Rosalee burrows closer to his side, her rhythmic breathing telling him she's sound asleep. He's a little envious.
He's been trying to get there himself for over two hours, but it's not happening. Partly it's because his forehead stings and, because it's definitely the smart thing to do, he keeps running his fingers over the cut, letting it sting more.
It's really deep, and it hurts. But that's not what's really bothering him.
What's keeping him up is knowing that Nick is the one that put it there.
There's a part of him that understands that it wasn't Nick, not really. And he wants to believe it. He really does. But he can't quite bring himself to.
When Nick had apologized to them, he had tried to bring himself to say that it was okay, that it wasn't his fault, that it wasn't like he knew he was mindlessly attacking his friends.
But in an usual turn of events, he choked back everything he might have said, and let the words die unspoken in his throat.
The others managed to say the right things, mollifying Nick, convincing him it was nothing to worry about overmuch. He, on the other hand, settled for a half-hearted shrug, hoping it conveyed that well-meaning sentiment that he didn't quite feel.
He couldn't outright tell Nick it was okay, because, as much as he'd like it to be, it really, really wasn't.
The thing of it was, Nick had become, whether he was aware of it or not, the Grimm of legend, the Grimm of the stories his folks had told him- and then some.
And the thing is, every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is that feral side of Nick, red rimmed eyes and pale skin. And now that he doesn't have a task ahead of him to keep him occupied, he can face up to the reality that it completely terrified him.
He's not going to be able to sleep for a while. He can tell.
So, admitting defeat, he shifts away from Rosalee, lies flat on his back, and stares at the ceiling. He supposes he should be glad that she hadn't made him take something to sleep again, but he was starting to think there was something to her thinking it was a good idea.
After all, the night before he was totally out before his thoughts even attempted to plague him.
Tonight, with his eyes closes, he worries that Nick is going to attack everyone again. With his eyes open, he's worried that Nick is going to end up in prison for attacking everyone.
The sudden faint illumination of his phone tells him he isn't the only one that's restless. He reaches for it and sees a text from Juliette.
I know it's really late. But, are you still up?
He texts backs:
You can't sleep either, huh?
As the phone illuminates again with an incoming call, he ducks out of the bedroom and heads for the stairs.
"Rosalee's asleep," he whispers. "Let me get downstairs."
"Maybe I should do that too. I'm in the hallway, but Nick's asleep too," Juliette whispers worriedly. "But I'm afraid to leave him alone though."
"Why? He's okay now, isn't he? I mean, it's been two days," Monroe says. He hopes Juliette can't tell that, despite this, he's a little afraid that Nick has turned back into a zombie. He's pretty sure she'd be much more frantic if that's what had happened, but well, he can't help jumping to the worst possible conclusion. It's what he does.
"I don't know," Juliette says. Then she says hurriedly, "He was really cold and his pulse was slow again. I couldn't wake him up, and I started to call 911, but then he was completely fine. He told me he was fine three of four times. I really have no idea what happened. And afterwards, he fell right back asleep. And he looked fine. But, Monroe, I ..."
She just starts sobbing, and Monroe wishes he was there so he could pull her into a hug.
"Hey, it'll be okay," Monroe says, hoping it's true. He's not particularly fond of the alternative.
"You don't know that," Juliette says.
"Well, no. I guess I don't. But, hey, it has to be," Monroe says. "He's Nick. He'll be okay."
Of course, the last time he'd said something like that, Nick turned into a zombie. He just hopes Juliette isn't going to be quick enough on the draw at two in the morning to point that out.
"I hope so. I really hope so," Juliette says. After a long pause, she adds quietly, "I'm making him see a doctor."
Monroe frowns as he mulls over that. "Do you really think a doctor can help if something's wrong?"
"You don't?" Juliette asks.
"Well, kind of supernatural problems usually need kind of supernatural remedies," Monroe says. "I think you've had your own taste of that."
"Yeah, I guess I have," Juliette says wistfully. Then she's quiet for so long Monroe half wonders if she'd hung up. When she does pipe up again, he wishes she had. "Monroe, why can't you sleep?"
He doesn't say anything, letting the silence stretch onwards. He doesn't really want to talk about it because there's not really anything to be done.
"It's about Nick, isn't it?" Juliette asks. "You're still shook up, aren't you?"
"Yeah, yeah I am," Monroe says slowly. "Look, I know it wasn't him. I know he would never attack us like that. But..."
"But it was still Nick," Juliette says. "Yeah. I know. If I wasn't curling up against him knowing that he was mostly himself again, I don't think I could sleep either."
"Yeah, I guess that would help," Monroe says. It makes a weird kind of sense because he knows he felt a little more secure about Nick's state of being when he was still on the cot in the Spice Shop.
"Well, this is probably a little silly," Juliette says. "But if you want, I can take a picture of him sleeping for you?"
"I...okay," Monroe says. He's not really sure how that's going to help, but it's the only plan he's got that doesn't definitively involve staring at his ceiling until sunrise.
"I'll know he's still breathing, and you'll know he's still himself," Juliette says.
"Yeah, okay," Monroe says.
"I'll send it to you in a minute," Juliette says. "Try to get some sleep. Goodnight, Monroe."
"Hey, you too," Monroe says. "Goodnight, Juliette."
A few minutes later, Monroe is trying to imprint the peaceful image of a clearly sound-asleep Nick into his mind.
He thinks, drowsily, that it might just be working.