I hate everything about this now I've finished this chapter, so I'm putting it up for now, please do let me know if it's awful and I will take it down tomorrow and we can pretend it never happened!
This does contain major spoilers for the crossover- please don't read if you haven't seen it yet and you want to remain spoiler free!
-IseultLaBelle x
Part I
"Elliot," she insists, closes her eyes, tone practically radiating exasperation as she fights so damned hard to shut him down, to brush his concern side as rapidly as she can possibly manage because she never was any good at being the centre of attention- not like this, at least. "It's fine."
"Well, it's notfine. Liv…" he tries again, hamstrings burning in protest at his awkward position, squatting precariously, haphazard, beside her on the floor of the bathroom stall. "Liv, do you need…"
"I'm fine!" she snaps, and in an instant, she's straight back into captain mode again, authoritative, composed, so painfully, uncompromisingly in control, as though there's a part of her that just can't bear to let him in. "I'm fine, I don't need you to…"
She trails off before she can finish, and then she's vomiting again.
She's all but collapsed on the floor of the far end stall in the women's bathroom of the precinct he long since left behind, hunched over the toilet basin and she's vomiting more violently than he remembers Kathy experiencing even at the height of her morning sickness each time around.
He doesn't know what to do.
God, he's fucked up.
Ten years ago, it wouldn't have been like this.
He's not quite sure how he would have reacted to this situation ten years ago, admittedly, but what he doesknow is that it wouldn't have been like this.
There was always something instinctive, intuitive, utterly, inexplicably harmonious, about their partnership.
He would have known what she needed in that moment, had they ever encountered a scenario like this during their partnership.
Somehow, he would have understood what she needed from him, wouldn't even have needed much in the way of indication from her because that's the way it always was between them, back then.
That's why he had to throw it all away, and now he's cursing himself, because he doesn't know what to do with her.
He knows what he wantsto do, but this is unchartered territory for them both.
They aren't the people they once were.
He doesn't know her like he did ten years ago.
He's acutely, painfully aware that he's on dangerous ground.
She's tolerating him.
Indulging him, even.
She's indulging him because of the circumstances that have brought them together again, broken that silent stalemate at which they've been stuck in the decade he's been gone, frozen in time, suspended animation; she prioritised supporting him and the kids because she's Olivia, because there's only so much ten years can change.
Or she wasindulging him, at least.
It all happened so quickly.
Fuck.
Fuck, he should have just agreed to talk to her about his fuckingletter.
This is all his fault.
She's still retching.
She's swaying a little, now.
She's leaning heavily against the toilet basin in order to keep herself upright and still she's swaying alarmingly, and she has her back to him; the confined space of the bathroom stall is too cramped for him to take her in beyond glossy, immaculate hair, oversized blazer that seems both to swamp her and to accentuate her trembling all at once.
She breathes noisily, laboured, and Elliot's heart twists.
He knows a panic attack when he sees one.
She's having a panic attack, and it's all his fault.
He should never have given her the goddamned letter.
"Do you need me to go?"
His heart pounds as he awaits her verdict.
It's the last thing he wants.
He's not sure he could quite bear to leave her, but if it's what she needed from him, he'll do it.
Anything, for her.
That's the way it's been for twenty-two years; the irony is that it's exactly what has created this situation in the first place.
She should never have told her.
Except it's worse than that.
The extent to which he's fucked up runs far, far deeper.
He should never have given her the letter, yes; he should have run it through the home office shredder when Kathy wasn't looking, should have thrown together some generic, hollow, out-of-a-greeting-card words of congratulations and expressed regret at how he left her for good measure and left it at that, but of course that isn't even the worst of what he did to her, the string of fuckups that have resulted in her shaking on the cold tiles of the women's bathroom floor, struggling to breathe.
He should never have given her the letter, yes.
But under absolutely no circumstances should he ever have given her the letter and then turned her away each and every time she tried to talk about it.
"Liv?" he tries again, when she fails to respond. "Liv, did you hear me? Do you need me to go? Because if you do, just tell me, and I'll…"
His hand is on the stall lock when at last, she shakes her head frantically.
She's still retching.
He's fucked it all up yet again, because moments ago, she was crying so silently that if he didn't know her so completely, even after all these years, Elliot never would have known it at all, but now…
Fuck.
Now, out of nowhere, she's hyperventilating.
She's hyperventilating and retching all at once and it's a truly terrible combination, and her shoulders droop further and further over the toilet basin and the swaying only seems be worsening, and Elliot doesn't need a view of her face to know that she'll be deathly pale, needs to calm her breathing down or she'll be collapsing completely- and perhaps she knows that, but knowing it is only making it worse.
This is all his fault.
She can't seem to calm herself down, and it's all his fault.
He pushed her away one time too many.
He pushed her away the first time she tried to talk about the letter- and she'll have to forgive him for that, Elliot supposes.
He was working, after all.
She knows how it is.
But he knew, then.
