It takes everything within Elliot not to fall back into old habits and act in a blind rage upon leaving the apartment. He closes the two doors quietly instead of slamming them hard enough to rattle the walls of the place which, admittedly, is more for Noah's benefit than Olivia's. For a brief moment he had listened at the boy's door and even peeked in, wondering if their shouting had woken him up. Noah, bundled up in the covers up to his chin, was peacefully unaware. The walls aren't thick but either the kid has sound sleep, or there's just enough space between the rooms.

A moment of panic overcomes him once her front door closes with a click and he pats himself down, relieved when he feels the keys she's entrusted him with at his side. The urge for escalation doesn't pass, however. Drawing in a bated breath Elliot balls his hands to fists, knuckles protruding in the same ghostly white color Olivia's face has these days. Staring at his own hands, he knows they belong to him, even though they feel like they don't, like he might not be in complete control of them.

Some habits, he thinks, die hard indeed.

The words Olivia spat at him still slice through him, slashing open old wounds. The job. His kids. His failed marriage. Now, she's not wrong saying he got none of it right. Each of those instances is a special regret he holds onto beneath his skin, pieces of his fractured heart. He's carried a lot of guilt with him over the years. Since his childhood days things have kept piling up. Olivia knows exactly where to strike so it will hurt, shoved his culpabilities right back into his arms, making sure he won't forget where they belong. It's not surprising that she lashed out like this because since he walked away from the job (not from her, never from her), she holds on to her anger like he does to his remorse. He wants, needs, her forgiveness but she has drawn her walls up so high, he hasn't truly seen her since 2011.

Every now and then he catches glimpses of her, of the things going on behind the barricades, but before he can get to her she shuts down and closes the gateway.

He tells himself it's going to take time, that the six years he has let her down courtesy his cowardice, can't be erased simply because he's here now. Olivia had needed him then, probably as much as she needs him now, if not more. So he tries to give her time and not look at regaining her complete trust like a sprint but a journey with turns, windings and impasses. That although it may be a long road, he'll eventually find his way back into the cocoon of her loyalty. But sometimes? Sometimes he's not so sure.

His anger radiates red-hot, simmers, but it's no longer with Olivia. It's with himself. Because what it comes down to, is that he is to blame. If he hadn't walked away from Olivia without a word, they wouldn't be here. If he had picked up the phone just once like her strained voice had pleaded with him on his voicemail, things would be different. He'd listened to her voicemails a lot. His mailbox had been full of her.

He exhales, his fists still raised. Slowly, Elliot flexes his fingers, then stretches them. He hasn't pummeled a locker, or anything else for that matter, in years. Not since he's found out about William Lewis and got his hands bloody and broken by tackling a concrete wall.

By the time Olivia's abduction had hit the news, Elliot had barely picked himself up enough to function. He had moved into a small one-bedroom after the split from Kathy. The kids, except Eli, too young to understand what the hell had been going on, resented him; the depression still had a firm hold on his life and the drinks… well, the drinks had become the only comfort he could find.

He'd followed the news religiously, never leaving his sofa unless it was to open a new bottle of his good friend Jack, or to take a piss. The TV was running twenty-four hours a day. He didn't eat. He didn't shower. For a man who'd lost his faith since the shooting he'd prayed an awful lot, though, bargaining with God to please, please not take her.

He'd vowed he'd do better, if only Olivia would make it out of Lewis' grasp alive. That if only she'd get through this, he'd get his shit together for real and go to her and fix what he'd broken. In theory that had all made sense and he'd succeeded with the first part of the equation. He got himself together all right. Went to therapy, stopped drinking, started taking care of himself and rebuilt his relationship with his older children. But when it came to facing her it turned out he had been nowhere near ready. He'd heard that she had a child, a little boy. She'd made Sergeant. Evidently Olivia's life had been going great. She'd made strides, she'd thrived in ways he didn't think she had with him by her side. He knew she hadn't. Jesus, if anything he'd slowed her down and held her back every step of the way in their thirteen years together. Eventually Elliot had convinced himself that waltzing back into his ex-partner's life would do more damage than good. And what was he supposed to say to her anyway? Sorry didn't really cut it.

