Earned

by Special Fanfic Unit

Prompt #43: "Truth Passes Through Three Stages: First, It Is Ridiculed. Second, It Is Violently Opposed. Third, It Is Accepted As Self-Evident" - Elliot and Olivia finally share some truths. Some voluntary, others not. [Special Valentine's Unit]

Prompt #43: "Truth Passes Through Three Stages: First, It Is Ridiculed. Second, It Is Violently Opposed. Third, It Is Accepted As Self-Evident" - Elliot and Olivia finally share some truths. Some voluntary, others not.

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Earned

•••

Valentine's Day — 2023

Elliot is well aware of his flaws.

Hell, he knows he's more flawed than most. That's why he's always been grateful for the people who managed to look past them, to see the good he has to offer. He'd never admit it out loud, but he's always depended on them to help him see it too because it's too easy for him to get lost in his endless mistakes when left to his own devices.

He's always held on too tight to his family, told himself they were proof of his worth and his honor, and he can still remember the edge of desperation that took over during that brief time when Kathy left him all those years ago. He knows he can be aggressive, short-tempered, impatient…but he's decided not to be when it can be avoided. He slips, of course, and his new therapist says it's okay, as long as he keeps working on it.

Naturally, that comment had made him feel like a child and he missed two sessions before Olivia convinced him to try again.

Olivia.

He's scared, sometimes, of how far he's willing to go just for her. Because it's Olivia who's been holding him together, it's Olivia who's been there for him every time he thought he might give up on himself. After the first time his wife left him, then after she died, and all the times in between. She's always been the one to hold his family together, with or without his help. He knows her generosity isn't only his, though. He doesn't think there's a single soul on this Earth who's done more good than his Liv.

It's been almost two years, and he still can't believe she's his now.

He'd never let himself believe it was ever even possible. As his partner, she'd been his equal, his friend, the person who knew him better than anyone in the whole world, and logically he'd let himself believe he was something like that for her too. But she kept leaving and showing him all the ways she was freer than him, more independent, more powerful. Part of him had always worried she was way out of his league, untouchable, even if circumstances had been different. Back then it used to be soothed by their proximity, by the late nights, the shared bags under their eyes that helped him remember she was only human.

But after a decade of silence, after miles of both physical and emotional distance was put between them and he was faced once again with how much she thrived in his absence, that once hidden part had consumed him whole. As much as he needed her, he'd been certain she was better off without him…

Until her voice had snapped him out of it with a broken 'you never asked what happened to me' and eyes full of disappointment. And he was reminded she was a woman who could feel, who could hurt just as fast as she healed. And for the first time since he met her, he realized she was a woman he could touch.

As long as she let him, of course. But she did, she does, and he's forever astounded by it.

Elliot knows he's a sonofabitch, but for Olivia, he's been trying, he's been working on his flaws. He thinks he deserves some credit because as flawed as he can be, he's learned to be patient with her. He'd been thoughtless at first, assuming he'd only have to wait until he was ready for their friendship to finally give way to something more and everything would fall into place. It had been easier to be patient then, holding onto 'for now' as if it was his lifeline.

She's always been his lifeline…

He thinks he was right to be so tentative about them since one taste was all it took. After just one taste he got greedy, wanting more of her—all of her—because of course he'd never be satisfied by anything less. So, selfishly, he thought she'd be ready when he was. When Elliot was finally free to pour all this lingering love where it belonged, she should simply welcome it, right? Wrong. As soon as his world stopped spiraling long enough for him to finally look at her, Olivia,—the way she is now—he realized he couldn't see her anymore. Somewhere in their decade apart she'd retreated, leaving only the armor to fight her battles for her. But his careless, impatient self wanted her whole, or else how could she give her all to him? He wanted to draw her out of hiding so she could tell him everything he'd missed, everything she'd lived, seen, loved, and lost. She wouldn't though, and it burned him. It made him wish for a miracle, a truth serum, anything at all that would make her confide in him again. As it turns out there was no such a thing as an easy solution.

No, Elliot soon learned, it was the daily work he put into their relationship that proved the most effective truth serum of all.

•••

July 26th, 2022

16th Precinct — Captain Benson's Office, 12:15 PM

"El, what are you doing here?" she asks, as soon as she spots him coming into her office. He's always filled with pride whenever he visits and sees the title on her door. Today, though, it's quickly washed away by dread. She does not sound happy to see him.

"Nothin', I just— work was slow today since we're between cases and I thought maybe we could have lunch together," he says, allowing a flimsy thread of hope that gets promptly squashed by one look at the crease on her forehead.

Oh God, is this how Kathy used to feel?

"Listen, El, we're swam—" she begins, but is interrupted by a knock at her door. She doesn't get the chance to answer before some young, tan detective he's sure he should know the name of by now comes in, bumping against Elliot's back.

"Sorry, Cap," he disregards Elliot completely, "but the rape kit came back negative for the Davis girls."

"That's alright, Velasco," she replies, but her brows are drawn tight with worry. "Get Rollins to reinterview the family, I know something happened to them."

He nods and walks out, already calling out for Rollins.

Olivia just flops down on her chair, her fingers coming up to massage her temples. She never used to get headaches this early in the day back when they were partners. It makes him wish he could go back in time to when they'd naturally share each case along with its burdens.

"Tough case?" he asks, softly.

"You could say that."

She doesn't elaborate. It shouldn't bother him this much, how little she gives him after everything. But it's SVU and it's them, and it feels so wrong that they aren't a team.

