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This is, all things considered, infuriating. He’s an important man with a busy schedule to keep; he doesn’t get sick. Ever. He honestly can’t remember the last time he’s felt bad enough to come in late, much less skip work altogether. Every part of him objects to the idea of calling in sick, but his head is pounding, he’s too exhausted to even keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes, his entire body is weak and achy, and he can barely breathe. Not to mention that pesky thermometer, which has the audacity to say he’s running a fever.
Groaning, he picks up his phone, tapping out a quick text to Nick. He’ll get everything taken care of, Sean knows.
That handled, he leans back against his pillow, closing his eyes. He should probably eat something, he muses. Or at least get some water. Plus, his pajamas are soaked with sweat; he should probably change.
On the other hand, his bed is comfortable, and he is exhausted. Maybe he could just lay here a few more minutes. Just long enough to work up his strength, of course.
Yes, that’s exactly what he’s going to do. He’s going to give himself exactly fifteen minutes. Then, he’s going to get up, get changed, eat something, drink some water, and sit in the living room. He absolutely refuses to just sit in bed all day. Maybe he can even look at some old case files; just because he’s home sick doesn’t mean he should be useless, after all.
Just fifteen more…
-
He’s not exactly sure how long he’s been laying there when he hears a knock at his door, but judging by the sunlight rudely filling up the room, the answer is definitely more than fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, for all that sleep, he doesn’t feel a bit better. If anything, he feels worse. Weaker. More miserable. Maybe he really should have eaten something….
“I’m coming,” he shouts, or tries to, but a sharp cough cuts off the last word. Groaning, he pushes himself to his feet, only half-thinking to grab his gun as he stumbles out of his room. It’s only once he’s almost to his door that he remembers his building’s set-up. No one should be at his door without first buzzing to come up, right?
He tenses, trying to force past the horrible fog in his brain and think. Could it be a neighbor from a different floor? They tend to keep their distance from him, but occasionally someone else will get his mail, or Mrs. Ellenwood on the third floor will need him to get something off her top shelf after her grandchildren go home. (They’re awfully fond of hiding her things well out of her reach.)
Gun in hand, he opens the door just a crack, and freezes. “Juliette?”
She apparently takes the barely-open door as an invitation, pushing it the rest of the way as he steps back uncertainly. Then she just-she just strides into his apartment as if she owns the place, balancing several plastic bags on her arms.
“Uh… Hi?” He runs a hand over his face, trying to ignore the absurd thought that he really wishes he’d changed. The Zaubertrank is gone, after all; he has no reason to care what he looks like around her. It’s just… He has a reputation to maintain, you know?
Zaubertrank. For a horrible second, he wonders if it has somehow come back, at least for her. He doesn’t quite think he has the strength to handle that, just at the moment.
“Hi!” She glances over her shoulder. “Which way to the kitchen? Please,” she adds when he hesitates, “These are really heavy.”
“Around the corner.” He points. Then, remembering at least some semblance of manners, he clears his throat. “Here, let me-” He reaches for the bags, but she pulls them back sharply, shaking her head.
“Uh-uh, mister. You’re not carrying anything.”
The prince inside him (not to mention the captain) ruffles at being told what to do, especially in such a stern way. On the other hand, he really isn’t up for arguing with her; he knows all too well what Juliette Silverton is capable of when she’s angry.
She follows his directions to the kitchen, and he has no choice but to go after her. She makes quick work of the bags, setting them on the counter and pulling everything from them. There’s a few cans, some boxes, a handful of veggies, and a bottle that he thinks might be cough syrup.
Deep down, a suspicion starts to form.
I’m going to kill Burkhardt, he thinks, but it’s more resignation than anger.
It’s only when she starts rummaging through his pantry that he thinks to ask- “How did you get in?”
She shrugs. “I came in the back. Figured you wouldn’t want anyone else knowing you were sick.”
I don’t want you to know I’m sick, he thinks, but he just has the presence of mind to bite it back. It’s not that he’s angry with her-maybe not even with Nick-it’s just, he doesn’t like people seeing him like this. In his world, weakness and vulnerability just aren’t luxuries he can afford. (If there’s an extra prickle of embarrassment in his mind at her seeing him like this, he blames the fever.)
After a beat, she returns to rummaging, and he sighs, giving into whatever she’s decided is happening here. “What are you looking for?”
