The van kept them steady, for which Elliot was grateful; without it his knees might have given way. Without it they might both have ended up sprawled in the dirt, overwhelmed by the sheer fucking weight of their cataclysmic coming together. As it was the van held them upright, Liv leaning back against it and Elliot leaning into her, his hands tangled in her hair, pulling her into him, while her own had slipped beneath his ratty shirt, gripped at his back and held him tight to her. One kiss had turned into two had turned into this, her soft lips open for him, her tongue in his mouth, her skin burning him alive. One kiss had turned into a goddamn conflagration and he couldn't get close enough to her, even when she canted her hips and spread her legs and made room for him to slide between, even when he abandoned her hair and reached instead for her ass, hauled her up onto the heavy muscle of his thigh and let her settle there, let her rock against him while he chased the taste of her moans and lost all sense of anything that wasn't her.
Twenty-two, twenty-three, however many, too fucking many years he'd spent wondering what it might be like to touch her and believing he'd never have the chance but he had her, had all of her, in his hands now, and he wasn't gonna let her go, not ever again. He'd have her right here, if she'd let him, up against the side of the van, have her calling out his name with only the river around to hear it, and Jesus, he was hard just thinking about it, just thinking about her, soft skin, soft hair, soft curves, every inch of her, soft, and warm, and clinging to him, now, not pushing him away or telling him all the reasons why they shouldn't but encouraging him with every ragged breath, with every pass of her tongue, with the press of her nails against the skin of his back, with the rocking of her hips, grinding the softness of her against his leg.
The sudden sound of a car engine turning over startled them both, and he tore himself away from her just long enough to watch the black SUV - the black SUV he'd forgotten was even there - pull away on the road above them, and drive off into the night. Apparently Kosta's boys had seen enough; they'd watched Eddie take his girl home, and they watched Eddie drink with his girl, fight with his girl, they'd watched Eddie press his girl back against the side of the van and kiss her like he was trying to crawl inside her and that must have been proof enough for them that Eddie and Lorraine were exactly who they'd said they were, just two regular folks who couldn't seem to quit each other, even when maybe they should. Eliot watched the car fade into the night, and then he brushed Liv's hair back from her face, watched her watching him through hooded eyes, and tried to remember how to speak.
He wanted her. Christ, he wanted her. He wanted her like he wanted to breathe, wanted her like a junkie wanted a hit, like if he didn't get her he'd keel over and die from the pain of it. He wanted her and so far she'd been more than willing, had been reaching for him like she wanted him, too, but now that he'd stopped kissing her his mind was starting to work again and he was starting to wonder if maybe this was a bad idea. If he had her now he was gonna want more, and more, and maybe she would, too, but he was still under, and the less Kosta's organization saw of her, the better. He had to keep her safe, and the best way to do that was to keep her out of sight. This can keep, he tried to tell himself. This can wait until the job is done. She'll still be there when I'm out.
But he was still standing there with his hands on her ass and her thighs gripping his leg and her eyes watching him in the darkness.
"Looks like we're clear," he said hoarsely. "You know I understand if you just wanna get back-"
"Are you kidding me right now?" she asked him, turned her nails against his skin just enough to make him hiss a little, as if she were trying to punish him for something. Since all he was doing was trying to give her a graceful way out, he wasn't really sure what the fuck she thought she had to punish him for.
"I'm just saying-"
"Get off me," she said, suddenly angry, pushing at his shoulders until he took a step back and she could get free of him. Sometimes she made him so fucking dizzy; she was like a wildfire, Liv, blazing like an inferno, all consuming, overtaking everything in her path and changing direction with every shift in the wind, and something had caught her anger ablaze and she was on the verge of raging, now, when a second before she had been soft and pliant and sexy as hell in his hands and he didn't know what the fuck he was supposed to do, but he did know he wasn't gonna let her just walk away from him, not after that kiss.
"You stood right there," she pointed towards the river, towards the spot where they'd been shouting at each other a little while ago, the place where they'd been standing the first time he ever kissed her, and he was never gonna forget that, never, "and told me you weren't gonna leave me behind and the first fucking chance you get you're pushing me away. You pull me in and then you kick me right back out."
"That's not what I was doing, Liv," he growled, approaching her slowly, a little warily. He really, really wanted to kiss her again but he wasn't stupid enough to try that shit when she was mad.
