Thank you for everyone's kind thoughts and for everyone who has added this story to their favorites and/or their watch list. I apologize for the long wait; school has been horrible this quarter and I have had a lot of changes in my personal life lately. I have not done a final reading of this all together; I hope there's not too many inconsistencies. If you notice one, please let me know. Reviews are always great, criticism always welcome. Please point out what I could do better; I am a fledgling author in need of guidance. : ) Without further ado, chapter 7.


ABSOLUTION: Solace

The first thing Hank said when Nick walked through the doors and up to his desk was, "You look happy this morning," a somewhat knowing grin stretched across his face. Nick smiled back at the older man and gave an exuberant stretch before sitting down.

"Do I? First night in my new house. I'm feeling good."

"Alone?" Hank asked with a suggestive undertone.

"The seat's still warm, Hank."

"..What's that supposed to mean?"

"Juliette. I don't move on that quickly."

Hank's face fell, a look of both mortification and sadness crossing his features. "Sorry, Nick," he apologized. "You know I cared for Juliette, too. I'm just concerned about you."

"Thanks, but I'm okay. Sometimes it's just hard to comprehend that I'll never see her again, not even as just friends."

"Maybe someday," Hank offered in a comforting voice. "Right now she's confused, but maybe one day the two of you could try again. You said she's getting better, right?"

Nick wanted so badly to tell Hank everything; everything about wesen, Monroe, why he would never be able to see Juliette again, but he couldn't. Not yet anyway. Nick just gave Hank a noncommittal smile and leaned back in his chair.

Even though it'd been about a week since he'd moved to the new house, he'd been staying in a motel at night when there was really no reason to as his bed had been one of the first things to make the move. It had taken Nick an unusual amount of gumption to spend that first night alone in that big empty house. He wasn't afraid of anyone hurting him - though he had more than enough reasons to fear something like that since he was alone out in the country - it was what that first night in the house meant that left him feeling uneasy.

New room, new house, new life. A life without Juliette or Monroe. It was both emotionally exhausting and liberating. Lonely, but coursing with potential. Eventually he'd find a new girlfriend and get married and have children. Or not. Likely not. His parents had managed it somehow. He wondered if there was some sort of Grimm convention he could go to and meet eligible Grimm bachelorettes (or bachelors if he was gusty enough to date a man for real). How did Grimms find each other anyway? Or was it just luck of the draw? Would he even recognize another Grimm if he met one or would they just pass each other by on the street?

When he felt keen to speak to his mother again, he'd ask her.

Or maybe he'd take a different route. What if he dated someone like Rosalee? Obviously not Rosalee since she was dating Monroe, but a wesen girl. Fuchsbaue were kind of cute; Eisbiber not so bad; Mauzhertz not the worst things ever…

Really it came back to the Blutbaden. Always came full circle back to Monroe. Didn't help when the only wesen he wanted to date was staunchly unavailable.

"No company at all?" Hank asked, startling Nick. He looked up from his computer at the older man's face.

"No."

"What about Monroe?"

Nick's breath caught for a quick second, his heart stopping. Monroe? Why was he bringing up Monroe all of a sudden? Nick quirked a brow, unsure of what Hank could possibly mean by that.

"What about him? I thought you hated him… Why are you asking about him now?"

Hank gave a heavy sigh. "It's not that I hate him, he's just so… weird, it sort of creeps me out."

Nick laughed. "He's a really nice guy once you get to know him, really. And besides, how often do you meet someone who could tell you all you ever wanted to know about trains, or clocks, or old cameras anyway?"

"How often do you think I want to meet someone who can tell me all I ever wanted to know about trains and clocks and whatever else you just said?"

Nick chuckled and shook his head in defeat. "Point taken."

"And I swear in the last few months he's everywhere I turn," Hank continued. "And not to mention waking up in Adalind's house with his ugly mug staring down at me. Not exactly who I expected to see."

Oops. "Yeah, that's my fault. I asked him to look in on you."

"But why?" Hank asked, a perplexed look on his face."And in all this time, you've never once told me he was your friend."

Nick didn't particularly want to answer those questions since he didn't have an appropriate answer for either one. "I didn't?" Nick asked in an innocent tone, taking his chances with the second one. "I thought that was pretty much implied…"

"I don't know," Hank answered. "Half the time it seemed like you didn't want to be associated with him. But other times, you'd just drop his name in conversation like you were talking about Juliette or something."

"You're not seriously putting Monroe on the same level as Juliette, are you?"

"Should I be?"

What did that mean, Nick wondered anxiously. "Hank, he's my friend, but I'm certainly not as close to him as I am to you," Nick said, pleased with his own save. "I'm sorry I never told you I was friends with him, but honestly I thought you just knew, and I didn't think it really mattered all that much. Not to mention, I was a little embarrassed about the whole thing considering I was the one who had him thrown into the back of a police car while his house was ransacked. If everyone knew I'd become friends with him after that, I'd never live it down."

Hank laughed. "True, true. I'm surprised you two talk at all."

Nick should have left it at that, but he said with an uncomfortable laugh, "So why are we talking about this again?"

Hank's face sobered; it made Nick feel anxious again. "Well, I just don't recall seeing him moving boxes. You two seem close enough that the least he could do is help you move."

Nick hesitated. The look on Hank's face was one he'd seen several times over the years; it meant he was working out the pieces to a puzzle in his brain. And from the looks of it, he'd come to some sort of conclusion. What that conclusion might be, Nick had no idea, but he hoped it was nowhere near the truth.

"Oh, well he's so busy with work," Nick quickly began to lie, embarrassed at how blatant his words really were. If he was a better person, he might feel bad for how often he chose to lie than to fess up, especially when his lies were so contrived. "You remember he makes clocks, right? Well he ended up getting several orders, one right after another, but he came over the day before to help me move some things from storage."

Hank stared at him and Nick knew the other man didn't believe him for a second, but there was also this sliver of something, hope maybe? that he wanted to believe Nick was telling him the truth. Maybe Hank knew they were fighting, maybe he'd figured it out somehow. Nick didn't know how that was even possible or why he'd be even concerned about it. Nick would just have to watch what he said and did a little more closely so as not to slip up any more than he already had. He always tried to keep his personal feelings on the down low or at least try to pretend everything was okay just so people wouldn't ask. It wasn't that he couldn't trust Hank, he'd trust the man with his life, but he wouldn't know what to do if Hank began to dislike him because he fell in love with a man. Hank wasn't a particularly hateful person, and he never seemed to have a problem with homosexuals, but it was always different when it struck closer to home. First it would start with an uncomfortable distance that would grow and fester until Nick felt so anxious and desperate that he'd rather transfer or change partners. It wouldn't be Hank's fault of course, because the man would never outright say he had a problem with it, it would just be that unsaid thing between them.

He didn't want to lose Hank. Hank was the second closest person to him. If he lost Juliette, Monroe and Hank all at once, what would he have left? Would he have anything? He was friends with Rosalee of course, but it was hard to look her in the eyes knowing she had Monroe when he didn't, and he never wanted to resent her for something like that.

