Change of Atmosphere – Chapter 5

This is it, last chapter complete with happy, sappy ending because I'm a sucker like that. I was going to divide this up but you guys have been so nice I put it all in one big, extra-long chapter. Enjoy.

Warnings: Violence, tasering, licking, sniffing, swearing, cartoons, and sugary, shmoopy phone talk.

The SUV had smelled like French fries, and unleaded gasoline, and gun metal, and Nick. Out here there was nothing to insulate him from the scent of male blutbad. Bastard had been marking his territory hard, ironic considering he'd been moving in on Monroe's.

Hank staggered to his feet, shedding glass and bits of window frame muttering something unflattering about the mailman's parentage. He saw Monroe moving towards him and waved him off. "Get back," he said, and promptly fell on his ass in the snow. Monroe ignored him.

Later Nick would tell him that he came through the broken-out window Hank had just gotten thrown out of and he supposed that was true because when the other blutbad fled he had to open the door. All he remembered was hearing the thump as Nick hit the wall and then he was pulling the mailman off the Grimm and tasting blood, blood, blood. A few hits and the other blutbad ran.

Straight into Nick's partner who had managed to get back on his feet again and apparently found his Taser. The mailman went down twitching and whining, flashing between human and wolf. Monroe came off the stairs ready to go for the throat.

"Monroe! Stop!"

He turned on the Grimm, pissed off, nostrils full of blood-scent.

"He's down, Monroe!" Nick pushed off the doorway, staggering over to the top of the steps. "Back off!" He had his gun drawn but not up.

The mailman moved, clawing at the snow like he was going to get up. Monroe whirled back to face him, growl building up in his throat, ready to finish what he'd started inside.

"Stay down!" Hank shouted at the mailman. "Or I'll zap you again." He had his gun up and aimed, Taser in the other hand.

"Monroe," Nick called, trying to reclaim his attention.

He shook his head sharply, angry and boxed in by humans who sought to take his prey. The fight hadn't been long enough, adrenaline overload had his muscles shaking with the need to take back what was his, to claw and rend and—he had to get out of here before he did something he couldn't live with.

"Monroe," Nick said again, moving down the first step and the second.

He growled sharply, warning him off.

Nick ignored him and came off the stairs within easy reach. "It's over, buddy. He's down."

There were scratches on Nick's neck still oozing blood and an ugly scrape down one cheek. Another step. Close enough Monroe breathed him with every inhalation, blood and sweat and bruises. The wolf couldn't decide between fleeing from a Grimm and checking Nick all over to make sure he wasn't hurt anywhere else. The mailman had run from Monroe, abandoning his prey to the victor.

Nick was too close, head tilted back to look up at him. The spitting rain had changed to snow, settling on his dark hair and coat. Nick didn't smell like prey, he smelled of pain and exhaustion and worry.

"Monroe?"

That throat, bared and vulnerable—God. Locking his hands around Nick's upper arms he pulled the man up onto his toes and shoved his nose into warm, sweaty skin, feeling the pulse pounding against his cheek.

Muscles flexed under his hands as Nick half lifted his gun, making a sound like a mouse.

He licked a few times, getting the taste of the other blutbad out of his mouth, cleaning the blood off the gouges. They weren't too deep but Nick was going to need a tetanus shot just in case.

"Monroe!" Nick's voice was still a little high pitched.

He pulled back fogging the air between them with heavy breathing. Needed to get away from here before he ended up doing something he would regret. He looked at the forest pressing close, dark and looming.

Nick nodded. "Right. Hank."

"Yeah."

"Monroe's going to go for a little walk."

"A walk?" Hank repeated doubtfully.

"Yep."

"Okay. Hey, what did I say about moving?" The Taser went off again, just a little zap this time. "That's what happens when you throw people through windows," Hank told the twitching man on the ground.

Nick looked up at him. "Go. Just…don't go too far, okay?"

Monroe growled his thoughts about such restrictions but he didn't hesitate to leave, claws making little individual popping sounds as they pulled out of Nick's coat. In the end he didn't go far, not because the Grimm had asked, he just wanted to keep on top of what was going on at the cabin.

Lurking in the trees he watched Nick and his partner do cop things like securing the prisoner, and calling for backup, and retrieving a little girl in green overalls from the house. Maybe, he thought, Nick would be able to let go of at least a little of the guilt now.

