A/N: There's a second, dirtier version of this that is short and sweet called yes, Captain. If you tweet and are obsessed with Benson & Stabler, add me on Twitter: nikkiolive4.

Olivia wonders if she counts all of the times she's thought about kissing him before if it would reach fifty times? Perhaps even a hundred times? One hundred times over the span of twelve years? It's not all that bad, she tells herself. She wouldn't at all be surprised if it does amount to an egregious number as she is able to list a dozen of those times as she stands here, gripping the counter behind her. For the majority of those times, he'd been married and so there's this deep-seated guilt that's familiar and nagging and it slips right over her like a second skin.

Olivia is known for being just. She attempts to live life on the right side, on the fair side, in every way except this one. She knows, knows, she is definitely going to hell doused in gasoline for this time.

Jesus Christ, please be a fence, she prays silently.

It's something about the devastation etched across his face that makes her want to fix it…with her mouth. She wants to wrap her arms around his neck, hold him snugly against her chest and allow him to cry, to get it all out. And right when he's done crying, she wants to tilt his head back and press her full lips to his.

He walks past her once, and then again in the opposite direction as he begins pacing. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, his sleeves are rolled up onto his forearms, his tie hangs undone from his neck and she has to force herself to not reach out and grab him. "Elliot," she whispers. Her eyes find the buttons of his vest and she speculates briefly how long it'd take for her to get it off of him. "You've gotta calm down. The children will be here soon."

He stops in front of her and he turns to face her finally. They're standing in his Queens home, in the place he's raised his family, on the day that he's buried his wife and still, she has the stupid fucking thought. This is her greatest character flaw. It's gotta be, she thinks. It's definitely the one she's most embarrassed by. How even after ten years, after he'd broken her heart, after he'd left her high and dry… he's staring at her with red-rimmed eyes and it takes every bit of self-control for her to not kiss him.

Jesus Christ. Where is her compassion? She knew Kathy for fucks sake. She's known her just as long as she's known Elliot, and there is sadness there, obviously. She isn't a psychopath. She's devastated for his family. If there was a way to fix this, to prevent this from ever happening to them, she would. But Jesus fucking Christ, he's got his forearms out and she feels the brokenness emanating off of him. She doesn't know if it's the mother in her or the former best friend in her, but with the way she imagines touching him, it must just be the horny, overexcited woman in her that is itching to fix something here. Whether it's with her mouth or her hands, at this point it doesn't matter. She just wants to touch him.

"Come here," she says, beckoning him with a long finger. He obediently closes the space between them and he stops right in front of her. "I'm going to do your tie," she says softly before her fingers gently lift each side of his tie. She lines them up, pulls the thicker side lower on his chest, allowing it to dangle past his belt.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Elliot asks and for the first time today, she hears laughter in his voice.

She slides the tie back up, lines it up again before she responds. "I have a son," she says, a soft smile playing at her lips, her eyes refusing to look up at him. He's too close. She smells his cologne, feels his hot breath wafting over her face. If it is her goal to leave this house without kissing him, she is doing horribly because now after ten years apart, this is the closest she's been to it. This is the most she's touched him, aside from their initial reunion hug. He'd pulled her to his chest, locked his arms around her waist and he'd held her. The wind had whipped her hair into his face and she still remembers the way the stubble on his cheek scratched against hers. She sways at the memory and she clears her throat, determined to reel herself back in.

"Your tie is much longer than his is," she mutters, finally sneaking a peek up at him. His blue eyes are staring down at her, but the years apart make it difficult for her to read him. She knows herself though. She knows that holding his gaze is bad for their boundaries, so she refocuses on her task. Her fingers gingerly loop and pull his tie together, before finally, she finishes.

"Thanks, Benson."

"You're welcome." Her hands drop to her sides and she waits for him to step away, but he doesn't. The counter behind her is hard against her ass and she has nowhere to go so she sighs softly. "What's wrong, El?"

"I'm sorry, Liv." She knows by his tone that he's not talking about the hysteria of the last eight days.

"Let's not do this today," she whispers. She's sparing him. There's no way he is emotionally equipped to handle this conversation.

