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show me yours, I’ll show you mine

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She knew this day would come. 

 

You haven’t asked what has happened to me. 

 

She knew he’d pick up on that. He's too good of a detective not to have.  She’s too good of a detective not to have known it was coming. 

 

It started when she was helping him change the dressing on the new reddening gash high across his cheekbone where Wheatley had struck him and apparently one of the man’s rings had caught Elliot’s cheek, leaving an angry mark that would eventually scar. 

 

She stands over him as he’s seated on a chair at his table, and she can see his hands fidgeting atop his thighs as she stands between his legs and hisses when the alcohol-soaked cotton ball is wiped over the gash. 

 

She turns, resting her hip against the table as she peels open the package of butterfly stitches and leans over, attaching them to his face. 

 

Her top hangs low in his face, and he lifts one of his fidgeting hands up to her hair and pushing it back behind her ear and dropping his fingers down to her collarbone and across the exposed part of her neck and chest, trailing over the thin, faded scar from Gitano all those years ago, and then down to another one Lewis had marked her with.

 

His touch was electrifying and sent shivers down her spine as she held her breath, not making eye contact with him. 

 

His fingers pause, and he takes his time, tracing over every edge of it, over and over like he’s trying to commit it to memory. 

 

“I–I don’t remember this one?” He says, almost hesitantly, scared. 

 

She swallows, hard, and his fingers shift with the movement of her throat as she stays silent, still, waiting with bated breath. 

 

“You–you memorized all my scars, Detective?” She tries lightening the mood. 

 

“Like you haven’t memorized mine, Captain?” He taunts back. 

 

It makes her swallow again, but her throat is dry, and it feels like it’s hot in his apartment, even though there’s still snow outside on the ground. 

 

They’ve been toeing this line, dancing on the edge of the precipice; friends, not friends, more than friends… she’s not even really sure now, and the ball’s supposedly in her court, according to him. 

 

Friends have their friend’s scars memorized, right? 

 

She tilts her head down again, and the lock of hair he pushed back earlier, falls forward again, and this time, stead of just pushing it back, he takes both her wrists in his hands and pulls her forward towards him, so she’s in his space, breathing him in, and he’s intoxicating. 

 

He slides his hand against her neck again, now standing up and towering her slightly. 

 

His fingers run along the side of her neck and sliding her hair back before he rests his palm on the back of her neck, comfortingly as he brings the other hand that was still on her wrists, keeping her standing against him, up to the thin line against her neck. 

 

“This one is from Gitano, the day I thought I was going to lose you for the first time.” He says softly. Then he lets his hands drop along her arms and down to her hands again, cradling them in his own before bringing them up in front of them. He drops her left hand and turns her right one, showing her the scar along the side of her pinky and down an inch on her hand. “And this was from the broken vodka bottle your mother threw at you and you tried to catch when you were twelve.”

 

She reaches up with her left hand, touching the butterfly stitches over his cheek, and then drops her hand over his shirt clad chest, finding the exact spot from memory of the bullet wound from when he was shot there, years ago. “Bushido shot you here in 2010.” 

 

He’s still in her atmosphere, taking her in, “There’s a scar on your ankle from your surgery last year. You have an indent on your hip from where your mom kicked you in a drunken rage—”

 

“The scar on your shoulder is the exit wound from the bullet. Scar on your thigh is from when Stuckey stabbed you. This one–” she traces the ever so faint line above his eyebrow, “is when Izaak Bekher attacked you on the street last year.”

 

“I know almost all of your scars, Liv, just as you know mine. And you told me something happened while I was—” he hesitates and chokes over his words, “and you wanted me to ask. You wouldn’t have told me if you didn’t. So this is me asking.” 

 

She takes a deep breath, looking at his pleading eyes before she turns away from him and she can hear his irritated sigh before he realizes she’s not heading for the front door, rather his bedroom door instead. 

 

He stays perched against the table for a moment as she turns back and looks at him. “You coming?” 

 

He nods, leaving the first aid kit still out on the table and following her into his room, letting her take the lead and watches her shut the door with a soft click. 

 

She pulls her hair up into a ponytail, raking her fingers through her thick locks as she feels his eyes on her and she takes a second to revel in the feeling of him wanting her just as she wants him.

 

She turns back to face him and starts at the top, unbuttoning her shirt, letting it expose her front and she curls it around the backs of her arms, not fully taking it off, but exposed enough to show him the constellation of scars now littering her skin. 

 

She hears the breath hitch in his breathing as he steps closer, but he makes eye contact with her for the briefest of moments asking for consent, for permission to be in her space again, to touch parts of her he’s dreamed about, except not like this. 

 

She nods as she drops his gaze, fighting back the tears that well in her eyes as he takes her in, tracing over her mutilated body. 

