Chapter Text
Nick stared at the ceiling of his bedroom and debated if getting up to pee was too much of an effort. He really did need to go, but the bathroom was rather far away and he did have an empty water bottle next to the bed, and what was the good of being a newly-confirmed bachelor if you didn’t pee in a bottle once and awhile?
But as he was reaching for the bottle, the thought occurred to him that he was an adult, and a cop, and a grimm, and damn it, pissing in a bottle without getting out of bed was actually kind of disgusting, and… and there needed to be a line somewhere. Should be. Probably.
So he got up and staggered down the hall, avoiding his own eyes staring back at him from the bathroom mirror, and as he leaned heavily against the wall (laziness was perfectly acceptable as long as he got it in the toilet) he heard his phone ring from somewhere in the direction of the kitchen. Of course it was the distinctive ring he’d programmed for Monroe, and fuck. it. all. He didn’t want to talk to Monroe at this particular moment in time.
Couldn’t he just wallow in misery in peace?
Regardless, he grumbled to himself and washed his hands and went in search of his phone, because the last time he’d ignored Monroe’s phone call, Portland had almost been brought to its metaphorical knees by a gang of extremely unpleasant sirens, one of which he may or may not have declared his undying love toward, and… ugh. Suffice to say, he attempted not to simply ignore Monroe anymore.
Of course by the time he finally found it, it had quit ringing, and Nick was momentarily distracted by the half-empty kitchen and just stood there, phone in hand, eying the spots where the toaster and the kettle and the blender had been only a few days ago. He swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat, and his phone buzzed with an incoming text.
He looked down, pressed a button, read: Hey dude give me a call when you get a chance. He sighed, keyed back in: is it an emergency? and hit ‘send,’ waited a moment, and when no response seemed imminent, absently decided he was hungry.
But a search of the fridge revealed nothing to make a meal with, (besides beer, which probably wasn’t the best idea) and when he resigned himself to a peanut butter sandwich, he realized the bread was moldy. He sighed again and gave up, tiredly climbed the stairs, and went back to bed. He was asleep thirty seconds later and missed the vibration of his phone and the returning text: No emergency, just seeing if you’re still alive.
(‘’)
Nick woke up four hours later to his doorbell ringing. He swore and struggled out of his sheets, almost falling flat on his face before he regained his balance. After righting himself, he stomped down the hall and flung the door open, face thunderous, but deflated at the flash of nerves that rippled over Monroe’s features.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Nick growled at him, but Monroe still stared at him with wide eyes for a split second longer than usual. Nick rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to go all crazy on you.”
“Yea…” Monroe allowed, but didn’t make an effort to step closer.
Nick sighed. “Come in, I promise not to behead you in a fit of unquenchable rage.”
Monroe made a non-committal noise, but followed when Nick turned and wandered back into the recesses of his house. Nick flopped down on his remaining couch and Monroe surveyed the general emptiness of the living room, a spark of understanding dawning.
“Juliette?” he asked gently, and Nick shrugged.
“She said that me getting gored was the final straw.” Nick muttered, and carefully inspected his hands.
“But she was…” Monroe mumbled, and Nick sat up sharply, only slightly wincing at the pain in his still-healing side.
“I fucking know!” he snapped, and rubbed his face with his hands. “And I still… she accepted it, mostly, didn’t really think I was crazy, didn’t even really freak when you showed her…” he dropped his hands and stared blankly at the spot where his TV used to be. “She said she couldn’t handle the danger. I guess me being a cop is one thing, but a grimm is another. She left three days ago.”
Monroe nodded slightly and disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, then stuck his head out and asked, “You are aware that you have absolutely no food in your house? When was the last time you ate?”
Nick shrugged. “Yesterday?”
“You sure about that?”
Nick shrugged again, and Monroe frowned. “I’ll order something,” he said to himself, and pulled out his cell, started scrolling through the options. After a moment, he selected something and dialed, pausing and stepping into the kitchen again to order when someone answered. Nick tracked his movements without much thought, and a couple minutes later, Monroe slid back into the room.
“I hope you like Indian. I got you something with chicken—I like this restaurant, their tofu curry is delicious, and they deliver,” he said, and Nick shrugged, again looking blankly toward the wall. “Have you taken a shower or anything recently?” Monroe asked gingerly (as close as politeness would allow him to tell Nick that he, er, smelled). All he received was another half-hearted shrug. Monroe narrowed his eyes at Nick’s non-responses. “I fell off the wagon, ate an old lady.”
No response from Nick, and Monroe sighed. “Dude.”
