Kara Sevde
A/N: Kara Sevde = "black love." When you feel passionate, blinding love for another person.
There is no way they haven't spoken in 9 years. He's always been there. She just didn't tell anyone.
Dedicated to the love of my life. Mi vida, you know who you are.
The first time was 8 years ago. A single-line text from a number she didn't recognize.
Meet me Friday 2000
Immediately, she knew. She knew it was him.
She took a few breaths and set the phone down. She tucked her hair behind her left ear and pinched the bridge of her nose hard. She did this often. She could focus on that pressure and for just a moment it would give her some reprieve from the chaos and constant motion that was her life.
A fucking year, she thought. And there it was. Meet me Friday…
She was mad at him. She knew she was mad. At first, there had been a lot of crying. Grief and sorrow. Deep feelings of loss. And then finding a way to move on, rebuilding some type of new normal for herself. Suddenly, all that just turned in to anger. She didn't mention him to anyone after those first few months. References to "her old partner" didn't make her sad anymore. That part of it didn't make her feel sad anymore. He was her partner until he wasn't. That was the job. But his leaving – just leaving – without so much as a "goodbye…"
And yet, there it was. The message. And there she was, trying not to let all this complicated shit come flooding back into her life as if no time had passed.
The memories, especially from the early days of their partnership, had started to do what memories do. They were coalescing, and they were fading. She couldn't remember the exact details of all their cases. Couldn't recollect all the conversations and late nights and cups of coffee. But the emotional imprints of all those times were an integral part of her what made her her. The way she sat in the passenger seat of the squad car, slightly turned to the driver's side. The chair she sat in when she was in the Captain's office. Never finishing a meal during work hours because she hadn't been able to ever eat her whole order without involuntarily sharing it with him anyway.
God, she'd had to do so much work to keep from comparing Amaro to him. Muscle memory is a real bitch sometimes.
But if she was honest, she believed in innatism now. Some of it was learned experience, some of this desire to be near him. It had to be more, though. Her need to do this fucking job and torture herself? That was a product of her childhood experiences, the circumstances of how she even came to be in this world. But him? The only explanation was that she has loved him since the beginning of everything. That their souls are from the same star.
She laughed a little now, slightly disgusted with herself. Because Friday was four days away, and of course, she was going to go see him.
Friday came. She found herself standing outside the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. Then the memory of that day, years ago, hit her hard. It was after she had come back from Oregon. Things between them had been strained for a while. She had seen him with another woman, another partner. "The stunner," Kathy has called her. She had told him that he was the longest relationship she had ever had with a man. He told her he didn't want to worry all the time that he was fucking things up with her. He was talking about the partnership, but they both knew better. He started buying her food, calling her on her days off, trying to not be so damn mad all the time. He loosened up and tried to be a different man for her. He had changed his attire and started bringing her tea every morning and when she got over that kick, coffee.
And then, on the very spot where she stood now, a single Elliot Stabler had kissed her and she had kissed him back. It was a boundary they never thought they would cross. He told her that what he felt for her was more than love, and she'd stayed silent - stoic even - and tried to not panic. He pushed her to open up to him, but she just wasn't ready. She wasn't ready to be anything other than the job, and he was the most important part of that.
She remembered his words on that day, so painfully articulated, "You've perfected the disguise, Olivia. You've spent your life looking for someone you can't fool, even if you've never realized it. And I'm it." But she had remained in her shell and he returned to what he knew - his wife and his rage - and tried to make being what she needed him to be enough. He became a father to a child he wasn't even sure was his but adored nevertheless. A child she had saved.
Days became weeks. Weeks became years. He tried to be a good husband, but they still flirted. There was always something there, still not fully spoken. She found men who became placeholders and he tried to keep his jealousy in check. Sealview happened and he knew something had gone horribly wrong, but she wouldn't talk about it. That drove him further away. The cases mounted and people died. He nearly died. She saved his ass by kissing Stuckey, but took the opportunity to remind him of how angry she was that this is what they were, all they would ever be. "I want him to watch," she had said. "He's a prick."
After that, they exchanged looks and occasional hugs that reminded them they were a constant to each other. They played each other's spouse more than once, and he tried not to cringe when Kathy called her his "work wife."
Then it all came to a head on that day in the precinct, and he was gone.
And now she there she was, to see him.
She took a deep breath and opened the door.
He was sitting in the corner with his back to the door. He never sat with his back to the door. No cop she knew ever did. They used to fight about who got to face the door and either ended up selecting a table that ran parallel to the entrance so they both had a clear view or took the food to go.
