Since You Went Away - Chapter One: To Have and Have Not (2/2)
Title: Since You Went Away - Chapter One: To Have and Have Not
Authors: i-must-go-first & UbiquitousMixie
Fandom: Brenda/Sharon, The Closer
Rating: PG (Overall M)
Word Count: 11,596
Disclaimer: Not ours. Please don’t sue.
Summary: A late-night craving and a coincidental meeting lead a certain deputy chief to discover that there’s much more to the inimitable Captain Raydor than meets the eye, and to realize that her mama was right: sometimes all a single woman really needs is a good girlfriend.
Authors’ Note: This story has been in the works for the past nine months and we’re really, really excited to share it with the fandom. It’s been a labor of love for us. Comments and feedback would be greatly appreciated.
Brenda rearranged her limbs, seeking a more comfortable position on the futon, which, admittedly, was a smidge too narrow even for her small frame, and removed her reading glasses so she could rub at her dry eyes. She glanced over at the TV and curled her lip in distaste. There was absolutely nothing interesting on unless you were into golf, which Brenda Leigh was not. She’d finally settled on a flashy Spanish-language soap opera in the vague hope of picking up a few phrases, since Julio perpetually and politely ridiculed her for her inability even to pronounce many of the city’s street names correctly, but she definitely needed an interpreter -- unless the guy with the mustache really had just asked for a dog, a shot of tequila, and a blue dress, which seemed unlikely. She pointed the remote at the screen, turned the TV off, and made a mental note to find and unpack her DVDs.
The clock on her cell phone informed her that it was 6:53, twelve minutes since she’d last checked. She’d just dotted her last i and crossed her last t, so she no longer had the distraction of the paperwork she’d brought home to keep herself company, but at least it was a respectable dinner time. She looked over her shoulder at the kitchen, whose surfaces were liberally sprinkled with flour and sugar, and sternly told herself she couldn’t just eat cake.
But it was a delicious cake; even smug Sharon would have to admit that much.
She eyed the cake in question, which was proudly displayed on a cake plate in the middle of her table. She’d had the presence of mind to fish it out of the box labeled “kitcheny things” while the cake was in the oven, not wanting her own laziness and lackadaisical attitude about unpacking to ruin a perfectly decadent cake.
And it was decadent, if the three-quarters that remained had anything to say about it.
Brenda dampened a sponge and quickly wiped off the counters, wondering if she should go ahead and start boiling a pot of water, but quickly dismissed the idea. Even she was getting sick of clam linguine. She wasn’t even that hungry, though she could certainly work up an appetite in the time it took for the Chinese place near her apartment to deliver. She reached for her phone and then hesitated.
Alone on a Saturday night with Chinese takeout was about as bad as Friday night in a grocery store.
Tossing the sponge back into the sink, Brenda wiped her hands on the dish towel draped along the handle of the stove. She peered back into the living room, surmising her options, and once again caught sight of the plain manila folder.
Captain Raydor was on a deadline, and an impromptu visit would shake things up a little.
Brenda grinned wickedly. It would also give her a chance to show off her delicious cake.
It was surprisingly easy to find Sharon’s address. By the time she’d carved out a large slice of cake, stuck it in the last clean tupperware container in the cupboard, and headed out the door, Brenda was nearly teeming with giddiness at the thought of just how ruffled Sharon would be when she showed up at her doorstep.
Sharon, as it turned out, lived only eighteen minutes away from Brenda’s new apartment, fifteen minutes closer than the house she’d shared with Fritz. She wasn’t sure why she was so pleased to know this, but the possibility that she might have a potential friend within a respectable distance was certainly something her mother would love.
When she parked her car in front of the captain’s house, she briefly considered the idea that, while Brenda had no plans on a Saturday night, Sharon just might. She made note of the car in the driveway and the light that illuminated the captain’s porch and decided that she liked her chances.
If Sharon was as much of a homebody as Brenda suspected, she may just be in business.
She rang the doorbell and held her breath.
She nearly laughed when Sharon answered the door, clad in gray yoga pants and an off-the-shoulder red sweater. “Chief?” Emerald eyes narrowed as she gave the blonde a quick once-over. “What are you doing here? I hope someone’s been shot.”
“I thought I’d bring by that report you wanted.” Brenda made no move to reach into her purse for the file, hoping that Sharon would take the hint and invite her inside.
“On a Saturday?”
Brenda shrugged, peering over the captain’s bare shoulder to sneak a peek inside the elusive woman’s house. She caught hues of brown and gold and itched to see what else was inside, feeling like an impatient child with her face pressed against the outdoor window of Toys R’ Us. “I know you think I don’t care about paperwork and deadlines, but I do,” she said virtuously, drawing herself up to her full height and casting her most sincere, wide-eyed gaze at the older woman.
“Yes, on Saturday night.” Before Sharon could become righteously indignant, Brenda’s lips twitched into a small smile and she relented. She nodded toward the unmistakable hunk of Tupperware in the deputy chief’s other hand. “I assume that isn’t evidence.”
When Brenda Leigh batted her eyelashes like that, Sharon thought, she looked like Bambi. The older woman found the thought surprisingly amusing. “Why, it’s a generous slice of my delicious homemade triple chocolate cake just for you, capt’n,” the blonde gushed in a tone that would’ve done the Junior League proud.
“In that case,” Sharon replied seriously, but she couldn’t keep the sparkle from her clear green eyes, “maybe you’d like to come in, chief.”
The captain had seen that triumphant glint in the other woman’s eyes on more than one occasion, and she knew exactly what it meant. Free and easy newly-single Deputy Chief Johnson had been bored, and maybe lonely, at home by her lonesome on Saturday night, so she’d decided to ‘investigate’ Sharon. She’d meant it when she’d said that she felt sure Brenda was perfectly capable of surprising her; she could also be utterly predictable.
Gesturing for the blonde to precede her into the snug little slate-shingled house, Sharon shrugged philosophically. Why not invite the chief to partake in her evening ritual of red wine and Rachel? As long as this southern belle wasn’t a Republican (and Sharon truly didn’t think that badly of her), it could be mildly entertaining. Besides, the woman had brought cake.
Brenda peered around keenly as the captain shooed her toward the kitchen, peeking into a small home office lined floor to ceiling with books and a darkened living room as they went. She was unembarrassed by the sensation of Sharon’s eyes trained on her back, observing her as she observed each minute quirk and detail of the other woman’s home, because she was content in the knowledge that the captain would do the same if their roles were reversed.
The open-plan kitchen, with its sand-colored walls and glossy burnt-brick tile flooring, was pleasantly warm. A pot of water seethed on the stove’s back burner, nearing the boiling point, while a medley of yellow squash and zucchini, surely the ones Brenda had noticed in Sharon’s basket last night, waited on the worktop beside a half-chopped onion; and a large knife rested beside the most essential of cook’s tools, a half-full glass of red wine. An open laptop sat on the glass-topped dining table.
“I interrupted your dinner,” the blonde observed brightly. “What’re you makin’?”
“Just pasta.” Sharon quirked an eyebrow as she spoke her obligatory line. “Have you eaten, chief?”
Brenda looked so pleased that Sharon couldn’t even be irritated by the woman’s bald-faced insinuation of herself into her evening plans and personal space. “No, I haven’t.”
