Fic: Inertia - Part 20 of 21 [The Closer]
Title: Inertia - Part 20 of 21 [The Closer]
Rating: R to M (for mild descriptions of ladysex)
Ship: Brenda/Sharon
Disclaimer: Not mine; never were! No copyright infringement intended.
Summary: With Fritz gone, and her relationship with Sharon growing more serious, Brenda begins to wonder about just how close she's willing to get to the other woman. Sharon, it seems, has already made that choice for them.
Previous Chapters ( One) ( Two) ( Three) ( Four) ( Five) ( Six) ( Seven) ( Eight) ( 9[a]) ( 9[b]) ( Ten) ( Eleven) ( Twelve) ( Thirteen) ( Fourteen) ( Fifteen) (Sixteen) ( Seventeen) ( Eighteen) ( Nineteen)
A/N 1 - Normally I'd google stuff I don't know, but the homestretch is in sight and I'm hoping to give up fic writing for Lent (world's WORST atheist) so just assume I know of what I write when it comes to medically induced comas and the like. Trust me, I'm a Doctor. Well…I play on tv… Well, I watched ER once, so it's totally the same thing. Right?
Inertia con't - An object that is not in motion (velocity = zero) will remain at rest until some force causes it to move.
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Brenda Leigh Johnson doesn't dream. She knows that according to popular science, she must, everyone does - she just doesn't remember it. She considers herself lucky because of this. For her, sleep truly is restful, free of the ugliness and confusion she sees everyday. It's like a vacation, a black veil separating her from the world for a few hours until she wakes up and has to deal with it all over again.
Her first thought when she wakes up is to go back to bed. The room is familiar, it's Sharon's bedroom - but the sunlight is splayed on the walls in a different pattern - it should be in her eyes like it is every sunny morning in L.A., but this time it's low and dappled against the far wall and the door. The walls aren't the bright wheat but darker now, a golden glow cast over everything. She sits up slowly, unsure if she's ever seen the room at this time of day where day turns into dusk. There's the feel of being in the library after-hours, quiet and lonely. A quick glance to her right reveals the time - 5.54; she'd slept most of the day. Her mama had stopped in, she can tell because the glass of Merlot was missing and she was covered in a thin blanket. The last thing she remembers was coming into the room, glass of wine in her hand, after showing her mother to the guest room. She was going to shower before she slept, but it seems her body had other plans and passed out on top of the bed. At least she made it that far.
She didn't like sleeping alone - she never had - but it felt incredibly…wrong…to be asleep in this room, in this bed without its chief tenant. She needs to go to the bathroom, she needs to shower, she needs to move. A slight shifting of her legs revealed something else… she also wants sex. She groans in frustration - selfish as it is, she wants Sharon here beside her, touching her and teasing her until she can't stand it anymore. She remembers yesterday in Sharon's office (was it only yesterday?) - it had been fun and urgent and passionate - the way the brunette threw back her head in surprise as Brenda slid her hand down the waist of her pants and moved to kiss down that delightfully exposed neck (she was also pleased the slight bite mark she'd left was low enough to be hidden behind the flimsy cotton of the hospital gown) and tugged her closer so she could nip each breast in turn. She remembers how she gave up arguing as Brenda curved her fingers against the sensitive spots and how Sharon had to bury her moans against Brenda's blond hair. She remembers how Sharon straightened her back immediately after, a devious look across her face:
"I take it you're pretty pleased with yourself?"
"I just enjoy a job well done."
"Who says it was well done, Chief?"
"At the risk of being slightly vulgar Captain, the proof is in the pudding?" Brenda eases her now slick hand back up and wipes it against her skirt. Sharon leans over and kisses her deeply - and for a moment, she can feel everything that the other woman is feeling - power, satisfaction, desire, pleasure…and something else, something bigger, familiar yet different. Brenda can't place the emotion, all she knows is that it's over when Sharon pulls back, her grin wider.
"If you don't mind, Chief, I'd like to show you what a job well done really means…" Sharon pushes up Brenda's skirt where she sits on the metal cabinet until the floral fabric is pooled against the industrial grey. She feels the other woman's fingers inch closer and closer to their destination. She was taking her time - she always did this, dominate because she could. Brenda hated how well the other woman knew her. She'd be cranky about it later, when the benefits weren't as immediate. And pleasurable.
"By all means -" She gasps as Sharon's fingers brush her lightly, "Go right ahead."
"That's the plan." Sharon whispers with a predatory curl of her lips, dropping to her knees.
Damn it.
Now she really does need sex.
She makes her way off the bed and towards the bathroom. She drops her clothes in the trash, if she never sees them again it'll be too soon. They're covered in blood and dirt and too many memories. The shower was one of Brenda's favorite things in this house - or more specifically, the water heater that came with it - she could stand under the hot water for hours before the water turns cold, she knows this because on particularly rough days, she tests this theory. Days like today. She pushes the dial as hot as she can stand then steps under the scalding hot stream. She stands there, letting the water beat down onto her skin, onto her hair - hoping it can penetrate through the imprint of the day; through the caked-on make-up and sweat and grime and the stains and the heartbreak and the sight of Sharon lying in the hospital. She should bring her something else to wear, something more familiar, more comfortable - the last thing she'd want is to wake up in a paper sack.
And this is where Brenda begins to cry.
She hasn't cried all day. She hasn't cried since she told her mother about Sharon - and she can't remember the time before that - Joel maybe? She hates to cry because once it starts, she can't stop it, so she closes her eyes, squeezing them shut as hard as she can and hoping for the tears to stop soon. She can't help but think what if - so many what ifs. What if Sharon doesn't wake up? What if Sharon really meant what she said about them being over? She doesn't want them to be over - she doesn't want this to not be hers anymore, she doesn't want to lose Sharon and she doesn't want to be lost either. She wants this… but more of it. All the time. She wants to wake up with the other woman and argue with her and share a bottle of wine with her and have kitties with her. She wants so much. She doesn't know where this is coming from and she doesn't want to know. She just wants to stop crying, she wants Sharon to wake up, say she was wrong (Brenda snorts at this thought through her tears - Sharon has never once said she was wrong) and for things to go back to where they were before. But with kitties. Lots of them. The thought of kitties makes the tears stop and she rubs her face clear of them. She reaches over for the brunette's shampoo - something ridiculously overpriced but delicious smelling and starting from her scalp down, begins to scrub inch of herself clean. When she gets out she will be fresh and new and able to deal with whatever else comes her way - so far she's dealt with robberies, gunshots, hospitals, angry mothers (not hers), confused mothers (hers) ex-husbands, ex-boyfriends, and ex-whatever's - save for a nuclear fallout, she's pretty sure she can handle this.
