The leaves are bleeding into the gutters in the autumn chill which has captured Oregon early. It's not that Monroe hates being out of the house or anything, he just hates being out of the house and forced to play nice with Hank who is smelling aggressive and too strongly of something else. Something weird. Monroe is pretty good at identify the details which taint the air around him. He knows that Hank had bacon for breakfast and drank his coffee black, chewed a few pieces of gum and that his shirt has been worn at least once last week and hasn't been washed since. He knows that his sheets have recently been washed and even what his badge smells like, all leather and plated steel. He knows that last night he had chinese take out for dinner and that something is making him feel on edge.
Nick pops back out of the coffee house and onto the sidewalk, seemingly not to notice the odd stand-off which is occurring. After all the shit that had gone down with the hexenbiest, that witch who had spelled her way into Hank's life, not to mention the whole wildermann thing, Nick had little choice in breaking it to his partner of a few years that he was working alongside someone else. Monroe thinks it was best that he wasn't there for that conversation as the “get to know you” beer they had shared later that week was pretty goddamned awkward. Hank had not pressed for too many details about the wesen thankfully. Monroe was less than keen to “wolf out,” as Nick had described it as, after Juliette's fainting spell. It took some serious control and guts to do that in front of someone with a loaded gun and he really didn't want to push his luck. He hopes that Nick at least had the good graces to explain about the wider thing and that Hank had forgotten all about his little slip with Angelique.
“Earth to Monroe,” Nick calls, waving a hand in front of his face as if his scent isn't enough to snap his attention back to the present. “I've ordered for you and gotten you a danish or something. It's packed as hell in there so I thought we could just grab it, go and check out that alleyway.”
Monroe isn't sure that he's too happy about being used as sniffer dog. Hell, if his blutbad grandfather could see him now... He gives an unintentional wince, remembering the village and then naturally, Marie Kessler.
Nick turns to double check something with Hank, tugging his black jacket back on. His warm scent mixed in with the sight of his exposed, lean neck is enough for the blutbad instincts to over come Monroe. He quickly forgets Nick's murderous aunt. It feels like a losing battle as he feels the strength uncoil in his arms in legs, ready to spring forth and sink his teeth deep in Nick's neck and shoulder, to pin him down, make him submit, marking him as his. Everything is so heightened that he can hear the steady beat of Nick's pulse and finds his teeth baring in anticipation of making it race faster and faster.
“Woah, Monroe. Nick is not a rabbit. Calm the fuck down,” Hank suddenly states. His voice taking on that hard edge and for a second Monroe forgets who he is and where he is and makes a move to take down the weaker opponent. It's barely even a muscle tense in his leg but it feels like defeat and shame when Nick suddenly spins around, his grey eyes filled with concern.
“Are you okay?” he asks just as Monroe gives a little barking laugh, trying to shrug off the whole thing. Hank's hand is on his gun.
“Fine, just, you know, all this stake out business means I've missed my pilates twice in a row and-”
Nick shoots him a vaguely sympathetic look. Great. He knows that his control over the past few days, scratch that, weeks hasn't been all that good. It's not something he can really explain. He's always on edge, always ready, like he can't relax. He hasn't been able to play the cello for a while, his thoughts too jumbled to allow him to loose himself in the music. Hasn't been able to concentrate on his clocks. He's always too aware. Too aware of the lingering scent of Nick in his house, in his kitchen, on his couch, in his car. It's distracting in the worst possible way. Nick is his friend. His best friend, despite the whole Grimm thing. There is just something about being around him, a pull that he can't explain but it never feels enough, like an itch that keeps moving.
“Pilates,” Hank scoffs and takes his hand off his weapon slowly, his eyes not leaving Nick.
A new smell enters into the air around them. It's desire. Monroe knows that one too well. He blinks, trying to rein in his baser instincts. It's a challenge that he cannot match, cannot face, not right now at least. Nick is seemingly unaware and heads back into the crowded coffee house but not before clasping his warm hand on Monroe's shoulder, squeezing slightly.
The smell changes as the warmth from Nick's touch sinks through Monroe's flannel shirt through to his skin. It's from Hank and Monroe can't help help but notice the way the detective's eyes narrow and his jaw sets hard. If he didn't know better he'd jokingly suggest jealously. Jealously. Shit. It's right in front of his nose, so to speak and he wonders how he could've missed this. He tries to mentally explain that Hank is just being protective, after all, he is a blutbad and not the most trustworthy type of wesen, not that Hank would know that. That Nick has been his partner in the Portland Police Department for a while. But it doesn't quite fit, not with that flash of desire he had just witnessed. He wants to bare his teeth in challenge but on the crowded sidewalk in downtown, it's not that smart.
It's going to be a very interesting stake out.