Chapter 1
“Staff room’s over there, phone service is shit in there though, for that you’ll have to go to the roof. If you bring your own lunch, don’t stash it in there because Stein and Wilson have a food-thievery operation that’s going pretty strong and they're damn good at it, not gonna lie. Best food cart is down the street opposite Lou’s Diner, you can find a vending machine outside the bathrooms, staffroom, or there’s about five in Cyber Crimes. Nerds like their snacks. Still, don’t leave it lying around. Find a place to hide it, otherwise you’ll find it missing and a suspicious chocolate stain on one of the guys’ shirts.”
Frank wasn’t going to tell O’Connor the best hiding places; he’d have to learn by trial and error like the rest of them had, and then adapt once the food thieves discovered its location. To Frank’s knowledge, in their department only he and Curtis had managed to find long-term secret stash places. Curt’s was in an old, decaying box down in the Evidence Lockup that had been there longer than Frank had and wasn’t due to be destroyed for another decade, with a promise from Amy, the Evidence Tech, that she’d warn him if anyone started eyeing it with interest. Frank’s was in the freezer in Autopsy or the M.E.’s desk drawer, depending on what he brought in that day, with a promise from Murdock that it would be over his dead body that someone stole it from him. Frank was pretty sure the freezer consisted more of snacks than dead people nowadays what with the amount of random food he and Murdock had in there – last week Murdock had added frozen turkey in case they wanted a Thanksgiving dinner four months early.
O’Connor nodded and Frank wanted to punch him.
Frank hated rookies. Everyone knew Frank hated rookies, except the rookies themselves, and even they were catching on after spending two days with Frank. At least the good ones were. O’Connor was not one of the good ones. It was because everyone knew Frank hated rookies that he’d been assigned to showing the newest batch of bright young things around the place, and partnering on cases for their first week until they got their permanent one. Frank had known there would be consequences for (rightfully) accusing the Governor’s daughter of having an affair and getting knocked up by the murdered nanny’s son, but if he’d known this would be his punishment he might’ve been more subtle about it.
“Is lunch scheduled or is it a ‘take it whenever you want’ situation? That’s what it was at my last precinct. Worked out pretty well.”
Okay, so O’Connor wasn’t necessarily a rookie; he’d been transferred, but from what Frank had heard he’d been a desk jockey promoted to the field so he might as well be fresh out of the academy.
“It’s a ‘take it when you can’ situation,” Frank said grumpily. “When you’re in the middle of fucking nowhere chasing some dead-end lead, there ain’t exactly a McDonald’s you can just pop into to grab a Happy Meal.”
O’Connor turned to face Frank properly, drawing himself up and oh no you didn’t. A rookie was not going to go all alpha male on him and spout off some sort of bullshit about how he was better than Frank, which was obviously what the dick was about to do. Frank saw that same body language on street-level dealers who thought they were all that when in reality they were on the lowest rung of the fucking ladder.
“Listen, at my last position I was considered highly decorated, and I think some respect-”
Frank’s phone rang and he had it out of his pocket and to his ear before O’Connor could finish or Frank could spit out exactly what he thought of the man.
“What?” Frank greeted.
“Afternoon to you too, Sunshine." Frank kept the smirk off his face at the name, bad mood mellowing out instantly. The first time Frank had met Murdock at the traditional rookie bar crawl –old timers had to see what the new recruits were made out of after all, and weedle out the ones who didn’t have the stomach – he’d ended up dragging his semi-conscious ass home with him because the guy had drank way, way too much and couldn’t walk more than five steps unassisted without falling flat on his face. His assistant and best friend, Nelson, had left hours ago only slightly better off than his friend to fuck Stahl in the parking lot, and Frank was the only one sober enough to make sure Murdock didn’t get hit by a car or kidnapped on his way home. Frank had been weirdly impressed by the guy’s perseverance and amount he’d managed to drink, and found it slightly adorable how the moment Frank had gently touched his arm to ask if he was alright, the M.E. had latched onto him and started happily talking about eels.
When Murdock had woken up the next morning tied to Frank’s bed because the fucker had kept trying to fight him (and landed a few good punches, which Frank told everyone was from a confrontation with a suspect rather than ‘I got my ass kicked by a blind guy’), he’d groaned, held his head with all the signs of a killer hangover, and Frank had greeted him with a painfully loud “Good Morning, Sunshine!” before introducing himself.
Frank had quickly learned that overly affectionate and talkative Murdock was reserved for drunk Murdock and his friends. Normal Murdock was professional and kept his real feelings close to his chest. The guy was a closed book, or at least a book that pretended to be open but actually had its pages stuck down with superglue. He was full of judgement – probably a little too much judgement – and strict morals.
