Author's Note: This started as a post-ep for the crossover a couple weeks ago, and then my real life took over and each successive episode further inspired me and this was the result. Oops. So I guess this is actually a post-ep for OC 1.07, especially THAT scene, but it directly references a lot of the SVU/OC episodes that led up to that point.

Complete phrases/sentences that are in italics and quotes are direct quotes taken from episodes. Slight warning for language.

Title is from "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel.

Knowing someone for as long as Elliot had known Olivia meant that some of the earlier memories had been faded around the edges with the slipping of time. He couldn't remember, not any longer, the color of the first dress he'd ever seen her wear, when they were all called in for some kidnapping case and she'd been halfway out to Queens for a date. It was the first time he'd seen her outside of regular work clothes, and his heart had skipped half a beat before she glared at him and they got to work. The idiot she had to ditch never bothered to call her back, that much he remembered – "I get it, I'm a cop on call, I'm not exactly June Cleaver," she'd quipped with a sad smile, and his heart went out to her. That'd been the first time he'd invited her over to the Stabler residence for one of Kathy's homecooked casseroles and time with the kids. He could remember things like that, but things like the color or the shape of the dress were lost to time.

It'd been the first time he'd thought about who his partner was outside of work, when she let down her hair and took off the badge. None of his previous partners had given him much reason to.

But by far, it hadn't been the last. It'd been only the first step on a journey that had wound its way from those days when the Twin Towers still stood proud and tall and free on the skyline to the present day, from New York to Oregon to Italy and bits of who they were – both to themselves and to each other - suspended floating in the timeless ether in-between.

Since being back in the city – he still cringed to think of the things that had been done, both by himself and by others, and the words that had been said – "I love you – I love all of you" being the one that led him down the path of the greatest regret, which was odd, because it was the one that had been lingering on his lips since time immemorial.

Everything else he'd done to hurt himself or others could be explained by the events he'd been forced to bear witness to and his reactions to the grief they'd caused.

But not his love for Olivia. Never that.

That had been born longer ago than any of them – including probably himself – even realized, and defied all levels of explanation beyond the cosmic. And it was never meant to hurt anyone. Love wasn't supposed to hurt.

Which was why it had stung him so deeply that day in the parking garage, a few days later, when Olivia had told him, "you have no idea how many people are telling me to stay away from this - to stay away from you," but in the very next breath, she'd stayed. Despite whoever – Garland? Moennig? Bell? – telling her to stay away, she stayed next to him and fought alongside him.

And when a few days later, they found themselves on a stakeout in a car on a crowded street – and how many times had they been in similar positions before – and a street thug opened fire on them, he knew in the fraction of a split second that he had to react that he would protect Olivia with everything he had in him. Even ten years away and the fracture of their separation hadn't changed that base instinct in him.

He couldn't lose both Kathy and Olivia. He was barely holding on having lost Kathy, but to lose Olivia would be to lose the one person who still somehow managed to look at him like she knew there was something redeemable in him, and that she would be there as long as it took for him to realize it was there too.

"Are you okay, Liv?" he asked in a soft whisper, as the smoke and the ringing in his ears died down, and he could see her clearly, only inches away from him – unharmed, but clearly shaken. He held her in an awkward embrace, as if to reassure her – I've got your six, I'm not staying away, you've got me – and he could see her face relax from the panicked contortions into something more normal.

"I – I'm okay, but what about Felix Tinga?" Her voice was soft, but shaken, but there was a steel rod of determination that ran through her words. She was okay.

In the hubbub of the shooting and his haste to protect her, he'd almost forgotten about their informant and why they were even in that situation in the first place. Fucking hell.

This woman – Olivia, Captain Benson, his Liv – didn't only mean the world to him; she might as well be the entire world for as much as anything else mattered when she was around. Especially when she gave him a soft smile and squeezed his hand beneath her own for a second before turning on her authoritative side that reminded him of why she'd been made Captain, "let's get back to the precinct and fill them in on what happened here. They're not going to be happy."

