Insubordinate ( Gay ) ( BxB )

Chapter Five ✓

"Coming."

:

I scuffle around his car and to his side, shoving my hands in my coat pockets. Coen walks fast. I can feel my feet slipping on the icy pavement as I struggle to keep pace, almost challenged by it and how he seemed so nonchalant. It becomes a race in my head.

"Shit," I breathe when a small shard of ice throws me, causing me to stumble forwards. Coen glances towards me, not bothering to slow his pace. 

"Easy." He says, nodding towards the sidewalk.

"I'm fine." 

"I didn't ask. Just go easy on the icy parts and watch your feet."

"I am."

"Seems like it."

It's a straight shot to the bridge. As a breeze sweeps the street, a familiar smell of pennies invades my senses. I clench my jaw, grinding my teeth a bit to keep from scowling at it. I despise that smell. That smell--

That smell of blood.

I shoot a look at Coen, who's eyes are fixated directly ahead of him. He knows exactly where he is going and exactly what he is doing. I, on the other hand, do not. I realize that, in spite of my mental preparation, I may still be unprepared for what he may ask me to do.

My stomach isn't usually weak, but olfactory memories stir my gut.

I brace myself as we come over a hedge that dips down to a bank curving below the bridge. Around us there are cop cars and, apparently, personal cars from which forensic staff emerge. The everyday cops stand far away, some refusing to look in the direction of the scene.

Is it horrific?

Time feels wavered as we round the corner. I'm overly sensitive to the hum of talk between my new coworkers. I smell the scent of blood more than ever, my knees become weak- but it begs to reason that I have to do this. I've done it before, why not now?

Pussy.

I stare hard at the ground, following Coen's feet.

Pussy. You have to do it.

"Jesus." Coen mutters under his breath. I stop, standing a foot behind him. My eyes unwillingly trail across the gravelly sand and snow, then... red. The snow mixed sand is dyed red. The now watery blood is still snaking its way through channels like small rivers flowing to my feet. 

I see a woman, dark headed and fish-eyed with death. Her coat is torn and sprawled beside her, her body is open with wounds from her lower stomach to her jaw. Around her eyes are bruised and swollen. I step closer mindlessly, noticing the smell of urine mixed in with the blood. 

It's hardly feasible that anyone could see her any other way, but I can. It's like a sequence of before and after photos flashing rigorously through my mind at a hundred miles per hour- I realize that I recognize her. She's the woman who had been crying on the bridge a day prior.

"Feeling alright, Beckett?" Coen asks.

I turn to look at him over my shoulder. He's holding his camera in his hands, but he is paying it no attention yet. He is watching me.

"I..." I stutter, hesitant to reply. Was I feeling alright? I wasn't sure, not really.

"You what?" Coen smiles a bit. "You seem unnerved."