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They see them in the glass display at the coffee shop a full week before Valentine’s Day.
Bright pops of ultra red and pink icing, messily piped onto what Olivia thinks might be red velvet cupcakes. The treats are an anomaly in the upscale, takes itself slightly too serious coffee shop down the street from her apartment. Normally, it’s too dry almond and butter croissants, the occasional pain au chocolat; fruit tarts that look pretty under the glass but taste nothing like the dried cherry and caramel they profess to be made of.
Once, they’d had macarons.
(Flavor uncertain).
The coffee is good though, and more importantly it’s close enough on a busy Thursday morning that she doesn’t mind being stuck in line for a little bit longer than normal; knowing full well that this is likely the most time they’ll spend together for the next week. Normally they both stand here with their eyes on their phone screens, clearing out as much business as they can before the day even begins.
This morning, both phones are tucked into their coat pockets.
“You all packed?” Olivia asks.
They inch forward - literally, barely a half shuffle of their feet - as he nods. Between them, the backs of their hands brush, and she smiles when she feels him hook his pointer finger around hers. Pointer finger on the inside, the rough pad of thumb smoothing down the front; it is a quiet, easy intimacy here in the bustling line.
“Mostly,” Elliot sighs. “I need to run by my place and grab a few extra ties.”
She raises an eyebrow as she turns. In the tiny space of the coffee shop line, he looks almost larger than life. It’s funny how she sometimes forgets about that part of him now; forgets the space he takes up when you’re not used to his presence.
She used to notice it so frequently.
“You going fashionista on me, Stabler?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “More like — ”
They shuffle forward again. He uses their momentum to snag her hand even more, sliding his hand so they’re palm to palm, lacing his fingers through hers easily and quick. Suddenly holding hands in the damn coffee shop line, like they're two twenty year olds in lust.
Olivia twists her head to look at him.
Elliot gives her a shrug, and a crooked, easy grin. He cocks his head just slightly, squeezing his fingers just once. His blue eyes dance in the morning sunlight. This morning when they woke up, it had been too dark to really see them, even when he’d pulled her close and kissed her breathless. Mouths stale with sleep, but bodies warm and soft and close in the early morning darkness, but she hadn’t been able to see his eyes.
A week apart seemed aggressively short at one point in their story, but now - it seems almost dauntingly long.
She squeezes back.
“More like I don’t want to get there and be stressed about not having the right tie,” he finishes. “I barely want to go as is. I’m already on the fence about this whole damn thing.”
“On the fence,” she shakes her head. “About being asked to train new FBI agents?”
He shrugs.
He pulls her just a little bit, tugging at their entwined hands so she sways into him. He ducks his head immediately, lips and nose nudging her hair to the side just enough for him to be close. Not too close for the coffee shop, but close enough for her to feel him, mouth hovering by the shell of her ear.
And maybe the slightest drag of his lips.
“This is your sort of thing, not mine,” Elliot murmurs, voice low and thick and deep. “You’re the bigwig.”
Olivia can feel herself go warm; can feel that wild, crazy heat that she really, really shouldn’t feel here in the middle of the coffee shop before eight in the morning.
His thumb smooths down the back of her hand, and oh that doesn’t help at all, really. A week seems suddenly like a month, like a year. She breathes in, trying to make it sound as casual as possible.
“Yeah?”
Elliot draws back, grinning even harder as he sees her flushed cheeks, and the way she breathes in hard at the loss of him.
“Yeah, Captain,” he tells her. “Actually, you know what? Maybe it’s not too late for you to come with for a little romantic vacation?”
“Right,” she laughs, dry. “A week on base together.”
In front of them now she can see it, the big glass display case with the mediocre pastries and treats.
That’s when she spots them for the first time, the single row of bright cupcake treats. They’re labeled with the words Lil Love Bugs, black and white googly eyes dropped on messy strands of frosting.
Cupcakes, she thinks. Garish bright reds and pinks for —
“C’mon,” Elliot says. “A little Valentine’s get away since we’re missing it?”
“At Quantico?” Olivia laughs as it all sinks in.
The cupcakes, and his jokes about a romantic vacation make sense. She hadn’t even realized the date. Or, logically yes she had, but it hadn’t clicked that they’d miss it, or that it mattered. It’s not that she’s so cynical she doesn’t enjoy Valentine’s Day or the concept. It’s just that Noah is well beyond the years where she had to keep track of classroom list of names and food allergies, so it just - didn’t register.
Elliot will be in Quantico right up until February 15th.
“Could be romantic,” Elliot deadpans. “I can probably arrange a candlelit dinner in the mess hall for two, since I’d have a bigwig NYPD Captain with me.”
She scoffs at that, but grins back at him.
“Pass,” she laughs. Olivia adds quickly:
“I’ll spend Valentine’s Day back here with real food.”
His hand leaves her to settle on the small of her back as they approach the front of the line, and Elliot clears his throat.
“You know, I didn’t realize it - when I agreed to this week,” he murmurs. “The date I mean.”
Olivia turns, eyebrows furrowed. They are - categorically and decidedly, she’d thought - not the real Valentine’s Day types. Shit, half the time they’re not even the real holiday types, with the jobs they have and the lives they live. They’ve gotten lucky so far, not being called away from family or each other during actual celebrations together.
And that’s fine.
“Elliot,” she starts. “You know that’s not - you know I don’t mind — ”
One of the machines behind the counter fires up, cutting her off with the sound of coffee beans grinding. Elliot’s gaze meets her for a moment. He nods and gives her the softest smile, confirming it. He knows, she thinks. Sure, dinner out for Valentine’s Day would be great, but it doesn’t matter if he’s missing it.
He gets it, and so does she.
