'To Something New, To Something Strange' [Barry Frost/Frankie Rizzoli]
Title: "To Something New, To Something Strange"
Author: that_1_incident
Fandom: Rizzoli & Isles
Pairing: Barry Frost/Frank "Frankie" Rizzoli, Jr. (plus background Maura Isles/Jane Rizzoli)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~5,500
Warnings: This. Also profanity.
Dedication: For that small but loyal band of Frostie fans.
Summary: It all starts with Frankie trying to help Frost get over his aversion to dead bodies.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Tess Gerritsen, Janet Tamaro and TNT. I use them respectfully but without permission.
Author's Notes: Set early in season 1. Also posted here on FF.net. More R&I fic here.
---<---<---@
All things must change to something new, to something strange.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
There's something about Jane's little brother.
Frankie's taller than Frost, somewhat burly, with kind eyes and a very genuine sort of face. Frost doesn't know him very well, but when the two have had occasion to speak, Frankie listens with full attention, takes everything in. He's a quiet type of guy - not shy but stoic, and respectful enough to let others have their say without immediately butting in with his two cents, unlike a lot of the people Frost works with. Part of that is undoubtedly because pretty much everybody outranks him, but Frost gets the feeling it's a reflection on his personality as well. Frankie's always listening, always helpful, eager to take on tasks at which their colleagues turn up their noses.
Frost gets him, is the thing. Frankie's the new kid, eager to prove himself, and that's something he can relate to. Sure, Frankie technically ranks below him on the totem pole, but he doesn't get sick at crime scenes so Frost thinks that makes them even.
--
With the exception of his sister (well, depending on the day), Frankie probably likes Detective Frost the most out of anybody in the Homicide unit. Frost's even-keeled, tries to maintain a sense of humor but becomes instantly serious when it's time to focus on a case and bring in a killer. While Frankie feels kind of bad that dead bodies make the other man sick, he also takes a certain guilty comfort from it. Most Homicide detectives act like they're so far above the beat cops on the bottom of the pile, and to see a sliver of humanity in one of them is... it's gratifying, in a weird way. Makes it seem as if the chasm that separates his job and theirs doesn't run so deep.
--
As reassuring as Frankie finds Frost's deadbodyphobia (there's probably an actual word for that, and Dr. Isles from the M.E.'s office probably knows it), the fact that the Homicide detective doesn't seem to be getting any better at handling the issue is causing him to catch hell with his colleagues. Frankie's not even around that much, between working his beat and obliging his mother's plaintive requests that at least one of her children comes home for dinner, but even he regularly hears the jokes and snide comments made both to Frost's face and behind his back.
Which leads him to approach the aforementioned M.E. with a proposal.
--
"So, you know how you hear sometimes that people who are scared of something can stop being so, like... averse to it by repeatedly facing it? Or slowly coming closer to doing it or whatever?"
Dr. Isles tilts her head. "Oh, immersion therapy! It's very effective! It helped me."
"What were you afraid of?" Frankie queries. With Dr. Isles being Dr. Isles, it's bound to be something a little kooky.
She doesn't disappoint. "People," she tells him matter-of-factly before elaborating, "Live ones."
"...I see," Frankie says, even though he doesn't, really, at all. "Well, uh. I was wondering if you could help out a buddy of mine, Detective Frost. And me too, actually. The both of us need to get more comfortable bein' around death, given, you know, our line of work and all, so I thought maybe we could set up a time to get a little more up-close-and-personal with what it is you do down here, if that'd be all right."
Dr. Isles looks at him quizzically. "You're very gung-ho about this. Who are you suddenly trying to impress?"
Frankie clears his throat. "Nobody. I mean, everybody, I guess."
"Ah. Clear as dirt."
"Mud," Frankie corrects before he can help himself, and Dr. Isles blinks at him.
"Excuse me?"
"The expression is, uh. Clear as mud."
Dr. Isles blinks again, then beams. "Your sister does that to me as well," she tells him fondly.
He supposes that's a compliment.
--
Frankie broaches the subject with Frost the next time he sees him, aiming to be as tactful as possible.
"Hey, listen, about your... thing. With the bodies."
"Yeah?" Frost questions warily, and Frankie raises his palms placatingly.
"Hey, man, no judgment here. I find 'em a little hard to deal with myself."
Frost chuckles. "You ever barf on the job?"
"Uh, not exactly, but it's been a close thing." Frankie shifts his weight awkwardly. "Anyway, I need to get more comfortable with them if I want to do this job - bodies, I mean; dead ones - so I'm gonna go see Dr. Isles about it, and I was wondering if you'd be interested in coming along."
The last thing Frost wants to do is spend more time around dead people, but throwing up on the job is getting old, as are the jibes of his colleagues. Frankie seems like good company, anyway - not the type to snicker at any sign of weakness like Korsak and the other guys in the department. Worst comes to worst, he loses his lunch in front of two sympathetic onlookers.
"Yeah," he says slowly. "That might actually be really good for me."
"Yeah?" Frankie repeats. He looks surprised for a moment, like the answer wasn't what he was expecting, before he smiles, wide and bright.
--
"You're hangin' out with Frankie?" Jane deadpans. "Wait, no, really, you're hanging out with my brother?"
She's leaning against the edge of her desk looking incredulous, like she's waiting for the punch line.
"I wouldn't exactly call it hanging out," Frost responds evasively, relieved to see the elevator doors open over Jane's shoulder to reveal Dr. Isles, who strides into the room wearing ridiculous heels Frost doesn't understand how she can even walk in.
"Detective Frost, are you ready?" she asks pleasantly. "Frankie's already down there."
Jane's expression is pretty comical. Her eyebrows raise so high, Frost's half surprised they don't get lost in her hairline.
"Maura, you're in on this too?!" she sputters. "What, is it social hour in the morgue? Why was I not invited?" She pauses. "Actually, if you're serving appetizers outta the dead fridge, I'll stay up here, thanks."
Dr. Isles smiles beatifically at her. "It's more of a project than a social event, Jane, but you're welcome to join us if you wish."
"Yyyyeah, I'm actually good." Jane grabs her phone off her desk and salutes them with her empty coffee flask. "Duty calls. And by duty, I mean the coffee shop."
She heads off to the elevator, Dr. Isles watching her with a smile.
"I knew she would do that. She really doesn't like that fridge." The doctor shakes her head. "I don't understand why. Cold air is cold air."
The thought of the morgue is already making Frost a little queasy. "Let's get this over with."
Dr. Isles raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Eager, I see."
"Yeah, something like that," he mutters.
--
Just as Dr. Isles had said, Frankie's already down in the basement of the building, standing in the hallway outside the morgue. He catches Frost's eye and smiles a little nervously.
