Chapter Text
She’s made a mistake.
When Trevor Langan called and asked if she wanted to meet for dinner at Añejo, she hadn’t thought much of it. Or rather, she hadn’t thought much beyond that she’d had a long, trying week, and spending one Friday evening—just one Friday evening—sipping fancy margaritas and chowing down on short rib tacos in the company of someone she doesn’t supervise sounded like something she deserved.
She’d said yes without hesitation, had told Lucy she’d be home a little later than usual and asked if she could bring Noah to the sleepover he’d been looking forward to all week, and had given her squad strict instructions not to bother her with work for at least the next two hours, if not the whole night.
Fin had smirked at her, had asked, “Hot date?” and she’d rolled her eyes and told him Hardly.
Just drinks with a friend. (And then maybe a long, hot bubble bath by herself.)
That’s what she had thought she was agreeing to.
That’s what she’d thought even when she’d arrived and Trevor had greeted her with a quick hug and a peck on the cheek (not the first time he’s done that, although he doesn’t do it often), a single peach bodega rose in hand (he’d joked about forgetting to send her a Mother’s Day card). That’s what she’d thought as they’d split an order of spicy pineapple guac and she’d unloaded her work frustrations on him. It’s what she’d thought when she’d ordered those short rib tacos and a second Paloma.
It’s what she’d thought right up until this moment, when the guac is dwindling, but the food hasn’t arrived yet. When her first drink is down to mostly ice and she’s just been thinking she should pace herself because if the universe does conspire to call her into work tonight, she cannot be tequila drunk.
This moment, when there’s a lull, ever so brief in the conversation, when her hand is loosely cupping the bottom of her glass, and Trevor reaches across the small expanse of table between them and wraps his fingers around hers, his warm skin a sharp contrast from the chilly glass, and then tells her, “This is really nice, Liv. I’m glad you said yes.”
It is that moment, that exact moment, when Olivia Benson realizes that she is, in fact, on a date.
With Trevor Langan.
She has made a terrible mistake.
It’s not that she doesn’t like Trevor, it’s just that she doesn’t like Trevor, not in any romantic way. More importantly, she has a policy—a strict personal policy—of not dating defense attorneys. Prosecutors, sure, okay, she has dated a few of those, but never defense attorneys. A conflict of interest is one thing, but dating the people who defend the scumbags she’s spent three decades of her life working tirelessly to put away is another thing entirely.
She doesn’t think she could do that and maintain her integrity as captain of SVU at the same time.
Which might have something to do with why it never occurred to her that this was a date, because Trevor knows about this policy. She’d told him ages ago, the first time he’d ever asked her out. Years ago, before Ed, when he’d asked her for drinks in a way that seemed… not strictly professional… she had told him that they could be colleagues and they could be friends but that she doesn’t date defense attorneys.
That it wasn’t personal, and he was a great guy, it just… wasn’t ever going to happen.
But he’s been transitioning away from criminal defense the last few years, or at least away from violent crime. He’d told her almost a year ago now that he was feeling disillusioned with the whole thing, feeling responsible for his part in helping violent criminals evade conviction, and was spending more of his time back where he’d started—white collar crime.
It hits her like a splash of cold water that he might have done that for her.
That he might be another in the long line of men who have professed to be changed by knowing her. Who have had to leave jobs they’d worked years for, invested their whole hearts in, because suddenly they didn’t seem to fit anymore.
She also realizes that she’s staring.
He’d said what he’d said, and she’s just sitting there stunned, looking at his handsome face and his blue eyes, trying to form a single thought in her head that isn’t oh shit, oh shit.
The one that finally coalesces isn’t at all helpful: Those are not the blue eyes she wants to be on a date with.
Olivia blinks, glances away, feels herself smile—a nervous reflex—before she swallows and tells him, “Yeah, it’s… this is nice. I, um, I’m sorry, I have to pee.”
She’s out of her seat almost before he has a chance to draw his hand away—she just needs a minute, just needs some air, just needs to figure out how the fuck she’s going to get out of this one without hurting anyone’s feelings—because she doesn’t want to hurt Trevor’s feelings, truly, he is a nice man, and they are friends, and this was her mistake, clearly.
But Jesus, he could have been more clear about what this was, couldn’t he?
