Author's Note
Enjoy.
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Chapter Seven– "Archangel"
"Volf? Since when do you use the—" His voice cut out, the figure on his doorstep climbing into focus as his pupils widened to accommodate the darkness outside. The miserable, golden-haired woman was clearly not the someone he had expected to meet when he'd cracked open the door. He felt his heart hesitate, and suddenly he could do nothing but gape.
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The man's expression was the very last thing that Sharona's attention was concerned with just then. Her poor, shocked mind registered many more important details as her eyes raced over his features. The dark, wavy hair was cropped exceedingly short, and, though a few tiny strands poked out over his smooth forehead, the remainder was perfectly, meticulously groomed. Matching trim, dark parentheses enclosed his chin and the expressively thin line of his mouth. The obstruction of the half-open door put any further investigation on hold.
The initial daze that had descended over both parties began to loosen its grip.
Their eyes met, and their gazes locked.
"Adrian?" What the hell was she thinking? Who else could it be? But then, itching at the back of her throat, Change? Ha. Any context of the word where sheets and clothes don't apply would have Adrian Monk in a fit. As Monk blinked away his astonishment and made to acknowledge her, Sharona reasoned that giving her attention over to his reaction would be wise.
"Sh-Sharona?" His ex-nurse immediately recognized the look of panic that crept down his forehead, over his eyes, and sat quivering on the edge of his lips. She expected him to simply stop up, cease to function.
Instead, Monk's hands flexed against the wood and he leaned into the doorframe for support. When he seemed to have judged that his legs would hold him, he sacrificed the assistance lent by the door itself as his fingers flew to cover his mouth. His gaze rolled back up to her, and his palm slid down his partially whiskered chin so that he might speak clearly.
"W-Would you, uh—come in? Please?" Although the stutter was perfectly characteristic of her former employer, she couldn't help but notice that it lacked in the frail timbre she had always associated with Monk. But hadn't it been there when he'd first greeted her? Maybe. Just then, she would swear that he'd have been more comfortable inviting in a stray off the street.
Stepping past the bewildered Monk as he held the door, Sharona couldn't quite shake off the idea.
She shrugged out of her coat, waiting for the scrape of the door as it closed behind them before stealing another look in that direction. His uncharacteristic choice in wardrobe knocked her into an even deeper state of confusion. Had Monk been in her place, she had little doubt that he'd have thrown together a conceivable explanation for the changes the instant she'd opened the door. She wouldn't even know how to begin. The hair? No idea. The black t-shirt and carpenter jeans? What the hell sort of truck had hit her neurotic friend? The pharmaceutical kind, maybe. Oh, God. If he was on something again... She'd have to ask. Eventually. He was fidgeting, one hand massaging the palm of the other when she attempted to catch his eye. The familiar gesture heartened her.
"Adrian?" she spoke softly, slowly, "Before anything else is said, I'd like to get two things out of the way." His eyebrows lifted slightly. "First: I know seeing me is probably the last thing you wanted, but I came because I needed to ask for your forgiveness, face to face. I had no business kicking you out like I did, leaving you to fend for yourself without a real 'goodbye' . . . or even a real reason. Though I'd' have hated to admit it a couple months ago, you were right. It took me this long to realize that. Three months. Do you know how long that is?" She curled a pinky beneath her eye, flinging away a tear, "Heh. Who am I kidding? You can count." Blue eyes drifted to look him over. It certainly is a long time . . .
Then: "Benjy misses you." Terrific. That was low, Sharona. Low? Maybe. True? Without a doubt.
I miss you, too.
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Monk had scarcely moved throughout her speech; his full attention had remained detained by her voice, and her face, and her tears. His lips parted, but a moment was to pass before the words came to him.
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"Sharona," his face contorted for a moment – brows drew together, mouth twitched, hands became still, "You said... two things?" Wow. A shot of Monk Classic was long overdue. She couldn't help but smile as she tilted her chin at him.
"Yeah. What's with the goatee?" He reddened vaguely as he drew a hand through the short crop of curls on his scalp and the other fingered the item in question.
"It's really a very long, long... " He noticed her jacket at this point, plucking it from under her arm and shuffling toward the closet, "Long story." Sharona quirked a brow.
"I have time." Turning back to her, he lifted his wrist to give it a good look, apparently expecting to see a watch. When he had satisfied himself that no such article existed, his hand dropped before him to receive a good rub around the wrist from its brother. A moment of this proved that Monk had not, until then, registered his state of dress in Sharona's presence.
"And the clothes. You'll want to know... about—yeah. Uh—Wait. It has to be at least eight o'clock. How can you have 'time' for anything?"
"I'll stay as long as it takes."
"But... That might ..."
"Providing it doesn't involve 'The Monk'," she cut in. This seemed to strike a nerve.
"Please. When I said you'd never see him again, I meant it."
"You didn't think you'd see me again. Did you?" His eyes became blank for an instant – detached from the room, and detached from her. When he was finally able to haul himself out of it, whatever 'it' was, he favored his guest with a scowl.
"No," he turned and began to walk down the hall, "I didn't." Trailing him at a cautious distance, Sharona privately wondered at his pointed evasion of her original request for forgiveness.
"But... I did hope," he shot a look over his shoulder, "There was always hope."
So there is.
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Monk was rather surprised at how well he kept himself together. His ordeal had obviously marked him deeper than he would ever have imagined possible. Long claws leave deep wounds. However much the image made him cringe, the logic was satisfying. In any event, Sharona was here. Sharona.
"So... would now be the time to ask what you've been up to?" She had been fiddling with the coffeepot and now pulled out a chair beside him. He shrugged halfheartedly.
"Trudging through hell," he placed his palms against the cool tabletop, savoring the sensation as though the very word might evoke a new inferno, "To... do battle with the devil himself."