Disclaimer: they're not mine

A/N: hello again! I'm sad because I'm doing my finals at the moment and theres so much stress so I thought I'd get it out with a quick fic. WARNINGS for brief family violence, suicidal thoughts, and themes of infidelity.

There was a specific way I wanted to set this out and this site doesn't let me do it but you can see it that way on my ao3 account (same penname). The formatting isn't vital but I think it helps set the dynamic. Anyway, set in season 13 and coming from Elliot's POV. Hope you enjoy! And, as always, let me know what you thought.

i.

You don't know how long you've been sitting in the same spot for. You don't exactly care, either. Minutes, hours, days. It's all the same, really.

You're staring at your hands, elbows resting on either thigh as your breath comes in erratic, uneven puffs. Your eyes burn with unshed tears.

In your left hand, you hold a photo. A captured memory of beautiful brown eyes, light with laughter, looking into crystal blue. All smiles and love and pure, unadulterated happiness. The only time you'd felt like that in years.

In your right, you hold a gun. An old, silver revolver, dissimilar to the one you used to carry. You're holding on to it so tightly your knuckles have turned white and you think there's a real possibility it'll break in your hands.

Your dirty, blood stained hands.

You sigh, eyes moving between the objects. Your head hurts. You just want it all to stop, would give anything to have a few moments peace.

Infidelity is a sin, and so is suicide.

ii.

You can recall the day you met her clearly enough.

Cragen had called you into the office not five seconds after you'd walked into work, excited to finally have found someone willing to fill the gap in the squad room. You'd been excited too, sort of. You were sick of jumping from partner to partner with each case. You'd wanted stability, which was exactly what Olivia had offered.

You remember seeing her for the first time, thinking how utterly gorgeous she had looked, despite the little bit of guilt you had felt. She had smiled at you, big and bright, and offered you her hand. Cragen had left and let the two of you get to know each other a little bit, and you had quickly learnt that her beauty was outshined only by her passion.

Nothing could have prepared you for what your partnership had entailed, yet, twelve years down the line, the only regret you had was not telling her exactly how much you cared.

iii.

Leaving had been hard.

The thought of leaving Olivia had killed you. Knowing that she would be there, every day, without you there for her, without you there to protect her, had almost been enough to make you stay.

Almost.

You had reached the point in your career where the guilt had become too much to stomach. It had been eating at you, slowly, more and more with each new case, and eventually, you weren't able to do it anymore. Especially after Jenna.

You hadn't been able to face her afterwards, hadn't been able to answer her calls. Picking up the phone would have included realising exactly what you had done, realising exactly how much you had hurt her. You were aware you'd been ruining one of the best things to have ever happened to you, but you hadn't been able to make yourself do anything about it.

You were afraid, too. Despite knowing deep down that she wasn't that selfish a person, you had been afraid she would ask you to stay, for her. And you would have – God, you would have. One look at her upset would have had you running back, which was exactly why you couldn't risk it.

Staying would have killed you; yet leaving almost did, too.

iv.

You remember how casual meals during your breaks had led to casual dinners which had led to hey do you wanna get a drink? And then a drink had led to another, and then another, and then one too many, and that had, eventually, led to you can't drive home like that, do you want to stay the night?

It had always been a question, never a command, never just stay the night. It had always been your decision, whether you went up with her or not. You had answered the question with a smile and a yeah, thanks as many times as you'd answered it with a I can't, Liv.

You had always felt guilty when you went up. It wasn't like the two of you ever did anything, not really. You would go up, drink some water or coffee, change into the comfortable clothes you'd started to keep in her apartment, and argue playfully over who got the bed or couch – except for the nights, later on in your partnership, where you'd just grab her hand and lead her to the bed. It had never been sexual, you'd never done anything, it had just been a coping method, something that would inevitably make the two of you feel better.

That was why you never understood the wave of guilt that crashed over you when you went home the next night.

