December 24, 2007
The room was very, very quiet.
Olivia stood against the far wall, her palms braced flat against the frigid cinderblocks, her head hung low between her shoulders, just breathing. Just trying to remember how to breathe, trying to remember that there was more to the world than the pain in her belly, in her back, trying to remember that she'd had a life before this great, towering fear, trying to convince herself that she would still have a life after it, too, that this terror, this grief, this hurt, would not last forever. This too shall pass, that's what people said, wasn't it? To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
I must be losing it, she thought, if I'm quoting scripture.
Well, really, technically, she supposed, she was quoting The Byrds, but it amounted to the same thing.
Behind her the door to the cribs opened and then closed again; she didn't lift her head to look, didn't turn - turn, turn, turn her brain hummed at her, and she would have rolled her eyes if only she was brave enough to open them in the first place - to see who had come to join her, because she knew already that it would be Elliot, coming back with an update on the ETA for the ambulance and a bottle of water like she'd asked him for.
"Reinforcements," he said, very quietly. He made no sound as he approached - careful, he was being so careful with her, and it made her want to scream because she'd always hated it when he got patronizing but she was grateful for it, too, because if he spoke too loud or too much just now she was pretty sure she was gonna lose her mind - but she felt him coming, and knew before he did it that he was going to slide his hand around the back of her neck, and so when his palm landed warmly in the spot that seemed made to fit him she did not startle, or jump, or twist away from him. She only sighed.
"Are they all out there?" she asked him.
"Just our guys," he answered.
When she and Elliot had come walking out of the interview room together the whole squadroom had gone real, real quiet. Like they'd known, with just one look at her, exactly what was happening, even before Elliot said a word. Awestruck, that's how they'd looked, twenty men and Sam all turning their eyes on Olivia at once like she was something holy, and just a little bit terrifying. Maybe she was, with her distended belly, her trembling hands, the gift of life swelling up inside her, a power she possessed and they did not, while at the same time her own life seemed to be waning, hung in the balance of fate. She was a woman bursting with life and on the edge of death and they had silently parted before her, and as she passed they hung their heads, in silence, each of them, praying. Horror and joy, life and death, the future and the end, it all existed at the same time, in that place, the coin flipped but not yet landed, her fate still uncertain.
Elliot had been in control, then, or had been exerting as much control as he could given the circumstances. Guided her along with one of his hands wrapped hard around her bicep, jerked his head at Munch in a silent request for aid, and Munch had come, had walked with them back to the cribs while Elliot explained the situation tersely. Explained that the case was over, and the other officers could attempt to make their own way home, or bunk down in the squadroom for the night. Explained that Olivia's water had broken, that he'd called for an ambulance, that the ETA was two hours and he wanted to keep her somewhere warm and quiet until then. Munch's face had paled but he had leapt into action, and taken over organizing everything else so Liv and Elliot could focus on each other.
Just our guys, he'd said, and she could picture it behind her closed eyelids, Munch and Fin and Cragen and Sam gathered in the corridor outside the cribs, guarding her labor quietly, the proximity of her friends, her family, a gift to her, even when she couldn't see them. They were watching over her because they loved her, and she had never been loved before, not really. Not like this.
Another contraction ripped through her and she sagged against the wall, pressed her forehead to the back of her hand and gritted her teeth. No sound escaped her, but Elliot knew, must have known; his hand dropped from the nape of her neck to the small of her back and rubbed her there in gentle circles until the tension eased away. No patronizing you're doing so great, baby, no insistent what is it, tell me what it feels like, how long has it been since the last one. Just his hand, and more patience than she'd thought he possessed, his proximity a lifeline that kept her afloat when she felt herself in danger of drowning.
"Hurts so goddamn much," she gasped when she could finally draw a breath.
"You wanna lay down?" he asked her, his voice low, and warm.