She's pink when she steps out - she looks a little like a drowned puppy burrowed in her towel, with her blond hair all straggly around her face. She dresses quickly, the hospital was too chilly for a skirt, so she pulls on black yoga pants - she laughed when Sharon bought them for her but thankful for them now. They didn't look half-bad, although with her hair up in the ponytail she'd put it in, she looked like almost every other woman in L.A. - she just needed the yoga mat. She went around the room, throwing items in an overnight bag - a change of warmer clothes, the barely started book Sharon had put down a few nights ago - Sharon, it seemed, had an overnight kit already stowed under the sink. Brenda sighed with exasperation - leave it to that woman to be so…so…prepared. She took a look around and hoped it really wouldn't be her final one.
She steps out and can hear her mama puttering downstairs in the kitchen.
| | |
It's been three days since Sharon was shot.
To the rest of the world, it was a Thursday, but for those gathered in room 867 - it was the day Sharon would wake up.
Brenda tries not to get too excited when she feels Sharon's hand twitch under hers. The nurse had warned them it could be hours until the drugs worked their way out of her system. Instead Brenda tries to feign interest in whatever Martha and her mama were going about now. It was something to do with the book she'd brought for Sharon, something about dragons and tattoos. Honestly, how did her mama even know this stuff?
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Sharon Raydor's biggest regret in life was that she wasn't artistic. She could appreciate art in a variety of forms - she could look at a painting and tell you the origins of the artistic movement, or who it was by, or what the symbolism of the cocking of the model's head just so was. She could listen to a piece of music and give you the time signature and the historical context of it. She could read a book and trace its themes and meanings and archetypal characters throughout western literature and storytelling.
Despite her appreciation and dedication, she couldn't paint or draw or sculpt. She couldn't sing, or play, or composes. She could barely write a proper birthday card. She could, however recognize the skill and greatness in others and knew how to nurture it, foster it and bring it out.
Sharon Marie Raydor was born the younger child of Paul and Martha Raydor. She was born in Manhattan on January 14, 1954 - the same day Marilyn Monroe married Joe DiMaggio. She would spend the better part of her childhood in New Rochelle. She would idolize her older brother Adam until he died - he was 17 and was hit by an oncoming car one night coming home. She would go to school where her idol, Katharine Hepburn went, Bryn Mawr and graduated third in her class in 1976. She's fairly certain she'd have come in second if Susie Adams wasn't sleeping with their English professor, earning herself the .72% edge she needed to beat out Sharon.
Third was still strong enough to catch the attention of Harper Collins Publishing where she went to work editing and updating Nancy Drew & The Hardy Boys under the Collins & Sons imprint. It was there that she met Jamie Stewart, an intern in the accounting department who got off on the wrong floor on his first day. It was love at first sight, at least that's what Jamie used to say. For her it wasn't so simple, but every day he'd stop by and ask her out to lunch and every day she said no until one day she said yes. He was charming, and shy, and smart. It wasn't until their fourth month of sharing lunch that he revealed he was a writer - and it wasn't until after she agreed to marry him did he let her read his work. It was good. It was better than good, it was brilliant. She's embarrassed to say that to this day, her first reaction was seething jealousy at his ability to write so beautifully and to not know it. They marry just after Thanksgiving in 1979 and Sharon surprises him with tickets to see the first Star Trek movie for their honeymoon. By this time they know each other inside and out - she knows he loves Star Trek because he is nothing if not an idealist who thought that the world would one day catch up the utopia depicted on screen. He knows she envies him, truly, and asks her to edit the novel - a coming of age in Iowa and the loss of innocence in war. They even know that unlike a lot of their friends, they don't quite…fit…in when it comes to others, the words were hard to say, and they weren't said very often. Three weeks before the wedding, Jamie calls her late at night crying to tell her he was once in love with his friend Jonathan, a doctor out in New Mexico. Sharon doesn't doubt his love of her - she knows it like she knows her name, it isn't an act for him and his confession proves it. She tells him it's alright - she knows what it's like. Hours later they both hang up the phone feeling free. They really are the best of friends.
In 1982 their first child, Adam, is born. They move to Los Angels in 1983 when Jamie's accounting firm transfers him. Sharon gives up publishing - but not her connections - and to this day has a handful of editors she can call up and take out to lunch. In 1984 Laura is born. After 6 years of off and on work Jamie's novel, 'Last Night on the Lonely Farm' is published. It was a minor success at the time, but built up a strong following over time and every year a handful of liberal arts colleges assign it as required reading for a variety of classes. Every so often she still gets a modest cheque which funds her occasion luxury label splurges for her services as editor. The publishing royalties get deposited straight into a small trust Laura and Adam. In 1989, Sharon goes back to work - not in publishing but accounting - going over work with Jamie reveals she has the same knack for solving problems of a financial variety as well as a literary variety. On March 27th, 1991, Jamie goes to pick up the kids and gets hit by a car in oncoming traffic. On April 4th, he dies. He's buried on April 7th and Laura turns six.
At this point, Sharon contemplates returning to New York, to be with her family and to give her family the same life she's known - but she can't leave the house and the lemon trees that Jamie planted three weeks before he died. Her life took a curious turn at this point - while working on an audit, she discovered minor discrepancies and not being a person to leave well enough alone, she unraveled a multi-million dollar embezzlement scheme. It sounds very exciting, but it was numbers, just lots and lots of numbers and having those numbers not make sense. It was 1993 and Sharon Raydor (having never taken Jamie's name professionally) was on the forefront of forensic accounting - she would be called to work with police and lawyers to either prove or disprove client's guilt or innocence. While others found the work tedious and mundane, she loved it - thrived even. There could only be one right balance and her job was to figure out why the numbers didn't add up to it. There were rules that could not be broken - because if they were, she'd be there to catch them. In 1996 she would start to date again, and in 1997 she would start to date women as well - starting with Dana Cohen, a lawyer on retainer at the firm who reminded her of her college roommate who gave her her first real kiss. It was Dana who realized they were better friends than lovers, and who made sure they stayed in touch. They still met up once every couple of months for wine and mindless chatter. It was also Dana whose cousin was in I.A. with the L.A.P.D. and suggested she look into it.
