Authors Note: Hello everyone, it's been a long time. This was a tough write, I wasn't sure how exactly I wanted the events to go down but it's here at last. This is my interpretation of what happened between Elliot and Olivia following the episode Smoked. Spoilers from Season 12 "Smoked" and Season 13 "Scorched Earth." However, this is AU in that there is no NOAH and no events from the Save Benson Saga. Jackie, I guess this is a belated birthday gift LOL. I hope everyone enjoys, truly.
Existence
Summary: Elliot and Olivia find themselves reminiscing over a particular day of infamy seven years later on a warm May evening.
"How long till those idiots go to central booking?"
"Not soon enough."
Not soon enough.
It never registered until a few years later that those were the last words they had spoken to each other before the world turned upside down. It never occurred to her that the low timbre of his voice in that particular moment was the last time she saw him in one piece.
The moments that followed were a haze of screeching voices, wails of agony, buzzing of bullets and his voice: scattered, hurried, desperate, authoritative.
Frightened.
"Jenna! Jenna! Drop the gun."
. . .
Vociferous ringing reverberates in his ears. It's black, the commotion has come to a stand still and he feels like he is spinning. But he can't see anything. The sky has darkened and the sun has gone down however he feels as though there should still be daylight. It's too early for the dark. It's too early for his eyes to be this tightly closed.
His forearms are numb but his muscles are tight. His knees ache but he can't feel. His hands shake and he then realizes the booming echoes around him had been caused by the gun in his own hand.
"That's it, just put it down," he had spoken only seconds earlier.
He can still feel the rawness in his throat from exerting the command.
It's the lingering sting of her name that makes his body convulse as he falls forward.
"Jenna!"
In all of the commotion, he's presently forgotten where he is. He's lost his sense of direction.
In his mind, he saw the delirious look in the young woman's eyes, the chaotic, impulsive, reaping she had begun on the precinct as if it were a vision.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, ...18 shots.
He saw her eyes glaze over while scanning the room and his heart had dropped to his gut as the gun glided through the air so effortlessly. He was amazed at how the drumming reverberations of each shot blended together….until the barrel was pointing in his and Olivia's direction.
Olivia was standing a few feet in front of him on her side of the desk, Sister Peg inches away.
Inches.
It happened so swiftly.
The incoherent scream of his partner fades in and out of his current consciousness because in that moment, it took only a second for Jenna's shot to blast through the skin of Sister Peg's chest.
He feels it. He feels all of it then.
Rage.
Fear.
Fire.
Seven years later it still burns him that he'd come inches to losing more than just a job. Olivia. She had been standing right next to the other woman and in his eyes, that was just as sinful of Jenna as if the bullet had gone through Olivia's shirt. Olivia's skin. Olivia's heart.
Sister Peg's blood was Olivia's in that moment because being too close for comfort was something he didn't bargain with and he had seen no other option all those years ago.
He often finds himself thinking of her face the moment he'd knelt down to feel for Jenna's pulse in the aftermath.
Olivia should not have been kneeling on the floor with fear in her eyes in the middle of a police squad room holding onto Sister Peg as the blood seeped through her fingers.
Jenna had been unhinged and lost. The taunting prisoners had not helped and Elliot had known what was next.
She had nothing to lose and if she had swung the barrel in his and Olivia's direction once, she'd have no qualms of doing it again and he couldn't risk another shot. It had happened so fast, he tells himself now.
"Jennnnna!"
To anyone else this would have been an easy decision. To anyone else with adrenaline at low dose in their bloodstream, this would have been a logical choice. But the adrenaline was pounding through his arteries and clouding his judgement.
The barrel was aiming for her chest, her skin, her heart. There was blood already on the floor but he'd be damned if he'd let hers seep into the cracks too.
Olivia.
"No."
It was Olivia's plea in those very last seconds after the bullet exploded from his hand that told him that that moment, that action, that decision was because of her existence. He shot Jenna Fox because of Olivia Benson and he'd never be able to forgive himself.
