if it needed said, I don't own Grimm, just the OC's.

"Is this the Grimm?" Nick Burkhardt jerked the phone away from his ear to stare at it, stunned by the querulous inquiry even more than the unfathomable fact that the phone in question was the one he shared with his partner, Hank Griffin. At work. In the Portland PD. While he eyed the monster in his hand, the timid voice repeated. "Sir? Is this the Grimm?"

"Uh, speaking," he admitted cautiously. "Who is this?"

"Sorry, Sir, I should have said right away. No disrespect intended, Sir. I'm... It's Margie. Margie Dowling, Sir."

"Where did you get my-name?" He asked, thankful she seemed to be a bit more doughty than some Wesen he'd endured speaking with. Reminding himself this was not his first nervous caller, he forced himself to take a calming breath.

He was certainly no Joe Friday, but, having neither time nor use for small talk, (especially at this hour of the night) his only interest in official calls was to get the facts and get to work. That approach, Monroe had informed him in his inimitable way, would never win friends and influence the majority of the Wesen community who still saw him as a slavering monster. Along with repeated lectures on the importance of presenting a non-threatening front, Monroe, Compulsive that he was, had been trying to teach the detective to control the exasperation that crept into his voice, not to mention his visage, when faced with moments such as this. Especially given his caller's tremulously voiced inquiry, the deep, calming breath he forced down was definitely warranted.

True, he was a cop so anyone in the greater Portland area had every right to call on him with their concerns; it was part of his job. And, as certainly, in his hereditary position as a Grimm, he served the Wesen community as well. The problem was...he wasn't usually approached directly for those particular services. In fact, most often if there was a Wesen in the works, the Wesen WAS the problem.

"I have a friend in Portland who said...she said you c...you would help me. I," the nervous woman fluttered, her already tentative voice faltering its way into an abject apology. "But... Well, just forget I said anything. I'm sorry I bothered you. Please don't..."

Ah, hell! Nick scraped his hair back from his forehead in frustration, a reflexive gesture which rearranged his already ruffled hair into even greater disarray. He would have groaned aloud except he recognized from her dithering approach he would lose the call and there was no question that, as she had worked herself up to the effort, it was important to her. "It's okay, Ms. Dowling. It's just been a long day," he offered apologetically, noting it was getting on towards 8 PM and he should have left by now, as he settled into what Hank referred to as Compassion Mode. "How can I help?" He asked, by habit seeking to categorize his caller and possibly the nature of her problem. Eisbiber, he'd bet on it judging by the abjectly timid delivery so like that of his friend, Bud Wurstner. Might be Reinegen, too; but definitely Wesen.

Just what he needed at the end of an already crappy day; but this was his job. Not a job so much as a 'calling'. Being a Grimm, while not a position he'd sought or accepted, as he had that of detective on the Portland PD, was one he could not escape. Not willingly, anyway, the job passing to him when his Aunt Marie died and he, as the hereditary successor, contracted it, rather in the fashion, he occasionally imagined, of Dana Andrews and the Deadly Runes. God, he almost groaned at the path his tired mind was pursuing. It was getting late, and he, punchy, if that pivotal moment in his life brought to mind the catchy tune from Rocky Horror Picture Show, to which he and Juliette had one evening gone with Monroe and Rosalee to, in Monroe's words, 'soak up the ambiance'. That had been an enjoyable evening but not one he needed to recall just now. Truthfully, in the beginning, the actual assumption had been pretty much like Dana Andrews, more a matter of being trapped in a nightmare with nothing song-worthy about it.

What he needed right now was to wrap things up and get home. Hank had left over an hour ago at his insistence. Since, he pointed out, Juliette was spending the week with her ailing mother and he had no place else to be while his partner had a date, Nick had magnanimously volunteered to finish up the paperwork, and that, no mean sacrifice. He'd meant to take care of one last detail and leave shortly thereafter. In fact he should have, but things had conspired to delay him and now he wanted nothing more than a quick sandwich and bed. However, given Juliette's absence, he admitted he'd be settling for a beer and bed; more likely, also because she wasn't there to witness his craven departure from civilization, a beer IN bed.

Back to Wesen, it was, then. "Ma'am," Nick interrupted (the continuing apologies). "Ma'am, how can I help?" Sure it was abrupt but several years' experience with Bud and his lodge brothers left him few illusions she'd run down any time soon and come to the point. That gentle prompt had sparked a whole sequence of apologies and half hearted attempts to abandon the phone which Nick, having accepted the challenge, took in poor part and doggedly pursued her.

