Fic: Blind Stubbornness Is Not A Cure (Grimm: Renard/Nick)
Title: Blind Stubbornness Is Not A Cure
Pairing/Characters: pre slash Renard/Nick; also Monroe, Hank, Wu, blinkandyou’llmissher!Juliette
Spoilers/Warnings: A very vague reference to speculation r.e. Renard, but beyond that there is no need to avoid or otherwise gird your loins before proceeding.
Disclaimer: Not mine; I do not have any IP or fiscal rights in relation to Grimm.
Word count: 4,100
Rating: PG
Summary: Nick isn’t sick. Honest. So why do people keep looking at him like that?
Note the first: I’m currently stalled at 15,000 words on an entirely different Grimm fic. So, thought I, let’s find an idea for a nice, short fic to get myself going again. Or not: over 4,000 words later, here we are.
Note the second: Original prompt and fill can be found over here on Dreamwidth: http://grimm-kink.dreamwidth.org/1735.html?thread=1242055#cmt1242055
One
Nick feels fine. Honestly. So he really doesn’t get why Hank’s been giving him the stink eye for a couple of days now, and since lunchtime has taken to tossing cough drops in Nick’s direction at thirty minute intervals.
“’lo?” Nick answers the phone, but his voice catches and the word comes out broken. Okay, yes, he coughs a couple of times, but he hasn’t spoken for a bit and he’s just trying to clear his throat. It’s totally normal.
The yellow sweet hits his forehead dead centre, distracting Nick from the record’s room officer speaking on the other end of the line.
He throws Hank an annoyed look, but his partner just stares back, utterly unrepentant. Bastard.
Nick puts the phone down and sneaks a hand up to massage his throat. He’s fine; it’s just a bit scratchy. He probably ate something earlier that got caught on the way down.
“Go home, Nick,” Hank says, “I don’t need to go catching whatever plague it is you’re harbouring.”
“I’m fine,” Nick scowls.
Hank merely snorts in response, turning back to his paperwork and doing a good job of acting like he’s paying no attention to his partner.
A few minutes later Nick’s hand sneaks out and tries to quietly unwrap the cough drop from its rustly paper. He’s not sick, he just likes the taste.
He ignores Hank.
Two
It’s late in the evening and the department is almost empty. Hank had tried his best to hustle Nick out of the door when he left earlier, but Nick pleaded off, wanting to get the last of his report completed first, and promised his partner he would be gone by seven.
It had nothing to do with the fact that his body was starting to feel very heavy, and the walk to his car seemed interminably long.
Nick has given up on the report, which does actually need to be written at some point, and preferably before Renard has to start hounding him for uncompleted paperwork. It’s difficult, though, when the words in front of him have started blurring and dividing of their own accord. He gave up around the time ‘suspect’ and ‘shrubbery’ took to waltzing about his computer screen together, and he is now slouched there with his head in his hands and zoning out under the dimmed lights.
He’s not sick, though, he’s just tired.
“Burkhardt, what are you still doing here?”
Nick almost jumps out of his chair. The captain is standing right behind him, and Nick was wholly unaware of his approach. It’s not that Nick’s been losing track of what’s going on, it’s just that Renard can move sneakily for such a big guy. Really.
“Um, just finishing up my report for you, Sir,” Nick fumbles, but by now it feels like someone’s been storing razor blades in his throat and they slice into every word on their way out.
It sets off a cough, which only serves to aggravate his throat further; the pain is unexpected, and Nick can’t concentrate on anything else until it subsides. Ok, so maybe he has a cold. A tiny, insignificant one, never mind the fact he can’t remember ever feeling like an ogre was squeezing its arms around his chest before.
By the time he stops having to weigh up whether the need to breath makes the pain worth it, he realises Renard is watching him with an odd expression on his face.
Nick tries to smile, but it feels more like a grimace, and it’s only when he tries to straighten (and when did he lean over that far, anyway?) that he notices the steadying feel of Renard’s hand on his shoulder.
“Come with me,” the captain orders, and even though his job description probably doesn’t extend to this, Nick follows.
