Author's note: Happy Halloween! A trick and a treat. We've almost reached the end of the line.

Film Studies 350: Research Methods

1.

"I'm still real annoyed with you."

Sharon hummed and then drowsily murmured, "Okay." She arched her hips and settled back into the mattress, boneless and feline. Brenda huffed out a breath that mingled irritation and reluctant affection. How dare the captain be so - so cute at a time like this? "Let it be for a little while, Brenda Leigh."

She didn't like being told what to do now any more than she ever had, but the option Sharon presented was so appealing. The brunette rolled, presenting Brenda with the sculpted curve of her spine as she looked back over her shoulder, her green eyes warm. Brenda could already see how nicely she would fit into that curve, how her arm would rest above Sharon's hip bone as if the spot had been made for her. As the thought passed through her mind, her body complied. The immediate pleasure, like the first bite of a chocolate bar or deep drink of wine, outweighed her irritation with Sharon and with herself. This was so good, she thought. This was so nice, so right, the way their bodies fit together - not just two women, but Brenda and Sharon. This particular woman. Sharon Raydor, of all people.

It was always Sharon, she thought fancifully, as she allowed her eyelids to lower. It was always gonna be Sharon.

It felt like only moments later when her brain dimly registered Sharon's ringtone, the generic one she hadn't bothered to change, the bed shifting and the murmur of the other woman's voice coming from the hallway in muffled, one-sided conversation.

"Are you awake?" Sharon asked quietly, nearer again but too far away, and Brenda already knew what she would see when she opened her eyes. Sharon wasn't coming back to bed, but retrieving her clothing in preparation to leave. The way the sunlight slanted low through the window told her at least an hour had passed, probably closer to two.

"I have to go." Sharon's green eyes connected briefly with Brenda's before dropping to the floor as she lifted her discarded panties with her toes. The blonde watched her step into her underwear and quickly pull up her jeans.

"To a crime scene?" Brenda asked muzzily, her brain sluggish. She felt like a child pulled from sleep in the middle of the night.

"No." Sharon's voice was muffled again as she yanked her shirt over her head.

Protectively Brenda lifted her knees to her chest, and then drew the sheet over them. Fighting her instincts, she waited for her brand-new lover to explain. A ball of ice took up residence in the pit of her stomach and began to grow as Sharon remained silent. She rushed around, finger-combing her hair and adjusting her clothing.

At last she met Brenda's solemn, accusatory gaze. She opened her mouth, glanced up at the ceiling, closed her mouth, and then opened it again. "I'm not running away."

"Okay." Brenda's voice was cool. Beneath the cover of the sheet, she hugged her knees harder.

"I know how this must seem, but I need you to trust me. I can't explain right now, and I just - I really have to go."

The look Sharon sent her was so pleading, so vulnerable, that Brenda felt herself relent momentarily. "Okay," she repeated more softly.

"I'll call you just as soon as I can." When Sharon kissed Brenda's temple, the captain smelled of perfume and sex. Brenda could think of nothing she wanted to say.

After the door had closed behind Sharon, Brenda remained still for a moment, contemplating the merits of a shower. Sweat had dried on her skin, making her shiver, and parts of her were uncomfortably damp. But she didn't want to wash away the traces of the green-eyed captain.

She flopped onto her side and tugged the comforter up over her, her anger flaring. Where the hell had Sharon run off to? Brenda would have understood if it was a crime scene, but Sharon had other priorities. It wasn't anything to do with Rusty; even if she hadn't been able to elaborate, she would have told Brenda that much. Likewise, if it had something to do with Ricky or Emily, there would have been no reason to hold that back.

Only one other possibility came to mind, and it made her feel sick: Jackson Raydor.

She didn't want to think that badly of the older woman, but obviously Sharon had no sense where the man was concerned. That they were still married rankled badly enough; when she remembered the cozy family scene from the other night, Brenda physically shuddered. The ice in her stomach had apparently melted and turned into acid. He could be drunk, in jail, in a hospital, on the moon. Would Sharon run to him like that? Brenda wanted to believe she wouldn't, but she couldn't silence the niggling doubt, the voice that repeated over and over, Husband husband husband husband. She might feel that it was her responsibility. Brenda knew Sharon would always do what she believed to be her duty.

