Hook's Daughter

Lost Hearts

Disclaimer: rights to ABC and Odette Beane.

Since Graham's death, Emma and I had been sleepwalking through the job of acting sheriff. We had not talked about one of us specifically becoming the sheriff. Any decisions like that seemed petty after Graham. Storybrooke had seemed to go quiet, no calls, no emergencies. And maybe it was for the best. Emma just walked around town with her head down, mourning Graham. The news about Graham was simple. He had died of natural causes, a heart fibrillation that had haunted him since childhood. Dr. Whale showed Emma and I the chart, and Emma accepted it, telling me later that a part of her suspected something was off with Graham's death. But that didn't mean she was going to start believing in a curse. She told me she had seen it before. It was just the kind of thing people did when they were vulnerable. The truth was he was gone, and that was that.

By Wednesday morning,  I knew exactly what to do about the decision of sheriff. When we were both in the office, just sitting waiting for any emergency calls, I told Emma what had been on my mind. "We need to decide who's going to be the sheriff and who's going to be the deputy." "Yeah," Emma replied. "I know who should be sheriff, Emma. It's obvious to me and I hope it's obvious to you. Let's face it, Graham loved you. I mean, he really loved you. And, I think you honestly need something to get Graham off of your mind. To distract you from the pain. So, I think you should be sheriff. And I'm more than happy to be your deputy." Emma tried to smile, the first time she had since Graham. "Thanks, Ashton. I guess I'm sheriff then."
The phone rang, and I answered. It was Mr. Gold. He called to ask if we could come by his pawnshop when convenient. After I set the phone down, I told Emma and we headed out to the cruiser.
We found Gold in his back office, applying some kind of clear liquid to a cloth. Either some kind of awesome, impressive magic, or a cleaning solution. I assumed the horrendous odor in the room--somewhere between manure and sweat--was coming from it. As Emma announced herself, Gold did not look up, and instead kept applying the liquid. "Lanolin," he muttered, "that's the smell." "Lovely," I said. "It's the same reason sheep's wool repels water," he noted, "quite amazing, really. Highly flammable, of course." "What can I do for you?" Emma asked, referring to his call. "I wanted to express my condolences about Sheriff Graham now that things have died down," said Gold, finally looking up. I would not have called it a sympathetic look, but at least Rumpelstiltskin was trying to be kind. "Not good for the town. But I know you two were close." Gold began cleaning up around his desk. "You'll do well as a replacement," he said. "I'm not replacing him." "Two weeks as acting sheriff, Ms. Swan. The law says you're sheriff. And I believe Ms. Jones agrees." I ignored the fact that he knew my last name, though I probably should have recognized that. "I also wanted to tell you that I have some of his things here, and I wondered if you might want something." Gold stood, picked up a cardboard box on a nearby countertop, and carried it over to us. He set it down on a table and I saw  number of items I recognized. Graham's leather jacket, his sunglasses, his cell phone. "I don't want any of that," Emma said flatly, staring into the box. I wondered, for a moment, how Gold had come to have these items, but asking questions meant continuing to discuss about Graham, and Emma clearly could not do this right now. "No?" Gold said casually, "how about there?" He pulled three walkie-talkies from the box. "These seem to be police issued. You don't have use for them? Couldn't your boy play with them at least?" Emma sighed and took the three walkie-talkies. "Fine," she said, "thank you." "Children grow up so fast," Gold said, "you'll want to spend as much time with them as possible. You never know when one might run away." He looked at me when he said this, and my eyes widened. Emma looked at Gold. He was making that same face-- somewhere between compassionate and devious. We left.

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