Chapter Text
The gift card is stuffed within a stack of mail that is so large, she needs Noah's help to bring it all up to their apartment.
Luckily, her twelve-year-old is not too observant tonight. He keeps the pile close to his chest and rests his head against the cool elevator wall, exhausted from the long day of school and rehearsal.
They're quiet on the way to their door, and when they step inside, they still don't say a word. Noah toes off his shoes, plops the papers on the coffee table, and immediately heads to his room. Olivia can hear his backpack get tossed onto the ground — despite her countless times scolding him not to — and he reappears as speedy as he fled. Shuffling over to his mother, he prepares himself for the dinner hooked over Olivia’s elbow in a plastic bag. It was a long day and they deserved greasy food.
“Hey, hands first.”
She nudges her head towards the bathroom door, ignoring his outstretched arms reaching for the slimy bag. The kid should know by now — living in the city with this many germs? Besides, nearly a thousand kids were out this month already with either COVID or the flu. Not her kid; not happening.
He scatters off, groaning.
...over hand washing?
Olivia lets it go. Now that he's growing up, nearing those teenage years, she fears she'll be doing that a lot: ‘letting things go.’
She empties her hands from the rest of her stack, letting them join the rest on the coffee table. With her hands free, she can finally place the bag of food down and strip off her own coat. Step one of settling herself in for the night: complete.
“I’m starving,” Noah whines as he trots his way back over.
Olivia chuckles, “I know, sweetheart. Help yourself — your’s should be on top.”
The minute she gives permission, the plastic bag is ripped open and his dinner is in his hand within seconds. He takes a bite so large he could choke, but Olivia doesn’t scold him, only rolls her eyes.
Her stomach grumbles too, but that mass of papers on the table catches her eye. When one job ends, another begins.
She swipes them up and takes her place next to her son, who pauses to pull out her sandwich for her. He even unwraps it before scooting it over towards her.
"Thank you," she hums, and he tosses a closed-mouth grin back.
“S’there anything for me?” Noah asks through a full mouth, glancing over to see what she’s flipping through.
“You want to pay the light bill this month?”
He shakes his head.
“Didn’t think so,” she laughs.
He takes another bite and she continues sorting through the mail. Bill after bill, spam mail after spam mail — it’s such a waste of paper. How many credit cards can she really be prequalified for?
“S’that for me?” Noah mumbles.
The dance studio logo is bright against the white envelope, and she passes it over to him by habit. It’s probably another calendar update or some other nonsense that she’s going to have to pay for. As if she doesn’t already pay an arm and a leg for Noah to even dance at the studio.
Her mind moves on, not giving it a second thought. There's a lot left to go through, the kid can open up some dance letter.
This week has been hell, and she has missed a few days of mail pickup — hence the toppling stack on her counter. She'll vow to never do this again, but she will; it's inevitable.
After three more Spectrum pamphlets, there are a few cards from survivors. She plunges her hand deep into her purse to snag her glasses, perching them on her nose so she can read across the cards. Alicia’s baby turned six, Kennedy graduated, and Janelle got cast in another Broadway show. Good for her.
“Mom?”
“Hmm, sweetie?”
She's listening — she swears she is. But she's also unsure what this insurance bill is even saying, so she squints her eyes to read the fine print. The distraction leaves her a little confused when he asks, “What’s... bo-dior?”
Her brows immediately furrow — are they charging her double this month?
“What’s what, honey?”
“Bo-dior?" he repeats. "B-o-u-d-o-i-r—”
The paper is ripped from his hands instantaneously. Eyes scanning over the letter, Olivia's mortified to see what the 'uppity-Manhattan' studio is planning.
But she finds something much worse.
She won the raffle.
two weeks prior
They’re buzzed. Not quite drunk, but sufficiently tipsy.
His hands cling onto her waist and he pulls her closer to him, letting her back rest against his chest. She’s been pushing him away all night in an aim to maintain a respectful distance in public. But this is her third drink and the food seems to be for ‘ballet bodies’ — there’s barely a full tray of crackers and cheese. The alcohol hit her quick, and he looks too good in this suit. His dress shirt is left unbuttoned at the top and damn, she wants him.
