Since You Went Away - Chapter Nine: The Cutting Edge
Title: Since You Went Away - Chapter Nine: The Cutting Edge
Authors: i-must-go-first & UbiquitousMixie
Fandom: Brenda/Sharon, The Closer
Rating: PG-13 (Overall M)
Word Count: 6134
Disclaimer: Not ours. Please don’t sue.
Summary: A late-night craving and a coincidental meeting lead a certain deputy chief to discover that there’s much more to the inimitable Captain Raydor than meets the eye, and to realize that her mama was right: sometimes all a single woman really needs is a good girlfriend.
Authors’ Note: It appears that we have lost most of our readers, but for those of you who have faithfully stuck by us (Moasaicburst, it’s your lucky day!), we present to you one of our personal favorite chapters.
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“Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”
Sharon’s reply was a patented Raydor glare, its vitriol diminished only slightly by the fact that she was cocooning her left hand in a wad of paper towels and dripping blood on the deputy chief’s kitchen floor. “It’s fine. Hand me another Band-Aid.”
Brenda did more than that, carefully applying the bandage to the ugly slash marring the side of Sharon’s index finger. Blood immediately soaked through the padding, staining it a dirty crimson. “That’s the third one,” Brenda pointed out.
“I think I should sit down,” Sharon responded as if in answer to Brenda’s comment, and the blonde unceremoniously shoved her into one of the chairs in the eating area. “This is fucking humiliating,” the brunette grumbled, and despite herself Brenda emitted a yelp of laughter at hearing that word from her friend’s lips.
“I blame my mama,” Brenda retorted, which wasn’t precisely true but garnered a pained smile from the other woman. It had, after all, been Willie Rae’s suggestion that Brenda Leigh consider actually using her kitchen for cooking something more than mashed potatoes.
“You’ve finally unpacked,” the older Johnson woman had said during their weekly phone call, and the deputy chief had briefly entertained the possibility that her mother was psychic and as such would be an asset to the LAPD. Then Willie Rae had added, “I can tell, because your voice isn’t so echo-y. Now, are you puttin’ that kitchen to good use?”
Willie Rae had long ago dismissed any fantasies of turning her daughter into a modern-day Betty Crocker, assuming she’d ever harbored any in the first place. But she knew said daughter liked to eat, and worried about both the expense and nutritional value of a diet consisting entirely of take-out.
“I don’t really have time for cookin’, Mama, or the patience. I’m tired and hungry when I get home from work.”
“There are simple things you could make. Cookin’ doesn’t have to be a production, Brenda Leigh. What about that pasta dish Sharon made? You told me you liked that, and it sounded real simple.”
True...
“I bet she has a few other things she could show you how to make too, honey. And the two of you have been spendin’ a good bit of time together, haven’t you? Why don’t you ask her?”
Brenda had contemplated her mother’s suggestion and decided it appealed to her on several different levels. First, she had liked that pasta. Second, being able to prepare a few basic but reliable meals sounded like something the new and improved, single Brenda ought to know how to do. And finally, if she was being honest, it sounded like a nice, neutral thing she could do with her friend in the wake of last Friday night’s rather -- odd -- experience at the pool table. The two women had encountered each other several times at work the following week, in the corridors and in the break room, and each time they’d stopped and chatted; but Sharon, who wasn’t very good at disguising social awkwardness, had seemed a little uncomfortable, just a touch. If Brenda thought too hard about it, she was just a touch uncomfortable too.
Sharon had agreed readily to the deputy chief’s suggestion via text message that she come over Friday night for an informal cooking lesson. Ever the efficient, organized captain, she had then emailed Brenda an itemized shopping list. What a few months ago would have annoyed the younger woman to no end only made her chuckle.
“Maybe you should elevate it,” Brenda suggested now, anxiously, watching Sharon’s blood soak through more paper towels.
“Oh, right,” Sharon muttered, and did so, sluggishly. “Um, Brenda?” Her voice was uncharacteristically meek. “I think I might throw up.”
Brenda’s eyes widened. “I hope you don’t...” she said worriedly, turning her back for a moment. She dumped the mixing bowl of chopped garlic, onions, and peppers onto the blood-stained chopping board, turning back to the table. She set the bowl in front of Sharon’s pale face. “I’m happy to be that friend who holds your hair while you puke, but I can’t guarantee that I won’t throw up too.” To demonstrate her friendly intentions, Brenda reached for Sharon’s hair and was quickly swatted away by Sharon’s uninjured hand.
The paper towel slipped, revealing the fact that the bleeding most definitely had not stopped. Sharon tipped her head back, sucking in great lungfuls of air, looking greener than ever.
“All right, that’s it. Time to go to the doctor.”
“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” Sharon snapped, her tone icy. She lifted her hand and grimaced as she focused fully on her cooking wound. “Okay. I need to go to the hospital.”
Brenda helped the woman to her feet and rifled through a drawer for a clean dishtowel, replacing the sodden napkins. She pressed it to her friend’s trembling hand. “There now. We’ll get this fixed up in a jiffy.”
“We’ll be waiting in the emergency room for an eternity,” Sharon commented with disapproval, lingering by the door while Brenda grabbed their purses, keys, and cell phones.
“No we won’t. I’ll just flash ‘em my badge and hurry things along.” They headed toward the stairwell, Brenda clinging to her friend’s elbow as they steadily descended the staircase.
“This isn’t official police business.”
“Have you seen my kitchen? It looks like a crime scene!” Brenda forced a breathless chuckle, holding open the front door. “Look, I’m sorry about this...”
“It’s fine,” Sharon said, using that tone that indicated to Brenda that things were definitely not fine.
The blonde worried her lip as she helped Sharon into the car. She’d never seen her so rattled before and found the sight of it more jarring than the stark red of the blood that had stained her purple blouse. Brenda had no idea that a finger could bleed so much and wondered if Sharon was anemic, finally deciding with the utmost tact that she’d leave the doctor to inquire about her iron intake instead.
“Really though,” Brenda continued, sliding her key into the ignition. “If you wanted to play doctor this bad, all you had to do was ask. You didn’t have to slice off your finger.”
Sharon laughed meekly. “I didn’t slice it off.”
“Showin’ off all fancy-like with your knives didn’t do you any good,” Brenda teased as she drove. “You didn’t need to impress me.”
Sharon winced, the sting of her cut distracting her momentarily. “Why? Have I already succeeded in impressing you?”
“Of course you have!” Brenda exclaimed, as if it should have been perfectly obvious.
“You know, you’re not so great at flirting when you’re worried.” The brunette looked over at her when the car slowed at a red light. “It’s just a little cut.”
Sharon then made the mistake of looking down at said “little cut” and gulped loudly, clapping her uninjured hand over her mouth. “Pull over!” she exclaimed frantically. “Pulloverpullover!”
The other woman managed to comply, no easy feat in Los Angeles (although at least it wasn’t rush hour), and cringed as she listened to the captain empty the contents of her stomach onto the roadside. After a moment Sharon sat up and slammed the door, no longer green but ghastly pale, and indelicately swiped the back of her left hand across her mouth. “Drive,” she breathed. She was silent for the rest of the ride, in no frame of mind to make any more jokes about Brenda flirting.
The deputy chief insisted Sharon find a seat in the ER waiting room and let her deal with the desk staff, and for once the stubborn captain made no effort to protest. She was slumped against the wall in a dingy orange chair, her head tipped back and her eyes closed, when Brenda found her a few minutes later. Her pallor was enough to give Brenda, who had seen dying gunshot victims and corpses a-plenty and knew Sharon wasn’t going to die of a cut finger, pause, and she spoke a little too loudly, eager to see those green eyes open.
“They said it’d be just a little while,” she announced brightly.
“That’s what they always say,” Sharon retorted grimly, squinting at the clipboard Brenda held against her hip. “Here, give me that.”
“I’ll fill it out for you.”
Sharon started to roll her eyes, but then thought better of it as her head swam.
“What, now you’re ambidextrous?” The blonde sent a pointed look in the direction of Sharon’s bloody right hand. “Besides, I bet I already know most of this stuff anyway,” Brenda added.
