Disclaimer: As per previous chapters.

"That went surprisingly well." He announced, limping back to the comfort of his own home. The injury to his leg wasn't enough to warrant a visit to the hospital, or anything else than a quick self-administered first aid and some good old fashioned rest. The wound to his ego was worse; any Blutbad worth his fur would have loathed to admit that they'd been injured by nothing more than misplaced elbow and an over eagerness to help around the shop.

Rosalee seemed to have that effect on him.

"I guess I can't complain," The Grimm responded, "Considering nothing's tried to eat me this week."

"Obviously a plus, considering almost getting eaten has become a daily ritual for you," He grins back, before stopping and frowning, "Speaking of being eaten..."

The words had the instant effect of having the Detective draw his gun. The smell grew more potent the closer he drew to his house, and his face flushed in anger at the intrusion of an unknown person.

And if the smell was to be trusted, an unknown wolf.

He stands in front of his own door, with the familiar wolf emblem, hands in the pockets of his cardigan when he smells it.

Her.

She's been here many times before, just skirting the edge of his territory, enough to let him catch wisps of her scent to know that she was taunting him. Or letting him know she was coming.

It was better for her to let him know she was coming, he grudgingly admitted, but a phone call would have been easier.

"Monroe, are you okay?"

At first he thinks no one is home, and the scent- though strong, is old- but then he hears the latch of the lock, and suddenly the smell intensifies.

"She's here." He mutters darkly, with just enough apprehension to colour his words and let the Grimm know that this wasn't a welcome intrusion. To his side, he hears the man reach for his gun like a good little cop, and swiftly bursts through the door soundlessly. The utter intrusion of his territory is unforgivable, and if it wasn't a Grimm of all things by his side, there would have been some serious blood spillage.

There was only room for one wolf in his territory.

"Come in," a female voice calls out, as they both slink into the lounge room. "I've got peppermint tea on the stove. You guys want some?"

Then suddenly the scent shifts, he isn't angry any more, and his mouth is set in a frown and his eyes are curious, "Can I help you?"

"We need to talk." She smiles widely, watching his confused reaction to her British accent. She had no doubt that he could smell the wolf on her. The scent of power and red and teeth, the smell of the smell of she who had lured many innocent riding hoods in her days.

"You're HER," Monroe voices as his eyes widen in surprise, with just a little touch of fear, "You know my mother used to tell me stories of you as a child. I was never sure if she wanted to scare the crap out of me, or provide me with career options."

"Don't we all make good stories?" The blonde retorts, with a hint of a smile, "Give it a couple of years and you two will be told to naughty little Blutbads, to scare them into obedience."

"You know her?" The Detective by his side questions, even though he already knows. Still, he hadn't dropped his gun, which seems to perplex her a little.

"I know OF her," Monroe corrects grouchily, "The original Wolf, Bad Wolf herself. The first one to chase down a Red Riding Hood. Without the whole grandma-eating, sub-plot of course."

"I prefer Rose," She corrects lazily; "They always translate Rose as Red, when it was always a name."

"Whose name?"

"My name," She offers to the Grimm, as if a secret, "Do you know the real story, or have your ancestors finally managed to cram evil wolves in every single unfortunate murder?"

"Unfortunate?" The Detective offers in exasperation, shelving his gun, as soon as he caught sight of Monroe's steady gaze. Still he managed to get in the last sarcastically exasperated word, "You look surprisingly well for someone who supposedly was attacked by an axe-wielding huntsman."

"You need to start hitting the Grimm books hard," Monroe scoffed, "How the story actually goes- you may want to take some notes here class, because there'll be a pop quiz- Is that a well bred young lady goes trampling through the forest, and she comes across a wolf who she asks for directions. The wolf admittedly gives false instructions when she asks the way to her grandmothers. But who can blame him? Tourists! She ends up being eaten, BUT! That's it. No woodsman – no grandmother – just a fat wolf and a dead Red Riding Hood."

"Nice story." The Detective forces a fake smile onto his face.