Maybe someday when one of them actually retires, they can try it.
When the machine shuts off, it’s already their turn. Elliot steps up and orders a medium latte - oatmilk, cinnamon sprinkles - and a black coffee. She steps to the side, waiting by the bakery case, wrinkling her nose at the way the croissants look brittle enough to snap right in two.
The love bug cupcakes really do look fun though, she thinks.
They’d be perfect too, for a little one who just had her first few bites of real sugar. She makes a note to grab one and drop it off next week with Eli and Becky and said little one.
Elliot joins her on the side after he pays, following her gaze to the display. He laughs, when he sees what she’s eyeing, and makes a go for his wallet in his back pocket.
“Want one?” he asks, still smirking. “A little sweet treat for my love b — ”
She elbows him in the ribs before he can finish. She laughs right out loud though, in the way that she does now, more often than she had in years before. When she meets his eyes, they’re twinkling right back at her. His own chuckle is low and deep and warm as he reaches down and finds her hand again. It won’t last long - just until their coffee is ready and his name is called - but it’s nice, to let herself do this.
To welcome this, even.
If you had told her a year ago she’d be laughing in the coffee line about cupcakes with Elliot, she would have laughed a very different laugh.
“Do not,” she warns, lacing her fingers tight, “even think about that nickname, Stabler.”
—
It’s funny - how soon habits form.
Olivia has, it seems, gotten used to many, many things about not-quite-living with Elliot Stabler. The way he does the dishes as soon as dinner ends, barely giving anyone a chance to digest before he scrapes their plates clean and fills the sink with warm, soapy water. How he waits until she leaves the room, and changes the channel from the news to sports every time.
“It’s depressing,” he mutters. “All this shit is — ”
“And you moping about the Jets - again - isn’t?”
She’s gotten used to it, though. Just like she’s gotten used to the towel on the floor of the bathroom he leaves out every morning - the one she grumbles about, even as she scoops it up - and the way he makes coffee the night before. Every single night, without fail. He grinds the beans, and he loads the water and he hits delay, and it’s there, every single morning when she wakes up.
Ready for her.
This morning, she’d wandered out, bleary eyed and exhausted to find…
Nothing.
Old coffee, from yesterday morning, and an old filter full of mushy grounds, and that’s why she’s here right now, five patrons deep in line at the coffee shop, yawning as she talks to Elliot after his morning run. She can hear his voice echoing as he shuffles into the hotel room’s bathroom.
“You sleep okay?” he asks.
She hums, noncommittally. “Sort of.”
The truth is, she really didn’t sleep okay. She tossed and turned and stared at her ceiling. She kicked off the covers. She pulled them back up. She got up to pee no less than four times. She was too exhausted to even contemplate making her own coffee after she’d said goodbye to Noah at the front of her building.
On the other end of the call, Elliot clears his throat pointedly.
“You’re a horrible liar,” he tells her softly.
“Yeah, well — ”
She swallows back a yawn, and moves forward in the line. Not sleeping isn’t new to her. She’ll be just fine. If she can get to the coffee - now only two customers ahead of her - she’ll be okay.
“Yeah,” he echoes. “Well.”
She doesn’t answer right away. She hears the tug of a glass shower door opening. The shower turns on, but he makes no move to say goodbye, or to start getting ready for the day. Over the sound of running water on his end, and the din of the coffee shop on hers, she listens to Elliot breathe for a moment.
When he goes on, his voice is low, gravelly and rough, as he tells her:
“Personally - I slept like absolute shit.”
She can’t help it, when she smiles. To no one, really, just a full wattage grin directed right at the back of the guy in front of her. It’s something, flirting with him like this. Admitting they miss each other so openly is a novelty. At one point, missing him was a certainty.
Now, it almost feels like a (frustrating) luxury.
“You couldn’t, huh?” she asks.
“Nah,” he says gruffly. “Tossed and turned all night. Bed felt too big”
“Yeah,” she admits. “Me too.”
The line moves again, shifting forward quickly; delivering her closer and closer to her goal of a large, slightly too sweet latte that will help her peel her eyelids open and keep them that way. Behind the counter, the barista calls out three names in a row.
“You getting coffee now?” Elliot asks.
She hums an affirmative answer, taking another step forward. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the display case. The same rows of boring, bland pastries like always, but once again, there’s those cupcakes again. Freshly made, the pink and red a little bit softer this morning; like the baker cut back on red dye.
She really needs to remember to grab one this week.
Like he’s right there with her, Elliot chuckles softly.
“They still have those ridiculous cupcakes?” he asks. “The Valentine’s ones?”
“Yeah, they still have those ugly love — ” Olivia starts to answer, but the guy in front of her finishes fast, stepping to the side. The barista eyes her, annoyed that she’s got her phone pressed to her ear. “Elliot, it’s my turn, I have to go,” she tells him. “I’ll call you, or you call me or - just call me, later.”
He’s still laughing now, and for a moment she thinks it’s because of her frazzled, under-caffeinated tone, but a millisecond later she realizes it was just his own anticipatory laugh at his terribly bad joke.
“Ok, well - miss you, love b— ”
She hangs up before he can finish, biting back her own laugh the whole time.
—
There are other things she’s gotten used to.
It’s not like it’s an every single day or night occurrence, by any means. They work long hours, and their schedules are a nightmare and if she’s being honest, there’s less of that raw, frenetic desperation that there was in the beginning.
Still.
Their sex life is good, and likely abnormally active - at least well above average - for two people who pay attention to the balances in their pension plans. It’s more than good, really, and at one point Olivia had gone years without sex but three days into the seven days of Elliot’s absence and she - Christ.
She’s struggling.
“You have an early morning?”