"I just...I don't wanna...I wanted to give you a chance to think it through," he said, desperately trying to explain himself. "I want you with me but we've had a weird night and I don't want you to regret this."
"Are you gonna?" she asked him then, and her voice had lost some of its edge, and so he dared to step a little bit closer, and she didn't flinch or tell him to stop and he figured that was a good thing. "You gonna regret me?"
There was something uncertain in her eyes, like maybe she thought he would, like maybe she thought he did already. It hit him then, hit him square in the chest, hotter than a bolt of lightning and twice as painful; all this time he'd been thinking about how hard it was for him, circling around her but never being able to touch her, and he hadn't really considered, not until this moment, what it must have been like for her. All those years, watching him with someone else. Watching him walk away, not once but twice. Getting left behind and picked back up and he wanted to take her by the shoulders, shake her, demand of her don't you know how bad I want you, how bad I've always wanted you? But he could see it, now; she didn't know. Maybe she hadn't ever known. Maybe it was time he told her.
"The only thing I regret," he told her, "is not kissing you sooner."
"That the only thing?" she asked him, and she was trying to be sarcastic but her voice was too unsteady, and he shook his head, because even now, in this moment when they were right on the brink of either fucking or falling apart, she was still trying to fight him, and he was still enjoying it.
"Liv-"
"Are you afraid of me?" she asked him, and for a second he turned the question over in his head, because whatever was happening here he knew the time had come for him to be honest with her, not to brush her off or try to placate her, but to hear her, and answer her in kind. Did it look like fear, him reaching for her and pushing her away? Did he look scared right now, watching her in the darkness, the taste of her still sweet in his mouth? Is that what she thought this was, that he was just scared of wanting her?
"No," he said. "No. What I'm afraid of, Liv, the thing that scares me most...I'm afraid of hurting you. I'm afraid of what I'm gonna do to you."
He didn't mean sexually, or anything, but he was pretty sure she knew that. She always seemed to know what he was thinking. And what he was thinking now was how big a risk she was taking, being here with him. Even if no one ever found out that she'd met with Kosta - that was a secret he was determined to take to his grave - even if this op went smoothly and he went back to his own life and she was there waiting for him, the risk didn't lessen. He was nothing but a risk, to her reputation, her job, her squad, her son, her heart. He just kept hurting her and he just kept making mistakes and if he got his bloody hands on her life he was sure she wasn't gonna walk away clean. And he wanted better for her than that.
"You hurt me the most when you leave," she told him raggedly. "I'm not made of glass, Elliot. I don't need you to treat me like I'm fragile. I need you with me. We can figure out the rest of it together, just...stop pushing me away."
"Ok."
"Ok?" she repeated, her eyes searching his face, like she was expecting him to contradict himself, but he wasn't gonna take this back, not now. He needed her and shit, she'd just told him that she needed him, too, and maybe the time had come for him to fucking listen to her. Olivia knew how to handle herself. She'd had thirteen years with him and ten years without him and she'd had plenty of time to make up her mind about what she wanted, what she thought was good for her, and she'd chosen him, and he was gonna have to trust that. He was gonna have to trust her, with this. With him, all of him, with his heart and his recklessness and his tendency to break everything he touched. Right now he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of people in the world he trusted, but she would always, always be included in that number. Hell, some days she was the only one.
"Ok," he said, leaning in close, brushing his lips against hers, and she surged up towards him like she was scared he was gonna run again and she had to catch hold of him before he bolted. He wasn't running, though; he just stood steady, holding her, kissing her, and he felt her soft lips curve into a smile when his hands settled on her hips again.
Good, she felt good. Just like this, warm and solid in his grip, soft tits pressed hard against his chest, and the way she kissed him; shit, she was gonna kill him, because she wasn't still, wasn't waiting for him to take the lead. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth and held it there, just for a second, while her hands slipped right back underneath his shirt, reaching for his skin like as much as he couldn't get enough of her she couldn't get enough of him, either, and the local precinct had been warned that the van was part of an NYPD op and they weren't supposed to hassle him and probably no one was ever gonna see him down here with his tongue in her mouth but he was struck by a sudden need to take her inside, take her somewhere private, take her somewhere no one else could see, where he could have her all to himself.
He tore his lips from hers and let his beard brush against the column of her throat, dipped his head to press a kiss against her collarbone.
