a/n: okay so i made myself cry and now i'm sharing it! it's been a while since i wrote eo and i missed it so much, hopefully you like it!
this is set after smoked, but before the deleted scene where el sends her his semper fi. i'm assuming there was at least a few weeks in between the shooting and the time he put his papers in.
Can I come over?
You stare at the words, a million thoughts running through your head as you read and re-read the text. It's a simple question, and if it had been from anyone else, it would be simple to answer.
Unfortunately, nothing is easy anymore. You wonder if it ever had been.
A shaky sigh leaves your mouth, and your hands quiver with a slight tremor as you type your response. The logical part of your mind is warning you not to, telling you it can only end in disaster, but you ignore it. You'd made up your mind even before the message had been received.
Only if you want to.
You mean it, too. If he doesn't want to, if he's only doing it to make you stop calling, to make you stop asking, then you don't want it. You don't want answers out of pity.
The text bubbles appear and disappear four times before another message comes through, and the words leave you with sweaty palms and a fluttering stomach. You're not usually this nervous.
Be there in twenty.
There's a knock on your door exactly twenty two minutes after the text, the sound barely audible. You stand and make your way to the entrance, already thinking that maybe, maybe, you should have listened to your head instead of your heart.
It's too late now, though. He's here already, and you doubt you'd be able to send him away. Even if you wanted to.
You don't bother smiling when you open the door. There's no point for niceties. You're not happy with him, and he should know that.
"Hey," he says as a greeting, after staring at you for a moment. His voice is a quiet croak, as if it hasn't been used in a too long time.
You want to punch his perfect teeth in.
You don't reply, rather, you push the door open further and turn around, walking back into your apartment. He follows wordlessly, like you knew he would, and closes the door behind him. The sound of the lock is loud in the otherwise quiet room.
He walks to where you sit, eyes lingering on the spot next to you before taking his own seat on a separate armchair.
"I…" he starts, eyes flicking to you before resting on a spot on the ground. "I know I've been a bit of a dick lately," he says, and you laugh. A breathy, humourless laugh that lasts only a second.
"That's an understatement."
He nods once, accepting your anger easily. For a reason you can't explain, it only makes you angrier.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I know it doesn't make it better, but I am. I didn't mean… I know you're pissed off, I get that. I just… I had to leave. I couldn't d—"
"I'm not pissed off because you left."
He stops talking, his brow furrowing in confusion as he looks up at you. "What?"
"I'm not pissed," you say, pausing briefly before continuing. "Well, no, I am. I'm annoyed at you, but that's not why I'm upset."
He falls silent, gaze still trained on you. You know he can see what's going on in your head. "Why, then?"
You lean back in your chair, a long sigh escaping your mouth. "I'm disappointed," you answer, eyes closing for a moment. "You didn't call, didn't let me know. Twelve years, El, and you didn't even…" you cut yourself off, gaze dropping to the floor. You purse your lips, your tongue running over your front teeth before you continue talking. "I can understand why you left the Department, Elliot. I'm upset that you left me."
You don't look at him, can't look at him, while he processes the information. A long time passes with no answer, the silence deafening while you wait.
Eventually, he opens his mouth to whisper, "I didn't want you to change my mind."
"I wouldn't have talked you out of it, Elliot. Not if it was something you needed to do."
"I know," he replies. "I know you wouldn't have talked me out of it. But you wouldn't have needed to talk me out of it. One look at you and…" he stops, looks at you, and inhales deeply. "One look at you and I would have wanted to stay. The thought of leaving you in that job, alone, I… I couldn't have done it, Liv."
You have so much you want to say, need to say, but you have no idea where to start. It's hard, harder than you thought, and you're so sick of being upset about it. You bite your bottom lip, the metallic taste of blood coats your tongue as the distinct burn of tears form behind your eyes. You don't want to cry, not again.
You sigh for what feels like the hundredth time before meeting his eyes. You look like a mess, you know, with tears shining in your eyes and dark circles under them. It's been weeks since the shooting, since the two of you had spoken, and you haven't slept much.
