I'm back! I intended to have this done soon after I got back home, but then of course life intervened once again. This chapter is relatively short, but I decided to go ahead and update it so y'all have something to read while I keep working on the next part :D
This is a belated birthday gift for Mari...I tried really hard, I did! It's...sorta happy! :) love you bb. The bears are for nightwitch87, and I also threw a certain detail in for Dee...but I'm not saying this is leading anywhere ;)
As always, I love hearing what you think. Lovelovelove. If you feel like something's missing in your life, you can fill the void by following me on twitter: lucythespencer.
A/N: Warnings for sex, violence, and sorta happiness- depending on where you stand. You'll love it or hate it. Once again there's a dream sequence...you'll know it when you see it. Title and all quotes from tonight tonight by smashing pumpkins.
{well you know you're never sure
but you're sure you could be right
if you held yourself up to the light}
You look both ways, down one end of the hall and then the other, before hastily swiping the keycard and shutting the hotel room door behind you.
You've done this before, and Elliot had laughed at your paranoia and your insistence on letting the woman at the desk know that you were, in fact, a married couple. But it was 3 AM, and you weren't going to have sex with him- and technically, you didn't. Now it's about 6:30 in the evening and you're indistinguishable from the rest of the business types milling about in the lobby, but you still switched your ring to your left hand like a tiny metal security blanket to reassure yourself that no one would suspect a thing.
Free at last from the judgment of your imaginary audience, you toss your bag down onto the bed and pull out your phone. You have two unread texts. One's from Nick, telling you to 'make good choices' and reassuring you one more time that the squad wouldn't implode in your absence, so don't bother calling to check in because he won't answer.
The second one's from Elliot. You bite your lip, feeling your cheeks flush as you tap out a response and then set the phone aside so you can get down to business.
You shower quickly to leave yourself enough time for fussing over your hair and makeup, all the while mentally chastising yourself because this isn't a date, it's Elliot, and putting too much effort into your appearance makes it seem so contrived. Like you have, God forbid, expectations. (And as soon as you have expectations, you've just handed someone the power to let you down).
But maybe it's way too late and you're in way too deep to be worrying about that now.
Once you're finally satisfied, having tried much too hard to look like you're not trying too hard, you get dressed (somewhat) and sit down on the bed with your legs stretched out in front of you. Your toes are still bright red, just as they've been since June, and maybe it's not so much because the color has grown on you as it is because it's something you have the power to keep from changing. Summer turns into fall turns into winter. Some scars heal, others settle in deeper, old ones are reopened and new ones form. You cry and you laugh and you scream and you cry some more. You pack up your life literally overnight, you risk getting eaten by bears, you lie and you tell too much of the truth and you fuck with other people's bodies and heads and hearts but you fuck yourself over most of all- and through everything, you still smile when you see your bare feet and your nails are shiny and perfect. Because sometimes, you have to take what you can get.
You flip idly through the TV channels, finally settling on that telenovela Nick likes. The crazy redheaded woman is strangling someone to death at her own wedding reception when there's a knock at the door, and you hear a familiar voice saying 'It's just me, Liv' followed by the sound of the keycard being swiped. You frown at him calling your name aloud in the hallway (which was undoubtedly filled with people who both knew you *and* cared about your exploits), but you don't have much time to do anything but cross your legs at the knee in what you hope is a casual pose before the door swings open.
He looks up from his phone, and when his eyes land on you sitting there in your fuzzy white bathrobe, he stops moving completely and his whole face breaks out into a grin. It's a fond smile, but one with a tinge of deja vu, like when you finally see something you've imagined a thousand times in a thousand different ways, and the thought has you blushing for the second time today.
"What?" you ask tersely, trying to look annoyed.
"Nothing, just thinking about what a lucky son of a bitch I am."
