Description: You’re the new medical examiner. Like most medical examiners, you’re a little... different.
Notes: aghhhh im caught in so many lies with my family and friends that im gonna fucking break down but if i tell anyone the truth im gonna get my ass beat on several different levels
WC: 1.7k
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The latex gloves on your hands did little to stay the cold blood, staining up the skintight material that clung to your sweat. This wasn't the first time you had your hands wrist-deep in organs, but it was the first corpse who had a bullet in his eye, and the first time you were completely alone.
Your years as an assistant were finished, and now you were a full-on doctor––a medical examiner, to be specific. A coroner. The one who deals with the dead. Not a particularly charming profession, but far more interesting, and far more safe than most others.
There was one problem, though––the policemen. You were never a timid person, but some of them just got to you, itched beneath your skin and sped your heart. Why that was hadn't yet been identified, so instead you focused on something you understood; the human body. The stiffness of refrigerated muscle, the stench of uncleaned organs, a mask chafing against your cheeks. The heat of a bright light on your neck.
The man below you was a particularly unfortunate man. Died young, was never quite fully healthy, and had few friends and family. His method of death was what caught the eye of one of the detectives, though it seemed cut-and-dry to you. There were no struggle marks, puncture wounds, bruises, or even scars on his body. Only the bullet hole. He had to have done it himself. Still, it wasn't your job to question the detectives––only to bring them the information you gather.
"How's he lookin'?" Asked a man from behind you, the quiet hinges of the door swinging shut as he entered. You shot up, eyes instantly meeting his.
"Haven't gotten far. About through the small intestine," you said, gesturing to the different jars and plastic boxes categorized with the man's organs. The nearest to you was the lungs. You noted the scrunch in the man's nose with mild amusement.
"Gotten the bullet out yet?"
"Oh, yeah. Already sent it up for ballistics," you said with a curt, polite smile.
He remained silent after that, watching you work from the safe, mostly smell-free area of your desk. With his back leant on the table, he crossed his arms with intent eyes.
"You're the new medical examiner, aren't you?" He asked after a particularly wet squelching sound came from your working fingers.
"Yes sir," you said, nodding. "Started yesterday."
"Oh, this must be new for you then."
"I've done autopsies before, but this is the first time on my own, yes," you admitted with a tinge of embarrassment. It was the truth, that this was new, but he didn't have to mention it.
"Well then, welcome to the team," he chuckled. "My name's Baxter."
"(L/N). Pleasure to meet you."
"You as well. I'd shake your hand, but," he trailed off as the both of you turned to your bloodied gloves.
"Don't worry," you said, a grin spreading across your face. "I'll give you a raincheck on that."
He hummed, uncrossing his arms and legs as he began to saunter over to you. For the most part, you could easily ignore his eye, stuck between your concentrated expression and steady hands. Having teams of professors and doctors looking over your shoulder for exams had prepared you well.
"Find anything curious?" He finally asked.
"Not really," you mumbled, gently cutting open the flesh of the stomach. "Not yet. There aren't any cuts or contusions of any notable kind. Only wound I could find was the bullet hole and an infected bruise on his toe. I'll be sending blood, stomach, and stool samples up to Peters soon, I'm sure you'll know more then."
As you took the samples out of the victim's stomach, Baxter circled the brightly lit table, stopping when he reached the feet. There he knelt, scanning the pale blue skin.
"How do you suppose he got this?"
"Haven't gotten there yet, but I'd assume he bashed it against some furniture," you said. He eyed you curiously but remained quiet for a moment.
"Looks like a puncture wound," he said slowly, contemplating his words carefully before he spoke.
"Give me a moment, sir," you said with a huff, sealing up the stomach tubes and setting them on the tray beside you.
Since you were the only doctor present, you had to hold the stomach walls open yourself, which kept you busy for a good two minutes before you could look at Baxter's little pointer. To your immense relief he waited patiently for you to finish sewing and setting away your tools, before shuffling to the side to make room for you at the end of the table.
As he noticed, there was a small, dark spot beneath his big toe's nail. Digging into your white coat pocket, you pulled out your magnifier glass and set it up close to the cold skin.