Brenda remembered the times when Will had abruptly left her in a hotel room or alone in her apartment. She'd thought she had left that version of herself ten years and two thousand miles behind, but she felt the same tawdriness, the sense of shame, seeping in.

Her self-confidence had been at a low ebb recently, but the blonde resolutely shook the feeling off as she peeled herself out of bed and headed for a hot shower. She would never be the other woman again, not under any circumstances. She didn't want to let herself think Sharon would treat her that way - and she didn't, not really. This was insecurity talking, she reassured herself, the consequence of finding herself unexpectedly alone after a very eventful morning. But…

But if Sharon had run to her husband's aid right after she and Brenda had made love for the first time, it would damn sure be the last time as well. Clay and Willie Rae hadn't raised no fool.

2.

"Hell, girl, you got old."

I picked the perfect day not to wear makeup, Sharon thought. Looking down into the wizened, deeply-lined face of the other woman, she reminded herself that she didn't give a damn. "Still not as old as you," she pointed out. But the other woman couldn't have picked a more effective time than right after Sharon's first time being with a much younger, improbably physically perfect lover (She didn't exercise? Really? Six years of pilates, and Sharon's abdomen didn't look like that) to lob the insult.

"Age hasn't withered that smart mouth you've got on you, has it?"

Withered was exactly the word to describe the older woman. It was hard to tell with her half lying down if osteoporosis had done its work in the six or seven years since the two had last met, or if she would still have to look down to meet the gaze of the captain, but she looked as if she had been freeze-dried. If she weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet, Sharon would eat her shoe.

"You still a dyke?"

You still a drunk? The retort was on the tip of Sharon's tongue before she managed to swallow it. She would not fall back into that pattern. She would not behave like a sullen, angry teenager. "Come on, let's go. Can you stand up?"

"Course I can." She listed precariously to the left, though, and Sharon had to swoop in and steady her. As she wrapped a supporting arm around the older woman, all she could feel were the jutting bones of her ribs and shoulder blades through the worn fabric of what looked like a man's button-down shirt. The scent of urine and unwashed body was so strong that Sharon's eyes stung, and she turned her head, swallowing down her gag reflex. Somehow it was easier when the bodies were dead. At least there was no real possibility of anyone detecting the faint smell of sex that clung to Sharon beneath her own clothes, masked as it was by her companion's pungent odor. "Where we goin'?"

"To get you something to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care."

"Is that any way to talk to me?"

They had taken a few steps, and the older woman was gradually supporting more of her own weight. "If you'd prefer, I can leave you here."

"I know you ain't gonna do that."

Sharon sighed, because she knew the same thing. As humiliating as bailing this woman out of the drunk tank was, leaving her there would be worse.

Waiting for her to reclaim her personal property was usually the lowest point - the awkward silence as Raydor stood there in a trio completed by a lower-ranking officer, who either avoided her gaze or gawked incredulously - but this time Jessie had no belongings, nothing at all. Undoubtedly someone had rolled her.

"Ma'am," murmured the duty sergeant as they walked out, and she nodded.

"What, you don't wanna introduce me to your friend?" Jessie prodded, and Sharon ignored her, concentrating on trying to block out her smell. "You don't want the boys in blue to know where you really come from?"

"And where would that be?" Sharon retorted. "The seventh circle of hell?"

Jessie snorted. "You'd prefer that, wouldn't you, to a trailer park in Bakersfield?"

As they stepped outside, Raydor slipped her sunglasses down into place, grateful for the barrier. Although Jessie's eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, their scrutiny made Sharon uneasy. Briefly, she considered calling a cab. The stench of Jessie's body would cling to the seats of the Crown Vic for days, whether in reality or in Sharon's imagination. But Jessie was too unpredictable; it would be too much of a hassle to involve a taxi driver in this two-handed drama. "Let's get a hamburger and a cup of coffee."

"If you say so, big spender. You get that from Edward. He was always tight."

Instead of heading for the parking lot, the brunette piloted them toward a diner down the block, the sort of establishment that wouldn't be too precious about the hygiene of its clientele. The tremors hadn't started yet, which meant Jessie was still drunk, and it would be easier to get food into her now than later, when the sole thought occupying her mind would be her next drink.

