A/N: Many thanks to those of you who reviewed! I welcome comments, questions, concrit...scathing insults, too, but only because of my perverse sense of humor.

Disclaimer: I do not own Monk or any of its characters, plotlines, etc.

Chapter One: The Man at the Phone

A most peculiar thing was occurring on the Berkeley college campus. To say it was unsettling would not begin to touch the matter. More than one student who saw it take place would later describe it as a surreal event, not quite on the same plane of reality as all other life experience. Had there not been witnesses up and down the corridor, everyone would have sooner sworn to hallucinating than to seeing…this.

Adrian Monk was walking through the dorm, whistling!

Blissfully oblivious to the stares and snickers sent his way, the oddball senior made his way jauntily through the hallways, practically skipping down the stairs on the way to his room.

"Greg!" whispered a nervous classmate. "He's…smiling."

"You can't smile and whistle at the same time!"

"No, you can't…but he is!"

"Do y'think he's finally snapped?" wondered another.

"I dunno. I was his roommate last year. Let me tell you, that guy was kinda strange. He could make a clown cry. Adrian, happy? I've never seen it."

One student craned her neck, trying vainly to see if anyone had watched Monk on the stairwell. "Hey, does anyone know what's happened to Captain Cool?" she asked loudly. "Anyone?"

Had they spotted Trudy's ex-boyfriend glowering in the vestibule, all but daring them to ask why his cocky grin was gone, they might have realized who had stolen it and was walking away with it plastered all over his face. But since none of the students was Adrian Monk, they left the mystery unsolved, and the culprit got clean—squeaky clean—away.

Monk's enthusiastic step increased as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Fifteen minutes until the second date. His shoes were shined, his hair was combed…he'd even spent part of the morning meticulously picking out every piece of pocket lint from his best slacks.

It had to be perfect…but not in the same way it had before.

As Monk neared his dorm room, he realized that, at least for the evening, the cursed urge to control his small part of the world had loosened. It might be his bully, but he was no longer its slave. He was anxious, yes—he had double-checked his shoelaces and all the rest—but not just because the planet would tilt the wrong way if he didn't. It was a new sensation, and very wonderful.

He bent down again. There. It had to be perfect. It had to be perfect for her.

His blue-moon first date with Trudy Ellison had been an almost out-of-body experience. He had been dimly aware of a Willie Nelson concert playing in the background, but even though he recalled the lyrics later, all he could see in his memory were the lights playing over her hair as she kissed him on the cheek. He hadn't even been a real boyfriend to her! He hadn't yawned and stretched his arm around her, or sloppily mouthed song lyrics, or begged her to make out with him in the dark, all three of which the man sitting in front of them had done to his own girl, and with gusto.

"I'm sorry I'm not like him, Trudy," Monk had tried to explain. "Drew probably tried that all the time, too. I just—if I did that to you now, I wouldn't see your eyes light up at the music."

For some reason, she'd kissed him anyway. He couldn't figure it out!

He'd kept the lipstick smudge on his face all night, hoping Bernard wouldn't see—or maybe hoping that he would. And now, a second date? The blue moon was shining on a four-leafed clover on a very cold day in August.

Quickly, now. Ten minutes left, the mechanical part of his mind interrupted him.

He straightened his shirt and zipped up his sweater.

Monk always knocked on the door to his room, in case there was a project in progress. His roommate was cheery, a little too much so, but Bernard did not like company while he worked. That, Monk understood…but today, in his haste, he completely forgot.

He threw open the door, about to whistle another tune—

—and was clotheslined on entry, right under the chin.

"Hggp!"

Slimy ribbons hung on a line across the door, attacking his clean shirt like eels.

"Adrian! You were supposed to knock!" a voice berated from inside the room.

"Gah! Blech! Thbhb," answered Monk. The next instant, he was flailing with his hands, trying vainly to brush back the dripping, curling mass of...

...film?

Through his panic attack, Monk's fingers somehow registered the tiny holes that perforated the sides of the strips.

The apology about to bubble out of his mouth evaporated.

"Bernard!" he howled as his roommate looked up from clothes-pinning more rolls to a line of twine that ran above his bed.

