Undercover Days Chapter 6
A/N: Sorry for the delay, I was out of town and for those of you waiting for my Bones story updates, they're on the way. I'm typing as fast as I can! Thanks for reading, comments and suggestions are always appreciated.
Warning: M Rating applies for sexual situations.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I just play with them now and then.
Olivia stares into the darkness, a cold flush across her skin from the nightmare that jolts her awake. She stills, trying to fully orient herself. She isn't in Oregon anymore, she's home. She recognizes her room and her bed but it's Elliot's presence in it that causes her brain to falter. She waits until she's sure he's still sleeping before easing herself from his embrace. She moves silently, grabbing her heavy robe off the back of her door and heading into the living room. She stops for a bottle of water and curls up on the end of the sofa, pulling the green knit blanket off the back and tucking it around herself. She is slightly resentful that she can't bang around in her kitchen making tea as she often does when her sleep is so abruptly disturbed. Her skin crawls as she thinks of the visions that rambled through her sleeping brain. Her father above her in an alley, pinning her and pulling at her clothes. The scent of garbage, stale alcohol and exhaust were sharp in the air and the cold concrete bit into her back as he struggled to hold her in place. Her eyes move to the photo on her shelf of her and her mother, even in the dark she knows where it is and exactly how they both look in it. She doesn't need to see it to see it. She doesn't need the light to show her the faces in the photo look nothing alike. She fights the bile that rises in the back of her throat, trying to breathe deeply and swallow the acid burn as it recedes. Her fingers twist the end of her terrycloth belt, rolling the thick material aggressively.
It takes her a moment to focus and she closes her eyes as she takes a long drink of the cold water. This is a nightmare she's had before, one that she has actually discussed with a counselor. Years ago, after waking from the nightmare and unable to shake the feeling of him on top of her she had swallowed down three fingers of tequila and made the call. She still has the card in her wallet, worn and wrinkled from being held against her sweaty palm. She has handed out hundreds of them over the years, rape crisis referral numbers. She still remembers the feel of the raised print under her fingertips as she ran them over that card, debating, struggling. In the end she had been drawn to the anonymity of the phone and she had dialed.
She hated feeling needy and weak but Anne, the woman on the phone that night had helped her to understand that along the way she had assumed her mother's victim posture. She had learned to feel responsible for her mother's unhappiness, a constant reminder of the most horrifying moment of her life. Anne had stayed on the phone with her for hours slowly coaxing Olivia into talking it all out. There were things she said that night that were branded into her. The more she let her past rule her life the more powerful she made her father. Anne had asked her, if this was how she wanted history to be written, that on the day he raped her mother, her father had destroyed two lives instead of one. It was too late for her mother but it didn't have to be too late for her. The conversations had been difficult and she moved between anger and tears, frequently pausing while she contemplated just hanging up the phone. She had thrown a lifetime of excuses at that woman and had received a patient response to each one. Slowly as the night went on Anne had led her through the walls she had built within herself until Olivia had no where left to hide. She had felt better after that, for weeks she was quietly relieved and carried parts of the conversation around in her head, turning them over and slowly making them her own. Despite the occasional urge to call again, she had never done so but she had paid more attention to materials handed out at work and listened more intently at department seminars.
So why would she be having the dream now? Now, while Elliot sleeps soundly in her bed. The anger builds slowly within her, that the thought of her father would intrude on her good feelings, that the images of him touching her would collide with the sweet ache from Elliot's touch. She pulls her legs closer to her chest, the line in her brow furrows deeper as her brain tries to sort through the ideas and emotions. What was she supposed to think? That her father still possessed her? That she would always be his daughter, always have that darkness within her? That her past would always hold her down, be forced on her? Olivia freezes with this thought. Is her future destined to be a reflection of her past or can she change it? If she could believe, have hope for her future, actually allow herself to be happy it would be like taking something back from the man who raped her mother. Does she know how to have a relationship? She tries to think of successful marriages and comes up empty. Fuck. She tips her head forward, fighting a feeling of despair. She told Elliot she would stay. Is she breaking away from her past or just having a break down? She smiles a pained smile at the irony that she has to run from her past to be able to stay with him in her present. She lifts her head, drawing a deep breath, forcing her body to relax. She watches the shadows in a room she has occupied by herself for all the years that he has been her partner and wonders how it will change. Deep down she knows she would like for them to succeed but the mystery lies in the how. The entire domestic idea seems foreign to her and sorting it all out seems impossibly complicated.
