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zillazumi · 17 days ago

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blood on the freesia stalks | charlie swan/carlisle cullen

link to ao3

Summary: There are men turning up dead in the woods, and Chief of Police Charlie Swan has a job to do—figure out what, or who, left the poor bastards torn up as they are. Chief of Police Charlie Swan is too old for this mess. Too old and too sick of this shit to pretend Forks is just a sleepy old rural town anymore. Between the gruesome corpses and the quiet, unsettling doctor Cullen who shows up like a statue in pressed slacks, lying through his teeth, Charlie’s got more questions than answers—and no one seems too keen on giving him either. Charlie’s trying not to notice how his breath catches when the doc gets too close. He’s also trying not to notice how the bodies keep piling up, unsolved. Neither effort is going particularly well. And if one more person tells him it was a bear, he’s going to shoot something. Probably not a bear. Warnings: descriptions of a dead body, violence, not too bad but it's there!

carlisle cullen x charlie swan, 2.8k words, chapter 1 of many. bear with me as i haven't written in a while!

Chapter 1: 1. Fall, 2004: BOGACHIEL PEAK

BOGACHIEL PEAK; FORKS, WASHINGTON; THURSDAY, 11.50AM

“Looks like your lunch plans are shot, Chief.” Charlie grunted in reply, gripping the wheel tighter as the rain lashed against his windshield and the wind howled over the roof of his cruiser. His car-radio had been nothing but grating static all morning—that’s what he gets for being a cop in the sticks—which meant he only had the relentless percussion of rain on glass, and the occasional crackle of Deputy Porter’s voice through the receiver at his belt to keep him company. He flicked his gaze to the rearview mirror, eyeing the rainfall streaming down the mountain-road in his wake. “Lunch plans? Try the whole damn day…” he muttered, and the receiver crackled into silence again. The cruiser rattled slightly as he rounded another sharp curve onto the narrow dirt track up to Bogachiel Peak, dirty water spraying up from the ditches his wheels spun through. Already, Charlie’s head hurt from squinting through the downpour. And from other things too, he supposed. Like, for example, this dead body in Forks.

‘Washed up near the old trailhead by Bogachiel River,’ dispatch had said. He shifted in his seat, knuckles flexing uncomfortably on the wheel. Charlie hadn’t exactly been planning on seeing a corpse today. Not right before his lunch break, not ever, really. Accidents happen, sure—dumb kids getting tanked and crashing into trees, tourists losing their footing near the cliffs—but a body washing up on the river shores? Didn’t happen here. Not in Charlie’s town. Hell, people here worried more about raccoons tipping trashcans, not bodies turning up in the woods. As his car heaved higher into the hills, the forest began to thicken around him. His headlights flickered on. Apparently, some hiker had stumbled across it early that morning, nearly passed out on his way back to the ranger station. Finally, his car rocked out onto a gravelly opening. He exhaled through his nose as his two deputies—Mark and Steve—waved him into the haphazard parking lot, their own vehicles’ headlights glaring through the rain, engines still thrumming.

An ambulance sat idly, its back doors shut tight. No rush, Charlie thought grimly. He rolled to a stop, cut the engine, and sat for a moment, rubbing a palm over his face. He relished the car-heater’s faint warmth ghosting across his skin for a little while longer, before reaching for his cap, seeing his breath fog the window before he stepped out. The steady drum of the rain against the roof of his car soon turned into a relentless assault as he shut the door behind him, boots landing on wet gravel with a crunch. Christ. He shivered, pulling the brim of his cap down lower. “Chief Charles!” Deputy Steve Porter shouted over the downpour, waving him over. Charlie squinted at him and trudged his way over through the mud, swearing under his breath. Porter looked soaked to the bone, raincoat drenched and sagging over his wiry frame.

There was a small decline down towards the bank of the river where the hikers’ trail began. Charlie snorted despite himself as Porter clutched his shoulder on the sway down, slipping awkwardly in the mud—it reminded him of all the times he’d taken Bella along here in the summer when she was a kid, when they’d both inch their way down to the river on their backsides, coming home to Renee with ruined trousers and scuffed elbows. “Nice of you to show up, Chief,” Porter said with a wry grin, half side-stepping, half-falling down the path, teeth chattering. He ducked under the flapping police tape and Charlie followed close behind.

