A/N:
Okay, here we go. Welcome to Lyricara and eotopia's first co-written fanfic. We felt it was only fitting that under such extreme and uncertain times that we provide you with some light (slightly sex-fueled) EO relief. Since we're all currently self-quarantining it was only fair we enforce our problematic duo to do the same.
This is set real time parallel with the new crossover series. Elliot is Captain of the Organized Crime Unit and finds himself in a situation where he has to cohabit with Olivia Benson, Captain of SVU. But don't worry, it wont be the heavy, angst-ridden ride you're expecting - this is ALL relief and we hope you're here for it.
Also, we get Elliot BACK for real. Is everyone breathing again yet?
xoxo,
Lyrictopia
Day 1
It's inconceivable that it has come to this.
She stands in the doorway of his apartment, a large bag in each one of her hands and the strap of another duffel thrown over her shoulder. She will not examine the way her stomach is turning. She will not acknowledge that the nervousness feels like anticipation more than disgust or irritation.
She's very irritated, she tells herself. Completely inconvenienced and agitated and put out, damn it. She just has to stick to those emotions.
"You can sleep in my room." He's doing his best not to smile, but there is too much glittering amusement in his eyes as he says it. He's not the one displaced, so of course he would treat this like some grade-school sleepover.
She straightens her back and lifts her chin. "I thought you said you have a pull-out couch." Her mouth is dry and she hasn't let go of her bags because she isn't sure if she's going to run yet or not.
None of this is funny.
Despite the emerging grin on her former partner's face.
Elliot doesn't take a step back. He's taller than her even in his bare feet and she doesn't know why she is suddenly so acutely aware of that fact. His white t-shirt fits too well and his jeans are too worn in and shit, there is no way she is going to last fourteen damned days in this space with him without something going straight to hell.
"Yeah." He gives up the serious pretense and openly chuckles. "I do."
He isn't moving, and she knows why. He's going to make her brush by him in the narrow entry. "I'll take that then," she retorts brusquely.
She starts to move around him to her right, but he turns with her until she can feel his eyes heating her back as she walks into his apartment.
"My place is your place," he says, and his tone is just a little too self-satisfied.
She drops her bags by the end table in the living room, glancing around at the simplicity of the open loft-styled space. She's been here twice before, but each time only for a few minutes just to meet up with him before they went elsewhere.
The casual morning runs and coffees have stayed just that. Casual.
There have been no dinners in the two months since he had first walked into her squad room. No nights out drinking. They've even managed to let the past be the past in order to find some connection in the present. They had been forced to suddenly work together on a case a few months ago – he as Captain of the Organized Crimes Intelligence Squad - and her lack of anger at both his return and the situation had surprised both of them. What they've been through together is understood, the devastation they have been through apart is mutual. There are no recriminations, there is no blame. There is just their history, and unspoken forgiveness and…
She is a mother now, and he is an old friend and there is nothing, nothing more to it than that.
Until their regular barista at Cloverfield's Café had tested positive for Covid-19, and they'd been asked to self-quarantine.
For two weeks.
With Noah safely tucked at her currently being disinfected apartment with Lucy, it had made logical sense to stay here. Two weeks of hotel expenses would be insanity, especially when he had place for her.
Or so he'd said.
Right now, a few thousand dollars was looking like a bargain.
She turns to face him again, and he is padding towards her slowly, closing in as if she's a new toy in his cage. "You'd prefer my bed, Olivia."
The goosebumps crawl up her spine, vertebrae by vertebrae. "I'm good right here." Her throat is scratchy and she prays that's a symptom of the virus because at least then she knows why no words are forming.
The corner of his mouth lifts. "You can have whatever you want."
Her eyes finally lift to his. It doesn't last long. She glances away quickly because he's focused too intently on her. "We need some ground rules."
"Rules?" His eyebrows lift and he absently scratches his chest. "It's after eleven, Olivia. Shouldn't we just relax and go to bed?"
Bed. In Elliot's apartment. The bastard is openly teasing her.
