A Grimm Thing, as Monroe called it, interrupted regular police work, and it left Nick with a deep cut, a light concussion and clothes caked in mud. Panting, cradling his injured arm, he sat on the sloping ground, rain coming down. It wasn't enough to wash off the mud and other gunk; it actually made it worse.

He was cold. So incredibly, utterly cold. Wet clothes clung to his body, stiff, unyielding, hugging his skin in a more than uncomfortable manner. Everything felt heavy. His body shivered and trembled, trying to warm itself, and he wrapped his arms around his soggy self, valiantly trying to keep the little warmth in. Strands of hair hung obnoxiously into his face and he sniffled around his icy, wet nose.

Not far away, at the bottom of the slope, lay the broken body of a blutbad. Ingmar Jonderjoen, fifty-five, unemployed, killer of two children. It hadn't been the same as with the first ever Grimm case he had handled; this one had targeted the children of his former employer, as well as of everyone higher up the ladder than him, because he had been fired over severe discrepancies in the company's financial records.

Nick closed his eyes, willing the headache to go away, but it wouldn't even lessen. If at all, it got worse.

Maybe he should have brought Monroe along, but he hadn't wanted his friend to confront on of his own kind. Nick vividly recalled the way Monroe had wolfed out on him the first time he had entered another blutbad's territory. He hadn't needed the complication.

iHave to get dry. Move. Get away from here./i

His brain was talking to him, but it wasn't getting the message through. At least not to his limbs. With an effort he finally got up, sliding precariously on the wet ground, and made his way slowly back to the top. He would have to come back for the body, hide it, bury it, whatever. Or make up an excuse. Right now, fabricating a lie about Jonderjoen attacking him sounded so much easier to his scrambled brains than telling the guys he had whacked his head while doing home repairs.

There was a sound and he tensed, whirling around and nearly losing his balance. He raised his gun, adrenaline spiking, all muscles coiled for a new confrontation. His body switched back to full Grimm mode and in that moment Nick was ready to take on Janderjoen or another blutbad once more.

Something touched his mind, gentle and still strong, flowing along the psychic link.

"Relax," a familiar voice said calmly and Sean stepped closer.

He was wearing a mac and hiking boots, looking far from his usual spiffy self, and he radiated calm and safety. Nick grabbed onto that feeling as his headache throbbed painfully. The bond was still too shielded to do more, but he so very badly wanted to give in and just… just… let himself go.

Renard ignored the gun that was slowly lowered and touched his wet, grimy face, carefully examined the bump, then the cut on his arm. Nick closed his eyes, swaying a little. Adrenaline was winding down as his body told him he was safe, and when Renard wrapped an arm around him all he wanted to do was give in.

But he couldn't.

He pushed himself away, turning back to where Janderjoen had gone flying down the ravine. The body would be down there, currently obscured by the weather and time of night, but tomorrow someone might stumble over it.

"Nick."

He shivered in the cold, his clothes clammy and getting wetter by the moment. Sean touched him again, right there behind him, so close and stable and simply there.

"I can deal with it," the Grimm said stubbornly, fighting.

"I never get involved," the regnant murmured. "Only this once. Come home with me."

He fought more. He didn't want anyone else taking care of his job, doing his job, but this wasn't anyone; it was Sean.

"Nick. Let me help. Just once."

It was such an enticing offer, one he would have pushed onto Sean if their roles were reversed. Since he was the weak link now, unable to finish what he had started, Nick was rebelling.

"You're not weak," the regnant murmured, still so very close, a stabilizing influence, his safety. "You know I can help."

So he finally caved.

And the shields dropped some more, making room for the worry and warmth that was Renard. There were so many more emotions intermingled with that sensation, but he couldn't decipher them.

He listened to his mate making a call, probably to Adalind or one of her sisters, asking for a clean-up.

Damn.

