Sorry for the cocktease that is this story. Thanks for the words.
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He knocked on her door. Once.
When it was followed by an eerie silence his heart was in his throat.
He knocked again, pounded is more like it and when the door stopped rattling under the brunt of his fist he called out.
"Olivia." Not a question, not a demand but a plea.
Please be inside.
The silence encased him as his eyes traced the letters.
4D.
He wasn't waiting any longer. He still had his keys bunched in his hand from when he'd haphazardly parked the car, almost positive that he'd have to use them. He inserted the key that had only ever existed for emergencies and he slowly opened the door.
He drew his weapon and nudged the door open slowly, the creek echoing through her living room. The first thing he saw was paper. Everywhere. Scattered from the surface of her desk and peppered on the ground beneath.
His heart began to pound incessantly in his chest as he tried to steady his weapon. The draws to her desk were all open and the chair was cast to its side. No lights were on in the living room but he could see the hue of light illuminating from her bedroom door that remained ajar.
Please be ok.
As his eyes consumed her ransacked apartment the onslaught of imagery it triggered was blinding. Flashbacks of past cases; the bodies, the blood, the death, the assaults.
Please, not Liv.
He should call out, voice her name in questioning, announce his presence – just incase he had this all wrong. Maybe she was just spring-cleaning. Fuck, get it together, the wishful thinking was feeble, his partner was in serious trouble.
He thought about their argument, the harsh words he'd said to her today.
Your viewpoint will always be partial Olivia.
His teeth sunk defiantly into his lower lip and he willed himself not to go there, but the possibility was all too real. In moments he would find out if those words were the last thing she'd heard him say.
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Her body was practically trembling.
She had heard the knock, the pounding, the door creaking and his footsteps. She heard the hesitation, could sense his recognition that something was horribly wrong and she could only imagine what was going through his mind right now.
The guilt was intoxicating.
She should have called out, told him she was fine but her heart was thumping so loudly in her ears she couldn't comprehend words. She tried to process the realization that he would have spent the last hour going out of his mind. The phone calls, the drive over here, finding her like this – if the roles were reversed she would be beside herself.
He was moments from entering her bedroom and she knew that things were about to change between them. It may not be spoken; or noticeably obvious but his perception of her would forever alter.
She heard the door to her bedroom slowly creek open and her eyes slipped shut. She knew it was a cowardly move but she refused to let the image of him finding her into her head.
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He felt like he was about to fall.
He was sure his legs were going to give out any minute now because he couldn't process the picture before him.
She lay still, handcuffed to her headboard, in her underwear, with her eyes closed and he thinks a part of him actually died at the sight. The lump in his throat that formed when he'd received the text message was now suffocating him.
He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, his weapon lowered slightly but the piece of metal was still shaking in his grasp. He needed to put it down because in moments it was going to slip through his clammy palm and crash onto the floor.
'Jesus.'
He couldn't figure out if he'd said that out loud or if he'd just thought it because his heart was thumping so wildly everything else took a back seat. His eyes went straight to her face, to her closed eyes. All he wanted in this world was to see chocolate pools.
He should be moving now, calling out to her, checking for a pulse, shaking her, but nothing inside him worked right now. Just his eyes; searching, pleading for signs of life.
He saw it then, a brief moment where her lips pressed together and her eyes squinted tightly closed. Her mouth opened then and a sob she'd been suppressing came out with her words.
"El, I'm ok," she choked out, still not opening her eyes. His gun slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the floor. He moved quickly, over to her side and he ached to touch her. He needed to feel the signs of life under his palm because he wasn't sure he believed it yet.
Her eyes flittered open and she looked up at him as he hovered by her bedside. He saw the panic, the anxiety and the despair; all of it contradicting her earlier statement.
She wasn't ok.
His eyes were watering slightly and he wasn't sure if it was out of relief that she was alive or grief that something had happened to her.
"Liv," his voice managed to whisper and the alarm and sorrow had both been equally prominent in his tone.
She tore her eyes away from his and pressed her lips together trying unsuccessfully to mask the thoughts that were haunting her.
"I'm ok," she reiterated, taking a breath and her voice had sounded much calmer as if she'd successfully gathered her composure while he was still faltering. "Please just get me out of these," she said breathless, tugging at the cuffs and he noticed he'd lost her eye contact.
