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 6
BRASS
I hate crackhouses. Full of garbage and lost souls, and rats of two species scrambling for the exits. We show up to look for a murder suspect and end up in the middle of a riot, panicked druggies and dealers running every which way. There's three of us in this one room, and we think we've cleared it, when all of a sudden somebody's screaming like a maniac behind me, and before I can turn around something slams into my side like Casey at the bat. I hang onto my gun and my balance, just barely, but the explosion of pain in my side knocks the breath right out of me. Somehow, it's always a nasty surprise.
I mean, it's happened before. Some cops go their entire careers without so much as a paper cut, but I wasn't that lucky. One car accident back in Jersey during a chase, a bullet crease on my leg two years later, and I've taken more punches than I can count. Hell, I got hit over the head and knocked out just a couple of years ago. Nothing ever really serious, but man can it hurt.
The screaming stops, and I can hear Officer Carter yelling at someone to put it down, whatever it is. I manage to make the turn, the pain making my vision waver a little. Carter's subduing some poor heap of rags; there's a metal pipe on the ground, and I guess that's what I got hit with. As Carter cuffs 'em, Officer Martinez holsters his gun and looks over at me, and his face is all worried. "You okay Captain?"
With an effort I pull my spine straight. The pain's easing off a tiny bit, and if I keep my breathing shallow I think I can keep it under control. "I'm fine."
I can tell he doesn't believe me, and hell, I'm not sure I believe me. "Carter, go ahead and take 'em out," I tell her. "Martinez, check on progress. Find out if anybody's found our suspect."
He opens his mouth, but I give him one of my patented glares, and he changes his mind and goes out. Wise man. Carter's already gone; I stand in the middle of the room and slide a hand gingerly under my coat.
Just the lightest touch hurts like a sonofabitch. It makes me mad. I hate getting hurt, and I'm going to have to fill out paperwork for getting assaulted. On top of everything, it doesn't exactly look good for a police detective to get blindsided, but when I think about the way that poor specimen was dressed, it's not impossible that we missed 'em. There's several piles of old blankets that someone skinny could have been under, and everybody else had been running away from us. Still, it's a stupid situation.
I debate going after Martinez, but one try at a deeper breath convinces me otherwise. I'm no wuss, but part of being a good cop is not putting your fellow cops in danger by trying something you can't handle. And the nausea churning in my stomach to the throb in my side tells me I'm a liability right now.
I make my way outside, heading slowly for the ambulance at the curb. Standard procedure to have one on hand, for just this kind of situation. The paramedic standing near the back looks up as I get close, and hurries over, all business. He's familiar--Gibson, that's his name.
He takes me to the back of the ambulance and sits me down carefully, and truth to tell, at this point I'm kind of glad to. The pain hasn't really slacked off. Gibson doesn't bother trying to take off my jacket; he just pulls off my tie and unbuttons my shirt for a look at my side, then checks my vital signs. "Well, Captain," he says at last, "I don't think you have any major bleeding going on, but we are going to take you in just for a double-check. How's the pain?"
"I'll manage," I grunt, and start to button up my shirt again, keeping my right elbow away from my side. Gibson retrieves a blanket from somewhere and drapes it over my shoulders.
"Back in a few," he informs me cheerfully. "Any problems, just holler."
So I sit, and watch the cleanup as my men bring out those they caught; eventually Martinez shows up to report that we found our suspect.
Turns out I'm the only one going to the hospital. Arriving in an ambulance does cut down on waiting times, though, and I get to go straight to a cubicle in the ER and fill out forms there instead of in the waiting room. For once it only takes about forty-five minutes before a doc shows up.
As for the exam, it's unpleasant, painful, and involves swearing; just getting my jacket off requires at least three four-letter words. When it's over, I find out I have two cracked ribs and extensive bruising, and the doc gives me a prescription for heavy-duty painkillers but tells me to try over-the-counter first.
There's a uniform waiting to pick me up. I think about telling him to take me back to the station, but shift's just about over, and I know Martinez can handle things on his end, and frankly I just don't have the energy. So he drives me home, and I let myself into my dark house and ease down on the couch, and do the one thing I've been dreading since I realized that this was more than just a bruise.
I call Heather.
It's our morning for dinner, and my turn to cook, and I was planning on something hearty and simple this time--good old steak and baked potatoes--but with my special marinade. I have Yukon Golds and the makings for a terrific salad all sitting in my kitchen, but they're going to have to go on sitting.
