The Eisbibers were light-handed, nervous and swift, so gentle and deferential in touch. They caused no pain. On the other hand, they were incredibly tiring: the entire lodge turned up.

Following the Eisbibers came a flock of female...very female Mauzhertzin aged almost precisely between fifteen and seventeen, none of whom wore a skirt on the knee, and all of whom appeared unkeen to let go. A small scuffle broke out over an unnaturally long embrace and Rosalee had to remind them to form an orderly queue. She winked at him as she returned to her cash desk and through his increasingly hot eyes, he could see how much she was raking in. And she looked so beautiful, sitting there, billing it up, looking excitedly around her – not just at the sheer energy of the event she'd arranged, but higher, lower, around at the premises and dreaming almost aloud at what she could do with the money they'd pulled together. She caught his eye and for a moment it seemed she frowned, but he winked back. For this, for her... he could stick this thing out.

There was then a parade of Fuschbauin of a certain age, whose tactic was to approach slowly, smile sweetly and in slow motion, hug suddenly and violently, and then shuffle off, moaning none-too-subtly about the value of a good hug, but what a tall bill it was at thirty bucks. Nick was astonished. At no point in his life had he imagined that one of his hugs would be worth thirty bucks.

He was given a five minute break in which to collect himself, have a drink, and sit for a minute. They may well have provided him with an entirely humiliating throne, but he was so humiliated about sitting on it that he'd been on his feet for the best part of two hours because it just completely went against the grain to perch on it magisterially between hugs. But there was now no ignoring the pain in his side. It could not feel more like being stabbed without actual steel being involved. He collapsed into the back of the chair, getting his breath with the full break allowed to him, then, catching Rosie's concerned eye, waved cheerfully until she looked away and then dropped onto his feet. There were only two batches of folks left, he noted: the Dickfellig posse from the Admiral's Arms and a crowd of Jagerbar, mostly male. Bears. God. Nick felt his chest protest in advance.

With the transplant of the caravan stash firmly in mind, he stepped forward to beam at the first Dickfellig hugger before him, typically leathered (below the waist, not just his skin), white tee-shirted, and actually wearing a badge saying 'Gray Pride'. He narrowly avoided the horn coming towards his face, then realised that the eight guys in front of him intended to hug him two at a time. While this got it all over with fairly quickly, he felt pretty compressed by the time they'd passed on.

And on.. to the bears...Nick lifted his arms, smiled...

There was one guy left in the queue when the snail brulee stopped working altogether and the drilling sensation resumed, deep and intense, a couple of inches under his armpit.

A white fringe drew in like a drawstring around the edge of his vision and he could feel the ground growing spongy under his feet. The earnest fifty-something Jagerbar gripped him sincerely by the shoulders (on balance he preferred the grippers to the huggers) and Nick tried to hear but all he could pick up was the screaming of his chest inside. He could barely lip-read for the grey blotches filling up the limited space in the white drawstring. The Jagerbar appeared content, however, and marched off, having said his piece.

Nick reached for the side of the throne for balance and missed – barely staying on his feet. "Monroe!" It came out as a rasp. A pathetic one. "Monroe?" He saw, distantly, the big Blutbad sprinting towards him but couldn't stay up long enough. The ceiling kind of rose away from him and he hit the deck.

"Crap! Nick! Can you hear me?" Monroe let go of Nick's head and bent down to do his usual breathing-and-pulse thing, but just as he was leaning over he was usurped by Hilde, who barged in, shoved a brawny forearm under Nick's shoulders and patted his face vigorously, eliciting muffled, bewildered grunts of protest from the barely-conscious Grimm.

"Hilde, can you not do that, please?"

She continued, so Monroe grabbed Nick jealously and manoeuvred him into recovery. "We're trying to bring him round gently. Not, y'know, smack him into the middle of next week!"

"If this is not vaking him up, there is a problem."

"I know there's a fricking problem!" Monroe took a deep breath. Volunteer. Must not alienate the volunteer. "Could you get Rosalie, please?"

"I go."

"Do!" For the love of lavender... he shook his head and turned back to Nick, who seemed to have passed out altogether. Oh, so not good. And boiling- HOW could he be that hot? Monroe found himself tearing the flannel shirt off and was both aghast and unsurprised to find a huge red glow of local infection on Nick's side. Rosalie was downstairs quickly, bag in hand. She had oxygen on him first and then fought with her luggage.

"Hell. Hell, Hell. Hell, Hell, hell...hell... – Hold!" She shoved the dripfeed bags into Monny's hands fiercely. "Monny! wake up and hold!"

"Sorry, I was thrown by the hells! What are you giving him?"

"Setting up saline and whatever it is we need to bring his infection down."

"Wasn't that the snail brulee?"

"No, that was just dealing with the symptoms. It's just... we thought we were dealing with flu, and – ah – clearly not. Hang on..." Rosalee bent over and listened. "Pneumonia. Grab the mauve vial."

"WHAT?" Monroe looked down at Nick, who was now actually sheet grey (at least, his sheets were grey) and felt a significant twinge of guilt for hauling him so mercilessly from bed. But then again, if Nick had stayed home all day, he'd have passed out earlier, on his own, and may possibly have got into an even worse state. He liked his version of the story best. Rosie pumped the 'mauve stuff' straight into Nick's arm and his eyes flew open as he bolted upright. Then slumped back again. Cause solved, symptoms still ruled.

"That'll take a few minutes to kick in."

It seemed to take a very, very long time.

They paced, argued and both woged with the stress as they alternately took his pulse and mopped him down. Eventually he gave a weak kind of groan. She bent to listen to his chest.

"Oh, what you trying to say, honey?" She got as close as she could to his mouth and strained to hear. Then ruffled his hair. "Well, that was worth bending over for."

"What's he say?"

"I've got tickly ears, apparently. I'll just go get more cloths. Sit him up a bit more now, if you can."

Monroe slotted himself between Nick and a wall and hauled him up to a more seated position, where Nick's head rested on his collar bone. "Well, that was pretty grim."

"...'m not a...pretty.. Grimm."

Monroe rolled his eyes. "Good to have you back, buddy. Even if you are talking out your ass. You did well today. Thanks. I mean that."

Nick cleared his throat and seemed a little more compos mentis, though breathless. "Did I... get through everyone? There was one...guy...left."

"That's me. We made a huge amount, man. We'll be opening next month, if we're well-organised."

"That's great."

Monroe just let Nick get on with breathing for a little while. He also had to get over the absolute guilt attack of having made a guy with pneumonia hug nearly a hundred people.

"Why does my face hurt?"

"Hilde was reviving you."

"Don't let her do that again, please?"

"Deal. Are you up to holding these? Good." Monroe handed Nick the drip bags and picked him up to take him to the rest room, where it was far more comfortable.

"HOW... do you do that?" Nick asked indistinctly.

"I'm blutbad, remember? We're strong. But seriously, dude, you need to put some weight on. It's like carrying a baby new potato around.

Nick resented being compared to a baby new potato, and said so, distinctly. "Don't I still owe you a hug?"

"Nah, got a better scheme, now. 'Put a Grimm to bed'".