Title: Run With It.
Summary: Hypotheticals.
Pair: Elliot/Olivia.
Note: I actually meant to post this one months ago—I wrote it at the end of December to reach a writing goal but forgot to cross-post, so here it is now. This was originally meant to be a scene in my s11 fic 'you were burned, about to burn (you're still on fire)', but it didn't work with that, so I revamped it and made it like a little missing scene from the episode Ace. Enjoy!

Cragen hands them the duffle and sends them on their way, no shortage of warnings and concealed concern attached to his orders, and they take it. Listen. Promise to be good. Stay safe.

"Six figures," Elliot says when they're in the car, almost at the exchange spot. There's a wisp of wonder in his voice. A hint of disbelief.

"Seven million," Olivia adds, and Elliot's tone is mirrored in her own. She'd thought one or two at most, not seven.

"For one kid."

Olivia gives him a pointed look, tells him, "Not everyone can have them as easily as you do." It's half joking, half combative.

Elliot rolls his eyes, says, "I know that," and smirks: small and brief, the expression gone as quick as it comes. "It's just..." He stops, lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. "A lot."

Olivia tilts her head, as if to say yeah, but she gets it. Can understand the Butlers' desperation in ways she knows Elliot can't.

They pull into Morningside and Elliot puts the car in park but leaves it on, lets the heater run. It's cold—has been for days, now—and they've got a bit of time before Petrov shows up. There's no reason to leave the warmth just yet.

"You wanna steal it as much as I do?" Elliot asks as they sit, wait. Both of them staring out the windshield, across the damp pavement of the parking lot. Over to where Petrov is likely to show.

"What," Olivia says, "take the money and run?"

Elliot nods. "It'd be easy," he says. "You can finally have that tropical get away."

Olivia snorts: soft and airy, more of a breath than anything else. "You asking me to skip town with you, Stabler?"

Beside her, Elliot grins: the small, secretive type that she really only sees when they're alone. "Maybe," he says. Rolls his head against the car seat to look at her. "Would you?"

"Oh, yeah," she answers, the words laced with sarcasm. She turns to him, can't help the way her mouth twitches. "What's the plan? Swimming and sunbathing?"

"And cocktails," Elliot tells her. "Maybe sightseeing."

"What, no long walks on the beach?"

Elliot looks at her as if to say, what kind of man do you take me for? "Not just walks," is what he says out loud, and there's humour in his voice, now. Understated, but there. "Sunset dinners," he adds. Tilts his head and grins. "I'm a romantic."

He says it like it's an accomplishment, like he's proud of himself. It makes a laugh bubble in Olivia's chest: light, warm. Easy. It's what this whole thing is: easy. There's a security to hypotheticals. A safety net that allows her to think about this—to picture the tropical lifestyle, the holiday cliché. The innate romance to it all. A safeguard that lets her imagine doing it with Elliot: that lets her picture sunny days and warm nights spent side by side, their days full of calm and beauty; the exact opposite of what Manhattan has to offer them.

It's alluring in that common way. The same way peace and quiet is. Calm and tranquillity—every man's dream.

It's alluring in other ways, too. Ones she doesn't want to think about.

"I can't imagine you in a bikini," Elliot says then, and it snaps Olivia out of her thoughts. Has her torn between laughing and hitting him.

She settles for an arched brow and a slightly amused, "What?"

Elliot shrugs, as if to say what do you mean, what? and says, "You don't seem the type."

She's not sure if she should be offended or not. "No," she jokes. "I'm all dress pants and police windbreakers, right? No dresses or swimsuits."

"Pretty much," Elliot says, half serious, half teasing, and she rolls her eyes.

"I own bikinis," Olivia tells him. He stares at her in response, eyebrow twitching in that way it does when he's waiting for her to add something. A sigh presses at her teeth. "A bikini," she amends.

He smiles, like it's some sort of victory, and she wants to roll her eyes again. "I live in Manhattan," she says, like it explains everything. "I don't need them."

"Uh huh," is Elliot's response. He is teasing now, eyes alight with a mischievous glint. She shakes her head.

"You ruined the holiday," she tells him, and she knows there's a smart response on the tip of his tongue, can see it in his expression. It dies as a car comes up behind them, as they both turn to look, to see who it is.

It isn't Petrov. The car drives past them, gives them a glimpse of a couple who look to be in their late teens, early twenties. Elliot sighs, and it's as if the joke is drained out of him. Replaced with something tired, weary.

"Never got to the best part," he says. "No rapists or pedophiles." He pauses, glances to where Glen Butler's cell phone sits between them. Adds, "Or baby traffickers."

Olivia smiles even though she feels it too: the way fantasy is shattered by reality, their indulgent reverie replaced with responsibility.

"Wouldn't that be nice," she says, and it's quiet. Resigned. She can't imagine it. Even in her wildest fantasy, humanity still seems to have that sick, horrific sector: like the knowledge of its existence is too ingrained in her for her subconscious to let it go.

Maybe it is, she thinks. Elliot looks like he knows what's going through her mind. Like he shares the sentiment.

"We'd go mad, anyway," he tells her, and she supposes he's right. Because really, peace and quiet and calm have never been their speciality. They need the job like they need each other.

She hums, noncommittal. Watches as another car enters the lot. "Can't hurt to dream, though," she says, the smile falling from her face completely as the car draws closer; determination taking over as she catches sight of Petrov through the windshield. Olivia reaches to open the door, looks at Elliot over her shoulder. "Ready?"

His door is already open, keys in hand. He nods at her, face set in an expression she knows well: grit, resolve. "Ready," he tells her, and the last of their hypothetical getaway disappears as the car doors shut behind them.

When she comes to work the next day, there's a cup of tea waiting on her desk, a post-it note stuck to the side that reads: lemon & honey-maybe next time.