A Succession of Small Mistakes (Elliot/Olivia, SVU)
So sloanesomething and I started tagging back and forth and ended up writing a 7800 word story. Uh, whoops? This goes AU during the episode "Risk".
Title: A Succession of Small Mistakes
Fandom: Law & Order: SVU
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Benson/Stabler
Summary: Elliot and Olivia go undercover and have trouble keeping it together. Set during "Risk".
***
Elliot's leaning across the bar towards her, his back to the dealer, so he can't see the exchange between the bartender and the dealer. Olivia says in a low voice, "They're talking about us."
"Yeah?" Elliot says, and he's still got that smirk, the one that doesn't quite belong to him. He's too good at this undercover stuff.
"About me," Olivia corrects as she sees them nod towards her.
Elliot nearly drops the smile.
He recovers quickly, adjusts his posture, slides an inch closer to her.
"I just said something impressive," he says, and Olivia raises her eyebrows, slides a finger absently around the rim of her glass.
She leans a little forward, licks her lips. "You know," she says, drops her gaze to the bar, back at him, "We have to leave together, or I have to think of some answers pretty fast."
He's looking at her lips, and for two seconds he doesn't answer. Then he says, "We're leaving together," and it doesn't quite sound like him.
Olivia raises an eyebrow. "My place or yours?" she says dryly, and Elliot blinks.
Then he gets that smirk again and says, "Hotel. It's the middle of the day and I'm married."
She tries not to stare at him, then remembers she's supposed to be getting picked up and lets herself stare.
When she gets up from the barstool to walk out, he falls into step behind her, and his hand is warm on the small of her back.
***
They walk three blocks, and he never moves his hand. He looks down at her from time to time, smiles too wide, waggles his eyebrows, and she laughs and lets her momentum bring them together. When he slides his arm around her waist, she checks a store window from the cover of his chest.
She looks up at him, smiles. "He's following us," she says, and Elliot laughs low, a rumble in his chest.
"Then we'd better get a room," he says, looks over her head for a cab. Doesn't move his hand.
"There's a hotel up the street," she says after a second. "You're on lunch break. We don't have long."
He wants to laugh, because it's hysterical to hear them talking like this, but his throat's a little tight from the adrenaline of being undercover, and he makes a fist against her dress. "Let's get you upstairs, then," he says, and starts walking, knowing she'll fall into step beside him, knowing how she fits inside his arm.
"Good thing Elliot doesn't take that long," Olivia hears Fin crack over the wire - softly, she thinks he's saying it to Munch, not into the mic - and she almost chokes.
"What?" Elliot says, and she leans her head against his shoulder, holding her mouth desperately closed, feeling like she's going to explode from trying not to laugh.
"Fin," she chokes out, finally, and Elliot looks like he doesn't know whether to be annoyed at whatever Fin's saying or to laugh. He kisses her temple instead.
He gets the room, still with that cocky expression. He winks at the clerk, pays with the wad of cash. This time he doesn't drop the coke, though, and she presses herself against his side, feels him lean into her.
Upstairs, when she closes the door behind them Elliot's shoulders immediately relax into something more approximating his normal stance. She sits on the bed. The wire can't come out of her dress fast enough, and she holds the mic to her mouth. "Hey, Fin?"
"Yeah?"
"Cover the mic if you want to talk shit next time," she says, and clicks off.
Elliot raises an eyebrow, pushes off from the door. "Anything I should know?"
"They're assholes?"
He laughs, sits down next to her on the bed, yanks at his tie.
"Hey," she says crisply, "I tied that knot."
He looks at her, spreads his arms, leans forward. "Well?"
She smirks, undoes his tie.
He pulls off his blazer and drops it on the ground, kicks idly at it. She slaps his leg. "Hey, we had sex, we didn't pummel each other with shoes."
"That's what I'm into," he says.
She laughs so hard she falls back on the bed.
"Oh, God," she says, "I hate dresses. Can you reach my shoes?"
"Will you pummel me with them?" he asks hopefully, and as she cracks up he holds each ankle, slides the shoes off. Her feet are raw through the stockings.
"You okay?"
She looks up. "What? Oh. Yeah. Price of beauty."
He sits on the edge of the bed, lies down so their faces are even. Her face is flushed from laughing, and her shoulders are bare, and, "We need to rumple your dress," he says, and it comes out like an order.
She raises an eyebrow. "I'm lying on a bed, it's getting rumpled."
He pokes her in the side, and she jerks back. "Hey!"
"You ticklish?"
"Are you five?" Olivia says, and he pokes her again.
"I'm sorry, but if I'm having sex with you, you're getting more rumpled than that," Elliot says.
"Oh, please," Olivia says, and when he goes to poke her again, she grabs his wrist. "Knock it off."
He's looking up at her, and smiling, and she can feel his pulse under her thumb. She holds his wrist a little too long, and when she finally lets go, he's not smiling anymore, he's just looking at her.
"Is it rumpled enough for you?" she finally says, but her voice sounds funny, and she sits up.
He makes himself stay on the bed, he can't sit up to meet her, that's some bad news.
"First of all, if I'm having sex with you there's shoe marks everywhere," he says finally, and she laughs, but the arch of her spine doesn't move and he can tell from here she didn't mean it.
After a minute she exhales heavily and falls back against the bed; Elliot feels the aftershocks.
"Fine," she says, and grabs the dress, bunches it in her fists, her legs crossed like a man crosses them, like her bottom half is watching football and her top half is having sex.
He keeps his eyes on her face, because he's not stupid.
Then he can't look at her, so he rolls away, tucks his hands under his head, looks at the TV, at the minibar, at the tasteful sitting area. "We should stay here all night," he says after a minute. "We paid for the room. It's a nice place. We could go down for drinks later at the bar; ten bucks says the guy's there. I could be meeting clients or something, what does he know?"
When he looks over, he sees that she's got the world's most resentful grip on her dress and that she's wearing white cotton panties and that those stockings are only thigh-high and he keeps his eyes moving because he has to he fucking has to, and then finally he's looking at her face and he can't tell what she's thinking.
She doesn't look at him, but she sounds normal, even though her hands don't relax their death grip. "I thought, uh, Greg Elliot, was supposed to be married with four kids in Queens."
"So?" Elliot says. "Working late in the city. Greg's wife will understand."
She turns her head to look at him, level, then pushes her dress back down over her knees, and he still can't read her.
"Your shirt's still pretty pressed," she says, and reaches over, undoes the first button. Her fingers brush his neck.
He's holding very still. When she leans closer to undo the second one, he takes hold of her arm and pulls gently until she's half on top of him, sliding his hand up her arm and around to the back of her neck, and he's kissing her before he knows what he's doing.
She stiffens when his hand is halfway between her elbow and her shoulder, but by the time he reaches her shoulder blade she's kissing him back, and God, it's a relief somehow, it's such a fucking relief, and he makes a loose fist in her hair, holds her mouth against his mouth.
His leg is between her legs, and her face is too low, he can't kiss her like he has to, so he slides his knee up, pushing her higher, pressing her against him, trapping her dress, and he thinks that her dress will finally look right just before she gasps into his mouth and he can't think anymore.
The little half-sleeve things on her dress, he doesn't know the word for them, they're sliding down her arms, and her breasts are against his chest, the dress is low-cut, it's already half skin against him. She's planted an arm on the bed like she's thinking about pushing away, so he holds her to him tighter, kisses her harder, pushes up against her with his mouth.
There are goose bumps on her arm, he can feel them, and he wraps an arm around her waist and holds her against him, and he's already so hard he can't stand it. She kisses him like she means it, which is surprising, so surprising, it's like, like, something corny, Christmas morning or Fourth of July, and he's holding his breath for the moment that's coming when she shoves him away and they can't ever look at each other again.
It doesn't come, he keeps kissing her and she's breathing hard against him and the moment never comes, and then she slides her leg across him and straddles him and oh jesus christ yes, yes, and he slides his arm from her waist to her hips, dragging her down his body, lifting his head to follow her so they don't have to stop kissing, and when she slides against his cock he makes a sound so low it hurts and pushes his legs against the floor, those extra two inches pushing them closer together, so close he can feel her stomach growling (she's hungry, they'll have to get food later) and it's not close enough and he can't help it he doesn't know who this is, who he is, but he slides his hand under her dress, makes a fist in the waist of her underwear, pulls.
She starts to lift off him, but he won't let her because he knows her and as soon as there's space between them it's over, that's it, so he shakes his head, pulls her back, kisses her hard enough she gasps against his mouth, and he fumbles with his zipper and shoves her underwear aside because it will have to do.
He's got his hand on the back of her thigh, pulling her down onto his cock, and when he slides inside her she stops kissing him, lifts her head up and stares at him, wide-eyed. He stares back and pushes in and in, and she closes her eyes and her breath catches and he doesn't know whether to be glad or sorry, because it's like she's given in, but he doesn't have time to think about it because, oh God, she's moving her hips, and he's planting his feet on the floor and thrusting up into her and all he can hear is their ragged breathing.
