Elliot's lungs are burning just enough to make his chest hurt in a similar way as before, when he'd been enveloped with a radiating fever, the chills, and a ragged cough, but he ignores the sensation as he climbs the steps of Bellevue's main stairwell to reach the rooftop. He admittedly knows the way like the back of his hand because of the frequency in which he has visited, but also the relentless need to escape from emotions that become too potent that ironically occur right at this very location. At the moment, he is consumed by blinding panic – the kind that ignores reason and sensibility and instead turns to fight or flight. He's very acquainted with these feelings, but he isn't naturally one to directly confront them or give them even an acknowledging glance when somebody becomes concerned or more typically, pissed off at him.
He reaches the top of the stairwell and pauses half-bent, staring at the exit sign on the rooftop door; he feels slightly woozy for a second and knows that charging up so many flights in his condition – just days ago diagnosed with pneumonia for God's sake – is probably not the brightest idea he's ever had, but then again he's done far more imprudent things. The hasty escape illustrates his thoughtless impulsiveness much more convincingly when his vision grays briefly while his lungs seize and his chest spasms. He probably should have let somebody know where he is headed just in case he does something humiliating, like faint.
Crackles erupt in his feeble chest and try as he might, he cannot stop the heavy burst of coughing. His throat is raw from the constant, repeated abuse and the force of it – he is left winded once they die down. Elliot decides against sitting on the last step and pushes to the roof. The frigid air is relieving as a distraction from his throat, the maddening itch, and his overwrought nerves, but he can't enjoy it too long. His lungs, already stressed, tighten painfully in response to the temperature change. His chest begins to throb and he pushes on the firm wall of the pectoral muscles just under his right collar bone with a fist. He can just hear Olivia's sardonic voice in his head giving him shit for being such an obstinate ass and going out into the icy weather while ill. Christ Elliot. Didn't your mother ever tell you to stay inside when you have a cold? He's done it countless times before, but she rails on him all the same like a watchful, yet cheeky mother hen.
His thoughts stray to her and he recognizes that same uneasy anxiety boil to the surface. He has kissed her. Olivia Benson. He has fucking kissed Olivia Benson. His partner. They'd committed an act that could result in suspension – shit, they may just take his badge since he's become the resident habitual line-stepper. He and Olivia have hardly ever platonically touched each other up until a week ago, they hadn't hugged, hadn't even let their gazes toward one another remain too long, as one would break the stare once the heavy weight of his wedding ring or the foreboding reprimand was too much to gamble with.
Elliot smacks his palm to his forehead. Stupid. He'd let himself slip, let the sudden need for comfort, her scent, her pouty lips overwhelm his usually functioning logic. He is unable to keep the recent memory from invading his thoughts. She had initially been hesitant, but her lips had become soft, pliant. His senses had been buzzing furiously by the time she had opened her mouth to him. He can still taste her on his lips; he can see the shell-shocked expression on her face once he'd pulled away. He'd been overwhelmed by the desire to do it again, plunder her mouth, tangle his hands in her hair, feel her body pressed to his, but instead he expected for her to slap or even punch him in his pox-covered face for throwing himself at her while she was so vulnerable.
He lets his back fall against a brick-laid structure behind him, probably a chimney or something, and allows his tired form to descend until he is seated on the cold cement of the building. The chill seeps through the fabric of his pants to the backs of his legs, but he does not care. He's screwed things up so badly, and he's sure he will lose whatever is left of that which he holds dear. He's already lost Kathy – lost her long before the actual divorce had been initiated – and he stands to lose the kids because that's just a given. They've always sided with their mom and he can't fault them, because he's been in their shoes before. He understands the anger and frustration that children feel being in between a mother who is always there to a father who never is.
Even though his parents remained married until the elder Stabler's death, Joe and Bernie may as well have lived on different planets. She was wild, free-spirited, eccentric even; his father was always degrading her, overly critical. Elliot and his brothers and sisters had sincerely hated the man, wished he'd disappear. Police work had kept him away most of the time anyway. He had vowed never to treat his own family the same, but somehow he'd stumbled into his father's wretched life, with the unhappy spouse and temperamental kids, sans the alcoholism and infidelity. He hates the parallels, but he cannot avoid the fact that he and his father are too much alike, so in a way he can't blame Kathy and the kids for wanting relief.
Olivia is definitely the hardest to lose if she decides to leave him again – he'd made that admission to her after the Gitano case, just before she'd transferred. He remembers feeling the oppressive anger consume him over walking into the bullpen and seeing her empty desk, the devastation after it had happened once again when she'd left for her work with the FBI. He'd basically lost any semblance of control, had nothing left to lose and felt like he was wading around in muddy waters at night, fumbling around blindly trying to find his way through the fucked up life he'd found himself in.
