FRANK GRUNTED ANGRILY to himself as he walked into work the next morning, on time for once mind you.
A small part of Frank wanted to smile, because not only had yesterday's trial been a fucking breeze, but he was the primary on his and Ray's case which was fucking sweet since that meant he could make all of the executive decisions. Which worked great for Frank since he didn't exactly enjoy having people tell him what to do, even though probably two-thirds of being a cop involved superiors giving you orders.
Frank could still remember when he worked a case with Mikey, who had made Frank do door duty, follow dead leads, and even just act as his intern half the time. It was a pain in Frank's ass, but at least his name showed up in the arrest report, which at the end of the day did put another classic, completely underwhelming smile on his face.
But he wasn't smiling, more smoldering if anything, because he was still angry at himself for what he had let happen at that pub the night before. Well, for what he had let happen to that innocent, incredibly pissed off stranger that Frank couldn't kick out of his subconscious.
It was borderline pathetic, for more than a few reasons. First, Frank hadn't even spoken a full coherent word to the guy, second, he had spilled soda all over him as if he wasn't a trained officer. And lastly, he hadn't even had the fucking decency to apologize or help him.
So when he walked into work, he wasn't even the slightest bit proud of himself for making it there alive and in one piece.
"On time today, detective." Hurley nodded at Frank who sat at his desk glumly. "Glad I got through to you."
Frank offered his own weak nod, feeling a bit like some high schooler caught skipping class. He honestly didn't need to be reminded that he hadn't been on time in a while, he wasn't a morning person but he was still aware of his fucking work hours. Though before he could really get into some self monologue about how fucking rude all of it was, his attention was brought to a loud wince coming from the break room.
He raised an eyebrow as he saw a very hungover Pete leaving the mostly empty break room with a mug of coffee and wrinkled uniform. Pete obviously still had to wear one since he was a beat cop, and by the looks of it, a miserable one at that.
Frank almost felt bad for him, especially since the coffee they had in the precinct tasted like piss, but the moment he remembered how Pete had challenged almost every damn cop in the bar last night to an arm wrestle and then proceeded to cry when Brendon nearly broke his damn wrist, made Frank feel like he deserved what he was getting.
"Hey, you ready? Crime techs already finished." Ray appeared next to him, this time his face a lot more cautious than usual, as if he were speaking to some bear that could rip his head off if he moved the wrong way. Though he did seem a bit pleased behind his worried expression, which was probably from the fact that Frank actually showed up at eight o'clock like he was supposed to.
"Yeah," Frank sighed, putting his thin coat over his white dress shirt, the letters NYPD covering the back of the jacket.
He put his sunglasses in his pocket and nodded at Ray, using the most minimal amount of body language to show he was ready.
Ray nodded at him, and on their way out, Frank couldn't help but notice the red can of Coca-cola sitting on Ryan's mostly neat desk. And Frank couldn't help the way it reminded him of a certain someone.
✩ ✩
Frank was in a rush.
Though fortunately for him and his integrity he wasn't in a rush to work, he was in a rush to pick Bob up from some stupid club opening he had been invited to. Bob may have been the epitome of a lazy motherfucker, but he was always more social and just more open minded than Frank could ever hope to be. Especially when they were in high school and college, before Frank went away to the academy. Bob was the one forcing Frank into house parties, or smoking weed -which for the record- was before Frank realized how much of a stickler he was and how much he liked telling people off for doing drugs.
At the moment though, Frank was honestly more worried about the fact that he was already ten minutes late and that would have to deal with getting his not-always-cooperative-whilst-drunk friend into his car, than he was worried about the reaction he would get from the general public from his pink shirt with Baby Gurl across it in fancy writing.
Of course this cropped pink shirt that was actually fucking suffocating him wasn't his first choice of clothing, obviously, but after some incident involving him being thrown into a pile of trash before a take-down with some local tagger, his own clothes had been so vile Hurley had literally forced him to change.
Luckily they did have a lost and found, but he couldn't find a shirt that actually fit him so he opted for checking his locker instead, which of course contained nothing but some random crime-scene photos and an old tuna sandwich... and funnily enough, that same pink shirt.
Frank figured maybe someone had misplaced it in his locker, but he really had no better alternative at the time so he took it with a pinch of salt and draped it over himself.
Which, let it be known, took fucking balls since whatever had happened for that shirt to end up in his locker, was definitely something Frank didn't want to think about. And, well, of course the undeniable fact that he was a fucking officer walking around a police precinct wearing a teenage girl's t-shirt that smelled awfully like a vanilla pod.
