This one is a little bit shorter, because I'm picky and wanted to end it on a specific note. Elliot is back, and the gloves are off- you've been warned. I promised you feels and now you're going to get them!

I am so amazed by all the nice comments I got about the last part...I may decide to do another longer stand alone-type part later on if the mood strikes again.

Same warnings as always, although this one is relatively non-violent. Title and quotes from your heart is an empty room by Death Cab For Cutie. Set immediately before Internal Affairs.

{burn it down till the embers smoke on the ground}

"You can't afford that."

As far as conversation openers went, you had heard much better. Of course, this was Elliot, so it wasn't that unexpected. "Excuse me?"

"The link you texted me, the one with your new apartment. There's no way you can afford that."

"Oh, I see. Because you check my bank account often, so obviously you would know."

"No, but I can ballpark how much both of you make and so I know it's a stretch," he says, and you wonder how he thinks you ever got by without his sage advice.

"As much as I appreciate your concern- it's really none of your business, now, is it?"

He continues undaunted. "I'm only trying to keep you from making a mistake."

"Uh-huh. And would that mistake be the apartment, or Brian?"

"Hey, you never said- how'd he take it when you told him I came over to help you pack that one night?" he asks, fully ignoring your question- not that you really needed an answer anyway. He's watching you eagerly, like he's hoping you'll say that Brian had conceded that he was no longer necessary in your life and retreated with his tail between his legs.

"He was fine with it." Actually his reaction was more along the lines of what the hell were you thinking, after the way he fucked you over?, but that wasn't something Elliot needed to know. "It wasn't a big deal."

"Like hell it wasn't. I know better than that- he didn't try to convince you what a piece of shit I am? I can imagine what you must have told him about me."

You're not sure of what all goes on in Elliot's imagination, but you get the feeling that you spend much more time talking about him in there than you ever have in reality. "It's not like that. He worries about me getting hurt, I think, but he trusts my judgment."

"Getting hurt. By me."

"Can you blame him?" you ask seriously.

His reaction startles you. "Okay, you know what? Fuck this. I've told you I'm willing to talk about...everything, and you always say no, you can't handle that right now, but yet you have no problem making all these little passive aggressive comments, huh? You can't have it both ways, Olivia. Either talk to me or don't, but not this."

"Wow. Are you really getting pissed at me for not talking to you? Because I have to say, that's a lot coming from you-"

"See? This is what I mean, right here."

"Do you even remember all the times I tried to get you to be honest with me about something and you shut me down?" you ask, shaking your head in exasperation. "So we went on, never actually talking about anything-"

"And look where that got us! It worked so well, didn't it?"

"You had your chance! Did you forget? I called you for months. I begged and pleaded and you know that's not me, I don't do shit like that. You knew what you were doing to me and you didn't care. Fuck, you probably enjoyed it," you say, having a sudden moment of realization. "You get off on that? Seeing how far you could push me?"

He scoffs at this. "You have no idea what gets me off."

"I have some idea," and this is maybe becoming a conversation that would be better held somewhere other than a public park, "but why don't you tell me anyway. I'd love to know, what was it going to take? What were you holding out for?"

He snorts, and it is the most infuriating sound you have ever heard. "Okay, fine. You got me. I'm busted. I was waiting to see how long it would take for you to get down on your knees for me. Is that what you want to hear?"

You breathe in so sharply that there's an audible hiss. "Don't you ever fucking say that to me again. Ever," you warn, fingernails digging into your palms to hide your shaking hands. "Do you understand?"

"Yeah, I should have known that you're not-" The look on your face is evidently enough for him to think better of finishing his sentence. You don't know where he was headed with that, but you can safely assume that it's in everyone's best interest that he not continue.

"Not what? What if I did? Would that really be enough? Or would you rather I beg you for the privilege? Would that make it even better?" you ask in a voice dripping with venom, and you are saying a lot of things, things that don't need to be said, but you can't seem to shut up and wow, you are going to have a full-out panic attack right here in front of God and Elliot and everyone.

He squints at you as if you suddenly moved outside his range of vision. "Did I miss something here? Where did you ever get the idea that's what I wanted?"

"You were the one who brought it up!" This is not working, you need to run away but you can hardly feel your legs. "And now you're thinking about it, aren't you? There's a mental image that should feed your ego for a while right there. You're welcome."