The guilt never stopped you though, and eventually the nights you went back to your house were spent on the phone. You would creep down the stairs, trying your best not to wake anyone up, and sit on the porch, phone pressed against your ear gently as she spoke about whatever it was you were speaking about. You'd fill her in on your family, on the latest argument, and she'd always reply with advice on how to make it better; advice that you always ignored, preferring to think it would work out in the end.

It wasn't that you didn't love your wife – you did. She was the mother of your children, and nothing could change that, but there were things you needed that Kathy couldn't give you. Things like the solace found in those late night chats, or in the whispered it's not your fault, or in the quiet thump of coffee being placed on your desk without having to ask, or even in the accompanying smile and cocky morning, sunshine as she sat across from you.

You had kept telling yourself that what you and Olivia had been doing wasn't wrong. But then, if that were true, you suspect you wouldn't have had to be telling yourself that in the first place.

v.

You had known something was wrong with you well before leaving the Department, but the months following your departure had made it increasingly obvious.

Your moods had become progressively worse, and you had become gradually more violent. You were known to be volatile, unstable, lashing out over the littlest of things with no warning. You had taken it too far one night. There had been an argument, like there always were these days, and your eldest son had said something smart, calling you a murderer in the process. You had hit him, hard, breaking a bone in his face.

You aren't able to recall the incident, only later on that night when Elizabeth had hesitantly sat with you in the backyard. You had told her, brokenly, that you couldn't remember how the blood got on your hands. She had given you the same concerned look she always did, and filled you in on what had happened, leaving you in a state of disbelief and self-loathing.

It had been the breaking point for Kathy, the signed divorce papers she'd forcefully shoved in your hands the next day had proven that. She'd told you she wanted you out as soon as possible, and you'd agreed, knowing it had been a long time coming.

That's what you were supposed to be doing right now, packing and looking for somewhere to stay. Not sitting in your living room, wondering how much a bullet in the head would hurt before it killed you.

vi.

You've forgotten who took the photo. You think it was probably Alex, judging from the relaxed state you and Olivia are in. You hadn't acted as free around the others, aware of what half the department thought the two of you got up to when no one was looking.

She's smiling that smile, the one that lights up her entire face, the one that makes her look so unbelievably happy it almost looks out of place. The smile you hardly ever saw, yet it always managed to calm you down when you did.

vii.

You haven't been happy in a long time.

Sure, there have been periods of happiness, erratic spurts of joy every now and then, but there has always been an impending sense of melancholy lying beneath it all.

The job hadn't helped. You'd been giving away a bit of your soul every single day, and for what? A guilty verdict? A prison sentence, more often than not, did not equate to justice.

viii.

Liv had, somehow, always managed to know when a case was too much for you. She'd know exactly how to comfort you, too – know exactly what to stay that would stop you from feeling like complete shit for a while.

You can recall the nights after you closed the bad cases. Can remember how you would offer to drive her home, only for one of you to break down half way there. You would stop the car, parking it somewhere, and just sit, waiting for the overwhelming feelings to end.

You knew Liv had always liked being hugged, and so that was what you would do when she was the one to break. At times, the two of you would get out of the car and walk for a bit, arms linked together as you tried to find somewhere quiet – a task nearly impossible in New York. When you did, though, you would hold her, closely, chin propped up against her head as her face hid in the crook of your neck. And if you felt the dampness of tears touch the skin of your neck, you would never mention it.

The two of you would stay that way however long you needed to, thousands of words being left unsaid, before you got back in the car and drove home.

ix.

You've been told, countless times, to get professional help with your issues, yet you never have.

The few times you'd been forced to see the Department psych, or the even fewer times you had voluntarily gone looking for one, were the only occasions you'd received legitimate help.

There had been other things, like late nights in the confessional, the ramblings of your guilty conscious spilling from your lips at a rapid rate, hoping that it would bring some type of peace. And then there had been late nights in a parked car, hand clutching Olivia's as you'd tried, so hard, to keep it together before eventually falling apart in front of the only person who had ever really understood.

