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fernandopiastri28 · 2 days

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sex with a ghost ~ charles leclerc

For Detective Charles Leclerc, nothing in the world matters more then bringing justice to the innocent and single handedly removing each and every awful person from the world- even if it takes him his whole life. But maybe some cases should just be left to go cold, and some murderers shouldn't be caught.

Notes:

warnings- death, use of knives, murder, blood - mature!

“Jesus Christ ,” Pierre hissed as he trailed closely after Charles, peeking over the monequesque’s shoulder, his body going rigid at the sight in front of them. It was an adult male, a slightly bulging stomach and a balding head of grey hair. His shirt was long discarded, tossed half haphazardly over a chair at his dining table. He was laying on his back, right in the middle of his living room.

Down his stomach and chest there was a deep, straight line cut. spewed out blood staining the skin surrounding the incision and splattered on the hardwood floor beneath him. For it being Pierre’s first week on the job of being a crime scene photographer, this was a pretty intense first case. For Charles however, being a detective for the past 6 years meant he’d become accustomed to sights like this.

To be fair, it still wasn’t a pleasant sight- but he’d perfected the art of keeping his breakfast down when he had to inspect it. Pierre was looking alot like he was about to lose his, likely all over the corpse. “ Excusez-vous si vous pensez que vous allez vomir.” (Excuse yourself/apologise if you think you're going to throw up).

Pierre gulped loudly, coughing into his fist as he attempted to regather himself. “Désolé, monsieur Leclerc,” (Sorry, Mr Leclerc) . Charles waved away his apology, giving him a tight smile as if to say ‘ Just don’t let it happen next time,’. Pierre squatted down next to the body, snapping on a pair of blue latex gloves, his hands moving to hold up the camera that was dangling around his neck up to his eye.

Charles followed suit, his fingers gently gliding along the cut, the rubber gathering some flaky blood over his finger tips. “Coupures profondes,” (deep cuts) , He murmured, receiving a nod in agreement from the french men. “Overkill, certainement,” He had to switch back to English for that, unable to find a word in French that could quite describe what had been inflicted on the man well enough.

The single cut wasn’t the only one, there were multiple other smaller ones littered all over the rest of his ever paling skin. It was a gory scene, and one that matched exactly three prior bodies he’d examined over the past nineteen months. He’d thought it had ended, the first three murders had been over the course of six months, then it had ended- gone without a trace of who the murderer could be. Now, they were clearly back, and hungry for blood.

The sound of clackering footsteps behind took Charles’ attention back to the current body at hand. A medical examiner entered the room, closely followed by a younger man basically on the backs of his feet. “Carlos Sainz,” The senior man introduced himself, extending his bare hand to Charles’ gloved one. He declined the handshake, giving him a curt smile instead.

The man, or boy as he looked hardly 20, looked straight at Charles, seemingly studying his face. “Lando Norris,” He dipped his head, a half nod to the detective. He did the same to Pierre who blissfully ignored him, busily capturing all different angles of the scene with his camera.

“You are?” Carlos asks, eyeing Charles up curiously. He refused to wear a name tag, insisting that the only people who deserved to know his name were the people respectful enough to ask for it in the first place.

“Charles Leclerc,” His own name rolled off his tongue easily, Sharl Leclair. The proper french pronunciation rather than the americanised one he often received. “Detective of this case. I’ve also investigated every other murder this person has committed,” He added, not wanting for the M.E. to have some sort of a superiority complex and insist that ‘ they could take it from there,’.

Carlos hummed, taking a step towards the body. Lando followed suit, staying about as close as humanly possible. With a click of the elders finger’s, Lando procured two pairs of white gloves from inside his jacket pocket, handing one to the Spaniard and taking one for himself.

“You’ve come to the conclusion that it is the victim of a serial killer?” Carlos’ accent was thicker than before with this sentence. Charles nodded, full confidence in his statement. “How?” Carlos kneeled down, Lando mimicking the action right next to him, a pair of glasses sliding further down his nose as he tipped his head down to get a better look at the scene.

