"Elliot, no. No fucking way."
"Liv. Please." He looks at her like a puppy. A puppy. She's appalled that the thought's even entered her mind, let alone allowed itself to be processed into a full on simile. She feels like a fourth grader under his eyes, all blue and wide and—damn. Elliot Stabler. Puppy.
"Quit looking at me like that, Elliot. What are you, twelve?"
He grins. She melts. What a shit.
"Just do it. You'll like it." She wonders when the hell his voice got so seductive, so… raspy like that.
"Oh yeah? Because you know everything I like?" She's indignant for no reason other than the fact that he makes her feel like every teenage girl she's ever rolled her eyes at. She should be in a mall somewhere in South Jersey snapping bubble gum in a crop top when it comes to him.
She should be reading her love horoscopes online, calling 1-800-PSYCHIC.
He steps closer. "Almost." His voice goes a shade darker—again—and she swears her stomach drops ten floors. He wiggles his eyebrows and she can't stop the smile from spreading across her cheeks.
"Shut up," she tells him, punctuating it with a smack on the arm.
"Lay down in the snow, Liv."
She rolls her eyes. Snow angels. For the past fifteen minutes, for the entire walk home along the park, he has not been able to drop it. He wants her to make fucking snow angels, and it's not like she's entirely opposed so much as she just likes to bicker. He's got this obsession with giving her every ounce of childhood she's never had, and somehow laying down in middle of New York City and ruining her brand new peacoat in a pile of crystallized water fits into that category.
"I—I'm not gonna get all wet, Elliot—"
"You're not?" he asks, and if she thought his voice was deep before, now it's black and sliding all over her. She wants—no. Needsmore. Needs always.
"You're unbelievable." She starts walking ahead of him, thinking that sometime soon he'll have to follow. "C'mon, El," she says, not bothering to turn around. "I'm freezing, and I really want to just get hom—"
Her voice is cut off by the hard ball of packed snow that smacks her in the center of her back.
She whirls to face him, mouth hanging open, kind of pissed. Maybe angry. But then she sees him, him with that face, mischievous and light and chiseled and beautiful. Her heart probably stops. She thinks she's laughing because her breath is a cloud around her. She's never loved him more. "You're gonna pay for that, Stabler!"
And then she's shoveling snow into her gloves and packing it as quickly as possible but he's faster, and he's pummeling her with the spray of it as he trots closer. He slides an arm around her waist and tugs her from her hunched, snowball-creating-machine stance. There's ice and water and slush clogged between them, the folds of their jackets, her spine and his chest. She thinks he's spinning her around and her voice falls into the air. She cracks up, and it's big and uninhibited and free, and she looks up and sees the way the orange lamps are lighting up the flakes and maybe that's why he'd wanted her to lay down so badly earlier. He stops, sets her feet on the ground.
She twists to face him, devilish and flushed and pink from the chill. She's grinning and there's God-made moisture new against her lips, little specks that would look like tears if they were any bigger melting against her face. "I love you," he grates in the moment before he kisses her. She smiles against his mouth, mutters something quietly for only his skin to hear before smushing her snow-packed glove against the back of his head.