Sorry it took me so long to get this to you all. I promise I really am working on the next couple of chapters but it appears that my muse has run a way. If anyone finds it, please let me know and send her back to me. :)
Part VI
When Nick next woke, it was to the sun barely streaming through the windows of his bedroom and the smell of homemade bread wafting through the house. His brain was still too fuzzy from the fever to even wonder why there was the smell of fresh bread, so Nick merely turned over so that he lay on his back.
Ow, his body groused when he moved. His muscles felt heavy and weak, even the slightest movement felt taxing. Behind his eyes throbbed a headache so fierce it made his vision blurry, making Nick to squint to see the random shapes and cracks in the ceiling. The wound on his leg pulsed in time with his heartbeat, sending jagged shards of pain throughout the limb.
It took a good ten minutes for him to recall the past three days, and by the time he had, the sun had fully set. Wait a minute, why had the sun set? He had to go to work! Hang on, why didn't his alarm go off?
"Oh good, you're awake," Monroe greeted far too cheerily for Nick's pounding head. Vaguely, Nick recognized something in the Blutbad's hands but the fever he still had was making it too hard for him to think properly.
Nick winced at the sound of his friend's voice, sluggishly bringing a hand to his head in hopes of clamping down on the throbbing temples. Heat poured off him in waves; he could feel them crash into Monroe as they`` spread outward. And still it didn't do anything to help cool him down. His eyes burned, almost painfully so, so he closed them, wanting to cool them down with what little liquid he had left in them.
"Still feeling like crap huh?" Monroe surmised, though he didn't sound any less happy than when he came in. His footsteps shuffled from the bedroom door to Nick's side of the bed, stopping to place what sounded like a tray onto one of the bare dresser tops. The sound echoed through the bedroom, taunting Nick with its emptiness.
Ha, ha, Juliette left and now you're all alone, it teased and tormented as it pounded viciously through his head.
A cool hand placed itself on his forehead and Nick found himself leaning into the touch.
"Still hot, I see," Monroe commented dryly. The cold hand left, along with Monroe's footsteps, and went into the bathroom where Nick heard the sink's faucet turn on.
Time was obviously not Nick's best friend right now; he thought Monroe had been in the bathroom for hours and if he'd been asked, he would have said that, in the time Monroe had spent screwing around, his fever had begun to sear the skin on his bones.
The cold came back, but this time in the form of a washcloth. Icy water dripped down the sides of his head, disappearing into his hairline as it evaporated. More water splattered onto his face and chest as Monroe splashed it onto his skin.
Nick was torn between cringing away from the cold and whimpering in delight. At first the water was uncomfortable, but after a millisecond it became pleasant. More water splashed onto his skin and this time Nick did whimper.
"Don't be such a baby," Monroe groused, and Nick could imagine an over exaggerated eye roll playing into the mix as well.
"Monroe," Rosalee's voice snapped, surprising Nick's subconscious mind.
"What? It's not that cold."
"It probably is to him. His fever is still high enough that the most tepid water would be freezing." She paused for a moment then said, "Now help me prop him up so we can get some fluids into him."
The time it took Monroe to get him settled upright wasn't that long, Nick knew that, but it was long enough for the Grimm to recognize one thing: it hurt. God, he hated being sick! Injuries he could handle, but sickness sucked.
Another washcloth was placed on his head, replacing the now warm one. This time the water that splattered onto his skin was followed by yet another cool washcloth; this one was wetter than the one on his forehead. Water dripped off it, soaking into the light tee shirt he wore as it traveled down his chest.
Oh yeah, that definitely felt good.
Both washcloths were removed from his face and Nick found himself missing the cold. He opened his eyes slowly, not sure if he actually wanted to know what he would see or not. The first thing he saw was the royal blue of a washcloth closing the distance between it and his forehead but the next thing he saw was Rosalee's warm smile.
"Hey," she greeted in a gentle voice. She dragged another wet washcloth down the side of his face and chest.
"That feels good," Nick responded. His subconscious mind berated him for saying that of all things when he should be asking when she got there, not to mention why she was there.
She chuckled deep in her throat, "I'll bet it does. Your fever was almost one-hundred and six before Monroe called me." She threw a look over Nick's body where he assumed Monroe stood. "The wound on your leg was badly infected by the time I got here. But between some ointment Monroe's grandmother made and some herbs from the shop, you're finally on the mend."