Her mouth opens to say something, but she quickly closes it. She's off her game and out of her element, and it's a terrible time to realize that he's the one literally at home here. It occurs to her that she forgot to bring her own damned pillow and that might mean she needs to borrow one of his.
Screw that, she'll use a couch cushion. She can't bury her face into the smell of him. She won't.
She watches as he heads towards the small kitchen to her right, and with the open floor plan she can track his every move as he goes to pick up an already open beer. He lifts it to his lips as he turns and leans back against the counter, crossing his feet at his ankle. "Want one?"
She's too warm, that's all she registers. Her skin is hot and maybe she's sick. Maybe it's a fever. Surely that's what this disorientation is. A bead of moisture slides down the bottle he's holding and she focuses on that. Anything rather than looking him in the eyes.
Her voice cracks a little as she nods. "Yeah."
He opens the fridge and grabs one for her, and then he's walking towards her again. He stops a step too close to her before handing it over. She can smell the faint hint of his soap and the beer, and she can't even look up because he's barely inches from her.
She's always too aware of him, and she prays that the recognition will fade in the coming days. They aren't allowed to leave these walls, and that is a reality she can't process yet. His apartment isn't tiny but it's also not huge and that means an incomprehensible amount of togetherness.
"Relax," he says under his breath. "I won't bite."
Her fingers close around the mercifully cold bottle.
Silently, she grips it tight.
-o0o-
She's been nursing the beer bottle like it is a damn lifeline.
She doesn't realize how massacred the label had become until he slips it out of her hands and replaces it with a fresh one.
She hadn't even anticipated drinking tonight but she's not going to lie, the beer buzz is a welcome relief to the stressful 24 hours she had just endured even getting to his apartment.
Her mind is telling her she can finally relax, that she can actually kick her feet up now that she's settled - only she isn't home in her pajamas tucking her son in, she is here on Elliot's Stabler's couch, the same couch that will be her bed for the next 14 days.
She watches him place her empty beer bottle on the coffee table, his legs absently brushing her knees as he passes by and she counts that as the third time their bodies have unnecessarily grazed each other in the forty-five minutes she's been here.
The door graze.
The beer handoff.
The knee infraction.
He reclaims his seat beside her, soft leather buckling beneath his weight and a bout of tension fills the room, one which she hadn't expected to be met with tonight. He is silent besides her and what she can't seem to comprehend or even begin to process is that Elliot Stabler had been flirting with her.
'You can have whatever you want.'
That was flirting right? Or was she just imagining it?
Whatever you want..
Maybe she is reading into it, maybe she is just out of practice with their dynamic.
Or maybe this is the way he deals with global pandemic - to uncharacteristically flirt with his former partner.
If the world was ending right?
She takes another sip, determined to keep this light, tame – to downplay the hell out of it, because it is night number one after all and if he keeps this up she isn't going to survive any part of it.
"Shouldn't you be rationing these, instead of handing them out like tictacs?" She motions towards the empty beer bottles, silently thankful he was polite enough not to comment on her label carnage.
He shrugs in response, seemingly unbothered. "We'll be fine."
"We will?" she asks with a curious smile. "How many have you got El?"
When he doesn't respond she shakes her head. "Please don't tell me you were one of the crazy Costco nuts lining up to get cases of these?"
His lips lift upward as he takes another sip. "We've got enough."
She just stares at him with avid curiosity because he is seemingly unperturbed by the state of their situation right now.
He seems very calm.
Too calm.
The world outside was reacting to this global pandemic - just on her way up here she had heard the tail end of a couple's tumultuous fight in the lobby over toilet paper - yet here in the quiet confines of Elliot's apartment he is just sitting here casually sipping his beer like it is a regular Friday night and they are about to put the game on.
The juxtaposition is jarring.
He seems content, relaxed – flirtatious.
"Liv." He gives her a look as if he has just heard every anxiety ridden thought she is overplaying in her mind. "It's going to be okay."
Her eyebrows raise in response to that. "Is it?" She gives him a cynical smile as the beer bottle hovers at her lips. "Because the rest of the world doesn't think so."