"Hey, Adrian!" His roommate helped him through the gauntlet of still-drying strips. "Gotcha there, didn't they? Sorry your sweater's wet." He brushed Monk off good-naturedly, but the latter sidestepped him and wriggled out of his cardigan.

"Eight and a half minutes," Monk muttered, now no longer in such a good mood.

"You're lucky they were pinned down," Bernard continued as if he hadn't heard. The two young men had survived living together largely by talking past each other until one of the two left the room. Bernard now continued this tradition by proudly showing Monk an enlargement of an ant's head and asking what Monk thought. Hastily folding the cardigan, Monk replied that he'd never seen Bernard's mother look prettier.

"That picture is a beauty, isn't—hey! You didn't even look!"

"Wait! These rolls have been bathed in chemicals!" Monk started checking to see if any drops had made contact with his skin.

"Although Mom is kind of ugly, let me tell you."

"You've probably just rinsed them in water."

"But this ant is only one part of a multi-faceted—"

"Do you know what's in developer fluid?"

"Developer fluid! I knew I had to pick something else up at the store!"

"I'll have to change shirts!"

"Why didn't you knock?"

"Oh, God, it's six fifty-five!"

"I think you shoved a few of the rolls out of place."

"W-what if she's early?"

"D'you think they're out of order?"

"And Drew. It wouldn't surprise me if he showed his face."

"Adrian, can you tell me—"

"Why didn't I knock?"

They both glanced at the door, and this common gesture put them both on the same thought path. Monk stilled for a moment, then said, "Okay—Okay, look. I need to get back through that door in good shape. It's our second date. If you just take them," he waved at the photos, "just put them away in a dark corner until I get back, I'll arrange them for you any way you want." Monk glanced at the clock. "Four point five minutes!"

Monk carefully started peeling away his shirt. Then he stopped and looked at the window, open in order to let the film dry. He carefully rolled the shade down all the way. Then he stopped again.

"Um."

Bernard folded his arms across his chest patiently.

"Would you mind turning around?" Monk pleaded.

"Dude, it's just your shirt. Some guys go strolling around campus like that!"

Monk merely fidgeted.

In defeat, Bernard flung up his hands and did an about-face.

Monk carefully lifted the shirt over his shoulders. "I hate getting goosebumps," he said through the fabric as he pulled it off. "Mph mmph and don't worry about the root beer I see you spilled this afternoon. I'll clean it up later."

"Thanks, Missus Monk," Bernard drawled. He threw Monk a sidelong glance. Mistake.

Monk's arms constricted around his torso in an effort to shield himself.

"Okay, okay, I'm not looking!"

Monk had one arm through a clean shirt when someone tapped gently at the windowsill.

Clutching the shade to him like a towel, Monk peered over it…

…straight into her bright, clear eyes.

"Trudy!" he gasped.

Monk pulled reflexively away from the window, and in his panic, he pulled the shade away, too. With a sharp zzzip!, the shade snapped back up.

Noooo…

There was a brief fight for dominance with his shirt and his jitters, from which Monk emerged victorious, albeit facing the wrong way. Too embarrassed now to turn around, he waved at Trudy over his shoulder.

"Hi, there," he said. I am done for.

He couldn't bear a backward glance. He was sure that any other girl would have left the dorm and his life in a fit of giggles by now. But as long as there was reason to hope, he forced himself to speak. "I didn't expect you to be, you know, there. At the window. And three minutes early."

He could imagine her dissolving into laughter or scoffing at him, but to his surprise, her voice was calm and kind.

"I'm sorry, Adrian. I've been avoiding the main entrance because I know Drew Cooney lives in this building. I didn't want to make things difficult for you. He…took our break-up pretty hard."

Still not daring to turn around, Monk swallowed. "You were trying to protect me?" he said timidly.

He could tell she was grinning. "It's my job, now, isn't it? That, and scaring the shirt off your back." A little shyly, she added, "Nice shoulders, by the way."

"I…" A compliment. Wow. A compliment from her! Steady, she hasn't run away yet…don't lose it…

"You look wonderful, too," he said with feeling.

