For weeks, actually months (she likes to think that) she's been good. By good she means, normal and by normal she means that she is functioning. She's okay.
Therapy was okay, it helped with the mind fucks and nightmares but she was over it. All it took was for another day at the ol' office where she saw enough blood, slit throats and bruised thighs to make her save an FBI job that was forwarded to her from Porter months ago. Her hope, part of her possible future was now book marked on her computer, she printed out the details and folded them up and shoved them in the middle of her leather bound planner. They were looking for an experienced Detective to further investigations with an ongoing Rico case involving more than 150 counts of assault, narcotics, identity theft; anything but the dead kid bodies and damaged women. It made her stop feeling sorry for herself too. She was stronger than she thought but not strong enough not to be tempted to escape the daily world in which she was a product of in more ways than one.
The nightmares stop but her other dreams don't. It was like God or some power larger than her, larger than life or the law was playing with her. It almost always came back to Elliot. She forced him out of her mind,it was so wrong. Olivia wasn't a cheater, she wouldn't risk her career (life) for something as trivial as pleasure, she couldn't lose her partner (best friend) over something as little (or huge) as an orgasm. The sad thing was that she actually enjoyed his wife, well she at least respected her. Even when it was abundantly clear that he had given up on something that seemed lifeless years and years ago it was Olivia who tried to convince the both of them to work it out. It didn't change shit. Elliot worked over time, Kathy stopped calling and Olivia tried not to think of him in the way that she had done so privately for the times when he was single (and sometimes married). No it wasn't just that one time where she was knocked out cold and woke in a hospital with a name she couldn't stand,moist panties and his name on her lips or the countless times she saw him in some stage of undress. She wasn't 16 years old nor imagined him in some fairy tale bullshit way where he left his life (reality) to give it a shot. Give what a shot? What was left of them anymore anyways? It made her feel not so guilty about those dreams at least.
They go out for breakfast in the early hours of the morning right before the sun comes up, right after they had played good cop, bad cop in interrogation. He made a jab at her having her rag, she was the submissive, he was the aggressive arrogant prick; they played the part perfectly. He joked about how they should prepare their Oscar speeches for the acting, she grins and nods. After a Grilled Cheese and a stake of pancakes later they leave, separately, respectively. She can still taste his syrup without even taking a bite of his pancakes as she swipes her tongue over her teeth. They are getting better these days. Sure they still do the whole silent moody mind reader shit but they can also still be best friends, partners, successful detectives or whatever the fuck they are these days too. Her hair grows out long, his seems to be getting shorter but they can both cut the shit, it's not exactly hair styles that they are looking at when they stare at each other not when he saw her tits in lace and she knows what's he is packing. God damn it.
Tonight she thinks about him because her mind is tired and her body is wide 's too easy with him in her head, she wishes it wasn't. While he was the dotting new dad of his latest offspring, back at home and off of the precinct bunks she stopped thinking of him like this. It didn't feel right, even when they barely shared a word she might have thought of what's his name, in that movie where he is running around the city with that taxi driver, driving like a nut case through Central Park, or holding on top of a moving train or subway, whatever it was he was tanned wearing a dirty thin wife beater, glistening sweat coating his muscles, light eyes. Hey, it wasn't Elliot but still, some habits are harder to quit than others. She quit smoking pot when she was 22, dropped cigarettes for good cold turkey when she was 19, biting her nails when she was 20 but she wasn't superwoman.
It doesn't exactly work like it should anymore when she closes her eyes and imagines someone else, someone good from her past, that one guy who was in advertising who took her to a boxing match, dark brown skin, perfect smile who kept the conversation friendly and finger fucked her in his car on the first date or her neighbour a few years back who just graduated,mid 20's, hot, eager to please her with enough experience to make her eyes roll back with a few solid strokes. Even someone new, a stranger, someone faceless in her imagination who would turn her out. Who cares now, it's all shot to shit since she knows what his chest feels like against her breasts, she knows how he feels with a semi building up in his boxer briefs, fuck she knows that he wears boxer briefs. She knows how his neck felt when she pressed her lips to it , how it smelt, how he was so nervous and so cautious. She closes her eyes and thinks of how he looked at her earlier on today and moves slow. With his eyes looking up at her in the interrogation, how he looked when he invaded her space. She said something about sexual harassment and almost wanted to laugh. If it ever boiled down to it if he ever did touch her wedding ring or not she knew that she wouldn't complain or feel violated, not in that way anyways. She thinks about him being rough, moves harder but not faster just yet- it's already bad enough she is doing this in the first place with him in her mind, in her heart but not exactly inside her.
When her eyes are closed his hands are merciless, he is looking down at her like she is the bitch in the interrogation room where he has complete control. God, this is so fucked up she thinks to herself as her fingers slide in with ease as the wetness coats her hand. He is bossy, he is in control and it's everything she needs at a time when she feels so out of control. A middle aged single professional woman who can't stand to be fucked with by going on anymore first/last dates, not when it's always so good when she focuses on reality and not the buff action film actor. Thinking of her friend, her partner, taking her fast, violently and aggressively gets her going- it does but not like when she thinks of him against her, how it felt, how he must have felt. She knows they will never talk about it just like they never talk about the time when she left him, he left her, what happened to her when she went undercover, what goes through his head when he lays down under covers ; it's just another thing to add to the complicated check list.
Tonight they don't do any talking because it's just him and her and even in her fantasies he still has on his ring, he has those dark circles under his eyes, beard stubble and it makes it so much better when she thinks of him like this. It feels so real because she is kissing his neck and he is grunting into her hair, pounding into her like it's not her fingers but what she felt hot and hard against her hip. All in a days work. She feels like she is about to break free from her skin as she gets closer and closer to that peak she knows she deserves. Her phone starts to vibrate, she closes her eyes tightly and moves faster, harder more efficiently to get the job done. Her phone doesn't stop ringing and neither does she. God, please,please,fuck, fuck, she breathes heavily into the cold air in her bedroom, a race to the finish line. Her toes always go numb first, thats how she knows shes almost there. God, fuck, yes, ah, fuck. She never says his name outloud because there are some things she forbids herself to do.