Rating: M, sexiness scattered throughout

Disclaimer: Not mine – you know who made 'em, owns 'em, treats 'em so bad.

Spoilers: up 'til season 7

Pairing(s): Elliot/Olivia, mentions of Elliot/Kathy (boo).

Summary: Missing scenes & post-ep for "Blast". In the aftermath of his marriage breakdown, Elliot searches for a home. And finds one with his partner.

A/N: So this second part takes place after the episode's completion. Thanks to those who took the time to review. :)

ii.

As soon as she gets Cragen's message, she rushes from the courthouse. She hails the first cab she sees, tells the driver it's an emergency. She curses any vehicle that gets in her way, any traffic light that slows her progress. She tries Cragen's cell but doesn't get an answer. She tries Elliot's cell, Melinda's – but either the signal in that area is overwhelmed with activity or none of them are free to pick up. Neither possibility bodes well.

Olivia shoves her phone into her pocket and concentrates on glaring at the traffic outside her window. She can't believe this is happening. Not now, not when they are so close. It's just over a year since her partner's marriage broke up, since his wife finally left him. She can't say she was completely surprised by the news. Nor was she surprised that he kept it from her. Elliot's never been very forthcoming on the subject of his marriage. At the beginning of their association, he was especially taciturn, only dropping the occasional, glowing remark on family life. Then, Elliot Stabler appeared to be the perfect family man with the perfect home. But Olivia soon realized there were problems – deep, hidden cracks in that life, as well as in the man himself – and that those cracks had existed for much longer than she'd known him.

Ironically, it was part of what made their partnership so strong, so close. She suspected that, in his relationship with his wife, Elliot often felt inadequate. He felt he should do more, help out more, contribute more, be around more. Kathy was always the one holding the Stabler home together – until recently, when she decided she no longer wanted to. Olivia had no wish to delve into why her partner's wife had made this decision. She'd long ago made it a personal policy to stay out of her partner's intimate affairs. So she didn't ask and he didn't tell. They never discussed his marriage breakdown, his wife's desertion, his separation from his children or his very obvious feelings of betrayal and rejection. She saw those feelings in him – in his body and face and stance, in his wrinkled clothes and weary scowls – but she said nothing. Mostly because she knew that what she could wordlessly offer was of greater assistance. She could offer him safety, stability. Continuity, purpose, friendship. And appreciation. For all he was – rather than a rejection of who he was not and never could be.

With her – she hoped – Elliot never felt inadequate. He felt competent, confident, strong, supported. The inequity of his marriage didn't exist in their partnership. She knew that was a relief to him, a small comfort he allowed himself daily. In their work, she and her partner both contributed an equal amount. The different skills they brought to each case complemented each other, producing tangible, sometimes touching results. Their support of each other remained constant, even when under enormous pressure, even when functioning as dead tired versions of their best selves. And if some other, somewhat furtive potential hummed beneath that status quo, beneath all that productivity and familiarity, their mutually agreed upon reticence guaranteed that it remained unacknowledged and unfulfilled. Or, at least, it had until the previous night.

She'd known for a week that he didn't have a place to stay, a place to sleep and shower and decompress. She'd let him save face, let him sleep in the crib. She'd pretended she didn't notice, given him time to figure something out for himself. She'd watched him wear the same clothes for three days in a row. She'd watched his jeans get scruffier and his jaw sport numerous shaving cuts. She'd watched the skin sag under his eyes and his shoulders begin to droop. And eventually, she caved. She didn't care how proud he was feeling. The man needed to get out of the 16th precinct. He needed a hot shower and decent meal and a good night's sleep. She couldn't offer him the decent meal since cooking was not a skill she possessed. But she had a cosy home, an empty couch and a better hot water system than the stationhouse. So Olivia took her vagrant partner in. She took Elliot Stabler home.

