Archive of Our Own

Elliot knows from the moment Bushido’s attention shifts – his rat-like face darkening with rage as he glances towards the sound – that he’s fucked. 

Guys like Bushido don’t like being disobeyed. They don’t like dumbasses who are told to hole up alone, calling in female company.

But, even so, he hopes that he can somehow regain the other man’s trust. Maybe stroke his ego and play the part of an ignoramus convincingly, so that he’ll bring Elliot back into the fold just long enough to get what he needs.

As Tybor shoves him through the doorway into the bedroom, his legs stop working and he trips, stumbling forward and dragging his knee across the filthy carpet. But he doesn’t feel the rug burn on his leg, because his eye catches the reflection in the mirror and it’s Olivia leaving the bathroom dressed in – not much. 

Thank God she speaks first, because in that moment he’s utterly baffled, his mind a whirling tornado of tumbleweeds and dust. 

“You ready for me, Daddy?” 

What? 

Who? 

His heart is beating in his throat, and maybe that’s why he can’t speak. He tries to swallow it down and turn his attention to the two men glowering from across the room.

He doesn’t like the way they look at her; too comfortable with her absence of clothing. Too nonchalant and quick to let their eyes cruise over the soft lines of her breasts and hips like she’s nothing more than a prime cut of meat. 

Fuck, she’s pretty. 

What’s going on?

Elliot does his best to not ogle her – only look as much as the circumstances call for. She begins to rattle off prices and it clicks. He looks at her as much as a John would look at the prostitute they’ve hired, but no more. As he does, he can feel the blood rushing to his chest and face – his torso a glowing beacon of crimson in the otherwise drab surroundings. 

He quickly averts his gaze.

He never looks at Olivia like that. 

If they cross paths in the locker room and she’s changing, his eyes are glued to his duffel bag, on the crumpled contents in the bottom of his locker, on his feet – hell, he looks at his sweat-soaked gym clothes like they’re the most fascinating thing on the earth, as long as he can keep his eyes off her.

He doesn’t want her to feel on display around him. God — that would kill him. If Olivia felt anything other than complete comfort and safety in his presence, he might as well quit SVU; hell, quit the force entirely. 

Elliot’s wants — no he needs — Olivia to feel nothing but trust and belonging when she’s at his side. 

So, on this night, when she sashays out of the bathroom dressed in pants and a bra, he glances quickly before looking back at Bushido and Tybor.

You caught me, says the small smirk pulling on his lips.

Even the sliver of her lace-cupped breasts and the brush of her fingers teasing her hair sets his body on fire, but he doesn’t have time to think about if it’s because he’s embarrassed, or turned on.

Or terrified.

“I’ll say this Mike – you’ve got good taste.”

If they so much as suggest they’re going to buy in on her offer — stick around for the show. If they try to touch her in that way at all…

He will put his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze until the life leaves his eyes. 

Both of them. 

He’ll kill both of them at once, he’ll somehow find a gun and shoot one and strangle the other. He’ll never let them touch her, he’ll –

“Get her out of here,” Bushido growls.

Tybor immediately reacts, dragging Olivia through the room as she quips something about getting dressed, one arm in her shirt as the other clutches her coat. 

Elliot thanks God that they’re far too preoccupied with work to indulge in her offer. At least at this moment. 

She’s out the door and gone, and it takes every bit of self control in him not to run after her, still in his briefs; to yank the door open and follow her outside until she’s safely in her car with the doors locked. But he’s thankful she’s not in the motel anymore. At least whatever happens next, will only happen to him.

Bushido’s cell phone rings and he receives some kind of instructions, sending Tybor away to make a call. 

“Get dressed and meet me in the car,” Bushido grits out. “And this time, don’t fuck around.”

“Sure,” Elliot swallows, his throat scraping as he forces down the lump of anxiety. “Sorry about that, man. I just –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bushido’s voice cracks like a whip. “We’ll talk in the car.”

He doesn’t give Elliot a second glance as he yanks the flimsy motel door open and slams it shut behind him. 

“Shit,” he brings both hands to the top of his head and digs his nails into his scalp. “Shit! Shit. Shit — Fuck.” He spins around in search of his clothes, finding the quarter zip sweatshirt and jeans in a pile. It’s not how Elliot the ex-marine would leave his belongings, but it is how Mike, the TSA agent, would live. 

He pulls them on and shoves his wallet and motel key in his back pocket before cursing his situation a few more times. He tries not to picture Olivia in her bra as he slips out the front door to find Bushido.

<< >>

She knows that she shouldn’t have followed him here, that she may have risked blowing his cover, but Jesus — what else was she supposed to do?

He wasn’t answering his burner, and Kathy was definitely going to leave him this time. And she couldn’t really blame the other woman for growing weary of the whole thing. Though, Elliot was as honorable a man as any she’d ever met in her life, and he wouldn’t be living this way unless he really had to. 

But does he?

Olivia thinks that sometimes Elliot is hiding from his family because he prefers the thrill of the job to diaper duty and dance recital. Not that he doesn’t show up for them when they need it, he’s a good father — the best — but…

There’s something in the way he commits to these operations that makes her think he’d do it even more if given the chance, and Kathy deserves better than that. This isn’t the first time that Olivia has stepped in and single-handedly saved her partner’s marriage, and she didn’t sign up for that role when she took this job. 

She isn’t a therapist. She isn’t a marriage counselor. 

And yet, here they are. 

Again. 

Maybe she’s the one who should see a therapist to discuss why she keeps intervening in a marriage that should have ended years ago. 

Olivia isn’t Catholic. She doesn’t care about the vows they made to their church. 

But she does love their children immensely and would hate to see them suffer through a divorce. 

Especially if she could have prevented it and didn’t. 

And that right there is the thing she does her best to hide from but is also her main motivator — her own guilt. 

How she really feels about her partner; why she tries so hard to keep their marriage intact when in reality she’d love nothing more than to sink her teeth into her partner’s dense shoulder while rocking in his lap until she sees stars.

Jesus Christ.

She needs to get a grip. 

It’s just the adrenaline from the motel still coursing through her. It’s physiological. 

Chemical. 

It’s not the ten years of longing being activated like pulling the pin on a fucking grenade the second her chest was pressed against his.  

She feels oppressively hot, and cracks the window of the sedan to let in some fresh air. 

It’s late, but she knows Bushido and Tybor aren’t going home to watch a movie. Something is going down, and she’ll be damned if she bails now. Even though that’s what Elliot would want her to do. He’d tell her to get the hell out of there and wait for him to call.

But, the sense of urgency to get Elliot alone, and then the way Tybor immediately made a call the second he tossed her to the curb. 

