Work Text:
a/n: nikkiolive ruined my life by coming up with the “elliot keeps the ring on after the UC gig bc he likes being olivia’s husband” trope and it hasn’t left my brain since then
It all goes to shit at the fundraiser.
When they met at the library, Olivia should’ve said no, should’ve told him to find someone else — someone younger and not her. Someone he could make dreamy eyes at until they inevitably fell in love with him, just like all the other women before.
He’s working a high profile case; Amanda clued her in. Nine Ukrainian girls, all separated from their families. One girl was found dead, painted out to be a prostitute, but Elliot’s worked in that world before. He knows when it’s all for show. The case reminds her of the summertime and she can’t believe another year has almost passed.
She’s been keeping her distance, trusting that Amanda can provide some SVU insights while she keeps her squad close by. They’re still setting up shop at the precinct, finding a rhythm that reminds her of the old days — arguing and all.
But he had called her, asked to meet up.
Not at the offices, he’d requested, and for a moment she worried this was for personal reasons. She received a text later with the library’s address and agreed to his proposal(s) with a simple thumbs up.
On the steps, she asks for verification.
“Just pictures?”
“Just pictures,” he confirms, easing her concerns slightly. “They wanna deck out my office — make it seem more real, ya know?”
He’s nervous around her, keeps his hands lodged in his pockets, keeps his distance from her. She set up an unspoken barrier that day in the kitchen and he’s being almost too respectful of it.
But he needs a wife.
They’re investigating a man at Fordham University, where Amanda teaches, and now that she’s a civilian, Olivia is the obvious choice.
“I can see if I have some,” she says nonchalantly.
She definitely has them; she has a whole photo album (or two) of just them. It’s not like she could toss them away, people leave her but she never leaves them. The albums stay stacked in her closet next to all her memories, in a pathetic museum display for the loneliest woman in the world.
He smiles softly at her and she tries to ignore it.
“That’d be great. Thanks, Liv.”
Her pants pocket buzzes and she’s thrust back into reality. Tugging out her phone, she remembers that she came here to exchange information with him, not tiptoe the lines of whatever this is.
“I looked up your vic in the system,” she says, switching back to work mode immediately. “Name’s Sofiya. She was only fourteen. Parents last saw her a year ago, and haven’t stopped looking.”
She hands him her phone and he holds it, saddened to see that she’s right. The girl in the photo smiles brightly, wearing a pair of overalls and swinging on a swing set. Same face that was on the body found by the river, bruised, bloodied, and decorated in cheap leather and lace.
He takes a deep breath, but it’s shaky. “They can stop now. That’s her.”
For a second, Olivia thought maybe it wouldn’t be her. But then again, there’s still a body, and this job hasn’t proved to be that lucky.
“I hope you get the bastard,” she says.
Elliot nods, handing her back her phone. “Me too.”
She sees it then — a familiar glimmer from the past. It sits on his finger and she realizes: this is getting real.
A golden ring.
It takes her off guard. It’s suddenly twenty years ago and they need to part ways; it always was the marker as her cue to leave. Now it’s a reminder that it’s late and she needs to get home, feed her kid, be anywhere but here.
He sees her begin to drift.
Olivia smiles softly. She doesn’t mean for it to be this way.
He can tell a goodbye is coming.
“Just pictures, right?” she asks one more time to make sure, to ease some lingering tension that the reveal of the band has caused.
He chuckles; it works.
“Just pictures, Captain.”
It was most certainly not ‘just pictures’ after all.
Sure, they decorated his office walls with photos of them that spanned from the late 90s to 2011, and he managed to dodge any questions about the last twelve years by sliding some pictures of Noah and Eli in the mix — well, Oliver and Noah.
Apparently ‘Eli’ is too risky. Her son’s name is not.
She gets pissed about that.
It’s suddenly her son being dragged into a case that she wanted nothing to do with in the first place. Everything with Elliot seems to become so dangerous; she can’t stand the thought that her little boy has been tossed into the mix. Noah is off limits, he knows that.
Olivia wants to yell, but she always does with him nowadays, and she’s too tired to. He can tell.
Besides, she knows it’s not entirely his fault. This case is growing out of hand, a lot more eyes are on his squad, and every lead seems to be falling apart at the seams. She trusts him enough to know that he’s unfortunately very good at this, at being undercover, and he unfortunately wants to protect her, even though he no longer has duty nor oath to fulfill.
It’s a few days later when she’s asked for more than just pictures and she’s frustrated because she should’ve known from the jump.
'Just pictures' has turned into a black tie event that Ayanna had to beg her to attend. Amanda gave her a fair warning that SVU would only be able to stay away from the case for so long, and that time was ending soon.
It’s all hands on deck as the case leads to an international web of the lowest form of humans, with intense pressure from every office to get it closed — by the book and as quickly as possible.
Elliot can’t even ask her himself; she knows why.
So, Ayanna is the one to lay out the plan in front of her, update her on the case, and Olivia doesn’t have the ability to say no.
Not if she wants to help save the other eight girls.
Elliot and Olivia are to attend a fundraiser at Fordham, one with a dress code and all. They are to continue schmoozing up the college dean, Richard Michaelson, OCCB’s lead suspect. Elliot has managed to play his cards well, establishing enough of a rapport with the man that he now has a lead he feels good about, despite some resistance from others.
Olivia doesn’t have the time to learn any more; not while she’s keeping track of her still-new team, and balancing an undercover operation on top of her already busy life makes her slightly livid.
She should’ve known.
Now, it’s Friday and she has to delay spaghetti night and pay Martha extra to stay late. She’s changing in a closet at OCCB, tossing her work clothes in a haphazard pile and slipping on an outfit that’s a little out of her comfort zone, but necessary.
Elliot could tell she was pissed when she first arrived and he was far too apologetic for her liking. It’s like he’s constantly walking on eggshells around her and she hates that she was right — everything has changed, even before they made a decision. They’re lingering in the in-between, a place of not-no, but not-yes. She’s shoved him under her bed like a child does to clean, except she has no intention of bringing him out.
