DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.


a/n: Yes, it's me! I'm back, people! Again I'm terribly sorry for the long hiatus but life happened and then my muse decided to take an early holiday. Fortunately, it returned well-rested and full of new ideas so yay! I hope you're all well. Thank you for your patience and never-ceasing awesomeness!


tear of the sun girl: thanks so much! Yes, I also hope Natalie comes back on the show in the (not so distant) future. Alan and America have really, really great chemistry and their scenes still make me swoon like crazy. :) And I would be honored to tide you over until this happens. ;)

KellyD: I love your hatred. With all my heart. :)

Rachel: don't feel guilty for liking Eli/Vanessa. They are awesome and their wonderfully messy relationship is a goldmine (no pun intended)! I loved their scenes so much and I can't wait to include her in this fic (well, it's a mixture of dread and excitement, really). And I will definitely keep the Eli/Kalinda friendship going, too, because they make such a great team. As always, thanks heaps for the kind words!

KrinWashu: hehe, I know, I know. I'm evil. :) Yet you continue to be so awesome to me with your reviews and I'm truly grateful you take the time to type it all up. It's not only flattering but helpful as well. It's always good to know which aspects of the story you (and others, of course) like/enjoy the most. This way I can give you more of those things. Well, most of the time. Occasionally, I just write whatever I want. :) But I definitely like the way you think, especially about Eli's motives and Myra's assumptions - it's one giant pot of mess brewing and (mini spoiler alert!) Eli will stoke the fire under it. And not knowing what the hell's going on is a completely normal reaction. There's barely any clues yet but I'll add more as we crawl forward. ;) Oh and don't worry about that Stacie cameo. It will be quick and mostly painless, like yanking off a very annoying Band-Aid.

aprilf00l: I know I'm the worst but I hope this new chapter will soothe your frayed nerves. ;) *hugs*

Do: I doubt I'll win any awards for being the fastest updater around here but kind and amazing people like you always push me to try and type faster. :) Thank you so much!

Patamar2: LOL I'm very happy and flattered you find the plot so gripping. I hope you're okay, though, because yes! There's more. :D

Lenka Sekera: wow. I mean, holy cow WOW! Thanks a million! I'll do my very best not to disappoint.

obsessivecompulsivehobbit: oh you! If ego boosting were an Olympic sport, you'd have no rivals, I'm telling you. :D Thanks so much!


~ CONTROL ~

His head is filled with quiet dread and loud heartbeats. He's walking, phone clutched in one hand, her purse in the other. His grasp is so tight, his knuckles are yellow-white and his palms are hurting. He swallows when he finally reaches her door. There's a tall, heavy-set police officer standing there, guarding it with a grave expression and a distinct unwillingness to move – definitely a rookie but a giant one still. He's blocking not just the way in but Eli's line of sight to the apartment as well.

"Can I help you, sir?" the officer asks. His professionally distant but not thoroughly unkind voice jars Eli out of his stupor.

He's afraid to ask. He's afraid of what the answer might be. The question, however, is already clawing its way out. "What…" He's trying to keep his voice even but it cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. "What happened?" It's out, leaving a sharp taste in his mouth.

The young officer regards him with some concern. Being freshly out of the academy, he has little actual experience of dealing with human emotion in its rawest, most unstable form that's so frequently encountered at crime scenes, and Eli isn't used to experiencing it with such intensity. The younger man stares back at the older, sharing a brief moment of confused apprehension. "Home invasion," he offers a piece of fact. It's dull and soft – like a page from one of his course books that was supposed to explain how to deal with situations like this one.

Eli nods mutely but the uncertainty is getting increasingly unbearable. "Is she okay?" When the officer doesn't answer, he asks again. "The young woman who lives here. Is she okay?"

The young cop really doesn't want to have this conversation, so he falls back on routine and walls himself behind worn-out, empty phrases. "Are you a relative, sir?"

Eli's found his voice. Now he feels his temper flaring up, too, as his jaw clenches and a firm, mildly irritated "no" leaves his lips.

"Then I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to answer," the officer says just as firmly but politely. Orders are orders, after all.

