Author's note: (1.) I wrote this as a little holiday gift for ubiquitousmixie, and I kind of can't believe I'm posting it for public consumption. The prompt was "Brenda/Sharon, winter misadventure." Obviously I used this as an excuse to pull out all the stops, and by all the stops, I mean every cliche in the book. You have been warned. (2.) The setting of this story is a slight A/U: it follows season seven of The Closer up to the point at which Brenda defends herself and Rusty from Stroh, but diverges before she leaves the LAPD. It's only a minor detail, but the timing is confusing otherwise.
The Dare: Or, a Ridiculous Snowy Misadventure
"I cannot believe this!" Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson huffs. She's speaking to herself, and to the universe, but her companion slides back into the passenger seat of the silver Crown Vic in time to hear the muttered exclamation. Captain Sharon Raydor closes the car door, shutting out a rush of cold air. Eyebrows rising a fraction, the older woman looks pointedly out the front windshield at the fat snowflakes swirling furiously in the December air. The inference is clear: little belief need be involved when the evidence of their eyes is so, well, evident.
"It does not snow in California."
"Perhaps you've heard of Tahoe?" The captain's lips purse; she looks almost amused. "Badger Pass? Mammoth Mountain?"
Brenda rolls her eyes. "I meant not in Southern California."
"Technically -" The blonde knows she isn't going to like what's about to emerge from between the other woman's compressed lips – her perfect compressed lips, that perfectly compliment the gleam of smug humor in her eyes. "Technically, we are in Central California. We've been driving for six hours, Chief. If you'd looked at the map -"
The glare the blonde shoots across the center console is withering, so of course Raydor almost, almost smiles. Everything about her, the chief thinks, is perverse. "I know how long we've been drivin', Captain, especially since you've had a problem with every single one of my musical selections -"
"You're the one who keeps changing the station whenever 'Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree' comes on." This time Raydor chortles; it is a sound of pure evil. "Did you hope I wouldn't figure it out, Brenda Leigh?"
She doesn't bother pointing out that they are on the clock and insisting the captain address her appropriately, because of course the brunette has discerned how Clay and Willie Rae selected their only daughter's name, and her reaction could have been a lot worse. Instead she changes the subject. "When will the tow truck be here?"
"It should be no more than fifteen minutes. We're really quite close to the town."
"Well." Brenda strives for a bright, false smile. "There's that, at least."
The captain says nothing, which is a small mercy Brenda could live without. Her obvious forbearance is more annoying than her supercilious corrections.
The interior of the car is growing increasingly chilly. Raydor shifts, readjusting the collar of her beige wool coat, and Brenda shivers with cold and envy. She really should have looked at a map. She'd known before setting out that they were going six hours northeast, up into the mountains, but she hadn't realized just how mountainous those mountains were going to be. It had been seventy-three when they'd left Los Angeles. The blonde hugs her thin pink trench closer to her body, trying to be subtle about it. She passes the time by looking out Sharon's side of the front window. There isn't much to see on her own: the driver's side is plunged into a deep snowbank at an alarming angle.
The car is like a silent little cocoon, screened from the outside world by the blanket of fast-falling snow. The confinement and forced proximity begin to feel uncomfortably intimate, and Brenda closes her eyes. Twilight is falling fast anyway.
Soon they will be on their way again. According to the GPS, which kept losing its signal on the way up, they are only about seven miles from the cabin where their suspect had holed up for months between his first and second bombings of Los Angeles hospitals. They're supposed to meet the Madera County sheriff, who is to accompany them; but if she can convince Raydor that things will go a lot faster without the third woman's presence, they might still get to the cabin before it's totally dark. Brenda has never driven in the snow before today, not that she will admit as much, and doesn't relish the thought of doing so in the darkness.
She is so deeply wrapped in her reverie that she has only vaguely processed that the tow truck has arrived and the captain is now standing outside, talking to a man in a parka and a baseball cap. Brenda lets Raydor handle it, telling herself it is simply part of delegating authority, but knowing in her heart of hearts that it's because she is wearing heels and the captain is wearing sensible boots. Eventually Raydor beckons, and Brenda braces herself for the snowy onslaught. Her people are not built for cold climates.
"I'll have it back up on the tarmac in a minute, and then we can see how bad the damage is," the operator says, still addressing Raydor, and it occurs to Brenda for the first time that there could be something seriously wrong with the car. Although she's a stranger to wintry road conditions, she is not an idiot; but the snow had felt so soft and forgiving. Well, until she had tried to reverse out of it.
Hoping for the best, she concentrates on not letting her teeth chatter.
Forty-Five Minutes Later:
"I told you to steer into the skid."
It is the first thing either of them has said since the tow truck operator dropped them off at the Piny Crest Lodge, apparently the only establishment in the Inyo National Forest with vacancies. One look at the run-down exterior of the tiny cabins had made it obvious why.