“Since you’ve dropped by with this highly important document --” and the cake -- “you can stay, if you’d like.” She easily picked up the knife and used it to gesture, a move that made her companion slightly nervous. “I’m doing whole-wheat fusili with squash, zucchini, a little onion, and pesto.” Expectant eyes fixated on Brenda, awaiting her response.
Brenda Leigh dimpled. “That sounds great, Sharon, and I don’t really have anything at home to cook.”
Sharon smirked as she sliced the squash. “I know, Brenda. There’s another chopping knife in that block right behind you. Feel free to do your worst with the zucchini.”
A look of pure delight crossed over Brenda’s face as she set down her purse and rolled up her sleeves. “I’m surprised you’re trustin’ me with such a vital task.”
Sharon smirked. “Not even you can screw up zucchini.”
Brenda pursed her lips as she reached for the chopping knife. “I don’t know where you got this idea that I’m some sort of klutz,” she began, holding onto the vegetable as she sliced off the top. “Do you really think I’m that incompetent?” Her tone was light, almost teasing, but Brenda couldn’t deny the older woman’s uncanny ability to play into every self-conscious thought buried in the recesses of her mind.
Sharon merely flashed her that barely-there smirk and continued dicing her squash into perfectly equal-sized chunks.
The blonde rolled her eyes, something she seemed to habitually do in the captain’s presence. “You just love messin’ with me, don’t you?”
“I can’t help it, chief. You’re just so easy.”
Brenda scoffed. “I’m not as easy as you think,” she replied. When she registered the double entendre, she nearly sliced off the top of her finger. Thankfully for her, Sharon didn’t seem to notice. “Y’know,” she added, not wanting to give the other woman the time to ponder her sexual habits (or lack thereof), “I wasn’t sure if you’d want the cake. I’m a little surprised you did.”
“You certainly took a gamble, then, driving all the way here to give me a slice,” Sharon replied, watching as the chief deftly sliced the zucchini into uneven shapes. They were, at least, proportional to the size of the squash. “Why were you surprised?” she finally asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“I thought you might be one of those health nuts. I sort of imagined you as the type to count calories in a little notebook or somethin’.”
Sharon wanted to ask when exactly the chief had pondered her eating habits, but decided against it. “Just because I eat healthy doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate dessert.”
“Good,” Brenda said, setting down her knife and leaning against the counter, her arms folded across her chest. “I don’t trust women who don’t like dessert. They’re...unnatural.”
The brunette snorted into her wine glass. “Lucky me. Would you like a glass?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Pinot noir,” Sharon answered, pouring a second glass.
“I prefer Merlot.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Brenda pursed her lips at the other woman’s obviously feigned nonchalance and accepted the wine. Like the deputy chief, the captain let no detail, no matter how small, pass her by. She even paid attention to those pesky little matters of rules and regulations that Brenda preferred to ignore. “At least you eat dessert,” Brenda reiterated.
“I’d think that by this point I’ve proven my trustworthiness in other ways, but all right.” Sharon spoke lightly, pausing to wipe her hands on the dish towel that hung on a rack beside the sink, but the blonde recognized the note of underlying sincerity; it perfectly matched the one that had sounded in her own voice just a moment earlier when she’d asked if Sharon thought she was incompetent. “I’ll eat the cake, if that’s what the situation requires.”
Brenda grinned. “You always struck me as the type of woman who’d be a martyr to a really good cause.”
“And that good cause is your approbation?” Sharon returned, looking over her shoulder with a slight smile.
“No, captain. It’s dessert. -- Can I do anything else?”
“If the water’s boiling, you can go ahead and add the pasta.”
Brenda moved around, dumping the contents of the Barrilla box into the large pot and taking the opportunity of her proximity to the stainless-steel refrigerator to examine the smattering of magnets and photos on its doors. There were several postcards -- from Istanbul, Seoul, and Bangkok, for starters -- a reminder about a dental appointment, and multiple snapshots of a dark-haired toddler. A younger Sharon posed with two dark-haired preteens, a silver-haired couple drank champagne from crystal flutes, and, in black and white, a slender girl with extremely long, extremely straight hair stood with a shorter, curvy, dark-skinned girl in front of some sort of bonfire, both captured with their mouths open, apparently shouting. Brenda scrunched her nose up, squinting to see better, and wished she had her reading glasses within arm’s reach. “Is this you, Sharon?”
The older woman murmured affirmatively as she swirled a modest amount of olive oil in a non-stick pan, although, upon closer inspection of the photo, Brenda Leigh didn’t need the confirmation. She recognized the familiar bone structure, the unmistakable shape of the open mouth. The chief did a double take. “Oh, my Lord. Is this --? Sharon, you’re burnin’ your bra!”
Clear eyes met Brenda’s as Sharon offered a lofty expression and the barest quirk of her lips. “Yep,” she agreed. “We were at a NOW rally.” The younger woman laughed, and Sharon pointed out, “It was 1975, Brenda. Bra-burning was pretty blase by then, really, but we were young and ‘developing our political consciousness.’”
“You ‘bout eighteen here?”
The captain nodded as she added the onion to the hot oil. Before Brenda could complete her mental math Sharon said, “I’m fifty-four.”
“Oh, I wasn’t --”
“Sure you were.” Sharon was smiling, though.
“I didn’t know for sure if you’d be home. I thought you might have plans on a Saturday night.”
“I might have, but I don’t -- not unless someone on the force discharges a weapon, anyway.” After moving the onions around, Sharon deposited her spatula on the spoon rest and moved to a cabinet above the dish drainer, from which she removed two bright red pasta bowls. “I haven’t left the house today,” she confided with a conspiratorial lifting of her brow. “Sometimes I like to be a hermit when I have that rare luxury.”
Brenda nodded and sipped her wine, hopping up to one of the stools at the counter now that her part of dinner prep seemed to be over. “I know what you mean. I’d almost forgotten how nice it can be just to be by yourself sometimes.”
Sharon eyed the other woman as if considering carefully before murmuring, “Yes. Although returning to living alone after having lived with other people for a while can be a big adjustment.”
Not so long ago Brenda would have been surprised to learn that Sharon Raydor possessed that much unobtrusive tact, but not now. They’d never spoken about Brenda’s separation and divorce (which should be final any day now), but of course everyone at work knew, especially once it became common knowledge that Agent Howard had put in for a transfer whenever something became available on the East Coast. “Yeah,” she agreed. “It’s nice to be able to do whatever you want with your own space, though, and not have to answer to anybody.”
The fine skin around Sharon’s eyes crinkled when she smiled. “Is that your way of saying you leave your laundry on the floor, your dishes in the sink, and don’t have to make the bed?”
“I am not a slob,” Brenda protested defensively. Sharon responded with a level gaze. “Well,” the chief qualified, “I’m not the greatest housekeeper, but I’m not terrible. Just because I don’t make the bed the second I get out of it or wash the dishes as soon as I finish eating, that doesn’t mean I won’t do it eventually.” She looked speculatively around the tidy kitchen, craning her neck to peer again into the adjoining living area. “You’re probably a neat freak.”
“No,” Sharon replied honestly, adding the zucchini and yellow squash to the frying pan with the now-translucent onions. “Try living with kids and pets. That will make anyone less fussy about a little dust and dirt.”
