Chapter Text
Present Day
From up this close, he can see the superfine hairs at the back of her neck. They’re electrified, reaching toward his fingers like her body knows he’s close even if her mind chooses not to. His hand freezes a few inches away from her, suddenly remembering he isn’t supposed to touch her like that.
He wouldn’t even have to brush her hair aside from this angle. He can see her C7 vertebrae sticking out from the hem of her tank top and the trail of hair leading up her nape to where it disappears underneath her hairline.
It would be so easy to curl his hand over her neck and let the heat from her skin soak into his palm.
But then she raises her head, and the short fan of waves falls back into place.
He reaches for a clean shirt instead — the last one he has left — and pulls it on over his head. He didn’t bother to fully dry off after showering, and the drops of water on his chest and back are quickly absorbed. The second he steps outside, he’ll begin to sweat again anyway, so it doesn’t matter.
“What are you looking at?” she mutters, tone still edged in annoyance.
She’ll get over it soon, he thinks. After all, he said that he loves her and she hasn’t done anything with that information – their status as great friends doesn’t really require him to keep her apprised of every single thing that he does.
But he’d sooner take a swift kick to the balls than say that to her face.
“The new hair,” he mumbles, fingers wiggling as he imagines how hard she’d hit him this time if he caressed the fuzz at her nape. Probably pretty hard, but for a second he wavers because it might be worth it, especially considering when she slapped him in front of the crew, his cheek wasn’t the only thing humming afterward.
She grunts. “If you’d checked in before skipping town, you would’ve seen it sooner.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” He really doesn’t want to beat a dead horse anymore. “I had to leave suddenly and—”
“Right,” she sighs, leaning back in the stiff motel chair. She folds her arms against her chest protectively and waits for him to circle back around.
He does, walking to the edge of the saggy mattress to sink down and examine her from the front.
“Where’d the pants come from?” he bites his cheek to keep from smiling, because at this moment she is staring daggers at him. Smiling would only make it worse.
Liv runs a hand down the front of one leg. “What do you mean?”
His eyes dart over the baggy cut and stained knees. “Are they… Dickies?”
She snorts softly. “No, Tony.” She puts extra emphasis on the “T” in his pseudonym. “They’re not Dickies. They’re actually pretty expensive.”
Elliot blinks in confusion. They look like pants someone would’ve worn on that honey farm he infiltrated a couple years before. The black tank top – with its high neckline and racer back that shows off her lean arms and toned shoulders – is also not something he’s familiar with.
“Okay,” he says, because he doesn’t really care about the pants. “You fit right in.”
He’s just happy to see her, even if she wants to rip his throat out.
As if she can read his mind, she stands and walks to the old television. “It’s my weekend outfit,” she quips.
He can’t picture her wearing this on the weekend, either – but that’s okay. He likes seeing her in it now: a little disheveled like she drove with the window down; a little dirty like she spent the morning digging in a community garden.
Definitely not the look of an NYPD captain.
She pauses, one fingernail tapping the cap of a cheap bottle of whiskey he left sitting beside a single plastic cup.
He’s aware the scene reeks of loneliness.
She picks up the bottle and glances over her shoulder at him. Her eyebrow is arched reproachfully, and he shrugs.
“Trying to fit in,” he mutters. “Not much to do here at night.”
The scoff that tumbles from her suggests she thinks otherwise.
He knows better than to ask her to elaborate.
She unscrews the cap of the whiskey and brings the bottle to her lips, taking a long pull before raising the back of her hand to her mouth with a grimace.
“Ugh,” she chokes out. “Fuck, that’s terrible.”
He is well aware.
“There’s more choices at the bar, if you want something top shelf.”
She narrows her gaze at him, mouth still pulled down in a sneer of disapproval.
“Is that where you’re supposed to be right now?” she asks.
Elliot sighs. “Kind of,” he clears his throat and reaches for the bottle in her hand. She passes it to him and he takes a swig. “Like I said before: I’m just here for a couple days to lend a hand.”
“And where is your friend now?” She rests her hands on her hips.
“The bar,” he concedes.
