A/N 2014: This. Is a serous crackfic. I was sniggering most of the time I wrote this. What happened was that I learned that there is no Eddie Monroe, that is not the Wesen I was looking for. Which was a relief because Eddie is a horribly stupid name for Monroe. There's nothing Eddie-ish about him. Anyway, this led me to inquire, so...what is this man's name-wtf do you mean it's literally just Monroe?! Even on the Grimm Wiki! Alice and Bart don't have last names either! What?! Honestly, aside from Dr. Harper and Frau Pesch not having first names (and who cares about them anyway) every other character has a full name, don't they? Wait...don't they? It doesn't matter, this is what came from me being fixated on this issue-shhhhh, shhhhh...shhhhhhhhhhhhjust let it happen, don't resist...just...let it...happen...

A/N 2019: Wow I forgot I had written this? Someone was kind enough to fave it recently and remind me of its existence so I cleaned it up a lil bit. Still have no context to where this came from other than at the time people in the fandom were calling this character Eddie Monroe or something strange? *shrug*

Sunday mornings were so beautiful.

It was Monroe's weekly "Treat yo'self" day, the one 24hr period he abstained from exercise and started the day with a mocha coffee - hey, chocolate at that time in the morning? You know, the time of morning before the sun had even bothered to get up? What could Monroe say? He liked to live fast and dangerously. If Monroe was feeling exceptionally rebellious, he might even go as far as to put chocolate milk in his cereal! Know your limits Monroe, just don't be limited by them.

Either way, it was setting up to be a great day.

Or at least Nick hadn't called him yet so far, dankeschoen.

True, Nick got at least one Wesen case a week that took a few days, perhaps at most a month to tackle, so this was a pleasant rest for the Blutbad.

Slurping on his chocolate coffee, Monroe tried to recall when he had voluntarily become a Blutbad buddy to the...well, to Nick. Wait... had it been voluntary? Well, whatever. Maybe he'd be a really bad boy and break out some Bach on his Cello! It was just that kind of reckless day. Or night, at this point. Monroe looked out his dark kitchen window thoughtfully. Where was the sun, at this time of morning? Slacker!

First, to complete the arduous task of finishing Mocha Coffee (delicious) and the Calvin & Hobbes Lazy Sunday Book (hilarious - it also wasn't Sunday). All in all, Monroe was feeling content and satiated in his dark and empty house - that was, until an idle glance landed on a distinct pair of bright and impatient eyes. Both of those things did not belong there! Fight or Flight kicked into gear, Monroe's mild heart attack propelled him out of his chair, crashing to the ground left his life flashing before his eyes. Am I man or a Blutbad?

He registered something being said but Monroe was so preoccupied hacking up the chocolate coffee now swimming in his lungs from the inhale at his reaction that had flung him to the floor. He tried to say what but t had come out as more of a drowning question.

"I said" The Grimm's steely voice repeated, "You don't have a last name." It struck Monroe that Nick sounded out of patience...already? This must be a Bad Cop day.

"It's-" Monroe's brown eyes landed on his watch before darting up to the very dark looking Nick, bad vibes were radiating off him like heat waves. Good day ruined. "...5:15 in the morning? Can I help-"

"-stop it dude," Nick was not playing. "I mean it, how the fuck am I supposed to take you seriously as a person if you don't even have a last name. You're not fucking Pele, you know."

Monroe balked momentarily from his position on his kitchen floor. Seriously? Is this really happening right now? A strained and very controlled whisper escaped like steam from Monroe's mouth, "Nickolas Burkhardt you are way out of character! there are people. READING this. I mean-hopefully, anyway...probably not. I could see how they likely left after the cereal chocolate milk debacle..."

"Oh I'm sorry," Nick started to drawl slowly and sarcastically, "I can't hear you, Mister….? Oh that's right. You're just Mister, aren't you?"

Fine. Monroe snatched up his mug up from the floor with solid determination to wield as a pointer. Two could play this game. "…Well entschuldigen me, Mr. Burkhardt, excusez-moi-"

"-can it, Monroe. You know I don't speak Greek, smart ass."

"...What? That...what?! Greek? Is that what an American public school education affords you, you think French is Greek? I..."

Nick squatted in front of the flabbergast Blutbad, finger pointed threateningly in Monroe's face. For all intents and purposes it was ridiculous. On any other day of the week Monroe, a solid three feet taller than the intrusive...em, freund before him, could have mildly slit open the human's jugular with a lazy flick of the wrist."Bro, for the last time, what's your last name spiel?"

"...Ok. That's not how that word is used, we aren't related, and I guess we can't all be a fully developed Grimm character like you, freund! If that even is your real name! I mean...what, title?"

Nick shrugged, "It isn't."

"I'm also pretty certain I would know if I was fucking an international football star--" Monroe could only gape as he recognized the sound of skin on skin had in fact been Nick's hand clean across Monroe's face.

"God damnit it's soccer! Do you see?! Do you see this?" Nick pleaded to an invisible God, "Football and no last name?! I CAN'T WORK UNDER THESE CONDITIONS!"

Monroe touched the side of his freshly slapped face. Pretty schwanz move, slapping a dude when he's down...on his own kitchen floor...wait, what conditions? Monroe watched Nick pace back and forth, tearing at his hair. Oh Goddamnit, not this fucking fight again. Not the cultural differences shit again. Monroe pinched the bridge of his nose because that was something people did at times like these.

