Deliverance
Fleeterberry
Spoilers: Anything prior to and including SVU 24x12 and OC 3x02
Disclaimer: I don't own them
Sequel to Gethsemane, but that one doesn't necessarily have to be read first (the gist is that Elliot found out about Lewis)
TW: mentions of suicide and Lewis arc (and everything contained therein)
It's more than just Elliot finding out about Lewis, it's Olivia finding out Elliot found out about Lewis.
It's late afternoon on Friday and she's so very ready for a quiet weekend with Noah, fucking hell she's earned one, and she's sipping at her coffee that she splurged on from the fancy place first thing this morning that she hasn't had the chance to finish and she has everything lined up to get done with work on time and has made sure that Noah has no school projects he'll spontaneously remember on Sunday morning and she's already warned Fin not to call her unless it's an absolute emergency like someone-is-dead-and-she's-being-framed level of emergency and Noah is already aware they're turning off their phones for two days and recharging.
She feels it coming. She's learned to recognize the change in the atmosphere when her plans are about to turn to shit or her life is about to be upended or the universe has caught onto the fact that she had been attempting to make plans without consulting the runes first or whatever and so she knows her plans are shot to hell before she even looks up.
By the time she takes a breath and peeks, she sees the disruption, a slightly green-tinged Fin hesitating at her office door and she sighs heavily. She doesn't bother trying to brace herself because she already knows it's going to suck and so she waves him in before he summons up the courage to knock.
"What?" She glaring at him and she knows it's not his fault, but she can't stop herself from being bitter.
He sighs and shrugs and acts altogether unlike Fin and finally meets her eyes. "I know you have plans, but I just got a call-"
"Is someone dead?" She stands up, tossing her still half-full room temperature coffee in the trash can along with her plans for relaxing. "Is it someone I know?"
"From Sergeant Bell."
A cold shiver runs through her and she's certain she's about to faint for a second while she remembers how she'd warned Fin not to bother her today and takes in how sick he looks and notices that he's not meeting her eyes again. "Fin," she whispers, the name barely audible while consuming all the air she has. She's blinking back tears that are forming because shit he's not dumb and he wouldn't bother her unnecessarily and she's joking about someone being dead when it's suddenly a very real possibility that someone is dead and it is someone she knows and that she will probably be too if she hears that.
He shrugs one shoulder and gestures with the phone that's still in his hand. "She hasn't been able to reach Stabler in days."
At least he's not dead. Not that they know of. She sits down heavily in her chair and swallows the bile in her throat. "Was he undercover?" He hadn't mentioned anything to her about going undercover, but things have been awkward and weird between them and so while they've been in phone contact off and on, not much has been said. "What was he working on?"
"Shit, Liv, I don't," his face has returned to the slightly nauseated shade of green that she never sees on this man and his reluctance to say it sets off all her alarm bells.
Her fingers grip the armrests of her chair, mentally listing the number of things that would distress him so much and not coming up with a single one that won't also sicken her. She nods, giving him the signal she's ready, unable to even say the words with the way she's clenching her teeth.
"He, uh, he was chasing a suspect on Monday-"
Olivia can't help but roll her eyes, well aware of the cartoon-like way Elliot had chased someone across the damn city and wreaked havoc along the way while she desperately tried to not hear a damn thing about it. "I don't need the whole history."
"The chase wound up at the grainary in Red Hook."
She feels like someone just suckerpunched her as all the air rushes out of her lungs. Whatever she was expecting here, it wasn't this. The panic is setting in before she even realizes it and apparently she's gotten better at hiding it because Fin doesn't even notice as he keeps talking while his words swim through her brain, each one stabbing her like a knife.
"That computer whiz kid, she gave him the info, because he apparently had no idea. You never told him?" He pauses, his head leaning to the side with his brows furrowed as he catches on. "You ok?"
She nods, her mind trying to focus her attention on the pain in her fingers from digging so hard into the leather of her chair, rather than the memories that are assailing her or the idea of Elliot finding out the truth about why she's so damn scared. "Jet told him?" Her voice is a rasp, almost lost in the oppressive silence in the deathly still room. Even if it couldn't be her, at least it was a friend that told him, someone he trusts, someone who would have had mercy on him in the retelling, someone who wouldn't have broken down in her own painful memories while she spoke.
"No, fuck, Liv, she just gave him the case numbers." He huffs unhappily and kicks at the wall. "Janitor found him semi-coherent on the bathroom floor a couple hours later, but he took off before anyone came in for work." Fin finally moves to a chair, maybe realizing this is going to take longer than he'd anticipated, maybe suffering his own pain at the idea of what his friends had each gone through separately. "Bell gave him a day, figured he was just upset, and then she started looking for him, but his phone hasn't been on since Monday night and they can't locate his car, no credit card activity, hasn't been home." He sounds almost desperate as he spits out the information, like he's trying to list the answer to every question she might possibly ask before she has time to think them.
Her heart is racing now as she realizes that this is exactly how the universe kicks her in the teeth. While she's distracted by hoping to order in pizza with her son in their pjs on Saturday afternoon, fate has a big-ass TKO rolling in her direction. It's so fucking shocking she can't even figure out what the TKO is. Is it that Elliot now has this information that he hadn't had before? Or that she has to spend her quiet weekend with Noah trying to hide her relapse of panic attacks by showering an absurd number of times? Or maybe, just maybe the universe has finally taken off the gloves and she's going to find out at some point on this relaxing weekend that Elliot has killed himself over some combination of the first two options.
She cannot consider that because she'll die herself before she even finds out and her instinct now is to grab her phone, thinking she'll text him and even though his boss and coworkers and likely family by now have already tried the same thing, she wants to think she'll get a better response because he's been better with her, and then she sees the last text he sent, late on Monday evening, his plea that he needed to talk to her, and she feels like absolute shit for ignoring him because maybe he was reaching out and she hadn't given him the courtesy of a brush-off because she'd assumed he wanted to talk about them and she didn't.
"His phone's dead, Liv."
"Dammit." She slams her phone down on her desk so hard she's pretty sure she broke it. Then she's on her feet, grabbing her keys and the phone she's afraid to look at because she suspects she knows the answer to its fate. "Watch Noah for me."
"Where are you going? Need anything else from me?" Fin gives chase, following her hurried steps to the elevator, shadowing her as she turns for the stairs because they're faster. "You forgot your coat-"
She doesn't feel the cold as she races to her truck. She doesn't think about where she's going. She's just moving, running, operating purely on instinct, something she hasn't done in years, and while part of it is exhilarating because it reminds her of all the years they worked side by side when there were no words or touches, only glances and harmony. She's trying to hurry her way through Friday afternoon traffic headed into Jersey and she wants to scream in frustration that Bell couldn't have given her the news a day sooner and she knows it's the middle of winter and there is no traffic jam that would have been any better on Thursday, but she has to do something on the ride that would be three hours given the time and day that she cuts down to just over two by running her light and siren the whole way.