If the young policeman weren't almost twice his size, Eli would merrily shove him aside and walk right in. If they were in Chicago, he'd probably be inside already. This helplessness is making him angrier by the second, and the rookie probably senses the growing tension because he adds, "But you can talk to Lieutenant Mills once he's finished inside."

Eli appears to be placated by this. He forces himself to put on a good face. "Thank you," he says and turns to walk away but he has no intention of leaving – or waiting, for that matter. He just needs a little time. He is getting inside one way or another. The officer's radio buzzes to life and Eli glances back at him. The young man is only too happy to be distracted and eagerly reaches for his shoulder mic to respond. Eli stops and watches him. The rookie turns, leaving just enough room for a smaller person to slip right through. It's a split-second decision but that's how much time Eli is granted to make his entrance. And another split-second later he finds himself inside Natalie's living room again.

He sees shattered glass on the carpet and hears people yelling at him. He doesn't care. He just wants to walk further inside to look for her but suddenly he finds he can't move. Somebody is holding him from behind. It's probably the young policeman who guarded the door - well, tried to guard it.

"What's going on here?"

The booming voice effectively quiets everyone down. Its owner emerges from the room next to the bathroom – the one Eli assumes to be the roommate's. But the man who steps out is definitely not him. He has a strong limp but no cane. He is wearing a simple light gray suit, and there's a gold watch chain threaded through the buttonhole of his dark blue vest. He's in his 50's with silver hair and short, salt-and-pepper beard. The older man has a gripping presence. Eli's gaze shifts to the man's hands. He's wearing gloves but they are nothing like those nice soft brown ones Mrs. Green had. These are white latex gloves – the kind used for handling evidence. Eli locks eyes with the man he presumes to be Lieutenant Mills.

Desperate brown clashes with piercing blue.

"This is a crime scene, sir. You can't be in here," the man says after a quiet moment and nods to the young officer holding Eli in an iron grip. The rookie starts pulling him back towards the front door.

"No! W-w-wait! Wait! Please, just tell me where she is."

The silvery man with blue eyes and white gloves looks back at Eli but his expression is hard to read. Eli, on the other hand, is an open book – the kind this seasoned detective has read many times before.

"Please," Eli pleads as he stops struggling. If they want him to beg, he will beg.

The lieutenant looks at him even more intently, then glances at the crime scene technician crouching by an open toolkit filled with colorful fingerprint powders and security tapes, white cotton swabs and a myriad of other mysterious tools of this gruesome trade. "Have you finished in here?"

"Just about," she replies.

The man nods and takes off his gloves. Each comes off with an elastic snap. "It's all right, kid."

"Sir?" the rookie asks, slightly confused.

"Let him go," the older man instructs him with quiet firmness.

No one in the room questions him and the young officer complies at once.

"What's your name, sir?" the man asks, pocketing the gloves.

"Eli…" He swallows. "Gold."

The man nods as if Eli just confirmed something he already suspected. "Wait here, Mr. Gold." And with that, he silently limps back to the room he came from.

He could have thrown Eli out or worse. He could have handcuffed him too. He probably should have and, more importantly, he still can. Eli swallows dry. His mouth tastes bitter. He glances around. His head is throbbing with mix of worry and confusion. The violent mess in the living room makes him feel even worse, so he decides to focus on the door through which the man – Mills, although he still isn't sure – disappeared. And that's when he sees a familiar face emerging.

He blinks.

She's still there. Roughed up. Scratched up. Shaken up. With messy dark hair and a neat row of white butterfly bandages on her forehead. It's her. She's so very real and alive. Her eyes light up when she sees him. "Hi," she greets him quietly and smiles. She's visibly grateful he's here.

"Hey," he says clumsily, relieved and smiling, and instinctively begins to walk toward her.

The older man has been observing them from the background but the second Eli moves, he steps in front of Natalie, shielding her. Despite his bad leg, he's surprisingly fast.

"Please, step back, sir. We haven't quite finished with her yet." Catching the intense, angry flash in Eli's eyes and noting his furrowed brows, he decides to put things bluntly. "She is evidence."

"She is hurt," Eli corrects him irritably. His temper is threatening to get the best of him again. The stress, the fear, the relief, the guilt, the anger, this whole situation – everything seems to be adding up and overwhelm him and he can't seem to find a good way to handle it. Too much emotion always brings out the worst in him; it makes him lash out or flee – or both. Right now he really wants to lose it, and by blocking his way to Natalie, the lieutenant practically painted a target on himself.

