A/N: This story was promised to Beaujolais sometime over the summer and I put the finishing touches on it for her sometime in November. And along the way she became the awesome Beta for the piece, too. Who else to ask about a Brass fic than the Brass Goddess? I got the idea of the coffee shop from the episode The Execution of Catherine Willows.
Pairing: Brass/OC
Rating: M
Disclaimer: Not Mine, but theirs. Any original folks are mine though. As are all the mistakes.
Spoilers: Through Built to Kill, Part 1
A Piece of Brass
It was dusk and the sky glowed pink over the mud-brown hills of Las Vegas, bathing them with a midsummer halo. Jim Brass, temporarily late of the LVPD, sat on a striped deck chair watching the golden sunset. He nursed a beer and a sore right shoulder. Gil Grissom, also with beer in hand, dropped into the chair next to him.
"You spent two hours down at the shooting range because McKeen called and told you he wouldn't clear you for active duty until you recertified your weapons certificate?"
Brass grunted.
"Well that's a little extreme."
"Yeah, I thought so too. I only recertified six months ago." Jim took a deep swig and flicked away a mosquito.
Behind his sunglasses, Grissom squinted at him, "I was talking about you."
Brass's eyebrows shot up, "Me?"
"You've only just been cleared to drive, you're barely out of bed for most of the day; one phone call and you're racing off to a shooting range to prove God knows what."
"It wasn't to prove anything." He stopped and thought about it, "okay, maybe it was to prove something, but only to me."
Grissom lifted his beer and waited for him to continue.
"You ever go to that coffee brewing place down on Laurel—Leya's?"
"The place where Cath picks up her scone and latte every morning?"
"Hmm-mm, that's the one."
"My cockroaches love the chocolate bundt." Gil smirked.
"Well Leya—she owns the place."
Grissom scanned him for signs of sarcasm, "that's a pretty good bet, Jim."
Jim reddened and sat up, gesturing with his bottle, "Well Greg waxes lyrical about the coffee beans she special orders for him, Cath loves her scones, so I figured I've got a lot of spare time, why not check out the coffee."
"And?"
He tried not to be smug, "She asked me out." And paused. "On a date."
"The petite one with the ready smile, dark blonde hair?" Grissom smiled, "Has 'Leya' sewn into her apron?"
"Mmmm."
"You went in there for a cup of coffee. And she asked you out?"
Brass nodded.
Gil didn't bother hiding his surprise, "you must have one hell of an ordering technique."
"Well I ran into Cath there one morning and she made a point of introducing us." His face darkened, "and had the nerve to tell her I shouldn't have regular coffee, so all Leya'll ever let me have now is decaf."
Grissom smiled, "Cath cares. On many levels."
Jim returned his attention to the distant hills. "Well?"
Shrugging, Grissom drank his beer, "I think time off suits you."
"She likes water. Maybe a trip out to the dam."
"Well that's great, but if you're really looking for advice, don't plan on bringing her back here until you get rid of these chairs. What in the name of everything unholy made you buy salmon pink deck chairs?"
Jim tilted his head and shrugged, "they're beige when you're wearing sunglasses."
---
The wide glass door swung shut. Leya Richards, proprietor, flipped a switch and extinguished the Open sign that washed the window with neon blue haze. She spun the lock on the door, turned around and leaned back against the glass. One last customer sat along the espresso bar.
Like any coffee jockey worth her shot of Kona, Leya considered herself more therapist than barista. And like any good doctor, she lived by one overriding rule: No involvement with the customers. It didn't matter that she wasn't really a doctor, the philosophy fitted her needs perfectly and it was an easy and selfless apology when they wanted a date with her. Sorry, nothing personal. Some were more persistent than others, but the idea eventually trickled down.
But now, for the first time, she was willing to break that rule. No, shatter it—she was the one pursuing him. In the two weeks since Jim Brass had first entered her cafe, she had felt wildly out of rhythm, and it didn't help that every time someone crossed the threshold she looked towards the door, wondering if it was him. It had become almost unbearable until a few stars aligned: Catherine Willows wandered in, saw him, and talked to him like she'd known him for years. Leya counted Catherine as a friend and knew she wasn't an investigator for naught—without a doubt she recognized the look in Leya's eyes when, after he left, she had asked about him in her most nonchalant way. The next day Catherine "bumped" into him there again and introduced him to her. A few days was all Leya lasted before pulling him aside during a lull one morning, and not bothering to even say hello, asked him to dinner. He had looked flustered, then flattered, but in her rush of words, afterwards she realized she hadn't given him a chance to answer. All wasn't lost though. Since then they had shared a few quiet chats, culminating with her current spot sitting opposite him at the espresso bar, itching to put her foot up between his legs.
