Disclaimer and A/N: These disclaimers do nothing in the way of legal indemnification, but for the record, all that Dick Wolf and I share (that I know of) is an alma mater. Characters are all his; I own only the writing below.

She didn't know she was asleep until she awoke with a start.

Every nerve in her body alive, she quickly scanned her surroundings. The coffee table and fireplace stood before her, bathed in the warm glow of the still softly crackling fire, and the soreness in her neck told her that she'd fallen asleep on the couch. Again.

But her heart was still racing, and she couldn't recall any dreams as the catalyst. Still looking around, Olivia righted herself on the couch, then quickly stood up and swiped her hands across her face, as though unwilling to deal with whatever was out there in such a compromised position.

Of course, it was probably nothing. There wasn't much of anything these days. Things were pretty much normal—as normal as can be expected for an SVU detective, anyways. Almost as if New York were trying to apologize for William Lewis. No stalkers, no serial killers, no prison escapees… honestly, the past few weeks had only seen a couple DV cases and a kidnapping that proved to be a misunderstanding.

Quickly checking her phone, she confirmed that there were no missed calls (as if she would've slept through any). In other words, there was no reason for her hairs to stand up straight, for her heart to race, or for her body to stand coiled in anticipation.

And yet…

Rubbing her neck, Olivia walked over to the kitchen. Last night's bottle of wine still sat on the counter. Trevor had only drank a glass, but she—well, it was a nice bottle of wine. It wouldn't have done any good leaving it out to turn to vinegar. Just as it would be a shame to waste the last few drops in this glass…

She relished both the smoothness and the slight tang of acid on her throat. It felt good, calm…maybe she should just go back to sleep…

The soft tap against her door jolted her like lightning.

No. That couldn't—he was dead.

She snatched her phone up to check again, in case she'd missed something. That wouldn't be her squad, not without calling. And not even miserable Mr Delfort would harangue her at this hour for Noah's crying. …Which he wasn't, not now anyway. It couldn't—maybe she was still sleeping, and this wasn't real—

The second knock quelled that thought.

Olivia flew over to the door and glanced through the peephole.

She froze. Her insides evaporated, liquefied, then froze into ice.

Elliot Stabler.

Elliot fucking Stabler.

She glanced again, to make sure this wasn't a cruel apparition, some psychosomatic punishment for eating red meat too close to bedtime. But no. He had a goatee, now streaked with grey, but—she knew that face anywhere. She knew those eyes. The blue eyes she'd stared into every day for twelve years; the ones that still haunted her three years later; the ones she'd searched for to save her when William Lewis pushed her own gun inside of her, smothered her mouth with his, and clicked the safety—

Shaking, Olivia turned and slid down the length of the door. It was too—what? How the fuck… he couldn't be here, not here, not now, not after all this time…

"Olivia?"

Her heart stopped. There it was, his voice… his actual voice…

"Olivia, I—I can hear you. Can you…. ah." She could hear him rub his beard and her heart nearly burst. "Can you let me in?" A beat. "Please?"

Olivia faltered. She should ignore him, should send him on his miserable way with no explanation why; left to wonder if he just no longer mattered or if he never actually had—

But she couldn't. So slowly, she raised herself, grasped the knob, braced herself, and opened the door.

There he stood. She stared, almost as though she hadn't just seen him through the peephole, but there he stood, smelling faintly of whiskey, in the flesh.

"Hi, Olivia."

For lack of nothing better, a reciprocal greeting nearly fell automatically from her lips, but she caught herself. Were they really going to pretend like this was any old conversation? Like they would chat about the weather and talk about the kids? When she could barely even breathe?

She'd liked to have said something witty, cutting… like: "So you still remember my name", or "How can I help you, sir", or just a cool door slam to the face. Instead, in the wine-tossed whirl of her thoughts, like a hurricane forming over the blue seas of his eyes, all that fell out was:

"How did you get my new address?"

He faltered, as though not expecting the conversation to start somewhere so mundane. His eyes darted to the exposed skin of her robe; Olivia tightened the belt.

"I uh—Munch. He—told me." He paused, as though unsure whether the obvious was still obvious enough not to state. "I asked."

Olivia made a mental note to have Munch fired until remembering he no longer worked there. Of course. She knew that. It had been months. But now she seemed to have amnesia for anything past 2011…

"Why?"

What she meant by that, she wasn't sure. Was it "Why did you ask him"? Or "Why are you here"? … "Why did you leave"? All she knew is that it was supposed to sound cold and dispassionate, not… her voice wasn't supposed to break…

But she saw the answer in his anguished eyes before he even opened his mouth.

