A/N: Sorry for the wait!
She's not sure if it's the fluorescent lighting in Elliot's small, square bathroom that's causing her to look sickly, or if the reflection staring back at her is truly threatening to lose what little dinner is still in her stomach.
She's pale, she can see that for certain, and there are dark crescents under her eyes that could either be chalked up to a very late night, or the fact that her heartbeat is so haywire that she'd be surprised if any blood is actually making it to her extremities. Her fingertips are numb and she feels slightly light-headed.
With Elliot stubbornly refusing to grant her the chance to explain herself and hell bent on ignoring her, she's turned her back on his frustratingly infantile behaviour and retreated to the privacy of the bathroom, her only means of escape in his four-walled apartment. Her propensity to run is not nullified by broken kitchen sinks are beautiful blue-eyes babies. At the core, she'll always be one to pack up and flee from the problem.
At least within the confines of the thin walls she has enough privacy to panic, hyperventilate, or, god forbid, bash her face into the hard porcelain of the counter until she passes out and no longer has to worry about her situation.
Her situation. Her situation, where she finds herself clutching two small bits of material, one a light blue tank top from when she was just a rookie – young and fit and overly athletic, the other a pair of black boy-cut panties that cling to her ass as if she's got someone she's trying to impress.
Sighing loudly and frowning hatefully at the woman staring back at her equally as unhappily, Olivia slouches in defeat, her forehead finding relief in the cradle of her palms, her elbows planted on the surface of the counter. She threads her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit, and leans over the sink. If she could fall down the drain right now, really, that would be so nice, she decides.
Minutes later, her worry warps into some misplaced form of embarrassment as she pictures Elliot, lying in the bedroom, listening to his sink in the bathroom run for what is now going on twenty minutes. It is quite plainly ridiculous, how much time she has been standing here, biting her nails and pulling at her clothes, and, as she well knows, nothing is going to change. The night is well on its way to morning, and her qualms at the inappropriateness of her outfit are quickly loosing the insurmountable battle with her grainy eyelids.
Like sandpaper and weighing more than a freight train, Olivia's eyelids slip shut, even as she roots vigorously to keep them open. It's a fruitless effort, and shortly after, her arms give way and her chin, previously resting on the palms of her hands, slams rudely against the white countertop.
"Fuck," she mutters, exasperated, and stands, pressing her fists into her eyes. "Christ, get a grip," she curses under her breath, throwing on the barely-there pyjamas that are wrinkled in her hand. Shoulders as squared as she can manage given her state of sleep-walking and her misgivings about sharing a bed with her partner, she inhales bravely before turning off the tap, flipping off the bright lights, and turning the loose handle on the door.
Her tired feet shuffle out into the apartment before her mind has a chance at second thoughts.
He doesn't know why he's still awake, and probably what's bothering him the most is that he knows, in his subconscious, that he's staying awake waiting for her. He doesn't know why; since he's well and rightfully pissed off at her, and he'd much rather just ignore the realization than acknowledge it.
The tap that has run in the bathroom for the past twenty minutes or so has caused the pipes in his wall to creak and groan as water barrels through them. How appropriate, he scoffs, that the problem that started this whole disaster would follow them everywhere.
Still turned with his back to the bathroom door, his glance slips down to the foot of the bed where Eli's crib rests. His son's delicate little bird-like rib cage rises and falls quickly, tiny baby breaths puffing from his lips. His lips are puckered along with his brow, a sign that he's in a deep, deep sleep. Although the sight of his son calms his temper a little, Elliot's mind is still rattled at her unbelievable comments, and now at the amount of time she's spending avoiding him – or whatever the hell she's doing in there.
He really wishes she's fucking hurry up with whatever lady-duties she's performing in there. He knows, of course, form his generous experience with three teenaged girls, that a woman's pre-sleep routine is long and meticulous and should really be made into some sort of cookbook recipe for all the instructions and particular steps it holds. But really, he reasons, twenty minutes is just ridiculous. There are only so many skin products and creams and moisturizers she can coat herself with, and it isn't like he's got any of those high-tech electrical outlets in his crappy-ass bathroom, so she can't possibly be straightening her hair or whatever it is women do before bed. He's never quite understood the female obsession with applying perfume and cream and fixing hair before bed. Quite ridiculous, actually. Who's there to impress?
