Disclaimer: Olivia, Elliot and the gang do not belong to me; I can only take credit for the bad guys and the story/situation you are reading. Dick Wolfe – you rock!
Rating is for naughty language, because real cops have filthy mouths. My apologies on the cliffhanger and delay – the scene was too vast for one chapter, and it took me awhile to get the last few pages to my liking, which I'm still not sure I really like. Oh, and some angst (but in no where near the caliber of 007 and Mousie962 – you guys slay me).
Reviews: Please. All of you that have left feedback are giving me the incentive to continue this piece (slow as it may be). Readers are a writer's best friends! Oh – big ole thanks to Hepburn (as always – thanks for the push)!
A/N: I am such a beast with updates. Deepest apologies.
Chapter Fourteen
It was with mild interest that she watched the short exchange between Elliot and Detective Bryn, one of the vice cops assigned to her detail. The graying, heavy-set man had wanted to check in with her before he and his partner, Detective Dobson, rotated out again with Schnoebelen and Worth. There were six cops that made up her detail, and they worked in shifts of eleven to seven, seven to three and three to eleven. Usually one detective would notify Olivia when they were switching, updating her on any unusual activity and seeing if there was anything she had noted during the shift so they could update the reports.
As Bryn and Elliot discussed in clipped tones several interesting people the detectives had noted around her building this shift, Olivia distractedly picked up the Glock. Though her focus was on the conversation behind her, her long fingers worked deftly on checking and disassembling the gun with skillful movements only borne of years of practice. Her mind was still reeling from the kiss, but the cold metal in her hands had calmed the trembling, the vulnerable shakiness in her fingertips and thighs.
Elliot bid the older detective a curt good-bye, closing the door and leaning back against the frame. He was only mildly surprised to see Olivia had resumed cleaning her guns, her head bowed as she focused on the task. Of course, what did he expect? They had been kissing. Christ, what a kiss. And she had been under him, his leg between hers, her soft mouth making the most erotic sounds. Stabs of renewed lust stroked down his spine, tightening his groin at the memory. Damn if he hadn't wanted to rip her clothes off right then and go at it like some horny teenage boy.
But this wouldn't do. This wasn't just any woman. This was Olivia. Passionate, fierce, complicated Olivia. More than anything, he didn't want to mess this up, this being them, and the promise of a future. A future together, as more than just partners and best friends.
The thought was frightening at the same time it caused his chest to burn with a warmth of emotion that had eluded him for years. He loved her. He wanted this to be more than one night of sex, though he had no doubts that it would do them both good to release all of that tension that had been building for nearly a decade. But instinctively he knew if they moved too fast, he would scare her off; she would end up playing the martyr for the good of the job. Because she would always hold the job higher than anything else, even her own happiness.
Elliot walked over to the sofa, aware again of the renewed ache in his lung and ribs. Damn if their little encounter hadn't caused him pain. With dark humor, he realized that if he engaged in the kind of sex he had been dreaming about with her, he'd probably be incapacitated for days afterwards. Not to mention ripping out some stitches. He couldn't help the smirk that quirked at his lips, thankful that her attention was still focused on the Glock so he didn't have to explain his dirty mind.
He sat down gingerly on the couch next to her, the movement causing her to glance up at him. She blinked, something like fear flashing in her dark eyes before she looked back down at the Glock. The emotion tore at him.
"Liv…"
"So it sounds like there wasn't much activity this past shift," Olivia spoke quietly, her voice still rough from earlier. She cleared her throat as she reached for the solvent. "It's really not necessary that you have to baby-sit me, El. Schnoebelen and Worth are probably the most experienced of the detail cops anyway. And…"
"Liv," Elliot silenced her, his hand circling around her left forearm. She flinched at the warm touch, looking back up at him. "It's okay."
"Is it?" She asked. Olivia closed her eyes on a sigh and then turned to set the Glock and the cleaning rod back on the newsprint. Her heart was beating an erratic rhythm she could almost taste on the back of her tongue, fear tingling in a cold sweat down her spine. It was shock, she knew, shock of their earlier actions, the sweetest memory of his mouth. She had never been so aroused in her life. Or felt so vulnerable. The sensation was heady and terrifying all at the same time. Shamefully, her first instinct had been to run, to hide from him and the onslaught of emotion. But Olivia wasn't one to hide. In flight or fight, she would always be on the front line.
His hand was warm where it touched her, his thumb smoothing her flesh in a gentle caress. She turned back to him; her lips parted, whatever she was going to say now lost in response to the look in her partner's eyes.
Elliot stared back at her, his ice blue eyes warming with something she could only describe as love.