Of course. Her cheeks burned; tears pricked her eyes.

Somewhere, lost at sea, was a furious Olivia: enraged that he thought he could just make a drunken midnight trip to her new home after three years of silence, just because he thought she was now broken, now a victim, and a few tumblers of whiskey had pushed him to finally clear his conscience and play saviour. The bile rose in her throat, painfully acidic. But looking in his eyes, she couldn't find that Olivia. All she found was her own grief, her own exhaustion, her own lifetime of regrets, reflected.

"I know—" He cleared his throat, flushing. "I know I shouldn't…I know I have no right. I… I should've…"

He gave her a tight half-smile as his eyes swam with desperately restrained tears, and she quickly looked away before hers followed.

"I just had to…" His hand reached for her shoulder and she flinched. He snatched his hand back as though from a flame, and his fleeting look of horror, dismay, and sorrow as a tear rolled down his cheek hit her like a bullet.

They were both still looking down when she finally found her voice.

"What are you doing here, Elliot?"

There it was. The cold, flat tone that had eluded her. But somehow having finally summoned it brought her no joy.

He seemed to have collected himself, but only barely; he just nodded and gave her another tight smile. He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "Um – can I come in?"

He was almost boyish in his hesitation, a heartbreakingly endearing expression for a 6'3" man now with silver streaks in his beard. Against her better judgment—and hardly in control of it—she stepped aside.

She saw his eyes take in the living room as he walked in, and it wasn't long before he saw the large coat thrown over the arm of the couch, the hem skimming the top of a leather briefcase. He tensed, and she felt a rush of vindictive satisfaction. His jaw clenched and his eyes stormed but he didn't say anything, and that only elated her more.

But when he spotted the plush toy on the floor, his mouth parted. "You have a baby," he said slowly.

At that, she couldn't help but smile. "His name is Noah."

For the first time, his face lit up with a genuine smile and he looked right at her. "That's wonderful, Liv."

Something else was swirling in his eyes, but her heart hurt too much from the pang of hearing her nickname fall from his mouth, just rolling off his tongue like he'd only gone on an extended vacation. So she just nodded and looked away.

His head suddenly snapped back towards her, and she looked up at his expression of horror, bemused.

"Um—he isn't…from…"

Her stomach fell and her heart thudded. The anxiety started to overtake her before she remembered to breathe… breathe. Slowly, her colour returned tenfold as her cheeks burned.

"He's not—" she cleared her throat. "He's not from… that. He's not—" Like me.

Elliott seemed to understand her words, both spoken and unspoken. He nodded and smiled again, the relief evident in his eyes.

She caught his glance returning to the briefcase, and as the flicker of realisation darkened his eyes, she felt a reflexive urge to correct him. But she bit it back, savouring the pain he deserved to feel even as it cut her to watch.

He nodded, silently surveying the apartment again with a small, strange smile. "This is great," he said to her wall art. "This—this is good." His eyes fell on her. "You deserve it."

It was patronising, and he was an asshole, but tears pricked her eyes nonetheless. "Thank you," she whispered.

He nodded again, still smiling. "I'm really happy for you."

She couldn't place his tone. He might've been happy for her; he might've been sad for himself. She didn't know which one would mean more to her. But trying to figure it out didn't make her heart ache any less. So she just nodded.

Blue eyes met brown then, and it could've been for the millionth time in a past life, saying things that words couldn't. But a fog between them clouded the communication, and they could see each other's emotions but not what they meant. Olivia didn't know where this fog came from after twelve years of such clarity, or how to lift it… or even if she wanted to. Maybe it was for the best. Not to have him ever be able to see that clearly through her again. Maybe that fog was the glue that held the glass panes of her together. After he'd broken her.

Why'd you leave? Without saying anything? The questions had hovered on the tip of her tongue since the moment she'd opened the door, but as she looked at him, at his new facial hair and his new facial lines, and the old ring still on his finger, she realized she already knew.

He took in a deep breath and nodded. "I should head out. Sorry to disturb you so late."

She nodded too, feeling like they were a stupid pair of Noah's bobbleheads at this point, but unable to do anything else. She opened the door and stepped toward it with him.

Thanks for coming by, she wanted to say, anything to break this loaded silence. But she choked on the words, not sure if they were really true.

He was at the door when he suddenly turned around.

"Olivia—"

Her breath caught in her throat.

His eyes were misty, his voice almost strangled—and in that storm was clarity; she could see more of him in that moment than she had been able to in years—but something in his line of vision caught his eye, and the calm opacity returned. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm—I'm just so sorry."