The elderly woman sat in stubborn silence as a teenage waitress attempted to take their order. "Bring her a cheeseburger," Sharon said with no affect, her face blank. "Lettuce, tomato, mustard, no mayo." It was odd, the trivial information the mind retained for decades. "And a coffee."

"Fries?" the young woman asked, addressing the captain. She nodded.

"I want a milkshake," Jessie put in. "Chocolate."

"Fine. I'll take the coffee."

"You on a diet? You finally lost weight," Jessie muttered as the waitress hastened away. Sharon wished she could follow. That had always been one of the woman's favorite fictions, that Sharon was overweight; but the captain had long accepted that, in comparison to her own emaciated form, Jessie would consider anyone who ate solid food morbidly obese.

"What are you doing in L.A.?"

"What, I can't come to visit my family?" Jessie replied facetiously.

Sharon locked her jaw. "Where are you staying?"

"Here an' there."

Thousandth verse, same as the first. There was usually a man, or men, involved, but surely Jessie was past that by now, at - Raydor did the mental math - 73. And then she considered what she herself had left behind an hour ago. Men and booze, women and Merlot. Maybe you were never past it.

"I'll get you a room for a few nights," she said.

"Why not take me home with you? Those precious lily-white babies of yours aren't still hangin' around, suckin' the teat. Afraid I'll steal the china?"

Jessie wanted nothing but a few bucks and to get a rise out of her, so Sharon ignored her, concentrating instead on the coffee the waitress placed in front of her. The milk in the metal container had a thin film on top; black was safer. She sipped to give herself something to do. Sharon had moved since the last time Jessie had shown up out of the blue, so at least the woman couldn't know where she lived.

Michael had warned her. She didn't blame him for saving that tidbit until the end of their visit; any mention of Jessie's name soured Sharon's disposition. "Jessie called Dad last week," he had said quietly as she'd walked him to his car. "She wanted money. He said she sounded bad."

Sharon had sighed. "She always wants money, and she always sounds bad."

She did sound especially bad, though, and she looked worse. Raydor wondered if this would be Jessie's last unannounced visit to Southern California and its environs. How much abuse could one frail body take?

The older woman drank the milkshake but refused to touch the food, so Sharon had it boxed for her. They walked to the Crown Vic and Sharon drove to a motel a few miles away, one in a nondescript row, basic but clean. She paid cash in advance for two nights, having learned the hard way not to use a credit card anywhere near Jessie, who could be very persuasive when she was sober - persuasive enough that she had run up a $1500 bill under similar circumstances in the late nineties.

"Do you want a bus ticket?" Sharon asked as they stood outside the room, unprotected from the fierce sun beating down.

"Just gimme a hundred dollars, an' I'll get my own ticket."

Raydor shook her head. "If you don't want a ticket, you can have fifty." They both knew she was only going to spend it on alcohol. "I'm not coming to bail you out again."

Jessie grinned slyly. "Yeah, okay."

"I mean it. Not this time," Sharon replied, her voice steady, and tried to convince herself she really did mean it. In the past she would have offered detox, medical attention, clothes, food - but she had learned that there was no point. Jessie would claw the nails out of the floor and barter them for booze if she could.

"You'll always come runnin', girl. It's in your nature. You'll run an' lick my hand like a stray dog."

Sharon dropped her sunglasses back into place, dimming the brightness of the scene and the nastiness of the other woman's tone. "At least take a shower," she said, and walked away, wondering, as she always did, if she had seen the last of Jessie Parks.

3.

Sharon called while Brenda was in the shower, and left a brief voicemail. "We caught what appears to be, but likely isn't, a murder-suicide." She sounded tired, as if whatever had transpired during the two hours since she'd left Brenda's condo had exhausted her. "I'm headed to the office and have no idea when I'll get to leave." A pause ensued. "I'm sorry, Brenda."

Sorry for what? For leaving? For having to work? For being emotionally unavailable? Brenda consoled herself with Chinese food and reality TV. This was just a little bump in the road, after all. No reason to panic.

