(a/n – tiny tweak to timeline, because of Baba Yaga's intervention, Renard was in hospital just slightly longer, and the conversations with Elizabeth about Diana took place there. This is happening around Ep4:6 'Highway of Tears')
Renard signs off on the report about the salvage yard, leans back in his chair, surveys his office. He's been rather touched by how pleased everyone had seemed to have him back at work. He tries to be a good officer, takes his responsibility to protect his city and its people seriously, wrestles with the conflict between prince and policeman. It hasn't been easy. He never thought he'd have a Grimm in his service, however unwittingly to begin with – and he is so relieved that Nick is restored to himself, because Trubel is untrained and inexperienced, and cannot access the same resources – and he's trying hard to repair their fractured relationship.
He doesn't entirely regret sending assassins after Marie Kessler – the Kessler sisters were a horrifying childhood nightmare for a lot of wesen, both being of the 'behead now, ask questions never' school of Grimm. Having one of them loose in his city, and unaccountable to anyone, with Nick still an unknown quantity, it had not been a good time. Had he known Nick better, it would have been a simpler thing. But he's been alone for too long, threading the needle between the various worlds and factions. None of them trust each other, and none of them trust him.
He's still on minimal duties, though, and he's bored. The doctors have been very cautious, they are not entirely happy with some of his bloodwork. Kidney function was still a concern, and so was his cardiac index. Far too many tests had kept him in the hospital until he signed himself out, and even now, he's not allowed out of the office to prowl around crime scenes yet. He's only just been cleared to drive again. He'd had to fold himself into Isabelle's little rental for the trip to collect his own car, and she'd tried not to laugh at him.
It's been a week. He could look for somewhere else to live. He just – hasn't.
Everybody else treats him with deference or fear or awe. She calls him 'Sean' and has basically accused him of eating kittens. He has no idea how to deal with her. She's unafraid of him now. And he can't take any steps to instil a proper respect. (Well, he could, but he doesn't actually want to terrorise her, and his mother would not be pleased.)
He's not shared living space with anybody since college. His beloved sound system has been profaned with her choice of music – she has cooking playlists – and there seems to be a stealthily increasing number of books. (A worrying number of them have 'murder' or 'death' in the titles.) He can smell the faint floral scent of her body lotion all around the house.
Despite that, he's - not unhappy.
He's used to people catering for him, housekeeper or hotel staff, but he didn't tend to date the kind of woman who'd cook him a meal, beyond the odd seduction supper. Isabelle finds it relaxing. He's found himself far less inclined to drink his dinner, when there's the possibility of smothered chicken instead. And intelligent conversation with it – she's sharp, well-read, and he really shouldn't be surprised that she speaks fluent French, and decent German and Italian. (LGC has offices in Geneva, Paris and Milan, as well as London, and retails all over Europe.)
She starts in her new role on Monday. At the moment, she's exploring Downtown. (Though she's probably not got any further than Powell's.) He's texted 'lunch?' before he thinks about it too much.
Picks up the internal call half an hour later, when he's mid-memo.
"Captain? There's an Isabelle Morgan at the front desk for you?"
He pauses for a moment.
"Tell her I'll be five minutes...no, actually, send her up." She might as well see that he does have a proper job in the human world.
(It's not some primitive territorial display of his power and authority, some stupid macho instinct to boast.)
(Yes, it is.)
(...Shit.)
She taps politely on the door, gives him a little smile.
"I would have waited downstairs, Sean, I didn't really want to bother you at work."
"It's no bother, come in and take a seat, I'll be a few minutes finishing up..."
The office door shuts, and the nosy instincts of an entire bullpen of detectives spark up.
She doesn't move like law enforcement, and she doesn't have the jittery unhappiness of a victim or a family member of one. Too casually, if expensively, dressed to be anyone's lawyer. He's not tense enough for her to be a journalist, and they usually travel in packs anyway. They watch her look around his office, say something, and his wry smile in return as he shrugs into his coat.
"...a ridiculously huge painting, seriously."
"Maybe I'm trying to intimidate visitors with it."
"Sean, you're, what, six foot four, you're not exactly unintimidating as it is."
"I'm six foot five."
"From down here, there's not a lot of difference. Now, where are we..."