He picks up his beer and takes a long drag before setting it back down the deck railing contemplating how that day has impacted every decision he's made since.
He remembers thinking of how nothing would ever be the same again…. And he'd been right.
. . .
"Elliot, you've got to talk to Cragen. He's going to want your gun," she pleads as calmly as she can muster he assumes.
He hears her pleas, he really does, but his feet don't allow him for any stutter steps. He's moving across the concrete floor faster than his own brain can process.
He soon feels the stairs to the cribs under each boot and he revels in the burn in his muscles as he starts to ascend.
She's still sending him platitudes and he hears them, he appreciates them, he does… but he doesn't slow, his mind is whirring.
He just shot another person. Another one for the books. Another one for IAB to breathe down his neck. Another one to guilt his conscience and second guess his skills, morals, and training.
"Elliot. Slow down. You're not thinking straight!"
He hears Olivia again and he knows he needs to stop, he needs to breathe, needs to say something.
But the adrenaline is slithering its way through his entire body now and he's in overdrive.
He shot someone today.
He killed her when he could have just wounded her to prevent her from shooting anyone else..
He knows he had to stop her and that she knew better than to bring a gun but he knows, he knows with every fiber of his being that he fucked up today.
He goes through his mind listing all the ways this isn't anything new, this isn't a tragedy for the books, this isn't the end.
IAB will search through his files, they will question him a million times, make him jump through hoops and he'll be fine. He tries to believe it.
Olivia's voice rings in his ears again and he feels her cool, slender fingers wrap around his forearm and this time he stops, but he doesn't see her, doesn't truly see her and he knows he's killing her right now; scaring her. Shit, he's scaring himself.
"Elliot, stop." He sees from his peripheral the blood stains in between her fingers and he knows it's leaving residue on his own skin. But he doesn't budge verbally, only he stares ahead. "You have got to calm down."
"I am," he forces out finally.
"Like hell," she breathes out, forcing her way into his line of vision, her hand loosening but not letting go of his arm. "You need to listen to me, Elliot. You know the drill. You need to get a hold of yourself and then hand your gun over. 1PP will be breathing down your neck as soon as they get wind. Don't do anything stupid."
His brows scrunch at her words,...stupid. Yes, he was stupid today. Stupid. Someone who is stupid surely shouldn't be given rights to a gun.
He swallows and pulls out his gun, safety securely latched and looks at it one last time.
Pulling her hand away from his arm, he doesn't have time to revel in the feel of her fingers, so he gently shoves the gun into her free hand and forces his eyes onto hers.
"Give this to Cragen then."
Her eyes soften, and she looks down at the gun resting in her palm. He watches as her stained hand wraps securely around his firearm before he speaks again.
"Please," he whispers.
Her eyes are worried but he can't watch her right now, he'd seen them earlier, the way they opened wide in shock, the way her mouth parted in surprise when Jenna's body crumpled to the floor.
He tries to stay longer but his body aches everywhere and so he subtly glides past her up the stairs, "I'll be in the cribs."
He doesn't wait for her response because he doesn't deserve one. He can imagine her though: confused expression, limp hand on one side and the other floating in the air with his still warm gun in her palm as her brows scrunch in worry.
She'll be fine though. It's him he's worried about.
He's got a lot to think about and he's not sure how long it'll be before he can look her in the eye and be able to stand beside her again.
So with that thought, he finally tells himself that despite his inner need to make it up to her in how he's let her down as a partner, he won't be in the cribs when she comes looking for him later.
…
It's a warm evening and she doesn't expect anything less than the late May warmth in Manhattan this time of year. She's looking over the concrete barrier of the roof she's currently been on for the last couple of hours as she nurses her drink.
She's had a few already but has a steady grasp on the present.
However, for the past seven years, she's never allowed herself to forget the significance of this roof in particular.
It's above a bar she had been to a couple of times over the years. However, she hadn't planned on it becoming a lingering staple in a memory of him.
