Archive of Our Own

Because the 17th precinct is a warm and welcoming place, each department organizes a friendly orientation for its newest members. For the last two years there have been no reported injuries.

At first, Brad and his best friend, Tony Espera, had the pleasure of scarring the rookies for life. But ever since the Homicide Department allowed Officer Ray Person in… Brad and Poke gladly passed on the orientation to him. They still come in to watch, out of some perverse fascination. Brad is a man of simple pleasures, he’s not afraid to admit that.

Person’s idea of orientation consists of a PowerPoint presentation, full of explicit pictures and crude Photoshop manipulations, a two hour long lecture and a Q&A session for those who have the stomach strong enough to survive the previous two points. If he’s in a particularly good mood, Brad tends to bet on who’s going to puke first and who’s not going to make it to the trash can. Like he said, simple pleasures.

Not to mention the so-called Puke Test is usually a good indicator and Brad likes to use it as an important part of his decision making process when it comes to picking up rookies he wants to work with. With one notable exception, Brad doesn’t work with those who fail the test. But Walt Hasser can make Person shut up and that’s a skill Brad values more than stomach for gore. Hasser’s a damn good Detective too, but that’s more of a bonus.

Brad still remembers Walt’s orientation. Hasser wasn’t even able to hold onto his breakfast for five minutes when, three slides into Ray’s presentation he leaped for the trash can. Brad gave him bonus points for style and good aim, even though he disqualified Walt for puking in the first place.

But then Walt made a sudden return to the rookies Brad wanted to work with when Ray stopped in the middle of his eloquent description of a crime scene, something that had never happened before, to ask Walt if he was okay. And then told him that the presentation wasn’t all that interesting and if Walt could get snacks for everybody.

Walt became Brad’s new rookie when Ray said ‘thank you’. Ray Person never thanked anyone, ever. Brad suspected he didn’t even thank the countless hookers he no doubt infected with all sorts of STDs. But there he was, thanking a rookie who puked his guts out in front everybody.

That complete novelty surprised Brad so much that it took him a moment to realize that that next part of the lecture was something new. On top of the blackboard Ray had written “Survival Guide to Homicide at 17th” and after underlining the title several times, he started to put up head shots, pining them to the blackboard with magnets. Fucking fruit magnets, like the ones Brad saw his niece playing with, when he visited on the weekend.

It was good to remember Ray Person was a mature member of the team. And if Brad tried and repeated that enough times, he would maybe sound convinced.

Brad glanced over at Poke, who was now sitting straighter, paying less attention to the rookies and more attention to what Person was doing. Brad could relate. This was new, this was unexpected. Brad wasn’t sure he wanted to know where this was going.

Especially since his picture was there as well.

“Alright, children,” Ray was saying. “You’ve been briefed on the joys of the crime scene and the importance of always refilling the coffee machine, when you use the last drop. Now we will discuss the people you’ll be working with, if you’re lucky enough.”

Luck had nothing to do with it, Brad knew. And half of the people in the room would ask for a transfer by the end of the month. Homicide didn’t like having new kids playing with their toys and pretending to be part of the cool club. Homicide wasn’t the cool club. Narcotics was the cool club. Homicide was the club that mocked the cool club, insulted the nerds (apart from CSIs) and bullied everybody else.

“First, we have our fearless leader, Lt. Schwetje,” Ray continued, clearly trying for a neutral tone and only slightly managing the not-completely-insulting tone instead. Schwetje, or Encino Man as everybody called him, was in charge of the Department only because he was good at the politics. Nobody liked him, very few people respected him. “Love and cherish your leader because you could get a worse one.” Brad doubted they could get a boss worse than Encino Man, but desperate men didn’t have the right to be picky. “Our fearless leader cannot be bought,” Ray assured the rookies and Brad had to bite his tongue not to comment ‘he knows that because he tried’.

“So the people you really want to suck up to are those three,” Person said and pointed at pictures of Brad, Poke and Pappy. “Detective Brad Colbert, also known as Iceman. The biggest motherfucker on the planet. You always want to be on his good side, because if he doesn’t like you, he will fuck you up so good you will not know what hit you. And you will be wishing to get killed in the line of duty so that you don’t have to come back here and take another day with Iceman’s wrath. Iceman is the top dog here, children, respect that and everything will be alright.”

“Detective Tony Espera. Poke to his friends. Let’s make it clear, you are not his friend. If you think you are, he will fuck you up. And then, because in assuming you’re his friend you insulted him, his best friend Iceman will also take offence. And you will be so completely fucked you will be sore and unable to sit for a year, that’s how fucked you will be.”

“And finally, Detective Shawn Patrick, whom we call Pappy. And because he’s not only a fine, fine detective, but also an incredibly generous man, you’re allowed to call him Pappy, as if you’re his friend. He will not fuck you up for assuming you’re on the same level of fucking awesomeness as he is. He will simply order you to crawl through fucking garbage to look for evidence, dive into a swamp and do all the dirty and disgusting things unimportant rookies like you all do, because they don’t fucking matter. Though, what you should remember is that if you don’t follow every order to the letter, Pappy will fuck you up to teach you not to fucking fuck up.”

Ray looked at all the rookies in the room, Brad could feel the satisfaction pouring off of Person from the back of the room where he and Poke were sitting. Person loved doing orientation.

“Did I tell you, how happy we’re here that you decided to honor us with your presence? We, at the warm and welcoming 17th precinct are very happy to have you all here, children,” he said with a devious smile. Brad could appreciate the subtle humor Person was displaying.

“Moving on to the other important people you’ll be working with!” Ray said and put up another set of photographs, and Brad could already tell he would not like it.

“Me! Officer Ray Person, but don’t pay any attention to the rank. It’ll say Detective pretty soon. And then, if you cross me, I will fuck you up. Not that I’m a mean son of a bitch who writes down every single fucker who crosses me so I can remember who to kill later on. I’m not that kind of a person, you know? But let’s be clear. I’m way higher than you rookies on the food chain. So fucking remember to be nice to your dear friend Ray.”

And with a wide smile he moved to another picture and Brad felt himself tense.

“This is Dr Nathaniel Fick, our resident ME. There are rumors we have other MEs available for cases, but since I haven’t met any yet, you can easily assume they are nasty rumors spread by our enemies in Narcotics. If you want to live your life in a relative peace and quiet, you should remember one rule and one rule only. Respect Dr Fick, be nice to him and never insult him behind his back. Or the Iceman will fuck you up.”

There must’ve been something in Brad’s expression that Ray caught, because after a quick glance in Brad’s direction Ray, as if nothing had occurred, continued.

“If you don’t respect Dr Fick and Poke hears you, he will fuck you up as well. And if you talk shit about Dr Fick behind his back, Pappy will fuck you up as well. Basically, you will be fucked beyond all recognition, so it’s in your best interest to worship the ground Dr Fick walks on.”

***

Brad meets Nate on a Tuesday. The weather’s shitty, Ray just won’t shut up and fucking Encino Man is on Brad’s case for insulting some liberal tree-hugging politician who wanted to treat Brad as his own personal bulletin board of “what did they discover during the ongoing investigation Brad isn’t allowed to talk about”.

So he’s standing over yet another dead body, waiting for an ME to show up, entertaining himself trying to come up with creative ways of killing Person without leaving any forensic evidence. When the coroner’s van finally, finally arrives at the scene Brad is almost bouncing with joy. Which translates into him relaxing slightly and allowing himself a half-smile.

“Finally,” he mutters and hits Ray on the shoulder. “Go help with the body bags or something. I want to move this in doors as soon as fucking possible.”

He means to walk away, to ask other uniforms, uniforms that aren’t Ray and are therefore doing actual job, how the witness statements are going, when he sees somebody exiting the van.

His first thoughts are that the ME sent an intern, which is fucking unprofessional, but those people spend their days in a fridge, talking to corpses, so Brad gives them a little leeway. There’s something off about the body language of the new arrival though. There’s confidence and no fear whatsoever. The kid lacks two most prominent qualities of an intern.

You could say Brad’s lost in his thoughts, trying to decide what the fuck, and Ray manages to bring the kid over before Brad can move away. He sees some morbid fascination on Ray’s face, Ray’s lips twitch. It’s obvious there’s something he wants to say, but is trying to stop himself. Well that’s a first. It does make Brad suspicious.

“I’m sorry you had to wait, Detective. It’s a busy day today,” the kid says. Fucking hell, he looks twelve. Brad doesn’t really know how to react, and wonders if throwing him out of the crime scene would make him sit through another of Encino Man’s lectures. “Nate Fick, I’m the new ME,” he introduces himself and Brad, trying to process the information, accepts the hand that’s offered.

“Brad Colbert,” he replies. And because he has a better filter than Ray, he stops himself from asking if Dr Fick was recruited out of kindergarten. He doesn’t like this, though. It’s like his life couldn’t be worse and in addition of handling the fucking weather that probably washed away half his evidence, fucking Person and his constant chatter, retard of a boss, he now has to babysit a rookie ME, clearly right out of fucking med school. Instead of concentrating on what’s important, which is solving the fucking murder.

It’s like the guy upstairs had it in for him.

***

Every once in a while, you’re blessed with a rookie like Walt Hasser. Nice, quiet, sure, he pukes on crime scenes, but only outside the tape and he tries to make up for this shortcoming by doing fucking great job following up on leads.

More often than not though, you get a young hotshot, who thinks that just because he passed the Detective exam and got assigned to the best Homicide department, he’s suddenly the king of the world. Brad hates rookies like that because something in his gut tells him rookies like that end up being the Encino Men of the world, making guys like Brad miserable.

Not to mention they usually think they are better than everybody else. They usually think they are better than Ray, the CSIs or Nate. Brad always makes sure to dissuade them of this notion. He tries to be creative while doing that. For some reason Encino Man doesn’t like it when Brad breaks new toys. Fucker. Especially since Brad doesn’t see anything wrong in explaining, in detail, why Dr Nathaniel Fick is worth three or even four rookies like Detective Garza.

After all, Brad’s here to teach Detective Garza how to be a good cop. And Brad wants to make sure fucking Garza remembers that ME is someone incredibly important for every detective on the job.

“Because, you see, Garza, the Medical Examiner is the person who lets you know what exactly killed your vic. And since this is Homicide Department and we actually investigate murders for a living, I’m sure you realize how important it is to fucking know the cause of death,” he calmly explains and watches, with certain satisfaction, as Garza moves back, trying to put some distance between Brad and himself. Oh, but Brad’s not done with him yet.

“But if you go around, calling the best ME in the city names and insulting his ability to do his job, you not only prove to everybody around that you’re a world class idiot, you also risk making said ME angry. And an angry ME isn’t as willing to push your fucking murder case to the front of his extremely busy schedule. An angry ME won’t send the report to you as soon as it’s ready, which might lead to one of your leads going cold and turning out to be completely fucking useless.”

Brad takes another step forward, forcing Garza to press himself against a wall. He watches as the rookie tries to make himself as small as possible. Brad’s reputation adds to Garza’s fears, and Brad imagines the fucker is just few steps from shitting himself in his pants.

He moves closer, allowing his size to intimidate the rookie even more.

“And while I don’t give a flying fuck,” he continues, “about the outcome of your fucking cases, I will not have a fucking rookie jeopardize my cases, or Poke’s cases, or, in fact, all the cases the Department is currently working on. I’m not going to risk making Dr Fick think that all the detectives he works with are just like you Garza. Pathetic retards who cannot see a valuable asset when it comes up and kicks them in the ass. Because if any of my cases suffer from your retardation, I will be very fucking angry with you. And do you know what will happen to you when I get angry? Have you paid attention during Person’s fucking orientation talk?”

He watches Garza swallow nervously. “You, uhm, you will fuck me up...”

Brad smiles, pleased with the answer he receives.

“And what are you gonna do to prevent that?”

“I’m... I’m going to be nice to Dr Fick?”

And who said rookies can’t learn. With a nod, Brad leaves Garza still shaking by the wall. Just to make sure the lesson is received loud and clear he’ll make sure to make Garza’s life a living hell for a week or two. He decides to get Poke and Ray in on this. Just because he can.

***

Despite what Ray Person might be telling rookies during the orientation, Brad Colbert is not the all powerful motherfucker and he doesn’t work every single case that comes across Schwetje’s desk. And it’s a good thing too, because there are only twenty four hours in a day and Brad still needs to sleep and eat. Despite the rumors Person spreads.

Sometimes there’s a case Brad isn’t a lead on, even though he’d really want to be. Like the murder of Marissa Headley, seven year old kid who was found in an alley, behind a fucking dumpster.

It’s a delicate case and their department is under a lot of scrutiny, their every move watched by the media and the mayor’s office. Encino Man has taken the case from Poke and he creates a task force to handle it. Fucking task force. A bunch of politics obsessed retards who think they can solve the case by looking at the poor girl’s picture while sitting in the conference room and sending out the uniforms to do the leg work.

Brad is sitting behind his desk, writing a fucking report, while he could be out there looking for the killer. He watches people go in and out of the conference room, he hears mentions of a press conference to calm down the masses, and he just can’t take it anymore.

He leaves the bullpen before he can hit one of his superior, effectively ruining his already non-existent career, and he goes to the one place he knows nobody will be looking for him.

The morgue.

He and the new ME, Fick, still hadn’t found the common ground. Brad just doesn’t know how to behave around a guy who looks like a fucking choir boy, and yet is relatively good at the difficult job that he has. But since there are rarely any people in the morgue, Brad feels like it’s this or a bar. And they would find him in a bar in a second.

