holy frick. the comments are coming in faster than mulder to scully's ass.
(naughty snickers) I am such a perv….
well folks, no worries about me not finishing this story. I entirely intend to do so, as well as update as daily as can be considered daily. I'm a little busy with wrapping up this research paper (damn Tolstoy to hell) and getting my college stuff together (early application starts this fall, and I need to organize an art portfolio- yes, I draw too- and start working on essays and such) but I will not let my eager beaver readers down, I swear it. (insert Aragorn to dying Boromir promise kiss here)
random note: are they saying 'oh my color thong' in "Spanish Bombs" by The Clash? I knew Joe Strummer was a little on the pervy side, but I don't see what thongs have to do with Spain.
I've been home sick for two days with strep throat (but oh, the squash soup! how it warms the infirmed soul!), which gives me one of two things to do: finish this godforsaken research paper, or write another two chapters. guess what I'm doing? yup. not letting my eager beaver readers down. in case you haven't guessed yet, I intend to be a writer someday, though I am intending to major in and study anthropology in college. yet somehow, this research paper is pretty much the worse thing I have ever written. ever.
thank god for this lovely diversion.
enjoy, my pinkish puppies of story-devouring delight!
It was the best sleep he had ever gotten.
Ever.
Even better than falling asleep in his wife's arms, sprawled across the bench on the front porch, waking up to the sun rising over his neighbor's lawn. Even better than waking up with his infant daughter on his chest, her little frame rising and falling with his own breath. So much better.
He stretched in the sunlight streaming through lacy curtains, rolled over onto his jean-clad side, basked in the wonder that was this perfect feeling of bliss.
"Good morning," He whispered, opening his eyes. But she wasn't there. She was gone. He was saying good morning to…the pillowcase.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes in disbelief.
Had it been a dream? The whole news and the movie and the head-on-shoulder sleeping?
Oh hell, he was such an idiot.
She was probably on the couch, stretching an aching back, and he was just lying here enjoying something perfectly rotten.
"Olivia?" He practically fell off the bed, his feet catching him once they hit the wooden floor.
There was no response. He pushed open the door, catching the faint smell of cinnamon and the sounds of the radio, turned up as Norah Jones told the world about a sunrise.
There she was. There she was in all her glory, her back to him and her hands flying over a stove, humming to the song that serenaded their morning. Oxford shirt gracing her faint form, lacking pants (lacking pants!) the stove top crackling pleasantly before her, there she stood. He stared and stared, unable to keep his eyes away from this morning vision.
He stepped towards her, his weight causing the floor to let out a distressful squeal. She turned, two eggs in hand, and let out a scream, diving behind the counter.
"Oh god, don't do that." Her eyes appeared above the container of milk, and she rolled them in annoyance. "You scared me to death."
"Sorry," He shrugged nervously. "I didn't know where you were."
"I thought you'd be asleep a few more hours. You were out like a light when I woke up." She slowly got to her feet, though she kept her waistline and its lower aspects behind the counter. Where were her pants? "That's kind of why I thought I could wait before ironing my pants."
"I see that," He bit his lip, trying to hide a grin. He avoided her eyes as he sat down at the counter, pulling out a stool. "Is that breakfast?"
"Oh, yeah…" She flipped something from the stove to a plate, handing it to him with a pitcher of syrup. "French toast."
He stared at the plate in her hands, his face suddenly numb. "You're kidding."
"No, I told you I can cook."
"How did you…"
"I got up early. The lady downstairs said it was eggs and sausage this morning, so I ran to the grocery store in town to pick a few things up. Lucky for this kitchen area, huh?"
He pulled a knife and fork from the drawer beside him, his mouth salivating with the smell of the meal before him. It smelled even better than Kathy's used to be…
"Delicious," He said, when he finally piled a piece into his mouth, chewing blissfully. "I have to hand it to you Liv, you really can cook."
"Well, coffee is my specialty, but there are some things I can handle on a stove."
"Too bad you can't make me breakfast every morning."
She grinned at him. "Pop-tarts wearing you thin?"
"Easy Mac has started my day for quite a while now."
She made a face. "That's disgusting."
"Kathy was always right. I cannot cook for my life."
"Lucky I came along this trip…" She sat down across from him, putting another piece onto his plate. "It's really the least I can do…"
"For what?" He looked up at her, a piece of bread shoved in his mouth.
"What you did last night...it was really, really…nice. I don't know how you knew, but I really needed someone to be…near me."
"No problem." He stared at his plate, attempting to shovel more of the toast into his mouth. It wasn't a dream. She was really there. And she had wanted it. "What are partners for?" He tried to give her a smile, though the food in his mouth may have made it a bit disgusting. She laughed, taking a bite of her own French toast.
They laughed throughout the meal, for no reason except one: if they stopped laughing, he expected he would cry.
They cleared the plates and she went to the sink, rolling up her sleeves. She didn't seem to mind her lack of pants anymore, and he was quite content to stare at her while she worked. How long had it been since he'd seen a woman this…normal?
How was your day?
Fine.
You always say that.
What am I supposed to say, Kathy?
I don't know, Elliot. What do you think I want to hear?
We found a woman who drowned in her bathtub after someone raped her, beat her, and wrote 'Whore' on her door. It was a great day.
After that night, she stopped staying up to wait for him to come home. When he'd unlock the door at three a.m., pulling off his socks and crawling into bed, sometimes she'd be in the guest bedroom. Sometimes he'd be in there. It didn't matter; they just stopped sharing a bed. Whatever had been there before…it was gone.