It sort of smelled like hand lotion too, and if Frank's resting heart rate hadn't been registered as a fucking panic attack, he would have thought on the smell a bit longer.
The moment he parked outside the crowed and messy building, he sighed. Frank tugged on the shirt a bit, trying to cover up some of his hip bones that were poking out. He also tried to grasp the why he ever thought wearing something like this to a fucking club opening would ever be a good idea. He would have risked being shirtless and maybe get shit on for public indecency or have a few bottles thrown at him for his gratuitous nudity, but alas Frank had already arrived and it was too late.
Seven threats, a missed punch, and a whole lot of cursing later, Bob was seated in Frank's car, grumbling to himself as he crossed his arms like a toddler.
The atmosphere in the car was quiet, and Frank went to turn the radio on when Bob slapped his hand away, turning on the radio himself. Because apparently that would make all the difference.
"What... What the fuck are you wearing?" Bob finally asked, looking over fully at Frank who kept his eyes on the road.
Frank glanced quickly at a confused looking Bob, his own expression blank as usual.
"Doesn't it bring out my eyes?" Frank asked, his tone even more bland than usual in the hopes of pissing Bob off just a bit, because Frank would admit it was fucking fun.
Bob looked out the window for a second as he tutted, "Frank, you look fucking idiotic, when did you even get a shirt that says..." Bob squinted as he read the shirt, "Baby Gurl? What in the seven realms of fuck—"
"I think it looks fine." Frank said, taking a left turn. Though Frank was most definitely certain that he looked anything but fine.
"Do you?" Bob asked with a raised eyebrow, "Do you really?"
Frank shrugged with a nod, trying to see how far he could go with irritating Bob before he got his ass handed to him, "Kinda suits me."
"You're a baby girl?" Bob asked, unamused.
Frank looked at him for a short second again, "Legally, you're not allowed to ask me that."
Bob stared at him for almost a full minute before letting out a disappointed noise, "I can't believe you wore that shirt to fucking work."
Frank shrugged with a faint, almost missable laugh, "There's no point catching criminals if you don't look good doing it."
Bob let out a dry laugh, undoing his seatbelt once they arrived in front of the apartment building.
"Whatever you say, Frank."
✩ ✩
"Did you guys hear that the guys in the nine-eight are gonna be on TV?" Brendon asked as Ryan, Ray and Mikey all sat around the table in the break room. Frank of course restricting himself exclusively to standing by the coffee machine.
Ryan laughed, "That's pretty sweet. I wouldn't mind being on the news."
The rest of them agreed, and Frank was starting his third cup of disgusting precinct coffee when Ryan spoke to him, "Hey, Iero, you ever been on the news?"
Frank looked up momentarily before thinking back. He supposed the one time he had been on the news was when he was in charge of a drug raid a few months back, but he only spoke for three seconds before the bright lady holding the microphone cut to another cop who didn't look as disinterested.
"Once." Frank answered, blowing on his hot coffee as he exited the break room.
He made his way to his desk, setting down his coffee cup before walking off towards Lindsey.
He wanted so see the monthly crime statistics, not because he really cared all that much, but it was so he could see how much effort he'd actually have to put in for the rest of January. Not that he just wouldn't put in effort if the numbers were high or average, it was just that he'd definitely crank it up a bit if they were flat numbers since Hurley would surely chew them up.
"Hey, you got the crime stats for this month?" Frank asked, it all coming out in a bit of a mumble.
He heard some shuffling before Lindsey was holding up a stack of papers that - Frank assumed - she had just magically fished out of her usually quite messy drawers. He gave her a nod as he went to take them, but she tugged the papers back as she examined Frank's face, making Frank raise an eyebrow.
"What're you—"
"Did you get dumped or something? You look more bummed than usual, which is fucking hard let me tell you." Lindsey said, making Frank sigh and roll his eyes.
"No I didn't get dumped. Fuck you." Frank said before practically snatching the pile of papers from her hands.
He spun around quickly, freezing up when he collided with a quite strong force, making him drop the stack of papers everywhere. Lindsey never bothered using staples or paperclips, which was pretty bold, Frank would admit that much, but right now he hated her for it.
Frank's eyes looked up from the littered papers with a scowl. And for a long moment Frank's face washed blank with surprise, almost like his brain cogs couldn't turn fast enough to take in the information from his wide eyes. And he didn't even blame himself, because what the fuck was he, that Diet Coke fanatic, doing in the six-six, and why the fuck did Frank keep bumping into him. Literally.
