Chapter Text
Monroe wakes up into a world of pain and suffering and indescribable regret.
In another reality, there is a Monroe who has a metabolism so refined that his hangover will be defeated after a nice cup of tea and a piece of dry toast. In a third reality, there is a Monroe who only had one pint last night. In a fourth reality, there is a Monroe who only drank orange juice. And in a fifth, there is a Monroe who had to cover for useless Inspector Kent all night and wasn’t able to attend Dave’s stag night and didn’t get into a drinking competition on an empty stomach and now feels on top of the world.
This reality’s Monroe is so envious of all of them that he wants to be sick.
Jim offers him coffee and talks about milk and breakfast, and Monroe starts to think that maybe he just wants to be sick full stop.
It takes a colossal effort for Monroe to sit up on Jim’s sofa. A blue blanket is wrapped around him. His clothes are plastered onto him with sweat and stale beer and something else that’s dried and sticky. His heart is racing. His stomach is churning. His head is pounding. His mouth is dry. There’s a taste in his mouth that he doesn’t want to think about. He can’t see completely straight. He wonders if he’s still drunk. But if he thinks that he might be drunk, it means that he’s not completely drunk. Because completely drunk people don’t realise they’re completely drunk, do they?
“Jim,” Monroe manages to croak out.
“Yes sir?” Jim calls back too loudly from the kitchen. The clinking and clattering he’s making with mugs and spoons and opening and closing drawers is giving Monroe a fresh headache. It’s burrowing itself into the three other headaches he’s woken up with.
“Am I-...did I-...how much… did I?”
“Are you asking me how much you had to drink last night sir?” Monroe suspects there’s a shit eating grin behind Jim’s words. But it’s difficult to tell. Monroe makes a laborious mental note to bring this up with Jim later and question him about it.
Monroe nods.
Jim can’t see him, but he answers anyway. “You had a lot to drink last night. And when I say a lot, I mean a lot .”
That’s not good.
“Do you remember what you did at the pub sir? And in the van on the way to the curry house? And at the curry house? Please tell me you at least remember what you did in the van on the way back from the curry house. Because that’s of vital importance. It has direct and long lasting consequences to Dave’s marital status today.”
That’s really not good.
Monroe decides not to nod, because that would be lying. And he decides not to shake his head, because that is movement, and movement is pain.
Jim makes a sound. Monroe isn’t sure if it’s a dirty chuckle to himself or a sigh of despair.
Monroe vows to never drink alcohol again. It’s the drink of the devil. No, not the devil. Monroe doesn’t know the devil, and he can’t judge him. No. Alcohol is the drink of obviously guilty suspects who say nothing but ‘No comment’ when being interviewed. It’s the drink of unfaithful spouses who waste police time trying to pin something on their lover who’s had the audacity to cheat on them. It's the drink of the drunk and disorderlys.
Monroe stands up in a panic. And immediately collapses back onto the sofa with a whimper. “Jim,” he says. “Did I-...was there drunk and orderly? Disorderly. Disorderls. Was I?”
Jim enters the living room with a glass of water and a packet of paracetamol. There’s a smile on his face. But because the world is tilted and blurry, Monroe can’t decipher it.
“Are you asking me if you behaved in the manner of an individual we would usually arrest for drunk and disorderly behaviour sir?”
Monroe crunches two paracetamol tablets between his teeth. And then remembers he should have swallowed them whole with water. He takes a large gulp of water. He feels like he’s going to be sick.
He puts his head between his knees and takes quick shallow breaths. Taking big deep breaths is a sick joke right now. Sick. He’s going to be sick. He doesn’t want to be sick. He wishes he could be sick, because then he could get rid of some of what's sloshing around in his stomach. He wishes he’d been sick last night.
Monroe looks up at Jim with a horrible flash of hope on his face. And it’s probably his imagination, but it looks like Jim’s recoiled slightly from him.
“Was I sick last night?” Monroe asks.
