totally not what i should be writing

[violacea]

Blame ignipes for this - she was enabling me on last night's post.

(I do not own the concepts displayed within. Those would belong to Nora Roberts, who I wish to be when I grow up. Except for the band folks, they belong to themselves, as far as I know.)



Patrick recognizes the long legs propped up on his desk, even if the top half of the body they belong to is obscured by a newspaper. The gray trench coat obscures the faded wood of Patrick's desk chair, which is obviously far too small for the man sitting in it. "And Pete tells me my fashion sense sucks," he comments, pulling the newspaper away.

Gabe makes a dissatisfied noise, but waves Patrick away when he tries to hand him the now folded newspaper. "They called me a 'vid personality'. As if I'm one of those blonde girls who read the weather reports on Mars, or something."

"Of course you're not one of them. You're obviously much prettier."

Gabe smiles at the compliment, but scrambles out of the chair when Patrick glares at him. "Sheesh, you're kinda pushy for someone who wants a favor."

"Right, like you're not going to get the best end of this deal."

Gabe perches on the edge of the desk as Patrick sits down - which might have been a tactical error on Patrick's part; at least, when Gabe was sitting and Patrick was leaning, Patrick had the illusion of height. Now, Gabe just looms over him. "Same as usual? Exclusive interview with the primary detective - you, naturally - when the case is over?"

"When it's over," Patrick agrees. "In exchange for your brilliant research skills."

Gabe flutters his eyelashes. "If you keep flattering me so outrageously, your rich boyfriend might start getting jealous."

Patrick ignores him. "I need to you to check news outlets in Australia. Adolescent deaths, male and female, usually around sixteen. Would have been labeled suicide, but groups of two or more kids in the same social circle might get some kind of media nod. You know how you media jackals are, always looking to blame parents or vids or the moon phase for the degradation of society."

Gabe sniffs. "Jackals, my ass. I'm more like a jaguar, elegantly hunting my prey."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"Yeah, but it's a great image, don't you think?" Gabe grabs his fedora from the desk next to him - of course he has a fedora, Patrick thinks, it goes with the trench coat - and cocks it on his head. "Teenage suicide in Australia. I'm on it." He stands up, but peers down at Patrick. "This the kid in SoHo?"

"You know I can't make any official comment on an ongoing investigation, Gabe." Patrick stretches his legs out onto the desk. He scowls - it just doesn't seem as impressive as when Gabe did it. That's just wrong - Gabe has no business looking more at home in Patrick's office than he does.

"You're just using me, Lieutenant Stump," Gabe says dramatically, leaning in the office doorway. "I know how it is. Use me, abuse me, and then go home to the one and only Pete Wentz. It must be a terribly hard life."

"Tragic, really."

***

"It could just be a mutual suicide pact, you know." Bob tosses a peanut into his mouth and jabs Patrick with an elbow, gesturing towards the vending machine. "You gonna get something?"

Patrick can feel his stomach rumbling, but he shakes his head. "That thing is possessed. I'll eat when I get home."

"Which will be ... when, exactly?"

"Fuck off." They shuffle back through the bullpen, raising their voices to be heard over the din - detectives working, fighting, joking. Their people. "You don't really believe that."

"Just throwing it out there. It's a theory. Three teenage kids, dramatic in the way only that breed can be, all decide to self-terminate in splashy, public places. It'd be a great way to say one last 'fuck you' to the parents that never loved them, or some shit like that."

Patrick shrugs as they make their way to EDD - he can tell they're getting close by the colors of the clothing people are wearing. As in, the EDD folks actually wear some, not just the black and white and tan and gray of the bullpen. "I'd buy it, if they'd all OD'd on Flash or something else they could get without too much trouble. The drug cocktail in Randall Lawson's blood was something Andy tells me is only ever used to treat terminal cancer patients. None of these kids have a connection to a hospital. So, if they did it themselves, where'd they get the drugs?"

