A/N: In celebration of hitting 200k words this year for EO, I did a few fic polls. This was the outcome of the first poll for an AU setting: soulmate AU, sharing a bed. Hope to post the others in the new year! Thanks to all of you for reading and your awesome support!
your hand
touching mine.
this is how
galaxies
collide.
-Sanober Khan
Of course Olivia insisted on walking herself upstairs. No matter that she had taken a literal knife to the gut just 4 days earlier. Elliot always thought she was far too stubborn for her own good. They had that in common, among other things.
It takes them twice as long as it would have if she would have just let him carry her up. But he understood her pride, her need to be self-reliant, and he'd tried not to grumble about it. Even as she'd had to stop at every landing. Even as she'd tried not to clutch at her aching side. Even as he'd worried that she was just hurting herself more.
"Are you hungry?" He asks once they've finally entered her apartment. He fills a glass of water so she can take her pills. She shakes her head wordlessly in response, opening her bottles of antibiotics and pain medication, checking the labels.
"I'm going to stay tonight." He tells her quietly and Liv's hand stills on the bottles.
He stares at her profile. The way her eyes have widened, just a little. How her fingers are turning white on the caps of the pill bottles. The tension crawling up her neck.
"You don't need to do that." Her voice is low when she responds and she doesn't turn towards him. "I'm fine. Really."
"We both know it would be stupid for you to send me away." He replies. The closest they've ever gotten to naming the thing; the live tripwire of their relationship. The thing they've danced around for eight years, pretending all the while that neither of them knows it exists. But tonight he feels reckless. Watching his partner get stabbed will do that to a guy. And if push comes to shove, if she tries to send him home, he thinks he'll finally pull the tab on the grenade, no matter the consequences.
She's gearing up to tell him no. He can see it plain as day on her face; the gentle breath she's inhaling, the way her eyebrows are pulling in as her lips purse.
But then, instead of saying the words, he steps a little closer. His hand slips under her tshirt and covers the bandaged area, just a light touch. But he can feel the warmth in his hand, can see the way the tension in her shoulders eases, the way she'd been holding her whole body against the pain, loosening.
"I'm staying," He insists and this time she nods, still not meeting his eye.
She knows the moment his hand meets hers. Standing in the 1-6 that first day, a little nervous that she'd finally made it to sex crimes, the work she'd been gearing up for her entire life, she doesn't expected the complication of Elliot.
Olivia had never believed in soulmates. She didn't care that it was considered common knowledge, albeit a rare and unique occurrence. To her it sounded more like a fairy tale, a myth. And Olivia had never lived in those spaces. Hadn't maintained the illusion of happy endings that most kids had growing up. Her childhood simply hadn't allowed for that. Not when she'd spent evenings cleaning her mother's vomit. Not when the story of her conception was the stuff of nightmares.
Soulmates had always seemed a ludicrous proposition at best, a waste of energy at worst. Serena always insisted that everyone leaves. And so far, her mother has been right.
So Olivia figured it like this: If soulmates were real, but not everyone got one, Olivia wasn't counting on the good fortune of receiving one. Figured with her luck that even if she had one, she'd never meet them. Thought that even if she managed to have a soulmate and meet them, that they wouldn't stay. These were outcomes she could understand. Because happily ever after had never been in her cards.
But standing in the 1-6 on a sunny morning, she puts her hand out to meet her new partner. And when Elliot Stabler's palm touches hers, she knows.
It isn't fireworks, or bells, or the light catching in his eyes. But it is warmth, spreading from his palm into hers, up her arm, through her chest, her whole body cocooned in the heat of it. It is peace, a feeling she had never actually known before that moment. It is home, safety, security, reassurance, love, kindness, hope, hope, hope. And it is undeniable.
She'd heard the stories over the years of those lucky few who met their soulmates. The instantaneous response when skin met skin. The certainty in the moment. No two meetings ever exactly the same, except for that unshakeable confidence that it was true.
And so when Olivia feels that feeling coursing through her every cell, she knows that Elliot feels it too. There isn't a doubt in her mind that this is her soulmate and that he recognizes the same in her.
They hold on to each other, words falling away, motionless in the wake of the revelation, and they are just lucky that no one is paying them any sort of attention. She doesn't know how long they stayed like that, eyes locked, hands held. But Elliot moves first, frowning, left hand coming to cover his jaw, the gold band on his hand stark against his skin.
Olivia drops his hand then, steps back. The numbing reality kicking in. Of fucking course. Because it wouldn't be Olivia's cursed life if she wasn't meeting her already married soulmate on the most important professional day of her life. It wouldn't be Olivia's wicked life unless he turns out to be her partner, the one she has to work with day in and day out.
She shakes her head, rounds her desk, fortifies herself before lifting her gaze back to his. "Guess we should get to work."
She swallows the pills, though they feel less necessary with Elliot's hand still covering the bandage on her belly. He's standing close enough that she can hear him breathing, her arm warm from the proximity of his chest. She fights the urge to lean into him, to let the radiating warmth, the promise of that surge of comfort, overtake her body and soul. She stays very still instead.
She'd gotten lucky, according to the doctors. The blade was small and had only nicked vital organs instead of doing major damage. All of that meant that the surgery was quick, the hospitalization a few days.
Elliot hadn't left her side for the first 14 hours and finally the nurse had ordered him home so he could at least change into a shirt not covered with her blood. He'd given in then, but returned in a matter of hours, had spent most of the past 4 days by her bedside over and above any objections from the staff. But apparently on one of those brief trips away from her, he'd taken the opportunity to pick up an overnight bag, which she finally notices sitting next to his discarded shoes in her entryway.
She must be exhausted to not have realized it earlier. But she knows he's right. This is the first time either of them has been seriously injured, and she'd be foolish not to take advantage of their connection in this time of crisis.
