Work Text:
“Yes?”
She opens the door, though Monroe really wouldn’t have blamed her if she hadn’t. She has one hand on the frame now, the other clenching and unclenching subtly, as if she wishes she were holding something in it—a baseball bat maybe, or a pot of boiling water.
(Hank left him a terse, diffident voice mail that began, Look, it seemed like you and Nick were friends—or something—so I thought you might want to know, and ended with whoever shot that bastard, we all owe him big time. Now that he sees Juliette’s eyes, he has no trouble believing the part about the ravioli.)
“There’s a police car at the end of the street,” she says before he can get a word out. “Just so you know.”
“Yeah, they saw me,” he says, grateful the car is manned by guy who recognized him from the time he came into the police station. “Eddie Monroe. I’m a—“ In her presence, the word “friend” sticks in his throat. “I’m a known associate.”
The phrase gets a quirk of the lips from her, and he holds out what he’s brought like a peace offering, thankful he thought to put the stuff in one of those decorative gift bags. “I helped Nick out some with this last case—with some evidence. And I, uh, wondered how he was doing.”
“Thanks.” She takes the bag. “He’s okay. Still kinda concussed, and being even more stubborn about pain meds than usual. But on the mend. He’s sleeping right now, I think.” She glances over her shoulder and Monroe imagines he sees the top of a dark head on the arm of the sofa behind her.
“Oh. Okay then. Tell him I said feel better.” He sticks his now empty hands in his pockets and starts to turn away.
Somewhat to his surprise, though, she seems to decide, like Nick, that there’s something about him she can trust. “Do you want to come in for bit? He’ll be up soon—can’t sleep for more than an hour at a stretch, poor thing, and I bet he’d like the company. Being laid up like this drives him a little nuts.”
“Okay. Yeah. Okay. If you’re sure?”
In answer, she opens the door a little wider and leads him through the living room, where Nick is stretched with disturbingly un-Nick-like stillness under a brightly-colored afghan—the kind of thing a maiden aunt might knit, Monroe thinks, when she wasn’t out using her elephant gun.
“Tea?” Juliette asks, when they make it through to the kitchen.
“Yes, thanks.” Monroe tries to keep his voice low and his hands off the surfaces. It feels awkward to be alone with her while Nick’s asleep, and he’s not sure where to stand.
Juliette puts the kettle on and fixes mugs for tea. She’s long-limbed, willowy, but there’s an economy to her movements, a sense of something held back, and Monroe thinks he sees why she and Nick might fit together well.
Done with the tea things, she starts on the gaudy gift bag. The coffee comes out first, and she lifts it to her face and inhales like she wants to absorb it straight through her skin.
“Mmmm. That smells good.”
“Yeah, I know a guy who roasts his own—single estate, organic. He does a great job.” He’s pleased by her appreciation. Now that they’re in the full light of the kitchen he can see the dark smudges under her eyes, the pull of lines on the fine skin of her face.
“And…” She holds up the bundle of muslin, wide green leaves visible through the thin cloth, with a puzzled look. “You know, most people just bring flowers.”
“Yeah.” He snorts, embarrassed. “It’s, um, comfrey. It’s good for bruising. You just soak it in warm water for a bit, then…” He mimes how one could take the compress, lay it across a bruised torso. “There’s some lavender oil in there too—that’s good for inflammation.”
She purses her lips, and he thinks for a moment she’s going to scoff, but she says, “Huh. We were just talking about that at work.”
“You were talking about comfrey poultices at work?”
“Not exactly.” The water’s boiling now and she fills both their mugs, then gets a shallow bowl out of a cupboard, lays the muslin-wrapped leaves in it and pours water over that, too. A sharp, green scent starts to fill the room. “More like that old wives’ tale about animals instinctively knowing what herbs to chew when they’re sick.”
“Where do you work?” he blurts out, worried for a moment that she knows everything.
She gives him a strange look, like she thinks Nick should’ve already told him. “I’m a vet.” A yelp of laughter escapes before he can help himself and she frowns. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Nothing. It’s—it’s cool. Large animals or small?”
“Well, mostly small right now, but I can find my way around a big one when I need to. Milk?” He shakes his head, watches her pour some into her own mug. “I have this idea, though, that I want to move out of domestic animals sometime. Work in a zoo, maybe. Or better yet, with the Forestry Service. Something wild, y’know?”
Monroe makes himself close his mouth, which has fallen open a little. He nods, then allows himself to say, “That, uh, that sounds like a great idea. Wild is good.”
“What’s a great idea?” And it’s Nick himself, one hand on the kitchen doorframe for support. “Thought I heard someone in here.” He unfurls a smile so unguarded it makes Monroe’s chest hurt a little . “Thought I smelled something, too.”
“Darling,” says Juliette, lightly ironic, “Monroe here has kindly brought you an herbal remedy.”
Nick eyes the bowl suspiciously, sniffs. “Uh. Thanks, I appreciate it, I do, but some ice cream and a couple of issues of Sports Illustrated would have been fine, too.” His voice is softer than usual, as if he’s still wary about taking a deep breath.
“Well, you know me.” Monroe shrugs, and feels Juliette’s eyes on him, curious, when Nick nods. “Good to see you looking better.”
It’s a lie. Nick doesn’t really look any better, except for the fact that he’s on his feet. The bruises and scrapes haven’t faded much, and now he looks exhausted under them, hollow-eyed and pale. He’s unshaven, and his hair—well, it looks like he’s been tossing and turning on the couch all day. He’s wearing sweat pants and a black Henley so faded it’s almost gray. He hasn’t bothered—or hasn’t managed—to get the arm with the dislocated shoulder through the sleeve, and somehow it’s that flapping sleeve that makes something nasty flare in Monroe’s belly. He knows what it is. It’s the feeling he gets when he needs to tear the throat out of something right-the-fuck-now. But since he’s already shot the ogre full of poison with a triple-bore rifle, there’s nothing to do but let it die down.
