AN: Hey! So this is another (crack)fic originating from a discussion on twitter. Hi Mari! Basically, it's an Elliot-Olivia-Nick threesome. It was supposed to be all smut, but it kind of took a life of it's own. Now, it's smut with a plot. This first part I'm posting is the prologue, so nothing R-rated yet. But stay tuned for the raunchy stuff, because I already have it written. I just need to edit (and send it to the Vatican for approval), so I'll likely have it up no later than tomorrow night. Be kind, be mean, and review.
Pillow Talk
The bathroom stall is vandalized with beloved cartoon characters in compromising positions. There's Super Mario ingesting a magic mushroom, and beside him, Luigi taking a hit from a bong shaped like a penis. At eye level, there's Thomas the Tank Engine trudging along a set of tracks leading into a tunnel situated between the legs of Tinkerbell. It's not the kind of art you're particularly fond of, but you suppose you can appreciate it for its pop culture value.
Staring at your reflection, you become hyper-aware of the lines and dark circles around your eyes. You're exhausted and way too old to be in a place like this. You wouldn't even have allowed Nick to take you to this bar had you not been so burned out from your red-eye flight and subsequent conference. Normally, you would've offered an alternative suggestion but you were too tired to think of something, too tired to pull out your phone to ask Siri for the nearest wine bar.
"Liv, you'll love it," he assured you - puppy dog eyes and sweet smile ever-present on his face. "They've got live music, craft beer, and tons of cute girls."
Craft beer. You roll your eyes at the memory of those last two bottles you consumed. You gave the second one a shot, because you thought the first one was just a bad variety; but they were both pretty awful. If you wanted to drink perfume, you would've gone into a Sephora.
You suppose you should quit mentally whining about your former partner's haunt of choice. Nick seems happy, and you remind yourself you should be happy for him. It took him a while to figure out his next move after he moved to the West coast. Retirement made him restless; the park police didn't allow him to work with animals as much as he had anticipated. Eventually, he found his stride working as an in-house investigator for one of the city's big multi-hyphenate law firms.
"I get paid to drive around and creep on people," he joked, a hint of that caustic self-deprecation in his voice. "It's kind of my specialty.
It's strange how much things have changed in less than a year. Not just with Nick. You've gone through so many changes as well. You advanced through the ranks from sergeant to lieutenant, then transferred out to a cubicle in Community Affairs, then back to your office at the 1-6. The promotion was a little premature, but you weren't going to say anything about it, especially not when they were giving you a bump in your salary. It certainly made it a lot more feasible to maintain the Upper West Side apartment and the full-time nanny.
While the stint at the office of police propaganda was short-lived, the aftereffects continued to ripple even after your return. It's the reason why you're in LA. Not to visit Nick, as he excitedly proclaimed when you told him over Skype. You were here because the department needed to send a representative to a national police conference. Since you were in the department doghouse after your most recent ill-advised relationship became public (thanks a lot, Barba), you got shafted with the job no one wanted.
On paper, flying to LA for three days and having a hotel room paid for seemed like a pretty sweet deal. But it wasn't a vacation because you had to attend a two-day conference on rapekit backlogs. And while it's an issue that's close to your heart, these particular police forums have been nothing but redundant and uninspired. Speakers rattle of of meaningless statistics and present abstract solutions to very concrete problems. "Stick decals on patrol cars to raise awareness, because that's surely going to make a rapist reconsider his actions." So, while you do care about the issue at hand, you feel like you'd be a lot more productive taking on actual cases in New York.
The frustration isn't helped in any way by 1-PP, who still expects you to perform all your responsibilities as commanding officer of the squad. You've already received a slew of messages from Fin, saying Baby Dodds is on some power trip because he's delegated Fin to follow-up with witnesses from a private school in Park Avenue. "We're getting calls from West and East Harlem and you want me to look into the case of another rich, white girl?" And you haven't heard a word from Rollins, but it's probably because she's making the most of her Benson-free freedom while she can.
Speaking of Rollins, you broached the subject with Nick, but he shook his head and said he didn't want to hear it. He muttered something about Carisi's Foursquare checking into a hole-in-the-wall taco shop in Koreatown - a place Nick used to take Amanda back when they were hooking up. "I brought her there." He tossed off the rest of his beer and slammed the bottle on the counter. "It was my taco place."
Seeing Nick more upset about the tacos than the possibility of a looming romance between your two detectives makes you think he might finally be over that whole debacle with Amanda.
If that's the case, good for him.
The bar is set up like a cantina - a semi-outdoor space with long picnic tables, and pennant banners and fairy lights running along the ceiling. It has this whimsical charm, only to be trumped by a clientele of twenty-somethings trying to catch their break in Hollywood. Everyone Nick has introduced you to is an actor with an iMDB page listing 'student in assembly' and 'burn victim'. Even the bartender, who knows Nick by name and drink of choice, is a struggling musician who spends her ample free time dropping off demos in celebrities' mailboxes. But Nick seems to enjoy the company, saying he feels kind of like the sage John Munch of the group. "I give the kids life advice, and they teach me how to nae nae and stinky leg. I'd say it's a fair trade."
