svu tig

[bantha_fodder]

Olivia scribbles on the notepad in front of her. Elliot peers across the desk, but the words she writes are illegible. He hopes she does not expect him to decipher them. She taps her pen on the edge of the paper, and fine inkblots spray out of the nib, but she does not notice, so intent is she on her words. Elliot doubts she really sees them.

He reaches across and swipes the last cream donut, and she notices that.

"Hey!" she says. "That's mine!"

"Olivia, I'm just looking out for you." He grins and takes a bite of the donut. He continues, mouth full: "you've had two already this morning. You need to watch your weight, you know."

She throws her pen at him.

Any retort she may have made is drowned out by Munch and Fin entering the squad room.

"You, my friend, are a moron," announces Munch.

Comments

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

"We know," Olivia says, and can hear Elliot saying it along with her. Must be Tuesday; everyone's a moron on Tuesday, when Munch's headache takes over. Everyone will be beloved again on Friday.

Fin ignores Munch, which never ceases to impress, and sits at his desk.

"You know," Fin says to Olivia, "some people can handle undercover. SOME people can maintain a fucking COVER instead of forgetting his partner's name and having to make up some story about buying ass on the street."

Munch sits heavily. "Not my fault no one believes you can charge for sex."

"I bet Cragen took it well," Elliot says.

Fin looks from Elliot to Olivia. "Guess who's up next," he says.

Olivia freezes at the thought of Elliot buying her ass on the street, and immediately forces herself to relax so Elliot doesn't ask what's up.

"You couldn't maintain?" she asks Fin.

Fin raises an eyebrow. "And go home with that?" he asks, but Cragen opens his office door before Olivia can summon an answer.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

"Stabler, Benson, my office please."

Olivia looks down at the page in front of her. She scribbles a few more words, and then pushes it away. She stands. Elliot heads towards Cragen's office, but Olivia detours, picking up the box of donuts and dropping it on Fin's desk.

"You might need these." She smiles and follows Elliot.

Cragen holds the door open as they file past him. He turns to look at Munch. "And you have just consigned yourself and your partner to desk duty."

Munch peers over his glasses as Cragen swings the doors to his office shut. "And that, Detective Fin, is a prime example of the repressed minorites getting pushed aside in favour of the caucasian elite. We make one minor blunder, and we are relegated to this crap hole. Meanwhile, noone seems to remember the mess they made of their last undercover."

Fin looks at Munch.

"Shut up," Fin says, and slaps a pile of paper folders into Munch's chest.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

Cragen wastes no time. "Munch fucked up, so now this case is on you. Wallance Hanson runs a charity that flies sick children around the world to grant their travel wishes. Word on the street is that those kids are carrying more than charitable wishes. There are a lot of requested trips to drug countries."

Elliot and Olivia exchange glances .

"We need a buyer with potential to sell," says Cragen, and Elliot knows.

*

"I'm always the buyer," Elliot says on the way out of the office.

Olivia looks at him askance. "It's because you look like a salesman."

"Why isn't it you?"

"Elliot, look at me."

He doesn't have to. He knows she looks like she doesn't buy anything.

*

He gets a nice apartment, nice clothes, and a fake job with a real company. Olivia gets a job at a bar (hard to overhear) and a gun to hide behind the pint glasses.

He'll meet her nightly, some drunk schmo pouring his heart out. Hard to overhear, hard to fault, and if he's asked about her he's smitten, end of story.

"Damn," says Fin when he hears the plan. "Makes me wish someone had thought about that a little earlier. Not that I'm pointing fingers. I'm just saying my partner is going to get his ass killed sometime soon, is all."

"I'm right here," Munch points out, "and I am not deaf."

"You will be," Fin mutters.

*

Elliot gets bored out of his mind. He starts to buy gossip magazines on the wya home ,two or three at a time; soon there's a pile high enough to serve as an end table.

He puts out feelers on the street, and after a month he's approached by a polished gentleman who hands him a card and suggests he consider giving his recreational drug activities to this company exclusively.

"I'm listening," Elliot says, and wishes he was wearing a wire.

*

That night he stops in the bar, orders two drinks, waits forty minutes to talk to her. She's very good at bartending; if he didn't know her, he'd assume she'd done this before.

Maybe she had. You have to pay bills in the Academy. Who knows?