After a while more police and two ambulances showed up. Monroe withdrew further into the woods, out of headlight range. The little girl was bundled into a patrol car when the paramedics were done with her, sent off home Monroe assumed.

The bad guy went away in an ambulance with an escort. He hoped Nick had been able to impress on them how much stronger and faster their perp (that was what they called them, perps, he'd heard that on Law and Order) was than a regular human. Maybe he could tell them the mailman was on crack or something.

Half an hour later Nick slipped away long enough to limp through the snow a little ways into the trees calling Monroe's name softly. Wrapped in a crinkly, silver space blanket he wasn't exactly stealthy. He stank of antiseptics and iodine and when Monroe got up close to him he could still smell blood and the fading scent of that trespasser on him and right there at the hinge of throat and jaw Monroe could smell himself.

"Holy hell!" Nick yelped spinning around to face him. He smacked Monroe on the arm reprovingly. "You scared the crap out of me. And stop licking me dammit."

"Sorry," he rumbled sheepishly.

"Oh, so now you're talking." Nick shrugged the blanket back up over his shoulders with a lot more crackling and crinkling than Monroe figured was totally necessary. The scrape on his face looked black in the shadows. "You ready to get out of here?"

So long past ready it wasn't even in the same century. He wanted his house and his familiar things that did not smell like trespassing, poaching, blutbad. He wanted his hot shower and his couch in front of the fireplace.

"They want to take me to the hospital for a CT scan," Nick said, fishing his keys out of his pocket. "Take my truck." He pressed the keys into Monroe's hand. "Bring it by whenever you're done."

Shaking off the last of the wolf he wrapped human fingers around the warm metal. "You don't even know me."

Nick shrugged, crinkling foil. "You just saved my life. I trust you."

"Were you dropped on your head as a child?" Monroe asked, incredulous.

Nick laughed then winced and pressed a hand to his forehead. "Ow. Damn. No, but I was about an hour ago by an angry blutbad."

"Headache?" He took the Grimm's elbow, aiming him back toward the flashing lights.

"Banged my head when he threw me into the wall. That's what the CT is for." Nick stumbled a little over a lump in the snow his night-blind human eyes missed. "Checking for intracranial bleeding."

"Listen to you with the fancy words."

"Heard it a lot," Nick said smugly.

Monroe sniffed. "Most people wouldn't think that's a good thing."

"From the coroner, Monroe."

"Okay. I know you said you tried every kind of doctor, but really? A coroner." They reached the clearing, moving out onto the snow churned up by dozens of feet.

"I'm a homicide detective, Monroe. I'm on a fist name basis with the coroners, their assistants, and, sadly enough, most of the morticians in Portland."

"Ohhhhh," he said, laughing at Nick's indignant tone. "Man, those paramedics look pissed."

"Yeah, I may not have told them I was leaving." He clutched the foil blanket close, a flimsy shield against their glares.

"Burkhardt!"

Nick stiffened. "Captain?"

A very, wow, very tall man stopped in front of them. "When I said get in the ambulance with Griffin I did not mean go for a walk in the woods."

"Sorry, sir," Nick said contritely, ducking his head. "I'm going right now."

Monroe was looking right at Nick's boss or he wouldn't have noticed the small, amused smile. He motioned Nick into the ambulance. "Go on. We'll talk about the rest later."

Nick groaned and Monroe was pretty sure it wasn't from the step up into the ambulance, but he just said, "Yes, sir," and let them settle him on the gurney. His partner was already sitting on the bench all the way at the front, looking like he'd been attacked by a box of butterfly band-aids.

"You okay?" Nick asked him, tilting his head backwards to get a better look.

Monroe began backing away as inconspicuously as possible. Time to get out of here.

Hank touched the band-aids on one cheek carefully. "Not bad considering I went through a window. You?"

"Not bad considering I dented the guy's wood paneling," Nick replied.

Monroe froze mid-step when Nick's boss glanced over at him, curious and appraising. There was something about those eyes that raised the hair all over his body. One eyebrow ticked up, but when he spoke it was to the men in the ambulance. "You're both on medical leave until you bring me doctor's notes saying you're fit for duty."

"Suits me," Hank said and closed his eyes, making himself comfy against the wall. "I could use a vacation."