“Detective Colbert, what brings you here?” Fick asks him the moment Brad enters the morgue. He feels the chill against his skin, a complete opposite of the hot and heavy air upstairs. It’s a relief, contrast, that’s what he needed, apparently. “Did you get a new case?” Fick asks and Brad looks away, trying to think of an excuse. Because Fick has every right to be confused. Why would Brad be here if he doesn’t have a new case?

“I just needed a change in scenery,” he shrugs. “All this task force bullshit in the bullpen is getting on my nerves.”

“So you came here,” it’s a statement, not a question. And even though Brad tries his best, he doesn’t hear even a hint of judgment in the ME’s voice. There’s nothing he can say to that though, so he just nods. Maybe the cool air of the morgue will help him calm down, and go back to ignoring the retardation that’s going on upstairs.

“Do you want something to drink, while you stay here? I was about to go into my office to deal with the paperwork.” It’s a perfectly polite question. Dr Fick doesn’t seem to mind the company, even if it’s Brad.

“What case are you working on?” Brad asks, following Fick into the office.

“You know I can’t discuss the cases with people who aren’t working on them,” Fick points out reasonably and moves to sit behind the desk.

“So it wouldn’t happen to be the little Headley’s case?” Brad’s tone is carefully casual. He’s a homicide detective, after all, nobody can blame him for asking questions.

Fick raises his eyebrow, but doesn’t respond. Which is an answer all on its own.

“What about... hypothetically?” Brad tries another approach. “Let’s say you’re writing a report on a hypothetical murder case of a seven year old. What would you put in it?”

“Hypothetically,” Fick looks at Brad and it’s quite obvious that he sees through Brad’s pathetic attempt to get information from him. But there’s an amused expression on Fick’s face, so Brad doesn’t consider this a lost cause yet. He shrugs instead, not saying anything, simply waiting for a reply.

“Hypothetically speaking, would you be working this... hypothetical case?”

“Maybe?” Brad grins, because they both know better. “But, in this hypothetical case you want to share the information with me. Because you know I can draw the necessary conclusions?”

“Ah, yes. Because you’re the Iceman.”

Once again, Brad doesn’t respond to that, just sits there, watching Fick. Waiting.

Finally, Fick smiles, a small amused smile.

“Hypothetically speaking, if I was to write a report on the victim, in the case you’re not working, I’d probably write that while the cause of death was definitely a blunt force trauma to the head, the victim had an unusual concentration of certain chemical substances in her blood.”

“Chemical substances?” Brad can’t help himself and asks. “What sort of chemical substances?”

“You’d learn that if you read the report. Hypothetically.”

Brad doesn’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed. Despite sharing some information with him, Fick still refused to give him full disclosure. The man was walking a fine line, but he walked it well.

“But... In that hypothetical case, I’d probably advise the lead detective, given, of course, he wouldn’t ignore my suggestion, to look into any or all purchases of Inderal in the last week, leading up to the victim’s death.”

Brad looks at the ME, trying to see through the schooled expression on the other man’s face. It’s as if Fick knew Encino Man was screwing up and decided to... Brad’s not entirely sure what Fick just did, other than give Brad the information that, apparently, if Brad understood it correctly, the lead detective on the case ignored.

He’d have to have Walt try and see where the fucking task force is with the investigation. Because if they are looking into the drug than he doesn’t have to do anything. But if they really ignored it... Somebody should push them gently, or kick, depending on Brad’s mood when he gets back to the bullpen, towards the right direction.

“I’m afraid, I need to go,” he says quietly, already planning the course of action he needs to take.

He sees Fick nod. “Of course,” he hears. “I’m sure there are things you have to do. Hypothetically.”

***

“Hey, Doc, you coming?” Ray yells across the bullpen. From where Brad’s standing, by the elevator, he can see surprise on Nate’s face. Usually, when they go out for drinks after a solved case, Nate isn't included in the invitation. True, the ME is rarely in the bullpen when the decision to go out is being made, and nobody really feels like going down to the morgue just to hear that he's busy. But that's not much of an excuse, isn't it?

So when Ray yells across the room, it's understandable Nate's surprised. Hell, Brad's surprised. Though now that he's faced with a possibility of Nate accompanying them to the bar... He's strangely okay with it.

“You really helped us on this one,” he says casually. “You should join us in the celebration.”

Fick still doesn't look convinced and suddenly Brad is trying to think of a way to control the damage. Maybe they did overstep some sort of a boundary and Nate doesn't really want to hang out with the loser cops after hours...

“Though, I'll understand if you pass on it. I know I would, if I could. Person's chatter is even more colorful once he has a few...” he keeps his tone light.

“Fuck you, Brad. I'm awesome, you love me.” Ray says punching Brad in the arm. Fuck, that's actually a painful one. “Come on, Doc. You're part of the team, time for us to get some blackmail material on you.”

Brad sees Fick raise his eyebrow and he knows they won. Or, rather, Ray won.

“In that case, how can I refuse?” There's a small smile on Nate's face.

“Please don't,” Brad says before he can think it through. “If you do, we will be stuck with Ray reliving his abandonment issues. And you do not want to deal with me after I've been subjected to Ray's rendition of 'All by Myself'.”

Nate laughs. He clearly thinks Brad's joking. Brad will be ready to say 'I told you so' by the end of the night.

“Just for the sake of your sanity, Detective. Let me just grab my jacket,” Nate says with a smile and starts towards the stairs.

Brad feels somebody push him towards the staircase as well. He turns to glare at Ray.

“Go! You gotta follow him, homes! Make sure he doesn't sneak out the back. The first round's on him!”

***

When you're a homicide detective and you're not fluent in politics, there's only one step up you can take. And it's to take the Sergeant exam. If passed, you get a bigger team, a bigger desk, a parking space and a better paycheck. Out of it all, the parking space is usually the biggest motivator.

Brad never actually tried taking the exam. He always figured it would only bring him more rookies to worry about and more paperwork to fill out. And there was only that much paperwork Hasser could manage.

Poke on the other hand; he dreams of taking the fucking exam and passing it, with flying colors. For him, it's a matter of status, better paycheck for the wife, and the bigger parking space for that soccer mom car he drives. And Brad will not even comment on a homicide detective who drives with a pink unicorn in the backseat.

There are just things you cannot unsee on this job.

Then again, Brad has to admire the persistence Poke shows. The man took the exam once before and failed by a fracture of a point. Even though he could quote the rule book in his sleep and was a nightmare to work with in the weeks prior to the exam.

Ray has a theory explaining why Poke failed that first exam. Brad knows about that particular insanity only because he overheard Person talking to another detective in the break room one morning.

Ray's theory is that Poke didn't actually fail the exam. In fact, he fucking aced it. But because Detective Espera is known to be the only senior detective in the precinct capable of working with the Iceman, the retards upstairs, in an unusual show of intelligence decided to keep Espera where he was no matter what. And since once he made Sergeant, Poke would be required to move up on the career ladder, maybe even reassigned to a more cozy job, it would leave Brad without a babysitter to control his tantrums.

Or something equally insulting along those lines.

Brad knows it's complete bullshit for two reasons. First, he doesn't need a babysitter and he doesn't have tantrums. If some tree-hugging Ivy League graduate decides that working Homicide is a good hobby while he lives off of his trust fund, then he deserves what he gets for the idiocy he's showing. Brad is simply less tolerant when it comes to retardation. And since Ray finds Brad's way of teaching people how to be better cops entertaining, Brad doesn't think he has the right to use that against Brad.

And second, Poke took that very exam after chasing every lead he could find on the serial rapist case the department was handling. It was a miracle the man hadn't fallen asleep during the exam.

Still, for some reason Person's theory is far more popular in the department. Brad works with a bunch of morons, clearly.

And what they think doesn't matter. Especially since Brad already has a contingency plan for the next exam date. And it's to have Poke fucking rested, well fed and not on any hot case.

That will show the fuckers.

***

Poke isn’t the only one doing his best to get a promotion. Person has a quest of his own. And that’s exactly what it is. A fucking, never-ending quest. What Officer Ray Person wants, and mentions at every possible moment to everybody who listens (and to those who aren’t listening at all), is to become a detective.

But for him, it not about the status, or the raise. It’s not even about the parking space. Ray Person wants minions. He wants rookies to humiliate and uniforms to order around.

Just like Brad, Ray is a man of simple pleasures.

Or at least that’s what Brad prefers to think, if he’s forced to think of that aspect of Person’s life at all. When it comes to wondering about Ray’s priorities and pleasures, Brad refuses to think what perverted, drug induced things Person indulges in.

And now Brad will have to bleach his brain, rendering himself a vegetable. At this very moment, he wouldn’t mind though.

Especially since Brad has been there every step of the way. Brad has been there when Ray learned he has to have 60 units of college credits. And he’s been there when Ray gleefully picked his curriculum to include women’s studies, creative writing and homosexuality in modern literature.

Brad was also unfortunate enough to be in close proximity when Ray was informed he has to take subjects like criminal justice, forensic psychology and others Ray deemed to be useless, since he “learned everything in the field and doesn’t need some liberal mother fucking retard who would no doubt barf his guts out the moment he stepped on a crime scene, no offense Walt, to tell him how to do his job.”

In all honesty Brad has to admit that Ray is a persistent motherfucker. Once he was told what sort of credit the department would recognize he bravely attended all evening classes in all the subjects he hated. Though he refused to give up some of his electives.

And despite his constant narrative that’s more insults than descriptions, Brad sees Ray sitting around the bullpen, when he thinks nobody’s watching and reading some bullshit books that probably feed him some ridiculous ideas. But becoming a detective is a quest for Ray. Brad can understand wanting something, or someone, so bad you dedicate most of your waking hours to getting it. That why when he insults Ray, his lineage and everything he is, Brad never insults Ray’s attempts to become a detective.

After all, apart from being incredibly annoying, Ray knows what he’s doing. He would probably make a very good detective. Not that Brad is going to tell him that. Not now. He’d never hear the end of it.

***

“You’re an incompetent idiot, Person! And I will make sure you never make detective, even if it’s the last thing I fucking do!”

Brad looks up from the crime scene photos when he hears Encino Man storm into the bullpen. He’s well versed in insulting Ray Person, but it never went beyond insults directed at Ray’s personality, his inability to shut up and his mother’s sexual adventures with a postman. Nobody ever had to correct Person’s actions or choices when it came to their job. Brad still wasn’t sure how Ray managed it, but he was always professional and fucking efficient. Once you tuned out the constant chatter.

So when Encino Man decides to inform Person, and the rest of the department while he’s at it, that he’s incompetent, Brad starts to pay attention. Because even though Ray’s not working Brad’s crime scene, there’s no way in hell that he fucked up.

“I didn’t do anything!” He sees Ray, genuine surprise written all over his face.

“Exactly!” Schwetje waves a folder in front of Ray’s face. “You didn’t do anything and now I’m getting a report from the lab saying half of the fucking samples are useless because someone allowed them to get contaminated! If you’re handling the evidence Person, you fucking handle it right!”

There’s silence and Brad can understand why. Contamination of evidence is the worst thing that can happen. It can be the difference between getting the right lead and putting some motherfucker behind bars where he belongs and the case going cold, or worse, the evidence being inadmissible in court.

Brad watches as Ray blinks, the seriousness of the accusation getting to him. Good for him, because Brad still can’t believe Person fucked up so badly to leave the evidence contaminated.

For the first time since Brad met him, Ray’s speechless.

He’s about to stand up and walk over, maybe not to defend Ray, he can’t do that properly when he doesn’t know all the facts, and that sucks hairy balls. But at least he can offer some useless moral support. Ray’s fluent in his Iceman persona, so he might be able to see that Brad refuses to think Person fucked up. That’s something, right?

Before he can get out of his chair, the elevator doors open with a ping and Doctor Nathaniel Fick walks right into what’s probably becoming an execution squad. For a second, Brad feels sorry for the guy. He hasn’t even been here two months and now he’s going to get yelled at for nothing. Encino Man’s famous for defusing his anger using anyone that has a bad timing and crosses his path. And judging by the glare Schwetje directs at their ME, Fick is about to receive some reprimand as well.

The poor guy’s oblivious though, and Brad just can’t look away, waiting for another confrontation. Some perverse part of him wondering how the serious and always composed man would handle a moron like Schwetje.

What happens next though... He didn’t see that one coming.

Fick looks up from a file and sees Ray standing almost in front of him.

“Officer Person,” he smiles pleased. “Just the man I was looking for. I have the autopsy report, if you could pass it to Detective Patrick. Unfortunately some of the evidence on the victim’s back have been contaminated, so I’m afraid you gentlemen will have to improvise.”

“Con-- Contaminated?” Fick might not know Ray all that too well, but from the slight frown, Brad can tell that the man notices something’s wrong.

“Yes. The ground has been contaminated. The entire back of the victim has been covered in some sort of alkali. I’ve sent the sample to the forensics, hopefully they will be able to determine what kind. They told me about the rest of the evidence. Frankly, it’s a miracle you’ve been able to collect anything of use. Good job,” he finishes and as if he didn’t see the stunned expressions on everyone’s faces, he hands Ray the report and turns to leave.

When he does, he notices Brad and smiles again.

