Disclaimer: I do not own The Closer and/or their characters. Yes. That notion makes me put on a pout.
AN: This one-shot was written for the Month Of Love, inspired by the prompt Walk Of Shame. It is still set in The Closer universe - but I did take the liberty to divorce Brenda from Fritz. Just because.

A pounding headache is the first thing Sharon Raydor registers when she slowly slips into consciousness. Her fatigued eyes slam shut before they even have the chance to open properly; her senses are razor sharp and all of her muscles feel deliciously sore.

Her eyes are still snapped shut when she carefully lets her hand wander over to the other side of the bed. Much to her dismay, she finds it graced with a sleeping silhouette. For heaven's sake. You got drunk, you got fucked, congratulations, Sharon fucking Raydor.

She certainly doesn't make a habit out of one night stands, but she also knows that when the need is high, she becomes a sucker for temptation. That particular malfunction left her with one too many awkward early morning confrontations and - unfortunately - the dreadful realization that intoxication did seem to numb her senses, especially where her vision was concerned.

This time, she is determined to make it right and get the hell out of there before the other person wakes up. She has no interest whatsoever in the person she just spent the night with and decides not to strain a muscle trying to push the sleeping figure over so she can witness just how bad her taste in sexual partners has gotten over the years. She doesn't even know if it is a man or a woman she has caught in her bed; she usually doesn't have any gender restrictions as long as he/she is adequate enough to satisfy her every need.

It takes her some effort to lift her aching body off the bed, which she faintly recognizes as a typical motel bed, faded pink covers and all that jazz. She briefly lets her eyes wander over the room, which only seems to confirm her suspicions. She must have picked up a stranger and let herself be led into a motel room, because there is not a living chance that Sharon Raydor would willingly suggest spending the night in a motel, ever.

Balancing herself on the edge of the incriminating bed, she closes her eyes again, trying to fight the nausea that promptly takes hold of her. I'm getting too old for this. She makes it just in time to the small bathroom that looks just as vintage as the bedroom.

She sits down next to the toilet, exhausted, whimpering a little as her naked body comes into contact with the ice cold tiles. The bitter cold sting is the trigger she needs to sober up within a second. Sharon Raydor is sitting naked on the undoubtedly dirty floor of a motel bathroom. Heaven only knows what kind of germs could be violating her defenseless body at this very moment.

Pulling herself upright, she briefly pauses to study herself in the simple square mirror, noticing that even though her eyes are bloodshot, there is still a certain glow to her features. She curses herself for not remembering anything about the night before. From the looks of it, she must have gotten a pretty decent lay.

As she walks out of the bathroom, her curiosity almost takes control and she almost stops to move the sheets to reveal her secret lover, but she quickly composes herself and looks around the room instead. An anthracite coloured tight fitting dress and a lighter grey blazer are carelessly draped over a forlorn armchair; a lace bra in the deepest shade of burgundy contrasts with the pale pink of the bedspread that it is currently situated on. Careful not to stir the sleeping body, Sharon pinches her lingerie from the foot of the bed, wondering where the hell the matching panties are.

Done with the situation, Sharon decides to just leave her lost panties be and put an end to this uncomfortable morning. Getting more desperate for a decent cup of tea with every second, she hurriedly puts on her bra and dress. With her blazer draped over her arm, she wiggles her feet into a pair of dark heels before walking out of the door, determined never to look back.

The shrill sound of her phone attacks her drowsy head in the cruelest way possible. She reaches her arm out in an attempt to snatch the offending object off her nightstand, only to knock off a larger object that she realizes must be a bedside lamp she never even put there. She growls until her hand clasps around the familiar form of her phone.

While her one hand is occupied with the phone, the other one reaches up to her temple, attempting to gently massage the headache away but her hand gets stuck before it reaches its destination. "Chief Johnson." It registers slowly that for once, her unruly mass of golden curls are not the reason why she can't seem to move her fingers.

"Chief? We've got a situation. Some loony tune went nuts in a liquor store." Was Flynn's voice always this loud? "Okay, Lieutenant, no need to shout." Brenda used two fingers to pick up the scrap of fabric that was entangled within her hair and lets it dangle above her face. "Chief? I'll text you the address." Panties?