He reaches between them for her clit, slides his hand into her panties, and when he finds it, she jerks against his hand, but when he looks at her she looks away and kisses his neck, kisses the chest that shows above the first two unbuttoned buttons of his shirt, and he kisses her hair between breaths and presses his other hand to the small of her back, the way this started, trying to hold onto some degree of control, get some leverage to get deeper, and when he pulls her down farther onto him she gasps and comes, long shudders, and he can't stand it, fucks her harder, just a few more thrusts until he comes too and they just lie there, catching their breath, and she's still not looking at him.
When she's caught her breath, she pushes herself up without looking at him, straightens her underwear and her dress, and turns the mic back on. "Fin, is he still out there? We're coming down."
Elliot lies on the bed as Olivia talks to Fin over the wire, and the line of her back is tense and beautiful and he's feeling like he's been scrubbed all over with steel wool, raw and agonized. When she disappears into the bathroom to get cleaned up, he tucks his dick back into his pants and sits up and doesn't know what to do with himself. His jacket's still lying on the floor.
He picks up his tie and thinks about putting it back on, and looks at her shoes, next to his jacket, and when she comes out of the bathroom he's still sitting there, holding the tie like he doesn't know how to move anymore.
She walks over for the shoes, still not really looking at him, and she picks up the jacket and hands it to him. He shrugs it on and shoves the tie in the pocket, and they go to walk downstairs. They still haven't said anything.
Her dress seems rumpled enough now.
***
They reach the lobby, and Elliot's still thinking about the tie in his pocket, about the look on her face when he was inside her, about the fact that she's his partner and this is awful, and when she murmurs, "He's still here," he nearly looks around before he remembers he's not supposed to care, because he's not a cop.
"Drink?" he says instead, and she nods, and they angle towards the lobby bar.
When he puts his hand on her waist she shivers.
He wants her again, he wants her again already, what is his problem?
(Doesn't stop him from thinking about it, though, and this bar is dark and nearly empty at this hour and he could walk her into the hallway to the bathrooms and press her against the wall - under a light so he can look at her - and bunch up her dress some more.)
They step into the low light of the bar, and Olivia smoothes a hand over her dress.
He keeps his hand on her waist as he orders them drinks, looks around over her head like he's a coke dealing businessman, like he spends every afternoon fucking women in hotels and going down for a drink afterwards. The dealer's just walked in with another guy, snub-nosed and a gun at his waist, and it's gotta be the dirty cop.
Elliot leans in to whisper in Olivia's ear, "He's brought our guy." His breath moves the hair above her ear, and her whole body tenses up. But she smiles like she's that woman from the bar, like she's whatever-her-name-was, Donna. Smiles like even though she fucked him she still likes him, and turns to whisper back to him, and her breast is pressed against his side.
God help him, he's thinking that maybe next time she'd let him touch her breasts, when there's not a chance in hell there'll be a next time, and so he almost misses it when she says, "I've got your back."
He doesn't know what he expected her to say, but that wasn't it. He can't help pulling back to look at her face, and smiling, and kissing her. Because for now he can, police business, and she makes a sound into his mouth and puts her hand on the back of his neck, her thumb rubbing along the skin above his collar.
She kisses his cheek and disappears into the hallway near the women's room and he knows where she's standing and what her visual range is and how long it would take her to reach him in case there's trouble, even as he thinks about her lips on his skin over and over and he can't really focus, even then he knows where she is.
Bartender sets down a drink in front of him. "Compliments of the gentleman," he says, points discreetly.
It's the bad cop. He nods once; Elliot returns it. "One of the same," he tells the bartender, and the guy pours another scotch, puts it down in front of the bad cop.
As the bad cop takes up the stool next to Elliot, he adjusts his glasses, and by the time the bad cop looks him in the face there's nothing left of Elliot at all.
Olivia comes by near the end of business, sits on Elliot's other side, and Elliot ignores her because Greg Elliot is the kind of guy who can afford to treat women like shit.
The bad cop likes this; he smiles and shakes Elliot's hand as he leaves.
"He's coming by tonight," Elliot says after a long time. "3 am. We should get some sleep before then."
She picks up his untouched scotch, downs it.
They have a few drinks without really speaking; Olivia talks softly into her wrist to tell the captain what they're doing, and Elliot doesn't listen very closely. He's very aware of her body beside him, though now that their audience is gone she's sitting like herself again, leaning forward. And a little away from him.
On their way back to the room, he can't resist putting his hand on the small of her back, and she doesn't pull away, but she doesn't look at him either. She's very tense, he knows her too well, which is what's making this all so difficult.
In the elevator he says quietly, "Look, Liv, about earlier...."
She's staring ahead at the display as it counts upwards. 2, 3, 4. "Let's not, huh?" she says, and then the doors ding open and she's halfway down the hall.
He waits until she's in the room, because if you give her any room she'll run for it, and he locks the door behind him, says, "Let's."
She's yanking off her shoes, tossing them into a corner without really looking; they knock against the chair. "Fine," she says, "great, let's talk."
He's surprised, because that's too easy.
Then she's reaching behind her, unzipping the dress, and when it falls to her feet she kicks that aside, too. She plants her legs and wraps her hands around her hipbones like she does when they're fighting in the precinct and the only thing different is that she's not wearing anything but stockings and panties and a murderous glare.
"How about now?" she says. "This what you wanted to talk about?" He can hear her trying not to panic.
It takes an enormous effort of will to drag his eyes back to her face. He's at a loss. He doesn't know what exactly he'd intended to say in the first place, and she's looking at him like a cornered animal, and finally he just walks over and grabs her by the elbow and says, "What are you doing?" His voice comes out low and dangerous, and she doesn't step back, but it seems like she wants to.
She shrugs, too casual. "Sorry, I thought that's what you meant by 'Let's talk.'"
He closes his mouth, breathes through his nose. "Liv," he says finally, slowly, "you're my partner."
"For the next 48 hours, anyway."
He doesn't know how to read what she's saying, because he can't process it, it's impossible.
"Look," he says, "I'm sorry, I don't know what happened this afternoon. I just -- we're not ourselves," he says. And it's an excuse, sure, but he'll take what he can get.
She snorts. "No shit, Sherlock."
He smiles, and she looks at him, smiles too, and when she rests her head on his shoulder and shakes her head (her hair makes a noise against his jacket) he can almost forget she's naked.
He doesn't touch her, just puts his hands in his pockets, lets her rest her head.
"I drank too much," she says after a minute, and he knows what she really means; she's not drunk, but she's feeling sorry for herself, which means she's let her guard down, which means he should have made her stop one whisky ago.
"Let's get you something to sleep in," he says, because he wants her to be comfortable, and he wants something else to do with his hands.
She steps back and sits on the edge of the bed with her shoulders slumped. He unbuttons his dress shirt and doesn't think about how sad she looks, how naked she is - he looks at the pastel artwork hanging above the bed and shrugs off his shirt, takes off the t-shirt underneath to hand to her.
She pulls it on and he sits down next to her to take off his shoes. "You didn't mean it," he says into the quiet, and it's a question. "About not being partners anymore."
"Elliot," she says in a very tired voice, and his heart almost stops.
But after a minute she says, "No, I didn't mean it," and pulls the covers back and crawls under facing the wall, and he's left sitting there thinking about how she said no like it was the saddest thing in the world.
***
He wishes there was more than one bed, or that the room had a couch or something, but they really hadn't planned to stay long, so it's one bed and an uncomfortable chair and the tub.
But he's not about to push his luck, so he hangs up his jacket and his shirt and grabs the pillow from his side of the bed and does what he can to slouch in the chair and sleep.
***
He wakes up when he hears his name. Olivia's looking at him from the bed - she's still got her face mashed in the pillow, and her hair is in some serious trouble.
"What?" he says, looking up and regretting it immediately when the pain hits. He grinds a hand to the back of his neck, trying to work out the muscles.
"Asshole," she mutters, "come sleep in the bed."
"I'm fine," he says, wincing.
"Come sleep," she says, the words muffled by the pillow, "in the bed."
Well, okay, if she's going to ask him twice.
He lies down. "Oh, God, yeah," he says, stretching, burying his face in the pillow.
She shakes her head, smiling.
They're asleep in ten seconds.
***
He wakes up, and she's tucked against his body; he has an arm around her, and her hair tickles his cheek.
He shuts his eyes and tries to memorize the feel of her body.
He falls asleep instead.
***
He dreams that she's pushing him against the wall in the squad room, her hand deliberate on his chest, that she's pushing her tongue into his mouth and fumbling at his zipper, and he can't see anything but her.
