A/N:
Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing!
Please heed the trigger warnings, and happy reading!
T/W:
Depictions of the second Lewis assault; gun violence, sexual assault
I want to cook for you
Olivia had looked down at the message on her phone earlier in the day and laughed softly. She loved that the Elliot who had come back was all at once familiar and brand new. Strong and bold and passionate, the way she remembered him, but now open and unguarded and unexpected. Getting to know him was exciting. Falling in love with him was easy and terrifying and wonderful.
Now she sits, sipping her wine, watching him skillfully work his way around her kitchen. Her eyes fixate on his hands, large and powerful, yet so incredibly gentle every time they've touched her. She imagines them on her body, tracing her, touching her, exploring her, but just before she gets lost in the thought, her insecurities creep in. Her body is permanently changed, marred and ugly, and she isn't sure she's ready for him to see that. After her assault, her sex life with Brian had basically disappeared. Then there was Ed, who had heard the facts, seen the photos, and had a tendency to avert his eyes. But Elliot would be different. She knows that. He has been so attentive and understanding, eager to know her in every way she would allow. She loves the flirting, the foreplay, and god, she wanted more, but a dark fear was slowly taking over.
"You with me?" Elliot asks when he sees her eyes are fixed on her wine glass.
Olivia's head snaps up and looks at him with a tentative smile, "Y'know, I learn better by doing. So why don't you let me help?" She comes around the counter and stands next to him.
"You?" he teases, "We do want to actually be able to eat the food, right?"
Olivia lazily tosses her hair up in a ponytail, "Trust me, if you can cook, I can cook."
Elliot turns and blocks her way with his body, takes her by the waist, "That's so?" he challenges, then moves in toward her. He moves slowly, and her chest tightens with the anticipation of his mouth on hers, but it never comes. He stops just before making contact, "Get to work then."
She bites her bottom lip and stares into his eyes, then pushes him away with both hands, positioning herself between him and the stove. She picks up the spatula he'd been using and starts to move the vegetables around the pan roughly. She can feel him behind her, so close, just inches from contact.
"Slow down," he says, "you're going to throw the food all over the floor."
"I'm just doing what you were doing," she says carelessly over her shoulder. She smirks mischievously, "Show me."
Elliot knows her game, she knows how to drive him crazy. Well, he can play too. He slides his hands from her biceps, slowly down her forearms, and takes her hands in his. He guides the spatula in slow, rhythmic movements. "Like this," he whispers close to her ear. His eyes are focused on the back of her neck, a part of her body so rarely exposed, and he dips his head forward, running slow kisses along her skin. He has such a need to see her, to taste her, to explore every part of her he's never seen.
It's all Olivia can do not to let her eyes slip closed and push back into him. She reaches back and scrapes her nails lightly across his neck, then shifts, turning her head and meeting his mouth fully with hers. He turns her completely and she is liquid in his arms, accepting his tongue gratefully, allowing him to breathe his fire into her.
Fire. There's a burning sensation on her arm. A stray bit of oil from the stovetop bores into her skin, and her heart stops. For a split second, she is afraid, but she pushes the memory out of her head. Stop it, Olivia. Stop now. She thrusts her tongue into his mouth, buries herself in him, lets the feel of him overwhelm her until his face, his touch, his breath consumes all of her thoughts. She opens her eyes for a moment, reassuring herself that this really is Elliot, and Lewis is exiled to the dark box she keeps him in.
Elliot presses his hands firmly into her hips, then let's them travel up her back, pulling her flush against his chest, and still, still, it's not close enough. He feels her break away for air, but he doesn't take his lips off of her, trailing his mouth along her jawline, nipping her behind the ear as her head lolls to one side. He can feel her chest rising and falling rapidly against his, hears his name escape her lips.
"El," it's breathy at first and then more firm, "El." He pulls away then, confused, afraid he had misread the signs and moved too fast. He opens his eyes and she's holding the spatula between them. "Your dinner," she says, and it takes a moment for his thoughts to focus. Then he hears the sizzle on the stove, sees the faint plume of smoke.
