Yet another Scorched Earth post-ep, and that's okay, because this episode was good enough for tons and tons of fics to come out of it. This one's from Elliot's point-of-view. Because the Elliot Stabler I know and love would not ignore his partner for two months without a damn good reason. Someone needs to give this poor guy a voice in this situation.
Disclaimer: I don't own it. Dick Wolf does. But thankfully, he's done something right and hired that amazing new show runner. And just maybe, the Great and Powerful Leight (Leight at the end of the tunnel? LOL) will make something like this happen someday. Because, let's face it, the EO in the premiere was exactly what we wanted and needed.
He wonders how long the bottle of Budweiser can balance on his left thigh. It's been there for all of two minutes already, and the cold condensation from the glass has already made its way through the thick denim of his jeans. He has the undeniable urge to move his leg, but he fears this will disrupt the bottle's careful equilibrium and his arm is far too comfortable where it is – propped behind his head on the arm of the couch – to reach down and move it.
He lies there, as he normally does at this point in the day, sprawled out on the sofa with the television remote at its closest convenience on the coffee table in front of him. And why not? He doesn't have anywhere to be today. He hasn't had anywhere to be in a while and he won't for a long time to come.
The television is tuned to HLN where the Roberto DiStasio case is being broadcast live from the courtroom in its entirety. It has been the most high profile case in the nation – if not the world – this summer. It is a case that he would be working, if he were still at work.
He sees Alex Cabot on his television, delivering the final words of her closing rebuttal, and he smiles to himself. This is normalcy. This is life. Or at least it was. He was surprised to hear, when it was announced earlier in the summer, that she would be trying the case for The People. He had no idea that she was back in the city, let alone on the continent. He internalized the fact that he had most likely missed the celebratory drinks the squad had for her return at Flannery's. He wondered for a second why no one bothered to tell him, and then realizes that they probably tried. Not that it would matter; he no longer deserved to be included in their celebrations.
Her voice fades out, and the pundits come on the airwaves and they're critiquing her, and he knows that Alex Cabot, after all she has been through, does not deserve lazy criticism by some hapless ex-defense attorney with a broadcast journalism minor.
Then the judge is delivering her charge to the jury, and the camera pans to the gallery of the courtroom, and he – against his better judgment – strains and squints his eyes as if, if he tries hard enough, he can see past the camera angle.
Finally, the damn camera man moves in the right direction, and he can catch a glimpse of the person he was looking for. He sees her sitting in the second row. He knows he should – and could – be sitting there next to her. And then his whole body aches and he needs more than anything to remove his arm from its customary position and use it to take a swig of his beer.
She looks terrible, he thinks. In that way that only Olivia Benson can look terrible though, when she is still absolutely breathtaking. To anyone who doesn't know her, she would appear perfectly put together.
But he knows she did not do her hair that morning, something that he had never seen in thirteen-and-a-half years of standing at her side. She wears less makeup. Her clothes are ill-fitting. She is wearing a blazer, and he knows very well that she hates wearing blazers. He wonders if he has caused this.
He looks down at his cell phone, sitting on the coffee table next to the remote. He has not cleared any of her missed calls. He has saved all of her voicemails. There have been twenty-seven so far. He wonders how many there will be after court is recessed and she returns to the precinct. After Cragen breaks the news.
He thinks fleetingly about shooting her a text, telling her to call him before she goes back to work. Maybe he should tell her himself. But he can't. He can't be responsible for breaking her, and he won't break himself. In his heart, he knows he's broken her anyway. He always has been responsible for her pain. It's always been his fault. He just cannot bring himself to acknowledge it. That makes it real.
He hears the front door swing open behind him, and Kathy enters the house with Eli on her hip and he knows she has caught a view of him because he can hear her sighing.
She supports his decision to retire, probably more than anyone. She has been waiting for the day he would hand in his resignation for years. But in typical wifely fashion, she finds something repellant about the entire situation. He should have done it sooner. He should have been home to help her raise their children. He should not have waited until all but one was off and out of the house and on their own, to decide to be home for more than three hours in a day.
And when he was actually home, he should not have been acting as if his mind was elsewhere.
"Honestly, Elliot," she sounds exasperated and tired and annoyed and he cringes at the sound, "If you're just going to sit and watch this damn trial all day anyway, why did you even bother to retire?"
