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She should be asleep.
There is no good reason for her to be up. Noah is long past believing in Santa so the presents have been laid out under the tree for days. McGrath has, in a Christmas miracle, seemingly lost her number, and her sergeant has a handle on the night shift.
On television, George Bailey has found a copy of Tom Sawyer with an inscription just for him. The wood-burning fireplace is crackling, the faux blue spruce in the corner is giving off a soft glow, and she’s added a splash of bourbon to the mug of mulled cider her son insisted they make and declared after a single sip that it was okay, I guess, leaving the rest untouched.
(She gets it. Some things are better in theory than in practice.)
On cold winter evenings when she was young, Serena would light a fire, take a seat on the green velvet couch, drape a cream crocheted throw over her shoulders, and sip hot buttered rum from a mug while Joni Mitchell crooned in the background. On a good night, Olivia would join her, and Serena would read out loud until Olivia fell asleep.
It was as close to a tradition as their family of two would have.
Through the large picture windows, she watches fat snowflakes float down across the cityscape, and she’d call it idyllic if there was ever space for that in her life. When she brings the mug to her lips, she can feel the weight of the pendant against her skin. The compass, its cardinal points a reminder of the attitudes she strives to practice in her life: loving kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity.
He’d remembered.
It happened forever ago, a conversation in a car right before Christmas of ‘98, on a night not unlike this one. She remembers flurries falling and the way the streetlights lit his long face. She already knew her new partner was a capital-C Catholic, that he went to church on Sundays, and his kids went to Catholic school. She didn’t even find out she’d been baptized Catholic until she was 13 and applying to prep school. Her mother had been spiritual but was never adherent.
Olivia grew up to be the same way and found particular inspiration in eastern religions. She told him in the darkness that night that she’d read about the Four Immeasurables, that she thought they made for good guiding principles in how she related to other people, and especially in this job.
He’d listened.
That was one of the first things she noticed about Elliot. When she spoke, he always listened.
He didn’t know yet that Olivia had made it a habit to cover the December 24th and 25th night shifts. That first Christmas at SVU, those 1800—1000 shifts were the first ones she’d been scheduled in without him. She’d ridden with Munch for half-days here and there when Elliot was in court, and she wasn’t worried about her ability to do the work without him, but she’d gotten comfortable with his guidance, his guardrails. Their rhythm.
The cases were hard, and the victims kept her up at night, but when Elliot was there, she never felt alone.
It meant a lot when he texted her, late, a quick shot off his phone, she imagined, after bringing the kids home from midnight mass and tucking them into their cozy beds, short hours before the chaos of Christmas morning. Merry Christmas, Liv.
She waited until daylight to reply in case he kept his ringer on.
She worked that shift every year they were partners, and he didn’t miss a single middle-of-the-night text, until he did. She remembers staring at her phone in the early hours of December 25, 2011, not sure if she would be able to stop herself from throwing her phone across the room if the text chime went off.
Olivia reaches for the thin chain around her neck, loops a fingertip underneath and traces it to the pendant, warmed by her skin. He doesn’t know that she’d worn his USMC medallion next to her heart like a grieving widow, doesn’t know that when she would catch its golden sparkle in the bathroom mirror, her stomach would twist.
(You would have loved it, she realized, was his way of describing the same phenomenon.)
She takes a long sip of her drink, lets it coat her mouth before swallowing it down.
She knows, vaguely, where he is now. Elliot is set up in an ordinary house in a rural town upstate where they know him as a rough-around-the-edges divorced trucker named Mike. He travels up and down I-87 as part of a joint task force investigating human smuggling alongside the Feds, the Mounties, and the Montreal Police. It makes her feel a way she won’t admit to when she thinks of how he’s the guy they call for cases like this.
There’s a bit of pride, a bit of jealousy, but there’s something else, too.
Olivia presses her knees together, takes another sip.
She misses him. She is allowing herself to miss him. The necklace he gave her rests proudly against her sternum and when she catches its light in her reflection, she feels only warmth. He’d let her know, once he was able, that he was under and he was alright. Bell stopped by her office soon after as a courtesy and gave her as many details as her level of security clearance would allow.