“Ah, Detective Colbert. You might want to ride with me to the morgue. Your partner was overseeing the autopsy, but he felt ill. Nothing serious, I checked, but I told him to get some rest, there’s currently a flu outbreak, and you never know...”

***

Brad is considered one scary motherfucker by his coworkers. While he should, in fact, be considered a fucking saint. He puts up with Ray Person on a daily basis. He is subjected to rookie idiocy too often for it to be healthy. And he doesn’t shoot Encino Man in the head every time that retard opens his mouth to spout some bullshit designed to cover the enormous retardation he thinks will further his already pathetic attempt at a career in the law enforcement.

Yeah, Brad should receive his all-paid stay in heaven with a backstage pass to the seventy two virgins’ saloon any time soon. It was either stuck in the mail or fucking Person stole it.

And he could really use it right now. But since he doesn’t have it, he’s still standing in the bullpen, with no place to run, listening to Schwetje’s lecturing him on how to do his fucking job.

“...and Brad, I understand you’re very... passionate about your cases. But it’s a delicate balance you must remember. You cannot treat the members of the City Council with disrespect and insults. I’d expect it from Person, but you’re a detective, Brad. You need to make sure your actions don’t damage this department. Especially not over something equally as insignificant.”

Brad feels a single muscle in his face twitch as he tries to keep his Iceman mask intact. It’s incredibly difficult, when facing incompetence.

“Sir,” he starts almost through his teeth, “with all due respect...”

He isn’t even allowed to finish. Encino Man puts his hand on Brad’s arm in that infuriating, patronizing manner.

“I know you feel very territorial about your cases, Brad. It’s only natural. But it would be best for everybody if you just let this one go.”

Something cracks inside Brad. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, trying to calm down but it’s not working. There’s a brief thought at the back of his mind that he should just walk away, maybe go down to the morgue, vent, and listen as Nate tells him going against your boss in such a hermetic society as law enforcement is not a wise move.

Brad realizes that’s true. But he also knows that if he backs away now, he’ll hate himself and one day he’ll just shoot himself in the head instead of going to work.

“No,” he says quietly and waits until Schwetje’s half of brain processes the information.

“What?”

Brad takes another breath and wills his hands not to curl into fists.

“No,” he repeats, his tone calm and showing only the little part of the disgust he’s currently feeling. “I will not back off. If the evidence points towards someone, I will investigate that lead because it’s my fucking job. And I will treat it with the same amount of attention if the lead point to a homeless fuck and if it makes a suspect out of a damn councilman... I won’t ignore leads provided by the evidence, because, frankly, it’s fucking unprofessional and can lead to a murderer getting loose.”

He sees Encino Man opening his mouth to protest or call him on the fucking crude language his using when talking to his fucking superiors. Fuck if Brad is going to let him.

“And you would fucking know that if your head wasn’t so far up the City Council’s ass, you could tell what they had for breakfast.”

There might be some hostility showing in Brad’s tone.

***

Fucking FBI. Brad hates the fucking fucks. You spend all this time working a case and then, because you didn’t pay enough attention, you raise a fucking flag in their almighty system and suddenly a bunch of suits arrive, set up shop in your conference room and they politely inform you that you can go and fuck yourself.

Unless, of course, you’d like to observe how the real professionals do it, then you’re welcome to stick around and act like a useless piece of crap they think you are.

Fucking FBI.

Brad really hates it when he has to give up his case because the fucking suspect had to cross state’s lines. The worst thing is that he can’t even talk his way back into the loop. Special Agent Eckloff doesn’t take shit from anyone, unless it’s the shit he wants to hear.

Unfortunately Brad is incapable of sucking it up to authority, so he can just stand there near the yellow tape and try not to get violent. He really fucking hates the Feds. He hates them even more now, as they take over the case, his case, treat the victim like she’s just a prop. They even fucking usurp their right to his damn ME.

“... and I can’t give you any answers without an autopsy. That would be guessing and I don’t guess, Agent Eckloff,” Brad listens as Nate explains to the fucking Fed how he works as they both follow the body to the Medical Examiner’s van. “I draw conclusions from facts, even though, technically, that’s your job, not mine.”

Eckloff grabs Nate’s arm to get his full attention, Brad doesn’t even notice when he starts walking towards the two of them.

“Doctor Fick, I don’t think you realize how serious the situation is.”

“What’s going on here?” Brad asks when he reaches them. “I think you should let him go, Eckloff, and maybe allow him to do his job?” He’s fucking respectful, that’s what he is. The fucker is still standing instead of crawling on the ground, trying to pick up all his teeth.

He watches as the Fed narrows his eyes and glares at him. But he notes with a certain amount of satisfaction that he lets go of Nate.

“Rein in your detective, doctor... And I’ll need that report ASAP, we might be running out of time.”

With that, he walks away to his black SUV, probably to go pretend he’s in charge. Then again, it pains Brad to admit it, Eckloff might have the jurisdiction on this one. Fucking FBI.

He keeps glaring at the man’s back until he feels a gentle touch on his shoulder. He turns to Nate.

“It’s not worth it Brad. Just let it go.”

“Fucker,” is all he can say to that, though the anger and irritation are slowly disappearing now.

“He’ll leave once the case is solved. So why don’t we do all we can to help him?”

Brad shrugs and doesn’t feel like a petulant child at all.

***

“Where the fuck is Nate?” Brad doesn’t direct this question at anyone in particular, but he hopes that the tone indicated firmly that he’s expecting an answer.

Sure, he likes to have the same team working every case. It’s not that he’s resistant to change or unwilling to adjust to a new environment. He can be fucking flexible if needs be. And at the same time he realizes that Nate is fucking brilliant and considered the best ME around.

Brad doesn’t expect Nate to work every single crime scene Brad has. There have been some bad timing issues in the past and Brad can understand that if Nate was called to a crime scene five minutes before a call comes in about Brad’s case, Nate can’t just turn around and change his mind as to which crime scene he wants to work. There should never be any preferential treatment.

So if a nameless, faceless someone from the ME’s office shows up with a van, they are allowed to process the body on the scene and transport it to the morgue for the autopsy.

But even if someone else shows up on the crime scene Nate always does the autopsy and Brad gets his reports as soon as humanly possible. Which, in Nate’s case, is really fucking fast.

This time, it’s different though.

Not-Nate shows up at a scene and Brad’s okay with it. Poke has a mob hit on the other side of town, Brad can understand how that takes priority over Brad’s dead junkie.

Not-Nate does what Nate usually does, only less professionally and with much more irritation towards Ray. More or less understandable, because even though Ray’s behavior appears to be rather tame this evening, different people have different tolerance levels.

And finally, Not-Nate, after giving up on the fucking small talk, takes the vic to the morgue.

Brad proceeds with the investigation, sending Ray to annoy passers-by canvas the area, telling Walt to interview the witnesses. It does take another two or three hours. So when he’s back at the precinct, he does what he always does. He goes down to the morgue to ask Nate when he can do the autopsy, only to find some fucking Not-Nate getting ready to open up Brad’s fucking corpse, two other people pretending to be busy standing around and no fucking Nate in sight.

Which brings Brad to the question he asks loudly.

“Where the fuck is Nate?”

Not-Nate looks up from the body with a confused expression. Which only proves to Brad he’s fucking incompetent and should not handle Brad’s dead junkie.

“Who?”

“Nate? Fick? The fucking ME that should be doing the autopsy?”

“Oh,” you bet, fucking oh, where the fuck is Fick? Fortunately Not-Nate quickly proceeds to provide the fucking explanation. “Dr Fick is busy with the mob hits case? Detective Espera needed his expertise on the second and third apparent crime scenes. Dr Fick went to look at the bodies and determine, tentatively of course, whether or not the murders are indeed linked.”

“How long does that going to take?” Brad asks. Just in case. Because it might turn out that Nate will be back really fucking soon and Brad can tell Not-Nate to wait with the fucking autopsy until Nate’s back.

“I’m not entirely sure, but Dr Fick told me to take over any cases that might get called in.”

A minion. The guy is not only Not-Nate, but he’s also a fucking minion. How can Brad trust a minion with his case?

Wait, what?

“Since when does Nate have minions?” he asks, slightly confused by the new information.

The minion seems offended for some reason. Fuck him.

“I believe the term is assistant. And if I’m not mistaken, Dr Fick always had assistants. It comes with being the Medical Examiner?”

That leaves Brad with not much space to maneuver. He really wants to call Nate on his cell to tell him what he thinks about the minion he left behind. But that would be unprofessional. And it’s not like Brad considers Nate exclusively his. Or that he doesn’t share well.

“Go on then. I don’t have the entire day to watch you play with the corpse,” he says and tries not to think how he’d rather his victim was someone important. Because every murder deserves his full attention.

But...

***

Fine. Fine. Brad doesn't share well. If you listen to what Ray says, he also doesn't play well with other kids. Well, it's a fucking understatement of the year, especially since most of those “other kids” are incompetent fucktards who just think they deserve the attention and praise because they fucking do what they are being paid for. A new concept: actually doing your job instead of fucking around.

So if Brad has to share... resources with other hard working detectives, he can deal. But when he has to watch... resources being wasted by fucking retards like Encino Man or, God forbid, Feds, Brad...

“What the fuck was the Fed doing here?” he asks suspiciously.

Nate looks up from the files he’s been reading, his expression confused for the first few seconds. Brad can see Nate’s brain making the connection between Brad’s question and the Fed that just left. Though, for anybody but Brad, Nate’s face usually remains unreadable.

“Agent Masterson? Oh. He just brought me a case to consult on. Don’t worry, Brad, they aren’t taking over any of your open cases,” Nate smiles gently as he says it.

Just because Brad doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to dealing with the FBI, doesn’t mean he’s going to be punching every agent that shows up at the precinct.

Even if he really wants to. He has some fucking self-control left.

“What case?” He asks casually. It’s not a crime to ask.

Nate raises his eyebrow.

“I can’t tell you, Brad. You know that.”

Maybe. On an intellectual level, Brad might be aware of those stupid rules where Nate can’t share details of cases that aren’t Brad’s with him. But it has never been a problem.

Not that Nate always answered all Brad’s questions, when Brad so clearly was poking around somebody else’s business. There were moments when Nate just ignored the question or raised his eyebrow. He just never outright refused to share the details. It automatically makes Brad think there was something different about this particular case.

He shrugs, because what else can he fucking do? So he’s going to pretend like it doesn’t bother him. He’s fucking Iceman after all. He can pull of something as minor as pretending he doesn’t give a fuck Nate’s keeping things from him.

Nate doesn’t buy the Iceman routine.

He closes the folder he’s been reading and turns his attention completely to Brad. And he waits. Fucker.

“Why is FBI sending cases to you? Don’t they have basements full of their own specialists?”

“I worked the original case. And I’m still listed as FBI consultant.”

Brad didn’t know that. The shock must’ve shown on his face because Nate’s raising his eyebrow, as if challenging Brad to say something. Which Brad would. If he knew what to say.

His hatred for the FBI wasn’t a secret. Not that it meant anything. His personal opinion wasn’t gospel and people, Nate, were completely entitled to ignore it. Brad didn't care.

„It bothers you,” and it's not a question either. Brad hates the fact that in just six months Nate learned how to read Brad that well. It took Ray at least three years...

Brad could lie and say that no, he's okay with Nate fraternizing with the enemy.

He shrugs again. Because it doesn’t bother him.

“It bothers you,” Nate’s tone sounds differently the second time he says it. The tone is lighter and there’s a small smile playing at the edges of Nate’s lips.

Fucker’s pleased. Or amused. Either way Brad wants to roll his eyes and leave.

“On the risk of sounding hostile, I'd rather slit my wrists than stay in a close proximity to a Fed.”

“Didn't sound hostile to me at all.”

At that Brad really does roll his eyes. He can’t help himself.

***

Nate has a pet tortoise that is a huge ass motherfucker. He calls it Aristotle and feeds it lettuce. How can anything grow to become a huge unmovable monster while on a grass diet is beyond Brad. But the fact remains.

Nate has a pet tortoise he calls Aristotle.

Brad knows this because he’s been to Nate’s before. But the rest of their slightly dysfunctional team, isn’t prepared for what’s coming.

Sure, everybody’s pretty excited once they talk Nate into hosting their Poker Night at his place. Mostly because Medical Examiners ought to earn more than your average Homicide Detective. Not to mention lack of wife, children and pets that could distract them from the game.

No pets, except for the huge ass turtle on the kitchen floor.

“Holy fuck! Doc! The huge ass rock in your kitchen is moving!” Brad is pretty sure he’s never seen Ray as fascinated as he is right now.

“It’s a tortoise, Ray,” Nate says without even looking away from setting the table for their game.

“You have a pet turtle? You sure like ‘em big, Doc,” Ray says, clearly very proud of the double entendre he made. Brad rolls his eyes. He will have to have a talk about dirty jokes in front of people they want to stay around longer than usual.

“It’s a tortoise,” once again, Brad is admiring Nate’s patience. “His name’s Aristotle, and honestly. When I got him he wasn’t bigger than a five year old’s fist.”

Nothing can prepare Brad for what happens next.

Ray crouches on his knees and starts petting the shell.

“Who’s a big Tootsie? You’re a big Tootsie! Yes, you are! Yes, you are!”

Ray’s baby talking to a fucking tortoise joins Poke’s pink unicorn on the list of things Brad would love to unsee.

***

Brad and Nate aren’t talking. Or, if you want to be fucking specific, they aren’t talking about things not connected to work. And even then, it’s strictly a question and answer deal, no additional opinions.

