Archive of Our Own

The problem with being the boss, Olivia thought, was that it meant she had to lead by example. Even when it galled her, even when it went against her own personal desires, she had to do everything by the book. How could she hold her detectives accountable, how could she ever hope to build a better police force, if she didn't follow the rules herself? If one of her detectives had been jumped on the street in front of their home, targeted by a ruthless gang who would stop at nothing to see them dead, she'd make damn sure her officer had protection. And that meant now that she was the one bruised and bleeding, now that she was the one with a target painted on her back, she would have to accept the protection McGrath insisted she needed.

There had been times, in the past, when Cragen wanted her under protection, and she'd always said no. When Murphy forced a team on her after Lewis broke out of prison - what a useless bunch those protective officers were, she thought now - she'd slipped her detail at the first possible opportunity, run headlong into danger because she would be damned if she let the chance to bring a monster like Lewis down slip through her fingers because she was cowering in fear. It wasn't what she did, wasn't who she was.

Or, it wasn't who she used to be. Now she was a Captain, a mother; now she had more to worry about than just herself. Now the Chief himself had ordered round-the-clock protection for her, and now there was no way to say no.

Which was how she came to be sitting in her office with a female officer from the NYPD protection unit leaning in her doorway.

"All done for the day, Cap?" the officer asked her. The woman's name was Lupinetti; they weren't on a first name basis, Olivia and the officers who planned to follow her everywhere she went like a shadow until Oscar Papa was behind bars, but last names suited her just fine. She didn't want to hear Lupinetti call her Liv; they weren't friends.

"Just wrapping up," Olivia answered tightly.

"Good deal. We've booked you a room at -"

"I'm going home," Olivia said, closing her laptop with a sharp snap.

"Sorry, ma'am, but you're not."

Lupinetti was a pretty woman. Tall, which Olivia liked - it would've felt ridiculous, she thought, having a bodyguard who was smaller than she was - her thick dark hair slicked back into a neat ponytail, blue eyes bright and watchful. Pretty, but hard; she would not be swayed on the matter of her principal's safety.

"I slept at home last night," Olivia pointed out. That wasn't entirely true; after the dust settled, after the hospital, she'd gone home, but she hadn't slept there. She'd sat up all night long in her chair in the living room with her shotgun across her knees.

"You had a dozen black and whites outside your door and we hadn't fully identified the threat last night," Lupinetti said evenly. "Now we know what we're up against, we can't let you go back home. They'll be casing the place."

Really, Lupinetti made a strong argument. Olivia's building wasn't safe, just now; that was why she'd asked Fin to drive Noah to Woodstock, to get him the hell out of the city, away from the men who meant to do her harm, the men who'd beaten his mother on the street while he watched helplessly from the lobby. If her apartment wasn't safe for Noah, it wasn't safe for Olivia, either, but she refused to back down; Noah was a child, and he didn't carry a Glock on his hip. This was her battle to fight, and she had no intention of running from it. Let BX9 try again; she'd get them, this time. She would not be felled by them again.

"They're probably watching the precinct," Olivia said, unwilling to concede the point. "If I go to a hotel they'll just follow me there. You really think you can secure an entire hotel better than my building?"

"Due respect, ma'am, but I'm a pretty good driver. I can make sure we lose any tails we might pick up."

If they don't run the car off the road first, Olivia thought darkly, remembering Richard Wheatley and the accident that had wrecked her ankle, stolen her ability to run and left her vulnerable to those kids and their machete.

"I am not staying at a hotel - "

"Safe house, then," Lupinetti suggested.

She's not gonna let this go, Olivia thought. There was no way the protective detail was gonna let her go home, and she wasn't interested in staying in one of the shitholes the NYPD referred to as safe houses. Staying at a hotel on the NYPD's dime just felt so…frivolous, somehow. Weak. It would be cold and impersonal, and the room would be small, and she wouldn't have a kitchen - not that she planned to do much cooking, without Noah to feed. More than anything, a hotel felt like a capitulation, an admission of her own failure to protect herself. You hear what happened to Benson? Got her ass beat, right in front of her kid. They got her holed up in some hotel somewhere.

But where else could she go? There were bunks at the precinct, but it wasn't homey and quiet like the crib in the old station house; there was a vending machine in the bunkroom now, and the door was almost always open, people constantly coming and going. And staying at the station would mean showering at the station, which she hated these days; the locker room was never clean enough for her standards, and it got too damn hot in there, and there was always the risk that someone might walk in on her half-dressed, see the old scars and the new bruises that painted her torso with a tale of horror.

No, she couldn't stay at the station. She needed somewhere else. Somewhere she'd be safe. Somewhere she'd feel safe.

The answer revealed itself to her as she sat there staring at Lupinetti. There was somewhere she could go. Somewhere evil could not touch her, somewhere she could scream and throw things and be honest about the terror and the rage that filled her. There was someone she could go to, someone she could fight while her true enemy was out of reach. Someone who fucking owed her this. Someone who should've come for her already, but hadn't. Someone she wanted to strangle for his absence.

"I know where to go," she said, rising slowly, gingerly from her chair, every piece of her body protesting in agony at the movement. I'm getting too old for this, she thought.

"Lead the way, Cap," Lupinetti said.

When Elliot opened the door, he was in no way prepared for the sight that waited for him. A young woman, in a sharp black suit, with bright blue eyes and a slicked-back ponytail was standing on the other side of the door with a badge in her hand and a gun on her hip. Over her shoulder he could see Olivia, her hands shoved deep in her pockets and the worst shiner he'd ever seen marring the tender skin around her eye. Behind Olivia a man with watchful eyes was bringing up the rear, completing their grim little trio, the three of them looking for all the world like an anxious queen and the knights who'd been tasked with her protection.

"Detective Stabler?" the young woman asked.

"Yeah?" he answered, his eyes trained on Liv. She was looking steadily back at him, and what he saw in her gaze scared him. What the fuck happened to you? Elliot wondered, looking back, willing Liv to hear the question he had not yet voiced. Something like anger flickered in her eyes, and he felt a pressure building on his shoulders, a storm stirring up on the horizon.

"I'm Officer Lupinetti with the NYPD protection unit," the girl with the ponytail said. "I need to search your apartment."

"What the hell's going on?" he asked Liv. Not the girl in front of him; it was his partner he directed his question to.

"Sir," the girl said while Liv remained eerily, terrifyingly silent, "I need to secure your apartment before I can let my principal inside."

Her principal. He was right, then; these two had been tasked with protecting their queen, and that task had brought them here, to his door, after sunset on a grim night. If Liv was this girl's principal that meant Liv was in danger; that meant whoever had left that bruise on her face was still out there, ready and waiting to do a hell of a lot worse than give her a black eye. Protection like this meant someone out there wanted Liv dead, and Elliot's hands clenched into fists at his side, preparing himself for the battle ahead. Whoever had done this to Liv was fucking with the wrong woman, and Elliot could taste blood in the back of his mouth already, anxious to destroy this threat before it took Olivia away from him for good.

"Be my guest," he said, throwing the door wide so the girl could pass by him and into the apartment beyond. While she began her search Elliot stayed right where he was, facing off with Olivia. They'd not seen each other in months, and this, her turning up on his doorstep with a goddamn protective detail, was not how he'd imagined their next meeting playing out, but he understood why she'd done it. Why she'd come here, to him, after violence had come for her. He knew what she'd come looking for.

She'd come looking for a goddamn fight, and a safe place to land, and he could give her both.

"You a principal now, Liv?" he asked her quietly.

"Fuck you," she fired back, pissed as hell and already throwing punches.

That's my girl, he thought grimly.

Whatever was going on with her he was pretty sure she didn't want to talk about it where her detail could hear, so he just stayed quiet, drinking in the sight of her. It was hard to know where he stood with her these days. What she thought about him, what role she wanted him to play in her life - if she wanted him to have any role at all. It always seemed to be work that brought them together, and too often he felt himself at odds with her. Like they weren't on the same side anymore. That didn't sit well with him; he wanted his partner back. This, her turning up at his door, made him think she wanted that, too.

If the guy behind her shoulder thought it was strange, Captain Benson turning up at a random detective's apartment after 8:00 pm on a school night, he was keeping his curiosity to himself. Wasn't even watching Elliot, really; the man had a job to do, and his eyes roved endlessly along the corridor, searching for some sign of trouble. There was none to be found; it was a quiet night, a quiet building, a quiet street, and Liv and Elliot were quiet, too, just waiting for the teenager with the ponytail to finish checking for boogeymen under the furniture in Elliot's apartment.

