the series of inspector x calensk fics you wrote lives rent free in my head
best thing I've ever read, I love the two of them and how you wrote them
if you could come up with another chapter, please write more
"Next" Inspector & Calensk Pt.3
I'm alive! Sorry I haven't posted since like June but a lot of things have happened and I've not been great but I'm fine now so I thought I'd write a part 3 to this as an apology since it's my most requested story to continue. Thank you for being patient 🙏 ❤️
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The day seemed to drag on, more than usual.
The Inspector was unsure if it was because he was exhausted—his son's incessant coughing keeping him awake again, or if it was because people seemed more argumentative today, or because one of the men in his line was Calensk's 'friend'. A thought that hasn't stopped nagging at him since this morning.
A friend with incorrect, likely fake, papers. A friend who could cost him his job. A friend he wasn't even sure was a friend—more likely a business partner. A friend...who he will let through, no matter how foolish it seemed, simply because Calensk had asked him to.
"Next!" The Inspector snapped, breaking his train of thought as he called for the next person—a habit now, almost automatic. His superior would be proud, would probably gift him another crappy plaque too.
A short, balding man shuffled forward, tracking snow and dirt into the booth to add to the mess already surrounding the door. His bright red coat cut through the otherwise monochrome scene, and the Inspector could see him clearly before he even reached the window.
"Papers, please."
The man began fumbling around in his pockets, taking a few moments before producing the documents.
Well two of them—An Arstotzkan passport, and a Kolechian one.
The man and the Inspector froze. The man's hand was outstretched, as if he was about to snatch the passports back, his body tense, caught in a moment of indecision—debating whether to bolt or not. The two locked eyes, their gazes shifting between each other and the documents.
The name 'Nathan Cykelek' stared back from the Arstotzkan passport, sharply contradicted by the Kolechian 'Carpov Calistnen.' Both shared the same date of birth: February 16, 1945.
"Shit!" The man hissed.
"I make small mistake"
He started rubbing his hands down his coat, beads of sweat collecting on his forhead, made clear even in the dim light of the Inspector's desk lamp.
"Please give documents back."
Was this Calensk's friend? Surely not. The Inspector could almost hear Calensk's muttered insults, his exasperated huff at the man's floundering.
There was a reason Calensk was a guard and not someone directly interacting with the people in line.
The Inspector exhaled slowly through his nose, watching the man's trembling hands. A Kolechian and an Arstotzkan passport. It was sloppy. 𝘛𝘰𝘰 sloppy.
"This is...quite the mistake," the Inspector said, voice low but even.
The man swallowed.
"Please. I have family. Wife. Child. They wait for me."
He gestured weakly to the Arstotzkan border.
Oh, how many times he's heard that.
"We all do," the Inspector leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Where did you get these?"
The Inspector could almost see the maj trying to grasp at an excuse, not that he was very good at it.
"I- bought them from man in line. Said papers are good. I not know-"
"Of course you didn't," the Inspector interrupted flatly. His tone betrayed nothing, but his mind was restless. This man looked like no-one important. And he didn't behave any way to the contrary. The typical, unmemorable man, with a wife and sob story, like everyone else.
But, that was the point, wasn't it?
Ordinary faces. Ordinary liars. Ordinary deaths.
The Inspector drummed his fingers against his desk, thinking, observing. He subtly glanced towards the watchtower outside, the main view from his small 'personal' window, Calensk would surely be up there by now, less likely to be caught by any superiors on his 'smoke/lunch break'.
And, he's correct. He could see Calensk's silhouette up there—rigid, watchful, the faint glow of his cigarette burning almost felt like a warning.
If this is Calensk's man, then he's watching. Waiting. Or, he's waiting for him to press the 'Detain' button. Do his job.
The Inspector's stamp hovered over the documents. He could audibly hear the man's breath hitch.
THUD
The green of the APPROVED stamp bled into the paper.
