Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dublin, Ohio 

Particles of dust in the dingy motel air float along the rays of light that filter through the curtains. Olivia realizes to her disappointment that they aren’t even proper blackout curtains. If they were, she’d still be asleep. At least that’s what she tells herself. After all, it’s not the dull, throbbing, ache radiating out from her left hip that woke her up.

The motel curtains are thick, with some kind of tropical pattern featuring Birds of Paradise and toucans hidden amongst large palm fronds. They’re so old that the colors are now washed out pastels, and she’s certain if she stood close enough to them she could smell the decades-old cigarette smoke. The carpet in the room is a dark seafoam green, and there’s only one picture on the walls. It features two palapa roofs on a beach, with a big hibiscus plant in the foreground. 

Tropical vibes in the middle of Ohio, go figure. 

The events have been anything but leisurely. No pineapple and papaya for breakfast or grilled seafood for lunch. No sex on the beach—alcoholic or otherwise. 

Instead of sand and sun and the smell of saltwater, it was tear gas stinging her eyes and filling her lungs, followed by shotgun fire. 

And she's lucky that she made it out of that diner with only pellets buried in her hip. 

Others on their task force weren’t so lucky in the standoff that occurred in the woods. 

As far as she knows, Jamie is stable, but she knows he was explicit in his wish not to be kept on life support.

She peels off the warm ice pack which stopped being helpful hours ago, and winces as she pushes up onto an elbow. Thanks to 800 milligrams of ibuprofen and said ice packs that Elliot had purchased at the Walgreens near their motel, she was at least able to get in a few hours of sleep. 

It’s a few hours in between imaging how differently everything could’ve played out in that diner: both of them being temporarily blinded by the gas and unable to aim the gun. The gunman getting the chance to approach closer and hit her again, this time in the chest or face. Elliot being hit instead and her being unable to pick him up like he did for her. 

He’d carried her out of there like a rag doll. Even with the sting of fresh entry wounds lighting up her nervous system, she could feel his hands gripping her tight, burning right through the layers of clothes as he brought her to safety. 

The pain was acute, but so was Elliot’s touch. It was firm and protective, not releasing her from the safety of his grip until the paramedics showed up and he had no choice but to step back.

Overnight, he’d even entered her room to swap the ice pack for a new one, just like he said he was going to. She didn’t doubt his honesty or intentions, but she thought he’d be exhausted after the trying day they had, and would maybe pass out. But true to his word, he knocked twice like they discussed, before using the extra key card, and still entered her room cautiously, not wanting to startle her. 

He whispered something about giving a statement regarding their attack at the diner and not being able to sleep as he gingerly swapped out the old gel pack for a new one, and handed her a water bottle for her to take a few deep swigs from. 

She was thankful, and recalls mumbling something to him through the dark, words still thick with sleep. She doesn’t remember what she said though, and she hopes it wasn’t anything more compromising than ‘thanks.’ 

It shouldn’t be surprising how thoroughly this injury puts her out of commission, but it is. 

After the adrenaline had worn off, she was floored by the tendrils of pain that seemed to disregard the confines of one location. The ache spread its fingers out to her thigh, into the back of her glute, and down to her knee. When she tried to sit, the pain lit up her left side all the way around from her groin to her tailbone. 

And maybe it’s because she’s getting older but she wonders if it would cause her this much strife if she was still in her twenties, or thirties… or even forties. 

It makes her feel old. In her head, she can still do all the things that she could when she was young and green and just starting out in the NYPD. She should be able to bounce back from this faster.

She wants to bounce back faster.

Now as she hobbles to get dressed, peeling off the same soft outfit from her go-bag that she’d put on at the hospital, and swapping it out for clean clothes, she wonders if Elliot got any sleep last night. 

She brushes her teeth and scrubs her face, grunting in discomfort when she bumps into the edge of the sink. The counter sticks out too far into the bathroom, and the space isn’t deep enough. It’s cramped—the toilet is practically in the shower. The whole damn thing is too tight. 

Of course it isn’t the room’s fault that she has an injury she needs to be conscious of. But nonetheless she suddenly feels suffocated by the sickly yellow walls of the bathroom and the dark brown paneling of the bedroom. She needs to get outside for a few minutes. 

She assumes that Elliot was too upset and buzzing from adrenaline to eat anything last night, and he’ll be hungry when he wakes up. 

There’s a diner across the motel parking lot, the same kind of old-fashioned place as the one that they were eating at when she got shot. 

She can conjure the vision easily. Vinyl booths, laminate tabletops, the smell of fried potatoes clinging to the air. They’d barely had a chance to really dig into their meals, just a few hurried bites as they discussed the case and next steps. 

Mac n’ Cheese. Good too, damnit. Really good. 

She’s grown fond of Mac n’ Cheese over the last decade, no doubt thanks to raising a young child and it’s become a staple in her pantry. She tried to make it from scratch, but Noah always told her it ‘wasn’t gooey enough,’ or, ‘not the right color,’ and so she gave up and just relented to giving him the crap from the box that made her somewhat guilty every time she made it. 

But that Mac n’ Cheese from the diner had been the kind where they melt down three kinds of cheese with butter and milk and a little flour to thicken it, then they pour it over the noodles and bake it with bread crumbs and—shit, she’s really hungry. 

So she decides to just suck it up and walk the fifty yards across the parking lot. It’s not the same diner, it’s a different one. The chances of another deranged, desperate individual coming for her there, now that the site has been shut down, are slim to none. 

Even so, there is a small voice in her head telling her maybe it would be best to just wait for Elliot and get something on the way to the airport. The way her heart flutters, the way her palms grow damp and her stomach drops at the sight of the diner screams PTSD. But logically in her mind she’s not afraid, it’s just her body reacting. She doesn’t have time for another psych eval, even though she knows one is coming as soon as she gets back to New York.

She pushes aside the heavy door and limps outside, letting it shut behind her with a click. All of the motel rooms face the parking lot, and the morning air is cooler than she expected. Her nipples contract in protest as she folds her arms over her chest to keep in some of her body heat. The cotton of her t-shirt seems way too thin as she realizes the bra she put on has no foam cups and was not built for masking an early morning chill. 

The room is right there, she could go back and change again, but the effort involved in doing that hardly seems worth it. The diner is just on the other side of a few rows of cars, and she isn’t going to stay there, she’s getting the food to go. So she pushes onward, keeping her arms folded and stepping carefully off the curb.

By the time she gets halfway across the parking lot her hip and ass are screaming, and she pauses to lean against the side of a van which she’s fairly certain belongs to their team, and if not, she just hopes no one is trying to sleep inside.

She takes some steadying breaths and coaches herself to march the last few yards when she hears the hinges of a door creak open from the other side of the parking lot. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Comes the gravelly bark from over her shoulder. 

She cranes her neck around, one hand still pressed flat to the cold metal of the van, and looks back at Elliot who is standing at the edge of the sidewalk in sweatpants and nothing else. She swallows, mouth dry like sandpaper as she takes in his exposed upper body that is far too ripped for a man approaching sixty. She shrugs weakly, distracted by his defined pecs and abs, but also in so much pain that she realizes suddenly what a dumb idea this was. 

As she turns to start walking back to the motel, she sees him step off the curb – barefoot in addition to shirtless – and he begins jogging across the parking lot towards her.

Her eyes are fixed on him as he cuts across the asphalt in record time. 

“Liv, what are you doing?” He breathes out as he reaches her. 

She sees his eyes first, the same color blue as the sky right now. Not a single cloud anywhere in sight. She notices his chest next, and the strip of coarse hair that runs down his sternum and over his stomach, disappearing underneath the gathered waistband of his sweats. 

He’s grown a bit more body hair later in life. As the hair left the top of his head, it seemingly traveled to other places. 

And it’s dusted silver now. 

She likes it. He looks more distinguished at this time in his life, more defined too. More hard edges and snaking veins. Sometimes she flat out wants to ask what he thinks of her, and how she’s changed in the last decade. Would he answer truthfully? What would he say?

Where he’s gotten tighter, she’s gotten softer; fuller breasts, rounder hips, more meat around her tummy. 

The way her body has adjusted to aging doesn’t bother her, except when she gets injured, and then she’s reminded of how the years really have taken their toll. 

She waves a hand toward the diner, “I was trying to get some breakfast, and I thought you’d still be asleep. Did you even sleep at all?” 

“A couple hours,” he replies.

He offers her his arm, and usually she’d laugh and brush it off, but the throbbing in her side is more intense than she thought it would be, and she is eager to sit – no lay – back down. 

“Thanks,” she rasps, curling her fingers around his bicep, close to the crook of his elbow. His skin is impossibly warm, and she wonders absently if he’s always that warm, and if he wears clothes in bed or if he just sleeps naked. Someone with an internal body temperature that high would boil underneath a duvet. 

Was he naked when she started her ill-fated trek across the parking lot? 

No, he wouldn’t sleep naked in a motel while working a case. Would he? But she decides that because the main threat was removed yesterday, he might. 

Was he laying in his bed on the other side of that hideous vinyl paneling, naked with just a scratchy sheet covering his lower half. Her pulse quickens at the vision.

They move in tandem back towards her room, and with every step she can feel the coiled bulk of him underneath her palm, flexing to support her. 

“I can grab something, what do you want?” he asks, as she tries to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, and not the push and pull of tendons and muscles in his arm as he walks alongside her. 

“Mac n’ Cheese,” she mutters dryly. 

She can sense his smile, “I don’t think that’s on the breakfast menu.” 

“Okay, fine. Scrambled eggs and wheat toast. And a side of turkey bacon or sausage if they have it,” she grunts just as a lightning bolt of white-hot pain shoots up her leg and into her lower back. 

What the fuck? 

Elliot halts, hearing the sharp intake of breath, and she has no choice but to stop with him. They are barely ten feet from the door to the room now, so close to being able to collapse onto the bed until it’s time for their flight. 

Oh, the flight. 

How will she possibly sit for over an hour? Every time she bears weight it’s like someone is driving a knife into the joint where her hip meets her pelvis, and then pushing it further back into the thick muscle of her glute. The visceral stabs erupting in parts of her body that are not the site of the injury make her think nerve damage, but she can’t think about that now. 

Intrusive thoughts are a bitch.

She reminds herself that referred pain can be normal, and that this will pass as she continues to heal. 

“Take it easy, okay?” Elliot says, as he surveys her expression and her eyes like he can read her mind. “We are flying back to New York in a few hours, and it’s going to be a long day.” 

She grunts in response, still stubbornly holding onto her pride because she’s a Captain in the NYPD and not just his friend, Olivia. She can tell that he wants to scold her more, point out all the reasons it was a bad idea for her to wander off injured and alone, especially before the case has wrapped up, but thankfully he bites his tongue.

They reach her door and he uses the spare key card that she gave him to swipe the room open and hold the door for her. 

“Scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and some form of turkey-based protein. Any coffee?” He asks, eyeing the in-room instant packets like they verbally assaulted him at some point. 

“Yes, please. Coffee with a splash—“

“I know,” he murmurs, leading her to the unmade bed where she sinks back down with a shaky exhale. 

“I’ll be back in a few,” he tells her as she settles onto her side.

She flicks her gaze up as he’s walking away, backlit by the rising sun. He’s far too broad and tall and big for this tiny room. His shoulders practically fill the doorway from edge to edge, the ridges of his spine like a ladder she wants to climb with her tongue.

“Don’t forget to put a shirt on,” she fires off, just fast enough for the words to catch him as the door is swinging shut. He stops it with his foot, and opens his mouth in a half moon shape, the smile tugging playfully at the corners of his lips. He looks like he’s going to offer her a smart-ass remark, and she waits for it. Even from her reclined position on the lumpy motel bed, with the haze of early morning disrupting her clear view, she can see the sparkle in his eyes. 

But he doesn’t give her a retort. Instead he just huffs out a brittle laugh, and as he moves to let the door shut the rest of the way, she swears she can see a crimson flush creeping up his chest and into his neck.

—

There’s two quick knocks on her door not much later, then a beep as Elliot swipes the key card. 

“You decent?” He calls out. 

This time he doesn’t ask ‘how’s your ass feeling?’ but she wouldn’t mind if he did.

She’d be lying to herself if she said having him ask about her ass didn’t make her stomach flip end over end, especially paired with the smirk on his face as he stepped through the door. It was the kind of smirk that conveyed immense relief at her being alive, and a fondness they hadn’t quite put a label on yet. 

She chuckles because she’s barely moved an inch since he left her there, but also because part of her – a big part – wishes he would catch her in a partial state of undress. Maybe it would be embarrassing at first, but it would also be like ripping off a Band-Aid. They’ve danced around their sexual tension for so long that she’s beginning to think the only way either of them will take the plunge is if something drastic happens.

“Yes,” she says loudly. 

He pushes the door open and steps over the threshold with a bursting plastic bag and two to-go coffee cups in his hands. 

She’s laying on her good side, propped up on an elbow, legs stretched out towards the end of the bed. 

The shirt she put on that morning has a neckline that’s maybe a little too low for how the pillows are balled up and supporting her rib cage, and she realizes how ridiculous she must look. Dressed for the office but no socks or shoes on (she kicked them off), hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, face scrubbed clean of makeup.

She’s suddenly very aware of the way the pillows push her chest out, and how gravity is pressing her breasts together. She knows there are soft creases forming her cleavage. 

Elliot’s eyes drift over her quickly before flitting away to focus on the logistics of their meal.

He doesn’t bother asking if she wants to eat the food in bed – laying down – he just knows. He sets the food containers on the mattress in front of her, resting the coffee on the side table within reach. 

She awkwardly adjusts her position, thrusting a second pillow underneath her armpit as Elliot drags a chair over to join her. 

The way she’s lounging now is fairly ‘come hither,’ but she refuses to sit up and be uncomfortable, knowing the entire flight home will be only that. She’s going to be confined to an airplane seat with far too little padding, not to mention the long car ride home over asphalt that’s riddled with pot holes. 

And as usual, Elliot is a gentleman. 

He proceeds as if eating breakfast with her reclined in bed, indentations from the wrinkled sheets still visible on her cheek, a fresh ice pack pressed to her ass, is just another normal routine for them; and Jesus, she wishes it was.

She wishes they could share these kinds of private moments all the time. 

“Thanks,” she pops the lid open and tears the plastic bag containing cutlery, stabbing a piece of scrambled egg and bringing it to her mouth. 

She chews thoughtfully. “Not terrible,” she smiles. 

“Great,” he takes a bite of sausage, “‘Not terrible’ is what I was going for. But, just in case…” he retrieves a blueberry muffin wrapped in cellophane, “...I got this too. Also probably ‘not terrible,’ but you can save it for the flight or something.” 

“That’s perfect, thank you,” she murmurs. 

The warmth she’s become accustomed to feeling when he’s around spreads through her chest. He used to get her a blueberry muffin from the breakfast carts in New York City when they’d grab the super-heated coffee before heading to or from the precinct. Those muffins were also not terrible, but everything tasted a little bit better when she could eat it in his company. 

This meal is no exception. 

The eggs are still warm and fluffy, they actually did have turkey bacon and it isn’t burnt to a crisp. The wheat toast is a tiny bit soggy, but she’s not complaining. She’s had much, much worse. 

As she eats, she listens to Elliot talk about Jamie with the regretful tone of someone who has realized they are losing another ally. Olivia didn’t spend a lot of time with Jamie, but she knows Elliot better than anyone, and she knows how he views his team. It’s his family, and the impending loss of one of them is a blow that shakes him to his core, every single time. 

“He was so eager when he started at OC,” Elliot takes a bite of his food and chews, meeting her gaze with wet eyes that make her want to toss aside her container of food and go to him. 

Elliot swallows, “He kind of—he followed me around a bit like a puppy the first few weeks. I shoulda been nicer. But I was kind of… a dick.” 

She shakes her head, “That’s just how you remember it now. I’m sure you weren’t that bad.” 

He shrugs as he finishes the sausage link. 

“I wasn’t good either though,” he mutters. 

“You’re always good,” she quips, the words tumbling out before she can lock them away with the rest of her genuine feelings. 

He raises his eyebrows and continues to chew, a subtle smile identifiable only by the quirk of his mouth and fine crinkles by his eyes. Neither of them speak for several minutes after that, finishing their food with the weight of her compliment hanging between them, as they think about the people they’ve lost to the job. 

“We’ll need to leave for the airport in an hour,” he finally says, clearing his throat and glancing around the interior of her room, which isn't exactly messy, but if she’d known the battered state she was going to end up in, she would’ve made more of an effort to clean up. Maybe she would have packed her two pairs of shoes away yesterday morning, and not dropped her dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. She hopes that her underwear aren’t on top of the pile.

Elliot flicks his eyes skeptically around the room again, landing back on her. “Do you think that you’ll be able to…” 

She hums in response as she finishes her last bite of food. “Sure, what time do we need to leave again?” 