It all started out innocently enough. Letterman and take-out. Separate beds in separate rooms. Though, even as she drifted off, she was aware of him – breathing, dreaming, lying just outside her door, next to nothing covering that body she'd tried so hard not to notice. Because that body had always belonged to another woman. A woman she liked, a woman she respected. It didn't anymore though. Not anymore. And that body – it's size and smell – it felt so nice having it beside her in her bed. She hadn't slept with someone in so long. Years, probably. She usually had sex with the men she dated in their beds so that she could get up and leave whenever she wanted. Sneak back to her own apartment during the wee small hours, grab a few hours of sleep in her own bed. Alone. Because sleeping alone was what she was used to, comfortable with. Sleeping with Elliot was comfortable though. Too comfortable. She let herself enjoy it, revel in it too much. She let her guard down too far, let herself fall too deeply asleep. Because the next thing she knew, she was beneath him and he was right there – all of him, inches of ached for hardness – pressed between her legs. The next thing she knew her head was lifting off the pillow as she kissed him, tongued him, bit his lip to keep him from withdrawing.

Elliot had looked about as stunned as she felt. It was swift escalation from where they'd been. Which was probably why they didn't venture beyond kissing and caressing and dry humping in their pajamas. They hadn't stopped altogether – in fact, after they came to, Elliot began kissing her even harder, even deeper. He'd rolled them, pulling her body on top of his then grasping her butt with both hands and urging her down on his erection. She'd groaned with pleasure, started rolling her hips over him as their tongues continued to tangle. Her knees had fallen either side of his hips and she knew he could feel her wetness seeping through two layers of clothing. Still not believing that it was her partner's body beneath her, she'd dragged her breasts up his chest, feeling them tingle and tighten. This move had made Elliot smile. Smile into their kiss. He'd broken away just long enough to tell her how good she felt. God, you feel good, he'd moaned in that same voice that uttered gory statistics or comforted upset victims or offered her a cup of bitter, lukewarm coffee. Hearing it like that, having his breath puff against her skin as he spoke, was a shock to her system. The best kind of shock. A shock unlike any other she'd ever known it her life.

Now, she regrets not saying it back to him, not telling him how amazing he felt. He had – but she'd chosen to relay this fact without words. Because she was so enjoying not talking with him. They'd done so much talking. God, just endless chatting and discussing and debating and contemplating and hypothesizing and questioning. And she'd enjoyed it, she had, every minute. She loved doing all of that with her partner. But that was before she knew the bliss of kissing him, of having his hands on her body and his hard cock between her legs. Talking was something they could do later. Much, much later. Making out with him, in that moment, had been a much more preferable option.

Olivia takes out her phone and looks at it. No calls, no messages. She tries Cragen again, sighs when her call goes straight to voicemail. She's hoping for the best but can't help considering the absolute worst. Can't help wondering whether the night before was Elliot Stabler's last on earth. Whether, if they'd known that, they might have been braver, they might have gone further than they'd dared to. He'd kissed her before leaving that morning. He'd come out of her bathroom, face freshly shaved, a towel wrapped round his waist and a smile on his face. He'd looked like a new man. And he'd only paused momentarily, it had only been slightly awkward, when he leaned down, hands planted either side of her on the mattress. He'd kissed her, soft and slow and slightly wet. His chest was still damp as she ran a hand down it. She'd told him she wasn't due in court until ten. Elliot had nodded and told her he had to go – he had a kidnapper to track down without her help.