 

He lets his fingers slide over the cigarette burns, the coat hangers, the impression her keys made against her skin. 

 

“2013,” She pauses, taking in an unstable breath and making him pause his ministrations to look up at her. “We had a psychotic serial rapist who ended up targeting me. After he got off, and Cragen had let us go for the day, forcing me to take a few days off, I came home to find him in my apartment. He’d broken in, pistol whipped me and held me at gunpoint with my own gun. He had me tied to a chair and force fed me pills and alcohol while he burned me with cigarettes and branded me with coat hangers, keys, anything he could find.” 

 

She watches his every reaction, every muscle, every twitch, with such intention as he takes her in, studies her, committing it even more to memory, and while it’s horrific, the memories that she’s talking about, she can’t help but feel ignited by the feeling of his eyes on her body, scanning every inch of her with such dedication and precision. 

 

“He moved me to a second location, a beach house, and I about beat him to death and gave him his own nasty scar across his face when I hit him over and over with the metal bar from the bedframe he had me cuffed to. After he tried to–he tried to, but I broke free and bashed his face in, and then the squad showed up and made sure I was alright.” 

 

She sees his eyes, bright red and wet with tears he’s fighting to hold back as his fingers still absentmindedly trace her body. 

 

“I’ll give him more than just the scar on his face for ever thinking about touch—”

 

“He shot himself.” She cuts him off. “The second time he took me hostage,” she pauses, seeing the coupled rage and panic in his eyes at the thought of this monster not only having a go at her once, but twice. “He’d lured me out, using a twelve year old little girl as bait and I took it. And when we played Russian roulette, he shot himself with a bullet meant for me, and even though it’s not visible, the feeling of his blood splattered on my face still scars me, just as much.”  

 

He then lifts his hands from her chest and shoulders and cups both her cheeks, brushing an invisible strand of hair from her face, causing her to look up at him as he does. 

 

Her eyes flutter closed, and she breathes deeply as she feels him moving closer to her. She blinks them open to find his head ducking down towards her, tugging gently on the shirt that still lingered on her arms, giving her room for protest, but she lets him pull it from her body anyway.

 

He tilts his head, pressing his nose in the crook of her neck and then angling back, kissing the faint scar along her neckline. He moves, and catches one of the cigarette burns and kisses it before the rest all follow and she cradles his head in her arms. 

 

His hands drop down to her waist, pulling her against him as he turns them and sits down on his bed, pulling her into his lap on top of him.

 

He presses kisses into every scar scattered along her chest and torso as he holds her with an arm around her lower back and uses his free hand to pull the hair tie from her hair letting it fall and immediately tangling his fingers within. 

 

She tucks her face into the crook of his neck as he presses a kiss into a scar on her collarbone, and she wants to cry out. She wants to cry, and let it all out. Let out every frustration and emotion and tension that she’s been holding back for the past decade, past two decades of knowing him.

 

She can feel him beneath her, feel the desire he has for her, pressing into her lower belly between the two of them. 

 

She shifts and he groans in frustration, stopping the path of kisses he’s been leaving across her neck and the tops of her shoulders, knowing full well he’d stopped chasing her scars and begun to just plant kisses on every inch of exposed skin she’d granted him thus far. 

 

She smirks as she pulls back in his lap, and he holds her with both of his arms tightly at her hips, pressing her into himself further. 

 

He shifts, scooting back farther on the bed and she gasps before his hand finally comes up and cups the back of her head, pulling her down on top of him and his lips meet hers for the first time. 

 

He tastes her, sweet like red wine and vanilla, intoxicating. 

 

She grinds her hips further into his as her hands struggle with the buttons on his shirt and then his fingers meet hers and help her.

 

Her hands roam his sculpted chest, and her fingers brush over the bullet scar over his chest as she lets her forehead drop, resting against his. 

 

His fingers press into the soft skin at her hips, just above the waistline of her jeans and she grinds down harder against him. 

 

Slowly, he undoes the button of her jeans and she lets him, all the while never breaking his kiss again since touching his scar.

 

She remembers the way she was pressed up against him, shirtless, just like this, all those years ago, trying to save his ass from being shot. 

 

She chokes back a sob as her fingers ghost over the exit wound on his back.

 

“I’m here.” He manages faintly against her lips. “I’m right here.” 

 

He knows she’s struggling with almost losing him. 

 

“I want to feel you.” She breathes. 

 

And with that consent, he finishes his task of the button of her pants and slides his fingers beneath the denim, beneath the silk, and into the wetness between her folds. 

 

She gasps loudly, breaking the kiss, and shudders as she feels two of his fingers glide against before he pulls them back out and before she can protest or press her lips back against his, he’s licking his two digits clean of her, tasting her. Tasting how he made her feel. 

 

He shifts, and lays her down onto his bed, pulling at her jeans as she tries to shimmy out of them.