They never did speak of that moment they first met. Not once did they confirm with each other what they knew. In fact, they completely ignored that it had happened. For several months they attempted to avoid all of it. Avoided standing too close, avoided the possibility of their hands grazing. He'd place her mug on the desk instead of handing it to her, throw her jacket so she'd have to catch it. She'd hand a file to him by its furthest edge, get his attention by calling his name.
Even their conversations were filled with avoidance, talking about his family or her dates so that there was no room for them.
Then one day they catch a case of child neglect, a single alcoholic mother and her seven year old daughter. And it hits so close.
"All I'm saying is, taking a kid away from her mother might be going too far." It's past nine, but Elliot is still there at the precinct as they try to sort out what will happen for mother and child.
"C'mon, Elliot!" Olivia shoves the file away from where she's sitting, scowling deeply. The two of them are in the file room, debating matters as they wait for Dr Perera to finish her assessment with the kid. "That woman is clearly a high functioning drunk."
"So the kid goes into temp foster care and the mom goes into rehab."
"You think that woman is going to fix herself for her kid? Why didn't she do it all this time?" Her head tilted down, eyes pulled up towards him, skepticism in her words and posture.
"She loves her daughter. It's not like she's hitting the kid." He's staring at her like he doesn't know her, like he can't fathom how what they've seen is enough to disqualify this woman from motherhood. But Olivia knows. Olivia knows. It doesn't take a mark on this child's body to prove that something abhorrent is happening. Just because this child is mostly put together and seems to have adequate food, it doesn't mean that she won't be left dealing with the psychological scars for years to come. And just because they're investigating this woman, threatening to remove her child, it likely won't change a damn thing. Olivia knows that a drunk is always a drunk.
Of course, Elliot doesn't know her history, doesn't really understand everything that his partner has been through.
Olivia has to retreat, leave the room before she says too much. She's hiding in the crib with her head hanging, fighting back memories when Elliot finds her.
"You've never said much about your childhood." His voice is low as he breaks the silence of the room. They've worked hard, up until now, to keep some distance. And their individual histories, letting each other into their traumas, isn't exactly keeping with that stance. In spite of that, Olivia finds herself speaking.
"You asked me once why I joined SVU." She hears him step a little closer, but he doesn't sit down next to her. "I joined because of my mother. Because…" She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes as she continues on. "Because she was raped and she ended up with me."
Her head is still dropped into her hands, but she feels the peripheral motion of Elliot squatting down in front of her. She stays silent, counting her breaths, one…two…three…four… Finally she speaks again. "She was a drunk. Because of the rape." She picks her head up out of her hands and meets Elliot's gaze, a little teary, sorrow in the arrangement of his features. "Because of me. Because I was always there to remind her."
He whispers her name, but what can he possibly say to make it better? And then, instead of offering words, he places a hand at the crux of her neck. The touch is intimate, and the feel of his skin on hers, pushes aside the desolation. Warmth, tenderness, care, flow through his hand and suffuse her with strength. Their eyes are locked and they linger together for a few delicate moments. And when he deems her alright, he reluctantly withdraws his hand.
After that, touch becomes more comfortable. Something they are careful not to overindulge in, but begin to allow with more casualness. Brushing against each other on sidewalks, leaning close when they talk so her fingers graze his, seeking out contact to comfort or support for even the mildest infractions.
She shifts away from him and his hand drops back to his side. "I'm going to change." Liv says quietly, turning towards her bedroom.
"Do you…need help?" He's trying to sound nonchalant, but he sees her flinch anyways before she shakes her head and leaves the room.
He stands in the quiet of her kitchen, knowing what needs to happen next, but not sure if she's actually registered it yet. Not sure if he's any more prepared for what the evening will bring.
They'd been chasing the perp through Chinatown, dodging bystanders and hawkers, weaving through side streets and traffic. They cornered him in an alley and he raised his hands and Liv stepped forward to cuff him. But then he moved, chaotically fast and Elliot heard Liv's cry. And he almost shot the guy, even as the perp laughed, a little unhinged.
The moment he saw the knife slice into her, Elliot had gone into overdrive. His body thrusting forward, throwing the perp onto the ground, despite the fact that his body was quivering in fear for her. He'd managed to cuff the guy to a dumpster while simultaneously looking back at her, nearly screaming her name in panic. The handle of the knife was still sticking out of her gut when he made his way to her side and she grimaced up at him.
He called it in as his hand cradled her head, panic clawing at every inch of his skin. She'd been so fucking calm though, whispering reassurance to him through her gritted teeth and he refused to do anything but take the ambulance with her.
He decided in that moment that he'd do what was necessary to help her heal. It no longer mattered that they'd danced around this inalienable truth for eight years. He was her soulmate and he was done with the charade.
Like most everyone, Elliot had heard plenty of soulmate stories. There was something about the rarity of it that people loved to pore over. The romance was not lost on him, but he'd always been too practical to wait for a soulmate that you may or may not have. After all, there was no way to know until you met them, nothing to predict you had one at all. So when they'd found out Kathy was pregnant, there was no reason not to do the right thing, get married and settle down.
And he never had any serious qualms about it. He might not have been madly in love with Kathy, but he still felt love and he knew she loved him in return. And maybe it would have been nice to have not settled down so early, had a chance to be wild and young for just a little while. But duty was a calling for Elliot, and he hadn't allowed himself to think twice.
So the day he meets Olivia and he feels the realness of her settle beneath his sternum and never really leave, he promises himself it doesn't have to be a romance. Though less talked about, most people believe that not all soulmates are romantic. Maybe this could be a good thing. To be partnered with your soulmate could mean a deep and trusting bond that could be invaluable in their line of work. But it is hard to shake his attraction to her. Nearly impossible to not wonder, what if.
