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“What the hell happened to you?”
Monroe, blutbad – reformed, thankyouverymuch – and probably the only one of his kind to be friends with a Grimm, looked at the Grimm in question. He got a weak grimace in return.
Nick Burckhardt, Detective, Portland PD, looked like he had been through the wringer. And then some. His skin was pasty white, dark circles resided under his bloodshot eyes, his lips pale and chapped, and he was…
“Is that my shirt?!”
Nick didn’t reply, just shuffled back into his house and Monroe followed, drawn between confusion, annoyance and worry. The confusion stemmed from the puzzle as to what had happened to the other man, which led to annoyance because it was probably creature-related. Make that definitely creature-related, he decided when he caught a whiff.
“Toads! You ran into toads?!”
Worry tried to come to the forefront, but the annoyance was stronger, close to anger.
Nick simply sank onto the couch and huddled into the blanket. He looked deathly sick. Toads would do that, Monroe knew. They excreted a slime that made a person really, really sick. It was nasty and usually meant vomiting because of an upset stomach, cramps, cold spells, fever, the whole nine yards. Toads didn’t really mingle with humans, liked to stay in the depths of the forests, but when one ventured out, things got ugly fast.
“Geez, Nick,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“I’m okay.”
Monroe stared at the clearly suffering man. “Right,” he stated. “He’s okay. Sure! Give me the patience not to whack him on the head!”
Nick didn’t so much as smile. He looked faint, like a breath could bowl him over.
And the question still stood: why was he wearing Monroe’s shirt? Where had he gotten it from?
He wanted to ask it again, but Nick had closed his eyes, looking so absolutely miserable, the blutbad didn’t have the heart to keep digging.
When had he left the shirt at Nick’s place? And why hadn’t he missed it yet? It was an old one, he saw. Had Nick dug it out of his wardrobe? When? Why?
He dismissed the thoughts, especially since the sight and knowledge of his shirt on Nick evoked a warm curl deep inside him, and went to the kitchen. Monroe busied himself making tea, dumping a lot of honey into it, then walked out again.
Nick had buried into the couch, curled up, looking even more miserable. Fine tremors were running through the slender frame.
“Here. Drink this. Honey’s the best remedy against toad slime.”
The Grimm looked like he was about to hurl.
“Trust me.”
The gray eyes, blurry as they were, spoke a clear language. Nick did trust him; had so almost right from the start. Three days into knowing each other and he had entrusted his Grimm Aunt into Monroe’s care.
It was one of the many things the blutbaden just couldn’t understand. Even today.
Nick sipped dutifully at the tea and while he looked like he was about to throw up again, he didn’t. He emptied half the mug, then started to doze off.
Monroe pulled him into a light embrace and Nick gave a sigh of relief, his weight suddenly fully against his partner’s.
It was how he fell asleep.
Monroe brushed a gentle caress over the old flannel, buttersoft and warm, and he smiled to himself. Even through the sickness he could smell himself on Nick, on the shirt, and it appeased the wolf in him greatly. He pressed a kiss onto the tousled head, then switched on the TV, muted it, and watched a game that really didn’t interest him, but it was mindless entertainment while his thoughts whirled.
The inner wolf was drawn between going after Nick’s toad attacker and staying here to guard the Grimm. The protective instinct won in the end. Mostly because getting slimed wasn’t all fun and puppy dogs for blutbaden either.
*
Nick woke a few times, had to hurry to the bathroom, froze, then was too hot, refused to drink more tea or eat anything until Monroe ordered him to, and then was asleep again. The night was busy and filled with little sleep for Monroe himself, but he wouldn’t leave the Grimm alone.
For one, he was vulnerable. More than ever. Anything could knock him down right now.
Second, Nick was his friend. Well, more than that. Actually, so far there was no definition for what they had because ‘fuck buddies’ was too crude and didn’t really describe it. ‘Mates’ implied too much, though the inner wolf wagged its tail and approved. ‘Bed partner’ sounded clinical. ‘Lover’ was corny. ‘Friends with benefits’ was just plain wrong.
So Monroe tried not to pin a label on them and refused to think of them as a couple. With Nick wrapped up in his clothes, though… damn! It yelled ‘mate’ at him and the inner beast rumbled its approval.
Having the slender man in his arms, listening to his breaths, feeling the cramps die down and the chills recede, Monroe tried not to give in to the possessive feelings. Nick wasn’t someone to possess. He was a Grimm, he was a cop, he was Nick Burckhardt. He was powerful; he held a blutbad’s loyalty and complete trust.
Monroe watched the sleeping man, wondering. About them. About himself.
*
It was close to adorable to watch Nick, in the too big clothes, shuffle into the kitchen throughout the next morning, unshaven, hair a total mess, but with a lot more color in his face than before. Okay, he was still too pale to be called healthy, but the deathly whiteness had disappeared. The gray eyes were still slightly bloodshot and the circles were dark smudges that stood out sharply.