“9:00.” He studies her as she begins to sit up, and then he’s there, hands extended for her to grasp onto as she grits her teeth and pulls herself to a standing position. There’s a moment where everything stills around them, with the exception of her upper body as it sways gently towards him, in the same way it did in the hospital. He clutches her tighter, eyes boring into hers as their breaths mingle for a beat before she shifts her weight on her feet and an electric shock of pain wraps around her hip.  

“Ugh,” she hangs her head in the space between them and inhales shakily. 

“Do you have the stronger pain meds that the doctor prescribed?” he asks, knowing full well how she feels about that shit. 

“Yeah, but I’m not—” 

With a wave of his hand, he drops her arm, and she feels his absence immediately. “I know, I know. But if you need it, just to get through the day—”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” she mutters, as she turns toward the dresser and begins to slowly move across the room, headed in the direction of her clothes. 

“What can I do to help?” 

“Pack your room up, El. I’m fine. Really,” she laughs softly as he bends down to pick up her shoes and sets them on top of the dresser. 

“Why are you so stubborn?” he murmurs, drifting towards the bathroom. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” she says. 

He shrugs, “Well, I already packed.” 

“Of course you did,” she whispers under her breath. 

“Want me to get your toiletry bag?” he says, jerking a thumb towards the bathroom. 

“Sure.” If this is what he wants to be doing, she isn’t going to stop him. And she knows that deep down he likes it; taking care of her, not the getting shot part of it. He likes taking care of her and he always has. When they were partners he would remind her to take cold medicine when she was sick, hand her tissues before she even needed to ask, and occasionally show up unannounced to check on her if she stayed home. 

“What about the other stuff,” his voice calls out from the echoey bathroom. “You’ve got… some clothes in here.” 

Clothes? 

She groans quietly, unable to recall what she left in the bathroom the day before. It’s certainly something embarrassing, otherwise he wouldn’t ask. 

“Just… bring it all,” she tells him, trying to sound nonchalant about it. 

He returns with her leather zip toiletry bag, and a small stack of clothes on top of it. Her eyes catch the black satin cup of a bra, and the lace trim of a pair of underwear - that’s where she left them - and she silently rebukes herself.

So now, they still haven’t kissed, which is her fault, but Elliot has seen her bra and underwear. Not just seen them, but held them. Touched them.

She wanted to kiss him a few months ago, that night in her kitchen, but she did what her therapist would call maladaptive coping, and buckled under the stress of the day. And now they are floating around like bubbles in a lava lamp, with every collision they just bounce gently off each other and drift the opposite way before anything can stick.

Back in the day when they were partners, he walked in on her changing in the lockers a few times, but he always averted his gaze and pretended not to see her. 

This feels different. Him handling her undergarments and folding them into a pile, it feels domestic and intimate in a way she didn’t know she missed.  

Her finger grazes his as he hands her the stack. 

I want to, but I can’t.

She’s wanted to kiss Elliot Stabler for longer than she’s been coloring her hair, and that’s a pretty long time—she started going grey way earlier than she would have expected, a genetic gift from the father she never knew.

It’s just underwear, she tells herself.

Sometimes she can’t believe that they’ve made it this long without having sex, especially now that there’s no legal, ethical, or religious trappings holding them back. There’s no reason she shouldn’t just get naked right now and tell him she’s finally come to her senses and she is ready for this. 

Ready for them. 

Her hip gives a sharp twinge as she reaches for a blazer hanging in the closet. 

“Shit,” she hisses. Then she remembers there is a reason. As usual, the timing isn’t right. 

The timing is never right.

“Let me get those,” he’s behind her now, rock-hard chest bumping into her shoulder as he flicks the button downs and blazers off the rack with one hand, returning to her suitcase to methodically fold and stash them away. 

“Do you need a few minutes to shower or anything?” He spots one last article of clothing, a pair of dirty socks she shucked off, and bends to pick them up without a second thought. 

She can’t help but cringe at the sight of Elliot handling more of her, no doubt, stress-ridden laundry. He doesn’t seem to notice or care about any of it.

“The doctor told me to wait twenty-four hours before getting the entry wounds wet, and… I really don’t want to slip and fall in this motel shower.” 

He zips her bag closed and picks it up, “Can’t blame you there.” 

“I’ll get my carry-on sorted and meet you outside in a bit,” she tells him.

Before leaving her room, Elliot gathers up all the trash from their breakfast and throws it out, then coils up her phone charger and places it next to her laptop which is already waiting to be slotted away in her shoulder bag. 

“Thanks, El,” she smiles softly as he pulls her suitcase to the door and out into the daylight. 

“Anytime,” he says over his shoulder, turning briefly to catch her gaze. She can see in the softness of his eyes that he means it. He carried her out of the diner in his arms, he lifted her in an embrace off the exam table, and he will haul her bruised body through Columbus International Airport if she lets him. Which she won’t.

He’ll probably insist she use a wheelchair, and does she really have a choice? 

God, this is going to be a long day. But at least she’s alive, and she will get to see Noah soon. And maybe, if she can overcome her fear of finally crossing the invisible line they drew between them decades ago, she will be honest with Elliot and tell him what she spent the last few years denying: that she wants him. 

She wants him in every sense of the word. She wants him by her side, and in her bed. She wants him as a friend and as a lover. She wants him so bad it terrifies her, because she’s never felt this way about anyone, and this isn’t just anyone. 

This is Elliot. And things with them are never simple. They are messy and complicated and overwrought. 

Now she’s injured and he’s going to fuss over her, and usually that kind of behavior would make her roll her eyes, but when he does it there’s something deeper under his skin that starts peeking through. Something that makes her insides shake and her lungs burn like she just ran a mile at high altitude. 

His devotion to her is a beautiful and tragic thing. Beautiful because of how unflinching and certain it’s always been. Tragic because it’s old now, just like they are becoming, a fact she is reminded of every time her ankle twinges.

And what is she going to do with the next thirty-odd years of her life? If nothing progresses between them, what will she have—who will she have? Even if she were to meet someone else, how will she stop herself from comparing them to Elliot? That was always the issue with her previous relationships; why no one ever lasted. 

They didn’t measure up. They always fell short on key characteristics like brooding intensity, intelligence, and passion. 

But right now she knows what she’s not going to do, and that’s stay a minute longer than necessary in this godforsaken motel room. 

The few files she has make it into her work bag with her laptop and other belongings that she wants to have accessible on the flight, and by the time she’s ready and waiting for Elliot at the curb, she’s broken into a light sweat. 

“I was going to come in and get that,” he says as he stoops to pick up her carry-on from where it’s resting at her feet. 

“It isn’t that heavy, and I have to be able to do some stuff for myself.” 

He grumbles under his breath and opens the door to the SUV which is idling at the curb. 

The car is empty. “Where’s the rest of the team? No one else is travelling back today?” 

“Nope, they still have more to wrap up.”

She furrows her brow, “and you don’t?”

“Not really. Nothing I can’t handle over a video call,” he says, while standing by as she begins to clumsily pull herself up into the seat. 

She smells his lie a mile away. He should be staying behind and helping the task force, but he’s not, because Captain Benson needs an escort back to New York. He must have made it clear he was going to be that escort. 

She doesn’t call him out on it. For one, she likes the idea that he wants to be that person for her, and secondly, because bending and flexing of her leg takes her breath away. 

“Oh…” she bites her lip at the sudden explosion of pain that has her seeing stars. 

Elliot’s hand finds her elbow and he holds her steady as she inches the rest of her weight onto the seat, letting out a heavy sigh as her other foot lands safely in the footwell. 

“Shit,” she laughs, but it’s not a laugh of amusement. 

“Did you take anything?” 

She counts back the hours, but after 7:00 things get blurry. 

“I think so,” she glances at her bag. “I’ll take some ibuprofen when we are at the airport.” 

Elliot purses his lips like he’s holding something in, and she nods toward the road. 

“It’s okay. Let’s get going,” she thinks about all the extra time it’s going to take them to get through the airport and she’s already feeling self-conscious.  

He relents and closes her door, walking around the front of the car to slip into the driver’s seat. Olivia leans onto her right side as much as she can, so that her left glute is a couple inches up in the air. It’s incredibly awkward, and she can already tell her lower back is unhappy with the overcompensation of the strange angle. 

She tries to distract herself with the radio and clicks through the stations until familiar instrumentals ring out from the speakers. It takes a few moments to figure it out, but when she hears David Bowie’s voice, she lets her hand drop and sinks further back into the seat. 

“I still don't know what I was waiting for
And my time was running wild
A million dead-end streets
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste
was not so sweet”

She recalls that in college she had a boyfriend who would get wasted and try to play the cords on his guitar. She kind of avoided the song since then, and it’s a shame. 

“I saw this live when I was a kid.” Elliot is staring straight ahead at the road, but his gaze is distant. 

“What? Really?” She struggles to imagine that version of him. 

“Yeah, I snuck out of the house and my older brother took me all the way into Manhattan.” 

Olivia scoffs, she finds it even harder to imagine an Elliot who cares about rock n’ roll and breaks the rules—well actually, the latter part tracks. 

“Shit, Bernie must have been pissed.” 

He nods, “She was. But not as pissed as my dad.” 

“Mm,” she hums a quiet understanding and watches as he turns the volume up louder before resting his elbow on the console between them. Her eyes drift to his hand, fingers tapping the knob of the gear shift along to the beat. She tries to picture a young teenage Elliot, returning home after a thrilling night out with his big brother, only to be confronted by rage incarnate. 

From what she’s heard, the older brothers took the brunt of that rage, and it makes her eyes sting to imagine them trying to navigate a childhood living in fear. It’s no wonder Elliot’s older brothers moved out as soon as they could, but that left Elliot and his siblings to fend for themselves… 

Even with the ache in her left side, she eases onto it so she can reach for his hand and interlace her fingers with his. She squeezes tight until her knuckles turn white. 

Elliot so rarely talks about his childhood, and when he does, she feels like she’s getting let in on a secret. 

Her eyelids feel heavy and so she lets them drift closed. Her hip won’t allow her to sleep in this position, but she can at least rest. She knows at some point Elliot will need to withdraw his hand to drive, but for now he continues to hold onto her like he doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. 

Chapter Text

She’s asleep within seconds, and he drives with one hand on the steering wheel for as long as he can before delicately untangling his fingers from hers. She stirs only slightly, letting out a soft hum as she retracts her arm to rest it against her side. 

She’s always been a bit of an enigma. How can someone who seems so indestructible, who is such a force of nature, look so fragile at the same time?

Olivia is made of steel and faceted corners — hard as diamonds —  yet at this moment she’s brittle. A strong gust of wind and she’d collapse in on herself.

As he pulls up to the curb at the departures terminal and kills the engine, he takes a moment to just look at her. It’s been decades since he watched her sleep, and he’s instantly reminded of how ethereal she is when her body is relaxed, the pressures of daily life filed away into her subconscious. 

Her eyelids twitch subtly, the thin skin quivering from right to left as her dark lashes lift up like she might open her eyes. But she doesn’t. 

Instead her eyelids jump again, and she parts her lips with a sigh. He can’t help but linger on them, studying their velvety softness and contemplating what it would feel like to press his mouth to hers. He imagines her lips smell like roses and taste just as lovely—pink and bright and plush. 

She’s always beautiful, but the vulnerability that presents itself in sleep is unparalleled. All the worry lines that have carved themselves into her permanently over the course of working at SVU, now smoothed out and faint. He doesn’t mind those lines though, they remind him of how she’s survived and thrived in his absence, how she was always meant to soar and she never really needed him to begin with. 

The pretty little lines at the corners of her eyes, her mouth, between her eyebrows—he never found wrinkles to be so goddamn stunning, but on her, they are. 

He’s so lovesick it would be laughable if it wasn’t so painful.

He could sit here and watch her dreaming until their flight boards and departs, and day turns to night, and then still sit for longer—just gazing at her face. He would never tire of it. 

But she would murder him if they missed their flight because he was too busy watching her sleep. 

He reaches out tentatively and brushes back a strand of hair that had fallen forward, tucking it behind her ear, before whispering softly, “Liv, we’re here.” 

She hums again, pursing her lips and rocking her head slightly, but doesn’t wake. 

“Captain Benson,” he tries again, smirking a little at his own mock-formality. He touches a thumb to her chin, “We’ve arrived at the airport and you need to wake up now.” 

“Oh,” she furrows her brow and clears her throat, “Shit. I—I fell asleep?” 

As she quickly comes back into the present, the furrow in her brow deepens and turns into something that looks more like pain. She reaches down towards her left side, shifting her weight gently to the other side. 

“Damnit,” she murmurs, voice still raspy from sleep. “I shouldn’t have stayed in that position for so long.” 

“You needed the rest,” he points out, glancing towards the curb check-in where someone is eyeing them curiously. He flicks the hazard lights on and becksons the employee towards them, knowing she’s going to hate this next part. 

He rolls her window down as they approach and leans forward. 

“Good morning,” he nods at Olivia as she glances up at the airport employee studying them. “We’ve got a departing flight, and she was injured while we were here. We’re going to need a wheelchair to get to the gate.”

Olivia grumbles softly but doesn’t protest. 

“Oh alright, can you show me your flight info and I’ll call for one.” 

Elliot hands over their boarding passes along with his NYPD badge for good measure – it can’t hurt – and he wonders if the airport employee has been following the news at all lately. If she has, then she’s surely heard about the incident at the diner. There is a flicker of recognition in her eyes that seems like confirmation. 

“No problem, let me call for that and I’ll be right back. Just keep your hazards on.” She smiles, handing back their documents before turning to walk towards the counter as Elliot rolls the window up. 

“Was the badge really necessary?” she flicks her narrowed eyes to him. 

“No,” he smiles back, “but maybe the wheelchair will get here a little bit faster. I am going to get you situated at the curb and then take the car back to rental returns, and meet you back here.” 

“Okay,” she agrees. “Leave the bags with me.” 

He nods, and they sit quietly for the next several minutes until another employee appears through the automatic doors pushing a vacant wheelchair in front of them. 

Elliot pops the trunk and goes around to unload their bags, preparing to offer an arm to Olivia but seeing that the guy with the wheelchair is already helping her. They probably have protocols for this sort of thing, so he hangs back until she’s settled into it, bags in a small pile next to her. 

He addresses the employee next, “Should I meet you back here, or inside?” 

“Inside,” he says. “We’ll wait by door C.” 

Elliot nods to Liv who looks less than pleased, awkwardly leaning towards her right side trying to keep pressure off her left. 

“I’ll be as quick as I can,” he tells her, before getting back in the car and driving around to the returns lot. He’s thankful it takes very little time as he leaves the car in a spot and gives the key to a woman checking over the vehicle for damage, before hustling back through the garage to a walkway that brings him back to the terminal. 

He finds Olivia close to where he left her, scrolling through emails on her phone and  looking even more uncomfortable than before, if that was possible. 

She glances up at him, “Are you okay to check the carry-ons, just to… free up your hands a bit.” 

He wants to make an unsavory joke about freeing up his hands, but by the look on her face, he guesses it will fall flat. The fact that his mind went immediately to innuendo is another reminder of how long it’s been since he’s had sex. 

Too long.

He’s not interested in sex with anyone other than Olivia, so he’s basically living and loving like a man in the military—from a distance, with his hand. 

“Sure,” he replies. They have to check in at the counter anyway to identify themselves as law enforcement, and provide all the necessary documentation that allows them to fly with their firearms. 

They go through the motions they’ve become familiar with, and get escorted by personnel to the TSA pre-check line where they have to identify themselves again and show their badges and paperwork. 

By this point Elliot can see that Olivia is already done with the wheelchair, and she grimaces when it rolls over a row of plastic cable protectors and jostles her slightly. 

Her face scrunches up, and Elliot raises a hand, stopping the wheelchair attendant, “Watch out for the bumps, please. She’s got a fresh hip injury.”

Olivia scoffs but the end of it dies on her lips, “El—it’s fine.”

The guy’s eyes go wide, “I’m sorry. There’s a bunch of those around security but there shouldn’t be anymore once we’re through here.” 

“I’ll take the pain meds when we get to the gate,” her gaze meets his and a tendon in her jaw twitches, the discomfort apparent. But her eyes are stoic, she isn’t going to show weakness in front of this stranger who's been tasked with helping her. 

As they pass a water fill station he gets her reusable bottle from her bag and hands it back to her, filled to the top. 

“At least the flight is short,” she grunts while shifting her weight onto her right elbow. “Are we almost at the gate? I think I need to stand up.” 

The attendant points ahead, “Yeah, B3. Right there.”

Less than a minute later they roll to a stop and Olivia almost immediately braces on the heels of her hands and starts to push up. The man takes his hands off the wheelchair handles and looks uncertain of what to do, and that could be in part because Elliot is brushing past him before he has a chance to point out the regulations which are probably being broken. 

Elliot cups her elbow and eyes her cautiously. “What do you need?” 

