A/N: This is it! The result of last week's "build a pwp" polls on tumblr. The winning options were: s12 eo, in Olivia's apartment, dry humping, and against a wall/door/fridge. I got a little carried away and it turns out there is a little plot in this porn. I hope y'all enjoy!
There's something intoxicating about it, about doing something he knows he's gonna regret. Something masochistic, maybe, in the way he wants it, guilt and shame as familiar to him as lovers. That's not all it is, his certainty that he does not deserve the blessings he has been given not the only thing that compels him. It's compassion, mostly, that sends him driving through the night, away from his family, away from the place he should be to the place he wants to be. Compassion for her, care for her. He wants to care for her, wants to be someone she can depend on. It's like what Kathy used to say about the kids; they'd be little angels at daycare, on outings with grandparents, and turn into hellions when they got home, and it's just because they know they're safe, she'd tell him. At home the kids were not afraid; at home they were under their mother's care, sheltered in her love, and knew that love would not be taken from them.
It's the same, with Liv. She can be a goddamn brat with him, if she wants to. He'll still love her.
And besides, she needs to get it out. She can't keep this pain bottled up inside her; it'll poison her, rot her bones, fester in her gut until it kills her. A doctor lancing a wound, that's what he'll be for her.
She's pissed at him, he knows. Fucking furious, actually, probably. Not because it's his fault, necessarily - it is, but it isn't - but because she can't direct her anger anywhere else. That anger, it's safe with him. He can take it. Her sharp tongue, her fists, even, won't break him. It's what she needs, and he'll give it to her. It's what he needs, too. A part of him needs - wants - to be punished for this, for the role he played, however minor, in the crushing of her dreams.
So he drives. He didn't tell Kathy where he was going, and she didn't ask. She doesn't ask any more. She doesn't want to know. Maybe because she's afraid of how much it'll hurt, or maybe because she stopped caring a long time ago. He's not even sure he has the power to hurt her, not anymore. It's comfortable, the shape their relationship has taken in the last year or two, but it's passionless. He brings home a paycheck and she looks after Eli and they fall asleep, most of the time, to the sound of each other's snores, and he doesn't touch her and she doesn't seem to want him to. They're friends, now. They were always good friends. Something more, once, but the divorce broke them, and it was only duty that brought them back together. That day in the crib Kathy didn't ask him to come home because she wanted him so fucking bad; she asked him to come home because she needed help, and he'll give it, because he's always taken his responsibilities seriously, but that's all it is, really. It's coming, he thinks, the final break. Maybe once Eli starts kindergarten, when Kathy can go back to work. It didn't make sense for her to work while he was young, when most of any paycheck she'd earn would go towards paying for daycare, but when that's no longer a concern…he feels a change coming. Feels like maybe she's just biding her time. The thought doesn't make him sad, even if it should. He's biding his time, too.
It's different, with Liv. What he feels for her is not duty. It is not obligation. It is a wild, tearing thing. It is a want that aches. He is not driving to her apartment in the dead of night because he has to. Or no, that's not right; he does have to. There is a ferocious need inside him to see her, to comfort her, to drown in her rage, to make it better, somehow.
Christ, he'd cut the beating heart from his chest just to make it better.
There is no fixing this, though. Calvin is gone, physically taken from Olivia's arms, never to be seen again. The boy will be better off with his grandparents; Elliot knows it, and Olivia knows it, too, whether she wants to admit it or not. Olivia will be better off for having done the right thing, no matter how much it grieves her. If she'd let Vivian go, if she'd flouted the tenets of justice and law that form the core of her beliefs, she'd have shattered over time, her sins slowly spreading like a chip in a windshield that creeps steadily outward until the whole thing collapses.
It's why he'd tracked her down, gone to stand by her while she confronted Vivian. Not to stop her, or tell her what to do. Just to remind her who she is. It's your call, that's what he'd told her. Vivian was standing there desperately offering Olivia everything she ever dreamed of, and Elliot couldn't make that choice for her. It had to be her choice, and she had to think, really think, about what she was doing. About what she wanted, about who she wanted to be. She'd done the right thing, in the end.
And it had broken her heart.
That's why he's here, pulling up to her building late at night, too late, too late for friends, for coworkers. He's here because her heart is broken, and she's alone, and he can't leave her like that. The reward for making the right choice can't be more loneliness, infinite loneliness; he can't accept that. He won't.
So he parks his car and rides the elevator up to her floor and bangs on her door, loud, too loud for this time of night, but he needs her to hear him, needs her to let him in.
She does, but she's not happy about it.
"Go home, Elliot," she tells him, even as she opens the door, as he pushes his way through it.