She had gone to the cribs a little after the coroner had come to pick up the bodies of Sister Peg and Jenna. However, before doing so, she had stood at her desk, in a bit of a daze, not looking at anything in particular when she had felt a hand on her shoulder.
It was Munch and while she felt his sincerity in the way he briefly squeezed her shoulder, she knew he was up to date on the goings on from their superior and had said nothing. She had already began recognizing the solemn atmosphere taking over the precinct. It was nothing she had felt before. It had been eerie.
She watches Munch and Fin talking with Cragen and a few uni's near her boss's office and she feels like she should be doing something. But her own mind is wandering like crazy, reliving the shooting, and conjuring up different scenarios that have yet to happen.
She starts to join her colleagues before stopping, not quite in the mood to discuss what she'd just witnessed not long ago or her partner….
Elliot.
She knows he's in a dark place. His body had started to cave from within almost immediately and she saw that because she knows him so damn well.
He wants space but that's something she sometimes has to pull from him. He's filled with so much space for everyone that sometimes it takes.
He'd been gone by the time she'd looked upstairs for him. She'd seen Ed Tucker walking through the squad room like he owned the joint and she should have known where he was going.
She currently watches below as one of the street lights flick on down the corner. The yellow-orange glow reflects off the windows of the building across the street and the dusk reminds her of that evening seven years prior.
She takes a shower at the precinct and changes into some fresh clothes she'd stored in her locker months ago. She's in too much of a haze and flowing with too much adrenaline, six hours later, to go home.
A lot has changed already in a short time. They've had their floor blocked off for most of the day while the place, crime scene, was being documented.
Her desk is in an array and Cragen's already told her a half dozen times she can take the rest of the day. Munch has taken up his offer but she's still seen Fin a few times walking around, usually with a phone to his ear.
Probably talking to his son Ken. They have a better relationship these days. Which reminds her of her own kin. She's not talked to Simon in three years. She thinks of calling him, surely he's heard about the shooting on the news.
But with that fleeting thought, she thinks of 5 individuals in particular. Maureen, Kathleen, Richard, Elizabeth and Eli.
She wonders if Elliot has talked to them. Or even if he's bothered telling Kathy. In that moment, she dials his cell number impulsively and is surprised when he picks up on the third ring.
"I was hoping you'd have a date tonight."
She scrunches her brows, and looks around at dozen or so people lingering about the precinct.
She walks toward the cribs and ascends the stairs as she responds, "What?"
"I was hoping you had something to take your mind off today."
"Elliot…. Are you drunk?"
She looks at her watch and it's nearly 9pm. He's been at a bar, she can tell by the timber of his voice and the liquidy way his words tumble out. The way he freely says things he normally wouldn't.
"M'not saying I am. But also not saying m'not. Liv….take care of yourself tonight, k?"
Her heart pounds when she hears his retort. He's drinking and not in a great state of mind.
Swallowing, she closes the door to the cribs and straddles the bench in front of her.
"Elliot," she pleads gently. "Where are you? Are 'you' okay?"
"Yeah, m'okay."
"Why don't I believe you?"
"I dunno, do I need a sitter?" he mutters.
Sighing, she puts her phone to her other ear.
"Have you talked to Kathy?"
"No," he quickly replies more sober. "I uh, I didn't think I could talk to her about his. Not right now. She doesn't need it."
She contemplates on whether or not to ask about his kids but..she does anyways.
"What about the kids?"
"Hmm?" he murmurs and she can tell he's fading pretty quickly.
"I asked if you called your kids, Elliot. It might be good for you,... You need to talk to someone."
"Talking to you, aren't I?"
"Yeah you are, but you need to talk to somebody at home ….let them know what's going on."
"I can't talk to them right now. I don't want to ruin their night, not with my problems. They have enough of their own."
"They love you, they'd want to know."
"I dunno."
"They do."