Last night was the first time he had shared a bed with a woman in three years.
"Elliot?" He looked up at Olivia, her hair falling across her forehead, her eyes still smiling. She was happy with him.
And here he'd thought it was impossible for a woman to ever be happy with him.
"Syrup on my chin?"
"No, I just thought you'd take the laundry out for me."
"Doesn't the hotel do that?"
"It's a lot cheaper to take it to the laundromat in town."
"Are we suddenly on a budget?" He laughed. "I thought it'd be fun to drain Cragen's allotted money."
"Let's just give the state a break for once, okay?" She went into the other room, emerging again with a bag of laundry in her hand. "Lauren Tracy needs her clean clothes."
He reached for the bag, but his hand fell onto hers instead. She dropped the bag, and her fingers suddenly pressed around his. He stared at her, attempting to hold his mouth closed, hoping his palms weren't sweating and his heart wasn't racing like a teenage hormone case.
"You have to…go." She said, her eyes locking onto his.
"I know…" He stared at her, unable to move. Oh hell…
"The laundry…" She stared at him with those dark chocolate eyes, and he found he was completely unable to recall what laundry was, nor when he was born, or the last time he had felt his heart flutter like this.
"The prom."
"What?" She let go of his hand, pulling it to her chest as though he had wounded her. He stared at his palms, wondering what he had done. Just as soon as I understand, it's gone.
And it'll never come back.
Just like Kathy.
"Sorry," He tried to laugh, avoiding her eyes. But she was staring at him.
And he was picking up the bag.
And going out the door.
And walking away from that feeling, again.
…
Coffee. She needed coffee.
She needed something, something to clear her head and remind her that she was Olivia Benson, not Lauren Tracy, not his wife, not in love.
A shower. She needed another shower.
Oh hell…what had she done? She'd held his hand! HIS HAND!
It was completely insane. Moronic. What had she done that for?
But it was right there. And he took it first…
He was her partner. Business partner. Almost friend.
Friend with benefits.
NO! NOT FRIEND WITH BENEFITS!
They'd been through a lot together, that was true. But that did not give her the right to take his hand.
Stare into his eyes.
See something there that obviously wasn't.
Pull yourself together, girl. This is ridiculous.
He hadn't woken up. He hadn't seen her arm lying across him, her head on his chest. He'd been completely unconscious (thank god) when she'd opened her eyes, and found her body pressed against his. She'd been in his arms. He'd been in hers.
THIS WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN.
The pool. She'd go take a swim.
She grabbed her bathing suit, well, Lauren Tracy's bathing suit, and headed downstairs.
I need to stop thinking about it. I…NEED…TO…STOP.
Elliot probably isn't thinking about it. He's probably completely forgotten.
…
WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO THAT FOR?
He shoved the clothes into the dryer, slammed the door, and ignored the staring faces around him. Treating the dryer like a punch bag seemed completely plausible at the time to him.
I held her hand. I held her hand. I HELD HER HAND!
And on top of that, he stared into her eyes. Like stare stare. Like intense longing stare.
Jesus, he had completely screwed himself.
Everything was going fine. They'd gotten the call from Cragen. The case was going smooth as silk.
And then…
What had he done last night? He'd joined her. Sleeping. In bed.
Together.
Clothes on, yes. On top of the sheets, yes. No unnecessary touching, yes.
BUT STILL.
And then the hand…and the staring…and the prom.
She probably hated him. She probably thought he was trying to seduce her. She probably thought he was a man-whore looking for a rebound girl and found her suddenly convenient.
Damn.
Was he a man-whore looking for a rebound girl and had found her suddenly convenient?
No. Absolutely not. Now he was just plain insane.
He'd known her too long. They'd had a comfortable relationship for way too many years. He was with her more than his wife.
Jesus Kathy, what did you say that night? Married to my work? Work affair? Something like that…
"You stressed out?"
He turned at the sound of a female voice, saw the tall blonde standing beside him, neatly trimmed eyebrow raised as she carefully placed her clothing into the dryer beside his.
"Is it obvious?"
"I don't normally try to beat up my appliances, but that's just me."
She was a tourist, too. At least he figured the locals didn't wear their Chanel to sleep.
"A little pressure, yes." He stared at the spinning clothing before him. His head was starting to hurt.
"Well, I know a great place to relax." Her smile was suddenly very…suggestive.
He stared at her, eyes widening. Whoa. She was flirting with him.
He was single. He had every right to enjoy the flirt and return it.
So why did it feel so wrong?
"Busy." He said quickly, turning back to the dryer.
"Alright, whatever you say."
The dryer before him buzzed, and he opened it up, pulling out a plaid wad.
"Nice boxers." She gave him another suggestive grin, narrowing her eyes and nodding at the clothing in his hand.
"Yeah…well…" He dug through the laundry until he had found what he wanted. "She thinks so too." He said, pulling out Olivia's black bra and lifting it up with a flourish.
"I see." The woman looked suddenly unhappy, frowning at her clothing.
He pulled out a black lacy slip, another black bra, folding them with large movements of his hands. "My wife and I are staying at the spa. It's definitely going to relieve some of this tension."
"Right." She pulled out her clothing, threw it into a basket, and stomped away, throwing him a huffed frown over her shoulder.
He grinned at the bra in his hand.
Until he realized who it belonged to.
HANDLING OF UNDERGARMENTS.
NOT GOOD.
He was touching her bra. He was holding it up. He was even looking it over as though he were interested in whatever occupied it.
Oh christ…