"Get in the van, Captain," he growled at her, and she threw her head back and laughed, her voice throaty and warm and the most beautiful goddamn thing he'd ever heard.
"I think I'm the one who's supposed to be giving the orders, Detective," she teased him.
He raised his head to look at her, raised an eyebrow at her in question, wondering if that was how things were gonna go between them, wondering if they were gonna make fucking look like fighting, but she just grinned at him.
"Get in the van, El," she said.
If they'd been a few years younger, or if the ground had been a little more even, he might have hoisted her up over his shoulder and carried her there himself, but as it was he didn't trust his knees to hold them, and she probably wouldn't have appreciated it, anyway. Instead she reached for his hand, and laced their fingers together, and the sudden softness of the gesture, when everything between them had been so fucking hard, called to something tender and forgotten deep inside his chest. He took their hands and raised them to his lips so that he could press a kiss against the back of hers, and then he led her carefully across the grass to the van, and swung the door open for her.
"Probably not as nice as you're used to," he said as she gingerly climbed up the two short steps to get inside.
She looked back at him, then, dark hair mussed from his fingers and falling across her face, lips soft and reddened from the sting of his beard, and never, he had never seen anything as beautiful as her.
"It's perfect," she told him.
Maybe that was right. Down by the river, far away from the responsibilities and the horrors of their daily lives, far away from the memories and all the reasons why he was no good for her, it was like they'd walked into another world. A quieter world, a peaceful world, a world where they could reach for each other, and not have to fear what would become of them in the morning. Out here there was nothing and no one, nothing but a soft mattress in the van and the river rushing by, taking their grief with it, and washing them clean.
From the little doorway the van opened up; to the right was the driver's seat, and a bench with some drawers in it where he kept the necessities. To the left was the mattress, running from the back of the van almost all the way to the door. It took up pretty much all the space there was in the back of the van, and it was almost cozy. He had sheets for it, and a couple of pillows, and a few ratty old flannel blankets, and he hadn't bothered to tidy it up so they were all kinda jumbled in a pile in the middle, and Liv just grinned when she saw it, like she didn't mind, like she thought it was kinda funny, and maybe it was. He was, for the second time in his adult life, a bachelor, and he couldn't be bothered to make up the bed and she wasn't gonna judge him for it.
"C'mere," he said, and caught her by the hips, kicked the door closed behind them and sank his lips over hers. There were lights he could have turned on, but he didn't bother; their eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he was keeping his closed as long as he kissed her, anyway, because the radiance of her at that close range would have been enough to knock him off his feet, and he wanted to stand right here, with his arms full of her. She'd told him this was where she wanted to be, and the way she kissed him, her lips moving with his, her tongue brushing against his, her teeth catching him, every now and then, like she just wanted to remind him where he was and who he was touching, that was enough to make him believe her.
So he reached for the hem of her blouse and she didn't stop him, just raised her arms over her head and let him pull it off her, let him watch with hungry eyes as he bared her for him, soft tits straining against a plain black bra that barely held them back, that pretty necklace still sparkling between them. Soft belly, soft arms, soft skin; every inch of her was soft and his hands were itching for her. Carefully, slowly, he let his hands settle on the curve of her waist, let his palms glide up her sides, listened to the hitch in her breath when his thumbs brushed against the swells of her breasts, but he didn't stop there, just kept moving until he was cradling her neck between his hands, fingertips gently pressing against her jaw, encouraging her to lift her chin, to look up at him.
"You're so fucking beautiful, you know that?" he said, because she was, and he couldn't help but tell her.
"You shoulda seen me ten years ago," she told him wryly.
"I did," he reminded her. Maybe she thought she'd been more beautiful back then, and maybe with a new lover she might have felt uneasy, thinking about the way she used to be, but Elliot remembered all of it, remembered her young and remembered her weeping, remembered her righteous and remembered her laughing, knew exactly what she had been and exactly what she was now, and truth be told he wouldn't have traded the now for the then, would not even have considered it. He could love her, now, in a way he never could have, then, and that made now the moment worth having.
"And you're beautiful."
He kissed her again, before she could protest, kissed her hard and hungry and crowded her against the back wall of the van while his hands followed the line of her bra until he could get it off her, and the second that was done he reached for her breasts, felt the heavy weight of them in his palms, dragged his fingertips over her nipples, memorized every sound she made when he touched her and delighted in the way she trembled for him. One of her hands reached for his head, trailed gently over his scalp and then down to the back of his neck, held him tight against her, and it felt good, Jesus, it felt good, to be held by her.