"Could be right," you said softly, focused more on your sight than your tongue. You raised a gloved hand, pulling at the wound, pushing on the bruise till the hole widened.
"Needle mark?"
"That's what I was thinking," you said, shoving your magnifier glass back in your pocket. "Good eye, Baxter. I'll tell Peters to check his blood for any trace drugs."
You circled back around to your spot on the table, sorting through the six tube samples before lifting the case into your arms. Noticing your small stumble over your feet, he rushed over to join you, taking the case from you.
"I can take this up for you," he offered, his wide, grey eyes set strictly upon you. The sudden closeness had your words stammering and stuttering.
"Um – y- yeah, thank you," you said with a smile, your chest tight as he left. Only when the door shut behind him did you breathe again, turning back to the patient beneath you.
Hopefully, when you got the chance to meet the rest of the officers, you wouldn't slip up like that––messing up in front of one person was enough, and Baxter already felt like a very strange person, so probably would mind your oddness the least. The others would be less forgiving, or at least that's what you assumed. Most of the police you'd met in your life had been incredibly straight-cut, diamonds-up-the-ass kind of people.
"What a strange lad," you commented to your patient. "I should bake him some cookies."
The rest of the autopsy took three hours, full of rotting stenches and labelled gizzards. Your thirty-minute break was reduced to ten as the victims of a bar shootout came in, the three bodies riddled with bullet holes, leaving the cause of death obvious to anyone who stopped by. You didn't see Baxter again that day––not until it was done, and you were wrapped back in your personal coat, heading towards the elevator.
He caught the door before it could close in front of you, and as you rushed in with full hands you hurriedly thanked him. A bell dinged and the door shut, leaving the two of you alone in the enclosed space, the buzzing florescent light buffering between you.
"Did you hear about the shootout?" You asked when it became clear to you that this was a slow elevator.
"Yeah," he nodded, "I got a call and stopped by, but... they were already gone, and the, um.. the others were dead."
"Well, if they weren't then, they are now," you said, once again ignoring his questioning eye. "I had to put their brains in some jars."
To your surprise, he chuckled, brushing the hair off his face and readjusting his perfect posture.
"You know, usually it takes some time before new people start making jokes about the dead," he said, grinning as he looked at you out of the side of his eye.
"I'm a fast learner and a natural comedian. Mother always was disappointed in my career choice... wanted me to be a court jester," you teased with your own giggle, heart beating rapidly at the prospect of someone pretty enjoying your company.
"You do well in both careers. Do – do you need some help with that?" He asked, noticing your struggle with the varied bags in your arms.
"I think I can do it," you said, huffing as you tried to hoist the plastic back onto you. Before you could help it two of them slipped, nearly falling but halted when Baxter caught them mid-air.
"What do you have in here?" He asked, his brow furrowed as he tried to glance inside.
"Clothes," you said after a mumble of a 'thank you'. "One of the women here had a lot of clothes to get rid of and, well, I need some. And I'm sure one of my roommates could use them, too."
"Oh. Do you have a car?"
"You could call it that."
"I'll help you carry these there, then," he said, taking another bag off your shoulder. The loss of stress on your muscles left you relieved, and you sighed happily.
"Thank you, sir."
You tried to contain your smile as you led him through the parking lot, slipping between the empty spaces to get to your tiny vehicle. Legally it wasn't even a car––actually, you'd built it from the basis of a golf cart, slowly adding and changing features until it drove and looked essentially like a car. Hard work, but you'd been doing it since you stole it in the 7th grade.
Rarely did you ever get along with people, and so Baxter's politeness had sparked a delight in you that brought a ceaseless smile. When you took the bags from him, you thanked him again, attempting to hold a conversation while shoving the bags into the back of your car. He chuckled at your strained words, but eventually helped you when he got over his amusement.
"It was nice to meet you today, and thank you, again," you said once the backdoor was slammed shut beneath yours and Baxter's combined strength.
"Pleasure to meet you, as well. Drive safe now," he said, shaking your hand with a grin.
"Oh I will," you assured him, laughing. You clambered into the driver's seat, shutting the door but leaning out the open window. "If I don't I'll have you on my ass."
"You know it!" He said as he walked away, his bright laugh echoing in the mostly-empty parking lot.