Brenda shivered with comic exaggeration. “No, thank you,” she said decidedly, swigging the pinot noir. “Although, I confess to missin’ my cat. I don’t even know if my building allows pets. Fritzi kept her. Maybe he’ll even take her when he finally moves.” She sighed wistfully.
“What’s her name?”
“Joel.” Sharon arched an eyebrow and Brenda laughed. “Sorry. He. I’m a terrible pet owner, really. They just sort of happen to me by accident. I miss havin’ another livin’ thing at home though...now I just find I’m talkin’ to myself more than is probably healthy.”
“I’m not sure how healthy it is to be talking to cats,” Sharon replied, moving between stirring the pasta and the vegetables. “As long as you don’t expect a response...”
“Ha ha,” Brenda quipped dryly. She sipped her wine, which really wasn’t that bad, and watched as Sharon moved around her kitchen with practiced ease. She looked incredibly comfortable, as if she belonged in such a casual, domesticated role. It occurred to her that she really only knew a tiny sliver of who Sharon Raydor really was. There was the head of FID and then there was a single (was she single? dating?) woman who lived alone and clearly enjoyed her solitude. This Sharon, the one who cooked in her bare feet (her toenails were painted a deep burgundy color) and wore yoga pants instead of Armani, was softer, more human. She was a mother, a bra-burning feminist, and probably an amazing cook (if the pleasant aromas had anything to say about it).
It wasn’t until she acknowledged this other side of her co-worker that Brenda realized just how relaxed she was in her presence.
“You’re staring,” Sharon remarked, and Brenda realized that she was.
“Not starin’--just observin’.”
“Are you sizing me up like one of your suspects, Chief Johnson? Trying to figure me out?”
Brenda grinned. “Maybe.”
Sharon was surprised by just how annoyed she wasn’t. “And? What observations have you made?”
The blonde leaned in, bubbly with excitement at the prospect of piecing together one Sharon Raydor. Sharon typically hated games, but she found herself unspeakably curious about whether or not she’d fit the blueprint the chief had devised in her pretty little head.
“All right. Let’s see. You do yoga?” she guessed, deciding to start out small on the slim chance that she was wrong.
“Almost every day,” Sharon confirmed.
Brenda’s eyebrows climbed her forehead. “Really?” She tried to imagine the captain in one of those obscenely flexible, bendy poses and merely chuckled at the prospect.
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Well, forgive me for sayin’, you seem a little too...tense...”
Sharon laughed. “Which is exactly why I do it. You’d be amazed at how therapeutic yoga can be.” She pursed her lips, giving the willowy blonde a once-over. “You should try it. I think you of all people could benefit from it.”
The blonde scrunched her nose. “I dunno if I have the patience for all that stretchin’ and bendin’...besides, I’m not that tense.”
Sharon snorted. “Right.” She met Brenda’s challenging stare and decided to revisit the topic later, perhaps when the deputy chief was loose-limbed following her wine. “What else have you surmised about me?”
“Mmm...you and your kids clearly won the genetic lottery,” Brenda stated, nodding to the photograph on the fridge.
Something Brenda didn’t yet know this woman well enough to identify flickered through the depths of Sharon’s eyes and for an instant she stiffened. Brenda was able to watch as the captain actually forced herself to relax, maybe by doing some of that yoga-style deep breathing. “Thank you,” she said politely.
“You’re a good cook,” Brenda continued, and Sharon snorted.
“I don’t starve, but my kids would tell you I’m no gourmet.”
The blonde shrugged. “This looks close enough to me. You know what’s funny? I love to watch all those cookin’ shows, but I just hate to cook.”
“It can be difficult to cook for one. It took me a while to figure it out after the kids left home; I kept having to throw away spoiled food. I usually prepare enough for two meals and just eat the leftovers later.”
Brenda Leigh bit her lip. “I just order delivery.”
Sharon smiled. “Oh, I do my fair share of that too. It’s one of the benefits of living alone. But it’s nice to cook sometimes. Use it or lose it, you know.” So saying, she stepped lightly over to the stove and took up the pasta, which she drained quickly before dumping it back into the pot. “No fancy serving dishes tonight,” she added by way of explanation. Brenda watched her add the vegetables and remove a jar of what appeared to be homemade pesto from the refrigerator. Her long, elegant fingers -- they were bony, really, but somehow on the dark-haired captain that made them no less elegant -- seized a spoon from a drawer and she scooped a generous amount from the jar, but then hesitated, glancing at Brenda. “Do you mind if I go ahead and add the sauce?”
“Oh, no.” The chief smiled. “I have no dietary, religious, or philosophical objections to pesto.”
“Good. I don’t trust women who don’t eat pesto,” Sharon mimicked, and Brenda realized with a not-unpleasant jolt of surprise that her erstwhile hostess was teasing her.
“Well, it’s nice to know what you value in life, Captain Raydor.”
“Likewise, Chief Johnson.” Sharon lifted her wineglass and rather jauntily clinked it against Brenda’s, and Brenda felt her small smile widen because that casual toast was the kind of thing a friend did, and the more time she spent in Sharon’s kitchen, the more she liked the idea of being her friend.
“Here -- go ahead and fix your plate, and there’s parmesan if you want it.” Sharon reached back into the fridge and Brenda expected to see the familiar green-and-yellow Kraft shaker emerge, but the older woman instead produced a hunk of real cheese and a grater. Brenda obediently scooped pasta into one of the bowls, but refrained from adding cheese. Part of her still suspected that the captain was a closet calorie-counter who would judge her harshly for such an indulgence.
“More wine?” Sharon asked, following in Brenda’s wake. “That was left from last night, but we can open another bottle. It’s right there.” She directed the blonde toward the appropriate cabinet.
“Which one?” Brenda leaned down and gazed at the assortment of bottles. Here was another reason she thought she and Sharon might be able to become real friends: the woman had a well-stocked liquor cabinet, heavy on the red wine.
“I bought them all, so you pick. Do you mind opening it?”
“Oh, no. That’s something I’m actually good at.”
Sharon handed her the corkscrew, and after Brenda had made short work of the cork in the bottle of pinot noir she’d chosen (there were Merlots too, but she figured it was a safer bet to stick with what Sharon had selected for herself), she looked back to see Sharon re-wrapping the hunk of parmesan. A generous heap of its shavings now adorned the captain’s pasta, and Brenda Leigh realized she’d missed an opportunity.
Ever-watchful green eyes caught the mournful look on the younger woman’s face and Sharon nearly laughed. She brandished the cheese and the grater. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
Brenda sheepishly bit her lip as she accepted the cheese.
“You don’t mind my knowing that you eat your weight in confectionery junk, but you’re shy about cheese?” Sharon smirked mirthfully. “Why Brenda Leigh, do I make you nervous?”
Brenda wrapped up the cheese and, noticing an errant shaving on the counter, caught it with her finger and brought it to her lips. “Not nervous. Just...aware. I’m not used to spendin’ time with people outside of work who don’t know me all that well.”