###
She turns off the light as she crosses the bridge onto the island, her urgency fading as she nears, and though part of her is still panicking that she can't possibly get to him soon enough, that she might not even be in the right place, she knows she is. When she checks, her phone screen is as busted as she feared, the web-like cracks extending across the entire surface, rendering the phone completely useless, but she doesn't remember the address, so navigation wouldn't really help, then again the time was so emotionally intense, she remembers the first time she drove here like it was yesterday.
She's circling the third neighborhood that looks right, well aware now she's just overthinking, and she's about to give up and look for the police station so she can ask them to find the address for her when she makes a random left onto a tiny street she swears doesn't look a bit familiar, and then it's there, right in front of her, the house exactly as she remembers it. She pulls into the driveway, barely noting the presence of Elliot's truck next to hers, because she's back in 2008, sitting in the same spot, looking at the same house, wondering once again if the person inside is willing and capable of talking to her.
At least, she tells herself with a tired sigh, Elliot is unlikely to demand they meet at a crab shack two miles away in an hour because he forgot they were meeting. Of course, she reminds herself, he has no idea they're meeting.
She instinctively reaches for her phone, the ingrained movement normally having a two-fold pay-off - first to let Fin know where she is because she always checks in with him if she's somewhere he'd never even think to look for her and second, because she really has no idea what she might find inside and she might need help. The smashed screen reminds her there's no backup coming and the realization gives her pause as her eyes scan the house again. It's well-maintained, the mailbox empty, a For Rent sign advertising a virtual tour planted next to the street. The windows are boarded up, but it doesn't look like a hastily completed job due to an impending storm as much as careful caretaking of an uninhabited home; a property manager, Olivia assumes knowing that Bernie lives in the city now.
She finally climbs out of her seat, taking another moment to peer in the tinted windows next to hers for any sign of Elliot in his truck. The doors are locked and she thinks she can see the outline of his phone in the cupholder, but it's a winter evening on a residential street and it's already far too dark to really tell and she knows she's just putting off the inevitable. She wants to reassure herself that even after their time apart, she can still follow his thought process, that she somehow knew that Elliot would return to his mother's home, despite her absence, when he was lost.
She's halfway to the porch when the motion-sensor light activates, momentarily blinding her and making her mutter about losing the benefit of surprise. But the light allows her to see the front door clearly, to recognize that it's boarded up as well, and that gives her pause. Elliot certainly didn't pry it open and then nail it back up from the inside and even though she's looking at his truck as she turns away she starts to fear she was wrong, that maybe he'd left it here deliberately to throw her off the scent, that maybe one of the kids had borrowed it and left it in the driveway for some unfathomable reason, that maybe she's just fucking wrong and it's not even really here.
Maybe she's just imagining it, like she'd imagined he was there for those few seconds she was alone with Lewis at another beach house, when she felt like she'd been possessed by Elliot's pure rage and fury and strength and had truly lost control of herself for the first time in her life while wielding an iron bar over an incapacitated, though hardly defenseless, man.
The memory alone stops her, her panic seizing her as she begins to dredge up all the details she can't ever forget no matter how many years she spends trying, she can hear the taunting in her head and the sounds of screams and pleading and silencing gun shots, feel the merciless pulling of her body, the shoving, and the rubbing, smell her own flesh burning and the stench of sweat and cigarettes, taste her own blood and the vodka and the half-dissolved pills, see the glee in his eyes with every single one of her failed attempts to spare herself even one second of pain.
She's scared out of her mind when she feels something stopping her fall, the adrenaline rush pulling her from the flashback as she prepares to fight off her attacker, except it's not an attacker, it's a damn house and if she weren't still shaking in fear, she'd be alarmed that she actually walked twenty feet while being completely unaware. She hasn't done that for a while.
She leans into the house, letting the siding support her while she gathers herself together. She's terrified, not just of the memories or the horrors she experienced, but of what she's going to find. She's only just gotten used to Elliot being back in her life, only barely started to believe it is real, and now she's driven all this way to a vacant house looking for a desperate man in an even more desperate state of mind that no one has been able to locate for four days.
She scoffs at the bitter irony in that.
And while his department had done a better job of noticing his disappearance, they'd done a shittier job of doing anything about it and now she's sliding her body along the north wall of the house because she's too fucking terrified to hold herself up, fully aware of the fact that she might be about to stumble upon the deceased body of the man she loves. She hates that she's here, that it's even a possibility, that she's honestly concerned he might have taken his own life over the harsh way he'd found out something she hadn't found the strength to tell him in all the time he's been back. She's already mourning his loss and blaming herself for him killing himself and she's unwillingly contemplating the possibilities that he'd been worried about accuracy and stuck his service weapon into his mouth the way Lewis had done to her or that he might have run the risk of flinching away at the last minute and held the weapon to the side of his head and pulled the trigger the same way she'd been forced to do. She knows the fear and the pain and the absolute agony of both choices and she's crying openly at her own pain and at the idea that her partner might have felt even the smallest bit of that.
She's barely upright as it is when she finally rounds the corner to the east, oceanfront side of the house and she's squinting from the tears and the darkness and her own pain, but she sees the outline of his head, utterly still, barely visible over the cement wall separating the back porch from the beach.
Her hand flies to her mouth in an attempt to hold back the sob as she thinks it's really too late and he's long gone and this moment is even worse than she'd anticipated but then she detects the slightest turn of his head, as though he knows someone is there, which she supposes is likely from the crying and the staggering along the wall of the house and even just having parked in the driveway, but she thinks he knows it's her and she supposes that's true too because no one else thought to look for him here. Or maybe no one put out the effort to look for him here.
Other than that slight turn of his head, he doesn't move at all. Not while she cycles through the shifting emotions from pain that she's discovered his lifeless body to fear that she's still going to have to talk him down from attempting suicide to fatigue at the concept that she just never seems to be able to rest. He's frozen as she forces herself to gather what remnants of strength she has left to stand up, even through her hesitant lifting of her palm from the side of the house as she tests to see if her legs are going to carry her.
It feels like a million miles as she takes slow, measured steps toward him. She knows procedure, that she should call it in - if only to the people who raised the alarm that he was missing, announce herself, attempt to assess if he's armed, but her phone is smashed and it's Elliot. Instead she drags her legs one at a time over the cement barrier between them and finally lets gravity take over, landing with a quiet plop on the sand next to him.
He says nothing and neither does she. He doesn't move either, his eyes remaining locked out on the horizon that is now completely indistinguishable in the darkness. She tries, she does, turning her head, her eyes searching to make out what of his face is still visible, but eventually she gives up and follows his gaze, turning to stare at the nothingness.
He's a suicide risk, she realizes, after she'd already spent hours worrying about it, now that she knows he didn't, and it hurts like hell to think about it, but it's easier than thinking about how much her own memories are reopening wounds that may have scabbed over but have certainly not healed. He's alone. His children are grown and busy with their own lives. His mother's mental and physical health are declining. His career - into which he has poured his heart and soul for thirty years no matter what he claims about his family - is stalled and he's going to be staring down forced retirement soon because while a captain can retreat to paperwork, a detective cannot. His wife, his marriage, whether good or bad or some combination of the two, are gone. He has friends, technically, but she knows him and she knows they're along the lines of drinking buddies because he doesn't open up, he never has, and so he's never gotten to be real friends with anyone except her and she knows they don't really count.