But the bed was right there and he wanted her in it, and naked, sooner rather than later.
Deftly he spun her, and she went willingly, let the momentum of his arms and her own need drive her back against the mattress, settled on her back and propped herself up on her elbows, and she smiled when he stepped between her parted thighs and towered over her.
"You're overdressed," she told him breathlessly.
"You asking for a show?"
"Maybe."
She pushed the blankets out of the way and made herself a little more comfortable, but she never took her eyes from him, and even in the darkness he saw the way her cheeks flushed red when he grabbed the back of his shirt and tugged it easily over his head, the silver cross of his necklace swaying against his chest. If she wanted a show by god he'd give her one; he reached for his belt slowly, and watched the way her eyes followed the movement of his hands, zeroed in on his hips, and he could have sworn he saw her lick her lips when he pulled the belt free and tossed it in the general vicinity of her bra. His jeans followed, and then his black briefs with them, and then he was standing between her thighs naked and maybe it should have felt strange, being with her like this - being with Olivia like this - when he'd only just kissed her for the first time and they'd never, ever come anywhere close to anything like this before but it didn't, somehow. She was looking at him like she liked what she saw, and she didn't seem the least bit self-conscious about laying in his bed without her shirt, and if she was comfortable, then he was, too.
She held her arms out for him and he fell easily into her, planted his palms on the mattress by her head and covered her with his body, and those arms of hers wrapped around him, pulled him in close, and her thighs clutched at his hips, held on tight while she rocked up into him, and she was still wearing her pants but he wasn't and he could feel the heat of her against the hardness of his cock and it left his head spinning.
Slowly, very slowly, he dragged his kisses down her throat, let her feel the scratch of his beard against her tender skin, felt more than heard her sigh at the sensation. One of her hands reached for his arm, her palm flattening over the tattoo of Christ that covered his bicep, holding on to him, on to this piece of him she'd seen a million times before but never touched. It felt good, her hand on his skin. It felt right. But it was nothing compared to the way it felt when he dragged his lips over the swell of her breast, when he wrapped them around one dark nipple and sucked it into his mouth, when she arched off the bed, chasing the heat of him, when the ragged sound of his name fell from her lips. His name, and shit, she always should have been saying his name; it always should have been him she was crying out for, in pleasure, in want, and if he had his way that's what it always would be, for the rest of his goddamn life.
Beneath him she wasn't still, not for a second; those hips of hers were rocking into his, grinding her against his cock, eager, now, for a release he was sure she wasn't gonna find for a while yet, and he shifted his weight, rested his forearm on the mattress and let himself settle more heavily against her while his right hand drove beneath her, caught a handful of her ass and held on tight, directing the movement of her body, and she gasped, and then she moaned, and he grinned around a mouthful of her. Every sound she made just made him want her more, but she was still wearing those damn pants, and he had to get them off her.
In one quick movement he wrenched himself away from her, rose unsteadily to his feet and then reached for the button of her jeans. There was no finesse in it; he was aiming more for speed. She lifted her hips to help him as he tugged those jeans down off her hips, as he swore at the sight of the black satin that covered her, as he swore again when her jeans got tangled up on the boots she was still wearing. He knelt to take them off her, and as he did she sat up, leaned over and pressed a kiss against the crown of his head. It was tender, that kiss, and her hands were tender, too, smoothing over his shoulders, his chest, over the scar from the bullet he'd taken in the courtroom that day with Dana Lewis. Every mark on his body, she knew them all, whether she'd seen the scars or not. She'd been there when they were raw and bloody, and she was here, now, when those hurts had healed, and that was as it should be.
He got the jeans and the boots and the panties off her, and leaned back on his heels, looking up at her, naked and beautiful in the darkness. There were so many things he wanted to say to her. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was, wanted to promise her that he would be a better man, for her sake. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, that he probably always had, that he knew he always would. He wanted to bury his face in her lap, and let her run her hands over his head until he felt at peace with himself, because he was certain, now, that the only way he was ever gonna find peace, real peace, the kind of peace that lasted, was if she held him. He wanted to ask her to tell him about every single minute of every single day she'd lived while they'd been apart, and he wanted to hear her forgive him for leaving. But when he looked at her now all those words seemed to pass back and forth in the air between them, spoken in voices too soft for them to hear. Maybe they didn't need the words. Maybe they never had.