She tries not to worry. There’s a part of her that likes to think of him as invincible. There’s a part of her that knows that’s a load of shit.
She wonders if they let him off for Christmas. It seems reasonable, depending on Mike’s backstory, that he’d have some place to be. Maybe it’s less suspicious if he does.
The credits roll on the movie and she reaches for the remote to turn off the TV, but she doesn’t get up. The clock reads 1:57am, and she doesn’t even realize she’s been waiting for something until her phone vibrates, two quick beats against the wooden surface of the end table.
She looks at the screen, and there it is, like no time has passed.
Merry Christmas, Liv.
Her first instinct is to wait. She ignores it, though, and begins to type a response before a second message comes in. Can I call you?
She erases the letters she’d typed and replies, simply, Yes.
“Hey.”
“Hey. I saw the three dots and figured… Merry Christmas, Liv.” His voice is rough from the late hour, low and private but unhurried, like some quiet in-between moments during all-nighters from days long gone by.
“Merry Christmas, El.”
“It’s, uh.” He exhales hard, the way he does. “It's good to hear your voice.”
(For weeks, after he came back, Olivia would replay his words from that first night over and over again in her head until they stopped making sense. She thinks she gets it, now, what he was trying to say.)
Truth be told, she doesn’t know what to do with this Elliot, the one who says things to her so openly. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment before releasing it. “It’s good to hear yours, too.”
After a beat of silence, he asks if she’s at work.
“I’m not, surprisingly,” she replies.
If he wonders why she’s still awake, he doesn’t give voice to it. “Are you at home?”
Her heart starts beating faster in her chest, like it’s hearing an offer that hasn’t yet been made. “I am.”
“I’ve only got a few hours before I’ve got to get back but… can I see you?”
This is crazy, she thinks, even as she’s nodding her head. “Yeah, yes, you can come here, but Noah’s asleep.”
“I got it. I can be there in twenty, that good with you?”
“I’ll let Jorge know.”
She calls down to the front desk and then throws back her drink. The burn of bourbon down her throat spurs her into action.
Olivia unfurls from the couch, folds up the throw blanket, and brings her empty mug to the kitchen before passing through her closet on the way to the ensuite. Her cable-knit hoodie is exchanged for a fine-knit v-neck pullover. Her favorite lounge pants can stay; they’re soft and clingy in the right places — he saw her in them in Ohio, she realizes. She toes off her thick gray socks and steps into a pair of shearling slippers. Dressed head-to-toe in black, the golden compass shines like a beacon.
She busies herself in the kitchen afterward, wiping down the counters and loading up the dishwasher. After a moment of consideration, she pulls a box of tea and the canister of sugar from the cupboards and leaves them on the counter along with two mugs.
The phone in her pocket buzzes. Here.
She flips the locks like she’s diving into the deep end: a sharp inhale, eyes squeezed shut. She opens them along with the door.
Two observations immediately cross through her mind: He’s got a beard again, and god, he looks good.
A third one comes quickly after. He has a gift tucked under one arm like a football. It’s oblong and not-too-skillfully wrapped with a ribbon tied loosely around it, like the ones he gave her the first few years they were partners before they decided to forgo the gift exchange and take themselves out to a nice lunch instead.
When their eyes meet, the corners of her lips pull up into a grin that mirrors the one on his face.
“You’re wearing it,” he says, his gaze dipping to her chest before locking onto hers again.
“I am.”
His crystal eyes have always been honest with her and the way they look now makes her cheeks flush.
Olivia swallows, steps back to let him in. Melted snowflakes and the faint scent of incense cling to his coat, and she takes the present from him so he can hang it up on the rack in the corner. The gift is dense and solid, heavier than she expected. About four or five pounds, and— “Elliot.”
He busies himself brushing off droplets off his coat, but he has a few tells and one of them is the way his left eyebrow just twitched.