He frowns into his drink. He should know.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

Olivia's catching eyes, and she knows it. It's kind of hard to miss. The pseudo-poet who favours the fruity drinks never asks for her number, but always leaves poetry on the promotional coasters. After four weeks of tending, of sympathising, she's pretty sure the blonde who perches on the third seat from the corner every Tuesday and Thursday is interested (and looks really good in red). She's not lacking in aging, married business men looking for mistresses, either.

She tries not to think about Elliot at those times.

She remembers a time when Elliot's presence in an undercover was a relief. She'd get nervous, Elliot would get angry, maybe a little protective. She'd get pissed off at his macho thing, and remember to do her job.

Now, she's so busy not thinking about his breath on her ear that she forgets she's supposed to be tending the bar.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

She slides his third drink in front of him and keeps her fingers splayed at the base of the stem. He looks at her hand for a second before he looks at her face.

"How's business?" he asks her, leaning in a little, keeping his voice low. The first question, always. Status check. If she says 'flagging,' she's being watched and they have to get the fuck out.

"Busy," she says. "And you?"

"Same." Situation nominal. "You still breaking hearts?"

As soon as the words are out of his mouth he regrets them. He should not fucking let on that he watches those other guys rest their hands on hers when she takes their tips. Then again, why not? She's his partner. It's a job. One of these guys could be a mole. It's his job. She's his job.

He needs another drink.

When he meets her eye she smiles, and it doesn't reach her eyes. "The night is young," she says.

By the time he can move, she's down the bar, and he nearly cracks the stem of his glass in his fist.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

She clears some glasses from the bar, and notices the poet's left her a gift.

her eyes
she said, her ears
and then

It continues from yesterday's coaster, and she tries not to laugh as she throws it in the bin.

She drops the glasses with just enough force to clink. Clink. She watches Elliot from the corner of her eye as she serves a gin and tonic (who drinks those in public anyway? she wonders, although she knows the answer) with a girly drink. She remembers the umbrella.

Woman in a pink dress approaches Elliot. He laughs with her, and Olivia drops a glass a little too hard. It clinks loudly, but does not break.

She hates pink.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

Blonde in a pink dress. She reminds him of Maureen (he needs to call his kids), but the dress is modestly cut, and when she asks him to buy her a drink she immediately adds, "Not because you're cute, you're just taller. Not that you're not cute."

He laughs.

"I'll see what I can do," he says, but makes no move to look for Olivia. He doesn't want worlds colliding.

"I actually was hoping for a drink tonight," she says after a moment.

She has a nice smile; he's not blind, he can admit when a woman has a nice smile.

He leans over and makes eye contact with Olivia. Something's happened; she's pissed. He got distracted and someone pulled something. Son of a bitch. Nice work, Stabler.

Olivia dumps some glasses in the tub and works her way over to him. She has to slide past a barback, and when she twists to get around him her shirt rides up; he sees a flash of hipbone, the low waist of her jeans.

He hears the woman say, "I don't mean to be trouble."

"It's no trouble," he says, his eyes on Olivia. "I know the bartender."

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

"It's no trouble," he says, and he looks at her. He fucking looks at her, and she stops. What is he doing? "I know the bartender," and she starts moving again.

She's doing her job.

"Don't you think you've had enough?" she asks. She's going for friendly, but she can't get past snippy. She hopes she doesn't come across as jealous ex-lover, although that would probably work too.

"It's not for me." He smirks and it hurts, because it isn't real. "This lovely lady would like," he pauses and smiles at the blonde. The blonde smiles back, and Olivia hates her just a little more.

"Bacardi Breezer," and Olivia picks the pink one, to go with the dress. She turns back, to hear Elliot asking for a name. It's Candi, and Olivia rolls her eyes. Her eyes meet Elliot's.

"Is that on you, Adam?" she stresses his name, hoping he'll look away.

He reaches for the bottle, touches it at the top and slides his hands down until they surround Olivia's, grasping the base.

"It's on me, Liv," he says, and doesn't break eye contact as he pushes the bottle to Candi. Well, if he's not going to look away, neither is she. Two can play at this game, even if Olivia's not sure what they're playing for.

Candi catches the bottle. She looks down at it in her hand, then over to Elliot's hand still loosely grasping Olivia's.

"Whatever," she says, and wanders away.

She doesn't bother to thank Elliot, but it doesn't matter, because he doesn't notice.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

He has no idea what she's thinking; she disapproves, sure, but she disapproves of most women who drink. Holdover from having an alcoholic mother.

Maybe she hates the name Candi.

"So," he says, "you mad at me because I had a little success?"

'A little success' means he's made contact.