They’re on the move and it’s only a matter of time before—

Bushido appears in her rear view mirror with Elliot close behind him. Her heart stutters and a tingling wave of warmth blankets her face as she notices the red flush still present on his neck and upper chest.

The way he’d looked at her when she came out of the bathroom — or tried not to look at her — said more than any lingering glance. He was hot everywhere when her palms and tummy found him and she pressed her weight flush against him. 

She took a risk, but what other choice did she have? It would be her fault if Elliot’s cover got blown because she made the choice to find him. She can’t be responsible for tanking the whole investigation. 

Even if it came down to it, she'd have done whatever Bushido asked of her if it meant keeping Elliot safe and the case active. It makes her stomach turn to even contemplate all those scenarios, although one of them — the one where she’s having sex with Elliot in the motel bed as the two men look on — that one isn’t as terrible as the others. 

She forces the thoughts to the back of her mind so she can focus on the task at hand. 

As Bushido’s car glides past hers, she waits until their tail lights begin to turn at the corner before starting the ignition and following. The man isn’t dumb, he’s been doing this for a long time. He will know what a tail looks like, so she leaves the headlights on and cruises a safe distance behind them until Bushido slows to a stop at the curb. 

She drives past them and pulls into an empty driveway that just barely allows her a clear view of the back of Bushido’s car, and she waits. The minutes tick by and she begins to grow uneasy. 

Ten minutes. 

Fifteen. 

Twenty. 

Her palms are damp and she wipes them along the tops of her thighs as she continues to study the red brake lights and the exhaust billowing from the tailpipe. 

She finally kills the engine and reaches for her bag where her service weapon is concealed. She couldn’t wear it into the motel, she knew better than that, but she kept it close by. 

Her gaze flicks up in time to see Bushido’s car beginning to turn around, its headlights pointed directly at her.

All she has time to do is dive for the backseat of her sedan, taking her bag with her. Her shirt is untucked, and she’s pretty sure she already looks mussed up from her scramble to get out of the motel, but she shakes her hair vigorously and fishes out the lipstick she keeps in her bag for emergencies; the one she spent way too much money on and gets to use twice a year if she’s lucky. 

It’s a dark shade and she applies it thickly, using her finger to smudge the corner a little bit. 

As Bushido’s car slows to a stop behind hers, Olivia takes a slow steadying breath and reaches for the door handle, pushing it open and stepping out into the street. 

<< >>

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Bushido scoffs as he jams the button to roll down the car window. “You again?” He grits it out, as Elliot does his best to not explode. 

What the fuck is she doing here? She couldn’t just drive away and leave him to sort out this mess?

Olivia combs her fingers through her hair and shrugs like it’s a silly question. 

She put on dark lipstick at some point, and it’s slightly smudged at the corners. Her shirt is askew and a wide swathe of bronze skin is visible between her waistband and the hem of her shirt. 

She doesn’t fix it.

“I’m on a date. Or I was until two minutes ago.” She runs the pad of her pointer finger along the corners of her mouth for emphasis and smiles coyly back.

Bushido sucks air in through his teeth, “You following us?” 

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.” She chuckles low, voice thick like honey. “This is the neighborhood I work in. But…” She approaches the car and bends at the hips, resting an elbow on the car. “Since you're here. And I’m here. Maybe I can get my $250?”

Bushido laughs at that, but it isn’t a happy noise. It’s a bark laced with cynicism and hate that fills Elliot’s veins with ice. It’s the laugh of a man who gains pleasure from others’ pain. 

“Get in.” 

The air suddenly feels too thin and Elliot opens his mouth to say something about Tybor and the call he made, and the gibbons, and the money, and all the reasons they have to not pull Olivia into their car right now. 

But Bushido nods towards the back seat, and Olivia’s eyes flick to the door handle. 

“You gonna pay this time?” Her eyes narrow towards Elliot. “Don won’t be happy if I’m late and also short $250.” 

Don? As in… 

“I’m not staying. And Mike will pay this time.” 

Every alarm bell in his detective brain is going off simultaneously, and he’s sure they are for Liv too, but what can they do at this point? If they both play along, and drag this on for long enough, eventually Bushido’s phone will ring and he’ll be pulled back into the deal they’re in the midst of. 

Elliot just needs to keep him believing that he’s Mike the buyer, and she’s – who is she? 

Olivia looks completely unphased as she stands back up and points a thumb towards her scratched up sedan. He’s suddenly so thankful they got handed the junker that was clearly involved in a side-swiping incident recently. It looks like a piece of shit. 

“I usually bring dates to my car, if they don’t have a room someplace warm,” She purrs, and damn – she’s good at this. Has she just listened to enough working women to know how to play the part? Why didn’t she go into acting instead of police work? She should have gone into acting, then maybe she wouldn’t be in this situation. 

He’d give anything to get her out of it, but he’s frozen; unsure of the best way to disentangle them from the lie without jeopardizing the entire case. 

“Mike will pay extra for the comfort of this car. Won’t you Mike?” Bushido flashes his teeth and reaches back, flicking the handle of the passenger door so it swings open into the street. 

Elliot finally finds his words, “What if Tybor calls with —” 

“That’s for me to worry about Mike. I just want you to worry about this piece of ass we so rudely deprived of her cash.” Bushido clears his throat, “I may have overreacted earlier. We have a few minutes for you to get your dick wet.” 

The phrase makes Elliot’s throat close up instantly, and he watches in horror as Olivia turns back to her car to retrieve her purse, before sliding into the back seat of the car. 

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Bushido asks, and the way he says sweetheart has Elliot scanning the front of the car for potential weapons. 

Nothing. 

Not even an empty fast food cup. 

“Sasha,” she replies, “and I need to tell Don I’m on another date or he’ll coming lookin’ for–”

“No.” Bushido cuts her off. “This won’t take long. Will it, Mike?” 

Elliot has no response to that, he just shakes his head and delivers his best I don’t give a fuck expression, as Olivia’s smell hits him from the back seat. Her perfume has wafted forward in the last few seconds, and now it’s too real. She’s in the car with this psychopath, and he doesn’t have a gun, and this car suddenly feels way too fucking small. 

“Get in back with your date, Mike.” 

Elliot would get down on his knees now and pray to God for Bushido’s phone to ring with a call from Tybor, but he can’t because he’s moving as if in a trance; getting out of the car and climbing into the back seat next to Olivia who is staring at him with an intensity he’s never seen before. 

God. They are so fucked. 

“Alright, Mike. You’ve got five to eight minutes – tick tock.”

