A/N: I just can't quit this story. I hope you enjoy this next chapter 3

Olivia and Elliot are rarely alone.

Liv's priority is Noah, and Elliot is working to repair his relationship with Eli—with all of his kids. Their demanding work schedules also keep them apart, which is ironic since it's what held them together when they were partners. Back when his marriage was often strained and she had room for him, only him, in her life. They were so deeply entwined in each other, then. So concentrated on their partnership they hardly allowed space for anyone else.

Now, they're in a relationship—an actual relationship—and it's a struggle to even carve out time for weekly dinners. Sometimes Elliot wishes they could go back to the way things were before he left: when they were younger and things were simpler. For her, anyway. He was a married man with five kids and a chip on his shoulder, but she hadn't yet been through the trauma that left her so physically and emotionally scarred that she still won't let him look at her with the lights on. And maybe, he thinks, she wouldn't have had to go through it at all if he'd stayed.

Lately, her insecurities are forming an invisible barrier between them. She's become worked up over the sex they're not having; focused on her inability to please him, even though it's so far from the truth. He wishes she could see that, but instead she tells him he needs it. That he needs her, all of her, though he doesn't understand where it's stemming from because he hasn't once pressured her for sex. He wants it, of course, but not enough to let their first time come out of desperation.

Since her panic attack, Olivia hardly lets him see her body at all. If they do anything physical, and it's a big if because she's been fairly disinterested, it has to be in complete darkness. He's asked to try again and promises not to use his mouth on her scars. If he could just see her, he thinks, it might help them get past this. Her answer is always no, but he's patient because he understands anxiety better than he used to. Before, he viewed it as some kind of an excuse or overreaction. Then, he lost Kathy and discovered for himself just how real it is.

Elliot also recognizes that Olivia is likely anticipating another panic attack. That she's probably associating her anxiety with sex, or with him seeing her scars in the light. Maybe a combination of both. Either way, it's complicated and messy, and she's been avoiding it. He understands though, or at least is trying to. He's been talking to a shrink and knows she is too. Lindstrom, she told him. So, he's hopeful this is a bump in the road and won't become a pattern between them.

Noah has a sleepover tonight which means they'll finally have some time alone. Before going over to her apartment, Elliot stops for a drink with his colleagues. It's something she's been pressuring him to do. You need to bond, she'd told him, like he cares. Like he wants to bond with anyone other than her. He trusts Ayanna and is comfortable enough with the rest of his team to rely on them when he needs to, so how much more bonding is necessary? Still, he did it. Even bought the first round because he wants to do right by Liv; wants so badly to make her happy.

"Hey." She greets him warmly and ushers him inside.

"Hi." He grins, brushing her hair away from her face. He hasn't seen her all week, and even though they were apart for ten years, seven days feels too long now. "I missed you." Wasting no time, he leans down and kisses her.

As soon as their lips meet, she tastes it: whiskey. It's on his breath and lingers on his lips. She recoils out of instinct, her brain remembering exactly what the taste once meant for her. How it blurred her vision and cost her the little control she had. Her body remembers, too. Needing water, begging for it, only to be met with this taste. She remembers how it burned going down her throat before settling in her hollow stomach. It nearly makes her sick, but she remembers.

"What?" He scrunches his brow, confused by her reaction. Her eyes look hollow, drained of the warmth they had only seconds before. "Liv, what?" He repeats, his hand moving to her forearm in an attempt to coax her back to reality.

She snaps her arm away as soon as she feels him there. "Nothing." She moves toward the kitchen and fills a glass of water, desperate to flush out the bitter taste. Her body reacts too, triggering an intense thirst.

"Olivia." He presses.

"You taste like whiskey." She mutters but won't look at him.

"Yeah." He eyes her quizzically. "Went for a drink with Ayanna and a couple of the guys. You told me to play nice."

"Oh." She's short with him as she takes another drink. "Right."

"The hell's going on with you?" His choice of words is questionable at best, but there's concern laced in his tone. Her eyes are darting all over the room, and he swears her hand has the slightest tremor. He notices it when she raises her glass.

"I don't like it." She bites. "Whiskey."

"You don't…" he runs his palm across his face. "Like it. That's why you're mad at me?"

"Never said I was mad." She quips.

"Christ, Liv." He laughs bitterly. "I'm not making you drink it."

She loses her grip, hearing that, and the glass slips from her hands and shatters beneath her.

"Fuck." She rasps, instinctively bending down to pick up the pieces.

