DAY TWO

Creaking from the old metal bunk wakes Elliot. He blinks a few times as his mind lazily crawls out of sleep and takes in his surroundings- he's in the crib. Through the open blinds of the window, he can see the sun as it just barely rises behind the Manhattan skyline. He rolls over and the thin mattress groans from underneath him. He's not quite ready to greet the day- he shoves his arm underneath the pillow and curls tighter under the scratchy blanket that he'd thrown over himself late last night when his eyelids were heavy and his brain was fogged with exhaustion.

He'd planned on going straight home when Olivia abandoned him in the diner the night before, but after walking the two blocks back to the precinct, his feet had carried him into the building instead of to his car. Part of him hoped that she'd done the same, but no such luck. He sat at his desk for hours under the pretense of catching up on paperwork, futilely hoping that she might walk through the door and they might be able to fix this. Finally, not able to lie to himself any longer, he clambered up the stairs and collapsed onto the bunk in which he now rests. All night, their short conversation had haunted him.

"Our caseload is crazy, but you don't have to be so dramatic."

"Sick with what?"

"Cancer." Cancer. Cancer. I have cancer.

/

"Cancer." Cancer. Cancer. He has cancer.

Olivia lays in bed, one arm shoved under her pillow as she stares at the wall through the darkness of her bedroom. She's finally given up on sleeping- the whole night was spent tossing and turning, caught between sleep and consciousness as his words spiraled through her head like a cyclone. I'm dying. I'm sick. Cancer. I have cancer. I'm dying.

He'd said the words, but it had felt like a dream- a nightmare- like the ones that had haunted her so recently during their first separation as partners. She'd wake up drenched in cold sweat with the image of him laying on the floor of the dirty warehouse, blood pouring from his body and his voice ringing in her ears, burned into her head.

This time, a well-aimed sniper won't give them a happy ending.

Olivia can't lay still anymore. With a grumble, she pushes herself out of bed and slides into the bathroom to get ready for the day. She hadn't even asked him what kind of cancer. Or how he knew it was fatal rather than treatable.

He isn't. He can't be. There's no way.

No way her partner is going to be taken out by some stupid disease.

But she knows him. She knows he wouldn't have used those words unless he knew they were true. She had seen the pain in his eyes as he said them, she knows how difficult they were to say aloud. If there was even a doubt…

Olivia shakes her head. Her fist wraps around the shower faucet and turns the water hotter. She'll know in a few hours. She'll get him to explain everything then, and he'll tell her that it's all a mistake.

At least, that's what she hopes.

/

Elliot slips on a fresh undershirt from the top shelf of his locker and pulls it over his damp head. After a cool shower, the last vestiges of exhaustion settled in his bones have gone, and he almost feels like he's ready to start another day as he tucks the shirt into his unfastened trousers.

The squad room is dark, quiet and empty as he trudges down the stairs. He immediately puts on a pot of coffee, then flicks his desk lamp on and sits down. Just like always, the cushion hisses and the chair creeks as he turns towards his desk. His pen still sits next to his keyboard from the night before.

"Elliot?"

He raises his head. Don leans against the doorframe of his office, jacket slung over his arm as he examines his detective, seemingly searching for some physical reason he might be sitting at his desk in the middle of the dimly lit, nearly empty squad room when it's barely 6:30 in the morning. Apparently he finds none, because finally the captain says, "You're not due in for another hour and a half."

"Yeah."

"So what are you doing in my squad room?"

Elliot's fingers fidget in his lap as he tries to think of a feasible explanation that will satisfy his captain. Finally, he asks, "If I tell you I'm trying to finish up the Prewitt case…?"

"You put in the paperwork a week ago," Cragen says. He dumps his jacket in the office, crosses the room and leans against the side of Elliot's desk. "And now I know something really is wrong."

Elliot stands up and walks over to the coffee pot. With concentrated movements, he takes a paper cup off the stack, pours himself a cup, then sets the pot back into the machine. When he sits back down in his chair, Cragen is silent and still, watching him. His chair creaks as he sits back and his head tilts to stare at the ceiling, taking in the calm silence. After so long sitting in this chair in this squad room, he's surprised when he thinks that this is probably the first time he's ever taken the time to admire it.

His mouth opens, then immediately closes again. Just like sitting in that diner the day before, he can't seem to grasp the words to say what he needs to. Instead, he sips at the piping hot liquid in his cup. His mouth burns as words tumble from him before his mind can process them.

"I've got pancreatic cancer."

As quickly as the words fall, the urge to climb back up the stairs and go back to sleep hits him. He's suddenly exhausted again, and this time he knows cold water isn't going to solve it.