"Shit," he says, quickly reaching behind her and moving the pan off the burner. He turns down the heat, and takes the spatula from her, deftly moving things around. When he has it all settled, he leans back against the counter and looks at her. She is stifling a laugh, he lips a tight line, her eyes avoiding his. He stares at her, feigning anger as long as he can before he breaks, and she does, too.
Her laugh is like music; like hearing his favorite song after going years without it. There's a joy in it that permeates every bit of him, and immediately brings him back to days off coffee in their squad car, late nights laughing across their desks. Memories of relief and happiness and completeness. God, he could listen to her for the rest of his life.
He pats o on his forehead with a dish towel. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?" he says with an easy smile.
Olivia just shrugs in response, and heads back to where she had been sitting, taking a long sip of her wine.
Elliot watches her. "I thought you wanted to help," he says.
"Nah," she says, elbow on the counter, chin in her hand, "I'd rather watch."
Dinner is salvaged, a bottle of wine finished, another opened. As much as it hurt her when Elliot left, she loves hearing him talk about Rome. This place had torn them apart, yes, but it had also brought them together at the exact right time. It had brought her this version of Elliot who was so self-aware and open and caring. She just couldn't be mad at a place that had shaped the man she had once loved into the man she was falling in love with over and over again.
They share stories of their work, their children. They laugh with such ease, such comfort that it is easy to forget they spent ten years apart. It feels like nothing more than an extended vacation, a month or two undercover. Elliot spends more time staring at her than eating, he thinks. Whenever she smiles, he's transfixed. His dream-come-true right in front of his eyes.
"I'll clean up," he says when Olivia stands from her seat.
She reaches out and stops him with a hand on his bicep, "Leave it," she says, then makes her way over to a high cabinet and pulls down a bottle of whisky. She doesn't ask, just pours two glasses. He watches her, taking her in; her hair falling in long, easy waves over her shoulders, the sway of her hips as she walks, the smile in her eyes when she makes her way back to him. "Come sit," she says, handing him the glass, and he follows her to the couch.
Olivia sits close to him, and sips her drink more quickly than she should. Ever since that moment by the stove, Lewis' voice has echoed in her ears, his face popping up behind her eyelids.
No. She is determined to push him out of her thoughts. He will not ruin this, too.
Elliot sees something in her, small, but present. Uncertainty? Nervousness? "You ok?" he asks, brushing her hair back from her face.
She smiles unconvincingly, "Yeah, I'm good." She kisses him, but he pulls back slightly.
"Liv, you know I'm not...expecting anything tonight. I mean, I don't-"
"Shh," she stops him, and places her hands on either side of his neck, "We've done," she sits up on her knees, "a lot," she lowers her face to his, "of talking." She kisses him deeply and he moans in surprise.
Elliot wraps his arms firmly around her waist and pulls her easily onto his lap. He lets his hands explore the shape of her, the divet in the small of her back, the muscles in her thighs, the curve of her ass. As he makes his way back up, his hand brushes the hem of her shirt and his fingers graze bare skin.
Olivia stills. Her entire body freezes when Elliot's hand settles on her hip. Does he feel it? The jagged scar beneath his palm? Lewis is there, in her ear;
You are weak.
You are ugly.
You are damaged.
Elliot feels her body tense, hears the catch in her breath. He pulls his hand away as if he has touched hot coals. "Liv?" She keeps her eyes closed and shakes her head. "Olivia, please," he touches her face softly, carefully, "Look at me."
She can't yet. She is so afraid of what she'll see when she opens her eyes. She shakes her head again.
He doesn't move, but speaks quietly, "It's ok, just breathe."
His voice calms her, brings her back to reality. She summons all of her courage, and with a shaky breath, she opens her eyes. Elliot. Not Lewis. Elliot. She sighs with relief.
