A/N: This is the revised version, hopefully fixing any grammatical/spelling errors.


CHAPTER 3: Guilt II

Several minutes passed in verbal silence between the two men. Finally reaching his breaking point, Nick pressed his body to move despite its desire to never do so again. It was too difficult for Nick to tolerate Monroe's broken sobbing any longer. It grated, coarse, against his nerves and his already guilty conscience. Drawing himself up, he sat momentarily on the edge of the bed and rubbed a palm against his sore eyes. His own tears had dried shortly before leaving them sticky and dry. Whatever remained of his own misery only worked to further disorient him; his vision was already bleary from the haze of alcohol still lingering in his bloodstream and the steady pounding in his head.

God, he felt like shit, and Monroe's crying wasn't helping.

He stood and skimmed the room quietly in the dim light of the breaking sun in search of what scattered clothing he could find. Despite the care he took in bending to gather what he managed to depict from the gray, his lower back screamed in agony every time, loudly protesting each movement. The pain just under his tailbone reminded him of the time he'd fallen off a horse as a kid and cracked his pelvic bone. He hadn't cried, just remained there, flat on his back as the breath slowly fought its way back into his lungs and the horrified cries of his mother filled his ears. What plagued him now was only muscular and would heal much sooner. Even still, it felt like he'd been kicked in the spine.

His left arm felt no better; he could already see the purpling of a bruise forming from where he'd bitten himself the night before to keep from crying out miserably. It had helped some, but he'd still sounded like a sniveling mess of a man still nursing a broken heart. No wonder Monroe hadn't kissed him, even as just an indulgence; he'd only get a taste of snot and booze and semen on his lips. Not even the blutbad's kindness could conceal the bitter taste of the night.

As Nick slipped on his recovered clothing, he knew it would be impossible for him, as mentally scattered as he was, to find every discarded article. Somewhere in the room hid his favorite green collared-shirt. For now he'd make due with his plain white t-shirt and jeans. He supposed whenever Monroe was feeling better about the whole mess, he would give it back, washed no less in that warm, lavender and mint laundry soap he prized so heavily - the very scent that always seemed to follow the older man around.

With a heavy sigh, Nick took one last regretful look at Monroe's back, now turned away from him, before he slipped silently through the bedroom door. He stumbled his way down the stairs, stopping to rest on the bottom stoop with his head against the railing. All he wanted was to make it home in one piece without his legs collapsing, was that too much to ask?

He clutched his head in his hands as he stifled the desire to suddenly cry in frustrated anguish. There was no merit in losing it now, he reminded himself. It wouldn't gain him anything. With that thought in mind, he willed himself to stand and shuffle through the living room to pick up the remnants of the night before; every empty can of beer and bottle a reminder of his poor choices recently. There was no reason for Nick to make things any worse for himself by leaving them for Monroe to find. It seemed too cruel to make the older man clean up the mess of Nick's despair. He carried as many of the cans and bottles as he could to the kitchen sink and quickly washed out the bottoms before slipping them as quietly as he could into the recycling. Whatever liquor was left in the bottom of the bottles he flushed down the sink, knowing he would not be wanting it anytime in the near future.

Still feeling a tendency for guilt, he tidied the downstairs a bit before he let himself out the front door, the latch catching quietly. He couldn't hear Monroe anymore, maybe he'd fallen asleep. Nick hoped so at the very least. Maybe by the afternoon or the next morning, Monroe would feel better and give him a call and be willing to forgive Nick his impulsiveness and his thoughtless behavior. Maybe Nick could take him out to dinner and a movie… no, that sounded too much like a date. If Monroe was horrified with the notion of Nick suddenly wanting a romantic relationship, which wasn't something he was necessarily planning on, something like that wouldn't help. He'd just make dinner and rent something, maybe even break down and get that gift basket Monroe had stopped hinting at. Maybe some wine and some fancy German candies or some gift certificates to places Nick had no idea if the blutbad even liked. Whatever it took to get back on Monroe's good side, Nick would do it because the blutbad was probably the best friend Nick had ever had and he wasn't willing to lose that. He'd already jeopardized it once by seeking sexual comfort from the man, something he'd apparently so insanely misread, it was mortifying. He had a sneaking suspicion Monroe's willingness to indulge his whims derived from that night in the Lowën pit. It irked Nick that Monroe would feel like he couldn't say no to him because he had saved his life, all the while completely disregarding the fact that he was only in the situation in the first place because of Nick. The next time they talked, Nick would be sure to set that record straight once and for all.

He just hoped there was something he could do to make things right again. He wouldn't know what he'd do if things turned sour between them.