"Maybe you shouldn't say that yet. The night's still young," you point out, tucking your legs underneath you as he sits down at your side, and you don't waste time before you're holding onto him as tightly as you can. He rests his chin on the top of your head and both of his arms are wrapped around your shoulders, and this is the real reason you came out here (despite how all your calls and texts had somehow taken a turn for the risque). Just this. Just the chance to feel like you're finally home.
"You okay?" he asks, and he knows you're not and he knows you're not going to tell him why. He's learning not to push, but he's still going to ask, and he's still not going to believe you when you mutter that you're fine. "It's alright, you're alright. I've got you."
You lift your head up and nod in agreement, still unwilling to let go of him. Fortunately, he doesn't seem to want to let go of you either, and you smile as his lips brush lightly over the side of your neck.
"I'm just gonna..." he explains before standing up, pulling off his jacket and tie and yanking at the collar of his shirt.
You sit back against the headboard again, gesturing to a few grocery bags on the little table in the corner of the room. "There's stuff over there if you want a drink."
"Shit, are you planning on getting me smashed?" he asks with a laugh as he looks through the contents. He doesn't know that you intended to take most of it home for your own solo consumption, because soon Nick will be going back to his house and you'll be alone all night with your memories again. "You want anything?"
"No, I don't usually drink if I know I'm going to-" You stop abruptly, eyes cast downward when you see him realize that he's accidentally touched on a sensitive subject. It's not like you're going to break just from talking about it- apparently you can't keep your big mouth shut- but he knows where your aversion to mixing sex and drinking comes from and that's the part that has you looking away in embarrassment.
"Hey," he says softly, and your head's still turned so you don't have to see him. "So you really weren't kidding about expecting something, were you?"
You laugh, first in surprise and then in relief, grateful he knew that even well intentioned sympathy would just serve to add another layer of discomfort in between you. "Would I be dressed like this if I didn't?"
"Depends on what you've got on underneath that," he says, looking at your bare legs peeking out from where the hem of your robe lies just above your knees.
"Guess you'll have to find out for yourself."
Never one to back away from a challenge, he sits down next to you again and leans in, lips brushing across yours. That's all the encouragement you need before you swing one leg over both of his, straddling his lap and hands cupping his face as your mouth opens for him and your tongues seek each other out.
He lets you be the one in control for a while, sucking at the pulse point on his neck and rolling your hips against his, before he nudges you over onto your back and kisses the dip in your collarbone. "This is...it's up to you, y'know."
"I know. I want to...you do too, right?" you ask, suddenly unsure if you're misreading this all. It's one thing to trade suggestive texts late at night and make out like hormone-ridden kids, but when it goes beyond that...as much as you don't want to admit it, it's a big deal. It's a big deal because of who he is and who you are and who both of you are together, because of the volumes of history between you, all the past hurts that've created so many fault lines underneath your feet and now the next misstep could cause the ground to open up and swallow you whole. At this point, there's simply no margin for error left. You either make this work, whatever this is, or you don't. The end.
He knows it as well as you do. "God, yes, I wasn't kidding when I told you...shit. I wanna do it right this time."
"I don't remember you doing it wrong before," you tease, taking your turn to be the one to lighten the mood. Because quite frankly, the whole 'this is a big deal' thing aside, this is the first time you've actually been deliberate in planning to sleep with him. Before it just sorta...happened, and part of you likes it much better that way. When he shows up at your door and you're screaming about how you hate him and then the next thing you know, he's fucking you, it's easy to blame it all on just reacting in the moment once everything goes to hell. But when it's something planned- if it blows up in your face, that's solely on you and there's no hiding from the disappointment and self-loathing. Both of which you have far too much of already.
"Well, no, that part was pretty fuckin' good. But the part before and the part after...like I said, wasn't how I wanted it to go."
"Then show me what you did want," you say, and then there's no more talking, just his mouth trailing down your neck. He tugs at the collar of your robe until your shoulder's revealed, completely bare except for the thin strap of the silky black slip you have on underneath, and you help him out by pulling your arm out of your sleeve as he places open-mouthed kisses on the soft skin of your shoulder and down to the crook of your elbow.
