Prompt from Helenluvsboo: Emma is a slayer/huntress/saviour and Graham is a Good!Monster of some kind (werewolf? shapeshifter?). There's really not much Gremma here, mostly just flirting and Graham being shocked at Emma's prettiness.

He looks up in time to see her drop from the canopy. She lands on the ground in a crouch, standing up and pulling a dagger out of her belt in one fluid movement. To be honest, he's been expecting her for a while, wondering when the mysterious Savior would be turning up to destroy him. Graham doesn't really mind. He's been alive too long.

"So," she says. "You're the mysterious Huntsman." She flicks her braided blond hair back over her shoulder so it falls down her back, and tucks a stray strand behind her ear. Graham tries not to stare too obviously; he'd met her mother and father, he should have guessed how beautiful she would grow up to be. But the runaway princess still takes his breath away.

"And you're the Savior," he replies, trying to ignore the thoughts racing through his brain. "Here to kill me?"

She shrugs. "I can't let one of the Evil Queen's monsters to continue roaming the land." She starts circling, always keeping her wary eyes on him. She expects him to attack at any moment, and he doesn't really blame her. Graham knows the stories of the Huntsman must be terrible indeed, because his deeds while under the Queen's control were terrible. He does not deny that, and with every breath he blames himself for not fighting back hard enough.

"I'm not going to attack you," he says. Despite himself, he's already calculating the easiest way to get out of here without killing her. He wants to die, and rid himself of all that dreadful guilt that's clawing at his heart, but his self-preservation instinct is still going strong.

The Savior snorts. "You're a product of necromancy. You'll do whatever you've been ordered to do. And I can't believe that Regina didn't give you explicit orders to destroy everything Snow White loves."

He leans forward a little. "But you're forgetting something, Princess," he says. "The Evil Queen is dead. No more orders."

"So you've been hanging out here ever since her death," she says wryly. "Trying to atone for your sins, I imagine."

"Actually, yes," he says, not bothering to add that he doesn't actually believe in the gods all humans seemed to worship, because the wolves never raised him to believe in such things. The way her eyebrows raise when he says it tells him that, for a heartbeat, she actually wants to believe him, perhaps even does believe him, but her face hardens after a moment. He imagines she's had a lot of monsters tell her similar sob stories that weren't true, unlike his own.

"Tell me something, Princess. When you ran from the castle and set off on this saving spree, did you ever actually ask your parents who the Huntsman was?" he asked.

"I swear to the Gods if you start to tell me a tale about how you saved my mother's life by sacrificing your heart to the Evil Queen in exchange for hers I will kill you here and now," snaps the Savior. "And I do love my pre-battle chat." Somehow he can tell that usually she doesn't, just goes straight for the kill before they can hurt her, but this time she's been trapped in their conversation and maybe she's enjoying snarking at him.

Graham feels his eyebrows rise until he's certain they've disappeared into his hairline as he thinks over her words. "Well, someone's been spreading my story around," he mutters.

"And you're sticking to your guns," she grumbles. "Lovely."

"I'm telling the truth," he says. "Aren't you supposed to have magic? Can't you cast a spell or something that tells truth from lies?"

She eyes him for several moments before waving her hand in an intricate set of gestures and flourishes. "There," she says. "Speak your mind. Confess whatever you'd like to get off your chest. I hear it's supposed to be good for the soul." The wryness of her voice tells him that she doesn't really believe that. He wonders how he understands her so easily. Usually it's very difficult for him to just get a human being.

"I did let your mother go," he says, the story spilling from his lips in a hurried manner. "And the Queen took my heart instead. Using my heart, she was able to force me to do awful things. When I was killed in battle, she resurrected me, unable to let such a precious soldier go." His voice drips with sardonic bitterness. Around him, a green mist begins to permeate the air – the sign for truth, he hopes.

"You're telling the truth," she whispers in awe.

"I'm not going to attack you," he repeats. Once again, the green mist floats up and evaporates into the atmosphere.

"You're a good monster," she says. "I didn't think that was possible. Most necromancy victims are still too full of their master's influence to become good."

Graham shrugs. "I always went against Regina whenever I could," he says. "Perhaps that's helped."

"Maybe," she says, looking thoughtful. "I've never heard of someone who managed to stand against a necromancer's will, though." She looks at him like she's a scientist and he's her latest experiment. "Gods. A zombie who isn't a mindless killer. You're like an early birthday present."

"Hope I live up to the expectation," he quips dryly. "I resent the zombie thing. I do not eat brains and my skin isn't rotting."

"Good," she says. "You're too pretty too turn green." It takes a moment for him to realize that she's flirting shamelessly with him. It's different from the times the Queen used to do it – Regina always did it to unsettle him, but he can tell Emma only does it in good humor. So he smiles.

"You're too pretty get my blood all over you," he says, even though he knows she's not going to kill him by this point, and she laughs.

"A charming zombie. Who knew?" she says jokingly, and he pretends to scowl at the word 'zombie'.

"My name's Emma," she says at long last.

"I'm Graham," he replies. "It's lovely to meet you, Princess." She sheathes her knife and they shake hands.