Grimm Fic: Sodalis
Feb. 1st, 2024 07:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kat_lair***
Title: Sodalis
Author:kat_lair
Fandom: Grimm
Pairing: Nick Burkhardt/Monroe
Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Huddling For Warmth, Sharing a Bed, Christmas Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, Pre-Slash
Rating: G
Word count: 3,185
Summary: Nick’s council-mandated Wesen companion arrives on Christmas Eve. A snowstorm arrives on Christmas Day.
Author notes: Sixth and finale of the![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomtrees fics, this one written for kalika_999, whose likes listed ‘mail order bride’ and my brain went !!! Now, this isn’t that exactly, more like arranged companionship and I deeply regret that I don’t have time to write the 30k epic slowburn the idea deserves, but, uh, here, have a little thingy... All Latin from Google Translate. All grammar and punctuation thanks to pensnest who provided a stellar last minute beta <3
Sodalis on AO3
Nick’s council-mandated Wesen companion arrives on Christmas Eve.
It’s been less than three months since he learned what he is, and Nick is still very much coming to terms with the tangle of rules and expectations that being a Grimm has plunged him into. And it is very much a Grimm, no ‘one and only chosen’ status here, which Nick is kind of grateful for. As much as he’d enjoyed playing the brave knight saving the world as a kid, he doesn’t actually want to be solely responsible for something like that. The flipside of being a part of a network of Grimms, no matter how spread-out, means that there are established protocols for when a new one is discovered.
One of which, apparently, is gaining a new roommate. Or perhaps a mentor is a better way of putting it. Although that term too had made Renard (and hadn’t that been a whole ‘nother kick in the nuts) scoff and wave a hand around as if shooing away a bothersome insect. A Grimm’s sodalis is a companion, a guide, someone to teach them about and help them navigate the Wesen society. But they are also more; a confidante, a partner, someone who will have Nick’s back in a battle and in rest both.
Given all of that, Nick is not at all sure what he’s expecting when the knock finally comes late on Christmas Eve and he rushes to open the door, perhaps some kind of warrior in a chain mail, in full woge. It sure as hell isn’t this.
The man standing on Nick’s threshold has a dusting of snow on his shoulders. He’s wearing a brown coat with a red flannel shirt peeking through, and a frankly ridiculous lambswool hat. What’s visible of his face from under it is mostly covered by a scruffy, russet beard. The expression on his face is caught somewhere between irritation and resignation.
“Uh,” Nick says, intelligently.
“Wow,” the man deadpans. “They sure gave me a smart one.”
Nick blinks and then narrows his eyes. “And they gave me a lumberjack.”
For a moment, he thinks he’s gone too far, but then the man barks a laugh and picks up the large suitcase sitting on the steps. “Monroe,” he introduces himself and sticks out his free hand for Nick to shake.
Nick does so, noting the firm grip and how warm Monroe’s hand is despite the freezing temperature of the outside. Speaking of…
“Come in.” Nick steps back and lets Monroe into his house.
There’s the usual awkward dance of receiving a guest, made doubly so by the fact that Monroe isn’t going to be leaving any time soon, maybe ever. Nick points out a place to hang jackets and outerwear, waves at the main features on their way through the house so he can finally direct Monroe to the room he’d hastily transferred from a home office-slash-gym to something more inviting, with a double bed, a dresser and a wardrobe, all with the new furniture smell still clinging to them.
“What happens if the Grimm is married, with a family?” Nick had asked when he’d learned about his new living companion.
Renard’s reply of “Hasn’t happened yet,” had been as illuminating as it had been depressing.
“I, uh, didn’t know what you’d like so it’s pretty basic,” Nick says now, flipping on the light switch and moving out of the doorway so Monroe can see.
Monroe surveys the room in silence for a few seconds before nodding firmly. “It’ll do,” he says. “For now. If you’ll excuse me…” And then he steps inside and shuts the door to Nick’s face.
Nick honestly doesn’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved. He settles on amused, having decided that seeing the funny side of life was the only way to survive it long before he’d even heard the word Grimm, sometime during his first week in the police, in fact.
“I’ll make some coffee,” he calls through the closed door. “Do… Do you drink coffee?”
“Yes,” comes the emphatic answer and if Nick is not mistaken there is more than a hint of relief in it.