Elliot asks her tonight on the phone. His voice is that low, gravelly thick tone; rough after a full day’s use. It’s that same timbre it takes after he fucks her; vocal cords strained and ragged and hoarse. It makes her need him right here, right now tangled with her in her downy comforter; not down in Virginia on a bleached white hotel bed.
Fuck, she misses him.
Olivia squeezes her legs together in bed.
“Mmhmmm,” she murmurs, far, far too breathily to not give at least something away. “Five o’clock.”
On the other end of the line she can feel Elliot’s pause. His hesitation at the tone of her voice now, and how she says it. Like he’s considering it, maybe for the very first time. The thing is, if she gave him the green light, she knows he absolutely would. She just…hadn’t considered it herself, the whole not being able to make it seven days without needing him like this.
She listens to him breathe.
She waits.
“You make the coffee?” Elliot says thickly.
Olivia shakes her head, even though he can’t see it. She bites her lip, and her hand makes its way to her stomach. She splays it low, just above her waistband, not drifting down at all.
“Nope,” she answers, letting her lips pop at the end of the word. “That’s definitely a you job now, El.”
Another too long pause, another too long beat of time as he seemingly works up the nerve. He clears his throat, and she squeezes her eyes shut. He’ll be in pajamas by now, gray sweatpants and a white cotton t-shirt. The sleeve hems always just a little too tight on his arms.
“A me job?” he asks gruffly. “Making you coffee is a me job?”
“Yeah,” she answers back, and her own voice is lower now. Raspy, and warm, her body and mind catching up to exactly where they’re headed now. She slides her hand lower, fingertips toying with the strings of her waistband. “That’s a you job. Just like — ”
She’s cut off by a - far, far too early, and not at all right - groan from him.
“Fuck,” he growls. “Not - fuck. ”
A second later and she hears it. He probably saw the flashing lights in his room a split second before the hotel’s fire alarm started its loud, horrible wailing.
“Liv, I gotta — ”
“Go,” she urges him. She tried very, very hard not to sound dejected. Olivia adds, quickly. “Let me know when you get back to your room.”
She can hear him moving, the loud stomp of his feet audible even over the high pitched alarm.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he manages in between wails. Elliot doesn’t bother not sounding dejected. “I’ll — ”
Another loud, piercing wail cuts him off, and he sighs. Over the creak of his hotel door opening, more earnest than anything else, Elliot tells her:
“I just - I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” she says softly.
They hang up before the next round of high pitched alarms. Olivia opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling.
It’s not like she’s immune to taking care of it; or resistive to scratching that itch for herself. She has a bedside drawer that attests to the fact that she very, very much isn’t.
She just knows - it won’t be enough.
Olivia breaks, though.
Four days left and she breaks into her bedside drawer, sighing as she reaches for the one that will get her there quickly. Bright red, dual stimulation, it’ll buzz where she needs to be buzzed and the mechanical thrusts will get her over the need that a simple phone conversation had started.
She kicks the blankets off, letting them gather at her ankles. She’s already wet, already slick from the idea of it. Of Elliot’s voice - the voice that she misses, for more than just this reason but oh for this reason too - on the phone, steady and deep and low as he talks her through it, as he does his job. Olivia slides the thicker silicone head inside her and lines the small, thrumming secondary one against her clit.
She thumbs it on blindly.
It’s quick, no need for real build up. The mechanical dick circles, the clit simulator flicks and flicks and flicks, and Olivia helps them both along by thrusting it; by arching her body into it. Deep and hard, her hand and hips meeting the desperation she suddenly feels. It gathers low, the now frantic need; her cunt aching for the release she’s so close to. Four more days and it won’t be this dulled, muted pleasure, she tells herself. It’ll be his cock, thick and buried inside her. It’ll be his body, above or below her. She’ll feel the coarse hair of his chest against hers; the taut, tense work of his arm muscles holding on tight as he pounds her into her mattress.
It’ll be his voice, ragged and low in her ear, telling her how much he missed her the whole time.
She’s so, so - fuck.
She’s so goddamn close.
“Fuck,” she gasps. “Please, please — ”
She palms her breast with a free hand, rough like he would. She twists a nipple and she fucks herself harder and harder, and she pictures him the whole time. She pictures him, shattering above her. She draws it up, holds it close: Elliot’s intent and intense gaze, burning into hers as he slams himself deep; the roar of her name on his lips as he starts. The way his jaw clenches and his neck muscles lengthen and oh, oh —
“Oh,” she gasps.
It happens quick; a sharp and fast release as her cunt clenches around the rubber. A wave that crashes too fast; she’s left open mouthed and panting. Fulfilled, but just barely as she slides it out of her and drops it on the sheets.
The room is silent minus the sound of her breathing, and the low buzzing whir of the vibrator. She hears a second, quicker buzz through the haze; the sound of her phone alert muffled in the comforter somewhere.
Olivia opens her eyes after a minute, maybe two pass.
She reaches for her phone.
She expects a text from him - a back inside, love you, maybe - but when she sees the preview, she laughs right out loud. A leftover subscription text from a Lebanese restaurant they tried months ago; she’d had to give out her number to make a reservation.
The countdown is on!, it reads. Four more days until Valentine’s Day - book a table now!
Four more days, indeed.
—
The thing is, normally she wouldn’t even know it’s Valentine’s Day at all.
Normally, it would maybe occur to her - maybe - when she saw someone with a heart on their shirt, or a pair of dangly, over the top earrings. Maybe she’d notice a rack of seasonal candy at the store, if she wandered down that aisle. More likely - some horrible, love gone wrong crime would remind her.
It’s just that normally - it’s not even a thing.
