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Fic: Surrender (3/7)
Title: Surrender 3/7
Fandom: Grimm
Rating: PG
Pairing: Nick/Monroe
Summary: Just when Nick's life is changing, Monroe is attacked by a Grimm, mixing up their lives further.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
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Blood dripped down his shirt, soaking the wooden floorboards under his feet. A gunshot thundered in front of him, then another, and another, each an iron knife ripping him open, and he wanted to scream, but he couldn’t grasp enough breath, couldn’t move at all. The walls pushed inwards, stealing all the air, the counter the only thing that kept still. It crumbled under his talons, the hole in his chest widening with each bullet, blood splashing into his bones, his teeth screeching, and always, always, he smelled the Grimm, her reek sticking to the back of his throat, slithering into every shivering cell of his body.
With his last gasp of strength, he ripped his claws from the counter, only for a wall to knock against his back, shrinking the room until the ragged glass of the window stabbed through his skin, twisting his head back, and he saw the shadow creeping up on him.
He awoke in the darkness of the hospital room, his chest so bright with pain that he couldn’t squeeze breath past his throat.
||||
Juliette left the house. Nick assumed she was headed over to her sister’s place, who was the closest of her relatives, but she didn’t say, didn’t even leave a note, just a hole in their closet where her clothes had been and an empty spot on the bathroom sink. Two days later, she sent him a text saying she would return at some point to get the rest of her things and sort out the house situation, for they had bought it together and was in both their names, but not to bother begging her to come back, because she wouldn’t. Nick reread it more times than was healthy, his thumb hovering over the reply button every time, but he didn’t press it, not out of misguided pride, but because she really had been right. Monroe probably wouldn’t return his feelings, but that didn’t change the fact that Nick felt them.
Nick visited Monroe as often as he could, every time under Mrs. Monroe’s homicidal eye (apparently, Mr. Monroe refused to share Nick’s oxygen). Through text, which was the safest mode of communication under the circumstances, Monroe assured him that he would most likely not get murdered. The fact that there was still a chance of murder didn’t reassure him one bit. And all Monroe’s parents knew was that Nick was their son’s friend. If they caught wind of his less than honorable desires, death was 99.9% guaranteed.
Shit.
He was going to die.
||||
Six days after the attack, they finally discharged Monroe from the hospital. As he expected, his mother insisted that he come home with them since he was in no state to be left alone, which was true as much as he hated to admit it, but the thought of staying with his parents for a whole month (if not more, according to the doctor’s predictions, but blutbaden healed more quickly than humans), made him queasy. The whole time would be spent trying to brainwash Monroe into thinking that eating Nick was a much better idea than sharing a beer with him. No thanks. As soon as Nick suggested himself as a caretaker, Monroe jumped on the bandwagon and strapped on his seatbelt. Complaints ensued, of course. He’s a Grimm, he would be gone half the time, he’s probably just waiting to kill you in the comfort of his own home. Monroe zoned them out. The matter of Juliette did worry him, though, but as it turned out, it shouldn’t have.
“Juliette left me,” Nick said when Monroe asked about the living arrangements, ducking his head
“I’m sorry,” Monroe said. He meant it for Nick’s sake. The man seemed quite shook up about it, not even looking at Monroe for a long while after he said it, his shoulders hunched inwards as he leaned against the wall, tension lining his face. Yet, if Juliette was gone, there might be a chance for formerly forlorn hopes. If Nick wanted to. Monroe had evidence that he might, but he needed confirmation.
Given this bizarre timing, Monroe’s things arrived just when Juliette’s were moving out. Monroe had only been inside Nick’s house once, but he didn’t remember it being this messy. A stack of new boxes leaned against the living room wall near the entrance, still not set up save one, which was filled with what looked like scarves and a cat plush toy. Boxes of takeout littered the coffee and dining tables and an unsightly pile of unwashed dishes filled the sink.
“Sorry about the mess,” Nick said, shoving food containers into the trash can, which soon filled up. “I haven’t had time for anything this week. You’ve been taking it all up. I’ll wash the dishes as soon as I finish getting you settled.”
“No need to run around like that. I’m not going to dock you points for uncleanliness.”
“It’s just, there are no clean ones left,” Nick said, looking sheepish.
“Ah. Best get to it, then. Where will I be staying? I’m hoping not upstairs.”
