The wolf remembers, even when Bigby doesn't.

It remembers the rending of flesh and the warmth of spilt blood; the thrill of the hunt and the taste of the kill. It remembers soft earth under its paws, cold mist in its fur, and hot sun against its back. It remembers the rumble of a triumphant howl, echoing between the trees.

Bigby remembers stubbing his toe on a chair as he stumbles, trying to pull his pants on, and the splurt of an empty shampoo bottle. He remembers the stench of milk, sour two days early, and the taste of day-old Chinese stuck on the bottom of the box. He remembers - even when he wants to forget - that he has a job to do.

The wolf remembers dominion and power and fear; it remembers being king of the world. Bigby remembers himself, just in time to stop his fist smashing into the smug face sneering down at him.

The wolf did what it wanted, when it wanted - and it still does when he sleeps, tossing and turning as he kicks the blankets from the bed, baring his fangs at imaginary goes. Bigby has no time for selfishness; he has rules to follow, laws to obey and obligations to fulfill.

It is still so easy to slip back into the wolf, Bigby finds - but why shouldn't it be? The wolf is what he is, and the man only a skin he wears; he's little more than a child playing dress-up, and they all know it. There's a reason why his office is so small, locked so far away from the other Fables, and why he's given such a long leash to hang himself with.

He used to wonder - why was he even there? He knew why he had accepted the offer, but why had she ever made it? He found it hard to believe it was because she honestly thought he had a chance for redemption; it seemed more likely she saw a use for him, in a war that may never arrive.

Except she never acted like that was her motive, and it frustrated him that he couldn't be certain.

In the end it didn't even matter. There was only one thing Bigby and the wolf could agree on; one thing they had no doubts and no illusions about.

Her.

Even as the wolf padded through the forest, hunting ghosts, it remembered her; when Bigby prowled the halls, sullen and furious, he remembered her. It was always her - because she was the reason they were there now, with him in the suit and it banished to the dark.

It didn't matter what it wanted or what he didn't; whether they liked it or not, they needed her.

If for no other reason, Bigby often brooded, than because she reminded him why he shouldn't be the wolf anymore.