He could have flat out asked her if she wanted to date him, so that she could have reminded him that no, she does not.
Gently.
Kindly.
Before they went out on a date, not halfway through it.
Fuck, this is going to be awkward.
She pees, because she’s already in this fucking bathroom and she did already have one drink, and because she needs a minute to figure out what she’s going to do about all this. She drops her head into her hands while she does, rakes her fingers through her hair, and frets.
Should she finish the date? Just take a deep breath and go back out there, and eat her short rib tacos and make conversation—and then tell him later that she doesn't want to ruin their friendship?
It would probably be the least embarrassing option for all of them—certainly the least embarrassing for her—but it seems dishonest. She doesn’t want to lie to him, and she’s pretty sure the way she bolted from that table was… less than subtle… but would it be worse to admit the truth and, what? Leave? Stay and have dinner as just friends?
They could do that, right? They’ve been friends for years, they’ve had dinners before. Maybe they could even laugh about it.
But God, the way he’d looked at her when he took her hand had been so hopeful. So loving.
Is he in love with her? Oh God, he might be in love with her. How long has he been in love with her, and how didn’t she notice?
This is a disaster.
Her phone rings as she’s washing her hands and it’s Elliot of all people. Because the universe is having a laugh at her expense today, clearly.
She answers the call, says his name, El— but he’s already talking, his voice warm and flirty as he greets, “Hey, my friend Olivia.” Her belly flips in the way it always does when he says her name, like that, with my friend, like that. She cannot handle the way this man makes her feel right now, now when she’s already freaking out about this non-date date situation.
And then Elliot tells her, “I was wondering if you might like to grab a drink tonight,” and Olivia cannot help the hysterical laughter that bubbles up out of her.
Oh, he has got to be kidding. His timing is really, truly the worst.
“Are you… okay?”
She takes a breath, presses a hand to her heart and confesses, “I’m on a date with Trevor Langan.”
She hears him say, “Oh,” and “Alright,” sounding a little bit put out and oh God, oh shit, he thinks she wants to be on this date with Trevor.
“No, Elliot,” she rushes to correct. “He asked me to dinner, and I thought he just meant dinner, but this is definitely a date and now I am hiding in this bathroom feeling like an idiot and trying to figure out what to do about it.”
Elliot is the one laughing then—without the edge of hysteria that Olivia’s laugh had been tinged with. His is a full-on belly hoot of a laugh. He thinks this is hilarious.
“You’re accidentally on a date with Trevor Langan?”
“Yes,” she hisses. “And I have to go back to that date before he starts to think something is up, but I have no idea what to say to him.”
Elliot is still chuckling, but he does offer up some advice: “Say you’re in a situationship.”
“A—what?”
“I learned it from Jet. A situationship is a sort-of relationship. But not. More than a friendship, but less than, y’know, a relationship.”
Well, that sounds… pretty accurate to what’s been going on with them. They’re not dating. Definitely not that. But friends seems… not enough, lately. Not enough for what she knows they both feel. Not enough for the lick of guilt she feels over the fact that she’s on a date with someone who isn’t him. Not enough for the fact that she doesn’t want to be on a date with someone who isn’t him.
Of course Elliot bringing this up begs the question, “Why were you talking to one of your coworkers about situationships?”
“She’s seeing this guy,” he dismisses. “She insists it’s not a thing.”
“Uh huh,” Olivia says, only half believing him. But it’s far preferable to the idea that she and Elliot are workplace gossip at OCCB, so she lets it drop and says, “I can’t tell him that—he’s going to wonder why I said yes in the first place.”
“Why did you say yes in the first place?”
“I thought it was just dinner!” she hisses. “Just tacos and tequila on a Friday night with a friend!”
“With Trevor Langan,” he points out, as if that should have been reason enough to say no.
“Elliot, don’t,” she warns, because they’ve already had one back-and-forth about this particular friendship since his return and she’s not in the mood for another. “He’s a good guy.”
Elliot makes this noise, this hmph noise, but thankfully drops the subject, suggesting instead, “Have Fin call you, say you have to go to work. He can’t fault you for that.”
“Oh, I am never telling Fin about this,” Olivia mutters with a shake of her head. “He’d never let me live it down.”