Neither of them likes working solo. They both feel slightly unbalanced whenever they do. Olivia can't help but think that this wouldn't have happened on her watch, she'd have prevented her partner being taken hostage. Such thoughts are an occupational hazard in their line of work. From day one at the Academy, their duty to the citizens of their district, their fellow officers and their partner is drummed into them. Although the plain truth is that some tragedies can't be predicted or averted. Just survived. And they have survived so much so far. He has – Elliot Stabler is as hardy as they come. She knows that. But, just like every cop on the force, every hero that takes stand, he's made of flesh and blood and bones. She's not deluded enough to think otherwise. She's not foolish enough to think that his flesh can't be penetrated by a bullet, his heart stopped, his breath halted, his life cut short. She's seen it happen. She's made it happen. And, now more than ever – having felt the heat of his body and breath, how fast the blood in his veins can pump, how vulnerable a human body is when stripped down to its absolute essence – does she feel his mortality. How easily and quickly he might be taken from her. Right when they are on the cusp. Just as seven years of friendship and partnership are finally giving way to something more. Something they survived all those other threats in order to find.

-x-

She exits the cab four blocks from the bank. She could run faster than the traffic is traveling. So she does. Heels pounding the pavement and skirt stretched taut with each step and jacket whipping at her sides. She weaves through the crowd towards the not too distant clump of ambulance trucks and police cars and curious spectators and temporary barricades.

She flashes her badge at the uni guarding the perimeter, keeps flashing it at anyone who looks at her funny. There's a lot of movement about though, it's not the tense stand-off she was expecting. She seems to have arrived in the aftermath. Senior officers are debriefing while ambulance officers calm freed hostages. Family members cry out to be reunited with their loved ones. ESU team members amble peaceably about. But there is shattered glass by the doors, spilled blood on the pavement. And no sign of Elliot. Olivia scans the crowd, checks the back of an ambulance. Then she spots Melinda Warner walking towards her, face drawn but body intact. When she asks where Elliot is, Melinda points over her own shoulder, in the direction she's just come. Olivia's eyes follow her hand, finding him standing on the curb, alone and ragged, shards of glass and plaster littering his suit. He is waving off an attentive EMT as she jogs up, comes to a stop in front of him then doubles over in puffed relief. She can't even say his name, her breath is so labored, and her partner's expression quickly turns from drained sorrow to amused affection.

He puts a hand on her bent shoulder. "You okay?"

"I'm…" she braces a hand against her knee and looks up at him, "…I was…Cragen called me…." She takes a wheezy breath, squints up at him. "You okay?"

Elliot withdraws his hand, glances over at the shattered glass doors. "Still in one piece." Taking her elbow, he draws her down to the pavement. "Here. Pull up a gutter."

He sits beside her on the gutter's edge, chuckles slightly as she gulps to regain her breath. An EMT passes by, hands her a bottle of water, probably assuming she is a distressed ex-hostage. Elliot takes one as well, twists the cap off and takes a long sip. Olivia takes shorter sips as her breathing begins to even out.

"What the hell happened?"

"Ah…" Elliot wags his head at the bitumen then sips his water again, "you can read it in my report."

"I was…in court," she tells him, the guilt from her absence resurfacing. "My phone was off, I got here as soon as I could."

"S'okay, Liv." He turns his head, looks at her sideways and there's a glint in his eyes, something extra and intimate that wasn't there before the previous night.

The look disappears though, because Elliot averts his eyes as Cragen approaches in his windbreaker. Their boss updates them on the condition of the kid Melinda shot. Then he tells Elliot he can write his report the following morning. Cragen casts a glance her way then turns his stoic gaze back on her partner.

"Go home," he mutters. "Get some rest."

Elliot nods a few times, gaze glued to his boss' retreating back. His elbows brace on his knees. His fingers absentmindedly peel away the label on his bottle. He opens his mouth, takes a breath then closes it again.

Olivia rises then turns to him, voice only faltering slightly as she asks, "Did you…— Do you want to come back to my place?"

He smiles, head bowed. Rising to face her, Elliot replies in a low voice, "I think we both know…what's going to happen if we go back to your place."

She looks down, swallows, murmurs, "Yeah…" Then she looks up again, looks her partner in the eye. "So…do you want to go back to my place?"

