May 4, 2007

She had been sleeping, a deep and pleasant sleep, lost in a dream she would not be able to recall upon waking, warm and content. Safe, in her own bed, with a heavy arm draped over her waist, she had been sleeping, and known no fear, or worry. Such moments of respite were not designed to last, however; she had been sleeping, but at a quarter to six the shrill blaring of a cell phone shattered the silence of her apartment, and she was awake in an instant, groaning.

"Yours or mine?" Elliot mumbled, his lips brushing against the curve of her shoulder as he spoke. He always held her in sleep; no matter how they arranged themselves when they first lay down by the time she woke he was always wrapped around her, the heat of him radiating through her, inescapable. There was nowhere she could hide from him, not while they slept; even now, his thigh had slipped between hers, his arm holding her tight, his breath against her skin, his chest flush to her back. Elliot was everywhere, always. She'd never slept as well as she did when he was with her, and she was trying not to think too hard about what that might mean.

When the ringing started her hand had darted out from underneath the covers, reaching for her phone reflexively, before her mind caught up to her body. As she drew the phone close to her face, however, she realized the truth.

"Yours," she told him.

He mumbled something unintelligible and rolled away from her, his hand scrambling across the bedside table in search of his own phone. When Olivia first moved into this apartment that table had been bare; she slept on the left side, and all of her things were kept close to hand. Now, though, there was a charger for Elliot's phone and a glass of water on a coaster and an unread copy of Sports Illustrated on the right side of the bed. His things, on his side of the bed. She was trying not to think about that, either, how easily he had insinuated himself into her life, how she had let him. She kept a toothbrush and an extra charger at his apartment, too.

"Yeah," he said into his phone, rubbing his hand over his face. If someone was calling Elliot chances were good they'd be calling Olivia soon, too; there was nowhere he needed to go at 6 in the morning where she would not be asked to follow. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep, and no point in trying to listen to his conversation. He'd tell her everything she needed to know when he was finished, anyway.

Might as well get moving, she told herself. They'd showered the night before, washed off the grime of the day before eating cold takeout in her kitchen in their underwear, and she was grateful for it now, because they'd been called up, and that meant there wasn't time for a long, leisurely morning. But there would be time enough to wash her face, to brush her teeth, and so she rolled to the side, planted her feet on the floor, and let the bedsheets fall away from her as she stretched for a moment, trying to get her bearings.

"Which hospital?" Elliot asked. As he listened he reached for her, his hand sliding beneath her hair, his palm settling for just a moment on the nape of her neck, squeezing gently, reassuringly. He was always touching her, when they were alone like this, always finding some excuse for proximity and heat and hands sliding over skin, and she was coming to accept it, his need for contact. It wasn't that he was clingy, exactly; he wasn't asking for anything, or taking anything, when his hands slid over her body. He just wanted to touch her, just liked it, and she had gone so long without anyone touching her at all that every time he did something sparked inside her, something that felt like need and felt like fear both at the same time.

But she could taste last night's sesame chicken at the back of her throat and time was against them, and so she didn't linger. She stood up, felt his hand slide down her back, drifting away from her as she took off for the bathroom.

With each step she took her senses grew sharper, and by the time she reached the bathroom door she wasn't just tasting last night's dinner; it was coming for her. Rising up the back of her throat like the worst sort of regret, like heartburn with a vengeance, and she broke out into a trot, skidded to a halt in front of the toilet just in time to drop to her knees and lose her tenuous grip on her stomach. If she'd had time she would have closed the door but it came over her so quickly, so viciously, there'd been no time at all. It was hardly the first time he'd seen her sick, but she was more worried about whoever he was talking to overhearing. It was hard to be quiet in a moment like that, try though she might; she'd just have to trust that if she was overheard Elliot would be quick to cover for them both.

The sudden nausea passed almost as quickly as it had come, probably, she thought, because she had just purged every last bit of the three day old Chinese she'd had for dinner and there was nothing left to offend her. Just to be safe she lingered for a moment, gasping, shuddering - god she hated being sick - and as she knelt there she heard the sound of footsteps approaching. He wasn't talking anymore, and she didn't bother looking up at him, choosing instead to keep her eyes closed and focus on her breathing, but she listened, heard the sound of the sink running, heard his knee crack as he knelt down next to her, felt the blessed relief of a cold, wet washcloth against the back of her neck.

"You ok?" he asked, very quietly.

"Yeah," she said. "I think it's passed."

"I told you I thought the chicken smelled off." Leave it to Elliot, she thought, to be smug in a moment like this. Blindly she reached for him, her fingers skating over the back of his hand until she could catch hold of the washcloth. She took it from him and rubbed it gently over her flushed face, still trying to catch her breath.

"We catch a case?" she asked. Although her stomach seemed to be settling Olivia was in no mood for a fight, and she really didn't want to talk about food. Work would be a much safer topic than rehashing their disagreement about last night's supper.

"Yeah, vic's at Mercy. Not quite sure what the story is there yet."

"I guess we'll find out when we get there."

She leaned back on her heels, ready to try to find her feet, and then his hands were just there, sliding against her sides, holding her steady, those strong arms guiding her as she stood. Once she was upright he pulled her back against him, pressed his hands against her belly and let his lips settle against her shoulder.