Life has been just fine with it like this.
Lindstrom warns her that ‘just fine’ doesn’t equate to happiness, but her rebuttal is that it isn’t sadness either. It’s contentment; they had different interpretations of that word.
But tonight is not about them at all.
Tonight is work; she can do work.
Dress zipped on, hair as good as it’ll get, her heels are clasped closed. She gives herself a moment to shake Elliot out of her head before she tosses open the closet door to reunite with him once again.
This is her partner, and their task tonight is to get information.
That’s all.
Staying focused on the missing girls, Sofiya’s face is fresh in her mind… until she sees him.
He’s standing in front of his desk donning a dark blue suit, and her silver heels click as she makes her way over to him. They needed to look showy; apparently she’s supposed to make a good amount of money. Bruno agrees to pay for a dress because now her squad is involved, and suddenly his Captain is in charge of the whole operation.
Which means they get to look like this for each other, now, and it makes her stomach churn.
Her far-too-expensive matching blue dress reaches the floor, with a tasteful slit up her thigh; it’s a low neckline that drapes into a V, with ‘collapsed crescent sleeves’ (as Bruno teased when it arrived).
It makes her feel covered and comfortable enough to be ogled by Elliot… Until she’s in front of him and his eyes are no longer in work mode and his mouth seems to go dry.
She wishes she were back in a blazer.
“You look—”
“Do you have the ring?”
She cuts him off, focusing on the business at hand. There are children to save and she does not have time for anything else. Her own son had to be placed on the backburner tonight; flirting is out of question.
It sparkles in between his thumbs. He’d been fiddling with this flashy diamond ring for god knows how long before she revealed herself. From his demeanor, it’s almost as if he’s really proposing.
The thought of that terrifies her. She could hurl.
Luckily, the squads are on the other side of the room, still getting ready for the evening, so no one pays them any attention. They can do this awkward thing in peace, and reset before the long night ahead.
“I do,” he tells her, reaching for her hand.
Olivia holds it out palm up, cupped so he can just drop it right in there, but of course, that’d be too easy.
And for as apologetic he was earlier tonight, he’s still Elliot.
Taking her hand in his, he turns it over so it’s flat and slides the ring on in a way that nearly makes her slap him.
It feels like a thousand pounds once it’s in place.
“All set?” he asks, as if he hadn’t already ruined her night with his gesture.
“Let’s go.”
They are, unfortunately, charming.
They show up and are immediately welcomed in, purely due to their (unintentionally) captivating presence.
Elliot is a master of charisma and she is falling a little too easily into her role as his wife. The wife he is beyond devoted to, the wife he keeps showing off, tossing around comments about how lucky he is.
Olivia focuses completely on the job to avoid the sinking feeling that tosses her back into her kitchen — head against the fridge, terrified her whole world was about to change again. Tonight she has to lose that person, find the part of herself from back in the day, when their partnership was solidified in paperwork and they were thrust into an operation, already knowing exactly how to dance this dance.
It’s been a minute for her and it’s been a while since she’s had him at her side. She’s taking his lead.
If he is nervous at all, he doesn’t show it. Good for him.
A loud, toothy woman takes up their space and Jet jokes over their comms that it’s like mid-life crisis Barbie has come to life. The tease is wildly too accurate, Olivia nearly laughs.
“And you must be Maria!” the woman exclaims.
Not Olivia, Maria.
Maria, the financial advisor who works with top clients on Wall Street. Maria, who doesn’t have time to cook dinner — but her husband, Christian, does.
Christian is the adjunct professor with six-pack abs who never can seem to clasp those few top buttons set to work here this fall. Christian is a fantastic chef, and their eldest seems like he’s going to take after his father, although—
“Oliver looks exactly like you. It’s like a carbon copy!”
Thank god Olivia cannot be here right now, because she would have imploded at the idea that Eli was ever hers. Not the child who was carted away, set to forget every decent memory the two of them had together. The child who’s now a teen and looks at her as one would a stranger.
No, instead, Maria’s here.
And Maria laughs. “Ah-hah, thank you.”
Olivia smiles and the woman hugs her tightly, lengthy acrylic nails clawing her back.
“A beautiful family,” she says and Olivia hopes they don’t have to talk to her for too much longer.
Olivia doesn’t like tipsy, jobless women with too much money to spend. Women whose hobbies are to be poked and prodded with needles, trying to make googly eyes at a personal trainer that’s a third of their age. Women who say shit like—
“But Noah has Chris’s eyes. Those bright blues! So sweet.”
Her hand is clammy in his; if only he would let it go. Why is he holding on like she would fly away? It’s work. She’s not going anywhere.
“The Ellis genes are strong,” he shrugs. “What can I say?”
Elliot — no, Christian —
Elliot is not kissing her hand, guiding her to their seats, Christian is.
Christian pulls out her chair like a gentleman and Maria kisses him on the cheek as a token of thanks. She doesn’t know why she does. She supposes that the ring helps her stay true to the character she’s playing; she’s just that good at her job.
Olivia and Elliot were left in OCCB Headquarters, badges atop a pile of clothes that sit next to each other. They’d be reunited after they impress their target of interest — Richard Michaelson.
The man who they meet an hour after arriving. The man whose sociable wife from earlier scoots next to and whispers in his ear. The man who struts over on heavy feet like he owns the room because — well, he is the dean.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Michaelson,” Elliot greets, hand out.
“Dick,” the man corrects. “Call me Dick.”
How fitting.
The two men clasp hands like it’s a contest and Olivia can see Elliot peeking through. Elliot knows Dick is the lead suspect in a sex-trafficking ring. One that has led to the death of a young girl and now, a judge.
But Christian doesn’t know that at all.
Elliot’s good at this part of the job, and the switch in his demeanor is seamlessly unnoticed by everyone but her. She knows him too well.