"Adrian," Trudy said skeptically. "You're not looking at me. You saw me for, what, half a second?"

"Yes, I know," and to stop his hands from trembling at the memory, he began buttoning his shirt cuffs. "Blue is really your color. Of course, so is yellow, and so is black. You didn't have to change your dress that many times for me."

There was a lengthy pause, and then, matter-of-factly, she said, "Hang on. I want to figure out how you knew that. No, don't turn around, I'm trying to hone my investigative eye, too." There came the sound of her shifting around.

Monk took the opportunity to nab a clean handkerchief from a drawer. He'd often heard other guys talk about how hot and sweaty their dates got, and he knew that he, too, would probably have to dab at his forehead at some point in the evening.

"All right, I know how you guessed the black," said Trudy. "I looked at my watch, and there's a piece of thread that got caught on the knob. The yellow dress stumps me, though. How'd you know I changed?"

"I've seen you around campus. You only ever wear that gold necklace with yellow…except for tonight," Monk answered. "I'm guessing your silver jewelry is in your purse and, since you wanted to be early, you didn't have time to put it on. You'll probably make some excuse to go to the ladies' room while we wait for our food, and then make the switch." And, on the off chance that she wasn't about to smack him over the head with said purse, he added, "You were right about the black thread. You have a good eye."

He paused. "Maybe I should turn around now?"

"If you like," she said airily. "I can't complain, though."

He flushed but couldn't help a small smile. "Okay, then."

He turned around, and she was, for the second time, the loveliest woman he had ever seen in his life.

Trudy gave him an apologetic look. "And to think I was bent on not causing you trouble."

"Don't worry about it. I just thought, when you came to the window, that maybe…" he looked away.

Monk should have known that Trudy could read the same clues in his countenance that he could in her clothing.

"No, Adrian," she emphasized, "I am not embarrassed to be seen with you. Why would I be?"

"'Cause he's Captain Cool," Bernard called over. "Know what that means?"

"I'm guessing it's pejorative," Trudy deadpanned. "Bernard, right? I wonder where my notes went on that Exposures exposé. Something about buttonhole cameras in the girls' changing room…"

While Bernard spluttered a response, Monk's smile returned. Somehow, the sheer discomfort of the situation had fallen away, and he was just there, with her.

Trudy motioned for him to climb out of the window.

It was pretty risky, and very undignified, and not something he would ever, under normal circumstances, do. But her eyes shone for him as she held out her hand, and he was at her side before he knew he had moved.

Monk hoped he hadn't messed up too badly by taking Trudy to jazz night at this restaurant. He didn't know if it was the right thing for a second date, or any date. But he'd passed by the place, and knew that it was clean, had a romantic atmosphere, was clean, hired attentive staff, was clean, and the food was hardly ever touching on the plates. Plus, he'd seen other couples come here, though, importantly, not a certain Drew Cooney.

So far, there were no disasters. He had pulled out her chair for her, said she looked lovely, and told some moron ogling her from across the room that he hoped the parking ticket the man's car had just gotten was worth it. When Trudy had stopped laughing, the waiter asked if they would like some wine.

"No, thank you," they both said, and looked, abashed, at each other.

"I'm sorry!"

"I'm sorry!"

"Uh—"

"Well—"

Monk held up a hand. "You first."

Trudy winced. "I guess you know I'm too young to be drinking."

"Actually, I never drink…ever…so." He looked at her. "Wait, what were we just apologizing for?"

Trudy looked at him affectionately. "Matching up too much, I guess."

"Well, then," he smiled. "I wonder what else we have in common?" He looked into her eyes. "Tell me. Tell me anything about you."

"Adrian," said Trudy, "I'm quite sure by now that you know more about me than I do."

"Facts don't make a person," he returned. "I know your major is journalism, but is reporting really your goal?"

She leaned forward. "Yes, but not on television. I'd love to have my own column someday. I know," here she sighed, "I'm more than aware that most girls with that major end up teaching English in some school, or answering the phone as secretaries." She shrugged. "I'm going to give it a try, anyway. Can't hurt, right?"

