Title: a wind in the shadow
Pairing: Elliot/Olivia.
Summary: Afterwards, he goes to Olivia.
Notes: Written for the dialogue prompt, "Tell me." Takes place right before the end of 11.03. Elliot's relationship with his wife isn't really mentioned, though there is squint-and-you'll-miss-it implied infidelity, if that's a squick.
Title taken from 'Only Love' by Ben Howard. Enjoy!
The decision to visit Olivia is almost accidental, unintentional. He'd meant to drive toward Queens. Had meant to go home, to see his kids. Catch up on everything he'd missed while locked in the hole. But it's muscle memory: the reaction a subconscious decision, something he does without really thinking.
One moment he's sat outside Sonya's office building, head leaning against the car seat as he waits for the Sedan to heat up, his gaze fixed on the road in front of him as he watches traffic pass in a blur of red and white lights. The next, he's pulling out onto the street. Is winding through familiar roads; driving until his partner's apartment building is in sight.
Sonya's refusal to make a deal is still playing over in his head, Donovan's days old testimony, too. He'd thought it was all bull at first, but now not so much. Now, he can't shake the feeling of guilt.
It's late, but Olivia's still awake. She opens the door after the second knock, stands before him in makeshift pyjamas, her hair wet like she's fresh from the shower, and Elliot stares. Locks his eyes on hers.
"Elliot," she says in greeting, her voice soft. She trails her gaze over his face, over the unshaven jaw and bags beneath his eyes, over the solid body clad in casual clothing. She stops at his arms, at where his hands rest at his sides: fingers curled into fists, his short nails digging into the flesh of his palms. They twitch as they clench, unclench. As if battling with the urge to reach out and touch.
He knows she knows, knows that she can read him, that she can see. Can tell right away that his stint in solitary had got to him. That he's still trying to wrap his head around how much.
She doesn't seem surprised, but then, that's not surprising either. She'd been worried when he'd told her what he was doing. Not overtly, but he'd seen it in her expression. Could feel it in the gentle touch of her hand on his back as they'd said goodbye. Could tell by the look in her eye.
It's the same one she has now.
Olivia doesn't mention it, but she does step back, the act a silent invitation for him to enter. Elliot moves forward, pulls the door shut behind them and then locks it.
He's on her only a moment later, one arm winding around her waist as the other follows, his hand reaching to graze her jaw, slide around the back of her neck. She leans into it, tilts her head back against his touch, and when he leans forward to kiss her, she's ready. Waiting. Her eyes fluttering shut as he moves his mouth across hers: slowly but with purpose, the touch a silent admission of what he doesn't want to say out loud.
She cups his jaw when they break apart, brushes her thumb back and forth across his cheek in a comforting gesture. "What happened?" she says, and they're still close enough that it's whispered against his skin.
Elliot exhales, breath warm and ticklish. "I don't know," he tells her. Slips a hand beneath the hem of her shirt and lets his palm rest flat against her bare back; lets the heat she radiates help dissipate the lingering chill of Sing Sing.
It'd been strange, isolation. He'd thought he could handle it. That it would be easy. That it would be reminiscent of a few years prior, when he lived in a dingy Manhattan flat with no one to keep him company: no wife, no children to keep the place alive with chatter. But it'd been different—no white noise, no passing cars or bustling city, no streetlights or morning light, no TV playing in the background, no voice coming through the phone. There'd been nothing but himself and the sporadic sounds of his neighbours, the rare shout or scream, the irregular presence of a guard, of orders being yelled and doors being opened, locked. The drip of a leaky faucet, the scruff of feet against stone, of food being thrown.
It hadn't taken long for his mind to supply something to fill the silence, though the imagined whispers had only made it worse.
"Felt like I was going crazy," he adds, then, and his hands squeeze lightly. His fingers digging into Olivia's flesh gently. "Didn't think I'd miss human contact like that," he says, and Olivia huffs a laugh: quick and quiet.
"You never were a people person," she murmurs, though it's empathetic. She nudges his jaw, leans forward to kiss him again as she reaches behind her to grab hold of his hand. "Come," she says, manoeuvring them so she can tug him forward, toward her couch.
He settles down against the cushion, Olivia's body following his own, and Elliot can tell she's being careful about it. Knows she's still painfully aware of his latest near-death experience, that she's trying not to aggravate any lingering injuries. It's oddly endearing. Has his mouth twitching to a shadow of a smile.
He pulls her against his side with more force than he knows is needed, and Olivia gives him a warning look but she doesn't argue. Chooses instead to drop her head to his shoulder, her hand reaching to hold loosely onto his.
"Tell me," she says, the words an invitation for him to get everything off his chest.
Elliot inhales, exhales. Runs his thumb along her inner wrist before he finally starts talking, his sentences quiet and fragmented.
He'll have to leave eventually, but for now that thought doesn't cross his mind. For now, he's content to sit in the pleasure of his partner's company. Is happy to relish in the warmth of human contact as he tries to appease his guilty conscious.