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It all spills over - the absence, the gaps in their texts, the worry spurred by Noah’s fever, the whirlwind of emotion stirred up by Elliot’s triumphant return - and suddenly she’s watching the way his jaw sets and his eyes blaze emotion and running through a mental catalogue of each time this expression on his face has been directed at her. She’s aware of his mask still hanging off one ear, the social distancing he’s trying to observe even as she wants him closer, as she wants him so close she can feel his anger in the raised hair on his arms.
She’s been itching for a fight for weeks now; nerves and frustration and loneliness compounding until the reins on her emotions slip clear and the desperation leaks through. She’s just overwhelmed; and it’s not fair to take it out on him like this, but she can’t stop.
Elliot’s back and it feels like a piece of her soul re-mooring, but it rips open an old wound, makes her think of “he handed in his papers” and “I have to move on” and tough days without a warm hand on her shoulder.
Five minutes ago his brow had been a soft concerned furrow, his hand hovering awkwardly between them. A bridge. His voice had been confused and probing around her name, his weight distributed in a gentle tilt of hips. It wasn’t enough. She asks “And?” and he walks away, she says “I miss you” and he replies “Me too”, she tells him “Noah says hi” and he answers “Hi back”… It doesn’t rebuild the hole in her chest. She’s just so sick of distance. She wants fingers sturdy on her skin and the brush of his new beard against her breath and the empty spaces between them that fill with unspoken words gone.
She wants to know that she wasn’t imagining it this time. That when Elliot mentioned a rumour about some ADA the flash of shame and doubt that spasmed through her was not warranted.
Which is how she finds herself leaning heavily into the space between them, sharp words on her tongue, “I never ran away.” When he retorts quickly it feels like a slap in the face. He is so sure in his words, throwing them between them without any need for consideration.
“Sure you did, Liv. All the time. How many offers of drinks did you decline, how many invites to dinner?”
Even with the anger thrumming through him, the tense lines of his cheeks, there is an undisguised sadness to his eyes that she recognises - “Buy you a celebratory cocktail?”, “I think that earns me a nice thick steak…”, “Can I buy you a drink?” - and her heart clenches painfully.
She swallows the frustration thick in her throat, sways backwards as she tries desperately to just catch her breath, to just get control of this world back for one goddamn second. She looks at him, really looks at him - the new creases bracketing his eyes, the extra greys lingering around his temples. She’s missed the jut of his nose, the steady slant of his shoulders, the purse of his lips. He’s holding himself stiff and inflated, like that day he threw her out of his office, hurt and anger and something entirely different on his face. It’s how she’d seen him in their early days, all sharp edges and firm lines. But he’s not. He’s soft, and she knows the gentle curves of his expression, the uncertain flutter of his hands trying to comfort. There’s a million things she wishes to say to that, wishes she had said back then, and she tries to muddle an answer that won’t sound as lame and excusing on her tongue as it does in her mind. Her brow is a deep crease and his is a tight response.
And then she steps forward, because damn it all to hell she needs something, and she kisses him hard and ravenous.
To his credit, he pushes back just as demanding. His hands move deftly to the grip the small of her back, the base of her neck; and she presses their forms together greedily. They meet there in the middle with a decade of wanting, so many years of restraint finally let go. His mouth is everything she’d thought it would be and the scent of his aftershave fills her senses, makes her cling tighter to the roots of his hair.
The kiss transforms, its frenzy giving way to something much more dangerous - deep lingering touches, the tender slide of lips. He pulls away, eyes firmly closed and breath a deep exhale through his nose, “Liv.” She pulls him back, fingers grabbing for the soft cashmere of his sweater. When he pulls away again, “Liv.”, his forehead rests against hers.
Her response is simultaneously annoyed and cloyingly soft, “What Rafa?”, and he smiles despite himself, pressing a tender kiss against her lips. His mouth drops open in answer but his mind is blank. She can feel his brows furrow, can see his eyes darting around as he searches for words. He flounders. He wants to check that she means this, that she won’t regret it, wants to tell her that he’s wanted this for so long he barely remembers a time he didn’t. Instead he gently sweeps his fingers along the back of her skull. His mouth brushes against the curve of her ear as he mutters the only thing he can think of, “Let me buy you a drink?” and she grips his shoulders tight to meet his gaze as she replies with a steadfast “Yes.” against his lips.