He huffs, impatient, but chooses to let it go. "I could grab us something to eat, if you want, for old times' sake?"

The way she sighs tiredly while squeezing the bridge of her nose makes him feel like an annoying little kid, and he decides the knots in his stomach must be anger, because what else could it be?

"Elliot," she says pointedly, which feels unfair when all he wanted was to spend some time with her.

"What, Olivia?" he snaps.

She covers her face with both hands, her shoulders sagging slightly. When she looks up, her face is a mask of calm professionalism.

"Look," she begins with an even tone, both hands coming together as if in prayer except all her fingers are pointing accusingly at him, "we're really swamped right now, but I'll call you as soon as I get off today and maybe we can have dinner together?"

He feels bile coming up his throat at her condescending tone.

"You know what, Liv, don't bother." He gets up to leave. He can't even think about food anymore and if Olivia doesn't want his company, well, Elliot Stabler doesn't beg.

That seems to bring out her first honest reaction, eyes widening as her head snaps up at him.

"Oh," her voice is low and hoarse, "so that's it?" she pauses, staring directly at his eyes, and when he doesn't answer she nods, "Okay, then," and looks away.

Elliot's stomach is still in knots but he's not so sure it's anger anymore. All those years of reading her silences tell him she's hurt and, Christ, he can't be the one responsible for hurting her yet again. So he's not angry after all, but he's frustrated as hell because as great as they've always been at silent communication, some words need to be spoken for their message to be understood and Olivia Benson is a fucking wall.

"For God's sake, Olivia," he says, walking further into the little office and stopping by her desk, "talk to me."

And there it is. Elliot Stabler doesn't beg, but he'll beg Olivia if he has to.

Olivia snorts. Her eyes are brimming with tears which he knows are born from anger. He's seen that same expression on her face when dealing with perps too many times in the early years of their partnership before she'd perfected her mask.

After a minute she gets up to close the blinds and lock the door. God, Elliot's such a possessive asshole he's actually happy he finally has her undivided attention.

"So now that you're willing to listen I'm expected to talk? Is that it?" she snaps pointedly.

Oh fuck.

She's seething and he's not happy anymore.

"Fine, I am tired, Elliot," she fires at him, "I have two detectives and one Sergeant to work with, and the cases keep piling up." She can't seem to keep still, walking around the office like a lioness in a cage. "My boss is a goddamned prick who's up my neck all the time about which special victims are actually special. I'm always exhausted when I get home but I try to find it in me to be present for my son because it's not his fault, and we've been in the middle of a never-ending pandemic for years now, so I could really use a break." Her face is flushed with rage when she finally stops to take a breath, and Elliot can see her playing with her fingers the way she always used to when she was particularly stressed. It's so familiar he wants to weep.

"And then there's you," she starts again in a quiet voice, arms flopping back down. "You just show up out of nowhere, the same way you left, and I j—" her voice hitches, "I can't, I hate that it's too much for me but I can't be who you need me to be right now."

Finally, is all Elliot can think.

Finally, Olivia is opening up further about her feelings, her grievances, her limits.

It was impossible not to notice once they got closer. He'd been distracted by all her accomplishments at first, too proud of them to see that there was something heavy weighing her down. It's all this responsibility, he sees it now. Ever since she gave him permission—or rather, openly called him out on his apparent lack of interest—he'd been trying to be there for her. He wanted to be the one to relieve her of some of her burdens at the end of the day, but she wouldn't let him. He's been back for a year and they've been trying to navigate their feelings for each other for a month now, but there's still this stubborn wall keeping her feelings from him.

As he looks up at her flushed cheeks and tired posture, all he wants to do is hold her in his arms.

"Liv," his voice is a mere whisper, "I don't need you to be anything." He approaches her slowly, as one would a wounded animal, afraid to even blink.

She snorts. "Everybody needs something from me, Elliot, especially you."

It knocks the air out of his lungs. This is the moment he begins to fully grasp the flip side of the changes brought by this decade apart, and his heart breaks for her. For so long he believed himself a force holding her back, he'd forgotten he'd been good to her too. He used to check in on her, make sure she remembered she was more than just the job.

He gets to her, at last, and very slowly reaches for her hands. "You're right, I do need something from you."

Neither of them is blinking anymore.

"I need you to let me in," he repeats the truth that's been in his heart for months now—no double meaning or drugs to cheapen it this time around. "I need you to trust me to be there for you the way you've always been there for me."

To her credit Olivia holds his gaze for a full minute, allowing him the familiar intensity of their silent communication. She lets him know she understands what he's trying to say, nodding slightly, before letting out her first full truth since she'd called him out all those months ago. "I can't," it's just a whisper. "I'm not saying this to hurt you, Elliot, but I don't know that I'll ever trust you that way again."

He swallows what feels like his living, beating heart, absolutely devastated by this simple, horrible truth. He looks away trying to catch his breath, too shaken by the honesty in her eyes and the tightness in her mouth. Elliot had been so good at compartmentalizing, he'd frozen the Olivia he knew in his memory for a decade while life went on. Of course, he'd vaguely accepted she'd been living her own life back here, but it hadn't felt real, hadn't felt like it would ever change her the way it did him. He'd been the one who'd left, who'd uprooted his whole life and had to start it all over again in Europe. She was the one who'd stayed.

Olivia Benson, the rising star of SVU.

His constant through all the years they'd worked together.

A pillar of strength and determination and empathy.

And last year, when he bulldozed his way back into her life, she'd been hurt, sure—told him as much even—but she had still been all of those things.