Olivia reached for him, caught his face in both her hands and leaned down towards him, and he lifted his chin, and met her when she kissed him, rested his hands on her bare thighs and kissed her, and it was right, he thought, that he was kneeling in front of her, because there was no one else on earth who deserved his devotion, no one but her. She started to lean back, carrying him with her, and he slid his hands under her thighs, caught her ass and held her against him, and together they shuffled up the bed until her dark hair was spread out across his pillows. One of her legs hooked over his, her toes trailing against his calf, and her fingers were dancing over the muscles of his back, like she was playing piano and the ridges of his spine were the keys. His cock had settled against the warm wetness between her thighs and he was almost shaking with the strain of holding himself back, but the effort was worth it. Worth it for this, for her looking up at him, for her dark eyes and her perfect mouth and the gold necklace sparkling against her bare skin.
"Liv, I-"
"Don't," she cut him off. She wasn't mean about it, wasn't angry. She just knew what he was gonna say, and she wasn't ready to hear it. That was all right, with him. Maybe she didn't need to hear it. She knew he loved her; she had to know it, by now.
"I won't say it," he agreed, leaning in to brush his lips against the corner of her mouth. "I'll just feel it."
"Make me feel it, too," she whispered into the darkness.
He could do that, for her. He could make her feel it, how much he loved her, how grateful he was to have her here with him, how she moved him in a way he didn't think anyone else ever could, how even when he wasn't supposed to he needed her, how no matter how far away he ran or how much shit piled up between them he had never forgotten her, and never could. He caught her thigh in his hand, held her open for him, and she surprised him, then, reached between them to wrap her hand around his cock, and it was his turn to moan her name, because shit nothing had ever felt like that, like her hand wrapped around him.
If things had been different he might have liked to take his time with her, might have liked to feel her come apart on his mouth, on his hands, but as it was he wasn't sure he could wait, now, and she didn't seem to be feeling particularly patient, either. Instead she guided him towards her, and he let her set the pace, let her drag the head of his cock over her slick folds, let him feel her, as wet for him as he was hard for her. It felt like vulnerability somehow, her showing him just how badly she wanted him, just how much she needed him, when all her life Olivia had prided herself on never needing anyone at all. He knew what she was giving him, in this moment, and so he just kept his eyes locked on hers, unblinking, and when she encouraged him to slip inside her he did, and held his breath, and watched her.
Watched her eyes flutter closed, watched her mouth drop open, watched her body still, and tense, and then relax, her thighs spreading wider, making room for his hips to settle more firmly against her, her back arching in a way that only encouraged him to slide that much deeper inside her, and when she was sure he'd found his mark her hands reached for him, settled on his ribs while her fingers curled hard against him, holding on tight. The course of the river was steady and sure and so too was the course of his hips, rocking, rocking, rocking, gently, driving his cock deeper, and deeper, and deeper into the soft wet heat of her, and every time he moved she did, too, like she knew his rhythm already. Which she did, of course she did; they'd learned how to move together so long ago they'd forgotten what it felt like to be out of step. Maybe they never would be again.
Finally, he was as deep inside her as he could go, and he leaned in to kiss her, kissed her long and deep and slow with his cock buried in the softness of her, with her thighs clutching at his hips, with her hands branding his skin, the tender curve of her breasts red from his beard, every piece of him wrapped up in every piece of her. For a minute he just stayed like that, caught in this moment of spellbinding heat, and pleasure, and sheer fucking relief, but she felt too good, and he wasn't gonna be able to stay still for long.
When he pulled back her mouth chased after him like she couldn't get enough of him, but he was determined to look in her eyes, now, and maybe she knew that. She settled her head back against the pillow, and opened those dark eyes, and smiled when she saw him watching her.
"Olivia," he breathed her name into the silence between them, and when he did a shiver passed through her body, and he felt her clench around his cock.
She liked that. She liked hearing him call her name, liked it so much her whole body responded to the sound of it, and he wanted to feel it again, so he leaned in close, leaned in until he was sure she could feel the scratch of his beard against her lips.
"Olivia," he said again, and shit, she did it again, and he lost what little remained of his restraint.