There was no I know, baby, from him, no when Kathy was in labor anecdote that would make her wanna hit him. Part of her wanted to laugh; it was like God himself had reached down and switched her Elliot, her reckless, brash, speak-before-he-thinks man out for some patron saint of perfect fathers-to-be, but part of her knew better. Part of her knew him, his cool head in a crisis, his compassion, his long years of training and grim experience, knew how he reacted to victims, to hurt, in the moment. She knew him, and she knew he was angry and scared out of his goddamn mind, and that he'd fall apart, after, was only holding himself together now for her sake, and she loved him for it.
"Yeah," she said. "But…"
But if she laid down on one of the bunks, let him check to see how far she'd progressed like the medics on the radio had told him to, she'd have to admit that this was real, and she was - however irrationally - quietly terrified that if she laid down she'd not get back up again, that if she laid down she'd have to start pushing, and once started would be unable to stop, and her baby would be delivered right here, with no one to help but Elliot, Elliot who was trying his best but who was not a doctor. If she laid down it would all be over, but her legs were shaking, and she was so fucking tired; it had already been an hour of this, contractions coming faster and faster, and all she wanted was to sleep but she knew she'd not get the chance, not for a while yet.
"Maybe just for a little while," he said, hedging. Giving her an out; just try it, you don't have to stay there if you don't want to.
"Yeah," she said in a small voice. "Yeah."
He slipped his arm around her back and hauled her against him, let her lean all her weight on him while they took the three shuffling steps from the wall where she'd propped herself up to the nearest bunk. He caught her under the arms, held her steady while she sank slowly down to the paper thin mattress, and then he bent, and ran his arms under her knees, and lifted her legs into the bed for her. Like he'd known how tired she was, how heavy her limbs seemed, how impossible the slightest movement had become, and he had known without having to be told what she needed from him.
"Just a second," he said, and then he made a circuit through the room, gathering up as many of the pathetic pillows from the other bunks as he could hold and two extra blankets on top of that. Carefully, very carefully, he propped all those pillows up behind her so that she could recline a little without laying down, and then he shook out the blankets, and covered her with them, and her eyes slipped closed, and she remembered how to breathe.
"That ok?" he asked her, settling himself on the next bunk over, his forearms resting loosely on his knees, his eyes focused intently on her.
She started to say yes, but then another contraction hit, and she reached for him blindly, and he caught hold of her hand, let her clench his fingers hard enough to break them. This time, she could not swallow the groan of pain that tore out of her, not entirely.
"This can't be happening," she moaned. The thought kept coming back to her; none of this felt real. Not the eerie glow of the emergency lights or the scratch of the blankets or the team gathered outside or him, calm and steady and helping her do this thing alone. Even the pain, surely that couldn't be real, surely she couldn't hurt that much. Every time she'd imagined her delivery, every scenario she'd conjured for herself - and she had imagined it many, many times - had been different, but none of them, none of them had been like this. Like the two of them, alone and scared. Like her, needing help, and no help coming.
He was still holding her hand, and it was his turn to give her a squeeze, this time, and when he did she turned her head to look at him, and nearly burst into tears. There was something in his eyes, something she wasn't sure she deserved, something that looked an awful lot like faith.
"You're ok," he told her. "Will you...will you let me just check, and see what's going on down there? The medics told me what to look for. Maybe you aren't that far along at all, and the ambulance will be here soon."
If the original ETA of two hours held out, they still had another hour to go. If something more calamitous didn't pop up, out there in the world. If fate wasn't against them, they still had an hour left, and Olivia wasn't entirely sure she could make it that long. But Elliot was right; they needed information.
"Yeah, ok," she said.
There wasn't much she could do to help, so she just laid back, and watched. Watched him lift the blankets away, watched him catch her soft black maternity pants in his hands and carefully pull them down her legs. How many times had he undressed her, over the last nine months? More times than she could count, but he had never, she thought, never been so tender as he was now, and she felt another surge of love for him wash over her at the thought of how he loved her, at the thought of his devotion to her. If she could not have a team of doctors and nurses and a perfectly sterile delivery room, then he was the next best thing, because he loved her, and because goddamn it she believed in him. He was the one who found her when she was lost, who saved her when she was falling; his were the hands she reached for, the eyes she found in every crowded room, his voice the one in her head, guiding her when she didn't know where to go. He was her partner, and they had faced down death and demons together, and no one, there was no one she trusted the way she trusted him.
