Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.
By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com
Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment.
Chapter 2
Heather
Sometimes being a symbol is a real bitch.
I let the car door slam, recognizing my own aggression but too impatient to do anything about it, and hit the alarm button on the keychain. Certainly, the garage door is sound, but a little extra protection never hurts. Key in the lock--open the kitchen door--dump my bag on the counter and walk towards the glow of the living room light. It's on a timer--I hate coming home to a dark house.
I sink into a chair and hiss at the aches. My neck is kinked and throbbing, but turning it doesn't get rid of the cramp, so I flip up my skirt and start unlacing my boots. The laces snap from their grommets, and for each little crack I remember another thing that went wrong tonight.
The three customers--three--who cancelled at the last minute.
The customer who arrived drunk, and had to be removed.
Fortunately, he hadn't got out of his suit yet. Discretion is easier if the client is dressed the way he came in.
My hosting provider's meltdown. wasn't down for more than a couple of hours, but sessions were interrupted, and that means refunds. And paperwork.
And I had to give myself an emergency injection.
I curse a little under my breath at that one, and grab the roller off the side table, dropping it to the floor so I can run my foot over it. Stilettos are a way of life, but after twelve hours straight no heels are comfortable. Of course, the roller doesn't begin to compare with my massage therapist...but Jen's a genius.
An injection. I can't believe I was so careless. Tonight was chaotic, yes, but I should not have forgotten my snack time. Every aspect of my work requires scrupulous attention to detail, and yet I forgot something so basic--
I sigh, and move the roller to the other foot. My morning pre-bed routine calls, but this night isn't over yet. For a moment, I come very close to picking up the phone and asking the gallant Captain Brass if we might reschedule our dinner.
But no. I know him too well already. He would interpret the question as a request that we terminate this tentative friendship, and I owe him--for rescuing me, for feeding me, for treating me like a human being instead of a symbol. And I always pay my debts.
So I set aside the promise of ten minutes spent doing nothing under a rush of very hot water. My shower is short, instead, and I spend it thinking about Jim Brass.
I like him. I can't deny it. I have to smile at the memory of him soaked and blinking in the rain, a sharp contrast to the sardonic cop that was all I had seen before. I'd taken him at face value then, and it had been a mistake. One I don't intend to repeat.
There's no one reason why I agreed to join him for dinner that night. Hunger, certainly, but the crackers in my purse could have handled that until I got home. It was more the weariness around his eyes, the same hint of loneliness that is so familiar to me.
And he smelled good, there was no denying that. The rain brought out the scent of cologne and maleness in the confines of the car; he smelled clean, without the musty scent so often found on men who live alone. Warm and attractive.
I glance at the clock as I step out of the shower, and realize I have to hurry. Slacks and a dark blue top are dressy enough to receive visitors but easy to clean if I spill something cooking, and I braid my hair back to keep it out of the way as I walk to the kitchen.
Captain Brass fed me with a family recipe; tonight I will show him one or two of my own heirloom foods. I hope you have an adventurous palate, Captain. The smoothness of Cole Porter fills the kitchen as I sauté mushrooms and onions, and their scent mingles with the green smell of cucumber when I peel the vegetables. The work is relaxing; after a long night spent controlling other people, it's nice to come home and create.
The doorbell rings as I slide the fish into the oven, and I wipe my hands and pass them over my hair, just a little nervous. I don't have visitors often; even more rarely are they attractive men.
It's obvious that the attractive man standing on my doorstep went home and changed first. His shirt is crisp, the top button undone, and his jeans are well-worn. He's holding a bakery box, and his smile is deepening the lines around his eyes. "Good morning," he says, and I can't help but smile in return.
I step back a pace. "Do come in, Captain Brass."
"Jim, remember?" he says, moving past me; his eyes flick around the room, and I wonder if it's curiosity or the cop in him.
"Jim, of course." I close the door, noting the tension in his stance. "I assure you, there are no whips over the mantel or chains under the couch."
He wheels around, eyebrows going up. "Sorry." He clears his throat. "I never know quite what to expect from you, Lady H., but I wasn't expecting those."
I feel a pulse of shame; I was teasing, but only partly. "Heather," I correct. "I apologize. It's been a long night."
