If It's Gonna Be A Rainy Day...

Written in response to cottoncandy_bingo prompt: day off and also because it was raining here and I couldn't stop myself. Characters not mine, please enjoy! Comments are awesome.

The rain is pouring down in a steady stream outside. It's been storming all day, but not the damaging, torrential sort of storm that leaves the power out and branches scattered across the yard with the force of the wind. No, it's the perfect sort of rainy day, even if Portland might have a lot of those.

The windows are open, letting in the cool late morning breeze and there are crickets chirping happily, though their sounds are muted by the falling rain.

He should really get up. Make use of the rare day off to work on the never-ending task of organizing the trailer or writing up his (equally never-ending) PD paperwork. As it stands, though, Nick does some sort of lazy-cat stretch and pointedly ignore the existence of the bedside clock, which would only serve to remind him that it's half past eleven already and he's still lazing about in bed.

Monroe would be appalled if he knew. Nick is pretty sure his alarm is set for 5:30 every day, rain or shine, and that sleeping in so late would probably be some sort of crime worthy of significant punishment in his house. Juliet hadn't been a fan, either. She used rainy days off of work to clean (something else he should probably do today) and always enlisted him in the process before he could get too comfortable. But Juliet's left him and Monroe isn't here, so...

A yawn escapes him and he drags a hand through his messy bed-head hair. He begins to contemplate the cumbersome task of relocating to the couch, if only so he can grab breakfast (arguably, lunch) and maybe a book and continue enjoying his decidedly unproductive day downstairs. Maybe he'll at least get dressed since he's presently lounging in a worn pair of sleep pants and no shirt.

Thunder rumbles lightly outside, way off in the distance and he wonders if a storm will come later in the day or if it'll fade out before it gets too close. He gives another stretch and rolls over, curling around his pillow and putting his lunch plans off a little bit longer simply because he can.

"I was starting to suspect you were dead, man," comes a voice from the doorway.

Nick startles, automatically reaching for a gun that is unhelpfully on the dresser across the room (because even if he is both a cop and a Grimm, he's not one of those 'sleep with a gun under your pillow' types, even if he probably should be), but then the voice registers and he's grumbling out a relieved, "Monroe!"

Monroe is soaked through with the rain, dripping little puddles of water all over the hardwood. His hair's matted to his head, which does weird things to his unruly curls, and his clothes cling to his skin. Nick takes in all of this even as the blutbad crosses the room to stare disdainfully down at Nick's bed. "Dude, I knocked. Then I used a window when you didn't answer that since you also failed to answer your cell phone and, really? It's, like, noon. How can you even stand to be in bed that long?"

"Some of us like to catch up on all the sleep we lose chasing criminals and rogue-Wesen around the city at all hours. I'm pretty sure that's what days off are for." Nick says, but he's forced to continue when he sees Monroe about to reply because he knows exactly what's coming. "And before you start in on how you can't actually 'catch up on sleep' or how this is going to mess up my sleeping patterns, I would like to counter with a simple but effective reply: I know. I'm doing it anyway."

"Okay, then." Monroe frowns. "Point being: I'm soaked. Mind if I borrow your dryer? And your shower? And some clothes?"

"Did you run over here just because I didn't answer my phone?"

"Maybe." Monroe admits. "It's not like you not to answer. And there is generally a high probability of something bad going down where you're concerned, so it's not like I was entirely unfounded in thinking something might've been wrong."

"Well, thanks. I guess. I'm not dead, maimed, or even remotely injured," Nick assures the other man. "What were you calling for?"

"To see if you wanted to come over for dinner. I'm making that vegetarian lasagna that you seemed to like the last time."

"Yeah," Nick agrees, because that sounds delicious. He relinquishes the getting out of bed battle and kicks the covers aside, forcing himself to stand, where he finds himself stretching again, bones popping with the movements. "Yeah, and help yourself to the shower. I'll throw your stuff in the dryer and set out some clothes in a minute."

Monroe's staring. Nick notices this and Monroe knows he's noticing this because he's staring. "I, ugh," he swallows, pointedly looking away from the stretchy, shirtless Nick in front of him. "Right. Shower. Yeah."

Nick laughs at him as he retreats to the bathroom and goes about pulling out some clothes that'll probably fit Monroe. Ironically, the only options amount to things that Nick usually wears to bed. A pair of pajama pants that have always been too big and an old concert t-shirt that a college buddy had accidentally left behind when he was visiting and never bothered to reclaim.

He hears the shower start running and through the cracked door he trades wet clothes for dry ones and heads downstairs to the dryer. He should really do laundry, too, but that would shatter his unproductive plans for the day.

With that done, he opens the downstairs windows to let the sound of the rain in, along with the cool breeze and settles on the couch (as per his original plan) with a well-used blanket and the conspiracy thriller novel he's been meaning to finish reading since before Aunt Marie showed up and all of the Grimm stuff came careening into his life. He gets through a chapter or two before Monroe appears, grumbling about "lazy clothes," and "contagious laziness."