It made it all too easy for him to maintain his distance, to keep this nice little fantasy in his mind that nothing of importance had changed. Not really, not between them.

What an absolute idiot.

When he finally manages to look back at her face, she's sitting down on her chair, all tentative worry and biting lips. It breaks something holy inside his chest, how quickly she burrows her own feelings down every single time. How a mere glance at the hurt he knows she sees in his face has her swallowing her own, when he'd been back so long and never once did her the same favor. He's disgusted at himself, nauseous.

"Liv," he mumbles, "God, I'm sorry," he means to say. What comes out is a strangled sound of half-formed words.

He sits down at one of the chairs in front of her desk, covers his shamed face, and tries to breathe through his nausea.

"Elliot, it's o—" she starts, softly, but he can't take it.

"Stop!" he nearly shouts, looking up with crazed, wide eyes. "Liv, please, don't try to make me feel better right now."

"Okay," she whispers.

"I'm a stupid fuck."

He can see her eyes widening at the strong language, her mouth opening and closing in uncertainty.

"I am," he reiterates, "a selfish, stupid, sonofabitch because I haven't been paying attention."

"Elliot," she interrupts, clearly unwilling to let him get riled up.

It just makes him angrier. This was supposed to be about her, goddamnit.

He takes a deep breath, trying to remember his once therapist's distant instructions while also ignoring how self-conscious this simple exercise made him. He needs to find some balance. For Liv. Fuck. Now there's a knot forming in his throat at just the thought of her.

Just fucking breathe, Stabler.

Eventually, he manages a raspy, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," and something shifts between them. He can feel the unshed tears burning his eyes but he doesn't blink, he can't. Not when it means missing the journey playing out on Olivia's face. Her eyes are glassy, shimmering pools, her nose is red at the tip and her lips are pressed tight with the effort to stay still, an effort made pointless by the shaking of her chin. It would all make for a painfully vulnerable sight, were it not for the way she has narrowed her brows and set her jaw defiantly.

She makes such a beautiful picture right then, he thinks all of the art housed in The Borghese Gallery couldn't hold a candle to her.

His heart thumps loudly in his chest, but Elliot feels at peace all of a sudden. Because he knows that face, he's seen it too many times before, whenever she was overwhelmed but wouldn't allow the tears to fall. It always made him want to hold her close and never let go, but he usually managed to hold himself back. Unless, of course, it was coupled with his own overwhelming fear of losing her, then all bets were off. But now, maybe he can? Maybe she'll let him—

He's up from his chair before he even realizes it, circling his way around her desk and pulling her into his arms. There's the briefest moment of restraint on her part, and then she's sinking into him, letting out a relieved sigh and dropping her forehead on his shoulder before pressing down hard.

She had a headache, even before their fight started, and he could still hear the noisy afternoon rush of her squad just outside that door. She feels heavy in his embrace, like she'd fall asleep right there if she could, so he tightens his hold and drops a kiss on the top of her head. The way she shivers, just before raising her head to look at him, has him dropping another kiss on her forehead. Then she closes her eyes and he takes that as an invitation as well, kisses each one before moving on to the redness of her nose, her cheeks, her lips, before pulling back at last.

She was right, before. He'd come asking her for things—her time, her troubles, her trust—but now he realizes what he wants most of all is to give it all back to her. And by the way she's swaying in the cocoon of his arms, he thinks she just might let him.

"You don't need to trust me, Liv," he says, earnest, "or tell me about the case, or pull yourself through dinner after a full day of work just to please me, okay?"

She tenses, already drawing air to form what he knows will be comforting words, appeasing words that'll undo all the accusations she'd thrown at him in anger. God forbid she ever put herself first, this woman. But he's tired of watching her sacrifices, so he steals the air right out of her mouth, one hand moving up to hold her head in place while the other draws soothing patterns on her back.

"Okay?" he asks again, after.

Her eyes are hazy when she responds, shyly, "Okay."

"Good," he starts to disentangle their limbs, albeit reluctantly, "I just have one question before I go and let you get back to your duties, Captain."

"Hmm?"

"Is Thai still your favorite?"

"Elliot," comes her exasperated voice.

"No, it's not that. I just want to feed you."

She just smiles wide for a long moment.

"Liv?"

"No," she sighs happily before removing herself completely from his space to open the blinds and unlock the door. "These days, I love Italian," she teases, "but El?"

"Yeah?" he asks flustered, making his way to the door.

She bites her lip coyly. "Bring yourself along with the food, 'kay?"

It's silly how giddy he feels. "Just text me when you're done," he agrees, giving her one last goodbye kiss.

And then he leaves, feeling like he gained something precious just by letting go.

•••

September 3rd, 2022

Olivia Benson's Apartment, 1:15 AM

This is the first time Elliot comes over with the intention to sleep here. Between both their jobs and the kids' demands, they are lucky to find a moment alone during the day, never mind sleepovers.

Ding dong

It isn't so much that they're purposely taking it slow, as much as they lead very busy lives that leave next to no free time to spend together. This last week, for instance, saw them canceling three separate dates, one of which was supposed to have taken place earlier tonight. But Liv got caught up in an abduction case and he was following leads that seemed to drop from the sky right into their laps after two months of nothing at all. Still, it's Friday, and Elliot had grown tired of this waiting game. As soon as he got Olivia's message telling him they'd found Alice, he'd promptly informed Bell he was taking off for the weekend.