She suspects she'd unconsciously realized this already, maybe it was why she tried to be friends with him, and it definitely figured into why she hadn't been comfortable progressing that friendship because the very real threat of losing what they have would devastate both of them.
She shivers as she tries to breathe, to unwind the knot of fear and panic and hurt and worry that poured adrenaline into her veins, and she's still too keyed up over her own breakdown to be much help during his. Maybe her presence is enough. Maybe knowing she's there will help. She hopes it is because she has nothing else to give.
It's only when snow starts to fall that she realizes her constant shivering might have something to do with the temperature rather than the emotional overload. But Elliot isn't wearing a coat either and she suspects he's been sitting here for a very long time and if Elliot can stand the cold then she certainly can. And she can take the silence too.
###
She's lost all sense of time. She can't see anything anymore besides the lights of a house a few miles down the beach. She can't feel her hands either, not even with the way she tucked them between her thighs for whatever body heat that might provide. But there's something hypnotic about the sound of the waves in the darkness, and though the pattern is too irregular to use for her breathing, she finds she calms down just the same, listening to the ebb and flow.
He finally breaks the silence, his voice rough and raspy as though he hasn't spoken in days and she realizes that's probably true because last anyone could confirm speaking to him was Jet when she left work on Monday and it's now well into Friday night.
"You don't need to be here. I'm fine."
She'd laugh, if she weren't so cold, but she's well aware of the snow that's accumulating on and around them now, the way the ice is melting into her shirt and freezing her hair. "Clearly."
She can hear the way he finally turns his head toward her because his voice is a shade louder, but she still can't see him. "You should go home."
"Probably." She thinks about it, drawn to the warmth of her truck and the softness of her couch and the exuberance stemming from Noah, except home is three hours away and it's snowing and she would never be able to relax at home thinking about Elliot sitting here alone freezing to death because he can't muster up the energy to actively kill himself.
He sighs like it's too much work to engage her, but he tries anyway. "I'm not going to hurt myself, if that's what you're worried about."
She presses her eyes closed at the denial, desperate to believe him even while she doesn't quite think she can. "You scared your team."
"My team will be fine." Without me hangs unspoken in the air, the detachment in his voice is exactly why she doesn't believe he won't hurt himself. Because even without words, she's always been able to read him and she knows that her recent rejection of his advances hurt him and made him uncertain of their relationship and when coupled with the idea of how she'd suffered at Lewis' hands, he thinks he's lost the only thing he's been holding onto besides the career he knows won't miss him. He truly believes there's nothing left for him and she's completely certain now this is why he came here so that his body would be discovered by some stranger and not by anyone he knew.
She moves then, suddenly desperate to chase away the idea of him being gone gone, knowing that would be so much worse than Italy gone. Her stiff arms reach out, her clumsy, numb hands winding around his arm as she leans into him. "You scared me."
The arm she's holding, his left, moves as his hand tucks around the outside of her left leg, fingers digging into the skin of her thigh through her pants, and he's pulling her closer until her legs knock into his. "I'm not going to kill myself, Olivia, because it would hurt you and I'm never doing that again."
That she believes.
She feels herself relaxing into this half embrace, letting her head rest against his shoulder, and then she feels him leaning in, his cheek or his lips or his something touching her hair, and his breath is still warm even though they're probably both well on their way to hypothermia and it occurs to her that Bell might not have called, that Fin might not have interrupted, that she might have skipped out a few hours early for her weekend at home and Elliot would still be sitting here, alone, and eventually someone would find him cold and he's not because he's still warm and there are tears and she can't explain herself because her entire body is clenched at the idea of him dead and cold and never coming back and sitting here all alone in this dreary landscape.
He misreads her shuddering sobs, withdrawing from her, his hand untucking, his arm unwinding, and then he's cracking his knuckles and she can't see him, but she can feel the frustration wafting off him and she realizes now that as well as they can read each other's emotions, they can't read the causes for the emotions and maybe that's why things have always turned out so fucked up from how it seemed like they were going to go. They need to start talking to each other and since she's the one who came to this realization, she decides she might as well start.
"I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm cold." She finds his arm with her hand, trying to grip the fabric so he can't pull away more before she finishes speaking. "Can we go inside?"
"It's all boarded up and I don't have the keys anyway." He's still, which she determines is an improvement over trying to move away. "You should go home. I'll be fine."
She clenches her teeth, fighting back the urge to take the bait, to stomp away from him in anger and drive herself back home, promising herself she has to really try before she decides the whole talking thing isn't going to work. "Please can we just go inside?"
She can feel his eyes on her even though he can't see any better in the pitch dark than she can, and, perhaps due to the lack of sight, she's aware of the subtle motion of his body as he nods. "Let me see what I can do."
And then he's climbing to his feet and pulling her up by her hand, their movements jerky and stiff from the cold, and he's helping her over the concrete that wasn't all that hard to climb over when she could see, but now it's slippery from the snow and she's half-numb, and she's not sure it's necessary, but she's grateful for the feeling of his hands on her hips as they clear the hurdle. She really can't see a damn thing except shadows and it's all unfamiliar, but he knows the place better and he's able to guide her onto a bench and he's moving toward the back of the house and already grunting with displeasure at something by the time she's able to determine that she's sitting at a picnic table.
###
While she's wondering how much colder she can get before she truly has to worry about losing fingertips, she's half listening to the unhappy sounds Elliot is making as he attempts to break into his own damn house, but she really doesn't pay it much attention until he spits out a string of four-letter words that are mostly swallowed by the loud cracking of wood.
She doesn't turn to look, there's no point since she can't see two feet in front of her face anyway, but she feels his absence, tells herself it's ridiculous to feel like he's too far away simply because he's inside the house she demanded he break into, but nonetheless, she feels alone, even as the deck is suddenly illuminated by the matching sconces flanking the back door. She winces at the intrusion of light, but it's only a moment before she can see again, her eyes finding the plywood pried off one of the windows on three sides, the raised sash indicating that Elliot had decided it was easier to break in a window rather than a door, even if that means she's going to have to climb through the window to get inside as well.
But before she realizes she should get up and follow him, there's a series of loud bangs, and then his shouted instructions to stand back and then the plywood covering a sliding glass door is falling, thumping softly onto the accumulated snow. She sees Elliot's silhouette and the hammer he's holding and she finally climbs to her feet, her body shaking from the prolonged cold. He meets her halfway across the deck, his hand around her waist to ensure she doesn't trip, his guidance continuing into the house, through the empty, echoing rooms, until she's standing in front of an empty fireplace.
"Wasn't expecting guests, sorry." He motions toward the fireplace. "There's power, but no oil, so I'll start a fire." He's gone again a moment later, disappearing through the sliding door, reappearing laden down with wood to burn.
She should help him, she knows, because she knows he's just as cold as she is, but she doesn't, watches him instead, the concentration on his face as he stacks the logs in the fireplace and douses them with lighter fluid before using a match to start the blaze. He seems almost normal like this, with something to keep him busy, some task on which to focus, and she wonders if maybe she shouldn't have come. Maybe he's fine. Maybe he was just in a damn mood and blew off work and didn't call anyone because he didn't want to talk. Shit, she'd had the same plans for the weekend.
