McAlli

Between .D’s work schedule and Izm’s child it took a full two weeks before they managed to actually get together. Their texts were short and impersonal, requests for times and suggestions for meeting places. Still, Izm was jumping every time his phone vibrated against the desk, hands shaking as he typed out the terse messages. Finally they settled on a Friday night, at a new bar in an old part of town they used to frequent together. Everything was that uncomfortable mix of old and new, throwing Izm off kilter and making him pine for things he couldn’t put to words but knew were out of his reach. .D was half out of his mind

“Hey, .D,” the other officer lightly tapped on the barrier that separated .D’s desk from the next. .D was clearly busy, hunched over case files and taking notes, in the midst of papers sprawled across his normally neatly kept desk. It was always odd how few personal affects he kept, one framed picture of five teenage boys and a couple letters pinned to his cork board. “Do you think you could give us a hand?” .D looked up from his work, expression tired and annoyed. He gestured to all of his desk with his pen still in hand. “...Kind of busy here.” He said shortly, an understatement to the severity of