Those late nights had only helped so much, though, and you'd never really recovered from anything at all.

x.

You had heard the words too close, and emotional dependency been thrown around in conversations regarding your partnership, but you had never given it much thought. The amount of time you and Liv had spent together each day, in that type of environment – it was always going to result in a close friendship.

What did manage to catch your attention had been the murmurings of an alleged affair and the seemingly unavoidable question of you two ever…? once people found out you were partners.

The reply had always been the same, I'm married or he's married – never just a simple no, I don't want to, or we're just friends. More and more often you had found yourself thinking what if you had, or what if you weren't married. Olivia was beautiful, you would never deny that, and you couldn't honestly say you had never thought about it.

You couldn't honestly say you didn't want to, so you would just mention your marriage and hope no one would dig deeper than that, because you doubt you could have kept up the lie.

There had even been a few occasions where you almost had, where you found yourself so close to smashing your lips against hers and spilling every bottled up thought you'd ever had. Those occasions had always ended the same, with the two of you realising how close you'd been to making what was surely going to be a mistake. One of you, usually Olivia, would do something that would shatter the moment, and just like that, the atmosphere would change and things would be back to normal.

That didn't mean the thoughts ever stopped, though.

xi.

You don't really know how you ended up in your car, but you did nonetheless. There's a small voice in the back of your head, telling you that you maybe, probably, definitely shouldn't be driving in the state you're in, but you ignore it.

You place the gun on the passenger's seat and the photo on the dashboard, and you drive, watching as the scenery of the familiar route flies past you.

Half way there, you consider riding the car off.

You're so unbelievably dejected at this point, that if what you're doing doesn't work, you seriously think you'll be down for the count with no chance of a comeback.

xii.

Your eyes flash between the road and the photo, and you find yourself sighing every five seconds, a million undefined emotions running through your head at an alarming speed. You feel like you've had a constant headache for days.

You keep looking to the photo, hoping the joy on her face will help clear your head, if only a little bit. And it does, but then you look up to make sure you're not going to crash the car, and the relief the photo brigs evaporates as if it were never there.

You think, briefly, that this can't be healthy. One person, a photo of a person, shouldn't be able to have this sort of impact on you. You feel like you're driving home, and the thought terrifies you because you shouldn't be allowed to make homes out of human beings.

xiii.

You manage to slip into the building behind some older man you've never seen before, and you're thankful he chooses to ignore your dishevelled state rather than doing something stupid, like ask if you're okay.

Your right hand is tucked into your jacket pocket, and you're still holding onto the revolver like a lifeline. You don't exactly know why you brought it with you, because you left the photo on the dashboard. Maybe you're hoping she'll take it from you.

Nausea runs through your body like shock with every step you take, and you're thankful she only lives on the fourth floor. You can feel your body shaking, trembling, and you can't imagine what she's going to think when she opens the door. Months without a word, not even a text, and then this.

There's a split second where you think that you probably should have called first, should have made sure she was home, or that she wasn't busy. You think she could have even moved out, but you dismiss the thought, needing to hold onto the possibility that she's there, that even if she hadn't wanted to, there's a stubborn part of her that's been waiting for you to come back.

You reach her level, and it's muscle memory that brings you to the apartment. You stop out the front, almost getting cold feet. It's late – you probably left your house five seconds before your family returned – but you can see a sliver of light come out from beneath the door. You can picture her, curled up on the couch with a blanket and the side lamp on, watching something without really paying attention as she tried to forget about her day.

Your eyes are burning with unshed tears, and before you can run away, you lift your hand and knock.

xiv.

You're leaning against the doorframe, scared you'll collapse in front of her door. You see the light under the door get brighter, and you assume she's turned on the main light. You can hear the familiar footsteps make their way to the door, and you seriously think you're going to throw up all over her doorway.

You can hear her pause on the other side of the door, probably looking through the peephole to see who's there. You can hear the gasp through the wood, the awkward fumbling to get it unlocked as quickly as possible. You feel the door open and you try to straighten up and look at her, and when you do you find it hard to breathe, almost as if you've been winded.