“Didn’t realise I was the last to show,” Charlie muttered. He scrubbed a hand against the rain-dotted face of his watch, squinting. “Came here as soon as I got the call, but the roads have been hell.” Porter waved a hand dismissively, before pointing ahead towards a stretch of yellow tarp just visible through the blanket of rain. “Body’s down there. Male, mid-thirties, looks like a hiker—he’s in pretty bad shape though Chief, just a warning.” Charlie squared his shoulders, nodding. That’s fine. “Mark’s with it now, and Dr. Cullen’s taking a look too—he got here maybe ten minutes before you.” Damn, he really was the last guy to the party. Everybody and their mom’s shown up before him. Wait.

Dr. Cullen? “Cullen?” Charlie asked, raising an eyebrow at Porter, craning his neck to try and make out the two silhouettes by the riverbank. “Yeah, the doc from the hospital. County brought him in to help with the autopsy,” Porter explained. “Guess they figured a doctor’d be useful for this… kinda thing.” Charlie grunted. Fair enough. He exhaled through his nose, then clapped Porter on the shoulder. “Right, thanks Porter. I’ll take it from here.” As he neared the trailhead, the mud began to turn to water and stones and empty beer cans. Deputy Mark Davis stood by the river’s edge, his usual easy grin replaced by a tight frown. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder towards a stretch of yellow tarp, his frame hunched over in the rain. “Morning, Chief,” Mark said briskly. “It’s uh… not pretty down there.” “Figured as much,” Charlie replied, arching an eyebrow. Mark’s gaze flickered towards the tarp uneasily. Deputy Davis was a burly man, been on the job a long time, past his fifties. Big guy’s seen his fair share, Charlie was sure. But, he didn’t miss the tension in his deputy’s stance– it wasn’t every day a guy met eyes with an actual corpse, not in Forks. “You alright, Davis?” Mark hesitated, but Charlie caught his gray eyes flicker again. “Yeah, just…” This time, he followed them. They landed on a tall figure by the body. The man was knelt down in the rain, bent over the body with the chilling precision of someone used to grim work.

“Dr. Cullen’s here,” Mark muttered. Charlie glanced from his deputy to the silhouetted doctor in the rain, and back again.

“And?” Mark tensed, shifting his weight. “And nothing, I guess. People talk, Chief. That’s all.” Charlie blinked, knitting his brows before rubbing the bridge of his nose. It was like he could hear Billy’s gruff voice in every local in Forks. Small towns are all about gossip, Forks was no different, and a new face like Dr. Cullen’s was like fresh meat for the wolves. “Let’s just focus on what’s in front of us, yeah?” “Yessir,” Mark stepped aside, yanking his coat tighter around his broad shoulders, and Charlie moved past him.

He pulled his flashlight out from his pocket, hitting it hard a few times with his palm before it flickered to life. The beam cut through the sheets of rain like a knife, lighting up the grisly mess in front of him. The yellow tarp rattled angrily in the wind, only barely weighed down by sodden rocks on its corners; beneath it, a dark stain seeped into the ground. Crimson, thick. Dr. Cullen looked up as Charlie stepped closer, eyes immediately locking with his own. Jesus Christ. Charlie cleared his throat. Even through the torrent, Dr. Cullen’s face was composed, hair unruffled. Clothes soaked, of course, but sophisticated. Charlie was almost jealous—he’d only been here what, ten minutes? And he already looked—and felt—like a drowned dog. But the doctor looked… well, like he didn’t even belong to the same damn planet as them. The rain on his skin looked like tear-tracks on the cheek of a porcelain statue.

