Red, Yellow and Green

by Mindy35

Elliot/Olivia. They've had many stops and starts but she will always be in his life and he will always be in hers.

Rating: M, strong sexual situations

Warning: Some minor bondage action

Disclaimer: You know the deal

Spoilers: Everything's fair game

Pairing: Elliot/Olivia always & forever

Summary: Over the years, they've had many stops and starts but they'll always end up together. Set during the current season (what are we up to now, 17…?) but nothing really to do with it.

A/N: Firstly, you really gotta know your SVU with this one cos I jump around all over the place and refer to all sorts of EO moments. For the diehard shippers, it shouldn't be too confusing. Secondly, please don't just fave and run, I'd really like to know why it's your fave. Lastly, if you like this story, you might want to check out the one before, called "The Kiss That Never Happened", as it didn't get much love. Thanks in advance to the lovely few who will make my day by reviewing...

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He can barely remember a time when she wasn't in his life. He knows it existed. He knows there was a time when his life consisted of a pretty blonde wife, his relentlessly horrifying job and four young children he'd do anything for. If he looks back on his life though, her presence still pervades those pre-her years. She still haunts his mind, his existence. As if part of him knew she was coming.

From the moment they met, there was a sense of fatedness. The instant her hand grasped his and shook his soul seemed to breathe out for the first time in thirty-two years, murmuring to itself a furtive finally…!. That feeling of fate was so potent that eight years later, staring down the barrel of her gun, everything seemed to make a twisted sort of sense. He'd relaxed in his tense, sweaty skin. He'd looked into those wide brown eyes, welling with tears over the gun barrel, and he'd told her it was okay. Because it was. Because he knew – something deep inside of him always knew she'd be the death of him. He'd known it for years, known she would be his ultimate end.

Olivia Benson was his end. But not in the way that he'd thought then. That horrible, protracted moment with Victor Paul Gitano was just another in a long line of scrapes they would survive together. A pivotal one. An intense one. An unforgettable one. But still one of many. Afterwards, he tried to tell her that they needed to keep their love for each other separate from their professional obligations. They needed to leave their private entanglement outside the squadroom doors, or it would end up threatening their partnership. He thought that's what both of them wanted – for their partnership to continue, underpinned by the more intimate relationship they'd been maintaining for so many years. Olivia had responded by walking away. From both relationships – professional and personal. A move Elliot now knows is futile.

They are each other's end, each other's fate. She will always be in his life. He will always be in hers. If parted, they will always find their way back. They will always be together. Nothing and no one can ever alter that.

-x-

His gut lurches as the wheels hit the tarmac, trundling along the runway before coming to a gradual stop. He travels a lot for his work so he's used to the sensation, although the feeling is never the same anywhere else than when he lands in New York. New York is home. He lived here, worked here, raised a family here. And she's here. Olivia. His body knows it and quickens with excitement. It's been months. Too many. But he's back. He'll always be back. They both know that now.

The yellow seatbelt light flicks off and the plane's passengers all simultaneously unbuckle. The cabin is instantly filled with murmurs and movement as everyone rises to locate their luggage. Elliot turns his phone back on. She hasn't called or texted. But she knows he's coming. They email mostly – they're old school that way. They text occasionally and talk on the phone whenever the missing gets too much, whenever the ache for that one specific person that no one else can replace overwhelms one or both of them. It might be a case that disturbs her or a dream that rattles him. It might simply be the falling russet leaves on a warm New York breeze or the waves crashing on the sand as a storm beats his one-man bungalow. Whatever the case, the last time he visited, Olivia took a picture of herself then arranged for his phone to bring it up whenever she called. Or whenever he spent long minutes staring at her number, his thumb hovering over the little green call button. Sometimes it's enough – her face, her eyes, her smile. Just knowing that he could call, knowing she'd pick up. Just knowing he'd hear her voice – sleepy or harried or distracted or sometimes, though very rarely, coming down from a laugh.

"El," she'd answer since there's a corresponding picture of him on her phone. And, once again, he'd feel his entire being release a profound sigh of relief.