The shift in light catches her attention and when she looks up, there is Elliot, sleepy and gloriously naked. The dim light plays over him and her breath catches. He strolls up to the sofa and it strikes her as surreal that he's wandering around her living room naked. He's all shadow and planes of muscle and she wishes she could hold this vision of him in her mind forever, take it out at will and lay her hand against him. She drags her gaze over him, soaking up every inch before bringing her eyes to his. Even by the dim glow of the city at night she can see the blue burning in his stare.
She squints in the darkness, trying to see him as though he belongs here in this intimate part of her life. She's so used to him in the outside world, they move as one on the streets, some version of a mythological beast with two heads feeding off of perps and occasionally baring their teeth at one another. At the end of the day they magically separate, stepping outside one another and heading off in different directions. Now here he is redefining how they become one, using their common rhythm to wind her desire up to a screaming pitch that threatens to break her. He's changing the nature of the beast.
"Trouble sleeping?" His voice sounds tired.
"Sleep was fine, dreams were lousy." For a second she thinks about not telling him but why shelter him if this is what he thinks he wants. She's up at night, often. He pulls the cushion from behind her and even as a protest leaves her lips he slips his shoulder and torso into the space so she is curled against him. She's not even sure how he did it. He pulls the blanket from under her hand and covers them both with it, tucking his arm around her waist and securing her. She stiffens for just a second; her complaint dancing on the tip of her tongue. She may think it's an intrusion on another night, but right now his presence is more comforting than annoying and this surprises her. Even though it's Elliot, the personal space in which she solves her problems and comforts herself has never included anyone else.
"Want to talk about it?" His voice is right at her ear now and his hot breath sends a chill running under her plush robe. The blanket covering them seems smaller to her as it rises and falls over the two of them. She wonders how long it will take before he stops feeling foreign in her life when he is so familiar in her head. Her life is linear, condensed, built around her wants and needs, there's no slack. Having him here is a tight fit, sometimes it feels good like the weight of extra covers on a night when the temperature has dropped below zero. Sometimes it feels like those blankets have been pulled over her head and she can't breathe.
"I don't know. I talked about it once before but there usually isn't anyone else here." She knows she isn't entirely making sense but doesn't care. It's the middle of the night in her apartment and there aren't any rules of etiquette here. In her head she hears her mother's voice in my own house I can do as I damn well please. Her mother had always done as she pleased whether she was in her house or not but Olivia never argued this point with her. The images from the night she first heard her mother utter those words blooms in her memory. Even back then she didn't sleep well, she would often get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom or just because she was awake. She could hear her mother before she could see her and the sickening heavy scent of perfume and alcohol wafted from the kitchen. Serena was singing softly, looking into the distance as though trying to remember the time and place of the tunes origin. She was in her white slip, the silky material bunched up at her thighs where her lengthy legs were crossed as she sat at the table in the dark with the half empty bottle and a glass in front of her. Olivia was eleven years old and she frequently stole glances at her mother's long slender legs as she grew into her own, trying to trace a similarity between them. Her mother was tapping a rhythm to her song on the worn yellow linoleum surface of the table, her fingers with their smooth polished tips arched as they moved, her hand resting just in front of the glass where she had loosened her grip to keep time. Light from the one small window struck the chrome trim bordering the table and illuminated a picture lying on the edge. Olivia remembers thinking that it could slide off at any second and flutter to the floor where it would rest near her mother's pale foot and brightly painted toenails. She had just finished this thought when she looked at the picture itself, it was an old black and white Polaroid of an infant; the dark eyes unmistakably her own.
Olivia had gasped and her mother turned her gaze in her direction, blinking slowly until her drunken focus fully registered Olivia's presence. Her mother's eyes were glassy and she squinted slightly, resembling an animal trying to decide what to do with prey that has just interrupted it's feeding.
"In my own house I can do as I damn well please." Her voice was a hissing whisper in the dark and she delivered the phrase like she was responding to a demanding question. Even with her stare boring into her daughter, Olivia had the uneasy feeling that her mother was speaking to someone else. Olivia didn't move or speak and a moment later when her mother looked away and began humming while refilling her glass, she slipped soundlessly back to her room.
