SquidgeWorld Archive

"I liked your safety officer costume."

The words came out of Stottlemeyer's mouth sounding wet and distinctly chewy. There was a glistening string of bright yellow taffy stubbornly clinging to his moustache, and he knew it had to be driving Monk crazy.

"Thanks," the other man said quietly as he intently sorted through the remainder of the Halloween candy that Natalie wouldn't let Julie take home. A pleased _expression softened his face as he combed through the candies and separated them into piles on Ambrose's dining table according to some unknown criteria. Monk had no intention of eating any of the candies, but he supposed that his brother would have no objection to the sweets, as long as they weren't chocolate.

"You know," Monk mentioned, not looking up. "Everyone thought I was supposed to be a boy scout."

"Yeah? Well, everyone loved my detective outfit," the other man drawled.

Monk looked up quizzically, a broken Jolly Rancher red and shiny in its wrapper on his palm.

"No one took me seriously when I went to question the neighbors. They thought I was escorting Randy out for candy." Stottlemeyer explained.

A corner of Monk's mouth twitched minutely as he added some loose Sprees to the growing pile in his hand.

"Did he get any candy?"

"What do you think?" The captain rolled his eyes. "He ended up with a large evidence bag full of treats."

A small laugh escaped Adrian before he could smother it.

"It's ok to laugh, Monk. I laughed--hysterically mind you--when a little old lady patted him on the head and called him a darling boy."

Monk grinned, chuckling a little more heartily than he had before.

"Did he share any of his candy with you?"

The captain dug around in his suit pocket and quickly came up with a small handful of wrappers and stray sweets.

"He pushed all the ones he didn't want off on me," he explained as he scooted closer to Adrian's chair. He peered down at the colorful treats in his friend's grasp, clearly eyeing the ones he wanted.

"Hey, I'll trade you this stale conversation heart for that red Jolly Rancher."

Monk looked down and grimaced. The candy was broken, but at least it was wrapped. The conversation heart was both chipped andâ€"horror of horrorsâ€"uncovered. He shuddered minutely.

"You can have the Jolly Rancher, but I'll pass on the stale thing."

Reaching out, Stottlemeyer grinned as he plucked the little shattered rectangle from the discard pile.

"Aw, come on Monk. Everyone loves Valentine's hearts, no matter what time of year."

The captain dropped the chalky little white heart in front of Adrian and watched him recoil, pausing in his attempt to round up stray Nerds. He pursed his lips, shook his head, and set a mildly disapproving look on his face.

"Did you know you have some taffy stuck to your moustache?"

The captain narrowed his eyes. "So? You have melted Spree on your hands."

The other man's gaze snapped instantly downward. His mouth dropped open and the brightly colored discs sifted through his fingers, fleeing en masse. The sound of the hard little circles rolling around to God-knows-where had him glaring down at the sticky colors on his hand. He reached for a napkin.

Meanwhile, Stottlemeyer took the wrapper off his newly won treat and popped a fragment in his mouth with a satisfied smirk. He watched, amused, as his friend scrubbed vigorously at his hand.

"Need any help with that?"

"No, thanks," Adrian said, in what was as close to sarcasm as he could get.

The captain sat back and rolled the cherry candy over his tongue leisurely, letting it click against his teeth for a brief moment, enjoying the burst of flavor.

Adrian set the stained napkin down and picked up a fresh one. Taking Leland completely by surprise, he leaned forward, an intense gleam in his eye. He zeroed in on the captain's face, folded paper napkin in hand.

"Whoa, you have plans to attack my head?"

"You still have taffy on your moustache!"

Stottlemyer sighed quietly, ever the tolerant friend. "Ok, go ahead. You can clean me up."

He felt like a small child when Monk reached out to grab his chin with one hand, and swiped at his upper lip with the other. He studied Monk's serious _expression, but could read nothing from his dark eyes. He endured the cleaning for a lengthy minute before he couldn't resist teasing.

"All tidy now, Mother?"

"As tidy as you'll ever be." Something about the tone of his voice betrayed him.

"Wait... Did you just insult me?"

"Maybe," Monk said, turning to drop the used napkin on the placemat next to the other one.

The captain snorted. "You can be so evil sometimes."

Adrian smiled. "I'll bet Disher doesn't fight with you on the job like I used to."

Leland cocked his head to the side. "No, definitely not; he's too busy trying to impress me."

"I've noticed."

"It's hard not to."

Comfortable silence surrounded them for a moment before the far off laughing of older kids still enjoying their Halloween filtered into the dusty old house.

Stottlemeyer cleared his throat and pushed his chair back. "I should probably go. Do you want me to give you a ride home, or are you staying the night with Ambrose?"

"I think I'll stick around here for the night. You know, tidy up a bit and make sure Ambrose is all right."

He glanced worriedly up the stairs, then back at his former captain.

"I really thought he was going to die," he admitted, his voice not as steady as he would have liked.

"I know, Adrian." Stottlemeyer reached out, grasping Monk's shoulder firmly. "I hope this doesn't come out sounding bad, but... I'm glad it wasn't you."

Monk looked down and shrugged; his telltale, unstoppable, nervous tic.

"Thank you." He almost said more, but he seemed unable to get any more words out.

Stottlemeyer took in Adrian's downcast eyes and felt a solemn sadness overcome him. He squeezed Monk's arm, and briefly, affectionately, patted the side of his face.

"See you later, OK? You did good work tonight, like always. You should be proud of yourself."

He smiled, hoping to see one in return. A half smile was the most Adrian could muster, but the captain was relieved all the same. He turned, walking himself to the front of the building. He shut the front door as quietly as he could, lingering outside just long enough to be sure that Monk had safely locked up for the night.

On the inside, the empty house seemed dirty and foreign to the detective. He felt suddenly and inexplicably tired; too tired to even begin sorting through the stacks of yellowing newspapers as he'd planned. Instead, he moved to the dinner table to clear away stray wrappers, candy remnants, and misshapen spider rings. In the dim light of the dining room, a small lump of whiteness stood out against the darkness of the Monk family's well-worn tabletop.

He almost didn't want to read it, but of course he knew he would keep thinking about it until he did. He had to read it, if he ever hoped to get a moment's rest. Upon picking up the small heart, he held it up to the faint light filtering in from the hallway. The words were blocky, nearly rubbed clean, and the heart left its dust in the whorls of his fingertips. He didn't care. The trite little saying would stay in his mind for years to come, red words permanent as though they were burned into his brain with a branding iron.

Monk wrapped the small heart in a carefully folded napkin and slipped it into his pocket. Meanwhile, upstairs, Ambrose recited lines from instruction manuals in his sleep, in French, as though they were poetry.

Monk smiled, and went up to his old room.