So, he'd stayed away, hoping he'd one day make his peace with the bed he's made for himself and that Olivia would forgive him for his selfishness.

Getting lost in his memories, it almost surprises Elliot not to see the crimson of bloodstained fists. Shakily he draws in a breath and puts both palms against her door, sliding them down as he slowly and consciously exhales, then back up as he inhales.

Don't beat the shit out of her door, it goes through his head like a mantra. His throat feels tight. He's breathing and yet it doesn't feel like he's getting enough air. He's made it out before saying things he would live to regret, that's half the battle. He should be a proud son of a bitch but somehow all he does is wonder about how Olivia is doing two doors down.

Her constant need to push him away scares him. He misses the hell out of her, of what they used to be. While it was never not complicated he'd never felt so fucked over by circumstances as he does now. Olivia can barely keep it together and it feels like the more she's slipping away, the harder it gets to maneuver this ship.

The breathing technique is doing its job. Elliot's shoulders sag slightly and he plants his forehead against the door. For a moment he closes his eyes. The light in the hallway is offensive and piercing. The past four, five weeks play back in his mind, and it's unsettling that the only time Olivia's exhibited some real spunk was by lashing out at him. If he wasn't convinced she must actually hate him, he sure as hell is now. Maybe that's what's so unsettling to him. That in a way he has already lost her.

He stands still and realizes he needs some space. Just a few hours to get her cruel accusations out of his head and breathe. It seems he never just breathes anymore.

His life has been put on hold the moment he had received that call eight months ago. He lives, drinks, sleeps and dreams Olivia Benson and while he wouldn't have it any other way her presence has become this pounding ache within him. No matter what he does, it's not enough. It feels like chasing a train that's left the station, making him wonder if nothing's sacred anymore.

He needs to save her. Needs to. But this ache inside, this doubt if he can, her daily defiance? It's bringing him to his knees. Right now he doesn't know for how much longer he can hold it together for her.

It's been months since he's last been at the gym pounding away at the punching bag. His body thrashes unforgivingly. He's quick on his feet, breath ragged. He's lost sense of time, wondering for how long he's been here as he stills, the bag swinging like a pendulum. Taking a step back he closes his eyes. His lungs and muscles burn from exhaustion and it feels good, freeing. With the back of his hand Elliot wipes his forehead and steps back, sniffling. In a way he is profoundly grateful for her anger because he had forgotten what it feels like to get shit out of his system. For the first time in months he feels alive, like he can keep going.

Drenched in sweat he grabs the water bottle and takes a few long, healthy sips before he heads for the locker room for a shower. Under the spray he is rigid, scalding hot water cascading down his back. The heat is slipping beneath his skin, into his bones, reviving what has been frozen. The water cleanses his skin, and he thinks he wants a clean slate with Liv. He braces his palms against the small cubicle, closes his eyes and breathes. Deep.

He yearns for things. For her. He doesn't want to think about the past right now, but it's hard not to when that's where all the good memories are.

Her smile flashes behind his closed eyes. It was a rare thing even then but now he never gets to see it anymore. At night, in the quiet of his apartment, he often wonders if he'll get to see it again or if all of her smiles have been used up.

Olivia is outrageously beautiful to Elliot even now, and he is confident nothing is ever going to change that. It has nothing to do with looks alone because she has always appealed to him.

There was a time when he had told himself his attraction stemmed from the mere fact that Olivia is a good looking woman with curves in all the right places. Easy on the eyes and all that. He knows now that's the only thing he could come up with to avoid facing up to what was truly happening. Probably he knew it even then, but denial is a warm blanket. It was never just about that face, those eyes, her perfectly curved lips, her hips, her ass. It's been the confidence she exuded, her strength behind all of her vulnerabilities, her compassion, her sharp mind.