Sharon found herself taken aback by the other woman’s blunt honesty. Taking up her bowl and wine glass, she gestured to the table. Though there were two bar stools, Sharon wasn’t quite sure that she was ready to bump knees with Brenda while they shared a companionable meal. She did, however, fold herself into her chair at the end of the table, curling one leg beneath her in an effort to maintain the relaxed atmosphere. It was so much different to eating on her own. “I like to think I know you fairly well, Brenda.”
Brenda sat down on the chair to Sharon’s left, accidentally brushing her knee against Sharon’s bare foot when she crossed her legs. She set down her bowl. “I thought I knew you too, but then...” She gestured around her, from the orchid in the corner (was that her favorite flower, or was it merely decorative?) to the candle on the counter (what scent?). “There’s so much I don’t know.”
“Yet.” Sharon tapped her finger on the stem of her glass. “And you hate not knowing things, don’t you?”
“D’you have to ask?” Brenda asked with a breathless laugh. She held up her glass of wine. “Here’s to gettin’ to know each other better.”
Sharon paused for a moment, observing the openly hopeful gleam in Brenda’s eyes. She considered what this might mean--were they going to be friends now? Did they have to get along at work? Was her comfortable existence as a hermit about to be disrupted? She took up her glass and clinked it against Brenda’s, deciding then and there that maybe her life could use a little disruption. “I can drink to that. Now: eat your dinner. I promise that healthy food doesn’t bite.”
“If you say so.” Swallowing her sip of wine, Brenda eyed her bowl of food with skepticism. “I sure hope I was right about you knowin’ how to cook.”
Sharon narrowed her eyes. “And we have yet to see if you know how to bake.”
Brenda gaped. “All right, fine. I won’t pre-judge your cookin’ if you don’t pre-judge my cake.”
“Fine.”
They both took a bite of their food, chewing in unison, before Brenda burst out: “This is good!”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised, chief.”
The blonde shrugged unapologetically. She’d show the captain what surprised really looked like, or, more accurately, the captain would show her. “Whatever,” she replied, her tone breezy, as she forked a couple of chunks of squash and a bit of the curly pasta. “You just wait ‘til you try my cake.”
Perhaps inevitably, or perhaps because this rather obvious getting-to-know-you conversation was certain to become stilted if it was allowed to go on too long, they transitioned to desultory chatter about work. Both women avoided broaching any serious or inflammatory issues while they steadily emptied their bowls, sticking instead to anecdotes of the milder variety, and finally Brenda said, “I’ll do the dishes.”
Sharon rose seamlessly -- maybe there was something to that yoga business after all -- and carted both bowls over to the sink. “No, not this time,” she replied, running her fingers through her hair and tumbling the long layers. This time implied a next time, and that made Brenda Leigh smile. “You’re a guest,” Sharon added, and the deputy chief couldn’t help wondering if the captain’s mama had been anything like Willie Rae.
Brenda looked around the kitchen, feeling a little awkward as she sat there leisurely finishing her wine while Sharon bustled around, quickly cleaning up the small, contained mess. Good manners dictated that it was time for her to go, and yet --
“Are you gonna eat your cake?”
Sharon shot her a derisive glance as she quickly but precisely wiped the counters. “Of course I’m going to eat it.”
“Right.” Brenda tipped her glass up and let the last tiny droplets of pinot noir slide down her throat. “But I meant now.”
The taller woman tossed the dishcloth across the edge of the sink and folded her arms over her chest as she turned back to smirk at her companion. “You want to see me open my present, is that it?”
The blonde pursed her lips, refusing to give in to embarrassment. “I could order you.”
Sharon snorted out an undignified laugh. “To eat cake?”
Brenda grinned and nodded emphatically, her curls bouncing and swaying over her sloping shoulders. “Yes, captain. As your superior officer, I could, at my discretion and for the greater good, hereby order you to eat that cake right now.”
The captain’s cheeks hollowed as she folded her lips together with suspicion. “Wait. I find your eagerness a bit disconcerting, chief. You didn’t poison the cake, by any chance?”
Brenda made a harumphing sound in her throat. “Did you poison the pasta?” she retorted.
“I was also eating the pasta,” Sharon pointed out, and then her folded arms went slack. “Wait. Is this an elaborate ploy to get me to share with you?”
The deputy chief bit her lip.
“Honestly, Brenda,” the older woman continued, sounding disgusted, “don’t you have the rest of the damn thing at home?”
“That’s not it,” Brenda Leigh protested a little too hotly. “I just wanna see you enjoy it. What’s wrong with that?”
Dark hair shimmered as Sharon shook her head. “Absolutely not a thing, Lady Bountiful.” She opened the drawer that Brenda had already marked as the silverware drawer and fished around for half a second, and then snagged the Tupperware container with her left hand. Returning to the table, she plopped the cake down between their empty wine glasses and then held up two forks.
Brenda grinned with delight, and Sharon grinned right back. “More wine?” the hostess offered.
“Well, maybe just a drop.”
Sharon lifted the bottle and poured for both of them, and then removed the lid from the Tupperware container. Brenda watched her expectantly. Sharon sank her fork into the moist layers and came away with a modestly-sized morsel of chocolate and more chocolate. Brenda’s studious gaze never left her face as she brought the fork toward her lips, but before it made contact, Sharon paused.
“Thank you for bringing dessert -- and for the report,” she added as an afterthought. She realized that she had enjoyed Brenda Leigh’s company enough that she’d forgotten all about the purported impetus for this little impromptu dinner party.
Brenda nodded and flushed slightly. “Thank you for dinner. Maybe, um -- maybe we could do it again? At my apartment? You could be my first company.”
“Sure,” the brunette agreed, and then darted a quick look at her loaded fork. “As long as the cake isn’t poisoned.”
With an exasperated eye-roll, Brenda seized her own fork, stabbed at the cake, and shoved a huge bite into her mouth. “There,” she said, the word distorted, ignoring forty-plus years of her mother’s insistence that she not talk with her mouth full, “satisfied?”
Smirking, Sharon closed her lips around her own fork and carefully sucked every last trace of the decadent chocolate from its prongs. “It’s delicious,” she admitted after she had chewed and swallowed (showing off her own superior table manners, the chief thought), going for a second, more generous, bite.
“I know,” Brenda Leigh replied smugly. “Imagine how much better it coulda been if I’d had the right kind of chocolate. So, when d’you wanna come over for dinner?”
Sharon scanned her mental datebook, remembering that it had promised to be a particularly light work week (assuming none of the boys and girls of the LAPD went trigger happy). She had nothing planned for her Sunday aside from her plans to clean the bathrooms, but it seemed presumptuous somehow to suggest that they spend three evenings in a row in each other’s company. “How does your Tuesday look?”
Brenda wiped her finger along the dollop of frosting that had stuck to the top of the container and proceeded to lick it off. “Sounds great.”
“This time I’ll bring dessert. You better cook me something decent.”
The blonde paused and tried not to panic at the thought of learning a whole new recipe before Tuesday (she had over-indulged in the mashed potatoes and would not be inclined to make them again for the foreseeable future, nor would she serve Sharon something as plain as clam linguine). Still, she had nothing to do on Sunday, so she had the whole day to shop for food and practice a thing or two before Tuesday. “You better not bring me a fruit salad,” Brenda countered.
Sharon chuckled and shook her head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The two women finished off the the cake, playfully fighting over who would get the prized corner bite that was heavy on the frosting, each surprised to find herself looking forward to Tuesday.
