Liv avoids him then, smartly busying herself by making nice with the Brass when she knows Elliot won't go near them with a ten-foot pole.

Resigned, he nurses a beer and shoots the shit with Munch and Fin for awhile before he decides to duck out. He's not going to get anywhere with her tonight — especially not here — and he knows better than to draw any more attention toward them.

"She'll come around eventually, you know," Munch says wisely, peering over his glasses.

Elliot shrugs on his coat, forcing a smile. "I'm not so sure about that, John."

"You haven't spent the last six months with her, man. She was miserable," Fin chimes in.

"Liv deserves someone who's not going to give up on her." Munch claps him on the shoulder. "So don't screw it up again, huh?"

Yeah, easier said than done. Elliot wasn't born with a middle name, but if he was, he imagines it would be something pretty close to Royal Screw-up.

He takes a cab back to his place near the Upper West Side, his old address in Queens spilling off his lips before he corrects himself. It's been months since he moved out, but he's still getting used to calling his new place home.

It's a hell of a lot nicer than the apartment he was living in when he and Kathy separated the first time though, that's for sure. Maureen and Kathleen took pity on him and helped him pick out his furniture. It wasn't anything spectacular, but at least everything matched and the place felt like a home.

It's the quiet that's been the hardest part to get used to, if he's being honest. The last time around, he'd had a job to throw himself into — long days and late nights at the precinct, stakeouts in the sedan with lukewarm cups of coffee and Liv next to him.

His older children come to visit him fairly frequently and he takes Eli at least half the week now, until he figures out his next move.

Which he thought he'd have worked out by now. But it'd taken him so long to even be just okay after he killed that girl and then he'd had to sort through his divorce and the subsequent move.

And then there was Olivia.

He knew the longer he waited to get in touch with her, the worse off they'd be, the slimmer the chances that she'd allow him to be part of her life again, to be friends even, let alone anything else. (But god does he want everything with her.)

His career was the last priority in that laundry list, which meant his days without Eli were often empty and embarrassingly lonely.

After he walks in his door, he flicks on the radio to fill the silence and pulls a beer out from the fridge. He should probably order some food since he barely ate anything at the party, but he doesn't have much of an appetite.

He's scrounging through a handful of takeout menus from the drawer when there's a loud knock on the door. Pausing, he frowns, cranes his neck to catch the time on the stove.

Huh. It's too late for any of his kids to be stopping by and he hasn't exactly been overwhelmed with any other visitors lately.

Reflexively, he reaches for the gun on his hip, just to be safe, before it hits him, again, that he hasn't worn a gun since May.

He misses the weight of it there at his hip sometimes, the routine, the security even, but that's it. There's an off-duty revolver shut away in a lockbox in the back of his closet, but he hasn't put one in his hands since he fired that last shot.

And he doesn't know if he ever will.

Closing the drawer, he walks to the door and peers through the peephole.

Oh.

"Liv?" he asks, confused as he removes the chain and pulls the door open to find her standing there, cheeks flushed from the cold winter air, a fire flaming in her eyes.

"So that's it, huh? You just show up to jerk me around and then you leave?"

Dumbfounded, he steps aside so she can barrel through his doorway, guns ablazing. Elliot closes the door behind them and she spins around, hand on her hip, indignant.

He ignores her asinine question. "How'd you know where I live?" It's not like she doesn't have the resources to find out, but she'd been at the party all night.

She blinks, caught off guard by his question. "I, um - " she stammers.

He folds his arms across his chest, rapt and waiting. "Yeah?"

She rolls her eyes. "I followed you, okay? Happy?" she huffs.

"Ecstatic," he deadpans, dropping his hands as moves into the kitchen. "Do you want something to drink? I'm going to get my beer if we're going to start round 2 here."

She sighs. "Do you have anything harder?"

"Whiskey. Bourbon."

"A finger of bourbon."

"On the rocks?"

"Neat."

He gets out a glass and pulls out a bottle, can't take his eyes off her as she sheds her coat and drapes it over the back of his couch. She drifts a hand over her thigh, smoothing out a wrinkle in her dress and his jaw tightens at the gesture.

Christ.

He's always been incredibly attracted to her — what idiot wouldn't be — but this is...a whole other level. And he doesn't know if it's because he's allowed to look now or if he's just incredibly turned on by the way her fervid aura these days all but matches that excuse for a dress or some fucking combination of all of that -

He is definitely going to hell.

Elliot pours a finger as she moves easily through his living room, her gaze glancing over a few of his knick-knacks and photos on the wall.

"Eli's getting so big," she observes quietly, letting out a small wistful laugh at a framed picture of his son from this last Thanksgiving, his elbows deep in cranberry sauce. Her fingers trace the frame, soft and reverent, and he's hit with an intense wave of guilt as he approaches her from behind.