"Good job. Both of you."

Nick brightened, layers of exhaustion and pain falling away. "Thank you, sir."

Monroe took the chance to get out of there before anyone started asking him questions. He could feel Nick's bosses' eyes on him as he very carefully turned Nick's truck around but no one tried to stop him.

He drove home slowly on increasingly slick streets, sighing out loud in relief when he finally pulled up in front of his house. Nick's truck was too tall. He felt like he was too far from the road and it was weird being able to see over the surrounding vehicles. Before he got out he double checked the console to make sure it was safely locked up, only to find it wasn't locked at all. No sign of Nick's gun but there was an unopened package of Twinkies, a small notebook, a pair of latex gloves, an old ticket stub for The Muppets Movie, and, like, thirty pens.

He stripped down right in the laundry room, shoving everything straight into the washer. There was blood on both shirt and pants that he didn't bother taking the time to pre-treat, just set the water to cold and went upstairs to take a shower. If Mrs. Clark from next door was being nosy tonight she was gonna an eyeful.

He showered for forty-two minutes. Washed his hair twice and used his favorite hibiscus and cinnamon body wash. Found a bruise on one hip and four shallow claw marks on his left arm. Brushed his teeth three times then went downstairs and got the bottle of vodka out of the freezer.

It took two tries to get the lid off because his hands started shaking suddenly and he couldn't get them to stop. He drank straight from the bottle then sat down on the floor and thumped the back of his head against the cabinet door. Twice. How had his life gone from quiet and boring to this in less than a week?

He'd come so, so close to killing tonight. So close to ruining everything because a stranger had asked for his help, had said please and I don't have anyone else. A long swallow of vodka washed the lump out of his throat. He should have closed the door, walked away. It was just…. No one had needed him for such a long time.

Thumping his head one more time he looked up at the clock, wondering how far off his evening schedule he was. It had to be past midnight and while he wasn't hungry, nauseous but not hungry, he knew better than to go to bed without eating. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, checking the clock again.

Quarter after six.

He'd barely been gone two hours.

Well shit.

One more drink and he made himself get up, put the bottle away, and start pulling out things for dinner because otherwise he was going to sit there all night. He looked at the clock twice while the pasta was cooking, certain he'd forgotten how to read numbers in the past five minutes. Given his profession there was probably an ironic joke in there somewhere.

Eating helped. The physical act of sitting down at his own table with his favorite music playing and favorite coffee in his favorite mug, slowly and thoroughly chewing each forkful, settled him far more than the alcohol had. By the time he finished he didn't feel like he was going to throw up any more, didn't feel like his muscles were going to twitch right out of his skin.

He was putting the leftovers in various Tupperware when he realized he had no idea how to contact Nick to make arrangements to return his vehicle. The Grimm had handed out a dozen business cards around the neighborhood but Monroe had never gotten one what with the freaking out and the other freaking out.

It was twenty past seven. He should be looking forward to a peaceful evening of Primetime TV and a piece of that chocolate cake he'd made yesterday.

The idea made him want to get the vodka out again.

Popping the lids on the Tupperware he put them in his reusable, insulated tote bag and filled a thermos with coffee, tucking in all the necessary accoutrements. He took his own VW figuring he could drive Nick back to pick up his truck if he were ready to go, which he wasn't counting on. He hadn't been in a hospital in years but he didn't imagine they were any quicker these days. Also, driving someone else's vehicle made him twitchy. Imagining getting pulled over in a cop's vehicle made him very twitchy.

The woman at the front desk had black hair and fake lime-green fingernails that were long and curved like talons. She gave him a look up and down. "Well aren't you a tall drink of water. What can I do for you, sweetie?"

"Uhhhhh." He regarded her warily. "Nick Burkhardt?"

"Let me just take a look." Fingernails clacked over the keyboard. "That's a nice shirt."

"Uh, thanks." Monroe stared with a kind of sick fascination. How did she type with those fingernails? How did she do anything with those fingernails?

She gave him another long look. "I like a man in flannel."

"Um…." He wished he fidgeted with his coat, wishing he hadn't removed it so he could zip it up to his nose. "Room number?" he asked desperately.

"Let me just write that down for you," she said with a slow smile, like she found his panic amusing.