Sharon called back on Monday, the ringing of Brenda's cell interrupting a meeting with the district attorney. Okay, Brenda should have remembered to put it on silent, but still, the woman had the worst timing. The special investigator had been back in her office for only a few minutes when the landline rang, and she picked up to a tentative "Brenda?" Her assistant had put Sharon's call through without asking, just as Brenda had taught her to do, but right then she would have appreciated the barrier of another person, a few seconds to prepare herself.

"We need to talk."

Brenda rolled her eyes. "I'm glad you think so."

It was noisy wherever Sharon was; Brenda heard traffic, a siren, and a gust of wind almost snatched the captain's voice away. "If you're not busy, could I come by after work?"

She sounded formal, almost stilted, as she had in the early days of their friendship. Brenda absently doodled spirals on the edge of a memo. "I'm not busy."

"Okay. Good." Sharon paused, and then said too brightly, "Good. I'll see you this evening."

Brenda was heating up leftovers for dinner when her phone dinged, signalling the arrival of a new text. I'm going to be late. She felt a spike of irritation that ebbed as it occurred to her that she was, for all intents and purposes, dating her former self. "Not that we're datin'," she said aloud, the words laced with sarcasm. The irritation spiked again.

Text me. You can come over if I'm still awake, she typed, and nodded as she hit send. She could compromise, but she'd had enough of doing things on Sharon's terms, of waiting by the phone.

At 11:30 Brenda dosed herself with Benadryl, determined not to give Sharon the satisfaction of waiting up for her. She woke up to a 3 a.m. text that read, I'm going to have to reschedule. Like it was a business meeting, or a coffee date with a distant acquaintance. No explanation (maybe because she assumed Brenda could fill in the blanks, but whatever, Brenda was pissed), no apology, not even a damn emoticon. No wonder Sharon didn't date; she was terrible at it.

Brenda didn't reply, and she heard nothing from the older woman during the work day. She had worked up a good, self-righteous head of steam by the time her cell phone started ringing, just as she pulled into her assigned parking place outside her condo tower and disconnected from the car's Bluetooth. Was Sharon home, watching her from her eleventh-floor window? She scowled. Picking up whenever Sharon deigned to summon her would set a bad example, and besides, her hands were literally full. She let the call go to voicemail. Barely fifteen seconds later, the phone began to ring again, Sharon's name lighting up the screen. Brenda jutted her lip out. She didn't care if it was childish; the captain was going to have to do a little more than pick up the phone if she wanted to get back into Brenda's good graces. The least Sharon could do was make the long walk over. She knew the way.

Brenda ignored her phone as she checked the mail, changed out of her work clothes, and poured herself a glass of water she didn't want to drink. After the third call, the older woman switched to texting. Please pick up, read the first message. The little blinking text box showed that she continued typing. I know you're home, stated the second. So she had been looking out the phone rang again. Brenda ignored it, although this time she felt a twinge of shame. Being a petulant child wasn't going to fix anything.

The text alert sounded again. I could use your help.

Brenda's blood ran cold. In the years that she had known Sharon Raydor, the woman had never once asked for help in a professional or a personal capacity.

Terrifying visions filling her eyes, Brenda shoved her feet into the pair of shoes nearest the door and took off at a dead run.

The elevator ride wasn't long enough for her to catch her breath, so she was still panting when she hammered on the door of Sharon's eleventh-floor unit. She didn't really expect an answer - what she expected was for the other woman to be bleeding out on the bathroom floor - and was stymied by the quiet, "It's open. Come in."

At first, all Brenda cared about was that Sharon sat on the sofa in the living room, alive and unharmed, with no one holding a knife to her throat. "You're okay," she gasped.

"I'm - Watch out for the glass!"

Brenda froze and looked down. The floor at her feet shimmered as if covered by shards of ice. She noted that she was wearing bunny slippers.

"I'm okay," Sharon continued in that same small voice.

"Thank goodness. You scared me to death," replied Brenda, who remembered that she was supposed to be mad but was too relieved to care just yet. Her heart felt like it was knocking against her rib cage.

"I'm sorry. That wasn't my intention."

"Sharon!" Brenda exclaimed. "You said you needed help! I thought you were dyin'!"

