It's a familiar scene: same hospital, same players, even his goddamn suit. What's missing is the relief, that fighting flicker of hope. The nurse's voice telling her she's going to be fine, that they're all going to be fine.
Olivia's step is quiet, even though she's far from steady. She can't quite believe this, any of this: That she's here, that Elliot is here, that—god—Kathy isn't. Since the second she'd heard Elliot's voice shake on the phone, she'd known. And since the moment she heard the tears catch between his teeth, heard the sob break free as the line went dead, she'd fallen back into the familiar role. Never mind her disbelief, never mind that she's been running on empty, reliant on muscle memory from the moment he'd stepped out of the ruins and into the light, into her life.
Elliot, she says, and watches as her voice cuts through shock's secure hold. If her throat hadn't already been burning, she's sure the look on his face would have done her in; heartbreak is etched into his features, defined and distinct, as if he were a sculpture, commissioned to represent grief.
I'm so sorry, she says, because what else is there to say? She wasn't prepared for this, wasn't prepared for him. Still isn't prepared for when he falls forward, falls into her, his body a warm, solid weight and somehow—somehow, despite the rarity of their touch—still familiar.
There is an anger, low and simmering, confined behind walls of her making. It groans and grumbles as he sobs into her neck, as instinct brings her arms around him, shock fading away as her concern takes precedent. In the moment, her anger is inconsequential. In the moment, there is no decade of absence. There's only the two of them, only the call of something deep, something buried inside the both of them: one body calling to the other. Even now. After so long apart.
The two of you together. Always so in sync.
When one falls, the other provides a soft landing. That's how it's always been.
Olivia swallows around the lump in her throat and pulls him closer.