Bob doesn't have an answer - Patrick doesn't expect one. This is what they do, have done for years. Bob trained Patrick, he knows how the younger man's mind works. Knows what he needs to keep his train of thought going after too many damned hours awake. Bob's mouth opens to continue the conversation, but they've entered the EDD room, and there's immediately a flash of tattooed skin - arms waving wilding in the air from across the room. It's accompanied by a shrill voice. "Hey, boss! L.T.!"

Patrick rolls his eyes, and Bob smothers a grin as they walk over to Frank's station. "How brilliant am I?" Frank demands, and there's a glint of silver as his lip piercing across his teeth.

"What do you have, Frank?"

"I am ENTIRELY brilliant," Frank continues, as if Patrick hadn't spoken. "You are so completely lucky to have me working this case."

"What do you have, Frank?"

"In fact, you are so lucky ..."

"Frank," Bob interrupts. "Point."

"Amy Sherwood," Frank says immediately. "You know that weird message you found on her 'link? I traced it. That fucker was slippery, someone went through a lot of trouble to stalk her anonymously. Creepy fuck."

"Stalk her?" Patrick leans over Frank's chair. He enjoys this part - Frank, at least, is one person who won't tower over him, even if he stands up. "Complete sentences, Frank. From the beginning."

"Nah, too late at night for that. Short version - Mark Stantz, forty years old, which, for those keeping score, is twenty-five years older than Amy. Physical therapist at St. Aloysius Rehab Center."

"Where?"

"It's in Brooklyn," Bob says. "My mother-in-law stayed there after her stroke, actually."

Patrick's eyes narrow. "A medical facility, huh? Do they ever take care of cancer patients there?"

Frank snorts. "Ask your boyfriend. He owns the place."

"Of course he does." Patrick's breath huffs out his nose. Sometimes, he wonders if Pete does, in fact, own the entirety of New York City and just doesn't tell him.

Speaking of the devil, there's a message on Patrick's 'link when he bothers to check it. "Come on, even ace homicide detectives have to sleep sometime. Or eat. Don't lie, either, I know you. Come home, I have pizza. I promise, Ryan won't even bother you about your car. Much." There's a pause. "I miss you." Patrick tries to scowl at the 'link, but it comes out as more of a smirk. It's not like Pete didn't see him ... oh. Nineteen hours ago? He's been at this for a while. Maybe a few hours of rest and relaxation ... or whatever passes for it, when Pete's involved. Besides, if Wentz Corporation owns this rehab place, he might be able to get some work done. Work, pizza, real coffee, perhaps some sex ... yeah, this is a plan Patrick can get behind.

His life really isn't too bad, if you don't think about all the dead people.

Comments

[ignipes.livejournal.com]

Wait, does this mean Ryan is the butler? *dies*

This is the best thing ever. This is totally what you're supposed to be writing. *is a very very bad influence*

HI FRANK HI.

[seimaisin.livejournal.com]

Wait, does this mean Ryan is the butler?

Well, I was thinking "okay, who's going to be Pete's right hand, someone who can be completely deadpan and give Patrick shit all the time ... RYAN!" It works frighteningly well. :)

You're totally a band influence. I have, like, four other stories to write! The members of Panic! At The Disco are waiting patiently to find out why they're members of the faerie court as we speak!

[ignipes.livejournal.com]

It does work frighteningly well. *nods*

The members of Panic! At The Disco are waiting patiently to find out why they're members of the faerie court as we speak!

You mean they don't know already? Then how do they explain their wardrobe choices?

[seimaisin.livejournal.com]

You mean they don't know already? Then how do they explain their wardrobe choices?

Point. :)

Actually, at this point in the story, three of them know - poor actual-human Jon is going to have some serious problems, though ...

[seimaisin.livejournal.com]

band = bad. But, the other way works, too. ::facepalm::

[fairestcat]

*wants*

Seriously, this is AWESOME.

[seimaisin.livejournal.com]

Hee. Thanks! :)

[geneli4.livejournal.com]

oh, FUN! :)

[dragonsinger.livejournal.com]

I...kind of love this AU. Yes, I know...there's slash (you're dying of shock now, aren't you?)

Anyway, I'm so glad you were encouraged. This is so great!

[meinnim.livejournal.com]

This is so great.

Frank as McNab = genius!