It's only been a week, and yet Frank can tell that something has definitely changed. Joe's a little tenser, snapping at uniforms and even once at Frank. Frank's not really sure what besides Joe's sudden move to On Edge Land has really changed, but something's different.

He sits down at his desk and the ergonomically designed chair creaks obstinately before giving way and letting him slouch. A file box beside Joe's desk catches his eye and he toes off the lid. He bends down quickly to catch a precariously balanced file, then straightens up and begins to examine its contents.

Paging through the file, he starts to laugh. Joe and his temp worked a porn star's suicide? Frank snickers at the images this conjures, trying and failing to picture Joe attempting to interrogate a drag queen or a dominatrix.

"What's funny, Frank?"

He starts and drops the file onto his desk. Joe eyes the label and nods. "Yeah, crazy case, that one. Be glad you were gone; took some serious leaps of logic to close it."

"How was my temp?"

"Nice lady. Smart, too. Better looking than you," Joe says, his expression serious but his voice almost teasing. Frank sends up a brief prayer thanking whatever method that Joe has found to un-tense himself.

Pawing through a stack of reports, Joe says, frustrated, "Have you seen the file for the McArthur case?"

Frank hands it to him, then goes back to perusing the suicide file. "Bizarre," he mutters.

Joe looks up, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt. "What's bizarre?"

He points at the coroner's report. "I had a friend who committed suicide just like that."

"Alcohol and barbiturates? You go to sleep and you never wake up. Nice way to die, I think."

"Better than slitting your wrists," Frank says mildly, not looking at Joe. He catches Joe's sharp look but pretends to still be engaged in his perusal of the report. He can't think I never noticed, Frank thinks, but apparently Joe thinks something along those lines because he says nothing.

Frank eventually puts away the porn star's file and starts doing actual work. Joe's gone back to being Mr. Tension; his jaw is clenched and he taps his pen against the pockmarked surface of his desk. The phone on Franks desk rings and Joe visibly jumps; Frank ignores this and reaches for the phone.

"Smith. Okay. Address?" He gestures for a piece of paper and Joe hands him one across the desk. Frank copies down the numbers the dispatcher rattles off and hangs up the phone. "Double murder on the East Side. Ready?"

Joe stands and reaches for his jacket, his sleeves riding up over his forearms, and before he tugs them down again Frank sees the darker lines of old scars across each of his wrists. He says nothing and pulls on his own coat, heading for the door of the precinct and knowing that nothing's changed; he's only just noticed what's been going on.