Olivia sits silently in the locker room listening to him breathe on the other line. She wonders if going to him will help him in any way or if he'll come out of his stupor if she forces him to leave the bar.
But then again, maybe he's got the right idea…. maybe a little numbness is what they both need.
"Where are you? I'm coming to pick you up."
The line stays silent for a long moment until he finally mutters and she's surprised by his response, thinking he'd want to be alone indefinitely. Not that she was going to listen.
"Max's. You know the place."
She 'had' known the place and had gone there that night to find him sitting on a stool at the bar. He was noticeably more sober than how he sounded on the phone only a half an hour before.
He still had his clothes on from earlier in the day but he had still looked good. She remembers just watching him from the doorway of the moderately sized bar. It was the middle of the week so it wasn't super busy. He was by himself at the counter, leaning over his empty glass.
She could tell by the way his body was lax that he had had his eyes closed, so she took advantage of being able to just observe him. His tie was on the counter next to his arm and his wallet was laying next to it. She could see his shoulder blades through his light blue work shirt.
She had known in some part of her body that this was the perfect opportunity to remember him as is. She had known in some part of her resolve that he'd disappear and that she wouldn't be able to take inventory of every little detail about him so easily in the oncoming hours.
So she did for long moments before walking up to him and placing a warm hand on his upper back.
He turns around immediately but doesn't say anything, only shakes his head and slides the shot glass away from him.
"Damn it, Olivia," he whispers harshly. She knows he's not mad at her, he's mad at himself. She understands why and she wishes that he didn't feel things so deeply.
Instead of countering his exclamation, she pulls a stool out and sits next to him. He turns back around, keeps his eyes forward but she can tell that he's focused on her movements from the corner of his eyes.
"You don't have to worry," he apologizes. "I'm not as drunk as you think I am and I'm not going to do anything stupid."
She brings her hands up to the counter and stares at her fingernails, contemplating on how to answer.
She mulls over several of the things she had been thinking of earlier: 1. She's glad she took his gun from him, 2. she's glad that he's in a public place., and 3. Numbness.
Number three is what she holds onto when she easily quips with, "So what'd you have tonight? I think I'll have one."
His lip quirks a little and he finally looks better. His eyes are darker due to the dim light of the room yet there's a gleam from the Busch Light hanging behind the bar when he smiles...
"You're too smooth. I know there's a million questions floating in your mind and a million reprimands," he utters shaking his head slightly and then looking down at his hands laying on the counter.
She sits quietly, drumming her own fingers on the counter top before turning her head away and then looking at him again with an amused look on her face.
"That's for another night," she says with a tinge up hopefulness.
"Scotch on the Rocks."
It doesn't take long before they both have drinks in their hands and they're walking up a staircase toward the building's roof. There are tables there with plain Christmas lights strung all around to give an ambient glow.
They both show their pleasure at being the only ones who've made their way to the quieter space.
They silently pick a far table with little light so they can see the street below from their bar stools. There are people on the street and they're very loud and that gives Elliot and Olivia reason not to say much as they sip from their glasses.
Music plays from below in the main bar area, but from above it's just a low rumble of music which adds a welcoming ambiance.
Elliot glances at her a few times and she tries to pin the way her face tingles on the warmth of the night and the alcohol.
It's the way he lingers for long moments before looking away and taking a sip that jars her. Something, something is different and she really wants to pin it on a million things. But not on the most obvious.
He's taking inventory of her too.
Her eyes sting a little and when she glances at him, he turns and looks at her.
Their eyes lock and she knows he can see her own watery gaze staring back at him.
Maybe that's what sends him over the edge.
Sometimes she wishes she had gone over the edge of the roof rather than watch him go over that hypothetical one that night. The one where his fate was sealed in the way he acted on impulse in more than one way in the span of 12-hours.
She stands on that very same roof now and takes a sip of her scotch and waves it in front of her to mix the ice and alcohol. The coolness reminds her of the present and how seven years have gone by since that night.