After Dana came Aaron, then after Aaron came Kelly, David, Emily, Evan (the man), Jon, Evan (the girl), Steve, Jennifer, Vanessa, Julianna, Thomas, Maggie, Chris, Art, and Mel. In almost every case - Sharon would be the one to leave. She would get bored, she would get scared, she would get distracted. On the rare occasion where Sharon was the one being left, it was after being told she was too distant, too protected. She wouldn't argue - dating was a distant third to her children and her career. Often her partners were surprised to hear she had children, unable to reconcile her personality and the stereotype of a mother - they hadn't met her children. In fact, Mel was the only one to meet them - and that was a complete surprise and a manipulation on Mel's part which ultimately lead to their demise. That was the hardest break up - it was the first one after Jamie that hurt because Mel made it very clear what she thought of her - a lovely woman with a God complex and an inability to trust or be alone. This wasn't new to Sharon, her own mother warned her of it at least once a month (along with a reminder to take her vitamins) but it made her listen. She had liked Mel, valued her. It made her stop everything. Laura and Adam were gone by this point and Sharon realized it was the first time since 1976 that she was alone. It scared her. Terrified her. It wasn't that she couldn't find someone, finding someone was never the problem - it generally didn't take more than an eyebrow raise and a flash of leg to get a response - it was that she couldn't find someone worth staying for. Then one day she rounded the corner of a hospital in the middle of the night to find Brenda Leigh Johnson looking like carnival candy floss and was strong enough to be every inch her equal.
The rest, as they say, is history.
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Sharon was in the middle of a very pleasant dream - she's not sure how others do it, but she dreams in black and white.
If it's a good dream, everyone's dressed by Edith Head and Adrian. Everyone talks in Hepburn's clipped tones or Garbo's drawling accent. She loves these dreams. There's something very comforting about them, nothing bad can happen to her here. Not even the pain she feels emanating from her chest, slow throbs set to her heartbeat. This one is set at work, or so she thinks, everyone's talking so loudly around her it sounds like a dull roar or white noise and it's hard to the handsome men through the haze of cigarette smoke that hovers eye level with her. A door crashes open and out flies Brenda talking a mile a minute in gibberish she can't quite make out and pointing to a ticker tape machine spitting out streams of paper. Even in her dreams, the blond gives her a headache.
She goes to speak but can't.
Her mouth is dry, as if stuffed with cotton.
The roar goes quiet - as if someone turned down the volume - it's still present, but not at ear splitting levels. She feels something warm in her hand - and looks down - her black silk gown has been replaced by her nightgown and robe.
She opens her mouth again but can't.
It gets brighter and quieter. She can only unravel one thing and decides to focus on the light. She tries to open both eyes - but is exhausted by the effort and gives up. After a minute she starts with the left one…bright lights and shapes she can't quite name. Everything is silent now except for a steady beep. She closes her eyes and breathes heavily. She's in the dark - her dream complete with costumes and sets and beeping ticker tape has gone. She's trying to figure out where she is and why she feels like the bottom of a shoe. She's not in her room - the light wasn't familiar and the smell of antiseptic was too strong. She could figure it out, she knew she could, if it wasn't for that beeping.
Beeping.
She brushes her hand across the surface - it was rough and scratchy.
Hospital.
She was in a hospital, the question was why. The last thing she remembers is Brenda in her office. On her filing cabinet. Oh God, she hopes she didn't get knocked out by a stray knee only to hit her head - that would be humiliating. She tries to open her eyes again and has better luck. They both open and stay open. She sees the light, she sees the sun, she sees the ceiling tiles and Laura. She sees her daughter. And her mother. And Brenda's mother. And Brenda. She closes her eyes, uncertain if this was just another dream within a dream - if so, she wants to go back to the black and white one to clear her head. What happened that parents were involved? She was 57 years old - but she still didn't want her mother to know she was having sex. In her office. That doesn't explain the pain in her chest though.
She opens her mouth but again, nothing. She feels something wet poke through her lips - Brenda orders her to drink, so she drinks - thankful for the order, she still knows how to follow them at least. The cool liquid slides down but doesn't dampen the dryness of her mouth. She keeps drinking until she's told to ease up. So she does. She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes.
She's not dreaming - she's in the hospital. She's surrounded by people. In the words of her daughter, she feels like ass.
"Don't talk," Brenda orders her softly, "For once in your life Captain, listen to me and don't talk."
"Brenda's right dear," Martha confirms, already spotting her daughter's frustration.
"Don't give your mama that look, it's been known to happen." Brenda says.
"You're in the hospital mom." Laura explains, "You were at work and you were shot." She sees the confusion on her mother's face. "You're fine, or you will be. It was a few days ago. They kept you asleep after the surgery. You understand me so far?"
Sharon can only nod. That alone takes work. Things are starting to come back to her - Brenda standing in front of her in her black bra, standing on a street corner talking with a witness, glancing down the block and seeing…something.
"On the plus side dear, you look great!" Her mother lies.
She shoots her a withering glare. She can hear Brenda laugh and murmur some snide remark.
Brenda Leigh.
Her mind is still swimming with sleep and drugs but she's fairly certain she's missing something.
"You're right mom, you look like ass." Laura admits, "But we're glad to see you, so we'll forgive you this one time."
She may not be able to talk but she can laugh - or try to - it's dry and hurts, causing her to wince. Brenda reaches for her hand and gives it a squeeze.
"Don't make her laugh," Martha chastises, "Laura's right though dear - you do look…less than your best."
This is her family, she thinks. No wonder she likes the dreams.