It was like he needed someone to cover his tracks, something he had been very well able to do so far and it irked him. The primal side in him, the one that was so very much wrapped up in the Grimm and made him as dangerous as any predator, grumbled angrily.

Too bad Nick was too tired to really rise to the challenge and tell Renard that he could very well do all of this himself.

X

Nick fell asleep in the car – the car he left mud all over – and only woke when Renard gently shook him awake. He gazed into the green eyes, saw the worry and the pride and something else that remained unspoken between them and was so loud over the bond nevertheless.

He crashed immediately after hitting the mattress, clean from a hot shower, his wounds taken care of.

Nick slept for eight hours straight. He didn't wake once, but when he did, his bladder informed him it was about time. The night stand clock told him it was past seven and after a long, hot shower he felt better than in days. More awake, more alive, though still tired. His head had stopped being a bother, though he did get a light throbbing, and the cut, while aching, didn't hinder him a lot.

Walking into the living room he found he was alone. He made himself some coffee and ate a cereal bar, while checking his messages.

There was only one. From Renard.

iYou're off today. Don't you dare come in./i

Well, that was plain and clear.

So Nick called Monroe and got an earful from a pissed-off blutbad who was already on his way over.

"I'm sorry," he told the other man in person when Monroe walked into his home, scowling and shooting him such a dark look, Nick was afraid he would get a wolf into his face next.

"How can one Grimm be so stupid?" Monroe exclaimed, a variation on the ranting of before. "I thought we were partners! You call me for stuff like that, Nick!"

"Janderjoen was a blutbad!"

"Exactly!"

"What if you had wolfed out and seen ime/i as a tasty snack?"

Monroe looked taken aback. "Just because I once…?" He gestured wildly. "That was ibefore/i, Nick. I didn't know you as anything but a Grimm! And we were in his territory, man!"

"It was too risky!"

"You were at my house confronting Angelina! With Hap present! And me! You didn't think about that then either!"

"Exactly! I didn't think! And if you had wanted, you could have taken advantage of that!"

Monroe's eyes grew wide and Nick knew he had hit a very painful nerve. "You really think I would betray you?"

He ran a hand through his still damp hair. "No. Never. But you said before that your instincts are still there and you might… listen to them. You wouldn't make a difference between me and anyone else, right?"

"Trust you to apply your kind of logic to the situation! You're my best friend, you moron! You're… something close to pack, y'know…" Monroe looked suddenly uncomfortable, almost shuffling. "We don't attack pack."

iPack?/i

Nick blinked. "Uh," he stuttered. "I thought blutbaden in packs were a bad thing?"

iOkay, mouth shut, brain on!/i he berated himself. That had come out really wrong.

"You're not a blutbad," Monroe muttered, glaring at him, daring him to say more stupid things. "And I'm done with the bad stuff, including running with a pack. But you're my friend and somehow that should register with you, too! I'm here for the good times and the bad times. Dude, wait, that came out wrong," he added quickly.

Nick chuckled. "I get the idea."

"Uhm, good. Good. Anyway…" Monroe fumbled. "Anyway, call me. No matter what wesen you're taking down."

For a guy who had never wanted to become involved, Monroe was into the Grimm business up to his eyebrows. Actually, more than that. He had regular geek-outs in the trailer and he loved his history. The man was a walking encyclopedia of obscure knowledge and it had helped Nick out more often than not.

Nick wondered, not for the first time, how many of his ancestors had had this kind of friendship and alliance, even voluntary cooperation. It couldn't be just him, right?

"It is you," Sean said with a fine smile, swirling his glass of wine, the red liquid moving almost hypnotically.

Nick frowned at him. "What?"

"It's you, Nick. You and your way and how you approach this. You're not like the others."

"You know, I get sick and tired of hearing that."

"It's the truth. You're not who we all expected to be."

"A murdering lunatic?"

Sean chuckled and put down the glass, closing the distance. He wrapped a hand around Nick's neck and pulled him into a gentle, loving kiss.