She snorts indelicately at herself for the thought. Elliot Stabler having a tantrum, running away, and not calling anyone should have been her first thought. Instead she'd projected her fear of losing him onto him, assumed he was upset over finding out what she'd never told him, and chased after him like a damn idiot. She'll be mortified when her teeth stop chattering, but for now, she just scoots closer to the crackling fire and holds out her hands to absorb the heat and coax circulation back into her fingers. Elliot sits beside her and does the same, one of his outstretched hands streaked with blood that he doesn't seem to notice.
"You should clean that out before it gets infected." She bites her tongue as soon as the words leave her mouth. He's a grown man. He knows to tend to his cut. She needs to back the fuck off.
But he doesn't move. "With what, exactly? The house is empty."
She could suggest hot water, if there is any, or cold water, or to drive into town and go to the drug store or hell, maybe one of them has an emergency kit in their truck, but she doesn't bother. She reminds herself that he doesn't need her help, that he didn't ask for her help, that he's probably just waiting for her to warm up enough to leave, hell he'd already invited her to go twice. They lapse into a cold, uncomfortable silence that's broken only by the sounds of the fire as it cracks and hisses and the distant lapping of the waves traveling through the broken window and she wants to joke that the soundtrack seems far more appropriate for some kind of romantic rendezvous except neither one of them is in a joking mood and she definitely doesn't want to give him any ideas, even though she truly wonders if he'd be interested anymore anyway.
She's warmed up a bit by the time he stands and she hears him walking toward the kitchen, but she's not sure if she's supposed to follow or not, and she's quite frankly too tired and cold to bother. She hears the water running, the pipes groaning with the task of functioning after a long respite, but she tells herself it's a good sign he's taking her advice.
His hands are dripping when he returns, carrying a bottle in his hand. He sets the bottle between them as he reaches out toward the fire again. "No hot water."
She can see a nasty gash on the side of his hand that snakes the full length from his pinky to his wrist before turning toward his palm. She wants to point out he's lucky he didn't do worse, but she can't chide him for injuring himself when he'd only been doing what she'd asked. She pulls her eyes away from his hands, telling herself it's absolutely fatigue that is allowing the slow flexing and stretching of his fingers to be so damn mesmerizing, and looks at the bottle.
Bourbon.
He must have seen her looking out of the corner of his eye. "I know it's not your favorite, but you wouldn't want the other option." There's a slight catch in his voice, pain he's pretending isn't there and she knows the other option is vodka and it sends a shiver through her. "You can't drink tap water here, so it's the only choice."
She sighs quietly, feeling terribly deflated as though finding him alive shouldn't have been enough to shove tonight's intervention firmly into a win. "No snacks either?"
"There's a box of saltines, but I'm pretty sure they've been here since 1972."
Saltines sound ridiculously delicious suddenly. "You're sure they're that old?"
He turns to stare at her as though he's irritated with her question. "They're in a tin box, so probably more like the sixties."
She closes her eyes for a moment in disappointment. There's nothing to eat and no water and no heat and no furniture and he's in a fucking mood, and whatever she'd thought when she asked if they could come inside was wrong. He's already told her to leave; it's time she took him up on that. A couple shots of bourbon and a warm fire and Elliot Stabler in a devil-may-care state of mind… well that's not going to end well for her carefully constructed life free of emotional entanglements.
He's unscrewing the bottle cap and pouring back a mouthful when she pushes herself to her feet. "Where are you going?"
She shrugs and tucks her hands in her pockets before she moves toward the sliding door. "I should probably head home." She can feel his heavy stare as she moves, but she almost forgets about it when she looks at the snow-covered deck. She can't even see the outline of the plywood that had covered the door. Had they been inside that long or was the snow that heavy? She remembers there was a chance of snow in the forecast, but she'd been a few city miles from home with plans to not leave the apartment for days and instead she's right on the water a hundred miles away. She has no idea what kind of storm might be coming.
"It's off-season. The whole town is closed, Liv, no one's coming to salt or plow."
She could leave. She's got an expensive truck, sturdy and solid, built for driving in shit weather, and while it's not her favorite thing to do, she knows how to drive in the snow. It will be a bitch, driving all the way back to the city, but she can do it. It's an option. She's not trapped here.
But if she leaves, this was all for nothing.
And she'd just decided she was going to try this whole talking thing which is hard to do if she's not talking to him.
She turns back to Elliot, his face bathed in the warm glow from the fire and it occurs to her that she doesn't want to leave. She wants to sit down next to him and talk and enjoy this bubble where they're safe but completely cut off from the rest of the world. Neither of their phones are working - his dead, hers broken - and no one is going to think to look for them here and even if they do, it would be a hell of an emergency for anyone to go to the effort of tracking them down.
She's been so scared of facing this thing between them because she knows how much it hurts to lose him and she doesn't want to face that again, but she also knows it's more than that. Some part of her is as sure as he is that things will work out with them, that they are the kind of forever that all the Hallmark movies promise, but she's never been happy and she's not sure she'll know what to do with it if she suddenly is and even worse, she's well aware she'll be more afraid of losing it once she has a taste. But she's always encouraging Noah to try new things, to step out of his comfort zone. Maybe she should take her own advice and give happiness a try.
Fuck, maybe a little bourbon and an empty house and a warm fire and nowhere to lean except on Elliot is precisely what she needs this weekend.
She's worried he'll notice the way she's staring and turns her head away, her eyes drifting over the empty kitchen, her imagination running away from her for a moment and she can see them cooking breakfast together and staring out the sliding door to see Noah with Elliot's grandkids playing on the beach and his older kids joining them in the kitchen for coffee and discussing the barbecue they're going to have on the deck that evening in the setting sun and the way she and Elliot watch the linger on the deck long past dark with his arms around her and her hands pressed over his and she won't panic about him finding her scars with his roving hands because he already knows about them and he's already seen them and they don't bother him except that they hurt her.
She shakes her head, dragged back to the present by the idea of her scars. She hadn't wanted to tell him. She doesn't want to tell him. It was the feeling of his hand on her waist that night in her kitchen that had sent her into a tailspin, she'd been ready to throw all caution to the wind and kiss him finally, but his fingers had shifted against her sweater and his index finger was less than an inch from the scar, the branding from a coat hanger, and she panicked because of course he'd be distracted by a wound he would have assumed was fresh and even now, especially now, since she knows he didn't know, he would have not reacted well and she was so done in the immediate aftermath of the BX9 disaster that she hadn't been capable of rehashing everything. She'd been terrified of telling him, but now he knows. He's seen the case files and the pictures and read all the witness statements and he knows. He won't be shocked by the scars because he's already seen the pictures when they were fresh and she was still bleeding and he'll just be happy they've faded as much as they have.
