A/N: Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing! This story has a ways to go, so thanks for coming with me on the journey!


"We're going to need a chandelier for those stairs," Adalind says in the car on the way to Monroe's. She's already dreaming of slinking down that staircase in something floor length and sparkly—something with a slit up to her thigh and dramatic sleeves—something that'll stun a crowd and make Nick go speechless.

"We're going to need a shit ton of money," Nick says. "A chandelier is at the bottom of the list—after replacement treads and banisters and a new kitchen and a new bathroom and a refinished tub—"

Adalind's heart flutters—just a little.

"We're keeping the tub?"

"Of course we're keeping the tub." Nick rolls his eyes. "Did you see that tub? It's perfect—or it will be once we take care of the rust—"

"I love you," Adalind says, and in that moment she feels it so powerfully, so fiercely, it almost moves her to tears.

Nick's driving—he can't turn to stare at her—but he does throw her a glance through wide, shocked eyes.

"Because of a tub?"

"No," Adalind says, "because it's been three days of sheer madness around here, and any other guy in the world would be out of here by now, but here you are, ready to refinish a tub because it's perfect for us and our house and our family. I couldn't imagine doing any of this with anyone else, Nick. And I think I really might love you."

Nick swallows—nods—glances her way again. "I think I love you, too. I think maybe I've been in love with you for months, and I just hated you too much to notice."

Adalind laughs, hard. "Yeah, me, too."

Nick pulls up in front of Monroe's house and turns off the engine, turning in the same moment to reach for her, the same way she reaches for him. They meet in the middle—a tangle of limbs and lips that has her sliding down the seat, nearly pulling him over the gearshift in an effort to get closer.

Nick breaks the kiss with a little laugh, pulling back just enough that his stomach isn't digging into the lever anymore. He's still close—close enough to steal another kiss, to press a few more to her nose, her cheeks, her brow.

"I love you," he says. "Wanna have a baby with me?"

Adalind grins up at him, feeling safe in his arms in a way that's still new and a little precious.

"Okay," she says—feeling like she's already said yes a thousand times in the past few wild days—"let's have a baby, then."

Nick grins and presses his forehead to hers, speaking softly. "What did you say? IUD? Ritual ceremony?"

"And not in a fucking paint factory? Yep. I'll call for an appointment for the IUD tomorrow."

"And I'm guessing the ritual is going to need some witches involved?"

"Yeah, we're going to need to get my mom and Henrietta and Rosalee in a room and see what they can come up with."

"Rosalee isn't a witch," Nick says, confused.

It's Adalind's turn to roll her eyes. "That didn't stop her brewing up an antidote for Hank, though, did it? She's fearless and curious, and that's a magical combination, Nick. She may not be a hexenbiest, but she's sure as hell a witch. The kind of witch I can be for the next nine months, anyway. We'll all work on it."

"Where do you need me?"

"Probably with the witches. If nothing else, watching my mother and Henrietta compete to be the best fairy godmother should be entertaining."

"Or deadly."

Adalind sighs. "Or deadly. You can help with that, though. Nothing like having a powerful, unattainable man around to distract a hexenbiest."

Nick pulls back, a little disgruntled in the dark of the car and looking all the better for it. "So, I'm what—bait? Eye candy?"

"Oh, yeah," Adalind says, grinning up at him—pulling him down for another kiss. "My eye candy."

"Oh," Nick says—a soft little sound—"well, so long as I'm yours..."

They spend a good long while making out in the car. The windows aren't exactly steamed, but when they finally come up for air, Adalind finds herself wondering if the neighbors might have called the cops on them soon if they'd gone on much longer. She can just picture Hank or Wu getting the call and walking up to the car, only to find her and Nick doing their best to make a baby using only their tongues.

Adalind snorts. Is that gross? She shrugs. It didn't feel gross. It'd felt like being sixteen again and getting another chance to make out with the star quarterback without the threat of her mother finding out and hexing him into oblivion.

"What are you laughing about," Nick asks, softly. He's cradling her head in his hands, his eyes warm and sparkling, his lips quirked up, his head tilted to the side in query—like he really wants to know—like he wants the chance to laugh with her—to know her and love her just a little bit more.