Frank liked the real Murdock, the one he didn’t let many see. The part that was full of Catholic guilt, struggled with who he was, and was always fighting; both with himself and against anything he perceived was wrong. The part that was full of anger and power and darkness, the part with evil little smirks when someone underestimated him and who took great pleasure in knocking a person down physically and verbally. The one who would die for his friends, protect them with his everything, and who wouldn’t take any shit from anyone.
Frank was lucky enough to have seen him, lucky enough that Murdock had let him see him.
“Ah, now I remember,” Matt said, his voice too light. “It’s Rookie Week. I heard a rumour you’d been bad and so had the great joy of spending time with them. I assume it’s true? I wouldn’t know, you’ve not been down to autopsy for weeks.” He paused dramatically. “Foggy ate your Snickers.”
“He better fucking not have,” Frank said with a growl. Murdock laughed and Frank was glad the man was in the basement and couldn’t see the way his lips tugged up at the sound. “And of course you know it’s true. You and your fucking bat ears, Murdock.”
Murdock snorted. “If that’s a reference to me being blind, I’d like to remind you that bats aren’t actually blind so the insult doesn’t quite hit its mark.”
Frank shook his head. “You got something for me or not?” He tried to sound professional but he suspected his amusement leaked in through his voice.
Murdock hummed. “Rodrigo case, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“You’re gonna love this,” Murdock said, and Frank could hear the excitement and the grin that was likely plastered across his face.
That was ominous. Frank wasn’t sure he was gonna like what the idiot had to say.
“Oh, and bring your new BFF. I wanna meet the guy who made the unflappable Frank Castle sound like he was about to stab someone in the middle of the precinct.”
“You tried looking in the mirror? Oh wait, you can’t…”
Murdock laughed, the sound echoing off the large, clinical space he was in, before he hung up.
Frank pocketed his phone again and sighed, turning to a fuming O’Connor. Guy clearly wasn’t someone who appreciated being interrupted and ignored. “Autopsy’s done. Gonna go see what the doc has to say. You can come or stay here and research the brother. I don’t care.” He turned his back to him and started strolling in the direction of the elevator that would take them down to the Autopsy Room.
He didn’t care, but he would prefer O’Connor to stay as far away from him as possible. So of course he wasn’t particularly happy when the sound of feet stomping behind him followed him.
Frank huffed. He only hoped Murdock actually had something and wasn’t just flirting with him.
“Hey, Red, how’s it going?”
Red spun around on his swivel chair, a grin on his face that was bordering on manic: too wide, too excitable, and Frank wondered if that was because the case was interesting, he hadn’t got enough sleep so had had too much caffeine to compensate, or just Frank’s presence.
“Much better now you’re here,” Red said cheerfully. “I was starting to miss your gruff voice criticising my bullet extraction techniques.”
Frank snorted and rolled his eyes. “Not my fault you go in so forceful. Just drive on in without any planning or consideration which means you could do damage.” Frank didn’t believe that. Red had always been perfect at his job and flawless in his movements, leaving the body in pristine condition. Or, more accurately, left it in the same condition it came to him in with just the autopsy scars added. It was hard for a body without a head to be pristine.
Red huffed, crossing his arms. “How many times have we had this argument? How many more times do I have to go over it until you see sense? A) I know exactly where the bullets are as I can taste the metal. B) My precision is flawless, and I guarantee I’m quicker and leave less destruction in my wake than any other M.E. in the country. And C),” Red’s lips curved up into a wicked smile. “They’re dead. They don’t feel it, so I’m sure they don’t mind.”
Frank admitted that their difference in method was probably due to the fact that Frank had only ever extracted bullets from a live body. In those cases, you had to try to make it as quick and painless as possible or the person would bleed out or go into shock. Red didn’t have to worry about that.
Red’s attention fell on the awkwardly shuffling body behind Frank. He’d known O’Connor was there the whole time, of course, but focused on playing with Frank instead. Frank felt a little pang of jealousy that O’Connor had now stolen Red’s attention away from him and interrupted the game. He probably should be more worried about his response than he was: it wasn’t normal to feel jealous or frustrated that your M.E. was talking to other officers rather than you and to want his attention all to yourself. Curt would probably have something to say about that and point out what Frank’s subconscious was trying to tell him, but Frank didn’t want to dissect it too much.
“Sorry, I’m being rude,” Red said, jumping up from his seat and walking towards O’Connor. “Matthew Murdock, Medical Examiner extraordinaire.” He paused. “And Frank’s nurse when he gets himself shot and doesn’t want to go to the hospital.”