Pierre moved around the two to continue documenting the body, ignorant that their case was being intruded on. ‘ He’ll learn to not accept this,’ Charles’ expression hardened. “Everything is the exact same as the previous three deaths. The victim matches the exact same description as the three prior, the cuts,” He dragged his index finger along the deepest wound, “The overkill, dieu,” (god), He huffed.

Carlos shook his hair out of his face, removing his gaze from the deceased to look up at Charles. “We’ll be in contact,” Lando took that as a sign to once again reach into his jacket, handing the monegasque an eggshell white business card, Carlos’ obscenely long full name twisting together in grey cursive letter. “But we’ve got it from here,” He stood up, the younger brit obviously doing the same. “You can leave now,”

Pierre looked at Charles with a twisted expression of confusion, unsure of what to do now. A grimace painted his face as he yanked his gloves off, his teeth grinding hard as he pursed his lips, fighting back a crude comment. “je vais résoudre ça,” ( I will solve this), He murmured, pushing between the two colleagues, “me retirer de l'affaire ne fera rien” (removing me from the case won't do anything).

Being off the case meant hours of written work and case files for the rest of the day. It was unfortunately early when he’d gotten the call to come in for a case, so he now had a dubious amount of time until he could clock out and return back to the comfort of his home. He decided to make the best of his time, getting to work more on his evidence board.

He'd put it out of sight only a few months ago since the case had been getting close to a year of being cold, but now it had clearly cracked back open again- and he had more evidence. With a call to Pierre and an hour of waiting, he now had a stack of printed photos from the crime scene to add to the corkboard, all different colours of pins sticking them to the board as red string twisted inbetween photos to draw links.

He currently had two suspects, a woman and a man. He’d been studying both very intently this past year, learning all about them. Even when he had ‘put the case to rest’ he had still spent each and every moment of his free hours researching his possible suspects and any gaps he’d managed to discover within the case.

It could have easily been either of the two, but something was missing. There had to be a vital piece of information that determined which of the two had committed the murders. Charles just had to think.

After pinning up the new photos, his eyes widened and his jaw went slack in complete shock, He had his murderer. He touched his finger to the photo of the female, removing it to hold the glossy film in his palm. The man, an engineer in his mid twenties, had been the top suspect in the case until now, because he was currently serving a two year jail sentence for breaking and entering.

So that was it, he had his woman.

2 weeks later

Charles rubbed his temples with his right hand, letting out a long exhale he’d been holding in all day. It had been a long shift- far too long trapped away in a windowless office only illuminated by the dull light of his computer and the buzz of his desk fan.

He slotted his key into his apartment door, jiggling it around until it clicked open. The view inside his apartment was far more pleasant than his one at the station. It was small and hardly decorated beyond a few posters and paintings lining the walls. The lack of decor was made up for with the floor to ceiling windows along the wall that outlooked onto the city, the bright evening lights bringing a sense of colour to his otherwise boring home.

His gun was safely tucked into his gun holster, pressing right into his hip bone. He relocked the door, toeing his shoes off and pushing them to the side of the door with his foot. Charles was sure he’d never been so happy to be home. Today had been hellish, far more documentation and written work than a man with every on-work qualification should’ve been doing.

To make it worse, he had an active murder he should’ve been investigating. He quite literally had the woman- Madison Malinowski . All signs pointed to her, now it was just down to catching her and having the evidence to imprison her. She was like a vanishing act- suddenly not a single trace of her existence able to be found anywhere.

Catching her was all he could think about recently. As he worked on other case files, as he slept, while he brushed his teeth, ate food, got dressed, showered- constantly. He was beyond obsessed with the idea of catching her. Of being able to rid the world of such a vile person.

