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How Does Your Garden

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If nothing else, Nick's life has made him good at wandering around in the dark, looking for things. So he should probably be grateful that his new job involves so much of the same. Because he is still thinking of it as a job, a weird, confusing, unlikely job that he never asked for. He should also be grateful that some people were willing to be dragged off on a whim in the middle of the night, because they might know something that could help.

Which was why finding absolutely nothing was so frustrating. The suspect's house is completely deserted, all the doors have been left open, leaves had blown inside and scattered across the carpets. Even the garden looks innocuous. There's nothing but a lawn full of yellow and white flowers, waist high, slowly nodding in the wind.

Monroe's still picking his way along the fence, complaining about how Nick never takes him anywhere nice - and Nick can't remember the last time he went anywhere nice, so it's only fair - but Monroe stops talking the moment he gets a good look at the garden, snatches up the right side of his jacket, and presses it over his nose and mouth. Which is a pretty over-the-top reaction.

"What? Is it poisonous?" Nick's gesturing hand is caught, and levered away from the petals.

"Worse, don't even breathe, and this stuff gets through the skin too, so will you please back up out of there." There's a particularly insistent jerk on his wrist, and Monroe sounds like he's already talking through his teeth. Nick's a breath away from protesting that they can't just leave, they have to at least look. Maybe they could go round, or something? He opens his mouth to say as much - and the wind chooses that exact moment to give him a face full of the dancing yellow fluff. He coughs, waves it away and then worries about whether he should have inhaled any of the stuff.

Monroe hasn't let go of his arm, and Nick gets the impression that if he so much as twitches he's going to get dragged out. He offers a smile to show he's still ok. Maybe it's like an allergic reaction and takes a while to kick in, or maybe he's immune? Monroe's expression doesn't look convinced. It looks the very opposite of convinced. There's another tug on his wrist, but it's not hard, it's more of an instinctive jerk.

"I feel fine," Nick says, in case that helps. Though it occurs to him that he probably should be moving out of the plants if Monroe's so worried about them.

Monroe looks down, then looks up, raises an eyebrow in question. Nick has no idea what that means - until he looks down, and discovers that he's tangled their fingers together. Monroe pulls, Nick pulls back, and Monroe seems startled when it puts him one shaky step closer.

Monroe clears his throat. "We should..."

Nick's pretty sure the word 'leave' belongs at the end of the sentence but it never comes out. He's disturbed enough of the plants that he can see the trails of colour picked up and carried on the breeze.

"No." Nick doesn't even know he's going to say it, until he does. Doesn't know he's going to fist a hand in Monroe's shirt and pull hard enough to get him a stumble forward, and a rush of air and it still isn't close enough.

"I blame you entirely for this." Monroe's hands are on his face, tipping his head back, eyes locked on his mouth.

Nick tangles a hand in his hair and pulls. "Yes, absolutely, my fault entirely, stop talking." The last word is just a crushed murmur, which he gives up on half way through, for the rough, hot burn of Monroe's mouth - and God, why hadn't they done this before? Why weren't they doing this all the time? Monroe's hands are impossibly hot when they push up under his shirt, hard enough for one of the buttons to snap off. They circle his waist, fingertips digging in. The pull is slow but irresistible. He has no intention of resisting though.

Nick ends up on the floor, all the breath knocked out of him, and the brief second where he's alone in the cloying smell of flowers is almost unbearable. But then there's a knee nudging at his thigh, spreading his legs just far enough to get between them. He's trying to push Monroe's coat off his back, but Nick's fingers seem to have forgotten how, and the frustrated noise he makes doesn't even sound human. So he gives up, and just claws him back into range. He gets the distinct impression that Monroe is trying very hard not to bite him, which says amazing things about his self-control, because Nick is doing pretty much everything that occurs to him, the minute it occurs to him, which is making everything very confusing.

He has no idea when he got their jeans undone, but he has one hand shoved down the back of Monroe's, and there's a zip digging in, just the wrong side of pain. He can't spare a second to reach down and push it out of the way, because everything is just too damn good. Monroe is making noise. Nick can't tell for the life of him whether it's a good noise, or a bad noise. All he knows is that it's a noise with teeth. His body doesn't seem to care. In fact he decides it's only fair, to bring his own teeth into the equation, proving that self-preservation isn't up for discussion today. Then Monroe is the one pushing his jeans down out of the way, pressing down hard into him. Nick's head drops back into the dirt with a thud, neck stretching out in the dark, and Monroe wraps a hand round it, like he can't even fucking look at it. He's heavy in all the best ways, and Nick's talking, though he doesn't have a clue what he's saying. But it gets him a growl and enthusiasm, which is all that matters.

The next thing Nick knows he's dizzy, and far too relaxed, and more than a little embarrassed on top of a crushed portion of the garden. Little swirls of yellow are gently floating up from the leather of his coat. Which he's still wearing. In fact he's still mostly wearing everything. No arrest for indecent exposure then.

"What did I tell you." Monroe says fiercely, from somewhere to his right. There's a weird, shaky edge to his voice. "You think I say these things just to amuse myself?"

"Can we have this argument away from the field of mind-altering flowers, please?" Nick thinks that's only fair.

Monroe grunts assent, but he doesn't seem in any great hurry to move. Nick can hear the rustling of plants moving beside him, can see the trails of yellow-white, drifting in the dark.

When Nick feels like he can move without his head falling off, he rolls sideways. Monroe's frowning at the sky, expression caught somewhere between guilty and annoyed. It's an expression Nick would really like to get rid of, and with the smell of flowers coating everything it's far too easy to lean over and kiss him. There's a strange moment of stillness, and then there's a hand on the back of neck, tugging him down and in, and the kiss is considerably less frantic this time. It goes on until Nick's elbow goes numb, and he reluctantly slides away.

"When does this wear off?" Nick asks, because it would be interesting to know how long the sex flowers are planning to keep them captive.

Monroe gives him the oddest look, and the silence is an excuse for Nick to slide his hand back under his shirt, test the impossible warmth of his skin. There's a pause, but Monroe seems to know that he'll have to speak eventually.

"About five minutes ago."