"Your clothes will be dry in like 20 minutes," Nick tells him, motioning him toward the couch. "Relax, enjoy the rainy day and lack of murders, kidnappings or violent assaults."

"Fine," Monroe surprisingly agrees, taking a seat at the other end of the couch. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes and listens, taking in the sounds of rain, of wind and far off thunder slowly approaching. Of Nick's heartbeat and the pages of his book as they turn and the barely audible 'hmms' that Nick emits in response to whatever it is he's reading. And before those twenty minutes are up? He falls asleep.

Nick smirks when he notices, kicks part of the blanket over to cover whatever he can of Monroe because it actually is kind of chilly with the house all open like this. Probably not to a blutbad, but still. He lets Monroe be lazy (without comment) and turns his attention back to his book.

Monroe snaps back to consciousness at the sound of an especially loud clap of thunder, nearly falling off the couch as he attempts to disentangle himself from a blanket that has mysteriously appeared on his person. The room is empty, which is odd because it wasn't just a few minutes ago. Only that wasn't a few minutes ago - at least according to Monroe's watch, which traitorously suggests a passage of hours and not minutes.


"In here," comes a voice from the kitchen.

Monroe wanders in to find a pizza on the table and okay, yeah, he must've been really out of it not to have picked up on so much: Nick getting up, making phone calls, cars arriving and doors opening, words exchanged with strangers. "What-"

"I know you said you were gonna make that lasagna, but I figured maybe we could just continue being lazy?"

Nick certainly is going for that, still dressed in lazy sleep pants. He has put on a shirt, though - Monroe regrettably notes - a worn out, faded Portland Police Department one, and his hair is still a mess. And, well, he really prefers to make his own pizza (with organic ingredients and real tomatoes and fresh cheese, thank you very much) on the rare occasions when he has it, but it's here and he's here and Nick's here and the stuff for lasagna is back at his place and he pretty much slept through the time he'd allotted for cooking it and, "okay."

"Okay." Nick agrees, grabbing some paper plates and a couple of microbrews from the fridge. "And to complete this image of laziness, we're eating in the living room."

Monroe grumbles, but follows, toting the pizza box since Nick grabbed everything else. They reclaim their spots on the couch and work off of the coffee table for food. Nick flips on the television, and they finally settle on some rerun of Supernatural (because their lives are definitely more difficult than ours, even if fictional, Nick argues when Monroe raises an eyebrow at him).

"I'm going to have to double my Pilates routine tomorrow," Monroe says around a mouthful of pizza, but he's kind of beyond the point of caring now about his ruined plans. Routine is important for him, important so that he can maintain his control and not hurt anybody, but he actually feels calmer now than he's been in a while. Maybe he needed the break. "So bring on whatever lazy-plans you have."

"Ah, but that's the beauty of it, Monroe. There are no plans." Nick grins at him.

"Tomato sauce," Monroe says, earning a confused look from the Grimm. "On your face."

Nick wipes uselessly at the wrong spot on the corner of his mouth, despite Monroe's completely accurate pointing. "Did I get it?"

"No, you did not. And might I point out that on not-lazy days, this is a wonderful use for napkins." He reaches out to get rid of the stupid (red) spot on his own, but he stops himself. No plans, Nick had said. Monroe can do that, can totally make with the impulsiveness. Just this once. He leans forward and kisses Nick, effectively removing the trace amount of pizza sauce in the process.

And he's moving to pull away just a beat later because there is a possibility that this could end badly (even though Monroe (and his nose) are pretty sure that it won't because of how he's noticed Nick looking at him and smelling around him now that Juliette has left) but he doesn't get far because Nick's hands catch in his borrowed shirt and haul him back in, back to the kissing and Nick kissing back is definitely a good sign.

"So, ugh," Monroe says, licking his lips as he pulls away a few moments later. "I know you said no plans, but can there be a plan that involves going back upstairs, but not being lazy? At least for a little while. We can go back to lazy after that."

"I think we can make an exception for that plan," Nick agrees, getting to his feet and pulling Monroe after him, their dinner left forgotten on the table and the television left on as they head for the stairs. They trip over each other when Monroe tugs Nick's t-shirt over his head without warning because he much prefers it off like it was earlier, and within moments, he has Nick back where they started this morning (if noon can be called morning (Monroe does not think so)), sprawled across his bed with the sounds of the storm accompanying them.

The rain continues long into the night, bringing with it louder thunder, brighter lightning and harsher winds, along with an impressive downpour. The lights flicker in and out and the tree in the backyard sheds a few branches and a lot of its leaves, but Monroe and Nick don't notice any of this until morning, when Monroe pointedly ignores the clock blinking an unhelpful '12:00' and wakes Nick with slow, lazy kisses to the back of his neck, mumbling something about maybe taking advantage of more lazy-days in the future, so long as they go like this.