I was really looking forward to it, too. There's just something about having her here that makes this place that much more livable--having somebody else in my space, somebody smart and sweet and who smells really nice.
You'd think I'd get used to being disappointed, but somehow I never do.
HEATHER
I know the second I hear Jim's voice that something's wrong. Of course, I could tell that there was something off just by the fact that he's calling me at work--some need to change our plans--but he doesn't sound like himself. His voice is quieter than usual, and I can hear the pain in it, though I can tell he's trying to sound normal.
"What happened? What's wrong?" I ask, suddenly worried. Obviously, he's at least partly all right, since he can call, but I don't care. All my instincts are kicking into overdrive.
"Nothing, I'm fine," he says. "I just can't make it this morning."
"Don't bother trying to lie, Jim Brass," I say tartly. "Don't forget who you're talking to."
The sound he makes is halfway to a chuckle. "Should have known I couldn't sneak anything by you. Heather, it's nothing, really. I just got a little banged up today. Nothing serious."
"Uh-huh," I answer. "Watch out for that flying pig."
"Really," he insists. "A couple aspirin and a nap, and I'll be good as new."
He's still lying. I stop trying to argue with him over the phone. "All right," I say. "I--oh, Jim, I'm sorry, I have to go. Something's come up."
It's true enough--one of my assistants is waiting patiently for my attention--but that's not really why I'm cutting the conversation short. "What is it, Pauline?" I ask as soon as I hang up.
"Andrew had to go home--sick headache," she says, and I nod. Andrew's a hard worker and a good one, and I can easily excuse him once in a while for a migraine.
"Thank you. Pauline, I have to leave a little early today. Can you handle lock-up?" It's more than just a courtesy question; Pauline's my right-hand woman, and has many duties. I don't want to overburden her, especially if she has her daughters this week and needs to get home to them. But she smiles back at me, teeth white against her lovely chocolate skin.
"Not a problem, Lady Heather."
I thank her and hurry out.
I go home first, of course. I need to change, and there are a number of things I need to fetch. But not quite an hour later I'm pulling into Jim's driveway. His car's not there, and for a minute I think that maybe he's not home, but then I see the faint light through the living room curtains.
I take a deep breath at the door. We traded spare house keys several weeks ago, in case of emergency, but neither of us has actually used them, and for a moment I'm hesitant about invading Jim's privacy. Then I push the key into the lock. He's hurt. He needs somebody.
The living room is dim, with only one lamp on. Jim's sitting on the couch, his head tilted back, his shirt half-unbuttoned, and if it weren't for the pain evident in the lines of his body it would be a very enticing picture. Then he raises his head slowly and looks at me, and my heart twists a little at the tiredness in his face. "I thought I told you I was fine," he says mildly, but his voice is a little slurred, and I spot the bottle of painkillers and the empty glass on the coffee table.
"And I thought I told you not to lie to me." I set my grocery bag down on the table and shove the table back a little so I have enough space to crouch in front of him. "Well?"
He sighs, and I can see how the grooves around his mouth have been deepened by pain. "Two cracked ribs."
I hiss in sympathy; I fell down a flight of stairs in college, and I remember how much that hurts. Carefully, I unbutton his shirt the rest of the way and part it.
Jim makes a faint noise of protest, but I ignore it. His chest is impressively furry, and while his belly has softened a little with middle age, he's in far better shape than many others I see on a regular basis. What concerns me, though, is the dark bruising spreading from his right side. "Have you been to the hospital?"
"Yeah."
Well, that's something, anyway. I stand up and take my bag into the kitchen, and begin unloading supplies. My hands are shaking a little, and I steady them, telling myself that Jim's fine. Not seriously hurt.
It still takes an effort.
A few minutes later, I go back to the living room bearing an ice pack. "Have you eaten?" I ask briskly. I don't put it past him to try to throw me out, at least verbally--some men just can't handle being taken care of--and I don't intend to give him the opportunity.
But he just shakes his head. "Not hungry," he mumbles.
I sit down on the coffee table and lean forward to put the ice pack against his side. Jim grunts in pain, and I bite my lip, wincing. "Sorry," I say. "But it will help."
My eyes are on what I'm doing, so the hand that crosses his body and takes my wrist gently is a surprise. I look up into eyes dark and narrow with pain and weariness, but there's something else there, an intensity I'm not expecting. "Thanks," he says quietly.