"You wanna go back to bed? I can call Fin."

For a man who could be such an ass, he really could be sweet sometimes. She knew he was just looking out for her, that even if they hadn't spent the last six weeks tangled up in bed together at every opportunity, even if they'd never fallen into bed together at all, he would have made the same offer. It was just what he did, taking care of people. Taking care of her. But it made her uneasy, still; whatever was happening between them in their off hours work was still work, and Olivia could not allow their personal entanglements to impact their professional lives. As nice as it was, being with him, laughing with him, fucking him, she lived in terror of him crossing some line, of someone finding out, of being shunted off to vice or drugs or anywhere that wasn't special victims, being tainted, damaged goods, being no use to anyone. The job - the work, the victims, the taste of justice in her mouth, the penance she'd been paying for the last nine years - it meant everything to her.

"No, I'm good," she said, letting her fingertips trail against the back of his hands, crossed over her belly. He was learning to be patient with her and she was trying to reward that patience with trust, trying not to snipe at him for mothering her, trying not to warn him off her every chance she got. That was strange, too, in its own way, strange that they were still learning how to deal with one another, after so much time. She thought they'd figured it all out already, but the fallout from Gitano and Oregon and Simon and all the rest of it had sent the ground shifting beneath their feet, and in so many ways it felt like starting over. Maybe because they were.

"I've got the twins this weekend," he murmured, his face still buried in her shoulder.

"I know."

The first time Olivia ever met the twins they were only five years old and now they were fourteen and fractious. They knew her well - she'd picked them up from school before, been to one of Lizzie's dance recitals, been to the house, drifting in and out of their lives for so long now that they probably didn't remember a time when she hadn't been there - but there was no way in hell Olivia was going to go anywhere near Elliot while they were with him. This closeness she'd found with him, this nebulous thing where they were colleagues and lovers and friends and still didn't know how to talk about it, was too new, too fresh, and too complicated to bring kids into it. If Elliot had the twins, Liv was going to steer clear.

They'd hate me if they knew, the thought floated through her mind. Katie was starting college and Mo had graduated already and they seemed to be taking their parents' divorce in stride, but the twins were so young, still, and Liv could only imagine how confused they were, how hurt, how furious they'd be if only they had someone to blame for the fracturing of their family. She couldn't be that person, but she felt as if she was. If it weren't for her, maybe Elliot would have transferred out of SVU years before. If it weren't for her, maybe he would have been home more, would have been more present. If it weren't for her, maybe he would still love Kathy.

Where does it end? She wondered. How far was this thing between them going to go? Would they still be fucking come Christmas? Would he want her to join the family when they celebrated? Would he want to tell the kids the truth, and if he did, how could she ever look them in the eye?

"If we need to work over the weekend I'll call Fin. You should be with your kids."

She was well aware she had just done to him exactly what he'd done to her, offered to cover for him, to call in someone else, to give him a chance to rest while she worked. But she would have said the same thing even if he wasn't naked and holding on to her. He was her partner, and they took care of one another.

"Let's see what happens first," he told her. "Sun's not even up yet."

Anything could happen, over the course of a day, and they knew that better than most.

"We'd better get moving then."

She turned to him, and saw the flash of a smile dancing across his face, saw the shine of his blue eyes and the hard, heavy lines of his shoulders, and for one single, too-brief moment she forgot. She forgot that she was supposed to be afraid, that she wasn't supposed to love him, forgot about his kids and his ex-wife and the job, forgot everything, except how strong he was, and how good it felt when he held her.

"Brush your teeth," he said, grinning, one of his hands sliding down to smack lightly, playfully against her ass. "Then I can kiss you."

"Asshole," she said fondly, pushing at his shoulders until he stepped back, gave her room to leave him and turn instead towards the sink.

It was just so easy, being with him; he flushed the evidence of her brief sickness away while she reached for her toothbrush, and then he relieved himself, talking about the phone call he'd gotten from Cragen, what scant details he had about the case. They finished about the same time and switched places, and he grinned at her around his toothbrush - his, the one he'd brought here the third time he stayed over, the one that sat in its little holder next to hers on the counter like it belonged there - and she had never, ever, been like this with anyone before. Comfortable, unaffected, bare. There was nothing he did not know, nothing he did not see, and it made her feel safe and scared both at the same time. She was safe with him, but the thought of losing him, losing this, losing the easy way they were at home and the seamless way they were at work and everything they had come to be to one another, sucked the breath right out of her lungs. If she lost him, she'd have nothing left at all.

But she hadn't lost him, not yet. They finished their business in the bathroom together, and he caught her by the door, his hands heavy on her hips, pushing her back against the wall, and she let him, wanting his touch as much as he wanted to touch her.

"Wait," he said, his body boxing her in, his face so close to hers. "I haven't said good morning, yet."

She grinned, reached up to run her hand gently over his close-cropped hair. It was getting thinner by the day; his hairline had been receding when she met him, and she wondered idly if they'd stay together long enough for her to see him go completely bald.

"Good morning, Elliot," she said, gently.

And then he closed the space between them, and kissed her soundly, and she let him, and tried to tell herself that all her worries could keep, at least for one more day.