"You're being fucking ridiculous. Where is this even coming from?"

"I'm the one being ridiculous. Gotcha. Because it's perfectly reasonable to get angry at me for being passive aggressive and then, when I try to ask you a legitimate question, to make some completely uncalled for crack about how you want me to..." You are close to tears now, and you know he has no idea, because he would never sink that low no matter how pissed he might be. But it still burns like lit cigarettes, and you'll be goddamned if you let him see that he got to you. "I'm leaving. I think you've gotten off enough already today."

He gives you that sardonic smile of his and shit, it was like you had forgotten how good the two of you could be at ripping each other to pieces. "Believe me, if that's what I wanted, it wouldn't be you I went to."

"Oh my god. Really?" you ask, mouth open in disbelief as you grab your bag and start to walk away. "That's the best you can do? Grow the fuck up."

"You're the one who-"

You wave a dismissive hand in the air without bothering to turn around. "Just go to hell. Goodbye."

{start new when your heart is an empty room
with walls of the deepest blue}

You get the keys to the new place on September 1st- coincidentally, Brian's birthday. He insisted that you didn't need movers for anything beyond the furniture (which is all being delivered by the store anyway) because he had friends who could take care of the rest. "That way, when shit gets broken, I know where they live."

"No one wants to help you move," you had predicted, but he actually did a decent job of rounding people up. You should have known he would. While you had exactly three numbers on speed dial in your phone that weren't work-related, he had what seemed to be about ten thousand people on his contact list, many of whom you don't think he's spoken to since the late 90's. Even stranger to you is that you know he wouldn't hesitate to call them up, talk to them like they were lifelong best friends, and then all of a sudden they're volunteering to help him move. Who does that? It's not even manipulative- it's entirely genuine and entirely foreign to you, the second most emotionally stunted person on earth.

Of course, he had to make up some bullshit excuse for why he wouldn't let you contribute, saying he was worried you'd fuck up your bad wrist even though he couldn't provide any examples of how you might actually do that. You point out that you had already been wrestling with boxes all week and had escaped unharmed, but the look on his face immediately tells you that had been the wrong thing to say. Not wanting to chaperone his next guilt trip, you give in and stick to barking orders at the furniture people, deciding he can consider it a birthday present. You weren't actually feeling like doing heavy lifting today anyway. Last night had been spent with a friend of Brian's and his wife (since when are you the kind of people who have couple friends to do that whole double date thing with? Since now, apparently) , and you may have had one or two or three more margaritas than you should have at the Mexican restaurant you ended up at. You were fine at the time, but you didn't get to sleep it off properly. Now your head was pounding, even more than it had been after that disastrous conversation with Elliot, which was the whole excuse you gave yourself for overdoing it in the first place. Ain't irony a bitch.

Enough about him, you tell yourself. You're in a good place and you don't have the time and energy, mental or physical, to bring him along. You're moving on with your life. Brian's assortment of cheap labor sources have finally left, and now you're grinning at each other like kids who have just watched their parents drive away for the weekend and are alone at last.

"We're really doing this," he says, putting one arm around your shoulders as you survey the scene before you. Everything is new and untouched and it feels like these blank walls are reviving some long dormant piece of yourself that had been packed away months ago. This is what you need, both of you. "You look happy. I like it."

"I am happy. Now c'mon, I got us something." You go into the kitchen and pull out an unopened bottle of wine that you had stashed away for the occasion, explaining how you hate champagne so you had just gotten the most expensive red on the store shelf.

"We're living the dream," he says as he pours a bit into a nalgene bottle and a coffee tumbler, the only substitutes for glasses that aren't packed away at the moment. "If this doesn't scream high class, then shit, I dunno what does."

To you, it's perfect. "Happy birthday," you say, lifting up your mug and taking a sip.

He laughs as plastic 'clinks' against plastic. "To starting over?"

"Yes please," you say softly, holding the cup out again. "To making it work this time."

"To making it work," he repeats. "Hey, do I get my present now?" You nod eagerly, setting your drink down and going to retrieve it from its hiding place. The two of you had decided on ground rules for gift giving pretty quickly after coming to the conclusion that this was 'a thing'. Neither of you were especially sentimental people, and you both disliked following the traditional expectations of what couples were supposed to give each other, so the guidelines were simple. Any gift had to be relatively inexpensive and, more importantly, as offbeat as possible. It kept everything low pressure and you loved the challenge of coming up with something completely unexpected.