"What do you know about drivin' in the snow? You're from Orange County!" Raydor refrains from mentioning the timeshare in Park City; Brenda knows she is refraining, and heaves a sigh. "For heaven's sake, I can't believe everywhere else is full."
This time Raydor's smirk comes dangerously near to breaking into a full-on smile. "Chief. You've heard of ski season?"
The car has a broken axle, hence the overnight. Brenda is almost glad, because the thought of the icy roads is slightly terrifying. Tomorrow they will get a rental, preferably something large and tank-like.
"All right, ladies, here you go." The proprietor, who is an appropriately wizened elderly man in an appropriately plaid shirt, returns from the motel office with a single key. He presents it to the chief with a flourish. "Cabin six."
"We need two cabins," Raydor puts in, that smooth alto flowing gently around them.
The man shrugs. "Ain't got but the one. You have heard of ski season? And with next week bein' Christmas -"
"We'll take it," Brenda interrupts.
The cabin is decorated in an assortment of browns that Brenda remembers being the height of fashion in the seventies, and both beds are slightly sunken from wear. At least there are two beds, and the room is clean, if outdated. The first thing she does is turn up the heat. Then she turns to the captain.
She feels a little bad about Sharon being stuck here, especially with no change of clothes and nowhere open to buy so much as a toothbrush.
On the other hand, it's not Brenda's fault that her baby-sitter had insisted on accompanying her. She is perfectly capable of having checked out Lawrence Ehrlich's hideaway by herself; Buzz had even showed her how to use his fancy camera to document everything. Raydor had muttered something about it being a wild goose-chase, but then she had made noises about interaction with local law enforcement, and insisted on tagging along. Honestly, how much trouble could Brenda have gotten herself into with one little tiny ol' sheriff's department?
Raydor is looking right back at her, gaze steady and searching, and doesn't appear as annoyed as she should be.
Brenda knows that being first to look away is a sign of weakness, but she looks down at her cuticles. "D'you think there's somewhere we can get somethin' to eat?"
"There must be. Shall I go ask?" Brenda doesn't answer right away, so the older woman prompts, "Chief?" The blonde nods. When she hears the door close behind the captain, she sinks down onto one of the beds.
The deputy chief has realized that she is not all that annoyed either. In fact, she isn't annoyed at all. Part of her is relieved not to be at home with Fritz and his sister, who is relentlessly festive. Brenda can't wait for the holidays to be over; she had hoped they could just ignore them, but Fritz had refused, insisting it wasn't healthy. She didn't have the heart to go to Atlanta. Her brothers are there, and all her nieces and nephews, surrounding Daddy on this first Christmas without Mama. Her presence or absence would make the affair no more nor less miserable, and she just couldn't face it. She could admit that to herself; she'd even admitted it to her husband, which is why she feels so resentful of Claire's presence. Couldn't he have accepted her grief and given her a little more time to sit with it before forcing her to be "normal"? It's bad enough to be confronted with the decorations in the Murder Room on a daily basis. Everywhere she turns, she seems to see her parents, like ghosts of Christmas past. She has been to Atlanta several times in the past six months, and although there is nothing physically wrong with Clay, he is fading without Willie Rae's fire and vigor. She couldn't bear to see that either. Maybe it makes her a coward, but it's true.
Brenda feels a little guilty to be so relieved, but she is no stranger to guilt. That she can handle. But it isn't only relief she feels.
The door opens, and her pulse accelerates with excitement.
"Well, we're in luck." Brenda can't tell if the woman is being facetious, and her quirky little smile doesn't help. "There's a bar down the street with all-you-can-eat hot wings, as well as live musical entertainment. Mr. Russell at the front desk assures me it's where all the locals go." Her voice drips with an odd combination of disdain and amusement that is just so – so Raydor. "Do you want to change before we head over?"
Brenda blinks. "I don't have anything to change into."
This time the captain compresses her lips to hide what might have been a genuine smile. "I know that, chief," she points out gently. "I'm sure we'll both fit right in."
Sharon is wearing razor-cut Armani. Brenda can't suppress a delighted little grin and, to her dismay, the other woman grins back. Suddenly the blonde imagines her dark-haired companion in tight denim and something black and partially unbuttoned. The grin slides off her face. She's glad the captain is wearing the long wool coat, so that Brenda has absolutely no opportunity to distract herself from the frigid, wet weather by staring at Sharon Raydor's ass.
The neon sign outside the bar sports the highly original name The Roadhouse. The parking lot is packed, and old-fashioned, honky-tonk-style country spills out onto the icy pavement. If Brenda's toes weren't solid blocks of ice, she'd be tempted to tap them. Of all the places in the world that she'd never imagined going with Captain Sharon Raydor –
Not that she'd imagined going anywhere with Raydor. Not until recently. Had she?
