A/N: I don't live in Oregon but I can research. So if I'm a bit off – well I tried. The same goes for vegan recipes and generally foodie knowledge. While I do adore a good meal and a quality restaurant, what I make in my kitchen doesn't even come close. 30 minutes or less or forget about it.

And allow me to celebrate the first simultaneous posting between and A03! Getting on board with A03 pushed my projected date a bit (and a small case of the family way to freakin' early), but hey it is worth it.

If you have a spare moment, please review. I love hearing from you all. Also, if some grammatical or spelling error is offending you please let me know. More often than not, I will correct it and save your poor affronted eyes. Plus it will bother me know that it is there.

Lastly, good Lord, is this is a long one! It just took on a life of its own. So I broke it into a triptych.

Sending Messages

Part One

It had been trying.

The simple thought circled around and around in Monroe's head as he surveyed the last fall seasonal harvest at a local organic farmer's market. He was lucky that Portland had a wealth of markets. His favorite had been the Hillside market until he discovered who ran the market; an entire flock of Seelenguter. Talk about bad luck. The market was only minutes away and ideally located near his home, but Seelenguter… ever since that whole "Reverend" Lance Calvin thing… the word brought with it an involuntary shudder. He'd always had a distaste for herd mentality and that church had it in spades. And who would have thought that a flock of really pissed off sheep could beat a wolf to death? It had to be the hooves.

Instead he was forced to cross the Ross Island Bridge for his groceries. It was a hassle and quite a pain in the ass to do, but it was Seelenguter free. And he had two choices. Either Moreland market, which was sadly not year round but had higher quality items, or People's market. Throw in a run or two to Whole Foods or Trader Joe's and his pantry was well stocked.

But this market shuffle wasn't what was trying. The selection was superb and offered everything a vegan could ask for. What was trying was selecting from his vegan choices something that Nick would eat. The Grimm would be willing to try most things Monroe cooked, but not always twice. It was like mapping out one of those Venn Diagrams. In this circle were all the foods Monroe could eat and in this circle were all the foods Nick would eat. The overlap wasn't pretty and damn small.

Monroe's experimentation with Moroccan stew had Nick picking at the ingredients and Monroe swore that the man had asked no less than five times why apricots were in a stew. Repeating, "it's in the recipe" wasn't an answer that Nick was willing to accept that night. Instead, Nick spent his time analyzing each and every item from his bowl; the bits of brown rice, lentils, and squash the only things that passed his careful scrutiny. If only Nick had been willing, the apricots were a delightfully sweet addition to the spiced stew. Monroe had even used fresh apricots instead of using dried ones rehydrated from the soup's vegetable stock just like the recipe called for.

Then came the summery cucumber and bell pepper quinoa fiasco. The bright clash of green, cubed cucumber against brilliantly red bell pepper strips on a bed of quinoa had looked lovely to Monroe. It was the epitome of a light summer meal fit for a warm August night. In fact, he'd thought it a success until Nick asked what it was.

"Quinoa, a grain-like food in the beet or spinach family. Just give it a whirl."

"Grain-like?"

"Un-huh."

"Kin-what now?"

It was then that Monroe saw his dinner heading toward imminent destruction. It made him want to pull at the curly, brown hair on his head and roll his eyes to the heavens. Any and every time Nick began questioning the food, Monroe knew he was in trouble. It was as if the detective was trying to interrogate the meal. He half expected the dark-haired detective to ask the bell pepper where it was on the night in question. The thought brought a quick smile to his lips. For as long as he's known Nick Burkhardt, there was one thing he never ceased to be – interesting.

It was interesting that a Grimm, a rampaging murderer of all things Wesen, would sit down over a beer to try to understand the Wesen world. That instead of beheading his quarry, as Grimms were supposed to do, he'd arrest them and send the errant Wesen through the penal system. That he'd trust one of the most notoriously vicious Wesen, a Blutbad, with all his secrets and even ask the wolf to guard his ailing Grimm aunt. Not many Grimms trusted the big bad wolf to protect them. They were enemies. They should be killing each other not trying to sort out dinner preferences.

But it all didn't matter because Nick was interesting from the moment the slender built man had tackled Monroe into his home. It was funny to consider. Nick was easily a head shorter than Monroe and carried less bulk as well. Nick was… compact. And certainly not short – oh no, short was a four letter word for Nick. He'd always argued that he was perfectly average for a male. Everyone else was weirdly tall in his life. Height notwithstanding, the detective had plenty of lean, toned muscle that was easily disguised and often overlooked. For all appearances, Nick didn't look like much, not that Monroe would ever say that to his face, and, on the day Nick barged into his home, that small frame didn't stop Monroe from being scared out of his wits. Grimms were the bogeyman of all Wesen tales and seeing one charge after you was akin to having Michael Meyers chase you in a Halloween flick.