Here was a hurdle for him. Monk never knew when to be blunt but earnest and when to be nice but evasive. He also lacked an ear for rhetorical questions.

Monk pressed his lips together in thought.

He decided to try it.

"Trudy," he said at last, "dreams can sometimes hurt. Even when they come true. But we all have them for a reason, don't we? Ignoring that just makes us smaller." He patted her hand. "I think you'll do great work. I mean it."

She squeezed his hand. "That's what I love about my Adrian. He always means every word."

Their glasses of water arrived, which they raised with their left hands so they wouldn't have to let go of each other. The glasses chimed in unison.

"Attention, everyone!"

Monk slopped water out of his glass as a man with a microphone spoke out.

"I am sorry to say that the jazz band is canceled tonight. Miss Reinette has come down with a sudden head cold."

There were sounds of disappointment from the customers.

"Oh, that's a shame," mourned Trudy. "I was hoping for…Adrian. Adrian, what's wrong?"

"Ahhhh," Monk hid his sodden shirt cuff under the table. "Nothing. Nothing, I'm fine. Fine." His mouth stretched into what he hoped was a feasible grin, and he blinked rapidly.

"Adrian Monk, that is the least convincing smile I have ever seen."

"Is it? Huh." He wrung the water out of his cold and clammy sleeve.

She knit her brows, and Monk knew what she was thinking: what was wrong with him?

"I'm okay." Monk tried to smooth things over while still tugging uncomfortably at his sleeve. "I just have this…I mean, I have to…why won't it dry?" He scrubbed at the spot with one hand.

She bit her lip. "But it's just water."

Somehow, he forced his hands apart and back onto the table. "I know it's ridiculous," he whispered, lowering his eyes. "I can't help it, Trudy. I'll stop now."

For a moment, neither spoke. Trudy played with her napkin a little, as if deciding something.

"I'm a reporter," she blurted out, "so I have to ask. Is it—do you have—"

"Obsessive-compulsive disorder? I'm afraid so." Monk hated mentioning it by name, but there it was. He felt she had the right to an answer.

"I see."

The next thing he knew, warmth radiated along his left hand. Monk raised his eyes and found her smile waiting for him, as if nothing untoward had happened. Her hand rested on his sleeve, right over the place where he'd spilled the water.

"It'll dry faster this way," she explained.

Then she winked, and Monk's skyscraper-high fall for this woman took him straight through the concrete.

Scattered applause broke out around them, and Monk tried to get his bearings. His memory recall for the past two minutes was significantly impaired, and Trudy had to tell him that jazz night was being replaced by Las mañanitas, a Valencian flamenco group.

Monk looked at Trudy, aghast.

"Flamenco?" he said, mouth suddenly dry. "Isn't that a little risqué?"

Trudy threw back her head and laughed. "Well, at least now I know you're not the type to frequent a strip club. Adrian, they don't form a kick line. I've seen some before, on videotape in my Castilian culture class." All of a sudden, she cocked her head to one side. "At least one person's enjoying it. Look!"

In the half-light, Monk made out the figure of a slight, well-dressed brunette in her forties. Far from being put-out at the sudden change in performance, she was still clapping her hands.

"I know that woman!" he said. "She's a Spanish professor!"

"Looks like this music is just what she needed," said Trudy. "I've seen her around campus, though we've never met. She's been looking stressed, lately." Her blue eyes followed the lady.

Monk looked at her, curious. "You remember that she looked stressed?"

"Yes, but don't ask how much the soup I just ordered was. Numbers don't speak to me the way people do. Anyway, I've heard others talking about it. They say she's usually very cheerful."

Monk's glass shook again as the dancer on stage stomped his foot, beginning a fiery dance.

"If she likes this music," he muttered, "she must be from Spain."

"Hey, I like it, too," said Trudy, nudging his foot under the table. "But you're right. When she talked to my professor, she lisped her 'z's. And she used aula, not clase."

Monk nodded, still pondering the older woman.

"That's unusual," he said to himself.

"It is?"

"No, not that. Her necklace," he said, his eyes narrowing in the woman's direction. "It shone in the light for a moment. It's a star of David."

"She's Jewish?"