He wakes up slowly, in pieces, realizing that he's in a bed that smells like her, that she's lying half on top of him with her head tucked into his neck, resting against his bare collarbone. Doesn't realize until her hand's on his cock that he's not dreaming that part, and he moans without meaning to, still half asleep. She's pushed his pants and underwear down his legs so they're bunched around his thighs.
"Shhh," she says, her voice thick and tired, and he blinks his eyes open to see that hers are still closed, that it's like she's dreaming.
Her hand's warm and slow on him so his breath catches and his eyes close, and when she moves her leg across him and slides him inside her, he presses his cheek against the top of her head and moves his hips slowly.
She's flush against his bare chest, his breath moving her up and down, and he reaches down for the hem of the t-shirt she's wearing (his shirt), and pushes it up so he touches her bare hip, her waist, her back, skims the sides of her breasts.
She makes a sound when he touches her there and murmurs his name, and they rock together so soft and slow he can hardly stand it.
"Liv," he says, and she kisses his chest and when she comes she says his name again so that he pushes up into her and comes too, in slow racking waves.
She pushes her face farther into his neck and falls asleep with him still inside her, and he holds onto her for a long time.
***
He wakes up, feels his hand on her back and he's already hard just from knowing she's still here, and then he's suddenly wide awake and nearly panicked because it won't last, he has to meet a bad cop and bring down a drug ring and look at his partner every day knowing what they've done.
He can't even breathe right, he's angry and frustrated with her even though she hasn't done anything (she sat on his cock and said his name and she shouldn't have done that because now he can't do without her he always knew deep down he always knew), and he pulls her hard against him, flips them, bracing his weight with one arm, and when she wakes up her face is in shadow because he's blocking the moonlight that got through the drapes, and he's got her pinned under his weight and he feels her chest rising and falling, her skin meeting his when she inhales.
"Elliot," she says, a little unsure, and he shifts his weight, gratified (an animal feeling, deeper than he likes to think) when she closes her eyes, loses her train of thought a little.
"Elliot," she tries again, but her stomach is against his stomach, he has his hand on her back hauling her against him so she can't take enough breath to say this is a bad idea.
He angles his hips so that when he slides out and back in, he hits her clit on the stroke, and over her ragged inhale he growls, "You were saying?"
She's trying to get her words back, but she just shakes her head, closes her eyes, and he reaches behind him for her legs and hauls them up to his waist, grips her knees to hold her still, leans forward, thrusts.
She slides half an inch up the bed.
She can't catch her breath, it hitches in her throat, and he growls and pushes deeper, until she grits her teeth and tightens her legs on his waist, until his hipbones grind against her hipbones and she's shaking.
"Tell me to stop," he says, and he doesn't recognize his own voice, and even as he talks he's pulling out of her, too slowly, and she's digging her heels against his back, and he jerks his arms against the mattress, shakes her, reminds her that he was talking. "Tell me to stop," he says, and he can't hardly breathe, and he's begging her.
She opens her eyes and looks at him like she'd look at a rapist.
"Fuck you," she says, and grips his waist, uses him for leverage to push against him, sinks into him, too fast, and she grits her teeth and grabs the bed but she doesn't give, not an inch, and he fucking loves her to death.
After that it's a tangle of limbs and hands and some teeth and her breath in his ear faster faster faster, and when he comes back to himself he's fucked them against the headboard, and they're practically sitting up, and she has a cut under one eye and his mouth is bleeding, and her arms are limp at her sides and he's got nail marks on his arm so deep they've gone white.
He frowns at the nail marks, rests his head against her shoulder, ignores her when she tries to push him away, and she only pushes once before she gives up and lets him wrap an arm around her, pressing her breasts to his collarbone, listening to her breathe.
Finally she says, "It's quarter to three," in a subdued voice. He groans and rolls off of her, and heads into the bathroom to clean himself up, and when he comes out again she's sitting in the uncomfortable chair with the sheet pulled around her, staring into space with an expression he can't read.
She looks up at him, and sweat's sticking her hair to her forehead, and she'd look silly if it weren't for her expression, which is just. Depressing.
"Munch's going to be in the lobby," she says. "I'm meeting Fin in the car. We'll follow if he takes you anywhere else."
Elliot nods and does up the cuffs of his shirt carefully. He thinks about kissing her, but he knows better. Instead he says, "You okay?" in his concerned partner voice, and she forces a smile.
"Sure."
He nods and puts his suit jacket back on -- it's hot, too hot, he's sweating -- and squares his shoulders, and goes down to be someone else and break up a drug ring and try not to give her any more cuts under the eye if he can help it.
***
They walk into the house like it's a funeral home.
"Wife's out of town," Fin mutters. "I wouldn't put up with that crap from some guy."
"Duly noted," says Munch.
Olivia rolls her eyes, and lifts her hand to her ear without dropping the suitcase because she can't wait to have them out of her head.
"You okay?" It's the second time he's asked her that in a week. The first time she was still bleeding from his teeth.
"Sure," she says, because it's the only answer she ever gives, and goes upstairs, sets her overnight bag on the master bed. It's a beige comforter. The walls are beige, the carpet's beige, the wood is beige.
"Goddamn sting houses," she says.
She wants to go downstairs, but he's downstairs, setting up the radio, and they've managed to avoid being alone together for four days. Pity to break up a losing streak.
She flips on the light switch in the bathroom (blue tile to match the toilet, apparently).
She thinks about Elliot in the shower. She knows what his body sounds like under the spray, now.
No. No, she doesn't.
She goes into the bedroom and closes the door. He can find his own place to sleep.
***
After two hours of tossing and turning, she accepts that this is going to be one of those nights she can't sleep. She'd heard Elliot go into one of the other bedrooms upstairs, so she figures it's safe to go down to the living room and turn the TV on, just barely loud enough to hear. She sinks into the couch and flips channels until she finds a M*A*S*H rerun, and watches listlessly as Hawkeye has a picnic with a nurse. Snipers open fire, and the laugh track chortles as they scramble for cover, and the whole situation really isn't funny at all.
She freezes when she hears bare footsteps on the stairs. Three steps, then they stop, as if Elliot's thinking better of it, but after a long moment they continue descending and Elliot's in the doorway to the living room in just his boxers, his eyes heavy-lidded.
She looks at the TV and hopes he'll go away.
"I couldn't sleep either," he says, and sits down at the far edge of the couch.
She makes a noncommittal noise and watches M*A*S*H and wonders why BJ ever grew that mustache.
All the commercials seem to be for weight loss pills or Rogaine or Viagra, and after five of these in a row, Elliot says, "So apparently everyone watching TV at 2 am is fat, bald, and impotent."
"Speak for yourself," Olivia mutters, and he looks at her strangely, half like he's irritated at her tone and half like he's just glad she's speaking to him.
"What, you're not impotent?" he jokes, and she tries to smile. Fails.
When she doesn't smile he looks at her like she's broken his heart, but but she's not thinking about it. It's not fair. She's not responsible for how he feels.
She holds out for ten seconds before she says, "I am getting a little thin on top, though."
He half-laughs, softly, and she feels the back of the couch cushions shift as he sits back, realizes he's been sitting on the edge of the couch this whole time.
"It's a thing," he says. "Happens to all the cops."
"Even Fin?"
He looks at her, raises a significant eyebrow. "It's a piece."
She snorts.
On TV, Hawkeye's refusing to operate on a patient until the swelling in his brain goes down. He's being threatened with court martial. He asks for a drink.
"This really isn't funny at all," Elliot says.
"Yeah."
They sit on the couch for a long time, quiet, two cops watching TV
***
She falls asleep during the second episode of M*A*S*H and wakes up at the end credits with a crick in her neck. Radar's the freeze frame at the end, holding his teddy bear, and Elliot's sleeping with his mouth open. She gets up to go upstairs and is going to leave him there, but he groans and shifts in his sleep and she knows he'll be no good at the drop tomorrow if he's in pain.
She looks at him for a long moment, then touches his bare shoulder and he jerks awake. But when he looks up at her, he smiles, sleepy and pleased, and it makes her look away. It's the first time she's touched him since they slept together.
"Go sleep in a bed," she says, and is uncomfortably aware of what happened the last time she told him that. They're alone and he's almost naked, and she remembers his hands on her too vividly
He looks at her hand for a second, frowning a little, and she can't catch her breath.
Then he shakes his head like he's clearing it, and he's fumbling for her hand. "Help me up," he says, and she snorts and walks backwards, pulling him off the couch.
She stands in the living room until she hears the bedroom door close, until it's safe.
***
When she wakes up he's sitting on the edge of the bed, and she's furious until he says, "They're outside."
She lies back. "Oh. You have your gun?"
He lifts his hand from the comforter; of course he's already got it.
She fumbles for the mic. "Guys?"
"Mmph," says Fin.
"Guys!"
"We hear you," says Fin, a little thickly. "What the hell's the problem?"
"You sleeping?" Olivia suggests.
"Oh, you were sleeping, too, Benson, shut up."
