A/N: This has been on my hard drive for a long time and I finally fixed it up to be published. I've been wanting to do a post-Fault fic for a long-ass time, so here you go.

"Hey. Hey. Hey!"

Banging echoes through your dark, cold apartment. You sit, frozen on the couch, unable to even move as haunting blue eyes stare through you. The eyes of a man about to lose his life.

Olivia. Shoot him, don't even think about it.

You haven't been able to rid yourself of this image since your brain first registered it earlier this afternoon. Your gun had been trained on the man behind him- but you hate yourself for how much time you'd spent with his face in your sights.

"Olivia." His muffled voice comes through the door. It's the third time he's knocked, and for the third time, you remain stone still on the cushions. Part of you needs to open it, just to see that he's okay. That he's still breathing. That there's a look in his eyes other than one that was there when he was about to lose his life… when his life was about to be taken from him.

But the other part cannot get those four words that he told you earlier out of your head.

We can't be partners. We can't be partners. We can't be partners.

"Liv."

It's his voice- sounding so completely vulnerable- that propels you towards the front door, muscles acting under their own volition. Your hand extends to the doorknob and you hold your breath as you open it. He stands on the other side, hair mussed, eyes red and raw, mouth locked in a tightlipped frown. The cut on his temple is already beginning to heal over, but for some reason, you can still see the stream of blood that trickled down the side of his face earlier. The blood drawn by the shotgun that had dug into his skin.

Shoot him!

Stop moving or he's dead.

Elliot closes the door behind him, and you stare at him, silent, throat burning. You stand in the middle of your living room, eyes locked on him, his eyes locked on you, for seconds, minutes, hours… you have no idea. His eyes don't tell you that he's sure he's going to lose his life. There's so much brewing in them… that moment in the train station as he kneeled over you, terrified, the first time his eyes caught yours after the round that killed Gitano cracked through the air, saving his life, later on in the hospital when words you never thought you'd hear tumbled from his lips.

You and this job are about the only things I've got anymore.

He takes one step towards you. Then another. And another, until your chests nearly brush together. You can feel the heat of his body. You can see his chest rise and fall with each breath he takes.

It's all right.

Ice travels down your spine. You try to swallow back the tightness in your throat. You want to move. Towards him, away from him, it doesn't matter, you just need to somehow have some control over this because it's been so long since you've had control with anything involving the man in front of you.

Maybe that's what allows you to close the remaining distance between you and him. Or maybe it's your pure need for him, however you can have him. Maybe it's not even you who moves, but him. It doesn't matter. It really does not matter, because before you can fully register what's happening, your lips are against his. His hand tangles through the hair on the back of your head, keeping you in place. Not like you're going anywhere. His lips are hot against yours, and salty, and it's like you're able to breathe again since the warehouse.

Pull that trigger. Shoot him. Olivia, shoot him.

I'll take his this guy's head clean off.

Your legs give out from under you. He doesn't have the strength to keep you standing, so he sinks to the floor with you. You're shaking. He's shaking. You don't even have the strength to cry anymore, and, clearly, he doesn't either because as his lips remain fused to yours, you feel no more of the tears that you know he's shed.

His warm body is alive beneath your hands, his chest heaves with each touch of his lips against yours.

He's going to die and it'll be all your fault.

All. Your. Fault.

Your fingers tear at the buttons of his shirt. You need to touch his skin. You need to feel the goosebumps that have sprouted across his body. You need. You need. You need.

His skin is hot. Each of the muscles in his defined chest and arms is tight, thrumming with desperation like he'll explode at any moment. If you press hard enough between his pecs, you can feel his heart racing.

He shoves the shirt from his shoulders, and the weight of his body pushes you flat on your back against the carpet floor. His hands are pushing your shirt up, but to get it all the way off, your kiss would have to break, and that's something that neither of you are willing to do right now. The shirt stays on.

Instead, his rough fingers yank at the button of your slacks until they're undone and slide instead. They cup your most sensitive places over the thin panties you wear as your face falls into the crook of his neck, where heat and sticky sweat pool on his skin. You moan, fingernails sinking into the skin of his shoulders. Your body pulses with need, need for her fingers to sink lower, deeper.

Like he could read your thoughts, two of his thick digits slide over your sensitive nub and then further down, pressing inside you. He moans against the shell of your ear.

It's alright.

I'm sorry.

He's alive. He's alive above you, fingers buried deep inside, making your hips buck up towards him.

Your hand slips easily into his unzipped trousers and you find his length, hot and hard, and he groans again, louder, deeper, straight through your ear to your pulsing center. This is how you're gonna die- with your partner's fingers buried deep and your hands around him, stroking, desperate to get him naked and inside of you. You can't get him close enough. Your hands can't run over enough of his warm skin, you can't get enough of his fingers into you. Your need for him is overwhelming every single one of your senses, but before you can reach for the waistband of his trousers, he's got yours in his grip. You moan at the loss of contact from your throbbing center, but in an instant, your bottom half is naked and he's shoving down the last bit of fabric that remains between you.

