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.
ATTENTION: Rating has changed! This is now R rated.
This is the final chapter, and we thank you very much for reading! If you would like to read further stories about Jim and Heather, please let us know. --Cincoflex & VRT
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Chapter 12
BRASS
There are only three things I actually LIKE shopping for. Presents for other people, good books, and fresh produce. Everything else is just a pain, and even when I make lists for them it never works out well. I remember toilet paper but forget toothpaste. I'll have seven boxes of dishwashing soap, but no Baggies-you get the idea. Some people might consider it just part of having a Y chromosome, but I tend to think it's because I tend to prioritize-I focus on the last immediate concern and work backwards as best I can. It works for homicide investigation, but not for running a household.
But I manage, most of the time. Dolores and her sister handle a lot of the dry goods for me-I leave them money, they make sure I have paper towels and aluminum foil and that sort of thing. The perishables are up to me, so I take my time.
Nowadays though, shopping's a whole new adventure, thanks to Heather.
Heather. Ohhh boy. Heather, Heather, Heather. I haven't got a poetic bone in my body, but I'd sell my eyeteeth to be able to put her charms to music. The woman is amazing. Truly. Her smile, her laugh, the way she runs her fingers down my back in the shower-
Yeah, the shower. Suffice it to say, Heather under hot water is the stuff Penthouse letters are made of. Actually Heather anywhere is pretty much in the same mind-blowing category, intimate-wise.
I finally convinced her to relax enough to let me look her over properly, (which took some doing) and made me feel pretty special. Lady Heather might be willing to don scraps of leather and parade around, but Heather Marazek is actually . . . shy.
I can't get over how long she is. It's not a height thing, since I'm taller, but Heather's chassis is streamlined, like a well-designed sports car; when I touch her, I can feel her muscles working under that velvety skin. She's got a dusting of little freckles along her shoulder blades, and deep dimples at the base of her spine, perfect for kissing. A tiny line of white, barely noticeable, runs along the lower edge of her flat abdomen: hysterectomy scar. Another small jagged pink one lies along her left thigh. That one's the aftermath of red-hot kettle that she dropped on herself as a kid, she tells me.
I don't care about them though-scars are part and parcel of getting through life. I've got enough of my own anyway, and I pretend they add character, even though they're actually reminders of my mortality. They break up the monotony of my generally unspectacular physique. The only important thing I DO know about our bodies is that for some reason Heather likes mine enough to talk me into getting naked with her and I'm more than happy to accommodate.
It's amazing to come to this late-in-life sensuality. I suppose, I've never thought I'd have any sort of serious love life after fifty-God knows my parents never did, nor anyone else in my family. I figured the urge would just sort of fade away, lost among the aches and pains of aging when the spirit is still willing, but the flesh is lonely. I'd end up another bitter old retired cop whose best erotic years were behind him.
Goes to show you what I know.
HEATHER
I have come to love the sweetness of my weekends. For almost a year now, Fridays were the highlight of my month; the bright joy of meeting Jim for dinner made it easier to get through the six days between visits. Fridays meant laughing and cooking, arguing and smiling, movies, card games, dishes.
Companionship. Warmth. Love.
How I hated that moment when one of us would have to go, shooting reluctant glances at the door or the clock, knowing the burden of our day to day lives beckoned us away from this intimate freedom. If I were the one leaving, Jim would insist on walking me to my car. If Jim were the one going, he'd flash his lights to let me know he was thinking of me as he left. Silly little things, but they took on meaning between us, forged that link we both needed so very much.
I'd forgotten how amazing love can be. How the simple act of kissing, of dropping off to sleep with the lullaby of someone's heartbeat under your ear can fill you with such quiet joy. The personal jokes, the little caresses and lovely companionable silences. I've missed so much in the years, but Jim is changing all that.
He's amazingly old-fashioned at times. After our first night together he sent flowers. To the Dominion no less, three dozen American Beauty roses showcased in an Austrian crystal vase that I knew perfectly well probably set him back a substantial amount. A dozen velvety red roses for each act of passionate love that had passed between us.
I blushed like a schoolgirl and Pauline smiled the entire night.
Since then it's become our habit to spend our weekends together, with the understanding of an open door policy for the weeknights as we feel the need. For the first two weekends, we didn't actually leave the bed, except for necessities like the restroom and the kitchen. We laughed and ate and made love on my flannel sheets, acting like enthralled teenagers, and I found out that despite my long years of limited encounters I've still got plenty of passion, thank you.
