Word count: 2,745
Pairing: Brenda/Sharon
Rating: K+
Summary: Anything, anything was better than another Sunday afternoon alone, even spending time with Captain Sharon Raydor. - A new multi-chapter Brenda/Sharon relationship story written from the Brenda/Sharon Month of Love on tumblr.
Author's note: Be forewarned: this story is set in the Major Crimes universe; but since it prominently features one Brenda Leigh, I have elected to post it here rather than in the Major Crimes tag (so please don't message me and tell me I need to move it - I think it belongs here, where people who like Brenda/Sharon stories have a better chance of being able to find it). You don't need to watch Major Crimes to read this story, because it really is a relationship story. For those of you who do watch Major Crimes, the first few chapters fit with canon through the first summer episodes of season two, and then deviate from there on. I have completed five chapters, or approximately half the story, so you don't need to worry that it won't be updated. And, as always, thank you very, very much for reading, and especially for commenting, favoriting, and following.
Film Studies 101: Ladri di biciclette (a.k.a. the meet-cute)
The film: Ladri di biciclette (The Bicycle Thieves, usually erroneously translated as The Bicycle Thief), dir. Vittorio De Sica, 1948
"You mean they don't even have popcorn? What kind of movie theater doesn't have popcorn?"
Sharon hid a smile in her summer scarf as she unbuttoned her lightweight jacket. A clot of foul weather was clinging to the L.A. area, making it unseasonably wet and cool for June. "The kind that's in an art museum," she replied.
"And this movie is like three hours long? You're evil."
"It's an hour and a half, Rusty. Besides, I promised you dinner afterward, right? And you chose to come see the film."
"Yeah, when you decided it was this or the ballet," he groused, flopping down and attempting to get comfortable. Ninety minutes of a black and white film with subtitles and without popcorn or soda? He scrounged in his sweatshirt pocket, hoping his fingers would encounter the crinkly wrapping of one of the peppermints Sharon had stuffed in there last week when he'd had a cold. This was some lame-ass way to be spending a Sunday afternoon, especially when, unlike almost every other teenager in the world, he was being denied a summer vacation. A few months ago he would have made some snide remark about the captain wanting to cram him full of what she called 'culture' because she didn't want a white-trash kid from a trailer park cluttering up her condo; now he knew that this was just Sharon's way, and in theory he even thought it was not a terrible idea. His friend Chris knew all kinds of stuff about art and drama and what people ate for breakfast in China and where to get the best croissants in Paris; Rusty thought his knowledge of L.A.'s best hamburger joints paled in comparison. But in practice, now that he was actually stuck here with no escape route, not so much. He sighed gustily.
Sharon turned to face him. "Rusty, if you really don't want to be here, we can go."
Her expression was neutral, but he caught the tiny droop at the corners of her mouth and felt like a jerk. At moments like this he remembered how she had cried last fall when he'd accused her of wanting to get rid of him.
"Okay, okay," he grumbled, so maybe she wouldn't catch on. "I'll give it a chance."
She settled back, looking so pleased that Rusty felt - he wasn't sure what. A certain kind of responsibility, maybe. Like not just because Sharon had given him a place to live that didn't have tires and a gas pedal and he owed her something as a result; but because she had chosen to care about him and that gave him the power to influence her in a way that was different from a parent-child relationship. Or maybe, as a sixteen-year-old, he just felt like he should shut up about the popcorn and bear it.
"I get to pick the restaurant, right?"
She closed her eyes, tilting her head back against the seat for a second, and he knew she was resigning herself to yet another hamburger. But all she said was, "That was the deal, as long as you pay attention to the film."
He grinned and settled back too as the lights dimmed. Maybe he'd surprise her. But first he'd wait and see just how bad this movie turned out to be.
The woman who had just entered the screening room and was navigating uncertainly in the darkness was as dubious as Rusty, but for different reasons. She slid into an aisle seat, hoping that she wasn't smack dab next to a stranger in a theater that was only half full, and let her eyes close. She'd known it was time for a change of scenery when the tears that had threatened all day had overflowed as she stood before a Chagall. ("I know," an enraptured art student had breathed, "isn't it astounding?") The darkness of the museum's screening room, where a film was on the point of beginning, had seemed an inviting choice. But how likely was an Italian film about bicycles, of all things, to keep her mind off her woes? She didn't go to movies. She hadn't been in the habit of frequenting art museums since her time at Georgetown. But anything, anything was better than another afternoon home alone in an empty house.
She was so sick of her own thoughts that she was keenly relieved when the movie started.
After a while she realized a segment of her brain was processing the plot as if she were still a cop. The theft of a bicycle, it intoned, pedantic, may seem like a minor incident. However, as we see here, the bicycle may represent an entire family's means of subsistence, so that the theft results in unemployment, further crime, a burden on the legal and social welfare systems, and even death. For these reasons, it is imperative that crime prevention rather than detection be the primary objective of the police, q.e.d.
