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Olivia hardly sleeps at all, the first time she lets him stay the night. She tries resting her head on his chest, at first, one leg tangled between his, but it makes her feel claustrophobic, overwhelmed by the proximity, so as soon as he starts to doze she flops over onto her back instead. A little distance between them, but still close enough to feel the warmth of him, heat radiating reassuringly from his skin.
Her therapist told her she’d idealized their relationship. Lying in the half-dark of her bedroom at three in the morning, fighting the bone-deep urge to convince herself this is a mistake, she can’t help but think Lindstrom had been full of shit.
“Liv?”
Elliot’s voice is groggy, half awake as he rolls to his side. One hand flails out, drowsy and uncoordinated, slapping at her thigh for a few seconds before coming to a rest on her hip.
Her room never gets dark enough that she can’t see him, but the planes of his face are shadowed, dim. He still hasn’t opened his eyes.
“You okay?”
“I’m great.”
Her voice comes out strangled, nervy, impossible to hide the way she’s lying through her teeth. Elliot’s thumb smooths over the fabric of the shorts she’s sleeping in, an idle movement she’s not even sure he’s making.
“Don’t sound great.”
It’s four in the morning, El, what do you expect?
The words are on the tip of her tongue, waspish and mean, and she doesn’t need a therapist to tell her when she’s self-sabotaging. She knows herself just fine.
She knows Elliot, too, which makes this harder and easier all at once.
Olivia fights the urge to pull away with everything she has, wriggling closer instead, until she’s nudging at his shoulder to make room for her head on his pillow.
His eyes open, then, finally. The look of surprise on his face makes her stomach feel sour.
I’m sorry, she thinks.
“Kiss me,” she says.
It’s four in the morning on a workday; they’re both too old for this. But Elliot doesn’t voice any complaints, just lets her tug him on top of her. He braces his forearms on either side of her head immediately, their noses brushing, faces almost unbearably close. Both their mouths taste stale but Olivia doesn’t care, twisting a hand up to grab at the back of his neck and guide his mouth the rest of the way to hers.
Elliot kisses her like he knows her, too.
She’d done her best to ignore it at the time, but there was an emptiness after she ended things with Ed. He was an old-fashioned guy, mostly about the small things, and she let him get away with it. Enjoyed it, even, mostly because she knew that if she told him to stop he’d stop. Flowers on dates. Stepping forward to get the door. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm when they walked together.
Reaching for the zipper at the back of her dress, or the clasp of her necklace at the end of the night.
It’s that last one she missed the most after he was gone, cursing to herself as she fumbled awkwardly with it every time she strips for a goddamn shower.
She got used to it, of course. She’d been doing it by herself for years before Ed came around, it wasn’t like she didn’t know how. But she resented it more, swearing with a lot more vigour every time she got the damn thing stuck under her thumbnail. Scowling with her wrist bent at a horribly awkward angle, trying to get a bracelet fastened properly.
The first time Elliot reaches to get the clasp for her she nearly chokes on her spit, so surprised by the action that she has to stop herself from jerking out of his reach. Not because she doesn’t want him there, just —
“Sorry,” she mutters, laughing at herself, low and hoarse, as she very deliberately tilts her head forward. His fingers are more tentative this second time, worried she’ll pull away again, and Olivia holds herself still like she’s trying to prove something.
She’s letting him help her with her jewelry. She’s letting him into her life. She’s learning how to do that.
Elliot doesn’t have particularly elegant hands. They’re big and rough, scarred at the knuckles. He never really learned to solve problems with anything but a fistfight, something that probably shouldn’t appeal to her as much as it does.
Still. He manages to get the clasp undone with more grace than she would have expected, lifting it gently from her collarbones and then refastening it, holding it out for her to put away.
“Bracelet too?”