What is it about this man that makes me blush? I move his hand to the ice pack and straighten. "I'll be back in a few minutes," I say, and can't resist leaning forward for a second to run the palm of my hand over his head. The soft brush of his hair makes my skin tingle, and somehow my hand carries the stroke down his temple and over his cheek. Our eyes lock again, and my stomach flips, but I remind myself fiercely that now is not the time, and turn away for the kitchen.
BRASS
Okay, I'll admit that I've imagined Heather unbuttoning my shirt with those long, clever fingers, but I sure never imagined it like this. When she hung up the phone earlier, I thought maybe she was pissed at me for canceling, though it didn't really seem like her, but I hurt too much to really think about it. I figured I could apologize later if I had to.
I definitely didn't imagine her showing up at my front door, though I guess I really should have expected it. Heather's a take-charge kind of gal. She's wearing jeans and a purple shirt, and her hair's down, but she hasn't washed off her makeup. I know guys aren't really supposed to notice that kind of thing, but hey, I'm a detective. I know the difference between the heavy stuff she wears at work and what she puts on the rest of the time.
Now she's in my kitchen, doing I don't know what, and she's right--the ice pack is making me feel a little better. Some part of me is bothered by her, by anybody being in my personal space when I'm not feeling good. But the rest of me is grateful. It feels weird to have somebody care, but it's a great kind of weird.
It's funny--I'm still mad at myself for getting blindsided. Carelessness is a good way to get killed. But it's gotten me Heather's help, and while I hate to need it...man, it's nice.
Eventually she comes back out with one of my big mugs filled with something that smells delicious. Her feet are bare again--she seems to get rid of her shoes as quick as she can--and I think idly how natural she looks in my place. She's not a guest this morning--she belongs here.
The soup does smell good, but I'm really not hungry. It doesn't look like I get a choice, though. Heather sits down right next to me, and forget crossing personal spaces--her leg's pressed right up against mine, and before I know it, her arm's slipping behind my back to help me sit up a little more. It's a situation I would love to make more of in better circumstances, but right now all it does is make things hurt more.
"Drink," Heather says firmly, and I take the mug before she decides she has to feed me herself. I take a sip, and it really is good; I can feel my brows going up. Sage, celery, garlic, and just hot enough to be tasty but not enough to burn my tongue. "Another family recipe?" I ask.
Heather pulls back her arm, but she doesn't move away. "My father's mother made the best chicken soup I've ever tasted," she says, grinning a little. "Good for what ails you...no matter what it is."
Another sip, and I have to agree. I take little swallows, not wanting to aggravate my side, and the rich stuff starts to improve my mood, along with the feel of the woman next to me. Heather's sweet smell mixes with the steam from the mug, and when I get about two-thirds down I shoot her a look. "When's the last time you ate?"
She blinks. "Good point," she murmurs, and stands up. I'm sorry to lose her warmth pressed up against my left side, but I sure as hell don't want her skipping meals. She vanishes into the kitchen and comes back a minute later with her own mug, and this time she sits down in one of the chairs instead of next to me, and I'm sorry about that. "What happened?" she asks softly.
I shrug--left shoulder only. "Got snuck up on."
Her eyes go fierce. "Did you catch him?"
"Yeah."
She nods and relaxes a little, and for a while we just sit, drinking soup. The pain in my side gets a little duller, thanks to the ice, and I keep my eyes on Heather, too blitzed to care if she notices me staring. It's peaceful, and I can feel my eyelids dragging...
HEATHER
Poor wounded warrior. Part of me just wants to ease him down on that couch and cover him up, but it's too narrow and short for somebody who's hurt. I stand up and tiptoe into the hallway, trying not to feel like an intruder as I ease open his bedroom door.
It's a typically masculine room--heavy furniture and a dark comforter on the rather messy bed. The room's air is still and warm, and smells like Jim--clean and male and a hint of musk. There's one low bookshelf, and a glance at it makes me smile--here are the fantasy volumes he pretends to be ashamed of. I choose one paperback at random; the cover is awful and tattered, but the title touches me because I remember it--A Wrinkle in Time. No dragons, but definitely a classic.
I slide the book back and turn my attention to his bed. The mattress is queen-sized and looks divinely comfortable. I pull back the covers and push the pillows aside. He'll be most at ease lying relatively flat.
He's still asleep when I come back out, and I really hate to wake him, but sleeping sitting up will half-cripple him. I shake his shoulder gently. "Jim...wake up. Time to go to bed."
