T Minus 4 Days

Twelve hours, three suspects, and four ounces of whiskey later, Elliot was back at Olivia's apartment. He'd tried going home. He'd managed to stay there long enough to grab a duffel bag with a change of clothes, the bottle of whiskey, and the envelope full of pictures. There wasn't even any conscious thought as he gathered his things. He'd been running on some kind of autopilot.

In fact, when he'd realized that he was standing just inside her door with an overnight bag, he wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten there. But he felt better there than he felt anywhere else, not that it was saying much. He'd dropped right onto the couch, unscrewed the cap of the bottle, and pulled out the pictures.

He had nothing against Munch. Not really. There had been those few tense moments where Munch's mouth had damn near caused itself to suddenly lose all its teeth. But the day had seemed interminable, dragging all over town, chasing down parolees at home and work, trotting back to the precinct several times in the vain hope of a new piece of information. Every minute seemed to be a little worse than the one before either because he'd glance to his right to make eye contact with his partner in the middle of a conversation only to be startled by Munch's presence or because he'd been forced to hear rather graphic descriptions of what the bastards would like to do to whatever choice word they used to describe Olivia which naturally led him to fear someone else was doing those very same things to her.

The first few swallows went down quickly, right from the bottle, burning every inch of the way to his belly. Then he'd thought better of it, thought of what Olivia would think to have him drinking like that, thought of how she'd probably witnessed it all through her childhood. He dragged himself to the kitchen for a glass, forcing himself to pour a little bit at a time to avoid the spills he'd made at his own place.

In between swallows, he'd kicked off his shoes, taken off his shirt, and settled back into the cushions. He tried to imagine that he was supposed to be there, to think that she was used to him making himself at home in her apartment, to pretend that they were living together, to fantasize that she might emerge from the bedroom at any moment and sleepily encourage him to join her. He smiled into the glass, letting himself indulge in the dream. She'd be sleeping in one of his shirts, leaving her long legs bare for him to see. Her hair would be mussed and her hand would be stifling the yawn that deepened her voice as she called him some endearment that he never would have stood for from Kathy. She'd sit down next to him, folding one leg under her as she settled sideways and threw her arm over the back of the couch behind him.

Her other hand would trace along his forearm, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. A soft smile would form on her lips as she met his eyes. "Come to bed, baby."

He would look at her, drinking in her beautiful face and letting it drown any reason he might have had for indulging in anything else. He'd shift his glass to his other hand, freeing the closer one to tangle with hers. "It was a long day."

Her smile would widen as she leaned closer, her outstretched arm moving to rest against his neck and shoulders. "I know. I missed you."

The glass would be set on the floor, forgotten, unnecessary, freeing his hand to trace her cheek. "I missed you too."

And then she'd sit up on her knees, moving her hands to the front of his shoulders, spreading her legs to straddle him. "I'm glad you're home, El."

Her mouth moved to cover his, her tongue reaching in and sweeping throughout his mouth. Her sweet taste replaced the remnants of the whiskey; her glorious scent filling his head. Any exhaustion, any stress from the day melted away, replaced with a terrible, all-encompassing need to be with her, to be in her, to be a part of her. She pushed against him, her body's reaction obvious in the moisture between her legs, in the way she pressed into his lap. Her hands slid to his chest, blazing a trail for her mouth to follow. Her lips and tongue drew vague designs on his chest while her hands worked at his belt. When her hands finally worked the button, pulling them open, letting the zipper slide down, she smiled at him.

"You were gone too long." Her mouth pressed against his again.

His lips parted, letting her stake her claim. He turned to the side, feeling her mouth nip his chin, his throat. His hands moved from her waist, finding a hold in her hair, gently pulling her back up to look at him. "I'm home now, baby."

She smiled again, her fingers playing, touching, teasing. "I love you."

"I love you too, Liv." He leaned in for another kiss, wanting to make his claim of her the way he'd let her claim him.

