A/N: For Amy! If she didn't request this & if I didn't go to brunch yesterday and wake up at 5 am this morning, this wouldn't have happened.
Her eyes are on his lips because they're too close. Because he's too close. She slipped her hand into his and held it tightly, for reassurance, she'd told herself. To remind him that she's here for him and that she isn't going anywhere. She never predicted that he'd make such a dramatic shift, that he'd turn his body into hers and hover over her so much that she'd feel the stark contrast in the difference of their height.
She smells the liquor on his breath, feels the heat of him emanating off of his body and the carnal reaction her body has for him is historical. No matter the way she attempts to suppress the desire that ripples through her, he finds a way to spark the thing between them.
He'd saved her life by sacrificing his own body, his own life for hers. He deliberately yanked her beneath him for cover as a criminal shot into their vehicle, and maybe the sheer selflessness of it all is what reminded her of why she loved him so much.
Or maybe it was the way he could argue with her respectfully in only the way a career asshole would. She'd wanted to be so angry, wanted to inflict pain on him at the thought that he'd betray her, only for him to reiterate what she already knows to be true: he'll always cover her ass, he'll always have her six.
Standing right here, Captain.
The way he slithers under her skin and settles there is unnerving. It is, frankly put, annoying. Infuriating in a way that makes her want to shut him up with her mouth on his, or her fist to his mouth, or anything really, that would just get him to shut the fuck up.
She's had a rough week. When she finally arrived home today, she had dinner with her son and picked up on an abandoned conversation about her only sibling. She told him about the outlandish and illegal way in which she found his uncle, Simon. She chose not to speak of his death, only of the handful of times they had laughed together as brother and sister. Her emphasis was on the importance of family, about the family that's yours biologically and the family you choose.
After she put Noah to bed, kissed his curls, and turned his lights out for the night, she beelined for the kitchen. She hadn't meant to finish an entire bottle of wine by herself, so as she stands here under his watch, surrounded by only him, it's not surprising, the fire flaring between them.
"What are you doing?" They've been standing there in the vestibule of her apartment for far too long to continue not speaking. They were bordering on the line between talk and action— and the only action in her brain involved melding their bodies together and getting them as close as humanly possible. She's always felt one with him and she's always wondered how monumental it would be to actually physically make it happen.
His hand tightens around hers. It's the second time they've held hands in as many days and he needs to say something, anything. "Say something," she whispers.
His eyebrows do the thing where they dance above his piercing blue eyes and she can't even imagine what he'll say. Had working together reignited something in him too?
"Angela Wheatley," Elliot murmurs.
Olivia's eyes widen. The ex-wife of Richard Wheatley. She knows far too much about the case, keeps up with it secretly, but she makes no move to tell him that. As far as he knows, just as she told him, it was all out of her hands.
"It was her."
She's confused by his lack of explanation and she sighs. "Elliot—"
"She kissed me."
She feels herself turning out of the gate of his arms, feels her hand slipping from his as she walks further into her apartment. He's been kissed by a suspect's ex and the issues here expand into both their professional and personal relationship.
"Elliot. That's... concerning. You need to notify Ayanna. This is... how did you get so close?"
His eyes are on the floor, wafting over Noah's sneakers, his action figures, the umbrella she's asked her son to put away several times. She watches as his blue eyes scatter about before finally, he looks at her. "She played me."
"The wife of a career criminal played you?" She can't help the sarcasm that ices her statement. It's the sweetness on top of what she's yelling in her brain. How could you be so stupid?
"She's been helping me. I see her. I go to her."
It's enough for Olivia to head to the kitchen. She's not going for another wine bottle. This is too much for wine. She grabs an expensive bottle of whiskey and she pours herself a glass, taking a sip before ever turning her attention back to him.
He's still lingering by the door and when his eyes lift to see that she has a bottle in her hand, he follows after her. He crowded her in the entrance of her apartment and in the kitchen it feels like he's grown. In height, in the way that he has to angle his body to reach for her glass, slipping it right out of her hand. He finishes her drink for her, before holding out the empty glass, silently asking for a refill.
"I want to hit you," Olivia informs him coolly. "For Kathy." For myself.