She's thinking too loud and she knows it and before she can decide to move back to the fireplace, he's on his feet again and disappearing up a flight of stairs that she can't see but hears the pattern of steps and she's slowly moving back towards the fire while he's doing something upstairs and she can hear the creaking floorboards and she's suddenly wondering if she can rent the house for the summer and she and Noah can spend a couple weeks in July and the off weekend here and there and the boy can actually have a real beach vacation before he's too old to want to build sandcastles and she'll be able to sit on the deck and watch him without worrying about getting sand stuck in places she doesn't want sand. She's picturing that now, imagining Noah's happy exclamations over whatever while he's turning cartwheels on the sand and she's stretched out on a lounge chair and basking in the sun and turning her head to see Elliot flipping burgers on the grill while he's wearing swim trunks and no shirt and he's staring back and smiling.
"Liv?"
She feels herself blushing as his voice draws her back to reality and she's so damn glad for the low lighting because he won't be able to see it. She finally notices the way he's dropped a sheet on the floor and he's standing before her with a flannel blanket that's pale blue with yellow airplanes floating in the clouds and she knows it's his blanket, a little piece of the days when someone could convince him to put on a carrot costume and she feels her eyes tearing up.
He can't see her well because the lamps are all gone with the furniture and there's only the overhead light in the kitchen and they're two rooms away from that and he can read the sadness, but naturally not the reason. "It's the best I can do." The arm holding the blanket drops and she's expecting the next invitation to leave, but it still hurts. "Car's probably warmer."
Except it wouldn't be, because the sort of warmth she needs right now, the sort of warmth he needs isn't coming from a heater. She shakes her head, knowing when they do go home, they're going in separate cars and that's the last thing she wants. She reaches for his wrist instead, pulling him towards the sheet and the fire and the bourbon and the hope. She sits down and lets him arrange the blanket over her shoulders before he sits beside her, a foot between them, the blanket meant for her comfort only.
He thinks she's afraid, she knows, because she'd really given him every indication that she was afraid. Of him touching her. Of him pressuring her. Of him mentioning that damn night when they'd miscommunicated for the last fucking time, she swears. She scoots closer, opening the blanket to spread it over his shoulders as well, leaning into him, throwing back a long sip of bourbon. A little liquid courage will help her because this is hard and she's scared but he's scared too and he deserves some comfort from all the thoughts that have been torturing him for four days. And fuck if she doesn't know that four days is a long damn time to be tortured.
He's hesitant as she settles into him, their crossed legs touching, their shoulders pressing, and he's holding his breath until she offers him the bottle and he helps himself to a couple smaller sips before passing it back and once she takes another sip, his arm is sliding around her shoulders and pulling her into his chest. It's only a couple more smaller, slower sips for each of them before his whole body is shifting, his legs uncrossing, spreading instead until she's between them, her back pressed into his chest, his arms curling around her belly and then she's sinking back, relaxing into him, into this and she remembers she meant to talk, but she's so warm and sleepy and comfortable that she can't remember anything she might need to talk about and sitting like this with more physical contact between them than they've ever shared she isn't sure there are any words that will mean anything and then his chin tucks over her shoulder and his cheek touches hers and every breath smells like him and like home and she closes her eyes to revel in feeling happy.
She's floating in the mental fog between awake and asleep and it seems very clear to her in the mist that this has already happened, that they're already together because, for as much as she tries to pretend otherwise, she knows there is no one else for her and she is well acquainted with Elliot's faithfulness and she knows he's already made up his mind. The only thing she's denying them is the physical aspect of a relationship and now that she's drifting off to sleep in his arms, she hates that she has resisted this part. He has always made her feel safe and the security he brings is ten-fold when his arms are around her. Everything seems clearer at this moment and she suspects part of the reason she panicked when he tried to kiss her was because his timing that night was pure shit. She had been under so much stress and she was terrified for Noah's safety and she was aching from her own attack and she felt so damn guilty for Duarte's death and she was fucking tired and there was pretty much nothing that she could have handled right then and so Elliot trying to force the subject of them just pushed her over the edge. She wants to tell him that, to explain herself, but she's too happy right now. Maybe after her nap.
###
It's a gentle shaking that pulls her from sleep. She thinks at first that he's trying to wake her, but as she fully awakens, she realizes he's trying to not wake her. The shaking is unintentional, but with the intimate way they're sitting, it's impossible for him to stifle his sobs enough to prevent his shudders from transferring to her. It's only then, once she realizes he's crying that she notices how he's moved his face, his cheek is no longer pressed to hers, instead his forehead is resting on her shoulder as he cries.
She thinks he doesn't know she's awake, Elliot would certainly make some sort of effort to hide his pain from her, and though she wants to offer comfort, she has no idea how. She doesn't even know exactly what has him so upset. Her eyes are locked on the fireplace, watching the flames dance over the logs as her arms shift to run over his, her fingers coming to grip his hands where they're still locked around her waist. She feels him start, the sudden jerk assuring her she was right that he hadn't realized she was awake.
A moment later and he's gone, taking the warmth of his body with him as he retreats to the other room, the blanket lost on the floor halfway along his path after it fell from his shoulders. She squeezes her eyes closed for a moment, disappointed that he did exactly what she expected, fighting the urge to do the same damn thing - run away and hide until she can tamp it all back down. She wonders then, a wave of despair rolling over her, if it's possible for them to change their long held behavioral patterns with each other. Hell, she's had to remind herself a hundred times already tonight that she wants to try talking to him.
She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes, the flames feeling too bright now, and her gaze drops. She sees it then, utterly sure of exactly what set him off, and she bites her tongue in an attempt to not cry over it herself. The blouse she's wearing has shifted a little bit while she was asleep, the maybe too deep for work V-neck slipping over to reveal the swell of her right breast over her bra, a single circular scar visible, a pale pink bump standing out from her olive skin, the brightness of the fire making the normally barely perceptible raised skin stand out in stark relief.
Any other time, he might have wondered but he wouldn't have known and now he knows and he saw the proof that links her to the woman whose pictures appeared in those case files and now it's real in a way it had been more of a concept an hour ago. And fuck, the concept alone had been enough to devastate him.
She clenches her jaw and wills back the tears because he's not going to comfort her right now because he's fucking horrified himself. And then she's forcing her eyes open and staring at what is honestly one of the tiniest scars and located in such a place that she sees it so often it truly barely registers most of the time and the man she's contemplating a physical relationship with is so sickened by it that he's hiding in another room after seeing it. She can only fucking imagine how poorly he's going to react to the rest, the uglier ones, the clusters of multiple ones, the ones he'll never get a chance to see because he's never going to want to touch her now because she is a scarred shell of a woman and hardly the sexy vision he has in his head based on the figure she had when she was thirty.
She doesn't want to give him the opportunity to speak first, to attempt to verbally backpedal from what he's been trying to assert since his wife was barely cold. She fucking hates fate right now, another punch flying at her just when she was finally working through her own fears of intimacy and convincing herself there was a fucking chance to be happy with this man. But she's at least got her pride, some of it, and she's not going to sit here and wait for his rejection now that he's realized she's not his fantasy anymore.