Liv nods, her short hair brushing the tops of her shoulders with the motion. “Well, then,” she waves a hand toward the door. “Shall we?”
<< >>
Two Days Earlier
Olivia’s entire body is buzzing with unspent adrenaline. She can’t remember the last time she found herself with nothing to do in the middle of a weekday, and before she knows it, she’s standing in front of the entrance to OCCB.
For a moment, she can’t remember how she got here, as if she teleported. She forces herself to picture the windowless garage underneath the building and the spot where she parked her car. She definitely drove, though the time in between leaving the 1-6 and arriving here is hazy.
In the elevator, she braces with one shoulder against the cold metal siding, afraid even the gentle lurching of the elevator gears will bring her to her knees.
It’s not that she feels weak, but everything is brittle, too thin – even the air around her – like she ascended to high altitude and can’t properly fill her lungs.
Suspended.
She isn’t even the least bit surprised. Tynan has been gunning for her for months, ever since she turned down the job offer at 1PP. A suspension isn’t permanent, but it’s what it symbolizes more than anything: the beginning of a decline.
Olivia knows it. She knows it as surely as the air being turned by the giant blades of the fan as she exits the elevator and passes by it.
She needs to make a plan, something more actionable than whatever Griff is working on. It’ll likely come from Carisi, and while she brushed him off initially, she has no doubt he’s already working on it.
There’s only one other person who can help her, and not because they’re a legal expert or a bureaucratic mastermind, but because they’re an expert in grounding her, and she needs that tether right now.
She glides along the metal walkway, forgoing her usual stomp-and-clomp that would announce her arrival to the entire office, and stops at the top of the stairs to sweep her eyes over the squad room floor.
Elliot’s always been orderly, but she can tell by the state of his desk that he isn’t here. It’s completely barren of any signs of him: no coffee mug, no notebook, no papers or napkins of any kind. His computer monitor is dark.
Her stomach pitches.
“Captain,” a familiar voice cuts through the mental fog.
She turns toward it and finds Ayanna standing with one hand on the door handle to her office, hovering, uncertainty blanketing her features.
“Captain?” she repeats.
Yeah.” Olivia shakes her head. “Sorry.”
She turns back to the quiet squad room. “Where is Detective Stabler?”
Ayanna doesn’t answer right away, and from the corner of her eye, Olivia sees her fingers tighten on the door. She straightens her shoulders slightly, probably assessing the Captain’s posture and preparing to say whatever it is she’s about to say.
Olivia sighs. “Just – spit it out, Sergeant. Where is he?”
“Upstate,” Ayanna says. “I sent him up there yesterday to deliver supplies to our UC.”
“Supplies,” Olivia repeats, her lips curling like she bit into a lemon – she can taste the acid on her tongue.
Ayanna nods, motioning to her office. “Yes. Do you want to step in here for a moment?”
Supplies.
The bitter taste in her mouth extends all the way down into her stomach, which has nothing in it but coffee and a splash of almond milk creamer. She swallows hard, forcing herself to adopt an expression that is anything but how she feels.
She wants to scream and laugh at the same time – though either would be fitting – and she follows Sergeant Bell into her office before sitting heavily into one of the chairs adjacent to her desk.
“He’s undercover again?” Olivia asks, before Ayanna has even had a chance to close the door.
The air leaves her nose in a noisy rush. “Kind of,” Ayanna tells her, moving around the desk. “It’s supposed to be a quick drop. Reyes is the one who’s been deep undercover there for the last eight weeks.”
“Right,” Olivia replies.
A quick drop.
Knowing Elliot, he is probably already checking out the real estate and filling out his fake W-4 at the local mechanic’s for a part-time job.
Ayanna opens her mouth, then closes it again as she sits down across from Olivia. It’s eerily quiet for a few beats as they both contemplate the facts.
“He didn’t tell you,” she says.
It isn’t a question.
Even though she tried to suppress the sting, it’s evident by Olivia’s blatant surprise which sticks like a shiv underneath her ribs.
“He didn’t,” she says simply, embarrassed now by how this looks. She wandered in here, looking for someone who didn’t even give her the decency of letting her know he’d be skipping town.