The apartment is a mess and so is she; she's wearing an old white Rangers t-shirt that's way too big for her, a memento left behind by some ex boyfriend, probably, and there are blankets twisted into a heap on the sofa where she's been sleeping. Hard to raise a kid in a one bedroom apartment; she'd given Calvin the bed, taken the couch for herself. The TV is on, the volume real, real low, and that tells him she was planning to sleep on the couch tonight, too, even though she doesn't have to. Calvin's things are gone, his backpack, his shoes; DSS probably came by and took them. Loaded them into black trash bags to be carted off to Vermont with the boy. There's a picture on the fridge, though, a little crayon drawing, and Elliot can't look at it, knows that if he does he'll probably start crying.
"Wanted to see how you're doing," he says.
"How the fuck do you think I'm doing?" she snaps.
How is she doing, he wonders. How would anyone be doing after finally touching the dearest longing of their heart, only to watch it be ripped away?
It's all she ever wanted, a family, a child of her own. She's told him so herself. Trusted him with that secret, vulnerable piece of herself. It's not something she would give to just anyone, that truth. She gave it to him because she knows he will not use it as a weapon against her.
But it's killing him. It's killing him, knowing how badly she aches for a family, knowing she may never have one. The adoption people turned her down and he knows why; she works too many hours, and has no one to help her, really. It takes a village, that's what they say, and Liv doesn't have one. She's got him, sure; she's got Cragen, and Munch, and Fin, a bunch of grumpy old men who love her desperately and would do anything for her but aren't exactly babysitters. If she's stuck at work they are, too, and that means they can't be much help All. she's got is a one bedroom apartment and a closet full of ghosts.
There are other ways to make a family, though. Other paths she could choose. That's what frustrates him the most, he thinks. If she wanted a baby so fucking bad she could just have one; she's not too old, yet. She could find a man at a bar or buy some sperm online or shit, she could give one of her dates the chance to be someone she cares about, but she doesn't. Instead she runs. Runs away from every relationship before it gets serious enough to matter, takes the pill and makes those assholes use condoms, and then cries in the night for the baby she doesn't have.
Anger sparks and sizzles in his gut. Calvin wasn't her baby; Calvin was taken from her in the most brutal way possible, but he wasn't her only shot at family. She's the one holding herself back.
It was always temporary, that's what he'd told her in the squad room while he'd held her, her lithe body literally shaking in his arms, shaking from fear and anger and grief. Calvin was never hers. But she could have something that's hers, if she'll only let herself reach for it.
"She was never gonna let you keep him, Liv," he tells her quietly, and her eyes spark and burn at him through the darkness of her apartment.
"She said -"
"And you believe her?" he fires back. "He's her son, Olivia. She was never gonna let you have him free and clear, not for good. If you'd let her go you'd have spent the rest of your life looking over your shoulder waiting for her to come back. And she would have come back. He's her baby. You don't understand what it's like-"
Shit. He shouldn't have said that. Olivia stomps away from him, her anger palpable even from a distance. But she doesn't understand, he thinks, not really. She knows what it is to love a child but she doesn't know what it is to love her child. That bond, the depth of it, the possessiveness of it. Even drugged out of her mind, Vivian would always feel that pull, that desperate need to claw her baby back from the woman who had taken him, and Vivian was unpredictable, reckless; she'd have stolen Calvin back if she had to, Elliot thinks. And Olivia might know that, rationally, but she does not understand it in her heart, because she has never had anything that was hers, not really.
For the moment she's taking her anger out on the blankets, folding them up forcefully, making a mess of it but not caring in the slightest.
"If you just came here to patronize me you can get the fuck out," she tells him, refusing to meet his gaze.
"I didn't," he says. "I came here because I'm your friend. You shouldn't be alone."
She shoots him a baleful look, one that seems to say why should tonight be any different? But she plops down on the couch, now clear of blankets, and Elliot approaches her warily, settles himself down beside her. It feels like maybe they've struck a truce here, but he's not a fool. She has not exorcized her anger, not by a longshot.
"That picture, on the fridge," she tells him heavily. "Calvin signed his name on it. He wrote Calvin Benson."
Jesus Christ, Elliot thinks. He knew Calvin liked Liv, that the boy had been happy here, but he hadn't realized before now how happy. This tiny, cramped apartment probably felt like heaven to that kid, that poor kid who'd spent his whole life watching his mother destroy hers, that boy who'd never really had the kind of stability, the warmth, the kindness that Liv offered him. Liv was sweet to him, Elliot knows that, took good care of him, but after everything he'd been through Calvin probably would've attached himself to anyone. They've seen it enough times, in abused and neglected kids. Calvin will transfer his affections to someone else, to his grandparents. Liv's affections have nowhere to go.
"I wanted…" she starts to talk, stops abruptly, catches her bottom lip between her teeth and looks away.
