Title: Busted
Part: 1/1
Word Count: 1,125
Rating: PG-13
Setting: February, 2002.
Author's Notes: Bo and Gabrielle are not a couple. This takes place right after February 1, 2002, when Gabrielle stole the dress at the Silver Moon Boutique. Bo asked for the security camera tape... but then dropped the case. Hmm...


"I'm going to need to the video tape."
"It's all yours."

And I've still got it.

The store-owner never wound up pressing charges, which meant that the security tape had no business being in the evidence room at all. And neither did I. But I was guilty of man's most primal instinct. Can you really blame me?

To assuage my own paranoia, I looked over my shoulder at the door and then raked my eyes quickly across the shelves of cubby holes to make sure no eyes blinked at me behind airtight sterile bags of weapons and forensic evidence. Satisfied with my privacy, I leaned forward and punched the REW button on the modest LPD television. Gabrielle's body twisted and danced in reverse, and after a few seconds my same finger punched PLAY.

I watched the tiny screen palpitate with the rough flicker of Gabrielle pulling my sweater off her body and throwing it on the table beside the mannequin. Then she unfastened the leash from her waist and pulled away the heavy blue shirt that hid so much of her amazing figure. I found myself unwillingly salivating at the sight of her bare skin spotlighted by the dim moon through the glass doors, and I bit my thumbnail in a vain attempt to put a stop to it. Like an acrobat, she climbed up onto the table and coiled herself around the mannequin as she shimmied the dress off of it. I wasn't interested in the rest; I punched the rewind button until she had backtracked every sultry movement. This time, instead of hitting play, I hit the button for slow motion.

I found my eyes unfocussing vaguely whenever my mind wanted to slightly alter her actions. The quality of this tape was so low, it was hard to make everything out. I had to wonder if there was a master copy somewhere in higher definition that I could somehow acquire. For now, my imagination picked up the slack, and I was content with the freedom to embellish the images. I leaned back and heaved a sigh that turned into a soft moan without my consent. Even in slow motion she got undressed sinfully fast, and I couldn't help but imagine how much faster it would be with my help. I gripped my knees so tightly that I damn near clawed a hole clean through the fabric. I was mesmerized as I watched her slowly strip away two layers of clothing, and secretly I nursed a wicked wish that she had gone for the third as well.

I played it back again. And again. My mind staggered with salacious fantasies, imagining how similarly her body might twist and bend if she were pinned beneath me. I hardly noticed how brutally I was biting my lip until my tongue felt it swell with a sharp metallic taste. I felt dangerously light-headed, and I pulled at my collar as if that would bring oxygen to my lungs and brain faster. My breaths came in short and infrequently, as though I dared not waste any moment of my focus on worthless expenditures of effort such as breathing. My heart was pounding hard with blood, and it wasn't the only thing.

I can't be sure how long Hank was standing behind me, but it must have been a damn long time.

"Bo?"

With my heart already so delicate from all its furious beating, it's lucky I didn't faint from the shock. As it is, I leapt up and fumbled awkwardly to hit a button – any button – that would stop the video. Unfortunately, what I struck wound up being the pause button rather than the stop button. The picture froze on a particularly suggestive pose, which I was terribly unable to hide from view. "Hank!" I croaked, perhaps a little too overzealously and choking on a dry spot at the back of my throat. "Wh—what are you doing here?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing," he said slowly, stepping into the evidence room to stand at my shoulder. I grinned nervously, frantically searching myself for any excuse that would satisfy.

"I, ah – you know, I was just – just reviewing some security tapes on a case," I said quite professionally, and rightfully so as it is one of my greatest occupational skills to be so convincing. However, it was one of Hank's greatest occupational skills to scrutinize detail and circumstance beyond the surface level of a person's words. I suppose that's what made us such a formidable team.

"Hmm," he said, eyeing the television suspiciously over my shoulder. "That from the Silver Moon Boutique?" he asked, more a statement than a question.

"Yeah, security tape of the theft," I clarified with narrowing eyebrows, trying to make it sound as official as possible.

"I see," Hank said, and I could tell that he was holding back a laugh. "And, ah, why were you watching it over and over?"

"You know," I said, suddenly coming to a reasonable excuse, "I just can't tell for sure if that's really Gabrielle. I mean, despite all the evidence stacked up against her, I just want to be sure before I arrest her, you know?"

I felt as though I had made a convincing argument, but my old friend saw right through me like a criminal's weak defense. "Hmm. Well how about this?" he suggested. "Let's call Gabrielle in for a line up, and we'll ask her to do a strip tease. Then you can know for sure."

My face must have been redder than hell because it sure felt it. "I just want to give her the benefit of the doubt, you know? I don't want to arrest her based just on her criminal track record."

Hank shrugged, making what seemed to be a satisfied face. "All right," he said, turning to head back out of the room. He was deriving pleasure from teasing me, and I knew this certainly wasn't going to be the end of it. But for now, he seemed to accept my story enough to put the interrogation on hold. One thing was for certain – I had no business watching this tape. What's the point in fantasizing about a woman I'll never have? Being alone for three months was beginning to prey on my lustful impulses, and I suppose I wasn't dealing with that in an appropriate or mature fashion. I was about to turn the television off and never think on the matter again when Hank stopped at the door.

"Bo," he said, glancing back over his shoulder to scrutinize me one more time, "didn't you say the store-owner decided not to press charges after all?" I was silent. Hank smirked. "Yeah. That's what I thought."