Those midnight eyes open, peering up at me a little blearily. "I can sleep here," he mutters.
"No you can't. Come on."
It takes a little coaxing, and some help, to get him to his feet, and I can see his jaw clenching as he stands. But he shakes off my arm when he gets his balance, and I roll my eyes. Men.
I trail him into his bedroom, one hand under his elbow just in case, but he manages to make it there without any problems. Jim sits gingerly down on the mattress, blinking at me.
I kneel down and pull off his shoes and socks, revealing strong pale feet with hairy toes. There's something terribly intimate about doing this for him, but I'm trying not to think about it just now.
"Shirt off," I say firmly, sliding it down his shoulders. I have to lean over him to pull it free of his good arm, and I can hear his intake of breath; I glance down and realize that this position gives him a rather good view down my own shirt. Amusement washes over me at the realization that Jim is gentleman enough to do no more than look...and man enough to enjoy the view. But it's a brief glimpse: I straighten and move around him to slip the other sleeve off. This time the swearing escapes a little, and while the back of my mind is admiring the breadth of Jim's shoulders and the muscles in his arms, I'm more worried about his side. The bruising is centered halfway down his chest under his arm, but spreads both front and back.
"Belt," he mumbles, and pulls his off laboriously before swinging his legs onto the bed and lying down with another hiss of pain.
"Do you want another ice pack?" I ask, but he grunts a negative.
I hesitate, then start to get up. Again, my wrist is snagged in his big grip. "Heather..."
I wait. Jim's eyes are already closed, and my fingertips itch to try to smooth the lines from his face. "Stay for a bit?"
Well, that does it. My heart melts. "Of course," I say softly.
He sighs, and I lean down to pull the covers up over him. He keeps his left arm free so that it lies against my thigh; I give in to impulse and reach out to stroke his forehead gently. "I'll be here if you need anything," I tell him.
It doesn't take him long to fall back asleep, but I stay there a while longer. Indulging myself. I have to admit, it feels wonderful to be needed again. I'm as proud of my daughter as any mother can be; I admire her strength and her courage in going to college so far away. But it's left me without someone to look after, and this morning at least that need is filled.
Though there's no way I would mistake this man for a child. When I catch myself nodding, I am very tempted just to slide into the bed with him. There's plenty of room, and something tells me he wouldn't object. But in the end, I know it wouldn't be fair. Jim wouldn't do anything without my permission, but it would be mean of me to get that close when I'm not absolutely sure of where we're going.
Jim's couch is surprisingly comfortable. I find an extra blanket in the linen closet and wrap myself up, switching on my "mother's ear" so I'll wake if he needs me. But he doesn't, and I wake midafternoon to the smell of coffee. Apparently Jim has a timer on his machine.
The first thing I do is check on him, but it looks like he hasn't even moved all day. The lines of pain in his face have lightened somewhat. Some people look younger when they are asleep, but he just looks innocent, as though he'd never spoken a double entendre in his life. I leave him a glass of orange juice and the bottle of painkillers, and go to check my blood sugar.
The next order of business is some toast; I'm halfway through my second slice when I hear the shower start, which reminds me how grubby I feel. The best I can do is a quick washup at the kitchen sink and a brush through my hair. I'm pouring two mugs of coffee when Jim pads out into the kitchen, bare-chested, and I gulp a little at his uncovered state even as I wince at the polychromatic bruise on his side. He seems a little surprised to see me, but a grin spreads slowly over his face, which is still bristly.
"I thought I dreamed you," he teases, and I snort, getting my balance back.
"No such luck. How are you feeling?"
"Sore," he admits, snagging one of the mugs. "I can't figure out how to put on a shirt, and while I really oughta go in to work, I'm seriously thinking about blowing it off tonight."
"You should," I tell him, taking a sip of my own coffee. "Cracked ribs are nothing to be careless of, Jim, believe me."
He raises a brow, but doesn't ask. "I can help you with the shirt," I offer. Telling myself it's just that. Help.
"I'd appreciate it," he says ruefully. "But finish your coffee first. Did you sleep okay?"
"Fine," I say, setting my crumby plate in the sink.
"You didn't have to," comes his soft voice behind my back.
"I didn't mind, Jim, truly," I say to the faucet. "What else are friends for?"
"Good question." But by the time I turn he's staring into his own mug.
