Chapter Text
Change yourself and fortune will change (Portuguese proverb)
An iron grey sky has poured rain on Portland all day, the clouds so low that the tops of the highest buildings are lost in the mist. Sean Renard is sitting behind his desk. He's wearing a dark grey suit and a dark grey tie and the room is so shadowed that even the white of his shirt is subdued, defeated by the gloom. He's turned on a single lamp, just enough to see the unrelenting pile of paperwork in front of him. He's a tall man who spends too long sitting in this office and his back hurts, his forehead creasing as he reads.
There is the briefest of knocks on the door and Nick comes in - despite everything, despite his every effort, he still can’t think 'Burkhardt' in his head. Nick's wearing jeans, a sweater and the truculent expression he always has near Sean. There's a brief conversation - insolent on one side, tired on the other - and then Sean is left in the office alone again while Nick heads off to spend time with Adalind, with his son, with Sean's own daughter. No doubt his friends too. Sean sits, looking at nothing, a slight frown on his face. He hates this, hates what his life has become: this office, this work, this cold, friendless life. He takes a deep, deep breath. No-one else will change this, no-one will help or wave a magic wand.
Sean Renard pushes the paperwork into a pile, shrugs on his coat and walks through the door, shutting it firmly behind him.
And then he goes skiing.
********
Nick swings into the office with his usual perfunctory tap on the door frame to announce his presence, then comes to a sudden startled halt. The room is empty, no sign of Renard. He frowns. Okay, it's officially Renard’s day off but the last few months that has made no difference whatsoever: he's either been in this office or he's been at meetings, working parties or crime scenes, all duly recorded in his work diary (to which Nick has demanded access). So where is he? The desk is bare, no coat on the hook, he hasn't just stepped out for coffee or a bathroom break.
Nick heads out of the office, spots Wu.
“Hey, you seen Renard?”
Wu strolls across, that smile on his face that says he knows something you don't.
“The Captain has taken his days off for once and I believe he has gone skiing.”
Nick gapes, “Skiing?”
“Yes. Skiing.”
Nick can't quite decide on the response to make. Really? He, Nick, is trying to track down a rogue Geier - a situation in which Renard could be useful - and the man has disappeared off skiing. He opens his mouth to say something but Wu gives him an odd look, gets there first,
“Give the guy a break, Nick. He's barely been away from this place for months and even you have to agree he's done everything he could to get Portland back on track. And he definitely looks like he could use a few days off.”
Nick is so surprised by Wu’s defence he says nothing, brain whirring through pithy replies without selecting one until Wu turns away.
Skiing. When Nick could have used him. He doesn’t notice Wu's expression.
Nick is at Monroe's watching the local news. He wants Monroe's help but has arrived at some key point in the triplet's routine, so he’s slumped in the armchair, feeling vaguely sulky. Oh, he knows the babies are gorgeous, that he should be delighted at his friends' slightly stressed happiness, that of course Monroe has other priorities now - but he misses the old days. The news reporter is gushing about some local society event and Nick watches with half an eye, an edge of envy at these people who are laughing and drinking and dancing. His own plans involve a wet, cold, muddy forest and a possible report of a Varme Tyv. Nick sighs, slumps further and then suddenly sits bolt upright because there in the background is Renard. Nick watches the end of the item and then grabs the remote and rewinds. Renard. Renard with a glass of something in one hand and laughing - laughing out loud - at someone just out of shot. Nick has no idea why that one brief image should put him in an even worse mood, but it does. He ends up chasing the Varme Tyv by himself and finds himself thinking that if Renard had nothing better to do than go to parties, he could have been here, with Nick. And he’s not going to bother sitting round waiting for Monroe next time either.
