A/N: The After Party made me do it.

Olivia's ability to adapt to rapidly unfolding situations had always taken him by surprise.

He couldn't put his finger on why exactly, after eight years of partnership, he was still shocked by this particular skill. They had survived their first night together in six months, but he isn't sure how either one of them was still breathing. She had come looking for blood, hungry for vengeance – she wanted to drive the sword of revenge into his heart and twist and watch him bleed out.

Perhaps he deserved it. But she had left him first when things had got complicated.

Whatever he had done up until this point had led them both to where they were. He'd taken her in the bathroom last night, on the couch, in his bed, and the old Elliot was still frozen in shock from seeing her in Duff's bar, her finger swirling around in her drink. The new Elliot was waiting for her while he leaned against his bike, a cigarette between his lips. His body was warm in his leather jacket and thick jeans despite being used to the heat of the outfit he wore constantly. He inhaled deeply and pulled the smoke from his mouth, flicking the ash from the end idly.

Smoking was his safety net. It never changed.

There were a few bikes left in the parking lot. The trip was only for a few key members of the club, and Elliot had managed to convince Damon that they should bring the wives and stay in the motel across the street from the New Jersey chapter of the Hells Angels. Having Olivia with him has been a saving grace and a curse all at once. He wanted to focus on collecting as much intel as possible, but she was undeniably sinful and distracting. She takes away from the hell he's faced the past six months and she's been in his presence for less than a day.

She centers him.

The sound of a whistle drew his attention away from his smoke. His eyes found her as she exited out of the front door of Duff's Bar and his senses narrowed on her – only her.

Olivia was walking towards him, holding her black leather jacket over her shoulder. She was clad in black again, and he swears she must have gone shopping before she met up with him because he's never seen her in such tight jeans, he's never seen her in tops that barely cover her supple breasts. Her bangs are heavy enough he can't see her eyebrows but he knew she was raising one at her. A shit-eating grin spreads across her face and he wondered if this is what Olivia Benson looks like the night after a hard fucking. The way she bites into her bottom lip tells him everything he needs to know. Damon rightfully whistles again and he sees the gang leader laughing from the corner of his eye and shaking his head.

There is no air left in his lungs. His pants have begun to tighten and for the slightest second, he wishes they would've sent in Munch or Fin – at least they wouldn't be causing this reaction in him just from walking out of a bar to meet him.

"Your old lady sure knows how to make an entrance, Elliot."

Yes, she does.

She had never been on a motorcycle before this morning.

It had been as loud as she had expected it to be. The rumble of his bike beneath them had soothed her, lulled her into an almost dreamlike state. She held onto his waist and was content feeling his solid body in her arms. Her chin had rested on his shoulder and although she'd barely slept the night before, she never shut her eyes while he drove.

It gave her time to think, to assess what had happened over the course of the last day. There were certain parts of the night that were inevitable – their clash in the beginning, the way he'd so rudely greeted her after seeing her for the first time again, how hard she'd slapped him in the hall, how she had tried to hit him a second time. His demeanor was completely different undercover and she'd been an idiot to think he wouldn't have changed. He had to. Otherwise, he'd probably be dead.

She wondered what happened to him in the time they were separated. They'd moved past the ugly confrontation and were caught in a strange in-between; they had both done things to each other that were beyond the scope of any partnership, yet they hadn't resolved anything that had happened over the entire year. Olivia could feel the turmoil slowly building and smoldering beneath the surface. Eventually, it would come out, one way or another, and she wasn't sure if either of them would survive it.

When the volume of her thoughts became too much to bear, she had buried her face in his neck and reveled in the appreciative rumble she felt come from his throat. His new scent was becoming more and more familiar to her – instead of his usual aftershave, he smelled of leather and cigarettes and him. Elliot had dropped his hand from the clutch and gripped her knee silently. She wanted to stay like this in their perfect bubble, pretending to be other people, having completely different lives and expectations.

"It's just up here on the left," she heard him yell over the roar of his bike.

A plain motel appeared over the horizon. It was only two floors, probably less than fifty rooms in the entire building. Across the road was a bar that probably served as the New Jersey headquarters for the Hells Angels. The rest of the area was mostly abandoned, the only sign of life was the abundance of motorcycles parked at both establishments.

Elliot along with the other New York members came to a stop in front of the motel office. He cut the engine in time with the others and the way he was so in sync with them frightened her. She needed to know how far this had all gone, she needed answers from him and soon. When he flicked the kickstand down with his foot, Olivia quickly got off the motorcycle with him and unclipped her helmet.

His eyes found hers as she ran her fingers through her windblown hair. She was quiet when she handed her helmet back to him, she had to continually remind herself that she was in front of Damon and Marco – she couldn't step out of line. They were out of state and now more than ever, if things were to go wrong, help would be scarce, if it came at all.

Elliot's hand closed around her outstretched wrist and brought her roughly into his chest. He was all heat and leather against her. His mouth smoothed over hers once, twice, and his tongue darted between her parted lips. She allowed herself to sigh into him and wrapped her arms around him, her fingertips trailing over the patch sewn into the back of his jacket. His goatee scraped her mouth, she wanted to ask him to shave it but she knew what the answer to that would be before she even got the chance to ask.