"Jewish and from Spain. Not a common combination."

"You're amazing at detail, you know that?"

"Only if it leads to the big picture," said Monk. He was very aware of how she was looking at him; at the same time, he was resisting the urge to glean more clues from the professor.

Trudy nodded knowingly at him. "You want to find out what's bothering her."

"Well, I, it's just…um…"

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't apologize for curiosity. It's one of the traits I like best in a man. 'Sides, I have that itch, too. It's irresistible."

She scooted her chair slightly backward. "However, I am also having a wonderful time with you. So...if you'll excuse me." Her eyes danced merrily as she held up her purse. "I have to, what was that you said? Oh, yes, 'make some excuse to go to the ladies' room while we wait for our food, and then make the switch.'"

That drew a laugh from him. It was an embarrassed one, but also the first in a long time.

Trudy pulled out her jewelry, very carefully, and set her purse down on the table before heading for the restroom.

She had been losing herself in his eyes again. It was getting to be a bad habit! To her, Adrian Monk was unsettling and exciting at once, and his eyes were simply magnetic. Trudy was quite sure that if an earthquake had rattled the dinnerware, she would have let it all fall to the floor. Until, of course, Adrian reached down to pick up every piece and offered to help the staff clean up.

She wondered what he might have discovered about her, with his perfect memory and unerring eye. What was in her that made him happy to be with her?

Well, there was only one way to find out…

Let's see if you figure out this one, Adrian Monk.

She smoothed down her hair and her dress, and inspected her make-up over and over in the mirror. She had straightened and re-straightened her jewelry in the meantime, then wondered why her nerves were so bad. Adrian was the gentlest man she'd ever met; she was foolish for being so self-conscious!

She checked her watch; she'd give him five minutes.

On her way out, she passed by a man at the phones. He was talking, very low and fast, into the receiver. The name "Arturo" was repeated twice, but Trudy couldn't understand another word he said. He was large and dark-haired, with a full beard and a smug expression. She couldn't identify the language, but his tone of voice held command.

Her instincts told her to back away. So, naturally, Trudy brushed past him, ostensibly faltering for balance on the polished floor. It was her inner reporter; she couldn't shut it off, even though danger signals went off like fireworks inside her head.

At least I got a good look. His resolute chin and strong-eyed stare brought out the contempt stamped on his face. He had shredded a small Berkeley campus leaflet to bits, then pocketed it. Her "stumble" had also allowed her to glance at the floor.

Sir, unless I'm mistaken, you have just dropped a Spanish peseta.

For a moment, they locked eyes. He looked right at her, and said something very quick, very derisive into the phone.

She turned on her heel and forced herself to keep her step even as she walked away. Every hair on her head confirmed it: this man was perilous company.

Slightly shaken, it was later than she hoped when she returned to her table.

Dinner had arrived, and Monk didn't see a thing on his plate. Her little black handbag lay there, just within reach, taunting him.

Trudy had forgotten to zip up her purse. Why, oh why, did that have to happen? Didn't she know he was dying to find out what was inside, to know more about her?

He reached for it, retracted his hand. Reach, retract. Reach, retract—he couldn't help it. He snatched up the purse and carefully opened it all the way with a pen.

A collection of odds and ends awaited him. Some were sentimental, some perfunctory; some should probably have been thrown out long ago. From what he could tell, she was loving, and bright, though a bit forgetful. Wait...what was this?

Monk felt a tiny piece of stiff paper in one of the inside pockets.

A man's hand had printed something on a little card.

To my wonderful girl. I love you so much.

Monk felt a roaring in his ears.

It wasn't from Drew. He always called Trudy "Babe." Someone else wrote that. Someone else wrote it…and the note was still in the purse. Maybe she had forgotten to take it out when she started dating him?

No, Monk realized in despair. That card looks brand-new. She's barely had time to touch it.

The little scrap of paper felt welded to his hand. He saw her returning to him out of the corner of his eye, and with a bad case of heartache, he tucked the card inside his shirt cuff.

"Hello, Trudy," he said to his plate.

The next words out of her mouth floored him.

"So, Adrian, did you have fun looking through my purse?"