The shirt's a delicate maneuver; Jim's not in quite as much pain this morning, but his muscles are stiff, and I can tell he's embarrassed to be needing help. So I keep my expression as matter-of-fact as possible as I ease the sleeve over his right arm. "Make sure to take some painkillers," I tell him as he lowers his arm carefully. "And remember to ice it a few times."
"Yes, mother," he grumbles, and I chuckle; he shoots me a mischievous look.
"I'll make you some breakfast before I go."
I scramble eggs to the faint sound of his electric razor, and make some more coffee; his normal ration is apparently two cups at least, but I drank half. When he returns to the kitchen, his shirt is still undone but his face is smooth. "I have to go," I say apologetically, not wanting to leave him but knowing I'm running out of time.
Jim looks at the plate on the table and shakes his head, then startles me by walking over and embracing me with his good arm. "Heather," he says next to my ear, "you're a doll. Thank you."
I slip one arm around his left side and the other around his neck and return the hug, enjoying the solid warmth of him and his breath in my hair. His cheek presses against my hair, and he smells scrumptious, fresh aftershave and soap. For a long moment we just stand there, absorbing the feel of each other, both of us hovering on the edge of something more but choosing not to go there...not just yet. Then duty nags at me. "If you need anything, call," I tell him finally, and let him go.
It hurts a little to leave him, and I know I'm going to be calling him at least once tonight to check up on him. But what stays with me the most vividly as I go home and prepare for my night's work is the light press of his arm against my leg this morning. The trust.
It's important.
BRASS
Usually the alarm wakes me, but today I wake up in stages, first trying to remember why my side aches so much, then floating a little, images cruising past my mind's eye. Flashes of Heather smiling down at me, touching my face, sitting next to me. Hands tugging off my shirt with careful gentleness. Hair brushing against my cheek. The blue lace on the edge of her--
My eyes pop open at that. Proof that she wasn't a dream sits on my bedside table in the form of a glass of juice. I wince a little, trying to straighten out my memories and wondering how many painkillers I took this past morning. I remember getting ambushed, yeah, that would be hard to forget. I remember getting home, and taking the pills, and calling Heather. And I guess my memory of her coming over and fixing me soup and touching my face is a real one.
As my thoughts pull together, a grin crosses my face. If those memories are real, then so was the glimpse of lingerie, and the feel of her hand stroking my forehead while I fell asleep. Whoa.
Sitting up is a bitch, but I manage it. I'm stiff and sore as hell, but I do feel a little better than I did this morning. I down a few more painkillers with the juice--bless you, Heather--and drag myself into the bathroom. A hot shower will help loosen things up, anyway.
Before I step into the shower I take a long look at myself in the mirror, trying to be objective. Okay, I've never been a heartthrob and no man looks his best first thing in the morning, but to be fair I could be worse. I've got a bit of a spare tire, but I'm in halfway decent shape for a man my age. I'm going bald, but not too much yet. The hair on my chest is going white--which looks a bit weird--but--
I shake my head at my reflection. I don't even know if Heather likes fuzzy guys. I may not be a Frankenstein's monster but I'm no prime catch either. Especially not with the huge blotch over the right side of my ribcage. I touch it gingerly; yep, it still hurts. I sigh a little--gently, so as not to make things worse--and step into the shower.
Clean clothes can give a man a brighter outlook on the world, except I can't quite manage the shirt. I wonder if Heather's even still here, and decide to chance it. It's not like she hasn't seen me half-naked already.
I find her in my kitchen, looking a little rumpled but adorable. Our eyes meet for an instant, and the flash of heat in hers makes me remember the feel of her lips on mine a few weeks ago, and suddenly I feel a whole lot more confident.
Heather insists on helping me put on a shirt, and it's really kind of embarrassing. I don't mind a lovely woman taking my clothes off, but putting 'em back on again.... But she also insists on making me breakfast, and I have to admit that I enjoy that. Though when I get my arm working right again, I'm going to have to do something extra-special for her.
I know Heather has to get to work, but I really don't want her to go. It's not the fact that she's taking care of me--it's that she feels so right here, like she belongs in this house. With me. It's easy to tell by looking at her that she doesn't want to leave either, and I realize I'm hoping that it's not just because she's a good nurse who doesn't want to leave her patient alone.
But she has to go, and she does, and the place is twice as empty when she's gone. I sigh and stare at the blanket she left folded up on the back of the couch, and then the light dawns--I don't have to wait until my ribs are better.
After all, I have Husky's number memorized.
See Chapter 7