You shift to free your other arm and shove the robe aside, and when you look back at him he's kneeling between your thighs and watching you with rapt fascination. You're suddenly doubting your wardrobe choice, even though it was nearly impossible in the first place to find something at least moderately sexy that still covered your stomach and didn't show too much cleavage, thus concealing the worst of your scars. But before you can start to worry, he runs his hands across the satin and you gasp quietly as his palms brush your nipples. You can feel his hardness against you when he leans in closer, your back arching to try and make contact, and in the process your slip bunches up enough around your waist to reveal your lacy white underwear. He kisses low across your stomach until his mouth's just above the waistband, looking to you for a cue as to what he should do now.
"It's okay, just...like this." You groan and your head lolls to the side when you feel his mouth on you through the lace, nuzzling at your clit before traveling lower. "Fuck...oh my god, that's. Do that again, shit, I need you fucking me. Now."
He ignores your polite request and keeps mouthing at the thin fabric between your thighs until he finally gives in, pushing it to the side and brushing his knuckles against you while he peppers your stomach with kisses. By now he understands how to navigate his way across your skin, where you're ticklish and what drives you crazy and which scars are still too sensitive to the touch, but much to his annoyance that doesn't stop you from trying to give directions.
"Hey," he says with a smirk, pushing your slip up far enough to uncover your breasts and ghosting his lips over one of your nipples before abruptly pulling back. "Remember what I said about you being a bossy little bitch?"
"Fuck you, if you just..."
"Do you trust me?" You nod, albeit with a scowl because he's enjoying torturing you way too much. "Then tell me if you want me to stop, but otherwise...relax and let me take care of you, okay?" He traces your bottom lip with his thumb as you nod again, then dips his head to tug at your earlobe with his teeth and promise in a low voice, "I'll let you boss me around later."
"O- oh," you sigh. His one hand is snaking downward, and he's working a finger inside you while the other hand cups your breast. He swipes his tongue over your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, causing you to cry out when his teeth scrape lightly across it, your hands threading through his hair as you try to hold his head in place. Now he's fucking you with two fingers and it feels like he's massaging you from the inside, his mouth still on your breast and it's getting more and more difficult not to tell him to just fuck you already because you need it, goddamnit.
"You want me to let you come?" he asks in this gravelly voice, what a stupid fucking question that is, and you would've told him that- but now he's flicking your clit with his thumb, teasing you a few times before circling it with more pressure. "That's it baby, wanna see you come for me." He's saying something else and it sounds so fucking dirty just from the tone of it, but you can't understand it over the noise of your own moans as you feel yourself clenching around him, your thighs trapping his hand in place.
You've barely even come down off your high before you're sucking his bottom lip into your mouth, both of you doing your best to undress the other without breaking the kiss for even a second. "Wait," he says as his boxers fall to the floor and you're trying to pull him on top of you. "Uh. You're not gonna..."
He looks toward your bag and you're completely lost, silent in confusion for a few beats until you figure it out, and to his chagrin you can't keep yourself from smiling teasingly. It's funny how after everything you two have been through, everything he's seen and heard, he's still such a choirboy sometimes. "Don't worry about the condom. I'm on the pill, it's fine."
"What happened to 'I'm not taking any chances'?" he asks, and it seems so ridiculous looking back at it now because you're not pregnant and you're never going to be, superhuman sperm or not.
But you don't want to talk about it, you want him to hurry up and fuck you because you haven't actually had sex since Christmas and your habit of backing out at the last possible second is a big reason why. "Are you going to make fun of me or are we gonna do this?"
"What, I can't do both?" He lifts one of your legs up so it's hitched around his waist and looks to you one more time for the go ahead before he's slowly working his way inside you. You dig your fingernails into his back at first, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from cringing at the stretch, but then he starts moving and it disappears almost instantly. "Oh. Liv. Fuck."