Stairs were a little tricky now, unless one didn’t mind not being able to breathe from the knife stabbing your chest and twisting around everywhere. Nick had had to help him up the front steps, not that he had minded at all. Nick was quite warm as his arm wound across Monroe’s waist, their torsos pressed together, face so close all Monroe had to do was dip his head and--
Grabbing one of Juliette’s scarves, Monroe took a huge whiff. Yep. There it was. The very crucial reason why he could not be kissing or propositioning or doing anything more than friendly to Nick right now, because the man was hurt and vulnerable and on the rebound and his eyes went all soft when he took the scarf from him to put it in the box in the living room. It was too damn soon. Nick might throw him at the mercy of his parents just for trying. He had to wait. Maybe forever.
“Why are you still standing up?” Nick said, just now noticing that Monroe had been ambling about the house. “You should be resting.”
“It’s not like being seated hurts any less.”
But it would have been too much to ask for Nick to listen to the poor invalid who actually knew what his body was feeling. Instead, he was pushed down the corridor into the guest room, not quite master bedroom size, but nice, amply furnished with bed, desk, and chair. The walls were painted in cozy earth tones and decorated with a couple of mountain landscape paintings. A Tiffany lamp stood on the bedside table, all blue-green crystal. The deep green covers on the bed finished up the color scheme, though it was slightly tarnished by the mountain of pillows piled at the head of the bed, the mishmash of reds and yellows and whites destroying the room’s harmony.
“The doctor said it might be easier for you to sleep if you were in more of a sitting position,” Nick said, gesturing at the pillows. “I don’t know. You could try it out. Or if not, there’s a recliner in the living room. Come on. Sit.”
Monroe sat and lied down and was prodded this way and that, cushions pressed in every possible configuration against his back and shoulders, but his breathing did get a little iffier when he wasn’t fully upright, so in the end he stopped comparing Nick to his mother and appreciated the help. And that wasn’t the only thing Nick had set up. The closet was filled with Monroe’s clothes and shoes. The bathroom next door had all his toiletries placed as close to his own configuration at home as possible, as well as his meds. A box in the kitchen contained all his essential foodstuffs. There were even some of his books and CDs by the bookcase. Nick had brought half of Monroe’s house in here.
“If you need anything else,” Nick said, “I’ll go get it.”
Dishes clinked as he placed them on the drainer, washing them so fast that there were probably still bits of food stuck on them. Normally, Monroe would have made a smartass comment, but Nick had done so much for him, and Monroe couldn’t wash them himself with his left arm in a sling, so he kept his mouth shut.
“I made a list of the things in your fridge,” Nick continued, finishing up with the last glass. Now he moved on to wipe the counter. “All spoiled, obviously. I didn’t have time to make a run to the supermarket earlier. I’m going now. Unless you need anything else. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
God, Nick really was his mother.
“Just some water, please. You know, you don’t need to replicate my house to make me feel better. What you have to eat is fine.” Nick’s face turned sheepish again. Right. Just thirty minutes before, two dozen takeout boxes had called this place home. “You have no food left, do you?”
“There’s cereal.” Nick scrutinized the contents of the fridge. “Although there’s no milk. But we have cheese.” He brandished the block of white cheddar. “It’s not open. And there’s some bread.” Nick frowned at the expiration date on the bag, then tossed it into the trash can. “Never mind the bread. The orange juice is still good. And… Oh, not this.” He shut the fridge door. “Yeah, there’s nothing.”
A supermarket run later, they had food. Two hours and a burned piece of fish that nearly set off the fire alarm after that, they had a meal. At the end of it, Monroe wondered if Nick had noticed that Monroe spent the entire meal pondering what his lips would taste like.
||||
She was running. Monroe would grin, but he couldn’t do that in wolf form, all thought given over to the shades of the pines surrounding him, the freshness of the wet grass under his paws as he ran after her, taunting her with ferocious growls, stoking her fear further. Oh, what a gorgeous smell. The forest turned into field and he was on her, ripping and clawing at flesh and bone, blood filling his nostrils as he bit into her throat.
Pain tore through his back, making him howl. Blood flowered in his chest, hotter than the girl lying under him, and he tried to flee, but his limbs wouldn’t obey him, couldn’t even turn his head, and suddenly he was back in human form, his left lung collapsing, rib cracking and Nick was screaming his name, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t--
His head jerked to the side as he finally woke up, gasping back whimpers, for his chest felt like it was going to implode. Nick stood beside the bed, his hair a pillow-swept mess, but he held back, staring at Monroe as if he might attack him. Why… Monroe’s claws dug into his palms. Oh. He was half morphed. Must look quite the terror crying into his pillow.