"You know I never got an answer to my invitation."
Jim looked confused momentarily, then nodded, "Yes, dinner. How about tonight?"
It was a tempting offer, and she considered canceling her plans, but shook her head, "Can't. Meeting some friends." She smiled, "but you're welcome to come."
She laughed when he said no without hesitation
"I'm sure I'm not ready for that."
"Probably not. But you'll be high on the list of conversation."
"Well just as long as it's only my ears that burn."
She laughed again and praised her intuition. Not many men could pull her true humor out and he was accomplishing it with ease. She watched his lips and toyed with the notion of a first kiss. By the time she tuned back in to their conversation, she was ready to throw self-control out the window.
Jim leaned forward, "Neither one of us is having much luck with dinner invitations, so how about I come by and pick you up tomorrow after you close?"
Leya cheered to herself and leaned forward too, as close to the blue eyes as she'd ever been, "Do we have a destination?"
Pokerfaced, he nodded.
Excited and intrigued, she narrowed her eyes at him, "you're not going to tell me, are you?"
"Very doubtful."
She failed to stop the huge grin from spreading over her face. Relief ran through her. The dance was complete. The first man in a lifetime that she had felt any real interest in seemed happy to return it. Which left just one thing unresolved. And she'd wait for him to take care of it.
They stayed leaning in to one another and Jim finally whispered, "you should probably go and get ready for your dinner."
"I probably should." She didn't move.
He slipped from his perch on the stool and filled the space between them. What moments ago was an idle daydream turned into reality with a soft touch of his hand to her cheek and the bent of his lips to hers. Breath trapped in a trail of subtle musk, Leya could feel but barely felt his fingers slip through her hair to caress her neck, pulling her mouth against his. It was so easy to slide against him, to fit herself into his body. Her fingers reveled in the roughness of his stubble before resting against his shirt buttons. When he sighed and pulled away, she slowly opened her eyes and breathed again, "Wow."
Jim smiled quietly, "Tomorrow."
---
"Jesus, that's a long way down. How many people have jumped from up here?"
Turning to look at her, Jim considered the woman standing next to him, on her tiptoes, leaning over the wall as far as she could, and wondered if she was serious. When she turned to him, face expectant, he had his answer.
"I really don't know, but I'm sure I could find out."
Green eyes lit up, and he laughed when he realized she'd hold him to it.
She poked him, "Are you laughing at me?"
It hit him hard: he still hardly knew Leya Richards but the telltale signs of the distinct comfort level they shared were getting even stronger. He'd felt it the day he'd first walked in to her coffee house, spied her behind the counter and felt the spark pass between them. In his book actually wanting to be in someone's company was a rarity, so he tried not to let go when it did happen. And now he stood atop Hoover Dam, staring into the plunging abyss as it swallowed the light, all too aware of her fingers entwined in his, her shoulder tight against his arm.
Jim released her hand and slipped his own around her waist drawing her to his chest. She turned into him, trailing an arm up his back between his shirt and jacket, and laid her other hand on his chest. Leya hooked the front of his shirt, slid a finger in between the buttons and waited, caressing the soft hair the fabric hid.
Without a word he encircled her in his arms and kissed her, pressing her gently back against the barrier. Her fingers climbed to his neck, pulling him deeper, tasting his mouth and inhaling his scent. Touch, taste and smell unwound themselves and tumbled down her body. With a contented sigh she dragged her lips from his. Blue eyes holding green, he whispered, "It's beautiful out here."
She smiled at him, "And a long ride back to Vegas."
He raised his eyebrows.
"There's a hotel just down the road here," her eyes flickered towards Route 93.
"Are you sure?"
"I looked it up online. Pretty sure."
He shook his head, "no, I mean are you sure about a hotel?"
"Jim, this isn't our first date." The look on his face made her smile. "Okay, so technically it is our first date, but we've spent a lot of time together in the shop. I feel like I've known you—," she hesitated, "well, for a long time. I'm much more than ready for this. And for us."
She pulled him back down to her lips.