He keeps his head down, kissing your neck and whispering into your ear as you move together in a lazy rhythm. Your hands are clasped together on the pillow beside your head, fingers interlaced, and every so often he gives yours a squeeze as he rocks into you. It's slow and sweet and the kind of thing that usually scares the shit out of you, the kind of thing that feels like falling.
Eventually the pace quickens but he still pauses after every thrust, prolonging the sensation of having him buried all the way inside you before pulling back, and every time you're right on the edge of coming as the head of his cock brushes against you at just the right angle. "I'm, shit, I..."
That's all the warning you get before he's coming inside you, grunting your name and other one syllable words as he does, and he's only the third person that you've let do this (at least, deliberately), and every nerve ending on your skin is warm and tingling and alive as his hands roam your body until you're right there with him.
He presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, pulling out carefully and then rolling over onto his back so he's lying right next to you. You're close but barely touching, just your arms brushing together, because he knows that there's only so much physical contact you can take without getting skittish and he's not going to risk overwhelming you. "You're okay?"
"Mmm. That was so good," you agree with a tired smile, moving in closer so you're curled up at his side with your arm draped over his waist.
He opens his mouth and then closes it again, kissing the crown of your head. You know what he's trying not to say. But you don't think he realizes that he already did, whispered hotly against your skin just before he came undone.
I love you. I need...fuck. need you, I can't give this up.
{and our lives are forever changed
we will never be the same
the more you change the less you feel}
"Does it make you sad?"
You're barely conscious after the last go-round with your red hot house keys, one that ended when you passed out from the pain, and your brain is too foggy to understand what he's talking about even if you *could* reply with a strip of duct tape across your mouth.
"I bet it does, huh? Knowing that you and I...I've had you in a way he never will," your tormentor says, looking toward the picture of you and Elliot that you've kept in a frame next to your bed for a decade. "You've thought about it, right, but I can tell it wasn't some sweet romantic thing. You wanted him to hold you down and just take you. Fuck the hell out of you like the dirty whore we both know you are."
You shake your head, the only way you have to reply, and he squeezes one of your breasts roughly in response. "He doesn't even know what he's missing, does he? That mouth of yours, that tight little cunt...too bad I got to you first, cause if he didn't want you before, there's no fuckin way he'd want you now. No one wants my leftovers."
He gives you that sadistic grin, dragging the flat blade of his knife across the curve of your breast before abruptly pressing down, carving out a long gash over already burned skin. You cry out from behind the tape before you can stop yourself, and his eyes flash with anger.
"What the fuck did I tell you about staying quiet?" Once again you shake your head desperately in a wordless apology, but he's not having it. He holds the knife to your neck, tip pointing right at your jugular, and rips the tape off your lips in one pull. "You stupid bitch, if you can't keep your mouth closed then I'm sure as hell going to make the most of it."
nodontpleaseimsorryiwontdoitagain...
"Liv. Liv, wake up. It's me. You're okay, you're just dreaming."
Your eyes fly open when you hear Elliot's familiar voice, seeing him turn on the bedside lamp while keeping a careful distance from you. "He's not gonna hurt you, I promise, it's only a nightmare."
You're here, he's not. You're here, he's not. Can you still call it a nightmare when you're just reliving your waking past?
"It's okay," Elliot repeats, voice quiet and steady. Steady in a way that you're not, because you're shaking all over and the only thing that comes to mind is to get the fuck out of here. You self-consciously tug at the shirt you're wearing, one of his old ones that doesn't quite cover you to mid-thigh, and that seemed perfectly fine an hour ago but now it makes you feel far too exposed. "Liv?"
"I'm...I'm sorry," you mumble, careful not to look at him as you flee into the safety of the bathroom.
You sit down on the closed toilet lid, head bowed and hands covering your face to try and muffle your sobs, something that never works with Brian even though he pretends that he doesn't hear you crying or see your puffy eyes when you come back to bed. It's always the same:
-you okay?