Ding dong

He then stopped by his house for a quick shower and a change of clothes, shamelessly told his family not to wait up for him, and rushed straight to Olivia's apartment. In hindsight, maybe he should have at least informed her of his upcoming visit…

Ding dong

There's something unique about dating your partner of thirteen years after a decade apart. You're always both too close and too far, you know too much about each other and yet not enough. Right now it feels as if he should have his own keys to her apartment like before but also that he shouldn't know she always keeps a spare under her doormat.

Should he open it? Let himself in like her partner would have all those years ago, just because he could? Because he knew what abduction cases looked like and she'd probably be passed out on her couch, fully clothed and drooling after over 50 hours of no sleep?

Or maybe not, because he's not here to take off her shoes, cover her legs with a blanket and steal a beer from her fridge he always suspected was put there for him to begin with. He wants…

He just wants to see her, hold her close to him for as long as she'll let him. And if she doesn't let him? Well, then he just wants to be in her space at the end of this draining week. Okay, so maybe things haven't changed that much after all. He's about to kneel in search of the key when the door slips open slightly, a pair of very sleepy eyes searching his.

"El?" comes the muffled, confused voice of his girlfriend. "Hold on."

The door closes for a second before opening completely, allowing him to see sluggish Olivia Benson in all her glory. This is different from the last time he dropped by her house in the middle of the night—okay, so maybe he should stop sneaking up on her like this?-and not just because he's sober. For one, she's wearing proper pajamas this time, cream ones that look so soft to the touch it makes his hands tingle in anticipation. Then, of course, there's the fact that she's not alarmed by his sudden appearance. Surprised? Yes. Concerned? No. It makes his heart incredibly light to realize she's finally gotten to the point where 'what's wrong?' is no longer the first thing out of her mouth when he looks for her. Maybe she's coming to terms with the fact that he wants to see her.

"El, I'm sure you didn't come all the way over here just to stand there staring at me." She takes a step back. "Come on in."

"Sorry," he mumbles, but he's not, not really. He figures his distracted demeanor is perfectly warranted. How else is he supposed to behave when Olivia is here looking like that? Soft and warm and with her hair all tousled up? He's only human.

"Elliot?" Olivia prods once they're both situated on the couch. A couch, Elliot notices, which isn't doubling as a bed because she's a mom now, and so she still changes into her PJs and goes to her real bed even after over two whole days working non-stop. Of course she does. Olivia would want to give her kid as much stability as she possibly could, despite her crazy hours. "What brings you here?"

She sounds impatient which makes all the sense in the world once one takes into consideration the fact that he just interrupted her much-needed sleep and then proceeded to not answer her questions in a timely manner.

"I missed you," he answers dumbly.

Olivia's eyes go soft, despite the absurdity of his actions.

He doesn't deserve her.

"I missed you too," she whispers back, getting up to turn off the already dim lights of her living room. "But I'm exhausted, Elliot, so if you want to spend time with me all I can offer you is the other side of my mattress and linen sheets."

God, he loves to listen to her voice when it's heavy with sleep, but he loves her candor more. In all the months they've been together, this is the first time she's admitted to missing him at all.

"That sounds perfect."

And so they move into the bedroom—Olivia's—and into the bed—also Olivia's, Jesus—and her smell is everywhere. For once, Elliot's thankful for the way his age has tamed his libido a little. If anyone knew the effect her smell used to have on him whenever he lay on the cot she had just vacated, he'd never be able to face anyone in the NYPD ever again. The fact that he's here now, actively sharing a bed with her is so incredible it renders him hopelessly awake. But that's fine, he'd rather listen to her deep, relaxed breaths here than sleep soundlessly in his bed any day. Once again, he's trapped in an oxymoron, able to describe in extreme detail how the lines of her face go smooth with sleep while simultaneously discovering the sounds she makes for the very first time. She mumbles, sighs, snores quietly and it blows his mind, how much he still doesn't know about her, how much he still gets to discover.

"Mmn," she mumbles, bringing him back to the present.

Her head turns abruptly, another moan slipping from her.

When her whole body moves to face him completely, he realizes how uncomfortable she seems. Her brows are tense, a straight line, and he can see a thin layer of sweat begin to form on her forehead.

Thank God he'd impulsively decided to come over tonight.

"Liv?" he calls, softly.

Too softly because she doesn't move, expression still full of anguish.

He dares to touch her face, letting his fingers bury themselves in her silky strands. "Liv?"

"Nnn," she mumbles again, "no."

She's having a nightmare. Her breath is becoming shallow, rushed, and it kills him to see her like this. He recalls how she did seem to know an awful lot about his PTSD-driven nightmares all those months ago, but he'd never thought to ask.

Asshole

"No," she says in sleep and he squashes down his self-recrimination for another time.

"Olivia, wake up, you're having a nightmare," he says, shaking her shoulder, carefully.

"El? You here?" she manages, groggy.

"Yes," he replies, kissing her sweaty forehead after pulling her hair back from her face, "I'm here, Liv, 'n' I'm not goin' anywhere."

He'd been hoping to comfort her, using the same platitudes that used to work on his children back when they were little and he was their hero. Hoping, if anything, that the soft tone of his voice would provoke a gentle awakening instead of a startled one. Never in a million years did he predict what follows. Olivia doesn't fully awaken but she quiets down, slips closer to him, and burrows her head in the crook of his neck while letting out a relieved breath before asking, "Promise?"

