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 the 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.
Spoilers: "Slaves of Las Vegas" and "Lady Heather's Box"
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Brass
I've always loved the smell of fresh paint. Don't know why; maybe it goes back to the first days of school, when things were pretty exciting even if it meant the end of summer.
It means money, too, somewhere in my subconscious; I did a couple of summers of painting people's houses for my Uncle Joey, who was a contractor. He's long gone, but I've still got the skills his guys taught me.
And let me tell you--working for other people is nowhere near as great as doing it for yourself. I'm smoothing paint onto the walls of my own place, Heather's and mine, and every stroke is a little satisfaction.
Now that we've got that wallpaper down, anyway. The only thing satisfying about that was carting it out to the garbage can. Old cabbage roses in the guest bedroom and pink and gold fuzzy in the bathroom.
But it's gone now, and we can paint in peace. The nice thing about this arrangement is that we can take our time for a while--it's a little cramped at Heather's place right now, but we have a place to live, we can get the basics done here before we pile in. Not what we first intended, but hey, I wasn't about to turn down the offer for my house.
It was a little weird--okay, a lot--cleaning out my place. I bought it all those years ago because it was cheap, but I wasn't really thinking long-term at the time; most of me was still back in Jersey. And then I never did really think about it; it was an okay house, it served my needs. Real planning was never involved.
This, we're planning. Thinking about the future, about making a place where somebody small can grow up happy and safe.
I run the roller down into the tray and lift it again for another stretch of wall. I'm gonna be sore tomorrow, but I really don't care. Besides, painting is good thinking time.
My mind keeps going back to all the memories I just packed up. I mean, I had to do it kind of fast--we had no clue that my place would sell so quickly, but apparently the developers have got their eye on my old neighborhood. And aside from the fact that it's the first place Heather and I made love (and the second, and the third), I don't have any qualms about seeing it pulled down. And the price was great, higher than we expected.
So I had to box everything up pretty quickly. I meant to go through my stuff, figure out what I wanted to keep and what I never used, but I didn't really have that much time, even with Heather to help.
Bless her, she handled the guest bedroom. Most of the junk there was just stuff that I didn't have any other place to put, but I forgot how much of Ellie's stuff was in there; things she'd left behind when she visited, or just things left over from when she was a kid. I kept putting that room off, and putting it off, and then I came back from an off-shift call downtown and found that Heather had packed it all neatly away. "It will keep," was all she told me.
And I guess it will.
More paint, a nice wine color. I've got the windows open wide, and the radio on a classic jazz station, and the velvet tones of Tormé are filling the air. Painting's a peaceful occupation, and the only thing that could make this better--
The dropcloth crackles behind me, and there better is, in the flesh. Heather's carrying a takeout bag and looking delicious, from the scarf over her hair down past--hoo boy--the blouse tied under her breasts, to the old soft shorts, and allll the way down those long legs to her canvas tennies.
It's an interesting picture, a little odd because she's got the sleeves of the blouse buttoned at her wrists despite the heat, but I know it's for a reason--she doesn't want to get paint on her arms because she'll have to dress up for work later. Kinda ruins the dominatrix image.
I put down my roller and go over to collect a kiss, and Heather laughs and makes sure it's a good one, wiping a little paint from my neck afterwards. "Jim, it looks great in here."
"So far." I look around. I haven't hit the ceiling yet, but half the walls are done.
"Well, let's eat, and then I'll join you."
We dragged in some of my old cheap lawn furniture to serve while we worked on the place, two chairs and a wobbly table, so we spread out lunch there and sit. "Are you sure the fumes aren't bothering you?" I ask around a mouthful of sandwich, and Heather taps my hand for talking with my mouth full.
"As long as we keep the windows open I should be fine," she says. "Do we want to bother with the closets?"
I swallow. "Yes." I want this to be--well, not perfect, but as good as possible in the time we've got. "It won't take that much time. But let me do them."
She rolls her eyes a little, but she doesn't argue. Smart lady. Paint fumes can be a problem for anyone, and she's got the tadpole to think of right now.