They broke apart and he glanced at the sun sinking behind the hills and looked back at her from beneath his eyebrows, "and it's getting dark, I hate driving at night."
She laughed at him, "Yes, there's that, too."
He eased his left arm around her, drew her close and walked her back to his car, taking in one more taste before opening her door.
---
The hotel was a few minutes down Highway 93. As the car nosed into the parking lot Jim took in the newish three-storey building, the large red backlit sign, and the half-full car park. It would feel good to get off his feet. After getting back in the car at the dam the constant dull ache in his right leg had transformed into an ear-bending throb. The last time he'd been on his feet this long, Willie Cutler had still been just a suspect. Now he was limping, trying to hide it and hoping to hell she wouldn't notice. As fast as the clerk would allow, he paid for the room, picked up the keys and guided Leya to the elevator.
The doors slid shut and he hit the number two.
She stepped closer to him, "you're limping."
"I prefer to use elevators for things other than talking, Leya." He moved to kiss her again, but she stopped him with both hands on his chest.
"Uh-uh. That's not good enough. What's with the limp?"
He sighed as they exited the elevator and walked to the room. He unlocked the door and held it open for her. It had barely clicked shut behind them before she turned to him arms folded across her chest, expectation written on her face.
Jim held up his hands, "What do you want me to say? Bullets are bastards." He took off his jacket, hung it up and turned back to her. "I got hit in the shoulder but the bullet went for a joyride and actually ended up close to my heart."
The glare in her eyes diminished and she came closer, her fingers helping themselves to the buttons of his shirt. "Tell me."
He hid a flash of irritation and attempted to end the discussion, "There's not much else. The doctors got the bullet." He hoped his tone was final.
"But that doesn't explain the limp, Jim." If she knew she was pushing his buttons, the genuine concern in her eyes belied it.
He weighed telling her the condensed version or the one with all the gruesome details. Opting for the middle road, even though it might end the evening early, he told her, "The bullet was lodged next to the artery that runs up my spine and they had to go in through my back because," he frowned at her, "are you sure you really want to hear this?"
Leya stopped laying kisses on the exposed part of his chest that three unfastened buttons allowed and met his stare, "I'm positive."
"They went in through my back because the bullet caused so much damage on its way through. They couldn't risk opening up my ribcage to get it out for a lot of reasons, but mainly because I'd start bleeding again. Long story short, I've got scar tissue around the area where the bullet was lodged, so when it gets cold, or I get tired, or on my feet too long, that tissue starts to swell, which impacts the spine and artery and causes the limp."
His shirt was completely unbuttoned now and the challenge returned to her eyes. She switched to soft accusation, "you should have told me." She brushed the shirt from his shoulders.
Aching for the connection of her body to his, he took both her hands and backed her up to the wall, "I just did."
Pressed against the wall Leya melted into him, lifting her index finger to trace the still unhealed scars that ran across his right shoulder to the middle of his chest—angry red marks not even his chest hair could disguise. "You know what I mean. Cath told me what happened, Gil even mentioned it, but I hadn't realized how much damage was actually done."
Tired of talking about himself he smoothed the hair from her forehead and tucked it behind her ears, "Leya, I'm fine. It's just a limp." And to prove it, he picked her up and carried her to the bed, kissing her everywhere along the way. In one fluid movement he laid her down, positioned himself over her, slipped his hands under her shirt and lifted it over her head. He marveled at the sight of her breasts, clad in a silk pink bra.
She smiled wickedly, "any guesses if the undies match?"
With a groan, Jim forgot all about gunshots, limps and bullet wounds and focused only on her. His mouth dropped to her neck as he planted gossamer kisses over her nape, collarbone and chest.
Leya moaned and ran her fingers through his hair, "God I've wanted to do this since the moment I laid eyes on you."
His hand slipped around her back and unclipped her bra, releasing her forty-something-but-still-perfect breasts into his deliberate hands. He took a moment to savor the woman beneath him. But Leya wasn't about to waste any time, her hands flew to Jim's belt, undoing his pants and releasing his erection. She wriggled out of her skirt and underwear, barely giving him a chance for an appreciative look before she turned to him, demanding, "I want you naked. Now."
