A.N.: I just noticed that in the season one finale when Sean Renard is attacked in his own apartment, there are photographs of him with a young girl on the walls, and he wears a wedding-ring. But where are his wife and the little girl? I'm very curious whether they have something to do with his working with the Laufer. They say the ring is something to do with 'being a royal' but I think that's rubbish.
There's nothing to break through writer's block like a bad day at work.
I may also give Meisner a different name, because Martin is my dad's name! I'm leaning towards Conrad. It has a more modern Germanic feel, and the name wouldn't be out of place in Portland.
Fantastic Beasts and How to Fight Them
"I'm a damsel. I'm in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day." – Meg, Hercules
01
A Habit
With a shuddering gasp, she wrenched herself from her nightmares, dripping in sweat, her heart hammering in her ears, the taste of copper on her tongue and a physical exhaustion draining what little energy she had, the lingering terror of sleep-paralysis affecting her more than her nightmares. Her mind had literally locked her within a harrowing vision of false faces and decapitations, her overactive imagination turning her aunt's death by cancer into something even more macabre and confusing. Flickering-faced assassins trying to poison her, knife-wielding priests attacking in the ICU. Her mind, yet again, trying to create a reason why she had lost someone else so important to her, for no reason. A car-accident; cancer – they were both faceless monsters she couldn't reconcile to her devastating loss.
Shuddering, panting for breath, she groaned, her head falling into her hands, sweat cooling on her skin, as her blood raced through her veins. She hadn't had nightmares like this in years – since her parents died in the crash.
The silence in her house pressed on her, the darkness of her bedroom fading as her eyes adjusted, everything illuminated in silvered navy by the half-moon glowing brightly outside. It had been a night like this that Aunt Marie had reappeared, without notice; bright, cold and calm.
She sat slumped in her bed, the covers twisted and sweaty, her hands shaking as her body's natural instincts overpowered sense, her mind struggling to grasp the difference between dreams and consciousness, her exhaustion blurring the two together inextricably. She was becoming more and more terrified that she was stuck in some sort of limbo – if she was still actually in that coma.
Over the last week or so she had come to wonder whether her dreams weren't the reality – whether this half-world she was living in, sleepless nearly to the point of insomnia because of those nightmares, wandering around with the constant itch of annoyance that she had forgotten something very important, was the dream. Nothing made sense.
She reached over blindly for the glass of water on her nightstand, downing it in three gulps, and tried to settle back to sleep. Even changing the sweaty sheets didn't help; and showering the sweat away only increased her wakefulness, cooling her blood, but only intensifying the feeling of her nerves, frayed to their limit.
Freshly showered, in new pyjamas and clean sheets, she settled back in the dark, and tried to empty her mind, to rest.
An hour later, she huffed, lurched out of bed, packed her gym gear, fed the menagerie of animals in her house and left before the dawn. The sun had just started to glimmer flirtatiously with the enamelled clouds as she ambled into her quiet gym, and she worked out some of her frustration for a good hour before showering and taking the time in the mirror to dress herself before heading to the Precinct. She blow-dried her hair and pulled it back into a Dutch braid down her back, moisturised her face, added a flick of mascara to her lashes and tidied her brows – she was low-maintenance; her lifestyle demanded it. In exceptional circumstances, she made more effort than a movie-star on the red-carpet, but those times were few and far between – again, because of her chosen vocation. And today was not one of those days. She grimaced at the dark circles under her eyes, dug a colour-correcting concealer out of the bottom of her purse and sighed at her reflection after patting the crème under her eyes and setting it with the powder.
Until she figured out what the hell was going on with her brain, this would have to do. As long as she wasn't mistaken for a perp, people would just have to deal with it. They'd seen her with half her face bruised to twice its normal size from Stark's assault; exhaustion wasn't going to shock the hell out of them.
She stopped to buy herself a breakfast burrito and a strong coffee from a nearby hole-in-the-wall and made her way into work. The thing about working at the Precinct was there was never any downtime, just because she was in hours earlier than she needed to be didn't mean she was coming in to an empty office. A lot of the others she had been a beat-cop with had just finished their shifts; shift-changes were the busiest times of any day. She said hello to the Desk Sergeant and made her way through to the office, settling down at her desk with a groan. She unpeeled her burrito, sipped her coffee, and pulled a pile of manila folders toward her.