With the quickest switch, Dick’s eyes are on her in an instant, like she’s his prey. Olivia internally cringes at the sight. He’s a man who thinks he’s attractive, but really it’s his overflowing wallet that draws him attention. He has a smile like the devil, one that is anything but genuine, and Olivia already can tell he’s their guy.
Elliot was right about his hunch.
“And who’s this?” he asks, drawing it out, making a scene.
Elliot smiles. “This is my beautiful wife, Maria.”
She takes the dean’s hand in hers and he tugs her up, out of her seat, to make her stand; Elliot’s hand instinctively lands on the small of her back.
“And it’s almost like praying,” he dramatically teases.
“Ah,” she picks up on the cue — West Side Story, one of Noah’s favorites, forever ruined from this moment forward. “An appreciator of the arts.”
He kisses her hand, and she can feel Elliot’s fingers twitch.
Dick nods. “You’ll come to find out that I’m a man who has lived many lives, Maria.”
The man’s not letting go. She takes advantage of it.
“Well, Dick. I would love to learn more.”
It feels wrong in front of his wife. It feels wrong in front of her husba—
His wife. It feels slimy in front of his wife, that’s all.
The dirtbag cocks a brow and tosses her a smirk. “That so?”
She’s got him hooked now.
“Well, maybe after dinner, Christian will let me steal you.” He glances over at Elliot, grinning, offering. “I could take you on a little… tour.”
Elliot grounds himself into the lively Christian, suppressing his need to choke this man out.
Olivia is not his.
Maria is Christian’s, and Christian doesn’t get jealous.
“Of course,” he agrees. “My wife loves to learn.”
It’s unspoken, but that’s the key.
Under this facade of a happy, healthy couple is a married duo who understands an… alternative lifestyle. One that Olivia and Elliot were no strangers to and neither were their personas — they had at least that in common.
They are here tonight to get Michaelson to spill just enough information to one of them, although both is ideal. Information is needed on the trades — where they are funneling the girls to, where they are sent after they are taken after they’ve fled their homeland.
And most importantly, information to understand how the deals are made.
It’s only an hour after dinner — an hour of Elliot being a perfect husband, an hour after they pick at each other’s plates unspokenly, an hour after he kisses her cheek, simply because people are staring.
One of those people is Richard, and he doesn’t seem to be as enamored as the housewives around him are.
The plates are being cleared, and enough time has passed that people start to stand up and head to the dance floor. For a moment, Olivia is worried Elliot will drag her up there, but he doesn’t. He keeps a hand on the small of her back while they remain seated at the table, laughing at a story Rita shares next to him.
She scoots her chair in, causing him to move his hand to a new spot and it unconsciously lands on her thigh. Forgetting the slit, when his palm lands on her bare skin, he quickly starts to move it away, but she rests her hand on top of his.
They are supposed to be married after all.
Richard watches this exchange like a hawk, possessive over a woman he had only met tonight and he manages to pull focus. One last stroke of affection is his cue to wrap things up.
“Maria,” Dick interrupts. “Care to join me?”
She instinctively glances over at Elliot, who squeezes her thigh under the table. His face says, have fun, but his grasp tells her to be safe. I got your back.
She smiles at him; this will be Maria’s last goodbye.
Turning towards the dean now, she nods, grinning again.
“Of course.”
She’s being guided out of the ballroom and led down the darkened hallways of the campus, all the way to his office. The entire time, Dick fills the silence by chatting away, telling stories that seem like more nonsensical rich-people talk. But Olivia takes note of them all, hoping at least some of the information isn’t wildly irrelevant.
The plan is still on track; however, when they turn the corner to his door, there is a buzz of static in her ear and then the comms fall silent.
She loses all contact with the team.
The thought causes her to panic slightly — it’s been a while since she’s been undercover — but she keeps her ground. Jet is smart, capable. The connection will come back, she is sure of it.
It doesn’t.
It doesn’t come back when Dick guides her into his office and kisses her hard against the door, and it doesn't come back when she begins to feel light headed.
It doesn’t even come back when her limbs start to stiffen and she slides down to the floor.
She knows instantaneously that she has been drugged, although she can’t figure out how, unless it’s from his forceful kiss. Either way, her vision blurs and she knows she made a rookie mistake; she’s reminded of Churlish’s overeagerness.
“Maria? Are you okay?”
Switching up to mister-nice-guy, Dick kneels next to her on the floor, brushes her hair away from her face, and she shakes her head to fight off his advances. “You—”
“They must’ve made the drinks too strong tonight,” he interjects.
He’s smart, calculated; she’ll tell Ayanna that later. Turns out, that tour was a part of the deal. It’s something none of the team remotely expected.
“Here, let me help you,” he grunts, and suddenly, she’s on the velvet couch and the connection is still not back.
“No, my husband—” she begins to say, the diamond glistening as she tries to push him off, despite how weighed down her arms feel.
Dick hovers over her, lips attaching themselves to her neck, and he tugs at her dress. “Your husband will get what he wants after I get my share,” he huffs, shifting to gain more access to her skin, and she hears the rip of the dress — right at the bottom, where her heel is apparently caught on it.
She’s trapped and no one knows where she is.
If this man goes through as he has intended to, he will spot the wire taped to her side, and who knows what will happen then. Surely, he will kill her.
But Olivia doesn’t need to think about that for long because suddenly Elliot tramples in like a bull and throws Dick so hard into the wall, she’s worried the room will collapse. For once, she’s thankful Elliot is too possessive for his own good. The man just couldn’t trust Dick alone with her, and when he said he’d had her back, he meant it.
He throws a fist into the man’s face, then again, and Dick falls on the ground, slumped, but breathing.
She can’t tell if he is still in character or not when he cups her face, thumbs sweeping across her lips as he hushes out, “You’re okay, baby. I got you.”
He tosses the pet name in there so nonchalantly, she forces herself to pretend it’s his dedication to the operation.
“Elliot…”
“Shh, it’s okay. Let’s get you out of here,” he soothes, his arms shoving themselves under her limp body, lifting her with an ease that startles her. Her own limbs feel like a thousand tons, but he makes her seem as light as a feather.