She wonders if he used to help Kathy with stuff like this. Did Kathy wear jewelry? Olivia can’t remember. But she must have at least dressed up for special occasions, maybe —
Olivia takes in a deep breath, cutting the thought off before it can take root. It doesn’t matter, she reminds herself. It doesn’t matter what it was like before. They’re here now.
“Yeah,” she says, holding her wrist out with a tentative smile. “Thanks.”
Elliot’s hands are gentle here, too, brushing the bones of her wrist as he makes quick work of it, dropping it to pool in her palm alongside the necklace. He doesn’t move away when he’s finished; muscles his way in close instead, brushing a kiss to the rise of her cheekbone, first, and then the corner of her mouth. One hand comes to rest on her hips, heavy and possessive, as the other lifts to cup her cheek. His thumb rubs the same spot his lips had touched, callouses coarse against thin skin.
Olivia craves it, hates it, hates herself for craving it. Hates herself for hating it. She’s spent so much of her life wanting him, fruitlessly and uselessly, cycling through guilt and shame and longing, that she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do now that she has him. Doesn’t know where all that shit’s supposed to go now.
She tilts her head to the side, hair falling out of the way to leave her neck bare. His mouth is warm against her skin.
“El,” she murmurs, low, making a fruitless gesture towards the dresser. “I gotta — ”
He fumbles the necklace and bracelet back out of her hand without tearing himself away, reaching out behind him to drop it carelessly onto the surface, dedicated single mindedly to his current pursuit. Olivia’s fingernails, freshly painted ballet pink, dig into the skin of his neck. When she first met him they were chewed ragged, she remembers. He used to swat her hands out of her mouth, bark at her to stop. Back then that was the closest thing she’d ever felt to love.
You want this, she reminds herself. Not just this, him pressed against her, his hands all over her, but this.
Him.
“These earrings are heavy,” she breathes, and she hates that she has to think before she says it. It’ll get easier, right? Eventually? It has to get fucking easier. “Can you help me again?”
The look on his face makes her stomach lurch, so intense she almost wants to push him away. She raises her hands instead, slowly, gathering her hair to pull out of the way. Eyes on him the whole time. It’s clear as anything, how much he wants her; he looks like he wants to swallow her whole.
She wants him, too. She’s trying to make that just as clear.
Elliot was always physical with her, right from the start. A hand hovering at the small of her back, or resting at the base of her neck. Squeezing her shoulder, lightning quick, when she was having a hard time. Olivia had liked the ease of it, the security. The way he never made it a big deal.
But by the end of their partnership it had changed, any touch between them fraught, the gulf widening to a breaking point. Olivia didn’t think to miss it until years later, long after he was gone.
Since he came back it’s been different. He touches her more easily, but it isn’t thoughtless like it was in the beginning, either. There’s weight behind each gesture, in a way there never was before: he knows exactly what he’s doing and there is, technically, no reason why he can’t. Not anymore. He hovers closer when they stand together, gets a hand on her whenever he can: on her thigh when he’s driving, or under the table as they eat dinner. On her elbow to steer her around a dip in the sidewalk. On her lower back, just because, with a lot more purpose than he ever did it back then.
On her wrists, apparently, if she’s being mouthy, holding her where he wants her for as long as she’ll let him.
She’s distracted right after, obviously, too worn out to check for bruises. It wouldn’t matter, anyway; they don’t really start showing until the next day. She shrugs off her blazer and there they are: four reddish marks in the shape of his fingers, just dark enough to catch his attention.
“What’s — ”
He’s not as rough, this time, when he grabs for her wrist, holding it up to inspect the damage, eyebrows knit together in concern. They’re in her office, the rest of the floor nearly abandoned. She sent her team home almost an hour ago, now, meaning to head out soon after, but then she and Elliot got distracted arguing about one of the new forms, and then they were distracted talking about his kids, and now —
“It’s nothing,” Olivia laughs, trying to tug her arm back, but Elliot doesn’t let go.
“Did I do that?”
“El, c’mon, just — ”
“Liv.”
