He wishes he could talk to her, but at the same time, he doesn't.
The funny thing about this is that he knows he ought to, but he can't make himself do it. Who wants to hear about the dark side of the city streets, he wonders? And who wants to know that things aren't always the way that you'd like to think they are? For that matter, who wants to know that it's so easy for people to hurt each other and not feel one bit of remorse about it?
The truth about this is that he knows and doesn't want to, so he doesn't say anything.
But then, as he's heard numerous times over the course of his time in SVU, bottling it all in will get him nowhere. Screw that, he thinks. What they don't know can't hurt them. What I know is better left unsaid. He leans forward, hands out, bracing himself against the shower wall, because he's tired, and it's been a long day, and he'd rather not slip and hurt himself. Physically, anyway. Emotionally, it's a different story. He wonders how he's stayed so long, and why, and knows that somewhere inside of him, there's still an answer to that question.
The problem is that he doesn't want to look for it just yet.
And the problem with that is that he knows he needs to, but he just can't make himself do it. It'd be easier, Elliot thinks, if I were in a different unit, something that didn't deal with all of this. But even as he thinks of this, it dawns on him, however slowly, that being anywhere other than SVU would most likely settle with him like having a pebble inside his shoe. In other words, it wouldn't feel right. The stupid thing about it is that sometimes, SVU doesn't feel right, but he stays anyway.
Call me a sucker for punishment, he thinks dryly, because that's exactly what I am.
Her hand on his shoulder makes him jump. He'd thought this entire time that she was asleep, because heaven only knew she was good at making it look like she was, on those nights where he came home at some odd hour of the morning. But it was always obvious that she waited up for him, because as soon as he was lying on his back beside her, staring at the ceiling, he could feel her hand reaching for his. A quiet gesture to let him know that she was there, if he needed her. And the truth was that he did need her, but wasn't always willing to admit it.
Idiot, says the voice in his mind. She waits because she already knows you need her.
The water is still hot. He hasn't been in here for very long, and he wonders how much of that time she's spent listening to the water running and wondering if he's ever going to come in and at least try to fall asleep. Or if she's been thinking that it's one of those times where he's home for the shortest amount of time possible, because there's a case to break and he needs to be across the bridge in the precinct. Either way, her presence serves as some sort of comfort, and though he doesn't say anything, somehow, she seems to know what he's thinking.
If it gets to the point where I lose it, he wonders, would she still be there?
The thought that she might not be scares him. The thought that he might actually lose it one day scares him even more. She doesn't say anything, either. The sound of the water is the only thing between them, and as he looks at her, he blinks, once, unsure of what's supposed to be happening, because usually, she doesn't come in after him, preferring to wait until he came out on his own. But apparently, this is one of those times where that's changed. He wonders what she sees in him, still, after all these years, and doesn't want to think about it for the fear that she doesn't see anything, and stays because she feels she has to.
Does it hurt to look at me now, he wonders, and if it does, then why do you?
Neither of them say anything. In fact, in all the time they're standing there, no words are exchanged, and yet, somehow, both of them know what the other is thinking, feeling. He doesn't need to talk to her, for her to know that there's something there, something that he can't convey to her in words, because there is nothing more. His hands find hers, and light glints off of the wedding bands they've forgotten to take off, one of those symbols of forever that makes him wonder if it really is going to last that long.
Forever can mean one second, one minute, one hour, one day…one year, and he knows it.
And when it's over, he's still holding her, and her fingers are idly tracing circles on his back as it hits them suddenly that the water's getting cold, but his face is buried in her neck, and he doesn't want to move. But they do, eventually. They let go of each other, for a brief moment, though to him, it feels like forever, and then her hand is in his, and everything suddenly feels right again. They walk, together, and when he turns and falls backwards onto the bed, he takes her with him, holding her there against him, because he doesn't want to let go, and come morning, he knows he'll have to, because either the alarm will go off, or a call will come, and then it'll be back into the so-called fire, back to the precinct, and everything that he wants to stay away from for just a moment longer.
But a moment is just that, a moment, and before anyone knows it, it will end.
She falls asleep before he does, like always, her face buried in his neck this time, and he continues to hold onto her, staring up at the ceiling as has become habit, lately. He wonders what she thinks about him not saying anything, wonders what she thinks about him putting her off when she wants to know, because he can't bring himself to admit that it affects him, that every case that comes in, he can see either her face, or the faces of their children and that sometimes it drives him to the point where he thinks he's going to lose it, to the point where there is no going back.
And he wonders if that happens, would she be able to save him from himself.
Sleep is a long way off, and he knows it, because it always is. His thoughts are going at a million miles a minute, the way they always are just when he doesn't want to think about anything. But some things he can't help but think about, and forever is one of them. One of those things that never seems to want to leave him alone, no matter what he does. And the funny thing about this is that he knows that closing his eyes will only make it worse. But he has to sleep or he won't be able to do much of anything come morning, because his partner will notice and poke at him until he goes to the crib to catch a few hours of sleep, and what he finds sad is that sometimes, he sleeps better there than he does at home, and it bothers the hell out of him, too.
Your pretty blue eyes are just stained glass, says the voice in his mind, You don't feel anything anymore.
It is the last thing he hears before he finally drifts off.