His big hands slide under your thighs and pull them high on his waist. Your head falls back and you watch him, hovering over you, face inches from yours. His breath comes out in short, heavy puffs against you. His gaze is like a laser as it falls from your eyes, down your mouth, to the side of your neck, where his thumb brushes across the skin directly below the gash that's bandaged on your neck.

It's then that you know he's thinking the exact same thing you are. His eyes are wet, so close to shedding a tear, and if he does it will be all over because you won't be able to control yourself if you see that. You pray to whatever god is listening that it doesn't happen, that he finds it within himself to blink those tears away because you need this, you can't cry right now. You can't break. Not here. Not in this moment.

His lips crash down onto yours. You feel wet saltiness moisten your lips, you lie to yourself that it's sweat, not what you think it is, even as you feel similar wetness dripping from the corners of your eyes.

He's sliding into you. Deeper… deeper… until his thighs hit your bottom.

"Any closer and you'll be wearing his brains all over your coat!"

He coats every inch of your body inside and out, you can feel his stomach sliding against yours as he moves inside you. Fast but gentle. Hard but soft. Eight years of partnership- of walking side by side, sitting across from each other- all roll together with each of his thrusts. Each time he pulls back, you need to feel him again more than you need to take your next breath and you're dizzy, hot, filled with so much relief all at once. As your kiss breaks, you stare up at his face, his smooth jaw, his lips sucked between his teeth, his messy hair that has been overdue for a cut for almost a week now and the tear tracts you convinced yourself weren't real. He's perfect. Each of his thrusts pushes you closer and closer to the edge, closer to the oblivion that both you and he are desperate to reach.

Elliot drops his cheek to yours. His breaths are haggard as they push into your ear, his body tight as he moves, faster, faster. You meet each of his thrusts with one of you own, your hips moving in unison, in sequence, just like your steps as you walk together and your questions as you interrogate together.

You almost lost this. Coffees in the morning. Lunches together in the afternoon, picking off of each other's plate. Long hours of stakeouts, inches from each other in the sedan, falling asleep on his shoulder (not that you'd admit it out loud) as he stares intently at whatever target you'd been assigned to watch with him. You almost never knew what this feels like, having the length of him driving into at the perfect pace, the perfect speed to make you almost incoherent with pleasure.

I know you would have taken the shot, Olivia.

You flip him on his back with surprising strength. Your knees burn from the carpet as you move over him, but it doesn't matter because his length has found an even deeper place inside of you. He drives upwards as you come down, your hands squeeze his pecs and his hands bruise your sides. You have no idea how long it takes him to flip you back onto the carpet, but it doesn't matter because almost as soon as he does, you're trying to clamp your legs shut, shaking uncontrollably as your climax starts to drown you.

You cling to him, holding his body to yours, unaware of the moans that trip past your lips as a wave of delicious fire washes over your body. Almost as soon as you finish, he's seething above you, breathless, moaning with each thrust as he finishes. Without a word, his body collapses onto yours. His arms still crush your body to his, his weight is heavy on top of you, but if he moves even an inch away, you will die, so you say nothing. Your arms still cling to him like he's a life raft in an ocean storm. You still need. Need, need, need. You don't even know what you need anymore, just that it's only something he can give you, and he's closer than he's ever been. Breathing. Breathing hard and heavy, but breathing.

Minutes pass. You slowly start to recall the shirt that's bunched up your chest and the panties that wrap around your ankle. His trousers, bunched around his knees, press against your legs. For a long time, neither he nor you attempt to fix the clothing or remove it. The only things that matter right now are his skin pressing against yours everywhere it's able, his eyelashes that flutter against the side of your forehead, and his breaths as they finally start to even out. He's breathing. Slowly. Strongly. Like nothing in the world could ever hurt him. Here, on the floor of your apartment, nothing can hurt him. He's safe with you.

You're both safe.

Elliot rolls onto his side, slowly sliding out of you, and your moan matches his. It almost hurts to separate yourself from him. You open your eyes as he slips his pants the rest of the way down his legs. When he reaches slowly towards your shirt, you lift yourself just enough for him to get it over your head.

He doesn't make a move to get up. Instead, he reaches for the afghan that's just barely within his arm span on the couch and pulls it over your body. You thank god he's not trying to move from the floor because even the thought of leaving your place on the floor with him hurts.

Your bare breasts press against his hard chest and you sigh, shivers making their way over your sated body. Even through his closed eyes, his lips find yours and he kisses you gently, humming softly into your mouth as you return it.

Your head falls into the crook of his neck. With his warmth around you, his scent filling your nostrils and your body more relaxed than it's been in a while, you can't even find the strength to move. When's the last time you got a decent night's sleep? You've been working long and hard on the Gitano case for what seems like forever… and just the past twenty-four hours have taken every piece of strength you've reserved in your body.

Before you can think of the ramifications of falling asleep on the floor, your partner's naked body curled around yours, you're already drifting off. The last thing your mind registers is the flutter of his chapped lips against the side of your forehead.

A/N: Please let me know what you think :)