"Gentlemen, are you ready?" Dr. Isles asks. She almost sounds... excited.
Frankie and Frost exchange glances. They make quite a trio, Frost thinks: Frankie, solid and masculine in his uniform, Frost in a suit with a gun at his belt, and Dr. Isles - petite, fashionable Dr. Isles - looking as if she's about to strut down a catwalk, not perform an autopsy. If you asked people who didn't know them to pick out which one wasn't scared, he doubts too many would choose her.
"Ready as I'll ever be, I guess," he responds, and Frankie nods shakily in affirmation.
--
The main victory is that Frost doesn't throw up. Neither does Frankie, for that matter, although the younger Rizzoli does get noticeably pale as Dr. Isles holds up what looks like a pair of heavy-duty gardening shears and explains how she cracks open people's ribs to get to the organs underneath.
It's about then Frost thanks his lucky stars he was running too late to eat breakfast before he came in this morning, and that he'd avoided the open box of Dunkin Donuts on Korsak's desk after he arrived. Still, he can feel the bile churning in his stomach and longs for Dr. Isles to turn away for a moment so he can surreptitiously check his watch.
Frankie glances over at him and he manages a weak smile.
"Once the organs are exposed, I go about removing -" Dr. Isles begins, and Frankie clears his throat.
"Uh, this was... extremely informative, Dr. Isles, and I think we both learned a lot, but my shift is actually starting soon and I'm sure Detective Frost has things to attend to as well..." (yeah, like an intimate rendezvous with the nearest toilet bowl) "...but it was really great of you to make time to do this, and we're both very appreciative."
Frankie's wandering into Boy Scout territory with how polite he's being, and if Frost didn't feel so nauseated right now, he might actually crack up.
Dr. Isles seems slightly disappointed, but extends her services to them both anytime. Frost bets it can get lonely down here, although Jane's around a lot to keep her company and she obviously seems to enjoy her work.
The glass doors of the morgue close behind them not a moment too soon, and Frankie and Frost glance at each other.
"You wanna get something to eat?" Frankie asks, sounding serious, and Frost marvels at the fact that he actually feels physically green.
"Food? Now? Are you kidding?"
Frankie smirks. "Kinda. How 'bout coffee?"
As Frost considers this, his stomach lurches its own opinion. "I'll sit, you drink?" he offers, and Frankie seems pleased with this arrangement, beckoning him toward the elevator.
--
"So how do you like it, being partnered with my sister?" Frankie inquires conversationally.
They're sitting at one of the tables in the Division One Café, and he could kick himself for asking such a bland question - the cop equivalent of Hey, how 'bout those Red Sox? or Nice weather we're having - but Frost doesn't seem to mind.
"She's a fiery one," he responds with a grin. "Never boring, that's for sure."
Frankie shakes his head. "You don't have to tell me twice."
Frost - who'd perked up considerably after leaving Dr. Isles' domain and elected to order something after all - blows gently on his coffee. Frankie watches as the steam deviates from its upward trajectory, buffeted by his breath.
"What was it like growing up with her?"
"She was always two steps ahead of me, kinda like now," Frankie answers truthfully.
"Hey, you're on your way," Frost says encouragingly. "You wanna be a detective?"
Frankie responds with a rueful nod. "Homicide, just like her. She beat me to it, as usual."
"Hey, man, good things come to those who wait," Frost maintains, which doesn't make absolute sense in the context, but Frankie appreciates the effort. "Listen, I know you probably have your own kinda group with the patrol guys" - untrue, Frankie thinks; he's friendly with his unit, although they're not exactly close - "but if you ever wanna grab a drink sometime..."
"Sure," Frankie blurts just a shade too quickly. Way to not seem overeager there, Rizzoli, he internally chides himself. He's usually pretty good about masking his desperation to fit in with the Homicide guys, but for some reason, that's harder to do around Frost. "I mean, sure, yeah, sometime would be good."
Frost gives him this look, brows raised, lips curved into a slight smirk, and for a second it seems to Frankie that the other man can look right through him. He's not sure how he feels about that.
"Sometime as in tonight, or sometime as in sometime?"
"Tonight would work," Frankie says lamely. He tries to stop his stomach from flipping when Frost grins.
--
Frankie's so nervous all the time, so eager to please, and Frost's interested to see how much of that melts away after a couple of beers. He arrives at the Robber and scans the room until his eyes rest on the younger Rizzoli. He hasn't really had the chance to just look at him before, properly take him in without the other man being aware, so he takes a moment to do so. Frankie's a catch, his square jaw and brown puppy-dog eyes projecting the perfect mix of masculinity and sensitivity. He's pretty sure Frankie doesn't have a girlfriend, feels like Jane would've mentioned it, and he doesn't understand why. If he were a chick, he catches himself thinking... but he's not, he reminds himself, frowning at his train of thought. Frankie's a colleague. And a guy.
Frankie catches sight of him and waves him over, smiling. The colleague/guy thing notwithstanding, Frost feels a pull in his chest that he's not quite sure what to make of.
--
The conversation flows easily, and Frankie loses track of time - and the number of beers he's had. It's refreshing to interact with Frost outside of work, where half his attention is always elsewhere - on a case, on the people around them. He's pleased to discover Frost is as genuine and friendly outside the office.
"Damn." Frost looks down at his watch, then does a double-take. "What time would you say it is right now, without looking?"
Frankie resists the urge to glance at the big, kitschy clock hanging behind the bar, the one shaped like a Sam Adams bottle. "Like eight-fifteen, eight-thirty, maybe?"
"Quarter of ten."
"No way." Frankie boggles at the other man, then turns his gaze to his glass. "Jesus, how long have I been drinking?"
Frost shrugs. "You drink slow, and there's Rizzoli blood in you. I've seen Jane knock back a lot more."
"Oh, great, so if I stumble when I stand up, that's another area where Jane's got me beat?" Frankie jokes.
"Somethin' like that," Frost answers, laughing. "You cool to get home?"
"Yeah, I'm good. Except Ma will probably give me the third degree and think I went out on a..." He trails off, horrified, and Frost looks amused.
"What?" Frost asks teasingly, and Frankie's so thrown for a damn loop, all he can say is the truth.
"Like, a date," he mutters, half nonchalant, half cringing.
"Will your mom care that I'm black?" Frost deadpans, instantly melting away the tension.
--
Frankie heard somewhere that like a tenth of the people in the world are gay. Initially, it had made him look at his sister and think maybe his suspicions weren't so far-fetched after all. He remembers how Jane used to act around some of her female friends in high school, recollects once seeing her touch Dr. Isles' hip briefly, affectionately, when she thought no one was watching, and recalls musing Maybe... before he'd realized how crazy that seemed.