The older woman shot her an exceedingly dubious look, momentarily distracted from the pain -- it no longer seemed localized in her finger, but radiated hotly throughout her hand and up her arm -- and, what was worse, the waves of nausea rolling over her.
The blonde was a little embarrassed to find herself stymied by the first item on the page, “full name.” “Sharon Raydor?” she asked tentatively.
“Get my driver’s license out of my wallet, and my insurance card,” Sharon (make that Sharon Jane Raydor, d.o.b. September 12, 1957) suggested, and with those aids Brenda made it through the basic information section and flipped the page with a flourish.
“Okay, medical history. At what age did you experience the onset of menses?”
Sharon’s eyes widened. “‘The onset of menses’? That’s not on there.” Brenda tilted the clipboard toward her to exhibit the offending question, and the captain grumbled, “I’m not wearing my glasses.”
“Well then, you’ll have to take my word for it. So, at what age did you --”
“Make something up.”
“Come on, Sharon.”
“Twelve. I was twelve.”
“An early bloomer.” Filling in the blank, the blonde nodded sagaciously. “I shoulda known. Childhood illnesses?”
“I can’t remember that far back; I’m too old.”
“Why can you make jokes about your age, and I can’t?” Brenda asked petulantly.
“Because it’s my age. Just check all the usual ones.”
“Anythin’ unusual?”
“I had the Bubonic plague in 1362.”
“Major surgeries?”
“Lost a leg at Appomatox Courthouse.”
Brenda Leigh sneered with disgust. “You are no help, Sharon Raydor.”
“Like that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
“I think you’re gettin’ punchy from blood loss. You want me to go get you a soda or somethin’?”
“Just finish the damn form, okay? What’s next?”
“Sexual history.”
“For a cut finger?” Sharon practically howled, drawing the attention of several other prospective patients waiting nearby.
“I don’t think they have specific forms for individual ailments,” Brenda pointed out wryly. “Can you imagine all the paperwork that would generate? The ‘I ploughed my car into a telephone pole’ form, the ‘I have a mysterious rash’ form, the ‘I shot myself in the foot’ form...”
“It would be just like working in IA,” Sharon replied a little deliriously.
The younger woman arched an eyebrow, considering that sad state of (internal) affairs. “Sexual history,” she repeated doggedly.
“Not applicable,” Sharon grouchily instructed.
“There’s no ticky box for that,” Brenda replied. “Besides, you’ve had two babies, so unless you’ve only had sex just that once--”
“No, Brenda Leigh, I didn’t. I happened to have a mostly satisfying sex life, thankyouverymuch.”
“Happened? Is it over?”
Sharon huffed out a breath. “No.”
“Hey, I didn’t write the form. It wants to know if you’re sexually active.”
“Not at the moment.”
“When was the last time?”
Sharon imperiously arched an eyebrow. “I know for a fact that’s not on the form.”
The blonde smiled impishly. “No, it’s not. I was just curious...I bet it’s been less time for you than it has for me.” She paused. “Has it?”
“I have no idea, Brenda. Tell you what--when we get out of here, we can sync up our appointment books and compare notes. Maybe we can even figure out when we’ll be cycling together.”
“Ha ha,” Brenda quipped dryly. “So was that a yes or a no for bein’ sexually active?”
“I don’t know,” Sharon replied, swallowing back a queasy tremor. Her tongue felt like sandpaper.
“I wonder how that works,” the younger woman mused. “Do they think that when you’ve lost your virginity, some sorta switch is flipped on to signify that you’re sexually active? Or does it depend on how often you do it?”
“Why don’t you go ask someone?” Sharon hinted impatiently.
“I haven’t finished this yet,” Brenda said. “No STDs, right?”
Sharon narrowed her eyes.
“Okay--that’s a no then.”
There was a momentary lapse in conversation, for which Sharon was grateful. She listened to the stroke of the pen, assuming that Brenda had gone on to fill out the blank spaces that she actually knew the answers to. After another moment of silence, during which time Sharon could focus solely on the throbbing in her hand, she turned back to Brenda. “What are you writing now?”
“I’m fillin’ my name in the emergency contact part.”
“You’re not--”
“Now listen,” Brenda said, pointing a stern finger at her friend. “There are two spots here. I can put in whoever you want in the first spot, but I think I should be in the second one.”
“I could be bleeding out from a gunshot wound and you could be ignoring your calls at a crime scene. How comforting.”
“I wouldn’t let you go through any of that alone.”
Sharon’s dour expression mellowed as she read the fierce sincerity in the other woman’s chocolate-colored eyes. “All right,” she said slowly. “Then you should put me down as your emergency contact too.”
Brenda smiled. “I will,” she agreed, touched. It had also just occurred to her that her ex-husband’s name occupied the like place in her personnel file, and if Sharon wasn’t up for the responsibility, she had no idea whose name she could put to replace Fritz’s. Will’s? Provenza’s? The thought made her snort.
“What’s funny?” Sharon asked faintly.
“Nothin’.” Removing her reading glasses and tucking them into the neck of her cotton top, Brenda Leigh rose swiftly to her feet. “I’m gonna go see what’s takin’ so long.”
The dark-haired woman subsided against the wall, for once in agreement with the deputy chief’s characteristic impatience.
Brenda seemed to be gone a long time, although Sharon knew her idea of time was probably dilated, measured, as it was, by each slow throb of her right hand. She tried not to think of her daughter, which was worse than simply surrendering and letting the thoughts pour in; but Sharon didn’t know how to process emotion without a struggle. Here she was, impatient and queasy because of a little cut on her finger. How had her baby girl’s body been torn, mangled, miles away from any medical attention or a friendly face? What had she felt?
The brightest possibility was that she’d felt nothing at all.
Because Sharon’s secret, a mother’s secret, the one she carried silently in her heart, was the certainty that Vivien was dead.
Her eyes fell on the dark fluid staining the cheerful green and white dish towel wrapped around her offending finger, and she reeled.
“Sharon?”
Suddenly Brenda was beside her, crouching by her uncomfortable plastic chair, her features scrunched with anxiety. The older woman turned toward her, but it took her a few seconds to focus, blinking hazily.
“Blood loss,” said another voice. “Don’t worry. Come on, Ms. Raydor, and we’ll get you fixed up. Do you need a wheelchair?”
Sharon had recovered enough to scowl, and she felt Brenda Leigh’s sharp little fingers gripping her arm. “I’ll help her,” the blonde said quickly, knowing Sharon wouldn’t suffer such an indignity unless she was on the point of death.
The resident who briskly jabbed the captain with a local anaesthetic and went about suturing up her finger was unusually cheerful and reminded Sharon of Daniel’s boyfriend, Kai. “So what happened?”
Green eyes sliced into Brenda as surely as the knife had sliced into Sharon’s finger, daring the younger woman to say anything. “Kitchen accident,” the brunette replied briefly, her curious gaze never deviating from what the young man was doing to her finger. Brenda tried for a few seconds to watch, but her stomach roiled, and she quickly returned her focus to her friend’s calm face.
“You really did a number on it.” The doctor sounded half admiring, half disgusted. “I can refer you to a plastic surgeon, if you’d like.”
Sharon’s eyebrows crept toward her hairline. She was plainly unimpressed. “For my finger.”
The doctor nodded. “You’re gonna have a scar.”
“And will it impede mobility? Function?” Sharon asked brusquely. At the negative shake of his head, Sharon rolled her eyes. “No, thank you.” Her eyes found Brenda’s across the small cubicle. “Los Angeles,” the captain muttered. “Typical.”
“You’d be surprised,” the doctor continued, his fingers maneuvering the suturing needles with practised ease. “It is L.A.” He tied off the final stitch. “Seven stitches should do it. You’ll want to keep this elevated and schedule an appointment to have these removed.”
Sharon nodded as he wrapped her finger in gauze, instructing her in how she should care for and clean the cut. She noted that as he spoke, he divided his eye contact between both women in the curtained off area. Brenda nodded dutifully, eyeing Sharon sternly as if to imply that she’d clean the cut herself if necessary.
