Hey Fanfic world. Been a while. Life happened. COVID happened. A house happened. A book happened. Etc. Etc. Etc. It's been a strangely busy year. But now I'm just as enamored by Elliot's return as the rest of you and I had to get this out of my head. This takes place a couple hours after the most recent OC episode, The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of.

He answers the door almost immediately after she knocks. Her fist is still poised in the air when it swings open, then he's practically sprinting back to the kitchen table.

Olivia recovers from the abrupt greeting and lets herself in.

"You've got to see this, Liv. He knew. The bastard knew it was Kathy. Come here. Look."

She sets her purse on a chair. Her voice is calm—a contrast to what she knows is in his chaotic mind. "Tomorrow."

He flits his eyes to her, and back to the computer. "Just take a look. I'm telling you, Linski was there that night."

In truth, she does want to see it. But she came here to make a point. "Elliot, I'll look tomorrow. Right now, you need to sleep."

He looks up. "What?"

She says it slower. "You need to sleep." She walks around the table, softly closes the laptop.

He stares at her, jaw clenching, hands on his hips. He blinks a few times. "I can't. I… I've tried. I can't sleep. My mind is everywhere."

"Yeah," she says. She gets it. She's been there. "But you need to try again. You know what lack of sleep can do to your mental state."

"I know. But…"

"You look insane right now, Elliot."

Her face is unwavering, compassionate, and he knows there's no convincing her. He also knows he does need sleep. What if he's seeing things? Reading into things?

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Will you stay?"

She shakes her head. "Elliot…"

"I'll pay for the babysitter. I can get you something to wear…" He knows he sounds a little desperate, but he doesn't care at this point. Maybe he is out of his mind. "Please. I won't sleep if I'm alone."

Jesus. Her self-protective instincts are firing. There's a war in her chest between keeping safe boundaries and wanting to embrace him.

But she knows she can't deny him. Not when he's so broken. She never could.

"Okay."

It's ironic. She traded her white button-down pajama set for a larger blue button-down pajama set. It's oversized, but comfortable. She's laying on her side, facing away from him. And she imagines he's in his usual position—on his back, one hand on his stomach, the other over his head. Nights in the cribs flood her memory.

Plus, being in his bed, she's overwhelmed by his smell. After all this time, it's the same. She barely shakes her head—tries to free herself of the sentiment. She rid herself of Elliot dreams long ago, but these past few weeks they've resurfaced. She closes her heavy eyes and welcomes a big dose of REM.

"I've known you a long time, Liv."

She sighs. So tired.

"You answer your phone at every hour, no matter what. You were ignoring me."

"A lot has changed. Maybe I don't always answer anymore."

"You were ignoring me," he repeats.

She turns onto her back, stares at the ceiling. "I'm here now, Elliot."

"But you had to convince yourself."

She lets a short beat pass. "Yeah."

"Because you're angry at how I handled that… meeting?"

"No," she says. "I knew how you were going to handle that meeting."

"Then, why?"

"Because… I'm confused."

He turns his head toward her, his own confusion etched into his eyebrows.

She rolls her eyes. "Elliot… You write that letter, then blow me off. You tell me I mean the world to you, then you want me to back off… And today you tell me you don't want me here, then… absentmindedly tell me you love me in front of your grieving family." She huffs a laugh. "And that's all since you came back from the Great Decade of Silence that I'm still hurt over… I just… don't really know what to do with all of it."

"I don't either," Elliot confesses. He swipes his hand down his face. "I'm sorry… I'm all over the place."

"It's okay. What you've just been through is—"

"No," he interrupts. "I mean, yes, that too, but that's not what I meant…" His body pivots to face her. He rests his head on his arm. "All the reasons I couldn't talk to you ten years ago… Couldn't…" He falters, restarts. "They're all still there, but even stronger. And I guess I'm overwhelmed by it."

For some reason she can't name, it's hard to listen to this, but she continues to quietly stare at the ceiling. "What do you mean?" she whispers. "I don't think I understand."

He lets out a sharp breath. "It's like, back then, amazing as you already were, you were only growing into the person Olivia Benson would be. Then I get back and… you're her. You're there. More seasoned, filled out, edges sanded, but parts of you are sharper. You're even more confident, even more empathetic, even more of all the attributes I knew you to be. Like the person that was clawing to get to Olivia finally became her."

"There's a lot you don't know. A lot you haven't seen. I'm not this picture-perfect Olivia you think I am."

"I know," he says. "I know that. It's just that I came here and saw you, and—"

She can't let him finish the sentence. It's too soon. And he might not really know what he's saying or feeling. "I'm comfortable, Elliot. Familiar. That's all."

He's silent, so she turns her head to see him.

It's a smirk she would have seen from across their desks a decade ago. One he would have given her when he thought she was full of shit.

She looks away, shakes her head. "She's barely been gone a month. You have to give yourself some time."

Just as the silence widens and she feels like she can close her eyes again, she is startled by his fingers at her chest. Her eyes pop wide open and her breath hitches.

"What is this from?" he asks softly, glazing over the scar from the cigarette burn with his fingertip. His hand accidently moves more material out of the way and suddenly his whole body moves forward. He props himself up on his elbow. "Liv… what is—"

She thinks he doesn't even realize that he is about to undress her to see more. He just starts investigating.

Olivia pushes his hand away gently but firmly, laughing to herself, a half-smile on her lips. If he thinks he can handle that story tonight, he is crazy.

"Tomorrow," she says.

"What the fuck, Liv? What hap—"

He reaches for her again, but she turns her body, propping herself up to match his height, which causes him to lean back just a little. She lifts her hand to his face and lets her fingers scratch against his stubble. She's never touched him this intimately. It feels intense, and wrong, and perfectly right. She forces his eyes to lock with hers. "Tomorrow," she whispers. Maybe not even then. Not until he can handle it. But she needs to give him some sort of assurance so he will sleep.

He lays back down on his pillow and she mirrors him. She smooths her hand over his shoulder, down his arm, until she reaches his hand between them.

"Just tell me who—"

"He's dead," she says. And she immediately sees tension release from his body. "He's dead." She links their fingers. "Now, sleep."

She decides to keep her hand there, even though a bit of guilt pulls at her chest as she thinks of Kathy. But she decides she will know if he tries to get up from bed if they are touching. They don't shy away from their sleepy stares.

"I meant it, you know," he says.

"I know." She squeezes his hand. "Sleep, El."

He smiles, then his eyes close, and she'll be here when the nightmares begin.