She doesn't answer, just tilts her head, acknowledging the contact.

When she pulls away he presses on, because he's not about to let her wander back down the bar and get into trouble, and if he has to goad her into staying he will. "I can't help it, Liv," he says, louder, "since you keep breaking my heart. You break everybody's heart." He looks at the guy next to him, who raises a glass in comaraderie.

"Though some guys have no manners," Elliot adds. "Did anything happen?"

He doesn't mind taking someone outside for being rude to the bartender. It's within his cover.

He doesn't look away from her face. He doesn't know what she thinks.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

"It's fine." She shakes her head and looks away. He touches her chin and forces her to look at him. She lifts an eyebrow, and he lifts one in return.

"Did anything happen?" he repeats.

She jerks her chin away from his hand and grimaces. "Not everyone can get a little action," she says.

She hears a holler down the far end of the bar for beer, and she remembers she's doing two jobs here.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

Is she...no. Elliot's been drinking. He needs to go home. She'll go back to the squad, things will progress apace, he'll buy some drugs and this will be over.

Elliot wants this to be over. He doesn't like meeting her like this, when they aren't quite themselves. Blondes don't approach married cops. Bartenders don't snap at the customers.

Olivia's down the bar, serving some guy in a suit who looks like he played college football. Last week. He grins at Olivia, a mouthful of too-perfect white teeth, and says something that probably works on other women.

Olivia hooks the beer bottle on the edge of the bar and brings her fist down; the cap goes flying, and she hands the bottle to the open-mouthed boy.

Elliot bites back laughter, and pride, and something he tamps down before he can name it.

When he goes, he leaves her a twenty with a phone number on it.

*

It takes him a long time to fall asleep; in his head, Olivia jerks away from him, slams her fist against the bar, the bottlecap flies.

He touches her hands around that woman's drink.

He touches her hands.

He touches her.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

It takes her a good, oh, two seconds to realise that Elliot's left the bar. She cranes her neck towards the door, and just spots him disappearing through it. She works her way back down to where he was sitting, and finds a twenty in the glass. She thinks that maybe Elliot's not quite himself, leaving a twenty in the glass - anyone could have walked past and lifted it. She checks the twenty for hints and notes a phone number. She memorises the digits, and wipes it off with a finger dipped in beer.

It's gross but works, and she's not come this far by being stupid. A twenty in the till smelling of beer is preferable to a twenty with a phone number.

But with Elliot gone, she maybe flirts a little easier with the customers.

*

After closing time, she goes back to her apartment. At least she has her own apartment to go home to, and the precinct in the morning. She wonders what Elliot does when he's sick of being Adam, but her answering machine's flashing and she doesn't think of Adam again.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

He calls at noon; wonders if Olivia and Munch are already tracing all calls made to this number.

"I'm interested," he says.

They chat about the weather, about Central Park. It's nice this time of year.

"Next week?" the man asks.

"I'm busy on Tuesday and Wednesday." Can't seem too eager.

"Thursday afternoon?"

Elliot counts to ten. "I can meet Thursday."

"Mister Elliot?"

"Yeah?"

"Gray isn't your color."

He doesn't look over his shoulder. "Yeah, but purple's against dress code."

The man laughs.


*

He goes to the bar, doesn't touch his drink. It's seven and she's not there.

He draws on the bar with the sweat from his glass. Where is she? Do they think about her? Do they know?

He's not letting her walk out tonight alone.

It's almost eight before she walks through the door. He tears a cocktail napkin into strips and wonders what happened. Wonders how he can ask.

He knows that the shadow's sitting in the corner table, over his left shoulder, far enough away to be served by a waitress and not Olivia.

He watches her face. Something happened. She knows something.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

She's taken to leaving her cell off when she's undercover - it wouldn't do for a civillian to get their hands on a cop's phone, and might be just enough to break her cover. So she's not surprised to hear Munch's voice on her answering machine.

"Olivia, bars don't stay open this late. We have a problem," is his cryptic message. Her blood chills. At least she knows it's not Elliot. By now he's tucked up in his apartment, Adam Elliot and his white collar life.

She calls Munch, and, "A man needs his beauty sleep," he whines, before she can get past, "Munch."

"Tell her to come in early," she can hear Cragen in the background. "There's nothing we can do now."

He hangs up on her.

First thing next morning and she's entering the squadroom. Munch doesn't waste his words. "Let's find you an apartment, my delicate flower."