"I love you," she blurted as she watched him toss her pants and underwear aside, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. She was half naked in the cribs and he was about to see something that would haunt him for the rest of his life and she'd chosen that moment to tell him that she loved him, and if she hadn't been so fucking scared she would have laughed herself.
"I love you, too," he said, and then he bowed his head, and pressed a kiss against her knee, the closest part of her he could reach. "Now, let's see what she's doing, ok?"
It took some doing; the bunk was narrow, and there was another above it, and that didn't leave much room for Elliot's bulky frame to maneuver, but she bent her legs and tried to help him and eventually he was kneeling between her thighs, staring down at her in wonder.
"Well," he said. "I don't have a ruler, but uh...things are progressing."
She fisted her hands in the sheets and groaned through another contraction, her back arching, his hands gentle on her thighs, a piece of comfort when she felt herself on the verge of flying apart. The contractions were coming faster, now. And pretty soon...Jesus.
"When the fuck did you learn to be so diplomatic?" she panted at him.
"Trust me, you don't wanna know what's going on down there. I'm never gonna get that visual out of my head." He grinned at her, and if she'd had something to throw she'd have chucked it at his head right then.
"Asshole," she grumbled.
"You're doing great, baby," he said, almost reflexively, and she shot him a baleful look, and his expression went sheepish.
"You are, though," he said, trying to defend himself. "You're so strong, Liv."
Gingerly he shuffled around until his back was against the wall, his long legs stretched out underneath her bent ones, and he folded his arms over his belly, turned his head to watch her.
"I know this isn't how we wanted it," he said. "But I'm glad it's me and you. It's warm enough in here, and you're safe, and...it's just us. I like it best when it's just me and you."
"I wouldn't say no to a doctor," she grumbled. "But yeah. It's quiet. It's peaceful."
"You're like Mary," he said, and she laughed, and he reached out to smooth his hand over her thigh. "I'm serious. Ok, definitely not a virgin," she slapped his arm and he grinned, "but you're far from home. You're not where you thought you'd be. You never expected this. There's no fucking room at the inn. Baby's not supposed to be born in a stable or a station house." As he spoke he ticked each item off on the fingers of his free hand, and she smiled, watching him. "But you're doing it anyway, and you're doing it beautifully. And it's peaceful here, isn't it? We got the fucking three wise men out there, and a fucking shepherd."
She tried to imagine it for a moment, Munch and Fin and Sam in those stupid robes like something out of a nativity play, and Cragen holding a crook.
"You're stretching the Christmas metaphor a little far, don't you think?"
"Fear not," he recited, "for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy."
"You're gonna make me take her to church, aren't you?"
He laughed, but another contraction took her, and he kept quiet until she melted back against the pillows.
"I won't make you do anything," he said. "But yeah, I want her christened, at least. If that's ok."
"That's perfect," she told him. It wasn't like she'd grown up in church; everything she knew about his faith she'd learned from him and from the movies. But he wanted the peanut christened, same as he had been, same as his other children had been, and Olivia found she wanted that, too, because to her it felt an awful like belonging. It felt an awful like community, like home. Maybe the peanut would never step foot in a church again after that, but she would have, once, been blessed, and that was all Olivia wanted for her daughter. To be loved, to belong. To be blessed.
The clock ticked over to midnight, and a muffled scream sounded on the other side of the door, and Sam's nails dug so hard into her palms that if she only looked down she would have seen she'd drawn blood. The ambulance was still on its way, though god only knew when it would come, and there in the cribs, all alone except for Stabler, Benson's labor had begun in earnest. She'd been crying out for hours now; how much longer was this supposed to go on? Just how much could one body take? Did Stabler know enough to deliver his child safely, or was he gonna stand in that room all alone and watch the woman he loved, the woman at the center of his world, and their baby both slip away while he was powerless to stop it?