Monroe sniffed subtly, expecting something big and mean enough to think flirting with a blutbad was a good idea or sly and slinky enough to think they could get away with it, but she smelled of nothing but human. And White Diamonds.

"You need anything else, tiger," she drawled, holding up a slip of paper, "you just come back and see me."

"Okay, thanks, bye." Snatching the slip of paper from her hand he all but ran for the elevator, breathing easier once the doors were closed.

The halls were full of cops, a lot more than he thought there should be on an ordinary Sunday night. He tried to look inconspicuous. Nothing to see here. Just your everyday blutbad here to visit the town Grimm. But gave up as a lost cause the second time someone stopped him to point out that maternity was one floor down.

"Okay, I got one," Nick's partner's voice came through the open door of #433 just as Monroe reached it. "About six months before you came over from Vice, Joey Horton got hit by that drunk driver."

"I remember that," Nick said.

"So the Captain's doing the press conference that afternoon and there's this new guy from down south in the peanut gallery and he up and asks the Captain if the morale of the department had been affected by Joey's death."

"No," Nick said sounding scandalized. "What did the Captain say?"

"Well, he got that look, you know the one, and he said—I swear to God he said, 'Does anyone else have a dumbass question or can we move on?'"

"No way."

"Yep. I don't know who the Captain talked to but that guy never came back and he wouldn't take questions from that station for the rest of the year."

"How have I not heard that story before?"

Monroe knocked on the doorframe.

"Hey, Monroe. Come on in."

Nick was on the bed closest to the door, Hank was in a chair on the far side. It was a double room but the other bed was empty, or maybe Hank was supposed to be in it. He was still in his street clothes though, whereas Nick was in hospital PJ's. He also had an IV, a couple of those round plastic electrodes stuck to his chest, and a band-aid on his cheek. Nothing on the injuries on his throat, just a thick layer of ointment that glistened in the soft light.

"You could have kept my truck overnight," Nick said, frowning at him as if he were really concerned Monroe had gone out of his way. "I'm not going anywhere tonight anyway."

"Oh, uh, I drove my own car. I—" Couldn't bear the thought of staying in his too empty, too quiet house for one more second. "I figured you hadn't eaten yet and you know hospital food. No one should voluntarily be subjected to that. Are you hungry?"

"You brought food," Nick asked, perking up like a cat hearing the can opened. He pushed up against the pillows with a grimace. A blue ice pack slid down the pillows and off the side of the bed. Hank made a grab for it before it plopped onto the floor and tucked it back behind Nick's head. "Thanks," Nick said, adjusting it to get it in just the right spot.

Grabbing the chair by the door Monroe began unpacking. "Lemon pine nut cappellini with portabella mushrooms." Opening the first Tupperware he handed it to Nick along with a fork, pleased to note it was still warm.

"This guy makes awesome sandwiches," Nick explained to his partner.

Hank gave him an odd look, probably wondering what sandwiches had to do with anything.

"Have you eaten, Detective?" Monroe produced a second container.

Hank looked like he was going to refuse, but Nick stole the Tupperware out of Monroe's hand, pushing it at his partner. "You've got to try this."

"I brought coffee as well." He hesitated with a mug in one hand. "Can you have coffee after brain trauma?"

"Yes," Nick said without hesitation.

Monroe looked at Hank for confirmation. He'd known Nick for a total of three days, enough time to learn the Grimm would lie like a rug when it came to his own wellbeing.

"No," Hank said firmly.

"Come on," Nick whined. "He makes really good coffee."

Hank was implacable. "No caffeine or alcohol. Not until the doctor clears you tomorrow. I, however, have no such restrictions," he added, happily accepting the mug Monroe handed across the bed, careful to keep it away from certain grabby hands.

Monroe made sure the plastic cup on Nick's bedside table had water then poured a mug of coffee for himself. Mmmm, still hot.

"Oh man, that is good," Hank said after the first sip.

Nick made an aggravated sound. "Now you're just being mean."

"I'll make you some tomorrow," Monroe found himself promising and Hank was laughing at both of them. He sat in his chair and sipped his coffee awkwardly. He kinda sucked at small talk but Nick and Hank were in the middle of a discussion that apparently involved how many times their boss had cussed in public or something like that. Having met their Captain, Monroe wasn't sure he should even be hearing that sort of thing for his own safety.