"Mm," Nick acknowledged, though he'd meant to say more.
Of their own accord, Nick's eyes closed but it wasn't long before Rosalee's voice was urging him to open them back up. "Nick, I know you're tired, but I need you to open your eyes again. We need to get some sustenance in you before you can go back to sleep."
"Mph," Nick objected, weakly trying to turn his head away from the spoon that was being shoved into his face.
"Hey, don't look at me for help," Monroe said when Nick apparently turned his direction. "I'm with her."
"And in more ways than one," Nick responded before he could think about it. He winced when he realized how the comment had sounded and the throbbing in his head intensified. "Ugh," he groaned, putting a hand on his head, "Sorry. I didn't mean that the way it came out."
"It's fine," Rosalee assured, shoving a spoonful of homemade chicken noodle soup into his mouth while she had the chance of it being open.
Nick grimaced at the heat. Normally cold soup didn't appeal to the Grimm but when he was as hot as he felt, it always sounded glorious. He opened his mouth to say something about the temperature, but soon found it full of more soup.
"Kay, you ready for some Tylenol?" Rosalee asked. The clinking of a bowl and spoon being set down soon followed her question, followed by the rattle of a pill bottle.
Nick winced as the sounds resounded through his head but he didn't answer; he figured it was a rhetorical question anyways.
"Now, we'll let you get some rest," Rosalee promised after she'd given Nick the medicine.
"What about the herbs?" Nick mumbled, vaguely remembering something about them from earlier.
"They were in the soup," Rosalee answered, gathering things so she and Monroe could leave.
Unaware of what he was doing, Nick smacked his lips together as he tried to taste the soup again. "Is that what made it taste so good?"
"No, that would be the taste of homecooking," Monroe answered. "Remember what that tastes like?"
"What 'r you talkin' about? I had homecooking a lot when I was with Juliette," Nick sleepily argued.
"Okay, as much as I'd love to listen to you two banter, we really need to let him sleep," Rosalee interjected before things could really get going; which was good given Nick couldn't really think much beyond his argument.
"Excuses, excuses," Monroe joked, but Nick could hear his footsteps retreating nonetheless.
"Get some rest, Nick; we'll check in on you in a couple of hours."
And with that, Nick was left alone. It didn't take long for the darkness in his room to lull him into a deep sleep and soon, Nick was aware of nothing more—not even the figure outside his window, keeping watch.
Sean sat in the tree outside Nick's bedroom, keeping a close eye on the man whom he was destined to be mated to. Regnants don't fall in love lightly, or at all really, so when one falls for a being, it generally means that that being is who they are meant to be with for the rest of the Regnant's life. Unfortunately, a Regnant's life span was longer than that of a human. It often meant that the Regnant was left, at one point in time or another, alone for a portion of its adulthood.
If he'd been asked, Sean wouldn't be able to say why he was sitting outside the Grimm's bedroom, stalking the man, as it were. Okay, so he could say, but he would rather not. The truth of the matter was Sean was worried about Nick.
When he'd — discreetly — stopped by Saturday night to check on Nick, he'd noticed that the house was Juliette-less and that Nick wasn't taking it so well. Every instinct in his body had screamed at him to knock on the front door and ask if Nick was okay or if he needed anything, but he knew he couldn't; he'd made an agreement with the Grimm that he would wait for him to be ready and Sean was going to stick to it. He'd kept an eye on Nick, though. Watching all throughout Sunday in growing worry until the Blutbad had shown up. Knowing that he could be smelled, Sean chose then to vacate. He didn't want his presence known, especially since the Blutbad would probably tell Nick that he was around.
He'd waited impatiently for the cover of dusk before he ventured another watch. And now, here he sat on a hefty tree limb, barely shivering in the cold that had descended upon Portland. He was glad to see that Nick was getting better. His only regret was that it couldn't have been him sitting by the Grimm's bedside instead of the Blutbad and the Fuchsbau..
Patiently, he watched as Nick fell back asleep. Then, as silently as he'd arrived, Sean took flight into the clear night sky. He had some energy to burn and he knew just how to do it.
It was dawn on Wednesday morning before Nick was coherent enough to remember what had transpired over the past week, and then he'd wished that he hadn't. Juliette's departure still stung as acutely as it had the day it happened and Nick's mood wasn't bound to improve anytime soon because of it. Without moving, he could tell that the scratch on his leg felt better, but it was buried beneath a bone-deep ache that was expected when one had been sick.