"Well, he's not a cop anymore," Olivia thought. What else had changed in that year?
It occurred to her he must have wanted her to see him first. Give her a chance to back out, maybe? Make sure she really wanted to see him?
The coffee shop was crammed with mostly empty tables and booths, so she knew he was aware that she'd arrived. Deciding not to delay the inevitable, she took the 10 steps to his booth. He looked up at her. An empty coffee mug sat in front of him, and he was wearing a black fleece zip-up with a stand collar and dark gray track pants. His phone was on his lap.
For her part, she was still in her work clothes, a long-sleeved ribbed teal shirt and black pants. She had on her coat, and her long hair was pulled back in a clip.
Elliot stood up. "Olivia," he said, not smiling, but with a soft expression and eyes that betrayed his typically cool exterior. "You came."
There was a moment's hesitation before he took a step forward and embraced her in a hug. She still hadn't said a word, but when she felt his arms around her, she couldn't help but say, "Hey, El."
He released her slowly, and they moved to sit opposite each other. The waitress came by just then to refill Elliot's cup and take Olivia's order.
"Just a cup of coffee, please," she requested.
"You got it," the waitress said. "Cream and sugar?"
"Just cream, thanks," Olivia responded.
As she turned back from speaking with the waitress, she saw Elliot, elbow on the table, chin resting lightly in his left palm, watching her. Olivia shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
"I'm glad you're here, Liv. I wasn't sure you would come," was all he could manage to say.
Not one for mincing words, typically impatient, and just generally maxed out from the discomfort of this whole week and these past four minutes, Olivia said, "I tried for weeks to text and call you. I had to clean out your desk. Do you know what that was like? I'm mad at you, Elliot."
At this he couldn't help but smile. "You don't waste any time, do you?" he said.
"Well, you know me," she retorted. "Not big on the bullshit."
Elliot smiled again at that because it was true. She was closed off as hell when she wanted to be, but she was nothing if not 100% herself at all other times.
"Can we start with, 'How are you,' first?" Elliot asked.
"No, we cannot, Elliot. What the hell was that?" She was fired up now. The coffee was in front of her, untouched, her coat was still on, and she could feel her cheeks reddening.
"Olivia," Elliot started, taking a tone she had heard many times, one that indicated there were no easy answers.
"What is this, Elliot? You leave suddenly, without so much as a goodbye. You literally disappear. You won't even talk to me. And then, almost a year to the day you put in your papers, I get a cryptic text from a number I don't recognize, telling me – not ASKING me, mind you – to meet you on Friday, and you don't even bother to give me a location? What kind of shit is that, Elliot?" Her words were coming out fast now.
"I knew you would know it was me, Olivia," he said, quietly.
"That's not the point, Elliot," she answered, shaking her head at him. "What made you so sure I would know where to go? And that I would even show?" she asked.
"I knew you would know where to go, Olivia, but I wasn't sure you would show," he responded. "I'm glad you're here."
He was right. She knew exactly where to go. He had known he didn't need to specify.
"There is a lot I need to say to you, Liv. I owe you that. I know I do. I am not sorry for leaving, but I am sorry for how it affected you," he continued. "I know there is probably a lot you want to say to me, and I want to hear it."
Olivia wanted so badly to stay angry. She wanted to flip over the table, throw the coffee mug at him, and let it all out. But she didn't. She needed to give him a chance to explain. She had no choice in the matter.
That night he had come back with her to her apartment. They talked for a long time. They were as honest as they could be, the wounds reopened and crudely stitched back up by sincerity and effort. He told her that something in him had broken the day he shot a child to death. He'd finally gone as far as he was willing to go. He told her that the horrors they had dealt with for years had taken their toll and that he had to save whatever bit of himself he had left. He admitted he knew if had spoken with her about it - seen her disappointment, heard the pain in her voice - that he wouldn't had left. And that it would've killed him.
As hurt as she was, she knew he was right. It would have ended badly for him.
She had forgiven him that night, but she had never mentioned him to anyone. Not the Captain. Not Amaro. Not even Fin. Elliot had gone home to his wife and not mentioned Olivia. He and Kathy never spoke about that part of his life anymore.
The work was hers alone now. Her hell was fresh and replenished on the daily, and although she didn't know it then, would reach unimaginable levels of horror, even for her.
Eight years ago, they had entered uncharted territory together. As friends and not partners. It was just the beginning.