"Touch me like that again Elliot and so help you God."

He registers her threat, her warning - the anger that she's just spouted at him but he isn't responding. He is just staring back at her. There is a small strip of light peaking through the window behind him but it's enough to bring his dark blue irises into focus when he says it.

"I'm gonna have to touch you Olivia," he tells her firmly.

The statement slams into her chest. Her eyes narrow, her muscles ache beneath her stance. His tone hadn't sounded particularly threatening, just matter-of-fact as if she should know this by now. As her eyes scan his she lets out a quiet breath. He's not going to hurt her. That's all she keeps telling herself, that 3 years potentially undercover doesn't eradicate 12 years by her side. But she can't escape the thought that 2 days in a beach house irreversibly changed 46 of hers.

"Listen," he begins, starting to step towards her and she instantly takes a step back. He stops mid-sentence a look of uncertainty crossing his features as if he is only just realising how divided they are. Her eyes fall, she can see the additional lines on his face and a patch of nicks and scars around his neck. His body and stature are both bigger than she remembers and his voice is more horse. There is vague familiarity of another time when her eyes scan his features, but for the most part he feels like a stranger.

"Olivia," he tries again, using her name this time as if to force some sort of mock connection between them and the concept makes her chest hurt. "They think I've brought you in here to.." he starts and suddenly he is clearing his throat and he is looking away from her. Her eyebrows raise at that point, she wants to scoff. Rape me, Elliot. 'Two words', she wants to scream. Two words they've used thousands of times, throughout hundreds of cases and he can't even say them to her face.

"Rape me," she spits back because he doesn't have the balls. "Yeah I got that," she whispers, a thick slice of sarcasm infiltrating her words now as she steps forward. "Because you like cops," she reminds him, the judgement from that sentiment slamming into him. She waits for him to explain it. To acknowledge it. To give her some sort of explanation as to why it was out there in the first place. "That's why I'm here right?" She presses, a mock smile lining her features. "That's why I'm lucky enough to have your hands on me instead of theirs?" she spouts with force.

"Don't," he rasps in response.

She sees the warning in his eyes, she knows she is pushing the limits but she can't back down now, she's too infuriated, too hurt, too livid to let this go until she gets some answers.

"How many Elliot?" she yells, her eyes narrowing, stepping closer still, using her words and her leverage now to push him even further. "How many women? How many nights? How many cops?" She breathes out a heavy breath before she says it. "Or am I your first?"

He doesn't respond, just narrows his eyes as his fingers flex beneath her words.

"Do you kill 'em too Elliot?" she continues the taunt and she can feel herself slipping instantly back into detective mode like she's cornering a perp in interrogation. Her body is so close to his now she can feel his breath on her face and her thigh bump his knuckles. "Dump their bodies when you're done? Or do your right-hand men out there do that part for you?" she says with a mock half laugh. "I've noticed you've got a lot of pull around here, you must have been under for a long time. Enough for your cover to really take, as if it were second nature," she whispers. "I mean the way you grabbed my ass.. my breasts," she reminds him, her voice low with mock seduction. "I mean, that acting deserved an academy award."

He grabs her then, tugging her forearm towards him and she twists in his hold, her hand coming up and stopping her body from slamming forcibly into his chest. She lets out a breath as he holds her wrists firmly, giving her nowhere to go but up against his body. She lets him think his strength is an advantage when she knows her words have just cut far deeper. "You don't want my hands on you Olivia," he rasps against down into the crown of her head as he holds her through the struggle, "then don't give me a reason." He hisses, before he pushes her suddenly backwards.

She stumbles a few paces, her breath out of sync, disbelief in her eyes when they settle on his.

"You haven't answered the question," she says in a low tone, her head shaking in response.

He ignores her. Her stare. Her words. The question. Her entire presence it seems and instead he is moving past her, heading straight towards the gun that had dropped in their struggle. He scoops it up and makes his way back to her. He grabs her then, by the forearm, no graces and starts to tug her further into the trailer. Her eye-line drops to the weapon now clasped in his hand and she doesn't resist this time, her heart rate kicking up a notch now, unsure if he's collected it as a warning, or a just precautionary measure.

As they reach the kitchenette he moves her roughly up against the counter.

"Listen to me," he tells her quietly, their jagged voices intermingled as he holds her firmly against the counter. "I am not a rapist," he whispers against her face. "You got that? I choose cops so there is a chance in hell I can free them, just like I'm trying to do now. I don't have time to give you a play-by-play on this. So you've got two choices. You make this easy on yourself or you try your luck out there," he spits back.

Her heart is pounding in her chest now as small pieces of the picture are finally coming together. She is still focused on the gun, clasped in his right hand. It hasn't made it's way up to her yet. It's just lowered parallel to their thighs and she is taking comfort in that for now. She hears his reasoning, his words, and the logic that is seeping through. It all makes sense in her mind but it doesn't alleviate the empty feeling inside her chest.

"Look," he whispers, a little calmer. "We've already lost too much time." He tells her in a weighted breath. "So you wanna know what happens next?" he whispers through the darkness, digging the gun into the back of his jeans before moving down towards her thighs. "I'm gonna to rip your dress," he tells her, his hand grasping the lip of her of material and her breath catches, her heart-rate soaring in response. "Mark your neck," he tells her heatedly, his accent thick as his fingers curl under the lip of material. "And you're gonna scratch the hell outta me," he pauses, "deep, defensive marks," he whispers against her face.

"Okay Liv?"

Her mouth runs dry, her heart-beat slamming against her rib cage, a plethora of imagery pulverising her mind, her chest, her body - her heart. Ok Liv? And suddenly she is back there. Across from his desk. Beside him in the car. Coffee, carrots, orange juice and kidneys. She still wants to resist this, she wants to fight it - she still can't reconcile the changes within him, like this new chapter is just a section of a dream that she's about to wake up from. He is waiting for some kind of response. A remark, a protest - some backlash perhaps. But she's got nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except - Ok Liv?

When her silence extends out for days, she hears him take a weighted breath. Then it's one loud, forcible tug as the material at her thigh rips, the loud sound emanating through the trailer and into her chest.

TBC