“Mm, you’re warm.”
She laughs, leaning back into him and closing her eyes. “You’re needy.”
“For you? Always.”
He tilts his head down, kissing her shoulder, and she throws her free hand up to hug him as he does.
“I’m sorry there’s nothing to eat here. I apparently misunderstood the ‘dance-mom-dinner-party and raffle.’ invite.”
Elliot chuckles and keeps her near, liking how they’re tucked away at a tall table. It’s hidden from the wandering glares of single mothers who can’t seem to keep their eyes off them. She had warned him. This would be the first time these nosey-ass housewives would see her with a man, let alone someone looking like Elliot. He didn’t care, he was grateful she even invited him.
“I don’t mind. I’m thinking about the closest, greasiest, cheapest thing nearby for when we are finally set free.”
She smiles and takes another sip of her cocktail, finishing it off. It’s fruity and all sugar, and she’ll have a nightmare of a hangover tomorrow, but it was free with the ticket. And Noah’s at a sleepover, she can be loud and messy tonight.
Turning in his arms, she wraps her own around his neck and kisses him quickly, just because she can. He tastes like rich whiskey and he feels so good against her, she almost doesn’t want to stop.
“You good, Benson?”
“I’m great.”
“You’re drunk,” he laughs.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
His smile remains plastered on his face and he leans in to kiss her forehead, tightening his hold on her. If they could live like this every night — forget their work, smile, laugh, drink and hold each other like this — he’d be set.
“I have an idea,” she mumbles into his chest.
“What’s that?”
“The tickets. You take mine, I take yours. We put each other’s tickets in the baskets.”
“Why?”
“More fun.”
She lifts her head up, looking up at him and grinning wide. He likes when she’s loosened up, when she acts like it’s just the two of them and nobody else.
Instinctively, he tucks the loose curls behind her ear. “Whatever you want, kid.”
:::
“Massage?”
“It’s a couple’s massage. That’s cheating, Liv.”
“Us. Naked in a room, covered in oil? Fine, I’ll take it out—”
“Ah, ah—” He grabs her wrist to halt her movement and drops it in. “—in your dreams.”
They walk down the edges of the banquet hall with their arms linked together and glance over each of the elaborate displays. Like they even had time for this stuff. A trip to Cancun, boating lessons? She was barely able to show up tonight, and her fingers have finally stopped twitching to check her phone.
These prizes were not for people like her and Elliot. These prizes were for people who could already do these things, but wanted the excuse to give them the nudge. People who get nannies so they can work on their at-home candle business. They’ll sell one every other week and joke that it‘s their ‘allowance.’
“Wanna hang out with Charlie… Demicko?”
“It’s D’Amelio,” Olivia clarifies, “—and I would rather work every holiday for a year.”
She leans over to glance at the bucket and it’s far too full for her liking. “Why is that even a prize for this crowd? I should flag all the fathers who put a ticket in there.”
Elliot laughs, “You have my full support.”
They keep their lazy pace, but he can’t help feeling the eyes of the other patrons return to them. Elliot even leans in and kisses her temple when he notices a man’s stare linger too long on the low-cut of Olivia’s dress.
She asked him to be her eye-candy. A part of her hoped that dragging him here would quiet their whispers. That they wouldn’t keep ‘accidentally’ asking her about her husband or about Noah’s father. It’s nauseating after a long day of work to deal with people so outside of her world. Of course, Elliot happily obliged, but Olivia is Olivia.
And Olivia is here in an emerald dress and matching heels. Her makeup is perfect (although her cheeks are much pinker thanks to the alcohol). Her hair is in these loose waves that Elliot desperately wants to wrap his fingers around—
He can’t help but be possessive.
It took them this long to get together, he wasn’t going to lose her now. Not that he really had much competition — they’ve been steady for a few months now. He‘d love to see the sucker who dared try to take her away from him.
“Cooking classes with Giada De Lau—”
“No,” she quickly protests and tugs him forward.
“Why? You’re not interested?”
“I think I’ve had enough of Italian women for a while,” she groans.
