A/N: I'm actually doing a longer fic! Well, sort of – this will be five chapters. But it's a start, no?

Those Who Wait

"Thirty-two…thirty-three…thirty-four. Here we are."

Elliot stops the car at Olivia's direction. They shut their doors simultaneously and head for the door, which Olivia raps sharply with her knuckles.

"Mrs. Walton? Are you in there?" She tips her head to listen. "Footsteps," she mutters to Elliot, who nods and takes over knocking.

"Mrs. Walton, this is the NYPD. Open up." He pounds a fist heavily against the wood, and raises his hand to knock again when the door creaks open.

"I knew you'd come," she says, her voice thin.

"May we come in?" Olivia asks, gentle now that she sees the woman. The last few branches before winter, barren of leaves and unable to hold any weight of snow.

"Yes, of course," she murmurs distractedly, and holds the door wide. They step across the threshold, noting the smell of mothballs and failing lace.

"You were Bailey Northley's…aunt, is that correct?" asks Elliot, never one to dance around the point.

"Yes, yes, he was my nephew," she says, picking at the apron on the front of her dress as they go to sit down. "Terrible news, just tragic. Such a good boy. Such a future."

"We're trying to establish if anyone might have had a reason to kill him," Olivia says, her tone belying the weight of her words. "Did you happen to know if anyone had a grudge against him?"

"No, of course not," Mrs. Walton insists. "Bailey was a good boy! Always listened to his mother. Always came home right after school."

Olivia smiles. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"I saw him, oh, I don't know. Who can keep up with things? Would you like some tea?" She shuffles to the kitchen in her flowered dress and dingy slippers, ignoring their polite protests. She brings back cups of lukewarm water, which Elliot and Olivia carefully balance on the space between them on the slip-covered couch.

"Now, where were we?" she asks brightly, cheered up to be of service. "Oh, yes. Bailey. Well," she says, leaning forward conspiratorily, "he was mighty popular with the ladies. Always a pretty girl hanging around my sister's place." She settles back now, satisfied, and doesn't see the look that passes between them. They have surpassed words, earthly things that no longer matter, and she will never realize that she has been in the presence of the sacred.

"That was helpful," Olivia groans, rubbing her hand across her face as they head towards their car. "I don't know what that woman's missing, but it's something important."

"Like her tea," says Elliot helpfully, and they break into guilty laughter.

"At least you pretended to drink it," says Olivia, grinning. "I couldn't touch it. I think I saw a hair in mine."

Elliot rolls his eyes. "Since when are you so picky?"

"I prefer knowing what I'm putting in my mouth, thank you."

"Is that so?" he smirks, draping his arm oh-so-casually over her shoulders, which she shoves off after barely a moment's pause.

"Shut up, Stabler."

He holds the door open for her – a gesture of chivalry she's long since given up protesting – and she slides into the seat.

"Where to now?" he asks, happy to give her the task of navigating. He would be lost without her, he knows, but doesn't allow himself to mull over his unspoken words.

"The alleged girlfriend," says Olivia, poring over the map. "Go a few blocks and then turn left."

He does as directed. "Hopefully she'll be a little more forthcoming than the aunt."

Olivia sighs in audible frustration as they leave the girlfriend's apartment. "You'd think she'd want to know who killed her boyfriend."

"Think we can poke some holes in her alibi?"

"Not likely," says Olivia, knowing Munch and Fin will be on it the next hour. "That club keeps careful records and she knows it. I doubt checking into that'll bring anything up."

Elliot cracks his knuckles and she winces; she's always hated it when people do that. "Final canvas of the neighbours next, right?" he asks. She nods in assent and they continue their path.

"Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything, no nothing," mutters Elliot. "Bull. You can't stab a man thirteen times with nobody hearing anything." She rolls her eyes at him in agreement as they start the drive back to the precinct. Her phone rings and her eyes widen as she holds it to her ear.