Elliot reaches into the overhead compartment, retrieves his carry-on then slots into the slow exiting queue behind a couple of stout German tourists. His feet want to hurry but he forces them to be patient. His mind, however, is already calculating just how long it will take at this time of night to reach the apartment of his best friend, ex-partner and lover.

-x-

They held out a year. One year of feeling the pull between their bodies as they re-enacted crime scenes together, as they knitted hands and forearms together while hunched close to a computer screen. One year of gazing at her face across their desks, of dates dressed up as partnerly post-work drinks. One year of silently sipping their way through Munch's repertoire of conspiracy theories, exchanging amused looks and waiting to be alone. Those looks made his skin heat. Just sitting alone with her, in his darkened car, outside her apartment building, both of them smelling like stationery and booze, made his chronic Catholic guilt perform panicked somersaults within the confines of his psyche. Every Sunday, he would pray to be relieved of this lust, of his sinful thoughts and desires. But every other day, he stood closer to his new partner while discussing body evisceration than he did to his wife when discussing the malfunctioning food compactor or the un-mowed lawn or Dickie's detention stats.

He had always thought his God was kind. Until he worked at SVU. Until he met Olivia Benson. Years in that unit had weakened his faith in a way that war had only threatened to. Olivia Benson proved to be the last straw. No wonder he broke. If his unkind God had sent her to him as some sort of test of loyalty then he failed. Miserably. And unrepentantly. At first, it all felt relatively harmless. At first, it was just fantasies. Or rather, fantasy, as he just had the one insanely hot, go-to fantasy in which he would happen upon her in the women's shower block at the precinct. In reality, the precinct shower block was dark and dank and smelled of bitter disinfectant. In his fantasy though, it was airy and bright with shafts of light filtering in from overhead windows. He would enter, looking for her, calling her name, a pressing case on his mind. Then he'd turn and see her, standing in a shaft of sunlight, by an open locker, unashamedly topless. She'd be wearing her usual, staid dress pants, cinched at the waist with a thin belt. But from the waist up, she was naked – and perfectly relaxed under his stunned gaze. She let him look – that was part of the turn-on. She let him drink in the way the wet ends of her dark, bobbed hair grazed her pale, elegant shoulders. The way her skin was glistening as if she'd just dabbed herself dry after a steaming shower. She'd face him, give him a full-frontal view of those magnificent mounds he longed to draw into his mouth and roll over his tongue. He'd lick his lips and drop his gaze and watch her skin goosebump and her nipples tighten.

That was it. All he needed. In those days, as a much younger man, he was obsessed with her breasts. It wouldn't be long before his obsession grew to cover the length, breadth and incomprehensible depth of her. It wouldn't be long before his collection of fantasies expanded. And it wouldn't be long before he – before both of them – gave in and turned fantasy into reality.

It happened shortly after Olivia's ill-considered tryst with Brian Cassidy. Elliot wasn't jealous so much as indignant. To think that she thought Cassidy an adequate replacement for him or that anything she did with that Irish idiot could ever come close to approximating what had been brewing between the two of them for over a year. His indignation knocked him off-center, compelled him to confront her when he should have stayed sensibly silent. It meant that when he did confront her about bedding Brian, he revealed too much. Not just in how he looked at her, how close he lent to her, how possessive his underlying tone was and how eager he was to advise her on ending the liaison, but in what he'd said. That night, perched on bar stools with their hands wrapped round pints, Olivia had returned to the conversation. She'd waited until Cassidy and Munch were off throwing darts at a battered target before asking what he'd meant when he said that these things happen and that sometimes we want them to. She'd tipped her head to one side and asked if there some experience with office romances he was hiding from her.

