Wow guys – thanks for all the great reviews! Had a really rough week at home (hence being rather faster with updates than usual) so it was so nice this morning to check into my email and see such an encouraging response.
As very kindly instructed by some of you, I have now given up anticipating when a story is ending, lol. So here's the next bit. Hope you enjoy and that you take the bromance+ bits in the good humour intended. They are still firmly friends but I couldn't resist a bit of fun. There's a plot purpose in there somewhere….
X x X
Nick was on the phone when Monroe trotted down from the shower and he was surprised to see his friend up and looking relatively bright-eyed, given the draining emotional outpouring of the previous night. Whatever Nick had just said, the voice at the other end, definitively female, was giggling like a mad thing. Nick jerked his head to the phone and mumbled into the receiver.
"He's here – hang on." Mouthed 'Rosie for you', and politely stepped away from the call, handing the receiver over.
"Hi honey, how're the bison?"
"Missing you."
Eh? "Missing me?"
"Oh yeah, they all think you're the best thing since… electric cars. No one has ever sat through their 'dark reflections of a nomadic mind' like you did yesterday." Rosie giggled, but dropped the level of her voice slightly. "I was mentally reaching for the paracetamol and vodka after the second poem. Look, the tablets I gave them seem to be working really well and I'm getting much less good at pretending to enjoy their poetry, so after a few more philistinic comments they'll probably be gone by this afternoon."
Relief washed through him. This was the woman he knew and loved – not some suckee into a poetry cult. "I cannot tell you how good it is to have you back."
"I didn't go far, honey. How's Nick? Been looking after you?"
"Yeah. He's had some difficult developments recently, but…I'll tell you about that later. Look, he and I are going out to see a boat today—" Nick, halfway through a bowl of cheerios, whipped his head up and gave him a milky, grateful smile that made him look like a four-year-old and Monroe had to turn his back so as not to chuckle down the phone. "Sorry, lost my thread. We're going to see this boat, but I'll be back later. Assume I'm coming home tonight, but if the bison are still around…"
"I'll give you a heads-up, don't worry. Give Nick my love."
They swapped embarrassing phone smooches – well, it would've been embarrassing in front of anyone but Nick, then he finally hung up.
"You'd really come with me?"
"Course. How else am I going to politely evade twenty pages of rhyming mayhem? Ok, get some clothes on and we'll hit the road."
"I'm dressed."
"You are wearing nowhere near enough clothes. I happen to know that all the gas station workers between here and Pilot Rock are female, and I don't wish to be getting my gas from women with the concentration power of a blob of jam when they're totting up the bill."
"Okay, so some of them are a few additives short of a froot loop, but what's that got to do with my clothes?"
Monroe smacked his hand across his face. "Get some jeans and a short-sleeved shirt and get in the car, young Nicholas. We need to talk."
Nick was unusually cooperative and hopped in the passenger seat, decently clad. Monroe noted his nonagenarian fan club give them both a slightly disappointed wave as they drove away. How to bring this up without sounding like the slightly jealous older brother? He pushed the car up to 50, joined the I5 slipway and shot into the forestry region where the shade cooled the car nicely.
"Right, Nick, I've noticed some changes lately. I know you're working hard on getting fit and strong but you're either being weirdly effective, or something is happening to you."
"I've just built up a little. Nothing weird about that."
"I timed your run yesterday. 3 miles in 20 minutes. And I checked your pedometer. You didn't cut any corners."
Nick grinned. "I'm getting quite proud of that."
"And you've gained, what, eight to ten pounds in muscle tone in five weeks?"
"The forest makes a good gym. Hey look, after that pneumonia episode I made a promise to myself to sort my ass out and that's what I'm trying to do."
"And that's all very admirable, it's just that… it's kind of quick. And you're clearly sending off all manners of pheromones because whenever you're near a woman, your presence creates a vacuum into which they babble. Even Rosie. She was giggling on the phone this morning. Threats at gunpoint can't get her to smile before eight, usually."
Nick looked vaguely hurt. "I'm not trying to do anything funny, you know. You and Rosie are… a pair."
"I know, I know. None of this is accusation. I think you just need to be aware that something is happening to you."
"I'm not convinced something is happening to me!"
Monroe tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The conversation did indeed seem to be going in the direction of the jealous older brother. "Ok, fine. You up for a bet?"
"Uh…"
"We're going to head for the Pine Copse gas station. If you can get in, get snacks and gas and come out with the right change after an intelligent conversation, I'll shut up. If the checkout girl turns into a noodle, I'll send the bison round to your place to roam around for a while."
"Don't you dare!"
"Not feeling confident?"
Nick went oddly quiet as they pulled in.
X x X
Nick buckled up, flaming with embarrassment and shoving the snacks on the floor of the shotgun seat. "Do we have to count that one?"
"Yes."
"How do we know the kid wasn't just deflecting some wild passion for a bearded older man?"
Monroe smirked wickedly. "Don't be utterly ridiculous. He didn't ask for my number, he asked for yours. And it's kinda your fault for raising the odds by taking your shirt off before you went in."
