The Price of Lube
Title: Gather and Gone
Rating: PG
Words: 2,848
Summary: Grimm episode 2x15 tag. Nick and Monroe.
No permanent damage, Rosalee had said. They’re dead, she’d assured him, but it was hard to believe when the skin around his eyes crawled, inflamed bad enough to made them water.
.Gather and Gone.
Nick couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned, one minute too hot then too cold even beneath a thick comforter and old patchwork blanket that Monroe had thrown over him. It smelled of old dried herbs, too strong, almost choking where in the absence of sight Nick’s other senses had gone haywire. Nick wondered if this was how Monroe saw the world; a palate of smell mixed and separate and unfamiliar. But then he’d be more used to it. He’d know what the strange stale odour from the bedside cabinet meant, or why the pillow smelled like honey.
Everything was too loud. The clock on the wall, the clock in the bathroom, the clock in the hallway, the ticking of the watches in Monroe’s workroom downstairs, all beat out steady, endless rhythms, out of synch like a hundred different heart beats in his ears and it made Nick’s head pound. He could hear the winding of gears, the turning of cogs, clicking and grinding and all of it too much.
And all the time his eyes itched and stung and all Nick wanted to do was scrub at them to make it stop.
“Don’t touch them,” Rosalee had said, slapping his hand away three times in the car on the way to Monroe’s. It had been worse then, the sickly sweet smell of the gunk covering his eyes filling his nose and Nick not thinking about what that gunk was made from or else he might be sick. It hurt, and Nick didn’t think it was his imagination that his eyes felt like they were being torn out; like something was pulling, clawing at them. He could feel his breath coming fast and Rosalee’s hand on his back, telling him it would pass, it would be okay, and Monroe, turned towards him, telling Nick they’d be home soon. To just hang on a few more minutes, as though when they arrived back at Monroe’s house everything would suddenly be fixed and Nick wouldn’t have worms eating his eyes out anymore. Spiked, wriggling, evil worms.
Nick shuddered at the memory, phantom pressure behind his eyes. This was really not helping him sleep.
His eyesight had yet to fully return, the world a strange blurry red that Rosalee assured him would pass in a day or two. There were black spots across what sight he had and Nick imagined worms lying dead across his eye balls, half-eaten corneas. It made it hard to forget. It made it hard to close his eyes for fear that the worms would revive in the comfort and warmth of the dark.
No permanent damage, Rosalee had said. They’re dead, she’d assured him, but it was hard to believe when the skin around his eyes crawled, inflamed bad enough to made them water.
Turning over again, the sheets beneath him crinkled like tinfoil to his over-sensitive hearing. Downstairs, Nick could hear Monroe moving around, banging pots together, a spoon scraping against the bottom of a pan like nails against a chalkboard and Nick cringed. Cooking. He could already smell it; a heavy, cloying smell that Nick didn’t recognise. There were horrors in Monroe’s cooking that Nick didn’t like to imagine.
Burying his head in the pillow, Nick tried to distract himself with lists of all the paperwork he had outstanding back at the precinct; what he would get Hank for his birthday this year; cataloguing all the information he’d read in the past two days, all the things he’d heard. Purification rituals. Renard. Juliette. Councils. Flies. Eyes. Worms.
The cold edge of the key pressed against his chest where it hung from his neck and Nick shifted again, turning over carefully when the movement made him nauseous. Nick lay for long minutes just breathing, focusing on the intricate pattern of the lace covering the bedside table. Monroe, Nick had learned since coming to stay with him, had a lot of doilies.
Footsteps sounded on the staircase, Monroe shuffling up the steps in soft slippers and Nick was grateful for that. He was muttering to himself; “Did I remember the pepper? Yes, pepper. Check. No spoon? Oh man, I forgot a spoon.” The words were as clear and as loud as if Monroe were standing next to him.
Earlier, when they’d first brought him back to the house and Nick was kind of out of it and in too much pain to really know what was going on, only that he trusted Rosalee and Monroe and Hank to take him somewhere safe, their voices had been deafening. Even after they’d put him to bed and gone downstairs to talk about him it was like they were right there as Monroe said, “He doesn’t look so good,” worriedly and Hank said, “Neither would you if you’d just had fly eyeballs rubbed in your face.” He sounded vaguely ill and Nick could relate. He got to feel the cold, viscous eyeball juice smeared across his eyes.