He offers her a donut, and she wonders what he means.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

She's tense, too tense even for undercover. Someone opens a beer and she pulls out a bottle opener. No one else notices, but it means that her hands are shaking. Something happened.

He wishes he knew another lanuage. He wishes he had better grasp of English. Anything.

He waits to be served, because he needs the time.

Scotch neat in front of him, and she takes her hand off the glass before he can reach for it.

"Is this because I didn't call?" he starts, because it's a useful metaphor, and men aren't interested in other men on the pull.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

"What, you think you're the only guy interested in me?" She's nervous, and she hates herself for it. She's a cop, damnit! She's on the line every day, and today is no different.

She can't stop seeing shadowy men around every corner; drug runners with guns and the shakes.

"Meet me out the back during my break," she says, before he can get a word in. If she hears his voice again, she might drop the glass she's holding.

*

She's leaning against the wall, waiting, and if she was any sort of cliche she'd be smoking. She's not a cliche - sometimes she wonders if she's even a cop - and so Elliot's appearance is both a relief and a point of panic. she hopes that no-one saw him.

"Munch and I were canvassing," she says softly as he approaches. She's not willing to risk more time out in the open than she has to. "And one of your guys saw me before I could disappear. And Munch said he's stalking me."

Elliot puts his arm up. "Wait a minute, this guy is stalking you?"

"No," Olivia shakes her head. "Munch is stalking me. I'm his ex girlfriend. He's bringing me donuts." Elliot looks like he's about to explode, and Olivia continues. "So now I've got to keep out of the precinct, and stay somewhere else, until this undercover is over. Can't risk him recognising me."

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

Elliot exhales through his nose, trying to clear his vision. Again. Again.

Olivia folds her arms and watches him, and he can hear the wheels turning, anticipating his responses.

He thinks cruelly, She should have anticipated a little sooner, before she fucked everything up.

But that's unfair; he's deeper than she is, and even he has to stop himself twice daily from interfering in domestic disputes (can't break cover, no matter what, can't even call the police because the neighbors will figure out who called and that's too much attention, too much risk). He can't imagine what it's like to be a cop by day and a target at night.

He doesn't want Munch here. Too complicated. Munch is bad at keeping cover, Munch is too unique, Munch is too pushy, Munch knows too many criminals. Munch should not be here.

"Like hell," Elliot finally says.

Olviia's eyes are locked on his face, and he watches the blood rush to her cheeks when he says it. He doesn't know what she's thinking (goddammit), and suddenly he's angry, really angry.

He leans forward suddenly, plants two stiff arms on the wall on either side of her, traps her in the circle of his body. They're so close that when she takes a deep breath he can feel the shift of her body against his coat.

"You are not staying somewhere else," he says against her ear, his voice murderouloy low. "Munch is no part of this. You finish your shift and then you come home with me."

It was supposed to be a partner's offer: friendly, logical, dire circumstances. It comes out as an order, and Elliot has the urge to slide his leg between hers and pin her there until she says yes before he remembers who he is, and why he can't.

He settles for meeting her stare.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

She pushes him away. "That's a stupid plan, Elliot. I barely tolerate you in the bar, and suddenly I'm living with you? What, you don't trust me on my own?"

Elliot doesn't break eye contact, and, despite the push, remains close to her. "Of course I trust you," he says softly.

The arrogant ass. She knows that he's doing it to protect her, and she hates it.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

She's ready to bolt, he knows, he can see it in the way she's holding her head, so he keeps his arms down and doesn't move for her again.

He doesn't move back, either, but every man has his flaws.

"So it's a pity fuck," he says, sparing half a smile for the image. "You can't pick princes every time; you're taking some drunk home."

It's just words, and they both know it. He won't let her go home alone with only Munch at her back.

She looks at him, and he waits, ready to stop her if she runs but not inclined to push her any more than he has.

If she was alone, her chances might be better, but she's not stupid, Elliot knows. She doesn't want Munch at her back, either.

He shivers. It's cold. He starts to pull at his sleeves before he wonders what she would think of him offering her his coat.

"Liv." It's the beginning of a long sentence he doesn't need to finish.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

Olivia doesn't answer him. She stares at him, and isn't quite sure what he's offering. A solution, sure, but days and nights and flirting and she's not certain she can deal with it.

He tries to meet her eyes, but she refuses. She counts the bricks in the pavement, and she jumps and turns when the door from the bar slams. A barback looks at her, and beside her, Elliot stiffens.