The power was back on, now, and the heat was working over time, and she could see the faces of her compatriots clearly. Munch, and Fin, and Cragen, standing together on the opposite wall from her, their hands in their pockets, their heads hung low on their shoulders, hiding expressions full of fear. These men, they loved Benson, loved her like a sister, a daughter; Benson was their girl, and they'd do anything to protect her, but there was nothing to do, now. Nothing to do but stand, and listen to her scream, and pray. Nothing to do but keep silent vigil, and by their presence proclaim their devotion to her.
Dear God, Sam began to pray when Benson screamed again. She is a good woman. He loves her, and she loves him, and they love their baby girl. Protect them. Keep them safe. Bring them joy. Amen.
He wasn't stupid enough to say it out loud, but his back was killing him. Comparatively, he knew, his pain was nothing against hers, but still, he was goddamn uncomfortable. He'd stripped out of his jacket and tie when the heat came back, kicked off his shoes, taken off his belt, and now he was kneeling between Olivia's parted thighs, watching her struggle and scream and curse. An hour of this, an hour of her pushing, and they were getting close, so close; he was watching it, watching her body performing a miracle right in front of his eyes, watching the best and bravest of women fight her way through a battle he could not even comprehend. A battle she would win, he was sure of it, and her victory would be their baby girl, a brand new life, love made flesh, theirs, now and always, and if he hadn't been so fucking scared he could have shouted from sheer jubilation.
As it was, though, he was pretty fucking terrified, because he could actually see the peanut's head and there was no way, he thought, no fucking way that was gonna come out of Olivia's body.
"Nearly there," he croaked, watching, his hands at the ready. "Nearly there."
"And what," she gasped, "the fuck do we do when we get there?"
"SAM!" he bellowed as loud as he could; there was no way he was leaving Liv now, but he needed help. A heartbeat passed and then the door opened behind him.
"Yeah?" Sam called in a tentative voice.
"Go to the locker room. Get me as many clean towels as you can. Get me some hot water. And get me some fucking rubbing alcohol."
Towels, to wrap the baby in. Hot water that would cool to warm so they could clean her off. Rubbing alcohol, because he'd have to cut the fucking cord, and he had a sharp knife in his pocket but he'd need to make sure it was clean first.
"What the fuck is this, Little House on the Prairie?" Liv cried, her voice hoarse and tight.
"Alcohol?" Sam asked, confused.
"There's a first aid kit in Munch's desk. Now go!"
Sam scampered away.
"We got this, baby," he told Olivia, turning his full attention back to her. "We got this. Just...try to ease up a little, at least until Sam gets back."
"I got a fucking bowling ball trying to shoot out of me and you want me to hold it in?"
Later, this would all make for a good story, he thought. Later, they'd laugh about this. Right now, though, he felt like he was about to come out of his skin.
"You're right," he told her. He had enough of a sense of self-preservation not to argue with his pregnant lover when she was minutes away from giving birth to his child. "You're right. You know what to do, Liv."
"I really - oh Jesus oh fuck oh shit - I really don't."
"You do," he insisted. "It's your body. Just listen to it. I'm right here, and I'm not gonna let anything bad happen to you."
Dear God, please don't make a liar out of me.
Olivia started to scream again, and after that, it was all kind of a blur. Him bracing her feet, her hands twisting in the sheets, the call of her voice, the indescribably strange sight of the peanut's head rushing forward. Sam came back with the supplies, took one look at Liv and turned white as a sheet, and bolted. Elliot didn't mind, though. He didn't have time to direct anyone else, to tell anyone else what to do, to think about anyone or anything that wasn't Olivia. The whole world had narrowed to a single point, to a cramped bunk in the back of a police station, to the bed where his fifth child would be born, delivered from her mother's heaving body and into her father's waiting hands. The whole world was coming to an end in a cacophony of noise and terror, but it was starting over, too, starting fresh, today the first day of a future he never could have imagined just a year before.