"This is," she chokes out around the lump she hadn't noticed was lodged in her throat, continuing when she's sure she can force out the words without her voice cracking again, "exactly why I didn't want to tell you." She swallows hard and forces back her tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry over his rejection. She's not angry at him, can't even blame him, because she knows her scars aren't attractive. They're ugly, disgusting mementos left in intimate places, done so to serve as a permanent reminder, to forever bring Lewis into her most private moments, to ensure that she will never forget, and, perhaps most importantly, to tell all of her lovers that someone had been there first, someone who'd inflicted damage she can never fully heal from, someone who will always be in the bedroom with her.
"You shouldn't have had to tell me." His voice is choked and quiet as well, but it still echoes across the chasm between them. "I should have been there."
She's thinking about that for a moment, distracted by wondering how seeing her wounds fresh would have made any fucking difference in how disgusted he is by them. She's remembering how she'd used every bit of strength she had left to walk out of that house of her own volition and how disappointed she'd been to see Nick and Fin but not Elliot and how she'd desperately clung to the conviction that Elliot would be there eventually, that someone would get in touch with him and he'd be there in time to hold her hand during the rape kit and the vicious detoxing and it was only when he hadn't shown up that she'd realized it was truly over.
And then he's right there squatting down between her and the fire so he's facing her and she wasn't here for a moment, she was back in that hospital being violated in another way, and she jumps in surprise, in fear, when she's suddenly in a dark room facing a looming shadow with no face like in so many of her nightmares and her heart is racing and the tears are welling and she'd scream except she's too scared.
"Liv, it's me." His voice is warm and gentle and he's scooting back and turning and she can once again see his face and she's still shaking from the fear, but she's also deeply mortified for allowing him to see, once again, how very damaged she is and reminding him why he doesn't really want to be with her.
She's trying to calm herself down and concentrate on breathing and he's still close enough that nothing about him is making her body want to calm down because being this close to him has alway made her heart pound. She reaches for the bottle of bourbon instead, but her hand is shaking too much to even unscrew the lid and she's embarrassed when Elliot takes the bottle from her and opens it before offering it back.
She's terrified she's going to spill it down herself, but she needs it and so she lifts it to her mouth and she knows she was drinking it a few minutes or hours or however-long-her-nap-was ago and it was bourbon, but she's still trapped halfway between reality and a flashback and it's vodka when it hits her tongue and she comes up sputtering and choking and gasping for breath and reaching for a bottle of water that isn't there.
She's aware she's losing it, feeling the terror grip her even as she knows she's safe with Elliot, but she's never ok when Lewis is mentioned and this has been brewing since Fin mentioned the fucking grainary and it's like a damn domino chain that she has been powerless to stop for hours now and she feels herself choking on the imagined vodka and she's trying to cough with her mouth closed because she imagines there's a piece of tape over her lips and she's trying to scramble away from him because her hands aren't cuffed miraculously and she's too weak to stand and she's crawling and she's disoriented because it's dark and she has no idea where she is and she's desperate to scream for help except for the tape on her mouth and so she's just whimpering in pure fear as she hits a wall and starts clawing at the drywall as though she's going to be able to dig her way free and when hands fall on her shoulders, fingers feeling along her arms to grip her hands, she finally starts to scream.
###
She really has no idea how long it has been since her meltdown. She only knows that it was the absolute worst one she's had in a decade and she can't even be ashamed of it because she's still shaking and exhausted and dazed as though she just relived those four hellish days all at once and she's back in front of the fire and she's back in Elliot's embrace and she can hear him talking, whispering that she's ok and reminding her to breathe and then his hand is on her cheek to guide her eyes to his as he assures her it's him and it's over and she's safe now.
Her hands are shaking as she shifts in his arms, her fingers grazing over his shirt to let him know she's back in the present. Her eyes are swollen and thick from crying and she can feel her muscles protesting her every movement from the physical reaction to her panic and her mind isn't exactly clear as she's still trying to unwind what actually happened versus what was a flashback.
He pulls back, his hands still gripping her upper arms as he allows some space between them, his face full of worry, his eyes searching hers. She can feel the guilt radiating off him and she barely has the strength to exist at this moment, so she can't spare any energy to comfort him.
She swallows hard and holds his stare as long as she can, worried that even blinking will put another damn barrier between them, but even as the eye contact drags on, she doesn't see what she expected, what she'd feared. It's not disgust or pity or revulsion and she doesn't want to name what she thinks it is because she's terrified the universe is waiting with another left hook that will take her the fuck out if she dares to think it's love.
She can see the tears dried on his face and she knows she has to reassure him that she's ok because she doesn't look ok and no sane person would believe that she's ok, except that this used to happen six times a day and she'd pull her gun on her boyfriend and she'd lose hours in the flashbacks and now she knows how to manage them because Fin is pretty much always there with her when she's in a situation that's likely to be triggering and he knows how to ground her and he always warns her if he's concerned and she is able to manage the rest of the time because she knows it's coming after she hears the name or sees something she can't detach herself from and she always calls her therapist to schedule a session before the flashback even happens so there's a chance she's actually with a medical professional when it occurs.
She nods at nothing, maybe at him, maybe at herself, and takes a breath that's not shaky and she slowly drops the hands she is only now aware are still gripping his shirt. She has to say it. She doesn't want to because she really wants to go back to that blissful time when she was falling asleep in his arms, but she has to. "I'm ok," she assures with a steady voice.
He has to fight harder to control his tone, his tears still threatening, his emotions still raging. "That didn't look ok."
She nods, finally breaking eye contact because she knows he'll be able to see the truth, that she's not ok per se, but she's as ok as she's ever going to be following an ordeal she'd wished more than once that she hadn't survived. "I always have flashbacks when something reminds me of him." She shrugs with an awkward, humorless laugh. "Fin runs point a lot to spare me."
She drops her gaze down to her lap, only noticing then with a blush that she's draped across his legs, and she's distracted by trying to untangle herself from him but it's difficult with the way his hands have yet to release her and she eventually stops moving because she's too tired to move anyway. There's dust all over the knees of her pants and she knows she really did go crawling across the floor and as she reaches to brush it away, she sees that one of her nails is broken far enough back that it's bleeding and so she really was clawing at the wall except she notices there's a smear of blood on Elliot's shirt along a tear that wasn't there earlier which means she wasn't clawing at a wall, but him and she's almost thankful she's too tired to be embarrassed.
She dares a glance at him, wondering if he's going to be able to accept her the way she is or if he's just tiptoeing around until he can get out of this situation. "Stress always makes it worse. I was worried about you finding out like you did and where you were and I really should have seen this coming."
And she had, for a few moments when she spaced out in the front yard, but her concern for Elliot's life had overridden any self-protective mechanisms she had.
"None of this is your fault." He says it with such conviction that she almost believes it, except she knows that tone, his victim tone, and she hates that he's using it on her and she assumes that means he's just biding time until he can get away from her so someone else will be there to comfort her when she's a mess.
There's the strength she was lacking, allowing herself to pull away, to stand up and walk away, to force some distance between them. "No, Elliot, this is ten year old trauma and I know how to manage it. I wasn't thinking." She doesn't bother bringing up the fact that it was her fear over his well-being that drowned out her own safety.