“Sick sir?”
“Yes Jim, sick. Throw up. Vomit? Vomit. Getting…stuff up. Did I?”
Jim thinks about it for a moment. “No sir. You didn’t throw up last night.”
Monroe sighs in disappointment.
“Sorry sir.” Jim doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest. “How about we get you home and changed?”
“Changed?”
“For the wedding.”
“Ah.”
What wedding?
“You do remember whose wedding it is today, don’t you sir?”
Monroe hopes to god that it isn’t his own.
“I can’t find my car keys,” Monroe says sadly.
“I wouldn’t let you drive even if you could. I’m driving. Come on sir - a wedding awaits us. And no, it’s not yours.” There’s definitely a shit eating grin behind Jim’s words this time.
The drive back home is a blur.
Jim may have asked Monroe some important questions, or he may have intercepted a crime in progress, or he may have talked about the weather, or he may have sung part of an opera.
Having a shower is a blur. The water may have been hot or cold or lukewarm or fast or slow or a sad trickle.
Putting on a fresh shirt and a suit is a blur. There are clothes in his wardrobe, and he’s inordinately proud of his ability to identify each article of clothing. He’s certainly able to dress himself. He knows how to put on socks. He knows where arms go. This is easy. It’s fine. He’s fine. He’s feeling better already.
With both hands on the bannister, Monroe takes one careful step down at a time. But he has to be careful, because stairs are not to be trusted. They’re sharp and square and they go down too far. They’re not exactly natural. Someone’s made them. Someone’s decided to make them this way. Monroe needs to be wary. He needs to be sharp.
Halfway down the stairs Monroe stops. He squats down and looks at the next step down.
“I know your game,” Monroe tells the step loudly, in what he knows is his best voice of intimidation and persuasion.
“What did you just mumble, sir?” Jim calls up from the living room where he’s been waiting.
Monroe doesn’t answer. His suspicion that the alcohol he drank last night hasn’t been completely purged from his body is growing stronger. His kidneys are doing their best, but they’re not supernatural.
He finishes his descent and shuffles into the living room.
“Do I look OK?” he asks Jim, fully expecting Jim to smile and say, “Of course you do sir.”
He isn’t prepared for Jim to wince.
With impressive diplomacy, Jim guides his senior officer to the full length mirror that hangs in Monroe’s hallway. Monroe stands in front of it, waits for the world to stop tilting, and looks at his reflection.
And fights back tears.
The one and only time Monroe has cried actual wet tears from his eyes was ages ago when he worked in the mines. His idiot colleague had mis-timed a swing of his pick-axe and accidentally impaled it in Monroe’s leg. It had entered above his knee and exited through his lower leg. Monroe had collapsed to the ground and clutched his leg and cried with the excruciating pain of it. Half of his team had wanted to pull the axe out. Some had argued that it was too tightly buried to pull out and it should be left in. Two of his team had pulled out hip flasks and encouraged him to drink. One of them had been his shift’s supervisor’s boss.
Monroe wants to collapse and cry now, onto the well-worn carpet of his home. He knows the alcohol that’s still infecting his blood is responsible for his heightened emotional state. But that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. Because he actually wants to cry.
Because he looks like shit.
He feels like shit too, but hiding his emotions comes as naturally to him as breathing. Emotions are easy to disguise. Appearances, not so much.
Monroe looks in the mirror and feels a deep swell of self-loathing start to form. He should not be in this state. He shouldn’t have drunk so much last night. He shouldn’t have pretended he was one of the guys. He’d only been given a pity invite to the stag night, he was sure of it. Either that or Dave was too scared to tell Monroe that he wasn’t actually wanted. After your boss has screamed at you for being an idiot for fighting your colleague in public over a girl and then drops heavy hints that he’d love to come to your pre-wedding celebration to said girl, you'd have to be something worse than an idiot to tell him no.
Jim spins Monroe around, slowly, so that he’s not looking in the mirror any more. He gets to work adjusting Monroe’s shirt, which is buttoned up in a way that would shame a child.
