The Kiss That Never Happened

by Mindy35

Elliot/Olivia. Set New Year's Day of 2009, shortly after the events of "Wildlife". Following an undercover mission in which they came close to sharing a kiss, Olivia confronts Elliot about his guilt and Elliot confronts Olivia about her anger.

Rating: T, a few adulty things

Disclaimer: Characters are the property of Dick Wolf, NBC et al.

Spoilers: mentions "Wildlife"

Pairing(s): Elliot/Olivia, Elliot/Kathy

Summary: Set New Year's Day of 2009, shortly after the events of "Wildlife". Following an undercover mission in which they came close to sharing a kiss, Olivia confronts Elliot about his guilt and Elliot confronts Olivia about her anger.

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Her feet ache. So does her back. The flimsy heels she's wearing are throwing her entire body out of whack. She's been in them for hours, ever since Elliot briefed the squad. She had to run in the damn things in order to apprehend his suspect. It was his plan, his case. He was the lead detective and she was just doing her job, backing him up, following his brilliant strategy. So in her mind, Elliot Stabler is to blame for the pain in her arches and toes. The fact that she's functioning on approximately three hours sleep and next to no food isn't helping her mood. Nor is the fact that the cheap champagne she couldn't do anything but ingest at the New Year's Eve bash their target was holding is now bringing on a grating headache.

So the last thing she needs – the very last thing she wants – is her partner coming up and standing beside her and taking a deep breath. She really can't take that. Not his breathing. Not his hands-in-pockets stance. Not his loaded silence. Not after the night they've had. Not after he insisted that they go undercover as a couple. Not after he insisted that New Year's Eve would be the perfect night for the bust. Not after the mission went wildly overtime, leaving them counting down from ten to the moment their lips would touch. Join. Meld. Kiss...

A burst of static and a mutter in her ear had aborted the kiss with two seconds to go. It jolted them out of their fictional roles as sexy underworld revelers and into their actual roles as hard-nosed cops on a mission. The arrests had gone smoothly enough, except for her designated dirtbag who decided to take her on a winding tour of the back alleys, probably assuming her strappy heels would slow her down. He was right. The bastard. She nearly toppled down a narrow stairway, skidded around every corner but re-found her footing each time. She was just about to catch up with him, just about to feel that inner satisfaction of reaching out, grasping his slimy suit jacket with one hand and slamming his rather rotund body against the hard brick wall. Elliot appeared at the end of the alley though, gave the guy an effortless uppercut to the nose, instantly stopping him in his tracks.

"I had him," was all she'd said, stumbling closer in her stilettos, her breath coming out in misty pants.

"You're welcome," was her partner's reply as he cuffed her collar and led him away.

They drove back to the house in silence. Elliot brooding and her simmering. Neither of them mentioning that aborted kiss. Fin and Munch processed their hoard of arrests while she and Elliot updated the captain and argued briefly with a pissed off temp DA. Or rather she did, Elliot backing her up with a couple of sullen, absentminded grunts. Gradually, the SVU offices quieted then emptied. As Olivia suspected would happen, she and her partner were among the last to leave. Glancing at her watch, she'd seen the hour hand creeping toward the three. So as Elliot headed for the coffee pot with a bowed head, she grabbed her coat and slipped out the doors with a brief 'Night.

She'd been hoping for a clean getaway. She'd been hoping she wouldn't have to see his face for at least a few hours. She'd been hoping that the New Year's Eve crowds wouldn't prevent her from getting a speedy cab ride home. Once there, she would take off her shoes, her dress, her bra. She'd massage her constricted breasts, indulge in a long hot shower then put her poor feet up. She'd slip into bed with a glass of red wine, silently wish herself a happy new year and pray that her dreams didn't dwell upon that excruciating ten-second countdown. Her partner's face nearing hers, his lips so close, his eyes on hers. The drunken voices in the background, all warbling Auld Lang Syne as his hands rested lightly on her waist, as her hands rested lightly on his shoulders.

That's what she wants. Aloneness. Avoidance. Just a little goddamn space in which to process. Instead, she gets him meeting her at the elevator bank, smelling slightly of coffee and sweat and some cologne he never wears. She gets him brooding beside her in a way that, right now, is so far from endearing. She gets him punching the lit down button when it's perfectly clear she already punched it. Twice. More than twice. It's been well and truly punched. She punched it. And punching it more is not going to make the elevator arrive faster. Something she's about to point out to him in an overly snarky tone when the elevator doors grind obligingly open. Elliot glances sideways at her, blue eyes twinkling because he thinks it proves his theory that he's got some sort of magical touch with the 16th's elevator system. Olivia ignores the look, the muted twinkle, the hand he waves to usher her in. She just boards, barely giving him enough time to follow before pushing the button for the ground floor.

