A/N: Everyone please forgive me. I've been so caught up with new house stuff that I've totally neglected my dear Grigsby fic. Plus, I've felt deflated about it lately. Season two ended on such a baffling note for our pair. I guess I'm still grieving. So I cheated on them with Warehouse 13. Word props going to the beloved Schernbles, who pushed me with love.

Safe

He found her sitting in his door frame and shivering from the rain when he finally got home that night. It was late. Gone on midnight. Far too late for a friendly call. Walking up to his stoop, he slowed his step. Soaked, teeth chattering, she looked up at the sound of his footsteps.

"Hey," she whispered softly. Her arms were wrapped around her knees. Her hair was plastered to her cheeks. Rigsby shivered with her, but not from cold.

Nodding softly, he knelt by her side. "Hey," he replied, not bothering to censor his hands as they cupped her head affectionately, pushing the wet strands from her face and tracing her cheeks. "Long time, sweetie."

She nodded again, letting him touch her as he liked. It was why she was here anyway. One of the many reasons she was here. He cupped her face for a long time, taking in the drained, hollowed-out quality of her expression, before he got back to his feet, pulling her with him.

He keyed his lock as he spoke. "Your dad," he guessed solemnly as he led her inside.

She didn't bother to respond. He knew her so well. There was no need to answer him. There was only one person—aside from Wayne himself—who could bring her to this level of misery.

Her clothing dripped as she stood in his entryway. He closed the door, hung up his coat and turned to her. She let him stare at her bedraggled appearance. She had never minded when he stared. But he surprised her when he stepped forward and hugged her, drippy clothes and all, and kept her in his arms until the inevitable happened.

She broke down.

She buried her rain and tear strained face into the softness of his shirt and the hardness of his shoulder. That was Wayne all over. A velvet brick. His clothes and skin had a softening affect on the rigidity of his body. She pressed harder into him, relishing the warmth that seeped into her freezing skin.

"I hate him," she whispered.

She felt him kiss her head. A soothing gesture automatically given. It used to be a daily occurrence. He'd chuckled and said he couldn't help it. Her forehead was level with his lips, he had reasoned. It was only natural that he kiss her there. Now he did it without thinking.

When it came to her, he usually didn't. He just acted. Like now. More kisses in her wet hair.

"He's a fool," he counseled. He already knew about her tiresome daddy issues, hence he didn't even need to ask what had been said. He'd always been there with a tissue and a hug after she'd hung up with the man. He'd never pushed at her with advice or judgment. He simply did what he was good at. He did what she needed now more than ever. He was her rock.

He cradled her head to him with one hand and rubbed her lower back with the other. His touch was light, but firm. He was there, but he wasn't pushing. As usual. Instead he simply asked, "Tell me what you need."

Grace sniffed against him and gave a short, humorless laugh. Pulling away gently, she looked down at herself and back to him, smiling sadly. "A t-shirt?"

He smiled back softly. His hands drifted down to the hem of her top and his fingers curled slightly underneath it. His eyes lifted questioningly. "May I?"

She nodded and he pulled. The sticking, cold fabric peeled up and away. Its texture, like chilled, uncooked pastry, pulled away from her skin and she instantly felt a little warmer. He tossed the shirt onto the back of his couch before hooking his fingers into the front of her jeans and snapping them open, he eyes on her face the whole time. As he opened and tugged them down her legs, Grace turned to the wall, suddenly shy at her exposure. As he knelt at her feet to help her out of her pants, she stared at his monthly calendar by the door. She saw today's date.

Andrea 7:30 – Dinner at CheChe

She closed her eyes against the unwanted information. But it was too late. She was now informed as to why he'd been so late in getting home. She'd been waiting for almost three hours when he finally showed. She sniffed and hoped he assumed it was from the cold. She shouldn't be surprised. In fact, she should be grateful he came home at all. She might have died of hypothermia waiting for a man who was asleep in another woman's bed, all warm and oblivious to his damp, emotionally damaged guest.

She sniffed again. Rigsby stood up, looking at her with angry concern. "Do you want me to call him?"

Another harsh laugh broke from her and she shook her head, quickly averting her eyes from the calendar, but he'd already seen her line of sight. Looking back at the wall, he saw the day's little box and what he'd written underneath it. Slowly, he turned back to her. She expected and feared an embarrassed explanation. Instead, he sighed sadly.

"She's not you," he said quietly. "None of them are."

She bit her lips, standing in her wet underwear and shivering uncontrollably. "You don't need to tell me—,"

"No," he agreed, reaching for her face again. "Because you already know. You know that you're it for me. I'm wasting my time. And I'm wasting theirs." Another kiss to her forehead. "That's all life is without you, Grace. Waste."

He said it plainly. A kind, devastating truth.

"I'm a mess," she admitted from the trap of his palms. Her father messed her up. Wayne messed her up. Between the two most important men in her life, she felt spun and reeled and jerked in every direction.

But one of them was capable of grounding her. One of them was the one person in her life she could just be silent and still with. He was a place of rest. Peace. A dry, warm place that she had no business abusing like this, but would always be welcome to do so.

Rigsby smiled. More of his old, boyish happiness crept into it. "You're not a bigger mess than me," he defied.

She smiled back. Ah, their old teasing. "Am so."

"Are not."

"Am so!"

He grabbed her and pulled her close. He tipped her chin and kissed her lips tentatively, questioningly. "Are not." His hands were warm. He used that convenient fact to stroke her arms and sides as she continued to shake from cold. She cuddled into the velvet of him, desperate for the safety of the brick underneath.

"Let me stay with you," she murmured pleadingly.

"As long as you want." The same old offer. She felt cruel and relieved that it was still there.

Feeling brave, she asked, "Can I sleep with you?"

She felt his ribcage contract slightly against hers. He was repressing his instinctual response to her question. "You can have anything," he promised roughly. It was the scratchy timbre that always surfaced with his desire. "Anything."

She plucked at his clothes. She led his hands to the clasp of her bra at her back. She looked him dead in the eye.

"I want to be your waste of time."