He just stares at her then, their eyes locking in one quiet and still moment, the intensity of his gaze hitting her like a freight train.
"I mean us," he explains. "This." He motions to the space between them. "Fourteen days."
She blinks back at him, her heart thudding at the way he had just emphasized 'us'.
Jesus, is she reading into this?
"We'll survive this," he reassures her.
She knows he's just trying to put her at ease but the way he is looking at her, coupled with the casual way he'd just draped his hand across the back of his couch as the majority of his body filled the sofa, was stifling.
This is flirting.
And there was only one word for it – inviting.
Elliot Stabler is being inviting.
Night one.
"I know," she gives him a look, back to downplaying it. "Believe me, I can certainly think of a long list of people I'd rather not be locked in a room with."
His lips turn upward at that, his cocky gaze from earlier returning and she shakes her head, taking another sip, because of course he took that as a compliment.
She watches him stretch out then, crossing his feet at his ankles and glancing over at the blank TV in front of them and there is enough familiarity in that image that it suddenly puts her at ease.
It's still him.
It's still Elliot Stabler.
Nothing has changed.
Except everything.
"So," she begins as a wave of silence passes through them. "What on earth are we going to do for the next 14 days?" She scratches her cheek nervously. "Any ideas?"
She expects some sort a clichéd, playful, cheeky comment in response - something like:
'I could think of a few things.'
But he looks a little too lost in his thoughts now, his bravado from earlier softening suddenly.
"Well, we've got Netflix premium, movies on demand, a nearly complete season of Rangers games and an exorbitant supply of microwave popcorn so I think we're good."
She gives him a look. "So just TV then?" She looks unimpressed. "Rangers marathons and sitcoms?"
"I might have some of the kids boardgames in the hall cupboard if we get desperate."
"Boardgames?" She cocks an eyebrow. "You wanna play boardgames?"
"Unless you've got a better idea Liv.."
He smirks.
And just like that he is back to flirting.
-o0o-
He's not sure if it's the three beers he's already finished or the fact that she's bent over going through her bags and sorting her clothes in a corner of his living room, but this is the most amused he's been in this apartment since he moved in four years ago.
When this is all over, he reminds himself he needs to tip Nora - their waitress at Cloverfield's - a lot extra.
Fuck, he's an asshole because he shouldn't find any pleasure in this at all. Nora is probably hacking with a cough tonight and Olivia isn't with her son. He won't see Eli or any of his kids outside of Facetime for the next two weeks. Lucy had likely spent the last few hours sanitizing Olivia's apartment and they could all very well still get sick.
Ah, hell. That is exactly why he's going to give himself a break and enjoy it a little while things are relatively okay. The world out there might be going to hell in a hand basket, but in here…this view is something else.
Olivia. In his apartment. Fourteen days.
Her jeans fit too well, her hair has too many waves in it and ever since she walked in, he can smell the faintest hint of vanilla and lavender in his apartment. Heaven and hell look a lot alike at the moment.
Elliot clears his throat, standing just a few feet behind her. "Need help?"
Olivia straightens fast and looks at him over her shoulder. Her eyes widen. "Don't creep up on me like that. When did you learn to walk like a damned ninja?"
He can't help it but grin. The slow flush of her skin is mesmerizing. She's uncharacteristically jumpy and out of sorts, and he knows he isn't doing anything to help the situation.
Case in point the two new chilled beers in his hand. If he's got a little buzz already, she definitely has a stronger one. He doesn't care, they've got nowhere to be and no reason to be up early. Fin has taken over at SVU, and he's got his second in charge of his own team. As far as he's concerned unless the shit hits the fan, all is temporarily well.
"Undercover," he says, handing her one of the bottles.
She nearly flinches at his response but he watches as she catches herself, taking the offering but holding his gaze. She knows it had been the NYPD's version of penance, sending him UC for nearly twenty months in the Bonnano crime family to bring down an underboss on narcotics and gun trafficking. She's never asked him more and he's never offered more but she knows enough from him to have answers. She knows when he was gone and why he hadn't been able to be there when she'd gone through her own hell.