He stifles a laugh, “Is this because of—”
“Yes.”
“Thought you were over it?”
“Tia’s a sensitive subject. I feel like I know what Kathy was going through with me now.”
He laughs, “Noted.”
They toss their tickets in a few other buckets. For Olivia: tickets to a Broadway show, a wine tasting event, cleaning services, and some spa membership. For Elliot: access to some overly fancy gym, scuba classes, a private dinner at a five-star restaurant, and a new car.
Their measly tickets are statistically pointless — especially compared to the heaps that other patrons have purchased — but it’s fun for Olivia to think about him winning that dinner for two. Maybe they could sit on a rooftop and look out at the city. Eat food they can’t pronounce. Spend all evening trying to keep their hands off each other.
How romantic.
“Oh, yes,” Elliot says, voice cutting through her little fantasy. He plops her final ticket into a nearby bucket without her even getting a chance to say no.
She follows his eyesight to no avail. “…a magazine subscription?”
“No, next to it.”
Hour-long boudoir photoshoot with Maisley Peterson. Feel confident and sexy in this one-on-one shoot with a longtime boudoir photographer. No experience needed, private shoot.
“Elliot Stabler! Take it out!” she whispers, smacking his chest.
He shakes his head. “Not happenin’.”
“Elliot, I’m the Captain of SVU, I do not need my business to be seen by everyone.”
“It won’t be. It’s a private shoot, Liv.” He points again, but she shoos away his hand. “S’just for you. And me,” he teases.
“I wish I had your tickets left,” she whines. “I’d’ve put them all in the goat yoga bucket.”
Elliot chuckles again, reaching out for her, snagging her by the tie at the small of her back. “Hey, now. C’mere, you.”
She rolls her eyes at him, finally glancing around them for the first time since they got her tonight. The eyes were still there, although they were far less daunting than before. But now they’re in the middle of the room and he’s looking at her like this. Like he wants her, like he looks at her when it’s just them in the dead of night.
“You really want me to take it out, I’ll pull out my badge right now and dig through that bucket. Okay?”
Olivia sighs, “It’s fine, Elliot. It’s just… not something I would’ve signed up for myself.”
He pulls her close again and kisses her pouty lips. “I, for one, wouldn’t be able to breathe if I saw you take pictures like that.”
She cocks a brow. “Oh?”
“Oh, yeah.”
His mouth lands next to her ear, his breath hot, as he whispers, “To see you like that? I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.”
present day
She could’ve tossed the stupid prize away. Could’ve given it to Rollins as a gag gift for her wedding, could’ve literally set it on fire — and maybe, she should have.
But instead, she calls Maisley.
She says the call is an excuse to obtain more information. That maybe this whole boudoir thing is good for survivors — it could help some of them heal and get back to themselves. After all, that’s what the woman’s social media said it did.
Olivia could treat this as a work thing. A new contact for her, someone she could treat like a colleague. No harm, no foul.
Except… she sees a goddamn Instagram reel of a groom’s reaction to his wife’s shoot. And now she’s calling her, with work nowhere near on her mind.
Their sex life is great — phenomenal, in fact — but there’s something about this. The way he reacted at the dinner party, how excited he got, how he looked at her with those dark eyes in front of everyone…
“Hello?”
“…hi, um — is this Maisley Peterson?”
“Yes, it is! Who’s speaking?”
“Hello, I, uh…” her voice tapers off and she scratches her forehead; she feels like a goddamn middle schooler right now. “I won a contest — some raffle thing — and this gift card for you was my prize.”
“Oh, congratulations,” she cheers, lightheartedly. “When are you available?”
Out of habit, her bottom lip slides under her teeth at the question. Don’t get her wrong, Olivia loves taking pictures — she’ll always pull out her phone to snag a quick selfie with her son or Elliot, but this… this is a photoshoot. These will be on someone else’s camera, not in the safety of her hidden folder on her phone. “Well, I’m not sure if I’m… the right clientele for this?”
“Nervous?”
