"Funny you're the broken one

When I'm the only one who needed saving"

-Stay, Rihanna

Wednesday, June 7, 2023

Night

He was drunk when she got here. She knows that. And he's not less drunk now that they've both had three shots in rapid succession. She's trying to face this thing with them and she's trying to embrace the idea that it's going to happen at some point, if only because they're really fucking curious after all these years, and she's coming around to being ok with that. But really, the idea that she is or might soon be ok with this is only a few hours old and she's once again rethinking the idea of coming here and drinking with him and he's just fucking staring at her like he wants to eat her alive and she can't decide if he really thinks staring at her is a good idea or if he's too drunk to realize he's just staring at her and she's getting more and more uncomfortable with the look on his face because she's seen that look many, many times and in her younger days, she went home with a lot of them and all she can think right now is that she's already home with him.

She turns away and tells herself the flush in her cheeks is from the whiskey and she's turning on the water in the sink and starting to wash the dishes he's left piled up and a moment later he's holding her glass in front of her, refilled with more whiskey, and she's pouring that back because she's already feeling warm from the drinking and the staring and maybe one more will take the edge off.

He's still right there, way too close for her mental health and her anxiety level at this moment and she just hands him the glass back and goes about washing off two plates and stacking them in the rack next to the sink and he steps away and she assumes he's gotten the message to give her space, but instead, he immediately returns with the glass refilled and this time, she drinks it straight down and washes the glass and puts it on the drying rack with the plates. She's five shots deep now and she's already well into unable to drive herself home territory, which means she's staying at least for a while, but she can't think about that, she's too busy trying not to jump out of her skin and scraping week-old leftovers out of a bowl.

"I have a dishwasher, you know."

She jumps at the sound of his voice and feels stupid because she knows he's right there but she's trying to hold herself together and somehow she's so acutely aware of his movements that she wasn't expecting him to be that close which makes about as much sense as the rest of her thoughts. "Maybe you should use it."

His only answer is to reach past her to turn off the tap, his hands on the rim of the sink on either side of her, and she's trying like hell not to shake and she wants to shout at him that she's here dammit and she's trying and she needs him to not crowd her and he's not crowding her, he's just there and she's there and she wants to run away but she also desperately wants to stay. One of his hands moves and she almost lets out the breath she's holding, except then she feels his fingers toying with the ends of her hair and she could fucking purr for how nice it feels to have Elliot's hands in her hair even if it's an unbrushed, still damp tangled mop with… oh no.

"Is there paint in your hair?"

There's an explanation, but it involves words and she's not sure she'll be able to make any sense, not fully buzzed and halfway to bonelessly relaxed with the sensation of his fingers massaging her scalp. "Yeah," she sighs and that's all she offers.

He's quiet for a moment and she's starting to lean back against him and he's so warm and solid and his hands are on her hips and then her waist and then his arms are looped around her and she's sagging back into his chest and she feels so damn good until he opens his mouth. "I didn't know you liked to paint."

If she were sober and less relaxed, the statement would be jarring, but instead of an immediate rebuttal of his ridiculous statement, she just feels a mild annoyance starting to coil in her gut and she resents that he doesn't know better because he should know better because she is the least artistic person on the entire planet and all she can think is that he must assume it's a new hobby she picked up while he was gone and now she's thinking about how he left her instead of enjoying the feeling of being in his arms.

But the damage is done and she knows the annoyance is going to morph into anger and it's still building, her level of intoxication preventing her from snapping suddenly, but she's irritated and she knows she's going to be good and furious in a few minutes and that thought just makes her more angry because she was enjoying being drunk and relaxed.

He must feel it or realize something is wrong because he loosens his hold, his hands slowly retreating from her belly to her hips and pausing there to make sure she's steady before he lets go and she's waiting for the inquiry or maybe just an apology or something and instead his glass is in front of her and he's really thinking she just needs more alcohol and that makes her angry too because there's no amount of whiskey that's going to change the fact that he left her, but for some reason, maybe because she misses how not mad she was for a few minutes there, she takes the glass and swallows it straight down and it doesn't help, not that it would hit her that fast anyway, but she spins around to face him and she's almost ready to say something, but he's still right there and he's leaning in and he just doesn't get it and the ire hasn't built up enough to explode yet and the alcohol has definitely quieted her nerves and he nuzzles his nose into her cheek and she's desperate for the way she felt a few minutes ago and she remembers how she's been thinking about just giving in and the way she'd thought about just kissing him a few minutes ago and she really wishes she had so he wouldn't have said something that reminded her she's deeply, deeply pissed off about the way he left her and still hasn't given her any kind of explanation and she thinks she at least deserves to know why he hurt her like that.

And still, mad as she is, she wants this, she wants him and them and she truly believes that if she's ever going to be really happy, it's going to be with him and she wants to forgive him and let it go and so she meets his eyes as her hands slide up his chest and he's asking without saying a word and this time she thinks maybe, if he can make her happy, then maybe he can make her not mad also and she nods and her hands slide up over his shoulders as he pulls her fully against him and his lips are light and soft and hesitant like he's expecting she's going to change her mind, but she doesn't and she doesn't want to and she gives in finally.

There's a very fuzzy moment just as his lips catch hers that she wishes she weren't drunk because she knows it would feel so much better if her head weren't spinning, but she realizes her head might be spinning because he's kissing her and she's kissing him and it's actually happening. His hands are everywhere all at once and she feels his desperation in the way he's trying to touch her and hold her close and reassure her and not crowd her simultaneously and she mirrors his actions and she's not sure but maybe he's mirroring her because her hands are moving behind his head and clasping behind his neck and running down his shoulders and she can't figure out where to put them because she's wanted to touch him everywhere for so long she can't even decide what to do first.

Much like everything they do together, their kiss gets intense and sloppy and she can hear the groans and the fast breathing and the various messy sounds their mouths make as they meet and their tongues tangle over and over again and then he's turning her and backing her up to the island and she knows he's going to lift her onto it but he's gotten distracted with his fingers slipping under the bottom of her shirt and so she's pressed back against the counter and there's a drawer handle digging into her ass and she thinks maybe they should leave the kitchen and find a softer surface but she doesn't want to interrupt because she's finally getting out of her head a little bit and she's simply feeling and it feels so damn good to have his palms pressing into her back and she loves the sensation of his skin under her fingers and fuck when did his shirt get unbuttoned and she can't spend much time on the dilemma of which one of them upped the ante here because he's lifting her onto the counter like she'd expected and her legs are curling around his hips and his mouth is nipping at the skin below her ear and her head falls back as she gives into the relief of knowing it really does feel that good with him.

His hands move to the hem of her shirt again and she feels him pushing it up and she knows he's trying to even the field and explore her skin the way she's exploring his and rather than just feeling, a hundred thoughts slam into her at the same time. She knows if her shirt comes off, the decision is made and she really hadn't intended for that when she came over here. She knows he's going to taste every fucking inch of her skin because he's already started and he's clearly very thorough as he's mapping her collarbone and she has scars and she's not ready for that discussion. She knows she has to tell him before he sees them because he'll get upset and not a normal level of upset, but Stabler upset and she's kind of worried that those dishes she just washed will wind up broken. She knows neither one of them is going to be in the mood anymore once she tells him and just thinking about it is dampening her mood and she doesn't want to tell him and ruin the way they're both feeling right now.

And then she realizes that she has to tell him because he wasn't here and fucking hell she's furious at him again. Still.