Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: So for several weeks I am deprived of both new SVU and of Kairos. This is the result. WARNING: Kairos (a three and a half day religious retreat for high school students) plays a smallish role in this story. I came up with the original idea while I was leading one in September. If you've been on Kairos, I hope you like this. If you may go in the future, I strongly discourage you from reading, because I do reference a couple things (okay, one) that you're not really supposed to know about beforehand. And if you have no idea what I'm talking about, I hope you don't get too confused. It's not too huge a thing, I promise.
I'm a cop. I want all of you boys to know that right off the bat. For those of you my son hasn't already told. I'm Dick's dad, by the way.
Brian, I appreciate your condolences but I don't think Dick does.
I want you all to know what I do because that's a big part of my story. That's why, as I heard someone at that table say this morning, I'm 'wound a little tight.' For me, looking for danger around every corner isn't fatalism. It's just good sense. I spend so much time doing it that it's part of my children's stories too. Just ask any of them how often I've made it to dinner lately.
"I'm sorry," Olivia says when he throws down his pen for the fifth time. "I just – what the hell are you doing?"
Elliot buries his face in his hands. "Writing a talk."
"A what?"
"A talk. A speech. A thing where I have to get up in front of a bunch of teenage boys and talk about my life for half an hour."
Her face clears. "Right. You're going on retreat."
"Yeah. That."
Olivia clucks her tongue. "Shouldn't have raised them Catholic."
"Shut up, Liv."
"So what are you writing about?"
"Um." He clears his throat and squints at the papers on his desk. "My topic is 'Obstacles to God's Friendship.'"
"In English?"
"Please shut up."
"Hey," she mutters, "I'm the one who's actually working here."
"It's my new constructive way of putting off paperwork. Quiet please."
For a few minutes she humors him and returns to her own paperwork, sneaking occasional glances across at her partner. This is clearly not the kind of concentration he's used to; he can't seem to decide whether to write or type. Every few seconds he sighs gustily.
"Elliot," she ventures, and he groans in frustration.
"Stop," he growls, more irritated than the situation calls for.
Olivia frowns at him. "What's with you?"
Drawing in a deep breath, he reaches for a paper clip to fiddle with. "It's just really hard to write about you while you're sitting there being annoying."
She has to remind herself to breathe. "You're writing about me?"
"Yeah." He shifts uncomfortably. "Stop staring at me like that. I have to write about something."
The most flippant thing she can think of to say is, "So I'm an obstacle to God's friendship?"
"At this moment, you're an obstacle in general." He throws the paper clip at her. "I, uh, I'm writing about the fire."
"Oh." She touches the back of her head, remembering, and since God is not her area of expertise admits, "I don't get it."
He props his elbows on his desk. "Well, I'm still trying to put it into words. But it's hard to be friends with God when you hate him."
Olivia ducks her head and announces, "I don't know. I certainly hate you sometimes."
She can feel Elliot's slight smile before he too looks away.
"God, these lines are so tacky," he moans.
Olivia doesn't bother to look up, having heard variations on this complaint for the last hour. "They're your lines," she says patiently.
"Actually, they're kind of standard. According to Lizzie."
Wow. He actually responded. "She seems involved."
"She loved Kairos so much she talked Dick into going. Which, believe me, is an accomplishment."
"Like father, like son."
He ignores her. "And she wants to lead herself this year, so she conned me into leading first."
She smirks to herself; she already knew all this. "So how tacky are the lines?"
Elliot rolls his eyes and picks up a sheet of looseleaf from his desk. "'Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass; it's about learning to dance in the rain,'" he recites.
In spite of his obvious sarcasm Olivia smiles. "I like that."
"Women," he grumbles. "Is there some frequency you all tune in to, or what?"
"Hey, El, it's your retreat. Are you using that one?"
"No," he says decisively. "There are other, slightly less corny lines."
"For example?"
"Well… I will find one and let you know."
She can tell when he finally finishes writing the talk. Of course it doesn't take a great deal of intuition, as he celebrates by punching the air and letting out a whoop. "Congratulations," Olivia says. "You proud of yourself?"
"You have no idea."
"Can I read it?"
Elliot's grin freezes. "No."
"Oh, come on, El," she teases, walking around his desk to peer over his shoulder at the computer screen. "I'm sure you're not that bad a writer – "
"Liv, stop it."
"I'm in it; it's only fair – "
He stands up abruptly, sending his chair shooting away, blocking her view. "No!"
"Okay, okay." She holds up both hands and steps back, watching him carefully. "Geez, Elliot, what's the big deal?"
He turns away and closes the file.
"Elliot," she says, more softly now. "What's wrong?"
She clocks his movements because they are as familiar as her own skin: a shake of the head, a measured pivot to face her, a hand scrubbed over his face.
"Sit down," he says roughly. "I gotta tell you something."
I won't subject you to the kinds of things I see every day. Suffice it to say that I work with rape victims, and I'm sure that none of you young men will ever be involved in anything of the kind. Sometimes it's all but impossible to reconcile tragedy with a loving God.
There's no magic answer for that. I only wish there was.
Please write this down: Not getting what you prayed for doesn't mean that God wasn't listening.
Not getting what you prayed for doesn't mean that God wasn't listening.
TBC...
Next chapters will flash back to the event in question. Please R&R, and let me know if you're confused!