Rating: M, adult stuff
Disclaimer: See chapter one. No infringement intended/moolah made.
Spoilers: Nope
Pairings: Elliot/Olivia, Olivia/Other, Elliot/Others
Summary: Elliot struggles with his feelings for his partner when she and her significant other decide to marry.
A/N: Thank you to the lovely few who reviewed the first chapter of this story despite it being mostly exposition. The price of admission to this story (as with all my stories) is a few words in the box below. Please think of it as an Honesty Box and make your donation on your way out. I consider this a pretty fair exchange of energy. If you do not wish to contribute, you are free to find another story to read (though I think you will be hard-pressed to find an author who wouldn't like their work, time and love acknowledged). Alternatively, you can go to the great effort of creating your own. If you continue to read without "payment" and therefore without my permission, you are essentially pirating my work. I, of course, have no way of preventing this so it is now up to you whether or not you choose to read ethically.
ii.
Cheers darlin',
Here's to you and your lover man
Cheers darlin',
I just hang around and eat from a can
Cheers darlin',
I got a ribbon of green on my guitar
Cheers darlin',
I got a beauty queen to sit not very far from me…
At first, his duties as man of honor are pretty limited. They involve buying himself a tux. When he groans in reluctance, Olivia informs him that none of his suits are wedding worthy. Elliot can't argue with her there. She knows every single one of his suits – just like he'd know every single one of hers if he paid as much attention to what she put on her body as he did to what he imagined was going on beneath her clothes. Sometimes he's not so discreet about his appreciation either. But his partner forgives him. Or he assumes she forgives him because they never discuss his trespassing eyes' fascination with her form.
He puts off buying a tux for as long as possible. So long that, one night, when Olivia's dropping him off at his apartment, she abruptly pulls on the handbrake and invites herself upstairs. He's still flicking on the lights and securing his weapon as she's marching into his bedroom and flinging open his closet. She ignores the box of porn on the floor, the magazine on top showing a curvy brunette in a fraction of a police officer's uniform. Intent on her task, Olivia flicks through his pathetic array of suits, sliding each one aside with an assured nope. Elliot just stands there, two steps behind her. She's right, of course. All his suits brag of his exploits as a cop. Despite regular dry-cleaning, they hold the grit of the city, its sordid heat and rancid smell. Each one looks sad, limp, hanging in his closet, edges frayed from diving to the ground or dodging bullets or being slept in, worried in, infuriated in.
She stalls when she swipes a jacket to one side and happens upon a blue and white Hawaiian shirt that's a couple of sizes too big for him. Olivia unhooks the hanger, holds up the shirt and turns to him with raised eyebrows. "Are you serious with this thing?"
Elliot snatches the shirt back. "Hey, you don't know what I do on my own time."
"Yeah, I don't wanna know what you do on your own time," she mutters, heading for the bedroom door. "Get a tux!" she adds, calling over her shoulder from the adjacent room.
A few moments later, he hears the door swing shut behind her. Elliot throws his favorite holiday shirt back into the closet. It lands on the floor, next to the box of porn. Next to the brunette with the badge and the boobs and the wicked smirk.
The following weekend, he buys himself a tux to rival even the groom's. He goes to one of those swanky places that men like Graham buy all their suits at. The female assistants fawn over him and offer him more choices than any man needs. He buys the most expensive one, spending more on one suit than he's spent on clothes in his entire life. Combined.
-x-
Four days later, he climbs the squadroom stairs to find Olivia flicking through a magazine while talking on the phone. Elliot hands her her lunch then drops down beside her on the yellow plaid couch. Her shoulder immediately collides with his. The sofa is old and sags in the middle, forcing any two people who sit on it to lean lopsidedly close together. Olivia ends her call pretty quickly, as she usually does when speaking to Graham in his presence. She concludes the conversation with a soft me too which Elliot assumes means that Graham just told her he loves her.
Throwing her phone onto the cushion beside her, Olivia shoots him a smile of thanks then opens her box of salad. She's started watching her weight in anticipation of the wedding. She hasn't told him so, but he's noticed. So he bought her a salad for lunch instead of a sandwich. He didn't get her the fat-free dressing though, as a silent gesture of protest. Because he'd prefer his partner's curves – and her marriage status – to stay just as they are. Elliot takes a bite of his sandwich, washes his mouthful down with soda and watches as she flicks through the magazine. It's full of squeaky-clean models in white dresses, standing beside tall, tuxified men who have way too much hair and way too many teeth. As she flicks, Elliot starts to doubt his choice of tux. Maybe he should have asked her opinion on it before buying. Maybe he should have gone with a bow tie and not a regular tie like he usually wears.
He takes another bite and another gulp of soda.