For a moment he thought about going back to sleep, but then his phone rang. He didn't know if phones could sound insistent or not, but his currently did, leaving him no doubt about who was calling him.
He groaned as he reached out and grabbed it, letting it seep into his tone when he said, "Hello."
"Nick? Man, you okay?" Hank's worried voice greeted him.
"Uh, I think so?"
"What do you mean, you think so? You aren't sure?" If Nick hadn't been feeling crappy still, he would have laughed at the annoyed note in his partner and friend's voice. He understood it; if the situations had been reversed, he would have been acting the same way and he knew it.
"Well, I've been sick, but I'm alive," he answered, hoping that it would placate the annoyed man.
"At this point, that's debatable. Do you even know what day it is?"
Try as he might, Nick couldn't recall what day it was. So he guessed. "Uh… Monday?"
"Try Wednesday." Hank's tone had calmed some. Instead of the near panicked tone when he'd first answered, it was now more of a teasing annoyance. Nick could hear the smirk as he'd announced the day, but he could also hear the slight bit of worry as well.
"Oh." Nick knew it wasn't enough of a reply, but it was all he had to give. With his brain still fuzzy from being sick, he honestly couldn't think of anything else. To say that it was annoying would be an understatement, but it was all Nick could think of to describe how he felt. Okay, so 'annoying' didn't really cover it since he also felt sore and tired as well, but it worked.
"Oh?"
"Well, you kinda woke me up, Hank. It's barely seven."
"Yeah, and usually you would be up by now," Hank argued, not bothered that he woke up a sick person.
"Yeah, the keyword there being 'usually'. Since I'm sick, I'm not." Nick groaned as a throbbing in his head began to make itself known via an especially painful burst.
"And how was I to know that you were sick, huh?" Hank returned, apparently ignoring Nick's sound of pain. "For all I knew, you were dead."
"Yeah, well, I'm not. Can I go back to sleep now?"
Hank scoffed at the question, letting the noise speak for itself. "And I suppose you want me to tell the Captain that you won't be in?"
"Don't you always?" Nick almost mentioned that the Captain already knew that he wouldn't be in, almost. He thankfully had enough presence of mind to remember that in doing so, he'd have to divulge all the secrets he'd been keeping from his partner, and reveal a new one he'd just learned all in one blow. Since he figured he'd done enough damage for one year, he didn't see the point in doing it again.
"Man, you're just lucky I like you," Hank replied. He hung up without waiting for anymore instructions— a fact for which Nick was grateful.
He debated putting the phone back on the table, but his arm felt too heavy for him to bother with it so he left it on the bed by his leg, figuring he'd put it back later. He was just about asleep when there was a gentle knock on his door.
"Nick?" Rosalee called through the wood, quiet in case he was still asleep. Carefully she opened the door and slipped inside, startling when she noticed that he was awake. "Sorry, I didn't know if you were up or not," she breathily apologized as she waited for her heart rate to slow down. In case he was apparently blind, she flashed the tray she'd been holding in front of her. "I brought you some breakfast. It's not much since your stomach's not ready for much solid food. But I think it's time we got your strength back up, don't you?"
Nick's first thought was no, it wasn't time to get up and get back to his life yet because Juliette was no longer in it. But even sick, he realized how ridiculous that sounded, so he took a moment to come up with something better.
"Sounds good," was all he could think to answer, his mind once again going blank when he needed it to cooperate. Stiffly, he raised himself so that he was sitting up, leaning annoyingly heavily on the headboard behind him. He was pleasantly surprised when his calf didn't grumble about being moved; apparently that salve that Bud had given him had worked, who knew?
"Good," Rosalee answered cheerily. Despite the lameness of his answer, she seemed pleased with it anyways. Her smile wasn't exactly bright, but it was as bright as Nick had ever seen since she'd arrived. He was glad that she and Monroe worked so well together; Monroe needed somebody that could get him out of the house willingly – other than Nick that is – as well as help him keep the inner wolf tamed. Of course, Nick was sure that Monroe was good for Rosalee too, he just didn't know the young woman well enough to know how.
She placed the tray down over his lap, the dishes clinking all the while as she asked, "How are you feeling?"