She had the same method of overkill with each victim; a slit clean across the throat, a drag straight down the torso- beginning at the bottom of the throat, all the way down the chest and stopping just above the crotch. Given how precise the cuts were, Charles suspected she must’ve had some kind of a career or education in medicine. Those were the cuts of a surgeon.

His suspicions were heightened given the fact that she took each of her victim’s hearts with her, some sick and twisted memorabilia of her murders. There had been four so far- all men in their forties to fifties. She clearly had a pattern at least- based on it they were able to start building a profile. Each and every single piece of knowledge they had gained about their unsub had led straight back to his speculation of Madison, who had attended medical school for the whole four year course.

Charles sat down on his couch, hunching over to rest his head in his palms, his breathing the only audible noise in his otherwise silent apartment. He would’ve stayed like that for the rest of the night if it wasn’t for the ache in his stomach- caused from him skipping lunch to try and get his work done at a respectable time so it wouldn’t be pitch black when he had to walk home. It also meant that it was a few degrees warmer on his walk, not bitingly cold through the thin material of his suit.

He stood up, raking a hand through his dry hair- noting to wash it tonight before it got even more unpleasant to the touch. Opening his fridge door as soon as he reached his kitchen, only a few steps from his living room due to the small size of the lot, his eyes scanned through the shelves. He prided himself in keeping it relatively stoked of somewhat nourishing food and ingredients, so despite how exhausted he was each night he got home, he was almost always forced to cook up something with some sense of health to it.

Tonight based on the ingredients in both his pantry and fridge, it was looking like a pasta night. Charles turned the stove on, watching it flicker the first few times he attempted to light it. The water in the pot began to bubble over the raging blue flames underneath it. Based on that, he dumped a whole box of uncooked pasta into the metal bowl, making enough to have it for dinner the following night and possibly lunch tomorrow.

In the meanwhile, he got started on the sauce. He diced up an onion and a few garlic cloves, managing to nick himself with the knife in the process. After cursing himself out in a mixture of both French and English, he ran the wound under a stream of water from the tap- the water turning a pale pink underneath his thumb. He patted it dry with a plush paper towel, searching around for a bandage to protect the injury.

Charles was in luck, a singular bandaid sat on his counter, not a single other one in sight throughout the whole apartment. He praised whatever reason there was behind him leaving one band aid the last time he’d used them, otherwise he’d be cooking the rest of his meal with a paper wrapped around it, a piece of sticky tape securing it.

He ripped the bandaid open with his teeth, tugging the plaster out and wrapping it around both his nail and skin. He spat the excess paper out into the bin, returning to his cutting. He removed the pot from the burner, not wanting to overcook his pasta. It was an unlikely chance though, he more often than not ended up with al dente pasta then properly cooked.

There was a can of tomatoes in the fridge, perfect for his sauce. He put the onions and garlic into a pan with some oil, waiting for it to sizzle to near burnt before he added the tomatoes and reduced it with some cream. Charles gave himself a pat on the back once he added the pasta to his sauce creation, marvelling at how good the whole apartment was beginning to smell because of it.

He served himself a portion up, grating some parmesan over the top for good measure. For the first time the whole day, his mind had shut off from work, from Madison in particular for long enough for him to enjoy a meal. There were only two seats at his dining table, so not much choice in terms of where he wanted to sit. He took the one across from the windows, letting his mind wander as he gazed out at the darkening night sky.

Without the need to think about anything too important, he was allowed to wonder about more casual- non-work centred activities he wanted for tonight. Maybe he’d crack a bottle of wine open, maybe he’d have a cigarette for the first time in a while, maybe he’d invite a girl off his phone over for the night. He wouldn't have to be at work nearly as early as usual tomorrow- so sex tonight was definitely in the realm of possibilities.