He shoves it down deep. Stays rooted in denial because other answers are unpalatable. Focuses on working with her and his professional admiration of her. It is easy to do, because that part is very real. And all of it makes it easy to be her friend. So for years he promises it is a platonic situation, no other feelings to muddy things up.
But he never speaks of the connection to Liv or to Kathy, and maybe that should expose the lie for what it is.
Liv moves cautiously, pulling her shirt up and over her head as slowly as she can. But the movement still tugs at the stitches and she has to stop halfway just to breathe through the pain. When the shirt is finally off, she stands, staring at her bed.
She thinks about him, out in her kitchen, insisting on staying. Thinks about the way he'd placed his hand over her injury and how much better it felt.
Still breathing deeply to ease the pain, she recognizes that her accelerated heartbeat has a lot to do with the fact that if Elliot's spending the night to help her heal, he won't be able to do that from her couch.
"He claims he's her soulmate." Munch rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair.
They're investigating a 'he said/she said', although no one really seems to be buying anything 'he' says.
"What? Don't believe in soulmates? Or don't believe him when he says he's hers?" Fin taps a pen against his desk and raises his eyebrows at his partner.
"First, I don't care what he says or doesn't say, because I think it's pretty clear he's a liar. But, no. I don't believe in soulmates."
"Surprise, surprise." Fin intones.
Liv's at her desk, trying not to overhear, trying not to get drawn into this conversation. Her head bowed over a different case, she pretends to be absorbed in her reading.
"Yo, Liv." She stiffens, but in all honesty, she was already tense. Reluctantly, she looks over at Fin.
"Yeah?"
"Soulmates? Yes or no?"
"I um…" She shakes her head, shrugs. "I don't know." Her eyes drop back to her desk, refusing as much as possible to engage while still attempting to not get called out on it.
"Nah…come on. Everybody knows it's real." Fin laughs.
"I didn't peg you for a romantic, Fin." Munch replies, sardonically.
"Man, it's not about romance. It's just facts. They've studied it. Legit scientific research. There's no debate here."
Munch is shaking his head. "Research or not. They don't actually understand the so-called phenomenon, so I'm withholding my belief."
"See, you're just proving you're a damn fool. I'm sure your ex-wives would agree."
"Oof, low blow," Munch pantomimes a pain in his chest.
Liv's still following the conversation, eyes fixed to the sheet of paper in front of her, head propped on her fingers.
"Yo, Elliot." Fin calls and Liv holds her breath, not daring to move or look up. Not wanting to see Elliot's reaction or try to explain the way her cheeks are burning. They've been partners nearly 3 years now and have so far managed to successfully avoid this topic of conversation.
"Soulmates? Yes or no?" Fin repeats and she can feel how Elliot stops behind his chair, how his eyes move over to her. She hears him clear his throat, still refusing to look up.
"Maybe?" Elliot says, too quiet, and she hears Fin sigh.
"Ya know, this has got to be one of the less uncertain things we've discussed around here and none of you actually believe it?"
There are chairs moving now and she can tell that Munch and Fin are heading out. "Tell ya what, Fin. You can try to convince me over the lunch you're buying." She can hear the rustle of their jackets, footsteps fading away as Fin argues back.
"It's your turn to buy lunch, damn Scrooge."
The conversation is over, and she'd managed to stay away from it. She'd breathe easier, except she can still feel Elliot hovering, staring at her.
"Liv?"
She forces herself to look up at him, a form of denial if she can pretend that conversation didn't make her uncomfortable.
"Ok?" He asks, tentative and soft when her eyes meet his.
"Yeah…I was looking at the Soon case. I think we should reinterview the roommate." She dodges, however obvious the avoidance.
He looks like he wants to direct them back to the prior conversation, but he nods slowly, finally pulling back his chair and sitting down. "Sure, Liv."
He can hear the faucet turn on in the bathroom and realizes he doesn't know what to do with himself. Right now she's coming out of her clothing, the only mar on her skin the nasty gash of a blade. Soon he'll be touching her, holding her. They'll be curled up together in bed, warm; cozy, alone. The thoughts are already making him crazy and there's still a door between them, still all this distance.
Elliot attempts to distract himself by reaching for his phone, seeing a couple messages from Kathy about parent-teacher night at the twins' school. He types back a response, assuring her he'll be there, but of course he can't make those promises with work being what it is. He wants to be a good father, to always do better by his kids. He still wants to do better by Kathy too, especially because of all the difficulties they've had. They're still figuring out how to navigate everything, but the pain of her leaving has faded with time and aside from not living with his children, he couldn't really muster any other misgivings about the current situation.
He has wondered at times if he and Kathy would have made it if not for meeting Liv. Not that it made it Olivia's fault, just some twist of fate that no one could have predicted.
Distance had grown in his marriage as the years with Olivia had marched on. It wasn't a pivot, more like the gradual turning of a ship, something that happened by degrees until he woke up one day and realized his wife was no longer the one he leaned on. He used to confide in Kathy, share at least a little of the burden of his day to day life. But over time, Olivia was just there. Experiencing it by his side, knowing from the look on his face alone that the case was weighing on him. And that ingrained connection of theirs had a way of creating shorthand. He never had to tell her anything for her to give him exactly what he needed. Sometimes it seemed as if she knew him better than he even knew himself.
As Elliot stands in Olivia's kitchen now and hears the bathroom tap turn off, he knows everything could change with this night. And he wants it to. He doesn't want to live with the regret that he stayed away from the one he wanted most, that he didn't chase after the possibility of true love and happiness when he had it.
Soulmate connections vary widely. Platonic or romantic, there are few consistencies in the way they occur or what it means. Some soulmates have a telepathic bond, others empathic, still others more physical. And even within these categories no two experiences are ever quite the same. So he and Liv stumble about in discovering their connection, made more difficult by their inability to confront it.