Now, at least, the world didn’t echo with phantom noise that Nick couldn’t decipher, that might have been a faucet dripping or a car starting up down the street or Monroe shuffling his feet. Every word didn’t feel like someone shouting in his ear even when they were clear across the room.
The stairs creaked, crockery clinked together and then Monroe was elbowing open the door to Nick’s room, the sound the hinges made setting his teeth on edge. He whispered, “Nick? You awake?”
If he hadn’t been he would be by now.
“Yeah.” His own voice was worst of all; too loud and too hoarse and Nick winced.
Monroe must have caught the look because his mouth turned down unhappily, his eyes turning concerned.
“You okay?” he asked, almost nervous. “I mean, obviously you’re not okay with all the worms in your eyes and the crazy fly guy and the super Grimm hearing.” The plates rattled where Monroe tried to reach out, as though he’d forgotten he was holding the tray. He shrugged instead. “But, you know that, so. If there’s anything I can do for you?”
This should have been too much too, Nick thought. Too many words. Too loud. But it wasn’t.
Nick shook his head, regretted it when everything suddenly started spinning and Nick had to close his eyes and focus on anything other than the way his stomach roiled; the sound of Monroe’s awkward fidgeting, the rough warmth of the blanket under his palm.
“Maybe I should call Rosalee,” Monroe said. He moved closer, hovering, putting the tray carefully down on the bedside table, leaning in.
“I’m good,” Nick managed to say. It would pass.
Monroe moved close enough that his knees bumped against the side of the bed. “You’re sure?”
“Monroe.”
“Right. Okay. Shutting up.” A pause. “Am I talking too loudly? I can whisper.”
Nick seriously doubted that Monroe could whisper for very long.
“It’s fine.”
It was easy enough to see that Monroe was nervous. He always babbled when he was nervous.
“Sorry, man.” Monroe laughed uncertainly. “I’m never good with sick people. One of my brothers caught the measles when we were kids and my mom had to ban me from the house for, I dunno, a week, because every time I saw all the little sores on his face I passed out.” Monroe passed his hands over his face, his eyes wide. “I think I thought they were going to leap off him and get me or something.”
Nick could imagine it. He smiled at the thought of a younger Monroe running away from disease-monsters.
“You don’t have to stay,” Nick offered. He knew his eyes had to look terrible, if they looked half as bad as they felt. He hadn’t had the nerve to look in a mirror.
“No! No.” Monroe waved his hands dismissively. “That wasn’t what I meant. I wasn’t trying to say I don’t want to hang out with you just because your eyes are like…” He coughed awkwardly. “You know what they’re like. So. No. I’ll stay if you want me to. Or I can go if you don’t. Shouldn’t you be sleeping? Rosalee told you to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep,” Nick admitted. He was tired, exhausted, but between the noise and the itching soreness of his eyes sleep had been impossible.
“Oh.” Monroe looked uncertain for a moment before suddenly smiling. “Maybe you need something to eat,” he said, pointing to the tray he’d brought. “I made pineapple and ginger soup.”
Now Monroe had identified the ingredients Nick could recognise the smells, separate them out from the battery of scents that made up Monroe’s house. Strong on the ginger.
The surface of the soup was steaming hot, and it had been a long time since Nick had eaten and he was hungry despite how much the thought of food made him kind of queasy. It couldn’t make him feel any worse than he already did.
Nick nodded. “Sure.”
Monroe grinned. “Awesome.”
Apparently Monroe was more comfortable when he had something to do because he helped Nick sit up without seeming too disturbed when the change in position made Nick very certain for a long moment that he was going to be sick, his face suddenly cold and Monroe saying, “Woah. I’ve never seen anyone actually turn white before.”
By the time Monroe had puffed up the pillows and cushions and fussed Nick was panting and dizzy, wishing he’d stayed where he was.
“Sorry, Monroe,” he said when he could breathe again. “I really don’t think eating is a good idea right now.”