She knows she made a fool of herself at the chief of police's annual holiday party. She'd been more than tipsy, and Sharon had been drinking something that was definitely not her usual white wine (since when does Brenda know what Sharon's usual drink is?), and they'd played it off as a joke. Still, when the deputy chief thinks about it, her cheeks and the tips of her ears grow hot, and her heart pounds, and no matter how much she wants it to be, she knows it isn't all the effect of hazily-remembered embarrassment.
It is Will's fault, because if he hadn't been promoted to chief, she could have skipped the damn thing like she had every other year.
It is Will's fault, because he was the one who had insisted that Major Crimes (read: Brenda) needed a permanent baby-sitter now that he had moved upstairs, and that no one could possibly do the job other than the head of F.I.D. It was Will's fault that Sharon was always there, and that Brenda thought of her as Sharon now, and that she had proven to be so damn smart and perceptive and, worst of all, nice, but not too nice, with just the right amount of bitchiness thrown in for seasoning.
It is Will's fault, because in this day of sexual harassment trainings and lawsuits, only someone as clueless as he was would allow mistletoe to be hung up at an office party.
It was Fritz's fault, for having to work late, and for being so irritating lately that she really hadn't wanted him to come anyway.
It was Andy Flynn's fault, for glancing up at that stupid parasite hanging above an archway, and then down at the two women beneath it, and cracking, dead-pan, "Hey, chief, you gonna kiss her?"
It was Sharon's fault, for wearing that sinful dress the color of Merlot, and for looking like she'd been poured into it, and for making some lower, nonverbal area of Brenda's brain think... things that were not appropriate.
It was, most assuredly, Sharon's fault, for meeting her eyes with a glint of humor and something else, something darker, and making Brenda's brain so clearly supply the name of exactly what that something was: desire.
The blonde had grabbed the brunette's upper arm, just below the capped sleeve of that silky dress, in a talon-like grip that must have caused the other woman pain, and Sharon had grabbed her wrist, to stop her or to steady her wine – but if to stop her, she hadn't tried very hard, and that didn't seem in keeping with the captain's character – and Brenda had crashed their lips together, as if daring her to pull away.
She hadn't. When it was over, her lips had quirked into a barely-there smirk. The whole thing had lasted barely a second and a half. Then she had nodded, murmured "Chief" as if they had just passed in the corridor, and sauntered off to who knew where, somewhere else, where Brenda wasn't.
Brenda had done the only thing she could think of. She'd whirled, met Flynn's bemused stare, and defiantly pronounced, "So there."
One of the most annoying aspects of the whole incident was that Andy hadn't even looked shocked; but then, he had known Raydor for nearly thirty years. Brenda hadn't realized that until Raydor had become a daily fixture in the Murder Room, and it had been the lieutenant who supplied little tidbits about her – about her estranged husband, her dancer daughter, exactly what she had done to the sergeant who grabbed her ass in the late eighties.
Brenda had tried to apologize, because she didn't think Sharon would file a complaint, but she could, it would be well within her rights; she had made it as far as "About last night," and the captain had cut in, "You never can resist a dare, can you?"
That had been it, and that had been almost two weeks ago.
As she and the captain are swallowed by the warmth and raucous noise of the bar and restaurant, the deputy chief finds herself wishing there were someone present to dare her again.
Sharon Raydor walks through the unfamiliar crowd and the unfamiliar space as if she is in command of all she surveys. She turns and says something Brenda can't hear, but then gestures. The blonde sees the free table against the back wall, where the service might be slow, but at least they'll be able to hear themselves think. Does she want to hear herself think?
There are no menus. They order a plate of wings and two of whatever is on tap. The middle-aged waitress is unimpressed. "You want those mild, medium, or spicy?"
Green and brown eyes meet. "Spicy," they chorus.
"The spicy's real hot," the waitress cautions with disdain, plainly thinking, City folk.
Brenda's eyes narrow. She flashes her sweetest smile. "We said spicy. Thank you so much."
After spending a few minutes surveying the crowd, Brenda decides she is as unimpressed as the waitress. "Goodness gracious, people actually come here on vacation?"
"Do you ski, chief?" The low alto should be hard to hear over the three-piece trio covering a Hank Williams tune Brenda remembers her daddy humming, but it isn't.
"I've never tried, captain. Do you?"
That expression of calm superiority is back in place, but Brenda finds herself distracted by the way Sharon Raydor looks with her fingers wrapped around a beer mug, lifting it to her lips. "Of course. Otherwise I would be forced to spend my holidays indoors with my entire extended family." She emits one of those sharp barks of laughter that don't really seem to express humor and always make Brenda start with surprise.
"You goin' to Utah next week?"
The brunette takes a long swallow of the light-colored beer and then tilts her head to the side. "That depends, doesn't it? What are your plans?"
"Fritz's sister is visitin'. For two weeks." Brenda appreciates the sympathetic curl of the older woman's lip. Never has she wished so fervently for a really grisly crime. Please, Santa, bring me a homicide. She lifts her own glass and sips cautiously.