***
Authors: i-must-go-first & UbiquitousMixie
Fandom: Brenda/Sharon, The Closer
Rating: PG (Overall M)
Word Count: 11,596
Disclaimer: Not ours. Please don’t sue.
Summary: A late-night craving and a coincidental meeting lead a certain deputy chief to discover that there’s much more to the inimitable Captain Raydor than meets the eye, and to realize that her mama was right: sometimes all a single woman really needs is a good girlfriend.
Authors’ Note: This story has been in the works for the past nine months and we’re really, really excited to share it with the fandom. It’s been a labor of love for us. Comments and feedback would be greatly appreciated.
Brenda rearranged her limbs, seeking a more comfortable position on the futon, which, admittedly, was a smidge too narrow even for her small frame, and removed her reading glasses so she could rub at her dry eyes. She glanced over at the TV and curled her lip in distaste. There was absolutely nothing interesting on unless you were into golf, which Brenda Leigh was not. She’d finally settled on a flashy Spanish-language soap opera in the vague hope of picking up a few phrases, since Julio perpetually and politely ridiculed her for her inability even to pronounce many of the city’s street names correctly, but she definitely needed an interpreter -- unless the guy with the mustache really had just asked for a dog, a shot of tequila, and a blue dress, which seemed unlikely. She pointed the remote at the screen, turned the TV off, and made a mental note to find and unpack her DVDs.
The clock on her cell phone informed her that it was 6:53, twelve minutes since she’d last checked. She’d just dotted her last i and crossed her last t, so she no longer had the distraction of the paperwork she’d brought home to keep herself company, but at least it was a respectable dinner time. She looked over her shoulder at the kitchen, whose surfaces were liberally sprinkled with flour and sugar, and sternly told herself she couldn’t just eat cake.
But it was a delicious cake; even smug Sharon would have to admit that much.
She eyed the cake in question, which was proudly displayed on a cake plate in the middle of her table. She’d had the presence of mind to fish it out of the box labeled “kitcheny things” while the cake was in the oven, not wanting her own laziness and lackadaisical attitude about unpacking to ruin a perfectly decadent cake.
And it was decadent, if the three-quarters that remained had anything to say about it.
Brenda dampened a sponge and quickly wiped off the counters, wondering if she should go ahead and start boiling a pot of water, but quickly dismissed the idea. Even she was getting sick of clam linguine. She wasn’t even that hungry, though she could certainly work up an appetite in the time it took for the Chinese place near her apartment to deliver. She reached for her phone and then hesitated.
Alone on a Saturday night with Chinese takeout was about as bad as Friday night in a grocery store.
Tossing the sponge back into the sink, Brenda wiped her hands on the dish towel draped along the handle of the stove. She peered back into the living room, surmising her options, and once again caught sight of the plain manila folder.
Captain Raydor was on a deadline, and an impromptu visit would shake things up a little.
Brenda grinned wickedly. It would also give her a chance to show off her delicious cake.
It was surprisingly easy to find Sharon’s address. By the time she’d carved out a large slice of cake, stuck it in the last clean tupperware container in the cupboard, and headed out the door, Brenda was nearly teeming with giddiness at the thought of just how ruffled Sharon would be when she showed up at her doorstep.
Sharon, as it turned out, lived only eighteen minutes away from Brenda’s new apartment, fifteen minutes closer than the house she’d shared with Fritz. She wasn’t sure why she was so pleased to know this, but the possibility that she might have a potential friend within a respectable distance was certainly something her mother would love.
When she parked her car in front of the captain’s house, she briefly considered the idea that, while Brenda had no plans on a Saturday night, Sharon just might. She made note of the car in the driveway and the light that illuminated the captain’s porch and decided that she liked her chances.
If Sharon was as much of a homebody as Brenda suspected, she may just be in business.
She rang the doorbell and held her breath.
She nearly laughed when Sharon answered the door, clad in gray yoga pants and an off-the-shoulder red sweater. “Chief?” Emerald eyes narrowed as she gave the blonde a quick once-over. “What are you doing here? I hope someone’s been shot.”
“I thought I’d bring by that report you wanted.” Brenda made no move to reach into her purse for the file, hoping that Sharon would take the hint and invite her inside.
“On a Saturday?”
Brenda shrugged, peering over the captain’s bare shoulder to sneak a peek inside the elusive woman’s house. She caught hues of brown and gold and itched to see what else was inside, feeling like an impatient child with her face pressed against the outdoor window of Toys R’ Us. “I know you think I don’t care about paperwork and deadlines, but I do,” she said virtuously, drawing herself up to her full height and casting her most sincere, wide-eyed gaze at the older woman.
“Yes, on Saturday night.” Before Sharon could become righteously indignant, Brenda’s lips twitched into a small smile and she relented. She nodded toward the unmistakable hunk of Tupperware in the deputy chief’s other hand. “I assume that isn’t evidence.”
When Brenda Leigh batted her eyelashes like that, Sharon thought, she looked like Bambi. The older woman found the thought surprisingly amusing. “Why, it’s a generous slice of my delicious homemade triple chocolate cake just for you, capt’n,” the blonde gushed in a tone that would’ve done the Junior League proud.
“In that case,” Sharon replied seriously, but she couldn’t keep the sparkle from her clear green eyes, “maybe you’d like to come in, chief.”
The captain had seen that triumphant glint in the other woman’s eyes on more than one occasion, and she knew exactly what it meant. Free and easy newly-single Deputy Chief Johnson had been bored, and maybe lonely, at home by her lonesome on Saturday night, so she’d decided to ‘investigate’ Sharon. She’d meant it when she’d said that she felt sure Brenda was perfectly capable of surprising her; she could also be utterly predictable.
Gesturing for the blonde to precede her into the snug little slate-shingled house, Sharon shrugged philosophically. Why not invite the chief to partake in her evening ritual of red wine and Rachel? As long as this southern belle wasn’t a Republican (and Sharon truly didn’t think that badly of her), it could be mildly entertaining. Besides, the woman had brought cake.
Brenda peered around keenly as the captain shooed her toward the kitchen, peeking into a small home office lined floor to ceiling with books and a darkened living room as they went. She was unembarrassed by the sensation of Sharon’s eyes trained on her back, observing her as she observed each minute quirk and detail of the other woman’s home, because she was content in the knowledge that the captain would do the same if their roles were reversed.
The open-plan kitchen, with its sand-colored walls and glossy burnt-brick tile flooring, was pleasantly warm. A pot of water seethed on the stove’s back burner, nearing the boiling point, while a medley of yellow squash and zucchini, surely the ones Brenda had noticed in Sharon’s basket last night, waited on the worktop beside a half-chopped onion; and a large knife rested beside the most essential of cook’s tools, a half-full glass of red wine. An open laptop sat on the glass-topped dining table.
“I interrupted your dinner,” the blonde observed brightly. “What’re you makin’?”
“Just pasta.” Sharon quirked an eyebrow as she spoke her obligatory line. “Have you eaten, chief?”
Brenda looked so pleased that Sharon couldn’t even be irritated by the woman’s bald-faced insinuation of herself into her evening plans and personal space. “No, I haven’t.”