“I think—“ she grunts softly. “I think I just need to stand up and change positions for a minute.” 

She does her best to feign a friendly smile at the hesitant wheelchair attendant standing beside them. “I’ll be okay if you want to go do something else until the flight. He can help me with… anything.” She finishes. Elliot imagines all the various things he could help her with and nods.

“Yeah, I got it from here.” He adds. 

“Airport policy requires me to come back to help you board the flight. But I can go and come back to escort you for preboard.” He checks the time on his phone, “I’ll be back in about forty minutes.” 

Olivia nods and taps Elliot lightly on the elbow, “Can you get the pain meds from my bag?” 

“Which ones?” 

She sighs, answering reluctantly, “The strong ones.” 

Good girl, Liv. 

He is always reluctant to take prescription pain medication too, and usually chooses to just tough it out and suffer, but being at an airport is bad enough. Sitting on a flight under normal circumstances is bad enough. There is no reason to suffer unnecessarily. He begins digging through the carry-on at her feet, making sure he’s within grabbing distance if she needs him. 

“They’re in the small inside zip pouch,” she tells him. “It’s kind of tucked off to the side, gold zipper.” 

It appears as she’s describing it, and he pulls out the bottle, glancing quickly at the dosage instructions on the label before popping the top and handing her a pill. 

He glances at his watch. “You can have another in five hours,” he waits for her swallow it down. “If you need it.” 

She frowns, and glances around them, gaze pausing at the bookstore across from the gate. 

“Do you want a book?” he asks. 

She smiles a little bit and he presses, eager to elicit the reaction more. “I can get you a book. What are you into these days? True crime?” 

That conjures a small snort of appreciation from her and he digs deeper, ego burgeoned by her response. 

“No? What about romance? Maybe one with a really jacked shirtless guy on the front?” 

She arches an eyebrow and flicks her gaze down and back up as if surveying him. He smiles wider. 

“How about a magazine,” she rolls her lips and bites the bottom one like she’s thinking hard. 

“Town & Country?” he can’t help teasing, and she seems to be playing into it. It might even be distracting her a little bit. 

She shakes her head, “No. I’m not—that’s not really… How about something with gardens, or gardening? Or maybe travel?” 

The smile stretches so far across his face that it starts to ache. 

“Gardening?” 

“Yeah, you know…read about what you don’t know. Right?” 

He shrugs, “Right. Okay, anything else? Gum? KitKat bar?” 

She starts moving towards the wheelchair and he offers her a hand which she immediately clasps tightly as she lowers herself down slowly. He hears her exhale in relief as she settles back. 

“Sure, some mint gum would be great.” 

Elliot smiles down at her, chest puffed out with a sense of duty and purpose. He can’t remember the last time he took care of someone like this, let alone the fact that it’s Olivia. He would crawl over broken glass for the woman, but he can start with buying her a magazine and some gum. He will get the finest gardening/travel magazines they carry, and the most expensive chewing gum. 

He settles on Travel + Leisure as well as Fine Gardening. As he’s perusing the gum he realizes there’s so many different kinds: peppermint, spearmint, wintermint, wintergreen. What if she loves one but hates another? He opts for traditional peppermint as well as a wintermint wild card.

When he gets back to the gate she has the muffin from the diner in her lap, and she’s breaking off pieces and popping them into her mouth. She spots his fingers curled around the magazines, then the enormous handful of gum in the other, and she smirks. 

“Did you leave anything for the other travelers?” 

“I wasn’t sure what type of mint you like,” he playfully retorts, opening up his hand to offer up the two flavors. She chooses wintermint and he shoves the other one into his pocket. 

“Is the muffin any good?” he nods his chin towards it. 

“Better than I was expecting actually. It’s not too sweet, like maybe it just has a little sugar in it but not a bucket of corn syrup. Want a bite?” 

He doesn’t really, but she picks the muffin up and holds it out to him, the gentlest offering, and his body answers for him. He doesn’t take it out of her hands, instead he bends at the hips and opens his mouth, leaning in and taking a bite from the edge. Her eyes grow to the size of saucers and her mouth instinctively opens a fraction like people often do when they’re feeding a child. Your body sees someone else taking a bite and you mimic the motion. The way her lips part as his teeth sink into the fluffy pastry suddenly feels entirely too intimate for this environment. 

God, how long are they going to do this? 

He knows he fucked up epically – more than once – and he doesn’t deserve her love, but fuck—he wants it. He wants it more than anything he’s ever wanted in his entire life. It’s an ache that spans literal decades, and it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. He got used to it when he couldn’t see her, it was just a constant shadow that followed him everywhere. A shadow that sometimes, in private moments – like the shower, or when he was inside his wife – took shape and then she was there. Her face, her smell. He could remember how she smelled like it was yesterday. 

It was always there. She was always there. 

But he learned to live with it. 

Once he came back and began to see her occasionally, when their cases overlapped or just when he was strolling through the lobby of 1pp, the ache for her was reignited in the most visceral way. It was so overwhelming that he accidentally let it show that night in her kitchen. The idea of her in danger, of losing her, urged him forward out of desperation. 

Well, he won’t be doing that again anytime soon. Not unless she makes the first move. 

They are playing the most infuriating, emotionally draining, game of emotional chess, and he feels like he doesn’t know the rules. Either he’s rusty, or was just married for too long, or they have too much fucking baggage between them, but he doesn’t know what’s right. What she wants.  

So he does nothing. 

As he stands now, the taste of butter and flour and blueberries turning over on his tongue, he is even more confused. The way she’s looking at him, if he didn’t know any better—

“That was such a man-bite,” she breaks off another piece and squints up at him. 

He chews and swallows. “A ‘man-bite?’”

“Yeah, like, men always take the biggest bites. It’s like they’re worried when their next meal will be.” She laughs at his expression. 

“Well, shit. Maybe it’s innate then. Hunter gatherer stuff.” He reaches for the muffin and she jerks it away. 

“No way! You got this for me. The rest is mine,” her eyes and her pink cheeks betray her in an instant. 

What is happening right now?

He holds his hands up, palms out, in mock defeat. “Don’t worry, I don’t want more. And next time,” he folds his arms across his chest, studying her. “I’ll take a smaller bite.” 

—

Thankfully the flight boards on time, and the same wheelchair attendant shows up right as they announce that people who need extra time or assistance boarding can now get in line. At first, he’s going to hang back and just let the employee do his job and get her on the plane. But then she looks back over her shoulder at him with a horrified expression and beckons him with a hand, and he has no choice but to follow.

As he stashes their stuff in the overhead compartment – minus her magazines and cell phone – he observes her sluggish movements and realizes that the pain medication has been metabolized and she’s feeling a fraction better. 

The NYPD doesn’t reimburse for first class flights, but they have a row at the front of coach with extra leg room, and it’s just the two seats side-by-side. He wonders to himself if Jet booked the tickets that way on purpose. It seems like something she would do. He’s almost surprised she didn’t hack the manifest and upgrade them to first class. 

If he had known Olivia was going to be injured, he’d have upgraded the tickets and paid for it out of his own pocket, but the flight is full so it isn’t even an option. 

“Thanks for your help,” she tells the airport employee and he hovers for a second, a somewhat expectant expression playing out.  

“Oh! I’m supposed to tip you aren’t I?” Olivia winces as she reaches for her bag. 

“Liv—Liv. Olivia,” Elliot puts a hand out. “I got it. Sit back.” 

He takes out a ten dollar bill, hoping that’s appropriate because he’s never tipped a wheelchair attendant before, and the man nods thankfully before turning and walking away. 

Elliot shoves his wallet back into his backpocket before peering over at her. “How did you know? That you were supposed to tip?” 

She chuckles, “I googled it when you went to the bookstore. I wanted to be sure.” 

Elliot smiles and nods, “Good thinking, Captain.” 

“Thank you,” she laughs softly. 

She eases her weight onto her right side, which pushes her elbow a little bit closer to his. 

“How’s your ass?” he asks, smirking before the last ‘s’ in ‘ass’ has even left his lips. 

Olivia hums lowly and places a hand over it, chest and cheeks turning pink before his very eyes. 

“Ass isn’t too bad—” she starts, and he can’t help himself. 

“No it isn’t,” he interjects, watching her face freeze, mouth half-open as she’s about to say the rest. 

“—but,” she continues, shaking her head. “My hip isn’t throbbing quite as much.”

“Good. The pain meds are doing their job.” He reaches for one of the magazines, Fine Gardening, and flips it open to a random spot. A succulent spread fills both pages from edge to edge. 

“Ooooh,” she leans in closer and he angles the magazine towards her. “I always thought those were so beautiful. But, I was worried that even with the little watering they need, I’d still manage to kill them.” 

“Why don’t they need much water?” he asks her.

“They are desert plants and they store extra water in their leaves and… bodies. Stems? I don’t know. They keep it in there somewhere.” She leans a little closer and he can smell her hair. His heart begins to beat faster. 

“I thought you didn’t know about plants,” he quips. 

“I don’t,” she shrugs. “Not a lot anyway. I want to know more.” She reaches out and turns the page even while he continues to cradle the magazine in his hands like an offering. She could take it from him, but she doesn’t. 

They continue to look at the magazine that way as the flight boards and takes off, stopping to unwrap sticks of gum, and to occasionally comment on something especially beautiful in the glossy pages in his lap – she likes the article on green landscape design in urban areas – and it isn’t until halfway through the flight that he notices a change in her demeanor. She wiggles her hips ever so subtly, and brings her legs close together like she’s pinching them, trying to hold something in. 

“You okay?” He flips the page of the magazine and listens as she clears her throat quietly. 

“I uh—I have to use the restroom.” She moves side to side again and sighs, “I shouldn’t have had all that water.” 

“You don’t think you can make it to JFK?” He asks. 

“Elliot, I’m nearly sixty-years-old and I drank half that bottle of water—which I regret now. But, no, I can’t hold it.” 

He recalls Kathy saying similar stuff and how urgent it usually was, and he begins to unbuckle his seat belt. “Okay, let me just—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she waves both hands in the air. “Thanks, but I can do this part on my own.” She shoots him an ice-cold glare that stops him dead in his tracks. 

“Alright, sure.” He isn’t totally confident that she can, but he isn’t going to fight her on this topic. Not on the ground, and certainly not in the air with Vicodin flowing through her veins. 

She flicks open her seatbelt and takes a breath, bracing on one hand. He instinctively holds out an arm, just in case, and watches closely as she inches her way into a standing position. 

“Sure you don’t need help? I promise, I won’t peek.”

She grimaces, “I have birdshot in my ass. I’m not helpless. I think I’m just a little stiff from sitting for so long.”

She begins to slide past, stepping out into the aisle with a grimace, and then he feels it, the moment she starts to tip sideways. He loops an arm around her waist, catching her before she crashes into a guy sleeping peacefully with his mouth open in the row adjacent to them. 

“Shit,” she huffs, embarrassed and annoyed. “I’m so stiff from sitting.” 

He steadies her with one arm around her waist, the searing heat of her skin seeping through the fabric of her shirt. 

“It may also be the birdshot in your ass—I mean hip. The birdshot in your hip. I’ve heard that it can affect your ability to walk normally.” She grunts softly beside him, and then leans her weight into his side with a little more acceptance. 

“Alright, fine. But you aren’t going to watch me pee.” 

He chuckles, “Wouldn’t dream of it, Cap.” 

He’s a little ashamed to admit even to himself that he’s tempted. He doesn’t care what she’s doing, if her pants are down he’s interested, but he would never dream of violating her like that. He’ll face the wall if he has to, so long as he can be sure she isn’t falling into the airplane toilet. 

With hands clasped tightly together, he guides her the few feet from their row to the bathroom galley. Luckily it isn’t far. 

She limps and winces her way there, glancing at the other passengers seated around them who pretend not to notice the hitch in her step.

“They probably think I’m drunk,” she mutters.

“Drunk people don’t walk like they got shot in the ass,” he whispers back. “If you were drunk you’d be swaying more. It’s clear to everyone that you’ve been—”

“Oh, God. Shut up, please.” She mutters, and so he does. 

Elliot holds the bathroom door open as she eases inside and looks around the cramped space in dismay. The flight attendant chooses that moment to pop up on his right, eyes big and bright and curious. 

“You two okay?” 

He immediately steps in the middle as if to shield her, even though she hasn’t removed an article of clothing, she’s just standing there trying to figure out how she’s going to maneuver her pants down. 

“This is Captain Benson, and she was injured in the line of duty on our trip to Ohio—”

“Elliot,” she hisses. It’s so vehement that he thinks he may have felt a droplet of spit hit his arm. 

“Oh, you’re the passengers with the NYPD. Yes, I saw you on the manifest. What can I do to help?”  She looks around him towards Olivia who is still standing ramrod straight with a look of abject horror on her face. 

“Nothing, miss—ma’am. Nothing, thank you.” Oliva begins to close the accordion door but can’t quite muster the strength to latch it all the way. “Just turn around, Elliot. And guard the door. If anyone opens it while I’m in here… I swear to God…” 

He’s already turning and folding his arms across his chest, feet planted wide, blocking the two inch gap between the door and the frame with his body like it’s the most important job in the entire world. And honestly, at this moment, it is. 

“Got it,” he calls back over his shoulder. “No one will be getting in that bathroom until you say so.” 

The flight attendant steps away to give them – her – privacy, and then it’s just Olivia, the nearly closed door, and his back. There’s some shuffling sounds from behind him followed by silence. Nothing but the rumble of the engines and the hum of the plane hull meets his ears. 

He waits. 

And then he waits some more. 

“Are you… okay?” He finally asks, slightly concerned why he hasn’t heard anything in well over a minute. 

“Yes,” she calls back curtly. “It’s just—I can’t—I’m nervous now.” 

“Nervous?” He repeats, like he doesn’t understand. Because he doesn’t. Not really. What does she have to be nervous about? 

“I’m nervous that you’re listening to me,” she moans. “God, this is so fucking stupid.” 

He smiles and looks down at his feet, “Run the water or something. That used to help the kids when they were little.” 

She mutters something that he can’t make out, and then it’s quiet again. 

The notion that she’s nervous about him hearing her pee should be endearing, but somehow it just stands as another reminder of the years they spent apart. The years when instead of growing closer they were becoming a distant memory. If this was 2010 she wouldn’t have bathroom stage fright. Hell, they got so comfortable with each other those last few years that he shouted out her name when asking Kathy to bring him a new bar of soap in the shower. 

It wasn’t as bad as if he’d called out her name during sex, but it was close. Explaining to Kathy why he would ever default to using Olivia’s name in that context was an exercise in futility.

The more he talked, the deeper he dug himself into a hole, until his sputtering apologies transformed into anger at Kathy for questioning his fidelity. Because he never crossed that line, at least not physically. 

“You know, Liv. I’ve heard you pee plenty of times before. It’s not a big deal.” 

“What? When?” 

“When we were undercover or doing surveillance in hotel rooms, and in those bathrooms at the one-six when everyone used to follow everyone else in and out mid-conversation. I’ve definitely heard you pee.” 

She barks out a laugh, “No you haven’t.” 

“Yes, I have.” 

Then he hears it, the tell-tale splatter of pee hitting the bowl, and he chuckles to himself. She just needed to relax a little bit, release the tension that was cinching up her lower half. He’s always known her so well, it’s a shame he hasn’t been given an opportunity to channel that knowledge in more productive ways. He’s fairly certain that if she gave him the chance, he could make her body sing for him. 

He hears the flush of the airplane toilet followed by the sink running. 

“Alright,” the door rattles behind him and he steps away, turning to face her as the partition folds open. 

“Better?” He asks. 

“Mm,” she concedes, reaching for his bicep as she takes a hitched step towards him. Her eyes are slightly hooded and glassy thanks to the hydrocodone. 

He feels the dig of her fingertips as they find muscle and curl into it. She’s staring at his collarbone so intently he almost begins to wonder if something is stuck to him and she tilts her head  slightly to the side.

“You good, Liv?” He notices the way she’s favoring the right side and barely touching more than the toes of her left foot to the floor. 

“Sure,” she murmurs. “Good.” 

“C’mon,” he turns in an attempt to draw her back towards their seats, and she sluggishly follows him, leaning into his side with enough weight that he thinks picking her up would actually be easier—but he doesn’t. Twice in one trip is more than her pride would allow. 

As they reach the seats, the pilot gets on the intercom to announce they’ll be making their descent to the airport, and her rib cage expands and deflates underneath his hands. Relief. It’s palpable. 

It was a short trip out of state, but the events were so unhinged that they gave the impression the visit to Ohio lasted for weeks. It’s strange how the brain interprets trauma and time. This isn’t the first instance he’s experienced this. 

When Kathy first entered the emergency room after the car bomb, those hours seemed like days. Everything pulled and stretched so thin his rational mind shut down. And then when he saw her again, walking towards him down the hallway, he forgot what year it was or where he was, all he knew was that he needed to feel her in his arms. 

