'Til Hell Grows Cold [Grimm, Nick/Monroe, PG]
Title: 'Til Hell Grows Cold
Author: duckduck
Fandom: Grimm
Spoilers:(if any): First few episodes
Summary: Nick grimms. Monroe waits.
The woman across the bar by the pool tables was lovely - taller than he was, he realized with chagrin, with a bright smile and hair the color of honey - until she had noticed him looking, made a face like something smelled bad, and then morphed, momentarily, into a withered hag.
Sometimes he really hated this Grimm thing.
Hank nudged his shoulder unsubtly, sloshing his beer as he did so, and muttered, too loudly, “she’s checking you out, man!”
Nick rolled his eyes and watched the hag-woman disappear into the crowd before turning to his partner. “Not my type,” he answered, reaching for the empty peanut bowl, turning it over, disappointed.
For the past six months, since Juliette had sat across from him at the breakfast table and told him about an opportunity to open her own practice out east, Hank had been encouraging him to get back out there, but he was wasting his breath. Nick remembered Aunt Marie’s warning, the ogre in his house, the fear for Juliette’s safety and all the lies, and he knew he’d never have anything like that again. Growing up with his aunt, he’d dreamed of having someone to share forever with. Now all he had was an empty house and a trailer full of terrifying weapons.
“Wait,” Hank slurred, hanging halfway out of the booth, “that redhead over by the bathrooms? I think she’s watching us. Should I send her a drink?”
Nick doubted that Hank would be able to flag down a bartender until he sobered up some, but then the redhead by the bathrooms suddenly had a face like a blow fish, and it was all downhill from there.
He told Monroe not to bother coming down to the scene, because Nick’s watch guy just showing up at a crime scene in the middle of the night would be weird, right, but it sounded like Monroe wanted to, like he was actually interested in their epic Wesen-related misadventures for a change. So he told Monroe he’d drop by on the way home, if the lights were still on inside, but that he shouldn’t wait up.
Which he had anyway, apparently, because every light in the known universe was on at Monroe’s place when Nick drove up. He answered the door before Nick even got the chance to knock, his eyes wide, hair crazier than usual, like he’d run his hands through it a lot and then slept on it for a while. In fact, Nick could make out the pattern of the sofa upholstery imprinted on Monroe’s cheek.
“Thanks for not calling back,” he bitched, and yanked Nick over the threshold, slamming the door behind them. The stained glass rattled in the pane. “These last few hours,” he started, pausing to run his fingers through his hair again. “Those Schlagfischen never fly solo, okay, they have schools, and I was,” he growled again. “I didn’t know. Maybe you got jumped and they’d find your corpse in a dumpster tomorrow, or maybe it would show up all bloated and gross a week from now downriver because they dumped you in the Willamette.” He punctuated the last three words with sharp jabs of his index finger to Nick’s chest.
“I’m-”
“I’m not finished,” Monroe said, though he apparently had. He stood with arms wrapped tightly around his body, hands fisted deep into the sleeves of his sweater, rocking on the balls of his feet. He looked bewildered.
“You sure?” Nick tried a smile and started kicking off his shoes.
“No,” he growled. When Nick looked startled and bent down to jam his shoes back on, Monroe loosened his hold on his own sweater long enough to touch Nick’s shoulder, gently and quick, like a breath. “No,” he said again, apologetically. “You can stay. I’m not done yelling at you, is all I meant. I didn’t even want in on this crazy venture, and now I can’t stand not being there with you. I get it, Nick, I don’t have the training. I repair clocks. But all I do is worry when you’re out there wrangling Wesen without me.”
Nick understood, he really did. He’d feel the same way if Hank was out there taking down homicide suspects without him, but the fact remained: Monroe didn’t belong out on the job, and most of the time Nick’s investigations involved humans being awful to one another. Monroe didn’t have any special insight into that.
“It’s like I’m the wife, dammit,” Monroe muttered, shaking his head and stomped off to the kitchen. Nick froze in the entry way, still wearing one shoe, while he heard the refrigerator door open and slam and then the clink of bottles as Monroe came back into the living room. “You can sit down, you know,” he said, taking a swig and handing Nick a bottle of hoity-toity microbrew.
Nick hated to admit it, but he was getting a taste for the stuff. He couldn’t drink normal beer anymore. He kicked off his remaining shoe, then hobbled over to the sofa and sat down with Monroe.
Monroe gave him a long look. “Are you limping? She didn’t spit at you, did she? They have some sort of creepy saliva that burns your skin. And you’re going to have one hell of a shiner,” he said, holding Nick’s chin and turning his face this way and that under the yellow lamp light.
“Don’t,” Nick pleaded, embarrassed. “I’m fine. The blowfish broke a chair over my back, and then I caught some guy’s elbow in my eye. I’ll just take something when I get home.”
“Right,” Monroe said sarcastically. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“But-”
“Nope.” He rose and offered Nick his hand. “Come to bed. If I have to worry about you all night like I’m the wife, the least you can do is wake up in the morning where I can see you.”