“Pots and pans.”
“Third door to your right.”
She pulls out a large metal pot, and starts filling it with water. He takes a seat at the table, watching her, making a mental note to have words with security later. The apartment isn’t cheap, but the prices are worth it; the security’s supposed to be top-notch. After all, he cannot afford to have an assassin sneaking in on him. (So the fact that a veterinarian could manage it is, to say the least, concerning.)
“What are you doing here?” He finally asks, although it’s fairly obvious at this point.
Setting the pot on the stove and moving to her hoard on the table, she answers, “Nick said you were sick.”
Obviously. He closes his eyes briefly, centering himself. “Gathered that,” he replies, as politely as he can manage. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
She retrieves the veggies, a couple of spices, and a package of noodles he hadn’t noticed before. “Veggie chicken noodle soup. I know the stuff in the can is fine, but I have this amazing recipe, and I promise, you’ll feel better in no time.”
That is… Decidedly not an answer. “Don’t want you to get sick,” he tries, and she rolls her eyes.
“I’ll live. Oh, speaking of, are you allergic to anything? Spices, or…?”
“No, nothing.” Not that he knows of, anyway. “But you don’t have to-”
She huffs, setting the food aside, and marches up to him. He shifts back in his seat instinctively, before forcing himself to meet her eyes. He’s sick, not helpless, and if she thinks she can just yell at him until-
“Listen.” She actually has her hands on her hips, and it’s more adorable than it probably should be. “This whole… Team. Team Grimm, or whatever we are.” Team Grimm? He has some pretty serious objections to that one, actually… “We live in this weird, crazy world that most people don’t even know about. And when things go bad for us, sometimes they go really bad, and we don’t really have anyone we can go to. And you’ve been living in this world longer than most of us, so I know you’re probably used to doing all of this on your own, but… You don’t have to. Not anymore.”
He swallows hard, fighting against the swell of emotions that he’s absolutely going to blame on the fever. She’s right, of course; he’s been on his own for a very long time. “I-”
She raises a brow, indicating that she’s not done, and he falls silent. “You helped me. Before, when things were…” She hesitates. “Weird. And you’ve protected Nick so many times, and…” She shrugs. “If we don’t take care of each other, who will?”
Because that’s what this team is for her, he realizes. A group of people that take care of each other, no matter how weird or bad things get. He quite likes the idea of a team like that, even if he can only admit it to himself.
She’s still watching him, waiting for some sort of reaction, so he forces himself to exhale, giving her a slow nod. “Okay,” he says finally, and she brightens. “Thank you.”
“Of course. So, no allergies?” She double-checks, and he shakes his head.
“None. But, ah…” He glances at her pile of veggies, and offers her a sheepish smile. “I’m not a fan of celery. Never have been.”
And oh, the rush of warmth he feels is absolutely because of the fever. It has absolutely nothing to do with her look of sheer delight at learning this little bit of information. “Sean Renard, I never would have guessed.”
She sets the celery aside, and sets to work, washing and chopping up the other veggies. He falls silent, too exhausted to keep up a conversation, and simply settles back in his seat, observing her. She’s smooth, efficient, like she’s done this a thousand times, and he absently wonders if she does this for Nick when he’s sick. There’s something peaceful about watching her work, and if she catches him staring, well… He can always blame the fever.
-
(Four years later…)
It isn’t uncommon for Eve to go AWOL, these days. She lives alone, in this cheap little apartment in a sketchy neighborhood at the edge of town, and she doesn’t often venture out to join the rest of the group. Sometimes she’ll consult on a case, or the team will coax her into a dinner, but often they’ll go a few days without hearing from her.
That’s why, at first, he doesn’t notice anything strange.
It’s a dreary Monday morning when Nick trudges in, looking half-conscious. Sean’s not altogether sure what the boundaries here are-they’re making a tentative effort at civility for the sake of Diana, but that’s hardly the same as friendship-but he can’t stop himself from clearing his throat, looking Nick over. “You okay?”
The detective’s guard is up in a second, and Sean can see him consciously forcing it back down. “Fine. Just tired. Kelly kept us all up last night screaming. I think Diana wants to stay with you tonight,” he adds as an afterthought, and Sean’s lips twitch.
