A/N: Most of us celebrate the new year by making resolutions and drinking cheap champagne, but somewhere in New York City, two people prefer high-end liquor and fireworks.
The smell in the bar is something between sweet and smoky, and there doesn't seem to be an empty seat in the place. It's lucky they got here early, and they have the table by the window all to themselves.
"Look at them," he says, jutting his chin toward the crowd gathered in the freezing cold night beyond the window. "They're crazy," he laughs, wondering why anyone would not only spend New Year's Eve in New York City outside, let alone at the waterfront.
"They're excited," she says, a wistful look on her face. "College kids, from the looks of things," she points to a group of young, giddy people, holding up beer bottles and shouting their resolutions into the night wind.
"I wasn't like that in college," he claims, grinning.
"You were a married father when you were in college," she retorts with a semi-haughty smile.
He seethes, feigning offense, and then says, "You weren't like that in college either, Benson."
Her smile fades. "Yeah, I know," she gives him, and then nods once. She reaches for her shot glass but misses and grabs his hand. There's a moment where her heart stops as she looks into his eyes.
He doesn't mind at all and he looks at her with a smile as he lifts her hand to his lips and kisses each knuckle. It makes her blush and he chuckles. He leans over and whispers something in her ear that makes the blush deepen, her eyes darken, and his smile becomes a smirk.
She lets him keep her hand in his, using the other one to grab and down her shot. She makes a face as she swallows, the burn hitting harder than she expected.
"Well, this place is insane, huh? He did it," he says, looking around at the crowd and laughing. "He really fucking did it."
She nods. "He had the time," she replies, "And thanks to you, he had the money."
"It's just an investment," he affirms, "We'll get it back." He tugs on her hand and says, "Dance with me."
She eyes him again. It's dangerous; she knows the dance will start on the floor but move to the bathroom or the alley or the kitchen or anywhere dark and empty. Dancing with him has always led to a different kind of tango. She knows it always will.
"Liv," he speaks her name like it's the most precious name in the world. "Baby, come on. Dance with me."
Smiling, she nods, and she lets him take her. She follows his lead as he pulls on her hand, walking between bodies to the small wooden patch of cleared floor. It's glowing yellow and green and red, the DJ is fist-pumping like only a twenty-something from Jersey can, and they come to a stop somewhere in the middle.
"John Munch," he says with a chuckle, "Owns a bar." He shakes his head and wraps his arms around Olivia and begins to move to a song he has never heard before, and as the lyrics hit his ears he is certain it's one he doesn't really want to hear ever again.
She laughs, then, too. "It's what he wanted, El," she says. And it's true. Munch had talked about having his own bar for years, and when he retired last year, he vowed to make it happen. Elliot helped him along by writing him a ten-thousand-dollar check, on the promise of a full return with interest. It's a promise that Elliot doesn't plan on holding his friend to, but he won't refuse if it's a promise kept. They'll need the money, after all.
The memory fades as the volume rises. The lights flash and the floor seems to come alive, it undulates and thumps beneath their feet. Her dress shimmers in the neon lights and his black silk shirt and blue tie glow in the greenish-yellow haze. Someone behind her moves too fast and shoves her closer to Elliot. He growls slightly and tightens his hold, his hot breath falling on her neck. "Liv," he whispers into her ear, "Make a resolution."
"Not this year! You know I never keep them," she yells, hoping to be heard over the music. Her eyes pop a bit when she feels one of his hands moving, skimming up the fabric of her dress. "Elliot," she calls, a question dancing on her voice.
There is menace in his smile and love in his eyes as he gives an innocent, "What?" His hand moves higher, his fingertips slipping under and along the elastic hem of the thin pair of silk panties she's wearing.
Her eyes flutter closed as she gets shoved again, someone behind her dancing a bit too wildly and a bit too drunkenly. The movement is enough to make his hand twist, and two of his fingers are now grazing at her slit, the heat radiating from her to him.