Down the road he will blame this avoidance on the fact that from the first moment they met, he'd fallen for her, hard and fast. No matter how he tries to convince himself otherwise. But he is unavailable and it feels so unfair to both of them to admit what this is between them. His faith is a barrier in reconsidering his circumstances. Olivia's righteousness and a healthy dose of insecurity is a barrier in asking him to.
So it takes them weeks to know they can read each other's moods like an open book, months to realize though they aren't telepathic, their minds are always in sync. Almost five years before they learn their touch can not only infuse comfort more vividly than a normal connection, but can even help heal wounds.
After his beating by that dirty cop, Kendall, Elliot returns to the precinct a little worse for wear. And though she teases him, though his injuries are light, she finds him that night at his desk after everyone has left, feeling the need to check up on him.
"You ok?" She smirks at him, but her eyes are less sarcastic than concerned. She turns his chin with the edge of her knuckles and skims the tips of her fingers over the tender area around his cheek that's turning a lovely shade of purple. Elliot presses into her, unexpectedly. But she doesn't back away, lets him push his injured skin against her hand and she feels the familiar tingling sort of warmth where their skin makes contact. Elliot sighs, softly, almost relieved by the contact and when she finally pulls back a few minutes later she stares at the place where his injuries should be. The skin is whole, unblemished and Olivia's jaw opens as she leans closer, unsure how it's possible.
"What?" He asks, his hand coming up now to check and finding no stinging cuts, no areas of pain or tenderness He moves to the mirror tacked on the lockers and checks his reflection.
"Well, that's new." He mutters quietly.
He knocks on her door just as she emerges from the bathroom, breath minty fresh, hair brushed, face clean.
"Come in," She calls with her back turned, trying to brace herself before she looks at him. She hears the doorknob turn, the hinges as the door opens. And then there's silence and she turns towards the door, towards him. His eyes rake across her and she can feel the weight in it, how it pushes to the tips of her breasts, to the apex of her thighs. She feels so aware of her body, the lack of protection with her cotton striped shorts and her tank top, and she wonders why she chose this and not the longer pants or the looser tshirt.
He swallows, twice, throat working, jaw ticking, before he finally speaks. "Can I use the bathroom?"
She doesn't trust her voice, so she nods. But still he stands there, eyes lingering on her and she holds her breath until he turns and walks into the bathroom.
She sits slowly on the bed once Elliot closes the door to the bathroom. Gently lays back, wincing as her muscles protest the work.
She lays on her back, eyes looking towards the bathroom door. She can hear the tap, the splash of water and knots her fingers together anxiously.
She wants to send him home. He shouldn't be here with her. He and Kathy are separated but they are still talking, still trying to make it work. She refuses to get in the way of that. Elliot in her bed seems like a bad idea. And not just for the sake of his marriage.
It was bad enough to wonder what she was missing. But to have him here, tangled in her sheets, the smell of him permeating her bedroom; she doesn't need the memory of that. She doesn't need to go to bed tomorrow or the next night or the hundreds or thousands of nights after this, alone, remembering what it was like to have him here.
She should send him home, because she isn't strong enough for the ache he'll leave in her chest, more powerful than the one in her side.
But there's a part of her that wants to know. Part of her that thinks having him here just once, would be something for her to carry. That even though nothing would happen, could happen, at least she'd know once what it was like for him to be so close, for so long. To know what he'd look like lying next to her, how his hands would feel on her, how they'd wake up together. Just once, just to know. To stop wondering.
The tap turns off and she forces herself to turn away from the bathroom door. Lays on her uninjured side, and tries to steady the tremble in her breathing.
Just tonight, she tells herself. Just because she's hurt and for once she should allow herself some help.
They retreat to their corners after the incident with Elliot's injuries. It is simply too real of a reminder of what is between them. How can they go on pretending after Olivia has literally healed him?
That moment between them changes things, forcing them to adjust. Elliot is already having problems at home and Olivia isn't going to make matters worse. She feels like Icarus, daring to fly too close to the sun; just lucky that her wings had been singed instead of burning to a crisp.
For two years they reestablish distance, stop allowing casual touch, play their roles, and go their separate ways as much as possible. If they thought at one point that they could have things both ways, they no longer take the risk. She pretends their connection, their denial of it, is no big deal. He pretends it isn't eating away at him and his marriage.
And then Kathy leaves.
"Were you ever going to tell me?" They retreated to a quiet bar after the Polikoff verdict. Tucked into a corner, just the two of them, they've run out of things to say about the case. So much doubt and not enough answers, but somehow the jury had landed on something.
He gives her a long look. "Eventually. When I had to."
"Because talking about it makes it real?" She offers.
He nods slowly, not looking at her. "That and…"
She doesn't need the rest of the sentence to follow the train of thought. But he needn't have worried. Olivia is no more ready to discuss the elephant in the room than he is.
It is a point when things could change. But through their usual unspoken agreement, everything stays the same instead. Elliot still feels a sense of duty, obligation, and can't fathom ending his marriage just because Kathy wants a break. Olivia follows his lead, too fearful of losing everything in the hope of wanting more.
Yet, with every day after Kathy's departure, the lines between Elliot and Olivia blur just a little, erase just enough. Suddenly there are drinks after work and intimate conversations on stakeout and they stop trying to dodge and silence every moment between them. Olivia finds herself happier than she's been in a long time. Elliot feels more peace than he expects, despite the strains of his separation.
And so their bond tightens, reasserts itself. Or maybe more rightly, it just stops being denied and takes its true place between them.
It's been a year of this closeness. A year of less pretending about what they are to each other. And yet, they both resolutely do not broach the subject. Still cannot acknowledge the whole truth between them.
She's laying on her side, facing away from him, when he emerges from the bathroom. The lights are still on, the blanket pulled back, a swath of empty bed awaiting him. He stares for a moment at her back, the curve of her shoulder blade, her honeyed hair brushing the nape of her neck and he has to take a minute to remind himself why he's here.