His gaze is dispassionate, almost as though I am again a potential witness, and then he nods, softening. "Know the feeling. Here." He holds out the box.
I take it, touched. "You didn't have to bring anything."
He shrugs lightly. "My mother taught me it's polite to bring the hostess a present," he says, and now he's teasing me. I lift the lid; the box is filled with lacy, doily-like cookies.
"Pizzelle?" I ask, but Jim shakes his head.
"Krumkake. Like pizzelle, but no anise."
"They look delicious. Thank you." I close the lid and wave him to the kitchen. "Come and have a glass of wine."
He seems to relax a little as he settles onto a kitchen stool. "Nice setup you have here."
"Fantasy pays well." I set down the box. It's odd to have him here--usually if I'm sharing my kitchen it's with Zoe--but it's pleasant.
"I know you're diabetic," Jim adds, shifting a little on the stool, "but I talked to someone and he said you could eat sweets."
I pause with one hand on the refrigerator door, surprised that he remembered my condition, but my mind goes to the most obvious, and unpleasant, possibility. "Not Mr. Grissom, by any chance?"
He snorts, and I turn to look at him. "Give me some credit," he says wryly. "I asked the medical examiner." He folds his hands on the counter, forming a knot of short strong fingers. "I don't know what went on between you and Gil, but I figured he was an idiot. Again."
Oh, indeed he was. I open the fridge and pull out the bottle chilling there. "He was just doing his job," I say coolly. Gil Grissom's blunderings are not something I care to discuss.
"Yeah, well, for Gil doing his job sometimes gets in the way of being human. Can I open that for you?"
"By all means." Grateful for the change of subject, I hand him the bottle, and his eyes drop to the label while I find a corkscrew and glasses.
"Madroña, 2002 Chardonnay. Never heard of that one."
"It's not a well-known vineyard, but I'm very fond of their wines."
He uncorks the bottle with the ease of expertise, and pours two glasses. I take one and touch it to his. "To your health, Jim."
He grins, and his eyes are definitely twinkling. "Salut." His brows go up again as he sips, this time in approval. "That is pretty good."
He has taste, at least. "I think so." I set my glass down--the rest will have to wait until dinner--and go back to my cucumber.
"So what's cooking?" he asks. "It smells great."
"Fish baked in sour cream. I hope you're hungry, Jim." I can't help daring him a little, and his grin widens. "I don't cook small either."
Brass
So far, so good.
It's usually a good sign when a woman's smiling. And there are the dimples, too. The wine's good, almost nutty, and Heather looks different yet again. You'd never guess that her usual outfit is something most women wouldn't wear outside the bedroom. It's as interesting to see her in her own kitchen as it was to see her in mine.
She's shorter, too. Those heels she wears boost her up till she's my height; without them, she's still tall, but not quite so imposing. Her feet are bare tonight, and somehow...they're cute. Little pink feet with pink nails.
She's scooping cucumber slices into a salad bowl. "Can I do anything?" I ask, and she looks up again, those dimples getting deeper.
"I have it under control, I think." I skip the obvious joke about control; I doubt she'd appreciate it right now, even if she's more relaxed.
So am I, and I have no doubt she can tell. After all, it's her job. But it's mine too, and it was kind of reassuring to see she was just as nervous as I was. Dumb, sure; what the hell did we have to be nervous about? It's not like we're dating, or even friends really. But there you go--human nature.
"How is Ms. Willows?" she asks, surprising me again.
"Cath? She's fine." I take another sip of wine. "You two know each other?"
She shrugs a little. "Not really, but I remember her from your investigation of Mona Taylor's murder. I liked her." She starts slicing a onion. "She was forthright."
"That's Cath," I agree. "She's seen it all and then some." I lean my elbows on the counter.
"As have you, Jim?" She's arching those brows at me, her lips pursed a little, and I can see the humor in her eyes.
"Oh yeah. Twice over." I smirk at her. "Just like you, I bet."
This time she chuckles. "At least twice." She dumps the onion in the bowl and begins on some garlic. "We're in similar positions, in a way, you and I. We both see sides of humanity that are normally kept hidden."
I sigh. "Some days I wish they stayed hidden."
She doesn't answer, only nodding in a way that makes me think she knows the feeling. "Long night, you said," I prompt, wondering if she'll bite. Her Dominion is legal--that became obvious when we first started investigating Taylor's murder--but I figure there's plenty of things she won't want to talk about with a cop.