<< >>

Elliot’s gaze meets hers, and she can’t recall a time he looked this terrified. Even in the warehouse when Gitano had a gun to his head, he looked calm – resigned. Maybe in Port Authority when Gitano slashed her throat right before that, he might have looked this scared then. But her heart almost cracks at how fragile he suddenly looks, like a Catholic school boy who has just seen his first pair of breasts and doesn’t know what to do. 

If they can just play along, Bushido’s cell will ring and he’ll be distracted by more important matters. 

But what if he’s already made them and he’s just biding time until he sees an opportunity to shoot them both. He wouldn’t do that in his car though — far too messy for his style. 

No, he would need them to get out first.

They just need to drag this out for a little bit longer.

“Well, don’t be nervous just because we have an audience,” she turns her head deliberately to Bushido and meets his eyes in the rear view mirror. “Let me see your hand,” Olivia murmurs, just loud enough for the asshole in the front seat to hear. 

Elliot obeys and drops his hand limply into her lap. 

She lifts it to her mouth, and presses a soft kiss to his knuckles. 

His upper body stiffens. 

“There you go, Mike. You just need to relax. Let the lady drive,” Bushido sneers, and she can feel the fingers of his hand contract with rage. This would be so much easier if the other guy kept his mouth shut. 

“Hey,” she exhales, breath leaving her lungs in a rush and ghosting over his hand. “Hey, Daddy,” she says again, and she doesn’t even know where that comes from, except that she said it earlier so why not? 

“You need to relax, Daddy,” she squeezes his hand – hard. “As long as your money is good, we’re good,” she tells him. And that’s what this is all about. 

Money. 

That’s all Bushido cares about, in the end. And that’s all she – the prostitute – cares about. 

“Relax,” she says again, pulling Elliot’s hand to her thigh and settling it there. He hesitates, like he isn’t sure what to do, before curling his fingers into the top of her leg and squeezing like he’s holding on for dear life.

She feels bad for him, but she also feels surprisingly powerful. She knows she has the gun in her purse, and she knows – she knows – that Bushido is just fucking with them. 

Well, with Mike, really. 

And she doesn’t know the extent of their relationship thus far or he’d want to fuck with Elliot, aside from the fact that he slipped up by calling her to the motel. 

Is that it?

Logically, that probably isn’t all of it. There’s something else. But right now, she needs that to be all it is, at least for the next five minutes until she figures out what to do next. 

With Elliot’s palm resting near her hip now, she moves, swinging her leg up and over him as she glides effortlessly onto his lap. As her weight sinks down, his blue eyes widen in surprise and his fingers dig into the flesh and bone at her side.

“Hi,” she murmurs, because she doesn’t know what else to say, and right now she just wants him to remember who she is – who they are. This isn’t a big deal. They’ve been partners for over a decade. 

They’ve handled much worse than mimicking intimacy. 

Except that’s the problem, isn’t it? 

It’s not mimicking. 

The way they melt together is effortless and natural, like they’ve done it hundreds of times before. 

And a prick like Bushido isn't going to call her bluff, not yet anyway. He’s going to enjoy making them perform for him, like circus animals. 

“What do you like, Mike?” She cups Elliot’s jaw in the hammock of her hand and watches as his Adam’s apple plummets. She feels his other hand land near her waist.

“Tick tock,” Bushido’s raspy voice fills the car, breaking through the tension just enough to shock Elliot into action. His hands are already on her sides, and all he has to do is slide them up and down a few times, palms skimming over the thin fabric of her shirt as it bunches and lifts up with the motion. 

Olivia thinks it feels convincing, so it probably looks convincing too. 

“Mhm,” she hums softly, dropping her hands to his shoulders and rubbing in show circles, hoping it’ll be the small bit of encouragement he needs to continue. His muscles contract and relax under her palms.

It isn’t so bad – doing this. As long as they don’t think about his wife, his family, or the imminent threat to both of their lives. 

But just sitting in Elliot’s lap, him caressing her sides, her shoulder blades, her hips and her thighs resting heavily over his – 

Oh. 

She feels him stirring beneath her, and watches the moment recognition sinks in, and his eyes catch hers. 

Sorry, is written all over his face.

It’s okay, she tries to tell him with a hesitant smile and nod of her head. 

And it is okay. 

Again, as long as she doesn’t think about the extenuating circumstances. As long as she doesn’t think about the fact that the man in the front seat might turn around and try to execute them at any moment, she feels safe in Elliot’s arms. There’s worse places to spend a few minutes than straddling his lap. 

Bushido clears his throat from the front seat, “What? You one of those ones that doesn’t kiss?” 

He’s mocking them now, and part of her – the part of her that hates to lose and hates to be wrong – seizes control and urges her forward. 

“Usually, no,” she glances over her shoulder to throw a scowl in the other man’s direction. 

Just playing the part, she tells herself. 

“But for Mike here, and for an extra $50, I might make an exception.” She catches the zipper of his quarter-zip between her thumb and index finger and works it slowly down until the metal hits the end of the track. “You’re clean, aren’t you, Mike?” 

As she asks it, she rocks forward slightly, hips leading and the rest of her upper body following them. 

Has she been doing that the whole time? She isn’t sure anymore.

Elliot nods curtly as his eyes dart over her face and further down to her chest, which despite her best efforts, is definitely beginning to feel warm. Her whole body feels warm actually. Everything, all stemming from the pulsing ball of fire in her core and snaking outwards to the tips of her fingers. She realizes that her cheeks are prickling, and just as quickly as she felt like she was in control, she loses it. 

<< >>

He must already be dead, and this is the afterlife. 

Olivia, who only a few minutes ago was just his partner, is now his partner who is also rolling her hips over him, and has most definitely felt his burgeoning erection. But he can’t do anything about that, and she knows this is just his body responding to her. He’s only human. No man, or woman, could have Olivia in their lap like this, and not react; even with the thug in the front seat, watching their every move. 

She dips her head down then, and he feels her breath on his neck, right over his pulse. 

God, he needs to fucking move. If he hasn’t already blown this by acting like a stunned choir boy, he needs to do something now or the jig is up. 

He lets his hands fall from her back and they find the full curves of her ass, squeezing perhaps harder than necessary, but he doesn’t know what the appropriate amount of pressure is for trying to convince an ex-human trafficker that you’re pawing at a working girl. 

He squeezes and feels every single muscle – from her gluteus maximus, to the other two lesser known gluteus medius and minimus  – flex under his fingers. The whole collection of muscles that make up her perfect, round, sturdy and exquisite ass, contract as the air rushes from her lungs and she buries her face in his neck. 