Thankfully, his attention gets distracted.

"It's okay, Eli," Natalie says softly, peeking out at him from behind the older man. Eli tears his gaze away from him to look at her and the sudden shame he feels temporarily drowns out every other emotion boiling inside him. He sees not a victim but a resolute young woman and it's a sobering slap in the face. She's keeping it together while he is ready to rip somebody's head off. She deserves better. He wants to make it better for her. He wants to be better for her. He glances back at the lieutenant who's been watching them, intrigued by their interaction. Eli's jaw sets and he bows his head slightly, inhaling through his nose – it takes away some of his anger. "Sorry." The hardest word indeed. It's rough, cutting and foul-flavored. He has to chew on it a bit before spitting it out but he does it anyway. For her.

The older man nods and his fingers unhook from the metal cuffs clipped to the back of his belt. Apology accepted. Then he turns back towards the room: "Finish things up with Ms. Flores, will you, Tess?"

The young woman – she can't be much older than Natalie – steps out to shepherd "the evidence" back inside. Before turning away, Natalie looks at Eli one more time and a faint smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. Every atom of his body is vibrating with emotion, the urge to protect and the utter failure to do so. He is a fixer but he can't fix this. Maybe she doesn't need him to but the instinct is still there, gnawing at him; its sharp teeth sink deeper by each second he's forced to spend in this suffocating cage of inaction.

"I'll be fine," she tells him softly.

"And I'll be right here," he says and there's nothing but pure caring in his tone. He offers a small smile which she returns – a silent thank you and a confirmation: him being here is enough. It is as simple as that. She disappears again behind a closing door. When Eli looks back at the lieutenant, the questions are practically etched on his face. Why close the door? What are you doing to her? What happened? His mind is reeling and the lieutenant doesn't exactly rush to help him out. Instead, he extends an arm to indicate the couch. "Shall we?"

Eli stares at him for a moment. He glances at the couch, then back at older man but doesn't move. There's quiet defiance and genuine concern in his eyes – and something akin to fear. There's something he cannot bring himself to ask – cannot even begin to articulate the question – but he wants, needs, to know. The lieutenant reads him just fine.

"EMTs already checked her out. Aside from a few cuts and bruises on her arms and her head, she is completely fine." He waits for Eli to absorb the words and their implication: the assault was not sexual. "The guy who attacked her feels much worse, I can assure you."

Eli raises a questioning eyebrow.

"She hit him with a baseball bat. Straight in the face," the lieutenant clarifies, then briefly consults his notes: "Twice, maybe three times," he adds with a trace of a smile in his voice and Eli already feels significantly better. "There might be some evidence left on her clothes so we need to collect them," he explains, then nods in the direction of the closed door. "That's what's going on in there right now."

Eli needs a few seconds to process all that, then nods. The older man once again gestures towards the couch and this time Eli starts to move. Glass crunches under his shoes – it came from the small coffee table that now lies in a sad, shattered heap on the living room carpet. He sits. The older man follows him but remains standing. Eli mentally curses himself for sitting down so quickly but it's too late now. He sighs and leans back, trying to resign himself to this inferior position. All he can do is stare up at the other man and feel like a misbehaving kid in the principal's office. The lieutenant stares back, observing and evaluating. There's a certain stoic calmness about him, stillness and strength, enwrapping him like a strange cloak, lending him an air of dignity. He opens his small, leather-bound notebook and taps it with his pen. "Gold, was it? Your name?"

"Yes," Eli answers even though he's sure the lieutenant remembered his name just fine. "And you are…?"

"Lieutenant Arthur Mills, Metro Police. Nice to meet you," he answers in a single breath and somewhat absent-mindedly, his gaze fixed on his little notebook. Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, Eli regards him. He can't quite get a handle on this man, which he finds rather bothersome. Whether they are aware of it or not, most people lend themselves to easy categorization and, as a result, are often very predictable. Mills is everything and nothing one would expect a police lieutenant of his age to be.

"Do you live here, Mr. Gold?"