The whole time they were waiting Liv never took her eyes off him, not even once. Jesus, she was pretty; even bruised her face captivated him, made it hard to look at anything else. Anything but her, this maddening, beautiful soul, this woman he cared for, longed for, ached for.

This woman he loved.

It was funny, he thought, how saying a thing out loud made it true. He'd always known - always feared - that what he felt for her was more than just the care, the concern, the camaraderie of a partner. That what he felt for her was the kinda thing that made men go to confession, made wives ask for divorces, ruined careers, ended lives. He'd always been afraid of it, and he'd never, ever allowed himself to say it out loud. For two decades he'd walked around with a stone called Olivia sitting heavy in the center of his chest, had carried that stone with him across the ocean and held it in his hands while the bright lights of a Roman night sparkled beneath his balcony and still he did not call it love. He wrote it will always be you and I on a cold winter's night when he thought those would be the very last words he ever spoke to her, and still he did not call it love. Did not call it love, until the moment that he did, the moment the words came spilling recklessly out of his mouth while his children watched in horror, and now that he had named it he could not hide from it.

He loved her, whole and entire, loved her when she vexed him and when she comforted him, loved her when she went whole months without speaking to him and loved her when she showed up at his door with a curse on her lips just for him.

He loved her, and the sight of that bruise on her beautiful face wakened a great and terrible rage inside him. Someone had done this to her; someone had struck her, the woman he loved, hit her so painfully, powerfully hard that the memory of that violence would linger on her skin for weeks afterwards. And whatever they had done to her clearly they meant to do more, and Elliot could not allow that to happen. She was his goddamn partner, and it was his job to keep her safe.

"Who did this to you?" he asked her softly, the words rushing out of his mouth before he could think better of them. The fist that struck her belonged to a person, and that person had a name, and Elliot would learn that name, and find the villain it belonged to, and he would tear them limb from limb. He would break them, beat them bloody; he'd kill them before he let them kill her. The certainty of his own bloodlust should have alarmed him, but he felt no fear; Olivia was his, and he would not let anyone hurt her, would not let anyone take her from him, not while he still drew breath.

At his question the officer behind her perked up a little, the man's eyes darting quickly to Elliot's face, a question there. Does he know, Elliot wondered; did Olivia's protective detail have any idea who he was, why she had risked her own life and ventured from the sanctuary of her precinct out into the city to find him when there was someone in that city who wanted her dead? Had they heard the old stories; hell, was there anyone left to tell the old stories besides Elliot and Olivia themselves? Fin, sure, but Fin had always kept Olivia's secrets. Maybe the name Stabler meant nothing to these people at all. Maybe that was for the best.

Olivia did not answer him; her eyes flashed at him, angry and warning. Wait, he heard her say, though she did not speak. Whatever she had to say to him, she wanted to say it in private.

He could work with that.

Another five or so minutes passed in silence, and then the girl reappeared.

"All clear," she said. "We can go in, Captain."

"I'm going in," Olivia corrected her darkly. "You two can wait out here."

"I understand you want your privacy, ma'am," the girl answered evenly. "And we'll stay out of your way, but the back entrance to the apartment is unsecured. We don't have a visual on the patio from here. We can't let you go in there alone -"

"She's not alone," Elliot said. "I'll keep an eye on her, officer."

"Sir -"

"I'll see you later, Lupinetti," Olivia said, and then she stepped smoothly into the apartment, and between them Elliot and Olivia shouldered the girl out of the way, and he slammed the door sharply in her face, locking it for good measure.

Here we go, he thought. Just like that he found himself alone with Liv and a terrible, growing sense of dread.

"Pour me a drink, would you?" she asked, running her fingers through her hair. It was a relief to find herself free from the watchful eyes of her protective detail, but she was jittery, unnerved and rattled. Short on sleep and jumping at shadows, and so fucking angry. Angry at herself, for not being stronger, braver, faster, for not protecting herself better. Angry at herself for coming here, to him, for the tacit admission that she needed his protection; I can't keep looking over my shoulder, making sure you're ok, she heard him say, and wanted to hit him for an offense she'd forgiven twenty years ago. Angry at Papa, at that fucking tree, at the boys who'd tried to kill her and the man who'd told them to, at a world that turned children into monsters. Angry at the goddamn McCanns, their perfect normal life and their perfect fucking apple pie and the sense of love and family they gave to Noah, the security she could not provide him herself. What must those people think of her, sending her child away because a gang was out to kill her? What kind of mother was she?

"Wine or whiskey?" he asked.

She shot him a dark look.

"Whiskey," he said, and turned towards the kitchen.

She followed him there, her boots clicking loudly on the tile as they went. She wanted to take them off, her heavy boots; she wanted to strip herself bare and sink into a bath. Maybe after the whiskey. Surely there was a bathtub somewhere in this place.

"You wanna talk about it?" Elliot asked. She swayed to a stop, leaning up against the island in the center of his kitchen, watching him as he pulled down two heavy crystal glasses from a cabinet.

"What, you haven't heard?" she fired back derisively. "Thought the whole NYPD would be talking about it by now."

"I been busy," he answered levelly.

It was funny, she thought, funny how well he faked it. How he could pretend to be so even-tempered, so calm, so rational, when she knew he was as wild and reckless as she had ever been. A memory came back to her, Garland talking about Stabler's jacket in the hours after Kathy was injured, talking about shootings and excessive force complaints like he couldn't believe a man as dangerous as Elliot had ever worn a badge, like he hadn't noticed that Olivia had been standing next to Elliot for every single one of those incidents. We were both referred, she'd told him, when what she'd wanted to say was everything he did I did, too, but worse. You should see what's in my jacket. You should see what's not in my jacket.

Anyway, she didn't want Elliot calm and controlled tonight; she wanted him, her partner, bullish and stubborn. She wanted to scream at him, claw at him, break his fucking nose because once again he hadn't been there when she needed him, and once again she'd gotten hurt without him there to watch her six, and she hated him for abandoning her almost as much as she hated herself for wanting him by her side. She'd done the job for ten years without him, she didn't need his goddamn help, but she wanted it, just the same.

"We've been working a case in the Bronx," she began. Elliot shot her a curious look over his shoulder.

"Long story," she said, waving away his unspoken question. Tonight wasn't about the corruption in the Bronx SVU, about Bruno's lawsuit and his millions and the women who'd been denied justice by an incompetent unit.

"It's gang related. The head of that gang decided I'm causing too much trouble, and he sent two kids to kill me with a machete on the street. In front of my son."

He'd poured the whiskey but he didn't hand her a glass; as she told her tale he turned around to face her, the expression on his face caught somewhere between sorrow and rage.

He would kick your teeth in, break your legs, break your arms, break your back, break your face.

It scared her, just a little. How badly she wanted that. How badly she wanted to watch him beat Oscar Papa bloody, just for her. How badly she wanted somebody, anybody - him - to defend her, to want to defend her, to say this one is mine, and you will not have her. She'd been alone on the wall too long, with no one to watch over her, to guard her while she slept, to keep the monsters at bay. A person could only stand on her own so long before she broke.

"Is Noah - "

She loved him for that, really she did, for his immediate and sincere concern for her son's safety, for the look in his eyes that told her he'd burn the whole world down for her boy.

"He's fine, I got him inside before they could hurt him. He's somewhere safe now."

Somewhere far away, living the kind of life he'd always dreamed about, apparently, the kind of life she could never give him.

What if he wants to stay there forever, she wondered; what if he decides he loves them more than me?

Everyone always leaves; the truth her mother taught her seemed to prove itself over and over again. Elliot had left her, left her ten years ago, and left her again; after Christmas, after Eli, after holding his hand in the car she'd thought maybe, maybe they were making some progress, but the the dust settled and he'd not called her, and even after they'd worked that case with the 2-7 he'd gone silent on her again, disappeared. He was always disappearing, never staying still long enough for her to wrap her arms around him. She hated him for that. Funny, how she could love and hate him at the same time. Sometimes, she thought, sometimes love and hate were the same thing.

"What did they do, Liv?" he asked her in a low, heated voice.

Hit her, kicked her, beat her, would've hacked her to pieces if she hadn't gotten a shot off. Would've left the shattered remains of her battered body scattered in the street while her son screamed from inside the building. Would the McCanns take him in if she died? Maybe that would be for the best.