As you approach the bar, you notice a blonde woman run straight for Nick. She throws her hands around his neck, and he lifts her off the ground. When she pulls away with heart eyes and a bright smile on her face, your body is forced to stay rooted in place. Blinking repeatedly to take in the sight; you're entirely convinced the universe is fucking with you. It's Kathleen Stabler.
But you're not the only one frozen like a statue. You feel that odd sense someone is staring at you, and when you look past the two unlikely friends, you zero in on those familiar, crystal blue eyes. This hallucination - because that's the only possible explanation - cocks his head to the side, lips mouthing, "what the fuck?"
Now, this reunion with Elliot would have been so much more awkward (and momentous) had you not seen each other for - oh, five years. But contrary to popular belief, you have been keeping in touch (sort of).
When he left the force, he needed time to focus on his family and his marriage, and you respected that; so your relationship petered out to the occasional phone call and the bi-annual catch-up over coffee. You both made it a point to touch base even when it seemed like circumstances were trying to pull you apart. For a while, your phone calls were always intercepted by some guy named Warren. Elliot explained it was his crazy neighbour - someone paranoid about the NSA - armed with an antenna and a background in electrical engineering. Eventually though, Warren left and moved down to his mother's condo in Sarasota, so he was no longer a problem.
One time, you were surprised to receive an invitation in the mail to Eli's birthday party. It was a little awkward when you brought Brian as your plus one, but you all managed to be adults about it. You had to constantly remind your boyfriend at the time to keep his work stories G-rated for the sake of the kids, but other than that, no fists were thrown and no blood was shed. You considered it a success.
Later that year, you learned Elliot and Kathy's marriage was on the rocks and they were headed for a divorce. It seemed so close on the horizon, and all they needed were the papers and lawyers to make it official. You met up for drinks, which turned into a heart-to-heart, where Elliot revealed it wasn't the nature of the job that fractured their marriage, but his loyalty to his partner. To you. He trusted you more than he trusted her. He would've called you first in a crisis, before he would've even thought of calling her. What happened next probably wasn't the wisest decision, but you didn't regret it. It was a culmination of decades-worth of sexual tension (and a four-letter word you can't even admit to yourself). This arrangement kept going for a few weeks but, again, timing was not on your side.
Elliot couldn't reveal he was seeing someone for fear that Kathy would get the upperhand in the divorce proceedings. And you - you had just gotten out of a relationship with Brian. You could've waited it out a little longer, but then you found yourself in custody of a baby boy. Life got busy for the two of you, and soon enough you were back to sporadic phone calls and the timely holiday card.
Neither of you told a soul. You thought no one would ever find out your partnership crossed that invisible line. But for some reason, Nick had this disturbing talent of knowing when you just got laid. Some serial killers can sniff out a pregnancy; some friends can detect that just-had-sex glow. He saw it when you were with David, and he pointed it out when you were with Brian. So it shouldn't have come as a shock to you when he barged into your apartment one day, with that mischievous smile on his face. "You couldn't wait two seconds after you dumped Cassidy, and you're already getting dick from someone else?" He raised his hand for a high-five that never arrived. "Who is it?"
Of course, you refused to tell the little shit.
But Elliot was just as much of an idiot as your last partner, and he decided to stop by unannounced to your apartment that same day. He came with a bottle of wine and a plastic bag from CVS containing items that, both, delighted and repulsed one Nick Amaro.
"Oh my god! Olivia!" You're knocked back a step as Kathleen spears you into a hug. A cough catches in your throat as you get a strong whiff of cotton candy perfume and an undertone of patchouli (or is that marijuana?). "What are you doing here?"
"I'm in town for a police conference… Nick, here, offered to take me out for drinks."
"Wait, Nick was your partner after dad left?" Her jaw drops, hands flying to her cheeks. "No way!"
"What are you two doing here?"
"Kathleen's been living in LA for over a year. This is the first time she's letting me visit," Elliot explains, placing protective hands over his daughter's shoulders and inching her away from Nick. "She also needed help with all the IKEA crap she bought and never assembled."
"Hey, I offered to help you with that," Nick interjects.
Kathleen slaps his arm playfully, fake lashes fluttering. "I can't make you do that."
"But you can sit around and paint your nails while you force me to figure out Swedish instructions?" Elliot raises a brow.
"Love ya, dad," she says sweetly, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
The four of you hang around the bar while Kathleen runs down the list of her most recent professions. To no one's surprise, she calls herself an actress even though she's only been to a handful of failed auditions. "I almost got the part for a commercial, but it was for some drug that treats Syphilis, and mom would've killed me if I had taken the job." She talks about finishing a semester in fashion school, before she decided it wasn't for her. As of present time, she works as a freelance makeup artist; and when she isn't painting the faces of D-list celebrities, she waits tables at TGI Fridays.
