By the time he manages to pick up the phone, Kathy's bed is already empty. It's empty, still, when Olivia finds him, standing in the outskirts, lost in haze of grief.
Elliot, she says, her voice breaking through his shock. He turns, and he doesn't have it in him to hide his heartbreak, the way tears cling to his lashes. If he could see—if he could process—he'd realise her eyes are just the same.
I'm so sorry.
He's operating on muscle memory; alive even though he doesn't feel present. Blood and bone and instinct. The sight of Olivia, even now—especially now—speaks to an innate part of him, old and out of use but still there. Always there.
He can't help himself.
Somewhere beyond the shock, somewhere beyond his grief, somewhere near the peripheral of his consciousness, he thinks, maybe, that it's a bad idea. That he shouldn't. That Olivia has been many things since his return, but touchy isn't one of them. In the moment, though, the thought doesn't register. In the moment, Elliot falls forward, and Olivia's there to catch him.
It's a rarity, Olivia's embrace, and he indulges in it now. His head falls to her shoulder, a sob catching in his throat and another breaking free as Olivia reaches to hold him. He buries his face against her neck to hide the onslaught of tears, nuzzles into her shoulder to quiet the pain that burns up his throat, itchy and angry and fighting for release.
I'm so sorry.
She breathes in, and breathes out comfort: her presence steady and grounding and bringing him as close to solace as he can hope to be.
He clings for as long as he can.