Elliot had asked her a question but she didn't want to answer it; she relived the moment of her attack every time she closed her eyes, had already told the story a dozen times, didn't need him to remind her. If Elliot had come to her in the hospital last night he could've heard the news fresh, but it wasn't Elliot who walked into the exam room to check on her. Just McGrath, worried about optics and the department's reputation. No one who loved her had come for her. She damn sure didn't want to tell Elliot that, how lonesome she was, how small her life had grown without him in it. Elliot's life had never been small at all; he'd been born into a big family, crowded in with two parents and a pile of siblings, and then he and Kathy had started their own brood, and now he had children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles and cousins, a whole army of people, and Olivia had…well. She had Fin, and she would always, always be grateful for him.

Elliot had asked her a question and she was too tired to give him the real answer. Exhausted, really, from the endless struggle, from carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. The work made a difference, she had to believe that, but it wasn't enough. She couldn't stem the tide of violence, couldn't protect every child, every vulnerable soul in the whole world, no matter how hard she worked. It was like fucking whack-a-mole; every time she eliminated a threat another sprang up to take its place, and she couldn't - would never - get ahead of them.

What did they do?

"Does it fucking matter?" she asked. "I got hurt and I couldn't stop it. I got hurt and there was no one there to back me up."

There would've been, in the old days. If Elliot had caught even a whiff of trouble he'd have driven her home - hell, most days he drove her home anyway - would've dropped her at the door, would've waited for her to get inside. In the old days she wouldn't have been holding her son's hand on the sidewalk; in the old days she'd have been in the passenger's seat of Elliot's car, and no one would've touched her.

"Liv -"

"Last night, in the hospital, when I was waiting for the doctors to finish reading the x-rays and tell me if my face was fucking broken, there was…I thought, just for a second, you might've come for me."

The nurse said someone was there to see her and her heart had rocketed up into her throat, shocked her, really, with the fervent desperation of her hope, her hope that Elliot had heard, and come, a hope that was turned to ashes in her mouth the second McGrath walked in the door. She was embarrassed, now, to think how badly she wanted it, how deeply the disappointment had cut her. How foolish she'd been, thinking Elliot was just standing around waiting for the chance to swoop in and save her; how foolish she'd been for wanting him to.

"I would've," he said quickly, earnestly. "But I've been under -"

"Yeah, I know," she waved his excuses away with a casual flick of her hand. "That's always the story these days, isn't it? You can't be held responsible for anything, you're always fucking under."

Sure was convenient, she thought, the way he'd carved out that niche for himself. In the old days Elliot always jumped at the chance to play a part; he enjoyed it, had fun with it, reveled in the drama, and sometimes when he went under she got the feeling he didn't want to come out. That he was perfectly happy running away from himself and the duty that weighed heavy on his shoulders, that he wanted to be someone else.

We all want to be someone else sometimes, she thought angrily. Some of us just don't have the luxury of pretending.

"It's my job, Olivia," he said, her whole name rolling off his tongue the way it always did for him, never did for anyone else. He was getting angry, defensive; good, she thought. Sometimes she thought she liked him best when he was angry.

"Oh bullshit," she said. "You chose this, Elliot. The Wheatley op's been over for ages. This isn't about your job, you could work in any department you wanted. You chose this. You like it."

"You don't have any idea -"

"You always liked it, El," she told him coolly. "And you choose to stay. Hell, you and me, we both qualify for pensions now. You don't have to work at all. You want this."

She wanted it, too.

"I gotta get Eli through college, I gotta fucking work," he insisted. "And who do you think is gonna have me now? After everything? You expect me to volunteer for SVU?"

"We've been running a man down for too long," Olivia admitted before she could stop herself. Truth was, she could use him - or someone like him - someone dedicated, driven, passionate, someone who understood the work. Someone she could trust.

"Yeah?" he said grimly. "How do you think that'd go, me working for you?"

It'd be an unmitigated fucking disaster. Elliot had always worked well with women, never had any trouble taking orders from one, and she knew he'd respect her office. At least, he'd respect it as much as he ever respected Cragen, and that meant he'd go rogue when he felt like it, and she'd be forced to choose, to either let him have his head or bring him to heel, and either way she'd lose.

"I'm just saying -"

"I'm not running from shit," he said. Liar, she thought. "And I'm not gonna come work for you."

"You got a problem taking orders from me?" It wasn't that she wanted him to come back to SVU - that was, she thought, a really stupid fucking idea - it was just that his dogged insistence that he didn't want to got her back up. What was his problem, she wondered; did he really think she'd be impossible to work for?

"I got no problem with that, Captain," he growled at her. "What I got a problem with is the regs. Whatever the fuck this is," he waved his hand between them, "wherever the fuck this is going, I wanna find out, and I can't do that if you're my CO."

Jesus Christ. Her belly swooped uncomfortably, her breath suddenly frozen, shocked by his sudden candor and the immediate response of her body to the very suggestion that this was going somewhere.

Did he really just say that? Just come right out and tell her he couldn't work for her because he wanted to - wanted to what? Wanted to sleep with her instead? Where the hell did he get off talking about whatever the fuck this is when he hadn't spoken to her in months?

"You think we're in danger of violating any regulations, detective?" she spat. Maybe they were. It'd be a violation of the regs if she hit him.

"I think we could be if you stopped pushing me away."

"You're blaming me for this?"

How did we get here, she wondered; how had it come to this? To him, standing there, talking like they were on the cusp of something when they hadn't talked in months? The only thing she felt herself on the verge of doing was slapping him in the face.

There was a part of her that wanted something else, though. A part of her that wanted to stop fighting, and just give in. A part of her that wanted him to wrap his arms around her, a part of her that wanted to release the breath she'd been holding since the day he left, and just let go of everything, of her self-restraint, her fear and the devastating loneliness. She might've been on the verge of that, too.

"I'm the one asking, Liv, and you're the one telling me no."

Christmas with his family, coffee, lunch with Noah; he'd asked, more than once, and she'd never yet said yes, and maybe he was right, maybe she was the one pushing him away. She wanted him to stay so badly, but he was right; she was the one who kept turning away.

"You ever wonder why that is?" she asked him softly.

"Every damn day," he muttered. "You gonna tell me?"

"I tell you no because I've got no idea who the fuck you are," she hissed. "Who is it today? Not Eddie Ashes any more, right? Who am I looking at right now?"

"Someone who loves you, Liv."

She'd spent her whole life looking for that. For someone who loved her. Someone who loved her, and wanted to, someone who'd keep fighting for her, no matter how long it took, no matter how much it cost. Someone who loved her, someone who'd stay. And Elliot was still here, after everything, at the end of the goddamn world, when everyone else had left her. Elliot was still here, still the one person she wanted to see when she was hurting, the one person who made her feel safe, the one person who saw her, all of her, and did not look away.

"Is that what this is?" she asked in an unsteady voice. Was it love, the gravitational pull of him, the way he occupied her thoughts even when he wasn't around, the desire she felt to see him even when he drove her crazy? Was this, this argument, this endless fucking dance, love?

"I think you know the answer to that question," he said. "You came here, Liv. You can pretend you're pissed at me all you want but you gotta be honest with yourself. You're the one who came to me. What do you think that is?"

What it's always been, she thought. She was here, now, for the same reason she'd turned up at his door countless times in the past. She was here because she loved him, and she wanted him to love her back.

And he did, apparently, and she didn't know what the fuck she was supposed to do with that.

"They told me I had to go somewhere safe," she said.

"You're safe with me," he answered. "You always will be. Now, do you wanna fight some more or do you wanna tell me what the fuck happened out there?"

How did he do that, she wondered, tell her he loved her and then pivot to the case like he hadn't just turned her whole world upside down? Maybe there wasn't a difference, to him; maybe he was asking because he loved her. Elliot always fought like hell to protect the things he loved.

And still, after everything, he was right there in front of her, trying to protect her. No one had called him last night, told him what happened to her, but why would they, when Olivia hadn't even called him herself? As long as she kept him at arm's length he wasn't anything to her, not her partner, not her lover, not the one the hospital called when she turned up with a broken face. He kept holding his hand out to her, and if she never took it she'd have no one to blame but herself when she found her own hands were empty.

It's time to stop, she told herself. She'd accused Elliot of running but the truth was she was running, too. Away from him, away from what he meant, away from the truth of her own desires.

She was tired of the chase.

What the fuck happened out there, he'd asked her, and she found that she wanted to answer that question now. Not with words, not with the cold, analytical outline of events she'd given to McGrath and IAB; she wanted him to give him the truth, and the best way to do that, she thought, was to let him see it for himself.

"I'll show you," she said, and then she slipped her jacket from her shoulders.

Her ribs were bruised and it hurt, the shifting of her body as she peeled her jacket off, laid it down on the island.