“Elliot, is this a bag of sugar?”
He turns to face her and has the good sense to look sheepish, shrugging his shoulders with a smirk. “You’ll have to unwrap it to find out.”
She rips off a corner of the paper and immediately recognizes the yellow-and-white packaging. Laughter bubbles up from her chest but she tamps it down with pursed lips. “Wow,” is all she says.
Elliot shoves his hands deep into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his feet, but she knows he knows she’s not admonishing him. Not really. “I just thought you could use more since—”
“Wow.”
“—the bag you had was so small—”
“The bag I had was organic and fair trade.”
He swipes the package from her hands. “Alright, I’ll take this normal sugar back. I’m sure Katie and mom are planning to bake cookies with my grandkids tomorrow.”
Olivia rolls her eyes, but she takes the bag back from him and bumps his shoulder on her way to the kitchen. Elliot follows.
He’s dressed in navy suit pants and a crisp light blue shirt, though it’s unbuttoned almost to his navel and his sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows. “Did you take your mom to mass?”
“Yeah.” He swallows thickly. “Just me, mom, Katie, and Eli this year.”
She sets the bag of sugar on the counter and turns to him, reaching a hand out to grasp his forearm. She can feel the corded muscles tighten under her fingertips. “I’m sorry, Elliot. Holidays must still be so hard.”
He looks at her the same way he has the other times she’s given him space to grieve his late wife in this whole new world of mutual acknowledgement that there is the possibility of more than just friendship between them. This time, there’s no work to discuss, no call to interrupt, nothing to deflect. She challenges him, doesn’t release his arm or his gaze, and he’s the one to break it off. He nods and straightens his spine. Olivia’s hand falls away.
(He’s not wearing his wedding ring anymore, but she doesn’t know if it means anything.)
“Tea?” she offers.
He clears his throat. “Sure.”
Here they are again, silent and evasive in the kitchen. This time, she is the one who refuses to not to face it head on. Things have changed. She wears his necklace every damn day.
Olivia puts on the kettle while Elliot arranges the tea bags in mugs on the other side of the island. The sugar canister is almost full when he opens it to scoop a half-teaspoon of sugar in each. He steps back when he’s done, paces a bit, rubs his hands together, his telltale signs of nervousness, and so different from the firm and steady presence he had the last time he was here.
Behind her, the kettle starts to rumble.
He steps back to the island, spreads his arms and presses his palms against the butcher block. “Some parts of the holidays are hard, yeah, but I need you to know…” He pauses, lifts his gaze from the mugs and into her eyes. “I need you to know that’s not why I’m here.”
Her eyes slide shut and her heart does a little dance in her ribcage. “Okay,” she says, and when she opens them again, they’re back on even ground.
“The kids still set a place for her at the table for Christmas dinner,” he tells her.
The kettle clicks and the moment ends. He pushes the mugs toward her so she can fill them with steaming water. “Living room?” she suggests, glancing at Noah’s bedroom door.
Elliot nods. He takes both mugs, sets them down on the coffee table after she gestures to it and then carefully pulls the table closer to the couch. She opens the firescreen and stokes the remaining logs before taking a seat beside him, tucking one leg under her body.
“S’nice,” he says, watching the low flames flicker. Olivia watches the shadows dance across his face. The room seems so much smaller with him here, all broad shoulders and flared elbows resting on wide knees.
She reaches for her mug. “It’s what drew me to the apartment.”
(It drew her and a few dozen other applicants, though being a police captain helped, on paper at least. After the situation with BX9, she thinks the co-op board probably had some regrets.)
Elliot turns his attention to the tree in the corner. A few champagne gold and silver baubles and ribbons adorn it, but rest of the ornaments are crafts and photos of Noah from over the years: clay and paint footprints and handprints, construction paper figures, and glittery popsicle stick frames and snowflakes. The tree is all him, and really, it’s all for him. “That ornament wouldn’t have really fit in with your tree.”
“No,” Olivia agrees with a smirk.