Her mouth had been open, a retort ready on her lips — Would you drop it already? — but then she gets a better look at his face and the words won’t come.
“You didn’t hurt me,” she says instead. It feels stupid to say it out loud, and not even entirely true. But true enough in the moment, she guesses: he didn’t hurt her last night, specifically. He didn’t hurt her physically, ever, and that’s clearly what’s distressing him.
The storm on his face doesn’t clear.
“Liv.”
His eyes really are so blue. Like this, when he’s focused on her so intently, it’s hard not to flinch away. She has to try hard to keep herself still as he raises her hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to the heel of her palm. It’s bizarrely gentle, too tender for what the two of them have. Her heart slams against her ribcage, desperate to escape.
He’s still looking at her. His grip shifts, tugging her arm up a little further, so he can drop another kiss on the darkest of the marks.
All the ways he’s ever touched her, but until last night he’d never grabbed her like that. Olivia hadn’t thought anything of it — she’s always known how possessive he can get.
But it wasn’t that, she realizes now. It wasn’t him staking a claim, or whatever macho bullshit. Or, well. Not only that.
“I didn’t even think about it,” she says, and that, at least, is the whole truth. When she changes at the end of the day her bra leaves marks, too: angry red welts on her shoulders and back, and this really doesn’t feel all that much different. She hardly ever notices those, either. Not until Elliot points them out.
“Elliot,” she continues, voice low and serious. “I’ve been around plenty of men who scare me, you know that right? Men who tried to get physical. Men who wanted to hurt me.”
She watches, fascinated, as his jaw clenches at the thought. She can see the effort it takes him not to tighten his grip on her wrist, muscles flexing in his forearm as he holds himself still.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
It’s more freeing than she expected to say it out loud, like she can make it true just by speaking it.
The truth: she isn’t afraid of him, physically.
The truth, idealized: she isn’t afraid of him, fullstop. She isn’t afraid of what this could do to her. She isn’t afraid he’ll leave again.
And maybe that’s the crux of it: she’d rather him dig his fingers in than let her go. She doesn’t even have to think about it.
She twists her wrist in his grip and he lets her, eyes still fixed on her face. Watches as she wraps her fingers around his arm, the same way he’d been holding her. Squeezes, experimental, just to see if he’ll let her do it. The back of his neck is flushed bright red. His chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, but he doesn’t pull away.
“We could do it the other way, if you wanted,” she says. “Would that make you feel better?”
“Liv.”
His voice is lower, now: a warning. Expression dark to match. Olivia doesn’t care.
“Would it?”
She watches the realization dawn, watches him grapple with it and then let go.
“Maybe,” he rasps, finally, and Olivia smiles.
He isn’t afraid of her, either.
They do dinner sometimes, all three of them. Sometimes Elliot cooks, sometimes Olivia. Sometimes they order in.
It was Olivia’s turn tonight. Noah ate dutifully for the first ten minutes and now he's fidgeting, ready to leave, fork already back to the table. He's left half his dinner on his plate.
Olivia was never like that. She ate like she never knew when her next meal was coming, barely even stopping to chew. When her first college roommate teased her — Jeez, Liv, what's the rush? — it felt like getting ice water dumped over her head, another reminder that there was something wrong with her, yet another indefinable thing. Until then she hadn't even realized she was doing it.
She saved all her money, too, and for the same reason, hoarding it wherever she thought Serena wouldn't look. She only managed half the time — drunks have a natural aptitude for searching out hiding places — but the instinct stuck with her well into adulthood, until finally, like with her eating habits, she started consciously changing her behaviour.
She caved and gave Noah a debit card last year. He accepted it like it was nothing, has already lost the damn thing twice.
“Can I go to my room?”
At least he asks, Olivia thinks wryly. She peers a little more closely at his plate — he got most of the chicken, at least, and he made an attempt at the vegetables before abandoning his efforts and digging into the mashed potatoes instead.
