Notes: With Mariska having a little too much fun on Insta, this needed to be written. They're dancing to Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade," so if you could just put it on for the last portion of this that'd be great. I'm in love with the song choice, Ames, thank you. And thank you for helping me create this piece. I love you.
I hope it's them. I hope you can see it. I hope you'll enjoy it.
Here she is, she thinks when the party's over. When co-workers and friends, ex-coworkers and old friends have long since called it a night, hugged her, bid their goodbyes. The last drops of champagne have dried up in glasses, the bubbles, the laughter, all died down. It's quiet now as she stands here, staring down at the water.
Alone. Always alone, it crosses her mind.
She tilts her head up and takes everything in. It's clear enough that the few visible stars are bright and beautiful tonight, and she can't remember when she last looked up at the night sky. Momentarily she thinks of him, wonders if the stars look just the same in Rome as they do from here. From New York. From… home?
She swallows, breathes in, one hand gripping the railing. There's a lot she doesn't know, doesn't dare ask. She knows from Kathleen that Eli considers Rome home, but has no idea if he considers it that. She's worried that he might have, scared that he does. Terrified what it means if he does.
For a moment she lets herself think it, let's herself feel it. She breathes out slowly, consciously. If Rome has become home to him, there's a chance he's going to go back.
He might leave again.
It's anguish, the mere idea of letting him go, losing what they're starting to rebuild so tentatively. Feeling the possibility of losing him again, she decides, disenchanted, is not such a good idea after all.
She sips from her bourbon, drowning herself in the vanilla and caramel notes before the ache in her chest unfurls. She swallows with no regard for the heavy layers in the forefront of the drink nor the sweet undertones that usually tickle her senses. She wants the hit. The warmth in her belly, the fog in her brain. Most of all she wants the numbness in her heart that hasn't stopped beating to the rhythm of his name since she first saw him sitting behind her in the fifth row for the ceremony.
Another sip. She clings to the tumbler, to the rich golden savior in liquid form and shakes her head.
She thought she was past the hurt and grief and tears, but she's knee-deep in it now, her nose crinkling with the familiar tickle of oncoming tears. She shuts them down by closing her eyes, refusing to cry over him again. She wants to be past that.
It's been months and they talk now, about his work and his kids and how he's settling into this new life, but when it comes down to it she doesn't know anything. In part that's her fault, because she keeps herself guarded, one foot on the brakes when things get too personal, too deep, too... dangerous.
His abandonment is still a permanent ache sitting underneath her skin.
Ten years. Ten. And for all the times she would have given anything to see him again within the first few of those, she sometimes still doesn't know how to exist in a place where he exists, too. She's still trying to figure that one out.
She feels his presence before she sees him step up to the railing, eyes trained on her. From her periphery she can see him slide his hands out of his pockets. He places one in stifling proximity to hers, so close their fingers almost touch. She nearly feels it, and flushes with the realization that she wants it. His touch.
Some things, she muses, never change.
She thought he'd left the reception with the others. With Munch, Cragen, and a few other people they used to work with a very long time ago.
Wordlessly she tips the tumbler to her lips, sips, and prolongs it in the name of self-preservation when she feels like nudging her finger to his.
That goddamn wedding has made her all soft and set her apart at the same time. She wants to feel together for a moment, wants a link, a connection. She wants something to believe in, but knows it can't be him. It shouldn't be him. She's done a good job of keeping her distance all night, she can't let it all go to shit now.
God, she should've gone home despite the haunting quiet of her apartment. It doesn't get worse than this. Ex-partners meeting alone out here after the wedding of two people that used to be… ex-partners.
She's been chewing on it since Fin said his vows, sourly realizing that someone else got everything she once wanted. Not that she'd ever say it out loud. She'd rather bite off her tongue than admit she had entertained fantasies of happily ever after with… him. She wants to laugh, because it sounds like she's a bitter woman. She's really not. She's happy for Fin, for Phoebe. She just…
She wants a taste of real happiness for herself.