He scoffs. Why can't she just face that his feelings are hurt? It's four in the morning, for crying out loud, why can't she just get into bed and – oh.
Oh.
The bed. Jesus fucking Christ, the bed. There is only one. He is absolutely frozen against the mattress. A statue under the covers as awareness suddenly settles over him like a harsh gust of wind.
He has little time to recover from the blow, much less come up with a convenient solution to the problem, for just as his breathing accelerates, he hears the tap turn off in the bathroom, followed by the abrupt silence of the fan being flicked off. In a panic he tries to reach over the side of the bed, gunning for his t-shirt, but before he can close his fingers around the material, the door is opened tentitavely, with a quiet click, and he can feel her walk out into the bedroom. He doesn't even have time to roll back over and make room.
In his state of absolute shock, all he can do is lie as still as he can, pretending to be asleep.
Olivia stands by the side of the bed, just breathing for a moment – a moment in which she wills her heart beat to slow the hell down. She can literally feel it at the base of her throat, pumping hard and uncomfortably.
Carefully, making sure not to disturb any of the blankets touching Elliot, Olivia peels back the corner of the comforter and slips onto the very edge of the mattress, without disturbing any of the material around her.
She tries her hardest to lie perfectly still, but the more she becomes aware of her feat of not moving, the harder it is to actually stay still. She becomes conscious of the itch that's pinching on her lower calf, of the ache behind her knee just begging to be stretched out. The sheets feel nice and cool against her bare legs, and the pillow is soft against her head. Despite the fact that she was moments away from falling asleep a few moments ago, she is now wide-awake, aware of everything, lying on the very edge of his mattress.
Minutes pass, and she doesn't move. Neither does he. Her body is tense and she can't relax, every muscle primed with the challenge of staying absolutely, perfectly still.
Suddenly – and it startles her – Elliot sighs loudly from his position a good gap of mattress away from her. "You just gonna do that all night?" He asks, his voice gravely. "I swear if you keep this up I'll never sleep."
She's going to die. Please, let lightening strike her right now. "W-what?" She replies, her voice tight.
"You're about to fall off the bed," he points out, his back still to her. His bare back. His corded, thick, muscular back that is a wide expanse of skin.
"No I'm not," she retorts defensively, feeling the edge of the mattress that is, truthfully, only about an inch away from her.
He sighs heavily, and moves over a bit on the mattress. "Whatever."
She frowns into the darkness. "Fuck you, Elliot. You're the one who's pissy and I didn't even do anything."
She feels him tense beside her. Like a little boy, he grabs his pillow roughly and bunches it up before slamming his head down onto it. "Go to sleep, Olivia. Just…" he makes a sound of frustration, and a sharp gesture with his hand.
Oddly, the sudden outburst from his has relaxed her. She feels less inclined to give him enough room, to stay on her side, to not be a bother. She is, strangely enough, more inclined to piss him off even more – something they've always taken a sadistic pleasure in doing.
Really, it gives her thrills to wind him up.
With a slight smirk tugging guiltily at the corners of her lips, she slips herself further onto the bed. The covers rustle and twist around her hips a bit as she pushes her body closer to the centre of the mattress.
She stops short when she feels his coarse leg hair tickling against the smoothness of her shin. Elliot tugs his leg away immediately, like he's been burned, and shifts further away on the mattress.
"S'rry," he mutters quietly, and her leg is tingling where she touched him.
She gulps as heat sifts through her body as she become conscious of his body rising and falling beside her with each breath, his shoulder pushing into her back repeatedly. She turns onto her side, her heart beating hard once more.
She closes her eyes; trying to ignore the fact that it's the most comfortable she's been in years.
What feels like a long, long time later, she is abruptly pulled form the recesses of a deep, fulfilling sleep. Irritated at her brain's propensity to stay on cop-mode when she's, for once, allowed to sleep, she tries to roll over onto her back.
She freezes, absolutely still as she is prevented from moving by Elliot, warm and big and very, very close, his stomach pressed tightly to her back.
And his extremely obvious erection poking insistently against her ass.
*Runs*