Elliot snorts, then offers, “I’ll do it. Go back to the table, give me ten minutes or so, and I’ll call. Pretend I’m work. I’ve already borne witness to your shame, and you can slip away guilt-free and come have that drink with me.”
That… could work, she thinks.
She can pretend nothing is amiss for ten minutes. She’s kept up tougher ruses for longer. She’ll still have to make excuses when he inevitably tries to arrange a rain check, but that’s a problem for another day.
“Okay,” she breathes, crisis somewhat averted. At least now there’s a plan. “Okay, that works.”
“Great,” Elliot tells her; she can hear his grin over the phone. “Where are you? I’ll pick you up.”
“Pick me up?” she asks. “Elliot, I don’t need a ride home; I knew I was going to drink, I’ll take an Uber.”
“You’re not going home, you’re going to have a drink with me, remember?”
She blinks. He had said that, hadn’t he? She’d been so focused on the slipping away, she hadn’t really heard the second half of the sentence. She frowns then, and reminds him, “Elliot, we can’t go out for a drink; what if someone sees us? It’ll blow your cover.”
She hears him exhale over the line, hears the disappointment in his voice as he asks her, “Is that the only reason you’re turning me down?”
She thinks of Trevor Langan sitting across that table, thinks of his blue eyes, the wrong blue eyes, and she realizes that… yes, it is. She’s always had excuses for Elliot up until now. Reasons they shouldn’t, reasons she can’t see him outside of work. Reasons they should take things slow.
She’s been protecting her heart, and protecting her son, and protecting Elliot while he’s in the middle of yet another dangerous UC stint—at least that’s what she’s been telling herself all these months. That she’s been giving him time to grieve, and herself space to process and act rationally. That it wasn’t a good time yet. That it wasn’t safe or smart.
But the truth is, she wouldn’t mind being on a date tonight—if that date was with him. The truth is, she didn’t think for one second that Trevor might have actually been asking her out, because the only person she’s entertained any romantic thoughts toward in the last several months has been Elliot.
So when he asks her if his cover—his safety—is the only reason she’s turning him down, tonight she tells him, “Yes.” And then she thinks of that solo bubble bath she was going to take tonight, thinks of her empty apartment, and tells him, “There’s wine at my place. You could… come over for a glass. Noah’s at a sleepover. If you park in the structure, there’s lobby access—nobody will see you coming or going.”
“I could do that,” he tells her; he sounds like he’s smiling again. She is, too. And then he asks, “Is this a date?” immediately teasing, “Just so there’s no confusion—I hear that’s going around.”
“Screw you,” Olivia laughs, telling him, “Call me in ten. Meet me at Varick and Grand.”
“I’ll be there,” he promises, and then she heads back to the table and her not-date.
.::.
She has been gone way too long.
The guac has been cleared away, and there’s a fresh drink already sweating where her empty had been before. And the food has arrived.
Trevor looks up at her when she slides back into her seat, and she can tell from the look on his face that he knows something is up. He’s not an idiot, and he knows her.
Still, she doesn’t want to do this here, so when he asks, “Everything alright?” she nods and tells him that she’d been on the phone with Lucy.
“Noah has a sleepover tonight; I just wanted to make sure she has everything squared away with the other parents.” It’s a good lie—she probably should check in with Lucy once she leaves here.
Trevor nods, accepting. She’s not sure if he believes her, but he doesn’t ask any more questions, just fills his fork with duck enchilada and takes a bite.
Olivia takes a deep swig of her drink and then reaches for a taco.
They make small talk for a few minutes—about the food, and about his work, about Noah—and then her phone rings.
She’d left it face up on the table when she’d returned, Tutuola flashing across the screen now as it vibrates. It’s Elliot; she’d swapped his name in her contacts on her way back to the table for exactly this reason—so that Trevor would glance down and see her Sergeant's name on her phone, so that she could give him an apologetic, wincing smile, and answer the call with her usual, “Benson.”
“So I was thinking maybe we’d pick up something to eat on the way to your place,” Elliot tells her, like they’re just continuing the conversation from earlier, and as if she isn’t already a taco and a half deep into dinner. (She sort of wishes she’d asked him to give her a few minutes more—the tacos are really good.) “Y’know, since you have to slink away from your accidental date and all.”
She sighs like she is disappointed, and asks, “Where?” hoping it sounds to Trevor like work.