He revisits the idea after watching his sister hang up on a call with the M.E., the smile on her face wider now than he's almost ever seen it. Jane and Maura, sittin' in a tree, his brain supplies, the childish chant bringing home the ridiculousness of the whole thing. Sure, his sister's having a secret lesbian affair with the medical examiner - that's plausible. This... whatever weirdness he's feeling for Frost is messing with his head.
That being said, he knows a lot more than ten other people and it makes him wonder, is all. About Frost, about himself, about a lot of things. Or maybe he just lives in a pocket of heterosexuality and to compensate, there's a population in, like, Provincetown, that's gotta be, what, fifty percent gay, if not more. That's gotta skew the statistics a little bit.
"Frankie," Jane says, snapping her fingers in front of his face. He's sitting in the chair by her desk, and by the tone of her voice, it's a pretty safe bet this isn't the first time she's said his name. "God, I'm never letting you guys go out again. Frost, what did you do to him last night?"
Frost, who's at his own desk nearby, holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, don't blame me. He got home before his carriage turned into a pumpkin, so that's where my involvement ends."
Jane snorts. "Explain that to our mother, would you, please? She called me at seven this morning wanting to know who Frankie was out with half the night."
"I told you this would happen!" Frankie manages, and the expression on Frost's face is priceless.
--
Somehow, in spite of Mrs. Rizzoli's inquisitiveness and Jane's teasing, nights at the Robber with Frankie become a near weekly occurrence. If Frost's being honest, they're something he's grown to look forward to - a nice break from the faces he sees all day, without removing himself from the cop world completely. He finds it therapeutic to chat about colleagues and cases Frankie's aware of but still maintains a degree of separation from, not that they just talk about work.
In fact, as Frankie grows more comfortable in Frost's company, he starts to reveal more about himself - about Frankie the person, not the cop or the wannabe detective. Frost likes Frankie-the-person even more than Frankie-the-cop, which is, he'll admit, both a good thing and a bad thing.
He's being dumb about this whole Frankie situation, and he knows it. He never used to be confused by how he felt about his guy friends, but since he joined the Homicide unit, he's done nothing but butt heads with Korsak and the others, so it makes sense he'd be grateful to the first friendly male who came along. That's all it is, he tells himself, ignoring the fact that this interpretation doesn't explain why he can't get Frankie's eyes out of his mind.
--
"Hey, how was your date with Barry?" Korsak greets Frankie as he trails into Homicide behind Jane the next morning. His car's busted, so Jane gave him a ride to headquarters and subsequently shanghaied him into hauling a bunch of boxes up from Evidence in recompense.
He frowns in confusion for a second before remembering that Frost actually has a first name.
"It was, uh," he begins, realizing too late that there's really no good way to answer such a question.
"It wasn't a date," Frost supplies smoothly from his desk, "and leave him alone, Vince."
Jane swats at Korsak with one hand while attempting to corral the clutter on her desk with the other.
"Korsak, stop." She turns her attention to Frankie. "You can put that stuff here. He doesn't know what he's talkin' about. Whatever you've got goin' on has lasted longer than all of his marriages combined."
Frost dissolves into laughter at this and Frankie chuckles too, trying not to blush.
--
"It doesn't bother you, the way they talk about us?" Frankie asks the next time they meet for beers. Frost had worked late that day, but it felt weirdly important for Frankie to wait for him, to see him, to maintain this routine of familiarity that's become almost a comfort.
"What, the gay stuff?"
Frankie nods, and Frost makes a face.
"Nah. They're full of shit. Gotta get their barely repressed homophobia out somehow, and God knows if you do that on the job these days, you run the risk of getting a discrimination suit filed against you before you can say boo."
Frankie unconsciously starts to square his shoulders, catching himself in the middle of doing so. Even talking about this makes him feel like he needs to prove something, underscore his masculinity somehow.
"Besides, man, you're a catch. Being with you ain't nothing to be ashamed of, girl or boy."
Frankie, of course, is mid-swig of his beer when Frost comes out with this, and subsequently has a minor coughing fit. He expects Frost to tease him about it, make light of the whole thing and perhaps thump him on the back a couple times, but the other man doesn't do any of that, just twitches a smile and goes back to his beer, making Frankie wonder.
--
The Robber's a stone's throw from headquarters, and Frankie and Frost meander slowly back to the latter. Frankie's a little more buzzed than he'd care to admit, and he's kinda glad his car's still in the shop because he wouldn't feel entirely confident driving right now. There's been a weird vibe between the two of them ever since the exchange about their colleagues' teasing allegations, and while Frankie had spent most of the day cautiously looking forward to Frost driving him home, the feeling quickly turned to dread.
Silently riding in a car with someone is perhaps only second to sharing a soundless elevator in terms of its abject awkwardness, and Frankie's not about to let it happen with a guy he considers his closest ally on the force, bloodlines notwithstanding.
"Hey, man, I'm sorry about bringing up everyone's BS earlier," he begins as they walk into the parking lot, fancying he can actually hear the metaphorical elephant in the room start to tromp its way out, invariably breaking down a wall or two in the process.
Frost lets out a long sigh, like he's exhaling the tension of the evening, purging it from his body. "It's all right. It's my issue, not yours."
Frankie frowns. "What do you mean, your issue?"
The other man shrugs uncomfortably. "It's my issue," he repeats vaguely. "It's really - it's fine."
The elephant pauses, hovers over the threshold and turns right back around.
"No, come on, man, I wanna know."
Frost laughs nervously. "It's not really something I know how to articulate. I don't even know if it's real."
"I see," Frankie says, even though - as with Dr. Isles - he actually really, really doesn't. "Uh, well, you wanna act it out? Play some charades? Two words, three syllables?"
He's trying to be funny, but it doesn't seem to be helping. Frost's eyes darken, and Frankie's just starting to get the feeling that the other man's about to hit him when he kisses him instead.
--
It's not like Frankie hasn't thought about this before - entirely too much, to tell the truth - but the stark warmth of Frost's mouth against his drives the point home that this is real, it's happening, Frost kissed him and now he's kissing Frost back.
He puts his hand to the back of Frost's neck, pulling him closer, and Frost grunts into his mouth, grabs his hip for balance. They kiss wildly, desperately, and Frankie's mainly focused on keeping Frost's lips on his, keeping this going for as long as they can to delay the inevitable mutual Wait, shit and the awkward drive home that will follow.
Frost pulls back and Frankie leans in instinctively. For a second, he thinks it's all over, but then Frost murmurs raggedly, "You don't know how long I've fuckin' wanted this" and crashes their mouths together again, his teeth catching Frankie's bottom lip.