After lunch I crack a soda from the cooler we brought over--the fridge is running but it's a pain in the ass to go downstairs every time we want a drink--and start up again. For a little while it's just me; Heather's in what will be the nursery, putting tape over the molding, and I can hear her singing absently along to the music every so often. The walls in there are going to be a sort of lemony yellow, much lighter than the other bedrooms, but we're keeping white for the halls, just slapping on a fresh coat. The master bath's about thirty years out of date; we're not touching that one yet. I got such a good price for my house that we might be able to redo it.
"Did Zoë make up her mind what colors she wants?" I call, and Heather comes back in, choosing a paintbrush from the array with the deliberate grace I love.
"Blue-gray walls and a white ceiling, she said," Heather replies, starting on one corner where the roller couldn't reach. Zoë argued at first, saying that since she was scarcely ever home we should make it a guest room, but we just ignored that. Family house, everybody gets a bedroom.
A family. We're putting together a family. It feels…odd. I haven't had a family for years, not a real one--an ex-wife and an estranged daughter didn't really count. But it won't just be Heather and me, not just middle-aged lovers finally tying the knot, it'll be the tadpole and Zoë and even Lolu. Instant relatives.
Y'know, I could do with a family again.
Zoë
The cheerful voice isn't who I expected, but it's slightly familiar. "Captain Brass' phone."
"Um…hello? Is Jim available?" I'm slightly derailed.
"He's right in the middle of something. Can he call you back?" The voice is male, deep, slightly drawling, and suddenly a face pops up to match it. The crime lab guy we met in Waffle World.
"Sure, could you tell him Zoë called? It's nothing urgent."
"Zoë, right, sure. You're Ms. Marazek's daughter, right?"
I'm impressed that he remembered. "Yes, and you're Nick."
He laughs. "Very good! Listen, I just want to say that we're all really happy for Jim. He's a great guy and he deserves someone like your mom."
Well, I wasn't expecting that. I totally agree with him, of course, but most people get all weird when they know what my mom does for a living. "I'm pretty happy about it too. They're good for each other." I don't mention the baby; I don't know if Jim has told his colleagues about it yet.
"Good." And he does sound pleased. "Oh, hey, while I've got you, there's something I want to ask."
Ohh-kay. What's it going to be, questions about Mom's chosen career, what-was-it-like-growing-up-with-her, is Jim kinky too--
"Jim says the wedding's gonna be small, and we can't talk him out of that. So we're going to concentrate on the party instead, and we need to ask you about options."
He's surprised me again, and not just because I wasn't expecting the question. "Uh…what party? And who's 'we'?"
I remember his grin because I can practically hear it over the phone. "The one Jim doesn't know about. If he won't have a big ceremony, we gotta do something. The folks at the crime lab, that is."
I give that a moment's thought, and I can feel my own grin spreading, the one that Mom says means "trouble". "Oh, absolutely. That's a great idea. And I know some of the Dominion people would want to be in on it."
"Good." He sounds satisfied. "Gimme your number, and we can work out the details."
I do, my mind already humming with ideas. It's really Mom pushing for a small ceremony, though apparently Jim hasn't mentioned that to his friends, and while it's her special day, I still think it's a pity to not make more of it. This sounds like the perfect solution.
"All right then," he says. "It'll be me or Warrick calling you then. This is cool, very cool."
"It is," I agree, pulling a sheet of paper over and starting to make a list. "Mom loves surprises."
And she's going to love this one.
Heather
I hate paperwork. Well, no one I know loves the stuff, but honestly, sometimes I think I should have a secretary to handle it. However, a great deal of this requires personal decisions on my part, so it's probably just as well. My Dominion is as much art as it is business, in a way. And it's busy tonight; I had to squeeze to get even forty minutes of time in my office.
Not that the thought makes filling out order forms any more palatable. Still, a lot of it can be done by computer these days. Which reminds me; Trevor, my Webmaster--in the cyber sense of the word--wants to revamp the site, which means he needs new photographs of me for the opening page. And now is the time to do them, before the tadpole makes his or herself outwardly visible.