"Okay, Fin, you know what - "
Munch suddenly takes over the mic. "What's up?"
Olivia releases a breath. "They're outside the house. You guys see anything? Hear anything?"
"Cragen says they do checks, make sure no cops are hanging around. It's what I would do. I doubt they're trying anything; they can't cut you out of the deal. Elliot has to pick up the shit."
"Charming," she says.
"Get some sleep, Olivia."
She pulls out the earpiece harder than necessary, and without moving Elliot says, "Problem?"
"Fin," she says, settling back under the covers like she's 16. "I can't stand him sometimes."
"Why not?"
"Dunno. Weird tension. Can't place it."
"I can," Elliot says, and she shivers under the blankets.
"It's not like that, Elliot."
"Not for you, maybe."
The conversation suddenly seems a little loaded, and Olivia says, "Well, not for Fin, either," just to use someone else's name.
After a long time, he says, "I guess."
"Get some sleep, Elliot."
He lies down.
"I meant in your own room, jackass."
He actually laughs, then sobers up. "I'm not leaving you here with them outside."
"They won't do anything."
"We don't know."
She sighs. "Do you remember last week? This doesn't work."
He rolls over and looks at her, shocked that she brought it up, and she thinks maybe she has a pattern of being less than forthcoming.
After a minute he says, "We're undercover."
It shouldn't matter.
It shouldn't matter.
It shouldn't matter, but they've always been too good at undercover, so part of them had to have known.
She turns on her back, stares at the ceiling. "That's a terrible excuse," she says.
He shrugs and keeps looking at her.
"Stop it," she says finally. She is still staring upwards, because if she looks at him, there's no telling what will happen. "You're making it worse."
"What?" he says.
"Elliot," she says. "We have to be able to be alone together without…"
"What?" he says again, but now his voice is low and rough, and she shivers without meaning to. This is the problem.
She needs to explain, but of course he already knows, he's not stupid, so he's only here because he can't help himself or he has a death wish or something, and she can't even guess at his reasons, she has to remember her reasons.
She only has one, really, and he doesn't want to talk about it, and he's in her bed and it's all over tomorrow anyway and she has nothing left to lose.
"Nothing," she says, and looks at him, and by the time she can see his face he's already angling towards her, and he pulls her against him with the butt of the gun, the metal cold against her back.
He growls into her mouth, kisses her so hard it hurts, and he slides her shirt up her back, the gun flat against her spine, and she shivers and shivers against him, afraid to move.
"Elliot," she says finally, her voice a croak, and he moans, pulls her hips against him, says, "Safety's on," and she exhales, drops her head to his chest, her nerves already shot.
He pulls her shirt over her head, gun still in his hand, and it scrapes at her side, the flat of it cold against her temple, until when she can see again she grabs his wrist and holds it. He looks at her and she says, "Give me that," and wrests it away from him and his eyes glint.
She leans over to put it on the nightstand and once it's safely away he's pulling her to him again, his hand on her hip slipping inside her pajama pants, and he's biting at her jaw.
"Gently," she manages. "I had a hell of a time explaining the cut from last time to Cragen."
Elliot winces and pulls back, looking guilty, and before he can overthink it she's kissing him again and pulling down his boxers and when her knuckles brush his cock he groans and pushes her back against the sheets.
He pushes her against the bed, so deep the frame squeals, and she can't catch her breath and he might as well still have a gun at her back because when he leans his face against her ear, murmurs, "Lay back," she does, without thinking she does.
He keeps his hands on her stomach anyway, pushing down and down, his thumbs splayed inside her underwear.
He sits back, hooks her underwear, slides them off with a jerk, doesn't look away from her (because he knows her body already and he knows how long her legs are and how far he has to go oh god oh god what will happen to them now?) and he slides inside her, sitting back on his heels, looking at her body against the bed, his face desperate like this is his last shot.
Because it is the last time, it is, it is, it has to be, because after tonight they're not undercover anymore, and they have to go back to the squad room and work another case and sit across from each other at their desks and somehow she has to do that without thinking about how he feels inside her at this moment, and it's not possible, she won't be able to, and he's moving slowly, his hand on the back of her thigh, pulling her up onto him, and she has to close her eyes because if she keeps watching him fuck her with that expression she isn't going to be able to get over this.
He closes his fingers against her thighs, not quite scratching, and his voice is raw when he says, "Liv, look at me, look at me," and she nearly sobs because how can she, but she opens her eyes and she knows he's already figured it out, it's over, the whole thing, and she starts to say something, anything, but he bends and grabs her waist and hauls her up until she's sitting in his lap and he kisses her, a fist in her hair, so hard she can't speak, and she knows he can't bear to hear it, either.
She thinks about the cop outside, how he's the least dangerous thing they've dealt with since they started, and she wraps her arms around his neck, holds on like Elliot can help her.
He can't, of course, he can't, nothing can save them now, it's over, but he feels so fucking good inside her and he holds her like she's the last thing he'll ever touch and when she gasps and comes he says, "Oh God, oh God," and breathes a laugh against her scalp, wondering, like he had no idea.
They sit on the bed like that, skin to skin, until they're breathing normally.
She asks, "What now?" but she can't pull away, so she says it into his neck, closes his eyes, feels him breathe.
He shakes his head, holds her tighter, and he smells like sex and sweat. His hand is splayed across her back, his thumb rubbing back and forth, and she sighs without meaning to. "I don't know," he says after a long time.
She can't think of anything to say, so they just sit until she's getting sleepy, her head resting on his shoulder, and it's awful but she doesn't want to move because once they stop touching that's the end of that. She just wants a minute longer.
Finally he eases them down until she's on her back in the bed and he's pulling out of her, and she's almost asleep so she makes a little noise of protest, and he smiles a smile that doesn't really reach his eyes.
He keeps his arm around her waist and they fall asleep that way, but she wakes up first and goes downstairs before he can wake up and say something both of them will regret later.
***
He comes down in a crappy tracksuit, and she'd laugh, but she's wearing the same damn thing, and when he sees her he cracks up and she wishes she'd gone ahead and laughed first.
"Yeah, watch it, jackass," she says, hands him a cup of coffee. "You're wearing one, too."
"Don't remind me." He scratches the back of his neck. "You think he'd afford better. This shit itches."
It itches where she dragged her nails across his neck, but he doesn't say that, and after a few seconds of staring at her coffee cup she says, "Cocaine's a tough biz," just so she won't say anything about it, either.
He nods. "How long have we got?"
"Three hours."
He sits on the couch, turns on the TV. "You like game shows?"
"What?" She stands in the doorway. "Fuck you, do I look like I'm eighty?"
"I like game shows."
He sounds hurt, and she laughs into her mug.
"Do you just not want to sit with me?" he asks, and it was going so well right until then, but then her heart breaks.
She goes and sits next to him, because there's not much else she can do, and when she takes the remote out of his hand, their thumbs brush. "Well, we're not watching game shows," she says, trying to get back to cheerful, normal, but it still comes out subdued.
She starts flipping channels and he leans back into the cushions.
Munch's voice crackles over the wire. "Good morning, lovebirds."
She starts and says, "What?" into the mic, too fast, before she remembers their cover. Elliot looks over.
"You enjoying the weekend without the missus?" Munch continues and she rolls her eyes.
"Shut up, Munch."
"What?" Elliot asks, but she shakes her head.
"Are they still out there?" she asks Munch.
"Nope," he says. "They must be getting ready for the drop. Speaking of which, are you two set?"
"I think so," she says, and looks at Elliot. "Do we need anything?"
He shakes his head and pulls his gun out of his waistband, sets it on the coffee table. "I'm ready," he says, and she looks at the gun for just a beat too long.
***
She goes to the hearing, sits in the stand, looks at Elliot sitting in the defendant's chair. He's there a lot, for a cop.
Alex says, "Detective Benson, is this the gun in question?"
She's looking at Elliot. She looks at Elliot until Alex says, "Detective," and Olivia looks at the plastic bag, says yes without looking at the gun inside.
She thinks about how she got there ten seconds too late, how she'd have shot the bastard when he came up the driveway if she had known he would pull a gun on Elliot.
Elliot could have died.
The jury finds him innocent in under an hour.
When the bailiff hands him back his gun, she looks away.
***
They sit opposite each other, don't talk.
Finally, Munch says, "So. Any gossip about the weekend? Embarrassing stories?"
"Nothing beats your body odor," Fin says. "Stop trying. That shit was foul."
"Olivia hates game shows," Elliot says finally.
Fin frowns. "Game shows? Are you retired or some shit?"
Olivia grins, can't help it, and when Elliot looks at her she forces herself to smile until she means it.
He smiles back, and it's something. It's good enough.
If she doesn't look at his gun when he puts it on the desk, that's not so bad.
If they touch for longer than they should when he hands her coffee, or if they don't touch at all when she hands him lunch, that's not so bad.