"I just… thank you." His hands encase hers and he pulls them up to his chest. His eyes lock on hers and she hates the pull she feels in her chest. A moment longer of this incessant eye contact and she refuses to be held accountable for her resulting actions. "Thank you for everything."

"Go sit down. I'll make you a drink. The food delivery will be here by 5. Kathy's family, the kids, everyone will be here by the latest, 6. Eli and Dickie are visiting Kathy's mother but they'll be here soon. She's not coming to the house. Covid," she explains. These are things they've already discussed, but she feels the need to fill the silence. "I need you to hold it together for at least three more hours, El."

"I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"No one expects you to be fine," she mutters. She gently tugs her hands from his, flattening her palms against his chest. She lingers for a moment before she gives him a slight push and she sidesteps him. "Do you want wine? Or something stronger?"

"Stronger, definitely."

Olivia pulls the bottle of tequila out of the freezer and she pours him a glass. "Go sit," she instructs, ushering him out of the kitchen. Olivia begins clearing the counter and she wonders how long he hasn't lived here. There are no signs of him in the house, besides a few family photos. The romantic portraits of just Elliot and Kathy, she hadn't been able to spot even one.

She's wanted to ask, but how do you organically ask someone such a question? How long have you been separated from your deceased wife this time? He'd probably ask her why she's even interested and then she'd definitely be stumped. She couldn't possibly tell him that she's just been trying to calculate the respectable amount of time to keep her lips off of him and the amount of time they've been separated feels like a considerable factor, so that's why.

No. She can't possibly say that.

She knows that her morals are questionable when it comes to him. It's never been this way with anyone else, just with him. Olivia thinks of herself as fair. She doesn't lie or cheat to get ahead, but for him?

Deep inside, way back in the depths of her mind, in the empty spaces of her heart, she's always wanted him. She almost feels insincere as she stands in Kathy's kitchen with her hair curled and a fresh coat of lipstick on. The olive shirt she wears accentuates her waist and she knows it's all uncalled for. One of her blazers would've been fine, but no. She'd wanted to be noticed… she wanted him to notice her. At his wife's funeral. She felt sick to her stomach.

"Dad? It's us!" She hears the front door open and she listens as Elliot greets his daughters.

The Stabler women are beautiful. She sees Kathy in each of them as they file into the kitchen one by one. They each greet her again, as if it's the first time they're seeing her today, and she wonders if they'd even like her if they knew how she'd just been contemplating kissing their father in their mother's kitchen.

Kathleen pulls her into a hug, whispering her thanks in her ear.

"Yeah, honestly, Liv. You've been a Godsend," Maureen says and Olivia sees the sincerity in her glassy eyes. She has an arm hooked around her father's waist and Elliot kisses at her forehead.

Even the comforting father does it for her, Olivia thinks.

"I've been telling her," Elliot says softly, meeting her gaze.

"Just wanted to help, guys. You know how much I love you all." Did she really just say that? While looking at him. In his eyes. Surrounded by three of his children.

"Mom would be happy to know he has someone to lean on," Kathleen says.

Doubt it.

"She called you his first ex-wife," Elizabeth says, grabbing the bottle of tequila off of the counter. "She said his divorce with you was worse than their first separation."

"Liz!" Elliot grumbles. Olivia's eyes settle on him again, on his embarrassed, pink cheeks and she chuckles. "Girls, not today."

"He hates when we tease him." Maureen gives his waist a squeeze. "Liv, really. Thank you."

"Does anyone want a shot?" Elizabeth asks. "I've gotta say at this point I'm ready to get drunk. Don't think I can cry anymore. At least not today."

"That's not surprising, alcoholic," Kathleen teases.

"Here we go!" Maureen throws her hands up. "Please don't start the bickering already!"

Olivia walks toward Elliot and they stand back and watch as his adult daughter's line shot glasses up. It's the most surreal thing, seeing them interact with each other. Clearly they're women, but Olivia hears the children she met all those years ago as they tease each other back and forth.

"How could I be divorced once and I've never been married?" Olivia teases quietly, lining her shoulders up with his.

