A/N: It's been five years and I STILL can't get over the way they wrote Elliot out. No, the way they DIDN'T write him out. So, because of recent Twitter conversations and my own displeasure, here's a simple couple of scenes that could have made his exit at least a LITTLE more bearable. Please read and enjoy.

"JENNA! Jenna, drop the gun! Drop the gun!"

He hears his voice just like he would if he was yelling those words all over again. He feels the sweat on his palms, the cold metal of the gun in his grip. Then the false sense of relief when the young girl started to lower the weapon…

"Enough. Put the gun down. That's it. Just put it down."

It was all too short-lived. He keeps trying to replay that moment in his head, to figure out what went wrong, but his actions had been purely instinctual, something drilled so deep inside of him that he doesn't think he'd ever be able to do anything different.

The room he sits in is dark. His chest burns, he can't seem to catch his breath. His head pounds so hard he thinks it's going to explode and so loud that he's surprised it hasn't awoken the blonde woman laying next to him. He's been sitting up for two minutes. At least, that's what the glowing red numbers of the clock on the nightstand tell him. It feels like it's been hours, those few hellish moments playing over and over and over. It's maddening, but the memories just won't leave. They'll never leave him.

His hands feel warm and red. They're not, of course, he's washed them several times today, scrubbed them to get the blood off. It's ridiculous, her blood hasn't been on his hands for over a week now.

But it'll always be on his hands.

Her heart's not beating. He knows she's dead, but she can't be. He can't be responsible for her death.

"Elliot?"

He slides out of bed. Pulls on the jeans that he wore earlier that day and a t-shirt from the top of his dresser. The silence of the room is suffocating; it's just making the bang of his gun and the thump of a young girl's body hitting the ground louder.

Outside, it's chillier than usual for an early morning in late May. He doesn't turn back, though. He puts one foot in front of the other mechanically, putting more and more distance between him and the house that holds his wife and three youngest children, asleep in their beds. Sleep is becoming a foreign concept to him. Every time he manages to drift off, that moment infects his subconscious and drags him down, suffocating, penetrating, poisoning.

"I-I just bought it off the street. I-it was easy."

He stops walking and sits down on the concrete, drawing his knees to his chest.

He doesn't pretend to think Kathy hasn't noticed. She knows what's happened, the worry and pity that greets him every time he looks in her eyes is slowly driving him mad. It isn't what he needs, isn't what he wants. Kathy should save it for someone else… someone who isn't a murderer.

Murderer. It's not like he hasn't killed before, but never someone so young… never someone that had a whole lifetime ahead of them. That day, he stole a life that still had so much to live for. She'll never find love, get married, hold a job she enjoys. All because of me.

His head drops into his folded arms, feeling like he's going to vomit. He wishes he could just heave out this darkness… unpleasant, but at least quick. Why can't this mess just be over quick?

There's only one way he knows that will happen. He's thought about eating his gun now more than he ever has before. It's locked safely in Cragen's office now, along with his badge with Internal Affairs investigates, decides whether or not murdering the young girl was okay or not. It doesn't matter, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to set foot in that bullpen again. Maybe no bullpen ever again.

He sits on the sidewalk until his ass is numb from the cold and his body shivers. Back in the kitchen, an envelope sits on the table, a pen set on top of it. Resignation papers. When he got them, he wasn't sure what he was going to do. That confusion still hasn't lifted. He doesn't know what he wants. At least, he pretends he doesn't. Deep down, the decision is so clear. Deep down, he knows exactly what he needs to do.

Nearly two decades is enough, right? He's done is job, he's killed himself over the past eighteen years trying to get justice for the victims. He's got things in his mind that he'll never be able to get out. Isn't it time to live for himself now?

Elliot takes the papers out, and flips to the last page where a blank line stares at him, waiting to be filled with his signature. He takes the cover off of his pen with shaking hands, and black ink seeps into the paper as he holds the tip to the line. Kathy's tried to talk to him about it. She's said it's okay, she'll support him no matter what he decides, even that maybe this is for the best. He can spend time with his children. With her. No more late night calls tearing him away from his family, no more all nighters that leave him far more tired than they did a few years ago. He's not a young guy anymore. He's only got so much time left.