"Uh, better, I think. Things are a bit fuzzy still, but I definitely feel better than I did the last time I woke."
"Good, I'm glad to hear it. Not that I mind helping you out, but I would like to get back to the spice shop soon." She gave him a small wink to let him know that she was only partially kidding, thus preventing him from apologizing for something that hadn't been his fault in the first place. She sat down in the chair next to the bed and then added, "Not that Monroe has exactly been the most patient of people either. I had to kick him out last night because he was getting on my nerves with all his pent up energy."
"Haha, that sounds like Monroe," Nick agreed with a breathy smile. When he actually focused on the food on the tray, his brows furrowed. "Uh, Rosalee, why am I eating soup at," he looked over at the clock to confirm the time, "seven-thirty in the morning?"
"Because, Monroe has eaten the rest of the food that was in the house, what little there was of it, and there are some herbs in the soup that will help keep the fever down and boost your immune system. The infection seems to be gone, but you're still a little sick so I want to keep ahead on that and not let it get worse."
She leveled her gaze at his as she finished speaking. It seemed as though she were trying to convey a message within her words which were meant specifically for him, but his mind was too groggy to decipher it so he simply offered an abashed smile and began to eat his soup.
The broth tasted like a medium rare prime rib in his mouth. The mixtures of beef, garlic, pepper, oregano, and basil were glorious and he savored every taste. Nick hadn't realized how hungry he'd been until his stomach rolled in both unease and starvation as the liquid settled in it. Knowing that it wouldn't do him any good to overload his stomach with too much food at once, Nick took his painfully sweet time to eat some more. He made sure he paused in between bites, long enough that he felt the rumbling settle but short enough so that he didn't simply inhale the next sip.
"Isn't soup supposed to have chicken and vegetables?" he asked when he noticed that there was nothing but broth in the bowl.
"If this were chicken broth, then yes, there would be chicken and vegetables in it," was her vague reply. The way she was half smiling at him told him not to ask his next question, but part of the reason why Nick had become a detective was because he was curious and so he couldn't heed her silent warning.
"Then what kind of broth is this?"
At this, she smiled and leaned forward so that her elbows rested on her knees. "Believe me, you don't wanna know," she answered, giving another wink.
"Okay," Nick replied, putting another spoonful of the broth in his mouth. "I guess I'll just eat in ignorance and enjoy it."
"That would be a wise move," she assured, leaning back again. "Now, what do you say to getting up and taking a shower?"
"I say, that sounds good." Honestly Nick's first thought was 'Monroe might get jealous', but he wasn't sure of Rosalee's type of humor. Sometimes she laughed at Monroe's jokes and sometimes she didn't. Nick never understood what the difference between them was, so he couldn't figure out why she only laughed part of the time. And since she was currently his babysitter for the day, he thought it better to stay on her good side, so he went with the safer reply.
"Good, well, I'm gonna go downstairs and stop Monroe from blowing up my phone with texts while you eat. Call me when you're ready to get moving; you're still a little weak so you might need some help."
"Sounds good," Nick replied, watching as she got up and walked over to the door. "And Rosalee?"
"Yeah?" she turned around and smiled at him. He could tell she was eager to get back downstairs so he made what he had to say quick, not wanting to keep her from getting some alone time.
"Thank you, you know, for all you've done for me. I really appreciate it."
"No problem." She smiled then started to leave again, hesitating only slightly before walking out the odor and downstairs.
Although he couldn't read minds, Nick was pretty sure that she'd been debating talking to him about Juliette. He was thankful that she hadn't tried because he just wasn't ready for that conversation yet, even if she was the only woman friend he had.
Once he heard Rosalee get on the phone to Monroe, Nick felt himself relax and the faux smile on his face fade. He hated the feeling of dishonesty whenever a smile came onto his face, but somehow he felt he owed his friends to put it there. It wasn't that he didn't trust them enough to show how he truly felt – God knows he did that with Monroe before this whole getting-sick-mess began – he just wasn't altogether sure exactly how he felt about the whole situation yet.
On one hand, he felt the pain he felt at Juliette's leaving warranted; it was his punishment for not listening to wise advice when he'd received it, and not just from Aunt Marie, but from Monroe as well.