She holds her breath as she waits for an answer. She'll leave it up to him and it will have to be okay, whatever he decides. It's been a year – over a year – but that's a short recovery period after a twenty year marriage. Especially for a man as dedicated as her partner. She knows he's still reeling, he's still healing. And this may not be what he needs or wants right now. Even if it is what he wants, it may not be what Elliot is ready for. Even if she is ready, so ready, for this, for him. Even if she's been furtively waiting, hoping for something like this to happen since that day he told her he was free, single, unexpectedly unbound – this still might not be the right time for them. There may never be a right time for them. Because maybe what he needs right now is a partner, a friend. Maybe that's all he'll ever need of her.

Or, maybe not. Maybe this is exactly what Elliot wants and needs and is ready for. Maybe this is actually, finally going to happen. She's starting to think so, to let long suppressed hopes take flight. Because Elliot's smiling at her, looking at her with that intimate glint in his eye, with one corner of his mouth curving upwards. He shuffles closer, dropping his voice further as he answers her question.

"Yeah, Liv. I wanna come back to your place."

Olivia smiles, swallows again then gives a short nod. "…Okay. Well. Let's go."

He mutters a soft 'kay, that small smile still curving his lips. Then they fall into step, one beside the other, as they move through the throng and beyond the barricades.

-x-

Elliot's laughing at her again. Because her hand is trembling, making it hard for her to open her apartment door. It's not that she's nervous – it's not just that. It's the aftereffects of her panicked rush from courthouse to crimescene. It's just adrenaline – she wants to point that out to him. But Elliot sidles closer, chest grazing her back through their clothes. He plants a hand on the door, leans down and mutters in her ear:

"Open the damn door, Liv."

And God, that is so not helping. And he knows it's not helping. And he is enjoying this too much. And it is so unfair that he is perfectly fine and laughing at her when she was so worried about him just twenty minutes before. Thinking she might lose him, that he might lose his life. Olivia turns between his body and the door, meets his amused gaze with a more serious look.

"Elliot. You're not doing this because…" Her voice drifts off but her eyes narrow, scanning his face.

The amusement in his eyes recedes and his head ducks closer. "Because…?"

"Because you just had a near-death experience—"

"I didn't nearly die, I had it under control—"

"ESU being called says different—"

He leans in closer, pulls in a breath that she can feel because their bodies are huddled so close. "I'm doing this," he tells her, voice low and raspy, "because I want you. Because I've always wanted you."

Her lips press together, her tongue slides out to wet them. Her head bobs slightly as her breathing picks up. Then the solid weight of the door disappears from behind her back as Elliot twists her key in the lock.

He waves a hand, eyes still fixed on hers and voice still low as he mutters, "After you."

Olivia backs up a few steps, takes off her jacket and hangs it by the door. He watches her the whole time. He doesn't take his eyes off her as he divests himself of his own jacket, hangs it by hers then kicks the door shut. They stand for a moment, a few feet apart, facing each other in her quiet kitchen. Then she mumbles something about a drink and wades through the thick air to open a cabinet. Elliot silently shadows her. He runs a hand down her spine as she takes down a bottle. The same hand caresses her hip as she fumbles with two crystal tumblers. He sweeps her hair away from her neck, kisses her there as she pours. And when she turns to face him, handing him his glass, Elliot downs it like a shot then curls a hand around her neck, pulling her mouth to his before she's even had the chance to drink. She moans into his kiss, one hand clutching her glass in mid-air and the other immediately moving to the back of his head, anchoring his mouth to hers.

He tastes like warm, rich bourbon and she never wants him to quit kissing her. But Elliot is already undoing her blouse with eager, skilful, nimble fingers. His mouth soon rips away from hers and his head dips as he kisses and sucks the tops of her breasts, the flesh that's rising and falling above the cups of her bra, begging to be freed, begging for his touch and attention. He gives it some but then moves on, hands tracing her curves, moving down her body. Olivia lifts her glass to her lips, takes a large gulp of bourbon as she watches him settle on his knees in front of her. Sitting back on his heels and gazing up at her, he runs the fingers of one hand up the back of her calf. The light touch makes her flesh goosebump, sends an electric tingle up her spine. She lifts her glass again, downs the rest of her drink then tosses the glass back onto the counter with a loud clatter.