"You cool, Liv?" calls Jeremy. This is sometimes code for 'is this guy bothering you?' and, occasionally, code for 'should we take him out the back and beat him up?' It's that kind of bar, and it's both disconcerting and oddly comforting.

Olivia musters a smile for Jeremy. "I'm cool," she calls back. "I'm just coming off break."

Jeremy gives Elliot one last suspicious glare as he walks back into the bar, and Olivia moves to follow him.

She hopes Elliot doesn't notice she hasn't given him an answer.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

Elliot stands outside a while longer, wishing he had thought to make Adam a smoker. It would give him something to do with his hands.

When he comes back into the bar, he sees that the barback has been more or less waiting for him; he has a bucket full of empty bottles, but he's leaning back against their weight, like he's been standing there a while.

"What's up?" the kid says.

Elliot shrugs. "Love's a bitch."

The kid narrows his eyes, but Elliot's laid a pretty solid bet that he's not the first guy to approach Olivia after a couple of drinks.

He's right; the kid shifts his weight and lifts the bucket to his shoulder. "Well, watch it," he says.

Elliot nods, a defeated suitor.

The kid disappears into the alley, and Elliot takes his seat, which is stil open even though the bar has begun to fill up. He wonders if that's luck, or is she's been holding it for him.

Olivia looks everywhere but at him; she slides drinks along the bar with half a smile, reaches for bottles of liquor without looking and fills it up just shy of the rim every time. Her fingers never linger on the glasses, though more than once a guy tries to get a brush in. He's the only guy in the place that's managed to get hold of her, and partner or not, it's a point of pride.

She turns away from the crowd for a moment to collect herself, and her face slips back into the Olivia he knows. He tries not to stare.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

Closing time approaches rapidly, and before Olivia knows it they're throwing out the patrons. Elliot gives her this look before he leaves, and she knows exactly what it means.

It means he'll be waiting for her outside, and for a moment she entertains the hope that the bouncers don't let her leave alone. It wouldn't be the first time they've had to protect her from some guy she's turned down.

Olivia takes her time wiping down the bar, doing it herself rather than letting a barback take care of it. The longer she takes, the better, she thinks.

It isn't like her to take comfort in procrastinating, but she'll take comfort where she can get it.

Olivia counts the money in the till, and the boss comes out of his office to chat.

"Jeremy said some guy was harrassing you tonight." The boss leans against the bar and watches Olivia's hands. She's wearing chunky rings on her fingers, and they catch the light.

Olivia shakes her head. "It's cool," she says.

"Do you need one of the boys to see you home?"

"Nah." She hands the counted cash over.

She may as well go home with him, the bastard.

She walks out of the bar.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

He decides against having the door held open, because that's less Gentleman and more Asshole, and he knows it.

The barback locks the glass doors and frowns at him again. Elliot spares him a shit-eating grin. Kiss my ass, kid. You can't begin to guess.

He tries not to be obvious about looking for his shadow, but it's the guy in the gray Toyota five cars down, with the windows open and the radio off. Listening.

He pretends to get a page, walks unsteadily to the pay phone on the corner, and dials.

The kid can hear him.

Munch picks up on the third ring. "Lovelorn and lonely, how can I help you?"

"You can stop being a prick," offers Elliot, but Munch just laughs.

"I answer the precinct phone like that, too."

"I'm taking Olivia home," Elliot says with no preamble, and he can actually hear Munch's mind jumping tracks.

Eventualy Munch says, "Professionally, you mean."

Nice wording. "The night is young," he says, grins. "Maybe I'll get lucky."

Munch sighs. "If she's there, she's going to beat you until your balls fall off."

"That's what I'm hoping."

"I could have taken care of it," Munch says, bristling at last.

"No time for romance," Elliot says. "A man has needs."

Munch gets it. "Can he hear you?"

"Yup."

"Do I need to send anyone?"

"Nah," says Elliot, "we're broken up. She's not allowed to give me shit for seeing other people."

"I'll be by the phone," Munch says, and hangs up.

Elliot laughs, mutters something about assholes, and hangs up, too. He knows that Munch will actually sit by the phone all night, because Munch may be crap at undercover, but he's a stickler for having everyone's back. Something must have happened to him back in Baltimore. He's really got a stick up his ass about it.

When Elliot turns to walk back to his car, Olivia's coming out of the bar.

He meets her eyes.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

Olivia takes a deep breath, and steps out of the door. She smiles and mutters "good night," to Jeremy, who puts a hand on her arm.

"You sure, Olivia?"