For years all those things didn't let Elliot sleep soundly because he'd see her in his dreams, his partner, looking at him from across her desk, smirking at him with that tiny curl of her lips, her nickname for him falling from them. El. He'd first noticed that look a few months into working with her. It was the kind of thing that had made his throat impossibly dry and his dick stiffen. Turns out that still happens, even now, eighteen years later. Because at night, in his dreams, he still sees her exactly like that, and it's been roughly a decade since he's had the real deal directed at him.

Maybe he's a pervert for it. Maybe he is objectifying her, his ex-partner, best friend, the woman he's been lusting after for half of his marriage. While he's not proud of it, he isn't too torn up about it, either. Not anymore. Used to be different when he still had Kathy in bed next to him. Since his divorce he'd indulged in the images and subsequent fantasies. Sometimes it had felt like her presence lingered, ingrained in his being, his chest. He got to be close to her like this and he took what he could.

He'd stopped touching himself with Olivia on his mind after the accident stone-cold. He'd stopped touching himself since he'd found out, period.

Granted, his desire for her is as strong as it's ever been, and so is his erection, but it feels wrong to him to feel and surrender himself to lust when Olivia is hurting so much, both physically and emotionally. He'd like for his dick to get the memo because despite his resolve of steel it taunts him every morning, every night.

With his head falling forward the stream runs down his face. He tilts his head up as if the water could wash away his guilt over how much he wants her physically, how strongly he reacts to the mere thought of her. If he'd give in to this appetite, he wonders how long it would take him to find release, if somehow it'd help relieve him of the worries and fears that have become his constant companions.

Before his resolve weakens he blows out a breath and turns off the shower. He's tense with eight month's worth of pent up frustration and wraps the towel around his hips, ignoring his body's cry for attention.

He gets dressed and slams the locker shut when he's done, deciding to allow himself one drink when he gets home. He hadn't touched the Scotch he'd poured himself at Olivia's while she had tucked Noah in. Tossing his duffel bag onto the passenger seat he climbs into the car.

Twenty minutes later he finds himself in front of her building instead of his home. He prefers Liv's because he feels more in control than he does in his own four walls in Brooklyn. When he isn't around Olivia and Noah he's constantly on edge, wondering how they are doing, if she can catch a break, or if her leg has her in agonizing pain on the floor. Around her, even with her rebuffs and giving him the cold shoulder, despite the silence, he doesn't feel as useless. He finds a parking space three blocks from her but can't bring himself to go there yet. So he walks the streets aimlessly in a desperate attempt to calm his traitorous body down. Since his shower at the gym that goddamn smirk of hers is playing in the most prominent corner of his mind. What a fucking merry-go-round.

To think of her smirking at him that does him in is the most ridiculous thing to him. He's seen Olivia Benson in various stages of undress in the locker room, let his eyes rake over her from a perfectly made-up head to meticulously painted toenails in very high heels wearing dresses that made his throat lock. Damn, she's thrown herself at him in just pants and a flimsy bra murmuring "Are you ready for me, Daddy?", her erect nipples straining against his chest. It was ten shades of fucked up because Jesus, the circumstances, but still his body had reacted to her searing proximity and touch. It would probably make for a perfect fantasy for any other red-blooded male. And yet it is that darn smirk across the desk that gets him going each and every time.

He stops at a bar and allows himself a single beer that he doesn't finish. He's trying to buy some time. If it's for his sake or for Olivia's - he's got no idea. At this point he doesn't even know if it's safe not to go home because if what has transpired a few hours ago is any indication, the entire situation might just implode.

It's a peculiar feeling to let himself inside Olivia's apartment. Elliot thinks he's never going to get used to using her key under these circumstances. Many years ago he used to have one to her old place. For emergencies, Olivia had told him. There had never been an instance for him to use it.

It's dark and quiet. He fumbles for the lightswitch to his right. Everything looks the same. The drink he had poured before the confrontation still sits on the coffee table, untouched. He listens for any noise but there is nothing except the quiet hum of the refrigerator. He takes off his shoes, not wanting to make any noise, just in case Olivia is asleep.

Fat chance, a little voice within him whispers.

