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 8
HEATHER
It's the silliest thing, really. We've been spending time together for months, now. We've bared more of our souls than many people manage in years of marriage; we've seen each other in deeply vulnerable situations. And yet I'm nervous.
There's no reason to be. I let a sigh out and go back to my closet, the one that holds my play clothes rather than my work outfits. This is Jim. My friend. A man in whose protective arms I've stood, whose bruises I've tended. I've seen past the grin and the cop facade to the shadows in those midnight eyes, and the humor. All this is, is dinner--again. We're just going out to eat instead of staying in. That's all.
So why does it feel like a date?
I grumble to myself and start paging through the hangers, rejecting as I go. No...no...definitely not. Jim said the restaurant isn't very formal, but for some reason I feel that slacks just won't do. I wish Zoë were here--she's got a great eye for style, and she'd know exactly what I should wear. But then--she'd tease me mercilessly, too.
I snicker to myself and keep going. It's amazing what one can accumulate even when one doesn't have a major social life. I pass over blouses and jackets, feeling vaguely that none of them are quite right.
Then I push three sweaters out of the way, and let out my breath. There it is. The dress. I'd forgotten about it, which wasn't surprising given that I'd only worn it twice. Once when Zoë took me out for my birthday two years ago, and once when I visited her at Harvard last year. In fact, it was she who made me buy it, ignoring my protests that I was too old for it.
I take it down, hoping that it still fits as well as it did last spring. I hold it up in front of me before the mirror, and once again it surprises me, just as it did the first time I tried it on. Lavender linen with a halter top and a wide full skirt, it's a little unusual and just about 180 degrees from my work gear. The color makes my skin look warmer and my eyes a little deeper, and while I told Zoë that the cut was too young for me, she insisted.
And I was glad she did. Even if I haven't had many places to wear it to.
It's a little creased, but nothing that a few minutes with an iron won't fix. I hang it back up for the moment and move on to my other preparations. Date or just dinner, this is special; Jim suggested that we do something different to celebrate the end of Sammie's persecution against me. The triumph of Goth over evil, Jim had said slyly, and I would have smacked him if I hadn't been laughing so hard.
So I find a pair of sheer stockings that haven't been snagged, and pull a black lace slip from my work closet to go under the dress since my other one is in the wash; I hover between a braid and a French twist for my hair, but finally decide the elegance of the twist suits the dress better. Fastening the clip, I have to chuckle a little at the contrast; I'll spend a good hour on getting ready, while Jim, being male, will probably pull on a clean shirt and find a tie five minutes before walking out the door.
And then again, it's Jim. Ten minutes, perhaps, to shave. I've seen him casual, but never sloppy.
I put on my makeup as the iron is heating, and press the creases out of my dress, then slip it over my head and shiver a little as the still-warm fabric heats my skin. I turn to look in the mirror, and I have to smile.
It still fits. Definitely.
The woman in the reflection is far more demure than my professional persona, but by no means devoid of sensuality. Her eyes are big and dark, her legs long beneath the knee-brushing skirt; her shoulders glow a little against the band encircling her neck. My smile turns into a grin as I slip my feet into the low-heeled sandals I'd chosen earlier--wearing stilettos at work tends to make me favor gentler shoes outside my Dominion--and I dig out a pair of hoop earrings and a couple of silver bangle bracelets.
Yet there's something missing. I push the earrings into place and think for a moment. The dress is magnificent, but it needs something else, some final touch.
And then it hits me. Of course. The one accessory that might have been made to complement this outfit. It's to hand--I never leave it at work--and I pull it out and wrap it around me. Black and lavender silk, deeply fringed, rich and beautiful. Perfect.
The doorbell rings.
BRASS
A homicide detective sees it all, eventually, even in a place like Vegas. I've encountered a head without a body, a dead woman on an awning, and a husband-and-wife serial killer team; I've dealt with homicidal maniacs, corruption in the justice system, and CSIs hyped on adrenaline. I can't say that there's nothing left that surprises me, but it takes a lot to unnerve me these days.
I guess this is a lot, then.