“No, you’re right,” Monroe agreed. “I kind of don’t want you being sick all over my second great cousin’s handmade gift. She’d never forgive me.” He pointed to the garish, itchy woollen blanket that lay over Nick’s legs, smoothed down the edges so it lay neat and flat. “Can you manage some water?”
“Yeah. I think so.” Nick hoped. His throat was dry and sore. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had anything to drink.
Monroe nodded in understanding, tentatively sat down on the bed beside Nick, handed him the glass. It was cool against Nick’s fingers, the surface wet and slippery, and Nick wasn’t entirely certain he could hold onto the glass. But Monroe was there, palm against the bottom of the glass. He made no comment as he helped Nick drink, and Nick was grateful for it. The sound when he swallowed was deafening, but was worth it to taste something other than bile, the cool water a relief to the soreness in his throat.
“So I was thinking of moving the TV up here,” Monroe said conversationally. “We can watch cop shows and you can point out the mistakes. I know how much you love doing that.”
“That was one time, Monroe.” And it had been really wrong.
Monroe tilted his head, hummed doubtfully. “If I remember right, which I think I do, it was more like three times.”
“Okay,” Nick conceded, “But they were all bad.”
“I don’t make you sit and watch shows about clockmakers just so I can complain about how they get everything wrong.”
Nick scoffed. “That’s only because there are no shows about clockmakers.”
“It’s an underappreciated art,” Monroe sniffed.
“And I didn’t make you do anything,” Nick added.
Even with limited, blurry vision Nick couldn’t miss the way Monroe’s eyebrows rose. “You confiscated the remote and threatened me with your scary Grimmness.”
Nick had, for a long time now, thought he had to be the least scary Grimm in the history of Grimms. Seeing the old books in the trailer. Knowing Aunt Marie. Having met his mom.
He wondered if all Grimms found out about their powers like this; in slow, painful increments without any idea how to control them. To turn them off. In the house next door someone turned on a dishwasher, the click of the switch snapping like a broken bone, the pouring of water thundering like a waterfall. Nick closed his eyes and concentrated on this room; on the smell of laundry detergent and the ticking of those damn clocks and Monroe’s breathing.
“Nick, dude,” Monroe was saying, counterpoint to noise. “You okay?”
“Not so much a scary Grimm,” Nick half-smiled.
That surprised a laugh out of Monroe, who patted Nick’s arm comfortingly. “You’re totally badass,” Monroe assured him. “I’m scared of you every morning when I see your face; it’s the frightening look of a man ready to kill for coffee.”
Somewhere along the line, Nick realised, they’d become something like domestic. They’d come to know each other in a way that meant Nick could buy Monroe’s groceries for him without asking what toothpaste he used or how much granola he needed this week. It wasn’t like with Juliette. That had been about doing things for each other, about building a life together. With Monroe it was just about living, taking each day as it came. Nick couldn’t see a future in the same way he had two years ago when he’d thought about Juliette and kids and growing old together. At this rate he’d be lucky to make it anywhere near old age.
“Did I say something wrong?” Monroe was saying, peering down at Nick, concern written across his face. For all that he was supposed to be some fierce animal, according to his Nick’s ancestors, Monroe really was one of the most expressive, generous people Nick had ever met. “I know you wouldn’t kill me really,” Monroe assured Nick.
“No, I know,” Nick said. “I was just-” Thinking about dying alone. Learning to cook. Trying to work out what the scratching, scraping sound was. “I think you have mice.”
Monroe frowned, offended. “I do not. The eyeball juice is making you hallucinate.”
Nick grimaced at the memory. He’d almost been able to forget that his eyes were a mess of worms, too hot and itchy. He gripped hold of the bedclothes to stop himself reaching up and scratching. It was a shame, Nick thought sourly, that being a Grimm didn’t come with healing powers too. Something to compensate for the constant threat, for the way his life had been turned upside down and inside out. For having to listen to the couple three doors down arguing over whose turn it was to take out the trash.
“Sorry,” Monroe said contritely. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that. Maybe I shouldn’t talk. I should let you get some rest. Or I could bring up the TV? Or a radio if you, you know, still can’t see? Whichever.” He shifted awkwardly on the bed beside Nick.