She loved that little boy, doted on him whenever he or Kathy would bring him into the precinct. And he'd taken that away from her, too.

It seems like he's taken it all.

"He asks about you sometimes," he says regretfully. "Wants to know when he's coming back into work with me to see Liv."

Her spine stiffens. "Elliot - " she starts, a warning shot.

"I keep telling him that he'll see you again," he presses on. "After his Dad gets things settled and tells his partner that he's sorry."

He's not playing fair, he knows, but he's not trying to force her hand — he deserves her anger. But he wants her to see that he always planned to come back.

When she turns around to face him, her eyes are red-rimmed, like she's on the verge of crying. "You've got some nerve, you know that?" she rasps, yanking her drink from his hands.

"Olivia, I didn't mean it like that - "

"Oh, I know how you meant it," she cuts in. Shaking her head, she downs her bourbon in one gulp.

Yeah, this is going well.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, sucking in a deep breath. "Look, can we talk? I want to tell you everything."

"No." She sets the glass down onto the coffee table. "I don't want to talk."

He frowns. "Then...why are you here?"

She smirks at him, smirks, as she takes his beer from him, gives it a big swig, and sets it down next to her glass.

"To get you out of my system for good," she rasps. And before he can react, say anything, she's tugging him down to crash her mouth onto his.

Fuck.

Oh, this is bad. So, so bad.

But shit, it feels so incredibly good and he can't think straight long enough to voice why this is such a terrible idea.

She'll regret it later.

She'll hate him more after.

They'll completely implode.

It all flashes through his head in a daze and then it's gone — she's sent it away with the straddle of her hot thighs around his hips, the fierce bite of her teeth at his mouth, the way she just whimpers when he tilts her head to thrust his tongue into her mouth.

It's insane that they've never done this before, so insane that he wants to laugh, and he's delirious with it, with want.

One of his hands kneads her breast roughly through the flimsy satin of her dress, swiping over a nipple. She jerks into him and he groans as her warmth collides with the hardest erection he's sure he's ever sported.

His mouth skates down her cheek, painting her skin, to the curve of her neck. He nips there, flicking out his tongue. Shit, she tastes incredible.

"Fuck, Elliot." She's breathless, panting, punishing as she digs her nails into the nape of his neck. He tweaks her nipple in retaliation and oh, she likes it, her chest rumbling with a moan.

She yanks his mouth back to hers, frantic now as her hands clamber to his belt. She tugs on it forcefully, and it wakes him up, alarm bells going off.

No, they can't do this. Not like this.

He removes one of his hands from her back, stilling her urgent fingers. She jerks back, separating their mouths, as a sneer curls across her lips.

"What? You don't want me?" Olivia taunts, wrenching out of his grasp long enough to cup him in her hand. She swipes a thumb dangerously over the tip, her hot gaze dipping down to the work of his throat as he swallows roughly. She smirks, leaning into him. " 'Cause it seems to me like you do," she whispers.

Fuck, he's going to die. She's actually going to kill him and then he's going to thank her and ask her to please do it again.

"Of course I want you," he growls. "I've always fucking wanted you."

If this is a test then he's failing miserably. He's missed her, God how he's missed her, and she is heaven and sin wrapped in red satin and he wants her so much that it hurts.

"Then what's the problem?" she rasps impatiently, her hands finding his belt again. But he shoves them away again, lifting her off his lap just enough that he can work his hands under her dress, hiking it up around her hips.

They're not having sex tonight. But if she needs to exorcise some of her demons, needs to goad him, punish him a little, then he'll let her while he takes care of her.

He tugs down one of the straps of her dress, exposing the black lace of her bra as his other hand travels up one of glorious thighs that he's certain he would like to suffocate him the next time they do this.

On another night he might tease her, make her work a little for it, but he knows tonight it would just royally piss her off. So he wastes no time, his hand dipping under the band of her underwear into her molten heat.

Her mouth drops open, eyes slamming in surprise. "Oh fuck," she moans, fisting his shirt tightly in his hands to brace herself. She rocks into him, searching, needs more, so he gives it to her, his fingers circling her clit.

Her breasts are heaving and his groin tightens and shit, he just needs to —

He pulls down the cup of her bra, exposing her breast to him before his mouth finds her nipple. He sucks, groaning, and oh, she's never been more beautiful than this, all mussed hair and swollen lips while she loses herself in her pleasure.

"Please," she cries out and he can't deny her what she needs, will never be able to deny her anything ever again, so he gently thrusts a finger inside of her, his thumb never letting up from her clit. "Yes. God, yes."

He thrusts in a second finger and her neck snaps back and she's so tight around him and oh, this can't be the end of them, not when it feels like this.

No.

It can't be the end.

More to come! Let me know what ya think.