She's taken aback by the tears that are almost plummeting down his cheeks. The glass rattles as he places it down on the counter. Even through her anger, she doesn't hesitate. Her hand covers his and again, they're holding hands like it is normal for them.
It isn't.
"She ordered the hit, Olivia."
"Oh, God." It just gets worse and worse.
"The entire time, it was her."
"And what? This whole time a month after Kathy you've been seeing her?" Their closeness, her hand still over his, is a contrast against the venom in her voice.
"Where was I supposed to go?!" he roars quietly. "Here?! I didn't even know where you lived until an hour ago."
"Fuck you, Elliot. This isn't my fuck up. It's yours."
"When are you gonna stop with this 'Elliot' shit?" He grabs the bottle of liquor and he pours another glass.
"Isn't that your name?" she baits. "Or has that changed too?"
He wipes the tears from his face, frustrated that it's even come to this. "I've changed?"
"A suspect's wife?"
"Ex-wife." He takes a sip of the drink before offering it to her.
She chuckles. "Excuse me." She takes the glass from him, sipping from it before passing it back to him. "You're an idiot."
"Liv, there's nothing you can call me that I haven't already called myself."
"How about blind?" she asks her eyes on his. "How could you go to a stranger?"
"Do you see the way you've been looking at me? Like I'm broken... like I'm crazy—"
"Aren't you? Crazy?"
He laughs unamused. "That's real good, Liv."
"You never see me," she mumbles, her eyes on the floor.
"What?"
"This is a cycle. Rebecca, Dani, Angela..."
"What are you talking about?!"
"I've always been there for you. I've always given my all to you and it's never been enough. I've been at my whits end and still, I pour into you because that's what you do when you love someone."
Elliot's head whips up so fast it almost makes a sound. "What did you just say?"
"Don't pretend like you haven't known. You know the depth—"
"I didn't know," he says, cutting her off.
"And now I have to fix this. Do you know what Garland or Moennig are going to say? You need to tell Bell. You need to get ahead of this."
"I never asked you to fix it," he tells her gruffly. "That's the problem. You always think I need handling or fixing."
"Don't you?!" she asks. "From where I'm standing, I don't even think Jesus himself could piece you back together. You're dangerous."
"You know what?" He takes the final sip in the glass before he replaces it back down onto the counter. "I'll go."
"Bye," she says as she follows him out of the kitchen. She's a foot behind him so when he stops abruptly she has to grab onto him to regain her footing. "What the fuck?" she mumbles. He doesn't turn to look at her, not completely. His back is rigid and his eyes are on the floor and from her angle, she sees the sharp lines of his profile, of his jaw, of his cheekbones.
"Why didn't you say it back?"
"What?"
"When I told you I love you," he clarifies. "I said it and you... you just looked at me. Horrified."
She feels her frown soften. "In front of your children?"
"They know what you mean to me."
"That wasn't... you didn't..." She can't even complete her sentence so she sighs. "Elliot."
"I meant what I said." Her hand grazes his, and when he doesn't pull away before she can stop herself, her fingers claw through his. This, she guesses, will be their new normal. Holding hands and bickering back and forth.
"So did I."
He turns then, their hands still clenched in a hold, and his eyes climb her body. Up the matching silk pajamas she wears, over her exposed neck, over her bare face. His eyes settle on her mouth. It registers for her immediately that he looks like he's going to kiss her. "Elliot, don't," she warns gently, her voice barely a whisper. "Because I won't stop you and this'll be an even bigger mess."
"Don't because you don't want me to? Or because—"
"No. I want you to."
The hesitance he'd been riddled with when Angela Wheatley kissed him feels foreign now.
Olivia isn't Angela.
Angela had used him for whatever her purpose was, but he used her too. He felt understood in her presence. Grief makes you believe that no one else could ever understand the complexities of your innermost thoughts and feelings. Angela, who was beautiful and intelligent and still standing in her own grief, had allowed him the chance to be seen, to be heard. It'd confused him, puzzled him even, but it'd given him someone else to focus on besides the woman standing in front of him.
Olivia is too good for him. She always had been and probably always will be. He knows that he doesn't even deserve to be standing in her presence, but she'd opened her door for him willingly.
His free hand grasps at her hip and he guides her body to his as his mouth chases hers, before finding and claiming it as his. At least for right now. At least for as long as she'll allow.
