a/n: well, I think it's safe to say that it's been a while. in fact, it's been TWO MONTHS without an update to this story and I want to apologize, first and foremost, for the delay. I recently started a new job, which has taken up a majority of my time. I've also been dealing with increasingly worse ocd and that slows up the writing process more than I would care to admit.
a couple reminders…in this universe, the Joyful Heart Foundation was created by a former victim Olivia that helped. oh, and I don't own the Law and Order franchise or its characters but they sure do own me. thank you for your patience, and hopefully you enjoy the angst!
Chapter Twenty-Three | Prayers
"What the fuck do you mean, something happened to Olivia?!"
Seth's pitch was taut, frightened, and considerably high in octave as it wafted through the network connecting him to Elliot. The latter hadn't reached the climax of his tale, the part where he admitted that Olivia was kidnapped. But verbalizing even the minor facts aloud was like being kicked repeatedly in the tenderest of regions. Still in the interrogation room, sheltered from his peers, Elliot was struggling to breathe air into his lungs. His appendages were trembling and Elliot was nauseous; all he wanted was to rouse from this heinous dream.
Based on his aching muscles, though, Elliot was wide awake. He was dialoguing with Seth, Olivia's lone relative, and Elliot possessed little time to spare. In less than five minutes, he'd be expected in the squad room, due to aid Cragen with the famished media.
Elliot inhaled, gathering his fortitude and he braced his figure for another blow. "She…she's missing."
"Missing?!"
"Yeah. We think she was abducted."
There was a pregnant lull from Seth's end of the wire and for a moment, Elliot wondered if he'd fainted. Given the dire circumstances, the horror being relayed, Seth's loss of consciousness would be understandable.
"Seth? Seth, are you there?"
"I…I'm here. Oh my God. Oh my God, who fucking abducted her?!"
"We're not one hundred percent but we have a suspect in mind related to a recent case," Elliot confessed. "Liv and I have been working this rape investigation and I swear to God, this fucking bastard had it out for her. One of his victims was found dead this morning."
The implications in Elliot's statement were abhorrent, and apparently Seth was equally repulsed. His sharp intake of oxygen was clearly audible, along with an unsteady chain of respirations. "Oh my God. Are you saying that Liv's…dead?!"
"I…I don't know," Elliot whispered and he stole a peek through the nearest window's canopy. Cragen, Munch, and Fin had assembled in the foyer; close by, stood Casey Novak and psychiatrist, George Huang. Stunned expressions were painted on their canvases, identical masks of unmitigated terror. "She called into work on Thursday and Friday. No one…no one's seen her since the night we had dinner."
Elliot anticipated bewilderment from Seth. He predicted shock, and a mention of the Lord. Instead, though, came a fairly stable tone and a sentence so casual, it could be referencing the weather.
"Well, I saw her the day after that."
"I…you did?!"
"Yeah," Seth opined. "She stopped by my house in the afternoon, apologized for ducking out early on her birthday."
Elliot knitted his frazzled brows together and utilized his palm as a massager for his forehead. "W-What else did she say? Did she give you an explanation or anything?
"No, I…I didn't think we needed one. I mean, she wasn't feeling good, right? That's what you told me."
Yeah, Elliot mused. That was the cover story. That was the invention, before Olivia had cursed at him and leaped out of his Jeep like a rabbit fleeing wildfire.
GODDAMMIT, I SAID STOP, ELLIOT! GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME!
Do not follow me. I mean it, stay right where you are, Stabler, and drive away. Get the hell out of here!
What else had Olivia unknowingly endured that evening?
"Right, that…that's right," Elliot stammered. "I just…she hadn't answered any of my calls since then. Part of me wondered…"
He trailed off.
"Wondered what?" Seth prompted.
"I don't know. I…I'm just fucking overthinking everything."
Previously, Elliot had speculated whether Olivia was targeted by Pfitzinger on Wednesday. He had ruminated over her conduct at Carmine's, and deliberated if she had been threatened by the beast. If that was the case, then Olivia could have been in custody since Thursday, since contacting the captain and announcing her extended absence.
She could have been gone for two of Earth's rotations with no one in the world cognizant of her departure.
Elliot was drowning.
The statistics were prominent in his encephalon; they were bold and vibrant, on account of his profession. The initial twenty-four hours were crucial. After that, the odds of rescue significantly decreased.
Elliot was drowning and maybe she was, too. Maybe Olivia was floating in the Hudson River.
"Yeah, I don't blame you, man," Seth wistfully said, dissolving the grisly images in Elliot's head. "I just…I can't fucking believe it. It doesn't seem real."
"I know. Listen, I'll keep you updated, okay? We're about to hold a press conference, declare her as a missing person. I just didn't want you to hear about it on the news."
"I appreciate it, El. Let me know if I can help, you hear? Let me know if…if I can do anything."