She rarely wears skirts to work, especially not the straight, restrictive sort she's currently dressed in. She only wears them to court when she is guaranteed not to have to run or jump or climb or tackle perps to the ground. She only wears them if she feeling particularly womanly and in need of some way to express that that her job does not allow. It's no real surprise that the previous night with her partner – its pleasure and frustration, its simultaneous satisfaction and dissatisfaction – had her reaching for that slim, black skirt this morning. That their unbridled make-out session had her feeling like a woman with secrets and desires, a woman with something to smile about, a woman with something thrilling to come home to. From his spot on the floor, Elliot smiles up at her. Then he reaches out, cups one calf and lifts it. He rids her of one black heel, causing her to shrink several inches. He cups her other calf, lifts her foot and slips off the other heel. Then he sits back again, stroking the sides of her lower legs with just his fingertips.

Still smiling his sly, closed-lipped smile, he gazes up at her a moment before saying, softly but straightforwardly, "Lift up your skirt for me."

Her eyes widen and her mouth opens. She can't help her surprise. She can't help so much of what is now happening between them. Olivia releases a breathy laugh, rolls her eyes slightly and mutters, "You really are enjoying this too much."

Elliot hums as her hands nevertheless reach down and begin bunching up her skirt. He leans in as the black material rises, licks her inner thigh with his hot tongue. "And you're not?"

"I'm—" She had a quip but it goes. Right out of her head. The instant he grasps her hips and begins attacking her thighs with his lips and tongue and teeth.

She continues lifting her skirt, exposing more skin for him to taste and treat. Her bare feet shuffle on the linoleum, parting her legs wider and inviting him higher and deeper. Elliot heeds her invitation, dragging the flat of his tongue up her inner thigh then tugging her hips towards him with both hands as his tongue runs over the crotch of her panties. Olivia gasps, one hand flying down to clutch his head. He draws his mouth away from her but then it's back, nipping her clit through the black satin, kissing the dark curls that peek out from the edges of her underwear. His fingers curl around the hem, drawing her panties slowly downwards. He pauses briefly to plant a kiss on her mons then continues dragging her underwear down her legs and over her feet. Once done, he lifts one leg, hitches it over his shoulder. Olivia grasps the counter behind her with both hands, feels her supporting leg almost buckle beneath her. Her eyes close as his palms skate up the back of her thighs then clutch her butt, his mouth starting to tug at her outer lips, open her up, spread her moisture. He squeezes the cheeks of her ass as he slips his tongue between her lower lips then flicks his tongue over her clit.

She jerks forward, nearly doubling in two – she's far too sensitive, way too close after the previous night's pleasure. All that desire he awakened. All that ecstasy he incited is still lingering, simmering, stirring beneath the surface, just waiting for the slightest touch to explode into full-blown orgasm. And she doesn't want that. Not yet. Elliot pulls back, looks up at her, bent over him, her hair falling about her face. Her eyes feel druggy, her vision is blurred but she can see that his arousal is as intense as hers, his need as immediate. The hardness she felt last night but never saw is tenting his trousers, blood pooling expectantly in his groin. She leans further down, slides a hand over his jaw and kisses him. Now, his lips taste like bourbon and her.

"Come on," she whispers against his lips. "Come with me…"

She lays her forehead against his a moment, lets her thigh slide off his shoulder. He extracts his hands from the folds of her skirt and she takes one in hers as he gets to his feet. She leads him out of the kitchen, into the living room and towards the couch. But Elliot stops, tugs on her hand.