"Liv-"
"It's stupid," she says. "But I wanted him to be a Benson. My mother was an only child, I'm an only child." Technically, he thinks. She's got a half brother out there somewhere, but Simon is not a Benson. "I wanted there to be another Benson. I think…I think my mother would've liked that."
I'm too sober for this conversation, he thinks. He never met Serena Benson, but he didn't have to. He hears her voice coming out of her daughter's mouth some days. That woman haunts the stationhouse, hovers in the air behind Olivia's shoulder. Dead ten years, but not gone, not really. Would she have been pleased with the little boy Olivia brought home, the little boy whose grandfather was a rapist just like the man who ruined Serena's life, the little boy with someone else's face echoed in his own?
" 's not too late," Elliot says half-heartedly. "You got time to make a little Benson, if you want."
It's something he's thought about more than he wants to admit. Olivia, pregnant; when she told him the adoption agencies turned her down he'd started dreaming about it. Surely that was the obvious choice, the only course of action that would make sense, just having a baby on her own, and she'd be good at it, he thinks. She'd be the best mom a kid could ask for. And she'd be beautiful, pregnant. Beautiful, holding a baby in her arms. And happy; she'd be happy, too.
A little Benson; when he closes his eyes he sees it. A little girl - always a little girl - with Liv's big dark eyes, her proud jaw, her soft hair. Little Benson would be perfect, he thinks, and she'd make her mother so happy.
And she's never, ever going to exist.
"It is," Olivia says softly, sadly. "It is too late, El."
There's that frustration burning in his belly, again. It isn't too late. She's still got time. But she has to act, and she won't, and that pisses him off. All this suffering, all this sorrow, it isn't necessary. She's writing her own tragedy.
The thing is, he feels responsible for it, too.
There is something that she wants, and he can give it to her. Olivia wants a child, and he's made five of them. It's ironic, or just fucked up maybe; it feels like torture, like some kind of unsolvable riddle cooked up for a philosophy class. He carries the answer to her prayers within his own body, is willing and able to make all her dreams come true, but he'll never offer and she'll never ask.
"He loved you," Olivia tells him quietly. He knows what she's thinking about, about him playing rock paper scissors with Calvin in the bullpen, about the way the boy had smiled. Elliot is thinking about it, too, but he's not thinking about Calvin. He's thinking about how goddamn happy Olivia looked, seeing the two of them together. He's thinking about what they might have had, if Calvin had not been taken away. Thinking about birthday parties and school trips and Calvin, hanging around the station in the evenings, waiting for his mom. A boy needs a role model, that's something Elliot believes firmly; a boy needs someone to show him how to be a man. Elliot could have been that, for Calvin. He would've done that, for Liv.
"Liv-"
"The way you were with him…"
And he knows, then. That she saw him with Calvin, and thought the same thing he's thinking now. They could have been good, like that. They could have been a family.
"C'mere," Elliot says, and wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulls her into his side. It's not quite a hug - they don't hug, as a rule. Once, in the thirteen years they've been partners, he's hugged her once, standing in a hospital corridor, his wife's blood splashed all over Olivia's sweater. He's hugged her once, done it because he had to, because he'd almost lost all three of them, Liv and Kathy and the baby, because Olivia risked her own life, fought like hell to save his family. Maybe he should've fought harder to save hers; the guilt bites at him, as she settles against him, her head on his shoulder.
"I'm tired," she sighs, and he can tell without looking that her eyes are closed. Of course she's tired; not just from lack of sleep - though there's no way, he thinks, that she was sleeping well on the couch - but from all of it. The work and the heartache and the loneliness. He's tired, too. Tired of going through the motions with Kathy, tired of watching Olivia walk away from him, tired of the hurt.
She shifts against him, and his hand drops down to her side, and he can feel her skin burning him through the thin fabric of her t-shirt. She's quiet, now; all that anger was just sadness in disguise, and she's stopped fighting it. The TV is still playing softly in the background, but the volume is so low that he can hear her breathing slowly in his embrace. In and out, in and out, a comforting refrain. She drops her hand to his chest, just above his heart; she's seeking comfort, too, finding it in the warmth of him. Good, he thinks.
"I'm scared," she whispers into the darkness.
"Tell me," he answers. Tell me the name of your fears so I can fight them. Let me fight them, let me win. Let me make you happy.
"There's things inside of me I don't wanna pass on to a baby."
He knows what she means. The darkness. He's seen it flashing in her eyes; he's pulled her bodily away from fights before, when the anger came spilling out of her. That darkness almost had her taking Vivian up on her offer, trading her morals for a child. That darkness…what she fears is not only the anger and the hate and the pain that made Joe Hollister a rapist. It's the sorrow that made him kill himself. She's got that inside her. Just like Elliot carries a piece of his mother in him, his mother who was so unpredictable, so reckless, so prone to hurting the ones she loves.