She remembers leaving, she remembers coming back, she remembers walking away, she remembers feeling his hands on her back, she remembers finally reaching the front of her building in a cab…. But she doesn't remember his face in those moments leading to her destination.
He'd been shrouded in darkness and hidden from the glow of the night.
She takes another sip and turns to leave. As she does, she spots the table, the one, and closes her eyes. That table held so much in one night. So much weight.
Sometimes she wonders if it was too much to bear, that's why the wood splintered near the edges like her heart did when she got to work a month after he'd failed to return as her partner…
A mini badge and a note that was written in his familiar scrawl, Semper Fi, said everything and nothing at all.
. . .
His kids had left about three hours ago and he's been sitting on his back deck for a good 2 hours and 59 minutes of the time since.
He knows exactly what day it is. He hadn't made a big deal of it ever. However, he's always unintentionally gone down a dark path on this day when alone. Of course his family knows of everything now, they'd all gone through their phases of not knowing what to say to him and that eventually had affected his marriage as well.
Kathy had given him space for a long time. He had disappeared for a couple of months and when he came back she'd given him an ultimatum.
He tries not to go into detail of what she had offered. All he knows is that he'd left one night, disappeared into the shadows and didn't want to be found.
Before he'd known where time had went, eight months had passed. And he'd opened his mailbox and there were the papers. Maybe he's pathetic, maybe he's a terrible person but he's glad she sent him the papers to this new address.
She had known and he silently thanks her for it this time. He hadn't been able to accept it, or comprehend it the first time. He'd been selfish the first time, not wanting to be alone, not wanting to go against the life his father had wanted for him. But as he grew as a father, a person, he realized he was a better husband by not being one.
And a better father when he wasn't forcing what wasn't there anymore with his wife.
He picks up a lighter and walks over to the edge of his deck and lights the tiki torch that is supposed to keep the bugs away. He mentally garbles about how they just want his money and how they don't even work. But he goes to each one and lights them, appreciating the extra glow from the small flames even if they don't really keep the bugs away.
When he reaches the last, it hits him how the glow bounces off of the glass panes of his house under the night sky… Much like a street lamp does.
He watches the way the moonlight above glows against her skin. He loves the way her hair frames her face these days and he knows he shouldn't be looking so closely but his heart is picking up speed again, and feels too much tonight.
His mind wants to take inventory of her, so he does.
He watches the way she rubs small circles in the condensation on the wood table and the way she bobs her head every once in a while to the brief moment the door to the front of the building opens and the music filters up towards them.
When the silence between them reaches an undeniable climax, he speaks before he has a chance to stop his lips from opening.
"I saw you on the floor," he whispers nonchalantly.
He purposely avoids her gaze and looks toward the sky.
He feels her gaze on his face and his cheeks warm from within. But he doesn't elaborate.
When he finally looks at her, she is staring at him intensely, her expression void of any of the light hardheartedness they came up here with.
She drops her glass hard on the table and crosses her arms as a way of self preservation he realizes.
"I'm sorry, Liv. If she had shot y-"
She interrupts him by pushing herself away from the table, and he can tell she's recoiling from him already.
"I'm not going to listen to this. You're drunk and you'll regret…." she starts but he stops her before she finishes with his own voice he finds just in the nick of time.
"One: I'm not drunk. And two: You need to hear this."
"Hear what? Hear that you're drinking into a stupor because of me?"
"Liv, you know that's not it at all."
"But isn't it?"
He blanches at her question, because he'd told himself when the day had turned to shit that it was her fault. And that he hated himself for thinking it.
"Liv, …." he breathes on rush of air, trying to find the words to explain.
"Elliot, I was there. I know what happened."
"No… you don't,...not everything" he trails off in a low timbre.
He watches her as she stares at him with a confused expression. Her neatly trimmed brows scrunch so delicately that he finds himself taking inventory of that even in this moment.
He can tell she's getting pissed because he's staring and not putting in the effort to prove her wrong.
