And so, we come to the end of the second arc! Like I promised, this one is way shorter than the last two.
And the next one is gonna be a one-shot!
Disclaimer: I own nothing at all
"Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,/ only kindness that ties your shoes/ and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,/ only kindness that raises its head/ from the crowd of the world to say/ it is I you have been looking for..." Naomi Shihab Nye "Kindness"
With a steady stream of coffee, and one well placed hour-long nap, Rose makes it to seven o'clock with most of her sanity still intact. She can't say how long it'll last, though, with an unconscious Grimm scrawled across her floor, a panicking Kheresite and a haggard Zauberbiest all in her shop. And never in her life has she been so excited to see the back of three people once they had cleared everything up with a tea, a lie and few drops f blood. As soon as they're out the door, she collapses over her worktable. "Am I allowed to go home yet?" She wonders.
"Yep, come on." He helps her up and guides her to the car.
The streetlights passing overhead cast a hypnotizing spell as they weave in and out of traffic. Her eyelids are too heavy to keep open so she leans back against the seat, turning her face toward him.
"Rose..."
"I'm listening..." She murmurs. "I'm listening. Keep talking..." The last thing she remembers is listening to his voice (and so glad that is not over the phone) drowning out the sound of the engine, the tires on the rain soaked road. She reaches out, as she starts to drift off, and tucks the tips of her fingers in the crook of his elbow. He doesn't pull away.
She falls hard and fast into dreams of rain and walking hand in hand with him in the twisting labyrinth of Paris streets. The lights are bright in her eyes, glowing gold against the gloom that's settling in fast. He talks but she can't seem to catch individual words but it doesn't matter.
"Stay," she says. "Stay with me."
He smiles and then suddenly vanishes. She calls out his name until her voice gives out. And one by one the lights go out. Guns go off in the distance but no matter how far she runs, how fast, she can't find the people she loves. She can't save them. There's no blood, only smoke and echoing screams that never die down as it grows darker and darker.
She hears the click of a gun behind her; her luck's run out. She turns to find Ian's the one holding it to her back. He only smirks at her as he pulls the trigger.
Rose bolts up, almost out of bed with a barely concealed shriek.
"Rose?!"
Rose grips the sheets and tries to remember where she is. She recounts all the travel to and from the airports, tries to put the days back in order. She lets out a shuddering breath as he reaches out to put his hand on her fist balled in her jersey sheets.
"Rose..."
She glances over to see Monroe sitting up beside her, turning on her bedside lamp.
"Rose...what's up?"
She runs a careful hand over her eyes as she settles back down. "It's nothing, just a nightmare..." She half turns. "What are...how...?"
"You asked me to stay." He tilts his head to one side, surprised.
"And you stayed?"
"Of course."
Without another thought, Rose reaches over and settles her arm around his neck, resting her head against his chest. His arm curves around her shoulders as they settle in together once again; his other hand runs over hers in careful measured strokes. "I'm glad." She whispers. "I thought that was part of the dream."
"You want to tell me about it?"
"Nope." She burrows farther in, as if to escape it.
"Not even a little?"
"Not even at all. It's just a dream, it doesn't mean anything."
He squeezes her hand. "You know, this isn't Den Haag. You can tell me things."
Rose thinks back to Alexander and his whole spiel about her being different, softer. Rose sees Femke and her happy glow and how much she'd missed Monroe that she almost couldn't breathe. She presses her nose against his cheek so she doesn't have to speak up. "It was Ian." She murmurs. "In my dream. I was in Paris and it was raining and he shot me in the back."
He says nothing for a moment, only runs his fingers up and over her shoulder, directly over the scar that she can barely feel through her shirt. "He wouldn't actually do it, would he?"
She shrugs. "We have a history but the Laufer is his cause; he'd die for it, he'd kill for it. He already has."
"Well, I can certainly understand why you hate Paris now."
She grins. "You know, I've always wanted to go to Ireland...or New Zealand. Some where with an ocean view."
"I'm sensing an island theme here."
"Yep." She closes her eyes again. "An island far far away from all that nonsense."
He's quiet a moment.
"You're picturing me in a bikini, aren't you?"
"Maybe a little bit, yeah."
"Are we in Ireland or New Zealand?"
"New Zealand."
"Perfect." She grins. "Just in time for Christmas."
She drops off again, matching her breathing to his and telling her heart to steady itself; she's home now.
The shop has remained relatively unchanged, despite Monroe's many threats on his way out this morning that he re-painted everything and put all of her most commonly used ingredients on the very top shelves ("So, my suffering is funny to you, now?" She wondered this morning as he lingered at the door). Rose walks behind the counter, running her fingers across the surfaces and noting all the divits and cracks as familiar to her as her own hands. Behind her, the book spines stand slightly out of their previous order. But, as far as she can tell, the ingredients are all in their right places. She takes in a deep breath; the smells of her books and cedar and freshly drying peppermint. She rolls up her sleeves and gets to work.
