Work Text:
Olivia’s eyes meet Elliot’s from across the room – her wide, questioning eyes finding his, with their promised depths of unspoken answers brimming below the surface. His eyes have always been her favorite shade of blue, she knows, and she can feel her heartbeat thrumming inside her throat as he glances at her. It’s casual, at first, and it has to be, at least for now – they’re surrounded by his family, and Noah – but there’s desire clearly visible.
She can’t say she didn’t think of this as a possibility, when she’d agreed to come to Christmas Eve dinner and bring Noah along. It’d crossed her mind as she accented her best forest green crushed velvet blouse with their compass, the one he’d given her back in the spring, hanging around her neck; as she slid slender golden hoops on, she’d given thought to the heat of his gaze, how it could warm her from the inside out, even on the coldest days of the year.
She’s never needed a man before, but she wants him; she always has, but this last year has shown her the depths of that desire, and she can, now, in a way that she never could before.
To look at herself the way he’d see her now, she has to imagine that the desire she sees in his eyes is a reflection of her own.
She averts her gaze, looks to where Noah is teaching Elliot’s grandsons how to dance, and her heart is full to bursting at the sight. Carl is recording it on his phone, and Maureen looks the happiest Olivia’s ever seen her, and even Eli is tapping his foot to the rhythm of the song Noah’s chosen. There’s the faintest trace of a smile on the boy’s face, and it speaks volumes; like his father, Eli keeps his emotions close to his chest.
Eli and her, they’ll have time later; there’s always time, not as much as she’s always thought, but there’s time and opportunity, and she plans to take full advantage of it – eventually. She’ll always remember holding him that first day, so scared for both him and Kathy; she remembers feeling his first shaky breaths, hearing his first cries, and knowing that there was nothing (then, or now) that would change the protective aura she felt when she was near him.
She’s tired, though, positively exhausted, from taking her time with the other Elliot Stabler, the one whose gaze is still trained on her, even as she lifts her head to meet it once again. The corners of his lips quirk in a tender smile, and she feels her own smile cross her lips. They’ve had nearly a quarter-century of this back-and-forth, and he has made it abundantly clear where he stands.
He wants her, in whatever way she’ll allow.
She’s never allowed someone such unfettered access to her in her entirety, not since she’d been a naïve schoolgirl – but this is different; he is different, in every imaginable way.
As if by instinct, her hand wanders to clutch the compass; her fingers weave through the chain, and she knows he’s staring – if he hadn’t been before, he definitely is now, as the tips of her fingers trace reverent, mindless patterns over the small face of the compass. It’s become something she does, because the thought of finally finding her own happiness wherever this compass leads her to – it’s him, it’s always been him, even when it never should have been – is becoming a less scary prospect the more it’s presented to her in this appealing of a package.
This love, and this light and laughter, can be hers – and Noah’s - if she only reaches out for it and claims it for their own.
She’s unsure which one of them makes the move first; within mere moments, though, they’re standing next to each other. “Did I tell you that you look beautiful tonight, yet?” he asks, and there’s a boyish twinkle in his eyes that gleams as he looks at her.
“No, not yet,” she says, a mischievous grin flickering on her lips. “And I have to say, you don’t look too shabby yourself, El. You clean up well, for one of those Organized Crime guys, anyway.” And he does; in the extremely short time he’s been back from his out-of-state gig with the Feds, he’s trimmed his beard smartly, but left more than enough unshaven scruff and stubble to make her ache with the sheer want to know what it feels like pressed intimately against her own skin.
He preens, flashing a grin of his own. “Always wanted to hear you say that, y’know.” He brushes aimlessly at his shirt, trying to wipe away the miniscule bits of dust that would dare to cling to him, but all she can notice is him.
“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself,” she says, hastily taking another sip of her wine, before she can say anything else that may further incriminate her intentions. There’s no hostility in her voice, only mirth and laughter, and when she catches his unerring gaze again, she knows he’s in on the joke as well.
She should feel utterly exposed, for how focused he is looking at her, but she feels seen, in a way she’s never felt before. A sudden chill dances down her spine, and she shivers involuntarily; he moves in behind her, off to the side, a looming presence without being suffocating. “You need me to warm you up, there?” he rumbles low in her ear.
“You wish,” she says, but she takes his hand in hers and laces their fingers together, before allowing their hands to fall, connected, between their sides.
