"There's nothing here." Flynn's adamant voice drifted up to her from the depths of the dumpster, accompanied by a miasma of thankfully unidentifiable odors. His head popped up inches from hers, and she jumped, narrowing her eyes at the smirk she was beginning to believe was constantly lying in wait for her underneath every other expression. "Well, nothing that's rejoining society, anyway."

"Lieutenant, you are entirely too cheerful for someone awash in garbage at four o'clock in the morning."

Flynn draped his elbows across the rim of the bin and rested his chin on his hands. "Captain, if you want to haul my exhausted ass out of bed at witching-hour for the privilege of driving for an hour and a half, being ordered into a dumpster and rooting around like a truffle pig, and then tell me what mood I should be in while I'm doing it, then you are perfectly welcome to climb in here and join me." He stared pointedly at her elegant high heels then slid his gaze up the length of her body, over the deep sapphire chiffon of her dress, the incongruous trench coat thrown hastily over it, up to the dangerous scowl starring eyes blacker than her outfit in the dim glow of the alley. "You obviously dressed for the occasion."

"My whereabouts off the clock are none of your concern, Lieutenant," Raydor answered in the soft, dead tone that expertly TKOed most human interaction. Very deliberately, she rolled up one sleeve before reaching to give him a hand out of the dumpster.

"Don't I wish," he sighed, following her back to the car. "Crime from 9 to 5: The Handbook. You're overflowing with all that FID experience; you should write it, spread it around. Maybe these jack-offs would take notes."

"Don't underestimate my ability to illustrate in living color the discrepancy between a man's actual importance and his own idea of it. All of these clowns think they're our number one priority, and they can just lead us around by our noses. They don't realize they're just as confused as everyone else. If I did write that book, they'd probably form a cult around me."

Flynn grinned. "The Gospel According to Sharon Raydor. Yeah, that sounds about right."

Raydor arched an eyebrow at him. "You can laugh. Which of us ended up in the dumpster?"

They climbed into the sedan, and Raydor not-so-discreetly rolled down the windows.

"Well, this is your party, Captain. So, any other bright ideas?"

It was the first time all night that Flynn's tone had sharpened with annoyance. Sharon Raydor was not in the habit of walking on eggshells around wounded male egos, but she was also loath to trample an officer who had gone somewhat above and beyond the call of duty and had let slide multiple opportunities to bitch about it. "Unfortunately not. It wasn't a rock-solid lead; the victim suddenly recalled that this was where she met the rapist. I called you out here because this was all we had, and evidence in a dumpster doesn't tend to hang around. Nevertheless, I'm sorry for the wild goose chase, Lieutenant. You should grab a hot shower and a good night's sleep; I'll let the Chief know I hijacked you."

She leaned forward to start the car, and when she turned back in his direction, Flynn was staring at her. Even on a face she knew better than Flynn's, she couldn't have been sure of interpreting that look correctly. She decided it most closely resembled the expression of a de-collared puppy stepping through its invisible fence. The comparison, the sight of his gobsmacked face and the earlier truffle-pig allusion combined to force an ill-advised grin through her iron self-control. Flynn scowled, and the moment shattered.

"Well, it was worth a shot," he grumbled.

Raydor nodded, taking advantage of the lapse in conversation to surreptitiously study her colleague. Flynn was one of her most vocal detractors in Major Crimes, with or without an audience, and she was having trouble believing in the mysterious truce that was coalescing between them now, unbidden. She decided to risk the question.

"Do you make a habit of visiting other people's garbage in the middle of the night? Or are you too tired to yell at me?"

He was looking at her as if she were an escaped mental patient, which set her at ease. That was a response with which she was quite familiar. "I was doing my job."

"And I was doing mine. That's not what I asked. I followed my gut, and it led nowhere. I'm just curious because I would have thought this to be a prize opportunity for you."

"Do you want a fight, Captain? Because as wiped as I am, I could probably give you ten rounds right now."

Raydor narrowed her eyes. "I don't seek out disagreements; they find me. And you're avoiding the question."

Flynn shrugged and delivered his answer with perfect nonchalance. "You had a hunch. It didn't pan out. Happens to all cops, great and small. The point is—you were acting like a real cop." As if to immediately neutralize the compliment, a cheesy grin flashed across his face as he added: "Doesn't hurt that you look like a million bucks in that dress."

Raydor nodded in thoughtful acknowledgment. "I see." In fact, she could see all the way through that diversionary tactic and out the other side. Flynn was trying to avoid saying that he was impressed with her, and she was grateful for any veil he could throw over that kind of honesty. His admiration, however small and grudging, was not something with which she was prepared to deal.

They drove in silence for a while, until Flynn let out a sort of snuffling snore that she ground her teeth to avoid calling adorable. Sharon Raydor sighed and resigned herself to a long drive back to town set to the soundtrack of Andy Flynn asleep.