Charles scooped up a large mouthful, nearly moaning as it reached his mouth. He couldn’t tell if it was really good or if he was just really hungry. Regardless, he decided it was well earned- and a glass of champagne was too. He walked over to his alcohol collection, extracting a bottle of prestige cuvée he’d been gifted for his birthday a few months prior by a friend. It seemed fitting for the occasion, something to get his mind off of work and to de-stress.

To add to his forcing relaxation, he unclipped his holster from his belt, placing it straight down onto his coffee table. The lack of metal weight there left a strange tension on his hip where it had been resting. He drove his thumbs into the area, slowly massaging feeling back into it. He groaned in pleasure, his head falling backward at the pressure.

Once he felt all of the ache in the area fade away, he returned back to the dinner to finish his meal. He sat back down, pouring a glass of the bubbly into a champagne flute, and alternated between sips and bites. He drank more than he was anticipating, being three glasses down by the end of his meal.

Charles extended his legs out under the table, guzzling the last of his drink as he rested his head on the top of his chair. Ten minutes passed as he remained there, exhausted from the mix of rich and heavy food, alcohol, and work.

The sight of the remaining sauce caked onto the ceramic bowl was the only thing that got Charles out of his seat, finally deciding to clean up before the bowl became near impossible to clean. Well, he’d clean up after a smoke.

His pack of cigarettes and lighter were in the same place as always, the plastic wrapper around the box already broken. That was strange until he thought back to the week prior- he’d gotten so drunk he could barely stand, and when he was drunk, he smoked. That’s where the two that were missing had gone too. He took another one out, holding it in between his index and thumb as he made his way out onto the balcony.

The sky looked impossibly peaceful, littered with twinkling stars and the noise of traffic below was muted from how high up his apartment was. It was a sight to be seen and one to be appreciated. Charles placed the paper roll up in between his lips, suckling gently to keep it in place as his lighter flickered against the light breeze.

As soon as he felt the warm familiarity of smoke filling his lungs, his brain seemed to turn to goo and spill out of his ears. Not being drunk and being able to genuinely enjoy his cigarette while sober and in full awareness of how it was making him feel, felt unreal- an electric shock through his whole system.

Right now, he couldn’t even find it in himself to feel any hatred towards Carlos Sainz- the man who had taken him away from the case he was so close to solving. Thanks to him, he’d had plenty of time to study everything there was to know about Madison Malinowski. If he hadn’t been an expert on her before, he certainly was now.

He’d spent so long looking through records of her, hearing her name over and over, seeing her face endlessly- it was as if she was someone he knew personally, a close friend even. Maybe she would be in another life, one where she didn’t kill people for the sake of ending their lives, just watching them desperately struggle and beg for their lives. Attempt to grasp onto their last breath, praying they’d return back to their families one last time.

God, that was morbid.

Charles decided that was enough smoking tonight as he began to feel a woozy feeling in his stomach- almost on edge. It was the same thing he’d gotten his whole life each time he thought about death. After so long on the job, he’d figured out how to work around it, but he found if he spent too long really thinking about murder or even just death in a natural circumstance- he felt the exact same as he did right now.

He shut the balcony door shut after him, trapping the heat from the radiator inside again. He looked at his dishes glumly, deciding to get the wash up process over and done with now rather than later, knowing future him would thank current him for his.

Dishes weren’t his least favourite activity by any means- he just really couldn’t be bothered tonight. If it were up to him, he would’ve ordered pizza and ate in front of the tv- watching some trashy sitcom. Maybe he would’ve invited his mate, Joris, over for a few beers, drunk away the work week and woke up feeling like shit.

But being an adult meant he needed to mature out of his university life tendencies- so cooking his own meal and eating it at the dining table, accompanied by some stupidly expensive champagne it was.

The kettle was already boiled from dinner so he just had to add dishwashing liquid into the sink along with the scalding water. He cautiously dipped a finger into the mixture, confirming that it was bearable to have his hands inside. After adding some cold water straight from the tap, he submerged his cutlery, bowl, cutting boards and glass.