Except this year. This year, and the entire fucking week, it seems. One morning later, and she’s reminded again of the holiday that is very, very frustratingly not rapidly approaching.
“Anything else I can get you?” the barista asks her cheerfully. “A pastry?”
He holds out a huge yellow mug toward Olivia. She takes it, just starting to shake her head. To tell him no, just this is fine. She’d stopped at a different - smaller, more cynical looking coffee shop - on her way into work. Hoping, on what isn’t actually a subconscious but an actually very conscious level to avoid the dubious gazes of a row of Valentine’s themed, love bug cupcakes.
She has time to sit for once before a meeting, and enjoy her coffee, and the last thing she wanted was the reminder that Valentine’s Day - and more importantly, his return the day after - still hasn’t arrived.
Olivia glances down at her coffee and stops.
A huge, feathered heart floats on the top of her latte.
“Actually,” she says, hastily handing it back. She waves her phone, pretending a text or a call has come through. “Sorry - can I get this to go?”
It comes back to her with a lid pressed on, firmly.
—
Not every reminder gets under her skin.
“You really don’t mind?”
Eli’s girlfriend asks, mouth twisting and her brow furrowed as Olivia sets down her bag on the counter and reaches, two arms held out, for a wiggly, beaming toddler.
“Do I — ” The sweet little girl squeals, practically launching herself into Olivia’s arms. She takes her with a happy laugh, head shaking as she gathers Eli’s daughter close. “Are you kidding me? Do I mind?”
Olivia nuzzles her close.
The little one nudges in, all sticky hands on her neck, and a too wet kiss placed indelicately on Olivia’s cheek. Eli’s girlfriend had texted her in a panic, forgetting about a mandatory group meeting for a project at school. She could take the baby, she explained, but it was in the library and it was going to be well past her bedtime and Olivia had cut her off on her third reason, telling her she’d be there in twenty minutes.
“I don’t mind, Becky. Not at all.”
Olivia reassures her, tilting her head at the clock on the stove, a wordless reminder. The young woman needed to leave ten minutes ago.
“Ok, ok, going,” Becky mumbles, stuffing a laptop charger in her bag. She leans in to give the little one a quick kiss goodbye, and she’s almost out the door when she turns around, pausing. “Oh, and I hate to ask, but — ”
Olivia shakes her head, a light warning on her lips as she smiles. “Becky - ask.”
The young woman exhales and nods.
“We were working on a Valentine’s Day gift for Eli,” she tells her. “I had this big idea to do a homemade heart out of her feet, but I - I totally understand if it’s too much, with all the paint and mess and — ”
“Becky.”
The young woman takes a deep breath. She nods, fingers tightening on her bag strap.
“Right,” she says, chin tilting up. “Ok. The paint is in the closet, and the canvass is on top of the fridge.”
Two little arms tighten around Olivia’s neck as she laughs, nodding. She smells like her favorite animal crackers and something even sweeter, something just her. She is, categorically, the best distraction from the two nights standing between Olivia and her reunion with the little one’s grandfather.
“Consider it done,” Olivia tells her. “One foot-heart, coming up.”
An hour later, and she’s gingerly swiping open a FaceTime call from said grandfather. Gingerly, because she has exactly two fingers not covered in bright pink paint, and it’s balanced very, very precariously on the edge of the counter.
“Hey, hi - oh, sh — ”
It tumbles down, clattering to the floor.
“Hello?” Elliot’s voice is muffled, the speaker face down on the ground. “Liv?”
“Just — ” Olivia grabs at a paper towel one handed. Her other arm is draped across the little one’s legs, pinning her to the counter where she sits. She grabs at the whole roll of paper towels, actually, trying to scrub one hand clean at least, while the other hand holds a squirmy, giggling toddler to the counter.
“Hold on,” she shouts. The pink paint lingers, still tacky in between her fingers, but dry everywhere else. “Just wait a second, Elliot.”
His granddaughter lifts her pink, paint covered feet up with a laugh, and tries to inch them back towards the paper plate covered in paint. It is unorganized chaos. Delightful, adorable, pink paint covered chaos, but chaos nonetheless as she almost makes contact with the paint.
“No, honey - oh - oh — oh no,” Olivia laughs breathlessly.
She gives up on getting any more paint off her hand, and stretches down to grab her phone off the floor. When she turns it over, Elliot’s face fills the whole screen. Grinning, ear to fucking ear.
“You good now?” he asks.
She huffs, shaking her head.
“Yeah. Barely, but we’re — ” Olivia props her phone against the sugar canister so he can see her, and so she can see him. “We’re good.”
On the little screen, his eyebrows raise.
“There’s some — ”
Elliot runs a thumb on his own face, back and forth. He hasn’t shaved, it seems, the whole time he’s been gone. Stubble on his jaw, heavier than normal and she cannot believe it just makes her miss him more. The scrape of it against her own cheek, or the drag of it against her stomach as he makes his way down or back up.
Two more days.
“Some…?” she asks.
“Pink,” he supplies. “Craft paint, I hope.”
She shakes her head, and lifts an arm up, swinging a finger in the air of his apartment. In the proces, she knows she reveals the large - long - streak of pink paint an errant toddler foot has left right down her chest, onto a shirt she’ll have to get dry cleaned.
She sees Elliot’s eyes trail down to where it ends.
“You don’t want a home makeover, Grandpa?” she asks, teasing. “Pink counters and walls?”
His grin - somehow, improbably - widens. In the background, she can see the walls of his hotel room. He’s in for the night, she knows, exhausted by the long stretch of days and being so on. Exhausted, but also really, really happy to see her, she knows.
If she was at home, maybe they’d be having a different conversation.
But - she’s not.
She’s here, with his beautiful granddaughter, both of them covered in too much pink craft paint.
