A/N: You are the witness of change and to counteract. We gotta take the power back (Rage Against the Machine) For the sake of this story, some characters are much younger than canonically written, and it's set very early in the history of the show.
DISCLAIMER: SVU and all related plot/characters originally belong to Dick Wolf. This story, words, and dialogue are mine. © TStabler
When he walks through the door to Olivia's apartment. He looks around with one hand still on the brass knob, and he smiles. He takes in the simple, contemporary style of her furniture and the minimalist decor, and even though he's not, he feels like he's home. He kicks his shoes to the side and hangs his trench on a hook, and rubs his hands together as his eyes travel around the room again.
His smile widens when he sees the frames on the far wall. He's noticed them before: her college degrees, her academy graduation proclamation, two photos of her with her mother, and two photos of her with...him.
He steps over to the black wooden frames, eyes trained on one photo in particular. He runs his finger along the edge of the wood, over the glass, across her smiling face, and then he sighs. They look happy in the picture, too happy. Almost...like a couple. He squeezes his eyes shut as that thought skips through his mind, his left hand curls into a fist and he grimaces when his damaged knuckles crack.
"Fuck," he spits out. Anger bubbles to the surface again, and he shakes it off before he lets loose in an apartment that isn't even his. He turns, slowly running his hand over the sand-colored wall, and he walks around a built-in counter into the kitchen. He drops his gaze to the stove, unable to ignore the fact that it looks factory-new, spotless, as if it's never been used.
Scratching the back of his neck, he takes a step and then pulls open the freezer door, shaking his head at the empty space it reveals. "Two cartons of Rocky Road ice cream," he says, shoving the containers to the side. "What's this?" he asks himself, reaching for a Tupperware container. He shakes it, flips it over, finally opens it, and his eyes widen. "Damn. Smart girl." He replaces the lid and puts the container of folded up hundred dollar bills back where he found it.
His hands drop to the door of the refrigerator, then, as the freezer closes. He pulls it open and rolls his eyes. "Really, Benson?" He scoffs as he makes a mental list of the contents of her fridge: an orange, three white cartons of old Chinese takeout, a full six-pack of beer and three separate cans, a single slice of pre-packaged cheese, a tomato, and a bag of bread with only two slices in it. "Okay," he runs a hand down his face as he grabs a beer. He closes the refrigerator with a nudge of his elbow, opens it, and takes a long gulp as he fishes out his phone.
He plods over to the couch as he dials a number he only knows by heart because of the number of times a week Olivia makes him use it. "Yeah, hi, order for delivery, please?" He waits and then he laughs. "Yeah, that's the address," and part of him loves that his cell phone number is attached to Olivia's place, as if they live together, even if it's only by Mister Chow's. He closes his eyes as he drops into a seat, takes a sip of his beer, and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table. "Yeah, the usual, only...I need an order of water chestnuts in garlic sauce and an extra egg roll with that. No soda, we…" he smirks and shakes the can of beer in his hand. "We're good. Thanks." He hangs up, tosses his phone onto the table by his feet, and he lets his head fall back.
His knuckles hurt, his entire body aches. He licks his lips and his smile fades. In the silence, in the solitude, he can't help but think about all of the reasons he'd been beyond angry lately. The things he'd been keeping bottled up, keeping to himself. He feels the pangs of fury ignite again, and he takes a deep breath. His smile returns as the scent of the apartment fills his lungs. It's something sweet, something floral, something spicy, and all so perfectly Olivia.
Another deep breath and the very thing that calms him down sets him off; he growls, grunts, throws all of his strength into throwing a mini tantrum on the couch. His fists land on the plush cushions with heavy blows, his feet kick and his legs and thighs thrash, his back and chest heave and hurl, he curses under his breath in at least three different languages. Languages he isn't sure he knows, but he must've picked up from his partner. He grunts again, slaps his palms against the back of the couch, and he huffs and puffs with closed eyes, trying to relax. "Shit," he breathes.