She sighed to herself as the lights came up and someone near her sniffled. What was wrong with her? Had she lost the ability to feel the simple, tragic beauty of the human condition? Here she was, wanting to file a report and make rules to stop it. Maybe that girl earlier had been right. Maybe the Chagall was astounding, and her senses were too blunted by experience to perceive it.
So much for distracting herself from her problems. Instead she had discovered new ones. With a sigh, she scooped up her crumpled raincoat and thrust one arm into the sleeve.
"... yeah, exactly. They stole his bicycle, and it ruined his life. He couldn't contribute and be a, you know, productive member of society. And that, Sharon, is why you should give me back the car."
The voice, Brenda registered vaguely, was familiar, but the one that replied was unmistakable.
"We've had this conversation. I didn't take the car away in order to punish you. But at least I know you were paying attention to one of the masterpieces of Italian neorealismo. So where do you want to go for dinner?"
Brenda froze with her back turned to the aisle. They were walking toward her; in seconds they would go by. Uncharacteristic indecision assailed her. Running into them was a remarkable coincidence, like some kind of sign in the midst of her bleak day. But on the other hand there was relief, as if she'd dodged a bullet. They would walk by, and she wouldn't have to make polite conversation, interact with actual humans.
Sharon's smooth head was inclined toward the boy's. "What did you think?" she asked, adjusting the strap of her purse over the shoulder of the black trenchcoat Brenda had seen grace countless crime scenes.
"Well, we studied World War II in history, but, like, were things really that bad in Italy after the war? The people were that poor?"
"They were, especially in the south. De Sica wanted the film to be as realistic a representation of post-war life as possible. The characters weren't played by professional actors. But the film is also a social commentary on the way -"
"Capt'n Raydor! Rusty! Yoohoo!"
Rusty's expression was priceless. Yoohoo? Then he grinned, clearly amused. "Brenda! Sharon, it's Brenda."
Sharon's eyebrows had risen above the rims of her glasses - new ones, Brenda noted, maybe to go with her new haircut. "I see that. Hello, Brenda. I wouldn't have taken you for a neorealismo enthusiast."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Both Sharon and Rusty blinked, and Brenda flushed at her own defensiveness. "This is quite a coincidence. Imagine runnin' into you two here, of all places."
Sharon's lips quirked, and Brenda was sure what she was thinking. Where else were they likely to run into one another - the firing range?
"Yes, Rusty is humoring me."
"So, Rusty." Bright-eyed, Brenda turned to the teenager. "I guess an awful lot has happened since I saw you."
"Yeah. I guess," he agreed with caution.
"You're goin' to a new school? Makin' friends?"
"Catholic school." Rusty tilted his head toward his guardian. "Her idea."
The awkwardness of the moment was palpable. Brenda wondered why she'd thought this would be preferable to being left alone. She'd spent years evading the notice of Captain Raydor, and now she was courting it?
"We're on our way to dinner." The older woman paused. "Would you care to join us?"
Brenda thought she was going to say no. But Sharon smiled in that way she had, when her lips curved but her eyes widened with anxiety, and fumbled for her pockets. "Sure," the blonde heard herself to say. "I'd really like the chance to catch up. Where're we goin'?"
They ended up at a pasta bar. Explaining her evident shock, Sharon told Brenda, "Hamburgers - he loves them. He'd live on them if I let him."
"You should see the stuff she feeds me. Vegetables nobody's ever heard of, and tofu, tofu, tofu."
Sharon smirked and sipped from her water as she and Brenda waited for the glasses of wine they'd ordered to arrive. "And yet he hasn't gone on hunger strike."
"You come eat with me, Rusty." Brenda gave him a conspiratorial wink. "I'll even let you have dessert."
"Sharon makes clam linguine too," he volunteered. If the memory of dinner at Brenda's was a bad one, it didn't show on his face. As for Brenda, she hadn't managed to feel quite the same at home since she'd shot Stroh in her kitchen. "She says clams aren't supposed to come out of a can. Right, Sharon?"
"Oh, well. I'm sure Sharon's a better cook than I am," Brenda returned, a little put out.
To her surprise, Sharon grinned, an expression Brenda had never seen on her before. "Maybe not," the captain confessed. "Why do you think I use so much tofu? It's indestructible. Rusty, though, is very good in the kitchen. He makes wonderful omelets."
This meal was turning out to be different from what she'd expected, Brenda thought as she looked down at her menu. Not different-bad, but different-good. There was an obvious easy, comfortable rapport between Raydor and Rusty, and rather than alienating Brenda, it was extending to absorb her. She couldn't get over this new, maternal side of Sharon. And yet she wasn't shocked by it. Somehow it seemed like a natural extension of her personality, just not one Brenda had ever contemplated or anticipated.