A quiet agreement was muttered in response and then Elliot terminated their somber conversation. He knew that he had overstayed his five, allotted intervals and that Cragen was awaiting his advent in the squad room. Elliot brushed, hastily at his dampened face and neglected the pink borders encircling his corneas. They were unlikely to revert to their normal shade at any point in the immediate future.
He approached his coworkers, the climate bleak and ominous. It was like an inky haze had filtered through the precinct, the empty desk ostensible to all who roamed its quarters. Elliot kept his gaze locked on the terrain, for he couldn't bear to see the pity in his colleagues' eyes. While Olivia's presence was cherished universally, the rapport she shared with Elliot was strikingly distinct.
"Good, you're here," Cragen said, dolefully, and he clapped a hand, paternally, on Elliot's shoulder. "I need you to fill in a few recent details for me on Olivia. I know she's five-foot-eight and that probably hasn't changed since her last physical but do you have an estimate on her current weight?"
Elliot shrugged, imagining her shrinking frame. "I'm not sure. She's dropped a few pounds, I think, cause of her stomach bug and everything. Maybe around one twenty-five, one-thirty?"
"Okay, and no tattoos that we know of, correct?"
"No. No, Liv doesn't have any tattoos. She does have a scar, though, on her right temple…something from childhood, she…she had an accident."
Cragen made note of the blemish on a legal pad, then led his team through the station's narrow passages. They traveled to a vacant office that had been morphed into a circus, with several dozen journalists fighting for a front-row seat. At the chamber's summit was a wooden podium, the NYPD seal plastered on its surface.
As they walked, neither Munch or Fin spoke a word to Elliot, perhaps because the English language was sparse in these conditions. Personally, Elliot had no idea what to say, not to his associates or the New York Ledger. He never was skilled at public speaking, not even when his cosmos was essentially intact. But the subject of Olivia as a special victim? It was forbidden. Taboo. How was Elliot supposed to do her justice? How was he supposed to convince New England's citizens that salvaging Olivia was worth their precious energy?
Dress rehearsals weren't an option.
Elliot's sole hope was that Cragen might inspire him. The SVU commander was first to greet the columnists, a folded sheet of parchment acting as his script.
"Hello, everyone," he enunciated, cautiously. "For those of you who don't know me, my name is Captain Donald Cragen; I supervise Manhattan's Special Victims Unit. Before we get started, I want to thank you all for being here and…and I want to assure you that this is the last press conference I ever wanted to call."
The suite was eerily silent, as the reporters primed their cameras, as they zeroed in on Cragen, whose grimace was intensifying.
"This morning, we have discovered substantial evidence that suggests one of our own, Detective Olivia Benson, has been kidnapped and assaulted by an unknown perpetrator."
The silence evaporated. A ripple of murmurs pierced through the atmosphere; flashes of light were abundant in the crowd. Photographers were clicking their gadgets eagerly, documenting the apocalypse in the New York history books.
Elliot swallowed back the rising bile in his esophagus.
No. No. No.
"Unfortunately, due to complex circumstances, we aren't precisely sure how long she's been missing but we do consider Detective Benson to be in grave danger," Cragen persisted. "She was last seen on Wednesday, last heard from on Thursday afternoon, and is believed to have possibly been in the White Plains area as recently as yesterday."
He recited Olivia's general demographics, described her chocolate irises and pin-straight caramel hair. When pictures of her work ID were broadcast on an easel, Elliot focused on an adjacent television. The headline was illuminated, in vivid, neon colors: NYPD Detective Missing in Suspected Kidnapping.
Behind the font was Cragen, monologuing live, and to his right was Elliot, or at least a man that mirrored him. It was strenuous to discern the person on the monitor, his skin virtually transparent, his pupils glazed and hollow.
Unlike his colleagues-Cragen, Munch, and Fin-Elliot was not dressed in navy uniform. He remained in denim pants and a crewneck sweatshirt, the same attire he had donned at the gym this morning. According to his captain, this was beneficial, for Elliot wasn't needed on patrol today. He was better suited in a dramatic role, that of a family member, distressed for his kin.
And his cue was imminent.
"The average career of an SVU detective is two to four years," Cragen explained. "This job is demanding, hazardous, and mentally draining;, I've heard stories and witnessed crimes that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Nevertheless, Detective Benson has been here, dedicating her life to the victims for almost a decade and by her side, throughout those years, has been her faithful partner, Detective Stabler. Elliot?"
He watched himself march forwards, across the makeshift stage, as if he were an alien, observing human kind. He saw himself take the place of Cragen at the dais and fidget with the microphone that would publicize his grief.
Elliot cloaked his eyes, and squeezed his fists, relentlessly; he magnified the veins that slithered up his arms. He didn't want to do this. He wanted to do anything but this. But there were no alternatives. Elliot had to shed his flesh and bare his soul. He had to be brave. Courageous. Fearless…for her.