"It killed me to leave you," he whispers. Her eyes flit over to him and his eyebrows are furrowed so deeply, it looks like it hurts. His eyes remain trained forward, but she sees the way his eyes gloss over for the tenth time today.

"Stop," she demands softly. "We'll talk about it, El. But not here. Not on the day you had to say goodbye to your wife. This is about Kathy. Not me. Not you. Today is about the beautiful woman who gave you five beautiful children." She feels like she's redeemed herself when his face softens and they're still standing there, less than a foot apart, but still not touching. Still adhering to the limitations of their friendship.

She's doing good, she tells herself.

It's been 8 days since Elliot Stabler has been a widower. 8 days, she tells herself.

Elliot steps forward and he grabs a shot glass, stealing it away from Liz. He picks it up and his eyes dance through three sets of blue eyes. "To Mom," he smiles.

"To Mom!"

—

On the thirtieth day, they meet for coffee a few blocks away from the sixteenth precinct. They sit for a moment outside of the brand new cafe, one that they've never before been to together.

Olivia reminds him that she only has ten minutes to spare. She's been working since six and it's barely noon and she already feels the tiredness settling behind her eyes. "I needed this," Olivia says over the warm cup.

"What's going on?" he asks, pulling the top off of his coffee. He peers into the cup, swirling it for a moment before he takes a cautious sip.

"I have a rape victim who won't talk so now my detectives are dissecting her life and it's only a matter of time before she finds out and you know how this goes," Olivia explains. "She's young and I'm sure just scared but I wish she could just have a little faith. And you know it's probably someone she's trying to protect and that kills me even more. Can we change the subject?"

"Liv, for the next eight minutes, let's talk about whatever you want to talk about." She gives him an appreciative look, knowing that if anyone understands her, it's him. The last thirty days have given her the time to calm down and reflect and she's able to condense her thoughts of mauling him to a minimum. Even as his blue eyes smile at her over the rim of his coffee cup, the thought of his mouth on hers is fleeting. "What's for dinner tonight?"

"Thinking about making a pot roast but I don't think I'll get home in time. I don't know, maybe a pizza?"

"A pot roast?" Elliot asks incredulously, both of his eyebrows hitching. "You don't know how to make a goddamn pot roast."

"It's actually very easy to make, you just need enough time."

"If you say so," he snorts.

Her eyes roll, but she knows that she'll be able to show him better than she's able to tell him, so she changes the subject. "How are the kids?"

"They're doing a lot better than I am," Elliot says honestly. "They've been calling each other more. We've got a group chat going and sometimes they share pictures and stories about Kath and that's been cool to see."

"I think the most important thing is that you guys are there for each other." Olivia reaches across the small table and she slips her hands into his. "This isn't easy and there's no right way to handle this. Just be there."

He grips her hand, holding it hostage now in his. "There is a right way, Liv. You know that and I know it."

"El," she murmurs. Her eyes glance at the badge on his chest. 6313. "That isn't what I'm talking about. I'm talking about actual healing. Not retribution."

"I think it all goes hand in hand."

Olivia knows they won't agree on this. He's already promised her, promised the children he shares with his deceased wife, that he won't stop looking until justice is served.

"Well, I think I just want you to be safe. I want your kids to have you because they need you. Hey," she squeezes his hand until he looks at her again. "I need you," she whispers.

A small smile finally breaks the hard lines of his face. "So this is purely selfish?"

"I haven't seen my best friend in a decade. I don't even know you anymore. We've gotta condense a decade into what? How much longer will I have you here, Detective?"

"I don't know. For a bit. You see the badge. We'll see. At least a year."

She tries not to let the instantaneous sadness she feels read on her face. Just a year? "Well, we've gotta condense the last ten years into one year."

"Let me walk you back," Elliot says, dropping his eyes to his watch. She releases his hand and she wraps both of her hands back around her warm cup. "I think I'm going to make a pizza tonight."

"Elliot, you do not know how to make a goddamn pizza," she says, stealing his line from earlier.

"It's actually pretty easy," he mocks. "One day we'll make pizza. I told you I lived in Italy."

"Doesn't mean a thing," she teases.

"I'll send you pics tonight."

"I'll be looking forward to them."