"You're in unusually early, even for you," a voice said, long after her burrito had been demolished, and Nicolette's lips parted in surprise at the stutter of her heart at the sound of it. That's new, she thought, turning to face the Captain.
"Well, home's not exactly a safe landing-place right now," she said softly. No-one could blame her for not wanting to stay in the house where she'd been attacked, twice, and where she'd found a dead body – her murdered fiancé, according to everyone she knew. Truth of the matter was, the house was confusing; but as frustrating as the photographs were, they were not nearly as mind-bending as her files. Her reports and notes, so meticulously maintained, didn't make sense to her – as if she was missing something instinctive, something she knew that was too important to put to paper but explained the holes in her logic. Everything made sense on the file; but her mind nagged at her, as if annoyed at herself, like she should know something but couldn't remember it.
"You feel unsafe at home?" Captain Renard asked, frowning, his eyes flashing with urgency. "Have you received some new threat? Kimura had ties to a lot of dangerous people, I'd hate to think anyone is coming after you for his death."
"No, it's not that," Nicolette assured him, with a sigh. Ever since she had joined the South Precinct in uniform, fresh out of the Academy, she had been aware of the Captain. Calm, supportive, approachable, politically-minded but a team-player, and very attractive. It wasn't hard to notice the slim gold band on his finger, or that he never spoke about his wife. She had always been curious – but he was her Captain. She could appreciate the eye-candy in a profession that by its nature was very grim, but he was just that; eye-candy. Look, never touch.
Too complicated.
And he wasn't her type anyway; too serious. She was a cop; she needed delight when she took off her badge at the end of every day – or the dark hours of the early-morning, as it more often than not turned out to be.
"The photos and everything in the house, they're just confusing, that's all," Nicolette said, shrugging awkwardly. Everyone here had a better idea of what her relationship to a murdered man was. Hank kept wincing at her, as if half-expecting her to remember, and break.
Cop; gun; psychotic break: Not a winning combination. It wasn't his fault he was wary.
"Hank tells me you've experienced problems…with your memory," Renard prompted gently, perching on the edge of her desk. She looked up sharply, anxiety rippling through her, clutching her throat and squeezing her stomach like a vice.
"I've been cleared for active duty," she said, and a little smile appeared, warming the Captain's features. Sat this close, she could smell his understated cologne – he always smelled good – again, another of the perks of her job. One of the very few.
The Captain smiled, "That's not what I asked."
Nicolette stared at him, weighing her options, and ducked her head. "I…can't remember Charlie."
"Your fiancé?"
"That's what everybody says," Nicolette grumbled in frustration. "There are photos all over my house, a guy's stuff everywhere – I have no memory of being with anyone the last three years, let alone living with him."
"You weren't in a coma very long – how is it that you've amnesia about a specific person?" Renard murmured, as if speaking to himself.
"I don't know – but it's really starting to piss me off," she blurted, then flushed and glanced at the Captain, her superior officer. "Sorry."
"There's no need to apologise," Renard said, with a little smile. "We both know worse has been said in this room in frustration."
"Yeah," Nicolette nodded. She hadn't been raised cussing her mouth off – she had rarely heard Marie curse, and her view was that with the thousands of words in the English language, there was always something that could verbalise her feelings. But, no, now she was frustrated as heck – she was tense, anxious, annoyed, frustrated, reaching her limit – and it was her own fault! Her brain had rewired itself while she languished in a coma.
Renard sighed, glancing around the office. "Perhaps this isn't the right place to have this conversation. Let me put my things away, we'll go and get a cup of coffee. I hear you like coffee, Nicolette."
"Only with my oxygen," Nicolette smiled, sighed, and packed up her files, tidying the folders into a neat file, and placing her forget-me-not paperweight on top of the loose papers. She had always been diligent about maintaining a tidy desk – she hated not being able to find what she needed. She laughed without humour, her fingertips brushing the cool glass of the paperweight. "Forget-me-nots. How ironic." The Captain gave her a sombre smile, left his briefcase and overcoat in his office, and they made their way out of the precinct.
