So lovlies, here is my newest venture that I dreamed up while working on Sharp Edges and Dark Corners. I was super intrigued by Council Agent (Alexander…can't find a last name) and not just because was attractive… but then I wondered what Rosalee would look like in that role or a similar one. And this is what my brain produced.

If you've read any of my MonroexRosalee fics, you know I work in one-shots and arcs, so this one is going to be structured in several arcs (usually 3 one-shots=one arc) and the first three will be retelling "Island of Dreams" "Cat and Mouse" and an amalgam of the last two episodes of season 2- or at least that's the plan for now. So basically, small canon divergence and it'll keep getting bigger the farther in I go.

Disclaimer: I own nothing at all here, I'm just doing this to keep myself sane through the rest of grad school and because I wanna see Rosalee as a different kind of badass, one kind just isn't enough

"The art of losing isn't hard to master;/ so many things seem filled with the intent/ to be lost that their loss is no disaster..." Elizabeth Bishop "One Art"

Pretending to be someone else always came easily to Rose. She slipped into someone else's life as easily as she slipped on a new jacket; no wrinkles and everyone was the right size. She lost herself for days or weeks at a time in a different life, perfecting hand gestures and smirks to blend in as seamlessly as possible. The devil's in the details after all and they didn't call her a vixen for nothing.

She thanks the waiter who brings their wine with a wave of her French tipped nails. He nods and leaves them the bottle, dashing away to another table in the crowded restaurant on the Rue Bernard Claude. "So, if I agree, what am I going to get out this? Your reach is going to extend all the way to Vienna and into the Balkans out of my establishments."

Objectively, she could find Louis Sherra attractive, shoulder length dark brown hair with just a hint of silver at the temple, broad shoulders and sharp dark eyes that didn't miss a thing. 'Could' being the operative word.

He swirls the red around in the bell shaped glass while he considers. "I can cut you in for twenty five. After all, I have to be sure the product gets to the Austrian border. Customs and all that."

She laughs for real. "I know how Customs work and we both know that you aren't paying customs on your product."

A grin works its way across his mouth. "You see, I keep underestimating you, Madam."

She takes a dainty sip of the red. It's very good. She'll have to make a note of the label and order a few bottles once she's home. "I prefer 'Frau*'." Maybe though, if they get this all squared away she can buy some before boarding the train tomorrow morning.

He leans in on his elbows. "Very well, Frau Fletcher."

"So what can we do about that twenty five percent then?" She wonders, mirroring him. Her dress, a low cut green satin number was the best €100 she's spent in while.

"For you I'll bump it up to thirty five percent." He reaches across the table to run a finger down her hand in what she supposes is a guaranteed seduction move. She swallows her laughter and leans in a little farther.

"Forty," she counters in a low voice, making him listen. "I operate out of Amsterdam, Louis. Right under the Council's nose. At least make it worth my while."

He drains his glass. "Forty. On one condition."

She refills his glass and tops off her own. "Do tell."

"I'll cut you in for forty, if you make Paris a regular travel destination."

She holds up her glass. "I think that can be arranged...To new business partners."

"To trés belle* business partners."

Their glasses clink with a note of finality.

"Now that all the business is over, why don't we head to some place...quieter for dinner? My hotel has excellent room service."

"Of course, Frau Fletcher..."

"Just give me a moment to powder my nose." She grabs her purse and retreats to the back of the restaurant.

Their waiter follows.

Once behind a corner, near the kitchen, he asks her in a low whisper as she pulls out her compact. "Did you get it? Is it done?"

"Naturallment*," she replies as she dabs gloss on her lower lip from where it smudged on the wineglass. "We're heading to my hotel room for room service." She waggles her eyebrows.

Alexander rolls his eyes. "Must you be so...vulgar, Rose?" he asks in German.

"It was his idea that visits to Paris should be part of the deal. Why? Are you finally jealous?" Rose replies, also in German.

Ignoring her jibe entirely, Alexander pulls out his phone. "I've gotten word that they've taken out the warehouse in Marseille and are moving in on the one in Nice."

"Then we've got to move fast. Pay them extra," She nods in the direction of the kitchen. "and be ready to cut us off in five. I don't want to be with him any longer than I have to be. It took me six months to get Louis Scheera in person and I'm not going to blow it now."