Shoes under one arm, keys and jacket in the other, Nick left the house and stumble-tripped down the walk towards the familiar sight of his vehicle. As he slid into the welcoming comfort of his own car, the driver's seat met his sore body with the one embrace he never doubted would be there waiting for him.

As he drove towards home, he couldn't help but let his mind wander back to the bedroom he'd just left. As the seconds passed, the alcohol dissipating and leaving his mind more focused to ponder Monroe's reaction, he found he was having a hard time understanding the full scope of the blutbad's grief. If he was honest with himself, he wasn't entirely sure why Monroe was so upset. They'd slept together, so what? He knew Monroe didn't love him and he was perfectly fine with that. It didn't mean they couldn't just shove it to the back of their minds and continue on like nothing had happened. Sure it was awkward because they were friends and practically working partners, but was sleeping with Nick really that awful? Was there something he'd said or done that he couldn't remember that warranted such a reaction? Or was it the affects of the alcohol still coursing through the older man's system? Was he crying because he was still drunk? He'd cried after they'd had sex too. How long did alcohol affect Blutbaden anyway? Nick doubted the tome on Blutbaden would say (after all, how many Grimms had Blutbaden drinking buddies?).

Since Monroe was taking the situation the hardest, Nick decided he'd let Monroe determine how things would go from now on and when they'd really talk about it. He'd rejected Monroe's initial offer to talk because he'd rather do it when his head didn't feel like imploding and his lower half didn't feel like seceding from his body. When Monroe was ready, they'd talk, for real.

Just then, a startling thought Nick really didn't have the mental capacity to deal with passed through his mind before he could stop himself.

What if… Monroe didn't want to be friends anymore.

Nick felt his breath catch as an anxiety he'd carried for so many years resurfaced. Monroe must realize by now that Nick was also attracted to men; would he be so disturbed by this fact that he'd be unable to continue their relationship, despite anything Nick said to appease his fears? Did it change their entire dynamic? Would he be unable to look Nick in the eyes after this, so disgusted he was by the potential thoughts skimming just under the surface of Nick's mind?

No, it wasn't worth letting his thoughts go there. Yet he couldn't help but feel a great deal of sadness descend upon his shoulders with the notion that Monroe might leave him for good. He couldn't count how many times he'd been abandoned recently; every time his mind touched on the subject in the last few weeks, his heart would ache and his head would pound. Combined now with his growing hangover, treading too deeply on the matter might incapacitate him. Even yet, their lovely faces, all lined in a row, flashed through his mind in continuous bursts of painful images.

His parents, his aunt… they hadn't had a choice… at least not his Aunt Marie. His mother… His fingers clenched against the leather under his grip, his teeth grinding as her face flickered in front of his eyes. Her eyes, no longer the warm, smiling ones of his memory, replaced by the cool gaze of another, more predatory Grimm. He couldn't trust her, not after what she'd done to him. After she'd lied and made him to suffer alone for so many years. Perhaps his father was even still alive, he didn't know, she hadn't been clear. As soon as Kimura had been killed, she had left. She offered few words except that she loved him and it was for his own good. She promised she would contact him soon.

He felt more loved by her when she had been dead. She wasn't the mother he remembered, the one who used to tuck him in at night and promise she would always be there to love him. What had happened to turn her into what she was now? Would his own eyes twist and curl into cruel embers like hers? Would he lose his empathy and become just as calculating as her aura suggested?

Above all else, he felt betrayed by her. By her lies and her belief that telling him nothing was somehow supposed to protect him from harm.

He laughed, a bitter taste in the back of his throat. What was her betrayal compared to the one he wrought against Juliette?

Juliette. Poor, beautiful Juliette. He'd destroyed her in so many ways because he was too goddamned stubborn to let her go. Too selfish. He'd held onto her in the hopes that he could make things work; he'd kept her under the misguided notion that he could someone work her into his life as a Grimm, that he could somehow keep his lives separate. There was no mistaking it now, only death could separate him from the blood coursing through his own veins; no distance, no matter how far, would suffice.

Juliette, the one he loved above all else; for a time he even believed he loved her even more than himself, but apparently that wasn't the case. What else could explain his selfish desire to keep her caged? She had been snatched up like a rabbit in a snare, caught and smothered deep into his web of lies. And because of his own negligence and naivety, she had suffered unimaginably because of it.

Whatever Adalind had done to Juliette, there was no undoing. Rosalee had spent countless nights searching high and low for a cure, but there was none. Juliette would be forever tainted by what Nick had thoughtlessly done to Adalind and what she in turn had done to Juliette in vengeance.