Elliot tries to focus on the anatomy of what he’s pinching and rubbing, and not how warm and soft she is in his hands.

Even though he’s never touched her like this before, he somehow knows her trigger points, and he trips another one when he curls both hands along the underside of her ass, right where the fabric of tight pants would fold as it hugs her cheeks. It’s that delicious crease he does his best not to look at when she’s walking up the stairs in front of him.

Olivia huffs out another breath, this one directly in his ear, and it causes his dick to fill even more.

“I think she likes that, Mike.” Bushido, the fucking asshole, can’t keep his mouth shut. Even as they’re doing exactly what he asked, he still has to tease them. He chuckles then, like a master magician might laugh watching a novice fumble a card trick, and Elliot begins to shift his weight to reach towards the front seat. 

But she’s there, like she always is, catching his hands and bringing them around to her front like it’s what he was going to do all along. She’s there, and she’s saving him, but she’s also killing him, because now she’s holding his hands firmly to her breasts and giving him a searing glare that would be unnerving if he wasn’t so stunned.

The heat that’s been coiling steadily between his legs is impossible to ignore now, and he’s beginning to panic, at the same time he’s kneading her breasts because he thinks that’s what everyone expects him to do. 

And is that a hardening nipple that’s fighting against the thin foam of her bra? 

It can’t be. 

It isn’t like he wants to find out. It isn’t like he’s been thinking about touching her tits since the first day they met. No, that would make him a creep. 

He’s not a creep. He’s a devoted husband and a loving father, and this is his partner, who he would die for. This is the other woman – who isn’t his wife – who he would kill for. And it’s all so fucking surreal that he thinks maybe it would be easier if Bushido just executed him now and put an end to this. But he doesn’t want that to be Olivia’s end. And he certainly doesn’t want Kathy to find out what he had to do tonight, because that shame would be unbearable. 

So he just cups the fullness of her breasts and lifts them together until the dark shadow of her cleavage appears and he feels like he might pass out at the sight, and he realizes he’s been holding his breath. He lets it go at the same time as he releases her tits, but she’s breathing fast and her eyes are somehow darker than he’s ever seen them, and the thought occurs to him that she might be enjoying this. 

How could that be?

With Bushido in the front seat, beady eyes tracking them in the mirror. Weapon surely within easy reach of his skinny fingers. 

As he is trying to reconcile their situation with what his body is telling him — which is that it feels really fucking good to hold her like this – Olivia’s mouth touches him for the first time, right along his jawline 

The pillows of her lips are so soft and she’s breathing heavily as her pelvis continues to sway dangerously over him. 

“It’s okay,” she sighs, so low that he can barely hear her. At first he thinks maybe he didn’t even hear her, and maybe it’s just his own conscience trying to appease his guilt, but then she presses her mouth to his ear and says it again. “It’s okay.” 

And he could cry, really, because she’s so composed, even in the face of terror, and in the face of the most embarrassing and degrading thing they’ve had to partake in as partners. 

“Hmm?” She hums, like it’s a question. 

He isn’t sure what the question is, or what his answer should be, but nonetheless he nods subtly and pulls her into him so they are flush. There isn’t a fraction of air between them as he drags his hands up her shirt so he can feel the satin of her bra. The same bra that he saw no less than an hour ago as she was being ushered out of the motel room, and now he’s sweeping his thumbs across the underwire and her rib cage is expanding underneath his palms. 

A heavy sigh of annoyance breaks through from the front seat. “You better pick up the pace, Mike. Unless you want to be paying $250 for a bunch of foreplay.” 

<< >>

She feels Elliot’s body stiffen and knows he’s reaching the limit for how much mockery he can tolerate. They’ve dragged this out long enough though – he’ll get the call soon. 

He has to. 

Before Elliot can react to the taunt, she grinds her crotch down against his straining erection and feels the fight leave him instantly. She feels something else, too. 

As the V of her legs presses into the unyielding length of his dick, the seam of her pants meets the bundle of nerves at her center, and she gasps. 

It isn’t a small sound, and it isn’t feigned. 

The sensation is electric, like she shoved a key into a light socket, and her core contracts up into her abdomen. 

Elliot clocks it, because how could he not? And his expression is something between shock and bliss. He looks like he can’t believe this might actually feel good for her, too. 

She furrows her brow as she rolls her hips again and allows the flash of pleasure to wash over her. Her eyes feel so heavy, and she can’t help but let them sink closed for a few moments. 

Elliot’s massive callused hands are underneath her shirt again, tracing the ridges of her ribcage and higher to the swells of her breasts, and she dips her head down closer so their noses brush. From the front seat it would look like they’re kissing, and at this point, they might as well be.  

Because really, what are they doing here?

How far are they going to take this? 

Elliot seems to be thinking the same thing. 

He pushes his hands around to hug her shoulder blades, and she hates herself immensely in that moment because she wishes he would grab her ass again. She loves how it feels to have his hands exploring her curves, so close to her center where her underwear are beginning to grow embarrassingly damp.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath as her palms disappear between them and settle over his belt. 

It needs to look convincing, she tells herself, but she doesn’t know what to do with her hands now that they’re on his stomach, so she fists at the cotton of his sweatshirt in a way that she hopes looks like more than that.

A deep growl rumbles low in Elliot’s chest when the heel of her hand brushes his erection, and he suddenly has both hands gripping her face, holding her motionless in front of him with their breaths mingling as his stormy blue eyes search her face imploringly. 

The sharp trill of a cell phone slices through the small space of the car and causes her to jump. Elliot’s hands let go of her face and land securely at her hips to steady her as Bushido speaks calmly into the phone. 

“Yeah, five minutes out. Good.” 

He hangs up. 

“You two must think I’m the dumbest motherfucker in this city, huh? Though, I do recognize real attraction versus a whore’s act. Whatever you two are…” He curls a hand around an imaginary penis and mimics masturbation in the air. “You sure are fucking bad at pretending you’re anything else.” 

Her stomach sinks as the locks on the car click. 

“Get out. Both of you.” 

Olivia slides her hand inside her purse at the same time as Elliot reaches for the door handle and pushes it open. 

Her heart is pounding in her ears, the realization that he must have known the whole time hits like a sour gut after too many drinks. 

“Mike,” he growls, the electric hum of the windows surprisingly loud in the stillness of the night. “Or whatever your name is. Take this with you, too.” 

As she watches his arm begin to rise, the sleek body of a gun appearing over the edge of the window, Olivia flicks the safety on hers and her bag falls to her feet. 

She meets the dark barrel of his gun with her own, and fires at the same time as his finger contracts. 

His shot goes wide, maybe surprised by the sight of her weapon, and Elliot rolls towards the car to intercept as Bushido fires again. 