"Nick?"

"Huh, what?" Nick asked, looking up from his keyboard to Hank's face.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, of course," Nick quickly replied, the brightest grin he could manage stretched across his face.

Hank just stared at him for a moment longer before he shrugged. "Okay."


"See you later, Hank," Nick said as he walked toward his vehicle later that night.

Hank smiled and shook his head as he called after the younger man, "Tell Monroe, 'hi' for me."

Nick didn't look back, but shook his head as well and laughed. "Will do, Hank."

He wasn't sure what Hank was driving at or if the older man was just teasing him. Most likely the latter. He waved once more to Hank as he drove past the senior detective before making the long drive home. He was getting off late so the traffic wasn't all that bad. Eventually the city melted away to countryside, trees and telephone poles replacing skyscrapers. Even the heavy asphalt lines faded into dusty gravel as Nick turned down a country road and followed it all the way to the end. There were a few houses here and there along the way, each one lonely; dim golden lights like stars in the darkness. His house stood alone at the end, his closest neighbor at least a mile away. He parked in his usual spot in front of the run down garage and sat for a long time just examining his house.

In all honesty, it was perhaps the ugliest thing ever created. He absolutely adored it for that very reason. In a way, it was like him. Shabby, skeletal. Ostracized and relegated out to the sticks. They were two lonely bastards out in the middle of nowhere, somehow made for each other.

When Nick first stumbled upon the house, he hadn't known quite what to think of it. It was an eyesore in so many ways. Originally the home had been a rather attractive old farmhouse, but at some point, someone had come along and tried to build on to it in an L-shape, adding brick and mortar in a Eastern Colonial Manor style. Two story, low peaked roof. Orange brick with white trim and black shutters. The farmhouse part, which was a third as large, was painted in an awful yellow color with pale eggshell blue trim and gray slate roofing, even despite being bound to the flesh of the brick like a parasitic twin. It looked, for lack of a better word, horrifically stupid. It made him laugh. Not even the roofing matched as the tiles were two different shades of gray.

Visually, it looked obnoxious, but it wasn't something that couldn't be easily overlooked with a new paint job. The extra bit built onto the back of the house sealed the deal and really hurt the value of the house. The previous owner, an artist himself, had built on a rather spacious studio. It was the largest of any of the rooms in the house, stretching some 40 feet in one direction. It'd been quite modern and chic at the time he'd built it, which had been sometime during the early 60's. Now it just looked horribly dated and hideous and even squinting couldn't make it belong anywhere on the property. The walls were comprised of cement and steel pillars and large half-length windows, most of which opened outwards a half-foot or so. The floors were a smooth cement, the ceiling at an angle with raised steel rafters and a roof made from sections of plexiglass. Nick wondered if the room doubled as a greenhouse because it certainly felt like one when the ceiling fans weren't spinning and the AC wasn't blasting. Even yet, it was his favorite room in the entire house and was the first room he'd bothered to set up completely and use.

From the main part of the house, the studio was accessible through the foyer. There was also a screen door that opened out to the overgrown field behind the house. He really liked the studio, but it made him feel a little vulnerable being surrounded by windows on two sides, especially at night. He knew he was alone out there, but he felt like he was on display every time he entered the room, as though he were being watched. He'd installed some blinds, which had improved the feeling a bit, and though blinds were relatively cheap, it had cost him a small fortune to cover the sixteen individual windows. He couldn't imagine how the previous owner had dealt with it; he supposed eventually he'd feel the same way.

He also wondered if the previous owner had adored the studio as much as Nick did; it looked well-used at one point at least, long streaks of dried, old paint on the floor and walls; it had grown dusty as though it had fallen into disuse in the last several years though. The man had been old, nearing his nineties. Nick wasn't entirely surprised at the turn.

He'd heard that the previous owner had died penniless and alone in the house; the son, the man who had sold Nick the house, had always hated the property. Nick realized it was ugly, but wondered what other dark secrets were hidden in the walls. When Nick had shown an avid interest in purchasing the house, the son had even knocked it down several grand from the original price which had already floored Nick when he considered the immense size of the house. Structurally it looked decent, so Nick wondered what sort of ghosts lingered in the hallways and what sort of horrific memories stained the floors.

The house had even come partially furnished, the children of the owner not wanting to bother with an estate sale. Everything of value, sentimental or otherwise had been removed, which hadn't amounted to much since the house was still full. Nick didn't mind inheriting furniture since he had almost nothing of his own. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd wanted to buy such an enormous house when he didn't need the space and was unlikely to ever have children. Even if he did, there was something like eight bedrooms. He had yet to explore all of the rooms, he didn't even know what he'd find behind the doors he hadn't opened yet.

Nick figured he'd explore a bit before he went to bed. He didn't have to go into work until the next night, so he had time to sleep in a bit if he wanted to. With a goal in mind, Nick slammed the door to his truck and went inside the awkward house.


Besides the master bedroom, Nick hadn't explored much of the second floor so he decided to start there. He figured he'd work his way down the hall and then take the back stair case and work his way back towards the foyer, leaving the older part of the house for the morning. He chose to start with the room two doors down from his bedroom. When he opened the door, his eyes bulged at the sight; boxes and boxes stacked in every corner, floor to ceiling. Furniture stacked on top of furniture, helter-skelter, nearly toppling over in several places. He closed the door for a second, steeling himself for another look. He opened it again and felt just as overwhelmed. He let out a sigh and continued down the hall. Each room was equally as bad, if not worse. It was rather rude of the son to sell him such a hoarded house, but from just briefly surveying the mess, Nick picked out a few very valuable pieces of camera equipment and even what appeared to be money peeking out of yellowed books. He'd technically purchased everything in the house, if he found money, he was keeping it for the trouble of cleaning up their father's mess.

Now he knew why the previous owner had needed so much room, there was so much stuff. Even in the few rooms that weren't completely packed, it was a sea of white. The owner's son had covered most of the furniture with white dust clothes, probably at the time willing to accept that the house wouldn't sell very quickly; and honestly, though the rooms were generally painted dark, subdued shades, the house was more white than anything. Nick couldn't imagine how long it would take to sell off all the crap crammed inside of the second floor alone. A lot of the things were nice enough, and most of the furniture was antique and in relatively good condition, but for every nice thing there were innumerous stacks of clutter as well. Stacks of boxes filled with old papers and books and odds and ends shoved into all corners. Buried under a stack of newspapers, Nick managed to dig up a handful of sketch books stretching years and years before Nick was even born. The art wasn't necessarily very pretty, but the man had been good. It wasn't very realistic, shying more on the side of conceptual and even surreal, but for that reason alone it was beautiful and Nick immediately treasured his find.