His head snapped up.

She smiled pertly at him.

Monk went pale. He gaped, closed his mouth, stammered something, turned bright red, and dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.

"I…I…I…"

"Aha. I thought you might not resist a tiny peek inside." With satisfaction, "It's exactly what I would have done."

The handkerchief fluttered out of his hands. "You wanted me to look?"

"Maybe it was a bad idea," she admitted, "but you deduce so much just by sight that I thought it might be a good way for you to know me better."

She reached down to pick up the handkerchief, neatly folded it, and placed it back in his hand.

"I left everything the way I had it this morning," she continued. "Nothing omitted. That's me, in there. The real me."

Monk stared at her, trying to find his voice again.

"Here I thought I was finding more out about you," he said, impressed. Gaining confidence, "You've hoodwinked me, Miss Ellison. May I say you are a very devious woman?"

It had been a long time since he had teased anyone, but her delighted expression showed him that the words had not been wasted.

"Psst," came the waiter's voice. "How's the food?"

Monk heard nothing. He just reached back into his sleeve and returned the note to her.

Trudy followed his eye, and looked at the card in confusion. "That's not mine. At least, I…"

She lifted it out of his hands.

"Oh, my gosh," she said, "Dad wrote this! He must have sneaked it inside the purse when he bought it for me. I didn't even know it was in there."

"Always check the inner pockets," Monk informed her. "Especially the tiny ones." Only then did his emotions catch up with his thoughts.

He hadn't screwed up. Even when he had screwed up, he hadn't screwed up. She wasn't angry. She wasn't hurt.

And she. Still. Liked him.

"AHEM!" said a very loud voice to Monk's right.

They both jumped like frightened rabbits.

"Lovebirds, I said, how's the food?" asked the very impatient waiter.

Trudy looked at him. "Did he say that, Adrian?"

Monk shrugged. "I wasn't really listening."

"I've been asking for the past five minutes!"

Monk pasted an insincere smile on his face. "Food's great," he said, and the waiter left in a huff.

"We'd better eat before he turns the fire extinguisher on us," Trudy said. "So, anything else you now know about me?"

"Besides the fact that you like rock music, are an organ donor, write poetry, and never remember where you put your keys?"

She threw up her hands in surrender. "I confess, I confess! It was I, all along!"

"Did I mention you were a stickler for grammar?"

Their levity was short-lived. They had barely started on their appetizer when along came the Spanish professor.

The woman in question rose from her place and clicked past them in heels, but returned just half a minute later, looking frazzled. She loudly grabbed a passing waiter's attention and thrust a few bills at him, then gathered up her things in a flurry of movement. She kept glancing back…in the direction of the restrooms.

Trudy looked at Monk.

"You know, I saw a man loitering by the phones on my way to changing my jewelry. He was making a call, I think to someone named Arturo. He was also very forbidding." She nodded in the direction that the professor was looking.

Monk tilted his head. "Could he be the reason she's been stressed?"

Trudy shrugged. "He had Spanish money, and there was that pamphlet…"

Monk drew from her every last detail. In the end, he couldn't make heads or tails of it, and this left him with a furrowed brow.

"Two people, of about the same age, from the same country of origin, one threatening and one threatened? It looks pretty bad," Monk surmised. "It could be a matter of money; did you see the dress she had on?"

"Yes, gorgeous, and completely unaffordable on a professor's salary."

"I suppose they could be related, but since he wasn't wearing a yarmulke…"

"That, plus he was speaking a strange language," said Trudy.

Monk raised an eyebrow. "I thought you knew Spanish."

"I do. It wasn't Spanish. Not at all. Not even close."

"Yiddish?" Monk suggested.

"No," said Trudy in frustration. "Nothing I can identify. I'm good with languages, too. This wasn't like any tongue I've ever heard before. Euska-something was the only sound I remember. He kept repeating it." She looked at him glumly. "Some help, huh?"

Monk's head drooped for a moment. Then he perked up again.

"As a matter of fact, it might be." He jotted down a few notes on his unused napkin, and put it into his breast pocket for future inquiry.