Raydor doesn't even glance away like politeness dictates she should, but scrutinizes the blonde's face. She makes Brenda uncomfortable, which is almost kind of nice, because so few people have that power. "How do you like the beer?"
"It's – it's real – what do you call it? Hoppy?"
The captain's poker face splits into a crooked grin that is devastatingly unexpected and equally attractive. "It tastes like horse piss," she says, already signaling to the waitress. "What will you have, chief? I'm buying."
"You should call me Brenda," she blurts, and the older woman goes still. Their working relationship, always fraught, has become increasingly odd since summer. Brenda is painfully, acutely aware that the captain's presence is all that's standing between her and the need, as Pope had expressed it, to circulate her resume. She resents that. She resents having a member of I.A. permanently embedded in her squad. And she knows she owes her job to Sharon and should be grateful to her, so, on a personal level, she resents her for that.
And yet...
Raydor is a subordinate who works with but not for her. It's kinda nice. More and more often, the chief finds herself using the other woman as a sounding board. She wouldn't say she likes her; she wouldn't go that far. But still –
"At least for tonight," she continues. "I think we can disregard rank while we're stuck in a snowstorm, don't you?"
"All right then, Brenda." Sharon's tongue carefully separates the letters as if the name were a foreign word, and then says to the waitress, "I'll have a Diet Coke and a double whiskey, neat. And –?" Inquisitive eyes flick toward the other woman.
"I'll have what she's havin'," Brenda decides, because suddenly it sounds good, just like it feels strangely good to be sitting here, anonymous, with Sharon Raydor. She laughs aloud, and Raydor tilts her head again. "It's just, you know, this isn't so bad, is it? I mean, who woulda thought..."
"Indeed." And there it is again, that dark look, just for an instant, but oh. "Who would have thought?" As she finishes speaking Sharon averts her eyes and gazes around the room, and Brenda wonders what is going through her mind. She has to know she's been caught twice now, looking at Brenda like that. She seems a little uncomfortable, but not embarrassed, as if she is taking it all in stride, along with the broken-down car and the stale beer and just everything. It occurs to the younger woman to wonder how many other times Sharon Raydor might have looked at her like that before she had ever noticed, and her own eyes widen.
She is positive Raydor doesn't like her any better than she likes Raydor. But that probably doesn't enter into it.
It turns out that the captain is adorable with her fingertips slathered in buffalo sauce and her lips glistening with it. It is strange and unfair, like finding out Captain Hook rescues puppies in his spare time. Brenda had thought there was no way to remain elegant while eating wings, but apparently not giving a damn is a good start. Watching someone dissect the remnants of small avian creatures should not make you want to kiss that person. Brenda takes a long swig of her soda, and when that doesn't do the trick, grabs her whiskey and tosses half of it back in a gulp.
Sharon wipes her mouth with a paper napkin and smirks. Brenda's stomach wobbles a little as the heat of the alcohol flushes through her. She realizes the captain isn't the only one whose eyes have given something away. Oh, for heaven's sake.
Brenda wants to lick Sharon Raydor clean.
Her face flames. She flags down the waitress and orders them both another round.
The deputy chief is a little disoriented, like maybe the altitude is making her dizzy; but she has been standing on a precipice, metaphorically speaking, for so long now that she is practically used to it. Baylor, the lawsuits, Stroh, that awful mess with the Catholic church, Stroh again and the shooting and the reprimand that had been dismissed at the last possible second; and having a captain devote herself to little more than nanny duty, even if she does reams of I.A. paperwork in her office hours, that isn't right, and it can't be tenable for long. Brenda Leigh feels like she is working on borrowed time at the LAPD.
She isn't going to think about that any more tonight. The woman across the table is enough to occupy her thoughts for the remainder of the evening.
It is loud enough to make conversation difficult, for which Brenda is grateful. At the same time, she likes being able to look over, catch Raydor's eye, and exchange a quick smile. Neither of them is in a hurry, and with each passing song Brenda feels herself grow both more relaxed and dizzier, in an exhilarating way, how she imagines she might feel before leaping out of an airplane. The parachute might not work, but even if it didn't, damn, the view was bound to be spectacular.
The band has kicked it up several notches, working the receptive audience into a mild frenzy. It is obvious that most of the patrons are regulars; the two women attract some stares simply by virtue of being strangers. Brenda shrugs out of her cardigan, telling herself it is only because she's warm. When Sharon looks over, as if on cue, and the younger woman catches her eying her defined biceps with admiration, Brenda shivers with a thrill of proud pleasure that mingles with panic. The combination is intoxicating. The captain meets her eyes, her expression unreadable, and Brenda finds that she can barely breathe.
"Are you ready to go?"
The question is like having ice water dumped over her. "Why should we?" she retorts. She sounds defensive. "You need to get back to the motel in time for NCIS?"