—

Three months after Kathy's death, Olivia invites him over for dinner. He doesn't believe that she cooks, or spends most Saturday mornings cleaning toilet bowls and folding multiple loads of laundry. It's surprising just how domestic she is. He'd called her early one morning when she'd been making Noah's lunch and they'd spent a solid ten minutes laughing at how her mornings have changed so significantly. Now she was making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while he runs on the treadmill and over a decade ago it'd been just the opposite.

When she answers the door for him she smiles at the sight of him. He's dressed casually in an Adidas tracksuit and sleek sneakers. His crisp white t-shirt stretches tightly across his chest and he lifts a bottle of tequila into her eyesight. "For old times sake," he says with a smile.

She chuckles and she steps aside, allowing him to walk into her home for the first time. She's wrestled her waves into a low ponytail while her bangs fall loosely around her face. She'd kept it just as casual, dressed in a pair of black jeans and a v-cut t-shirt. Her feet are slipped into a fuzzy pair of pink slippers and he chuckles at the sight of them but makes no mention of them.

"Dinner is almost done. Noah is watching his favorite movie in my bedroom. Jurassic Park," she explains. He'd met Noah now over the course of three months two or three times. Noah even calls him his buddy when he catches them on the phone. "Noah!" she calls.

He follows her to the kitchen and he's surprised at how comfortable she is as she moves around, peering into a pot and a pan. She bends down and she peeks into the oven, the smell of garlic and tomato sauce wafts into his senses in a rush. "Geez, Liv. It smells amazing in here," Elliot says, placing the bottle onto the counter.

"Told you I can cook. Not a chef, but my kid is fed." Olivia knows that she's downplaying it. Noah asks for spaghetti at least once a week and this is a meal she's perfected over time. "Uncle Elliot is here," Olivia says, not even turning. She hears Noah's footsteps approach and she looks up at the perfect time to see Noah and Elliot bump fists.

"Jurassic Park?" Elliot asks.

"Do you know who The Indominus Rex is?" Noah asks excitedly.

"Is he new?" Elliot asks. "I don't ever remember a dinosaur called the Indominus Rex. Sounds scary."

"Let me show you!"

"Liv?"

"Dinner will be ready in ten. Guess I'll prepare the table myself," she baits, but Noah sends her grin and he grabs onto Elliot's hand.

"Thanks, mom!"

"Sorry," Elliot mouths before he allows her son to drag him to his mother's room. She thinks, laughs to herself, that she's finally got Elliot into her bedroom again and it's not for her pleasure. There'd been a time when they were baiting Dean Porter and he'd been holed up in her bedroom with Morales and she'd wondered then what he'd thought about her bedding. If he'd touched her comforter or imagined what it'd be like to lie in there next to her. Because she'd thought about it.

Dinner is spent talking about dinosaurs and school and how scary the coronavirus has been over the last year. Her eyes flit between Noah and Elliot and she wonders when it was that her son had fallen for him, too.

—

When she comes out of Noah's bedroom, she finds Elliot standing in the living room, looking at the photos she has mounted on her walls. "You used to have a photo of me in here. Where is it?"

"I couldn't look at it anymore," she answers honestly. "It's somewhere in here. I just…" she shrugs a shoulder. "You have any photos of me hanging around?"

"I do actually. I've got a folder in my phone," he says. "It's hidden. I… don't know why I just told you that," he chuckles nervously.

"You embarrassed to know me?"

"No, Liv. It's a privilege to know you. I brag about it to the uni's at the 1-6. I tell them that I used to know their Captain when you were still smacking people around with me."

"I hope you don't really say that because that's never happened."

"There was a guy in interrog-"

"Fine. Maybe I lost my temper once or twice. Nothing compared to you," she says, dropping her head into her hand. She feels him watching her as her fingers slip through the hair at the crown of her head, gathering her bangs out of her face. She has her eyes closed and a smile on her face and she wonders if he remembers the time he'd had to physically restrain her to keep her from attacking Robert Morton. Because she remembers that vividly.

"Spaghetti was delicious. And I lived in Italy, so that's a real compliment," he says smugly, the dimples on his cheeks deepening with his grin.