He tries to, anyway; Nick manages to stand under his own steam, but at some point in the intervening hours some witch has transformed his bones into jelly and he sways alarmingly. Is there a spell for that, he thinks, and I’ll have to look it up in Aunt Marie’s books later.
It’s quickly followed by did I just say that out loud? When he sneaks a glance over, though, Renard is looking straight ahead with no sign that he’s listening, and Nick thinks he’s safe.
The captain helps Nick to his office, arm wrapped around his back. By the time they reach the door Nick is leaning on him in a way that would be embarrassing if he weren’t starting to feel slightly detached from everything. He’s still with it enough to be aware of the feel of Renard, warm and solid, tucked in as he is against the other man’s side.
“Sit,” he says, and Nick sits. He does so with more alacrity than he intended, slumping onto the couch like a marionette with its strings cut. The world’s started to go dim at the edges, and his body feels stuffy and heavy like he’s been filled with cotton balls made of concrete. It sounds like a perfectly reasonable analogy, but Renard’s quirking an eyebrow at him like he’s speaking in tongues.
Nick has just enough time to feel pleased that he’s managed to elicit a visible reaction from the captain (that’s got to be a win on the inter-departmental pool), and then that maybe his brain to mouth filter isn’t working quite as well as usual, when Renard gives him a gentle nudge and he lies down on the couch. He’s out cold before he hits the cushions.
The next thing Nick knows, he’s in his own bed, curled up beneath blankets he no longer shares with Juliette. He can’t remember how he got here; he has hazy memories of Renard helping him down to his car, and into his house, but that has to be a dream. It must be mere fancy, because if that really happened then perhaps Nick didn’t imagine the feel of fingers carding through his hair either, and that definitely couldn’t have been real if Renard was the only other person here.
It’s all too confusing, and it physically hurts to think, and the darkness is far too welcoming to ignore -
He isn’t aware of falling asleep.
Three
Nick wakes the next morning wondering if he managed to get the licence plate of the truck that hit him. He somehow manages to stumble his way into the bathroom, only to make the mistake of looking in the mirror. He’s seen dead people looking better than he does currently, and that’s after Dr Harper was done with them.
Maybe he is a little bit ill; one of those twenty four hour things. He’s sure that if he sleeps it off today, he’ll be fine by tomorrow.
Nick manages to make it downstairs without breaking his own neck, although it’s a close thing at step three, and he spends a good five minutes sitting on step eight after a coughing fit means he can either sit down or fall down. He pulls his arm away from his mouth, and blearily notices a few specks of red on his sleeve. It’s odd; he can’t remember eating anything with ketchup recently.
It’s only once he’s in the living room, curled up in three blankets and still shivering despite the long sleeved top and two hoodies he also has on, that he thinks to check his phone.
He has no idea what time it is, and the fact that he’s not concerned by that should probably be alarming in itself (but hey, see point one). He’s glad he at least brought his phone down with him, because he’s pretty sure he’s not getting back up those stairs any time soon.
Nick’s about to call the station, and wondering how that’s going to work out considering it feels like if he has to attempt spoken words he might actually die, when he realises that the text icon at the top really is flashing, and it’s not just his eyes intermittently blacking out on him.
It’s from Hank: Captain said you’re off today. Try not to die; it took me long enough to train up my last partner ;)
Usually Nick would mock him for his little girl love affair with emoticons, but that requires energy he doesn’t have right now. It takes a couple of mashes of the keyboard before he even gets to the reply to message screen, and even then he only manages to fire off a quick reply, K, before the phone drops out of his hand and the floor seems way too far away for a retrieval operation.
Nick dozes through the rest of the morning, dragging himself up once for a cup of tea (teabag straight in the cup; he can hear Monroe rolling his eyes from here). He stares at the cupboards while the kettle is boiling, but food seems like far too much effort, and the mere thought of it has a feeling of nausea rising up uncomfortably.
He wakes up later to the sound of the front door closing. He has no idea who it is, but he grunts out some unintelligible noise that may have been english in a past life, and alerts them to his location. He’s totally apathetic to their identity; if it’s some crazy Wesen out to assassinate a Grimm, he’s starting to think he might welcome it. Death must be better than this.