Exhaustion and weariness settled heavily over the captain. She thought longingly of her bed, of soft billowy blankets and the blissful emptiness of sleep. She allowed herself to be steered through the emergency room, grateful for Brenda’s silence. The press of Brenda’s fingers on her waist was entirely comforting and unsettling, but she said nothing, deferring for once the care and responsibility of her well-being. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d allowed someone else to look after her--had she even allowed Paul to act as caregiver, or had that role always been hers alone? She was testing unfamiliar waters; whether or not she could blame it on the blood loss, Sharon ruefully admitted to herself that she liked it.
“Let’s get you home,” Brenda said, buckling the captain’s seat belt for her. She tucked Sharon’s purse onto the floor beside her feet, pausing for a moment to brush back a stray lock of the older woman’s hair that had fallen across her brow.
Sharon blinked into the darkness of the parking garage as Brenda rounded the front of the car, observing her with detached interest as Brenda slid into the driver’s seat. “My car is at your house,” she mumbled.
“Don’t you worry about that. I’ll bring it over in the mornin’. We’re gonna get you into some clean clothes, make you some soup, and get you into bed.”
“I don’t think I’m comfortable with you in my kitchen.”
Brenda chuckled. “Even I cannot screw up Campbell’s. You need somethin’ on your stomach. And don’t you even think of arguin’ with me or I’ll handcuff you to the chair and spoon feed you myself.”
Sharon smiled. “All right, mom.”
“So much for cookin’ lessons,” the blonde said with a wistful sigh. “I’m really sorry, Sharon.”
“These things happen.”
“I don’t like seein’ you hurt. You scared me.” Brenda caught her eye when she slowed for a red light. “Don’t do that again, okay?”
“I have no plans for a repeat performance.”
“Good.”
Sharon dozed during the remainder of the drive, her head slumped against the cool glass of the window. She was disoriented when she awoke to find Brenda rifling through her purse for her keys, and found it stranger yet when Brenda was all hands when she helped her to the door. But it was just as well. To her mortification, Sharon felt her legs tremble beneath her. Some big, bad-ass policewoman she was, felled by a knife wound incurred while chopping an onion, just as she’d sternly said to Brenda Leigh, “Now, be careful not to hold the knife this way, because you’ll cut yourself.”
She hadn’t intended her demonstration of the wrong chopping technique to be quite so thorough, but she still wasn’t sure why the younger woman was being so apologetic. It wasn’t like she had sliced into Sharon’s finger; she had only her own stupidity to blame.
Brenda’s hip bumped hers, jostling her, as they stepped over the threshold into Sharon’s darkened house. Sharon sucked in a quick breath.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
Sharon didn’t answer. Her heart was beating rapidly and she was pretty sure the Tylenol with codeine had finally kicked in.
“You sit down.” Brenda bumped around the living room until she located a reading lamp and switched it on. “I’ll go make the soup. -- Or do you have anything as plebeian as canned soup?”
Sharon smiled tiredly. “In the cabinet to the right of the trash can.”
Brenda disappeared into the kitchen and immediately began to make an ungodly racket, but Sharon didn’t sit down. She had only one coherent thought: clean clothes, and clean hands. An R.N. had carefully cleaned her wounded hand, but the left was still spattered with blood, and she felt filthy. A hot shower sounded heavenly, but also like way too much effort, given the strict orders she’d received not to get her stitches wet.
She kicked off her shoes just inside the door, where she’d probably trip over them later, perhaps necessitating a return visit to the emergency room, and padded down the hallway to her bedroom. She flipped the overhead light on with her ‘good’ hand, the right one still elevated -- not only was her shoulder beginning to throb like a son of a bitch from the strain, but she felt like an idiot, like she was constantly waiting for the teacher to call on her -- opened the closet door, and realized she had a problem.
Buttons.
“Okay,” she muttered under her breath with a sigh, glad that at least she wasn’t wearing a blazer. The blouse shouldn’t be that difficult to manage one-handed, but the jeans would be harder. Still, she assured herself, she could do it, as long as she retained her patience and moved slowly.
And she did, very carefully working the cotton blouse, formerly purple, over her injured hand, and sitting on the edge of the bed to peel her jeans and socks down her legs.
She got distracted, though, by the realization that she had a more serious problem.
Hooks.
Bra hooks, to be precise.
She thought briefly of just leaving the thing on and worrying about it later, but then imagined spending the entire weekend trapped in her Victoria’s Secret brassiere -- not even one of her really good ones, but one of the second-stringers she kept for days when she needed to do laundry, a basic, no-frills white number that was slightly dingy around the edges. Sleeping in it, showering in it: the images would’ve been laughable if her hand hadn’t begun to throb again and she didn’t feel quite so much like sobbing from exhaustion and embarrassment.
And then a voice called out, “Soup’s on. Sharon?”
Quick, graceless footsteps pounded down the hall. “Sharon, why aren’t you restin’? Are you okay?”
Sharon sighed heavily, a movement that elongated every fatigued muscle in her body. Her back was to the doorway, but she knew Brenda was standing there now, uncertain whether she should blithely blunder in or apologize and retreat, given the other woman’s state of undress. Her hesitation somehow made this worse.
“I think,” Sharon pronounced gravely and with great dignity, “I need some help, chief.”
“All right. I’m comin’ in,” Brenda announced, pausing for a moment to allow Sharon a moment to do--whatever she may have needed to do. Sharon sat, lethargic and heavy, on the edge of the bed and waited.
For reasons that Brenda could not understand, she blushed immediately upon seeing Sharon’s shirtless back. She took a quiet, deep breath, hoping to force the color from her cheeks before she brightly said, “Where do you keep your pajamas?”
“Top drawer on the right,” Sharon replied, gesturing faintly with a tilt of her head toward the large dresser. It was curious to see Brenda so awkward as she crossed the distance of the room to rifle through her things, her head firmly pointed away from her. Brenda’s shyness about Sharon’s partial nudity only made Sharon burn hotter with embarrassment. She huffed impatiently.
Brenda quickly apologized, grabbing a pair of linen pajama bottoms and a Disneyland t-shirt. She hid a smirk, trying to imagine the older woman posing with Mickey Mouse and two small children or, perhaps, her granddaughter. The shirt was worn and soft, which was why she chose it. Whenever she felt unwell or down, she often opted for the comfort of her rattiest, oldest pajamas. “This all right?” she asked, holding up her selection.
Sharon nodded.
Brenda came quietly to the bed, taking up the t-shirt. She gathered the fabric in her hands and slipped it over Sharon’s head, allowing it to drape loosely over her chest. She cleared her throat, hoping that her attempt at preserving Sharon’s dignity would be appreciated, and reached around to unclasp her bra.
“Jesus, Brenda, your hands are freezing.”
Brenda fumbled the strap, grazing her knuckles against Sharon’s back. “If I’d realized I was givin’ you the full treatment, I’d have warmed them up beforehand.” She took up the strap again with earnest, quickly parting the hooks from the eyes. She stayed close like this, looking down at the smooth expanse of her shoulders, the little dips of her spine, the sparse freckles decorating her back. She hadn’t realized until now just how warm Sharon was, how she radiated body heat. Focusing on this and not on the fact that she was about to take off Sharon Raydor’s bra, Brenda slipped the straps from her shoulders. She discarded the bra on the floor and, taking great pains to avoid accidentally seeing something she wasn’t meant to, she guided Sharon’s arms through the short sleeves of the shirt and pulled it down over her torso.
“There now,” Brenda said, kneeling down before her. “Askin’ for help isn’t so bad, is it?”
Sharon shrugged her shoulders noncommittally, and Brenda realized that she was blushing. She much preferred this look to the sickly pallor that had previously stained her cheeks.
There was no way for Brenda to take off Sharon’s jeans and maintain her modesty, so Brenda simply reached for the button and snapped it open, careful to keep her knuckles from brushing against the skin of her stomach. Still, she felt the tense flutter of the other woman’s abdominal muscles as she carefully began to peel the fabric down, trying to touch her as little as possible, but ‘as little as possible’ turned out to be quite a bit when you were divesting someone of skin-tight denim. The captain was warm here too, all soft skin and strong muscle, and good Lord, had Brenda realized Sharon’s legs were this long? She wasn’t that much taller than Brenda herself, but her legs went on for yards. Fascinated, the blonde reached out and placed her open palm on Sharon’s knee, and when she realized what she’d done they both jumped. Brenda emitted a strangled, startled little laugh and Sharon said, “Careful, don’t scratch yourself -- I didn’t bother shaving today.”