“If you’re doing the painting,” he answers. “And if you’re willing to do it topl— ”
“Elliot.”
Olivia cuts him off, swiveling the phone screen around so he can see his granddaughter. His granddaughter who is far too young to repeat a single word or understand at all, but still. She can feel the flush under her collar creep up, as bright a pink as the paint on her hands.
Two more days, she reminds herself.
“What?” he asks. “Forgot I wasn’t just talking to you.”
On the screen, he raises a pair of unkempt eyebrows. She cannot believe she misses that part of him, too; seeing those thick, bushy eyebrows and the blue of his eyes every morning. She’s got about twenty-four hours left before she’s waxing poetic about the way he cracks his knees at the edge of her bed.
All she can do is shake her head.
“Just want to keep your dry cleaning bill under control, Captain,” he murmurs. “That’s all.”
Olivia rolls her eyes. “Moving on,” she says, reaching for her phone. She scoots the wiggling, squirming bundle of toddler that is his youngest grandchild close, so they’re both in the view of her camera together.
“We,” she announces, “are making foot-hearts. Or heart feet?”
His granddaughter babbles, pink toes wiggling precariously close to the plate of paint yet again. Olivia reaches for it with one hand, sliding it even further away.
“Careful there,” Elliot laughs. “Don’t want my little love bug to get paint everywhere.”
Olivia’s own eyebrow arches in warning. “Elliot.”
“What?” he teases. “Forgot I wasn’t just talking to her.”
Two hands raise in surrender, and his lips curve up even more. The smile on his face is so large it must hurt. All the way to his eyes, the soft crinkles there deepening as he shakes his head. Last weekend she’d ghosted the pad of her thumb across them, her lips trailing softly after on a lazy Sunday morning. She misses him in such a visceral way that she aches.
Him, and his horrible, horrible jokes.
Two more days.
On screen, she watches him lift his hand and wave at his grandbaby, his whole face going even softer still. The little girl giggles, straining against Olivia’s hand to reach for the phone.
“Hi sweetpea,” he murmurs. “Grandpa will be home soon.”
—
Olivia doesn’t hate Valentine’s Day.
She never has.
Maybe at one point - in her twenties, in the 90s, when cynicism came readily and easily - she would wrinkle her nose, and bitch about the way it commercialized emotional attachments over a glass of wine, but she doesn’t hate it.
It’s just not something she ever thought that hard about it, even inside of relationships. It was indifference, maybe, over disliking it. It was never a focal point of anything at all for her. She just didn’t think about it, most of the time.
This year, it feels like that’s not an option at all.
“Mom, are you sure?” Noah asks.
Her son - her not so little boy, not now - stands in front of the bathroom mirror, nervously plucking the collar of his white shirt. She didn’t even know they did things like Valentine’s Day school dances anymore, let alone that it would cause this much stress at all. Olivia stands in the hallway, trying very hard to find the balance between the right amount of reassuring mother and condescension he’ll pick up on right away.
“I’m sure, kiddo. You look — ”
“Stupid,” he grumbles, all uncharacteristic pre-teenage angst. Noah is normally so borderline overly confident that she sometimes marvels in awe. He starts to tug at the blue sweater he wears over the shirt. “I look - this looks dumb.”
“Noah,” she tries, voice gentle. “You look great.”
He shakes his head, and starts to tug off the sweater. It catches on his head and he has to tug hard. His perfectly tended-to curls will frizz and lose all their volume if he’s not careful.
“It’s lame, anyway,” he snaps. “Valentine’s Day is just - it’s lame.”
Olivia’s mouth falls open, ready to tell him it’s not, ready to start gently peeling away at whatever it is that has her son slightly spinning. She suspects it’s a crush - or nerves about a crush, at the least - and there is probably an incredible amount of irony in Olivia Benson of all people being the one to reassure her son about, well - being brave about love.
Or, her being the one to go to bat for Valentine’s Day, of all things.
It’s been a long, strange week.
Olivia shrugs and meets his eyes in the mirror as his head pops out of the sweater.
“It is, yeah,” she agrees. “Lame, I mean.”
In the mirror, Noah’s head tilts, questioning her casual tone and her unexpected answer. He’d clearly expected her to go on the defensive, to fall into the trap of urging him on. After a moment, he turns, the vintage blue sweater he’d begged for still clutched in his grip.
“Reverse psychology won’t work on me, Mom.”
She can’t help it when she starts to laugh. He’s so fucking smart somedays, and a smart ass almost every day. He makes her so proud.
Her mouth twists to the side as he breaks, and laughs back with her.
“I promise, kiddo,” she starts. “I’m not trying to pull something over on you or trick you. It is lame.”
It is, really, and they both know it. The whole concept of it hinges on expressing someone’s deepest heart’s desires through a capitalist scheme to sell greeting cards and waxy chocolate bars shaped like hearts. His dance will have bright red fruit punch and cheap heart shaped pizzas, and an aggressive number of volunteer parents ensuring no one is sneaking off to vape in the bathrooms or worse.
(Which - fuck. It wouldn’t have been the worst place to make an appearance. An SVU Captain volunteering as a dance chaperone might have gotten her off the ask list for a few months).
Noah’s still watching her from his spot in front of the bathroom mirror.
“So you agree?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “It’s lame.”
“Categorically.”
“Ok,” he says slowly. “So I’m not going to — ”
“Except, it’s sort of fun, isn’t it?” Olivia asks him, and Christ. “How lame it is? All the silly hearts and candy and stuff. They have these goofy cupcakes at the coffee shop called love bugs, even.”