“I’m really glad you came.” He squeezes her hand, gently, and it’s a marvel to her how gentle his touch can be, when she’s seen what else these hands are capable of. Her partner, he brings with him an entire maelstrom of tangled, complicated emotions, but he’s hers, without her having to ask. She knows this, now, though neither of them have bothered to say the words aloud.
She shrugs her shoulders, gives him a sidelong smile. “I heard this was the place to be tonight, didn’t want to miss out.”
“When I did the debrief with Bell after getting back to the city, I told her that’s it. No more long-term assignments, no more undercover, nothing where I can’t come home at the end of most nights,” he says, his voice low enough for only her to hear, and her breath catches in her throat at the implication laden in his words: he’s staying. “I – I can’t change what’s already been done, my therapist reminds me of that every time I see him, but I can make changes for the future.”
The future.
It has always been a scary unknown in her mind, but now, her hand strokes the compass again, and she presses her eyes closed to fight against the sheer swell of emotion she feels bubbling over inside her. “The future,” she echoes, in a soft, awestruck whisper. Our future.
“I know what I want,” he continues, his thumb brushing delicate strokes along the curve of her palm, “but I only want that if that’s what you want too.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Then I want whatever you want. If that’s being your friend, I’ll be the best damn friend you’ve ever had, Benson.”
She laughs, more to herself than at his words. “We’ve never been friends, and you know that. Not like that, anyway.” She’d tried – God, how she’d tried – but it’d failed. Spectacularly. Somehow, they’d managed to immediately leap from partners to partners, and there hadn’t been a true intermediate zone where she could have called them friends.
Even since he’s come back, their partnership hasn’t been at its peak, and she’ll acknowledge that truth with a heavy heart, but it’s still there; it’s part of her DNA as a cop, as a person, at this point. Elliot is an intrinsic part of who she is, and she’d like to imagine that she’s been the same for him.
“No, maybe not.” He’s quiet, serious, and it’s these moments where he begins to brood that she’s unsure where his mind is truly at. “But if that’s how I could be so lucky to have you in my life, then I’d do it.” He scratches the back of his neck with the hand that’s not still snugly enveloped around hers, and lets out a small sigh. “You mean a hell of a lot to me, Olivia. You always have.”
There’s something about the use of her full name, instead of the nickname that it seems as though everyone’s adopted for her as of late, that hits her hard, and she swallows abruptly. There are so many things she wants to say, and not all of them would be pleasant, or things he’d want to hear. But she’s had a lot of time to think, while he’s been away, with this tangible reminder of him dangling from her neck.
“I haven’t taken this off for more than an hour or two since May,” she says, after an achingly-long silence, gesturing to the compass. “It’s – God, it’s beautiful, Elliot. It’s too much.”
“It’s not enough,” he counters. “You know how terrible I am with words, but that – uh, I hoped it’d do some of the talking for me.”
“It did.” She turns to face him, screwing up every bit of courage she’s ever had to summon, because she feels the energy shifting beneath her feet at this very moment. “You sure you want to know what it told me?”
“Considering you showed up at my place with your son tonight, and you haven’t slapped me clear across the face, or told me to ‘fuck off’ yet, something tells me that it wasn’t anything too terrible.” His voice trembles slightly in its hesitance, though he’d attempted to mask it with a chuckle at the end.
“All good things. Nothing I didn’t already know. You’ve got a good wingman, here. Always knows the direction I need to go.”
“I believe you mean wing-compass,” he says, with a laugh, her joining not far behind, and their eyes meet again above it all; she sees the laughter reflected in his eyes, as a twinkle from the strings of lights that are strung up all through this apartment.
She sees love.
“That was the worst joke ever,” she says, as she catches her breath from the laughter, though the occasional peals still ricochet from her as she comes down from this high.
“It made you laugh, didn’t it? Then it’s not the absolute worst one ever.”
She shakes her head. This man. This man that loves her – or cares a hell of a lot for her, to use his more recent words, but she suspects that what he told all of them at the intervention is still more than true today, as it was then, as it was – she dares not to even imagine how long those feelings have been percolating in his head, and in his heart.
This man that she loves.
It’s useless to try to deny it further, or equivocate it to anyone, including her own heart.
“No, maybe you’re right, then, by that logic,” she says, and she finishes off the last of the wine in her glass with a quick swallow. She could go search out the bottle of cabernet she’s pretty sure she saw Maureen hiding earlier in the evening, or she could choose to be dead sober going forward.
In that moment, she chooses the clarity of sobriety.
It’s what they both deserve, especially after so long a wait.
