Pound for pound, Mama Schade is the most terrifying hexenbiest Nick has ever met. She doesn't crackle with power the way Henrietta does, and she doesn't make him worry for his physical safety the way only Adalind could, but he looks into her cold, calculating eyes and knows that if any one of them was going to dissect him and strip mine him for all that he's worth, it would be Mama Schade. She probably wouldn't even chip her manicure while doing it.
"Mom!" Adalind says, clearly surprised by her mother's arrival, and her eyes fly back to him. "Um…"
Whatever her checkered romantic past, Adalind doesn't seem to be used to introducing her mother to men. Nick doesn't blame her. If he had a mother like that, he'd be tempted to wait until his wedding day before introducing her to anyone.
Still, they're all stuck here now, and Mama Schade is blocking the door, so Nick puts on his best door-to-door smile and pretends he's here to interview her as a witness to a brutal murder. One she probably committed.
"Hi," he says, holding out his hand to shake. "I'm Nick Burkhardt."
Adalind groans beside him, face in her palms, while her mother ignores his hand and turns her laser beam gaze to her daughter.
"The Grimm?" she says. "You're throwing over a Royal Prince for a Grimm?"
"It's not like that," Adalind says.
"I don't care what it's like. I raised you to be a Queen, not some Grimm's whore."
It's not his problem. It's not. He has to go home and talk to Juliette. That's his problem. His responsibility. He should really leave right now.
But Adalind's just standing there with her head bowed, shoulders slumped, and Nick can't think of a single time he's ever seen her back down from a fight. Not even back down. Shut down. She's completely catatonic, and for some reason, he just can't bear it.
"Okay," Nick says, stepping between Adalind and her mother, "that's more than enough of that. Let's maybe not use the W-word before nine o'clock in the morning—"
"Nick, it's all right," Adalind says, her small hand running up his arm, trailing warmth while it comes to squeeze his bicep tightly.
"No, it's not." Nick says. "We had one hell of a night and the last thing any of us need is your mother freaking out because you suddenly have a better taste in men. Because let me tell you, Mama Schade, that Prince is an asshole."
There's a beat of silence, and then Adalind starts laughing and her mother blinks.
"Catherine," she says, "my name is Catherine Schade. And of course he's an asshole. He's a Prince. That's how they're made."
Adalind's leaning into him now, laughing into his shoulder, all the tension draining out of her in soft peals of laughter that are starting to sound a lot like tears. He wraps an arm around her and pulls her in until she's sobbing into his neck, hot tears against his skin.
"Great," Nick says, "so you know he's an asshole. Why do you want that for your daughter?"
"Well, he wouldn't marry me," Catherine says, like it's the most normal thing in the world. "And Queen Mother has such a nice ring."
"Wow," he says, feeling Adalind tense in his arms, and then she's up again and fighting.
"You slept with Sean?!"
Catherine rolls her eyes. "He's a Prince. Of course I slept with him. And you're going to go back to sleeping with him if you know what's good for you. I told you, it's a crown or nothing."
Adalind looks like she's about to be sick, and Nick makes a split second decision that he hopes he won't come to regret.
"All right," he says, "we're leaving. Adalind, pack a change of clothes. This place is cursed, and I don't want to leave you anywhere your mother has access to."
Adalind looks like she's about to protest, and then she swallows and shrugs.
"I never liked this place anyway," she says. "Mom, I hope you and Sean are very happy together."
Back in the car, Nick just drives for a while, waiting for inspiration to strike. He has no regrets about whisking away Adalind, but now he doesn't know what to do with her. He can't imagine Monroe will be too happy to find an unaccompanied former-hexenbiest back under his roof and the only other option…
The only other option is his home with Juliette, which he finds himself pulling up in front of by accident.
"Your house?" Adalind asks.
"Yeah," he says, "sorry, autopilot."
"It's okay. At least my mother won't come anywhere near here."
"Do you want to come in?"
She tilts her head towards him. "Do you want me to? Isn't that going to sort of cramp your style with Juliette?"
"Yeah," he says with a short laugh, "probably. But I don't know what else to do. Is there somewhere else you would rather go?"
It's her turn to laugh—short and bitter. "No," she says, "there really, really isn't."
So they get out of the car and climb the walk to the house. The door opens before they get there, and there's Juliette—pristine and lovely and everything he ever thought he wanted in a partner. Except he's spent the last twelve hours running around Portland with his worst enemy, and somehow he thinks he wouldn't have preferred to do that with anyone else.
