 |
|
|
|
|
Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG
Pairing: Smecker gen.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Feedback: Anything, everything.
Notes: For roadparty on her birthday.
Summary: “The day I want the Boston Police to do my thinking for me, I will have a fucking tag on my toe!”
***
Lately Paul’s been avoiding the morgue. He sends Greenly down and ignores how much extra he has to bitch and exactly how many times he has to resend Greenly before he gets the information he wants. Or he makes do with photos. Sometimes he can catch the lab docs coming up from gore to coffee, and then he can make small-talk about his case. It’s frustrating and limiting and someday it’ll fuck up a case for him, but it’s better than going down there.
Land of the fluorescent corpses, all glaring beneath the bright scalpel lighting. After awhile, they all start to blend into each other. For a long, long time, all Paul saw was the face of his father.
It’d be rational to believe he sees the faces of Connor and Murphy now, but no, he doesn’t. He fingers his wrist that always aches now, and he deletes the emails about his contemporaries’ retirement parties, and he hides from the long drawers of predictions in the morgue. Gunshot. Heart attack. Hate crime. Around and around the wheel goes, and fuck knows where it’ll land.
Greenly goes to the dead for Smecker now, scoops up the fragments of their last thoughts and carries it back. It won’t be long now before he starts putting the pieces together himself. Paul already feels the choke of a slim thread around his flesh.
***