It turns out to be Wu, who must have let himself in with Hank’s spare key. Nick tracks his approach, eyes and hair the only visible parts of his body above the blanket cocoon, and Wu looks at him in a way that manages to convey faint disgust and concern at once.
“I came to check you aren’t dead,” Wu grimaces, “but I’m not entirely sure you’re not.”
“Nrgh,” Nick replies.
“Right,” Wu answers when nothing further appears to be forthcoming, “I brought you some paperwork, but I think I’ll just be taking that back with me. I’ve also got cough drops, tea from that pretentious place down the road, bottled water, Tylenol, and some weird syrup that’s probably a con but Wendy on the front desk swears by it and made me promise to bring some.”
He takes each item out of the bag as he names it, and by the time he finishes lining them up on the table, it looks like he’s created some freakishly coloured miniature army.
Nick tries to say thanks, but one cough becomes three becomes what feels like his lungs trying to hurl their way out to freedom via his throat and for a few seconds he can’t even breath.
By the time it’s stopped, coughs easing off until he can manage a few shallow breaths between each one, his eyes are watering and he’s wondering how long this has to go on before he bruises a rib.
Wu’s edged closer, and worry is clouding his tone when he asks, “Seriously, man, are you ok?”
Nick nods, carefully, hoping that if he doesn’t make any sudden movements he won’t set off another jagged coughing fit.
“Have you got anyone coming by later, because you really don’t look like you should be on your own too long. Hank said he didn’t want to see you until you’re no longer a threat to his way of life, but he’ll stop by if you want.”
Wu looks like he’s only one step away from pressing his hand against Nick’s forehead, and it’s disconcerting enough to see anything vaguely related to nurturing coming from Wu that Nick manages an answer.
“Monroe, later,” he wheezes out, breathing cautiously and hoping that he’s successfully conveyed his message because it’s pretty clear that talking is back off the table for the immediate future.
Wu looks unconvinced, but he also seems to realise that even sick Nick can out-stubborn the best of them, and he is at least conscious and essentially coherent.
“Ok, well, call one of us if you need anything, yeah?” Wu waits until he gets an affirmation from Nick, even if it is just another minute head nod before he disappears back into his blanket warren, before leaving.
Four
Late afternoon finds Nick clutched over the downstairs toilet, coughing enough that he’s throwing up, even though nothing has touched his stomach since yesterday morning. Everything burns; his stomach, his chest, his throat, even his muscles are shaking badly enough that he’s curled on the floor and leaning against the wall in between bursts.
Breathing is taking all of his hazy concentration, trying to inhale and exhale slowly and shallowly enough that he doesn’t set anything else off, attempting to somehow breath without letting any air touch the sides of his throat.
The smell of sick and sweat permeates his nostrils, enough to make him dry heave again, which is enough to set off another bout of coughing, and so on and so forth until the world narrows to just these actions and Nick feels like he’s been there forever, miserable and with limbs too watery to move.
He somehow, eventually, makes his way back to his nest of blankets, shivering badly enough and for long enough that the ache has set deep into his bones and feels like he’ll never get it out. He must fall asleep at some point because he’s aware, vaguely, of Monroe’s face leaning over his sometime later, so he must have woken up to do so.
Monroe seems to be wanting him to do something, only Nick can’t tell what it is because the words get lost in translation somewhere in the space between them, and now Monroe’s looking scared and he’s reaching out to shake Nick, only Nick can’t feel his body moving and he’s aware, distantly, that should scare him too, and now Monr -
*
Nick stirs to the smell of anaesthetic and the sight of Monroe, looking rumpled and tired, slumped in a chair beside his bed. He drifts off.
He comes to again, and this time Juliette’s with him. He tries to clear his throat, but it still hurts, and there’s something scratching at him below his nose. The noise rouses Juliette, and Nick wonders why she looks so relieved. He blinks at her, but it does nothing to clear his bleary, vaseline smeared view of the world, and he lets the heaviness of his body pull him back into sleep without ever leaving it entirely.