"Oh my god," Juliette says, reaching out to stroke his broken lip. "What happened to you?"
"Bad case," he says, flinching away from her touch. It's not the lip that makes him flinch; the press of her skin makes his spark and twitch with pain.
"You remember Adalind?" he says, stepping back, shoulder to shoulder with Adalind, who looks up at him with a flicker of concern and then quickly away again, back to Juliette.
"Of course," Juliette says, getting a look at Adalind's own busted lip. "You poor thing. Were you attacked?"
"Yes," Adalind says, putting on her very best doe eyes. "Hank and I didn't really work out, but there was this guy, and then Nick saved me, and just...it's been quite a night."
"It sounds like it," Juliette says. "Come in, come in. Can I get you some tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate?"
"She's fine," Nick says at the same time Adalind drops the doe eyes and says, "I could absolutely murder a cup of tea," and Juliette just stares at both of them staring at each other in the foyer, trying to figure out their next move.
"So, tea," Juliette says. "One cup of tea, coming right up."
She disappears into the kitchen and both he and Adalind deflate, relaxing in the relief of her absence. Nick doesn't want to feel like that about Juliette—like being around her is a strain—but today he can't bear to meet her eyes. He's afraid she'll look at him and know—that he slept with Adalind, that he might do it again, that he's not really Juliette's now. Not completely. Not anymore.
"Nice place," Adalind says, looking around at all of Juliette's carefully chosen décor and the photos of him and Juliette looking happy and settled propped up around the place. He knows the photos aren't that old, but this morning the guy in them seems very young. Nick's not even sure he remembers what that felt like—to be fresh out of uniform and so very in love. He hasn't felt anything like that—not since he became a Grimm. Not since he looked up one day and saw Adalind's face in the sun.
He looks to Adalind standing in this carefully curated house with her leather jacket and her wild eyes and her busted lip, dented by his teeth marks—his own dented by hers—and he thinks he's never seen another woman like her. That's probably a good thing, all considered, but still. She's unique. He might not even regret meeting her. Not anymore.
There's something about this house today that doesn't feel right. None of this furniture is his after all. When he moved in with Juliette all of his had been made of particle board—all falling apart after years of moving from lease to lease. It'd make sense to ditch all of his stuff, and he doesn't miss it. There was nothing to miss. But maybe he misses the idea of having his own stuff. His own taste. The idea of really feeling centered in a space that speaks to him—that he feels like he can be himself in. He spends most of his time in this house keeping it the way Juliette likes it, and that was absolutely fine until Adalind walked in today, and suddenly he's not sure he can stand it.
"Nick?" Juliette's calling him from the kitchen, and he sighs and leads Adalind that way with a tilt of his head.
Juliette is bustling around the kitchen—pulling her mugs out of her cabinets. Pulling her tea bags out of her canisters. She's so grounded here—so at home—and somehow, he just isn't. It's a depressing thought, but there it is. He has more pressing concerns to focus on right now, anyway.
"I'm sorry for the short notice," he tells Juliette, "but Adalind's home isn't really safe right now. I was wondering if she could stay here for a night or two? Just until we figure out what to do next."
"Sure," Juliette says, smiling warmly at Adalind in a way that makes Nick a little nauseous. Even Adalind looks a shade paler, which is really saying something. It's the first time he's ever thought that Juliette might be taking her whole nice girl thing just a little too far. It seems so wrong that he can bring a strange, beautiful woman into Juliette's home with the flimsiest of cover stories and have Juliette welcome her with open arms and not the slightest whiff of suspicion. It's even worse that she has every reason to be suspicious. Not that he's planning on cheating on her again anytime soon—or at all if he can help it—but if the last twenty-four hours have taught him anything, it's that none of his plans are worth jack shit.
"Do you want to take a shower, Adalind?" Juliette offers, all sweetness and light, "or do you want tea first? It's completely up to you."
Adalind stares at Juliette, and Nick wonders if she's thinking the same thing. That she probably smells like pine needles and blood and him—the same way he probably smells like her. Something spiced and marshmallowy. Good enough to eat.
"A shower would be great," Adalind says, at the same time he says, "I should probably shower, too," and then they're right back where they started, staring at each other while Juliette stares at them, and Nick has no idea how they're ever going to make it through the morning, much less the next few nights.