Elliot had admitted that he'd fallen for someone, years before while serving in the Marines. Nothing had happened – or, at least, they hadn't gone as far as sleeping together. That was against regs and especially risky behavior for a female recruit. There had been some under-the-uniform touching, some clandestine kissing and some feelings exchanged. At the end of their tour though, they decided that the affair was merely an outlet for combat stress, a sad result of his distance from his new wife, of hers from her long-term boyfriend. After returning to their respective homes, they never saw each other again. He told Olivia the whole history – he told her that the woman's name was Lee, that she'd once saved his life and that occasionally he wondered what became of her. Olivia nodded and asked in a quiet voice if Kathy knew. When Elliot muttered a low no into his glass, she just nodded again and ordered another round. Later that night, with the car engine humming, he curled a hand around her neck and slowly drew her mouth to his. That first kiss lasted an aeon but he didn't come up, not that night. She wouldn't invite him upstairs until three weeks, several drop-offs and countless kisses later. By then, Elliot was too weak to resist.

He couldn't say at what point Kathy found out about him and Olivia. Maybe she knew right from the start. Maybe it was one of the unspoken reasons behind their divorce. Maybe when she cited his commitment to his work as a major factor in their marital problems, what she really meant was his ongoing commitment to his relationship with his partner. By then, it had simply become another aspect of their partnership – an unavoidable, incontestable fact of their association. He barely even felt guilty about it anymore. How could he, when he didn't regret it? When it had never felt like they were doing anything wrong? He'd always been, and continued to be, a good provider, a loving father and dutiful husband. He made love with his home wife whenever she was in the mood and said nothing when his office wife went on fancy dates with smooth-talking lawyers or slick stockbrokers or the occasional cop. He knew Olivia slept with them, maybe even developed feelings for them. But none of the relationships lasted very long, as they both knew they wouldn't. And neither her dating life nor his family life ever seemed to touch what they did, what they had together.

It wasn't an every night kind of deal. They never went on dates to the movies or the opera or the latest Manhattan eatery. He hardly ever spent the night at her place. Sometimes they'd even go weeks without spending a night together. Sometimes because of the job, sometimes because of her, sometimes because of him. Other times, they'd lock the whole world out and have sex six times in one night. Sex that was transcendent, transformational. Sex in which Elliot never had to hold himself back. With Kathy, he could never expose or exercise all his muscle, all his power and passion and lust. With Olivia, he could. She'd take it all, see it all, meet it all, absorb it all – then ask for more. Their love-making was everything it could be, everything they could be. It could be hard or soft, tender or fiery, teasing or tortured, impulsive or lingering. Most importantly, it was constant. Always there – whatever they needed, whenever they needed it, for as long as they needed it. It underpinned everything, their entire lives – past, present and future. It simply was what it was and always would be. Nothing could impede it, imperil it or diminish its lifespan. It was love. And it was forever.

-x-

The line for a cab seems endless. He calls Kathy while he waits, leaves a message on her voicemail. He's arranged to spend some time with Eli while visiting the East Coast. He might even rent a car and drive out to Princeton to visit Lizzie. He sees Kathleen and Maureen regularly since they, like him, are now West Coast dwellers. After meeting her now husband in college, Maureen moved west to be with him and start producing their brood of blonde, blue-eyed beach babies. Kathleen moved west a few years later after being offered a plum position with an up-and-coming law firm. His relationship with his girls continues to progress, even with Lizzie who Skypes with him as regularly as a father could expect from a busy college kid. But his relationship with his boys remains somewhat stunted. He hasn't seen or heard from Dickie since he left for his second tour with the Marines. And he only sees Eli when he's in town, which is not as often as he'd like. He sends cards and gifts and letters and pictures. And he flies in as frequently as his work will allow. But it's not the same as being an everyday dad.

