As Elliot starts to channel the shape of her through his hands, a few faint lines emerging, Olivia only has one question.
"El?" she asks, shifting to her side, a hint of mischief in her tone. "Is this position good for you?"
He chuckles, his cheeks taking on the slightest tinge of pink.
"Sweetheart…" he replies, shaking his head in amusement as his pencil dances between his fingers. "Every position is good for me."
"Well…" she responds with a laugh. "Not the one that threw your back out in the shower."
"Maybe not that one," he admits, thinking of their slippery incident a few weeks back.
"But is it okay?" she continues, more seriously this time. "The way I am?"
And he catches her vulnerability, holding it in his eyes before he responds, softly, "You're gorgeous. Beyond okay."
For the next few minutes, they don't speak. The silence between them makes room for other sounds to bloom throughout the space, and Olivia finds herself concentrating on each one.
The faint rustling of the pillow as she turns her head, ever so slightly, settling into a comfort she didn't anticipate.
The ever-present tick of the clock on Elliot's nightstand.
The flutter of a bird's wings as it passes by the window.
The hum of electricity in the walls, its frequency somehow matching the low vibration that flows through her every time Elliot looks up from his sketch and lets his eyes rest on a new part of her body.
He has a pattern, she realizes, of scanning the whole of her, then finding one spot to focus on completely, as if he is intent on capturing her in microscopic detail. At the moment, she notices he has landed on the curve of her breast; she hears his pencil sweep and press, making music with each touch, a crescendo rising as he increases his pressure, forming her shadows and her light.
The next time their eyes meet, she smiles, deeply aware that this is a first for both of them. Her memory begins to spin and she thinks of the men who have known her, if only at the surface. The men she has invited to touch her, kiss her, keep her warm in the night. Men who have found their way inside her, thinking they could reach her; men who have known her pulse and her clench but never her heart.
This, with Elliot…all of this is different. He doesn't even need to place his fingers on her skin for her to feel him, the fullness of him—his passion, his devotion, his love. Olivia considers that this isn't new. As partners, they had long practiced the art of sinking into each other's depths with barely a touch.
She recalls her nights with the others, the incompleteness she had felt. It had never been about the physical pleasure; she had always relished in the rush of sex, the chase toward and past the edge of desire. The freeness of coming apart. But it was the moment after. The lingering hollowness. The enduring thought that nothing compared.
She had been somewhat ashamed of it, comparing those men to Elliot. In all the years of their partnership, he had never been the one to know her naked body, collapse into her mouth and her core, caress her and climb with her and join in her release. But he had always found a way to inhabit a part of her that no one else could dare to discover, penetrating through every distance and boundary. Every emotional wall. Of course, she would think, no one compares.
And now, she lays here, watching his eyes drift to her hip, at peace with the thought that she can simply enjoy this, his silent journey around and through her, without an ounce of shame.
It occurs to her slowly that she is, in fact, enjoying this. She finds that she is relaxed, safe, and completely at ease with her body on full display for the man she loves. It's not that she's typically uncomfortable with the way she looks; she knows that people find her attractive and she tends to agree with then.
In more recent years, though, she has started to adopt…she supposes…a mindset of neutrality. She doesn't pay as much attention anymore to the parts she favors—the strength of her jawline, the fullness of her chest, the shape of her long, tanned legs. And similarly, she's started to lose focus on the parts she would rather forget, the scars she carries, reminders of humanity's worst. Olivia has worked hard to teach herself how to think of her body in different terms, as one that moves and sweats and breathes and does things. Her body holds her loved ones and laughs with her friends and skips with her son in the snow. It stands with her unit in times of crisis; it soothes the hands of survivors. And now, it shares its heat with her partner, takes him in and surrounds him with love, and in return, receives the entirety of his adoration.
Elliot knows her whole story now, the years he missed, everything that had happened to her. She had told him during their "friendship, for now" stage, her short-lived experiment in skirting the truth that she was deeply, achingly in love with him. They had found themselves in his car on a cold, January night, sitting in front of her apartment after another one of their "friendly" dinners. Noah was staying overnight with friends and Elliot was simply holding her hand but Olivia was starting to imagine what she wanted and could feel it growing…that urge. It was coming from her; he was being the perfect gentleman, not making any assumptions about where the evening would head, but she could sense it building, that compelling desire just to reach across and pull him to her mouth, to the street, through the building, and into her bed. But as much as she had wanted it, she had known that they still had another bridge to cross.
That night, they had stayed in the car until sunrise as she told him her story, every painful detail. They cried and held each other; they were raw and honest and worked through her agony and his regret. They let themselves, at times, sit through long minutes of silence, grateful for the sound of each other's breaths. Absorbing the fact that, after everything, they were there, alive, and together.
