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Wolves may be pack animals, but in all, he likes to think of himself as a loner; he keeps to himself, minds his own business, and just asks that everyone else stay out of it. After a youth he can hardly remember, stained red and wild with memories of his pack, the last thing he wants is to let others in. It isn’t a fancy life he’s built for himself; vegetarian dinners, repairing clocks, doing yoga before the sun comes up, and reading by the fireplace. By some people’s standards, it might almost be dull, but he likes it.
After all, at least it’s private.
Especially his music.
-
It starts with Juliette.
She shows up on his doorstep, tears streaming down her cheeks. Something is happening to her, and no one understands it, but she understands least of all. She doesn’t know about Wesen, or anything bordering on magic. All she knows is that one man loves her and she can’t remember him, while she’s obsessed with a man she hardly knows and cannot forget. Everything is spiraling out of control, and she feels utterly hopeless.
He wraps her in his arms, desperately trying to hold her together. He wasn’t looking for another pack, so he’s not sure when he found one, but he thinks it might have been when he tackled Nick through that window. Now, Juliette is hurting, and he’d give anything to help her, but he doesn’t know how.
His placating words fall on deaf ears; he cannot convince her that everything will be okay when she feels like a stranger in her own mind, and he doesn’t know if it’s true in any case. Whatever they’re dealing with, it’s dangerous and powerful; he doesn’t know if he or Rosalee can stop it.
She weeps into his shirt, and he holds her tightly, cupping the back of her head. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, because at least he can promise her that. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Finally, she pulls away, eyes red and puffy, makeup smeared. “I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I should go. I just-I don’t know-” Where to go. Even her home can’t be a safe-haven for her right now.
An idea occurs to him, and impulsively, he clears his throat. “I was about to play a little. Cello,” he clarifies at her baffled expression. “Practicing helps clear my head. I thought maybe you might…” He trails off, realizing there’s no way to finish that sentence without accidentally insulting her, and her lips twist into an unhappy smile.
“Need to clear my head a little?” A weak laugh. “You’re probably right. Are you sure you don’t mind me listening, though?”
He doesn’t, as a rule, play in front of people. This is something that belongs to him, and he isn’t fond of sharing.
But pack instincts win out, and he shakes his head. “I don’t mind. As long as you don’t cover your ears and wail, you’re more than welcome.”
To his delight, that actually manages to get a giggle out of her, weak and watery though it is. She nods gratefully, and he leads her to the couch, before pulling out his cello. Taking a breath, he begins to play.
It’s weird, playing in front of her, but she makes an excellent audience, settling in and listening closely, eyes gentle and encouraging. He opts out of his usual slow symphonies, choosing something a little more cheerful and upbeat, and as she listens, her smile softens into something relaxed and at peace that really makes his sweaty palms nervous.
One song turns into two, then three, before he finally has to tap out. Juliette, for her part, seems to be in much better spirits. She gifts him with a generous round of applause, and a warm hug that he cannot help but sink into.
“Thank you,” she whispers against his ear, and he smiles to himself.
“Hey, what are friends for?”
-
The second time, it’s Rosalee. She’s heard him play before, of course, but she always seems to understand that he needs this time to himself, so she usually keeps a safe distance whenever he picks up the cello.
Tonight, it’s different. Tonight, she’s sticking a little too close to him, after dozing off on the couch and having yet another nightmare about the Wesenrein. Not that he’s complaining about having her near-all the more convenient to kiss her at will, to run a hand through her hair, to hold her just because he can-but he hates the reason for it.
He hates seeing her afraid.
When he gets ready to play, she hesitates, lingering a few steps away from him, looking for all the world like she’s trying to make herself leave, and she just can’t. Her beautiful eyes shine in the low light, glistening with tears she’s trying so hard not to shed. (“I don’t want to give them any more tears,” she said once, and she seems to be holding to that).
Throat tight, he holds out a hand. “Stay. Please.”
The relief in her eyes is nearly suffocating, and she makes her way to him, settling on the floor in front of him. He starts to offer her a chair, but she waves him off, leaning back against the wall with open interest.
It’s different, playing for her. For a split-second, he doesn’t even know what to play-what is suitably romantic enough? What is he guaranteed to not mess up?-before he settles on something he knows like the back of his hand. It starts slow and gentle, but picks up speed as it goes, and by the end, he can hardly keep up. “The Song of Falling in Love,” he murmurs, and her eyes soften impossibly.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I wrote it.”