The brunette pursed her lips. "I said I could use help," she corrected. "I apologize for frightening you. But I, ah - Rusty will be home from chess club in about fifteen minutes, and I don't want him to know about this. I'll take care of the glass, but if you could perhaps go into my bedroom and just - restore some order -"

"You shouldn't be cleanin' up yet, should you?" Brenda looked around, surveying the broken bottles on the kitchen floor and the disarray in the living room. "Has SID already been here?"

"They're not coming. Please be careful of the glass," Sharon cautioned again in the same detached tone.

"Not comin'?" She moved into the living room, pausing to right a photograph of Sharon and Ricky that had toppled over. "You're not filin' a report?"

Sharon shook her head, weariness etched into every line on her face. "I know who this was, Brenda. There's no point in wasting the LAPD's time or manpower. Besides, it isn't as bad as it looks." Releasing a throw pillow and a deep breath, she stood up. "Nothing of any great monetary value was taken. Just my emergency cash, some jewelry, Rusty's laptop from school, and a bottle of outdated prescription painkillers from when I hurt my shoulder last year." She snorted with derision, her lips twisting into a mocking smile. "Oh, and the contents of the liquor cabinet, at least what she didn't drink here or leave smashed in the floor. I'm glad I don't have carpet."

"She?"

Sharon hummed as she knelt, back to picking up glass. In addition to what were obviously broken bottles, many of Sharon's framed photos and prints had been shattered.

"Jessie Parks." The captain didn't look up. "My mother. Will you please hand me another trash bag? They're there on the table."

Brenda's jaw dropped. "Your - who?"

"My mother, biologically speaking." Sharon's voice held a hard edge of disgust Brenda had never heard before. "Parks is the name of one of the low-life husbands she picked up somewhere along the way. When she had me, she was 16-year-old Jessie O'Dwyer."

"Oh," Brenda said simply.

"Yeah. She was a wild-child. My grandparents didn't kick her out because she was pregnant; she ran away. God knows who my father was. She never told me, and I never asked. Frank is my uncle, Jessie's younger brother. When he and Eleanore married, they adopted me - although, of course, they had to find us first."

"Wow, Sharon." It was an inadequate response, but what wouldn't be? Again, her concept of Sharon Raydor tilted sharply on its axis. She couldn't help feeling hurt that the older woman hadn't shared her history with Brenda, but she began to see why Sharon was so chary with details of her past. "And so you - you're in contact with her?"

"Only when 's never stayed in one place for long. The next man, the next fix, the next drink, the next government check -" Sharon shrugged. "She ricochets around the West. When I joined the LAPD, I had her record flagged. I have found that it's… useful to know when she's in trouble with the law in the State of California."

"Because…" Brenda trailed off, looking around the room.

"Yes, because this, although I don't know how she found out where I live. I'm so glad Rusty was out today at his chess club thing." She sighed heavily. "Once she stole Jack's car. He got it back - after she totalled it." A grim smile flashed across her face. "I think she comes down to Los Angeles and gets herself tossed into the drunk tank when she's about to hit rock bottom because she knows I'll buy her a meal and put her up in a motel for a few days."

"That's what happened on Saturday."

"Yes." For the first time, Sharon stopped everything she was doing and looked the other woman straight in the eyes. "Brenda, I'm sorry I had to leave. I'm sorry I didn't call sooner."

As apologies went, it should have been inadequate. It certainly lacked eloquence. But Sharon's voice trembled, and her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. The naked simplicity made up for the lack of rhetorical flourishes. The apology was not inadequate at all, when it came from Sharon, and it came like that. The strength of Brenda's desire to comfort her surprised the younger woman.

"Later," she said, her voice softer. "There's not time to talk about it right now. Why don't you go get changed outta your work clothes, and then lie down."

"Rusty will be here any minute."

"An' I'll just tell him you have a headache." Brenda opened the kitchen cabinet where Sharon kept the ibuprofen, poured three into her palm, and handed them over. "You do have a headache, don't you?" Sharon's lips parted in surprise, and the blonde elaborated, "You're squintin', and you've got this one very specific little frown line - So I'll tend to Rusty. How 'bout a -" She stopped herself just in time before the words "glass of wine" tripped off her tongue. "Cup of tea?"

Sharon nodded and then winced at the motion. "That would be very nice. Thank you."