"Elliot?"

The sound almost makes you collapse, and all you can do it stare, mouth slightly agape as if you don't have enough strength to keep it shut. Tears are prickling at your eyes again and you try so, so, so hard to keep yourself together.

You look at her face, and you fully expect her to be angry – you want her to be angry – but she's not. She's looking at you, a look of confusion and sadness and relief all mixed in one.

"Elliot," she said again, and it's barely audible, a small whisper, as if talking too loudly would take you away.

You can't hold the tears back, can't stop the emotions, and you choke on the saliva in your mouth, on air. You want to say something, her name, you're sorry, but you can't. Instead, you pull the revolver from your pocket and offer it to her, hoping she'll take it from you, because if she doesn't, if you leave and you still have it, you know you'll end up doing something stupid.

"Wha," she murmurs, and you can see the question in her eyes.

You can't breathe properly, you try and say her name but no sound leaves your mouth. You swallow, and try again. "Liv," you whisper, and the name feels good on your lips, beautifully familiar. "I—I don't want—" you continue, but you have to stop to breathe. "Before I do something stupid," your voice is so quiet you can barely hear yourself over the pounding of your heart, "Please."

You can see something click in her head, and her eyes widen and she moves, fast, grabbing the gun with one hand and your wrist with the other. She pulls you inside, placing the gun on the kitchen counter and pushing the door shut before pulling you into a bone crushing hug.

You go to her willingly, hugging her so tightly it's probably hurting her. Any and all restraint you had disappears, and soon you're sobbing into her chest, eyes squeezed shut as your body continues to tremble with the force of your emotions. She's trying to comfort you – you can feel the soft skin of her fingers trace a pattern into the back of your neck, can feel the wetness of her lips pressed against your forehead as she tells you, quietly, to let it out, El, I've got you. The words I'm sorry and I couldn't and I love you fall from your lips and she tells you to hush, that she loves you too and that you'll talk about it later and you can't believe your luck, can't believe she's willing to take you back after you almost broke her.

xv.

You wake up the next morning in a comfortable bed with a warm body pressed against yours. That's know you know you're not at the house – you've been sleeping in Kathleen's old bed, alone, for weeks now.

You breathe in deeply, and the smell of the room is familiar. You recognise the pleasant scent of vanilla and some type of citrusy fruit that's all over the sheets, and the memories of last night come back slowly, leaving you in a state of slight shock. You don't want to open your eyes in case you've made the entire thing up, in case you've finally lost the plot and everything is just some, elaborate illusion. The body next to you shifts and you have to look to see if it's true, if it's really her, and when you do, you can't help the smile that lights up your face.

There Olivia lies, still asleep, entangled with your body. You've got your arms wrapped securely around her and she's got one leg pushed between yours, with one of her own arms around your torso and the other separating your bodies. Her face is pressed against the bare skin of your collarbone, and you can feel small, damp puffs of warm air tickle your skin. You rest your face against the top of her head, inhaling the comforting smell of her shampoo as you place a soft kiss to her forehead.

You look around the room, smiling to yourself as you realise nothing has changed. The room is still full with bright, beige colours mixed in with whites and pastels, the curtains are still drawn to allow as much light in the room as possible, and when you turn to the nightstand next to Olivia's side of the bed, you find yourself surprised to see the framed photo still there.

It's the same photo you'd been using as a lifeline, as an anchor, and you can't believe that even after all the months you've spent away from each other, she still keeps it next to her bed. Your heart swells simultaneously with love and pain as you think of her waking up to that photo every morning.

Being there, lying in bed with the women you are completely, utterly enamoured with, you can't remember why you ever thought you would be able to stay away.

You feel her stir in your arms and you move back slightly, watching as her body stretches with sleep and her big, brown eyes blink open. She smiles at you, the same smile as in the photo, and you can't help but think that, with her help, you'll figure everything out.