And there was the added scary movie bonus when Nick popped out of the woods to chase down Monroe single-mindedly.

Despite it all, they formed a strange friendship. Nick wouldn't be the nightmarish Grimm that every Wesen feared and Monroe supplied information to Nick about the Wesen world. Nick had his Grimm books, voluminous tomes on Wesen behavior and effective ways to kill them, but Nick had seen two problems with them. They were highly unorganized and difficult to use when you were looking for something specific; and wasn't that the reason to have the books in the first place? They also lacked a significant amount of detail that Nick often used. No Grimm had ever conversed with Wesen before. Monroe's insight provided knowledge that Nick found more beneficial than anything in his books. So beneficial that Monroe had to believe that Nick's books weren't being cracked open at all.

This bizarre quid pro quo friendship quickly led to early morning coffees with croissants and late night dinners paired with wine or micro brewed beers to "discuss" Wesen behaviors. It was a starling change in Monroe's long standing loner routine. In his younger years, Monroe had run with the pack doing all manner of things that made Blutbaden the notorious Wesen they were. Things that Monroe wasn't necessarily keen to reminiscence about and the reason he chose the path of Wesen counter-culture as a Wieder. But the cost for such as decision made him an outsider even among friends. It left him isolated as the urge for a pack pulled strongly at his instincts that he eventually managed to mute through a strict regimen exercise, vegan dieting, and a mixture of herbs, vitamins, and minerals. This steady practice was Monroe's lifeline when the solitude of his life stung and woods across the street in Walter Park looked too welcoming. And yet, it was never enough. Just a Band-Aid for a much larger problem that and the underpinning reason for allowing Nick's intrusion into his life. Even if it was a bit reluctantly. Taking in the green Grimm under his wing and teaching him the ropes that Nick's family had failed to educate him on eased away the siren's call of his instincts and the lonely nights.

Not to speak ill of the dead.

Or a very scary, petite red-headed mother that could, in all reality, kill Monroe in a thousand different ways before imposing a beheading.

The time they spent together grew. What was once a quick five or fifteen minute info grab lengthened into an hour or two for dinner. And the conversation began to meander away from all things Wesen to talking about their day, Monroe's clocks, or Nick's high score on some phone app. It was what made Monroe work hard to sort out his dinner plans now that there was two. He wanted to prepare excellent dishes that had Nick coming back for more and giving the cook a compliment or three along the way. Monroe didn't doubt his cooking skills, but he had a hard time trying to blend Nick's absolutely pedestrian palate to his. After all, Kraft macaroni and cheese was an acceptable food in Nick's book. As well as anything else that came in an easy, readymade box. Hamburger helper? Why not? Those full lips would pull into a mischievous smile and suggest that it could be hamburger-less helper.

A non-related Seelenguter shudder coursed through Monroe's body.

Heaven help him, he would get that junk food addicted cop to eat properly. With that thought, Monroe had delved into countless cookbooks, Food Network magazines, and vegan family-friendly websites for recipes that would suite Nick's tastes. It felt a bit belittling given his sophisticated palate, but Nick was worth it.

Well, having Nick stay for dinner was worth it.

Monroe's brief intrigue with Rosalee had been nice, but in the end they had too much in common. Go figure. The apothecary was brilliant, had a profoundly excellent ear for music, and enjoyed sharing her wealth of knowledge in herbal remedies. All things that should have drawn in Monroe completely. She even found his love of a baritone cuckoo clock endearing. But their shared interests couldn't make up for the lack of chemistry between them. It had been an awkward dinner when both parties had tried for something more romantic. The conversation turned clumsy and the coordinated moments they shared in the tea shop clashed into pathetic fumbling. Not ones to give up, the kiss finally rang home the fact that this would not work. It was a mere meeting of the lips as if greeting a dear relative or performing CPR. Any spark or desire was not only lacking but had apparently fled the country.

They had laugh afterwards picking the entire evening apart into utter hilarity.

