Some things are better left to movie stars.

It is one of Those Days, the kind where Olivia can actually picture herself unwinding in a hot bubble bath with a glass of wine. She's seen people do it in the movies, and always thinks, That looks nice. But she just knows that when she finally balls up enough to crack open the Bubble Bath she bought two months ago, her phone will ring and Elliot or Cragen will be there with the rest of the world, banging down her door.

Elliot has been in a foul mood all day, and she understands, of course she does. It's a shit case with shit leads and all of their scrambling through the seamy underworld of New York tends to take the pep out of their step. Fortunately for both of them, she is too tired to fight him right now, and takes a perverse pleasure in being his punching bag for the day.

She is at her desk, looking for a file, when she spots it under the one Elliot is currently reading. He hunched over his desk, staring at the paper, hard, like he can will the words to jump into his brain and give him a hint as to what the fuck is going on with their case. He isn't blinking.

She clears her throat. "Can you hand me the file on Gibson?"

Nothing.

"Elliot?"

This time, louder. "Elliot?"

The snap of his head makes her jump, and she later remembers thinking, Oh shit. He's finally lost it. But he doesn't lose it, doesn't jump up from his seat and start throwing desks out of windows and breaking the spines of the people who happen to be in his way. Instead, he just glares at her. Glares at her. And hard-ass she may be, but she flinches at the sheer mean-ness of it.

"What."

Not a question. "The file—" she begins.

"Fuck!" The obscenity escapes from his mouth in a harsh bark, and the palm of his hand makes a loud smack! on his desk before he stalks away.

Munch and Fin are captivated, looking at her for an explanation. She will not, will NOT, acknowledge the blame in Munch's eyes that is directed at her.

"The case. It's getting to him." And they shrug and look away.

She's begun to think of her choices and what will result from them in a way that would make Robert Frost proud. The choice before her now is to A) assume the mantle of concerned and dedicated partner, find him and let him know she's there for him, whatever he needs. He may lean on her shoulder for support, but he will probably just bite her head off and tell her to leave him the hell alone. The last time she'd sought him out, he'd been on the phone with Kathy. Which made the second option look a whole lot more appealing: B) Treat him like a big boy and let him deal with it.

After several moments of deliberating, Elliot returns to his desk, picks up the file, and extends it to her. She meets his eyes before taking it, but she can still see that his hand is shaking. "Thanks," she offers quietly.

The rest of their day passes in silence. Fuck it, she thinks. The bubble bath is on.

*

She is in her bath, listening to an NPR podcast and some fiction author is blathering on about love. Every life is a love story of some kind, he opines. You determine what kind of love story. You choose. You choose.

Olivia is feeling darkly humorous and fights the urge to make a sarcastic remark. Tonight, her love story involves this bullshit podcast, a glass of cheap cabernet and the bubble bath that had been uncomfortably hot at first, but has now settled to a lukewarm room temperature. She stares at her toes peeking out of the water and lets her mind wander.

She has lived several different lives in her relationship with Elliot, and there have been times when she's wanted him. In her bed, in her body, in her heart. But the woman who used to let her mind dwell on those things seems so naïve in the present, and she's long since chosen to stop going down that road. It saddens her, but her reaction to Elliot, to his presence, seems like a habit now. She hasn't touched herself in what seems like forever, and the last time she had tried, the thought of Elliot moving over her, moving inside her wasn't enough. She'd had to whip out some random fantasy of an actor she'd seen on posters promoting his television show; one underwhelming orgasm later, she'd rolled over and slept and dreamed of Elliot, her friend. And she woke up feeling dirty.

And then there was the sister. For a time she made herself think of Elliot as her brother – a big, overprotective, older brother. And that was comfortable. But it fucked with her mind to have sudden flashes of wanting for a big brother. So she tucked that one away as well.

So now Elliot resides in a no-man's-land in her head, a big fat grey area between friend and partner and something weird. Sometimes, just for kicks, she imagines him sitting in an easy chair, trying to categorize their relationship, scowling at the intricacy of it all. Beer in hand. Grey sweatpants. Chinese take-out sitting on the coffee table.

Okay, now her mind is really wandering, and she realizes there is a small smile on her face.

She thinks of Eli, what he is, what he'll be, what he represents. New beginnings for Elliot and Kathy. New person, new energy, new potential. Another kid for Elliot to whine about putting through school. Another Stabler.

The wine allows her thoughts to wax maudlin. If she had a kid – and she's not completely sure of this, but she thinks about it anyway – she can't imagine whining about what it would entail. She's sure the humdrum of it all would eventually take the novelty of motherhood away, but she can't imagine not loving, for one single minute, the person who would make her Not Alone. Forget the shit about parenting and eternal love and dedication and sacrifice – she'd actually be getting something tangible out of it. Another person to use the bathtub. Someone to cook for. Someone to be needed by. Someone to be in her love story.

From somewhere in her subconscious, a picture of her mother rises to the surface. Serena Benson, tragic and beautiful, stuck on the bottle and tired of life. Serena, who looked on Olivia as the savior she was burdened to raise.

Olivia can remember the one and only time as a teenager she had attempted to sneak out of the house. Dressed in clothing that was appropriate only within the context of the era, she'd crept through the hallway past her mother's door, carefully avoiding the spots on the hardwood floor that would creak. She'd felt invisible, stealthy, like a cat burglar, and she'd made it almost to the door when the sound came from the living room.