Sighing through her nose she turns her head, takes him in. He looks magnificent in that tailored suit and tie. She wonders how he suddenly has such impeccable taste when it comes to clothing and cologne, making him look and smell so fine, so goddamn expensive. She's not a shallow person, or so she likes to think, but there's only so much she can do not to notice his newfound sense of style, the easy confidence he's carrying himself with.
She can see her name form on his lips before he says it, anticipates the sound as it scatters between them.
"Liv."
The same as back then, but so different.
There was a time she craved her nickname falling from his lips, spoken in every shade of underlying emotion. Before he ghosted her and left her in ruins. She wonders if that tinge of wrongness is always going to be attached to it now.
"I thought you left." Her gaze droops a second to late, she's already seen the tug of a smile.
"I did. I mean, not really, I waited in the car, hoping to catch you but you…" He lets it hang, and she nods, but doesn't respond. "Thought you might need a lift."
"Ah. Uh… no. I…," she takes a deep breath, looks out at the water, focusing on the waves rolling by. "I'll take a cab." She sets the bottom of the glass against the white railing.
"Bar still open?" It sounds like a suggestion, and she smirks despite herself.
"I don't know, I got that a while ago." She'd ordered a double with no intention of going home anytime soon. "You could ask."
"Or you could share," he suggests, his voice unusually thick. She meets his gaze, his eyes deep and clear beneath the lightbulbs that stretch out above them for the entire length of the railing. She considers his request, her brows folding.
"We don't do that, Elliot." She sounds tired, resigned. She's glad he's back, but tonight talking to him hurts, so for the better part of the evening she hasn't. She's not prepared now. Normally she talks herself into being ready to face him for the duration it takes to get to whatever place she meets him at. She thought he'd gone home. This is too unexpected.
"We could." He shrugs easily, as if he doesn't want to put his mouth where she had hers, sipping away her peace elixir. If he takes her drink, she's not going to be able to keep inside how much today hurts.
She doesn't want to hold a grudge. In fact she thinks she's got a firm hold on her forgiveness for him, but it's a goddamn wedding and he's here and close, and asking to share her drink like they're still the same people who used to steal food from each other's plates, or finish a beer after the other left the bar.
"Elliot, what is this?"
"What is what?" It's half-hearted, his confusion, the slight reflection of hurt in his eyes. "I can't offer you a ride now?"
"Is that really why you're here?" Dejectedly she downs what's left of her drink, then looks at him. He drops his act, nods once. The hurt is still there, but she sees no sign of confusion.
"You've been avoiding me all night," he states, eyes out of focus, narrowing.
"That's not true," she shakes her head, as if she could fool him. "We sat at the same table, we talked-"
"Not really. You talked to everyone else."
She shuts her eyes when emotion crawls up her throat. "I… uh… Elliot-" She doesn't know how to explain that mingling at a wedding, surrounded by the people they used to work with, the people that know their complicated history, is not the same as them talking on the phone, or meeting for a quick lunch. It's hard enough when it's just them trying to find their footing, but this? She's been drowning all night, trying not to look at him, talk to him, fall back into the familiarity that came with catching up with the people they used to work with. The people who had seen her fall to pieces over him. Recover from him-if that's what she wants to pretend she did.
"Liv, I get it. I'm not here to give you a hard time" He waits a beat, breathes out. "I just didn't want to leave without making sure you're okay."
"I'm okay." It comes too quickly, so she grips the railing more tightly.
"Okay," he allows, simple, and for a while he settles into the silence between them that's only filled by the lullaby of the wind and the waves. She doesn't know if he expects something. Words or tears, or for her to make a quick escape. He just stands there, his eyes no longer trained on her. She finds it unsettling, his presence, like he's hovering, waiting, because whatever he's waiting for is likely to come. She feels like the floodgates are going to open, she feels like she wants to leave before it happens. What she doesn't feel like is talking, but she does it anyway. Maybe, she thinks, it can be her way to apologize.