Monroe remained friends with Rosalee. Trips to antique shops, concerts, and movie houses playing only the classics still filled their evenings jointly, but that was it. The pretty, brunette Fuchsbau had moved on to find a florist to date. She had remarked that it was nice to converse with another sole proprietor. Monroe had refrained from pointing out that he did own his own clock making and repair business, but he figured that Rosalee meant a business with a storefront. A small distinction, but one nonetheless.

Around the same time Rosalee and Monroe parted as friends, Nick had to give up on Juliette. Their three year long relationship was no longer on solid ground. She had turned down his proposal claiming that he was hiding things from her, which Nick couldn't deny. He was. He had hid his Grimm activities from Juliette until it became too much and he told her. Monroe had warned Nick that it wasn't a good idea. Humans can't grasp the Wesen world. It was one of the few times Monroe had deeply wished he was wrong. Upon hearing Nick's explanation, Juliette could only frantically accuse Nick as crazy and in dire need of professional help. She told him that he was frightening her. Her voice rising into high panicked pitches before breaking into a weak tremble. Nick became desperate to prove his sanity. To show her that he could see regular people shift into fairytale creatures. He had come to Monroe asking him to shift into the wolf before Juliette's eyes, a request that left Monroe uneasy, but one that he performed for Nick nevertheless.

He could still see Juliette standing in his foyer holding herself against Nick's "crazy" revelation. Her wide eyes red and brimming with tears as she could only see the man she'd spent the last three years of her life with ranting and raving like a lunatic. Nick's oddly colored gray eyes pleading with Monroe as he begged Monroe to shift anxiously. The scent of Nick's fear and desperation was thick in the air. It was the thing that convinced Monroe to put on an act like some sort of trick pony just in time for a witch's spell to put the princess to sleep. Juliette collapsed in Monroe's living room and didn't reawaken until days later. When she magically woke up for some unknown reason, her memory of Nick was completely erased. She could remember Monroe, whom she only met briefly, and dear friends and family she'd known for years, but not Nick.

It tore him apart.

In the end, Nick had decided that it had been a "sign" of sorts that her memory of him would never return. It was strange in their home. He slept on the couch and showered only after she had left the room; often after she had left the second floor of their house. She felt bad every day that she couldn't remember him and pressured by Nick's constant, poorly disguised, expectation for her to spontaneously remember. The stress from unfamiliarity growing, ever increasing, until the strain from it had been too great. Nick had told her good-bye and moved out. It had been her house in the first place. Over a few too many beers at Monroe's place, Nick had bitterly remarked that he only got to live rent free for three years.

Nick had been lonely and quite pathetic. He got an apartment in the city, but it is sparsely furnished. It was little more than a couch, TV, and bed. No personal touches graced the walls nor were any pictures present. Every time Monroe saw the place it looked more and more like Nick was getting ready to move out than live in the place. The pantry had been a bad joke. The refrigerator held mostly liquor. But if that wasn't enough, Nick had decided to be moody with just this side of bitchy before moving on to clingy and anxious for company. It was then that Nick began spending his nights on Monroe's couch and having the majority of his meals prepared by Monroe. Mostly because Monroe was the only one who stomached his whiny self.

Even when he had "boys' night out" with his cop buddies, Nick showed up drunk on Monroe's doorstep.

He never went to the apartment.

It had been prolific enough that Monroe gave Nick a key and place to store his clothing; his toiletries soon crowded into the shared upstairs bathroom. That had been quite a feat for the Blutbad. Having anyone, let alone a Grimm, coming and going freely from his home had set off his instincts badly. It made his sleep fitful and his temperament testy, but Monroe had adapted once his mind had decided to pursue Nick. He had invested so much into the man that one evening the thought had just popped up.

He could recall it exactly. He had been prepping another Nick-friendly dinner thinking to himself that he was only a few steps shy of being a nervous newlywed hoping that her latest meal pleased her husband. It was ridiculous and silly and rang a little too true. Nick? He was a friend sure, but that was it. Wasn't it? His thoughts trailed to how much time they spent together and the many secrets they shared. He was, after all, the first to get in on the ground floor of Nick's Grimm operation. And when the proverbial shit hit the fan Nick always called for Monroe – no one else just Monroe. But that still was a friend thing not a… Monroe had needed wine at that moment. His thoughts were spinning wildly out of control and breaking his rule about imbibing while cooking was a small infraction.

