Gren is pretty much a permanent fixture in the Trip Trap. If he wasn't around, it would be safe to assume the world was ending. As much as he tolerates Bigby being around, he's not overly thrilled with it. Holly's told him to be as close to an approximation of 'nice' as he can manage. That Bigby's earned it.
And so, he gives Bigby a sidelong glance, taking a swig of his drink before speaking.
If he's not at the Trip Trap, he's probably in or about to be in the cells or Bigby's office.
Bigby snorts. "You should see the other guy." The other guy will heal, but not as fast as Bigby. And he'll be being spoon fed until his hands get more movement back.
So long Gren isn't picking fights, he's pretty much find company. Hell, even when he does pick fights, Bigby doesn't mind that much. He likes a good scrap.
He taps out a cigarette and draws it out with his mouth. "Fuck. Where's my fucking lighter?"
That is also a very likely scenario. Still, Grendel doesn't seem all that interesting in fighting just yet. That might change, you never know. He can go from nought to sixty in two seconds flat- but currently he's relaxed. Or as relaxed as he generally gets.
"Shitty habit. It'll kill you."
It's funny because it never will. He leans across the bar, rummaging around on the other side of it- eventually retrieving a box of matches, which are unceremoniously dumped on the bartop in front of Bigby.
"Yeah, well, you can all squabble over my shitty, bloodstained armchair and half functioning oven when I'm gone."
He opens the box and strikes a match, watching the flame for a second before using it to actually light his cigarette and take a deep drag. "Mind you." He says it without really exhaling, letting the smoke burn a moment later, obscure the smells of the bar just a bit.
"Mind you, been told I should smoke something less shit. But they're cheap. And you give me plenty. Indigestion. Black eyes. Healthy appreciation of opposable thumbs..."
"I'll pass. I'm hard up but I'm not that fuckin' desperate. I still got my pride."
Grendel makes a sound that could pass for a laugh if you listen hard enough. Maybe. He'll just take another swig of his drink, thank you very much.
"Yeah, well, you deserve the black eyes and indigestion on account of you being a jackass," Holly shoots him a glare- to which he shrugs- this is friendly, he's being friendly, Jesus. "And you couldn't actually hold a smoke with your big fuckin' wolf paws so-"
Bigby does a thankless job for not much but the satisfaction of it. And all the cigarettes he needs to survive living in the city. He watches the smouldering tip of the cigarette for a long moment.
"Couldn't fit something this tiny in my mouth to smoke it. Mind you, if I was able to be myself, odds fucking are, wouldn't need them." He'd be out in the wilds somewhere. Not the Farm. Bigby Wolf isn't to go near the Farm.
"But I'm a jackass with a stable job and a stable glamour equivalent."
Gren would have happily found a fjord somewhere and lived the rest of forever in one away from all these annoying ass mundies and their loud fucking city. Unfortunately, tourists go everywhere and he'd end up being spotted and have his ass dragged to the farm. Or worse. He'd be down the well. So, in New York he stays, miserable and with a nigh on constant headache.
"Yeah yeah, lucky you- Mr. I Can Shapeshift," he does not sound impressed. "Good for you, you don't got to have all your cash taken from you every couple months to keep playing fucking Pretend Person with the mundies."
Wouldn't have been easier just to eat them all? C'mon, Bigby.
Bigby would've stayed in the Carpathians, preying on stragglers and negotiating his ongoing stay with the local nobility.
"I don't get paid, Gren." He didn't. He had his living costs covered. The small apartment in the building and costs. "You can always move to the Farm. No noise, no Mundies, no need to keep wearing that shape. No smashing your neighbours for being noisy. Well, if you do, they're other Fables. They'll get over it."
"So you tellin' me the Big Bad Wolf is livin' in servitude?"
He gives a soft scoff, clearly unimpressed. Fucking Woodlands, the whole lot of them were assholes, through and through in his estimation. He rolls his eyes, sneering at the suggestion.
"No thanks. I'll stick with bein' stuck looking like this and broke as fuck before I willingly stick myself into that fuckin' prison."
"All jobs are fucking servitude. But I got about as much to go back to in the Homelands as anyone else." And a hefty price on his head for the carnage and terror campaign he'd waged. "Still, I get to smack all you idiots into line."
He takes a slow drag on his cigarette and blows it out with a little more force than necessary, sending the smoke curling and whipping in small eddies in the air.
"I dunno. Sounds better than here most of the time. Space. Quiet. No pollution. Maybe if I ate Totenkinder, the rest of them would consider dropping their prices..."
Gren still needs to find his mother- assuming she survived at all. He hasn't heard anything from her since he got out of the Homelands. But he'd very much like to know, one way or the other. If he knew her REAL fate, he'd be considerably less willing to go back. But as is...