“Don’t worry about it,” Nick tried to smile. “This is good.” He didn’t want any more noise, or light, or movement. It was still daytime outside; Nick could just about make out the blurry haze of sunlight bleeding through the curtains, defused and orange to Nick’s messed up sight. Still, even with the itching and smell and the noise Nick’s eyes were heavy, closing. He’d been exhausted enough times to become familiar with the feeling, from long hours at the precinct, from gruelling chases and fights and nights spent pouring over books in twenty different languages filled with the horrors of a world he could never have imagined in his worst nightmare.
“Okay,” Nick heard Monroe saying. “Okay. You’re just gonna sleep then, I guess. That’s good. I’ll just- sit here? In case you need anything.”
The sound of a heavy chair being pulled closer to the bed, wooden legs scraping against floorboards and Nick shifted, trying to turn his head away from the noise. The sound paused, Monroe whispered, “Right, sorry,” and dragged the chair more slowly as though that wasn’t even worse. It was the thought that counted, Nick told himself. There was no need for him to stay. Nick would get better with or without Monroe’s presence. But it was something to focus on; Monroe’s steady breathing as he settled into the chair, his muttering under his breath, “Should’ve brought a book,” and “Rosalee will kill me when she finds out he hasn’t eaten anything.” And if Monroe was here and not downstairs with his kitchen he wasn’t banging pots around, wasn’t arranging and rearranging the pantry like he tended to do when bad things were happening around him that he couldn’t control, couldn’t stop.
The black spots across his vision were still there, a reminder of all the monsters out there he would come to face. Nick remembered Aunt Marie’s scars and was under no illusions as to how she’d gotten them. But Monroe’s presence was a reminder too; that Nick wasn’t alone in this. That he had people looking out for him, who would fight alongside him and clean out his worm-infested eyes and feed him unique flavours of soup whether he liked it or not. He had Hank and Rosalee and maybe one day he’d have Juliette again too.
For now there was the safe familiarity of Monroe’s home and his welcome and the soft clicking sound of him fiddling with his watch, and Nick slept.
.End.
Comments and concrit very much appreciated!
Rating: PG
Words: 2,848
Summary: Grimm episode 2x15 tag. Nick and Monroe.
No permanent damage, Rosalee had said. They’re dead, she’d assured him, but it was hard to believe when the skin around his eyes crawled, inflamed bad enough to made them water.
.Gather and Gone.
Nick couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned, one minute too hot then too cold even beneath a thick comforter and old patchwork blanket that Monroe had thrown over him. It smelled of old dried herbs, too strong, almost choking where in the absence of sight Nick’s other senses had gone haywire. Nick wondered if this was how Monroe saw the world; a palate of smell mixed and separate and unfamiliar. But then he’d be more used to it. He’d know what the strange stale odour from the bedside cabinet meant, or why the pillow smelled like honey.
Everything was too loud. The clock on the wall, the clock in the bathroom, the clock in the hallway, the ticking of the watches in Monroe’s workroom downstairs, all beat out steady, endless rhythms, out of synch like a hundred different heart beats in his ears and it made Nick’s head pound. He could hear the winding of gears, the turning of cogs, clicking and grinding and all of it too much.
And all the time his eyes itched and stung and all Nick wanted to do was scrub at them to make it stop.
“Don’t touch them,” Rosalee had said, slapping his hand away three times in the car on the way to Monroe’s. It had been worse then, the sickly sweet smell of the gunk covering his eyes filling his nose and Nick not thinking about what that gunk was made from or else he might be sick. It hurt, and Nick didn’t think it was his imagination that his eyes felt like they were being torn out; like something was pulling, clawing at them. He could feel his breath coming fast and Rosalee’s hand on his back, telling him it would pass, it would be okay, and Monroe, turned towards him, telling Nick they’d be home soon. To just hang on a few more minutes, as though when they arrived back at Monroe’s house everything would suddenly be fixed and Nick wouldn’t have worms eating his eyes out anymore. Spiked, wriggling, evil worms.
Nick shuddered at the memory, phantom pressure behind his eyes. This was really not helping him sleep.
