A/N: It's a nice day for some—checks notes—smut. Yep, this is pretty much just flirting and smut with a skosh of plot and team building. Enjoy!


Time passes strangely for a while. All Adalind can see behind her eyelids is the gun, the barrel pointed at her face—the man behind it ready to pull the trigger—thoughtlessly—almost even casually. Like she didn't matter to him at all—like it'd just be easier for him if she wasn't there. If Rosalee hadn't elbowed him in the face—if Monroe hadn't arrived and pulled Adalind behind the shelves—if Hank hadn't snuck in the back and tackled the gun out of Waltz's hand—if Ian hadn't picked it up and shot him—calmly and methodically—an execution if there ever was one. If all of these people hadn't cared enough to save her life, she wouldn't be here now. In Nick's arms, having her hair stroked and kissed. And it's nice having her hair stroked and kissed. It's really, really nice.

It's also nice to be a part of a team for the very first time. She can't help but think of where she was this time yesterday—alone in the woods, waiting for the Grimm with no back up from the people who had sent her there—Sean or her mother. She'd been on her own entirely, and if nature hadn't taken its course, she might be dead by now, or alone and powerless, or even worse—the victor. She might have killed Nick, and then she really would have been alone. Completely and forever. Stuck with Sean. Stuck with her mother. Maybe she'd even have become a reaper—a Grimm assassin—and you don't exactly hear a lot of stories about their happy homelives.

So alone holds no appeal tonight—not when three people she didn't even know yesterday and one she was trying to kill all banded together to save her and themselves and their community from the threat of the Verrat and Royal aggression in Portland. Adalind has never been one for group projects or even friendship, but she's starting to understand why it might matter. She wouldn't have been here if she didn't want to help Monroe and Rosalee—and she wouldn't be alive if they hadn't done the same. If that's what friends do, then maybe she gets it.

And even as all these thoughts swirl around her head, Nick just keeps holding her—stroking her hair—whispering soft words into her ear. She can't remember being held like this—not by a lover, not by her mother—and the warmth of it—the comfort—it loosens something inside her, something wound so tightly around her heart she didn't even know it was there—thorny vines embedded in the muscle—a living pain she's grown with since she was four and her parents showed her that love was a myth. Being held by Nick like this—it's like the thorns are receding—drawing back, leaving weeping wounds behind. It hurts, of course, but then healing often does.

"I was so scared," Nick is saying now—mummering into her ear. "I could feel your adrenaline spiking on the way here, and then I heard the shot, and I thought you, or Hank, or Monroe, or Rosalee—I should have been here. It should have been me."

Adalind doesn't have any regrets for being the one to get the call rather than Nick. Sure, he would have had his own gun, but who's to say more guns would have helped the situation?

"It shouldn't have been anyone," she says, pulling back and finally opening her eyes. She's sitting in Nick's lap—held in his arms—and everything else in the room can just wait. "The Verrat should not have been here threatening innocent people just to get to one man. Edgar Waltz should not have come to Portland and gone on a murder spree. And he certainly shouldn't have gone after Rosalee. We don't take too kindly to that in these here parts."

Nick's staring at her now, dark eyes boring into hers, and then she notices he's getting hard under her, and she grins a little, pressing down against him, feeling warmth flood through her.

"I should have known moralistic speeches would do it for you," she says softly with a breathy little laugh.

"I've never wanted you more," he says, grinning that dangerous, feral little grin, and Adalind is suddenly aware that they can't fuck in the back room of Rosalee's shop in front of all of Nick's friends—friends who might even be becoming her friends—but that doesn't stop her wanting to.

"Down, boy," she says, leaning into to press a kiss to the corner of his grin, bearing down against him one more time—just for fun. "Save it for the car."


By the time they get to the car, the mood has shifted a little. There'd been the body to deal with, and Sean, and now there's Ian in the back seat, watching her and Nick with wary eyes that she can see in the side-view mirror. They'd left Hank and Sean to dispose of the body somewhere it won't be noticed for a while, and Monroe to take Rosalee home. That leaves Ian to deal with, and Adalind is pretty sure she knows what Nick plans to do with him, but they haven't exactly had a chance to discuss the plan at length, and she knows better than to ask when the man himself is a captive audience, so they just keep driving in tense silence for the rest of the trip.

Eventually, Nick pulls over into a well lit parking lot, and Adalind releases a sigh of relief. It seems less likely she'll have to talk him out of murder, at least. It's not a position she'd ever expected to need to take with Nick—and it's one she feels ill-equipped for, to be honest—so she's glad that tonight's body count seems more likely to stop at one.

Nick gets out of the car and opens the rear doors to extract Ian in his handcuffs, and Adalind scrambles to catch up—exiting the car and rounding the back to find Nick removing the handcuffs and handing Ian the fake passport acquired by Rosalee at great risk and what looks like a bus ticket. When did he have time to get a bus ticket?

"Thank you," Ian says. "I know all of this is new to you, Burkhardt, but thank you for helping me, anyway."