He set the sketch books in the hall and opened the last door at the end of the hall; it had taken him a lot longer than he'd expected and it was already nearing 1:00 AM; he would have to finish the downstairs in the morning. When he opened the door, he immediately concluded that it had been the man's study. Shelves of books lined the walls and a sturdy oak desk stood under an expansive window overlooking the back field. It was pleasantly less hoarded, although he wondered if the empty liquor bottles didn't outnumber the books. He found more in the drawers in the desk and shoved into filing cabinets. It wasn't the first time he'd found evidence of alcohol abuse in the house, but never in this quantity. He'd found several in the master bedroom and in the kitchen, all in various states of consumption. It was really quite depressing. Nick wondered what the man had been like in life, if he'd deserved the loneliness he'd felt that could only be filled with the burn of alcohol.

Nick sighed and flicked off the lights once more and went to bed, all the while wondering about a man who had already passed on.


He spent the next morning digging through boxes of junk, trying hard not to let his thoughts linger on a certain blutbad. But it was hard not to when everything reminded him of the older man. Everything he touched seemed like something Monroe would probably be interested in. Nick didn't know all of Monroe's interests, but if he brought Monroe to the house even once, he'd probably figure out a few more. It would never happen, but just the thought was sort of comforting, not as lonely as it should have made him feel. He was still lonely, sure, but pretending Monroe might one day see his house and explore its secrets with him made wandering the enormous house by himself less intimidating.


He had yet to see the attic, he had a feeling it would be even worse than the rest of the house, maybe even filled with more empty bottles of booze. Only the oldest part of the house had an attic, surprisingly. The door to the attic was located in the hall right above the staircase. It seemed like dangerous placement; if he fell off the ladder he'd go tumbling down the steps. Were these people suicidal? Nick shrugged off the thought as he pulled down the ladder rope and climbed up, instantly feeling the heat from the stuffy attic pouring down on him. Inside the floorboards were covered in a thick layer of dust from years of neglect, but he could tell by the path of disruption that it had been often frequented by someone.

It was a standard attic, exposed rafters, uncovered insulation, occasional dead moth or mouse. More surprisingly, it was relatively void of items save the few dusty boxes stacked in a far corner and a single chair perched in the center of the room below a low lying rafter. Dangling in the light of the circular attic window was the silhouette of a single hanging rope.

An instant chill coursed down Nick's spine at the sight.

He stared at the hanging rope for a long time, wondering what it would take to bring someone to that place. He'd dealt with his fair share of suicides over the years, but there was something about hanging that bothered him more than self-inflicted gunshot wounds. It was such a silent, hopeless death. At least when the gun went off, there was no more thought, no more pain, but to struggle and maybe even regret, he didn't like imagining the thought.

Unbidden, Nick found himself stepping across the room and climbing onto the chair. The brush of the rope against the skin of his forehead sent a rush of anxiety down his back to the base of his tailbone. Unfathomable to even himself, he slipped the well formed noose around his own neck and tightened it until it was flush against his throat to the point it was almost hard to breathe. He wondered how many times the old man had done the same, willing himself to kick the chair out from under him or to just jump. How many times had he come close to actually doing it.

Nick wasn't particularly afraid, but he felt nauseous the longer the stood there, thinking about it. He leaned a few times against the rope, testing it, feeling the resistance choking him. It almost felt like he was drowning, he couldn't breathe. He wrapped his hands around the length of rope above his head and leaned his full weight against it, straining against the bind until his vision started to blacken around the edges, his knees starting to tremble as the oxygen left his body. He wasn't sure what he was aiming for, but suddenly the rope snapped and sent him crashing to the floor, banging his knees against the floor. Frantically, Nick peeled the rope from his neck and breathed in the dusty air gratefully. He lay there for a along time just breathing, his head swimming with thoughts of the old man and his own test of mortality. Maybe the old man had never wanted to go this way, never intended for the rope to actually be used. Maybe it was only meant as a reminder, a comfort from a darkness he couldn't shake. Nick didn't know how the man had died, if it had been suicide. Nick wondered if the son had even known about his father's depression or if he would have even cared. It was a harsh thought about someone he didn't know, but even a cruel man didn't deserve to die like that, all alone in this big house gasping for his very last breaths and regretting the life he'd lived.

It sickened Nick to the pit of his stomach and left him feeling hollow inside.


Nick carried the rope downstairs and outside and burned it, stamping out the flames when it was just a black length of ash. He didn't want death to linger over his house, he had enough of that in his everyday life. He hoped in part the old man would find peace in the gesture, some peace in death.

Nick spent the rest of the morning cleaning and going through boxes of crap that wasn't even his. He was pretty peeved that he'd managed somehow to purchase a lifetime of accumulated things in a month's time; it would take several more months just to sort through and toss what was garbage. Some of it was easy, like the bottles or even boxes of what was essentially trash, but at times it was tough. Interspersed between layers of candy wrappers and old magazines were family photos and even legal documents. It seemed wrong to throw them out, yet he knew the old man's children had no interest. He felt a weird obligation to this man he'd never met before to protect memories that weren't even his. What the hell?

He'd probably end up burning the documents if the son didn't want them and then save the pictures in a shoebox or something. Someone would want them someday, perhaps. Or he could even put them in the wall or something, give them back to the house. Nick had always been a little superstitious about ghosts and whatnot, perhaps it's why he so easily accepted his heritage when honestly anyone else would have checked themselves into a mental institution.

He was almost finished with the front sitting room when his phone rang. Looking down at the number, he found he didn't recognize it. His heart leapt into his throat when Monroe's face flashed through his mind. Who else could it be? Maybe it'd been a mix-up and he'd lost his phone or something.

"Nick Burkhardt," Nick answered, willing himself not to sound too excitable.

There was a pause before a woman's voice said, "Congratulations on the new house."

"How did you get this number?" Nick growled, immediately recognizing his mother's voice. "And how did you know about my house?"

The other end was quiet. "Nicky, I know you're still upset with me, but when you have children, you'll understand why I did what I did."

I'll never have children. You must realize that by now. Or will I have to for the sake of some bloodline I never asked to be part of?

Nick didn't hate being a Grimm, he just didn't care for the price tag so much.

"I don't want to talk to you right now," Nick asserted quite bluntly, not afraid of hurting her feelings.

"Nicky-"

"Don't call me that." You're not my mother anymore. At least not the one who used to call me that.

"Nick. We need to talk eventually. There are a lot of things you need to know."

"I realize that. But now's not a good time."

"Then when?" He didn't appreciate the tone of frustration in her voice. Didn't she realize how much she was hurting him? Or didn't she care? Or was their bloodline far more important than he was?

"I'll contact you when I want to talk."

"When will that be?"

"When I'm ready."

Nick didn't say anything more and didn't wait for her reply before he hung up. He didn't know if he could contact her by that unknown number, but he figured she would make it nearly impossible for him to ignore her forever. If she could find him as easily as she had, he doubted it would be any trouble for her. Likely he'd hear from her again regardless if he wanted to talk or not.