However, he also felt betrayed and hurt by Juliette's lack of willingness to believe him; she'd even gone so far as to accuse him of making the whole thing up and that had hurt the most. He wasn't sure he'd ever forgive her for that, though he would certainly try. After all, it wasn't entirely her fault; she'd just been trying to make sense of something that was unreasonable and would be considered fiction in any other universe.
Most of all, he felt stuck, like his feet were trapped in a pit of molasses that had gone thick in cooler temperature. He knew he should move on, but he couldn't figure out how. Hell, a part of him didn't want to move on because he hoped that she would eventually come to her senses and come back. He hated that hopeful side; he wanted to murder it because he knew it would hold him back, possibly for the rest of his life.
But being hopeful was just how Nick was; even after his parents had died. Sure, he'd been devastated that they were gone, but somewhere deep inside there was a nagging little voice that told him he would be alright and that he would get past this. For the most part, that voice had been right; he'd been able to mostly put the death of his parents behind him—the fact that it had appeared to be an accident had helped.
This time there was no inner voice encouraging him to let go, that things would be okay. This time all that voice was doing was screaming at Juliette to come back and believe because it needed her to, and that was the most discouraging thing of all. The idea that he felt like he couldn't live without Juliette by his side or in his life was the nail in the coffin for him; it was the driving force behind his desperate need to get back to who he truly was and what his life was now like—being a Grimm and defending, guarding and protecting the weaker Wesen of Portland.
Nick took a shuddering breath, feeling as though he hadn't breathed for five minutes. Tears now dripped silently down his cheeks, falling into a puddle in the mystery broth in the bowl in his lap. His chest hurt; it felt like there was an iron hand around his lungs, preventing them from expanding and the pain that pulsed through his sternum struck like a targeted arrow in his heart.
God, how he hated this! He wanted to throw the tray, bowl, utensils and all across the room and watch satisfactorily as everything dented the wall and the bowl broke into small, fragmented pieces because that's exactly what he felt like was happening to his heart and he knew he was powerless to stop it.
But he wouldn't, he couldn't. For one, Rosalee was still downstairs and not only would she hear the commotion, but she would probably also feel like she had to clean it up then scold him for making the mess in the first place. And for another, the reaction seemed like too much drama. In general, Nick tried to stay away from dram—either causing it or getting in the middle of it. It wasn't something his life needed and it definitely wasn't something he wanted; no man does. So, instead he settled for moving the tray off his lap and onto the empty part of the bed to his right, clearing his throat in an effort to dry his tears all the while.
Screw what Rosalee said or instructed—he was going to get out of this bed and try to get back to life. Granted he was sick right now, but he hoped to be feeling better to go into work within the next day or so, so he didn't let that stop him.
Throwing the blankets to the side—because somehow he'd been tucked in while he'd been out with the fever—Nick cautiously swung his legs over the side of his bed, letting his feet touch the cold floor for the first time in days. When he thought he was ready, he slowly began to stand.
His legs were shaky at best, but they held him so he considered a win for him. However standing in one spot while partially leaning against the bedside table was one thing, walking turned out to be another. His body was weak enough that his limbs shook with the effort of holding him upright and the energy it required just to remain standing was enough to deplete what little he had gained while he'd been eating. The pain from the wound on his calf was minimal; the stretching of the muscle caused the most discomfort. But it soon became obvious that he wasn't going to be walking on his own during this attempt so he sat back down with a heavy thud.
Well, that was disappointing, he chided himself as he waited for the minute shaking to stop and some energy to return. Let's try that again.
This time, the attempt was partially successful. He managed to make it to the armchair in the corner of the room, directly across from his bed, before he felt like he had to collapse.
With another puffing breath, Nick lifted his weak and tired body off the chair and slowly and unsteadily began making his way to the bathroom. His hand had just begun to cling to the dresser against the wall that divided the bathroom from the bedroom when Monroe's voice startled him, "Shouldn't you be waiting for help before you do that?"
Since he didn't have very much energy to begin with, Nick didn't jump at the sound of his friend's voice, but he felt his heart give a stutter of surprise. "Geez, Monroe! You know, it's customary to let someone know when you're standing there."
"I just did," the Blutbad answered unapologetically. "Besides, I would have thought you would have heard the front door seeing as how I knocked on it and everything."
"Yeah, well, I didn't."
"Yeah, I know that now. Geez, what's got your panties in a bunch?"