Nick makes the executive decision to use the good beans and is rewarded with the downright approving groan Monroe makes at the first sip. Now that he’s divested himself from his winter coat and hat, and sitting at the kitchen table, Nick can get a better look of him. The initial impression of a lumberjack isn’t actually that far removed. Monroe is older than Nick, maybe by as much as ten years, although he’s found that it’s more difficult to judge these things when it comes to Wesen. His hair is the same reddish brown as his beard, a messy tangle of curls still half-flattened by his hat. Monroe is also built. Not with gym muscle as such, and with his height – taller than Nick, which is something he’s not used to and is not sure how to feel about – he looks almost rangy. But his shoulders are broad, his hands, currently reverently cradling the mug of coffee, are large and there’s a presence to him, something solid and not easily moveable, like a tree with deep roots. The way he takes up space in Nick’s kitchen, long legs splayed, gaze moving around calmly and methodically cataloguing every detail, should feel threatening, should send Nick’s hackles up. Instead, it feels bizarrely, unexpectedly right.
Perhaps that’s the reason Nick’s mouth bypasses all easier ‘getting to know you’ questions and goes straight to “So, what kind of Wesen are you?”
Monroe’s gaze snaps to him with an intensity that feels almost physical. “Oh, you are new,” he says, but it doesn’t sound mocking, only matter of fact. Then he puts his mug down, leans forward, and woges.
Even though Nick is expecting it, he still rears back, just a bit, on pure instinct. With an effort he stops his hand from reaching for where his service weapon is usually holstered. He pushes back the primal fear, lets the rush of adrenaline settle, and makes himself study the creature in front of him. Red eyes, teeth that look they could snap a man’s arm in half, hair, nose, ear all elongated.
Helpfully, and with a flash of humor that bodes well for their future partnership, Monroe tilts his face this way and that, affecting fashion-model poses while also extending his hands – now covered in fur and sporting wicked looking claws – across the table.
“Blutbad?” Nick finally ventures.
Monroe gives him a decidedly wolfish grin. “Ten points to Gryffindor,” he says thickly through a mouthful of fangs, and then shakes himself as if shedding himself of something. And just like that the Wesen visage is gone and Monroe is back, a man in his middle years, large but almost placid, sipping coffee with obvious enjoyment.
They spend the evening exchanging largely superficial information about themselves. Nick can tell there is a lot Monroe isn’t sharing yet, including why he’d been voluntold – Nick’s reading between the lines on that one – to become a Grimm’s sodalis in the first place. It probably has something to do with the reasons behind his strict routine of vegetarian diet and Pilates, which he outlines without a hint of an embarrassment. Nick will get that story eventually, he guesses, but not on the first night.
***
The following morning Nick wakes to a noise that sounds like someone trying to break into his house, or possibly break his house. He sprints out of the bedroom with a gun in his hand, ready to defend their – and hadn’t that changed quickly to a plural – home, only to find Monroe and a giant tree stuck on the doorway.
“Monroe?” Nick says, thumbing the safety back on and depositing the revolver under a sofa cushion. If he’s very lucky Monroe will never know Nick even had it out. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Monroe grouses, finally looking over his shoulder from where he’d been trying to pull the tree through the doorway. “I’m bringing some much-needed Christmas cheer to your frankly appallingly sparse house.”
Nick chooses not to defend the indefensible. “Right,” he says instead. “Gimme a sec. I’ll put some shoes on and go out the back and see if I can help with this from the outside.”
They get the tree in and only have to trim it a bit to make it fit. Nick unearths some ancient Christmas decorations from the attic and Monroe, whose essential luggage – “The rest is being delivered after the New Year. How big is your garage?” – includes a large box of exquisite and clearly handmade tree ornaments, contributes the rest.
Nick is forced to admit that the results are a clear improvement. He’s glad now that he got some vaguely Christmassy foods in since Monroe is apparently a fan of the holiday. There’s even a turkey, but thankfully only a small one and Nick’s perfectly happy to eat turkey sandwiches for lunch for the next week. Monroe takes charge in the kitchen with the kind of self-assured authority that makes the bottom of Nick’s stomach swoop in wholly inappropriate ways. Nick prepares the turkey, which Monroe refuses to touch, puts it into the oven and takes himself outside for a while. The snow has been falling steadily since the night and the driveways, including those of his elderly neighbors, need clearing, but the cold air and the physical labor also serve to cool his thoughts.