He turns back to look at her, and even in this dim room, his eyes catch all of the light. “Adds a nice touch to my truck’s cabin though.”
Olivia exhales a stifled laugh. The dark liquid in her mug ripples.
“How’s your mom?”
He tells her about the assisted living facility in Queens that checked all of Bernie’s boxes, except for the one where she didn’t want to live in one at all. On a good day, she has plenty of complaints and stories about the other residents. On a bad day, she doesn’t say much about it at all. His emails with Kathleen flow through Jet. She scrubs them clean of any identifying information and edits them to make them sound like they’re coming from his daughter Sarah in Richmond, Virginia.
He asks about Noah, and she catches him up on life, lately, with a pre-teen. It wasn’t that long ago that he was in the same place with Eli, and when Elliot explains some of the things he and Kathy used to say and do, she spares a thought for the boy who went from having two parents doting on him to having, effectively, none.
Her leg has fallen asleep, so she repositions herself, placing her mug on the table before kicking off her slippers and pulling her knees into her chest.
“C’mere,” Elliot says, putting his tea down as well. He reaches for her legs and lets them stretch out across his thighs. He tucks one hand between her ankles, underneath the loose pant hem. His fingers wrap around the one that wasn’t broken, his palm resting on the front of her shin. “This okay?”
Her stomach swirls when his thumb begins to trace small circles on the back of her calf. “Yes,” is her hushed reply.
They’d eclipsed decades of small touches in just 24 hours in Ohio. Her memories are blurred by adrenaline and painkillers, but she remembers how natural it felt.
This feels different. Deliberate.
“How are you, Olivia?”
Tears, suddenly and inexplicably, collect in the corners of her eyes. “I’m okay.”
His fingers tighten around her ankle. She knows he’ll dig deeper if she doesn’t continue.
“I’m tired,” she admits. The team is short-staffed like the rest of the NYPD, and with the uptick of sexual assaults that come with the holidays, they’re all running on vapors. She tries to make sure that everyone gets a full 24 hours off every week, but it means a lot of administrative juggling and taking on extra workload if necessary. The weight on her shoulders is crushing sometimes.
(In stressful moments alone, she finds herself pressing the compass between her finger and thumb for solace.)
Elliot loosens his grip, resumes tracing circles. She knows, empirically, the soothing power of touch, but it isn’t often that she feels it for herself.
“You know, I’ve had a lot of time to think on the road, and —“
Olivia tenses. She can’t stop the way her tired body reacts in the late hour; fight or flight is her most conditioned instinct. Elliot senses it immediately.
“I miss you. That's all I’m trying to say.”
She lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “I miss you too.” It feels, to her, like a confession. Exhaustion hits her as soon as the panic leaves her body. Her head tilts to the side to rest against the back of the couch.
Elliot watches her with a soft expression. “I should let you get some sleep,” he says, after a moment. He was always better at handling late nights.
He gently shifts her legs off his lap, knees popping as he stands. He picks up the mugs and brings them back to the kitchen. She watches him retreat, takes in the form of his body, and she makes a decision.
“You didn’t need to get up,” he says over his shoulder, when he hears her come up behind him. Instead of leaving the mugs in the sink to deal with in the morning like she would, he discards the tea bags, and rinses out the cups and the sink so the tea won’t leave a stain. Olivia leans back against the island while she watches him work.
He finishes by washing his hands, and after he dries them, she straightens up as he finally turns to her. His palms come to rest on the counter on either side of her; his body boxes her in. There’s no doubt in her mind that she could say the word and he’d let her out, if she feels the need.
She doesn’t.
She brings her hands up to frame his face, tests out the texture of the coarse hair beneath her fingers. This isn’t how she pictured it, but then nothing is how she pictured it. When she meets his eyes, they’re the same as they were almost a year ago, clear and focused.
This time, she meets him with the same energy.
This time, he kisses her in the kitchen.
He’s tentative and gentle, and even though he started it, he lets her lead. But she doesn’t want gentle. She wants him how she’s always pictured him, like a lion circling its prey. She shows him what she wants, opens her mouth to him, slides a hand to the back of his neck and applies pressure.