He had to stop himself from crossing the bedroom earlier and hauling her against him. Had to stop his hands from reaching for her. Had to ignore and suppress the want in his lips to say something, do something.
And now he's about to crawl into her bed and he doesn't know how he'll survive it without crossing this line between them.
He wants to disregard that line. Go leaping over it. Swipe it away with his hand and forget it ever existed. Because shouldn't they have more? Shouldn't they stop pretending they don't know what they are to each other?
But what does Liv want? The question has haunted him for years. Funny, he would have assumed that the soulmate bond would negate those kinds of questions. He thinks he should just know, because when it comes to every other part of her, he simply does. But this connection doesn't provide the confidence he desires. Why should it when they've spent eight years not once speaking of it? Why should he feel certain of her wants when he's spent so long ignoring his own?
He moves cautiously to the edge of the bed. We're just sleeping, he attempts to tell himself, not wanting to make everything more difficult for this one night. Anything else can wait until she's better. They've spent so many years in denial, he thought he'd be better at it by now.
He closes his eyes and tries to will away the beginning of his hard on, but instead pictures her tits in that damn tank top, the curve of her hip in her cotton shorts. He hasn't bothered to wear much more, just his boxers and a sleeveless shirt. He could tell himself that this warm, spring evening is to blame, but he figured if he had a chance to hold Liv all night, he was going to do so with as few barriers between them as he could get away with. Now he's starting to realize that is only going to make things harder for him. It's going to be a long night.
Finally, he sits on the bed, lets his weight settle. He waits for her to stop him, for her to tell him to go. But she lays so still that he's sure she's still awake, perhaps struggling to breathe as much as he is. And when he thinks that, it gives him the courage to settle back, pull the blanket over him. He reaches over, turns out the bedside lamp and bright New York filters in through the bedroom window. There's enough light that he should really go and close the blinds. But he wants to be able to see her.
So slowly, he turns from his back to his side, facing her. His hand moves across the distance of the mattress, the sheets cool beneath his fingertips. And when he's just millimeters away, he tentatively lifts his hand, bringing it down gently on her waist. He hears her exhale when he finally makes contact and slowly glides his hand around until he feels the contour of the bandage against his palm.
"Ok?" He whispers into the dark.
"Yeah," she replies, so breathy that his mind goes there before he can stop it. He swallows and pushes the temptation away.
They lay like this for minutes, breathing in time. He can feel the telltale tingling in his palm, though it's muted through the layers of bandage and tank top. And so he knows it must be helping, even if it isn't as much help as it could be.
He should ask her to move her shirt, say something, anything. But the words are stuck in his throat. He turns his wrist a little, lets his fingertips find the edge of her tank top. The material is already bunched a bit, enough that there's a gap of bare skin between the end of the tank top and the top of her shorts. He lets his fingers rest there against soft skin and tries to even his breathing.
As his fingers brush her skin he feels the thrill of touching her after all the years of longing. It feels like jumping out of a plane, excitement goosebumping his skin, anticipation stirring in his chest.
Despite the exhilaration, he wonders if they'll stay in this limbo all night, not daring for more. They've been mired in inertia for years, unable and unwilling to face their truth. Changing things now, after so much denial, is a Herculean task. But then Olivia moves. He feels the material of her tank pull, grazing his palm as it shifts away, leaving him on the edge of the bandage, her bare skin tingling strongly beneath his palm.
He doesn't dare to hope that she wants him to touch her, assuming she's only trying to heal faster. He adjusts his hand so he covers the bandage completely. And then he doesn't think when he moves his body a little closer, inching towards her.
In the best of times it's hard not to touch her. Impossible not to want her, think about her, fantasize about her. But being this close is a different difficulty. Feeling her heat radiating out towards him, his hand resting against bare skin that he's never seen exposed before, just makes him greedy for more. Makes him want to taste her skin and hear her moan and find all her secret places.
There's still space between them, mere inches that feel like they might as well be miles. He tells himself not to move, tells himself he's here to help her and not to give into his own desires. But then she sighs, and his greed wins out. His body shifts forward, towards her.
When his chest touches her shoulder blade, their bodies sink together.
She hums at his touch, a soft thing that he wouldn't hear if he wasn't wrapped around her. It's solace, the length of their bodies touching, more contact than they've had at once before. His hips cradle hers, the back of her legs aligned with the front of his. His stomach and chest curving along her back. So much contact that he feels the tingling all over, not just where his palm lays over her injury.
Her body presses into his, as if it's still not enough, as if she wants more of him. It's strange to think that they've never held each other before. Never even hugged. How can that be true, he wonders, when she fits so perfectly with him? How can this feel like home when they've never been here before?
They're tangling together more with each passing breath. His nose dips into her hair, slides down to the curve of her neck. Her leg slips between his, their bare feet locking. Her perfect ass presses intimately against his boxers.
He's quickly becoming aroused and shifts back slightly, tries to disconnect his groin from her backside, as enticing as it is. But she scoots a little when he breaks contact, wiggles her ass back into him and he has to choke down the groan that threatens to emit from his throat. Because now, she's not just notched in with him, but the growing hardness between his legs is being coaxed to life by the heat of her flesh.
He holds himself still, fights the urge to nestle into her, to rock himself against the soft curve of her ass. She takes a deeper breath, one that presses her back against his chest. And his head ducks, his mouth hovering over her shoulder. He wants to close his mouth over her skin. Has wanted to for years, but has never been so close to being able.
He tries to deny his want, but his head moves further and he ghosts his lips over her flesh. The contact is enough to leave his lips tingling.
She's playing with fire. He kissed her shoulder and his lips are still hovering. She can feel his breath warming her skin. And she wants him to do whatever it is that he's thinking of doing. Can feel him hesitating and wants to just say, yes, please, now.