“Monroe?” Worry tinged Nick’s voice. “Can you breathe?”
Monroe raised his right in a hand in a ‘give me a second’ gesture. He could breathe now, though barely, enough to calm himself back into human form, but his chest still hurt like the devil’s soul.
“Pills,” he gasped, pointing at the bottles on the bedside table.
Nick put two of the painkillers in his hand, then helped him drink it down with a glass of water he’d left there before.
“Give me the other one, too,” Monroe said.
“I thought you only took it once a day,” Nick said, putting the anti-aggressivity pill in his hand.
“Bad dream.”
That’s all he said about it. Nick looked like he wanted to ask, but he didn’t, thank God. Monroe closed his eyes.
Blood burned in his bones, the Grimm savoring his pain.
His eyes snapped back open. Okay! Clearly more sleep this night was not going to happen. He looked at the digital clock on the desk. 3:46. Well, then. Four and a half hours of sleep was good enough for some people.
“Can you get me my laptop?” Monroe asked once he could string a whole sentence together.
“You’re not going to try to go back to sleep?”
“No way, no how.” Nick placed the laptop beside Monroe’s hip, opening up the monitor and pressing the on button. “Thanks. I’m sorry for waking you. That doesn’t usually happen.”
“Don’t worry about it. I was half-awake when I heard you growling.”
“That loud, huh?” Monroe said with a chagrined smile. His breathing was easier now, though it would take a while for the painkillers to kick in. “You should go back to bed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. I’ll just watch some videos or something.”
For a second, Monroe thought Nick might insist on staying with the way he kept staring at him, bleary eyes filled with stubborn concern even as his body sagged with exhaustion, but in the end he scrubbed his face with his hand and stumbled toward the door.
“Alright,” he said. “You need anything, you call me.”
“Okay. Hey, thanks for waking me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Monroe watched Nick close the door. His head dropped back on the pillow. He dared not close his eyes, but damn, he’d love to be senseless right now. He hadn’t had dreams like this since he started his regimen, but now with the hole in chest preventing him from exercising and taking his pills in the hospital because it might interfere with his other meds (at least, they’d given him vegetarian meals per request, though the beef was probably so bland it wouldn’t have done any ill anyway), he wasn’t the good, reformed blutbad he should be. And now he was sharing a house with Nick, fragile, human, Grimm Nick while dreaming about the girl he’d killed in high school.
Fuck.
||||
Nick had to go back to work the next day, which he didn’t like one bit given how much he fretted over Monroe during his breakfast (Monroe had roused some cereal two hours before). To be honest, Monroe didn’t like it either, and not just because the damn wound made some basic movements difficult. The house was fitted with an alarm system, but who knew what an experienced Grimm might be able to get past? Monroe hoped that his being under a fellow Grimm’s protection (really, there was no sense sparing his dignity by denying it) might deter her, but that might just piss her off more if she thought Nick wasn’t doing his job.
She certainly didn’t think he was as far as other blutbaden in town were concerned, if the case files Nick plopped down on the kitchen table when he got home were anything to go by. Four files. Four people. All of them dead.
“I really shouldn’t be letting you look at those,” Nick said over his shoulder as he got his dinner plate out of the microwave. They made enough food last night to last for today so Monroe wouldn’t have to make anything by himself. Monroe insisted he could just get something delivered, but Nick was in hyper-caring mode and wouldn’t listen.
“And yet here I sit scoping out all your little cop secrets. And speaking of secrets,” Monroe held up two of the files, “these two were blutbaden.”
Nick turned around, his plate clanking against the counter. He rushed to grab the files.
“What? You know them?”
“Know wouldn’t be the word. I’ve come across them.” Monroe tapped the topmost file, which was of a man in his late thirties. “This one had to convince his human wife not to buy a house in my territory. She didn’t know he was a blutbad, so it took a bit of wrangling. It was a nice house. Good price. Probably thought her husband was crazy for turning down the offer.”
“Wait, blutbaden marry humans?”
“It’s not the norm, but it happens.”
Nick looked speculative. Maybe a little intrigued.