You watch in anticipation as he opens the box and mentally congratulate yourself when he shakes his head and smiles. "What the hell?"

"I love when I can get all my shopping done at the Mexican grocery store. They were sitting next to each other on the shelf and I thought my God, this is fate," you say proudly.

He picks each up one at a time, two tall brightly colored candles that will definitely look out of place with the rest of your tastefully understated decor.

"They're prayer candles. So I see this right in front of me," you say, gesturing to a red and green candle in a glass holder which features the word 'TRABAJO' and a sketch of a slightly demented looking man and woman in business suits, "and I think...whatever gets you out of the courthouse, right? If I can't get you a new job for your birthday- I guess the best I can do is enlist a higher power."

"I have a good feeling about this. If it comes from the Mexican grocery store, that's all I need to know. I believe."

You grin as you point to the other candle, which has a man in a robe with a halo around his head on the holder. "And that one is St. Jude, patron saint of cops and lost causes. Seemed fitting for me."

"You're not a lost cause, Liv." He kisses the top of your head and puts his hands on your shoulders, kneading gently.

You lean into the touch, voice quiet and tentative. "I am. But you make me feel like I'm not."

This is love, you're pretty sure. And one day, when you're certain it is, maybe you'll even say it out loud.

{you don't know what now to do
because the chase is all you know
and she stopped running months ago}

The knock at the door was becoming louder and louder.

It was like you already expected it in some way, and that's the only reason why you weren't terrified when someone started pounding on your door shortly before midnight on your first night alone in the new apartment. You ignore it until you decide that you can't keep aggravating the entire floor any longer.

"What?!" And why did I ever decide to give him my address, you ask yourself silently. Not that it mattered- after all, he managed to find out where you were staying with Brian all on his own. Once a detective...

Elliot breezes past you as if he was an invited guest. "Yeah, there's really no way you guys can afford this."

"Please don't come here," you say tiredly, hoping to appeal to his better nature with politeness. "This is...it's our place, his and mine, and I'm trying to start over. You're not part of this."

"So then why the hell did you let me in?"

Okay, time for a different approach. "Because I know you, you stubborn son of a bitch, and the sooner I let you in, the sooner I can get rid of you. Our new neighbors don't need to hear you knocking all night."

"Ohhh, is that it?"

"Tell me what you want so you can leave." Your fingers comb through your hair, trying to keep yourself from strangling him.

"I, uh. Yesterday...it wasn't intentional. But I obviously said something that crossed a line."

"Yes. You did," you agree, arms folded over your chest. He nods slowly, expectantly. "What?"

"You don't have anything you want to say?"

When you realize what he's after, you can't stifle the laugh coming from your throat. "Oh. No, no, I'm good. I stand by what I said."

"That I get off on playing mind games with you."

"Basically," you say, trying to pretend you are bored by this conversation. "I would probably call it more of a control thing, but you've got the right idea."

"You think-"

"If it wasn't some sort of game to you, what was it?" you ask, cutting him off before he can tell you what you think. "What did I do to you that I didn't even deserve- you know, you could've answered the phone, told me to fuck off and hung up, and I would have been satisfied. At least then I would feel like I knew where I stood with you."

"I tried."

You ignore him (because seriously, he tried? How can he even say that with a straight face?) and sit down in your new chair so he'll have to talk to the back of your head.

"Was I honestly that unimportant to you?" It's the question that's weighed on your mind for years, and yet you're surprised to hear it come out of your mouth. You instantly wish you could take it back.

He sounds equally surprised. "Liv...I thought about you every fucking day."

"And that helped me a lot," you say, retreating back into the safety of sarcasm before you can ask something even more pathetic. You're afraid you've already said far too much. "Thanks for that."

"I don't get it. How the hell would...it was never about you. It was about the job."

Your response is somewhere between a scream and a groan, and it is fortunate for both you and the wall that it is too far away for you to start banging your head against. "Do you know how many people have told me that? 'Oh, I'm sure it was because of the job, I'm sure it had nothing to do with you.' Everyone has told me that. It's like they all got together and came up with this one line and it's complete shit! I don't blame you for leaving. Hell, if you had asked me, I would've told you that you were making the right choice. You know that. I wouldn't have tried to convince you to stay just for my sake, I wouldn't have made you feel guilty for it...I would support whatever you decided. All I really ever wanted was what was best for you."

