"Well, that went well," Monroe says. His voice is dripping in sarcasm, and Nick groans and bangs his head on the steering wheel. They haven't set off yet—they'd reached the Land Cruiser and climbed inside before the horror of what just happened sank in and left them both frozen in their seats.

"That was the worst break up I've ever seen," Monroe says, "and my ex is straight up homicidal."

"Great," Nick says, head still pressed to the steering wheel. "That's just great."

"Well, no one died," Monroe offers. "So, statistically speaking, there probably are Grimm break ups that have gone worse."

"Monroe?"

"Yes?"

"Please stop helping."

"Right."

They sit in silence after that, Nick still slumped over the wheel contemplating his life and his choices while Monroe watches the house, just in case Juliette comes out looking for revenge.

Nick sits up eventually. He feels awful about Juliette, but he still doesn't want to be her boyfriend, so there's no point moping about it. They're not going to get to a better place tonight—even if he went back in there and tried to apologize. He's remembering the way Adalind was with Hank—slow, straightforward—trying her best to give Hank space and let him set the pace. That's what peacemaking looks like. Granted, Adalind and Hank have been on an accelerated timeline because of everything else going on, but as a model, Nick's pretty sure he could do worse than following Adalind's lead when it comes to making amends for the unforgivable. Clearly, she's something of an expert.

Nick sighs and reaches for the key, ready to turn on the ignition, when Monroe clears his throat.

"Ah, Nick? You might want to stick around for another couple minutes."

"What? Why?"

Monroe doesn't answer, just points out the passenger window, and then Nick sees what his friend sees. Juliette is in the upstairs hall window, silently and methodically throwing his things into the yard from the second floor. She's backlit from the hall, but even in the shadow, he thinks she looks pissed.

"That's not all," Monroe says, and then he cracks the passenger window, and Nick can hear Carrie Underwood blaring out of the house, threatening to dig her keys into the side of his pretty, little, souped-up four-wheel drive.

"Oh," Nick says, and then he starts to laugh. There's nothing else to say really. Is it a little childish? Sure. Does he deserve it? Absofuckinglutely. It's also the least perfect thing Juliette has done in his vicinity in three years of knowing her, and perversely, he kind of likes her better already.

So they sit and wait it out while Carrie belts out her ode to vengeance on repeat, and Juliette makes as many trips as it takes to haul all of his personal belongings to the window and hurl them out.

The final item is the ring box from his sock drawer, which she pitches directly at the car. She's got a hell of an arm, and it damn near strikes the side of the car, which definitely would have left a dent. There's a little scream of frustration from the upstairs window at the miss, and then it slams shut with a thunk that cuts Carrie off midverse.

"Wow," Monroe says. "That was really something."

"Yeah." Nick is still smiling—still somehow pleased to get this parting glimpse of the real Juliette. "Kind of her, really, to save me a trip to get it all later."

"Sure," Monroe says. "I'm sure kindness was really her driving motivation."

It takes a while to collect everything from the lawn—starting with the cursed ring and ending with his electric razor, which hit a stone under the front bushes and didn't survive the impact.

"I guess I'm going to be embracing the stubble," Nick says, handing the broken razor to Monroe while he climbs into the driver's seat of the mercifully unkeyed Land Cruiser.

"I like the stubble," Monroe says while he tosses the broken shaver onto the pile of clothes and random shit strewn across the back seat. "I'd like ice cream or a stiff drink even better. Let's get the hell out of here, man."

Nick nods and takes one last look at the house he's lived in for the last two years. It's dark and silent now. It doesn't feel like it was his home at all.

"Yeah," he says. "Let's go."


They find Adalind and Rosalee huddled together on a picnic table at Dairy Queen, wrapped up in Monroe's flannel with their cups of ice cream melted and forgotten at their sides. According to Adalind, they'd gotten too caught up in making plans for Switzerland to finish their first ice cream course, so he and Monroe were sent to retrieve a second cone for their once and future overlords.

"I don't know how I feel about those two getting cozy," Monroe mutters while they're in line to order.

"I think we better stay on their good side," Nick says. "They're the only magic users we can trust, so we better keep them happy."

Monroe snorts. "Yeah, remember that, would you? You're the one who keeps picking fights with Adalind."

"That's not fighting," Nick says, a grin creeping onto his face. "That's foreplay."

"Oh, yuck," Monroe says. "Keep it to yourself, Burkhardt."

Back at the picnic table, Nick hands Adalind her towering chocolate-vanilla twist, and her face lights up in a way he's never seen before—not even when he does that thing with his thumb that seems to drive her wild—and for a second he's a little jealous of an ice cream cone, and then he's just amazed that he gets to see her like this, staring at an ice cream cone with little girl wonder in her eyes.

He settles in beside her on the table, sliding a hand around her waist under Monroe's flannel where she's warm while she leans into him, and then he settles into licking his own cone while Adalind starts down another line of thinking with Rosalee and forgets all about her ice cream again. Monroe's on the other side of Rosalee—looking like he wishes he could hold her, too—and then he meets Nick's eyes with a sparkle of mirth at the situation they both find themselves in—desperate to get closer to two women who couldn't care less so long as they can keep on plotting together—and Nick grins and shrugs, content to hold Adalind and eat his ice cream and listen to her plan how to change his world.