His attention darted to the cuffs, her hands, bound between a wedge of wood and he knew he needed to help her but his feet and hands felt like lead. He needed to know first, he needed confirmation and assurance before he could move an inch.
"What…" he began and his throat croaked against the emotion, he cleared it before continuing. "What happened?"
She was staring at the ceiling and he could see the frustration building within her. She twisted uneasily and her jaw clenched before she spoke.
"El, please, the keys," she said through gritted teeth.
It was then that he noticed the rose colored flush in her cheeks that was seeping down the ridge of her neck. She was nervous or embarrassed, or a combination of both.
His mind ticked over, of course she was embarrassed. She was lying on her bed in her underwear and he was standing there like he'd seen a ghost. He knew he should be moving, focusing, doing anything other than just standing there and staring at her.
"Elliot," she snapped impatiently, rolling her head to face him and the eye contact visibly shook him.
"Where are they?" he asked, almost whispering.
She turned her attention back to the ceiling and he tried to determine if she was holding back tears or something else.
"In the living room," she said quietly.
It must have only been seconds but it felt like a lifetime before his feet made movements and he was heading towards her door. A part of him didn't feel right leaving her, it was irrational and absurd but he was worried she might not be there when he returned.
"Kitchen counter," she called out softly and he paused for a fraction of a second before he walked out the door.
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The moment he left her bedroom she let out the breath she was holding.
Her heart was still racing but her body had managed to settle itself down for the time being. There was still a chill in the air but the heat flushing her cheeks and across her chest was all the warmth she needed.
In fact it was bordering on hot now, stuffy, because she hadn't been able to breathe under his gaze let alone his presence. The moment he'd arrived the goose-bumps had dissipated and now she just felt clammy, nauseous almost.
She couldn't get the image of his eyes out of her mind. He had been watching her with a complete look of fear and anguish and she'd tried to tell him she was ok –twice. She knew he wasn't buying it and in order for him to believe her, the truth would have to come out. The whole truth.
It was the idea of having to tell him everything that had made her choke on her words because she knew he'd never look at her the same again. It didn't matter, she rationalized, because she owed it to him. God only knows what worst-case scenario his mind was processing right now and it was only fair she came clean. She just needed to get out of these cuffs, cover her body in a multitude of clothes and do her best to remove those horrific assumptions from his mind.
Her heart continued to pound as she waited for him to return, any minute now he would be back with her keys and she would be set free. She thought about his eyes then and how much of her body he'd actually seen. She noticed he had kept them trained solely on her face the entire time. Not once had he let them falter or slip downward and she wasn't sure how she felt about that.
She had to give him credit because her breasts were hard to miss right now. Not only was her cleavage amplified from this position but the bra she sported was a little too snug. The yellow of her cocktail dress had called for pale underwear and it was all she could find in her haste.
The truth that she didn't want to face was that she wanted his eyes on her, all over her. Taking in each portion of flesh she was revealing because damn it – she wanted him to be unable to help himself.
She remembered the night she'd followed him into the locker room during a discussion about a case and he'd slipped his shirt over his head. He was intent on hitting the showers and it had caught her completely off guard. She managed to keep her voice from faltering but her eyes raked down the hard plains of his chest before she had a chance to stop herself. It had been subconscious and only for a second but he had caught her. His hand had scratched a spot on his chest as he watched her eyes flick quickly back up to his. Yet here, in her confines of her bedroom, she was practically naked and he'd managed to act like a complete gentleman.
"Liv," his voice brought her back to reality and she could hear him at the threshold of her bedroom. "They're not out here." His voice carried an edge of concern.
Any sense of control that she thought she had over her nerves were now shot to hell. He couldn't find the keys. Fuck. She was sure she'd set them down on the counter hadn't she? She attempted to sit up but the cuffs restricted the movement so she reluctantly remained horizontal.
"They're on the kitchen counter," she reiterated with certainty. She had dropped them down the moment they'd entered her apartment. She remembered because then she had offered him a drink.
She could hear him moving now, coming towards the side of her bed and her heart rate plummeted at his increasing proximity. She tugged subconsciously at the cuffs.