"Are they ever? I thought they signed away their right to be happy when they got that shiny brass."

"No, they really aren't, so nothing's changed."

And sometimes, he might be inclined to agree with her assessment, but other times, he really, really couldn't find it in himself.

"Well, you look better, so whatever it is you're doing, keep doing it," she said, and even though it was completely unintentional – how could she have any way of knowing the words that had been said, the actions enacted – it was a twist in the rusty knife that had resided in his gut ever since the day he'd left SVU over ten years before.

He didn't want to let go as she walked away from him, their hands lingering in connection for longer than was probably proper considering the other members of his task force were on the other side of the wall somewhere – and as her fingers slipped from his, a silent oath was transferred between them: "I'm by your side, partner." Even though they weren't formally partners, not anymore, it was the only natural word to describe how they worked together – always in sync, almost painfully so.

And later that night, when he got home from the meeting with the informant, even the most scalding slug of whiskey down his throat wouldn't burn away any of the emotions or the pain bubbling their way to the surface.

He craved the scorch, the fire of it all, because maybe if he burned himself from the inside out and allowed himself to succumb to the flames, he'd finally free himself from the confusion and anxiety he'd felt since – since the night fire rained down on his life and took from him one of the things he'd fought the hardest to keep in his life.

Kathy, what the hell were you involved in?

For as much as he was aware of her life while they'd lived in New York, she was the PTA room mom that baked cookies – chocolate chip for the girls and snickerdoodles for Dickie - for the bake sale and helped coordinate the annual gift-wrapping fundraiser. She usually made dinner for the kids, and whether or not he got to enjoy her cooking too came down to the whims of crime and Captain Cragen, and helped them put together science fair dioramas and spell check their English essays. He'd assumed that her social life was mostly stitched together of the parents of their kids' friends and maybe some neighbors or a few women from their church.

It wasn't the kind of social life that would lead someone to coordinate a fucking car bomb attack against her.

And especially not for that person to be Angela – that woman was everywhere, and not in the ways he would have wanted someone to be – she was a distraction, which could be useful, but ultimately a deterrent. He couldn't fathom how Angela and Kathy could have ever run in the same social circles, or even known of the other's existence.

The burn of a second, and then a third, shot of whiskey singed the edges of his frail sanity and he bowed his head down on the table and squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe if he let it burn, he could take away the taste of sin from his lips.

Angela had proven herself as worthy of trust as any of the dirtbags he'd personally put behind bars over the course of his career – in other words, none at all.

And the one person who had proven to him, time and again, that she would do anything for him and put his trust and safety as paramount probably wouldn't even answer his phone call in the state he was in. And he wouldn't blame her for rolling over and going back to sleep and dealing with his sorry, possibly hungover ass in the morning.

"Drunk sayings are sober thoughts," one of his aunts told him once when she'd caught him sneaking out of the family Christmas party with a bottle of champagne to take to Kathy back when they were teenagers.

He downed another shot of whiskey – the sting still not abating, thankfully - and slid the phone across the counter, far away from him. If there were conversations to be had, it'd be between him and God tonight.

Olivia would be there in the morning.

Somehow, she always was.

The thing about justice was that it was a fickle mistress. Arresting someone and putting them away for a long time, if not for the rest of their natural life, didn't undo the crime they did. It didn't bring their victims back to life uninjured, or repair the numerous lives that had been traumatized and destroyed in their wake.

All it was really good for was a legal form of closure, and even then, not entirely.

But Elliot had to admit it felt damn good to hear the satisfying metallic clink of the handcuffs snapping around Wheatley's wrists, and even better to see him in holding.

He knew how these organized crime syndicates tended to work; he'd seen it a time or two in Rome – taking out the head boss wouldn't necessarily take down the whole enterprise, only cripple it, but he was hopeful that Wheatley's cronies and minions wouldn't be able to take up the lead in his stead.

It wasn't enough cause to pop open the champagne and celebrate, not yet, but there was a chance for optimism for the first time in a while. Not only were the people responsible for Kathy's death going to be off the streets, but Simon's killers would be too. And he loved that for Olivia, and hoped it would provide her with some quiet measure of peace.