He scoffs into the silence and shakes his head. Olivia hardly sleeps, he knows that. But since she's taking Percocet it has gotten better. Her eyes are still sunken in but the dark circles aren't quite as prominent as they were a week ago. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on his part and he sees what he wants to see; who the hell knows? He rolls his shoulders and doffs the jacket, feeling the familiar chill and tension crawl back down from his neck into his body. Every bit of yearning he'd experienced up until now gets sucked out of his system by the anguish that resides between these walls.

There is nothing to do here so he feels lost. The Scotch on the coffee table smiles at him in invitation so he makes his way over but instead of downing the drink he pads towards the sink and pours it out.

The clock reads 11:12 pm. Although Elliot feels the exhaustion after taking his frustration out on the fake leather he isn't ready to lie down. He couldn't sleep if he tried. It's a rare thing when his mind shuts off.

He shuffles a few things around on the breakfast bar but it doesn't offer distraction for long. He's wary about turning the TV on, as if the slightest noise could interfere with the calm in the master bedroom.

Somehow he ends up on the threshold of Noah's room, watching the young boy sleep. He's all tousled, unruly hair and puckered lips and so, so peaceful. One small hand holds a stuffed animal, Lutz, a gray and white sloth that doesn't look like a sloth at all. It's funny how quickly the kid has adjusted to him being around when a few short weeks ago Noah was full of insecurities.

Elliot likes the boy. Of course he does, he's Olivia's, and then he has a soft spot for children in general but, he's fairly certain it's not just that. Crossing his arms Elliot leans against the doorframe and cocks his head, watching the slow and steady rise and fall of Noah's chest. There is a small flutter of eyelids, a delicate smile appearing for a second. It's there and gone, making Elliot wonder what the little one is dreaming about. It has got to be better than reality, a safe place without worry or fear, a place far away. Childish abandon is a luxury of the past. It's completely fucked up for a four-year old to be confronted with so much misery and pain. Hell, even Elliot hardly knows how to deal with it, how is a pre-schooler supposed to handle it and walk away unharmed?

Seeing her child like this puts things into perspective. He can't fall apart. If Noah Porter Benson doesn't get the luxury of enjoying a carefree childhood then Elliot doesn't get to complain about being at the end of his rope with Olivia. There is no crying in baseball, isn't that what he had said to his partner in their first year? Well, now's the time to walk the walk. He can't give up because this isn't just about him and Liv anymore, it's about this little boy and making sure that he'll be okay. And who is he kidding - he couldn't walk away from her again if he tried. The thing is that it feels like Olivia doesn't even think he's here. Really here. He's running out of things to say and do to convince her. It'll have to be enough for him to just stay. If he sticks around, no matter how hard and often she's pushing him away, she'll have to realize it, too. He finds as much comfort in this fleeting belief as he once did in his drinks.

When he takes a few steps into the room, closer to her son in his race car bed, he feels overcome by a sense of calm that matches the boy's soft breath. It's a shame that it has taken him so long to meet him, so long to even find out about him, he thinks and his heart jerks.

He should have been there, he thinks. She's wanted this child so much and he has missed what have likely been the best of their years together. The thought feels like swallowing shards of glass. He's seen the various pictures of Noah when he was still a baby, of Noah and Olivia both, and he has never seen her more alive than in those photographs.

The accident took everything from her.

He sees her all the time. In that hospital bed. Pale, dry lips, shallow breath. The sounds of the monitors beeping away at all hours of the day is still in his ears when he closes his eyes. Jesus, he had a lot more hope then, even after she went into septic shock, than he has now. All of his conversations with God, for all the times he'd prayed by her hospital bed while holding her hand, he wonders if he's being punished. Because…

Because he's prayed for her to live. But this isn't it, Elliot judges. This is not what he'd been praying for. Olivia may still be here physically but apart from that she's nowhere to be found. She's wasted away to nothingness. If she's still in that shell her body has become, he does not see her and it's the scariest part of it all. She's so, so broken. If there's a fix he needs to know, so he's back to bargaining with God.

