A/n: don't own don't sue
Lyrics at the beginning are from 'Witness' by Daughtry
Witness
Chapter One
Are you sick and tired of being sick and tired?
Hollowed out and feeling uninspired
The question I keep asking you, is
What will it take to ease your worried mind
Your worried mind
Now you're letting your confusion take control
And leading it down a dark and lonely road
Even that won't last forever
Just look around and see you're not alone
You're not alone
If you can't find love but you're still not giving up (Can I get a witness?)
If you died at night but you still wanna live it up (Can I get a witness?)
And if the weight of the world is on you now
But you know you can turn it all around again
Can I get a witness?
Does it feel like you're just wasting time
Here without a reason or a rhyme
The answer you've been looking for is
Standing there before your weary eyes
If you can't find love but you're still not giving up (Can I get a witness?))
If you died at night but you still wanna live it up (Can I get a witness?)
And if the weight of the world is on you now
But you know you can turn it all around again
Can I get a witness?
Sometimes love is very dark and dangerous and leaves you not liking yourself very much.
They lived their lives in each other's pockets. No personal time, no privacy and no secrets. Nate and Hardison saw to that. And yet they still had secrets. There were nights when each of them went their separate ways, disappearing into the night until morning when they gathered again. It was an unwritten rule, nobody needed to know anybody's business or what they did to blow off steam. They laughed and teased and mocked each other but they kept their secrets. She was his secret. No one knew about her, about the two of them and what his secret meant to him. She was something different. Something primal and intoxicating. All–consuming. Their meetings were few and far between, his work with Nate and the team and her work as a vet kept them busy and therefore apart. Maybe that was a good thing, because when they were together they burned so hot it was blinding, dangerous. That kind of white-hot passion drove people crazy. Bad for your health, but you couldn't quite seem to quit even if it would save your sanity.
Her house was in darkness, a porch light casting an eerie glow over her neatly trimmed front lawn. It was a boring residential street and the sound of his car engine echoed off the white-washed walls. He drove around and parked at the back of the house, out of sight from the street. He let himself in through the back door, stripping his gloves and hat and leaving them on the scrubbed kitchen table besides a glossy green bowl of red apples. He knew his way, even in the pitch black of the sleeping house. His feet carried him, almost of their own volition, through the kitchen, into the quiet hallway and up the wooden staircase. Each step creaked mildly under his boots as he climbed, framed posters lining the wall glinting in the half light from the porch filtering in through the windows.
Her door was slightly ajar, as if she'd somehow known he was coming tonight. She couldn't possibly know, he hadn't seen her in three weeks and her phone had been turned off for the past two days. He nudged the door with his shoulder and it swung fully open gently. Moonlight filtered through the window, patchworking the big room. He kicked off his boots with practised ease, shedding his clothes as though casting off another life. He crept naked into her bed, curling up close to her warmth, the cool sheets chilling his skin. She murmured something in her sleep, rolling towards him sleepily.
"You shouldn't leave your door unlocked." He chastised, coiling an arm around her waist. "Anyone could get in."
She muttered something into the bare skin of his shoulder, nuzzling a little closer. He could smell the sweet scent of her tropical shampoo, the zesty tang of her perfume, the smooth vanilla of her body lotion. Intoxicating. His head spun.
"If I locked my door you'd stop coming." She pressed against him, tucking her warm lithe body into his.
"Take more than that." He mumbled gruffly, his body reacting automatically to her closeness and her warmth. He slid his hand over her thigh, dancing over her bellybutton. "A lot more."
"Promise?" She pulled back slightly to look at him, the hollows of her eyes glittering in the dark.
He didn't reply. She pulled the sheet over them, tucking it up to their chins until they were encompassed in their own little world of soft snowy white. She drifted back to sleep, her steady breathing in slow pulsing rhythm with his heartbeat. His body was still painfully aware of hers but he ignored the ache in his groin, there would be time for that later. He twitched at the thought. Once he'd warmed up enough he rolled onto his back. Her white ceiling rippled as the tree outside shifted lazily in the wind, its shadows tripping over the white paint. This world was so completely different to everything he knew. Her style was female but not girly; blocks of bright vivid colours interspersed with movie and band posters. Old and young, a baffling mix of delicate and vibrant. Just like her. She looked like a dancer, probably from the years of gymnastics, all long supple slender limbs and a soft heart shaped face. But he knew that ten years of kick-boxing meant she could more than take care of herself. She came across as calm, sensible and patient but he knew from experience that she had a whole other side. She was sexy and funny and smart, not to mention a wild cat in the sack. He twitched again and then sighed irritably.
A noise made him tense, turning to the still wide open bedroom door. A shadow detached itself from the black rectangle and crept closer, a black spot against the dark green carpet. Eliot reached for her heavy book, lying on the bedside table besides her alarm clock. The shadow took a flying leap and he just managed to not to hurl the book and to hold back a yelp as two yellow eyes glared down at him.
"Whassat?" She groaned, cracking open an eye. "It's just Boris." She tucked her head back against his shoulder, her breath fanning against his bare skin. "Go to sleep."