Frankie's stunned into silence for two reasons. First, as odd as it seems, he's never heard Frost curse that way before, and second - oh, yeah, his weird little unrequited thing for his colleague? Apparently not so unrequited after all.
He rests his hands on either side of Frost's waist. The gesture feels strange to do with a guy, but he's basing all this on his previous experiences with women and just goes with what he's used to. Frost doesn't have the same curves, obviously, but Frankie can feel the other man's lean musculature rippling under his palms and is surprised by the jolt of heat this sends to his groin. His mind's eye gets the giddy, sudden flash of Frost on his knees in front of him, and that's way too much to deal with right now so he puts a hand on the flat plane of Frost's chest, pushing him back.
Frost frowns at him, confused - all big, dark eyes and flushed, parted lips. "What?" he protests.
"I have to, uh..." Frankie's head is spinning, but he has the presence of mind to glance at his watch. "It's late. I have to get home. I'm drunk right now, I shouldn't be doing - can you just take me home?"
Frost kind of eyes him for a second, like he's trying to read something in Frankie's expression despite the other man's best efforts to maintain as close to a flat affect as possible.
"Okay," he says finally, sounding skeptical and a little curious, but he does as Frankie asks, just as Frankie knew he would.
--
Possibly the only thing more awkward than making out with your male colleague is having to face said male colleague the next day. Frost wishes he could call in sick, but that would only prolong the whole thing, and he'd already spent most of the night tossing and turning. He slinks out of the elevator that morning, trying to surreptitiously gauge whether Frankie's hanging out at Jane's desk before he commits to walking in. Frankie's not, and Frost's not sure whether to be glad about that, although his heart rate slows and he supposes that's something.
--
OK, so Frankie's definitely avoiding him. For the first couple of days, them not crossing paths could theoretically be explained - they're both busy, juggling jobs and responsibilities and actual lives outside of work (that's mostly a lie as far as Frost's concerned, but he's met Mrs. Rizzoli and gets the feeling she'd require her children to appear at family gatherings whether they wanted to or not). After more time passes, though, Frankie's absence becomes palpable, to the point where even Korsak notices he hasn't been around.
"I miss that kid brother of yours," Korsak tells Jane one day while Frost's in earshot. "He was always walkin' around, fresh-faced and enthused. I miss that." He turns to Frost, looking accusatory. "You used to be like that. What happened?"
"I met you," Frost says dryly, and Jane cackles in delight.
--
Frost kind of can't believe he's doing this, but he's going down to see Dr. Isles. Like, where the bodies are. Voluntarily, not because he's working a case.
She glances up as he approaches the morgue, as if she'd caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. For a second, she looks about as shocked as he is that he's here, then she masks her reaction with her usual opaque, slightly amused expression, lips curving slightly upward at the corners.
"Good morning, Detective," she says politely. "Did you come for the Cooper report? I was holding it for Jane, but I can give it to you, now you're here. I was actually going to bring it up myself, after I finish examining Mr. Benjamin."
She gestures to the autopsy table, which... well, isn't empty. Frost swallows and averts his eyes.
"Uh, no, I - I mean, yeah, sure," Frost stammers. "I actually had a question for you, though."
Dr. Isles' eyes light up. "Did you change your mind about sitting in on a full autopsy?"
"No," Frost responds very definitively, before amending apologetically, "I mean, no, thank you. Listen, has Frankie dropped by over the past few days, by any chance?"
Dr. Isles looks at something over Frost's right shoulder for a moment. "Let's see, well, he was in on Monday," she begins as Frost becomes aware of footsteps behind him. "And then here he is now."
For a second, Frost thinks the doc finally got herself a sense of humor at the absolute most inopportune time, but then Frankie clears his throat in that way he has - Jane does it too; ten bucks says they picked it up from one of their parents - and Frost's stomach sinks.
--
"So... hey," Frankie says awkwardly.
Frost responds in kind, almost robotically, and Dr. Isles glances between them like she's watching an extremely uncomfortable tennis match.
"Well," she says with the kind of cheerful unease of someone who's unexpectedly found herself embroiled in an unfortunate situation. "I need to get back to Mr. Benjamin, but you're both welcome to spectate."
"No, thank you," Frankie says hastily at the same time as Frost blurts, "You know, I actually have somewhere to be," and they both scramble for the exit and the elevator before Dr. Isles has the chance to remind Frost to take the report up to Jane.
It isn't until the elevator doors start to close that Frost realizes he really should've taken the stairs - an epiphany Frankie has virtually simultaneously, judging by the expression on his face.
They make it two floors before the sharp dinging in the tomblike silence forces Frost's hand.
"Look, man, I'm sorry about the other night."
Frankie frowns at him, opens his mouth to speak, but Frost's not done.
"It wasn't even... I just, I had too much to drink" (a lie, but Frankie doesn't exactly know that - or at least, Frost hopes he doesn't) "and I'll admit, what I said about wanting to, uh... that was true, but it was a damn stupid thing to actually do and I hate this weirdness between us. I get that you wanna keep your distance and I don't blame you, but we at least have to be able to work together, you know?"
Frankie has this grin on his face now - this huge, wide-open smile - and Frost can't imagine why.
"Something funny to you?" he queries with more of an edge in his voice than he'd intended.
Frankie laughs. "No, man, I'm just trying to see if I've got this right. You think I was avoiding you because I was freaked out by what happened?"
"Because I..." Frost looks around to see if anyone's within hearing distance, which is stupid because they're still in the elevator. He hates this damn elevator. He doesn't remember the ride up to Homicide ever being so long. "Kissed you, yeah."
"Uh, Detective," Frankie says, and it actually looks like he's amused by this. "I kissed you back."
"Yeah, I mean, I caught you by surprise, and -"
"No, stop. Listen to me." Frankie's suddenly very serious, all traces of mirth eradicated as he repeats, "I kissed you back."
"I know that," Frost says patiently, wondering what he's missing here, "but I'm saying I understand why you..." He trails off, realization dawning. "Wait, you - do you...?"
"I was avoiding you because I thought you wished it hadn't happened," Frankie says, almost shyly, then the wide-open grin is back, lighting up his whole face this time. He's cute as hell when he smiles.
Frost shakes his head. "Jesus, come here."
--
Which is how Jane comes upon them, her brother and her partner, locked in a tight embrace, their lips pressed together. They seem not to have noticed that the elevator has reached its destination, and she stands there for a couple of seconds before deigning to clear her throat in that way she has that reminds her ma of her father.
The two men spring apart, Frankie red as a beetroot and Frost unable to meet her eyes. She doesn't comment, just says "Gentlemen" and steps aside to let them pass before pressing the button for the basement, where her report and her Maura are waiting.
