4. Snuggling with a Porcupine

I walk carefully to the edge of the mattress and study the place my body had occupied just minutes before. Then, I turn my eyes up to his from behind the curtain of my bangs, suddenly understanding why psychologists suggest blue paint to people needing a calming environment. Taking a deep breath, I slide back into the bed, rearranging the sheets I'd hastily tossed aside until they drape into the curve of my waist.

He and I are face-to-face again, his arm still extended and resting in the neutral zone. Once I have settled, he smiles slightly and begins to withdraw his arm. Before he can, and before I have a chance to think about it, my own hand (the one not curled underneath the pillow my head rests on) jumps out and lands on top of his. His raising eyebrows and quick glimpse at our hands are the only hints of surprise he allows me to see before he turns his eyes back to mine, holding me captive in a way only his irises can. He slides his hand back toward his half, just a bit, taking my hand with his, until the two of them lie right on the center line. Eye contact unwavering, I manipulate our wrists until they are curled around one another so that I'm able to intertwine his fingers with my own.

Neither of us pulls back, and neither of us squeezes. We just hold on. Hands clasped together, resting in the middle of neutral territory, a poignant symbol of an unspoken truce.

I close my eyes, and listen again to the sounds of our breathing. The slow, even breaths of two people who are perhaps finally finding a state of relaxation.

When I wake up, I have no idea how much or how little time has passed. It takes a few blinks of my eyes to realize that something does not feel right. At all. I feel restrained, like I'm wrapped up in some sort of straightjacket, unable to move. Sure enough, there is an arm locked around my waist.

For crying out loud, I'm a cop. This should not pose a problem. High school wrestlers can get out of a hold like this.

So, why aren't I moving?

I glance downward, noticing that there isn't, in fact, an arm locked around my waist. There are two. His…and mine, holding his in place. Briefly, I think that this must be what it's like to be paralyzed because my body is experiencing such sensory overload that I can't feel anything anymore and am simply unable to move my extremities.

This creates a whole new set of complications. Not being able to move is making me try to identify the sensations that are causing my nerve endings to misfire. I can feel the veins that run across the back of his hand beneath my fingertips. I can also feel the underwire of my bra poking annoyingly into my side, reminding me why I never sleep in my bra. Then there's that warm spot from where his palm is pressing against the thin, ribbed cotton of my tank top. Wait. Against my tank top? I sneak another peek downward and, sure enough, the jersey has managed to bunch its way up toward my ribcage. Did I do that? Shit…did he?

My brain is sending frantic signals to my body to get the hell up and out of this bed. My body is completely ignoring them. Man, that jersey had some length to it, too. Long enough to cover my…oh, God. I can feel the cool, smooth material of the sheets on my thighs. My very, very upper thighs. That means…

My brain is screaming now. Get your ass out of this bed. Now! This is your partner's bed, in case you've forgotten; and, by the way, that's your partner who is shrouding you with his body. Oh, and one more thing: your panties are showing. Goddammit.

I'm beginning to scare myself. Why should this be so overwhelming? It's a very easy situation to remove myself from. Just get out of bed. It's that easy. So…why the fuck aren't I moving? Wait. What was that? I think I just moved. I think I just…Jesus Christ, I just snuggled one of my shoulders back toward my partner. I snuggled. I fucking snuggled. Do you know why people snuggle? They snuggle to get closer. They snuggle because they…

Shit. Because they like being close. I like this. That's why I'm not moving. Well, if I were scared before, now I'm fucking terrified.

His warm exhalation breezing onto the back of my neck at that second nearly causes me to jump out of my skin. Images of a cartoon cat who just had one of his nine lives scared right out of him come to mind; his white, ghostly spirit rising from its body, hair standing on end, legs sticking straight out, claws extended. But, still, I don't move. Thank God. I have to be smooth about this.

I grip the hand I'm holding to my stomach only as tightly as necessary to lift Elliot's hefty arm. Somehow, I manage to get onto my back and essentially limbo my way underneath the arm I am holding suspended in the air. I set my feet on the carpet and slither my way off the edge, laying Elliot's arm down in front of his body. I stand and, for a moment, I am quite frankly impressed with my stealth, as Elliot has not shown a sign of stirring in his slumber. Very slowly, I begin to back up, maintaining a level of silence that would make a Navy SEAL proud. I back through a doorway, closing the door in front of me, finding myself, once again, in the goddamned bathroom.

The breath I didn't realize I'd been holding rushes out of me. I pace back and forth a few times and finally plop myself unceremoniously onto the toilet seat and hide my face in my hands. How did this happen? Seriously. How did this happen? I don't remember rolling over to face the other way, and I certainly don't remember backing myself up to Elliot. I distinctly remember that when I woke up just now, we weren't on his side of the bed, though. We were in the middle. The nonpartisan space. The space that didn't belong to either one of us. I can only come to the conclusion that I couldn't have been the only one who moved. He had to have moved, too. When did he do that? Why did he do that? Just what the hell does that mean?

And why is the dominant thought in my head that I really want to crawl back under his arm and stay there for as long as he'll let me? I am not a snuggly person. I am not cuddly. I don't hold people and I don't like to be held. I don't let my one-night-stands do it. I didn't let the few men I had short-term "relationships" with do it. I don't like it. It's too close, too…intimate. I've spent far too many years perfecting the utilitarian skill of using up maximum mattress space just to give it up and converge in only a small portion of it with just anyone. I don't cuddle. Bottom line.

But, God, I just want to go back to bed.

I'm suddenly struck with the urgent need to find out what time it is and, therefore, just how long I've been in bed with Elliot Stabler. I walk over to where my clothes still sit, neatly stacked, on the counter. I sort through them quickly before I remember I hadn't been wearing my watch. Damn. I'm going to have to find his clock…in the bedroom. I almost make it to the door then abruptly head back to my clothes. I pull a quick Flashdance move, unhooking my bra through both shirts and, after some maneuvering, manage to produce it from one of the sleeves of the jersey. Turning back to the door, I square my shoulders, newly confident in my ability to be inconspicuous, walk to it and pull it open.

Elliot remains exactly how I left him. He has his left arm tucked underneath his pillow, the right still settled loosely in front of him. The sheets are low on his torso, leaving most of his bare chest visible. The reason I'd re-entered the bedroom escapes me and I'm struck at how peaceful this man is able to look when he's asleep. The raging bull I've known for eight years is gone. The man I'm observing now is one that I'm unexpectedly afraid I've never truly known. This Elliot Stabler is content. This Elliot I'm pretty damn sure I'd like to get to know better.

I close my eyes tightly for a few seconds, trying in vain to push those thoughts to the wayside. I can't go down that road. I can't. It isn't fair to him. For Christ's sake, the man is in the preliminary phases of divorcing his wife of two decades. I can't be thinking like this. If I do, sooner or later, it's going to show, and I just can't unload that on him right now. I can't, I can't, I can't, I-

"Liv?" His voice is throaty, a sanded edge to it from the haze of sleep. I don't respond. Maybe he's just talking in his sleep. His eyes are still closed, after all. He could be dreaming. Dreaming, and saying my name. Jesus.

No.

"Liv?" he repeats, and I hold my breath. This will pass. He'll stop any minute. "Liv, I know you're standing there."

Busted.

"Stop thinking about it," he mumbles, still never opening his eyes.

I open my mouth to try to protest, but he beats me to it.

"I know you're thinking about it. Stop over-analyzing everything, Olivia." He says it as though it would be the simplest thing in the world for me to do. "Just come back to bed."

For the second time tonight, because I'm powerless to deny him anything right now, I oblige.