He glowered at the fat fluffy cat now coiled up on his stomach, tail flicking smugly as it peered at him.
"That rat better move or I'll skin it." He snapped, poking the cat in the ribs with one finger.
The cat gave him a scornful look. He felt her chuckling against him, her lips curling into a grin.
"He's just a cat."
"The scars on my arm say otherwise." He growled, twisting his body in the hopes of dislodging the cat.
He felt her fingertips dancing along the angry red welts marking his forearm. He couldn't see her, her face was tucked against his arm, but he knew she was grinning.
"You scared him! It was self-defence, wasn't it Boris?" She purred, leaning over and scratching the cat's head.
"Dumb name for a cat." He muttered mutinously, putting one hand out and pushing the cat away.
Boris cocked his head and inched his claws out a little, just enough to make Eliot aware of exactly what part of his anatomy he'd chosen as his perch. He cursed.
"Come here, Boris. Here pretty little thing. Come on. Leave the big scary man alone, you're bad for his mental health."
Eliot cursed again, fluently and imaginatively. The cat heaved a heavy sigh and clambered down from his belly, trotting across the bed and leaping onto the armchair in the corner.
"Why'd ya name it Boris anyway?" He grumbled childishly.
"Boris Karloff." She muttered as if that explained everything. "Now go to sleep. I just spent thirty-six hours helping a cow give birth."
"Yeesh, lady." Eliot whistled between his teeth. "Way to kill a mood."
"Don't be such a girl." She yawned widely, rolling away from him. "Now unless you're going to put that tongue to better use, less yapping more sleeping."
Eliot eyed her shoulder thoughtfully, the thin lacy strap of her camisole an even paler stripe against her skin, but he really was too tired. It had been a hell of a week. He yawned, scratching his cheek idly.
"Stop brooding like a little bitch."
He swore at her back but she only grinned.
She woke up again a few hours later and he felt her shifting besides him. Always a light sleeper, when he did sleep, he was alert long before she'd fully awoken. She had positioned her bed so the moonlight illuminated its surface through the big picture window. He was pretty sure he looked rough, bruised and careworn in the surprisingly bright light, but she gazed at him with nothing but tenderness. She looked heartbreakingly young and vulnerable and for a moment he felt like a tired old man.
"Don't." He frowned. "You' re thinking something bad." She whispered, leaning over until her lips brushed the new bruise darkening his cheek. "Your eyes go dark and kind of opaque, like you're somebody else." Her breath tickled his cheeks and he could hear his stubble scratching the delicate skin of her face. "Not here. Shit things don't happen here. Only good, and generally naughty."
He chuckled, the laughter rumbling through both of them. She was right, he never told her anything about the job, about his problems, his fears or his worries. This was his sanctuary, his calm oasis. And he would kill to keep it.
"That's better." He squinted at her and she smiled, white teeth flashing in the dark shadows. "Your eyes shine when you think about something you care about." She nudged his cheek with her nose. "I can tell everything about you, just from your eyes. You're an open book."
"I think you're talking outta your-"
"I really don't think you want to finish that sentence." She said icily, her nails curling into his bicep warningly.
"Don't get all het up, lady." He grinned, snaking an arm around her waist.
"Don't use that sexy tone with me-"
He cut her off abruptly, his lips rough against hers.
"Can I ask you something?"
She huffed in annoyance at the distraction.
"Like I could stop you. Go on."
"Remember when I asked you if you loved me?"
He could see her shoulders tensing even in the dark, her entire body went rigid.
"I thought you were drunk when you said that." She said stiffly, genuinely puzzled.
"I was." He admitted shamelessly.
"Do you remember what I said?" She asked doubtfully, turning her back on him.
"You said you didn't not love me."
She eyed his shadowy face over her shoulder uncertainly. This was not the kind of thing they talked about. When they actually did get around to talking, which was rare, it was generally light-hearted arguments about who could drink whom under the table and whether Bruce Willis could take Jason Statham or fighting over who should go for more alcohol. The one time they had gotten around to a serious conversation, they'd both been paralytically drunk and most of the conversation had disappeared into various blackouts.
"Why are you asking?"
He didn't reply.
"Not going soft on me, are you?" She reached down between them, squeezing lightly until he growled into her neck. "I'd say not."
"Don't be starting something you're not gonna finish." He warned, nipping the delicate skin of her pulse point with his teeth.
"Who said anything about stopping?" She pointed out.
Her breath hitched as his fingers wandered under her camisole, his rough calloused palm scratching against her ribs. Her camisole unbuttoned at the back, each tiny pearl button revealing dark words inked onto her skin. She only had one tattoo, a poem spiralling along her spine from the back of her neck to the base of the spine. He traced each tiny word with his tongue, the small bumps of her spine twitching under his tongue as she trembled.
"Did you shower before you got here? You know I don't like the scent of your whores all over you."
He bit down on the round globe of one buttock and she made a guttural noise at the back of her throat. They'd met while he was talking information out of a lap-dancer for a job and even after all this time she still didn't believe that he spent the time they were apart with various women of ill repute.