She leads him down the street and steers him closer to a nearby alley way. Rosalee pretends just fine, pretends to be a cool, collected wealthy Trauminsel owner who isn't bothered by a bit of blood here and there. It's part of the business after all. But Louis' arm around her waist makes her shiver and not in the most delicious way possible. Someone wolf-whistles behind them. And any other time, she would ignore it. "My God," she mutters to Louis. "Can't a girl get five minutes?" she turns. "...It's the waiter..."

He turns and shouts something in rapid French (something along the lines of "bastard" and "born in a gutter") as Alexander approaches. "You are Louis Scheera, aren't you?"

Louis turns, woging into his Luisant-Pêcheur face. "Who's asking?"

"Alexander Steiner. And you will come with me."

"On whose authority?"

"The Council's."

The gun she's been keeping a careful eye on, finally emerges. He holds it up to Rose's neck, while grabbing her wrists together behind her back in one hand.

Stupid.

"Now Monsieur Steiner...I'm sure you wouldn't want any harm to come to my business partner." He prods her with the muzzle before settling it against her shoulder, pointed at Alexander.

Clumsy. She knots her fingers together.

Alexander holds his hands up, palms facing them. He nods at her.

In the same quick motion, she yanks her wrists free and jabs him with her stilettos. He makes a satisfying grunt of pain as she pulls away. Alexander already moving in, he knees Louis in the side.

"Stupid-" Louis shouts as he grabs for the gun and manages to get a single shot off. White-hot pain zips across her left shoulder and the smell of burnt flesh and explosives settles on the Paris street but she holds her ground, determined not to give him an ounce of satisfaction. The sounds of sirens start to rise, lights turn on in the surrounding buildings.

"Rose !" Alexander glances up but can't go to her, instead he presses his knee a little farther into Louis' back.

"I'm fine. It's just a graze." She stalks over to Louis, who is still squirming. "Too bad," she says to Louis. "Before it was just going to be fraudulent papers and customs evasions." She drops to her knees. "Now, it's attempted murder." The sirens grow louder and the flashing lights appear. She lets out a piteous wail as the Paris police swarm the streets.

*German for "Ms."

* very beautiful

*Naturally

Rosalee sits patiently, secretly glad to be off her feet, keeps a stream of grateful tears as the nurses coo in French in the ER. They dab at her arm before stitching and wrapping it carefully. They hand her a sling and tell her to keep from moving it too much in the next week.

When she's deemed ready, Alexander meets her at the front. Normally, he's all smiles and champagne after a successful apprehension but his demeanor is somber, but she chalks it up to the bullet graze and her being in the hospital. In her first year in the Hague, they had an unfortunate run in with a pack of Verrat Hundijagers that put Alexander in the hospital for a week. She escaped with a mild concussion and a shiner but she barely left his bedside. And she'd been no ray of sunshine either.

As he always does, he offers his arm and leads her to the waiting car.

"Did we get a different train?" She wonders as she settles in, careful of the sling the hospital gave her. Reaching down, she slips off her heels and rolls her ankles.

"Yes, De Groot wants us back in Den Haag as soon as possible. We're going to catch the first train out of Mannheim."

"Lovely," she settles back against the seat to nap for the next three hours. Her whole neck is stiff and an ache radiates from her left arm is starting to set in across her shoulders. "They gave me some pain meds. Hand a few to me?"

He hands her the bottle already opened.

She tosses back a few and glances over at him. Alexander taps the edge of his phone against his thigh. Lights from the street throw his long face into sharp relief and he looks in that moment so much like the panther he is. "What is it? What's wrong? You're never this down afterwards."

"You should sleep." Is all he says.

"Tell me."

Alexander sighs. "De Groot received a message while we were gone. From Portland."

Her heart stills. Not Freddy, she prays. And hates her self for choosing Freddy. But he was the one who was there for her when she needed him.

"It seems your brother was murdered this morning."

At first, the words circle her, not touching her. Alexander does not say anything more He sits with his long elbows atop his knees, head in his hands. The words, the ones she knows are true, are too big, to full to take in as they are. She waits until they break down into sizable syllables that go ringing around in her brain until they reform into their true sounds. Freddie... murdered. Gone.

"I'm sorry, Schatz*." Alexander says finally.

