WARNING: Sexually explicit material, under years old 18 please exit.
A/N: Set After Olivia has been gone undercover for a while and continues through when she comes back home. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy it!
Elliot walks with an even stride down the block cataloging his location as he moves but never taking his eyes off of the legs of the woman a few yards ahead of him. He is drawn by her steps, smooth and in rhythm with his; he lets his gaze travel up to the hem of her leather coat where it bounces against the back of her thighs. He has to catch her, catch her and not scare her. They are approaching a light and he smiles as he watches it turn. They're going to be caught at the light and he can speak to her at last. His fingers tingle as he reaches for her, it's as though he has been asleep and touching her will awaken him. His hand slides against the cool leather as he grasps her arm gently just as he reaches the corner.
"Olivia…" The woman who turns to look at him with a hard questioning expression is not Olivia, not even close. He looks her over and feels as though a fog is seeping from his head and he is suddenly shocked that he could have ever thought this was his Olivia. Her dark hair is dull and cut all wrong, the coat is worn and there is a small tear at the pocket. She's too short and too stocky and her face is, well…not Olivia. How could he ever have thought this was her?
She is glaring at him and then sneering as she speaks. "What the hell are you staring at?" She jerks her arm from his grasp as the light changes and walks briskly away from him, pulling her coat tightly around herself as a shield from his presence. He was going to apologize, to tell her that he had mistaken her for someone else but she seems to have just evaporated from in front of him. He's not surprised; lately he has watched his whole life vanish from his grasp, everyone he loves slipping through his fingers as he desperately tries to hold on to them..
Elliot looks down at his hands in confusion and continues to stand at the corner staring, long after the stranger disappears from view. His watch tells him he left the precinct just over an hour ago. He was walking to the bar down the street but since he has no taste of alcohol in his mouth he must have seen her near work. That means he's been following her for quite a while. He raises his arm to hail a taxi, his fingers are trembling and a thin film of sweat forms on his brow despite the cool weather. He eases into the back seat, across the cracked leather as his lips twitch in response to the locker room scent emanating from the cab.
He gives his address and leans back; his car will be fine at the precinct until tomorrow. He needs to get right home before he thinks about any of this; he needs to be in his own home. He needs to be in his own home, now. He looks out the window as the scent hits him again but it is, after all, a taxi in the city. Millions of people have ridden in this seat, most of them late for something, to catch a plane, to get to work, to get home. He figures there have been a large number of drunks going any number of places they shouldn't go. There were probably the occasional couples having the I can't wait to get home sex and once in a while a pregnant woman in pain. People in a hurry, people upset, and people in love…he suddenly wants out of the vehicle. He fights the urge to wave his arms and tear through the threads of emotions left behind, emotional ghosts webbed around him. Just as the panic begins to surge his building comes into view. The driver is staring at him in the mirror and he sees the skittish look the man is giving him. Elliot realizes that he's talking to himself and the driver is nervous, afraid of him. The driver is actually afraid of him. The idea softens him for just a second and he tosses forty dollars at the man and gets out, mumbling for the guy to keep the change, payment for the guilt he feels.
He has a mental death grip on his thoughts so he moves on auto pilot up to the apartment and lets himself inside. He locks the door and drops his coat to the floor as he walks down the hall; he's trembling with the effort to control himself. He turns the shower on cold and kicks off his tennis shoes before stepping in and turning around in the water. The heat pouring off of him is so strong he expects his skin to start steaming from the edges of his clothes. His mind is slipping and he can't hold on any more, he squeezes his eyes shut as his reality shatters over him. The sound that rips from his chest is not human and his fist snaps repeatedly against the tile. The roaring in his ears drowns out the sound of his voice and as the pain consumes him there is only one thing in his mind.
A few moments later Elliot slowly begins to become aware of his surroundings. He's kneeling in the tub, soaking wet and fully dressed. He reaches behind him and turns off the icy water that is pelting his head and back. As soon as the knob squeaks to a stop the silence echoes against him and he looks at his bleeding hands. They don't hurt yet, the cold water has bought him a few moments to visually assess the damage and gather himself. He watches the blood rush from between ragged bits of skin and across his hand. He thinks fleetingly that there is no color as bright as fresh blood; it glows for those first few moments with the life of the person still within it. He looks curiously at the red marks on the walls just above him and the lines of his blood running in the grout and fading to watery pink as it thins and crests the top of the white porcelain tub. He stands slowly, watching his hands still shaking but more from fear now than anything else. Not fear of this outburst, not of the anger that fueled it, hell they're old friends.
He shivers and begins to strip off his clothes. He was stalking a stranger because something about her for one flickering second reminded him of Olivia. He was getting more and more distracted by anyone that had a feature reminiscent of her. She left him, she fucking left him. If he walked into the other room and dialed her number that fucking disconnection message would come on for the millionth time or maybe even that is no longer playing. The thought of her phone being dead causes him to go still. He fights the urge to go try the number even as he measures how pathetic it is that he thought of it. The recording is at least a tie to her, a sound he knows means that the phone in her house was once ringing. The phone that still bears her prints because she used to answer it. It's proof that she existed, proof that she was part of his life. His chest tightens and he curls his fists, wincing from the pain that is now blooming from deep within his knuckles and fingers.
