Author's Note: This chapter has mentions of PTSD and we get a small look inside what's going through Elliot's mind, which isn't always pretty.
Enjoy!
Olivia's senses had always been naturally on high alert. Growing up with a mother who could be mentally unstable and incredibly unpredictable on her worst days and becoming a woman who worked in one of the most stressful divisions of the police department had made her into a person who could wake up and be ready to go at the faintest flap of a butterfly's wings.
It'd come in handy quite a bit when Noah was smaller.
But the low groaning whine she heard as she laid on Elliot's couch early that morning wasn't from any child, and it was definitely a cause for concern.
"Elliot?" she called out softly, shuffling her feet across the floor as to not awaken Eli with her footsteps. "Are you okay?" The sound echoed out again; it wasn't loud enough that just anyone would be able to hear it. It'd take something like her keen instincts to pick up on it. One of the doors was cracked open, and she pushed it open. "El?"
He laid in the middle of the bed, and as she stepped closer, she saw that he was staring at the ceiling, illuminated in silhouette by the distant lights of a city that never slept – or turned out the lights, for that matter. Not a single one of his muscles seemed to twitch in the slightest, as another whimper came from him, and she realized that whatever it was he was seeing – those visions, his (likely) PTSD – had him completely paralyzed into place.
He probably had no idea she was even standing there, and yet she was so close that if she reached out her arm, her fingertips could brush the tattoo on his arm.
She blinked back tears.
Some part of her – the part of her that had always had the overpowering maternal instinct even long before Noah came along – wanted to climb into the bed with him, hold his head in her lap, and let him cry it out without any fear of judgement. But she couldn't. They didn't have that kind of relationship, not anymore.
She couldn't fight his battles for him. But she could stand beside him and fight alongside him, just as they always had. If he took her advice – and for everyone's sake, she desperately hoped he would – they wouldn't be fighting alone.
"Elliot?" She knelt down on the floor next to the bed and made herself level with the mattress as she whispered. She hoped that something – anything – she said would reach through to him right now and bring him back to her.
They're running late. Time moves faster now that they're back in the city; he'd almost forgotten how fast time moves here compared to the languid pace of life in Rome. Kathy – so insistent, so beautiful – walks on ahead to start the car. Liv – his wild, passionate Liv – was waiting for them on the other end, except she wasn't, because she didn't know they were coming.
Everything feels like it's moving in slow motion. The keys turn over in her hands, and the ignition clicks, and there's another faint, almost imperceptible click before the whole scene turns into a horrifying kaleidoscope of fire and smoke and agony cutting through the still night air.
As he runs up to the scene, his heart beating through his chest, Kathy's face morphs into a harsh, distorted mockery of Olivia's.
"I can take them both, you know," an evil, sinister voice speaks from overhead. "I can take them all, everyone you care about, and then what will you be left with, Elliot Stabler? Nothing. No one left to defend; no one left to save you."
He wants to speak, to cry out, to rail against the loss he's suffered, but his voice has gone mute. He stands there, in the middle of a city street, and watches his entire world crumble to ash.
"El?"
If this was Hell, and he was in it, the Devil had surely found the best possible way to torture Elliot. The sound of Olivia's sweet voice echoing through the darkness, only for her to be nowhere to be seen or found, would be enough to send him on an eternal spiral of misery.
No. This wasn't Hell. This was New York City, and while to some people those might be one and the same, it wasn't for him. And it was only dark because the lamp light next to his bed was turned off, he could see the faint edges of the neon light advertising the all-night bodega across the street.
"L-Liv?" His mouth was dry, and couldn't produce saliva right now for anything, but he couldn't be hallucinating this. Could he? He turned his head over and saw her crouched next to the bed, her fingers clawing into the side of the mattress. "What're you doing here?"
"It sounded like you had a bad dream."
"Nothing worse than any other night recently." How true that statement was, he didn't want to admit aloud. In some ways, tonight's had been relatively tame by the standards of his warped mind. Thirty-plus years on the force meant his psyche had plenty of material to pull from the depths.
"Which means it was bad."
