Would you kiss me if I asked you to?

Christ. There was nothing he wanted more; she was warm and soft and beautiful, holding his hand, looking at him with eyes so full of naked longing it made his throat constrict to see it. She'd never been so obvious, so open with her desires, never touched him so easily, so readily as this, but he'd dreamt of it. Lying in bed next to Kathy, staring at the ceiling, he'd dreamed of her, his Olivia. Dreamed of her eyes and the shape of her mouth, dreamed of her laughter and the wealth of her hair, dreamed of her hands and everything that could've been, if only life were kinder. Dreamed of her until Kathy grew tired of sharing their bed with a ghost, and left him to his memories, alone and forlorn.

It was the dream of Olivia that brought him back to the city, back to the job. Through the long dark months of his undercover operation it was the thought of Olivia that gave him the strength to keep going. It was all for her, for the chance to see her again, the chance to let her scream at him, the chance to try, one last time, to get it right.

And now he was sitting with Olivia, holding her hand, and she wanted him to kiss her, and he wanted to, shit, had wanted to for so long now that he couldn't remember what it was like not to want to, but.

There was always a but.

"No," he said, very very gently. "Olivia -"

She pulled away the second the word no passed his lips, took her hand back and tucked it under her soft thigh, her shoulders drawing in close, her eyes no longer meeting his gaze but darting away, a blush that might've been brought on by shame staining her soft cheeks, and he hated himself for it. For this. For hurting her, yet again.

But.

"It's not that I don't want to," he told her grimly. "You gotta know, I want to. I've…I've wanted to for a long, long time."

But.

"But you don't remember me." Part of him wished, desperately, that she did, but a smaller, more selfish piece of his heart was grateful that she didn't, grateful for the chance to hold her hand, if only for a moment.

"And three weeks ago," he continued, "when you could remember, you'd have killed me for even thinking about kissing you. You were furious with me, Liv."

I don't know who you are anymore. I don't think I want to know.

"But I called you-" she pointed out, and her voice was hard, much harder than he was expecting; maybe it wasn't shame he saw on her face. Maybe it was anger instead.

"You called to tear me a new asshole," he admitted. "You left me a voicemail and you were…you were pissed."

And God help him but he smiled when he said it. Even though she was angry, even though she was cursing him, she'd called him, still. Reached for him, even if it was only to tell him that she hated his guts.

"Because you left?" she asked, confused. "Seven years ago?"

"Because I left," he said slowly. This was the part he didn't want to admit, the part he had to, anyway. "And when I left I…Liv, I never spoke to you again. You called me -" a million times - "and I never picked up. I walked out on you, and you hated me for it, and then I came back, and you had to find out from Fin."

It wasn't supposed to go down like that, though. He was supposed to finish the job and get back in the NYPD's good graces, and then he was supposed to walk back into the 1-6 with a cup of coffee for her and the badge at his hip, and she was supposed to forgive him. It would've taken some time, sure, but they'd have gotten there in the end.

Wouldn't they?

"Yeah, you came back," she said grumpily. "You came back, and you wanted to make things right, didn't you? Do you really think I wouldn't have forgiven you?"

"Honest to God, I don't know anymore. You got married, had a kid, you retired. You…you changed. And I'm not sure that you'd want me to kiss me, if you remembered why."

And that was why he couldn't kiss her; he loved her too much. Someone had to remember who she was, what she believed in, and while she couldn't remember on her own it would be his job to do it for her. To remember the grief, and the pain, and all the things left unsaid. A kiss between the two of them wasn't like a kiss between Olivia and Malcolm; Liv had kissed that man before, when she knew what it meant and chose it with eyes wide open. She'd never kissed Elliot, never come close, and indeed crossing that line would represent such a monumental shift in their relationship it would shake the very foundations of both their lives. A kiss wasn't just a kiss, not for him, not with her. A kiss would change everything, and he couldn't do that to her, not now when she didn't know what it meant.

When she didn't really know who he was. When she might not even want him, anyway, when she was just looking to explore her choices in men the same way she'd experimented with her coffee. No, he couldn't do that, to either of them. Couldn't risk hurting her with a kiss she didn't really want, couldn't risk hurting himself with a kiss that meant more to him than it could ever mean to her.

Not now, when she was sitting next to him in a pair of too-short shorts, showing off scars on her thighs they both could see, all those scars and neither he nor Olivia could remember the horror that made them.

"I might not ever remember," she told him in a soft, sad voice.

"Hey, don't-" don't talk like that, that's what he meant to say, but she cut him off quick.

"It's true," she said. "But I'm still here. I might not ever be the woman you want me to be, but I'm still me, and I still…I still want you to care about me, even if I'm not her. I still want you to want me. Just me."