The fine stubble on that smooth flesh wasn’t what Brenda’s thoughts had been focused on, and she felt her cheeks heat. She grabbed blindly for the pajama bottoms she’d selected, and Sharon obediently stepped into them as quickly as possible. When Brenda had skimmed the fabric up past her knees, Sharon’s right hand covered hers.
“Thanks,” she mumbled hastily. “I can take it from here.”
Brenda popped to her feet as if her shoes had springs in them and nodded energetically. “Okay. I’ll just go check on the soup.”
That, she thought as she scampered down the hall, had been a stupid thing to say, because there wasn’t much “checking” involved in heating up a can of Campbell’s finest tomato, but at least it had gotten her out of near proximity to a barely-clothed Sharon Raydor. And then despite herself, as she lackadaisically stirred the hot soup to keep it from sticking or forming that unpleasant film on top, Brenda wondered just why they’d both been so uncomfortable. No matter what her boys might think of her, the deputy chief knew she wasn’t a prude; and Sharon didn’t strike her as one either. Not only had Sharon given birth to two children -- which, although Brenda’s knowledge was limited, she thought entailed showing the most intimate parts of your anatomy to a variety of concerned strangers -- but the two of them had had that vibrator conversation a while back. Maybe, Brenda thought, unconvinced, that was what happened when you weren’t having someone regularly see you naked. You got all jumpy about it.
“Do you think your culinary skills extend to making a grilled cheese to go with that?” Sharon asked in that wry tone of hers as she shuffled into the kitchen, her feet now covered in thick gray wool socks.
“Absolutely,” the younger woman chirped brightly. “You’ve gotta keep your strength up, what with all that blood loss.”
Sharon cringed as she flopped down at her kitchen table. “Your kitchen’s a mess, Brenda. I’m sorry.”
The blonde shrugged it off. “You think I can call in one of those cleanin’ crews that do crime scenes?” she teased.
“I often wonder the same thing after Clarissa spends the weekend here,” the captain retorted, and then her expression transformed to one of dismay. “Oh, shit. Clarissa.”
“What about her?” Brenda asked, immediately concerned, as she looked over her shoulder from her perusal of the cheese and meat drawer of Sharon’s refrigerator. Of course the woman didn’t have Kraft singles; apparently Brenda was expected to hack away at the block of sharp cheddar.
Sharon’s shoulders had slumped -- or at least her left shoulder had slumped. There wasn’t much she could do with her right, since she’d propped her elbow on the back of the chair beside her to take the strain off her muscles as she continued to ‘elevate.’ “This is my weekend with her. Normally I pick her up after work on Fridays, but since you asked me to come over, I told Paul I’d get her in the morning. I’m not foolish enough to think I can keep up with a very active two-year-old with this thing.” She jerked her chin at her hand, disgusted. “I’ll have to call and cancel. I hope they don’t have plans.”
Brenda bit her lower lip. Her friend looked even more dejected than she had earlier that evening as they’d waited in the ER. Briefly she considered suggesting that Sharon call her son and ask if he was free to do the heavy-lifting involved in caring for a toddler, but reconsidered. Sharon had voluntarily shortened her time with her granddaughter to do a favor for Brenda, and that was what had led to this whole mess. There seemed to be only one obvious solution.
“You don’t have to cancel. I’ll help you.”
The older woman looked as though she were about to object, had even puckered her lips to form the words, but then her face softened. “All right. That would be nice.”
Brenda grinned. “I’m lookin’ forward to meetin’ her.” She unwrapped the block of cheese, dropping it onto the chopping block, and reached for a knife.
A sense of deja vu washed over Sharon as if she’d been doused with cold water. “Wait!” She pointed to the drawer beside Brenda’s hip. “I have a slicer in there.”
The blonde chuckled and reached into the drawer for the aforementioned cheese slicer. “Are you worried about little ol’ me?”
“If you follow my lead, you’ll be on your own getting to the hospital.”
Brenda moved about Sharon’s kitchen with easy familiarity, pulling out bread and butter and a frying pan without having to stop and ask for directions. It made Sharon feel warm inside, made her feel like Brenda had somehow managed to belong there, like a permanent fixture. It no longer seemed surreal that Brenda had become an integral part of her personal life; it simply felt good.
“You’re not so bad in a kitchen,” Sharon pondered after a moment of watching Brenda simultaneously stir the soup and check the heat of the frying pan.
The blonde smiled over her shoulder before setting the first grilled cheese onto the moderately heated pan, listening to its sizzle with satisfaction. “I lived on grilled cheese in college. It’s the more difficult stuff that I have trouble with.” She twisted her mouth in consideration. “No--it’s the other stuff I don’t have the patience for.”
“Because you want everything right away without having to do the work.”
“I don’t mind doin’ the work--”
“When you know it won’t be done right if someone else does it for you.” Sharon smirked at Brenda’s arched eyebrow. “Perhaps your next bad batch of take-out will motivate you to try again...without the bloodshed.”
“Don’t curse my take-out!” Brenda shrieked, wielding her spatula in the brunette’s direction. She turned back to the grilled cheese, flipping the sandwich to cook on the other side. The top slice was a perfect golden brown, and Brenda let out a relieved breath. She would never have lived down the humiliation of ruining grilled cheese--ever. Allowing it a moment to cook, Brenda set about retrieving two bowls, spoons, and a ladle for the soup. “There now--dinner’s just about ready. You’re not gonna throw up again, are you?”
Sharon shook her head, her thick hair framing her face. “I’ll warn you if I do.”
“Good.” She moved the sandwich onto a little plate and cut it in half diagonally, just like her mama used to do for her lunch every day. She ladled out a bowl of soup and carefully set everything in front of Sharon, placing out cutlery and an unasked-for glass of water.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the natural caretaker,” Sharon replied, mystified. She paid little attention to the other woman as she started the second grilled cheese, focusing instead on her now-ravenous hunger.
“I’m not. I’m really not.” Brenda kept her back to the other woman as a wave of emotion clouded her features. “It’s nice to be needed though.”
Sharon considered as she moved the deliciously gloppy melted cheese around in her mouth. She couldn’t quite bring herself to say that it was nice to need someone; but still, maybe it was. And if not exactly that, then it was definitely nice to know there was someone there in case Sharon did need her. The thought made her smirk into her tomato soup. Who would ever have imagined that that person would be Brenda Leigh Johnson?
“Well,” she said aloud, “you’ll get your fair share of being needed this weekend, I promise. Even very independent toddlers require a lot of attention.”
“Your granddaughter is very independent? What a shock.”
“Like her mother,” Sharon commented, and then was quiet a moment. Brenda sat down opposite her with her own sandwich and bowl of soup, the fare doing much to transport her back to her days of living in the dorms. She imagined how her life might have been different if she and Sharon Raydor had become good friends in college, the kind who sat together on a quiet night in, eating grilled cheese and talking about life and all the possibilities that seem so vast when you’re on the threshold of everything.
“You know, Brenda, I really appreciate your offer to help, but are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” Sharon asked cautiously, interrupting her reverie.
“I’m a fast learner,” the deputy chief responded blithely.
“Maybe I should at least call Paul and see if Clarissa can just spend the day, and go home in the evening.”
Brenda frowned fiercely. “Don’t you dare!” she exclaimed. “Don’t disturb your usual routine. If she usually stays overnight, then she’s stayin’ overnight. We’ll have a slumber party.” She took a first, heavenly bite of her own sandwich and let bliss wash over her, relishing it for a moment before smiling brightly. “Besides, I’m a deputy chief of the LAPD. I solve homicides for a livin’. I interview leaders of drug cartels and hardened bangers. How much trouble can one little girl possibly be?”
Sharon said nothing, but watched her friend with wide, grave eyes that suggested she had serious doubts about the proposition, and that Brenda Leigh might very well be eating her words rather than grilled cheese for tomorrow night’s dinner.