As fucked up as that was, his dead wife taken to the morgue only minutes earlier, he saw Olivia and it was like he never left. She was there, the same woman he’d loved since the year he met her, only with a few more delicate lines around her mouth and eyes. If he’d been in the right state of mind, he would’ve known reaching for her was wrong. He didn’t deserve to touch her, he’d discarded her like a piece of trash. 

But when his eyes found her, there was nothing else.

He looks at her now, shifting uncomfortably in the airplane seat as she reaches for the seatbelt, and it hits him again how close he came to losing her for good. 

Again. 

“I got it,” he whispers, squatting down to retrieve the belt strap which had fallen down beside her seat into the aisle. He brings it back underneath the armrest and across her lap, taking extra care not to pull the opposite one too tight across her leg. 

Her eyes are on his face, he knows they are. He can feel her watching him like he can feel when the sun comes out from behind a cloud. 

The belt clicks together and she rests a hand on his wrist as if they aren’t surrounded by a plane full of people, like they are alone and this is just an intimate moment. It’s almost as if she doesn’t care who sees them. But that can’t be right. 

“What is it?” She asks. “I can tell you’re…” 

He clears the lump in his throat, “Yeah. Thinking again how close—” he shakes his head. “I could be travelling back alone right now. If things had gone differently.” 

“But they didn’t,” she reminds him. 

“If he’d had a different kind of weapon—” Elliot’s chest is tight. 

“He didn’t—” 

“Or if he’d aimed higher—” 

She leans closer and winces, “He didn’t.” 

No, he didn’t. But he could have. 

He hates picturing it, but he can’t stop himself: Olivia pale and bloodied, life draining from her face as he holds her helplessly in his arms. 

“Elliot,” she squeezes his hand, “look at me.” 

He does, and the very real – very alive – vision of her before him eases the vice on his chest. Her big brown eyes hold his for a few seconds longer than would be considered appropriate between two platonic friends.

“I did the same thing you’re doing now. I get it… imagining all the different ways it could have turned out so much different. But we got lucky. Again,” she smiles softly. “Nine lives.”

“More like fifty lives.” 

She nods, “Fifty lives.” 

He isn’t sure how many more times they’ll be so lucky. 

“Sir, please take your seat. We’ll be landing soon.” The flight attendant is hovering over them, apologetic but firm. 

“Right, sorry,” he mumbles, standing and sliding into his seat next to her. 

“Are any of the kids waiting for you at home?” Olivia asks, and he’s slightly confused by the abrupt change of subject. 

“Nope, they all have their own lives. I don’t summon them unless it’s really important.” He’s in touch with all of them regularly, but they have no reason to be hanging out around his apartment when he returns from a work trip. 

“What about you? Is Noah going to be home when you get there?”

She sighs softly, “No, I told him he could stay another night at Amanda’s. I’m sure he’s eating whatever he wants and drinking soda—playing video games until the wee hours. He’s living his best life as ‘uncle Noah.’” She scoffs as she says it but there’s no malice behind it. 

“Carisi is driving him to school tomorrow morning. I feel bad throwing another thing on their plate, but—“ she waves at herself. “Didn’t seem like too many options.” 

He clears his throat and arches his eyebrows dramatically and with intention, as if to say, I’m right here and available at your disposal.  

She hesitates then, and if the press of her lips and the flick of her eyes weren’t enough of a clue, then the fidgeting of her hands leaves little question in his mind.

There’s something else, something she’s withholding. 

“What?” He angles towards her, forearm resting on the divider between them. “What do you need? Want me to take Noah to school in the morning? I don’t mind at all—just ask.” 

“No, no—that’s not exactly—I uh. I was kind of hoping you could—” she laughs and rolls her eyes like she’s embarrassed. “Help me get situated at my place. Before you head out.” 

“That’s it?” He’s relieved. He isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't that. 

That, isn’t an inconvenience. It’s a goddamn gift. 

“Of course, Liv. I’m not going to boot you to the curb and leave you to fend for yourself.” 

“I just feel bad, you’ve already been dealing with me all day, and I would ask Amanda but she’s already got Noah. I could call Fin but I’d never hear the end of it—” 

“Olivia, you’re acting like helping you is some kind of chore. It isn’t.” 

She pauses then, mouth slightly agape like she was about to rattle off another reason why he has better things to do than play nurse to her, and her eyes mist over. 

He sees what’s happening before she does it, and maybe he should stop her, maybe he should put up a hand and say something like not here, not with the painkillers in your system, but his mind is wiped completely clean of any rational thought. His stomach dives like the plane is pitching from turbulence as she leans in and plants a light kiss directly on his mouth. 

It’s slow and tentative, not the passionate firestorm he’s come to expect from her on the job. This is a different Olivia. 

Her lips rest there for what feels like hours as time expands and bends around them like a black hole opening up, and he gladly falls into it. 

It’s just the two of them.

They aren’t surrounded by a hundred other passengers, there’s no enormous engines making the hull of the plane vibrate, there’s no flight attendant saying something about stashing laptops and putting tray tables away. 

There is no one else. 

It’s just Olivia’s lips—her lips, which are so incredibly soft. He's never felt anything so soft, then she parts them slightly and pulls gently on his lower lip, just enough to remind him this is real and she’s here.

He tastes the gum he bought her, and is it possible he tastes the blueberry muffin? Her lips are sweet under the fresh tingle of the wintermint.

Olivia tilts her head ever so slightly to the right and sighs through her nose, the breath brushing against his face. 

They are still kissing, and instinct drives him to raise a hand and cradle her jaw, swiping his thumb over it as she hums into him. The sound zings through his chest like he just pressed his palm to a live wire. 

He’s imagined this happening countless times – in his apartment, her apartment, the front seat of a car, the cribs, interrogation, OCCB offices, her office – every corner of New York City, really. But he never thought the first time they kissed would be on an airplane. And she is kissing him. He didn’t lead this charge, not this time. 

And she isn’t fleeing. She isn’t shaking her head and retreating to a corner. This is not a rejection, this is an invitation. 

But why here with the armrest in between them and the unoccupied eyes of so many strangers bobbing around them? 

Her lips part further, just enough to make him open his eyes to check on her, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead he grazes the tip of his nose over hers as their breaths mingle in the minuscule space between them.

He dips down and pecks her lightly again. Another small taste. Another sample of the feast that he’s just getting the tiniest glimpse of. She returns the peck with another, only this time she includes the faintest hint of tongue. It swipes across the seam of his lips and he desperately wishes they were anywhere else but on a plane. 

The smell of her is dizzying, the taste of her even more so, and he’s beginning to feel a familiar heat stir low in his belly that he hasn’t felt in a very, very long time. 

He’s certain she can feel the violent hammering of his heart over the gentle shaking of the aircraft as her lips brush his again, and he wonders, is this the longest kiss of all time?

Her mouth is angled over his, but it’s also touching his fingers, his stomach, his heart; the soles of his feet. The kiss is everywhere. Olivia is everywhere. 

He never wants it to stop, but eventually she does lean away, eyes fluttering open to peer back at him. The sensation of weight lifting off his arm registers in the back of his mind, and he realizes her breasts were pressed against his forearm. He was so wrapped up in the feeling of her mouth that he didn’t even notice. 

The pebbled skin of his arm is cold, or it could be goosebumps from the kiss. 

She smiles softly, and her expression must be what it’s like to live through an Alaskan winter and finally see the sun for the first time in months. He wants to feel that warmth more – bigger, brighter, fiercer. He wants her to lean in and part her lips wider so he can kiss her deeper, really show her. 

He could show her everything his words could never touch with another kiss.

But instead the shock overwhelms him and he murmurs, “Are you okay?”

She snorts out a small laugh and grimaces as she readjusts her seated position. 

“Yes, Elliot. I’m of sound mind and body.” 

“Yeah, it’s just—” 

“I took a Vicodin, I didn’t shoot up heroin,” she holds his gaze. It’s unwavering. 

Her stare is a little frayed at the edges with fatigue, and who could blame her? She got hit in the side by shotgun birdshot. But her essence, her soul, whatever it is that makes her Olivia, is still wholly present in her eyes.

He nods once and can’t help the magnetic pull of her lips as his gaze drifts back down to them. 

“I think—” his voice cracks and he chuckles. “I think you just surprised me.” 

Olivia bites her lower lip before glancing around like she just remembered where they are. It’s only the two of them in the row, and none of the passengers behind them seem particularly interested in the two senior cops who’ve just kissed after a decades long emotional affair. But she’s blushing nonetheless. 

It’s the loveliest shade of pink he’s ever seen.

She rests her arm next to his on the armrest, and for once he doesn’t move it. “A good surprise I hope?” She says. 

“Yeah, Liv.” The heat in his cheeks is tingling into his ears, “A good surprise for sure. I just didn’t expect it—here. On an airplane.” 

Olivia rests her head back on the seat, contemplating him in that way that makes him squirm. 

“You think this was the wrong time?” She asks. 

“No, no. Definitely not. There could never be a ‘wrong time’ to do that. I’m sorry…” 

Shit, he’s fucking this up and it was only their first kiss. 

“I’ve been thinking about doing that for a while, you know.” Her honesty feels like another leap off the side of a cliff. 

“You have?” 

She nods, “Yes. And I think, maybe the birdshot in my ass was a not-so-subtle reminder that we only get one shot at this. No pun intended. Like you said, if things had gone differently, we might not be sitting here together.” Her voice wavers and he realizes she’s swallowing hard. He watches her blink rapidly several times before shaking her head. “It felt like the right time. To me.” 

“I’m glad, Liv.” The smile that spreads from ear to ear is so big it likely creates new creases at the corners of his mouth. He can’t temper it, even if he wanted to, which he doesn’t. He can feel the grin touch every inch of his face, and further down into his chest where he’s warm and fuzzy. 

They don’t talk for a while, but the air surrounding them is electric, buzzing with the thrill they’re both poorly concealing. She keeps glancing sideways at him, and he pretends not to notice when her knee bumps into his. He doesn’t adjust the splay of his legs, he just lets them rest against each other, and something so small and insignificant is actually shaking his very foundation. He feels like the blood pumping through his veins is on fire. He wants to get up and do sprints, or a hundred burpees, or maybe enough bench presses that his arms turn to putty. 

God, he can still feel her pillowy lips. 

The plane makes its descent and they land, bouncing enough as the wheels touch down that Olivia tenses in her seat and her fingers curl over the armrest. 

He reaches for her hand, it’s instinctual, covering her white knuckles with his palm and squeezing. “Almost out of here,” he murmurs. 

“Yeah,” she offers him a tight smile, but her lips are pressed together and he can see the insincerity breaking through. 

“Want another painkiller?” 

She shakes her head, “No, not yet. I want to wait until I’m home in my bed.” 

The idea of that, of him helping her get into bed, is something of a dream and a nightmare. The circumstances make him hurt for her. Torn skin, birdshot fragments that had to be scraped from her soft tissue. That’s the only reason she’s allowing him to care for her. That part is a bad dream. 

But unpacking her suitcase, feeding her, and tucking her into bed—well those are all things he’s dreamt of for as long as he’s known her. 

“Okay,” he squeezes her hand again, thinking about how sweet and strange it was that she kissed him in their rigid and unforgiving airplane seats. Such an uncomfortable place has never felt so incredible. 

“I’ll take extra care to avoid the potholes on the drive home.” 

Home. 

He says it like home is a place they share. God, he wishes it was. 

“Thanks, El.” She sighs, the exhausted breath leaving her lungs in a rush at the same time as the pilot comes over the intercom to welcome them back to New York. 

Back on familiar ground, sort of.  

Chapter Text

The time between getting out of the airplane seat and stepping over the threshold to her apartment is taxing. Try as Elliot might – and she can tell by the way he’s driving that he’s trying damn hard, eyes focused, jerking the steering wheel to avoid potholes – the broken up asphalt of 678 going through Queens is tortuous.

“Sorry,” Elliot mumbles for the hundredth time, flicking his eyes towards her as the car rolls over a speedbump near a construction site.  

She clears her throat and adjusts her position again, “It’s okay, El. This road is so torn up, there’s only so much you can do.” She’s always known there was a pothole issue in the tristate area, but she’s never felt that to be true more than now. 

The prescription bottle rattles at her feet, but it’s too late to take another pain pill. They’ll be on the Upper West Side before it even has a chance to metabolize. She just has to subsist on the endorphins from their kiss on the plane, and honestly, there’s still a decent amount of them fueling her. 

If she closes her eyes and slows her breathing, she can put herself back on the plane across from him, surprise and confusion dueling for control as he watched her lean in. Something about Elliot in moments like that makes him seem so innocent—not the jaded, hardened, detective who's seen every kind of horror New York City has to offer. The fact that Elliot can still swoon, that he can go bug-eyed and flush red at the feeling of her lips on his… It gives her an indescribable thrill. 

When he walks into a room he fills it, both with his personality and his literal size—he’s big. Maybe not the tallest man in the room, but what he doesn’t have in height, he makes up for in mass. A neck like a tree trunk. Shoulders and arms that make her feel things deep in the pit of her stomach, even when he’s just doing a mundane task like sharpening a pencil. It’s like every rotation of his joints highlights new muscles and tendons she’s never seen before. 

But on that plane, he looked positively humbled.

It was striking, really. And it’s not the first time she’s seen him with puppy-dog eyes, a little smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth, a twinkle in his eye, pink-cheeked and swaying slightly on his feet. She’s seen that, but she’s never seen him so close to melting into a puddle at her feet. 

The way he cupped her face, thumb idly tracing the line of her jaw, gentle and careful like he was holding something precious—she’s never felt so loved in her life. And that was just their first kiss. On an airplane. 

What would it be like when they were in the privacy of her home? 

And she’ll be damned if he’s getting out of her apartment without another kiss. But she knows he’ll be reluctant, especially if she takes another pain pill—which she is going to need very soon. But God, his warm fingers on her cheek and the excitement vibrating from him when she pulled on his lower lip. If she could get that high again before going to bed, maybe she won’t even need Vicodin. 

She’s pulled from her reverie as the car rolls over another crack in the road, eliciting a sharp inhale as her teeth find her lower lip and bite down.

“Just a few more blocks. I’ll drop you at the front door and park. Think you can get upstairs on your own?...” Elliot sounds concerned, and that makes her even more determined to drag her own ass into the elevator even if it kills her. 

“I’ll be okay,” she forces a tight smile and watches as the familiar lights from her block approach. She’s always happy to come home. There’s nothing like being in her own space, with her own things. Her soft pillows, her expensive candles, her lotion and her weighted blanket. 

But tonight, she might be the most relieved she’s ever been to see the facade of her building grow larger as the SUV slows and Elliot steers it up to the curb. She grits her teeth and puts on a brave face as she slumps out of the passenger seat and takes a few steps towards Jorge who is already holding the door open for her. 

She can feel Elliot’s eyes following her, that earnest, piercing gaze that draws her head back to look at him over her shoulder. “Go, El. Go park the car.” She brushes him off with a wave of her hand, motioning down the block towards the parking garage with the waiting spot. His reluctance is evident, but he really has no choice. She hears him pop the trunk and take the bags out as she walks tentatively toward her building, greeting Jorge with a small smile. 

He doesn’t ask questions, he never does. 

She’s so relieved when she finally walks through her front door, she heads straight for the bathroom, leaving the front door unlocked and dropping her belongings on the floor as she goes. Shoes clumsily kicked off, blazer dropped on a side table, shirt and pants tossed towards the laundry machine, underwear, socks, and bra in a pile by the bathroom door. Those ones are harder to take off, and involve a lot of wincing and awkward shimmying, and when she finally steps under the spray of the hot water, she lets out an exhale so deep and so long she feels like an enormous balloon deflating. 

Her muscles sigh along with her, everything uncoiling as the heat from the water massages her aching back. It’s serene and exactly what she needed, all the discomfort from the airplane seat and the car ride fades to a distant memory as she stands for an eternity, letting the room fill with steam and her skin prune beyond recognition. The familiar smell of cherry blossom and citrus fills her nose as she washes her skin from head to toe and massages her scalp with her fingernails, washing her hair with conditioner twice and taking time to scrub every trace of makeup from her face. 

She’s certain by now that Elliot has returned from parking the car, and that is the only thing that gets her out of the shower, as she wraps the cozy robe around her body and twists up her wet hair into a towel. 

She pads down the hallway and finds him exactly where she thought she would, crouched over her suitcase, sorting what he thinks is dry cleaning from what can be put in the washing machine. He’s not too off, and she gives him a small nod of approval. 

“Not too bad,” she glances into the washing machine at the collection of dark cotton. “You even separated the white t-shirts. I’m impressed.” 

He looks up at her from where he’s kneeling on the floor and shrugs, “I lived with enough women to know a white shirt will quickly become a grey shirt if you wash it with the darks.” 