I've discovered I've gotten ticklish, that I love the feel of Jim's chest hair, that it's amazingly nice to have your back scrubbed in the shower . . . and that on top of all those little discoveries; the thrill of loving your best friend is possibly the most wonderful of them all.
We both woke up on Saturday morning to the alarm. Normally we'd sleep in-working nights really alters your REM patterns-but today was special. We were going to make ratatouille, and for that we needed good fresh vegetables, which meant a trip to-
The Farmer's Market on Saguaro Square. For weeks Jim had been singing its praises and promising to take me and I've been looking forward to it. I managed to hold him at arm's length, which was terribly hard, but necessary if we were going to get out of the house on time. Jim grumbled, mostly for show, but I sensed that he was actually delighted about the trip. He commented that because the stew had to simmer, we'd just find something to do for a few hours in the afternoon.
Incorrigible.
I wear white jeans and a button-down sweater of pale blue, utterly delighted to be out of leather or spandex for the day. Normally I don't pay attention to my weekend wear, but with Jim around it's fun to play dress-up in a different context. My comfy sandals let my toes breathe, and just as I'm starting to work on my hair I see Jim come up behind me in the mirror.
"Let me," he rumbles, and I do. He's good, very gentle at separating the strands and twisting; before I know it, my braid is done, heavy and long, neatly banded with a blue scrunchie near the tip. He slides his hands onto my shoulders and we look at each other in the mirror.
"Faaabulouss," he intones with a push on the lisp to make me laugh. I preen a bit.
"Are there no end to your talents, dear man? Detective, chef, hairdresser-"The kiss on my neck makes me squeal and trail off. Jim is smirking at our reflections now, just peeking around the braid.
"-Stud. Yeah, I have talent to spare. Want to see my impersonations?"
That earns him a swat; the last time he tried to sound like Jimmy Stewart I laughed so hard I thought I'd ruptured something. Fortunately I had someone very close by willing to kiss any and all booboos, especially on my tummy.
"You're fun," tell him with a grin, reaching behind me to hug him. He merely laughs and kisses my neck again for good measure.
"That's me, life of the crime scene. Let's get moving, hon. I hear zucchini calling my name."
I double over again at that, gripping the counter while he smirks and waits for me to catch my breath.
"Jiiim, Jimmm, ve lonnnng to be in your recipe, chooooose usss" I drawl out in a terribly bad Bela Lugosi accent. He cracks up, finally, shaking his head and taking my hand, dragging me out of the bathroom.
We both try to sober up in the car, but it's a losing battle. He tells me a terrible joke about a priest and a parrot walking into a bar, and I retaliate with the worst knock-knock jokes I can remember, loving the way he patiently responds to each one, his mouth smirking before I even get to the punch lines.
Finally, in a moment when we're both laughed out, and settling into that companionable quiet, he reaches over and takes my hand. His is big, almost engulfing mine. I like that.
"Hey, did you remember to shoot up this morning?"
A flash of annoyance hits me at the same time a twinge of embarrassed amusement does; I bite my lip.
"Yes, MOM," I bat my eyes at him. He gives me a sidelong glance, and while he's still smiling, there's something there in his deep blue eyes, something a little hurt by my response. I feel instantly ashamed and tighten my grip on his fingers. After a second, he squeezes back.
"Sorry, Jim. I'm just not used to other people knowing, let alone checking on me about it."
"Yeah well, I just . . . worry," he admits in a low tone. "Part and parcel of the whole 'loving the hell out of you' thing."
I take a breath, and before I can change my mind, blurt out, "I'll show you how it's done, if you want to see what it's like."
His startled look makes me blush; it's tender and grateful, which is the sort of expression that makes me want to drag him off to bed and kiss him senseless.
"Yes." No hesitation, no squeamishness-he really does give a damn about this. About me. That thought makes my toes curl a little and I smirk as his fingers squeeze mine once more before he's forced to let go and get back to the business of safe driving.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously, Heather. It's important to me to get a handle on what this is to you, what I can help with."
We pull into a parking lot just outside a big red wooden barn, and I take a slow moment to undo my seatbelt, thinking about what Jim's just said, and how much it means to me.