“Since you’ve dropped by with this highly important document --” and the cake -- “you can stay, if you’d like.” She easily picked up the knife and used it to gesture, a move that made her companion slightly nervous. “I’m doing whole-wheat fusili with squash, zucchini, a little onion, and pesto.” Expectant eyes fixated on Brenda, awaiting her response.
Brenda Leigh dimpled. “That sounds great, Sharon, and I don’t really have anything at home to cook.”
Sharon smirked as she sliced the squash. “I know, Brenda. There’s another chopping knife in that block right behind you. Feel free to do your worst with the zucchini.”
A look of pure delight crossed over Brenda’s face as she set down her purse and rolled up her sleeves. “I’m surprised you’re trustin’ me with such a vital task.”
Sharon smirked. “Not even you can screw up zucchini.”
Brenda pursed her lips as she reached for the chopping knife. “I don’t know where you got this idea that I’m some sort of klutz,” she began, holding onto the vegetable as she sliced off the top. “Do you really think I’m that incompetent?” Her tone was light, almost teasing, but Brenda couldn’t deny the older woman’s uncanny ability to play into every self-conscious thought buried in the recesses of her mind.
Sharon merely flashed her that barely-there smirk and continued dicing her squash into perfectly equal-sized chunks.
The blonde rolled her eyes, something she seemed to habitually do in the captain’s presence. “You just love messin’ with me, don’t you?”
“I can’t help it, chief. You’re just so easy.”
Brenda scoffed. “I’m not as easy as you think,” she replied. When she registered the double entendre, she nearly sliced off the top of her finger. Thankfully for her, Sharon didn’t seem to notice. “Y’know,” she added, not wanting to give the other woman the time to ponder her sexual habits (or lack thereof), “I wasn’t sure if you’d want the cake. I’m a little surprised you did.”
“You certainly took a gamble, then, driving all the way here to give me a slice,” Sharon replied, watching as the chief deftly sliced the zucchini into uneven shapes. They were, at least, proportional to the size of the squash. “Why were you surprised?” she finally asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“I thought you might be one of those health nuts. I sort of imagined you as the type to count calories in a little notebook or somethin’.”
Sharon wanted to ask when exactly the chief had pondered her eating habits, but decided against it. “Just because I eat healthy doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate dessert.”
“Good,” Brenda said, setting down her knife and leaning against the counter, her arms folded across her chest. “I don’t trust women who don’t like dessert. They’re...unnatural.”
The brunette snorted into her wine glass. “Lucky me. Would you like a glass?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Pinot noir,” Sharon answered, pouring a second glass.
“I prefer Merlot.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Brenda pursed her lips at the other woman’s obviously feigned nonchalance and accepted the wine. Like the deputy chief, the captain let no detail, no matter how small, pass her by. She even paid attention to those pesky little matters of rules and regulations that Brenda preferred to ignore. “At least you eat dessert,” Brenda reiterated.
“I’d think that by this point I’ve proven my trustworthiness in other ways, but all right.” Sharon spoke lightly, pausing to wipe her hands on the dish towel that hung on a rack beside the sink, but the blonde recognized the note of underlying sincerity; it perfectly matched the one that had sounded in her own voice just a moment earlier when she’d asked if Sharon thought she was incompetent. “I’ll eat the cake, if that’s what the situation requires.”
Brenda grinned. “You always struck me as the type of woman who’d be a martyr to a really good cause.”
“And that good cause is your approbation?” Sharon returned, looking over her shoulder with a slight smile.
“No, captain. It’s dessert. -- Can I do anything else?”
“If the water’s boiling, you can go ahead and add the pasta.”
Brenda moved around, dumping the contents of the Barrilla box into the large pot and taking the opportunity of her proximity to the stainless-steel refrigerator to examine the smattering of magnets and photos on its doors. There were several postcards -- from Istanbul, Seoul, and Bangkok, for starters -- a reminder about a dental appointment, and multiple snapshots of a dark-haired toddler. A younger Sharon posed with two dark-haired preteens, a silver-haired couple drank champagne from crystal flutes, and, in black and white, a slender girl with extremely long, extremely straight hair stood with a shorter, curvy, dark-skinned girl in front of some sort of bonfire, both captured with their mouths open, apparently shouting. Brenda scrunched her nose up, squinting to see better, and wished she had her reading glasses within arm’s reach. “Is this you, Sharon?”
The older woman murmured affirmatively as she swirled a modest amount of olive oil in a non-stick pan, although, upon closer inspection of the photo, Brenda Leigh didn’t need the confirmation. She recognized the familiar bone structure, the unmistakable shape of the open mouth. The chief did a double take. “Oh, my Lord. Is this --? Sharon, you’re burnin’ your bra!”
Clear eyes met Brenda’s as Sharon offered a lofty expression and the barest quirk of her lips. “Yep,” she agreed. “We were at a NOW rally.” The younger woman laughed, and Sharon pointed out, “It was 1975, Brenda. Bra-burning was pretty blase by then, really, but we were young and ‘developing our political consciousness.’”
“You ‘bout eighteen here?”
The captain nodded as she added the onion to the hot oil. Before Brenda could complete her mental math Sharon said, “I’m fifty-four.”
“Oh, I wasn’t --”
“Sure you were.” Sharon was smiling, though.
“I didn’t know for sure if you’d be home. I thought you might have plans on a Saturday night.”
“I might have, but I don’t -- not unless someone on the force discharges a weapon, anyway.” After moving the onions around, Sharon deposited her spatula on the spoon rest and moved to a cabinet above the dish drainer, from which she removed two bright red pasta bowls. “I haven’t left the house today,” she confided with a conspiratorial lifting of her brow. “Sometimes I like to be a hermit when I have that rare luxury.”
Brenda nodded and sipped her wine, hopping up to one of the stools at the counter now that her part of dinner prep seemed to be over. “I know what you mean. I’d almost forgotten how nice it can be just to be by yourself sometimes.”
Sharon eyed the other woman as if considering carefully before murmuring, “Yes. Although returning to living alone after having lived with other people for a while can be a big adjustment.”
Not so long ago Brenda would have been surprised to learn that Sharon Raydor possessed that much unobtrusive tact, but not now. They’d never spoken about Brenda’s separation and divorce (which should be final any day now), but of course everyone at work knew, especially once it became common knowledge that Agent Howard had put in for a transfer whenever something became available on the East Coast. “Yeah,” she agreed. “It’s nice to be able to do whatever you want with your own space, though, and not have to answer to anybody.”
The fine skin around Sharon’s eyes crinkled when she smiled. “Is that your way of saying you leave your laundry on the floor, your dishes in the sink, and don’t have to make the bed?”
“I am not a slob,” Brenda protested defensively. Sharon responded with a level gaze. “Well,” the chief qualified, “I’m not the greatest housekeeper, but I’m not terrible. Just because I don’t make the bed the second I get out of it or wash the dishes as soon as I finish eating, that doesn’t mean I won’t do it eventually.” She looked speculatively around the tidy kitchen, craning her neck to peer again into the adjoining living area. “You’re probably a neat freak.”
“No,” Sharon replied honestly, adding the zucchini and yellow squash to the frying pan with the now-translucent onions. “Try living with kids and pets. That will make anyone less fussy about a little dust and dirt.”