Elliot doesn't know if the tightness inside his chest is caused by pain or love—or both. Just that it stems from what that unfiltered, unconscious reaction reveals to him. She's asleep and he's sure she won't remember any of it come morning, but the vow he makes is as much for him as it is for her. "Never again, I promise."

•••

October 8th, 2022

Mercy Hospital, 6:43 PM

Elliot's foot won't stop tapping the white tiles because his leg won't stop bouncing, no matter how many times his brain orders it to.

The damn clock is lying to him.

He's sure he's been here for at least three hours, even though the stupid thing says it's only been fifty minutes.

What does a useless inanimate object think it is to challenge his sense of time?

"Who's here for Olivia Benson?" asks the doctor, finally, so he's out of the tiny, plastic chair and onto his feet in a second.

"We are," he vaguely gestures behind him where he knows Fin, Rollins and Carisi still linger together, "how is she?"

"She's doing great. The surgery went smoothly and we were able to stabilize her ankle fairly quickly," the doctor assures.

"So she'll stop spraining her ankle ev'ry couple months, doc?" Fin asks, sneaking up beside him.

This isn't the time to be cracking jokes, Fin.

"That's the goal of this procedure, yes, it should give her back the—"

Enough with the small talk. Elliot's heart is about to come out of his mouth with worry, he needs to see her.

"Can I see her?"

"Of course, come with me, she'll be waking up soon."

Knowing he's finally getting to see her gives him the presence of mind to look sheepishly at Fin, apologetic.

He doesn't know whether he's apologizing for being the one who gets to go in when Fin was the one who'd stayed, for cutting him off just now, or simply for the long hour he'd spent noisily tapping his foot next to him. Whatever it is, the Sergeant gets it because he just squeezes his left shoulder in support and says, "That's alright, man, I'm just glad you can be here for her this time."

This time, because she's had ankle surgery before but he'd been too busy playing with matches to give a damn.

Right.

"Follow me," the Doctor calls, interrupting Elliot's mulling of past mistakes.

As soon as he spots her lying safely in that hospital bed he feels the relief washing through his every limb. It's a physical thing that loosens each muscle in his body until he can finally breathe.

His timing is great too, her eyes beginning to flutter just as he sits down on the chair. A nurse is moving around the room, scribbling on her chart and checking her vitals, but all he can see is her. Olivia. In all the years working side by side it was always him on a hospital bed while she watched over him. He knew she bled too, he'd seen it. He was there when Gitano cut her neck and almost shattered their partnership five years too soon. He was there when she'd been in a car accident after covering for him, saving his wife and son with bloodied hands and a mild concussion. And he wasn't there when she'd been kidnapped by a psychopath, but he'd seen the pictures, seen the scars.

"Elliot?"

She sounds husky and confused.

"You're awake," he marvels, taking her hand in both of his.

She looks at it, stares at their hands for a long time before raising them closer to her face as if to inspect it better.

She giggles. "We're old."

Huh? What's wrong with her?

He must have asked that out loud for the nurse is explaining, "She's coming out of anesthesia, she'll be a little out of it for a while yet."

He can feel his eyebrows going up on their own accord.

Anesthesia.

Of course.

Olivia giggles again. "You're hot."

What?

She tugs her captive hand free. "It's making me wet."

The way she's waving her hand around makes it clear she means her hand is sweaty, but that doesn't stop his face from flushing bright red. He swears he heard the damn nurse snicker at him.

"Wait, Elliot!" Olivia exclaims, as if she'd just remembered something important. "Why are you here?"

"Why wouldn't I be, Liv?"

She narrows her eyes, looking suspiciously at him, before answering with a bit of a slur, "You're never here when I'm in trouble."

Ouch. That stings.

"Or maybe it's 'cause when you're there you pr'tect me so I don—" she gets sidetracked and clicks her tongue, pulling a face. "It's thirsty."

Elliot's overwhelmed. No, that's an understatement. He feels like his heart is going to jump out of his chest any time now. Olivia's so guarded, this brief exchange right here's told him more about her feelings than all the months they've been together. It's giving him the highest of highs and the lowest of lows.

"It's thirsty?" he asks.

She sticks out her tongue for him to see while also trying to say 'yes'.

He can't help it, he laughs out loud causing her to frown at him.

"Here, you can give her this to sip," says the nurse again, offering him a cup of icy water with a straw.

"No, I don't drink vodka," she protests, scrunching up her face. "N—not ever."

His heart breaks when he recalls the reason behind it.

"It's okay, Liv," he soothes, "it's just water."

"Water?"

"Yeah."

She takes a small sip then starts laughing.

"What is it?"

She keeps laughing. In fact, she laughs so hard it gives her hiccups.

He can't help but smile at how adorable she looks right now, how innocent.

"D'ya remember when Cragen laughed so hard, water spilled from his nose?" There are tears of laughter in her eyes and he's worried the same thing is about to happen to her. "Munch was talkin' 'bout those, those—"

"Liv, slow down before water spills out of your nose too." He sets the cup down on the bedside table.

She takes hold of his other wrist. "I really miss 'em."

"Me too," he agrees, making a mental note to arrange something to get the old squad together.

"Everybody leaves," she states, nodding emphatically, "'s what mom used to say." She shrugs, nonchalant as if that sentence hadn't just crushed him into a million pieces. "I didn't believe her bu' it's true." Her eyes go distant for a moment. "Even Elliot left and he was my whole family."

God. Damn. It.

She looks back at him and smiles. "That's why you're old Elliot."

How much longer will this torture go on for?

"But it's okay, 'cause I made my own fam'ly," she reassures him with a tap on his wrist. "Oh, Elliot, have you met my son Noah?"

