AN: It's been a very long time since I posted, because my life has become a whirlwind of work and school and family and wedding planning. But, a little muse came to visit the other day, and I wrote this short piece. I know that "For the Defense" fics have been done to death, but there was one last scene that I felt needed to be written. So, to set you all up for this read, let me just say that the elevator scene in FtD is one of my favorites. Personally, I think there was more "'shipper" fuel in that scene of the episode than in any other. However, Connie seemed tense, which would be anyone's reaction to being in the line of fire. But then I got to thinking... what if that wasn't the only reason for her apprehension? This story is for my L&O besties and all those who believe that M/C are living in a beach house in Malibu now... and that's why Mike was replaced by Mike-Cutter-wannabe, Rafael Barba... :)
Screams. Gunfire. Splintering wood.
Detective Bernard's shouting carried faintly from the hallway—"Police! Get down!"
Three more distant, yet deafening gunshots.
"Police! Stay down!"
Two more shots.
CRASH!
Crouching on the floor against the entertainment center, Connie covered her ears and tried to calm her breathing. There was one final shot, and then, the heavy padding of Detective Lupo's boots as he charged into the corridor. Paige's faint whimpers broke through Connie's daze of terror, reawakening her temporarily paralyzed wits. She turned and quickly crawled over to Paige, whispering, "Are you hurt?"
"N-no…" Paige sobbed, clutching her hair with white knuckles. "Who w-was that?"
Connie had no answer. Only she, Bernard, and Lupo had known where Paige was being kept… Somehow, that confidence had been compromised. But, who was to blame? She fought with the pocket of her trench coat, pulling out her cell phone and shakily scrolling through her contacts for Mike's number. She wasn't sure why he was the first person she thought to call, but she didn't have the time to analyze her actions. The fire alarm rang loudly across the eighteenth floor, indicating that the suspect had been subdued. The hotel would be swarming with CSU techs and I.A. officers within the hour.
"I'll call it in, B." Detective Lupo appeared in the doorway, visibly ruffled. Connie signaled that she would look after Paige, while he followed protocol. "This is Detective Lupo, badge number…"
He retreated back into the hallway, joining Bernard, who was ordering curious and frightened guests to stay in their rooms.
Connie glanced up at the jagged hole in the wood bureau, so close to where she had been standing. The thought of how rapidly her life could have been seized was numbing. She could have easily been a chalk outline on the floor if the assailant had aimed slightly to the left. She had always accepted the fact that her job was dangerous, but today had been too close for comfort. Connie turned her attention back to Paige, who was trembling and gasping for breath. "It's okay… You're okay…"
"How is this 'okay'?" Paige found her voice, thick with anger. "You people were supposed to protect me, and instead, I'm dodging bullets!"
Connie's heart sunk at the outburst of distrust and disappointment. Paige was right. What would Jack say? Or Mike? Mike… She realized that her thumb had been hovering over the "Send" button. She took a deep breath and made the grim phone call. Forgoing the traditional hello-how-are-you or hey-it's-me, Connie apprehensively announced, "Someone just tried to silence our lead witness."
40 minutes later, the once-deserted hallway was alive with the painstaking procedures of a crime scene. A handful of uniformed men and women occupied room 1816 and the outside corridor, taking pictures and measurements. Leaning against the cool, gray plaster wall, Connie averted her gaze from the contorted cadaver lying on display in the inoperative elevator. Dr. Rodgers stood under the harsh fluorescent lights, clipboard in hand, signaling for a technician to cover the body with a sheet.
"Miss Rubirosa?" Connie turned toward the young officer in front of her. He had been asking her questions, but she had zoned out. "Do you recognize the deceased?"
"No…" Connie shook her head, folding her arms protectively across her chest. "I've never seen him before. Paige didn't seem to know him, either."
"And you stated that you arrived shortly before the perp—is that correct?"
"Yes… Do you think he followed me?" She felt a nauseating pang of guilt. Had this been her fault?
The officer placed his notepad and pen back into his vest, frowning in thought. "I doubt it—he wouldn't have had time. This guy knew the layout of the hotel. Look, I know you're tired and a little shaken up, but thank you for your patience. We'll get you out of here as soon as we can."
Connie was once again alone in the garish corridor, when Paige appeared in her peripheral vision. She was standing in the center of the kitchenette, visibly upset. Lupo came into view, now garbed in his overcoat and beanie. "How are you holding up?"
"I've still got a pulse, so I'd say that I'm just fine," Connie procured a small, insincere smile.
"I just got off the phone with the Lieutenant. We're moving Paige to a safe house." Noting Connie's incredulous eyebrow, he added, "An actual safe house."
"None of this makes any sense."
"It never does," Lupo sighed, glancing at his partner who was swiftly and silently guiding Paige toward the stairwell exit. "Listen, I'll catch up with you later. If you need anything, call me. B will be back up in a few minutes…"
Before the departing detectives could reach the exit, however, the door flew open, wielding a wind-whipped Mike Cutter. From the waist up, he was still in his DA "uniform", an aesthetic contrast to his dark jeans and tennis shoes. Connie noted the look of sheer rage etched across his face as he flourished his credentials to one doubtful investigator. There was a brief, urgent exchange between he and the detectives, and then his ice blue eyes wandered in her direction. He patted Lupo on the shoulder, said something reassuring to Paige, and then began walking toward Connie.
She wasn't sure why, but she felt the sudden urge to cry. She had held her composure during the chaos, but the sight of her partner sent a foreign wave of emotion through her body. The encircling sounds of camera shutters, radio chatter, city traffic, and hushed voices faded away with every step closer that he took. As if they were two different people in an entirely different time—as if there were no rules or boundaries or expectations, Mike reached out and pulled her into a solicitous embrace. Grateful for the tangible proof that she was safe, she clutched the woolly fabric of his coat, taking in his scent—a scent that she had never realized was so familiar to her before.
"I don't know why I called you," she admitted softly, fighting off the annoying sting of tears. "Everything is fine. I'm fine. You didn't have to come all the way over here."
"You'd do the same for me."
The movement of his lips and gentle breath of his sentiment tousled her hair slightly. It sent an uninvited shiver down her spine, and she quickly ceased the intimate contact. She took a step back, avoiding his gaze, and reality came crashing down. She instantly felt subconscious and claustrophobic, fervently wiping away the few tears that had escaped to her cheeks.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Mike's brow furrowed in concern.
"I'm fine. I just want to get out of here…"
"As soon as you're cleared to leave, we can go get some coffee-…"
"No!" was her rapid and assertive response. She cringed at the ill-mannered interjection, but Mike's presence and the subsequent physical contact suggested something ominous. The trauma of the situation had made her crave his company, an idea that terrified her. And if she were to be completely honest with herself, a warm cup of coffee and some friendly conversation would be her ideal remedy to such a stressful day. However, she couldn't risk such complications in their working rapport. Drinks after work were harmless; anything that went awry or traversed professionalism could be chalked up to alcohol. But, confessions in a coffee shop would only lead to a comfort and familiarity that would falsely fill the void of the relationship she so desperately desired. And so, she continued, more kindly, "Thanks for the offer, but I… I just want to go home."
Mike's expression was unreadable, and if she had hurt his feelings, the slight was undetectable. He simply nodded his head and conceded, "Okay."
AN: And cue the next scene...