Disclaimer: I don't own Rizzoli and Isles.

"The thing about women," Korsak begins, gesturing grandly with his beer, then loses his train of thought.

"What?" Frost says. His own beer is empty. Huh. When did that happen? He tosses it to the side—there's a crashing sound, like maybe he just broke something—and snags another off the coffee table.

"What what?"

"What's the thing about women?"

"What thing about women?"

He's pretty sure that Korsak is drunker than he is. So much for all that boasting about how well he holds his booze. Although—he eyes the stack of empty cans next to the other man muzzily—it's possible that Korsak's drunk three or four more beers than Frost has. Frost's only on his third.

"Oh, never mind," Frost grumbles. This is a disaster. He blames Dr. Isles.

They don't talk for a while. Frost takes the opportunity to look around Korsak's apartment. The place is a nightmare, all stark walls and shabby furniture. There's no sign of any of Korsak's many wives, but Frost supposes Korsak must have lived elsewhere when he was married. No one sane would put up with a place like this.

If Frost thought there was any chance he'd end up like Korsak in forty years—okay, closer to thirty—he'd put himself out of his misery here and now.

One more beer, he tells himself, and he'll go.

"The thing about women," Korsak says again, abruptly, as if he'd never cut himself off, "is that they're stronger and smarter than we are."

Frost's not sure whether that's true. Spending most of his time around Jane Rizzoli and Maura Isles can really skew a guy's perspective on the female gender as a whole. He's pretty sure those two aren't exactly a representative sample.

"Prettier, too," Korsak adds with a sigh.

"Yeah," Frost says, because that part he definitely agrees with. Though Jane and Dr. Isles are outliers in that respect too. They'd certainly never mentioned at the academy that he'd end up working with two of the most attractive women he'd ever met. He'd probably be crushing on one or both of them if it weren't so obvious that they're into each other.

(Well, obvious to him anyway. He's positive that Jane has no idea. As for Dr. Isles, he can't tell whether she's equally oblivious, determined to love Jane from afar, or secretly plotting how to get Jane to marry her before year's end.)

"The thing is, though," Korsak goes on, glaring at Frost, "the thing is, they're also more—more—more—" He scrunches up his whole face as if hoping to squeeze out the word he's looking for.

Frost tilts his head, not really noticing as his beer tilts with it and begins to pour onto Korsak's ugly carpet. "Vulnerable?"

Korsak scowls at him. "What did you just say?"

"What?"

"Did you just call Jane and Dr. Isles vulnerable?" Now Korsak's eyebrows resemble an angry storm cloud. Or maybe they're just angry. Frost isn't sure.

"I thought we were talking about women as a whole."

"Do you actually know any other women?"

Frost kicks the coffee table. "Look, Korsak, just because I haven't been married to every woman in Boston—"

"Tempting!" Korsak says triumphantly.

Frost blinks at him. "I'm confused."

"Women," Korsak says, opening another can and downing half its contents in one swallow. "The thing is, they're stronger and prettier than us, but they're also more tempting."

"You forgot smarter."

Korsak shakes his head. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I hate you," Frost tells him. "Now, continue."

"Where was I?"

"Something about tempting."

There's a large fly on Korsak's boxy old television. Frost wonders whether the dude's ever heard of HD.

"Right. Women. They're more tempting than men. I mean, look at me."

Frost looks at him. Korsak appears to have entered the glum stage of drunkenness, which is better than the angry stage and the singing-bad-show-tunes stage he'd gone through earlier.

"There's no serial killer in the world who's gonna look at me and say to himself, 'Boy, I'd like to crucify him with scalpels through his hands.' If it'd been me in that cellar, Hoyt would've just slit my throat and been done with it."

They're heading into dangerous territory, Frost thinks. Jane doesn't talk about the first time Hoyt had her, not ever, and if she were here now she'd knock Korsak into next week to get him to stop talking.

On the other hand…Jane is supposed to be his partner. His. Frost's. Not Korsak's, not anymore. Not even Dr. Isles'. And this is the kind of thing a guy should know about his partner, so that the next time he sees the man whose name rhymes with "adroit"—okay, just how drunk is he right now, he wonders—he knows whether to blow the man's head off.

"Having women on the force changes things," Korsak says, and now he sounds like he's trying to come across as wise or something, but the effect is totally ruined by the way his words keep slurring and bumping up against one another. "You've gotta worry more, y'know? Not because they can't take care of themselves—because they can—but because for some reason I'll never understand, psychos think that they're fun targets, and they end up in a lot more danger than we are."

Frosts stares down into his beer. It's been at least ten minutes since he actually took a sip and his head feels like it's clearing, just a little. At least, he no longer feels the urge to giggle at the thought that "Hoyt" rhymes with "adroit," which is something.

"You're full of crap, Korsak," Frost says. "You'd be Jane's partner again in a New York minute, if she'd take you."

Korsak waves his hand. "Yeah, but that's because Jane's…Jane. You know?"

Frost does know. For all that Jane's rough around the edges, completely uninterested in kissing ass when she should, and way too much of a danger magnet, there's something about her that draws people in.

"You ever regret being her partner?" Frost asks, because, despite himself, he kind of sees Korsak's point. Working with Jane's a pleasure, yes, but seeing her in pain—when she was being hunted by that psycho—that messes with a guy's equilibrium. That wasn't in the brochure. And Frost has never had to see her really hurt, the way he thinks she must have been when Korsak found her in that cellar.

Korsak crumples his empty can in his fist. "I was a respected detective," he says, staring down at the carpet, "and she was just some hotshot young woman who thought she knew everything. She shouldn't have gone after Hoyt alone, but she did anyway because she knew that I wouldn't have supported her." He looks at Frost and there's accusation and envy and guilt in his eyes. "You would've been there for her." After a brief hesitation, he adds, "That's why I can't stand you, you know."

"You're mad at me because I'm a better partner for Jane than you were?" Frost demands incredulously.

Korsak seems unfazed by his anger. "You come into my department, steal my partner, and then make me look old-fashioned and useless. I'm angry about that. Deal with it."

That's it. Frost has had enough. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, intent on calling a cab, but before he can dial it vibrates in his hand. According to the display screen, Dr. Maura Isles is calling. He opens the phone and snaps, "What?"

"How's it going?" she says.

"Is that Frost?" he can hear Jane say in the background. She sounds tipsy—happily so. Not that he'd know from experience, seeing as she's never bothered to go out drinking with him. Not that he's bitter. "Tell him I say hi!"

"I'm sure he can hear you, Jane," Dr. Isles says cheerfully. Frost has a feeling she's had a drink or two as well. "How are things with Korsak, Frost? Are you two bonding?" This whole mess of an evening had been her idea—really, she'd ordered them to do it.

Dr. Isles is most definitely an evil schemer, he decides.

"I hate you," he tells her, then hangs up. "Hey, Korsak—" He cuts himself off when one glance at the other detective tells him that Korsak's blissfully unconscious. "Enough is enough," he mutters to himself.

With exaggerated care he sets his beer on the coffee table—or tries to, anyway, but misses and drops it on the floor. Shrugging, he finds his coat and shrugs into it, then manages to simultaneously dial the cab company and stagger out the door and down the steps without killing himself. It's only when the door of the apartment building swings shut, locking him out, that he realizes he's left one of his shoes inside.