“Did you try calling Eve?” The woman seems to have an almost unnatural gift for getting Kelly to calm down, although she doesn’t seem altogether comfortable with him. Privately, Sean wonders if the child can somehow sense that in another life she could have been his mother, but he keeps that thought firmly to himself.
Nick nods. “She didn’t pick up. Guess she’s finally getting some rest.”
Sean’s not even sure Eve actually sleeps, these days. “Guess so,” he replies, trying to keep the prickle of concern out of his tone. It’s probably nothing, he reminds himself. Maybe she just didn’t hear her phone. Or maybe she decided that swooping in to calm down her ex’s screaming child in the middle of the night wasn’t how she wanted to spend her time. He could hardly blame her for that.
“She’ll probably call me back later today,” Nick adds, but he doesn’t sound completely convinced. Obviously he has a few concerns of his own, even if he’s not ready to voice them.
“Probably.”
Besides, Eve can take care of herself. What could there possibly be to worry about?
-
Tuesday starts far too early, with a body at five AM and two more at 10. What is it about Tuesdays that makes people feel particularly murderous? The world may never know. Regardless, Sean is on his fifth cup of coffee, and it’s not even noon.
He doesn’t see Nick until later, too busy with press reports and paperwork. When they finally do see each other, the conversation is full of casework, not to mention Wesen-talk. Is the killer Wesen? Were the victims?
It’s only when Nick’s about to leave Sean’s office and head home for the night that Sean remembers to ask.
“Did you ever hear from Eve?”
Nick falters. “No,” he admits, after a long pause. “She never called back.”
That is significantly more worrying. She never just ignores Nick’s calls.
Nick seems to be tracking his line of thought, but shrugs. “Maybe HW recruited her for another mission, and she left in a hurry. Didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Trubel's done that before.” He could not sound any more painfully like he’s trying to convince himself if he wanted to.
“Maybe,” Sean allows.
He wants to go and check on her, but Diana’s at home, waiting for him. She really doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Besides, he can already picture Eve’s annoyed expression at the idea of someone coming to check on her.
Tomorrow, though, Diana goes back with Adalind and Nick. If no one has heard from Eve by nightfall, he’s going to pay a visit to a Hexenbiest.
-
Wednesday is packed, but in a much different way than Tuesday: Sean has a dozen meetings, most of them with people whose names he can’t be bothered to remember. They’re nit-picking bureaucrats whose combined sole purpose is to make his life more difficult.
He’s never been more thankful to hear that a body dropped.
He slips out of his meeting with polite apologies, before rushing to the crime scene. (Does he technically have to be there? No; his detectives fully have it handled. But does the stern man in an overpriced suit who was halfway through a lecture when Sean stepped out know that? Also no.)
It’s a weird case, which he supposes should be considered normal in Portland. Still, with three bodies, no noses between them, and no suspects, Sean wants all the help he can get. If that just happens to be an excellent excuse to contact Eve, no one needs to know.
She doesn’t pick up her phone, so he takes it upon himself to drive to her apartment, practicing his explanation the whole way over: “We have a case, and I was hoping you’d be willing to consult. When you didn’t answer your phone, I decided to seek you out directly, as the case is top priority.” It’s even the truth; the mayor has made it abundantly clear he wants this case closed yesterday.
When he reaches her door, he braces himself for her cold stare, before knocking three times.
Nothing.
He tries again.
After the third time, he can no longer ignore the humming under his skin, screaming that something is very wrong. He tries the door, and when it doesn’t open, pulls the spare key he had made out of his pocket. (If she’s fine, he’s going to have a really fun time explaining that one, but just at the moment, he can’t bring himself to care.)
He steps inside tentatively, looks around… And stops short at the knife pressed against his throat.
Ridiculously, all he can feel is relief; the knife is moving on its own, which must mean Eve is levitating it. “It’s me,” he announces, and her groan is audible. Audible, and… Rough? Hoarse? It’s instantly enough to send concern flickering through his chest again.
After a moment, the knife begins floating back down the hallway, and he closes the door behind him, following the cutlery into the first room. There on the couch, swaddled in at least a dozen blankets, lies Eve. Her face is worryingly flushed, her hair is in disarray, and tissues are piled on the ground in front of her.
“What do you want, Renard?” She mutters, not bothering to sit up.