But his mouth found only air, his tongue found no inviting, moist heat. His hands were simply in front of him, occupying the empty space all by themselves. His chin trembled with the crushing loneliness of reality. He could still hear his voice, echoing off the walls, his heartfelt words having no audience, answering only the whispers of his imagination.

Angry at himself for letting it become so real, he pulled the whiskey back to his lips and swallowed as much as he could until he came up sputtering. He set it back on the coffee table, trying to ignore the painfully hard erection, throbbing in his pants, begging for his attention, wishing for her attention. He muttered hateful words at himself, despising himself for finding such pleasure, even if there wasn't any release, in the idea of her.

He stumbled down the hall, fumbling with the shower controls, turning the water to cold before stripping off the rest of his clothes. No matter how desperately he wanted her touch, no matter how quickly he'd settle for his own, he wouldn't give in. Not under the circumstances. Not when Olivia was hurting. Not when someone else could be using her body for that same release against her will at that same moment.

He stepped into the cold stream, letting the icy water cascade over him, cooling his heated body, calming his reaction to the thought of her. Once his body was under control, he adjusted the water, allowing it to warm his shivering frame. He hadn't really thought through the idea of a shower; he'd been desperate to regain control of himself. But he needed the shower, needed to wash the grime of the day and the smell of the whiskey off him, even if the whiskey would be returning before it was worth his while. He reached for the soap, smiling ruefully at the fragrant scent. Like her perfume and lotion, he knew the flowery smell, found it comforting as he lathered it over his body.

As he ran the bar over his chest, one brief thought dared to contemplate what it would be like to have her there, to watch her hands rubbing the soap against his skin, her soft skin sliding across his.

He dropped the soap back into the dish, flipped the water back to freezing, and settled himself under the torturous stream. He shook as he endured his self-prescribed punishment, feeling his chin tremble from the cold. He needed to find Olivia before he drove himself to hypothermia. He could just imagine the look on her face when someone told her that he'd killed himself by accident, froze to death in the shower because he couldn't get his mind to stop conjuring up images of her touching him. It would only be more embarrassing that it was her shower he died in.

Finally convinced he couldn't take anymore, he switched off the water, grabbed one her towels, and dried himself off. And then he found himself pressing his nose into her towel, adoring the whiff f her laundry detergent. He wanted to laugh at himself, sniffing her towels, nearly getting off every time he thought of her. He needed to call Huang and set up continuous therapy. He was completely insane.

He pulled his boxers on and headed back to the living room, taking a long swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. What he needed, more than anything he decided, was to get his damn mind out of the gutter. God forbid the moment he found her, hurt and scared and glad to be safe, because he'd be so fucking turned on at the sight of her that he wouldn't be able to control himself.

Not that it would be a switch from the last time he'd seen her.

The whiskey wasn't working like he wanted, not when he had to maintain control of his mind, not when he needed to censor his thoughts. The whole point of the alcohol was to lose himself, his pain, in it, and since he had to keep reminding himself that he couldn't think of her, it defeated the purpose. So he picked up the pictures, flipping through the stack to find one where she was smiling.

With that in hand, he went back to her bedroom, crawling back beneath the covers. He propped the picture up on her lamp, so he could stare at her face. Her sheets were soft, caressing his bare skin, filling his senses with her. He did find comfort there, lying between her sheets, closing his eyes and knowing that he was in her space. If only she were there beside him, he would have been in heaven. Instead he clung to her blanket and pillows, hoping they weren't the only contact he'd ever have with her again.

The morning came too soon, the peril of drinking himself to sleep in the wee hours of the night. It was disconcerting to wake up there, having his body immediately recognize her smell, her place, her things, yet forcing himself to realize he was there without her. It was upsetting, dispelling the irrational hope, the fervent belief that dared to seed in those short moments when he first became conscious and thought there might be some way that her abduction had been a dream.