He's panting, his entire body throbbing, as he stares at a spot on her ceiling. Gasping, he tries to pinpoint the moment the stress became too much to handle, when the bottle shook a little too hard to keep corked. "Damn," he expels, and he bites a bit too hard on his lip. He winces as he drops his head, and then he curses again, sitting upright fast. He looks around, almost panicked, and with another "fucking shit," he pulls his tee shirt off and frantically dabs at the spilled beer seeping its way into the arm of the couch. The crushed can is in a metallic knot on the floor, bent and split apart by his intense grip during his minor meltdown.
He hears the key turn in the lock and he jumps to his feet. He looks at the wet shirt in his hand, then toward the door before tossing his shirt over to the corner, it lands on his shoes, and he crosses his arms and waits.
"Hey," she says, knowing he's there, but she hasn't looked at him, yet. She hangs her coat on the hook next to his, throws her keys into a crystal bowl on the end table, and toes her boots off, leaving them right next to Elliot's. She looks up and starts to speak. "We can order…" Her words fall away, she blinks only once. "Why are you…" she points to his bare chest, noting that it's still heaving slightly, and she tries to swallow to appease her suddenly dry throat.
"Oh, uh," he inhales. "I spilled…and then I couldn't get up to get a towel so I used my shirt and...it's fine, it's not gonna stain, I just…"
"Slow down," she says, and she narrows her eyes. She steps over to him, looks from him to the couch, to the floor. She bends at the knees to pick up the mutilated beer can, and she lets it dangle by two fingers as she asks, "What is going on with you?"
He follows her as she moves, watches as she throws the can into the garbage bin next to the counter, and he leans against the edge of the marble as he rubs his forehead. "Nothing," he says softly, and then his eyes meet hers. He loses the last vestiges of his shell. "I don't...I don't know how to tell you without…"
"Just tell me," she almost hisses. Her eyes are dark and her brows form an eagle-like V, making her look vicious. "You asked me to help you figure this shit out before you self-destruct, and I will, but, fuck. Tell me what your problem is, or I can't fucking help you."
Unaware that he flinched at her words, he swallows hard. "You…" he blinks again. "Are you okay?" He tilts his head, suddenly his entire body is on fire. He can feel it burn. He waits for his muscles to tense, but when they don't, he realizes it's not anger that he's feeling.
She rakes her nails over her head and through her hair as she sighs, she turns around and falls back a bit, now leaning against her counter beside him. "I'm fine," she says.
He knows she's lying, he can tell. "Come on," he whispers to her, and he doesn't know why he allows his hand to move as fast as it does and cradle the right side of her face.
The action startles her, and she looks at him skeptically, but she lets him keep his hand where it is. There's comfort in it. She drops her gaze for a moment, regretting it immediately, seeing his fucking incredible chest, and she wonders for a moment why it's reddening. "I was thinking...you...before when you asked me how often this happens? How often you lose your shit at work?"
"Yeah," he whispers, and he moves toward her, his hand growing a pair of balls all its own, his thumb trailing under her right eye. "What about it?"
"Is it…" she starts, and she takes a breath and looks into his eyes. "Is it because of me?"
The question shocks him, his hand stills, his body locks into place only a few inches in front of her. What does he say? What does he do? Is this what having a heart attack feels like?
She grabs his wrist and pulls his hand away from her, and she shakes her head as she speaks. "You get mad at me a lot," she says, her voice taking on an unfamiliar tone. "Especially when the case we're...when it's children." She gnaws on the inside of her cheek, the same spot she bit to soreness earlier that afternoon. "I know I'm not a mother, I know I don't have much of a family, you don't have to throw it in my face all the time, and it doesn't mean I can't relate to…"
"Holy shit," he wheezes, and it feels like someone has punched him in the throat. "Liv, no, no," he propels himself forward and he grabs her hands. "Listen to me, that's...that's why I asked you to help me get a grip, here. I can't control what I say or do when I get in those...moods." He pulls her back around the counter and into the living room, goads her onto the couch. "I'm gonna tell you something, and you can't…" he inhales and squeezes his eyes shut. "Promise you won't freak out on me, or hate me, or…" he chuckles, but nothing about this is funny. He's serious as he says, "Don't arrest me."
Her eyes widen. "What did you do?" she asks half-panicked already.