"Liv -" he spoke her name softly, taking a step towards her, the whiskey glasses forgotten on the countertop. There was worry in his eyes, worry like he thought she was making a mistake, like he thought she was broken, or losing her grip, or both, and maybe she was. Maybe she'd lost control, or maybe she just wanted to. She'd been keeping herself under control too long, and her hands were aching to just let go.

"This is what they did," she said, and then she drew in a slow breath, and tugged her blouse up over her head, tossing it away and hoping Elliot didn't notice the way she winced.

He swallowed once, hard; she could see it, could see his Adam's apple bobbing in his thick neck, his eyes darkening as he drank in the sight of her. The mottled purple bruising that blossomed across her belly, her ribs, a watercolor painted in horror. Every part of her from her hips to her collarbone marred by the brutality of this attack, her bra and her fresh bruises hiding the older, more painful scars from view.

"Tell me who did this," he said in a low, terrible voice, still walking towards her until he caught the curve of her waist in his hands, his palms rough and warm against her tender skin. The touch surprised her, made the breath catch in her lungs; she'd only wanted him to look, to see for himself what had been done to her, had not imagined that he'd touched her in a moment so fraught with devastation, but now that he had she found she only wanted more of it. More of his touch, more of his quiet, unwavering devotion, more of this fantasy where he'd come for her, stay with her, protect her, slay the dragons and keep her safe.

"They were just kids," she answered quietly. The boys who'd beat her weren't the ones responsible for this pain, not really. "The head of the gang is Oscar Papa. He's the one we want."

When she said we she meant her and Duarte, meant her squad and the Gangs squad and the few remaining souls at Bronx SVU who actually gave a damn, but as she spoke she realized that wasn't true. When she said we she meant her and him, Elliot. They were the ones who wanted vengeance, who wanted to take Papa out, destroy him for what he'd done to Olivia and to all the other women who'd crossed his path. We meant us meant them, meant you and me, against the world. It had always been them.

"I'll kill him," Elliot murmured in a low voice.

He would have.

"He's mine," she told him. As much as she longed to see it, Elliot defending her, Elliot beating Papa fucking bloody just for her, the truth was she wanted to be the one to bring the bastard down. She wanted to look into his smug face and make damn sure he knew that she was not weak, that she was not afraid, that he couldn't fucking beat her. She wanted to win.She wouldn't say no to some help, though.

Elliot's hands were still hot and heavy at her waist; the moment he touched her a line had been crossed, and they both swayed on the spot, reeling from the intensity of this connection they'd denied themselves for so long.

This is what it feels like, she thought faintly. She'd spent most of her adult life wondering how it would feel if she ever let Elliot Stabler touch her, and now she knew. It felt like this, like the scrape of his calloused palms against her bruised and delicate flesh, warm and comforting as a bath, absolutely fucking terrifying.

She was not now what she had once had been; twenty years ago she would've rejected the protective detail and walked into the street with her head unbowed, daring Papa to come for her again, taunting him as she had once long ago taunted a man named Richard White. It was funny, she thought, funny to think that she had once been afraid of Richard White, who now did not even merit a spot on the list of the top ten scariest perps she'd ever faced. She ate men like Richard White for breakfast, now; Oscar Papa was another sort of monster entirely, and she had accepted the detail. Accepted it because her life was not her own, now, not hers to risk at any rate; she owed it to her son to keep breathing, owed it to her squad not to leave them untethered with a job half-finished. She knew real fear, now, and she felt it, there with Elliot.

The fear that he would leave, again; the fear that he might pity her more than he wanted her; the fear that even if she gave in to the longing she felt for him, even if she threw caution to the wind and let him touch her, really touch her, it would not fix what had been broken in them. What if he touched her now, and disappeared in the daylight? What if it fell apart, the way it always did when she loved somebody; what if they fell apart, arguing over conflicting schedules and laundry and dirty dishes until they couldn't stand the sight of each other any more, and what if their falling apart tainted everything, every good memory, every good thing they had ever done, until she could no longer take solace in even the memory of him? What would happen to her, six months, a year from now, if on a night like this she was lonesome and desperate for someone who could make her feel safe, and he wasn't there to answer her call?

While these thoughts and worse flitted through her mind Elliot kept his hands anchored at her waist, his blue eyes burning through her. Those eyes; it was impossible to look away from them, impossible not to see her own heart reflected back at her from their depths. Her fear, her anger, her want, she saw it all there, written on his face. Standing in his kitchen, shirtless and defenseless, she let him see her, but more than that, she saw him. Just as he was, without artifice or pretense, she saw him, vengeful and hungry but gentle, too. Gentle, where he touched her. Gentle, in the way he opened his door to her, opened his arms to her, welcomed a woman he had not spoken to in months into his home, his only question not why haven't you called me or where have you been, but who did this. He didn't care, now, where she'd been, why she hadn't been with him; she had been hurt, and the only thing he seemed to want was to take that pain away.

Slowly, very slowly, his right hand began to move. The tips of his fingers ghosted gingerly around the mottled edge of the bruising at her waist, dancing up to her ribs. His thumb brushed against the underside of her breast, protected still by her plain black satin bra, but she knew instinctively that he did not seek to arouse her with his touch, wasn't trying to cop a feel. He was mapping the tale of horror on her skin, following the path the blows had taken. One hand was not enough; he began to use them both, ran his palms in smooth lines from her ribs to the waist of her trousers and back up again, and this time when his hands settled on her waist she felt him squeeze, just a little, testing the feeling of her body beneath his palms, his fingers spread wide, reaching, as if he meant to encircle her entire torso in those hands. His hands were big, but not that big; her waist was small, but not that small. He could not hold her, all of her, not completely, but maybe that was ok. Maybe it was enough that he was trying. Maybe no one could really claim all of another person. Maybe they just took as much as they could hold.

The weight of the moment rooted Olivia to the spot, froze her feet in place, stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth, made it impossible to move, to speak. Not that she had anything to say; she wasn't sure there was anything to say, in a moment like this one. A moment when Elliot saw the shape of her, the bare skin of her belly, the scars that marred the tops of her breasts above her bra, the points of her ribs for the very first time. A moment when he touched her in silent benediction, his palms a healing salve soothing the pain that bloomed across her skin. As she watched him she saw a flicker of something in his eyes, something she did not understand, and then one of his hands was moving, away from her. He reached behind himself, fisted his shirt and tugged it smoothly up and off in one fluid movement she envied, given that the weight of her tits and the ache in her ribs denied her such ease when she'd undressed herself.

But now he was bare, too, and she understood at once what he meant to show her. She looked at him, and she understood, and she reached for him. Reached first for the mottled scar of a bullet wound on his shoulder, remembering that night with Bushido, and shit, she thought, tonight wasn't the first time he'd seen her stripped down to just her bra. That night, the night he got shot, the night she found him bleeding in the street, he'd seen her half-bare then, too. But that was for the job, a desperate attempt to save both their lives, a moment not half so intimate and revealing as this one.

It was a night when she could've lost him. So many nights she almost lost him, and now he'd almost lost her, and what are we doing, she asked herself. What were they doing, wasting so much time? Fate had brought him back to her and what did they have to show for the last two years but a handful of half-uttered truths and a world of grief? Two years since he'd come home, and she'd hardly seen him at all, kept him at arm's length, and for what? To protect herself?

Given the choice, she'd rather let him protect her than keep doing it on her own.

His hands were steady, unmoving, and she understood what he wanted without need of words. Your turn, his eyes seemed to whisper, and so she focused her attention on him, and the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. Slowly she sought out the scars she could remember; other bullets, knives, the mark from when he'd had his appendix out their first year on the job together. With her left hand she traced a path down the breadth of his chest, and with her right she reached out, and covered the tattoo of Christ on his arm with her palm. For a moment she imagined that she could feel it, the raised lines of the tattoo identifiable to the touch, but probably that was just her imagination; the tattoo was old and faded, and it was not touch that showed her the shape of it, but memory. She'd looked at that tattoo so many times, over so many years, she was certain she could draw it with her eyes closed. It was as much a piece of him now as his own right hand, and she would know him by that mark alone.

Her fingers stuttered to a halt over a mark she didn't remember, a thin scar just above his left hip, and she looked up at him in question.

"Rome," he said hoarsely. "Knife. You should see the other guy."

I'd rather see you, she thought. It wasn't right, that he had been hurt and she'd never known anything about it. What else had happened to him while he was far from her side? Olivia knew what she'd endured during their decade of silence, but she still didn't know - might not ever know - every battle Elliot had fought. It wasn't right - it was fucking wrong, that there could be even a single piece of his history she didn't know. They were supposed to know everything about each other.