She buries her face in her hand at the sound of the affection in his voice and his hand on her back.

"I'm so so sorry."

All at once, she'd give everything to be anyone else.

*German for sweetheart, or honey, a term of endearment

It's not her first ride with the police, but she had hoped she wouldn't have made this a habit. "Promise me," Freddy insisted the last time. "No more."

His words keep ringing in her hears this morning as she walked into the police department. There were offers to help her with her bag, but she waved them away with her free hand but when she asked for Detective Burkhardt, she only received pointed fingers and looks of pity.

He seemed nice enough; standing to greet and offering her coffee after what he assumed was a long flight and in reality was nearly twenty four hours of travel, along with an apology. He seemed nice enough with bright green eyes and a jawline that could cut glass. On his desk, sat a picture of a very pretty woman with red hair and a smile that lit up the frame. No ring, though, on either of them.

In Rose's absence, wide swaths of Portland had the gall to change. Streets her mother used to warn her off (or at least try to) have become up and coming neighborhoods with hip coffee shops and specialty stores for things she didn't know needed their own stores like olive oil and refurbished thrift store clothes, boutiques with birds on everything. She's tempted to send Alexander a newsboy cap with a snappy red cardinal on it. He'd hate it.

"Amsterdam's an awfully long way from Portland." The Detective notes. "What do you do there?"

"Den Haag, actually." She replies using the Dutch pronunciation. "I'm an consultant. For Interpol." On paper, she was at least. And she did give her 'report' on Louis Scheera to one of their main contacts in Interpol, a Malin Fatal, to process and convict.

"What's your specialty?" He probes the careful silence that has settled on them since she got in his car.

"Fraud, identity theft, trafficking." She lists off. It's all true in one manner or another.

His eyebrows quirk upward. "I wouldn't have pegged you for that."

"I don't fit the type then?" she wonders.

"Hey, I read people for a living." He glances over at her.

"So do I," she replies.

"And I'm not wrong very often."

She matches him. "Neither am I."

A smirk works up his cheek, revealing a dimple. "So, your injury was work related?"

"Why don't you tell me, Detective." She replies, turning back to the window to watch the newly-familiar street signs whiz by: Burnside, Everett, Irving, Kearney. "I can give you my boarding passes and a copy of my credit card statements to prove I was in Paris on the day of my brother's murder. And to prove I didn't take a hit out on him."

"I didn't-"

"No, you didn't, but you're a detective and family members are always the first suspects."

He lets out a snort of laughter at being caught out in his own game. "They are."

"And I'm sure you did your research." I would, she thinks.

"You had a couple of B&Es a few years ago. Some jail time. And then radio silence."

She nods. "Freddy's the one who helped me achieve that radio silence. I owe him everything."

"So, tell me why he listed you as a emergency contact when you live all the way in...Den Haag?" He attempts to mimic her accent but fails horribly. "And your mother and sister live in the same state?" He wonders.

She bites the corner of her lip, choosing her words. "In another life, I did what Freddy did. Alternative cures, teas, soaps...but I...needed to get away for a while. I suppose he wanted someone who knew the business. My mom is...frail and my sister doesn't have the head for it."

"What's she do? Your sister?"

Rosalee shook her head. "I...I don't know." She couldn't remember what Deetta had been up to last. And the last time she'd asked...

He doesn't say anything more on the subject but he sets his shoulders as they pull into a spot in front of the shop.

Rose grips the strap of her bag. The signs are all the same in the window, the same blue and gold, except of course for the police tape winding its way across the sidewalk. She hasn't set foot in the shop in nearly three years and yet, it feels as though someone has reached in and grabbed a hold of her heart.

Everything's the same, except for the soft coppery smell of blood lingering in the air. Sniffing, she looks down to see one of the rugs soaked in it. She drops down to her knees; the breath knocked clean out of her. Without meaning to, she woges and tries her hardest not to cry in front of...

The back of her neck burns as she feels his eyes on her, as though he's seeing all the way in, through all the lies and layers, all the people she pretends to be. She turns and it's the recognition that gives him away.

"I-" He starts, eyes wide and hand extended like he would a wild animal.

She retracts and scrambles clumsily to her feet. The word on her tongue. Grimm. And she's without her partner or the use of her right arm.