I stand on Heather's porch--a seasoned law enforcement professional with thirty-plus years of duty under my belt--and I'm afraid to ring that doorbell. It's ridiculous, it's downright funny--I'd be laughing my ass off if it were anybody else--but it's still true. I'm nervous.
My tie's a touch too snug, and I reach up to loosen it. It was a Christmas present from Warrick, who said he was saving me from the terminal tackiness of clip-on ties and himself from the uncoolness of hanging out with someone who wore them, and for a second I'm back in that memory, both of us pretending that the coolness level was the only thing involved in the gift. And then I'm here again, and I grumble at myself and reach out to press the button.
Waiting for the door to open, I glance around. The new hummingbird feeder is half-empty, and the late afternoon light is slanting in under the porch roof. Given where we're going, I asked if we could switch to meeting Friday evening; some parts of Vegas are open twenty-four-seven, but not all of 'em.
The lock clicks open just as I turn back, and the hello on my lips disappears as I take in the sight in front of me. She looks stunning. Hell, she always looks great, even in jeans and a T-shirt wrinkled from a nap, but this is just amazing. A light purple dress that leaves her shoulders all bare and shows off her legs, her hair pulled up so that her neck looks a mile long, and the shawl I gave her for her birthday draped over her arms. This isn't the cool queen of the Dominion. This is somebody warmer, somebody it would be easy to get to know.
Her lips are curving, and I give myself a shake. Say something, dumbass. "Heather...you look terrific."
Her eyes drop, and it makes her look innocent and sexy at the same time. "So do you."
It's just my black suit, the one I wear to court, and a blue shirt, but I'm not going to argue. "Ready to go?"
"Absolutely." I step back to give her room to come out, and she locks the door, and on impulse I offer her my arm.
Her smile gets wider, and she loops her arm through mine. "How gallant of you, Captain Brass," she teases.
"My pleasure, Lady Heather." I wink at her, and she laughs, and I escort her down her front steps to my car. The titles aren't formal anymore--now they're a joke. It's a good thing.
Lake Mead's a bit of a drive, but we fill the time chatting about simple things--movies, local politics, the best place to buy ground beef. The sunset's turning the water red when we get there, and the parking lot's almost full. Gil turned me on to this place a while back; he comes for the calamari, but I come for the lamb.
I park the car and get out, going around to open Heather's door for her. She smiles up at me, putting her hand in the one I hold out, and it makes me feel like one of those old-time movie gallants. She straightens gracefully, and I give into impulse and lean down for a kiss.
I only mean to brush my mouth over hers, but after an instant she rocks into me and it turns into a real one--not long, but warm and delicious all the same. The feel of her fingers on my cheek is great, and I don't want to pull away, but I'm not really into...what does Nick call 'em? PDAs...and any more and that's exactly what this'll turn into.
Her face is pink when I straighten, and I'm willing to bet mine is too. "That was nice," I manage, and she smiles again.
"More than. Jim, if I forget to tell you later--I had a lovely time tonight."
I have to laugh.
Heather takes my arm again as we head in. We're both a touch overdressed for the place, but I don't mind--it makes it feel like more of an occasion. And having such a lovely lady by my side is a definite ego boost, let me tell you.
The maitre d' blinks once when he spots us; I figure it's because I usually turn up alone, and definitely not in a suit and tie. But a good maitre d' is like a cop in one way--he's seen it all, and nothing surprises him. He escorts us out to the table I reserved on the verandah, and gives Heather a little bow as I pull out her chair, and then vanishes.
I take my own seat, and then it hits me. "He's one of your clients, isn't he?"
Heather purses her lips ruefully. "I should have realized you'd catch that, Jim. Meeting a client outside of my Domain can be a little awkward."
And discretion is a keystone of her business. "I know nothing," I assure her, reaching for the menu, and her smile makes my stomach warm a little. "Have you been here before?"
She shakes her head. "Not for several years. I imagine the menu has changed. What do you recommend?"
