FIC (repost): Hold Still - Monk, Monk/Stottlemeyer
Title: Hold Still
Pairing: Monk/Stottlemeyer
Rating: PG
Word count: ~440
Spoilers: 3x01 - "Mr. Monk Takes Manhattan"
Other formats: AO3
Disclaimer: This is an amateur, not-for-profit work of fiction. No attempt has been made to copyright characters and/or concepts owned by the Monk people, nor is any infringement intended on existing copyrights.
A/N: Originally posted to AdrianMonkSlash, April, 2005. Thanks to thsfuhqinsux and agnosticmantis.
Summary: Remember the hand-wiping scene in Times Square? You know you totally do.
Hold Still
"Hold still," you're telling me, and that's pretty much--yeah: that's pretty much completely impossible.
I mean, am I really the only one here who's noticed that we're standing in the middle of the seventh circle of hell? I can tell you from experience that it's hard enough to hold still in the first six circles. It's not kids' stuff anymore, once you start getting into the seventh.
"Hold still," you're telling me, and here's what you don't understand: if I could hold still, I would. I would. I can't.
I wasn't built to hold still. There was a time when I thought that might change, because she could tear me all the way down and rebuild me all the way up, she could do anything she wanted and I was happy to let her. Now it never, ever will change--this is who I'm going to be for the rest of my life. And I have to live with that. I have to live with me.
"Hold still," you're telling me, and the following things are going on in my brain right now:
--there's a card game on 49th Street that's fixed--
--why am I always such an idiot--
--Randy has at least two strands of hair out of place, and his tie is crooked--
--oh my God, what is on that girl's shirt--
--oh my God, this thing must be crawling with germs--
--someone's sick or injured or dead, I can hear all the sirens--
--please God don't let me fail her--
--in twenty-five seconds I'm going to ask about Tennyson--
--in twenty-five seconds I'm going to let you lie to me--
--your hair is a little out of place, and your tie is a little crooked, and I would give anything to--
"Hold still," you're telling me, and for everything I notice, here's what I almost didn't: you're letting Sharona know I'm fine because Sharona's the one asking. The one taking care of me is you.
So this might be the seventh circle of hell, and I might never, ever change, and you might be twenty-five seconds away from a lie, but--I have to admit, you're much better with those wipes than I ever imagined you would be.
**
I've been having this shameful dream:
There's a storm all around us, but we're standing in the calm. Your hair is out of place and your tie is crooked, and you're rumpled and deep-voiced like I've scared you. Your eyes are heated and honest, and I have changed--and you're leaning in and you're telling me, "Hold still."
Pairing: Monk/Stottlemeyer
Rating: PG
Word count: ~440
Spoilers: 3x01 - "Mr. Monk Takes Manhattan"
Other formats: AO3
Disclaimer: This is an amateur, not-for-profit work of fiction. No attempt has been made to copyright characters and/or concepts owned by the Monk people, nor is any infringement intended on existing copyrights.
A/N: Originally posted to AdrianMonkSlash, April, 2005. Thanks to thsfuhqinsux and agnosticmantis.
Summary: Remember the hand-wiping scene in Times Square? You know you totally do.
Hold Still
"Hold still," you're telling me, and that's pretty much--yeah: that's pretty much completely impossible.
I mean, am I really the only one here who's noticed that we're standing in the middle of the seventh circle of hell? I can tell you from experience that it's hard enough to hold still in the first six circles. It's not kids' stuff anymore, once you start getting into the seventh.
"Hold still," you're telling me, and here's what you don't understand: if I could hold still, I would. I would. I can't.
I wasn't built to hold still. There was a time when I thought that might change, because she could tear me all the way down and rebuild me all the way up, she could do anything she wanted and I was happy to let her. Now it never, ever will change--this is who I'm going to be for the rest of my life. And I have to live with that. I have to live with me.
"Hold still," you're telling me, and the following things are going on in my brain right now:
--there's a card game on 49th Street that's fixed--
--why am I always such an idiot--
--Randy has at least two strands of hair out of place, and his tie is crooked--
--oh my God, what is on that girl's shirt--
--oh my God, this thing must be crawling with germs--
--someone's sick or injured or dead, I can hear all the sirens--
--please God don't let me fail her--
--in twenty-five seconds I'm going to ask about Tennyson--
--in twenty-five seconds I'm going to let you lie to me--
--your hair is a little out of place, and your tie is a little crooked, and I would give anything to--
"Hold still," you're telling me, and for everything I notice, here's what I almost didn't: you're letting Sharona know I'm fine because Sharona's the one asking. The one taking care of me is you.
So this might be the seventh circle of hell, and I might never, ever change, and you might be twenty-five seconds away from a lie, but--I have to admit, you're much better with those wipes than I ever imagined you would be.
**
I've been having this shameful dream:
There's a storm all around us, but we're standing in the calm. Your hair is out of place and your tie is crooked, and you're rumpled and deep-voiced like I've scared you. Your eyes are heated and honest, and I have changed--and you're leaning in and you're telling me, "Hold still."