August 1, 2014

It was the dream that drove him to it, in the end.

Two weeks he'd gone not seeing her, two weeks spent in the company of the Albanians and the Albanians alone. Kosta was pleased with his performance at Perkins's party - and pleased with the payment the madam had seen fit to deliver to him, compensation for the use of his bodyguard for the evening - but he wasn't in a hurry to get back to Oak House. That worried Elliot, because Kosta had been fixated on the place and the status it offered him, fixated on Sinatra and whatever deal they were cooking up, so fixated he hadn't been causing that much trouble in his own business endeavors, had just been sending Reggie to do the protection shakedowns and giving Albi his head, and since Elliot was tailing Kosta now he'd not been there for any of it, and so had been unable to gather any further evidence against Elliot's target. It worried him, Kosta's sudden disinterest in Oak House, but it irritated him, too, because Elliot desperately wanted to see Olivia again, and he couldn't, not without Kosta for cover.

That was where the dream came in. Every night for the last five nights Elliot had dreamed the same dream. Dreamed himself floating on a great blue sea, lost and tired and hungry, dreamed of a great black bird, a bird who wore the face of the creature tattooed on Olivia's back, descending upon him. Each time he saw the bird he felt a wild rush of hope, but each time the bird brought him no comfort. The bird had not come to save him; in the dream the bird attacked him, drowned him or ripped him limb from limb. The details varied but the end result was always the same. The bird spelled his doom.

And Elliot would never have described himself as a superstitious man, but he was Catholic, and what was religion, really, if not superstition given structure? He believed in God, and he believed in the devil, and mama believed in guardian angels, and the prophetic qualities of dreams. Was there any difference, really? If he was right about God why couldn't mama be right about dreams, and if mama was right about dreams, what did this one have to tell him? That Olivia would bring about his undoing? That idea wasn't terribly far-fetched; his future seemed to be cradled in her hands, his survival dependent on her whims, and even if she never gave him up Brian had warned him that no good could come from their acquaintance. Maybe Brian had been having dreams, too.

On Friday night, two weeks after the party, Kosta told Eddie to get lost. Wouldn't say where he was going or what he was doing, just said he didn't need a keeper for the night. That left Elliot free as a bird and what he should have done with the sudden vacancy on his dance card was call Reggie. He should have called his friend, and gone out for beers, and subtly attempted to pry some information out of him. Barring that he should have called Bell, give her a long overdue briefing on the Albanians' comings and goings. Hell, he probably should've called Kathleen, should've snuck away for a few hours and seen his fucking kids. He didn't do any of those things.

Instead he went to Oak House, and scaled the back fence, dropped to his feet on the hard ground at the edge of the terrace and loitered there, waiting in shadows.

Since Elliot didn't know where Kosta had gone, he couldn't rule out the possibility that Kosta had come to the brothel. If Kosta caught him there, in a house he had not been invited to, filled with women he couldn't afford, there would have been questions; Kosta might be pissed as hell at the intrusion. So Elliot couldn't afford to walk up to the door, to knock, to slip in the same way all the other guests did, to roam the corridors. The security at Oak House was top notch, though, and Elliot had seen the feeds from the security cameras on the monitors in Olivia's office. He knew there was a camera trained on the terrace, knew that his arrival would be observed, knew that when someone - Brian, most likely - saw him dropping over the fence they'd tell Olivia, and then she could decide for herself what to do with him. Speak to him, or send him away. He hoped she'd want to speak to him. After the way they'd parted, in the corridor outside her bedroom door, her dress unzipped, her skin warm beneath his fingertips, he was hoping she'd want to see him, but he couldn't say for sure. He'd been away for a while, and the sight of the tattoo had left a strange tension hovering between them. Maybe she wouldn't want to see him at all. Maybe the whole idea was fucking stupid.

It was somewhat more than five minutes but somewhat less than ten before the doors to the terrace opened, and Elliot watched from his vantage point by the fence as Olivia glided into view. She was wearing blue jeans this evening, an unusual choice for her on a Friday, and an oversized white t-shirt that fell elegantly off one of her shoulders, left her collarbones and a swath of her chest bare, a dainty gold necklace sparkling around her throat.

"I could have Brian shoot you, you know," she called to him softly.

"That'd make too much noise," he answered. "You don't like to draw attention."

"Neither do you."

Slowly she picked her way down the broad terrace steps, came to a stop on the stone patio beneath the twinkling lights strung across the pergola. She was still a good twenty feet away from him, and it seemed she did not intend to come any closer.

"Kosta's not here," she told him, "if that's why you're sneaking around like a thief."

"Just trying not to make waves, darlin'."

If Kosta wasn't there, and she didn't intend to move, it would fall to Elliot to close the space between them, and so he did, his movements measured and reserved, designed not to startle her.

"I wanted to talk to you," he explained as he approached.

"I do have a phone."

Yes, she did, and he had the number now, but he'd not thought of calling her, not even once. He'd said he wanted to talk to her but that wasn't entirely true; he wanted to see her. As he was seeing her now, her beautiful face glowing in the golden light, her dark hair wild around her shoulders, her bright eyes watching him, thoughtfully, warily.

"This is more fun, don't you think?"

"What do you want, Elliot?"

"I wanna know what it is."