He turns around to face her at this, feeling as if he owes her a legitimate answer. His face softens. "I can't quit cold turkey after twenty-five years, Kath."
This is part of his reasoning, he knows, but it is not complete. The fact of the matter is that his resignation has stemmed from a truckload of bullshit and his unwillingness to deal with the dirty politics and slander of IAB. As a twenty-five year veteran of the force, he would not take this kind of disrespect.
Especially after what he was forced to do in his very own squad room two months prior. Especially after having to deal with the emotional trauma of having to take the life of a teenage girl.
They could all go to hell. He was done.
He knows though, if it were truly up to him, and if circumstances were to his liking, he would be sitting beside Olivia in that courtroom. But he cannot tell his wife that. His wife has to think that after twenty-five years of seeing the horrors of his profession, day in and day out, he retired because was finally ready to come home.
But he wasn't. He isn't.
Kathy opens her mouth to protest, but something in his face must change her mind, because she lets the squirming Eli out of her grasp, and as he runs off to play in the corner of the room, she moves toward her husband on the couch.
She pushes his legs down and sits beside him, and so he reluctantly tightens his grip on the neck of his beer bottle to ensure it won't spill and moves into an upright position.
"Thanks for taking your shoes off," she says quietly, referencing an argument they had last week about his sneakers on her sofa.
He offers her a half grin, a sign of esteem for her, an acknowledgment that her rules reign supreme. He recognizes that this home is hers, and he lives in it. After twenty-seven years of marriage, he is only now finally present enough to gain an understanding of what occurs on a daily basis in a house for which he pays the monthly mortgage.
She is silent for a minute in response, and then her attentions focus more intently on the television. "Is Olivia there today?"
They had watched her testimony together last week. It was a day when Elliot was feeling particularly angry and Kathy particularly sympathetic, and so they sat on the couch together and listened to Olivia speak. He knew his wife could see him tense when his partner was on the stand. He knew she noticed. He wondered if she understood. If she did, she managed to remain quietly supportive.
He remembers her question and only nods, and he knows she can see.
"Does she know yet?"
"Don said he'd tell her tonight," he mumbles. He doesn't need her third degree as well as Olivia's via voicemail and his own internal verbal assault. He is hoping she'll leave it at that. But he knows she won't.
"You haven't spoken to her, Elliot?"
"No."
"I think you should… call her, you know? She deserves to hear it from you." Her voice is soft, and the underlying braid of tension, passive aggressiveness, and careful friendship that has always existed in this twisted triangle between Kathy and Olivia and himself has seemingly unraveled into a simple strand of concern.
"I can't, Kathy."
She doesn't ask why, and he wonders if she is afraid to ask. He knows he would be afraid to answer if presented with the question, and so he is eternally grateful to whatever power may be watching over him in that moment.
They are both silent as the judge releases the jury to deliberations and the pundits take over. He consciously tunes the television out of his mind, but for all intents and purposes he is still watching.
Kathy can probably see right through him, he reasons, because just as soon as his thoughts land elsewhere, she begins speaking again.
"Can you pick Eli up tomorrow? Preschool is dismissed at 1:30, and there is no reason to have him go to daycare until I get off of my shift if he has a stay-at-home dad now."
He knits his brows together and looks at her intently. "I am not a stay at home dad." He isn't. He is a working father. He is a damn New York City Police Department first grade detective. But then he realizes he isn't that anymore either. He doesn't know who he is now.
She blinks at him, opens her mouth and then closes it, and finally lifts herself off the couch. "I'm going to go get him settled," she sighs. And then she calls for their youngest son and disappears with him up the stairs.
As soon as their footsteps are distant, almost as if on cue, his phone begins to buzz from its place on the coffee table. He peers down at the display, and sees the three letters that have become as commonplace on his phone in the past two months, as they have been in his mind and on his lips for the past thirteen years: Liv.
He makes a quick move to answer the it, as he has almost every time it has rang over the past eight weeks, but then his mind wins the crusade with his heart and he leaves it be.
A moment later, a message pops up on his screen. Voicemail number twenty-eight waits for him.
He feels his throat start to close as he realizes how much worse everything is about to become.