"Last month, D-Detective Benson…Olivia and I went to a law enforcement conference," Elliot began, his accent quivering like a fragile autumn leaf. "We…gave a mutual presentation, and then she also gave a lecture, a speech on her own. And let me tell you, there's a reason they picked her to do that instead of me. I…I suck at public speaking."
A sporadic chuckle echoed from the ignorant audience. Elliot turned his neck, accumulating his composure, then cleared his throat and continued, hoarsely.
"B-But if we're being honest, there's probably a lot of reasons why they picked Olivia to do that over me. She's a much better detective than me. She's got this…undeniable presence, even if you don't agree with her, you can't help but respect her."
An additional, muffled cough was paramount.
"She's the most extraordinary person that I've ever worked with, and I could stand up here forever and talk about that…about how she forms these unbreakable bonds with the victims…how she makes women feel safe, even when they've just been through the worst experience of their life. I could talk about Liv's awards and her case closure rate and how she could probably kick my ass in a fight but focusing on her work? That…that doesn't seem right because Olivia isn't just a badass detective. She's a person and…and she's a better person than I'll ever be."
Elliot grinned, weakly to himself, as he reminisced on each of his partner's unique quirks.
"She…she loves to run at the crack of dawn. I always tease her that she only eats salads but if you know Liv, then you'd know her favorite foods are actually doughnuts, sushi, and Cap'n Crunch cereal. She can't cook to save her life but dammit, she is a survivor. She's been through so much…more than any one person should ever have to endure."
A pause elapsed as Elliot ogled at the ceiling, as he exhaled through his nostrils and tucked his chin down low. It was a tactic that he'd learned in the military, a technique to prevent him from spilling tears at funerals.
"M-Most people, having been through what she has, they'd probably be closed off to the world…but not Liv. I mean, she's guarded, I'll give you that. Her smiles can be hard to come by…but when she does smile, and when she laughs…God, it's the most beautiful thing in the world."
There was no more damming the water from his cheeks. Despite the exercises that the Marines instilled in Elliot, despite his phobia of displaying vulnerability, there was no repressing the emotion from his timbre. Elliot was cracking, shattering, into a billion jagged fragments.
"S-She…she always calls me on my shit…excuse me, my crap. She teaches me something new every day. She always has my back and…and I was supposed to have hers and dammit, I'll never forgive myself for that."
Elliot stared directly at the cameras, his mind far away from his running nose and splotchy flesh. Elliot thought only of the devil Bryce Pfitzinger, who could conceivably be viewing this exact transmission.
"P-Please…I'll do anything you ask. I'll give you anything you want. Just don't hurt her…p-please, bring her home."
-SVU-
Elliot wasn't certain how long he'd been in hiding. Upon conclusion of his sermon, he'd fled the conference hall, sprinted through the corridors, and into his beloved harbor. Elliot had sobbed and screamed in blurred profanities and, when he grew tired of the waterworks, he'd overturned a table.
Now, he was planted on the cellar of interrogation, his congested, heavy skull resting on his knees. Elliot was trying not to digest the possibilities, the potential that Olivia was already obliterated. He wondered if he would have felt her spirit leave this side of heaven. Through the years, he'd heard rumors that that sort of thing was tangible, but then again, Elliot had been clueless of the peril. While Olivia was being tortured, force-fed pills and vodka, her partner had been socializing with Cragen at an Olive Garden.
The restaurant had lost the Stabler family's business. Eternally. Elliot would never return to the establishment, not unless Olivia herself requested breadsticks.
Suddenly, the asylum's door was thrust ajar and its occupant reacted with the alacrity of a puma. Elliot didn't hesitate or identify the meddler. He just shouted, blatantly, like a juvenile, "GET THE FUCK OUT!"
"Well, I would, Detective," Cragen resounded quickly, not at all intimidated by the abusive language. "But I thought you would want to know that we just finished up with the cameras. Lieutenant Tucker and I are preparing a task force. Oh, and the lab has news regarding to Olivia."
Elliot glanced upwards. He pounced to his feet, off the grimy floor, his brain pleading for a verdict, his heart begging for more time. "W-What? What is it, is she…?!"
"She is responsible for the vomit at Dakota's house," Cragen divulged. "Like I mentioned earlier, we rushed the DNA and…and yes, it appears that Olivia regurgitated a mixture of vodka and Alprazolam. Hairs belonging to her were also found at the crime scene, along with a plethora of fingerprints from our old friend, Bryce Pfitzinger."
He'd known it from the genesis. Ever since Elliot had received that call from Cragen, the one where Dakota's fate had been revealed, he had comprehended that Pfitzinger was guilty. When Olivia's pendant was spotted among evidence, Elliot was aware that Satan reigned victorious.
But he'd prayed to Jesus that the signs were misinterpreted.
"I…okay. So I assume you named the bastard as our suspect?"