His favorite chardonnay with crisp undertones of apple with just a hint of oak was cooling next to Nick's unfortunate fondness of cheap beer. The brand didn't matter as much as the cost. If an 18 or 30 pack of Coors, Bud or Miller was on sale Nick was happy to go with it. The stuff wasn't even fit for marinating and yet there it sat in his refrigerator. Just like the wealth of toiletries in his bathroom or the closet full of Nick-scent clothing that was spill out into his dresser for additional storage. That wasn't a friend thing. That was a girlfriend subtly hinting that "we are living together" already before asking to move in. Except that this girl was a boy.

Although Nick was pretty enough.

Monroe shut the refrigerator door and slide down it to sit on the floor. He hadn't even taken a small sip of alcohol and his mind was buzzing as the world tipped ever so slightly. How could he have not seen it? Did Nick see it? So what would one date hurt? It would be vocalizing the unspoken reality they shared, but perhaps it was a good thing. Maybe… it wasn't exactly a bad idea. Monroe's nerves won out and he tested the thought on Rosalee.

She laughed for about a minute before asking in shock, "Wait, you mean you've never thought about it before?" She then went on to explain how perfect they would be together.

With Rosalee's backing and his confidence somewhat bolstered, he asked Nick out. Nick had been surprised and only hesitant over Juliette's loss. It had been amusing seeing Nick unsure and lacking his usual self-confidence; endearing even. After a few dinners, both at Monroe's home and in the city, that first kiss between them held all the things that Monroe had missed with Rosalee. Nick and he didn't share the same wealth of interests but the spark with undeniable. That first touch of their lips, explorative and hesitant, before giving way to a more heated touch over and over again before one of them slipped an eager tongue into the mix. Monroe couldn't remember who started it only that he couldn't get enough. They had parted for a moment to catch the quickest of breaths before renewing their fervor. He remembered Nick crawling into his lap and fisting his hands into Monroe's curly brown hair; sealing their joined mouths together. He remembered running his hands over Nick's body feeling his taunt stomach before sliding them over to give Nick's firm backside a squeeze. His hips rising slightly to meet Nick's as the younger man on top ground their aching groins together.

He remembered the blasted call that interrupted them and the subsequent severe case of blue balls when Nick left. But he had dealt with it. After all, one of Nick's cop buddies, Sergeant Wu had been shot. Luckily in his vest, but he was in the hospital nonetheless.

Nick made up for the interruption the next night – actually he made up for it a couple of times that night.

He moved out of the apartment a few weeks later.

Monroe selected a few tomatoes and grinned remembering as the scene played out in his head. Yes, Nick was worth every aggravation that the man created. He was worth the experiment of vegan Sloppy Joes, potato skins with imitation bacon during Monday night football, and every other unsophisticated dish that seemed to please Nick's appetite. Tonight would no different. Monroe was working on increasing Nick's palate bit by bit with veggie ziti. However, prepackaged – canned – marinara sauce will not do. Oh no. If Monroe was going to expand Nick's limited sense of taste, only homemade, made from scratch, marinara will do.

He'd gathered all the necessary ingredients and loaded them into the front trunk compartment of his Volkswagen eager to make the trek across the bridge. Nick was due to get off work around six so he had plenty of time to prepare even if bridge traffic was slow.

With his mind so fixed on this evening, he never noticed the ambush waiting him. The minute the trunk was secured, the blow to the back of his head was administered sparkling the world before his eyes in silver bursts before turning black.

-WW-

He didn't know how long he lay on graveled covered ground. His head throbbed along the base of his skull and a quick touch proved bleeding as well. His eyes blinked back the bright, white light of the midday sun. It was worse than the worse migraine he'd ever had. Stumbling to his feet revealed a bevy of additional bruises and cuts to his body as well as one fractured left hand. He knew it should hurt as his right inspected the fine bones along the back of his left hand and forced displaced bones into alignment. The impression bruise purpling there looked an awful lot like the heel of a large boot.

A pained wheeze escaped his chest as he straightened to stand and leaned against the driver's side door of the Volkswagen. He felt uncoordinated and one ear was ringing. It took a moment to remember exactly where he was and what he had been doing. The ringing abated as his mind slowly began to work once more.

Dinner.

He was getting ingredients for dinner.

Then what?

He remembered marinara.

He wanted to make marinara.

For Nick.

Nick!

The name held weight and slapped his dulled mind into sharp focus. He reached with his right to look for the car keys in his pant pocket; the warmed metal was still there. He went to check for his wallet with his left and winced in pain as the recently realigned bones balked at movement. He may be Blutbaden, but they would take some time before they were properly knitted together once more. Releasing the keys in his right hand and pulling it from the pocket, he checked for his wallet. Still in his back pocket. He opened it so see all his credit cards, identification, and money in their rightful places.