He is afraid of completely losing it this time, and if she had bailed on him after their emotional dependence had come to a head a year ago, then she'd definitely take off after this. He raps the back of his head against the grainy brick wall behind him, ignoring the flare up of pain.
Elliot's not sure how long he sits with his eyes closed in his meditative state when the door swings open and slams against the brick, startling him, and Fin and Munch bumble over the threshold of the roof and take careful steps toward him like he's a rabid animal. Like they are trying to gauge his reaction to their sudden presence. He's not surprised to see them. He's sure they know exactly where to look when he needs space. He always has been somewhat predictable, and he is a creature of habit, so if he isn't in the nearest vicinity after any tumult, the roof is a good place to find him. Elliot doesn't get up; his chest is still a bit sore and breaths more shallow than they should be. He should probably have a dosage of the inhaler – it's been hours since the last breathing treatment – but he thinks bemusedly of the device sitting next to Olivia's bed. He'd left everything, literally everything including his wallet, back at her place in his mad scramble to see her. Elliot coughs experimentally, but it still feels tight. He mentally shrugs. It's not going to heal up right away, he tells himself.
"What's up?" he asks the men who have come to a stop before him.
Fin's expression is hard, but then it usually is. "What're you doing hanging out up here?"
Elliot studies the dark skyline. Despite the stars hiding behind heavy clouds, the city lights offer their own twinkle. "I needed some air," he responds flatly.
"Don't you think that being outside in 20 degree winter weather is bad for you?" Munch chimes in. "It's not enough that you're already breathing in this carcinogenic Manhattan smog."
Elliot lets his eyes drift up to meet his colleague's. "Next you'll tell me I need to stop drinking genetically modified milk, buy organic, and start crunching on granola and wheatgrass."
Fin moves effortlessly into the conversation without batting an eyelash. "My mother tried out that diet."
Munch turns to his partner. "Yeah? Mother knows best, right?"
"She died not long after that. Remember, partner? You went to her funeral."
"Wow," the slighter man deadpans and shakes his head. "That's awkward."
Elliot breathes a soft, bewildered laugh, and then narrows his eyes under a growing frown. "Really, what's going on? Is Olivia all right?"
The partners square off their postures, turning to him once again. "Sure she is," Munch says solemnly. "Physically she'll be fine, but you should be in her room visiting with her, or else you'd know that."
Fin crosses his arms. "We went to see her and were kind of surprised you weren't perched at her bedside."
The younger detective feels a flash of panic slice through his abdomen and up past his throat. He's surprised he can speak at all. "What did she say?" he asks, anticipating more of Munch's horribly accurate telekinetic understanding of their situation and his idea of couples' therapy.
"Just that you two were talking and that you bailed on her for some space."
Munch makes a tsking noise with his teeth. "Elliot, you obviously weren't paying attention during our little chat."
Elliot decides he's done feeling as though he is being surrounded and admonished, so he climbs to his feet slowly to stand at his fullest height. Intimidation is his favorite tactic when he wants people to bend to his will. That, coupled with a furious scowl works wonders. "Look, what she and I talk about isn't really anyone's business, and if I want to catch a breather up here, that's what I'm gonna do." Elliot turns away, but backtracks with a hand swiping his face. "Why is everyone so interested in what is going on between her and I anyway? We're just partners." He tone is insistent, but he knows that this is a lie. They definitely are not just partners.
Munch and Fin are used to his outbursts, so they hardly flinch. "We know you're just partners. Nobody is questioning that."
Fin is right, and Elliot clenches his teeth with the realization that he's saying too much without provocation. "Is Olivia pissed off at me?"
A voice sounds to their left. "What is this, a very special after school TV drama featuring Elliot Stabler?"
The three men turn and regard their captain. "Hey, Cap," Fin says, tucking his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.
"What's going on up here?"
"Getting some air," Munch responds in an unreadable tone.
Cragen saunters over. "Hey guys, I'd like to speak to Elliot alone. Can we have a minute?" Elliot feels a sinking sensation in his gut as he watches the other two detectives return through the door and close it with a resounding thud, leaving him with his stone-faced captain. Cragen's expression is hard at first, sweeping the younger man's form, but it transforms into something lingering between pity and amusement. "You know, it's about 15 degrees below freezing and you're out here in a sweatshirt and no hat. Call me crazy, but a pneumonia patient probably shouldn't be exposing himself to the elements like that."
Elliot nods. "I know. I just wanted to come up here to think for a minute."
Cragen crosses his arms and leans into the brick structure. "I talked with Olivia. She told me that there was some tension between you two, which is nothing new. She also told me that she's been pretty worried about you for quite a number of days now."