Frank wasn’t sure that was fair, he’d only refused hospital treatment and gone to Red maybe seven times (in the last year). It was just easier. Not only was Red right there in the building, he coddled Frank less and got it over with faster than any of the paramedics or doctors in the damn hospital. They were always hovering over Frank, saying shit like ‘how are you feeling, Detective Castle?’ and ‘do you need more pain medication, Detective Castle?’ and ‘do you want us to call anyone for you, Detective Castle?’ and refuse to let him go even though he was fine. Red would order him up on the table if there was one without a body on it, the chair at his desk if not, grab his tweezers and some alcohol that he had stashed for ‘cleaning purposes’ that the two of them definitely hadn’t cracked in to after hours, handed it to Frank to take a swig and was in and out usually before Frank could put the bottle down; the only comments he would make was a murmured ‘so what did you do now’ or ‘give me the gossip’ or that one memorable ‘how the fuck did you manage to get a bullet in your ass?’ Quick, painless, no fuss needed. Red knew what Frank could take and what he couldn’t, and didn’t pussy around him like he was made of glass.
Frank had asked once, after Red had spent thirty minutes stitching up a particularly nasty stab wound and extracting two bullets from Frank’s arm and they were finishing off the bottle of alcohol in companionable silence, why he did it. Red had paused, before admitting that he knew what Frank had been through, the stories were there in precinct legends and mapped all over his body in scars, so knew he had survived worse, and also knew what it was like to be treated like a child and babied and like you would break at any moment when you wouldn’t. Frank knew that to be true as he’d seen the way some of the cops in the station or at the crime scenes would try to do Red’s job for him because they thought he was weak due to his blindness and pitied him. He’d almost broke when Red had given him a small smile and said ‘so I return the favour. You’re one of the only people who don’t treat me that way. It’s why I like you.’
Those people were idiots. Red could take them out in seconds, Frank had seen him fight and even if he hadn’t he knew him. Red mentioned what Frank had been through, but he never considered that his own experiences and tragedy he had survived had made him the man he was today: strong, determined, passionate, unstoppable and goddamn amazing. It annoyed Frank more than a little that Red thought so little of himself that he couldn’t recognise his strength and thought he was nothing, when he was better than most people and everything.
“Best M.E.” and nurse, “in the entire goddamn state,” Frank said genuinely. “No-one can disembowel a body like him.”
“Aw, Frank. You say the sweetest things.”
“Anything for you, Red.”
“Red?” O’Connor asked, a frown on his face.
Red grinned, “Just a nickname Frank’s given me.” His smile wavered a little, and Frank knew it was with the effort of holding back his request that nobody else call him that. It was their thing and luckily everyone else in the building recognised that.
Frank smirked at Red, trying to bring that smile back. “Because he’s always covered in blood.”
Red snorted, “It’s kind of in the job description.”
Which yeah, was true, but Frank would never forget the first time he’d come down to autopsy – and the first time he’d seen Red at work rather than clinging to Frank’s arm so he didn’t fall – and found Matt painted head to toe with the stuff, three open bodies on tables and Nelson carrying away internal organs in jars. It was like a scene from a horror movie, and honestly Red’s beaming smile and happy ‘Hey! It’s my knight in shining armour!’ was the only thing that didn’t have Frank running from the room.
Red smiled and addressed O’Connor again. “It your first week, Officer…?”
“O’Connor,” the rookie introduced himself, holding out his hand for Red to shake. When Red didn’t take it, O’Connor scowled and opened his mouth, likely to say something cutting at Red which nope, no way, that was not happening.
“He’s holding out his hand for you to shake,” Frank provided. Red probably knew that already, but he didn’t like to fling ‘I’m blind but can see you’ at people when he first met them. They tended to freak out.
O’Connor looked at Frank confused. Frank sighed. “He’s blind. The glasses and stick are a bit of a giveaway. You didn’t notice?”
Yes, that was a dig at O’Connor’s detective skills. No, Frank didn’t care if he pissed him off and made an enemy of the man. No, Red hiding his laughter behind a cough didn’t make Frank feel warm and fuzzy inside.
O’Connor was silent, eyeing Red up and down with disbelief and surprise. That was the usual response as finding out the guy who was cutting up bodies to find scientific evidence couldn’t see said scientific evidence was obviously a shock, but Frank didn’t like the way O’Connor was looking at Red; like he was some exhibit in a zoo or something and O’Connor couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Red held out his hand, which O’Connor shook loosely before he turned to Frank, dismissing Red like he was no longer there.