But Olivia is faster, and a better shot. 

The bullet enters Bushido’s chest on the right side and the crimson begins to quickly seep out. It isn’t a death shot, but it’s enough. 

<< >>

Over the course of the next forty–eight hours, through giving their statements on Bushido’s shooting, a trip to his empty warehouse, a sting operation at JFK, followed by a takedown at Kuan’s Factory – which Tybor seems to have been able to keep on the books even in his boss’ absence – Elliot manages to avoid talking to Olivia about anything other than the case. 

He finds a dark corner of the sidewalk to scrub away the cabernet colored lipstick smeared all along his neck and jaw before the paramedics show up, all the while Olivia’s eyes bore a hole through his back.

He talks to Kathy once, briefly, and feels like he’s choking on his words as her accusatory tone snakes through the receiver and fills the hallway.

She’s moved beyond furious and into a new category that he doesn’t even have a name for. 

He focuses on the operation, but he knows he’s failing when he fumbles the basketball and Cragen manages to catch it on the rebound from Elliot’s sluggish hands. Luckily no one seems to notice his slip up, because they’re too distracted by the gibbon that’s crawling out of it, but Elliot notices. 

He’d never miss a toss like that under normal circumstances. 

But this night, which quickly becomes the next day, and then the next, is anything but normal. 

It’s like a masterclass in avoidance. 

He avoids being alone with Olivia, he avoids his wife, he avoids his own lurid thoughts – at least, he tries to.

Elliot can still feel her in his lap. He can still smell the heady scent of her adrenaline mixed with the lotion she applied that morning. He can still hear the sound she made when she pressed her core down against the hard length of his shaft. 

That high-pitched keen mixed with a gasp of surprise. 

It was the sexiest sound he’s ever heard. 

Ever.

Jesus. 

How can he go home to Kathy after this? Maybe that’s the real reason he’s spent the last two days grabbing naps in the cribs instead of returning to Queens. 

He’s a piece of shit. 

He let it happen when he could’ve stopped it. He should have known Olivia had a gun in her bag. 

He could've used it to take down Bushido before any of the other stuff happened. 

But instead he was relaxing in the backseat, groping his partner. 

No, he wasn’t relaxed. 

But he was groping her.

And he was enjoying it. 

He’s so completely fucked. 

“You two,” Cragen’s firm voice makes his breath catch. “I want you back at the 1-6 for briefings in sixty. I don’t care what time it is. Take ten in the cribs before if you need to.” 

This isn’t exactly a surprise to Elliot. With everything that happened in the last two days, with the total shit-show that the operation became, it makes sense that Cragen wants to get the briefings done while everything is still fresh. 

Elliot worries for a moment that he’ll have to share a car with Liv and Fin back to the precinct, but he isn’t sure if that would be worse or better than being alone with Liv right now. He’s successfully avoided the topic of what they did in the back seat of Bushido’s car for two days, and now that the case has wrapped, it’s like a vacation coming to an end. 

Exotic animals. Romance. New destinations. 

It’s just like a vacation. If that vacation took place in Brooklyn and was peppered with bullets and puppet-mastered intimacy at the hands of a sadistic gangster. 

He doesn’t have to choose who he’s going to ride with though, because Fin volunteers to drive Tybor to central booking.

As he and Olivia slide into the beat up NYPD sedan with the scratches along the side, he feels like he’s stepping into a cell on death row. 

The air is heavy. 

It’s heavy with everything he said in the last two days – everything he did. 

Everything she did. 

Her lips on his throat, voice reassuring him that everything is alright, even as his cock strained against his pants trying to reach her. 

“Look, El,” she starts. “Let’s just move on. We did what he had to in the moment. And it – it doesn’t need to leave that car.”

Is she suggesting they lie in their briefings? 

“And what is Bushido saying?” He asks, confused because she never breaks protocol, so she must be really freaked out. 

Olivia is staring intently at the road ahead of them as she chews on her lip. “Okay, right. Well we can verify what he’s saying, but we don’t need to get into the specifics. We can just explain that we mimicked what was necessary. Just enough to convince him. We don’t have to say that –” She stops abruptly, and he’s pretty sure he knows why. 

“Say, that we liked it?” He finishes for her, cheeks and chest instantly burning with shame. 

“That’s not – no. I don’t mean – we had to. It didn’t feel – it was just –” Olivia presses her lips into a thin line and grips the steering wheel tighter. 

“I hope you can talk about it smoother than that during the briefing,” Elliot grunts. 

“Fuck you,” she hisses. 

And he’s fine with her being mad at him. Anger is something he can handle. He’s just as familiar with its sharp angles as he is with the layout of his own home. He and rage are old friends, and he knows how to diffuse it or exacerbate it. At least, he thinks he does.

But none of this would have happened if she had just left after Tybor tossed her from the motel. 

“Why did you stay?” He hears himself say it, even as similar words from years prior echo in his head. 

Why didn’t you take the shot? 

He isn’t going to blame this on her, though it would be easy to. 

“What would you have done, El?” Her voice climbs to an octave he recognizes as dangerous territory. “If the roles were reversed, and it was me in that motel room – would you have left?” 

Elliot cringes at the mere suggestion. “No. Of course not.” 

“Right, okay then.” She taps the gas pedal and they sail towards 278 and the Williamsburg Bridge. 

“What you suggested – that’s fine. We just admit to putting on a show for Bushido, and to the fact that it wasn’t convincing enough.” He leaves it at that, because nothing he can say to her right now will make her feel more prepared to talk about those ten minutes in the back of Bushido’s car. He knows, because there is nothing that she can say to him to take away any of the guilt he feels. 

They did what they did, and now they have to deal with the fall-out. 

As they make their way into the sixteenth precinct, an unexpected visitor nearly brings Elliot to his knees. 

Dread slams into him like a tsunami, and he swears he can hear Bushido laughing in his head. 

Kathy is there, with a duffle bag slung over her shoulder. 

<< >>

Elliot turns so pale, for a moment she thinks he might pass out. She reaches for his elbow before stopping herself in midair and withdrawing her hand. 

Olivia’s gaze slides back to Kathy who hasn’t spotted them yet, and she veers off course towards the coffee station. 

She knows by the look on Kathy’s face, that this isn’t going to be good. Her jaw is locked, lips pressed in a tight line. Her eyes are frigid. 

“Kath…” she hears Elliot say, before his voice shifts to a murmur. 

Olivia tries not to look at them, but she can’t help it. As she carries her stale cup of coffee that she has no intention of drinking back to her desk, she watches as Kathy shakes her head vigorously and bares her teeth. 

