Author's Note: This is my first time writing E/O. I was so scared about doing it, that I alternated between flailing in fear and being in the fetal position. Hopefully this doesn't suck. BTW the title comes from the Adele song, "Take It All," which is so E/O.
~*~Is This It~*~
The Semper Fidelis medal and mini badge are all she has left of him.
Twelve years of being more than just partners, and all she has are two pieces of cold metal to cling to.
The medal hangs from her neck; a physical manifestation of the albatross missing him has turned into.
And the badge is tucked safely away where only she knows; just like she only knows how deep him leaving has cut her, straight to her soul and leaving an ache in her bones that she'll never get over.
Everything is so much harder without him by her side, watching her back, being within an arm's reach. Every new case they catch seems to be stealing bigger and bigger chunks of her soul; more than they ever had before, and she knows it's because he's not there.
She's turned into this taut rubber band that's stretched to its limits and could snap at any moment. She's so tired and so stressed, and she just wants the relief of looking into his eyes – those stormy grey eyes – because she knows he'll know, and finally she'll feel like she can breathe.
It's not Amaro's fault, she feels this way. He's a good cop and a good partner; anyone on the street would be damn lucky to have him watching their back, but like so many others he just doesn't understand. He thinks she's keeping her distance because he's the "new guy," and that's just what you do as cops; haze the newbie in the unit, freeze 'em out a little, be tough, break 'em in.
Of course, that's not it at all.
Getting close to him, joking with him, laughing with him, being partners would feel like she was betraying their partnership, and she can't bring herself to do that.
She swears she can feel him; that when she looks up, he'll be there hunched over his desk, buried in paperwork just like she is, but he never is, and that just makes all of the ache that much worse. She sighs heavily, rubbing her temples forcefully and just trying to be calm, but she's like a coiled spring; wound up tight and ready to spring, and the way Munch and Fin are huddled together and whispering and looking at her with concern isn't helping.
"What?" She snaps, burnt caramel eyes narrowed and blazing.
They share a look; silently deciding which one draws the short straw and has to talk to her. It's Munch who gets it, and he briefly casts his former partner a glare over his shoulder before making his way to her desk.
His long strides don't give her enough time to slip on the mask she's perfected over the months because he's sitting on the edge of her desk seconds later. His hand reaches out, curving to the blade of her shoulder, and he leans over, his voice soft, "Give him a call, Liv. Don't do this to yourself, okay?"
She shakes her head and lets out a hollow, bitter laugh. "That the best you got, John?"
If she were anyone else, he'd stiffen and leave with some sarcastic remark muttered under his breath, but she's not anyone else; she's like the little sister he never had, so he presses on. "I'm serious." He gives her his signature pointed look, the one over the rims of his dark glasses. "Call him and tell him to pull his head out of his stubborn ass. There's no shame in needing him; just don't let it eat you alive."
He gives her shoulder a squeeze, letting his hand linger for just a moment and as he moves to get up, she sees Rollins walking toward her desk, and it's like she's been punched in the gut. They think no one knows about the two of them, but everyone knows. It's little things; the way one of them will linger in the squad room as the other finishes paperwork or cleans up in the locker room so they can walk out together, how he's smiling more than ever, her pale cheeks flushing when he comes in, how they know how the other takes their coffee.
She knows she should look away, but she can't. His hand finds the small of her back, lingering there for just a moment and the platinum blonde tilts her head back and flashes a bright smile before they both say goodbye to Fin, who smirks and shakes his head.
Like, she said, everyone knows.
Fin tried to get her to call him before he left too, but she just shook her head, "Once I finish up, I'm going to go home and take a nice long bath."
He sighed heavily, his hazel eyes concerned as he said, "Munch probably said this already, but don't be doin' this to yourself, a'ight, Liv. If ya need him this bad, just pick up the phone; don't be tryin' to be a hero or somethin'. We all need somebody, and there ain't no shame in that."
Only the hollow light of her desk lamp remains after the street wise detective takes his leave. She's gnawing so hard on her bottom lip that she tastes the bitter, copper of blood, but her hand is reaching for the phone, then her fingers are dialing the familiar number, and suddenly her ear is filled with his voice.
"Stabler," Is how he answers, and she can't stop the laugh that bursts forth; not the bitter, hollow laugh she let out when talking to Munch, but a real, genuine honest laugh.
"Liv," He breathes out her name, and she lets the sound of his baritone wash over her as she closes her eyes tightly because she almost can't believe she's really hearing him say her name.
He can pin point it down to the seconds how long it's been since he's seen her, heard her, felt her presence, and just the sound of her laughter makes him want to fall to his knees. He never felt such an ache, such pain and agony until he walked away from her. He never imagined his heart would have this gaping hole, one that seemed like it would never close because he wasn't seeing her every day.
His hand is shaking, his feet suddenly unsteady underneath him as she says, "El," and he's aching more because just in the sound of his name, he can hear that she's aching.
"Where are you?" How he gets the words out, he doesn't know. All he knows is he has to stop her from hurting, has to take away the ache in her voice, has to see her.
"I'm still at the squad." She gets out despite the significant lump in her throat. "Stay there." He tells her before hanging up.
It's not the sound of his footsteps that give him away. No, it's the way every hair on her body stands on end. She doesn't need to see or hear him to know he's there. And when she looks up and sees his strong frame filling the doorway to the squad, she doesn't know whether to run into his arms and let him hold her or slap him across the face for leaving her and causing her more pain than any one should ever experience.
The decision isn't hers to make because he's in front of her desk before she can blink. He reaches for her, pulling her out of her chair and she wants to fight, she wants to be angry, she wants to yell, but all she can do is yield to his touch. Her body is completely pliable to his sturdy hands as he pulls her against him, and nothing but relief flows through her as he fists his fingers through her hair and brings her even closer.
"Damn it," He grinds out gruffly. "I missed you."
They've been here before; clinging to each other, fingers digging in so deep they feel like they're touching skin and not fabric, heavy breathing that's so in sync, hearts pounding in tandem.
How his heart can still find the capacity to ache, he doesn't know, but when he sees the tear stains on her cheeks and how more tears are filling her eyes, his heart contracts. He'd do anything to take on her pain and make it his because she shouldn't be aching and hurting like this. He's the one who left her, and he should feel everything; her pain and his own.
There's a little part of her that's urging her to beg him to come back. To go into Cragen's office and find his badge (because she knows it's still there) and then put it in his hand. And damn it, if she doesn't want to listen to that part of her because she wants him to come back, she needs him to come back, but there's something in his eyes that tells her no matter how hard she begs, no matter how broken she looks, he's not coming back.
It's that connection they have that tells her there's nothing she can do, and it's like being stabbed over and over by tiny needles on every inch of her skin.
Swallowing thickly, she lets out a shaky breath and whispers hoarsely, "There's nothing I can do, huh?"
He knows what she's talking about; just by looking into those burnt caramel eyes, he knows. And oh, does it hurt knowing he can't give her what she wants.
Shooting Jenna did something to his soul, to his very being that is so unrepairable not even she can reach that place and make him want to pick up a gun and put on a badge again. His whole body shakes and he feels the saline of tears stinging at the back of his eyes as he brings his forehead to rest against hers.
"I'm sorry." He chokes out, fighting to not break down in her arms.
"Me too." She murmurs, fighting the same fight he is.
Note: Towards the end Elliot talks about what shooting Jenna did to him; if you don't know who Jenna is, she's the teenage girl he shot in the season twelve finale, which in the season thirteen premiere Fin referenced as the reason he turned in his badge because he "couldn't come back from that."