“Whatever, I know you’re not serious,” Nick muttered. “And I don’t need you to take care of me like I’m some invalid.”
Monroe snorted. “You can’t remember the last time you ate.” He paused, decided to forgo manners, and added, “Also, not to be insensitive, but you could really use a shower. I can smell you all the way from over here.”
Nick just sagged against the couch. “You could smell me from over there even if I’d just scoured myself with bleach.”
“First, I would not recommend doing that. Second, yea, but it’s a figure of speech.” He furrowed his brow, and Nick glanced at him. Monroe looked genuinely concerned.
“Why’d you come over?” Nick wondered out loud, and Monroe blinked.
“Uh, I was worried about you. You weren’t returning any of my calls or texts, and the last time that happened, it was ‘cause you got yourself kidnapped.” Monroe adjusted his cardigan and looked down, then sank down next to Nick on the couch. He met Nick’s eyes with his own wide and serious. “And knowing a grimm that doesn’t have any interest in chopping my head off is kinda nice. I certainly don’t have the patience to train another one.”
The corners of Nick’s mouth twitched up involuntarily, and he shoved Monroe’s shoulder. “Dick,” he accused affectionately, and Monroe smiled.
“So,” Monroe said, suddenly all business. “Do you have a deck of cards? Nick raised an eyebrow and nodded. Monroe grinned. “Excellent. So. You’re going to take a shower before the food gets here, and then we’re going to play rummy.”
Nick smiled (a wry smile, but a real smile none the less). “You’re secretly like eighty, aren’t you?”
“Whatever, Burkhardt. Now shower before you permanently damage my nose.”
(‘’)
When Nick reemerged, his hair wet and skin flushed from the super-heated shower he’d just indulged in, the food had arrived and Monroe was shuffling his beat-up deck of cards at the kitchen table, a half-empty beer resting by his elbow. He glanced up at Nick. “I helped myself, sorry, but this seemed like a beer-worthy night.”
“Fair enough,” Nick agreed, and went to the fridge for one of his own. They divvied up the food and Monroe dealt a hand.
“You know how to play?” he asked after they’d settled in.
Nick grinned, shark-like. “Yea, one of my parents’ friends in an old folks’ home taught me when I was maybe seven.” He widened his eyes and said in a mock-whisper, “That means I’m calling you old, Monroe.”
Monroe rolled his eyes. “Less talking, more rummy.”
They played for a couple hours, only pausing as the night went on to put the leftovers away and to get more beer from the fridge. They talked about harmless nothings until around eleven o’clock, when Nick lay down his cards, announcing, “Gin, bitch. Shut. Out.”
“Whatever, dude,” Monroe groused. “You barely won half the matches.” But he flashed a grin at Nick, who returned it easily. Nick pushed himself to his feet, on a mission to the fridge for more beer, and swayed slightly.
“Huh,” he said. “Had a couple too many, I guess.” He looked at Monroe. “You can crash here if you shouldn’t drive. I’ve got a guest room…” he trailed off and frowned. “…but no bed to go in it,” he mumbled finally, and sank back down to sit at the table. “Why’d she leave me, Monroe?” he said softly, and Monroe’s eyes widened, alarmed at the shift in conversation.
“Um,” Monroe stalled, “I don’t know, man. But you gotta think of the positives…”
Nick glared at him. “What positives? That I’m more alone than ever? That my real job’s suffering, and the only person in the whole world that understands why is you? That I’ve got a target on my back?”
Monroe watched him for a moment before saying gently, “At least Juliette won’t have one on her back anymore.”
Nick hung his head and swallowed. “Fuck, you’re right. Aunt Marie even told me at the very beginning—Juliette has no place in this world.” He rubbed his hands roughly over his eyes. “I’m a selfish ass.”
“No,” Monroe countered. “You just love her, dude. I know what it’s like to love someone where it can only end with your heart being ripped out.” Nick raised his head and looked at him. Monroe shrugged. “Granted, yours is more metaphorical heart-ripping, and mine is more literal, but hey. I’m trying to be supportive, here.”
Nick smiled slightly and shook his head. “Thanks, I know this isn’t really your thing.”
“Yea, well…” Monroe blinked. “I guess I’m here if you need to talk or anything.”
They stared at one another across the kitchen table for a moment, and then Nick blushed and laughed awkwardly. “Thanks, man. But now that we’ve established that, let’s be manly men and have another beer or something.”
“Sounds good,” Monroe agreed willingly. He grabbed two more beers from the fridge and popped the tops, handing one to Nick. “To being manly men?”
“Manly men,” Nick echoed, and accepted the beer. He offered it up in toast, and Monroe clinked the necks together.