"El," you whisper, voice cracking. "I…"
Your arms fall to your sides, an open invite, and he's there in a split second, hands grabbing hold of yours and pulling you from your seat. You go willingly, your head finding its way to the junction between his neck and shoulder. You breathe in deeply, a futile attempt to halt the onset of tears, and his scent fills your senses. He wraps his arms around you tightly, almost too tightly, and you cling to him, your fingers intertwining with the cloth of his shirt.
You're still mad, still upset, but it's such a relief to be here again, wrapped up with him, that your anger disappears for a moment.
You stay like that for a long time, neither of you speaking, neither of you mentioning the mutual tears. A thousand words are said without speaking, and you're incredibly grateful the bond the two of you have is strong enough to not need them. You don't know how you'd begin to describe how you feel.
You fall back onto the couch, Elliot coming with you this time. Your head immediately goes to his chest, and you smile softly as his hands make their way to your hair, his fingers threading through it soothingly.
"What are you gonna do?"
His lips press against your forehead, and his voice is muffled when he replies, "I need some time."
You look up at him, your question written all over your face, and he smiles sadly.
"It's not you, and I don't mean that in the cheesy way. I just need time to think," he says, pulling you back against his chest. "I need to take a break from everything, everyone, while I try and sort through the shit going on in my head."
"How long?"
"I don't know," he answers honestly. "You'll be the first to know when I do."
You shut your eyes, your face nuzzling into his side. You don't want to do this on your own, but you know asking him to come back would do more harm than good.
"I'm not ready for you to leave."
Another silence stretches out, broken only by the sound of your breathing. You don't push for answers.
"Do you want me to stay the night?"
He says it like a secret, his mouth hovering just above your ear, his breath ghosting over your face. Yes, yes, you do. You want him to stay forever, but that's not really an option. You know what he's asking; you know you shouldn't agree, know the implications of what will happen if he stays, but…
But if he stays. If he stays, there will be passion, and delight, and maybe, for just a little while, you won't feel so drained. It will be bittersweet, you know. Short term pleasure bear long term pain.
You nod.
It's like the whole universe fades away as he takes hold of your hand, his fingers intertwining with your own as he leads you to the bedroom. Your heart is pounding hard enough you're surprised he can't hear it.
He lays you down on the bed, his own body following yours, covering yours. It's not the first time you've done this, but it feels different somehow. More final. More intense.
Any thought that isn't related to the two of you disappears with the first kiss. It's slow, soft, gentle; reminiscent of your first. You undress each other slowly, neither in a hurry to end for what it will mean.
His hands move across your body like fire. They leave burn marks that will be felt for days, weeks, despite never being seen. Your body craves more, no matter how bad you know it is for you.
You know he'll have to leave eventually, and the thought just makes you cling harder, hold on tighter. Memories flood your mind with every movement, every cry and moan. Most of them are good, some are bad, but they all leave you with a bittersweet pleasure.
It lasts a long time, with every movement excruciatingly slow. When it does end, he collapses next to his, his chest heaving as he pants, face turned to the side so he can look at you. He pulls your body against his, bare skin against bare skin as he holds you tightly.
Sleep tugs at your mind, but you fight it. You don't want to sleep yet, don't want to risk missing out on anything. You're tired, though. So incredibly tired, and it's hard to resist.
You wonder if he'll be there when you wake up. It's the last thought you have before slipping into unconsciousness.
Sun peaks through the curtains when you do wake. Surprisingly, he is still there.
Sometimes he leaves, and sometimes he doesn't. You're glad he didn't.
He's awake and staring at you, mouth opened slightly in something akin to awe. You notice he's dressed again, and something painful twinges deep in your gut. You're not ready for him to leave. You doubt you ever will be.
His hand cradles your face, the pad of his thumb trailing over the skin of your cheek. He leans down to kiss you, his lips dragging over yours. Its gentleness makes you want to cry all over again.
"I'll come back," he whispers, voice barely a whisper. "I promise. Just give me some time."
An odd, individual kind of pain flows through you, unadulterated in its course, and you can't bring yourself to speak. You nod instead, trying to convey everything you're feeling through your eyes.
He smiles, it's only small, but there all the same. It eases the ache in your chest, if only a little. He kisses you once more, chaste and quick, and then he's gone. You can hear the open and shut of you apartment door, and you close your eyes, imagining each of his movements as he walks to his car.
You can give him time. You can wait. After all, you've been doing it for twelve years.
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