"I told the media that we have a suspect in mind and presented them with a general description of Pfitzinger," Cragen said. He frowned at the contortion that had conquered Elliot's features. "You know as well as I do that giving out any more information than that could rush him, Elliot. It could push Pfitzinger off a cliff, into an impulsive decision."
Elliot nodded, shortly. He couldn't brood on the essence of that choice. "Uh huh, and what if he already made that decision? What if he fucking dumped her in the Hudson River?!"
"Well, the search crews are still scavenging but at this point, that's unlikely. If all Pfitzinger wanted to do was kill Olivia, it's plain and simple, he would have, already. We would have found her, tied to a chair, right next to Dakota Lyons."
Cragen didn't need to pencil in the shapes. Elliot was versed enough on psychopaths to grasp his meaning. Pfitzinger craved to prolong his victim's suffering. He planned to use her up, drain the vigor from her body, strip away the character that made Olivia, Olivia. He would rape and torment her and make her wish for death, and then, and only then, when Olivia was barren, would he quell the misery that had vanquished her.
The knowledge was overwhelming. Paralyzing. Immobilizing.
Elliot could not sanction it. Just like the night prior, when he'd awoken from his reverie, his entrails sent him striding towards the nearest waste bin. Elliot doubled over, he retched and gagged and vomited, and a touch from Cragen was deposited on his rounded vertebrae.
"You alright?" he asked when Elliot was vertical.
The query was a foolish one. Both men seemed to realize that, and Cragen shook his head. "Look, I…I'm sorry, I just…"
"I know," Elliot said. He borrowed a phrase from Olivia's dictionary. "I'm fine. W-Where are we on this task force?"
"Come on. Munch and Fin are waiting in the squadroom, and we have a few other detectives from around the department who have volunteered their service. Whenever you're ready, we'll go out and have a chat."
"Let's do it."
On feeble, wobbling legs, Elliot shadowed Cragen onward, from his shielded refuge, into the blaring spotlight. Tucker, Munch, and Fin were stationed where hypothesized, and like Cragen had foretold, they were not alone. Around the modest unit were thirty, forty others, here to fulfill a sacred promise to Olivia. Jesse Sage was present, the rookie who worked homicide, the bastard who had crept into her sheets in San Francisco. Beside him was Brian Cassidy, another loathsome ex, who now spent his hours laboring in the Narcotics Bureau.
Elliot could hardly afford a glimpse in their trajectory, though, before he intersected with the idling trio. Three sets of oculars were fastened to his puffy lids, and there was no use pretending that he hadn't wept. Unless he was mistaken, Elliot had cried in front of twenty million people. His mother, Bernadette, had probably screened the coverage, along with sister, Rhonda, and countless pals from the Marines.
But Elliot didn't care. Not anymore. His tears were justified. Every one of them.
"Look, uh…try not to worry, brother," Fin uttered softly, his animosity from yesterday vanished into mist. "I mean, I…I know that's easier said than done. I know we're all worried sick about our girl but it's like you said, Liv's strong. She's a fucking survivor and she's definitely not going down without giving this Pfizer bastard hell."
"It's Pfitzinger. Bryce Pfitzinger," Elliot corrected and he pivoted away from his colleague, rapidly.
He didn't want to hear useless consolations, the typical clichés that he once spat at victims. Strength was not a synonym for immortality.Even the toughest individuals were not immune to pain. It was like Elliot had told Olivia, in the dawn of their relationship-her status as a cop did not label her a superhero.
That was back when Richard White was their most brutal villain.
The stakes were higher now, the mountains so much steeper. Elliot couldn't risk a single misplaced toe. He scrutinized the congregation, and thought again of Lucifer, who thankfully, wasn't bashful about his preferred strategies.
"Okay, everybody," Elliot preached, soberly. "Listen, I don't know if Captain Cragen filled you in but we've received confirmation that serial rapist Bryce Pfitzinger is our prime suspect. The good news is, we're familiar with his allies, so first things are first…we need to find that bastard who bailed him out of jail. What's his name, Anthony Farmer?"
"Already done," Munch interrupted. "Captain sent Graves and Delgado. They're bringing him in now."
"Okay, and what about his mom in Scarsdale?"
"Again, already done," Fin said. "Olsen and Brooks headed that way. They're interviewing her and searching the house."
"They're searching the house? Why, do they have a warrant?!"
"Nope. But my guess is that if Debbie Pfitzinger knows what's good for her, she'll let the NYPD look for their missing sister in blue."
Elliot peered, incredulously, at Fin. Why hadn't he been notified of these developments? Did someone suspect that Olivia was in that dump? If so, Brooks and Olsen were not equipped to liberate her. They were second-year detectives, obtuse and insecure. Elliot needed to be in that police cruiser. He surveyed the clock ticking on his wrist and examined his superiors, Cragen and Lieutenant Tucker.
"No…no, no, no, they're not doing any of that shit without me. Why the fuck did you let them go out there alone?!"
"Because you are off this case, Detective."