"There's so much good in you," he tells her. "You'd pass that on, too."
And he aches when he thinks about it. When he thinks about a child who possesses all the best parts of Olivia. Little Benson…she'd be perfect, he thinks.
Olivia sighs, rubs her cheek against his shoulder the way a kitten might nuzzle at its mother. The gesture is all about comfort, he knows that. It comforts him, too. He wants more of it, more of her touch, wants to feel her skin on his. Wants to hold her, properly. He wants to carve open his chest and draw her inside, wants to keep her safe and warm forever. He wants to give her everything she's ever dreamed of. He could, if she'd let him.
It would be the end of them, though. They're partners, and if he crosses that line, they can't work together anymore. He's married to Kathy, and he's gotta stick it out, at least a couple more years. Liv would hate him if he didn't. And she won't let him love her, he knows she won't; she won't let anyone. She always runs before that happens. If he tells her what he's thinking right now, he'll put himself in the same box with all those other poor sons of bitches who tried to make her happy and got left behind.
"Hey," he says, quietly. He has to speak; he has to stop this, now, because if he doesn't Olivia may lose a whole lot more than Calvin tonight.
"I don't want this to be my life," she tells him, and it breaks something in him, that confession.
"It doesn't have to be." The words are out before he can stop them, and she looks up at him sharply, dark eyes wide and scared. It is dangerous, this offer he's thinking about making. It will shatter them both. But he finds he wants it, the breaking, the ruin.
"Yes, it does," she tells him. "But maybe…maybe we could just pretend. Just for a little while."
They can do that, he thinks. They can close their eyes, and pretend that things are different. That he's free to love her, that he can give her the things he wants to give her. At this time of night it feels like the whole world has come to a standstill, like nothing exists outside her apartment. Come morning real life will come rushing back, but for now, they can pretend. He wants to pretend.
He reaches out, runs his fingers through her tousled hair. He's always wanted to do that, and it feels better than he ever imagined. As he touches her she draws in a long, slow breath, holds it deep within her chest and lets her eyes flutter closed.
It's easier to be bold when she's not watching him. He can pretend it isn't happening at all, that this is just a dream. So he does. He touches her, and dreams.
With a growing boldness he lets his hands run over her. Trails his fingertips over the rise of her cheek, along the line of her jaw. Smooths his other hand over the plane of her back, down, and down, until he's cradling her ass in his palm. It's quiet, in the apartment, so quiet that he hears when she lets out the breath she's been holding in one long, slow, whisper of a sigh. The hand she's kept anchored at his chest presses against him a little harder as if she is seeking out the beat of his heart.
It's all just pretend.
"Olivia," he murmurs her name. She's nuzzling against him, still, her head shifting gently near his neck, and he tilts his chin down, rests his cheek on the warm softness of her hair.
In response she shushes him gently; she knows better than he does. If he keeps talking he'll shatter the illusion, and they'll have to admit that this isn't pretend at all, and she's not ready for that, no more than he is. He does as she tells him; he falls quiet, and just keeps touching her. Ghosting his hands over the curves of her body, and it's delicious, the way she feels beneath him, around him, but the angle is all wrong. He can't reach all of her, can't feel her the way he wants to. If they're going to pretend then he wants all of it, the full fantasy.
"C'mere," he says again, grasping at her hips.
At his insistence she moves with him; she keeps her eyes closed, screwed up tight, but she moves, lets him settle her over his lap, her knees bracketing his hips, her breasts pressed hard to the solid bulk of his chest, her center settling over his slowly hardening cock. This is better; this is good. He wraps his arms around her, one low around her waist, one across her shoulders, his hand cradling the back of her head, pulling her in close. For several minutes they stay just like that; she wriggles her arms between his back and the couch and buries her face in the crook of his neck, and they just hold on.
It is an embrace the likes of which they've never shared, their bodies closer than they have ever been, their arms clutching fiercely, desperately, and he can feel her heart beating in time to his own. In his arms she breathes shallowly, unsteadily, and he knows how she feels because his own lungs don't seem to want to work.
Time slips slowly away while they sit there, clinging to one another. She is warm, and soft, and holding him. She is everything he wants, everything he can never have. Though he dearly wishes it wouldn't his body is responding to the proximity of her, to the tantalizing promise of pretending; she's perfect, heavy and warm on his lap, and he is close, so close, to all the intimate parts of her, all the places he's longed to touch her, though he be damned for that longing.
He'd tried, once, to confess. Gone to the church and sat in the booth and told the priest everything.
There's a woman, father. The things she makes me feel, the things she makes me want…it scares me. Sometimes I think I love her. More than my wife. Sometimes I think I'd do anything just to be with her.