Olivia leans on the couch and she crosses her arms across her chest. "You continue to bring up Italy like all of a sudden you're cultured now," she accuses softly.

His eyebrows scrunch, but his grin remains. "I am."

"Did you pick up anything? Can you speak the language?" Olivia challenges.

He turns off to the side and holds his pinched fingertips together and he reminds her of every stereotypical Italian cartoon chef she's ever seen. "Si. Molto bene. Quanti anni hai? Buon compleanno! Arrivaderci!"

"So you're a parrot. Congratulations," Olivia says laughing. "A shame because it's a beautiful culture and a beautiful language."

"Don't you speak some Italian? Let's hear it," he presses with an enticing smile. Olivia's pulse quickens and she has to look away to stop herself from bursting out in nervous laugher. "I know you said you've been to Paris. Let's go to Italy."

Go to Italy? With him? Redirection.

"How's work?" Olivia asks, finally fully sitting down on the couch. She tries not to ask about how he's coping with his loss anymore because his answer has been the same. He's still angry, still broken, but it's commendable the way he pushes forward. She watches him as he picks up a photo of her and Noah. He admires it for a moment and Olivia wonders what he's thinking.

"Don't want to talk about it," he answers finally, replacing the photo. He takes another sip of his drink before he sits down next to her. He stretches his arms across the back of the couch, his hand momentarily brushing her shoulder. She jerks away from him, the touch enough to elicit a surge between her legs.

She feels the flush in her cheeks and she realizes that she has subjected herself to this. She invited him to her apartment. She decided to drink tequila with him at dinner. "Are you driving your sergeant crazy?" Olivia asks, curling a leg underneath her as she turns to look at him. "I know you have a penchant for doing whatever the hell it is you want to do."

"She hasn't fired me yet," he says with a shrug. His hand absently picks up a clump of hair from her ponytail and he loops it around his finger. When she doesn't protest or flinch away this time, his strong hand slides across her shoulders, settling in the crook of her neck. "You're tense," he whispers, squeezing her there.

"I'm always tense," she says with a soft laugh.

"You ever been to a spa? Let's go get massages." He's been doing this a lot lately. Making plans with her, offering to take her places and she wonders if there's a book to help her handle this situation. What are you supposed to do when the man you've lusted after for years offers to take you to Italy? And that same man has just lost his wife and isn't thinking clearly.

"Ok. One Saturday. You and me," she says, but she doesn't see it actually happening. Them walking around in big white fluffy robes, relaxing, enjoying each other's company for the day? It does sound good.

"I'm serious, Benson. It'll be fun. It'll be my treat. A sorry."

Maybe he doesn't want to have a spa day with her, maybe he just feels obligated. "How many times have you said sorry? You left. You worked on a few very important cases and now you're back. The end," she says before she grabs the drink out of his hand. She takes a sip and lets the tequila burn its way down her throat.

"I just missed you is all."

Her heartbeat quickens and she has to bite her bottom lip to keep her grin at bay. "Oh yeah?" Olivia asks casually. "What'd you miss?"

"The way you give me shit," he says sniggering softly.

"Liar. You hated that." She offers his glass back to him and he takes it.

"I missed how good you are."

"What's that even mean?"

"You're a good person, Liv," he says solemnly. "I missed you having my back. I missed getting you coffee. I missed watching you work. I missed," he pauses, a grin creeping across his face. "I miss watching you put the holster back on your belt."

She laughs, "excuse me?"

"You know… when you'd stand across from me at your desk and you'd undo your belt right there in front of me."

"You're a pervert," Olivia admonishes, fighting the blush in her cheeks.

"Missed you patching me up after fights with perps. Missed drinking with you after cases. You remember how drunk we'd get those first few years?"

"We were depressed," she says.

"Were?" he asks and they both share a knowing laugh. "I miss how we'd laugh on mornings before a case would come in."

"When Cragen would yell at us?"

"Yup. Remember the dresses you'd come in wearing on Saturday nights? I miss that. I miss interrupting your dates. I'd laugh sometimes when I'd get the call, knowing that I had to call you in and ruin your date."

"It's because you're an asshole."

"No, Liv," he says chuckling. "It's because I was jealous."

—