So it wasn't a robbery.

His body protested at the movement but he turned to look at the hood of the car. It lacked any bloody artwork that would have proved a Wesen or Reaper attack. In his world, you don't beat the ever-loving crap out of someone unless there was a message. And a bloody scythe painted across the hood of your car was a damn clear message.

But the pale yellow paint of his bug was unmarred showing only the run-off trails from this morning's light rain.

There was no message.

So what the hell?

A pudgy teenager with overly long blond hair jogged up to him puffing heavily for breath. It took far too long for Monroe to recognize him as the Moreland's market owner's son. What was his name?

Oh, right Travis.

"Mister Monroe, are you ok," the teen spoke in a high pitched volume that waivered as his voice broke thanks to puberty. His fat hand touched Monroe's arm to steady him against the vehicle when Monroe's body threatened to stumble sideways. "I saw it! Lucky for you Dad keeps a BB gun under the counter to scare off squirrels."

Monroe's mind pieced together what Travis just said, "Darrel shoots squirrels." The sentence tested his jaw which wasn't broken. It felt bruised and ached at the movement it took to speak. He felt the urge to pop his neck, but refrained.

Travis let out a nervous laugh, "Sort of, he mostly misses. He says on purpose."

Darrel Reed was a bulky, blond man. He shared the near white blond hair his son had except that his thick frame was built from hard labor instead of video games. He was shaped like those linebackers from the Seahawks game he and Nick had watched the other day but lacked their grace in movement. Darrel's steps were clumsy like a puppy still growing into its paws. "Monroe? Hey, Monroe!"

Monroe unfocused eyes came to for a moment as Darrel snapped his fingers together in front of Monroe's face. He didn't remember losing focus.

"You okay? I'll get Jillian to call the cops an' send an ambulance."

Darrel made a move to turn and leave, but Monroe didn't want that. Hospitals were a bad place especially for abnormally quick-healing Blutbadan. "N-no, s'okay." Crap his speech was taking a tumble. He forced the sentence through his mind, "I'm okay… um, uh, a little banged up, but okay."

Not perfect but close enough.

Darrel's brows knitted together and moved the BB gun in his hands so that one wide hand held the gun by the stalk. With his free hand he held up two fingers, "How many?"

Monroe wanted to giggle. Inappropriate as it was, he wanted to giggle. Why was it that people checked for a concussion by holding up two fingers? It was always two. Never three or four. "Two. Wha' happened?"

Darrel let out a heavy huff before running a quick visual check of Monroe's injuries. He turned to Travis, "Tell your mother ta hold off on the ambulance, but get the cops ou' here, quick-like." The boy left as quickly as his girth allowed before Darrel turned his attention back to Monroe. "Can't say for sure. Weird as all hell. These fellas came outta nowhere and gave you a good whack to the back of the head."

Monroe reached up again to touch the back of his skull feeling the telltale crusty sign of drying blood. The spot was tender to his touch. He paused for a moment holding his hand only a few scant inches from his head.

Hadn't he checked this already?

"Travis started shouting that you were being 'murdered' in the parking lot," Darrel smiled with a bit of good humor, "so I grabbed the BB gun and hoped they didn't know better. When I got out here they were beatin' the holy hell outta you growlin' like wild animals."

Damn, what kind of Wesen did this? For kicks?

"So I shot one. In the ass I think. Spooked them enough that they took off into the woods. I chased after them a bit and now here you are. They take anything?"

Monroe shook his head and regretted it instantly, "No."

"Weird, that's what it is. Looked young, maybe teenagers hyped up on drugs?"

Monroe didn't respond.

"Who would wanna beat you senseless?"

The phrase 'a lot of people' came to mind, but Darrel Reed was as human as human got. He was ignorant of the Wesen world and Monroe's place in it. "Did you… did they say anything?"

Darrel shook his head before amending, "Gibberish mostly an' growling." His startling pale blue eyes focused as he tried to recall what he saw, "And maybe 'grim' something. Think they might be one of those Satan groups? World's getting full o' weirdoes."

The inappropriate giggle bubbled in Monroe's chest again as Darrel erroneously connected the word grim to a cult. His attackers meant Grimm; with an extra 'm'. The thought of Nick and his expressive gray eyes set against jet black hair floated through Monroe's head. A few other favorite aspects filtered up to the surface of Monroe's thoughts. Those toned abs, that perfect dip in the small of his back, the little spot on his neck that Monroe loved to nuzzle against… Monroe repressed the goofy smile forming on his face. While the smile was born from his more colorful memories, to the outsider it looked like he may indeed have a concussion or at the very least some degree of head trauma. And that wouldn't do.