"I'm not going to hurt you..." his words are well practiced, smooth. "I swear."

"Did you kill him?!" She manages to spit out. "Did you?!" She checks the front desk for anything, she could use to fight her way out. Not even a letter opener in the mess. Shit.

"I didn't hurt your brother, I swear."

"You know I can't trust a damn thing you say." She snarls over her shoulder.

He takes another few steps back. "Did you know your brother was dealing?"

Her heart plummets. "No..." she breathes. He wouldn't, not after everything. "Dealing in what?"

"Human body parts...Like Gallenblase. That's-"

"I know what it is. But no, I didn't know."

"He was working with Giers-"

"Did they kill my brother?"

"I don't know..." He reaches for his jacket and she shrinks against the desk. He holds out a card. "If you think of anything or see anything, call me."

She takes it and flips it over a few times. She looks up at him, trying to find that killer edge that her childhood nightmares were made of, born from stories her father used to tell about bad Wesen (read Fuschbau) children who didn't listen to their elders who were dragged into the darkness by the big bad Grimm. But it eludes her entirely. There's no trace of it anywhere in his huge green eyes. Or if it is there, she's losing her touch

When he's gone, she waits until she can't hear the rumble of his monstrous jeep she thought they would have long since outlawed. She pulls out her phone and dials De Groot and waits for his gruff "Guten Abend, Frau Calvert. "

"He's a Grimm." She whispers. "The Detective who's handling Freddy's death."

"Does he know? Did he see?" Did you let slip who you work for, is what he's asking. Have we been compromised?

"...Yes...I couldn't help it. But I didn't say anything about the Council."

De Groot is quiet for a moment before he asks the inevitable question: "Did he kill your brother?"

"He...he says he didn't."

"And do you believe him?"

"I—I think I do."

"Keep a sharp eye." He warns. "We have to be sure he wasn't killed because of his connection. I am trusting you, Frau Calvert to get to the bottom of this."

"I understand."

He lets out a low sigh. "I should hate to think that this is the beginning of trend. In the mean time, I am re-assigning you to Portland to serve as contact person, as your brother was, and your father."

"I understand."

"I expect to be kept informed of the situation."

"Of course."

"Will you require Alexander's help?"

"No." She mutters. "No, I'm doing this on my own."

In twenty four hours, she barely slept. Last night, Rose spent hours staring at the darkened ceiling, caught between jet-lag and sorrow; the couch was far less comfortable than she imagined but she couldn't find it in herself to sleep in the bed. Back at the shop, she's only managed to roll up the ruined rug, ready to be thrown out and barely started on the inventory when there's a knock at the door.

Sighing, she hops from the stool behind the front desk and goes to the door.

The Grimm is there with someone who is not his partner. Or at least not the one from the station. While every instinct tells her not to, she cracks the door open. "What's this? Another partner?"

"No." The Grimm glances up at the man at his side and then back to her. "He's...my consultant...I guess?"

The other man shrugs. "I suppose that's a word we could use."

She lets them both in while the Grimm makes the introductions. "Monroe, this is Rosalee Calvert. Rosalee Calvert, this is Monroe."

Monroe offers a hand to her. "I was really sorry to hear about your brother." He towers over the Grimm by a good five inches even as he hunches his broad shoulders just a touch, not out of self-consciousness but more of an awareness of how his general height and size might intimidate someone.

"Did you know him?" She shakes as best she can with her left hand. His fingers are callused and so much bigger than hers. But his hands are careful and restrained, self-taught traits she's sure. If he's one of those rare gentle giants, that remains to be seen.

"No, but our paths crossed a few times." His voice, measured and calm, radiates that same feeling through the room, despite the Grimm's presence. And there's only one possible explanation for it.

For just a moment, his eyes catch the light and she sees the distinctive red shadow on the edge of his iris. He tries pull his hand back but she grasps it tight. She has to be sure. She woges and steps back. He lets go too. It's been a while since she's seen a Blutbad in the flesh like this.

When they both retract, she turns to the Grimm. "I...I don't understand...How-how does this work?" A Grimm with a Blutbad on a leash? She's not going to walk out of this city alive.

"It's... complicated." Monroe assures her.

"Yeah..." she agrees slowly. "I can see that."

"Do you think it would be all right if we take a look in the basement?" The Grimm asks her.