Monroe held out a new mug of honeyed tea and then gestured at the dry toast on the plate he had set out.
“You think you’re up for this?”
“No idea.” He sank into the chair. “I might be hungry. I guess.” Nick gingerly took the toast and took a tiny bite.
Monroe watched him, alert for any kind of averse reaction. Nothing happened. Nick ate the slice and drank the tea, still looking close to falling asleep again.
“How badly did the slime hit you?”
“Big blob right into the face,” was the muted answer.
Well, shit.
“You could have called.”
“I didn’t need backup. Then, I mean. Didn’t know it was creature-related.”
Monroe held out a second slice and Nick looked at it with something close to disgust. But he took it and dutifully ate a few more bites. He finally leaned back and rubbed a hand over his worn-looking face.
“You’re lucky,” Monroe stated, nursing a cup of coffee. “Toads are not to be trifled with. Their slime is potent and getting sick is the smaller evil. Some of them can kill you with a few drops of that stuff.”
“Lucky me,” Nick murmured.
Monroe didn’t reply, simply watched him. After a while he set down his cup and walked over to the other man. He couldn’t but run his fingers through the messy hair and Nick leaned a little into the caress.
“Shower?” the blutbad asked.
“You’re saying I smell?”
“I’m saying it might jumpstart you a little more. Come on.”
Nick rose slowly and swayed a little. Monroe tried not to hover, but in the end he almost carried him into the shower and helped him clean up. It wasn’t exactly an erotic moment and his mind was far from sex. Right now he wanted the other clean and comfortable and back in his bed, or on the couch, whatever Nick felt up to.
*
The couch it was.
Damp hair brushed against Monroe’s chin and he drew mindless patterns over Nick’s back as the Grimm slept once more.
It was the best for him. Just sleeping.
Wrapped up in another of Monroe’s shirts – the man was a magpie! – and more relaxed looking than last night, Nick lay snuggled up to the taller man.
The blutbad took a light sniff, pleased with the receding acrid smell of the poisonous slime. Even more pleased with his own strong scent on the Grimm.
His.
He shuddered at the possessive thought. When had that happened? And why? Nick wasn’t even another of his kind; he was actually the enemy and any decent blutbad would have killed him the first time he had shown any kind of weakness.
Not Monroe. He had kept helping Nick, he had invited him into his home, and then into his bed. He had slept with the man on countless occasions and the very thought that he might never be able to touch Nick like that, it didn’t sit well with him.
Mine.
Because Nick was his equal in so many ways and so much more powerful in many more. Every time he went all-out Grimm had Monroe want to stare in hunger and appreciation, made him want to follow Nick wherever he went.
Blutbaden weren’t pack animals like real wolves. The pack mentality wasn’t inbred. Packs were actually quite violent and never a good idea. Families only worked until a certain moment when the young ones came of age, then the alphas would throw them out.
For Monroe, being alone had never been bad. It had helped him reform, had taught him control, and then Nick had happened.
And he wanted the man in his life.
*
Nick was more like his old self by late afternoon and he actually kept down more than a slice of toast. He ate two bowls of soup and a slice of bread. His color was returning, the eyes were no longer dull, and Monroe no longer smelled the toad on him.
Monroe had been on guard the whole time since a return of the attackers was possible. He had even gone out for a minute and marked his territory, hoping to throw off anyone who might try and take advantage of Nick’s state.
“Thanks,” Nick said as he stood in the kitchen, watching Monroe make a sandwich.
The blutbad frowned. “What for?”
“Taking care of me. You didn’t have to.”
He stopped in his work, looking the other man up and down, still so damned pleased that he was wearing Monroe’s shirts – and no, Monroe hadn’t looked through Nick’s closet to see if he had some more I there; which he hadn’t – and frowned.
“You think I would let you suffer here alone? Toad slime is nasty, Nick.”
“I know. And it wasn’t a given that you would help me. You’re not my nurse.”
“No, I’m your friend,” he snapped.
Nick regarded him quietly, so very much composed and almost his old self again. “Yes, you are,” he said softly, but there was more. He could hear it. He could read it in the clear gray eyes.
Monroe met the calm gaze, then wiped his hands and pulled the other man to him by the hem of the flannel shirt. Nick let him, not even putting up a token fight. Monroe slipped his hands under the loose shirt, over Nick’s t-shirt, feeling warmth and loose muscles. He brushed a kiss over the now fever-free forehead, then over the no longer dry and bloodless lips.
“Mine.”
And had he just said that out loud? Horror flooded through him, but before he could step back, Nick kissed him again, with a little more force than before.
“Yours,” he agreed.
And whatever they had, whatever they were, it had just been confirmed.
Monroe buried his face against Nick’s neck, into skin and his flannel shirt. The scent was calming him, telling his inner beast that the words were the truth.
His. His alone.