“Sure, honey,” she says with a smile. “Take your plate, though, would you?”
Noah scrambles up from his chair immediately; he forgets to push it back in but he does take the plate with him to the kitchen, at least, the sound of the sink reassuring Olivia that he remembered to rinse it, too.
“He's a good kid,” Elliot says softly in the silence Noah leaves behind him.
Olivia brings her glass up for a sip and nods.
“I don't know what to do with him sometimes,” she admits.
Elliot shrugs.
“When they’re that age, who does?”
It's more flippant than Olivia would have liked; she purses her lips, taps a finger against the stem of the glass.
“Sorry.” Elliot apologizes before she can think of something to fill the silence, the act of it surprising enough to throw her for another loop. “I don't mean to — I'm not dismissing you. I didn't mean it like that.”
“I know you didn't.”
As soon as he found out she had a kid, Elliot started asking about Noah all the time. Always telling her how great he is, how she's doing an amazing job. Olivia mostly trusts that he means it, now. It's just still so strange, talking to him like this. Parenthood was his domain; it was never something they shared. If he ever asked her for advice, before, it was always because he wanted an outsider's perspective.
There were so many times, when Noah was smaller, when Olivia wished she could call Elliot up and ask him for advice in return. Back then she had Nick, and then Amanda, kind of, but it wasn't ever the same. Elliot played so many roles in her life: her partner and her best friend and her family, all at once. How could she ever replace all of that?
“The things he gets mad at me for — it's so hard not to snap,” Olivia admits tentatively. Elliot snorts his agreement, to her relief, leaning back in his chair.
“Right?” he says, huffing out a laugh. “I still remember the time Maureen was fifteen and I wouldn't let her go to some party. She called it child abuse.”
Olivia chuckles. The sentiment is familiar, if not the exact scenario; Noah called her a tyrant when she wouldn't let him go to sleepaway dance camp last month.
“I wanted to snap at her so bad,” Elliot continues. “What did she know about child abuse, you know? When I was her age....”
He cuts himself off, then, one hand rubbing at his mouth, and Olivia straightens in her seat, suddenly more alert.
Elliot's different in a lot of ways, since he came back: he's close with his mother, more open in general. But he still doesn't talk about his childhood much, or the rest of his family; huge swaths of his life remain a mystery to Olivia, even now. She remembers how much it used to bother her, how he knew everything about her, what felt like every sordid detail of her existence, while there was still so much of himself he hadn't shared with her.
“When I was her age my dad woulda hit me hard enough to knock something loose, I ever talked to him like that.”
He laughs as he says it, dry and unpleasant. Olivia's own mouth twists in commiseration, almost of its own accord.
“It's hard to be sympathetic,” she agrees carefully. “I don't want to be the When I was your age mom, but....”
“But when we were their age it was different,” Elliot finishes with a laugh. He looks away for a long moment, thinking about what he wants to say next. “That was always the line for me, you know? If I ever treated Maureen the way the old man treated me, I'd....”
He doesn't need to finish the sentence: Olivia knows. She understands him again, suddenly, sure of her place in the conversation in a way she hasn't, really, since he came back.
“I understand her better now,” Olivia admits, after another silence. “My mother, I mean.”
It's hard to get the words out, but she forces herself anyway: a truth for a truth. Give and take.
“You're nothing like her,” Elliot says with a frown. Loyal to a fault, still.
“I am.” It's easier to admit it this way: when it’s an argument instead of a confession. “She was — something horrible happened to her, Elliot, and she never trusted anyone after that. She thought she had to do everything on her own. Of course I can understand.”
It isn't what he expected her to say, that much is clear, his eyebrows raising in shock. She guesses that make sense; she used to hate talking about her mother. She never used to be able to scrounge up much sympathy for her.
“Liv,” he tries, and then he has to clear his throat before he can try again. “Liv. Is that — do you really believe that?”