“I don’t know.” She can almost hear the shrug over the line. “Maybe Chinese, for old times sake. There a good place by you? We could order from the car, pick it up on the way.”
“Yeah, I know the place,” she answers, and then, just to sell it, “They definitely need me there?”
“I always need you here,” he tells her, voice warm and smooth, and it almost blows the whole thing. She feels warmth bloom in her chest and has to fight very hard not to let her lips curve into a smile, puckering them into what she hopes is a passably frustrated frown before telling him she’s on her way and hanging up the phone.
She looks at Trevor, feeling guilty—both for her lies and for getting them into this situation in the first place—as she tells him, “I’m sorry, I have to—”
He holds up a hand, shakes his head in a move of dismissive understanding, and tells her, “Duty calls. I know.”
She nods, reaching for her purse as he asks if she can stay long enough to get the rest of her meal boxed up to go. But she knows if she does, there’s a very real chance he’ll do the same, and then he’ll probably try to walk with her to the train and or share an Uber back uptown and she can’t risk that, what with her getaway car waiting a few blocks away.
So she shakes her head, tells him, “You take it—they’re really good. Finish your meal; enjoy.”
She does take one last giant bite of her half-eaten taco, still chewing as she shrugs into her coat, grabs that rose (Jesus, how had she not known?), and makes a hasty exit.
God, what a disaster.
.::.
Their meeting place is a five-minute walk from the restaurant, and one block north of the subway she’d have had to take back to the station. She’d wanted to make sure she at least gave the impression that she was headed back to the precinct, back to her car, back into a long night of solving crime.
She spots Elliot’s SUV parked halfway down the block, and lets herself into the passenger seat with a deep sigh of relief, dropping her head back and closing her eyes.
“How was your date?” he taunts her and she opens one eye to glare balefully at him, whapping his chest with the rose she’s still clutching and telling him to shut up.
“I didn’t know,” she reminds him.
Elliot looks down and barks another laugh. “Olivia, he brought you flowers.”
Her cheeks flame, and she rushes to defend herself, insisting, “A flower! One! He said it was for Mother’s—y’know what? Stop smirking.”
He laughs again, shaking his head and putting the car in gear. Olivia pulls up Seamless on her phone, scrolling through her recent orders for their go-to Chinese place. She’s not really hungry anymore, but he probably hasn’t had dinner, and she has room for an egg roll, at least.
“You want your usual?” she asks, as he heads up Sixth. And then she remembers it’s been a decade since she’s ordered for him, and she probably shouldn’t assume she still knows what his regular order is. The thought makes her chest ache and her stomach pinch—familiar feelings when it comes to Elliot.
They ease off, though, when he answers, “Yeah,” and, “You still hungry?”
“I can eat,” she shrugs, scrolling through the menu and making her selections. “It’ll be ready for pickup in twenty,” she tells him as she finishes, adding, “I’ll hop out and grab it.”
Elliot nods, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, and for a minute there’s nothing but the sound of Friday evening traffic. It feels familiar, comfortable. Riding in a car alongside him, ordering dinner to share. If she tries, she can almost imagine it’s ten years ago and this is a perfectly normal evening for them (aside from the whole accidental date business).
And then he pops the bubble, clearing his throat softly, sounding a little nervous as he says, “So you, uh… you didn’t answer my question earlier.”
She turns her head toward him, brow furrowed, and asks, “Your question?”
He’s watching the road, mostly, but they’ve pulled up to a red light, so his gaze flicks to hers as he asks, “Is this a date?”
Her stomach does a quick nervous somersault, and she swallows against the sudden dryness in her throat, but she manages to smile as she muses, “I don’t know, El, do situationships go on dates?”
He grins, quick and bright as the sun, then looks back at the traffic in front of him as he tells her, “I have it on good authority they do.”
“Then I guess this is a date,” she tells him, very aware of the way her voice has pitched low and soft. Of the way her heart has started beating just a little bit faster.
He looks her way again, says, “Good,” and reaches over to settle his hand on top of hers, their fingers weaving. She gives him a squeeze and he runs his thumb along the backs of her fingers; Olivia feels the ripple of it all the way up her arm and straight into her heart.
He turns his attention back to the road, but she keeps watching his profile as he drives.
He’s still smiling.