Author's Note: Fun and Light? Needs more depth? PG or Smutty? I'd ask for preferences, but at this point and with the accelerated posting schedule, this fic is already written. So you'll just have to stay tuned to find out where it goes. ;-)

Three French Hens

"What's this?" Merri Brody asked, her dark brows knitting together as she gave him a baffled look.

"On Christmas, ya said ya ain't got no plans fer t'night." Chris gave her a hopeful smile. It was sort of... okay, an outright lie. But judging by the severity of her hangover yesterday morning, she likely couldn't remember the specifics of what they'd talked about while consuming the Pear Wine plus two other bottles from her 'cellar' (which he planned on replacing since he'd sort of tricked her into getting drunk and opening up to him). "Or don't ya remember?"

She frowned, then put on that face she made when she was fronting. Oh, Meredith Brody thought she was all sly with that shit, but she wasn't nearly as unreadable as she thought. Especially, since he'd gotten to know her, testing her reactions over the past year. Not in any malicious sort of way. Just in the manner people did when they first became acquainted with persons that grew to be close friends. And he had wanted to be a good friend to her. He still did. Which was why he was currently lying to her, and striding in through her front door, straight to her kitchen with a paper bag full of groceries.

Her interrogatory glare, replete with narrowed eyes was equally ineffective on his inured person. He'd been on the receiving end of that one, too, on more than one occasion. He set the bag down on her kitchen table, and began unloading items, including a bottle of Ame Dulce , which she'd mentioned was her favorite the other night as the last few drops from the one they'd opened splashed into the bottom of her empty glass.

He fetched the corkscrew from its spot in the drawer next to the sink and used it to open the bottle before he got a couple glasses out of the upper cupboard just to the right of the fridge. When he turned back to place them on the table and pour the wine, he was surprised by the expression of incredulity on his friend's pretty face, her lips parted and her jaw hanging a little ajar. Okay, so he hadn't been the recipient of the entirety of what apparently was a vast repertoire of Merri Brody expressions.

"Why do you know your way around my kitchen?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Ya got it pretty logically organized. Don't take long ta learn it."

He grinned and winked at her. "And ya already showed me where the most important things were..."

He poured her a glass of wine and handed it to her. She closed her mouth, but her lovely brown eyes were still wide with disbelief. He was a little insulted to realize it was because she was shocked by the domesticity of his behavior. Or the idea that he could cook and was planning on cooking for her.

"An' I ken figure out the rest," he said. "So why don't ya go 'n' relax while I start dinner."

"Dinner?" she said, glancing at the clock on the stove. "It's only 3:30."

"Ya know what King always says. The best food can't be prepared 'n the..."

...time it takes to drive around to the window," she finished along with him, repeating the scolding they always received when the senior agent caught them scarfing some fast food.

She turned, heading towards the living room with her glass of wine. He caught himself studying her backside and felt his cheeks flush as he tried to hastily tear his eyes away. But dang, she was a beautiful woman. Even dressed so casually, a pair of grey yoga pants and a t-shirt, her shapely and fit body was noticeable. Very noticeable as the soft jersey pants clung to her heart-shaped ass. And what the hell was wrong with him?

He forced himself to focus on the food instead, starting when she said his name and he thought that she must have caught him looking. Which was the last thing he wanted to do. He wasn't trying to romance her (he didn't have it in him to do that, for any woman, definitely not so soon after Savannah). He was simply trying to cheer up his friend, dammit. So checking her out was really off-limits.

"Chris?" she said his name again, her voice light and inviting response. His cheeks still a little warm with the shame of having ogled her really rather exquisite ass, he worked on unpacking the rest of the ingredients he'd picked up on his way over instead of looking at her. But of course, she would have none of that.

"Yeah?" he said with his face buried in the paper bag, but she refused to submit to the prompting, instead waiting in silence until he finally did look up, meeting those deep, dark eyes of hers. Since they'd become a staple in his daily life, he no longer really noticed them anymore, as with most things a person saw on a regular basis. But god, they were undeniably the most captivating big, brown eyes he'd ever seen. Not even Kendra (his sister's youngest) could rival the expressive round eyes of Merri Brody (not that he would ever say such a thing to his sister or his beloved, doe-eyed niece).

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, holding him completely captive, as well as captivated by her dark eyes.

Because you've become one of the most important people in my life.

Because I talk to my family about everything, except for when it comes to problems with my family, I find myself talking to you.

Because you're the only one who allows me to come to you, who hasn't tried to force me to talk and 'face my grief' since Savannah died.

Because it hurts me to see you sad.

"Because yer my friend," he said, not feeling like he'd chickened out, but rather that the explanation held all of the reasons. It was the only reason necessary. And were her eyes a little shiny and wet when she nodded her head in mute acceptance? He didn't have time to determine whether she'd teared up, for she turned away slightly, taking a drink of her wine.

He shrugged, pulled the last item, the out of the bag, the bottle of brandy, and then proceeded to fold up the brown paper.

"So, what're you making?" she asked, the vulnerable moment washed away, replaced by her usual easy confidence.

"Coq Au Vin," he said, pulling the recipe out of his jeans' pocket. One of his mama's. Only with some slight alterations. "Only instead of the standard chicken, I though I'd use some Cornish Game Hens."

"Looks like you've got three of them," Brody said, pointing out the packages of the bird carcasses on the table before taking another sip of her wine that did nothing to hide her sly smile.

Well, he knew she'd be on to him rather quick in this game. But that wasn't about to stop him from doing his damnest to cheer his friend up. His friend with gorgeous brown eyes and the most alluringly round ass, which he wasn't going to think about at all while he cooked dinner for her. And ate with her. And kept her company for as long as she'd tolerate him.

But probably not get drunk with her on a Sunday night when they had to be into the office the next morning... Unless she used those damned doe-eyes on him.

They had the power to make him cave like a Kentucky coal mine.

A/N: Not romancing her, my ass, Chris LaSalle! But will he realize what he's subconsciously doing? And what will Merri's reaction be to this more intimate sort of friendship?