He shakes his head and pulls her hands over to his lap, lets them fall slightly, and he traces the blue-tinged lines of her veins on her wrists. He hears her moan softly and he knows he's playing with matches in a gas tank. "I have...needs. Um, no, well…" he chomps on his lower lip for a second as he nods. "Yeah, needs. I've always had them, and I've never done anything about them." He tilts his head, moves his fingers higher on her arms, almost massaging her through her blue sleeves. He hears her stifled moans again and he gathers all the self-control he possesses to ignore them. "With Kathy...shit, it was supposed to be one fucking time, just to say we did it. It was never supposed to…"
"Excuse me?" her eyes are almost closed as she shifts closer to him. "You're not making much sense here, are you...Kathy doesn't, uh, fill your needs?" She hides her smirk well.
He scoffs as he finally looks into her brown eyes. "No, she...she never has, and these particular needs, well, she doesn't even know about them." He lets one of her arms go, scratches at his hot, red neck, and says, "Kathy and me, we've really only ever had sex so we could have more kids. We timed it, planned it, and after the twins, we...didn't want any more kids, so we don't have…"
"Wow," she interrupts, both in response to his admission that he doesn't sleep with his wife anymore and because he'd just worked out a particularly tender knot in her arm.
He smiles and nods at her. "Me and Kathy, um, we don't exactly have the kind of chemistry that I need with someone, the kind of connection that I've needed for years. I stayed with her out of obligation, and yes, I love her. I'm not telling you that I don't love her, but it's not enough. It's not deep enough, we don't trust each other enough, and it's fucking not the kind of love that could survive…" he tries to look deeper into her eyes, tries to get his point across before saying it out loud. "Kathy wouldn't understand what I want, and because I have these, uh…"
"Needs," she says flatly, and she feels his left hand rubbing and rolling against the muscles of her right upper arm. Her head falls back against the couch and she bites her lip.
"Yeah," he says softly. "It's why she's leaving me, or why...I'm leaving her. Maybe I already left, but, fuck...these thoughts in my head, the kinds of things I've been wanting so fucking badly and not getting," he pulls her closer so he can work the tension out of her shoulder, though she didn't even ask him to. "That's why I'm so fucking on edge all the time. Why I go from zero to volcano in less than seven seconds. On top of my mother being sick, bullshit at work, and yeah, it's partly because of you...but not for the reasons you think."
Her head pops up and she opens her mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a satisfied moan as his hand works miracles on her shoulder blade. She clears her throat and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she asks, "What about me, then?"
"You," he stops, he slides his hand forward and curls his thumb and forefinger around her neck, grazing it as he stares into her eyes. "You and me, from the moment I met you, I knew we had instant…" he's trying to find the right way to explain, but he can feel her pulse racing under his fingers and he knows he's affecting her the same way she affects him. It makes it harder to think and speak. "We have the kind of chemistry I always hoped I'd find with...a lover. I think we have the same...needs," he says, and he's aware his voice dropped an octave, softened. He traces the lines of her collar bones with his fingers, still looking right into her eyes. "Am I wrong?"
Stunned, she can't think of anything to say other than, "I can't answer that." She blinks. "You, uh, you still haven't told me what you need, so how can I tell you if I need the same thing?"
He wraps his hand back around her neck and pulls her closer to him. He grins smugly, feels an almost evil laugh build low in his groin, and it comes out of his mouth and makes the entire couch vibrate. "You know what I need," he tells her, and he moves just a bit more, and as soon as his lips graze hers, the doorbell rings.
She leaps to her feet and practically flies to the door. She breathes fast as one hand hits over her racing heart, the other pulls on the brass doorknob, and she looks at the delivery guy with more confusion on her face than necessary.
"Uh," the man holds out the bag of food with wide eyes, too afraid to speak.
Elliot appears next to Olivia with two twenty-dollar bills. "Keep the change," he says with a smile and a nod, and he takes the bag from the man. Closing the door, he looks at Olivia. "I ordered dinner," he tells her, "I was gonna cook, but you don't have enough food to feed a fucking mouse in your kitchen." He drops the bag down to the coffee table, and he clears his throat. "I was gonna…"
"You're married," she tells him, and she turns sharply and rummages through the bag of Chinese food. "You're my married partner, so please do not tell me you were just gonna kiss me."