The next time, Nick actually wakes up properly. Monroe’s back in the chair, which gives Nick the impression that he may in fact have been here for a while.
“H’y,” he croaks out, and if the execution is verging on the pitiful he still thinks he deserves points for effort.
Monroe jerks awake like he’s been cattle prodded, half out of his chair and catching himself on Nick’s bed before his eyes have fully opened.
For the first time, it occurs to Nick that he’s in a hospital. He looks down at his hand to see an IV drip attached, and as if on cue the skin around it starts to pinch uncomfortably. There’s a cannula under his nose, and he’s feeling slightly separated from his body, so he must be on the good drugs.
His thoughts seem sluggish, like they’re half a step and to the side behind how they should be. He tries to lift his hand, but it’s leaden and refuses to co-operate.
Even his glare feels weak, and slowly he transfers it to Monroe instead, looking pathetic. It must work because Monroe doesn’t even bitch at him, just picks up a cup from the side and guides it to Nick’s mouth, letting him sip at the glorious water within.
“Hey, man, slowly,” Nick couldn’t do anything quickly if he tried at the moment, but he obediently lets Monroe tilt the glass away from him. He’ll get some more soon, but arguing is too much effort just now.
“So,” Monroe explains, “turns out you managed to get yourself bronchitis. Doctors said it was a pretty bad case, but they’ve got you on some A-grade stuff now and you should be back on your feet, running around to your little Grimm-y heart’s content in no time.”
Nick motions for the water, and Monroe lets him have a few more sips before taking it away again.
“How l’ng?” Nick asks.
“How long have you been sick?” Monroe misinterprets archly, “they reckon you should have got yourself into the hospital a couple of days ago. You’ve been in here for a day now.”
“Sorry,” Nick says, and Monroe deflates in front of him; Nick can see the worry poorly disguised by his usual pissiness and yeah, maybe he was a bit sicker than he first thought if Monroe’s looking at him in this way.
“Anyway,” Monroe changes subject, “You’ve had visitors. Juliette was in earlier; she said you woke up but probably wouldn’t remember,” Nick’s not sure if does or not, “oh, and Hank came by. That man does not like me; what do you think, is he jealous of my rugged good looks?”
Nick snorts, but the medication can’t have cleared his system yet because he finds himself doubling over and trying to suck air into his lungs through the coughs, with Monroe rubbing his back and keeping up a litany of apologies.
A few minutes later Nick’s breathing has eased and he manages to wave Monroe, and his impotent if well meaning back rub, off.
He leans back in the pillows carefully, and Monroe eyes him for a long moment before settling back in his own chair. The blutbad starts to talk; Nick lets the soothing rumble of Monroe’s voice wash over him, and at some point it carries him, yet again, into sleep.
Five
Nick’s actually a decent enough patient when he’s feeling really sick or hurt, happy to let the doctors and drugs do their thing. The problems start as soon as he begins to feel a little less like he’s been run over and thrown about by a herd of bauerschwein.
The Grimm has had enough of his hibernation impression; Nick’s starting to wonder if he’s got undiagnosed narcolepsy, the way he keeps dropping off into sleep. As soon as he can stay awake for more than ten minutes at a time, and the feel of bands around his chest has downgraded from iron to elastic, he wants out.
The hospital requests, firmly, that he stay for four days; Nick wants to leave after two. They make it to three before Nick signs himself out, arm curled protectively around his bruised ribs and upright more as a result of pure bull headedness than any further legitimate physical recovery.
Monroe drives him home and deposits him on the sofa. Nick can hear him bustling about in the kitchen, taking out cups and filling up the teapot Nick’s certain he didn’t own before he knew the blutbad.
He’s just finishing the cup of tea (it’s herbal something or other; again, Nick knows for sure that no fruit tea had ever passed the threshold of his home before this year) when there is a knock on the door.
Monroe throws Nick a stern look to stay put, but Nick’s starting to float quite happily on the latest dose of medication and the knock hasn’t really registered with him anyway, and goes to answer.
Nick hears the murmur of soft voices before the door goes again and he hears footsteps come back into the living room.
