re·spon·si·bil·i·ty [ri-spon-suh-bil-i-tee] Noun, plural re·spon·si·bil·i·ties. The state or fact of being responsible.

Monroe knew that getting wasted was useless. So he didn't. Monroe sat at his table being a responsible adult (and everyone knows we need more of those). He sipped at a lovely Chardonnay and ignored the growing pain in his chest.

Rosalee broke up with him. And he didn't know why. Everything had been going so well. They were in love. Stupid, happy, bubbling love. And then something tore it apart. To Monroe's credit, at least he didn't blame the Grimm.

The rich, nutty, and smooth flavor made his taste buds twirl in delight. But, his heart wasn't in it. He wanted to down the whole glass. But that would be irresponsible. Monroe asked himself again how things went from flaming, blazing love to simmering, fading like.

The door bell rang. At three in the morning. The door bell rang.

In Monroe's mind, there were only two things that could mean. Nick had a lead or Nick needed a lead. Both involved the Grimm.

Monroe opened his door, wine glass in hand, and plastered on a face of irritation.

Nick was soaked from head to toe. Mud splattered his clothes and he was bleeding in three or more places. Then in his hand, there was a wooden stake. If that wasn't enough to send Monroe reeling, the sight of his face was.

"Whoa, Van Hellsing, that better not be wesen blood or I'll be required to avenge someone." Nick tilted his head and looked at the stake in his hand. Then, he dropped it like a hot enchilada.

"No, it's mine. I was wondering if I could use your shower." Nick's hardened face softened as he spoke. Monroe felt a tug at his heart strings. He couldn't leave the little Grimm out in the cold.

"Come on in. and don't track any blood up the stairs."

An hour later, Nick was wasted and out cold on Monroe's couch. Monroe had shown the poor beat-up man to the shower and given him a change of clothes. Then came the part where he sat in his kitchen patching Nick, who had a surprising aversion to rubbing alcohol, up.

First Nick said little, explaining the case and how it, despite being non-wesen, led him to get beaten up.

Then Monroe pulled out Nick's favorite beer, which magically made its way onto his shopping list via red pen. There was only one person who used a red pen to annoy a blutbad.

After the first beer, Nick started looking somber. Then the second, he looked like he was about to cry. At the fourth beer mark, he started bawling about the break up with Juliette. Monroe sat and let his shoulder get plastered with tears. Then at the fifth beer, Monroe told Nick about his own break up. By Nick's seventh beer and Monroe's third glass of wine, they were on the couch pondering their breakups and heartaches.

Then, Nick fell asleep. Monroe realized it after about five minutes of silence. The detective's chest started rising and falling in a strict rhythm. It was like a metronome. Monroe hauled himself up the steps and returned with a spare blanket. Nick was already making good use of the couch cushions.

He wrapped the detective up and tucked him in.

"You had a rough day." The Grimm smiled into his dreams.

"What are you dreaming about?" There was no answer.

Monroe plodded upstairs at the ungodly hour of four thirty am to get some sleep.

It seemed that the responsibility of being a good friend would fall on him. And as he fell asleep, he realized he didn't mind.

Everyone needed to get wasted every once in a while.

re·spon·si·ble [ri-spon-suh-buhl] Adjective. Answerable or accountable, as for something within one's power, control, or management.

I sould be doing other work. Wall is up.