The priest had advised him to remove the temptation, and that had been the end of Elliot's confession. He'd rather ache than leave her, rather sin than turn his back on her. The priest said he had to honor his vows, to his wife and to God; the priest told him it was wrong, to keep this woman in his life, unfair to her and unfair to his wife and imperiling his immortal soul. Fuck my soul, he'd thought.
It's what he's thinking now. This is wrong, pretend or not, but it feels right, too. It feels like this is where he was always meant to be. With her.
And maybe she can feel it, too, because as his heart clamors against his ribs, as his blood sings her name while it races through his veins, she moves.
It's subtle at first, the shifting of her hips, but he feels it like a hammer to his chest. There's no way she hasn't noticed the bulge of his cock; she has to know that he's hard for her. That he's been getting that way since she nuzzled against him a lifetime ago, that he's aching for her. But she's not running away, not putting distance between them, not reminding him of the line that has always kept their bodies separate from one another. She is pretending, still. Chasing a fantasy, and this is what she's chosen.
She wants to feel it.
And he lets her. Slowly he drops his hands down to her hips, guides her as she begins to rock against him. Back and forth, gently, pressing down, and he can feel it, the head of his cock straining for her through the thin fabric of her leggings. There is warmth there, so much warmth, goddamn heat, and her breath hitches, just a little, when she gets the angle right. Beneath them his feet are planted firmly on the floor, and he uses the leverage to press up, just a little, and a surprised sound escapes her lips, not quite a whimper, but something close to it. It's a sound he wants, desperately, to hear again.
So he moves, again, thrusts up into her while she grinds down, and this time she moans, softly, but still. Is it her clit, he wonders; is the head of his cock pressing against her clit, and is it lighting up her nerves like wildfire, and does she want more? He thinks yes, yes she does, because the pace of her slowly swirling hips increases, and he moves with her. He pushes up and she grinds down and a groan escapes him. Too much, he thinks, too much; she wants to pretend, and she can't if he makes too much noise, if he reminds her whose lap she's sitting on, and she bites at his neck, just a little, as if in reprimand, and he tries to keep quiet, for her.
What started off gentle, curious almost, is rapidly growing frenzied. The way she's rocking against him; this is how she would move, he thinks, if he was fucking her. If his cock was buried inside her, this is how she would take him in. Olivia wants him quiet but she is making noise enough for both of them, panting and gasping as she grinds against him. There is an elegance to her movements; everything about her is provocative, in this moment, even though she's still fully dressed. Technically, he thinks, this isn't fucking. Technically this isn't anything, because he hasn't so much as kissed her, because he has not felt the weight of her breasts in his hands, because she is not bare, because he has seen no more of her body tonight than he would sitting across the desk from her at work.
Maybe it's nothing, technically, but it's everything, practically. It's everything, because now he knows what she sounds like when she is seeking her pleasure. Now he knows she can find that pleasure in him, in his cock. Now he knows how she moves her hips when she's fucking and Jesus, he wants to be inside her.
But her eyes are still closed. She's got her arms around his neck, now, her head thrown back on her shoulders as she rocks and thrusts and grinds with him, as the bulge of his cock presses against her in the place that makes her body sing for him. It's all wrong, though. It's wrong, because they are supposed to be pretending, supposed to be dreaming, and in his dreams her dark eyes watch him while he fucks her. It's not his dream if her eyes are closed.
"Look at me," he demands roughly, suddenly. He needs those eyes on him. He needs for this to be real, and not pretend. He needs to know it's Olivia, rocking on his lap, Olivia, aching and wet for him. He needs her eyes.
In response to his plea those eyes flutter open, and the mood shifts suddenly, quickly. She freezes in his arms, and something like shame clouds her expression.
"I'm sorry," she says, and sounds like she means it. "I'm sorry, Elliot. I can't…I can't do this."
And with those words she scrambles off him, takes to her feet and steps away, running her fingers through her hair and shaking all over.
And goddamn if that doesn't make him angry. She's always running away from the things she wants, always saying no and then wondering why her hands are empty. Tonight they are pretending, and so he decides that he will pretend to be someone who fights for her. He will pretend to be someone who can.
"At some point, Liv, you're gonna have to take responsibility -"
"Excuse me?" her words are sharp, incredulous, and her eyes are full of fury, but he doesn't let her stop him, doesn't let her see how scared he really is.
"You can have everything you want if you'd just stop being so goddamn scared. You want to pretend? I think you're pretending all the time, Olivia. You're pretending like all this shit is set in stone when it's not. Like you have to be alone when the truth is you choose to be. You pretend like this isn't real-"
"Stop it-"
"But it's real, Liv. You and me, this is as real as it gets."
Gitano, and a knife against a throat, and a dead boy, and a whispered, broken conversation in a hospital corridor. Valerie Senett's screams and tea in a paper cup after. Her mother and his mother and Simon, Kathleen and Calvin. Every case, every loss, every day, all of it, all of it is real, and he has loved her through all of that, and she knows it, he knows she does, because she's the one who ran and she's the one who came back. It's real.