“That was quite a night last night,” Jim says, his fingers unbuttoning and re-buttoning. “Everyone said so.”
Monroe stares dead ahead at the wall.
“And it’s all thanks to you.”
Monroe gives Jim a look of slow horror.
Jim’s smile is one of kind reassurance. “In a good way sir. Trust me.”
Jim moves on to Monroe’s tie. It takes him a while to untangle it from the mess of a knot he’d put it in. “Everyone was glad to see you there,” Jim says, addressing one of Monroe’s many alcohol-sodden fears.
“Really.” Monroe says this with the weight of a dead weight falling.
“Really.”
Jim moves on to re-tying Monroe’s tie. “No-one’s seen you like that before.”
“Making a fool of myself?”
“Having fun. Relaxing. Laughing. Smiling.”
“I have fun,” Monroe says with a prickle. “I smile.”
“I mean a proper smile. Not the kind of smile you give Reg when he’s cocked up and you want to give him a bollocking but there’s a swarm of top brass watching.”
Monroe sighs. Jim is lying. He’s probably lying. Maybe he’s lying? What if he’s not lying?
Monroe forces himself to make eye contact with his unexpected chaperone-butler-protector.
Jim’s eyes are sharp. They’re not like how they’ve been for the past few months, when they’ve been clouded and rheumy and bloodshot. This time they’re clear. And understanding. If anyone can understand Monroe’s current misery, it’s Jim.
“Honestly sir, you have nothing to worry about. By which I mean you have nothing to worry about with regards to being loud and having fun after one too many drinks. It was nice to see that side of you.”
Jim’s words are actually helping. He’s not lying. He’s being sincere.
“I fear, Jim,” Monroe says slowly, but with perfect pronunciation, “that that side may never be shown again.”
“That would be a pity sir.” Jim pauses for a moment. “Which is why everyone drank you in last night. It was like sampling a free flowing rare vintage wine. Sorry.”
Monroe shakes his head and waves a hand in dismissal. He finds that he can cope with the references to alcohol. And with making dual movements. This is good progress. This is very good. “No apology needed Jim. And…thank you. For last night. And for now.”
Jim finishes straightening Monroe’s jacket. “Think nothing of it.”
Monroe turns around to look at himself in the mirror again. And Thank God he now looks presentable. In fact he actually looks quite good. The suit he’s wearing fits perfectly. And the lilac shirt is a complementary colour on him. He should wear ambitious colours more often. Taking this amount of pride in his appearance might also be the remnants of the drink talking, but he’s not going to dwell on that too much. He’s going to enjoy it. He’s got a wedding to go to!
Jim opens the front door. Monroe walks out, and there’s almost a spring in his step. Unbelievable. He’s still got it. He can still drink with the rest of them. He is still one of them. He’s fine. He doesn’t feel great, but he’s definitely feeling better. He’s got a bottle of water, fresh air in his lungs, and he hasn’t been sick. He’s going to be fine. In fact he might actually enjoy himself at the wedding reception today. No - he will enjoy himself.
Jim unlocks the car, and opens the driver’s passenger door for Monroe to get in.
“Thank you Jim.”
“Don’t mention it sir.” Jim gets behind the wheel and starts the engine up.
Monroe puts his seatbelt on with a satisfying clunk. Safety first. He looks over at Jim. Jim is drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. And just as Monroe opens his mouth to ask Jim if he’s OK, Jim says, “Just like you shouldn’t mention to anyone that you were the one who dyed Dave’s eyebrows blonde.”
Monroe’s stomach simultaneously shrinks and contracts. Nausea comes flooding back.
“We all took a vow of silence,” Jim says. “We’re not grasses. But if Dave finds out, he’ll tell Jenny. And you really don’t want Jenny finding out you deformed her husband without their consent on her big day.”
Jim drives off. They don’t make eye contact for the entire trip.