In the afternoon they put TV on for Christmas movies, eat the food when it’s ready – the sprouts are a revelation, Nick is going to hand over his entire kitchen if Monroe wants it – and generally just share space. There’s some initial awkwardness as there always is when spending time with someone who is still, for all intents and purposes, a stranger, but as the hours tick by it eases. All in all, the Christmas Day is downright pleasant, perhaps even cosy, until the evening. The weather outside has been getting steadily worse and the morning’s storybook idyllic soft snowfall has transformed into a howling storm that bends the trees and rattles the windows.
Just before Clarence finally gets his wings in It’s A Wonderful Life, the TV goes dark. So does the rest of the house. Monroe’s eyes glowing red from the other end of the sofa is enough to startle Nick out of his frozen surprise.
“Power’s out,” he observes inanely.
“No shit.” There’s a distinct growl to Monroe’s voice. “You expecting trouble?” Ah, that explains the tension Nick can feel emanating from the Blutbad. He risks a smile in the cover of darkness.
“No, no,” he reassures, getting up, keeping one hand on the sofa back while he waits for his eyes to adjust. “This happens sometimes. The storm must have brought down a powerline somewhere.” Gingerly he makes his way to the window and peeks out. Nothing but darkness. “Yep, the whole neighborhood is out.”
The red fades, until there’s nothing but an ordinary outline of a man, barely visible even when Monroe gets up. “Tell me you have a backup generator.”
“I do,” Nick says. Then he deflates. “But it’s broken. I meant to get it fixed over the summer but then…”
Monroe sighs. “Alright,” he says. “You can use ‘I discovered I’m a myth as well as a man’ as an excuse once and you’ve just used it up. Flashlights? Candles?”
Those at least Nick can produce. He even has spare batteries. In a short while they have enough light again that no one is bruising their legs bumping into furniture. Heat, however, is another matter. Already, the house is cooling down.
“I should see about Mrs Wilson next door,” Nick says. “You turn in. The power should be back by the morning.”
Monroe nods, takes one of the flashlights and retires to his bedroom. Nick pulls on boots, jacket and, since he can’t find his own, Monroe’s ridiculous hat. It’s amazingly warm and keeps the snow off his face as he trudges over to Mrs Wilson’s house. The hat also smells nice, a mix of warm spice, which Nick assumes is Monroe’s aftershave, overlaying something deeper and greener, like an evergreen forest after a rain. That, Nick thinks, must be Monroe’s own scent. He resists the urge to bury his nose in the lambswool and inhale, and instead knocks on Mrs Wilson’s door.
Her generator, unlike Nick’s, is in perfect working condition and Nick has it going in no time. After he unearths it from a massive snowdrift, that is. His other neighbors also seem to be more conscientious about maintaining their generators as one by one lights are starting to come on behind windows even while the streetlamps remain dark.
By the time Nick gets back to the house, he’s really starting to feel the cold. The house itself is noticeably cooler as well as quiet and Nick misses Monroe’s hat as soon as he takes it off. Still, Nick’s no wimp. He’s a trained law enforcement officer and a Grimm, a little chill is not going to defeat him. He just needs to be smart about this. In the torchlight, he rummages through his drawers for his warmest and thickest sweats, digs out some woolly socks and thusly dressed, dives under the covers. He’ll just have to wait for his body heat warm up his little cocoon and then he can sleep.
The plan would’ve worked beautifully if Nick had any significant body heat left. Spending almost half an hour digging through snow to get to Mrs Wilson’s generator has sapped most of it and instead slowly warming up, Nick starts to feel colder and colder, shivering miserably as the minutes tick by. He doesn’t know how long it’s been when there’s a knock at the bedroom door. It’s perfunctory, and Monroe is already sticking his head in by the time Nick has pulled the covers off himself enough to see what’s the matter.
“What is it?” he asks, appalled to see his breath visible in the chilly air of the room. “Something wrong?” He fumbles for the flashlight, blinking at Monroe standing in the bedroom doorway, barefoot – how are his toes not falling off with frostbite Nick doesn’t know – and dressed in a flannel pyjama set. There are reindeer on it.