But thankfully, Ayanna doesn’t look at her with pity.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asks.
“I doubt it,” Olivia tells her, and Ayanna is quiet then, patiently waiting for the big reveal.
“I was… suspended.”
Sergeant Bell’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?” She leans over her desk, clasping her hands in front of her. “Because of the contempt thing?”
Olivia smirks before correcting it. “You heard about that?”
“Sure did.”
“Well,” Olivia shrugs. “The chief didn’t take kindly to it.”
“Of all the things she could suspend you for…” Ayanna frowns and lifts her eyes toward the ceiling like she’s calculating an impossible math problem.
“…She chose contempt of court?”
Olivia huffs. “I know. But—” she waves at the air around her. “She was looking for a reason. It’s been a long time in the works.”
That seems to make sense to Ayanna. “I see. And you came here looking to vent?”
“I guess so,” Olivia looks around, as if for the first time really seeing where she is. “I wasn’t really thinking about it. I just sort of… ended up here.”
“Sorry,” Ayanna says.
Olivia isn’t sure if she’s sorry for her suspension, or sorry because the company she came seeking is MIA, but whatever the reason, she can tell it’s genuine.
“There might be one thing you can do,” Olivia levels her gaze, catching the other woman’s eyes. “Tell me where he is.”
Ayanna laughs wryly and shakes her head. “You know I can’t—”
“How long is he supposed to be there?” Olivia interrupts.
“A couple days.”
“So,” she presses. “I’ll go and collect him.”
“You mean, rip him a new asshole?” Ayanna chuckles.
“Maybe,” Olivia admits, the anger and hurt bubbling just under the surface. “He did disappear after promising me he wouldn’t do that again.”
“Yeah.” Sergeant Bell frowns. “I doubt he expected you to—”
“Find out? Show up here unannounced?” Olivia supplies.
“Something like that.”
“Where is he?” she asks again, knowing full well Ayanna won’t jeopardize an investigation.
Ayanna exhales. “Captain—” she leans back in her chair. “I can’t.”
Olivia brushes her hair back and prepares to stand.
“Why don’t you—” Ayanna smiles, “—get a drink, or get your nails done. Maybe a hair cut? Pick up your son from school…”
“Yeah,” Olivia smiles, but it’s half-hearted. Those are all things that a normal, well-adjusted adult could do if suddenly presented with an open schedule. “I get what you’re saying.”
She wishes she was the kind of person who could step back that easily; the kind who could shrug things off as a misunderstanding and relinquish her mental well-being to the hands of a nail technician.
But she just got her nails done, and no amount of pampering will distract her from the fact that Elliot ditched her again.
“Great,” Sergeant Bell says carefully, maybe seeing the look in Olivia’s eyes signaling she’s a dog with a bone and she isn’t going to let go.
Olivia wants to see him – needs to see him. She needs to look him in the eyes and ask him, what the fuck does he think he’s doing? After almost dying last year, after another – more sober – love confession, how could he possibly think leaving town without so much as a goodbye would be acceptable?
The more she thinks about it, the more the heat creeps into her cheeks – the more her stomach twists into knots.
There’s someone else she can ask, someone who isn’t as constrained by the scruples of protocol.
“That’s a good idea, Sergeant,” Olivia says. “I need a haircut anyway.”
<< >>
Elliot has spent the last four hours on his back, elbow-deep in the underbelly of a 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle. It’s unseasonably hot by upstate standards, and he’d taken to laying a rag underneath his head on the creeper. He’s already soaked through two of them, but Reyes was ready with a third when he balled up the soiled one and tossed it out from underneath the car.
“Thanks, man.” Reyes says, even though he’s the one handing Elliot the towel. “Of all the cars they needed my help with, it had to be this one.”
“Not a problem,” Elliot replies, holding a wrench to the lower shock bolt and cranking it tight with a grunt. “That should do it.”
He pulls himself out from underneath the car, lifting the edge of the rag to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Reyes is looking down at him, shaking his head in disbelief.
“All that work woulda taken me days – literally – I owe you.” He offers Elliot a hand to help him stand. Even with the assistance, Elliot’s joints protest the change in position.