Nick let out a hollow laugh at his friend's question. After noticing that his entire body was beginning to shake like a dead leaf in an autumn wind, he slowly started walking into the bathroom, answering, "Really?" before he closed the door behind him.
"Okay, I know, stupid question, but come on man, I'm tryin' here," Monroe's voice called through the door. Since Nick found it weird to be talking while he was in there, he didn't answer, which left the Blutbad free to chatter on his own. "I know that Juliette leaving was a blow, but you can't be Mr. Volatile forever. You gotta move on. I'm sure she's moving on as well. Okay, that didn't come out right, but you know what I mean, right? You can't just sit around and let life pass you by; you gotta, take it by the throat-"
"-And strangle it?" Nick added, opening the door and re-entering the bedroom. The half-smile on his face had nothing to do with humor; he truly wished he could take fate by the throat and squeeze until she died.
Monroe, however, didn't think the comment was funny. He glared at Nick, obviously perturbed because his attempt at man-to-man-emotional talk wasn't going so well. "No. Well, my Nana used to say 'rip its throat out', but that never made sense to me. No, I was gonna say, you just gotta take life by the throat and run with it, but I guess that doesn't really make sense either, huh?"
"Nope!" Nick replied, collapsing once again into the armchair, too tired to make it to the bed. The mere fact that he'd been able to make it from the bathroom to the armchair without having to pause was a miracle in and of itself, he thought, and he was proud that he'd made it. However, he wasn't going to test his luck and attempt to make it to the bed, even if all he wanted to do was sleep.
"Yeah, well, give me a break, I'm trying."
Nick chuckled, light and gentle. "I know you are, and I appreciate it, but it's not necessary, really. I'll be fine."
Monroe watched him with skeptical eyes then he huffed out a scoff. "Yeah, okay."
"What, you don't think I will be?" Nick challenged, his eyebrows raising in disbelief.
"No, because you won't be unless you talk about this with your friends; a.k.a. me." When Nick made a face, he continued, "Believe me man, I know, I've been there. Remember, Angelina?"
"Oh, you mean the female Blutbad who didn't care who it was that she killed as long as she got to spill blood? No, I don't remember her at all."
"Okay, one – sarcasm does not become you; and two – she cared about whom she killed, just not what she killed."
"Oh, so Bauershwein aren't people?"
"Honestly? To most Blutbad – no. Most of us just see them as another potential meal, and more than likely a fat one at that. But that's beside the point. My point is, I was so in love with her that I allowed one of my best friends to be killed and the reason I was still in love with her was because I didn't try to move on; I didn't talk to my friends like I'd needed to."
"Hap's death wasn't your fault," Nick reminded, fully believing it. "If you'd been there, he probably would have just killed you too."
"You don't know that."
"Yeah, I kinda do. Orson was out for revenge; if you had gotten in the way of him getting that, he would have pulled the trigger without blinking an eye."
"But still, you're missing the point," Monroe insisted in obvious hopes to chase away the shadows of guilt from his eyes.
"No, Monroe, I got the point, I'm just," Nick sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to calm the headache that had slowly gotten more impressive with this conversation. "I'm just, not ready to talk about this yet, okay? I'm sick, and I'm tired, and, right now, I just want to go to sleep."
"Okay, sure, but don't think you're getting out of it that easily. Got it?"
"What are you, my mother now?"
"Well someone has to be since you obviously aren't too keen on taking care of yourself," Monroe retorted, moving off the bed and waiting for Nick to climb back in.
"I can take care of myself just fine, thank you," Nick groused, gratefully setting his head back onto the pillow.
"Yeah, that's been proven obvious by your three-day fever that has left you incoherent at best." As though acting like the mother he claimed to be pretending to be, Monroe swiftly tucked the blankets back around Nick. "Now, get some rest. I'll wake you up for some lunch in a couple of hours then while you get clean, I'll change the sheets; because you and they both smell and could use the cleaning."
"That's really not necessary," Nick drowsily argued.
"Yeah, you don't smell you like I do."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Monroe rolled his eyes as he headed for the door. "Nothing, just go to sleep." He closed the door behind him without another word.
Nick's eyes were closed before Monroe had even finished speaking, and it didn't take long for the rest of him to shut down so he could get the rest his body needed. He hoped he felt better when he woke up because this whole being-a-sick-invalid thing was getting annoying.
TBC