The doors close, slowly sealing them and the thick silence in. She tips her head side to side on her neck, feels the vertebrae click with tension. The sound is loud in the quiet compartment, the only other noise the familiar hum of the elevator. Until Elliot sighs. He lifts his eyes to the descending numbers overhead and actually sighs. The bastard. His heavy, slow release of breath is the last straw, more than she can take. So Olivia turns her head toward him, mutters through her teeth without glancing at him:

"Quit brooding."

Elliot pauses, looks her way. "…What?"

She closes her eyes, curls a hand round her neck. "You didn't do anything wrong."

He shuffles to face her. "What're you talkin' about?"

She raises her brows but keeps her eyes closed, head tilted as she rubs her own neck. "I'm talking about that Catholic guilt of yours. I can feel it…radiating off you, and frankly…" she opens her eyes and drops her hand, "it's getting kinda old."

Her partner blinks at her. "I was thinking about the case."

She turns her head, fixes his eyes with hers. "You were thinking about that kiss."

The elevator dings and the doors part. But, for a moment, neither of them moves.

Elliot shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his brow crumpling. "You mean that kiss that never happened?"

Olivia casts him a look as she steps over the threshold. "Yeah. I mean that kiss that never happened."

She decides to drop the topic as they move through the cool, darkened vestibule. She knows if she keeps talking she's going to say stupid things, revealing things, only partially true things. Much better to remain silent and seething. But his footsteps behind her annoy her too much – their crisp echo, their familiar pace. So she turns, spreads her arms and demands in the safe cover of near darkness:

"And, come on, what if it had happened? Would it have been such a big deal?"

Elliot stops in place. "I—"

"No. It wouldn't," she answers for him, her tone swift and hard and light. And since they're stopping, she gives into the urge to bend down and unbuckle her shoes, her mouth yammering heedlessly away, "It would've been just another little thing we had to do to maintain our cover. Like…" she half-straightens, one shoe on and one shoe off, "holding hands."

His brows lift. "Like holding hands?"

She glances up at him as she slips off her other shoe. "Right."

He snorts and walks past her. "If you say so."

"And anyway," she goes on, heels dangling from one hand as she follows him to the door, "it didn't happen. So I don't see why you have to turn it into this big deal afterwards—"

Elliot shoves the door open, holds it for her. "I'm turning it into a big deal?"

She brushes past him, out onto the cold street, the icy pavement soothing beneath her tortured soles. "Just like you did when I saved your undercover ass from Bushido and Tybor—"

He lets the door bang shut, trails her through the rows of cars and clumps of partiers outside the precinct. "You were the one who put my undercover ass in jeopardy, if I recall."

She turns abruptly to face him, "Yeah. And I made up for it by—" then mimes peeling off her shirt.

"I…" Elliot raises a hand and drops his gaze, "recall that bit too."

Olivia humphs and continues on her path. "Not that you were any goddamn help pulling that one off either. You couldn't even look at me let alone touch me—"

"Lemme get this straight—" He weaves one side of a family sedan and glares at her over the hood, eyes narrowed and incredulous. "You're upset that I didn't molest you while on the job?"

She weaves the other side, raises her voice over the roof of the car and rolls her eyes despite him not being able to see her. "I was supposed to be a hooker, Elliot. And tonight I was supposed to be—"

"I know who you were supposed to be." He meets her at the tail of the sedan, grits his teeth as he lowers his voice to a reasonable tone. "And I know we had to keep up the charade a little longer than planned—"

"Just a little…augh—!" Olivia turns in a circle on the spot. Because there are too many cars around that look like his. Too many middle-of-the-road family sedans that dads use to take their kids to school and their wives on bi-monthly date nights. They're all dark blue or grey and they're all so safely predictable. Unlike her.