If they sit in the dark precinct after their shift and look at one another and don't say anything for too long, that's not so bad.
***
END
Title: A Succession of Small Mistakes
Fandom: Law & Order: SVU
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Benson/Stabler
Summary: Elliot and Olivia go undercover and have trouble keeping it together. Set during "Risk".
***
Elliot's leaning across the bar towards her, his back to the dealer, so he can't see the exchange between the bartender and the dealer. Olivia says in a low voice, "They're talking about us."
"Yeah?" Elliot says, and he's still got that smirk, the one that doesn't quite belong to him. He's too good at this undercover stuff.
"About me," Olivia corrects as she sees them nod towards her.
Elliot nearly drops the smile.
He recovers quickly, adjusts his posture, slides an inch closer to her.
"I just said something impressive," he says, and Olivia raises her eyebrows, slides a finger absently around the rim of her glass.
She leans a little forward, licks her lips. "You know," she says, drops her gaze to the bar, back at him, "We have to leave together, or I have to think of some answers pretty fast."
He's looking at her lips, and for two seconds he doesn't answer. Then he says, "We're leaving together," and it doesn't quite sound like him.
Olivia raises an eyebrow. "My place or yours?" she says dryly, and Elliot blinks.
Then he gets that smirk again and says, "Hotel. It's the middle of the day and I'm married."
She tries not to stare at him, then remembers she's supposed to be getting picked up and lets herself stare.
When she gets up from the barstool to walk out, he falls into step behind her, and his hand is warm on the small of her back.
***
They walk three blocks, and he never moves his hand. He looks down at her from time to time, smiles too wide, waggles his eyebrows, and she laughs and lets her momentum bring them together. When he slides his arm around her waist, she checks a store window from the cover of his chest.
She looks up at him, smiles. "He's following us," she says, and Elliot laughs low, a rumble in his chest.
"Then we'd better get a room," he says, looks over her head for a cab. Doesn't move his hand.
"There's a hotel up the street," she says after a second. "You're on lunch break. We don't have long."
He wants to laugh, because it's hysterical to hear them talking like this, but his throat's a little tight from the adrenaline of being undercover, and he makes a fist against her dress. "Let's get you upstairs, then," he says, and starts walking, knowing she'll fall into step beside him, knowing how she fits inside his arm.
"Good thing Elliot doesn't take that long," Olivia hears Fin crack over the wire - softly, she thinks he's saying it to Munch, not into the mic - and she almost chokes.
"What?" Elliot says, and she leans her head against his shoulder, holding her mouth desperately closed, feeling like she's going to explode from trying not to laugh.
"Fin," she chokes out, finally, and Elliot looks like he doesn't know whether to be annoyed at whatever Fin's saying or to laugh. He kisses her temple instead.
He gets the room, still with that cocky expression. He winks at the clerk, pays with the wad of cash. This time he doesn't drop the coke, though, and she presses herself against his side, feels him lean into her.
Upstairs, when she closes the door behind them Elliot's shoulders immediately relax into something more approximating his normal stance. She sits on the bed. The wire can't come out of her dress fast enough, and she holds the mic to her mouth. "Hey, Fin?"
"Yeah?"
"Cover the mic if you want to talk shit next time," she says, and clicks off.
Elliot raises an eyebrow, pushes off from the door. "Anything I should know?"
"They're assholes?"
He laughs, sits down next to her on the bed, yanks at his tie.
"Hey," she says crisply, "I tied that knot."
He looks at her, spreads his arms, leans forward. "Well?"
She smirks, undoes his tie.
He pulls off his blazer and drops it on the ground, kicks idly at it. She slaps his leg. "Hey, we had sex, we didn't pummel each other with shoes."
"That's what I'm into," he says.
She laughs so hard she falls back on the bed.
"Oh, God," she says, "I hate dresses. Can you reach my shoes?"
"Will you pummel me with them?" he asks hopefully, and as she cracks up he holds each ankle, slides the shoes off. Her feet are raw through the stockings.
"You okay?"
She looks up. "What? Oh. Yeah. Price of beauty."
He sits on the edge of the bed, lies down so their faces are even. Her face is flushed from laughing, and her shoulders are bare, and, "We need to rumple your dress," he says, and it comes out like an order.
She raises an eyebrow. "I'm lying on a bed, it's getting rumpled."
He pokes her in the side, and she jerks back. "Hey!"
"You ticklish?"
"Are you five?" Olivia says, and he pokes her again.
"I'm sorry, but if I'm having sex with you, you're getting more rumpled than that," Elliot says.
"Oh, please," Olivia says, and when he goes to poke her again, she grabs his wrist. "Knock it off."
He's looking up at her, and smiling, and she can feel his pulse under her thumb. She holds his wrist a little too long, and when she finally lets go, he's not smiling anymore, he's just looking at her.
"Is it rumpled enough for you?" she finally says, but her voice sounds funny, and she sits up.
He makes himself stay on the bed, he can't sit up to meet her, that's some bad news.
"First of all, if I'm having sex with you there's shoe marks everywhere," he says finally, and she laughs, but the arch of her spine doesn't move and he can tell from here she didn't mean it.
After a minute she exhales heavily and falls back against the bed; Elliot feels the aftershocks.
"Fine," she says, and grabs the dress, bunches it in her fists, her legs crossed like a man crosses them, like her bottom half is watching football and her top half is having sex.
He keeps his eyes on her face, because he's not stupid.
Then he can't look at her, so he rolls away, tucks his hands under his head, looks at the TV, at the minibar, at the tasteful sitting area. "We should stay here all night," he says after a minute. "We paid for the room. It's a nice place. We could go down for drinks later at the bar; ten bucks says the guy's there. I could be meeting clients or something, what does he know?"
When he looks over, he sees that she's got the world's most resentful grip on her dress and that she's wearing white cotton panties and that those stockings are only thigh-high and he keeps his eyes moving because he has to he fucking has to, and then finally he's looking at her face and he can't tell what she's thinking.
She doesn't look at him, but she sounds normal, even though her hands don't relax their death grip. "I thought, uh, Greg Elliot, was supposed to be married with four kids in Queens."
"So?" Elliot says. "Working late in the city. Greg's wife will understand."
She turns her head to look at him, level, then pushes her dress back down over her knees, and he still can't read her.
"Your shirt's still pretty pressed," she says, and reaches over, undoes the first button. Her fingers brush his neck.
He's holding very still. When she leans closer to undo the second one, he takes hold of her arm and pulls gently until she's half on top of him, sliding his hand up her arm and around to the back of her neck, and he's kissing her before he knows what he's doing.
She stiffens when his hand is halfway between her elbow and her shoulder, but by the time he reaches her shoulder blade she's kissing him back, and God, it's a relief somehow, it's such a fucking relief, and he makes a loose fist in her hair, holds her mouth against his mouth.
His leg is between her legs, and her face is too low, he can't kiss her like he has to, so he slides his knee up, pushing her higher, pressing her against him, trapping her dress, and he thinks that her dress will finally look right just before she gasps into his mouth and he can't think anymore.
The little half-sleeve things on her dress, he doesn't know the word for them, they're sliding down her arms, and her breasts are against his chest, the dress is low-cut, it's already half skin against him. She's planted an arm on the bed like she's thinking about pushing away, so he holds her to him tighter, kisses her harder, pushes up against her with his mouth.
There are goose bumps on her arm, he can feel them, and he wraps an arm around her waist and holds her against him, and he's already so hard he can't stand it. She kisses him like she means it, which is surprising, so surprising, it's like, like, something corny, Christmas morning or Fourth of July, and he's holding his breath for the moment that's coming when she shoves him away and they can't ever look at each other again.
It doesn't come, he keeps kissing her and she's breathing hard against him and the moment never comes, and then she slides her leg across him and straddles him and oh jesus christ yes, yes, and he slides his arm from her waist to her hips, dragging her down his body, lifting his head to follow her so they don't have to stop kissing, and when she slides against his cock he makes a sound so low it hurts and pushes his legs against the floor, those extra two inches pushing them closer together, so close he can feel her stomach growling (she's hungry, they'll have to get food later) and it's not close enough and he can't help it he doesn't know who this is, who he is, but he slides his hand under her dress, makes a fist in the waist of her underwear, pulls.
She starts to lift off him, but he won't let her because he knows her and as soon as there's space between them it's over, that's it, so he shakes his head, pulls her back, kisses her hard enough she gasps against his mouth, and he fumbles with his zipper and shoves her underwear aside because it will have to do.
He's got his hand on the back of her thigh, pulling her down onto his cock, and when he slides inside her she stops kissing him, lifts her head up and stares at him, wide-eyed. He stares back and pushes in and in, and she closes her eyes and her breath catches and he doesn't know whether to be glad or sorry, because it's like she's given in, but he doesn't have time to think about it because, oh God, she's moving her hips, and he's planting his feet on the floor and thrusting up into her and all he can hear is their ragged breathing.