 

And once she’s left in just her undergarments, he hovers back over her and replaces his fingers beneath her pantyline. 

 

This time, he presses one finger inside of her, sliding in and out with short, shallow thrusts before sliding his second finger in along side of it and gliding them through her, soaking up the gasps and moans he’s eliciting from her. 

 

He threads his free hand into one of hers, and dipping his head back down, alternating between pressing kisses along her chest and neck, and onto her lips. 

 

She bucks into his hand as he lets his fingers scissor inside of her and he twists, flicking his thumb against her clit, and reveling in the way she cries out audibly for him. 

 

He can feel her thighs trembling as her orgasm starts to crest, and he picks up his pace, just a little as it sends her careening over the edge and she cries out again, her entire body shaking beneath him.

 

He leaves a trail of open mouthed wet kisses between the valley of her breasts and up along her jaw as she heaved and tried to steady her breathing by the time he met her lips. 

 

“That—” she can barely control her breathing as he removes his fingers from between them and drags them up her stomach so she can feel how aroused she’d just been— still is.

 

He licks his fingers clean as he hovers over her, supporting himself with one arm before placing his other one down next to her head and dipping to meet her lips again finally.

 

She can taste herself on him, and she doesn’t think she’s ever tasted something she didn’t know she craved. 

 

Her eyes are dark, and she slides her hands down between the two of them as he continues peppering her with kisses while she struggles to get his belt and pants undone.

 

He leans back on his haunches, yanking his pants down, impatient and just wanting to be consumed by her more. 

 

He pulls her up for a moment, unhooking her bra and letting it drop between them, taking her in for a moment before leaning her back down again and grabbing the front of her underwear and pulling them fully down her long, tanned legs as he goes, placing a quick kiss along the scar on her ankle. 

 

He can see the wanton desire in her eyes as she lifts a leg up to his hip and hooks it around him, trying to draw him closer.

 

She gasps in surprise as he turns them, pulling her on top of him and she steadies himself with her hands on his chest as she bends her knees and straddles his waist, feeling him against her lower belly, this time with nothing between them. 

 

She reaches down, stroking him and she feels him buck up into her hand. “Liv—”

 

“El, I need–I need to feel you.” She says and it’s all he needs before he’s helping her lift her hips up and guiding her down on him, slowly but surely taking him in all at once. 

 

She takes all of him, and he lets her adjust for a moment, but not letting her set the pace for the moment, because, he knows, if he left it up to her, she’d be asking him to haul her up against a wall and take her hard, fast and rough. 

 

But this was Liv. 

 

Liv, his partner. 

 

Liv, the woman he’s been in love with for so fucking long. 

 

Liv, who deserved love and to be loved. 

 

Liv, who he wanted to take his time with, and did. 

 

She swirled her hips above him, signaling she was ready and she took a deep breath. He leans his head back against the headboard as his hips thrust up into her, beginning to maintain a steady pace. 

 

She arches her back, and he follows her, guiding her back down onto the bed back underneath them and they readjust a moment, sliding back into her. 

 

He runs his hand up her side, feeling the shivers her body reacts with and rests his hand over her breast, rolling her hardened nipple between his index finger and thumb, pinching it every now and then, grinning at the high pitched whine she lets out every time he does. 

 

She’s panting, and her body feels like it’s on absolute fire as he builds her back up, setting such a perfectly slow place. Normally, it wouldn’t do it for her, this slow, this sensual, but the sounds he’s making with every thrust, and the way he’s paying each of her breasts attention, and kissing her lips, and mumbling into her ear, it’s sending her climbing higher and higher. 

 

She’s on the precipice, and his voice, low and gravely, whispering in her ear to just come sends her over the edge as she feels him right there with her, spilling inside of her.

 

She sees stars, and she’s never going to tell him just how good he really was, but when he shifts, and pulls out of her, rolling over on his side and holding her close to him, he reaches up to kiss her sweaty, sated face. 

 

She lets him capture her lips again as she settles in against him, letting him wrap his arms around her and he kisses his way down her neck again, this time, kissing each and every one of her scars once more. 

 

“Friends have their friend’s scars committed to memory, right?” He mumbles into her skin.

 

She laughs, and he looks up at her with a goofy, shit eating grin. 

 

“I think we’re probably a little more than friends, for now, yeah?” 

 

“Can more than friends say I love you to their more than friends?” He asks tentatively. 

 

She closes her eyes and takes a slow, deep breath before looking back at his waiting eyes and kisses him once more. “Maybe you should say it and find out?” She says quietly, almost unsure of the words. 

 

“Love you, Liv.” 

 

It’s ever so soft, just like the kiss he presses to her forehead as he holds her in his arms. 

 

She closes her eyes, reveling in the feeling of being in his arms, being his.

 

“I love you, too, El.”