He had just tucked away the (probably illicit) food containers when Nick's doctor showed up to kick them out. "Just for a few minutes," he told them. "Couple quick tests and I'll be out of your hair."

"I'm headed home anyway," Hank said, patting Nick's foot though the blanket as he moved around the bed. "I've got a hot shower calling my name. Give me a call tomorrow if you need a ride."

Nick gave a little wave of acknowledgement.

"Alright, Detective, you know the drill," the Doctor said as Monroe pulled the door shut.

Hank had stopped in the hall. "So…neighborhood watch, huh?"

"Ummmm." It took him a second to remember the lie. "Yeah, no, not exactly."

Hank snorted. "I figured. But if anyone asks, you stick with Nick's story."

Well that was an alarming statement. "Is anyone likely to ask?"

"We'll keep you out of the reports if possible." He shrugged and watched Monroe fidget. "I don't know how you did it," he said, shaking his head, "going through that window like you did, but you probably saved his life. Whatever that guy was on, we weren't ready for it."

Monroe couldn't find anything to say to that so he didn't.

"Anyway I just wanted to say thanks."

Crap, he was blushing. He could feel it creeping up his ears. Casting about for something to say he finally settled for, "Is the little girl okay?

Hank sighed and rubbed his eyes, looking as tired as Monroe felt. "Nothing years of therapy won't cure. But kids are tough and she's back home with her family tonight. That counts for a lot."

"Good, that's good. I'm glad it worked out. That's really, uh, good." He bit his tongue to stop the babbling. "What about the…um, suspect?"

"Downstairs. They're keeping him overnight. Had quite a few nasty cuts." Hank gave him a significant look.

Monroe grimaced. Now he knew where Nick got that particular habit.

"Seems the suspect must have fallen on some of the glass from the broken window during the fight."

"But the window was knocked outwards—oh." Oh. They were covering for him. He had no idea what to make of that and he was pretty sure he had a really stupid look on his face.

Hank grinned at him and clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. "Don't worry he's handcuffed to the bed and under guard. Hey, thanks for dinner. Nick's right," he started down the hall, walking backwards a few steps, "you make good coffee." With a wave he disappeared around the corner.

Monroe was still standing there staring down the hall when the doctor came out of Nick's room, bumping into him. "Oh, hello. You can go back in now if you want."

He hadn't planned on going back in but the doctor was watching him and somewhere in the same hospital was an angry, injured blutbad. Part of him wanted to go down there and finish it. A bigger part didn't want to go to jail and end up with a cellmate named Bubba.

Nick was on the phone when Monroe let himself back in. The IV and electrodes had been removed, replaced with one of those finger pinchers that read the pulse. "Yep, I'm done with the hall. The living room…um, I'm still working on that." He raised both eyebrows at Monroe but gestured at the chair when Monroe made to leave. "You don't need to do that. I'm fine."

He settled in the chair and poured himself the last of the coffee, eavesdropping shamelessly.

"Really, I'm fine." Nick gave the thermos a sour look. "I'll be out in the morning. They're just being cautious. There have been a lot of celebrities dying of head injuries lately. It's got them all stirred up."

"Citing deaths from delayed intracranial bleeding," Monroe muttered into his coffee, "probably not the best move."

Nick frowned at him saying, "No, seriously, I'm fine," into the phone. "Although if you want to use me as an excuse to come home early I promise I won't rat you out."

"I'm sure my mother will understand that I need to rush to the bedside of my injured fiancé," the woman on the phone said.

She had a nice voice, Monroe thought, warm and sarcastic. He liked her already.

"Admit it," Nick said, slow smile curling his mouth, "you want to escape."

"Honestly," was the near-whispered reply, "she's driving me nuts. One more day of this and I'm going to snap."

"Well, Salem's not too far away for me to drive down and visit you in the state pen," Nick laughed. "Bad news though, Oregon doesn't allow conjugal visits."

Monroe rolled his eyes. Young love. God, it was excruciating. He drank his coffee with noisy relish, ignoring Nick's half-hearted glare.

"Awh, I was counting on you to help me hide the body, hon."

"We could put that in the vows," Nick suggested. "Love, honor, cherish, hide the evidence…. Monroe's making faces at me."