"Get out, Elliot," she tells him grimly. She's trying to sound tough but there are tears in her eyes. It's the tears that make him turn away; he can't stand to see her cry. Not ever, but especially not now, when he knows it's his fault. It's all his fault, because if he'd just kept his mouth shut maybe she would have grinded herself to orgasm on his lap and maybe he'd still be sitting there holding her, instead of getting kicked out on his ass. Masochist, he thinks. He never could just accept a gift when it landed in his lap. He's always waiting for the other shoe to drop and when it doesn't he fucks things up himself.
We're real he thinks. That, on the couch, that clinch, that clawing hunger, that was maybe a little about loneliness and a little about grief but it was mostly, he thinks, about love. About all the things he wants to give to her and all the things she'll never take from him. It was about the way her voice calms him, the way she stands a little steadier with his hand at the small of her back. It was about takeout and stakeouts, about chopsticks and the sedan, about her eyes, and the way they crinkle at the corners when she smiles, and how bad he wants to kiss her there. It was a little about comfort but mostly it was about thirteen goddamn years of love, and it's real, whether she wants it to be or not. They were always real.
"Fine," he says. He says it because he has to; he can't stay where he's not welcome, and he can't stand here looking at her, not being able to touch her.
The vision of her cuts him like a knife; she's standing there, alone, near her kitchen, her arms wrapped around her middle. Her pretty, pouty lip is trembling just a little, and her cheeks are red, and the way that shirt hangs off her makes her look young, and scared, in a way he doesn't think he's seen her since before the towers fell. It hurts him, her fear. It hurts to know he's the one who put it there, that he's the reason she's afraid. Or no, that's not right, she's not afraid of him; she's afraid of the way he makes her feel. Elliot gets that. The way he feels when he looks at her…it scares the shit out of him sometimes. It feels like falling.
He left his coat somewhere near the door, is in the process of shrugging into it, checking his pockets for his keys, cursing himself for being such a fool, when he hears her footsteps behind him. Come to shoo him out the door, he thinks, or to lock it up after him. It doesn't matter; he doesn't want to look at her anymore. God only knows what he'll do if he sees her face right now.
His hand is on the doorknob when she speaks.
"Don't," she says, and her voice is quiet, so quiet he barely hears it. It still stops him in his tracks; it always has. She doesn't need to shout; her whispers bring him to his knees.
"I want…" she starts to say, and it sounds like she's drowning, her voice thick and distant. "I want to pretend to be brave."
That's all bravery is, he thinks. Pretending. A person can't be brave if they're not scared; there's no courage without fear. And whether she knows it or not, whether she'll admit it or not, she's the bravest person he knows.
So he turns to look at her, and when he does something like a volcano erupts in his chest, and he's got his tongue in her mouth before he even has a chance to think about it. It just happens, fiercely, forcefully; his hands are tangled in her hair, tugging, just a little, getting the angle of their open mouths just right, and her hands are wrenching the coat from his shoulders, and her hips keep bumping into his, insistently, indulgently, and the inside of her mouth tastes like wine. He's never really liked it before, wine. Always makes him think of church. He'll drink it from her mouth happily, take communion from her, with her, without regret.
His coat hits the floor and the second it does his hands are back on her, lifting her; it's easy, the way she jumps at his urging, heeds the unspoken commands of his body and moves with him, easy to hold her. It feels like he always has been; he's been carrying her around with him everywhere he goes since the day they met. But her tongue is sliding against the roof of his mouth and the thought of it makes him tremble so he spins them, searches for a safe place to brace them both before they go tumbling to the floor. Searches, and finds it, finds a bare patch of wall right next to her door, slams her back into it and she doesn't complain, barely even reacts at the force of it, just clenches her thighs around his hips and rubs herself against the bulge in his jeans, and Jesus, if this is her pretending what the fuck does the real thing look like?
That's what he wants. He wants the real thing.
He sets her down on her feet, their mouths separating with a wet, indecent sound, and he reaches for her shirt, and she lets him. She lets him strip her bare, standing right there by her front door, dark eyes watching him the whole time. Not that it takes very long; a few seconds, and he can see her, all of her, the soft weight of her breasts, her smooth belly, the sharp points of her hips, her bare mound. Completely bare, like she waxes or something, and he's gonna be thinking about that every time he sees her, every day, for the rest of his life.
He reaches for her, but she stops him, her hands going to the buttons of his shirt instead.
"Not yet," she tells him breathlessly. She offers no further explanation, but he doesn't need it. He knows what she wants. Skin on skin, no barriers between them, that's what she wants. He wants it, too.
