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

AUTHOR NOTES: 1.) I love Brenda&Fritz, I really do. But,

2.) I have always had a yen for Brenda&Flynn. So. Here be a short offering of an AU Closer-verse where, somewhere in season 3, Brenda is single and...

AUTHOR NOTES PART 2: This started life as a short one shot, it really did. But, as anyone who knows me will attest, I can never leave well enough alone (and it turned out that Brenda and Flynn weren't done with me yet), so this little fic has expanded somewhat... Chapter 2 is now up, with 2 more to come.

Rules of Engagement

1. Conduct Unbecoming

By the time their evening has drawn to a close most of them have already left: Sanchez volunteering to take Provenza home, absorbing with his usual placidity the old curmudgeon's grumblings; Daniels and Gabriel melting away, their discretion aided by everyone else pretending not to notice them; Tao and Buzz lost to all of them hours ago in a conversation conducted in impenetrable technoese. And somehow she has ended up with half a drink still in her glass and Flynn.

In the course of the game of non-musical chairs, partners had swapped, conversations sprung up and halted abruptly, but now the lull has come, the easiness of silence and that ease is surprising. Without his usual comrade in mischief, Flynn is quieter, more thoughtful. One hand rests around his empty glass, only occasional drops of ice-water still clinging to its sides.

'Is it hard not drinking?' Brenda asks, her fingers closing around the stem of her own glass, moving it away, as though the proximity might cause offence.

He blinks, looks at her, shrugs. 'Uh... Not so much. Somedays... Yeah, somedays you'd like nothing better than to crawl into a bottle.' He shrugs again. 'But you can't. I can't.'

'Is that why-' She stops, feeling the heat in her cheeks. This, she thinks, this is why she never does well being sociable: she turns everything into an interrogation.

'Is that why what?' He's the one who's curious, watching her.

'Nothing.' She takes some of her drink, relishing its soft, fruity richness. He still watches, waiting. He's never struck her as a patient man but, like her, he'll do what he has to to get answers. Another sip, she replaces the glass. 'Is that why you're divorced?' She looks at him and can't tell if he's offended. 'You were married.'

'Twice.' He pushes the glass away, wet marks streaking across the table's already scuffed surface. 'First time while I was still drinking; the second time we divorced after I stopped. My wife still thought I was an ass. Women, huh?' He rolls his eyes, the mantle of cynicism he wears settling back.

She smiles, one corner of her mouth turning up, going along with it. It's easy to think of him like that: the cynic, the one who's seen it all too many times, hard through and through. But she's seen gentleness in him, tenderness even; and there is loyalty, not easily won but when it is it runs deep.

'Of course, it's also the job,' he adds. 'You can't have two big relationships at the same time and the job is the biggest. It has to be.'

'You're not planning on matching Provenza's record then, Lieutenant?'

He grimaces and then grins at her. 'Wild horses, Chief. Not ever again. Besides, doing what we do? It kills off most relationships before they've even begun.'

And that, she thinks, is the sum of it. She can't blame Fritz for wanting more and she can't blame herself for not having it to give. But she misses him, still, and wonders if they might have made it if they'd both tried a little harder. But when the chance for promotion had come he hadn't asked her to go with him, avoiding her inevitable refusal. Washington has never really been her town anyway. She's just about got used to L.A. and with her change can only come by slow millimetres.

Beside her Flynn is silent again, still something she can't get used to, his fingers wandering restlessly. She watches as he peels a wrapper off a toothpick, plays with it, snaps it and drops it on the table.

'You don't chew those anymore,' she says suddenly and he looks at her again.

'Huh? Oh.' His face clears and he laughs. 'Yeah, another bad habit. I used to smoke: chewing on one of those kept my mind off the cravings.'

'You really do believe in all the vices.'

'Used to,' he corrects her and he is gentle. And the infuriating smile is back when his fingers flick against the broken scraps of wood. 'Anyway, those things kept giving me splinters in my teeth.'

She finishes her drink, pushing the glass across the table, her finger-tips lightly on the base; there are knots in her shoulders, snaking up into her neck and she wants a shower and sleep and she doesn't want to stand up. 'I guess I better ring for a cab'.

'It's okay, Chief, I'll give you a lift.'

'You sure? Isn't it out of your way?'

He shrugs. 'Not really, just a detour.'

'Oh.' She hadn't known that. She knows so little about any of them, her squad, of which she is so proud. 'Well, thank-you, Lieutenant.'

They stand and then he crouches down again to retrieve the contents of her bag that have spilled across the floor and when he hands them to her there is the inevitable amusement in his face and something that might be affection but is gone too quickly.