He knew she wanted to talk about it, and with that knowledge the anxiety began to build within him, and before he knew it, it was out of control, and before long, so overcome was he with fear of how this might change everything all over again, force them apart with more vigor even than the 4272 miles from Manhattan to Rome, that he pushed her away again the second time she tried to raise it with him, for no reason but his own, selfish fear of a situation entirely of his own creation.
And the third.
And the fourth.
The fifth, today, is what brought them to the women's bathroom along the corridor from his old squad
room.
He messed with her head, this time.
Fuck, he can see it now.
He offered to drop in and buy her lunch, told her he wanted to talk and he meant to reconnect, like old times, to fall back into that steady, dependable rhythm they'd had all those years ago because Eli's acting out in his new school in Queens and Lizzie's slowly but surely falling apart, and Kathleen worries him at the best of times and Maureen and Dickie are trying so hard to be strong for the rest of them that he worries they aren't dealing with it all themselves, and the selfish part of him that always did take her for granted, just a little, wants to turn to her for stability.
He should have realised she'd think he finally wanted to talk about the goddamned letter.
He came by her office to meet her and she brought it up in there, must have figured that they needed the privacy, if they were going to do this- door locked, blinds down, just them.
They've gotten it wrong so many times before now, after all.
She didn't want an audience.
She didn't want an audience and she thought this was the moment to get it out in the open at last, and so she tried to initiate that conversation a fifth time over, and he shut her down again.
She deserves better.
He shut her down again and she ran out of patience- understandably so.
Screw you, Elliot, she'd hissed, lower lip trembling, beautiful brown eyes swimming with tears, and from that moment, he was gone, because he never could stand to see her cry.
He'd tried to talk her down because he couldn't bear to see her cry, tried to tell her he was sorry and yes, they could talk about it, but something had shifted within her, at that point, and he only made it worse.
Then she'd slapped him.
She'd slapped him clean across the check and he'd let her, because he knew damned well he deserved it, and he figured perhaps it was best to let her get it out of her system.
Except it hadn't ended there.
It was like a release.
She told him that she felt broken, the first year he was gone.
He'd forced open the floodgates, and there was no going back.
She'd told him exactly how he'd made her feel, walking out on her the way he did, and he'd taken it without protest, because deep down, he'd known from the start what it would do to her.
He knew all along, and he still went and did it.
He figured he deserved far worse than the slap, than the angry onslaught she gave him.
And then she'd lost control.
He hadn't seen her like that since everything that went down with Simon, but he knew she needed to get the aggression out of her then and he couldn't let her channel it via beating up a perp in this brave new world of policing she keeps reminding him they inhabit, now, and so he'd allowed her to lay punches into his chest, to fight against him like a child, thought it was what she needed.
He knew what he meant to her.
He knew what he meant to her, and he still went and did it.
He'd tried to take hold of her by her arms and calm her down when seconds turned to minutes and still she thrashed against him, ten years of pent-up anger and hurt and frustration and rejection and everything else he did to her, and perhaps it was the gesture, the taking hold of her- Elliot isn't sure.
She shrugged away from him when he tried to take her arm at the cemetery, and he thought nothing of it, thought she was making him work to earn her trust again and so stupidly, he'd reached for her to try and calm her down, even though they never did physical contact, and it's been ten fucking years and he should have known better, should never have grabbed her without permission, never lulled himself into a false sense of security because she was laying into him, told himself her anger was an open invitation.
Stupid.
Fucking stupid.
He'd grabbed hold of her in a stupidattempt to calm her down and she'd swung for him with all her might one fist after the other, and then she'd frozen.
She'd stared at him, still, just for a moment, and then her right hand had flown to cover her mouth and she'd bolted, staggering, doubled over, disappeared off into the women's restroom.
He can't quite articulate why he decided it was a good idea to run after her- maybe that's him reacting to her instinctively again, back in that pattern, the way it always was before he fucked it all up.
In those moments in which he was running after her, those brief seconds that felt like an eternity, something inexplicable inside him just knew it was the right thing to do, what she needed him to do for her, how to help her.
Or at least, that's what he told himself.
Now, though, Elliot is at a loss.
She apparently doesn't want him to go, but he doesn't feel his presence is doing her any good.
He's never seen her like this.
Her whole body is heaving with the effort of simply trying to breathe, and she's scaring him, now, because it's painfully clear that she needs to regain control of her breathing, urgently, but he doesn't know how to help her.
She was never like this before.
That's all he can focus on.
Twelve years of partnership, and he never once saw her like this.
Is this because of him?
It can't be, surely?
Olivia lets out the most crippling, strangled sound on the floor beside him, trapped in a desperate battle for oxygen with her own mind, and Elliot can't stand this any longer.
Fuck, is this PTSD?
Fin never told him anything about PTSD…
"Liv? Liv, breathe," Elliot urges. "Come on, I need you to breathe. You're alright. Slow it right down for me, you're alright. Olivia," he murmurs, grounding her, and he hates that at last, she seems to respond and it's only once he's caved and used her full name, followed her lead and dropped his old nickname for her the same way she's not used his once since the explosion.
