Been a while since I've written anything for SVU, but how could I not with a premiere like that? There are so many aspects I'd like to explore, but only a portion of them will be covered in this piece (as it will only be three chapters). My main concern is keeping things as realistic as posisble. So. . .if you're looking for a "Liv recovers from a horrific experience with Elliot's help and declares her undying love for him" story, uh, you should probably look elsewhere. Enjoy!
Warning: Some bad language.
Disclaimer: I don't own SVU, its characters, or its storylines. All I do is work with the carrots the writers give me.
Sidelined
On the second page of the Sunday paper, a picture in the bottom left corner drags him away from his casual perusal. The silhouette in the grainy black and gray photo is uncannily familiar, even though the woman is shrouded in a heavy blanket - a shock blanket. She's being escorted out of a nondescript house by a younger man. Accompanying the photo is a byline that is both vague and troubling: NYPD DETECTIVE LABELED A HERO AFTER TRAUMATIC ORDEAL.
His eyes skim through the article, picking up key words, before darting back to the first paragraph. Elliot reads the introductory sentences five times before the words rearrange into English.
"Kath!"
The shout rips from his mouth as he jumps to his feet. It's the same terror-filled exclamation Elliot emitted when Maureen's husband called to say his first grandchild was on her way. And just like she did six months ago, his wife bounds up the basement stairs two at a time, though the basket full of warm, folded whites still clings to her hip with static force.
She breathes heavily, winded from the climb. "What is it?"
Instead of answering immediately, Elliot dashes from one side of the small kitchen to the other, grabbing his keys and wallet. The first paragraph loops through his head on repeat.
Olivia Benson, a seasoned detective of the New York Police Department's Special Victims Unit, was rescued Tuesday afternoon after a harrowing abduction and assault. The 46-year-old detective was taken from her apartment by William Lewis, an alleged serial rapist and murder suspect, and was held in captivity for four days on Manhattan Island.
He roots around in the laundry basket perched on his wife's hip, removing two undershirts and a pair of briefs. "Something's happened to Olivia."
Kathy recoils. Is it from the realization that something bad has befallen his former partner? Or is it that he's mentioned her name at all? Even after two years and the 300 miles that separate him from his old life, Kathy still dislikes what she calls "the ghosts of SVU" coming back to disrupt their, now quiet, lives.
To her credit, his wife swallows her distaste - for the situation or Olivia - quickly. "What happened?"
Since he feels incapable of speaking coherently, he points at the discarded newspaper next to his steaming coffee mug and half eaten toast. Kathy circles around the table to read what he can't put into words.
Sprinting upstairs, Elliot throws on a shirt and pulls on a pair of jeans. When he returns to the kitchen, Kathy is sitting in his vacated chair, face pale with tears in her eyes. Both her hands rest on the newspaper spread out before her. Her fingers tremble.
"Oh my God, Elliot," she whispers.
The terror that has wrapped around his heart squeezes acutely at his wife's soft exclaimation, emphasizing every throbbing beat inside his chest. He steps behind her chair and reaches underneath her blonde hair to caress the back of her neck. Then, pressing his lips against the top of her head, he says, "Kiss Eli goodbye for me."
She places her left hand over his. "How long will you be gone?"
"Not sure."
He's stopped making promises he can't keep. Without any other comment or explanation, he retracts his hand and walks toward the hallway leading to the front door.
"Elliot. . ." He pauses to look back at her. "Don't drive like a maniac."
He nods in acknowledgement - in thanks - unable to return the shaky half-smile she gives him.
As he pulls out of the driveway, he dials the elementary school and leaves a voicemail to let them know he won't be making his shift on Monday morning. He tells them it's a family emergency.
His knees feel weak. It wasn't a good idea to come here, but he'd acted on instinct. A chill pricks down his spine when he sees the yellow tape across her door, marking her apartment off limits. The giant X proclaims to him and the rest of the world that unspeakable horrors took place behind the door that's clearly been hastily restored to its hinges. Olivia won't be inside, but that isn't why he came here.
He reaches the door and slits the crime tape sealing it shut with his pocket knife. This is illegal in so many ways, which Elliot knows well enough, but he's both unable and unwilling to obey the rules in this instance.
There are five keys he carries: one for his car, another for his house, a third for his gun safe, and a master key for the school. The fifth and final key is for emergency use only. After he left, he should have returned it, sent it back in an envelope; instead he held on to it, afraid to lose the only remaining connection to his partner. True relief washes over him when it slips into the lock and rotates in the tumblers. Maybe, just maybe, it's a sign she didn't lock him out of her life forever.