Nick blinked, but followed Monroe up the stairs. Maybe he could share forever with someone after all.
Author: duckduck
Fandom: Grimm
Spoilers:(if any): First few episodes
Summary: Nick grimms. Monroe waits.
The woman across the bar by the pool tables was lovely - taller than he was, he realized with chagrin, with a bright smile and hair the color of honey - until she had noticed him looking, made a face like something smelled bad, and then morphed, momentarily, into a withered hag.
Sometimes he really hated this Grimm thing.
Hank nudged his shoulder unsubtly, sloshing his beer as he did so, and muttered, too loudly, “she’s checking you out, man!”
Nick rolled his eyes and watched the hag-woman disappear into the crowd before turning to his partner. “Not my type,” he answered, reaching for the empty peanut bowl, turning it over, disappointed.
For the past six months, since Juliette had sat across from him at the breakfast table and told him about an opportunity to open her own practice out east, Hank had been encouraging him to get back out there, but he was wasting his breath. Nick remembered Aunt Marie’s warning, the ogre in his house, the fear for Juliette’s safety and all the lies, and he knew he’d never have anything like that again. Growing up with his aunt, he’d dreamed of having someone to share forever with. Now all he had was an empty house and a trailer full of terrifying weapons.
“Wait,” Hank slurred, hanging halfway out of the booth, “that redhead over by the bathrooms? I think she’s watching us. Should I send her a drink?”
Nick doubted that Hank would be able to flag down a bartender until he sobered up some, but then the redhead by the bathrooms suddenly had a face like a blow fish, and it was all downhill from there.
He told Monroe not to bother coming down to the scene, because Nick’s watch guy just showing up at a crime scene in the middle of the night would be weird, right, but it sounded like Monroe wanted to, like he was actually interested in their epic Wesen-related misadventures for a change. So he told Monroe he’d drop by on the way home, if the lights were still on inside, but that he shouldn’t wait up.
Which he had anyway, apparently, because every light in the known universe was on at Monroe’s place when Nick drove up. He answered the door before Nick even got the chance to knock, his eyes wide, hair crazier than usual, like he’d run his hands through it a lot and then slept on it for a while. In fact, Nick could make out the pattern of the sofa upholstery imprinted on Monroe’s cheek.
“Thanks for not calling back,” he bitched, and yanked Nick over the threshold, slamming the door behind them. The stained glass rattled in the pane. “These last few hours,” he started, pausing to run his fingers through his hair again. “Those Schlagfischen never fly solo, okay, they have schools, and I was,” he growled again. “I didn’t know. Maybe you got jumped and they’d find your corpse in a dumpster tomorrow, or maybe it would show up all bloated and gross a week from now downriver because they dumped you in the Willamette.” He punctuated the last three words with sharp jabs of his index finger to Nick’s chest.
“I’m-”
“I’m not finished,” Monroe said, though he apparently had. He stood with arms wrapped tightly around his body, hands fisted deep into the sleeves of his sweater, rocking on the balls of his feet. He looked bewildered.
“You sure?” Nick tried a smile and started kicking off his shoes.
“No,” he growled. When Nick looked startled and bent down to jam his shoes back on, Monroe loosened his hold on his own sweater long enough to touch Nick’s shoulder, gently and quick, like a breath. “No,” he said again, apologetically. “You can stay. I’m not done yelling at you, is all I meant. I didn’t even want in on this crazy venture, and now I can’t stand not being there with you. I get it, Nick, I don’t have the training. I repair clocks. But all I do is worry when you’re out there wrangling Wesen without me.”
Nick understood, he really did. He’d feel the same way if Hank was out there taking down homicide suspects without him, but the fact remained: Monroe didn’t belong out on the job, and most of the time Nick’s investigations involved humans being awful to one another. Monroe didn’t have any special insight into that.
“It’s like I’m the wife, dammit,” Monroe muttered, shaking his head and stomped off to the kitchen. Nick froze in the entry way, still wearing one shoe, while he heard the refrigerator door open and slam and then the clink of bottles as Monroe came back into the living room. “You can sit down, you know,” he said, taking a swig and handing Nick a bottle of hoity-toity microbrew.
Nick hated to admit it, but he was getting a taste for the stuff. He couldn’t drink normal beer anymore. He kicked off his remaining shoe, then hobbled over to the sofa and sat down with Monroe.
Monroe gave him a long look. “Are you limping? She didn’t spit at you, did she? They have some sort of creepy saliva that burns your skin. And you’re going to have one hell of a shiner,” he said, holding Nick’s chin and turning his face this way and that under the yellow lamp light.
“Don’t,” Nick pleaded, embarrassed. “I’m fine. The blowfish broke a chair over my back, and then I caught some guy’s elbow in my eye. I’ll just take something when I get home.”
“Right,” Monroe said sarcastically. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“But-”
“Nope.” He rose and offered Nick his hand. “Come to bed. If I have to worry about you all night like I’m the wife, the least you can do is wake up in the morning where I can see you.”
Nick blinked, but followed Monroe up the stairs. Maybe he could share forever with someone after all.