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

Keira 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.

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

"Fuck!" Keira hisses when one of the officers walks by and accidentally bumps into her. Unable to contain her frustration, Keira 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 Keira lifts her chin, adjusting her shirt. "Move," she commands as she strides past them, the pain in her 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 her hands.

She isn't prepared for this responsibility. But compared to the others, she 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 her shoulders.

After that, her 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. Сivilians 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.

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

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

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

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

Hell, she is so tired. Why can't everything just go smoothly? She closes her eyes for a moment, attempting to calm herself.

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

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

"Well?" the detective asks, the detachment in their voice bringing up a wave of incomprehensible discomfort in her, but she 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 her hand, and she finds herself doing the same. Shit.

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

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

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

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

"Keira."

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

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

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

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

"How did you get hurt?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What did you want to talk about earlier?" the detective asks, and Keira realizes they're still standing close without taking a step back. Looking into their tired eyes, she 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 her throat as she finds herself lost in their tired eyes, wishing that this quiet moment of respite she feels now will never end for both of them.

But she knows it will, as soon as she opens her mouth.

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

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

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

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

Doubt is a terrible feeling. One she can't allow herself to have. She knows it, and yet, there she is. Making the same mistakes.

Her eyes drop to the plasters on her hand. The same mistakes.

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

Reaching her office, she irritably tosses the clipboard onto her desk with a loud thud.

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

Never again.