Ten minutes, he reminds himself as he pushes against the cold metal. That's all the time Elliot is going to allot himself to observe and catalogue the crimes committed in her apartment.
The acrid odor of burnt hair assaults him before anything else. Then he sees the overturned furniture; nearly every piece of her living and dining room sets has been upended and displaced. One straight-backed chair lays on its side, missing a leg; another is in the center of the room, thick white cord still dangling from the seat.
He feels a bit light headed, woozy. It's too warm. Years have passed since he's come face to face with the type of carnage that lay before him. It's a harsh reality to step back into, especially knowing that it's Olivia's blood splattered along the ground, dotted on the walls, and smeared across the coffee table.
What's more disturbing is what he doesn't see. There are elements missing, like the cigarettes that left the ashes in the tray on the floor. Things like the bottles that held the liquor he can smell wafting up from the carpet. They've been bagged and tagged as evidence, but the traces are all Elliot needs to paint a gruesome picture in his head about what went on here. Imagining what tortures Olivia endured over her four day captivity is the last thing he wants to do, but his mind still functions like a detective's; it works to fill in the holes based on the information he has.
He can sense how hard she struggled, how desperately she fought back. To overpower a cop - one who's had training for situations like this - her attacker must have had incredible strength. Or he drugged her. Or maybe he played the coward and knocked her out.
How did no one hear? he wonders.
The words "serial rapist" keep circling through his mind. They force him to venture through the apartment to Olivia's bedroom. A trail of blood leads him in the right direction. The pit of his stomach drops when he sees there are no sheets nor comforter on the bed. He prays that they were taken as evidence as well. Then he prays they weren't.
By the time he leaves her apartment and plods back to his car, he feels physically sick. His face and palms are clammy. Bile crawls up his throat as he fights the urge to heave.
"Now what?"
He considers whether or not to call Olivia. It's been two years. No contact. No explanations. He quit her like a bad habit: cold turkey. And every day since, he's felt that itch to reignite their relationship, rekindle their connection, reestablish their communication.
He scrolls through his contacts - up and down the alphabet of saved names - until he comes to the right number. His thumb presses "dial."
"I expected you'd call," comes a tired voice after the second ring.
"Nobody, sure as hell, called me," he fires back.
"I thought it best if she contacted you. It's not my place."
"Bullshit, Cap'n. I had to find out from the papers. The fucking papers!"
He pulls the phone away and takes a quick breath. His former captain is Elliot's best resource for information, and he needs to tread carefully or risk being shut out altogether.
"Jesus," he swears under his breath. How is he supposed to see Olivia when he can't keep himself under control?
"Where are you?"
He only confesses because he needs a favor. A big one. "I went to her apartment. Inside. I saw it all."
"For God's sake, Elliot," Cragen chastises. "It's a crime scene."
"I had to know."
"It's not my job to cover your ass anymore, Stabler," the older man grumbles.
"Say it was some kids who wanted a thrill," Elliot suggests. They both know it wouldn't be the first time a scene was tampered with by some punk teenagers daring each other to do something stupid.
"Kids." The excuse is echoed back at him, a confirmation that all will be handled. "What were you thinking, Elliot? What is it you want?"
"I want to know where she is, Cap. Did the department put her up somewhere?"
His question is countered with another. "Is this really what's best for Olivia?"
Elliot isn't sure if the question is directed at him, or if his captain is asking that of himself. Moreover, Elliot isn't sure of the answer. If Olivia really wanted to see him, wouldn't she have called him by now? Is her silence a sign that she'd prefer that he stay away? Is his desire to see her for his own satisfaction?
Though he's out of practice when it comes to fishing for information, there is one thing he remembers: silence can be the most effective way to get someone to talk. Letting them mull it over, giving them time to determine how much or how little to say, builds the anticipation. Nine times out of ten, they'll come up with something useful. Employing that tactic now, he allows the question to hang in the air.
Cragen finally clears his throat on the other end of the line. "She's staying with Cassidy."
"Cassidy?" he asks. At first the name holds no significance. Then he realizes that Cragen wouldn't have put it that way if Elliot didn't already know to whom he was referring. When he manages to match the name with a memory, he nearly drops his phone. "You mean. . .as in. . .Cassidy?"
"You've been gone a long time, Elliot."
Too long, Elliot adds on in his head. He shakes off the revelation, and asks, "You got an address?"
Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts! The next chapter will focus on Elliot and Olivia and should be out this weekend. :)
Also, if you're looking for a similiar, more detailed, story that also keeps things on the realistic side, check out AmyJ10's "The Returned."