In San Diego, he lives alone. Surrounded by photographs, memories, past lives. He enjoys the sun, the sea. He works out in a more relaxed way than he ever did in his youth. He watches the grey invade the hair on his head and jaw and chest and groin. He works less, sleeps more, eats well and drinks only sometimes. Often, at the end of a long week, he'll sit on his terrace, cradling a beer and staring out to sea as he fantasizes about moving back east. About replacing the clean ocean air with the gritty, spicy air of New York City. About the sirens and the food carts and the live sport. About being close to Eli and to Olivia and Noah. Moving would mean leaving Kathleen, Maureen and his grandchildren though. It would mean not keeping an eye on Maureen's husband, Kathleen's fiancé. Not being there to make sure the new fiancé was the real deal. Not being there when Maureen went into labor with her third child whose impending arrival had just been announced. Elliot inevitably relaxes in his chair and sips his beer. He's used to his life tearing him in two. It's painful. But familiar. And that's what phones were invented for. And letters, emails, postcards and texts. And planes and trains and cars. To connect dispersed families. To reunite separated lovers.

A cab pulls up at the curb and Elliot opens the door before it's come to a complete halt. He gives the cabbie Olivia's new address – he nearly gives the old one but stops himself. On the way there, he calls her cell, leaving a message when she still doesn't answer. After pressing the red button on the screen, he stares at her picture until the image goes dark and disappears.

-x-

It's not like they didn't try to stop. They took long, excruciating breaks from their affair, from each other's bodies and beds. After Gitano, Olivia disappeared for months, firstly to Computer Crimes and then undercover for FBI. He was pissed. He was puzzled. He was lost. So much so that he went ahead and kissed her replacement one night. The kiss was hesitant, clumsy, insubstantial and pleasureless. The second he did it, he regretted it. By the time Olivia returned, he was too deep in regret and too relieved to stay pissed at her for long. He kept up the pretense, maintained his distance. But then she ambushed him at 5am, looking casual and contrite as she handed him a coffee, as she sipped some strange, flowery tea. When she suggested a bite to eat, he knew it was a peace-offering. But when they rose from the cold steps of his apartment building, instead of turning in the direction of the nearest all-night diner, he'd seized her wrist and pulled her close. He'd cupped her face with both hands as he kissed her, he'd stroked her chilled cheeks with his thumbs as he tilted her head to one side and deepened the kiss. About that kiss there was nothing insubstantial, absolutely nothing pleasureless. Never was there anything hesitant or clumsy or regrettable about any kiss he shared with Olivia.

Upstairs, he stripped her top half first, let her hair out of its loose tuft, let the long strands graze the tops of those breasts he'd worship until the day he died. Olivia pulled him forward by his shirtfront then sank back on his bed, her denim-clad thighs wrapping round him. They made love on his rumpled sheets, in his dingy new apartment. He relished his exploration of her generous new curves and tucked his face into her neck when he came. In the morning, they made love again before she bought him breakfast at a diner down the street. When they returned to work three days later, they were rejuvenated, reunited and realigned.

They took another break after Eli's conception. When Kathy told him, when he told Olivia, he knew what it would mean. It barely even needed discussion. Olivia screwed Dean Porter, cut off her long hair and quit inviting him upstairs whenever he dropped her off. She never kissed him or reached for him or reproached him. They simply went back to concentrating on the other half of their relationship, the professional half. Then, a few months after Eli's birth, Olivia went undercover at Sealview. Elliot never read her report on what happened to her in that basement. He waited for her to tell him instead, waited for her to implode. He watched her closely, waiting for the inevitable instant when she would need him to catch her, to break her fall. She was drunk when she finally did implode and he's sure she left some details out. But Elliot didn't push. He just sat on her couch and watched stalwart tears track down her face. He shifted nearer as she took a large sip of wine, almost gagging on the lump in her throat.

"I just needed," she'd stammered, her head bowed and voice quaking, "I just, I need—"

He never found out how she was going to finish that sentence. Because he reached for her, slid a hand into her cropped hair and brought her forehead to his. Her eyes instantly closed, her breath slowly calmed and her tears gradually ceased. Elliot took a breath before whispering:

"I know exactly what you need."

He'd taken things as slowly as she needed. He'd undressed her with the lightest of touches. He'd kissed her fading bruises. He'd spent an eternity with his mouth between her legs, patiently inciting her to relax, to let go, to grow wet. At every stage, he asked her what color the light was – red, yellow or green. It would be a long, long while before she gave him fellatio again – but Olivia rarely said red. It was yellow each time he asked so Elliot proceeded with caution. Until the moment he was ready to sink inside her.