He doesn’t often admit that he writes music, but he wants her to know. Wants her to know every part of him. Wants to keep surprising her, even now that they’re married.
Her mouth falls open in delight. “You wrote that? It’s incredible! Could you-” She falters, dropping her gaze guiltily, but he leans forward, silently urging her to continue. “Could you write something for me? I mean, if you want,” she hurries to add. “No pressure. Whatever you write, I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.”
And it’s ridiculous to still get nervous around her after all this time, but he can feel his cheeks heating as he admits, “Who do you think I wrote that one for?”
For several seconds, she only stares in disbelief. Then she rises to her feet, purpose in her eyes, and sets his cello aside (so gently, he can’t help but notice, even as his gaze fixes on her), pressing her lips firmly to his.
She does not, he believes, have any nightmares that night.
-
The third time, it’s Nick. Or, to be more accurate, Nick and his son.
They’re only a few short weeks out from the world as they knew it collapsing. Nick’s mother is dead, Nick is a father (to Adalind’s child, and man, Monroe’s head still hurts when he thinks about that), Diana is with the Royals, the trailer is ruined, Renard is still recovering from being possessed by Jack the Ripper, Trubel is gone, Juliette is dead…
Needless to say, when the doorbell rings in the middle of the night, Monroe’s heart drops. When he opens his eyes, Rosalee seems as concerned as him, eyes wide and unsure.
“Probably just Nick wanting help IDing some Wesen or other,” he quips, and it falls flat, but her lips twitch weakly in acknowledgement.
“If that’s what this is, I’m grounding him,” she mutters.
By silent agreement, they move together, making their way down the stairs hand in hand. Up close, he can hear that it is definitely Nick, and he didn’t come alone. Kelly’s wails echo through the air, and Monroe grimaces. That child has some lungs on him.
He opens the door, and sure enough, Nick’s standing there, holding Kelly in his arms. Kelly, whose face is beet red, whose shrieking doesn’t even slow down.
“Hi. Can I come in?” Nick doesn’t wait for an answer-Monroe’s not altogether sure why he bothers asking at all-pushing past them both and making his way to their couch. “Sorry to intrude, but he just wouldn’t stop. We’ve tried everything.”
Some distant part of Monroe’s brain points out that we must mean him and Adalind, and nope, Monroe’s not getting used to that any time soon. “I mean, I’m sorry to hear that, but-”
“We tried changing him, feeding him, burping him… We even took him to a doctor, but nothing’s working. Doc says he’s fine. Said that babies could pick up on stress from parents, and it could upset them.” A laugh that is dangerously bordering on hysterical, as he adds, “He asked if me and Adalind have had anything stressful in our lives recently. I mean, what do I say to that, huh?”
Monroe exchanges a wary glance with Rosalee, who nods, brows furrowed. Good; at least they’re on the same page.
“Nick?” Rosalee’s voice is impossibly soothing. “How long has this been going on?”
Nick shrugs. “A couple of days. I don’t know. Maybe three.”
Oh, no. “And how much have you slept during that time?” He blurts, regretting it when Rosalee gives him a sharp look. Right. We’re going for soothing, here.
If Nick notices his tone, he doesn’t seem bothered. “Not a lot. Adalind took him for a drive yesterday, so I got a couple of hours.”
A couple of hours?
“Do you want us to watch him for a few hours so you can sleep?” Rosalee asks, and Monroe keeps his face neutral, though internally, he really hopes not. He’s not as young as he used to be, and he’s pretty sure the chaos Nick has dragged him into over the years has aged him even more. He needs his beauty sleep, okay?
Nick shakes his head. “Actually, I was kind of hoping Monroe could play something. You know, kind of like a lullaby.”
“A… lullaby?” Monroe blinks, rubbing his eyes, trying to wake his brain up enough to think this through. “Nick, I want to help, but it’s late. I don’t really want to wake the neighbors.”
“Please?” And oh, that isn’t fair; Monroe is the Blutbad, so why is Nick the one with the best puppy eyes? “Just a couple of songs. I’ve tried everything, Monroe. You’re my last hope.”
…. Definitely not fair.
Stifling a groan, Monroe nods. “Fine. Two songs. That’s it. And if I get a noise complaint called on me-”
“You’ve already got a cop here to handle it,” Nick quips.
“Yeah, well, you can pay my fine while you’re at it.”
