Six Weeks

She has known she's pregnant for about a week and she's still too scared to tell him. Not just because she's afraid of how he'll react. But also because she doesn't know if it's his.

They used protection. So theoretically the odds shouldn't be good that it's his.

The problem is, she used protection with Dean too.

And the sex took place twelve hours apart. Not even the best OBGYN can estimate time of conception to that degree of precision.

And so Olivia's been walking a tightrope all week. On Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday she convinced herself she needed to tell Elliot. She also convinced herself the baby must be his. Because she loves him and not Dean. Dean was a one-night stand, a mistake, an act that took place in a moment of weakness and vulnerability. And she doesn't believe she'll ever see him again.

On Monday and Wednesday she completely talked herself out of ever breathing a word of this to Elliot. At her most irrational, on Wednesday, she convinced herself she would wear baggy clothes and be extra-careful while in the field and that he would never have to know. And then, she would tell him the adoption agency finally said yes. Then on Friday, when she thought this strategy through, she realized that of course she would have to tell him, but not yet. Because the baby couldn't possibly be his. Because God doesn't love her that much.

x-x-x-x-x-x

He knew she wouldn't be able to handle what they'd done. He shouldn't be so hard on her, because he freaked out a little too. But she's been acting weird and he's afraid she's going to give them away.

Of course, if he were truly honest with himself, he would admit that six weeks later, he still spends obscene amounts of his time thinking about it, remembering it. Hell, reliving it. In places like the shower, his bed, the men's room.

He still can't believe he had sex with his partner. In no less auspicious of a location than the stationhouse.

This is what sleep deprivation will do to you, he thinks warily. And then he laughs to himself: of course he would blame it on lack of sleep. Nothing to do with how badly he's wanted to do such a thing for the better part of a decade. Nothing to do with the fact that Kathy had just left him, again, and that he knew in his heart that this time it was for good. Nothing to do with the fact that on her worst day, Olivia's fucking gorgeous, and that in some way he still can't articulate, she was looking particularly sexy that day. Not to mention that she gets him like no one else ever has and that she was there. Oh, and that he loves her.

But yes. She's been acting strangely and he's not sure if he should broach the topic with her or let it lie. But jeez, it happened weeks ago, and so he's a little annoyed that she still can't get it together. At some point, Cragen's going to notice.

They haven't done it again since. They both agreed that it couldn't happen again. Because they're partners and their partnership is more important than another quickie.

The thing is, he wishes it hadn't been a quickie. Though the sex was fucking mind-blowing, he wishes he could do it again just so that he could do it properly, so that she could go away not feeling like he fucked her.

Because she deserves better than to be slammed up against a locker room wall.

x-x-x-x-x-x

Seven weeks

Damn it. She's let another week go by and she still hasn't told him. She's a little stressed out about this, but she's also so elated about the prospect of finally having a baby that most of the time this is what she focuses on. In some ways she doesn't care whose baby it is, because the bottom line is that this baby is hers and there's nothing in the world she wants more. She's forty-one years old and she's going to finally have a baby. Sometimes the surrealism of this hits her so viscerally that she has to say the words out loud to get herself to process that they're actually true.

She knows she'll have to stop working the field the second Cragen finds out. Her job is simply too dangerous.

Suddenly in the last week she's been experiencing first-trimester symptoms. Fortunately, they haven't always taken the form of nausea, which Elliot would notice and either grow worried or suspicious about. Unfortunately, they've come in the form of extreme exhaustion. Which, on the surface, would seem a lot easier to manage than nausea, but in reality is not: she has discovered that no one in the workplace ever lends their sympathy for you just for being tired, because everyone is tired all the time. Until now, however, she did not appreciate what true fatigue felt like. Every morning when her alarm clock rings every fiber of her being wishes upon it a sentence of Death by Lethal Window Hurl. And yet she's acutely aware that unlike time taken off for even the most benign of illnesses or injuries, an extra hour taken in the morning to merely sleep in would be regarded as a sign of indolence.

She still can't believe she slept with Dean, after all that he did to her. Risked her life, betrayed her, kept her in the dark, lorded his position over her. And how does she reclaim her self-respect? She sleeps with the bastard.

Nice, Olivia, she chides herself for the zillionth time in seven weeks.

And the irony is that she and Dean spent all night in her bed. He was attentive and patient and all the things she theoretically would have wanted in a lover. Except for one thing.

He wasn't Elliot.

Whereas Elliot fucked her against a wall like a caveman. In all of fifteen minutes he fucked her brains out and it was done. It wasn't anything like how she would have pictured it.

In the end, it really only had one thing going for it: it was, after all, Elliot doing the fucking.

Lately she's been thinking a lot about how babies get made. She laughs to herself, thinking about how nature sure has a twisted sense of humor that an act so unchaste by definition could lead to something that is the epitome of sweetness and innocence. And those are the times when she manages to convince herself the baby must be Dean's, because Elliot fucked her with such anger and determination and lust and force, how could a baby possibly result from that?

And then other times she convinces herself the baby has to be Elliot's precisely for the same reason: because Dean's lovemaking was so gentle and sweet and timid and, ultimately, lacking in passion, surely such lethargy would carry over to his sperm.

She didn't deliberately sleep with two different men in twelve hours. It was just that Dean came over that night to apologize for how he'd treated her over the Ramona Ramirez case and for his insensitive remark about their feelings not mattering, and low and behold one thing led to another. It was no surprise really; they'd always been attracted to each other and she'd known he was just doing his job. And so it happened and he spent the night. In the morning, he got up and kissed her forehead and she told him it wouldn't work out. He said he understood and told her it was probably for the best; now that the case was over, he was being assigned a case in DC and was due there the next day. And that was that.

Her horniness obviously carried over into the next day, she's convinced, because otherwise she probably never would have responded to Elliot's subtle, pheromone-laden signals. It's not like she'd never been alone in the locker room with her partner before. It's not like she'd never seen him shirtless, his chest puffed up and coated by a thin sheen of sweat from having just worked out. It's not like he'd never given her that look before. It's just that she'd always forced herself to ignore such things. Pretend the same thing wasn't on his mind.

She likes to think that Elliot made the first move and that it was because his testosterone was pumping in primal response to Dean's having made obvious overtures towards her throughout the case.

She's pretty sure she's kidding herself on that one.