Captive
fleeterberry
Disclaimer: Not mine. No way I would have allowed that hideous skank on my precious, perfect show!
Spoilers: Through season 2's penultimate episode. Not sure of the title.
AN: Thanks a million times over for the perfect title. 3 wolfmusic218
Set just prior to the season finale
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She was used to his phone calls. She was used to his cryptic warnings. She'd never listened.
But this time, she was actually tempted to.
Maybe because he'd never sounded quite so upset. Not that John ever sounded worried by any normal definition, but his voice was tight, his words curt. He was busy, he said. There was a problem, he said. Don't go anywhere, don't do anything, he warned. Stay home until he had time to deal with her, he urged.
She'd stared at the phone for a long minute, frozen in her preparations for work, mascara on one eye, wand in her hand to apply it to the other. He hadn't been joking and if he'd stayed on the phone a moment longer, she might have been able to discern if there was actually a note of fear in his voice or if he was just trying to bully her. Either way, it didn't really matter. She didn't have time for his games. She'd be careful, she'd keep her eyes open, she'd be ready. But she was still going to work. Every threat just strengthened her resolve to find Beecher's killer, to bring down the bastards in HR once and for all.
Even if it killed her.
With the IAD inquiry continuing, she was at a disadvantage. They'd taken her badge and her gun, stripped her of any official capacity to work. But she knew that bringing down HR would be the most effective way to end the inquest, especially since she knew they were the ones running it.
After a day of finding nothing to go on, she was almost ready to call it a day. But then there was a call, one she knew to be suspicious of, a blocked number telling her the location of Beecher's killer. She knew it was a trap, would have known even if John's warning wasn't ringing in her ears, but she couldn't ignore it. She'd convinced herself there was the slightest fraction of a percent that the tip was valid and in that case, she'd have caught the murderer of a cop. A friend. An honest man.
Heaven knew there weren't enough of them around that she could stand to lose one more.
The street was suspiciously quiet, the alley conveniently dark, and as she rounded the corner an instinct older than time caused her heart to pound. She was in trouble. Real trouble.
A weapon wouldn't have helped, she realized, she wouldn't have had time to draw it. A hand over her mouth silencing her at the same time pressure on her throat made the world go dark. John had been right. She hadn't stood a chance. Her last conscious thought was that at least this way, John would avenge her murder, and in so doing, avenge Beecher's as well. Maybe it was worth it.
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She came to slowly, quite frankly surprised that not only was she still alive, but that she was actually comfortable. Unsure of her circumstances, she kept her eyes closed, listening for clues as to her surroundings. The only thing she heard were the muffled sounds of the city outside, the occasional car or voice that sounded too far away. Slowly peeking through one eye, she found darkness.
When no one responded, she opened the other eye. There was some light making its way through the windows, allowing her to see the shapes around her. An apartment. A loft, maybe, judging from the height of the windows and the way there seemed to be no ceiling, just darkness above her. It was almost a surprise when she realized there was no gag over her mouth, but she bit back the urge to scream anyway. If there was a chance for her to escape, she wasn't going to waste it by alerting whoever was supposed to be watching her to the fact that she was awake.
There was a vague outline of a door off to her right and that was her goal. She was sure it was booby-trapped, rigged with an alarm, something to prevent her from leaving. But when she attempted to sit up, she realized she couldn't. Her left arm was positioned above her head, the cold steel of handcuffs wrapped around her wrist, the other end connected to something immobile. So much for her immediate escape.
Swallowing hard and trying not to panic at the idea that she was handcuffed to a bed, she told herself there would be another opportunity. They'd have to unlock her at some point, maybe she could convince her captor to let her use the bathroom. She'd have to wait for her chance.
Although she'd been physically comfortable until she'd noticed the handcuffs, she wasn't anymore. She resented the soft mattress beneath her and the warmth of the blanket that had been thrown over her. It was preposterous, she thought, that someone had kidnapped her and taken her prisoner and had bothered to cover her up. Her shoulder was falling asleep and she rolled onto her side in an attempt to get the circulation going again.
And then her heart stopped.
She wasn't alone like she'd thought. There was someone in the bed with her, a dark, hulking, silent shadow mere inches away that she hadn't even noticed. She managed to force back the scream in her throat. The shadow didn't move and as she stared, her eyes started to pick out more details. He was lying on his side, facing away from her, his breath coming evenly in sleep, his suit pants and dress shirt telling her exactly who had the audacity to do this to her and then curl up beside her to sleep.
She narrowed her eyes at his back, wanting to be good and angry when he awoke.
But even as she waited, her anger was fading. She'd known the tip wasn't real. She'd known she hadn't been safe. He'd tried to tell her that, had she been willing to listen. She'd known she was in trouble. And she knew, had he not acted, she would have wound up like Beecher.