All that came between him and the mountain of paperwork they'd have to fill out to make it legal and leave a paper trail for documentation purposes was the conversation Angela insisted he listen in on between her and her ex-husband.

His ears perked up when Wheatley mentioned recording Angela's conversations. The two men had a couple of conversations – in the diner, on the train before the arrest – where Wheatley had mentioned something Elliot wasn't entirely sure how he knew. Finding out how many people he'd shot was one thing, but it was almost as though he knew things as simple as how he didn't like the coffee in New York now that he was spoiled for Italian coffee. It'd be an easy enough guess if the man had ever had a freshly brewed caffe on a crisp Roman autumn morning, but it was oddly specific and incredibly accurate.

Talk to Jet once they finish talking. See what she knows anything about this and if she can help.

But as Wheatley continued to talk, Elliot's thoughts quickly shifted. "You know you're not the love of his life," Wheatley taunted his ex-wife, choosing what he knew would be a weak area with which to destroy her – this was obviously a game the two of them had played more than once or twice - "nor was that poor woman you had brutally murdered." His ears began to ring, but he had to play it cool. If this was going the way he thought it would be – then he'd have to carefully monitor his next movements to make sure he wasn't charged with police brutality tomorrow. Wheatley described Kathy as "the mother of his children, and he cared for her," and he felt the sandwich he'd haphazardly shoved down his throat earlier in the day gurgle in his stomach and threaten to push its way back up.

"There's someone else – another woman! The one true love of his life." Wheatley's lips had curled up in a cruel, mocking sneer and now, Elliot wasn't sure if he'd been added as a third player to their sick power struggle against his will.

How dare you. You don't get to mention her, you sorry bastard. Your lips don't deserve to say her name. You don't deserve to know she exists unless she's raining holy hellfire down on your miserable head.

Outwardly, he hoped his face wasn't betraying the battle that raged between his head, heart and gut right now. The old Elliot – the younger, more impulsive Elliot – would have probably had Wheatley in a headlock right now. Instead, with the wisdom of age and experience, he pictured the "one true love of his life," which was a phrase he would have never dared to speak truth to, despite how he'd always felt.

Right now, he'd give anything to be with her, instead of in this increasingly claustrophobic interrogation room – though Wheatley's description of "pretty brown eyes" fit both Angela and Olivia, there was something about the little sparkle in Olivia's eyes she'd never quite lost and how from one angle, they looked like endless voids one could easily get lost in forever with no hope of escape that made them wholly unique from Angela's.

"I'm willing to wager he was thinking about her. What was her name again, Elliot?"

Oh, Wheatley was good. He didn't only have the weapons to take down his ex-wife emotionally, but he had enough firepower left over to fire a solid rocket strike right at Elliot's heart.

Say it, motherfucker. I dare you. Say her name, and I won't give a flying damn what the consequences are. Olivia. Olivia Benson. NYPD Captain Olivia Margaret Benson of the Special Victims Unit. Liv. Say it, and watch what a real plot twist is.

Perhaps wisely, Wheatley went silent. The damage was inflicted; nothing more had to be done.

As he stalked down the hallway after the meeting, he was caught between the two thoughts in his mind. First, he had to make sure Olivia was okay, but there was also the matter of talking to Jet about the recordings. And especially after that last theatrical monologue Wheatley had given, he was concerned more than ever about the safety of their electronics.

He found Jet – where else – tucked behind her computer monitor with a fresh cup of precinct coffee sludge. He'd find some place around here to buy imported beans for her as a reward if she'd help him with this. "Hey, Jet, uh, you got a minute?" he asked.

"Shoot." She turned to face him and propped her feet up on her chair. "What's going on, big man?"

"I have reason to suspect someone may have tampered with my phone or computer," he said. "There's too many eyes on me and I don't think that's me being paranoid." Munch would have had a field day with this, probably take him out and help him get fitted for matching tinfoil hats or something.