Raydor shrugs. She looks amused, and maybe a little annoyed, as if scolding herself because she knows better. "All right," she returns, philosophical. "Would you like to dance?"
"With you?"
The captain looks offended for a nano-second, and then laughs. "Suit yourself." She stands, slips the expensive black blazer from her shoulders and drapes it over her chair, and sets off toward the crowded dance floor.
Her work clothes don't fit in much better than Brenda's florals, but Raydor moves with a beguiling confidence, and it is only a moment before a large man – not heavy, but very tall and broad, and with a long beard – touches her shoulder, clearly asking the other woman to dance.
Brenda waits for her to cut him off at the knees. Instead she smiles and takes his outstretched hand, and Brenda's jaw drops. She realizes immediately that she doesn't like this, she does not like this at all, and that man's hand is dangerously close to Sharon's behind. She hopes the captain has kept up with her combat training.
Sharon is wearing a clinging deep purple t-shirt with a v-neck, and Brenda mindlessly sips her soda as she memorizes exactly the way it molds to the woman's curves. She doesn't like this at all.
You shoulda danced with her.
Brenda is jealous, which is a foreign emotion. Raydor seems absorbed in what she is doing, the way her body moves and sways – she is, of course, graceful, and surprisingly, so is her dance partner. Or maybe she just makes him look good.
Sharon turns, meeting Brenda's hungry stare. She smirks, but her eyes, too, are dark – that's not for the beard-o.
And then the damnable woman winks.
She is teasing Brenda, flirting with her from halfway across the room, as if to galvanize her.
It works, although perhaps not the way Sharon imagined. Brenda stands, grabs her coat and purse, and jerks her head toward the exit. Sharon merely raises an eyebrow.
The whiskey might have a little something to do with Brenda's rash behavior, but not as much as the realization of what this night is about, what it has always been about, and why she is positively cheerful at being stranded here with the captain. She wants Sharon Raydor in the worst way.
And Raydor wants her.
She walks as briskly as she can in her ridiculous shoes back to the cabin. It is snowing harder now; it gets into her eyes. She isn't sure whether she is running away from her confusing desire for the older woman, or merely running away in the hope that she will be chased.
If the LAPD chased suspects the way the captain is chasing her – to wit, very slowly – they'd never catch anybody, Brenda thinks. She has been standing out here for at least ten minutes, slowly turning into a popsicle, with only her anger and embarrassment to keep her warm. That, and a periodic flush when she remembers how Raydor had looked at her.
They'll never have another opportunity like this; it sounds like something in a Harlequin novel, except one of them would have to be a brawny man, perhaps a cowboy, and they'd both have to be twenty-five. And virgins.
The point is that it would be downright silly to waste this golden, snowy opportunity.
"Chief," Sharon says crisply, and stops on the sidewalk, looking up the two steps at the small blonde huddled under the shelter of the cabin's porch. Brenda can clearly see one eyebrow rise, and the way the woman's lips twitch before she gets her expression under total control. "I fear I may regret asking this, but what are you doing?"
"Waitin' for you." It is intended to sound seductive, but that's really hard to achieve when your teeth are chattering. Still, she knows she didn't imagine those heated glances they were exchanging back at the restaurant, or the devilish quirk of the brunette's lips. She folds her arms a little tighter, tugging at her insufficient trench coat, and drops seductive for petulant. "I thought you'd at least come after me."
Sharon gestures toward herself, as if to say, Ta da, her eyebrows creeping so high that Brenda thinks they might get stuck there.
"It took you long enough," the deputy chief huffs.
"Oh, should I apologize for that? As a member of law enforcement, I tend to avoid dining and dashing, so I was paying the check." Her tone is scathing, but not up to her usual standards, because it sounds as if maybe – just maybe – she is on the cusp of laughter.
Defiant, Brenda tilts her head back and looks down at the older woman, which is a novel vantage point. Maybe she can salvage this situation and project some allure after all. She lets her eyelids droop.
The captain continues to look straight back at her. Her eyes are dark in the glow from the security lighting, her expression inscrutable. Even as Brenda calls herself twenty different types of fool, and remembers that she doesn't even like Raydor, not that much, not really, her heart starts that distracting galloping again, and her arms tingle as if electricity is literally coursing through her veins. With the fat snowflakes catching in Sharon's dark, wind-blown hair and dusting her jacket, she looks so exquisitely beautiful that the younger woman feels a physical pain, and it should be trite and a cliché, like something out of a sappy Lifetime movie or a hackneyed Christmas romance, and the worst part is that it isn't. It is real and visceral and urgent, and Brenda needs to kiss the other woman again, to bite her and lick her and, oh God, feel her from the inside. Heat surges between Brenda's own legs at the thought, and her eyelids drop closed for a second before she manages to force them back open. In that second, Sharon's lips have parted, and Brenda realizes hers have too.