Back in the car, Adalind takes one look at all his belongings spread across the back seat and turns to him with a raised eyebrow.

"It went that well, did it?"

"Yeah," Nick says. "That was the highlight, really."

"Fun," Adalind says, leaning in to peer at him. "How are you doing with it all? Don't say fine."

Nick had been about to say 'Fine,' but finding this avenue closed to him, he shuts his mouth and shrugs, considering.

"Maybe I'm not fine," he says finally, and it's a bit of a relief to say it out loud. "It was ugly and not fine, and I really hurt Juliette. But even though it was all wrong, ending it didn't feel wrong. It felt necessary. Not just because I want to be with you, but because even without you, Juliette and I just don't make sense any more. Does that make sense? Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Adalind gives him a tired smile.

"It makes sense," she says. "I don't know what I wanted to hear, but I'm glad you told me whether I wanted to hear it or not. I'm glad you felt safe enough to share it with me."

Nick takes a deep breath then. Safe, he thinks. Is that what this feeling is? Feeling safe enough to be real. If it is, then he could get addicted to the stuff—to being able to be himself. Anyone could.

That night they end up at Adalind's apartment. She'd warned him that her mother could show up at any time, but given the option between spending the night on Monroe's couch or in Adalind's bed, it'd been an easy choice for Nick.

Only now that he's here, he's rethinking his choice. He's been in her apartment before, of course. Plenty of times, actually. And one of those times, he found Hank dying in her bed.

Nick stares at that bed now, seeing it all again, remembering the terror and the anger coursing through his veins. Remembering what it was like to genuinely want Adalind dead.

Adalind enters the bedroom with her arms full of fresh sheets, takes one look at his face, and stops dead.

"This was a bad idea, wasn't it?"

She looks a little frightened then—something he's not sure he's ever seen on her face—and that snaps him out of it.

"My fault," Nick says. "I think somehow I forgot—"

"No, it's my fault," Adalind says. "I did it, after all. I should have thought about what it would be like for you, being back here."

Nick shrugs a little, helpless. "It's a nice apartment."

"With a dark past," Adalind says, ducking her head with a tight little smile on her lips. "Just like me."

"I like you." He's closer to her now, and when she looks up, he leans in for a light kiss. "I like you a lot. I just don't think I can sleep in that bed."

Adalind sighs and looks at the bed again for a long moment before shaking her head.

"Yeah, I can't either. There's not enough sage in the world to cleanse this place."

"So couch?"

"Couch," she agrees with a nod.

They get ready for sleep together. He has a toothbrush courtesy of Juliette, who was good enough to throw his entire toiletry travel kit out of the window intact. He and Adalind brush their teeth together in her bathroom while her cat winds its way between their legs, meowing in complaint at being left to its own devices for two days. It probably shouldn't be such a big deal, but it all feels real again, and he can't help but grin at her around his toothbrush, dripping foam down his chin like a fool. She laughs and spills a little of her own foam down her chin, and Nick may not feel at home in her cursed apartment, but he feels at home with her, and that's all he cares about tonight.

The couch is a little tight for the two of them and the cat. They end up curled together with Nick pressed against the back of the couch, holding Adalind close because it's nice and also because she's in constant danger of falling off the edge. The cat curls herself up between their legs, grumbling a little in protest every time they shift while looking for balance. They keep stealing kisses, but that doesn't feel like it's going anywhere tonight. It's been a long day—one of many—and while Nick's pretty sure he'll never stop wanting Adalind, he's equally sure they both want to wait for a venue not haunted by either of their former lives.

"Tomorrow, we're finding a new place," Adalind says sleepily. "One with no ghosts. Well, no ghosts we're responsible for. I guess we'll have to be accommodating if we end up moving in with Casper or something."

Nick laughs and hugs her in closer. Only Adalind could talk about moving in with a ghost and have him half convinced that it's a possibility. Although, it probably is. He's a storybook Grimm holding a witch—who is he to say that ghosts don't exist?

"We'll make sure to ask about ghosts," he assures her, sounding just as sleepy as she does. "It'll be right up there on the list with water pressure and dry rot."

"Good," Adalind says, fading into sleep. "I love a list."

I love you, Nick thinks on the edge of sleep, and then he stops thinking.


Nick wakes up to the steady beat of a stiletto heel on the hardwood floor. Opening one eye reveals a black pump tapping impatiently and following one perfectly formed leg upwards slowly reveals Catherine Schade, sitting like a queen in one of Adalind's armchairs, with one black pump clad leg crossed over the other, her perfectly manicured fingers tapping against the armrest like she's been waiting for him to wake up all day.

"Good morning, Nicholas," she says, and her voice is smooth and utterly deadly. "Would you like some coffee? Or tea, perhaps? I do love a good matcha, don't you?"

It's still early, and Nick's a little confused. Adalind is still asleep—warm in his arms—and her mother's stare is cold as ice. He shakes his head to clear it, but Mama Schade must take that as a negative on the matcha.

"All right then," she says with a wide, toothy smile that makes Nick think of parlors and spiders. "Then be a dear, would you, and tell me—what exactly are your intentions with my daughter?"


A/N: Folks, I've had Before He Cheats stuck in my head for three days. It's a bop, but I wish you better luck!