She is the walking, talking picture of hypocritical sometimes. She has spent an entire week rolling her eyes at billboard posters, and shaking her head at Curry’s red velvet cupcakes. Aside from one very messy foot shaped heart (or heart shaped feet) she has gone so far out of her own fucking way to avoid thinking about the day at all. Not because of the day, but because of what the day is missing, she realizes now.
Which has only made her think about the day even more.
Which, in turn has made for a long, strange week.
A week where she’s given in to the one thing she couldn’t for so, so long.
Allowing herself to miss Elliot has been - something. Something new and novel and wholly exciting, in a way she hadn’t really planned on at all. Since they’ve started this, their time apart has been short undercover assignments on his part; trainings and conferences on hers, and she hadn’t really given in to admitting she missed him.
“Fun?” Noah asks, pulling her right back into the moment.
She shrugs, feigning indifference. “Or not.”
She is actually very, very good at reverse psychology, and when she turns and makes her way down the hall, muttering about ordering a pizza for two instead of one after all, it doesn’t take more than a second for Noah to trail her.
He eyes her from the kitchen door frame.
His blue sweater dangles from his hand.
“So what you’re saying is…”
“What I’m saying is, I want veggie supreme on my side of the pizza,” she answers, phone in hand. If he looks close enough, he’ll see she’s pulled up the New York Times, and not GrubHub at all. “What do you want on yours?”
Noah sighs, over dramatic and loud. She’s great at reverse psychology, and he’s great at being an almost teen.
“I meant about Valentine’s Day, Mom.”
She sets her phone down, and leans, elbows on the butcher block island.
“What do you want me to say, honey?” she asks softly, more earnest and real now. “It’s lame, but — ” Olivia tilts her head, and gives him a small, easy smile. She thinks about the flowers on her desk at work, a bright and expensive bouquet with a card attached that said, very simply: See you tomorrow.”
and how that had made her stomach actually swoop. “It’s lame, but it’s fun being lame, sometimes.”
Jesus Christ.
Noah looks even more skeptical, and she doesn’t know if she’s relieved or if she’s worried about a level of cynicism in the future that will surpass her own by miles. He stares at her for a full beat of time, brows furrowed and glaring.
She breaks first.
“Look, Noah, you can stay home and have pizza with me, or — ”
He shakes his head.
“I’ll go,” he sighs. “It’ll be less lame than hanging out with someone who thinks it’s fun being lame.”
An hour later, she’s dropping him off for his first Valentine’s Day Dance, her phone ringing with near perfect timing as she watches him walk up the stairs. Elliot’s face lights up her screen, his contact photo from Halloween of him and his granddaughter dressed up like bees.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she answers.
—
In the morning, she waits in line impatiently for coffee.
They caught a case - of course - and she really shouldn’t have stopped. It’ll likely cost her ten minutes at the end of the day she doesn’t want to lose. It had felt silly, ridiculous, the second she walked in the shop.
They’re probably all gone, anyway.
It’s February 15th.
The line inches forward, and she cranes her neck, trying to see the display case. Two customers wait in front of it, completely blocking her view. She sighs, and thinks about cutting out and leaving. She can drink coffee at the precinct.
She’s about to do it when they shift, and she sees them.
Probably a day or more old and likely stale, but they’re there.
“A medium oat milk latte,” she says when it’s her time to order. “And — ”
Olivia shakes her head, and rolls her eyes at herself. This is actually the lamest thing she’s ever done, so Noah was one hundred and ten percent right. Goofy, ugly little Valentine’s Day cupcakes for her sweetheart.
She remembers the day Elliot handed her a compass he’d picked out just for her.
“Two love bug cupcakes, please.”
—
Olivia uses her key to let herself in later that night.
The apartment is quiet, minus the shower running. It’s just her tonight. She’d dropped off Noah at a friend's house an hour ago, and Eli and Becky took Maureen up on the offer to watch their daughter for a night. The three of them are in Connecticut by now.
She hopes they have fun.
She hopes Eli likes the messy foot heart.
It’s just her, and a white paper sack stained red on the sides. In the back of her SUV, the cupcake bag had toppled and rolled sometime today, the frosting sticking to the side and making the waxy paper bag go half sheer. They’re probably ruined, all the frosting pulled off.
She sets the bag and her keys on the counter, and she pulls out a seat, and - for hopefully the last time this week - Olivia waits for Elliot.
The shower turns off, and it’s maybe one minute before she hears the bathroom door click open, and the soft padding of his bare feet on the hardwood floor.
She looks up, and the first thing she sees is his grin.
“Hey, hi — ”
Elliot speeds up immediately on seeing her, his lazy stroll becoming a quick stride across the small space. A pair of gray sweatpants - and only a pair of gray sweatpants - hang low on his hips as he makes his way close. Olivia slides off the barstool, her feet barely hitting the floor before he’s already there, reaching for her and pulling her close and burying his head against her, like it’s been months and months and months instead of just one absurdly long week. Big hands splay on her waist, and they’re both wordless for a moment as he greets her like this.
She winds her own arms around him, and holds tight.
His lips work their way to her neck quickly, a smile and a kiss both pressed there at once.
“Thought you had a while left?” he murmurs.
“I did,” she admits. “But —
His lips move up, an easy trail of light, soft kisses up that distract her for a moment. She tilts back, giving him the space to make his way up her neck. Playful and eager at the same time, Elliot butterfly kisses his way to her mouth. She hums into the light and sweet press of his mouth against hers.
It’s over too soon.
“But…?”
When Elliot pulls back, he’s still grinning at her. Lopsided and genuine, his smile at her presence takes up his whole face. She shakes her head, resting her palm on his bare chest, fingertips fanning against the wiry, still damp hair as she contemplates her answer.
Elliot waits, hands at her waist going still.