He shifted above her, raised himself up higher, drew his hips back and watched the silver cross hanging around his neck brushing against the softness of her breasts, and then he surged forward, thrust himself back inside her hard and deep and fast, and she cried out for him, and he grinned, breathless and proud and hungry. He hung his head low between his shoulders, and watched his cock, glistening with her arousal, driving into her again, and again, watched her take him and listened to her begging him for more.
"Fuck," she swore, her body trembling beneath him, her hands clutching him so tight he could feel the press of her nails against his skin.
"You feel so good," he panted back at her, because she did, she did; hot and wet and tight and soft, she felt like fucking heaven, and he couldn't help but plow deeper, and deeper within her, chasing the feeling of it, of them, together. His whole body was drawn tight and tense with need and sweat began to bead at the small of his back where her heels were slipping against him, trying to hang on while he pounded into her. Every time he thrust himself inside her a different, delicious sound of want left her lips, and the sharp wet sound of their bodies colliding filled his ears, and that cross of his got caught between her tits, held there, next to her beating heart, and he could feel her clenching and fluttering around him, could feel her close, so close to coming apart, but not anywhere near as close as he was, and he had to do something about that but he needed both his hands to hold himself up over her.
"Touch yourself," he growled at her. Exertion and need made it hard for him to form the words, but he had to tell her, somehow, what he needed from her, and she didn't seem to mind. She slipped her right hand between them, and he felt it, felt her fingertips brush against the hardness of his cock while he worked himself inside her, felt them slip between her slick folds, felt the moment she touched her clit because a spasm wrenched through her and the sensation of it nearly had him coming apart on the spot.
"I wanna feel you come," he told her, because he did, he wanted it so fucking much he could hardly breathe.
"Then don't - oh - don't fucking stop," she gasped back, and that was an order he would follow gladly.
Together, they did it together, the way they did everything. Her fingertips against her clit, moving with practiced ease, his cock, his hips, thrusting madly into the glorious goddamn heat of her, their voices rising higher, and higher, groaning together while the whole fucking van rocked with the force of his thrusts, and then suddenly she was crying out, louder than before, rising up beneath him, a wave reaching its crest, and she clamped down so hard against him he couldn't even move, could only hold himself there, above her, inside her, while she fell apart around him in a moment of breathless surrender. Good, it was good, was too fucking good; he hovered over her for a second, just watching her, committing it to memory, because now that he knew what she looked like when she came he never, ever wanted to forget it. But he could only spare a second because his own body was breaking apart with need of her, and when she relaxed enough for him to move he fell into a frenzy, and she just wrapped her arms around him, held tight to him, whispered that's it, baby, that's it, come on, until with one last long, deep groan he let the fire take him, and spilled himself inside her.
His arms wouldn't hold him, anymore; he collapsed into the softness of her, rested his head on her breast, listened to the sound of her heart racing while she held his slowly softening length inside her for as long as she could, like however much he didn't want to part from her she didn't want him to go, either. Her hands smoothed tenderly over the back of his head, across his shoulders, ghosted down the plane of his back, and there was such warmth in the touch, such care, that he might have wept if only he could spare the breath for it.
I love you, he thought. I love you. He didn't say it, but then he didn't think he needed to; she knew it already, and he could feel her whispering it back to him in the gentle touch of her hand.
"Stay with me," he murmured into her breast, pressing a kiss there to punctuate his request. Too late he remembered her son; he'd spent the last twenty years thinking she was all alone and sometimes it was easy to forget that just wasn't true, any more. She'd been away from her boy too long tonight, and she'd given Elliot too much of herself already, but he was greedy, was so fucking greedy when it came to her. He wanted more; he wanted all of it, everything she was, everything she had, every single second he could spend wrapped up in her.
"I already asked the sitter to stay the night," Olivia told him, and he grinned, then, because she wasn't saying no. "But El...you don't have a bathroom."
He laughed, rolled over onto his back and took her with him, let her splay across his chest, watched her reach for the cross around his neck and run her fingertips gently over it.
"We'll figure something out," he said. "Just...stay."
"Ok," she said. And then she did.