"If you want me to, I can check your devices for any sign of a bug or logging program. Just promise me you're not sexting with some chick half your age, because there are things I do not need to know or see." She laughed and took a giant gulp of her coffee, brushing the back of her hand against her lips to remove the slight stain of residue left behind.

"I can promise you there's nothing like that. It's mostly pictures of Kathy and the kids and our travels in Italy," he said. "I can bring you my computer tomorrow, but can you check my phone tonight?"

"Sure thing, not like I had other plans or anything."

He handed her the phone. "You can probably hack it with your magic brain or fingers or whatever you use, but the passcode is 4015. To, uh, make it easier for you."

"4015, huh? Got it." She tapped her pen to her forehead and grinned at him. "Go. Shoo. Your phone is in good hands, and tomorrow, so will your computer and anything else you leave in my perfectly capable hands."

Elliot picked up his jacket and slung it over his arm. "Thanks, Jet. I owe you one. Oh, and be careful with your own devices. I don't know if they might have tried to get to you too."

"Don't worry about me. My phone's so heavily jailbroken and encrypted, I don't think the NSA could get in there without sending in a whole tactical team."

He grinned. "That's my girl. Night."

"Sayonara, Stabler." Jet turned back to her keyboard with a mock salute and Elliot smiled as he dropped something small in the top drawer of his own desk and walked out. She was smart and savvier than a lot of people he'd met; it'd serve her well.

Without his phone in his pocket, he'd lost the easiest way to contact Olivia, but far from the only. He still had the SVU department's main line number committed to muscle memory, and he could use that to his advantage. Not knowing who – or what – else might be compromised, not knowing what Wheatley's reach might be like – he had to blindly reach out and hope he could strike a success.

Thankfully, the sports bar down the street from the warehouse let him use their phone when he said he'd lost his and flashed his badge.

"Manhattan Special Victims Unit, this is Detective Tamin, how may I assist you?"

This must be one of the new recruits Olivia had mentioned. At least she seemed friendly enough on the phone. If it'd been Fin, he knew he would have been in for some well-intentioned ribbing, and he knew enough about Detective Rollins that he could imagine receiving an interrogation before being allowed to talk to Olivia.

"Detective Tamin, this is Detective Stabler from the Organized Crime task force. Is Captain Benson available?"

"I believe she's in her office. Do you want me to direct the call to her?"

"If you would, please."

He heard the hold music – it hadn't changed in all the time he'd been gone; it was still the same static-y Muzak rendition periodically interspersed with "thank you for calling the New York Police Department, we will be with you shortly," that he was used to.

It only took about thirty seconds or so for the phone to click over and the infernal racket to end. "Captain Benson speaking," Olivia said. She sounded tired, as if it had been a long day – but over in Special Victims, it usually was a long day, so that tracked.

"Liv, it's me."

"Elliot? What happened to your phone?"

He twirled the old-fashioned coiled cord around his fingers. "It's a little hard to explain. Can you meet me at the diner?"

She went silent for a moment, and he could almost see the thoughts swirling through her mind. "Give me fifteen to finish up this paperwork and I'll get out of here, okay?"

"Okay. And Liv?"

"Yeah?"

"I promise you that I'll explain as much as I can when I see you."

"I'll be counting on it."

As he'd expected, he was the first of them to arrive at the diner; he chose a discreet booth tucked in the corner, away from the window, and did a quick investigation to make sure there wasn't anything that could be issuing transmissions. Satisfied, he ordered coffee for himself and told the waitress he was expecting company shortly.

He heard Liv's heels clicking across the floor before he saw her.

"You care to explain what's going on? Tamin wanted to know why Organized Crime was calling."

"What'd you tell her?"

"That I didn't know why you were calling but that I was sure as hell about to find out why." The waitress came back by, dropping off Elliot's coffee and taking Olivia's order for a cup of hot water and a bag of tea. Once she left, Olivia continued, "because this isn't like you, calling me at work, on the work phone, being all cryptic and telling me to meet you somewhere and raising my detectives' suspicions."