They pass out of the room, and he's not quite got a hand in the small of her back as they go.
Water-cooler gossip in the precinct is fierce. The Captain has never dated anyone that obviously, so the sight of him with a strange woman sends rumour into overdrive. Especially when she calls him 'Sean', and it looks like lunch plans are afoot.
Nick and Hank miss the excitement, being out on a very routine robbery follow-up, but Wu is happy to fill them in when they return. They exchange slightly uneasy glances at the mention of a British accent, but the physical description doesn't sound like Elizabeth.
"You reckon he's got another relative in town? Or worse?"
"His private life does tend to become everyone else's problem."
Isabelle looks at the 'Keep Portland Weird' banner and grins wryly. It's actually all been surprisingly normal, after that first alarming encounter. Sean is a very reserved and organised man, very much in keeping with the quiet elegance of the house. He obviously comes from money, and not some recent fortune. A couple of the paintings in the place, she's sure are not reproductions. His tastes are refined, non-fiction or heavy European literature, opera. She's slightly surprised he even owns any jeans.
He's intelligent, and extremely charming, though, perfect manners, and a dry sense of humour under that stoic exterior, and when he's not doing his resting murder face, he's got a rather nice smile. She'd been a little shy about offering to feed a man with gourmet tastes, but he'd happily eaten everything put in front of him.
And he's not always so upmarket. Witness the quite prodigious amount of dim sum she's just watched disappear at lunch. Well, he's a big lad, he's got an appetite.
Having said goodbye to him at the precinct, she's gone on a quest to find somewhere that sold proper tea. Taking the address off the ill-fated box in the cupboard, she's found the rather lovely little shop, and it appears to do spices, too. The young woman running it had given her a slightly twitchy weird look to begin with, but she thought that might be due to the person who came in a little after her, a huskily-built slightly rumpled man who gave her a round-eyed stare and bolted into the back.
(Monroe was minding his own business, on his way to drop off a mended wall clock to a coffee shop near the precinct, when he saw them. Renard is always distinctive, half a head taller than most people around him, and he walks like the alpha predator he is. He's looking down and talking, smiling even, at someone who comes into view as the crowd clears at the crosswalk. Monroe sees the long dark hair and has a nasty moment, until she turns in laughing farewell and he sees her profile. Not Juliette, which is a relief. Nobody wants that starting over again. There's something about the way he's looking after her... Renard, who has an instinct for being watched, swings around, scowling, and Monroe hefts his parcel, and ducks hastily around a corner, continues walking. Not his business, nope. Finding her in the Spice Shop when he drops in is very alarming.)
Rosalee does wonder what had made Monroe act like that. But she smiles at the woman who is looking around the place.
"Can I help you?"
"Thanks, well, I'm looking to replace a tea blend."
The label is interesting. It's a variety that is popular with some wesen, particularly hexenbiests, a speciality blend. But the woman does not respond to the woge.
"Is this for someone else?" It won't necessarily harm a human, but the taste will be very strong.
"My housemate, his last batch got...spilled."
"It'll take me a few minutes to make up. Do you want to wait?"
"Thanks, yeah, I'll browse. I could do with stocking up on a few bits."
Rosalee watches her a little nervously as she works. But the woman merely buys a nice selection of perfectly mundane things, pays with a card, and leaves with a cheerful smile, and a promise to come back that does not sound like a threat.
Rosalee steps into the back room, and finds a very panicked Monroe.
"Who was that?"
"I don't know, what is wrong with you?"
"I saw her earlier, with Renard. And he was, like, smiling."
"Oh." Her eyes go round, "She didn't respond to my woge, I don't think she's wesen."
"Do you think she even knows?"
"She could just think he's a big, fit, good-looking man with a steady job?" Rosalee offers.
"He's half Royal, half zauberbiest and all bad news," Monroe throws his hands up. Rosalee gives a sudden muffled yelp.
"Oh. Oh. She said the hexentee was for her housemate. Her male housemate."
"No."
They both boggle. Monroe flails.
"No, no, I'm sure we're making too much of it. She probably lives with a, a completely different zauberbiest, and her being all cosy with Renard is just a coincidence..."
"Call Nick."
"I'm gonna call Nick."