Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, I just like to play with them.
Out of Pride's Ashes- Part 3
Brenda gripped the edge of the basin, the strength of her grip turning her knuckles white as she studied her appearance. Far from the poised, self-assured visage she wanted to portray, there was a brittle quality to her features that she was unable to expunge after the trauma of the attack. Her eyes, at least, were clear and lacked the telltale redness that accompanied a crying jag. She did not permit tears, and especially not at work.
Turning on the water, she splashed the welcome coolness on her face, scrubbing as though her cares and concerns could be washed away as well if she just applied enough vigor. Opening her eyes, she was surprised to find another face reflected in the mirror, revealing another woman waiting patiently to her side.
"Detective Daniels," she cleared her throat, trying to erase the huskiness from where her throat still troubled her. "What can I do for you?"
"Here," the woman handed her a box of tissues from a bag. "They'll be more gentle on your face than using that paper towel rubbish."
Brenda hesitated for a moment, then accepted the proffered tissues. "Thank you. Obviously whoever implemented the paper towel system wasn't a woman."
"Are they ever?" Daniels asked philosophically.
"I suppose not," the smile on Brenda's lips lasted a moment, before she noticed the other woman's eyes lingering on the bruises that marred the tender skin of her neck. She snapped back to business instantly. "Was there something you wanted, Detective?"
The dark woman took in the pale, determined features of her boss and knew that any chance of offering sympathy or compassion had been lost in that moment. Instead, she adopted the brisk, impersonal manner that Brenda had assumed and offered the other item, a kit containing disinfectant and bandages for the head wound.
"You really should let a doctor or someone look at that," Daniels said casually.
Brenda fixed her with a stare. "Don't think for a moment that I don't know what you're doing," she warned the other woman.
"What's that?" Daniels asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Taking care of me," she said with distaste. "I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, thank you. Yes, I did experience what some may consider a traumatic experience, but when you work in this profession, it is just an occupational hazard. It's not even like I was shot or anything. I'm fine."
Both pairs of eyes fixed on her trembling hands that belied the firm conviction of her words. Brenda darted a stern glance at Daniels, just daring her to comment. To her credit, the detective refrained from pointing out the obvious evidence that suggested any condition other than 'fine' and shook the bag she still held with pointed emphasis.
Feeling as though she had overreacted just the slightest little bit, Brenda shut her eyes for a moment, before she refocused on Daniels. "Thank you," she said sincerely, with only a faint tremor of emotion.
Do try your best to win friends, not repel them, she mentally reminded herself, not nearly as close to hysteria as she was to total shutdown.When her natural instinct was to barricade herself away from others in times of strain, habits learnt over a lifetime of struggling to cope with crisis after crisis, it was difficult to accept a helping hand. The 'No Trespassing' signs went up without consciously raising them. It was easier that way.
"Detective, if you don't mind- since you so kindly brought me this kit, I'll need a few minutes to myself…" she trailed off meaningfully, regarding her reflection in the mirror once more.
"Of course," Daniel said agreeably. "We'll wait for you before starting the interview."
"Thank you, I appreciate that."
"No problem." The woman left the bathroom with quiet grace.
Brenda began to apply the butterfly bandaid to her head wound as best she could, letting a moan escape at the rapidly escalating headache that was building, and was thankful to have delegated the interview to Gabriel. Apart from the satisfaction of seeing his shock at being entrusted to such a task, when she was notorious for micro-managing, it was simple self preservation. She simply could not confront her attacker in such a state; she was ready to fall into pieces as it was, no matter how much bravado she struggled to patch herself up with, and to face him now placed her at the risk of being shattered permanently, in her own eyes, and worse, in the eyes of her subordinates. That was an unacceptable scenario, and one she was hell-bent on avoiding.
Once she was satisfied that as much had been done as to render her image passably suitable, Brenda regrouped and left the bathroom. She had an interrogation to observe.