Carrying her out of the dark office, her arms cling onto him, her face buried in his neck.
She will not remember his heart racing, nor his continued whispers that she was safe, he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her — it is all silenced as she drifts into unconsciousness.
The night ends with blood on his fist and a ripped dress.
She wakes up in a hospital bed, woozy and slightly disoriented, but his voice rings through, muffled on the other side of the glass covered door.
“We got the information. We know how the deals go down now.”
The Attorney General is there, his back to her, and he sounds pissed. “Are you dense? Do you not see how horribly that went?”
Ayanna tries to extinguish the flames. “With all due respect, sir—”
“And Sergeant, you surprised me. I’ve heard such excellent things about you,” he turns towards Elliot, “—you, not so much. You ruined the whole operation with that stunt.”
Elliot clenches his fist. “Stunt? What was I supposed to do? Let him continue?”
“You shouldn’t have left her alone in the first place, Detective.”
It is such a simple sentence, but for the two of them, it carries far too much weight; Olivia can tell (even from inside the room) that it hits him in a deeper way than the man even intended. He feels guilty about agreeing to let her go, but this time he had no choice.
Besides, they didn’t think that trading off wives was remotely a part of the deal.
“Nothing rang up in her system and your fellow Detective, Slootmaeker, managed to lose all contact with Captain Benson before she even got into that room. You have nothing on Michaelson besides a hunch and even if he is your guy, you made him untouchable now!” he shouts, voice booming, echoing in the quiet hospital hallway. It shakes for a moment before his voice lowered; it’s stern when he growls, “You’re both off the case.”
Olivia squeezes her eyes shut from inside the room, while Elliot is still out there, protesting. “Sir—”
“Go home, Detective. That’s an order,” the man warns before turning to Ayanna, leveling his voice to calm himself down. “When the Captain wakes up, you let her know she is done, too. End of discussion.”
His footsteps are egregiously loud as he walks away, or Olivia still has a headache; maybe both. Either way, she thinks of the missing girls and prays their fuckup doesn’t cost one of their lives.
This all feels very reminiscent — a child’s life caught between their partnership. Miraculously, Elliot keeps his hands off the Attorney General this time, and his fists away from any wall.
Instead, he glances over to Ayanna, who whispers something back to him, and he shakes his head in defeat.
Olivia tries very hard to make out his voice through the mumbling, but all she hears is her name whispered once, and the rest is mush.
Noah is sent to the Carisi’s, Bernie to Maureen’s. Eli’s in school still, but Elliot manages to get a campus officer to keep an eye on him. The teenager argues back — it already isn’t cool that his dad is a cop, but it’ll be worse when an officer is following him around. No one will want to hang out with him.
Elliot doesn’t care.
His knuckles can’t seem to get Dick’s blood off of them, despite how much he scrubbed at them. He wonders if it’s the guilt that keeps it there; he had dragged Olivia into a dangerous situation, again. He had put her life at risk, again.
A man had drugged and violated her.
They were not as in-sync as his late-wife liked to think they’d been.
He paces outside of her room, waiting for Olivia to be cleared.
She woke up and was informed of her departure from the case, and had not been as angry as he thought she would be; she just wanted to go home. To Elliot, it is worse than her being angry. There is no telling how she feels, and truly, he was so terrified tonight, he is desperate for her.
Regardless of what they are or aren’t to each other, even when they were just partners, he wanted to make sure she was okay. He cradled her in an airport parking lot, held her in a hallway (twice); now, he continues pacing outside of her room.
Redressed in some scrubs, her dress is taken as evidence, her jewelry replaced with a plastic hospital bracelet. Ayanna has the diamond ring in her hand, the one that decorated Olivia’s finger so beautifully and he thinks about how he had really fucked it up this time.
Six hours and a glass of scotch later, he flexes his fingers out and stretches his hand, sitting on the couch after it starts to rain. The garden had dampened around him and the clouds rolled in; it’s symbolic, he is forced inside.
His thumbs ghost over her name in his phone but they never go any further.
She had been so quiet on the ride home — he was surprised she even asked him to take her, but he realized there weren’t too many other options for her.
He wishes she would’ve yelled at him; lord knows he deserves it. But she had kept any anger at bay, instead, twiddling her thumb across her bare ring finger, deep in thought. She thanked him for the ride home and he waited a full ten minutes before he managed to get himself to drive off to his own home.
The house is empty now. He can’t even stand to play any music. He sits in the silence and thinks of Sofiya, prays that his fuck up doesn’t cost another girl their life.
Jenna’s name threatens to reenter his head.
He’s about to pour another glass to make it go away when there’s a soft knock at his door. It might be foolish to think it’s her, but there’s no one else it can be.
He tugs the door open and she’s standing there — her giant ass bag slung over her shoulder, a stack of files in her arms, redressed in yoga pants and a sweater. She seems restless; he understands the feeling.
“Liv? What’s wrong?”
“You’re really going to let them kick us off?”
It’s like old times.
He smiles, shifting his body away to open up space for her to slide past him. “Come on in.”
Her boots click against his floor and he follows her down the hall, ready to listen to her rant away. It’s nearly identical to the old days — she’s got that same look she had when she was thinking things through, mapping it out in her head. Except it’s not across from his desk now, it’s in his home, his kitchen.
“I’ve been thinking about what he said.”
He scratches the back of his neck when she tosses everything onto the counter, starting to spread it all out. “Who?”
You shouldn’t have left her alone in the first place, rings through his mind.
She cocks a brow at him. “Michaelson.”
“Oh,” he exhales, “right.”
She ignores him, continuing, “He was rambling on and on in that hallway. I can’t remember everything but I know something’s gotta give us a clue to where they are.”
He’s in love with her; he knows it.
She’s at his kitchen counter, talking him through the case she was kicked off of, her bleeding heart oozing all over the granite.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, needing to refocus on the case, not how right it feels to have her in his home. Her ass looks good on his stool and he almost slaps himself at the thought.
