Short Stories: The Inspector's First Attempt to Tell the Detective About the Reassignment [Kyle Version]

Kyle despises mornings at the station.

Specifically, a certain time when the shift changes. It's an especially noisy period, and the hallways are crowded with people who have just arrived for their shift and those who are going home.

He doesn't care about either of them, but they're often blocking the way in the hallways, annoying him even more. However, that's not the only reason he's especially annoyed today.

"Fuck!" Kyle hisses when one of the officers walks by and accidentally bumps into him. Unable to contain his frustration, he shoots her a glare.

"Inspector! Sorr—"

"Is it that hard to stay on the opposite side of the hallway?" The woman and her group offer no response, and Kyle lifts his chin, adjusting his shirt. "Move," he commands as he strides past them, the pain in his arm throbbing. Fuck. Just fuck.

Barely a week has passed since Klemens' funeral. Chief Nash wasn't answering his phone, leaving all the paperwork and decisions in his hands.

He isn't prepared for this responsibility. But compared to the others, he was the only one who was good at dealing equally with the practical and paperwork parts of the job. No deputy had been appointed; therefore, all the organizational and clerical work fell squarely on his shoulders.

After that, his job had become a living hell.

Could it have been otherwise? The detective, a law enforcement employee, is dead. The killer is on the loose, and the department has no clues or leads. Civilians are in a panic, and even fellow police officers are on edge. The fact that their department is central only makes things worse, especially with only one active detective now.

He purses his lips as his thoughts return to the remaining detective. He has news for them that he needs to tell, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't know how they'd feel about it, and he's not looking forward to it.

He repeats to himself that it's part of his job, but it doesn't help, and every step toward the detective's office feels heavy.

Reaching the detective's office, he opens the door without knocking.

"Surname—" he stops mid-sentence upon finding the office empty. He stands frozen for a couple of seconds before his hand with the clipboard slowly slides down.

Hell, he is so tired. Why can't everything just go smoothly? He closes his eyes for a moment, attempting to calm himself.

"Need something?" He hears the detective's voice and turns around. Their bloodshot eyes and the dark circles under them make him falter.

If they do notice his reaction, they don't show it as they walk past him. Their proximity is inches apart, and he clears his throat, frowning harder.

"Well?" the detective asks, the detachment in their voice bringing up a wave of incomprehensible discomfort in him, but he pushes that confusing feeling back, tightly gripping the clipboard with the papers.

"I need to talk about—"

"You're bleeding." The detective's gaze falls on his hand, and he finds himself doing the same. Shit.

The wound on the back of his palm has reopened, staining the paper clipboard with blood. It must have started bleeding when he bumped into the woman in the hallway. But more importantly… the report is ruined.

Anger resurfaces within him. Everyone has a breaking point, and it seems to be starting now. Why does his breakdown always come at such an ill-timed moment?

The detective senses his frustration and pulls a small package from the bottom drawer. Opening it, the detective extends it to him. When he doesn't react, the detective holds it out closer. "These are antiseptic wipes. Safe for wounds."

He accepts it, taking quick steps toward the small trash bin. He quickly and sloppily wipes away the blood, angrily pressing down on the wound harder than necessary.

"Kyle."

Shut up, he mentally utters, frowning harder at the note of sympathy in the detective's voice. Tossing the wipes into the bin, he turns around, his anger replaced by surprise when he finds the detective standing next to him.

"May I?" the detective asks, their voice echoing like a lullaby into his consciousness. He doesn't immediately realize they're referring to the plasters they're holding. Unable to find the strength to answer or argue, he simply nods.

When the detective's fingers touch his palm, he shivers, closing his eyes, hoping that not seeing their proximity will help take whatever overtakes him away, but it intensifies the sensation even more.

Gently applying pressure, the detective sticks plaster along the wound. Feeling their steady movements makes his anger slowly subside, helping him feel calmer. After a moment of silence, he hears the detective's voice again.

"How did you get hurt?"

He opens his eyes again, fixing his gaze on them. The detective doesn't look at him, being too busy preparing a second plaster. The detective's eyes trace over the wound, and he follows their gesture with his gaze.

I got hurt because I'm an idiot who doesn't learn from his mistakes, he thinks, recalling the actual reason. "It doesn't matter."

He'll never say aloud that it was a result of his decision to pet the neighbor's cat after he fed him. The owner doesn't keep a very close eye on him when letting him go outside, and Kyle often takes pity on him and feeds him, even though he knows he shouldn't.

This morning, Kyle decided to try to pet him. Animals never liked him, but he chose to do it anyway, and he got what he expected. Idiot.

The detective doesn't question him further, gently pressing the plaster down as they finally let go of his hand. The loss of the warmth of their skin is palpable.

"What did you want to talk about earlier?" the detective asks, and Kyle realizes they're still standing close without taking a step back. Looking into their tired eyes, he doesn't dare take a step back either.

Nash is assigning you to take Klemens' position. Now that he's gone, you'll be reassigned to senior detective.

Two simple sentences are stuck in his throat as he finds himself lost in their tired eyes, wishing that this quiet moment of respite he feels now will never end for both of them.

But he knows it will, as soon as he opens his mouth.

Why does it have to be him, the one who does and says things that only hurt? Especially now, when their touch is still warm on his skin even after it's ended.

As if only now realizing his thoughts, he averts his gaze and takes a step back, refusing to look at the detective.

"Later," he says, almost slapping himself on the forehead for letting his voice give away his feelings, but the next words come out before he can stop them. "Thank you…"

He doesn't wait for the detective's response, turning around and walking quickly out of the office.

Doubt is a terrible feeling. One he can't allow himself to have. He knows it, and yet, there he is. Making the same mistakes.

His eyes drop to the plasters on his hand. The same mistakes.

What was he even thinking? He left without doing what he planned to do, but was there any point? He'd still have to deliver the news to the detective and still have the same outcome.

Reaching his office, he irritably tosses the clipboard onto his desk with a loud thud.

Doubts… only get in the way. Next time, he'll never doubt again. The thought pulses through his mind as the detective's tired gaze still haunts his memory.

Never again.