“Yes,” Monroe says. The eyeroll is audible in his voice even though is face is mostly in the shadows. “You’re freezing. I can hear your teeth chattering through the wall.”
“No, you can’t,” Nick automatically denies, and then “Sorry,” because maybe Monroe can, what with the Blutbad hearing and all.
Monroe refuses to acknowledge the apology. “We need to sleep,” he states the obvious. “You’re too cold to sleep.”
“How aren’t you?”
“I run hot. I feel a bit cool but…” Monroe shrugs. Then he straightens his posture, mouth pressing into a thin line, seemingly coming to a decision.
“Grimm, allow me to help,” he says. There’s something formal about the phrasing, only reinforced when Monroe makes an odd gesture, touching his heart with three fingers and then extending them in Nick’s direction with a “Grimm, allow your sodalis to help.”
“Uhh…” Nick stares at him. “I… yes?” He half expects Monroe to claim he can fix the generator after all despite the earlier muttering about clock gears being an entirely different thing when Nick had gently inquired whether his technical prowess was transferrable.
What he gets instead is Monroe closing the door behind himself and walking further into the room. He’s reaching for the covers by the time Nick thinks to ask “Wait, what are you doing?”
“Trying to get into the bed,” Monroe answers, frowning. “Stop clutching at the blankets like a maiden aunt. Are you naked under there?”
“What?! No!” Nick yelps, indignant and flushing, which makes his face feel warm for the first time in hours. His grip on the covers loosens from sheer surprise and Monroe wastes no time in taking advantage and sliding underneath them in a move that seems downright smooth. Or possibly Nick’s brain is suffering from hypothermia already.
“Wouldn’t matter to me if you were,” Monroe says but something about his voice makes Nick think he’s lying. “Anyway,” he carries on. “You’re cold, I’ve been told I’m very good at keeping people warm.” He pats the mattress next to him invitingly. “Come here, Grimm.”
Nick goes. Slowly, warily. It’s been several months since he’s shared a bed with anyone. Not since Juliet and they’d broken up – amicably enough to still meet for coffee occasionally – a few months before the whole Grimm thing. Nick’s never been one for one-night-stands, and having your whole life, identity and worldview turned upside down certainly hasn’t made it any more likely for him to cruise the local clubs for a bedpartner.
But Monroe is, as advertised, wonderfully warm. Gradually, Nick can feel every muscle in his body relax as his shivers subside. Their arms are pressed together but otherwise they are not touching even though Nick, to his utter mortification, wants to. He hasn’t turned the light off either, not yet ready for the extra layer of intimacy darkness will bring.
“I didn’t realise bed-warming was one of the services a sodalis offered,” he tries to joke but then immediately wants to slap a hand over his mouth because of the double-meaning he failed to run through his internal censors and now Monroe is going to think he’s some kind of creep and leave and— “I mean… I didn’t… Shit.”
Against all expectations, which seems to be a trend when it comes to Monroe, he only laughs. Sure, it’s maybe a little bitter around the edges but there’s enough genuine amusement and even something like fondness there to mask most of it.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I know.” He rolls over to his side facing Nick and lifting his arm in clear invitation. “Magnum cochleari.”
Nick stares at him, trying to parse the meaning. Magnum is big… Big something? His mind, unhelpfully, skips straight down to the gutter. Surely Monroe doesn’t mean…??
“Big spoon,” Monroe clarifies, his cheeks distinctly pink. “Or close enough. Latin was never my strong suit…” They stare at each other for a few long seconds and then Nick loses the fight against the laughter pushing at his diaphragm.
“Oh wow,” he says in between giggles. “You are a dork!” And somehow, it’s this that finally eases the tension he’s been holding since learning about being a Grimm, about being assigned a Wesen companion, about having no choice over either of those things. It’s also what makes it easy to click off the flashlight, turn onto his side and just tuck himself under Monroe’s raised arm, back to chest.
Monroe rumbles in faked indignation but his arm wraps around Nick’s middle without hesitation, his beard scraping against the back of Nick’s neck. “Sleep, Grimm,” he murmurs.
Nick sleeps, better than he has for a long time, secure in the knowledge that his sodalis has his back. Quite literally.