He can't go back. He has to go back. How can he possibly make this decision when his head and his heart are pulling him into two completely different directions?

His fist tightens around the pen. He draws his bottom lip between his teeth, feeling the tears stream down his cheeks. When did he start crying?

He can't do it. At least, not yet. The pen falls from his grip.

This time, when he goes outside, he remembers to bring a fleece. He doesn't go far, just out back to the lounge chair that claims part of the back porch. It's quiet, the sound of the wind and an occasional passing car the only sounds. It's so different from the city, where at nearly any time of the day or night something is happening. Honking horns, people yelling, ambulance or police sirens echoing through the streets…

Sometimes he misses it, no matter how much he used to bitch to his parrner about it. When he lived in the apartment in Manhattan, he was grateful for the sounds that always kept him company. It was far more easy to listen to that than the raging thoughts in his head, asking him what the hell was going to happen to his family, how Kathy could so easily be rid of him, how his children would ever be able to forgive them. Now, though the questions are different this time, the voices are there once again, screaming in his head. How could you let this happen? Why didn't you take a nonlethal shot? How could you have killed that little girl?

He sits right there on that chair until the sun rises above the few sporadic trees around the house. The world is waking up; more cars drive by out front. Doors open and close, he hears adults talking on their cellphones as they get into their cars, heading off to another long work day and children shouting about pets or homework or what they want for dinner latter that night. When his phone buzzes in his pocket, he knows it's Olivia, but he can't bring himself to answer it. Speaking to her will just draw him back. She'll tell him that it wasn't his fault. The shoot was good. He'll be okay to come back, he can come back to her. He almost wants her to; he wants her to come marching over to this place and drag his ass back where she thinks it belongs: at the desk directly across from her.

The phone finally stops buzzing.

"Good morning." Steam slips lazily out of the cup of coffee Kathy offers him. He didn't even hear the back door open and shut, but then again, was he really listening?

He takes it. The liquid is warm and somewhat soothing as it runs down his throat.

Kathy's given up asking how or even if he's slept. His response is always the same: a simple shake of the head. He wonders when she'll give up on him all together…

She sits on the edge of his chair silently, waiting for him to acknowledge her greeting, but truth be told, he's already forgotten she said anything in the first place. The only sound is the buzzing of his phone once again.

He takes it out of his pocket this time, just to give himself something to look at other than the eyes that now pierce him. He can't look back at them, he's afraid once he does, she'll be able to see everything. The careful boundaries he's set between home and work are becoming thinner and thinner these days.

"Stabler."

"It's Don." Elliot's always wondered how the man's voice can sound so much like a father's when he has no children of his own. Then again, for all these years, that's what he was for SVU. What he still is. "How're you doing?"

"Alive."

"I thought I told you to call me if you need to talk."

"I don't." God, when did he become such a terrible liar? "Any news on…?"

"Yeah. IAB cleared you. You can come back whenever you're ready." There's a long pause. Elliot figures he should feel relief, but in reality, it's anything but. Now he has a choice. Somehow, he wishes he didn't.

"Are you ready to come back?"

Elliot swallows the lump in his throat. "I… don't know if I'll ever be ready."

"Come in, Elliot. Let's just talk," the captain begs. "We don't have to meet at the precinct, we can grab a coffee, whatever you want to do."

"'S alright, cap'n."

"C'mon, what are you gonna do, just sit in that house and think about it? That's not going to help. Just talk to me, son."

"I don't want to talk," Elliot says. "Thanks for the concern. Bye, Don."

He hangs up as Kathy reaches for him. Runs her hand over his neck, then up and down his shoulder gently. It doesn't help, not in the least. He remembers when it did… remembers when her touch soothed, when her arms felt like home. Now, every time they touch each other it feels almost forced, it has since he came back a couple of years ago for Eli. The happy marriage that he fooled himself into believing they would have is nonexistent.

"You okay?" she whispers.

Elliot leans back in his chair, closes his eyes and nods once. He doesn't have strength to put behind his lies this time.