BRASS
The market is in full swing as I steer Heather inside. Lots of strollers and young couples in Birkenstocks standing around weighing the merits of lentils over red beans. Somebody's New Age music is playing in the background, but it's instrumental so I ignore it as best I can. Heather parks her sunglasses on top of her head; it's a cute look on her and I make my appreciation known in a soft whistle. Heather purses those great lips of hers in mild disapproval, but I can see her blush.
"Behave-" comes her gentle chide. I make no such promise and wander over to the first stand in the open barn: peppers. There are some good ones here; red, green and yellow, and I'm already weighing a green one in my hand, trying to estimate how ripe it is. I've bought from this vendor before, so I know her crop is good, but a little pricey. Heather leans over my shoulder as I'm balancing the pepper on my palm.
"What do you think-about a C cup?" she asks sweetly. I fumble and drop the thing, trying not to laugh while Heather chooses a yellow pepper and inspects it carefully. I shoot her a warning look after I pick up the produce and dust it off.
"Hey, hey--you're not allowed to make cup size jokes-that's crossing the gender joke line, hon. Only guys can do those."
Her hands drop to her hips and I get a glare from those Pacific ocean eyes, oooooooh. Nice. I can see how she's got a knack for that dominatrix thing.
"Since when?"
"Since forever. Guys do cup size jokes, mother-in-law jokes, bar jokes, fart jokes, drunk jokes, good sex jokes and size jokes. It's all in the ultra secret handbook we're issued on our twelfth birthdays."
Heather looks a little miffed at this, but considers it for a while as I select three peppers, one of each color, and bag them up. As I move to the next vendor she sidles up to me.
"I lost my copy-so what do girls get to joke about?
"Boyfriends and or husbands, periods, bad sex, shoes, kids and blondes," I rattle back, well versed in the vagaries of women's humor. Back in my beat days I'd had two different female partners, and both of them were a practical education in gender studies. Heather shoots me a skeptical sidelong look.
"Blondes?" She queries. I nod.
"It's a statistical fact that more women tell blonde jokes than men," I assure her mildly. She perks up and leans closer whispering.
"How do you put a sparkle in a blonde's eye, Jim?"
"How?" I haven't heard this one before. Heather leans closer; I feel her breath on my neck, making other parts of me start seriously paying attention. Parts much lower down.
"Stick a flashlight in her ear-"comes the breathy reply. This earns her my patented eye roll, which doesn't fool her anymore. Heather is triumphant, and sails to the tomatoes display, swinging her hips just enough to insure I'm watching her. I would anyway, but the added pleasure of knowing what those hips can do . . . that's when I realize exactly how bad I have it for this woman.
It's not as scary as I thought it would be. Somehow, that first impression that of I had of Lady Heather, all Goth and mysterious, sensuality wrapped in black velvet and silver buckles is still there, but like a photo rather than a real person. The flesh and blood Heather Marazek slipped past my defenses with her Tupperware and DVD movies, with her soft voice and scent of lavender. I've made her laugh and seen her cry, held her and slept with her, and for all the work she does as the dark goddess of other men's fantasies, I'M the lucky bastard who gets to worship the soul of the woman, not just her outer form.
Back to tomatoes.
The display is one of those cutesy carts with the steepled sides, displaying bushel baskets. In my childhood a tomato was just a tomato, something to throw at a car or stomp into catsup, but in this century there are at least a dozen varieties here, all sizes, shapes and colors. Heather hefts a beefsteak up and eyes it like a crystal ball of deep scarlet. I shake my head.
"Not firm enough. We want a tomato that will simmer down and release flavor over the cooking time, not one that will mush up to nothing."
"You've got this down to a science, don't you?" Heather demands pertly. I nod. No point in pretending I don't; I've graduated from the culinary institute of hard knocks and have the burned fingers to prove it. Heather awaits my decision, preparing to play Sancho Panza to my kitchen Quixote by grabbing a paper bag. I inspect the offerings, taking my time.
Oh yes. Several beauties are destined for dinner, and I start handing them over to my co-chef. She keeps a straight face all the way up until the point where I take three in hand-and juggle them. Not expertly, but I keep them in the air for a few turns. Heather reaches out the bag and catches one, two, three with a papery 'thump' each time.
A few shoppers applaud, and I'm both embarrassed and amused. Heather shoots me a flirty look through her dark lashes.
"Oh I just love a man who can keep his balls moving-"she whispers and I have to hang onto the side of the cart until my strangled wheezing stops.