Don doesn't say a word. Instead, Elliot hears the screeching of wheels echo through the early morning quiet. His gaze falls from the ceiling and he watches the captain drag over the chair from Fin's desk. "What else did he say?"

"I've got maybe a year."

"There's nothing they can do?"

A lump rises in Elliot's throat as he shakes his head. His gaze falls to his shoes as he tries to work through the tightness in his chest. Once again, the reality of his words hit him. Fuck, this is really happening.

"Olivia know?"

Elliot answers with a nod.

Cragen's hand closes tightly around his shoulder. "If you need anything…"

What he really needs is for all of this to go away. For the past twenty-four hours to be a nightmare rather than reality. And for the burning image of Olivia's wet eyes, filled with shocked anguish, to disappear from his mind and not return.

Instead of voicing those things, he simply nods again and manages to push a single word through the lump still hurting his throat. "Thanks."

It's quiet. There's no one else around and he knows there won't be for at least another hour. He feels safe here in the presence of his captain, so, for the first time since he sat in that doctor's office and heard that devastating news, Elliot allows a tear to stream down his face.

/

Olivia walks into the squad room forty-five minutes before her shift starts. Elliot is already sitting at his desk with an open case file in front of him. She wouldn't be surprised if he's been sitting there for a while- he's sunken into his chair, his dress shirt is slightly rumpled and his eyes are hollow, like he's seeing right through the words on the page.

His expression is unreadable as he raises his gaze to meet her. "Morning," he rasps. She almost shrinks back at the exhaustion in his voice.

"Morning," she answers. She sits down across from him, head spinning as she tries to summon the proper words to start the conversation she knows they need to have. The questions from earlier burn in her mind- questions that she doesn't know if she's ready to hear answers for, no matter how much she's tried to convince herself that this situation isn't as dire as he'd made it seem. So she sits, frozen in her seat, staring at him even after he lowers his gaze to the file in front of him. Either he doesn't notice her eyes on him or he doesn't care because he doesn't make mention of it. She's not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe if he'd say something, she'd gather the strength to speak.

You're not really dying, are you? There's treatment, isn't there?

With a hard swallow, Olivia pulls out her own case file and begins to work. She's not ready for the harsh reality of it all. Not now. Maybe not ever.

/

Like the night before, Elliot stays long after his shift ends. While Munch and Fin say their goodnights and Olivia goes to trial prep with Casey, he sits with his feet crossed over the top of his desk and a manila folder of incomplete paperwork in his lap. There's a pen in his hand, but he doesn't even have the motivation to write his name or badge number on them. He'd done well staving off the exhaustion earlier that morning up to this point, but it's hitting him full force and the stomach pains are starting to come back.

"Hey."

When he looks up, Olivia is standing in the doorway of the squad room, hands shoved in the pockets of her jacket. He blinks to make sure she's really there. He figured that he wouldn't see her at least until the morning. She hadn't said a word to him about what they talked about the previous day, and he didn't either. It was almost too easy to pretend none of it happened.

"How'd you know I was still here?"

Olivia shrugs. "Lucky guess."

She crosses the room and sits at her desk. He stares at her, watching her eyes as they flicker around the room, settling on anything but him. For several minutes, she sits silent. Every so often she starts forward and he sees her chest hitch like she's going to say something, but nothing comes, and he's just about to give up and leave when her whisper crosses the air between them. "I'm sorry about last night."

With a shrug, he looks down at his hands as they rest folded in his lap. He knows they need to have this conversation. He knows there's limited time left to talk about these things. But he understands why she ran from him the night before. Thinking about this is almost too much to bear. "It's a lot to take in," he mumbles finally. "I know."

Olivia sighs and runs her fingers through her hair, just like he's seen her do so often when they've had a tough case. She leans forward, her brown eyes finally focusing on him. "Cancer?" she whispers. "Are they sure?"

His jaw is locked. He doesn't want to answer her- to confirm that all of this is real and not a figment of his imagination or a dream that he'll wake up from. But it's real and she needs to know. There is no running away from this.

When he speaks, his mouth is dry. "Yeah, Liv. They're sure."

Her body deflates. She sighs shakily and for the first time in a while, he knows exactly how she feels.

"And… you're really…?"

"Gonna die?" he finishes for her. Even saying the words makes him dizzy. He takes a moment to try to catch his breath, swallows, and says, "yeah." It's the only word he can manage.

The light of her desk lamp bounces off her glistening eyes. He watches her wipe at her face, stand, and close the distance between them. He doesn't move as she leans against his desk, her body so close to his that he can almost smell her, but he's almost afraid of what she's going to do next. Their eyes are locked.

"Come over," she whispers.

"Okay," he finds himself answering.

A/N: Thanks for reading. Please leave a comment down below and tell me what you think!