A/N: You may kill me. I'm partially sorry. Don't worry, suffering won't be for nothing.
Crica = very vulgar way to refer to a woman's genitals.
For Lindsey because she may murder me so I need the world to know this in case I die.
PS: Y'all are driving me bananas with faving and following but not reviewing. Help me keep my sanity.
Enjoy - kinda.
He thinks little of her disappearance as stretches and yawns, but can't tame the disappointment as his fingers stretch out along the space she'd occupied. Part of him knows that she'd be gone when he woke, part of him had hoped he'd wake to her still in his arms. Little of that remains relevant, however, when his eyes catch the clock on the desk across the room.
It's 8:23am.
A harsh shit falls from his lips. Class started at 7:45am. He's late.
Sluggishly he dresses, mind a blur of memories from the night prior; their vividness enhanced by the smell of Olivia that lingers on his skin.
Olivia.
He can't stop the smile that splinters across his face, almost stretching from ear to ear as he thinks about her; about how she'd overwhelmed him in the sweetest of ways possible; about how she hadn't awakened him before she left, no doubt to gather herself together for class, and about how he'd pay her back for letting him over sleep.
Payback, he decides, would come in the form of kissing her until she's dizzy, much like she had done to him the night before.
The night before.
He grins whenever he thinks of it. It's all still fresh in his mind. The feel of her bare skin beneath his hands, the weight of her body on top of his, and the sounds she'd made. God those sounds; his dick twitches at the mere thought. But his insecurities come tumbling in.
He hopes that he was good enough for her - that his inexperience didn't ruin the night. He shudders in embarrassment just thinking about how he'd almost fell on his ass, boxers around his ankles.
Quickly he dresses, his eyes catching sight of a small gold band that sits on his desk next to the still burning lamp. It's Olivia's ring, the one she never takes off, that one that'd been a gift from her mother during a rare period of sobriety. He stares at it for a moment; the band staring back at him before he slips it into his back pocket. He'll give it to her when he sees her in class later.
He heads down the stairs and into the kitchen where he comes face to face with his father. Joe sits at the kitchen table sipping on a mug of coffee, smoking a cigarette.
Shit.
"Over slept, I see." Joe mumbles as he takes a drag of his cigarette. "Long night?"
Well, that's one way to phrase it. Long indeed. A smile tugs at the corners of Elliot's mouth as he thinks about it.
"Uh, no. I - uh - I forgot to set my alarm clock. How long...when'd you get in?" Did you see Olivia?
Joe butts his cigarette. "About fifteen minutes ago. Ended up pulling a double; caught a body up in the Bronx."
He's lying. Elliot can tell by the bright pink lipstick smudge tucked underneath his folded-down collar. The stain probably belongs to a hospital nurse or some file clerk; perhaps at the front desk secretary, in the department.
"A body huh?"
"Yeah, but enough of that. Sit down and eat a bowl of cereal or some toast. You're already late. Why go to school starving?"
Huh? The young teen's brows furrow at his father's concern - uncharacteristic concern. Joe Stabler was known for being an uncaring hardass. It was no secret around the neighborhood that he'd more than once taken his belt to both of his sons.
"Sit…" Joe directs, pointing to the chair adjacent to where he's seated. Elliot takes the chair opposite, across the table and grabs an orange from the bowl that rests in the middle of the table. He's not hungry but knows better than to argue with his father.
The smell of citrus permeates the air as the sticky sweet liquid of the orange runs down Elliot's palm, seeping into his skin as he peels the orange. Neither Stabler speaks; the clock above the refrigerator ticks.
8:53am.
Joe stands and his chair screeches across the floor, no doubt leaving behind black skid marks Bernie had spent hours scrubbing from the tile a few days prior. "Grab your backpack, I'll drive you to school."
Elliot nods and does as he told.