"I was thinking that we're making out like teenagers, and I like it—making out with the popular boy and not having to worry my mother is going to hex you out of my life tomorrow."

Nick grins. "You think I was the popular kid?"

Adalind looks at him—those cheekbones—that chin—that stubble—those deep, dark eyes.

"Yeah," she says, "you have pretty, popular football star written all over you, Burkhardt."

Nick snorts and shakes his head. "I was the weird kid. Orphan, hard ass aunt, always on the move—always a new town. I ran track—long distance—the only sport where you don't have to get on with the team to get on. I didn't have friends until the academy, really—not until Hank."

He doesn't look sad, but Adalind feels a wave of pain roll through her at the thought of young Nick—lonely and alone—following Marie Kessler around the states for her Grimm work and his safety—never resting, never settling down. In one blinding moment, she feels a twinge of grief for his Aunt Marie—his only family that she helped take away from him—and a wash of relief for Hank—his oldest friend that she almost took, too—and brand new appreciation for his attachment to Juliette—the woman who was so determined to be the perfect little homemaker for him and who must have seemed like dream come true to a boy who'd never had a home.

"I'm so sorry, Nick."

It's the first time she's said it—it's the first time she's felt it. Aunt Marie and Hank were enemy combatants, and Juliette was not the right partner for Nick—she's never felt guilty for that. She doesn't feel sorry for them, exactly, or for her actions, but she does feel sorry for Nick—for the pain she's caused him, for the pain he's lived with his whole life—the loneliness lurking behind all that self-reliance and strength.

She wonders what it would be like, in a world where they didn't fuck in the forest. She wonders if he would be going it alone without her—reluctant to lean on Monroe and Rosalee—not able to tell Hank or Juliette or even Sean—buffeted by the unknown and forced to rely on no one but himself until either Monroe and Rosalee wore him down to give him a team or he went full Grimm and left town to roam the world as another assassin for hire.

"You don't have to be sorry," Nick tells her, leaning in for another quick kiss. "I'm not sorry. Three days ago I was scared and angry and alone even when I was surrounded by people who loved me—who I love. I couldn't breathe—I couldn't be myself—I couldn't share the truth about myself with anyone but Monroe and Rosalee—and I couldn't even introduce them to anyone else in my life. I've always been alone, but these last six months have been the worst.

"It was easier as a kid. I didn't have friends, but I didn't have anything to hide either—I could be myself, in all my weird, loner glory. This year? I couldn't even be myself. Being with you gave me that—Hank knows, now. Juliette knows. Even Renard knows. And now there's you and your mom and Henrietta and the baby—and I'm really not alone anymore. We're building a life where I might never be alone again, and Adalind—that's thanks to you. To us, working together. Loving each other."

Her heart—aches. It beats hard and fast—harder and faster than it ever has. She's never felt like this before—like her heart was more than just a muscle—more than just a machine that kept her blood pumping and her body moving. She wonders vaguely if this is how the Grinch felt, when his heart grew three sizes in one day. If he felt these growing pains. She wonders what came next for him—what he did with all this extra space—all this new potential.

"We're never going to be alone again, are we?" She says it slowly—like she's just processing it herself. "Even if we don't work out—even if you can't stand me by the time the baby comes—we're always going to be a family, aren't we? We're always going to share this kid and this experience that no one else will ever really understand. We're never going to be alone. Not in this."

"Not in this." Nick's eyes are soft—sweet—like he knows just how alone she's been, too. How trapped she felt in a self made prison that her mother helped her build—a defensive tower that turned into a dungeon. Something natural that outgrew its use—something that needed to be struck by lightning—demolished down to the foundations—so that something new could grow again in its place.

She wonders if that was the point. Of losing her powers—of Nick losing his. If something out there in those woods saw two people locked in a battle for their lives and decided to help. To blow up the roles that kept them apart—to leave them bare and reborn in front of each other's eyes—to offer them something better, something they could love, something that they could rebuild on. Together.

She kisses him then—hard and biting and deep. He's with her immediately—pressing back just as hard, just as deep. He nips at her—teasing little bites on her lower lip that make her moan—make her flare with heat—and she wonders if he hears it, too—sees it—the crash of thunder in her ears—the flare of light behind her lids—the crash of walls falling and roots sprouting deep.