"What color's the light?" he'd asked, the tip of his cock poised at her entrance and his mouth dropping to kiss the corner of one closed eyelid.

Olivia wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled his propped up body down onto hers then whispered in his ear, "Green."

They followed a similar process after her ordeal with William Lewis. By that time, he'd left the force, reluctantly relinquishing the role of Olivia's right-hand man. His exit had been so traumatic that counseling was recommended. He'd chosen a Catholic counselor, hoping to cut down on the psychological mumbo-jumbo. But, stumbling upon his extracurricular activities with his partner, the priest-slash-counselor had compelled him to end the affair with his colleague and commit to a fresh, new start with his wife. He'd tried. He really had. He'd viciously cut contact and thought that not seeing her everyday would make that easier. He'd figured that since their partnership was over then so was the affair that had been such an integral adjunct to it. He'd reasoned that what they had was just another form of combat stress relief which, without the job, he no longer required.

That theory convinced no one – least of all himself – and lasted a little over a month. At which point, Olivia showed up on his doorstep, eyes flashing and hair flying as she toted a dusty box up the pathway, up the concrete steps. She'd dumped the thing at his feet and something within it shattered.

"Have a nice life," she'd said before turning and marching back down his steps.

He'd gone after her, grabbed her elbow and received a slap across the face for his trouble. After delivering the blow, Olivia seemed to calm slightly, glancing about and noticing all the other boxes in the yard, the dusty furniture on the pavement, the half-full van at the curb. Kathy and Eli had already moved into a small apartment near her mother's. Their marriage as over, their house sold and he was moving to the West Coast to take on some consulting work. He had little choice if he was going to pay Lizzie's way through Princeton.

"So…what? You were just gonna skip town without a word?" Olivia had demanded in response to this update.

He'd grinned and shrugged. "I woulda sent you a postcard."

She'd released a bitter laugh, turned her head to one side to hide the tears in her eyes. Which is when he remembered all the messages she left on his phone, the cautious entreaty in her tone that lost more and more power every time he refused to answer. He remembered how restless he felt when she stopped leaving those messages and how empty he felt when she stopped calling altogether. Olivia had resisted when he pulled her closer. But her defenses were weak, he'd weakened them over time. He'd turned her into a woman who – for him and him alone – would walk right into his arms, would open her own arms and embrace him, falling apart as he rushed towards her to catch her grief. Resistance was futile. Both of them knew it. So, with very little coaxing, he lead her inside the house.

It was the only time they were ever together in his family home. Though it now belonged to someone else. It was just a large, dark, dusty, empty space with marks of the floor where the furniture used to sit and outlines on the walls where the photographs used to hang. They fucked, hard and hot and desperate, on the stairs. And afterwards, as he held her soft, sweaty, heaving body, he told her he'd visit whenever he could. He knew she doubted him but he'd insisted that he'd be there for her, whenever she needed, the instant she called.

He visited a number of times over the next two years. But Olivia didn't call him or tell him what had happened to her, not until after Lewis' death. Initially, he was furious about being left out of the loop. She'd told him she trusted her squad to bring her home safely. She'd pointed out that his badge-less status would've driven him insane, that such powerlessness would've been unendurable for him. She'd added that she'd had a lot of support in the aftermath, throughout the trial – from her partner, her team, her lawyer, her therapist and her booty-call turned boyfriend, Brian Cassidy.

"Cassidy," he'd grit in reply, "isn't me."

"No," she'd nodded quietly. "He isn't."