“Can we just – talk about this somewhere else?” Elliot says a little bit louder. 

“No. There’s nothing to talk about,” Kathy says flatly, much louder this time. 

Olivia thought that when she visited Kathy, she had reluctantly accepted what Elliot was doing, and was going to wait for him to come home. 

The duffle bag hits the floor with a thud that fills the squad room, and Kathy jabs a finger in Elliot’s chest. 

“Well, maybe if you had been shot and ended up sitting in a hospital instead of MIA for another two days, we wouldn’t be here!” The words sting Olivia from across the room. They are steeped in venom – years of assumed betrayals and distrust. 

Olivia realizes that there is nothing he can say to change her mind. Whatever Kathy has decided, it’s done. Whether she’s inferring disloyalty on his part, or she’s just tired of the job and what it’s done to her family, it doesn’t matter anymore.

And he doesn’t respond to her biting words. He just flexes his hands and nods in agreement, as if he wants her to punish him. 

How very Elliot. 

He’s doing his penance for what happened in the car.

As Kathy spins on her heel, without even a glance in Olivai’s direction, leaving the bag at his feet, there’s a tightness in Elliot’s shoulders that tells her this may not be something he can fix. 

Olivia wonders how much of their transgression Kathy could feel in the air. Was her intuition such that she knew by looking at Elliot’s guilt-ridden face what he’d done? People often joke about a mother’s intuition, but Olivia’s seen it play out, as if they have a sixth sense when it comes to their children and spouses. 

Sure, Kathy might be tired of the usual bullshit; Elliot’s propensity for disappearing into his work, his die-hard commitment to his partner, or maybe it’s more than that. 

Olivia watches from downcast eyes as Elliot bends to pick up the duffle, like its contents consist of cinder blocks, before lumbering off towards the locker room. 

She knows that she shouldn’t follow him. 

Cragen will be here soon – her eyes flick to the clock on the wall – no more than twenty minutes. But even as she’s telling herself to leave it alone, she’s pushing back from the desk and gliding as if her body is being carried forward by an invisible force. 

It’s magnetic. 

They’ve always been pulled together in a way that screams atomic alignment. 

Have they just been fighting the natural order of things all these years? 

She wants to believe they have more control than that, but right now it doesn’t feel like it. The other night, it didn’t feel like it. 

The locker room is eerily empty. Olivia expects to find him shoving things from the duffle into his locker, or even cramming the entire bag into the locker sideways, maybe punching it into submission and slamming the door over it. 

That’s when she hears the dull thump she knows so well. 

Knuckles hitting a bag. 

Over, and over, and over. 

Of course that’s where he is; seeking solace in the one place that never lets him down. 

She turns the corner to the small area of the room that has an ad hoc gym, and finds Elliot bare-knuckled, pummeling the bag with an intensity that almost causes her to take a step backward. 

Somewhere between the lockers and here, he shed his shirt, and everything from his waistband up is contracted into knots of rigid muscle. 

His ribs look like they’re trying to tear through his skin. His biceps are as round as melons as he swings forward and lands a blow that sends the punching bag spinning out. 

The skin of his chest and neck are flushed, already beginning to reflect the low light as perspiration makes its way to the surface. 

The tendons in his neck are elongated and protruding from underneath his ears, all the way down to his collarbone. 

He swings again and of all the things she could think about, she thinks that this must be what it’s like to stand back and watch a train crash. It’s horrific, but powerful. 

She can’t look away. 

On the next punch, she sees what could be either sweat or spit fly through the air as he releases an animalistic grunt that causes her knees to weaken. 

God, what have they done? 

“El…” Her voice is barely a whisper, but she doesn’t want to startle him. 

Either he doesn’t hear her, or he chooses not to acknowledge her, because he continues swinging. Even from ten feet away, she can see his knuckles are already growing red. 

“El,” she tries again, this time louder. 

He pauses for a moment, but only long enough to catch the bag in his left hand and wind up to land another blow with his right. 

Olivia knows he would never hurt her, at least not intentionally, but stepping into his space while he’s throwing punches is a risk. 

She takes it anyway. 

Her feet carry her close enough that he can’t ignore her any longer, and she plants her palm firmly on the vibrating red vinyl of the punching bag. It slows and stops as Elliot sucks in ragged breaths and his eyes dart around the room like he’s trying to find anything to look at but her. He shakes his head once – either in an effort to clear it, or because he’s telling her no. Whatever his aim is, she brushes it off and stands resolutely before him. He isn’t going to scare her off with his show of brute force and aggression against an inanimate object. 

She knows that he needs her, and she won’t leave until he talks. 

“I’m sorry,” she starts, because one of them has to say it first. “I’m sorry about what happened in the car.” 

He shakes his head again and pinches the bridge of his nose. Her eyes catch sight of one of his knuckles which has split and is bleeding. He must have punched the metal lockers before even making it into here. That vision – one that’s not necessarily unique to Elliot’s personality and way of coping – for some reason today, breaks her.  

She steps forward then and curls her hand around his wrist. Her fingers don’t even touch each other. 

“Look at me,” she mutters, and who the fuck even knows if it’s a plea or an order. She isn’t quite sure herself. Elliot looks like he’s about to rupture a blood vessel in his eye as his other hand meets the side of the punching bag and he sways into it, forehead bending to rest on its surface as he exhales long and slow. 

“Whatever happened,” she starts again, “whatever Kathy said, you didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve been loyal and good and –”

He laughs then, eyes still closed, left wrist still firmly encircled in her grip. 

“Good?” He finally speaks, voice thin as his shoulders rise and fall, and he tries to catch his breath. “You think a man who has been thinking about all the different ways he can fuck his partner, is good?” 

Olivia’s stomach turns and the room tips as she tries to hang on to the lie, because this – this – cannot happen. This conversation, the one they’ve been avoiding, if they talk about it now then it’s real. And if it’s real, then…

“Oh, don’t look at me like you didn’t know.” He tries to pull his arm from her hand and she relents, letting it fall to her side limply. “Kathy knew,” he rolls his lip in between his teeth and bites until the skin blanches white. 

He lets it go with a wet snap. 

“She always knew. Even before I did,” Elliot mutters. “She served me papers again, and took Eli to her sister’s. And you know what?...” The pained smile that stretches across his face makes her think that he’s going to tell her what, whether she wants to hear it or not. 

“She should have done it years ago. And I don’t – I don’t even blame her. She should leave me. And so should you,” he steadies the punching bag like he’s going to go right back to it, but Olivia has had enough of the self-pity parade. She understands that he’s hurting, but whatever Kathy said to him has nothing to do with how she feels about him. 