"Don't listen to them, you look beautiful." Brenda says, still holding onto her hand. She watches as Brenda sits down at the chair by her side. There's something going on, but she can't figure it out. If everyone left, she could ask - also…why is Brenda's mother here? Was she that close to death? "Now, Captain -" She used her rank again… "Here's what's going to happen, the doctors are going to come in soon and check you out and make sure everything's where it should be and how it should be, alright?"
As if on cue, the doctor appears - he looks young and makes her nervous, but the way he clears everyone out impresses her. "Figured you could use some time." He explains as he shuts the door behind them.
He takes his time talking to her, helping her sit up, helping her find her voice again. He goes over the details of her recovery and while she hates hospitals, she's not exactly certain she's happy to hear she'll be free to go home soon. At least the ground floor of her home. Work was still weeks away. Rehab would take all her time. She could feel depression and fear sinking in already. She tried to hold back tears. She just wanted Brenda. She wanted to be held and told it was all a lie. She hated not knowing everything and she felt like she didn't know everything about whatever was hanging between herself and Brenda. Oh God, she thought, she had become one of those people who needed others. She hated those people - or more specifically, she hated being one of those people.
Everything hurts and the doctor offers her a sedative - she convinces him to give her a few moments of lucidity before he puts her to sleep again. He gives her 15 minutes and leaves the room, asking whoever Brenda was if she could go in.
Brenda's surprised by the request and looks around - "Shouldn't one of you go in?" She asks Laura and Martha. Laura shrugs and Martha smiles and pushes her towards the door. "Don't worry, we'll be watching from the window if you need any help."
"Well isn't that nice of y'all." Brenda mutters as she pulls open the door and walks in. Sharon looks tiny in the bed. There's very little of the imposing woman she's battled with and it scares her.
"Don't worry," Sharon whispers, "I'll be better soon."
"You'd better," Brenda says, ignoring how the other woman was able to read her thoughts, "Otherwise how will I ever kill you for scaring me like that."
"You can come closer,"
"Don't." Brenda says, shaking her head, "Don't do that to me ever again - I love you Sharon Raydor and my current plan is to make your life difficult for years to come, so don't you ever do that to me again, do you understand?"
"Come here," Sharon asks again, patting the bed, watching Brenda as she steps closer but stops short of the bed.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You couldn't put me anymore pain than I'm already in." She winces. "Don't fight with me - even with me in here, you don't stand a chance." She jokes. "Brenda, I just want to feel normal for a minute because I'm afraid normal's going to be very far away for a very long time."
Brenda looks down at Sharon, her green eyes dull and heavy, her body limp. As much as she wants to argue with the other woman, she has a feeling that she's right. She gently perches on the edge of the bed and turns on her side - their bodies are brushing but she's putting no weight on Sharon. "They're watching, aren't they?" Brenda asks knowingly.
"Yes they are. I can't remember a lot."
"It's probably for the best."
"About us."
"We had a….spat."
"A spat?" Sharon asked, humor evident in her voice.
"Yes, I was right and you were wrong - the usual." Brenda shrugs.
"That's not all, is it?"
"No." Brenda agrees, "But that's all you need to know for now." Because it's true. Sharon's in no condition to talk about anything heavy - and even if she were, it wouldn't matter - Brenda'd still be right about them. She'd let too many people call the shots in their relationship before - she hadn't cared. Things were different now.
"This is going to be rough."
"It is." Brenda agrees, fully aware that the surgery and the coma, as awful as it sounds, was the easy part of the ordeal.
"So you don't have to stay or anything. It's really very sweet that you came and brought your -"
"I'm not going anywhere." Brenda props herself up on one arm and looks down at her lover.
"I don't think you understand what -"
"Oh I understand, Captain. You're not the first officer to get shot and sadly you won't be the last. There's going to be doctor's visits and rehab and learning how to do the basic things again not to mention depression and mood swings and competency hearings and meetings with councilors to talk about your 'feelings' about all of this and being asked how you 'feel' about your 'feelings'. And that's all before you even get back to work. I get it, Captain Raydor. I understand - I've been understanding it the last three days, and I've been understanding whenever it happens to anyone else, including me. So no, I'm not going anywhere, so you can just get rid of that idea. And if you want to keep arguing with me, I'm not afraid of poking you in that gaping wound you have in your chest." Brenda threatens. She watches as the other woman digests the words she said and the meaning behind them. Satisfied that she's done arguing, she settles back down, closer to Sharon's body.
"So - you said -"
"I said I love you, yes. You don't have to say it back." She goes on to change the subject, "You should know that there's a rumor going on at work. About us."
"What about us?"
"That I'm here to play Naughty Nurse." Brenda confesses matter-of-factly.
"Well that's ridiculous. The outfit was mine - it'd never fit you." Sharon deadpans.
"Exactly." Brenda agrees. They both laugh gently, mindful of their positions.
"I have a feeling I did that thing where I was a bitch before I got shot." Sharon can see by the look on Brenda's face this is a correct guess. "Something stupid like -"
"This is your only 'get out of jain free' card, Captain. I strongly suggest you use it." Brenda warns, not wanting to have this talk. "I'm not going anywhere and neither are you. And while we're at it -" Brenda props herself back up on her elbow, "If you ever, EVER do anything stupid like that again I will shoot you myself - and I don't miss. Do you understand me? Am I makin' myself clear Captain?"
"Yes Chief. Crystal."
"Good." She brushes a hand over Sharon's cheek and notices the other woman's eyes getting heavy. "You should rest."
"The nurse'll be in in a few minutes - I scared him into giving us some time." Sharon's eyes dropped shut. She was so tired. "Kiss me?" She asked.
So Brenda obliged, softly brushing her lips against Sharon's. There'd be time for more passion later (but hopefully not too much later) - right now she knew Sharon just needed comfort.
"Nice." Sharon grinned in her haze.
"Sleep now - the faster you get better, the faster you can get back up on your feet and do that little walk of yours."
"Which walk?"
"You know the one… The strut tha-" Brenda was silenced swiftly when Sharon wrapped her arm around Brenda's neck and pulled her down into a kiss - compelling and desperate, a physical request for reassurance.
"Soft kisses are nice, but hard ones are better." Sharon responds, her eyes still closed. "I need you to know I love you."