Renard goes skiing again the next time he has a forty eight. Then hiking. He takes Diana on a jet boat ride on the Willamette River and she returns with photos of the two of them, Renard laughing once more and with his hair curling wildly from the spray. That weekend Nick kills two Wesen and has another fight with Adalind. Her exit line (the one before she stalks off to bed, leaving Nick in no doubt that he’s on the couch) is that she'd have had a better weekend with Sean than with him. Renard goes climbing. He takes Diana for a vacation. His picture appears in the local paper's society column, a variety of beautiful women on his arm. Meanwhile Nick deals with Wesen. Kills Wesen. Maybe doesn’t always try so hard not to these days.
The weeks pass, turn into months.
Hank meets a new woman, one who is beautiful, smart. Not Wesen. Hank says it’s serious, that they’re going to move in together, even makes shy mentions of children. Finally he tells Nick he’s applied for a new job and that he’s going for a promotion. It will be okay, he says, they'll keep in touch and cops don’t usually stay partners for ever. And Nick hears the unsaid words: if Hank's going to have kids he wants to be a good cop, not one who spends so much time covering stuff up, not one sidelined in Portland’s most successful precinct because his partner hates their boss. Renard raises an eyebrow when Hank takes the application in but signs it off before heading out to an awards evening.
Monroe and Rosalee invite Nick round, the first time he’s seen them in two weeks. The evening ends badly and he doesn’t see them again for another two weeks. Meanwhile Renard drives Diana to play with the triplets when Adalind unexpectedly can't take her and ends up staying for dinner.
Renard collects Diana to take her to a concert and as soon as the door closes behind them, Adalind tells Nick she’s moving out.
One week later Nick kills a boy. He’s Wesen, a fuchsbau, he tried to attack Nick. He’s killed enough Wesen, hardly thinks about it at first. He thinks about it more when detectives from South Precinct arrive to arrest him.
**********
Nick knows the routine for processing - and he’s even been on the receiving end of it once before - but this is different. This is cops, not Wesen as far as he's aware, cops who have arrested one of their own for killing a seventeen year old boy, apparently in cold blood. Detectives he knows and has worked alongside who now won’t meet his eye, who have no ounce of sympathy in their voices. He’s fingerprinted, photographed, interviewed. He says very little. He’s offered a phone call and he has the phone in his hand, fingers poised on the buttons, when he realises there is no one to call. Adalind - who after all is a lawyer - would be the obvious choice, but after last week's bitter words and recriminations that doesn’t seem possible. His fingers hover over Hank's number, then Monroe’s. Hank wanted to get away from him, tired of being outside the law, tired of covering up. Monroe and Rosalie are scared of him, scared of the danger and violence he brings close to their children’s lives; he can’t call them either. Trubel? He can’t even remember the last time he saw her and has no idea where she is. The same with Eve. There’s one other number, one he almost calls but...no, he can’t.
Nick lies on the bed in a cell for a while, staring at the ceiling. He’s taken for his arraignment hearing where he sits next to a public defender he’s never seen before and still says virtually nothing: his name, his address and - with some prompting from the baby-faced lawyer - 'not guilty'. Bail is set ridiculously high, the lawyer's pleas about previously good character falling on very deaf ears and then he goes back to his cell and stares at the ceiling some more. He'd said not guilty but he is, he thinks. Two years ago, maybe even a year ago he wouldn’t have killed that fuchsbau, even though the boy had attacked him. Now he’d just done what all his ancestors would have done and killed a Wesen without thinking twice. Nick lies on the cot, his eyes fixed on the ceiling above but not seeing it. Cops don’t do well in prison; he can’t imagine someone who’s a cop and a Grimm would last long.
Nick has no idea how much time has passed when he hears footsteps and then the cell door opening. He looks around without much interest, expecting maybe some food he doesn’t want or the lawyer back again. Instead there's a young officer he doesn’t recognise,
"You've been bailed. Get a move on."
Nick follows, gets back his belt and his watch and his money, shoves his feet back into his boots. He follows a different uniform out to the front desk,
"Sign here."
Nick reaches for the pen, then realises the guy isn’t talking to him at all. He looks round.