Instead she presses into him again, his erection rigid against her ass cheek, and only getting harder with each passing moment.
They shouldn't do this, she tries to remind herself, again and again. And yet, even as he pulls away from her, she moves with him. Had she really expected she'd be able to keep her libido in check when they're half naked in her bed? She's a damn fool, because until this moment, she had thought that between them they'd manage it. How wrong she'd been.
"Liv," He whispers now and she doesn't know what he's trying to say. Whether it's warning or supplication or challenge.
They're already here. They've already breached so many guardrails that she wants to allow them to fall headlong into the abyss of this feral thing between them. It's too late anyways, isn't it? They can never come back from this, even if she tells him to go. He's touched too much of her; her skin, her body, her heart, her soul. She can't go on pretending, even though it'll ruin them, be the end of their partnership. She just wants to have him, all of him, this one time. Then send him home to where he belongs and figure out how to put her life back together without him. It won't be easy, but she'll manage it somehow.
But a saner part of her is begging not to give in so easily. Or at least, telling her not to push him over this edge without seeing where he's at first, if he's even willing to give her what she so desperately needs now. She can't take advantage of this moment without being sure he's ready for it too. That he's willing to burn it all down for this one night of having. That he'll walk away when it's over so she doesn't have to look at him day in and day out and live with the reminder of what they've done, what they can't have.
So she turns, her shoulder pushing against his bare chest so that he gives her the room. Her side screams at the movement, the madness of using the very muscles that are so badly damaged.
"Wait," She hears him say as his hand tries to follow her injury and it helps even as she continues to turn, the trauma to her body still so fresh.
She stops when she's on her back, too tired to do more than that, and takes a shaky breath before she looks over at him. Their eyes lock in some silent communication. But the desire is there, she knows. It's always been there, no matter how they've tried to conceal it from each other, from themselves.
And then his lips are on hers in a fiery sort of haze. Pressing her beneath him, pinning her to the mattress. The tingling warmth that's present whenever their skin meets is surging now. She feels the kiss electrify every nerve ending, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention. She's never been kissed like this. Like he's pouring every ounce of his feelings into it. Like it's so much more than the physical act of their lips connecting. And she supposes in their case, it is.
He's tugging at her bottom lip, suckling and biting. His full weight is on top of her as he cups one hand behind her head, the other sliding around the small of her back. He is crushing her body into his like he can somehow fuse them into one. And his leg has found its way between hers, his firm thigh rocking into her core, making her moan in response.
The urgency of the kiss is growing, the flame of it wild and unyielding, eating up everything they once were. The past scorched away to make room for new growth.
His tongue is sliding against hers, twisting and tasting and she moans into it, lets her hands grasp at the planes of his body like it'll anchor them to the infinite pleasure. If she'd known it would be like this, she wouldn't have been able to resist him. If she'd known it would be like this, she might not have ever tried to stay away.
She feels consumed by him, like she's the first taste of ice cream on a hot summer day and he just can't get enough. It's a deluge of feeling, her mind spinning, her body aflame, and she pushes him away because she just needs a second to breathe, to register what's happening.
He pulls away with her shove, lips breaking free, but forehead pressing to hers. His rapid breath ghosts her lips as he hovers over her. "Sorry," he pants softly. "Did I hurt you?" His hand comes to her side, her shirt already lifted off her stomach and she feels the tingling warmth from his hand, calming the stress on her wound. She sighs into the sensation.
His hips are on hers and she can feel the hard length of him against her thigh. If her side wasn't aching she'd reach for him, longing to feel him in her hand.
"No, I'm ok. I…"
He lifts up so he can meet her eyes and she sees the understanding there of what she hasn't been able to put into words.
"We shouldn't do this now." He says softly, his hand gently covering the bandage. "You're hurt."
"That's not why we should stop," She whispers into the space between them. She doesn't want to say the name, bring up the specter of Elliot's family, wife, home. But she needs to say she tried. Needs to at least make the effort of doing the right thing before she does the very wrong one.
She can see him frown, like he doesn't know what she means. But as he stares at her, his expression clears and she sees him struggle to say something. "Liv…Kathy filed the divorce papers."
She pulls away quickly then. Too fast, in fact. The pain brings her up short and she grunts at the movement. But she can't stare at him in the dark, wrapped in his body, while he makes this confession.
She stretches hard until she can reach the lamp, turning on the light and moaning softly in pain. The soft yellowish glow fills the room as she grimaces, tries to hide her face, blinking to take in the brightness. Still turned halfway away, she braces her elbow against the bed as she tries to catch her breath.
"Careful," He stills her with one hand against her back, the other covering the injury again. Then his mouth is pressing a kiss to the bandage, a gesture both comforting and erotic. She wants to fight him, but it hurts too much and his touch feels too good. So she relaxes instead.
"You didn't tell me," She manages, pain still lancing through her.
"I'm sorry." She can feel him watching her, but she's staring at the edge of the bed, where the comforter bends over the end of the mattress, trying to understand the change in circumstances.
"Why didn't you tell me?" She's still panting, pain still ebbing away under his touch.
He shifts a little, but doesn't rise, body still sprawled against the bed, over her. "I was trying to figure out how to tell you. But…I didn't know what to say. We spend all this time dancing around everything. We never say it as it is. We never put the label on this that we both already know it has."
She jerks then, ignoring the pain because she just can't let him touch her right now. It's adding too much confusion and she needs to think clearly. She hauls herself out of the bed, leaning back against the wall so she can look at him while she tries to ease her throbbing pain.
"You're going to tear your stitches." He softly scolds, brow furrowing in concern.
"Elliot, you can't just…" Can't what, she's not sure. Can't talk about this thing that they haven't spoken of in eight years? Can't be honest when his marriage is finally over?
He sits up slowly, but doesn't move closer. "What are you so afraid of?"