"Okay, look." Elliot laid his hands on the table, and he saw Olivia's eyes catch on the fact he wasn't wearing his wedding band. "Wheatley – it turns out he has a thing for recording people without their knowledge. Jet has my phone right now and is checking it for anything that might have compromised it."

"Oh."

"He knows about you – who you are."

"I'm a NYPD Captain; I show up in the news occasionally. It's not impossible for him to know who I am." Olivia gratefully took the hot water and the tea bag from the waitress and let it steep. She folded her hands around the cup to soak in the warmth and Elliot yearned to be the one to provide that warmth, but first, they had to get through this.

"No. Who you are to me."

"I'm pretty sure it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to be able to hack the NYPD and find out we used to be partners for twelve years. A bored teenager could do the job and ask to be paid in beef jerky and Dr. Pepper."

At this point, he wasn't sure if she was being willfully ignorant, or if she genuinely didn't realize the depths to which his feelings for her had long ago fallen. He gnawed on his bottom lip and worked it over with the edge of his teeth. "He knows you and I are close, Liv. Closer than partners. He was taunting Angela – and by extension, me – with it earlier after we took him into custody."

"You got him. Good." Her brows furrowed as she took a sip of her tea. "How does he know about us?"

"Hell if I know. That's why Jet is checking my electronics – I need to bring her my computer in the morning. But not knowing if the warehouse could be compromised, or some sort of bug placed on the internal phone network –"

The horrifying dawn of realization crested across her face. "You had to make sure it was safe. So that's why we're tucked away in the corner instead of at our normal table up front by the door."

"Exactly." He inhaled deeply, because his next question wasn't going to be easy. As a father, he knew how much every one of his five children meant to him, and to invoke a person's children was to break one of the most sacred commandments he lived his life by. "Is Noah safe?"

"What do you – he's with Lucy, his normal babysitter. She was going to take him over to her apartment today. He's been so busy practicing for his upcoming dance recital, and she lives closer to the studio."

"Is Lucy's apartment safe?" None of the Stabler kids had ever really been allowed to stay over at their friends' houses without thorough background checks of their families and all their nearby neighbors, and he couldn't imagine that Olivia would knowingly put her son in any kind of precarious position. This Lucy was most likely thoroughly vetted, but he couldn't be too careful. Not when he knew how much her son meant to her.

"As safe as any apartment around here would be! Do you really think Wheatley would go after Noah?"

"I don't know what Wheatley would and wouldn't do, except that he had our undercover killed and God knows whose blood is also on his hands. The last thing I want is for him to get to you or any of our kids, Noah included." His veins throbbed with the burning need to protect those who meant something to him – and the woman sitting across the booth from him with a brilliant logistical mind and an incredibly pensive expression meant more to him than he could ever adequately express. The world was a start.

"I – I can call Lucy to make sure he's okay." Her face clouded over, and she traced the edge of her teacup with her thumbnail. "She's so good with him, and he adores her. I don't know what I'd do if it wasn't for her."

"Go ahead."

He took care of the check while Olivia called Lucy and got a status report. "No – no, yes, thank you, Lucy. Tell Noah I love him," she said. "Bye." She tapped off her call and turned to face Elliot. "Lucy wanted to know if I thought she should take him down to her mother's place in Jersey. She did that once before."

"And?" Honestly, it wasn't a half bad idea, but the thought of putting Lucy – and Lucy's mother – within any range of Wheatley and his goons left a lingering sour taste in his mouth. He'd rather personally defend them if that's what it came down to.

"I said not for tonight, but I'd let her know tomorrow if anything changed." She drew her lower lip between her teeth. "What about me?"

"I don't want you being alone tonight." The fact that she had gone home alone – without someone there to watch over her – every night for the better part of over two decades, while he went home to a bed that was never quite filled with the love that it should have contained broke some part of him.

"You know, funny thing, Elliot. I've had to go through all the same police training you have regarding self-defense," she said. There was a momentary flash of panic in her eyes, and it was enough to make him realize there was more to the story – because of course there was, her story wasn't put on pause for ten years while he ran around Italy and played at being some version of Jack Bauer. He wasn't going to press.