"I…," she faltered, biting her lower lip, then moistening it with her tongue. She swallowed the hesitation, trusting him completely. "I'm scared, El."
It was one of the boldest things she had ever admitted, and he knew it. His thin lips pulled into a soft smile as his hand lifted from her forearm to brush against her cheek.
"I am too, Liv." Elliot leaned forward, fighting the urge to kiss her when he heard her quick intake of breath. He rested his forehead against hers, his fingertips still caressing her cheek. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes," she answered, her voice no more than a whisper. She wanted him; it was naked in her eyes. It took all of his self-control to shift out of the embrace instead of pushing her back onto the couch. After all, she trusted him.
Olivia looked at him in a mixture of faint surprise and disappointment. She glanced away from him, once again focused on the guns lined out on the newsprint-covered coffee table.
"How many do you have left?"
If his question was unexpected, she didn't show it. "Three and the rest of the Glock."
Olivia eyed him warily as he reached forward and picked up the slide of the Glock. "Elliot…"
"This will go faster if you let me help. And it's not like I don't know how to clean a gun, Liv," he grunted. He knew how she felt about her weapons, but sometimes her over protectiveness was annoying.
She unwilling grinned. "Okay, but I only have the one rod, so you're stuck with the slides and springs."
"Deal."
They finished up the Glock in a silence that was surprisingly companionable, reminding Olivia of their years working across from each other at the precinct. The only sounds were of clinking metal and Nina Simone singing low in the background, comforting Olivia in a way she had rarely felt.
"Is she singing about…lilac wine?"
Olivia glanced up from disassembling the Heckler and Koch. Elliot had his water bottle raised in midair, his head titled slightly as he listened to the music. Olivia couldn't help the laughter that tickled at her throat.
"You've never heard of Nina Simone?"
"Nina who? Uh, no. Not my type of music." He took a long swig of water before setting the bottle back down and watching his partner take apart her newest gun. She handed him the slide.
"Mmm. I don't listen to her much anymore, only when I'm feeling…well, when my mood matches hers, I guess," Olivia said softly, avoiding Elliot's stare.
Intrigued with this small insight into her personal life, Elliot tried to decipher the lyrics as he cleaned the slide of the gun. When I think more than I want to think, do things I never should do, I drink much more that I ought to drink, because it brings me back you.
He knew that by the time this was all over, he would find himself in possession of a Nina Simone CD. Every time he would hear her voice in the future, he knew he would be reminded of this moment, sitting next to Olivia, cleaning her guns in a cop-slanted demonstration of domesticity.
Olivia handed him the Heckler and Koch and he reassembled it with the slide as she started to work on the Kimber Warrior. He vaguely remembered the gun first appearing shortly after Alex had left. Obviously knowing his partner's deep friendship with the former assistant D.A., he understood the significance of the gun to her. It was like a snap shot of time, but instead of a photograph her memories were symbolized with the weapon.
They cleaned the remaining guns with quick efficiency, neither really feeling the need to break the comfortable silence with idle conversation. Already knowing the location of her gun locker in her kitchen, Elliot went to the task of locking up all but the Glock while Olivia cleaned up the coffee table and replaced the gun cleaning kit.
She wandered into the kitchen to deposit the crumbled newspaper into the recycling bin, the Boulevard beer in her free hand. Elliot was kneeling down in front of the cabinet to the left of the sink, closing the door of the locker and twisting the combination a couple of times. He glanced over to her, taking in the sight of her bare legs in subtle appreciation, his gaze ending on her feet.
"You know, for a cop, you have really pretty feet," Elliot smirked, pushing back on his heels to stand in front of her.
"If that was a compliment, you should try harder next time," she laughed, taking a sip of beer. The bottle was almost empty, and the beer was becoming flat, but at that moment, she needed the distraction.
"I let Kathleen paint my toenails once, back when she was, I think, six or seven. She had wanted to paint Maureen's toes, but you know how they can be, sisters…" his voice trailed off. Olivia looked at him with a half smile, seeing the visual clearly in her head, Elliot baring his feet so a little Kathleen could play pedicurist.
"Can you imagine how much shit I took for that the next day, in the locker room? There I was, bare feet, big hairy toes with bright pink nail polish…"
Laughter broke out of Olivia in a rush. "God, El…"
"You're telling me. Damn if Cartwright doesn't bring that up every time we see each other," Elliot grimaced, mentioning one of his old partners. His scowl softened at the flushed amusement on his partner's face. He leaned forward, taking the forgotten beer from her hand. Pressing it to his lips, he drank the last of the Boulevard, his eyes on her the entire time. He set the bottle back on the counter with a smile at her expression.
