The Cold Light of Day

by DecepticonFlamewar

The snow's coming down, and Monroe refuses to shovel any more until Rosalee comes home. He decides to get the paper anyway, and in the wet snow and cold light of day, a seasonal advertisement will force him to take a hard look at his desires and his future. Prompt: "Snow" at LiteraryFanFiction at deviantART. Set between "Stories We Tell Our Young" and "Twelve Days of Krampus".

He trudged through the snow to the mailbox and promised himself he would shovel it later.

Again.

He would shovel it again later. He would shovel it for the third time in eight hours, and this time, he would invite Nick, Juliette, Hank, and Bud over for drinks after it was clear and rant about how that much snow was weird even for Portland.

But for now, Monroe couldn't be bothered. His ancestors had chased prey through snowy forests without the benefit of shovels. He had chased prey through snowy forests without the benefit of a shovel, once. Now his Pilates were done, he was too hot to do real work, and there was a paper to pick up. He could clear the walk for Rosalie later, when it might do some good.

He smiled to himself at the thought of her as he pulled the paper out of its receptacle, glossing over yet another front page story about unrest in the Europe. The problems there were noteworthy, but he wouldn't learn anything of value from kehrseite news.

Then he shuddered, the cold finally raking its claws down his back, wind whispering threats of primal danger in Angelina's voice, and he dropped the paper in the snow.

"Oh damn it," Monroe grumbled, reaching down to pick it up.

But his fingers wouldn't obey; he missed the bottom half of the paper, and it swung open like the hands of a broken clock, spewing inserts everywhere. He could already see the snow leaving its mark on the paper, and he swore and crouched, scrambling to pick up the pieces.

That was when he saw it.

Glossy red and green, protected a little from the snow, the circular cried out to him. A few years ago he might have mocked the commercialism, the gaudy colors and gaudy gadgets set against ancient traditions, turning giving to greed. Now he found only that he recognized too few of the faces; one of them he knew from when he was a boy, but others were unfamiliar, glimpsed only in passing during fleeting attempts to watch TV. The only relics of a time when he could have identified with the wares being peddled were a scooter, a puppet, and the pixyish face of a cartoon heroine warped into the visage of a child's baby doll.

Baby doll.

Images flashed through his mind in the way of a movie, cliché after cliché, warm meaningless images that represented a life he'd never thought he'd have. But he could have it now. It was within his grasp. Technically it was further south, but still. He could have the life of all those fantasies, the American Wesen Dream. Toys and nurseries, playdates with Bud's kid's, someday Nick's…

Nick.

Monroe walked over to the recycling bin and opened it up, dropping the circular inside. Then he picked up the rest of the paper, headed for the door, and tried to remember where the shovel was.