"It's hot! I'm wearing a teeshirt!"
"Some people don't ask for much."
Nick shuddered. Not because the kid was a guy, or because he was young, but simply because…
"If you don't like the idea of people mentally undressing you while you're talking to them, wear more layers. Give them more work to do."
"Fine. Consider me told." Nick lowered the window a crack and let the breeze cool his face off as they shot off back into the forest. They should be there in another half hour or so. With Monroe, in daylight, it all seemed much less intimidating. Everything looked completely different in the sunlight. And if he was honest with himself, he was feeling different these days, too. Up and down, but weirdly robust. Apart from the difficult women in his life. He had noticed people reacting differently towards him recently but had absolutely no idea how to bring it up without sounding like a self-loving prick. Well, at least as far as the positive experiences went, like the Escher sisters keeping an eye on him since Juliette left, or the girl at the corner shop giving him an extra smile and complimentary beer to go with his shopping. On the other hand, there were reactions like those of Rabe's…
"Monroe, do I have silver eyes?"
Monroe flashed him a startled glance then jerked it back to the road to keep a safe distance from the truck in front. "Nick, there is such thing as leading up to a topic, you know?"
"You seem to know exactly what I'm talking about, though."
"Dare I ask what's brought this question about?"
Nick told him about Rabe's insane reaction to his call and the absolute panic that the sound of his voice had brought about. "And that was on the phone, it wasn't even like I just showed up at his office."
"In some ways, it's actually a timely question. When a Grimm is after the truth, or is angry – at least this appears to be the case with you – there's this steely, non-compromising gleam that sets off a whole series of emotions that makes you feel... naked, I suppose. When you're not about to leave a topic alone, we – wesen, can feel it. It's like being mentally undressed. At some point, whatever we've done that's wrong is going to be exposed. There's this great big sense of impending doom that you're going to paint our wrongdoings across the wall and then hang us up to dry next to them so everyone can see our crimes. The whole 'silver' thing is… it's like a euphemism. A short-cut phrase for that emotion. You might get it a lot. You're a cop. Going after the truth is what you do."
Nick remembered Monroe's face after the mouse attack after he'd shot into the garden after an attacker that wasn't there. He'd thought Monroe was having a cardiac arrest. "Did I do 'the eyes' at you yesterday? When I was mad?"
"Yes. But then, having known you for a year, I know you're not going to turn me inside out and make a mural out of my life crimes, so …. Not really an issue."
"But with Rabe… I didn't even introduce myself. I just said I wanted to ask him a few questions about—"
"That'll do it. Frank Rabe has about six different forms of tax avoidance scheme in operation at any one time. Note the term 'avoidance', not 'evasion'. The moment you spoke to him, you probably reduced him to a shrivelled, empty little money bag on his office chair. You bring our fears to the surface as well as our wrongs."
Nick sighed, wondering if he could go through life striking mortal dread into people. "He said I curled his fur."
"He was probably being polite." Monroe pulled off the main road onto a dirt track at the roundabout. His satnav was polite and decorous. It even said please. Nick made a mental note of of its make and model numbers. While his friend was still being relaxed – relatively – and open about the whole thing, Nick tried him with one more.
"What do you fear when I give you…. The 'eyes'?"
"Depends which set of eyes we're talking about. If it's the puppydog eyes, I fear bankruptcy. 'Oh Monroe, get me some fiercely expensive Skasenblaase! I'll pay you back in 2014. Monroe, can you grab me a Chinese on your way home?'"
"Be serious."
"Ok, when you give me those eyes, I fear you being mad at me."
"I might get mad at you if you send the bison round to my place."
"A bet's a bet! You're not getting out of it with threats. Right… we're here. Where's your papers?"
X x X
They walked to the end of the pier and stared out to the circle of scrubland in pilot lake. Monroe gazed at the line of numbers along the opposite dock and finally spotted, albeit rusty and coated in green algae, a white 14 against a blue plate. The 'tug' next to it was huge, two decked with a separate pilot enclosure. He felt a little excited just looking at it. Sure it was a little dilapidated, but so long as it was seaworthy... God, Nick could be the menace of the waterways in this thing! He glanced left, where his buddy stood uncharacteristically quiet, swallowing hard.
Monroe cleared his throat. "So, that's the Heart of the Lake?"
"Yep."
"It's kind of a romantic name, given your parentage."
"My dad used to call it 'Cirrhosis of the River.'"
Monroe laughed. "That's a little harsh. I mean sure, it's not pretty, but it's not diseased, either. You could throw some serious weight around in this thing. Right, we've got to get over. Any guidance in the infamous annex A as to how we do that?"
"Nope."
"Course not. Heaven forbid your family might make anything easy for you!"
"My thoughts exactly."
Nick looked kind of lost and for a moment, Monroe felt like giving him a hug. Instead, he tried to keep Nick focussed on the practical stuff so he didn't unravel again. Not that it upset him having to spend an hour consoling an abruptly weeping Grimm, but the sheer force of it had been a little distressing. He didn't like the idea of Nick having held a whole bunch of loneliness inside all that time. He remembered how that felt. In so many ways, Rosalee had cured his life. Even if weirdness kept him on his toes far more than he'd like. Even Nick's first night after Juliette left hadn't been that... rending. More like a gentle, hopeless resignation on Nick's part; a desperate attempt on his own part to make and keep light conversation going."