The doctors called it Late-Onset Schizophrenia, but Nick knew the truth. She saw now what Nick saw everywhere he turned. He knew in that bitter moment when she started shrieking in absolute terror about demons with the faces of goats and people with blood red eyes; her pain his as he watched her cry in that cold, padded cell. Raised catholic, it was what she understood it all to mean. The fear Nick had felt when he first started seeing wesen, she now struggled with it alone. Nick couldn't comfort her, couldn't even get near her, for her fear of this new, other world extended to him as well.

Over a month ago, Juliette had been released from the hospital after her collapse at Monroe's house. Nick would have gone to pick her up, but he was already struggling with the return of his mother. Hank had offered to pick up Juliette from the hospital so Nick could distract himself by cleaning the house and making up a comforting 'welcome home' meal for Juliette. He'd doubted then that Juliette would have forgotten their conversation about his sanity and his attempts to prove to her the existence of wesen; he hoped that his efforts to welcome her home would result in her forgiveness and perhaps her willingness to listen to him again as he tried to explain himself. Monroe, at the time, was still willing to show her his true face. When she was feeling up to it, he planned on taking her over to his house to prove he wasn't crazy.

They never got to that point. As soon as Juliette had walked through the front door, something in her changed. Her eyes had gone round with terror at just the sight of Nick's face. She said nothing as she stared at him in horror, so he hadn't been sure if he was understanding her look correctly. He remembered wondering if she'd forgotten him, or if he had been correct to assume that Adalind had done something to her. Hank, completely unaware of the change, had given Juliette a brief hug. Nick couldn't help but notice the way she clutched at his elbow as he bid them farewell and headed for the door. At the sound of the door closing and latching, Juliette lunged.

He wasn't sure what she saw then, he still didn't. Perhaps she'd seen his true face, the one even he couldn't see. The true face of the Grimm, however horrid and revolting it might be. A face every wesen, even Monroe, had seen. He remembered the feel of her hands around his throat, the press of her thumbs against his larynx, with a strength, almost super-human. Her eyes, dark and crazed as she screamed over and over again into his face, "Demon!" He managed somehow to break free of her grasp, but only long enough for Juliette to snatch a steak knife from the dining room table and stab Nick three times in the left shoulder and arm. If Hank hadn't been outside the door just then, would she have tried to kill him? He could never hurt Juliette, even if she was about to do him in. Not when she wasn't even herself. Not when he'd been the one to do this to her…

It had rained that night, he remembered, as he had sat huddled in one of the ambulances as the EMT did her best to staunch the bleeding. He remembered Hank's hand on his other shoulder as they watched another ambulance take Juliette back to the hospital, a different one, for evaluation.

Juliette was gone now, shipped off to California to live with her sister, Lydia, on her spacious ranch. It was a place for the abused, the strays and the abandoned. It was the sort of place Juliette had always dreamed of working at, a place to do real good in the world. However, as it was, she would never be able to work as a veterinarian again; with the unpredictability of her behavior, she couldn't be trusted with sharp implements. She couldn't be trusted not to hurt herself or others. For now, she was doing pretty well at her sister's; her attacks were far and few in between, but whenever Lydia or her husband tried to take her into town, Juliette would lose her mind as soon as she spotted a wesen of any sort. She would grow agitated to the point of violent hysteria and had almost injured one of Lydia's children in the process. For now they kept Juliette sheltered on the ranch where she helped with the animal rehabilitation.

The animals calm her, Lydia had said the last time she and Nick had talked on the phone. You should see her… she's almost like herself again.

But he never could. He could never see Juliette again if he wanted her to have any semblance of a life again. Every time her eyes fell upon his face, or even if his name wisped past her ears, she would convulse into a violent fit, foaming at the mouth as she dragged her fingernails deep into the flesh of her arms. Whatever Adalind had done to her, it was intended for Nick's ultimate destruction. Nick was supposed to have died at the hands of Juliette that night. He hadn't, physically, but sometimes it felt as though he had inside.

Now the love of his life was gone, as good as dead to him; Juliette was another person he'd lost, this time by his own hands it seemed. If only he'd left her sooner - if he'd let her go - maybe she could have been happy, could have lived a normal, full life with a loving husband and the two wonderful children she had always longed for. A boy and a girl. And a house full of animals. It was possible now that Juliette would die alone, all because of him.

With a shuddering sigh, Nick pushed these thoughts as well as far from his mind as possible as he pulled up to the front of the empty house. Inside he knew there were boxes stacked in all corners, a few bare essentials here and there; with just the realization of what his life had become in such a short, few months, he felt the sadness sag down into his very soul. The house had always been Juliette's and was under her name. He'd been living in an apartment until he met her. A week ago Lydia had put the house up for sale in order to help cover Juliette's mounting medical bills for a lifelong disorder they would have to try their best to work with. Lydia felt bad kicking Nick out, but Nick assured her that he had a place to go and would be out by the time the house sold. And it wasn't as though he felt he belonged there anymore, not when Juliette's brilliant smile wasn't there to welcome him home. Not when it had dimmed and faded taking with it every comfort he'd known for so long. The house was just a dark hole now, a shadow of his former happiness. It was a place where his life had ended in so many ways.