He mindlessly scrubbed away, humming along to a song he’d heard on the radio a few nights before. Drying along the way after he’d washed up, he realised something from the preparation of dinner was missing- the knife he’d used for the onion and garlic.

It was hardly the knife that could easily go missing- it was pretty big, a solid chunk of metal that wouldn’t easily blend into the countertop. Just as he reached his hand out to look for it, he felt an unpleasant sharp coolness against where his adams apple bobbed.

“Hello Charlie,” His eyes lowered to just under his chin, where the obvious blade of his knife was resting against his skin. His heart thrummed in his chest, his skin going cold to the touch. A guttural laugh sounded in his ear, hot breath brushing against his neck. “A little birdie told me that you’ve been looking for me, baby,”

Charles' eyes flickered to his right where the voice was coming from, his body going rigid in fear of moving. Instinct told him it would’ve been Madison, but the next words coming from the concealed figure made his stomach twist up in a horrible ache, “But you stopped looking for me? Why?”

Sure enough right next to him was the face that had taunted him for days, weeks, months. It would sure as hell haunt him for years to come too- if he lived. “ Max ,” His voice was strained with effort, the muscles in his neck tensing. Max Verstappen, the man who was supposed to be in jail- why wasn’t he?

The dull side of the blade dragged along his neck painfully slowly, dragging out the satisfaction for the sick and twisted man. “Are you gonna scream?” He whispered, his nose nudging against the skin just between the lobe of Charles’ ear and neck. “Tell me that, Detective- Charles- Marc- Hervé- Perceval- Leclerc, do you plan on begging for your life?,” He took pauses in between each name, taunting just how much he knew of him, just like how much Charles knew just about every detail of Max’s life.

He’d pronounced it perfectly too, showing off his research skills to the detective. It was freaky, all the things he’d spent hours studying him about, Max was likely doing the same for him. “Max please,” His voice hitched, fear trembling through his usually confident self. “ Please,”

“You’re cute when you beg,” He hummed contently, dragging the tip of the knife down along his neck, nudging his suit open expertly. “And I bet you’d be even hot when covered in blood,” He looked into his eyes with a strange sense of softness. His bottom lip jutted slightly out, wettened with spit.

“I can beg,” Charles nodded, only the slightest bit to make sure he didn’t stab himself in the process. He was desperately trying to find a way out of this, at least enough to get a weapon of his own. “I can do that for you Max,” He promised.

It was something he’d learnt years ago in his psychology lecture, using names. By using his name, he was creating a sense of false security between the two of them. He would begin to trust him, to soften around him. It would be enough for him to get to safety.

“Maxy,” He corrected, pressing the tip of the blade deeper into his skin, near to piercing it. “I think we’ve been studying each other long enough that you can call me Maxy and I’ll call you Charlie,” Shit, he was flipping it back onto Charles.

“Maxy,” His whole body ached as he said it. This was so wrong, giving into his request- no matter how small. “Why aren’t you in jail?” His question was met by a snicker, the sharp blade sliding along underneath his chin.

“Rich family- paid my way out,” He murmured, not showing any signs of stopping.

The idea that this could be Charles' last memory turned his insides cold and a dribble of sweat slid down his back. For an attempt to access any humanity the blond had, he asked, “Maxy- are you going to kill me?” squeezing his eyes up tightly.

If he was going to, he didn’t want his last thought to be the dutch man with the knife to his neck. He’d much rather it be one of his fond memories of being out partying with Joris, going golfing with George, playing padel with Fernando, gaming with Alex- anything but this.

“No, baby,” His free hand snuck up into his hair, holding him in place. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay?” He licked his lips, waiting for a response. When he didn’t give him one, Max continued regardless. “Do- do you want to know who and why I kill?” He asked, moving the knife away from his neck and down onto the counter.