/
It's a twenty-minute drive to Abraham Lincoln High School. The sound of horns and the slow thrum of tires against pavement provide the soundtrack for the father son pair. Joe's fingers drum along the steering wheel, Elliot stares out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Olivia walking.
He spots a brunette standing at a crossword, but she's too short to be his girl. His girl. God he knows he's a sap, but he can't stop thinking about her, her touch, and her kiss; how silky her hair was, as he'd run his fingers through it. Hearts dance in his eyes and he smiles, though the feeling of dread isn't far behind. Something's wrong.
An 'ahem' comes from his father's direction. Elliot looks over.
"Whatever happened to that little blonde you was seeing a few months back? What was her name; Katherine?"
Elliot's brows furrow. His head tilts and his belt tightens as the car turns right.
"Kathy, dad. Why?"
The car comes to a slow halt in front of school. "You should invite her over for dinner this Sunday. She's a good girl - good for you."
He has to suppress a laugh at his father's words and raise an eyebrow at Joe's timing. Joe had paid no attention to Kathy when she and Elliot had dated, yet now… something's amiss. But Elliot doesn't do well to let his mind dwell on his father's ulterior motives long; he simply shrugs in response; his mind is on Olivia.
"Maybe." Elliot placates. "I've gotta go before I'm any later." He moves to exit the vehicle, but is stopped by Joe's voice.
"I wasn't asking, Elliot."
He never does. Elliot nods and sighs, wondering how he'll explain Kathy having dinner at him home to Olivia.
/
But he never gets a chance to explain.
Olivia isn't in school when he gets there and according to her other friends, hasn't been all morning. He searches high and low for her, waiting next to her locker at lunch and outside of the classes he doesn't share with her. She never shows. He fails his math test, unable to focus.
The day passes by Elliot in a depressing blur of sameness and anxiety. He worries that the night hadn't been as perfect between them as he'd originally believed - that somehow, he'd hurt her and to spare his feelings, she'd kept quiet. He worries that the feelings he'd shared with her hadn't been mutual and now she's avoiding him.
He replays the night's events as he walks home, examining it from all angles. There'd been that minute when she'd first sank down on him; her face had contorted into an indecipherable expression. Had he hurt her at that moment? He had, hadn't he? And now she's avoiding him.
The dread that holds him only deepens as he nears his home. His eyes immediately settle on the familiar burgundy Toyota that's parked in front of his house along with a cop cruiser that isn't his father's. He breaks into a jog then, hundreds of scenarios running through his head.
"Ma?" Elliot calls out, tossing his backpack on the floor and making his way into the dining room where the adults are. "Liv?"
Neither his mother nor Olivia, instead his greeted by an irate Serena Benson who immediately jumps to her feet. She closes the distance between them and seizes Elliot's arms, screaming and shaking him. "Where is she you little punk? Where is my daughter; tell me right now!"
Her nails dig into his shoulders and he has to fight the urge to shove her back, smack her down like he can picture her doing to the girl he loves with every fiber of his being.
"Take your hands off of my son!" Joe yells from somewhere in the dining room.
"Ma'am, this isn't helping." A foreign male voice yells.
Serena lets go, her chest falling and rising with her rapid breaths. The cop comes to stand in between the pair.
Joe clears his throat, and Elliot straightens up his shirt, his temper building. "Elliot, tell Ms. Benson that you don't know where Olivia is."
Elliot's brows furrow, the confusion setting in. Where Olivia is? "What?"
Bernie clears her throat, and he can see the worry knitted into her features; the older woman has always had a soft spot for the Olivia. "It's okay, Elliot. We know you two are close. Just please tell Serena where Olivia's gone so that she can go get her…"
Go get her? Go get her from where? What? Nonplussed, Elliot staggers back, away from the portly cop that smells as if he's ingested too many donuts; the remnants of his crime still hanging from his beard in the form of powdered sugar and jelly.