“Was he reformed like you?”
“Yeah. That kept it from getting ugly. We did the usual sniffing around each other. He let me know he wasn’t intruding in my territory maliciously. Never saw him after that.”
“What about Kelly Fisher?” Nick asked, opening the other file.
Now that one he’d been glad to never see again, not that he wanted her dead.
“Ah, yeah. She wasn’t reformed.”
“And?”
Monroe looked down at the table, scratching an imaginary itch in his leg.
“Well, her intentions weren’t quite so innocent.”
“What do you mean? Did she attack you?”
Nick kept staring at him with that earnest, ‘please tell me what’s going on’ face. Jeez, it’s not like Monroe was obligated to spill out every little detail. Some things were private. But how do you say no to that face?
“Not exactly. She wanted to mate with me.”
Nick’s curiosity turned into awkward realization. It was adorable, really.
“Oh,” he said, digging his nose back into the file. Like he was actually reading a single word.
Silence stretched between them. The papers crinkled under Nick’s fingers. His heart rate had increased, enough to pump a little blush up his neck. Interesting.
“Alright,” Monroe said. “Blutbad mating habits 101. Females, they go into heat. She was. I was around. Now I’m not saying that’s the only reason she was interested in me. They’re picky, even when they’re in that state.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that just to salvage your dignity, would you?” Nick smiled, teasing, but there was still an odd edge to his expression.
“No. She made her advances on me. I followed along.”
Nick’s flush was deepening, his heart thumping as loudly as the ticking of the clock, his breathing growing tense. And look at the way he kept glancing down at the file, not meeting Monroe’s eyes, his shoulders hunching together, discomfort dripping off him. It couldn’t be because they were talking about sex. Nick wasn’t a prude. Unless…
Monroe hesitated, his tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth.
“It got a little intense,” he said.
For a second, so quick that if he weren’t staring at Nick so firmly, he would have missed it, he saw the purest jealousy cross Nick’s face. Monroe drank in the rush of pheromones, giddy excitement dancing in his belly. His attraction wasn’t one sided. He actually stood a chance, more than a chance. If he leaned across the table right now and kissed Nick, he wouldn’t be rejected.
“So you, um,” Nick stuttered. “You did it, then?”
“No. See, the thing about blutbaden mating is, sex and violence pretty much go together, so I had to stop unless I wanted the whole reformed bit flying out the window. She didn’t like that, but in the end, I kicked her off my turf.”
“Oh.” He could even see the relief permeating Nick’s body. “That must have been frustrating.”
“Pretty much. Listen. About the human-blutbad couple earlier. It’s not that weird, really—“
Nick’s phone buzzed with a text message. Nick read it, his expression shifting in the worst possible way.
“It’s Juliette,” Nick said, regretful sadness permeating his voice. “She’s coming by next Tuesday to pick up her things.”
Monroe swallowed a groan of frustration and the urge to bang his head against the table, muttering a thousand curses in his head. He couldn’t do this to Nick now. Whatever attraction Nick felt for him, Juliette was still wedged in there and he couldn’t thrust a machete into that morass and expect him not to bleed. Nick needed time. If he declared himself now, he’d just mess up Nick’s emotions even more. Being a good guy sucked.
The cell phone tapped back on the table. Nick bent his head, considering something, then shook his head and turned back to the files, his voice and face shifting into detective mode.
“Right,” he said. “So with you, that makes at least three blutbaden that have been killed in a week. Fisher was shot, too. Keller was stabbed, though we haven’t identified what kind of blade it was. Maybe I should look in Aunt Marie’s trailer for a twin weapon.”
“Definitely looks like Grimm work,” Monroe said, not as preoccupied by the development as he should be. Was it possible to get depression from one second to the next?
“The other two might be creatures, too. I can’t bring you down to the morgue, but, if I manage to bring you something of theirs, you can sniff it out, right?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Obviously I can’t connect these cases officially on the basis that you’re all blutbaden, but if they were killed by the same Grimm who attacked you, any info we get from them can help us catch her. Unfortunately, we don’t have much right now. These killings were just as sneaky, but we have to be able to find a flaw in her execution somewhere.”
‘Uh huh’, Monroe wanted to utter, head sunken into his hand. The man he wanted was still pining for his girlfriend, he had a hole in his chest, and a Grimm wanted to kill him. Yep, this must be what depression felt like.
