Title: The Reid Technique
Word Count: 1,180
Spoilers: References to happenings--awesome, awesome happenings--in 2x12 "The Old and the Restless"
Summary: Step 5 of The Reid Technique of interrogation: reinforce sincerity to ensure that the suspect is receptive. And oh, does O'Hara know how to enforce.
Written For: Porn Battle V
Many Thanks To: atlashrugged for the beta...yeah, "onus" just wasn't right.
If he had gone first, it might have turned out differently. Lassiter still wasn't sure how he had ended up with his hand behind his back, handcuffed (he reluctantly admitted, very securely) to one of O'Hara's kitchen chairs.
What had begun as one or two (or in O'Hara's case, three) celebratory drinks after closing up and tying off the car theft ring case had devolved into an argument about the proper way to cuff an uncooperative suspect.
"My house is right around the corner. There's an easy way to settle this" she'd said, calmly and decisively. This, in turn, made him irate. Because he was sure what she meant was "And I'm going to win."
And now here he was, handcuffed to his partner's kitchen chair. Lassiter was out of sorts and said as much. "All right, my turn now. To do this right."
Silence. She had drifted out of his line of vision. Disconcerting. He said, to her sink, "Okay, O'Hara, that was passable. But I still think that I can..."
"What I think, Carlton, is that I'll do the talking now."
Lassiter's heart thudded once then seized. His mouth went dry. She sounded lowercase mad, which wasn't impressive; the control in her voice, however, was.
"O'Hara, I'm not sure what you're playing at, but..." He felt one of her fingers trail slowly around middle back of his neck, where his bimonthly haircut was starting to reclaim ground, to the collar of his shirt. That turned into a palm pressing flatly against the upper portion of his chest. O'Hara made a detective-ish "Hmm" noise, then stood across from him, gripping the back of an empty chair, leaning slightly towards him. She made eye contact until he looked away.
Just like he'd taught her.
"Tangerine." She said it disinterestedly to her kitchen curtains.
"What?" It was shock that made him say the word, because really: he knew exactly what.
"My shampoo...tangerine. Not peaches."
"You know, it'd be so much easier on you, Carlton, if you'd tell the truth right now. I can't promise you much. But I think we both know you have something to tell me, and I don't want to have to do this the hard way."
She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned in, at enough of an angle that he found himself looking down his junior partner's shirt. Which was, he realized, tasting fear and scotch and basking in the smell of her flowery perfume, exactly what she intended. "I'm trying to be your friend here." She managed to say it and sound like O'Hara and yet not. She didn't mean "friend." She didn't mean "friend" at all.
He had just begun to memorize the way the scalloped, light blue lace played against the swell of fair skin when she pulled away.
"This is a very bad idea." Lassiter said. That was absolutely true. "You've had too much to drink and you incapacitated me and we weren't talking about interrogation techniques..." That sentence started out true, turned into either a lie or an excuse, and trailed off into semantics.
"You said 'Ladies first.' I'm afraid it's my prerogative, Carlton. I can do what I want to do. Like I said, I can only help you if you help me first." She put on a faux thoughtful, patient face, eyes to the ceiling, finger at her pursed lips. It would've been funny if...well, if he weren't stuck somewhere between panicking and the certainty that 30 more seconds of this treatment were going to result in unconcealable evidence that he was still thinking about her breast encased in robin's egg silk.
He cleared his throat. "What can I do to end this?"
O'Hara's face broke into a sunny, u-rah-rah smile. She sashayed over and sat, quite firmly, on his lap.
He was only slightly ashamed at the sound he made. She began to undo his tie. "When you say 'end this,' do you mean 'What can I do to have these handcuffs removed?' Or do you mean something else?" He opened his mouth to answer and she laid a finger across his lips, "And don't lie. I'm an officer of the law. I'll know if you're lying."
She tossed his tie on the table.
He said, "Out of the cuffs."
"Are you going to cooperate?"
He met her eyes and managed to muster up enough fury and indignation to temporarily knock her off her game.
Or so he thought: she began unbuttoning his shirt, rubbing her fingertips lazily across his sternum.
He nodded assent. Damn her.
She leaned over to his right ear. The hollow of her bare shoulder was against his lips; her lips were against his earlobe. "I can't hear you."
His lower torso, uninterested in how humiliated he was as a law enforcement professional, betrayed him at last.
"I'm going to cooperate." His own voice had a burr, a promise, that cooperation would only be the beginning. O'Hara shuddered a bit, shifted so that she was straddling him, and jingled the keys against the chain of the cuffs.
In spite of himself, he was pressing into her, breathing into the hollow of her neck.
"Say it." It was the demand of a better detective and, he sadly realized, the winner of this little challenge.
"You're the better..."
"Not that, Carlton. The other thing."
It took a moment or two of inhaling her heady scent, feeling her breasts against his chest, before it dawned on him. "You're hot."
"Don't sound so petulant."
"When these cuffs come off, I am going home and you will forget all about this." This earned him the slow, steady squeezing of her thighs on his, her hips pressing down until he acquiesced and lifted himself a bit off the seat. He ached, miserable and mired in anticipation, as she repositioned.
He had never missed the use of his hands more in his life.
"You're hot." The petulance was a distant memory.
"All right then. I'll unlock the cuffs. We'll get this all written up and you can sign off on it. Then we'll call you a lawyer." She dropped the keys, which hit the kitchen floor with a musical jingle, and met his lips fiercely...or as fiercely as one can when one tastes like mai tai, he thought for one brief, smug moment.
That is, until his tongue met hers and in an efficient set of movements, she stripped off his jacket and dress shirt, leaving them bunched around his still-shackled wrists.
She was breathing heavily and unzipping his pants when she admitted, sotto voce, that he was probably a little faster than her when subduing a suspect.