“Chief Swan,” the doctor greeted, his voice smooth, even. He stood up from where he’d been crouching down; he was tall, and strikingly pale in his long, dark coat, which swept around him, all expensive fabrics and sharp-cut lines, accentuating a lean frame. He extended a gloved hand to Charlie. “Dr. Carlisle Cullen. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, I just wish it were under better circumstances.” Charlie swallowed, then sighed gruffly. “You can say that again, Doc.” He shook the doctor’s hand. His grip was firm, his palm cool through the latex glove. “I appreciate you being here.” Unlike some. He glanced back at Mark, whose eyes he could feel digging into the back of his skull. “Of course. It’s important that we do this right.” The doctor’s voice was soft with sympathy, smiling almost apologetically, his eyes lingering on his own. There was a quiet confidence to him that put Charlie at ease—an unspoken understanding that he was here to help, but also a professional detachment. No nonsense. “So, what’ve we got?” Charlie sighed, crouching down near the edge of the tarp. Charlie looked up just in time to catch Carlisle hesitating briefly, before crouching back down beside him, his gloved hands moving with measured precision as he lifts the tarp. He felt his stomach lurch as the distinct smell of decay mingled with the damp, musty fir of the forest. The smell of copper. Of blood. “The victim is male, mid-to-late thirties. His injuries are... pretty severe.” Carlisle eyed Charlie cautiously, and he nodded, staring at the mangled mess of the hiker in front of them. He blinked as Carlisle began to walk him through the various wounds across the man’s body with clinical composure, each slice hitting him like a punch to the gut: torn flesh, jagged, broken bones, blood-soaked hair. Finally, the doctor pointed carefully to a deep, clean gash across the man’s neck. Charlie frowned. It seemed almost out of place amongst the other, rougher tears. “Christ,” Charlie muttered under his breath, leaning back a little. The smell was making him feel light-headed. “So, uh… what’re you thinking? Animal attack?” Carlisle’s pause was almost imperceptible, but Charlie Swan was nothing if not observant. And, maybe he’d been staring right at the guy. Couldn’t help it. He watched the doctor’s eyes flicker briefly to the surrounding woods before settling on the body, lips pursed in thought. For a moment, those eyes seemed to gleam golden in the weak light of the woods. Contacts? The thought flitted across Charlie’s mind before quickly disappearing under the weight of everything else. “An animal attack is the most likely explanation. A large predator, likely a bear or perhaps a cougar.” “Yeah?” Charlie frowned, shifting uncomfortably as he eyed the great gashes across the man’s body. “Not doubting your call, Doc, but this doesn’t look like any bear attack I’ve seen. See the neck?” He clicked his flashlight, which was dying again. When it didn’t turn on, he smacked it against his knee, making the poor doctor beside him jump slightly. He murmured an apology, then shined the now-working beam over the deep, clean gash that stretched across the victim’s bared throat. “Too neat, ain’t it?” Carlisle’s long, gloved fingers hovered just above the wound, careful not to disturb the evidence. “It’s unusual,” he agreed softly. A silence lingered for a moment, Carlisle’s hand hovering, before he continued. “But, not impossible. Predators often target the neck to incapacitate their prey. The size of the wound, the force of the attack—it’s consistent with a large animal. Though, I must admit it’s hard to say for certain without further examination.” Charlie squinted at the doctor through the rain. The more he heard the guy talk, the harder it was to place his accent—it was American, sure, but old-timey, almost Transatlantic, British. There was a smoothness to it, despite the circumstances, like the way the charming monochrome actors in his dad’s tapes used to sound.

“Huh,” he said after a beat, leaning back. “Some animal. The rest of him…” Charlie gestured vaguely to the jagged tears along the torso, the sight making his stomach sink. “Looks like he was dragged through the lumber-mill.” Carlisle shifted slightly, the folds of his coat settling heavily around him. “There may have been a struggle… which could explain some of these wounds. Teeth or claws catching flesh during the attack.” He took a deep breath. “I saw similar cases in rural areas. Bears can be particularly aggressive this time of year, Chief Swan.”

Charlie snorted softly. “You say that like you’ve been wrestling a few.”

Something passed through Carlisle’s expression briefly—humour? “I’ve had… experience.”

Arching an eyebrow, Charlie takes his cap off and runs a hand roughly through his hair, before putting it back on again. “Right… so, bears.”