Monroe clapped Nick lightly on the back. God he was warm. "Shall we go see if there's a dock master or anything out here?"
"Good plan. Oh hang on - there's someone crashing about on that yacht, c'mon."
He followed the direction of Nick's pointed finger, looked for the non-existent yacht, and instead jogged behind Nick towards a…dinghy, which was optimistically named 'Sea Warrior'. The Cap'n of the boat was an unsteady, bearded ginger guy in his early fifties, staggering around his deck and apparently looking for something while caterwauling along to the first sung chorus of 'Zadok the Priest' blasting from his classic radio. In the privacy of his boat, the empty yard and with the stirring of the choral heights, the guy morphed to his natural essence form – a Rissfleich.
Monroe groaned inwardly. Why, if they had to deal with wesen today on top of everything else, could they not stumble on something more calm and dependable like a Maushertz? Rissfleichen were the piss-heads of the cat world. He was relieved to see Nick hang back a little, waiting for him, rather than thunder over and introduce himself. Nick was still unsettled by the presence of the tug, likely to do 'the eyes' and Rissfleichen were notoriously twitchy. He drew level with Nick, who murmured at him out of the corner of his mouth.
"Is that a drunk tiger?"
"Uh… yeah. Look Nick, can I handle this one? He might be a little less startled by me." Nick's eyes had the steely gleam again and Monroe had a quick hot flush. He needed less of the eyes, however handsome they were. Handsome? Where did that come from? "Nick – you got any shades?"
"I think so – in the car. Why?"
"Call it an experiment. I want to see if obscuring your…searching gaze also dampens the Grimm effect. Rissfleichen startle easily."
Nick shrugged, but interestedly so. "I don't know why that never occurred to me. Ok. Hang on…" He was back in moments, wearing aviator shades, and with an absolute thump of shocking realisation, Monroe looked at his friend and realised he was becoming an alpha, standing there all broad-shouldered and brooding, his bigger chest rising and falling gently under his tee-shirt –
WHAT THE HELL'S GOING ON? Monroe trotted smartly away from Nick and the pulsing cloud of pheromones he was exuding. He needed to speak to Rosalee about this. Nick clearly needed HRT or …something. He shook his head clear of unwanted bromantic thoughts and approached the Rissfleich, gingerly. "Uh, good morning. Would you mind giving us a lift to berth 14?"
Rheumy eyes fixed his. "B-berf 14?"
"Yeah, it's right over there." He pointed helpfully.
"Know where izzis. Is my dock. That's Kessler's boat. Sweet lady. Always used to bring me whisky."
Monroe leant back slightly from the swaying Rissfleich: from the look and smell of him, he wasn't having so much difficulty getting his own whisky these days. Marie Kessler? Sweet lady? Monroe thought not. Nick was suddenly back beside him, asking questions about his aunt, and Monroe knew by proxy that Nick's emotions were running high because he suddenly felt the urge to peel Nick's teeshirt off and fling it into the lake. He clutched his head, his very straight head, thank you, and clambered into the back of the boat, thinking strenuously of unsexy things like shopping baskets, tax returns….
"Hey, whaddya doing?"
"That's Marie's nephew, and we are requisitioning this boat."
The Rissfleich squinted. "Marie's nephew, eh? Wow. Didn't someone get all big and grown up? Hop in, son."
Nick hopped in at the pilot end and shot Monroe a concerned look as the Rissfleich had a few goes at getting the key into the ignition. He walked down the boat towards him and Monroe shifted onto the back ledge, holding the flagpole for balance, trying to keep some safe distance from his buddy. The engine started and the pissed cat swung the boat round awkwardly, adding to his prized collection of dents. Nick mouthed at him.
Is this safe?
It's just a short distance.
What is he?
Rissfleich. A rare Indian Tiger-wesen, usually cross bred. Very poor navigators, usually alcoholic, usually found in Nepal. Monroe supplemented the lip enunciation with improvised sign-language, stymied only by the difficulties of miming 'Nepal' in any meaningful way. But he was pretty impressed that Nick seemed to get most of it. He frowned, furrowing his brow rather gorgeously – AGHHHHHHH – confusion coming off him in great, warm, cuddly waves.
How does an Indian, confused, alcoholic tiger end up in Nepal? Or Portland, for that matter?
Dude! Question asked, question answered! I'm not a goddamn encyclopaedia!
Nick flinched. Ok, ok! You alright? You're grabbing your head a little—
The Rissfleich stumbled turning to port and went down on the floor with the wheel, taking slamming the boat into the dock and him off the back of the boat. In the split second before he hit the water, Monroe saw Nick lunging for his hand, all urgent and fuzzy-tummied as his teeshirt rode up, and then he was surrounded by coldness and algae.
He'd never been so glad for an ice bath in his life. Even if he couldn't swim.