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Threshold Events	By : abra Category: M through R > Monk Views: 8682 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Monk, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Threshold Events
By Abra
Beta: Ann
Disclaimer: The characters and the show belong to USA Network. They were created by Andy Breckman. I don't owe them and I did not write this story for any kind of material gain.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Dedication:
To Ann, who had the patience and enthusiasm to help me write this. Thank you!
Threshold Events
Chapter 4

Saturday… He tried to find a reason for this day of the week. He had no where to go, no guests to expect. His apartment was so clean that he couldn't even find a reason to vacuum again.
He used to love Saturdays… when he had Trudy. He closed his eyes in pain thinking about all the Saturdays he had left her alone because he was called on a case. They had had so little time together, and he had wasted so much of it. If he had only known how soon he would lose her would have… He stopped. Dr. Kroger kept nagging him about this sort of thing. No playing the 'what if' game. He could not turn back time.
He took the teapot off the stove and went into the bathroom. He took his special toothbrush, and panicked for a moment when he saw he didn't have a backup. He reached for the phone to remind Natalie. He stopped; it was Saturday evening, she was on her date with Peter Carrington.
He began his meticulous routine of brushing his teeth, trying very hard not to think why he wasn't calling Natalie. He had had no qualm about disturbing Sharona's dates with a phone call. He had ruined some of them in person. He went on not thinking why he was not calling Natalie. He needed to call her. How did Sharona phrase it one time? He needed it like a drug addict needs a fix.
The strange part, he mused, was that he was getting better. He was aware that not having a backup toothbrush was not an emergency. Particularly not when his current one was quite new, even by his standards. Still, that wasn't why he wasn't calling her. His shoulder twitched involuntarily as he repressed the rest of this train of thought.
He had surreptitiously checked up this Peter Carrington individual. He was one of those men who didn't need to embellish their lives to impress. He was an architect, he was single, he didn't have any problems with the law, he was rich… Everything he had told Natalie, was true. He had even managed to leave out some pretty amazing stuff. Peter Carrington's firm was an enthusiastic contributor to important charity organizations. Apart from the financial aspect, he did volunteer work, building hospitals for the poor in third world countries.
He wished he hadn't noticed Natalie's behavior. He wished that, for once, he was wrong. But he knew… he wasn't. She had displayed a plethora of little signs of her eagerness to meet this guy again. He knew why. Sex. Human sexuality was not something he thought about in terms of personal experience, but he was quick to spot the effects it had on everyone else. And he knew that Natalie wanted to have sex with this young man. This normal young man.
He should be happy she has found somebody. He most certainly was not. His shoulder twitched, when he thought that she could leave him. Sharona had left him for another man. Why wouldn't Natalie do the same? He had to admit that working for him was not a job compatible with having a meaningful relationship with another man.
~~~~~~~
He sat in his reading armchair and opened his book. Every other word in the thoroughly boring treatise on fungi made him want to reach for the phone to call Natalie about some chore or other.
He slammed the book shut, stood up and went straight to the phone. He gathered all the shreds of normality in him to be able to unplug the phone. It felt completely wrong. His brain screamed that the phone was supposed to be plugged. He gritted his teeth and walked away. It was only nine, but going to bed early never hurt anyone. As far as he knew.
~~~~~~~~
Every time he relaxed, when he was close to falling asleep, he saw that strange look on Natalie's face. He had first seen it when she got out of that truck after Ray Galardi had tried to shake her off. He had done his best to ignore it for all the months since, but too often he found himself pushing the limits of his fears just to see it again. Last week, he had been sure he wasn't imagining it. He knew it was only a warped kind of hero worship, but it was the only thing that moved him like the look in Trudy's eyes. His perfect memory served him a confession he had made years ago, on the phone, "I love the way she looked at me. I think I miss that more than anything."
He took out Trudy's pillow, held it in his arms, and plunged his face into it, trying to recapture her scent. She appeared on the edge of his bed, like a glowing angel.
"At least she doesn't look like me, Adrian," she said with a smile, reminding him of his temptation to replace her with Monica Waters. "You are getting better."
"I'm so sorry."
"I know. And it hurts. You act like by dying, I killed you."
"God, Trudy…"
"You’re not dead. I know how happy you were when you thought you'd join me. Please don't bury yourself alive again."
"I didn't actually bury myself…"
"You didn't want to get out, remember?"

He sighed. He remembered. Of course he remembered.
"She brought you back to life once. Maybe it was a sign that she's meant to bring you back for good."