Stopping at the door for a moment to let his imagination carry him back to the auburn waves of her hair, he steeled himself before jostling the keys in the lock and swinging the door open to hollow darkness. He dragged himself reluctantly through the house to the bathroom to brush his teeth in hopes of dislodging the lingering taste of shame and bitterness on his tongue. When he finally gazed up and into the mirror, the person he found there disgusted him. If he hadn't stared every night into those same dull, flat-gray eyes, now unpleasantly emphasized by heavy, dark circles, he wouldn't have recognized himself. His face had a sallow look to it now and was beginning to look noticeably thinner. His unshaven cheeks hid some of the damage weeks of malnourishment had wreaked on his body. He knew he should try to eat more, but he was finding himself forgetting to and his body had ceased to violently protest his self-inflicted fast. Hank had noticed, even Monroe; he'd seen the worry in their eyes and noticed their attempts to push food on him. It wasn't as though he was doing this to punish himself; the grief swallowing his heart just took precedence in his mind. When he shed his shirt to examine the damage further, he could tell his muscles were beginning to suffer as well and felt chastised by the looseness of his jeans. Perhaps he'd ask Monroe to have dinner with him more often, just so he'd remember to eat. He would ask when Monroe called him later that night or the next.

Even his hair had suffered from neglect, grown too long and hanging carelessly limp into his eyes, looking all the worse for wear. Normally Juliette would have given it a trim every two weeks, but he hadn't bothered with the scissors or a barber. There'd really been no point. Who was he trying to impress now? Was there really anyone but Juliette? Monroe maybe, unconsciously, but that went nowhere fast.

He snickered as he flexed his shrunken physique in the mirror. Everyone always said, "Nick, you're so beautiful," if they could only see him now. He looked diseased, especially with the way his face was beginning to waste away. Whatever dark, hideous evil thing that existed inside of Nick, Juliette had seen it. An inner ugliness his outer beauty could no longer hide. Had Monroe seen it too last night? Had he seen the true Nick Burkhardt? The one only Nick knew existed?

Nick threw open the cupboard under the sink and pulled out his electric shaver. If he was so ugly inside, at least the outside should match.

When he was done, only a thin sheen of black fuzz hid his lumpy skull. Now he truly looked like he was dying. He shot himself a dark grin in the mirror, morbidly amused by the transformation.

Now that he'd dealt with the petty cosmetic portion of his image, it was impossible to ignore the burning pain in his arm any longer. Examining the tender, bruised flesh of his left arm, he was irritated to find he'd drawn blood in several places where his teeth had punctured skin. It was scabbed over now in weak patches of red. He'd be damned if he got an infection from something so stupid. Scraping his fingernails over the skin of his arm, he felt the small droplets of blood form in their wake. He squeezed out whatever sickly blood he could before dousing the bite in water and soap, finishing with the painful sting of disinfectant. When he deemed it fit, he staunched what remained before slapping down some antibiotics and wrapping the whole mess, bruise and all, beneath ashen white gauze.

He supposed it wasn't that odd for a person to bite themselves when they were troubled. People always seemed to bite at their lips when they were nervous or agitated; he'd done that too last night, and now his lips were shredded and raw and he sorely regretted it. The night before, he'd accidentally slipped back into an old habit he'd formed during his childhood. Normally he wouldn't have bitten down so hard, but he supposed it was the fault of the alcohol dimming his sense of reality and how much he was really harming himself. He'd only ever drawn blood once before during a particularly tough time in high school and swore he would never be so careless again. Apparently drinking hadn't helped, nor his grief or the sadness he'd felt while coupled with Monroe's body. Every time Nick had moved in for a kiss, Monroe had rejected him. And every gentle touch he longed for from the older man had been withheld. As their bodies had joined, fierce and meaningless, Nick, overwhelmed with the anguish of impending abandonment when they would inevitably part, wept in the only way he knew how.

When he was younger, he'd felt selfish asking Aunt Marie to comfort him when she too felt the burden of sadness, coupled with the amount of responsibility suddenly thrust upon her shoulders. He didn't want to further burden her, so he'd learned his own way of dealing with his painful emotions. Because of the nature of his new life as an orphan, a life constantly on the move, he'd learned how to scream and cry without making a sound so as not to trouble her. Even those times when he'd had to sleep in a bed right beside hers, she hadn't been the wiser. Buried beneath the covers, he'd curl in on himself and scream in silent anguish. Biting himself became a way of controlling his desire to let his inner torment pierce the air. The pain kept him focused on the moment, kept his mind from wandering too far out of his control.