“El,” she continues, in a low whisper, one that provides a tempting lure of other words that could be spoken in such a tone, in favorable circumstances. “Can we find somewhere quiet? To – uh – talk.”
“Haven’t we been talking already?” He stares at her, unblinkingly, and she has to force herself to exhale when the full intensity of his gaze is on her. Oh God, I’m in love with an idiot.
She seizes the opportunity to drag him behind her; she remembers, from the last time she was here, that his bedroom is just off the living area, and while it’s not ideal, not when their collective families – family? – are only on the other side of the wall, it’s better than saying what she needs to say in the bathroom, or God forbid, Eli’s bedroom.
He follows her willingly, and his face settles into a content smirk when she pulls him into his bedroom and all but closes the door behind them entirely. A sliver of light from the living area streams in, and they can hear everyone’s delighted chatter and laughter continue, even in their absence.
There’s a lamp on the nightstand, and she turns it on, illuminating the room in a soft, wistful glow. “Olivia – “ he starts to say; she takes her finger, presses it against his lips, effectively silencing him.
“Don’t. Whatever you were going to say, don’t.” It was probably another terrible joke, an attempt to diffuse the tension that’s nearly palpable between them. And the last thing she needs while she’s screwing up the last of the courage inside her is for him to make her laugh, forget why she’s there and what’s she doing in the first place. “El.” It’s two simple letters, but they’re two letters that have always had a way of grounding her; it’s him, to her.
“Standing right here, Captain.”
Sure enough, he’s standing right in front of her, a quizzical, concerned look in his eyes, but with a soft, hopeful smile on his face. He’s everything she’s ever wanted in a man, in a partner, and he’s standing right in front of her, and he wants her, in all of her messy, fucked-up ways. He’s seen the darkness in her, and he’s seen the light, and somehow, neither of those things have been too much for him.
She moves in closer, resting the palm of her hand flat against the cranberry-colored button-down shirt he’s wearing tonight. Below her hand, she can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat, alive and proud and sure and here.
“Don’t leave me again.” This is the closest she’s come to putting her heart, and her hurt, on full display for him.
He doesn’t hesitate in his reply. “Never.”
She takes in a deep breath, and from a pocket in her skirt, she takes out a small bundle of something that’s been gently prodding her through the fabric all evening. With her free hand, she dangles it as far above her head as she can reach; simultaneously, she slides her hand from his heart to wrap tenderly around his neck. “Don’t make promises you aren’t going to keep.” She leans in, so close that she can see the glint of her diamonds in the light reflecting in his eyes.
“Never leaving you again, Olivia,” he says, his voice gruff and low, and a frisson of something warm and delicate rushes through her at his words, warming her from the inside out. “Never,” he repeats, as if for emphasis.
Somehow, she knows he’s telling her the only truth he can fathom, and that – that – is enough.
Her lips meet his, and everything around them seems to stop.
--
Olivia sees a young couple, closer to the ages that Elliot and her when they had met, sitting at a table in an old-style club with wafts of smoke drifting through the air. The man reaches out for the woman’s hand, and she gives it to him gladly, with a grin on her face. The woman is wearing an elegant dress that looks not dissimilar from the black one Katharine Hepburn wore in Woman of the Year, an eternal favorite of hers, except this one is in a shade of scarlet red that perfectly matches the lipstick on her smile, while the man is wearing a dapper suit and fedora – a classic, in any generation; both of them dripping of old-Hollywood sophistication and glamour.
The words that are exchanged between the young couple are unheard by Olivia, but somehow, she doesn’t need to hear them to understand; this couple is in love, and she feels butterflies swoop low in her stomach as the man gazes adoringly at the woman in his arms.
A jazz quartet somewhere outside of the range of her vision begins to play “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” and she watches as the couple begins to dance, completely oblivious to anyone else in the room. It’s as if, in that moment, they exist only to each other.
He twirls her out, like a music box ballerina in pirouette, before pulling her back into his grasp; it feels incredibly intimate watching this, in a way very little else in her life ever has, but she doesn’t feel like she’s not supposed to see this, either. This moment is intended for her, somehow, no matter how private it feels otherwise.
--
The moment in the club fades from her sight, and she’s back in his bedroom; she’s kissing Elliot, actually kissing him, the mistletoe discarded somewhere behind them. His lips are warm and beautiful against hers, and his tongue is doing something inside her mouth that should be considered utterly sinful. One of them lets out a slight moan, and the other swallows it, chasing for another in short order.