The man blinked, disbelief flashing across his face. "I—thank you! Thank you!"
"Go," the Inspector said curtly, shoving the documents back through the slot. "Before I change my mind."
The man fumbled to gather them, nearly tripping as he stumbled toward the gate.
Outside, Calensk was a dark blur through the frosted glass, his head turning slightly as the man passed. No acknowledgment. Just a shared silence that lingered until the red coat disappeared into the snowstorm beyond.
The Inspector stared at the empty space for a long moment before pressing the buzzer.
"Next."
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The line moved again, but his focus didn’t. He worked automatically, stamping, checking, listening to the hollow rhythm of his own voice. Every few minutes, he glanced toward the tower. Calensk hadn’t moved.
By the time the checkpoint closed, his eyes were burning.
He signed the day’s ledger with a shaking hand and slipped out the back door, pulling his coat tight. The wind bit at his face, sharp enough to sting.
Calensk was waiting by the gate.
"Long day," he said.
The Inspector didn’t respond. He just met the other man’s gaze, silent accusation flickering there.
"That man," he said finally. "The one with two passports."
Calensk’s jaw flexed. "Yes?"
"That was your friend."
Calensk hesitated, then gave a slow nod. "You did as I asked."
The Inspector stepped closer, lowering his voice. "He could’ve cost me everything. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 could've cost me everything."
Calensk’s eyes softened, just barely, but he caught it. "And yet you let him through."
Silence hung heavy between them, the wind whistling through the metal fencing as the overhead speakers crackled softly.
The Inspector looked away. "Next time, tell me what I’m risking."
"If I did," Calensk said quietly, "you would’ve said no."
The Inspector almost laughed. It came out as a bitter exhale instead. "You think you know me that well?"
Calensk didn’t answer. He just looked at him—really looked at him—in that unflinching way he always did.
He shrugged.
"I know enough," he said finally.
Neither moved. Snow began to settle on their coats, the world around them growing still as people began to depart.
The Inspector could feel his pulse slow, his chest tight with something unknown to him, words he couldn’t fathom saying out loud, saying to Calensk of all people, teased the end of his tongue.
He swallowed them. He wouldn't dwell on them, wouldn't let them fester.
Not here. Not now. Not ever.
Finally, Calensk broke the silence. "I have something for you."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper and string.
"Again?" the Inspector muttered, though softer this time. He didn't know if he could keep finding believable excuses to his wife for all the extra food.
"This one is from me," Calensk said. "Not my wife."
The Inspector frowned but took it. The package was heavier than he expected, flat and rectangular.
He tore the edge of the paper back just enough to see the worn spine of a book inside. A novel. Old, smudged Cyrillic across the cover.
"Found it in confiscated belongings last month," Calensk said. "Too good to burn."
The Inspector ran a gloved thumb over the title. The Twelve Chairs. A 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥 novel here in Arstotzka, branded 'Obristan propaganda'.
"Thank you," he said quietly, quickly tucking the book in his bag.
Calensk shrugged, his usual gruffness returning. "You read too much paperwork, Inspector. Thought maybe something different."
The Inspector gave a small, tired smile. "You surprise me."
Calensk’s eyes flickered to his. "Not the first time I'm sure."
The words hung between them, heavier than they should have been.
Neither of them said anything else. Calensk lit another cigarette, and the Inspector watched the glow fade and flare with each breath, the smoke billowing up into the darkening sky.
Two men standing too close, saying nothing that needed to be said.
When the cold finally drove them apart, the Inspector walked home with the book tucked securely in his bag, the faint scent of tobacco clinging to its pages.
He just prayed his neighbours minded their own business, and didn't notice the way his hand brushed the curve of the book through the bag, or the way his mouth ever so gently tugged up as he did so.
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Again really sorry I was gone for so long, I will try to get through my requests as quick as I can so thank you to anyone who requested, I will get around to them.
Hope this was decent!
Ao3: Hoodedboy79