He takes the carton out of her hands and puts it down on the table. "Liv," he exhales, and he grabs both of her wrists. "I think I was going to, but it wasn't...I wasn't aware I was, it was just happening, and I couldn't stop it." He lets out a hot breath. "But, uh, would you have kissed me back?" He waits, unblinking, not breathing. "I need an answer because there's something I need to fucking tell you...ask you...tonight. But not if you…"
"Yeah," she says so softly it's almost as if she doesn't say anything at all. She licks her lips when she figures out that he heard her, and she watches him smile as he grabs her carton of food, his, and two egg rolls, all with the one hand that isn't clutching both of hers tightly.
He sets the food out on the coffee table in a way that makes it easy to share all of it, and he takes a bite out of an egg roll as he sits back down on the couch. He tugs on her hands, getting her to sit beside him. When he swallows, he licks around his teeth and gums, clears his throat, and says, "What I need to tell you...no one else knows. I've never said this to anyone, I've never even admitted it out loud to myself."
"You're…" she leans into him, seeing the fear in his eyes, the anxiety etched into his face. "You're serious?" She runs a hand down his arm as she falls out of her own headspace and into a pool of pure worry for him. "Okay, tell me, talk to me. I'm right here."
"Okay, well, now it's...fuck," he hides his face behind his bandaged hand for a moment. "Now, I think I'm just gonna embarrass myself, here," he spits out, and he coughs once. "In the locker room, when I said that you were the only person I trust myself to break…"
"I remember," she interrupts, her hand still rubbing Elliot's back. She feels him tremble, he's shaking like a leaf, and his fear is scaring her. "What's the matter?"
He rubs his lips together. "Do you, uh, have any fantasies?" He holds up both hands and bows his head slightly. "Not like flying on a magic carpet or jetskiing in Italy, I mean...sexual fantasies. Um, kinks." He turns his head to watch her face and when the pink tinge creeps into her cheeks he knows he has an answer. "Okay, I won't make you say it, but just nod once if you've ever told anyone about them." He watches carefully. She doesn't nod. He exhales in relief and turns his body a bit more to face her. "Nod once if you...if you're afraid of them." He keeps his eyes still and focused and when she slowly nods, he whispers, "Good. Because I'm terrified of mine. I've never told Kathy, I've never even tried because I don't trust her with them, and I can't…"
She watches the tears fill his eyes as he stops talking, and she sucks her lip between her teeth as she raises her hands and brushes away the few that have fallen. "Relax," she whispers to him.
"The guilt and the fear, the frustration and the pent-up tension," he chokes on a hard laugh as he sniffles. "It's all getting too hard to control, and for a while I mean, I thought it would just be something I had to ignore, a part of me that I had to suppress. Kill. I thought I did when I settled for a comfortable relationship. But I was in a perpetual state of hostility, and thought that's what God gave me as my cross to bear because the parts of myself that I kept hidden were so fucking far from righteous." He sniffles again. "When you showed up at work, the moment we shook hands and looked into each other's eyes, I felt something snap. I can't explain it, but I still feel it, every day with you, and...being with you started to take away a lot of the fear, and a lot of the pain," he shakes his head, blinks, more tears fall.
Her heart breaks as she wipes away the hot droplets, and she opens her mouth to speak, but he stops her.
"But it also...fuck, now there's more guilt, more frustration, more tension," he tells her. "Liv, I…" his hands start to shake and he balls them into fists as he says, "Shit, why is this so fucking…" he growls, the rage in him reacting to the nerves and he's mad at himself for not having a better handle on what he's doing or saying. "Christ," he spits, and he grinds his teeth.