"I had a feeling," Brenda whispers, brushing stray hair off of Sharon's face.
Rating: R to M (for mild descriptions of ladysex)
Ship: Brenda/Sharon
Disclaimer: Not mine; never were! No copyright infringement intended.
Summary: With Fritz gone, and her relationship with Sharon growing more serious, Brenda begins to wonder about just how close she's willing to get to the other woman. Sharon, it seems, has already made that choice for them.
Previous Chapters ( One) ( Two) ( Three) ( Four) ( Five) ( Six) ( Seven) ( Eight) ( 9[a]) ( 9[b]) ( Ten) ( Eleven) ( Twelve) ( Thirteen) ( Fourteen) ( Fifteen) (Sixteen) ( Seventeen) ( Eighteen) ( Nineteen)
A/N 1 - Normally I'd google stuff I don't know, but the homestretch is in sight and I'm hoping to give up fic writing for Lent (world's WORST atheist) so just assume I know of what I write when it comes to medically induced comas and the like. Trust me, I'm a Doctor. Well…I play on tv… Well, I watched ER once, so it's totally the same thing. Right?
Inertia con't - An object that is not in motion (velocity = zero) will remain at rest until some force causes it to move.
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Brenda Leigh Johnson doesn't dream. She knows that according to popular science, she must, everyone does - she just doesn't remember it. She considers herself lucky because of this. For her, sleep truly is restful, free of the ugliness and confusion she sees everyday. It's like a vacation, a black veil separating her from the world for a few hours until she wakes up and has to deal with it all over again.
Her first thought when she wakes up is to go back to bed. The room is familiar, it's Sharon's bedroom - but the sunlight is splayed on the walls in a different pattern - it should be in her eyes like it is every sunny morning in L.A., but this time it's low and dappled against the far wall and the door. The walls aren't the bright wheat but darker now, a golden glow cast over everything. She sits up slowly, unsure if she's ever seen the room at this time of day where day turns into dusk. There's the feel of being in the library after-hours, quiet and lonely. A quick glance to her right reveals the time - 5.54; she'd slept most of the day. Her mama had stopped in, she can tell because the glass of Merlot was missing and she was covered in a thin blanket. The last thing she remembers was coming into the room, glass of wine in her hand, after showing her mother to the guest room. She was going to shower before she slept, but it seems her body had other plans and passed out on top of the bed. At least she made it that far.
She didn't like sleeping alone - she never had - but it felt incredibly…wrong…to be asleep in this room, in this bed without its chief tenant. She needs to go to the bathroom, she needs to shower, she needs to move. A slight shifting of her legs revealed something else… she also wants sex. She groans in frustration - selfish as it is, she wants Sharon here beside her, touching her and teasing her until she can't stand it anymore. She remembers yesterday in Sharon's office (was it only yesterday?) - it had been fun and urgent and passionate - the way the brunette threw back her head in surprise as Brenda slid her hand down the waist of her pants and moved to kiss down that delightfully exposed neck (she was also pleased the slight bite mark she'd left was low enough to be hidden behind the flimsy cotton of the hospital gown) and tugged her closer so she could nip each breast in turn. She remembers how she gave up arguing as Brenda curved her fingers against the sensitive spots and how Sharon had to bury her moans against Brenda's blond hair. She remembers how Sharon straightened her back immediately after, a devious look across her face:
"I take it you're pretty pleased with yourself?"
"I just enjoy a job well done."
"Who says it was well done, Chief?"
"At the risk of being slightly vulgar Captain, the proof is in the pudding?" Brenda eases her now slick hand back up and wipes it against her skirt. Sharon leans over and kisses her deeply - and for a moment, she can feel everything that the other woman is feeling - power, satisfaction, desire, pleasure…and something else, something bigger, familiar yet different. Brenda can't place the emotion, all she knows is that it's over when Sharon pulls back, her grin wider.
"If you don't mind, Chief, I'd like to show you what a job well done really means…" Sharon pushes up Brenda's skirt where she sits on the metal cabinet until the floral fabric is pooled against the industrial grey. She feels the other woman's fingers inch closer and closer to their destination. She was taking her time - she always did this, dominate because she could. Brenda hated how well the other woman knew her. She'd be cranky about it later, when the benefits weren't as immediate. And pleasurable.
"By all means -" She gasps as Sharon's fingers brush her lightly, "Go right ahead."
"That's the plan." Sharon whispers with a predatory curl of her lips, dropping to her knees.
Damn it.
Now she really does need sex.
She makes her way off the bed and towards the bathroom. She drops her clothes in the trash, if she never sees them again it'll be too soon. They're covered in blood and dirt and too many memories. The shower was one of Brenda's favorite things in this house - or more specifically, the water heater that came with it - she could stand under the hot water for hours before the water turns cold, she knows this because on particularly rough days, she tests this theory. Days like today. She pushes the dial as hot as she can stand then steps under the scalding hot stream. She stands there, letting the water beat down onto her skin, onto her hair - hoping it can penetrate through the imprint of the day; through the caked-on make-up and sweat and grime and the stains and the heartbreak and the sight of Sharon lying in the hospital. She should bring her something else to wear, something more familiar, more comfortable - the last thing she'd want is to wake up in a paper sack.
And this is where Brenda begins to cry.
She hasn't cried all day. She hasn't cried since she told her mother about Sharon - and she can't remember the time before that - Joel maybe? She hates to cry because once it starts, she can't stop it, so she closes her eyes, squeezing them shut as hard as she can and hoping for the tears to stop soon. She can't help but think what if - so many what ifs. What if Sharon doesn't wake up? What if Sharon really meant what she said about them being over? She doesn't want them to be over - she doesn't want this to not be hers anymore, she doesn't want to lose Sharon and she doesn't want to be lost either. She wants this… but more of it. All the time. She wants to wake up with the other woman and argue with her and share a bottle of wine with her and have kitties with her. She wants so much. She doesn't know where this is coming from and she doesn't want to know. She just wants to stop crying, she wants Sharon to wake up, say she was wrong (Brenda snorts at this thought through her tears - Sharon has never once said she was wrong) and for things to go back to where they were before. But with kitties. Lots of them. The thought of kitties makes the tears stop and she rubs her face clear of them. She reaches over for the brunette's shampoo - something ridiculously overpriced but delicious smelling and starting from her scalp down, begins to scrub inch of herself clean. When she gets out she will be fresh and new and able to deal with whatever else comes her way - so far she's dealt with robberies, gunshots, hospitals, angry mothers (not hers), confused mothers (hers) ex-husbands, ex-boyfriends, and ex-whatever's - save for a nuclear fallout, she's pretty sure she can handle this.