"No," he moaned, hiding his head in her pillow. The guilt was choking him. The ethereal apparition was not Trudy. It was his recreation of the woman he loved. He knew her soul enough to be sure that she would've wanted him to be happy. But at the same time, he knew that the words he was hearing were his own, they were a reflection of his own subconscious wishes.
~~~~~~~
He startled when he heard Natalie's voice.
"Mr. Monk?"
Oh, this was too much! He sat bolt upright in his bed. Talking to Trudy was right and proper, even if she was only made up of his memories. He had no business fabricating another Natalie for himself.
"Mr. Monk, where are you?"
That sounded real. Or was he finally losing it?
"Natalie? Is that you?"
She stormed through his bedroom door almost instantly.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
He looked at her cute little black dress, he took in her elaborate makeup and hairstyle, her high heels. He had to ask.
"What are you doing here?"
She didn't seem to hear him. She seemed angry.
"Why aren't you answering your phone? I called for half an hour!"
"I unplugged it," he answered, praying that she didn't ask why.
"Why? Who calls you so much that you need to unplug it?!"
She had him there. No one called him. Even the captain usually called her first. To check and see how he was at that particular time. Why had she been calling him? His heart skipped a beat. He blurted a series of panicked questions.
"Is there something wrong? Why were you calling me? Did something happened to Julie? To you?"
He was already putting his slippers on, when she answered.
"No. Nothing happened. It's just…"
He watched her struggling for an answer that wouldn't hurt his feelings. She knew how much he had become dependant on her. By not calling her, he had freaked her out.
"You were worried about me."
"Yes. Yes, I was," she snapped at him. "You call me at least 20 times every day. But you didn't call tonight. I thought something happened to you."
"I thought you were on a date."
He wondered if that sounded as casual as he had intended.
"That never stopped you before."
And to think that he had been so proud of his self restraint. He hadn't called her that much. Had he?
"I'm trying to obey your rules," he said quite honestly.
She pierced him with a stern gaze that made him want to scoot back under the covers.
"Okay, so you're fine. I'm gonna get going now."
"Natalie," he called, before she could leave him.
"Yes, Mr. Monk?"
He thought frantically of a reason to keep her longer.
"Could you make me a cup of cocoa? With eight little marshmallows."
"Okay."
He watched her leave allowing himself a smile. He climbed back in his bed, utterly relieved. It felt so good to be wrong. She wasn't with young Peter after all. Whatever she had considered doing with that guy, she hadn't gone through with it. He was so happy that he hardly minded the cracked door.
He closed his eyes, listening enthralled to the soft noises that came from his kitchen. He was used to having her around, but this time her presence had something warm and intimate because it was so unexpected. The man who hated changes and surprises realized that he loved this twist of events.
A few minutes later she returned with his cocoa. His heart dropped; she looked sad.
"Thank you, Natalie," was all he could manage to say.
His anxiety shot through the roof again. She was there, but she wished she weren't. He took the cup from her, and counted the marshmallows, barely able to think about concealing it. She was unhappy. He closed his eyes, and tried to block the sadness he felt radiating from her. He concentrated on the familiar smell of the cocoa, trying to find some comfort in it. He drank it slowly and steadily, as if it were a magic potion.
"Thank you," he said again.
"Mr. Monk, I don't feel very well and I don’t think I should drive. Could I possibly sleep on your couch?"
Misery loves company, he thought. Her need to be with him when she felt sad and lonely had a bittersweet taste.
"Of course. But won't Julie be worried? Can her babysitter stay all night?" He bit his tongue, belatedly. She needed acceptance, not an interrogation.
"Oh, she's sleeping at a friend of hers. Thank you, Mr. Monk."
She had left the room before he managed to find something soothing to say. He had some idea what he should do, but it seemed an impossible course of action. He should go after her, ask her what was wrong, and keep his mouth shut while she talked. Then again, he wasn't the world's best listener. And she might start to cry, or do something equally uncomfortable for him. He felt a stab of pain imagining her curled into a ball on his couch.
He should at least show her where the extra blankets and pillows were. But he still didn't get out of bed. She knew almost all there was to know about his place, she'd surely find everything she needed.
He felt the surface of his teeth with his tongue. He should brush his teeth again. The taste of cocoa was quite persistent. He had wasted so much time just sitting there; she could very well be ready to sleep, and it was unlikely that she slept in her little black dress. She could be… well… not clothed.