"Elliot," she begins, taking a step back towards him and no, he doesn't' want her to get close. He needs to her stand right where she is under the hanging lights so he can see the way she stands when she's agitated, and then happy, content, in a rush, exasperated, and so on.
He needs to take her in, because he's 100% sure this is it.
This night is it.
Something in his mind clicks and he's not sure whether it's impulse or just adulterated need, but he moves then.
He's standing and the alcohol has settled in his blood and he's not as nearly numb as he wishes.
But he rushes up on her and the shocked expression on her face is not much different than the one he'd seen earlier in the precinct when he'd fucked up for the first time today.
If that expression on her face doesn't change soon, this would be the second time.
He's forever grateful that no one else is on the roof and that it's mid week, for this moment alone with her is everything he's ever wanted to say to her.
"Olivia," he pants in her ear as he presses her to the wall beside the stairwell door, his forearms planted against the brick wall beneath her underarms. She's stiff, still in shock that he's gotten this close on purpose. He knows he only has a short amount of time to say what he wants to say before she kills him.
"I'm not perfect, Liv. I know I don't have a lot of time to get this out, so I'll just say this one bit. You're everything that's kept me sane in this shit show of a job. You're the only thing that kept me from going off the deep end years ago. Your existence in my life is everything that makes sense. You. I saw you on the floor, your blood, and then I lost all purpose."
"Elliot," he hears her grate into his ear, but he presses closer, not quite touching her chest with his own but close enough to know that he's invading her space like never before. "I don't wanna hear this… I didn't tell you to shoot her," she whispers, her voice showcasing the hurt.
He grates his teeth, knowing he's failing at what he wanted to do. "No, …. You didn't. You did everything right, Olivia. You did what you were supposed to do. You lived. And I hate myself for silently praying for that when I shouldn't have been."
He feels her hands lift then and she gently presses on his chest as to give herself space. He swallows and immediately steps away, feeling guilty beyond all consciousness for crowding her.
He rubs in between his eyes with his thumb and index finger and paces a bit before her voices seeps into him.
"Elliot, you have got to stop creating this world where everything has got to be played out perfectly in your pseudo pristine life. Not everything will be perfect. Not every action will be perfect. Not every thought will be perfect. Not every decision … will be perfect," she finishes in a whisper.
He nods and takes in her words. Silence creeps up on them and they're both frozen by what's just happened. He still feels the sensation of her ear on his lips as he had gotten a little closer than he'd planned… and then he shakes his head, realizing his mistake.
"I prayed that you would walk out of there alive. Before I shot her, I wanted to make sure it wasn't your blood they'd be scrubbing out of the tiles," he whispers.
She doesn't answer him for long moments, and when he closes his eyes, he thinks he might have imagined coming up here with her in his waning alcoholic haze.
That's when she speaks.
"I'm sorry, Elliot. I just wanted to see that you were okay and that you weren't alone."
He nods and but doesn't say anything being already in self deprecation mode as he feels her glide past him toward the exit. "I'm gonna go," she whispers over her shoulder before disappearing into the darkness.
He stands there numb. Partially from the way she walked away from him after what he'd confessed and partially from how he still has so much to say.
He mumbles to himself how pathetic he is again and walks to the edge of the roof where a wall meets the concrete ledge. He stares over and watches the people coming and going from the buildings all around. He wonders if he's the only person who's lived the last day of this part of his life.
He wonders if Olivia knows.
He takes a drink and as he swallows he hears the door creek open behind him and when he turns, he's stunned.
She stands there with an expression that he's seen a few times but never with her…. This is different. This is impulsive on her part and he knows something has changed in her because her eyes are intense and maybe she's now realizing the intensity of his words from a moment ago.
He swallows hard, the lingering alcohol burning his chest.
He locks eyes with her from twenty feet away.
They're frozen in place, and hot all at once and that's when he slips off the precipice.