"Yeah, sure Captain," she says. She covers the mouthpiece and mouths stake-out to Elliot, who pounds the steering wheel once, then retracts his hand guiltily, as if halfway into the cookie jar. "We're gonna swing by our places first, 'kay?" she asks, and listens intently to the rest of the instructions. "Got it," she says as she scribbles on a notepad. "Give us an hour."

"A stake-out?" whines Elliot as soon as her phone clicks shut. "I hate those."

"Grow up," she instructs, though in truth stake-outs bored her nearly as much as they did her partner. "I guess they got a tip; Bailey's drug provider isn't above selling to both victims and murderers."

"Aha."

"Aha," she repeats, and continues to explain as they drive to her apartment. "So we're not entirely sure how much this drug dealer can be trusted –"

Elliot snorts, and she fixes him with a playful glare.

"Yeah, I know. Anyway, Fin's mysterious contacts gave us word that they'd be meeting some time tonight. Guess y'need a fix after cold-blooded murder."

"Hey, it'd make my nerves jumpy," says Elliot, giving her a sideways glance. They are used to each other's gallows humor by now.

He stops by her apartment and unlocks the doors. "I'll swing by in forty-five, all right?"

"Sure," she says, shrugging into her jacket. It's colder than normal for September. Once in her apartment, she glances out the window and waves to Elliot, who pulls away. She's both grateful and disappointed that he hadn't walked her up.

When he comes back to pick her up, they have both changed into less professional - and therefore more comfortable - clothes. She begins to speak as she opens the door, but he puts a finger to his lips, his other hand holding a cell phone to his ear. "Mmhmm," he says, writing awkwardly on a pad. He has unfortunately chosen the pen with argumentative ink. "Okay. Yep. Bye." He scratches down the last few notes.

Olivia takes the paper from him. "What does this even say?" she asks. "How can you possibly read this?"

"It's perfectly legible," he says haughtily. "And you try writing on your knee."

"I have," she points out, but he chooses to ignore this comment.

"The address changed," he announces, holding up the pad as evidence. "375 Kenosha, probably a warehouse or something."

"Guess this means I'm navigator again."

"Yep," he says cheerfully. He was somewhat hopeless with maps himself, but he wouldn't tell her that, not under threat of pain, death, or tickling.

"Go south seven blocks," she directs, and they fall into a comfortable lull as they attempt to find their way.

"Well," he says in some surprise as they arrive, "not exactly what we expected."

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," she agrees, staring up at the three-story house.

"This presents a problem," he frowns. "It's got too big of a lawn. Where're we supposed to park?"

"I think the neighbor's driveway is on the other side of those trees," she says, craning her neck. "We can park there." The lawn was unkempt and overgrown, and the weeds growing between sidewalk cracks clearly indicated that nobody lived there, at least not lately.
"Maybe it's haunted," he cracks. "See? Broken window."

She rolls her eyes playfully at him. "Scared of ghosts, Stabler? And here I thought you were Mr. Macho Man."

"Oh, but I am," he says, in his lowest tone. Goosebumps rise along her arms; luckily her jacket covers them. Her heart beats fire and ice.

He maneuvers the car so that they can see through the low branches of the biggest tree, well-concealed by the curves that the driveway takes.

"Guess we're in it for the long haul now," she says, leaning back and taking a drink of water.

"What're you gonna do if you have to pee?" he asks conversationally, watching her drink.

She lifts an eyebrow. "Trees."

"Oh," he says, feeling like he really should have known.

"I'm bored."

"And yet you were the one telling me to grow up," he says.

"Yeah, well, that was before my butt fell asleep." She shifts uncomfortably in her chair as he stifles a snort of laughter. "What?" she demands indignantly. "It happens!"

"You just need to get the blood flow back," he says, words dripping with innuendo.

She ignores him and arches her back. "Mmkay. I'm good now."

"I'm so glad," he says sarcastically.

"Good to know you care about my well-being."

"Well, I do!" he protests. "Just, uh, there are some boundaries, after all…"

"Right," she says, deciding that a subject change was in order here. Olivia has always believed in boundaries. "So. You think this guy's ever gonna show up?"