—

She misses him more than a desert misses rain. Working with Munch and Fin has been hell without him, and she's more than ready to have her partner back, but something in her gut is telling her that nothing will be the same as it used to be. Elliot's not answering her phone calls, nor her texts, and hasn't been since the shooting. She saw the look in his eyes right after it happened: guilt, shock, grief. She knew that it was going to have an effect on him, but not this profound. Not awful enough to drop off the face of the Earth for this long.

Finally, Olivia can't take it anymore. She's sick of the silence, she's going to find out what's going on with her partner. So she gets into the sedan that they've shared so many memories, and makes the drive over the bridge to Queens.

When Olivia knocks on the door, she's almost expecting no one to answer. While waiting for an answer, she counts her heartbeats as they pound quickly in her chest. She's praying, pleading with a God that she doesn't even know if she believes him for not only the door to open, but the man she's been dying to see to complete the action.

When he does, the relief that pools in her chest from seeing him is quickly replaced by worry. There's a tired frown on his face, bags under his eyes and he hasn't shaved since she's seen him last. The only thing she can think of to describe his appearance is just mental and physical exhaustion.

"You gonna invite me in?" Olivia asks finally.

Elliot doesn't say a word as he steps aside then closes the door behind her.

"Cragen told me you were cleared," she says, looking around the house. It's been a while since she's been here, and it looks different. It's transformed from a cluttered family home to that of a couple whose children have moved out and started their own lives. She wonders silently how all this time has managed to pass them by; it seems like she's witnessed Elliot lift the twins up in his arms on their eighth birthday just days ago. Now they're starting college.

"Yeah." His voice matches his appearance: tired and hollow.

She's dying to ask him when he's coming back, but reality is quickly setting in. He doesn't look ready to come back. He doesn't look ready to do anything other than go upstairs and climb into bed.

Her eyes flit over the living room once again, then settle on the pack of papers sitting on the coffee table.

"What are those?"

Her heart pounds in her chest and her blood runs cold. She doesn't need him to tell her what they are, she already knows. She just can't believe it.

"You're not."

Elliot sinks onto the couch with a tired sigh. He hunches forward, turns the ring on his finger slowly, doesn't meet her gaze. When he finally speaks, there's an exhaustion in his words so deep that she's afraid he'll never recover. "I think... I might have to"

"Bullshit." Tears threaten to spill over her eyelids. This isn't real. This can't be happening, he can't be thinking of this. They've each had moments like this before, moments where they've been so deep in their trenches of misery that quitting, peeling off the grime and the filth of this part of society has left on them, seems like the only way out. And each time, the other has set them straight. Each time, they've been pulled off the ledge. She swallows back her sobs. "They cleared you."

She doesn't know if she can pull him off the ledge this time, and that's what absolutely terrifies her.

Elliot sucks in a breath and draws his lips together tightly, as if he's trying to hold back a secret that he just can't let out. They don't hide things from each other. They're partners, they're supposed to confide in another. Olivia wants to take his shoulders and shake those thoughts out of his head. If only it was that easy.

"I killed a teenage girl. I killed her," he rasps. "She's dead because of me, Olivia, she's… I can't. I can't fucking do this anymore, I can't walk into that bullpen knowing…"

"But they cleared you." Her voice is tiny. She's trying to convince herself that he's going to come to his senses. He can't actually leave her. He can't leave her like this.

Elliot chuckles bitterly. "Yeah, you told me."

This isn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong, Jenna gave you no other option. You need to come back!

Elliot's hand is shaking when he picks up the pen. He turns the pack to the very last page, where there is a blank line at the bottom, waiting. His Adam's apple bobs as he stares down at it.

—

He still can't sign it. His chest constricts, he just needs this release, but his hand is frozen in place. He curses himself. Just sign the fucking thing!

Olivia's eyes are burning holes through him. For the second time today, he drops the pen and falls back against the cushions.

"Take a sabbatical," she says. "Just take some time off, get your head together. Don't quit now."