--
Elliot sees a young couple curled up on a couch together, listening to a crackling radio playing Christmas carols. There’s a Christmas tree in the corner, alit with lights that remind him of ones in his parents’ childhood pictures, and there’s a fire keeping the room warm; four stockings line the mantel, unfilled, but anticipating Santa’s impending visit. If he concentrates, he can almost feel the warmth of the fire heating his own skin, but it’s otherwise as if he’s staring through a window at this couple’s life.
The woman’s hand trails suggestively down her man’s chest, lingering around his belt buckle, and she looks at him as if he’s everything she could ever want or desire.
What about the kids, he finds himself thinking, completely unbidden; at the same time, the man captures the woman’s lips in a heated embrace, distracting her from whatever her intentions may have been. Words are whispered; he can’t hear them, but whatever is said doesn’t diminish what’s going on between the two.
He’s never met these people in his life, but he feels like he knows them as well as he knows himself, or Olivia, for that matter. It should be unsettling – instead, though, it’s a strange sort of comfort.
--
Before Elliot could fathom what’s happening with the couple in front of him, he’s back in his apartment, back in his bedroom; more importantly, Olivia is in his arms, and he’s kissing her with everything he has to give. He feels her tremble, slightly, beneath his touch, and he rests his forehead against hers, effectively breaking the kiss. “You okay?” he asks, his voice a low, uncertain whisper. Because while God and all of His angels and saints may know how he feels about Olivia, how much Olivia herself knows and realizes, and subsequently, how she feels, has always been one of the unknown factors in…well, everything.
And while this is everything he’s wanted for far too long, and she’s the one who initiated the kiss tonight, he still doesn’t know what’s truly going on in that beautiful brain of hers. It’s unlikely he ever will, but to only be given the chance at that opportunity would be far more than he deserves.
She nods, a beatific smile on her face, and he’s not sure he’s ever seen her look this relaxed, this happy. Not even the times he’s seen her when she’s at rest, with her eyes shut, as she catches a little respite from the craziness of their jobs and their lives. Every time he’s seen her asleep, whether it’s in the cribs, or the times she’s nodded off on stakeouts, there’s an inherent wariness about her.
Now, it’s not there; it’s been replaced by something he’s never seen, not from her.
She’s at peace.
And whether or not that peace has anything to do with him, or if it’s everything to do with her, the sight of Olivia at peace is enough to make his heart want to soar to the highest possible heights.
“More than,” she whispers, her words muffled by her face buried in the crook of his neck. Her lips skate along the thick cord of muscle that connects his neck to his shoulder, and he so badly wishes that their families weren’t on the other side of the door. That he could lower her to the bed, and give himself over to her in his entirety, holding absolutely nothing back, and that she could do the same to him.
That he could wake up tomorrow, on Christmas morning, of all the mornings of the year, with the love of his life – yeah, Wheatley was right, he can admit that much – safely nestled in his arms.
It’d be a dream, a true Christmas miracle brought to reality.
Right now, though, while this particular miracle is still unfolding and blossoming in his arms, he takes his hand and gently crooks a finger under her chin, diverting her soulful gaze to look at him. Large brown eyes – the same brown eyes that stared at him from across their desks for thirteen years, the same ones that challenged him to be the man she thought he could be – look at him, and he sees the unmistakable look of a woman in love.
“Can I?” he asks, taking his thumb and brushing it against her lips.
The tip of her tongue darts out and licks the pad of his thumb, and she gives him a mischievous smile. “I don’t know, can you?” With another gentle swipe with her tongue, she draws his thumb between her lips and she winks, and it’s enough to send him into a spiral he’s not likely to recover from anytime soon.
Of course, she’s the daughter of an English professor. God help me.
He shakes his head with an affectionate groan. “You’re going to be the death of me, Benson, and we’re going to enjoy every last second of it,” he says, and he can hear the slight hitch in her breathing, as she’s internally processing his declaration. His lips hover delicately on the precipice above hers, and he whispers, “may I?”
“Yes.” It’s a breath, more than a word, but it’s all the consent he needs.
--
Candles flicker low in wall votives, casting shadows on the walls behind them, as Elliot gradually realizes he’s standing in a church. He sees that it’s the middle of Mass, and all the parishioners are huddled together on the pews, as the warmth from an unseen fire prickles at his skin. It’s Advent, that he can tell; the pungent smell of pine infiltrates from the evergreen decorations that are spread throughout the sanctuary. Outside the stained-glass window, he can see the faint illumination of fresh snowflakes falling from the sky.