Forcing the information through his fractured mind was difficult. It was fuzzy but Darrel's uninformed memory was bringing pieces back. The message was incomplete but now received. He'd been on the receiving end of another warning to stay away or rather to stop helping Nick. It wasn't the first, it wasn't the second, and it wouldn't be the last time he'd get the crap kicked out of him by angry Wesen. Grimms weren't well received in the Wesen world and helping one was worse than taboo. Upsetting the status quo always came with a price.

The memory of Angelina's face popped into the forefront of his mind. Some crazy blonde woman had hired her to kill Monroe for the crime of helping a Grimm. Angelina had paid the price that day for saving him. He frowned. Maybe his head hurt worse than he thought. He had buried most of his memories of Angelina since they all carried with them the scent of blood, the taste of strong liquor, and longing ache of pack.

He suddenly needed to be home. Across the river and safe within his home where he could nurse his wounds and chew on some Burdock root. He didn't want to be here anymore even with Darrel's concern for his well-being. His legs ached with a new sensation dulling the pain – he wanted to run away.

In the distance red and blue lights flashed indicating that the cops Jillian had called were arriving. Darrel left Monroe's side to walk over to the front of his store. With Darrel out of the way, Monroe pull his faculties together long enough to sniff the air and ground around his car. Schakalen. How could he miss it? The scent of blood, refuse, earth, and embalming fluid always indicated Schakalen. Now that he smelled it, Monroe felt overpowered by the scent. It was the embalming fluid smell. It prickled at his nose and Monroe forced out a deep breath through his nose trying to dispel the scent.

Damn Schakalen, ever since Egypt…

The lights were brighter and Darrel was flagging the cop cars over to his location. Monroe fished the keys out of his pants and swung the car door open. He quickly started the engine and drove off in hast before Darrel could turn in confusion at Monroe's departure.

Monroe's trip home was wonderfully uneventful. The traffic on the bridge was light and he managed to catch a number of green lights. It felt as if the universe was speeding him on his way home. When he was finally in his own driveway, he bolted out of the car eager to get inside before he remembered the groceries. Cursing it all, he yanked open the trunk, grabbed his canvas bags, and dashed inside.

Once inside, he locked the front door, set the groceries on a step in the entryway and watched outside the window. His body ached and he knew there was a lot to do before Nick came home with his questions, but he watched the empty street. The silent paved road and empty sidewalk were steady under Monroe's watchful eyes. He noted birds and a rather daring squirrel run across the road. Nothing else. No people. No Wesen to come springing out of the woods from Walton Park.

No, only his Grimm had done that.

The thought of Nick had Monroe's legs moving again. What was he going to do? Wait here until Nick got home? So Nick could see the dried blood and bruises and fret over Monroe like a mother hen.

Nothing had followed him and he really was safe. Safe in his home. He sniffed the air needing to find the comforts of home and verify that nothing was lurking nearby. The pungent scent of blood hung heavy in air undermining his efforts. He really needed to clean up which is exactly what he would do in just a few more minutes.

-WW-

Time equated to healing for Blutbaden and soon Monroe's stiffness began to fade away. His beating had been thankfully incomplete and many of the smaller cuts and bruises had nearly healed completely leaving behind only faint pink lines and sallow yellow coloring. His left hand still ached. He had discovered a lovely deep tissue bruise over his left hip during his shower. It was a starling shade of black, not even deep purple, against his hip and wouldn't heal any time soon. It came with the added bonus of giving Monroe a slight hitch in his step when he walked. His chest looked like a post-modern splatter painting with a sickening display of varying shades of bruise, so Monroe made doubly sure to wear a collared flannel shirt. His head and jaw still ached, but, despite the pain chewing on Burdock root caused, the root was alleviating a lot of pain with it.

Adding Burdock to his tea only sped along the medicinal effects on an empty stomach. Soon the numbing sensation was enough that the ziti was underway with homemade marinara on the stove.

Despite all Monroe's success in dinner and minor healing, six o'clock came far too quickly. The shell noodles still had another minute or so to go when Nick announced his arrival at the front door. Given the cheery quality to Nick's voice, Monroe was suddenly glad that he had to drive across the river to go grocery shopping. Nick's station must not have been notified of a guy getting the ever-loving crap kicked out of him outside of an organic market.