"Not there," he murmurs in a gravelly voice. He changes their direction, takes the lead, pulls her towards her bedroom. "In here…"

Olivia smiles and follows, her blouse half unbuttoned and skirt hiked up around her hips. Once inside the bedroom, she lowers the zip at the back and slips the skirt off. Elliot undoes his tie, watching as she lets her blouse follow her skirt to the floor. Then, stepping up to her partner, Olivia unbuttons his shirt, pulls it apart and kisses the skin underneath. The man underneath. Her hands drop to his pants, loosening his belt and lowering his zipper. His pants drop to the floor as she winds her arms around her neck and fits her mouth with his. Lips fused, they drop back onto the bed they shared the previous night. Bodies already primed and familiar, their limbs immediately wrap and hands restlessly roam as their hips press unashamedly close.

-x-

Elliot's been staying at her place for seven weeks. They have, essentially, been living together. She's never tried it before, never wanted to. She's had boyfriends who suggested sharing a place but Olivia always resisted the notion. She knew herself too well. She knew she needed space – partially because of who she was and partially because of the job she committed so much time and energy to. Elliot understood that though – he understood the job, the toll it took, the silent process she went through after every tough case. Which wasn't to say they hadn't had their less harmonious moments, moments of irritation or exasperation. But after working together for so long, those moments didn't come as too much of a surprise. Each knew how to deal with the other when they were feeling tetchy. And it was mostly her who got tetchy with him.

Elliot was, after all, much more practiced at sharing a space with other human beings. Unfortunately, he was also used to inhabiting a much larger space and having a wife pick up after him when he littered that space with smelly socks and wet towels and worn underwear. Whether she picked up after him or threw those towels, socks or pants in his handsome, smirking face, Olivia felt like a cliché. She soon resigned herself to this fact of living with a man though. Mostly because she and Elliot naturally gravitated to certain chores, just like they gravitated to certain roles in their work. At work, he played belligerent cop while she played compassionate cop. He dodged left while she ran right. He stepped back when a lighter touch was required and she backed him up when a stronger approach would get better results. Meanwhile, at home, she quit whining about his scattered towels and socks and briefs. Instead, she picked them up and threw them in with her washing. She hung his clean, dry towel in the bathroom alongside hers. And she folded his socks and underwear and placed them in a drawer she'd cleared for him.

In return, Elliot fitted out her kitchen with pots and pans and utensils, most of which she wouldn't know how to use. He filled her fridge with vegetables and fruit and wine and cheese and eggs and fancy meats she didn't know how to pronounce. He cooked breakfast for her each morning and washed up afterwards. He got her in the habit of taking fresh fruit to work. When she came through the door with their freshly laundered basket of clothes, he was often throwing together a pasta dish or a protein rich salad or a fragrant vegetable curry. Once, after she worked a long shift without him, she returned to find all the lights in her apartment switched off and every candle she'd ever bought but never used lit. The whole place smelled of ylang ylang and sandalwood and buttery garlic and rising pastry. Elliot had cleared her breakfast bar, set it for two and decanted a bottle of red. She'd sighed in relief as she eased onto her stool, smiled at him when she took her first sip. They ate, facing each other on their high stools, knees knocking and slotting between each other. Every time she lifted her wine glass and sipped, Elliot watched her throat stretch and undulate and one of his hands reached out to stroke her thigh. When they made love that night, it was especially slow – savoring and passionate, peppered with throaty laughter and erotic murmurings.

The sex – while undoubtedly and consistently spectacular – has not been her favorite part of living with Elliot. It is true that every time her partner slips inside her is special. A blissful relief, after such a long build-up. It makes no difference if they are standing naked and wet under the warm shower spray or lying tangled in sex-fragrant sheets. Or if he surprises her in her building's laundry room while she's sorting their whites from colors, props her on one of the gyrating machines and fucks her hard and fast. She loves it all, every flavor, every time. But her favorite part is more subtle, more soft. Her favorite part has got to be slipping into bed with his warm, naked body after a long day. Or lying in her bed in her pajamas and having him slip in beside her. Feeling his arms encircle her, feeling his breath on her neck, feeling his chest rise and fall against her back as he falls into a contented sleep. Occasionally, one of them will work a shift without the other, coming home late and finding the other already asleep. Slipping into bed on those nights is especially sweet. Having a warm body to come home to, someone to sleepily ask, how was y'day? or are you okay? When it was her joining him in the bed, Olivia just murmured a simple response. Because it wasn't really the answer that mattered. It was the question. It was the presence of the person asking it.