He reaches between them for her clit, slides his hand into her panties, and when he finds it, she jerks against his hand, but when he looks at her she looks away and kisses his neck, kisses the chest that shows above the first two unbuttoned buttons of his shirt, and he kisses her hair between breaths and presses his other hand to the small of her back, the way this started, trying to hold onto some degree of control, get some leverage to get deeper, and when he pulls her down farther onto him she gasps and comes, long shudders, and he can't stand it, fucks her harder, just a few more thrusts until he comes too and they just lie there, catching their breath, and she's still not looking at him.
When she's caught her breath, she pushes herself up without looking at him, straightens her underwear and her dress, and turns the mic back on. "Fin, is he still out there? We're coming down."
Elliot lies on the bed as Olivia talks to Fin over the wire, and the line of her back is tense and beautiful and he's feeling like he's been scrubbed all over with steel wool, raw and agonized. When she disappears into the bathroom to get cleaned up, he tucks his dick back into his pants and sits up and doesn't know what to do with himself. His jacket's still lying on the floor.
He picks up his tie and thinks about putting it back on, and looks at her shoes, next to his jacket, and when she comes out of the bathroom he's still sitting there, holding the tie like he doesn't know how to move anymore.
She walks over for the shoes, still not really looking at him, and she picks up the jacket and hands it to him. He shrugs it on and shoves the tie in the pocket, and they go to walk downstairs. They still haven't said anything.
Her dress seems rumpled enough now.
***
They reach the lobby, and Elliot's still thinking about the tie in his pocket, about the look on her face when he was inside her, about the fact that she's his partner and this is awful, and when she murmurs, "He's still here," he nearly looks around before he remembers he's not supposed to care, because he's not a cop.
"Drink?" he says instead, and she nods, and they angle towards the lobby bar.
When he puts his hand on her waist she shivers.
He wants her again, he wants her again already, what is his problem?
(Doesn't stop him from thinking about it, though, and this bar is dark and nearly empty at this hour and he could walk her into the hallway to the bathrooms and press her against the wall - under a light so he can look at her - and bunch up her dress some more.)
They step into the low light of the bar, and Olivia smoothes a hand over her dress.
He keeps his hand on her waist as he orders them drinks, looks around over her head like he's a coke dealing businessman, like he spends every afternoon fucking women in hotels and going down for a drink afterwards. The dealer's just walked in with another guy, snub-nosed and a gun at his waist, and it's gotta be the dirty cop.
Elliot leans in to whisper in Olivia's ear, "He's brought our guy." His breath moves the hair above her ear, and her whole body tenses up. But she smiles like she's that woman from the bar, like she's whatever-her-name-was, Donna. Smiles like even though she fucked him she still likes him, and turns to whisper back to him, and her breast is pressed against his side.
God help him, he's thinking that maybe next time she'd let him touch her breasts, when there's not a chance in hell there'll be a next time, and so he almost misses it when she says, "I've got your back."
He doesn't know what he expected her to say, but that wasn't it. He can't help pulling back to look at her face, and smiling, and kissing her. Because for now he can, police business, and she makes a sound into his mouth and puts her hand on the back of his neck, her thumb rubbing along the skin above his collar.
She kisses his cheek and disappears into the hallway near the women's room and he knows where she's standing and what her visual range is and how long it would take her to reach him in case there's trouble, even as he thinks about her lips on his skin over and over and he can't really focus, even then he knows where she is.
Bartender sets down a drink in front of him. "Compliments of the gentleman," he says, points discreetly.
It's the bad cop. He nods once; Elliot returns it. "One of the same," he tells the bartender, and the guy pours another scotch, puts it down in front of the bad cop.
As the bad cop takes up the stool next to Elliot, he adjusts his glasses, and by the time the bad cop looks him in the face there's nothing left of Elliot at all.
Olivia comes by near the end of business, sits on Elliot's other side, and Elliot ignores her because Greg Elliot is the kind of guy who can afford to treat women like shit.
The bad cop likes this; he smiles and shakes Elliot's hand as he leaves.
"He's coming by tonight," Elliot says after a long time. "3 am. We should get some sleep before then."
She picks up his untouched scotch, downs it.
They have a few drinks without really speaking; Olivia talks softly into her wrist to tell the captain what they're doing, and Elliot doesn't listen very closely. He's very aware of her body beside him, though now that their audience is gone she's sitting like herself again, leaning forward. And a little away from him.
On their way back to the room, he can't resist putting his hand on the small of her back, and she doesn't pull away, but she doesn't look at him either. She's very tense, he knows her too well, which is what's making this all so difficult.
In the elevator he says quietly, "Look, Liv, about earlier...."
She's staring ahead at the display as it counts upwards. 2, 3, 4. "Let's not, huh?" she says, and then the doors ding open and she's halfway down the hall.
He waits until she's in the room, because if you give her any room she'll run for it, and he locks the door behind him, says, "Let's."
She's yanking off her shoes, tossing them into a corner without really looking; they knock against the chair. "Fine," she says, "great, let's talk."
He's surprised, because that's too easy.
Then she's reaching behind her, unzipping the dress, and when it falls to her feet she kicks that aside, too. She plants her legs and wraps her hands around her hipbones like she does when they're fighting in the precinct and the only thing different is that she's not wearing anything but stockings and panties and a murderous glare.
"How about now?" she says. "This what you wanted to talk about?" He can hear her trying not to panic.
It takes an enormous effort of will to drag his eyes back to her face. He's at a loss. He doesn't know what exactly he'd intended to say in the first place, and she's looking at him like a cornered animal, and finally he just walks over and grabs her by the elbow and says, "What are you doing?" His voice comes out low and dangerous, and she doesn't step back, but it seems like she wants to.
She shrugs, too casual. "Sorry, I thought that's what you meant by 'Let's talk.'"
He closes his mouth, breathes through his nose. "Liv," he says finally, slowly, "you're my partner."
"For the next 48 hours, anyway."
He doesn't know how to read what she's saying, because he can't process it, it's impossible.
"Look," he says, "I'm sorry, I don't know what happened this afternoon. I just -- we're not ourselves," he says. And it's an excuse, sure, but he'll take what he can get.
She snorts. "No shit, Sherlock."
He smiles, and she looks at him, smiles too, and when she rests her head on his shoulder and shakes her head (her hair makes a noise against his jacket) he can almost forget she's naked.
He doesn't touch her, just puts his hands in his pockets, lets her rest her head.
"I drank too much," she says after a minute, and he knows what she really means; she's not drunk, but she's feeling sorry for herself, which means she's let her guard down, which means he should have made her stop one whisky ago.
"Let's get you something to sleep in," he says, because he wants her to be comfortable, and he wants something else to do with his hands.
She steps back and sits on the edge of the bed with her shoulders slumped. He unbuttons his dress shirt and doesn't think about how sad she looks, how naked she is - he looks at the pastel artwork hanging above the bed and shrugs off his shirt, takes off the t-shirt underneath to hand to her.
She pulls it on and he sits down next to her to take off his shoes. "You didn't mean it," he says into the quiet, and it's a question. "About not being partners anymore."
"Elliot," she says in a very tired voice, and his heart almost stops.
But after a minute she says, "No, I didn't mean it," and pulls the covers back and crawls under facing the wall, and he's left sitting there thinking about how she said no like it was the saddest thing in the world.
***
He wishes there was more than one bed, or that the room had a couch or something, but they really hadn't planned to stay long, so it's one bed and an uncomfortable chair and the tub.
But he's not about to push his luck, so he hangs up his jacket and his shirt and grabs the pillow from his side of the bed and does what he can to slouch in the chair and sleep.
***
He wakes up when he hears his name. Olivia's looking at him from the bed - she's still got her face mashed in the pillow, and her hair is in some serious trouble.
"What?" he says, looking up and regretting it immediately when the pain hits. He grinds a hand to the back of his neck, trying to work out the muscles.
"Asshole," she mutters, "come sleep in the bed."
"I'm fine," he says, wincing.
"Come sleep," she says, the words muffled by the pillow, "in the bed."
Well, okay, if she's going to ask him twice.
He lies down. "Oh, God, yeah," he says, stretching, burying his face in the pillow.
She shakes her head, smiling.
They're asleep in ten seconds.
***
He wakes up, and she's tucked against his body; he has an arm around her, and her hair tickles his cheek.
He shuts his eyes and tries to memorize the feel of her body.
He falls asleep instead.
***
He dreams that she's pushing him against the wall in the squad room, her hand deliberate on his chest, that she's pushing her tongue into his mouth and fumbling at his zipper, and he can't see anything but her.
He wakes up slowly, in pieces, realizing that he's in a bed that smells like her, that she's lying half on top of him with her head tucked into his neck, resting against his bare collarbone. Doesn't realize until her hand's on his cock that he's not dreaming that part, and he moans without meaning to, still half asleep. She's pushed his pants and underwear down his legs so they're bunched around his thighs.
