Coming Together (Grimm, Nick/Monroe/Juliette)

Monroe stared at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His hair wasn’t quite right. He licked his palm and slicked it back as best he could, but the ends still stuck out kind of funny. The neon numbers on the clock stared at him accusingly. He was cutting it close as it was, he didn’t really have time to be fussing with his appearance. He shut the engine off with a sigh and retrieved the bottle of wine from the back seat. With the press of a button, the car doors were locked behind him, leaving him nowhere to go but forward.

Nick’s house was strangely intimidating, in a suburban sprawl Stepford wives kind of way. It practically lorded over the surrounding houses, or maybe that was just the way he saw it. A Grimm was usually the top supernatural dog of an area, and it seemed only fitting that his house would match that impression. His feet carried him across the street without instruction from his brain. They didn’t really need it. There was part of him that would always be pulled toward the Grimm.

The house looked less imposing up close. There was a small picket fence, easy to leap if he needed a quick escape, and a cute little garden running around the side of the fence. He wondered if that was Nick’s handiwork or his fiancé’s. His brain unhelpfully supplied him an image of Nick bent over, hands dirty as he worked the earth. It made his groin tighten in a way he really didn’t need right before he met Nick’s fucking fiancé.

His footsteps reverberated on the wood as he climbed the steps to the porch, too loud, too ominous. The big bad wolf approached.

He paused outside the door. Calming thoughts. He needed calming thoughts. Clockwork. Fine Italian roast. Lavender bath salts. Running through the woods. Prey. Hunting, catching, claiming. Red.