The priest is performing the Mass in Latin; he can follow along enough to know the general idea of what’s being said, but he’d never done well in Latin, for all his years in Catholic school. It’s Christmas Eve, it appears; likely, the midnight Mass, based on the sheer fatigue yet unparalleled joy that he sees in some of the faces, and the dark sky outside.
His attention focuses on a small family sitting near the front. They’re bundled together under a blanket, the four of them; two teenage boys, and a set of parents, who appear to be holding hands through the wife’s elegant furred muff. Even with all the pageantry of a Christmas Eve midnight Mass, the husband’s attention is more on studying his wife, as if he knows how lucky he is to be sharing this moment right now with her.
How lucky they both are, after everything they’ve been through – not just this year, but every year leading up to this one culminating moment, one in a million just like it, but distinctly unique for its occasion.
She turns, and her face lights up when she sees him looking at her with such utter devotion; it’s as though it’s the first time she’s ever noticed him gazing at her when she’s not looking, and a jolt of warmth shoots a pang through his heart. He gets it, how the man must be feeling; it’s how he feels, every time he sees Olivia – especially, the times when she doesn’t want to slap him for all of his mistakes and missteps.
He's lucky, too. More than. He’s blessed, beyond measure, and he’s never going to take a second of that for granted, ever again.
--
In all the years she’s known him, she’s never seen his eyes this particular shade of midnight blue, darkened with his heightened arousal. She allows her hand to drift down his back, feeling the taut pull of his muscles as he sinks against her, effectively melding them into a single figurine. His lips – God, his lips – are leaving her weak in the knees, and she’s fairly certain that if he wasn’t holding onto her so firmly, she’d be in a puddle on the floor.
Now that they’ve uncorked this bottle of emotions between them, now that they’ve crossed the major line of demarcation in their relationship that they’d never dared to cross before – though they’ve toed at it, several times – she doesn’t want to go back, and she doubts he does either.
--
Thick snowflakes nearly the size of pennies drift down from the sky, covering the ground and everything else around in a pristine, untouched blanket of white. She hears laughter, from behind her, and she turns around.
There’s a man and a woman building two snowmen nearby; the old-fashioned dress the woman is wearing looks impractical for being out in the snow like this, but it doesn’t seem to bother her any, and, too, she’s bundled up in several layers over it, much like the man with her is. The two snowmen – snowpeople, really, from all appearances – are standing next to each other, with stick arms that interlock with the other, as if they’re holding hands.
The man steps back from the one he’s been building with a final firm, compacting pat to the head and says something to the woman, before taking the warm, red, woolen scarf that’s wrapped around her neck and draping it on his creation.
With an appraising look, she takes a glance at him, then at her creation, before reaching up and snatching the dark derby hat from atop his head and planting it firmly on hers. He laughs, before he shrugs out of his woolen gray coat, situating it around the snowman’s “shoulders” with a final flourish.
Perfect, Olivia thinks, without knowing why it should feel so perfect, and the couple seem to agree, as their lips meet, with the snow swirling around them, in this moment frozen in time.
--
“Olivia.” Her name in his voice, especially this low, gravelly, guttural whisper of his, is never not going to send a thrill through her, especially when he draws out each of the syllables in such a tantalizing way. “Oh, Olivia.”
“El.” There are so many things she wants to say to him, but she’s finding it hard to form thoughts and speak in words. Not when she’s never felt like this before, this loved and wanted, this desired, this happy – her compass has led her here, to Elliot’s arms, and that’s where her happiness is. With him.
It always has been.
--
It’s a thousand flashes all at once; it’s stepping into a kaleidoscope of images of love and laughter, life and all of its ups and downs. The blinding intensity of it sears Olivia’s vision. She doesn’t know the faces, but she feels like she knows them, the souls of the people she’s been watching. There’s the couple from the dance club, and there’s the couple from the park with the snowpeople, and they feel equally as familiar, as if she’s encountering past loves in a new context.
She sees Elliot, and she walks over to him. “You’re here too?” she asks.
He looks up at her with a start. “Olivia – what – why – “
For everything that she’s witnessed, his is the first voice she’s heard in any of these visions, and the shock is plainly evident on both of their faces. If he’s here, and she’s here, and they’re both seeing whatever this is – then…
“The old lady at the market was right, oh my God,” Olivia says, laughter bubbling up inside her, as she remembers her visit to the cute craft market the day or two before, at Noah’s insistence. “She told me this mistletoe, if used with the right person, would make me realize something important. I thought she was full of it.”
“And so, you bought it?”