"Heh. I wouldn't wanna take that bullet," he sits back a little. "Totenkinder looks gamey as fuck. You'll have indigestion for centuries. Ain't worth it. She'd just come back and hike the prices up more to be a spiteful bitch anyway. No way she's dyin' easy."
BIgby frowns a little. "I thought your Ma had signed the Compact?" He could've sworn he saw her name on there when he signed, years ago. "You know, you could just ask at the office if she's listed. There's records. Might take a while to trawl them all but..."
It's his soft spot, mothers. As much as Bigby has a soft spot.
"Yeah." He downs his drink. "Probably is. Shutting her in a fucking oven didn't manage it." He gives a rough laugh at the prices comment. "Yeah. She fucking would, too. Fuck. We could've done with some of the good fucking witches getting out. But it's only us really vicious ones who clawed our way out."
"If she did, I sure as shit didn't see her anywhere in the mundy," she would have looked for him, he's sure she would. "Last time I asked for anything at the fucking office I was told to come back in four to six months. It ain't that simple, Wolf."
There was always a solid wall against anyone who didn't have the right money or the right title. It was a broken system and Grendel hates it. He knows Snow is trying to make it better, but she's effectively trying to fix a bullet wound with a band aid. She might never fix what Crane put in place before her.
"I mean, it would have been a shitty way to go. Offed by a bunch of fuckin' kidlets by bein' pushed into your own oven. Tragic." He grunts, which might be a laugh. who knows. "That's because us really vicious ones could scrap our way outta the Homelands in the first place. So all them little mice and piggies and princesses and whatever could come following behind."
"Last time, Crane was fucking everything up for everyone."
But, it won't be a priority. Which he understands, but... he owes the people of this place. "Let me see what I can do. I'll light a fire under Bufkin to check the records and see if he can find her."
Because if his mother were alive... well, maybe he can be a little sympathetic. Sometimes.
"Yeah. Following behind." As if he didn't show large numbers of them one of the ways out. But it wasn't for them. It was a fuck you to the Adversary. A huge fuck you, freeing slaves when it became apparent that it was demoralising.
"It's what he does. Fucking everything up for everyone. He's a piece of shit and we're better off without him."
Grendel squints, shoulders tensing a little, suspicion reigning across his expression. He's not exactly used to people being vaguely helpful towards him. He's even LESS used to those people being Bigby.
"...Why? What do you want in return? I ain't got shit."
Bigby shrugs and pours himself another drink carefully. Tries to make a mental note to send some smokes and a bottle to Colin on the next run to the Farm.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Just try to be helpful next time I have to investigate something, yeah? Investment in good will." Because that makes a mercenary sense.
Gren takes a moment to consider this. He weighs up the pros and cons of the venture, settles on an expression that's slightly less of a grimace than usual- and rolls his shoulders.
"Maybe. Depends on if you're planning on arrestin' someone that didn't do shit again."
Yeah, he's always going to be bitter about that. YOU TOOK THE BEST ARM, BIGBY. He lost his arm for that bald fuck. The bitterness will last forever.
"Just cause I'm taking someone in doesn't mean they've been found guilty, key thrown away. I don't stop digging until I've got proof beyond my doubt." It's a matter of pride. He won't let anyone best him, and having the wrong person for a crime? Is letting someone else win.
He stubs out the butt of his cigarette and debates lighting another. "Hopefully won't be anything needs arresting someone. Not for a few years."
Woody would've run. Bigby would've had to hunt him down and waste time finding him. "He was smacking up the girl earlier that night, belted her black and blue, Gren. I needed him to not be fucking running. You know perfectly well that any right thinking Fable would've held him under suspicion."
He really doesn't want to rehash it again and again. "Yeah, but someone murdering Fables isn't usually one of those things."
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And so, he gives Bigby a sidelong glance, taking a swig of his drink before speaking.
"You look like shit."
Look. That was nice. Probably.
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Bigby snorts. "You should see the other guy." The other guy will heal, but not as fast as Bigby. And he'll be being spoon fed until his hands get more movement back.
So long Gren isn't picking fights, he's pretty much find company. Hell, even when he does pick fights, Bigby doesn't mind that much. He likes a good scrap.
He taps out a cigarette and draws it out with his mouth. "Fuck. Where's my fucking lighter?"
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"Shitty habit. It'll kill you."
It's funny because it never will. He leans across the bar, rummaging around on the other side of it- eventually retrieving a box of matches, which are unceremoniously dumped on the bartop in front of Bigby.
"Don't say I never give you nothin'."
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He opens the box and strikes a match, watching the flame for a second before using it to actually light his cigarette and take a deep drag. "Mind you." He says it without really exhaling, letting the smoke burn a moment later, obscure the smells of the bar just a bit.
"Mind you, been told I should smoke something less shit. But they're cheap. And you give me plenty. Indigestion. Black eyes. Healthy appreciation of opposable thumbs..."
