Sacrifices

disclaimer: Dick Wolf's a pimp.

and don't call that number. let's not piss off the perfect stranger.

…

Elliot Stabler did not like waiting, nor did he like sitting in a room designated for that specific purpose. But he held back any grumblings and turned his attention to an old Sports Illustrated, flipping through coverage of the World Series and crinkled advertisements for sports drinks. On the interview with Tiger Woods, someone had scribbled a name and number in the corner, one he easily recognized.

Special Victims, 593-2433. talk to Olivia.

He looked up and scanned the faces in the room as if to find the author, but it was a fruitless reverie. Anyone could have written in this from last year to now; anyone could have penned that name and number.

God, he was feeling helpless again.

He reached for his phone, thinking of calling the familiar extension; talk to captain, just mention the magazine. See if someone who went to this clinic had ever contacted Liv.

But he stopped, placing it back in his pocket with a weary hand, running his numb palm over his left shoulder.

If it had been a few years ago…

If he still had a badge…

If he was still on the squad…

But he wasn't. And these intuitions…the faces on the subway that seemed to know something, the eyes that never lied…they didn't let up. He was still lost in the feeling he'd had that day he'd handed in his badge, on that day he'd walked out the squad room door with a few claps on the back. Hard, lonely.

Helpless.

Sometimes he woke up still lost in a dark dream, not sure which reality to trust. He feared for his family, he feared for his welfare. He woke up never knowing if safety was attainable, if mistakes could be forgiven.

And then he'd walk a few miles down a crowded street or a silent alley, trying to remember an empty detail that left him at a loss; the color of that one man's hair, the way her eyes had looked on that rainy Tuesday. It would come back to him after a while, but only after he'd reconsidered his place in the world. Only after he'd realized how lost he really was.

The city just keeps on going, even when you leave part of it behind. Life could change so much, but everyone else would still be here, crawling through the traffic, hurrying through the station, waiting and watching and walking down the same streets they'd walked for years. There was a point when you stopped fighting the current you couldn't control, gave into the endless hum of the city. The seasons would change but the hum would still pulse in your ears, the faces would still change at their dizzying pace.

And then one day you'd recognize the stranger's face on the train. You wouldn't know his name, his age, where he lived, what he did. You wouldn't know who he was or what he would ever do for you, but you knew his face. You'd seen that face downtown getting a coffee a few weeks before, and now you saw him on the subway, a different jacket and tie, but the same face.

That's when it would hit you.

That's when something would change.

But not everything changed. Captain had always said the job would make you or break you, and for those that it didn't kill, for those that survived the endless barrage of dark days and darker fortunes, it became the addiction. Elliot came back every morning because of something he remembered or something he craved. He came back to finish what he started, or start something anew, or embrace the only thing that never changed. There would always be pain in the city. And there would always be someone to face it.

But he wasn't facing it like that anymore. He was taking pain in the way average people took it, accepting it for what it was, letting it tear a part of your heart out and then scatter quickly in the backroom of your life. Most people could deal, but after years of diving headfirst into the shit, you lost the immunity. You lost the ability to just take something.

He couldn't just take it. He had to throw it back in someone's face, too.

He couldn't anymore.

And it killed him.

And it was all because of one man, too. One mother-fucking man who decided to send a bullet into his brain.

He was alive. He was well. He could talk, and walk, and think.

But he couldn't remember.

He couldn't remember phone numbers, street addresses, his neighbor's name. The bullet had missed everything important. But it had taken everything that didn't matter.

The things that didn't matter ended up being the things that mattered the most.

He had a scar, but it wasn't noticeable. He'd spent a month in the hospital, but in the end, the Brass had covered his expenses. Everything had worked out in the end, except for the one thing he'd needed to fix. He could live with the scar, pay the bills. But he needed to remember his son's nickname. He needed to remember what time to pick up his daughter.

And all the while he was missing the ability to turn himself on and face the problem. He couldn't run head-on into his issues anymore. He didn't have the job behind him. He didn't have the badge to back him up.

He had to grin and bear it, and take out his anger on something else.

His pillow worked, but it wasn't as satisfying as nailing some perp in interrogation. It wasn't as satisfying as bring a rapist off the street.

One person had mattered. And that person had told him he could do it. "Whatever gets you through today, El- try to remember it. Try your hardest to remember that one thing, and you'll remember it tomorrow. I promise."

She had been right.

He was getting better. And life was getting better. And he was happy again.

It was just the little things like the scribbled name and number that got to him. That got him thinking about the life he'd forsaken, the choices he'd made.

The sacrifices.

All the sacrifices.

"Mr. Stabler?" He looked up at the woman in the white coat before him, smiling. "I'm sorry you couldn't go in before, but we're ready for you now."

"I can see her?"

"Yes, she's back from the x-ray." The woman smiled, leading him to another room down a set of bright hallways. "And she's only been asking for one person."

The door opened, and he saw the figure sitting quietly on the table, chocolate brown eyes bright beneath her dark hair.

"Daddy!" She let out a cry when she saw him, reaching out for a hug as she gave him a huge grin.

Hey Audrey…" He took her in his arms, holding her close. "How's my girl?"

"I was brave." She said matter-of-factly, smiling again.

"Yes, she was." The woman gave him another gentle smile. "And the x-rays show that she can get her cast off in another week. Her wrist is healing fine."

"The x-rays didn't hurt." Audrey said, taking her father's hand as they left the office, skipping beside him in her bright red Mary-Jane's and striped tights. "I thought they would hurt, like when I fell out of the tree."

"You were still a very brave girl." He pulled her onto his shoulders, walking her through the farmer's market, her favorite place ton the weekends. She grinned when he bought her the cookie, even when he forgot how much it cost.

"How's the cookie?" He asked as they started up the steps to the brownstone, Audrey reaching for the maple leaves that hung overhead.

"Daddy, you've asked me that three times."

"Sorry...I didn't remember." Of course he didn't. He bit his lip. He didn't remember. God…sometimes it hurt.

He took her off his shoulders when they entered the kitchen, where Audrey received another set fo hugs and kisses from her mother.

"Was she a brave girl?" Her mother asked, holding her daughter on her lap.

"The bravest I've ever seen." Elliot leaned down to whisper in Audrey's ear. "Braver than your mommy."

"I heard that." Her mother gave Elliot a playful tug on the arm, kissing him on the cheek. Audrey slid off her mother's lap and went into the front room, singing to herself. Elliot placed another kiss on his wife's forehead.

"Did you remember to pick up the milk?" She asked, her eyes soft, her voice quiet.

"No," He said, silently hating himself for it. So simple…so hard…

"It's alright." She squeezed his shoulder. "You'll get better."

He listened to the soft singing in the other room, looking at his wife; the voice of a daughter who loved him, the eyes of a wife who cherished his company.

Sometimes the things you gave up didn't matter as much as the things you'd gained.

"I'm already better." He held Olivia's hand against his cheek, remembering her face one Wednesday as she'd slept. Remembering her tear-soaked eyes as she held his newborn daughter. Remembering her hand in his every time he recalled something new.

Little things came back…they always came back.