"Go get her?" Elliot repeats, perplexed. In order to go and get her he has to know where she is. Hell, he has to know she'd even run off in the first place. "What do you mean go get her? What's going on?"
Serena sidesteps the officer, yanking away from the cop as he tries to stop her. A piece of paper is shoved into his chest - hard - and Serena glares at him. The cop just sighs, an arm jutting out to serve as a makeshift barrier between the mother of the lost girl and the young boy who loves her.
Elliot glances down at the crumpled lined paper and Olivia's voice preserved in her somewhat girly handwriting screams back at him.
Mom,
I'm not coming back.
Elliot doesn't know where I'm at or where I'm going either; leave him alone.
And El, if you get a chance to read this - I love you, too.
-Olivia
'I love you too' the words echo loud and clear in his ears, ringing like the liberty bell. She loves him.
She loves him like he loves her - like he'd whispered to her countless times that night as their mouths explored each other's and she'd fallen asleep tucked into his arms. She loves him. And no one can take that away. That knowledge alone feels him with delight. But all delight dissipates. The rest of her words on the paper, four in particular quickly capsizes it. I'm not coming back.
His mouth goes dry and he falters as if he's been punched in the gut. Suddenly his chest feels tight.
She's gone.
"She ran away?" Elliot questions, brows knitted together. His words send Serena into a tailspin.
"Yes she's gone you little bastard! She stole five hundred dollars from me, grabbed some of her things, and left. You know where she's going," Serena screams, her eyes are bloodshot and Elliot can't tell if it's because she's been drinking (he can smell the vodka on her) or if she's been crying (the tear tracks are evident against her pale skin). "Not tell me where she's going." She breaks through the pathetic arm barricade and manages to tangle a hand into the material of his thin t-shirt. She jerks him roughly to her. "Tell me!"
"Ma'am! Let him go!"
"Serena! Let Elliot go!"
Both the officer and Bernie chide.
Elliot jerks away, his hand enclosing around her wrist. "She said it herself, I don't know." His voice cracks on the last word. "And I'm not Olivia, you can't beat me and expect me not to do anything about it. You don't deserve her - you abuse her! She -"
A sharp splintering crack of skin against skin lights the air.
Elliot rubs his jaw, fingertips ghosting over his stinging cheek, and a bit of a rustic taste floods his mouth.
"That the best you got? Why don't you hit me a few more times or throw a vodka bottle at me - there's gotta be one around somewhere."
A flicker of horror flashes across Serena's slate eyes, but doesn't say anything; doesn't apologize.
From the corner of the room Joe speaks. "It's time for you to go. If Elliot knows something, I'll take him down to the 6-1 myself. Now get out of my house."
Elliot's eyes never leave Serena's. The cop reaches out and takes the note that hangs limply from Elliot's opposite hand, the one that isn't rubbing his jaw.
The two - Serena and Elliot - stare each other down for a moment before the older woman turns around, she rips her bag off of the dining room table and walks towards the front door.
"If I knew where she was at," Elliot hisses as she goes. "You can be damn sure I'd never tell you!"
/
He refuses to cry on a train full of people during rush hour, but he can't stop his bottom lip from quivering. Olivia's disappeared and he's torn between fear so tangible one could almost touch it, and anger. She'd left him. After everything that'd happened last night, she'd left. She's gone.
And she'd had the nerve to declare her love for him via letter. A letter that was being held by Brooklyn PD and he'd probably never see it again.
The tracks screech to a halt and the subway door open. A group of people gets off and another group piles on. He's been on this train for an hour and he's not even sure he's going in the right direction. He'd torn out of his house Bernie hot on his heels only minutes after Serena and the officer left, on a mission. He's determined to find Olivia and he's checking everywhere he thinks she may be.
First stop, Spanish Harlem.
/
The term 'sticking out like a sore thumb' comes to mind as Elliot pounds the pavement in search of the restaurant he and Olivia had been at the day prior. He's quite possibly the only white boy around within miles, but he doesn't care - it doesn't matter. All that matters is finding Olivia.