“She shouldn’t feel as loose now – at the very least, there’ll be less bouncing.”
Reyes nods. “Okay, great.”
Elliot turns his head at the approaching noise from behind the garage. “Is he happy with the parts?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Reyes raises his eyebrows. “Pretty sure the boss is making up a shortlist of other stuff they’re looking for.”
That definitely means he’s happy. Elliot would probably already be on the road heading back to Queens if the main guy wasn’t pleased. He certainly wouldn’t be working on a fucking list; that means at the very least Elliot will need to make another trip up here.
A group of six to seven rode-hard and wiry looking dudes saunter out from the back, two in the front are lugging the heavy cardboard boxes that Elliot brought along with him.
“Tony,” the heaviest one barks at Elliot. He’s a beefy guy, short and stout with more rolls than a spark plug. “Where’d you get this stuff?”
Elliot – Tony – picks up another rag and begins wiping at the black grease caked between his fingers.
“Who’s asking?” Elliot grumbles, tossing the rag aside.
Reyes makes a small hissing noise from off to the side.
The big guy scoffs. “‘Who’s asking?’ I’m fucking askin.” He drops the box to the concrete floor with a clatter. A couple of the guys behind him lick their lips like they can smell fresh blood in the air.
Elliot isn’t worried, though. He already spent two days reading up on all these assholes. This one isn’t a main guy, even though he acts like he is. He won’t do anything without the blessing of his boss.
“No offense,” Elliot continues. “But I don’t know you.”
A couple of the other guys chuckle. The big man frowns deep and takes a step forward. “I’m Terrance, and you’d be wise to remember that.”
“Look, Terry—” Elliot starts.
“Terrance.”
“Terrance, sorry,” he continues. “I don’t reveal my sources to anyone but the boss, so, it’s nothing personal.”
The guy’s face is getting redder by the second, his blood pressure climbing quickly with every offense Elliot so casually expels. He didn’t come here planning to make an enemy, but he also doesn’t plan on being here long, and honestly, he doesn’t fucking care. This guy isn’t going to do shit.
“Okay,” Terrance grumbles, “Let’s go see the boss, then.”
<< >>
Present Day
The sun has already dipped down behind the mountains when she makes the last left the GPS is signaling for. The sky, trees, and road before her are all a muted shade of purple as she pulls around through an empty parking lot.
Thanks to Jet – who, now that she is no longer on NYPD payroll, seemed unconcerned with helping Olivia dig up Elliot’s whereabouts – she was able to find him.
While she hurriedly packed a duffle of her most relaxed and un-captain-like apparel, she assured Jet her appearance would not put “Tony” in danger — at least not from the group he was with.
She, on the other hand, had spent hours thinking about all the ways she wanted to emotionally eviscerate him.
Maybe, if she hadn’t also been suspended, she wouldn’t be doing this.
Maybe, if it was another normal workday and she was too busy drowning in bureaucracy instead of one step away from handing in her badge and gun for good, she wouldn’t be so recklessly compelled to hunt him down like an escaped felon.
She knows it’s a bad idea, but she wants to see Elliot squirm. She wants to say what she has to say, and then watch it settle into his bones like a reckoning.
She wants to do all of that stuff more than she wants to make the safe and responsible choice.
She spent the last five years since his return making safe choices, and she and Elliot are exactly where they were in 2012: together but separate.
Not alone per se, but definitely lonely.
Every so often those thoughts become tangled with her suspension and with visions of Tynan, and she can’t decide who she’s more upset with. Her mind is a spinning windmill, propelled by the winds of betrayal; everyone leaves, her mother used to say.
She can’t tolerate another one.
Four hours, and two coffee stops later, she pulls up in front of a large metal hangar. She’s no less agitated than she was when she left the city. In fact, the time alone in the car and the extra caffeine seems to have brought her simmering rage to a steady boil.
Her fingers are tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel as she allows the dust around her tires to clear.
She’s leaving the engine on though, just in case she needs to make a quick escape, and the sound will help drown out whatever she’s about to say to him.
It’s loud.