Every carefully-crafted excuse falls away, and he can only give her the truth. “I was worried about you,” he admits. “Apparently, I was right to be.”
She scowls. “I’m fine.” Which might be a lot more convincing, but her voice cracks halfway through, and she grapples in the general direction of the tissue box.
“Clearly.” He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of the only chair in the room-obviously she isn’t expecting company, he notes wryly-and makes his way to her side. He hands her the tissue box, which she takes with a huff, and politely waits for her to finish using it before he takes his next step.
He reaches for her face, and she draws back sharply. “What’re you doing?”
“Checking your temperature,” he explains patiently.
“I have one.” She doesn’t pull away this time, though, and he presses the back of his hand to her forehead, wincing at the warmth. “Told you,” she mumbles, and he doubts she’s aware of the way she leans just slightly into his hand, pressing against his much cooler skin.
“Alright. Have you taken anything?”
She rolls her eyes, pushing his hand away. “‘M fine.”
“Not what I asked.”
Closing her eyes briefly, she finally nods. “Took something… Couple of hours ago, I think. Not sure what it was.”
Well, that is entirely unhelpful, and more than a little worrying. Choosing for the moment to push that concern to the back of his mind, he sighs, looking around for at least a water bottle or some food.
Nothing.
He cannot help but notice the similarities to that one day so many years ago as he clears his throat. “Where’s your kitchen?”
She opens one eye, and he wonders if she’s remembering, too, or if she’s entirely forgotten about that day. “Past the dining room,” she says finally, nodding in a general direction.
“Good.”
He finds it easily, and takes stock of her supplies. Unlike her, he hadn’t known to bring his own. Unfortunately, it’s obvious that she hasn’t gone shopping in awhile; her fridge is mostly bare, and her pantry isn’t much better. He’ll have to go shopping, then. But first…
Pilfering through the cabinets, he locates a glass, and fills it with water. That, at least, he can give her.
Returning to her side, he holds out the glass. “Drink,” he orders. She opens her eyes, fixing him with a deadly stare, and he amends it: “Please.”
She holds out for a solid ten seconds before finally sighing, pushing herself up into a sitting position and staring down any of his attempts to help. Then, she takes the glass, sipping tentatively. With a sigh that’s so full of relief he has to wonder how long it’s been since she’s had water, she makes short work of the drink, then sets the glass on a nearby end-table.
“Thank you,” she mumbles finally, and he thinks it might pain her to say it.
He nods. “I can get you some more,” he offers, reaching for the glass, and she frowns.
“What’re you doing? ” Her expression is far out of place on such a deadly woman, baffled and vulnerable. ( Adorable, some distant part of his brain whispers, but that thought is more dangerous than ever.)
Well, he thought that it was obvious, but… “I’m helping you.”
“You’ll get sick.”
Well, that’s just too easy. “I’ll live.”
Her frown deepens. “You don’t… Owe me anything.”
So she does remember. Interesting. “It’s not that,” he assures her. “It’s just…” Honestly, it’s a bit hard to explain. The truth is, from the moment he saw her lying there, he never considered any other possibility. It never even occurred to him to do anything other than whatever he could to help her.
He thinks back to that day in his apartment, to the swirl of emotions he once had. She understands now, he thinks, all too well. She understands how terrifying it is to be this vulnerable, to let others see you when you’re like this. (She was never supposed to understand him so well.)
The team is exactly what she imagined it to be that fateful day: a group of people who protect each other, no matter what. But the two of them aren’t really part of it, at least not the way they once were. They’re outsiders, sitting on the fringes of the team, haunted by ghosts they can never truly leave behind. A bit of it is their own choice, while some is simply circumstance.
She’s still watching him, waiting for an answer, and suddenly he knows exactly what to say.
“If we don’t take care of each other,” he murmurs, and he can see in her eyes that she understands, “who will?”
Not the team. Not Team Grimm. But the two of them. If they’re going to sit on the outside, they may as well sit together.
She considers his words for a long moment, before nodding slowly. The tension drains from her body all at once, and she snuggles back into the covers. “Thank you,” she whispers, and he takes a chance, reaching out and pressing his hand to her cheek. If she says anything, he can always say he’s checking her temperature again. She doesn’t protest, however, just turns her head slightly into his palm, and this time, he’s sure she knows.
They’ll be okay, he decides. And they don’t have to do it alone.