"Jesus," he spits, in awe of how much he wants her, how much she wants him in return. "Come on, baby," he goads, "Humor me. Make a resolution." He slides one of his fingers up and down, feeling wetness coat his knuckle, and he inhales sharply as his dick hardens more than it was already, because he's always halfway there around her. Always.
She bites her lip and shakes her head. "I'd break it tomorrow," she mumbles, her hands curling and digging into his back. They're trying to keep up appearances, moving to the music and hoping the crowd hides the truth.
"A promise, then," he says, and he starts walking backward. He's got one finger buried in her now, all the way, and he swivels it as they move. "You never break those. Make me a promise."
As she expected, she's being pulled into a dark corner near the door to the kitchen, nestled behind a fake tree. She feels him lift her dress high, hears him moan, and assumes he must now be looking, watching his handiwork. She moans as another finger joins the fray and twists into her. "God, El, what promise?"
He hums and bends his head, kisses her slowly as he bends and crooks his fingers, and moans her name against her lips. "Promise me," he breathes as his forehead rests against hers, "Forever." He turns, then, slamming her up against the wall. His hand is ripped from her achingly ready core and she yelps his name. He shakes his head as he works his belt buckle open with one hand, the other pulling her useless, soaked panties aside. "Promise," he whispers.
She can hear the crowd growing louder, someone shouts that it's five till midnight.
He lines up, the tip of his cock nudges, teases, and he hums along with the song as he waits. When she blinks and looks at him, that's when he thrusts.
She moans loudly, but no one except for him hears her. "Fuck, Elliot," she moans, and her hands drag down his back and swoop around to the outsides of his arms. "I've already promised…"
"No, honey," he groans, moving again. He buries himself, fully, his pelvis is pressing against hers, and he kisses her again. "Do you promise…" he grunts as he thrusts, and he holds both of her hands in one of his, "To be with me, just me, forever?"
The people in the bar are chanting now, counting down from ten, and just as they hit "three," he thrusts forward again, hard. He pulls out, hurls himself forward, inside her, so deep. "Baby," he whispers. "Please."
She nods as she kisses him, her hips begin to roll against his motions now, his thrusts small but powerful. As the voices around them yell "two" she answers him. "God, Elliot, baby, yes," the moan has a double meaning, but she clarifies for his sake. "As long as you promise...forever with me," she tells him, and she realizes now she's fucking him up against the wall of a bar on New Year's Fucking Eve, and it's a hell of a time to officially answer the question he's been unofficially asking her for months now. She knows why. He didn't want to start a new year not knowing.
He grunts again as he slams his mouth over hers and his hips seem to work harder, faster, as somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognizes the word "one" being sung out by a million different voices.
They now hear the yelling and cheering, whooping and hollering, and it all drowns out the sounds of their intense and passionate climaxes that seem to happen simultaneously. They hear the cracks and bangs as the fireworks explode over the harbor and behind their closed eyelids at the same moment. When he slams into her one last time, he grunts, "Happy New Year, baby."
She inhales, breathes him in, her nails dig into his arms and she nods as she vibrates, still cumming. When they calm, when they still, they look into each other's eyes and the promise becomes sacred. She blinks as he pulls out, pulls away, and he grins smugly as he slips her panties back into place and slides down the fabric of her dress.
She doesn't understand the cocky smile until she feels something on her hand that wasn't there the last time she was consciously noticing. Her eyes bulge as she takes in the sight of the shining, sparkling, solitaire diamond. "El," she wheezes, her breathing still ragged.
"You promised," he reminds her with a kiss, and he pulls her back toward the middle of the bar where he can kiss her in full view of everyone in the place, he has earned bragging rights.
She takes a breath and she smiles at him. "Yes, I did," she tells him. She kisses him again and the fireworks light up the sky through the window behind them. It's not a resolution that will be broken, this year. It's a promise made every day, since the moment they met, that will absolutely be kept.
A/N: Happy New Year!