Rosalee rests a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Want some tea? It’ll take him a few minutes to get set up.”
“Please.” Again with the puppy eyes, which is frankly ridiculous; Rosalee offered, after all. “Cream and sugar-”
“I know.” She gives him a fond smile that goes a long way toward melting Monroe’s internal frustration. Nick is their friend, and if they can help him, they should. (Even if Monroe really, really wants to get some sleep.)
Getting set up is easier said than done, especially when he’s trying to tune out the child that still won’t stop crying. How is he supposed to play with that racket going on? Playing is peaceful for him. It’s soothing. And that’s what Nick wants, right? Soothing? But how is Monroe supposed to be soothing when this kid’s trying to be the next reject auditioner for American Idol?
He waits until Rosalee is back with tea before he even tries. If he cannot find internal peace with the kid yelling, he’ll just have to lean into the peace she naturally gives him.
Finally, slowly, he starts to play the first thing that comes to mind.
Hush now, be quiet, don’t wake the Grimm.
Instantly, Rosalee’s eyes light up in recognition and amusement, and after a moment, her voice fills the air, familiar words joining their tune. And oh, as much as he loves to surprise her, she’s still amazing at surprising him, because he had no idea she could sing like this. Her voice is warm and rich, curling around him.
It’s a Wesen lullaby, and if Nick was paying attention, he might be a little more concerned; it’s not exactly complimentary toward Grimms. But Rosalee’s voice is low, and Kelly’s is loud, so her words are lost to the chaos.
“Close your eyes, don’t make a noise, and lie still in your bed. For if he wakes and finds you here, it might just be your head.”
At first, he doesn’t notice when Kelly goes quiet, too caught up in this moment with Rosalee. After awhile, she gestures, and he looks over. Both father and son are sleeping soundly, cuddled up to each other. They look peaceful, and it’s a welcome sight, for more reasons than one.
He nearly sets the cello aside, but they’re almost at the end of the song, so he continues, voice joining hers.
“Hush now, be quiet… Don’t… Wake.. The Grimm.”
-
The fourth time, it’s everyone.
After Zerstörer’s defeat, everyone’s exhausted, drained from days of panic and battles some of them can’t even remember. Like an echo, like phantom pain, their bodies protest stresses they never even went through, and everyone’s heads kind of hurt from the tale Nick explains.
This means that everyone’s still at Monroe and Rosalee’s house, despite the fact that it’s well past eleven o’clock at night. Not that Monroe is complaining, but he still isn’t getting any younger, and he’s still not altogether sure about Renard in his home.
Talking has mostly died down, and everyone is settled around the living room, on couches, chairs, and even the floor. And whatever his thoughts on Renard, it’s certainly a sight to see the graceful Royal sprawled out on the ground, leaning back against the wall. Diana has taken refuge in his lap, curling up with her head against his shoulder; Monroe would almost think she were asleep for how still she is, but her eyes are still wide open.
Adalind and Nick have co-opted a chair meant for one, pulling it over near Renard and Diana, Kelly tucked between them. Hank and Wu have claimed the couch, and Rosalee’s settled in her personal chair, hand resting over her belly. Monroe keeps to her side, stroking her hair absently. Trubel and Eve are the only others standing, though not for lack of offers to sit. They’ve each claimed a corner of the room, standing diagonal to each other, obviously prepared for yet another threat.
Monroe is so very tired of threats.
He kind of wants to ask everyone to leave so he can finally sleep, but another part of him doesn’t want to let them out of his sight. His new pack is every bit as danger-prone as his old one, although at least these are for the right reasons.
“Hey, Monroe.” Nick clears his throat. “Do you feel like playing something?”
…. Actually, he desperately wants to do that, yeah. Not necessarily in front of an audience, but he’ll take what he can get. “I can do that. Just give me a sec.”
It ends up taking a little more than a second to track down his cello and get it set up. By then, everyone is definitely watching him, some curious and others expectant. He should probably be nervous, but he’s honestly exhausted enough that he can’t muster the strength. Either they’ll like his playing or they won’t.
As he falls into the familiar rhythm, the world fades to the bow and the strings. Peace curls around him, rippling through him, tugging him a million miles away from mirrors and nightmare fuel.
By the end of the first song, the room is utterly still. Rosalee gives him the warmest smile in the world, and everyone seems more relaxed; Wu’s head has dropped back against the back of the couch, and Monroe’s willing to bet he’ll be out like a light in just a few minutes.