Please, please fix her.

Seconds later he crouches and reaches out to touch Noah. It's the closest he gets to really touching her. There's a serenity in the warmth of the boy's skin that momentarily fills in the cracks in his heart but it doesn't last for long. Never does. He's thirsty for these moments because he never feels whole anymore outside of them.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into the silence, to Olivia's son. He's sorry for everything he's missed, the first year, his adoption, his mother's happiness. He's sorry because apart from being here there's not a damned thing he can do to make her better.

So there it is. Not only has he failed Olivia in every way, he's also failing her child.

Silently he vows to be better. If Liv has a lifeline it has got to be Noah. He will be more patient, more empathetic to Olivia's struggles and needs. He'll try to fuck up less. He'll make sure the little one is being taken care of.

He'll do better, which means he hasn't done enough yet.

The rising guilt is as acidic as bile. Right now he wants that drink he poured out earlier, craves that savoury burn. Wants it to replace the hollowness in his stomach that has taken up permanent residency.

Wiping his mouth he bows his head, takes the small, empty hand resting on the pillow into his. He's done this with his own children so many times and he can positively say it feels the same. The boy is not his, but God, does it feel the same. Same devotion, same need to protect. A familiar warmth surges through Elliot. He's in dire need of it, too. Something draws him closer and he finds himself with his nose inches from Noah's hair, breathing him in; it's light and sweet, the scent of Johnson & Johnson's head-to-toe and unadulterated innocence.

He'd asked God for second chances a lot. Right now he wonders if this is it. If bonding with her child, Olivia's child, is his redemption. If the culmination of his mistakes and sins is going to be wiped away and he gets to do right this time - clean slate and all.

He wants this. He wants this more than he's wanted anything in a very long time.

At first it's like a whisper in the night, so faint, he almost would have missed it. He listens, brows knit in concentration but it's eerily quiet in the living room. Maybe he was imagining things. Or maybe he was looking for an excuse to go and look after Olivia.

Stupid. Leave her be. With any luck she's getting some needed sleep.

His endurance is a fragile thing these days. He grits his teeth, grinds them, stares at the ceiling. Then he hears it again, more clearly this time. A whimper. Then another.

His heart is jump started, and he bolts upright on the sofa. She's either dreaming, or she's in pain. Either way, he knows the sound and it's not one that reassures him. He gets up and rubs his sweaty palms, wondering how much damage it is going to do if he goes into her room in the middle of the night. Being worried she's in distress is a good enough reason for him but it might not be for Olivia. He doesn't usually spend time in her bedroom. On nights he's over and she's awake, she joins him on the sofa. It's different in the day when she doesn't do something as intimate as sleep in her bed. A bed he can't help but wonder how it would feel to be in with her.

He breathes out a prayer that he isn't crossing any lines by walking into her room to check on her, that she's not going to punish him with more of her wrath. When he cracks the door open his heart constricts. She's in the middle of the bed, rolled up in a fetal position, looking fragile and small and in dire need of protection. When she sighs and stirs, he edges closer to the bed. He spots the twitch not a second before Olivia groans. She doesn't wake up, but her face contorts so much, he thinks her eyebrows are touching.

With a dry mouth, he swallows. He's almost reached the bed now, and her right arm thrashes. The sound that comes out next is half whimper, half cry.

It says a lot about how little strength he truly possesses when he can't take it.

"Liv." His voice is scratchy, and, although he moves his hand towards her, he doesn't touch her, just lets it hover for a moment, waiting for a sign of recognition from her. She doesn't wake up, only groans with her hand closing into a fist.

"Liv, it's me," he tries again, dropping his hand on her arm. His fingertips are pressing lightly into her. "I think your leg might be starting to cramp," he tells her, unsure if she's hearing him. His arm snakes around her, holding her. Finally, she moves and mumbles something into the back of her hand. Very slowly her eyes flutter open. She's groggy with sleep, and, if he's not mistaken, she must have been crying earlier because they are bloodshot.

His name is a weak statement on her lips.

"El."