"Ma'am, again." Nick kept his manner gentle and reassuring despite wishing he had a nail handy to chew. "Let me remind, you called me for help; but I can't do anything unless I know what the problem is."

Not for the first time, Nick truly appreciated his improved hearing courtesy of the Jinnamuru Xunte which allowed him to hear the woman. Not so much when he recognized she was attempting to suppress a 'sobdown'. 'Ah, hell, not the tears!' Nick smothered his own dismayed groan and dropped his head to the arm which held his notepad ready. "Ma'am. Margie are you okay?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I just didn't know what else to do." The woman's sniffling response touched on both professional levels Nick represented.

"Then you came to the right place because that happens to be what I do." Her snorting response to the intentionally trite assurance gave Nick hope he'd soon get the details of her predicament and get out of here. "Now, Margie, how can I help?"

Man, that was so slavish he almost checked his desk to make sure he'd jettisoned the latest "Quick Reference Guide" to which they were subjected yearly by the PR department in their annual campaign to improve public opinion. Each one was slightly different, he had to admit, but each, without fail, held the 'buzz phrase' popularized by whichever 'spin-giver' had gotten the bid and appeared to the Bigwigs to be ascendant in the 'big bucks claptrap popularity' lottery. Some years it was bad enough to make him feel like the hapless, helpless-thrall-to-his-programming Robocop where too often cozying up to the public and doing the job mixed like fire and gasoline. Nope. Not here. That fact alone put a comforting smile in his voice. "Is this problem you're having a personal one, or are you calling for someone else?" Might as well make a frontal assault, Nick decided; anything was better than scrabbling after hen's teeth. Grab the hens! get the teeth and get out that was his new motto! at least, he suppressed the groan his glance at the clock generated into a deep preparatory breath and went after the current poultry.

"Maybe I shouldn't have called you, sir. I'm sure this is way beneath your notice. Please, just-"

"Ma'am," Nick's irritation slipped through in a bit a growl that, curiously, (did he actually hear that, or was it simply the blindness improved hearing) acquired a menacing overtone of Authority. Almost as good as Captain Renard's coat for impact, he marveled. "You called. I'm here. What's wrong?"

He winced just a bit at that aggressive an approach but couldn't, all the same, but be impressed by the shell-shocked silence on the other end. Then, "it's my son, sir. At school he's on the football team. We're so proud of him because, you know, not many of us get into that kind of thing. Anyway, he's on the Varsity team and already has a scholarship to Oregon, so this year he needs to do real well and keep up his grades." Nick's eyes rolled as much with respect as exasperation while he attempted to hurry the woman along on her 'second wind' explanation, 'air cranking' her reel. "Well, he was doing fine till about a month ago when..." Her pause for teary reflection sent Nick's head to the bumper of his notepad holding arm, again. He took another 'refreshing breath', mouthing a heartfelt 'thank you, Monroe', and waited for her to continue. "He started having trouble at school. I think it had been going on for some time before-"

"Exactly what is the problem?" Still with the impending menace in his voice.

"He's being bullied. You know, pushed around, ordered about-"

"I'm familiar with the term, Ma'- Margie. What would you like me to do?" Nick didn't much care for the current 'tell-a-cop' method of bully control, being of the opinion a child needed to develop his own backbone; but this instance might be different since the 'alleged' victim was, considering the football, a rather intrepid member of his kind. And Margie, having spoken to a Grimm for several moments without suffering any 'mortal effects', had since slipped into the Epic mode of narration.

"I-" here the woman's courage faltered in the face of her instinct to mother. "I want you to make him stop!"

"I can't guarantee that, Margie, but I will definitely check things out. I do need to know your son's name and if or when I can talk to him."

"Oh, sure," more sniffling! "His name is Bronson. Right now he's in the hospital. He was beaten up this evening and-" the poor woman fought for control, her rustling kerchief clearly audible to Nick. With that in mind, he reconsidered, perhaps the family was rather more intrepid than average. "They're keeping him overnight to be sure but I just know it won't be the last time this happens. It's been getting worse ever since he got the scholarship to Oregon.."