Charles took that as an allowance to open his eyes. He was finally facing him front on, her whole face visible to him for the first time in person. It was a face he’d studied endless times, spent hours staring at blankly, yet- it didn’t look like the one on his computer. “Yes,” He murmured, his body relaxing as his hand moved out of his hair, letting him go.

Strangely, he didn’t try to run away. He didn’t grab the knife, try and protect himself from her even though he easily could. Max didn’t even look like he would try and stop him if he did so. He just stood there, his feet planted firmly on the floor as he stared into his eyes. “I kill men that have hurt me,” His face was stone cold, expressionless and unmoved.

“Like my father, like my uncle- my boss, my teacher,” He murmured, his fingers grazing along the hem of Charles' shirt, popping the last button undone. The shirt fell open, revealing a chest of pale skin and thin curling hair. “The people who claim to love me and then hurt me at the first chance they get,” He smirked, his blue eyes endless pits to his dark soul.

Charles sucked in his cheeks, his mind working in overtime to process this information. Only one question seemed to fill his head, taking full priority of importance, “Why do you take their hearts?” He murmured.

The muscles of Max’s throat tensed, as if he was figuring out how to verbalise his thoughts. “Love. Each time these events happened, they told me they loved me.” Deep breath, “It’s lies, allemaal onzin ( all nonsense), all bullshit - I take their cold heart because they don’t need them- No one who has any love in their heart is capable of the things they did.”

It was sickly poetic in a sense, the symbolism of heart and love. Maybe in a way this could be seen as beautiful, but to Charles, it was just heartbreaking to see a man who was just so deeply broken inside. “Why the overkill?” The words buzzed emptily through his mind, still on edge from the temptation of death.

Max took the knife back into his hand, dragging a stiff inhale from Charles in caution. The blond dragged the blade along his fingers, yearning for contact and to replicate the feeling . "Het is als een trigger in mijn gedachten ( its like a trigger in my mind), when I start- I just can’t stop. It was easy too, my mother had once been a surgeon- She told me absolutely anything I could ever want to know about removing a heart.

He returned the knife back to its place on the counter, a flurry of vulnerability and regret building behind the hard exterior he took pride in protecting himself with. For all the cases that Charles had studied, hours put into staring at criminal’s each and every flicker of expression they made during a confession- and the same for innocent people. Max clearly was far from innocent, but each and every twitch of his face there was shown all to be consistent with genuine remorse.

“I apologise for holding a knife to your neck, for scaring you- but I don't regret anyone else I hurt,” If those were the words that sent him straight to jail- so be it. “I didn’t want to hurt you, I just didn’t want you to hurt me before I could explain myself,” It was true, even if he had a weird way of trying to express that.

Charles’ face was impossibly close to his now, a pair of pale blue eyes staring into his darker ones. When their eyes both fluttered shut, their lashes brushed against eachother’s. “ik ben geen monster ( I’m not a monster) ,” The blond whispered, heart throbbing with the pain of what he’d done only a few days prior.

“You’re not,” He shook his head, his other hand cupping her face gently. “You’re someone who’s been hurt Maxy, and you didn’t know how to deal with it,” He comforted. He was feeling his resolve fade away, possibly a case of Stockholm syndrome, but he felt relative safety with the Dutch's breath on his skin.

Where their actions turned from comfort to their lips grazing against each other, both yearning for more contact was a thin line- a strange sense of want despite how they'd both gone into this with not the fondest of views of one another.

He moved her head to rest on his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around the back of his waist. The brunet hummed against his head, kissing his hair softly. "I’m not going to do it again, so you don’t have to worry about more murders. Ik ben klaar met pijn doen ( I’m done hurting) .”

"You don't have to hurt anymore Maxy," His lips curled upwards into a twisted smile as his slender fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife, plunging straight into the criminal’s back. He would be an idiot to trust a psychopath like Max, and this was just all so easy. He’d basically given himself to Charles. He slumped down in his arms, blood pooling straight out onto the ground. " I promise,"

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