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“What is it?” He asked, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as though he already know the answer to his question.
He’d caught her.
They'd been in the car on the stakeout for almost five hours by that point.
She couldn’t help herself.
Couldn't not look.
Couldn't not think about it. Couldn’t not imagine it.
Couldn't admit it, either.
“Nothing.”
Of course it was not nothing.
It was his hands.
His strong hands–scarred from years of beating walls, lockers, and even perps; calloused from years of lifting weights his years in the Marines; strong enough to do whatever was needed and yet gentle enough to cradle his children.
She’d occasionally felt those hands, and every touch left her wanting more. Wanted to have him cradle her face again, wanted that calloused thumb to run along her lower lip, wanted to know what it felt like when those strong hands kneaded her ass.
Instead, she had to just watch the impatient, restless play of his fingers as they drummed against the steering wheel. She had to settle for watching him smooth the crease in his jeans while imagining what it would feel like to have those same hands running over her breasts, her nipples, her clit.
“Nothing,” she said it again. Maybe if she repeated it enough, she'd be able to convince herself that it was true, that it didn’t hurt every time she also saw the flash of gold on on his left hand ring finger, that she might ever be able to feel those hands on her–not, at least, how she wanted to.
=====//=====
He was drugged.
That was evident in his slow affect, in the way he braced himself against her walls and furniture as he made his way from the front door to her living room.
And then, just as she’d always wanted, his hand–large and strong–was running down her body, his head pressed against her as he fell to his knees in an almost worshipful pose. But she was no Virgin Mary, and he was hardly penitent. It was everything she ever wanted, and nothing she could handle in that moment.
And yet, she found herself taking his confession anyway, listening to him talk about the letter, even as his voice grew fainter, and began to slur.
It was as though those hands, calloused and rough hewn, had found their way into her chest and crushed her still-beating heart before worming their way into her brain to tear her memories of what they’d been to shreds.
Still she reached for him, took his larger hand between both of hers, guided him to the couch. It was all she could do not to sit next to him.
Even as he was breaking her heart, he still had it.
So, she called Ayana instead.
=====//=====
Their hands met on the grip of his pistol; their fingers interlaced on the trigger; moving in harmony, like one person.
And then his strong capable hands lifted her as though she was weightless, bearing her over the threshold of the restaurant with as much propriety as if he was a groom carrying his bride.
She’d told him she wasn’t ready, but now in the safety of his arms, with his strong hands wrapped protectively around her, she was beginning to think she’d been wrong. It was time, it was long past time to maybe let him past the wall that she’d erected around her heart.
His hands were around her again, helping her out of the urgent care bed. Her heart leapt again at the contact, and she couldn’t help but reach for him, his heart beat strong and steady under her palm.
She could’ve kissed him right there, would’ve kissed him right there, should’ve kissed him right there. Instead she let him walk away, again feeling the crush of his hand on her heart as she did so.
=====//=====
She held the compass in her palm, tracing the edges and the line of the chain.
Eileen Flynn had stopped by the squadroom earlier in the afternoon. “We’re going back to California,” she announced before unhooking the necklace and handing it back. “We have our direction back now.”
“I’m glad,” Olivia answered, clenching her fist possessively around the necklace and slipped it into the pocket of her blazer. She meant it, in more ways than one.
The empathetic side of her was truly happy for the woman she’d initially only been able to see as “Maddie’s Mother,” but had since come to see as a woman who was as much a victim as her daughter–only her scars were far less apparent.
There was another side of her though, full of both selfishness and regret, that was glad to have her necklace back. She’d been impetuous when she’d given it away, moved by the other woman’s pain, and she regretted the decision almost immediately.
She’d called Elliot to confess, and he’d–as per his wont–had immediately forgiven her and even made light of it. She’d never forgiven herself though, months later still reaching for it, feeling its absence more profoundly than she’d ever felt its presence.
And now, now, it was back. After everything.
She reached into her pocket, clutching the necklace again. Slowly, reluctantly, she let it go and reached instead for her cell phone.