"Yeah, well, I should probably be thanking you. Thank you for protecting my friends. I know you did it for Rosalee—and I'm very grateful." His eyes cut to hers when he says that, and Adalind feels that heat from before return and lick up her spine.

Ian turns to her, too, smiling. "Thank you, Ms. Schade, for not letting this one arrest me on sight. Your legal advice was invaluable."

Adalind shrugs and returns his smile. "Your alibi was a bullet wound—you would have been fine, but it was my pleasure. If you ever need a lawyer in Portland, you know who to call. I'll keep your euro on retainer."

"Thank you," Ian says, "and I'll get in touch with my contacts in Europe. See if we can't find a rogue agent or two with an interest in helping you two keep Portland neutral for the foreseeable future."

"That would be much appreciated."

He reaches out for a handshake—first her and then Nick—and then he salutes them both with his passport and bus ticket and heads out for the terminal. Nick comes up behind her, slipping a hand into her hair at the base of her neck, pulling her under his arm to press a kiss to the top of her head.

"You did good there," he says softly.

"So did you," she says, turning into his arms, circling her own around his waist and tilting her face up to his. "Where'd you get the ticket?"

"I had Hank ask Wu to get it while we were on our way to talk to Renard. It might even be expensed by the Portland PD."

She grins. "Naughty, naughty, Detective Burkhardt."

He grins back. "I just thought, what would an unscrupulous lawyer do, and I channeled you. Now if you could just remember you are an unscrupulous lawyer and keep yourself out of the way of armed gunmen, that would be perfect."

"I couldn't help it," she says. "I thought, what would a hero with the self preservation instincts of a pot of petunias do, and then I channeled you. And I wasn't going to let him hurt Rosalee—she's holding your whole operation together. I'm not interested in running a major talent acquisition right now, Nick. We have enough problems."

Nick snorts, stroking her neck. "Also, you like Rosalee."

"Everyone likes Rosalee," Adalind says, rolling her eyes to cover up that actually, she really does like Rosalee. It's impossible not to. The woman has steel in her spine and a natural gift for magic that's frankly impressive, but Adalind's not about to admit that to Nick. She has some pride.

"We're one step closer to Switzerland," she says instead.

"Yeah," he says, looking at her lips like he would agree to anything right now, and then he kisses her, backing her up against the car, hands sliding down to her hips, pulling them into him where he's hard and hot and wanting.

She breaks the kiss with a laugh, grinning up into his shadowed face, backlit by the light behind him.

"Really?" she asks. "Here? In front of God and Portland's most recent escapees?"

Nick sighs and kisses her again—softly this time—and when he pulls back, she misses his heat.

"Yeah," he says again. "Maybe not here. Where else are we going to go, though? Your place has your mother—my place isn't even my place, it's Juliette's—and who knows if Monroe is even at his house tonight or how he'd feel about us using his spare room. We don't have a lot of options here, Adalind."

"We haven't really talked about where we're at with the whole magic baby thing, either. And if memory serves, you still have a girlfriend."

Nick groans and drops his head to her shoulder, crowding her back against the car, pressing kisses into her neck.

"I just want you," he says, and his lips against her skin make a very compelling argument.

"All right," she says, pushing off the car and opening the back door. "Let's take this inside, Burkhardt."

He catches the door and smiles down at her—warm and loving and—for now—hers.

"After you, Ms. Schade," he says.

She slides into the back seat, and he follows, reaching for her even before the door slams shut behind him. She's in his lap quickly, his fingers rucking up her shift dress, hers buried in his hair, pulling him into her neck, where he resumes his exploration of the sensitive skin behind her ears and sucks hard at the hickey he gave her earlier, sending shockwaves through her belly. There's a breathy little moan—hers—and then a hot, breathless laugh—his.

"You like that," he says, and then his questing hands find their way into her underwear, and he groans when his fingers slip through slick heat.

"God," he says, "you really like that."

"I really like you," she says, sucking her own mark low into his neck, and he groans again, while her hands go on a quest of their own, down his button up shirt—feeling the heat and muscle of him under her hands—down to his belt—which wouldn't be half as difficult to undo if he didn't keep distracting her with little strokes against her clit.

"You're not helping," she says, cupping him through his jeans and he grins at her—looking a little loopy and loose.

"Sure I am," he says, and then he plunges two fingers into her and taps her clit again, and she comes hard and forgets all about the belt for a minute.

"God, you're gorgeous," he says, while Adalind drifts back to him and his hot, dark eyes and his stroking fingers. She moves with him now, rising and falling against his hand, slick just like her.

"You're not so bad yourself," she says, leaning in for a languid, teasing kiss—all tongue and teeth and grinning. She reaches for the belt again, managing to get it open this time—then the zip, and then he's hot and hard and thick in her hand, and she remembers he was a perfect fit last night, but at the moment she's not quite sure how.

She lets him go for a second—catching the whine in the back of his throat with her lips—and slides her hand to meet his, gathering her own wetness on her fingers, before reaching for him again—running her slick hand up and down his length. He's gasping now—they both are—and there's no more thinking—no more choreography—just heat and motion and breathing in unison until they both break and come against each other's fingers—shattering into pieces, all mixed up together.