The woman at the car rental lot looked at her like she was insane when she demanded the car with the worst gas mileage.
I’m not trying to be practical, she thought to herself.
To the woman, she said, “I want to look good when I pull up.”
And now, as the ridiculous engine rumbles underneath her, hands and feet both vibrating from the steady hum of the metal box she’s encased in, she hopes it’s enough. The car, coupled with her chopped hair and Net-a-Porter painters' pants that she bought last summer — not to mention the bristling attitude — should do the trick.
She’s not here to play nice, and for once, that might work to her advantage.
The metal door of the garage begins to raise up, so either someone heard her or they’re opening late for business. But it seems too late for that — at least for any kind of legitimate business.
Two skinny guys saunter out, eyeing her car warily. One of them looks like he’s never used sunscreen a day in his life, his skin so creased and spotted she’s pretty sure she sees a melanoma from twenty feet away. The other one looks like he might bathe in SPF, face pale and gaunt, the wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek making him resemble a chipmunk storing up for winter.
Olivia rolls the window down, calling out, “I’m here for Tony!”
The pale one turns his head and spits a glob of something brown and sticky into the dirt.
“Who?” the wrinkly one asks.
She sticks her head out the window. “Tony!” she hollers, as a few other guys drag themselves into view.
One shrugs, another grunts, jabbing a thumb toward the back of the garage. None of them actually say anything to her.
She waits a few minutes as they mill around, and just as she begins to experience the first inklings of regret, she sees him: shirtless and massive, wearing dirty jeans and sporting grease-streaked forearms. His skull is shimmering with sweat, as is his bright red chest – all things that make her belly tremble even as her anger flares.
Asshole, she thinks.
But also, fuck he looks good.
At first he doesn’t see her, and maybe that’s alright because it gives her a moment to size him up without him assuming that she’s checking him out.
Which she isn’t.
She definitely isn’t noting the severe jut of his hip bones or the trail of hair leading from his bellybutton down underneath the waistband of his jeans.
She’s not tracing the lines of his shoulders with her eyes and following them to where they meet the sinew of his arms.
The bulging veins that wrap around his biceps and snake all the way to his wrists and his hands are not even a little intriguing.
“Asshole,” she whispers under her breath.
At first, his eyes sweep over the car curiously. When they lock onto her face, his own gives way to confusion, which is quickly replaced by anger and fear. She knows all too well what those emotions do to his features.
She sees the familiar set of his jaw and the tension gathering in his forehead. The skin of his neck and cheeks – which is already blooming pink – becomes a deeper shade of crimson.
He begins to walk stiffly toward her car, hands curling into fists at his sides.
Someone shouts, “Oh, shit. New guy’s got a woman!”
“Damn, she looks pissed,” says another.
They have no idea.
She leaves the car running and climbs out, hands instinctively landing on her hips as she squares off with him. Her stance is wide – braced for a storm.
As he gets closer, she forgets everything she wanted to tell him.
He’s got a dusty layer of something black and gritty clinging to his arm hair and the stubble around his mouth. There’s oil or grease mixed with sweat that’s collected in the hollow of his collarbone. It looks like maybe he tried to wipe his hands at one point, but didn’t do a thorough job, distinct black streaks cut across the creases of his knuckles and nail beds.
Her thoughts sputter, and she blurts out the only thing that’s continuously been at the forefront of her mind: “What is your fucking problem, huh?”
He blinks back at her, processing.
“You think you can bail on me without even a phone call?” she grits out.
There’s some snickering from the other guys, which tells her she has to be careful because they’re listening.
“Slap me,” he breathes out. The words are so soft, she almost thinks she misheard him.
He takes another menacing step forward, shoulders tensing as he holds her gaze, unblinking.
“Now,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Do it.”
Something about the way he says it – forceful, dripping with disappointment – she doesn’t even realize she’s winding up, elbow high, fingers splayed, until her palm connects with his face.
The crack slices through everything, even the chugging of the stupid V8 engine behind her.
“Ooooh!” Holler a few of the guys – or maybe all of them. A couple are doubled over laughing, one of them is clapping gleefully.