She could do nothing but nod.

He smiled again. "Take care, Olivia."

Panic bubbled in her because there was some sense of sad finality in those words, and her eyes scanned his face frantically as though committing each inch to memory, and she wanted to push him outside and slam the door before she could remember what it felt like to say goodbye to him.

She still wanted to rail at him, flailing and punching his chest, and screaming every foul thought she'd ever had of him—and she still wanted to burst out crying into his chest, as his strong arms held her and his hand stroked her hair and murmured soothing things into her ear, and she still wanted to believe in him, and for him to make her believe, and to just know what they were, to know that 12 years and her whole heart had meant something, and that maybe being apart from her had hurt him just as much, and to know if his slightly raised hand and that funny look in his face meant that he was dying to hold her too. But he'd already lowered the awkward hand and crossed her threshold, because as always with Elliot, it was never enough.

So she started to close the door. "Goodbye, Elliot."

He'd still been smiling at her when the door finally shut. She held herself very still, waiting: imagining that strange smile crumbling and those stormy blue eyes re-filling with tears and his hand reaching up to touch the door where her face had just been. But then she heard footsteps, and then silence, and she leaned against the door like a knife was lodged in her ribs.

The wound of his… departure… it had bled copiously for months, and when she could no longer masochistically indulge in feeling him run through her mind, deluding herself that he wasn't just a memory, she slapped bandage after bandage over until she could no longer see the blood. And somewhere in that oblivion, the vessels had rebuilt themselves and the skin had scabbed over, and the old wound hadn't seen the light of day since. But him just now—in her doorway, looking at her, saying those things, his mere voice, much less that intense stare that haunted her for a lifetime… it was like he'd jerked away the clothes that concealed her, ripped up all the coarse stitching with which she'd tried to heal herself, and threw it back in her face, laughing as she bled out, at the thought that she would even think she could move on.

It wasn't fair! It wasn't right. Especially with Trevor and Noah sleeping in the next room. Not when she finally had what felt like the best thing she'd ever had, only for him to come back and remind her that even everything couldn't compare to the nothing he gave her.

She was choking; her lungs were filling up with tears, and she gasped for breath, cursing Elliot with every bit of strength she had left. Why, why had she been cursed this way? What had she ever done, to deserve to have all her happiness tied down to this ghost of a man, like a body to weights thrown in the Hudson? It was there, it existed; she'd seen it and felt it, but she'd never have it yet never be whole without it. It—wasn't—fair.

"Liv?"

She started violently and snapped her head towards the hall.

Trevor stood in the doorway to their bedroom, hair mussed, shirtless, eyes half-shut in sleep. He was tall, Liv noticed randomly. Even taller than…

Most people.

"What're you doing still up?"

She caught herself and took a deep breath. "Sorry, I just… I couldn't sleep."

As his eyes opened wider to look at her, a frown overtook his features. "You're still upset."

Her heart thumped loudly. How did he know? How long had he been awake?

Her heart raced as he approached her and she shivered guiltily when he ran his hands up and down her arms. "I know you're upset about Keisha honey, but it's not your fault. You have to believe that."

She blinked. Then the realisation washed over her. Keisha, the girl whose abusive father had been taken away after the mother died, who would be sent to live with her alcoholic aunt who resented her and hated "girl children". Rollins had protested and Olivia had snapped at her that they weren't social workers: case closed, DD-5s on the desk by morning. And one of the bitterest parts of it was that Olivia was mad that she could no longer be the dewy-eyed and passionate detective she'd once been, who Rollins was now. Sometimes she hated being C.O. Trevor had held her and they'd talked, and looked in on the baby before he fell asleep…and Liv had stayed up pacing the apartment and trying to abstain from wine.

Yes, that's what she'd been upset about. In that life she'd had, in the present, before Elliot Stabler kidnapped her and thrust her into the past.

Olivia shivered against Trevor, burying her face into his chest. "I'm so glad you're here," she whispered, blinking back tears.

"There's nowhere else I'd want to be."

His chin brushed the crown of her head, and she stood on her tiptoes to bring her lips to his.

His lips were soft—a little cold but she'd warm them up. Her hands snaked behind his head and she raised herself higher to crush her mouth against his, darting her tongue inside.

He groaned and this only turned her on more. Insistently she tugged at his lips and began to push him toward the couch.

"Whoa, whoa Liv," he murmured, laughing lightly against her cheek. "It's the middle of the night, we should be sleeping—"

Of all things she needed right now, she knew that restless nightmares and staring up at the ceiling until dawn broke were not options. Quelling the panic, she gazed up at him through hooded eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. "I don't wanna go to sleep," she said huskily.