He swallows, clears his throat, "Yes, I have."

"Good," she closes her eyes, smiling, "I always dreamed that you would."

She's lying there looking peaceful with her eyes still closed and a dazed smile on her lips, and he can't help himself. He's been holding back because she's not quite herself and he doesn't know how aware she is of the status of their current relationship. But she's so gorgeous, and he's had enough of holding himself back to last him another lifetime. Well, at least where Olivia's concerned.

The nurse finally steps out so he gets up from the chair and joins her on the bed, resting his left thigh next to her right side, being careful not to upset her ankle. Her eyes snap open as his hand comes up to take a lock of her silky hair and twirl it around his finger, just to slowly close again upon contact, in a blissful expression.

"This feels really good," she says, turning her head slightly to free more of her hair, then sighs. "I love to have my hair played with."

His throat feels tight. He didn't know that about her. He's played with her hair a hundred times but she's never enjoyed it so openly before. Elliot makes yet another mental note to make head massages a regular thing. He wishes he'd known that before, back when she changed hairstyles so often. His hands had burned with the need to run through the locks and see if the texture had changed as well. But this, right now? This is also pretty damn perfect. He brings his other hand to join the first on this journey and Olivia nearly whimpers. Nearly, because Olivia Benson doesn't whimper, of course. Even though he has no idea how else to describe this sound she's making. His hands grow greedy and start straying from her hair to explore the novel plains of her temples, the hill of her nose, and the valleys of her cheeks. That's where he stops, brought back to reality by the tears that are still traveling down, down until they either reach her trembling chin or fall into the abyss of her jaw.

"Liv?"

"I'm tired, Elliot." She brings her hands up to dry her face, shoving his away in the process. "I can't do this anymore."

What the hell happened?

"These mood swings are normal, Sir, don't worry, she'll be back to herself in twenty-four hours," the nurse informs him from her spot at the door. She must have been alarmed by the increase in Olivia's heart rate.

Elliot couldn't care less how normal this is supposed to be. He just wants to calm her down so she can go back to laughing and smiling and losing herself in his caresses.

"What's wrong, Liv, why are you upset?" His voice is quiet, he doesn't want to startle her.

Slowly, Olivia opens her eyes. She looks devastated, he's never seen her like this before. It figures that an Olivia with no filters wouldn't be all fun and games, but it still angers him, makes him want to kill the bastard who's responsible for making her so miserable.

Except he's fairly sure that bastard is him.

"You're not here," she spits out, angrily, "you're just a figment of my imagination, just like all th' other times." Her voice grows wetter the longer she speaks. "Bu' my stupid, needy brain keeps conjurin' you up ev'ry single—"

"What?" he cuts her off, unable to hold back his confusion.

She doesn't falter, though, looking at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, before continuing. "It shoulda gotten a clue when you disappeared for ten years. Or—or when you came back just t' leave again without much of a warnin'." She stops crying abruptly and shakes her head surreptitiously, as if they were both the admonishing parents and her brain the naughty child. "Hell, it shoulda gotten a grip when it saw how chummy you were with Dani Beck while t'was busy dreamin' up impossible scenarios two thousand miles away, huh?"

Elliot's completely dumbfounded.

Dani Beck?

That happened a lifetime ago.

Does this mean…did Olivia really…could he have made a different choice all those years back?

He needs to breathe. He feels nauseous and sweaty and his mind won't stop racing with all the infinite what-ifs. What if he'd realized then that she wanted what he wanted? What if he hadn't been too suffocated by guilt and fear to see it? Could he have stopped that monster from getting to her? Would Kathy be alive today if he had been brave enough to let her go when he should? But, what about Eli? Oh, God, what if he'd gone to Olivia after the Royce case? Would she—would they have a—

Her hand squeezing his arm brings him back to reality.

"Elliot?" she asks, sobering up a bit.

He just breathes, realizing at some point tears had begun falling from his eyes too.

"You never cry in my dreams."

He swallows, paralyzed.

"You're real, aren't you?"

All he can do is nod.

For a long while, she just looks at him, examines every inch of his face before lingering on his eyes. "Good," she mutters at last, "that's a relief." Then she reaches up to dry his tears just as she'd done with hers and says, "Enough crying, you're here now. Everything's gonna be okay."

His whole world has just been rocked out of its axis but, somehow, he believes her. No sense wasting time wondering when their timing is finally right.

•••

December 21st, 2022

Maloney's, Queens — 9:48 PM

"Let's make a toast," says ADA Carisi, tapping his glass of beer as if this was a wedding reception instead of a corner table at a crowded bar, "to finally having a night off."

Tonight they're celebrating Christmas with her squad. Truth be told, they never know when the job will crush their plans, so they've learned to take what they could when they could. And this Wednesday night just happened to be a slow one.

They all raise their beers while Fin calls him out, "Don't jinx it, man."

Olivia told Elliot she'd left Velasco there to hold down the fort, though. He's still the new guy, even over a year later, but at least Elliot can say he's finally learned his name.

"Yeah, Sonny, you were a cop, you should know better," Rollins admonishes him playfully, before turning to Fin, "Remember that Friday night we all thought we'd get to go home early and Kat jinxed us so badly we ended up losing the whole weekend?"

"Yeah, but she was still green, what's your excuse, Carisi?" Fin doubles down on him. Before he can defend himself though, Munch interjects.

"Wait a minute, why isn't this Kat here tonight?"