If he had his way, they'd have the rest of their lives to tell each other stories and write libraries of their own.

The catch was, they had to get past this last, Wheatley-family-shaped obstacle, first.

And he'd do everything he could to get them there safely – together.

"Believe me, Captain Badass, I know all too well how much training you've been through. But I'd rather personally ensure you don't have probable cause to use it tonight." He gave her a sloped grin; it was one he'd noticed he only used when she was close by.

She nodded, the meaning of his words resonating. "Okay, yeah. I can think of worse things than having you watch over me tonight." A thought came to her mind. "Um, do you think Wheatley knows where I live? Is it even safe for me to go home?"

Damnit. That was one thing he hadn't considered. The man's knowledge and reach seemed to be limitless, and if he had access to Elliot's records and knew who Olivia was and why she was important – finding her home address wouldn't be too many steps beyond that.

"Let's get a room somewhere and regroup in the morning."

The motel they found was clean, respectable, and was only about a ten-minute walk to 1PP in case anything went south in a hurry. The desk clerk – his name tag read Samad – raised an eyebrow when they specially requested a room with two beds. "I'm guessing we're not exactly the usual clientele here," Olivia commented with a laugh. He saw her involuntarily twitch, and it occurred to him she probably didn't like motels like this, not after the circumstances of Simon's death. Right now, the thin veneer of anonymity it offered them was better than nothing. And paying cash and signing the register as Oliver and Ellie Slater gave them a little bit more than usual.

She took the bed further from the door and plopped down on it, while he positioned himself on the other one. The night had been long and weird, and although he could see lines of fatigue painted across her face, he really doubted either of them would be getting a lot of sleep.

Eventually, they settled down, and she pulled the blanket from her bed tightly around her while he laid on his bed. "Thanks for looking out for me, El," she whispered. Sleep fogged her eyes and dampened her expression, but it was unmistakably one of contentment.

It was the first time she'd called him by his nickname since he'd been back. To hear her call him El made him realize that they really were okay, that there was hope somewhere in the darkness after all. "Any time, Liv," he said, and gave her a sleepy grin. "When Wheatley mentioned you in that room tonight, all I could think about was making sure you were safe. Nothing else mattered."

"What did he say about me?"

"That there was another important woman in my life – besides Kathy, he made that explicitly clear."

"Are you sure he wasn't talking about someone you ran into in Italy?"

"You mean Nonna Gisella, the tiny old lady who ran the bakery across the piazza from our place? No. She might have made the most delicious ciabatta in all of Rome, but she could never compare to you."

Olivia laughed, and he made a silent oath that if they made it through this hellscape, that he would do everything in his power to hear that laugh again and again. "Who are you, and what have you done with the Elliot Stabler who lived and died by the Chinese takeout menu in the breakroom?" She looked over at him and blinked slowly. "And you've been dressing better too. I think I need to thank your tailor."

"Gee, thanks." Inwardly, he loved that she'd noticed all that – not that he expected she wouldn't be, but it meant that she'd been checking him out at least half as much as he had her. "I'll have you know that nothing beats a good beef lo mein after a long, frustrating night of paperwork."

Just then, Olivia's phone lit up with an incoming call. "Elliot, why is your phone calling me?"

"It's probably Jet with a status update."

"And she thinks I'd be able to pass it along to you?"

"Let's just say she picks up on things fast."

Olivia answered by saying, "Captain Benson," and Elliot perched on the edge of his bed to be as close to the call as he could be. At his signal, she hit the button to put the call on speaker.

"Is Detective Stabler with you?" the decidedly-female, decidedly-not-Elliot voice on the other end asked.

"Right here, Jet. Olivia's got us on speaker," Elliot chimed in.

"Cool, cool." They could hear Jet exhaling softly into the phone. "Okay, so, I did every scan the NYPD officially allows and a few that it stays between the three of us," Olivia and Elliot exchanged a wordless look – this girl would be the death of them if she didn't save them all first instead – "and it looks like you were right, Stabler. Something – or someone – was sending voice recordings from your phone to an unmarked cloud account. I'm still doing some backend work on who the account belongs to and what else is in there, but I've severed the link between your phone and the account in question and cleaned things up."