“No, she insisted I take it as a complementary gift with that ornament I brought you.” Tears prick at the back of her eyes as she takes Elliot’s hand and holds on for dear life, watching as images from countless other lifetimes – all so familiar, and now she gets why; these were her lives, once, the lives she’s shared with Elliot – flash by. “You’ve seen these too? Tonight?”
“Ever since you kissed me, Liv.” His smile is growing wider by the moment, as he looks at her – not just the love of this life, but the love of every life; soulmates, in the truest form – with a look that she can only hope to describe as completely and eternally smitten. “Us in a church, with our teenage sons. Us, having a private moment by the Christmas tree, our kids somewhere out of sight, but not out of mind.”
Her mind is still whirling with all the implications of everything; that no matter what has transpired between them, they were always fated to be brought back together by the twisting tendrils of destiny. That somehow, despite everything, they’d find each other – in every lifetime, in every universe, parallel or not.
It’s profound, in a way she’s not accustomed to thinking. For every time she’s thought of him in ways she shouldn’t, it was the universe reminding her of what would one day be. And even after this life is over, and they’ve passed on, their souls will wind their way back together in all the subsequent lifetimes, here into eternity.
They are fated; they are destined; they are eternal. They are as it was in the beginning, and as it ever shall be.
And there’s not a single, solitary soul in this universe she’d rather have her soul and her fate so closely entwined with than the man standing before her with love in his eyes. Love, she knows now, is meant for her.
“It’s you and me, Liv.” He’s looking at her in earnest, as he leans into kiss her, again.
“You finally listened.” Their lips meet again, gladly, and in a spark of ethereal light, everything around them dissipates.
--
“Wow,” Elliot whispers. His eyes are so incredibly blue, but there’s the tiniest flecks of green and gold that she’s never noticed before, not from the distances she’s allowed herself to be at when she’s around him. “That was –“
“It’s all going to work out,” she says, almost in a daze, as she lifts her hand to her lips, to cover her mouth. “Lindstrom – he kept asking me, all the times I talked with him, why I thought it wasn’t going to work out.”
“And it will.” His gentle emphasis comes as he takes her hand in his and delicately kisses the tips of each of her fingers. “Not that I needed the magical mistletoe to know that, or anything.” He winks at her, and she stifles a laugh. “It’s all going to work out: for you, for Noah, for us. And if it looks like it won’t, then we’ll work on that. Together. As partners.”
“Still the best I’ve ever had,” she says, as her lips crease into a beautiful smile, and his curve into a similar, broad grin. “Still though, Stabler, really? A compass?”
“I got myself a watch that day,” he says, and he holds up his left wrist for her to examine the watch sitting on it. It looks very similar to her compass, though there’s a set of clock hands inside the face, and the diamonds are around the edge of the face instead of scattered loose inside. “It was, uh, to remind myself to give us time. Wait, for you to find your happiness, wherever it was. Even if it wasn’t with me. Wore it as often as I could while I was away, more often than I probably should have.”
Her finger traces around the rim and watches the minute hand tick by. It’s a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, and to think that he’d laid in distant motel rooms, wearing this watch and thinking of her the whole time steals the breath from her lungs. He hadn’t even had any reassurance that she’d been wearing her compass; he’s always been a man of faith, and his faith is in her. “It’s been twenty-five years since we met, you didn’t think that’d been enough time?”
“I’d wait as long as you needed me to,” he says, his eyes brimming with earnest honesty, the kind that has become part of their lives since his return from abroad. “I’ve told you that before –“ and she remembers him saying this, now that he mentions it – a quiet conversation in her kitchen after bringing Noah home, an almost-kiss that she’d dreamt about for several tormented nights – “and I’d have told you the same thing until we were old and in the nursing home. You’re it, for me, Liv. You’re worth the wait.” He smooths a lock of hair that’s sprung loose back behind her ear and smiles. “You’ve always been worth the wait.”
She opens her mouth to rebut his statement, and he leans into kiss her. “Now that I know I can do that, I’m going to do it all the time,” he says, softly, as he kisses her again, soft and insistent, and she loses herself entirely to the flush of his embrace. “And that’s a promise, Benson.”
“Don’t disturb Dad and Olivia,” Katie says, tiptoeing away from the bedroom door and holding her finger over her lips in a silencing gesture. “I think they’ve finally woken up.”
“Good,” Bernie says, taking a large, knowing sip of her hot cocoa and grinning at her granddaughter. “If there’s ever been anyone to deserve a Christmas miracle, it’s the two of them.”
-fini-