She crosses her free arm over her chest. "I thought the police already did."

"We did. But I'd like to take another look around," he gestures to Monroe. "With my consultant."

"I haven't finished a complete inventory yet, so I'm not sure exactly what's down there."
"Is there anything in here someone might kill for?"

"Not a Kereshite... A Wesen...probably. Like I said, I'm not entirely sure what's in here yet. It could be any number of things."

"Can we help, then? Maybe speed up the process?" The Grimm asks.

She glances between them. "I don't suppose I have any choice, do I?" She sticks her phone in her pocket and grabs her inventory list and leads them down to the basement. They start on opposite ends, she lets them do all the heavy lifting while she sorts the tinier bottles.

"Wait..." Monroe starts. "This box is opened." She hears him fiddling with jars and then the quick snap of a jar opening.

Rose looks up from her inventory, the lingering smell wafting over to her. She grits her teeth against the memories it brings up.

"It looks like jacine...its a sort of mold that grows on some...tree...or something. But it's pretty poisonous to you know, you. But it's like an opiate for us-granted that it's used correctly."

"And incorrectly?" The Grimm asks.

Monroe shakes his head. "Nothing good."

Rose stands behind them. "It can be very addictive." She murmurs. "Think of Oxytocin mixed with heroin. Not good for your liver or brain." She takes the jar from Monroe and unscrews the cap for herself and sniffs. "It's a quality batch."

They exchange a glance between them and then to her.

"How quality?" The Grimm asked. "Good enough to kill for?"

"It's possible," she peers into he box and counts the jars, ignoring the knowing look in Monroe's eyes. "There are a few missing but without finishing the inventory, it's impossible to be sure."

The Grimm claps his hands to together. "Could you finish your inventory and make a list of all the things you have that a Wesen would kill for?"

She nods. "I could finish it in the next day or two." They bid her goodnight and make her promise to call if she needs any help. But she waves them off.

It's almost eleven whens she hears the door to the shop open and then close. She frowns, thinking she's kept it locked. Just as she's about to call out, the smell hits her. Skalengecks. Grabbing her box cutter, she ducks behind one of the taller shelves, waiting as the voices grow louder and louder. "...forgot to turn out the lights. Now, let's get the stuff and get out of here."

They attack the boxes (but from here she can't see which ones), stuffing it in their pockets and bags. Rose throws her head back and breathes as silently as she can, compelling her pounding heart to slow even though she knows they can't hear.

In the near silence, her phone sings out. Cursing internally, she scrambles to pull it out of her pocket one handed and silence it. Meanwhile the men bicker over whose phone it is. Just as she turns it off, a real silence descends. And then.

One of them, wearing his Skalengeck face appears on her other side. Rose slashes at him with the box cutter, catches the edge of his shirt and a little flesh and she backs away, only to fall into the other's arms. This one grabs her free wrist while the other advances. She kicks back with a roar, catching the one holding her wrist between his legs. He goes down groaning. She ducks past the advancing Skalengeck, who's back to human, and rushes to the stairs.

With a boom, one of them smashes through the drywall and grabs her ankle. "Fucker!" She screams and stabs his hand with the box cutter so deep it stays in. He lets loose a howl. She takes the stairs two at a time until she hits the street. Rose slams the door shut behind her and slides the wooden bar over it. She hears them hit the door but it doesn't stop her from running in the opposite direction, wishing that maybe she had kept either the Grimm or the Blutbad on retainer, though she's not sure which is the lesser of two evils.

Her adrenaline has only started to slow when there's a knock at the door. She's only been back at her brother's for ten minutes and she marvels at the speed. When the Grimm had her picked up at the restaurant she'd run to, he brought her to the station to try to pin down the identities. Clint Vickers and Joshua Hall. The Grimm pulled their mug shots up on his monitor. She kept repeating their names to herself; she's going to move heaven and earth to find them and make them pay.

She opens the door to find Monroe. "Hey," he greets her.

"Hey," she replies and ushers him in. "I still don't see why this is necessary."

"Nick would rather his witness is alive, you know. And you said you didn't want anymore police."

"A Grimm Detective is quite enough for me, thank you. Besides you'd be able to smell them a mile away."

"So you trust me then?"