While Sharon was changing in the bathroom, Brenda did a quick tidy-up in her bedroom. The result wasn't up to the captain's usual exacting standard, but at least it no longer showed signs of having been ransacked.

Rusty was unfazed by Brenda's presence in the kitchen, and took the news that Sharon wasn't feeling well with the appropriate amount of concern. "I'm not surprised, though," he added. "I don't think she's slept in, like, three days. She left for a crime scene Saturday, and I saw her once yesterday, when she came home to shower and change clothes."

Brenda frowned. "Are you limpin'?"

Rusty stiffened. "No," he muttered, and then amended, "Maybe a little. It's nothing. Sharon's tea is getting cold."

"Uh-huh," Brenda replied flatly, just to make sure he knew she would be asking questions later. "Hand me a saucer."

Brenda closed the bedroom door soundlessly and tiptoed over to the nightstand, where she placed the steaming cup of green tea. Clad in black yoga pants and an oversized blue cardigan, Sharon was curled up almost in the fetal position, her back to the door, sound asleep. The petite blonde stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, gazing at her and trying to make up her mind. She gnawed on her lower lip, twisting it unattractively. She was still angry with the captain; even worse, she was scared. The rush of tenderness that rolled over her as she watched the other woman sleep was unlike anything she'd ever felt before, yet even now she longed to have Sharon's mouth on her skin, her fingers buried deeply inside her. She wanted her in every way she could think of. It all felt too close to the surface, and Brenda was afraid if someone - if Sharon - pricked her, she might pop.

Releasing a shuddering breath, Brenda slipped off her shoes and carefully lowered her weight onto the mattress. Maybe she was setting herself up for heartbreak, but this was exactly where she wanted to be right now. She wanted to spoon up to Sharon's back and wrap an arm around her, but she didn't want to wake the other woman; so she contented herself with lying beside her and watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

Sharon didn't sleep long, and jerked back to consciousness with a start, her left arm whacking Brenda in the process. Brenda's "Ouch!" was layered with the other woman's "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I'm not used to sharing a bed with anyone."

"The love 'em and leave 'em type, huh?"

Sharon snorted.

"You loved me an' left me," Brenda Leigh pointed out, petulance in her tone.

The brunette's eyes widened. "I did not! Not the way you mean."

"How would I know? You could be some female Lothario."

"Brenda Leigh Johnson. Never in my life."

"Okay," Brenda returned evenly. Sharon was cute when she was outraged. "Why don't you tell me what way you mean."

"You know what happened." Sharon scooted up into a sitting position, the oversized pillows that matched the comforter at her back. "When the officer from North Hollywood called me, I went over there, bailed Jessie out of jail, took her to get something to eat, and then to a motel… And then we rolled out. I came home this afternoon to find that Jessie had broken in." The retelling was dispassionate, cut and dried. Only the lines of strain on Sharon's face gave away any emotion.

Brenda considered. She had so many questions, and she didn't want to ask any of them, because she was unsure of the answers.

"I should have explained."

"Yes, you should have. Why didn't you?"

The pause was lengthy. Sharon reached up and rubbed the back of her neck as if it ached. "I didn't know what to say."

Brenda tensed immediately, and Sharon extended a hand as if to touch her, but only curled her fingers into her palm. "You don't need to say much. I'm gettin' the point, finally. So now that this mess in here between us an' the one your mother made are both cleaned up -"

"No." This time Sharon did grab Brenda's arm, halting her momentum before she could rise. "No, no, that's not what I meant. Brenda, I'm crazy about you. I think about you all the time, when I'm working or driving or making dinner. I barely followed the case Major Crimes just closed because I could not get my head in the game. I don't think I've ever wanted anyone the way I want you. If I have, it was so long ago that I can't remember."

Brenda said nothing. The surge of hope she'd felt when Sharon was speaking quickly ebbed, because the other woman looked miserable.

"I want you too, Sharon. I want to be with you." The blonde cocked her head. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"It's, um… it's a very frightening thing."

"Why?" When no answer was forthcoming, Brenda appended, "Is it me? My track record with relationships?"

"You're the one who just accused me of being a Lothario," Sharon retorted, and when the comment didn't draw so much as a feeble smile, she sighed. "No, Brenda. I think the spectacular oddity of my marriage more than makes up for two divorces. Although it does concern me that you and Agent Howard split up so recently."