---
Authors: i-must-go-first & UbiquitousMixie
Fandom: Brenda/Sharon, The Closer
Rating: PG-13 (Overall M)
Word Count: 6134
Disclaimer: Not ours. Please don’t sue.
Summary: A late-night craving and a coincidental meeting lead a certain deputy chief to discover that there’s much more to the inimitable Captain Raydor than meets the eye, and to realize that her mama was right: sometimes all a single woman really needs is a good girlfriend.
Authors’ Note: It appears that we have lost most of our readers, but for those of you who have faithfully stuck by us (Moasaicburst, it’s your lucky day!), we present to you one of our personal favorite chapters.
-
“Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”
Sharon’s reply was a patented Raydor glare, its vitriol diminished only slightly by the fact that she was cocooning her left hand in a wad of paper towels and dripping blood on the deputy chief’s kitchen floor. “It’s fine. Hand me another Band-Aid.”
Brenda did more than that, carefully applying the bandage to the ugly slash marring the side of Sharon’s index finger. Blood immediately soaked through the padding, staining it a dirty crimson. “That’s the third one,” Brenda pointed out.
“I think I should sit down,” Sharon responded as if in answer to Brenda’s comment, and the blonde unceremoniously shoved her into one of the chairs in the eating area. “This is fucking humiliating,” the brunette grumbled, and despite herself Brenda emitted a yelp of laughter at hearing that word from her friend’s lips.
“I blame my mama,” Brenda retorted, which wasn’t precisely true but garnered a pained smile from the other woman. It had, after all, been Willie Rae’s suggestion that Brenda Leigh consider actually using her kitchen for cooking something more than mashed potatoes.
“You’ve finally unpacked,” the older Johnson woman had said during their weekly phone call, and the deputy chief had briefly entertained the possibility that her mother was psychic and as such would be an asset to the LAPD. Then Willie Rae had added, “I can tell, because your voice isn’t so echo-y. Now, are you puttin’ that kitchen to good use?”
Willie Rae had long ago dismissed any fantasies of turning her daughter into a modern-day Betty Crocker, assuming she’d ever harbored any in the first place. But she knew said daughter liked to eat, and worried about both the expense and nutritional value of a diet consisting entirely of take-out.
“I don’t really have time for cookin’, Mama, or the patience. I’m tired and hungry when I get home from work.”
“There are simple things you could make. Cookin’ doesn’t have to be a production, Brenda Leigh. What about that pasta dish Sharon made? You told me you liked that, and it sounded real simple.”
True...
“I bet she has a few other things she could show you how to make too, honey. And the two of you have been spendin’ a good bit of time together, haven’t you? Why don’t you ask her?”
Brenda had contemplated her mother’s suggestion and decided it appealed to her on several different levels. First, she had liked that pasta. Second, being able to prepare a few basic but reliable meals sounded like something the new and improved, single Brenda ought to know how to do. And finally, if she was being honest, it sounded like a nice, neutral thing she could do with her friend in the wake of last Friday night’s rather -- odd -- experience at the pool table. The two women had encountered each other several times at work the following week, in the corridors and in the break room, and each time they’d stopped and chatted; but Sharon, who wasn’t very good at disguising social awkwardness, had seemed a little uncomfortable, just a touch. If Brenda thought too hard about it, she was just a touch uncomfortable too.
Sharon had agreed readily to the deputy chief’s suggestion via text message that she come over Friday night for an informal cooking lesson. Ever the efficient, organized captain, she had then emailed Brenda an itemized shopping list. What a few months ago would have annoyed the younger woman to no end only made her chuckle.
“Maybe you should elevate it,” Brenda suggested now, anxiously, watching Sharon’s blood soak through more paper towels.
“Oh, right,” Sharon muttered, and did so, sluggishly. “Um, Brenda?” Her voice was uncharacteristically meek. “I think I might throw up.”
Brenda’s eyes widened. “I hope you don’t...” she said worriedly, turning her back for a moment. She dumped the mixing bowl of chopped garlic, onions, and peppers onto the blood-stained chopping board, turning back to the table. She set the bowl in front of Sharon’s pale face. “I’m happy to be that friend who holds your hair while you puke, but I can’t guarantee that I won’t throw up too.” To demonstrate her friendly intentions, Brenda reached for Sharon’s hair and was quickly swatted away by Sharon’s uninjured hand.
The paper towel slipped, revealing the fact that the bleeding most definitely had not stopped. Sharon tipped her head back, sucking in great lungfuls of air, looking greener than ever.
“All right, that’s it. Time to go to the doctor.”
“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” Sharon snapped, her tone icy. She lifted her hand and grimaced as she focused fully on her cooking wound. “Okay. I need to go to the hospital.”
Brenda helped the woman to her feet and rifled through a drawer for a clean dishtowel, replacing the sodden napkins. She pressed it to her friend’s trembling hand. “There now. We’ll get this fixed up in a jiffy.”
“We’ll be waiting in the emergency room for an eternity,” Sharon commented with disapproval, lingering by the door while Brenda grabbed their purses, keys, and cell phones.
“No we won’t. I’ll just flash ‘em my badge and hurry things along.” They headed toward the stairwell, Brenda clinging to her friend’s elbow as they steadily descended the staircase.
“This isn’t official police business.”
“Have you seen my kitchen? It looks like a crime scene!” Brenda forced a breathless chuckle, holding open the front door. “Look, I’m sorry about this...”
“It’s fine,” Sharon said, using that tone that indicated to Brenda that things were definitely not fine.
The blonde worried her lip as she helped Sharon into the car. She’d never seen her so rattled before and found the sight of it more jarring than the stark red of the blood that had stained her purple blouse. Brenda had no idea that a finger could bleed so much and wondered if Sharon was anemic, finally deciding with the utmost tact that she’d leave the doctor to inquire about her iron intake instead.
“Really though,” Brenda continued, sliding her key into the ignition. “If you wanted to play doctor this bad, all you had to do was ask. You didn’t have to slice off your finger.”
Sharon laughed meekly. “I didn’t slice it off.”
“Showin’ off all fancy-like with your knives didn’t do you any good,” Brenda teased as she drove. “You didn’t need to impress me.”
Sharon winced, the sting of her cut distracting her momentarily. “Why? Have I already succeeded in impressing you?”
“Of course you have!” Brenda exclaimed, as if it should have been perfectly obvious.
“You know, you’re not so great at flirting when you’re worried.” The brunette looked over at her when the car slowed at a red light. “It’s just a little cut.”
Sharon then made the mistake of looking down at said “little cut” and gulped loudly, clapping her uninjured hand over her mouth. “Pull over!” she exclaimed frantically. “Pulloverpullover!”
The other woman managed to comply, no easy feat in Los Angeles (although at least it wasn’t rush hour), and cringed as she listened to the captain empty the contents of her stomach onto the roadside. After a moment Sharon sat up and slammed the door, no longer green but ghastly pale, and indelicately swiped the back of her left hand across her mouth. “Drive,” she breathed. She was silent for the rest of the ride, in no frame of mind to make any more jokes about Brenda flirting.
The deputy chief insisted Sharon find a seat in the ER waiting room and let her deal with the desk staff, and for once the stubborn captain made no effort to protest. She was slumped against the wall in a dingy orange chair, her head tipped back and her eyes closed, when Brenda found her a few minutes later. Her pallor was enough to give Brenda, who had seen dying gunshot victims and corpses a-plenty and knew Sharon wasn’t going to die of a cut finger, pause, and she spoke a little too loudly, eager to see those green eyes open.
“They said it’d be just a little while,” she announced brightly.
“That’s what they always say,” Sharon retorted grimly, squinting at the clipboard Brenda held against her hip. “Here, give me that.”
“I’ll fill it out for you.”
Sharon started to roll her eyes, but then thought better of it as her head swam.
“What, now you’re ambidextrous?” The blonde sent a pointed look in the direction of Sharon’s bloody right hand. “Besides, I bet I already know most of this stuff anyway,” Brenda added.