She knows it can't last. They can't go on like this together, not if they want to remain partners. They haven't talked about it but she knows that their partnership, their work remains a priority for both of them. They've taken great pains to avoid detection – arriving at work separately, taking different routes to crime scenes, leaving a sizable gap between their departures. They work with some of New York's finest detectives though. She knows they are probably not fooling anyone. She knows her colleagues probably know, can see in the tiniest details just how much has changed between them. She knows Cragen can. She's seen the looks, the troubled frowns he's given the two of them. He hasn't said anything. But she knows it's imperative that Elliot find his own place so they can maintain at least an illusion of their relationship being purely professional. Their relationship has never been purely professional and Cragen knows it. He's consistently looked the other way, ignored guidelines and regulations in order to protect them, maintain their productivity. She appreciates her boss' continuing silence but she and Elliot both know that, like their living arrangement, it's only temporary.

More recently, Elliot's started buying all the local papers, spreading them out on her coffee table and circling apartment ads. On his last day off, he went and saw a few places. He came back deflated and lost himself in her body. The next day, he went out again and had better luck. He's since submitted applications for several apartments and is waiting to hear back. His chances are good. His income is stable, his debts few. He has no full-time dependants, no pets and New Yorkers generally like having a cop in their building. Which means their days – as they have come to live them, like them, know them – are numbered. She will probably no longer have to pick up his socks and briefs and towels, scowling at him in annoyance. And she will not come through her door knowing each time that he's waiting for her – cooking shirtless in her kitchen or sleeping naked in her bed. There will not be that comforting moment at the end of each awful case when Elliot mutters Let's go home, Olivia and they both know where he means.

Her apartment will feel empty without him. It's never felt more like a home than in the last few weeks when he shared it with her. Both of them seem intent on relishing however long they will be allowed to live together, create a home together before reality intrudes, duty beckons and Elliot moves on. When that happens, Olivia will help him pack, she will help him move. She will help him buy a big new bed. She will bring some of her candles to his new place, light them and make the air smell of sandalwood. She will draw his body close and suggest that they christen his new digs by making love in every single room. She will help him create a second home as intimate and comfortable and precious as their first. So that when she says at the end of a horrific case Let's go home, Elliot, it won't matter whose home they go to. As long as they go there together.

END.

If you enjoyed this story, please click on my pen-name to check out my other Elliot & Olivia fanfiction (the stars are the ones I consider my best and favourite):

1. "Need To Know"

2. "Blurred Lines"

3. "The Well of Olivia"

4. "Security Blanket" **

5. "Magnificent" *

6. "Opportunity Lost"

7. "In Plain Sight"

8. "Vinegar and Honey" *

9. "A Rare Breed"

10. "A Soft Place To Land" *

11. "Heroic Measures" *

12. "Hearts Divided" *

13. "High Stakes" *

14. "Through the Looking Glass" *

15. "His Sister, His Spouse" **

16. "Mr Grumble and Miss Sunshine"

17. "His Blue Moon"

18. "Cut" *

19. "An Uneasy Truce"

20. "Anywhere But Here" **

21. "Proof of Life" *

22. "Ménage À Trois"

23. "Humans Without Badges" *

24. "Incurable" *

25. "Collateral Damage" **

26. "The End of the World" *

27. "An Ugly Duckling Moment"

28. "Limited Exposure"

29. "Cheers Darlin'" **

30. "9 Crimes" **

31. "My Favorite Faded Fantasy" **