“But…how does he do his job if he can’t see shit? Surely that means he makes mistakes? That’s so typical of the government, hiring a guy who can’t do his job just to be politically correct and to prove they are diverse.” There was anger in O’Connor’s voice but that was nothing compared to what Frank was feeling. Red hated being treated like he wasn’t there and Frank could tell it had affected him because his shoulders had tensed and he was holding himself stiffly with a blank expression. He turned and walked to his desk, and Frank knew it was so O’Connor couldn’t see his face.
What right did O’Connor have to decide whether Red could do his job or not? He hadn’t seen him work, hadn’t known him more than five minutes, and he was judging him based on what? The fact he couldn’t see? Not asking Red how he did it, and instead turning to Frank like Red couldn’t speak for himself and he couldn’t believe Red had the audacity to exist.
“How many cases have been thrown out in court because he thought something was a hip bone and it was an ankle?” O’Connor demanded. “How can he tell the difference?”
Red shuffled through some papers on his desk. “I have exceptional hearing,” he deadpanned.
O’Connor stiffened, not sure whether Red was passively aggressively reminding him he was not deaf and to talk to him like a person, or whether he was telling a joke.
He seemed to decide it was the latter (idiot) as he laughed nervously. “Good one.”
Except it wasn’t a joke. That was why Red was so good at his job: the guy literally had superpowers – or ‘enhancements’ as the man insisted they be called because ‘they aren’t superpowers, Frank, do I look like I’d go around the city in tights and my underwear saving kittens.’ The comment wasn’t as effective as Red thought, because he did look like he’d do that. He didn’t exactly go proclaiming it from the rooftops, but he didn’t hide it either. Most people in the precinct knew something was odd about the man, many knew he had powers, but only a few of them took him seriously or remembered. Those were the few Red kept close to him.
Frank grit his teeth, trying to decide whether to rip into O’Connor when they left or to do it now. Red seemed to sense what Frank was about to do though as he quickly spun on his heel to face them again, papers in his hands.
“Well, as fun as this has been, I realise it’s not a social call. Mr Rodrigo is over here,” he said, nodding to the tables and walking them to the third one down. He pulled back the sheet and Frank grimaced at the sight. A quick glance at O’Connor showed him to be going a little green, and Frank had to supress his smile. In a way, Red being blind was a benefit; that way he couldn’t see the true horror of some of the bodies that ended up on his table.
Red cocked his head to the side. “You wanna take this one, Fogs? Tell Frank our findings?”
There was a chuckle from the other side of the room and O’Connor jumped, spinning around and his hand reaching for his gun, not having heard anyone else enter the room. Frank rolled his eyes and wondered how long it would be before O’Connor was put back on desk duty for being too trigger-happy.
Nelson chuckled again, shooting a quick glance between Frank and Red before looking back at his paperwork. “Nope, he’s all yours. I’m not getting in the way of true love and your incessant flirting.”
“Er, you know he’s dead right, Foggy?” Red said, confused. “Me and Mr Rodrigo aren’t exactly going to be going on sunset walks on the beach.”
Nelson gave Red a look that landed somewhere between fond exasperation and incredulity. Obviously it was lost on Red and Frank lamented that he couldn’t experience the full effect of it.
“Not who I was talking about,” Nelson gestured between Frank and Red. “You two need to get a room. Just fuck already. Seriously, if you want I can go on an extended lunch break and you can screw in the freezer or on the table. Maybe cover Mr Rodrigo up first.” He paused. “Or don’t. He won’t know and if his ghost is floating around the place he’d probably enjoy the show.”
Red blushed and wasn’t that the most beautiful thing Frank had ever seen. A smile tugged at his lips, and he considered how far that blush went down.
Red cleared his throat and put his papers down, pulling at his scrubs nervously. “Er, yeah, ok. Right.” He nodded before visibly pulling himself together. “Cause of death was-”
“The three shots to the chest, yeah we got that,” O’Connor said. Frank really wanted to punch him.
“No, actually,” Red said. There was a smirk on his face, so small nobody would notice if they didn’t know him. A smug little thing that suggested he was more than pleased to prove O’Connor wrong. “It was blunt force trauma to the skull. The gunshots were post-mortem.”
Frank perked up, suddenly interested. “Post-mortem?” Red nodded. “Why would they do that? What’s the point?”
“That’s your job, detective,” Red said, smiling at him. Red knew he liked the weird ones, the ones that didn’t make sense until he got his man and they understood them.
“There are no physical signs of BFT though,” O’Connor said, frowning. “Are you sure-”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Red said, a hint of darkness creeping into his voice. O’Connor took a step back. “It was hidden.”
“How?” Frank prodded.