Instead, he perches himself right next to her, leaning over her shoulder to analyze the papers at hand. Her handwriting has matured slightly, but it’s still there — the detective’s scribbles. Days when it was used for lunch orders and inappropriate jokes.
She looks up at him and he only then realizes how close they really are. Taking a deep breath, he masks it in a sigh.
“We had already checked all of these places before the fundraiser, Liv.”
“I know but…” she trails off, swiveling on the seat to look at him head on. “You saw him. He knows where they are. He was taunting us.”
Us. He takes note of that.
“We’re off the case,” he reminds her, knowing Captain Benson couldn’t be as much of a risk taker as Detective Benson was.
But in her eyes, that second-grade Detective is still there, and he sees it. Guilt; drive.
“I can’t sit at home while those girls are out there, Elliot.”
“I know.”
He can’t either.
Her eyes threaten to water, but the tears don’t come. Instead, she reaches for his forearm, squeezing gently. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Then, Elliot, I need my partner.”
He smiles at her. “Alright. Where do we start?”
She wonders what he was doing before she got here. They’re too alike — she nearly busted out a bottle of cabernet; she spots the bottle of scotch in the corner. She wonders if the girls file themselves in the same spot that Rebecca and Ryan once were.
Only that time, they could thrust themselves further into the work. One might say a little too much.
But all they ever knew was this job.
There hasn’t been a day in their whole partnership where they haven’t been working. And the Elliot she knew was within the confines of the work, the duty. All she knew was being his partner, having his back.
Over a decade later, that partnership has evaporated, frayed so much that only ghosts of thread seem to hold them together.
They’ve spent hours, side by side, asses getting numb, and they haven’t made any progress. They’re off the case — benched, to be precise — and the rain outside has turned into a thunderstorm that roars through the air, shaking the walls.
Olivia hopes Noah is okay.
Elliot pulls her out of her head, lifting a few papers in front of her to make room for a ceramic dish, a fork laid there, piercing some of the pasta inside. “Liv, eat,” he urges.
She shakes her head, biting her lip, eyes glued down in front of her. “I’m fine, Elliot.”
“Olivia, it’s been hours. You can take a second to eat.”
He shoves the pasta closer to her but it throws her off; she’s stuck in this cycle. She already missed an opportunity to save them once, she can’t risk that happening again.
“I came here to work.”
He understands what she’s hinting at. Taking a break from work stops the debilitating distraction, and then it’s just them eating dinner at his apartment, alone, together.
He softens his voice. “Olivia, it’s just a bowl of pasta.”
She concedes at his promise, looking down. It’s just pasta, and she needs the energy. “Thank you,” she murmurs, but he must miss it.
“Want anything to drink? Water?”
“Water’s fine.”
A glass is filled and placed next to her, and shortly, he’s back at her side, joining her silence, picking at his own bowl.
She waits a little, focusing on chewing, grounding herself in what she can control. But the pasta is warm and homey, and it makes her feel a twinge of something not work-related, so she breaks through the silence.
“We’re missing something,” she sighs, swallowing.
“Yeah,” he exhales. “We are.”
He’s eating as slowly as she is now and she can tell he’s thinking. Although, she isn’t quite sure about what.
The thunder roars; lightning strikes in the distance.
It shines back at her.
“You still have it on.”
She doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but it slips out, and he’s awakened from his deafening thoughts.
“Hm?”
Olivia shakes her head, focusing back on the food in front of her, hoping it was a mere observation and they can get back to where they were before.
The thunder roars again.
“Uh, your ring. I just noticed it.”
He tugs down his hand, flipping it over to look at it himself, like he forgot he was wearing it. “Oh, yeah. I guess I do.”
She swallows another bite, reaching for her water, needing a new distraction. She can feel his eyes on her; who knew her chewing could be so encapsulating to someone.
“Guess I got used to having it on,” he confesses.
Lightning; then thunder again.
Right, Kathy.
Forty years with a finger wrapped in gold, being somebody else’s husband. The visual boundary Olivia could not cross — did not want to. She fought for him to keep it on, it seemed to ground him. A whole decade later, he seems to be seeking it out again.
He forks another bite into his mouth. “Guess it was kind of nice, being your husband.”
Flash of lightning; roar of thunder. She suddenly cannot eat anymore.
“I should go,” she whispers as the thunderstorm worsens, seemingly trapping itself in his very kitchen.
He drops his fork down, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“No, Elliot, it's fine. I just…” she trails off, looking back at the band. “I should go.”
He reaches for her. “Don’t,” he pleads.
She glances down at her bicep in his grasp; the ring nearly burns her skin. “Elliot…”
“No, I mean,” he huffs in aggravation, like he can’t seem to get it right; he’s trying so hard to stay within the lines in the sand. “—the rain. It’s pouring right now, Liv.”
She locks eyes with him, his hand still glued to her. “I’ve driven in worse.”
Another boom. Then flash.
He tries again. “Wouldn’t it be better to wait it out?”
“…what if it never clears up?”
She’s not talking about the storm anymore. He can tell.
His voice softens again. “It will.”
She wants to cry, wants to hit him, wants him to hold her tight.
“How do you know?”
“Because it always does,” he answers. “You know, this too shall pass, the rainbow after the storm, all that stuff.”
Olivia smiles, although it does not reach her eyes, those remain flooded. “I miss you being a pessimist,” she confesses.
“Yeah, well, I miss you,” he says, letting it land in between them.
The storm is loud but she is deafened by their lack of distance and the way he’s looking at her now.
“That’s all I meant before, Liv. It seems if we aren’t working together—”
“Then we don’t see each other,” she finishes.
He nods his head, slowly. She can see the truth be swallowed down.
“Yeah,” he sighs.
It’s another night in a kitchen — this time, his — and yet, they’re stuck in the same spot. She didn’t call him then nor after; he still managed to protect her, although she can tell he feels like he didn’t. But she’s here and alive, and this was merely a brush burn on the list of traumatic events in her life. He doesn’t know that there were worse. He would’ve, if she had let him in.