It’s all the direction he needs.
He devours her, opens his mouth wide to cover hers and steal her breath. His hands glide over her waist and up her back and she guides them down, down to her hips and back up under the hem of her sweater. He groans into her mouth, and his hands roam, possessive, over all the skin he can reach, and it’s everything she ever expected.
It isn’t one-sided. She presses her body against him, wraps her arms around his neck, raises a leg and hooks it behind him. He gets his hands beneath her, lifts her onto the counter, and grinds himself into the cradle of her hips for a moment before catching himself. But she can feel him, the promise of him, and she wants more. She uses her heels to lock him in and rolls her hips into him over and over until he wrenches himself away. Gasping for breath, he shoves a hand inelegantly down the front of his pants to rearrange.
Her mouth waters.
They’re moving too fast in the kitchen, she realizes. They’re moving too fast with her sleeping son two dozen feet and a two-inch wooden door away.
He recovers, stands between her legs again, sweeps her hair back and trails his lips down the side of her neck, and further along the chain. He nudges the compass aside and presses a kiss to the skin beneath it like a claim. The brush of his beard shoots sparks to the pit of her stomach and she craves it all over but it’s too much for here and now. She breathes his name, cradles his face and brings his forehead to hers before bringing her lips to his ear.
“Take me to my room.”
“Olivia.” His pulse pounds beneath her right palm. He shakes her hands away and buries his nose in the crook of her neck, pressing his lips to her collarbone. “I have to leave soon,” he mutters against her skin. “I don’t know when I’ll be back—”
“I know. I know. It’s never going to be the right time. It’s okay.”
He still doesn’t move, so she gives it her best shot, dropping her voice to its deepest register. “I want you to fuck me, Elliot.”
A groan rips from his throat and he snaps his head up, meeting her eyes with his, hooded lids and pupils blown. “This time, okay? Next time, we’re gonna do it right.”
Olivia doesn’t believe in promises, knows better than to ask for any, but she nods. He guides her legs around his hips, holds her tightly against him, and lifts her off the island like she’s featherlight. She lets him carry her to the other side of the counter, and even though he’s proven that he can carry her blind, there are too many corners and doorways to navigate in this prewar apartment. “Put me down,” she punctuates with a kiss. “Too many people are depending on you for you to bust your knee.”
He shakes his head. “Just let me.”
“You don’t even know where you’re going.”
“I’m a detective. I’ll figure it out.”
In all the times she pictured these moments with Elliot, she never imagined it would feel easy, but she grins, and he smirks, and she kisses him again before straightening her legs, which forces him to set her down. Threading her fingers through his, she leads through the living room, around the corner, and down the hall. In her bedroom, she closes and locks the door before Elliot pins her up against it, cradling the back of her head to keep it from knocking into hardwood.
“You still wanna do this?” he asks, lips hovering a breath away from hers.
“Yes,” she whispers, and she closes the gap.
When she remembers this later, she’ll remember riling him up. She’ll remember using her nails to give him something to remember after he leaves. She’ll remember the rough feeling of his beard between her thighs, his hand covering her mouth, his thick fingers working her from inside, his lips closed around her clit, and his tongue swiping over and over. She’ll remember how his eyes look when he enters her, how he starts slow and reverent, how she grips his ass and bucks beneath him to set a bruising rhythm because she, too, wants something to remember after he leaves. She wants to feel it for days.
She’ll remember the guttural way he says her name when he comes.
“I’m sorry I can’t stay,” he whispers, in the quiet of the afterglow.
She shakes her head, places her palm over his chest, and tries to ignore the ache in hers. “It’s the job. It’s why we’re here.”
She’ll remember how he takes care of her, how he puts out the fire in the fireplace while she’s in the bathroom.
She’ll remember how he holds her until she falls asleep and slips out afterward.
In a few days, she’ll open her pantry to find a 4-pound bag of sugar. She’ll reach for her compass, and she’ll remember it all.