His eyesight had yet to fully return, the world a strange blurry red that Rosalee assured him would pass in a day or two. There were black spots across what sight he had and Nick imagined worms lying dead across his eye balls, half-eaten corneas. It made it hard to forget. It made it hard to close his eyes for fear that the worms would revive in the comfort and warmth of the dark.
No permanent damage, Rosalee had said. They’re dead, she’d assured him, but it was hard to believe when the skin around his eyes crawled, inflamed bad enough to made them water.
Turning over again, the sheets beneath him crinkled like tinfoil to his over-sensitive hearing. Downstairs, Nick could hear Monroe moving around, banging pots together, a spoon scraping against the bottom of a pan like nails against a chalkboard and Nick cringed. Cooking. He could already smell it; a heavy, cloying smell that Nick didn’t recognise. There were horrors in Monroe’s cooking that Nick didn’t like to imagine.
Burying his head in the pillow, Nick tried to distract himself with lists of all the paperwork he had outstanding back at the precinct; what he would get Hank for his birthday this year; cataloguing all the information he’d read in the past two days, all the things he’d heard. Purification rituals. Renard. Juliette. Councils. Flies. Eyes. Worms.
The cold edge of the key pressed against his chest where it hung from his neck and Nick shifted again, turning over carefully when the movement made him nauseous. Nick lay for long minutes just breathing, focusing on the intricate pattern of the lace covering the bedside table. Monroe, Nick had learned since coming to stay with him, had a lot of doilies.
Footsteps sounded on the staircase, Monroe shuffling up the steps in soft slippers and Nick was grateful for that. He was muttering to himself; “Did I remember the pepper? Yes, pepper. Check. No spoon? Oh man, I forgot a spoon.” The words were as clear and as loud as if Monroe were standing next to him.
Earlier, when they’d first brought him back to the house and Nick was kind of out of it and in too much pain to really know what was going on, only that he trusted Rosalee and Monroe and Hank to take him somewhere safe, their voices had been deafening. Even after they’d put him to bed and gone downstairs to talk about him it was like they were right there as Monroe said, “He doesn’t look so good,” worriedly and Hank said, “Neither would you if you’d just had fly eyeballs rubbed in your face.” He sounded vaguely ill and Nick could relate. He got to feel the cold, viscous eyeball juice smeared across his eyes.
Now, at least, the world didn’t echo with phantom noise that Nick couldn’t decipher, that might have been a faucet dripping or a car starting up down the street or Monroe shuffling his feet. Every word didn’t feel like someone shouting in his ear even when they were clear across the room.
The stairs creaked, crockery clinked together and then Monroe was elbowing open the door to Nick’s room, the sound the hinges made setting his teeth on edge. He whispered, “Nick? You awake?”
If he hadn’t been he would be by now.
“Yeah.” His own voice was worst of all; too loud and too hoarse and Nick winced.
Monroe must have caught the look because his mouth turned down unhappily, his eyes turning concerned.
“You okay?” he asked, almost nervous. “I mean, obviously you’re not okay with all the worms in your eyes and the crazy fly guy and the super Grimm hearing.” The plates rattled where Monroe tried to reach out, as though he’d forgotten he was holding the tray. He shrugged instead. “But, you know that, so. If there’s anything I can do for you?”
This should have been too much too, Nick thought. Too many words. Too loud. But it wasn’t.
Nick shook his head, regretted it when everything suddenly started spinning and Nick had to close his eyes and focus on anything other than the way his stomach roiled; the sound of Monroe’s awkward fidgeting, the rough warmth of the blanket under his palm.
“Maybe I should call Rosalee,” Monroe said. He moved closer, hovering, putting the tray carefully down on the bedside table, leaning in.
“I’m good,” Nick managed to say. It would pass.
Monroe moved close enough that his knees bumped against the side of the bed. “You’re sure?”
“Monroe.”
“Right. Okay. Shutting up.” A pause. “Am I talking too loudly? I can whisper.”
Nick seriously doubted that Monroe could whisper for very long.
“It’s fine.”
It was easy enough to see that Monroe was nervous. He always babbled when he was nervous.