The order came from Tucker, who until this juncture, had been curiously reticent among the flagrant chaos. The man who was routinely referred to as the rat squad, though, was edging close to Elliot, his mien cold and unforgiving. He was a darkened storm cloud, eclipsing any lingering optimism and Elliot's blood was sizzling, smoldering like kindled embers.
"Excuse me?" he challenged.
"Your captain and I have…discussed things," Tucker said and his bitter scowl transformed into a jeering smirk. "That was a lovely speech you gave for your partner. Unfortunately, we feel like you're a bit too close to this situation. Your judgment has been blurred."
"My judgment?!" Elliot snapped. A matching simper etched itself onto his exterior, although this one was hostile and tainted with disgust. Elliot's wings were frantic, gesturing around him, saliva spewing from his mouth as he bellowed, ruthlessly, "Really, my judgment?! Name one fucking person in this room whose judgment isn't blurred by this situation! This isn't an ordinary fucking case, Tuck. It's Olivia! We're all her fucking family!"
"That may be, Detective Stabler, but we didn't all just stand up on live television and announce that Detective Benson has the most beautiful smile in the world."
The hiatus that followed was infused with awkwardness. Elliot was frozen, his shoes glued to the carpet. He listened as the air was punctured with protrusive laughter and Brian Cassidy was spotted, snickering to Jesse Sage.
A sea of crimson prickles crawled up Elliot's neck. He wasn't sure if humiliation was the culprit. There was no remorse in correlation with his lecture; in fact, Elliot could not remember a majority of it. His singular regret was that the words should have been spoken sooner and that he hadn't yet punched Cassidy or Sage.
How dare they engage in humor, in parody when Olivia was kidnapped, her whereabouts unknown?
"If you've got something you want to say about me, just say it, Lieutenant," Elliot demanded.
"Alright, then…" Tucker drawled. But he ultimately addressed Cragen as he barked, "Captain, you know as well as I do that it's often the person closest to the victim who commits a crime. Now, I understand that we have this Pfitzinger fellow's prints but Detective Stabler is the last known person to see Detective Benson, not to mention the sole beneficiary on her life insurance papers. Forget about working the case…has Stabler been questioned, interrogated?"
The next thing Elliot knew, arms were engulfing him. Fin was on his east, Cragen on his west, and they were employing all their stamina to keep Elliot from charging. From decapitating Tucker. From sending a bullet through his defective brain.
It was what he deserved.
"YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU GODDAMN SON OF A BITCH! YOU THINK I COULD EVER HURT HER?! I'D FUCKING TAKE A BULLET BEFORE I EVER HURT HER…"
Elliot continued hollering, seeking freedom from his restraints, as he was lowered to the concrete and pinned there by Fin and Cragen. Meanwhile, Tucker inspected the scene mutely, seemingly unfazed by the attempted felony.
"Is this supposed to convince me of your innocence, Stabler? Because you're vastly out of line…"
"I'M OUT OF LINE?! YOU'VE GOT THE NERVE TO TELL ME THAT I'M OUT OF LINE?! YOU JUST FUCKING WALKED IN MY HOUSE AND ACCUSED ME OF HURTING THE ONE PERSON I-"
"THAT'S ENOUGH, ELLIOT!" Cragen pressed his elbow into Elliot's spine, finally placating his hysterical detective. "Now you get yourself together…you're not doing yourself any favors and you're not doing Olivia any favors either. How is any of this helping us find her?!"
Elliot couldn't summon a reply to Cragen's question but that did not nullify the rage coursing through him. He stayed on the ground, and waited for the cuffs, because truthfully, what damage could a record do at this point? Before Lieutenant Tucker could grant the warrant, though, a petrified shriek from behind slashed the ambiance.
"DAD?!"
The clutches on Elliot were instantly released, and he popped up into a standing gait. Mere yards away, were a duo of blonde teenagers, or rather, one teenager, and a college student. Maureen and Kathleen were visibly horrified and abruptly, Elliot recalled his scheduled brunch with them. They must have seen the news report while stalling at Applebee's and raced to the precinct, to confront their father.
"Dad, what's going on?! Why were you on the floor?!" Maureen repeated.
"Er, I…"
"We were just going through some role-playing scenarios," Cragen lied. He offered the Stabler kids a tight, rigid grin, then ushered along Cassidy and his disciples. For the first time, Elliot noticed Monique Jefferies, an ex-member of the squad who had climbed the ranks in vice. Karen Smythe was also in attendance, the woman that had trained Olivia as an officer.
Normally, Elliot might have reached out to exchange pleasantries but feigning interest in their lives was futile and irrelevant. He let them migrate into the precinct's hallways, where Munch and Fin were directing traffic.
Cragen was shepherding Tucker into privacy, the former's disposition seeping with ferocity. The thought briefly infiltrated Elliot's cerebrum that if he so desired, he could make a run for it. He could drive his daughters back to Queens or Hudson then speed off towards Scarsdale and take charge of the investigation. Elliot could screw his mandates because all bets were off; so what if his career came to a screeching halt?