All she ever wanted was him, and he’s here.
The thought pushes her to apologize.
“I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head again. “I should be the one apologizing.”
All she ever wanted was him, and he’s here.
“I don’t want an apology, Elliot,” she whispers, reaching out to grab him now; knuckles white from their grip on his shirt.
He glances down at where she grasps him. Slowly, he looks back up at her, blue eyes terrified to lock with her brown. He’s tiptoeing through the glass again, worried he’ll push her over the edge, worried he’ll never see her again.
“What do you want, Olivia?”
Lightning; roar of thunder.
All she ever wanted was him, and he’s here.
Their lips meet in a flash, her hands pulling him close, needing a spark — a jolt to both of their systems. They’ve spent too much time stuck in this never-ending cycle; she needs a silence that his kiss can provide. He needs her to let him in.
He kisses back, that grasp on her, never leaving. She’s soft and perfect and everything he has needed for the past few years, past ten — hell, since the day he met her.
Even though they could bury themselves like this, it doesn’t last forever; they part, eventually.
At the loss, she wants to cry. What if she ruined everything for a second time this day?
She drops her face into his chest, hoping the tears won’t fall, but they will. “I’m terrified of this, Elliot.”
“I know,” he hums, rubbing her back.
Still not looking at him, she focuses on the muffled beating of his heart within his chest. It is lively, it is rhythmic, it gives her something to have, to hold.
“Does it not scare you?” she asks, throat coated in uneasiness. “What if we don’t—”
He cuts her off with a kiss to her temple. “Don’t go there.”
A sob threatens to release but it remains inside, clutching onto the warmth of Elliot Stabler.
“Tell me it’s going to be okay,” she pleads, as he had once asked her to, outside hospital doors, his dying wife fighting for her life inside.
He shifts to place his hands on both her biceps, pulling her back so he can see her face. She misses his warmth, but finds it once again in his eyes.
“It’s going to be better than okay, Olivia.”
Tears continue to fall; she’s overwhelmed by him. Overwhelmed by his insistence that things will work out, that it won’t fall apart at the seams.
Everyone leaves.
Olivia’s life has proven time and time again that things do not work out the way she wants or plans. Divine intervention has carved it into her life lines.
He swipes a fallen tear from her cheek bone. “I’ve always had your back.”
“At work. This is different.”
“Different kind of partner, that’s all.”
He kisses her again.
She breathes into his kiss. A flash of light again appears, then the very same thunder roars.
“Everything changes, Elliot.”
He brushes a fallen strand of hair behind her ear, dampened from her salty tears. “What if it changes for the better?”
“We’re busy, we’re older—”
She’s spiraling again, desperately clinging on to something to make it easier to let him go before he leaves her again.
“We’ll find the time,” he assures her.
She takes a steadying breath.
He looks at her like she is the world.
“It’s not fair for me to ask you to trust me. But trust us, Olivia. We’ve always worked — the two of us, together.”
The storm outside is stronger than ever; if she weren’t so focused on his eyes, his voice, she would have flown away.
Her silence makes him think she might need some space, that maybe he did it again; he was too much. He starts to unravel his hands that have shifted to around her waist, but her reflexes bare her truth. She grips onto his forearms for dear life, nails digging in. and he stops retreating, keeping his hands locked to her hips where she paused him.
Her brown eyes (still slightly watery) meet his blue and the lightning strikes brighter than it ever has; the thunder following immediately.
It’s the closest it’s ever been.
When he kisses her this time, she meets him halfway.
Time is a blur as they swirl around each other, hands frantically reaching for the other.
Still in the kitchen, they kiss far more fervently than before; their embrace seems to dry her tears.
He groans at the taste of her mouth, his tongue sweeping, finding hers, they dance. Breathing is labored, they’re gasping. It’s like the big bang, everything has started from this point forward.
There was no going back.
His hands slide under her shirt and fire up her bare back. Her hands reach for his abs, nails raking across them, and he shivers, releasing a groan she wants to hear again.
His hands eventually find a home on her ass, groping the flesh through her yoga pants, sliding his palms down to the back of her thighs. He fondles the skin there, kissing her back, his lips traveling to her neck, locking there, sucking at her sensitive skin. Her head tilts back to give him more access and her legs nearly give out, knees buckling at his assault on her skin.
She lets out a small whimper, squeezing her eyes shut at just how much this all is.
He’s hungry for her, driven by the roaring storm around them. She tastes like honey.
They could stay here — he would if she absolutely wanted him to, but this isn’t comfortable, it isn’t what she deserves.
Taking a second, he looks back at her, breathing her in. She’s absolutely stunning beyond belief. Her golden hair to compliment her chocolate eyes, warm and sweet.
She deserves to be worshiped.
He kisses her roughly, bending his knees, tugging her legs open, and hoists her up. She gasps, releasing their lips from each other, and he smiles mischievously, tossing her legs around his waist, her arms flinging themselves around his neck.
He’s walking them back, quieting the storm as they cross into his bedroom and he begins to wonder if this is too much. She had nearly sobbed at the thought of kissing him.
Carefully, he places her down onto his bed. She lays down, holding onto him, tugging him forward to reunite their lips.
“Liv…”
“Elliot, I want to,” she rasps.
He kisses her once. “Tell me when to stop.”
“Don’t,” she begs.
He kisses her again, this time, climbing over her frame, kissing her as if they stopped, they both would die. They both knew this is how it would be, so all-encompassing, there would be no way to stop, no way to continue on.
She reaches for his shirt, desperate to rip it off and feel his heat. He doesn’t want them to part, but she pulls and pulls until he’s forced to toss it over his head. He reaches for her sweater and does the same, revealing her breasts, covered in a black lace bra.
Olivia wants more, fingers fumbling with the waistband of his sweats, but he halts her, shoving a hand behind her back and unclasping her bra, lips sucking on her throat as he does. Her hand gets trapped between their bodies, although it remains low, near his hardening cock.
