She seems trapped between something she wants and something she berates herself for wanting. Has he done this?
He wants to coax her into a security that permits him to examine her under harsh light. Where scars and secrets cannot hide.
It's sick. The image of holding her down with hands reserved for loyalty and protection. To obtain truth. A truth that he shouldn't even desire to learn.
He's always been a bit twisted. Like those he helped put away. A thin line separates. His lack of self-control is the proof.
He grabs her by the arm, just above her elbow, fingers easily encircling flesh and bone.
She jerks. But he doesn't release.
Her eyes remain focused on the floor. His on the curve of her neck.
"Why can't you just be honest with me?" he nearly growls.
He can feel the heat radiating from her skin.
"I am," she replies coldly, still watching the floor.
His fingers tighten. "Look at me and say that, then."
She tries to pull her arm away again.
His eyes, lit by fire, command her to look at him. But she doesn't. It provokes him to push her to the wall, nonviolently but forcefully.
She doesn't react angrily; only leans into the wall. He sadly shakes his head. He sees it as giving in, refusing to fight back. He sees it as weakness.
"Did you make it this easy for him?" he whispers, close to her ear.
She inhales sharply.
"Did you?" he repeats, same breathy voice.
Keeping her eyes on the floor, she shoves off the wall. The victory is small, mere inches.
"Screw you."
Her voice is quiet, but strong.
He smiles, thin and smugly satisfied. He's an ass.
"Elliot," she begins, physically and emotionally fatigued, "Why are you here?"
He can feel the energy drain from her. His fingers relax along with it. And his hand eventually falls away.
He sighs, rubs his face.
"I just want to know that you're alright."
Jesus, he's stupid. After a fight with his wife and too many beers, he knocks on an unfamiliar door, which he wouldn't even know where to find had he not followed her there two days ago.
Because he was too damn incompetent to pick up a phone. Simply greet her when she came out the precinct.
She actually looks at him. Eyes too dark, breath too shallow. "Why?"
That one word floors him. More so, it pisses him off. Seems so absurd. Does he have to state the fucking obvious?
But those eyes demand to know.
He doesn't realize there's no clarity for her as to why he would show up tonight, a random night, far removed from everything that has happened to her, far from the end of their partnership. Friendship.
"Because you're my…"
His face becomes marred by confusion and feelings of being completely inept.
Not the one thing. Not really the other either.
What, she's the woman he stalks now?
He takes a step back, eyes carefully take her in, as if looking at her fully now will provide the correct answer.
It doesn't.
But it does.
He can't actually say it to her. Not now. Not ever.
His eyes widen; he swallows with difficulty. His line of sight shifts to the door, not fully closed. The gap promises escape. He moves towards it in quick strides, ignoring her curious expression.
The gap is suddenly blocked by human form. He looks from the midsection to the face of the man he couldn't blame for wanting her years ago, for wanting her now.
"Stabler?"
His voice is laced with surprise. And something else. Elliot doesn't pause long enough to give it more thought. He gives the man a curt nod of acknowledgment, moves past him, brushing the doorframe.
And he's walking away, hears a distant, 'everything okay, Liv?' and 'fine' before he hears nothing else.
But a rush of blood and echo of footsteps.