---<---<---@
Author: that_1_incident
Fandom: Rizzoli & Isles
Pairing: Barry Frost/Frank "Frankie" Rizzoli, Jr. (plus background Maura Isles/Jane Rizzoli)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~5,500
Warnings: This. Also profanity.
Dedication: For that small but loyal band of Frostie fans.
Summary: It all starts with Frankie trying to help Frost get over his aversion to dead bodies.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Tess Gerritsen, Janet Tamaro and TNT. I use them respectfully but without permission.
Author's Notes: Set early in season 1. Also posted here on FF.net. More R&I fic here.
---<---<---@
All things must change to something new, to something strange.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
There's something about Jane's little brother.
Frankie's taller than Frost, somewhat burly, with kind eyes and a very genuine sort of face. Frost doesn't know him very well, but when the two have had occasion to speak, Frankie listens with full attention, takes everything in. He's a quiet type of guy - not shy but stoic, and respectful enough to let others have their say without immediately butting in with his two cents, unlike a lot of the people Frost works with. Part of that is undoubtedly because pretty much everybody outranks him, but Frost gets the feeling it's a reflection on his personality as well. Frankie's always listening, always helpful, eager to take on tasks at which their colleagues turn up their noses.
Frost gets him, is the thing. Frankie's the new kid, eager to prove himself, and that's something he can relate to. Sure, Frankie technically ranks below him on the totem pole, but he doesn't get sick at crime scenes so Frost thinks that makes them even.
--
With the exception of his sister (well, depending on the day), Frankie probably likes Detective Frost the most out of anybody in the Homicide unit. Frost's even-keeled, tries to maintain a sense of humor but becomes instantly serious when it's time to focus on a case and bring in a killer. While Frankie feels kind of bad that dead bodies make the other man sick, he also takes a certain guilty comfort from it. Most Homicide detectives act like they're so far above the beat cops on the bottom of the pile, and to see a sliver of humanity in one of them is... it's gratifying, in a weird way. Makes it seem as if the chasm that separates his job and theirs doesn't run so deep.
--
As reassuring as Frankie finds Frost's deadbodyphobia (there's probably an actual word for that, and Dr. Isles from the M.E.'s office probably knows it), the fact that the Homicide detective doesn't seem to be getting any better at handling the issue is causing him to catch hell with his colleagues. Frankie's not even around that much, between working his beat and obliging his mother's plaintive requests that at least one of her children comes home for dinner, but even he regularly hears the jokes and snide comments made both to Frost's face and behind his back.
Which leads him to approach the aforementioned M.E. with a proposal.
--
"So, you know how you hear sometimes that people who are scared of something can stop being so, like... averse to it by repeatedly facing it? Or slowly coming closer to doing it or whatever?"
Dr. Isles tilts her head. "Oh, immersion therapy! It's very effective! It helped me."
"What were you afraid of?" Frankie queries. With Dr. Isles being Dr. Isles, it's bound to be something a little kooky.
She doesn't disappoint. "People," she tells him matter-of-factly before elaborating, "Live ones."
"...I see," Frankie says, even though he doesn't, really, at all. "Well, uh. I was wondering if you could help out a buddy of mine, Detective Frost. And me too, actually. The both of us need to get more comfortable bein' around death, given, you know, our line of work and all, so I thought maybe we could set up a time to get a little more up-close-and-personal with what it is you do down here, if that'd be all right."
Dr. Isles looks at him quizzically. "You're very gung-ho about this. Who are you suddenly trying to impress?"
Frankie clears his throat. "Nobody. I mean, everybody, I guess."
"Ah. Clear as dirt."
"Mud," Frankie corrects before he can help himself, and Dr. Isles blinks at him.
"Excuse me?"
"The expression is, uh. Clear as mud."
Dr. Isles blinks again, then beams. "Your sister does that to me as well," she tells him fondly.
He supposes that's a compliment.
--
Frankie broaches the subject with Frost the next time he sees him, aiming to be as tactful as possible.
"Hey, listen, about your... thing. With the bodies."
"Yeah?" Frost questions warily, and Frankie raises his palms placatingly.
"Hey, man, no judgment here. I find 'em a little hard to deal with myself."
Frost chuckles. "You ever barf on the job?"
"Uh, not exactly, but it's been a close thing." Frankie shifts his weight awkwardly. "Anyway, I need to get more comfortable with them if I want to do this job - bodies, I mean; dead ones - so I'm gonna go see Dr. Isles about it, and I was wondering if you'd be interested in coming along."
The last thing Frost wants to do is spend more time around dead people, but throwing up on the job is getting old, as are the jibes of his colleagues. Frankie seems like good company, anyway - not the type to snicker at any sign of weakness like Korsak and the other guys in the department. Worst comes to worst, he loses his lunch in front of two sympathetic onlookers.
"Yeah," he says slowly. "That might actually be really good for me."
"Yeah?" Frankie repeats. He looks surprised for a moment, like the answer wasn't what he was expecting, before he smiles, wide and bright.
--
"You're hangin' out with Frankie?" Jane deadpans. "Wait, no, really, you're hanging out with my brother?"
She's leaning against the edge of her desk looking incredulous, like she's waiting for the punch line.
"I wouldn't exactly call it hanging out," Frost responds evasively, relieved to see the elevator doors open over Jane's shoulder to reveal Dr. Isles, who strides into the room wearing ridiculous heels Frost doesn't understand how she can even walk in.
"Detective Frost, are you ready?" she asks pleasantly. "Frankie's already down there."
Jane's expression is pretty comical. Her eyebrows raise so high, Frost's half surprised they don't get lost in her hairline.
"Maura, you're in on this too?!" she sputters. "What, is it social hour in the morgue? Why was I not invited?" She pauses. "Actually, if you're serving appetizers outta the dead fridge, I'll stay up here, thanks."
Dr. Isles smiles beatifically at her. "It's more of a project than a social event, Jane, but you're welcome to join us if you wish."
"Yyyyeah, I'm actually good." Jane grabs her phone off her desk and salutes them with her empty coffee flask. "Duty calls. And by duty, I mean the coffee shop."
She heads off to the elevator, Dr. Isles watching her with a smile.
"I knew she would do that. She really doesn't like that fridge." The doctor shakes her head. "I don't understand why. Cold air is cold air."
The thought of the morgue is already making Frost a little queasy. "Let's get this over with."
Dr. Isles raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Eager, I see."
"Yeah, something like that," he mutters.
--
Just as Dr. Isles had said, Frankie's already down in the basement of the building, standing in the hallway outside the morgue. He catches Frost's eye and smiles a little nervously.