HEATHER
Poor Harry. I could see him wavering between the reflex of obedience and the reality of his position, and made sure to give him no signals. My Dominion is a place of emotion, of powerful fantasy, of visceral reactions; it can be difficult for some clients to partition it off from the rest of their lives, particularly if they are surprised. But Harry did quite well, recalling after only a second that we were in his world, not mine. The bow was habit, yes, but not out of place.
The view from our table is stunning. The lake shimmers below like an otherworldly mirror, and the air is sweet and cooling. As the light fades, candles are lit around the verandah, surrounding us and the other diners in flickering warm light. I glance over the menu; the lamb that Jim has recommended does sound tempting, but I'm really leaning more towards seafood tonight. It takes me a while to make up my mind, and when I close the folder, Jim has one arm propped on the table, his chin in his palm and two fingers against his cheek, and he's just watching me. His eyes are narrowed, but they gleam warm, and as my gaze meets his the corners of his mouth curl up a little.
"What?" I ask, a little bemused by his intensity. He shakes his head, letting his arm drop and leaning back in his chair.
"Nothing. I can't enjoy the sight of a pretty woman?"
His voice is teasing, and I wrinkle my nose at him, deliberately letting my eyes fall to his chest and travel slowly back up to his now-raised brows.
"Turnabout is fair play," I say, answering the unvoiced question, and enjoying the sight of the flush that creeps up his ears.
The waiter arrives before he can retort. The tall young man is no one I know, and in fact is probably too young to step inside my Dominion, but he is polite and expert. I order the shrimp fettuccini--an indulgence--and a glass of Chardonnay; Jim asks for his favored lamb and also limits himself to a single glass of Pinot Noir. His gaze follows the waiter as the boy walks away, and I take a sip from my water glass. "Do you know him?"
Jim looks back to me. "Not personally, but I remember him from a case a couple of years back. We had to question a high school softball team, and he played...outfield, I think."
I shake my head, amazed and a little amused that Jim can remember so much about someone he met in passing. As far as I could tell, the young man hadn't recognized him at all. "Does that happen to you often? Running into people you meet through work?"
Jim takes a roll from the bread basket and splits it open, then reaches for the butter. "Not as much as you might think. They say Vegas is a small town, but it's pretty crowded. You get to know some folks--casino owners, for instance--but most of these fine, upstanding citizens don't even know I exist." His voice is a little dry, but I know him well enough to understand what he's not saying. They don't know him because nothing so dire in their lives has happened to require the attention of a homicide detective. And he prefers it that way.
Absently, he offers me half the roll, his expression going sly. "It does happen from time to time, though. For instance, I was in the grocery store one morning and ran into this really hot chick--ex-murder suspect--"
This man! I flutter my lashes at him, grinning, and take the bread. "Ooh, let me guess. You rescue her from a fate worse than death?"
We laugh together, and in the middle of it I realize just what is happening here.
I'm falling in love with Jim Brass.
On one level the fact surprises me no end; on another, it's almost expected. Jim's hardly the man of my long-ago dreams, but I'm no longer the woman who dreamed them. And this man is someone with whom I laugh and talk and flirt, someone who makes me feel both an equal and protected at the same time. I'm closer to him than to almost anyone else in my life, and the connection happened so naturally that I scarcely noticed.
It scares me a little. Of course. Jim likes me, that's obvious, and he has an equally obvious appreciation for my body, but that doesn't necessarily add up to anything more. And while I stopped expecting happily-ever-after decades ago, love is a vulnerability I'm not entirely sure I'm prepared for, especially if it's one-sided.
I set the revelation aside. Now is not the time to think about it. Now is the time to enjoy the company of a wonderful friend.
We chat until our salads arrive, teasing each other a little, talking about coincidences. A three-quarters moon spills its light onto the lake, and I take a moment to appreciate the sight of it. I may spend my nights awake, but I don't see much of the moon.
"So what's the weirdest coincidence you've ever run into?" Jim asks, picking through his salad to remove the croutons.
I think a moment around a mouthful of arugula, then swallow. "Oh, it has to be my aunt. She was in the Peace Corps when it first started, in Korea, and she came home the long way--traveling back through Asia and Europe." I smile, remembering her telling me this story. "She was traveling with a friend who got sick, so she ended up going on alone. So she was in Rome, and she went into a restaurant for lunch...a young American woman in a strange city...and ran into her cousin from Minnesota."