He hates that he's done this to her, but at least she responds.
"Come on, Olivia," he pleads. "That's it. Deep breaths for me. You're okay. You're okay, you've got this. You're okay. Just breathe."
An eternity passes before at last, her breathing seems to fall back into a steady rhythm again.
"You're alright. Olivia? Olivia, can you hear me? Yeah? You're alright. Can I…" Elliot begins, but he doesn't have to finish.
She nods, cutting him off, apparently knows exactly what he means before he even has to tell her.
She lets him help her.
A little more reluctantly than she would have ten years ago, but all the same.
She lets him help her shuffle around until she's leaning against the cubicle wall, and somehow she's ended up holding his hand and she hasn't let go, so he shuffles in closer until they're side by side, as though ten years has been both ten lifetimes and ten minutes all at once.
Elliot takes her in.
She's pale, shaking, mascara streaks down her cheeks from the crying fit, concealer washed away to reveal the dark circles under her eyes.
She hasn't been sleeping, either.
She's holding her left wrist against her body as she leans back against the wall, exhausted.
"That looks broken," Elliot comments simply.
It's an observation, not a suspicion.
He needs no further confirmation beyond the odd angle at which it's bent, the way it hangs limply against her chest.
She shrugs, and she's fighting so hard to conceal the fact that she's in pain, but Elliot knows better.
He can see it in her eyes.
"Old injury," she offers simply, by way of explanation. "Never completely healed, it's… it's weak."
Her voice is shaking, and she hasn't let go of his hand.
"Alright," Elliot tries carefully. "Alright. You can't… Li… Olivia you're going to make it worse," he sighs. "Can I…"
She lets him reach out to take hold of her arm, hisses in pain as he probes gently against the bone with his thumb.
"Yeah, that's definitely broken," Elliot confirms.
He tries not to think about the kind of injury she must have sustained in the time he's been gone to render her wrist weakened enough that her fit of frustration in which she came at him was enough to cause another fracture.
"You need to get that seen to," Elliot sighs. "Olivia? You need to get that seen to, that looks nasty."
Nothing.
"You want me to run you over to Mercy? You can blame me," he offers, knows her well enough to realise what's going through her mind right now. "Your squad… tell them you were stopping me going at a perp, or something. They'll believe that. I've heard the rumours circling round the…"
Olivia just shakes her head.
All of a sudden, she leans in, rests her head against his shoulder.
She's changed her perfume, her shampoo, in the years he's been gone, but she still smells the same.
"You okay?"
"I'm sorry…"
"That's not an answer."
"I know, but…"
"Olivia," Elliot cuts her off firmly. "It's fine. You want to talk about it?"
Colour returns to her face now as her cheeks flush with humiliation, and she shakes her head.
She never was any good at showing vulnerability.
"Do me a favour, Elliot?" she asks. "Just drop it?"
She's pushing him away.
She always would have tried to push him away, admittedly- that part of it all isn't new.
His old partner has never been good at accepting support, not from anyone, but she always used to be a little more open to it than this when it was coming from him.
He's done this to her.
Perhaps he isn't the cause of her distress, her panic attack… whatever this is.
But his radio silence when he left SVU, his cutting her out of his life all those years ago is absolutely the reason she's shutting him out now, and Elliot hates himself for that.
There's no point probing her any further.
She's not going to let him in, not yet.
In all fairness, he can't say he blames her.
She's made it perfectly clear that while she's here for him and the kids, while she's going to do everything within her power to ease their pain a little- because of course she is, she's Olivia- she's going to make him earn her trust back.
"Okay," he tells her simply. "Okay. We need to get that wrist checked out, though. Li- Olivia? Can you stand?"
"I don't know," Olivia whispers.
Her voice is trembling again, and it's painfully apparent that this is killing her.
The embarrassment, that is.
The pain, too, but the embarrassment seems to be bothering her more.
"Alright. I've got you," Elliot mutters. "I've got you, okay? I've got you. I…"
Slowly, painfully, it's dawning upon him.
The truth has been there all along, hidden in plain sight.
He just hasn't wanted to see it.
"I'm going to help you up," he tells her, calm, preparing her. "I'm going to put my arm around you and I'm going to help you up, you okay with that?"
Olivia just rolls her eyes.
He doesn't notice at first.
Slowly, carefully, he wraps his free hand around her waist, finds himself taking more of her weight than he'd anticipated as he guides her to her feet.
He's so busy worrying she's on the verge of collapse, trying to strike a balance between holding her upright watching for the warning signs he's so desperately hoping he's imagining, that he almost misses it.
She leans into his arms, hisses in pain as she finds her balance, and the awkward angle causes the neckline of her shirt to bunch at the shoulder of her injured arm, exposing her cleavage, just for a moment, before she steadies herself against him.
Elliot freezes.
Even in that brief, split-second glimpse, there's no mistaking the mess of white-pink circular marks, old- now, healed and yet still angry, jutting, delicate scar tissue, that litter her skin.