"What makes you so sure it's a guy?" he asks. "Sexist pig."

She sighs loudly. "Stabbing, Elliot. That's a guy thing."

"I dunno," he muses, "I still like the girlfriend for this."

She shakes her head. "Her alibi held up."

"Then why wouldn't she help more?" he asks. "She stone-walled us at every turn."

Olivia shrugs. "He was in some major trouble before he died. She's in love. Women do stupid things when they're in love, and lying to protect scumbag boyfriends is one of them."

"Really," he says. "And what stupid things have you done while in the midst of being in love?"

"None," she says with dignity.

"But you just said –"

"I know. But I haven't been in love, not really. So therefore, I haven't done any stupid things," she tells him, keeping her voice light while accepting the fact that he will always be able to see straight through to her soul.

"You haven't? Really?"

"I thought I was, once," she says. "But I wasn't really. Y'know, sixteen…can you really be in love so young?" The look on his face makes her want to swallow her words back in. "El, I didn't mean –"

"I know," he says abruptly. "But I think you got your question wrong. Can someone really be in love so old?"

"I don't know, Elliot," she says softly, though it's a lie. She does know.

"So," he says, attempting to break the heavy mood, "even if you've never been in love yourself, how many guys have been in love with you?"

She looks at him incredulously. "You do know this is precisely none of your business, right?"

"Yeah. That's why I'm asking. How many?"

"How should I know?"

He has no idea how she would know; he only knows that she should. He wants an itemized list, last names, phone numbers, and addresses, so that he can hunt down every last one of them and find out what stupid thing they did to lose someone like her.

"Why all the curiosity?" she asks, breaking the silence.

"No reason," he says, and she watches the shadow pass over his eyes.

"Bull," she says quietly.

He sighs. "What do you want me to say, Olivia?"

"I want you to tell me what's going on in your head. Just tell me." Her voice is plaintive now.

He laughs then, a little hollowly. "Trust me, Liv, you don't wanna go there."

"I don't or you don't?" she asks, and he's struck again by her way of laying his words bare.

"We don't," he tells her softly, holding her gaze and willing her to understand.

She looks away and rubs a hand over her eyes, and he's sorry for getting her into this conversation. "So. The girlfriend."

"She has a name, Elliot," Olivia tells him in annoyance. "She's a person."

"Erica," he concedes. "She's got an alibi, but that doesn't mean she couldn't have hired somebody."

"I suppose," she says dubiously. "Would she have the money?"

"We'll dump her financials when we get back. She's got motive, she's got opportunity –"

"And she also happens to have an alibi," Olivia finishes. "How about we wait and see who walks in that door, and then get into the details."

At five in the morning, Olivia's cell phone rings. "You two can head back," Cragen tells her. "Nobody's going to show now."

She yawns into the phone, then covers her mouth, embarrassed. "All right."

"Catch a few in the crib," he says. "You're gonna need it; we've got plenty of leads to track down."

"Okay. See you," she says, and after she listens for his reply she closes her phone.

"Coffee?" he asks, and she nods.
"Please." They both know they won't sleep anyway, not when something could be done.

He pulls into a drive-through once they get back to a commercial district and orders two coffees. He doesn't ask what she wants because he knows, just like he knows that she wouldn't want him to go inside. He knows all this, and it terrifies him sometimes.

"Thank God," says Olivia, reaching for her paper cup. He stops in the parking lot for a moment so that they can get settled. She takes a long drink, then lays her left hand delicately down on the space between them.

"Tell me something," he says, absently tracing the outline of her hand with his thumb. He's pretty sure he's lost his mind by now.

"The sky is blue," she says, heart hammering.

He smiles and asks the next question, not allowing himself to wonder if this is how he will lose her. "Why didn't you ever fall in love?"

Lack of sleep makes her brave. She looks down at her hand, then into his eyes. "I guess I was waiting for you."

(tbc)