It all sucks hairy balls, but it’s not a big deal. Brad’s not some fucking pussy who needs Nate fucking Fick to pass notes with him during fucking recess.

Ray notices though.

“Homes, what the fuck did you do?” he asks after he went to the morgue to get the autopsy report on Brad’s victim. “Doc was so fucking nice and polite you’d think I was some fucking retard from Narcotics! I thought he’s going to throw me into the dead people fridge!”

“Person, I don’t fucking care if Fick lost his patience with you. Frankly, I’m surprised he lasted that long. Now go do some fucking work. There’s a homicidal maniac out there and I swear to God, if you don’t make yourself useful I will turn into one myself.”

Ray leaves after that. Thank fuck. And Brad goes back to staring at the crime scene photos, because he’s fucking missing something. He reaches for his phone and stops himself in the middle of the gesture, leaving his hand hovering mid-air before he puts it back on the desk.

He’s not going to call Nate. He can’t. He doesn’t need any additional input, he has a bunch of fucking homicide detectives working in the same space.

He asks Hasser to look at the photos since Brad’s obviously missing something. Walt seems confused by the request but in the end he does his fucking job and they get a new lead.

The case quickly gets heated and Brad doesn’t have to think about the clusterfuck back at the precinct, where he can hear everybody whispering behind his back like it’s fucking junior high. He and Fick were never attached at the hip and yet after those few days everybody seems to think it’s the fucking end of the world.

And they all think it’s Brad’s fucking fault.

“Seriously, dog, you know you can talk to me, right?”

Brad has a bad feeling the moment Poke sits down in Hasser’s chair opposite Brad and the other man doesn’t fucking disappoint.

For a moment, Brad doesn’t say anything, but Poke doesn’t give up and sits there with a supporting fucking face.

“Poke... I don’t think you want to continue,” Brad says, and even though his tone is calm he knows his friend hears the clear warning.

Poke appears to be considering his options, but fortunately for Brad, he decides to stand up and leave Brad the fuck alone. But not before patting Brad on the shoulder and saying that “no matter how bad it is, Brad sure can fix it.”

It takes several deep breaths for Brad to calm down. He can’t go after Poke, Gina would rip his balls off if he made her a widow.

Moments like this he really fucking misses working on his bike. Shutting himself up in the garage, without anyone walking past him, throwing him those fucking annoying glances, trying to cheer him up.

He doesn’t need cheering up. He needs...

No, he doesn’t need to fix this, fuck you very much. It’s not his fucking fault. And yes, he will fucking sound like a fucking five year old if he fucking wants to.

He slams the folder he’s been reading onto the desk and ignores all the heads that turn in his direction.

***

They’re at a crime scene, watching Nate doing some preliminary tests before moving the body to the morgue. But it’s one of those days when Brad doesn’t particularly mind standing around and waiting. He can’t really explain why he’s in such a good mood, but he doesn’t mind that either.

He successfully managed to tune out Person before sending him off to find Brad some witnesses. Hasser’s home with stomach flu, this time a real fucking virus. Not to mention that Encino Man’s on vacation and Brad can finally do his job without any retards sticking their noses in his cases.

“So? What’s the verdict, Doc?” He asks casually. “Is he dead?”

“Ray’s questionable sense of humor is rubbing off on you, Detective. I’d be careful there,” comes a quick reply and Brad can hear a smile in Nate’s voice.

“Alright,” he decides to give him this one. “What’s the COD?”

Nate stops what he’s doing and looks up.

“That would be guessing.”

And everybody knows Doctor Nathaniel Fick doesn’t guess. He draws conclusions based on facts, gathered through observation and evidence.

Brad can feel a grin forming on his face.

“I won’t tell...”

Nate laughs at that and Brad’s day improves even more.

***

The biggest problem with Ray Person is that he doesn’t fucking think about what he’s talking about. At times, it seems he’s just spouting random shit for the sake of talking. And of course, apart from insulting everybody around him, especially his superiors, Ray’s favorite topic is sex. Since he’s not having any, despite what he might be saying, Brad knows better. No one in their right mind would touch Person’s dick, unless he was paying them.

Person’s favorite conversation starter?

“And? Did you tap that?”

It doesn’t matter whether or not you were on an actual date. It doesn’t matter if you tell Ray over and over again to stop asking because it’s not his fucking business (which he always interprets as ‘yes’ and demands details).

Once Ray Person decides you were having sex the night before, you either provide him with a satisfactory answer or try to learn patience because he just. won’t. stop. asking.

As a defense mechanism, almost everybody in the department developed their own set of answers they provide every time Person asks the fucking question.

“Not your fucking business, Ray,” says Walt, but the blush on his face (or lack of it) is the answer enough.

“Your mother sends her regards,” says Pappy, and he smiles every time Person throws back an insult.

Poke isn’t even asked the question. When Brad inquires about that obvious injustice, Poke explains that according to Person, married people don’t have sex. It poses some interesting possibilities as to where Poke’s daughters came from, but Brad’s too sober to give that topic up for discussion.

When Ray asks Brad if he “tapped that”, Brad likes to change his answers. To keep the boredom away and to keep Person on his toes. So sometimes, he talks about the blonde bombshell from Trace, that Ray’s been drooling after. Another time it’s a three-way with Brad’s neighbors, two lovely twins from Chicago. And sometimes it’s a one night stand.

The details don’t matter. Ray and Brad both know it’s mostly bullshit, because if Brad’s not working he’s usually too fucking tired to go out and bother with niceties to pick up some ass that will start talking about picking up china patterns the next morning.

It’s Nate’s answers though that both worry and fascinate Brad. It’s largely due to the fact that when Ray’s asking his retarded question, Nate’s usually preoccupied with the body he’s examining. And judging by the distracted tone of voice and the fact that Nate doesn’t stop processing the body even for a second, all of Nate’s answers are true.

And even though he will deny this, Brad’s carefully cataloguing all of them.

“No, she had a lecture in the morning. Judging from the lacerations, you’re probably looking for a blade smaller than your average kitchen knife. I’ll confirm that during the autopsy”

“Unfortunately we didn’t have much in common and we decided to part ways. Can you hold the flashlight for me?”

“I’m on call today and tomorrow, so I decided to stay in... Okay, we’re done here. I’ll know more once I do the autopsy.”

“He had a plane to catch so we just had dinner... What is this? Huh. You might want to check if the victim or any of her associates had cats, I’ll send this one to the lab.”

“I was called in to a crime scene, Officer Person. Can’t be in two places at once. What do we have?”

“Help me move the body. It was a blind date and he didn’t meet my expectations, no harm done, really. It’s a through and through, you should have someone look for the bullet.”

“She had a bad reaction to the ravioli, it didn’t end the way we hoped it would; I can’t see any obvious wounds, so the blood might belong to the perp. Make sure the techs take samples.”

Brad doesn’t think Nate notices what he’s doing. Hell, at first Brad thought Nate was mixing the pronouns to fuck with Ray. And it would definitely work as for the first two or three times when Nate suggested his date the previous night was a man, Ray just stood there with his mouth open, unable to say anything.

But Nate never acknowledged he said something different. He never stopped to look up and grin at the well executed joke. And after some time Ray stopped even reacting.

Brad’s pretty sure nobody on Brad’s team notices anymore that Nate’s mixing pronouns when talking about his love life.

Not that Brad minds. He doesn’t. He’s just concerned. PD is not the military, you don’t have to hide it if you bat for the other team, or both, or neither. But like in any other job, there are bunch of idiots on the force too. With the major difference being idiots in the department carried guns. And while Brad’s pretty sure his rep alone can protect anyone on his team, he doesn’t want to tempt the fate when it comes to Nate.

He’s too good of an ME to lose over something so stupid.

***

“Alright, homes. Here’s the plan. We go on three. Poke and Iceman in front, cutting those junkies away from the snitch. We’ll do the faint, Pappy will go right, distracting those still alive after Poke and Iceman finish with them from the real plan. In the meantime Walt will sneak past their defenses on the left and go for the gold. And Doc? This is fucking crucial, so pay attention. Do not, I repeat, donot give away our plan by cheering for Walt. If you don’t think you can do it, just keep your eyes glued to the Iceman. People will think it’s business as usual.”

Brad raises his eyebrow at that last bit. He’s about to say something, possibly something involving Ray’s doubtful sexual skills, but Poke interrupts him.

“I don’t think I like this plan. First of all, you wouldn’t be able to pull off a fucking faint if your life depended on it. And second... Why do all your plans involve me, getting on the first line? What the fuck am I? Cannon fodder? Just because your white ass would be wiped from the face of the Earth in the first three seconds, doesn’t mean I have to risk it. Why the fuck do I have to be on the first line?”

“Because you’re one big scary motherfucker! That’s why!”

“I might have an alternative plan,” Brad speaks up, having a moment of pure genius. “We could just shoot them all.”

From their faces he can see they’re considering it.

“Brad, you can’t shoot them,” Nate of course spoils the fun. “It’s a friendly competition.”

“I don’t know, dog. Iceman’s plan sounds really appealing. I could get behind that.”

“We could borrow an AK from Organized Crime...”

“See, Person? Now you’re thinking.”

“You can’t borrow an AK from Organized Crime.”

Everybody, including Brad, glares at Nate.

“Honestly Doc, there’s helpful insight and there’s walking all over my awesome plans. But fine. Tell us. Why can’t we borrow an AK from Organized Crime? Because it would be wrong to shoot those retards from Narcotics?”

“Because they have inventory this week and they can’t afford to just lend you guns from their armory.”

“Oh,” Person’s clearly disappointed. Fucking retard likes big guns. It’s probably overcompensating for his miniature dick, Brad’s sure of it.

“And you don’t really need guns to win this. Their right linebacker is favoring his left side. Probably a dislocated shoulder that’s still healing. If you go right instead of left, you should score a touchdown.”

Brad grins at that.

“I thought you didn’t know how to play football,” he says and watches Nate grin.

“I said I didn’t play football, not that I didn’t know how.”

Brad laughs at that. Fair point.

“Alright gents. We’re doing Nate’s play and let’s wipe the ground with those fuckers.”

“Nate’s play? Nate’s play? I fucking come up with it and share it with everybody, Doc changes a minor fucking detail and suddenly it’s Nate’s play? Fuck you, Brad!”

“Shut the fuck up, Ray.”

***

The table Brad is sitting on is fucking cold and he can feel it even through several layers of clothing. He’s pretty sure that not so long ago there was a dead body lying on that very same table. That does not inspire confidence, but Brad’s a tough motherfucker, he’s not about to allow a minor detail to freak him the fuck out.

But that trail of thought does distract him for a second and he forgets his control, when Nate jabs a huge ass needle into his arm. Brad hisses at the sudden pain and grimaces slightly, before he schools down his expression again.

“I thought you had a degree in medicine...” he says to Nate, accusation barely present in his voice, but he knows Nate heard it clearly.

“I do. But if you remember, most of my patients are already dead when I start on them, and they don’t usually move when I’m stitching them up. You are, of course, welcome to take your gunshot wound to a hospital.”

Brad has some survival instinct left in him, so he doesn’t smirk and ask if he hurt Nate’s feeling by questioning his abilities as a doctor.

“It’s just a scratch,” Brad says dismissively. “Besides, you know I fucking hate hospitals.”

Nate pushes the needle too hard, causing Brad to grimace because of the pain, and Brad’s pretty sure the fucker did that on purpose.

“I have a radical idea on how you can avoid hospitals,” he says. “How about not getting shot?”

There’s something in Nate’s voice that makes Brad frown for a second. By now, Brad knows how to read Nate’s moods from his inflection. He can read five variations of amusement, depending what’s the reason behind it and exactly how amused Nate is. He knows irritation and both types of frustration: the one Nate tries to hide and the one he doesn’t shy from expressing. There’s also satisfaction and joy. Brad can also tell whenever Nate’s pleased with himself.

What he hears now is a confusing mix between irritation and frustration. Only, because it’s Nate, the emotions are barely there, hidden under calm and composed. Brad can still hear it though. It takes him a moment to realize that what he’s hearing is in fact anger.

“I don’t exactly do it on purpose...” he tries to defend himself. Because that’s the truth. He’s just doing his fucking job, not his fault some suspects have guns and are slightly too trigger happy for Brad’s liking.

“You could’ve fooled me,” he hears a muttered reply, and with a sudden clarity he understands. Nate’s worried.

He watches Nate concentrate on making sure the stitches are even. He waits for Nate to finish, so that he can look up and Brad can have a final confirmation.

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking though. That he’ll try not to get shot again, if that will make Nate feel better. Because despite what his friends might be saying, Nate Fick doesn’t own Brad’s soul just yet.
***
It might not be healthy, but Brad believes in a routine when it comes to processing the crime scene. First responders seal the scene, separate witnesses and possible suspects, make sure the scene is secure, and they call it in. Then dispatch calls Brad and the ME’s office with a short information of where, what, and who.

By some fucked up twist of fate, the homicide detective always arrives first on the scene. In Brad’s case it’s mostly because Nate’s assistant is a pussy and doesn’t know how to drive aggressively.

After arriving on the scene, Brad sends Walt to talk to the witnesses and determine whether or not the suspects should be sent to the precinct for further interrogation. He sends the uniforms to search the area and he tries to get the feel of the crime scene while not getting in the way of the CSIs.