We just take as much as we can hold, she reminded herself. He didn't know everything about her, either. But she could tell him.

Could, but did not want to; tonight she did not want to remember everything that hurt. It was grace she'd come looking for tonight, not more grief.

"Olivia," he murmured her name while her left hand trailed over his pec and her right hand slid up his arm to his shoulder, towards the thick column of his neck where she longed to plant her lips.

"I'm still here," she said, half to herself. Those kids last night, they hadn't killed her. She was still here, still breathing, and as long as she was breathing there was still time. Time for this, for him, for them. Time to get it right.

"Good," he said, and then he slid his hands into her hair, and she let him, let him take hold of her, let him draw her in close, let him slant his lips over hers and sighed into his kiss with a great and all-consuming kind of relief.

Finally, she thought. Finally.

He had no idea how long he'd been kissing Olivia. He only knew that he didn't want to stop.

The kiss that had begun tenderly, quietly in the kitchen had turned into something else entirely, and they'd stumbled through the apartment together until they collapsed on the sofa, Elliot sitting upright with Olivia perched on his lap, both his hands wrapped tight around her ass and her tongue plunging into his mouth. Olivia kissed him like she was looking for something, like she thought she'd find the answers to all her questions somewhere inside of him, and he prayed like hell that she would. That in the fervent passion of his mouth and the insistent clutch of his hands she would find the safety and the protection and the love she'd been looking for, the love he'd been carrying inside his chest for so long now with nowhere to put it.

He knew where to put it now. Where to pour out his love, what to do with it, how to face it, and he gave it to her right there on the sofa. His hands clutched at her, kneaded the softness of her ass until she was mewling in his mouth, and then began to travel up and up the elegant slope of her back, skin smooth as satin beneath his fingertips, though marred here and there with the bumps and ridges of unfamiliar scars. Scars, old and faded and healed, not like the bruises still fresh on her chest. Those bruises; he was trying to be careful with them, with her, had pulled her down on his lap instead of laying her back on the couch so that the weight of him would not hurt her, unwilling to add his own name to the list of men who'd caused her pain. Physical pain, at least. The damage he'd done to her heart could not be undone, but he meant to be gentle with it, now, and with her body, too.

In his arms Olivia hummed and pressed herself closer to him, her nails dragging up the back of his neck while the bare skin of her belly melted into his, sweat slicking between them everywhere they touched but goosebumps rising on her arms when he trailed his fingers gently along the line of her shoulders, down her bicep, all the way to her elbows, as far as he could reach. She shivered as he touched her, her whole body trembling on his lap - her whole body, her hips rocking against him reflexively, and as she moved he felt his cock twitch in his pants, eager for her.

Someone hurt her, just yesterday; someone tried to take her away from him. Tried to steal away the other half of his heart, the woman he loved, the woman he'd trade his own life for, his goddamn partner, tried to take her from him before he ever had the chance to feel the soft slide of her skin beneath his palms. The chance had been presented to him now, and he wanted to make the most of it. Wanted to do, now, everything he'd been dreaming of for the last quarter century, wanted to draw her into himself, wanted to memorize the shape of her, wanted to make sure, damn sure, that if either of them died tomorrow they'd die knowing they were loved. Without doubt, without fear, without shame. He wanted to make love, here, now, with her, wanted to build it with his own two hands and give it to her, a talisman to protect her when she was far from his side.

He slid his hands once more down her back, this time delving beneath the waistband of her trousers. His hands were big and her pants fit her well and there was hardly room for him to move but he tried, anyway, slipped beneath the soft cotton of her underwear to palm at the bare skin of her ass, and when he did she moaned into his kiss and pressed herself even closer to him, her hips bearing down hard against burgeoning erection. That felt good, that felt very fucking good, and so with his hands on her ass he guided her movements, urged her to thrust against him again, and she did, and this time they both groaned, breaking from their kiss breathless and drunk on each other.

The way she was sitting meant he had to tilt his chin to look up at her, and he did, leaned back against the cushions of the sofa and looked into her beautiful face, found her dark eyes wet and soft and focused on him.

That bruise was still there, angry and evil, turning a hundred different colors already. More than a bruise, it sat on the delicate rise of her cheek heavy as a fist, and while he kept his left hand clutched tight around her ass he reached for her with his right, trailed his fingertips featherlight along the outline of that hateful mark. She hissed once, softly as he touched her, but she did not retreat, did not hide the truth of her pain from him.

"Tell me where he is," Elliot growled. "I'll kill him myself."

Olivia had told him she wanted to take the guy Papa down herself and Elliot knew she could, knew she was more than capable, but Papa had hurt Elliot's girl, and Elliot wasn't the kind of man who'd take something like that lying down. Olivia could do it on her own but she shouldn't have to; she deserved to have someone to help her, to stand up for her, to walk beside her, and he wanted to be that person for her. Wanted to be the one she could rely on, the one she could come to on nights like this one when she was hurting and afraid, the one she could be honest with, the one who would hold her, and never let her go.

"I know you would," Olivia answered. "But I don't need you to fight my battles."

"What do you need?"

Anything, he would give her anything, would tear the beating heart from his chest and serve it to her on a silver platter, would trade his lungs, his limbs, his very life just to keep her safe, just to make her happy.

"I need you to love me."

She said it in a soft voice, a sad voice, a voice that dripped with grief, the voice of a woman who had never been loved, not really, not the way she deserved.

"I do," he answered, reaching up to brush her hair back from her face, staring into her eyes, praying with every piece of himself that she could see it, his devotion, his fervent love of her.

Maybe she could, and maybe it was too much for her, because she ducked her head and kissed him again, hid her eyes from him, and flinched when she did it, flinched like the movement hurt her battered ribs, her bruised and beaten flesh, but she did not let the pain stop her, just plunged her tongue into his mouth and began to rock her hips again, working the heat and the softness of her against the hardness of him, and he groaned, and clutched at her, helped her body work against his as the fever of their passions began to rise once more.

With his feet planted flat on the floor for leverage and his hand still hard at her ass he thrust shallowly against her, pleasure shooting through his body like lightning as she mewled into his mouth. This is how it feels, he thought; this was how it would feel to fuck her. Their bodies would move like this, point and counterpoint, her hips riding him while he tried to meet her thrust for thrust. The friction of her body working over his cock was delicious like this, even with so many layers still separating them; how much more would it be when he was finally inside her? When all that heat, all that wet, enveloped him, took him in, claimed him? When she wrapped her arms around him and called him mine? Elliot was pretty sure he was gonna explode the second that happened, and so for now he was content - more than content, was goddamn ecstatic - with this, with her on his lap, in his arms, the pair of them rocking into one another like teenagers.

This was how it would look when she rode him, soft tits bouncing near his face, her cries in his ears, her thighs clutching him tight, so tight, holding him within her. The thrusting of her hips, the eager drive of her body searching for more, more, more. She rocked against him, let her weight settle more fully over his lap, her legs spread wide, cunt open and ready for him, and the head of his cock strained for her through his jeans, rubbed against her in just the right place and made her mewl for him. The sounds she was making; Jesus, she was so responsive, more than he had ever dreamed - more than he had ever allowed himself to dream - and he was addicted to her moans, jonesing for more.

But then suddenly she drooped, dropped heavily against him as her hips stuttered to a halt, tore her lips away from his and buried her face in his neck instead, panting.

"It's ok," he murmured to her softly, running his hands soothingly along her back, fingers tripping over the line of her bra and itching to remove it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her lips brushing gently against his neck. "I want to, but…it hurts."

I'm so fucking stupid, he thought. Of course it hurt, the exertion required to work her whole body over his lap. Her chest, her ribs, her belly were covered in bruises, and every movement must've been an agony. She deserved better from him; he wanted to give her better. Wanted to take care of her, and not make her do all the work.

"You should go lay down," he told her, pushing his disappointment away, focused instead on the care she needed. "You're hurt, you can -"

"I'm not broken," she said sharply, her head rising up to fix him with a stubborn glare. "I just need a minute."

Oh.

She didn't want to stop, then. The kissing, the touching, grinding together too needful and eager to even take their pants off, she was enjoying that. She wanted more of that. Wanted more of him, and that made his heart swell in his chest, made him feel like the luckiest son of a bitch alive. He had chosen this woman long ago, but she had chosen him, too. The good and the bad, his strength and his stubbornness, his pride and his wrath, his battered heart and his empty hands, she had chosen, just as he had chosen her, for her failures and her glories both.