Olivia continues eating her salad, one hand holding the magazine, a finger inserted to hold her place at a previous point. After several silent minutes, Elliot grazes that finger with one of his and asks:
"You want a second opinion?"
She gives him a lenient smile and shakes her head. "You don't have to."
He shrugs, bites and asks around his mouthful, "Isn't that one of the duties of the bride's right-hand man? I mean…you can't ask the groom, right?"
She looks at him oddly, her smile fading as if he knows something she doesn't.
"Bad luck," he explains in response to her expression.
She nods in comprehension, smiles again in relief. "Okaaay…." Returning to the page her finger has been bookmarking, she props the magazine on her crossed knee, pivoting it closer so that her leg brushes his through their matching black trousers. "In your male opinion then, is this too sexy for a wedding?"
Elliot angles his head as he examines the dress as worn by a too skinny, too young to be married blonde. "On her – no. On you…" he lifts his gaze to hers, pauses deliberately to grin, "no. There's no such thing as too sexy. Not in this male's opinion."
Olivia's brows creep upwards. "Even for a forty-something mom with three kids?"
He wags his head, sucks some mayo off his thumb then continues eating. "Even then."
She considers this statement for a mere moment then tosses the magazine aside. "Ah, what would you know? You're never gonna get hitched."
"Not if I can avoid it."
"You've done a pretty good job of avoiding it so far."
"Comes with practice."
"I'll bet." She pulls her body away from his on the sagging sofa, turning instead to face him, her back leaning against the arm and one leg folded flat on the cushion between them. "But…don't you ever wanna…?"
Her voice tapers off, causing Elliot to glance her way. "What?"
"You know…" She pokes at her salad with her fork. "Come home to someone at the end of a long day? Tell 'em your troubles."
He gives an easy shrug. "I have you for that."
"I see. And what about kids?" She stabs a piece of tomato, mops it round and round in the non-fat-free dressing then pops it in her mouth. "What about passing on those sturdy Stabler genes?"
Elliot opens his mouth, closes it, looks away, then mumbles, "I don't think I'm cut out to be a dad, do you?"
Olivia barely pauses before answering in a simple, honest tone, "Well, yeah, actually. I think you'd be a great dad." She glances up from her salad, adds with a slight smirk, "'Course, first you'd have to find a woman to put up with you."
"You do," he points out, tipping his drink at her.
Her smirk fades but her eyes still glint with humor as she replies in a low voice, "Comes with practice." She closes the lid on her salad, reaches for the can of soda he brought her. "Still if I can then…maybe it's possible…another woman will."
Elliot nods in uncertain agreement. "May-be…"
Olivia pauses before pulling the tab on her drink – he also refused to get her diet soda. "Does that mean I should put you down as a plus one?"
"Uh?"
"For the wedding."
"Oh." He frowns, clears his throat. "Sure. Why not?"
His mind is already jumping ahead to possible past conquests he can call on to accompany him to a wedding. Someone who won't notice or care that he's clearly head-over-heels in love with the bride. But his thoughts and their conversation are interrupted by a shout from below. Their captain's urgent tone causes them both to jump back into action, forgetting all about sandwiches and salads, tuxes and gowns, wedding ceremonies and potential significant others.
-x-
Somehow, their conversation about the dress in the magazine gets him roped into being part of the decision-making committee. More than once, his partner has stressed that he does not have to perform the duties that would be the role of any devoted maid of honor. In fact, she's made a concerted effort to avoid any talk of weddings with him, sensing his aversion to the topic, though hopefully not his reason why. Sophie, however, insists he play his part. Graham's mother calls him at work and relays the details, inviting him to give a masculine perspective on Olivia's top three choices. Elliot gets the distinct impression that she is not accustomed to hearing the word no. If he'd come across the woman in his work, he'd have thought her a feisty and perceptive old bird. Since she's Graham's mother and since she always seems to eye him with an air of suspicion, he considers her a nosy old bat who's making his hellish life more hellish than it needs to be.
He goes along though – he doesn't have much of a choice. And he figures it can't take long to try on three dresses. The wild inaccuracy of this assumption only proves how little time he spends in the company of women. He stands at the back of the room the whole time, trying not to touch anything for fear of leaving stains. The whole place is white. Except for the floor which has plush, light blue carpeting that his shoes sink into when he walks. The sales assistants seem to glide over the plush in their sky-high heels. They weave around ridiculously huge bouquets of flowers, offering champagne or cappuccino or herbal tea with little cakes the size of lego pieces. They're there twenty minutes before anyone even mentions a dress. Elliot tunes out the talk of veils and flowers and accessories and drinks his midget-sized coffee. Sitting on the filigreed sofa, Olivia shoots him a sympathetic look.