The captain catches a snowflake on her tongue, a whimsical gesture, and then snaps her teeth together like a shark. The juxtaposition is disconcerting. Her voice is so low and richly husky that it takes Brenda's brain time to process what she has said: "You forgot I had the key, didn't you?"
Oh, that woman. Feeling foolish, Brenda spins on one heel – not an easy move to execute, because her feet are numb – to face the door. "You thinkin' about usin' that key any time soon?"
The deputy chief refuses to give way so much as an inch, so Sharon brushes against her shoulder, the contact becoming firmer as she is forced to reach around the blonde to insert the key into the lock. Brenda gulps a mouthful of frigid air, staring straight ahead at the wood grain, and breathes, "You 'member at the holiday party, when – when Lieutenant Flynn -"
She breaks off, uncharacteristically lost for words. She does not know how to do this. She has never lacked confidence in her sexuality or in her ability to use it to get what she wants, but men are easy. Her specialty is to be a little seductive, just enough so the man in question will get the idea and do the rest of the work. For heaven's sake, she barely has to bat her eyelashes at Fritz. Sharon Raydor is not easy, and nothing about her is simple, and she is not playing along.
Raydor's breath is warm on Brenda's bare neck when she speaks. "When Lieutenant Flynn did what?"
Maybe she is playing along after all.
"Dared me to kiss you."
She hums, noncomittal.
"Did you like it?" Brenda wants to make Sharon talk, make her the one who is vulnerable.
"There wasn't much to like." Her voice drips disdain, goading, and Brenda feels the adrenaline like a punch in the stomach. "I could hardly form an opinion."
The captain is insulting, challenging – flirting. This, Brenda realizes, is exactly what she needs: she wants to maintain her control, but she needs –
Sharon slides between the deputy chief and the door. When she speaks, her breath hits Brenda's lips. "Do you have the courage to try again?"
There it is: the dare she has been waiting for.
Raydor allows Brenda to be the one to close the distance between them and press their lips together. This time, without subordinates looking on, and more confident that the captain will be receptive, Brenda lets herself feel the other woman's lips – they are smooth and oh-so-soft – and the shape of her mouth before pressing ahead, nudging until Sharon takes the hint and parts her lips, and Brenda is really kissing her, and it is the most wonderful sensation she can remember until Sharon starts kissing her back, and then that is the most wonderful sensation.
Sharon kisses with a finesse and control that Brenda both resents and admires. She is too excited, too overwhelmed, to match it; greedy, her kisses grow sloppy and rough, because she needs as much of this as she can get. It has taken her so long to admit she wants this, and she is unwilling to take the smallest chance of not getting it. She bites the other woman's lower lip, tugs it between her teeth, and thinks dizzily that as much as she wants the captain to be as reckless and frenzied as she herself is, she can't wait. She shoves a hand beneath Sharon's coat, blunt nails scrabbling beneath the hem of the t-shirt; she curses the wool coat's tight buttons, because she can't reach the parts of the captain she most wants to touch, but at last she is feeling soft, bare skin. In the cold it feels so warm, and it quivers beneath the pads of Brenda's fingertips. The blonde's fingers clench uncontrollably, and she thinks how it must hurt, how she must be scoring Sharon's pale skin with angry red slashes.
The door rattles at Brenda's back, her shoulder blades shoved against the unforgiving wood. Sharon has reversed their positions so quickly and easily that Brenda feels nauseated. She also feels victorious: the captain is kissing her hard now, almost brutally, and when she yanks Brenda's coat open and encounters the smooth contours of the younger woman's dress – no buttons, no zipper – she emits a low, dangerous growl. Brenda, meanwhile, is not idle. She shoves the purple t-shirt up as far as she can, and when the resistance her wrist is meeting suddenly gives way, she realizes she has probably popped the button off Sharon's designer coat. It's Raydor's fault anyway for having such amazin' breasts, and Brenda can't decide where to begin so she grabs and squeezes – and what she lacks in suavity, she assures herself, she makes up in enthusiasm. There is the silken fabric of a demi-cup beneath her palm, and she wants to see what color it is, and how it looks framing Sharon's milky flesh; and then she feels the unmistakable firmness of a nipple, and ooohhh, how has she gone for so long without this?
Having grown impatient with her inability to reach the other woman, Sharon pushes back just enough to direct "Go inside" in a tone of command. Brenda staggers backward, her body confused by the warmer ambient temperature and the lack of the captain's heat; and she sees Sharon bending over, searching for something on the porch. Her button.
Brenda scowls. "Do you have to do that now?" she demands, her voice shrill, and Raydor's glare slices through her.
