Synopsis: Monroe isn't well, and with Rosalee out of town it falls to Nick to take care of him.
Disclaimer - I don't own Grimm
“Hey,” called Nick as he let himself in through the front door of Monroe's house. “I'm home.”
There was no answer. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it up on the coat rack by the door. Unusually for this time of night, the house wasn't permeated by the smell of dinner cooking and there was no sound of pots and pans being used in the kitchen.
“Monroe?” he called as he walked through into the lounge. “You home?”
“Here,” Monroe answered. His voice sounded weaker than usual. Nick turned to see a figure curled up on the sofa, partially buried in blankets. Next to him, a box of Kleenex sat on the coffee table. He reached over, pulled one out and loudly blew his nose on it, folded it and repeated, then dropped the used tissue into a wastepaper basket that was usually kept by Monroe's desk.
Nick regarded the figure on the sofa. “Sick?” he asked.
Monroe covered his mouth with a hand and coughed. “What tipped you off?” he asked.
“If I'm honest, mostly it was the fact that you weren't in the kitchen.”
Monroe reached up and rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. “Yeah, I haven't felt much like eating today.” He moved his feet down onto the floor, lifted the blanket as though he were planning on discarding it, though better of the idea and recovered himself with it up to his chest.
“So,” Nick hesitated by the door. “Please don't tell me it's another Wesen supervirus or something.” He said. “That's the last thing we need while Rosalee's out of town again.”
Monroe shook his head, “Relax, it's just the flu,” he said. His voice faded in and out as he spoke, ranging from his usual tone to barely audible. It was almost painful to listen to. “It still sucks though. I mean, there's no good time to be sick, but I think I'd have rather done it while she's around to take care of me. You know, if I had,” he sneezed. “If I had a choice in the matter.”
Nick smiled. “Yeah, there's nothing like a having someone to nurse you back to health. Juliette makes...well, used to make me this amazing chicken soup.” His mouth watered at the thought of it. “It's... well, you'd have to taste it to believe it.”
“Um,” said Monroe, “no thanks.”
“Oh right.” Nick rolled his eyes at himself. “So, what does a vegetarian eat when they're sick?”
Monroe shrugged. “I have whatever I normally eat. But if you're offering, there's a recipe for a delicious lentil and vegetable soup in my cookbook. Basically, you need lentils and tomato, then you just throw in whatever vegetables you have in the kitchen, bit of salt and pepper, a few other seasonings if you want, and just blend it til it's smooth, it makes one of those really thick, hearty soups, you know?” He coughed again, clearing his throat.
“Probably a bit beyond my skill level, to be honest,” Nick said. He perched himself on the arm of the sofa furthest from Monroe. “I can heat up a can of something though.”
“Nah,” Monroe shook his head, “I don't have any canned soup. Not really my style.” He leaned his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. “Don't feel much like eating anyway, to be honest, what with the pounding headache and fever.”
Nick reached over and touched the back of his hand to Monroe's brow. He was no expert, but the skin seemed to feel too warm as well as clammy. He winced. “Taking the blanket off might help,” he suggested.
“No way, I'm freezing to death under here. By the way, invasion of personal space, slightly.”
Nick got to his feet. “You need to eat when you're sick, it helps you fight it off. And something warm will make you feel warmer. Luckily, I'm a great believer in convenience food and I happen to have stocked up just the other week. I figured I can't always expect you to cook for me, and I can't keep eating take out. I'm sure we have something that'll work for you.”
“Well I happen to be believer in listening to your body,” Monroe said. “If it's saying don't eat, there's probably a reason for it.”
Nick ignored the protest, went into the kitchen and emerged with a can in each hand. “Tomato or vegetable?” he said.
For a moment, Monroe looked like he was going to refuse to answer, then the Blutbad quickly grabbed a Kleenex, sneezed loudly into it, blew his nose and muttered, “Tomato.”
“You know, for something that was probably made months ago in a factory somewhere, this isn't half bad,” Monroe said.
The bowl of soup steamed appetizingly on the tray on his lap, the bread and vegan butter substitute Nick had served with it remained untouched, but the Blutbad was attacking the soup like he hadn't eaten in days.
“See,” Nick told him. “You did need food.”
Monroe shrugged, “Maybe you weren't completely wrong,” he conceded.
Nick stretched. He was sitting on the sofa now rather than the arm. “Want anything else?” he asked. “Fluids are good. Water? Tea? I have Tylenol if you need it, or I can drive to the store if you want anything else.”
Monroe coughed into his sleeve before he answered with a shake of his head. “I'm fine, honestly.”
“So, Wesen do get normal, human illnesses as well as the Wesen ones,” Nick said. “I did wonder, after the yellow plague thing came up.”
“Well sure,” Monroe told him, “Of course we do.”
Nick reached over and helped himself to one of the untouched slices of bread. “Doesn't seem fair,” he said. “Extra opportunities to get sick. I figured maybe you have your own bugs so you escape ours.”
“Well actually we don't get all the human illnesses,” Monroe told him. “Most of them we do, but not all. For example, we can get colds but we don't get the flu. Well,” he shrugged, reached for another tissue and blew his nose, “some of us get certain kinds of flu, I heard about a Bauerschwein that came down with a case of swine flu when that hit a couple of years ago, but generally speaking we escape that one.”
Nick frowned. “But you said this was flu.”
“Oh. Well,” Monroe shrugged, embarrassed. “Doesn't everyone call colds the flu? Makes us seem less of a weakling when it lays us out like this. Don't tell me you're not guilty of it.”
Nick helped himself to another slice of bread. “Maybe,” he admitted.
“And just out of interest, when you come down with the cold from hell sometime next week, what are you going to tell people you have?”
“I have no intention of catching this from you,” Nick told him.
Monroe shook his head. “Dude, you were just stealing food from my plate! I'm sitting here coughing and sneezing all over the place and you're chewing on one of the slices of bread I was saving to mop up the soup that sticks to the bowl. Unless being a Grimm makes you immune – and I highly doubt that by the way – you're getting this cold.”
Nick looked at him, looked at the proximity of the plate to the almost overflowing bin of used Kleenex and suddenly didn't feel too good.
“Relax, you nursemaided me, I'm happy to return the favor,” Monroe told him.
Nick dropped the final bite of bread into the bin alongside the tissues. “Um...” he said.
“You're going to love my soup, by the way,” he added. “Everyone does.”