He doesn't really like the way this is steering. But if Cragen were about to reprimand him for fraternizing he sure as hell wouldn't be beating around the bush, he'd simply come right out and say it. "She's been helping me out a little bit."
"Yeah, I'm aware of that. The problem, Elliot, is that she has been running on empty for about three days straight. She'll never admit to it, but she's been focused so much on your health and well-being that she's neglecting her work."
Elliot feels offended for her, so he immediately jumps into defense mode. "She would never neglect her work. Olivia is an excellent cop."
"You think I don't realize that, Elliot? If she weren't great at what she does, she'd have never been considered for her position in SVU."
"So she's been a little distracted. You can't tell me that we haven't all been there before. Everybody has shit come up once in a while that takes their mind off of the job."
"That's true, but I've noticed a decline the past week. The two of you have been riding a thin line for a while now, and I'm starting to see a pattern develop. Anytime one of you has something happen, the other either makes monumental slip-ups or the two of you jump off a cliff together. We can't have that occur on our floor. There's no room for any errors, Elliot."
"She didn't do anything wrong, Captain, she was blindsided by the perp. That was completely out of her control."
"Olivia could have avoided her injuries if she'd had a clear head."
Elliot studies his superior for a moment, his ears burning despite the cold. "What are you saying?"
Cragen stares back, his expression uncompromising. "I know Olivia came back from the FBI not that long ago, but I'm teaming you two up with other people until further notice."
"Captain—" Elliot says in a strangled voice, but he is cut off abruptly.
"It's not up for negotiation, Elliot. I'm separating you two before one of you gets hurt or, God forbid, killed as a result of your lack of trust in each other."
"We don't have a problem trusting one another!"
"Why do you think it's necessary to always look over your shoulder to make sure she's okay, then?"
Elliot scratches at his neck irritably and winces when his fingernails scrape too hard at a scab. "Because…I don't know, because I want to be sure that she is okay."
"If you aren't one-hundred percent certain that she can take care of her own, then you need a new partner."
The detective is dumbfounded, and his jaw hangs slack in bewilderment. He's heard this line before, but it came from Olivia's own mouth, long ago. "How does Olivia getting hurt in the line of duty have anything to do with me trusting her?"
Cragen clears his throat. He's losing patience. "My point with all this is that your co-dependent thing going on between the two of you is nothing that I wasn't already aware of. Now, I want you to know that while this split isn't permanent, if I think that you and she operate better at different desks, then it may stay that way."
"So," Elliot says after a few silent heartbeats. "You sending Olivia back to Computer Crimes? A new precinct? You gonna pair me up with another blowhard like Blaine or somebody like Beck who can't hack it?"
The captain raises his eyebrows. "Nope. You and Liv are swapping with Munch and Fin. I'll make the final decisions tomorrow. In the meantime get back inside and warm up, visit her, and then go home and get some rest."
"Does Liv know about the changes?"
"Yep."
Elliot chews on his bottom lip in uncertainty just as he moves toward the door. "How'd she take it?"
"She's pretty pissed."
He laughs softly. "I figured."
If she sees Elliot, she just may end up doing something regretful, like cracking the remote to her hospital TV upside his head. He's destroyed everything. In one brief sweet, heavenly moment her life had suddenly bloomed into one that made sense and felt right, but that'd inevitably fallen away to reveal the awful truth behind the action. Once they'd moved over that boundary, there would be no turning back. There can't be. Cragen's impromptu welfare check was a cleverly disguised maneuver to inform her of the upcoming changes to the department. His claims were that she and Elliot had spent more time together than anybody else on the entire floor, and it was about time for her to pair up with another in order to get her out of the funk she'd been in for a while, or so he had said as he'd stared down at her.
She'd chalk that up to the Captain feeling heat from the higher ups for something that had gone awry during an investigation because of their actions, but she can't help but be skeptical that Cragen's decisions aren't entirely driven by his superiors, or even his own doing. She doesn't want to assume that Elliot is sabotaging their working relationship to swoop in for a more intimate one, but this is pretty fucking convenient, in her opinion.
Olivia chuckles darkly at the horrible dramatic tragedy that her life has become. Her innermost desire finally comes to play out in reality and it results in the crumble of her partnership, one of the only things she even has, aside from her job which is her bread and butter. Her livelihood.
She's torn between what her heart truly longs for and what she knows as comfortable, her home. What is she going to do when she looks up from her endless paperwork and Elliot is no longer there, plucking away at his keyboard, unaware of her quiet observation?
It won't feel the same to see Fin or Munch, or even someone else sitting in Elliot's chair. Cragen insists that neither will be transferred to other precincts. They will both remain in SVU. He'd called it a semi-permanent reassignment with the potential to remain that way.