She bristles. Some kid like this, assuming she can't do her job? What is she, some sort of delicate petal? Does he think she needs her hand held too? She shrugs his hand away.

"I'm a big girl, Jeremy. I can look after myself." It's a little out of character for this bar tender she's playing, but where would a bar tender be if she didn't show a little spine?

She looks up as she walks away from the bar, and spots Elliot stepping out of a phone booth. He looks a little unsteady, and she hopes it's an act and not a lingering problem from the beating he took last month. She wonders if he's had any such problems since he's been undercover, and acknowledges that she should know these things. She's been remiss in this operation, and it could have been a thing. She's probably lucky it hasn't been.

This behaviour ends tonight. She has a job to do.

The have a job to do.

She meets his eyes.

Olivia smiles.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

For a long moment he tries to keep his cool, ridiculously, play hard to get. But she smiles, and he smiles, because they're hysterical, aren't they. It's like high school theater or something. Maybe. He played lacrosse, so what does he know.

He steps up to her, leans against the car so his shadow can't see her face.

"Tail directly behind me, Toyota," he says, but he still has the stupid smile on.

He leans in; for a moment, his shoulder rests against her shoulder, he can just barely feel the heat from her body, and then he's holding the car door open for her and trying not to think about it.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

"It's cool," she says, getting into the car. "If I'm gonna to be staying with you, they're gonna find out where I am, sooner or later." He moves to shut the door for her, but she reaches for the handle. "I can do it, Elliot. I'm not an invalid." Olivia pulls the door closed, and narrowly misses hitting his fingers.

Sitting alone in the car, she takes a moment to breathe and shut her eyes, and thinks maybe she's being too much of a bitch to Elliot. They're in the car, noone can hear them, and he's her partner, right?

The driver's side door opens violently, and Elliot gets into the car in silence. The smile is gone from his face.

She turns to him.

She puts her hand on his arm, and takes a breath to speak.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

"Forget it," Elliot says, though when she takes her hand away his arm is cold through his shirt.

He drives carefully for a few blocks, then cuts in front of a bus and turns - looks like asshole driving, but it gives them a chance to pull away from the tail, buy them half an hour.

She doesn't say anything, just looks out the window; he has a brief flashback to his junior prom. Kathy didn't say much, either, and spent the whole night with her friend Becky, and Elliot had to hang out with Brad, Becky's date, who gave him a cigarette and told him that Kathy was hot.

Live, he starts to say, but doesn't. What's to explain?

When he pulls into the parking garage of his apartment building, he doesn't open her car door, but he waits for her so they can walk in together.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

Olivia gets out of the car, and, walking, groans, "I don't have any clothes, and you know what that means." Elliot does not acknowledge her, but she continues regardless. "Day-old clothes, Elliot."

Elliot stops and turns, and she narrowly avoids bumping into him. "Day-old clothes are the least of your concerns, Liv." Elliot sounds slightly condescending, and Olivia wonders if he's doing it intentionally. She motions for him to continue walking. She can't be bothered arguing about this when her day has been so long.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

Not that Elliot wants to elaborate and point out the most of her concerns. He's grateful when she doesn't press the point.

The elevator ride takes a long time, and he finds himself wishing that Fin's cover hadn't gotten blown. Fin would have made a great bartender. No worries about him handling himself in a dark alley; of all the guys on the squad (Olivia included), Elliot would want Fin at his back in a dark alley.

He looks at Olivia. He would never have taken Fin home, and Olivia knows it. It doesn't make him sorry, but it gives him pause.

"You wore the same clothes for four days when the Miller girl went missing," he says finally. "You slept in the crib and you didn't eat and you wore the same clothes for four days. What's the problem now?"

Only after he's finished asking can he look at her.

He almost wishes he hadn't asked, hadn't pressed the point. Than again, he needs to know.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

Olivia looks at him. She's not sure if he's playing with her, or if he really is this stereotype, but she assumes the worst. Perhaps a fight will do her good.

Or not. She really can't be bothered.

"It just won't look good, Elliot. When you work in a bar, people notice what you're wearing."

She steps out of the elevator without waiting for his answer, and heads down the corridor. If someone were watching, she knows it would look suspicious.

She picked the apartment for him.

She tries not to think about it.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

He waits just outside the elevator, watching Olivia walk down the hallway. She always walks like she knows where she is. After their second year, he stopped trying to outguess her on it. Even if she didn't know, she wouldn't tell him.