Chapter 4
Fandom: Grimm
Rating: PG
Pairing: Nick/Monroe
Summary: Just when Nick's life is changing, Monroe is attacked by a Grimm, mixing up their lives further.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
||||
Blood dripped down his shirt, soaking the wooden floorboards under his feet. A gunshot thundered in front of him, then another, and another, each an iron knife ripping him open, and he wanted to scream, but he couldn’t grasp enough breath, couldn’t move at all. The walls pushed inwards, stealing all the air, the counter the only thing that kept still. It crumbled under his talons, the hole in his chest widening with each bullet, blood splashing into his bones, his teeth screeching, and always, always, he smelled the Grimm, her reek sticking to the back of his throat, slithering into every shivering cell of his body.
With his last gasp of strength, he ripped his claws from the counter, only for a wall to knock against his back, shrinking the room until the ragged glass of the window stabbed through his skin, twisting his head back, and he saw the shadow creeping up on him.
He awoke in the darkness of the hospital room, his chest so bright with pain that he couldn’t squeeze breath past his throat.
||||
Juliette left the house. Nick assumed she was headed over to her sister’s place, who was the closest of her relatives, but she didn’t say, didn’t even leave a note, just a hole in their closet where her clothes had been and an empty spot on the bathroom sink. Two days later, she sent him a text saying she would return at some point to get the rest of her things and sort out the house situation, for they had bought it together and was in both their names, but not to bother begging her to come back, because she wouldn’t. Nick reread it more times than was healthy, his thumb hovering over the reply button every time, but he didn’t press it, not out of misguided pride, but because she really had been right. Monroe probably wouldn’t return his feelings, but that didn’t change the fact that Nick felt them.
Nick visited Monroe as often as he could, every time under Mrs. Monroe’s homicidal eye (apparently, Mr. Monroe refused to share Nick’s oxygen). Through text, which was the safest mode of communication under the circumstances, Monroe assured him that he would most likely not get murdered. The fact that there was still a chance of murder didn’t reassure him one bit. And all Monroe’s parents knew was that Nick was their son’s friend. If they caught wind of his less than honorable desires, death was 99.9% guaranteed.
Shit.
He was going to die.
||||
Six days after the attack, they finally discharged Monroe from the hospital. As he expected, his mother insisted that he come home with them since he was in no state to be left alone, which was true as much as he hated to admit it, but the thought of staying with his parents for a whole month (if not more, according to the doctor’s predictions, but blutbaden healed more quickly than humans), made him queasy. The whole time would be spent trying to brainwash Monroe into thinking that eating Nick was a much better idea than sharing a beer with him. No thanks. As soon as Nick suggested himself as a caretaker, Monroe jumped on the bandwagon and strapped on his seatbelt. Complaints ensued, of course. He’s a Grimm, he would be gone half the time, he’s probably just waiting to kill you in the comfort of his own home. Monroe zoned them out. The matter of Juliette did worry him, though, but as it turned out, it shouldn’t have.
“Juliette left me,” Nick said when Monroe asked about the living arrangements, ducking his head
“I’m sorry,” Monroe said. He meant it for Nick’s sake. The man seemed quite shook up about it, not even looking at Monroe for a long while after he said it, his shoulders hunched inwards as he leaned against the wall, tension lining his face. Yet, if Juliette was gone, there might be a chance for formerly forlorn hopes. If Nick wanted to. Monroe had evidence that he might, but he needed confirmation.
Given this bizarre timing, Monroe’s things arrived just when Juliette’s were moving out. Monroe had only been inside Nick’s house once, but he didn’t remember it being this messy. A stack of new boxes leaned against the living room wall near the entrance, still not set up save one, which was filled with what looked like scarves and a cat plush toy. Boxes of takeout littered the coffee and dining tables and an unsightly pile of unwashed dishes filled the sink.
“Sorry about the mess,” Nick said, shoving food containers into the trash can, which soon filled up. “I haven’t had time for anything this week. You’ve been taking it all up. I’ll wash the dishes as soon as I finish getting you settled.”
“No need to run around like that. I’m not going to dock you points for uncleanliness.”
“It’s just, there are no clean ones left,” Nick said, looking sheepish.
“Ah. Best get to it, then. Where will I be staying? I’m hoping not upstairs.”