He's on his feet too, his body frozen half a step toward her, his instinct to approach her when they're disagreeing at war with his last approach contributing to her flashback. "It's my fault, Liv, not yours."
She looks up at him then, confusion forcing her to meet his eyes. "How is it your fault?" She knows he hadn't gone digging into her history on purpose, that Jet had given him the case numbers and by the time he'd looked at what his colleague had provided, it had been too late to back up. And she knows there was no way he could help the honest reaction he had to reading about what had happened to her. He hadn't chosen to be crushed by it. He'd been traumatized himself reading about it; fuck, she knows she would have been if their positions had been reversed.
He's holding her eyes as he finally decides to move closer. His hand goes to her cheek, his fingers ghosting across her skin, and she can see in the way he pulls back, in the guilt and self-reproach that flit across his face, that he's questioning if he has the right to touch her. "If I'd been there, it never would have happened."
She can't fault him for thinking it, not when she'd had the same thought a million times, but she's had a long time to think about it, before and after he reappeared in her life and she's played out the scenario so many times sometimes she's not sure which one is real. She would have vented at him about Cragen sending her home and he would have insisted on driving her there and he would have waited for word that she was home safely and when he didn't get a message or see her wave from the window, he would have followed her. Lewis would have made her answer the door the same as he had with Alice Parker, because she knows Lewis would have seen the bond between the partners and she would have been forced to invite Elliot in and that's where it all would have gone bad.
She shakes her head to block the thoughts, the idea having caused so damn many nightmares over the years. Her eyes meet his again, trying to get him to understand, and she shakes her head over and over. "No, Elliot, you'd be dead. He tortured the women, but he just killed the men." It was true, Lewis would have had no interest in torturing Elliot; killing him in front of Olivia would have been infinitely more enjoyable for the bastard.
His eyes well with tears, but he makes no move to wipe them away or hide them from her. He simply stares, letting her see the way his face contorts with the pain of whatever he's thinking. After a long minute, he finally shares his thoughts with a cracked, broken voice. "I'd rather be dead than know what he did to you."
She bites her lip, knowing he didn't say it to cause her pain, knowing he only meant for her to understand how much he's hurting. And she knows, she does, because she lived it. She nods, not because he's right to think so, but because she wants him to understand that she gets it and instead of the understanding dawning in his eyes, she sees the way he deflates at her nod, as though she had meant to agree with him and she remembers how she'd intended to try words for a change because they are failing entirely at the silent communication. "For a long time I thought I'd rather be dead too. The whole time I was with him I just wanted it over with and when it was finally over and I was still alive, I wasn't sure I'd ever be ok." She takes a deep breath and wades further into things she's not even sure she's ever been honest with her therapist about. "And when he escaped, when he was taunting me, when I had to turn myself over to him to protect that little girl," she pauses long enough to wipe the tears from her cheeks and recognizes the way Elliot's hand is reaching out as though he wants to do it himself except he's still not sure what he's allowed to do. "I actually wanted to die rather than let him touch me again."
He turns away, heading into the kitchen, his fists curling around the edge of the counter, the pain or fury or helplessness or heartbreak leaving him to shake with his attempts to control it.
She follows him because she's completely convinced this conversation would be so much better if his arms were around her and she thinks that might be why he's gripping the counter for dear life. She crowds herself next to him, her hip leaning against the counter only an inch from where his hand is, her fingers, broken nail and all, lightly closing around his belt loop and giving a gentle pull. "But I didn't want to die. I wanted to live and I wanted to adopt Noah and watch him grow up and I wanted to see you again and I wanted us to be friends and I didn't even know what I was living for at the time, but it was worth it."
His hand falls from the counter, slowly moving to her waist, his touch so light she knows he's testing to see if she'll panic again, but she knows the meltdown already happened and she's already released all the emotions that led to it and she's calm now and she knows exactly whose hand is snaking around to her low back and she's leaning in and wrapping her arms around him as his other hand eventually completes the circle.
He leans down, his face nuzzling into her hair, his mouth tucking next to her ear. "I'm so sorry you had to go through it, Liv. I wish I could have been there to help you."
She nods against his chest, thinking maybe the talking works because he seems to actually be listening to her. "I'm glad you're here now, ok?" She doesn't think she needs to say the rest, to offer a desperate plea, because she suspects he probably hears it anyway.
"I'm never leaving you again, I promise."
There's a fresh wave of tears, but they're different this time, not quite happy tears, but tears of relief. She needed to hear that. She needed that promise. And she needed it unprompted.
###
She's standing at the sliding glass door, staring at the ocean as the sun rises, almost blinded by the light reflecting off the snow. She's tired, having only managed a few short naps over the night, but she still feels better than she has for a long time. She has the answers to questions she hadn't wanted to acknowledge - why Elliot hadn't come back for her, why he never mentioned what happened, why he never apologized for not being there - and she knows he wasn't aware of it because he wasn't even in the damn country. And the part of her that had suspected he didn't know, the part that was too ashamed or afraid of his response to broach the subject, is sated now, because it's done. He knows and he's not at peace with it, but he'll get there. He understands now why she is so different and why she's so afraid and he's seen the one scar and he knows there are others and he's still here.
Granted, there are a couple inches of snow on the ground and he hasn't slept much either and neither one of them has ingested anything besides alcohol for some time, but he's still here.
Elliot joins her at the door when he wakes up from his nap in front of the dying fire, the bourbon in his hand. He catches her eyes in the reflection in the glass. "Wish I had some coffee to offer you."
She smiles as he takes a small sip from the bottle and holds it out for her. She shakes her head. She's thirsty, but she'd rather risk ignoring the boil water advisory than have bourbon for breakfast. "Any interest from renters?" She's certain there must be, it's a quiet area, a huge house with a beachfront deck.
"There was some interest last summer, but I got distracted and never finished the paperwork." He walks away long enough to set the bottle on the counter and then retrieve the blanket to drape over her shoulders. "I was thinking about just selling it, but Mama would be pissed, then again, what she doesn't know..."
It hurts to hear it because she's gotten attached to her little fantasies of spending time here, but she reminds herself that the reason Noah's never had a beach vacation is because she never takes vacation. Elliot's stance makes more sense in that context, knowing he's just paying for the upkeep of a house and worrying about it when he's never going to have the benefit of using it. Still, she finds some hope in the way his arms linger around her after he wraps her in the blanket. "Seems a shame to give up such a beautiful place."
"Beautiful," he whispers and she knows he's absolutely not talking about the house. He's nuzzling into her again and she can feel her heart starting to pound with anticipation. Something has changed and though she's nervous, she's not scared.
She tries to decide how to proceed, how to encourage him, how to signal that she thinks she's ready now and she thinks back to the way she started to panic and run that night in her kitchen when she knew he desperately wanted her to look at him and hear him and now she's too anxious still to do much more than let him when he finally burrows through her hair and she hopes he can tell the difference and she thinks he can because his lips find her skin and she wants to shrug off the blanket because his breath is so damn hot on her neck she thinks she might melt but he's holding her and if she tries to lose the blanket she's afraid she's going to lose him and fucking hell she does not want him to pull away.