Even back then, it wasn't by far a new concept to him; he'd learned how to cry quietly all his life so as not to be chastised by his parents for acting childish. He supposed they were only trying to prepare him for a difficult life when he came into his heritage, but he'd learned to feel guilty when he was sad. It wasn't as though he'd suffered much in his life; his parents had always been kind to him and he'd never experienced abuse of any kind. Even the death of his parents felt underrated in terms of suffering worldwide by other kids his age. Child soldiers and slaves. He was lucky in so many ways. He supposed any psychologist would be horrified by the way he rationalized and handled his grief and it was probably not a healthy way to deal with pain, which he did realize. Even still, even now, having reached out to Monroe for comfort, he felt a certain weight of guilt crushing him.

Monroe was his friend, but his grief was only his to bear. Monroe had never tried to drown Nick in his own hidden sorrows, not that Nick would have minded. He would have carried Monroe anywhere he needed to go on his shoulders if it came down to it. But another's sorrow often distracted Nick from his own.

Perhaps it wasn't such an selfless intention after all.

He wouldn't ask again or bring up his grief surrounding Juliette. He'd let them slip comfortably back into their casual relationship, one not fraught with despair. Maybe they'd never know each other's darkest secrets, but as long as he could still call Monroe his friend, he'd rather be silently miserable than utterly alone.

Feeling rather sullen now and ultra-conscious of his recent self-neglect, Nick forced himself to drink a glass of water and eat a couple pieces of toast. Unfortunately his stomach wasn't quite as enthusiastic as he was and protested sharply; he found himself back in the bathroom. Defeated, he took a few aspirin, drank another glass of water and went to bed. He woke several hours later, the clock next to his head boasting a little after three in the afternoon. He felt noticeably better than he had before, but was still a bit nauseous and more than a little dizzy. He forced more water into himself and another few pieces of toast. This time they stayed down.

When he finally checked his phone he as disappointed to find that Monroe hadn't called him yet. He probably needed more time, he rationalized; and if he felt the way Nick did, he was probably still passed out in bed.

Unsure of what to do, Nick found himself sitting in the sparse living room. All that was left was the couch as he'd already packed away the TV. He wasn't sure why he'd done that when he thought about it; it seemed rather impatient of him as he wouldn't be moving out for another week at least. Bored, he slowly let his head slump to the back of the couch. He sat there for awhile and contemplated the itch deep in his muscles. Not just in his muscles, but in his veins, his very core. An ache he hadn't acknowledged in years. His fingertips tingled and twitched against his pant leg as he longed for the feel of firm wood between his fingers…

He ignored it for awhile, choosing instead to stare blankly at the ceiling. When he couldn't tolerate the feeling anymore, he clamored from the couch to snag his recently neglected sketch pad and a thick, charcoal pencil. He paused as he considered what to draw. Juliette? No, too painful.

He started to sketch the stack of boxes in the far corner of the living room for no more reason than it held no inherent meaning to him and was no more than cold, harsh lines. The longer he drew, ignoring his real desire, he felt himself grow more and more agitated until he was digging the blunt tip of the pencil deep into the paper, dragging from the white a cavernous black hole he wished to fall into.

Frustrated to the point of violent anger, he threw the sketch book at the wall before collapsing onto the couch in sudden exhaustion. There was no way around it. He couldn't ignore his own internal workings anymore. He'd buried part of his soul for years for no real reason he could readily discern.

Tugging on his shoes and changing his shirt, Nick headed out the backdoor for the yard. Around the house was the gardening shed where he kept his infrequently used bike. He was pleased to find that the tires weren't completely shot when he pulled it out to examine it. Juliette's bike still hung on the rack besides his. In the early days of their relationship, they'd frequently hit the trails and mountain bike for hours; it had been a blast. But work had quickly overtaken their weekends for both of them and their bikes fell into disuse. Looking at her bike now, Nick felt regret tug at his heart. If he'd known what would have eventually happened to them, he would have taken more vacation, more days off. He would have taken her to all the places she wanted to go and would have treated her like royalty every day of her life. He wouldn't have ever argued with her or missed a dinner or, or, or…

There was nothing Nick could do about it now but move forward as painful as that was. Juliette was, in her own way. She was healing within the constraints she was capable of, as tight and cloistered as they were. Nick would just have to do the same.