His eyes are worried, brows knit, "Ok?" She nods. "I'm sorry if I did something, I-"
"No, no it's not you" she says quietly. She moves from his lap, settles next to him, "Elliot, my body isn't," she falters, "It's… scarred."
Elliot nods, "Liv, we don't have to do anything that you're uncomfortable with," he says, and then looks directly into her eyes, "Ever."
Her eyes start to shine with tears, "I'm going to go change," she says slowly getting off the couch.
Elliot looks up at her, "I can go."
"Actually, I'd really like it if you stayed," she says, "If you want to."
He smiles and nods, "I do."
Olivia bends forward and kisses him on the cheek, overwhelmed with gratitude for this man, his patience, his understanding. "Just give me a couple minutes," she says, and she makes her way toward the bedroom.
Olivia stands topless in front of her mirror, something she avoids doing at all costs. Her scars have faded over the years, some are barely visible anymore, and she's grateful for the healing that only comes with time. But when she runs her hands over her skin, they are still there. Every single one of them. She had always been someone who had taken pride in her body, who had walked confidently, had dressed in ways that made her feel good. Then everything changed. She couldn't stand to look at herself, let alone let others look at her. Her clothing had become her armor, dark and heavy, shrouded, never calling attention for fear of what others might see. She runs her hands over her breasts, the physical part of her that had endured the most damage. He had taken out his rage on her body, had enjoyed her screams, knowing that with every cigarette, every key, every mark and burn and bruise, he was leaving her a permanent reminder of himself. Well she doesn't want it anymore. She doesn't want to hide, not from herself, not from Elliot.
She slips her shirt back on and walks to the door, "Hey," she says, and he turns from where he is standing in the kitchen, sipping his drink, "Will you come here?" Then she disappears back into her bedroom, his footsteps echoing behind her.
Her room is dimly lit, soft and warm. Elliot takes her in; her loose sweatpants hang low on her hips, her t-shirt faded and worn. She looks comfortable, but he can feel the tension radiating off her body. "Liv? You ok?"
She moves toward him soundlessly, looking up at him with a combination of sincerity and trepidation. "El, do something for me?"
"Anything."
"Close your eyes," He blinks down at her, but doesn't say anything, "Please?"
Elliot nods and does as he's told. He senses her stepping away from him, hears the flick of the lamp, a whisper of fabric sliding over skin. He feels her back against his chest and thinks she may be trembling. She reaches back and takes his hands in hers. "Ok," she says quietly, "You can open your eyes."
He does. In the city lights peeking through the curtains, all he can see of her are loose waves and bare shoulders. Slowly, shakily, she begins to guide his hands, low on her abdomen. His fingertips graze the bone of her hip, the waistband of her pants, and then something raised and rough. A scar.
She moves his hands over her waist, her stomach, her sides. His head drops, his eyes close, as she gives his fingers time to linger, to feel each mark with a deep reverence. She is taking him through her story again, silently giving over another piece of herself. In turn, he gives himself over to her completely, his hands one with hers, moving over the marks as if they are brail, reading this story imprinted on her skin.
Olivia's breath trembles as she moves his palms up to her chest. Her breasts are bare, but he has no thoughts of sex, of arousal, in this moment so intimate and raw. There are so many marks, it seems that every time his fingers move even slightly, he's met with more. With each one his chest tightens, his heart pounds. It's then that he feels her tears falling on his wrists. Her hands still, and his palms come to rest over her heart.
Suddenly, she is almost limp, doubling over. He catches her with one arm around her stomach and the other across her chest. He pulls her to him tightly, positive he is the only thing keeping her upright.
The sounds that escape her as she cries are loud and primal, unrestrained and uncontrollable. Elliot lowers his mouth to her ear, "Shhh," he hushes gently, "You're ok. I've got you" He rocks them back and forth gently, holding her close as her chest heaves and her body shakes. Her sobs are like a mourning song, the voice of loss and grief. As though they are of one body, one heart, he silently cries with her, an ache deep in his soul for the things she has lost.