He watches her for a moment while she claws at the floor, gathering pieces of broken glass like it's nothing—like they're marbles. Her agitation is obvious and he's struck with understanding.

"Liv, stop." He's pulled from his thoughts when a shard pierces her skin.

"It's fine." She hears his words, feels his breath hot on her neck. "I've got it."

"Well, you're bleeding." He gently pulls her to stand. "So, maybe not."

"I—what?" She glances down and sees a pool of red forming in the center of her left palm. "I didn't—I didn't even feel it."

"It's alright." He sighs, turning on the tap. "Come here."

Elliot's chest is pressed against her back while his arms circle her front, carefully guiding her palm under the faucet. He tucks his chin against her shoulder blade, pressing a delicate kiss to her neck but she barely notices. She's concentrating only on the sensation of water running over her skin to keep her mind present. Elliot finds a dish towel and holds it against her hand, applying pressure.

"I'm okay." She grumbles, unsure if she's comfortable being taken care of like this. "It's not deep."

"Eh, deep enough." He lifts the towel and studies her wound. Between his five children he's had plenty of experience with cuts and bruises. "Won't need stitches, but it'll leave a mark."

"Oh, good." She says sarcastically. "Add it to my collection."

"Liv," he hesitates.

"What?" Her back is still to him, but she senses his prying eyes. "Just say it, El." She sighs, tired of dancing around their issues. "Whatever it is."

"He make you drink whiskey?" He poses it as a question but it isn't one.

Her shoulders slump and it's the only response she's willing to give. His arms tighten around her but it's suffocating so she shimmies out of his grip.

"I didn't know." He continues. "You don't talk to me, so." He exhales, removing the cloth from her hand again and running it under the tap. "I didn't know."

Olivia doesn't owe him an explanation. In the back of his mind he knows this, but he still wishes she would open up. He could easily pull up her file and discover the details she isn't sharing. Then, he thinks, he would never do anything to trigger her again. He won't betray her, though. They're still rebuilding their trust and he won't jeopardize that over a stack of court transcripts and police reports.

"I need to—" She's struck by a wave of dizziness and steadies herself against the counter before sliding down to the ground. Between her bleeding hand and spiraling mind it's not entirely surprising that she's feeling this way. The kitchen floor is cold against her warm body, and it's a welcome sensation. She moves her head between her knees, closing her eyes and slowing her breath.

Elliot joins her though the floor is uncomfortable for his frame. He awkwardly shifts until he finds a decent position then tentatively places a hand at the small of her back. Olivia doesn't flinch, which is a relief, but he doesn't say anything. He sits quietly next to her, making his presence known but nothing more.

"Keep pressure on that." He prods at her hand.

"I know." Her eyes roll but she listens, pressing the towel tighter against her raw skin. The bleeding has slowed, but she keeps her head tucked between her knees until the dizziness passes.

"Sorry."

"Elliot," she holds for a few seconds.

"Right here." He moves in so their shoulders touch.

"You should know." She exhales. "It wasn't just whiskey." She lifts her head to meet his gaze. "Vodka, too. So, I...try to avoid both."

"Jesus." He whispers, supporting his head on the cabinet behind him.

"Also, pills." She swallows. "Sleeping pills."

Olivia turns her neck, studying his features to gauge his reaction. If her truth sparks his temper she won't be able to handle it. She needs him to be steady for her and has no space for angry Elliot: out for vengeance and filled with guilt. He struggles with rage—always has—but in reality it's often predictable and rarely intimidates her. She learned how to manage it back when they were partners and she felt partly responsible for him. Sometimes, though, his anger will reveal itself in a more nuanced way. He doesn't always roll up his sleeves and punch a hole in the wall. Sometimes it's a quiet but dangerous fire in his eyes that only she notices.

"That must've been scary as hell." He brushes her cheek with the back of his palm. "Losing your grip on reality, like that."

"It—" She's flooded with relief because his blue eyes are filled only with concern. "—was fucking terrifying."

"You…" He's hesitant, already anticipating her response "Want to talk about it?".

Her first instinct, of course, is to say no. Why discuss her past when there are so many reasons not to? It would be easier, she thinks, if he didn't know any of it. If she didn't have the scars and PTSD that give her away. Then, she could focus only on him and his grief. It would be so much easier, but it also wouldn't be authentic. For either one of them.

"Okay." She finally answers.

"Really?"

"Yeah, El." She reaches for him with her good hand. "Really."