Locking up the house, Nick took off down the road towards the closest art store he could remember. It was a couple of miles away, but it gave his legs something to do and distracted his mind. Not only that, it was an unusually pleasant day for June; it was warm and rather breezy with the bright sun caressing his pale, winter skin. It was nearly a half-hour later when he reached the chic little storefront. He'd never shopped there before, but had made a mental note of it several times whenever he'd passed by it on his shift. He'd always meant to go in, but had always told himself he didn't have time for art anymore. But oh, how he needed it now.

He parked his bike out front, hoped no one would snag it as he'd forgotten a lock, then headed into the shop. He was greeted by the fragrant smell of paper and paint, wood and canvas. It was the much needed tonic for his soul. Unbidden, his fingers moved over every bristle, every tube, every textured surface he'd denied himself for years. Eventually he found himself stopped in front of the array of colors nailed to the wall, remembering their names like old friends and lovers. Each one precious for their beauty and transforming quality. He hesitated over them before he began grabbing for the acrylic, knowing he had no patience for oil and lacked the mental clarity for watercolors. He needed the quick, forgivable quality of these paints. He needed someone to forgive him his impulsiveness and impatience. He needed the embrace of these colors as much as one from a friend. Here, these paints would love him, wouldn't judge him, based on the ugliness of his soul or body. They could be warm, they could be cold, but they would bend to his will while retaining their own. They were all he needed in his solitude.

He ended up with a basket full of varying shapes and sizes of brushes and a hefty weight of paint. At first he'd grabbed a few 18x24 canvases, but quickly realized his thirst wouldn't, couldn't be quenched by their confined size. Ambitiously, he snagged a few 30x48's before he could think better of it. It wasn't until after he was thanking the store clerk for his bag of supplies when he realized there was no easy way for him to get his purchases home. He really should have driven.

"Um, do you have a bungee or some rope I could borrow?" Nick asked with a chastised look on his face. "I sort of rode my bike here, I guess I wasn't really planning on buying so much…"

The store clerk, a man who looked more like a former Hell's Angel than an artist, chuckled at him. "Oh, here, hold on," he said with a pleasant smile. "Donna?" he called to the back of the store. A short second later, a petite woman about the same age appeared. She wore horn-rimmed glasses and had short, cropped silver hair; he judged from her bohemian dress and bare feet that she had probably been a hippie at some point in her life, if not still.

"Yes, hun?"

"Can you give this poor guy a ride home? He rode here on his bike."

"Oh, no, that's too much," Nick quickly started in horror.

"No problem. Any artist is a friend of mine," the woman said with a warm smile on her face. She beamed at Nick as though he was an old friend; it was startlingly welcome and soothing on his troubled mind. Even yet, Nick couldn't bring himself to impose on these kind people.

"If I could just have some rope…"

"It's no problem, honey!" she said with a wide grin and a rough slap on Nick's back. "I'm parked 'round back. We'll probably have to strap those canvases of yours to the top though."

Nick was quickly beginning to realize there was really no way to win against these people. And besides, the woman had already spirited off all his canvases, which left him no other choice than to stumble after her.

When he saw her car, his heart ached and filled with longing. It was a Volkswagen Beetle just like Monroe's, only done in Robin's Egg Blue. He'd just seen Monroe the night before, but with his discouraging thoughts of late, he found himself longing to curl into the blutbad's side and sleep until this storm passed over. The chance that he'd never ride in the man's car again made him happy he'd unintentionally purchased such ridiculous amounts of supplies, if only for the memories he'd recall in the shell of this small car.

"Here, darling, you can put your bike back here."

Even for such a tiny car, Nick wasn't surprised to find a bike rack attached to the rear bumper along with various bumper stickers and the almost mandatory one, Keep Portland Weird. Anywhere else it would probably be unusual, but like the bumper sticker proclaimed, Portland tended to do things a little differently.

While Donna strapped the canvases to the roof of her car, Nick climbed into the passenger's seat; by her familiarity with the task, he could tell it was a common occurrence for her, whether for herself or from helping others as she was now. She had rebuffed all of Nick's attempts at helping her so he had given up. She seemed quite intent on spoiling him like her child and with the lack of motherly attention he'd felt since Marie's death, he was hard-pressed to refuse it.

"Alright, we're ready to go," she said as she climbed into the driver's seat. Nick was prepared to describe his address, but all she needed was a street name and number. "I used to be a bus driver for the local elementary," she explained. "Helps I've lived here all my life too," she finished with a chuckle.

They chatted comfortably for awhile before Nick felt compelled to say, "I'm sorry you have to go to all this trouble when I probably smell awful. I swear I really do have a house to go home to…"

"Oh, I know," Donna said. "Considering how much you bought, I figured you had some hole in the wall."