Two hours later, her phone beeps in her pocket. She smiles, thinking he's already sent her a recipe he wants to try to teach her tonight or asking her how she likes the redecoration (she's just glad he didn't put any Christmas lights up).
Read an interesting article today- A
She taps 'today' and follows the link to an article from a French newspaper. Her French is passable but she gathers that Louis Sheera was found dead in his cell this morning: a toothbrush shiv puncturing his lungs. He never even made a sound.
Thought he was in maximum security-R
He was-A
Case closed-R
Our friend from Amsterdam said you never called-A
Not going to call him. You can tell him to get someone else- R
No one else will do quite as nicely- A
Tell him to fuck off. I'm done- R
You should probably tell them yourself. Not to pleased-A
There's no way Alexander could have known but the bell above the door chimes. Rosalee grabs her trusty box cutters under the counter; she locked the door behind her this morning coming in. She's sure. "We're closed," she calls out, sounding more sure than she feels.
Inez walks in, flanked by two men. All wear the same sort of nondescript clothing , easily forgotten; a trick she learned early and never forgot. It served her well. "Hello again, Calvert." Inez purrs. "It's been a while."
She nods curtly, but not impolitely. "I've never met your friends." She nods at the two men, ever watching the perimeter.
Inez smiles. "Oh? This is Fredricks," She indicates the taller one, who woges into a Taureus-Armenth. "And Hammond." She indicates the stockier one who shifts into a Steinadler. "We've gotten word about your alliance-"
"It's not an alliance." Rosalee growls. "There's nothing political about it. We do things differently here, I'm sure you remember."
Inez rolls her eyes. "Come on, Calvert. Harmon told me everything. "
Fury rises up in Rosalee's throat. She has to swallow it down, hard. "And what did he tell you?"
"That your father-"
"If you're smart, you won't finish that sentence." She sniffs. "You didn't know my father and neither did Ian."
Inez and her backup pull back.
"And if you think that's your ace in the hole, you've got another thing coming." Rosalee looks them each in the eye. "Now, get out. I'm not going to tell you again. " She points and manages to keep the shaking out of both her arms and voice.
They slink toward the door but Inez turns back to look at her just before she disappears. Rose rushes to the door and locks it behind them. She slides down, back to the door and takes deep calming breaths. Part of her can't believe Ian would try to sink that low, try to use her father as a reason to help them.
"He would have wanted it," Ian would say. "He would have been proud." And how the fuck would he know? Her father was dead and buried and had been for the better part of a decade. Ian would know, neither would De Groot. Her father was dead and gone, beyond anymore hurt or disappointment that she might inflict.
Rose grabs for her bag and pulls out the photograph. She resettles her self against the door, holding the picture of her mother and father before her and studying it like a roadmap.
That night, during the kiss over her doormat, Rose decides to keep it quiet a few days longer; Inez and the photograph. Happiness with him is right within her grasp and she's too weak to throw it out yet. She likes feeling small and protected and understood too much. And she decides that she is simply going to be happy tonight. So that, in case everything falls apart, she can look back on tonight and remember they were happy.
He gives up trying to help and just takes over. Rose doesn't mind; she perches on the counter, next to the stove, ladling in the vegetable stock but only when asked.
She settles her back against the cabinets as he talks about this and that and all the things she missed while she was gone (well, a lot of the things he tried to tell her last night but fell asleep), admiring the way his hands move effortlessly from stirring to chopping. To the way they settle on her knee when he's close enough.
"I can't believe you don't cook." He says as she pours more wine in their glasses. "You make zaubertraunks and potions and save our asses on a regular basis... and...you set water on fire." He finishes incredulously.
"I do not!" She whines. "I can make scrambled eggs and bacon...and cereal and noodles."
He raises one eyebrow at her.
"Hey, I survived this long without your help and I'm not malnourished or anything."
"On scrambled eggs..." he echoes with a smirk.
"Don't turn your nose up at scrambled eggs. Lots of protein."
"Also a lot of cholesterol." He leans against her knee.
"Shut up," she smiles and leans over to kiss his temple. It's odd, still to be able to reach out and touch him whenever she wants. "When are we going to eat?"
"So, I'm allowed to talk about the food I'm making...but not about anything else?" He wonders, turning off the burners.
"You're going to let me starve?"
"Never." He leans in to kiss her as she twists to grab bowls out of the cabinet. They eat sitting on the counter, instead of the table that is covered in laundry she has yet to fold, and it feels as though they've been doing this forever. When they finish, he hops down first and stops suddenly.
His hand curves a under her knee and pulls her a little closer. She loops her arms around his shoulders. "So, are you going to tell me the real reason for the nightmare?" He wonders.
"Monroe, I told you it was just a dream and it doesn't mean anything and —"
His thumbs flickers over her kneecap. "You don't have to go into specifics...I just get the sense that there's just something you're not telling me."