Maureen and Kathleen, though, were north stars of guidance, and Elliot forced himself to be centered by their axes.
"Mo, Katie…what are you girls doing here?"
"What do you think we're doing here, Dad?" Maureen inquired. "We saw the press conference. We saw you on TV, talking about Olivia. Was…was she really kidnapped?"
It was like a rusty steak knife had been bulldozed into Elliot's thorax. Kidnapped. He'd perceived the term today on numerous occasions but it never failed to suction the wind from his chest.
"Um, it…it appears that way, baby."
"Oh my God…"
Maureen dashed forwards, into Elliot's embrace. Kathleen wavered temporarily, but eventually joined the party. They sandwiched their father like two devoted bookends, thwarting his anxiety from flooding the linoleum.
Elliot couldn't speak. He knew that as a parent, he was theoretically a counselor, but pacifying anyone in this moment was impossible. He simply held his offspring and thanked the Lord for their existence.
When the hug subsided, it was Maureen whose voice was palpable. "Can we do anything, Dad?"
"No. No, you just need to head home and…and take care of yourselves, alright? I'm sorry I…I didn't show up for lunch."
"Do not apologize," Maureen insisted. "Just keep us updated, okay? Please, no matter what happens…we love you, Dad. We're all praying for Olivia…even Mom."
"Thanks, pumpkin."
Prayers were helpful, Elliot surmised. He hadn't stopped praying since witnessing the White Plains crime scene. Even the devout Catholic, though, was beginning to lose faith. Would prayers detour Pfitzinger from entering Olivia? Would worship make him second-guess sodomy and murder?
Eight years of rituals hadn't kept Olivia safe.
Had she really named Elliot as her beneficiary?
Once the Stabler children had exited the precinct, Elliot found himself wandering into Cragen's office. Tucker was gone, supposedly to rally troops, but the captain was seated behind his desk, inaudibly. Elliot sat down, parallel to him; a novel of poignancy was noiselessly articulated.
Then he took the plunge.
"Cap…what Tucker said…"
"Don't worry," Cragen interjected. "You're not going to be collared, or fined, or suspended. I saw the whole thing, as did Munch and Fin, and I think it's safe to say that Lieutenant Tucker is the one who warrants discipline. He was intentionally provoking you."
No shit.
Elliot scoffed. "Yeah, I…okay…"
"Are your daughters alright?"
"They're fine. They're on their way home, but Captain, what Tucker said about Liv and…and her insurance papers. Is that…is that true?"
A beat slipped by, in a lethargic manner. The answer was stenciled in Cragen's grim expression and Elliot inclined his head into his hands.
"D-Dammit, Olivia…dammit, dammit, dammit…"
Cragen sighed, earnestly. "It's not like she had an abundance of options, son."
But that wasn't accurate. Olivia did have options. Even without the discovery of Seth, Olivia had causes and charities for which she cared. She could have left her money to the Joyful Heart Foundation. She could have donated her assets to underprivileged women. In all honesty, that was what Elliot assumed she did, for preparing living wills was part of law enforcement.
"I…I can't do this, Captain," Elliot rose from his chair and began pacing, manically. "If it comes to that, I…that fucking money would haunt me for the rest of my life. How could she fucking do this to me?!"
"I don't know but I'm certain she didn't mean any harm by it, Elliot," Cragen said. "Olivia probably never thought it would come to something like this."
"No…no, Liv isn't stupid. She knows the risks of this job."
"She does, which is why she included a clause in her papers. Olivia said that if you were not around to collect her inheritance, that it should be split between Maureen, Kathleen, Richard, and Elizabeth Stabler."
Elliot's pacing culminated swiftly. His universe swayed and his knees were on the verge of buckling. Elliot grasped onto the wall for support and he blinked away the tears that were threatening to reemerge.
She was a saint. She was a genuine, authentic, legitimate saint. Olivia Benson was too pure for this world and Elliot Stabler was a moronic bastard.
He looked at Cragen, desolately.
"Captain, I…I swear to you, on the lives of my children, that I did not do this. I know I've been struggling with finances and I know I saw her last but…"
"Save it, Elliot. You don't have to explain yourself to me."
"So I can stay on the case?" Elliot petitioned. "Please, Dad, I've gotta do something. I've gotta do something or I'm gonna lose my mind, completely."
The ridges that resided in Cragen's aging skin deepened as he contemplated Elliot's proposition. He had no space to argue. Olivia was basically Cragen's foster daughter, and like Elliot, he was agitated, delirious with panic.
"I suppose there's no use in advising you to go home, is there?"
"None," Elliot said. "I'm staying here, with my people, until we get that call, and even then, I'm only leaving to be with Liv at the hospital."