"Excuse me? EXCUSE ME, hel-LO!" The waiter flung his arms out wide. "Would you like anything else? Here's a hint: say no."

"Yes," said Trudy irritably. "The check, please."

Idiot. He broke Adrian's concentration! she groused. Then she berated herself. It wasn't the waiter's fault. It was just…Adrian was Adrian, and she guessed not many people understood exactly how he ticked. It might explain why he always seemed to be by himself.

Oh. His eyes were on her again.

She nervously centered the butterfly pendant on her necklace, hoping he wouldn't notice.

Naturally, Adrian's eyes followed her hand to the millimeter.

Trudy mentally cursed. Little did she know, it was her turn for a surprise.

"Trudy," he frowned, "you don't have to keep doing that."

"I know you like things neat and straight," she protested.

"But that's me," he said firmly. "Not you."

"It wouldn't make you uncomfortable?"

He looked at her incredulously. "It would make me more uncomfortable to know you were constantly looking yourself over because of me." He pressed a hand to his forehead. "Let me try and explain. I don't like dirt, or germs, or things out of order. But if I let all that control me, I would be out of order in here." He touched a hand to his chest. "This is where you bring order, Trudy. Where it matters."

He leaned back then, studying her intently. She tried to come up with something that powerful to say back. He didn't give her the chance.

An impish gleam appeared in his eye. His hand left his glass and reached halfway between them.

"I could fix it for you, if you want."

Her heart skipped a beat. If it had been any other man, she would have glared and batted his hand away. With Adrian, it wasn't like that. He wasn't after anything.

"Would you?" she asked trustingly.

Lightly, he brushed her collarbone. He pressed the silver butterfly against her skin. Trudy felt herself redden as his precise fingers righted the pendant and pushed it smoothly back into place.

She felt suddenly cold when he withdrew his hand.

Adrian, you sweetheart, you didn't even look down.

Trudy mumbled her thanks, wringing the napkin in her lap. The skin under her necklace tingled, and she resisted the irrational impulse to jerk the chain to the side again.

Two dates—two dates with this man!—and she was all but ready to say "love." No doubt about it, she was in over her head.

"That waiter shouldn't have thrown his apron at you."

Monk smiled. Finally, someone's on my side.

"It was his fault, too," he added. "He overcharged us by 17 cents! Did he think I was just going to let that go?"

"Here, come here," she said, and threaded her arm through his.

"Maybe…" his chest grew tight, but he said the words anyway. "Let's go somewhere else next time, okay?"

Next time. He was assuming a lot.

If he had jumped the gun, Trudy didn't call him on it.

"You're right. Actually, there's a mystery theater next Sunday." Trudy pointed to an advertisement. "It's right over—"

"The godson did it."

She hit him lightly on the arm. "If you're so smart, why did you wait three weeks to call me? We could have spent all that time together."

"I didn't want to seem presumptuous. You're way out of my—"

"Hey, Trudy!"

"—league," Monk finished bleakly.

A young blonde was waving energetically at his girlfriend. Monk's first instinct was to hide. He knew her name: Janice Ellinghouse. She was bright, inquisitive, and antagonistic. A true reporter at heart.

Trudy smiled lopsidedly. "Hello, Janice. How's it going?"

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Janice had stuck a lacquered fingernail in Monk's face.

"You!" she said emphatically.

Monk shrank back.

"Me," he said in a small voice.

Janice turned up her nose at him and faced Trudy.

"Girl, where's your nose for avoiding his type?" she asked. "I walked by the restaurant right when this creep was staring at some middle-aged broad in a fancy dress!"

Monk blanched while Trudy tried to explain.

"Uh, that wasn't actually…"

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" Janice scolded him.

"Yes, at all times, ma'am, but if I may say something…"

"Trudy, take my advice. Leave that by the curb." She linked her arm with Trudy's on the other side. "C'mon, there are better men to take upstairs, trust me."

"He hasn't been upstairs," said Trudy, yanking her arm away.

"That's right," Monk put in. "She lives on the first floor."

Janice stared at him.

"Janice," Trudy tried to distract her, "I know why he was staring, and believe me, his reasons were honorable. Can you mind your own business, please?"

