place a little."
It's a lame joke. She thinks he'd chuckle at it... perhaps more out of pity than it actually being funny.
"A lot's happened but... I think I'll tell you another time. Today I just..." she trails off, sighing and rubbing her face. The breeze ruffles her hair, and it's a welcome sensation. Being here, alone, it's unnerving. She doesn't know how to feel about talking to Graham's grave, but Mary Margaret had encouraged her. Had told her it might help her heal and feel a little better.
She doesn't get it. She'd much rather be talking to Graham's living, breathing self than a patch of grass and a piece of stone.
"I'm... I don't think I'll be good about coming here regularly. I'm sorry about that, you... you deserve more than that." she whispers, fiddling with the shoelace around her wrist. She'd been wearing it for a few months now. It helps to keep her grounded, to remember that someone had cared about her once and had encouraged her to let down her walls.
Of course, the cruel irony was that he'd died mere days later.
"I wish about a lot of things, y'know. Wish I'd come more often, or that I didn't feel creeped out being in the sheriff's office. I... I wish I'd let you in sooner, we would've... god, we would've had so much more time, Graham. We should've had more time." she whispers, tears stinging at her eyes. She wipes them away. "I could've told you..."
Her throat closes up, as it often does whenever she even thinks the words. It's almost like an allergic reaction, as if her body is rejecting the sentiment. If Graham had known more about Neal and her history with him, she thinks he might've understood.
"...I love you." she finally manages, letting out a shuddering sigh. "Maybe I should use past tense since you're... gone. But it doesn't feel right. You're gone, but I'm not. My feelings aren't... just because you're not here doesn't mean they'll change any time soon." she swallows, looking up at the sky. "You'd probably tell me to start moving on, to open my heart to someone else. And... I will, some day, I think. But I can't, not yet and not soon. You're too important to me, Graham." She wipes her eyes again, taking a moment to press the heels of her palms to her eyes and just breathe.
She hears a whine and something nudges her hip. She glances to the left, startled at the sight of a wolf. It's the same one they'd seen that day, that Graham had insisted was his friend.
The wolf and Emma stare at each other for a few minutes, until the wolf moves past her and curls up protectively in front of Graham's headstone- careful not to ruin the pansies.
A smile comes to her lips, her vision swimming with tears once more. "...Take care of him, boy?" she asks, and the wolf looks at her curiously. "I know you two were good friends."
Another whine escapes the wolf, and he buries his head in his paws, looking up at Emma with what she can only describe as grief. It's funny, how animals seem to sense feelings and such.
"Yeah... I feel ya, bud." she tells him, reaching out and running her hand through the wolf's fur, her eyes falling on Graham's name etched into the stone. "Trust me, I feel ya." the wolf closes his eyes under her gentle hand running through his fur.
She doesn't know how long she sits there, how long their shared grief affects them both. But she knows it's getting late, and she reluctantly pulls her hand from the wolf's fur. Curiosity shines in his mismatched eyes, and she gives him a strained smile.
"I've gotta head home, it's getting late." she swallows, pursing her lips. The wolf buries his head back in his paws. For a moment, as she looks at Graham's headstone, she swears she almost feels his presence. Almost feels his warm hands, his eyes on hers. Almost hears his laugh, or the lilt of his voice. But she doesn't.
"I love you." she breathes, pressing a kiss to her fingers, and gently pressing her fingers to the stone. She reluctantly stands, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath and letting it out. She'd compare the last few months to doing just that; taking a deep breath.
Only it feels like she's finally just let it out, now that she's finally said those three words.