“Make-up and hair dye,” Red said. He moved towards Rodrigo’s head and gently moved it to the side, displaying the very large gash there and several dark bruises. Despite his ‘the dead don’t care I’m cutting them up’ comments, he was actually incredibly respectful to them and still handled them with care and attention, like they were still alive.
“I didn’t see those before,” O’Connor commented. Frank couldn’t tell whether his tone was accusing or awed.
“Me neither,” Red joked.
“Quit it with the blind jokes, Red. Now is not the time,” Frank said. Red hushed up immediately, though Frank thought he heard a mumbled ‘it’s always the time’ before he did. “Anything else?”
“I’ve sent samples of the dye and make-up to Curt,” Red said. “Hopefully he’ll be able to work out the type and hopefully it’s rare and traceable.”
“No such luck,” Nelson said, looking at his phone. “Results are back. Guy works fast.” He looked up and grimaced. “Unfortunately, Mr Rodrigo’s hair is just a straight up normal black, and the dye is the most popular brand you can buy.”
“And the make-up?”
“Let’s just say Marci also uses that brand. Not that she’s the killer,” Nelson added the last bit hurriedly, like they’d actually believe his girlfriend would do this. The woman may be as sharp as a whip and ruthless when she wanted to be, but she wasn’t psychotic.
“So we’ve got nothing,” O’Connor said, throwing his hands up. “Thanks a bunch.”
Nelson huffed. “Rude,” he said, before turning and collapsing into the desk chair.
Red hummed. “Not quite nothing.” He turned to Frank. “You know what this means?”
Frank nodded. “Yup.”
“What?” O’Connor said, looking between the two.
“It’s pre-meditated,” Red explained when Frank made no move too. “They had to buy that hair dye and the make-up in advance and had to know Mr Rodrigo’s shade, otherwise it wouldn’t have matched and wouldn't have hidden the wound.”
“And it means the body was staged,” Frank said, speaking his own thoughts out loud to run them past Red rather than O’Connor. “They knew we’d find him, shot him to mislead us and made him all pretty so we saw what they wanted us to see rather than focus on the truth.”
“Which is?”
Frank shrugged. “No fucking clue. It’s our job to work that out.”
“Tell them the best bit!” Nelson called from the desk.
Red’s eyes were concealed by his glasses, but Frank was almost certain he was rolling them in fond exasperation. “Yes, thank you Foggy.” Frank raised his eyebrows in a silent indication for him to go on, and Red tilted his head in acknowledgment.
“There was a sedative in his bloodstream. It’s undetectable to all the general tests – the ones all police forces and labs do as procedure. Even the deep searches we do wouldn’t have flagged it, only if you specifically searched for it.”
Frank smiled, “But you sniffed it out.”
Red nodded, smiling back. “I sniffed it out. And unlike the make-up, this particular sedative is rare.”
Bingo.
“You and your weird senses,” Frank said, shaking his head. Red never failed to impress him, though he’d only admit that when drunk.
“That’s not the best bit!”
Red turned to Nelson. “I was getting there!”
Nelson threw his hands up and spun around dramatically so his back was to them, muttering something about Red’s slowness and drawing it out for dramatics.
Red licked his lips, Frank’s eyes darting down to them before returning his attention to Red’s face. “Like I said, this sedative only shows up if you search for it, so it’s rarely detected. However, there was a hit on it eight months ago over in Harlem. I called up a contact I have over there, and she said it was still unsolved. The victim was a dark-haired man, 32 years old, found with three gunshot wounds to the chest that were done post-mortem, and cause of death was BFT.” Red paused, tilting his head in a way that let Frank know what he said next would be good. “Which they only found out when the funeral home called to yell at them for not warning them about the hair dye and makeup. Apparently, it delayed their whole process because they had to wash it out.”
Red was right. Frank was going to love this.
“A serial killer?” O’Connor whispered, his eyes wide and excitable. “A fucking serial killer?” The guy sounded like all his Christmases had come at once. Frank could admit when he was a rookie he would’ve loved to have a serial killer his first week on the job. That’s what they all dreamed of: the excitement, the challenge, the horror, the fame, catching the most evil bastards and taking them off the street for good, either with a cold and empty prison cell, a date with old sparky, or a shot to the head. Frank preferred the last two.
Frank grunted non-committedly.
“Technically a serial killer needs to have three victims, but you might be right,” Red said. “Hard to prove though. I’m sure you’ll manage it.”
Like Frank had ever let difficulty stop him. Red knew this, and he could tell that that last part had been aimed at Frank based on the reassuring smile on his face.
“Oh my God,” O’Connor said, practically bouncing with unrestrained glee. “This is- This is going to be-Oh my…fuck.”