Eventually, she retreats down a little corridor, emerging an interminable time later in a white gown. It's nice. It looks like all the other dresses to him. The ones from her magazine. The ones in the television commercials that he's suddenly started paying attention to. It's white. Lacy. Long. It does nice things for his partner's figure and exposes a decent amount of cleavage. When Olivia, Sophie and the two assistants turn to him, he gives a shrug and a nod. Three expectant faces fall. Olivia's just smiles. She bows her head, picks up her voluminous white skirt and walks towards the dressing room at her usual, efficient pace.
The second one is different. It looks more like a negligee than a gown to him. It's sleek and silky and figure-hugging and when Olivia turns around, thin little straps fall from the nape of her neck down her exposed back. Elliot stands to attention, his mouth going dry and his eyes forgetting to blink. He asks a passing girl for another coffee/tea/champagne/anything wet. He hopes the girl works there, though he's not actually sure. Olivia faces herself in a floor-length mirror, both hands smoothing over the material clinging to her hips. He can't believe she'd actually consider wearing such a thing in public. It's indecent. Or at least, it does indecent things to his brain, to his anatomy. So possibly the problem is with him, not with the dress. A tray passes by him. He takes a miniature champagne glass off it, downs the thing like a shot. The four faces turn to him. Someone asks a question. Elliot shakes his head.
The third time, Olivia is in the dressing room for a ridiculous amount of time. He literally has no clue what they're doing back there. He glances at his watch. The classical music playing in the background is starting to get on his nerves. The younger sales assistant keeps Sophie occupied though, which is a minor blessing. He tries not to hear her talking about the ceremony and about how cute the twins look in their mini tuxes and about how Graham and Olivia met that magical day at the fish market. At least he's not the one sitting on the sofa with her, feigning interest. At least Graham's mother is not turning her suspicious, perceptive gaze on him and seeing things he knows he's not good at hiding. It's about the only thing he can find to be grateful for in that moment.
The final dress is the one. Obviously – and by a mile. He doesn't know why anyone even considered the other two. Because the final dress is Olivia, through and through. Elegant but earthy. Simple but stunning. Classy, confident and sexy. It clings to her body from breast to hip to ankle, leaving her shoulders and arms completely bare. He's never been allowed to see so much of her flesh before. He never knew about the freckles on her shoulder blades or the exact hue of the skin on her back. It's a painfully pleasant shock to his system. Elliot runs a hand over his mouth, looks down at the plushy carpeting beneath his unshined shoes. When he looks up again, four pairs of eyes are on him.
His eyes meet Olivia's. His mouth lifts in one corner.
"Yeah?" she murmurs.
"Yeah," he replies, although the word gets stuck in his throat and doesn't emerge as anything more than a croak.
For a moment, the other three sets of eyes ping-pong between his partner's face and his own. Sophie breaks the hush with a loud exclamation of delight. Olivia is turned to the mirror, measured and admired and pricked with pins. After several minutes in which Elliot wonders whether his duty is done and he can now go get drunk, Olivia complains that she can't breathe so the zipper at the back of her dress is lowered. It's too much for his heart to take. Too much for his eyes to absorb or for his brain to resist. All that skin. All that Olivia. All that honey-brown smoothness, only interrupted by the ridges of her spine. That sweet smattering of freckles. The tone and softness of her, the beautiful, bare vulnerability of her. All visible through the open back of the dress.
He fakes a call and gets the hell out of there, grabbing another champagne as he goes out the door. He can't get to his apartment fast enough, can't get enough distance between him and what he's just witnessed. He slams the door behind him, heads straight for the fridge. Beer will have to do as he hasn't got anything harder. He uncaps a bottle, downs half as he heads for the shower. He strips off, takes the beer in with him, puts it on the tiny little soap shelf. He jiggles the taps the way only he knows how, makes the temperature nice and warm. He drinks the last of the beer. Then he soaps up, closes his eyes and lets his hand drift lower.
He doesn't need porn this time. He doesn't need the special edition with all those sexpots dressed in uniforms, glowering at perps or perched on overflowing desktops. He doesn't need to think of his past lovers, of his illicit misuse of his badge and cuffs. All he needs is the memory of her skin. Just her shoulders. Her arms. Her hands. The back of her neck. The riffs of her hair. Her spine, shoulder blades. The dip of her back. The shadow of her ribs. The cinch of her waist. He doesn't even need to imagine touching her, sliding his hands inside the dress. He can't anyway. But the sight of her, the memory of her. The reality of her naked skin existing in such proximity to him instantly has him panting her name into the hiss of the shower. He leans his hand against the tile, his head against his hand. And after an embarrassingly short interval, his other hand limply twists the tap to cold.
When he gets out of the shower, a text message from Olivia waits for him. She thanks him for his presence and input at the bridal shop. Then tells him she'll see him Monday. Elliot doesn't answer. He just throws his phone on the bed and heads to the fridge for another beer.
TBC...