I don't know how you can forgive me…he had whispered. For leaving you. For not being with you…when you needed me the most.
I have, Elliot…she had replied with more strength than he could comprehend. I just need you to do the same. Now that you know…I need you to forgive yourself, too.
I'll do anything, Liv. And if that's what you need…I can try.
That is what I need. I needed you to know. And now…I need to keep moving on.
And with that, he had kissed her hair as she rested against him, warm with the rising feeling that they were finally ready to begin.
Stay, El. Please…she had continued, inviting him up to her apartment, just to sleep.
I won't leave until you tell me…he had replied, a promise she was sure would last far beyond the moment at hand.
They had leaned on each other as they moved through her building and, finally, into the quiet of her bedroom. There was nothing more to be said as they climbed under the covers, finding peace in each other's embrace, and he rocked her slowly as the sunlight of a new day washed over them.
Olivia hadn't planned for it to happen that way, but wondered after the fact if, perhaps, she had wanted to have that conversation in a place that wasn't home for either of them. A place they could leave behind more easily, one that wasn't the couch where they would eventually share their first kiss or the bed where they would know each other's bodies for the first time. Those, she had decided, would only be happy places, free of turmoil, blank slates for the memories they would soon create.
She remembers now, as Elliot begins sketching the line of her leg, what she had said to him in the car that night.
My scars, Elliot…if we end up at some point…together. Physically. I don't want you to ignore them. But I just want you to see them as part of a whole. Not separate. I've worked really hard to feel like that again. Complete. And that's how I would want you to…touch me. Just…all of me, the whole of me. Like…like my body doesn't have a before and after.
She thinks of that and before can she consider it further, she blurts out—
"Please draw everything, El."
He stops his pencil, slowly lifting it from the surface, knowing exactly what she means. Their eyes connect again.
"All of me," she continues.
"I will," he says, reassuringly. "I am."
Of course…she breathes to herself, watching him look at her with a softness that makes her ache.
After a moment, he returns to his drawing, soaking in the fact that this creation…this process…is as much about her healing journey as it is his own. At another time in his life, he knows that the idea of sketching his naked partner would have immediately turned into something sexual. A paper discarded on the floor with a few jagged marks, his younger hands more desperate to touch the beautiful woman laying before him. But not today, not with everything they have been through. This, he thinks, is about the bareness of their souls, an act of honoring every truth they have shared, every secret and desire and yearning that lives on the table they have built. This is a communion they have fought for and earned. A celebration of their survival. Their radical act of thriving together.
Olivia doesn't say a word, but senses everything he is thinking, suddenly overcome by her feeling of complete faith in this man, this beautiful man who sees her and honors her and reminds her of her vitality.
"Elliot," she interrupts, finding his eyes. "Do you remember what I said that night at the courthouse? During the trial?"
"You said a lot of things," he replies before adding, "all of which I needed to hear."
"About trust, El. I know I was struggling with that—"
"I gave you reasons to struggle," he says firmly.
"The point is," she continues, "I do," locking her gaze on his. "I trust you now. Completely. I just wanted you to hear that."
She watches his sturdy chest rise as he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, a decade of tension seeming to melt from his frame.
And opening them again, he replies, "And I will spend the rest of my life trying to stay worthy of your trust."
Olivia notices something start to consume her, as if all she wants is to open herself fully and let Elliot inhabit every crack and corner of her body and heart; her skin begins to tingle with a familiar craving. It's not that she even needs him to touch her. Instead, she feels compelled to reveal even more, allowing him into the last remaining space that is hers alone.
"El…would it be okay if…" she begins before pausing.
"You okay, Liv? Need a break?"
"No…I…can I…"
He looks at her, intrigued, until she finally asks…
"Can I…touch myself?"
Olivia bites her lip as his hand freezes, his jaw dropping ever so slightly. It wouldn't be the first time she's touched herself in front of him, or any other man for that matter, but it's always happened in the middle of the action, somewhat lost in the motion of two bodies surging toward a climax. But she knows she has never exactly done this…by herself…with someone else just…watching. She's never felt so at home in her lover's eyes, safe enough to take her pleasure into her own hands, from start to finish, with a captive audience of one. And she doesn't have to say this out loud for him to understand completely.
Still, he can't help himself, needing to get a rise out of her before she begins anything.
"Well," he says playfully, "you're the Captain. It's actually your call."
Olivia relaxes with a laugh. "You're quite right, Detective," she smirks. "Then I think…"
She waits, letting the anticipation build.
"I think…I will," she continues, letting her fingers slowly tiptoe down the length of her stomach until they pause, resting above the trimmed patch of hair between her legs.
"Unless," she adds, "you'd rather come over and join me."
"That's okay," he responds, leaning forward with a curious, loving smile. "I'll watch."