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Winter arrives with its own array of perils, realistic and imaginative. Monk can find a fear in anything when best be wants to, and Natalie groans as he explains the logic behind fearing snow flurries. You see, the truth in his fear is not that he will slip on black ice, or be locked out and catch a deathly case of pneumonia, or even that the icicles that collect outside his apartment could fall and impale him at any moment. No, it’s more complex than that. Trudy died in a December, if not a bitter way to begin any winter from there on out, and now, nine years later, there’s a starkly familiar genre of admiration floating in his chest. It’s winter; it’s lonely. He can’t expect Natalie to understand so he lends it’s excuse to all of his other idiosyncrasies.
“I can’t chance it, that’s all.” He summarises, making a steady lap around the living room, looking for stray dust particles, half-shrugging.
“Well you can’t really hole yourself up in here, either,” Natalie frowns, eyeing him with the usual mix of concern and irritation, “Take a case or go on an outing or something, Mr. Monk.”
It had been almost two weeks since he last went out. Why, he couldn’t really put into words; it just felt better inside.
Monk didn’t say anything, head tilted sideways as he read the titles of the albums on his vinyl shelf, pretending to be interested in making sure they were still ordered properly, even though he knew they were already. Natalie stood up with a shallow sign. It took her very few steps to cross the room and Monk distantly wished his living room was bigger.
She placed an empathetic hand on his shoulder, head bowed when she gently told him, “I’m going to ask Leland to stop by, okay?”
“What good would that do?” He croaks with a twinge of bitterness.
The truth is the thought terrifies him. In the same way the late-December cold makes him close off, the right warm body may just melt the parts of him better left untouched.
Natalie knows; of course she knows, and it underlies her final reassurance, “Some talking will do you good, Mr. Monk.” She squeezes his shoulder before leaving and when the front door shuts Monk wishes his apartment were bigger.
He spends the rest of the afternoon tidying because he can’t think of anything else to do; it’s reflexive. Somewhere between the dishes and the windows, he has the thought that perhaps he should talk to Trudy. It’s begun to snow, slow and light, not really sticking to anything, and he thinks she’d provide words of clarity; something sobering drifting in with the snowfall.
Trudy sits patiently at the dining room table, a mug of tea between her hands. The look in her eye is understanding and knowing and she keeps eye contact over the rim of the mug whenever she takes a sip. He asks her a question she doesn’t answer and he’s sure it’s winter. They share silence as he rearranges his dish cabinet.
Only when there’s nothing left to do does Monk reach for her then empty mug. She catches his wrist with her cold fingers. “When he comes – and he will come – you will make him coffee and tell him you love him,” Her words are stern but her gaze is kind. Monk’s chest aches, “You do not have to be alone.”
He glances at the floor in search of words to refute her, but when he looks up, Trudy has gone and he finds himself at a loss. No one had ever made it sound so simple. Yet as with most things this time of year, the simple is only simple when it’s made poetic.
Not even two hours later, as Monk turns to the second page of a mystery novel Julie had gotten him, a heavy and familiar knock resonates from the foyer. He’s quick to answer it, the paperback still in his grasp when he invites Stottlemeyer in.
“Hell-o!” Leland says cheerily, a hesitant smile curving on his lips. Generally, he’s underdressed for the weather, wearing jeans and a button-up shirt, off-duty gear. He glances at the book, “Sorry for interrupting.”
“It’s fine,” Monk assures froggily, “It was the sister-in-law anyway.”
Leland’s eyebrows flounce in mild surprise and Monk ushers him to the living room, unconsciously asking if he’d like anything to drink. Before the captain can even say so, Monk is in the kitchen putting on a pot of coffee.
“So, uh–” Leland calls into the adjoining room, “Natalie said you needed to talk about something.”
Monk hesitates, shifting on his feet, “Not something, no. She really just overreacted.” He explains away, smiling falsely, to himself, “She seems to think I’ve been keeping too much inside, and with it being December and all…” There’s not need to really explain because he knows Leland understands, so he trails off.
Dutifully, Monk brings out the warm up of coffee, prepared how he knows the captain likes it. Only then does Leland go to speak again, “Trudy liked the snow, didn’t she.”
Monk nods with a small smile, “Loved it, yes.” He recalls an anecdote consisting of snow angels and lopsided snowmen but doesn’t voice it, opting instead for the meagre, ”Snow’s very dirty.”
“Messy too. But that’s part of the fun.” Leland grins at a thought, perhaps also recalling a memory he keeps to himself. Monk admires how his moustache upturns at the edges. In a way that makes him forget entirely of germs, Monk wants to kiss him. It’s a winter feeling, he tells himself, it will go away in a few months.
“You’ve turned down all the cases we’ve offered recently. Is that because of the snow?” Leland ventures curiously, taking a sip of his coffee.
“No.” Monk says. Then, secondly, shifting in his seat, “Yes.”
Leland frowns at his boots, shaking his head, “Yaknow, Monk. I’ve known you for what feels like forever at this point, you can be honest with me about whatever’s botherin’ you.”
It’s a bug-under-a-microscope sort of seeing-through. He shifts uncomfortably, like a criminal under a hot spotlight in the interrogation room. Monk wants to lie, in the same way he wants to clean; he feels compelled, it’s intrinsic. But Stottlemeyer has this prepared steadiness to him, like he could wait forever for Monk to say what he needs to. Not that emotions are exactly in Leland’s depths either; there’s still a weariness in the edge of his brow that is likely only visible to Monk.
He glances away when he speaks, eyeing the wood grain of the flooring, “It’s just the winter,” By way of explanation.
“It’s expected to be a little difficult to deal with Trudy’s loss this time of year; it always is.” Leland nods, mustering words he hopes are useful, “What does Dr. Kroger say about it?”
“Well, yea, I told him,” Monk squeaked, now avoiding Leland’s eyeline completely, “But it’s– uh– a little different this time. It’s loneliness, but also… longing.”
There’s silence and Monk thinks maybe he’s said too much too hastily. A cool breeze fills the room, tingling his spine. Leland clarifies, “For Trudy.”
Monk doesn’t answer, he stands, walking over to the spotless fireplace mantel, “Oh, gee, look at all this dust .” His heart hammers in his chest. Maybe he should turn the fireplace on, fill the room with more warmth than that of two bodies threatening to huddle closer in the metaphorical storm.
Leland stands and there’s a quiet noise of porcelain against wood as he sets down his mug of coffee. Monk listens to his few footsteps closer, again wanting for a larger living room. He can feel how close the captain stands behind him, not close enough to be uncomfortable, but near nonetheless.
“Longing,” Stottlemeyer repeats, “To be with Trudy again.”
“Not exactly…” Monk ventures, brushing absentmindedly at the mantel, “Just for… love, really.”
Leland settles his hand on Monk’s bicep, turning him around with a gentle pull. Cool blue eyes meet warm brown ones, each soft and adoring. Monk’s palms lay flat against the captain’s chest, catching him from the turn. This is winter: warmth in the cold, a place to be okay.
One of Leland’s hands cups Monk’s jaw, thumb running against his stubbled cheek. They kiss softly first, a careful brush of lips, Adrian exhaling a fearful breath between them. In such a small action, his heart is filled, and when Leland leans down, their lips meeting again, Monk thinks he may cry from the hopefulness of it all. Leland’s moustache tickles his upper lip and he wants to laugh.
When they part, Monk’s lips tingle, plumped to an inevitable shade of pink, and when his eyes flutter open Leland is still there, and he gets the feeling he will still be when winter ends.
“I’m here, Adrian.” Leland whispers quietly.
“I know.” Adrian replies, impossibly quieter.