He pushes his body forward, his feet scraping the concrete beneath the soles of his work shoes. She moves almost simultaneously but he's quicker and before they have a chance to focus, they're in each other's arms and his face is buried in the hair at her neck.
Her arms wrap around him and he can feel her combined fists ball at his lower back, and she's pressed so tight. So goddamned tight that he can feel her everywhere.
He feels the strands of her silky hair brush against his lips as he turns his face further in, searching for the skin of her cheek, her jaw and before he realizes it, her neck.
He nosedives into the point of no return and molds himself against her as she presses her back into the solid wall behind her. Her head falls back and her arms follow suit, pulling him closer, pressing their chests together.
He sees the expanse of her neck and feels wild, untamed as he leans down and kisses the side of her neck. It's the tiniest thing, but the convulsion that runs through her entire body from his action fuels him.
Her hands glide up and down his back as he runs his lips against her skin. He retraces his steps and skims across her jaw and back up to her cheek before he whispers in her ear.
"Liv… tell me no."
She shakes her head against the wall and her hair scrunches up behind her, so he puts his palm there, gives her space, gives her cushion, gives her an out before this goes too far.
Olivia's hands are moving again before he can take a deep breath and regain his control. She's touching him carefully but wildly, in a way that is only her way of dealing with their current state of desire.
She's pulling his dress shirt out of his pants and his head is spinning and that's when leans down and kisses her.
Her hands freeze around each of his hips as he steps closer and presses his lips against hers harder.
Her hands flex in response, digging her fingertips into his hip bones.
Her mouth opens and he wants to taste her in every way possible but he settles for slipping his tongue inside her mouth, sliding his hands toward her neck.
He's kissing her, he's kissing Olivia in the most tenderest, yet explosive way. He's not disappointed by the way they mold together so effortlessly, with each tilt of their heads or bite of their lips.
His shirt is pulled out of his pants and if they stop now, they can play off their actions as just… coincidental. She's fully dressed but she's got on a pair of skinny jeans and a dark blue blouse.
If he undid the first button, he'd be able to see the tops of her breasts and he's not sure he'd be able to keep this encounter fully clothed if so.
So he wraps his arms around her, pulling her body flush against his, his palms searing through her blouse and the warmth of her skin singing his finger tips. She immediately wraps her arms around his neck and kisses underneath his jaw as he lifts her up against the wall.
His eyes slam closed at the sensation and lets his full body weight press against her as her thighs open up around his waist. She's still touching her mouth against his neck and he wants to feel it in other places.
But he settles for the way she runs her finger tips against the back of his neck and kisses his jaw, darting her tongue out every few touches.
He pulls away and forces her to look at him, pressing his forehead to hers.
They're both breathing heavily and it's her husky voice that blends everything together: the night sky, the city air, the mood, and the sensation of their bodies melded to tightly in this open space.
With so much openness around them, they find themselves so deeply tangled under the glow of night and the watchful eye of the moon.
"Let it go," she murmurs and he's finding it hard to believe that she wants this as much as he does, or that she's letting him touch her at all.
For she's the one with the multitude of reasons why he shouldn't "ruin the best thing that's ever happened to him."
When he closes his eyes and swivels his hips in the tightly confined space between his groin and the crux of her thighs, the moan that falls from her lips repeatedly is what disproves any excuses she's ever given him.
She's that thing.
….
She's thinking of heading home and sulking in the privacy of her own apartment when she remembers sitting in a bar a few weeks into training her new partners, Rollins and Amaro.
She's seen the looks everyone has been giving her. She knows they feel sorry for her.
"I'm sorry about Elliot," Alex first lamented earlier during their current case.
"Me too," she had responded as level as possible as to not sound pathetic.
But in this bar with all her new and old colleagues, the self loathing comes full force when she talks to Fin.
"Talk to Elliot?"
"No. [...] Elliot's probably afraid to talk to you. Doesn't want you to try and talk him out of it."
"Out of what? He's not going to quit."
"He shot a teenage girl. He may never ever want to put on his gun again."