Nick threw himself down onto the settee and lay there for awhile just staring at the ceiling. It frustrated and angered him that he would eventually forgive her. He didn't have to, but he would because that was the sort of person he was. Nick knew how to hold grudges, how to distrust people, but she was his mother. He already felt guilty ignoring her…

Where was Monroe when he needed him? Juliette? Someone to take his side and tell him it was okay to be hurt and angry? God, he wondered even though he wasn't particularly religious, why me?


When his phone rang later that night after work, he was irritable thinking it was his mother again, but it was Lydia instead. He hadn't truly spoken to her since she'd called to tell him that the strange couple - Karen and Eric - had purchased the house and that it was okay for him to start moving his stuff out. He'd tried calling her the other day, but she'd been busy and couldn't talk. Nick was eager to know how Juliette was doing.

She was healthy, apparently, and in good mental standing. She hadn't had an 'attack' for two weeks. Nick was quite pleased to hear she was doing so well.

"I forgot to tell you," Nick said when the conversation lulled. "Do you remember that couple that bought the house? They bought one of my paintings."

"Oh, that's fantastic, Nick," Lydia said, sounding genuinely happy for him. She'd heard from Juliette awhile ago that Nick liked to draw; he'd only recently told her about his paintings.

"Yeah, I finally cashed it the other day. I was thinking I could send you a check to help take care of Juliette or something." Nick worried when the line fell completely silent. "Lydia?" he asked, a hint of concern tingeing his voice.

"Nick…" Lydia said with a cheerless sigh, her voice hard-pressed. "I know you love Juliette, but it's not your problem anymore. I know you don't want to hear this, but… you really need to move on. Live your life. That's your money, you earned it."

"I know, but I feel somehow responsible…" He was responsible.

"But you're not," Lydia replied in a firm tone. "She's my sister. Yes, it's difficult, but more so because it's hard to just see her this way, but we have it covered. You need to stop sending money. Spend it on something for yourself. Take a trip, go somewhere. Clear your head."

Nick didn't know what to say; he was responsible for what had happened to Juliette, not that he could readily admit to it without being seen as insane as well. He couldn't help Juliette in person, couldn't even get near her, sending money was the only way he could try to right some of the injustice.

Nick opened and closed his mouth several times like a gasping animal, trying to find words.

"Juliette's met someone," Lydia said suddenly. "He's a very nice man, a veterinarian… She's happy."

Oh…

"I don't think you should call here anymore. I don't dislike you Nick, you're like a brother to me so don't feel like I'm rejecting you, but it's honestly not healthy for you to hear about Juliette all of the time, I can tell. It's only hurting you and she wouldn't want you to live this way, broken up over her. She would hate for you to suffer because of her."

Nick couldn't find words for what he was feeling, didn't even know where to start. He wanted to yell, cry. How could she say all of this so easily? Act like his relationship with Juliette had meant nothing to him when she'd been his best friend, his lover, the woman he'd wanted to marry more than anything. How did Lydia expect him to move on like it had never happened? He could never even fucking see her again, why was she saying all of this now?

But it wasn't Lydia's fault. She was trying to do what was best for everyone, including him. She was as nice as Juliette and wouldn't do things intentionally to hurt anyone. He'd sounded desperate every time he'd called their house wondering and worrying over Juliette and how she was fairing. Hearing about her never quite made things feel better though…

"Nick?" she asked when he'd been quiet for too long.

"No, you're right. I do need to move on."

"Do you have someone you can talk to if you need to?"

"Huh, what? Oh, I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

"Okay… I'll pray for you. Take care of yourself, Nick. I mean it."

"Thanks, you too, Lydia."

Lydia didn't answer, just hung up the phone. Nick let out a heavy sigh before he headed upstairs to his bedroom and curled up under the covers. He didn't cry, just lay there in numb silence, not entirely sure what to feel. He certainly felt lonely and depressed, but partially relieved as well. It was nice to know that Juliette had found someone, even though it felt like salt in the wound a bit knowing he was the abandoned one instead.


When Nick woke the next morning, he knew he had to get rid of the money Karen had given him. He felt wrong keeping it even though technically it was his since he'd painted the picture, but he still didn't feel it was worth a grand. Deciding to send the money to Juliette had made him feel better about it, less guilty, but now he was stumped again. After spending some time thinking about it, Nick figured out exactly what he needed to do with the money. He had an hour or so before work out, so he showered and headed into Portland a little early and stopped by the animal shelter he and Juliette used to volunteer at two years ago.

The last time he'd visited was about a year ago when he and Juliette had contemplated getting a dog. They would have too, except Juliette's hours had unexpectedly increased and they decided it wasn't fair for the dog to be stuck at home for so long by itself. Somehow the whole idea was pushed to the backburner and quickly forgotten. Nick liked animals as much as the next person, but with his work schedule, it wasn't a good idea. Even now it wasn't ideal. During a normal work day he could be gone much longer than he was scheduled for and now without Juliette to remind him to go home, he could see himself spending days in the field trying to track down wesen suspects. He was just going to have to get used to an empty house.

Just inside the entrance to the shelter was a cork board filled with colorful slips, each one cut into the shape of a paw print bearing the name of a donor. Nick approached the front desk to where a teenaged girl was standing; her face lit up in a bright grin when she saw him.

"Hi, I was wondering if I could make a donation?" Nick asked while returning the smile.

"Oh, that would be fantastic. Every donation, no matter how small, is a giant help," she replied with practiced ease.

"Great. I would also like to make it in honor of someone, if possible."

"Sure, just fill out the name of the person on your paw print," she said as she grabbed him a paper and a black permanent marker. "How much would you like to donate today?" she asked as she pulled out a thick file folder of paperwork.

"Oh, um," Nick murmured as he rifled through his pockets, eventually fishing out the small slip of paper. "Here's the check. Do I just make it out to the shelter…?" He looked up and saw her shell-shocked face as she eyed the check amount. "Are you okay?"

"O-oh, I'm sorry! I just… am I reading that correctly?"

"Yeah," Nick chuckled. "It doesn't have an accidental extra zero, it's supposed to be $1000."

"Oh, oh wow. You must love animals." She shifted her weight and curled a finger into her hair. "Can you hold on for a minute?"

"Oh, sure…" Did he do something wrong, he wondered as she darted into the back room. A moment later she returned with the manager, an older woman he recognized from past visits.

"Hi," she greeted as she reached out to shake his hand. "I'm Mary, the manager. Kendra told me about your generosity and I just wanted to thank you personally. We've been struggling so much in the last few years because of the economy. This will be a huge help for the animals."

Nick felt entirely embarrassed and undeserving of such praise. Honestly he wouldn't be there making a donation if he hadn't been given such an obscene amount of cash and Lydia hadn't refused him. He wasn't as thoughtful or generous as they painted him to be. If he loved animals as much as they claimed, he'd be there every weekend volunteering and taking the dogs for walks and playing with the cats or something.