Red’s head snapped towards O’Connor, and Frank wondered whether it was because the guy was excited about people dying or whether it was the blatant use of blasphemy in his autopsy room.
“O’Connor,” Frank said calmly. “Go back upstairs. See what you can dig up. Look for any similar sounding crimes – hair dye, make-up, BFT, three post-mortem gunshot wounds – in our database. Start with New York, then work your way out.”
“Yes, sir,” O’Connor said, before practically sprinting out the room. It was the fastest Frank had seen him move and he didn’t think O’Connor had realised in his haste that he’d called Frank sir. Frank wasn’t going to let him forget that, and he had Mr. Bat Ears and his assistant to back him up when the denial inevitably came.
Frank sighed the moment the sliding doors closed behind the man and rested his arms on the table, careful to avoid jostling the body and bowing his head.
“I need you to take my gun from me,” Frank said lowly.
“Why?” Red said, his tone amused rather than concerned.
“Because I’m either gonna shoot him or shoot myself. I can’t take another day of this, definitely not a murder case.”
Red laughed, loudly and genuinely, the sound echoing off the walls with a musicality that didn’t match his darkness.
Red made his way around the table, stepping up close to Frank and invading his personal space. Frank didn’t mind.
“There, there,” Red said, patting his back in a sign of mock comfort. “I’m sure the mean rookie will be nice to you.”
Frank shoved him away playfully, causing the man to laugh again. There was something about his laugh that made Frank feel lighter, reminded him of the sun after a rainstorm or returning to the warmth and comfort of home to a hot cocoa after being stuck in the snow. Knowing Red, though, he was probably both: the sun and the rain, home and the snow, light and the dark.
“Got you a present,” Red said, still smiling but this time much softer, and jerked his head in the direction of the freezer.
Frank turned his head in that direction, considering it curiously, before taking one more look at Red’s hopeful face and walking inside it. It was freezing, obviously, and Frank tried not to look at the body bags. Instead, he focused on the shelf – or, at this point, several shelves - at what he now considered his and Red’s own little commissary. He scanned it, searching through the potatoes and turkey and peas (why, Red, why?) to find what Red wanted him too. He felt a tug in his heart when he found it.
Ice-cream. Not only that, Frank’s favourite ice-cream. Red remembered.
Frank grabbed the tub and two spoons without hesitation before strolling back out with a smile on his face. He hopped up onto the nearest autopsy table and turned to find Red still next to Mr Rodrigo.
“You joining me or not?”
Red’s lips twitched up before he walked over, hopping up onto the table to sit side-by-side with Frank with their thighs brushing together. Frank held out a spoon wordlessly and Red took it, waiting until Frank had taken a spoonful of the ice-cream and shoved it in his mouth before he did the same.
They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, taking it in turns to spoon the ice-cream into their mouths. Nelson had disappeared off somewhere, possibly to go hunt down his girlfriend for a quick one in the stationary closet, but that was good. Frank preferred it when it was just him and Red; it was easy, comfortable, and he knew Red accepted him for who he was. There was no ‘hero cop of Hell’s Kitchen’ or ‘legend of the precinct’, there also wasn’t ‘trigger-happy psycho cop who takes the law into his own hands and recklessly endangers people.’ Red didn’t care for his reputation: he cared about Frank himself, his actions and how he treated people. He didn’t worship him and put him on a pedestal or condemn him for his more violent actions, anger issues, or dark thoughts. He saw him and he accepted him.
Frank offered the tub to Red one more time, and when he shook his head, Frank closed the lid ready to put it back in the freezer for next time before placing it down on the table beside him.
“I mean it, Red,” Frank said, voice loud in the silence of the room. “These rookies, they’re giving me headaches. Boss said that I had to spend an entire case with each of them, which has been just about bearable with the others because they’ve been things like drug deals or petty thefts, but if O’Connor has managed to catch a serial murderer case I’m never gonna shake him.”
“Are they really that bad?”
Frank turned to him, eyebrows raised and lip curled. “Earlier, O’Connor asked me if M.O. meant ‘move over’ and what BOLO meant. He’s been a cop for fifteen years. He then proceeded to lament about how the white American male was now the true minority after I introduced him to Curt and Wing.”
Red made a hissing noise of disgust. “Point taken. Hopefully when he gets to know them a bit more he’ll change and realise he’s wrong. He’d better, before they both kick his ass.” Frank chuckled. “But all the new guys can’t be like that. Some of them have got to be good, otherwise they wouldn’t have got in. I know we’re understaffed, but there are still standards.”