His smile is so real.
“But I have a capable team,” she starts, slowly, “and I missed you.”
She lifts her eyes to see him staring right at her. Still smiling, still happy, but his blue eyes go just a little bit soft as he gazes back at her. One hand leaves her waist to work its way to her cheek, curving his palm so delicately there.
“Missed me, huh?” he asks.
She rolls her eyes, but she leans in as she does it, mouth hovering close to his.
“Don’t let it go to your head, bigwig,” she warns. “It was probably just because it was Valentine’s Day all fucking week in New York City, apparently.”
Elliot doesn’t answer right away. His lips brush hers, once, twice, then again. She tries to lean into it, tries to chase the kiss, but he’s stubborn, and he’s teasing, and she lets out a small huff when his hand leaves her face to slide down her shoulder, stilling her.
“Was it Valentine’s Day this week?” he asks. “I, uh…” His voice drifts off, and his eyes leave hers to look past her. To his counter, where a pair of stale, ugly, red and pink cupcakes sit smooshed inside a white bag. “I didn’t notice.”
His eyes find hers again, blue and twinkling and god.
She really did miss him.
“Liar,” she breathes out.
She rocks her hips as she says it, already fed up with waiting. Elliot’s answer to that is a wild, quick grin before he’s lowering his mouth back down to hers. This time it’s not light, not easy, not soft at all. This time he’s kissing her deep, needy, his tongue sliding against hers and his body nudging her back to meet the countertop. His hand slides back into her hair; back against the nape of her neck as he muscles her up against his counter.
She kisses him back just as hard.
His thigh slides between hers, and she bucks into it, grinding down. He’s half dressed and she’s all dressed - still in her boots, still in her work clothes - and his body is burning hot. She holds onto his shoulders, grips him tight and keeps him close as she nips at his lip, grinning into the kiss as he groans. It’s a little bit of a game, a little bit of a back and forth, and she’s just about to settle back into her momentary victory when his hand leaves her hair.
It settles on her ass, and the other joins it and then he’s lifting her, plucking her right off the floor and dropping her onto his island.
Olivia gasps, and breaks the kiss, but her body’s already ahead of her mind. Two hands grip the edge of the island, and she leans forward, trying to find his mouth again. He ducks though, pulls back and settles himself between her legs, one hand on her thigh and the other reaching behind him blindly.
“For the record,” he says, low and gravelly thick, his hand finding a boot and yanking it off. It thumps on the ground as he reaches for her other leg. “I missed you too.”
The other boot follows. She widens her legs, and Elliot steps in.
Her hand snakes between them, palming him roughly. No boxer briefs underneath the gray sweatpants, just him, hard and thick and hot. She curls her hand around him, right through the cotton. She keeps her eyes on his, watching them flash.
She bites her lip, and grasps him. .
“Missed me, huh?” she asks, echoing his own words from before, with her voice low and raspy and pitched just the way she knows he likes it. “Prove it.”
Olivia’s expectation here is for him to, well.
Fuck her.
To help her out of her pants and yank off his own and then slide into her quickly. She expects it, and she’s ready, so when he peels her hand off his cock, and reaches for her waistband, she’s primed. When she arches her hips, and helps him shimmy them down her thighs, she expects that, next. When her underwear follows, and it’s just her ass on cold granite, she’s already opening herself up.
When Elliot grins, and yanks off her socks, and steps back into the space between her bare thighs, she widens her legs and reaches for him but it’s her turn to gasp - loud, and echoing - when her hand meets air in an instant. Air, and then a strong bare shoulder, and then Elliot is on his knees, big hands dragging her to the very end of his island as he tilts his chin back, and grins up at her.
Olivia can barely catch her breath, looking down.
He kisses the inside of her thigh, eyes still on her.
“Will this work?” he asks, voice muffled. “For me proving it, I mean.”
Her mouth falls open to answer, but it’s too late.
Elliot’s tongue curls against her, teasing for a second at her entrance before he flicks it inside.
“Oh –”
Her heels dig into his back, halfway down as he starts to devour her. Mouth still moving against her, he hitches a leg over his shoulder, big hand splayed on the outside of her thigh so he can hold tight. He fucks her with his tongue, nose grinding against her clit and driving her wild. He groans at the taste of her, the vibrations making her cry out. He delves into her again and again and again, and she leans forward, hand on the back of his neck as he holds her to him. Just when she thinks it - just when she’s right there, ready to say it: more, please, more - Elliot’s moving again.
Olivia whines, and tries to grind down.
He holds her still for just a moment. She’s right on the edge, no room to move forward. His arms are hooked under her thighs, holding her steady. His stubble catches on the inside of a thigh as his chin raises, slick with her already as blue eyes dance to meet brown.
“Better than a cupcake,” he smirks.
She digs her heels into his back, shaking her head.
“Oh my god, Elliot,” she breathes. “Please just –”
This time her words are lost in a long, keening whine as he starts to tongue at her, eagerly. Quick, eager passes on her clit have her bucking against him, pleading with him over and over and over as he licks at her.
“Fuck, Elliot - oh fuck,” she cries out when he slides two thick fingers inside of her, sinking them deep. “Fuck.”
One strong arm keeps her thigh locked down, and he keeps going. His tongue keeps going, pressing and lapping, and his fingers keep sliding in and out. Her thighs tremble around him, and the pressure starts to build; coiling deep and tight and low. She moans, loud and breathlessly as he sucks her clit between his lips, and keeps going. He keeps licking her, keeps his tongue against her clit through it all, and she’s right there, almost deliriously close so fast.