She slides off the counter to face him. "My old life seems to far away when I'm home. But it's not and it's there and I'm always going to worry that it's going to bleed into this one and ruin...everything."
"It won't. We can—"
"Ian was in Paris. He wanted me to meet with some members of the Laufer."
"What for?"
"What else? Nick. I haven't spoken to them but..." she shakes her head. "I know what they'd want from me. I know what they're capable of." She presses her forehead against his, holding his face between her palms lightly. He settles his hands on her waist. "And I don't want to get mixed up in that mess in anymore than I already am. I don't want to drag us into the middle of something that is bigger than we can even imagine." She thinks back to Kelly and her warning You do realize the danger you're putting yourselves in, standing with my son. Not just other Grimms, but your own kind...the Royals...
He says nothing, only waits.
"You know what I am; I'm never going to be out of all of this. And you can walk away right now." But God, she hopes he won't. She's gone and gotten herself attached like an idiot. But there is its. "And...and I wouldn't blame you at all."
Monroe grips her hand in his. "We're more than capable of handling whatever comes our way, us three. Well, four now, with Hank. And I guess five, with the Captain..." His eyes meet hers and hold. "Besides, we're already in the middle. I don't think there's an exit point here." He's not talking about Nick or the Laufer or the Council or the Royals.
The words fills her with such a happy buzz, everything else floats away. And she shouldn't trust that, she knows. She can't stop the smile, nor does she want to. "No, I don't think so." She agrees quietly, settling her hand against his shoulder. "I guess we'll just have see what happens."
He goes to the cabinet but not before dropping a kiss on her temple, pressing one large hand to her opposite cheek, a gesture so full of affection that it undoes her. In the space of the seconds when their skin connects, she grabs his arm and grips tight.
"What's wrong?"
She shakes her head. "Nothing...Nothing's wrong. I'm just very fond of you."
He smiles. "I'm very fond of you, too."
"I mean—" She swallows hard; stupid jet lag. "I haven't had someone... look out for me like you have in a very long time. If...If ever."
He's just about to say something else when she stands on her tiptoes to stop him; she doesn't need to hear anything else from him. Immediately, his hands go to her hips, thumbs slipping against her bones but not hard enough to hurt, and he pulls her to him so there's no space, no distance. She follows the line of his shirt down to the buttons and starts working at them, slowly and carefully. His heart, under her hand, races, like before. And she hopes no other ex-girlfriends, or Grimms (as much as she's come to like Nick) or anyone, decides that now is the right moment to interrupt because she may not be able to stop.
"We don't have to—"
Rose silences him with an insistent, indulgent kiss, unfolding against him all the while, matching her shallow breathing to his. "I know. I want this...I want you."
He responds only with a kind of kiss that she'd never received from him before; with a bit of a bite to it and curling fingers in her hair and at her back. She grips his shirt lapels and pulls him with her as she slowly backs them out of the kitchen. For every step she takes back, he follows willingly until they hit her bedroom. They press against the door a moment, while she fumbles for the doorknob.
And for a while, the two of them are the only real people in the world. She lets everything else fall away. "Still fond of me?" He wonders later, keeping his arm tight around her waist, fingers making nonsensical patterns on the small of her bare back.
"Very, very, very fond." Rose sighs into his neck. She runs her fingers up and down the inside of his wrist, following the veins and tendons. When she gets to his palm, he tries to catch her fingers but he never can. "I'm just sorry it took us so long to get here."
He reaches up and rests his hand on her cheek. "You don't have to be sorry. We're here now."
"We're here now." She agrees, closing her eyes for a moment.
He chuckles. "You agreed with me on the first go...Usually, we have to fight about it, you know?"
"It's the dopamine, serotonin and a couple of hits of oxytocin talking." She murmurs. "It has absolutely nothing to do with you."
"I love it when you talk sciencey to me." He laughs.
"It's true though," she hums. "And by tomorrow, I'll be totally normal again."
He runs his free hand through her loose hair. "You're not so bad like this, just saying."
She grins to herself, reaches out to slip her fingers between his and marvels at the spaces where their skin meets. "You know...I've always thought your hands were so beautiful."
"Just my hands?" He wonders.
Rose leans over him and kisses him once. "Other parts are nice too. But," she pulls their joined hands closer. "I like your hands; they're beautiful."
"Are you sure that's not the oxytocin talking?" He wonders.
"Maybe. But I like your calluses and scars and everything, even when I'm not doped up on bonding hormones." Not that she doesn't have her own share of scars and she watches as his eyes travel to the one across her arm. "Sort of reminds me."
"Of what?
"That we've both done some shitty, fucked up things in the past. But we figured it out; we're better now." She squeezes his hand. "Things are better now."
And so there you have it
Up next: the not-so-happiest time of the year: CHRISTMAS. and you know what christmas means-FAMILY DRAMA
R&R?