It shouldn't have been endearing that he'd taken her prisoner rather than letting her get hurt, and yet, it was.
Damn the man and the way he made her smile despite herself.
She wondered what was wrong. He hadn't been himself recently. He'd been short with her on the phone. He'd looked exhausted when she'd seen him. Something was wrong, something he hadn't told her, something that had resulted in her being overworked, something that explained why she was handcuffed to his bed.
Although, she realized with a smirk, until she'd met John, this living, breath exception to all her rules, nothing would have made that last one ok. But somehow, knowing John, she knew his explanation would make perfect sense. She was so sure of this fact that she didn't even need to hear it. She trusted him. Absolutely.
Her worry about herself, her need to avenge Beecher, her anger at John's alpha male tendencies… it all disappeared.
She knew he was in trouble, more trouble than her. Like he'd been a year earlier when that psycho had kidnapped Finch. John wasn't a man who knew how to ask for help with words, but his actions screamed it at her. She was more than willing to provide any help he needed, she figured he knew that. She figured he'd even predicted her response to the situation, considering that he'd gone to sleep beside her rather than staying awake and alert and outside of striking distance.
She'd known he trusted her. At least, she'd hoped he trusted her. She knew in his life, and especially in his work, he'd had a precious few friends, even fewer of whom were actually trustworthy. She'd counted herself as one of those select few. But until now, until she lay staring at his unguarded back, she hadn't been sure.
She stifled a chuckle. It took him kidnapping her for her to finally realize how much they trusted one another. She could only hope he'd already reached the same conclusion.
Otherwise, she warned herself, she was about to lose a limb.
Moving slowly so as not to disturb his sleep, which was ridiculous considering, she shoved off the blanket and rolled further over onto her left side. Her left arm was the one handcuffed, but her right was free to drape over John's waist as she snuggled into him. Her body was tensed, waiting for the moment he would awaken and react to an attack.
He didn't move. He didn't speak. His breathing remained even. Had it been anyone else, she'd have assumed they were sound asleep. But this was John. Hyper aware. Hyper vigilant. She actually had no idea if he'd even been asleep to begin with, let alone whether or not he'd woken at her approach.
Regardless of his state of consciousness, he offered no resistance to her proximity. So she closed her eyes, nuzzled her face into his shoulder blades, and drifted back to sleep.
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The next time she was aware of anything at all, the room was beginning to lighten. At her apartment, or most anywhere in New York without the enormous windows of John's loft, it would still have been pitch dark, but those beautiful windows allowed her to perceive the slightest hint of purple where the sky had been black.
She was in the same position, spooned against John's back, the warmth of his body doing a better job of warming her than any blanket would have. She wanted to stretch her relaxed muscles and revel in the comfort, but she didn't dare. She didn't want to chance waking John. Although, she realized, he hadn't been asleep the whole time. His hand had found hers at some point, his long fingers sliding between hers, his grip loose, but comforting.
She smiled to herself, beyond happy that he hadn't shrugged off her touch. It hadn't exactly been intended as an advance, though she couldn't swear subconsciously that hadn't been the case, but it was still heartening that he had accepted such an intimate, even platonically so, gesture as snuggling up to him.
Then again, she thought as she bit back a chuckle, he was probably glad she hadn't beaten the shit out of him for kidnapping her.
"Carter." His voice was so unexpected that she jumped despite its soft tone.
There was no point in pretending to be asleep. He knew she was awake; there was no hint of a question in the single word. Trying her best to remain completely calm even as her heart raced, she mentally prepared herself to be rebuffed. "Yeah?"
"I'm sorry." His voice was even softer, suggesting that he was more uncertain about the situation than she was, but he continued anyway, his body making no attempt to move away from her as she'd expected. "I asked you to stay home and you didn't listen. I had no choice tonight, but I'm still sorry."
Emboldened by his actions, or lack thereof, she shifted her face up, leaving his back in favor of resting it against his neck. "Are we talking about you kidnapping me here or is there something really offensive that I'm about to find out?"
His hand tightened around hers the slightest bit. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"You might have reconsidered taking me prisoner then, huh?" She meant it as a joke, but as the words left her mouth, she remembered the terror she'd felt before she'd discovered that it had only been John.
He stiffened, hesitating before he rolled over suddenly, turning to face her so quickly that her arm remained slung over his waist even after he'd separated their hands. His eyes searched hers, taking her breath with their intensity in such proximity, their pale color almost seeming to glow in the low light.
He didn't need to say a word; she saw the pain, the remorse, the guilt contorting his expression. She moved her hand from where it rested on his back, stroking her fingers along his cheek. "John-"
One corner of his mouth was turning downward, but he forced words out rather than give into the emotions. "I don't want you to be afraid of me."