"They're not on the counter, your desk, or the coffee table," he explained quietly. "Where did you last see them?"
She closed her eyes. The counter. The counter. The fucking counter. Maybe she was wrong, maybe the haze of rum had made her forget putting them elsewhere or moving them at some point. Then again, it was more likely this Mitchell prick had hid them, or taken them just to fuck with her.
When she opened her eyes he was looking at a spot on the wall behind her and she could sense the concern. She couldn't tell him – not yet, not while she was lying there in such a vulnerable state. She couldn't explain that it was likely this random guy had moved them on purpose. There had to be another way.
"Where are your keys?" she said quickly, the thought only just occurring to her.
"They're not on this set," he told her deflated, still not looking at her and she let out a strained sigh. She couldn't be pissed, if the roles were reversed she probably would have raced out with no pants on she'd be in such a panic.
She caught the disappointment in his eyes and it pained her that he was kicking himself for not bringing them.
"I can get them–" he started.
"No," she cut him off. There was no way she was going to let him drive an hour or so to Queens and back.
He was watching her strangely and she knew he was going to ask what the alternative was. The idea had been circling her mind the moment she was trapped and it was now that she'd realized they were officially out of options.
"Just," she started, closing her eyes, unable to look at him when she said it. "Just break it." When she opened her eyes again she saw the confusion evident, his eyes narrowing in question. "The bar El," she told him softly, her hands encircling the wooden rod. "Break it."
She saw the hesitation, the nerves, the flush of heat that climbed up his neck at her implication. He'd have to get closer, lean over her, maybe even kneel on her bed in his attempt to snap the bar. The wood was thick, she knew this, but he was strong and maybe he'd have a chance.
"Liv," he sighed with a great deal of hesitation, "even if I could break it, you're still going to need keys-"
"Please," she cut him off mid sentence and her voice was begging him now. "I can't lay here any longer." She yanked at the cuffs in frustration and the metal connected sharply with the wood, echoing through her bedroom. She knew she was on the verge of losing it, she'd thought she'd be home free by now and the longer they prolonged this the shorter her tolerance was becoming.
He was looking at her now a little taken aback at her outburst and watched the restraint slowly slipping from her by the second. His hands came up in a calming, passive gesture.
"Ok," he tried to settle her nerves with the notion of compliance. "Just give me a second alright, I'll get you out."
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Without another word he was walking towards the door and heading into her living room. When he was officially out of sight he sucked in a deep breath and braced himself against her desk.
Fuck.
She was ok at least. She had to be, no cuts, no bruising, no torn clothing, no mascara stains, no signs of foul play except for the handcuffs. She was on edge – understandably but she wasn't beside herself, she wasn't numb, in shock or dealing with a painful aftermath. He saw women like that everyday and unless she was the next Meryl Streep, he was certain she hadn't been attacked. She'd looked him in the eye and told him so herself. Twice.
The question now remained, why was she handcuffed to her bed practically naked and who had sent him the text message?
Fuck. Questions that would only prolong this ordeal when she'd made it abundantly clear she was moments from losing it if he didn't act quickly.
He couldn't do this; it was hard enough preventing his eyes from falling south, let alone breaking her free. Why the hell wouldn't she just let him get his keys? It would be so easy, one insertion of metal into metal, no touching, no looking, no prospect of a hard-on.
Damn it, he needed to get a grip. She was tied to her bed after some kind of ordeal and he couldn't get his mind off her breasts, her thighs, her stomach – so much exposed bronze skin counteracted by white stain. It was official he would never sleep another night in his life.
He'd managed to keep his eyes on her face but he would never again underestimate the power of peripheral vision. Her breasts, fuck. Every time she filled her lungs with oxygen he'd see them rise ever so gently before descending again. She wasn't lacking in that department, he knew this already, but tonight – the angle, the bra, there'd be a hell of a lot more than a handful beneath his palm.
Fuck, what was he thinking? Picturing himself touching her right now was all kinds of fucked up. He needed to get it together, she needed him, and right now he was acting no better than the pricks he arrested on a daily basis.
He dug his hand into the open desk draw and located what he had come out here for. He could do this he willed himself, it was just Olivia; his partner; his friend. The only thing he needed to focus on right now was setting her free.
TBC