"Well, my girlfriend… former girlfriend, she was a vet. Animals are sort of her thing."

"I'm sorry, did she pass…?"

"Oh, no, she… was recently diagnosed with schizophrenia. She's no longer able to work as a vet, but I know she'd want to keep helping animals, regardless."

"I'm so sorry to hear that…" the woman sighed, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. She genuinely sounded like she meant it which made the back of Nick's throat burn and his eyes start to water so he just smiled and bent his head to fill out the slip of paper and hand it back to the girl.

Nick watched with a lifted heart as the paper bearing the words, 'In honor of Juliette Silverton' was pinned to the board. Under her name he'd drawn a blooming rose and 'I'll always love you.'

It was his final goodbye to her and the life they'd shared for those three, short years. He wished her the best as he kissed her forehead in his mind, letting her go like a spry little songbird.


Later that night, after work, Nick lay on his bed contemplating his own feelings. He wasn't sad. He wasn't necessarily happy, but the thought of Juliette wasn't quite so devastating. And he felt hungry, ravenous and for once eager to have dinner, even alone. Maybe he'd have to do something similar to get over Monroe. Donate money to the local toy train club or something. Clock Workers Anonymous… Nick laughed out loud at the thought of Monroe all dressed up and sitting in a circle of chairs avidly discussing stamps in entire seriousness. With a fond smile on his face, Nick imagined Monroe embroiled in an argument over something Nick would find absolutely ridiculous, jargon flying back and forth over his head.

Oh god, he missed Monroe. He found his body pillow and wound his arms around it, thinking of the handsome, intelligent blutbad. He felt his appetite waver and subside and wondered if he slept for a while, if it would come back. Hoping for the best, he let himself drift off into uneasy darkness.


It wasn't much later when his phone began to ring loudly in his ear. He groaned as he glanced at the Caller ID. It was Karen. Again. It was the fourth time she'd called him since he'd given her his number weeks ago. The first time he'd answered because he didn't recognize the number, the second time in case it was indeed an emergency - which it hadn't been; he'd ignored her the third time. She really only called to flirt with him and vaguely propose indecent things she wanted to do to him. He liked to pretend he didn't understand her when she said those sorts of things; he could tell it flustered her as she tried to find different words to get her point across without out right saying it.

He wasn't entirely sure why he answered when he didn't particularly want to talk to her. Maybe he was that lonely.

"Hi, Karen."

"Oh, Nick, I'm so glad you answered," she said, a little breathless. Yeah, I bet. "Now, this isn't just a pleasure call, I actually have to tell you something."

"Alright," Nick answered with genuine surprise. "What's going on?"

"Well, you remember that friend of mine?"

No, why would I remember something like that?

"Um, which one?"

"My gallery friend? Well, you'll never believe it! One of her artists canceled on her at the last minute and when I showed her that painting you did, she was so impressed!"

"And…"

"And she wants you in her show this weekend!"

"This weekend?" It was Tuesday, but it was still rather sudden…

"Yes! Isn't that amazing! I don't know all the details just yet, but I gave her your number and she said she was going to be calling you soon. I just wanted to make sure you had your phone on you, wouldn't want you to miss such an important call…" She giggled girlishly at the end of her sentence. Nick rolled his eyes, glad she couldn't see him.

"When did you say she was going to call…?" Nick asked nicely, looking for an excuse to hang up the phone.

"Oh, I suppose I should let you go then… but we'll talk later, okay?" It really was a question. Nick just answered with a noncommittal, 'Sure,' and hung up the phone.

Indeed, a half-hour later his phone rang again. Within ten minutes, Nick was scheduled to debut in his first ever gallery showing. He wasn't necessarily looking for fame or to even have his art shown to anyone, but the woman was so friendly and desperate sounding that Nick couldn't help but agree and figured he might as well be thankful for the opportunity as inconvenient and unwanted as it might be. It wasn't a huge show, all local artists, but all professionals with years of experience at their disposal. It was rather intimidating and quite humbling to think the woman deemed him worthy enough to even patch a hole in the wall, let alone show a painting in her gallery.

Due to the sheer number of artists represented, each one was only allowed a few pieces to enter, which turned out to be a good thing in Nick's case since he only had a few paintings himself. The woman, he couldn't remember her name quite… Sheila? Sharon? Something… she definitely wanted to display the painting he'd sold, along with four others. If he had more to choose from, he would debate which ones were even good enough, as it was, he only had four other ones so it wasn't much of decision. It felt sort of wrong to display the pictures of Monroe and Juliette he'd painted without their permission, but they were probably his better works and it was doubtful anyone would recognize them even for a second. And it wasn't like either of them would ever know about it. Juliette was all the way down in California and Monroe wasn't talking to him anymore. He'd showcase them for a night and then they would hide under sheets in some backroom never to be seen by anyone else but himself again. They were quite unmemorable pieces anyway. Not even very good. They were good by his skills, which were lacking, but definitely no Degas.

The only other paintings he had were the abstract one he'd done regarding his feelings for his mother and another one he'd labeled 'The Field.' The first one was done in those angry, harsh shades of yellow scraped across the canvas, swallowing the whole frame. Set off to the bottom right hand corner was a rectangular blob of red and black, the way he felt under his mother's gaze. Small, insignificant, lonely. The piece was just called 'Mother.' He supposed one could say the painting was cheerful, how often would one associate ill feelings with the color yellow, but it also felt oppressive and nerve-wracking. At least to him it did. The second painting was almost entirely white; painted, not bare canvas. A mellow sage green broke the field from the sky; a few blocky purple smears littered the base of the picture. In the middle, a speck of black. A wandering, lonely soul. He was interested to see what other's had to say about his 'work' and any advice he could get, along with much welcomed criticism. He was allowed to sell his paintings and since he was unwilling to part with the other two and he'd already sold the third one, these was his only options left. He didn't have particularly strong feelings for them so he didn't mind never seeing them again; they were certainly better than his last abstract one. More aesthetically pleasing to the eye, or at least he thought so - he was no expert after all. He'd throw them up for auction; let the art fiends have at it. If they didn't sell, no big deal, he was planning on painting over them anyway.


Nick debated for a long time whether or not to tell Hank and the rest of his coworkers about the gallery opening; but in all honesty, he didn't want to go by himself, seemed a little depressing. He didn't particularly want all of his coworkers to know about his hobby, but figured Hank would be more upset if he didn't tell him. Unfortunately, Wu happened to be walking by at that exact moment as Nick was telling Hank.

"Fantastic," Wu said. "I'm thinking of painting my living room, glad to know I can count on you."

"Oh, shut up," Nick laughed.

"Wow, that's pretty big, Nick," Hank said while leaning back in his chair, a look of astonishment on his face. "Hope this doesn't mean you're going to be leaving us."

"And what? Become an 'artist?' Ha! I'd be homeless in less than a week. Even if my paintings sell, I'd only make a couple hundred bucks max. Not to mention the kickback to the gallery… I'm not going anywhere."