Jim chuckles. "Yeah, that one's pretty hard to top."
BRASS
It's been longer than I really want to remember since I've had such a great time. Not in general, but eating out with someone. Sure, I go off for breakfast with the CSI crew sometimes, but that's hardly a special occasion, especially if Sanders comes along; he always tries to start a food fight. Last time I got home before I realized there was a French fry in my breast pocket.
No, this is special. Heather and I have been sharing meals for months now, and it seems kind of silly to think of a fifty-something guy actually going on a date--it's so adolescent, you know? But that's what this feels like.
The main course arrives, and I get the treat of watching Heather eating noodles. Man, I don't know how women do it. I always end up spilling something. But she twirls her fork in the pasta and doesn't lose a drop of sauce, and I'm distracted from my grilled lamb when she licks her lips.
"Want a bite?" she asks, spearing a shrimp. "It's quite good."
I've never had the fettuccini. "Sure."
She leans over the table, holding out the fork, and I meet her halfway. She slips the food into my mouth and our eyes meet, and despite the cliché of the move, I almost get lost in her eyes. With some women, it might be something they do for effect, but Heather seems as surprised as me, and it takes an effort to look down. I sit back and swallow. "You're right, it is good."
She's looking at her plate, and I can see the faintest bit of pink on her cheeks. "When did you discover this place?"
I slice off a bite of lamb. "I didn't--a friend told me about it." It's not as full of tourists as it might be, since it's not on one of the popular beaches; it's really a locals' hangout. Spearing the lamb, I lean forward again. "Turnabout," I remind her, daring her as her eyes widen a little.
She takes me up on it, and to tell the truth I didn't expect anything less. Her lips close over the fork and I pull it back slowly, and this time the moment is a whole lot more charged. But we both let it go again, and she sits back, her brows going up. "I see why you keep coming back."
We take our time over the food; it really is outstanding, and deserves the attention. Eventually, though, Heather excuses herself, telling me she'll be a couple of minutes since she has to check her blood sugar level. I watch her cross the verandah, the fringe on her shawl swaying as she walks, and let a sigh out. It feels good.
I butter another roll, thinking about everything and nothing, not really paying too much attention to the low hum and movement around me, but then a couple passes by a few tables away, and something about the way they move is familiar. Both tall, but one is graceful and the other is--bowlegged.
It's like he feels my gaze. Grissom glances over his shoulder and sees me, but he doesn't look surprised. He touches Sara's shoulder and says something, and she looks up at him briefly with a nod, and then keeps going into the restaurant as he turns back towards me.
"Gil," I say easily as he pulls up next to our table. He looks down at me somberly, and I wave towards Heather's chair, but he shakes his head.
"Catherine told me, but I have to admit I didn't believe her."
I roll my eyes, a little annoyed at Cath, but not very surprised. There's no real reason to hide Heather's and my...relationship, whatever...but neither of us is really the kind to tell everyone about it either. "What? You're not the only guy who can date a gorgeous younger woman."
As the words fall out of my mouth I realize that dating is exactly what we're doing tonight, but before I can figure that out, Grissom snorts. "I'm not even going to touch that one." He grins a little, and I cut him off before he can say anything.
"No jokes about inadequacy."
"Wouldn't dream of it." He cocks his head. "Heather's special," he says seriously, and while I know nothing really happened between those two, I have to wonder what might have happened. "Take good care of her, Jim."
For somebody who lives with his head in a microscope, he's damned perceptive. "I will," I answer, and he nods and walks away.
I shake my head. Another coincidence to add to the list.
Heather comes back just in time for an offer of coffee and dessert, but we both decide to pass. The moon's setting as we leave the restaurant, Heather's hand tucked into the crook of my arm. As we reach the car she lets go, but forget impulse this time--I slide my arms around her deliberately, and wow! there's nothing but bare skin in back under that shawl. Warm, soft, bare skin.