Renard is there, leaning against the wall. Even though he's every bit as much a police officer as the sergeant behind the desk he looks as though he’s walked in from another world. He’s wearing a tuxedo, one that fits him so well it never came off any peg. He's taken off his tie and the top button of his pristine white shirt is unbuttoned; his skin looks golden even in the precinct striplights. Nick stares for a second, both in surprise that Renard’s there at all and at the sight of him. Renard glances at him without expression, walks across and reaches for the pen, signs his name.
“You've posted my bail?”
“Yes.”
Nick can’t quite believe it - he has no idea just how wealthy Renard is (other than being a lot better off than a police captain should be), but even so that has to have made a sizeable dent. And why the hell would he do it? Renard looks like he’s going to say more but instead he turns and heads for the doors, Nick trailing after him like a rather bedraggled puppy, unsure if he’s heading to a cosy basket or a cold kennel.
Sitting in Renard's SUV is odd: Nick can’t even remember the last time they were in the same space without bitter words (mostly his own) or, at best, a coldly painful formality. Now he sits in the warm, dark vehicle, aware of the scent of Renard's cologne and uncomfortably certain that he doesn’t smell nearly so good himself. He still feels numb - partly because of all that has happened, partly because it turns out it’s quarter after one in the morning - and that’s perhaps why he doesn’t realise that they’re not heading towards his apartment, that they’re actually arriving at Renard's house.
“Why are we here? I don’t need..."
“Leave it for now, Nick, we can talk about it tomorrow."
“No. What’s going on?”
Renard sighs,
“The judge really didn’t want to let you out. As well as setting bail he set...conditions.”
“Conditions?”
“You’re out on condition you stay with me, on my recognisance,”
Nick stares at him,
“Your what?”
“It means I have taken responsibility for you meeting the bail conditions - like staying in my house overnight.”
“And what happens if I don’t? If I just get out and go?”
“You already know the answer to that, Nick. I lose my bail money and when they find you, they throw you in jail - and you don’t get out again. But the choice is yours of course.”
Nick could leave, even thinks of it for a fraction of a second. But then he follows Renard up the path and into the house.
Renard offers him something to eat but Nick isn’t hungry. He trudges after Renard once more, this time to the guest bedroom. The bed is made up, towels and soap in the bathroom. Did Renard do this for his arrival, Nick wonders, or is he just always well prepared? Either option riles him, he can feel the urge to snarl, to find the harsh words he’s used so often against the other man. Somehow though the impersonal politeness in Renard’s tone gives him nothing to hit against, nothing to fight. Renard leaves and he slumps on the bed: there seems nothing to do to try and get some sleep. He reaches for his boots, take those off at least.
Nick has had a stressful day - but then he’s had a stressful life too. He’s fought countless Wesen, Black Claw, Wesenrein, Zerstörer and an entire Royal family, it seems ridiculous that a bootlace can defeat him. He’d put his boots on so hurriedly, hopping on one foot under the dismissive stare of the custody sergeant, that the laces are tangled beyond the abilities of his clumsy fingers and it is all suddenly too much. He wants to yell, scream, hit someone or something for the surge of cleansing adrenaline. He starts trying to tug the boot straight off, despite the impossibility of it. And suddenly what he wants most is to cry.
“Here let me.”
Nick hadn’t even heard Renard return, he’s standing at the door holding a small pile of clothes - a t-shirt, sleep pants. He puts the clothes on the bed next to Nick and then goes down on to one knee in front of him. His long, clever fingers work at the knot until the laces free, then he pulls the boot away. He unties the other one, eases it from Nick’s foot and places it neatly next to the first.
“There.”
He stands and turns to go. Nick has often said he hates this man, would no more choose to spend time with him than he would a raging siegbarste, but in the face of this unexpected, undemanding kindness, the angry words are lost again.
“Why are you doing this? Bailing me out, all this? Why do you care?”
There is a moment where there is something in Renard’s expression, something Nick has seen a time or two before but never had a name for. Then his face tightens,
“Officially I am still your commanding officer. And Diana knew something had happened, she was upset.”
He turns and leaves the room. Nick lies on the bed and stares at a different ceiling until much, much later, he finally falls asleep.