She feels Elliot's hand flex against her abdomen and her thoughts return to him. He sighs softly behind her and waits for her to give him some sign of what she needs from him right now. She said she had talked about it once before and he wonders who was in her living room in the middle of the night. He hopes it was her mother or a friend and not a man with whom she chose to share. Although he has no right to be jealous, no right to lay any claim on her at all, the hair on his neck still bristles when he thinks that she sat and shared those intimate parts of herself with another man. He wracks his brain trying to remember who she has seen for any real length of time. His stomach twists a little as he thinks about it but the truth slides across the surface of his brain even as he's trying to lock it out.
No one.
She dated some men for weeks and others for months but she never let them get close to her. They were all men that she dated; there was never any reference to a relationship. Even now, on the rare occasion when they would run into an ex of hers she always worded it carefully, I went out with him for six months or so a few years back. She has never been part of a couple. In a flash he understands her fear in a way he never has before. He never thought it through, never allowed himself to think of her with anyone else. He just couldn't do it. Now he realizes that her entire love life has been a testament to her fear. She has never been in an actual relationship and he wonders if she has ever even seen one. For her this is the ultimate act of faith, being asked to make herself vulnerable to something she hasn't seen. This is believing on a level akin to religion, giving yourself wholly and blindly to something you have no real proof exists. It must be like stepping off of a cliff with your eyes open in the bright light of day because rumor has it you can fly. Elliot knows he didn't take that leap; he tripped in the dark and fell. He ended up flying because he was already falling; there was no time to panic.
He wants to explain to her that he understands her fears but as he desperately searches for the words that will even begin to accurately encompass what he means she begins talking to him.
"Sometimes I have these nightmares about my father in which I'm his victim instead of my mother." Her voice is flat, the sentence coming from a recording in her head that she suddenly plays for him. It takes a moment before the images tied to her statement gather and he fights to remain perfectly still. If he stiffens or takes in a deep breath he knows she'll feel it and stop talking. "I want them to stop but I don't know how to make that happen." Her voice is scratchy as though these words have been battered by the long trip from her center.
"Do you feel like a victim?" As soon as the question leaves his mouth he wants it back. He feels her body tighten against him and fears for a moment that she is going to launch off of him and walk away. After a moment there is a heavy sigh from her and her shoulders sink as though deflated, defeated.
"I want to say no, automatically, just no but part of me is tied to that idea because I always say that I'm a product of my mother's rape. What does that even mean beyond the physical aspect of it? A woman once told me that I had assumed my mothers victim posture. Incidental learning from your parent, some girls pick up a facial expression, the tilt of their hand while drinking tea or a particularly long stride. I learn her victim posture. It's just fucked up. I don't want to be a victim, his, hers or anyone else's. I don't want my life to be destroyed because of him. Who knows who my mother would have been if she hadn't been raped, if I hadn't been born." She sighs heavily against the effort of producing these truths for him. She eases back against him, grateful that he's sitting behind her where she doesn't have to look into his eyes. His look, with or without pity would be like a stage light burning too hot, following her every expression.
Behind her he takes shallow breaths as his heart twists in his chest at the thought of a world without Olivia in it. He wants to have sympathy for Serena Benson and when he thinks about the rape he does, for a moment. The feeling is short lived though because he knows her as Olivia's mother so the image of her as a victim quickly fades into the tormented alcoholic that emotionally, mentally and sometimes physically abused her daughter. The one thing that Elliot is sure of is that having a child changes you and Olivia's existence is testimony to the fact that some part of Serena still cared.
"You know Liv, maybe you weren't the reason your mother had so many drunken days, maybe you were the reason she had the sober ones." She has always assumed that her mother's alcoholism was tied to the rape trauma so it has rarely occurred to her that her mother may have been an alcoholic anyway. It has never occurred to her that her mother didn't want to drink more just from the sight of her. The idea shocks her and sooths her in the same stroke. She loves him so completely for offering her this thought that she is surprised by the force of it as it washes through her. It's quiet for a long time while they both sift through the thoughts they've been sharing. She's overwhelmed so she can't tell him now but she wants to remember that later she needs to let him know how much those words mean to her. There is an ambulance wailing in the distance screaming above the muffled sounds of Manhattan at night, as it fades he hears her whisper into the darkness.
"I want to be happy El, I do." She is hesitant as her hand slides under the cover and over his and squeezes before resting.
He blinks against the tears slipping over his cheeks, trying to catch his breath to suppress the sob that threatens to escape. He swallows hard and moves his lips to her ear.