"Maybe. I didn't know what to expect, honestly. I never wanted to hope that you could be more than your heritage. I wanted so much from you and was afraid it would be impossible."

"And now you have me."

"Yes, now I have you." He stroked a thumb over the soft skin of Nick's neck. "And you have friends and allies and a blutbad who tries not to think of you as pack." He lifted one corner of his mouth.

Nick stole a kiss. "Hm, yeah."

"You inspire that loyalty. You, not something they think you are. The way you handle cases, yourself, and how you treat them."

Nick heard the pride in those words. Because the Grimm was the Guardian's mate, and those who knew were watching it all closely. Like the reapers. They waited for a mistake, for an opening, but so far none had been given. Nick was surrounded by allies and some of the strangest friendships. He felt the proprietary need through the bond, something that always touched a deeper, primal, rather base side of him that snarled at the regnant's audacity and was calmed by it in one.

He belonged, but he was still free. He was mated, sure, but there was no leash. He was loyal to the Guardian and to his captain, but the Grimm worked worked without restrictions or fear of reprimand, or worse.

Not just because of the physical side of their partnership, their relationship, either. This had never been about sex; not solely anyway. It was a complicated connection that couldn't be put into many words. It was a web woven between them, unbreakable, unexplainable, and for life. The emotions between them were real; he had never doubted Sean in that regard. He had only raged at the countless secrets concerning the political side of this game.

"How's the head?" Renard asked, still watching him, still rubbing a thumb over his neck, coming close to the hidden claim mark.

"Attached. As is the arm. I'll be fine, Sean. Really."

"I know," was the quiet answer.

Because he did. A mate did.

The kiss was almost reverent, a light touch, a bare-whisper of a connection, and it told Nick so much about the deeply rooted emotions in the other man.

The gray eyes were intense. Intense and powerful and looking right into the regnant's soul.

"Mine," Renard whispered.

The Grimm responded almost automatically, echoing the claim. "Mine," Nick murmured.

Hank had been watching Nick for over a week now - the time where there seemed to be one harrying case after another, with too many things happening at once, with pressure from above and below, with them caught in the middle. Everyone was losing sleep, pulling overtime, getting next to no private life. Hank didn't mind at first, but it really was a drain on nerves, energy and sleep.

Lucy, his girlfriend and in his mind hopefully more, was understanding. Her brother was a cop and so she knew the sometimes crazy work schedule and the demand for unreal hours when on a case. He loved her more for that.

It was throughout one of the long hours at the precinct that he stumbled over his first shred of evidence concerning Nick's love life. They were all tired, they all wanted a break, and while the weather was nothing to write home about, Hank would have preferred the rainy days at home to the rainy days at work.

It was late today. Going over evidence, wondering if Lucy was already home, curled up in front of the TV without him, Hank saw them.

In itself, Nick talking to Renard was an innocent little scene. He glanced only casually at the two, aware that they didn't see him, and he only saw them through the partially open door. Still, something must have fired his interest because he didn't return to the evidence, he watched.

And he saw the gesture.

The touch.

A touch that was innocent, too, but very much telling.

It was a touch no friend would apply to another friend in any way – without getting decked for it – let alone a superior to a subordinate. But all the captain did was smile, nod, then walk away. Nick smiled, too, the boyishly handsome smile that had women swoon.

Only... no woman...

Hank felt realization hit him with a two-by-four.

iNo way! No friggin' way!/i

But he had seen it. Renard's hand touching the small of Nick's back in a gentle, almost loving way. A brief touch, barely lasting five seconds, but it had been enough to let a horrible suspicion sink in.

Hank tore his gaze away from the now empty corridor and tried to concentrate on his evidence, but the scene kept playing again and again.

Drawing a deep breath, Hank shook his head. No sense in jumping to conclusions. Observe, then process. That was what he would do.

tbc...