She's pink when she steps out - she looks a little like a drowned puppy burrowed in her towel, with her blond hair all straggly around her face. She dresses quickly, the hospital was too chilly for a skirt, so she pulls on black yoga pants - she laughed when Sharon bought them for her but thankful for them now. They didn't look half-bad, although with her hair up in the ponytail she'd put it in, she looked like almost every other woman in L.A. - she just needed the yoga mat. She went around the room, throwing items in an overnight bag - a change of warmer clothes, the barely started book Sharon had put down a few nights ago - Sharon, it seemed, had an overnight kit already stowed under the sink. Brenda sighed with exasperation - leave it to that woman to be so…so…prepared. She took a look around and hoped it really wouldn't be her final one.
She steps out and can hear her mama puttering downstairs in the kitchen.
| | |
It's been three days since Sharon was shot.
To the rest of the world, it was a Thursday, but for those gathered in room 867 - it was the day Sharon would wake up.
Brenda tries not to get too excited when she feels Sharon's hand twitch under hers. The nurse had warned them it could be hours until the drugs worked their way out of her system. Instead Brenda tries to feign interest in whatever Martha and her mama were going about now. It was something to do with the book she'd brought for Sharon, something about dragons and tattoos. Honestly, how did her mama even know this stuff?
| | |
Sharon Raydor's biggest regret in life was that she wasn't artistic. She could appreciate art in a variety of forms - she could look at a painting and tell you the origins of the artistic movement, or who it was by, or what the symbolism of the cocking of the model's head just so was. She could listen to a piece of music and give you the time signature and the historical context of it. She could read a book and trace its themes and meanings and archetypal characters throughout western literature and storytelling.
Despite her appreciation and dedication, she couldn't paint or draw or sculpt. She couldn't sing, or play, or composes. She could barely write a proper birthday card. She could, however recognize the skill and greatness in others and knew how to nurture it, foster it and bring it out.
Sharon Marie Raydor was born the younger child of Paul and Martha Raydor. She was born in Manhattan on January 14, 1954 - the same day Marilyn Monroe married Joe DiMaggio. She would spend the better part of her childhood in New Rochelle. She would idolize her older brother Adam until he died - he was 17 and was hit by an oncoming car one night coming home. She would go to school where her idol, Katharine Hepburn went, Bryn Mawr and graduated third in her class in 1976. She's fairly certain she'd have come in second if Susie Adams wasn't sleeping with their English professor, earning herself the .72% edge she needed to beat out Sharon.
Third was still strong enough to catch the attention of Harper Collins Publishing where she went to work editing and updating Nancy Drew & The Hardy Boys under the Collins & Sons imprint. It was there that she met Jamie Stewart, an intern in the accounting department who got off on the wrong floor on his first day. It was love at first sight, at least that's what Jamie used to say. For her it wasn't so simple, but every day he'd stop by and ask her out to lunch and every day she said no until one day she said yes. He was charming, and shy, and smart. It wasn't until their fourth month of sharing lunch that he revealed he was a writer - and it wasn't until after she agreed to marry him did he let her read his work. It was good. It was better than good, it was brilliant. She's embarrassed to say that to this day, her first reaction was seething jealousy at his ability to write so beautifully and to not know it. They marry just after Thanksgiving in 1979 and Sharon surprises him with tickets to see the first Star Trek movie for their honeymoon. By this time they know each other inside and out - she knows he loves Star Trek because he is nothing if not an idealist who thought that the world would one day catch up the utopia depicted on screen. He knows she envies him, truly, and asks her to edit the novel - a coming of age in Iowa and the loss of innocence in war. They even know that unlike a lot of their friends, they don't quite…fit…in when it comes to others, the words were hard to say, and they weren't said very often. Three weeks before the wedding, Jamie calls her late at night crying to tell her he was once in love with his friend Jonathan, a doctor out in New Mexico. Sharon doesn't doubt his love of her - she knows it like she knows her name, it isn't an act for him and his confession proves it. She tells him it's alright - she knows what it's like. Hours later they both hang up the phone feeling free. They really are the best of friends.
In 1982 their first child, Adam, is born. They move to Los Angels in 1983 when Jamie's accounting firm transfers him. Sharon gives up publishing - but not her connections - and to this day has a handful of editors she can call up and take out to lunch. In 1984 Laura is born. After 6 years of off and on work Jamie's novel, 'Last Night on the Lonely Farm' is published. It was a minor success at the time, but built up a strong following over time and every year a handful of liberal arts colleges assign it as required reading for a variety of classes. Every so often she still gets a modest cheque which funds her occasion luxury label splurges for her services as editor. The publishing royalties get deposited straight into a small trust Laura and Adam. In 1989, Sharon goes back to work - not in publishing but accounting - going over work with Jamie reveals she has the same knack for solving problems of a financial variety as well as a literary variety. On March 27th, 1991, Jamie goes to pick up the kids and gets hit by a car in oncoming traffic. On April 4th, he dies. He's buried on April 7th and Laura turns six.
At this point, Sharon contemplates returning to New York, to be with her family and to give her family the same life she's known - but she can't leave the house and the lemon trees that Jamie planted three weeks before he died. Her life took a curious turn at this point - while working on an audit, she discovered minor discrepancies and not being a person to leave well enough alone, she unraveled a multi-million dollar embezzlement scheme. It sounds very exciting, but it was numbers, just lots and lots of numbers and having those numbers not make sense. It was 1993 and Sharon Raydor (having never taken Jamie's name professionally) was on the forefront of forensic accounting - she would be called to work with police and lawyers to either prove or disprove client's guilt or innocence. While others found the work tedious and mundane, she loved it - thrived even. There could only be one right balance and her job was to figure out why the numbers didn't add up to it. There were rules that could not be broken - because if they were, she'd be there to catch them. In 1996 she would start to date again, and in 1997 she would start to date women as well - starting with Dana Cohen, a lawyer on retainer at the firm who reminded her of her college roommate who gave her her first real kiss. It was Dana who realized they were better friends than lovers, and who made sure they stayed in touch. They still met up once every couple of months for wine and mindless chatter. It was also Dana whose cousin was in I.A. with the L.A.P.D. and suggested she look into it.