Brenda shivered with comic exaggeration. “No, thank you,” she said decidedly, swigging the pinot noir. “Although, I confess to missin’ my cat. I don’t even know if my building allows pets. Fritzi kept her. Maybe he’ll even take her when he finally moves.” She sighed wistfully.
“What’s her name?”
“Joel.” Sharon arched an eyebrow and Brenda laughed. “Sorry. He. I’m a terrible pet owner, really. They just sort of happen to me by accident. I miss havin’ another livin’ thing at home though...now I just find I’m talkin’ to myself more than is probably healthy.”
“I’m not sure how healthy it is to be talking to cats,” Sharon replied, moving between stirring the pasta and the vegetables. “As long as you don’t expect a response...”
“Ha ha,” Brenda quipped dryly. She sipped her wine, which really wasn’t that bad, and watched as Sharon moved around her kitchen with practiced ease. She looked incredibly comfortable, as if she belonged in such a casual, domesticated role. It occurred to her that she really only knew a tiny sliver of who Sharon Raydor really was. There was the head of FID and then there was a single (was she single? dating?) woman who lived alone and clearly enjoyed her solitude. This Sharon, the one who cooked in her bare feet (her toenails were painted a deep burgundy color) and wore yoga pants instead of Armani, was softer, more human. She was a mother, a bra-burning feminist, and probably an amazing cook (if the pleasant aromas had anything to say about it).
It wasn’t until she acknowledged this other side of her co-worker that Brenda realized just how relaxed she was in her presence.
“You’re staring,” Sharon remarked, and Brenda realized that she was.
“Not starin’--just observin’.”
“Are you sizing me up like one of your suspects, Chief Johnson? Trying to figure me out?”
Brenda grinned. “Maybe.”
Sharon was surprised by just how annoyed she wasn’t. “And? What observations have you made?”
The blonde leaned in, bubbly with excitement at the prospect of piecing together one Sharon Raydor. Sharon typically hated games, but she found herself unspeakably curious about whether or not she’d fit the blueprint the chief had devised in her pretty little head.
“All right. Let’s see. You do yoga?” she guessed, deciding to start out small on the slim chance that she was wrong.
“Almost every day,” Sharon confirmed.
Brenda’s eyebrows climbed her forehead. “Really?” She tried to imagine the captain in one of those obscenely flexible, bendy poses and merely chuckled at the prospect.
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Well, forgive me for sayin’, you seem a little too...tense...”
Sharon laughed. “Which is exactly why I do it. You’d be amazed at how therapeutic yoga can be.” She pursed her lips, giving the willowy blonde a once-over. “You should try it. I think you of all people could benefit from it.”
The blonde scrunched her nose. “I dunno if I have the patience for all that stretchin’ and bendin’...besides, I’m not that tense.”
Sharon snorted. “Right.” She met Brenda’s challenging stare and decided to revisit the topic later, perhaps when the deputy chief was loose-limbed following her wine. “What else have you surmised about me?”
“Mmm...you and your kids clearly won the genetic lottery,” Brenda stated, nodding to the photograph on the fridge.
Something Brenda didn’t yet know this woman well enough to identify flickered through the depths of Sharon’s eyes and for an instant she stiffened. Brenda was able to watch as the captain actually forced herself to relax, maybe by doing some of that yoga-style deep breathing. “Thank you,” she said politely.
“You’re a good cook,” Brenda continued, and Sharon snorted.
“I don’t starve, but my kids would tell you I’m no gourmet.”
The blonde shrugged. “This looks close enough to me. You know what’s funny? I love to watch all those cookin’ shows, but I just hate to cook.”
“It can be difficult to cook for one. It took me a while to figure it out after the kids left home; I kept having to throw away spoiled food. I usually prepare enough for two meals and just eat the leftovers later.”
Brenda Leigh bit her lip. “I just order delivery.”
Sharon smiled. “Oh, I do my fair share of that too. It’s one of the benefits of living alone. But it’s nice to cook sometimes. Use it or lose it, you know.” So saying, she stepped lightly over to the stove and took up the pasta, which she drained quickly before dumping it back into the pot. “No fancy serving dishes tonight,” she added by way of explanation. Brenda watched her add the vegetables and remove a jar of what appeared to be homemade pesto from the refrigerator. Her long, elegant fingers -- they were bony, really, but somehow on the dark-haired captain that made them no less elegant -- seized a spoon from a drawer and she scooped a generous amount from the jar, but then hesitated, glancing at Brenda. “Do you mind if I go ahead and add the sauce?”
“Oh, no.” The chief smiled. “I have no dietary, religious, or philosophical objections to pesto.”
“Good. I don’t trust women who don’t eat pesto,” Sharon mimicked, and Brenda realized with a not-unpleasant jolt of surprise that her erstwhile hostess was teasing her.
“Well, it’s nice to know what you value in life, Captain Raydor.”
“Likewise, Chief Johnson.” Sharon lifted her wineglass and rather jauntily clinked it against Brenda’s, and Brenda felt her small smile widen because that casual toast was the kind of thing a friend did, and the more time she spent in Sharon’s kitchen, the more she liked the idea of being her friend.
“Here -- go ahead and fix your plate, and there’s parmesan if you want it.” Sharon reached back into the fridge and Brenda expected to see the familiar green-and-yellow Kraft shaker emerge, but the older woman instead produced a hunk of real cheese and a grater. Brenda obediently scooped pasta into one of the bowls, but refrained from adding cheese. Part of her still suspected that the captain was a closet calorie-counter who would judge her harshly for such an indulgence.
“More wine?” Sharon asked, following in Brenda’s wake. “That was left from last night, but we can open another bottle. It’s right there.” She directed the blonde toward the appropriate cabinet.
“Which one?” Brenda leaned down and gazed at the assortment of bottles. Here was another reason she thought she and Sharon might be able to become real friends: the woman had a well-stocked liquor cabinet, heavy on the red wine.
“I bought them all, so you pick. Do you mind opening it?”
“Oh, no. That’s something I’m actually good at.”
Sharon handed her the corkscrew, and after Brenda had made short work of the cork in the bottle of pinot noir she’d chosen (there were Merlots too, but she figured it was a safer bet to stick with what Sharon had selected for herself), she looked back to see Sharon re-wrapping the hunk of parmesan. A generous heap of its shavings now adorned the captain’s pasta, and Brenda Leigh realized she’d missed an opportunity.
Ever-watchful green eyes caught the mournful look on the younger woman’s face and Sharon nearly laughed. She brandished the cheese and the grater. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
Brenda sheepishly bit her lip as she accepted the cheese.
“You don’t mind my knowing that you eat your weight in confectionery junk, but you’re shy about cheese?” Sharon smirked mirthfully. “Why Brenda Leigh, do I make you nervous?”
Brenda wrapped up the cheese and, noticing an errant shaving on the counter, caught it with her finger and brought it to her lips. “Not nervous. Just...aware. I’m not used to spendin’ time with people outside of work who don’t know me all that well.”
Sharon found herself taken aback by the other woman’s blunt honesty. Taking up her bowl and wine glass, she gestured to the table. Though there were two bar stools, Sharon wasn’t quite sure that she was ready to bump knees with Brenda while they shared a companionable meal. She did, however, fold herself into her chair at the end of the table, curling one leg beneath her in an effort to maintain the relaxed atmosphere. It was so much different to eating on her own. “I like to think I know you fairly well, Brenda.”