He pushes on, sojourning the foreigner soil of a world within his own although miles apart. The restaurant comes into view when he's stopped by a group of guys. They're all dressed in the same color pattern: black and gold. Gaudy rope changes hang around their necks, knuckle rings adorn their hands, and they wear shell-toed Adidas. One even carries an oversized boom box.
"Yo, charo, you looking for something?" One of the guys asks. He's about 5'8 with dark black hair and light brown skin. He's got one hand in his pocket and the other holds what Elliot thinks is a cigarette. "I got everything you need…"
"Oh, uh -" everything you need? Elliot's almost 100% certain he means drugs. "No thanks man, I've gotta go see a lady." He tries to walk around, but is stopped by the wall of guys in front of him.
"A lady, huh? Was it that fine piece of crica I saw you drive in with yesterday?" The guy asks as he grabs his crotch with the hand that holds his cigarette. "Man, the things I'd do to her. Lemme tell you. She be screamin' my name all night long. I'd have the blanquita calling me papi by the end of the night, begging for more."
Elliot sees red, his someone maintained often explosive temper getting the better of him. He shoves the guy - hard - and the wise cracker goes down as Elliot jumps on him. Before Elliot even knows what's happening, he's on the ground, curled into a ball as at least more than three guys kick and hit him. He's spitting up blood by the time he hears a woman's voice scream something in Spanish.
"Basta ya! Basta ya!" (Stop it now)
Whatever she says, the guys halt their assault.
"Déjalo ya antes le digo a tu madre!" (Leave him alone before I tell your mother)
There are more words he doesn't understand, but whatever she says cause the guys to walk away.
Elliot sits up, bits of cement and glass embedded into his hand and he holds his ribs. They're not broken, though definitely bruised.
"Ven blanquito. Now." The feminine voice orders and he looks up to see Helena in front of him. She looks pissed; her curly black hair disheveled. "What're ju doing here?" she asks.
When it takes Elliot a moment to get to his feet, she leans over and helps him. "I'm - ow, shit ow - looking for Olivia."
"She hasn't been here since yesterday, when she came witchju'"
Elliot's heart sinks even further to his knees. "I've got some bruised ribs and a busted rib, please don't lie to me…"
Helena's eyes narrow and the arm she'd extended to help him get to his feet, she quickly withdrawals. Elliot hits the pavement again. "Ow."
"Ju wanna think about askin' me that again? I said she isn't here. Those boys, they woulda killed ju and they not care. So, I ask ju…"
"You don't know where she's at." He states flatly, the look in her eyes telling him that she's being one hundred percent truthful.
Helena shakes her head. "I don't. Now ven, I'll drive you home."
"How about down to Manhattan and I'll get home on my home?"
/
Like the night prior, Elliot doesn't get home until almost eleven p.m. He's been all around New York City, has used every subway token in his possession, and still hasn't found Olivia.
An inkling feeling in his gut tells him he isn't going to find her either.
When he walks into his house, Bernie gasps; he guesses that he probably looks like he's been in WWIII, but doesn't care. The numbness in his heart - the acute pain in his chest - is too powerful for the ache of a few bruises to compete against. Joe yells something at him and his little brother, Ben, says something he can't hear.
Elliot shuffles up to his bedroom and slams the door shut behind him and pulls the gold band out of his back pocket. He turns it over in his palm; a few ugly bruises glaring back as he changes hands. He sets the band down on his desk and kicks off his shoes, shuffling over to his bed.
He lays down on his side, the pillow Olivia had used the night prior still next to him; he can smell her strawberry and vanilla hair.
Although he knows he should shift onto his back, the pain in his ribs can't outmatch the pain in his heart. After a few moments he does the one thing he doesn't allow himself to do often, if ever; he cries.
From fear, from pain, and from worry. He cries.
Olivia's gone.