He scooted over on the mattress a little and motioned for her to climb onto the bed, on top of the blanket. When she hesitated, he said, with a sigh tinged with the traces of defeat, "I need you." It wasn't the traditional sense of need, what he felt for Olivia. He needed to realize she was tangible and alive and breathing and not a broken husk of something like how he saw himself. Even if she'd slap the shit out of him for saying that. Even his nickname for her – Liv – felt like a reminder to himself to keep living.
"Promise me you'll call?" And even in the darkness of the room, he swore he could see her eyes narrow. There'd only be one call she'd want him to make, especially to bring up now.
"For my partner, yes."
"That-a boy." She laughed, as she eased off her knees and onto the bed. She laid there, with an almost-expectant smile, and maybe in another scenario where they were sharing his bed after baring their souls, he'd react differently. It'd been a long time – since some long-ago otherwise-forgotten undercover stakeout mission thing – since they'd shared a bed, but never this close, and never one of their own.
He looped his arms underneath her shoulders and pulled her close to him, before crossing his arms over her chest and folding his hands together, almost as if in silent prayer. God, please don't take my Liv away from me too.
He held on for dear life and prayed he'd never have to let go.
The first rays of New York sunlight trickled through the windows that morning, as Elliot's alarm clock beeped in the background. Olivia's eyes blinked open and after she took in the unfamiliar surroundings, she realized one thing with crystal clarity: the few precious, stolen hours of sleep she'd managed to get the night before were some of the best sleep she'd had in literal years. The protective arms that were thrown around her body seemed to have something to do with that.
Elliot Stabler's arms: better than a weighted blanket. Who knew?
She could tell they were both still as fully dressed as they had been when they'd gone to sleep the night before, so nothing had happened – that final line hadn't been breached, not yet, but they'd been dancing toward it for more than twenty years, so the caution had to be there. Nothing untoward had happened, and yet, his hands were clasped over her chest, and his breath was warm on the sliver of neck that was exposed between her hair and the fabric of that shirt.
She was about to ask him if they could stay like this a little longer, when she heard him curse under his breath and the connection between them was broken long enough for him to hit the off button on the alarm clock. "Oh shit, I'm sorry, Liv, I didn't –"
"It's okay." Her voice was quiet and soothing, and she remembered what had brought her in here in the first place the night before. Her clothes, after all, were still sitting in a neat pile by the couch, and her coat was by the door, and her shoes – her shoes were probably somewhere in between those two places, come to think of it. She idly wondered if Eli had found them when he woke up for breakfast.
"I'd honestly forgotten I even set an alarm because I'm never asleep to miss it."
Her heart went out to Elliot, it truly did. He was suffering, and she knew what it was like to suffer. At least he wouldn't have to do it alone, not with her and the kids around. "Unfortunately, I can't stay today," she said, "I have a deposition at 11 and Carisi wants to go over some details beforehand."
"No, you've done –" he paused and moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, "- more than I could have ever asked for you to. Go. Kick ass at the deposition."
"You know I will." She turned over and gave him a quick, final hug before leaving the bed. "Oh, and Elliot?"
"Yeah?"
"You're not getting this shirt back until you make that call." And with that, she walked out of the room with a little extra flounce in her step, as if to punctuate her point.
He knew she'd be on him to make an appointment to talk to some quack – one of those times he wished Huang was still around because at least Huang knew his particular brand of madness better than any of the others – and she wasn't going to let up until he did. Hers was named Lindstrom, but maybe it wasn't the best idea to go with someone who knew her so well. Surely the department worked with other psychiatrists too.
He called the number on the card Olivia had handed him the night before, and got the voicemail inbox. Of course, it was probably a little too early for the doctor to be in. "Hi, uh, Dr. Lindstrom, this is Detective Stabler. A friend of mine told me I should talk to somebody, gave me your name and number. I don't know if it's really good for me to talk to you specifically, but maybe you know someone I can talk to?" He left his number and ended the call, before flopping back on the hard, pancake-like throw pillow he'd borrowed the night before so Olivia could have his out on the couch.
One step forward, one foot in front of the other.
After the night he'd just had, he was sure he was going to make it through this hell after all.
-to be continued-