"You will be happy Liv, we'll be happy. All you have to do is allow it." She turns toward him, stretching out her legs and curling against him, the movement causes his hand to slide further under her robe and around to her back. His arm forces her robe open and it now hangs loosely down the front of her, the lightly tied knot looping half undone against her abdomen. She feels the erratic draw of his breath against her cheek and presses herself into him, trying to calm him.
"If life was only that easy…" She pulls on the blanket, tugging it over her hip and adjusting it to once again to cover them both but letting her right breast press into his chest where the robe has left her exposed.
"Maybe it is Liv. Either way, don't you think it's worth a try?" He feels her sink back into him and he presses his lips into her hair, kissing the top of her head and inhaling the tantalizing scent of her.
"Yes Elliot, it's worth a try, because it's you, because it's us." She pushes the doubt out of her system in a heavy sigh, wanting to believe her own words. Her fingertips press lightly into the ridge of muscle across his chest and then lift as she watches the play of flesh under her hand. She always knew he would be firm, that the mass of muscles he bunched up while questioning a suspect would feel rock solid against her. His lips move to her forehead and gently kiss a path down the side of her face. She turns her head and tilts into him, capturing his lips with her own.
She kisses him deeply but slowly, savoring the moment, tasting him fully. Her tongue slides over his in long slow strokes and it's as sexual as if she was stroking his cock. His breathing is shallow by the time she releases him and he suddenly wants to look at her. He pulls her on top of him and slides over so he's lying flat on his back with his head against the arm of the sofa. She attaches her mouth to his neck and sucks on the cord of muscle running to his shoulder. He moans, tipping his head as she increases the pressure. She's marking him, he can feel it. He feels her shift her weight fully so she's straddling his hips, her knees coming up to clench against him. He watches the blanket slip to the floor and when he looks back at her sitting up, he gasps.
The window bathes her in a soft light, her thick cream robe falling away from her, off one shoulder. Her skin is a smooth landscape peaking at her dark nipples, dipping into a shadow at her navel and disappearing into the curls between her legs. Her hair is tousled and her lips swollen from their night's activities but it's her eyes, shining, even in the dim light that cause his cock to twitch beneath her. He thinks she couldn't be more beautiful than she is at this moment and sexier than any image he has ever dared to imagine. She moves to lean forward but his hand on her shoulder stops her.
"Wait, I want to look at you for a moment. I know it makes you uncomfortable but, god Liv, you're so beautiful." His hands move to her neck and begin stroking down and across her shoulders, pushing the rest of the robe into a pool around her hips. His touch reverently brushes over every rise and fall of her flesh.
She has never thought of herself as beautiful but looking into his eyes she can clearly see that he believes his words. She closes her eyes and tips up her chin, indulging in the feel of him as he cups her breast and molds his hand over her hip. His fingers trail down her arms and she twitches, then smiles when he finds a sensitive spot. His touch still feels like fire on her skin and she wonders if he'll ever touch her again without the heat of him seeping into her. She is sure that if she were to look she would see the red tracks of his touch burned across her body, his fingerprints clear at the curve of her breast. She tilts in surprise as his thumb dips into her navel, smoothing in and out of it before circling around. She clenches her abdominal muscles and bobs slightly as his deep laugh rumbles beneath her. His palms are flat against her thighs sliding up the length of her with agonizing slowness. His fingertips brush over the tender strip of skin where her leg bends into her center and even though she's concentrating on remaining still her legs slide the slightest bit apart in anticipation of his approach. She knows without looking that he's smiling, satisfied that even in her stillness her body leans toward his touch. Maybe they have never really had synchronized movements, maybe all this time her body was just following his lead. One finger traces the edges of her curls and over her lips and she tightens her thighs to keep from rocking forward onto his hand. She can feel her own liquid desire gathering between her legs, slick between her lips as her body prepares for him to enter her.
She pulls in her lower lip, biting gently to try and distract herself from the sensations swirling within her. Every cell of her skin feels hypersensitive, open and exposed by his touch. Suddenly he squeezes her nipple, tugging it gently and rolling it even as he pinches it in his fingers. Her body arches forward and a groan rips from her as her eyes open in surprise. Sharp pulses of pleasure jump and run from her breast to deep in her womb and she rocks her hips, feeling his penis tighten to completely solid under her. She's wet, and as she pushes down on him, her lips spreading, she knows he can feel it now too. A guttural sound wrenches from his chest but he continues his onslaught, adding his other hand to her free breast, increasing the sweet torment of it. Her hands fall to his hips and she tilts forward, grinding herself on his penis, rubbing her clit against him in a self gratifying rhythm.