She twirls the delicate lace around, a frown talking hold of her face. Burgundy panties? "Chief?" She never.. "'s Good. Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll be there in thirty minutes, thank you." Placing her phone back on the nightstand, Brenda sits herself upright, her face studying the panties in slight panic. She never wears burgundy lingerie! Pink yes, or red, but never something as refined as burgundy..

She lowers the panties as she takes a moment to study the room. Up until now, she hadn't even noticed that she wasn't in the comfort of her own bedroom. Like her own place, the dominant undertone of the room is pink and Brenda decides she quite likes the interior, even though it seems a little impersonal. It's definitely too pink-ish to be a hotel room.. A motel.

As soon as that realization hits her, she looks over to the other side of the bed as if the sheets suddenly caught fire. She reaches over to grab the other pillow and hesitantly brings it up to her nose. Bourbon vanilla. There definitely was someone here with her last night.

"Oh!" Brenda whines, furrowing her brow trying to remember how she had gotten herself into a situation like this. She was a decent Southern girl; she may have gotten divorced three times, but in between marriages she was close to being a nun - a workaholic nun, that is. Well, apart from that time she got into this stupid affair.. Oh my, what if it was Pope she spent the night with?

As if on cue, the lace panties find their way to her fingers again and Brenda feels relieved that Will Pope most likely wouldn't be wearing these to bed. It doesn't bother her that the piece of lingerie suggests that her lover-of-last-night must have been a woman. She has never actually been with another woman, but she can't say she's never been physically attracted to gentle feminine curves either.

She chuckles as she stands up from the bed, picking up her teal coloured dress from the floor. Both her bra and panties are currently trapped underneath the lamp that she had indeed knocked off the nightstand. She puts the lamp back up and her underwear back on and starts looking around for a cardigan and pumps. The blonde locates both items in a colourful heap by the door and quickly puts them on before facing the sunlight.

Relying on her instincts, she knows better than to assume that she drove her own car to the motel, so Sharon sees no other option than to call a cab to get herself home. She's desperate for a cup of tea – make that a decadent pot of tea – and a hot shower.

The hammering headache only seems to be getting worse, but that doesn't keep the skilled Captain from thinking clearly and she sure as hell isn't going to let a cab pick her up from a motel parking in the early lights of day. The delicate fabric of her dress is wrinkled and she won't even think about the current state of her post-drunken face. She spots a gas station further down the road and decides to march over there, waiting for the car to take her home.

Her walk is wobbly to say the least and the brunette prefers to blame it on the hangover, since there is simply no circumstance conceivable in which Sharon Raydor can't walk gracefully in a pair of high heeled shoes. Either way, it is taking her a lot of effort to strut the streets in her typical stiff manner.

Sharon arrives at the gas station seconds before the taxi and as she gets into the car, she sighs happily at the prospect of spending the rest of her Saturday morning in the quiet comfort that is her own apartment. She might even lay down for an hour or two to get some additional sleep before turning to some insignificant paperwork. Thanking her lucky stars, Sharon finds herself blessed with a quiet cab driver and within minutes she is dozing off in the backseat.

The sound of her phone brings the brunette back to reality. "Raydor." She takes up a straight posture to complete her austere Captain Raydor persona, even when taking a call. "Morning, Captain. We're going to need your assistance at a crime scene." Sharon studies her surroundings and realizes to her frustration that she is only a block away from her own place. She was close enough to smell her favourite blend of tea.

"It's a bad one." She can detect the desperation in her Sergeant's voice and like the professional Sharon is, she taps the driver's shoulder to alert him new directions are on their way. "Text me the details, Sergeant. I'll be there as soon as possible." Upon receiving the address of the crime scene, she orders the cab driver to take a U-turn and speed it up a little – but not too much, of course.

Sharon rummages through her purse, hoping to find a compact mirror in there and maybe some lipstick and mascara too. Fixing her luxurious mass of hair and touching up her make-up, Sharon looks down at her dress and sighs contently that it's still appropriate for work. She usually keeps an extra pair of nude stockings in her purse, but a swift study of her legs confirms that even in their bare state they look as gorgeous as ever.

At the bottom of her purse, she finds a pair of oversized Prada sunglasses. Since LA sunshine can be a bitch - even at half past six in the morning - Sharon sees no harm in wearing her sophisticated sunglasses to a crime scene, in what she sees is a win-win situation. The dark glasses will protect her aching head from the abundant rays of light and will simultaneously hide her poor hangover eyes from her colleagues.