“Thanks, El.” She adds the detergent to the washer and pretends to not feel his eyes travelling up her still-wet shins to the v of exposed skin at the collar of her robe. She changes the temperature setting on the washer and pushes the necessary buttons, all the while savoring the weight of his gaze as it roves over her. She doesn’t stop him by meeting his eyes, or by commenting on how obvious he’s being. Why would she? 

She wants him to look. 

“Good shower?” He finally asks, perhaps reading her change of mood. 

“Incredible,” she says, as he pushes to stand and hands her the prescription bottle from her bag. 

The pills rattle as she slips the container into the pocket of her robe. “I’m going to try and wait to take one until right before bed,” she murmurs.

Elliot doesn’t question her, he just bends over once more to scoop up the small pile of slacks and blazers. “Do you have a dry cleaning bag where you put this stuff?” 

Olivia nods, “Yeah. It’s hanging on the back of my closet door.” 

He disappears into her bedroom—Elliot’s in her bedroom. She can’t help but follow him, craving the visual to confirm what she already knows. 

He looks good in her space. 

Natural. 

Like he belongs there—like he’s always been there. 

Her eyes sting and sadness blankets her, familiar and stifling. He should already know where she keeps the dry cleaning. He should know how to use her Sodastream and where she keeps the good chocolate that she hides on a top shelf, just for herself. He would know all these things, and more, if she let him in sooner.

She forces down the lump of regret and limps to the dresser, pulling soft sleep pants from a top drawer, and forgetting about her hip for a second, bending to get her favorite NYPD t-shirt from the bottom drawer. 

“Fuck,” she hisses under her breath, freezing as the shock of white-hot pain zings down her leg. 

“I got it,” Elliot’s there before she can even right herself, reaching for the drawer – somehow knowing which one it is even though she’s not touching it – and holding up the worn grey t-shirt. “This one?” 

“Thanks,” she nods, taking it from his hand and walking slowly towards the arm chair in the corner. She sits down gingerly with Elliot still hovering near the door, her dry cleaning bag slung over his shoulder like an incredibly sexy Santa Claus preparing to deliver dirty clothes as presents. 

She glances woefully at her feet where they rest on the floor, then to the balled up black pajama pants in her left hand as begins to lean forward, timidly lifting a foot and slipping it into the leghole. When she leans to the other side, she halts a good eighteen inches away from her destination, the pulling sensation in her hip screaming at her to stop reaching and bending. 

“Liv?...” Elliot is still standing perfectly still, watching her with the sort of hesitancy that makes her instinctively annoyed. But it’s not his fault she can’t do simple things like put her own pants on. 

“Yeah,” she sighs. “This is… incredibly embarrassing. Please don’t ever tell Fin I needed your help putting my pants on.” 

He huffs out a chuckle and drops the laundry sack at the door, moving to stoop down in front of her feet. He stretches the other leg of her pants open between his thumbs, sliding it over her foot and slowly up her calf until it’s bunched at the knee and she can take it from him. 

“Do you want help standing?” He asks before touching her, and the consideration makes her stomach flutter. 

“Please,” she grumbles, sounding slightly peeved, because she doesn’t want him to know that she actually loves him touching her like this, even if it is just cupping her elbow and pulling her pants up underneath her robe. He can’t see anything with the thick terrycloth hanging down, but it’s incredibly intimate, and just the proximity of his big hands there, so close to the crux of her legs, has her feeling lightheaded. 

The nails of his fingers graze the backs of her legs as he maneuvers the elastic of the waistband higher, and she can’t stifle the goosebumps that his light touch draws out. When the fabric is almost touching the underside of her ass, high enough that she can reach them without bending, she takes over the task. “Thanks,” she whispers, fingers shaking slightly as the adrenaline hits. 

“Want me to make something to eat?” He asks, turning away as she reaches for the knot in the front of her robe. 

“I doubt there’s anything in there aside from expired milk.” 

He keeps his back to her as she drops the robe and pulls on the t-shirt. 

“Want me to order something?” He tries again. 

“Sure. Salad okay? There’s a CHOPT on the avenue.” She moves towards him as he nods in agreement.

“Definitely. What kind?” 

“Greek with chicken,” she replies, and watches as he brings up the number on his phone and calls in their order. She smiles at the fact that he still calls in delivery orders instead of using an app. 

As he hangs up, an uncomfortable silence settles in between them, neither sure where they should go next now that they have one kiss under their belts and a whole night ahead of them. 

She realizes then that she assumes he’s going to stay the night. Neither of them asked, but it’s just a foregone conclusion at this point. 

It’s still eerily quiet between them when he takes a couple cautious steps forward, reaching to rest a hand at her side, directly over her injury. If it were anyone else, she’d twist away, cringe, try and shield herself from the expected pain, but not with him. His touch is so light, she can hardly feel it. 

“How’s your ass?” He rolls his lips into his mouth as he says it, looking just a little bit too amused with himself. 

“How long are you going to be asking me that?” She counters, resting her hand on top of his and encouraging him to settle it heavier at her hip. It’s still not enough pressure to hurt, but she’s aware of him now. Aware of how his fingers are tenderly curled over her. Aware of his thumb which is carefully caressing the waistband of her pajamas. 

They certainly fell into this quickly—shedding the invisible restraints that kept them from touching. The loss of personal space. The gain of something much more. 

She closes her eyes for a few seconds, letting the exhaustion settle into her bones as Elliot continues to cradle her hip in the enormous grip of his hand. His skin is hot, she can feel it radiating right through the fabric of her sleep pants. 

Still with her eyes closed, she mutters, “What are we doing here?” 

He exhales through his nose before answering, “Nothing at the moment. We’re just… being.” 

Olivia likes that answer, she enjoys the idea of just being in the same place with him, quiet and peaceful. No expectations. No work. No gunshots sounding or bright hospital lights. 

“Mm,” she hums thoughtfully as she thinks about just being together after so many decades of avoiding this. Sure, they had been together in the front of a sedan, seated at their desks battleship style, beside each other in interrogation, shoulder to shoulder in court. They’d been together in more ways than most married couples, but never like this. Never with the walls they built gradually crumbling with every brush of a hand. Never with so much unspoken fire burning in the silence. 

“Your hands are so warm.” It takes her a moment to realize she said it out loud, and it wasn’t just in her head. She doesn’t really expect him to answer. What would he even say? 

But in a way he does answer, not with his words, but he hears the unspoken request in her statement and he slides both hands underneath the hem of her tattered NYPD t-shirt, pulling her gently into him. His hands are even warmer than she could have imagined from the preview through her clothes, and they coast up and down her back, pausing briefly around the middle of her shoulderblades as if realizing suddenly that there is no bra clasp there. But he doesn’t stop for long, he doesn’t show his interest too blatantly, even though she can hear him swallow and she’s pretty certain the thumping of his heart under her ear is ticking up. 

They stand that way for a while, her cheek pressed to his chest, head tucked under the curve of his chin, his rough and oddly familiar feeling palms skating up and down her back in soothing strokes. It isn’t until her side begins to ache again, demanding a change of position, that she pulls away to look up at him. 

“I’m going to lay down for a few minutes.” The day has caught up with her again, as it always seems to do in moments of peacefulness. 

He checks the time on his phone, “Yeah, you should. I’ll let you know when the food gets here.” 

She reluctantly steps away from him and the warmth of his body, and retreats to her bed, carefully pulling back the covers and climbing in. Only one leg makes it underneath the comforter, but she’s too tired to care. Even with the throbbing in her hip, she slips easily into sleep. 

—

Something wakes her with a start, and at first she thinks it’s her side – which protests angrily as she rolls onto her back – but then she feels her stomach growl. At some point she got under the covers completely, or maybe Elliot tucked her in after she fell asleep. The duvet is now pulled up to her chin, and she can tell as she looks out towards the hallway that all the lights in the apartment are off. 

But she’s starving and won’t be able to go back to sleep until she finds that salad and eats all of it.

She sits up with a groan and instantly regrets not taking a pain pill before falling asleep. Her entire right side is tight and sore, especially over the wound site which feels like someone has been digging around in there. Which they have. 

The pill bottle on her side table catches her eye, and she realizes Elliot must have fished it out of her robe and left it there during the night. A glass of water sits beside it. 

So, he was in her bedroom at some point. He covered her up and brought her the Vicodin, and then he went—where? He’s not in the bed beside her, not that she really expected him to be so presumptuous. She wouldn’t have minded if she woke up and saw him there though.  

She pads quietly out into the living room, one stiff step at a time, and finds him sprawled out on her couch, a too-small throw covering most of his legs. His socked feet stick out at one end. His eyes are closed and he’s breathing deeply. 

He looks peaceful like this, face completely relaxed and worry lines smoothed out. He looks younger, and that realization twists low in her stomach. They’ve wasted so much goddamn time. 

As she’s studying the familiar cut of his jaw and the more recent smoother surface of his head, her stomach growls insistently again, and she has no choice but to answer it. She finds the salad in the fridge, thankfully dressing on the side, and she tries her best to not make too much noise as she removes the plastic top and pours the dressing over. 

She eats standing up at the kitchen island, finding a bit of relief in the new positioning of her limbs and the change in blood flow now that she’s not laying down.

“That any good?” 

The rumbling sound of his voice makes her jump slightly. 

“Sorry,” he clears his throat. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

She takes another bite and glances at him, sitting up now, one arm flung over the back of her couch. He looks like he belongs there, like it’s just another night and he fell asleep watching a movie so she left him to continue sleeping, because you have to get those hours when you can. Especially at their age. 

“It’s okay, I’m just not used to deep male voices speaking to me from the living room in the middle of the night.” She turns to look at the digital clock on the microwave, and sees it’s only one in the morning. She’d only been asleep a few hours. 

“Oh, no? He smiles mischievously. You don’t get too many… male visitors then?” His teasing question echoes one from when they were first getting to know each other again: About how many? 

She just shakes her head, deciding that’s answer enough, even though her heart skips a beat at his playful interest in her dating history. Her reaction is different from that time in the hospital when they went to visit Eli, back when his cocky audacity had taken her by surprise. 

“Guess I was passed out when the food arrived?” She takes another bite and chews. 

“Yeah, I came in to tell you but…” He smiles and waves a hand. “You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.” 

She spears a cucumber and nods, “Thanks. I needed it.” 

He disappears behind the couch again, seemingly back to his reclined position with one hand behind his head, and she almost finishes the salad but hits a wall when there’s about one sixth left in the bottom of the container. She puts it back in the fridge, telling herself maybe she’ll eat it tomorrow knowing full well that when she sees the wilted dressing-soaked leaves it’ll get tossed into the garbage. But she feels better about it if she at least pretends she’s not wasting it. 

It’s been quiet from the couch for the last several minutes, and she almost wonders if he’s fallen back asleep, but as she walks over the throw blanket shifts under his legs. 

“Hey,” he croaks, voice still thick and raspy from sleep. 

“Hey,” she replies back. “I’m going to feel guilty if you wake up with a kink in your neck tomorrow morning. C’mon.” She extends a hand more as a symbolic offering than an actual attempt at helping him stand. Even in the dark, she can see the whites of his eyes surveying her, roving up and down as he considers her unspoken offer. 

“Yeah?” He finally whispers. 

“Just come,” she taps his foot, and turns, not waiting to watch if he stands to follow her. She knows that he will. There is no universe in which Elliot Stabler says no to that. Her belly trembles slightly at what’s happening. Even though sex is off the table with her hip injury, she isn’t exactly sure what he expects—no, not expects. Elliot doesn’t expect anything from her. She wonders what he’s hoping for, and will she be able to give that to him? She wants more than just to go back to sleep too, her body is calling out for him, the memory of that kiss on the plane both fading and seizing her at the same time. 

She stops to brush her teeth, the lingering feta cheese and oregano dressing not a taste she wants to experience stale in the morning. Elliot is hovering at the door, uncertain of where to go, he eyes the toothpaste and she taps the door underneath the vanity with her toe. He reads her cue and kneels, rummaging around until he finds a new toothbrush still in the packaging. He wags it in the air before her, and she nods once. 

They brush their teeth side-by-side in the fluorescent light of the bathroom. She tries not to look at herself in the mirror, knowing the fatigue will be evident, and the last thing she wants is to start feeling insecure. Elliot on the other hand seems to be unable to tear his eyes away from her. Everytime she meets his gaze in the mirror, he’s locked in on her, brushing his teeth with a sort of innocent wonder sparkling in his eyes. 

It’s oddly domestic for them, an activity they haven’t shared in many, many years. Maybe back when they were partners they brushed their teeth in the locker room bathrooms after a night in the crib—but that’s so long ago she can’t even recall for sure. She grimaces when she has to lean over the sink to spit, and reaches for the edge of the counter to hold herself up. Elliot is quick to grab the hand towel hanging on a hook and holds it out as she blushes at the strand of toothpaste she unsuccessfully expelled. It clings to her chin, and she quickly wipes it away as Elliot pretends not to notice, leaning over the sink to spit and rinse his mouth with water. 

She flicks the light off, plunging them into darkness. 

“I’m going to use the toilet,” he states, rather bluntly. 

Oh yeah, that. She actually needs to do that too. 

“Okay, I should too. You go first.” 

“Oh, no. You first.” He’s already side stepping her and closing the door before she can protest. 

When she’s done, he goes in after her and she proceeds to the bedroom, climbing back under the covers and waiting with her hands folded over her stomach. It seems awkward, laying that way, like she’s a body in a casket, so she tries to relax. She painfully rolls onto her side and tucks her hands under head as she hears Elliot approaching the other side of the bed. 

As if he can read her thoughts, or maybe her body language, he stops at the side of the bed. The thickness in his throat sounds loud in the quiet of her room as he swallows. 

“I can lay on top of the covers, if you feel weird about this.” 

She laughs softly, because God, they are bad at this. How can two people who’ve known each other as long as they have, who’ve loved each other deeply for as long as they have, be this awkward? 

And she does love him. She knows that fact to be true, just like she knows the sun is hot and ice is cold. She loves Elliot and she always has. But what does that mean now? 

What is she going to do with that knowledge, now that she kissed him and made it clear she feels the same way?

“Elliot… just… take off your dirty airplane pants and get under the covers.” 

He doesn’t say anything else, but she hears the clink of his belt and the teeth of his zipper releasing. The jeans hit the floor with a soft thump as she slides deeper under the covers and waits for the tell-tale shifting of the mattress underneath her as he lays down. 

She suddenly feels hot, and it isn’t just the furnace that is Elliot Stabler sliding under the sheets next to her. Though, she can feel the moment he settles in and it’s like she just curled up next to a crackling hearth.

But the fire burning her up isn't coming from an external source, it’s coming from inside her, deep in her core where her need for him is twisting and writhing like a feral animal trying to escape a cage. She isn’t sure what to do, her hip is aching, but it’s no match for the other ache that is blooming heavy in her chest. 

Elliot is laying so still, once again waiting for her consent, or her cue, because they are in her space now—her sanctuary. He isn’t going to overstep, especially after she’s been injured. 

She fidgets uncomfortably, no longer certain if it’s the lacerated flesh or the desire consuming her every cell that’s making her jittery. 

“If me being here is too much, too soon, I can go back to the couch.” 

For once in their partnership – friendship – whatever the hell this is, he’s reading her wrong. She can’t believe it. 

“Too soon? It’s been decades…” She scoffs, not meaning for it to sound as harsh as it does. 

“I mean, I know that,” he quips. “It’s just… I know you’re hesitant to trust me again, after—” he doesn’t want to state the obvious, so she does it for him. 

“After you Irish Exited on me for ten years?” It burns her throat as she says it, and this isn’t what she wants to be talking about right now. In fact, she doesn’t want to be talking at all. She wants to be feeling; feeling something other than pain and regret. She wants to feel the heat from his hands again, and she wants them everywhere. 

“Sorry,” she murmurs, reaching for his arm under the covers. “That was unkind.” 

“But it’s true,” he rolls so he’s facing her, head resting on the pillow close enough that she can feel his breath when he exhales. “I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

“El,” she mutters, bringing his hand to rest on her neck. “I don’t forgive you for that, and I’m not sure if I ever will. But I do trust you now. And I just want—” the blood rushing to her cheeks is tingling before she even gets the words out, the anticipation cresting like a massive wave right before it crashes down, flattening everything underneath it. 

“I want—” Fuck, she muses helplessly. 

She’s a nearly sixty-year-old Captain of the NYPD, and she’s struggling to tell the man she’s loved for half of that time, how she really feels. And she knows – she knows – exactly what she wants. She just needs to say it. She swallows down her fears that it might not work out, she brushes away the pain in her side, and she embraces the rush as the wave envelopes her.

“I just want you to kiss me again, okay? Can you just—do that?” 

It sounds more desperate than she intended, like a whiny teenager seeking out the affections of the high school quarterback behind the bleachers, but thankfully he doesn’t see it that way. He moves forward so fast she doesn’t have a chance to take a breath, covering her mouth with his own and crushing her lips with a kiss that holds more passion than the one they shared on the plane. 

