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They’re virtual strangers and they laugh during sex.
Elliot doesn’t remember the last time he laughed during sex; sex with his ex-wife was not typically an activity that prompted unbridled mirth.
He spots her in a wicked emerald dress gliding smoothly through the packed crowd of the annual New York City Police Foundation Gala, and he hates this shit so maybe he’s three drinks in, but he spots her and decides then and there he wants to fuck her six ways to Sunday.
There’s an introduction then, spurred on by Fin clapping his shoulder and encouraging him to shoot his shot. He watches her shake the hand of a captain in Vice, oozing a level of confidence that makes him feral, then conveniently bumps into her at the bar thereafter.
Her handshake is firm and eye contact steady. She tells him her name is Benson, Olivia and that she works out of the 55th, and she ribs him for his offer to buy her a drink at a bar that is, in fact, open.
His three drinks turn to four and surely she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. (Will she let him gentle his lips at the faded scar on her temple?)
The world around him fades as they talk, narrows to the singular point of Olivia Benson’s warm gaze, and they shift closer to the other, her hand on his forearm, his knee nudging hers. He’s caught firmly in her orbit.
They talk about nothing and everything and it’s just a little wondrous how easily the conversation flows. She’s warm, her expression open, seemingly genuinely interested when he regales her with a tale of catching a fly ball to the face at a Mets game. She makes him laugh when she makes a lewd joke about a lieutenant from her precinct.
The energy bends; it’s subtle, a little crackle-y, and Elliot finds himself shifting from wanting to make her features split into a smile to wanting to make her come.
He’s warm and loose-limbed and feeling bold and bright when he plucks the glass of wine from her hand.
In a single stall bathroom, he stumbles badly trying to rid himself of his pants, and she moves quickly, catches his elbows to steady him, and together they burst into laughter because they’re drunk and giddy and absolute strangers, and this thing they’re about to do is a little ridiculous and a lot unprofessional.
In the end, she does let him kiss the scar at her temple (and all the way down the length of her trembling body, stopping to languish in the V of her legs).
She cracks a joke about how quickly she comes against his mouth that makes him sputterlaugh into the skin of her thigh, and Elliot groans her name like he’s known her forever when he spills inside her, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on her hips, Olivia, Olivia.
He hovers right at her side all the way out to the curb to shield her bare skin (he’d torn the fabric at the slit near her calf in his haste to undress her), offers to leave with her to ensure she gets home safely. She rolls her eyes, kisses his cheek, pours herself into a cab alone.
He chokes, actually chokes, around a mouthful of coffee on Monday morning when Cragen introduces him to his new partner, Detective Olivia Benson from the five-five. They (again) shake hands and she grins at him, a lopsided curve of her pretty lips.
Elliot thinks it could be the start of something brilliant.