With a bit of luck, no one would notice that merely an hour prior to her arrival, she was wrapped up in a hideous pink motel bed with a nameless stranger.

"'s Cuse me, sir?" Brenda crosses the motel parking lot to where an older man is standing. "Sir?" He doesn't give her a look until the blonde is well up in his personal space. "Sir. Would you be so kind to tell where I am?" She plasters on a cheerful smile that always works well with her charming southern accent, which she is currently laying on quite thick.

"The Pink Flamingo, ma'am." The man points at the neon sign marking the entrance of the motel. "Yes well, I figured out that much.." Brenda contemplates grinding her teeth until they break off but settles for a sugar sweet smile instead, ".. but what street are we on? And do you happen to know if we are close to Olden Jack?"

For the first time since she initiated the conversation, the man's expression changes as he raises his eyebrow whilst looking at the petite blonde in front of him as if she was sent from outer space. "It's supposed to be a liquor store, sir?" Brenda appears unaffected by the scrutinizing stare she's getting from the older man. "Oh! You mean, Golden Jack, little lady? That's only five minutes from here."

A slight pout threatens to spill from the woman's generous lips as she raises her eyes to the sky, hoping to find her drunken memories written in the clouds. "I could take you there if you want?" The man motions towards what Brenda supposes is his truck – a vehicle as vintage as the wrinkles on the man's face. The blonde momentarily contemplates her options, coming to the conclusion that arriving at a crime scene in an old truck, driven by an equally old man, would have her team all over her for the rest of the week.

"Thanks, but I think I'm gonna walk over there." Brenda bites her lip in relief when the man simply smiles at her dismissal of his well-intended offer. "Go left when you leave the parking lot and then turn into the first street on your right and you'll see Jack's on your left." Walking away on heels that suddenly seem higher than something she'd usually wear, Brenda waves her hand over to the helpful man. "Thank you so much, sir. Have a nice day!"

Sharon rolls her eyes to the far back of her head once she realizes that the cab is taking her back down the same road they'd just come from. As the car turns into an unfamiliar street, she can already see her colleagues walking around what she assumes is one hell of a crime scene.

She pays the driver and tries to exit the car in her usual elegant way but fails miserably as she almost slips out of her heels. What's with these damn shoes? Steadying herself on the edge of the car seat, she notices a Sergeant heading her way. Popping a breath mint in her mouth, she lifts herself up as straight as possible, throwing her purse over her arm to meet him halfway. "Morning, Sergeant, care to inform me?"

The young man takes in the striking vision that is his superior. Raydor looks as put together as always, yet there seems to be something different about her this morning. He shrugs his shoulders, concluding for himself that it must be the sunglasses; he can't recall the Captain's face being framed by anything other than her dark rimmed reading glasses.

Listening intently to her Sergeant, Sharon ducks underneath the red tape as her eyes take in the people scattered around the crime scene. She immediately spots the entire Major Crimes team, including Taylor and Pope, but somehow the picture doesn't seem complete. The demanding voice of her young colleague brings her back to reality. ".. so both suspects got trigger happy.."

She interrupts him, gesturing towards the Major Crimes unit. "Which one of them is responsible for taking down the civilians?" Positioning her hands on the front of her hips, she tries her best to look authoritarian as she overlooks the crime scene, but when she attempts to turn on her heel, the brunette almost loses her balance, her current unsteady state providing her with a pitiless reality check.

Suddenly it hits her that she still hasn't had the honour of overhearing that infuriating southern twang. "It wasn't Chief Johnson who took the shot, was it?" Sharon is forever grateful for her sunglasses, otherwise the Sergeant in front of her would undoubtedly have witnessed the exasperation that is written in her eyes, caused by the prospect of having to deal with the incredulous blonde Chief. "No, Captain. It was detective Sanchez." A profound sigh slips from the brunette's lips as she starts walking with renewed vigour.

By now they were approaching Flynn and Provenza, the better dressed of the two looking worried, the other one just.. grumpy, as usual. With a stern voice, loud enough for the two men to hear, Sharon almost bawls. "Where ís Chief Johnson?" Flynn hurries towards the Captain like a devoted puppy, informing her that his beloved Chief is still on her way.