"Good to hear," Hank said, leaning over and patting Nick on the shoulder. "Wouldn't know what to do without my partner."

"What? Am I suddenly chopped liver?" Wu demanded as though totally offended when he wasn't. Nick jumped up without warning and grabbed Wu into a headlock, completely surprising the shorter man.

"Wouldn't dream of forgetting you. So, I can count on both of you coming?"

"I'll be there," Hank said with a nod. "Wouldn't miss my buddy's big day."

"Only if you'll let me go," Wu grunted, his face red. Nick released him with a laugh.

"Great, it starts at 8:00. I'll text the both of you the address."

Just knowing Hank and Wu would be there for him, it was the happiest he'd been in a long time. He found himself giving the two of them one-armed hugs before dashing off to invite the Captain as well.


The night of the gallery opening found Nick sorting through his dress clothes looking for the perfect outfit. He wasn't necessarily one to fret over his appearance, not so intensely, but he was having a hard time finding shirts and pants that still fit him properly. He'd honestly believed he'd been doing better at remembering to eat on a regular basis, but apparently not. When he slipped on his pants, they practically fell off of his hips. He tightened his belt several more notches and realized that if he kept it up, he'd have to buy a smaller belt or cut a few more holes into it.

Even his shirts looked baggy now. Where'd all his muscles go? They were still holding on in a few places, but he looked nothing like his formerly handsome self. Even if Juliette wasn't driven crazy by the mere sight of him, would she even recognize him at this point? Would Monroe? At this rate, it'd be impossible for him to get a new girlfriend with such a steady decline in his looks and physique.

Looking into the mirror, he brushed a hand through his short hair and sighed. He'd begun to let it grow out again and it was nearly half an inch in length already; he still looked like a ghost though. Slightly sunken in eyes, skinny face, pale skin. In part he was beginning to look more like himself since he'd been sleeping better; spending those extra few days with his work buddies moving had helped a lot as well. Even so, he couldn't deny the mounting evidence pointing towards an eating disorder (if forgetting to eat counted as one). What? Did he have to write himself a note to remember? How obnoxious. He'd just have to try harder, he supposed.

Nick finally decided on a maroon shirt and a pair of black slacks. The shirt lent some color to his cheeks while the slacks hid the weight he'd lost on his legs. He brushed some gel into his hair and finished with a spray of cologne before heading out, hoping to get through the night without too much grief.


"Hey, its-a Picasso!" Wu joked in a poor Italian accent as he swung an arm around Nick's shoulder. Nick laughed as he leaned into his friend's warmth.

"You know Picasso was Spanish, right?"

Without missing a beat, Wu replied, "Obviously. Didn't you recognize my Spanish accent?"

Nick rolled his eyes. "Of course. It was very convincing."

The gallery was pretty upscale; Nick looked far underdressed for the occasion, it was almost embarrassing. Even Hank looked snazzier than he did, but Nick had a feeling he was looking for a date. At least Wu felt as uncomfortable as he did, even a little fidgety as he watched men in suits and women in evening dresses pass them by. The gallery even had servers walking around with champagne and finger foods; it was pretty high class. Nick wandered awhile, Hank at his side, and took in the other works. Other paintings, sculptures, ceramics, installations, it was something else. When they returned to Nick's small area, he was surprised by the buzz his pieces were generating. They weren't particularly stunning compared to many of the other artists' entries, he felt, but it wasn't really the art people were interested in.

It was him.

Only his coworkers knew who he was, so he could easily stand besides gossiping couples and listen in on what they were saying about his paintings. Their words absolutely floored him. Back and forth the rumors flew.

"The woman, I heard she's insane. Even tried to kill him. Poor man…"

"The man in that picture, his lover, died in a car wreck. Isn't that tragic?"

"Schizophrenic."

"He ODed on heroin, I heard."

"She hears voices."

"He left him for another man."

"She's locked up in the loony-bin."

"He killed himself."

Nick wanted to correct them, yell at them, tear down the paintings and storm out. It was one thing to rip him down, but they didn't even know Juliette or Monroe. Hank thankfully didn't say anything, but there was no way he couldn't hear what was circulating. Nick could honestly only think of one person who could possibly know enough about the situation to even start rumors like that and the next time he saw Karen, he was going to strangle her.

He didn't have to wait long before a bubbly, very blonde woman came bouncing up to him.

"Nick! It's so good to see you again," she said excitedly as she dragged a reluctant man across the hall towards them. It took Nick a moment to recognize her face as the very woman he was currently annoyed with.

"Karen. I didn't recognize you with your hair…"

She touched a hand to her head, stroking several locks between her fingers self-consciously. "What do you think? My stylist told me it would take years off of my appearance."

Honestly it made her look like she was trying too hard, especially considering her wardrobe change as well. Was she trying to dress like she was in her twenties again? He hoped it was a personal change that had nothing to do with him; he was getting pretty tired of being endlessly pursued by her. He had nothing against dating older women, but he had something against dating this one in particular. A large portion due in part to the man attached at her side. He didn't remember his name - believed foolishly at one point that he'd never have to see these people again - but he would never forget the man's robotic personality.

He glanced back at Karen to find her watching him expectantly. Right, this is where he replied with something nice.

"Why would you want to look any younger? How old did you say you were? 27?"

"Oh, you flatter me too much, dear," she giggled, stroking a hand against his cheek, lingering far too long against his jaw line and pausing briefly against his neck. "If I were 27, I certainly wouldn't be married to this old man."

Her husband didn't say anything and Nick noticed her absent wedding ring and idly wondered if she'd ever actually file for divorce. Somehow he doubted it.

"Please tell me you're not bidding on my other painting…"

"I wish we were, but…"

He didn't know why he said it, it was only giving her false hope, but he flirted by saying, "Well good, because you know I'd certainly give you a discount."

She bit her bottom lip while she grinned and fanned herself. It didn't take her long though to notice Hank standing just behind Nick and when they were formally introduced, Nick was pleased to find that she seemed incapable of preventing herself from flirting with him either. At least Nick wasn't the only one she had her eyes on. He did give Hank a warning look though; the last thing his friend needed was to get caught up in an affair with someone like Karen.


When Hank and Karen's husband wandered away for a minute, Nick shot Karen a serious look and said, "You must know why my art's catching everyone's attention."

She immediately looked meek as she laced her fingers together and bit her bottom lip. "I'm sorry, Nick. It was wrong, but I knew people would take interest if they knew why your art was so tragic… I didn't mean for it to get so out of hand."

Nick wanted to be mad, he really did, and he was, but she looked so ashamed and pathetic and hopeful that he'd forgive her that he couldn't help but do just that. He pulled her into his side in a half hug and squeezed her shoulder.

"It's okay. You're just doing what you can to support me. I wouldn't be here without you."

"Oh, Nick," she sighed happily, snuggling her head under his chin and stroking a hand against his chest. "You know how I feel about you."