"Do you have a favourite coffee-shop nearby?" Renard suggested, and Nicolette beamed, checking her watch.
"I've been weaned off Starbucks," Nicolette warned, "so, I hope you don't mind the Sunflower. If we head there now, they'll be pulling a fresh batch of berry fritters from the fryer." She beamed, and Renard smiled.
"You know the baker's schedule?"
"If I call ahead, Margo will set some kouign amann aside for me," she smiled.
"Friends in the right places," Renard said softly, and Nicolette nodded. They made their way out of the building, fighting through the tide of the incoming shift-change, letting the early-morning mist caress them as they left the building down the broad steps. Nicolette glanced at the Captain; it was strange to walk down the street with him so casually. She was used to Hank's stilted swagger, not the Captain's easy, confident strides, and she was acutely aware that it was the Captain walking beside her. Aside from court trials, annual inter-precinct softball games and awards ceremonies, there were very few times Nicolette ever saw Captain Renard in a social context.
It was strange that she was at once comfortable in his presence, and hyperaware of him.
She wondered about the implications of taking him to a café, when they so rarely interacted outside of the Precinct. The tiny bakery was one of her favourites, and always a treat. She had met Monroe here more times than she could count; he had a deep passion for small-batch coffee, loose-leaf tea and decadent hot chocolate, vegan pastries and cosy ambiance. Sunflower Bakery was a hidden jewel, but with his doorframe-wrecking shoulders and sharp, custom-tailored suit Renard looked almost comically out of place beside the yellow gingham tablecloths and the buttery parrot-tulips. She bounced up to the counter, beaming.
Margo frowned, placing the 'Right to Refuse Service' sign on the counter. "No."
Nicolette's lips popped open in horror. "Margo! Come on, you're the only one who gives it to me the way I like it."
"You said you were cutting back."
"I lapsed. Margo, I need it."
"You have problems, you know that? You're probably gonna die at thirty-five of a heart-attack, brought on by an excess of caffeine."
"Oh, don't fret, Margo, it encourages wrinkles – besides, a bullet might take me out before then," Nicolette teased cheerfully. "Being a cop's not just about the coffee and donuts, you know."
"I heard that rumour," Margo sighed, shaking her head, but she pulled a coffee-cup from behind the counter. "But I'm only giving you a double-shot."
"Just make it dark and strong," Nicolette hummed, hiding a blush as her mind went to somewhere it had never gone to before. The flip-flop of her stomach had nothing to do with the three cups of coffee she had already had this morning, and everything to do with remembering Captain Renard's proximity to her. The understated scent of his cologne whispered to her, teasing her nose, making her want to sigh and inhale deeply, savour it.
"What'll you have?" Margo asked, smiling at the Captain.
"Is that Sachertorte?" Renard asked, eyeing the contents of the glass-fronted cabinet. He said the name with a slight accent – like when Monroe slipped into German, engrossed in telling her stories about his clockmaker ancestors.
"Made fresh this morning," Margo smiled. "It's one of my new ones. And to drink?"
"An espresso, please, and a glass of water," Renard said softly, still eyeing the cake fondly.
"Nick?"
"Oh, I don't know – you realise I don't put half as much thought into what underwear to put on as I do in choosing one of your pastries," Nicolette said, again forgetting herself in front of the Captain. She blushed a little, cleared her throat, but became enthralled by the offerings of butter and sugar and cream. The almond croissant, a simple palmier, a decadent Portuguese custard-tart…
"A kouign amann, please," she grinned. "And a Portuguese tart – for later."
"I'll warm the kouign amann for you. Go choose a table, I'll bring it all over," Margo said, raising an eyebrow at Nicolette pointedly when the Captain thanked her and took a small table in the corner. She swallowed, eyed the cabinet and paused, smiling, as Renard pulled the chair out for her.
"Thank you," she said, surprised, touched by the gentlemanly gesture. She sat, watching his movements as he sat opposite her; she would call it prowling. Slow, measured, subtly predatory – a big-cat stalking his prey. Odd, though, that she was reminded of a cat, as renard was French for 'fox'.