He doesn't know how long they stand there, her back pressed into him, before she quiets and the room goes still. He loosens his grip on her just slightly and whispers into the dark, "Turn around, Liv."
Her head drops and she tightens her hands on his forearm across her chest.
"Olivia, please," he says, almost pleading in his gentle tone.
Elliot feels her hands leave his arm, and he begins to let go of her, slowly. Keeping her eyes to the floor, she turns and faces him. He gently places a finger under her chin, "Don't do that," he says and tilts her head up, "Don't hide from me, Liv." She meets his eyes. "You're perfect," he whispers, pulling her into him. He kisses the top of her head. "You're perfect."
Olivia cries softly against his shirt, not out of shame or fear or grief. She only feels one thing; relief. And with it comes clarity. Now she is certain, knows with every cell in her body, that Elliot- this flawed, scarred, infuriating, incredible man- is the one her soul has always been tethered to. The person she had searched for, even when he was right in front of her.
I love you.
The words are on the tip of her tongue, but they still don't pass her lips.
When she is still and her tears have stopped, Elliot moves from her, picking up her shirt from where she'd left it on the bed and holding it out to her. For a few moments, she had forgotten she wasn't wearing it. "Thank you," she says hoarsely and slips it over her head.
"You want to try and sleep?" He asks
Olivia nods and moves toward the bed on shaky legs. Elliot pulls back the comforter, and she slips between the sheets. He watches her, unmoving, unsure.
"There's some old things of yours in the bottom drawer," she says.
He looks at her questioningly, and pulls open the drawer. A couple of old t-shirts, a pair of sweatpants, a grey hoodie. Elliot turns back to her, "You kept these all this time?"
She smiles, shrugs, "Of course I did. They were yours." At her words, he comes to the bed and sits beside her. He is overwhelmed with emotion, a profession of love ready to burst from deep within him, but he doesn't want to make her feel uncomfortable. So instead he frames her face with his hands and kisses her slowly, pouring all of his feelings into her silently. Reluctantly, he stands to go change.
When he emerges from the bathroom, she moves over to the other side of the bed, making space for him, leaving no room for doubt that this is where she wants him to be tonight. Elliot slides in next to her, and she is instantaneously at peace. As if they've done this every night for the last twenty years, she turns her body into his and his arms come around her without a word. He holds her, guards her, until her eyes flutter closed and her breaths even out. Only then, when he is sure she is asleep, does he close his eyes.
Russian Roulette. Two shots left. One bullet. A gun in her hands. Pull the trigger. Empty. She slides the gun across the table. But when she raises her eyes, Lewis isn't holding the gun to his own head. He's pressing it to Elliot's temple. "No!" She tries but she can't produce any sound. She wants to go to him, get the gun back, but she is restrained. She cannot move, she cannot scream.
Elliot looks into her eyes, "It's alright."
Lewis' voice "This will be the last thing you see before you die."
Elliot is still heavily fogged in sleep when he feels something pushing against him, hears something he can't quite place. At first he thinks he's dreaming, slow to pull himself out of this warm, comfortable place. Then all at once, the sound becomes too loud, too real, too human. He wakes with a sharp intake of breath, and his mind immediately snaps into focus. Olivia is in his arms, struggling weakly against him, whimpering loudly. Her eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and there are tears on her cheeks.
"Liv," he says, hoping it will be enough to wake her, but to no avail. He sits up slightly, moving her a bit with him, "Olivia," he tries again, louder this time.
With a sharp cry her eyes shoot open and she forces her way out of his arms. Her eyes move rapidly around the room, unfocused, wide with fear. He doesn't touch her, but he speaks soothingly, trying to get her to look at him. "Liv, it's me. It's just me. You're safe."
