And so we have the first installment "Sharp Edges"
the other two are tenatively titled "Dark Corners" and "Candle Light"
Really I should just title them: "Rosalee get to be really vulnerable and I exploit that and I'm sorry"
Honestly though, that line; "Well, I'm not going to your funeral!" in 3.06. Damn...okay then, darling. And this is what my brain came up with. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I own nothing, not making any money. I do this for pure self enjoyment.
"So we lay in the dark,/ Cause we've got nothing to say./ Just the beating of hearts,/ Like two drums in the grey./ I don't know what we're doing,/ I don't know what we've done./ But the fire is coming,/ So I think we should run..."- Daughter "Run"
"...You are not the only one/ To sit awake until the wild feelings leave you/ You're fireproof/ Nothing breaks your heart/ You're fireproof/ It's just the way you are..."-The National "Fireproof"
Rosalee thanks her lucky stars that Nick and Hank leave when they do. She feels his eyes back on her as her blush works its way up her neck to her cheeks. "What was that about?" Even she's not sure if she's talking about Nick and Hank or the way Monroe is looking at her, not like he usually does. This is something completely different. Unexpected but not unpleasant. In fact, it sort of puts a spring in her step and a smile on her face.
"Sounds like someone's been having a little fun on the side," he replies as she swings himself off the table. Brings a whole new level to being the 'milkman's kid' I guess."
"It's a terrible way to find out. I knew a few kids who didn't know they were Wesen until middle school." She mutters absent mindedly as she grabs the inventory list again. She turns, feeling his gaze on her still. "What?"
He shrugs. "I was just wondering if you...you know...even wanted kids-just in general. I'm not-"
"No, it's okay." Smiling and reaching across the counter to grab his hand, she quiets him from talking in circles. Even if it is a bit entertaining. "We haven't talked about it. But I don't know. I like kids." No, actually, she loves when customers bring their kids, Kereshite or Wesen, and she gets to get down on the floor with them. The five and six year olds are her favorites; they ask questions about everything, tell her about their best friends (who just may or may not be real) and ask her what her favorite color is ("Green" she says and points to the mint plant growing in one of the windows of the shop). "I just haven't been in a stable place to even consider it. What about you?"
"I wouldn't mind one..." He grins. "Two...maybe three."
Three? She grins at the thought of three mini-Monroes running through the house. "You do realize babies cannot be reasoned with and they don't keep to schedules or plans?" She winds around the counter. "And then there's all those terrible high pitched TV shows that are supposed to be good for their brains. And then the general mess and, you know, chaos. I know how much you hate chaos."
"I think it would be worth it." That look is back. Tender. That's the word she was looking for. Like she's some fragile thing he can't believe someone let him hold. As much as she doesn't want to give in, she smiles too. "So—hypothetically speaking—do you want kids?"
Immediately, she imagines an apple-cheeked toddler with his freckles and curls but her complexion and her sister's smile settled on her hip. It's almost laughable how quickly the ache for the imaginary kid sets in. He would be there, every step of the way; she has no doubt about that. And then because she can't help herself, she pictures him with the same tiny kid in his arms. She feels a strange flutter through her ribs at the thought (in excitement? Terror?) Another part of her (she can't be sure if it's head or heart or some weird biological ticking clock) practically coos; yes, yes, yes.
"Just so we're clear; wanting kids and being ready for kids are two totally different topics of conversation."
He nods. "Understood."
She braces her hand on her hip and meets his gaze head on. "Ask me in six months." She waits for the fight, for the probing questions as to why, why does she have to wait, is it him? But they don't come.
Instead, he loops an arm around her shoulders and kisses her temple. "I feel like we should reward ourselves for figuring that out."
She reaches up and intertwines their fingers. "I could go for coffee. My treat? You got it last time."
"Sounds good. Barista?"
"You know me too well." She grabs her bag and takes his hand, wondering how in the world it fits so perfectly. It's a good day, she notes to herself as he locks the door behind them. A very good day.
Except it wasn't. And just when she thought her going down hill day was finally over. It suddenly got worse. The stink of Pflichttreue and malice hit her the moment she steps down to the middle of the stairway. Immediately, her playful irritation dissipates with the cold, incoming air. The adrenaline hits her bloodstream and her heart gallops at the sight of him in her city, in her home. And close enough to Monroe to slash his throat that she'd be left to watch him bleed out. She keeps her cool and doesn't leap in front of Monroe like she keeps imagining.
"Rosalee Calvert?" His voice is low in his throat, though she's unsure if it's intentional or not.
She pulls her sweater a little tighter over her exposed shoulders, and her left hand into her sleeve before crossing her arms over her chest to hide their shaking. "Yes..?"
"I'm looking for the boy."
Her heart hammers against her ribcage so hard, she's afraid it'll best itself right through. She grips the edges of her sleeves harder as Monroe is silently pleading no, don't with his eyes.
"He's at St. Joseph's." She breathes just loud enough for him to hear, as if he stole the words from her.