***
Title: Sodalis
Author:
kat_lair Fandom: Grimm
Pairing: Nick Burkhardt/Monroe
Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Huddling For Warmth, Sharing a Bed, Christmas Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, Pre-Slash
Rating: G
Word count: 3,185
Summary: Nick’s council-mandated Wesen companion arrives on Christmas Eve. A snowstorm arrives on Christmas Day.
Author notes: Sixth and finale of the
fandomtrees fics, this one written for kalika_999, whose likes listed ‘mail order bride’ and my brain went !!! Now, this isn’t that exactly, more like arranged companionship and I deeply regret that I don’t have time to write the 30k epic slowburn the idea deserves, but, uh, here, have a little thingy... All Latin from Google Translate. All grammar and punctuation thanks to pensnest who provided a stellar last minute beta <3Sodalis on AO3
Nick’s council-mandated Wesen companion arrives on Christmas Eve.
It’s been less than three months since he learned what he is, and Nick is still very much coming to terms with the tangle of rules and expectations that being a Grimm has plunged him into. And it is very much a Grimm, no ‘one and only chosen’ status here, which Nick is kind of grateful for. As much as he’d enjoyed playing the brave knight saving the world as a kid, he doesn’t actually want to be solely responsible for something like that. The flipside of being a part of a network of Grimms, no matter how spread-out, means that there are established protocols for when a new one is discovered.
One of which, apparently, is gaining a new roommate. Or perhaps a mentor is a better way of putting it. Although that term too had made Renard (and hadn’t that been a whole ‘nother kick in the nuts) scoff and wave a hand around as if shooing away a bothersome insect. A Grimm’s sodalis is a companion, a guide, someone to teach them about and help them navigate the Wesen society. But they are also more; a confidante, a partner, someone who will have Nick’s back in a battle and in rest both.
Given all of that, Nick is not at all sure what he’s expecting when the knock finally comes late on Christmas Eve and he rushes to open the door, perhaps some kind of warrior in a chain mail, in full woge. It sure as hell isn’t this.
The man standing on Nick’s threshold has a dusting of snow on his shoulders. He’s wearing a brown coat with a red flannel shirt peeking through, and a frankly ridiculous lambswool hat. What’s visible of his face from under it is mostly covered by a scruffy, russet beard. The expression on his face is caught somewhere between irritation and resignation.
“Uh,” Nick says, intelligently.
“Wow,” the man deadpans. “They sure gave me a smart one.”
Nick blinks and then narrows his eyes. “And they gave me a lumberjack.”
For a moment, he thinks he’s gone too far, but then the man barks a laugh and picks up the large suitcase sitting on the steps. “Monroe,” he introduces himself and sticks out his free hand for Nick to shake.
Nick does so, noting the firm grip and how warm Monroe’s hand is despite the freezing temperature of the outside. Speaking of…
“Come in.” Nick steps back and lets Monroe into his house.
There’s the usual awkward dance of receiving a guest, made doubly so by the fact that Monroe isn’t going to be leaving any time soon, maybe ever. Nick points out a place to hang jackets and outerwear, waves at the main features on their way through the house so he can finally direct Monroe to the room he’d hastily transferred from a home office-slash-gym to something more inviting, with a double bed, a dresser and a wardrobe, all with the new furniture smell still clinging to them.
“What happens if the Grimm is married, with a family?” Nick had asked when he’d learned about his new living companion.
Renard’s reply of “Hasn’t happened yet,” had been as illuminating as it had been depressing.
“I, uh, didn’t know what you’d like so it’s pretty basic,” Nick says now, flipping on the light switch and moving out of the doorway so Monroe can see.
Monroe surveys the room in silence for a few seconds before nodding firmly. “It’ll do,” he says. “For now. If you’ll excuse me…” And then he steps inside and shuts the door to Nick’s face.
Nick honestly doesn’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved. He settles on amused, having decided that seeing the funny side of life was the only way to survive it long before he’d even heard the word Grimm, sometime during his first week in the police, in fact.
“I’ll make some coffee,” he calls through the closed door. “Do… Do you drink coffee?”
“Yes,” comes the emphatic answer and if Nick is not mistaken there is more than a hint of relief in it.