When their tongues touch, they form a mutual new flavor of Elliot, Olivia, too much wine, too much alcohol. Of fear, of regret, of longing. Of something far greater than expected, something beyond all expectations.
She wrenches her hand from his to grasp at his jaw as he sucks on her upper lip, then bites at her full bottom lip. She tries to keep up, to match his fire, but he's taller, stronger and more dominant than she'll ever be. She lets him kiss her off her feet basically, lets his hands roam over the curve of her ass, over her hips, stopping just beneath her breasts, over her ribs.
"I didn't think this was an option. I couldn't imagine you'd allow this. I would've been right here—"
Olivia doesn't need any declarations from him. Not at this juncture of their relationship. It's too soon after he's lost his wife. Too soon after whatever he's had with the homicidal woman Angela Wheatley. And even so, she finds herself pulling his shirt from his pants. It's too late to stop now. His mouth is too sweet. His hands have touched too much of her. Even with the nagging thought that she doesn't want to be rebound number two, her hands seek his skin desperately. When she's finally under his shirt, when her fingers are against the heated skin of his abdomen, all bets are off. His hands have her breasts cupped in his hand, his thumbs find her nipples and she cries out. It's the sound of herself, unhinged and wild under his touch that brings her back to reality. Her eyes pop open and she finds that he's just as crazed as she is, just as caught out in the wild with her.
"El," she whispers, her thumb rubs over his bottom lip that's just been nipped between her teeth. She should tell him to go, to think about this. To take a second to breathe. "If..." she begins again. She licks at her lips and she internally grapples with what she wants and what he probably needs.
"Please stop worrying about me," he pleads softly.
"I'm thinking about what's best for you."
"You're what's best for me, Liv. If you could just stop treating me like a goddamn victim you'd see that."
"Being a victim isn't a bad thing. Things happen. I don't believe you'll stay here in this place, I just—"
"Please, don't make me go."
This time when she grabs his hand and she starts walking, she doesn't let go.
—
Olivia hesitates at her bedroom door, her fingers hovering on the lock as she decides if it even needs to be locked or not. Does she need to stop whatever it is beyond her bedroom from interrupting what's about to happen? Is it even going to happen?
She watches him as he places his wallet and his keys onto her dresser. He pulls his shoes off, then his socks.
"Just lock it, Liv," he says, garnering a laugh from her. He can still read her like the back of his hand. He sits down at the edge of her bed and waits for her to join him.
"Are you drunk?" she asks.
"No. Not anymore. I wish."
"I can go and grab that bottle," she offers.
"I'm good. I'd like to remember this."
Her eyes slip closed and she turns the lock over. Her steps to him are quick and he anticipates it down to the second because just as she's within his reach, he stands to his feet. Her biceps are in his hands and he pulls her body against his and he easily spins them so that when they land onto her bed, she's underneath him.
It's been a long time since a man has undressed her. She's thankful that her bedroom is darkened, there's no light besides a nightlight in the outlet just by her door and the clock on her bedstand.
He's hovering over her, drawing her pajama pants down, their nose touching but he makes no move to kiss her. Is he holding back? He's seemed so sure before.
"El," she begins and his eyes dart up to hers. The wild look from moments ago has returned and she feels herself clench involuntarily.
"Say it again," he commands.
"El?"
His lips are on hers again, his open mouth overtaking hers without any preamble or build up. His mouth is relentless and she finds herself melting for him, allowing him again the privilege to take from her.
His hands are sloppy and hurried as he pulls her pants the rest of the way down. He fumbles with her shirt for a second before he gives up and he rips it open. She'd hate that normally. Normally, this would've ended right here but she's too enthralled with want, with need. It gives the opposite effect, she feels herself clamp down even tighter, tries to stop the gush of desire that floods between her thighs. His mouth covers her neck, his tongue, his teeth nipping and dragging over her flesh until he makes it to her breasts. His mouth covers her nipple over her sports bra and the groan that leaves the both of them is nothing short of animalistic, primal, sexual.
Was this meant to be chaotic?