HEATHER
Jim is deeply regretting letting me look at the zucchini and cucumber display, but it's too late. I have a substantial example in one hand and am checking the surface for imperfections.
Slowly.
Stroking it.
Jim looks as if he wants to puree the thing with his glare alone. I pout.
"It's just a vegetable, calm down!" I tell him under my breath, trying not to grin at his annoyance. The twinkle in his eyes comes through and he gives a little sigh.
"Love it now, sure, but just remember I pack a serious cleaver."
"Oh I know, I know-"I purr, just to see him go pink around the ears. This shopping trip is the most fun I've had in years; teasing the chef could easily become a full-time job for me. Jim cocks his head and once more I'm the recipient of that tender glance, the one that makes my chest tighten a little. More than words, a look like that.
I set the zucchini in a paper bag and fish for two others, suddenly anxious to get back and start cooking. And not just for dinner. Jim scoops the bag up and adds it to the hand basket he's got, then his brows draw together.
"Dessert?"
I glance around the Market, thinking and rejecting as I scan-not in the mood for Halvah, cheesecake is too rich, Ah! My gaze takes in the luscious ripe mounds of dark glossy skinned cherries, and I know exactly what I can dazzle him with. Very Hungarian, very good stuff.
"Meggyleves," I murmur seductively, and saunter over to the display, snagging another paper bag as I do. Jim trails after me, his curiosity piqued as he watches me pick and sort through a pound of the best of the fruit there. The scent of them is heavenlysweet, taking me back through the years to my mother's kitchen.
"Meggy what?" he asks. I pop a cherry into my mouth slowly, nipping it between my front teeth in my best seductive manner. I've had practice in this, but it's more gratifying to see it work on Jim than anyone else. He locks in on the sight of me; I can see him swallow and blink for a moment, then let his gaze meet mine incandescently.
"Meggyleves Mas Modon, darling. A chilled fruit soup with cherries. Would you take mine?" I bat my eyes shamelessly, "Cherries, that is?"
Jim snags the bag from me, muttering something about rinsing the vegetables in a cold shower, but the corners of his mouth are tilting up, and I can feel his pleasure in this banter of ours, intimate and outrageous. Few people can hold their own with either of us, so it's a grand thing that we're willing to cut out the middlemen and just go after each other. A hand along my back steers me to the cashier, and Jim settles us in line, looking over the basket with a little frown of concentration.
"Peppers, tomatoes, zucchini and cherries. Not a bad haul-Do we need anything else?" I ask.
"We'll swing by Corti Brothers on the way home," he murmurs into my ear in that "We're-getting-a-bottle-of-wine" way that makes my stomach do flip flops.
xxxx
I've learned a lot about men by observation, interaction and inference. Men have much stronger territorial drives than women; it's intrinsic in their hairy, sweet, testosterone-driven personalities. Some men have studies, or workshops, or offices that are theirs and theirs alone. Mad scientists have their labs. Jim has-his kitchen.
It's not that he doesn't share; he does, very generously. But when we are at his house, in his kitchen, Jim Brass is very much in charge. And I don't mind. I know myself well enough to admit that it's nice to take a break from domination, and just let someone else do the cooking, so to speak. Working around Jim, taking his direction is-fun. He keeps it light, he makes sure to keep it a game instead of a conflict, and while there are challenges, they're always light-hearted and definitely suggestive.
Like now.
"Tell me again where in the recipe it says I have to take my top off?" I demand. Jim set his glass of wine down and slips behind me, pressing oh so nicely against my spine. His arms slip around my ribs and just like that I'm cradled by him.
"Common sense. All the chopping can get very messy, Heather, and there's only one apron. Since I'm using it, that means you need to practice a little preventative cooking here-"
Oh those strong sneaky hands, sliding up and under the hem of my sweater, gliding with unmistakable intent towards my brassiere. Give this man an inch, and he'll have you naked before you know it! I try to frown, but my skin is pebbly with goose bumps, and not the ones that come from being cold, either. Jim's nipping the shell of my ear.
"I guess tomatoes CAN get a little-gushy, "I concede. He makes an affirmative noise as he so generously tugs my sweater up.
