nous sommes tous les gourmands
by not jenny

She almost wishes for the hangover that would accompany- no, not absolution, but-

He tastes like vinegar; she knows this now. He tastes like long nights and longer days, and there are some things one should never know about one's partner. (The feel of his hand sliding up her thigh. His smell. The way his tongue curls inside her.)

He's talking to Kathy on his mobile, pacing the entire length of her apartment. "Case," she can hear, and, "yes, Olivia... there... par... Fin." She slips into the bathroom. Turns the water in the shower to cold and steps inside.

She can still hear him, yelling into his phone.


The weren't drunk. Not even close.

The whole squad had gone out to O'Malley's to celebrate the conviction of a serial rapist who had been terrorizing the Lower East Side for months. Even Casey'd been there, all doe-eyes and tipsy after too few beers, lightly scraping her toes against Olivia's shin.

But they weren't drunk, not them, not nearly enough, and his hand on her back made her shiver.

Ever the gentleman, he drove her home. Walked her up. (Stayed the night. Ever the gentleman, he whispered "I'm sorry" into her skin as the sun rose.) He said she tasted like rose petals, and, from him, it didn't sound like a line.

It was a line. His smile like a con job.


He tastes like vinegar. His tongue in her mouth and his hand under her shirt and "fuck, is that the-"


"Fucking window knob jammed into my back."

"Oh," his voice turning deep and deadly, "oh, my poor baby."

His hands, she thinks, should be registered as deadly weapons.

(His voice.)

(His tongue.)


Sitting in her apartment, lights off and shades drawn, she tells herself that it's over.

"It's over." Her voice cracks, and she repeats, "it's over, it's over, it's over" until her throat is raw. When her phone rings, she ignores it; his voice is hushed and urgent on her answering machine, asking her to pick up.

"Never fucking again, Elliot." And, then, "hello?"


It's not about a case. "El," she says, and they sit in silence, listening to each other breathe.

She tells herself it's over, that this is the last time.


But never is a long time, and every day is forever.

He tastes like cherries tonight, medicinal and sickly sweet.

There's a rapist in Central Park. Targeting joggers, which is hardly creative, but there's a twist: the vics are male, all three of them and counting, and powerful. A corporate attorney, a stockbroker, and a city councilman. So the SVU's in the news again, and there are reporters camped out on the steps of the precinct.

They're taking turns sleeping in the crib. (Kissing in the crib. He tastes like cough syrup.)

"El," she moans and, suddenly, "Elliot, wait. Stop."

His tongue tracing the shell of her ear, he answers, "Olivia."

Slamming her against the wall, he stalks out. "I'm gonna go get some paperwork done. Don't-" and he raises his hand, dropping it just as suddenly, "follow me. Please."

She doesn't (follow him, sleep, cry). She doesn't.


They find the perp, they don't find the perp. He tastes like blood beneath her tongue. Like arsenic.


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