I flip open my planner and look at the various dates. Yes, there's time next weekend to fit in the ego of the photographer and the costume changes required. I don't really care for that particular artist, but he's quite good, and that's what matters. His...enthusiasm...for his work can be safely ignored.
And the thought of costumes leads me straight into the hovering problem of what I will do when I begin to show. Clever dressing can conceal a pregnancy for a surprising amount of time, but if this babe is anything like Zoë, it will be obvious from the seventh month onward.
I don't have an answer, though. I could stay behind the scenes for a while, but three months, even two, is really too long. And while there are more men who find a pregnant woman arousing than one might think, a rounded belly rather ruins the dominatrix image. Flowing robes, perhaps...I could ease into a style change if I started now...I'm tired.
I feel uneasy. I rub at the back of my neck and return to my forms, trying to concentrate. Costumes can wait for another day. But something's nagging at the back of my mind, something trying to get my attention. I'm trying so hard to concentrate on the paperwork, some of it has to be done tonight and I really don't want to bring it home with me, but I keep losing track of what I'm doing.
Then Sapphire bursts in through my office door, a breach of protocol so blatant that I know there must be a transcending urgency behind it; Sapphire is the best of submissives and only breaks the role when something is truly wrong. "Lady Heather, Chen's client is sick, she thinks it's a heart attack."
That is, indeed, a situation justifying the intrusion. I push quickly to my feet, trying to remember who Chen is seeing tonight. "Has someone called 911?"
Sapphire moves out of the doorway, ingrained habit bowing her indigo-haired head as I pass her. "Yes, Lady Heather, Chen told me to do it before I came to you."
"Good." I head for the pool house at a speed just short of running; I don't want to alarm my other clients, interrupting sessions and causing disturbance is bad for their psyches and could harm...Ms. Sharon, now I remember her name, if they crowd around. My palms are sweating--in fact, I'm perspiring all over, but I don't have time to pay attention.
Ahead I can see Pauline, heading in the same direction, crop still in her hand, and it's that image that lingers, ridiculously clear, as everything else around me fades away. And then the black covers everything, even my desperate desire to see to my client, and I'm falling without end.
Brass
I'm filling out paperwork on our latest catch, mentally blessing Grissom for being such an all-knowing bastard the way he can be sometimes. I can put up with all kinds of superiority if it snags us a child molester, and tonight he and Greg did, six ways to Sunday. Sanders looked a little green around the gills when we were through demolishing the guy in Interrogation, but I don't blame him at all. Getting hardened to baby rapers is a good sign that it's time to get out of the business.
My cell rings, and I scoop it up; the number's not familiar, but I get a lot of those. "Brass."
The voice isn't familiar either, at least at first, but the cadence is--I've heard way too many women holding back distress. "Captain Brass, this is Pauline."
I remember her face with the name. The gorgeous woman who's second-in-command at the Dominion--she made a stunning first impression on me, all blue-black skin and snow-white leather, and I know Heather trusts her.
Heather's at work tonight. If Pauline's calling--"What's wrong?"
Her voice is low and clear, but I can hear the urgency in it. "Heather passed out about twenty minutes ago, probably from hypoglycemia. She's on her way to University Hospital right now."
I don't remember standing up, but I'm reaching for my jacket, and feeling the inside of me freezing. "I'm on my way. Meet you there?"
The distress is more obvious now. "I have to stay here."
Of course she does. I'm speeding down the hallway, ignoring the people giving me strange looks. "I'll call you as soon as I know something."
"Thank you, Captain Brass."
I don't remember if I said goodbye, either, but the phone's in my pocket and I'm climbing into my car, and I slap on the flashers. To hell with protocol; all I want is to get to the hospital right now, before something else happens.
Heather.
The baby.
Heather--
It's not a long drive, though, particularly with the light going, and I slam the car into a space near the Emergency entrance, almost forgetting my keys as I climb out. I've got my badge in hand as I blast through the doors, trying very hard not to think of the last time I went looking for someone in a hospital.