Brenda's forehead scrunched as she frowned. "You're not my rebound," she said flatly.

"That's not precisely what I meant."

The younger woman swallowed down her irritable demand to know precisely what Sharon did mean. The past months of friendship had taught Brenda that Sharon would not be rushed when she was thinking something through, and that efforts to speed her up had the opposite effect. Too bad she hadn't remembered that on Thursday.

"Part of me does worry that what you're really seeking is replacement stability, which comes ready-made with Rusty and me and this home." Before Brenda could protest, Sharon covered her hand and continued, "But that's my baggage, Brenda. I recognize that. I feel what's happening between us. I know it's not one-sided on my part, and I also think it isn't just attraction."

Brenda looked down at their hands and twisted her palm so their fingers could link. It was hard to imagine Sharon being insecure about something like this. It was hard to imagine Sharon being insecure about anything. Brenda's thumb stroked the delicate skin on the back of the other woman's hand. So elegant, Sharon's hands; and, although she couldn't quite explain it, Brenda loved the way the long, thin digits signalled the other woman's age. "It's definitely not just attraction. Sharon, I think I've been attracted to you since we met. There was always a chemistry there I didn't wanna think too much about."

After a slight hesitation, the captain nodded.

"But this is so much more than that. You already know I want to explore what this could be. You know what I want it to be. I kinda feel like all my cards are on the table, here, Sharon, and you're still playin' it close to the vest. It's not a position I'm used to bein' in, and it's not comfortable."

Another pause ensued before Sharon said, "You're right. And it's not fair."

When she said nothing else, Brenda could no longer restrain her exasperation. "It's gonna be a problem if you're pathologically secretive!"

"I'm not -" Sharon broke off with a sigh. Her shoulders slumped. "I don't mean to be secretive. I don't know if all those years in Internal Affairs contributed to making me this way, or if I was made for Internal Affairs. - You know how people say, 'It's not you, it's me?' Well, it's not you. It's me." She rubbed at her forehead as if the headache had returned. "I've never liked to talk too much about myself. It's always been easier to let people make their own assumptions, erroneous as those may be. It's like not wrapping myself in a rainbow flag at work. I'm not in the closet, but my private life is private."

Brenda nodded. She was afraid to interrupt the other woman's flow by saying anything at all.

"It started when I was a child. I was almost seven when Frank and Eleanore tracked Jessie down and got her to sign over custody. After that, I didn't want to think about it, let alone talk about it. I was relieved to let the world assume I was part of a happy, normal family. - Brenda, when I went to live with Frank and Eleanore, with my parents, I had never been to school a day in my life. I'd managed to teach myself to read a little, but that was it." The blonde gaped, and Sharon smiled ruefully. "See? That's exactly what I wanted to avoid: that reaction when anyone found out."

"I'm not just 'anyone'," Brenda pointed out quietly, squeezing the other woman's forearm with her free hand. Sharon accepted that with a nod.

"Jackson knew, but we didn't tell the kids. Then he had them for the weekend once, started drinking, and told them the most lurid version possible of the truth. They came home devastated that Grandma and Grandpa weren't really Grandma and Grandpa." She smiled grimly. "That was the last time he had them for a weekend."

"Oh, Sharon."

"And now you're thinking, I should have learned my lesson - Why didn't I tell Rusty?" Sharon's arched eyebrows demanded some response.

"Well, I… the thought occurred. It's not like the two of you don't have anythin' in common."

"That is exactly why." Brenda looked confounded. "From the day that young man entered my home, I wanted him to know that I considered him an individual, not an amalgamation of his past experiences. He is not his mother. He is not what he had to do in order to survive. And I didn't want to do him the disservice of presuming to understand his thoughts or feelings based on that single similarity between us."

The blonde nodded. "But he knows you now," she pointed out cautiously. "He knows you love him. So maybe…?"

"I know. I know. You're right. I'll tell him." She sighed heavily. "But not tonight."

"He'll be wonderin' where his computer is," Brenda pointed out. "But I s'pose today has been eventful enough." She looked at their bare toes, side by side on the comforter. "I don't wanna go all CIA interrogator on you, Captain Raydor. You think you could be a little clearer on how this relates to you an' me?"