"I didn't think I'd be in the same place with you and them again...ever. Everyone was so happy and I'm still trying to grasp how that even happened," she admits around a sad chuckle. "I mean, Fin getting married, that's strange enough. But all of us here-" she swallows, locks gazes with him. "You here, really," she corrects. "You and me is still something I need to constantly remind myself is real. I mean, ten years. That's such a long time." She speaks without thinking about it first, letting it all pour out this time. "Cragen, Munch, Fin… They were all there when you left. They were there when I became a mother…"
"They were there when I wasn't," he tells her matter-of-factly, with easy acceptance. "Today was hard on you."
"Yeah," she breathes, not sure if he'll catch it. Today was really fucking hard on her, so she needed a moment, a reprieve from everyone, everything.
"You want me to go?"
For some reason she feels it's all right if the reprieve is over. She's okay with him being here, she's okay now that it's just them.
"No, it's okay." When she exhales it's shaky and slow.
She can feel the tension slipping away from him, can see the relief stretching over his face as she looks at him. She takes it all in these days, now that it's no longer as hard to look him in the eye. He's changed over the years, of course. He's a little older, a little rougher around the edges, but softer around the eyes. He's different, and he's the same, his eyes so wondrously familiar that sometimes she can't stop staring at him, searching for that easiness, that naturalness that has gotten lost somewhere between New York and Rome.
"There's some things I didn't get to say earlier."
Arching her brow she looks at him curiously.
"First of all, you look absolutely beautiful tonight, Olivia." He makes his point when his eyes rake over her body, appreciating the black dress with the floral print, the high heels. His gaze drops to her lips, lingers briefly.
A blush creeps into her cheeks at once, making her feel feverish. He keeps saying things that throw her off. Things like 'You mean the world to me,' and 'I love you', although she's convinced he was hallucinating for the latter, because Elliot does certainly not love her. She can't comprehend why he would look at her like that. He's not leering, he's not on the prowl. She thinks he genuinely likes what she's wearing, the effort that went into her make-up and hair. For a moment she just stares at him, unable to respond in any other way. He's unsettling, this new, more eloquent Elliot.
"I… uh…," Olivia stammers.
"Nobody danced with you tonight," he points out, and if this is going where she thinks it is going, she's going to be nauseous with nerves.
"I don't usually-"
"Olivia, will you dance with me?" He's offering her his hand, his eyes encouraging her to take it, to let him lead her to the deserted patio.
He's insane. Elliot is actually insane, because it's late and just them, and there's nothing to dance to. More than that, they don't do this. She doesn't get complimented by him and they certainly don't dance.
"There's no music," she blurts out like it's some big revelation, and hopefully her saving grace.
"That's right. You need music?"
If it's going to get her out of this she sure does, she decides.
"To dance? Yes. I mean…" He retrieves his phone and her eyes are wide, because she already knows what he's gonna do next. "Elliot, what are you-"
"You can't go home without at least one dance," he argues, making it sound like that's carved in stone.
"You can't be serious." Olivia sounds breathless, trying to wrap her head around the idea. For a moment Elliot focuses on his phone, taps the screen, scrolls, types something in before he raises his eyes again.
"I'm serious," he says. "I want to dance with you. Just this once."
Just this once, it reverberates in her head, in her heart. One dance. Just one.
She can do this. It doesn't mean anything. It's just… one dance.
She swallows, and nods, realizing that she feels lightheaded all of a sudden. He grasps for her hand on the railing, takes it, and leads her to the patio. She feels stiff and awkward, still holding the empty tumbler. What she wouldn't give for a refill right now. He takes the glass from her and puts it down on a nearby table together with his phone. The first notes carry to where she stands, just loud enough to be heard.