"How did this happen?"

"Still working on the cause, but I don't think you caused it, so relax." Jet laughed. "I mean, you're right, it's a lot of pictures of your kids and Kathy and Italy and some older ones of you and Olivia together and normal father-child text message conversations? It's not exactly a phone that screams 'download one malware, get two viruses for free.'"

Olivia looked askance at Elliot – old pictures of her? From like, what, their days as partners? They finished the call with Jet and promised to bring Elliot's computer by the warehouse in the morning, though they agreed the likelihood it was compromised as well was lower given what had already been discovered – as well as gathering her assurance that she'd go home before she fell asleep at her computer station.

"So, you have pictures of us on your phone?" Olivia asked, with an amused smile.

"Our first Christmas in Rome, Maureen made us one of those digital photo frames, and scanned every photo she could find in our storage unit. It was her way of giving us a bit of home even when we were overseas. There were a few of you in there, so I had her send me those files so I could have them on my phone."

"I bet Kathy was thrilled every time my face popped up."

"If she ever thought anything about it, she didn't say it out loud." Truth be told, he always enjoyed those fleeting seconds where he could see her face flash across their living room, even if it was frozen in time and soon to be replaced by a goofy one of Dickie with a bubble mohawk in the bathtub as a toddler.

"Are they at least good ones?"

"I can't imagine you ever taking a bad picture. So, yes, they are."

She rolled her eyes, and maybe it was the late hour, or the fact they'd been going back and forth on personal issues for a while now, but he sensed she was at least accepting the compliment at face value. She laid down on her bed, and turned to face Elliot. "You really didn't stop thinking about me while you were gone." It was a declaration of fact, not a question; she knew it was true, and sought only confirmation.

"It'd be easier for me to stop breathing than to stop thinking about you." It was bold, but the time for hiding things in the shadows had long passed. Every barrier that had been in place before – their partnership, his marriage, her conga line of random dates that never seemed to go very far – had systematically fallen away until all that was left was him and her and the here and now. "Wheatley accused me of thinking about the other woman, the one with the 'pretty brown eyes.'"

Those same brown eyes widened slightly. Why didn't anyone write love songs about girls with gorgeous brown eyes, anyway? The only one he could think of offhand was Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl," one that his mother had played the 45 of over and over in their house when he was growing up. There was a crucial untapped market there, for guys like him and the women they loved. "And he was right," she said, her exhalations coming in short bursts. What he wouldn't give to have a peek inside her mind.

"Don't tell him this, because the guy already has an ego the size of this city, but he was right about – well, a lot of what he said tonight. It was clearly meant to get under Angela's skin, and mine too, but damn if it wasn't accurate."

"I'm not in the habit of talking to criminals for any longer than absolutely necessary. Not when there's victims out there who need our help."

"That's my Liv." Something in the stripped sincerity of her words stirred something in him, and he longed to reach across the small gap between the beds and make physical contact with her. Better yet, they could drop the pretense of the two bed situation. The thought of seeing her sleepy smile waking up next to him was enough to bring a certain lightness to his chest. It was the essence of who Olivia always had been.

It didn't matter that he couldn't remember the first dress she ever wore around him, or every case they'd ever worked together in minute detail – the important ones, the crucial ones, absolutely, but some cases had faded to a fraction of a memory. Not anymore. What did matter was that he remembered the long nights spent working together, and her being there for him as often as he was for her, and the way that everything seemed so easy and effortless when she was there, even when the reality was the furthest thing from it. He remembered the anguish he'd felt when she transferred to Computer Crimes, or disappeared to Oregon, and the relief that replaced it when she came back – because she could never stay away, not for very long.

And in the end, it all managed to circle back to the two of them. It always did.