She smiled gently. "I'm not afraid of you. I've never been afraid of you, not even when I thought you were some crazy murderous psycho. I should have been, anyone else would have been, but I wasn't. You're a good man, John. I knew that the first time I looked at you."
His eyes closed and she watched as he let the compliment wash over him, but when he looked at her again, the self-loathing was still there. His issues were far too deep-seated for a few sentences to erase. "You were scared. I felt it when I grabbed you."
She forced back the chuckle, though she couldn't do anything about the smile that formed. "Of course I was scared, John. Someone bigger and stronger than me grabbed me in a dark alley and knocked me out." Under any other circumstances, she would have thought twice about continuing, but she knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance with the vulnerable side of a normal overly-guarded man and she wasn't about to risk losing it because she was afraid. Her nails dragged a gentle path down from his neck to his chest, her eyes following in their wake. "Had I known it was you, John, scared is that the last thing I would have been feeling." She looked up at him, her eyes heavy and full of desire, letting him see exactly what the thought did to her.
He swallowed hard, a smirk forming on his lips. "And here I might have thought you were angry."
"Oh, I was." She shrugged with a grin matching his. She didn't imagine it was much of a secret that she couldn't resist his charm; his charisma had been responsible for her rather obvious fall from grace in the eyes of the NYPD and the FBI.
"And you're not anymore?" When she shook her head, his eyes darted up towards the handcuffs that had kept her from leaving before she'd realized whose bed she was in. "You are aware I handcuffed you to my bed, right?"
She couldn't prevent the laugh that bubbled out. "Yes, I noticed that."
His eyebrow quirked up. "If only I'd known that a couple years ago."
"My arm is kind of numb if you're curious."
"Tease," he grumbled as he reached into his pants pocket for a key while he continued. "Tell me you've got some Stockholm Syndrome fantasy about me but I missed my chance."
She wasn't sure what to make of his words, whether he was joking or dead serious. Her eyes followed his hands as he reached up to unlock the cuff, seeing that rather than securing her to the bedframe, he'd locked the other cuff around two fifty-pound dumbbells. She shook her head.
"What?"
"You didn't think fifty pounds would slow me down enough?"
He shrugged. "You're stronger than you look. And you're a fighter." His hand closed around her wrist, gently lowering her arm between them. "I figured you'd be less likely to hit me with a weight you couldn't lift."
Ignoring the pins and needles in her arm as circulation finally started to return, she lifted her hand to run her fingers along his arm. As well as she thought she knew him, this was the first time she was really able to touch him. She felt the hardness of muscles under his skin and pictured him working out with those weights, shirtless and sweaty and out of breath. The idea unleashed something feral in her, her heart beginning to race, and all her blood pooling between her legs.
She shoved at his shoulder, the unexpected assault rolling him flat on his back. She didn't give him a moment to respond, quickly moving to straddle his hips, grinding herself onto him, feeling his body immediately start to react.
Despite the blatant interest his body displayed, he reached for her hips, fighting to lift her even as his hips pushed up into her. "Jos, wait."
Grabbing his wrists, she pinned his arms above his head, lowering her chest to his, aligning their faces. "No. Enough waiting. Enough talking. Time to put up or shut up, John."
He stared at her, his ever-observant eyes darting back and forth between hers as he tried to read her through the haze of desire in both of their eyes. Finally his arms went slack, his eyes sliding down her body and slowly back up. "Are you sure?"
She grinned at him, loving him all the more for his attempt to resist instinct. "Aren't you?" She released his wrists, expecting they would remain still, letting her fingertips slide slowing along his forearms, his triceps, onto his chest, down to his abdomen, teasing his hips before moving back.
"Fuck, yes," he growled, his pelvis lifting and circling against her, his head pushing back into the pillow.
Moving her hands to either side of his head, she lowered her face until her lips were nearly touching his. "Now aren't you glad I didn't heed your warning?"
He blinked several times, struggling to gather his scattered thoughts. "I'd never want you to be in danger. I thought maybe being kidnapped taught you a lesson."
Tracing his lips with the pad of her thumb, she smiled. "Oh, John, I didn't learn a damn thing. I might need another lesson."
His hands finally moved from where she'd left them, finding her hips again, this time pressing them down rather than trying to lift them. "You do need to work on your listening skills." Never one to stay still for long, his hands moved again, slipping up under her shirt, trailing up her spine, leaving tingling skin in their wake. "You might require an ongoing arrangement."
"I think that's a good idea." She dropped her head, turning slightly, letting her lips glance across the corner of his mouth, moving along his chin.
And suddenly, she was spinning, a steady hand under her spine preventing her from falling, a sturdy weight pressing onto her. He laughed at her momentary confusion. "You were right, Jos, enough talking."
Rather than responding, continuing the flirting foreplay, she took his words to heart. She lifted her head from the pillow, finding his lips with hers, discovering, as expected, that they were perfectly capable of communicating without words.