"Gentlemen, are you ready?" Dr. Isles asks. She almost sounds... excited.
Frankie and Frost exchange glances. They make quite a trio, Frost thinks: Frankie, solid and masculine in his uniform, Frost in a suit with a gun at his belt, and Dr. Isles - petite, fashionable Dr. Isles - looking as if she's about to strut down a catwalk, not perform an autopsy. If you asked people who didn't know them to pick out which one wasn't scared, he doubts too many would choose her.
"Ready as I'll ever be, I guess," he responds, and Frankie nods shakily in affirmation.
--
The main victory is that Frost doesn't throw up. Neither does Frankie, for that matter, although the younger Rizzoli does get noticeably pale as Dr. Isles holds up what looks like a pair of heavy-duty gardening shears and explains how she cracks open people's ribs to get to the organs underneath.
It's about then Frost thanks his lucky stars he was running too late to eat breakfast before he came in this morning, and that he'd avoided the open box of Dunkin Donuts on Korsak's desk after he arrived. Still, he can feel the bile churning in his stomach and longs for Dr. Isles to turn away for a moment so he can surreptitiously check his watch.
Frankie glances over at him and he manages a weak smile.
"Once the organs are exposed, I go about removing -" Dr. Isles begins, and Frankie clears his throat.
"Uh, this was... extremely informative, Dr. Isles, and I think we both learned a lot, but my shift is actually starting soon and I'm sure Detective Frost has things to attend to as well..." (yeah, like an intimate rendezvous with the nearest toilet bowl) "...but it was really great of you to make time to do this, and we're both very appreciative."
Frankie's wandering into Boy Scout territory with how polite he's being, and if Frost didn't feel so nauseated right now, he might actually crack up.
Dr. Isles seems slightly disappointed, but extends her services to them both anytime. Frost bets it can get lonely down here, although Jane's around a lot to keep her company and she obviously seems to enjoy her work.
The glass doors of the morgue close behind them not a moment too soon, and Frankie and Frost glance at each other.
"You wanna get something to eat?" Frankie asks, sounding serious, and Frost marvels at the fact that he actually feels physically green.
"Food? Now? Are you kidding?"
Frankie smirks. "Kinda. How 'bout coffee?"
As Frost considers this, his stomach lurches its own opinion. "I'll sit, you drink?" he offers, and Frankie seems pleased with this arrangement, beckoning him toward the elevator.
--
"So how do you like it, being partnered with my sister?" Frankie inquires conversationally.
They're sitting at one of the tables in the Division One Café, and he could kick himself for asking such a bland question - the cop equivalent of Hey, how 'bout those Red Sox? or Nice weather we're having - but Frost doesn't seem to mind.
"She's a fiery one," he responds with a grin. "Never boring, that's for sure."
Frankie shakes his head. "You don't have to tell me twice."
Frost - who'd perked up considerably after leaving Dr. Isles' domain and elected to order something after all - blows gently on his coffee. Frankie watches as the steam deviates from its upward trajectory, buffeted by his breath.
"What was it like growing up with her?"
"She was always two steps ahead of me, kinda like now," Frankie answers truthfully.
"Hey, you're on your way," Frost says encouragingly. "You wanna be a detective?"
Frankie responds with a rueful nod. "Homicide, just like her. She beat me to it, as usual."
"Hey, man, good things come to those who wait," Frost maintains, which doesn't make absolute sense in the context, but Frankie appreciates the effort. "Listen, I know you probably have your own kinda group with the patrol guys" - untrue, Frankie thinks; he's friendly with his unit, although they're not exactly close - "but if you ever wanna grab a drink sometime..."
"Sure," Frankie blurts just a shade too quickly. Way to not seem overeager there, Rizzoli, he internally chides himself. He's usually pretty good about masking his desperation to fit in with the Homicide guys, but for some reason, that's harder to do around Frost. "I mean, sure, yeah, sometime would be good."
Frost gives him this look, brows raised, lips curved into a slight smirk, and for a second it seems to Frankie that the other man can look right through him. He's not sure how he feels about that.
"Sometime as in tonight, or sometime as in sometime?"
"Tonight would work," Frankie says lamely. He tries to stop his stomach from flipping when Frost grins.
--
Frankie's so nervous all the time, so eager to please, and Frost's interested to see how much of that melts away after a couple of beers. He arrives at the Robber and scans the room until his eyes rest on the younger Rizzoli. He hasn't really had the chance to just look at him before, properly take him in without the other man being aware, so he takes a moment to do so. Frankie's a catch, his square jaw and brown puppy-dog eyes projecting the perfect mix of masculinity and sensitivity. He's pretty sure Frankie doesn't have a girlfriend, feels like Jane would've mentioned it, and he doesn't understand why. If he were a chick, he catches himself thinking... but he's not, he reminds himself, frowning at his train of thought. Frankie's a colleague. And a guy.
Frankie catches sight of him and waves him over, smiling. The colleague/guy thing notwithstanding, Frost feels a pull in his chest that he's not quite sure what to make of.
--
The conversation flows easily, and Frankie loses track of time - and the number of beers he's had. It's refreshing to interact with Frost outside of work, where half his attention is always elsewhere - on a case, on the people around them. He's pleased to discover Frost is as genuine and friendly outside the office.
"Damn." Frost looks down at his watch, then does a double-take. "What time would you say it is right now, without looking?"
Frankie resists the urge to glance at the big, kitschy clock hanging behind the bar, the one shaped like a Sam Adams bottle. "Like eight-fifteen, eight-thirty, maybe?"
"Quarter of ten."
"No way." Frankie boggles at the other man, then turns his gaze to his glass. "Jesus, how long have I been drinking?"
Frost shrugs. "You drink slow, and there's Rizzoli blood in you. I've seen Jane knock back a lot more."
"Oh, great, so if I stumble when I stand up, that's another area where Jane's got me beat?" Frankie jokes.
"Somethin' like that," Frost answers, laughing. "You cool to get home?"
"Yeah, I'm good. Except Ma will probably give me the third degree and think I went out on a..." He trails off, horrified, and Frost looks amused.
"What?" Frost asks teasingly, and Frankie's so thrown for a damn loop, all he can say is the truth.
"Like, a date," he mutters, half nonchalant, half cringing.
"Will your mom care that I'm black?" Frost deadpans, instantly melting away the tension.
--
Frankie heard somewhere that like a tenth of the people in the world are gay. Initially, it had made him look at his sister and think maybe his suspicions weren't so far-fetched after all. He remembers how Jane used to act around some of her female friends in high school, recollects once seeing her touch Dr. Isles' hip briefly, affectionately, when she thought no one was watching, and recalls musing Maybe... before he'd realized how crazy that seemed.