“Sorry, man.” Monroe laughed uncertainly. “I’m never good with sick people. One of my brothers caught the measles when we were kids and my mom had to ban me from the house for, I dunno, a week, because every time I saw all the little sores on his face I passed out.” Monroe passed his hands over his face, his eyes wide. “I think I thought they were going to leap off him and get me or something.”
Nick could imagine it. He smiled at the thought of a younger Monroe running away from disease-monsters.
“You don’t have to stay,” Nick offered. He knew his eyes had to look terrible, if they looked half as bad as they felt. He hadn’t had the nerve to look in a mirror.
“No! No.” Monroe waved his hands dismissively. “That wasn’t what I meant. I wasn’t trying to say I don’t want to hang out with you just because your eyes are like…” He coughed awkwardly. “You know what they’re like. So. No. I’ll stay if you want me to. Or I can go if you don’t. Shouldn’t you be sleeping? Rosalee told you to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep,” Nick admitted. He was tired, exhausted, but between the noise and the itching soreness of his eyes sleep had been impossible.
“Oh.” Monroe looked uncertain for a moment before suddenly smiling. “Maybe you need something to eat,” he said, pointing to the tray he’d brought. “I made pineapple and ginger soup.”
Now Monroe had identified the ingredients Nick could recognise the smells, separate them out from the battery of scents that made up Monroe’s house. Strong on the ginger.
The surface of the soup was steaming hot, and it had been a long time since Nick had eaten and he was hungry despite how much the thought of food made him kind of queasy. It couldn’t make him feel any worse than he already did.
Nick nodded. “Sure.”
Monroe grinned. “Awesome.”
Apparently Monroe was more comfortable when he had something to do because he helped Nick sit up without seeming too disturbed when the change in position made Nick very certain for a long moment that he was going to be sick, his face suddenly cold and Monroe saying, “Woah. I’ve never seen anyone actually turn white before.”
By the time Monroe had puffed up the pillows and cushions and fussed Nick was panting and dizzy, wishing he’d stayed where he was.
“Sorry, Monroe,” he said when he could breathe again. “I really don’t think eating is a good idea right now.”
“No, you’re right,” Monroe agreed. “I kind of don’t want you being sick all over my second great cousin’s handmade gift. She’d never forgive me.” He pointed to the garish, itchy woollen blanket that lay over Nick’s legs, smoothed down the edges so it lay neat and flat. “Can you manage some water?”
“Yeah. I think so.” Nick hoped. His throat was dry and sore. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had anything to drink.
Monroe nodded in understanding, tentatively sat down on the bed beside Nick, handed him the glass. It was cool against Nick’s fingers, the surface wet and slippery, and Nick wasn’t entirely certain he could hold onto the glass. But Monroe was there, palm against the bottom of the glass. He made no comment as he helped Nick drink, and Nick was grateful for it. The sound when he swallowed was deafening, but was worth it to taste something other than bile, the cool water a relief to the soreness in his throat.
“So I was thinking of moving the TV up here,” Monroe said conversationally. “We can watch cop shows and you can point out the mistakes. I know how much you love doing that.”
“That was one time, Monroe.” And it had been really wrong.
Monroe tilted his head, hummed doubtfully. “If I remember right, which I think I do, it was more like three times.”
“Okay,” Nick conceded, “But they were all bad.”
“I don’t make you sit and watch shows about clockmakers just so I can complain about how they get everything wrong.”
Nick scoffed. “That’s only because there are no shows about clockmakers.”
“It’s an underappreciated art,” Monroe sniffed.
“And I didn’t make you do anything,” Nick added.
Even with limited, blurry vision Nick couldn’t miss the way Monroe’s eyebrows rose. “You confiscated the remote and threatened me with your scary Grimmness.”
Nick had, for a long time now, thought he had to be the least scary Grimm in the history of Grimms. Seeing the old books in the trailer. Knowing Aunt Marie. Having met his mom.
He wondered if all Grimms found out about their powers like this; in slow, painful increments without any idea how to control them. To turn them off. In the house next door someone turned on a dishwasher, the click of the switch snapping like a broken bone, the pouring of water thundering like a waterfall. Nick closed his eyes and concentrated on this room; on the smell of laundry detergent and the ticking of those damn clocks and Monroe’s breathing.