Stairs were a little tricky now, unless one didn’t mind not being able to breathe from the knife stabbing your chest and twisting around everywhere. Nick had had to help him up the front steps, not that he had minded at all. Nick was quite warm as his arm wound across Monroe’s waist, their torsos pressed together, face so close all Monroe had to do was dip his head and--
Grabbing one of Juliette’s scarves, Monroe took a huge whiff. Yep. There it was. The very crucial reason why he could not be kissing or propositioning or doing anything more than friendly to Nick right now, because the man was hurt and vulnerable and on the rebound and his eyes went all soft when he took the scarf from him to put it in the box in the living room. It was too damn soon. Nick might throw him at the mercy of his parents just for trying. He had to wait. Maybe forever.
“Why are you still standing up?” Nick said, just now noticing that Monroe had been ambling about the house. “You should be resting.”
“It’s not like being seated hurts any less.”
But it would have been too much to ask for Nick to listen to the poor invalid who actually knew what his body was feeling. Instead, he was pushed down the corridor into the guest room, not quite master bedroom size, but nice, amply furnished with bed, desk, and chair. The walls were painted in cozy earth tones and decorated with a couple of mountain landscape paintings. A Tiffany lamp stood on the bedside table, all blue-green crystal. The deep green covers on the bed finished up the color scheme, though it was slightly tarnished by the mountain of pillows piled at the head of the bed, the mishmash of reds and yellows and whites destroying the room’s harmony.
“The doctor said it might be easier for you to sleep if you were in more of a sitting position,” Nick said, gesturing at the pillows. “I don’t know. You could try it out. Or if not, there’s a recliner in the living room. Come on. Sit.”
Monroe sat and lied down and was prodded this way and that, cushions pressed in every possible configuration against his back and shoulders, but his breathing did get a little iffier when he wasn’t fully upright, so in the end he stopped comparing Nick to his mother and appreciated the help. And that wasn’t the only thing Nick had set up. The closet was filled with Monroe’s clothes and shoes. The bathroom next door had all his toiletries placed as close to his own configuration at home as possible, as well as his meds. A box in the kitchen contained all his essential foodstuffs. There were even some of his books and CDs by the bookcase. Nick had brought half of Monroe’s house in here.
“If you need anything else,” Nick said, “I’ll go get it.”
Dishes clinked as he placed them on the drainer, washing them so fast that there were probably still bits of food stuck on them. Normally, Monroe would have made a smartass comment, but Nick had done so much for him, and Monroe couldn’t wash them himself with his left arm in a sling, so he kept his mouth shut.
“I made a list of the things in your fridge,” Nick continued, finishing up with the last glass. Now he moved on to wipe the counter. “All spoiled, obviously. I didn’t have time to make a run to the supermarket earlier. I’m going now. Unless you need anything else. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
God, Nick really was his mother.
“Just some water, please. You know, you don’t need to replicate my house to make me feel better. What you have to eat is fine.” Nick’s face turned sheepish again. Right. Just thirty minutes before, two dozen takeout boxes had called this place home. “You have no food left, do you?”
“There’s cereal.” Nick scrutinized the contents of the fridge. “Although there’s no milk. But we have cheese.” He brandished the block of white cheddar. “It’s not open. And there’s some bread.” Nick frowned at the expiration date on the bag, then tossed it into the trash can. “Never mind the bread. The orange juice is still good. And… Oh, not this.” He shut the fridge door. “Yeah, there’s nothing.”
A supermarket run later, they had food. Two hours and a burned piece of fish that nearly set off the fire alarm after that, they had a meal. At the end of it, Monroe wondered if Nick had noticed that Monroe spent the entire meal pondering what his lips would taste like.
||||
She was running. Monroe would grin, but he couldn’t do that in wolf form, all thought given over to the shades of the pines surrounding him, the freshness of the wet grass under his paws as he ran after her, taunting her with ferocious growls, stoking her fear further. Oh, what a gorgeous smell. The forest turned into field and he was on her, ripping and clawing at flesh and bone, blood filling his nostrils as he bit into her throat.
Pain tore through his back, making him howl. Blood flowered in his chest, hotter than the girl lying under him, and he tried to flee, but his limbs wouldn’t obey him, couldn’t even turn his head, and suddenly he was back in human form, his left lung collapsing, rib cracking and Nick was screaming his name, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t--
His head jerked to the side as he finally woke up, gasping back whimpers, for his chest felt like it was going to implode. Nick stood beside the bed, his hair a pillow-swept mess, but he held back, staring at Monroe as if he might attack him. Why… Monroe’s claws dug into his palms. Oh. He was half morphed. Must look quite the terror crying into his pillow.