He smiled and obliged, stripping and throwing his clothes off the bed. She climbed over the sheets to face him, knees touching his as their mouths parted and tongues entwined once again. She couldn't get enough of his body, her hands roaming at once through his chest hair, down to his groin. And for his part, Jim was just as enthusiastic, taking her mouth in his, pulling away down to her pierced nipple, caressing her breasts and gently tugging with his teeth. They fell to the sheets and he moaned as she started to stroke him, her fingers wrapping around him and pumping him until he thought he would burst.
"Leya, please. Oh God I want to fuck you."
She brought his face to hers and kissed him, pulling his tongue with her teeth. "You can drop the tough guy act—you're okay, I get it." She touched his cheek. "Make love to me."
It was all he needed. Her legs parted beneath him and he lowered himself over her, kissing her breasts, chest and neck. He pressed himself between her legs, grinding against her wetness. She moaned in his ear, biting him and bringing his mouth back to hers.
"Are you ready?" He could barely speak, it was more a growl than words.
She kissed his scars and looked into his eyes, "so ready."
And with that, Jim Brass lowered himself inside her searching for the happiness he truly desired.
---
Over the following weeks he didn't have a moment to himself. His days were filled with recertifications, meetings with McKeen and preparations for his return to the department. His nights belonged to her and for the most part they were a whirlwind of sex, chatter and laughter. The day before he was due back on the job, Jim slept until dusk, put on a suit, fixed his tie and holstered his weapon at his side for the first time in three months. He didn't want any kind of fanfare his first night back on the job, and the only way he knew to be sure to avoid it was to go back a day early, when no one was expecting him. It had worked. A few weeks on it was beginning to feel like old times again.
One of the first things every detective learned was that lighting had different effects on people. As Jim sat behind his desk, savoring a quiet moment he realized his office had perfect lighting. Granted, it was a fishbowl, the exterior three walls almost nothing but glass, but that didn't matter; the windows let in light that needed little supplement. There wasn't a fluorescent to be found—it was easy on the eyes and most importantly, easy on a victim's family when there was bad news to be broken. And it kept him sane—when he had the time. The phone on his desk rang out with a jarring note, startling him and pulling his thoughts forward.
He picked it up, "Brass."
"Detective Brass?" The voice was low and teasing.
At the sound of her voice, his suddenly tensed muscles softened and he eased back in his chair again. He leaned into the receiver, "it is."
"I'm just calling to tell you that your house has been broken into by a sex starved coffee nymph."
His eyes flicked to the LED caller id tag: she wasn't kidding—his home number lit up the screen. "Sex starved?"
"Mmmm. You made the bed. That was nice of you, were you expecting me?"
Sure. He'd play along. "I always make the bed." The truth never hurt.
"Would you like to know what I'm doing?"
"Are you messing up my bed?"
Soft laughter from her end, "I'm lying here on Captain James Brass' bed. I can smell you—in the sheets—in the pillows—you know what your scent does to me. My shoes have been kicked off. My sheer, silken blouse is now lying somewhere near the window. There was a skirt, you would have liked it on me, but it was naughty and had to go."
His eyes lost focus.
"Ah, yes, Captain Brass, your skills in deduction do still work. No pantyhose—you do know how I dislike the feel of nylon, and besides, who needs them in Las Vegas? So what does that leave? Tonight the bra and underwear are a matching set of soft lace. Yes! Those ones. You have an excellent memory. Would you like to help me remove them?"
The sound he uttered was somewhere between a grunt and a sob.
"I'll take that as a 'yes', Captain Brass, but may I note that at this stage of your career I think your interrogation skills should be at a higher level?"
She paused, and he hoped she didn't expect him to articulate a response.
"James. You love it when I call you that, don't you? Your hands are very soft tonight—that's it, just a little bit higher. There it goes. Now, just slip those warm fingers down a bit. Why yes, of course they can linger a moment or two on my breasts. You know how much they love the feel of your hands, even if your tongue and mouth are admired just a little more. Careful now, you know I'm ticklish down there. When your hand helps itself to me, I get the urge to do wild things to you, Captain Brass."
This was probably the closest he had come to phone sex in his life.
She was still going, "Would you like to hear what kind of wild things I'd like to do to you James?"
Footsteps outside his office—damn. Why why why hadn't he shut the door?
Jim stood up and softly cleared his throat.
Warrick leaned against the doorframe, rapping his knuckles on it.
"Oooooh there's someone in your office, isn't there?" He pictured her naked and rolling over in glee. Before he hung up she threw down one more salvo, "Someone who's just been shot really should be more careful about leaving their bathroom window open."
