Work Text:
Mr. Monk and the IRS Form
by Lizbetann
Ring. Ring.
"Oh, God," Sharona groaned. With great and powerful effort, she cracked one eye open. "It's one am? Who's calling me at one am? Oh, God, Mom. Gail. Oh, God."
Beside her in bed, Trevor moaned, rumbled, and rolled over.
Sharona sat up and grabbed for the phone, fumbling it in a panicked attempt to answer it. "Hello? Hello? Mom? Gail? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's… wrong."
Sharona slumped back against her pillow as if the air had been let out of her tires. "Adrian," she said in disbelief. "Why are you calling me?"
"I – uh… wanted to know what to put. In box three."
Sharona waited with the patience of a mother of a pre-teenage boy – and a former employee of Adrian Monk. When no more seemed to be forthcoming, she asked, "Box three of what?"
"This… form."
Sharona sighed, leaned back, and beat her head against the wall. She and Trevor, when he had persuaded her he was a Changed Man and to make a New Start, had very carefully put the head of their bed against a wall that did not have a room on the other side. She was grateful for that now. "Adrian. It's one am."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is!" Her voice rose to a shriek and Trevor muttered and groaned.
"It's… 9:52."
"No, it's 9:52 where—"
"No, wait, now it's 9:53—"
Sharona bit her lip and reminded herself that she shouldn't murder Adrian. "It's 9:53 where you are, Adrian. It's one am where I am. Which is New Jersey. Which is *three hours ahead* of California. Three plus ten is…?"
"Thirteen," Adrian said with perfect accuracy and complete incomprehension. "God, don't make me do anymore math."
It frightened her that she could *hear* Adrian rubbing his brow over the phone. Then it all came together in her head. "Adrian? Are you doing your taxes?"
Long pause. "Yes," Adrian finally said.
"Adrian! It is ten o'clock at night—"
"9:54, actually—"
"And your taxes have to be in by midnight! Why didn't you do them before?"
Long pause. God, it was like having another child.
"You always do them," he finally said, a note of petulance in his voice.
"But I'm not doing them this year, Adrian. You remember why?"
There was a waiting silence on the phone. "Because… it's one am?"
"No. Well, it is one am and I am not doing your taxes. But I am *not* doing your taxes this year because *I am not your employee anymore*." It was hard enough doing her own taxes the last few years. She'd drowned in IRS forms every year, as a contractor (which she'd designated herself because getting Adrian to do the whole withholding-from-payroll taxes was never going to happen), as a head of household with one dependant, and having an additional (theoretical) source of income from child support from Trevor.
Then she had to do all of Adrian's. Schedule C as a contractor to the police force. Deductions for her salary. Accrual for the expenses Adrian incurred in his investigations. God, she hated doing taxes.
When she got everything straight, she handed it to Adrian to sign. And then watched as he carefully erased the faint marks left from her pencil in places where she had changed her entry, made sure the "1" was perfectly perpendicular to the line and took fifteen years to sign his name. And then she mailed it and the hell was over for the year.
"But… you always do them," Adrian said. A faint note of panic threaded through his voice. It seemed that even Adrian, way-out-of-touch-with-any-form-of-reality Adrian, was scared of the IRS.
"Adrian. Listen to me very carefully. *Call Natalie.* Natalie can help you." Sharona closed her eyes and apologized to her successor.
"She said I couldn't call her any more. She said I should get a tax planner. But none of them are answering their phones."
*Smart people,* Sharona thought, wishing she hadn't answered hers.
"Natalie says that it's going to be harder next year, because she said she's not going to be put down as a contractor. I have to be officially her employer and withhold taxes and give her benefits." Adrian's voice started to rise in hysteria.
Sharona's, on the other hand, rose in anger. "You're paying her benefits? Adrian!"
"She said I had to!" Adrian in a dead panic. Never a good sign.
"Good night, Adrian," Sharona said firmly.
"Sharona, please. You have to help me!"
"Adrian. Good. NIGHT!" She slammed down the phone, and then unplugged it.
"Was that Monk?" Trevor mumbled.
"Yes. That was Monk. And I'm going to fly out to California and murder him. With my bare hands!"
"Okay," Trevor sighed, which slipped into a snore.
Sharona lay back down, turned over, and plumped the pillow under her head. If Adrian didn't get his taxes in by midnight, he'd be in trouble with the IRS. He'd have to pay penalties and interest, and it would all be a big mess.
"Me? I'm a sap. I'm such a sap. I am both a moron, and a sap." Sharona groused to herself as she flipped back the covers, grabbed her robe, and went to the kitchen. Picking up the phone there, she dialed California. "Adrian? Yeah, it's me. Okay, read me what you've got on your statement from the police department…"
*****
An hour and a half later, they had his taxes pretty well done. Not perfectly, but she figured Natalie could convince him to take them to Jackson Hewitt or something and have them go over them later. Adrian complained about the amount of the check that he was writing to the IRS, but Sharona convinced him it was for his own good. "Okay, now you've got… less than half an hour to take it to the nearest post office and drop it in the mail."
"That's all?" Adrian asked. "We're done?"
Sharona smiled. "Yes, Adrian. We're done."
Pause. "Well. That wasn't that hard."
Sharona groaned. "Good *night*, Adrian!"
"Good night, Sharona. And… thank you."
Bleary-eyed with exhaustion, Sharona stumbled back to bed and fell in it before she even took her robe off. "Should have claimed Adrian as a dependant…" she muttered before falling asleep.
THE END