She's soaking him, and his dick is throbbing with the need to be inside her but it's the slamming of his heart echoing in his ears that sounds like the rapid thumping of distant drums. He knew she was beautiful, he knew she was sexy but it's the things he didn't know that he thinks will destroy him. He had no idea that the round weight of her breast against his palm would feel like it was fused into his touch. He would never have guessed that her nipples were some deep shade of caramel and sat slightly upturned on her breast as though awaiting the descent of his lips. He could never have known that the golden color of her skin that he watched disappear into a thousand v-neck shirts over the years, was actually that color all over. He never let his mind entertain the idea that every inch of her was an uninterrupted landscape of smooth warm flesh that would so compel his hands and mouth. Then there were her lips and the sound that comes from them, the sound that is coming from them now.
Over the years there had been times when he heard her moan, seconds in which the sound had escaped her before she had realized it. Those moments live in Elliot's memory and still didn't prepare him for the way the sound of her would rip through him, firing up every moment he had ever thought of wanting her in the last eight years. It renders him helpless and the heat of it forges a steal hard on the likes of which he has only heard of in pulpy novels and bad letters to porn magazines. Even now, with his balls aching from the night's activities and his body tender in place he never even considered he wants only one thing. He wants to bury his cock inside her; he wants to drive into her so deeply she has only enough breath to make that sound again. God help him, it's all he wants.
He releases her breasts and grabs her hips but her look of surprise stalls when she sees the burning raw hunger in his gaze. He lifts her up and she guides him to her entrance where she eases herself down, feeling every bit of him as he slides into her swollen center. As she settles herself down on him there is a mutual sigh of contentment. It's more than sex, more than fucking or mating or a quest to satisfy an urge. This is a need, to be joined like this and to feel him touch her in a place she can't even reach herself, a place inside her that now belongs solely to him. She leans forward, spreading her thighs and tilting her hips to seal herself against him. She feels his groan in the palms of her hands where they are pressed into his chest and she smiles.
He slowly sits up and she watches him rise from the recesses of the shadows in the sofa, his body somehow more alive and his eyes catching the glow of a low blue flame as the haze of light engulfs him. He feels her lock her muscles around him as he turns slightly in the seat, sliding his feet to the floor. He's sitting now and he tugs her robe from around her, pulling gently in the places it has caught between them. So much has been caught between them over the years. Maybe they have burned through the rest, all the anger, doubt, pride, shame, indifference, confusion, faith, loyalty and a thousand others. Maybe after managing all of that they were left with just this, the passion, the love, the obsession she has become for him. He pushes up and feels her relax in acceptance of him but even as he settles back into the cushion he watches in amazement as her stomach and thighs tighten while her womb seizes tightly around him. He moves his hands to her ass and as soft as her flesh is, it's her strength that speaks to him when the muscles bunch and harden against his palms. As she pulls herself up he thinks he may come and wonders if it qualifies as sex if you don't even survive two strokes.
He wants to tell her but he's afraid if he speaks this blanket of intensity that has wrapped itself around them will slide off and puddle on the floor with her robe. He kisses her instead, surrendering himself to the taste of her and letting all the words he isn't saying melt in her mouth. He thrusts up again and she moans against his lips. Her hands are moving over him, her nails graze over his muscled shoulders as he arches toward her while she lifts herself again. He breaks from her lips and dips his head, taking her nipple into the hot depths of his mouth and working a hard rhythm against it with his tongue. She groans out a sound that turns into a cry as he increases the pressure. He moves one hand between them to stroke her clit as she slides up until just the head of him remains inside her then plunges down over him. He leans back, pushing himself into the cushion and pushing up off the floor. He grabs her waist with one hand as the shudder begins with a vibration deep within her. Her muscles slam erratically around him while he empties himself into her, his long torso and thighs lifting her off the sofa as he arches into the air. His hand keeps pumping just under her clit, faster and faster and she is wailing as her body pulls up and slams back against him in answer to the relentless hammering pleasure that pounds within her. Just as the darkness licks at the edges of her thoughts she crashes down and the throbbing shifts into an internal pulse that causes her to lock her knees against him, clench her muscles hard and bear down into the feeling. Elliot slows his hand and moves it so he is holding her hips as he keeps rocking up and pressing her down on him. Her upper body is trembling as she lies down on his chest, his heart thundering beneath her. She is trying to force a deep breath but her lungs continue to heave with the effort. His hand is stroking the length of her back, his fingertips glancing over the ridges in her spine, his touch calming.