It took several visits before she was ready to have sex again. They revisited the red, yellow, green ritual. But, this time, red came up more often and sex was often aborted. At one point, when Olivia was standing in her kitchen, hands busy fixing them a drink, Elliot came up behind her. He felt her body stiffen as he trapped her between his body and the bench, as his arms wove around her and his hands landed on her. When his palms slid up toward her breasts, her body began to tremble and her hands dropped the glass she was holding. It rolled off the counter and broke at their feet. That's how he learned her breasts were a red zone. So were her scars. And so was her face. She'd kiss him more tentatively, opening her eyes and studying him as he kissed her back. She'd place her hands over his if they cupped her face as they kissed, slowly peeling them off and easing them away. She was jumpy, changeable, mistrustful, hard to read, quick to avoid and slow to arouse. It wasn't just affecting their limited time together, William Lewis was still affecting her, haunting her, long after his well-deserved death.

After four strained visits, Elliot came up with a bold new approach. He was hesitant to share it with her and watched her face intently as he floated the idea. Immersion therapy involved confronting an anxious person's worst fear, immersing them in it to prove that their fears were unfounded. Olivia needed to trust again, she needed to close her eyes, let go and know she was safe. So Elliot suggested she let him restrain her as he made love to her. She could still use red, yellow and green lights and he would heed each one. But he would be in control. She would not. She would be vulnerable, she would allow herself to be, she would put herself in his hands. In doing so, he could prove to her that she no longer had anything to fear. In doing so, she could release herself from the sadistic specter of William Lewis, her abductor, tormentor and attempted rapist. When Olivia didn't immediately respond to this idea, he suggested that they firstly reverse roles, that to do so might ease her into the idea, build her sense of confidence and control. He told her she could tie him down, gag him, blindfold him, do whatever she wanted with him, take whatever she needed from him, if that would make her feel more healed, more whole.

Olivia nodded slowly. Then chose the first option.

He'd made sure that all the doors and windows of her new apartment were securely locked. He'd turned the lights off in the bedroom, lit some candles. Not that she would see them with her eyes blindfolded. He deprived her of her sight first, using a soft, yellow scarf to mask her eyes. Standing behind her, hands on the ends of the scarf that draped down her back, Elliot leaned in and whispered in her ear:

"Do you trust me?"

She nodded infinitesimally. "Yes…"

"Then I'm going to undress you."

He told her everything he was about to do before he was about to do it. He gave her every chance to prepare herself or to refuse – to mutter red and make him stop. He moved slowly, touched her with infinite tenderness, and used soft, comforting materials to loosely bind her to her bed.

"What color is the light?" he asked as he stood by the bed and began to undress.

Olivia's head turned his way at the sound of his zipper. She breathed in then answered, "Yellow."

It was yellow when he caressed her bound wrists and ankles. Yellow when he lowered his lips to her shoulder. It was yellow with a slight shudder as he ran a hand down her body, from sternum to belly, and yellow with a momentary hesitation when he moved his lips to lick the scars on her inner arms. It was yellow with a long, released breath as he kissed her breasts and suckled her nipples. And it was yellow when his hand slipped between her spread thighs to find her tentative wetness welling.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he murmured, lifting his lips to hers and hovering there.

Olivia sighed, their breaths mingling, her tone suddenly wanting as her body arched on the sheets. "Yes. God. Green."

"Green?" he'd asked against her open mouth.

"Green," she'd insisted, head nodding on the pillow and eyes shifting beneath her blindfold.

Given the green light, Elliot kissed her gently then eased his body on top of hers. He felt her arms and legs tug at their restraints, attempting to lift and envelop him. He'd pulled back, run one calming palm up one taut, raised arm then kissed her mouth, her cheekbone, her temple.

"Relax…" he murmured. "I'm in control. I've got you, I've got this. I'll give you…everything you want. All you need to do…is feel." He kissed her ear then added in a whisper, "And trust me."

Olivia swallowed and slackened, adjusting her body on the bed as his mouth ventured lower. This time, she needed very little priming. She was wet and close, although when she came it was with a quiet, much more reserved climax than in the past. He still counted it as a victory – one more brick in the wall he was slowly dismantling. Moving back up her body, he slid the scarf up off her eyes and over her hair.

"How you doin'?" he whispered, eyes meeting hers in the candle-lit dark.