She's still then, telling herself it's enough that she's not freaking out, and she's not backing away and she's not stopping him, but she realizes he's still too, his lips just glancing her neck and he's not kissing her but he's not not kissing her either and she knows he's waiting for a sign from her and she's trying to let herself go and she thinks maybe her little fantasies of them spending time together here aren't so different from his and maybe they're not bad and shit maybe they're even possible.
"If you don't have any better offers, maybe Noah and I can rent it this summer. He's never really been to the beach. He'd love it." Her heart is pounding harder, her palms sweating, and she feels more nervous suggesting that than if she'd actually confessed how damn much she loves him.
His hands shift, his fingers digging into her hips, his arms pulling her body back into his, his mouth still resting against her neck. "It's yours. I'll have them pull the listing."
A nervous chuckle escapes her lips as she moves her hands over his, pulling his arms back around her. "No, just have the agent call me." It's a strange juxtaposition, discussing real estate while Elliot's lips are ever so lightly sliding across her skin, but she feels like she has to cling to the discussion to prevent herself from getting lost in the anxiety that's spooled up and threatening to burst out of her and she doesn't want that. She wants this.
One of his hands presses flat against her belly while the other toys with the hem of her blouse, his fingers teasing the edge, hinting, promising, offering. "I'm not letting you pay me rent, Olivia, I told you, you're family."
She believes it this time, unlike the last time he said it, the words that had set the alarm bells ringing in her head that he was determined to go somewhere she hadn't been ready to go at the time. "If I'm not paying, then you and the kids and Bernie are welcome." She should put up more of a fight, insist on paying her share, but she knows Elliot isn't going to let her and she's suddenly desperate for those dreams she had to come true, to have a family vacation, to share the time off she never takes with the man she loves, to have Noah experience some of the things he missed, to not always be alone. She's been through hell enough times; she deserves to experience heaven.
He's frozen again, his hands, his body, his lips. even his breath, nothing is moving and she wonders if maybe she said too much, revealed too much, gave herself away too easily, and this is him realizing he made a mistake. She tries not to tense in return, to remind herself he's fucking holding her and she's letting him and they're talking about vacationing together and maybe even blending their families and maybe he needs a chance to take a breath and think himself.
But when he moves, it's fast and certain, and his hands are shifting, spinning her around to face him, his head leaning to the side as he bends down, his eyes catching hers and he has the most intense look she's ever seen on his face and she'd swear his eyes are shining with hope and even as he asks if she's sure, the expression on his face would have convinced her if she hadn't been convinced before.
Her hands move up, sliding over his chest and neck and cupping his cheeks, and once again there are tears in her eyes as she recognizes the power she holds over this man. She's not sure she can speak, certain that if she breaks down crying again and at this particular moment, he's going to retreat from her and never, ever dare make another attempt, so she nods instead, holding his eyes even as her tears finally spill over and she can see the way his eyes are darting back and forth between hers and the way his brow is furrowed as he tries to figure out why she's crying and she can practically see his heart breaking as he stares back because he didn't see or he didn't understand her nod and she's left with just one option.
She pushes herself up on her toes as her fingers pull his head down, her lips reaching up for his to prove to him that she is sure and she's not going to change her mind and she wants this and she's ready if he is. He's hesitant and she is too, but she's patient, letting her mouth rest gently on his for a moment, allowing them both to adjust to this. When he doesn't pull away and she doesn't feel the panic rise, she pushes harder, letting her lips part, inviting him to respond. And then he does.
He's aggressive and passionate and clearly determined to take advantage of this opportunity in case it's the only one he's ever going to get. His hands are everywhere, touching, caressing, his fingers finally slipping under the bottom of her blouse to press his palms against her skin, his mouth angling over hers to deepen the kiss, his body pushing and pushing and pushing until she's pinned against the glass and he's still not satisfied and a moment later one of his hands drops to her ass, pulling her up until she has no choice but to wrap her legs around him and the heat they're generating puts that fireplace to shame.
She doesn't even notice they're moving because she's too busy trying to figure out how to touch him while she's smashed flat against his brick wall of a chest, but then she's sitting on the counter and he's got his hands everywhere again and her entire body is tingling and she wants to say fuck it and let this happen, but she's too old to have sex on a hard wood floor and she really doesn't want their first time to be leaning against the kitchen counter because she needs to be able to touch and explore and there's not a chance in hell that she's going to be kneeling on the fucking linoleum at her age.
She hates that she has to throw a wet blanket on this, but he's borderline hysterical and she knows he's afraid she's going to stop him and she knows he's afraid she's going to change her mind, but he's obviously not thinking about how much his back is going to hurt from holding her up after he slept on the floor. But one of them has to think straight and Elliot has always been the one to get carried away with his emotions and so she has always had to be the voice of reason even when, especially when, she wants absolutely nothing to do with reason.
Her hands slide out from under his shirt, her fingers running slowly up his chest, her palms resting on his shoulders and she's about to try to push him away, but his lips are closing around her earlobe and her resolve wanes for a moment as she thinks she'll just have to buy him Advil when he complains about his back hurting. But it's not just about feeling, it's about touching and tasting too and she's not going to be able to do nearly enough of that with the way things are going.
She presses her palms back flat from where they'd curled into fists and she barely applies any pressure before he's pulling back, his mouth open, his lips swollen, his eyes wide. She doesn't have to say anything, he knows, he understands, she thinks, and she watches as he nods, his hands dropping from her skin, his fingers digging into the counter as they had done not so very long ago.
She watches, feeling like she's allowed to stare now, to look at him, to marvel at the way his whole body works to rein in his control. He has his eyes pressed closed and he's taking slow breaths and then his hands are dropping from the counter and he's stepping back and she sees the resolve wash over him a moment too late.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't-"
She cuts him off, grabbing at his shirt before he can back completely out of reach, and lowers herself from the counter onto her feet. "I'm not saying no, El, I'm saying not until we have a bed." She closes the distance he's put between them and this time it's her who's leaning and twisting and trying to catch his eyes.
He finally lets her have the eye contact she's seeking and she can see his worry, his hurt, his distrust of her words and she hates that she's the cause of it. She leans up and kisses him, partly to reassure him, partly just because she can. "I'm not changing my mind. I'm sure, ok?"
He nods again, his arms closing around her and pulling her into a tight hug. "Really regretting putting all the furniture in storage right now."
She gives him the chuckle he's looking for. "Are the snow shovels in storage too?"
Elliot looks back toward the sliding door, squinting at the deck in the sunlight. "It's not that much, sun'll probably melt it in a couple hours."
"Since we're not leaving for a few hours, then I guess we're taking a nap?"
He's grinning as he takes her hand and leads her back to the fire that is nearly dead. He lets go of her long enough to toss a few more logs in and add more lighter fluid until it's raging again. "There are worse ways to spend the morning."
They're snuggled back like they were, Olivia tucked between Elliot's legs, his arms wrapped around her, her fingers threaded with his. He's right, she thinks, there are worse ways to while away a few hours, worse places to be, and worse people to be with. She smiles as she turns her head, tucking her forehead against his jaw and drifting off to sleep to dream about swimsuits and sandcastles.