After Dana came Aaron, then after Aaron came Kelly, David, Emily, Evan (the man), Jon, Evan (the girl), Steve, Jennifer, Vanessa, Julianna, Thomas, Maggie, Chris, Art, and Mel. In almost every case - Sharon would be the one to leave. She would get bored, she would get scared, she would get distracted. On the rare occasion where Sharon was the one being left, it was after being told she was too distant, too protected. She wouldn't argue - dating was a distant third to her children and her career. Often her partners were surprised to hear she had children, unable to reconcile her personality and the stereotype of a mother - they hadn't met her children. In fact, Mel was the only one to meet them - and that was a complete surprise and a manipulation on Mel's part which ultimately lead to their demise. That was the hardest break up - it was the first one after Jamie that hurt because Mel made it very clear what she thought of her - a lovely woman with a God complex and an inability to trust or be alone. This wasn't new to Sharon, her own mother warned her of it at least once a month (along with a reminder to take her vitamins) but it made her listen. She had liked Mel, valued her. It made her stop everything. Laura and Adam were gone by this point and Sharon realized it was the first time since 1976 that she was alone. It scared her. Terrified her. It wasn't that she couldn't find someone, finding someone was never the problem - it generally didn't take more than an eyebrow raise and a flash of leg to get a response - it was that she couldn't find someone worth staying for. Then one day she rounded the corner of a hospital in the middle of the night to find Brenda Leigh Johnson looking like carnival candy floss and was strong enough to be every inch her equal.
The rest, as they say, is history.
| | |
Sharon was in the middle of a very pleasant dream - she's not sure how others do it, but she dreams in black and white.
If it's a good dream, everyone's dressed by Edith Head and Adrian. Everyone talks in Hepburn's clipped tones or Garbo's drawling accent. She loves these dreams. There's something very comforting about them, nothing bad can happen to her here. Not even the pain she feels emanating from her chest, slow throbs set to her heartbeat. This one is set at work, or so she thinks, everyone's talking so loudly around her it sounds like a dull roar or white noise and it's hard to the handsome men through the haze of cigarette smoke that hovers eye level with her. A door crashes open and out flies Brenda talking a mile a minute in gibberish she can't quite make out and pointing to a ticker tape machine spitting out streams of paper. Even in her dreams, the blond gives her a headache.
She goes to speak but can't.
Her mouth is dry, as if stuffed with cotton.
The roar goes quiet - as if someone turned down the volume - it's still present, but not at ear splitting levels. She feels something warm in her hand - and looks down - her black silk gown has been replaced by her nightgown and robe.
She opens her mouth again but can't.
It gets brighter and quieter. She can only unravel one thing and decides to focus on the light. She tries to open both eyes - but is exhausted by the effort and gives up. After a minute she starts with the left one…bright lights and shapes she can't quite name. Everything is silent now except for a steady beep. She closes her eyes and breathes heavily. She's in the dark - her dream complete with costumes and sets and beeping ticker tape has gone. She's trying to figure out where she is and why she feels like the bottom of a shoe. She's not in her room - the light wasn't familiar and the smell of antiseptic was too strong. She could figure it out, she knew she could, if it wasn't for that beeping.
Beeping.
She brushes her hand across the surface - it was rough and scratchy.
Hospital.
She was in a hospital, the question was why. The last thing she remembers is Brenda in her office. On her filing cabinet. Oh God, she hopes she didn't get knocked out by a stray knee only to hit her head - that would be humiliating. She tries to open her eyes again and has better luck. They both open and stay open. She sees the light, she sees the sun, she sees the ceiling tiles and Laura. She sees her daughter. And her mother. And Brenda's mother. And Brenda. She closes her eyes, uncertain if this was just another dream within a dream - if so, she wants to go back to the black and white one to clear her head. What happened that parents were involved? She was 57 years old - but she still didn't want her mother to know she was having sex. In her office. That doesn't explain the pain in her chest though.
She opens her mouth but again, nothing. She feels something wet poke through her lips - Brenda orders her to drink, so she drinks - thankful for the order, she still knows how to follow them at least. The cool liquid slides down but doesn't dampen the dryness of her mouth. She keeps drinking until she's told to ease up. So she does. She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes.
She's not dreaming - she's in the hospital. She's surrounded by people. In the words of her daughter, she feels like ass.
"Don't talk," Brenda orders her softly, "For once in your life Captain, listen to me and don't talk."
"Brenda's right dear," Martha confirms, already spotting her daughter's frustration.
"Don't give your mama that look, it's been known to happen." Brenda says.
"You're in the hospital mom." Laura explains, "You were at work and you were shot." She sees the confusion on her mother's face. "You're fine, or you will be. It was a few days ago. They kept you asleep after the surgery. You understand me so far?"
Sharon can only nod. That alone takes work. Things are starting to come back to her - Brenda standing in front of her in her black bra, standing on a street corner talking with a witness, glancing down the block and seeing…something.
"On the plus side dear, you look great!" Her mother lies.
She shoots her a withering glare. She can hear Brenda laugh and murmur some snide remark.
Brenda Leigh.
Her mind is still swimming with sleep and drugs but she's fairly certain she's missing something.
"You're right mom, you look like ass." Laura admits, "But we're glad to see you, so we'll forgive you this one time."
She may not be able to talk but she can laugh - or try to - it's dry and hurts, causing her to wince. Brenda reaches for her hand and gives it a squeeze.
"Don't make her laugh," Martha chastises, "Laura's right though dear - you do look…less than your best."
This is her family, she thinks. No wonder she likes the dreams.