“Oh my god, El –”
She’s being loud, but she can tonight; can let a week’s worth of longing and need and missing him out. Her fingers dig into his shoulder; the back of his neck as he sucks harder and licks deeper, somehow. Her own breathing is ragged in her ears, and her thighs burn, but she’s so, so fucking close. She grinds down, pushes back as he mouths at her and Elliot crooks his fingers so deep she swears she feels it in her goddamn stomach; and just like that she shatters.
It feels like a current, a shockwave, a whole body release as she screams, louder than she ever has here. He doesn’t let up, just keeps licking, fingers stilling inside of her as her cunt clenches and her whole body shakes.
Olivia leans back in the aftermath, sucking in huge gulps of air; her head lifted to his ceiling as he laps at her slower and slower.
She feels him kiss the inside of a thigh, gentle and sweet, before he pushes up off the floor.
His knees pop in quick succession, and then he’s there, leaning over her, hands settling on her shaky thighs as her eyes open back up.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he murmurs, right before he kisses her. “Sorry I’m late.”
–
“Did you even - oh –”
She breaks off, gasping as he pushes into her , her back against the wall of his bedroom. They’d made it through his door frame at least, their clothes left in a trail through his living room. Except, it seems, her one nod to the day that just passed (minus the cupcakes, abandoned on the counter). A bright red, lacy bra that matched the red underwear left on his kitchen floor, the only piece of clothing left on either one of them.
Elliot sinks in, pulling her thigh to his waist.
She watches him breathe, and still himself for a moment as his eyes open back up.
“Did I even what, baby?” he asks, voice thick and low.
She rolls her hips, teasing him. Knowing he’ll hold off, knowing he won’t give in and move quite yet. He groans, though, guttural and deep, and his fingertips dig into her thigh hard. Hard enough to bruise, perfect little red circles that he knows she won’t mind. It’s the same as the half moons that pepper the back of his neck; the reddening bite on his shoulder. They’re here, together.
All of it feels so, so good.
He feels strong, his huge arms holding her up. His abs, rock hard against where she’s soft. The thick, long muscles in his neck as he restrains himself. Her thigh wrapped around his waist, and his own muscular legs holding them both up, and god.
His cock, buried thick and deep and right where she’s needed him for a week.
“Did you even notice?” she says breathily. She rocks her hips again and he gives in, thrusting back shallowly. “The bra and the – “
“Red,” he grunts. “New. Lace.”
She laughs as she nods. “Yeah, ok - yeah.”
Elliot starts to move finally, fully giving in. With their small height difference and this angle, he’s limited to how much he can move, but it doesn’t matter. He thrusts deep, and starts an easy, quick rhythm. Olivia’s back digs into the wall as he pushes her back as much as he can, freeing one hand to tug down the cup of the (Red. New. Lace.) bra. The pad of his thumb is rough as he finds her nipple, grazing once before he tweaks it.
“I noticed,” he pants, moving inside of her the whole time. “Trust me, Olivia, I noticed.”
Her mouth falls open at the way he says it, at the way he fucks her the whole time he does. His tone is low, rough, almost commanding as he slams into her again and again. She’d tease him about it, maybe, if she could breathe at all.
“Fuck,” is all she can manage. “Elliot - fuck.”
This time, his voice is lighter, as he laughs, and nods, and moves his hips even faster.
“I think I am.”
His pace quickens, and his hand leaves her tit to slam into the wall behind her. It’s almost too much, too soon. It’s the sex, yes, but it’s also the overwhelming relief of him being here. A week isn’t that long, in the grand scheme of them, but she’d spent the whole of it reminded that he wasn’t where he should be.
Where he should be is here, with her.
She can tell he’s already close, already right at the edge when his thrusts start to lose any rhythm at all. Olivia slides her own hand between them, fingers swiping at her clit so she can get there with him, too. Always in tandem, always in sync, always together - like they should be.
“Love you,” he manages, voice ragged, cock driving inside her. “Missed you so much, Liv.”
It’s that, as much as anything. His voice in her ear, his hand leaving the wall to curl at the back of her neck. The needy open mouth kiss he presses against her right after she cries out, her cunt clenching around him as he buries himself deep. Elliot’s right there behind her, his own release chasing hers as he spills, emptying himself hot and deep with a strangled growl of her name, breathed into the space between their lips.
Her leg drops, shaky to the ground as his head finds her shoulder.
She can feel him leak down her thigh, a hot rush of fluids, but she doesn’t want to move at all. Olivia holds him there, arms winding around his neck, his lips pressed against her shoulder in small, open-mouthed kisses as they catch their breath together.
“Jesus,” he says after a moment, voice strained and rough. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
His softening cock presses into her belly as she nods. She feels like she ran four miles in the space of four minutes. Still, she manages a shaky laugh as she presses to his cheek. Elliot pulls back, just enough for her to see the question in his eyes at her laughter. It is a horrible, horrible joke, but then again —
“I thought,” she breathes out, “that Valentine was a saint?”
–
Elliot promises to order takeout while she showers.
She comes out in his old t-shirt and a pair of clean (not red. not lacy. not new) underwear she keeps here. She twists her hair into a clip as she walks toward him. The whole time, Elliot watches, smiling that same, slightly off to the right smile that makes her stomach flutter, even now.
He doesn’t say anything as he gathers her close, right there in the soft light of his kitchen.
She can see the smallest crumb on the stubble below his bottom lip.
Over his shoulder, she can see a tiny line of pink paint on his counter that she’d missed during clean up a few days ago. In the closet, there’s a second lopsided foot heart print she’d helped his granddaughter make; the pink paint matching the dried paint she sees now.
So, ok,
Maybe three nods to the silly little holiday, after all.
When Elliot kisses her, his mouth tastes like red and pink frosting, far too sugary for a single, sweet moment.