"Only slightly more than him." Rose digs through her brother's cabinets and makes a triumphant sound when she finds a bottle of Jäegermister. "I don't know about you, but I'm in need of a little depressant. Want one?"

"If you're offering..." She finds two clean glasses and pours plenty in each. "So why only slightly more than him?"

"You haven't tired to kill me. And I figured if you haven't at least tried by now you probably won't." She takes a deep sip and winces at the burn. It's been a while.

"Maybe I'm just waiting for the right moment."

"Nope. You Blutbad are all the same, you're high-spirited and you let your emotions get the better of you."

"If it makes a difference, I'm not like that anymore, " He insists, taking a sip.

"No, " She smiles over the rim of her glass. "I don't suppose you are. Because, apparently, Portland isn't weird enough."

"So, are you really a consultant for Interpol?"

She tosses back a little more. "I don't know; are you really working with a Grimm?" She counters.

"Touché." He holds out his glass and she taps it.

"Just to be clear, you're here because he asked you to and because I didn't want a police detail? He arranged that?"

"That's about the size of it."

"I don't get it; what's in it for him?"

"Stringent set of morals? Police academy training gone horribly wrong?" Monroe shrugs. "Damned if I know."

She swirls the little bit left in her glass. "So...are you going to ask me?"

Panic flits across his face. "Ask you what?"

"About earlier. About the 'J'."

"You do seem to know quite a bit." He takes another sip. "Sounds like from first hand...experience. No judgment though..."

"Yeah," Rose doesn't look up from her glass. "I hit a rough patch. For about seven years. Freddy helped me, when I need it, found me a job in The Hague." She shrugs as if it's just another day and not her entire life crashing down on top of her. She finishes the last bit and stands. "I'm exhausted. Still a little jetlagged. But you're welcome to the couch and anything in the fridge. There are extra blankets in the hall closet if you need them."

He leans back against the couch. "Guten Nacht,"* he waves.

"Sprechen Si Deutsch?"* She asks on a whim.

"Ja."

She pauses in the hallway and asks in German. "Haben Sie ihm Vertauen?"*

"Ja."

"Why?"

Monroe presses his fingers together before answering, albeit in English: "He's not like all the stories we grew up with. He's...just trying to do the right thing here."

Rose nods and retreats to the bedroom. She leans against the closed door and digs out her phone again. She dials Alexander's number.

"Ja?" He answers sleepily. It must be early; she didn't even bother to try to figure out what time it is there.

Rose almost cries at the sound of his voice. "C'est moi."*

"Rose?! What is it? Where are you? De Groot told me-"

"I'm fine," she replies in French, praying that Monroe doesn't understand, let alone hear. "I'm okay. I need you to do something for me."

"Anything Schatz, anything."

"Clint Vickers and Joshua Hall. They killed my brother. Skalengecks." She spits the last word. "I need to know if they have any ties to anyone in the Verrat or any other organizations. Family, friends. Anything."

"Rose-"

"Please...please just do this for me."

He breathes heavily against the phone. "Alright, Schatz. I will."

"Danke*, Alexander."

*Good night

* Do you speak German?

* Do you trust him?

*It's me

*thank you

"You've done plenty," The Grimm insists. "Wait here." He glares at her through the rearview mirror, as if trying to pin her there.

She hands over the ticket to Monroe, who at least has the decency to shoot her a look of sympathy before he gets out of the car. And its all she can do not to flop back against the seat like a petulant seventeen year old denied the car keys. It's not like she got them the tickets or saved his sergeant's life or anything.

Her phone tweets in her pocket. "Ja?" She doesn't even bother to check who it is.

"Rose? I couldn't find anything on your Clint Vickers or Joshua Hall. As far as I can see...they've got no ties to anyone big."

Fury, cold and all consuming, erupts in her throat. "Danke," and hangs up the phone. Fuming, she waits until she can't see them anymore and slips her arm out of it's sling. She tiptoes around the building, looking for a way in. Stay in the car, my ass, she thinks as she digs out her lock pick set that she's not sure how she got past security at the airport and goes to work on the back door. She even had to teach Alexander how to make locks sing; he thought it was too far beneath him, too much a common criminal trait.

Before she can get a good handle on it, shots ring out from inside, screams rise and then there the sound of running feet. She grabs a brick from the pile in the corner and runs toward the sounds. She finds Monroe, easily, as she's head and shoulders over the rest of the crowd. But he doesn't wave to her.