"Don't listen to them, you look beautiful." Brenda says, still holding onto her hand. She watches as Brenda sits down at the chair by her side. There's something going on, but she can't figure it out. If everyone left, she could ask - also…why is Brenda's mother here? Was she that close to death? "Now, Captain -" She used her rank again… "Here's what's going to happen, the doctors are going to come in soon and check you out and make sure everything's where it should be and how it should be, alright?"
As if on cue, the doctor appears - he looks young and makes her nervous, but the way he clears everyone out impresses her. "Figured you could use some time." He explains as he shuts the door behind them.
He takes his time talking to her, helping her sit up, helping her find her voice again. He goes over the details of her recovery and while she hates hospitals, she's not exactly certain she's happy to hear she'll be free to go home soon. At least the ground floor of her home. Work was still weeks away. Rehab would take all her time. She could feel depression and fear sinking in already. She tried to hold back tears. She just wanted Brenda. She wanted to be held and told it was all a lie. She hated not knowing everything and she felt like she didn't know everything about whatever was hanging between herself and Brenda. Oh God, she thought, she had become one of those people who needed others. She hated those people - or more specifically, she hated being one of those people.
Everything hurts and the doctor offers her a sedative - she convinces him to give her a few moments of lucidity before he puts her to sleep again. He gives her 15 minutes and leaves the room, asking whoever Brenda was if she could go in.
Brenda's surprised by the request and looks around - "Shouldn't one of you go in?" She asks Laura and Martha. Laura shrugs and Martha smiles and pushes her towards the door. "Don't worry, we'll be watching from the window if you need any help."
"Well isn't that nice of y'all." Brenda mutters as she pulls open the door and walks in. Sharon looks tiny in the bed. There's very little of the imposing woman she's battled with and it scares her.
"Don't worry," Sharon whispers, "I'll be better soon."
"You'd better," Brenda says, ignoring how the other woman was able to read her thoughts, "Otherwise how will I ever kill you for scaring me like that."
"You can come closer,"
"Don't." Brenda says, shaking her head, "Don't do that to me ever again - I love you Sharon Raydor and my current plan is to make your life difficult for years to come, so don't you ever do that to me again, do you understand?"
"Come here," Sharon asks again, patting the bed, watching Brenda as she steps closer but stops short of the bed.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You couldn't put me anymore pain than I'm already in." She winces. "Don't fight with me - even with me in here, you don't stand a chance." She jokes. "Brenda, I just want to feel normal for a minute because I'm afraid normal's going to be very far away for a very long time."
Brenda looks down at Sharon, her green eyes dull and heavy, her body limp. As much as she wants to argue with the other woman, she has a feeling that she's right. She gently perches on the edge of the bed and turns on her side - their bodies are brushing but she's putting no weight on Sharon. "They're watching, aren't they?" Brenda asks knowingly.
"Yes they are. I can't remember a lot."
"It's probably for the best."
"About us."
"We had a….spat."
"A spat?" Sharon asked, humor evident in her voice.
"Yes, I was right and you were wrong - the usual." Brenda shrugs.
"That's not all, is it?"
"No." Brenda agrees, "But that's all you need to know for now." Because it's true. Sharon's in no condition to talk about anything heavy - and even if she were, it wouldn't matter - Brenda'd still be right about them. She'd let too many people call the shots in their relationship before - she hadn't cared. Things were different now.
"This is going to be rough."
"It is." Brenda agrees, fully aware that the surgery and the coma, as awful as it sounds, was the easy part of the ordeal.
"So you don't have to stay or anything. It's really very sweet that you came and brought your -"
"I'm not going anywhere." Brenda props herself up on one arm and looks down at her lover.
"I don't think you understand what -"
"Oh I understand, Captain. You're not the first officer to get shot and sadly you won't be the last. There's going to be doctor's visits and rehab and learning how to do the basic things again not to mention depression and mood swings and competency hearings and meetings with councilors to talk about your 'feelings' about all of this and being asked how you 'feel' about your 'feelings'. And that's all before you even get back to work. I get it, Captain Raydor. I understand - I've been understanding it the last three days, and I've been understanding whenever it happens to anyone else, including me. So no, I'm not going anywhere, so you can just get rid of that idea. And if you want to keep arguing with me, I'm not afraid of poking you in that gaping wound you have in your chest." Brenda threatens. She watches as the other woman digests the words she said and the meaning behind them. Satisfied that she's done arguing, she settles back down, closer to Sharon's body.
"So - you said -"
"I said I love you, yes. You don't have to say it back." She goes on to change the subject, "You should know that there's a rumor going on at work. About us."
"What about us?"
"That I'm here to play Naughty Nurse." Brenda confesses matter-of-factly.
"Well that's ridiculous. The outfit was mine - it'd never fit you." Sharon deadpans.
"Exactly." Brenda agrees. They both laugh gently, mindful of their positions.
"I have a feeling I did that thing where I was a bitch before I got shot." Sharon can see by the look on Brenda's face this is a correct guess. "Something stupid like -"
"This is your only 'get out of jain free' card, Captain. I strongly suggest you use it." Brenda warns, not wanting to have this talk. "I'm not going anywhere and neither are you. And while we're at it -" Brenda props herself back up on her elbow, "If you ever, EVER do anything stupid like that again I will shoot you myself - and I don't miss. Do you understand me? Am I makin' myself clear Captain?"
"Yes Chief. Crystal."
"Good." She brushes a hand over Sharon's cheek and notices the other woman's eyes getting heavy. "You should rest."
"The nurse'll be in in a few minutes - I scared him into giving us some time." Sharon's eyes dropped shut. She was so tired. "Kiss me?" She asked.
So Brenda obliged, softly brushing her lips against Sharon's. There'd be time for more passion later (but hopefully not too much later) - right now she knew Sharon just needed comfort.
"Nice." Sharon grinned in her haze.
"Sleep now - the faster you get better, the faster you can get back up on your feet and do that little walk of yours."
"Which walk?"
"You know the one… The strut tha-" Brenda was silenced swiftly when Sharon wrapped her arm around Brenda's neck and pulled her down into a kiss - compelling and desperate, a physical request for reassurance.
"Soft kisses are nice, but hard ones are better." Sharon responds, her eyes still closed. "I need you to know I love you."
"I had a feeling," Brenda whispers, brushing stray hair off of Sharon's face.