So they do it together, pull him out of shirt and belt and trousers and shoes until he's as naked as she is and this time when he reaches for her hips she lets him pull her in close, and he's glad she made him wait because her kiss tastes all the sweeter when he can feel the hard points of her nipples dragging against his chest. He can't stop kissing her, his tongue delving deep into her mouth, and she lets him, for a moment, before she pushes back, and it's effortless, the give and take. It's right, exactly as it should be.
There's more he wants, though. He wants to feel her, wants to brush his fingers through the wetness between her legs - and he's sure she's wet, even if he hasn't felt it yet, because she is so much like him, and he's been hard since the couch - and then he wants to bury himself inside her and make her scream. He wants to come, buried to the hilt in the warm wet clutch of her, wants to see that come dripping down her thighs when he's done, wants to leave a piece of himself behind, wants to give her a child to replace the one that was stolen from her. That thought is itself a sin, he thinks, a crime against her and against his wife and against God, but he wants it.
And he thinks she wants it, too, because her hand drops suddenly down and fists around his cock and he can't help but groan into her open mouth. Her hand is warm and insistent and she wants to touch him, to touch him there, like that. Whatever he wants, she wants the same.
She's got a plan, too; he has just been reacting, taking each moment as it comes, and he hasn't decided how he wants to take her or how he's gonna make that happen but she's decided. She knows. It's her turn to pull away, and as she does she locks eyes with him, an invitation, a plea there that he doesn't quite understand. She doesn't linger, though, doesn't lean against the wall and let him stare at her tits and wait to see what he'll do next. Instead she turns her back on him, presses her palms flat to the wall, and looks back at him over her shoulder.
"Fuck, yes," he breathes.
Is this how she likes it, he wonders as he plasters himself against her back, as his cock knocks against the swell of her ass and his arms wrap around her so he can palm at her perfect tits; does she like it from behind? It's never been his favorite approach; nothing wrong with it, but he likes to see his woman's eyes. It hurts him a little when she lets her head hang low between her shoulders and hides those eyes from him, but it's exciting, too. There's something primal about it, something needful, and it's so different from his dreams that it makes the whole thing seem more real, somehow.
He kisses her shoulder, gently, his hands busy with her tits for a moment. His fingers find her nipples, pluck and pull at them, drawing a symphony of gasps and sighs from her pretty mouth, and it feels good, shit, it feels good, but he wants more.
"Please," she begs him. Just that one word, and she doesn't explain, doesn't tell him what she's asking for, but he knows. He always knows, with her. Knows what she wants, what she's thinking. He's thinking the same thing.
So he settles one hand on her hip and catches his cock with the other, guides himself between her legs, and she arches her back for him, leans more of her weight into the wall and widens her thighs so he can slide between and it shakes him to the core, her making room for him, preparing herself to take him inside her. He rubs his cock between her bare, dripping folds - he was right, about her being wet for him; she's soaked for him - slicks himself up with her desire and then pushes the head of his cock inside her and they groan together when it happens, loud and long. As close as they are to the door, it's possible that anyone walking down the corridor outside might hear them.
Let 'em hear, he thinks. It makes him proud and possessive both, the thought of someone else hearing the needy little sounds Liv makes when he fucks her. It makes it real, because if someone else hears, if someone else knows, then this night, this moment, doesn't exist only in his dreams.
He slides into her slowly, torturously, lets them both feel every inch of him stretching through her cunt, feel the throbbing of his cock, like his heart beating inside her, the contracting of her muscles around him in answer. Presses in, until there's no further for him to go, and then slides out again just a slowly, and savors the moan she lets forth at the sensation.
"Again," she demands, and he obliges.
There's nothing slow about it this time; he slams into her, and she cries out, and they're in this, now. They're fucking, now, her ass bouncing with each sharp thrust of his hips, his hands clutching at her breasts, her nipples scraping his palms while his teeth drag gently over the bare skin of her shoulder. Again, and again, he buries himself inside her, feels the need pooling low in his belly, at the base of his cock, feels her bursting, wet and wanting, all over him. She's shaking, trembling all over, unable to form words but letting him know with every moan how deeply he's affecting her.
This is good, this is very fucking good, the arch of her back, the jiggling of her ass, the angle just right for him to slip one hand down to rub furiously at her clit, and she likes that, starts keening in his arms like she's about to fall apart already. Maybe she is. Maybe the last thirteen years have been nothing but foreplay, building them up to this moment, this release.
The silken clutch of her cunt is a blessing the likes of which he's never known, and his fingers can't help but slide away from her clit, slide along her bare folds to the place where his cock pistoning inside her. He parts her labia, runs his fingers along seam of her while his hips keep thrusting and for a mad moment he wants to push his fingers in, too, wants to see how much of him she can take into herself, and the tenor of her moans turns pleading and desperate but not now, he thinks. Not now.