Provenza soon joins his colleague, seizing the opportunity to study the face of the Wicked Witch now that it was partly covered by the sunglasses. Envisioning the woman's signature deadly glare, he swears that he can see a perfect eyebrow hover above the rim of the glasses, even though they were big enough to shield most of her face. Without thinking twice, Provenza takes a few steps backwards as the Captain leans in closer to his astonished expression. "Please make sure to let me know when she gets here, Lieutenant."

Five minutes the old man had said. Well, he lied. Brenda was convinced she had been walking for at least fifteen minutes before she found the street that harboured her crime scene. A small drop of sweat was running down her temple, giving away the great effort it took the blonde to walk the hot LA streets in a pair of killer heels. She had taken off her cardigan, the cotton fabric clutching in her fists as she strode towards her goal.

She is limping a little, having gathered a serious amount of blisters along the way. It must be because of the smoldering heat; her feet must be swollen or something because damn these shoes are tight. And high! Brenda shoots her feet a deadly glare, pouting her lips and narrowing her eyes as she marches down to her team.

The blonde is met by Flynn and Provenza who both appear to be shorter than she remembers. She wasn't having a heat stroke, was she? Oh, if only she had brought one of her floppy hats in that damn purse. Brenda cocks her head a little to the side, looking lost in thought, before she realizes that she still hasn't greeted her two officers. "Good morning Lieutenant Flynn, Lieutenant Provenza. What's going on?"

Flynn holds up the tape so his Chief can enter the crime scene. "Some nutjobs attacked the liquor store, emptying the entire shop with their bullets, including the owner and his two sons." Brenda immediately notices Sanchez standing a little on the side, with Captain Raydor's threatening figure hovering over him. Before Flynn continues, she can distinctly hear Provenza add, "Such a waste of good liquor too."

The blonde ignores the older man, keeping her eyes fixed on Sanchez and the Captain. The three of them make it to the two blood stained bodies on the street, where a paramedic was knelt beside Tao and Buzz. Brenda lowers herself to the ground but has to pull back when the stale smell of dried blood reaches her hangover sensitive nose.

Brushing her loose curls from her face, she prays her crinkled nose doesn't give away her sudden nausea. "Julio took the shots?" Tao confirms her suspicions with a simple nod and the blonde takes that as her cue to get away from the dead bodies and mingle with the living. "I better go talk to him and the Captain then."

"Chief Johnson! Glad to see you could make it." The distinct alto makes Brenda's weary head spin and she has to clutch to Sanchez' shoulder to keep her balance. Julio looks up at his Chief in surprise, but remains even more stunned when the Captain takes a few steps forward to stand in between the two of them, squatting the blonde's hand away from the detective's slumped shoulder. "Let me do my job and you do yours.. Chief."

Out of habit, Brenda tilts her pretty head up to stare the Captain straight into her piercing green eyes, determined to wrestle herself out of the battle with her eyes, but the blonde discovers that it is not just the sunglasses that form a barrier. Raydor seems remotely shorter than usual. Brenda is quite certain that her brown doe eyes are flashing question marks towards the other woman, but the latter doesn't even flinch.

Ignoring the mystery of their sudden difference in height, Brenda edgily focuses on the face of the older woman. "Well, Captain, how can I do my job when your red tape is all over my crime scene?" She lets her eyes wander over the gorgeous figure of the Captain – when did she start thinking of Raydor as gorgeous? - until her eyes come to rest at the other woman's shoes.

Brenda lets out a shriek that puts car alarms to shame, causing the captain to cover her ears, her lips forming an even thinner line than usual. "Something the matter, Chief?" A pair of chocolate eyes wide with terror remains fixed on the other woman's shoes. Having labeled the blonde as unpredictable from the first moment they met, Sharon never quite knows what to expect from the Chief, but she certainly wasn't prepared for what she hears next. "You're wearing my shoes!"

Lowering her head in synch with the blonde, their heads bump into each other, causing both women to fume with sudden anger and a similar throbbing headache. Sharon is the first of the bewildered pair to put two and two together. She slept with the Chief? Contrasting highly to the inner turmoil she's currently experiencing, her voice sounds cold and collected as she shoots Brenda a look from over the rim of her sunglasses. "Maybe we should exchange our shoes."

Without thinking it over, the blonde steps out of the excruciating heels, leaving her feel small compared to the other woman who is still standing high and proud in Brenda's kitten heels. For the second time that morning, Sanchez finds his shoulders being used as support, as the Captain holds onto him while she steps straight from her current shoes into her own pair of killer heels. Sharon sighs in relief when she feels the familiar Italian leather stretch around her feet.