The man between them holds both arms stretches out in front of him. Rose catches sight of a white bandage on his hand, stained with blood. Without a word, she kicks him hard in the ribs and he drops. He turns to shout but she's there and gives him one more good kick to the face. He goes still. Alexander would be so proud.

Rose stands over him, brick in her hand. One quick smack with it and they'd be one less murder to contend with. "You didn't care about him...he was just in the way." She says to the unconscious body. "So you killed him. A means to an end."

"Rosalee..." Monroe starts walking toward her slowly.

She glares at him. "Why shouldn't I?! This is my only shot at justice. The Grimm certainly isn't going to get me any."

He reaches out for her hand. "But that's not what this is."

"I don't need a morality lesson from a Blutbad!" She spits.

"Really? Because it looks like you do. Look, you're better than this."

"How do you know?"

"Because I can see it."

When she doesn't say anything more, he slides the brick out of her hand without taking his eyes from hers. I'm not like that anymore he said last night, the same mantra she's kept up for the last few years. I'm not like that anymore. I'm a different person now. She looks down at the unconscious body. I'm not like you.

But she almost wasn't; she clasps her now empty hands together, screwing her face up against the tears howling to be free. He reaches out again, but this time for her shoulder. But she jerks away. Turning, she walks slowly back to the car.

She digs her phone out of her pocket but her thumb hovers over the contacts; the one person she wants to talk to is isn't going to answer. Trembling, she presses his number anyway and waits through all the rings until his voice fills her ear:

"You've reached Freddy Calvert. I'm not available right now. Leave your name and a detailed message and I'll get back to you."

She clicks it off and slides back into the back seat of the car, suddenly exhausted.

Rose thought each previous day had been the hardest since her father's death. She woke and for a brief moment, believed the worst was finally was behind her. But it wasn't. After all the business at the Trauminsel and the arrest, she got an email from her mother; she'd be unable to make the trip up to Portland. She said nothing about Dietta.

This morning had been no different except that she doesn't want to have to put on the black dress she laid out last night, or step into the shoes she picked out or wear the damned hose. Rose rolled onto her back, cursing the sun shining on today of all days and that it's probably beautiful out. She traced the light filtering through her window to the flower arrangement on the desk. Over the last week, the shop was littered with them; white lilies mostly. But this one was bright; blood orange tulips, baby's breath and a note: 'It's not equal trade for my life but I hope it helps evens the score. –M.'

She smiled but it's not enough to banish the gloom settling on her. Rosalee stands at the graveside, alone, free arm tucked under her sling, watching the reverend say the last of the eulogy; it's dry and unimaginative but she lets it go. She looks up and can't remember seeing so many different Wesen in one place at one time. It's not like this in The Hague; they all scurry about, hoping and praying not to be noticed by either the Council or the Royals. They're only trying to keep their heads down and get on with their lives.

It's a testament to her brother, she supposes. Not out of fear or force, but affection. He was beloved, a pillar of the community. He always did take his big brother role to heart, ever playing the mediator between her and Dietta's fights, taking her in when she had no other place to go. He wasn't perfect, but he'd been a good brother, the best one she'd ever had.

As the reverend says the final benediction, she notices two figures standing at a distance. Picking her way through the crowd, she finds Monroe and the Grimm.

"What are you doing here?" she wonders.

"Thought we'd come pay our respects," the Grimm insists.

"You do realize that most of that crowd is Wesen and if you get any closer, they'll all freak." She points out.

"She's right, dude."

"Well, I also came to deliver these." He hands over a sheaf of papers.

"What?" She skims over them and realizes they're court summons. "How? They said it may take months to get them in front of a judge..."

"I may have... pulled a few strings." He smiles like a cat with a canary feathers. "Besides, I think we got off on the wrong foot." He offers a hand. "I'm Nick," he reintroduces himself. "I'm a homicide detective and a Grimm on a learning curve."

She shakes his hand finally. "It's nice to meet you. I hope you don't decide to chop my head off."

That at least elicits a laugh from Monroe. She glances between the pair of them, smiling despite the day.

Thoughts? Reviews? I've never done an AU before on purpose-normally I'm a stick to the canon kinda gal.