"Come to bed with me," he growled at her. That was what she needed, he thought; a soft place to land, warm and safe, far from prying eyes, soft pillows at her back, a place to lay and let him pour his love out over her, and not draw a single whine of pain from her pretty lips. A place where he could hold her, as much of her as she was willing to give him.

"Long as you don't do something stupid like try to carry me," she answered.

"I could," he rumbled at her. It would be easy; he bench pressed more than she weighed and he never skipped leg day, and she was already wrapped around him. All he had to do was hold on tight and stand up and he knew he could do it, and thought he'd have some fun while he was at it.

"I'm sure you could," she answered, running her palms gently, appreciatively over the heavy muscles of his arms, "but I'm also pretty sure my ribs can't take it."

"Fair enough," he allowed. "Lead the way, Captain."

Her eyes flashed at him when he said it; she likes that, he thought, grinning. She liked it, when he used her rank, afforded her the respect she was due, and hell he liked it, too, liked the way it made him feel proud, proud of her and everything she'd achieved, and proud of himself for somehow being the man she chose.

As he watched she slid slowly, carefully off him. Stood in front of him, and held her hand out to him, and he took it, laced his fingers through her and rose to his feet.

"What are we doing, Elliot?" she asked him.

They were shirtless and holding hands, her lips soft and red and swollen from his ardent kisses, his cock hard as marble for her and her dripping from him - or, at least, he hoped she was, he didn't actually know - and he'd asked her to go to bed with him and she'd more or less agreed, and he was pretty goddamn sure she knew exactly what they were doing.

"What we should've done a long time ago," he answered, lifting their hands so he could press a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

"But -"

There was always a but, with her. Or at least, there was always a but now. In the past she'd been brave, bullish and headstrong; twenty years ago he'd have laughed out loud if someone told him that Olivia Benson was too scared to fuck a man she cared for. Twenty years ago he'd have said that woman takes what she wants, and believed it. Maybe twenty years ago she would've. But time had made her sad and hesitant, and the truth was this Olivia, the Olivia standing in front of him, the Olivia holding his hand, was afraid. It was fear, that made her hide from him, made her decline his invitations, made her pull away every time they got too close. She was scared, more scared of him than of the boys who'd tried to kill her. When he came crashing back into her life he thought it was anger that made her refuse to answer his calls, that made her standoffish and secretive, but he knew better, now. She wasn't angry - or not just angry - but she was scared.

"But what?" he prompted her. Get it out, he thought; she just needed to get it out, to give voice to her fears, and then he could lay those fears to rest.

"This isn't who we are," she sadly.

"It's not who we used to be," he answered. "But it's who I want to be. I wanna be yours, Liv. What do you want?"

Hers, that's what he wanted to be. He wanted to be the person she came to at the end of every day, the person she called when she was scared or angry, the one who got to hold her, to know her, the one who kept her safe. Benson and Stabler, that's what he wanted to be, a matched fucking set. Mr. and fucking Mrs., if she ever let him get that far.

"Yours," she answered unsteadily. "I wanna be yours."

Forever and ever amen, he thought.

In the darkness of his bedroom she let him strip her bare. Let him peel her bra carefully from her overheated skin, his hands mindful of her tender ribs, his mouth dropping gentle kisses at the rise of her shoulder. Let him unbuckle her belt, unzip her pants, let him laugh and laughed with him as she stumbled over her boots. And then she was naked and his hands were ghosting all over her body and she was shivering and burning alive both, and she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and held it there while she reached for his belt. He let her, let her tug the last of his clothes away while he palmed at her breasts, her wrist brushing against his straining cock and drawing a groan from deep inside his chest. He kicked his shoes away and then his pants and underwear joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and then they were both of them completely naked and she felt completely ridiculous and completely overwhelmed at the same time. Ridiculous because they were both past fifty now, naked and standing off like protagonists in a particularly lascivious spaghetti western, nothing to hide the truth of their imperfections from one another, and overwhelmed because when she looked at him it was perfection she saw, and the awestruck look on his face mirrored her own thundering desire.

It was good, she thought, that they had undressed one another, that they had done this thing together, as she dearly wished to do everything, together, with him, but now they were naked and she couldn't stop staring at his cock and his hands were once more wrapped around her waist. Taking as much of her as he could hold, and she longed to do the same.

"You're so -"

"Don't say it," she told him, shaking her head. She didn't want to hear it, didn't want him to tell her she was beautiful, not now when she was too goddamn old and her body was littered with scars, painted in bruises, too painful to act on the dearest longings of her heart, restrained instead by the cruel reality of their circumstances. What we should've done a long time ago, Elliot had said, and Christ, he was right. It shouldn't be happening now; she should've reached for him when she was young and strong and lovely, not now when she was tired and sad and afraid.

"I'll just think it, then," he said, his eyes trailing over her dark and full of yearning. "I'll think it every day for the rest of my life."

The rest of my life sounded too much like forever, and that scared her; she could not take his forever. Forever was too big for her to hold, too much for her to carry. She could take his now, though, his tonight. She wanted that.

"I don't wanna hurt you," he said, his hands still heavy at her waist, fingers digging into the softness of her as if his grip at her waist was the only thing stopping him from acting on other, darker impulses.

"Then don't," she told him, and slipped away from him, stretching herself out on his bed with a sigh, feigning a boldness she did not feel. It was easier to pretend to be comfortable than admit to her doubts, and she liked the appreciative way Elliot's eyes followed the movements of her body.

If he wants a show, I'll give him one, she thought, and so she stretched languidly on his bed, raised her arms above her head in just the right way, pulling her tits up, and together, his eyes trained on the movement of her body with laser-like intensity, and while he stood there beside the bed, staring, she looked right at him and slowly bent her right knee, let her left leg stretch out straight and long, gave him a clear and shocking view right into the center of her, and as he looked at her he damn near growled, and dove to cover her body with his own.

Despite the sudden speed of his attentions he was careful not to press down on her torso; his knees landed between her legs, widening the space there, making room for his hips while his hands held the weight of him off her, while he ducked his head and let his tongue surge into her mouth. She could feel him everywhere, the hardness of his cock lying along the seam of her thigh, the scratchy hair at the top of his legs burning against her yearning sex, the heat of him overwhelming, all consuming, and yeah, they should've done this a long time ago. They should've been doing this all along.

But there was something about it happening now. About coming to him on a night when she was lost and lonesome, and finding his arms open and waiting for her. About him not touching her until after, after he'd declared his love of her, after he had drowned her in words of devotion, after they had lived so much and lost so much. Now, when they both knew exactly what was at stake, and chose one another anyway, forsaking all else. It was Elliot she wanted; it was always Elliot.

His lips tore from hers suddenly, unexpectedly, and began to blaze a trail down the column of her throat, and she tilted her head back and let him go, delivered her body into his hungry hands. Every touch electrified her; she did not know where his lips would fall next, and she held her breath, waiting, rocking into him as he kissed his way down her neck, over her collarbone, moving with determination until at last he crested the rise of her breasts, and sank himself into her there. The heat of his mouth made her arch into his touch, ignoring the protests of her battered ribs in favor of the delirious pleasure of him. For all her years of longing she had always maintained an ironfast grip on her self control, refused to let herself go there, to think about his hands on her body, the weight of his cock, the sounds he'd make and the way his eyes would burn through her when he came. For years the questions sat unanswered in the back of her mind, her heart unwilling to face them, even safe beneath the covers of her own bed - maybe especially there, where she was small and lonesome and longing for him - and so she had no fantasies to compare the reality to.

The reality was fantasy enough.

His lips covered her nipple, drew her deep, deep into the cavern of his mouth, the faintest hint of teeth and the swirl of his tongue drawing a wretched, desperate whimper from her. He lingered there, testing her, experimenting with the pressure of his mouth, his teeth, learning her responses like he wanted to know what she liked, what she wanted, and she let him hear her, let the sounds of her desire guide him on his way. He pulled back slowly, her nipple sliding from his mouth until only the very edge of his teeth held it in place, just tight enough to make her keen, and then he released her, and continued on his way.

Down, and down, kisses soft as the flutter of a butterfly's wing against her bruises, and still lower, his tongue swirling around her belly button and drawing a deep, sudden laugh of surprise from her, a laugh that quickly turned to a moan as he shifted his whole body down and oh, she thought. Oh, shit.

It had been a long, long time since her morning shower, and it was always hot in the precinct and menopause had done a number on her today and she wasn't exactly feeling fresh as a daisy, never imagined that when she turned up at Elliot's door tonight he'd end up eye-to-eye with her pussy and now that he was a flash of unease rumbled through her. Before she could stop him, though, before she could draw him back up to her and distract him he wrapped his thick hands around the meat of her thighs, and bowed his head, so close she could feel his breath washing across her damp and oversensitive flesh, and then she heard it, heard him draw in a breath through his nose, sharp and deep, and then she heard his rumbling groan of satisfaction as his tongue darted out to taste her.