"You come here often," Renard said softly.
"Margo does great vegan stuffed pitas," Nicolette smiled. "I can't eat pizza and burgers all the time."
"It must be a refreshing escape, sometimes," Renard said, sat so casually with his long legs spread out under the little table, observing her with his head slightly tilted to the side, fiddling with a packet of sweetener.
Nicolette nodded. "So…what didn't you want to talk about at the Precinct?"
Renard shrugged slightly. "I just…thought you might feel more comfortable talking away from the Precinct, as you're so anxious about work. Have there been any other side-effects? Besides this curious amnesia?"
"Not that I'm aware of – but given the amnesia, I'm…mot really trusting my own mind right now," Nicolette admitted. She didn't tell him that that terrified her more than anything else. Margo appeared, bearing freshly-ground coffees and two plates, her Portuguese tart already tucked inside a little brown-paper bag.
Nicolette took a gulp of her coffee, groaning.
"Junkie," Margo tutted at her.
"Goddess," Nicolette retorted. They both thanked Margo, and she headed back to the counter.
"You've always relied on your instincts as much as your intelligence," Renard said, fiddling with the dainty handle of his espresso cup, bringing them back to the subject of their conversation. "What does your gut tell you?"
"Usually that I've had too much coffee," Nicolette joked, inhaling the scent of the medium-roast Ecuadorian coffee, and the Captain's lips twitched as he looked over the rim of his cup, amused. She sighed heavily, admitting what she somehow couldn't bring herself to say to Monroe or Hank: "Something's missing. Something – huge. I know it is, I can feel it, like a ghost limb. Only, I have no idea what it is – that's why I've been in so early; I'm worried that whatever I'm missing has something to do with my cases. I'm terrified one of the trials will be thrown out because I'm called to testify and I can't remember!"
"Nicolette, you're a talented detective; you've closed more cases than anyone in the Precinct recently," Renard reassured her gently. He frowned. "Did you find anything unfamiliar in your reports?"
"No – I remember all of the details I'll be called to testify on," Nicolette said, "I just feel like I'm missing the bigger picture."
"What bigger picture?"
"If I knew that, I wouldn't have so many sleepless nights," Nicolette smiled wryly. "Maybe it has more to do with the home-invasion than the coma, but…my mind's playing tricks on me."
"How so?"
"Just…seeing things. Impossible things. I've been having nightmares…only I don't know that I'm really awake…even now. Sleep paralysis when I wake from nightmares," Nicolette said softly. The sleep-paralysis was the most terrifying part of it all. She hadn't told her friends about that, and she licked her lips, fidgeting with her napkin, wondering why she felt so comfortable telling the Captain, second-guessing whether it was in her best interests to confess this sort of thing to her superior officer, if she wanted to keep her position.
"What kind of things are you seeing?"
Nicolette didn't answer right away. She licked her lips, gazing at the Captain, a squirming sensation in her stomach, which felt oddly empty as her mind went back to the night she was attacked in her home by Kimura – had killed Kimura in self-defence… She had seen the impossible; that face haunted her coma, haunted her dreams now.
She had seen her mother – or a warped version of her that made no sense.
"Monsters," Nicolette laughed without humour, trying to keep a smile on her face. "The same thing happened when my parents died. I wasn't prepared for it; I suppose I wanted there to be a reason behind their deaths, not just…a terrible accident."
"Your parents died?"
"When I was twelve," Nicolette nodded.
"That's far too young to lose your family," Renard sighed, shaking his head.
"Tell me about it."
"Who raised you, after they were gone?"
"My mother's sister."
"She must've been quite a woman," Renard smiled, his eyes sweeping over her face, and Nicolette flushed with pride, smiling behind her coffee-cup, at the indirect compliment.
"To get me through adolescence, on top of all that – she was a force to be reckoned with," Nicolette sighed. "I was hard to deal with, though. This Nicolette, she wasn't always the case."
"And now it comes out; your rebellious youth," Renard chuckled.
"In all its glory. What about you? What was your family like?" Nicolette asked gently, more curious than she remembered ever being about the Captain.