It wasn't something he'd allowed himself to think about much, the idea that Olivia's memories might not ever return. Crossed his mind, sure, but he hadn't really dwelt on it. Hadn't wanted to. He'd been operating as if her recovery was a foregone conclusion, as if all he had to do was wait, and be patient, and she'd find her way back to him.

But what if she was right? What if she never remembered? Would he hold her at arm's length forever, protecting her from ghosts whose names she could not recall? Treat her as if she were a child, forever trapped in ignorance, and innocence?

The thought occurred to him then that he had done a grave disservice to her. In his longing for the woman she had been, had he forgotten to take into account the woman that she was? A woman, flesh and bone, with wants and needs of her own, a woman who might have her own dreams, dreams that weren't so different, really, from the ones she treasured before the accident? The woman she had been might not ever return, but Olivia was still here, sitting beside him.

He could not abandon her. Not again.

"I do," he growled at her, his voice low and gravelly, full of a longing he'd never allowed himself to express. "I'm always gonna care about you. I'm…I'm always gonna want you, Olivia."

"Then why did we never…"

That, he thought, was the million dollar question. Why had they never crossed the line? Why had they never reached for each other, when they both so badly wanted to?

"I was married." That was always the answer, wasn't it? He couldn't have Olivia and Kathy both; he had to choose, and Olivia wouldn't let him pick her, not ever. "And we couldn't work together if we…did that." The job, always the job, the thing that brought them together, the thing that tore them apart.

And I think we were just scared, he thought. Thought, but did not say; this Olivia was more earnest, more open with her feelings than the one he had known, but only because she'd forgotten all the reasons why she used to hide her heart away. Elliot had not forgotten, though, and there were still some things he could not say, not even to her.

"But you aren't married now, and we don't work together any more."

Of necessity she kept her voice low, not wanting to wake Malcolm or Noah, but he heard her so clearly, as if she were speaking his own thoughts aloud.

"And you came back."

"I did."

"Did you…did you come back for me?"

"Yes," he answered, without hesitation. The job at OCCB opened up and he'd taken it in a heartbeat, grateful and ready. He'd come back. Come to get his home, his job, his life back, but most of all, he'd come for her. To finally, finally stake his claim, to plead his case at her feet and reach for her hand. He'd come back because he only had one life, and he didn't want to spend the rest of it without her.

He'd come back because he wanted, just once, to kiss her.

Maybe she wasn't the same, but then neither was he. Maybe that was a blessing, in its own way. Maybe this was his last chance, and if it was he didn't want to fuck it up.

She'd been so brave, before. Brave enough to take his hand, brave enough to face her own desires, to share them with him. It was his turn to be brave.

Slowly, very slowly, he reached out, the bare skin of his forearm brushing against the scars at the top of her thigh, reached out and took her hand where it lay soft in her lap, and wound his fingers through hers.

"If you ask me," he began, and she turned her head sharply towards him, dark eyes shining at him with a careful, fearful sort of hope, "I won't say no."

"Are…are you sure?"

It must've been confusing for her, the complete 180 he'd done, and he hated himself for making her doubt, even for a moment, how much she meant to him, how much he cared for. The truth was she'd changed his mind; the truth was she'd made him see clearly, pointed him in the right direction, pointed him towards home, the way she always did.

"I came back for you," he said. "And I'm not going anywhere. If you remember, if you don't remember, it doesn't matter. You're still Olivia. And I am always gonna want you, Olivia."

The way he spoke, the way his blue eyes shined in the dim living room so late at night, the way his hand gripped hers in the stillness; he was so intense, so focused, so heavy, and she felt herself crumbling beneath the weight of him.

It was wrong, she thought, he was wrong, to think that she'd change her mind. That she'd regret kissing him. Even if her memories did return, and bring with them the anger he feared, she thought they would bring love, too. Surely the knowing of him would only sharpen the longing she felt for him; all those years they'd spent together, wanting each other but not acting on that want, could only make their coming together sweeter now.

And it didn't matter, that she didn't remember; she could feel, now. Excitement and something terribly like need, her heart racing in her chest, her hands trembling, want so thick and sweet it made her ache, she could feel so much, felt alive and delirious with joy.

I'm always gonna want you, he said, and she believed him, because she felt the same. While she wandered lost in the darkness his face was the only memory that remained, written so deep on her bones it could not be erased even when everything else was torn away. Not even the memories of her husband, her son had stayed. Only him. Even when she did not know him she wanted him, and she believed she would want him always.

"Kiss me, then," she told him breathlessly. Told him, and did not ask, and he smiled at her, bright and prideful before he reached for her.

His hand slipped carefully over her neck, beneath her hair, cradled her, drew her in close, and slow, he did it so slow and she kept her eyes wide open, watching him intently, hungrily, until his lips touched hers.