Not breaking eye contact, she gently eased him backward onto the couch. She used their horizontal position to crawl up his torso and let her hair fall over his chest as her tongue lapped at his earlobe.

He groaned and dug his hands into her back, as she knew he would. She allowed herself a small smirk at his expense before turning her attention to the skin where his neck met his shoulder.

His groans and his touch were like alcohol, dizzying her and lifting her mind from a place that hurt to a heaven where senses and pleasure ruled. She rolled her head in ecstasy, savouring the familiar feel of him beneath her, holding her, his scent in her nostrils. He was a good man, and she didn't deserve him, because he made her happy—and she didn't deserve what the Fates had long ago deemed she could never have. Instead the Fates had hung a grumpy, cocky, and selfish sonofabitch ex-Marine round her neck like an albatross, and she was too heavy for Trevor; he needed light and bliss and pleasure—

His breath hitched as her kisses trailed further and further down his abdomen. His abs trembled beneath her and she felt him try to pull her up, but she brushed him off and continued downward. She wanted to do this. He deserved it.

"Liv…"

Ignoring him, she flicked the waistband with her tongue and caught it in her teeth, something that always elicited an appreciative groan from him. With a velvet touch, she cupped his backside with her hands and lightly dragged her fingernails to help her mouth pull his boxers down.

He was already semi-hard, and his size never failed to impress her. She squirmed out of her robe, feeling her inner thighs start to burn, and leaned down to kiss the base. Spurred onward by his shudder, intoxicated with the power of this strong man beneath her, and feeling unbelievably aroused, she used her hand to help him into her mouth and drew long and hard.

He couldn't help but latch his fingers into her hair, but she knew he knew to be gentle. He essentially just massaged her scalp while she sucked and pumped him. He grew hard, impossibly hard and she relaxed her throat to fully accommodate him.

His thighs suddenly clenched beneath her, and he gasped, his eyes flying open to stare at her. Deep-throating was rare: something she only did when she really wanted to impress someone or treat the man she loved. She'd only done it for Trevor a handful of times, and not to be cocky, but she was sure each time was etched into his memory, if the hazy eyes he was giving her now were any indication. But in those pale blues also swirled a question, one that he was opening his mouth to voice. Before he could, she dipped two fingers into her underwear and then languorously drew them across his lips and into his mouth. She felt his body melt as he moaned around her hand, licking at her arousal, and the vibration shot straight between her legs.

She cupped his balls and stared straight into his eyes, unable to speak but whispering every dirty thought in his ear through the steady burn in her eyes. As if he could hear them, he groaned and his head fell back, his hand quaking in her hair until it crept down to her bare thigh, up over her underwear, and across the sliver of skin bared by her small tee shirt.

It wasn't long until he throbbed in her throat and Olivia felt overwhelmed. Trevor seemed to read her mind as he pulled her up. She gasped, and he barely allowed her a few breaths before bringing her crashing onto his chest. Her nipples brushed him through her shirt and when he reached under it to cup her breast, she moaned breathily into his ear. His hand trailed down to find her wet, slick folds and he began to slide the underwear over her hips.

Suddenly feeling exposed, she shivered. He stilled as she did and searched her with his piercing blue eyes. But Olivia smiled and simply squeezed between him and the couch, through the space beneath his arm, until he was forced to flip over and she lay underneath him. Tonight she—she needed him surrounding her, protecting her, enveloping her in his arms and blocking out the world. She wanted to drown in his eyes. She needed to be made love to, so that she might believe that someone could really love her, that her feelings did matter and life wasn't just a cycle of returning to nothingness, and that someone might actually reciprocate and together they could create… something.

As always he understood, even without fully knowing, and she couldn't tell from the tightness in her chest whether her heart was bursting or breaking. Maybe both. He lay reverent kisses on her forehead, on her cheek, in her hair and on her neck, then fused her mouth with his with such combined gentleness and possessiveness that she felt her will, her troubles, her trust, her love, her very soul slipping into him. She smiled and relaxed beneath him as he made love to her, gasping into his shoulder when he slowly filled her and holding onto him like a buoy as he repeatedly dived into her, her head lolling against his bicep as she drank in the feel of being with him. When her muscles began to tighten and her head got light, his name caught in her throat as she cried out…and only when he carried her back to bed and she fell asleep against his chest did she see, in the distance, eyes a different shade of blue.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! Either way, please leave a review. Even if it's just to tell me to fuck off; at least I'll know that you a) read it and b) cared enough to say something xx