She shoved him and she loved it. Craved it. Missed it. It electrified her- made her feel more alive than she had in years.
He was defending her, their investigation, the life of a CI that died in front of his eyes. She knows the heated physicality between them doesn't make up for the months of conversations they haven't had since he's been back. But it helps. It helps to grab onto him, grasp him, tangible and alive, feel his muscles and trace his veins, his strength rippling under the thin layer of cotton separating his flesh from her fingers.
He reacted harshly to the Deputy Mayor's bitter frustrations, and she dove in between to save him from getting fired. He listened, after a struggle, and then she threw down the gauntlet on his behalf. She was out of fucks to give– no one gets to come in and discredit their blood, sweat, and tears. She's done with people blindly characterizing Elliot based upon his jacket; close to three decades of devotion to a job that consistently finds new and innovative ways to kick him when he's down.
She knows what that's like, better than most.
Grabbing him was the easy part. Shoving and yelling and being authoritative- a cake walk. But every time they look at each other, really look at each other, it's all right there. The memories, the loss, the bloody squad room. The way his touch made her believe she was worthy of love. The way her delicate lips left a trail of invisible marks tattooed on his skin and soul.
But they don't talk about these things. Instead, they tiptoe and pretend, make small talk and keep things tidy and safe. It's easier to believe that their past isn't their past, because the alternative is too much to bear.
They finish the case, and she retreats again. It's safer to pretend he doesn't exist than confront their paralyzing history.