And then leaving the scene.

Monroe woefully took the root out of his mouth and set it aside so Nick wouldn't catch him gnawing on it. Nick was quite wary of the slender, black root ever since Monroe had forced him to chew it after a prolonged hand-to-hand fight with a Dickfellig. He reminded the Grimm several times that night that there was a reason their classification's name meant "thick skinned".

They made excellent boxers.

Nick entered the kitchen, "Wow, smells good."

The day had ultimately sucked but that one little comment lifted Monroe's spirits, "Of course, it's ziti." As if that explained everything.

Nick let out a small laugh before searching out a beer in the refrigerator. Monroe listened to the snap-hiss of the pop-top as Nick shuffled around in the background. Nick soon slipped quietly behind Monroe to give him a one armed hug when the larger man stiffened at the contact. The arm around his torso pressing down on too many damaged spots at once. Nick released him instantly and moved away perplexed.

Monroe wanted to slap himself. How could he ever forget how much Nick liked to touch?

He didn't want to turn away from the stove. He knew that once he did, all the work he had done to prevent Nick from knowing what happened would be moot. He was dating a detective after all. Those pretty gray eyes would narrow letting just a hint of that steely Grimm sense show and Nick's slender frame would be immovable. The timer beeped announcing the need to drain the noodles and for once Monroe was considering letting them boil for too long.

Nick eyed Monroe's flannel covered back. He had set the beer down on the counter to square up his frame. Monroe was hiding something. The bearded man was peculiar but he never recoiled from Nick's touch. In fact, now that Nick thought about it, he hadn't seen Monroe's face since he arrived home. Only that green plaid pattern. Crossing his arms over his chest, "What me to help drain the pasta or do you want it mushy?"

Monroe looked at the boiling pot next to the deep red of the marinara and the sautéed vegetables in a pan nearby. It was time to mix and serve. "No."

"Monroe," the word came out with a bit of a whine.

"Okay, okay but you hafta, like, withhold comment for a bit."

Nick raised an eyebrow in doubt, "Okay." The word drawing out syllables it didn't possess.

Monroe moved to complete the meal knowing exactly what Nick was taking in for the first time. The cuts and bruises he hadn't been able to cover with clothing or facial hair. From the corner of his eye, he watched Nick's full lips part in shock before Nick bolted from the room. With no one to hear it, Monroe muttered to the pasta, "I guess that's withholding comment."

Seconds later, Nick returned to the kitchen carrying their amply supplied first aid kit and insisted that Monroe stop. He needed to be checked. How bad were his injuries? Monroe finished draining the noodles and placed them in the family style serving bowl while assuring Nick that he was fine. He'd already taken an inventory of his injuries once tonight.

The unmistakable sound of a fist meeting their counter top alerted Monroe, "You are not fine!" Nick voice teetered on the edge of rage with only his cop training keeping his voice controlled, "Would you forget dinner and let me check you?"

Monroe was tired. He had to drive across a bridge to get his groceries. He had the crap kicked out of him after buying said groceries. He'd spent a good portion of his afternoon nursing his pounding head and aching body into a somewhat passable state just to make dinner. And now that dinner was literally only a minute away Nick wanted to toss it out. His patience had been tested to its max. He walked past the stunned detective, grabbed the pot of marinara off the stove and completed his ziti.

The tossed mixture of vegetables, pasta, and homemade marinara was perfect. He finished off the pot by pouring an extra layer of sauce over the top to set off the deep black of the olives and compliment the bright orange and yellow of the bell peppers. Reaching up into the cabinet he added a sprinkling of parsley to finish the color palate.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Monroe! Would you…"

"No," the simple response formed around a warning growl carried more weight than Monroe originally intended. It made the rather irritated Grimm in his kitchen snap his mouth shut long enough to actually listen. "We're having dinner first then ask away," Monroe let out a small snort coupled with a nervous laugh. "You can ask during dinner but there will be no forgetting it."

Nick's brief response carried a similar weight as the single word promised a long, stubborn evening, "Fine."

Monroe felt the twitch of nerves race through his system at the predatory sound in Nick's voice, but settled for winning the argument. The war would come later. He picked up the serving bowl decorated in gears and cuckoo birds, a cherished Christmas present from Rosalee last year, and carried it to the table. He could sense exactly what Nick was going to before he did it. His detective sat down with his arms crossed and waited until the food was served. The minute Monroe sat down the temporary truce that suspended their argument was over.