His tongue skates across her skin like he’s famished, lips sucking at a soft place on her neck — one that makes her let out a whine he must really like. She’ll bruise there, but she doesn’t care; it feels too good to care right now.
He makes his way down her body, tongue skimming across her chest, flicking at her nipple before heading towards the other to do the same. She’s covered in him, wet all over, painted by his tongue. It feels cool against her skin.
The hands that had been so careful before now knead her breasts, aiding his tongue and lips as they swirl and suck at the hardened peaks, her chest heaving, hips seeking out a way to release the ache that’s growing between her legs.
He took her words to heart; he’s not stopping.
“Elliot,” she pants, starting to nearly hyperventilate from the overstimulation. She could come from his work on her tits alone.
He pulls back, proud of himself, and grins.
“Sorry. They’re nice,” he says.
She chuckles in response and he kisses her because of it. It’s incredibly overjoyous to see her happy, to see her smile, and to be the reason she’s doing it again. He would do anything to keep that smile plastered on her face, to keep the tears away.
He keeps kissing her, then her cheeks, her jaw, her neck, chest, scooching down the bed to reach her stomach. He spends a little too much time there, lips pressed to her bare skin, fingers tracing. When he pictured their first time, it was always here that would haunt him.
A reminder of the years that have passed; a promise he could no longer give her. He thinks about Olivia with short bangs, perched on a porch, and wonders what their lives would’ve been like if he’d let her inside.
She lets him stay there, thumbs scratching across his scruff, eyes closed and following him on a similar journey.
The pittering of the rain gives them a moment of silence for that life, but the thunder reminds them of the one they have. He takes his index and middle fingers, sliding them down between her legs, wanting to feel her heat. It’s so warm between her legs; she twitches when he nudges her clit through the layers.
The pants come off quickly after that, panties too.
Suddenly, she’s completely bare; the thunder rolls again.
He opens her up, nudging her knees apart, taking a leg in one hand, kissing her inner thigh, then the other. He lays them down at his sides, kissing them again, and again.
He wants to carve his name into the meat of her skin, wants to spend a whole day here, make the whimpers keep coming.
Her nails dig into his shoulders, hips writhing now with need, and he caves in. He’s been avoiding this part because he knows there’s no way in hell he can hold back. For one, he hasn’t gotten to taste a woman in years, to have her at the mercy of his tongue, to worship her wordlessly. But secondly, and most importantly, he’s never had the taste of Olivia on his tongue before.
Twelve years across a desk and the intrusive thoughts of him on her knees, her spread on the desk — he’s been thinking about this for longer than he’d care to admit.
He glides his fingers up her thigh gently, crossing them in the divet where her hip and thigh meet, across her cunt, dipping down to find her wet and ready. His hips grind into the mattress at the feeling of her; god, this is a dream.
She whimpers and he does it again, rubbing those two fingers between her lips, parting her open, exciting him more. It’s only seconds he can continue teasing her before his own need takes over.
His tongue finds exactly where to go as if he had a goddamn map of her pussy. He dips into her, fingers keeping her spread, and her whimpers turn to shortened, shaky breaths. He chases them, seeking them out. Taking away his fingers, he replaces them with his thumb, circling right around her clit as he continues diving into her.
“Elliot,” she cries.
It’s the prettiest his name has ever sounded.
He keeps this going, face drenched in her sweetness, arms needing to lock around her thighs to keep her from wriggling any further. He stops his movements, gliding his tongue up her dripping cunt to land right on her clit and take her breath away.
He starts slow, circling and circling, her hands clasp the back of his head, hips grinding to cue him that she needs more, she’s ready. That’s when the circles turn to flicks, tongue teasing the swollen bud, forcing her to cry out in ecstasy.
Unlocking himself from one of her thighs, he takes the fingers from earlier, shoving them into his mouth, wetting them with his own salvia, before thrusting the index inside her, curling up. She moans and god, her voice is deeper than back in the day; it’s earthy and vibrates in the room and his hips react again, grinding.
“More,” she begs and he thrusts another inside her.
Her throat releases another whine and she whimpers again, and again. “Your — your mouth.”
He smiles up at her, continuing to pump his fingers in and out of her aching cunt, feeling on top of the world right now. “You miss my mouth?” he teases. “Where?”
He leaves his fingers deep inside her, gliding his tongue on the ring around where they touch. “Here?” he asks, before moving his lips right onto her clit and giving it a good suck. “Or here?”
“There!” she cries.
He chuckles low, obliging her demands, sucking on her clit how she liked it before and resuming his thrusting fingers. She’s making new noises — deep and hushed at first, the kind he imagines she makes for herself, alone at home with a vibrator, and then they start to raise in volume and pitch.
She’s tightening around him, he’s moving faster to push her over the edge, and she collapses shortly after that, coming so hard, he’s soaked in her.
He licks her clean, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth and chin, smiling.
Her body is shaking slightly still, having not come that hard in a while — maybe ever, but it’s hard to compare right now. It’s Elliot, this has been all she’s ever wanted for years, before she even knew it.
He lets her calm down, kissing her all over in places that won’t make her shake or writhe — her knees, her forearms, biceps, then finally, her forehead.
She keeps him up here, pulling him down to her lips to meet again. The taste of her lingers on his tongue and she kisses him even deeper.
Pulling away, he looks her in the eyes, swallowing down a lump in his throat; he can’t believe she’s here.
She sees it too, and those tears threaten to fall again.
“Elliot…”
“Yeah?”
“I need you,” she rasps.
He needs her too.
His cock is throbbing from watching her come, and the relief from being released from his pants nearly sends him over the edge. He’s too sensitive, he wants to last long, but he isn’t sure he will.
Her fingertips find him there, guiding him to her center, and she slides him through her wetness a few times, nearly causing him to choke. “Liv,” he warns and she smiles.
One night in the future, he will be at her mercy, deep in her mouth, come down her throat — but today, their first time, she needs him inside her. She needs to feel him fill this empty spot she’s been unknowingly saving for him, where a version of her died back when the shots rang through the squad room.