She's not being her usual, predictable, safe self and she knows it's throwing him off. She knows he doesn't know how to react to her on the rare occasions she gets like this. He's usually the one allowed the liberty of losing his shit while she's usually the one picking up the pieces. Reversing those roles feels unnatural. More than that, it feels dangerous. Yet she can't seem to stop herself from upsetting their carefully constructed balancing act. She can hear herself being completely unreasonable with him. She's listening to herself utter classified secrets, provocative half-truths that usually she'd never dare voice. She'd like to blame it all on the small amount of alcohol in her system but she's knows it's not that. It's not just him, this night, that almost kiss. There's something more than a little unbalanced about her tonight. And nothing he can say will fix what's been wrong for so long. So it's probably best if she just walks away. Before she says something, does anything she might regret. Because she can feel herself coming close. Perilously close. As close as they came earlier that night to joining mouths in an undercover kiss.

"You know what…?" She shakes her head, pulls in a breath and starts backing away, "I'm just…I'm gonna walk this off."

Elliot frowns as she heads down the center of the street, into the colourful New Year chaos. "It's 3 am," he points out, lifting his voice over the surrounding din.

She shrugs and calls back, "It's New Year's, El! There are people everywhere."

"Drunk people," he mutters loudly. But watching her stoop to slip on her heels and stumble into a pack of drunken college students, he adds, "Although maybe I should be more worried about them than you…"

"Maybe you should." She straightens, flicks her hair back then continues backing away, "Maybe I'll kiss a few on my way home."

Elliot lifts both hands at his sides, lets them drop back again. His voice when it reaches her is weary, exasperated and ever so slightly beseeching. "Olivia…"

But Olivia turns her back. She feels the cold wind burn her cheeks, the warm crowds envelop her. And despite her poor, protesting feet, despite his voice calling her name behind her aching back, she keeps on walking, chasing that clean getaway. Part of her thinks she's found it, but another part knows her partner won't give up so easily. He's not going to let her just walk away, not without some sort of explanation, some sort of resolution. He's not going to abandon her in the cold and crowds, no matter how unreasonable she's been, no matter how unlikely an explanation is. He'll gently persist, patiently prod and he will only give up when he's exhausted his overly generous supply of loyalty and goodwill.

Olivia releases a cloudy breath. The bastard.

-x-

Elliot slots his key in the ignition. He's going after her, there's no way he's not. There's no way he's leaving it at…whatever the hell that was. There's no way he's going to let her walk home in those heels, in these crowds, at this hour, with those ridiculous thoughts about him swirling through her usually perfectly sane mind.

He twists the key but the engine splutters, refusing to come to life after sitting so long in the chill. He pauses, fingers on the dangling clutch of keys. He thinks this is the right thing to do... It's possible that leaving her alone, letting her cool off would be a wiser choice. Maybe he should just let her come into work the next day with a stony face and a hesitant walk. He should let her mumble a vaguely contrite Morning as she dunks a tea bag in her favorite mug. Then they'd go from there. Rebuild. Or regress. Perform their timeworn routine of silence and evasion. Like they always do after one of them can't take it anymore, exploding from the chronic pressure of doing what they do, being who they are. Habit always reigns in their more reckless impulses, duty rescues them from chaos. That's generally how it works with them. If it works. Which, for the most part, it seems to.

For the most part, it's Olivia who does the calm but firm placating though, the delicate work of smoothing things over. He tries to imagine what she would do if the situation were reversed but draws a blank. He's not her. And she's not him. She's not even herself. This is not the level-headed Liv he knows and loves. She's being completely unfair and totally irrational and something in him feels compelled to make sure she knows that. He's got to make sure she knows that – everything she'd said to him, how she'd looked at him out there on the street – it hadn't gotten to him. Not a bit. He hadn't done anything wrong. Not by her. Not by anyone. He'd simply done his job. Just like always. He pumps the accelerator a few times with his foot, wrenches the key to make the engine turn over. The car splutters a little more promisingly then dies again. Elliot sighs.

So maybe she got to him a little. Maybe she wasn't entirely off base. Maybe he had been brooding. Maybe he'd been thinking about that kiss ever since it happened – almost happened – wondering if he'd subconsciously crafted a situation in which he was required to kiss his long-time partner. A set of circumstances designed to mollify his innermost sin. The thought was mortifying, even if the act itself would be far from. He was sure about that. Because he'd thought about it. At length. In a deep, dark, secret corner of his mind. That was what had him brooding. Not just that the idea had fleetingly occurred to him. But that he'd lingered on it, turned it over in his mind, closed his eyes and imagined the unbearably alluring actuality of it. What had him brooding wasn't just that he'd wanted to kiss Olivia, but how much he'd wanted to kiss her. Because kissing Olivia was something he was never supposed to consider, on or off the job. And he had. Not just during that ten second countdown but every single day, for over ten years.