Eli furrows his brows. "In the apartment?"

"In D.C."

"No." There's silence for a few seconds. Mills glances at him expectantly, so after an annoyed sigh Eli finally adds, "I live in Chicago."

"And what brought you to the capital?"

Eli hesitates, eyeing the lieutenant with some confusion and slight irritation. "What's that got to do with what happened here?"

"Probably nothing but entering my crime scene without permission automatically qualifies you for a round of 20 Questions." When Eli doesn't react, he repeats the question, "What brought you here, sir?"

"Business."

It's as vague as he can get but Mills gives a satisfied little nod. "What kind of business?" he asks as he continues scribbling. He's writing down a lot more than what's being said and it makes Eli somewhat uncomfortable.

"Campaign…" he starts but trails off a bit, leaning forward, craning his neck, trying to read some of what Mills is so busy penning, "… management."

His answer prompts a simple "hmm" from the lieutenant who suddenly stops writing and glances up. With that, awkward silence ensues. Feeling caught, Eli reluctantly and ever so slowly leans back, wowing not to sit down in the presence of this man ever again. Mills waits a few more seconds, then breaks their silence with the question: "What is the nature of your relationship with Ms. Flores?"

Eyes slitted down, Eli instinctively gets defensive. "Do you often ask questions you already know the answer to?"

"Do you often answer questions with questions?"

"Why do you ask?"

Mills looks at him silently, studying him, then simply resumes writing. For quite a while the pen's scratching is the only sound in the room, and it is slowly but surely driving Eli insane. He rolls his eyes, shifts on the couch, then shakes his head and lets out a sigh. "What are you writing anyway?" he asks at last, giving in.

"Since you're not in a sharing mood, I have to improvise," Mills replies without looking up.

"You mean do actual police work?"

Mills looks up from his notes and fixes Eli with a stare. "Do you want to know who did this?" he asks after a long moment.

"Yes," Eli answers without hesitation.

Mills nods. "So do I." Three simple words, another sobering slap. The message is clear: they are on the same side and Eli needs to dial back the attitude – a big ask, especially in the current situation.

Eli grinds his molars in quiet frustration, then glances at the closed door behind which Natalie is probably undressing now – so not the time to think about that. He quickly averts his gaze and begins staring at his shoes – fine shoes, very comfortable, very expensive, and also very, very unhelpful. He fidgets. He is still reacting and this helplessness is maddening. He is angry. Yes, he wants to know who did this. He also wants a few minutes alone with the guy. But misplaced anger will not grant him those wishes. Co-operation, on the other hand, might breed faster results.

The lieutenant's last question still rings in his ear so he decides to start there. "We met in Chicago last year," he says at last, then clears his throat. "But the circumstances weren't exactly… well…" he glances back up at Mills, "… right."

Mills regards him for a moment. "What about now?" he prods but he doesn't appear to be judgmental at all.

Eli drops his gaze, letting out a quiet laugh, then abruptly goes silent. What about now? Well, that is the question, isn't it? "We're still trying to figure that out."

Mills looks at him – he knows an emotional jumble when he sees one. "All right."

The lieutenant jots down a few more things and Eli watches the pen's scribbly dance. Something occurs to him. "Did you talk to Natalie too?"

The pen stills and Mills looks up. "I did." Eli nods. As a pre-emptive gesture, the lieutenant quickly adds, "And yes, your name came up." Eli is about to speak but Mills cuts him off. "No." He clicks the pen and shuts the notebook.

"No what?" Eli asks, feigning complete ignorance.

"I'm not telling you what she said."

Eli appears insulted by the mere suggestion. "I wasn't gonna ask."

"Of course you weren't," Mills remarks, pocketing the notebook, then something catches his attention. "What's that?" he asks, referring to the smallish bag on the couch.

Eli follows his gaze. "Natalie's purse."

"Any particular reason why you carry it around?"

"Because I found it in a trashcan outside."

"So you just… grabbed it."

Eli opens his mouth to speak but then swallows the retort as the realization hits him. He glares at Mills, feeling embarrassed, guilty, and frustrated.

The lieutenant sighs and turns away. "Kevin, get me an evidence bag, will you?" He looks back at Eli and adds, "And bring the print kit, too."


TBC