"I want you," she whispered back. "Now. I want you now. Kiss me. Please—"

Elliot obeyed. He kissed her mouth and her jaw, her neck and her breasts. He let himself go a little, let himself enjoy the incremental release that was ensuing beneath him. She was squirming and panting and tensing with need and she'd been so very brave. He saw no reason at all to prolong what had to be a challenging experience for her. So he laid his forehead against hers and opened his mouth to ask.

"Green," she interjected before he could. "The light's green, it's very, very green."

Elliot smiled and closed his eyes as he fed himself inside her.

They had barely looked back since. Olivia saw her relationship with Brian Cassidy through to its natural, uneventful conclusion. Meanwhile, Elliot continued to visit whenever possible. From the other side of the country, he read her emails regarding Noah's guardianship with curiosity and concern. He was worried – as he had been when Calvin Arliss was dropped in her lap. He knew Olivia's heart, knew she would fall unreservedly in love with the little boy and be re-devastated if Noah was yanked from her charge as Calvin had been. This situation did seem more hopeful, complicated though it was. So when Olivia emailed him, requesting a character reference, Elliot was more than happy to provide a detailed document expounding all the many qualities that would make her such an incredible and dedicated parent.

Meeting Olivia's little boy for the first time had been odd and special. Elliot somehow felt he'd gained another son. He felt strangely protective, vaguely possessive. He had to remind himself to take a step back and allow Olivia to be the parent she'd always longed to be. And she was – as he'd always known she would be – a beautiful mother. Watching her with Noah caused his heart to bloom and his chest to ache. Part of him wished he could have given her that, that they could have had it together. Another part of him had quit fighting their fate years before. He'd at least been given the opportunity to babysit. During his last visit, Olivia had been called into work while they were still having breakfast. He'd told her to go, said he'd take care of Noah. When she returned three hours later, he told her he'd taken Noah to the park and told him all her secrets. Olivia just rolled her eyes and bent to give her son a kiss on his thin, brown hair.

Time spent with Noah had become a happy bonus of visiting New York. Elliot loved his children at all ages but he had a special weakness for babies. Particularly babies who somehow seemed to have inherited the well-known characteristics of his partner – her curiosity, resilience and all-enveloping heart. In the past, when he willed his cab to rush from the chaotic Newark airport through the familiar streets of Manhattan, it was because he was eager to see one person and one person only. Now, it's because he's eager to see two.

-x-

It seems to have taken a lifetime to reach his destination. His cabbie managed to hit every red light from Newark to Manhattan. But Elliot finally exits onto the pavement outside Olivia's building, glancing up at her windows to see the lights of her apartment on. In the elevator, he re-checks his phone which still hasn't pinged or rung in reply to his multiple messages. He hopes he's not arriving in the middle of some crisis, he hopes nothing is going to thwart the plans they have been trying to squeeze into their schedules for months now. An elderly lady with a pooch rides the elevator with him, catches him looking at his phone, at Olivia's image.

"Pretty girl," she comments with a twinkle in her grey eyes.

Elliot smiles, nods and shoulders his carry-on, stepping off the elevator on Olivia's floor. He finds her door, knocks and waits. He can hear her talking on the other side of the door and recognizes her tone. That's her tired voice. Actually, it's her exhausted, exasperated and totally-done-with-all-your-crap voice. He knows it well. He's proud of the advancement she's made in her career, of the hard-won recognition she's received. But sometimes he wishes she'd quit the force. It does wonders for a person's stress levels – not to mention their relationships. He knows she's not there though, not yet. She's still got things to do, to prove, to expunge. So he'll wait. He'll always wait. For her.

When his first knock goes unheard and unanswered, Elliot knocks again. He hears the quick click of her heels and then the door flies open, Olivia's hair sailing back from her face with the gust. She points to the phone at her ear, rolls her eyes and waves him in. As she heads back into her living room, she continues talking – arguing, with as much patience as she's apparently able to muster. Elliot enters behind her, drops his bag at the door and hangs up his coat. He waits, watching her listen, her back half turned to him and one hand planted on her hip. He can't help smiling. Whoever's on the end of that phone is not going to want to know her tomorrow. They may not want to know her for a month. Maybe even two. Evidently, whoever it is doesn't want to know her now because Olivia freezes just as she's launching into another fevered rant. She pulls the phone away from her ear then tosses it onto her couch cushions.