Elliot had gone ahead and invited Munch to join them and the old man had blended in with an ease he envied. Sure, he'd worked with Rollins before, and he actually kept in touch instead of disappearing, but still. In a sense, anyone who's ever worked at SVU could say they fit this group of damaged but fierce cops. They may be as different as night and day, but their shared thirst for justice had created a bond like no other. This is one of the reasons he doesn't feel like an outsider anymore, even if he knows he still doesn't quite belong either.

But it's a good place to be, he thinks. When you're neither in nor out you gain an advantage, you can observe everything from up close, and nobody seems to notice. So he does, often. He's been taking notes of all the different dynamics playing out in front of his eyes: the way Carisi and Rollins are attuned to each other's movements while never missing the chance to tease with their words, the way Fin seems comfortable in his seat between his two former partners, laughing as they exchange stories from the time in between—after he left, but before everything changed—, the way Liv leans forward towards Munch to try and hear them better, but never removes the hand that had been resting on his thigh for the last half hour. She too seems comfortable in her seat, between Elliot and John. He'd never have realized it on his own but now, knowing how much she still misses the old squad, it's easy to see she's quietly basking in the togetherness of it all. It's clear to anyone with eyes that she loves the family she's made for herself in their absence, but sometimes he wonders how often she misses being the one looked after instead of the other way around. He wishes Don could have made it, but at nearly 80 and living so far away, he couldn't fault him for missing it.

"She was a good officer turned detective," Liv answers Munch, a little sadly, "but she left the force last year, said she didn't see it changing anytime soon. She didn't want to get in too deep."

She doesn't say 'unlike me', but it's implied by her despondent tone.

"Well, she sounds like a smart kid," John states, resting a hand on her upper arm. "I'm sorry, Liv."

Elliot doesn't know what exactly he's sorry for. Maybe it's for losing a good detective, or maybe it's for the fact that Olivia's in too deep to give it up now. All he knows is that in time, watching the news started feeling like just another day of listening to John Munch's crazy theories. When did being a police officer stop being a reason for pride and started causing shame? It unsettled him in the beginning, losing yet another defining title with which to prove his worth, made him angry and reactive. His shrink says it's all based on his fleeting sense of self from an insecure attachment between him and his mentally ill mother.

He still thinks that's a load of crap.

As per usual, it was Olivia who helped him center himself enough to be able to see the other side of it. After many conversations in this last year, he's now capable of understanding where this is all coming from. God knows he's seen his fair share of wrongs happening inside the NYPD, he's done his fair share of wrongs.

"I'm really glad you could make it, John," he hears her sweet voice amidst his wandering thoughts. Somehow in the last minute the table has fallen silent, with Fin and Carisi talking quietly while Rollins is nowhere to be seen.

They've all been here a while and he can tell Olivia's pleasantly buzzed by the way she's dropped some of her armor, leaning ever so slightly into his side. He offered to drive so she could enjoy herself with her friends. It's not even a compromise because he enjoys it, enjoys watching her with them, and how it helps him fill in the gaps of all that he lost when he left her behind.

"I missed you too, Olivia," John replies, reading between the lines. Elliot wishes he could see the bashful smile he knows is spreading on her face, but alas, she's turned away from him and toward Munch.

His faux-anonymity is shattered by the clever eyes of the older Sergeant.

"So, when did this happen?" he asks, pointing knowingly at the pair of them, the corner of his lips turning ever so slightly upwards.

It's always awkward whenever anyone who knew them before brings up their relationship—except for Fin because he'd been there through it all. But, God, Elliot put off calling Don for weeks out of fear of the assumptions that could greet him on the other line. It's understandable, right? Anyone would agree that bringing up the before, now that they're living in the after, would breathe new life to all those complications that are better left unsaid, short-lived as that life may be. And yet, the thing that makes this truly uncomfortable to him is actually the opposite. Because a part of him—one that he admonishes every time it dares to sneak its troubling little head out—this secretive, hidden part of him doesn't care about any of that. It just wants the space to be thrilled that after all this time and all his mistakes, this wonderful, courageous, remarkable woman still chose to give him the time of day.

He just wants to hear someone say—

"Congratulations, you both deserve to be happy together."

This.

He craves this recognition because years of clearly defined barriers and two guilty consciences aren't easily erased. It's always there in the way both their muscle memories still keep them tense and apart whenever others are around.

Of course, it would be Munch who'd break this cycle, though. He'd seen glimpses of this sentiment in other people's eyes, but only John Munch would be brave enough to make it tangible by saying it out loud. At the end of the day, he never did learn to hold back his tongue, did he?

And Elliot would have to swallow every biting remark he's ever thrown his way, because by the way Olivia melts into him, he's just given them both the gift of freedom.

"Thank you," he tells him earnestly, easily wrapping his arm around Olivia's waist to keep her close.

"Yeah, thanks John," she reiterates, squeezing Elliot's forearm with both hands before dropping her head onto his shoulder.

"Can't say I didn't see it coming." John raises his eyebrows teasingly, again effortlessly making the unspeakable lighter by simply acknowledging it out loud.

Maybe Elliot hadn't been fair in his judgment of the old man when they worked together, after all.

Olivia just laughs in response, his arm shaking from its position around her soft belly. For a moment, he knows peace, taking in the silky feeling of her hair against his face along with the smell of her delicious shampoo. He loves how much heavier she feels in his arms when she lets herself go like this, loves that she found a way to trust him enough to share some of that weight she carries, however briefly, despite telling him she wouldn't so many months ago.