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Grendel makes a sound that could pass for a laugh if you listen hard enough. Maybe. He'll just take another swig of his drink, thank you very much.
"Yeah, well, you deserve the black eyes and indigestion on account of you being a jackass," Holly shoots him a glare- to which he shrugs- this is friendly, he's being friendly, Jesus. "And you couldn't actually hold a smoke with your big fuckin' wolf paws so-"
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"Couldn't fit something this tiny in my mouth to smoke it. Mind you, if I was able to be myself, odds fucking are, wouldn't need them." He'd be out in the wilds somewhere. Not the Farm. Bigby Wolf isn't to go near the Farm.
"But I'm a jackass with a stable job and a stable glamour equivalent."
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"Yeah yeah, lucky you- Mr. I Can Shapeshift," he does not sound impressed. "Good for you, you don't got to have all your cash taken from you every couple months to keep playing fucking Pretend Person with the mundies."
Wouldn't have been easier just to eat them all? C'mon, Bigby.
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"I don't get paid, Gren." He didn't. He had his living costs covered. The small apartment in the building and costs. "You can always move to the Farm. No noise, no Mundies, no need to keep wearing that shape. No smashing your neighbours for being noisy. Well, if you do, they're other Fables. They'll get over it."
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He gives a soft scoff, clearly unimpressed. Fucking Woodlands, the whole lot of them were assholes, through and through in his estimation. He rolls his eyes, sneering at the suggestion.
"No thanks. I'll stick with bein' stuck looking like this and broke as fuck before I willingly stick myself into that fuckin' prison."
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He takes a slow drag on his cigarette and blows it out with a little more force than necessary, sending the smoke curling and whipping in small eddies in the air.
"I dunno. Sounds better than here most of the time. Space. Quiet. No pollution. Maybe if I ate Totenkinder, the rest of them would consider dropping their prices..."
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Gren still needs to find his mother- assuming she survived at all. He hasn't heard anything from her since he got out of the Homelands. But he'd very much like to know, one way or the other. If he knew her REAL fate, he'd be considerably less willing to go back. But as is...
"Heh. I wouldn't wanna take that bullet," he sits back a little. "Totenkinder looks gamey as fuck. You'll have indigestion for centuries. Ain't worth it. She'd just come back and hike the prices up more to be a spiteful bitch anyway. No way she's dyin' easy."
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It's his soft spot, mothers. As much as Bigby has a soft spot.
"Yeah." He downs his drink. "Probably is. Shutting her in a fucking oven didn't manage it." He gives a rough laugh at the prices comment. "Yeah. She fucking would, too. Fuck. We could've done with some of the good fucking witches getting out. But it's only us really vicious ones who clawed our way out."
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There was always a solid wall against anyone who didn't have the right money or the right title. It was a broken system and Grendel hates it. He knows Snow is trying to make it better, but she's effectively trying to fix a bullet wound with a band aid. She might never fix what Crane put in place before her.
"I mean, it would have been a shitty way to go. Offed by a bunch of fuckin' kidlets by bein' pushed into your own oven. Tragic." He grunts, which might be a laugh. who knows. "That's because us really vicious ones could scrap our way outta the Homelands in the first place. So all them little mice and piggies and princesses and whatever could come following behind."
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But, it won't be a priority. Which he understands, but... he owes the people of this place. "Let me see what I can do. I'll light a fire under Bufkin to check the records and see if he can find her."
Because if his mother were alive... well, maybe he can be a little sympathetic. Sometimes.
"Yeah. Following behind." As if he didn't show large numbers of them one of the ways out. But it wasn't for them. It was a fuck you to the Adversary. A huge fuck you, freeing slaves when it became apparent that it was demoralising.
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Grendel squints, shoulders tensing a little, suspicion reigning across his expression. He's not exactly used to people being vaguely helpful towards him. He's even LESS used to those people being Bigby.
"...Why? What do you want in return? I ain't got shit."
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"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Just try to be helpful next time I have to investigate something, yeah? Investment in good will." Because that makes a mercenary sense.
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"Maybe. Depends on if you're planning on arrestin' someone that didn't do shit again."
Yeah, he's always going to be bitter about that. YOU TOOK THE BEST ARM, BIGBY. He lost his arm for that bald fuck. The bitterness will last forever.
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He stubs out the butt of his cigarette and debates lighting another. "Hopefully won't be anything needs arresting someone. Not for a few years."
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Not him. But he only trusts Holly.
"You say that, but there'll always be a new piece of bullshit for us to deal with."
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Woody would've run. Bigby would've had to hunt him down and waste time finding him. "He was smacking up the girl earlier that night, belted her black and blue, Gren. I needed him to not be fucking running. You know perfectly well that any right thinking Fable would've held him under suspicion."
He really doesn't want to rehash it again and again. "Yeah, but someone murdering Fables isn't usually one of those things."