He revisits the idea after watching his sister hang up on a call with the M.E., the smile on her face wider now than he's almost ever seen it. Jane and Maura, sittin' in a tree, his brain supplies, the childish chant bringing home the ridiculousness of the whole thing. Sure, his sister's having a secret lesbian affair with the medical examiner - that's plausible. This... whatever weirdness he's feeling for Frost is messing with his head.
That being said, he knows a lot more than ten other people and it makes him wonder, is all. About Frost, about himself, about a lot of things. Or maybe he just lives in a pocket of heterosexuality and to compensate, there's a population in, like, Provincetown, that's gotta be, what, fifty percent gay, if not more. That's gotta skew the statistics a little bit.
"Frankie," Jane says, snapping her fingers in front of his face. He's sitting in the chair by her desk, and by the tone of her voice, it's a pretty safe bet this isn't the first time she's said his name. "God, I'm never letting you guys go out again. Frost, what did you do to him last night?"
Frost, who's at his own desk nearby, holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, don't blame me. He got home before his carriage turned into a pumpkin, so that's where my involvement ends."
Jane snorts. "Explain that to our mother, would you, please? She called me at seven this morning wanting to know who Frankie was out with half the night."
"I told you this would happen!" Frankie manages, and the expression on Frost's face is priceless.
--
Somehow, in spite of Mrs. Rizzoli's inquisitiveness and Jane's teasing, nights at the Robber with Frankie become a near weekly occurrence. If Frost's being honest, they're something he's grown to look forward to - a nice break from the faces he sees all day, without removing himself from the cop world completely. He finds it therapeutic to chat about colleagues and cases Frankie's aware of but still maintains a degree of separation from, not that they just talk about work.
In fact, as Frankie grows more comfortable in Frost's company, he starts to reveal more about himself - about Frankie the person, not the cop or the wannabe detective. Frost likes Frankie-the-person even more than Frankie-the-cop, which is, he'll admit, both a good thing and a bad thing.
He's being dumb about this whole Frankie situation, and he knows it. He never used to be confused by how he felt about his guy friends, but since he joined the Homicide unit, he's done nothing but butt heads with Korsak and the others, so it makes sense he'd be grateful to the first friendly male who came along. That's all it is, he tells himself, ignoring the fact that this interpretation doesn't explain why he can't get Frankie's eyes out of his mind.
--
"Hey, how was your date with Barry?" Korsak greets Frankie as he trails into Homicide behind Jane the next morning. His car's busted, so Jane gave him a ride to headquarters and subsequently shanghaied him into hauling a bunch of boxes up from Evidence in recompense.
He frowns in confusion for a second before remembering that Frost actually has a first name.
"It was, uh," he begins, realizing too late that there's really no good way to answer such a question.
"It wasn't a date," Frost supplies smoothly from his desk, "and leave him alone, Vince."
Jane swats at Korsak with one hand while attempting to corral the clutter on her desk with the other.
"Korsak, stop." She turns her attention to Frankie. "You can put that stuff here. He doesn't know what he's talkin' about. Whatever you've got goin' on has lasted longer than all of his marriages combined."
Frost dissolves into laughter at this and Frankie chuckles too, trying not to blush.
--
"It doesn't bother you, the way they talk about us?" Frankie asks the next time they meet for beers. Frost had worked late that day, but it felt weirdly important for Frankie to wait for him, to see him, to maintain this routine of familiarity that's become almost a comfort.
"What, the gay stuff?"
Frankie nods, and Frost makes a face.
"Nah. They're full of shit. Gotta get their barely repressed homophobia out somehow, and God knows if you do that on the job these days, you run the risk of getting a discrimination suit filed against you before you can say boo."
Frankie unconsciously starts to square his shoulders, catching himself in the middle of doing so. Even talking about this makes him feel like he needs to prove something, underscore his masculinity somehow.
"Besides, man, you're a catch. Being with you ain't nothing to be ashamed of, girl or boy."
Frankie, of course, is mid-swig of his beer when Frost comes out with this, and subsequently has a minor coughing fit. He expects Frost to tease him about it, make light of the whole thing and perhaps thump him on the back a couple times, but the other man doesn't do any of that, just twitches a smile and goes back to his beer, making Frankie wonder.
--
The Robber's a stone's throw from headquarters, and Frankie and Frost meander slowly back to the latter. Frankie's a little more buzzed than he'd care to admit, and he's kinda glad his car's still in the shop because he wouldn't feel entirely confident driving right now. There's been a weird vibe between the two of them ever since the exchange about their colleagues' teasing allegations, and while Frankie had spent most of the day cautiously looking forward to Frost driving him home, the feeling quickly turned to dread.
Silently riding in a car with someone is perhaps only second to sharing a soundless elevator in terms of its abject awkwardness, and Frankie's not about to let it happen with a guy he considers his closest ally on the force, bloodlines notwithstanding.
"Hey, man, I'm sorry about bringing up everyone's BS earlier," he begins as they walk into the parking lot, fancying he can actually hear the metaphorical elephant in the room start to tromp its way out, invariably breaking down a wall or two in the process.
Frost lets out a long sigh, like he's exhaling the tension of the evening, purging it from his body. "It's all right. It's my issue, not yours."
Frankie frowns. "What do you mean, your issue?"
The other man shrugs uncomfortably. "It's my issue," he repeats vaguely. "It's really - it's fine."
The elephant pauses, hovers over the threshold and turns right back around.
"No, come on, man, I wanna know."
Frost laughs nervously. "It's not really something I know how to articulate. I don't even know if it's real."
"I see," Frankie says, even though - as with Dr. Isles - he actually really, really doesn't. "Uh, well, you wanna act it out? Play some charades? Two words, three syllables?"
He's trying to be funny, but it doesn't seem to be helping. Frost's eyes darken, and Frankie's just starting to get the feeling that the other man's about to hit him when he kisses him instead.
--
It's not like Frankie hasn't thought about this before - entirely too much, to tell the truth - but the stark warmth of Frost's mouth against his drives the point home that this is real, it's happening, Frost kissed him and now he's kissing Frost back.
He puts his hand to the back of Frost's neck, pulling him closer, and Frost grunts into his mouth, grabs his hip for balance. They kiss wildly, desperately, and Frankie's mainly focused on keeping Frost's lips on his, keeping this going for as long as they can to delay the inevitable mutual Wait, shit and the awkward drive home that will follow.
Frost pulls back and Frankie leans in instinctively. For a second, he thinks it's all over, but then Frost murmurs raggedly, "You don't know how long I've fuckin' wanted this" and crashes their mouths together again, his teeth catching Frankie's bottom lip.
