Broken, battered.

[frustrated_asst]

Today, Natalie decides wearily, is the perfect day for a drink.After making sure her daughter, Julie, is all right and settled, Natalie goes to find the nearest bar, preferably one at which she won't get served a roofie cocktail

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[52_dropoff]

Once again, he's watching from the rafters, and once again he sees someone enter. And break out - break down? - in gales of laughter. Putting away his mask - he's decided you wear the mask in the rafters - he leaps down and sees if someone needs help. (Dead, but still instinctively a hero.)

"Excuse me...are you okay?"

[frustrated_asst]

Tears streaming down her face, she shakes her head.

"I am not okay." She keeps laughing, though, because otherwise she'll sob. And if she sobs, she's afraid she'll never stop.

[52_dropoff]

"Is there anything I can do? A glass of water? A napkin?" He has a tone of total calm.

[frustrated_asst]

After a bit more laughter, she manages to stutter out, "Both would be nice, thank you."

And after more burbling laughter: "My name is Natalie."

[slightlymonkish]

Monk walks in from the inlet a few minutes after Natalie. He's too dazed to take any inventory of his surroundings, and his chest really, really hurts (he had forgotten how much it hurts to get shot - he can't wait to see what the bruises will look like) so he drags himself to Bar, soaked to the bone, and sits down on the closest stool.

Bar immediately provides him with some towels, a change of clothes, and a cup of warm tea. All he can do is groan, set his head down on the bartop, and take a few deep, pained breaths.

There's a big chunk of seaweed hanging off of his shoulder.

Right now, he can't really bring himself to care.

[frustrated_asst]

Natalie is currently preoccupied with her breakdown, and Charlie. She won't notice Monk for a bit.

[slightlymonkish]

That's okay, because Monk won't notice her for a while, either.

His ears are still ringing with the sound of gunfire, yelling, the tide, and the sound of the water dripping from his clothes.

He's making quite the impressive puddle on the floor.

After about ten minutes of sitting there, doubled over, he finally makes an effort to move. He sits up, shakes off his coat with the seaweed on it, unhooks his vest (both drop to the floor and are taken by a passing waitrat) and gives his hair and face a quick towel-dry.

A few more minutes pass, and the normal sounds of the bar begin filtering in and actually registering in Monk's ears. He can hear the fire crackling, the rats skittering about, the clang of glasses, Natalie talking to someone a few seats away, the creaky door in the kitc-

Natalie?

Slowly, Monk looks to his right.

The blonde woman with her back to him is definitely Natalie.

[frustrated_asst]

Her normal, well-trained and confident posture has been replaced by that of a broken woman. She's talking to a handsome, dark-haired man, and shudders occasionally. Her hair is a mess, and she's reaching for a glass of clear liquid beside her often, taking small sips.