When he woke up the next morning Olivia was still wrapped around him, her head pillowed on his chest, her hair tickling his chin, one of her legs thrown over his. His arm was under her head and it was gonna give him hell when he finally moved it, but the pins and needles would be worth it, for this. For the soft sound of her breathing, for the warmth of her skin, for the beauty of her face, gentle and relaxed in the predawn darkness, for the sheer fucking joy of holding her and not having being afraid of it. She'd stayed all night, and let him hold her, had held onto him just as tight, and he felt better, in that moment, than he had in a long, long time.
Eventually though he had to move, and so he slipped very carefully out from underneath her, tugged his jeans on over his hips, and walked out into the morning. The river was there to greet him but the sun hadn't yet risen over the horizon, and she was gonna have to leave him, soon, and he was gonna have to go back to being Eddie, but he thought it might be easier, this time. He knew who he was, knew it better this morning than he had done yesterday, because now he knew he was hers, and he was gonna carry that knowledge with him, everywhere he went. He could call her now and not be afraid, not be afraid of Kosta's boys finding out he had a woman, because they already knew, not be afraid of her turning her back on him, because he knew now she never would.
He wrote a note for Liv and left it on top of her jeans, and walked bare-chested up to the bodega, bought two coffees and two granola bars and carried them back down to her. He could see her still sleeping through the windows of the van, and the sun was only just starting to rise over the water, so he went and sat down in one of the chairs to watch it, let her sleep just a little while longer. She could probably use the rest, he thought. It was enough for him, just knowing that she was close, that she was here, with him. It was enough to look out at the river, and think about her smile, and breathe, and drink his coffee.
It was enough, but she was better; after a few minutes he heard the door to the van opening, heard the sound of her boots crunching in the dirt as she made her way towards him. He didn't turn to look at her; he knew where she was going, and he was willing to wait for her.
Olivia came up behind him, slid her hand over the nape of his neck and kissed the top of his head gently.
"G'morning," she said, her voice sleepy and soft, and he reached behind him, and she knew what he wanted, wrapped her hand around his own and held on tight as she came to sit in the chair beside him. She'd pulled on her boots but hadn't bothered with her clothes, had just slipped his shirt over her head and wrapped his blanket around her like she was cold, somehow. Maybe she was; autumn was coming on, and it was cooler this morning than it had been for months. It was nice, though, seeing her in his shirt. Seeing her calm, and at peace, and his, seeing her long legs bare beneath the folds of the blanket, even if she was wearing those damn boots.
"There's coffee," he said, pointing to the cup he'd left sitting on top of the cooler for her.
"You're a prince," she told him, and they both laughed. Laughed, and then sighed, and then settled into quiet, holding hands, sipping coffee, watching the sunrise.
He wanted to take her to breakfast. He wanted to take her out, and then he wanted to take her home, and then he wanted them to shower together, and then he wanted to fuck her again, and again, until they both fell asleep, sated for the moment. But she'd have to go to work and he'd have to go meet Reggie and they were running out of time.
"What happens next?" she asked him softly, hesitantly.
"Kosta knows Eddie has a girl now," he pointed out to her. "I can call you. We can stay in touch. It isn't safe for you to be around here, but maybe if we're careful…"
"I've gotta think about Noah," Liv told him. "One night, that's one thing. But if I keep seeing you the risk goes up. And I don't want to stay away from him again."
"You're right," he said. "I know you're right. Maybe...maybe we just gotta settle for the phone, for a little while. Maybe if I can find some way that's safe to get to you I will. But I promise, I'm gonna keep you safe, Olivia. If that means I have to wait until this is over to see you again I will. But I don't want you thinking I've left you again."
An idea came to him then. What she needed, he thought, was a reminder. Something she could look at, and remember the night they'd spent together, remember this moment, this morning, the sunrise over the river and his hand in hers. What she needed was something she could hold, and know he was gonna make his way back to her. Carefully he reached for the chain around his neck and tugged it off, and then he pressed it into her palm, and curled her fingers closed around it.
"I'm gonna come back," he swore, looking deep into those dark eyes of hers, and he saw it, then, saw the moment when she decided to believe him.
"You fucking better," she told him, and then she took the cross he had given her, and looped it easily around her own neck.
"I'll be waiting for you," she promised, and then she leaned over, and he met her halfway, pressed his lips to hers and tasted the coffee and the hope there, and smiled. Beyond them the river carried on, endless and unchanging, and the sun rose a little higher, and the world kept turning, but it was different, now. Better, now. For the first time, in a long time, Elliot was right where he wanted to be.