“Monroe?” Worry tinged Nick’s voice. “Can you breathe?”
Monroe raised his right in a hand in a ‘give me a second’ gesture. He could breathe now, though barely, enough to calm himself back into human form, but his chest still hurt like the devil’s soul.
“Pills,” he gasped, pointing at the bottles on the bedside table.
Nick put two of the painkillers in his hand, then helped him drink it down with a glass of water he’d left there before.
“Give me the other one, too,” Monroe said.
“I thought you only took it once a day,” Nick said, putting the anti-aggressivity pill in his hand.
“Bad dream.”
That’s all he said about it. Nick looked like he wanted to ask, but he didn’t, thank God. Monroe closed his eyes.
Blood burned in his bones, the Grimm savoring his pain.
His eyes snapped back open. Okay! Clearly more sleep this night was not going to happen. He looked at the digital clock on the desk. 3:46. Well, then. Four and a half hours of sleep was good enough for some people.
“Can you get me my laptop?” Monroe asked once he could string a whole sentence together.
“You’re not going to try to go back to sleep?”
“No way, no how.” Nick placed the laptop beside Monroe’s hip, opening up the monitor and pressing the on button. “Thanks. I’m sorry for waking you. That doesn’t usually happen.”
“Don’t worry about it. I was half-awake when I heard you growling.”
“That loud, huh?” Monroe said with a chagrined smile. His breathing was easier now, though it would take a while for the painkillers to kick in. “You should go back to bed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. I’ll just watch some videos or something.”
For a second, Monroe thought Nick might insist on staying with the way he kept staring at him, bleary eyes filled with stubborn concern even as his body sagged with exhaustion, but in the end he scrubbed his face with his hand and stumbled toward the door.
“Alright,” he said. “You need anything, you call me.”
“Okay. Hey, thanks for waking me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Monroe watched Nick close the door. His head dropped back on the pillow. He dared not close his eyes, but damn, he’d love to be senseless right now. He hadn’t had dreams like this since he started his regimen, but now with the hole in chest preventing him from exercising and taking his pills in the hospital because it might interfere with his other meds (at least, they’d given him vegetarian meals per request, though the beef was probably so bland it wouldn’t have done any ill anyway), he wasn’t the good, reformed blutbad he should be. And now he was sharing a house with Nick, fragile, human, Grimm Nick while dreaming about the girl he’d killed in high school.
Fuck.
||||
Nick had to go back to work the next day, which he didn’t like one bit given how much he fretted over Monroe during his breakfast (Monroe had roused some cereal two hours before). To be honest, Monroe didn’t like it either, and not just because the damn wound made some basic movements difficult. The house was fitted with an alarm system, but who knew what an experienced Grimm might be able to get past? Monroe hoped that his being under a fellow Grimm’s protection (really, there was no sense sparing his dignity by denying it) might deter her, but that might just piss her off more if she thought Nick wasn’t doing his job.
She certainly didn’t think he was as far as other blutbaden in town were concerned, if the case files Nick plopped down on the kitchen table when he got home were anything to go by. Four files. Four people. All of them dead.
“I really shouldn’t be letting you look at those,” Nick said over his shoulder as he got his dinner plate out of the microwave. They made enough food last night to last for today so Monroe wouldn’t have to make anything by himself. Monroe insisted he could just get something delivered, but Nick was in hyper-caring mode and wouldn’t listen.
“And yet here I sit scoping out all your little cop secrets. And speaking of secrets,” Monroe held up two of the files, “these two were blutbaden.”
Nick turned around, his plate clanking against the counter. He rushed to grab the files.
“What? You know them?”
“Know wouldn’t be the word. I’ve come across them.” Monroe tapped the topmost file, which was of a man in his late thirties. “This one had to convince his human wife not to buy a house in my territory. She didn’t know he was a blutbad, so it took a bit of wrangling. It was a nice house. Good price. Probably thought her husband was crazy for turning down the offer.”
“Wait, blutbaden marry humans?”
“It’s not the norm, but it happens.”
Nick looked speculative. Maybe a little intrigued.
“Was he reformed like you?”