It. That thing inked in black on her skin. Monstrous, almost, not only account of its size but on account of the ferocity of the beast's face, the confrontational nature of it. The piece was not delicate, not by any stretch; the lines were stark and thick, and spread out across so much of her body he'd not seen all of it, even with her dress unzipped to the curve of her ass. A piece like that would've taken time, would've taken a couple of sittings, would've been intentional, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out why she'd done it. It didn't seem like something she'd want, and that troubled him a very great deal. If she'd been forced into it whose idea had it been? Why had they done it? Why had she allowed it? Just what the fuck did it mean, and why did Elliot keep dreaming about it?

"That's none of your concern," she told him coolly.

"The hell it's not."

"What makes you think I owe you anything?"

He looked up at her in silence for a moment, thrown by the question. She was right, of course; he was behaving as if he were entitled to an answer, as if he had earned the right to care about her, about her story, about where she'd been, about what had been done to her. But who was she to him, really? A sort-of ally, perhaps, in that she had so far been helping him in his operation and he relied on her for her discretion, but it wasn't as if they were friends. They weren't working the job together, didn't go out for drinks after a long day, didn't call just to chat. When the operation was through they'd never see each other again. Why, then, did he feel so connected to her? Why did she matter so much? Why couldn't he stop this longing he felt for her?

"No," he said, "I know you don't owe me shit." She didn't, she really didn't. "But it's…it's killing me, Olivia. It's driving me crazy. You're…you're driving me crazy."

She took a step back from him, then. Heard his words and stepped away, as she had probably been doing all her life, putting distance between herself and men who sought too much from her, knowing how dangerous a man could be when he'd decided he owned something she'd never agreed to give him. She looked at him, and saw a threat, and she was probably right about that but Jesus, the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.

Don't you feel it, too? He wanted to shout. Didn't she remember, that night in the corridor when they'd been hiding from Sinatra, hadn't she felt how right it was when they held on to one another? Hadn't she kissed his temple, gently, when she had no reason to at all, no reason but that she wanted to? When they were dancing at Perkins's house, hadn't she relaxed in his embrace, hadn't she been comfortable there? Didn't she know he'd keep her safe? She really was driving him mad, he realized then, driving him absolutely out of his mind because she made him want things he couldn't have, because she hid her thoughts from him so completely that no matter what they had done together he still couldn't be sure what the fuck was going on in that pretty head.

"You should leave," she said.

"Do you want me to?"

He didn't crowd her, didn't push in closer; he stayed right where he was, five, six feet away, tucked his hands in his pockets so she could see he didn't mean to put them on her. If she said yes, if she told him to go, he would, because he was not the sort of man who would press his advances where they were not wanted, but he prayed, fervently, desperately, that she would say no. That she would not send him away. That she would just tell him the truth, for once, when it seemed like she never told the truth to anyone.

"No," she confessed in a small voice, and his heart sang out in his chest, relieved and smug at the same time. "No. But that scares the shit out of me, Elliot. You're no good for me."

"Maybe I could be, if you let me."

"What are you offering?"

That was the question, wasn't it? Elliot didn't even know himself. Didn't even know what he was asking for, not really, didn't know what he could possibly give her in return that would be worth the value of her trust. He didn't know what he'd meant, really, when he said maybe I could be; the words just came spilling out of him, born of the intense desire he felt to take care of her, to protect her. Olivia was brash and strong and brave, rich and well-guarded, and on paper she had no need of his protection, but when he looked at her he saw something fragile, still, something that needed saving from the life that had ensnared her. Maybe it was just his cop instincts taking over, telling him she was trapped, caged; hadn't she chosen this life herself? Didn't she have the means to leave it whenever she wanted? Who was he to say what was good for her?

"I think you need a friend," he said finally. "I wanna be that for you, if you'll let me."

"Friends with a cop?" she scoffed.

"No," he answered at once. "Fuck the badge, I'm not wearing it. I'm not here as a cop. I'm just…I'm here as me. For you."

Even with the lights overhead her eyes seemed almost black, huge and dark and sad.

"No one's here for me," she told him wisely, something in her voice that sounded almost like pity, like she felt sorry for him, the big dumb cop too stupid to understand how the world worked. "I make other people's dreams come true."

"What about your dreams, huh? What about you? God damn it, Olivia, I'm not trying to fuck you. I'm trying to talk to you."

"You don't wanna fuck me?"

He recognized that low, salacious tone of voice at once; he'd heard her use it at Perkins's house, and hearing it now made his blood run hot with anger.

"Don't pull that shit with me," he said sharply. "Don't deflect."

"Fuck you," she snapped. "You don't have any idea-"

"So tell me, then!" he fired back. "Tell me. Tell me something, Olivia. Tell me something true."

As his temper rose he'd moved, almost without realizing it, pacing closer and closer to her, and Olivia, she'd stood her ground, and now he was right in front of her, close enough to reach out and touch her, if he dared. Christ, he wanted to dare. Wanted to be daring enough, bold enough, to take hold of her with both hands, to shake her, to kiss her, to do anything to break them out of the unbearable detente they found themselves in, locked together, neither of them willing to take the risk, and break them both free. Up close like this she was blindingly, painfully beautiful, the loveliest thing he'd ever seen in his entire life, and the saddest.

Like a bird caught in a cage, he thought, and very nearly laughed aloud at the sheer hysterical unfairness of it all.

"It's a phoenix," she said in an unsteady voice.

It's a start, he thought.