Hungover, both physically from the alcohol and mentally from the situation, he forced himself out of bed. He dressed quickly, retrieving his clothes from the bathroom and shoving them, the whiskey, and the pictures into his duffel. He hesitated then though, because something told him he'd be no better off that evening unless he found Olivia. He decided that she'd be mad to come home and find that he'd moved into her house. Therefore, if he left the bed unmade and his bag on her couch, he felt it would thus increase the odds that Olivia would be home safe and sound that evening.

With his twisted logic in place, he headed off to work to face what he hoped would be the last day he had to wake up without knowing where Olivia was, possibly even that last day he had to wake up without Olivia being the first thing he saw.

He was reasonably cheered when he got there. Cragen was helping out, taking over for Munch with checking the fingerprints from the dumpster. Munch was working on sorting the names on the list he and Elliot had been working on, trying to find the fastest route to hit as many of them as possible in one day. Elliot was having his coffee and aspirin breakfast again, wondering if he was going to have an ulcer to show Olivia as proof of his concern.

Cragen emerged from his office, calling Fin over. Giving into the paranoia, Elliot leaned back in his chair and tried to listen in. Cragen had run across a name in his fingerprint search that sounded familiar. Fin confirmed the information, finding the name on his list.

Elliot's eyes narrowed, joining the conversation uninvited. "Mark Avery's prints were at the scene?"

Cragen nodded curtly, searching his memory for the name. "Raped his girlfriend, right?"

Elliot nodded. "Ex-girlfriend. He just got released a little under a month ago. It looked like he was going to get off because the defense smeared her reputation." He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to hide the tight fists he was making, knowing it would give away how terribly angry he was. "Olivia convinced his daughter to testify against him. Pissed Avery off."

Fin joined in, recalling the perp. "Yeah, I remember him. They had to carry him out of the courtroom cause he was screaming about how he was going to make Olivia pay for turning his girls against him."

Elliot was angry at himself, wishing he'd thought about Avery earlier, wishing he'd been the first suspect they questioned. "He said he'd kill her. He looked right at us and said he'd fucking kill her."

Cragen tapped Fin on the shoulder. "Pick him up." Elliot went to follow, but Cragen caught his attention. "Let Fin and Lake pick him up. I'll let you talk to him when he gets here." Seeing Elliot's unhappiness with his decree, he continued. "I seem to remember you giving him a black eye after he threatened Olivia." Cragen smiled when Elliot looked down. "The minute he sees you he'll clam up. We'll never get him in here if he knows you're involved. I'd rather have him here where we can all keep an eye on him."

Elliot clenched his teeth, feeling hope that they had a good lead. He wanted to get his hands on Avery and see what he could shake out of the man. He fought to keep control because he knew that Cragen would be watching him. "His prints are on the dumpster outside Liv's building?"

Cragen nodded, easily able to guess Elliot's next question. "There are thousands of prints, Elliot. The crime lab is working through them as fast as they can. They have no way of knowing until they run each one which is going to produce a real lead."

Elliot thought about it, trying to remain calm, understanding technically there was no way of looking at an array of thousands of prints and knowing which would be important. "I'll give his PO a call, see if he has anything useful for me."

Thirty minutes later, Elliot was facing Mark Avery for the first time in five years, for the first time since the man had threatened to kill Olivia, for the first time since Olivia had disappeared. Mark Avery stood six foot four. During their original investigation, Avery had been a recovering heroin addict, his muscles practically wasted away to nothing, his frame incredibly slight for a man so tall. But he'd been one of the few success stories of drug rehab, managing to steer clear of the supply in prison. Instead he had spent all his time inside working out and his formerly lanky frame had filled out into solid muscle. So besides the three inches, Avery also had about fifty pounds on Elliot.

There was no doubt whatsoever that the man could have taken Olivia easily, no matter how much of a fight she would have put up, and there was no doubt he had every reason to. Elliot was trying to hold back his fury, hoping Avery would give up something quickly. Tall and strong might have made the difference in a contest of strength with Olivia, but he'd never been all that smart and Elliot was praying that would give him the advantage.

\/p