Heather's silent a minute, then shrugs again. "Just too many annoyances in a row." Her tone tells me she doesn't want to elaborate. "And yours?"
"The usual. Somebody got dead." I try to be humorous, but it comes out kind of flat.
She throws the garlic in after the onion and turns to look at me, and I wonder if she looks at new clients that way--trying to figure out what they're hiding. But she doesn't say anything. I wasn't going to either, but this one hit me kind of hard, and the words are out before I can get a grip on them. "He was six."
I'm looking at the counter, but I can hear her sigh. "I'm sorry, Jim." I can hear her walking over, and she lays her hand on mine for a moment. "That must be very hard."
"Yeah, well--" It's a small hand, neat, manicured, but the nails aren't very long. It looks strong. And then she pulls away, and I pick up my glass again. "At least we got the bastard who did it."
I expect her to ask--most people would--but she doesn't. "There's a certain level of satisfaction involved, I assume."
I remember the angry face, the denials, the other two kids who wouldn't be seeing their monster of a parent for quite some time. "Oh yeah."
It's quiet for a little while as she adds other ingredients and the sharp, garlicky smell begins to make my mouth water. At my place we teased each other, trying to deal with the awkward situation, but it's easier this time, more relaxed. I wish I could do something to help, but I don't have that female gift for knowing what needs to be done next and where to find the spoon, or whatever, to mix it with. So I sit, and sip my wine, and watch Heather.
No hardship there.
The table's already set, and Heather lets me carry out the salad and the wine, but handles the heavy baking dish with the possessiveness of a master chef. Judging from the smell, it's justified. She adds a basket of bread and lights the candles, and on impulse I hold out her chair for her. She shoots me one wide-eyed glance--oh, man, those eyes--and then sits gracefully down, and I slide in the chair and take my own place.
"So this is your mom's recipe?" I ask, helping myself to a generous portion of fish.
"Actually, this and the salad both come from my grandmother," Heather says, taking a slice of bread and handing me the basket. It's something dark and crunchy, and while I normally prefer my bread white, the flavor sets off the fish pretty nicely. "So often, Americans lose touch with the cultures from which they came. Recipes are one way to maintain that connection."
"I suppose." I shrug, and try a bite of cucumber. The garlic and paprika sting my eyes just enough; this salad is powerful stuff in the best way. Good thing I'm not planning on kissing anyone tonight. And then I cut off that line of thought before it gets any further. "But what do you do if you've got enough different ancestors to stock the United Nations?"
She smiles. "Choose your favorites?" she suggests, and I laugh.
"That'll work. Heather, this fish is something else."
She blushes. She blushes. The dominatrix who's seen everything is turning pink because I've given her a half-assed compliment.
Will wonders never cease.
I ask her how it's made, and she tells me, and we argue happily about potatoes versus bread as a side dish and the importance of garlic. I make a pig of myself on the fish without feeling guilty--Heather was telling the truth when she said she cooked big--and we move on to the use of gadgets in the kitchen, with Heather on the side of DIY and me insisting that cooking's more fun with toys. Finally I tell her about the Great Microwave Popcorn Disaster that's become legend at the precinct house, and when she starts laughing I can't help joining in, even though I've told that story so often that it shouldn't be funny any more.
She sits back in her chair, her laugh tailing off into a chuckle, and a phone rings. The sound is so close to my cell that my hand goes automatically to my hip, but Heather's already standing. "Excuse me a moment, please, Jim," she says, and goes back into the kitchen.
I take one last slice of bread and tear it in half, adding butter and resting my elbows on the table in a way that would have pissed off my mother if she'd been there to see it. Eavesdropping is second nature; I'm not really trying to listen in on Heather's conversation, but I'm not really trying not to, either, and to be truthful she doesn't seem to be trying to hide it.
I can't really make out words, but her voice is a little flat, a little guarded. There are a few long pauses while she listens, and then she says something in a warmer tone before hanging up. When she comes back to the table her mouth is tight, and I sit back and give her a questioning look.
"My mother," she says, and she sounds tired. Sitting back down, she picks up her fork, but only to push a last slice of cucumber around her plate. "I'll call her back later."