It’s hot, and wet, and urgent, smothering her senses with an intensity that makes her want to weep. 

Thank God. 

Finally, is all she can think as his tongue breaches the seam of her lips and drives forward. She welcomes him greedily, because this is all she really wanted. Just more of what she felt on that flight—hotter, wetter, harder, just… more. 

And he gives her more. He kisses her like no one has ever kissed her in her nearly sixty years on this planet. They swap minty spit until she’s practically gasping for breath and he has no choice but to let go and move to her jaw, kissing along the bone to her ear where his heavy breaths send a fresh rush to the pit of her belly. 

He slows down then, which probably is a good idea considering she can’t physically welcome him between her legs in her current state, but fuck she wants to. She wants him so badly she feels the burn behind her eyes, and her hands take on a life of their own, searching out the hem of his shirt before running up the ridges of his stomach to the wiry patch of hair on his chest. She scratches her nails through it, ignoring the sharp pain in her hip as she scoots closer to him, until they are nose-to-nose and the top of his knee is wedged in between her thighs. Her eyes have fully adjusted to the dark room now, and this close to his face she can see the surprise register when she sinks into their new positions, letting the heat from her core settle unabashedly on the top of his leg. 

“Liv, you’re injured—I don’t want to hurt you more,” his words do little to dissuade her. 

“I’ll tell you if something hurts, alright? I promise.” 

Again, she almost cringes at how fragile and eager she sounds, but she can tell his attempts at hampering her are half-hearted. He wants to touch her just as badly as she wants to be touched, and he’s only holding back because that’s what Elliot does. His years at SVU have taught him to tread carefully with certain things, and consent – not surprisingly enough – is one of them. 

“Okay,” he grunts. “Okay.” 

He’s been shot before, he’s been stabbed, he has an idea of what you can and can’t do when the body is recovering, and there are things that you can do. There are things you can do even in the face of physical pain, because sometimes the best medicine is pleasure. 

When his hands find the skin of her back again, she can’t help the soft gasp that is ripped from her lungs. His fingers climb up the ladder of her spine, one hand settling at the base of her neck as he draws himself closer to her—and not the other way around. He doesn’t try to move her, he just wiggles into the curve of her body until every inch of them is flush.

As his lips and his tongue suck soft kisses to her neck, his hand slips back down to cup the curve of her ass, and here she can tell he’s being careful. She wants him to grab her roughly and squeeze hard, and she thinks he wants to too, but instead he traces the shape of her. He follows the line of her glute down to where it meets her thigh. It’s exploratory and soft, and as his fingers follow the crease between her ass cheeks she knows that he’s mapping her. Feeling every inch with a kind of reverence that makes heat coil low in her belly. 

He smooths his hand over her ass again and she answers with a nip to his lower lip, pulling it between her teeth until he growls low. 

“Liv, what are we doing? Tell me what to do—” he’s asking, but at the same time he’s running his fingers under the elastic waist of her pants, and her stomach clenches in response. 

“Yes,” is all she says, before not-so-carefully rolling onto her back and wincing briefly at the pain in her side, but it’s short lived because he’s following her. Looping one arm behind her and continuing to kiss her like he can’t get enough. He rearranges his limbs and his torso to be aligned with hers again, resting his free hand on her stomach like an anchor. He smooths it back and forth a few times, maintaining a magnetic sort of contact, which is always how it’s been for them. She thinks now that they’ve started this, they won’t be able to separate for the rest of the night. 

He swirls a finger around her bellybutton as he leans away from her for the first time in ages to look down at what he’s doing. 

It’s quiet for a few seconds, just their shallow breaths as he caresses her stomach, until his hand begins to move up, and up, and up, until he’s grazing her rib cage and the underside of her breast. When his hand finally covers her and squeezes gently, her eyes slip shut. 

“Mm,” she hums lowly, and he answers by rolling the hardening peak of her nipple under his fingers. It lights up her nervous system instantly and she’s reaching for the hem of her shirt, lifting it up so they can both see where his hand is fondling her. 

She’s bigger in that department than she was in her youth, and the plentiful flesh spills out over his fingers as he cups her and lifts. He alternates between this motion and delicately twisting her erect nipple until she arches her back and presses harder into the pillows behind her, sending him a silent plea to move to the other side. It’s a little trickier for him to reach, and instead he dips down next to where her side is closest to him and fills his mouth, dragging his tongue over the sensitive bud as the heaviness between her legs grows stronger.

“So fucking beautiful, Liv,” he pauses for long enough to mumble into her the valley of her cleavage as he draws her breasts together. “So pretty. So perfect.” His breath is hot on her skin and his tongue is wet and she thinks she might be losing herself. She doesn’t feel the pain in her side, she isn’t thinking about all the time they’ve lost, all she knows is that Elliot is good. His touch is good. It’s everything she ever thought it would be, and more. 

It’s gentle, and strong. Possessive and freeing. Rough and smooth. 

If this is what losing herself feels like – nirvana – maybe she never wants to be found again.

“Keep going, El. Just—don’t stop. Please don’t stop.” 

One of his arms is still pinned underneath her, and the other is rolling the fullness of her breast again as he grunts, throaty and raw, “Not gonna stop unless you tell me to.”

She sighs contentedly as he draws a nipple back into his mouth, and pulls away until it catches on his teeth. It doesn’t hurt, not like her fucking injury, but it does dance right on that line with a delicious sort of sting. He releases it with a soft pop before sucking kisses over the expanse of her chest, leaving little marks that may or may not show in the morning.

Elliot’s free hand has begun to drift down again, and the heat is overwhelming. She kicks the covers away with her good side and flicks her eyes down to where his hand is now fiddling with the waistband of her pants.

He’s sliding his fingers over the gathered fabric, but hesitating to cross the barrier. She brushes a thumb over his lower lip and tucks her face in against the side of his neck, releasing a ragged breath and letting her legs fall open. 

No verbal encouragement is needed. He sees her, and she feels his fingers ease under the fabric and find her slick and ready for him already, they both groan at the discovery. She hasn’t been this wet in a long, long time. Just the lead up, the delicate dance they did around each other – the soft touches and harder kisses – got her so ready for him that his fingers slide through her folds with no resistance. There’s no hitch, no snag, no moment of wondering if she needs more to get ready for him. 

She’s more than ready. 

“God…Olivia,” he sighs against her temple, the rush of air tickling her ear as his thumb lands on the swollen bud of nerves at her center. The direct contact is electric, sending a bolt of desire through her that lifts her hips from the mattress. 

She whimpers, and it’s a sound that exists somewhere in between pleasure and pain. The birdshot wounds are throbbing at the involuntary movement of her pelvis, but the rest of her body is chasing him for more.  

“Are you okay?” He mumbles, resting with his hand cupping her sex as she reaches for his bicep, curling her fingers into it and squeezing so tight he’ll likely have purple ovals dotting his arm in the morning. 

“Yes–yes. Please, keep going.” She doesn’t let go of him as his thumb returns to circling her clit, slowly at first, his other fingers gathering some of the wetness from her folds and spreading it over her pulsing core as she buries her face in his neck. 

She’s surrounded by Elliot. The smell of his soap and his natural musk underneath—it fills her head as his fingers bring her higher and higher with every swipe. The flexed arm he has behind her back draws her closer, and the sensation reminds her of being held.  

Of being carried. 

She smells gunpowder and syrup, feels the cold metal of the gun barrel followed by the solid press of his chest. The sounds of screaming echo in her ears. 

“What is it?” He’s slowing the motion of his fingers, eyes darting across her face with a knowing sort of concern. 

“Fuck,” she gasps, her words tangled up in frustration and pleasure. “That diner.” She forces out.

“I know,” he says, and of course he does. There is no one else on earth who knows as well as he does what the job does to them. How it snakes its way into your thoughts, even when you don’t want it to be there. “But we’re here now, Liv. You’re okay, and I’ve got you.” He resumes the pace of his swipes across her clit, and the pleasure brings her back to the present. 

To Elliot. To his arms. He’s not carrying her through the diner. He’s holding her in bed. 

He’s in her bed and he’s touching her and they’re both alive. 

When she presses a kiss behind his ear he groans like a thank you, and the vibration rumbles out of him, shooting down her spine and curling her toes. 

Just when she’s beginning to tighten her core, flexing helplessly around nothing, he hooks his fingers and sinks two into her. 

Olivia cries out into the darkness, overcome with a need so powerful she doesn’t even recognize the noises that are coming out of her. High-pitched mewls and whines that bounce off the walls – and thank God Noah isn’t home – because she can’t control it. She’s right on the edge, the grinding of his thick fingers hitting that soft spot deep inside and towards the front, and then he’s moving suddenly and jerking his other arm out from underneath her. 

“I have to taste you, Liv.” He meets her gaze and the look in his eyes — desperation and awe — is nothing she can say no to. And she doesn’t want to say no. She wants to part her legs wider for him, injury be damned. 

She just nods because breath is scarce and his hand is still reaching into her and it’s so good she doesn’t believe it can get any better. But then he crouches over her and pulls her sleep pants down and almost off. They hang from one ankle as his bulky shoulders slot down between her thighs and his mouth closes around her clit. 

Her back arches off the bed and her eyes slam shut. “Oh!” She exclaims as he flattens his tongue and drags it through her once. “Jesus,” she reaches for the sheets underneath her, clawing at them, seeking some kind of purchase as he proceeds to eat her out until she’s seeing spots of light bursting against her closed eyelids.

The climax barrels into her, ripping his name from her chest as every muscle contracts and she curls towards him, thighs locking around his head as a searing pain twists in her side. She ignores it, because it’s nothing compared to how hard she’s coming. 

Her fingers squeeze his forearm where it rests across her belly, and her inner walls contract around his fingers, holding him there so all he can do is pulse against her opening. He’s  stimulating her g-spot with all the focus and concentration of an Olympic ski jumper whose sights are set on gold, and all she can do is hold on.

His arm is heavy and present and the only thing keeping her from floating away. That, and the blinding orgasm that is effectively turning her limbs to lead.

“Fuck,” she finally exhales, releasing her flexed muscles and letting her head fall back onto the pillow. 

“Fuck,” she mutters again, because at the moment she doesn’t know any other words. Her brain is an empty pulsing orb of warmth and pleasure. 

Elliot is still between her legs, slowing his movements but still tasting her, still filling his mouth and his nose with her sex as he brings her back down to earth. 

“Mm,” he hums, kissing the inside of her thigh, then the other one, then further up at the crease of her groin over her femoral artery. “That was…” he nuzzles the softness of her tummy. “...Beautiful. You’re so beautiful.” He rises up over her, and she still can’t think of what to say, all the words in the English language couldn’t explain the sense of peace that’s washed over her. 

“I could do that all night, every night,” he mumbles, dropping down next to her. With him flush against her once more, she becomes suddenly aware of the rigid length of his cock. It’s so stiff she’s certain she can feel the blood pumping through its veins. 

“El,” she finally finds her voice and reaches for him, pressing her palm to where he’s throbbing for her. He jumps a little, grasping her wrist and moving her arm away. 

“I can—” she starts, but he shakes his head.

“I can wait.” He brings her hand to his mouth and brushes his lips over her knuckles. “I want to feel all of you when we—I can wait.” He says again. 

“Isn’t that painful?” She wants to help him too. She wants him to feel as good as she does. 

“Not as painful as birdshot in the ass,” he whispers while ghosting his fingers over the site of her injury. 

She shakes her head stubbornly, cupping his face so she can pull him down for a kiss. He’s flushed and tastes like a mix of himself and her, she can’t help but moan into it, but the sound turns into something more frayed as she tries to rock into him. With the adrenaline and endorphins now flagging, the pain is creeping back in. 

He reaches over her, pulling the prescription bottle off the side table. “You didn’t take one earlier, did you?” 

“No,” she hasn’t taken one since the airport in Ohio. 

He unscrews the top and fishes one out, pressing it to her lips which she reluctantly parts for him. She has to prop herself up on an elbow to take a swig of the water, and as she bends and twists, she realizes just how much she needs that pill. 

Elliot is watching her. Closely. 

“Did you overdo it?” He hops up and finds her pants which were kicked off and are now balled up under the covers. 

“No,” she smirks, “Why, did you?” 

He chuckles at that, “Not even close. Why, you ready for a second round?” 

The question sends a pang to between her legs, because yes, she could keep going, but she knows that would be overdoing it. At least if it’s before the Vicodin kicks in. 

“Can you help me up?” She asks instead, and he’s at her side before she even swings her legs over the side of the bed. With him standing in front of her like this, his tented erection is on full display, and it doesn’t seem to be dissipating. 

Elliot—” she glances from it up to his face, and he just shrugs. 

“It’s alright, Liv. Next time. When you’re not in pain.” He helps pull her to her feet and she staggers into the bathroom where she relieves herself, before returning to the bed. Elliot is still standing next to it, just as aroused as he was two minutes earlier. He doesn’t say anything, he just walks past her, stopping momentarily to kiss her neck, right behind her ear. It sends a pleasant chill through her.

“Are you alright?” He asks, and she knows he’s probably referring to her brief mid-fingering flashback to the diner. 

“I am now,” she tells him, and she watches as he disappears into the bathroom and closes the door. 

He’s in there for a while, and she knows why. She feels slightly bad about that, but it didn’t seem like he would be compromising anytime soon. In a way, it’s sweet. While she was perfectly fine getting off to the thrust of his fingers, he wants to make love to her properly. She can’t fault him for that. 

Elliot is an honorable man through-and-through. He was always honoring his wife, his family, his job—honoring Olivia as well until it all became too much. She doesn’t mind being on the receiving end of that again, it’s been a long time since anyone cared for her enough to respect her.  

She hears him return to the room several minutes later, and he slides into the bed behind her, curling an arm around her waist and lining up the front of his body with the back of hers. They fit together perfectly like this, and he’s warm and sturdy. Broad chest and muscled bicep encircling her snugly. 

“This is nice,” she hears herself murmur, her own words already becoming distant as she sinks into it. 

“It is,” he agrees, burying his nose at the back of her head where her hair is piled up on the pillow, wavy and wild from air drying after her shower. “I love how you smell. And how you taste.” 

The word love halts her thrumming pulse for a moment, but he followed it up with smell and taste. Not that other word. Though at this point she knows it’s only a matter of time before he says it. Unless she says it first. 

Could she ever do that?

“Wake me if you need anything,” he mumbles. 

The gravel of his voice is the last thing she hears before succumbing to sleep again. 

Chapter Text

It’s another normal day at the one-six. 

Olivia is there, hair in a ponytail, dark bangs brushing her eyebrows. 

Munch and Fin are there, bickering over cooling mugs of coffee and stale donuts. 

The rage is there, simmering hot in the pit of his stomach. It’s futile, all of it. Why do they even bother? 

Another dead kid, another monster walking free, and what can he do about it? Nothing. He can’t even go home to his family because they don’t want him there anymore. Kathy doesn’t want him. Maybe she never did. 

There’s distant shouting, the click of metal cuffs. Someone is crying.

He blinks, and he’s on the bench press. 

Sweat is pouring down his brow and dripping into his ears. His palms are becoming slick, the risk of dropping the bar on his chest all too real, but he doesn’t care. 

Just a few more reps. 

Just until his muscles begin to vibrate and his chest is screaming at him to stop. 

He failed again. 

Press. 

He wants to give up. 

Press. 

She’ll never let him leave.

Press. 

Someday he will though.

Press.

The sweat runs into his eyes and it stings. 

He blinks it away, and she’s there. 

Olivia is hovering over him, hands on her hips, saying something to him about taking it easy on himself. They did everything they could. This one was out of their control. 

He doesn’t hear her though. Her voice is far away and the pulsing in his ears is too loud.

The rage is snaking up into his chest, into his throat. Twisting, compressing, choking the air out of him. 

He’s moving away from her, but he can hear her footsteps behind him, right on his tail. Why does she do this? Why does she insist on counseling him when there is nothing to say? 

The shitty bleached out towel that is slung over his shoulders finds his face, then his neck, then the floor. He kicks it away like that will make him feel better. It doesn’t, because now Olivia is bending to pick up his dirty laundry, she’s getting his sweat on her hands. 

Don’t, he tells her. She drops it on the bench. 

What can I do? She asks him, and he doesn’t know how to answer that. 

So he tells her nothing. There is nothing she can do. 

He blinks and she’s underneath him. No, she’s not underneath, she’s between. Between his chest and the cold steel of the lockers. They are standing, her back to the lockers, one leg wrapped around his hips, the other foot planted firmly on the cement floor. 

Her tits are out, spilling over the top of her bra which is still hooked and trying in vain to contain her flesh as he works his mouth over it. Back and forth, leaving a wet trail of frustrated nips and sucks until he delivers one that’s too hard and she curses. 

