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

AUTHOR NOTE: This is a 'missing-scene' for 'Next of Kin: Part 2'.

Swing Set


The atmosphere inside the RV is still stained with alcohol, her mother's distress and Fritz's disapproval - even in his absence. When she steps out into the night, Brenda welcomes the snap of cold air against her cheeks. Her skin burns.

Either side of her path is lined with the great hulks of travelling metal, most of them already in darkness. One has music coming from it, and laughter. Soft, feminine; then the man's in answer, a husky bite. She walks on and skirts the motel's flood-lit forecourt. It doesn't look high-class, just garish. A too-bright functional blot on the landscape. Through the glass doors she can see the receptionist leaning heavily against the desk, turning the pages of a magazine. Brenda stands for a while, hugging herself, then continues. She thinks about putting one foot in front of the other and tries very hard not to think about anything else. The path she is on takes her around the side of the motel and ends at the bar. She steps off it, onto the grass, cuts across into the shadow. There are still lights - they like their guests to feel safe here, it seems. Further across the grass and the green underfoot stops, giving way to sand. Climbing frames, a see-saw, a figure in silhouette sitting on one of the swings.

'Fritzi?'

The head lifts. 'No, it's me, Chief.'

She crunches across the sand, looks down at him and frowns. 'What are you doing out here, Lieutenant?'

The face that greets her is wearied, traces of irritation still in its lines. 'I investigate murders, ma'am, I try very hard not to commit any.'

'Oh. You and Lieutenant Provenza not getting along?'

'You should try sharing a room with him- It isn't funny,' he says, withering, as she tries to bite back laughter.

Brenda shrugs, battling for composure. 'I wouldn't have thought it would be a problem. The two of you spend so much time together anyhow...'

There is the faint chink of metal as he rocks himself gently back and forth. 'Yeah. And I've been trying to figure out what it was I did that I deserve all this extra penance.'

'Maybe it was in a previous life.'

He shoulders sag. 'Oh God, isn't once enough?'

Brenda laughs again, brushes strands of hair off her face. 'Mind if I join you?'

'Not at all - pull up a swing.'

She eases herself down, remembering the feel, the way she used to think that she could go high enough to fly. It's a tighter fit than she remembers. Flynn watches her, sparks of amusement in his dark eyes.

'I used to love these when I was a kid.' She grasps the heavy chains, leans back, stretching out her body.

'I bet you were one of those that always had to go higher than anybody else,' he says.

She straightens up, turns to him, eyes wide for a moment with reproach and then her lips twitch. 'Alright, yes. I was. That was always part of the fun.'

He leans towards her. 'Do you want me to give you a push?' Then laughs as she turns reproachful again.

They sit, silent, companionable. She pushes herself off with one foot, feeling the sigh of air against her cheeks.

'Wesley gave up his friends,' she tells him, weighing the last word with sarcasm. His head pulls up, turns to her.

'That's great.'

'Yes.' She runs it over in her mind again, sees the agony behind the young man's eyes. 'Daddy thought it would be a good idea to give Wesley a drink to help him over the shock. What with his brother being murdered and what all. So, I poured him a drink, then another, then another. Then he talked.'

Beside her there is silence, broken only by that faint sound of metal against metal and the hypnotic movement back and forth, back and forth, back-

'We've got what we need,' he says. 'Why aren't you happy?'

'You know Wesley's history.' She stares ahead at the neon lights showing through the trees.

'Yeah - he's a scumbag.'

Scumbag, second only to 'moron' in his favoured list of epithets. 'He has addiction issues.'

He blows out a breath in disgust, rolls his eyes. 'Addiction iss- Where do people come up with all this crap? Just call it what it is. He's a junkie and a drunk.'

'He's been clean,' she says thoughtfully. 'He might have stayed that way.'

'Did you get him in a headlock?'

She turns slightly. 'Excuse me?'

He is still. 'Did you get him in a headlock and force the stuff down his throat?'

'Of course not.'