"Bastard hung up on me…!"

Elliot folds his arms and props a shoulder on the vestibule threshold. "Can't imagine why."

"Don't you start…" she mumbles, glancing at her discarded phone.

He smirks at her back, reading in her stance the barely restrained desire to call the bastard back and verbally chew him out. "Nice to see you too."

Olivia faces him, meeting his eyes properly for the first time. "Sorry. I've…had a day. Noah wouldn't go down and being the boss is not all it's cracked up to be."

"Well…" he strokes his chin, sniffs then says, "you're not my boss."

She smiles and steps closer. "Thank God for that, I can't imagine that kind of stress."

He smiles as she stops in front of him, leans against the wall with him. "Hey."

She takes a breath, leans in and kisses him. "Hey." Then she settles back against the wall, her eyes running over his face. "I'm glad you're here."

"Not as glad as I am," he murmurs, leaning in for a longer kiss and letting one hand drop to her waist.

Olivia kisses him back, fingers resting on his jaw, and when he pulls back, her eyes are glinting with affection. "You look good."

Elliot would like to return the compliment but she looks tired as hell. She'll always be beautiful to him but he knows her face so well that he can gauge just from a look how many days in a row she's been working and how many hours of sleep she's managed to steal. Judging by the puffy circles round her eyes, he'd say she's had more than just a terrible day. She's had a string of terrible days and virtually sleepless nights. Which means they may not make love, not tonight. He's been looking forward to it for months, living off the anticipation, off the memory of her. Another night won't kill him though. Tonight, they will just catch up, have a drink and turn in early. And if they're very lucky, Noah will give them some time together in the morning. After which, Olivia has four days off. So they still have time, all the time in the world.

Elliot takes in a breath then releases it. "Noah's asleep?"

Olivia nods and pushes away from the wall. "You can look in on him though. I'm going to open a bottle of red."

"Sounds good," he says, loosening his tie as he heads for her son's room.

Elliot pauses on the threshold, not wanting to disturb Olivia's sleeping son. The sound of Noah's deep, steady breath assures him that it's safe to enter, so he steps inside and moves closer to the cot. Noah lies on his back, one little fist flung loosely by his head, the other clutching the ears of a frayed bunny. Elliot smiles, runs his gaze over the little boy, noting all the growth he's missed out on. Kissing two fingers, he sweeps them over his forehead then leaves little Noah to his slumber.

In the kitchen, Olivia is pouring wine into two generous goblets. Just the sight of her – even dead-tired in her everyday environment doing something so ordinary – reminds him of that sigh of relief his 32-year-old self felt. He still feels it – every time he returns, every time he sees her again. How ridiculous he was to ever think he could live without her.

She turns and hands him a glass of wine. Then clinks hers with his as she leans back against the sink. "So."

Elliot takes a sip and glances about. "So…"

Olivia sips pensively then moves closer. She lifts a hand, places it on his shoulder then draws it down his body. Hooking two fingers into his belt buckle, she tugs his body against hers and asks in a husky voice, "What color's the light?"

His mouth curls up at one edge and his eyes rake over her face before he rumbles in unequivocal reply, "Oh, it's green. Very, very green."

"Well, that's very," she leans in and kisses him with an open, warm, smiling mouth, "very good..." Olivia deepens the kiss then breaks it off, grasping his free hand and pulling him in the direction of her bedroom.

Elliot follows, wine sloshing in his glass and blood pumping in his veins. They've withstood many a red light, navigated their fair share of yellow lights. Over the years, they've had many abrupt stops and cautious restarts. More may lie in their future. But right now – for tonight, at the very least – it looks like it's going to be green lights, all the way home.

END.