He opens eyes he hadn’t realised had slipped closed, but it isn’t Monroe standing back in front of him. It’s Renard.
“Sir,” Nick says and tries to stand. It’s a miserable attempt; Renard simply rolls his eyes, the expression on his face making clear to Nick that he should stay where he is. He complies; sometimes, discretion is the better part of valour.
“Where’d Monroe go?” he asks instead. He’s surprised Monroe’s left at all; the blutbad has been hovering around like a particularly grudging guardian, acting like he doesn’t trust Nick to be left unattended. He may have a slight point, considering how badly Nick’s managed in the last few days, but he finds no need to tell Monroe that.
“I sent him home for a while,” is all Renard says, but before Nick can question why Monroe did as Renard asked so quickly he is distracted by an insistent scratch in his throat that doesn’t ease until he has coughed again.
At least his cough does seem to be improving, and his chest no longer emits a disturbing rattle with every breath. Renard watches him quietly, but seems satisfied that Nick doesn’t require shipping back to the hospital.
Instead, the captain strips his jacket and takes himself off into the kitchen. Nick has enough mental power left to wonder when all these people become so comfortable in his house, but not quite enough to question it.
Renard returns with another mug, and Nick cracks his eyes open again (seriously, when do they keep closing?) when he catches a whiff of the aroma emanating. It’s chicken soup, and at the first sip Nick recognises it as Juliette’s recipe.
She must have dropped it around earlier, because she always makes it fresh. They’ve grown comfortable with each other again since their separation, and the knowledge sends a rush of warmth through his body that’s not just from the soup.
It’s only then that he notices Renard is sat to the side of him, on the coffee table, and watching Nick with an intensity that suggests he expects him to pass out at any second. If Nick didn’t know better, those lines in his forehead would look like concern.
“Drink up,” is all he says though, and Nick does as he’s told.
He manages half the mug before admitting defeat, tries to set it down on the table and catches the edge of the wood. Renard grabs hold, his own large hands curling around Nick’s and rights the mug on the table.
He doesn’t let go straight away, and Nick enjoys the feel of warm skin close to his own. Renard is a calming presence; there’s always been something very solid about him, and Nick feels like he could go to sleep now and relax knowing that Renard is there to watch his back.
Slowly, Renard’s fingers slide over his own as he releases his hold, skin grazing against skin.
“You should get some sleep, Nick,” Renard advises.
“All I’ve been doing is sleeping,” Nick counters, and definitely doesn’t pout as he does so. Actually, he is feeling tired again, although at least now it’s no longer the cold, bone deep exhaustion he has been experiencing.
Renard merely raises an eyebrow in response, and Nick makes the decision that between this and Monroe, he’s got to stop surrounding himself with people who constantly look at him with such disbelief. At least Renard’s not also staring at him like he’s a total idiot who can’t be trusted to tie his own shoes (or choose his own beer, thank you very much).
Actually, all Renard does is stand and take the mug from the table, returning to the kitchen. Left alone, Nick succumbs to the urge and sinks back into the couch.
The sounds in the next room are soothing, and a moment later the radio is turned on to some classical station Nick doesn’t know the frequency for. It’s quite nice, really, and Nick finds himself lulled along by the piano melody.
He loses track of time, far enough along the path to unconsciousness that the idea of his police captain pottering around his kitchen no longer seems odd. He’s aware, later, of someone, Renard, coming back through and settling a blanket over him, moving the cushion into a more comfortable position so that his neck won’t be screaming in protest later.
Renard settles into the chair opposite, and if Nick had the inclination to open his eyes, which he doesn’t, he would see the captain reading one of his books and glancing over to Nick every so often.
As it is, Nick doesn’t even stir when Renard stands and strokes a hand over his forehead, smoothes a palm over his dark hair.
Nick sighs gently and leans into the touch.
Renard settles his hand under Nick’s jaw, strokes a thumb against the soft skin. He leans down and brushes his lips against Nick’s forehead, fond and gentle in a way he wouldn’t dare be were Nick awake.
Nick sleeps, and Renard watches over him.