"That's it, that's it-"
"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-"
"Almost - Jesus Christ-"
Olivia's hips surged up off the bed and a final scream rent the air and in the next breath something heavy and warm and beautiful was in his hands. With his palm flat against the peanut's chest he held her, and with one last push she came into the world, her skin almost the same shade as her mother's, albeit covered in...well, he didn't want to think about what she was covered in. Sam had left the towels by the bunk and he grabbed the one on top of the pile, carefully turned his baby girl over and laid her down upon it, and took the space of a single heartbeat just to look at her.
The peanut, he would later proclaim to anybody who would listen, was born perfect. Her sweet red lips in the same shape as her mother's, a soft dusting of dark hair covering the crown of her head, and those dark eyes, just like Olivia's, those eyes he loved best in all the world, those eyes opened, and those lips parted, and her shrill cry sounded like the song of angels. Ten fingers, ten toes, little arms, little legs; perfect.
There was work to be done; he took the alcohol and poured the whole fucking bottle over the blade of his pocket knife, doing his best, under the circumstances, to make sure it was clean, and then he cut the cord for this baby the same as he had done for the others - well, not exactly the same. There had been doctors and nurses and no fucking pocket knives then, but he remembered what he'd been told, and did his best. And then he swaddled his perfect baby girl in that towel, wrapped her up tight the way Kathy had taught him when he was eighteen and they'd brought Maureen home for the very first time.
"Is she?" Olivia gasped in a voice thick with tears, and he moved then, carefully, so carefully, careful like he'd never been in all his life, lifted that perfect baby girl and passed her gently to her mother. Olivia's hands reached for her desperately, brought that white towel-wrapped bundle down to rest against her heaving chest, and he had never seen, never felt, anything so holy as this, not in any church, not in any moment of his life before now. Nothing, there was nothing sacred as this, as Olivia seeing, for the first time in her entire goddamn life, that sometimes dreams come true.
"She's perfect," he said, because they were, both of them.
"Oh, baby girl," Olivia gasped, her gentle fingers brushing across their daughter's forehead, blessing her with a mother's grace. The peanut had been making snuffling sounds of discontent, but she quieted as her mother held her, two sets of dark eyes gazing at one another for the very first time.
There were tears flowing freely down Olivia's cheeks, staring in wonder at her child's face, and he'd never admit to it later, but shit, Elliot was crying, too. Against all the odds, against all reason, in the face of the entire fucking world telling them all the reasons why they shouldn't, why they couldn't, they had made a family, together. They were safe, Olivia and the peanut, and well, and whole, and no one, he thought, no one had ever received a Christmas gift as beautiful as this one, not since the very first one.
Slowly he reached out, rested his hand on the back of the peanut's head, and Olivia looked up at him, then, with such joy in her eyes, such love, that for one mad moment he felt as if his heart had grown too big for his chest, and must surely come bursting straight out of him. It shouldn't be possible, he thought to love someone this much, to look at someone else and see his own heart in their eyes.
They both turned to look once more in quiet, awestruck wonder at the tiny new life they had made together, and it seemed to Elliot as he cupped his daughter's head that she was looking right back at him, and so he smiled and softly spoke the very first words he'd ever say to the peanut.
"Merry Christmas, Hannah Grace," he told her, and then he looked up, and found Olivia watching him.
"Merry Christmas, Olivia," he added.
"Merry Christmas, Elliot," she answered him, reaching for him with her free hand and lacing their fingers together.
Together, they had done this thing together, from the moment of the peanut's conception to the moment of her birth. It had always been them, just them, and that, he thought, was as it should be. Olivia was his partner, in every way it was possible for a person to be, as much a part of him as his own right hand, and when it came right down to it all he needed, all he had ever needed, was her. Every fight, every fear, every doubt, every struggle, every moment when they felt themselves on the verge of losing everything, all of it had been worth it, for this. For the sight in front of him, for Olivia, beatific in her joy, for the peanut, blessed and peaceful. He didn't want to blink, didn't want to miss a second of the heart-stopping beauty of them.
It was, he thought, a hell of a view.