So when the reality of the situation he'd placed them in actually hit him, so did a decade's worth of unbidden desire. When Olivia looked at him with her smokily brushed eyes, when she parted lips that looked peachy and wet and utterly irresistible, the lightning bolt of lust that cracked through his body completely floored him. And when his partner leaned in close and whispered in his ear Put your hands on my hips and try to look like you're enjoying yourself – he'd obeyed. Without a single thought about his wife and son who would be attending their neighbors' New Year's Eve party alone. While his wife sipped non-alcoholic punch and explained his unsurprising absence, he was working a sting in a Manhattan nightclub. While she chatted amicably with people he spent too little time at home to know by name, he was lusting after a woman he spent nearly every waking hour with. While Kathy retired early to put Eli to bed, his eyes were still relishing the sight of Olivia in that devilish purple dress that hung from one magnificent shoulder and clung to her curves like a first-time lover. He hadn't been brooding because he was thinking about Kathy – about abandoning her at that party, about betraying her with an almost-kiss. He'd been brooding because in those ten long seconds as his mouth inched closer to his partner's, his wife never even occurred to him. He was brooding because, when he was engrossed in his work with Olivia, she so rarely occurred to him.

In his mind, that's reason enough to brood. Reason enough to relegate himself to silence. Reason enough to stand just a little further away from his partner than he normally would. He's got every right to feel what he's feeling and Olivia's got absolutely no right to feel angry at him for feeling it. His indignation spurring him on, Elliot pumps the accelerator pedal again, twists the key and forces his cold, old car to start. He revs it a few times, beeps the horn to alert some passing pedestrians to his intention to move then pulls out into the busy street. It's one of those strange New York nights on which the normal rules of traffic have suddenly ceased to apply. People have claimed the streets as party-zones and pathways while all vehicles have been relegated to creeping meekly through the criss-crossing crowds. Steering slowly through the cheerful anarchy, Elliot drives not in the direction of his home but in the direction he saw his partner walk. Hopefully, a few minutes in the frosty air has helped her cool off. Hopefully, after a few minutes of contemplation, she'll have realized how unfair she was to him and she'll revert to the calm, sensible Olivia he knows how to read. Hopefully, by the time he finds her and pulls up beside her, she'll just give a rueful smile and gratefully accept his offer of a ride home. And by the time they reach her apartment, they'll have found a way to laugh at their earlier near miss. Olivia will smile her tired smile, tell him she'll see him in the morning. Then he'll watch her enter her building in bare feet, her heels swinging at her side.

Elliot knows as soon as he spots her that that is not how this will play out. He can tell from her stride, she's still pissed. He can tell from her straight, stiff spine that she is not in the mood to be persuaded or placated. He can tell from the way the celebrating crowds part to let her march through unimpeded that he's going to have to work to get her in his car, to get her to talk to him, smile at him. His indignation refires, churning in his gut. But he prods the accelerator, pulling up beside her as she steps off the curb to dodge some splattered vomit.

He lowers the window, props an elbow on it. "Get in the car, Liv."

Olivia glances at him, mutters, "Go home, Elliot," then continues on her way.

He trails her in the car, follows her over a packed crosswalk. He lifts his hand, taps the roof with his fingers, cruises along like he could do it for miles. "C'mon, I know the heels are killing you…"

Olivia ignores him, walking swiftly in her stilettos, her chin lifted and hair sailing back from her cheeks. Behind him, a cabbie toots. Elliot waves it round and several other cars follow, one driver shouting an obscenity.

"You're causing a hazard," Olivia calls out, casting a look over her shoulder but not slowing her pace.

He wants to retort that she's the one causing a hazard. That she's a walking hazard. That she started this with her irrationality and her anger and she's keeping it going with her ridiculous stubbornness. That he's just trying to resolve things, explain things. Elliot takes a breath, puts a little lilt into his tone and calls back, "Well, get in the damn car then. Get in and you can yell at me some more on the way to your place."