"What happened?"

"Eat," Nick made no move to uncross his arms and Monroe let out a heavy sigh. All his hard work for nothing. "I had a little... run-in… with a few unhappy locals. But I'm fine now, seriously."

Those gray eyes turned to steel, "What locals?"

"C'mon, Nick. You know I work hard on dinner, please?"

It was Nick's turn to sigh. He rolled his shoulders forcing the tension out of them, "Okay I give. It's just, I come home and find you all beat up and all I get is that you're 'fine'. You're not fine."

Monroe wanted to snap back that Nick was forgetting that he was Blutbaden and, with the exception of a few deeper bruises and cuts, he really was fine. Okay and his hand was still tender. But he wasn't human. "I get you, man, I do." He didn't want to dig into this but it would be faster to tell Nick and get it over with. "The quick version is that I sort of got jumped after buying groceries." Nick made a move forward in his chair and Monroe held out a hand as an indication to stop, "Sort of? Remember. It's really not that bad. I've been banged up worse. Now please."

Nick relented and took a quick bite to appease Monroe. In truth, he couldn't taste a thing with his mind fixated on what happened to Monroe. "It's good. Now what about these locals?"

Monroe beamed for a moment believing that he could add this to the list of things Nick liked, "How about the sauce?"

"It's good. Monroe, the locals?"

The same phrase. Monroe wrinkled his nose a bit before asking, "I added some finely chopped pieces of celery to give it a little crunch. What do you think?"

"It's great, really. Now how about the long version?"

"You wouldn't notice the difference if I'd use a can of Prego, would you?" Monroe shook his head in disgust.

"Probably not."

The Blutbad surrendered. He didn't want to worry Nick. Things like this would happen and Monroe dealt with it. Sure, it sucked that most Wesen didn't have the headspace for accepting a new status quo, but that made it all the more reason to continue on. As if nothing happened; nothing altered his day. However, he was realizing that he hadn't taken Nick's one-track mind into consideration. Just like the cases that crossed the detective's desk, Nick's mind wouldn't relent until the problem was solved and the bad guy was brought to justice. "Oh fine. The longer version is that my unfriendly locals were interrupted. Darrel, the owner of Moreland market, saw them and shot one in the ass with a BB – maybe. He doesn't know for sure since he apparently can't hit squirrels."

Nick put the fork he'd been toying with down in marked confusion, "Squirrels?"

"Yep."

"What?"

"Darrel shoots squirrels with his BB gun, but usually misses. He claims it is on purpose."

"What does this have to do with your attack?"

"His accuracy is questionable so I don't know if he shot one bad guy in the butt, duh."

Nick shook his head, "Did you get checked by an ambulance crew?" His tone hopeful.

"No way! I left before they arrived," the minute the words slipped out Monroe regretted it. Why did he just say that? Nick was already deep into mother hen territory.

"You left!"

"First off, you know I don't like hospitals. And I'm never a patient. I'll visit people, sure… you know, this is why I didn't want to tell you."

Nick shut his eyes trying to will away the headache growing in his head, "Let's run through this again. You're at Moreland when these guys attack you. In the store?"

Monroe wasn't going to let his meal go to waste and began to dig in in earnest. His sudden appetite overriding the ache in his jaw – or perhaps that was the Burdock root. In between bites, "Nope, parking lot. I had just put my groceries in the trunk when bam."

"Okay, so you're in the parking lot and these guys jump you. From behind? Did you get a look at them?"

"Nope, he whacked me one from behind. When I came to Darrel said there were a few of them."

"How many?"

"Don't know, don't particularly care."

Nick's jaw clamped down in frustration, "How about a police report? Or did you leave before that too."

"Yep."

Nick's eyes bugged in irritated shock. He'd interviewed countless witnesses and victims of crime. While many were understandably upset and often frustrated at their lack of memory recall, Nick had only encountered a few victims who didn't care. More often than not, they were usually dirty and involved in the crime itself. "Why?"

"Because I wanted to get the heck out of there. No sense in…"

"No, I meant why attack you?"

Monroe locked eyes with Nick and saw the guilt flooding the Grimm's mind. He wanted to lie, "I told you, man. A lot of folks out there who don't like the status quo messed with. And," Monroe gestured to the two of them, "we're really screwing with the status quo. Even more so now."

"Any clue on who?"

"Only that they're Schakalen," Monroe nose wrinkled in the memory of embalming fluid.