He sat up straight when he heard the shower. She was in his shower. Someone was in his shower. His shower. He was agitated, but didn't panic. There went another shower head… He had made sure he had a back up shower head after that time when Leland Stottlemeyer had crashed over his place for a few nights.
He got out of bed; if she was in the shower, he had time to go into the kitchen and straighten up everything. She had the annoying habit of putting his cups in the wrong place. He had always suspected that she was doing it on purpose, to test how nutty he was at any given time. He tried to think that, being his guest, she might skip it for once. He resisted the impulse to run into the kitchen for about five seconds.
He was relieved to find his kitchen in a perfect state. He was going back into the bedroom when he saw her purse and keys on the coffee table in the living room. He thought they looked out of place, but he had no pre-assigned spot for them. He kept staring at the foreign objects, when, in the stillness of his antiseptic home, the noise of the shower made its way into his consciousness. He wasn't fast enough to repress the next thought. She was naked. His flawless reconstructive imagination kicked into overdrive. He tried to refuse the image of her body under the jet of water. He was afraid that if he relented, he could reconstruct all the curves of her body by the sound the water made on it.
He hurried back into the relative safety of the bedroom. He looked at Trudy's picture on his nightstand for a long time, caressed its frame, and switched off the lamp, burdened by the guilt of feeling things he had thought buried with his wife.
His heart leapt dangerously when the sound of the shower stopped all of a sudden. He counted her steps from the bathroom, past his door. His breath caught in his throat when she paused. She was at the bedroom door. No matter what she wanted, he had to pretend to be asleep. He undertook the difficult task of maintaining a steady breathing, when he felt he was drowning.
Natalie entered without knocking.
"Mr. Monk?"
He stirred, and grumbled something unintelligible to discourage the intrusion.
"Mr. Monk, I need to ask you a favor. A big favor."
He gave up pretending to ignore her presence, and turned on the lamp.
She looked sweet, and vulnerable. Her hair was wet and disheveled. Despite his best effort, he looked down from her face. The little black dress was gone.
"You're wearing my bathrobe," he heard himself saying. He had been a homicide detective for long enough to know about transfer. He knew about all the microscopic things a person left behind by simply wearing something. The horror must have shown on his face, because she spoke quickly.
"Yes. I'll take it to the drycleaners first thing in the morning."
Maybe that was all. She knew how fastidious he was about the cleanliness of his clothes. The drycleaners, she had said. Or maybe the incinerator, he thought.
"Was that what you wanted? You're already wearing it, so… keep it," he said hopefully, and reached to turn off the light.
"No, that's not it."
He kept his hand on the switch for a moment, unwilling to accept he had to talk to her. Or, more accurately, unwilling to admit he wanted her to stay.
'I love you,' he told Trudy, and turned her picture face down.
He had talked to women outside a police investigation before. It was always a scary experience, but not overwhelming. Maybe she just needed to talk. He could be the one who listened for once.
She unfastened the bathrobe. This took him completely by surprise. He closed his eyes a moment too late. He had caught a glimpse of her beautiful breasts, and he hated himself for the instant reaction of appreciation.
"Open your eyes, Mr. Monk."
She was using a tone that could melt glaciers. Low, soft, persuasive. All he could do was shake his head and shut his eyes even tighter.
"If you don't look at me, I'll have to touch you."
"Natalie!" he exclaimed, outraged by her words and his own need to obey her.
He could not risk her putting her threat into practice. He opened his eyes, and talked in the mild, reasonable tone the police advised to use with jumpers. He focused his gaze desperately on her face.
"Natalie, you're not thinking straight."
"Probably not," she admitted.
He had the briefest moment of hope and disappointment that the strange evening would end there. His jaw dropped slightly when his boring brown bathrobe fell to her feet. He raised his arms over his face a good half a second late.
She was so beautiful.
The covers vanished, but he couldn't move. He felt the weight of her body change the topography of his bed. He felt her warmth radiate onto his right thigh. She smelled of his own shower gel, but even that familiar scent had morphed into a sweeter, sexier one.
He barely noticed the short pause through his own internal battle. He was a married man, he should be assertive, he should ask her to leave. He didn't want her there, did he? Why was she doing this to him? What difference did that make? He should concentrate on making her go away, not wonder about her reasons. His fears were huge, but his curiosity was huger.Curiosity. Yes. Stick to that story. It was his curiosity and his fears that prevented him from sending her away. He could fire her. No. He couldn't afford to lose her.