Though at that moment Frank wasn't really in the mood to apologise for the thing he'd felt so bad about, he wasn't in the mood to check if he was alright— or even to gush over every little crevice on the, well, he wasn't exactly a stranger anymore, was he? Now he was in a shit mood, once again, and not one part of him in that moment felt the need to humanise with the guy.
Frank had honestly been feeling like shit ever since the bar incident, especially since he figured he wouldn't ever see him again. And yet here he was, and all Frank could feel was that bitterness he always had lingering around him when he was at work. Because good looking or not, nothing could make Frank feel okay about having to pick up and sort through one months-worth of boring crime statistics that were now smeared across one-fourth of the bullpen.
So on one hand, he wanted to feel blessed that they had somehow crossed paths again, that he got to see such a pretty face again, but on the other hand he also wanted to curse this guy out for being such a fucking obstacle lately. Mentally and literally now too, Frank supposed.
Frank opened his mouth, ready to immediately choke out some sort of vaguely rude comment, but he clamped his mouth shut before he could. It was the least he could do, since he did indirectly spill soda all over him a few nights ago.
Instead Frank crouched down and started collecting all of the spilled papers.
"Jesus, you sure are clumsy for someone with a badge." He heard the man say quietly, him also having kneeled to help Frank gather up his papers. Which just made Frank scoff in the back of his throat.
"You're the one who ran into me." He practically scowled, ignoring the way their hands would graze each other every so often.
"Guess now we're even." He muttered, and Frank could admit that he wasn't exactly wrong.
They technically should be clear of any grudges now that they had both inconveniently bumped into one another, but Frank was stubborn. And he didn't think he was exactly in the mood to reconcile with anyone at the moment. Even if he had been thinking about doing so for a fucking while.
"Yeah except I spilled a bit of soda on you and you just made me spill a month's worth of paperwork." Frank grumbled, and he could hear the man let out a small laugh.
"Well at least you can clean up your mess without using a hand drier. But hey, you're the one with a gun so I must be in the wrong." He said softly, and the tone he used made Frank half expect the words leaving his mouth to be sweet. Kind even.
But honestly, the fact that he was even assuming Frank would use his weapon as a defence mechanism when he was losing an argument, just pissed Frank off even more.
And maybe it was all unintentional, maybe it was just him trying to be funny to break the tension, but Frank was never one to get jokes when he was in a bad mood.
"Disrespectful and bromidic, thats nice." Frank finally said, standing back up when he had most of the papers in his arms. He watched as the man also got up, his expression now confused as he stretched his arms out for Frank to take the papers from.
"Well, not too bromidic since it's clearly getting to you." He said, testing the waters with a small but not all that friendly smile.
Frank glared at him, "Look, are you here to report a crime or something? I have a lot of things to do and debating prejudice is not one of them."
"God, is everyone here as much of a dick as you are?" He asked quietly.
Frank ignored his statement completely and instead just glowered at him.
Frank didn't really have the self control to sensor himself, even with people he barely knew. Or in this case, people he didn't particularly like all that much anymore.
The man followed Frank to his desk much to Franks disdain, laughing as he watched Frank fumble with moving his coffee mug out of the way with his elbows.
"I'm actually waiting for someone." He said as he crossed his arms.
Frank let out a dry chuckle, taking a seat by his desk and sighing as he took a sip of his now cold coffee. Frank winced at the taste but got busy sorting out the upside down stack of sheets.
"Sorry to break it to you but this is a police precinct. Not a waiting room, sweetheart." Frank almost hated himself for letting the nickname slip, but the way the man's face turned the color of an overly-ripe tomato made him almost smile in victory.
"Good thing he's an officer then, isn't it?" Frank didn't look up from his desk, only shaking his head in some sign that he should probably leave Frank to do his work.
Luckily he did, and Frank was left to actually start doing his job instead of continuing to have some sort of back and forth with a good lucking yet incredibly fucking annoying civilian. Though Frank couldn't help but noticed how he took a seat by Mikey's desk after having walked around and checked the name tags.
And Frank took another note of the fact that when Mikey left Hurley's office, he walked straight to his desk and began speaking to the black-haired man, though his tone didn't seem too friendly but more stressed. After that Frank turned back in his chair completely, taking another sip of his cold and honestly quite vile coffee.
A big part of Frank's conscious felt like shit about how their interaction had gone since maybe he had been a bit rude to the man he once thought looked sweet, but an even bigger part of him was glad he finally had a reality check about the... well, maybe still just a tiny bit attractive man.
And the reality of it all was that he was just as annoying as the next guy. Pretty or not.
★ not edited ★