Because that's inevitably where she'd go. Olivia would require tests, screenings, intravenous fluids. She'd be dehydrated and ill, even in the best scenario.
Elliot did not intend to leave her side for a millisecond.
The awakening had been sluggish, but gradually, he'd realized that Olivia wasn't mad at him. Or at least, that was unlikely. She had every right to be, every reason in the stratosphere, but Elliot knew Olivia and her lack of bashfulness. If she had sincerely been angry with her partner, Olivia would have had no problems showing it. When she pushed him away in the cabin of his Jeep, it was probable that Pfitzinger and his blackmail were to blame. When Olivia told Elliot not to bring her soup and ginger ale, it must have been because she was already captive.
Pfitzinger must have instructed her to call someone, to opt out of her duties for the remainder of the weekend. That would buy him time to secretly achieve his goals, because who would be searching for a detective on vacation?
A single detective, with no husband to mourn her.
God, Bryce Pfitzinger was a fucking idiot. He bore no concept of the war that he had started.
Olivia's biological relatives were limited, but she had an army of brothers in her corner. And Elliot swore, with every fiber of his being, that that brigade wouldn't rest until Pfitzinger was dead. Until he had succumbed to a slow and painful death and was rotting, decaying in hell where he belonged.
The afternoon had mutated into an early dusk when Delgado and Graves returned from their mission. Elliot, who had been allowed by Cragen to loiter at the office, immediately rushed to meet them at the squad room entrance.
"So?! Where is he?!"
"Anthony Farmer?" Delgado clarified. "He's dead."
"Dead?!"
"Yeah, the roommate said he'd gotten a big inheritance from some recently-deceased grandpa. He used the first bunch of it to bail Pfitzinger out of jail, and then I guess he just couldn't resist the temptation. Stuck a needle in his arm…he'd been sober for a while so his tolerance was fucked."
Elliot felt his heart plummet to the planet's core.
No.
Farmer had been their best shot, possibly their only shot, at locating Pfitzinger and Olivia tonight. But that chance had been erased like chalk on a blackboard. It had been abolished, and with it, Farmer's pulse.
"What about Mom?" Elliot wheezed, desperately. "Have you communicated at all with Brooks and Olsen?"
"Yeah, they tore that house apart. There was nothing there," Graves said.
"Debbie Pfitzinger doesn't know what year it is," Delgado added. "She's gotta have some form of undiagnosed dementia."
And just like that, the leads on the Benson case had been reduced to zero. For a couple of hours, Elliot sought to assist in the bullpen by researching social media and Pfitzinger's lists of friends. None of the acquaintances meant anything of value, though, and eventually, Elliot was exiled to the cribs.
He did not go quietly. Elliot fought Cragen, and asserted that he'd never slumber. But for the second time in a month, he was presented with an ultimatum.
The cribs, or home.
Elliot latched himself in the annex, where one week precedent, he'd learned of Seth Hollister. That discussion with Olivia, her vexing stomach virus, all seemed like a millennium ago. Elliot collapsed on the bunk where she'd napped, coaxed his psyche to remember her hair fanned on the pillow.
He was behaving, obeying Cragen's rules, but Elliot knew that pursuing sleep was trivial. Even if he did manage to doze off, he'd unquestionably be plagued with visions of her corpse.
Instead, Elliot plucked a photo from his locker, one of the few he possessed of her. Olivia despised having her picture taken, but Elliot had a gem from their first year of partnership. They were at a restaurant, waiting for a table; the team had ventured out to celebrate a triumph. Olivia was smiling, albeit tentatively, clothed in a dazzling, blouse of crimson silk. Elliot was beside her, in a charcoal suit, his arm unsure if it had the right to loop her shoulders.
She was so young. They were both so young. They were naïve to what the future held, but even then, Elliot hadn't been oblivious. He was aware of the treasure he had been bestowed.
If she came back, and there wasn't proof that she would, it went without saying that this Olivia was gone. The Olivia Benson that Elliot had known thus far was finished, retired, probably forever.
Elliot thought of the survivors that he'd worked with, throughout the decades in the Special Victims Unit. They were strong, and resilient, yet unmistakably scarred. He imagined Olivia in an oversized sweatshirt, her beautiful browns missing their spark. That version of Olivia would be preferred over no Olivia, but the thought of her crippled, mangled Elliot, too.
The sun was inching over the Manhattan skyline when Elliot stirred from his selected mattress. He hadn't ever slept, not that he expected to, but if he wanted to proceed on Olivia's task force, then it was vital that he simulated otherwise. Elliot swapped out his garments from the prior day, replaced them with a pair of slacks, and a beryl oxford. He splashed some water on his face, and bolted from the cribs, down to the squad room which was alive with turbulence.
No one was resting. No one was conceding. Not until Olivia-or her body-was recovered.
Elliot found Cragen, immersed in a huddle, trading expeditious dialogue with Huang, Munch, and Fin.
