A/N: Sad to say this'll be the last chapter; this has actually been a lot of fun to write. I teetered back and forth on whether I was going to make this full on M rated or not, but seeing as I've never even done that before for hetero characters I'm not sure how I'd do with the Doc and the Detective...so I'd rather not risk it. Instead, you'll get a little perspective jump to that of my favorite character. He's underused in fanfiction, even though he provides a lot of the subtle realism that gives the show such great character. Also, lemme know how you liked it; I kinda want to do another one of these.
Disclaimer: One day, when I'm a screenwriter for television, I'll be able to write fanfiction and actually put that I own the characters, or at the very least created them. That day is not today.
Rizzoli must have been in quite a hurry, he thought to himself as he left the Dirty Robber, seeing as the cop had left her wallet so carelessly behind in the booth. A knock at her door proved futile, and it was only then that he remembered her following Dr. Isles out of the bar like she was being forced to go to yoga again...so they were probably at the doctor's house.
A quick flip through the dated address book in his glove compartment and he was driving again. If he didn't think the detective would resent him for holding on to it, he would have just taken the wallet home. But no; Rizzoli was very particular about keeping a firm hold on all things that pointed to her personal life (particularly after that incident with Hoyt), and several photos of her family in the display portion of the wallet made him think she'd want it back tonight. Only the next day did he realize how unfounded on any sort of logic this decision was.
He knocked once, twice, and a third time on the doctor's door with no response, then tried the knob purely on reflex and was surprised when it gave. It was that and only that fact that made him worry a little; there were crazy people in Boston, crazy, stalkery people, and they broke into houses like it was a right and not a felony to do so...so he opened the door quietly and squeezed through as small of a crack as he could make.
He surveyed the scene with scrutinous eyes: six bottles of wine on the coffee table, and two glasses - so Rizzoli was definitely here.
"Hello?" he called. "Dr. Isles?"
"Jesus Christ!" came the reply, from down a hallway to his right. Rizzoli's voice. He swallowed hard. In trouble, just like he had guessed, and now he was going to get yelled at again as if he were one of her brothers. He inched his way down the hall, wallet in hand, until he saw a door cracked open at the end of the hall, and got just close enough to be able to peek inside...
and whip back out of sight like a bat out of hell. Surely his beer at the Dirty Robber had been spiked with some brand new hallucinogen, because he certainly couldn't have seen what he'd thought he'd saw...
"God, Maura..."
The husky moan confirmed it. Frost peeked around the corner for another look: Rizzoli's knees trembling, hands clutching at the sheets...and that certainly couldn't be the Queen of the Dead laying between her legs, focused on her work as if it was the most important body she could ever examine...only this time, her work didn't make him sick to his stomach. Fumbling for his phone, he activated the camera setting, prayed that one shot would be all he needed, and-
CLICK. Frost, in a perfect personification of his name, froze as the automated sound rang out, slamming into his ears like a freight train. The detective and the doctor didn't even notice...he smirked. Hell, he wouldn't either in a position like that...looking at the picture, his smirk faded as he realized how dangerous this was. He was beyond dead if he was caught in the hallway, and between Rizzoli and Isles, it would be decades before the body was discovered, long murdered and mutilated and hidden in some cage at the local zoo.
Frost forced himself to leave the wallet outside the bedroom door, even though (by Rizzoli's moans) it sounded like things were just getting to the good part. Back in his car, he admired the picture again, then shook his head with a laugh and a "crazy kids", before pulling out into the midnight Boston streets.
The bullpen was a raucous mess; a new case had just been called in, and Korsak had adopted three new kittens from the gutter behind the station before Frost had even gotten there.
"Mornin', kid," Korsak called as he tried to get the kittens to walk up his arm and over his shoulders in a single file line.
"Morning. Rizzoli make it in yet?"
"Nah, she called me and said she was gonna be late. Too much to drink at the Robber, apparently."
"Apparently," Frost echoed, knowing that his life depended on concealing the information he was hoarding. It didn't work; Korsak took one look and set the kittens down.
"I know that look," Korsak mused slowly, facing him down with that Boston cop stare that broke grown men on a daily basis. "You've got a secret, and it's a good one. Spill."
As Frost opened his mouth to deny it, Rizzoli rolled in like a hurricane, a cardboard tray bearing coffee in one hand and her phone pressed to her ear in the other.
"No, ma, I don't. Well, I'm sorry, I was out late, so I didn't even check my answering machine. Why didn't you just call my cell if it was so impor- yes, yes, I-" Rizzoli rolled her eyes to no one in particular as she set the tray down. "Yes. No. Extremely, very much no. Tell him I've got other plans...I don't care, ma, make something up! You've had lots of pract- okay. Love you too."
With that, and an extra, "Jesus Christ," Rizzoli flipped the phone shut and huffed before announcing, "It's nobody's business and I don't want to talk about it."
Frost nodded fearfully, while Korsak simply set a bottle of aspirin on the desk. She snatched it up, popped four back, took a swig of her coffee, and collapsed into a chair. Korsak mouthed, "Hangover," to Frost, who resisted a second urge to grin as the ding of the elevator heralded Isles's arrival. Holding up Rizzoli's wallet. Frost nearly choked on his coffee.
"You left this by the register downstairs; I'd take better care of it if I were you; in 2011 it was calculated that 8.1 million people fell prey to identity theft." she paused, expecting a retort. When it didn't come, Isles continued, "I have the address for the crime scene; warehouse by the wharf. Beautiful place, really - from an aesthetic standpoint I can understand why the culprit would select te location as a hunting ground for-"
"Okay, Googlemouth, enough of that," Rizzoli cut her off, gripping her forehead like a stress toy, "No more guinea pig experiments with my palate, you hear me?"
Frost cocked an eyebrow at Korsak, who returned it, and they both turned to Isles who deflected the looks to Rizzoli. Rizzoli scowled.
"It was a wine-tasting, you pervs. I passed out on her couch before midnight, and that's all I want to hear about it. We've got a murder to solve, got it?"
"Yes ma'am," Frost replied, grabbing his coat. He trailed slightly behind Isles on their way out of the bullpen, and he murmured to her, "What really happened?"
Isles blinked, and said quietly, "I believe that a phenomenon called anterograde amnesia occurred due to her high intake of alcohol which impaired the ability of her medial temporal lobe to create memories after the occurrence."
Frost processed the statement, then rolled his eyes. "And I suppose your medical tempura lobe was affected too?"
"I believe that a certain amount of impairment, though perhaps less than hers, occurred, yes."
Frost shook his head as the elevator doors opened, and muttered, "I'll bet that's not all that was impaired," before filing in behind Rizzoli and Isles.
Of course, the funny thing about memory is that the strangest things seem to stick, even when drowned in fancy wine, so that two weeks later, when Hoyt escaped from prison and Rizzoli was back in that same bed again, the both of them stared at the ceiling, each remembering, and each afraid to admit it...for now.