“Want some tea, baby?” Juliette asks.
Nick nods, and makes his careful way into the room. As soon as he’s in grasping distance, he reaches for the edge of the counter, as if eager for the anchor. And misses by a crucial fraction of an inch.
Juliette's hands are full of tea things, and Monroe sees her eyes dart to him with relief as he swoops in, gets a hand on Nick’s uninjured bicep, and pulls him up before he can faceplant.
“Sorry,” Nick says, face averted, “depth perception’s still playing tricks on me.”
“No problem.” Monroe cautiously releases Nick’s arm. When he doesn’t topple over, he continues. “I’d be demanding room service for a month something like that happened to me.”
“Yeah, right,” Nick says, just as Juliette breaks in, an edge of worry in her voice, “Go lie down, babe. I’ll bring it in to you.”
Nick scowls, but dutifully makes his way back into the living room, Monroe shadowing him as he very, very gingerly settles himself back into his afghan-lined nest on the couch. There are already a few sports magazines strewn about, along with a copy of The Art of Fielding, and an old ipod. Monroe pushes aside some of the half-empty mugs and glasses on the coffee table, and perches where he can get a good look at Nick’s face.
“Seriously, man—you guys doing okay?”
“Yeah. We’ll be fine.” Nick is obviously trying to dismiss Monroe’s concern, but there’s an undercurrent of worry in his voice. “Juliette’s not sleeping real well, that’s all. It’s hard on her, this happening in our own house.” Something hard flickers in his eyes, and Monroe knows it’s not just the pain of his injuries keeping Nick up at night, not just pride making him avoid the fug of Vicodin.
He wants to say, I would sleep across your door like a hound if it would keep her safe, but that doesn’t seem entirely appropriate, seeing how he’s known Juliette for all of fifteen minutes. So instead he just tries to put as much conviction into his voice as he can when he says, “Stark’s dead. Aunt Marie’s super juice saw to that. He’s not ever coming back.”
Nick nods, though he doesn’t seem convinced, and then Juliette’s there, a cup of tea in one hand, and the bowl with the comfrey compress in the other, a towel draped over her shoulder. She puts both on the table next to Monroe and settles herself next to Nick.
“Really?” Nick eyes the bowl balefully.
“Why not? You’re hurting, and you’re turning up your nose at the best modern medicine can offer—might as well try an alternative.”
“It won’t make you groggy, promise,” Monroe puts in.
“The two of you are ganging up on me? Seriously? That’s—that’s just not fair.” Nick sounds all of about eight-years-old, and Juliette snorts and tugs at his shirt purposefully.
Sighing in surrender, Nick helps her pull it over his head, then grits his teeth as she starts to undo the wrapping around his ribs. She’s efficient about it—she really does know her way around a large animal—but the bruises are in full bloom now, mottled purple and green and almost black, and Monroe gets another of those throat-ripping flares of anger at the sight of them. He turns his head away.
When he looks again, Juliette has pushed Nick back onto the sofa cushions, and is gently wringing out the muslin compress. She’s added some lavender oil to the water; he can smell the clean floral of it over the other herb. Nick gasps a bit as she lays it over the swollen, discolored skin of his ribs, and she murmurs, “Sorry, babe, sorry, it’s still a little warm. How does it feel?”
“Like someone dumped their soggy salad all over me. Is that how it’s supposed to feel?”
“You’ve gotta give it a few minutes to work,” Monroe says, leaning forward without thinking to tug the poultice up over a particularly nasty set of marks. By accident, though, his hand lands on Juliette’s.
And then, the strangest thing happens: without warning the whole world contracts to the feel of her cool fingers under his, and the tight, inflamed skin of Nick’s torso beneath that. Juliette’s hand twitches, and he’s sure she’s about to pull away. But she doesn’t, and for a long moment it’s just heat and coolness, her light scent and Nick’s muskier one cutting through the pungency of the herbs. Nick’s chest rises and falls rapidly under their hands and he gives them a look that he would surely never allow himself if he weren’t still slightly concussed.
Then Nick makes a surprised little huh sound and says, “You know what, I think that stuff is actually working.”
Monroe feels rather than sees Juliette’s smile, and she gently pulls her hand from underneath his to twine her fingers with Nick’s.
“Told you it would, didn’t I?” he says, and it’s the most satisfying moment of this whole adventure, beats killing Stark by a long shot.
“Hey,” says Juliette, “why don’t you stay for dinner? It’s nothing much, but my friend Sue dropped by this huge pot of soup, and there’s more than enough.”
“I—.” He’s suddenly off balance, unsure about what kind of door she’s opening now. “I dunno. You guys need some peace and quiet.”
“No,” says Nick, and all of a sudden he really does look better, some layer of pain or worry visibly leaving his face. “Stay. You can keep Juliette company when I end up crashing at 7:30 again.”
“Well—“
“Good, it’s settled,” says Juliette. “I’ll go put the pot on the stove.”
But Monroe sees Nick’s fingers tighten around hers as she starts to stand up. “Okay,” he says, “on one condition: you two sit tight and let me deal with the soup. I can find my way around the kitchen, and you deserve a break.”
“Thanks,” says Juliette. She pulls her beautiful hair to one side with unconscious elegance and smiles as if something momentous has been decided. “Just make yourself at home.”