This kiss wasn't like the kiss she'd shared with Malcolm, soft and sweet and tentative; from the very first this kiss was all heat, a desperate, yawning passion burning through her veins. The scratch of his beard was unexpected but welcome, and she leaned into him, rested her weight against the comforting solidity of him, dropped her hand to press her palm against the solid mass of his chest, just above his beating heart.

She remembered how it felt, kissing Malcolm, remembered the brush of his tongue, and when she opened her mouth Elliot groaned and chased after her. His tongue surged between her parted lips and she welcomed him readily, loving the mess of it, the wet and the want of it, desiring only more of him.

But she couldn't get more, not like this. The angle was awkward, their bodies twisting together side by side on the sofa; she wanted to feel him, the hardness of his muscle, his broad hands on her soft body. What she wanted, really, was to crawl inside the circle of his arms. What she wanted was for him to hold her, and never let her go.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world; when the urge descended she did not question it. It seemed to her that she and Elliot had done too much questioning, too much thinking, had held themselves apart from one another for too long, and she did not want to entertain another moment's doubt; she wanted him, and all the beautiful, intoxicating things he made her feel. With a huff she tore her lips from his, and before he found the breath to question her she crawled over him, settled herself on top of his broad lap.

"Better?" his voice rumbled at her. It seemed that he thought so, thought this was better; he reached out and ran his fingers through her hair, eager to touch her, and all the while his eyes burned for her.

"Much," she agreed, and then she caught his face in her hands, held him still and descended upon him once more, open mouthed and ravenous for him.

It was much, much better like this. Like this she could feel him, everywhere. Like this they were close, and face to face, the kiss already deeper, more comfortable than it had been before. His nose slotted in next to hers, his beard burned her cheeks, and the taste of him left her starving for more. A sensation she recalled from her kiss with Malcolm returned to her, only stronger, more visceral than ever before; her core was growing slick and hot where she sat spread wide over him, her muscles clenching, clutching, crying out for him to sate the ache he'd sparked deep inside her. Malcolm had stopped her before she had a chance to explore this feeling but Elliot didn't; Elliot just kept kissing her, as eager for her as she was for him, and slid his hands slowly down her back, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

What she wanted was to feel, and she followed that feeling without hesitation. Her body wanted to move and so she did; she rocked her hips against him and felt a wave of delirious pleasure washing over her as his body pressed tight to hers, ignited nerve endings she'd forgotten she had. Jesus; that felt good, so she did it again and found herself grinning wildly when Elliot groaned into her open mouth.

Those hands of his kept moving, down her back to the swell of her ass, the heat of him scorching her through the thin satin of her shorts. She couldn't breathe; it wasn't that his body was blocking her airway, it was only that she was so excited, so carried away with her desires that she couldn't seem to pull in enough oxygen and she pulled her lips from his with a gasp, a gasp that quickly turned into a desperate little moan as the full effect of her rocking hips took her by surprise. Between her legs she could feel him - his cock, his cock, she remembered that part, remembered how a man would grow hard and heavy for her and how powerful that made her feel - pressing rigidly against the softness of her in just the right way.

"That feel good?" He grunted at her. Asking, again, not telling, not pointing her in any one direction but instead letting her choose for herself what she wanted, where she meant to go next, and she loved him for it, really she did.

"Yeah," she painted at him, still grinding furiously on his lap, and when her eyes fluttered open she found him staring hungrily at the weight of her breasts.

"Touch me there," she gasped at once. She didn't remember what it felt like, someone else's hands on her breasts, but she wanted to.

"In a minute," he said. "Wanna enjoy the show."

Wanna enjoy the show.

A memory came flooding over her then, so real and so true she knew it must've been one of her own. A memory of her, half naked and burning with want, on a man's lap, a memory of his voice growling at her I wanna enjoy the show. A memory of a moment just like this one, playing like a movie in front of her eyes; she could see herself, rocking and grinding on Elliot's lap, but she could see this other man, too, this memory of a man beneath her, between her legs, filling her with a passion beyond understanding. The memory did not include the man's face, but she could hear his voice, just as she could hear Elliot's. She rocked on his lap, her hands drifting over his shoulders, and felt herself in two places at once, in the memory and here, both moments so similar she became suddenly convinced that the man she remembered was Elliot himself.

"We've done this before," she gasped at him, leaning forward to lick at his neck on impulse, loving the way his whole body shuddered for her at the contact.

"Not us," he grunted at her, and if she were not so caught up in the sensations of her body she might've felt a pang of sorrow at that, at his confirmation that the beautiful memory she'd recovered wasn't a memory of him.

"Maybe in another life," he said, and then he tangled his hands in her hair, and pulled her back to him for another rapturous kiss.