Although her feet are warming up literally – she may not lose that pinkie toe after all – they are figuratively cooling down. No, she thinks, no no no. She doesn't want to think about this, and worry, and fret, and consider what it might mean, and let guilt worm its way in. All of that is for later. For now she just wants to do, and she needs Sharon's heat for that. She needs the urgency, the challenge. She doesn't need the damn woman out in the cold on her knees searching for a damn button, of all things. (There is, she realizes, a vulgar sex joke in there; she doesn't think Sharon would find it funny. But then she hadn't thought Sharon was the type to dance with a burly stranger in a honky-tonk, either.)
Turning away, she throws her coat onto the nearer bed and darts over to the mini-bar. Salvation greets her in the form of a row of miniature bottles.
The door closes. "What are you doing?" Raydor asks, and her tone is frosty.
Brenda jumps up and faces her with an unnaturally bright smile. She holds the bottles aloft: Jack Daniels in her left hand, Stoli in her right. "Liquid courage."
Immediately she knows it was the wrong thing to say. Sharon peels her coat from her long, lean frame and tosses it onto the bed – the other bed – as if it has personally offended her. "Chief, did Lieutenant Flynn also dare you to have sex with me?"
The woman isn't serious, she's being nasty, but Brenda exclaims, "What? No! No." Her arms, and the bottles, fall to her sides.
Sharon stares at her in that eerily penetrating way of hers. Her whole face is still, not disrupted by so much as the flutter of an eyelash, and Brenda battles down the urge to demand that she say something. "I am not -" it is her most brittle Captain Raydor inflection – "I am not having sloppy, drunken sex with you. Chief."
Brenda tilts her head back, assessing. "I notice you didn't say you're not havin' sex with me, Captain. So what you're implyin' is that I have a choice: you or -" She held up the vodka and gave it a little shake.
Sharon allows her patrician lip to curl in disgust, but Brenda sees the flicker of hurt in her eyes too, and feels bad for a second. Then she decides that, although Brenda's suggestion that she needed to consume more alcohol before the removal of any clothing wasn't flattering, they were both out there pawin' hot and heavy at each other a few minutes ago, and that woman is being impossible again.
"You might have had a choice." Sharon crosses the space between them, plucks the whiskey from Brenda's finger, wrenches the cap off, and takes a long drink. So she has decided to punish the deputy chief? Or maybe she got cold feet too, and is just too stubborn and snooty to admit it. Brenda eyes the way the muscles of her throat work as she swallows. Well, fine. Two can play at this game.
"All right." Brenda flops back onto the bed and crosses her ankles. She cracks open the vodka. "Let's see what's on TV. Grab the remote." She glances casually at the captain before taking a swig. Straight vodka is awful, but will get the job done. Brenda deliberately pats the spot beside her on the queen-size bed, barely glancing at the older woman. This time she is the one issuing the challenge.
Sharon looks surprised, but gets her features under control before sitting down on the bed as if this is something the two of them have done a dozen times. She leans back against the pillows. "MSNBC?"
Her tone is droll, and although that's probably what she watches at home, she seems to be joking. "Somethin' Christmassy," Brenda decrees, stretching a little, cat-like. "Oh, stop, stop! I love this movie, and Fritzy's sick of it. He only let me watch it once this year." Maybe she shouldn't bring up her husband, but Sharon has already put the eighty-six on anything untoward, right?
She waits for Sharon to protest against what is bound to be pop-culture torture, but she only settles back. Together they watch Ralphie daydream about his Red Ryder BB gun.
"You wanna get under the covers? I'm freezin'." It would no doubt sound more dangerous if it weren't so true, and Sharon can't be comfortable in her blazer, which isn't exactly loungewear. Raydor doesn't protest at all, not even when Brenda scooches a little closer to her – body heat, you know – so the blonde figures she was right.
Brenda may be a little buzzed, but she's definitely not drunk, and she still really wants to see what color Sharon's bra is. Does it match her shirt? Ooh, she would be edible in dark plum. Is it part of a set with matching panties? Knowing the captain, it almost certainly is.
The problem, though, with her plan to torture Raydor with her physical proximity is that it's so darn comfortable. When Sharon recites "You'll shoot your eye out" along with Ralphie's mother, Brenda feels a warm flush that combines desire with something more dangerous, something that feels an awful lot like affection.
"What's your favorite holiday?"
The sound of Sharon's voice startles Brenda. "I – it's always been Christmas."
She hears the note of melancholy, and knows Sharon does too. Nothing is the same without Mama. "Mine too," the captain chimes in softly. "It's tough, hmm?"
Sharon has rolled onto her elbow and is looking down at Brenda, her mossy eyes open and soft. For a horrifying second Brenda Leigh is afraid she is going to cry, because everyone else expects her to be over it, and how could she be over a thing like the death of her mother?
Instead the older woman leans down and kisses her, very softly, very slowly. Brenda feels it all the way to the tips of her toes. "I thought you said -"
"This is kissing, Brenda Leigh."
She tastes like whiskey and it is intoxicating, she is intoxicating. She continues kissing the younger woman, gently but with complete focus; Brenda lifts her arm and allows her fingers to weave through that long, lustrous hair. She can't help the slow throb that takes up residence low in her abdomen.