In the parking lot he hands her into his car, closing the door on her, the display of the gentleman he can be when he wants to. It's a few years past still having that new car smell but it is meticulously clean. And his taste in music, she notices when she looks into the glove compartment, runs the A-Z of Frank Sinatra. When he slides into the seat next to her she is still investigating and not pretending not to; he doesn't seem to have expected anything different; maybe he would have been disappointed by a lack of interest.

'I should have known you'd be a Rat Pack fan,' she says.

His eyes slip sideways. 'I'm not. I don't really like the Vegas stuff, I prefer it earlier. And the Capitol recordings in the Fifties; he was at his best then.'

Light and shadow slice across the windshield, pattern the contours of his face; she has him in profile while he stares ahead, both hands gripping the steering wheel while the engine throbs quietly.

'Are we waiting for something?'

His lips quirk, the one eyebrow she can see rising as he glances at her. 'Yeah, for you to put your seat-belt on. Otherwise you'll have to arrest yourself.'

It's a joke that keeps him amused while she fumbles with the strap and still when the car guns out onto the street. Halfway through their journey she wonders if maybe after all he was just being polite but he drives smoothly and without hesitation, taking side-roads and shortcuts she didn't even know existed and thinks that maybe she should get him to draw her a map but then imagines the hours of entertainment he'll get out of that one and decides no. So they are largely silent but it is still easy. She props her cheek against her hand, feels the pressure of cold glass against her knuckles and her eyes are heavy.

When the car rolls to a stop it takes her a moment to realise they are outside her house and he's already out of the car before she can move, walking around the front to hold the door open for her. She clutches her bag, murmurs thank-you, and he gets one hand under her elbow, barely touching her but guiding her up and out. It is cooler out than she had realised, a breeze blowing down into the city from the mountains bringing freshness and the promise of rain behind it. He walks her to her door, waits while she searches the depths of her bag for her keys.

'Need a hand there, Chief?' He has his hands in his pockets, his head tilted back.

'No, thank-you, Lieutenant.' Triumphant she jangles them in his face and sees the white glimmer of his teeth.

When the door is opened they are greeted by a streak of grey fur; Brenda throws herself at it, impeding Kitty's bid for freedom and carries her inside the house, the cat all offended feline pride and flexed claws. Deposit Kitty and begin the familiar mantra.

'Bad Kitty. Bad.'

The cat flicks its tail, turns its gaze to Flynn who has gained possession of Brenda's unwieldy bag - and looks as though he wishes he hadn't - and butts her head against him. He twists his fingers into the thick fluff at the back of Kitty's neck and she purrs hoarsely, pressing her weight against him.

'Nice cat,' he says and hands her the bag.

'He's a handful. I didn't know in L.A. that when you buy a house you get a free cat.'

'We love a bargain,' he says, dead-pan, starts to say something else and changes his mind. 'I'll see you in the squad room.'

'Yes.' A pause and the ease has gone. 'Thank-you. Andy.' The sound of it, the feel of it in her mouth, his name, is strange.

He looks surprised and then pleased. 'My pleasure.'

The cat jumps down, stalking away with her tail held high and without the husky purring the silence seems heavy. Brenda remembers something told to her by Mary-Beth Hunter, two years older and well-known to all the boys in their high-school, that if you want a boy to kiss you, all you have to do is stand very close to him. They are standing very close and she tells herself that it isn't because she wants something; she thinks that there are rules governing office affairs and they are there for a reason; just before her eyes close she thinks that this is a very bad idea but after his lips are on hers she doesn't think at all.

That first touch is a shock, a jolt like suddenly waking up. And he doesn't taste the way she had expected, the scotch-and-cigarettes taste, of course he wouldn't and when had she even thought about this before?

His hands bracket her waist, holding her steady against him. Her fingers grasp the lapel of his jacket, holding on. When he tilts his head back and looks at her she studies his face. There are flecks in his eyes, dancing gold, that she's never noticed before. He moves one hand, the tips of his fingers resting against her cheek, feeling the hardness of bone beneath the smooth skin. Then both hands drop and he steps back.

'Goodnight, Brenda.' And then gone. He closes the door, the lock barely audible clicking into place. Like he's never been there, and this never happened. Something over before it's begun.

She finds she's sitting on the arm of the sofa, pushes herself away from it, propels herself across the room. Her teeth take hold of her lower lip, and that strange new taste she finds there, something pleasurable and dangerous and she knows that it isn't over. It hasn't even started yet.