Olivia's silence following Fin's statement is all she needs to know about herself.
Yes, Fin, that's definitely the reason why, she thinks to herself sarcastically but knowing the real reason and keeping safely tucked inside of her…. A level of guilt consumes her from within, an inevitable ache forming where her heart used to be.
She calls him several times after their night on the roof of Max's. She wants to tell him that it's okay. She doesn't blame him for what they did, and she hopes he doesn't blame her, it won't happen again. It was a lapse in judgement and she thinks they can still work together.
She feeds herself this mantra until she believes it… sort of.
The longer he's away from her, the precinct, the job, the more it feels like he never existed and she hates that feeling. For one quarter of her life, he's been there and all of a sudden, nothing.
She gives up calling him after months of no answer.
….
His chest aches when remembering that first call he'd received from her. He couldn't face her because he 'had' talked to Fin. And Fin'd been right, he was afraid he'd stay there in a job that continually took from him, just for her. And if he wasn't whole, he would take from her in a way that wouldn't be fixable.
He'd wanted to answer, but he'd been so confused. How could he end that era of his life if she was going to let him have her? Let him know she was everything he had fantasized about. How she was just as perfect in the shadows as she was in the vibrancy of day.
He had silently wept the first night away from everyone he loved. His first night in his home by the sand, he'd prayed to God, that he'd made the right choice letting not only the job go, but her as well.
He'd committed adultery that night and he didn't deserve her. He didn't deserve his family.
"Look, I don't want to stalk you, but, you know, if you need to talk, I'm here."
He replays that message every once in awhile when he thinks he's forgotten what she sounds like. But then he's reminded.
He's running out of beer and if he's going to make it through the rest of the night without falling apart, he better make a run before it gets too late.
He checks the clock inside on the kitchen microwave and can't believe another hour has passed.
He blows out the torches, grabs his house keys, the wad of cash in the jar beside the door and locks up the house.
The emptiness only serves as the gentle reminder that this is a new era. However, fleeting, the memory of Olivia is very present in it.
He leaves, with her as the last thought on his mind.
….
Olivia's leaving the bar, she really is. However, every time she thinks of returning to her apartment, alone, she blanches at the idea. Of course, there's plenty of potential suitors downstairs but she's feeling jaded more than ever and a little sick by the idea of numbing the woes of what day it is with a stranger.
Maybe the music is enough company and she takes that as a step in the right direction. The direction that is, to the bar downstairs because she needs a refill.
She's heading toward the counter when she hears the door to the establishment open briefly and in filters the sound of people yelling and chanting from outside.
She orders a bottle of beer this time and decides to walk outside to watch the people.
There are other businesses still open and she watches as a couple come out of the building across the street with some food. Down the street some, she can still see a clothing store with its lights still on.
She takes a sip and walks toward an alley to see patrons playing horseshoes. Out of the corner of her eyes she sees cars pulling up, parking and pulling away as well as several cabs.
She's easily distracted by the group of people playing that she doesn't realize the tingling sensation on the back of her neck until a few moments later.
She takes a swig of her beer and for some reason she glances behind her at the sidewalk and her lips freeze on the tip of her bottle.
He's standing there with an expression she's seen only a few times. But his stance is the same stance she's seen a million times. He has his hands in his pockets but he wears a simple white t shirt that ripples in the light wind that's just picked up. He looks the same. But his jaw is a little grayer than before… and a little hairier.
That same jaw twitches and she realizes that a smirk has formed on his lips and she can't believe it. Her eyes sting but she doesn't care.
She's seen him get out of a cab out of the corner of her eye, but only now realizing that she wasn't hallucinating, it was him.
He pulls his hands out of his pockets and walks toward her. She turns toward him and sets her beer on the table on her way and his arms are already floating in the air.
It only takes moments for her to collide against him, her arms wrapping around him as tightly as his around her.
With the little air left between them, there's only one word on her tongue: Elliot.
Finis.