And that's fine. He keeps some things from her, too. You have to keep something of yourself from your partner or you'd kill her.

Them. You'd kill them.

She's almost at the end of the hall before he remembers that this is different, and he doesn't have to stand and watch her keep walking until she's lost to sight.

The elevator dings, and he remembers that there was a reason for all this.

He doesn't turn to look at the open doors, and doesn't hurry. By the time he's in front of the door, Olivia's already tried the handle twice, as if she can unlock it through sheer force of will.

He almost offers her the keycard, but he hesitates; this is different. You don't offer the keycard to a one night stand.

He reaches around her and slides the key into the lock; his trench brushes her back. She smells a little like soap. Vanilla vodka and soap.

The lock beeps and flickers red, and he has to try again.

"Who is it?" he asks, and when she turns her head, her hair brushes his face.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

"Old lady," Olivia whispers, and her voice wavers. She forces a smile, and looks away from the lady working her way down the corridor. The image sticks in her mind, plastic bags and a walking cane, the suspicious glare. You're going to have sex, the old lady accused Olivia, and Olivia wonders what looking away means to old women.

She wonders what she's doing here.

Olivia's vision is obscured by Elliot, who blocks any escape routes. "Are you okay?" He bops his head, and she can't tell if he's concerned or bored.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

He didn't drink, he hardly drank anything, but his head is fuzzy and the soap and vodka smell is filling his nose. If he doesn't calm down he's going to draw his gun on the old lady and blow everything.

He pushes the door open, lets her walk through first.

The apartment is clean only because he doesn't spend enough time here to mess it up. He slides the locks closed.

"The bathroom's..." he points behind him to the right before he remembers that it's not there. The bathroom in his house was there. "Around," he amends. "It's a small place."

She half-laughs, but he doesn't know what it means until he remembers who picked out the apartment.

"Small and REALLY SUPER," he says, smiling at the door.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

Olivia laughs, and it feels nice. She's not sure when she last laughed (it was sixteen hours ago, when Munch said, "Hey good looking. Can I watch you in the bath? I have new binocculars," and offered her a jam donut), but she smiles and laughs, and rolls her shoulders. She shuts her eyes as she does so, and Elliot's laugh joins hers. She opens her eyes and looks at him.

"You don't like the apartment I picked out for you, El?" She waves an arm around. "This is some of my finest work."

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

"No," he says, slips out of his coat. "It just sucks when the TV crews come by from Architecture TV to film it."

He ducks into the kitchen and grabs the take-out menus, brings them over to her. He fans them out like a card trick - Chinese, Indian, diner, Thai. "They always come by when I'm in the shower. Assholes."

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

Olivia shuts her eyes and makes like it's a random guess, but she remembers where the Indian one was and picks it. She opens her eyes and it's Chinese. He switched them, the bastard.

Elliot grins. "Noodles?" he asks, and laughs again, because he knows she hates chopsticks.

She smiles. "Lemon chicken. And prawn crackers." She considers making a game of it, asking for chicken feet and fish eyes, but decides she's too tired for that.

Olivia walks towards the bathroom (of course she knows where it is), and calls over her shoulder. "You can order."

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

"How kind," he calls, and pulls out his phone.

He orders with half his attention, pulling off his coat, his tie, unbuttoning his shirt. He goes for his belt before he remembers that he's not actually home alone. He takes off the belt and leaves his pants on.

"Fifteen minutes? Great," he says. He drapes his handful of clothes over a kitchen chair and takes a seat on the couch.

He thinks about Olivia for a moment and gets up again, fishes out a tee and some sweatpants. They'll be huge on her, but at least she won't be sleeping in clothes. Or naked.

That thought brings him up short, and when she comes out of the bathroom he looks up and hopes he doesn't look as guilty as he feels.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

Olivia splashes water on her face and looks in the mirror. Remembers that she's still wearing makeup and reaches for her purse. Baby wipes - never leave home without them.

Face free of makeup, she takes a leak and tries to stretch her toes. She will be relieved to step out of her shoes. She's been wearing them for seventeen hours, and her feet hurt.

She washes her hands and reaches for the door.

She wonders what she's going to wear to sleep in. Something, because there's no way she's sleeping naked.

She wonders where she's going to sleep. For a second she hopes Elliot will suggest she share with him, but knows he will take the couch and offer her his bed.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

He grins at the look on her face - it's like they're schoolkids playing hooky - and sits on the couch, picks up the remote. She looks at the pajamas he's laid out.