When asked about how Nick and Kathleen met, he mentions they met at the bar on the night she got fired from her job as a receptionist at a plastic surgeon's office. Running into a fellow New Yorker and a former cop made Kathleen feel a little less homesick.
You catch the green look on Elliot's face when the two exchange a brief smile. He clenches his fist, ready to swing at Nick at a moment's notice. "Please tell me you never had sex with my daughter."
Before Nick has the chance to defend himself, Kathleen sticks her tongue out and vigorously shakes her head. "Ew, dad! Gross!" There's a trace of displeasure on Nick's face, but he simply shrugs and doesn't let it bother him. "He reminds me too much of you, dad. Besides, I'm Nick's wing woman. I set him up with my girl friends -"
"-Your friends are 24, 25," Elliot starts, pointing a thumb at Nick, "this is a 40 year-old grown ass man."
Nick swallows hard, raising his arm to catch the attention of the bartender. "Can I have another shot of tequila. Please."
"Man, I swear to god, if you so much as looked at my daughter -"
"Relax," Nick says, trying his best to appease the situation. "Never even thought about it. I don't do blondes… Anymore."
He catches the offhand look you throw at him, before he contemplates the shot on the table. He knocks it down in one swift motion, barely wincing before he signals for another one. Meanwhile, Elliot glares in his direction and Kathleen crosses her arms over her chest like a scolded child. For once, you're a casual observer of all the drama. You sit back and take your artisanal cocktail to your lips. You're not usually a fan of sugary drinks, but this time, the sweet taste of pineapple, liqueur, and crushed ice tastes so heavenly.
"Well, this has been fun," Kathleen announces with a contradictory scowl. "It's been great hanging out at the seniors' table, but I'm going to go say hi to my friends now. Don't wait up for me, dad."
"Be home by eleven," Elliot calls out, half-serious.
Once Kathleen has joined her group of friends at a table closer to the stage, you turn your attention back to the two men. It's the first time you're really acknowledging the change in their appearances. Your former partners are looking a lot different than they did when they were fighting crime (and getting into trouble) by your side. Elliot is sporting a thick goatee, salt and pepper hair sticking straight down from his chin. You have this sudden urge to tug it; maybe if you were a couple more drinks in, you wouldn't have restrained yourself from doing so. Nick's hair has grown a little longer, dark curls skimming over the nape of his neck. He's also showing off a beard, more closely shaved than Elliot's; it's bringing you back to the day you met him and you called him Serpico.
They look good. So good, you catch yourself staring.
Nick is being his usual slutty self, making eyes at the bartender who keeps teasing him with another shot of tequila. She 'accidentally' drops the salt shaker and bends to pick it up. He leans forward, mouth hanging open, dark eyes leering at her ass barely dressed in a pair of denim cut-offs.
Elliot, on the other hand, is drinking his beer and wincing as he pulls it away to inspect the label. He's not a fan, but you could've predicted that. Thick fingers drum at his knee as he surveys the bar with a crinkle between his brows. He shakes his head before he catches your eye. "What kind of music is this?"
You shrug. You're the last person in this place that can offer up answers to the questions weaving in his head. He doesn't even have to say anything and you understand; you two have this unspoken shorthand. So, when he doesn't understand, neither do you. He's better off asking Nick, but you have a feeling those two aren't much for talking. It's funny, because Kathleen is right. There are a lot of similarities between the two men, enough that they could potentially become good friends. But both men are too proud to extend that first branch of friendship. You can sense the undercurrent of unnecessary competition between them, like a constant battle to assert their masculinity and their relationship with you.
"Let's get out of here."
Nick looks to you then lowers his head. "Ok… Call me tomorrow?"
Poor Nick thinks you were talking about just you and Elliot. You hop off the bar stool and throw your arm over his shoulder. "I was talking about the three of us. I think we need a change in scenery."
"Good idea," Elliot agrees. "But you don't have to make him leave if he doesn't want to."
"Where do you want to go?" Nick asks, ignoring Elliot's comment. "I know a place a few blocks down where you can play beer pong."
"Are you sixteen?"
"El," you warn him with as few words as possible; thankfully, he gets it. "No, I was thinking we could head back to my hotel room and hang out. I still have a conference to attend in the morning, so I really shouldn't be drinking this much anyway."
Nick pulls out his phone and taps away on the screen. "All right. Let me get us an Uber."
Elliot signals the bartender. "Can I get a shot of whatever he was having," he says as he points to Nick's row of empty glasses.
"What are you doing?"
"A shot for the road," he replies casually, "If I have to sit in the backseat of some stranger's car with this kid, then I'm going to need more than a buzz."