Libby?

Her last thought before she dozes in her bubble bath is that she has never felt so utterly alone.

*

Her first thought upon waking is, Fuck, I'm cold.

Her second is, Fuck, I smell smoke.

Her body jerks awake and she is fully alert, and it is only that cognizance which keeps her from sitting up out of the water as she realizes that Elliot is in her bathroom, still dressed from work and blowing out the last of the candles she had carefully selected to help her unwind.

"The fuck?" she demands, and slinks beneath the water in an attempt to cover herself. The bubbles are all but dissolved now, and she positions her limbs in such a way that will preserve her modesty as best she can.

Elliot, the poor bastard, is out of his element and looking everywhere but her as he tries to hand her the robe that was hanging on the door. "Sorry." Fumble, fumble. "… Here. I called and knocked, you didn't answer, I got worried… here!" And he urgently holds out her robe and looks the other way. As soon as she snatches it from his hands, he is out of the bathroom like it was on fire.

She dresses quickly, driven by a desire to know what the hell Elliot Stabler is thinking, using his emergency key to barge in, blow out candles and peep in on her bubble bath. She stalks into the living room to find him sitting on the sofa, his head tilted onto the back of the couch. His hands are on his knees, and he is flexing and relaxing his fingers. He is nervous.

"I'm dressed. You can look at me now." Clearly, her partner has not had the benefit of a hot bubble bath and two glasses of cheap wine.

He looks at her, then, and it is so different from the glare she received earlier. It's needy, and she files it away with the thirteen thousand other Looks She Gets From Elliot.

When he finally speaks, his words are halting, and she imagines him practicing them in the hallway outside her door before deciding to fuck it all and just go in. "I need to talk to you." He says in a low voice. "I need to talk to someone. But… I need it to be you."

Elliot Stabler is talking without being compelled by a court order or Huang's well-meant persuasion, and this is new for her, so she warily approaches the chair beside the couch and sits down. There is one lamp on in her living room, and the shadows throw the craggy lines of his face into sharp relief. He is a statue now, and it's her move.

"What do you want to talk about?" she asks slowly.

The statue opens his mouth and then closes it, like a fish gasping at the air. He does not know how to say what he wants to say, and she realizes this. But she's not a whiz with words either, and the grey area he occupies in her life makes it hard for her to want to help him.

"I…" he starts. "I…"

Silence. He collects himself.

"It's this case," he finally begins. "It's this fucking case, that's why I'm here. Kathy can't talk about it."

Kathy can't talk about it? She thinks. She remembers something in the divorce about Elliot not communicating enough with his wife, and how that was something of a deal-breaker. But that was before the baby. Maybe new moms can't handle the mental images of grown men running a black market brothel of girls under the age of eight, she thinks snidely, and then rebukes herself. What a great way to judge other women – find out how much of the world's shit they can live with in their heads.

"You know… you know what's going on right now and…" He looks at her now, his eyes almost pleading, defiant in their need. "I can't talk to her about this, and I can't hold my son without it, without this shit, in my head, and I need it… I need it out of my head."

Translation: You're already fucked up. Can I vomit this case onto you?

Olivia is silent. This is a new type of shot he is firing across the trenches, an untried thing. Talking. They are partners, and they are friends in that they are comfortable with each other and care deeply about the other's existence but… they are not wordy people. And she has been okay. Hasn't she?

She remembers, again, that night as a teenager. She had been so close to the door, was almost touching the knob...

"Libby?"

She froze.

"Olivia?"

Turning around, she saw her mother pushing herself up and off the couch. Olivia had been able to smell the sting of alcohol from the foyer and sighed. Disappointment? Disappointment was when you had expectations that weren't met. And this... this was so, so expected.

Serena made her way across the living room and into the foyer, with the practiced slow, searching steps of a seasoned drinker. She was still wearing her shoes. Her mother, whom Olivia had assumed was in bed, had only recently returned from Some Bar that her daughter had long since stopped being curious about.

Serena's breath wafted across Olivia's face as those slender iron fingers closed around her arms. Vices like feathers. "Where're you going?" she asked.

"Nowhere. I'm... I need to get something out of my car."

And to this day she remembers the way her mother's fingers tightened as her eyes narrowed in anger. And then just as quickly began to well up with tears.

Her mother's hand runs to Olivia's face, clumsily caressing her cheek and hair. Resting on her neck as her mother tightens her grip. "You're leaving... Libby don't leave me."

"Mom--"

"Don't leave me alone... you're too young to be out. And I'm-- this can't. I'm so tired. Libby don't leave me. Don't leave me alone..."

And fuck it all, if she hadn't poured her mom into bed before returning to her own room to stare at the ceiling. Some rebellion, she'd thought. And, though she could hear Serena's breathing through the two open bedroom doors, she was alone.

And now Elliot is alone. And the way he is staring at her right now, she just cannot stand it. Elliot Stabler should not beg, it just goes against something fundamental in the universe, and she hates that he looks so broken. As she stands up, she watches his face, sees it readying to absorb some weird, fucked-up rejection he thinks she'll throw at him. She speaks quickly.

"Coffee?"

His face relaxes slightly, and he nods. And, into the awkward silence, Elliot Stabler begins to talk.
*