"Shhh," she says, her voice thick and tired, and he blinks his eyes open to see that hers are still closed, that it's like she's dreaming.
Her hand's warm and slow on him so his breath catches and his eyes close, and when she moves her leg across him and slides him inside her, he presses his cheek against the top of her head and moves his hips slowly.
She's flush against his bare chest, his breath moving her up and down, and he reaches down for the hem of the t-shirt she's wearing (his shirt), and pushes it up so he touches her bare hip, her waist, her back, skims the sides of her breasts.
She makes a sound when he touches her there and murmurs his name, and they rock together so soft and slow he can hardly stand it.
"Liv," he says, and she kisses his chest and when she comes she says his name again so that he pushes up into her and comes too, in slow racking waves.
She pushes her face farther into his neck and falls asleep with him still inside her, and he holds onto her for a long time.
***
He wakes up, feels his hand on her back and he's already hard just from knowing she's still here, and then he's suddenly wide awake and nearly panicked because it won't last, he has to meet a bad cop and bring down a drug ring and look at his partner every day knowing what they've done.
He can't even breathe right, he's angry and frustrated with her even though she hasn't done anything (she sat on his cock and said his name and she shouldn't have done that because now he can't do without her he always knew deep down he always knew), and he pulls her hard against him, flips them, bracing his weight with one arm, and when she wakes up her face is in shadow because he's blocking the moonlight that got through the drapes, and he's got her pinned under his weight and he feels her chest rising and falling, her skin meeting his when she inhales.
"Elliot," she says, a little unsure, and he shifts his weight, gratified (an animal feeling, deeper than he likes to think) when she closes her eyes, loses her train of thought a little.
"Elliot," she tries again, but her stomach is against his stomach, he has his hand on her back hauling her against him so she can't take enough breath to say this is a bad idea.
He angles his hips so that when he slides out and back in, he hits her clit on the stroke, and over her ragged inhale he growls, "You were saying?"
She's trying to get her words back, but she just shakes her head, closes her eyes, and he reaches behind him for her legs and hauls them up to his waist, grips her knees to hold her still, leans forward, thrusts.
She slides half an inch up the bed.
She can't catch her breath, it hitches in her throat, and he growls and pushes deeper, until she grits her teeth and tightens her legs on his waist, until his hipbones grind against her hipbones and she's shaking.
"Tell me to stop," he says, and he doesn't recognize his own voice, and even as he talks he's pulling out of her, too slowly, and she's digging her heels against his back, and he jerks his arms against the mattress, shakes her, reminds her that he was talking. "Tell me to stop," he says, and he can't hardly breathe, and he's begging her.
She opens her eyes and looks at him like she'd look at a rapist.
"Fuck you," she says, and grips his waist, uses him for leverage to push against him, sinks into him, too fast, and she grits her teeth and grabs the bed but she doesn't give, not an inch, and he fucking loves her to death.
After that it's a tangle of limbs and hands and some teeth and her breath in his ear faster faster faster, and when he comes back to himself he's fucked them against the headboard, and they're practically sitting up, and she has a cut under one eye and his mouth is bleeding, and her arms are limp at her sides and he's got nail marks on his arm so deep they've gone white.
He frowns at the nail marks, rests his head against her shoulder, ignores her when she tries to push him away, and she only pushes once before she gives up and lets him wrap an arm around her, pressing her breasts to his collarbone, listening to her breathe.
Finally she says, "It's quarter to three," in a subdued voice. He groans and rolls off of her, and heads into the bathroom to clean himself up, and when he comes out again she's sitting in the uncomfortable chair with the sheet pulled around her, staring into space with an expression he can't read.
She looks up at him, and sweat's sticking her hair to her forehead, and she'd look silly if it weren't for her expression, which is just. Depressing.
"Munch's going to be in the lobby," she says. "I'm meeting Fin in the car. We'll follow if he takes you anywhere else."
Elliot nods and does up the cuffs of his shirt carefully. He thinks about kissing her, but he knows better. Instead he says, "You okay?" in his concerned partner voice, and she forces a smile.
"Sure."
He nods and puts his suit jacket back on -- it's hot, too hot, he's sweating -- and squares his shoulders, and goes down to be someone else and break up a drug ring and try not to give her any more cuts under the eye if he can help it.
***
They walk into the house like it's a funeral home.
"Wife's out of town," Fin mutters. "I wouldn't put up with that crap from some guy."
"Duly noted," says Munch.
Olivia rolls her eyes, and lifts her hand to her ear without dropping the suitcase because she can't wait to have them out of her head.
"You okay?" It's the second time he's asked her that in a week. The first time she was still bleeding from his teeth.
"Sure," she says, because it's the only answer she ever gives, and goes upstairs, sets her overnight bag on the master bed. It's a beige comforter. The walls are beige, the carpet's beige, the wood is beige.
"Goddamn sting houses," she says.
She wants to go downstairs, but he's downstairs, setting up the radio, and they've managed to avoid being alone together for four days. Pity to break up a losing streak.
She flips on the light switch in the bathroom (blue tile to match the toilet, apparently).
She thinks about Elliot in the shower. She knows what his body sounds like under the spray, now.
No. No, she doesn't.
She goes into the bedroom and closes the door. He can find his own place to sleep.
***
After two hours of tossing and turning, she accepts that this is going to be one of those nights she can't sleep. She'd heard Elliot go into one of the other bedrooms upstairs, so she figures it's safe to go down to the living room and turn the TV on, just barely loud enough to hear. She sinks into the couch and flips channels until she finds a M*A*S*H rerun, and watches listlessly as Hawkeye has a picnic with a nurse. Snipers open fire, and the laugh track chortles as they scramble for cover, and the whole situation really isn't funny at all.
She freezes when she hears bare footsteps on the stairs. Three steps, then they stop, as if Elliot's thinking better of it, but after a long moment they continue descending and Elliot's in the doorway to the living room in just his boxers, his eyes heavy-lidded.
She looks at the TV and hopes he'll go away.
"I couldn't sleep either," he says, and sits down at the far edge of the couch.
She makes a noncommittal noise and watches M*A*S*H and wonders why BJ ever grew that mustache.
All the commercials seem to be for weight loss pills or Rogaine or Viagra, and after five of these in a row, Elliot says, "So apparently everyone watching TV at 2 am is fat, bald, and impotent."
"Speak for yourself," Olivia mutters, and he looks at her strangely, half like he's irritated at her tone and half like he's just glad she's speaking to him.
"What, you're not impotent?" he jokes, and she tries to smile. Fails.
When she doesn't smile he looks at her like she's broken his heart, but but she's not thinking about it. It's not fair. She's not responsible for how he feels.
She holds out for ten seconds before she says, "I am getting a little thin on top, though."
He half-laughs, softly, and she feels the back of the couch cushions shift as he sits back, realizes he's been sitting on the edge of the couch this whole time.
"It's a thing," he says. "Happens to all the cops."
"Even Fin?"
He looks at her, raises a significant eyebrow. "It's a piece."
She snorts.
On TV, Hawkeye's refusing to operate on a patient until the swelling in his brain goes down. He's being threatened with court martial. He asks for a drink.
"This really isn't funny at all," Elliot says.
"Yeah."
They sit on the couch for a long time, quiet, two cops watching TV
***
She falls asleep during the second episode of M*A*S*H and wakes up at the end credits with a crick in her neck. Radar's the freeze frame at the end, holding his teddy bear, and Elliot's sleeping with his mouth open. She gets up to go upstairs and is going to leave him there, but he groans and shifts in his sleep and she knows he'll be no good at the drop tomorrow if he's in pain.
She looks at him for a long moment, then touches his bare shoulder and he jerks awake. But when he looks up at her, he smiles, sleepy and pleased, and it makes her look away. It's the first time she's touched him since they slept together.
"Go sleep in a bed," she says, and is uncomfortably aware of what happened the last time she told him that. They're alone and he's almost naked, and she remembers his hands on her too vividly
He looks at her hand for a second, frowning a little, and she can't catch her breath.
Then he shakes his head like he's clearing it, and he's fumbling for her hand. "Help me up," he says, and she snorts and walks backwards, pulling him off the couch.
She stands in the living room until she hears the bedroom door close, until it's safe.
***
When she wakes up he's sitting on the edge of the bed, and she's furious until he says, "They're outside."
She lies back. "Oh. You have your gun?"
He lifts his hand from the comforter; of course he's already got it.
She fumbles for the mic. "Guys?"
"Mmph," says Fin.
"Guys!"
"We hear you," says Fin, a little thickly. "What the hell's the problem?"
"You sleeping?" Olivia suggests.
"Oh, you were sleeping, too, Benson, shut up."
"Okay, Fin, you know what - "
Munch suddenly takes over the mic. "What's up?"
