you are what you love
you are what you love (and not what loves you back)
Takes place after Let No Man Put Asunder. Olivia/Lloyd. One-shot.
Olivia sucks in her breath and leans back in the driver’s seat of her car. The keys jingle lightly as she lets go of them, eyes glued to the bright green numbers informing her that it’s 3:08 in the morning and making her feel guilty for not being home.
She’d been called into the hospital and Nicole came over to watch Charlie since Mark bailed on them. To be fair, Mark was doing his job as well as helping his best friend, but she’s not being fair tonight. She’s tired and confused and wishing she was a little bit drunk.
Because that would better explain why she’s sitting outside of Lloyd Simcoe’s house at three in the god damn morning.
A haunting laugh that both scares and excites her is her only answer to this question which she dares not ask.
She braces herself to start the ignition again, because it’s really much too late to be here. (It’s much too late for a lot of things, but what can she do about them now?)
The blinds rustle and she blinks five times in succession, wondering if she’s been up too long.
A light goes on.
She contemplates running.
A moment later his front door’s open and he’s leaning against it coolly, arms folded and mouth twisted into that odd expression of concern mixed with curiosity that he wears so well.
She’s wondering, given the chance, if she might have done things differently, had she known...
(But she had known. Somehow, she thinks, that makes this all the worse.)
Another sigh and she steps out of the car. She tells herself she’s making a choice. She should make the right decision, but she’s not sure what that is anymore. It feels like happiness versus duty and it’s not like Mark’s waiting at home for her.
(Not fair, the voice inside of her presses again, but she’s good at silencing her conscience.)
"Late night?" he asks, no pretense present in his voice.
She shrugs idly, pausing on his porch. "Lost a nine year old boy," she explains. "Car accident."
He softens. "Do you get used to it?" It’s not a criticism or a judgment. She wonders why no one’s asked her this before. It seems like one of the most important questions in the world.
"You would think," she half-jokes.
"Probably a good sign," he concludes. Her eyebrows arch. "That you’re still affected by it," he explains quickly.
She nods, fingers creeping up the side of the door slowly. "Can I come in?"
He takes a step backwards. "Of course."
"Still have that gin?" she smirks. It isn’t a joke. The word dangerous flashes through her mind.
He eyes her mischievously. "I thought you didn’t like to drink."
"No," she corrects him, climbing onto his couch. "I don’t like when Mark drinks. Some people- they don’t know when to stop."
He nods. "Found some red wine, if you’d prefer."
She smiles. It’s almost romantic.
It’s familiar, the way she follows him into the kitchen, eyes peering over his shoulder as he pours two glasses of wine, the way their fingers mingle when he hands over her glass. It’s like deja vu, only none of this has happened yet.
She’s shivering.
"Olivia." He says it like a warning. There’s no pressure with him. He hasn’t tricked or forced her into anything. Hell, she feels like the bad guy here, somehow. He’s merely following her lead. (Or so she tells herself.)
"It’s okay." she insists, bringing the glass to her wine. "How’s Dylan?" she asks, though she’s not sure why. She saw him less than twelve hours ago.
Lloyd laughs at her nervousness. "We don’t have to do this." he tells her.
Olivia’s grip tightens around the glass. "We’re not doing anything," she insists.
"Okay," he gives in, eyes glued to hers.
"Don’t ask why I’m here," she says quickly, before he can bring up the subject.
He steps closer to her his palm sliding underneath the bend in her elbow. She feels herself take a step closer, too.
"I’m sorry," she says, though for what she can’t be certain. She’s apologizing for all sorts of things, most of which have nothing to do with her and maybe even nothing to do with him. She’s sorry for the way things are turning out, for everyone. Mostly, she’s guilty that she’s not feeling as badly right now as she believes that she should.
His finger traces her jaw line down to the hollow of her collarbone. "You shouldn’t be sorry," he whispers, voice raspy and uneven.
She has to convince her body to breathe.
"This isn’t fair," she whispers, lips inches from his ear.
She hears him let out a breath, halfway between a gasp and a sigh and she tenses. His hand’s in her hair. She doesn’t remember when it got there.
"I know," he agrees quietly. She’s close enough now to smell the fading scent of cologne on his neck. It smells like him.
Their wine glasses clink accidentally and the reality of what she’s doing sinks in. Her fingers run through her hair anxiously as she turns around, setting the half-empty glass onto the counter. "I should go," she insists.
He sets his empty glass down next to hers and sighs. "You should," he nods in agreement.
He’s being too nice, she thinks. He has nothing to risk and she has everything to lose. Either he genuinely understands her emotional dilemma or he’s just that good at playing this game.
Lloyd walks her to the door, but she feels her back dig into the handle and her eyes refuse to leave his. Her breathing speeds up rapidly and her fingers brush against the wood behind her, searching for anything to ground her at the moment. She’s feeling as though she may float away from the world altogether and the only thing keeping her in tact are his eyes.
His hand reaches over her shoulder, fingers gripping the small deadbolt slowly. The direction in which he turns it will rely entirely upon her.
She licks her lips slowly. "Maybe your theory was right," she says at last, fingers sliding up the trail of buttons to his loose collar. "Maybe this is our alternate world."
Her arms wrap around his neck as she hears the deadbolt lock behind her, his hands on her hips instantly as his lips collide with hers.
She’s dizzy and confused, but this feels so right and as her legs lock around his hips, she’s wondering what took her so long to get here.
A moment later an image of Mark floats into her head, as Lloyd’s carrying her to the bedroom, her fingers fisting his hair desperately. She needs to forget about Mark. He’s spent years learning how to forget her, without ever really realizing it.
She’s terrified as he lays her down onto the bed, his fingers burning under her shirt, doing things to her body that she could have never imagined possible. There’s a gasp stuck in her throat, but a second later, his tongue’s in her mouth and her body’s responding for her.
She lets him kiss the fear away.