She reaches for the wine glass in front of her, tucking her feet under her bottom on the couch. Wine might not cut it; if it weren’t a Tuesday, she’d want something stronger. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Most of my clients haven’t,” Maisley reassures, continuing on. “If you come and don’t want to do it, we can always throw away the hour. I’ll even give you a free regular photoshoot to help ease your mind. But, to be honest, you sound exactly like most of the women that call. It’s a very intimate thing, and of course, it’s not comfortable for everybody.”
“…how does it work?”
“You’ll fill out a form that I’ll email you over with some questions on it. Stuff about you: your measurements, what you’re comfortable with, styles you like. Then, just show up on the day of. We’ll take care of everything else.”
She takes another casual sip, swirling the glass around after to watch the dark red spin. Tentatively she asks, “How private will these photos be? I really can’t risk—”
“Only I will have access to them. I shoot and edit the photos myself for safety, and you decide what we do with them. I have my own printers here if you want physical copies, or they go right on a USB and are handed off to you in person.”
“Physical copies?”
“Mhmm! You can request just photos in a folder, or I can print them into a book with no labels. Lots of my clients tend to give them as gifts for their partners and it keeps it fun.”
It might be the fact her glass is empty. It might be the fact that Maisley is just that reassuring. Or it’s the possibility of seeing Elliot’s reaction to this , the thought of her getting to watch him looking at her and there to be no boundaries anymore.
She sees it now that they’ve been sleeping with each other for a bit. When she’s packing Noah’s lunch, hair up in a messy pony, wearing a plain v-neck and sweats. She’s going on about her chief and when she looks up at him, his eyes have a glimmer of desire and she wants to laugh.
He tells her that he wants her all of the time, no matter if she’s donning the classic blazer for work, dressed up for date night, or in her wrinkly floral pjs from the night before. Olivia knows he means it too, how his hands linger over her hips when she’s got her glasses on and she’s sorting through bills, his head dipping down to kiss her shoulder. How he reaches for her in the morning when her hair is frizzy and her face is bare, peppering a smatter of kisses on her red cheeks.
It’s sweet. It’s nice and domestic and reassuring to her of his promise to stay. But…
Elliot has seen her over the years, and while she’s grateful the stars aligned for them to get the chance to be together now, there’s a part of her that wishes she was ten years younger. Her body has changed and while she’s not complaining about her appearance, it would be nice to feel as sexy as she did back then. To put on one of the strappy things shoved deep in her closet, have him see her ready for him. Be able to see him needy for her, like she’s wanted for so long.
“…okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, I’m… I’m willing to give it a try.”
The form alone almost makes her cancel.
It starts off simple enough — name, age, profession. She settles for ‘police officer’ and leaves out the extra details.
But then there are… photos. Examples of lingerie fabrics, do you prefer silk, satin, lace, or cotton?
Her eyes dart around the room, glancing back to make sure Noah is still in his bedroom and nowhere near this. When she feels safe, she clicks on ‘satin’ and ‘lace,’ moving onto the next question.
“Dear god,” she mutters. Her eyes widen when the screen asks: in bed, do you prefer to take control, go along for the ride, or a mix of both?
Alright, this was maybe too much.
She clicks her iPad locked, reaching for her glass of wine to take another hearty sip. What was she doing?
Her phone buzzes.
It’s him.
Elliot | Finally heading home.
Why so late? | Olivia
Elliot | Long story. You lonely?
Not tonight. Noah crashed after dinner
and now he’s wide awake. | Olivia
Elliot | Damn. What I would give to see
you right now.
She decides to chance it. If she embarrasses herself, then she’ll shut off her phone and down the bottle.
Leader or follower? | Olivia
Elliot | ?
Do you prefer to take charge or
go along for the ride? | Olivia
Elliot | Depends on the situation
No situation - just answer | Olivia
Elliot | Both
She clicks open her iPad again and clicks both. The next question pops up: choose your color palette(s).
What’s your favorite color? | Olivia
Elliot | …is this a test?
No, just tell me | Olivia
Elliot | Green. But blue’s a close second.
And she clicks on each color, continuing onto the next question.
So… she’s doing it.
“Olivia! So glad you came,” Maisley says through a warm smile.