"It's a grimace of horror," Monroe informed him. "I'm getting diabetes just sitting here."

"Good thing you're in a hospital," Nick quipped at the same time his fiancé asked, "Who's Monroe?"

Nick shoved the phone at him, fumbling back the blankets with the other hand. "You talk to her. I'm going to brush my teeth before I crash for the night." He unclipped the finger squeezer and slid off the bed.

"What? No. I don't—"

The bathroom door closed leaving him talking to an empty room and a phone that kept saying, "Hello? Nick? Hello?"

"Um…hi."

"Monroe, I assume." Her voice was rich and amused.

"Yeah, that's me, uh…."

"Juliette. Nick's fiancé."

"Oh yeah, he's, uh, mentioned you," Monroe said and winced. He used to be better at this, conversation, people, but he couldn't remember when exactly.

Juliette laughed brightly. "I'll bet. Do you work with Nick?"

"Just on this one case."

"I'm glad it's over," she admitted. "He's been very good about not bringing work home with him, but this one…." A soft breath gusted over the mouthpiece. "Being taken off the case and then that little girl never being found. It's been really hard on him."

"Yeah," Monroe agreed because he'd been able to see that five minutes after they met.

"Is he really alright? I don't think he'd lie to me about the really important stuff, but he has a tendency to…underestimate his injuries."

Monroe chuckled. "I believe that. But, yeah, he's good. I mean, a little banged up, the guy threw him into a wall after all, but I think he's right about the reason they're keeping him overnight." He struggled for something reassuring to say. "The doctor was just in here and everything seemed to be fine."

"Thank you." He could hear the smile in her voice as she continued, "I usually have to call Hank to get the whole story."

"Um," Monroe said awkwardly. He stared at the bathroom door willing Nick to finish already. It felt weird sharing confidences with this woman he had never met; things he was certain Nick would be embarrassed to have him know.

"I'm sorry," Juliette said, laughing a little. "You don't want to hear this."

"No, no, it's okay. I get it."

She chuckled. "You're being very polite, but I'll let you off the hook. Please tell Nick I'll be home tomorrow morning."

"Okay." He waited until the connected broke before hanging up his end just as Nick came out of the bathroom freshly scrubbed and minty. "Your girlfriend says she'll be home tomorrow morning."

Nick smiled. "Her mom had surgery last week. She went down to help out." Climbing stiffly back into bed, he tugged the covers into place. "I'm kinda surprised she isn't leaving tonight now that she has an excuse. A week is pushing it with those two."

"Don't get along?"

"Too much alike."

"Ah."

Nick eased back into the pillows with a wince and a sigh. "That was a very knowing ah."

"Me and my dad. Same thing." He waved a hand dismissively, not wanting to go into it.

"Ah," Nick said. He was silent for a long time, watching the little TV up in the corner of the room.

Some sort of horse racing was on but he figured Nick was really reading the ticker tape across the bottom. PORTLAND SERIAL KILLER APPREHENDED. "That didn't take very long," he commented.

"Captain called for a press conference as soon as he got back to the station," Nick said, rolling his head against the pillows so he could look at Monroe. "You were right. We found her in the basement. Had it set up like a guest bedroom."

"Wow, that's…creepy."

Nick made a face at the bad joke but he couldn't help the half smile that crept out. "He had seven red sweatshirts. Hanging up all neat and tidy. There were more in these fancy wooden chests under the bed. Coats, sweaters, hoodies. All red. Part of the reason for the quickie press conference. We're missing a lot of victim we didn't even know about."

"He'd been off the wagon for a long time," Monroe agreed.

"Off the wagon?"

"Oh yeah. I mean I only saw his house for, like, a second but…. The needlepoint, the collectibles," he made the air quotes because in no way did Hummel figurines compare with...oh anything useful like clocks or fifty year old wine, "the compulsive tidiness. Controlling yourself begins with controlling your environment," he quoted. "At some point he'd tried to go straight."

"There were four boxes of clothes," Nick said softly, watching him with hooded eyes, "he'd been doing it for a while."

He wanted to ask, Monroe could see it. Monroe halfway wanted him to ask. He would tell him about how sometimes the cravings got so bad it felt like dying, about the deals he made with himself just to keep going, the hobbies that he needed to fill up the days and weeks, and the many, many ways to justify the little slip ups. The words were there, had been there for years, building up. If Nick asked they would spill out like something toxic and viscid.