Apparently Elliot liked it, the smell of her, the taste of her, and the sensation of his mouth on her in such a delicate place banished every doubt from her mind. Her ribs and the muscles of her core hurt too badly for her to hold herself up and watch him, and so she threw her head back on the pillows, closed her eyes, and let him swallow her whole.

At least, that's what it felt like he was trying to do. His mouth opened wide over her pussy, his lips kissing hers while his tongue swirled around the delicate nerves at her opening, every touch burning through her like fire.

"Sh - sh - shit," the curse stuttered out of her open keening mouth; he'd stolen the breath from her lungs but she felt he deserved some reward for his devotion, and tried to let him hear it. He was too far away for her to reach him, so she lifted her arms above her head, curled her hands around the slats in his headboard and held on for dear life.

Elliot was not half so restrained; while his mouth worked her over his hands did, too. One of them rose up to knead her breast, fingers digging in hard, while the other slid beneath them to clutch at her ass, tilting her hips and opening her up for him, and all she could do was cry out for him. The hold of his hands, the weight of his body on her thighs, was too damn much; she couldn't move, and didn't really want to, anyway, could only lie there, and let him go, let him show her, over and over again, the truth of his devotion.

It was no perfunctory touch, no half-hearted attempt to get her wet before moving on to the main event; he devoured her like a starving man, left no part of her untouched. His lips covered her, his evening stubble burning against oversensitive flesh, his tongue sliding between her folds, up to circle her clit and back down again, and she tightened the grip of her thighs around his head, trying to hold him in place long enough for her to get off.

"You want something, baby?" he growled into her pussy.

"What?" she answered incredulously. "You think I'm your baby now?"

"Considering what I'm looking at right now" he said, his nose brushing through the soaking curls at the apex of her thighs, "I think I get to call you baby if I want."

"I don't give a shit what you call me," she decided, "just -"

"Just what, sweetheart?"

"Stop teasing," she said. There were other, more salacious things she wanted to say, other more direct orders she wanted to give him, but this was Elliot, and she was pretty sure that if she said lick my clit out loud to him she might die from embarrassment. If he wanted her to talk dirty he was gonna have to work a little harder. He was gonna have to earn it.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, and then he dove into her once more.

This time, he wasn't playing around. He dropped his hand from her breast to her belly, angled it so that his thumb could rub at her clit while he curled his tongue inside her, the sensation enough to make her yelp, her hips bucking into his face while the weight of him kept her glued to the mattress. She thought he might use his fingers, sink those inside her instead, but he did no such thing; he seemed to determined to fuck her with his tongue, plunging it inside her again and again, not half so deep as she wanted but enough, more than enough, to make fireworks explode behind her closed eyelids.

"Please, oh - please -" the words came tumbling out of her with no direction from her conscious mind, the furious pace of his thumb on her clit overwhelming, the heat and wet of his mouth over her center threatening to drag her under. This time he wasn't teasing; this time he meant business, and he burrowed even closer to her, and she had no idea how he was managing to breathe and frankly did not care, so long as he kept doing exactly what he was doing now.

"Gonna -" she started to gasp; she was gonna, already, was on the brink of coming, his mouth and his thumb about to tear her apart, and she wanted it, fuck she wanted it. She wanted to hear him talk, too, wanted to hear him talk her through it, wanted to hear him rumbling his praise and his encouragement in that deep gravelly voice she loved so well, but that was just gonna have to wait until later because right now his mouth was occupied and she really, really didn't want him to stop.

She could feel him moving; she couldn't seem to pry her eyes open, couldn't move to look down at him, but she could feel his body surging between her legs, imagined him humping the mattress as he tried to find some relief for his own growing arousal, and the thought of it, the thought that this was Elliot with his tongue inside her, Elliot with his cock hard and ready for her, Elliot's hands burning like a brand on her skin, sent her toppling from the ledge. She came with a shout, her hips furiously grinding against his face while his tongue swirled inside her and his thumb continued rubbing, rubbing, rubbing at her clit, drawing a series of ragged cries and whimpers from her kiss-swollen lips.

As the last waves of her orgasm washed over her she went limp beneath him, her body heavy and uncoordinated, loose-limbed and satisfied. If he'd done all that with his mouth what the hell was he gonna do to her when he was finally inside her?

He placed one last, sweet kiss against her pussy, and then rubbed his face along the tender skin of her inner thigh; too late she realized what he was doing, that he was wiping the evidence of her arousal off his chin and onto her own skin, and she shivered all over at the thought of it.

"How was that, baby?" he asked from his position between her legs, and she couldn't tell if he was being smug or if he genuinely wanted to know.

"Pretty good, baby," she answered, and heard him laugh as she said it. He wasn't the only one who could tease.

"The next time you come I want you looking in my eyes," he told her, mouthing at her thigh, not biting or kissing but almost both.

"You think there's gonna be a next time?" she asked him archly, and this time he did bite her, just a little, just enough to make her whimper, not enough to really hurt.

"You're goddamn right," he growled. "How you wanna do this?"

"Come here," she said, arms reaching for him, and he dragged himself slowly up her body, let her pull him to her for a wet, messy kiss, a kiss that tasted of her in a way that drove her mad with want.

How were they gonna do this? she wondered. Elliot seemed like a missionary kinda guy but she wasn't sure her ribs would bear up beneath the weight of him. Personally she'd always liked it from behind, but she knew her ribs couldn't take that, and besides, Elliot wanted them face to face. That left a couple of options, and she knew which one she wanted.

"Sit up," she breathed into his mouth.

He did, carefully, sat up straight on the bed beside her, cast his legs over the side and settled his feet flat on the floor like he knew already what she wanted.

It was gonna hurt like hell, she thought, but with his feet on the floor he'd have enough leverage to do at least some of the work, and she was pretty sure neither of them were gonna last that long, anyway. It was gonna hurt, and it was gonna be worth it.

"Just like that," she told him, and then she rose to stand in front of him on trembling legs.

His hands reached for her, again, grasping, kneading, like he couldn't stand not touching her, even for a second. His blue eyes were hooded and dark with yearning, his mouth open and ready for her, his cock hard and standing at attention. Another night, another time, she might've sunk to her knees and taken him into her mouth, and hell maybe she owed him that after what he'd just done for her, but it seemed to her they'd had more than their fair share of buildup. Twenty-five years of foreplay had led them here, and she'd never been wetter in her entire life, and he looked like he was gonna pop off the second she touched him.

Next time, she made a silent promise to him, to herself, and then she crawled gingerly into his lap.

His arms wrapped around her at once, held her steady while she settled on her knees astride him, his cock caught between their bellies, the wetness of her painting his balls while he tilted his head back and looked her square in the eye.

"No regrets," he said. She wasn't sure if it was an demand or a question, but she answered him, just the same.

"No regrets, baby," she agreed, and then she reached between them to wrap her hand around his cock while her mouth sank once more over his. Truth was, she had more regrets than she could count. She just knew this wouldn't be one of them.

It was Elliot's turn to moan into their kiss, Elliot's turn to buck his hips into her, his whole body shuddering when she ran her thumb over the tip of him. He was hard and leaking for her, deliciously big in her grip, and she was glad, then, grateful for the time he'd spent getting her ready, because shit, she needed to be ready for this. Her body was ready and her heart was, too, now. Now that she'd almost been taken from him, now that she knew how close she'd come to losing him forever, she didn't want to waste another second. She was ready.

Maybe she shouldn't have been. It was stupid, falling into bed with him on a night like this. It was reckless, taking this leap when she had no idea how they were gonna handle what came next. It was also goddamn inevitable.

It will always be you and I, she heard him say. It had always been them; it was always gonna be.

Slowly, very slowly, she lifted herself up, ignored the protests of her delicate muscles and positioned him at her entrance, dragged the head of his cock through her folds to soak him in the flood of her arousal, listened to him groan, felt his hands drop to clutch bruisingly at her hips. She used his cock to rub against her clit, her hips reacting on reflex, angling towards him, ready, and now, she thought, and now, Elliot groaned at her, and then she dropped her hand to the base of his cock and held him steady while she sank down on him.

