Disclaimer: This story is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made.
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5:30 PM
Friday
The squad room bustles with activity, but it is a mellow sort of frenzy as the detectives of the Special Victims Unit tie up the loose ends of their case files in preparation for the weekend. Inevitably, some will be called back at ungodly hours of the night and early morning, being pulled away from relaxation and rejuvenation to delve into the gruesome details of a rape or a child's murder. Working in Sex Crimes is not an occupation, it is a lifestyle – there are certain sacrifices that must be made in order to fulfill the role of an NYPD detective.
For Olivia Benson, sacrifice is nothing new. She sacrificed her childhood to keep her alcoholic mother from destroying herself; she sacrificed her early twenties to studying to ensure a top spot in the academy's graduating class; and now, daily, she sacrifices a social life, a family, and some part of her sanity and peace-of-mind to rescue the forgotten victims of rape and molestation, of child abuse and neglect. And, perhaps most painfully of all, she sacrifices love. The love of a man who she works with every day, a married man with four children, a man who, despite all her best efforts, she cannot turn away from: her partner, Elliot Stabler.
Elliot sits at the worn desk across from Olivia, twirling a pen between the fingers of his right hand as he reads a follow-up report from a rapist's latest therapy session. It's nothing too earth-shattering, just a man saying he feels regret for what he's done and vowed to change. To Elliot, this isn't some revelation, merely the cookie cutter response of every sick bastard they caught – and a complete load of crap. He is glad it is Friday, happy to have wrapped everything up for the week so that, for once, he can simply enjoy two days with his family without having to watch Kathy play with the kids while he goes through stacks of paperwork. Of course, in the back of his mind, he knows that there will always be the possibility of getting a call from Cragen that will bring him back to the 1-6, but, for now, he ignores that possibility.
"El?" Olivia finishes tidying up her desk, putting papers into drawers and switching off the battered lamp. She stands up from her chair, stretching her arms above her head, her lilac button-down rising as she does. Elliot looks up at the sound of his name and blinks stupidly as Olivia unconsciously reveals a stretch of smooth, tight, tanned skin with her movements.
"Liv?" For some reason, this glimpse at his partner's stomach has rendered Elliot nearly unable to speak.
"Do you think you could drop me off on your way home?" It isn't a long walk from the precinct to her Manhattan apartment, but the sun has been beating down on the city all day, and Olivia dreads even the short walk in the sticky heat. Maybe if she could wear a tank top and shorts to work, it wouldn't be so bad, but the weather has no bearing on her outfit – she has to dress professionally, and that means pants and shirts with sleeves.
"Sure, no problem."
"Thanks." She speaks so quietly that he can barely hear her. He watches her as she walks to her locker to get her purse and notices an aura of sadness surrounding her. It is barely noticeable, just something he can pick up because he has been her partner for six years.
"Do you want to stop for a drink first?" He doesn't know why he says it, but when he sees her smile, it doesn't matter.
"Sure, I'd like that, but.." Her smile turns down a bit, making Elliot's pulse quicken.
"But what?"
"Don't you want to go home and be with your family?"
And as much as he wanted that only a minute ago, and as much as he still wants that now, somehow, being with Olivia takes precedence. He doesn't understand what his heart is telling him to do.
"They'll be there when I get home. Don't worry. It's been a tough week and I think we could both use a drink."
She hesitates for just a second, then gives in to something deep in her stomach, a warm pulse that wants to spread throughout the rest of her body.
"C'mon, Stabler, let's go."
"What do you want, Liv?"
Ten minutes later, the detectives are standing in front of the bar at O'Malley's, an Irish pub a few blocks down from the precinct where, on any given night, at least a dozen detectives and officers from the 1-6 could be found, blurring some of the hard edges of the day with pints of Guinness and shots of Jim Beam.
"Mmm, I could really go for a gin and tonic tonight." Smiling at the twentysomething bartender as he pulls a clean glass from below the counter, Olivia feels an alien sensation, albeit a pleasurable one, when Elliot frowns a little. Some odd surge of pride tells her that this brief flirtation with a stranger has produced the desired effect – jealousy.
"Miller Lite." Elliot is polite, but cold, as he places his order, then wraps his left hand around the frosty mug that is slid in front of him. With a nod of his head, he indicates to Olivia that he'll follow her: she gets to choose their seats. Elliot's right hand finds its way onto her lower back, and she can feel the transfer of heat from his splayed fingers and wide palm even through her shirt.
Elliot doesn't know why he's touching her; he pushes the question to the back of his mind, chalks it up as a reflex born from an upbringing that placed emphasis on respecting, revering, even cherishing women. He tells himself it's merely polite to guide a woman to her seat – with great effort, he remembers times he has done the same for his mother at church, his Aunt Grace in crowded restaurants.
He knows it's all a bunch of bullshit.