Part Two

Sixteen days. It has taken him sixteen days to get his shit together.

Not that standing outside his partner's building at three in the morning with nowhere to live and no one else to turn to necessarily appears to define having his shit together.

Some dumbass has left the lobby door propped open on an old phone book and so Elliot pushes through the security door. It's easier than buzzing her and waiting for her to shout curses through the crappy speaker. As he waits for the elevator to climb to her floor, he decides knocking on her door will somehow have a better effect on her.

It does, apparently, because while she's thoroughly confused at his presence, she lets him in without cursing at him for waking her.

She's half asleep, her eyes still squinting against the brightness of her living room lamp. "What's up?"

She knows it's not work. He would have called for that. He would have met her at the scene or even at the precinct.

He feels stupid and toes the drab beige carpeting just inside the door. He shouldn't have come to her.

But there's nowhere else for him to go.

He figures she knows that or she wouldn't have let him in.

He shrugs, glancing at her and then looking away. Keeping it to himself isn't going to make it go away. "I talked to Kathy."

Olivia's eyes widen almost imperceptively. She immediately hides her reaction by ducking down, her shoulders following suit. She is tired; he doesn't need to see the bags under her eyes to know it.

He feels worse for being there, for needing her, when she needs rest. He wants to turn around and leave, but somehow, running away now would be far more embarrassing than admitting he needs her in the first place.

She steps forward, reaching out, taking his hands in hers.

He thinks for a moment that she has finally understood, has finally seen what he's too scared to say. For a moment, he is elated that she feels the same.

But rather than holding his hands or squeezing them or pulling him into a hug, she lets go, her face somewhat amused when she looks up at him.

"This is going to sound like an insult, El, but it's not, I swear." She nods toward his hands with a smile. "I'm really surprised I'm not dragging you to Mercy with a broken hand." She shakes her head. "Hell, you're not even bleeding."

He stares at her, feeling like she's just popped his psyche like a balloon. He chokes, barely able to force out a whisper. "You think I'd hit her?"

He can't even breathe. The thought is strangling him. He hates that she would think that. He hates that she doesn't know him well enough to know he'd die before he hit a woman.

She laughs.

Laughs.

He wants to cry.

"No, El, of course not, but I figured you'd have stuck your hand through some drywall at the very least." She's chuckling at him. "I'm proud of you." She's laughing, but she's serious at the same time.

And suddenly he's laughing too.

As the laughter fades into silence, he feels a smile remaining on his face. He glances at her and shrugs, realizing that he's a little surprised too. "Well, I guess I had to grow up sometime."

She rolls her eyes. "You weren't so grown up last week when I questioned Martinez without waiting for you."

He feels the blush burning in his cheeks before he even realizes why. He looks away, cursing his Irish heritage for making his embarrassment so transparent. "That was different."

She shakes her head, leaning back on the edge of the sofa. "You're going senile on me. How is that different? I thought you were going to break the mirror in the interrogation room."

She's only half teasing, he knows, because he'd seen the way she jumped when he'd started yelling. He's seen her face down his fury too many times not to throw her a bone now.

He offers her a half smile and then drops it on her. "It's different because you have to care to get that upset."

She stares at him for a moment as though she might accept what he's telling her without argument, then shoves it away like he expects. "You care about Kathy, El."

And he does. But not enough. Not enough to get so damn upset. It hurts – losing his marriage, losing his wife, losing his, well not his, child. Still, it only hurts him, just him, not anyone else. And it's the desire to protect someone he loves from getting hurt that causes him to get so damn angry.

He steps forward, realizing that he's still standing stupidly in the doorway. He needs to explain himself. He needs to spell it out in such a way that she can't brush it off.

Maybe it's a mistake.

Maybe it'll backfire.

Maybe it's the most honest thing he's ever done in his entire life.

Just thinking about it as he crosses the few feet between them, he can feels his body responding.

She has no idea. She doesn't expect it. She doesn't see it coming.

She's standing there with her arms folded across her chest when his hands land on her cheeks.

Her mouth barely has time to drop open in shock before his lips are on hers, pressing lightly, gently, restraining the enormous swell of passion he's feeling at the idea that he's finally doing something he's wanted to do for so damn long, denying the urge to press his body into hers.

He is careful to stay mostly out of contact. It's just the barest brush of lips, a hint of a touch of tongues. He doesn't dare get closer, not even when her arms unfold enough for her hands to grip his shirt. He wants her, desperately, but he's terrified of letting her see that, of letting her feel how hard he is from such minimal contact.

He backs up, knowing he'll lose control if he tempts it, knowing it'll just be harder to hear her rejection the more obvious his feelings are.

Her silence is unbearable.

His nerves are choking him.

He wonders if it's possible for his heart to explode from anxiety.

Her voice is soft, nearly as soft as her lips. "That was-"

And then he realizes that he can't take it, can't possibly hear her turn him down. He's just going to have to die right there on her floor. It's all her fault. She should have known how hard he was falling for her, how he'd always been falling for her.

"What? That was what?" His voice is harsh. He is thinking that maybe if he pretends he never let his guard down, then she'll forget.

But her face is smiling when she shifts into his line of sight, her eyes showing no hint of reproach. "Nice." Her hand lands on his shoulder, lightly sliding down over his chest and stopping at his waist. "That was nice."

She is nervous too; he can hear it in her voice.

"Nice?" He's offended, but not hurt. He hopes her nerves made her choose the wrong word.

She looks away. Her hand drops, her arm falling to her side. She sounds sad, almost defeated. "Maybe we can try it again sometime."

She doesn't know why he pulled away. She doesn't know why he didn't pull her close or kiss her fully or feel her up. She thinks she's the one being rejected, like her response to his kiss wasn't enough to entice him.

And then he is smiling, grinning, moving directly in front of her, his hands grabbing her waist and pulling her so close that she can't possibly misinterpret his attraction to her.

"I can do better than nice." He kisses her for real then.

It is morning when he finally finds the courage to explain everything to her. He's drawn strength from her all night, holding her close and knowing, despite the layers of clothing still between them, that things have changed permanently. He's ok with it though, because she is there with him, snuggled into his side, listening to him relate the details of his marriage-ending discussion with Kathy.

Olivia doesn't say a word when he tells her of Kathy's lame excuse for lying to him, but he knows she hurts for him. Olivia's eyes are wet when he speaks of Kathy's heartless acknowledgement that she knew all along Eli was not Elliot's son. Olivia's arm squeezes around his middle when he reports that he mentioned a divorce and Kathy agreed without a moment's hesitation.

But unlike the last time his marriage fell apart, Elliot doesn't feel like he's spiraling out of control into some bottomless pit of despair and fear and helplessness.

He feels like he might actually be moving in the right direction for the first time in his life, even though it would appear to anyone else that his life was unraveling. His edges are frayed, but the center is holding.

Olivia's eyes are drifting closed, exhaustion taking over her. Elliot looks at her with a smile. If not for her, he'd have buried his grief and pain and anger in a bottle and be nursing a hangover. Instead, he's deliciously tired and ridiculously comfortable with his arms cradling the right woman.

Finally.