Olivia just lifts a weary hand and turns a corner, disappearing into a scaffolded tunnel. Elliot growls in annoyance because it's too late for him to make the turn and he knows that's exactly why she did it. He zooms up a block but finds he can't turn there. He calculates the route she's taking in his mind, doubles back on himself, nearly turns toward home instead. But then he spots her, walking slower on a quieter, narrower street. Her head is bent and her eyes downcast so she doesn't see him drive on ahead and turn into her path, blocking her escape route like she's a slippery perp. He parks, half on and half off the curb, then exits the car. He stands with his back against the steel, his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for her to draw near enough to notice him. As soon as her gaze lifts to his, something flares in her eyes. Something in his flares right back.

"We just gonna do this the whole way to your place?" he demands, voice low and shoulders lifted.

Olivia's step barely falters. She doesn't divert from her course, she just walks right up to him, grabs his tie and pulls him in. She kisses him, her mouth urgent and aggressive, her teeth and tongue clearly out to prove a point. She's just about to pull back and tell him what that point is. Yell at him some more, just like he said she could. She's going to say more things, her eyes flaring and cheeks incensed. Bring up more ancient history then stalk away before any of it gets resolved. But he surprises her – he surprises himself – by countering her attack with one of his own. He kisses her back. He doesn't plan to. It just happens. The second he feels her mouth begin to withdraw, Elliot chases it with his own, lips snatching her back, plucking at that peachy, sexy, angry softness with equal fury and passion and bitterness. It's not enough though – not enough to satisfy his wrath, not enough to get her to stay. He can feel her slipping away. So he unbinds his arms, steals one inside her coat, around her waist, feeling her body in that dress. Hand on her lower back, he gives a sharp little shove, pressing her to him then groaning into her mouth. His other hand lifts, cupping her face as he lets his tongue sneak out to taste her.

At the first touch of his tongue, Olivia pushes him back, draws herself away. She stares at him a moment, her hand tangled in his tie, his hand submerged in her coat. It takes her moment to collect herself, to catch her breath and recall her pre-prepared quip. She doesn't take her eyes off him as she disengages and takes one step back.

"See…?" she croaks, voice neither as fierce nor as aloof as she intends it to be, "Was that such a big fucking deal?"

She takes another step back, hesitates a little more than a moment but doesn't wait for him to answer. Instead, she heads around his car, steps off the curb and crosses the road, stilettos clicking quickly. It's only once she's gone that Elliot manages to regain his bearings. Whipping around, he steps up onto the rim of the open car door, calling over the roof after her:

"Yeah! That was a big fucking deal and you know it!"

He doesn't know if she hears, doesn't know if he wants her to hear. Sliding down into his seat, he runs a hand over his mouth and glances at his stunned reflection in the rear-view mirror. Then he stares out the window until her retreating back disappears from view. This time, he's not going after her. He's tempted to. Tempted to find out what would happen if he drove directly to her place, if he was waiting at her apartment building when she arrived. But he's not doing that. He's not going to try to explain or placate. He's not going to try to resolve the unresolvable. He's just going to do what he should have done when she walked away the first time. He's going to leave Olivia alone, let her calm down in her own time and he's going to steer his car toward home.

He takes the long route, driving under the speed limit most of the way. Every time he thinks of her mouth, that kiss, his heart picks up, pounding in his chest. He winds down the window, lets the cold wind beat his face. He assumes that the greater the distance he puts between him and the scene of his crime, the less he'll think about it. The less he'll want to think about it. The less the charge of it will linger. But he's still thinking about it when he pulls into his driveway, still feeling the panging aftereffects in his chest and limbs and hands. The house is dark and quiet and, for several minutes, he just sits in the drive with the lights off and the keys in his lap. Kathleen is out partying with some college friends. Dickie and Lizzie are on a college tour with somebody's parents. And he long ago stopped hearing about Maureen's day-to-day activities. Inside their big family house, will be Kathy and Eli, no doubt asleep their bed.

Kathy's taken to sleeping with their youngest and he can't really deny either of them the comfort they glean from it during his regular absences. Even if it does make him feel somewhat displaced. Sometimes he'll sleep on the sofa so as not to disturb them. Sometimes he'll sleep there because there's no room left for him in the bed. He won't do that tonight though. That would feel too much like avoidance. Like guilt. And he's had enough of both for one night. The car door creaks as he opens it and his bones creak as he gets to his feet. He slops up the path, keys jangling at his side and badge weighing him down. As he slots his key in the front door, he remembers how the warm curve of her lower back felt against his palm. As he closes it behind him, he remembers how hard she bit his lower lip. As he ascends the staircase, he remembers the part when her breath caught as he tugged her against his body.