-I'm fine.
-wanna tell me about it?
-no.
Eight months of pretending nothing's wrong, of holding back and trying to hide and Brian still saw through the facade anyway. He still thinks you're broken and he still doesn't want a family with you and he still thinks you're lying when you said you weren't...
You know he didn't mean to say it. You know that because the expression on his face was as shocked as yours, like he couldn't believe how that slipped out either- but it doesn't matter. If he didn't believe it, if it wasn't already on his mind, he wouldn't have said it.
After turning the shower on, you reach for your makeup bag and start rummaging through it until you find what you want buried at the bottom. You're thankful that you remembered to throw it in because you're not sure what you'd do without it, this little object that fits in the palm of your hand and looks like a cheese grater. Supposedly it's meant to get the dead skin off the bottoms of your feet, but you saw it from the other end of the store aisle and instantly had another idea, the results of which are now etched across your skin from your elbows to your knees. You scrub it furiously back and forth over your scars, savoring the way it burns while you imagine erasing them from your body completely. It doesn't work, of course, it just leaves you bloody and sore but there's never any doubt that you'll keep trying.
"What's it gonna take for you to stop doing that?" Brian had asked once, and the way he said it and the way he looked at the gash just below your shoulder was so fucking heartbroken, like it was any business of his, and you told him as much before storming out of the room to replace the bandaid you had just bled through.
Now you pull your shirt off over your head, and when you catch a whiff of Elliot's scent on the fabric it makes you stop moving for a moment. He's still there, just outside the door- at least, you think he is. But what if he's not? What if you've already succeeded in chasing him away? It sure as hell wouldn't be the first time.
Thinking back to a couple of hours ago, you remember the conversation you had with him when you were struggling not to fall asleep. "I can't help it," you said when he laughed at your attempt to stifle a yawn. "I already told you, sex makes me tired. Well. At least if it's any good, it does."
He laughed again, kissing your bare arm. "I'm kidding...sleep. I'll still be right here when you wake up."
"Yeah," you murmured uncomfortably, remembering the last time you woke up next to him- and yes, he was there, but not for long. All too quickly he had that wounded look in his eyes, and from there it was I think you need to be alone for a while and the sound of your front door closing behind him and angry phone calls and unanswered I love yous.
"Hey," he said, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. "I never...I wasn't leaving for good. I needed time but...I was always going to come back."
"But I didn't know that. You might've, but I..."
He studied your face for a moment, and you knew he hadn't realized that before- or at least, he'd never thought of it in that way. Part of you was frustrated by his short-sightedness, but another part of you understood all too well. You used to think that was the great thing about your relationship, that you didn't need words, that you just instinctively 'got' each other. Turns out that was bullshit and you were both really fucking terrible mindreaders, but it's a hard habit to break. To him, if he knew he was coming back, you did too. Only thing was..."You didn't."
"Yeah."
"I swear to god, Liv, I'm not gonna-"
"Don't," you said, turning your head away from him slightly as you cut him off mid-sentence. "You can't promise that. Just like I can't promise you that I won't...I thought it'd get better, you know? The flashbacks, the meltdowns- I stupidly thought that maybe once it was over and I knew I wouldn't have to face him again, that maybe it'd get better and so far...nothing. It's just gonna keep happening."
You felt his hand coming to rest on top of yours. "I think you need to give it time. It's only been a couple weeks- but whatever happens, I want to be here, okay? I really do. Just...don't shut me out. That's all I'm asking."
"I pro-" You stopped, knowing he can't deal with another failed promise any more than you can. "I'll. I'll try."
You swore that you'd try. Biting your bottom lip in determination, you shut off the shower, get dressed, and push open the door that leads to the dimly-lit hotel room.
"Hi," you whisper, climbing back into bed next to him.
{believe that life can change
that you're not stuck in vain
and we're not the same
but different tonight}