He felt her knee sink into the mattress on the other side of his body. She was sitting astride him without touching him. This was hell.
She seized his wrists over the sleeves, and tried to pull his arms lightly away. He resisted instinctually, although he knew he had already lost.
"Please," she whispered.

"Why are you doing this, Natalie? What do you want?"
Not pity. God not out of pity.
"I want you."
He let go. He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, still a little afraid to look at her.
"I promise I won't touch you any more than is absolutely necessary."
She was going to touch him. The thought was not accompanied by the customary sensation of revulsion. She was already touching him with her voice. He could feel her words caress every part of his body. She was so close… even his toes were tingling. Something more prominent than his toes was beginning to show signs of playfulness.

"Pull them down," she told him firmly, leading his hands on the waistband of his pants. "Or I will."
He opened his eyes shocked. She was serious. He tried to intimidate her with the sternest look he could manage, but she stood her ground. His resolve faltered, and his gaze wandered down, over her breasts. Uselessly, he closed his eyes again.
He made the decision and acted on it in the same instant. He pulled the pants down in one movement, like ripping off a band aid. It had been a long time since he had been so aware of his… his… God, he needed a shower. He felt sweaty… clammy… dirty.
There was a beautiful woman, naked, in his bed, and he wanted desperately to scrub every inch of his skin. He was lying to himself. It was not all he wanted. He wanted her to dare a little more, just enough to take him over this threshold.
He screwed his eyes tighter still, but the image of her beautiful body remained intact, as well as the feel of her warm, smooth thighs he had brushed with the back of his hands in his hurry.
"I know I'm asking you a lot, but I really need this. Mr. Monk, please help me. I need you."
Perfect. She had said all he needed to hear. If she was asking for his help, he would brave his deepest, darkest fears to be there for her. He had been on guard for the shade of mercy in her voice, but did not hear it. Just need. And desire.
When he felt her hands on his wrists again, he had already decided. She pulled his hands toward her chest. She had obviously noticed his glance over her breasts. Yet, she stopped short of skin contact. He continued the trajectory she had set. The only thing that made him hesitate was the fear that he would do it wrong.
Her breasts were round and smooth, and her nipples were so hard he guessed they were probably hurting. Suddenly, something else cut through the pleasure of touching her. He felt her heart thumping a lot faster than it should have. She was terrified. He played back the entire evening in a flash. She had no idea how much he wanted her. He had let her take the initiative every single step of the way.
"You have to calm down a little," he said, as calmly as he could manage.
He felt his mind clear all of a sudden. He remembered vaguely the time when he had tried Dr. Kroger's the new medication. This was a close approximation of the sensation of infallibility he had felt then. He caressed her upwards, along her shoulder and her neck. He mapped the contour of her jaw line with his fingers while his palm remained on her carotid. Her pulse was way too fast.
"Hey, what's the worst that could happen?"
No change. Her eyes remained closed, her entire body tensed beyond belief. He had to do something to put her at her ease. He decided to remind her of how much he needed her. She would calm down to reassure him.
"No, I'm asking you. What's the worst that could happen? Do you know?"
When she smiled, he could swear that the room lit up.
"Don't worry, Mr. Monk. I'm not gonna let anything bad happen to you."
But he was worried. He was worried that she might be the one ending up hurt. Or at least disappointed.
She guided his fully erect shaft to her entrance. He hadn't even realized that he had grown so hard. When he began his slide into her, everything else disappeared. He heard the strange groan escape his lips, vaguely aware it came from him. Wet. Tight. Hot. Smooth. Deep. Throbbing. The sensations flashed through him, merging into one. Sweet, perfect pleasure.
When he thought everything was perfect, she started to move, and his pleasure became twice as intense. It felt good. It felt incredibly good. But something was off. He thought it might be just his obsession with uniformity, but he heard her whisper dejectedly.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry."
He looked into her beautiful face, and his heart melted. She believed that she had failed him somehow. It all came naturally from there. He put his hands on her hips, and only the sensation of her warm, silky skin could have set his world on fire. His hips seemed to move of their own accord. He was remembering a primordial rhythm, and he was soon rewarded by Natalie's soft moans.
He couldn't take his eyes off her face as he thrust faster and faster into her. He smiled; her eyelids had fluttered shut as soon as he had taken control.
"Oh, God, yeah!"
Her cry triggered his own climax.
"Wow!" He heard her whisper.
The sweat on his body felt suddenly unbearable. He went automatically to have the shower.
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to be continued...
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Threshold Events