She scowls. "How can you act like this is no big deal, or like I'm the one panicking, when you couldn't even figure out how to tell me? Doesn't that mean something, that you were scared to tell me about the divorce?"
His gaze drops and he nods slowly. "You're right. I know you're right." He shrugs like he can't figure out how to describe what he's thinking. "We've spent so long trying not to be this thing, that it feels really hard to unwind it, release it, let it be real. Telling you about the divorce…it makes it very real." His eyes move back to hers, gaze full of unspoken emotion. "Liv, everything changed the day we met, even if I was too scared to acknowledge it. Even if circumstances meant I couldn't just do what my heart wanted. It didn't mean I didn't feel it - that I haven't felt it - every moment since our hands touched."
"God," She presses her palm across her eyes, "Please tell me I didn't break up your marriage." She couldn't deal with that, no matter what there was between them. She couldn't bear to be that person, to do that to someone else.
Elliot scoots towards her, she can hear the rustle of the sheets and then his fingers are wrapping around her wrist and gently tugging her hand away. There's only about a foot of space between the edge of the bed and the wall she's leaning on. And now Elliot is sitting at the edge of the bed, his feet planted on either side of hers, knees blocking her exit. She looks down at him and she knows there's nowhere to run. Not physically, not emotionally. They've finally reached the point of honesty in this thing between them and there's no turning back now.
His hand moves from her wrist to link their fingers, his other hand skims up her thigh and wraps around the back of her leg. He looks up at her, eyes crystal blue, searing and direct. His touch calms the fear in her and she breathes in the tranquility he's radiating towards her.
"Kathy and I, we'd run our course. Maybe there was always going to be an end there because we were so young when we married, just kids. I just couldn't make her happy, and that's on me, not you. In the end it doesn't matter. Kathy and I are done and we've both accepted that it's the right choice for our family."
She drops her head back against the wall, shameful and sad. Guilt in her movement as she feels it strike through her body. She'd never meant for this. She'd sworn she wouldn't let it happen. It didn't matter if they were soulmates, it didn't make it right.
His hand squeezes hers and she reluctantly meets his gaze, "I did everything I was supposed to. I stayed in my marriage, I tried. But I wanted you, needed you, felt the pull towards you. And I fought it every step of the way, denied and pretended. And yet, we're here."
She tries to remove her hand from his, but he stands, locking her into place. His hand leaves her thigh, cupping her arm. She knows if she told him to back off he would, but she allows him to box her in, allows him to try to convince her that this is all ok.
"Liv," his fingers grasp around her shoulder, sliding along the juncture of her neck. "I don't regret any of it. Except maybe waiting longer than I should have."
He kisses her temple, drops his lips against her cheek, down over her mouth, slides just below her jaw. Every spot his lips touch pulsates, warmth gathering and sliding into her chest, out to her fingers and toes. He returns to her mouth, hands moving to cradle her head, kisses her soft and slow. He pulls her bottom lip between his and sucks gently before his tongue brushes into her mouth. The kiss is languid and sensual and she feels herself melting into it, despite the fear and guilt and doubt. When he pulls away, she blinks her eyes open and looks up at him, ready to hear him say it, finally.
"Liv, you're my soulmate. I was always going to love you. It scares me that I came so close to losing you and never told you how I feel. I can't keep tiptoeing around this. I love you more than I ever knew was possible."
She releases a shuddering sigh as her eyes close, and then the elation hits and she laughs softly, lets her head drop into his solid chest. "I never thought you'd say it." She whispers into his cotton tank as he presses his mouth to the crown of her head.
"Tell me you feel it too." His voice is husky with emotion and she looks up at him, though the thought of saying it still frightens her. But she knows it matters now. They've barreled past boundaries and restrictions and there's nothing left but the two of them and she wants this more than she's ever allowed herself to admit.
"I love you, El. That first day we met, I knew you were my soulmate and I loved you, even though we didn't know each other."
She watches the grin spread slowly across his face, his eyes lighting up, turning a shimmery sort of sky blue. It makes her breathless, makes the emotions well until she's somewhere between laughter and tears. His mouth covers hers before either emerges and she loses herself again in his kisses, which start gentle and adoring and quickly consume.
They separate only when oxygen becomes a total necessity, gasping into each other's mouths, matching smiles.
His eyes rove down her body, taking her in once more, lingering on the pointed peaks of her breasts. She would laugh, but his hands are moving, sliding against her back and resting on her stomach and his touch makes everything else fade away.
He leaves one hand over her wound, while the other moves slowly up, sliding over her rib cage, not stopping until he is cupping her breast over her clothing. The look on his face is one of pure concentration, reverence. Like he's afraid to touch her too intimately, scared she'll disappear.
When he finally touches her, the most intimate caress they've allowed in eight years, she draws in a staccato of breath, a small whine of want in the back of her throat. He looks up to her face, eyes wide and he watches intently as he runs his thumb over the hard nub of her nipple, the ribbed cotton heightening the friction and drawing a louder moan from her. The near shock in his face, the disbelief that they're here, falls away and he smiles, something both tender and lascivious.
He leans in to kiss her again, lets his thumb work her nipple before he tweaks it between his fingers. It spurs her to move, fumbling with his shirt so that he draws back with a chuckle and pulls the material away from his body. She lets her eyes rove over the definition in his chest and abs.
"Your turn," He mumbles.
She leans away from the wall and he moves slowly to pull her shirt off, not wanting to risk hurting her. He means to ask if she's ok, but then he gets distracted by her tits. He just has to touch them, run his thumbs across her bare, pebbled nipples and listen to her hiccupping moan. He leans down, pulling one nipple into his mouth and she arches into him. The noise she makes sounds too close to pain though and he pulls away, standing before her as his hand covers the bandage once more. "Should we stop?" He asks as if it would be so easy.