The older woman shot her an exceedingly dubious look, momentarily distracted from the pain -- it no longer seemed localized in her finger, but radiated hotly throughout her hand and up her arm -- and, what was worse, the waves of nausea rolling over her.
The blonde was a little embarrassed to find herself stymied by the first item on the page, “full name.” “Sharon Raydor?” she asked tentatively.
“Get my driver’s license out of my wallet, and my insurance card,” Sharon (make that Sharon Jane Raydor, d.o.b. September 12, 1957) suggested, and with those aids Brenda made it through the basic information section and flipped the page with a flourish.
“Okay, medical history. At what age did you experience the onset of menses?”
Sharon’s eyes widened. “‘The onset of menses’? That’s not on there.” Brenda tilted the clipboard toward her to exhibit the offending question, and the captain grumbled, “I’m not wearing my glasses.”
“Well then, you’ll have to take my word for it. So, at what age did you --”
“Make something up.”
“Come on, Sharon.”
“Twelve. I was twelve.”
“An early bloomer.” Filling in the blank, the blonde nodded sagaciously. “I shoulda known. Childhood illnesses?”
“I can’t remember that far back; I’m too old.”
“Why can you make jokes about your age, and I can’t?” Brenda asked petulantly.
“Because it’s my age. Just check all the usual ones.”
“Anythin’ unusual?”
“I had the Bubonic plague in 1362.”
“Major surgeries?”
“Lost a leg at Appomatox Courthouse.”
Brenda Leigh sneered with disgust. “You are no help, Sharon Raydor.”
“Like that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
“I think you’re gettin’ punchy from blood loss. You want me to go get you a soda or somethin’?”
“Just finish the damn form, okay? What’s next?”
“Sexual history.”
“For a cut finger?” Sharon practically howled, drawing the attention of several other prospective patients waiting nearby.
“I don’t think they have specific forms for individual ailments,” Brenda pointed out wryly. “Can you imagine all the paperwork that would generate? The ‘I ploughed my car into a telephone pole’ form, the ‘I have a mysterious rash’ form, the ‘I shot myself in the foot’ form...”
“It would be just like working in IA,” Sharon replied a little deliriously.
The younger woman arched an eyebrow, considering that sad state of (internal) affairs. “Sexual history,” she repeated doggedly.
“Not applicable,” Sharon grouchily instructed.
“There’s no ticky box for that,” Brenda replied. “Besides, you’ve had two babies, so unless you’ve only had sex just that once--”
“No, Brenda Leigh, I didn’t. I happened to have a mostly satisfying sex life, thankyouverymuch.”
“Happened? Is it over?”
Sharon huffed out a breath. “No.”
“Hey, I didn’t write the form. It wants to know if you’re sexually active.”
“Not at the moment.”
“When was the last time?”
Sharon imperiously arched an eyebrow. “I know for a fact that’s not on the form.”
The blonde smiled impishly. “No, it’s not. I was just curious...I bet it’s been less time for you than it has for me.” She paused. “Has it?”
“I have no idea, Brenda. Tell you what--when we get out of here, we can sync up our appointment books and compare notes. Maybe we can even figure out when we’ll be cycling together.”
“Ha ha,” Brenda quipped dryly. “So was that a yes or a no for bein’ sexually active?”
“I don’t know,” Sharon replied, swallowing back a queasy tremor. Her tongue felt like sandpaper.
“I wonder how that works,” the younger woman mused. “Do they think that when you’ve lost your virginity, some sorta switch is flipped on to signify that you’re sexually active? Or does it depend on how often you do it?”
“Why don’t you go ask someone?” Sharon hinted impatiently.
“I haven’t finished this yet,” Brenda said. “No STDs, right?”
Sharon narrowed her eyes.
“Okay--that’s a no then.”
There was a momentary lapse in conversation, for which Sharon was grateful. She listened to the stroke of the pen, assuming that Brenda had gone on to fill out the blank spaces that she actually knew the answers to. After another moment of silence, during which time Sharon could focus solely on the throbbing in her hand, she turned back to Brenda. “What are you writing now?”
“I’m fillin’ my name in the emergency contact part.”
“You’re not--”
“Now listen,” Brenda said, pointing a stern finger at her friend. “There are two spots here. I can put in whoever you want in the first spot, but I think I should be in the second one.”
“I could be bleeding out from a gunshot wound and you could be ignoring your calls at a crime scene. How comforting.”
“I wouldn’t let you go through any of that alone.”
Sharon’s dour expression mellowed as she read the fierce sincerity in the other woman’s chocolate-colored eyes. “All right,” she said slowly. “Then you should put me down as your emergency contact too.”
Brenda smiled. “I will,” she agreed, touched. It had also just occurred to her that her ex-husband’s name occupied the like place in her personnel file, and if Sharon wasn’t up for the responsibility, she had no idea whose name she could put to replace Fritz’s. Will’s? Provenza’s? The thought made her snort.
“What’s funny?” Sharon asked faintly.
“Nothin’.” Removing her reading glasses and tucking them into the neck of her cotton top, Brenda Leigh rose swiftly to her feet. “I’m gonna go see what’s takin’ so long.”
The dark-haired woman subsided against the wall, for once in agreement with the deputy chief’s characteristic impatience.
Brenda seemed to be gone a long time, although Sharon knew her idea of time was probably dilated, measured, as it was, by each slow throb of her right hand. She tried not to think of her daughter, which was worse than simply surrendering and letting the thoughts pour in; but Sharon didn’t know how to process emotion without a struggle. Here she was, impatient and queasy because of a little cut on her finger. How had her baby girl’s body been torn, mangled, miles away from any medical attention or a friendly face? What had she felt?
The brightest possibility was that she’d felt nothing at all.
Because Sharon’s secret, a mother’s secret, the one she carried silently in her heart, was the certainty that Vivien was dead.
Her eyes fell on the dark fluid staining the cheerful green and white dish towel wrapped around her offending finger, and she reeled.
“Sharon?”
Suddenly Brenda was beside her, crouching by her uncomfortable plastic chair, her features scrunched with anxiety. The older woman turned toward her, but it took her a few seconds to focus, blinking hazily.
“Blood loss,” said another voice. “Don’t worry. Come on, Ms. Raydor, and we’ll get you fixed up. Do you need a wheelchair?”
Sharon had recovered enough to scowl, and she felt Brenda Leigh’s sharp little fingers gripping her arm. “I’ll help her,” the blonde said quickly, knowing Sharon wouldn’t suffer such an indignity unless she was on the point of death.
The resident who briskly jabbed the captain with a local anaesthetic and went about suturing up her finger was unusually cheerful and reminded Sharon of Daniel’s boyfriend, Kai. “So what happened?”
Green eyes sliced into Brenda as surely as the knife had sliced into Sharon’s finger, daring the younger woman to say anything. “Kitchen accident,” the brunette replied briefly, her curious gaze never deviating from what the young man was doing to her finger. Brenda tried for a few seconds to watch, but her stomach roiled, and she quickly returned her focus to her friend’s calm face.
“You really did a number on it.” The doctor sounded half admiring, half disgusted. “I can refer you to a plastic surgeon, if you’d like.”
Sharon’s eyebrows crept toward her hairline. She was plainly unimpressed. “For my finger.”
The doctor nodded. “You’re gonna have a scar.”
“And will it impede mobility? Function?” Sharon asked brusquely. At the negative shake of his head, Sharon rolled her eyes. “No, thank you.” Her eyes found Brenda’s across the small cubicle. “Los Angeles,” the captain muttered. “Typical.”
“You’d be surprised,” the doctor continued, his fingers maneuvering the suturing needles with practised ease. “It is L.A.” He tied off the final stitch. “Seven stitches should do it. You’ll want to keep this elevated and schedule an appointment to have these removed.”
Sharon nodded as he wrapped her finger in gauze, instructing her in how she should care for and clean the cut. She noted that as he spoke, he divided his eye contact between both women in the curtained off area. Brenda nodded dutifully, eyeing Sharon sternly as if to imply that she’d clean the cut herself if necessary.