She'd been so taken by his mouth that her hands hadn't participated. But as he kisses at her breasts, as he works to rid her of her final pieces of clothing, her hands dart out to him. She makes work of loosening his tie, quickly unbuttoning his shirt for him until he stands up. If she wasn't so wrapped up in the moment, she'd laugh at how uncoordinated he is as he hurries to undress, yanking the sleeves of his shirt off his wrists, ridding himself of the white tank top underneath before going for his belt.
—
She hasn't been completely nude in front of a man in some time. She's a woman, just like all other women, there are pieces of her she'd rather hide than accentuate. The faded scars for one. She hadn't thought about them in a while and it'd taken time for them to just be a part of her. The fear is quickly settled when she feels the combination of his bottom teeth and tongue dragging across her nipple.
"El," she whimpers again and that's when her cloudy brain figures it out. It's what she's calling him. He'd been Elliot up until now. Detective, even. She'd intentionally left space between them until now. Until she's seen him look well-rested and put together, until she's felt safe with him. She hasn't called him El in all this time and maybe it'd been the deciding factor for him.
Maybe when she'd called him El, before they even made it to her bedroom, he knew this would happen.
The recognition that this isn't just some on the whim hookup, as if it could ever be, settles the doubt she's carried with her.
Her naked legs wrap around his, her feet resting on the back of his hairy thighs as he licks his way up to her mouth. His hand is between them and when he touches her, when he feels the sap between her thighs, he snatches his lips from hers. "Olivia," he groans.
She finds it ironic. That so much weight has been put on her calling him El and he's now using her full name in the most intimate of moments. His forehead falls against her clavicle and he lifts himself, puts enough space between them so that he's able to slip his fingertips over her clitoris, and then lower, deeper between the folds of her labia, into the most heated part of her. She sears his fingers and if she's this hot, this tight on his fingers, his mind begins to go blank at the thought of anything more.
He can't even remember what's brought him here today. How he got to her apartment or in New York City. The last thing he really remembers is being her partner and flashes of Olivia's face, the various hairstyles she's sported, the various styles of dress. The short haircut that shocked him both times, her long legs in dresses, vests that used to put too much emphasis on her small waist, her ass in jeans. The way she'd hover just above him and patch cuts above his eye, over his knuckles, sometimes over his heart. The way she'd laugh at him, pick food off of his plate, walk in stride right next to him. The way her gun fit on her hip, the precision of her shot that somehow was sexy on her and no one else. The extra time he knew she spent in the mirror in the morning despite her swearing she wasn't girly, the heels she wore for the entire duration of their partnership. He never even realized how short she was until they caught a case and she came into the office with running shoes and her hair tied in the back of her head in a ponytail. It was always the human moments, the times when she wasn't wearing her armor that he'd fall deeper in love with her.
He knows her well enough to know that she has only ever wanted to be loved, and he'd had that for her even back then. He's loved her for almost as long as he's known her. It's only now that he can truly express it.
All these random details flood back into his memory and something that has never before happened overtakes him. His eyes are wet with tears and he feels his mouth tremble against her cheek as she arches into his hand. He moves in and out of her easily and her hot, heavy breathing hitches, and just before she can come, he slides his fingers out of her.
"El," she admonishes.
How can she only say his name and say so much every single time?
—
He is so hard for her.
She's felt that much, seen that much before they even entered into her bedroom. His body is all solid surfaces and he is a stark contrast against her curves. She tries to grip at his back as he brushes himself over her, teasing her, but her short nails just scratch against skin.
She knows nothing she'll say will move this along faster. He does everything at his own pace, even this. Her hands go for his head, tilting his face until she can see him. It takes a second to register the tears and she lets her head fall back against the pillow. It is immediate. The flood of emotion that piles onto what's already been simmering beneath the surface.
He kisses her as he slowly slides into her. She feels both his tears and hers and there's not an iota of regret she feels when his hips are fused against hers, when he is wholly inside of her, his body touching far within her body.
She'd given up hope, at least with respect to this ever happening. There once was a time he'd infiltrate her dreams on a nightly basis. He'd come barreling into her bedroom late at night and rip his shirt open before he climbed on top of her and took her with his wedding ring on his finger. She'd felt guilt, even for her dreams.
It's taken however many times for his left hand to clench through hers for her to even realize that the ring is gone. She doesn't know if it has to do with Angela or if truly in his heart he felt ready to do it, but it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that despite all odds, despite the half dozen people begging her to watch out for him and his penchant for destruction, he's here. In her bedroom. Inside of her.
