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

AUTHOR NOTE: This is a follow-up for 'Nemesis', which is a gapfiller for 'Elysian Fields'. Once I had planted an idea in my own head it wouldn't go away. And for all the Brenda/Fritz-philes out there, this is a canon fic. More or less.

The Furies


Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.

-Amos 5: 24

The coffee is not as good as one of Tao's specialities but it is strong, robust and fresh. And blisteringly hot. Brenda holds the cup between her hands, feeling the heat spread through, blows on the black surface and watches the waitress sashay across the floor. The name tag identifies her as Julie, a woman of indeterminate age beneath the layers of make-up and with hair a shade of red that was never found in nature.

She's passed this place a hundred times - more - on her way in and out of Parker Centre but never really noticed its existence. Even she could be guaranteed not to get lost making that half-block journey and probably that's why he suggested this place for their meeting. It's quiet in the diner, only a handful of customers who all seem well-known to the staff. She feels like an outsider but it isn't - for once in this city - an unpleasant feeling, more like she's an invited and tolerated guest to a private party. The bell over the door sounds as it opens and Brenda glances up automatically, a reflex born of many years training, takes in the man entering and then looks again.

She's seen him so rarely in casual clothes that when she does he's always unrecognisable for the first few moments. It isn't just the clothes that make the difference, it's something else. The edges seem softer, blurred; the arrogant swagger is still there but only just. Maybe that's something he puts on each morning along with the elegant suits. When he slides into the banquette opposite her she's made the adjustment and she knows him.

'You called.'

She manages a smile and thinks it probably looks more like a rictus grin. Every muscle in her face feels tight. 'You made me promise.'

Flynn watches her, using that controlled stare he usually saves for the interrogation room, but there's an edge to it: concern - something else that he keeps hidden away from everyday eyes. He doesn't say anything and then Julie is back over, resting one plump hand against their table's Formica surface and smiling down at him.

'You working late, Lieutenant?'

'Something like that. Is the coffee fresh?'

Her eyes crinkle, bright blue eyeshadow disappearing into the creases. 'Fresh as a daisy. I'll bring you over a cup.'

'What's the pie?'

'You won't like it - pecan.'

His face confirms her prediction. 'Just the coffee. Thanks, Julie.'

There's an extra sway to her hips as she walks away but she's wasting her time because his attention is already back on Brenda - not that it's ever really been away.

'I take it you're a regular here,' she says and sips some of her coffee.

He shrugs. 'It's convenient. And the coffee's good.'

'Yes it is.' She glances across at the counter. 'Your friend Julie's a character.'

He follows the gaze then it travels along the handful of customers perched on the stools nursing their cups and plates of pie or ageing sandwiches and talks to her, keeping one eye on them. 'See that guy at the end? Baseball cap and the two-day beard? That's Jim. He's long-haul trucker stuck on Julie. Jim and Julie - sounds like a couple out of a country song. Anyway, he's been hanging out here every night he's in town for the last three years. One of these nights he's going to work up the nerve to ask her out.'

'They tell you all that?'

He looks offended. 'They don't need to. Detective, remember? I get paid to be observant.'

She smiles again, lowers her eyes. Julie comes back over with Flynn's coffee and leaves again. Maybe she's more interested in flirting with Jim or maybe she's guessed that neither of them want any other company. He doesn't touch his drink.

'Are you okay?'

'I don't know,' she says, addressing her words to her own hands linked loosely around her cup.

'How bad is it?'

He sounds the way she imagines a sponsor would when talking to one of their charges and thinks that maybe they should have another group, one for people like her, and him, for the ones who can't let anything go. At least there would be two of them; they could sponsor each other. She pulls in a breath, feels it shake through her chest and blows it back out. 'I have these nightmares. Just the one nightmare, really, but it- It's all the time. Almost every night.'

She runs through it, the crime scene of her imagining, giving the detail but leaving out the fear. She doesn't need to tell him about that: not the fear or the frustration or the need for justice that jangles through her body. He lets her talk, spooning a little sugar into the coffee and then drinking it slowly, maintaining this little corner of normality.

When she finishes she sits back, waiting for the feeling of release, the lightening of the weight that's supposed to come with talking about things like this. It doesn't happen. Over at the counter Jim has managed to get Julie to himself and Brenda watches them while they laugh softly together. She looks back at Flynn.

'Back when I'd just left the Academy,' he says, 'we caught this case, serial rapist, a real freak. Never caught a sniff of him. It was a full scale manhunt but it still got us nowhere. The guy went cold, no more victims. We never got anywhere close to who the perp might be. Then two years ago some moron gets arrested on a D.U.I., they take some samples, they run it, and they get a hit to the old rape cases: familial D.N.A. - the idiot in the car was the nephew of the perp. In between times the guy had got married, had a family, he was respectable, he hadn't offended again in all that time.'

There is a pause.

'And?'

'I'm saying-' He blows out a breath. 'I'm saying that these guys can go for years thinking that they've got away with something, but they haven't. Look, twenty years ago we didn't have the D.N.A. database and now we're closing cases off the back of it. In a few years, who knows? Something that we can't see in all those case files you've been pulling might be the thing that nails that bastard.'

One corner of her mouth curls up. 'That makes you sound like an optimist.'