Italy, he thinks. The 'Ndrangheta in Calabria. A nightmare a lifetime ago. He's got another bullet hole in his left thigh to show for it.
He'd believed he would never see her again, let alone would be standing in his apartment at one a.m., watching her unpack. He's a lucky sonofabitch because he gets to watch as she lifts the bottle to her mouth, takes a deep sip and then swipes her tongue quickly over her full lower lip to catch an errant drop.
He'd imagined it all, though. He'd let the chill of a northern Italian winter seep into his bones all those years ago, damning himself for everything he'd never said and everything he'd never done as far as Olivia was concerned.
Like hell he will let the next fourteen days go to waste.
Olivia is gripping some clothes and a toothbrush in her left hand, and he knows she wants to go to sleep soon but he isn't done yet.
"You sure you don't want my bed?" he offers again, purposely keeping his voice low and not backing up to give her any additional space.
Her all-too-familiar dark eyes lift to his again. He can tell by the rise and fall of her breasts that her pulse has picked up pace, her skin has pricked with awareness. Good.
"No, I'm…good."
That doesn't begin to describe it, he thinks. She's beautiful in ways that defy his sense of logic. He's always thought she was stunning but there is now their shared history in her eyes, in her expressions, in her movements. There are no boundaries to his thoughts anymore. No wife, no job that attempts to reign in his imagination or wants.
Her lush curves now are outrageously sexy, and they make his palms itch to touch her.
He grips the bottle harder instead. "There's only one bathroom. It connects to my bedroom so if you need anything-" he clears his throat again. "If you need anything in the middle of the night feel free to wake me."
"Just need a blanket and pillow." Her lips wrap around the mouth of the bottle again, and she drinks slowly this time before peeling the glass away.
Fucking hell.
He's going to need the sanctity of his room soon to hide the arousal that's pushing past the alcohol and the late hour to make itself a priority.
He nods towards the small hall that leads to the bathroom and bedroom. "I'll get them for you. Take the bathroom first."
Elliot heads towards his room, telling himself to calm the fuck down. This is only night one and he can't look at her with the hunger he's been withholding for more years than he can count. This is Olivia, and he's got to treat her with more respect than every other asshole would.
He's been gone for years; he can't just expect she will want anything with him. Ever. He shakes off the relentless knowledge that despite the fact they had both dated others, no one had lasted. He had burned through a marriage and she'd been in a series of failed relationships he can't begin to process since they'd last been partners.
No one has ever been her for him. Not even his ex-wife. Despite the space and distance and time, she'd always been the brutal ache that lived deep in his gut.
He grabs a spare comforter from the top of his closet and one of the pillows off his bed, and he turns to see her standing barely a foot into the bathroom. He tracks her gaze and knows exactly what has caught her attention.
His building had been converted into smaller units from the large lofts popular with the Wall Street crowd in the eighties, and the one thing that had retained its relatively luxe size was the bathroom. Two sinks and built in shelving would be a luxury for any city apartment, but it was the far wall that held her rapt attention.
He had the Manhattan impossibility. The reason Kathleen had forced him into immediately taking this place.
A long, wide jetted tub.
And the way Olivia was looking at it, he may as well have had a time machine.
"Take it you're going spend a lot of time in there?" he whispers in her ear. He will not, will not think about her naked, covered in warm water and bubbles and…
He rubs his hand down his face. Christ.
Olivia startles, her stunned yet content expression warming something deep within him. She is pleased, he realizes. She's excited about something, finally. "You have a bathtub?"
He smiles. "Incredible deduction. No wonder you made Captain."
She shakes her head. "Shut the hell up. I just can't believe how big it is."
He can't help but laugh then. It's a deep laugh, because she's going to sleep on his pillow tonight and Olivia Benson wants to use his tub and she's absolutely awed by the size of something he owns.
"That's what she said," he counters, heading back into the living room to drop off the bedding and realizing that after over twenty years, fourteen days is still somehow all the time in the world.
God didn't hate him after all, because fate had somehow delivered Olivia Benson to him, and he'd be damned if he fucked it up again.