Nick makes the executive decision to use the good beans and is rewarded with the downright approving groan Monroe makes at the first sip. Now that he’s divested himself from his winter coat and hat, and sitting at the kitchen table, Nick can get a better look of him. The initial impression of a lumberjack isn’t actually that far removed. Monroe is older than Nick, maybe by as much as ten years, although he’s found that it’s more difficult to judge these things when it comes to Wesen. His hair is the same reddish brown as his beard, a messy tangle of curls still half-flattened by his hat. Monroe is also built. Not with gym muscle as such, and with his height – taller than Nick, which is something he’s not used to and is not sure how to feel about – he looks almost rangy. But his shoulders are broad, his hands, currently reverently cradling the mug of coffee, are large and there’s a presence to him, something solid and not easily moveable, like a tree with deep roots. The way he takes up space in Nick’s kitchen, long legs splayed, gaze moving around calmly and methodically cataloguing every detail, should feel threatening, should send Nick’s hackles up. Instead, it feels bizarrely, unexpectedly right.
Perhaps that’s the reason Nick’s mouth bypasses all easier ‘getting to know you’ questions and goes straight to “So, what kind of Wesen are you?”
Monroe’s gaze snaps to him with an intensity that feels almost physical. “Oh, you are new,” he says, but it doesn’t sound mocking, only matter of fact. Then he puts his mug down, leans forward, and woges.
Even though Nick is expecting it, he still rears back, just a bit, on pure instinct. With an effort he stops his hand from reaching for where his service weapon is usually holstered. He pushes back the primal fear, lets the rush of adrenaline settle, and makes himself study the creature in front of him. Red eyes, teeth that look they could snap a man’s arm in half, hair, nose, ear all elongated.
Helpfully, and with a flash of humor that bodes well for their future partnership, Monroe tilts his face this way and that, affecting fashion-model poses while also extending his hands – now covered in fur and sporting wicked looking claws – across the table.
“Blutbad?” Nick finally ventures.
Monroe gives him a decidedly wolfish grin. “Ten points to Gryffindor,” he says thickly through a mouthful of fangs, and then shakes himself as if shedding himself of something. And just like that the Wesen visage is gone and Monroe is back, a man in his middle years, large but almost placid, sipping coffee with obvious enjoyment.
They spend the evening exchanging largely superficial information about themselves. Nick can tell there is a lot Monroe isn’t sharing yet, including why he’d been voluntold – Nick’s reading between the lines on that one – to become a Grimm’s sodalis in the first place. It probably has something to do with the reasons behind his strict routine of vegetarian diet and Pilates, which he outlines without a hint of an embarrassment. Nick will get that story eventually, he guesses, but not on the first night.
***
The following morning Nick wakes to a noise that sounds like someone trying to break into his house, or possibly break his house. He sprints out of the bedroom with a gun in his hand, ready to defend their – and hadn’t that changed quickly to a plural – home, only to find Monroe and a giant tree stuck on the doorway.
“Monroe?” Nick says, thumbing the safety back on and depositing the revolver under a sofa cushion. If he’s very lucky Monroe will never know Nick even had it out. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Monroe grouses, finally looking over his shoulder from where he’d been trying to pull the tree through the doorway. “I’m bringing some much-needed Christmas cheer to your frankly appallingly sparse house.”
Nick chooses not to defend the indefensible. “Right,” he says instead. “Gimme a sec. I’ll put some shoes on and go out the back and see if I can help with this from the outside.”
They get the tree in and only have to trim it a bit to make it fit. Nick unearths some ancient Christmas decorations from the attic and Monroe, whose essential luggage – “The rest is being delivered after the New Year. How big is your garage?” – includes a large box of exquisite and clearly handmade tree ornaments, contributes the rest.
Nick is forced to admit that the results are a clear improvement. He’s glad now that he got some vaguely Christmassy foods in since Monroe is apparently a fan of the holiday. There’s even a turkey, but thankfully only a small one and Nick’s perfectly happy to eat turkey sandwiches for lunch for the next week. Monroe takes charge in the kitchen with the kind of self-assured authority that makes the bottom of Nick’s stomach swoop in wholly inappropriate ways. Nick prepares the turkey, which Monroe refuses to touch, puts it into the oven and takes himself outside for a while. The snow has been falling steadily since the night and the driveways, including those of his elderly neighbors, need clearing, but the cold air and the physical labor also serve to cool his thoughts.