Frank nodded and was quiet for a moment as he thought. “I suppose some have potential. There’s a new girl, Page, who I think has the makings of one hell of an investigator. Her questions weren’t stupid, you know? No ‘oh, where’s the lunch room’ and ‘where can I dump my gear’ and ‘when do I get to drive the car.' She asked about certain procedures we had, whether they would be put on already open cases first of all or start afresh, and where she could get info on advancing her skills. I’m thinking about suggesting she partner with Jones. They’d either kill each other or fucking destroy their suspects. Either way, they’d be dangerous together.”
Red brightened, “So there’s hope!” He nudged Frank in the side with his elbow. “See? Light can always be found in the darkness.”
“Don’t give me any of that mumbo jumbo, fortune cookie, ‘there is goodness in everyone’ crap, Red. This guy I was paired with last week, Gosnell, I overheard him saying he wanted a murder case so he could fuck the dead guy’s wife. Him and his buddy have got a bet going about how many widows they can lure into their bed.”
Red paused. He was quiet for a few moments and had that look on his face, the one where his eyebrows were slightly furrowed, he was biting his lip and incredibly still, that indicated he was thinking something over.
“They had their mandatory observation of an autopsy yet?” Red said slowly.
Frank shook his head. “No, boss wanted them to do their first case before getting into the gore.” Frank’s lips twitched up in amusement. “Think she believes you scare all the new recruits off with your blood and guts lecture and he needs the staff.”
Red’s expression darkened, his face twisting into a wicked grin that screamed of mischief and danger. He knew he scared them and he revelled in it, the sick fuck.
“I’ve got a week-old corpse that was found floating in the river this morning. Just come in. It’s got all the lovely gross stuff – bloating, maggots, slime, and what I’m starting to suspect is flesh-eating bacteria knawing away at him. Might be fun.”
Frank stared at him, not sure whether to be impressed, ecstatic, worried, frightened, disturbed or just grossed out at the suggestion.
He settled on excitement. There was a warmth in his chest, a flip in his stomach, and an eagerness that bordered on hunger. It was dark, it was rotten, and he absolutely shouldn’t feel such a desperate enthusiasm for watching people who were on the same side as him suffer, but he couldn’t deny it. He wanted it.
Frank’s smile widened into a grin that matched Red’s. “How soon can you take them?”
It wasn’t until later, when Frank was leaning up against a wall in autopsy watching Red with a group of now very quiet and green-looking rookies crowded around him and O’Connor throwing up into a trash can, covered head to toe in the blood that had given him his nickname with a heart in one hand and intestines in his other, describing them with worrying enthusiasm and embellishment, that Frank realised perhaps it wasn’t the suffering of the new recruits that had excited him so much.
The expression on Red’s face – the danger, the darkness, the passion, the light, the hope – had sent a thrill of desire through him, making his heart beat faster and his breathing come short. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, or what had been the turning point, but he’d developed feelings for Red that weren’t just professional respect and were more than friendship.
Frank came down here more than he needed too and more than he should want too, most officers avoiding autopsy unless it was absolutely necessary, but Frank gravitated towards it. At some point he’d stopped coming down just for information for his cases and instead made any excuse too; he came down for lunch breaks, to let off steam, to rant and rave and think and talk, and sometimes just to sit. He’d never noticed that he only did that when Red was in and never on his days off, choosing to just call down for any case developments on those occasions. The fact he even knew Red's days off should have been a warning.
It wasn’t the peace and quiet autopsy had, not the snacks or the lack of people or the fact he could just breathe down there that had him returning so often.
It was Red.
Red was a contradiction, a mystery, and didn’t make sense. How a person could care so deeply and believe in justice and love and light and hope whilst seeing the worst of humanity on a daily basis, seeing what they did to each other and how they ended up, and having such a darkness inside him Frank couldn’t imagine. How did Red do it? How could he handle the violence and anger inside him with the love and care? How could he be a saint and a devil all at once?
Frank wanted to know. He wanted to know Red completely and utterly, find out what made him tick and solve the puzzle. He wanted to protect him, even though Red could more than protect himself, and have Red protect Frank in return. He wanted to hold him and spend time with him not surrounded by the dead, outside of work where they could be free and open. He wanted to listen to Red talk about nonsense or his day or what he was watching whilst snuggled up together in bed or on the couch. He wanted the comfort, the peace, the understanding, the compassion as well as the darkness, the mischief, the wickedness and the violence.
Frank wanted him.
“Nelson?” Frank said, without glancing away from Red.
“Yeah?” Nelson said distractedly beside him, scribbling something down on his notepad.
“Take that extended lunch break.”
“What?”