He leaves the clothes and the bloodied pale tile walls as his brain flashes a thousand scenes from eight years filled with the pale and the bloody…and Liv. He grabs a towel and walks naked to his room, trying to rub warmth back into his limbs he yelps from the pain and drops the towel, pausing to gingerly pull on a pair of sweats. He heads to the kitchen to get ice and aspirin and shakes his head, his thoughts touch on the idea that if a perp acted like he did, he would swear the guy for dirty for something. He's officially out of control. It's just another thing she took when she left, his control, in a long list of things that apparently ends with his sanity. He lifts his arm to punch the counter and thinks better of it. She's been gone so long. He thought it would just take a few days, maybe even a couple of weeks, but as the weeks have become months he has become lost. He is driven, he knows by a small voice in the back of his head that has recently been whispering, what if she never comes back?
He goes to sit down and mindlessly clicks on the television. He tosses the aspirin in his mouth, noting that the bitter taste at the back of his throat suits his mood. He stretches out and pulls a blanket over his cold body and covers his hands with the ice, closing his eyes.
If she was here she would be looking at him with that disapproving look, her eyes dark, the corner of her mouth pulled into a tight smirk. She would examine his hands, cover them with antiseptic and wrap them after they were iced. She would mention having them looked at by a doctor, having them x-rayed and all the while continue to tend to them knowing he was going to say no. She would shake her head with just a hint of a smile, having already mapped all the feelings that brought him to this point she would understand. Even if she didn't always approve, she always understood. Perhaps she would touch his chin to turn his face to hers as she asked him to talk to her, to tell her what happened. Her cool fingers would deflate his rage and begin a ripple of calm moving over him. His chest is heaving with the effort to contain the sob rising within him. His throat is tight, his body pushing the longing up through every pore. His eyes are burning and he feels the tears running down his face, into his ears and around his neck. He loves her.
loved his wife but it was a life that chose him and as they each grew
who they needed to be the marriage didn't survive. It was okay. It took him a while to see that his children would survive each day without him right there to protect them, but he had. They all had moved on without really drifting too much apart and Elliot could take a deep breath when he thought about it now. He could still deal with his concerns for their safety and their future when he saw them.
Now he thinks about how he loves Olivia and it's like nothing he has ever known. It's not a feeling that diminishes how he loves his children or how he loved Kathy, it's just different. Kathy is a woman with whom he could dance but Olivia is a woman that makes him want to, they are two different worlds.
is fair and light, reminding him of the spring, motherhood, blond
hair and blue eyes like his own. When he thinks of her it's always
Easter mornings with his children dressed in pastels. Family.
Religion. Ritual. Her anger was like a wind blowing, her job based on
nesting. She gave herself to him in a sweet embrace of gentle love
making and soft sighs. Her body felt like a gift she offered, a
vessel that brought him his children and then was wrapped in loose
clothing to hide the shame.
Kathy and Olivia are like night and day.
Olivia, my god she makes him ache with her beauty. She is dark and mysterious, reminding him of autumn, her olive skin always looking like she just stepped from a summer of sun. Her eyes a deep pool of warmth, a passageway to another life. When he thinks of her his entire body becomes more alert, the world is sharper, more in focus, more intense…just more. Her anger comes like a raging storm; she is a fighter, tall and strong next to him in the war of the streets, everyday. She stirs a lust in him that threatens to consume him with its fire and he has never touched her. Still, he has been harder and cum more often with just the thought of her than anyone in his life. She walks boldly in the world, her stride long and powerful. Her body is not a gift she offers; men's body's are gifts she takes for herself.
He never touched her and now that seems so stupid. She was here within his reach every day and he took her close proximity for granted. He kept her near him when he wanted company, he relied on her to have his back, he verbally beat her when he was angry and he put his life in her hands everyday. Why didn't he tell her how he felt? Why didn't he touch her? All those nights that he lay in his bed dreaming of having her beneath him while he pounded into her and still he never touched her, he's a coward. How could he be so afraid of loosing her by fucking it up that he lost her anyway? His head and hands are throbbing and he wants to sleep. He considers a pain pill but lies still instead and closes his eyes.
Cragen had told him that she was so far under that they had no recent word on her. He didn't know what was happening to her. He couldn't be there to protect her. He is torn between wanting to kiss her and wanting to kill her for this. Okay, he wants to kiss her. He wants to start by kissing her and end a day later with her still screaming his name. That would work. A flash of guilt bolts through his thoughts and a hard on rises between his legs as the visual of how he wants to fuck her fills his head. He needs to think of something else, being horny as hell and wanting to pray to heaven for a woman he wants to fuck until one of them passes out has to be a sin on multiple levels. At that thought he almost laughs but it spins into a sob as it leaves him. Some things will not be ignored.
His Catholic boy instinct snaps into gear and he starts the prayer with god, a deal of the religious sort. He swears that he will do his best to be a good man, a better father, a more devout Christian, if he could just have one more chance to tell her how he feels. He'll try to be less angry and more understanding if god would just bring her home to him.
He just wants his partner home.
He just wants her home.
He just wants her.
As Elliot struggles to sink into sleep Olivia slowly climbs the stairs. She is brimming with a myriad of emotions but only one clear thought.
She's home and in reach of Elliot.