In the afternoon they put TV on for Christmas movies, eat the food when it’s ready – the sprouts are a revelation, Nick is going to hand over his entire kitchen if Monroe wants it – and generally just share space. There’s some initial awkwardness as there always is when spending time with someone who is still, for all intents and purposes, a stranger, but as the hours tick by it eases. All in all, the Christmas Day is downright pleasant, perhaps even cosy, until the evening. The weather outside has been getting steadily worse and the morning’s storybook idyllic soft snowfall has transformed into a howling storm that bends the trees and rattles the windows.
Just before Clarence finally gets his wings in It’s A Wonderful Life, the TV goes dark. So does the rest of the house. Monroe’s eyes glowing red from the other end of the sofa is enough to startle Nick out of his frozen surprise.
“Power’s out,” he observes inanely.
“No shit.” There’s a distinct growl to Monroe’s voice. “You expecting trouble?” Ah, that explains the tension Nick can feel emanating from the Blutbad. He risks a smile in the cover of darkness.
“No, no,” he reassures, getting up, keeping one hand on the sofa back while he waits for his eyes to adjust. “This happens sometimes. The storm must have brought down a powerline somewhere.” Gingerly he makes his way to the window and peeks out. Nothing but darkness. “Yep, the whole neighborhood is out.”
The red fades, until there’s nothing but an ordinary outline of a man, barely visible even when Monroe gets up. “Tell me you have a backup generator.”
“I do,” Nick says. Then he deflates. “But it’s broken. I meant to get it fixed over the summer but then…”
Monroe sighs. “Alright,” he says. “You can use ‘I discovered I’m a myth as well as a man’ as an excuse once and you’ve just used it up. Flashlights? Candles?”
Those at least Nick can produce. He even has spare batteries. In a short while they have enough light again that no one is bruising their legs bumping into furniture. Heat, however, is another matter. Already, the house is cooling down.
“I should see about Mrs Wilson next door,” Nick says. “You turn in. The power should be back by the morning.”
Monroe nods, takes one of the flashlights and retires to his bedroom. Nick pulls on boots, jacket and, since he can’t find his own, Monroe’s ridiculous hat. It’s amazingly warm and keeps the snow off his face as he trudges over to Mrs Wilson’s house. The hat also smells nice, a mix of warm spice, which Nick assumes is Monroe’s aftershave, overlaying something deeper and greener, like an evergreen forest after a rain. That, Nick thinks, must be Monroe’s own scent. He resists the urge to bury his nose in the lambswool and inhale, and instead knocks on Mrs Wilson’s door.
Her generator, unlike Nick’s, is in perfect working condition and Nick has it going in no time. After he unearths it from a massive snowdrift, that is. His other neighbors also seem to be more conscientious about maintaining their generators as one by one lights are starting to come on behind windows even while the streetlamps remain dark.
By the time Nick gets back to the house, he’s really starting to feel the cold. The house itself is noticeably cooler as well as quiet and Nick misses Monroe’s hat as soon as he takes it off. Still, Nick’s no wimp. He’s a trained law enforcement officer and a Grimm, a little chill is not going to defeat him. He just needs to be smart about this. In the torchlight, he rummages through his drawers for his warmest and thickest sweats, digs out some woolly socks and thusly dressed, dives under the covers. He’ll just have to wait for his body heat warm up his little cocoon and then he can sleep.
The plan would’ve worked beautifully if Nick had any significant body heat left. Spending almost half an hour digging through snow to get to Mrs Wilson’s generator has sapped most of it and instead slowly warming up, Nick starts to feel colder and colder, shivering miserably as the minutes tick by. He doesn’t know how long it’s been when there’s a knock at the bedroom door. It’s perfunctory, and Monroe is already sticking his head in by the time Nick has pulled the covers off himself enough to see what’s the matter.
“What is it?” he asks, appalled to see his breath visible in the chilly air of the room. “Something wrong?” He fumbles for the flashlight, blinking at Monroe standing in the bedroom doorway, barefoot – how are his toes not falling off with frostbite Nick doesn’t know – and dressed in a flannel pyjama set. There are reindeer on it.