In one slow, smooth thrust she engulfed him completely, and tears filled her eyes as she cried out his name, as the hardness of him split her open. Full, she felt so fucking full like this, certain for one wild moment that if she pressed her hand to her belly she'd be able to feel it, the hardness of him inside her. Felt as if he had speared right through to the heart of her, so deep she was almost choking on him, the full length of him inside her pressing his head against her cervix and making her shiver all over.

"Fuck, you feel good, sweetheart," Elliot gasped at her.

All she could manage in response was a breathy uh-huh; he had stolen the very air from her lungs, and she could not even manage to berate him for the endearments that tripped so easily from his tongue. Truth be told, she actually kinda liked it.

"You gonna move?" he asked her, and then she felt it, felt his legs flex, his hips thrusting shallowly against her, testing his range of motion and gauging her response.

"I don't think I can," she admitted, ducking her head to bury her face in the crook of his neck, not wanting him to see. To see how badly she wanted it, wanted to bounce on his cock, ride him, fuck herself on him, how bitterly disappointed she was that her injuries would not permit such exertion. The thickness of him buried inside her was too much, too much; she was breathless and frozen, paralyzed with want and pain.

"Just hold on to me," he said, rearranging her arms so that they draped around his neck. "Just hold on tight, sweetheart."

That's gonna be a thing, she thought darkly, but then his hands were on her ass, lifting her bodily off him, and then shit he plunged her back down as his hips rose up to meet her, and she couldn't think at all.

All she could do was hold on tight, and let him fuck her.

It was all Elliot; while she shuddered and keened in his lap he bounced her on him with the strength of his own two arms, used the leverage of his feet on the floor to lift his hips off the mattress, fucking himself deep, deep inside her, a brutal, punishing rhythm that had her tightening around him in an instant. The muscles of her pussy clutched at him, dragged him into her again and again, the soaking wetness of her arousal slicking the way, making it easy, so easy, for him to bury himself inside her.

"Stay," she moaned at him, hardly aware that she'd spoken at all, not entirely sure what she was asking for and not caring in the slightest.

"Always," he grunted in response. "Gonna stay right here with you, baby, always, gonna stay - "

"Please," came her answering moan, asking him to love her, to fuck her, to stay with her, always, and him just chanting, yes, yes as his hips drove up into her.

The way his body ground into hers each time they crashed together, the way his cock drove so deep, so hard inside her, the sound of his voice and the strength of his arms and the clutching grasp of his hands undid her utterly, and she fell apart there on his lap, sobbing her relief into his sweat-slicked neck while he panted with the effort. He just kept going, kept thrusting into the fevered fluttering of her pussy around him, taking her higher and higher. Again, again, again he lifted her up and brought her tumbling back down, her nipples sliding against the coarse hair of his chest, her body burning everywhere he touched her, and yes her goddamn ribs hurt but the line between pleasure and pain had always been blurred for her and now the pain only heightened the pleasure, only made her keen, and suddenly one of his hands drove up and into her hair, gently pulled her head back and he wants to see, she thought, and her eyes fluttered open, saw him there, staring at her, watching her cum, on him, because of him. He watched, watched the pleasure washing over her face, the bouncing of her tits, the slick hardness of him driving into her, and the weight of his eyes on her was the closest thing to holy she had ever felt. They stayed right there, eyes locked on one another until at last she was spent.

She was spent but he was not; he stopped, let her rest there atop him, but his cock was still iron-hard inside her and she could almost feel him grinding his teeth as he fought to control himself and he's earned it, she thought.

"Your turn," she said, and then she flattened her palms over his shoulders and pushed him down until he was lying on his back.

"Watch," she instructed him. She knew her over-tired muscles couldn't handle more than a minute like this, but she figured a minute would be more than enough.

This time it was her; this time she raised herself up, and dropped herself back down. This time he watched, his eyes fixed on her, darting from the swaying of her breasts to her open mouth panting for him to the place where they were joined. This time she watched him, memorized the sight of him, Elliot Stabler in the throes of ecstasy under her, because of her. That titan of a man on his back for her, groaning out her name as she thrust her hips down into him, as she took him inside her, again, and again, and then -

"Fuck," he groaned, grabbing her by the hips and jerking her down onto him one last time, holding her there while he emptied himself inside her, moaning for her the whole time, the sound of it so fucking sweet it was nearly enough to make her cum again herself. She had done that, had torn him apart the same way he had done to her.

"You're mine," she reminded him, dragging her nails over the hardness of his pecs while his cock pulsed inside her.

"Yours," he rasped at her. "All yours, sweetheart."

"What do you think they're doing in there?" Morris asked her as they stood together in the corridor outside Stabler's apartment, on the lookout for trouble.

Lupinetti raised an incredulous eyebrow at him. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously," he answered stubbornly.

They're fucking, you idiot, Lupinetti thought. The walls were brick, even inside the building, and no sound carried through Stabler's door, but she was no fool. Captain Benson had been attacked on the street and when she needed somewhere safe to go she'd chosen this man, this Stabler, a tall man, a broad man, a man heavy with muscle, a man who could protect her, a man she wanted to protect her, apparently, and there was no way in hell that Captain Benson had dragged them all the way out here just to sleep on his couch. Captain Benson had been hurt, and she needed what anybody needed when they were hurting; she needed someone to make her feel better, and the someone she'd chosen was a handsome man with no ring on his finger. Bruised ribs or not, there was no doubt in Lupinetti's mind what was happening in that apartment.

"Whatever she's doing in there is none of our business," Lupinetti said. "We didn't see anything, we didn't hear anything, right?"

The job required a certain amount of discretion; no one would ever trust their protective detail if the protective officers went around blabbing about what their protectees got up to. Captain Benson's secrets would be safe with them.

She deserves it, anyway, Lupinetti thought. That woman had been through hell; Lupinetti was a uni during the Lewis case, one of the hundreds of officers who'd put in days of overtime searching for the sadistic rapist who'd taken one of their own. Probably Benson didn't remember - they'd never even spoken - but Lupinetti had been there, at the beach house, had watched in silent awe-struck horror as Benson's partner escorted her out of her nightmare. Lupinetti remembered the blood on Benson's face and the vacant stare of her unseeing eyes, and if anybody deserved to have someone take care of her, it was Benson.

"Do you know who he is?" Morris asked curiously.

"Detective Stabler?" She'd never heard the man's name before tonight, but that wasn't so very strange. With 50,000 officers on the job no one could be expected to know all of them.

"Yeah. Do you know how they know each other?"

"I got no clue, and it's -"

"None of our business, yeah, I got it," Morris muttered. "Still, though. He's a lucky guy. That's a good looking woman."

Good-looking and stubborn, foul-tempered and fiercely independent. Whoever Stabler was, he had his work cut out for him. But it wasn't their job to speculate.

"Why don't you do another perimeter sweep?" Lupinetti suggested. If Morris got out of the hallway, got to stretch his legs, got shit scared alone out there in the dark, maybe that'd be enough to distract him from his questions about Benson's personal life.

"Yeah, all right," he grumbled, and marched away with his hand on his gun.

Bet he's right, though, she thought as her eyes swept the empty corridor again. Bet there's a story there.

There had to be, right? Had to be a story, something to explain how Captain Benson knew this detective, to explain why she trusted him, why she'd chosen him.

Bet it's a good one.

But she was never, ever gonna know. Not the truth, not all of it; the truth belonged to the two people inside that apartment, and them alone.

But it's none of my business.

"You comfortable?" Elliot asked.

She was lying flat on her back, his head pillowed on her lap, close enough for him to turn his head and press kisses to the soft skin of her belly whenever he wanted while her fingers trailed lightly over the back of his head. Better than a fucking pillow, he thought; she was warm and soft, and for the first time in more than a decade he found himself at peace, lying there with her. The ghosts were quiet and the questions had been answered and he was, finally, right where he wanted to be. Where he always should've been.

"God, I don't think I've been this comfortable in my entire life," she answered with a satisfied sigh.

"That's good," he said, reaching out to palm at her breast again, just because he could, because it was there, because he was allowed to touch her now and he liked the way she smiled when he did it.

"You gonna stay with me tonight?" There was a chance she wouldn't, he knew. Liv was flighty, restless, always the first to run when a man wanted too much from her, and her protective detail was still outside. Was she worried about that, he wondered, worried about what they'd seen, what they might say if she spent the whole night here? If they were good they'd keep their mouths shut, but if they weren't they could ruin her reputation by lunchtime tomorrow. He didn't want that for her; he'd meant it, when he said no regrets. He wanted her to stay; he wanted her to want to stay.

"Yeah, I think I am," she said sleepily. "That ok with you?"

"You stay as long as you like," he told her.

You can stay forever, if you want, he thought.

And she did.