"Don't you dare." She pants. And then she pushes at his shoulders and he sinks back onto the mattress. He watches her shimmy out of her shorts and he's so mesmerized by the movement, by the fact that Olivia is undressing before him, that it takes him several seconds before he follows suit.
She's leaning down to grasp him and he's sure if she does he'll come right then and there and he's not ready for this to end. He wants this to feel limitless, to drag out the pleasure of this first time with her so that she'll never forget it. So he grabs her wrist with one hand, latches onto her thigh with the other and encourages her foot onto the bed beside him.
Her pussy is glistening before him and he feels his mouth water, ducking his head so that he can run his tongue against her folds.
She exhales on a breathy moan and he takes the moment to arrange her further, coaxing her to step closer and lean her back into the wall once more. And then he's between her legs again, tasting her, tongue sliding inside her, exploring. He circles around her clit but doesn't let his tongue lap against it, doesn't close his lips over it. She thrusts into his mouth in response, encouragement. When he still resists, her hand presses firmly against the back of his head and she whines incoherently. He grins, always imagining she'd be bossy in bed and finding it to be more erotic than he'd imagined. So when she whines again, bucks against him, he relents, closes his lips over her clit and sucks so she cries out his name. He doesn't let up now, varying the intensity, swiping his tongue over her clit and listening as she repeats his name, again and again.
He'd lived with the imagination of this moment for so long, and somehow he's still fallen short on how he'd pictured it. Hadn't accounted for the way his name in her mouth would make him harder. Hadn't assumed she'd taste so fucking perfect that he doesn't want to go another day not tasting her. Hadn't known how good it would feel when she finally screams in pleasure, her climax spilling onto his tongue.
His lips and tongue gentle her down and when her eyes open and meet his, he takes delight in her blissed out expression.
"My turn," She whispers and he doesn't manage to stop her this time before her hot hand closes over his cock. His eyes nearly roll back and he'd been right to worry he couldn't hold out. He has to grit his teeth and focus hard to stop himself from spilling onto her hand.
"Sweetheart," He grasps her wrist and maneuvers her away. "I need to be inside you, and that's not going to happen if you keep that up." His voice is coarse and she laughs softly.
"Fine. But then I get to be on top," She teases as she climbs into his lap.
"Fuck, Liv." He groans into her throat and his arms wrap around her naked body.
He doesn't argue with her. Doesn't try to slow them down. Eight years is enough, he figures. So he lines his cock up and steadies her hips as she sinks slowly down onto him.
He's not going to last, he's sure. She's so fucking tight, so fucking perfect and he's just waited too damn long, wanted her next to forever. The sensation of skin to skin contact is nothing compared to being inside of her. That first meeting, the feeling of home ricocheting through his body is a faint echo to being buried inside of her. Their bodies joining is the closest thing to heaven he's ever known and he knows now he was a fool to ever try to deny it.
His teeth scrape against her shoulder, and then his jaw closes, biting hard into her skin so that she grunts, hips thrusting in reaction. It starts their rocking, their bodies finding a slow rhythm. But he can sense her discomfort, knows quickly that the position is putting too much strain on her stitches.
He pulls her hips against his and rotates their joined bodies, gently bringing her back down to the mattress. He expects her to protest, but he must have been right about her discomfort, because she complies, let's her knees fall open and wraps her legs around him.
"Should we stop?" He manages to ask again.
Her legs tighten around his hips and she flexes her pelvis against him, drawing a groan from his throat. "You really think you can stop?" Her voice teasing, deep and throaty in his ear.
He closes his eyes, chuckles. "I don't want to. But I also don't want to hurt you more." He pulls up enough to look at her.
"Just make me feel good, El." She whispers and how can he ever say no to that.
He thrusts into her slowly as his hands skate over her ribcage, squeeze over her breasts. She grunts softly again when he leans a little too hard on her injury and he adjusts, palm covering the bandage once more as his hips rock with hers.
"Harder, El." She whispers. "I want to feel you fuck me."
He groans before he kisses her roughly, grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the bed. And then he pulls out and thrusts into her hard.
"Yes, keep going." She gasps. So he does, fucking into her, harder, faster, his hands moving to her hips to keep her in place. Her hands, now free, brace themselves against his shoulders, slide down to grip his arms.
He can feel her fluttering around him, see her crane her neck back, her nails digging into his biceps. His hand moves between their bodies and he presses his thumb into her clit and she screams louder, her heels digging into his ass as her body meets his.
When she squeezes tightly around him, it's more than enough and he grunts her name as he feels his groin shiver, a tingling heat skating down his spine. He shudders hard as he feels his cock throb inside her, blood rushing in his ears as the pleasure bursts. All of his tightly coiled muscles release and he collapses on top of her, sucking air into his burning lungs, breathing in Olivia's scent and allowing her to fill his senses.
He quickly worries he may be hurting her and rolls them, bringing her across his chest as he lays back against the bed. His fingers trace along her back and he feels her nuzzle into his neck.
"If I'd known it would be like that…" He sighs against her hair and hears her hum a soft agreement.
They lay still until he starts to feel the chill against their damp skin and he sits up, bringing her with him, so he can move them under the sheets.
"It doesn't hurt," Liv suddenly says, and he watches her sit up, peel back an edge of the bandage and peek inside. Her eyebrows lift and she pulls the bandage off fully, revealing a slightly pink scar, the stitches already dissolved and disappeared.
He stares at the near perfect skin in wonder, his fingers dancing along the clean line. "Wow."
"Ya know, I think it was the sex." She says, quietly serious, her eyes glinting mischievously.
"You don't say…" He slowly grins at her.
Her hands come to his chest and she presses a soft kiss over his heart. "Just in case it was, we should probably do it again. Ya know. To help me heal." She smiles widely at him and he pushes her back into the bed, capturing her lips once more. It is definitely going to be a long night and he isn't going to waste a second of it.