He smiles (grimly, of course). With the cut of his lip in the porch light and the flash of his impossibly white canines, it seems to say if you don't give me the truth, I will take everything from you. I will take everything you have worked so hard for. I will leave nothing behind. He was a calculated killer after all and his claws were sharp. But he inclines his head in thanks, a small and completely unnecessary bow; he's been in charge the moment he crossed the threshold of the house. "The Council thanks you for your loyalty." He turns and disappears into the dark.
Her heart, no longer in danger of beating itself free of her chest, falters. It takes a second to hear Monroe talking to her and she only shakes her head and says his name. She works hard to keep the pleading out of her voice. They're going to take him from me, she keeps thinking. They're going to take Nick. And Hank. And Juliette. And I'm going to be alone, again.
"I gotta call Nick, I'm sorry. It's just what I have to do."
She doesn't try to stop him and only stares straight ahead to try to collect her thoughts as she listens to the one sided-conversation. But every creak becomes retribution; every squeak is a claw on glass. Every breath is a last one until somehow her lungs push air out and pull it back in.
When she returned to Portland she came clothed in sharp edges, barbs to keep her old life out. She remembers sitting on the train and holding one hand over the scar on her left hand, as if the past could come leaping out again if she let her guard down for even a second. She kept her sentences short; words clipped, icy, and smiles as rare as a sunny day in the fall Portland gloom.
She held tight to those sharp edges for as long as she could, finding isolation easier than attachment. Besides that's what got her into trouble the last time. In the time that she traded addiction for sharp edges, she locked herself in. Not in ice or steel but bitterness and hurt and fear. She promised herself as she lay awake at night, silently growing those sharp edges in the dark, she'd never fall back into that, she'd never trust anyone so implicitly again; she was stupid for thinking that anyone could love her anyway.
And she loves that she was proven wrong on all accounts. Or she did up until this moment.
Monroe looks down at the phone in utter bewilderment. "He wants us to stay out of it..."
She nods. "Good."
"Good? Rose, he's a kid!" Monroe insists. "A kid!"
She sees that kid from her daydream in a flash before her eyes. "And you don't think it breaks my heart?! I hate this! I hate that this is something I have to do!" But if that's a possible future—Rose grits her teeth, all the while hating the thought— she's ready to do what needs to be done.
"You didn't have to-"
"You know if the Council had found out we kept this from them and we'd both be dead." She shakes her head, barely keeping the tears in. "I have to make the hard choices. It's my job now." She's got a debt still, to measure up to her father's reputation. But she has hasn't got his edge, not anymore at least. "You know I had to, Monroe.
"All I said was maybe wait it out a day or two."
"And if the council found out..." she shakes her head. "He didn't come here tonight to ask where the kid was."
He eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"
The words leak out. "I told them on the phone where he was."
"Then why...?" He trails off as the truth dawns on him. "Was it a test or a threat?"
She shrugs. "Both?
"Rose," he sighs and comes over to place his hands on her shoulders. "You know, I would never let him hurt you."
"It's not me that I'm worried about." She replies, pulling herself out of his grip and paces to the window, peeking through the curtain just to be sure that he's really gone.
"So, Nick said he'd keep us up to date. Either way. Would you rather I wait upstairs?"
She half turns, and shakes her head.
He collapses onto the couch, one hand over his eyes, the phone clutched in his hand. Without a second thought, she curls up next to him. And his arm drapes around her shoulders like clockwork.
"So how long are you going to be mad at me for?" He runs his fingers up and down her arm. "Just so I know."
"I'm not mad."
"Really?"
She tilts her head so she can look him in the eye. "It worries me that I seem to have all the self-preservation instincts in this relationship."
He looks down at her. "You said you weren't worried about yourself."
"I'm not." She slips one arm around his neck.
"So I mean that much to you?"
She nods. "I spent my whole life watching my dad worry over the choices he made for us, to keep us safe and I didn't realize until now how hard it was. And this isn't going to be the last hard choice."
"Nope."
"And it's not the last time we're going to disagree."
"Nope."
"As long as we're on the same page."
He squeezes her shoulders and she burrows into his side. All those sharp edges she spent years and years growing had been buffed away, like a stone smoothed by the waves. It's not perfect, though. She feels the dents and imperfections that could give way but they haven't yet. "Ask me." She whispers.
He goes still for a moment. "You said to wait six months."
"Just ask."
"...Do you want kids?" His hands go still on her arm, waiting for the answer.
She takes a deep breath and shows him a dent in her that he hasn't seen yet. "I do. I want a life with you, whatever that looks like. And I'm not going to let anyone take that from me if I can help it."
"That is what we do, isn't it?" He smiles. "Keep each other safe?"
She just nods. They sit in the dark together, listening to the clocks tick down the hours until Nick calls to let them know. Monroe drops off to sleep next to her, the phone still clutched in his hand. She sits up just on her elbows to drag the blanket on the arm of the couch over both of them. "I love you." She whispers, knowing that he's fast asleep and can't hear. It's entirely his fault, she smiles. Somehow, he got past all those sharp edges before he even knew there was anything worth looking for.
I have most of "Dark Corners" written/planned but I'm literally getting ready to hop on a plane to see my family. So Happy Holidays to all my lovely readers!