"Something the matter?" She looks troubled, and I find myself wanting her to relax again.
Heather sets down the fork with a sigh. "Nothing new."
"She doesn't approve of what you do?" I hazard, and when she looks back up her eyes are narrowed, and for a second I think I've gone too far. Then she looks back down at her plate, chuckling a little. It's a rueful sound.
"She thinks it's a waste of my talents. And no, she doesn't approve. But it's putting my daughter through Harvard, so I don't make excuses."
"Harvard--wow." I nod, thinking of the Harvard grad I know. "That's not easy." The sparkle of pride in Heather's face is impossible to miss, and I reach for a change of subject, not willing to talk about offspring right now. "So--what does a dominatrix do for fun?"
I wink so she'll know I'm teasing, and she grins at me. "Fishing for secrets, Mr. Brass?"
"That's my job."
Heather chuckles again. "Well, let's see. I cook, but you know that. I shop. I collect 78 rpm records of the big band greats. I watch movies...and I make use of my hot tub."
The look she gives me is downright wicked. "And you? What does a police detective do in his off hours?"
"When I'm not dominating the big bad city?" She blinks, and I'm delighted all out of proportion at my hit. "I cook...but you know that." We're both grinning now. "I follow the NHL like a maniac. I watch movies...and..." I draw the pause out. "...Can you keep a secret?"
Heather leans forward a little, pursing those lush lips, her eyes merry. "I keep secrets for a living, Captain."
I lean forward too. "I read fantasy novels," I whisper conspiratorially. At her look of mock horror, I nod, pretending shame. "It's true. Mostly the classics--I'm a Tolkien addict--but I can't resist any book that has a dragon on the cover."
"I can see why you keep that a secret," she says. "Really, Jim, and here I thought I was the more outré of the two of us."
"It's always the nice guys you have to watch out for," I point out cheerfully, and she arches a brow.
"You have no idea."
Heather
Unlike Jim's pathetic excuse for a dishwasher, mine works just fine. He insists on clearing the table so that I can load my machine, claiming that it has been so long that he no longer remembers what should go where. I'm having a good time--I don't want this to end--it's so quiet with Zoe gone. But the sun's well up in the sky, and we both have to work tonight.
I pull his Tupperware container from a cabinet and fill it with some of the leftover fish. "You don't have to do that--" he protests, but I shake my head.
"Turn about is fair play, Jim. Besides, it won't keep long enough for me to eat it all." I conveniently ignore the fact that it freezes quite well.
"All right." He takes the container, and just looks at me for a minute. His eyes are a very dark blue, quite unusual, but I have stared down far too many men to be intimidated.
"You have a crumb here." I tap the corner of my own mouth. The cookies he brought were delicately crumbly, and utterly delicious, and I had a struggle restricting myself to just one.
Jim snorts, and rubs one wide palm over his jaw. "Okay now?" I nod, and he glances down at the container.
"With this in the microwave I'll be the envy of the night shift tonight."
I smile. "Give my greetings to Ms. Willows." We walk towards the front door.
"I'll do that." He pauses with one hand on the knob. "Heather--"
My stomach flutters a little, but I just wait for him to continue.
"I have this really extensive movie collection," he says, and there is a challenge in his voice. "Want to unwind with me next week?"
I regard him for a moment. This man is an experienced investigator and interrogator; his expression is carefully casual. But I am also good at what I do, and I can see something else there. Something that I'm feeling too. And I answer it.
"It sounds delightful."
He nods, the lines of tension around his eyes easing a little. "Next Friday then. Can you do beer?"
I can't help smiling again. "In moderation."
"Terrific. There's a great little pizza place around the corner from me. I'll see you then?"
"Absolutely."
For a moment longer we stare at each other, and then he opens the door and steps outside. We trade farewells and I shut it behind him, then just stand there for a moment, replaying the morning in my head.
I haven't had such a good time in ages--even last week's dinner takes second place. And the prospect of another gives the coming week a brighter aspect than it had just yesterday. I remember his words from dinner at his place, and laugh a little. "If anyone had told me that I would have a homicide detective over for dinner--" I mutter to myself. "And that I'd enjoy it--"
Smiling, I take myself to bed, thinking about desserts. Jim's cookies will be hard to top.
See Chapter 3
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