Olivia tilts her head as she recognizes the song. She raises a brow at him as she speaks. "Glenn Miller?"
Elliot's only response is a little shrug and somewhat boyish smile as he steps into her personal space.
He smells of leather, gold and something earthy, a rich scent that dares her to move closer as her hand slips into his like it belongs there. They stand silent for a moment, under the moonlight, as she's watching his next actions hesitantly. Elliot encircles her fingers, mild but firm, determination in his eyes when her gaze shifts once more. He wants this dance with her, here tonight. She wonders if he wanted it all along, if his reason not to go home is selfish rather than born out of concern for her.
Elliot's other hand settles at her side, slips lower to her hip, gently pulling her against him. She grips his shoulder, cocking her head as they come together. His chest is muscular, radiating heat and confidence. She shivers from the touch, the sudden proximity that's new and unknown between them.
They've hugged before. Elliot has held her, cradled her once after Porter took a shot at Rojas, but this feels different, more intimate. He starts to move, leads, and it's slow, almost delicate as he sways with her. His cheek comes to rest against her hair as his fingertips press against the small of her back, as if he could possibly inch her closer.
"This isn't too bad, is it?" Elliot's voice is raspy, and a shiver runs down her spine.
He makes her feel raw so easily, and yet she tries to keep her guard up, tries to protect herself. It's always been like this with him. After the high comes the crash.
"No, it isn't," Olivia offers weakly. In fact it's wonderful. Scary but wonderful. She can't tell him that, though. Some things are better left unsaid.
The ache in her heart dissipates, therefore another grows beneath her skin. She agreed to one dance and already thinks about the loss of contact when they will break apart. So much for protecting herself. She wants to stay like this, close to him, under the blanket of the stars. This moment is ephemeral. They are, too. There's only so long this song is going to last. They will end long before the night is over.
"You smell good," Elliot whispers, and if to make his point he inhales her deeply. Her mouth runs dry, and she wonders if he can feel her heart beating too fast in her chest.
"Elliot-" She bets her face is tinged crimson, thankful that he can't see it. This isn't real. It's not like him, or like her, but for the time being she wants to get lost in this fever dream he's created. Maybe she's had too much to drink, probably he did, too. But she isn't drunk, she remembers. If anything she's a little buzzed, so she can't put the dancing and sweet talk solely on alcohol.
"Does it make you feel uncomfortable? When I say things like that?"
Olivia has to think about it, finding the answer surprising. It doesn't. She doesn't understand why he says it, what is happening. Her head is spinning with the way he holds her so intimately close, moving their bodies slowly to the music, but she doesn't feel uncomfortable. Truthfully, she doesn't know what to say, if she should answer at all, but after a brief moment it falls from her lips anyway. It's a tiny sound, meant just for him.
"No."
"Good, because I've got things to say."
She's inexplicably drawn to him and the things he says, like she hasn't been in a long time. She's playing with fire, she thinks, but she can't step away, can't shush him, either. She doesn't know how to. Doesn't want to. The conversation is a soft lull, and if she's going to walk home with regret breaking her heels it might just be worth it. He's got things to say, and she desperately wants to know what they are, even at the risk of not sleeping for weeks to come. She's been there, so at least she's prepared.
He seems to take her silence as compliance as his arm snakes further around her. Olivia's body hums. Her chest hums. Everything hums in quiet agreement with his closeness, this softness.
"What I said at the intervention-" At the word she stiffens. The memory still haunts. They haven't talked about it. She's avoided talking about it like hell, ready to flee the scene if he so much as uttered a word about it, so now, with his hand wrapped around hers in a firm grasp, encircled by his arm, is not the time for him to drop that bomb.
"Elliot-," she sounds panicked, short of breath. "I get it, don't…"
"I meant that. I shouldn't have said it then or there, because it deserved to be more than a blurted out, frenzied thing." He pulls back enough to look at her, his eyes soft and full of compassion and truth. "You deserved for it to be more. But I meant it. I need you to know that."