“Yeah. That kept it from getting ugly. We did the usual sniffing around each other. He let me know he wasn’t intruding in my territory maliciously. Never saw him after that.”
“What about Kelly Fisher?” Nick asked, opening the other file.
Now that one he’d been glad to never see again, not that he wanted her dead.
“Ah, yeah. She wasn’t reformed.”
“And?”
Monroe looked down at the table, scratching an imaginary itch in his leg.
“Well, her intentions weren’t quite so innocent.”
“What do you mean? Did she attack you?”
Nick kept staring at him with that earnest, ‘please tell me what’s going on’ face. Jeez, it’s not like Monroe was obligated to spill out every little detail. Some things were private. But how do you say no to that face?
“Not exactly. She wanted to mate with me.”
Nick’s curiosity turned into awkward realization. It was adorable, really.
“Oh,” he said, digging his nose back into the file. Like he was actually reading a single word.
Silence stretched between them. The papers crinkled under Nick’s fingers. His heart rate had increased, enough to pump a little blush up his neck. Interesting.
“Alright,” Monroe said. “Blutbad mating habits 101. Females, they go into heat. She was. I was around. Now I’m not saying that’s the only reason she was interested in me. They’re picky, even when they’re in that state.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that just to salvage your dignity, would you?” Nick smiled, teasing, but there was still an odd edge to his expression.
“No. She made her advances on me. I followed along.”
Nick’s flush was deepening, his heart thumping as loudly as the ticking of the clock, his breathing growing tense. And look at the way he kept glancing down at the file, not meeting Monroe’s eyes, his shoulders hunching together, discomfort dripping off him. It couldn’t be because they were talking about sex. Nick wasn’t a prude. Unless…
Monroe hesitated, his tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth.
“It got a little intense,” he said.
For a second, so quick that if he weren’t staring at Nick so firmly, he would have missed it, he saw the purest jealousy cross Nick’s face. Monroe drank in the rush of pheromones, giddy excitement dancing in his belly. His attraction wasn’t one sided. He actually stood a chance, more than a chance. If he leaned across the table right now and kissed Nick, he wouldn’t be rejected.
“So you, um,” Nick stuttered. “You did it, then?”
“No. See, the thing about blutbaden mating is, sex and violence pretty much go together, so I had to stop unless I wanted the whole reformed bit flying out the window. She didn’t like that, but in the end, I kicked her off my turf.”
“Oh.” He could even see the relief permeating Nick’s body. “That must have been frustrating.”
“Pretty much. Listen. About the human-blutbad couple earlier. It’s not that weird, really—“
Nick’s phone buzzed with a text message. Nick read it, his expression shifting in the worst possible way.
“It’s Juliette,” Nick said, regretful sadness permeating his voice. “She’s coming by next Tuesday to pick up her things.”
Monroe swallowed a groan of frustration and the urge to bang his head against the table, muttering a thousand curses in his head. He couldn’t do this to Nick now. Whatever attraction Nick felt for him, Juliette was still wedged in there and he couldn’t thrust a machete into that morass and expect him not to bleed. Nick needed time. If he declared himself now, he’d just mess up Nick’s emotions even more. Being a good guy sucked.
The cell phone tapped back on the table. Nick bent his head, considering something, then shook his head and turned back to the files, his voice and face shifting into detective mode.
“Right,” he said. “So with you, that makes at least three blutbaden that have been killed in a week. Fisher was shot, too. Keller was stabbed, though we haven’t identified what kind of blade it was. Maybe I should look in Aunt Marie’s trailer for a twin weapon.”
“Definitely looks like Grimm work,” Monroe said, not as preoccupied by the development as he should be. Was it possible to get depression from one second to the next?
“The other two might be creatures, too. I can’t bring you down to the morgue, but, if I manage to bring you something of theirs, you can sniff it out, right?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Obviously I can’t connect these cases officially on the basis that you’re all blutbaden, but if they were killed by the same Grimm who attacked you, any info we get from them can help us catch her. Unfortunately, we don’t have much right now. These killings were just as sneaky, but we have to be able to find a flaw in her execution somewhere.”
‘Uh huh’, Monroe wanted to utter, head sunken into his hand. The man he wanted was still pining for his girlfriend, he had a hole in his chest, and a Grimm wanted to kill him. Yep, this must be what depression felt like.
Chapter 4