Thanks to Mel for the beta, she's kinda awesome.
'So this is what shit
hitting the fan sounds like.'
It sounded like nothing; it sounded like silence. Silence and a handful of cars speeding wetly down the side street.
Five months…that was how long it had been since he had seen her, since she had set foot on his street. Five months and her hair was longer, her eyes were duller and her soul that much thinner.
There had been no word of where she had gone or if she would return, and when he'd dared to ask Cragen he'd given Elliot a tight-lipped, "Forget it," and had sent him on his way. There was only one thing that response attempted to mask…an undercover assignment. And while he was pissed at his boss for even offering her up for such an assignment, he was simply enraged with her for leaving.
Sulking at his desk hadn't done much. Solving three cold cases hadn't lifted his mood. But when Dani had breezed into the precinct with a tray of lattes and a sarcastic smile, he forgot about Olivia, just a little bit.
Perhaps not as brazen as his ex, she was strong and devious and almost too flippant for him to stomach. Almost. Tall, leggy, beautiful; she was a motherfucking kick in the pants. Turning heads without noticing, she'd lick her lips, bend over to retrieve a file without so much as a backward glance.
Maybe she didn't notice, but it was more likely that she didn't care. Dani didn't care much about what anybody thought, including her new partner.
She drank just as hard and heavy as his ex-partner had and they would often go beer for beer with the boys, just to see the looks on the others' faces as she slammed down a thick, heavy mug and ordered a seventh without a slur. A whirlwind, that's what she was, a surprise to anyone who deigned to look upon her.
A breath of fresh air, a change, something mutable. She was too many similes and metaphors for him to name and that put him at ease. She was too complex to even dare to attempt to rationalize.
Every bit of Olivia had been rational but in fine, fine, minute pieces like a puzzle. She required an intricate attention to detail that a man of little patience such as himself did not generally possess. She was his exquisite challenge, an often infuriating one.
And wanting to kiss her, wanting to actually attempt to allow himself to feel something like love for her was much harder than the quick lust and easy seduction that was Dani.
That was how he found himself towing her up the steps to his hollow house, his lips on hers, her hands on his ass. A slow stumble that Olivia had witnessed from her vantage point, opening her car door across the street.
Across the street, he wished she would look at him with horror, with anger, but she just stood there, more shocked than sad. And for the fourth time that year, Elliot felt his heart beat and crack. Arms fell slack around the woman who was standing between them and she pulled back, turned her eyes to the woman across the way. "What is it, El?" she asked, just loud enough to carry.
The worst look, the one that passed over Olivia then, was a slack smile and two raised brows, a 'Well, apparently I was entirely wrong' sort of communication. Lowering herself back into the seat of her car, she pulled her legs in before softly shutting the door.
Still, he stared, watching as her hands tightened on the wheel. Even from his perch on the steps, he could just make out her screwing up her face, the red flush that overtook her. Crying in that sweet way that begged him silently to wrap her up in his arms, she shoved the keys in the ignition and pushed the car into drive, tearing delicately off into the night.
If he'd been sitting, his head would have fallen into his hands. Dani moved forward, wrapped an arm around his shoulder and spoke a slow goodnight and took off as well.
On a stoop in Queens, Elliot Stabler held his fractured heart in his hands and wondered if he'd ever find the right way to put it back together.
There was a night of restless sleep, the clouds pulling themselves over an already-smog obstructed moon. A tease on his mind, a relentless mockery of exactly how he was feeling. A slow headache pulled itself between his eyes as night slipped into morning and he began hating himself that much harder.
Lazy, jelly legs carried him to a shower that he didn't really want, but then, he didn't want another woman on him when he showed up at her apartment, so he scrubbed long and hard until his skin turned red and he was sure he would bleed. Penance, punishment and all of those other overused Catholic phrases infiltrated the haze he'd hung about himself.
He needed to pay. He wanted to hurt, he wanted her to make him hurt.
His worn jeans felt too loose on him and his button down didn't fit correctly over hunched shoulders. He felt as though he didn't fit correctly behind the wheel of his car; he was too small.
The ride there was too quick and he was too nervous to get out of his car once he got there.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes ticked by before his conscience got the better of him and he forced himself to her outer door.
His finger, poised over the button, shook and he wondered how long it would take his conscience to spur him to press down. He didn't have to wait long, as one of her neighbors exited the apartment and held the door for him.
It was like fate, an invitation inside and he had to take it because... well... it was fate.
Had to have been.
Three floors up, he dragged his feet as he made his way to her door, slowing his shuffle to a near-crawl when he was within a yard. Too loud and she would hear him and come to check the hallway. The soles of his shoes crackled when they came into contact with the dirt on the floor, his eyes squeezing shut. God, if only to delay the inevitable a bit longer...
But his knuckles made contact with her door; his breath reigned in and coiled tight in his lungs. The door opened quickly and she regarded him with a cool sort of displacement, as though it didn't matter much if he existed or not.
Then, then, she made him exist, grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward and on a sob brought her lips to his, kissed the life out of him and she allowed him to press her hard into the wall. Olivia was begging him in short, clipped words, managing sobs between kisses, tearing at his back, urging him closer.
And he was pressing against her, wanting her to steal all the air from his lungs and breathe for him. "Sorry," he managed as his lips fell to her neck and began nipping.
She, still crying, uttered a "Me too," and leaned her head back against the wall, watched the stars as they circled above her line of vision.
The real words they wanted to speak didn't come because they were too busy using their lips for other, more important things.