“Yes,” Monroe says. The eyeroll is audible in his voice even though is face is mostly in the shadows. “You’re freezing. I can hear your teeth chattering through the wall.”
“No, you can’t,” Nick automatically denies, and then “Sorry,” because maybe Monroe can, what with the Blutbad hearing and all.
Monroe refuses to acknowledge the apology. “We need to sleep,” he states the obvious. “You’re too cold to sleep.”
“How aren’t you?”
“I run hot. I feel a bit cool but…” Monroe shrugs. Then he straightens his posture, mouth pressing into a thin line, seemingly coming to a decision.
“Grimm, allow me to help,” he says. There’s something formal about the phrasing, only reinforced when Monroe makes an odd gesture, touching his heart with three fingers and then extending them in Nick’s direction with a “Grimm, allow your sodalis to help.”
“Uhh…” Nick stares at him. “I… yes?” He half expects Monroe to claim he can fix the generator after all despite the earlier muttering about clock gears being an entirely different thing when Nick had gently inquired whether his technical prowess was transferrable.
What he gets instead is Monroe closing the door behind himself and walking further into the room. He’s reaching for the covers by the time Nick thinks to ask “Wait, what are you doing?”
“Trying to get into the bed,” Monroe answers, frowning. “Stop clutching at the blankets like a maiden aunt. Are you naked under there?”
“What?! No!” Nick yelps, indignant and flushing, which makes his face feel warm for the first time in hours. His grip on the covers loosens from sheer surprise and Monroe wastes no time in taking advantage and sliding underneath them in a move that seems downright smooth. Or possibly Nick’s brain is suffering from hypothermia already.
“Wouldn’t matter to me if you were,” Monroe says but something about his voice makes Nick think he’s lying. “Anyway,” he carries on. “You’re cold, I’ve been told I’m very good at keeping people warm.” He pats the mattress next to him invitingly. “Come here, Grimm.”
Nick goes. Slowly, warily. It’s been several months since he’s shared a bed with anyone. Not since Juliet and they’d broken up – amicably enough to still meet for coffee occasionally – a few months before the whole Grimm thing. Nick’s never been one for one-night-stands, and having your whole life, identity and worldview turned upside down certainly hasn’t made it any more likely for him to cruise the local clubs for a bedpartner.
But Monroe is, as advertised, wonderfully warm. Gradually, Nick can feel every muscle in his body relax as his shivers subside. Their arms are pressed together but otherwise they are not touching even though Nick, to his utter mortification, wants to. He hasn’t turned the light off either, not yet ready for the extra layer of intimacy darkness will bring.
“I didn’t realise bed-warming was one of the services a sodalis offered,” he tries to joke but then immediately wants to slap a hand over his mouth because of the double-meaning he failed to run through his internal censors and now Monroe is going to think he’s some kind of creep and leave and— “I mean… I didn’t… Shit.”
Against all expectations, which seems to be a trend when it comes to Monroe, he only laughs. Sure, it’s maybe a little bitter around the edges but there’s enough genuine amusement and even something like fondness there to mask most of it.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I know.” He rolls over to his side facing Nick and lifting his arm in clear invitation. “Magnum cochleari.”
Nick stares at him, trying to parse the meaning. Magnum is big… Big something? His mind, unhelpfully, skips straight down to the gutter. Surely Monroe doesn’t mean…??
“Big spoon,” Monroe clarifies, his cheeks distinctly pink. “Or close enough. Latin was never my strong suit…” They stare at each other for a few long seconds and then Nick loses the fight against the laughter pushing at his diaphragm.
“Oh wow,” he says in between giggles. “You are a dork!” And somehow, it’s this that finally eases the tension he’s been holding since learning about being a Grimm, about being assigned a Wesen companion, about having no choice over either of those things. It’s also what makes it easy to click off the flashlight, turn onto his side and just tuck himself under Monroe’s raised arm, back to chest.
Monroe rumbles in faked indignation but his arm wraps around Nick’s middle without hesitation, his beard scraping against the back of Nick’s neck. “Sleep, Grimm,” he murmurs.
Nick sleeps, better than he has for a long time, secure in the knowledge that his sodalis has his back. Quite literally.
***
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on 2024-02-02 03:25 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2024-02-02 03:27 pm (UTC)