“Nick, dude,” Monroe was saying, counterpoint to noise. “You okay?”
“Not so much a scary Grimm,” Nick half-smiled.
That surprised a laugh out of Monroe, who patted Nick’s arm comfortingly. “You’re totally badass,” Monroe assured him. “I’m scared of you every morning when I see your face; it’s the frightening look of a man ready to kill for coffee.”
Somewhere along the line, Nick realised, they’d become something like domestic. They’d come to know each other in a way that meant Nick could buy Monroe’s groceries for him without asking what toothpaste he used or how much granola he needed this week. It wasn’t like with Juliette. That had been about doing things for each other, about building a life together. With Monroe it was just about living, taking each day as it came. Nick couldn’t see a future in the same way he had two years ago when he’d thought about Juliette and kids and growing old together. At this rate he’d be lucky to make it anywhere near old age.
“Did I say something wrong?” Monroe was saying, peering down at Nick, concern written across his face. For all that he was supposed to be some fierce animal, according to his Nick’s ancestors, Monroe really was one of the most expressive, generous people Nick had ever met. “I know you wouldn’t kill me really,” Monroe assured Nick.
“No, I know,” Nick said. “I was just-” Thinking about dying alone. Learning to cook. Trying to work out what the scratching, scraping sound was. “I think you have mice.”
Monroe frowned, offended. “I do not. The eyeball juice is making you hallucinate.”
Nick grimaced at the memory. He’d almost been able to forget that his eyes were a mess of worms, too hot and itchy. He gripped hold of the bedclothes to stop himself reaching up and scratching. It was a shame, Nick thought sourly, that being a Grimm didn’t come with healing powers too. Something to compensate for the constant threat, for the way his life had been turned upside down and inside out. For having to listen to the couple three doors down arguing over whose turn it was to take out the trash.
“Sorry,” Monroe said contritely. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that. Maybe I shouldn’t talk. I should let you get some rest. Or I could bring up the TV? Or a radio if you, you know, still can’t see? Whichever.” He shifted awkwardly on the bed beside Nick.
“Don’t worry about it,” Nick tried to smile. “This is good.” He didn’t want any more noise, or light, or movement. It was still daytime outside; Nick could just about make out the blurry haze of sunlight bleeding through the curtains, defused and orange to Nick’s messed up sight. Still, even with the itching and smell and the noise Nick’s eyes were heavy, closing. He’d been exhausted enough times to become familiar with the feeling, from long hours at the precinct, from gruelling chases and fights and nights spent pouring over books in twenty different languages filled with the horrors of a world he could never have imagined in his worst nightmare.
“Okay,” Nick heard Monroe saying. “Okay. You’re just gonna sleep then, I guess. That’s good. I’ll just- sit here? In case you need anything.”
The sound of a heavy chair being pulled closer to the bed, wooden legs scraping against floorboards and Nick shifted, trying to turn his head away from the noise. The sound paused, Monroe whispered, “Right, sorry,” and dragged the chair more slowly as though that wasn’t even worse. It was the thought that counted, Nick told himself. There was no need for him to stay. Nick would get better with or without Monroe’s presence. But it was something to focus on; Monroe’s steady breathing as he settled into the chair, his muttering under his breath, “Should’ve brought a book,” and “Rosalee will kill me when she finds out he hasn’t eaten anything.” And if Monroe was here and not downstairs with his kitchen he wasn’t banging pots around, wasn’t arranging and rearranging the pantry like he tended to do when bad things were happening around him that he couldn’t control, couldn’t stop.
The black spots across his vision were still there, a reminder of all the monsters out there he would come to face. Nick remembered Aunt Marie’s scars and was under no illusions as to how she’d gotten them. But Monroe’s presence was a reminder too; that Nick wasn’t alone in this. That he had people looking out for him, who would fight alongside him and clean out his worm-infested eyes and feed him unique flavours of soup whether he liked it or not. He had Hank and Rosalee and maybe one day he’d have Juliette again too.
For now there was the safe familiarity of Monroe’s home and his welcome and the soft clicking sound of him fiddling with his watch, and Nick slept.
.End.
Comments and concrit very much appreciated!