It's a long time before they are both still. He knows she's still awake because he can feel her lashes flutter against his chest when she blinks. She lifts herself gingerly off of him and settles by his side. She scrunches her face as she stretches out her legs.
"Jesus, I'm not going to be able to walk tomorrow." Her voice is low, she's exhausted and still there is something electric slithering through her veins, an undercurrent snapping and crackling within her limbs. Glancing at him she catches the huge grin spread across his face. She flicks her wrist, slapping his abdomen. "You're such an ass."
"What? I can't be happy?" His attempt at sounding sincere fails.
"You're happy that I won't be able to walk?" She locks on his eyes now and there's no escaping her.
"No, no, look I can't walk now, forget about tomorrow. I think I need to take a two week vacation just to feel my legs again and if you weren't looking I'd probably be checking to make sure my dick is still attached." She's laughing by the time he's done, the sound and feel of it rolling across him. It's almost as good as the sex. He's laughing too, until he feels her hand gently touch his resting cock.
"Well, let's make sure you're not damaged." She tries to maintain a concerned expression as she lifts and tugs softly but her laughter wins and she collapses next to him as it ruptures from her. Gasping she tries to continue, "it looks…like it's still…attached…and will rise again." Her hand moves to her stomach as she tries to calm herself, slowing to a snicker.
He wants to be indignant, offended or something but the sound of her fills every dark corner within him and he is left defenseless. He let's his own laughter rumble from him and the release is amazing. He can barely believe that he's here laughing with her, naked on the sofa after so much sex he just aches. Olivia.
He musters his best sounding hurt voice, "oh, it's okay that I laugh at you but you can joke all you want about my pain?" He puts on a pout and crosses his arms over his chest.
"I'm sorry El, do you want me to kiss it and make it better?" She has dropped her voice to that low sexy sound that makes his blood rush faster through his veins, most of it with one destination. When he looks up she has that gleam in her eye, the one he now knows may be the death of him. He sits up straight, wincing at the various muscles that are beginning to protest his marathon activities.
"No, kissing is not going to fix this, but later a little resuscitation may revive it." He's trying to look innocent, but only manages petulant.
Her hand is quick, catching his chest this time when she snaps it in his direction. "You're such an ass and after that comment I'm even retracting my kiss offer." She's shaking her head and talking above his whining response to her strike.
"I can't believe how much you hit me. When did you become so slap happy? I thought Oregon was all about Zen, meditation and being one with the earth. By the way, you can't just take something back." He is chuckling softly now, his hand moving down his abdomen in case he has to cover his dick in a hurry.
"Believe me, I'm not hitting you. If I were to actually hit you, you'd know it. As for Oregon, we did meditate but I'm not sure I ever really got the hang of it. Being one with the earth was not the point, saving its resources and ultimately the planet itself was the focus and to be honest I learned a lot that I'll keep doing. As for your last comment, I don't have to take back the kiss; I didn't give it to you. I only made you the offer of a kiss and any verbal offer may be retracted within 72 hours by either party without consequences." She is grinning in what she knows is victory.
"You have obviously spent too much time hanging out around the assistant D.A.'s. I do find it interesting that you quote the law and threaten me in the same speech. I'm a cop you know, that's a felony. I could arrest you." He pauses and they sit in silence for a moment. "I just can't see you meditating. What did you learn about the earth while you were gone?" There was still a little ache in him at the mention of Oregon. He thought briefly of the wet bloody clothes he left in his tub just a day ago and flexed his sore hands unconsciously.
She yawns next to him, winding down. The room is growing bright with the first lights of dawn and everything is catching up to her. "I'll tell you tomorrow El. Let's go to bed now, I think I can go back to sleep and I'm pretty sure I can walk that far." She blinks and her eyes stay closed for just a second before she lifts herself into a standing position. She waivers slightly but manages one step forward. She hears Elliot groan as he rises, his joints snapping and popping in protest. She pauses and without turning she puts her hand out behind her. She smiles as she feels his fingers lace between her own and squeeze gently. As they make their way down the hall to her bedroom she wonders if maybe it all can be as easy as this moment, maybe it's just as simple as reaching for his hand.