“I’m not leaving,” Olivia says firmly. 

<< >> 

Olivia doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand how everything he touches turns to shit, and if she sticks around any longer she’ll get pulled into his whirlpool too. 

He loves her so fucking much, more than he ever loved his wife, and he has five kids with her. They spent twenty-five years building a life together, but the love they share still pales in comparison to what he feels towards Olivia, and that is such a mind-fuck he doesn’t even know where to start. 

“What happened,” she swallows and snares his gaze with her big brown eyes. “It doesn’t make you a bad husband, or more importantly, a bad father.” Olivia waves a hand in the air, gesticulating like she sometimes does when she feels passionately about something, and he loves that about her, too. “I know you feel guilty about what we had to do, but your marriage didn’t end because of that. It ended because…” 

Her cheeks flush pink and her eyes grow glassy before she even gets the words out. 

“Your marriage ended because… you were never meant to be together in the first place.” 

The words hit and erupt like an atomic bomb. 

It’s quiet at first, almost peaceful, but as the cloud expands and the air around them stretches, he feels the tenuous thread of self control snap. 

He pulls her around the punching bag and has her pinned up against the cement wall before either of them knows what’s happening. But her arms are free, as are her legs. She could hit him if she wanted to. She could kick him in the dick and tell him to fuck off if that’s what she was compelled to do.

He wouldn’t even stop her. 

Whatever she wants to give to him, he’s fine with it, even if it hurts. 

But she doesn’t do either of those things. Instead she reaches for his neck, curling her arm around and pulling him down into her. 

Her lips are soft and hot as they envelope his, and he doesn’t want to kiss her for the first time in the fucking locker room, but it’s too late. She’s kissing him. Or he’s kissing her. They are kissing each other ferociously and his hands have already dropped to her waist to push up her shirt, and of all the things he could think about, he notices how the fabric of this shirt is much heavier than the one she was wearing in Bushido’s car that night.  

The thought drifts out as quickly as it arises, because his fingers are dancing up her rib cage and finding the cups of her bra again, and she’s moaning into his mouth louder than she did in the car, but there is no one else around to hear it. 

At least not yet. 

“What if someone comes in?” She gives life to the idea he doesn’t want to acknowledge, and he turns his head towards the door. 

“No,” is all she mumbles, and she’s right. It’s too suspicious to lock the door to the locker room. In their ten years at SVU, no one has ever once locked that door. 

But are they really going to do this… here? 

Instead of making a decision, he kisses her again. When he’s kissing her, he doesn’t have to think. He doesn’t have to pick between right or wrong – he can just exist. 

Exist with her sweet lips on his. Her velvet tongue thrusting into his mouth, and – oh – her tongue is halfway down his throat right now, and her hands are fumbling with the button on his pants, but not to reach for his cock right away. No, she slips her hands under the waistband and smooths them over the firm mounds of his ass. 

Definitely not what he was expecting, but not disappointing either. 

She traces the shape of his glutes with her fingertips like she’s mapping him for a subsequent exploration; up and down, kneading and drawing him closer as her head tilts from side to side, and her jaw slides open and shut. 

They kiss as her nails dig into his skin, and somewhere in the recesses of his mind, a rational voice is protesting. It’s telling him to push her away, to back off and take a cool shower. 

His wife just left him… again.

This is not the time to be crossing lines and starting something with his partner; something that could crack the very foundation of their relationship. 

But this was started a long time ago, and he doesn’t have the strength to stop it now. 

The momentum is too strong. His want, his blinding need, is far too strong. 

Olivia’s tongue is too strong, and it carves a path between his teeth and over his soft palette with a determination that makes him think she has a point to prove. 

What’s her point? 

That she wants this? 

That she wants him? 

Out of the corner of his cracked eye, he spots the mottled metal door knob to the utility closet where the precinct keeps cleaning supplies, over-starched towels, and a whole bunch of other stuff he’s never taken the time to look at. 

“Fuck it,” he growls, and he hooks an arm around her waist as he hauls her to the door, jerking it open and thrusting them both into darkness.

<< >>

Olivia’s hand slides up the adjacent wall as Elliot’s mouth closes over her neck and he sucks on her pulse point. A shock of electric heat zips down her spine and lands between her legs where it throbs steadily. 

“Where’s the fucking light in here?” She mutters, instead reaching behind him to flick the lock on the door. 

She skims the wall again with her fingertips until she feels the switch and knocks it clumsily up as Elliot pushes her back again.

A hideous fluorescent light fills the small space, casting ominous shadows around them and making the dark circles under Elliot’s eyes appear even more purple. 

He might be exhausted, but he isn’t acting like it. 

The sweater she thought was a good idea during the recent cold snap suddenly seems like a terrible one as her core temperature soars, and she pulls it up in an attempt to get air on her flushed skin. Elliot sees it as an offering and covers her breast with his mouth, sucking on the hard peak of her nipple right through the cup of her bra. 

The suction of his lips is surprisingly strong, and when he adds his teeth, the friction makes her gasp. It spurs him on as he leaves a trail of wet suck marks across her tits until he finds her other nipple, this time pulling the satin aside so he can taste her skin.

Between her legs is heavy and engorged as a gush of arousal dampens her underwear.

“Jesus El, we don’t have time for —” 

With his mouth still full of her breast, his fingers expertly flick open the button on her pants and undo the fly, before he swiftly releases her nipple with a wet pop and pulls her pants down past her thighs and her knees, until they are gathered at her ankles. He bends down, squatting at her feet like he intends to worship her, and she realizes that’s exactly what he’s going to do. 

His massive hands push back her thighs, pulling one leg free from her pants, as his mouth closes over her sex, and she forgets what she was going to say about time. 

<< >>

The taste of her fills his mouth. 

Earthy, sweet, exotic, and yet familiar. Like when your mind paints a picture in a dream using images you already know, but some of the details are off. 

The taste of her is just an extension of her smell that he knows so well, but it’s also new. It’s exquisite in a way he could never explain.  

He sweeps his tongue through her silken folds, finding his destination with ease as she jerks in his hands and releases a soft moan from above him. He focuses on the swollen bud at her center as he teases her entrance with a finger, because she’s right – time is of the essence. 

Olivia grabs the back of his head with both hands and holds him still. “There,” she moans. “God, just like that.”

He flicks over her clit and thrusts with his finger, revelling in the way she’s slick and ready for him as he adds a second finger and her nails scrape over his scalp in approval. 

“Yes – yes, El. So good. Fuck.” She’s humming low in her throat, and he knows that’s her attempt at stifling whatever louder sound is trying to break free. 