They laid there in their street clothes, the only illumination in the room coming from the small desk lamp beside Elliot's bed, which did a better job of illuminating the entryway – so much the better to play bodyguard at a moment's notice. He could only make out her silhouette with any real definition. He tried to close his eyes, to allow his guard to slip for even a moment and let the precious surrender of sleep take him – even the strongest of warriors had to set down their swords every now and then and get some rest. But he was too high-strung, too on alert. "You still awake?" he asked, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper. If she was asleep, he didn't want to steal those precious moments from her either.

"Thinking about Noah," she said. "Sometimes I wonder if it really was the best thing for me to have adopted him, given my job and its dangers – but I wouldn't take it back, not for a second, because he's been the greatest thing to ever happen to me."

"He's adopted?" He hadn't realized; Noah honestly looked like he had Benson DNA running through him. Ever since Fin had told him, he'd always assumed one of her ex-boyfriends got her pregnant and then left her – considering it appeared as though Noah was the only guy in her life outside work.

"Yeah, he – he was part of a case. His birth parents are both dead, and his dad was a creep, which you know I can relate to." She turned to face him too, and he caught the sparkle in her eye in the light's reflection; it was the one he saw whenever Noah was the subject of conversation. "No one wanted this sweet little boy, and – and I couldn't let him grow up thinking no one wanted him or loved him, when I did, so, so desperately."

"I always told you that you'd make a great mom one day," he said. "Glad someone finally listened to what I'd been saying." She really did do everything for her victims – hell, she'd adopted one and raised him as her own, and didn't even point out the fact he was adopted until it was brought up. "He's so lucky to have you."

"Thanks, El. I hope he feels the same way, because I feel like I'm never around enough and always have to leave at odd hours and sometimes, I feel like Lucy raises him more than I do."

"Maybe you could leave him with one of my girls sometime? I doubt any of them would complain, and they understand the whole cop-parent thing a little too well."

She smiled and let out a small yawn, betraying to him how tired she really was. Her arm dropped down the side of her bed, and he picked up her hand and placed it in his. "That doesn't sound like a terrible idea, actually. I bet your girls would love him."

"I'm sure they would. He seems like a great kid with an even better mom." He gently squeezed her hand. "You seem like you're about to fall asleep. Don't feel like you have to stay up on my account."

"I'm not," and whatever she was going to say next was swallowed in a massive yawn. "Okay, maybe I am, a little. But if you're up, I'm up."

"If you need sleep, sleep, Liv. I've got your six, and no one is going to hurt you. Not when I'm around."

"You promise?"

"I swear." He squeezed her hand again, twice, and stroked his thumb idly over the coil of her fingers. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere." Not anymore. Once had nearly taken everything he had out of him, twice would be the end.

It would be against every instinct in his body to do otherwise, he thought, as she finally began to drift off and he continued to grasp onto her hand like it was the most solid thing he'd ever felt.

He'd spent the better part of twenty-two years fighting his instincts and bathing in the Catholic guilt that remained in the residue. Those days were over. His wedding ring was in his desk drawer, and when he got a chance, he'd take it home and give it to one of the kids if they wanted it. He'd eventually replace the picture of Kathy with something else – now that he'd found who was responsible, she'd been avenged. If he needed a reminder of what she'd done for him, all he had to do was look at the smiling faces of their children.

Maybe he'd go to Duane Reade on his next day off and print out some of the pictures of Olivia from his phone, frame one of those for his desk. Seeing her smiling face looking back at him would be enough to motivate him to do almost anything.

"You know, I meant it when I said I love you," he whispered, as he laid down and willed himself not to drift off too. He was saying it more to himself than to her; she was likely asleep, and he hadn't said it very loud at all. "Wheatley also said you were the one true love of my life, and I couldn't deny it."

And somewhere in the fading darkness, a smile flickered across Olivia's face and she squeezed his hand back with a slight groan slipping from her lips, and refused to let go even as sleep took her over.

Her brief acknowledgement stripped all the air from his lungs. She'd heard him. She wasn't running away, or hiding from him.

They'd be more than okay when it was all said and done.

They'd be together.

Finally.

-fini-