That was his cue to move away. He smiled at her and found an excuse to dart back into the crowd. He watched her stand there, wringing her fingers with a pained look on her face. He couldn't tease her anymore, draw out her feelings like this; he didn't know what sort of life she led, but he could tell she was probably as lonely and miserable as he was. If she ever divorced her husband, he'd consider setting her up with someone nice from work. Even though she was a little on the annoying side, she was sweet in her own -albeit trying - way.


Eventually Nick was left to himself, Hank off in search of some more appetizers and Wu disappearing some time long before that. He'd bumped into the Captain briefly and a few of his other coworkers; they'd chatted, the Captain congratulating him and giving him a firm pat on the back as though he were his kid brother or something. It was nice to be loved, Nick thought. He was alone now, but not necessarily lonely.

When he decided to check to see if anyone had actually bid on his paintings, he was floored by the results. He eventually wandered back to his paintings and took those few moments of solitude to examine them. He stood there for a long time, silent, studious, but no matter how long he stared at them, he still didn't understand the allure. What did they see that he didn't? The current bid for his painting, 'Mother' had amounted to $3100. The other, $2600. He couldn't believe it. He had a feeling it was the rumors fueling the fire of urgency, making him a trendy item. He didn't expect anyone to want the paintings, that's why he'd put them up for auction in the first place. Why were the current bids so high? It was absolutely ridiculous.

Nick was so engrossed in his thoughts that it took him a moment to notice a figure moving towards him in the edge of his peripherals. Nick turned his head slightly and examined the person, a man, for a short second before turning away. It was hard not to stare though; he was absolutely stunning, so much so that Nick felt anxious when the other man calmly stopped next to Nick to stare at the painting with interest.

Nick stood there in tense silence as he studied the man out of the corner of his eye, praying he wouldn't notice. With every stroke of his corneas, he was finding himself growing more and more attracted to this handsome stranger, just for his looks alone. Nick would be screwed if the guy had a great personality to match. The man's face was pleasant with high cheekbones and full lips; curls of golden brown hair framed dark eyes. He was several inches taller than Nick, taller than even Monroe surprisingly, and quite muscular with a well developed masculinity about his face and jaw, set upon a thick neck. Honestly, he could have been about the same age as Nick, but the youngness around his eyes gave him away. Nick estimated he was somewhere in his early to mid-twenties and likely played sports of some sort, maybe even professionally; it'd be such a waste not to.

Nick nearly jumped out of his skin when the man suddenly cleared his throat and said, "I heard this is one of the paintings people have been going absolutely bat-shit insane over." His voice was deep and melodic that practically dripped honey. Nick felt a stirring in his belly at the sound; under the words, Nick could detect something about him that instantly screamed, 'gay.' It made the feeling of attraction all that more intense.

"God," the man continued, actually huffing, "what's wrong with people? Do I just not get it? It's so ugly."

Nick found himself exhaling with relief, pleased not to have to hear any more praise for his work.

"I know, right?" Nick said with a laugh. "Can you believe someone would pay over three grand for that?"

"Really, is that what the bid's at? Unbelievable…"

"Yeah, I just heard. Ridiculous, isn't it?"

"People are idiots. I mean, the pictures of the man and the woman aren't so bad, they're actually nice. But the other ones? Why couldn't this Nick Burkhardt or whatever," he said as he read the name plate, "just stick to still life or something? Abstraction is so… just not my thing."

"Even the people aren't very good…" Nick criticized, eager to have a real conversation about his work with someone. He was disappointed when the man said:

"No, they're actually pretty good. Well, the forms a little… unrealistic, almost surreal. But it's the expressions that make them enjoyable to look at."

"How? They're just smiling. Pretty standard for a nontraditional portrait."

The man turned and stared at Nick for the first time, his brow quirked and a smirk on his lips. "I'm starting to wonder if you have any depth to you at all… What are you doing here at a gallery opening anyway?" he asked, his eyes sliding up Nick's body slowly, sending a rush of blood south almost immediately to Nick's groin. Nick shifted on his feet so he could concentrate on the other man's words. "Shouldn't you be at home watching a football game or killing animals or something?"

Stepping out on a limb, Nick cracked a sly grin and said, "What? Are you saying I have a nice body?" The other man's eyes instantly widened, not having expected Nick's candid remark. Nick's stomach churned anxiously, wondering if he'd read things wrong. The other man's grin laid his fears to rest.

"And here I was, trying to take things slow. Act like a gentleman."

Nick was going to be hard in a second, he didn't have time to beat around the bush anymore. The man was obviously gay and had approached Nick, so it really meant one of two things. Nick was quite willing to fish for it. "Fine," Nick said, "I'll be the blunt one. Do you want to have sex with me?"

The man didn't hesitate. "Yes, I would like that very much. And I just happen to know where the handicapped bathroom is, if you catch my drift."

Nick smiled a little deviously. "Yeah, I do. But before I go anywhere with you, finish what you were saying. What is it about the expressions that I don't get?"

Nick was raring to hook up, but it was possibly his only chance to get an honest opinion from someone.

"Oh, jeeze. Explaining things to you plebeians…" the man chuckled. "They just feel very real… very intimate. Like I know them. I wonder who they are… Normally I'd assume the woman is the artist's wife or something since it's a man, but this other one…" he said, referencing the painting of Monroe. "It just feels… weird."

"Weird, how?"

"I don't know…"

"The only thing I've heard are rumors that he's my boyfriend or something…" Nick grumbled. He realized his mistake the moment it slipped past his lips.

"I heard those… Wait… you're not.. the artist, are you?" At Nick's reluctant look, the man groaned, "Ah, shit! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult your work, I had no idea."

"No, no, really, it's okay. It's nice to hear a genuine opinion for once. I keep hearing how great my abstracted paintings are when they really are just garbage."

"They're not garbage. I just don't get them. I'm an idiot. Totally uncultured. Honestly, they're really very nice."

"You said they were ugly not just a minute ago…" Nick reminded him.

"Did I? Okay, alright, I said they were ugly. But they're not really ugly, just… different… I'm used to still lifes and portraits, okay? Picasso before he ventured off into cubism."

"Really, it's okay. I don't usually paint like this, but it sort of just happened and Karen, that woman over there," he said as he pointed her out across the room flirting with some guy in a suit, "she really got the ball rolling. She bought one of my paintings and then introduced me to the gallery owner. I'm actually embarrassed to have my paintings on display like this, as though they're great works of art."

"Really, they're not that bad."

"You know, I liked you a lot better when you were telling me how ugly they were."

"So…" the man trailed off slowly. "If I tell you they're the ugliest things I've ever laid my eyes upon, will you still let me fuck you?"

"No, if you say that, I'll just be offended," Nick grumbled before crossing his arms. The man looked rather disappointed and about to slink off in dejection when Nick quickly said with a bright smile, "I'm only kidding. Say what you want, I don't care, I'll still going to sleep with you. You're good looking and I haven't had sex in over a month."