Observing the pure bliss on the Captain's face, Brenda feels her already dry throat go even drier, her cheeks turning crimson. I know that look. Oh she knows it well. To her deepest frustration, she doesn't find her embarrassment mirrored in the smug facial features of the brunette. Brenda contemplates throwing a tantrum but decides against it when her flaming eyes lock with the delicate burgundy bra straps that grace the other woman's shoulders.

The blonde rummages through her black purse until her eager fingers graze the soft lace fabric. Making sure she's still got the unyielding Captain's attention, she lifts the burgundy panties from her bag and holds them up in front of the dumbstruck brunette's face. "I take it these are yours too?"

Sharon curses the lack of powder on her cheeks as she feels the heat brighten up her otherwise collected face. Blushing furiously, she attempts to grasp her underwear from Brenda's greedy little fingers but the blonde is having none of it. She balls her hands into the pockets of her dress, grinding her teeth, opening her mouth to sneer, but Brenda beats her to it.

"If you'll excuse me, Captain, I believe we both have a job to do." Sharon nearly rips the pockets from her dress in frustration. She glares at the younger woman from over her sunglasses, trying in vain to intimidate her. She can only watch as Brenda does the one thing Sharon absolutely loathes: the blonde smiles. "Why, Captain, you said so yourself, now didn't you?"

Sharon is both too stunned and aggravated to form a coherent comeback, so once again it is Brenda who takes the word. "If you want to discuss other matters, you should come by my place tonight." The brunette arches an eyebrow but the eyebrow-immune blonde rambles on, patting the bottom of her purse. "Maybe we can exchange these too?"

Confident in her own shoes – literally this time - Brenda spins on her heel and walks over to the rest of her team. Leaving behind one flustered Captain and one very, very confused detective.

Julio may be a fine detective, but even he is clueless as he tries to figure out the little scene that just took place in front of him. Surely, the Chief had looked more out of her element than usual and Raydor.. just what was the deal with the Wicked Witch and those sunglasses? And were they sharing shoes now?

When Flynn and Provenza walk over to Sanchez, they pass a cheerful Chief and a fuming Captain – nothing out of the ordinary – until they reach Julio, from top to bottom lost in his thoughts. Attributing his pensive behaviour to the recent shootings, Flynn gently rests his hand on Julio's shoulder. "You did the right thing taking those bastards down, Julio, I'm sure Raydor will come to the same conclusion."

Raydor. Julio wonders why the otherwise severe Captain had looked panic-stricken the second Brenda started waving that handkerchief in front of her. Furrowing his brow in thought, Sanchez asks to no one in particular, "Do they only use white flags to show surrender?" Both Flynn and Provenza stare at the younger man. "You sure he had his head checked out, Andy?"

"You shoulda seen the look on Raydor's face when the Chief held up a red handkerchief.. in the middle of their conversation." Provenza and Flynn exchange a bemused look, the latter patting his hand on Julio's shoulder. Provenza chuckles. "It's only natural for the Captain to react strongly to red cloth, Julio, you know what they say.." Forming two horns with his fingers, Provenza leaves his colleagues with his hands on top of his head, mimicking bull sounds.

Epilogue

With a soft thud, Sharon lets the apartment door close behind her. Shoes in one hand, car keys in the other, the brunette mentally congratulates herself for bringing her own car down this time. She guardedly throws her high heels onto the passenger seat and takes a minute to study her face in the tiny car mirror. The almost familiar glow is definitely there again, but this time her eyes are sparkling green with little golden flecks. A striking smile completes her face contently, gracing the corners of her still kiss-bruised lips.

Turning into her own driveway fifteen minutes later, she hesitates a second before exiting her car. She looks through her car windows to see if any of her neighbours are in clear sight. Sharon wouldn't want them to witness her in her current state. Since her eager lover-of-last-night(s) had been all too reckless with the zipper of Sharon's immaculate pencil skirt, the brunette had opted for dressing in the other woman's personal attire, which was fruitlessly lingering on the foot of the bed when she woke up.

Deciding the coast is clear, Sharon takes a leap towards the door, barefoot, her fine-looking form sporting the ugliest pair of sweatpants: fuchsia, with kittens drawn all over them.