He meant it. He meant it. How is she supposed to wrap her head around that revelation? She's gone over it, of course. Countless times in the days and weeks to follow, and not once had she entertained the idea that he was fully aware of what the fuck he'd said to her. In front of his twenty-seven-and-a-half children on top of it. But he meant it.
"I do love you." Her mouth falls open as she blinks twice, wondering if any moment now she's going to snap out of it.
They almost don't move now, merely swaying, feet firmly planted on the ground. Elliot's words are a crescendo in her chest, so full, so warm, yet so elusive. His bluntness renders her speechless, deprives her of a response that she thinks is expected.
Elliot gives her fingers a quick, reassuring squeeze before he tucks her fully against him again, his face finding a home in her hair. He breathes her in, and she holds her breath, waiting a few heartbeats before she allows her head to sink against him. She can feel Elliot's hand cascade to the small of her back, his fingers spreading out, drawing her in a little more. A tiny sigh falls from her lips at the pressure of his fingertips, the heel of his hand.
"Right now the only thing I can think about is how much I want to kiss you." The words are a low, steady stream, spoken softly into her ear as they are cheek to cheek. He encircles her hand a tad more firmly and makes sure they keep moving. Against the juncture of his chin Olivia expels a shaky breath. If she could remember how to step away, how to move without Elliot's assistance, she'd attempt escape.
"I won't, but I want to," he assures. "I'm not ready. I don't think you're ready, yet. You need to heal, and I need a little more time to grieve, but Olivia…" She's dizzy with his words, with how he holds her firmly but delicately against him, pressing his cheeks into hers with the quiet conviction that's in his words. "... when I am ready, I am going to kiss you, if that's what you want,too."
Her eyes fall closed with the implications, the promise attached. Her throat is locked, dry, and useless, because no words make it past where they sit deep in her chest. They are words of protest, disbelief, fury, desperation, love, and need. Fickle and thick with what ten years of abandonment, ten years of silence have done to her. There's the tickle and burn of oncoming tears as he draws back enough to put his lips against her temple, lingering just long enough to convince her she's not just imagining it. It's something in his touch, in his hold, the way he moves her, that makes her believe in him, so she gives up the fight for a response, swallows, and keeps the words in. Instead her hand trails across his shoulder, to his neck, resting there so delicately as she allows herself to breathe Elliot in, fall into him, trust him. Everything about him is soothing, so she allows herself to believe him this once, for this one dance.
When Olivia opens her eyes, she realizes they are still swaying although the music stopped. The chill of the night crawls across her skin and she shivers against Elliot's body.
"You must be cold." The words are a low, gut-wrenching rumble after the quiet intimacy of the dance.
"A little," she admits, the corner of her mouth moving against his skin. He steps away then, and all she can feel is the sudden, unexpected loss of his body so close to hers. She never was one to dance, but she enjoyed this with him. His fingers uncurl and when he looks at her with those clear eyes that are full with everything that has transpired in the past minutes, she shyly takes a step back as well.
"Here," he says, shrugging out of his suit jacket. "Take this." He steps around her and drapes the fabric over her shoulders. Instantly she's enveloped in his warmth caressing her skin.
"Thank you." She's got a thin jacket here somewhere, yet it doesn't occur to her to refuse the offer. His hands slip to her arms, rubbing them for warmth as a smile appears on his lips.
"Are you sure you don't need a ride?" Everything about him is inviting, and she really should not take him up on the offer. However, she hesitates for a moment too long. He trails down her arm, grabs her hand and gently he pulls her along, towards the tables. "Come on, Liv, let's get your things." He cocks his head, and in his eyes she can see the dare and the welcome. "Let me drive you home."
She breathes in, looks up at the moonlit sky, at the stars, still reveling in the dance.
"Just this once," she breathes. And when he smiles, warm and genuine, for the first time in years, she feels peace.