"What's going on here?! What did I miss?!"
"Nothing important," Fin said, abysmally. "We've had about a thousand viewers call in with tips, but so far, none of them have panned out. Most of these idiots swear they saw Liv walking down Fifth Avenue."
"And I was just updating your captain on the FBI's involvement," Huang admitted. "They're canvassing the White Plains region. We have uniforms picking up Bryce Pfitzinger's other victims, placing them in protective custody. If this man really is seeking revenge, then Renee Seabright, Emily Mackin, and Jamie McKnight could all be in mortal danger."
Elliot said nothing. He was not permitting anyone to meet his eyes, for he was mortified at the theories flowing through him.
He appreciated Jamie, Renee, and Emily. Yesterday, Elliot would have guarded them profusely. But something had fractured in Elliot since yesterday, and that something was never going to be fully mended. Somehow, Elliot had turned into a monster that would sacrifice a victim if it meant sanctuary for Olivia.
Or perhaps sacrifice was an ample stretch. Elliot would never let harm come to those women. But what if Emily was placed in public view, with undercover officers carefully surrounding her? Would that be enough incentive for Pfitzinger to barter?
Cragen appeared to read his detective's mind; he took a step away from the solemn circle.
"You get any sleep, son?"
"Yeah," Elliot fibbed. "Well, I know I dozed off once, at least, cause…well, let's just say, I don't ever wanna dream again in my life."
This notion was not foreign to those who worked with special victims. Cragen plainly understood; his compassion advertised it. "You know, Elliot, we have a lot of extra professionals here, if you want to talk with someone…"
"No. No, I'm not seeing a shrink. Not about this."
"Then I think you better look outside. It might not be much, but it will help, a little. Trust me, we're certainly not the only ones praying for Olivia."
Begrudgingly, Elliot did as he was told. He paced into the corridor and to the closest window where squinted through the mini-blinds and the foggy panes. What he observed in the streets robbed Elliot of his breath.
Dozens, if not hundreds of villagers had gathered, armed with roses, candles, and decorated signs. Strangers from around the city of New York were here to offer their unwavering loyalty. There were men, women, even children present; a group of them were singing, You'll Never Walk Alone.
Elliot caught sight of a hoisted poster board, the lettering as bright as bubbly, fuchsia chewing gum: SHE SAVED ME, NOW SAVE HER!
It was held by a familiar ginger in a navy pea coat. Elliot recognized her as Hazel Lafferty, the survivor who had organized the Joyful Heart Foundation. Hazel didn't know it, but she was heroic. She'd crafted an original charm that read Fearlessness, which Olivia had exploited to warn Elliot of her abduction.
A lump was developing in his restricting throat. All these years, Olivia had thought she was alone. Part of that was likely due to Elliot's faults, the cowardice and Catholic shame that had devoured him. But God, Olivia was the furthest thing from solitary. She was loved, immensely by so many people. By victims and coworkers, by Elliot and Seth.
Seth.
Elliot had forgotten to keep him up to date, although there was minimal information to disclose. He was about to do that, Elliot had dialed the number, when suddenly, Cragen materialized at his left.
"Elliot, we just had a woman come in, claiming domestic violence. She's specifically requesting you."
It was like Elliot was jolted from a trance. The reality that other crimes were still occurring had vacated his brain since the revelation in Dakota's house. And while Elliot empathized with the battered wife, he knew better than to think that he could serve her, properly.
"Sorry, Captain, but I'm not working any other cases right now. You can take days from my stash if that's what you want, but there's no way I can do her justice. Can't you send the vic to another precinct, one that isn't in a fucking crisis?"
"I don't know about another precinct, but yes, I figured we'd be passing this one off to another detective," Cragen said. "Just do me a favor, and come tell the woman that yourself. She's pretty hysterical, and she's refusing to go anywhere until she sees you, personally."
Elliot sighed, exhibiting his displeasure. Surely, Cragen was competent enough to handle this. He'd conducted harsher situations with extraordinary ease. But Elliot was jumping ahead of himself; he was allowing his humanity to be overshadowed by his fear. If this woman had scrounged up the valiance to desert her husband, then she at least procured a decent explanation.
On Cragen's heels, Elliot jogged back to the squad room, and over to his station where he instantly stopped short. Elliot solidified, like his battery had died, and his abdomen, his limbs, were all going numb. For perched in the chair neighboring his desk was a slender blonde with a swollen belly. On her lap was a toddler, with analogous, yellow ringlets; a fuzzy, cobalt teddy bear was the extent of their property.
It was Kelsey Hollister and Olivia's niece, Julia.
a/n: thank you to my beta, FragileVixenFic and to each and every one of you for continuing to read this story! I hope you enjoyed and if you did, please leave me a review below! they do wonders for my self-confidence especially after struggling so long with a chapter. more will be coming soon and if you haven't already, please feel free to check out my other recent fic, Comfort Zone! love you all. xoxo