"Well, after I turned fifteen, it was just my mother and me," Renard sighed. "Before that, though, I lived in Vienna, attended a Swiss boarding-school with my cousins. With my half-brother."
"Vienna. The home of Sachertorte and Schubert," Nicolette smiled. "My parent's record-collection spanned the Sixties and Seventies, but they had one particular CD I'll always remember – the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra's New Year's Concert."
"My mother attended the Neujahrskonzert annually for a decade," Renard beamed. "The Radetzky March was always my favourite."
"I'd hope so – written for the battlefield," Nicolette smiled. "For soldiers. How did you go from a Swiss boarding-school to becoming a Portland police-chief?"
"Family politics."
"Sounds Shakespearean," Nicolette observed, raising an eyebrow at his tone. Renard chuckled.
"Hopefully you'll never meet them; if you have that misfortune, just remember Machiavelli," Renard warned with a wry smile.
"I never managed The Prince," Nicolette said. "I spent a good chunk of my junior-year in high-school working through Don Quixote. My aunt made me read it in Spanish. I finished it, and had to read it again; I was mesmerised."
"A delusional man, driven by his singular mission to civilise," Renard said thoughtfully, setting his espresso cup down. "It says a lot about you that you admire that literature."
"What about you, was there any single piece of literature that shaped your character?"
"Not one particular piece, but the Enlightenment writers – and Dickens."
"I could read him all day," Nicolette smiled. "Did you always want to work with the police?"
"No; I thought I was going to be a doctor," Renard said.
"In a way, you still heal what's broken, eradicate disease," she said thoughtfully, trying to imagine the Captain as a doctor. "You suit the badge, though. Portland P.D. is lucky to have a captain like you."
"Thank you," Renard smiled hesitantly, then sighed, shaking his head. "You know, all the awards I've received over the years don't really amount to anything; but to hear that I'm…valued by the men under my command… Our jobs are hard enough; it's buoying to hear that sometimes."
"Sometimes one good thing can make up for a lot of bad," Nicolette said distractedly. "Not all of it; but enough that it's bearable. That's…something my aunt used to say, after my parents died; they were gone – but she got me."
"It's a very great shame you didn't have more time with her."
"I had eighteen years. She guided me through my formative years… She was wise. I didn't always listen," Nicolette admitted, with a twinkling smile, remembering all her many teenaged transgressions. She was a little hellion. But a good-hearted one, she hoped. There was never not a smile on her face, and for as much trouble as she had caused, usually she had been trying to make other people happier. Renard chuckled.
"Well, here you are, so you had to have listened to something," Renard said. "Was becoming a detective always your ambition?"
"Not at all," Nicolette laughed, blushing a little. "I wanted to be an illustrator for Disney." The Captain's eyebrows rose in surprise.
"That is not what I was expecting at all," he chuckled, and his smile was easy, unaffected – charming.
"I know. I was a triple-varsity athlete in high-school; I excelled in science and math, and all I wanted to do was chase boys and doodle," Nicolette smiled nostalgically. "Then Disney merged with Pixar and my dreams were crushed."
"So you threw it all in to become a cop."
"I wanted to make a difference," Nicolette shrugged. "I knew I needed something that would really engage me. And every day is different; I'm never bored."
"Well, we're very lucky to have a detective of your calibre," Renard said, and Nicolette warmed with pride. "Diligent, unflappable, approachable, compassionate – I wish more in the Department had your professionalism." He didn't name names, but everyone in the Precinct knew a good cop from a lazy one; and Renard wasn't friendly with everyone. He'd had to bring up other cops for their conduct, make redundancies based on performance and behaviour. It wasn't in Nicolette to bitch and be catty, petty, gossip. She was too busy; and she had never liked the Mean Girl mentality of office bullies. High-school was a long time ago; but she wasn't oblivious. She knew who carried a great deal of the weight in the Precinct.
"I appreciate that."
"I mean it," Renard said softly, gently placing his huge hand over her own, his expression sincere. "Please don't worry about your work, or your place in the Precinct. What happened to you was not your fault; and you're too good a detective to lose." He rubbed his thumb against the tender inside of her wrist, making her hyperaware of the warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne, how they had started leaning toward each other over their little table, lulled and relaxed by the scent of coffee and freshly-baked cakes still untouched on their plates.