"I really should have taken a shower before I went out, but… I just needed to leave before I went crazy. I haven't painted in years, but there's really nothing… I really needed to…" Nick trailed off as he debated with himself internally. He wrung his hands several times before he confessed softly, "My… girlfriend's recently been diagnosed as a schizophrenic and… I've been so depressed. And then last night, I ended up having a drunken one-night stand with my best friend and now I think he hates me…"

She was silent for a long second before she said, "Well, I bet whatever you paint today will be heart-wrenchingly beautiful. I find I always paint the best when I'm in pain. My own husband died two years ago and sometimes it's almost impossible for me to drag myself out of bed. Having a canvas there, waiting for me, not expecting anything from the world or from me, it helps. It also helps to have to go to work every day. Do you have someone looking out for you?"

Nick chuckled a little. "If you're worried I'll hurt myself… I'm a cop. If I failed to show up, I'd have a whole squad beating down my door."

She laughed herself. "That's good to hear. You can always come by the shop anytime you need to. Jim and Florence are always happy to talk to a fellow artist. And you should bring your paintings by sometime, I'd love to see them."

"I'm not very good…"

"Oh, nonsense!" she huffed and swiped her hand at Nick as though to slap him playfully. "Though I'd be irritated if you talked yourself up too much," she joked.

Nick laughed. "Arrogance isn't becoming."

When they finally arrived at the house, Donna helped Nick carry his supplies to the front door before she gave him a tight hug and a warm farewell. Nick was relieved when she was gone because he felt a small prickling of tears behind his eyes and really didn't want to be reduced to crying on the shoulder of someone he'd only just met. He watched her drive on down the road before he shoved his key into the door. If he ever created anything half-way decent he'd be sure to lug it down to the shop to show her, even if just to see her again. In many ways she reminded him of Marie, in her sweet smile and her kind eyes.

He wished he could hear Marie's voice just once more… but unlike his 'late' mother, she was actually gone for good.

Unwilling to ponder her anymore for the moment, either of them, he pushed the thoughts from his mind and focused on the task at hand. In the shed he found the tarps he and Juliette had used when they'd repainted the kitchen the year before. Since there was no longer a reason not to, Nick threw one down on the living room floor and tacked another to the wall before lining up his three canvases along it. He hadn't purchased an easel and hadn't owned one for years, so he'd have to make due with what he had.

He lined up his paints, one by one, and his brushes spread out in a fan. With his deep mug of water at hand and a ratty old towel across his lap, he sat for a long time just staring into the endless depths of his chosen canvas.

Slowly, he let his fingers come to rest against a medium sized brush - round tip, not intended for careful details, just to lay down the foundation. With his other hand he skimmed across the smooth flesh of the paints, searching for just the right shade of his pain. He paused against the tube of Burnt Sienna, thinking of Monroe's warm eyes staring into his. His wide smile and the curls of his hair. His finger clenched, his nails digging into tender flesh. Relaxing, they continued their journey, pausing once more over a tube of Hansa Yellow - his mother's favorite color. It wasn't pain he felt then, just anger. His anger was in shades of yellow. Hansa, ochre, lemon. He forced himself to keep moving.

His pain, his pain was…

He felt his hand reaching, uninhibited, for the Prussian Blue.

Juliette, Juliette… She'd always loved this color. It reminded him of her.

Once the shade of his happiness, it was now only a reminder of his grief.

He unscrewed the cap slowly, feeling the muscles in his arms flexing and tightening as he fought against his desire to throw the whole mess at the wall.

Control, control, he'd always kept himself in control. Every line purposeful in its placement and wrought full of meaning. Faces, animals, flowers, he'd done it all. But what did it mean if it had no life behind it; no reason to exist under the careful strokes of his brush. He wasn't hungry for meaning, he was thirsty for passion and feeling. Raw emotion screaming across the empty plane.

He squeezed a long strip of paint onto the palm of his hand. Without allowing himself any time for thought, he slammed it hard against the canvas, the wooden edges reverberating violently against the wall from the sudden jostling. He let his hand fall, sliding in a long streak of color.

Again, this time in red.

The smears of fresh paint stared at him like two curious, gaping eyes. Two wings on a butterfly. Two people he loved more than anything.

Stark red as blood. Monroe's favorite color. His wild eyes. Deep, midnight blue. Juliette's when she whispered, I love you against his they touched in a sliver of serendipity, violet, a color Nick had always loved yet hesitated to claim for himself. Instead, he was the black he now dragged between them; an empty, cavernous feeling against the canvas. But he was also the white; the nothing haunting their steps.

