A/N: Alright, so... I'm looking into different chapter titles, and as I go along, I'll probably end up changing the title of the story itself too. I'm Not Okay, I Promise was just a working title, so... Be prepared for that. : ) Also, if anyone has any suggestions or ideas about chapter titles, please feel free to share.


Connor sighed as parked the squad car across the street from the dilapidated, two story house.

"This is it," He said quietly, shutting the car off, staring at the house.

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, that'd about fit the bill. And before you say it, Britton… don't," He growled.

Connor swallowed back what he had been about to say. That other than the faded green paint job, it looked almost identical to the house he'd found Bobby in. But he bit it back, and instead said, "Looks empty."

"Gee, you think, Britton? What was your first hint? The fact that it's six o'clock and there's no lights, or the fact that it's dropped to fifty degrees, and the windows are open? Regular Sherlock Holmes, ain't ya?"

Connor snorted as they both got out of the car. "Surprised you even know who Sherlock Holmes is, Mercer. And where the hell do you think you're going?"

Bobby flashed him a feral grin as he walked backwards towards the house. "What, you really think I was gonna wait in the fuckin' car?"

"Mercer, get your ass over or –"

"Or what? You gonna handcuff me to the car? Now see, as I remember, you didn't seem to like handcuffs all that well a few years ago."

Connor flinched, before swearing under his breath. "Why the fuck do you do that, Bobby?"

Bobby grinned as he turned around, and started up the porch. "Shock value, Britton. Nothin' but the shock value."

Connor snorted as he followed him. "More like you're a sick son of a bitch, Mercer," He muttered under his breath, before seeing what Bobby was doing. "Seriously, Mercer? The hell are you doing?"

Bobby looked up. "Pickin' the damn lock, what the hell does it look like? Jesus, do they put you guys through stupid school before givin' you your badges? Christ."

"Do you… are you…" Connor stopped for a second, taking a deep breath. "You do realize I'm a cop, right? And that lock picking kit is highly illegal. And I have a warrant. I can just bust the door down."

Bobby sighed, and held his hands up in mock surrender as he stood. "My bad. Oh wait… wait a second… If we can just… bust the door down…" He stepped back towards the door, before sinking his boot in just to the left, and a few inches below the lock. He flashed Connor that grin again, before stepping inside.

"Mercer, don't touch anything, you hear me? We're just looking around… CSU will come in later, and they'll probably dust for prints."

Bobby scoffed as he glanced around. "Yeah… 'Cause they're gonna work real hard, spend all that extra time and cash tryin' to get this guy. 'Sides… what would be the point? We know who the bad guy is. And like they could even find 'em in this junk."

Connor sighed as he took it all in. "Yeah. Probably right."

It was a mess. There were obvious signs that someone had left in a hurry, but even beyond that, the place was a disaster. The furniture was falling apart, covered in a layer of dust. Empty beer bottles and full ashtrays were everywhere, along with piles of laundry and dirty dishes covered in mold.

Bobby sighed. "I'll check the basement," He said resignedly, sidestepping the messes with practiced ease as he moved through the house.

"Alright. I'll start upstairs. Remember –"

"Yeah, yeah, don't touch anything. I heard you the first damn time."


As soon as he was out of Britton's eyesight, Bobby pulled his gun out of the back of his pants. He knew it was a pointless gesture, but the feel of the cold metal, the weight of it in his hands… it all helped to calm his nerves.

He had to maneuver his way through the piles of junk, through the living room and the kitchen to get to the basement door.

He knew there'd be a basement. There was always a damn basement. All of these fucking perverts had a basement.

Or an attic. Sometimes it was an attic, he reminded himself. Angel's mom had kept him in the attic. But usually, it was a fucking basement.

And this one had a deadbolt on the outside, he noticed darkly. Apparently the kid didn't know how to pick a lock. Bobby's own dad had started using a barrel lock after a while.

He idly turned the bolt, and pulled the door open. At least the stairs seemed in relatively good condition. He reached the bottom, and flicked the switch.

Well at least this 'Pete' wasn't a complete and total asshole. The lights worked. They were dim, and wasn't a whole hell of a lot to light up, but they worked. At least Jack and his brother hadn't been trapped down there in the dark.

It was musty. Probably mold down there somewhere. Mostly empty, except for a few boxes, filled with what looked to be odds and ends. At the far end, there were two doors. Both with padlocks.

Bobby fought down the anger building as he moved towards the doors. The padlocks weren't actually locked, and he swung the door on the right open first.

Furnace room. Half assed mattress on the floor. No lights. A ratty stuffed toy lay on the mattress, which made Bobby think that it was probably the little brother's room.

He moved to the other door, and pulled it open, and felt the anger growing inside him.

Storage room. No windows. Rotting mattress, covered in wet splotches. Pipes –probably water pipes –running along the walls, at the ceiling and floor. Two sets of handcuffs, one attached to each pipe.

And blood. Dried, stained, caked on blood. On the mattress, on the floor, on the ceiling… on the handcuffs.

"Britton! Get your ass down here!"