"That's definitely something to take pride in, Margie," Nick assured her, marveling again at the odds of that happening and forbore to ask exactly what kind of Wesen he was while making a note to ask Monroe about the propriety of making that query over the phone without utterly demolishing his image as an unstoppable Grimm. "I'll try to be there early morning, if you want to meet me. I think I'll go straight to the hospital, if you've no objection."

"Oh, thank you so much, sir," she enthused. "That would be wonderful. I'll be there anyway because my husband's working and-"

"You don't want to leave him alone," Nick finished for her. Not unusual, given the circumstances, and the mother's need to defend her offspring.

"Are you at the hospital now, Mrs. Dowling?"

"I came out to the car to call," she whispered, "you know, in case those ... people were following me or something!"

"Probably not necessary," he commented, "but, considering, not a bad choice. You take care and I'll see you in the morning."

"Oh!" Nick caught himself before the phone hit the cradle, surprising her as much as himself. "Sorry, Margie. I'll let you get back to Bronson in a minute, but just who-what kind of Wesen are you dealing with?" That should certainly satisfy Wesen protocol to personal questions from a Grimm, he congratulated his choice as he hung up and prepared to go home.

That was how he ended up on this back road at three AM. Trolls! Häslichen in Grimm-speak. Not mean, necessarily, but determined and firmly entrenched in the old ways. He, as the resident Grimm, in response to a request, however unofficial, was going to see if he could drag this particular group into the present century without resorting to traditional, terminal means. Mom would probably take a cestus to him for his methods, he knew that. Though she grudgingly tolerated his association—no, he had no trouble admitting to it—his friendship with Monroe and Rosalee, she was an 'old school' Grimm, so it was understandable. But since he'd bungled his way into the new job and in desperation accepted, heck he'd demanded the aide of a Wesen against his own kind, he pretty much 'began as he meant to on' and thus single-handedly demolished the grain of Portland's Wesen-Grimm interactions. Having no first hand knowledge of protocol or standard procedures and no real life combat experience except the reaper's attack on his Aunt Marie, he had been, to his mother's way of thinking, a regrettable failure as a Grimm. To his, inculcated with police force standards and procedures, he had no problem with the choices he'd made. Of course he had not known at the time how much he overstepped. Their informal partnership had been forged in his first ever Wesen hunt, a matter of life and death for a little girl. And they had won!

Without really even being aware of it, the fledgling Grimm's reliance on the clock making Wieder Blutbad had become habit, and that habit had kind of gotten away from him. Over the past few years his association with the initially reluctant, self-proclaimed Grimmopædia named Monroe had expanded to include Monroe's girlfriend, Rosalee, Bud and Phoebe Wurstner, his partner Hank, his girlfriend Juliette and Captain Sean Renard, the local Royal (Who knew?). Team Grimm, Hank called it; and, as far as he was concerned, the combination of Wesen, varied talents, and authority on Team Grimm had been working well. So...he had no intention of backsliding in time to a solitary existence, if the others would even let him; because as often as not, whenever Wesen involvement was suspected, one or more of his team demanded inclusion in the venture.

Much as he'd like to, he couldn't argue against the practice, especially with the non-Wesen. They'd tried that with Hank and Juliette and it hadn't worked. Once drawn into his affairs, however tangentially, their fate was as sealed as his and they became vulnerable. Because of him. So now Hank and Juliette knew about this supernatural side of their world and he had drawn them into that circle of protection, which he feared would soon include Sgt. Wu. His guilt about that necessity notwithstanding, what they were doing worked. Their approach to Wesen control was making a difference for everyone, human and Wesen alike. It had kept them all alive and well thus far and he meant to insure that it continued to do so.

Finally finished with his "regular" job, Nick set off to take care of the Häslich attitude adjustment and then get down to a relaxing weekend away from it all. To further that end, he'd skipped dinner in favor of a longer catnap and settled for a bagel and large coffee to go before hitting the road to Eugene. If he was lucky, he'd settle this dispute and be on the way back home by noon with most of his windfall free weekend ahead of him.

Hope you liked this. If you did, a lovely comment would be most encouraging And much appreciated.

As often I do, I must sincerely thank LittleBounce for her inestimable aid in editing and offering suggestions and the always welcomed encouragement. This wee effort, though, pales in comparrison to her own wonderful Grimmworks, the which I shamelessly plug, along with DSquirrel's. If you want a great ride, look them up.