The nurse at the counter is a good guy, though, and doesn't give me any trouble. The badge and my statement that I'm Heather's fiancé get me a sympathetic smile and quick directions to the correct cubicle.
I hear voices as I get close to the little curve of curtain, and one of them is Heather's, and all the air leaves me in this huge relieved rush. I don't stop, though, and the instant I pull back the cloth her eyes meet mine, all big and blue-green. She holds out a hand and I'm there.
There's somebody else in the cubicle, but I can't even look around, all I can do is look at her pale face and push a little hair out of her eyes. "Are you all right?"
My voice is so hoarse I'm surprised, but she gives me that brave grin. "I'm fine now, darling. Really."
It occurs to me finally that my grip is probably crushing her fingers, and I loosen up a bit. "What about..."
I can't finish the sentence, but my free hand settles on her belly, and hers covers mine.
"As I was about to say," comes this warm voice behind us, "the baby's just fine."
I finally turn. The other person in the room is Heather's OB-GYN, Dr. Phair, and while she's trying to look stern at us over her spectacles, she's grinning too. She's small and stocky, and every so often I wonder what color her hair is because it's always hidden under a hijab. I like her--she's got this tremendous sense of reassurance, which is a good thing in a doctor.
We're both grinning back now, a little sheepishly, but it doesn't matter at all as long as Heather and the tadpole are both okay.
"Hypoglycemia doesn't usually affect the fetus at all, as long as it's treated promptly," Dr. Phair is saying. "And yours was. Heather, did you miss a snack?"
Heather's chin goes up. "I did not. I don't know why this happened." Her voice falters a little, and I let her hand go so I can put my arm around her shoulders.
Dr. Phair softens a little. "You've done very well with controlling your blood sugar throughout your lifetime so far, but pregnancy can throw the system for a loop," she says kindly. "And every one is different. Even if your previous pregnancy went smoothly, there's no guarantee this one will go as easily."
"So I'm finding out," Heather says, a bit tartly. I bite back a grin. She knows the doctor's right, but she hates being lectured.
Dr. Phair pulls off her glasses and lets them dangle on their chain. "Annoying as hell, I know." And that makes us both laugh, such blunt words coming from a demure little OB-GYN. She smiles again. "You'll just have to pay more attention to what your body is telling you."
Heather sighs, and leans into me a little. "I know," she admits. "It was a busy night and I was trying to concentrate on something."
The doc leaves off the rest of the lecture and pats Heather's blanket-covered foot. "Well, thanks to your protectors, no harm done this time. I'll sign off on the paperwork to release you, and you can head home as soon as you like. Home, though, Heather, not back to work."
My fiancée doesn't argue, but I figure that's probably because there isn't all that much night left anyway. I pull out my cell after Dr. Phair says goodbye, and give Heather an appraising look. "Are you going to call Zoë, or am I?"
It's not really an emergency situation, thank God, but Zoë'd never forgive either one of us if we didn't tell her about it. Heather sighs, and reaches for her bag. "I need to call Pauline, too, and find out how Ms. Sharon is."
"I'll do that." I have no idea who Ms. Sharon is, the name isn't familiar, but I did promise to call back when I had news. I take a few steps away and make the call while Heather makes hers.
Pauline's voice is as cool as usual, but I can hear the relief when I tell her Heather's fine. "Thank you, Captain," she says, and I remind myself that one of these days I have to get her to call me Jim.
"Thank YOU," I reply. "Oh, Heather wanted me to ask about Ms. Sharon."
"She's all right," Pauline says. "It was an asthma attack, not her heart. Chen misread the symptoms."
"Okay." We say goodbye; I call in to the station as I wait for Heather to finish reassuring Zoë, because there is no way in hell I'm going to leave Heather tonight.
Heather's eyes have shadows under them, I notice, and she's moving stiffly as she puts away her phone. "C'mon, kiddo, I'll give you a ride," I say, and she smiles at me.
