Mink Sheets
Fandom: NYPD Blue, Kiss Tommorrow Goodbye
Category/Rated: PG13
Year/Length: ~984 words
Pairing: Frank/Dustin
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.
Author's Notes: Where Frank Colahan is, can Dustin Yarma be far behind? For the NZLJ challenge.
"I believe in 200 dollar blow-jobs and mink sheets."
The husky voice from the bottom bunk made the occupant of the upper one jump. He hadn't said a word prior to this, and he had given only a cursory glance at his companion as he had been thrust into the narrow cell by three armed guards. As far as Frank could tell, his eyes hadn't even widened, although he, Frank had paused, stunned for a moment at the sight of the other man.
"Did you ever have a 200 dollar blow job, then?" asked Frank, shrugging his shoulders and going for it. He'd been feeling pretty lonely up til now despite his silent companion.
"Nah, gave one once, though."
Peering over the edge of the hard, narrow bunk, Frank could see his companion lying, seemingly comfortable and at ease, arms behind his head as he lay on his back. The other man's face was still, eyes closed and a faint smile curving the carefully molded mouth as if mocking the fate that had placed them side by side.
"What about the mink sheets?" It was becoming a game now, a pastime. Toss me that box of words and I'll assemble them into a well known phrase or saying, see if I don't.
"Mink sheets were good enough for cavemen. I don't see why they shouldn't be issued in jails too. Why should Hollywood have all the perks?"
"You think we need mink sheets?"
"Just wait til darkness falls, my friend. It gets colder than a witch's tit in this joint once the sun goes down.
"Have you been here long?" Frank wasn't sure of the etiquette within jails. He'd never run foul of the law before, but no doubt during the long years that stretched ahead of him, he'd learn all about the kind of things one could and couldn't ask, and meanwhile, the man below him was an anomaly, a puzzle, something that he needed to unravel, before it unraveled him.
"Just over three years. They tell me that the first ten are the worst. After that, it's pretty plain sailing."
"What did you do?" Now was that, or was it not a permissible question. Seemingly the man beneath him was pondering that too, because he suddenly opened green, widely spaced eyes and sat up, swinging his legs around as he rose from the bunk to stand and peer at Frank over the edge of the metal framework.
"I killed a woman," he said, tersely. "What did you do?"
"Snap," said Frank. "It was an accident."
"Funny, that," said his companion. "So was mine."
The silence fell again, this time with a brooding quality about it, as though it were sucking any possibility there might be fore companionship from the interchange. Finally, Frank sighed. Okay, he thought. I'll show you mine if you show me yours.
"I killed my wife. She was making me crazy and I just... I hit her. I didn't mean to kill her. I just wanted to shut her up, you know?" Frank's voice faltered, but for some reason, now that he'd started to talk about it, he didn't seem to be able to shut up. "I knocked her down and went off out. I was going to leave her and go back home; she was making me that nuts, but they picked me up from the bus depot and threw me in the slammer." He'd sat up himself and was dangling his legs over the edge of the bed, allowing them to swing childishly. "So how come you're here?"
"Like I said, it was an accident. I lost my temper, hit the wrong person, and she died." The other man swung himself up to sit beside Frank, turning to face him with a wry smile. "I ran. I was in such a panic that I wasn't thinking clearly. Didn't stop to pack even, just caught a redeye flight to New York and ran like a rat." He shook his head as though trying to dislodge an unpleasant memory. "Didn't help. They were waiting for me when I got off the plane, and I still ended up having to face the music."
"You think you'll get time off for good behavior?" Frank looked at the other man, feeling somewhat disturbed by his appearance, but unsure why it should bother him so.
"God knows; I don't," said his cellmate. "It's just about killed me to lose the lifestyle. If I had to murder someone, why couldn't it have been him? The fucker that stole my life? He deserved to die." He dropped to the floor, pacing to and fro in agitation.
Frank held out a hand, stopping the other as he passed by the bunk, and swung him round so that they faced each other.
"So how do you explain this?" He gestured to himself and then back to his companion.
"You mean, the way we..."
"The fact that I could be looking in a mirror, man."
"I don't... I don't know."
"Where were you born?" Frank wasn't about to let this go.
"Chicago," said his companion.
"Me too." Frank felt rising excitement. "How old are you? I'm thirty six."
"Yeah. Same here. This is bizarre."
"Yeah, it is. Can't ask my mom, she's dead. I'm Frank Colahan," said Frank, extending his hand at last. "Don't suppose your last name is Colahan, is it?"
"Dustin Yarma," said his companion, taking it. "I'm afraid not, but we seem to be moving in parallel, wouldn't you say?"
"It sure looks like it," said Frank. "Well, glad to meet you, if you're some weirdly displaced long lost brother. I'm not much of a relative, but pleased to make your acquaintance anyway."
"Likewise," said Dustin, smiling at last. "We Chicagoans should stick together, and if we ever get out of here again, I'll see you get a shot at those mink sheets."
The End
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