It was the first time she had ever been distracted from a pastry.
Nicolette smiled shyly, blushing, and jumped when her phone rang. She cleared her throat awkwardly, feeling like she had been caught doing something she shouldn't, and answered. "Burkhardt. Hey, Hank – No, I'm at Sunflower Bakery. We've got one? Okay, I'll meet you back at the Precinct. I'll get your usual… See you in ten." She hung up, sighed, and smiled apologetically at the Captain. "The sweet song of Homicide calls me."
"We'd better go," Renard said, looking almost put out, and started when his own phone rang. Nicolette wrapped up her still-warm kouign amann in a napkin and settled the cheque with Margo while he was distracted – he seemed like the type to insist on paying out of old-fashioned chivalry, but he had never treated her differently as a detective because she was a young woman. She bought Hank's favourite and a coffee for him, and glanced back at the Captain as he finished his phone-call.
"They want me on-scene too," he said, giving her an annoyed look. "You shouldn't have paid; this was my suggestion."
"I got two stamps on my loyalty-card," she shrugged, smiling. "How was the Sachertorte?"
"As good as any I had in Vienna. It really took me back to my childhood," Renard smiled sadly. "The better memories at least."
Nicolette noticed the little sign and a silver platter offering still-steaming samples. The Captain raised his eyebrows as she stole a piece, chewing thoughtfully, and grinned as she stole another, licking the syrup from her fingertips. He raised an eyebrow at her.
"When the Schnecken beckons!" Nicolette shrugged, and danced out of the café. They strode toward the Precinct, meeting Hank out by the steps.
"I'll meet you at the scene," the Captain said, answering another phone-call. Nicolette grinned as she handed Hank his coffee and a fresh chocolate éclair.
"Wu's already there; says it's a bad one," Hank said, grumbling as she stole the car-keys from his jacket-pocket. She slipped into the driver's seat, adjusting the mirrors, and her gaze lingered on the Captain, deep in serious conversation with someone. Poor guy; he spent half his time on the phone. She didn't envy the politics side of his job. But then, he did it very well.
"How long've we been partners?" Hank asked lightly, climbing into the car. Nicolette tore her eyes from the Captain, trying not to linger on thoughts of his broad shoulders and large, clever hands. She remembered how warm they were; her skin tingled where his thumb had caressed her wrist, and she fidgeted in her seat, wondering where else he'd make fizzle with electricity.
"Hm. Too long," Nicolette smiled. "Why?"
"I think it's time we lay some things out on the table."
"Oh God. Couple's therapy?! Okay, tell me the worst."
"You always driving; that's a problem for me."
"It's the twenty-first century, Hank," Nicolette said. "Adapt or die."
"I feel like a house-husband," Hank grumbled.
"Well, we have been partners longer than some of your marriages have lasted," Nicolette mused. "Maybe I've domesticated you without you realising it."
"Maybe; no denying this is the most dedicated relationship I've ever had in my life," Hank said, and Nicolette laughed. They did spend more time with other than anyone else; they had to trust each other, put their lives in the other's hands; rely on each other for support. It was a relationship; and it worked. Nicolette was very lucky with her partner, her mentor.
"Well, my hubbie, finish your brunch; we've got work to do."
A.N.: The sign of a good person is someone who can appreciate a simple pastry, in my opinion. And speaking of opinions, I'd like yours – Meisner: Wesen or Grimm in this story? Because he needs to be something. I'm leaning toward Grimm, he's just found a way to hide it from Wesen (like Nick's sunglasses).
Oh, and just so everyone is aware, I'm deviating from canon as regards seasons five and six; I haven't watched all of it yet but I don't like this whole Black Claw thing – we already have the Royals, the Wesen Council and the Laufer; there is more than enough to drive the plot without creating a bigger, badder, faceless evil organisation I don't care about that supposedly supersedes the impending crises of Laufer/Royal clashes. Even introducing a bad Grimm would have been interesting, or Nick facing trouble at the Precinct when Wesen try to get to him by working the system against him, discrediting him as a detective.