It's not until we're halfway out of the building that I realize two things. One, we make an interesting picture, me in my suit and Heather in her work clothes--tonight it's a shiny black corset and a lacy sort of skirt, and her usual stiletto boots. She should look like a working girl, but she doesn't; she's just elegant and proud as she stalks along.
Two, people are staring a little, and some of them are paramedics. My secret, not that it was much of one, is officially out; I'd be willing to bet that if I drove back to the station right now, the news would still beat me there. Not that I plan to do anything but take Heather home and tuck her into bed, with me wrapped around her.
Heather
Part of me thinks I should go back to the Dominion and make sure things are straightened out there, but even if it were a good idea, I'd still have to get around Jim, and I simply don't have the energy. My hypoglycemic incidents are fortunately very rare, but they leave me drained for hours afterwards.
Besides, I'm sure that Pauline has everything in hand. She always does. I'll check up on Ms. Sharon myself tomorrow afternoon. Possible scenarios fill my head, ranging from a simple upset client to a potential lawsuit, but the latter is why I keep a lawyer on retainer, and often potential problems can be averted with a modicum of personal attention.
Jim hands me into his car as though we're in the past century, and I let him. One of the things I love about him is his hidden courtly side, so at odds with the tough homicide detective.
We're out of the parking lot before he glances over, and I can see strain lingering in his face even though our little crisis is past. "Did they feed you in there?"
"Not enough," I admit. I ate what they put before me because I had to, but hospital food is hospital food.
He fishes in his coat pocket and tosses his phone into my lap. "El Rosale's. Call it in."
Of course he has them in his phone's directory. I hit the speed dial and place a takeout order, knowing that Jim always gets the same thing--beef fajitas and caramel flan. El Rosale's is the only restaurant where his selection never varies, and I tease him about it sometimes, but he just shrugs and asks why one should mess with perfection.
We usually eat in there; it's a cozy place, just right for the two of us when we're feeling a little romantic, but even if I wasn't so tired I'm not exactly dressed for the occasion. I close the phone and lean my head back, my eyelids heavy with fatigue.
I'm still angry, of course, despite Dr. Phair's words. Furious at myself for being so careless. If I'd paid more attention to the signs...
But I also know she's right. Pregnancy means unexpected changes, and sometimes one simply can't predict events.
Jim's so silent. I wonder if he's angry too.
The food's ready by the time we get to the restaurant; the twenty-four-hour capabilities of Vegas never cease to amaze me. Jim goes and gets it, putting the bag in my lap when he returns, and I savor the warmth leaking through the thin plastic into my lap.
It isn't until we're setting the table in my--our--kitchen that I ask. It's not that I'm afraid, not at all; but I am exhausted, and he's strained, and now is not a good time for an argument. But it has to be asked.
"Jim, are you angry with me?"
I've startled him. He stops in his tracks and stares at me, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and his tie gone, and he is so dear to me that I want to take him into myself with our child so that I will never have to do without him.
"Hell, no." He puts down the plate he's holding, and in the next instant I'm enveloped in his arms, and I can feel him shaking. "No, no," he repeats into my hair, and I feel a kiss on my ear.
It takes a bit of doing, but I manage to get my arms free of his grip, and put them around him. "It's okay," I tell him, and Jim sighs.
"I was scared, sweetheart," he mutters. "I still am. Heather--"
He pulls his face out of my hair, and his eyes are narrow and dark with pain. "I can't lose you." His voice is matter-of-fact, but it's trembling too. "Either of you."
I can hear the too that he didn't say, and I reach up to touch his cheek, worn and stubbly and beloved. "You won't."
It's an impossible promise, of course, but I don't care in the least. As far as I have anything to do with it, he won't lose us. I take his hand in mine and put it on my belly, which is only just beginning to curve. "You won't," I repeat.
Jim's palm presses against me, and he sighs. Life's a strange thing, that one can lose everything in an instant or find glory around the next corner.
And held in his arms, I realize once again that this man, this baby, this time, is my glory.