"I did too," he mumbles, hand scrubbing over his face. "But maybe I decided you were better off without me, did you ever think of that?"

"No. No, no, no," you say, jumping up out of the chair and turning around to face him again. "You do not get to decide what I'm better off with or without. That's not for you to choose. I'm a big girl, and I make those decisions for myself. If you think there's a problem between us, you do the adult thing and talk to me so we can work it out together. You don't up and disappear, because when you do, you know what that tells me? It tells me you're full of shit. You thought you were better off without me."

"You have no fucking idea what you're talking about! And you don't get to lecture me on doing the 'adult thing'," he says sharply, making a hand gesture you think is supposed to be air quotes, "when you're the one who won't shut the fuck up and listen because you're too busy telling me how I get off on controlling you."

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. "And you wonder why? Do you even hear yourself? You are the one who basically admitted you think you know what's best for me- how is that not controlling?"

"I never said that!" he shouts, but you can tell he's holding back somewhat and you don't know why he would miss any opportunity to verbally crucify you.

"So then it must be true. You decided you would be better off without me."

"Why is it an either/or thing?"

"It doesn't have to be. I can go back to my original point- that you just like fucking with my head. You always did. You even knew you were good at it! There, I said it. You win. Congratulations."

"It's always all about you, isn't it? Everything I do, it's all with the goal of screwing you over. I don't even know if you're self absorbed or just paranoid."

You lean against the back of the couch for support and try to fight the urge to bite your nails, well aware that he knew you only gave into that bad habit when something was seriously wrong. "You know what?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper, and your mind is screaming at you to think about what you're doing but your mouth won't stop moving. "Even after everything, after how angry I was at you, did you know that when...yeah. I still wanted you there. You were the only one I wanted. I kept asking for you all the way to the hospital, even...I don't remember any of it, but that's what they said. So- I guess that means you really did win. You got to me."

"Liv...I. Jesus," he stutters, and when you sneak a glance at him you don't like the way he's looking at you. It would be better if he went back to glaring again.

"I don't know why I said that. I shouldn't have," you say, and you swallow down the lump in your throat as best as you can. "You need to leave."

You can hear footsteps, but they are moving toward you, and that is the wrong direction, and you are way too sober to be blurting out confessions like that. "Can I-"

"Goodbye!" you say firmly, refusing to make eye contact. "Go. And don't come here again."

"I'm not leaving," he insists, and you can hear that the fight is back in his voice, as if he doesn't notice that this is not a good time to push you.

You look over at him with your best icy stare, body still turned away, and it's fortunate that you've never forgotten the exact way to tear him apart. "I'm done with this. Go home. Doesn't your wife start to wonder where the hell you are? Or does she not care anymore? Did she finally give up on you and find someone else?"

"She trusts me," he says, and God how you want to slap that smirk off his face. "Unlike other people, I don't have a history of fucking hookers."

You raise your hand up in warning, and you've done this to him maybe twice before, but you've never wanted to actually follow through as much as you want to right now. "Get out. Get the fuck out."

He wouldn't be Elliot if he didn't insist on having the last word before the door slams behind him. "This isn't over, Olivia."

But it is. It's over.

{and all you see is where else you could be
when you're at home}

Your first dream in the new apartment comes after you've barely fallen asleep, in that state where you know you're dreaming but you're not lucid enough to wake yourself up. You're sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, legs bent and Elliot's head between your thighs, hands under your ass so your hips are tilted upward. Even asleep you can recognize that this is a dream, because there's simply no way in hell anyone is going to get you into that position in your waking life and survive to tell about it. But it is a dream, so you decide you might as well enjoy it while you have the chance, free of all your real world baggage. Besides, dream-Elliot is pretty good with his mouth, goddamn, and he seems to know exactly what you want without having to be told. You hold his head down as he fucks you with his tongue, letting out a whine when he pulls away until he starts licking at your clit with long strokes. He keeps teasing you, purposely bringing you right to the edge but no further, and then just as you think he's finally relented he's lifting you up off the counter. Your legs wrap around him, your back against the wall as he thrusts into you roughly. Look how much you want it, he says in a low growl, and when he kisses you he tells you how good you taste and ohgodyeahlikethat...

You sit up in bed abruptly, heart racing and body shaking and wanting.

Fuck.