But Nick only watched him with pale, unfathomable eyes. "We got him," he said finally and there was no way Monroe was prepared for what that we did to his insides.

Stupid, he told himself angrily. It was probably some sort of veiled threat that the Grimm would be watching for the day Monroe flipped out and went on a killing spree. But Nick shifted his attention back to the TV with a strangely sad smile and said, "We got him," and, "He won't hurt anyone else," and, "The remote's over there somewhere if horseracing isn't your thing."

Monroe opened his mouth to say that he couldn't stay, important things to do at home and all that, but what came out was, "Maybe I am a horseracing aficionado. I could have depths." Instead of getting up and leaving he grabbed the remote and flipped through channels.

"I'm sure you have all sorts of strange and unusual depths, Monr—oh, Wile E. Coyote!" he exclaimed because apparently he really was a nine year-old in a grown man's body. "Let's watch that."

And because Monroe was the world's biggest pushover he left it on.

It took less than five minutes for Nick's eyelids to start drooping. "You don't have to stay," he said after a bit because he was an idiot like that.

"I'm waiting out the evening rush hour," Monroe told him primly. "I hate traffic."

"Yeah 's a bitch." Nick watched him, eyes a barely visible glimmer of gray. "I'm a big boy, Monroe. You don't have to stay."

Monroe had smelled at least four wesen on this floor. He'd bet all of them knew by now there was a Grimm in their territory, injured and unarmed. And there was a blutbad three floors down who might just be holding a grudge.

"I'm good." Monroe retrieved a book from his tote bag and got comfortable. "You just watch your cartoons."

Nick's eyes slipped entirely closed and he smiled sleepy and soft. "Thanks, buddy. I appreciate it."

Warmth blossomed in Monroe's chest spreading up his throat and ears. He sat for a long time watching Nick sleep, book lying unopened on his lap, cartoon music playing in the background. There were times, he realized quite suddenly, when life hit you upside the head with a rock-the-world-as-you-know-it kind of change. Literally. He still had the scar from the last one. And there were times when change snuck up on you with a knock on the door on a quiet Thursday morning.

Monroe opened his book to the scrap of paper he'd used to mark his page, settling in. His schedule, he thought, might have room for a little change.

THE END

Notes: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I think I replied to everyone. Those of you who don't have an account on fanfiction I couldn't reply to because of the system that site uses. I also post on /tags/Grimm%20(TV)/works and they don't require sign in to review.

Pesterfield asked: If Nick's late to this case has he already missed the Grimm connection to other crimes.

Yep. At this point he would have been on leave for a month a half more or less. Would Barry Rabe be a murderer now? Would Adalind have been killed by the mellifers? Would Billy Capra still be running his bed and breakfast or would they have caught him anyway? What about poor Roddy?

And, yes, it bothered me a lot to use SUV and truck interchangeably. In Idaho we have cars, suvs, and pickups. Trucks are something you can haul a horse in the back of or pull a semi-trailer with or drive over a fallen tree with because the tires are actually bigger than Monroe's VW. But I looked at the NBC Grimm website and those two descriptions are what they used in the recaps of the episodes so I went with it. I saw a story yesterday that used jeep. While that also doesn't fit in my mind with what Nick drives, I do like it better than truck. Any suggestions?

Phantom: This chapter may have made this moot but I think under normal circumstances Monroe definitely would have done his best to talk his way out of a fight. We've seen that in several episodes including Let Your Hair Down (yay, reruns). But this guy had been trespassing on Monroe's territory, not just once, and not because he needed to for work. Mailman blutbad deliberately used part of Monroe's space to hunt, ignoring several warnings on Monroe's part (ie: peeing on the mail truck's tires. Do you think the neighbors saw?)

So Monroe goes into mailman's territory knowing it's likely to end in a challenge because he doesn't want Nick to get hurt or dead and then Nick goes into the house where the mailman attacks because he's been doing very bad things and knows the Grimm has come to get him. Poor Monroe. Good deeds and all that.

Did I miss anything? I'm more than happy to take ideas about what you would like to see in the next part. I have a pretty good idea where I'm going with it but I love hearing everyone's thoughts.