"Pain meds…"
"Just a taste," he answered. Just a taste. She swallowed at the implication of it, suddenly nervous again.
"So…it's almost midnight. We should probably be getting to sleep," Olivia spoke softly.
"I agree. I know where you keep the sheets; let me get a couple and I'll make up the couch."
Her eyebrows rose. "You're not sleeping on the couch, El, I am. In your condition…"
He grunted. "I didn't come over here to kick you out of your own bed, Liv. I've slept on the couch before, it's comfortable."
"You know, you say that enough, I might actually start to believe you," she replied, lips pursing slightly. "Elliot…"
"Sleep with me," he cut her off, his voice low. Heat rushed through her in response to the request, desire slicking through her belly. Elliot saw her react visibly and his own body answered in kind, lust circling at the base of his spine, hardening him.
Keeping control of the sudden onslaught of visceral emotions, he leaned forward, his breath tickling her ear. "Just sleep, Liv. For now…"
He couldn't help nipping gently at her earlobe, and her hips jerked against his. He groaned in response, hands on her hips to repeat the movement against his erection.
"Christ, Liv," the words came out in a low rush. For an insane moment, he thought about taking her right her in the kitchen. It would be simple enough; he could lift her up on the counter top, dispense the necessary clothes, and be inside of her without too much trauma to his lung. He would be in a position to give both of them pleasure while fulfilling a desire he had harbored for nearly a decade.
It was too soon.
He backed up, stumbling a bit. She looked up at him, her face flushed, her eyes dilated. Olivia felt dazed, standing there, and wanted to say something, anything, but her mind was too jumbled to form a coherent sentence.
"Just sleep," he repeated, his voice rough. Olivia nodded, moistening her lower lip, still not trusting herself to speak. He stared at her for what seemed like minutes, taking in her face while trying to read what she was feeling at that moment. Fighting the urge to look away, she stood still, the trembling easing as her body calmed.
He turned away from her, walking out of the kitchen, pausing briefly at the entrance. "I brought some sweats to change into, and then I'll come to bed, okay?"
Olivia nodded again, watching as he left. She stood alone in the kitchen for a minute, her mind still reeling, alternating from being overwhelmed to craving more stimuli. She closed her eyes and forced in several slow, deep breathes, centering herself. She was a cop, a detective; one man shouldn't scare her so much when she was used to facing murderers and rapists every day.
Olivia strode out of the kitchen and back into the living room, picking up the Glock. She made sure the front door was securely locked before turning off the lights and the stereo.
She walked down the hall, passing the closed door of her bathroom and entering her bedroom.
There was enough brightness from the moon and streetlamps shining through the window that Olivia didn't feel it necessary to turn on the lights. She set her Glock down next to the rosary beads on the bedside table to the left of the queen size bed and then sat down on the edge of the mattress, facing the window.
When she sensed him enter the room, her body stiffened slightly in anticipation. She closed her eyes, her hands curling into loose fists.
"Liv."
Unable to fight it, she turned slightly on the mattress, her breath catching in her throat. Elliot stood in the darkened doorway. In the half-light, she could see his nude chest, the white rib belt stark against his bare skin. He wore dark-colored sweats slung low at the hips, a gun in his right hand. As he walked over to the bed and set his Beretta down on the other table, she suddenly wished she had turned on a light. Her partner's chest had to have made God proud.
"Hi," she spoke thickly. His face broke out into his characteristic slow, sexy grin and her chest suddenly felt tight.
"Hi." Elliot stared back at her while she was appraising him, accessing how the moonlight captured her in her position at the edge of the bed. His gaze caught for a moment on the table next to her and suddenly he understood. His rosary beads.
She loved him.
He was suddenly clear-headed, raw with awareness of the emotion. They both needed each other, and the one thing that held them back was their own fear. The irony of it was rich.
Elliot sat down on the bed, pushing himself up so he was leaning back into the pillows scented from her jasmine shampoo. He reached out a hand to her.
"Come here, Liv."
She touched his fingertips gingerly, and with a shuttered sigh edging on the side of resignation, she took his hand. Elliot pulled her up under his arm and against his chest, situating them into a position that was comfortable for his lung and that kept her close to him.
It was soothing, the way her breaths came out against his chest and the faint touch of her fingertips on the edge of the rib belt. He looked down at the dark head of hair resting against his shoulder, feeling more content than he had been in recent memory.
