Sorry it's been awhile--my word processor malfunctioned, but it's better now (obviously). I have no idea about the procedure when someone gets killed, but chalk any errors up to creative license.
Whenever a member of the community of Forks died, a friend died. There were so few people, and everyone was so close, that when a man was killed by animals and brought into the police station for identification and Charlie was called in, he knew to brace himself for personal loss.
No matter how long he did this job, it was always with shaking fingers that he dialed the numbers of the family members, always with a wrenching in his gut that he asked them to come and identify the body. When the call was made, he retreated to his desk in the dark maze of offices--it was close on midnight and everyone was gone except for Dr. Cullen in the lab, and the lab technicians. He turned on his desk lamp to try and push out the darkness that was swallowing the room, but it's orange glow could only weakly fight the black. Slumped in his chair, he rested his head on his arms. closing his eyes as though he would sleep when he knew full well that he wouldn't sleep for the rest of the night.
Someone opened the door from the lab and he shot up in his chair, pulling some random paper towards him out of a drawer; like anyone would be doing paperwork at this hour.
But it was only one of the lab techs leading the wife of the deceased man--his friend, dammit--out the doors, away from the body, as though that could erase its image from her mind. Charlie knew--it would never be fully erased, never be forgotten. He leaned his elbows against his desk, head in his hands, and glanced at the paperwork he was supposedly doing--it was a good thing the pair hadn't passed too quickly, he thought with a laugh, or they would have found him studying a Christmas card from his daughter made when she was four.
A hand on his shoulder, and bolt of electricity shot down his spine. He put the card away quickly and turned, chair rattling in protest. Carlisle's face said that he had seen the card, and Charlie sighed, wondering if he could get the doctor to prescribe him sleeping medication, although he knew he would probably need the dose of a horse.
"You're lucky to have things like that," the doctor said, coming round to sit on the edge of his desk while gesturing at the closed door.
"You have kids, didn't they ever make things for you?"
"Esme and I adopted them when they were teenagers, beyond all that stuff."
Charlie grunted in response, figuring the doctor hadn't come by to talk about kids. Carlisle's hand returned to his shoulder, the coolness an uncharacteristic comfort. His eyes were an even more brilliant shade of amber in the light of the desk lamp, and they had taken on a predatory cast that was beginning to disturb Charlie. But any feelings of that nature were quickly quashed when the doctor's hand slid from his shoulder to his tie and drew Charlie closer while he leaned down to kiss him. Charlie tried to pull away, worrying over the lab technicians, the newly minted widow, hell, anyone, coming in an finding them, but Carlisle's mouth was insistent, and anything that felt that good couldn't possibly be a bad thing.
"He was a friend of yours, wasn't he?" Carlisle whispered in his ear when he had pulled away. While Charlie caught his breath so he could form words, Carlisle pushed off the desk and lifted one leg into the chair beside him.
"What are you doing?" he demanded half-heartedly, the doctor's question forgotten. Carlisle swung his other leg up so that he was straddling Charlie, and asked, leaning in close again, "Were you close to him?"
It was right about when Carlisle's lips began creeping around beneath his jaw, tongue laving the bone, that Charlie stopped worrying.
"Yes," he breathed, gasping when teeth nipped his earlobe.
"Do you want this?"
"Yes," he breathed again, groaning as Carlisle's tongue slid into his mouth. Quick, cold hands unbuckled his belt and slid down past the elastic of his boxers. He hadn't realised how turned on he had been until the other man's fingers wrapped around him, stroking gently at first, matching the lazy kisses he was giving Charlie.
Carlisle knew to stay away from Charlie's neck--if he were to go that close to a source of such temptation, even with hundreds of years of training, he would surely lose to his baser impulses. Instead, he rested his forehead against the man's shoulder, focussing all his attentions on making Charlie forget about the death, trying to work away the stress with his fingers.
And if the sounds Charlie was making were any indication, it was working. He lifted his free hand and brought it down over Charlie's lips, but to no great effect.
"They'll all hear us if you keep carrying on like that," Carlisle warned him quietly, and Charlie barely managed to choke back a groan. There was something electrically exciting about the idea that anyone could walk in on them, could see them tangled up together like this. He felt like a teenager again, afraid of being caught with Bella's mother in the back seat of his car at the drive-in. But he didn't want to think about Bella's mother--he didn't want to think at all, just lose himself in Carlisle Cullen.
And lose himself he did, quickly, muffling the sound against Carlisle's shoulder, half his mind wondering if he had won the game of keeping quiet, like a seven-year-old playing hide and seek. Carlisle stood, trying to pretend that his legs weren't shaking, and backed away into the desk, assuming a more casual stance just when the lab technicians started to carry the body out on a stretcher.
"What about you?" Charlie asked, panting, a puddle of liquefied bones in his chair.
"You can pay me back later," the doctor replied, leaving before Charlie could get another word out.
When he came outside, Carlisle was talking to his son, and there was Bella, running up to him, asking what had happened. It took him a few moments to remember that it was the dead man she was concerned with, to remember to worry about her safety. As he lead her inside to get the pepper spray, he avoided looking at his chair and tried very, very hard not to think about what it had just been subjected to.
I know, I know, I've already done chair sex. But this was comfort chair sex, not devious chair sex, so it's different.