“That extended lunch break you offered to take before. Take it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw Nelson look up at him with a confused expression. “Well, I kinda already ate…”
Frank turned his head slowly to meet Nelson’s eyes, and saw the moment he caught on when those eyes widened. He glanced between Frank and Red and back again quickly, his voice a little breathless. “Oh…”
Nelson hesitated before quickly grabbing several pieces of paper and his bag, hefting it over his shoulder with a nod. “You know what, another lunch sounds like a fantastic idea. There’s a great place down the block that has an international buffet – foods from all over the world and it’s all you can eat! And Danny loves the place, I could bring him some back and he’d eat it all easily and-”
“Nelson.”
“Yeah?”
“Just go.”
“Right.” Nelson paused before looking at Frank with what he probably thought was a stern expression but just came across as constipated. “Don’t fuck in front of the new recruits. Matt’s already traumatised them, they don’t need any more.”
“Take them with you.”
“Aw, come on man, I don’t wanna be stuck with them! God, they’re dull, and if they don’t finish this thing we have to do another one and nobody wants that. I’m the one who has to clean up all the puke! I love Matt, but I’m not cleaning extra puke and putting up with those idiots just so he can get laid.”
“Red told me you ate my Snickers.”
“On second thought, what a wonderful idea. It’d be nice to get to know everyone. And I promised Karen I’d take her out to lunch so two birds, one stone. Hey, Matt!”
Red looked up at Nelson’s call, now holding a partially cut open lung.
“I’m gonna take the new recruits out for lunch.” Nelson eyed the green faces and the way some of the rookies were holding onto buckets tightly, others looking like they were about to bolt for the door. “Or, you know, to the park or something for some fresh air. Not sure they can stomach it.”
“Er, okay,” Red said, a confused frown on his face but trusting Nelson completely. Frank wished that one day he’d have that sort of trust.
The rookies didn’t need any other encouragement, most practically running past where Frank was leant against the wall and out the door, trash cans still in hand. Nelson sighed, gave Matt a salute, then traipsed out after them muttering something about the price of being the best wingman ever.
Frank waited until they’d all gone and the sound of the door closing behind them echoed around the room. It was quiet, the silence heavy but not oppressive. It was anticipation that was loudest, filling the room and thrumming through the air until Frank’s hairs were standing up on end.
“What was that all about?” Red said, confused and amused at the same time.
Frank didn’t answer. He pushed himself off the wall and walked closer, eyes fixated on Red until he was stood right in front of him, cut up body forgotten. Frank silently brushed a wayward hair out of Red’s face and behind his ear, letting his hand cup Red’s face and stroking his cheek with his thumb.
Red’s mouth dropped open and he inhaled sharply, his throat moving as he visibly swallowed. His hands come up to rest on Frank’s arms, the blood there staining Frank’s uniform as they gripped him tightly. Frank didn’t care. He thought it was beautiful.
Frank had been prepared to be pushed away, but he relaxed when Red’s hands moved to his shoulders, leaving a trail of blood in their wake. Frank studied his expression and was relieved to see his own desire reflected back in Red’s face.
“You free this evening?” Frank asked lowly, bending down so his mouth hovered over Red’s neck. He smiled at the way Red shivered.
Red licked hip lips, Frank’s attention instantly focusing on them and noticing just how kissable they were. Red nodded. “No plans, unless you count drinking alone and listening to Columbo re-runs.”
How was he this adorable?
“I’d like to take you on a date,” Frank said, taking a step closer to Red. He wiped a smudge of blood off Red’s cheek with his thumb. “You good with that?”
Red hummed, a shy smile blooming on his lips. “On one condition.”
“Oh?” Frank said, amusement leaking through. He backed Red into the table, pressing himself against the man and chuckling at the little gasp that left his lips. “And what’s that?”
“Kiss me.” It was a demand, not a request, and oh boy Frank was in trouble.
“That I can do.”
Frank wasted no time, pulling Red’s body flush against him with one hand on his waist and the other cupping the back of his head. He leaned in and pressed their lips together, chastely at first, and then when Red whined in protest more forcefully. Red gave as good as he got, the kiss turning hungry as they both battled for dominance. Of course Red kissed like that, like he was putting his very being into it: violent and gentle, angry and affectionate, fighting and passionate. Frank felt warmth bloom in his stomach and goosebumps form on his skin at the desire he felt and Red’s response, and found himself wondering why the fuck they’d waited so long.
Frank hoped the date went well, hoped that it wasn’t just a short-lived affair and a spark without flame, but Frank knew in his heart this was it. Red was it for him, and there was no chance what they had would ever be tame – the spark was there, and it would turn into a raging inferno that would never be extinguished. Of that he was certain.