He looks stricken. 'Oh God, I hope not.' Then his hands spread, hovering in the air for a moment, fall back to the table top. 'It's either that or think that we're waiting for him to kill some other girl. We know he's the guy and he knows we know. Maybe that's enough to scare him into stopping; or maybe he'll try to hold off but he can't and he'll make a mistake and we'll get him. That's what it comes down to: there isn't another victim and maybe we'll get him on some stuff that hasn't even been invented yet, or maybe somebody else will; but we want to close the case and that means that some other girl gets it. We want another victim because that means we might get Stroh. Might.'

'I don't know that might is good enough, Lieutenant.'

He sighs and the lines of his face harden, the look he wears in the Murder Room. 'It isn't. But it's all we've got. Look, we took his stooge away from him; and until he finds someone else to partner up with, someone to get him into the girls' houses, he can't do anything.'

'Yes...' It comes out soft; she stares at a point just past his head but doesn't see anything.

'Chief. Hey.' One finger touches the back of her hand, a light tap, and she starts. They rarely touch; she can still feel it even when it's over. He links his fingers together. 'We can't follow him around keeping tabs on everyone he talks to on the off-chance that one of them is his new playmate. We don't have the resources. It would take every guy in every division, twenty-four-seven.' His hands spread. 'It's not possible.'

'I know.' And exhaustion settles on her. She's aware of her body stiffening, of the heaviness in her limbs. She buries her face in her hands for a moment, then straightens up, smoothes down her hair. 'What time is it?'

'Uh...' He squints at his watch. 'One-thirty, a little after.'

She stares, horrified. 'What time was it when I called you?'

His shoulders rise and fall. 'Some time after midnight.'

'Oh. Oh...' Her face screws up. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's okay, Chief.'

He settles back in his seat and looks like he'd be there all night if she asked him to. She remembers that once she told him that she never asks a question unless she knows the answer. He hasn't asked the questions, not: why now, why tonight, why him and not her husband. Perhaps, like her, he won't ask unless he knows the reasons; or maybe he already knows so he doesn't need to ask. She wonders that if it hadn't been for Croelick and the Lisa Barnes case they would still have made it to this point. She likes to think so but doesn't say it because that sounds like another optimistic note and he's probably had enough of them for one night.

She doesn't seem to have any strength left; the thought of standing up, of forcing herself to move, seems beyond her capabilities.

'I don't know that I can face going home.'

'You should. And say hi to Fritz from me.'

Her face creases in a frown. 'Why?'

'So that when he asks where you've been you don't feel like you have to lie to him.'

She sucks in a breath. 'This-'

'-is innocent. I know. But lying can get to be a pretty bad habit, especially with people in this job. Even when they're not in this job. And being told what someone thinks you want to hear isn't always the best thing.'

Her head tilts. 'You sound like you're speaking from experience.'

His lips push out and pull in again. 'My wife. First wife.'

'I'm sorry.'

He shrugs. 'I can't say that I blame her. I was never there; and even when I was' -his hands spread and he wears his habitual expression of amusement- 'I wasn't always exactly easy to live with.'

She smiles slightly. 'I guess ten years is a pretty long time between drinks.'

'When I make it to twenty I'll be celebrating.' A pause. 'Although, I almost didn't make it even this far. Not that long ago, actually.'

She thinks over all their cases and wonders which one of the particular brands of horror that they deal in had pushed him that far. 'What happened?'

One hand turns, palm up. 'Well you see, Chief, there was this woman: she came into the department, just up from Atlanta, and-'

'Goodnight, Lieutenant!'

He laughs, dark eyes sparkling, and starts to move out of the booth. 'Come on.' He drops a few notes onto the table and waves to Julie. The redhead smiles in return but she's still angled towards Jim. The trucker looks delighted by the attention. Flynn holds out her coat for her, sliding it up her arms; she thinks about the bottle of Merlot in the cabinet at home and when she turns to face him again she asks,

'How do you blow off steam these days?'

'I make a lot of bad jokes,' he says, serious, and then grins. 'And sometimes I catch a baseball game.'

She grimaces. 'Do not mention that word to me.'

He laughs again and they leave. Outside, and she ignores the hulk of Parker Centre crouching against the skyline opposite them. There's little humidity tonight; the air feels fresh and she pulls her coat closer. He walks her to her car, helps her in, and before she closes the door he bends down, one hand braced against the frame.

'It'll be okay.'

No speeches, no flowery phrases, just something direct, straightforward, like him, and she believes it.

'I hope so. Thank you, Lieutenant Flynn.'

He smiles again, stands back; when she pulls away and checks the rear-view mirror he's still standing on the sidewalk, hands in pockets, watching until she turns the corner and they lose each other from sight.

Back home again and she picks her way through the rooms, switching off the lamps that Fritz had left on for her. He is asleep, his breathing deep and regular, his face mashed into the pillow. She doesn't wake him, creeps past into the bathroom, changes, checks that the window is locked tight.

When she slides into bed and pulls the covers up Fritz rolls over, his weight pressing against her, familiar contours fitting together. 'Hey.' His voice is heavy, thick with sleep.

'Hey.'

'Where were you?' he asks, breath warm against the side of her neck.

'Work,' she says; then: 'I had coffee with Lieutenant Flynn; we were going over a case. He says hello.'

'Mm. That's nice.'

And he's asleep again, one arm across her body, holding her and holding her down. She feels at peace, calm, and realises that this calm is something that she has brought with her, something that was achieved in the diner with its collection of late-night misfits. She presses her cheek against Fritz's hair, feeling its prickly softness and thinks that what you love and what you need aren't always the same thing.

FIN