It usually takes Nate about twenty minutes to show up on the scene to investigate the body. Brad usually spends some time just standing around, in case Nate finds something on the body, or in case he feels like guessing about the Cause of Death. Or just to talk for a moment or two. Depending on Brad’s mood and how annoying the people he has to work with appear.

But after a few moments of personal chat, Brad always goes back to doing his job. Which means looking around the crime scene, checking out other rooms, build-in closets, basements, garages. It also means sending the newest rookie to go through the garbage, but that’s more of an entertainment, if Brad’s completely honest.

But yes, Brad has a routine when it comes to working the crime scene, and his current one is no different.

He arrives before Nate and sends Walt to talk to the witnesses. He’s feeling generous so he tells Walt to go back to the precinct once he’s done with interviews. No need for his partner to puke his guts out, not when they have a rookie to provide the entertainment.

Nate shows up and they spend ten minutes talking over the body. After Nate refuses to speculate about the cause of death, as usual, they cover the usual grounds: time of death, defensive wounds, then a short break when Ray asks Nate if he “tapped that”, then back to the evidence present on the body and whether or not Nate has times for drinks the next day.

He has.

After getting all the information, Brad and the rookie of the week wander off to familiarize themselves with the rest of the crime scene. And because this just can’t be an easy case, they find another body in the bathtub. Because it would be too much to ask for the fucking first uniform on the fucking scene to do a proper job and check out the entire scene for useful things, like the second fucking body in the fucking bathtub.

Brad spends the next several seconds swearing under his breath, while the rookie hovers behind his back, clearly unsure of what to do now.

“Stop fucking hovering,” Brad snaps once he’s done with his litany of swearwords. “Go get Nate.”

The rookie just stands there like a fucking retard, which doesn’t help with Brad’s growing irritation.

“Do you need directions back to the living room? Go!”

The rookie retreats quickly and it’s a fucking miracle he doesn’t trip on anything.

Brad turns his attention back to the body and the surroundings looking for clues that might give him some idea of what he’s dealing with.

“You know, you might want to be more specific next time, when you send a rookie to ‘go, get Nate’,” comes from the door and Brad doesn’t even turn around. Just moves to the side, to give Nate access to the body.

“If the idiot needs more specific instructions he should reconsider going back to the fucking Academy,” he shrugs, because how difficult can it be to fetch the Medical Examiner.

The corner of Nate’s mouth twitches, as the ME tries to hide a smile.

“He would probably find it helpful, if you specified which Nate you’re talking about. He spent fifteen seconds just standing in the middle of the living room trying to decide whether to fetch CSI Johnson or Officer Henderson.”

“Why would I need them if I have a dead body in the bathtub?”

It’s Nate’s turn to shrug.

“I believe the reason for his confusion was the fact that everybody refers to me as ‘the ME’ or simply Doctor Fick. Not Nate.”

It occurs to Brad, for the first time, that it might be unusual for him to call Nate by his first name. At the same time he can’t imagine referring to Nate any other way. Not that he gives a flying fuck what people think, but if it was something frown upon, Poke, or Ray would say something about it. Nate doesn’t seem to mind either...

“In the end he figured it out though,” Brad points out, ignoring his entire inner monologue.

Nate grins openly at that and looks up from the body and meet Brad’s eyes.

“Not entirely. He was freaking out in the middle of the crime scene so I asked him what’s wrong. He asked me which Nate he should get for the body in the bathtub...”

Brad laughs at that. Jesus Fuck, he’s surrounded by fucking retards.

***

Brad’s fucking bored out of his fucking mind. And there’s nothing he can do about it. He can’t leave the house, since he can barely leave his bed in order to get to the bathroom before he pukes his guts out. Again.

There’s a fucking reason why he’s always at work at this hour. There’s nothing on TV other than fucking soaps, infomercials and bored housewives of whatever region is popular at the moment.

He’s not sure how he’s going to survive the next few hours without killing himself, but he knows one thing. If he, somehow, survives and goes back to work, he will fucking kill Hasser for giving him the fucking stomach flu. And it’s going to be a slow and extremely painful death.

As he makes his way back from another puking session he wonders how the fuck did that happen. He’s the Iceman, as Ray persistently reminds everybody. There shouldn’t be a bug brave enough to fuck with him. Yet here he is. Wishing for a quick death. Or at least for daytime programming that wouldn’t automatically make him want to look for a gun to shoot himself with.

It takes another five minutes of watching MTV, which apparently no longer shows music videos, for him to decide to reach for his phone.

Technically he was officially banned from calling his coworkers. Not allowed to ask about current cases. Poke is ignoring his calls, sending him straight to voicemail. Hasser found a backbone somewhere and sticks to neutral topics like fishing and pets. He doesn’t even try to call Person. Brad might be down with stomach flu, but he hadn’t puked out his brains yet. He knows perfectly well that if he calls Ray, he would hear about everything Ray wanted to tell Brad, but nothing Brad actually wanted to hear.

So he calls Nate, almost without a conscious thought.

“How are you feeling?” he hears instead of a standard hello.

“Bored out of my fucking mind,” Brad replies almost immediately.

“In your case boredom might be a good symptom. Means the fever might be going down. But I was actually asking about the nausea.”

Brad hates phone calls, they make reading Nate more difficult. He can recognize when Nate is asking his questions as his doctor.

“Still puking my guts out. The crackers you brought manage to stay down for a bit, though.”

“Remember to drink as much water as possible. Hold on,” Nate stops and Brad can hear a sound of a... power tool? Seconds later the noise is louder and strangely familiar.

Brad pulls the phone away from his ear to look at it, confused. When he returns his ear to the receiver Nate is already done and continuing with his interrupted statement.

“...risk you getting dehydrated.”

“Was that a saw? Are you doing an autopsy right now?” Brad asks, because he just can’t believe this.

“Yes. I needed access to the lungs. Detective Espera brought in a floater, but I don’t believe it was a drowning. I needed to examine the lungs to check the amount of fluids in them. Hence the use of a saw.”

For a second, Brad considers telling Nate he’s technically not allowed to discuss any cases until he’s cleared for active duty again. Instead, he decides to ask a more interesting question.

“Are you always answering your phone when you’re doing autopsies?”

There’s a moment of silence and Brad can almost imagine the look of confusion on Nate’s face.

“No, why would I do that?”

“You did it just now,” Brad points out. Not that he minds. On the contrary, he’s fucking grateful.

“Your name showed up on the Caller ID,” Nate’s reply sounds reasonable and at the same time makes Brad feel better.

“And thank God for that. I was about to shoot myself,” he admits. If need be, he’ll later blame it on the fever.

“That’s a bit over-dramatic, I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“Says the man who has a case to work on. The only case I’m allowed to investigate is the kidnapping of Noah Meyer on a fucking daytime soap. And I don’t think you grasp exactly how fucked up is that I know who the fuck Noah Meyer is right now.”

There’s a sound on the other side of the line that Brad really fucking hopes is not a muffled laughter because he really doesn’t want to kill Nate. He doesn’t want to, but it doesn’t mean he won’t. So the fucker better not be laughing right now.

“Why don’t I come over when I’m done here?” Nate asks, but his tone’s still light, like he’s fucking amused. “I’ll bring some chicken soup and we’ll see if that settles your stomach.”

Always a fucking doctor. But Brad could really use some company.

“Fine,” he says and disconnects without goodbye. Now he just has to... not die for a couple of hours. He can do that. Probably.

***

Brad’s not the only one with a routine, though in Ray Person’s case you can’t really talk about a healthy routine, as Brad’s pretty sure it will get Ray killed one of those days. Because while all the professional actions connected to securing the crime scene, taking statements from witnesses, canvasing the area fall under the acceptable category, asking people if they “tapped that” does not.

Especially asking Nate. Brad’s pretty sure he described in vivid details what exactly will happen to Ray if he keeps that up. And yet, Ray keeps asking, that little fucker. And Nate keeps answering, giving exact reasons as to why he didn’t get any.

Brad can pretty much speak the lines with them, as if it was a movie Brad had seen hundreds of times.

“Hey Doc! You looking good...” Ray starts innocently and everybody knows where this is going. “Did you tap that last night?” That being, in this particular case, redhead ER doctor Nate was considering asking out.

Now, Brad knows exactly what Nate will say. He will say no, give a reason as to why not, and will probably ask Ray to help Nate’s assistant with the body-bag, or something similar.

“Yes, actually,” says Nate already looking at the body. “Could you help Tim with the gurney? He’ll have a difficult time navigating through the rumble.” With that, Nate crouches next to the body, seemingly completely oblivious to the sudden stillness around him.

Everybody, including Brad, is shocked, to say the least. Ray is downright speechless and Brad can understand why.

Ray’s routine has been upset. The pattern has been broken. And Ray looks a bit confused by this whole situation.

Brad decides not to think about his own reaction. Instead, he focuses on Ray. And by focuses, he means slapping Ray upside the head.

“Stop gaping, Person and go help with the gurney. I don’t want to be stuck here longer than absolutely necessary.”

He watches Ray retreat towards the ME’s van before he joins Nate by the body.

“You made Person speechless. Not many people can do that,” he says casually not really knowing where he’s going with this.

Nate looks up, not confused by the question, but intrigued, his eyebrow raised, inviting Brad to elaborate.

“He’s used to hearing you didn’t sleep with your date, for various reasons. Actually hearing an affirmative answer made him question his worldview.”

“I’ll make sure to apologize for my transgression,” Nate assures him with a grin and goes back to examining the body.

The rest of the day goes according to the already established routine. Nate refuses to speculate without performing all the tests, Ray annoys everybody, Brad looks for leads, they solve the case and nobody shows them proper appreciation for the job well done.

Brad doesn’t ask Nate for celebratory drinks after the case closes, though. He doesn’t want to hear the redhead had already claimed Nate for the evening.

***

Brad walks into the morgue and doesn’t even try to hide his foul mood. And it’s not the kind of mild irritation that can be eased by insulting his coworkers, his superiors or watching Person make an idiot out of himself.

It’s the frustration at being powerless, at watching the motherfucking killer walk away free because all Brad has is fucking circumstantial and not enough for a search warrant that would no doubt turn up some solid evidence.

Brad fucking hates not being able to support his gut feeling with evidence.

If one more forensic test turns up nothing, Brad will fucking take his issue gun and shoot the fucking suspect in the head.

“Please tell me you have something I can tie to Nichols and lock his ass up for the rest of his pathetic life,” he says the moment he sees Nate.

Nate finishes his phone call and hands Brad a folder. Brad doesn’t even read what’s inside, Nate’s face tells him everything he didn’t want to know. Doc had nothing. Or at least nothing that Brad would be able to use.

Fuck.

“I’m sorry to disappoint,” Nate tells him and all the anger Brad was feeling evaporates and he sits down, feeling defeated. He needs a plan B or the motherfucker will walk away for good.

“That’s it,” he rubs his forehead. “There’s no way in fucking hell I’m getting the warrant I need to prove Nichols killed that guy.”

“I thought you had some circumstantial evidence... Isn’t that enough for a warrant?”

Brad shrugs at that.

“Not always. It usually depends on the good will of the judge. And I’m not known for my ass-kissing skills...”

There’s silence that makes Brad look up. He watches Nate cross his office and reach for his phone. He doesn’t ask what Nate is doing, confident that if it’s something connected to Brad, Nate will tell him. Then again, it seems pretty random. Nate doesn’t do random too often.

“Mike, hey, it’s Nate,” Nate smiles and leans against his desk. “How’s Sylvia?” He laughs at something that ‘Mike’ says. “Yes, I promise to show up for dinner when I have time. And are we still on for golf on Sunday? Great. Listen... That’s not exactly what I’m calling about. Yes, I know. But there’s this case I’m working on...”

Brad raises his eyebrow at that not sure which surprises him more. That Nate ‘has a case’ or that he’s calling somebody called ‘Mike’ about it.

“I know, I know. But do you think you could ask Christopher for a favor? Yes, I am using you as a middle man, but I could use a search warrant. What? Based on some circumstantial evidence and my detective’s gut feeling. One of which, I’m told isn’t a basis for a warrant... Why do you think I need a favor? Mark Nichols. Residence? I don’t know, business and car if you can pull it off? I’m not entirely sure, I don’t usually pay attention to cases when I’m done with autopsies...” Nate laughs again. “No, I don’t think I will be answering that question. Bye Mike.”

Brad doesn’t say anything when Nate hangs up. He doesn’t say anything when Nate looks at him. It might be due to the fact that he has no idea what the fuck just happened.

“Judge Sachs will probably sign that warrant for you. Though I don’t know how much ground can Mike get for you.”

Brad still isn’t sure what the hell’s happening, but it looks as if his day is suddenly getting much better.

“Did you just got me a warrant on the Nichols case?”

Nate looks away and shrugs. “You said you needed it to get ahead in the case... And since I play golf with the DA... Well...”

Well of course Nate plays golf with the DA... And he’s probably friends with the fucking judge that will be signing Brad’s warrant. Nate’s on fucking first name basis with those people... And he just got Brad a fucking warrant.

Brad is pretty sure that if he repeats those words enough time, they will stop sounding so surreal.

“You got me a fucking warrant.”

Jesus Fuck, he feels like he could kiss Nate right now.

And judging from Nate’s raised eyebrow he said that out loud.

“I certainly thought it would take at least a dinner and movies, but if the warrant is enough, all the better for me.”