When Rusty's cell phone rang, Brenda was surprised that Sharon didn't chide him for answering it. She was even more surprised when the older woman gestured for him to leave the table and take the call, but the anxious haste with which Rusty bolted for the door, nearly tripping over his sneakers, gave the ex-deputy chief a clue.
"It's a girl from his class," Sharon confirmed with a slight smile. "There's no need for me to be cruel."
"A teenage boy discoverin' girls - I don't envy you that."
"And not just any teenage boy."
Sharon said it with no particular inflection, but Brenda was reminded of all the issues that had to come with taking in a foster child who had Rusty's background. She remembered the day when, frustrated with having Fritz as her go-between, she had called Major Crimes directly and demanded to know what Captain Raydor was doing about Rusty Beck. The conversation had been much shorter than she had anticipated, because Provenza had said, "Oh. She took the kid home with her," and that had been it.
Like this afternoon, Brenda hadn't known how to react to the news. There had been a problem; Sharon had solved it. That was what Sharon did. If it involved the introduction of an abandoned, sexually and psychologically vulnerable teenager into her home and private life, so be it. It just seemed very Captain Raydor.
Brenda wondered what she would have done in the other woman's place.
"Brenda?"
From the way Sharon said her name, Brenda had the feeling she'd said it before. She looked up from the remains of her farfalle with pesto, an automatic smile in place.
"You were wool-gathering."
"Thank you for doin' all you've done for Rusty," Brenda blurted.
Sharon looked taken aback. "I didn't do it for you."
The blonde felt herself blush. Sharon's wasn't the most gracious response, but she had a point. What business did Brenda have thanking her as if the captain had been doing her a personal favor? She hadn't been, any more than she'd been doing Brenda a favor in dealing with Goldman. She'd been doing her job. And yet...
"Let me tell you, that first day when a uniform brought him to my office, he did not want to see me. He wanted Br-enda." The brunette lightly clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she lifted her wine glass, self-deprecating. "Story of my life."
Her office. It took Brenda a second to readjust her mental image and see Sharon not surrounded by files up in FID, but sitting comfortably in Brenda's old domain. "It seems like it all worked out."
"Yes, it did," Sharon agreed. "All of it."
The blonde heaved a sigh. In the next instant she wished she could suck the breath right back in, because now Sharon was scrutinizing her, her eyes attentive.
"Brenda," she began, cautious, "are you all right?"
"Oh, me? Yeah." Brenda smoothed her napkin over her lap. She was being too nonchalant. "I'm just fine."
She felt Sharon watching her, but the captain said nothing. Brenda knew it had to be obvious that she wasn't fine. She wouldn't be sitting here with Sharon Raydor, of all people in God's creation, if she were. Knowing that the other woman was making the tactful choice not to pry was almost worse than if she'd just asked.
Instead Sharon placed her napkin on the table and eased her chair back. "I'll tell Rusty it's time for dessert. Excuse me."
Brenda Leigh just knew Sharon was going to be one of those women who never ordered dessert, but a few minutes later their waiter was delivering three slices of tiramisu to the table.
Sharon watched Rusty's eyes light up as he tasted his first bite. "Hey!" he exclaimed, his lips still wrapped around his spoon. "This is good."
Brenda half expected Sharon to tell him not to talk with his mouth full, but she only grinned again, looking for all the world as if she wanted to ruffle his hair.
Brenda was surprised by how sad she was to see the dinner end, and not just because it meant no more tiramisu.
She'd parked a few spaces away from Sharon, and as the three of them walked through the parking lot, Rusty and the captain had their heads bent together again, speaking in low murmurs. They'd already said goodnight, in the uncomfortable way you said it when you left somewhere and then still had to go in the same direction. Brenda felt foolishly self-conscious, all too certain she was the subject of conversation.
She was close enough to hear the locks on Sharon's car pop a second before she inserted the key into her own driver's side door. "Hey, Brenda?" Rusty called.
She looked back, smiling that rote smile.
"If you're not too busy, it would be cool if you came over for dinner sometime. Like maybe next weekend." Brenda heard Sharon say something, although she couldn't make out the words. "Sunday. And we could watch a movie too. Sharon says no subtitles."
Brenda's eyes found the green orbs glinting at her from behind designer frames. "If Sharon says no tofu too, you're on."
The captain smirked. "Maybe I'll make clam linguine."
"Then I'll pick the movie," Brenda retorted. "I hope y'all like Steel Magnolias."
"It's Rusty's favorite."
Brenda looked back one last time to see Sharon still smirking, and Rusty looking alarmed.
Brenda thought she should probably be alarmed too. She'd just accepted an invitation to Darth Raydor's house for dinner and a movie. But her belly was full of pasta and tiramisu, and she didn't have to face the prospect of yet another lonely Sunday spent wandering around the city's cultural institutions. Besides, Rusty would be there, and Brenda was still licensed to carry concealed. So she contented herself with a smile.