Her head swings around at the sound of his voice. She says nothing, just stares at him, takes him in. He can see the moment her mind finally settles, taking in her surroundings, understanding that the darkness she just woke from is not her reality. She holds his eyes, chest rising and falling quickly. "El," she says with a shaky breath, "Oh god, I'm sorry." She leans forward, runs a hand through her hair, embarrassed. She takes some slow, deep breaths, willing her heart rate to slow down.
"Hey," he reaches out and moves a soothing hand up and down her back, "It's ok. Don't apologize." He can feel her entire body shake. "Come here," he offers, opening his arms to her.
Olivia looks back at him over her shoulder, propped slightly against the pillows and headboard, and hesitates for only a second before resting her head on his chest, and curling into his side. When his arms lock around her, her heart and mind immediately start to slow down.
Elliot runs his fingertips along her arm and shoulder, "Want to talk about it?" he offers.
The image of Lewis' gun pressed to Elliot's head flashes across her mind, and she shakes her head to clear it.
"I'm ok, Elliot," she whispers, but she still shakes against him. Olivia closes her eyes and inhales deeply, taking in the scent of him, letting it calm her.
He tightens his grip around her, "I know you are," he says into the dark, "But we can still talk about it." When she doesn't respond, he moves his hand into her hair, stroking it gently. They go so long without speaking, he's sure she's just about fallen asleep. Then her voice cuts through the silence.
"Lewis came back for me."
"He's dead, Liv. He can't ever hurt you again," he says quietly, pulling her closer.
"No," she whispers, "Not the nightmare. He came back for me."
"What?" Elliot leans away from her slightly, looks down at her. She doesn't move, just glances up at him. His stomach clenches. He hadn't imagined that her story didn't end at the beach house. He can't quite comprehend what she's saying. "What do you mean?"
Olivia sighs heavily and sits up next to him. Something about the dark, the quiet. Words come more easily in the middle of the night.
"After the trial, Lewis escaped prison. He was determined to finish what he started. He wanted me, and he knew exactly how to get me to come to him."
"A kid?" Elliot asks, knowing all too well that she would sacrifice herself to save a child.
Olivia shrugs, nods, "I knew what he was capable of. I couldn't let a child go through that, just because I was afraid to show up," a beat, "so I did, and took me to where he was holding her."
Elliot steels himself for the answer to his next question, "What did he want?"
Olivia takes his hand in the dark, shivers a little, "To finish what he started."
Elliot's heart drops and he feels his jaw tense. With his free hand, he pulls the comforter up higher around them.
"In the days he had me, we were on the move a lot. Interrupted. He assaulted me but he never," she exhales, "He never raped me. So he made me choose; me or the little girl." She feels Elliot squeeze her hand as his entire body goes rigid. "When he tried, I...I went limp. He wanted the fight. I wanted to fight. But I knew if I didn't…"
"He wouldn't be able to," he finishes.
"Instead, he loaded one bullet into his gun. Told me I had to play."
"Fuck, Liv," he pulls her into him. He needs her close. He needs the reassurance that she truly is still here.
"Twice, I pulled the trigger on myself," she says, and the trembling begins again, "My squad was there, minutes from finding us. And he," she shivers at the memory, "pulled the trigger on himself." She lifts her head to look at him, and his cheeks are streaked with tears. Astoundingly, hers are not.
Elliot takes her face in his hands. He cries openly, "You are incredible, Olivia Benson," he kisses her forehead. She reaches out and strokes his cheeks with her thumbs, swiping softly at his tears. Her eyes are heavy, and she kisses him once, gently, before settling back down into the bed, knowing he will follow.
He gathers her to him and holds her close. He listens to her breathe, feels the beat of her heart against his skin, pulls the blankets tightly around her. He can tell she's on the verge of sleep, a warm heaviness in her body. "I love you," he says softly.
Her voice is quiet, "I love you, too."
Words come more easily in the middle of the night.
Without fear, without doubt, Olivia falls into a peaceful sleep.