Olivia shrugs. She wants another glass of wine but it feels like the wrong time to take a sip, like a final sentencing. Her own judge and jury, all in one. Doesn't the evidence speak for itself?
“It's fine,” she says, but what she really means is, It's what it is. She knows, now, that sometimes that’s all you can say. It is what it fucking is. “It doesn't always have to be about me.”
Elliot's mouth twists. His hand is clenched into a fist where it's resting on the table, no sign of his easy posture from earlier. She watches, curious, as he pushes his chair back to stand. He doesn’t bother with his plate, doesn’t head towards the kitchen like Noah had. Instead he comes to stand behind her, both hands on her shoulders, so Olivia has to tilt her head back to get a proper look at him.
He doesn’t say anything, just leans forward to press his lips to her forehead, lingering like a blessing. Olivia’s eyes drift shut. She tries to commit it to memory — the weight of his hands, the warmth of his lips. The smell of his aftershave. The sound of Noah’s stupid Switch game, blaring in the background.
This is the life she never thought she’d have.
She calls from the emergency room, barely able to hear him over the ringing in her ears.
“I’m fine,” she lies, fingers probing cautiously at the edge of the bandage on her forehead. The skin had given in so easily, split under the force when the perp grabbed her and slammed her against the wall, the move so sudden it took Bruno a beat too long to react. She shudders, now, remembering it. The fluorescent lights are giving a hell of a headache, but her sunglasses are in her car and her car is back at the precinct, so she shifts her hand until she’s holding her fingers to her aching eyes, instead, trying in vain to relieve some of the pressure.
She’s too fucking old for this.
“You don’t sound fine.”
Elliot’s voice crackles through the speaker, fuzzy and way too loud, the sound of it making Olivia wince.
I’m really okay. This is the part where she repeats it, her pride getting the best of her every goddamn time, even when she’s tired and desperate. Even when she’s aching to let someone in. This is the part where she limps home, lies to Noah, holds out just long enough to get him to bed before she collapses in the shower, alone.
This is the part where —
“I’m not,” she says baldly, and the tightness in her chest loosens, a little, when she admits it. She tilts her head back to rest it against the wall, regrets it immediately when the ceiling starts up a slow spin. “I’m — can you pick up Noah? Get him home for me?”
“Sure,” Elliot says immediately, even though it’s the middle of the afternoon and he’s definitely still at work. He doesn’t even hesitate. “Need me to come get you, too?”
No, Olivia would have said six months ago. I can get myself home.
She can; she has. But she doesn’t have to prove it anymore.
“Yeah,” she croaks, instead, opening her eyes. “Would you?”
He shows up so quickly there’s no way he drove the speed limit, but Olivia’s too relieved at the sight of him to care.
“Hey,” he says, out of breath, as he jogs up to meet her. He’s reaching for her head as soon as he’s in range, brushing her hair out of her face to get a better look at — well. The bandage, mostly. He can’t actually see where she was hurt. “You scared me.”
Olivia’s eyes flicker closed again as her body sways into his.
“I scared me, too,” she admits, one hand coming up to clutch at the material of his jacket, her grip just a shade too tight to pass it off as casual. Elliot presses a kiss to her temple and says nothing. Holds her until she’s ready to leave.
He must have warned Noah, because her son is silent when he climbs into the backseat — no chatter about his day, no urgent messages about whatever form she needs to sign like, right now, Mom, it was due yesterday, c’mon. He doesn’t even complain that Elliot’s playing oldies.
Her heart feels so full it hurts. The swelling pressure of it is almost enough to send her in a panic. She holds herself very still, waiting for it to pass. A tear stings at the corner of her eye, then winds its way down her cheek, catching at the corner of her mouth. The cut on her forehead throbs.
Springsteen’s on the radio, singing about getting older. There’s a joke here, somewhere, and it’s on me.
Elliot’s hand is warm when it finds hers. She holds on, tight, and keeps waiting.