“Shit!” cries out the pale one. “Boy, that must’ve stung!”
And she’s certain that it did, because her hand is buzzing, and Elliot is stroking his cheek with one greasy paw.
His blue eyes flash in her direction, pupils expanding so fast she’d think it was a camera trick if it wasn’t right in front of her face.
Again, he mouths.
And he doesn’t have to ask twice.
She raises her hand, but her body acts on its own this time, fingers curling into a ball. Maybe in the far recesses of her brain, she knows what she’s preparing to do. This is not going to be another slap, but he seems to see that, too.
As she swings her fist through the air, his arm shoots out, one slick hand curling around her wrist. He catches her and she hitches forward with the stalled momentum, but he’s already walking her backwards. She stumbles along, barely touching the ground, until her back meets the cold steel of the car.
He’s got her pinned, and now she can smell him.
Grease and oil, beer – tobacco – the last one makes her stomach turn over, and not in a pleasant way.
And he’s hot, body giving off so much heat she immediately begins to perspire, too.
“Uh, uh,” Elliot grunts.
There’s still some howling and sporadic claps from behind him. She thinks she hears a “Get her, man,” and a “Woo-wee, wrong move, Mama,” but the engine of her car is now loud enough she’s not totally sure what they’re saying.
His frown deepens. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She pushes against him, shoving with one hand since he still has the other one pinned. It’s useless. Trying to move him is like shouldering her weight against a brick wall – it would take a wrecking ball to crack him.
Instead, she goes for his weakness; it’s not physical.
“I’m going to lose my fucking job, Tony. And you won’t even be there to hear about it.” She watches a shadow of guilt pass over him, and maybe it’s unfair to go there, but the words are spilling out of her faster than she can control. “As usual, you have no fucking clue what’s going on with me.”
Considering her history, that might be an even lower blow.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she shoves against him again, and this time he takes a step back, dropping her arm at the same time. “You can't show up when it suits you, and then vanish like nobody will care if you don’t come back.”
He shakes his head. “It’s only been a couple days,” he scratches the stubble on his jaw. “How – what—”
Clearly he doesn’t know what to ask her, and even if he did know, she can’t really answer him now.
“Later,” she grunts, reaching in through the window to kill the engine.
It’s suddenly too quiet.
“Get your shit,” she nods toward the garage. “Or at least, put a shirt on.”
He smirks, shifting from Elliot back to Tony faster than it takes her to blink.
“Why?” He looks down at his bare chest and stomach. “Too distracting?”
On second thought, maybe that’s still Elliot.
Olivia huffs a breath out her nose. “Don’t flatter yourself, dickhead.” She says it loud enough for the rest of the crew to hear. “We’re leaving.”
Elliot shrugs – it’s casual, unconcerned.
It makes her even more furious.
“I said—” she starts.
“—I heard you,” he cuts her off. “I still got one more thing to do, though. Not up to me. Certainly not up to you.”
Fuck.
So much for a quick drop. Somehow, she knew it wasn’t going to be simple.
It never is.
Olivia leans back against the car, folding her arms across her chest. She arches an eyebrow at him, gaze darting to the garage and the thinning group of men who’d lost interest once their scuffle began to wane. For the first time she realizes Reyes is standing there, mouth slightly agape, and she’s glad she didn’t notice him before. She feels slightly exposed now, like she’s stuck in the middle of a nightmare where she shows up to give a speech and looks down to discover she’s naked.
Elliot doesn’t say anything else to her; he just turns and marches back toward where a couple of the men are standing. One of them is laughing, and he tilts his head in her direction.
“Shit, Tony.” The guy rubs a hand under his nose. “That your old lady?” he grins wide, flashing yellow teeth. “She’s too hot for you.”
Olivia watches Elliot nod in agreement as he drags a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know.” He looks back at her for a second before adding, “That’s the only reason I put up with this shit.”
In spite of herself; in spite of her Captain’s title, her passion for equality and dismantling sexist norms – she blushes.
Asshole, she thinks again, but her wrist where he held her is still warm, and her stomach is flipping so fast she isn’t sure if she’s terrified or excited.
God, she hates what he does to her.