Exhaustion and weariness settled heavily over the captain. She thought longingly of her bed, of soft billowy blankets and the blissful emptiness of sleep. She allowed herself to be steered through the emergency room, grateful for Brenda’s silence. The press of Brenda’s fingers on her waist was entirely comforting and unsettling, but she said nothing, deferring for once the care and responsibility of her well-being. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d allowed someone else to look after her--had she even allowed Paul to act as caregiver, or had that role always been hers alone? She was testing unfamiliar waters; whether or not she could blame it on the blood loss, Sharon ruefully admitted to herself that she liked it.
“Let’s get you home,” Brenda said, buckling the captain’s seat belt for her. She tucked Sharon’s purse onto the floor beside her feet, pausing for a moment to brush back a stray lock of the older woman’s hair that had fallen across her brow.
Sharon blinked into the darkness of the parking garage as Brenda rounded the front of the car, observing her with detached interest as Brenda slid into the driver’s seat. “My car is at your house,” she mumbled.
“Don’t you worry about that. I’ll bring it over in the mornin’. We’re gonna get you into some clean clothes, make you some soup, and get you into bed.”
“I don’t think I’m comfortable with you in my kitchen.”
Brenda chuckled. “Even I cannot screw up Campbell’s. You need somethin’ on your stomach. And don’t you even think of arguin’ with me or I’ll handcuff you to the chair and spoon feed you myself.”
Sharon smiled. “All right, mom.”
“So much for cookin’ lessons,” the blonde said with a wistful sigh. “I’m really sorry, Sharon.”
“These things happen.”
“I don’t like seein’ you hurt. You scared me.” Brenda caught her eye when she slowed for a red light. “Don’t do that again, okay?”
“I have no plans for a repeat performance.”
“Good.”
Sharon dozed during the remainder of the drive, her head slumped against the cool glass of the window. She was disoriented when she awoke to find Brenda rifling through her purse for her keys, and found it stranger yet when Brenda was all hands when she helped her to the door. But it was just as well. To her mortification, Sharon felt her legs tremble beneath her. Some big, bad-ass policewoman she was, felled by a knife wound incurred while chopping an onion, just as she’d sternly said to Brenda Leigh, “Now, be careful not to hold the knife this way, because you’ll cut yourself.”
She hadn’t intended her demonstration of the wrong chopping technique to be quite so thorough, but she still wasn’t sure why the younger woman was being so apologetic. It wasn’t like she had sliced into Sharon’s finger; she had only her own stupidity to blame.
Brenda’s hip bumped hers, jostling her, as they stepped over the threshold into Sharon’s darkened house. Sharon sucked in a quick breath.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
Sharon didn’t answer. Her heart was beating rapidly and she was pretty sure the Tylenol with codeine had finally kicked in.
“You sit down.” Brenda bumped around the living room until she located a reading lamp and switched it on. “I’ll go make the soup. -- Or do you have anything as plebeian as canned soup?”
Sharon smiled tiredly. “In the cabinet to the right of the trash can.”
Brenda disappeared into the kitchen and immediately began to make an ungodly racket, but Sharon didn’t sit down. She had only one coherent thought: clean clothes, and clean hands. An R.N. had carefully cleaned her wounded hand, but the left was still spattered with blood, and she felt filthy. A hot shower sounded heavenly, but also like way too much effort, given the strict orders she’d received not to get her stitches wet.
She kicked off her shoes just inside the door, where she’d probably trip over them later, perhaps necessitating a return visit to the emergency room, and padded down the hallway to her bedroom. She flipped the overhead light on with her ‘good’ hand, the right one still elevated -- not only was her shoulder beginning to throb like a son of a bitch from the strain, but she felt like an idiot, like she was constantly waiting for the teacher to call on her -- opened the closet door, and realized she had a problem.
Buttons.
“Okay,” she muttered under her breath with a sigh, glad that at least she wasn’t wearing a blazer. The blouse shouldn’t be that difficult to manage one-handed, but the jeans would be harder. Still, she assured herself, she could do it, as long as she retained her patience and moved slowly.
And she did, very carefully working the cotton blouse, formerly purple, over her injured hand, and sitting on the edge of the bed to peel her jeans and socks down her legs.
She got distracted, though, by the realization that she had a more serious problem.
Hooks.
Bra hooks, to be precise.
She thought briefly of just leaving the thing on and worrying about it later, but then imagined spending the entire weekend trapped in her Victoria’s Secret brassiere -- not even one of her really good ones, but one of the second-stringers she kept for days when she needed to do laundry, a basic, no-frills white number that was slightly dingy around the edges. Sleeping in it, showering in it: the images would’ve been laughable if her hand hadn’t begun to throb again and she didn’t feel quite so much like sobbing from exhaustion and embarrassment.
And then a voice called out, “Soup’s on. Sharon?”
Quick, graceless footsteps pounded down the hall. “Sharon, why aren’t you restin’? Are you okay?”
Sharon sighed heavily, a movement that elongated every fatigued muscle in her body. Her back was to the doorway, but she knew Brenda was standing there now, uncertain whether she should blithely blunder in or apologize and retreat, given the other woman’s state of undress. Her hesitation somehow made this worse.
“I think,” Sharon pronounced gravely and with great dignity, “I need some help, chief.”
“All right. I’m comin’ in,” Brenda announced, pausing for a moment to allow Sharon a moment to do--whatever she may have needed to do. Sharon sat, lethargic and heavy, on the edge of the bed and waited.
For reasons that Brenda could not understand, she blushed immediately upon seeing Sharon’s shirtless back. She took a quiet, deep breath, hoping to force the color from her cheeks before she brightly said, “Where do you keep your pajamas?”
“Top drawer on the right,” Sharon replied, gesturing faintly with a tilt of her head toward the large dresser. It was curious to see Brenda so awkward as she crossed the distance of the room to rifle through her things, her head firmly pointed away from her. Brenda’s shyness about Sharon’s partial nudity only made Sharon burn hotter with embarrassment. She huffed impatiently.
Brenda quickly apologized, grabbing a pair of linen pajama bottoms and a Disneyland t-shirt. She hid a smirk, trying to imagine the older woman posing with Mickey Mouse and two small children or, perhaps, her granddaughter. The shirt was worn and soft, which was why she chose it. Whenever she felt unwell or down, she often opted for the comfort of her rattiest, oldest pajamas. “This all right?” she asked, holding up her selection.
Sharon nodded.
Brenda came quietly to the bed, taking up the t-shirt. She gathered the fabric in her hands and slipped it over Sharon’s head, allowing it to drape loosely over her chest. She cleared her throat, hoping that her attempt at preserving Sharon’s dignity would be appreciated, and reached around to unclasp her bra.
“Jesus, Brenda, your hands are freezing.”
Brenda fumbled the strap, grazing her knuckles against Sharon’s back. “If I’d realized I was givin’ you the full treatment, I’d have warmed them up beforehand.” She took up the strap again with earnest, quickly parting the hooks from the eyes. She stayed close like this, looking down at the smooth expanse of her shoulders, the little dips of her spine, the sparse freckles decorating her back. She hadn’t realized until now just how warm Sharon was, how she radiated body heat. Focusing on this and not on the fact that she was about to take off Sharon Raydor’s bra, Brenda slipped the straps from her shoulders. She discarded the bra on the floor and, taking great pains to avoid accidentally seeing something she wasn’t meant to, she guided Sharon’s arms through the short sleeves of the shirt and pulled it down over her torso.
“There now,” Brenda said, kneeling down before her. “Askin’ for help isn’t so bad, is it?”
Sharon shrugged her shoulders noncommittally, and Brenda realized that she was blushing. She much preferred this look to the sickly pallor that had previously stained her cheeks.
There was no way for Brenda to take off Sharon’s jeans and maintain her modesty, so Brenda simply reached for the button and snapped it open, careful to keep her knuckles from brushing against the skin of her stomach. Still, she felt the tense flutter of the other woman’s abdominal muscles as she carefully began to peel the fabric down, trying to touch her as little as possible, but ‘as little as possible’ turned out to be quite a bit when you were divesting someone of skin-tight denim. The captain was warm here too, all soft skin and strong muscle, and good Lord, had Brenda realized Sharon’s legs were this long? She wasn’t that much taller than Brenda herself, but her legs went on for yards. Fascinated, the blonde reached out and placed her open palm on Sharon’s knee, and when she realized what she’d done they both jumped. Brenda emitted a strangled, startled little laugh and Sharon said, “Careful, don’t scratch yourself -- I didn’t bother shaving today.”