Fuck! 

She pushes him back roughly. 

No marks, she tells him. 

But he wants to mark her. He wants to leave something that he can look at later and know he was there. He did that. 

Fine, he growls, eyes dragging back down to her heaving chest and piercingly erect nipples which are aimed directly at him. 

No marks. 

But there is one across her left breast, jagged and puckered. Faded. Old. 

Where did that come from? He tries to ask her but she shakes her head and undoes the buckle on her pants, pushing them down and tugging one leg free. 

Her legs are long, olive skin and lean taut muscles meeting at a pair of soft pink cotton underwear. 

There’s a damp spot at her center where she’s begun to soak through them. 

He blinks, and he’s inside her, pressing her up against the lockers as he thrusts relentlessly into her, over, and over, and over. The wet suck of her pussy contrasting with the click of a metal lock that’s banging against the door behind her. 

Squish, bang, squish, bang, squish, bang.

What if someone walks in? He thinks. 

Who fucking cares.

His fingers dig harder into her thigh as he hoists her up so that her toes are off the ground and all her weight is resting against him as he pistons harder, faster; the movements becoming erratic and frenzied as she moans loudly into his ear. 

The rage that was festering begins to coalesce in preparation for its release. It’s going to leave his body in a tidal wave of pleasure when he spills everything he has deep in the tight clutch of her sex. 

She pulses around him.

Yes, Elliot! Yes! Right there, just like that. Oh my God—Oh my—

—

“El? El… Elliot?” Her voice is close but it’s different. It’s lower, raspier. Still her, but with that tone that suggests age and maturity. 

“Elliot? You’re dreaming,” she’s very close. Right up against him. Soft and warm in his arms. 

There’s no precinct lockers, just smooth sheets and fluffy down pillows. Things that suggest comfort and peace, but the ache between his legs is back and he’s shaking—hands and arms trembling like he was either holding something too tightly, or trying not to. 

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” He flinches as something – her leg or her ass, he can’t see what – presses against his dick. He’s so fucking hard it brings tears to his eyes. 

“No, no. You were just mumbling in your sleep, and sort of…” She doesn’t finish the thought, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want her to. He can only imagine what he was doing in his sleep while those images were playing in his mind. 

Fuck, it felt so real. That Olivia, the one from so many years ago, the one he yearned for, as sturdy and real as the one next to him right now. 

He glances toward the windows of her bedroom and notes the dark blue light filtering through. They must have slept for several hours and it’s early morning now. Clearly his body has had enough time to re-calibrate from relieving himself in her bathroom. A lot of good that did. 

“What were you dreaming about?” She murmurs into the dark. 

He huffs out a sigh that sounds more exasperated than he really is. He’s just tired, he tells himself. Tired and incredibly erect. 

“I think you can guess,” he grunts, flipping onto his back in an attempt to put some air in between his body and hers. But she turns with him, determined to maintain the physical connection. The warmth from her hand seeps through his shirt as she settles it on his stomach. 

“Was I there?” She asks. 

That seems like such an absurd question, he doesn’t answer at first. Of course she was there. 

“Yeah, you were there. You’re always there.” He closes his eyes and recalls the scar across her breast. “You’ve always been there.” 

“Hm,” she hums and reaches for his cock, palming him gently through the cloth of his briefs. 

It hits him like a slap and he lurches away, “Fuck,” he barks out. “Liv, I just—” 

“Tell me about it.” 

She is persistent, he’ll give her that. Her fingers curl into his t-shirt and she pulls him back towards her.

“The dream?” He asks dumbly, still combating the lack of blood flow to his brain. 

“Yes, the dream.” 

He hears the sounds of their fucking so loudly he’s surprised she can’t too. The wet suck of her taking him and the clang of a lock knocking against the metal door at her back. The details of the dream send a fresh wave of blood to his groin and it pulses.

“The locker room at the precinct,” he says. “We were—you were up against the lockers, and I was—well, you know.” 

She brushes her knuckles over his jaw. “How did I feel?” 

His dick twitches in response to the question and he groans, “Jesus, Liv. What are you doing to me here?” 

“You didn’t answer my question,” she retorts. 

The reluctance and the fight drain out of him as the memory of the exhilaration takes their place. 

“Good. You felt—fuck. Really good.” The heavy weight between his legs is almost unbearable as he remembers the way he fit snugly inside of her, how she moved against him, perfectly in sync as she soaked up all his anger. 

“I think I was using you,” he tells her. “Using you to deal with how helpless I was in that job.” 

He wonders if that admission will deter her, but her hand smooths down the length of his arm where she intertwines her fingers with his and squeezes. 

“You have no idea how many times I used sex to forget about what we had to see everyday,” she whispers. 

Her words do little to comfort him at first, the idea of her fucking random stock brokers or other cops with anger issues feels more like a knife to his heart that anything else. “I wish it had been with you instead though,” she continues, and he turns his head to meet her eyes.

“There was no one else who understood what it was like. What it is still like. Nothing has changed,” She brings his hand to her lips and brushes a whisper soft kiss to the tip of each finger. “But it could change, if we want it to.” 

His cock expands with each kiss, aching as she reaches his thumb and parts her lips a little wider to take the tip of him inside. Her tongue brushes the pad of his finger and he exhales raggedly. 

“I always thought I needed you more than you needed me,” he swallows the thick lump in his throat, forcing it down like he’s futilely trying to force down his erection. But he’s not trying that hard. He’s letting her kiss his fingers and taste his skin, he’s not pulling away. 

He should pull away though, because they can’t do this while she’s hurt. 

“You’re wrong,” she mutters. “I always needed you.” She releases his hand and props herself up on an elbow, as if to show him that she can. “My hip doesn’t hurt as much,” her lips curl up suggestively.

“That’s because you took a painkiller,” he shifts his hips uncomfortably and reaches down to adjust himself, seeking just a modicum of relief from the relentless pulsing. 

“I’d like to try,” she drops her hand down to his center again, only this time he doesn’t jump, he doesn’t flinch, even though direct contact feels like stepping on a live wire.

He grits his teeth and the tendons in his jaw clench as her hand slides down the length of his shaft, feeling him through the cotton of his briefs. It’s excruciating and divine, and the strength of her touch steals all the air from lungs.  

“Jesus, Liv.” His hands are balled up fists at his sides, his toes are curling so hard that it’s only a matter of time before he gets a muscle cramp in his leg. “I don’t want to hurt you more…” He tries again, because God he really doesn’t. He doesn’t want to be the cause of any more pain for her. He’s done enough of that. 

“I want to try,” she says, and she seems so confident that he could never hurt her. “I want this, El. Twenty-five years. Are you really going to make us wait longer just because of a little birdshot in my ass?” 

He laughs at that, even though the longing in his gut is so visceral it’s amazing he can find humor in anything at that moment. 

“Give me a pillow,” she instructs, and he listens, somewhat reluctantly but curious to see what she has in mind. If he was going to get up and walk away, now would be the time. But he can’t do that. He’s walked away from her so many times he can’t understand why she would want him here, now. 

And he doesn’t want to walk away, he wants to know if she feels as spectacular as she did in the dream. 

He watches as she rolls carefully away, wiggling under the covers a bit before dropping what he assumes are her pants off the side of the bed. 

She’s resting on her good side now, and she slides the pillow in between her legs as she reaches back blindly to grab whatever part of him that she can. Her fingers close on the side of his underwear and she jerks him forward with a surprising amount of force. 

“You’re awfully spry for someone suffering from a gunshot wound,” he mutters into her hair. 

“Birdshot,” she corrects him. 

“Right,” he says, resting a hand on the curve of her ass. He needs to be extremely careful where he touches her, and with how much pressure. “Liv–I don’t know—where is it okay to hold you?” 

“Here,” she covers his hand with her own, confirming the underside of her glute is safe. “And here,” she brings his hand a few inches down to the back of her thigh. 

His heart pounds frantically against his ribs. 

“Here,” she guides him back up to her front, resting for a moment over her stomach. It trembles slightly under his fingers and that in itself is enough to almost undo him. 

“Here,” she lets go of him over the pebbled flesh of her nipple, trusting he can find his way from there.

She shifts a little bit against him, wiggling from side to side as much as her hip will allow, and he leans into her, for the first time that night allowing himself the comfort of her body directly against where he’s yearning for her. 

Just that small press, just the crevice of where her ass cheeks meet cupping the length of his erection feels like breathing fresh air for the first time in weeks. No, years. 

His hips rock forward of their own volition, seeking her heat even as he tells himself to move slowly. 

He tips towards her again, one hand still grasping her breast from behind as his dick nudges gently against her backside. 

“You’ll need to take those off if you want this to work,” she mumbles. 

“Not necessarily,” he grunts, grinding against her ass again. He could come just from this. Just from dry humping her, the thin fabric of his briefs chafing over his sensitive tip with every sway.

But that isn’t what he wants, and she knows that. 

If just getting off was what he wanted, he would have let her give him a dry hand job earlier when she was on the verge of offering. Sure, coming into her hand, or even against the small of her back would be the most thrilling sexual encounter he’s had in years, but what he’s really craving is Olivia’s soul. He wants to make love to her until they forget their own names and he can no longer tell where he ends and she begins. 

He shifts his focus to her again, because her orgasm was hours ago and he needs to make sure she’s ready for him—that she’s comfortable and wet enough. His fingers graze over the ridges of her rib cage as he slips his hand between them and down, coasting along the expanse of her side and her ass until he’s nestled between her cheeks. 

The warmth from her core is thick, it hits his fingers before he even touches her.

When he does slide two fingers through her folds, he is pleasantly surprised to find she’s already wet. Not drenched, but lubricated enough that he wonders if she too was having a good dream of her own. He wants to give her a little more though, and he ducks down behind her before she can tell him it’s unnecessary. 

He can’t see anything underneath the covers, and he hears the muffled words of her saying he doesn’t have to do that, but what she doesn’t understand is he wants to. He wants the taste of her on his tongue again, he wants to smell her sweet earthy musk when he’s finally buried inside of her, and long after they are done. 

The blanket is suddenly gone and he smiles, thinking maybe she was worried he’d miss his target and get a mouthful of something else. He’d happily take that too. He’d take all of her. 

Not this first time though. 

He can see a little better now and he gently lifts, opening her enough to bear her glistening center to his waiting tongue. 

At this angle, and with her top leg only partially propped up by the pillow, he can’t spread her as wide as if she were on her back, but he can make do. 

As if his glands know the job at hand before his brain has given the instructions, his mouth fills with saliva and he deposits a hefty dose of it against her cunt, smoothing it out with his tongue as a moan vibrates through her. He plunges the rigid length of his tongue upward as far as it will go, effectively smothering himself with her sex at the same time. 

It’s different like this. An immersive blindfolded tasting. He’s heard of those but never partaken himself. He can barely see what he’s doing with his face tucked against her, but he can feel her, smell her, taste her. 

She whines again so he repeats the motion, stiffening his tongue as he slides it inside her. She wiggles deliciously and he curls his thumbs into the meat of her ass, holding her in place.

He knows his neck will hurt long before his tongue does—it’s a tireless muscle, moving practically nonstop all day but never fatiguing. He puts it to work, licking and thrusting steadily into her until his cheeks and chin are coated with her slick and his own spit. 

He brings two fingers to her opening, sinking them into her as he kisses along the curve of her ass, down to where it meets her thigh. He can hear her labored breathing from above him, he knows she loves this, but he also knows that she wants him to be less cautious.

He was reluctant at first. He’s becoming less so. 

Olivia has always been extremely good at arguing her side. 

His slippery fingers leave the warm clutch of her and he dances them up her side – careful to avoid her hip – as he rises back up to slot in behind her again, propped up on an elbow with their lower halves aligned. 

He can see her profile this way, and he needs to watch her when they do this. 

The tip of his dick is barely breaching her entrance, just enough to give him a preview, and she’s so fucking soft and perfect he closes his eyes for a second until he remembers he wants to see her face when he pushes into her. 

“Okay, Liv?” He mumbles, brushing his lips over her temple. 

“Mhm,” she hums. It’s a content noise. The sound of someone who’s finally getting what they want. 

He guides himself in, stretching her gradually, each inch easing into her as he studies the way her face changes. Her lips part and her eyelashes flutter. Her profile, with her perfectly curved nose, tilts down a little bit and her hair falls forward, and for a second he sees the Olivia from his dream. The one from 2006. The one who he thought about blowing up his life for. Who he would have blown his life up for if he thought she’d allow it. 

He sees her there, in the shape of her cheekbones, and the jut of her chin. He sees that Olivia in the pout of her lips as she runs her tongue over them. 

It’s her. 

“God, Liv. I wish we’d done this sooner.” 

Her eyes open and she shakes her head slightly, “Don’t do that. Just be here with me. Now.” 

He brings his hand to her stomach and smooths it upward, cupping her breast and feeling the peak of her nipple as it contracts further underneath his palm. He feels the goosebumps spring up across her flesh before he sees them. 

As he closes the gap and buries himself completely inside of her, a small sigh drifts out of her the moment they are flush, and he stills.

“S’good, El.” He watches as the swallow works its way down her throat. “You feel so good.” 

Her breast is heavy in his hand, full and plush. He kneads it, testing the weight before dropping a kiss to her shoulder. “Tell me,” he mutters against her skin. “Tell me how it feels.”  

“Full,” the word spills from her lungs in a rush, like the air is being pushed out of her. 

The word does something to him. It hits him hard, it seizes him and surges hot through his veins, sparking from his shrinking balls and up his spine to his scalp.

Full. 

And he feels similarly because the sensation of being enshrouded in her is vice-like. She’s so tight around him he thinks she must be clenching her muscles, but then she does, and she cinches up even tighter and he can’t stifle the wrecked groan that tumbles out. 

“Your turn,” she tilts her face toward him.

He chuckles, because how like her, even during sex she’s going tête-à-tête with him. Coaxing a dialogue about what it feels like to finally — after all these fucking years — share themselves in the most intimate way possible. There’s nothing he could say that would capture it.

“Tight,” he croaks out. “Soft. Warm. Fucking incredible, baby.” 

She shifts slightly, peering over her shoulder at him quizzically. 

“Baby no good?” He asks, not waiting for a response before pulling slowly out and sliding up and in once more. 

The air rushes out of her again as he bottoms out, moving his hand to grip her top leg, supporting some of the weight that the pillow isn’t firm enough to carry. 

“That’s better,” she murmurs, “Thank you.” 

“No problem. But you didn’t answer my question,” he parrots her earlier words back at her. “Can I call you baby?” 

The corners of her mouth turn up, and he thinks he has his answer, but she flutters the clutch of her pussy around him and reaches her hand back. She rests it on the nape of his neck, pressing in her nails just enough for him to feel it. 

“Only in bed,” she whispers. “Never, at the one-six.” 

“Deal,” he grins, working up a steady momentum that is both sensual and vigorous. As they connect, he’s careful not to strike her backside forcefully with his hips or thighs, and the restraint is a true testament to his strength. He’s holding himself up on one arm, and supporting her leg with his other, and thrusting upwards, all with the coordination of a choreographed dance. 

And this is definitely a dance that will linger in his muscles tomorrow, and he longs for that. He wants to turn at his desk and feel the dull pull of his abdominals, a reminder of how he hovered in a side plank behind her. He wants the knot in his shoulder to conjure the image of her sighing in ecstasy underneath him as he balances above. 

Every muscle in his body is taut, focused, bolstering each pump while also protecting her from it.   

And Olivia—God, Olivia. She’s resplendent like this. Rich bronze skin and soft curves everywhere he looks, tits bouncing gently as she rocks back into him, meeting his prudent thrusts with her own unbridled eagerness. Her thick dark hair is messy and big, tumbling down over her back and onto the pillow. 

She pitches her ass back into him with a little more force and he eyes her injury. It’s still covered in a thin square of transparent medical dressing that they put on at the hospital, but it’s beginning to curl at the edges. She must catch his gaze because she reaches for his arm. 

“El, just a little harder—just—I’m okay. Please.” 

Her ‘please’ tagged on at the end, so vulnerable, is what does it. 

“Shit,” he growls as he flicks his hips forward, drawing a string of colorful expletives from her mouth. 

“Just. Like. That—keep going.” she gets the words out in between the shallow panting that fills his ears. “Keep going,” she mutters again, and he just wants to make her feel good. 

He gives her what she’s asking for, gripping the inside of her thigh harder in an attempt to stop himself from jerking it back as he thrusts upward. 

“Yes… yes,” she’s gasping softly and her eyes are closed, brows furrowed in an expression that could be either pleasure or pain. He hopes to God it’s the prior. 

“Liv—is it—” he slows the pistoning and grinds against her, driving deeper; deep enough that her eyes fly open and her breath hitches.

“Don’t stop,” she growls. “Fuck, that’s—deeper.” 

Going from the military to a career detective, he’s used to following directions. 