Those fingers dance back up to her clit instead, intent on her release. A release that is coming any second now, but if they stay like this he won't see it. He won't see the pleasure on her face, won't be able to look in her eyes as she falls apart. That won't do. This is supposed to be a dream.
He fists his free hand in her hair, pulls her head up and to the side so that she can see him over her shoulder. Or she could, if she would open her eyes.
"Look at me," he growls at her. Those eyes stay closed - she's always been stubborn - so he repeats his demand.
"Look at me. I wanna see your eyes when I make you come."
That does it; she swears, and her eyes flutter open, and he stares into those eyes as he pounds into her, as he rubs at her clit. Stares into them, and sees the longing there, and feels himself plummeting towards his own ending.
She falls first, and he's proud of that fact. With a wail she breaks, shuddering, clenching hard around him, and he works her through it, his thrusts slowing but not stopping, both of them electrified, hot as lightning and twice as devastating.
In his dreams he comes inside her. In his dreams she asks him to.
"Don't," she gasps at him as he keeps moving, chasing his own satisfaction now. "Pull out."
He falters. He's a little disappointed, truth be told, but if it's what she wants he'll give it to her. If it's what she wants he'll pull out and come all over her ass but if it were up to him he'd never, ever leave her.
She speaks again, a little more clearly this time.
"Don't pull out."
"Liv -"
"I want you to come inside me."
That's what does it, what tips him over the edge; she tells him what she wants and his body gives it to her without hesitation. With a roar he comes, spurting hot and wet inside her, as deep inside her as it's possible for him to go, and she watches him over her shoulder the whole time, her eyes victorious and sad.
For a few minutes he stays right there, panting against her back, his slowly softening cock still nestled inside her cunt, his hands ghosting over every part of her he can reach. It's a sweet thing, he thinks, to pretend. To pretend that he can stay here, with her, that when he catches his breath he can lead her back to the shower and they can wash each other clean and fall asleep spooned together in her bed. But it's just pretend, and the dream is fading fast.
Once again it's Liv who moves them along; she slips out from between his arms, and he gets his wish, to see his come dripping down her perfect thighs. Tomorrow she'll go to CVS and buy Plan B and pretend this never happened, but for right now, this moment, the dream remains within his grasp. There's a half-crazy voice in the back of his mind telling him to stop her, to beg her not to take the pill, to just let herself be happy. He knows she won't do it, though. Happiness is anathema, to her.
"This can't happen," she tells him sadly.
He knew it was coming but the words still shatter him like glass. She's frozen in place but she's running away from him, just the same.
"It already did," he points out grimly.
He feels foolish, more than foolish, standing there with his limp cock hanging wet and useless between his legs. She bends, scoops up his clothes, pushes them into his hands, though she does nothing to hide her own body. Maybe she doesn't feel as stupid as he does right now; maybe she's just better at pretending.
"You know what I mean," she tells him as he slowly starts to dress. "It can't happen again."
He wants it to, though. One taste of her is not enough; it was never gonna be enough.
"It was a bad night -"
"It was real, Liv. Will you just admit that to me? To yourself? Just admit that this is real."
It's real, the love he feels for her. The desire he feels for her. The trust, the hope that they share. The rest of it could be real, too. The baby she wants, the baby he wants to give her. The future where they're happy. It could be real.
Or maybe it can't, he thinks, looking at her. She's never gonna bend, and he can't blame her for that, not really. If they choose this path, if they choose each other, everything else will end. His marriage will end. His kids might hate him. Their partnership will be over; one of them would have to leave SVU, and he knows it, and he'd make that sacrifice for her, but it would eat him alive, knowing someone else was her partner. They'd both work too much and they'd never see each other and they'd start keeping secrets and five years from now maybe she'd look at him the same way Kathy does. Like she wishes he was someone else.
"Promise me we can pretend this never happened," she begs him.
"I promise," he tells her heavily. The sound of her breathy moans is gonna haunt him for the rest of his life, but she's right. It's better for all of them if things stay the way they are. But that means he has to leave.
"I'm gonna go," he tells her. He's dressed now, and she's probably thinking longingly of her shower.
"Ok."
"Promise me you won't sleep on the couch tonight."
She won't let him love her, but he wants to take care of her, still.
"I promise," she says.
And that's how it ends; he leaves her there, alone in her apartment, and the door closing behind him sounds like the lid settling on a coffin.
Good-bye, Little Benson, he thinks. She was only ever a dream, and he's awake now, and she's fading like a wisp of smoke.
He'll go home, and he'll take a shower, and then he'll slide into bed next to Kathy, and he'll pretend that's where he belongs. He'll go to work on Monday, and look at Liv across his desk, and pretend he doesn't know what she looks like when she comes. He'll get better at it, he thinks, the pretending. He's got no choice.