Author's note: I own only the original characters.

Language warning:

Now

I never knew my father.

The words hung in the air like an embarrassment after Frank Caldwell had said them. As he lay on the couch in the office, it seemed like he could almost see them over his head.

The bespectacled Hypno in the chair next to him shifted a bit in his seat. "As in the two of you never really saw eye to eye on things?" he asked.

"No, I mean I never knew him," the human replied. "He was murdered when I was only a few months old."

"My apologies. I should have read a bit more of your file."

Frank shrugged. "Not sure if they even mentioned it."

"So did you ever have anything resembling a father figure in your life after that?"

"I don't think I'd count the men coming in and out of my mother's bedroom as being 'father figures,' doc."

"I see. So your mother never remarried?"

"No. I don't think she ever tried to look for anyone after that except for a drunken one-nighter."

"I see. Was there ever anyone you looked up to as a mentor growing up?"

"Not that I recall."

"Interesting." He cleared his throat. "You know, in Papua New Guinea, there is a tribe that-"

The moment the Hypno said Papua New Guinea, Frank reached to his right side, produced an air horn, and let loose a loud squall. The Psychic Pokemon jumped a bit in his seat and nearly lost his glasses, but he made a sufficient recovery. "You don't want to talk about Papua New Guinea?"

"Was it that obvious, doc?"

"Yes, quite obvious, detective. Moving on. Do you think that your lack of a father figure has maybe had too much of a role in shaping your personality?"

Frank gave him a cynical glare. The Hypno was about to speak but then he glanced at the clock.

"Unfortunately, we'll have to end it there for the day. You will remember your appointment in a couple of days, yes?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, doc. I'm out of here. Later," Frank said dismissively as he grabbed his coat and left.

The winter sun had mostly sunk down by the time Frank pulled into Rochelle's Place, his bar of choice. Work was done. In fact, he had nothing to do that day other than shuffle paperwork around before continuing his required mental therapy sessions.

"As ordered by Madam Bethany Steele," he repeated to himself with a mocking snarl.

He hated the new commissioner. She had flown in from the Sinnoh region shortly after the murder of Mack Herndon, the previous commissioner, by a psychotic anarchist that had briefly terrorized Saffron the previous summer. She turned out to be a by-the-book hardliner, one who was obsessed with rules and regulations to the point where every editor in Kanto and Johto openly questioned her sanity. For the most part, however, she was not excessively harsh on the homicide detectives in her precinct.

Except one: Frank.

From day one, she despised the man. She hated him for treating victims and families with respectful humanity when she wanted cold professionalism. She hated him for his refusal to only look inside the lines whenever a crime was committed, like he did that summer. Most of all, however, she hated him simply because it galled her to have someone on the force get more honor and respect that she did. Throughout the city, Frank Caldwell was hailed as a hero for putting an end to the killing spree that had plagued them, and Commissioner Steele was enraged beyond comparison when, at a charity dinner held by the mayor, Frank had gotten preferential treatment and she didn't, which she felt was unfair to someone of her position.

"Bitch," Frank muttered to himself as he walked into the bar.

A stocky man, sleeves rolled partway up, was wiping down some glasses as Frank sat down. When he saw the detective, his face lit up with a broad smile. "Hey, Frankie! How's it goin'?"

"Eh, terrible, Larry," Frank sighed. "Scotch please."

"Straight up?"

"Nah, ice it."

"Soda, too?"

"Sure, why not."

The bartender mixed the drink up and sat it in front of him. "Commish on your ass again?"

"As usual." Frank took a swig. "You'd think she'd be an equal opportunity hater and go after Stuart too, but she's got a bad grudge against me so he's safe."

"How is he doin', anyway? He never comes in here much anymore."

Frank shrugged. "He thinks the gay scene would be better in Celadon, so he goes there to try to find someone these days."

"No luck?"

"Not exactly, to hear him tell it."

Just then, the door opened, and a woman walked in, sitting down at the far end of the bar, away from anyone else. "A shot, please. For my son."

Larry wordlessly walked over, got her a shot of scotch, and set it in front of her. She downed it quickly, set her money on the bar, and walked away, her light blonde hair not doing anything to take away from the tired lines on her face. As far as Frank could tell, she had to be in her mid- to late forties at least.

Other customers had entered by the time Frank was able to focus himself on his own drink, and Larry did not see him finish the contents of his glass, set payment nearby, and leave.

It was not exactly a pleasant prospect for Frank, an officer of the law, to be trying to drive home in the snow with any alcohol in his system, but he did anyway. And as he drove, he thought of another female, one who had come into his life for a few short days that summer. It never had occurred to him then that they would actually fall in love, but when she was almost killed working on the same case he was working on, they did. It ended up taking on a strongly sexual nature, but they loved every moment of it, and they were both relieved when they had finally brought down the killer.

It would have been fairly normal. If she wasn't a Gardevoir, anyway.

"Victoria," he softly said to himself, "wherever did you go?"

He turned into the driveway and slammed on the brakes in shock.

Standing in the middle of the driveway was a thin, pale woman, her red hair the same shade as his and closely cropped in a thin pixie cut. Her cheeks were flushed, not with the cold but with liquor as she stood next to several pieces of luggage.

"HI, SWEETIE, GLAD TO SEE YOU'RE HOME!" she yelled a bit too loudly.

Dear God, no, he thought to himself. OH, FUCK NO! DON'T TELL ME MY MOTHER'S MOVING IN WITH ME!