Nate’s light tone suggests he’s joking, but the grin on his face isn’t just amusement, and there’s something in Nate’s eyes Brad can’t actually name. And so he’s back in the land of ‘what the fuck is happening’.

Especially since there is this insistent thought of what Brad would want that emotion in Nate’s eyes to be. And it’s ridiculous.

“If this warrant actually goes through, and it leads to finding solid evidence that will help us put Nichols away? I will even put out on the first date. Even though I’m not that kind of a girl,” he says, firmly ignoring the questions and twisted hopes his brain is throwing at him, instead trying to find some peace in the light banter he usually shares with Nate.

“Well I can promise to still respect you in the morning, Brad. Even though I suspect I will tell Officer Person if he asks. He always manages to catch me off guard when I’m already preoccupied with the case...”

Yes, Brad noticed. He noticed and catalogued all of Nate’s answers. Not that he’s going to tell Nate that.

For a second, he struggles to find an answer that would fit the light conversation they’re having without cluing Nate in to Brad’s very own inner teenage girl moment...

“It will only give me a reason to shoot him, I don’t mind.”

That makes Nate chuckle. Brad hesitantly looks at his watch. He’d prefer to stay here and continue the conversation, but since apparently he’ll be getting the warrant he wanted... there’s some work that needs to be done.

“I should probably go... Send Hasser for that warrant and turn Nichols’ place upside down...”

“You know where to find me, if you need anything else,” Nate smiles. “Though I’m afraid I won’t be able to get you a second warrant any time soon.”

“Thank you,” Brad says with a small smile of his own. He’s not entirely sure what it is he’s thanking Nate for, the warrant, improving Brad’s mood, not questioning why Brad showed up in the morgue out of the blue, not reacting badly to Brad’s comment concerning kissing him... Though maybe it would be better for everybody if Nate’s reaction was different...

Brad turns and leaves the morgue. He has some premises to search. He figures antagonizing suspects will clear up his mind and help get rid of all the confusion...

Not that Brad’s confused about anything. He’s not. He’s fucking great.

***

After a case, Brad rarely remembers the little things that happened along the way. Especially if they aren't connected directly to catching the perp. So after a week of chasing the fucker, Brad no longer remembers that Nate made Ray speechless because he broke the pattern of his responses to Ray's immortal, annoying questions.

Besides, Brad doesn't feel the need to pay particular attention to when exactly Nate gets laid. Not his fucking business.

So it's natural that the entire conversation about “tapping that” and breaking patterns slipped his mind.

And when he sees Nate in the bullpen, holding two large pizza boxes he's as surprised as everybody else. He doesn't mind though, especially once he registers how relaxed Nate is and how good the pizzas smell.

“I hope I'm not interrupting,” says Nate, putting the pizzas on Brad's desk. “But I was informed I committed an unforgivable crime at the scene and I was hoping I could win back your affections, Ray.”

Ray, who doesn't have his own desk, what's with him being a uniform and not a Detective, doesn't move from his spot by Walt's desk. He just stares at the pizzas, as if he had no idea what the fuck is going on. And knowing him, he really doesn't have an idea, probably doesn't remember an unimportant conversation that happened ages ago.

Brad smirks. Person can be such a retard sometimes, it's a wonder he survived past kindergarten.

Then again, he wasn't around for Nate's conversation with Brad...

When Nate doesn't get any kind of response from Ray, apart from the idiot face, but that's probably a default expression, he opens the top box to reveal huge fucking Extra Deluxe. Brad's suddenly very aware of how hungry he is and that the last time he ate something that wasn't a doughnut was yesterday.

Ray and Walt have a similar reaction, Person practically drooling all over the thing.

“Doc, I have no idea what you think you did wrong, but you're forgiven. I love you.”

Brad rolls his eyes. There are so many jokes he could make about Person being easy he doesn't even want to bother, they are so obvious.

Nate smiles, satisfaction clear on his face.

“In that case, mission accomplished. You'll be pleased to hear that the entire pizza is just for you.”

Brad raises his eyebrow at this, surprised at that development. He didn't even consider not getting at least a slice. Before he can even think about using his Iceman reputation to con his way into dinner, Ray grabs the box like it's the most precious gift in the world.

There goes Brad's chance at pizza.

“And for the rest of us...” Nate starts and opens the second box Brad almost forgot was there.

And Brad thinks he might be a little in love with their ME as well, because right there in front of him is his favorite type of pizza, one he always orders. And Nate paid attention.

“You should really commit crimes more often,” he tells Nate and reaches for the first slice.

“I'll be sure to tell the officers you encouraged me when I'm being arrested,” Nate grins and leaves them to their pizzas.

***

Brad knows Nate. And not in a co-worker or a associate kind of way. No. He knows Nate better than he knows himself. He can read Nate's reactions from ten feet away. Hell, he might not be able to read Nate's mind, like Ray suggests almost on a daily basis, but he comes pretty close.

He refuses to consider a possibility that Nate might be able to read him as well. But that's not the point.

The point is that Brad knows when something's wrong, no matter what Nate says. Because he can fucking tell the difference between exhaustion caused by too many hours spent at work and fucking misery you try to mask despite the fact that your world is falling apart.

He might've never witnessed the latter on Nate's face before, but the moment he does... He knows what it is. And he wants to fucking kill somebody. Anybody. But preferably the person responsible for Nate's current mood.

And now the invitation to drinks with the rest of their merry band of fuckers takes on a new meaning. Brad’s thorn between dragging Nate with them to the bar, hoping that Person’s supreme retardation cheers Nate at least a bit. Or staying here, in the fucking morgue, one of the most cheerful places of all, watching Nate pretend not to brood and maybe trying to interrogate the man to find out what’s wrong. And who Brad has to kill to make it all better.

He leans against the door-frame, watching Nate type on his computer, grim, tired expression on his face. Brad’s first instinct is to ask who died. But he’s standing in the morgue and he has more fucking tact than that.

“I thought you wrapped up the case already,” he starts with a neutral topic. When in doubt go for work topics.

Nate keeps typing as if he didn’t hear anything. Brad waits. After a moment Nate stops typing and looks up distractedly.

“You writing your final report?” Brad rephrases when it’s clear Nate didn’t hear a word.

“Oh, no. I finished that before you wrapped up your case. I don’t really need an arrest to report on my findings. I just need a body,” Nate tells him, but Brad can’t shake the feeling that it’s a reflex, that Nate’s not really in the conversation.

“What are you doing then?” Brad asks casually, though he suspects Nate might see that there’s nothing casual about Brad’s question.

Nate doesn’t notice a thing.

“I’m catching up on paperwork,” he says instead.

“You don’t have paperwork to catch up.” Which is a sad and disgusting truth. Of all the people he met during his time in Homicide, Nate is the only one, who despite working long hours, with several cases at the same time, never has any overdue paperwork. All his reports are filed almost immediately, the requests and chain of evidence always neat and in place.

It’s not normal, but it’s how Nate works. Brad can associate with the man despite his perverse relationship with his paperwork.

But that approach makes the excuse Nate just gave Brad a lie.

And Nate doesn’t lie.

“Technically,” Nate admits. “I decided to do the annual reviews. The deadline’s coming up and I wanted to get it out of the way.”

“Those aren’t for the next two months.” Brad knows it because Walt reminds him every week he should get them done now because he might not have the time later... Walt is probably somehow related to Nate in that regard.

Nate looks away and if Brad’s warning bells weren’t impersonating a siren already they would probably go off full force right now.

“Work helps me focus,” says Nate quietly and goes back to typing, this time slower, and Brad knows Nate’s mind is already distracted from the paperwork.

Brad takes two steps towards Nate.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Want to go out with me and the guys? We’ll get wasted and possibly talk Ray into doing drag again...”

There’s a soft chuckle, which Brad considers a huge win.

“No thank you. I’ll finish those.”

So that’s a no on the drinks. And just like that Brad no longer has a dilemma how to make Nate’s mood better. As usual, Nate makes the decision for Brad. But he’s okay with it.

He sits down and makes himself comfortable.

“Want help?”

Nate appears to be considering the idea, which Brad decides, is another one in the win column.

“Why not. Do you have any insight on Bradley’s performance?”

“Who?”

“Tall, black guy, who sometimes processes the bodies?”

Ah. The Not-Nate.

“I don’t like him,” Brad shrugs refusing to provide any more information.

“Why?” there’s a curiosity in Nate’s voice. Brad should’ve known the other man wouldn’t let that one go so easily.

“I...” he hesitates trying to phrase his reasons right. “I don’t have a reason that wouldn’t make me sound like a fucking five year old,” he finally admits.

“Fair enough,” Nate laughs.

Mission fucking accomplished.

***

Let’s make one small detail clear, Brad really can’t emphasize this enough. Ray Person is not a honorary member of the Colbert family. He was never fucking adopted by Brad’s mother, despite what Ray himself claims. Just because Brad’s mother is too polite to tell Ray to fuck off, doesn’t mean he can start to hyphenate his name to include Colbert at the end.

True, this can’t be denied, Ray is one of Brad’s best friends. Maybe Poke is right, Person grows on you, like fungus. But despite how irritating Ray is, Brad doesn’t always want to kill the man.

Even when Ray invites himself over for Thanksgiving, or comment on Brad’s love life, and it’s not your fucking business whether or not it’s a non-existent love life or not. After all, Brad should be called a saint for all the things he tolerates.

But when he gets a call from a hospital that a number of people were involved in a bar brawl, he somehow knows it’s Ray’s fault. And this time, Brad will really kill the man.

It so happens that he’s listed as an emergency contact on several people’s files. His mother, his sister, Poke (if Gina can’t be reached), Ray and Nate. When he found out that last name he was surprised as fuck, but he didn’t have time to analyze what it meant because Nate was in hospital and Brad had more important things to worry about.

But back to now and Brad getting a call about the fucking bar brawl. He knew he should’ve gone to that bar with Ray, Walt and Nate. Instead he said he’d join them when he finished processing the perp. It seemed important at the time and he figured that they can’t actually get in much trouble during the short period of time when he wouldn’t be around to babysit them.

He was so fucking wrong...

After the phone call he arrives at the hospital in a record time, he may have used the siren, nobody will be able to prove anything. He’s about to go blackmail the nurses into giving him necessary information as to what the fuck happened when he notices Ray in the waiting area.

His hands curl into fists almost without his conscious thought.

“What the fuck happened Ray?” he asks quietly, trying not to get any additional attention. He wants to fly below the radar just in case he ends up smashing Person’s skull through the wall. And he’d really like to do that.

“Calm down, homes, everything’s under control,” Ray says and Brad wants to smack him.

“It clearly isn’t under control since I got a phone call that three people I know are in a hospital after participating in a fight. So let me ask again. What the fuck happened? I left you alone for twenty minutes!”

There’s silence and Brad can see Person’s trying to come up with a way to explain what happened. Possibly in a way that won’t make Brad go ballistic.

“Some retards took offense at something we might’ve said... And thought we were joking when we said we’re cops... And Nate kinda insisted on going to the hospital, something about not being able to stitch himself up... Poke locked the retards up, really, Brad, nothing happened...”

Brad’s pretty sure Ray’s joking. Because there’s no way in hell Person would think that this explanation would ease Brad’s mind.

Brad wasn’t there and Ray let Nate get hurt, enough to need fucking stitches! And Brad wasn’t there. And now they are in the fucking hospital and Brad isn’t even sure how serious Nate’s injury might be, because Person is a fucking unreliable source. One that won’t be alive any longer because Brad will fucking kill him.

Something must be showing on Brad’s face because Ray’s eyes widen and he carefully steps back. Like that will fucking stop Brad.

“Run that by me again, Person,” Brad says almost through his teeth. “Concentrate on how Nate got hurt enough to need stitches. On. Your. Watch.”

He grabs Ray’s shirt and pushes him against the wall. He’s going to rip his heart out, Brad decides, it’s really a logical next step.

“It’s just four stitches, Brad. And I have only myself to blame. Both Ray and Tony told me to stay away from the fight.”

Brad lets go of Ray’s shirt immediately and turns towards Nate. Without moving from his spot he looks at Nate carefully, trying to assess how serious Nate’s injuries are. Nothing seems to be broken, though it’s obvious Nate’s face got in the way of someone’s fist. Repeatedly. He sees the stitches above Nate’s left brow and the need to kill Ray returns.

His hand twitches, wanting to touch Nate’s face.

“I’m fine, Brad,” Nate assures him. “I might have a concussion, but it’s not very serious.”

Not serious? Not serious?! People end up in fucking comas because of concussions and Nate says it’s not serious?!

Brad really regrets that Nate has a concussion because he would really love to headslap him right now. Not fucking serious...

“Come on, go to the car. I’ll drive you home and wake you up every two hours or something.”

Nate doesn’t fight it, and thank God, because Brad would hurt somebody if he did.

Ray starts following them and Brad stops in place.

“And where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“To, uhm... Well...” Ray takes a couple steps back. “Nowhere, I’ll stay here and then maybe grab a cab or something...”

“That’s right,” Brad glares at Ray one last time and follows Nate out of the hospital.

***

To say that Brad hates Not-Nate would be an understatement. In fact, depending on his mood on any given day, creativity level of Brad's idea as to how exactly Not-Nate could fuck off and die varies greatly. From „crawl in the corner and die” to „choke on all the motherfucking retarded dick stuffed up your ass”.