He clicked his flashlight off and sat back on his heels. He glanced back at Carlisle again, and for the first time, the doctor’s faint frown cracked through his polished veneer. His blonde brows were knitted slightly, a flicker of unease passing across his face. He nodded. Charlie cleared his throat, looking away. “If you say so,” he yielded. He straightened up and coughed roughly into his elbow, before stepping back and resting his hands on his hips. He still felt like he was being pranked. Bears had never given Forks trouble before. Why now? “Well, I guess this is why they called you in, huh?” Carlisle stood with him and inclined his head, a modest smile returning to his previously solemn lips. Charlie watched those same soft lips open to respond, but they were interrupted by the sharp crackle of his radio, static erupting from his belt and making him flinch. “Chief Swan?” Deputy Porter’s gruff, tinny voice came through. Charlie rubbed his face with a palm before pulling the radio from his belt. “Yeah?” “I’ve got Mark talking to the witness from this morning. Says he’s pretty shaken, but didn’t see anything else. Anything you want me to do?” Charlie chewed the inside of his cheek, watching the river run rapid with the rain, remembering, absent-mindedly, how he and Bella used to fish here before starting the hiking trail. He found his gaze wandering to Dr. Cullen, who was peeling off his gloves with practiced ease, revealing long, slender fingers. “Trail cams,” he said suddenly, the idea striking him mid-thought. “They’re all over these woods. Have Mark check with the park rangers, see if they’ve got any footage we can pull—might give us a clue about what kind of animal we’re dealing with. Or anything else.” “Got it, Chief. Trail cams,” Porter responded, and the line cut to static once again. The trail cams here had been installed a few years back after a spate of illegal poaching in the area; it was his friend Harry Clearwater that had suggested it, was getting wary of guys hunting on ‘his land’ without a license. Most of the time, the cams caught nothing more than deer grazing. Still, they were the closest thing they had to an eyewitness. Charlie clipped the radio back to his belt and exhaled. “Hell of a day,” he muttered. Carlisle nodded, his gaze somewhat far-off for a moment, before returning to Charlie. “If the cameras show anything of note, I’d be happy to assist in interpreting it— if needed,” Carlisle offered. “Appreciate it, Doc,” Charlie said, before coughing gruffly, damp air catching in his chest. He lifted an elbow to muffle it, but it rattled a little more than he’d have liked. Carlisle’s eyes flickered back to him instantly. Ah, shit.

“You should really have that checked out, Chief,” he advised, as if automatically. Charlie—also automatically—waved him off. “Nah, it’s nothing. Must be the weather.”

“Or maybe you’ve just been ignoring it a little too long.”

That pulled Charlie up short. Carlisle fixed him with a sceptical look, and the attention made him look to the side. “I’m pretty familiar with stubborn patients,” the doctor noted offhandedly. “Yeah, well, I’m not much of a hospital guy,” Charlie sniffed, adjusting the brim of his cap. “I could always take a look myself? Off the clock.” The words hung in the air for a moment, until Charlie’s stomach growled, and he grunted in embarrassment, tugging his cap lower. “Right… yeah, thanks. It’s just a smokers’ cough though, Doc. Nothin’ worth fussing over.” Carlisle’s golden eyes—seriously, contacts?—lingered on him for a beat longer, before he seemingly gave up. The doctor lifted his hands in surrender before turning to gather his things. He was smiling. As he turned to leave, Charlie caught himself watching the guy’s retreating figure a touch longer than he’d meant to, contemplating the perfect style of his hair, the way his coat seemed impervious to the rain. Back in the cruiser, Charlie yanked his sodden cap off and ran a hand through his wet hair. He sighed, twisting his car keys and gripping the steering wheel as the engine rumbled to life, the wipers beginning to thump rhythmically. ‘Off the clock,’ he thought wryly. Weird guy. Stretching his neck and reversing out of the parking lot, he grunted, pushing the thought into the same box where he kept everything else he didn’t want to deal with.

#twilight #carlisle cullen #charlie swan #carlisle x charlie #carlisle cullen x charlie swan #twilight fanfic #twilight fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #the twilight saga #twihard #writers on tumblr #writing #writer #carlisle fanfic #charlisle #calling all charlisle fans #pls support me and my twilight dilf endeavours

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