She kisses him again to erase the memory of the past clear out of her head. That was then, now they are here, and he’s looking at her like she means something to him. Like she always wished he had.
He lines himself up with her entrance, slowly thrusting forward, inching inside her, then back, allowing her to stretch out around him. She gasps when he thrusts fully forward, mouth locked open and head tossed back. He stays there for a moment, fully sheathed inside her tight cunt, his body over hers, forearms next to her head.
He kisses her. He doesn’t ever think he’ll stop kissing her.
She whimpers again, hips moving as a signal for him to do so as well, and he pulls back, thrusting forward, slowly, but deeply. She moans; he does it again, and she moans once more.
They stay in this rhythm for a little, their minds still wrapping around the fact that Elliot is inside of her, that their sweaty bodies are on top of his sheets, that yesterday they donned wedding rings that did not belong to them, but he wanted them to.
She reaches up for his hand, which cups her face, finding the golden band and she kisses his finger, holding onto him tightly. He traces his index finger down the side of her face, from temple to chin, tilting it up to kiss her again.
It’s an exchange that means so much in so little.
That ring used to terrify her, but now she knows that it’s her he desires to be tethered to, wanting to find himself home, here, with her.
He starts to pick up the pace, her right leg hooks over his thigh, foot planted on the bed. Her fingers reach for his perfect ass, grabbing onto it, digging into the flesh. His elbows dig into the mattress, boths hands cupping the back of her head, fingers locked in her waves.
The sound of them converging is nearly pornographic, and she grows hot, toes curling in as he starts to pound, deeper, faster, harder.
The thunderstorm outside roars louder than ever and yet both of them can’t seem to hear anything but each other’s breaths, the sound of their moans, the exhales of each other’s names. It’s a culmination of 20-plus years of tension, of laughter, of fights and embraces, love and heartbreak.
She holds onto him for dear life, terrified for him to drift away, and he thrusts into her to show her that he’s not going anywhere. His mouth returns to her neck, throat, chest. It makes its way back to her lips, kissing her, pounding into her now, swallowing down her cries.
He’ll surely be sore in the morning, he’ll feel exhausted beyond belief, but he doesn’t care. He feels her riling up again, her walls fluttering. He draws a hand down, seeking out her clit between their sticky bodies and circling as much as he can as he fucks her, again and again.
She’s digging into his skin with her nails; she’ll draw blood, he won’t care in the slightest.
Lightning flashes; thunder roars.
The band snaps and she screams out his name, head thrown back, moaning so deeply, eyes watering. He keeps going, so close to his own orgasm, watching her below him, needing to see her when he does.
Her chest heaves, tits bouncing, lips puffy and wet. Her eyes flutter back open, jaw dropped, needing him to come soon or she’ll pass out from the intensity of her latest orgasm.
He drives into her, the walls shake, the thunder rumbles again, and he releases into her, breathless and empty.
The sun is blossoming through the windows of his apartment, bright and airy; it’s dewy this morning after all the rain. The thunderstorm last night roared to provide this morning’s calm, and there’s a peace that blankets his home.
He should be exhausted but he’s more alert than ever. There’s no cloudiness, no fog. He’s not sore or stiff; he hasn't even touched his own mug and he’s awake as ever. Pouring the steaming coffee into a second mug, he’s smiling to himself and for once, noticing just how beautiful the morning truly is. The house hasn’t felt this warm and bright ever.
He stirs slowly, waiting for the liquid to turn into a familiar color that he thinks is right. Once it does, he carefully picks it up and makes his way back to the bedroom, buzzing. It’s almost pathetic but he gets halted at the doorway — the sight of her long hair strewn across her bare back nearly feels like a dream.
She’s sleeping heavily, something she hasn’t been able to do in a very long time; he’s proud that he did that.
Making his way over to the side of the bed she occupies, he places the mug down on the nightstand. He’s desperate to touch her again, to verify she’s really here and he won’t wake up alone and in the dark.
She looks so soft, so relaxed. Leaning down, he tucks her hair behind her ear, eliciting a tiny groan from her that he’ll hold onto forever. The mattress sinks with his weight as he sits on the edge of the bed, in the sliver of space she hasn’t touched on this edge, and he kisses her temple.
“Mornin’,” he whispers.
“Mmm,” she whines, stretching out her limbs. “Morning,” she smiles, eyes still closed.
He runs his fingers down her spine, then her side as she turns to flop on her back, squinting open her eyes. He smiles immediately at their hazy reveal.
She smiles back, starting to scoot up to sit against the headboard, gripping the sheet tightly to her chest to remain covered — as if he hadn’t seen her fully last night, as if he hadn’t marked up her tits with his mouth, leaving a stamp as if he was an artist and they were his canvas.
“Coffee?”
“Mhmm,” he confirms, bringing the mug to her mouth. She cups the warm glass around his hand, tilting it up to take a sip. It’s perfect.
His voice softens. “You sleep okay?”
“Yeah, I did,” she answers. “You?”
“Eh, I wasn’t really tired.”
She raises a brow. “Oh?”
He tucks another strand behind her ear, chuckling. “Yeah,” he grins.
“I’ll have to do better to tire you out the next time then,” she teases.
He nearly chokes. “Next time?”
“Mhmm.”
She takes another sip; he’s still speechless.
Placing the mug down at her side, she reaches for him and he immediately leans forward. Her arms wrap around his neck, and his on her hips; they’ve learned this dance quicker than anyone else ever has. They’re kissing again, although this time is not as desperate as last night’s was.
There are no tears to be had, none will fall this morning.
The air has cleared; calmness restored.
The storm has long since passed, but a roar of thunder lingers in her ear.
“Elliot,” she says sternly, pushing him back.
He stops immediately, concerned he did something wrong, something too much. It’ll be over before it ever really starts.
“What?”
Her eyes widen as she sits naked in his bed.
Lightning strikes again.
“I know where they are.”