Olivia releases a breath. "They're outside the house. You guys see anything? Hear anything?"
"Cragen says they do checks, make sure no cops are hanging around. It's what I would do. I doubt they're trying anything; they can't cut you out of the deal. Elliot has to pick up the shit."
"Charming," she says.
"Get some sleep, Olivia."
She pulls out the earpiece harder than necessary, and without moving Elliot says, "Problem?"
"Fin," she says, settling back under the covers like she's 16. "I can't stand him sometimes."
"Why not?"
"Dunno. Weird tension. Can't place it."
"I can," Elliot says, and she shivers under the blankets.
"It's not like that, Elliot."
"Not for you, maybe."
The conversation suddenly seems a little loaded, and Olivia says, "Well, not for Fin, either," just to use someone else's name.
After a long time, he says, "I guess."
"Get some sleep, Elliot."
He lies down.
"I meant in your own room, jackass."
He actually laughs, then sobers up. "I'm not leaving you here with them outside."
"They won't do anything."
"We don't know."
She sighs. "Do you remember last week? This doesn't work."
He rolls over and looks at her, shocked that she brought it up, and she thinks maybe she has a pattern of being less than forthcoming.
After a minute he says, "We're undercover."
It shouldn't matter.
It shouldn't matter.
It shouldn't matter, but they've always been too good at undercover, so part of them had to have known.
She turns on her back, stares at the ceiling. "That's a terrible excuse," she says.
He shrugs and keeps looking at her.
"Stop it," she says finally. She is still staring upwards, because if she looks at him, there's no telling what will happen. "You're making it worse."
"What?" he says.
"Elliot," she says. "We have to be able to be alone together without…"
"What?" he says again, but now his voice is low and rough, and she shivers without meaning to. This is the problem.
She needs to explain, but of course he already knows, he's not stupid, so he's only here because he can't help himself or he has a death wish or something, and she can't even guess at his reasons, she has to remember her reasons.
She only has one, really, and he doesn't want to talk about it, and he's in her bed and it's all over tomorrow anyway and she has nothing left to lose.
"Nothing," she says, and looks at him, and by the time she can see his face he's already angling towards her, and he pulls her against him with the butt of the gun, the metal cold against her back.
He growls into her mouth, kisses her so hard it hurts, and he slides her shirt up her back, the gun flat against her spine, and she shivers and shivers against him, afraid to move.
"Elliot," she says finally, her voice a croak, and he moans, pulls her hips against him, says, "Safety's on," and she exhales, drops her head to his chest, her nerves already shot.
He pulls her shirt over her head, gun still in his hand, and it scrapes at her side, the flat of it cold against her temple, until when she can see again she grabs his wrist and holds it. He looks at her and she says, "Give me that," and wrests it away from him and his eyes glint.
She leans over to put it on the nightstand and once it's safely away he's pulling her to him again, his hand on her hip slipping inside her pajama pants, and he's biting at her jaw.
"Gently," she manages. "I had a hell of a time explaining the cut from last time to Cragen."
Elliot winces and pulls back, looking guilty, and before he can overthink it she's kissing him again and pulling down his boxers and when her knuckles brush his cock he groans and pushes her back against the sheets.
He pushes her against the bed, so deep the frame squeals, and she can't catch her breath and he might as well still have a gun at her back because when he leans his face against her ear, murmurs, "Lay back," she does, without thinking she does.
He keeps his hands on her stomach anyway, pushing down and down, his thumbs splayed inside her underwear.
He sits back, hooks her underwear, slides them off with a jerk, doesn't look away from her (because he knows her body already and he knows how long her legs are and how far he has to go oh god oh god what will happen to them now?) and he slides inside her, sitting back on his heels, looking at her body against the bed, his face desperate like this is his last shot.
Because it is the last time, it is, it is, it has to be, because after tonight they're not undercover anymore, and they have to go back to the squad room and work another case and sit across from each other at their desks and somehow she has to do that without thinking about how he feels inside her at this moment, and it's not possible, she won't be able to, and he's moving slowly, his hand on the back of her thigh, pulling her up onto him, and she has to close her eyes because if she keeps watching him fuck her with that expression she isn't going to be able to get over this.
He closes his fingers against her thighs, not quite scratching, and his voice is raw when he says, "Liv, look at me, look at me," and she nearly sobs because how can she, but she opens her eyes and she knows he's already figured it out, it's over, the whole thing, and she starts to say something, anything, but he bends and grabs her waist and hauls her up until she's sitting in his lap and he kisses her, a fist in her hair, so hard she can't speak, and she knows he can't bear to hear it, either.
She thinks about the cop outside, how he's the least dangerous thing they've dealt with since they started, and she wraps her arms around his neck, holds on like Elliot can help her.
He can't, of course, he can't, nothing can save them now, it's over, but he feels so fucking good inside her and he holds her like she's the last thing he'll ever touch and when she gasps and comes he says, "Oh God, oh God," and breathes a laugh against her scalp, wondering, like he had no idea.
They sit on the bed like that, skin to skin, until they're breathing normally.
She asks, "What now?" but she can't pull away, so she says it into his neck, closes his eyes, feels him breathe.
He shakes his head, holds her tighter, and he smells like sex and sweat. His hand is splayed across her back, his thumb rubbing back and forth, and she sighs without meaning to. "I don't know," he says after a long time.
She can't think of anything to say, so they just sit until she's getting sleepy, her head resting on his shoulder, and it's awful but she doesn't want to move because once they stop touching that's the end of that. She just wants a minute longer.
Finally he eases them down until she's on her back in the bed and he's pulling out of her, and she's almost asleep so she makes a little noise of protest, and he smiles a smile that doesn't really reach his eyes.
He keeps his arm around her waist and they fall asleep that way, but she wakes up first and goes downstairs before he can wake up and say something both of them will regret later.
***
He comes down in a crappy tracksuit, and she'd laugh, but she's wearing the same damn thing, and when he sees her he cracks up and she wishes she'd gone ahead and laughed first.
"Yeah, watch it, jackass," she says, hands him a cup of coffee. "You're wearing one, too."
"Don't remind me." He scratches the back of his neck. "You think he'd afford better. This shit itches."
It itches where she dragged her nails across his neck, but he doesn't say that, and after a few seconds of staring at her coffee cup she says, "Cocaine's a tough biz," just so she won't say anything about it, either.
He nods. "How long have we got?"
"Three hours."
He sits on the couch, turns on the TV. "You like game shows?"
"What?" She stands in the doorway. "Fuck you, do I look like I'm eighty?"
"I like game shows."
He sounds hurt, and she laughs into her mug.
"Do you just not want to sit with me?" he asks, and it was going so well right until then, but then her heart breaks.
She goes and sits next to him, because there's not much else she can do, and when she takes the remote out of his hand, their thumbs brush. "Well, we're not watching game shows," she says, trying to get back to cheerful, normal, but it still comes out subdued.
She starts flipping channels and he leans back into the cushions.
Munch's voice crackles over the wire. "Good morning, lovebirds."
She starts and says, "What?" into the mic, too fast, before she remembers their cover. Elliot looks over.
"You enjoying the weekend without the missus?" Munch continues and she rolls her eyes.
"Shut up, Munch."
"What?" Elliot asks, but she shakes her head.
"Are they still out there?" she asks Munch.
"Nope," he says. "They must be getting ready for the drop. Speaking of which, are you two set?"
"I think so," she says, and looks at Elliot. "Do we need anything?"
He shakes his head and pulls his gun out of his waistband, sets it on the coffee table. "I'm ready," he says, and she looks at the gun for just a beat too long.
***
She goes to the hearing, sits in the stand, looks at Elliot sitting in the defendant's chair. He's there a lot, for a cop.
Alex says, "Detective Benson, is this the gun in question?"
She's looking at Elliot. She looks at Elliot until Alex says, "Detective," and Olivia looks at the plastic bag, says yes without looking at the gun inside.
She thinks about how she got there ten seconds too late, how she'd have shot the bastard when he came up the driveway if she had known he would pull a gun on Elliot.
Elliot could have died.
The jury finds him innocent in under an hour.
When the bailiff hands him back his gun, she looks away.
***
They sit opposite each other, don't talk.
Finally, Munch says, "So. Any gossip about the weekend? Embarrassing stories?"
"Nothing beats your body odor," Fin says. "Stop trying. That shit was foul."
"Olivia hates game shows," Elliot says finally.
Fin frowns. "Game shows? Are you retired or some shit?"
Olivia grins, can't help it, and when Elliot looks at her she forces herself to smile until she means it.
He smiles back, and it's something. It's good enough.
If she doesn't look at his gun when he puts it on the desk, that's not so bad.
If they touch for longer than they should when he hands her coffee, or if they don't touch at all when she hands him lunch, that's not so bad.
If they sit in the dark precinct after their shift and look at one another and don't say anything for too long, that's not so bad.
***
END