Chapter Text
Miskin had had her fair share of skirmishes since joining the force, but she had never been hit in the face. It had taken her completely by surprise when Dominic Swayne punched her in the eye as she was trying to negotiate the release of the little boy he was holding hostage. Her plummet backward after happened in slow motion. Through a haze, she saw a flash of the church’s rows of pews, polished to a high gloss, then the stained-glass windows, finally a flash of the vaulted, arched ceiling before her head hit the floor.
Then darkness.
Slowly, she came to. Blinking against the dull light filtering in through the windows. She lay still, assessing. She wasn’t hurt… much. After a moment, she heard voices. One deep, calm, modulated. Sir’s. The other frantic, loud. She closed her eyes. So loud. Just. She needed a moment, then she would sit up. As she waited, she heard that calm tone again, and this time she listened.
He spoke about the loss of his wife and his child, and how the grief had at time brought him to his knees. Her eyes stung, from the punch or from the carefully-managed pain in his voice, she wasn’t sure. She wanted to sit up, but didn’t want to bring attention to herself. Swayne still had the boy, but his grip on the little shoulder was loosening. Dalgliesh baring his soul, promising that there was redemption, recovery for them both had been enough.
Officers filed in to lead the boy and Swayne off in different directions, then they set to the business of securing the scene. Familiar enough that Miskin didn’t need to see them to know what they were doing. Sir’s voice came through the melee easily, apprising those fresh on the scene.
By the time Dalgliesh reached her side, Miskin had already sat up on her own and the kindly cleaner for the church – Miss Wharton, was it? – hovered, tutting in sympathy as the wail of sirens filled the afternoon.
“Are you alright?” Dalgliesh asked.
“I think so.”
When she looked up at him, the barest frown drew his eyebrows together briefly. Through tight lips, he said, “Let’s get you checked over.”
“There’s no need for—” The look on his face brooked no argument and she headed outside, after Miss Wharton, with Dalgliesh at her back.
A paramedic saw them leaving the church, a woman with a warm brown complexion and carefully neutral expression, and she directed Miskin over, indicating that she sit at the back of the ambulance. Dalgliesh knelt at Miskin’s feet. Meanwhile, she felt sheepish, like she didn’t deserve this attention. This was all her fault. She was the one who hadn’t been able to stop Swayne or keep the boy safe.
“Sir, I don’t—”
“Let her check you over, Sargeant.”
To the woman’s credit, she was quick and efficient. With delicate fingers, she touched the area around Miskin’s eye and cheek, then shone a pen light in each of her eyes. “No skin or bone broken, but that shiner is going to last a while. Did you hit your head?”
Miskin told her she’d fallen backward and the woman gently separated her curls from the ends upwards to check her scalp. Through the ache, Miskin managed a chuckle. “You know how to handle my hair.” It had been a long time since anyone had been that careful with her hair. It was why she didn’t like salons, they were too heavy handed and she ended up with a headache for her trouble.
“My hair is similar, so I know to start at the bottom and work up.” She tilted Miskin’s head forward a touch, then with the same gentle fingers, searched through her locks. “There’s a bump, but again, no skin broken.”
The flashlight clicked off before the paramedic continued. “If you get dizzy, have blurred or double vision, or see that your pupils are different sizes, you need to get to a hospital immediately.”
“That’s fine. I just want to go to sleep anyway.”
“Oh no!” The paramedic removed her gloves with a reproachful snap. “Not with that head knock. Don’t you know the rhyme?”
DS Miskin blinked. “Which rhyme?”
With a better than average voice, the medic sang. “It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring. He went to bed and bumped his head and didn’t wake up in the morning. It’s to caution people against going to sleep when they’ve had a head injury.”
“Oh.” Miskin’s voice was small. “That I didn’t know.”
“Many don’t, unfortunately. In fact, it would be best if you stayed awake for the next eight hours.” She checked her watch. “Till midnight. Have someone keep you awake, if you can’t manage it on your own.”
Miskin pressed her lips together. How was she supposed to do that when all she wanted to do was curl up in bed and forget about the humiliation of the day? Hopefully there would be something on telly tonight that would hold her attention because reading would certainly put her to sleep in the state she was in. Even if she sat on the sofa, it was no guarantee against her sliding into slumber. And she lived alone; there was no one to natter on at her, and make sure she didn’t accidentally drift off. Maybe she could call her mother. But she wouldn’t be able to tell her about the head injury. She would want to drive up to take care of her and her fussing was the last thing she wanted.
She sighed. “I’ll do my best to stay up.”
“I’ll help, Sargeant.”
Both woman turned to Dalgliesh, who hadn’t spoken throughout the duration of Miskin’s diagnosis.
“Sir—” Miskin made the mistake of looking into his eyes and whatever she had been going to say flew straight out of her mind. Concern lay in his steady gaze and she didn’t know what to do with that knowledge.
“Sergeant. Your health and life are at stake. Someone needs to stay with you. Do you have someone to ask?”
She had no answer to that. Her flat was small, but she could afford it on her own, with enough to save for a rainy day or even one day to purchase her own home. Because of that, she didn’t want a roommate and didn’t go out to meet friends or date. There was no one she could call to ask.
Miskin shook her head, then winced at the pain that rocketed through her cheek and face. The entire area throbbed, felt feverishly hot. “Surely, you have better things to do with your evening.”
“Other things, but not better things. They will wait. It won’t be a hardship.”
“What about my car?”
“It will be fine here at the church, dear. I can promise you that.” Miss Wharton’s perky voice was unexpectedly piercing, worsening the pain in her head. Miskin hadn’t even heard her approach.
Desperate to refuse, Miskin struggled to think of another valid reason to. The last thing she wanted was to spend time with her DCI when she was at her worst. She glanced over at DS Masterson where he stood with his crew of mates who chuckled among themselves, even after a narrowly avoided tragedy. He caught her gaze for a fraction of a second, then he said something to the gathered constables, and got in his car without a backward glance.
When she looked over at Dalgliesh he was watching Masterson leave with a face like thunder.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He nodded, then stood to say something to the medic. Miskin wasn’t listening. She was too focused on recalling if her flat was tidy enough to have company.