As he showers, Elliot relives every line of their argument outside the stationhouse, trying to decipher what she was trying to say to him, why Olivia was so angry with him. He's always assumed that it was harder for him to play-act sexual scenarios with her than it was for her to do so with him. After all, he was the married one, the hampered one, the one crossing some hazy ethical boundary. She was the single one, the independent and experienced one. The only boundaries she had to worry about were the fraternization codes they learnt at the Academy. So when she stripped off her shirt and embraced him for Bushido and Tybor, she was right – he hadn't touched her, he'd barely looked at her, he'd avoided doing both on pain of death. He'd thought that was the right thing to do, the respectful thing, the safe thing. Part of him was also furious with her for placing her naked body between him and two bad guys with guns. His fury dissipated though with the subsequent attempt on his life – with her face leaning over him, with her tears dropping onto his cheeks, with her hand stroking his hair as he bled out on the pavement.

There was no such life and death situation to provide them with an emotional out this time. This time, like that last time, like all the other times, Olivia had played her part to perfection. She'd dressed the part in her sleek purple dress and high strappy heels. She'd held his hand, smiled at him, flirted with him, stroked his shoulder and chest. She'd whispered in his ear, led him onto the dance floor, told him where to put his hands. And she would've let him kiss her, she would've kissed him back, if that's what it took. She'd put her whole body and self on the line. For him. For the sake of his case, their partnership and the job. It wasn't Olivia who had been unprofessional. It was him. By letting his guilt get the best of him. By letting his fear paralyze him, prevent him from meeting her halfway. Giving into his dread of inadvertently revealing the desire he'd hidden for so long, he'd done only the bare minimum. He'd worn a nice suit. Some cologne. He'd held her hand, he'd kept her close. He'd smiled when she smiled and obeyed when she told him to touch her. But he'd made her do all the work, let her make all the real advances. He was so focused on not letting his underlying attraction to her show that he forgot to act like her lover. He was so uncomfortable with acting like Olivia's lover that he forgot to be her partner. He let her down. And she had every right to be pissed, to yell at him, to walk away from him.

Elliot twists the taps on the shower and reaches for his towel. He scrubs his head dry as he steps out of the cubicle and stares at his reflection in the mirror. He's going to owe her one hell of an apology the next morning. He doesn't quite know how he's going to go about it, how they are going to get past this. He assumes they will. Because they always do. And because the idea of an Olivia-less life lacks sense to him. Lacks plausibility and value and purpose. He'll need to do something, say something. He'll need to figure out what exactly. He pads into the quiet, dark bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist. He digs out a pair of clean briefs, drops the towel then slides them on. Kathy stirs as he lifts the covers and slips into the bed. Elliot slides Eli over a little to give himself some more room. Kathy leans in for a kiss but the gulf between them, created by their sprawled, sleeping son, means she misses. Both of them just kiss air. And Elliot, for one, is glad.

Because the last person he kissed was Olivia Benson. The last person to kiss him was Olivia Benson. And he wants to keep it that way for as long as possible. Maybe in time, that kiss will mark the beginning of the end of everything he and his partner have built with a decade of reticence and avoidance. The only thought that scares him more than that is that it may be the beginning of something more. Something more involving more incredible kisses like the one that blindsided them on the street. Something extraordinary that will involve his hands on her back or hips or in hers. Something unexpected that will involve her hands in his clothes as her eyes and lips draw him in. Something downright spectacular that will free him from having to pull away from her. Free him from having to pretend to be anyone other than who he is or to want anyone other than her.

Elliot glances across at his sleeping wife and child then turns his head on the pillow and stares out the half open blinds at the stars and streetlights. It's possible it was a one time only occurrence. An aberration that arose in the heat of the moment because both of them had too much emotion boiling up from within. He honestly doesn't know if that kiss, this new year will bring about a whole new phase for him and Olivia, a phase in which they are not just partners who occasionally pretend to be lovers. Or if they will just turn up at work tomorrow and proceed as they have done before. He will bring her a mug of her favorite tea and mutter something droll by way of a peace offering. And that hot, furious, unfinished kiss on an anonymous street in the wee small hours of New Year's Day will be yet another event they simply pretend never happened.

END.