DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE CLOSER OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS - I'M JUST PLAYING WITH THEM.

AUTHOR NOTE: A last-minute Halloween story - I apologise for the horrible lack of quality. It is, however, mercifully brief.

That Old Black Magic

The bar is dismal enough to be the setting for a Halloween film without even trying. The occupants of one corner do not notice its shortcomings: all they need is somewhere that isn't where they work. Some of them drink, some of them don't, all of them laugh.

'...swear to God, it's the truth!' Flynn, expansive, good humoured. 'When the guy finished howling at the moon he started chasing cars, caught up with one at a red-light and sank his teeth into one of the tyres. Punctured the damn thing.'

'You're so full of it, Flynn,' Provenza tells him.

'Hey, he spent the rest of the night in the back of the squad car trying to pick bits of rubber from between his teeth.'

More laughter. The game has taken most of the night, all trying to out-do each other with the most outrageous tale of Halloween-related criminal madness but all of it confirming Flynn's earlier statement that Halloween just brought out all the whackos more than usual.

Through it all Brenda has listened, offering little in way of conversation herself, but enjoying the friendly rivalry. Half of it is for themselves, she thinks, and the other half for her benefit. Men are all peacocks at heart and they seem to be going of their way to display, to be the one to make her laugh the most.

It is endearing and she watches them with affection, the faces and voices that have become so familiar that they have become part of her natural rhythm. She can't think of how to function without any of them.

And she is aware that she is also being watched, of one pair of dark eyes in particular that stay on her, that gauge her reactions. She would hide from them, shrink from the gaze but somehow-

Somehow it isn't an unpleasant sensation.

Does she play up to it? Does she toss her hair away from her shoulders and lean towards him a little more when he speaks? Does she lean back again and re-cross her legs, allowing her skirt to slide that bit higher before smoothing it down again. Does she, when her eyes catch his (by chance, of course) allow the glance to be held?

Perhaps all of those things are true, or perhaps they are just things that happen. Everything, after all, is open to interpretation.

She sips her wine, enjoys the hazy glow of it and the general feeling of goodwill.

When at last they break, Tao and Sanchez are still arguing the point over a would-be Doctor Frankenstein (the details of which Brenda prefers not to hear). In the parking lot they say their goodnights, exchange appalling puns.

Flynn walks her to her car-

'Just in case the crazies are around.'

She smiles at him, allows the escort. They walk side-by-side, a little space between them. She has parked, sensibly, under a lamp; they stand in the circle of light.

'It was a nice night,' she says.

He nods, thoughtful, the dark eyes glittering under the glare from above. 'Yeah, and Provenza managed not to tell his stripper story.'

Her eyebrows go up. 'Stripper story?'

He sighs. 'He tells it every year. Maybe not telling it is a sign of Alzheimers - we should get him checked out.'

Brenda looks at him, reproachful; he laughs.

'Either that or he's finally showing some restraint around a lady.'

'That's never stopped him before,' she mutters.

'Yeah... Spooky.' He shudders. 'That's Halloween for you.'

She rolls her eyes again, delves into her purse for her keys and comes up with a handful of empty candy-wrappers.

'Trick or treat,' he says.

'No treat, I'm afraid, Lieutenant,' she says sadly. 'I don't what happened to it all.'

Dry: 'Yeah, it's a puzzle.' He tilts his head again. 'If there's no treat, you know what happens.'

She raises her eyes to his, holds them wide. 'You are not going to play a trick on me.'

'Fair's fair, Chief.'

It is, she tells herself, reasonable. A little ridiculous, perhaps, two respectable detectives of a certain age standing in a parking-lot debating the finer points of a Halloween tradition. Perhaps it is the wine; perhaps it is the residual effects of an evening spent in good company; perhaps it is because dark eyes that glow so warmly seem to offer safety and make everything else so easy to forget.

'All right,' she folds her arms, 'what's the trick?'

His eyes wander over her face, an extra spark somewhere in there, something she cannot name. Or if she can, she decides not to.

'Close your eyes.'

A moment before she complies.

In the sudden semi-darkness she is aware of stillness, then the breeze stirring the leaves, then faint music trickling in from the bar.

After that she is aware of the light pleasant scent of aftershave, of breath soft against her skin and then lips against hers that are anything but soft. His hands close around her arms and she is unresisting.

She should not kiss him back, of that she is certain; she should not, but she does. She tastes him, draws his breath deep into her mouth.

Her eyes are still closed when he pulls back. When she opens them and meets his the spark has turned to fire, dancing darkly in the depths.

'Happy Halloween,' he says and lets her go.

And perhaps, when she is driving home, she doesn't mind the dirty trick; perhaps she thinks it was the sweetest treat of all.

FIN