"You're the only whore I've touched lately." He growled, yanking her hair back none-too-gently.
"Liar." She gasped harshly as he pushed her deeper into the mattress.
So it would be one of those nights, he mused. Sometimes she made him tell her about the women he'd been with; the things they'd done to him and the nasty things he'd done to them. Not all the time, but sometimes it got her so hot she'd have to have it rough afterwards. Something he was more than willing to oblige. The women hadn't been a recent occurrence just lately, so he told her about a few encounters from his past as he drew the silky camisole away from her body. He blew lightly across her back and she shivered, his breath cooling the saliva he'd left there. He had no idea what had happened to her at some point in her past that triggered random bouts of needing to be treated like a whore, and he had no intentions of asking. He nudged her legs apart with one knee, his grip on her hair tightening painfully, positioning himself above her. It was rough and perfunctory and neither of them lasted very long.
He rolled off her, breathing heavily and she manoeuvred onto her back so she could breathe more easily.
"Not bad for a guy who gets beat up for a living." She managed to get out between gasping breaths.
"Less of the wisecracks, eh." He scowled touchily and she giggled, running the back of her knuckles over the sensitive skin at the base of his stomach absently. "So where is he this time?"
She shrugged, pushing her hair off her sweating forehead.
"Sweden. I think. He was in Norway a few weeks ago."
Her boyfriend did something fancy with large corporations which required him to travel most of the world for ninety per cent of the year. He'd met her over a year ago and in that time the jackass had only been back once for a long weekend. In their three year relationship they'd spent maybe nine months together, and two months of that were leave when his mother died. She had revealed all of this to him after their first night together in a flat monotone, almost robotic and completely devoid of emotion. He'd told her about his past, the edited version. Not the detailed truth just a brief overview. It had been strange to tell a complete stranger about something so private, but sort of freeing too. She had listened intently without commenting, never prying just allowing him to talk.
"Why don't you just dump his ass?"
He stroked her wrist lightly where her knuckles still traced lazy circles around his bellybutton.
"I would if he were ever in the country." She muttered irritably. "Why? You asking me to shack up with you?"
He frowned at the amusement in her voice. It was a rhetorical question and he was pretty glad, because he wasn't entirely sure what his answer would be.
"Don't want him wandering in. Might get messy."
She laughed.
"He doesn't have a key." He slanted his gaze towards her and she grinned. "Changed the locks months ago."
"You leave your back door wide open." He grunted.
"Only for you."
He cocked an eyebrow and she rolled her eyes.
"That car makes enough noise around here to wake the dead, genius. I can hear you coming halfway across town."
"And you open your doors?" He asked in disbelief.
"Among other things." She purred in an undertone, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
In fact the sound of that car could wake her out of a dead sleep, sending bolts of desire singing through every inch of her. The only thing that could get her any hotter lately was that sexy gruff growling voice vibrating against every inch of her body.
"What would you do if he did walk in one day?" She asked slyly.
"He likely to cause any trouble?" He scoffed and she laughed.
"No way. He's all about appearances. He wouldn't dream of actually fighting for something. Least of all me. Nothing of Robbie's he ever had to work for. If it's not easy to get it's not worth having." She sighed. "We only got together by accident. Friends of friends. You saying you wouldn't fight for me?"
He didn't reply. He'd fallen asleep.
"Sabriiiiina."
Eliot stirred, drowsiness circling through his blood like a disease.
"Sabrina."
There was something significant about that name, something he needed to remember. What was it?
"Sabrina…"
That name meant something to him, and the mocking dangerous tone saying it was unsettling his gut. His skin was prickling, one word punching through his head with every pound of his unusually slow heartbeat. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Something was wrong. He forced his eyes open, glimpsing the room briefly before they snapped shut again. He could sense something that didn't belong coursing in his veins. He tried to lift his limbs but they were a dead weight, glued to the mattress like they were made of stone. He forced his eyes open again, the ceiling above him swirling rapidly until he felt quite nauseous. He knew that ceiling. His fuzzy memories snapped back into place. Sabrina. The bed was empty. He swung an arm made of granite out of the bed, knocking over the lamp and the alarm clock. He pushed himself into a sitting position, hanging his head as he struggled through the nausea. What the hell was going on, he hadn't had a drink in hours and even then it was just a celebratory beer for a job well done. He levered himself up onto his feet, using the heavy wooden headboard for support as he struggled into his jeans. The bedroom door was wide open even though he was sure he'd closed it behind him. She could just be in the bathroom but his niggling spine was telling him otherwise. The sheets were in a rumpled pile on the floor at the end of the bed, one sheet stretching towards the door like it was trying to escape. Weapon. He needed a weapon. He knew she didn't have a baseball bat to hand, they'd laughed about it once, but he did know where her rich boyfriend kept a gun. He felt like he was trying to walk on water the floor was swaying so much as he made his precarious way out of the bedroom and down the dark hallway. If he hadn't been so disorientated, he probably would have noticed the shadow sooner.
"Drugs wore off. Fuck."
He barely had time to glance over his shoulder before something with the force of a freight train collided with his temple and everything turned black.