Heather makes a little purring noise and her mouth lands on mine, hot and sweet. Her fingers are curling around my ears, and I can feel the lining of her shawl against the backs of my hands, but I'm really more interested in the velvety feel of her back under my fingertips. Her tongue's teasing mine, and I move one hand up to the nape of her neck and let the other make little circles, exploring. She tastes like the wine she had at dinner and her own rich flavor, and it takes a real effort to remember we're in a public place. There was nobody else in the parking lot when we came out, but sooner or later there will be.
Heather's hands are on the back of my neck now, and she's playing with the short hair there and making me shiver. I flatten my palms over the wings of her shoulderblades and pull away a bit, trying to catch my breath. Heather's eyes are big and dark, and she's got that tiny wicked smile that tells me she's definitely enjoying herself.
"You're amazing," I tell her, and have to clear my throat a little. "But I'm not sure--"
"--That this is the place for this?" she finishes, and nods. "You're right."
It takes an effort to let her go, and she smoothes down her shawl while I unlock the car door for her.
HEATHER
We don't talk on the drive back. It's not an uncomfortable silence, exactly; we're easy with each other, we don't have to talk to be companionable. But there's a newer element in the mix, and one I definitely recognize. I work with it almost every night. I keep stealing slow, pleasurable glances at Jim's profile, the light waxing and waning as we pass under streetlights; sometimes I feel his eyes on me, and they warm me.
There's one question hovering at the front of my thoughts, and I consider it carefully. Do I ask him in when we reach my home, and acknowledge all that implies? Jim is above all a gentleman; he would never pressure me. But I know quite well that he feels the same burn that I do, and I suspect that if I do ask him, his answer will be yes.
However, before I can decide if it's really a good idea or if it's moving too fast, his cellphone rings. Jim grunts and pulls it off his belt with the ease of long practice, his gaze never leaving the highway. Flipping it open, he speaks one terse word. "Brass."
The half of the conversation that I can hear is opaque, consisting mostly of affirmative noises and a couple of one-word questions. But I watch his face, and see it shift from that of my friend, off for the evening, to the professional.
Before long, he shuts the phone and slips it back into its holster. His mouth is grim. "Major shoot-out at the Royale," he says flatly. "So much for my night off."
"Duty calls," I comment lightly.
His gaze slides towards me for a second, brows lifting, before he looks back to the road. "You're not pissed?" he asks, and while his tone is joking, there's seriousness beneath it. It makes me wonder if his ex-wife expected a policeman's work to stay confined to an eight-hour shift.
"I'm sorry to lose your company," I tell him honestly. "But no, I'm not upset."
He blows out his breath and mutters something I don't quite catch, then flicks on the turn signal for the exit for my neighborhood. "Good, 'cause I am."
That makes me chuckle, and his mouth turns up reluctantly. "At least you didn't get called away in the middle of dinner," I point out, and he snorts.
He pulls up into my driveway and rounds the car to open my door, but his stride is brisk, and I can see that half his mind is already on the crime scene that awaits him. "It's my turn to make dinner next week," he says as he escorts me onto the porch. "Any requests?"
We've been having fun with variety, but for some reason I'm remembering the start of all this. "How about spaghetti?" I ask, unlocking my door.
His smile is full-blown this time. "You got it," he says. "Heather--"
I look up at him. He's got one arm braced against the doorframe, and while he's not all that much taller than me, somehow he seems to loom for a moment, all broad shoulders and male strength. Then his hand is cupping my neck and he's covering my lips with his in a slow, deep kiss that seems laden with promise. I grab hold of his lapel, resisting the urge to just snuggle into him, and give as good as I get.
When we move apart, his eyes are dark and regretful. His hand slips around and he draws one strong finger gently down the slope of my nose. "I'll see you soon," he says, his tone gravelly, and then he's striding down the steps two at a time.
I want to watch him go, but I know he won't leave until my door is safely closed, so I slip inside and lock it behind me. By the time I lift the curtain at the window Jim's already backed out of the driveway, but his headlights flick off, then on again as he shifts back into first gear, and I know it's a farewell.
See Chapter 9