Her fingers stilled on his chest. "El? I…I should warn you, sometimes when I sleep…"
"Nightmares?" He guessed, and hearing her sigh, he knew he was right. "I get them too, Liv." He didn't mention that it had been one of the reasons he had slept on the couch in the last year of his marriage. He would cry out in his sleep, sweaty and terrifying; he hadn't blamed Kathy for not wanting to share a bed with him when he was half-crazed with his violent dreams. It was oddly comforting to know his partner shared the same demons of sleep.
Her hand had stilled, flat on his chest, her breathing even, but not quite slow enough to signal sleep.
"Would you like me to tell you a story?" He asked her softly. He heard her dry chuckle and smiled.
"A fairytale, El?"
"Hmm, I could wing a fairytale. What do you have in mind?"
A yawn caught her unaware and she stretched lazily against him with the movement. Sleep was catching up with her. "Bullets and fairytales. That's all it is. Just…bullets and fairytales," she murmured against his chest.
It was only several minutes later that her breathing had slowed as she drifted into sleep. Comforted by the thought, he allowed himself to give into the temptation.
Somewhere in the bliss of dreamless sleep, something tugged at him. It took several moments for the heavy veil of slumber to lift, for Elliot to make his way back into consciousness. The smell tempted him first, that soft, jasmine scent of his partner's hair. Then the luminosity of the streetlamp cutting through the darkness. And Olivia…
Elliot's eyes flicked open at the feeling of emptiness. He was alone in her bed. His gaze jerked to the bedside table and dread stabbed at his stomach when he saw that her Glock was missing.
He pushed up from the bed, grabbing his own gun before heading to the doorway of her bedroom. Soundlessly he made his way down the hallway, his senses on full alert even as his heart pounded madly in his chest.
The door to the bathroom was ajar, and he paused, recognizing the sound of retching. Damn.
He waited until he heard the toilet flushed before pushing the door open the rest of the way. The sight made his heart ache.
Olivia was leaning back against the bathtub, her arms resting on her bent knees. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red with tears and the act of vomiting. She was trembling and he suddenly felt awful for violating her privacy in this moment.
"Olivia?"
"What are you doing up?" The question came out in a croak. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and then moved up slightly to close the seat of the toilet. The movement drew his attention to her Glock where it was resting on the back of the toilet. Even in her current state, she still had enough precaution to bring her piece with her everywhere while a madman was on the loose.
He sighed, ignoring her question as he made his way into the small bathroom. He set down his Beretta on the edge of the sink and then picked up the washcloth on the closest towel rung. Elliot turned on the faucet, drenching the cloth with cool water and then wringing it out. He shut off the water and then walked over to her.
Olivia let him smooth the washcloth over her face, thankful for the kind, almost fatherly gesture, but unable to say so.
"Dream?"
She nodded, biting her lip. He held out the cloth and she took it, pressing the wonderful coolness against her burning eyelids.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I can't…" She stopped, removing the cloth from her eyes and looking back up at him. What could she say? That it was about him? That over and over again she had the same dream, watching Elliot die on the concrete, that pool of blood ever widening as she failed again and again to save him.
Elliot sat down on the spotless tile floor of her bathroom, his posture mirroring hers. He knew the feeling, the raw fear of the nightmares brought on by the job. The demons of those soulless bastards that committed the crimes they investigated would continue to haunt the time the detectives actually had away from the job. Even in sleep, they couldn't escape, and in the dreamscape, the crimes and their perpetrators could twist into something even more vile, more violent and close to home.
"It's…you, El," Olivia spoke softly, staring at him with her red-rimmed eyes. "After the shooting…every night, it's the same thing. I couldn't save you."
"I'm here, sweetheart. Right here," he whispered, reaching out to touch her knee, his caress gentle. "You saved me. That piece of lung is another story…"
She laughed, the sound coming out more like a gasp. He smiled, watching her intently as she pressed the washcloth back against her eyelids.
The next few minutes passed in quiet as she let the coolness of the cloth soothe her and he was content to silently study her. She finally looked up, setting the washcloth down on the edge of the bathtub behind her.
"I've been sleeping on half of my bed lately," she said, her voice still soft, "thinking of what you said to me."
His blue eyes widened slightly, the hand on her knee tightening. The revelation tugged at his gut.
"I meant it. Every word," he whispered. Her gaze drifted down to his mouth, pausing for only a moment before reaching his eyes again. It was if they had jumped the line together; hand in hand, they had given up the fear and became honest, raw and open with each other.
Elliot pushed to his feet, reaching down a hand to her. "No more heavy thoughts tonight, Liv. Come back to bed with me."
She took his offering, standing up next to him. Pausing only to grab her Glock, she walked with him, hand in hand, back to the bedroom.
Tomorrow would come too soon.