"Is this all right?"
Brenda is certain Sharon Raydor is not usually one to ask for permission, but as her hand hovers just above Brenda's breast, she asks. The blonde nods. It is very much all right.
Her touch is light, but not at all tentative the way Brenda's had been earlier. Sharon is confident, she knows how to touch a woman's body, and the thought of being touched all over by her makes Brenda shiver. Her nipples are so hard that it is uncomfortable, and Sharon responds to her silent request, plucking, squeezing, stroking firmly. Brenda curses her attire. How many days a week does she wear a tank top and a cardigan? This stupid dress might as well be a chastity belt.
"Can I –?" She finishes the question by touching Sharon's stomach. The response is a hum, so Brenda slips her hand inside the hem of the t-shirt again. This time she is touching the baby-soft curve of Sharon's belly, and the softness is so overwhelming that it makes Brenda think of how soft she must be elsewhere, how amazingly soft between her legs, and her fingers tremble. Would it be like touching herself? She is so wet; she imagines slipping her hand into her underwear and rubbing her swollen clit. It wouldn't take much. She wouldn't need the slow build-up like she usually does. She whimpers, and she realizes her eyes are closed. Her state must be glaringly obvious. She is embarrassed, but more relieved. Brenda usually takes what she wants, but tonight she needs Captain Raydor to give it to her. If Sharon realizes how desperate she is, maybe she'll do something about it.
Like take off her t-shirt. Mmm. Brenda's mouth actually waters at the thought.
Sharon's whole hand slides between Brenda's slightly parted thighs, and brown eyes fly open. "Is this still not sex?" she gasps out.
"No. We're both fully clothed." The chief is quite sure the captain is bending the rules more than a little with that definition, which sounds like a teenager's rationale; but Brenda doesn't care because Sharon's eyes are impossibly dark with desire and her jaw is clenched – and her hand, motionless, is cupping Brenda's sex through her totally un-sexy cotton panties. She can't help herself.
Their eyes are locked, and yes, they are fully clothed, but the moment is so intimate that it terrifies Brenda. Only the force of her desire keeps her from bolting for the bathroom.
Maddeningly, Sharon remains still.
"Are – are you gonna – do somethin'?"
The brunette smirks. "No."
Brenda's features scrunch in displeasure. "So this is what you meant by not havin' sex?"
Sharon is still smirking. Brenda gets the feeling she's laughing at both of them. "Not exactly."
Fine, then. Fine.
The chief tries to feel victorious but really she knows she just can't help herself either. There's nothing very dignified about humping a subordinate's hand.
She is so, so ready. Sharon's fingers twitch, a result of holding so still against Brenda's small, jerky movements; Brenda's clit twitches in response. She arches up, and Sharon's palm presses against her pubic mound, the pressure of her fingers constant against the younger woman's clitoris.
She twists her face aside into the pillow when she comes because she feels over-exposed.
The captain waits a moment and then moves onto her back beside Brenda. Her green eyes fix themselves upon the ceiling.
"Do you always have to go first?"
"Always, chief."
"Can I –?"
"No."
Brenda glares. Sharon doesn't acknowledge her, but the left corner of her mouth twitches.
"Does that mean no, never? 'Cause I find that hard to believe, captain."
"It means I know better than to have a one-night stand with a superior."
Brenda's mouth goes dry. "What if it wasn't a one-night stand?" she asks, and it is the most frightening possibility either of them has mentioned all evening.
Sharon is so quiet that Brenda realizes she must be holding her breath; and when she releases it, she does so shakily. "What if we weren't stranded in a cabin in a snowstorm?"
What if? Brenda would still want the brunette just as badly, but would she ever acknowledge it? Would she have ever done anything about it?
After several minutes, Brenda shuts off the TV. "You tired?"
Sharon hums. Brenda thinks it is an affirmative.
"Sleep in the bed with me."
"I shouldn't." But the captain doesn't move. After a few more minutes, Brenda shuts off the light.
Lying there in the darkness with Captain Raydor by her side is oddly comforting and comfortable, and Brenda chooses not to examine that too closely, because Christmas is coming and it's going to suck and this is nice. "Sharon, may I ask you something?"
The pause is hesitant. "Very well."
"What color is your bra?"
"It's red," the older woman responds, bemused.
"Red?" Brenda squeaks.
"Dark red. And yes, it's part of a set."
Oh, sweet Lord in heaven. If she'd known that earlier, there was no way Brenda could have been held responsible for her actions. Purple would have been good, but red, dark red, encasing the impeccable Sharon Raydor's curves –
"In return, I would like to ask something as well."
Oh, the woman is evil. Capital E Evil.
"What is it, capt'n?"
"Tomorrow morning when we pick up our rental car and return to Los Angeles – you'll agree that I will drive?"