Janice blew past Trudy's asperity. "I'm telling you, you'd better be careful. Look at him! Shiny shoes, starched shirt, nervous hands." She sniffed the air. "I smell a Quaker or a first-class pervert. You watch out, you hear?"

Having said her piece, Janice promptly wheeled around and jogged away from them.

Trudy looked after Janice, bewildered. "And she thinks you're weird."

Adrian shifted. "I am. But I'm sure she means well."

"She means to be right. It'd kill her if she found out you were actually a decent man, and her instincts were wrong. Maybe that's why she didn't stick around to find out." Trudy rolled her eyes. "She's a little long on interrogation, a little short on explanation. Other times, she can actually be a dear."

"In other words, the perfect news anchor."

"Adrian Monk, that is incredibly forgiving of you," smiled Trudy. "I think she'll come around. If not," she finished grimly, "I may promise you mayhem."

He touched Trudy's hair reverently. "Come on. You couldn't hurt anyone."

Trudy stopped his stride with a hand over his heart.

She turned to face him.

They were still in the center of the sidewalk. He wondered why that no longer mattered.

People are starting to stare, he thought dizzily. That's a good idea. Maybe I'll do that, too.

She was so beautiful. She was also very near.

In a low voice, she said, "Your collar's not straight."

"'Course it is," he answered, mesmerized.

"Are you certain?" Her hands were at his shoulders. Monk closed his eyes as her hands glided up to the top of his shirt and playfully tugged it askew.

"I'm sure it used to be," he said, unable to lie even now, but his arms were wiser than he, and moved towards her waist.

"What about now?" she whispered softly, fingering the cloth under his chin.

"Now…I…Trudy…"

Their arms entwined, Monk's eyes still closed. Why did he have to know exactly how she looked? He could have traced her features in the dark. Her forehead…there. Her nose…her chin…

Her sweet mouth, there.

His hands did not shake as he kissed her. He and she stood still, close and perfect, their lips softly pressed together. Monk didn't think he'd ever move again.

His resolution lasted until a passing bike nearly ran them down. With the last of his senses, he opened his eyes and escorted her off the sidewalk. Then an old lady came outside and yelled at them for trampling her lawn. They walked in the road, got beeped at, kissed again, earned some catcalls, and were both clumsy and silly enough that the cab they had called was forgotten, and they splashed their way back to campus through the gutters and gravel. It was dirty, wet, and beginning to rain, except that somewhere inside Monk a light was burning all the outer filth away, and his whole soul was clean, clean, clean.

The film rolls still smelled slightly acidic, and every once in a while, one would come unpinned and slither down over Monk's supine face. Bernard was snoring away with his pants on the bedpost, the dried root beer still sticking to the floor. Monk hadn't had time to defrost the freezer, or even dry his damp shirtsleeve from the half-spilled glass of water.

The long, old list of fears couldn't touch him tonight. Adrian Monk slept away, hands curled around his pillow. The clock ticked across the blissful hours, but the mechanical part of Monk's mind was shut off. The night glided by, almost sweetly, as if knowing that his contentment couldn't last for long.

It took until three a.m. for sheer terror to sink in.

Monk's eyes opened wide from a dreamless sleep.

Oh, no.

His muscles were rigid. He had goose bumps running up and down his arms.

No, no, no.

He'd had a fantastic time that night. He, Adrian Monk, had been happy, with himself and the world. It was terrible. It was the worst thing of all!

He trembled with fright beneath the blankets.

Life was good? That was bad. Good didn't happen to him. True, sometimes it got close enough to look in Monk's window. Then it squished its nose against the glass and made faces that were funny to everyone but him.

She would leave. She would get bored. She wouldn't love him anymore. It would be his fault, always his fault. It wouldn't take death or fate to part them. She would never stay on her own, never. Drew Cooney would have his smile back, with interest.

Monk was scared. He choked with fear because he knew. Somewhere, somehow, and soon, there would be the inevitable downturn. There could be no doubt: something would shake apart his heaven.

I hope you don't mind epically long installments. Trudy and Monk had a lot to say to each other. 'Til next time!