"Absolutely. And the stains are really a bitch to get out-"
Off comes the sweater. I'm so glad I have on my blue satin underwire on, the one with thin little straps and the stretch lace. Does a great job of keeping everything were it should be, except Jim Brass, who draws in a sharp breath at the sight of it. Ah, he remembers peeking at this bra before I think-demurely I shrug because it's the sort of move that shows off my assets.
"Oooooh sweetheart," he breathes with such a degree of delight that I can't help but grin. Carefully I pull out of his embrace, pick up one of zucchini and poke him in the chest with it.
"Cook now, ogle later," I tell him with a growl. He looks at this nonweapon with a snort.
"Stop bringing your work home and hand me that cleaver-"he shoots back, and with that, we start to cook.
BRASS
The ratatouille is just starting to simmer. Perfection if I do say so myself-chopped, diced, sautéed and now ready to cook down into a savory blend of vegetables that will go flawlessly with the crusty loaf of sourdough bread and the bed of fluffy rice. I already know the wine's good too, and as I turn the heat down under the stew, I'm dying to turn it up under Heather.
I restrain myself just to watch her for a moment though as she stirs the sweet cream and cherries into a crock pot; and the sight of her long sexy spine is all the more alluring since it's practically bare. She wore the blue bra, just for me. Hey a guy knows these things, and that piece of lingerie is practically a telegram demanding that I go kiss her shoulders, so I do.
She turns to nuzzle my ear, and just like that, in one sweet intimate moment I feel something squeeze my chest with the kind of magic I've only felt twice in my lifetime.
I love her.
Simple as that.
Heather looks up through her dark lashes at me, those gorgeous lips trembling a little, so I kiss them, softly at first, and then much more deeply as the moment takes us, and I've got her in my hug, doing the full body press thing up against the counter. Forget the damn stew, the only thing I've got an appetite for is right here. Her silky arms slip around me and I cup her hips, lifting her onto the counter next to the crockpot before she even realizes what I've done.
"Jim-" she gasps, but I lay two fingers on her lips and brush her braid back. Heather's hands are already on the buttons down my front, plucking, touching in hungry fingerstrokes down my chest as the shirt opens. We kiss with slow deep flicks of tongue, tasting wine and cherries between us now, building to a nice head of steam. Clothes are shifting, dropping, getting out of the way.
I want to take this to the bedroom and do it right, but somehow I can't, not with Heather shimmying out of her jeans and skimpy blue panties that match that bra. This counter is just the right height--at the same time she slips free of her clothes and we don't need to say a thing. I slide my arms under her thighs, feeling the sleek bend of her spread knees resting on the crooks of my elbows. I cup her ass, tugging her to the edge of the counter.
Talk about having dessert first-
Heather grabs my bare hips and yanks me into her, making both of us groan nicely as I try like hell not to explode in sheer pleasure. Squeeze play, oh yeah-She arches up, hands locking behind my neck and sighs, rocking her hips against mine in a long slow ride as I take her in deep thrusts so wild that they threaten to melt my spine. Now's the time to say it, to show her I mean it, but I can't get the words out, not with so much sheer erotic power glowing through my body.
"H-H-Heather . . . "I try, honest to God, but she corkscrews her hips, long legs tightening around my waist and my brain's total mush now as I feel her body clenching around mine, her gorgeous chest bouncing. Heather's lost in pleasure, face tipped back, full mouth open in a soft moan as hot bliss ripples through her body against mine.
I hear her cry my name and damn it, I come. Hard.
But I say it, gasp the truth against her mouth when it happens and she sucks the three little words in, letting them mingle with her own declaration of love as we collapse a bit on the counter. Both of us are breathing hard, but grinning, and I adore the way Heather's bangs are curling around her pink face.
"I've . . . never done it in a kitchen before, Jim." She laughs up at me, brushing my temples with her fingertips. I'm trying not to gloat, but man it's tough when I feel like the Emperor of Las Vegas right now, so I kiss her forehead instead.
"It all comes back to the cooking, Sweetheart. You and I are the right ingredients, and all it took was some time to simmer." At any other time that would sound corny, even to me, but here and now, it's right. Heather laughs softly and her thighs tighten around my hips. Round two, my libido is demanding.
"My compliments to the chef then-"she purrs.
And I'm thinking, yeah, maybe it started small, but what Heather and I have in this golden moment is big enough for us, and who would have thought a homicide detective and a dominatrix would be able to look beyond the surface of who we seemed to be, to who we really are?
You can work on that a while-Heather and I have things to do--
End.