“Mmm, yes. Yes!” she whimpers louder as he thrusts his fingers deeper, crooking them just so as the pitch of her whimpers peak and her legs shake. Her hips rock more insistantly forward with each swipe of his tongue, and he can feel by the way her core is pulling inward that she’s close. 

He knows the exact moment she comes on his fingers, her inner walls cinching up so tight he doesn’t even try to pull his fingers back out. He just pushes in deeper, harder, reaching and nudging against the spongy place hidden deep inside that he’s never touched before, but is summoning him like a beacon in the night. 

She cries out softly from above him as her body curls forward and she hugs his face and shoulders closer. 

“Oh, fuck –” she shudders once before letting go of his head and dropping her hands to his shoulders. He wishes he could take his time, work her through the aftershocks slowly and delicately, kiss her more and build her back up to a second orgasm. 

That’s what she deserves. She deserves to be worshiped in a bed, not in this hidden corner of the sixteenth precinct, like she’s some kind of dirty secret. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into her swollen sex, kissing down the inside of her thigh before pushing to stand and adjust the rigid length of his cock inside his pants. 

“What?” She shakes her head, eyes hooded and cheeks the most delicious shade of pink he’s ever seen. “Why would you say that?” She reaches for him before he can answer her, palming his crotch with intention. 

“You deserve better than this,” he mutters, but she’s shaking her head and undoing his belt at the same time. 

“I need this. You need this.” She frees his erection from the confines of his briefs and his eyes drop closed at the sensation of relief he experiences. 

“We aren’t done yet,” she murmurs.

<< >>

She swallows down the anticipation that’s lodged itself in her throat, as she takes in the sight of him. His thick cock is standing at attention, flushed and angry looking as it bobs eagerly between them. One dark purple vein snakes along the left side, and she’s certain she can see it pulsing. 

His chest is still bare from his prematurely ended work out session, and the tendons in his neck are straining with effort – effort of what? Holding back?

“Liv – you don’t need to –” 

But she cuts him off with a swipe of her thumb over his leaking tip, and his hips buck towards her. 

“Shit,” he mutters, as she spreads the viscous precum around his head before taking him in her loose grip and giving him a firm pump from tip to root. 

Of course she doesn’t need to, but she wants to. 

Her sex is still thrumming with the pleasure of her release, and she wants him to have that too. She thinks it’ll help both of them if they go into the briefings with a clearer mind – she hopes that’s what this tryst will provide. There’s always the chance that it’ll backfire and Elliot will have some kind of post coitus clarity that sends him down a spiral of guilt, but she’s banking on the opposite. 

She’s his partner, and it’s her job to anticipate his behavior, just as much as it’s her job to solve crimes. The way he touched her in the car, like he was living out a dream, it told her everything she needed to know about what Elliot really wants – what she can do for him, and for herself.

“I’m going to turn around,” she strokes his shaft again and drops a kiss to the corner of his mouth. The air from his nose as he exhales brushes across her cheek and she feels him shiver. 

She tells him again, “I’m going to turn around now, and I want you to fuck me so we can get back to work before anyone notices we’re missing. Okay?” 

The energy in the small space is taut. 

“Yeah, Liv.” He whispers, voice wrecked with need. 

Elliot looks enormous as he steps closer, all broad shoulders and neck as he crowds her space and she turns in his arms, rocking her tailbone into him. He hisses softly in surprise.

“Think you can be quick?” She says it with a smirk as she glances back over her shoulder. 

“Um, definitely. I can do that,” he glides the head of his cock down until he’s at her entrance, and she leans forward slightly, rocking onto her toes and grabbing onto the steel shelf to her right. 

Her other hand slaps flat against the cement wall on her left. 

She’s wet from his attention before, and there’s no hitch or drag of any kind as he sinks into her, stopping only when he’s buried to the hilt and his chest is pressed to her back. 

“Liv,” he groans into her hair as his hands reach down for her hips and he rights himself to look at where they’re joined. “Fuck, you – you have no idea…” He swallows hard and she can hear it.

“Of what?” She asks. 

“How long I’ve wanted to feel you. Like this.” He draws back before she answers, and thrusts forward with a deep stroke that lights up the nerves in her chest and scalp, the tingling and warmth so enticing she doesn’t care about anything else in that moment.

“Yes,” she sighs. “Like that, keep going, El.” 

“Feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, rocking into her again. 

Every piston of his hips somehow drives deeper than the one before, and she’s never felt so full in all her life. He fits inside her perfectly, like they were always meant for this. 

“Faster, El – ” 

He brushes the hair off her neck and curls one hand around her nape, holding tight to her hip with the other. 

“Look at me,” he mumbles, and she can hear the desperation in his voice. 

She cranes back to look over her shoulder, and barely catches his gaze, but it seems to do the trick. 

His brow is furrowed as he whips his hips forward a few more times before the hand at her hip abruptly contracts, digging in hard as his movements become erratic. 

“Liv, Olivia. Liv –” Her name sounds like a mantra, as the letters become one long string of noises and his hand, which is still curled over her spine, drops down and pushes her shirt up. 

He jerks out of her suddenly and spills his seed, hot and wet across her lower back. 

They are both still for a few seconds, their ragged breaths louder than the hum of the HVAC overhead. 

“Don’t move,” he grunts, glancing around the cramped room and reaching for the stack of white towels on the upper shelves. 

At least they can be thankful for that convenience. 

He drags the rough terrycloth over her back a few times before pulling her shirt down and smoothing his hand over it. 

“You alright?” His voice is heavy, but relaxed. 

“Good.” She reaches for her pants and underwear which are still hooked on one ankle, but he’s already there, crouched behind her and guiding her other foot back into the open leg. He shimmies the waistband of her pants up until they are high enough for her to grab, before turning his attention to himself. 

He pulls another towel from the shelf, wiping at his lower stomach as he takes a couple steps away from her. 

His eyes are dazed as he cleans himself up before looking around like he doesn’t know what to do next. 

She takes the soiled towels from his hand as he pulls his briefs and pants back up, buttoning them and zipping up with the longest sigh she’s ever heard him make. 

“Are you okay?” She asks, placing a palm over his heart which is still hammering against his ribs. 

He covers her hand with his own and nods, “Yeah. I think so.” 

“Okay,” she replies. 

“Okay,” he repeats. “Do you want to go out first?” 

Olivia shakes her head and motions to the door. “No, you first.” 

“And I’ll see you out there?” 

His question makes her chest ache in a way she wouldn’t have expected after doing what they just did. 

“Always,” she reaches for his forearm and squeezes it reassuringly. “See you out there.”