"Let's go check in and have a drink."

He wanted to run away with Olivia and never step foot in one of these establishments again.

There was never anything good that came from meetings like these. The clubs constantly clashed over controls of things he couldn't give a fuck about. They always drank too much on these road trips, they always ended up in fights that he would have to clean up and try to mend the fences and the relationships that had been ruined by alcohol-induced rages.

He understood getting hot-blooded about certain things. But the Hells Angels were never logical, they never provided any good reasoning behind any of their decisions. The particular reason they had come to New Jersey was due to their own Vice President having gone missing for a week now and they had no leads.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Elliot.

"You've checked everywhere?" Marco asked for the third time that night. The President assured him up and down that they had checked every last place they could think of, even calling in some favors with the local police department to see if he had been picked up there or was in any federal facility.

They had been drinking for hours. Elliot always nursed his beer, he never wanted to get too out of control – he had learned his lesson from their last trip out here. They had started a fight with a group of men from a rival gang and Elliot had broken a chair over the back of one of the members while fighting for no good reason. The blow had knocked the man unconscious and they had fled from the bar quickly after that, the commotion had surely drawn enough attention that the authorities were on their way. He couldn't handle being taken out of the operation and coming home as a failure. The fights he had been in as a cop in the years prior along with the fallout of the bar fight would have ended his career.

Never mind the relationship he had with Olivia. Whatever it was.

Elliot sat at the bar between Marco and Damon. The beer bottle in his hand was growing warm with every minute he spent clenching and unclenching his hand. He wanted to be alone with Olivia. He wanted to confess every fucked-up nuance, every fight, every punch, every stab that he had given and taken over the last six months. He needed to lay all the cards out on the table for her and give her a chance to escape from this hellish landscape before they were both in too deep. Fear crept into his spine; maybe it was already too late for her and the situation they were caught in.

Either way, she needed to know every truth he was willing to offer her. His eyes follow the line of empty tables and chairs to the only occupied table. Olivia is across from Brooke, Damon's wife, and Alicia, Marco's wife. Alicia was harmless, frankly too innocent for the club. She was a nurse at a small hospital but had loved Marco for a long time. The club had come close to ending her career a couple of times and she didn't care, her devotion to Marco was her only priority.

Brooke was a different story. His briefing when he had begun his operation had told him only the barest of information about Brooke and it had proved nearly fatal for him. She was calculated, she loved to toy with the prospects, she used her good looks and charms to her advantage nearly constantly. Her dark, exotic skin and burning gaze had tempted many of their new members and she would allow them to look, to tease, but when they touched – with a snap of her fingers, Damon would be on them.

Olivia shifted in her seat and laughed with the two other women as they took another shot together. The bottle of tequila that was between the three of them on the table was half gone and lemon slices were strewn everywhere. His eyebrows raised watching her expertly take the liquor and then the bitter fruit into her mouth. She was tipsy, he could see it in the heated look she gave him when he caught her eye. The giggle that came from her was so unlike the woman he knew back in New York.

Her gaze dropped to his chest and back up to his face. He didn't see any movement besides her. The world around him started to falter and fall away, he could only see her, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. His legs wanted to stiffen, to stand up and cross the room and grab her and take her out of the bar.

Now. He needed to tell her now. No more fucking around. No more fucking. He needed to be honest. He needed his best friend. He needed his partner.

In a single moment, he blinked and took in the last of his beer. His eyes had closed and opened and almost no time had passed. He swore it had been a single second that he disappeared from reality. When he opened his eyes again, Olivia was no longer looking at him.

Her focus was on Brooke, who had abandoned her own chair and was now straddling Olivia's thighs. Brooke looked over at Elliot and smiled. The glint in her eye, the devilish smirk she wore sent the blood rushing through his veins.

You wouldn't dare.

But she did. Brooke bent down, pressing her mouth to Olivia's firmly. His fist clenched around the bottle so tightly he knew if he applied any more pressure the bottle would burst in his hand. Brooke's hands moved into her hair, her fingers curled and pulled the brown locks and from across the bar, he could see his partners tongue dart out to taste the woman on top of her.

She stretched her hands out, dipping her fingers into the back pocket of Brooke's jeans and pulling her body further into her. Elliot watched helplessly as the woman on top of Olivia skimmed her hands down her chest, brushing her thumbs under the swell of her breasts. A moan came from both of them and he wanted to stand up and push the woman off of her, but he is utterly trapped in the façade of the gang while the men beside him laugh and cheer them on. He can't be mad, he can't be possessive. Damon's wife had control and she knew it.

Brooke was touching all the parts of her that belong to him though. Her breasts. Her mouth. Ten seconds ago he was ready to give it all up in the name of honesty, but now he wants it all back and he is pissed that she so freely was giving it away.

In this world, Olivia belongs to him.

Who they are outside of it is going to have to wait until tomorrow.