"Dude, it's not a story," Monroe offered in her defence, "She's a legend, she was there; it's like a back in the good old days kinda story. Don't let her get started on the photo albums, though."

"Pup." She retorts, with a smile, "I did come here for a reason, however."

"Oh?" Monroe questions, and bristles in such a way that he looks quite pleased that she'd ask something from him. She indulgently smiled, and motioned towards the stove, where the aforementioned peppermint Tea had apparently finished brewing.

He grumbled, although moved towards the kitchen to serve the Tea she had started. Although he had moved, he certainly wasn't out of the conversation, and he certainly didn't trust her enough to leave them alone without an extra pair of ears.

"So," The Grimm began, moving closer and sitting on the arm of his friend's couch, "The Big Bad Wolf huh?"

"Just Bad Wolf," She muttered back, "or, you know, Rose."

"Monroe said you hunted the actual Red riding Hood?" The Dark Haired Detective responded, "That would make you- how old exactly? You look good for a woman of a few hundred years."

"Cheers, plenty of exercise and a good diet." She winked back with a grin, "But you've got the story wrong, I hunted for sure, but I didn't kill anyone."

"You're not doing a very good job of convincing me of your innocence."

"I didn't literally eat her," Rose replied, allowing just enough of her face to slip through, to show the Grimm her dangerous glowing eyes, "I am Bad Wolf. I created messages to send myself- impressions of who I am were left in all of those who came too close, in all of those who could help me get myself to where I must be. How can I be guilty when I was both the hunter, and the hunted?"

"Tea's ready." Monroe called, his face, while pleasant, showed that he hadn't missed a single scrap of conversation. Superior hearing and all.

"I think that's why Blutbad's exist," Bad Wolf continued thoughtfully, "They're echoes. Like me, they hunt out the Rose- Red- that I desperately needed to lead back to me. Like me, they get so enraged when they lost that which they wanted."

"Excuse me?"

"I sent messages through time and space, to awaken the Wolf inside in," Rose explained, "I was once human, and my Wolf had to twist the strands of time to ensure that my human became Wolf. But, I missed sometimes, and those messages awoke things which shouldn't have."

"Wait, are you saying that Blutbad's exist because your aim sucked?"

Rose sent him a withering glance.

"No," She snapped, "Wolves were known as teachers. I gave them a message to spread, to teach- but they were exposed to the very heart of my essence. They grew fearful and enraged by my very name- Rose- when they saw what I have done when they saw of the slaughter and blood left behind by my greatest love. They grew to know that I was a danger, and wolves always protect their packs."

"So why are you here?" Monroe awkwardly responded, setting down the cooling tea onto the table, and eying her thoughtfully, "I mean, not that I don't appreciate the sheer history in my living room, but..."

"Wolves were teachers," She repeated with a smile, "Still are- and you're one of the best teachers of them all. I came here to ask you to be a teacher. To teach the first Wesen children to look beyond the damage done in the old country, from the old rules. To teach the Wesen community that it stops here, and that in the 21st century, everything changes. I need you to teach people that they can be so much better than they ever hoped, and I need you to teach this baby Grimm that he could be so much. I need you to teach him to be the best possible person that he can be."

Monroe was silent, and looked back beyond dark, but listening eyes, "And what makes you think that I'm any kind of teacher?"

"He's not dead."

Monroe let out a snort of amusement, "Still, it's an awfully big job, and my blutbad street cred is going to be seriously damaged by this. Have you accepted Monroe as your personal lord and saviour?"

"I'll owe you one." Her lips quirked.

"You're like," Monroe waved his hands frantically as he spoke, "Our Elvis, why can't you do this? I am but a humble clockmaker in Portland. You're one tweet away from a personal Blutbad army. I'm not a legend."

"But one day you will be," The way she said it, with such finality and assurance, sent chills down his spine, "One day memorial clock towers will be built in your honour, and one day Wesen will lift their heads in pride and solidarity, and you'll be the person who built them strong. All fairy tales have to come from somewhere, and this time, a wolf will be writing them."

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