"I love you." His voice is broken with emotion when he says it and it only doubles the force of her tears.
This isn't what she's imagined. "We can't cry through this whole damn thing," Olivia says as he wipes her tears away. "Stop being sentimental."
"No," he says defiantly. "I love you and I'm sorry that it's taken me this long to say it. I wanted to be here."
"I love you, too, El," she whispers defeatedly. "Can we be done now with the crying? Sex isn't supposed to be this emotional."
He laughs and he rolls them over so that she's on top of him. He's smiling, despite the tears glistening in his eyes and his hands find her hips and she sits up.
"I really thought you'd be the strictly missionary type."
"I'm too emotional, right? Let's see what you've got."
She rolls her eyes and she leans forward to kiss his lips chastely. "Shut your mouth," she commands.
"Ten-four, Captain," he whispers.
—
His hands grip her hips as she rocks them over him, taking his erection completely into her body for just a fraction of a moment before moving again. His eyebrows are furrowed and when she whips her hair over, out of the corner of her eye she sees that his toes are curled. It puts a smile on her face. She's showing him, alright.
The flush in his body multiples as she moves, quickly building her pace, quickly using her body to dampen down the thick emotion fluttering between them.
She builds bridges and tunnels for them both. Over the years of pain, through the feelings of abandonment and what they both thought was unrequited love.
Their heavy breathing is paused when he grasps her shoulders and he pulls her down onto him. He creates the bridge this time, physically, when he plants his feet into the mattress and he begins driving his hips upward. To quell her moans, to manage the uninhibited pleasure wearing through her, she bites his shoulder. It's like he's an uncaged animal and when he rolls them over this time, it's sweat dripping from his face, not tears.
"Yes," she goads, her hands holding his face close to hers, her eyes staring up into his.
"Is this what you wanted?" he grinds out and she nods.
"Take me," she moans. She wants him to have all of her. She wants to remember this in the morning when she's working her damnedest to keep his ass out of real trouble.
She goes to rub herself, to give herself just the last piece of pleasure to send her over the edge, but he grabs her wrist. "No," he says. He holds both of her hands just above her head, his hands clawing through hers. "I've got this."
She wants to laugh again but it'd take too much concentration. He's bossy, even in bed.
Her legs draw upward as she feels the telltale signs of her orgasm. It ripples through her and when she begins clenching around him, he laughs. It's joyous. Like her orgasm is the best thing that's happened for him in some time.
"El," she yelps against his lips. His tongue slices through her mouth as his hands sink beneath them, curving down her back, over her ass. His forehead presses against hers, his nose slips alongside hers, their mouths hover as he fucks her senselessly. "Oh, God." Her orgasm from a moment ago has left her spent and sensitive and barreling forward for another release. The tears in her eyes this time aren't because she's taken with emotion again. She's literally being taken by him, invaded by him in the best way.
"Liv." His eyes screw shut and his hips go into an elite level of thrusting. She quivers around him, bites her bottom lip, squeezes his hands tightly as they come together. It is magical and unlike anything she's ever experienced.
It is complete synchronicity, complete release.
—
"How much would you hate me if I told you to get out right now?"
"A lot."
"Well, not now then. Before morning." Olivia picks her head up and she reads the time on the clock right by her bed. "In five hours."
"There's a lot we can do in five hours," he mumbles against her damp skin before he kisses her there.
"Oh, please," she grumbles. He's already falling asleep against her chest. "I want you in my office first thing in the morning, Elliot."
"I'll be there."
Olivia relaxes finally, her hand absently stroking his ear, his jaw, and then his back. The moment has been beautiful and as her body settles, reality knocks around in her head. "El, wake up," she grumbles, tapping him against the back of his neck.
She is a woman after all.
"Did you really kiss Angela Wheatley!?"
Elliot groans and he shakes his head against her. He's still inside of her, well mostly, and this is what she has to say? His blue eyes look down between them, at their wet sticky bodies still pressed up against each other. Her nipples are still hard, her breathing is still shaky from her second orgasm and still, she manages to say this? "Seriously?"
"I'm just saying, El. You're a fucking idiot."