To Olivia’s surprise, the woman is not a fresh-faced twenty-year-old. Not that that would matter, it’s just, there’s something more relatable about her, even though Olivia probably still has close to fifteen years on her. Thick red curls surround her round face, she’s got stylish glasses resting on a face full of freckles and there’s a beautiful diamond ring on her finger.
“C’mon in, make yourself comfortable. I always start off with a little chat to make things more natural and take some pressure away.” She stays busy as she talks, moving around tripods and screwing on lenses. It feels official. “Want coffee or tea?”
Olivia shakes her head. “No, no, I’m alright. Thank you.”
“Of course.” Maisley gestures towards a couch to her left, finishing up the task at hand, before she says, “Let’s chat!”
Olivia shuffles over, bag in hand still, while Maisley takes her own seat and she tugs out her phone, quickly sending a text message.
“Sorry, my wife. Pregnancy cravings.”
“A baby – how exciting. How far along is she?”
“Six months in two days. Three failed rounds of IVF later, and bam! Twins.”
“Oh wow.”
Maisley chuckles. “How about you? Got any kids?”
“I have a twelve-year-old son.” Olivia smiles when she thinks about him; it’s a force of habit.
“Ironically, his dance studio raffle is where I won this,” she says, gesturing around the room with her hands.
“Well, I’m glad. I love working with moms. All moms deserve to feel good — feel sexy!”
Olivia laughs uncomfortably. “Yeah, that’s been a while for me.”
“Really?”
She nods.
Maisley senses the topic is broaching on a more sensitive area and pulls back a little, much to Olivia’s comfort. “What brings you here? Besides the gift card.”
Olivia shakes her head slowly, her bottom lip sliding under her teeth as she takes a deep, cleansing breath. “I’m… I’m not sure.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” Maisley asks, snagging a pillow from behind herself to fiddle with in distraction. “Or just needing to fall in love with yourself again?”
“…both? Maybe?”
She could say it was only Elliot who made her want to come, but he doesn’t even know she won. There’s something else beneath the simplicity of the gift card and the idea of her partner’s face when he sees the shoot.
“What are they like?”
“Hmm?”
“Your significant other — if you have one,” Maisley clarifies.
Olivia smiles when she thinks about Elliot and she catches herself, trying to hide her grin. “He’s great.”
Maisley sees it though, deciding to prod further. “What’s your story?”
“Uh, we met at work,” Olivia says. “25 years ago.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” Olivia chuckles. “Feels like a lifetime ago.”
“How long have you been together?”
“Not long — it hasn’t even been a full year.”
“Oh! Quite the gap.”
“Yeah,” Olivia sighs. “It’s… complicated. But I don’t know — he looks at me sometimes, drooling over me when I know I’m nothing special. I’ll be all disheveled after work and he’s on me like a hawk. Our… romantic time is great, but with his kids and my son, sometimes it’s not as extravagant as maybe I would like it to be.”
She shakes her head, continuing on. “I don’t know, I suppose I want to see what he sees. But, I also want him to see me like this, because I don’t always have the time or energy to get to this point.”
Maisley nods along, eyes full of understanding and it’s amazing that Olivia allowed herself to be so vulnerable in front of a complete stranger. But she was already doing this, already being this exposed.
The young woman smiles again. “Well, Olivia — I can help with that.”
Olivia can’t leave the dressing room.
She feels exposed, wrapped in an emerald green velvet teddy. She requested satin and lace, but after trying them on, this was the last one of the bunch and the only one that she remotely could walk out there wearing.
It’s been too long; Maisley will surely be frustrated at the time she’s wasting. But she sits on the small bench, staring at the mirror and…
It’s a lot.
She realized her arms are crossed over her like she’s in grade school all over again, scared to have the other kids see her in her swimsuit. Dropping them quick, she forces herself to stand, taking a deep breath.
Look at yourself, Olivia.
Her eyes glance over her body again and she readjusts, standing like she’s confident, and it starts to work.
She feels… hot.
The way the garment shapes her body, accentuates her curves and the dips —
Take the plunge, Olivia.
And she opens the door.