The man's eyes lit up. "Great. The bathroom's on the second floor, towards the end of the red wing. Meet you there? I don't know if you brought condoms, but I have some."

Nick's face flushed. "Yeah, I have some too." And he did; he'd brought some just in case a chance to use them arose. God, it made him sound like a slut.

Apparently the other man didn't think so as he grinned at Nick and left. Nick waited for a few minutes, looking around for any familiar faces watching him, before he followed several yards behind to the back of the building and up the stairs.

The tile was cold and hard against his bare knees, he thought, but it was really only a minor complaint.


Nick returned downstairs about twenty minutes later and found Hank standing by himself examining someone else's paintings.

"Hey, where'd you head off to?" Hank asked when Nick approached him.

"Oh, just had to take care of a few things…" At Hank's doubtful look and raised brow, Nick growled, "I had to go to the bathroom, alright? Do I need to ask permission to take a dump, Captain?"

Hank laughed and slapped Nick on the back. "When the Captain retires, you just might. I'm joking, I'm joking."

Nick shot Hank a dirty look. Just then a woman's voice said, "Nick?" Nick turned and was pleasantly surprised to see a familiar fuchsbau face staring back at him.

"Rosalee!" Immediately the elation he'd felt from seeing her face escaped as he wondered nervously why she was there and if Monroe was wandering around somewhere as well. Regardless and without letting her know how he truly felt upon seeing her, he exclaimed rather genuinely, "It's so good to see you. You look great."

And she did. Her hair was done up, curls of hair framing her lovely face. He realized subconsciously that she had a great body, but he'd never seen her in something so form fitting as the little black cocktail dress she was donning. Even yet, she looked elegant and refined. A real beauty. In her hands she held a large bouquet of roses. Nick felt his stomach churn, ashamed of the jealousy he felt towards her.

"I know! It's been weeks, hasn't it?" she said. Without warning, she hugged him tightly and Nick sort of melted into her embrace almost immediately. It'd been awhile since anyone had genuinely hugged him; he wondered idly if she had been the last one. She didn't feel quite the same as Juliette, but her womanly form was quite welcome in his persistent loneliness. But she belonged to Monroe, so he pulled away rather abruptly when too long a moment had passed.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well," she said, her usual smile gracing her lips, "I saw a flier at Powell's for a gallery opening and just happened to see your name listed as one of the artists. I was surprised, I had no idea you painted. They're just fabulous."

Nick felt his stomach wrench at her words. It was unlikely she'd missed that picture of Monroe then; that disgusting picture. Would she know just by looking at it somehow that Nick loved him? Or would she just think it nice? Then again, why would a man paint a picture of a another man in such a manner without some sort of deeper meaning to it? But she had no idea of when he'd painted it, so he could have done it back when they were friends. Maybe he could lie and tell her he was painting one of her too. No, that was way too creepy. Why would he do that? Would anyone want to hear that anyway? Even Hank, who he'd been friends with since he was 19 years old would probably be uncomfortable if Nick painted a portrait of him without being asked to.

No, he had no excuses. He'd been mortified when Hank and Wu and his other coworkers who knew of Monroe had seen it. Those who didn't know Nick had become friends with Monroe were very confused as to why Nick had painted a picture of a suspected kidnapper.

"Nick?"

"Huh?" Nick asked, looking up from the ground to Rosalee's worried eyes. Nick glanced around quickly, confused. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

She smiled, the corners of her mouth creasing uncomfortably and her eyes still sad. Nick smiled back, just as uneasily, unsure of what she knew.

"So, Rosalee, how are you?"

"Oh." She sounded surprised at his question though it was only common courtesy. "I'm fine. Same old, same old. Business has been picking up at the shop a bit."

"Oh, well that's good to hear." And Monroe?

But maybe she knew, because she asked instead, "What about you, Nick? I haven't heard from you in awhile."

"Oh, I'm good. Been busy. Not much to say, really. Been painting, obviously."

Nick noticed Hank then and was glad for the distraction.

"Oh, sorry. Hank, this is Rosalee. Rosalee, Hank."

"Pleasure to meet you," Rosalee said as she shook his hand. Her eyes darted to Nick's briefly, a look of hesitance. Nick just raised his eyebrows.

"Believe me, the pleasure's all mine," Hank replied in the smooth voice he reserved for sweet-talking the ladies. Apparently he didn't recognize her; Nick was relieved. Rosalee just blushed a pleasant shade of pink at his words; Nick rolled his eyes.

"Here," Rosalee said, handing him the large bouquet. "From Monroe."

"Wow, didn't expect to get flowers," Nick said with an uneasy laugh, wondering if they were really for him. I highly doubt Monroe would ever buy me flowers… Oh, shit! That pretty much confirmed that Monroe was wandering around somewhere, but where?

"Is he… here somewhere?"

"Yes. We split up to find you… he must have gone in the opposite direction… I'm surprised he hasn't found you yet, we've been here for almost an hour already."

"I'm sure he's educating someone on something."

Rosalee laughed. "That's probably true."

"Well, I don't want to keep you stuck here. I've already made my rounds."

"Okay, I'll go find Monroe and bring him back, alright?"

"Great. I'll be here." And unfortunately he would be. No doubt Monroe was avoiding him, but if Rosalee was blissfully unaware and clamped to his arm, he would have no choice but to face Nick. Nick couldn't really bring up that night or apologize in front of Rosalee who knew nothing, but maybe he could make some sort of amends.


When Rosalee walked away, Hank opened his mouth to say something, but let out a low whistle instead.

"Careful, Hank. Rosalee is Monroe's girlfriend."

Hank sighed heavily. "I was hoping you wouldn't say that… Seriously? Now I dislike him even more… How does a guy like Monroe get a foxy gal like that? She's something else…"A moment of silence passed before Hank said, "Is it just me, or does she looks sort of familiar too…"

Nick just chuckled and didn't answer. Better if Hank didn't remember entirely.


As expected, Monroe never showed up. Nick saw Rosalee pass by several times looking for him, but chose to hide instead of facing her. She didn't have Monroe and he couldn't stand the thought of hearing her explain why her boyfriend couldn't be bothered to look him in the eyes or stand to even breathe the same air. Eventually Nick left. Hank and everyone else he knew had already gone home and he was almost positive that Karen was lingering somewhere, waiting to catch him alone.

As he was heading down the front steps, he ran into the man from earlier.

"Heading home?"

"Yeah, I'm beat."

The man caught Nick's wrist and tugged him flush against his chest; he leaned down, his face close to Nick's.

"Want to come home with me tonight?"

"Yes," Nick breathed against the taller man's lips without hesitation. "I was hoping you'd ask."

TBC


A/N: No promises are better than broken ones, I guess. I will continue to try to get chapters out at a reasonable pace. Once school is over, maybe it will be better?

And woot! New season of Grimm next Monday! So excited!

Anyway, please review and let me know what your thoughts!