His fingernails scraped through the layers of wet paint, revealing where he truly hid beneath it all. Deep, smothered under their weighty existences. He would have carried them anywhere; he would have loved them with all his soul. He already did. But they couldn't carry him. Couldn't love him anymore. He was here, drowning under the pain of their loss, his fingers scraping at the ice in their eyes. Cold, frozen, hypothermic. Never again would he laze about in their warmth.

All he had was this and his bittersweet memories.

A certain insanity overtook him then in the scrape and slap of his blood, his true blood, against canvas. Fierce oranges and reds and blues, a wild tempest of energy flowing out through his fingertips. It was in a fervor he moved; one he hadn't allowed for so long, it ached with a tenderness he'd forgotten long before. His hands moved faster than his mind, throwing paint down before he could debate its aesthetic value and function. How many years had it been since he'd felt the cool embrace of the medium? Since he'd let himself fall so deeply into his own passion?

Why'd he hide away this side of himself for so long? Juliette would have supported him, he was sure; had he really believed that an explosion of paint on canvas could derail him from his own future? It was laughable, the notion.

It was true that at some point he'd accepted that he would never be an artist, would always be just a man who loved art - someone who had a meager talent for drawing. As a child, he'd wanted to go to art school and become a painter, but after his parents' death, he knew his Aunt Marie didn't have the funds to send him. Even as a child, there'd been this hesitation in his parents' eyes when he told them he wanted to be a famous artist and have his paintings hung in the Metropolitan. Now he had a feeling it had to do with his heritage, but as a child, he'd attributed it to his own short-comings in talent.

He'd gone on with this belief for most of his life. He just wasn't good enough for art school. He just wasn't good enough to be an artist. He had to pick a different career goal as there was no possible way he could make a living as an artist with his paltry, half-formed talent. His parents had never tried to right this belief, but he supposed they were doing their best to prepare him for his future reality. Even now, with nothing holding him back, he couldn't be an artist. He would always be a Grimm. No matter how far he ran, to the ends of the earth, no matter how many identities he gathered and dispelled, no matter how many names he had, he would always be a Grimm. He would always be hunted for his blood and would always be compelled to keep the peace between wesen. His life as a cop was a good coincidence; it allowed him a way to move legally through his obligations to his heritage and a way to hide the illegal side as well.

But it wasn't as though he had necessarily planned on becoming a detective as a child; he had never been one of those boys who wanted to be a cop or a firefighter almost by default. In elementary and middle school, when he would pick 'artist' as his future ambition, he had been greeted quite often with whispered 'sissy's and 'fag's by the other boys. He always hated those kids and was always glad when, inevitably, they would move again. Eventually he just started putting down, 'famous basketball player.' It was vague, hard to argue, and kept the other boys at a comfortable distance - not too close, yet not so far away.

When fate dumped Nick and Marie south of Portland a year after graduation, Nick decided he was done moving; he was done ripping his own roots from the ground. He wanted somewhere to call his home for once. He'd jumped at the chance for a place on the Portland PD as an officer. He'd been a little too young at the time, so he'd taken a place in the office as an assistant and used his slim paycheck to put himself through the local community college. He'd met Hank then, a regular officer. They'd quickly become friends and when Hank moved up to detective, Nick had a goal.

Aunt Marie had been proud of him, of course. She'd thrown him a small party, just the two of them, when he'd gotten the officer's job. Shortly after that, duty called and she shipped out of town, leaving Nick behind to forge his own future. He felt then, for the first time since he was very young, a clear sense of where his life was headed and the life he was capable of having. For the first time in a long time, he felt truly happy.

His talent for drawing and memorizing facial features came in handy for sketching down criminals, but he'd let his internal creativity wither and decay into bare bones. He rarely showed others his drawings, save the times he needed to use his sketches to catch criminals. It was nearly two years into his relationship with Juliette before she even knew he had a talent for drawing. She'd been annoyed that he'd never shared that part of himself, but he'd brushed it off. Now he wished he'd lavished her with drawings of her favorite flowers or animals, now when he never could. He'd sent a few her way, never signed, and Lydia said she enjoyed them greatly. Said Juliette wished she could meet the man with such a gentle hand.

It was heart-wrenching and self-destructive, so he stopped. Even just imaging her delighted face as she took in the soft charcoal lines of a lily, or the precise dips and curves of a tulip, his heart shattered. Again and again.

But right now this was for no one but him. This was his pain, messy and disoriented, scattered and smeared across the canvas in the way it felt in his chest. Nothing about it could be considered beautiful; it was honest and ugly and broken, just like him, all alone in this empty house.

TBC


A/N: I apologize for the cumbersome nature of this chapter and thank you for your patience; following chapters will be formatted better. At the time of initial writing, I was still searching for the right way to format chapters. Thank you for continuing to read. :)