'Yeah, so he chose to do it himself. He didn't have to. And he's got the whole trip back to L.A. to sleep it off.' He takes another look at her. 'Look, Chief, people with' -he grits his teeth over the word- 'issues, we make a choice, every day, not to drink. Or do whatever it is.'

'It must be hard.'

His head tilts and he shrugs lightly. 'It's pretty simple in the end. The alternative is a hell of a lot worse, trust me.'

There is no shame in the way he talks. It is a fact, something in the open. And as hard as he is on others, she thinks, he will always be harder on himself. There is honour in that and she believes that he believes that, even if he would never say it. Honour there too, perhaps.

'He gets to choose again tomorrow. Anyway, I'd sooner keep my sympathy for someone who deserves it.' She makes no response and he adds, 'I can be sympathetic.'

'I've never doubted that.'

His eyebrows rise; it's a moment before he answers and from him that seems like forever. 'Can I have that in writing, Chief?'

'Don't push it, Lieutenant.'

There is laughter, mingled.

Brenda falls silent, pulls at the edge of her cuff. 'Fritz wasn't... Well, he wasn't happy with what I did.'

The chinks start again; a pleasant, musical sound. 'It takes some guys in different ways,' he says and sounds as though he's trying to be tolerant, and-

He knows, she realises, and feels numbed. Not just that: he had known, he must have, long before she had. There is a blur for some moments, a jumble. She starts for a question but then answers it herself before it reaches her lips. They go to the same meetings. And say what? It is another question that she does not voice. The effort that takes is almost too much.

'You know, this is the longest I've ever been in the South,' Flynn says. He stares up, examining the night sky.

She makes herself smile. 'How do you like it?'

He shrugs. 'It's hard to tell. So far all I've seen is the airport, your parents' house and the highway.' His face wrinkles. 'And Provenza in his underwear, which is a sight I could have done without.'

'Thank-you for that, Lieutenant.'

'Hey, if I have to suffer...' One corner of his mouth turns up and he winks at her. 'I've been to Florida,' he continues, 'and that was also an extradition - some mobster who'd holed up in Miami. You should have seen this guy, Chief: shiny shark-skin suit, and don't get me started on his hair- You would have thought it was still nineteen-sixty-three. In Vegas, at that.'

She laughs again, stretches out, her body bending and flexing as she finds the old rhythm. 'We have a glamorous job.'

'That was the reason I joined.'

Someone told her once that a cynic is just a frustrated idealist; if she asks him if youthful ideals had led him to this occupation she is certain that he'd deny it, and equally certain that it's true. For seconds that pass all too quickly she sails, a living pendulum, on a combination of her own momentum and past dreams. Then her father's voice comes with all the subtlety of a military bugle.

'Brenda Leigh!'

It echoes. Even the crickets are hushed, then start up again angrily. Her feet jar against the ground, kicking up sand as she stops herself.

'Can I ask you something?' Flynn has his head tilted.

'Yes, of course, Lieutenant.'

'Does everyone in the South come with two names?' Humour colours his words.

She responds with indignation, because it is expected. 'It's my middle name. It's a custom down here; just because y'all up North don't- Don't you have a middle name, Lieutenant?'

'Yeah.' A long pause; he adds uncomfortably: 'It's Joseph.'

'Andrew Joseph Flynn,' she says softly. Her lips twitch. 'You'd be Andy Joe.'

'Oh my God.' He stands up, holds out a hand to her automatically and winces. She takes his other hand and he pulls her up.

'Is your hand all right?'

'No, and it's my wrist. Thanks for asking.' The familiar sarcasm is back in place.

'You should probably rest it up,' she tells him. He stares at her wordlessly.

They leaves their footprints across the sand, reach the grass and their respective paths. There is a moment before he turns away when he studies her keenly; she watches his back as he leaves and then calls,

'Goodnight, Andy Joe.'

He stops, shoulders slumping. 'Goodnight, Miss Atlanta.'

She narrows her eyes at the retreating figure and smiles at the laughter drifting back to her on the night air.

FIN