Brenda sat down on the chair to Sharon’s left, accidentally brushing her knee against Sharon’s bare foot when she crossed her legs. She set down her bowl. “I thought I knew you too, but then...” She gestured around her, from the orchid in the corner (was that her favorite flower, or was it merely decorative?) to the candle on the counter (what scent?). “There’s so much I don’t know.”
“Yet.” Sharon tapped her finger on the stem of her glass. “And you hate not knowing things, don’t you?”
“D’you have to ask?” Brenda asked with a breathless laugh. She held up her glass of wine. “Here’s to gettin’ to know each other better.”
Sharon paused for a moment, observing the openly hopeful gleam in Brenda’s eyes. She considered what this might mean--were they going to be friends now? Did they have to get along at work? Was her comfortable existence as a hermit about to be disrupted? She took up her glass and clinked it against Brenda’s, deciding then and there that maybe her life could use a little disruption. “I can drink to that. Now: eat your dinner. I promise that healthy food doesn’t bite.”
“If you say so.” Swallowing her sip of wine, Brenda eyed her bowl of food with skepticism. “I sure hope I was right about you knowin’ how to cook.”
Sharon narrowed her eyes. “And we have yet to see if you know how to bake.”
Brenda gaped. “All right, fine. I won’t pre-judge your cookin’ if you don’t pre-judge my cake.”
“Fine.”
They both took a bite of their food, chewing in unison, before Brenda burst out: “This is good!”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised, chief.”
The blonde shrugged unapologetically. She’d show the captain what surprised really looked like, or, more accurately, the captain would show her. “Whatever,” she replied, her tone breezy, as she forked a couple of chunks of squash and a bit of the curly pasta. “You just wait ‘til you try my cake.”
Perhaps inevitably, or perhaps because this rather obvious getting-to-know-you conversation was certain to become stilted if it was allowed to go on too long, they transitioned to desultory chatter about work. Both women avoided broaching any serious or inflammatory issues while they steadily emptied their bowls, sticking instead to anecdotes of the milder variety, and finally Brenda said, “I’ll do the dishes.”
Sharon rose seamlessly -- maybe there was something to that yoga business after all -- and carted both bowls over to the sink. “No, not this time,” she replied, running her fingers through her hair and tumbling the long layers. This time implied a next time, and that made Brenda Leigh smile. “You’re a guest,” Sharon added, and the deputy chief couldn’t help wondering if the captain’s mama had been anything like Willie Rae.
Brenda looked around the kitchen, feeling a little awkward as she sat there leisurely finishing her wine while Sharon bustled around, quickly cleaning up the small, contained mess. Good manners dictated that it was time for her to go, and yet --
“Are you gonna eat your cake?”
Sharon shot her a derisive glance as she quickly but precisely wiped the counters. “Of course I’m going to eat it.”
“Right.” Brenda tipped her glass up and let the last tiny droplets of pinot noir slide down her throat. “But I meant now.”
The taller woman tossed the dishcloth across the edge of the sink and folded her arms over her chest as she turned back to smirk at her companion. “You want to see me open my present, is that it?”
The blonde pursed her lips, refusing to give in to embarrassment. “I could order you.”
Sharon snorted out an undignified laugh. “To eat cake?”
Brenda grinned and nodded emphatically, her curls bouncing and swaying over her sloping shoulders. “Yes, captain. As your superior officer, I could, at my discretion and for the greater good, hereby order you to eat that cake right now.”
The captain’s cheeks hollowed as she folded her lips together with suspicion. “Wait. I find your eagerness a bit disconcerting, chief. You didn’t poison the cake, by any chance?”
Brenda made a harumphing sound in her throat. “Did you poison the pasta?” she retorted.
“I was also eating the pasta,” Sharon pointed out, and then her folded arms went slack. “Wait. Is this an elaborate ploy to get me to share with you?”
The deputy chief bit her lip.
“Honestly, Brenda,” the older woman continued, sounding disgusted, “don’t you have the rest of the damn thing at home?”
“That’s not it,” Brenda Leigh protested a little too hotly. “I just wanna see you enjoy it. What’s wrong with that?”
Dark hair shimmered as Sharon shook her head. “Absolutely not a thing, Lady Bountiful.” She opened the drawer that Brenda had already marked as the silverware drawer and fished around for half a second, and then snagged the Tupperware container with her left hand. Returning to the table, she plopped the cake down between their empty wine glasses and then held up two forks.
Brenda grinned with delight, and Sharon grinned right back. “More wine?” the hostess offered.
“Well, maybe just a drop.”
Sharon lifted the bottle and poured for both of them, and then removed the lid from the Tupperware container. Brenda watched her expectantly. Sharon sank her fork into the moist layers and came away with a modestly-sized morsel of chocolate and more chocolate. Brenda’s studious gaze never left her face as she brought the fork toward her lips, but before it made contact, Sharon paused.
“Thank you for bringing dessert -- and for the report,” she added as an afterthought. She realized that she had enjoyed Brenda Leigh’s company enough that she’d forgotten all about the purported impetus for this little impromptu dinner party.
Brenda nodded and flushed slightly. “Thank you for dinner. Maybe, um -- maybe we could do it again? At my apartment? You could be my first company.”
“Sure,” the brunette agreed, and then darted a quick look at her loaded fork. “As long as the cake isn’t poisoned.”
With an exasperated eye-roll, Brenda seized her own fork, stabbed at the cake, and shoved a huge bite into her mouth. “There,” she said, the word distorted, ignoring forty-plus years of her mother’s insistence that she not talk with her mouth full, “satisfied?”
Smirking, Sharon closed her lips around her own fork and carefully sucked every last trace of the decadent chocolate from its prongs. “It’s delicious,” she admitted after she had chewed and swallowed (showing off her own superior table manners, the chief thought), going for a second, more generous, bite.
“I know,” Brenda Leigh replied smugly. “Imagine how much better it coulda been if I’d had the right kind of chocolate. So, when d’you wanna come over for dinner?”
Sharon scanned her mental datebook, remembering that it had promised to be a particularly light work week (assuming none of the boys and girls of the LAPD went trigger happy). She had nothing planned for her Sunday aside from her plans to clean the bathrooms, but it seemed presumptuous somehow to suggest that they spend three evenings in a row in each other’s company. “How does your Tuesday look?”
Brenda wiped her finger along the dollop of frosting that had stuck to the top of the container and proceeded to lick it off. “Sounds great.”
“This time I’ll bring dessert. You better cook me something decent.”
The blonde paused and tried not to panic at the thought of learning a whole new recipe before Tuesday (she had over-indulged in the mashed potatoes and would not be inclined to make them again for the foreseeable future, nor would she serve Sharon something as plain as clam linguine). Still, she had nothing to do on Sunday, so she had the whole day to shop for food and practice a thing or two before Tuesday. “You better not bring me a fruit salad,” Brenda countered.
Sharon chuckled and shook her head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The two women finished off the the cake, playfully fighting over who would get the prized corner bite that was heavy on the frosting, each surprised to find herself looking forward to Tuesday.
***