Directions from his General. His Colonel. Then his Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain and Chief.

He’s not just used to following directions—he’s good at it. Sure, every once in a while he goes rogue and fucks up, but he’s made it to nearly sixty-years-old as a detective, and he hasn’t been killed or fired yet, so he must be doing something right. 

Olivia is telling him exactly what she needs, so he listens and rolls his hips into her, maxing out the depth of his thrusts.

She groans, “Just like that.” 

Her hand slips over the sheen of sweat on his arm as she seeks something to hold onto. She drops it to her breast, tugging on her own nipple, and – fuck – he wishes he had a third arm so he could do that for her. 

He maintains the steady rocking, holds the angle, and hits a place deep inside her core that makes her flex. 

She releases her breast and tucks her hand between her legs, wrist turning determined circles over her clit. He still has a bruising grip on her thigh, and it’s the only thing keeping him from dropping her leg as the blinding heat collects low in his belly, preparing to erupt. 

His vision is darkening at the edges. 

“Yes-yes-yes—there—there!” Her mouth is open in a silent cry and her cunt is pulling inward, like she is preparing to swallow him whole. 

“Let me feel it, baby. C’mon.” He grunts, watching as the term of endearment lands. A sound is ripped from her chest, either a laugh or a cry, or maybe both, and she tightens and stills underneath him. 

When Olivia comes he has no choice but to follow.  All signs point towards the rapture as he leaves his body behind for one blissful moment and all he feels is her. The dam bursts, he fills her completely, every nerve ending awake and buzzing.

He forgets to breathe. He can’t see. There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears. 

Then he slumps against her, letting go of her leg so it can sink back onto the pillow still wedged between her knees. He inhales, pulling in the citrus smell of her hair, her skin, her sweat. 

Her eyes are still closed, arm hanging limply across her front and disappearing at the crux of her thighs. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, a single drop of moisture clings to the delicate wrinkles where her breasts are pressed together. 

“Are you okay?” He mumbles, still trying to get his bearings. 

“Yeah,” she whispers, eyes blinking open. “Very.” 

They don’t say anything else for a few minutes as he holds her in a loose hug and they bask in the afterglow, skin to skin, flushed and damp everywhere. He gradually softens inside her and slips out with a small wince, just as one of their alarms starts trilling. The ringing is slightly muffled, coming from the floor—his phone. 

Usually he’d be waking up at this time to work out. Bright and early so he can get his pick of the equipment for the gym fills up with people trying to get to their 9-5 jobs. 

He reluctantly rolls away from Olivia and locates his pants and the phone, which is still set to do not disturb, a blessed feature that Katie showed him how to use recently. He knows it won’t ring unless Bell or someone in his family really needs to reach him. Thankfully last night that wasn’t the case. 

As he taps the alarm off he moves around to Liv’s side of the bed where she’s still stretched out, skin shimmering with perspiration. 

“Do you need anything?” He asks, pulling the blanket up and over until it rests at her shoulders. 

“No, thanks. Are you going to work out?” 

She knows him so well. 

“We need to be at 1PP to give our statements at 9:00, so I don’t think I’m going into Queens and coming all the way back.” 

She flicks her eyes over his face, analyzing him briefly before replying. “You could go for a run.” 

Clearly she knows he has extra exercise gear still packed in his duffle bag from the trip. 

“I could,” he tells her. 

“I’ll be alright for an hour, El. Take some time for yourself, it’ll make you feel good.” She grunts as she sits up and reaches for the glass of water. He picks it up and hands it to her. 

“There isn’t anything that could make me feel as good as you just did,” he states flatly. 

Even in the dim morning light with the shades drawn, he can see her blush. 

“Well, then do it for me. You’ll be annoying later if you don’t work out.” She smiles into the glass as she takes a sip. 

“I’m never annoying,” he protests with a chuckle, but he knows what she means. He will begin to feel stir crazy if he doesn’t get some kind of exercise, although their sex was a bit of a work out, too. “Okay, Liv. I’ll go for a run. For you.” 

He dresses quickly, stopping to check with her once more to make sure she doesn’t need him for anything before stepping out the door. She insists that she doesn’t, so he heads out into the crisp Manhattan morning, making a beeline towards the path that runs along the Hudson River. 

It’s still Spring, but the thick, humid, crush of Summer is right around the corner. It’s his least favorite season. He truly has always hated New York in the summer. Too hot, too smelly, too many people all uncomfortable at the same time. 

But right now it’s perfect, just cool enough that he can wear a long sleeve shirt for the entire run, stopping at the tip of Riverside Park to stretch, before turning back to Liv’s building. 

He tries to think about the statement he’s going to give at 1PP, he tries to focus on Jamie, the diner, Shadowërk, all the aspects of their brief but horribly eventful time in Ohio. He only makes it a couple blocks at a time though, before his brain connects the dots back to Olivia, and he has to try and refocus his thoughts on the case. He knows if she could hear him, she’d tell him this is exactly what I was worried about, you need to be focused on the work, not on what’s happening between us. 

How can he not think about her? He’ll keep that part to himself. 

As he’d hoped, if he rubs a hand over his mouth and nose, stirring up the invisible remnants of their earlier activities, he can smell her again. Even with a breeze coming off the river, and his own sweat beginning to collect on his upper lip, he can still smell her. 

It’s hard to think about anything else, but he tries. 

He tries to organize the case’s chain of events in his mind, and not the chain of events that led to him ending up in her bed; but this morning, all roads lead back to Olivia. And that is literally where he finds himself soon enough, back outside her building, greeting Jorge and making his way back into the elevator and up to her front door. He slips the spare key out of a hidden pocket in his shorts, and lets himself in, toeing off his running shoes and stripping away the soggy shirt. 

The kitchen is still relatively dark, aside from under cabinet tracklights that are on behind the coffee machine. He hears running water and follows the sound, finding the door to her bathroom cracked, and puffs of steam sneaking out into the hallway. 

He raps his knuckles once, not wanting to startle her. “Hey in there, just wanted to let you know that I’m back.” There’s a gliding sound of a door opening, so he sticks his head into the bathroom, catching sight of her instantly and wondering how the hell he got so lucky. 

She has the glass shower door partially opened, her hair is piled up on top of her head with some kind of large clip holding it in place. Her skin is slick all over, rivulets of water and soap suds running down her chest, her belly, her thighs, everything is dripping. One cluster of bubbles cling almost comically to her left nipple, like she put them there on purpose to hide herself. There’s more white suds stuck to the short dark hair between her legs. 

“I felt like I needed another shower,” she says. He just nods because he’s somewhat spellbound by the sight of her, and doesn’t know what to say. It makes sense. They don’t want to go into 1PP smelling like sex and sweat. He needs a shower too. 

“Want to join me?” 

He steps into the heat of the bathroom and sheds the rest of his running clothes without answering, sensing her eyes as they linger for extra time when he loses the shorts. When he looks up she’s already back underneath the spray of the shower, running her hands up and down as the water takes the soap down the drain. 

When he steps in behind her, she reaches for a bar of soap and hands it to him. As he lathers up, he can’t help but stare. He spent so many years avoiding this, wary of letting his gaze stray to places on her body that would make her uncomfortable, or reveal his hand too clearly. Of course he regularly slipped up, stealing glimpses of her ass when she was dressed to go out on a date, or glancing quickly at her cleavage when she was taking off her coat or leaning over her desk. But he never stayed in one place for too long. He never let her see him looking, or at least he tried not to.

It doesn’t matter now. He can look at her, and not just look—he can study. 

She doesn’t seem to mind either, taking her time as she finishes rinsing off the soap from her chest and tummy as he examines the fullness of her ass and the two small dimples framing her tailbone. He follows the ladder of her spine up to where it disappears between her shoulder blades, and skims his eyes all the way back down to her legs where her calves shift as she moves.

When they swap positions and he stands facing the spray, he can feel her eyes doing the same thing; making their way over his backside and along the planes of his shoulders, he can actually feel her gaze as if it were her fingertips on his skin instead.

They both enjoy the moment together, knowing full well it’s not leading to more sex this time. He’s fairly spent in that department, at least for the next couple hours. They just look at each other, absorbing all the creases and scars, all the painful knowledge that accompanies them. 

He tries to memorize as much of her as he can from within those tiled walls, steam and heat swirling around them as he masters her form like he once did with his very first weapon. They’ve known each other half their lives, but this is new. He’s humbled by her beauty and power, reverent in the presence of something so perfect. 

When she meets his gaze, almost shyly, he offers her a hand which she takes, stepping into his embrace and dropping her cheek to rest on his chest. They stand still for a few minutes, just wrapped around each other and delaying the inevitable return to the real world. He doesn’t want to go back to it, he’d rather stay right here.

“We need to get going or we’ll be late,” he can barely hear her low timbre over the hiss of the water. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

He reaches around and turns the water off, finding two plush towels on the bar mounted next to the shower door. Did she put that second towel there for him, or is it always there? 

As they dry off, they discuss the logistics of the morning. 

“Coffee first,” she states, which he already knows. 

“Do you want to make it here, or stop on the way?” 

She drops the towel and reaches for a sheet of the medical dressing that the hospital sent her home with, carefully peeling back the paper covering. 

“Usually I’d make some here—” she starts to say, but he sees what she’s doing with the bandage and can’t help but interrupt. 

“Wait—let me,” he quickly ties his towel around his waist, sitting down on the closed toilet so his eyeline is level with her hips. 

“I can do it—” she starts to say. 

“I know you can,” he takes the square bandage from her, “But so can I.” 

He’s pleasantly surprised that she doesn’t brush him off, and instead steps closer and lines up the side of her body with his hands, toweling off her shoulders and face as he dabs at the moisture around the wound site. 

“It’s healing up good,” he notes the dark thickening edges of the largest entry wounds where they had to dig out the pellets. “I guess they didn’t leave too many in there, because you would have been setting off the metal detector in the airport if they had.” 

She snorts softly from above him as he gently smooths out the thin, stretchy material over her hip. “Not sure how I would have explained that,” she muses. 

“I know guys in the service who had shrapnel left inside them, either it was too dangerous to remove or they were out in the field and the medics weren’t equipped to remove it.” He stands and bends to toss the paper covering into the trash. “Those guys always set off the detectors and would show their scars to the TSA.” 

She cringes, “Jesus. I wouldn’t want to pull my pants down in the middle of the airport.” 

“No,” he takes the towel from her hands and wraps it around her torso, knotting it snugly in the front. “That’s just for me.”

He’s joking, but not really. He has always felt possessive of her, even when it wasn’t appropriate to be. Back when he had a wife at home and they were partners, he would side-eye every single prospective suitor that walked through the precinct doors. Eventually she stopped bringing them around, but there were the ones they couldn’t avoid, the professionals whose paths they crossed thanks to the job. 

He always wanted to keep her all to himself; some kind of neanderthal, primitive instinct. 

“Only in here,” she eyes him dubiously. “That sentiment can’t leave the apartment.” 

“It won’t… Captain,” he bites his lip to suppress a grin, and wonders idly if pulling rank in the bedroom is something she’d be into. 

She rolls her eyes but cups his face in both hands, tilting his head down to meet hers where she touches a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another to the center where his lips instinctively begin to part. 

“I need to get dressed,” she pats his chest and leaves him to ponder her towel-clad form as she walks away. 

By the time they are ready to leave for 1PP, Olivia has already fielded three phone calls from Fin, one good morning FaceTime from Noah where Elliot hid out of sight in the other room, and an unknown amount of urgent emails that had her hammering away at her keypad so intensely he wondered what it was about. 

“Even one day away from the precinct and you’d think the place was burning to the ground,” she grumbles. 

Elliot buttons up his vest, thankful that henley’s and t-shirts were all he needed in Ohio because his three piece is still clean. 

“Fin couldn’t handle it?” He asks. 

“He could,” she shakes her head. “It’s fine. Just a bad week I guess.” 

Elliot reaches for his keys, standing with legs splayed as he watches her pull on a black blazer. “Isn’t it always a bad week?” He studies her fingers with interest as they work over the buttons at her front, the long digits slipping each tortoise shell button through the adjacent hole quickly before reaching for her bag. 

“Became a worse week when I got shot in the ass, El.” She arches an eyebrow at him and he just nods in agreement. 

“C’mon then, let me drive your ass to 1PP so we can make this week even worse.”

—

In the end, their visit to the brass isn’t as terrible as some other ones he’s had. There’d been enough eyewitness accounts and corroborating statements from the feds that the line of questioning seemed to be supporting what their superiors already knew. But there were deaths, and a lot of time to account for, and the meetings were thorough. 

It’s already well past midday by the time they are released, and Elliot is seated on a bench waiting for Olivia when she leaves the conference room. 

Her practical shoes don’t click clack on the linoleum of the hallway like their taller counterparts usually do, so he doesn’t hear her coming, but he senses her. He turns his head as she is several feet away, taking deliberate steps towards him with an expression that lives somewhere in between exhausted and annoyed. 

“You waited?” She hovers a few feet away, adjusting the thick strap of the bag digging into her shoulder. He stands and curls a hand around it, lifting the weight away before she can protest.  

“Thanks,” she mumbles. Her eyes dart over him and around the large hallway, almost like she’s worried someone will see her in a moment of weakness. He doesn’t comment on it though, he knows when to keep his mouth shut. 

Sometimes.

“Yeah, I had a meeting with the Chief after. I just got out of it thirty minutes ago, so I figured I’d wait for you.” They glide into step, headed towards the garage where he’s parked. 

“You want to swing by the one-six, right?” He sees the way her shoulder stiffen slightly at his question. 

“Yes, I have to. But… don’t you need to head into OCCB?” She punches the down button on the elevator and brushes her wavy hair away, running her fingers tentatively along the collar of her shirt. 

“With the shoot out in the woods, and Jamie—Bell is going to be there a couple more days with the feds. I have a call scheduled with her for 3:00 today, I can take that from wherever.” 

“Okay, but you know, at some point soon you’ll need to stop acting as my chauffeur,” she follows him into the elevator and it dings, the doors sliding shut. 

“Tomorrow,” he offers. “If you’re moving around alright on your own, I’ll head to OCCB to meet with the rest of the team.” 

She nods once, satisfied with that answer. 

They are alone in the elevator, the numbers lighting up as it continues its journey under the ground, and he takes a risk, slipping a hand underneath the sheet of her hair and settling it at the base of her neck. He curls his fingers over the warm skin and cloth of her blazer, noticing how she braces for a moment before exhaling and dropping her head. 

He squeezes the tense muscles there for a few seconds, rolling over a knot in a circular motion, until the elevator dings again and the doors begin to open. He lets go, dropping his arm back down to his side.

“What time does Noah get home?” He asks.

“Around 6:00. After rehearsal.” They begin walking slowly towards the SUV. 

“Want me to bring a pizza over?” 

Her eyes light up at the suggestion, “Oh my God, would you? Noah would love that. And something easy sounds perfect.” 

“Sure,” he smiles. “Maybe I’ll even bring two pizzas. There is a growing boy after all.” 

Olivia laughs softly, “Yeah, a pre-teen and you. Sure two is enough?” 

“I beg your pardon, but I am a three slice maximum guy these days.” 

“Oh really? I remember when you could take down most of a pie by yourself.” 

“Well, my metabolism was faster in those days.” 

Her eyes twinkle up at him as she stands with her back to the open door. 

“Thank you,” she whispers in that deep sultry voice that he loves so much.

“For what?” 

She shrugs and shakes her head, “Everything.” 

“Anytime, bab—” he stops himself as her mouth drops open. 

“Jesus Christ, you are going to slip up sooner rather than later aren’t you?” Her cheeks are the most incredible shade of pink he’s ever seen. 

“Partner,” he corrects. “Partner. I was going to say partner.” 

“You weren’t even close to saying partner!” She jabs him in the chest with her finger, but he can see the amusement as she fights a smile. “I swear to God, Elliot. If you say that word in front of Fin, I will end your career.” 

“Oh!” He raises his palms, “Message received, Cap. Although, since we’re on the topic, if I had to choose between you and my career, I’d one hundred percent choose you. Every single time. Always.” If possible her cheeks and neck turn even redder. “And,” he barrels ahead before she can say anything. “It’s kind of a turn on when you talk to me like that.” 

She bites down on her lower lip and sways towards the open door, “Jesus. Okay, just—just—drive the car now.” 

He likes seeing her at a loss for words, it reminds him a little bit of the Olivia Benson from twenty years ago, the one he met when she was a green detective and would come to him with questions about the job. 

Now look at her.

From a baby to a mother—a woman. His woman. 

She would absolutely hate if he called her that, the notion of it makes him grin. Maybe he’ll just stick to baby for now. 

“What? Why are you smiling like that?” She is glaring at him with a skepticism that makes warmth flare in the pit of his stomach. 

“Nothing, absolutely nothing.” He quips. 

“Okay, then. Let’s go…” She slides into the car with a low huff. “Baby.”