“Stabler,” he answered blindly.
“Elliot.” Warmth spread through her chest. His voice–alone–gave her goosebumps, and she found herself missing him profoundly. “What are you doing tonight?”
She could hear his slow inhale and exhale before he answered. “I hadn’t really given it much thought,” he murmured, and she could almost feel his breath brush over her ear as though he were right there in the room with her.
“What about coming to my place?” she suggested, surprised at how quiet, how tentative her voice sounded to her own ears. “Wo Hop . . .” she added, “And it’s Friday so Noah’s spending the night with a friend.”
“Is that what you want?” he asked, his own voice thick.
She let the necklace dangle from her fingers as she thought about it, about everything else, about him.
“Yeah,” she answered with a bit more confidence. “I’ve missed you.”
“Mmm,” he agreed, with monosyllabic enthusiasm. “Me too.”
A smile played at the corners of her mouth, as she couldn’t help but tease, “You missed you too?”
He chuckled softly. “Ever the pedant.”
She ignored the barb. “I’ll be home by 6:30.”
* * * * *
She was home by 5:45.
And she was now standing in front of her bathroom mirror, checking her lipstick and mascara while inwardly lecturing herself on how ridiculous she was being.
It was Elliot. It was nothing.
It was Elliot. It was everything .
She was fluffing her hair when her buzzer went off. “Hi . . .” she said, feeling a flush move from her chest to her face.
This isn’t high school , she tried to remind herself, even as she felt her breath catching in her throat.
“Hi,” he echoed as she took a step back to let him in. “Here,” he said, thrusting a paper bag wrapped bottle in her direction. “Rosé,” he explained unnecessarily. “It’ll go with anything.” She took it, feeling the chill through the wrapper.
“I’ll grab a corkscrew.” she said. It came out almost as a single word on a single breath. She turned her back to set the bottle on her counter, and began rifling through her drawer in search of the corkscrew.
She couldn’t look at him right now. She had a plan, a way this evening was supposed to play out, but here he was. Here she was. Here they were.
“Eileen Flynn came to see me today,” she said with an affected casualness as she slipped the corkscrew over the wine.
He was watching her, his eyes skimming over her face and body and then boring straight into her soul.
“The kidnapped girl's mom?” he asked taking a step closer.
She continued to work at the corkscrew, feeling frustrated as her hands refused to cooperate.
Him.
It was always him.
She bit her lip rather than answer him right away, and with another twist, the cork was out. “Yeah,” she confirmed, filling one glass and then the other. “They’re moving back to California. Fresh start in a safe place.”
He nodded. The context wasn’t lost on him.
She passed a glass to him before reaching back into the pocket of her lounge pants. “She gave me my necklace back.”
She slid it across the counter, following the same track she’d taken with his wine glass. “Put it back on me?”
“Gladly . . .” It came out on a breath, and he moved fluidly around the counter to stand behind her.
She held her hair up, exposing her neck, and his hands seemed to graze every part of her–her collarbone, her ears, her shoulders before reaching the nape of her neck. She reached up, toying with the pendant.
It felt right; it belonged there. “Thank you,” she whispered and let her hair go to reach backward blindly for his hand. “Really, Elliot,” she repeated, clutching his hand and feeling simultaneously grounded and unmoored. “I mean it.”
“Liv . . .” he breathed. “If you . . .”
She took a step backward. “Yes . . .”
No hesitation.
No second-guessing.
She was ready.
“Liv . . .” he repeated her name like a mantra, and brushed her hair aside. Even the fleeting contact of his fingers against the nape of her neck was enough to send her heart into overdrive. And then, his lips replaced his fingers–feather light kisses on the back of her neck, on her ear, on her shoulder that left her weak-kneed and breathless.
She tightened her grip on his hand and took another step back, her ass against his pelvis. “Liv, I swear. . .” It was equal parts epithet and entreaty.
She pushed against him then, just enough to turn and meet him face-to-face. “Touch me,” she begged, placing her hands on either side of his face. “Just touch me.”
And he did.
End .