The worst thing is that Not-Nate refuses to die. Brad can't even get him fired for being incompetent, which he is, by a mere fact of being Not-Nate. But apparently Nate needs the guy. Why would anyone need Not-Nate is beyond Brad's ability to comprehend the universe.

On the plus side, Brad's team hates Not-Nate's guts too. And he didn't even have to encourage it. Not that he would've...

And right now he can't, even if he wanted to. Because Nate is out of town, on some fucking conference, and they have to solve cases without an ME to help them.

Because Not-Nate is not an ME, Not-Nate is a fucking imposter thinking he can pretend to be Nate and Brad's team will buy it.

“Seriously, homes, when is Nate coming back, one more day with the wannabe and I'm going to set him on fire...”

Brad looks up from the stack of envelopes he's been going through and glances at Ray. His face is a carefully constructed mask of indifference. He's the fucking Iceman, after all.

“Let the man do his fucking job, Ray,” he says even though the usual bite is missing.

“You're just saying that because you're in the other room, hiding, while I have to stand around the guy watch him trying to make some primary observations or other shit. If Nate was here we'd hear the time of death and what killed the poor bastard three times already! How fucking hard is it to establish those things? Guy has a fucking knife in his chest and the body's not even cold yet!”

The last thing Brad needs right now is the reminder of exactly how not like Nate Not-Nate is.

“I have a wild idea,” Brad starts and when Ray opens his mouth to interrupt him he glares at him. “Why don't we all do our jobs? I'll investigate the murder, Hasser will canvas the area and you'll stand around making sure the fucker in the other room pretending to be the ME actually does what he's supposed to do.”

Ray hesitates for a second before turning around. But before he leaves the room, he glances at Brad over his shoulder.

“But just so you know, homes. I don't like this shit. We already have ME, we don't need another.”

“Go,” is the only thing Brad says to that.

He waits few more seconds after Person disappears just to make sure he's alone again. He slowly finishes going through the envelopes and bags three of them as evidence, the geek in CSU will find out whether or not it's relevant to the case.

He wants to move to another piece of evidence, but he reaches for his cell phone instead. He hasn't done that in four hours, some people would applaud his willpower.

Your substitute is fucking incompetent. When are you coming back?

He doesn't wait long for the reply. The conference must be boring as fuck.

Two more days. But if you play nice, I promise to bring you a gift

The first image that pops into Brad's mind is one of those stuffed animals they sell at the airports for those fathers who are never home and try to buy the affection of their spawns. Knowing Nate's sense of humor he'd buy something like that.

Fuck you, he texts back, but when he puts his phone back into his pockets, ready to keep processing the crime scene, he realizes he feels better now.

Of course the good mood doesn't last long, in fact, it deteriorates drastically the moment he finishes with the evidence and joins the rest of his team in the next room, only to see Not-Nate watching as the two morgue minions put the body on the gurney.

Two more days, he tells himself as he leaves the crime scene.

***

Fact: Doctor Nathaniel Fick is an interesting man. It’s Brad’s way of saying that Nate’s a little fucked in the head, but that’s okay, because none of the men working at the 17th precinct is exactly sane.

Fact: Brad hates Assistant DA Karen Scott with the force of a thousand suns. It’s almost as much as he hates Encino Man and country music, but a little less than he hates the Feds.

He doesn’t really have a reason, though it might be loosely connected to Ms Scott’s first appearance on Brad’s crime scene, but there isn’t any reliable evidence to support that claim.

Karen Scott walks onto Brad’s crime scene for the first time in June. It’s warm and Brad’s in a very good mood. He’s discussing the victim with Nate while keeping an eye on his new rookie, Hasser. It’s Hasser’s second crime scene and so far the guy hasn’t puked. An improvement from the previous scene they processed. Brad’s optimistic enough to hope that was a one-time thing.

And then, suddenly, he’s no longer the king of his own crime scene. Suddenly Scott is there, introducing herself in a low voice that makes Brad wonder if she paid for law school doing phone sex. He has no doubt he would be able to do that.

At first, Brad’s response to the intrusion is what he always does when the DA office decide that the case is interesting enough, fucked up enough, delicate enough or whatever enough for them to move their (sometimes obviously shapely) asses and try to manhandle Brad like he’s a four year old.

Fuckers.

He ignores Scott after informing her that Hasser will keep her updated. Due to luck or divine intervention (Brad doesn’t give a fuck which one), Hasser decides that this moment is perfect to start puking his guts out. They didn’t teach perfect timing in the Academy when Brad attended, but he’s pretty sure he likes the expression on Scott’s face.

Unfortunately his mood changes when Scott gets Nate’s attention. Nate looks up from the body, probably to tell Brad something he’s just discovered, because that’s how they fucking roll. But instead of sharing what would be no doubt a case solving lead, he looks at Scott and fucking smiles.

Nate doesn’t smile at random people just because they hang around crime scenes. And even if he does, he shouldn’t! It encourages them to stick around. Didn’t Brad explain this to Nate a long time ago?

Then again, he can’t just throw Scott out. Technically she is something of a superior to him. At least according to those nasty rumors Narcotics are spreading.

To limit his exposure to Scott and possibly to protect his career in case he says something that might piss off his superiors, he excuses himself and walks away to discuss their next steps with Hasser and to ask Ray to canvas the fucking area again. Just in case he missed something the first time around.

It takes him longer than anticipated, but he manages to get back to Nate, who is still talking with Scott, unfortunately, just as the minions are loading the body onto a gurney.

“…at ten?” he catches the end of Nate’s question.

“I’d love that,” comes a pleased reply from Scott and Brad really wants to know when did he fucking crossed into the Twilight zone or some other fuck.

He manages to stop any questions until Scott walks off to her car and the minions are no longer in the close proximity.

“Were you just flirting over a dead body?” He allows his tone to hint exactly how wrong that is.

“Where else am I going to do that?”

On one hand, Brad wants to provide Nate with a list of places that would be more suitable for flirting than a crime scene. On the other, he wants to ask how often does Nate flirt over a dead body. And with whom.

Fact: Doctor Nathaniel Fick is forbidden from flirting over dead bodies. Unless he’s flirting with… people Brad approves of.

***

Brad always had strong opinions. One of them is that criminals aren’t very intelligent. In fact, they are huge fucking morons because no moderately smart person commits a crime and expects to get away with it. Unfortunately, even the biggest retards get lucky sometimes. That is why, when Brad starts receiving threats connected to his current case, the brass acts genuinely concerned.

By ‘concern’ they obviously mean making Brad’s life more difficult and making solving the case nearly impossible with the amount of new restrictions placed on his fucking person.

If it was up to them, Brad wouldn’t be allowed to piss without somebody watching over his shoulder.

His office, even though it’s located in a fucking police precinct, is deemed unsafe and he’s relocated to the conference room on the fucking fifth floor, because clearly no psycho could know how to use the elevator.

He’s forced to wear a fucking bulletproof vest, despite Ray pointing out that, “Brad’s a huge motherfucker, a sniper would have to be blind to miss him!”

On second thought, he probably has to wear the vest because of Ray.

The worst of it all, though, is the fact that his own apartment is decided to be located in an unsafe neighborhood. He’s a police officer on a fucking police officer’s salary. Where the fuck is he supposed to live?

So the plan is that if, if he’s allowed to go back to his apartment, there is going to be a squad car outside his building, uniformed guard by the elevator and a guard by his door.

Brad notes for future reference that Encino Man doesn’t respond well to suggestions of posting guards in Brad’s fucking bed as well. Not that Brad will ever need tips like that. He’s planning on hunting down the psycho and killing him very slowly. To make sure no other criminal will ever think it’s a good idea to put a hit on Brad fucking Colbert.

“How the fuck do they expect me to actually do my job?” he’s pacing the floor, vaguely aware of Nate’s eyes following his moves. “I will fucking end up sleeping on the couch in Encino Man’s office. Have you seen that thing? It’s like it was designed to make everybody sleeping on it miserable and wishing to off themselves. I would be making that fucking psycho a favor!”

“You could stay at my place…”

That makes Brad stop his pacing and look at Nate, because clearly, he didn’t hear that one right.

“I live in a neighborhood your superiors will no doubt deem more secure. There’s a security guard in the lobby and security cameras on every floor. Though, I’m renovating the guest room, so you would be trading one couch for another.”

Brad tries not to agree too quickly. He doubts there’s anything left of his dignity when it comes to Nate, but there’s no need to clue Nate into the fact that Brad’s retarded when it comes to his friend…

In the end, Brad’s mood isn’t as shitty as expected. Possibly due to three days spent on a certain couch at a certain ME’s place. When they finally apprehend the suspect, the fucker lives long enough to stand trial. Everybody’s a fucking winner.

***

Brad really wants to hate Susan Foster. He wants to be able to insult everything about her behind her back and, if possible, directly to her face as well. The problem with Susan Foster is that she’s nice. Not only that, she’s also intelligent and relatively attractive. Insulting her feels like insulting Hasser. Or any other puppy that looks at you with big, innocent eyes.

Even worse. She’s also funny and doesn’t sleep around. She’s basically a fucking saint, and Brad can’t say a bad word about her. And believe him, he tried.

It would help if she wasn’t so nice to everybody around her. Or if she at least attempted to use the girlfriend card to get her way. Or if she wanted to have the undivided attention of her boyfriend.

But no. She doesn’t even try to invite herself to the poker night or attend drinks at Hank’s.

Brad’s left hating himself for the fact that he doesn’t hate her.

Six months later, she finally, finally leaves to take a teaching job in some tree-hugging, bisexual-breeding, dope-smoking college in Europe, and Brad’s left to pick up the pieces of Nate’s broken heart. Even though they both pretend that Nate’s okay and Brad isn’t happy Susan’s gone.

It works for them, and Brad has Nate back. Not that he ever lost him in the first place. They’re friends. After all.
***
Brad is considering murder. It’s not anything new, Brad is usually considering murder at least once during each case. It’s his coping mechanism when faced with spectacular idiocy, media and the FBI. He’s usually not very picky when it comes to choosing the possible victim, though Ray does have a somewhat higher ratio of being picked. It has something to do with Ray’s inability to shut the fuck up.

Right now they don’t have a case, but Brad is still considering murder. And at this particular moment, he is very picky about his victims. First, he’s going to kill Agent Masterson, then he’s going to kill the Very Special Agent in Charge of the field office whom Brad has never met, but who is probably behind the entire situation. And then he’s going to kill the Director of the FBI. Just to be on the safe side.

“Dog, seriously, you keep this up and I will be forced to arrest you on assault with intent to commit murder.”

“I’d have to at least punch someone for that. And once I do, I won’t stop until the fuckers are dead,” Brad points out, not even looking at Poke.

“Yeah, but then I’d be too busy helping you hide the bodies. I’d rather arrest you now and save everybody the trouble. You know how fucking difficult blood is to get rid of. I’d have to spend an entire week cleaning up the car before Gina would let me back into the house. Do you really want that?”

Brad doesn’t respond to that. He’s too busy trying to remember the layout of the local field office.

“I suppose we could use Person’s car,” Poke continues. “He won’t even notice the blood under all that mess that’s in his car already. And if we’re lucky, some trace evidence will transfer onto the body. If we frame Ray, we’d be able to get rid of him once and for all. I mean, we already potty trained Hasser, he could take over Orientation…”

Despite his desire to taste blood, Brad is forced to acknowledge that Poke’s plan has some merit.

“And we can ask Fick to doctor the autopsy files to make sure you’re in the clear. And if you give us the names, I could probably talk to the guys in Organized Crime to create some diversion while we off the fuckers…”

And just like that Brad is again contemplating murder. This time, possibly, including Poke on the list.

“For fuck’s sake, what did I say?”

Brad looks away, trying to pretend he has a report to type up or some other shit. Unfortunately that doesn’t work on Poke.

“You either tell me what the fuck is wrong or I’m calling Gina. If you think I’m above using my wife’s interrogation skills in this case, you are sadly mistaken.”

For a brief moment Brad entertains the thought that he would be able to keep his fucking mouth shut if Gina asked him what’s wrong. He dismisses that thought, because he sooner proposes to a Fed. It’s fucking impossible to lie to Poke’s wife. Sucks for Poke. And for Brad at this very moment.

“Nate’s leaving. The FBI asked him to work with them full time.”

“Why the fuck would he do that?”

“Masterson has been sniffing around him for two years now. Nate’s been working for them as a consultant or something. I guess he finally decided that serial killers and other serious cases beat dead hookers and Person’s Tourette’s syndrome.”

He’s trying not to act as depressed as he feels. He might be failing.

“How do you know he decided to go Fed? You two might just be having your quiet days. Fick’s really not going to switch just because you’ve been an idiot. Otherwise we’d have a new ME years ago.”

Brad glares at him.

“You’re not fucking funny, Espera. You could at least worry about all your cases that will now take forever because the fucking morgue wannabe won’t be even half as good as Nate. And now he’ll be doing all your autopsies.”

Not to mention he’s going to be work twice as many cases because Brad will be locked up for triple homicide. Poke doesn’t help his own case with all the eye rolling he’s doing right now though.

“Fine. How do you know Fick is transferring to FBI?”

“The Feds has been moving boxes from his office for the past fifteen minutes.”

Poke raises his eyebrows, surprised, and Brad can’t help but feel a bit smug. There.

“What the fuck did you think? That I woke up in the morning and decided to fuck with you?”

“You did ask what was going on, right?”