Collecting his composure, Monroe stood. He politely brushed non-existent debris from his pajama bottoms, which was completely unnecessary since his entire house was cleaner than the most sterile of hospitals. There was a pregnant pause as they regarded each other.

And then Monroe launched into his own rant, "I'm German! Deutsche! You actually play the game with. Your. Feet. Foosball!" Nick was about to reply but Monroe had cut him off with a reciprocated slap. Hey, that had felt pretty good! Anyway,"You have no right to get at me about this! You. Are supposed. To be. German, dude! It doesn't take a genius to see that THERE IS NOTHING GERMANIC ABOUT YOU!"

"You're starting to sound racist, Monroe!" Nick's warning fell on the most apathetic of ears.

"LOOK AT YOU!" Monroe grabbed a metal tray conveniently from the drying rack. While not a mirror, it was definitely effective enough for the purpose,"You're Italian Nick, as painful as it is, you're Italian. Accept it. You may as well change your name to like, David Guintoli or something."

"...David Guin-Monroe, that is the stupidest name I have ever heard!" Nick paused for a beat as he Let Monroe's blunt honestly bludgeon him over the head. The reflective tea tray was also not helping.

"Your stupid eyelashes are so long you wouldn't have needed a ladder to paint the Sistine Chapel!"

"Is...is that an Italian thing?" Nick's question gave pause to their poor excuse of an argument.

"You know..." Monroe's dark eyes flicked around the room in thought, "I'm not entirely sure...BUT IT SURE FUCKING ISN'T GERMANIC!" Again Monroe wielded the tray like he was trying to fend off Medusa with her own reflection.

If Nick's face was anything to judge by, it was working. Oh his life was a lie all a long! "Oh my God it's true. I'm Italian!" He started sobbing pathetically in the middle of Monroe's (again, pristine) kitchen flo-

"-hang on hang on, hold it. Dude, no, you are not going to have Nick break down on my clean kitchen floor! It's a point of pride, stop that. Stop that now."

Nick whispered warily through the hands that were clapped over his face. "Monroe, what are you doing? You're not supposed to interact with the narrator directly! That's breaking the fourth wall!"

Yeah Monroe, that's breaking the fourth wall.

"Oh shut up! NOW the fourth wall is being broken because I don't want to have to clean up a mess?! Seriously folks?" Monroe stood in front of the collapsed Nick heap, squawking like a frantic mother hen to no one in particular-"Hey! I resent that description of me! I demand you treat me with some respect!"

Fuck off Monroe, you're ruining the story.

"Yeah!" Nick chorused, "You're ruining the story!"

"LOOK! ASSHOLES!" Monroe stared right up at where he knew the omniscient author sat, watching her scene play out behind a screen. "I am a dignified character with thoughts, hopes and feelings, okay?! First of all, you make me gay--"

Hey-

"-No shut up a minute! You author-people make me gay and then you allow Nick to stomp in here on my sacred...whatever day today is-pointing out that I do in fact have an incomplete name, you let him slap me-mock me over my European colloquialisms which you yourself have, author, okay?! I know for a fact you say and spell 'aluminium' because HA SEE IT'S RIGHT THERE! So how dare you take his side-and and and then when I ask to not clean up Nick's Italian melt down, yeah that's right you faux German, in my clean kitchen, you get on my ass? WHERE IS THE JUSTICE?"

Nick, by this point, had crawled beneath the kitchen table cowering in fear of what The Author might do. There was a reason that particular wall was never broken, their awesome power was not one to be trifled with.

"Bitch, please," Monroe snapped a sassy curl in the air with a matching neck roll, "Stop talking yourself up."

Deafening silence followed.

…

Yup, still there.

There was no sassy retort, no particularly threatening warning…still nothing. Monroe preened, proud of what he had done, wrangled the unwrangable. "Mitchell."

Nick poked his head out from beneath the table, still incredibly paranoid and anticipating a damn good wrathing. "What?" His blue eyes darted all over the serene scenery.

"My last name. It's Mitchell. Monroe Mitchell."

"Monroe…Mitchell." Nick repeated before wrinkling his face. Boy, that tasted funny. "…Isn't Mitchell a Scottish name?"

"Shut the fuck up, kid."

Just then very window in Monroe's house cracked and shattered all over, save for the stained glass one in his door because I'm particularly fond of it. Enjoy cleaning that mess up, Monroe Kilt-Wearing Mitchell.

"…Son of a Bitch." Monroe looked down and sure enough his comfy flannel bottoms had been swapped out with the roughest, itchiest conceivable kilt. "That's pretty...I don't know, what's the word, prejudice or...maybe homophobic of you, Author, using other cultural norms as some kind of punishme-"

I'm going to have to stop you right there, freund-

"-Oh we are so definitely not freunds after this malarkey-"

-shut up, I'm typing here. I am not insulting Scottish culture or traditional norms by putting you in a kilt. I am insulting you by putting you in a kilt because what proud Germanic man would adopt the traditional cultural dress code of another country - Leiderhosen are far more camp than kilts, hands down. But you'd feel more comfortable and that's just not in the agenda any longer. ...Freund.

"Stop..Stop calling me that! None of us in this scene are friends!"

Nick got to his feet with a broad smile, "I'll go get the vacuum Monroe! Just don't start barking at it when it's on!" Anything else that may have followed was drowned out when Monroe slammed into him full force and tackled the Grimm to the ground. ("No homo!" he shouted to deaf ears as he pinned Nick to the floor, "Goddamnit!") What the hell was this, national bully Monroe day?!

Yes.