Her chuckle was tired and dry. "I'm being rather circuitous, aren't I? - I understood that what Rusty needed in his life was stability, and I've been able to give him a measure of that, despite everything else that has happened to him. All children need stability, but especially those who have never had it. If I had any particular insight, that was it. Stability was the first gift my parents gave me."

Brenda recalled now that Sharon had occasionally referred to Frank or Eleanore, but much more often to "my mother," "my father," "my parents." Her biological mother was always "Jessie." Well, this explains that age gap between her and Michael. They had never specifically discussed the ages of the captain's parents, but from her casual mentions of skiing and other adventures, Brenda had the impression that they were strangely youthful. Now it made sense: since Frank was Jessie's younger brother, he couldn't have been much more than a young teenager when Sharon was born.

"Fast-forward fifty years. What I have been coming to realize, Brenda - what you are forcing me to realize - is that I still crave that stability. I'm addicted to it. A new job, a new child: those are major changes, but not… not on the same plane. I've been asking myself why I essentially gave up on dating. And I think the answer is that I didn't want to find anyone. I didn't want to take that risk. Staying married is, in that way, a protective barrier. It also keeps my fractured family intact, at least on paper. Opening myself up to the possibility of loving someone again, in that way -" She broke off and shook her head.

For several minutes Brenda was deeply immersed in her own thoughts. Sharon had tacitly admitted that she thought she could fall in love with Brenda, which was good since Brenda was pretty sure she'd already fallen for the dark-haired captain. But she still hadn't said she was willing to take that chance. For once, Brenda wouldn't wheedle or cajole. The other woman had to decide for herself if they were going to have a shot at a real relationship.

"So I'm more threatenin' than Jack?"

Sharon snorted. "Oh, any day."

Brenda breathed deeply, trying to put the hurt of the past week behind her. It would take a little time, but she could do it. Sharon was well worth the trouble.

Sharon freed her hand from Brenda's grasp and reached up. She tenderly tucked a loose curl behind the blonde's ear. Her touch lingered. "We've been doing things a bit backwards, haven't we? Moving in first, followed by sex, and finally discussing the possibility of a relationship."

Brenda grinned. "Hey, there was some kissin' in there. And a date."

"An accidental date. I'd like to take you out on an intentional one." Her fingertips traced the line of the younger woman's jaw.

Brenda felt herself flush. "You wanna court me?" she half-teased.

Green eyes narrowed slightly and a smile tugged at Sharon's lips. "Mmm-hmm," she hummed. "Is that all right with you?"

The blonde shivered. She thought of the picnic they had shared at Hollywood Forever, and the romantic candlelit dinner overlooking San Francisco Bay. If that was how Sharon entertained a friend, what might she have up her sleeve for a woman she wanted to romance? Again, Brenda pushed away the thought of other women in Sharon's murky past, and thought instead of the brunette's strong, slender body pressing her into her mattress on Saturday afternoon. Heat flooded her, and she let the older woman read it in her expression. "It's very much all right, as long as you don't think you're always gonna get to go first."

Those green eyes had darkened with what Brenda now recognized as arousal. Sharon smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it. Are you free Wednesday evening?"

Brenda frowned. She felt like she'd already waited long enough, and Wednesday was two days away.

"I want to talk to Rusty first," Sharon added. "And I - I don't want us to rush, Brenda. I want to take things slowly, get this right."

"All right. Wednesday," Brenda agreed grumpily, and the other woman laughed.

"Want to watch a movie in the living room? The Thin Man still awaits."

"Why can't we watch it in here?"

"I don't think that would be wise."

"Then no."

Sharon smiled charmingly. "Want to kiss me and then watch The Thin Man in the living room?"

The blonde couldn't help relenting. The older woman's lips were soft, supple, and sweetly reassuring.

When Sharon drew back, she murmured, "Come on, Brenda Leigh. Nick and Nora are waiting."

Brenda heaved a sigh. "And Asta, too," she muttered, and followed the captain back into the living room, which was now free of all traces of the trauma that had so recently occurred. If only, the former deputy chief thought, human relationships could be tidied up so easily.