"They're too big," he says, and starts flipping channels, "but better than sleeping naked."

As if on cue, he clicks onto some movie or other. The leads are having sex, and the room fills with the sounds of gasps and moans, artful violins swelling in the background.

There's the most awkward three seconds of his life before he keeps going, hits a cooking channel, takes a breath.

"Pajamas," he says, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Pajamas."

It shouldn't be funny. He stares at the guy chopping potatoes into little pieces. Potatoes aren't funny.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

Olivia tries not to laugh, and she reaches for the shirt he's set out as he changes the channel. She can't see his face, but she's sure that he's blushing.

She goes back into the bathroom to change.

"Did you order some food, Elliot?"

She shuts the door without waiting for his answer.

He hates the cooking channel.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

"Why, yes," he calls out, "I certainly did."

Then he laughs, because what kind of asshole is he? Who talks like that? This is Olivia, for God's sake. Not Olivia-from-the-bar, who Adam loves. This is Olvia-his-partner, who got food poisoning from bodega falafel and made him pull over six times in one shift because she had to throw up, and refused to go back to the station because she wanted to catch the guy.

Elliot can make the distinction.

He goes back to the movie for a second, bravely; it's a big landscape, and someone's dead, and there's a lot of mourning happening. Whoops.

"That'll teach you to have sex," he tells them.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

"Who's having sex?" Olivia asks, stepping out of the bathroom again. He was right; the clothes don't fit at all, and she's positive that she looks like a dork. Big baggy shirt, stupid shorts.

She's calling Munch to drop by her apartment in the morning, because if they're doing this at all, they're doing to properly. Not that she trusts Munch to go through her things, so she'll call Fin instead.

Elliot gives her a look, and it's shuttered. She's not sure where Elliot's gone, but she's pretty sure he's not in the room anymore.

There is a knock at the door, and Elliot looks away.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

She looks different in his clothes. Smaller (though she's tiny anyway, and he just forgets. Maybe it's the gun).

He can't tell what she's thinking, but before he can ask there's a knock.

He gives her a level glare. "I'm watching the wicked get punished," he says, trying to maintain a straight face. "Could you get the door?"

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

Olivia raises an eyebrow, but goes to the door anyway. The kid at the door glares and offers the bag and a quiet, "twenty-five bucks," and she reaches for the wallet that's not there.

"Hey, El," she says, half-turning. "Got any cash? Seem's I'm flat out."

Elliot throws her bag at her, and she laughs. "Cheapskate." She pays the kid and closes the door. "You make a crap date."

He meets her eyes. "Yeah, and I'm easy, too."

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

He regrets it, of course, but he regrets it about ten seconds too late when she gets taut all over and looks like she's going to bolt for the door barefoot in his shirt.

"Let's eat," he says instead, overly jolly. He goes into the kitchen for paper towels, paper plates, paper cups. "Nothing but the best," he announces on his way back to the dining area.

She's got her eyes glued to the bag, carefully removing white cartons one after the other. "They're keeping you in style, then," she says, but it's automatic.

"Like a king," he says, and moves to the table to lay out the places.

When he puts down his plate, she's reaching for one of the containers of rice, and they come shoulder to shoulder, arms barely brushing.

He holds his breath.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

Olivia brushes his shoulder, and slowly moves away. She tries to do it naturally, but she's sure he notices. He tenses, but doesn't stop what he's doing.

He won't look at her.

She slides into the seat, unsurprised that he's put them at opposite ends of the table. It's impractical, but whatever.

She passes them the chicken, because that's what he always starts with, and their fingers touch.

[sloanesomething.livejournal.com]

He's not hungry, but he takes the chicken, three spoonfuls. Three of rice, three of vegetables.

He's grateful for the paper plates, because he couldn't take the clink of flatware. It would sound like his house before Kathy left.

"We need a plan," he says. He has to met these guys on Thursday. That's two more days, and if it stays like this they'll end up at each other's throats.

[bantha-fodder.livejournal.com]

She lets the silence hang between them as she thinks about his words. A plan? A plan for dealing with these guys? A plan for getting her some clothes? A cover story? (The guys at the bar aren't going to believe she willingly went home with Elliot, and drug guys aren't going to believe it either) A sleeping plan? Maybe he's thinking shifts.

She doesn't want to tip her ignorance, but she doesn't want to make a mistake, either. It's all too important.

"I suppose," she says non-commitantly.

[30_rock_office.livejournal.com]

No! Don't stop there! It was just getting to the good part! <3