The fine stubble on that smooth flesh wasn’t what Brenda’s thoughts had been focused on, and she felt her cheeks heat. She grabbed blindly for the pajama bottoms she’d selected, and Sharon obediently stepped into them as quickly as possible. When Brenda had skimmed the fabric up past her knees, Sharon’s right hand covered hers.
“Thanks,” she mumbled hastily. “I can take it from here.”
Brenda popped to her feet as if her shoes had springs in them and nodded energetically. “Okay. I’ll just go check on the soup.”
That, she thought as she scampered down the hall, had been a stupid thing to say, because there wasn’t much “checking” involved in heating up a can of Campbell’s finest tomato, but at least it had gotten her out of near proximity to a barely-clothed Sharon Raydor. And then despite herself, as she lackadaisically stirred the hot soup to keep it from sticking or forming that unpleasant film on top, Brenda wondered just why they’d both been so uncomfortable. No matter what her boys might think of her, the deputy chief knew she wasn’t a prude; and Sharon didn’t strike her as one either. Not only had Sharon given birth to two children -- which, although Brenda’s knowledge was limited, she thought entailed showing the most intimate parts of your anatomy to a variety of concerned strangers -- but the two of them had had that vibrator conversation a while back. Maybe, Brenda thought, unconvinced, that was what happened when you weren’t having someone regularly see you naked. You got all jumpy about it.
“Do you think your culinary skills extend to making a grilled cheese to go with that?” Sharon asked in that wry tone of hers as she shuffled into the kitchen, her feet now covered in thick gray wool socks.
“Absolutely,” the younger woman chirped brightly. “You’ve gotta keep your strength up, what with all that blood loss.”
Sharon cringed as she flopped down at her kitchen table. “Your kitchen’s a mess, Brenda. I’m sorry.”
The blonde shrugged it off. “You think I can call in one of those cleanin’ crews that do crime scenes?” she teased.
“I often wonder the same thing after Clarissa spends the weekend here,” the captain retorted, and then her expression transformed to one of dismay. “Oh, shit. Clarissa.”
“What about her?” Brenda asked, immediately concerned, as she looked over her shoulder from her perusal of the cheese and meat drawer of Sharon’s refrigerator. Of course the woman didn’t have Kraft singles; apparently Brenda was expected to hack away at the block of sharp cheddar.
Sharon’s shoulders had slumped -- or at least her left shoulder had slumped. There wasn’t much she could do with her right, since she’d propped her elbow on the back of the chair beside her to take the strain off her muscles as she continued to ‘elevate.’ “This is my weekend with her. Normally I pick her up after work on Fridays, but since you asked me to come over, I told Paul I’d get her in the morning. I’m not foolish enough to think I can keep up with a very active two-year-old with this thing.” She jerked her chin at her hand, disgusted. “I’ll have to call and cancel. I hope they don’t have plans.”
Brenda bit her lower lip. Her friend looked even more dejected than she had earlier that evening as they’d waited in the ER. Briefly she considered suggesting that Sharon call her son and ask if he was free to do the heavy-lifting involved in caring for a toddler, but reconsidered. Sharon had voluntarily shortened her time with her granddaughter to do a favor for Brenda, and that was what had led to this whole mess. There seemed to be only one obvious solution.
“You don’t have to cancel. I’ll help you.”
The older woman looked as though she were about to object, had even puckered her lips to form the words, but then her face softened. “All right. That would be nice.”
Brenda grinned. “I’m lookin’ forward to meetin’ her.” She unwrapped the block of cheese, dropping it onto the chopping block, and reached for a knife.
A sense of deja vu washed over Sharon as if she’d been doused with cold water. “Wait!” She pointed to the drawer beside Brenda’s hip. “I have a slicer in there.”
The blonde chuckled and reached into the drawer for the aforementioned cheese slicer. “Are you worried about little ol’ me?”
“If you follow my lead, you’ll be on your own getting to the hospital.”
Brenda moved about Sharon’s kitchen with easy familiarity, pulling out bread and butter and a frying pan without having to stop and ask for directions. It made Sharon feel warm inside, made her feel like Brenda had somehow managed to belong there, like a permanent fixture. It no longer seemed surreal that Brenda had become an integral part of her personal life; it simply felt good.
“You’re not so bad in a kitchen,” Sharon pondered after a moment of watching Brenda simultaneously stir the soup and check the heat of the frying pan.
The blonde smiled over her shoulder before setting the first grilled cheese onto the moderately heated pan, listening to its sizzle with satisfaction. “I lived on grilled cheese in college. It’s the more difficult stuff that I have trouble with.” She twisted her mouth in consideration. “No--it’s the other stuff I don’t have the patience for.”
“Because you want everything right away without having to do the work.”
“I don’t mind doin’ the work--”
“When you know it won’t be done right if someone else does it for you.” Sharon smirked at Brenda’s arched eyebrow. “Perhaps your next bad batch of take-out will motivate you to try again...without the bloodshed.”
“Don’t curse my take-out!” Brenda shrieked, wielding her spatula in the brunette’s direction. She turned back to the grilled cheese, flipping the sandwich to cook on the other side. The top slice was a perfect golden brown, and Brenda let out a relieved breath. She would never have lived down the humiliation of ruining grilled cheese--ever. Allowing it a moment to cook, Brenda set about retrieving two bowls, spoons, and a ladle for the soup. “There now--dinner’s just about ready. You’re not gonna throw up again, are you?”
Sharon shook her head, her thick hair framing her face. “I’ll warn you if I do.”
“Good.” She moved the sandwich onto a little plate and cut it in half diagonally, just like her mama used to do for her lunch every day. She ladled out a bowl of soup and carefully set everything in front of Sharon, placing out cutlery and an unasked-for glass of water.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the natural caretaker,” Sharon replied, mystified. She paid little attention to the other woman as she started the second grilled cheese, focusing instead on her now-ravenous hunger.
“I’m not. I’m really not.” Brenda kept her back to the other woman as a wave of emotion clouded her features. “It’s nice to be needed though.”
Sharon considered as she moved the deliciously gloppy melted cheese around in her mouth. She couldn’t quite bring herself to say that it was nice to need someone; but still, maybe it was. And if not exactly that, then it was definitely nice to know there was someone there in case Sharon did need her. The thought made her smirk into her tomato soup. Who would ever have imagined that that person would be Brenda Leigh Johnson?
“Well,” she said aloud, “you’ll get your fair share of being needed this weekend, I promise. Even very independent toddlers require a lot of attention.”
“Your granddaughter is very independent? What a shock.”
“Like her mother,” Sharon commented, and then was quiet a moment. Brenda sat down opposite her with her own sandwich and bowl of soup, the fare doing much to transport her back to her days of living in the dorms. She imagined how her life might have been different if she and Sharon Raydor had become good friends in college, the kind who sat together on a quiet night in, eating grilled cheese and talking about life and all the possibilities that seem so vast when you’re on the threshold of everything.
“You know, Brenda, I really appreciate your offer to help, but are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” Sharon asked cautiously, interrupting her reverie.
“I’m a fast learner,” the deputy chief responded blithely.
“Maybe I should at least call Paul and see if Clarissa can just spend the day, and go home in the evening.”
Brenda frowned fiercely. “Don’t you dare!” she exclaimed. “Don’t disturb your usual routine. If she usually stays overnight, then she’s stayin’ overnight. We’ll have a slumber party.” She took a first, heavenly bite of her own sandwich and let bliss wash over her, relishing it for a moment before smiling brightly. “Besides, I’m a deputy chief of the LAPD. I solve homicides for a livin’. I interview leaders of drug cartels and hardened bangers. How much trouble can one little girl possibly be?”
Sharon said nothing, but watched her friend with wide, grave eyes that suggested she had serious doubts about the proposition, and that Brenda Leigh might very well be eating her words rather than grilled cheese for tomorrow night’s dinner.
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