"This is why I couldn't see you," he murmurs, meeting her gaze. "I knew that… if you were here… I wouldn't be able to…" He wipes at the tears forming in his eyes.

Her fists close around the shirt that rests on his shoulders, clinging onto him for dear life. "Elliot…"

"Olivia…"

Her arms are around him in a second. His head falls into the crook of her neck, hers falls into his, and he feels her warm tears on his skin. He can't keep it back anymore; he cries, too. As much as he tries to keep his breathing even, as much as he tries to keep some semblance of control, his chest still shakes.

—

Olivia has never seen her partner cry. Shout, swear, punch walls and perps, lose his shit on levels she didn't think was possible, but never ever cry. This is serious, so much more than what she originally thought. He's at the end of his rope. What could possibly bring him back from this? Is there anything that can bring him back from this?

He's been in SVU over eighteen years. That's a long time to be in any unit, and obscenely long to deal with rapists, child abusers… it weighs on both of their souls, sucking the life away. She'd seen his exhaustion even before Jenna. The shooting just managed to drive the nail in the rest of the way. Maybe...

Their partnership is everything to her; it keeps her sane, keeps her grounded. He's her rock. She needs him like she needs air. She always thought they were invincible, not from death, but from this. Burning out. Giving up. Quitting. Before this, she thought it would take a bullet to get Elliot to leave. He's been a permanent fixture, never moving, never changing. Constant. She left, she came back, he was there. She left again, she came back, he was there. There's no where on this earth she can imagine him other than sitting at his desk at Manhattan Special Victims. It's in his blood, wrapped up so deeply within him that it's just a part of him now.

Maybe that's why it's so hard for him to tear himself away from it. He needs her help, she realizes. He can't do this on his own. He needs to get himself out, he needs to…

Olivia finds herself reaching for the pen. She takes his wrist, presses it into his palm, and whispers, "Sign them."

"Olivia…"

"You give him stability. Elliot can't move on until he feels like he's on solid ground."

His confusion is palpable. His cloudy blue eyes pierce her, wondering, waiting for her to explain her sudden change of heart. She can't; she needs him to do this now while she's still strong. This is the last thing she can do for him, and it's the hardest thing. She needs to be strong for the both of them, because Lord knows he can't do this by himself. He knows he needs to, she knows he needs to, now they just have to finish this. She has to help him finish this.

Olivia doesn't realize she's pulling him into her arms until his chin falls against her shoulder.

"You need this. It's gonna be fine, you're gonna move on," she murmurs. "Just sign the papers, El."

He pulls away from her, eyes red-rimmed, shoulders slumped from this unbearable weight he's been carrying. The pen is still in his right hand. His grip tightens as the point meets the line. She watches as ink glides over the surface. E, a pair of l's, scribble and then the crossbar of the "t" at the end of his first name. "S", another crossbar of a "t", more loose scribble. 05-28-2011.

Elliot sets down the pen. This is the right decision. It has to be.

His movements are slow as he leans back against the couch once again, taking a long, deep breath.

"It's gonna be okay," Olivia whispers. She's not sure who she's trying to convince.

—

"It's gonna be okay."

He looks into her eyes, and sees the uncertainty and grief. He swallows hard, reaches for her hand and squeezes. He's not sure if she's right, if he'll never be able to get that teenage girl out of his mind. He can't let go of everything he's shared with this woman, though. He'll never forget the way she's walked by his side for twelve years, having his back and him having hers. They've done great things together: saved lives, cleaned up as much scum off the streets as someone can clean up. He can't imagine his life without their partnership. He's been knocked off his feet, though. He's been spinning out of control since that day, trying desperately to cling on to something, but failing.

Some of his exhaustion has faded already, and here, sitting next to the person that's saved him so many times before, he knows. This is the only thing he can do to finally regain some balance.

A/N: Now was that so hard? Writing this sucked, I didn't want him to go. But like El and finally Liv, I knew that it had to happen. As long as they have each other, they'll be alright.

Let me know if this should stay a one-shot or if you wanna see more! Also, check out Revival if you haven't and you want some more E/O :)

Thanks, and have a great morning/afternoon/evening!

-Stabson