Hank clears his throat. “Man, why didn’t you ever tell me you could play like that?”
He doesn’t mind, truly, but he cannot resist the opportunity to tease Nick a little. “Because when people find out, they keep asking me to play them stuff. All the time. ” A pointed look, as Nick huffs, shaking his head.
“I’ve only done that twice.” So far, anyway. “Hey, maybe you could play that song you played last time. It was nice.”
… Oh, this could go a few different ways. He glances at his wife, who is oh-so-helpfully covering her mouth, eyes dancing.
“What did you play last time?” Adalind asks, all innocence.
“Well, I… Played a Wesen lullaby. You know, it was late, and he was wanting me to play for Kelly, so I figured that, you know… A lullaby would be good.”
Ever the lawyer, Adalind isn’t willing to let it go that easily. “Which Wesen lullaby, exactly?” He can almost see the gears turning in her head as she flips through the possibilities. Privately, he has to wonder where she learned any lullabies; from what little he’s heard about Catherine, she wasn’t exactly the singing type.
“... Don’t Wake the Grimm.”
Silence. Then, all at once, Adalind bursts into giggles, Renard barely stifling his own snort. Rosalee loses a battle with giggles, and Monroe shrugs sheepishly, as the ones who didn’t grow up Wesen watch in curiosity.
Nick’s brows pinch together, suspicion starting to creep onto his face. “What’s so funny?” Glancing between Adalind, Monroe, and Rosalee, he frowns. “What?”
Renard, of course, seems to relish in lifting his head, giving Nick a dry smile. “Think about it, Nick: why do you think a growing Wesen wouldn’t want to wake up a Grimm?”
Realization dawns, and poor Nick looks utterly and dramatically betrayed, actually throwing a hand to his heart. “I can’t believe you two. Especially you, Rosalee; I’d expect something like this from him, but you?” But he cannot hold onto even the façade of anger, and soon he’s laughing, too.
When the room finally falls silent once more, Monroe looks around the room and smiles to himself. “I know what to play.”
He moves the bow across the strings, a familiar melody making its way from his heart and out to his hands. However, to his surprise, he’s only a few notes in when Diana perks up. “You’re playing the bedtime song!”
“... The what?”
“You know.” The look she gives him is ridiculously annoyed, and she looks more like a teenager than a child, but he’s just going to ignore that. “The song people sing before bed. Mommy and Daddy always sing it before they tuck me in.”
On the one hand, that kind of makes sense, actually. But on the other… “Are you saying that both your parents sing this for you? Like, no matter which house you’re at, someone sings it before you go to sleep?”
She nods slowly, apparently starting to realize that there’s something funny going on.
Renard and Adalind exchange looks of sheer understanding, brief nods that speak volumes Monroe may never understand, before Adalind glances at Diana. “Not everyone sings that before bed, honey. That’s just… Something we do.”
“Oh.” Her face pinches slightly. “Can you play it still?” She adds to Monroe, and a thousand angry Hexenbiests couldn’t make him tell her no.
“Of course.”
He resumes playing, and she relaxes, nuzzling back into her father’s chest. After a few moments, she whispers, “Will you and Mommy sing to me?”
Another understanding look, before Renard nods. “Of course, honey.”
“Perhaps I had a wicked childhood…. Perhaps I had a miserable youth…. But somewhere in my wicked, miserable past, there must have been a moment of truth.”
It’s funny, how perfectly Adalind’s voice blends with Renard’s. Like maybe, in another life, they really would have been a perfect match.
The first time through, Monroe leaves the singing to them, and everyone else seems willing to follow suit, letting the haunting strains of a song always associated with romance (Monroe has many times thought of it while looking at Rosalee) but somehow painfully suited to parenthood curl around them.
On the second verse, Monroe softly joins in. To his surprise, he isn’t the only one; Rosalee’s and Nick’s voices are less shocking, but as Wu, Hank, Eve, and Trubel’s voices quietly echo the refrain, Monroe’s hard-pressed to say which one is most unexpected.
Apparently, they all feel the tug of family, of forgiveness, of undeserved second chances. Haunting mirror monsters and Wesen cults seem a world away, suddenly, within the safety of these walls.
“Nothing comes from nothing… Nothing ever could… So somewhere in my youth, or childhood, I must have done…. Something good…”