“I’m not fucking Encino Man, I asked one of the agents. He said they were removing all the files connected to the federal cases that Nate helped with. They were removing them permanently.”

Poke hesitates for a second.

“I’m going to do you a big fucking favor, dog, and I’m going to double check this shit,” he says, shaking his head.

Brad shrugs and turns back to his computer, hoping that this time the topic will be closed and he’ll be left alone to plot the murders.

“Be my fucking guest.”

He expects to hear Poke’s steps as the man heads to the morgue to check the situation for himself. But instead he hears Poke picking up the phone and dialing a number. He glances towards his friend to see what the fuck is he doing.

Poke ignores Brad and once the person on the other end picks up, Poke puts them on speaker.

“Hey Doc, it’s me.”

“Tony, what can I do for you?” Nate answers pleasantly.

Brad feels like slamming Poke’s head into that phone, but he can’t risk Nate hearing it all.

“Me and the guys were wondering if you need any help down there. I hear you have the moving company doing some redecorating.”

Nate’s chuckle is distorted through the speaker, but Brad’s mind quickly supplies a clear memory of how it should sound.

“I think they respond better if you call them federal agents, but either way, thank you. They have everything well in hand.”

“You sure, Doc? You know guys around here get a little trigger happy when Feds want to steal our cases…”

“I assure you they aren’t trying to take jurisdiction over any active case. They are simply collecting the files on federal cases I consulted in the past.”

In Brad’s opinion Nate should at least sound a little guilty for leaving him, them, just like that. And the fucker is as content as ever.

“Why the fuck would they do that?” Poke continues his line of questioning. What is he? A fucking masochist?

“Well my contract with them expired and I decided not to extend it. Since I don’t work for them anymore, I’m no longer legally allowed to have access to those cases. The agents are here to ensure the chain of evidence is intact.”

Brad is an idiot. Even worse, Poke knows Brad is an idiot.

Nate quit the FBI. Nate won’t be working with the FBI again.

Brad’s strangely okay with Poke witnessing his temporary slide into insanity.

***

They go out for drinks, so it’s business as usual. Nothing special. Just drinks.

Except they’re not at Hank’s. Instead they’re sitting in a comfortable booth at some bar Nate suggested.

Other than that, it’s their typical drinks night.

Without the team. The team’s not there.

Poke goes home despite their plans for the drinks, because one of his spawns has the flu and Poke, being the whipped pathetic bastard that he is, decides it’s unfair to leave Gina alone with the kids.

Hasser is on medical leave due to concussion he suffered while chasing a suspect. Apparently his head doesn’t take well to close meetings with brick walls.

Ray is watching Hasser, making sure he doesn’t fall into a coma.

Pappy has a hot case and refuses to leave without getting his DNA results first.

So it’s just Brad and Nate, in a cozy bar, with nobody else talking around them.

Yes. Definitely. Business as usual.

“If you’d rather go help Sergeant Patrick with his case, I’ll completely understand. I realize I’m not as entertaining as Officer Person,” Nate says with a small smile playing on his lips. Brad can’t help himself and he smiles back.

“I’m good. It’s nice to be able to talk without the white noise that is Ray’s constant chatter and insults, no matter how colorful.”

Nate takes a sip of his beer, oblivious to the fact of what that action does to Brad’s self control. He really doesn’t need the images of Nate’s lips wrapped around wet objects.

“When you put it like that, I find it difficult not to be glad Walt needed somebody to keep an eye on him.”

It takes a second for the sentence to register with Brad, but when it does, Brad snorts.

“Ray would find any excuse to get into Hasser’s pants.”

“Not something I wanted to know. Though I might find a certain pleasure in asking Ray if he, ah… ‘tapped that’.”

They manage to keep straight faces, but not for long.

Watching Nate laugh makes Brad realize that he expected this evening to be awkward. Brad never went out with a guy before, so naturally he thought his inexperience would make for one awkward date…

Which it’s not. A date. They’re just having drinks. As usual. Just without the team, and in a place that’s a bit nicer than Hank’s.

And that’s exactly what Brad is going to tell Ray tomorrow when he asks how the date went. He’ll say it wasn’t a date and it’s not Person’s fucking business anyway.

“Brad? Are you okay? You went pale for a moment…”

Brad shakes his head to clear his thoughts and looks at Nate again.

“Yeah, sorry. Apparently my stomach isn’t strong enough to think about Person’s no doubt perverted sex life. It makes me want to go over to Walt’s to make sure his virtue is protected.”

Nate puts his hand on Brad’s forearm.

“I assure you Walt’s a grown up. You should let him defend his own virtue. Or at least wait until we finish our beers.”

Brad is probably going to go insane before they head home, but he’s strangely okay with that. He does enjoy Nate’s company, not only because the man’s one of the few truly competent people in Brad’s life. And this weird not-date doesn’t seem to be influencing his ability to carry on a lighthearted conversation, even if it’s making him think about some really dirty, immoral things…

“I’ll try not to tell Hasser you value the beer more than his virtue,” he informs Nate with a smirk, and just like that it’s settled.

The evening is going to be interesting.

***

Brad doesn’t want to be in the morgue right now. Not because there might be a body or a procedure more disgusting than usual - Brad’s a tough motherfucker and he can take everything without so much as a flinch. After all, he’s not Hasser, he’s the fucking Iceman.

His unwillingness to be in the morgue has nothing to do with work and everything to do with the fact that after delivering the final autopsy report Nate stayed a few more minutes and asked Brad to come to his office “the first chance you have”. He said it in this polite tone that people don’t pay attention to, but which Brad learned to identify as a warning. Nate wants to discuss something he finds important and that Brad will no doubt find awkward and torturous.

Since nobody can say that Brad Colbert is a coward, despite the feeling that he really doesn’t want to have this conversation, Brad walks into the morgue and looks around. He’s not sure whether or not to be glad Nate’s right there instead of sitting in his office.

He doesn’t do or say anything to get Nate’s attention, he’s not very proud of this stalling technique, but there’s nobody here to call him on it but Nate. And Nate isn’t cruel enough to do it.

Stalling doesn’t give Brad much time anyway, Nate soon notices him and stops... whatever it is his doing.

“Brad, thank you for coming,” Brad sees a small smile appear on Nate’s face and gets distracted for a second. He really likes Nate’s smiles. Especially when those are directed at him and nobody else. Yes, he’s a fucking girl, fuck you very much.

“You asked me to,” he says, doing his best to keep his tone casual. Nate spent years working through Brad’s Iceman routine, getting under Brad’s skin, so Brad needs additional effort to pretend not to care when Nate is around. And even then, he doesn’t have any guarantee Nate won’t see right through him.

Right now, though, Nate seems oblivious to Brad’s inner struggle. He takes several steps towards Brad, until there’s only one metal slab table between them. Brad supposes he should be grateful the table’s empty. He probably wouldn’t be able to handle any kind of conversation with a dead body between them.

“Yes, well…” Nate hesitates, trying to choose his words. He does that sometimes, when he wants to be considerate. Brad hates it when Nate tries to be considerate. Because it always leads to Brad feeling like he should be running for cover. It also makes Brad wonder how the sentence would sound like if Nate didn’t care…

“Officer Person’s peculiar sense of humor brought a certain issue to my attention.”

He’s going to kill Ray. He’s going to kill him, mutilate his corpse and hang Ray’s tongue above his fucking fireplace. He’s going to build the damn fireplace just so he can hang Ray’s tongue there.

“Let’s not talk about it.” Brad’s quest to sound casual can be now officially considered a failure. His response bordering on panic. He really doesn’t want to discuss this. He might be the Iceman, but he may or may not care for Nate and talking about this might push Nate away. And as the clingy teenage girl with a crush the size of Canada, Brad can’t let anything change the fucking status quo.

“Believe me, doc. You really don’t want us to talk about Ray’s fucking ideas and this… thing… that’s clearly not even real. So…”

Yeah, Brad. You’re so fucking smooth it’s a wonder you’re not a virgin anymore.

“Oh.” Nate looks away for a brief second. “So you don’t, what was the phrase Ray used… You don’t want to do dirty, immoral things to me?”

If Brad’s brain was working as usual in that moment, he would probably start wondering whether he looks like an idiot. There’s no other way he could look right now. He certainly feels like one. He can’t form any kind of a sentence, nothing to respond to what Nate just said. The only thing he can do is raise his eyebrows and hope the shock he’s in doesn’t show too much.

It’s not like he can lie to Nate. He can’t tell him the truth, either. Yeah, this is what his life looks like right now. He should just re-enroll in high school and spend time with people on his mental level. Maybe Poke’s daughters will agree to lend him something to braid his fucking hair with.

He’s still trying to come up with something to respond with that would require minimum damage control afterwards, when Nate nods, as if he expected it, and slowly walks away.

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable… I will ask Officer Person to reconsider the practical jokes he favors.”

There has to be a serious delay between his brain and his mouth because what comes out of them sounds very much like “Maybe” and that’s not exactly a reply to Nate’s decision regarding Ray.

But it does make Nate stop and turn around, so Brad considers it a success. Even though now he’s faced with the need to continue talking. Possibly to carry on the conversation he never wanted to have in the first place. Because now Nate is looking at him expectantly.

“I meant… There’s no thing. Between us. But… I might’ve developed an attachment,” he feels almost physical pain with every word, but he can fucking take it. Just to cover for himself and how big exactly the attachment he has to Nate is, he tries to distract them both. “But Person really doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m blaming his white trash upbringing and the fact that he jerks off to the images of him and Hasser skipping through the grass together, holding hands. I hear that’s what unresolved sexual tension does to people. I think the liberal mindfuckers call it projection or something else.”

“Pity.”

Wait…

“What?”

“I said ‘pity’. I wouldn’t necessary mind.”

Only Nate… Only Nate would deliver the words Brad dreamed about hearing and secretly hoped for in the same tone he discussed the weather and dead bodies.

“Doc…” Brad starts and stops immediately. It feels wrong to address Nate with any honorific, even if it comes as naturally as breathing. “Nate…”

He tries not to grimace. That sounded too much like pleading. He doesn’t even notice when he takes a couple steps towards Nate.

“You know I don’t like to guess without sufficient evidence.” Nate smiles and slowly, so slowly it’s almost a torture, he walks up to Brad. “But I really hope what you want to say is that you’d like to do dirty, immoral things to me.”

Brad smiles. He wants to say that yes, that sounds like a brilliant, perfect plan. He wants nothing more than to do those dirty things to Nate. In fact, he’s pretty sure he can provide Nate with a list of things he’d like to do. And places where he’d like to do them.

Instead, he just leans in and kisses Nate, not really believing this is happening.

But even if it’s just a dream, there’s one thing he’s sure of. He loves Ray. Ray is the best, most amazing person in the entire universe.

Except for Nate.

***

If you ask Brad, the day’s fucking brilliant. The sun is shining (though not bright enough to force him to wear sunglasses), the birds are (thank fuck) not singing. Hell, even Person is uncharacteristically... nice.

Or maybe it’s just that all the sex Brad had the night before is affecting his perception of reality. But as long as the world doesn’t turn pink and the unicorn Poke keeps in the back of his soccer mom car keeps quiet, Brad is not complaining. The day is fucking brilliant, the rookies appear strangely competent and the murder victim doesn’t show any obvious cause of death, which means Brad gets to watch Nate examine the body on scene instead of canvasing the area.

And while he’s watching Nate, he can think back to the previous night. To the way Nate looked in Brad’s bed, how his lips tasted. And maybe Brad is a big fucking sap, but he doesn’t mind, because when Nate looks up from the victim’s body to share something regarding the crime, he smiles. And that makes Brad’s day fucking brilliant.

The best thing about his current emotional high (or the worst, depending on how you look at it) is the fact that as far as Brad’s concerned, there’s only the two of them on the crime scene. No Nate’s minions, no uniforms securing the crime scene, no witnesses behind the tape, no Hasser and no Ray.

There’s just Brad and Nate, both of them doing their job, but at the same time sharing this moment that nobody else is privy to. It’s obvious it won’t last. At some point they will have to go do their job, Nate will have to take the body to the morgue, Brad will have to brainstorm with Hasser and Ray and make sure all the evidence is collected and transferred to the lab...

Doesn’t mean Brad won’t come down to the morgue a few times, more often than usual if he can get away with it.

“Holy fuck, Doc! I don’t think I even have to ask! You definitely tapped that!” Ray’s gleeful voice pulls Brad from his happy place. Yet another day when Brad starts wondering why he can’t just kill Ray and ask Nate to help him hide the body. He rolls his eyes and takes a step back. Nate, having much more patience for Ray and being a much better person than Brad could ever be, just smiles.

“Yes, thank you, Officer Person...”

“Oh come on! Don’t be like that! Share some details! Was it good? Are you going to tap that again? Does she have a sister? Don’t leave the brother hanging!”

At that Brad decides to step in.

“Ray, I know that without having any kind of life of your own you’re desperate to know every detail concerning other people, who are better than you on so many levels, but leave the good doctor alone. He still has work to do.”

“It’s alright, Brad, I don’t mind,” Nate says. “And to answer your question, Ray... Yes, it was amazing. No, he doesn’t have a sister. And yes, I will do my best to pursue this... thing further.” With that, Nate glances at Brad and his smile softens, or maybe that’s just Brad’s imagination. Just like he has to be imagining the pull on his own face, indicating he smiles back.

In the end it doesn’t really matter, does it? Because Brad’s day is fucking brilliant.

THE END