She sinks into the adjusted bed and stares vaguely at the TV screen, hearing the door open but not regarding the new room occupant. She knows it's Elliot by the slow, heavy footfalls and the familiar smell of him as he approaches. He pauses silently to her right, and the swelling around her eye blocks the view of him. She's grateful for that. She doesn't want to see his face right now.
"Hey," he says simply.
Olivia turns regardless of her reservations and immediately butterflies begin to flutter madly at the sight of him. What the hell, Olivia? she thinks in exasperation. You're supposed to be mad. She shoves the ridiculous teenage yearning down and tries her best to restructure it into frustration.
"What?" she asks, sounding unpleasant. She winces inwardly.
Elliot has an uncanny ability to ignore or deflect most of her wrath, and she chalks that up to living in a house full of women for nearly two decades. He's learned when to keep a straight face during certain types of tirades. Of course, he cannot always maintain that composure, especially when he jumps onto his sanctimonious soapbox after he feels morally outraged or a perv of particular monstrosity darkens his doorstep.
"You okay?" he says, seemingly unaware of her irritation. He reaches back and grabs a nearby rolling stool and takes a seat.
Olivia sighs. "No, Elliot, I'm not okay."
He nods, scraping at the skin behind his ear. She shoots him a warning glare, and he moves his fingers to her bed rail and wraps his hands around it as he leans toward her. "Sorry."
"What are you sorry about?"
Elliot shrugs his shoulders, appearing dubious of her loaded question. "Uh, scratching?"
She rolls her eyes. "Really?" Sometimes he can be seriously oblivious. His eyebrows tighten in response.
"What do you want me to be sorry about, Liv?"
"Cragen came in to see me. But I'm sure you already know that."
"Yeah," he prods, waiting for her to elaborate.
"And he's splitting us up."
Elliot does not look surprised at all. "I know. He told me about that already."
Olivia raises her hands in defeat. "And?"
"And what?"
"Are you sure you had no part in this?"
"What are you talking about?" The ire in his eyes is beginning to light up.
Olivia's gaze is sharp and suspicious. "You didn't ask for a new partner so that you could have your way with me?"
Elliot's face theatrically transforms from frustration to exasperation to mirth. "What?" he chuckles. "Olivia, you think that I'd go through the trouble to break up our partnership just to get you in the sack?"
She feels the anger boil at his ease. "I don't know, El. I don't understand how you can find any of this funny. Work isn't going to be the same, now. Doesn't our partnership matter at all to you?"
He schools his expression. "Of course it does. I'm not happy about the switch."
"You sure aren't acting the way I thought you would."
"What, you want me to rant and rave to make you feel like I'm offended? What good would that do me? It's not going to change anything."
A lump is forming in her throat – she shouts internally, don't you dare start crying. Tears prick the corners of her eyes. "Why the fuck did you kiss me, Elliot?"
He watches her intently for what seems a lifetime, likely evaluating what he should say so that he doesn't awaken the queen bitch in her that yearns to come screaming to the surface. "Because I wanted to. It felt right." He pauses. "I've wanted to for a long time."
Olivia allows her gaze to skim over the angles of his jaw, the broad shoulders, the scarred knuckles of his hands. She contemplates what it would be like to just give in. Let her infatuation of him take control without the threat of punishment on the horizon, without the guilt of being the mistress. It could be great, considering there'd be no need to get to know him and wonder if he was some sort of weirdo or had obnoxious personality traits. She already is quite acquainted with his bad side. It wouldn't be like one of her god-awful dates that almost always end up either using her as another notch in their belt or shying away from her because of the content of her work. With Elliot, it'd be like finally coming home.
"Elliot, it'll ruin everything—"
"Liv, don't try to convince yourself that we'd be a bad idea."
She can feel a headache beginning to mount. "I don't want my life to change. I like it the way it is." That's not entirely true, but it's the transition from her comfort zone to something indeterminate that scares her. There's no certainty in relationships—she thinks that he's very well aware of that—so what would happen if they don't work out? Their friendship, pretty much the only one she has, will be gone. There's no turning back afterward. She meets his eyes and she feels bad at the hurt there.
"What's this past week been if you're content to keep your life the way it is?"
"You were sick. I took care of you."
"That's all?"
"What else would it be?"
"Olivia," he says, and it sounds strange for him to use her full name. "You don't feel anything for me, is that it?"
She fiddles with the blanket covering her lower half. Of course she does. She always has. But the words lie huddled in the back of her throat. She cannot bring herself to admit that to him. "Elliot, I need some time to think about it." She places a hand onto her forehead, begging the tension and conversation to vanish somehow. "I'd like you to give me a day or two of space."
"Fine. If that's the way you want it."
She hears him leave, the door closing loudly.
Olivia examines her fingernails, hating herself for being such a coward.
She just hopes that she isn't inadvertently ruining the friendship she is trying to preserve by denying him.