That was it; this conversation was crying out to be terminated.
He softly said, "Okay, I got it," and reluctantly put the receiver back in its cradle.
He looked up at Warrick, "What's up?"
--
It was amazing nowadays how quickly his mood could swing. The conversation had lasted less than a minute, but in that time his mood had switched from playful abandon to agitated anger—at himself.
Warrick disappeared down the hallway and Jim stayed on his feet, staring after the empty door. He let go of a noisy breath and looked at his watch. Time to go. An hour or two early, but what the hell. Tomorrow, for now, was still there.
His tie was pulled off, shoved into a pocket and shirt buttons released in one quick shake of his hand. The jacket was removed and sleeves rolled up before his car was even in sight. He unlocked the door and got in, throwing his coat in the back seat. He put on his sunglasses and let the engine idle while he decided whether to go home or make a stop-off first.
---
He was quiet about it, but she still heard the front door open and a few seconds later latch closed again. Naked and under the covers of his bed Leya looked up from his book as his steps echoed through the hallway. He stopped in the doorway, his collar falling open somewhere between the second and third buttons. Normally, the unbuttoned shirt alone would set her in motion, but tonight she took in his face and stayed where she was. His eyes danced somewhere between torture and grief and she marveled at what could have happened in the time since their phone call.
"What's wrong?"
A forced smile. "Not a thing."
For now she'd let the lie stand. She tugged the sheets from her body, "Well then I'd say you're overdressed."
He climbed over the bed and flopped onto his back next to her. She laced her fingers through his and let him stare at the ceiling.
His eyes roamed to her, "Have you ever had one of those days where nothing happened but it feels like everything has changed?"
"Everything has changed? Or you think it has?"
He didn't answer.
A few seconds of silence passed before she decided to approach something that was sitting in the back of her mind, "Jim, does this have anything to do with that plaque you were awarded yesterday?"
He blinked his eyes slowly, "How'd you know about that?"
"You're not the only person in the police department that loves my coffee. How do you think Cath and I became so close?"
"Cath? Again?"
"No. But I did ask her about it after a couple of uniforms were talking about you while they were waiting for their coffee."
He went quiet and returned his gaze to the ceiling. "Oh."
"Is there a reason you weren't going to tell me?"
A rehash of the Warrick conversation wasn't what he needed and he pondered the best way to say what he wanted so that it would be as little information as possible, but at the same time not piss her off. "I don't need or want any extra attention because I chose to leave my gun outside a hotel room."
"You saved her life."
"No." His eyes met hers again, "I saved my own."
---
It was squalid, rundown and reeked of drunken hijinks gone wrong. Leya sat down across from Jim, careful not to come into contact with anything. The lone artist, a female who answered to the name of Vinny, stepped between them, forcing Leya to roll her chair a few feet to the right so she could still enjoy him, stripped to his undershirt. Needles. As far as she was concerned they were the curse of the devil, used for all kinds of torture, but this, in her opinion was the worst kind. Not to mention he had chosen what was most likely the seediest tattoo parlor in Vegas. It didn't matter that she had a pierced nipple. That was testament to what an entire bottle of tequila could do. This, however, was being undertaken with complete sobriety and free will. Or insanity, depending upon the viewpoint.
As the buzzing began she bit down hard on the urge to get up and start pacing. Instead, she wrapped her hands into fists, dug her nails into her palms, and tried not to break eye contact with him. He had refused to tell her what he was having inked, but after the fit of giggles she had fallen into when he told her the story of the snowflake, she hadn't expected him to. Seen out of the corner of her eye, Vinny's inking hand was hovering mostly around the area of his shoulder where he had been shot, which surprised her. As a kid she'd been run over and had a deep scar that even now she couldn't abide being touched anywhere around it. But looking into his eyes, she could swear he was relishing the pain, and except for the occasional twitch of his mouth, enjoying it.
Before she could give it much more thought, the buzzing stopped. Vinny wiped away the excess ink and handed Jim a mirror for approval. She taped a loose gauze pad over the tattoo and stood up, letting him go. He pushed himself out of the chair and trotted down the steps to her.
Leya handed him his shirt, but stopped him as he pulled on a sleeve.
"Don't I get to see?"
"Are you going to laugh?" He was serious.
So was she. "No."
He looked at her sideways, pretending to think about it as he peeled the bandage away.
The writing was small and she stepped in close to read it.
"May 11, 2006."