Frankie's stunned into silence for two reasons. First, as odd as it seems, he's never heard Frost curse that way before, and second - oh, yeah, his weird little unrequited thing for his colleague? Apparently not so unrequited after all.
He rests his hands on either side of Frost's waist. The gesture feels strange to do with a guy, but he's basing all this on his previous experiences with women and just goes with what he's used to. Frost doesn't have the same curves, obviously, but Frankie can feel the other man's lean musculature rippling under his palms and is surprised by the jolt of heat this sends to his groin. His mind's eye gets the giddy, sudden flash of Frost on his knees in front of him, and that's way too much to deal with right now so he puts a hand on the flat plane of Frost's chest, pushing him back.
Frost frowns at him, confused - all big, dark eyes and flushed, parted lips. "What?" he protests.
"I have to, uh..." Frankie's head is spinning, but he has the presence of mind to glance at his watch. "It's late. I have to get home. I'm drunk right now, I shouldn't be doing - can you just take me home?"
Frost kind of eyes him for a second, like he's trying to read something in Frankie's expression despite the other man's best efforts to maintain as close to a flat affect as possible.
"Okay," he says finally, sounding skeptical and a little curious, but he does as Frankie asks, just as Frankie knew he would.
--
Possibly the only thing more awkward than making out with your male colleague is having to face said male colleague the next day. Frost wishes he could call in sick, but that would only prolong the whole thing, and he'd already spent most of the night tossing and turning. He slinks out of the elevator that morning, trying to surreptitiously gauge whether Frankie's hanging out at Jane's desk before he commits to walking in. Frankie's not, and Frost's not sure whether to be glad about that, although his heart rate slows and he supposes that's something.
--
OK, so Frankie's definitely avoiding him. For the first couple of days, them not crossing paths could theoretically be explained - they're both busy, juggling jobs and responsibilities and actual lives outside of work (that's mostly a lie as far as Frost's concerned, but he's met Mrs. Rizzoli and gets the feeling she'd require her children to appear at family gatherings whether they wanted to or not). After more time passes, though, Frankie's absence becomes palpable, to the point where even Korsak notices he hasn't been around.
"I miss that kid brother of yours," Korsak tells Jane one day while Frost's in earshot. "He was always walkin' around, fresh-faced and enthused. I miss that." He turns to Frost, looking accusatory. "You used to be like that. What happened?"
"I met you," Frost says dryly, and Jane cackles in delight.
--
Frost kind of can't believe he's doing this, but he's going down to see Dr. Isles. Like, where the bodies are. Voluntarily, not because he's working a case.
She glances up as he approaches the morgue, as if she'd caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. For a second, she looks about as shocked as he is that he's here, then she masks her reaction with her usual opaque, slightly amused expression, lips curving slightly upward at the corners.
"Good morning, Detective," she says politely. "Did you come for the Cooper report? I was holding it for Jane, but I can give it to you, now you're here. I was actually going to bring it up myself, after I finish examining Mr. Benjamin."
She gestures to the autopsy table, which... well, isn't empty. Frost swallows and averts his eyes.
"Uh, no, I - I mean, yeah, sure," Frost stammers. "I actually had a question for you, though."
Dr. Isles' eyes light up. "Did you change your mind about sitting in on a full autopsy?"
"No," Frost responds very definitively, before amending apologetically, "I mean, no, thank you. Listen, has Frankie dropped by over the past few days, by any chance?"
Dr. Isles looks at something over Frost's right shoulder for a moment. "Let's see, well, he was in on Monday," she begins as Frost becomes aware of footsteps behind him. "And then here he is now."
For a second, Frost thinks the doc finally got herself a sense of humor at the absolute most inopportune time, but then Frankie clears his throat in that way he has - Jane does it too; ten bucks says they picked it up from one of their parents - and Frost's stomach sinks.
--
"So... hey," Frankie says awkwardly.
Frost responds in kind, almost robotically, and Dr. Isles glances between them like she's watching an extremely uncomfortable tennis match.
"Well," she says with the kind of cheerful unease of someone who's unexpectedly found herself embroiled in an unfortunate situation. "I need to get back to Mr. Benjamin, but you're both welcome to spectate."
"No, thank you," Frankie says hastily at the same time as Frost blurts, "You know, I actually have somewhere to be," and they both scramble for the exit and the elevator before Dr. Isles has the chance to remind Frost to take the report up to Jane.
It isn't until the elevator doors start to close that Frost realizes he really should've taken the stairs - an epiphany Frankie has virtually simultaneously, judging by the expression on his face.
They make it two floors before the sharp dinging in the tomblike silence forces Frost's hand.
"Look, man, I'm sorry about the other night."
Frankie frowns at him, opens his mouth to speak, but Frost's not done.
"It wasn't even... I just, I had too much to drink" (a lie, but Frankie doesn't exactly know that - or at least, Frost hopes he doesn't) "and I'll admit, what I said about wanting to, uh... that was true, but it was a damn stupid thing to actually do and I hate this weirdness between us. I get that you wanna keep your distance and I don't blame you, but we at least have to be able to work together, you know?"
Frankie has this grin on his face now - this huge, wide-open smile - and Frost can't imagine why.
"Something funny to you?" he queries with more of an edge in his voice than he'd intended.
Frankie laughs. "No, man, I'm just trying to see if I've got this right. You think I was avoiding you because I was freaked out by what happened?"
"Because I..." Frost looks around to see if anyone's within hearing distance, which is stupid because they're still in the elevator. He hates this damn elevator. He doesn't remember the ride up to Homicide ever being so long. "Kissed you, yeah."
"Uh, Detective," Frankie says, and it actually looks like he's amused by this. "I kissed you back."
"Yeah, I mean, I caught you by surprise, and -"
"No, stop. Listen to me." Frankie's suddenly very serious, all traces of mirth eradicated as he repeats, "I kissed you back."
"I know that," Frost says patiently, wondering what he's missing here, "but I'm saying I understand why you..." He trails off, realization dawning. "Wait, you - do you...?"
"I was avoiding you because I thought you wished it hadn't happened," Frankie says, almost shyly, then the wide-open grin is back, lighting up his whole face this time. He's cute as hell when he smiles.
Frost shakes his head. "Jesus, come here."
--
Which is how Jane comes upon them, her brother and her partner, locked in a tight embrace, their lips pressed together. They seem not to have noticed that the elevator has reached its destination, and she stands there for a couple of seconds before deigning to clear her throat in that way she has that reminds her ma of her father.
The two men spring apart, Frankie red as a beetroot and Frost unable to meet her eyes. She doesn't comment, just says "Gentlemen" and steps aside to let them pass before pressing the button for the basement, where her report and her Maura are waiting.
---<---<---@