"Easy," she whispers. "I'm right here, calm down, you don't have anything to be…"
"I want you," he blurts out, and as soon as he realizes he said it, he opens his eyes and looks at her. His fists unfurl. "Fuck," he breathes once. It's too late to take it back, so he goes as far forward as he possibly can. "I want you, okay? Shit, I need you, and those things...those fantasies that I need to make part of my reality? I need it to be with you." He grabs her hips, holds her in place. "I'm not afraid of myself when I'm with you. I'm not afraid of going too far, or scaring you, or hurting you because I trust myself with you." He waits a moment only to make sure his heart is still beating, and then he leans closer. "I know you won't run from me or hate me. I trust you so fucking much. And I swear to fucking God, I know you want and need the same damn fucking things."
She tilts her head, his words registering, and she takes a slow, deep breath. "Tell me," she whispers, "What's the first thing on your list? What do you want? What do you need, El?" She licks her lips and she drags her hands down his arms again. "I'll tell you if you're right."
He raises one arm, slowly smooths his hand over her cheek, slides it up the back of her neck, and he grabs a fistful of her hair and pulls back, hard. He moves closer, breathes her in, and he whispers, right against her lips, "Control."
They stare at each other in pure silence, her hair gathered in his rough hand, her hands splayed on his muscular thighs, and they both realize at the same time that they've had this exact dream before, with one minor difference, and as if it's planned, he loosens his grip, she moves her hands, and he's the first to speak.
"It needs to be with you," he tells her, and his voice cracks, another tear rolls out of the corner of his right eye. "I trust you," he whispers, and then he lets out a hard sob as his head falls forward and presses against hers. "I need you." He inhales and then he says the one thing that he knows will change everything, destroy his world and rebuild it into something he's not prepared to handle. "I love you."
Her breath hitches, and though she's fantasized of this for so long, it kills her. She knows, now, why he's been feeling guilty, why he's been so frustrated, and she knows that he's right. She doesn't know how, but he's right. She moves one hand to the back of his head, scratching through his hair. "Are you sure about this?"
"Look at me," he says in a self-loathing chuckle. He sniffles, rubs his eyes with one hand, and shrugs, defeated. "I don't have any other choice," he breathes. "I'm not just saying this to get you in bed, I'm not gonna fuck you then do a victory lap back to Queens. I just fucking admitted to myself, for the first fucking time, that I'm not fighting harder for Kathy because I think I'm in love with you, which I wouldn't fucking say if it wasn't true. If you think I'm capable of that, then…" He drags his teeth across his lip. He looks over at the spread of food on the coffee table. "Eat," he says, and he grabs his egg roll, chomps into it, and turns away from her as he shoves himself into the corner of the couch.
She reaches for the carton of water chestnuts and a pair of chopsticks. She opens it in silence, the only sound is the snap of her sticks separating. As she picks up a chestnut, she looks at him. While she puts it into her mouth, she lets herself smile. "Um," she utters while she chews. "I think I love...I love you, too."
His eyes zoom in her direction, one eyebrow arcs. He chews with a crooked grin on his face now.
"And...you…" she swallows her mouthful of food, and as she digs around for another large chestnut she tells him, "You were right. I think we do...want and need the same things, with...with each other." She hazards a look in his direction, blushing slightly. She sees that he's staring at her and she forces the redness to fade because it's taken her almost three years of hard work to come off like a badass, and badasses do not blush. "Do you...I mean, do you always need to be in control, or…"
"Not always," he interrupts, and he grabs for the chicken and broccoli. He opens it as he says, "There are a few, uh, desires," he shrugs at his choice of word, but really, it's accurate. "I can't be in total control all the time, that's…" he lifts his bruised hand and laughs at the situation. "That's how shit like this happens. When I'm not in control, I fly off the handle, so I need...you...to help me give it up, sometimes."
She leans over and latches her chopsticks around a piece of his broccoli, winking when he gives her a sly look of protest. "We don't need a safe word, do we?"
"Me and you?" He shakes his head and says, "Fuck, no. That's...that's where the trust comes in. We just have to...figure out what our limits are." He tilts his head and he grins. "Or if we have any at all." He gives her a smoky look as he pops a piece of chicken into his mouth.
She chews on her broccoli, holding his gaze. "No," she whispers. "I don't think we do."
A/N: Oh...my...God. How do they handle this? And will we ever find out what Olivia said to Cragen? What's really going on with Elliot and Kathy?