He loves her. Not that he's ever told her after that fiasco of an intervention. But he does, and he knows it, and that same hidden part knows he's loved her for most of his adult life.

But she's not ready yet, and he's learning to be patient. Besides, he's scared to death of losing this if he does, so it's easy to hold it back for now.

"Alright, I ordered us all another round of beer as I was coming back from the bathroom, hope you don't mind," Rollins says, swaying slightly as she sits back down next to an already tipsy Carisi.

She's greeted by a round of messy but enthusiastic cheering.

Soon they are all pretty buzzed. In a way, this is pretty similar to all those times they'd gone out together with the old squad, everyone making terrible jokes and bringing up dark, disturbing topics with an ease that only came from the constant exposure. Sure, rape and murder do not belong in a casual conversation so it never lasts, but there's something therapeutic about being able to talk about it with people who won't judge you for it.

"God, this is so much better than last year," Rollins admits pointedly, and everyone but him and Munch makes some noise of agreement.

"It's still the twenty-first," Carisi intervenes, "who's jinxing it now?"

"Wait, what happened last year?" John asks, and Elliot's glad he's not the only one feeling left out.

Olivia tenses, tries to distance herself but he can't let her go. Not when something clearly happened last Christmas, after Wheatley's trial and her heartbroken admission. After she'd dropped everything to help him find his son, after they'd agreed to rekindle their friendship, after she'd brought Noah to meet not only him but his whole family. Just…after. And he still doesn't know what it is that happened to her.

"Yeah, Olivia," he whispers in her ear, trying but failing to leave the anger out of his voice, "what the hell happened last year?"

"Oh, it was awful," Rollins answers Munch, oblivious to Elliot, while Olivia stays eerily silent, motionless in his arms. "It's Christmas Eve and we all get called in to deal with this surge of hate crimes. I really don't wanna go into details and sour our night but shit got ugly." She nods for emphasis.

"Yeah," Fin agrees, "a bomb threat in New York City would'a sucked any other day, but knowing we could'a been celebrating with our families really added insult to injury."

Elliot's every muscle feels tight. He's immobile because he's scared of what he might do if he dares to move. He's more than angry, but it has no focus, no real target.

"Yeah, it was the worst Christmas of my whole life, and I come from a family of abuse," Rollins continues, loose-tongued as she points her finger at Fin. She's probably wasted, or she wouldn't be sharing so much, but Elliot couldn't stop her if he wanted to. "And to think it wasn't even me who pulled the trigger, I can't imagine what—"

She's likely still talking, but Elliot can't listen anymore, feeling the way Olivia pulls away and withdraws into herself. He knows he's expected to hold back, to wait till they're alone to even bring this up again, but he can't. Not when shots were fired and Olivia is looking more distressed with every word that comes out of Amanda's mouth. He leans into her, grabs her arm and pulls her back towards him, his voice low and private even as he feels everyone on the table staring at them. "What does she mean, she didn't have to pull the trigger, Liv?"

Olivia glances around, uneasy, so he gathers as much restraint as he can manage and tugs her up and away from the table and its meddling eyes. He thinks he hears her say something like 'excuse us' from behind him but his ears are ringing and he's in a rush, so he can't be sure. They reach a dark corner where fewer eyes are looking at them and none of them belong to any of their colleagues.

It'll have to do.

Their abrupt stop causes the Captain to sway, a sign she's not completely sober, and Elliot thinks he should hold back. He probably would if he could, but he asks again, "What happened last Christmas, Olivia?" Voice rough and face dark.

Seemingly tired of his attitude, she raises her chin and answers him defiantly. "I did my job, Elliot."

If he didn't know any better, he would take her annoyance at face value, and think the drop in octave was only frustration at his behavior. But he does know better, he knows when that particular crinkle appears in her eye, it's because they're burning from the effort not to cry, and that most times when she sets her jaw just this way, it's because she's willing her chin not to tremble.

God, why are they fighting again?

Why did this have to become so confrontational?

Oh, right, he feels betrayed by her.

But he never wants to hurt her, so he tries to soften the blow. "I'm sure you did what you had to, but why didn't you tell me?" He needs to keep up his tough facade, though, because he's afraid if he doesn't his voice will crack.

"Why? Elliot, really?" she sounds exasperated.

"Yeah, Olivia, really!" He's grown defensive, "It was after we'd agreed to find some balance in this, why didn't you call me?! I could have been there for you!"

"Oh could you?!" She raises her voice as well. The tables around them are watching now but Elliot doesn't notice, all he can see is the anger and the hurt and the overwhelming sadness in Olivia's eyes. Even after all this time, after everything they've built together this year, one word from him and she's back in that hospital waiting room, scared and alone. And his heart breaks just a little bit more as he knows he is the reason, he will always be the reason. "Really?" It drips with irony. "Oh, I'm so sorry I didn't jump right into trusting you with my whole heart the second you so much as hinted you would be there for me."

Oh.

It does sound ridiculous when she puts it like that.

Will he ever run out of regrets when it comes to how he's treated her?

He deflates right then and there but she continues, less attuned to his moods than usual, between the anger and the alcohol.

"No, you're completely right," she sneers, "I should have picked up my damn phone and called you to come home with me the Monday after the Christmas weekend from hell instead of picking my son up and spending time with him." Olivia stops abruptly, out of breath. "I can cope on my own, Elliot, I've been doing it my whole life. And besides, you were back in revenge mode against Wheatley and I didn't know if you were even gonna answer, why the hell would I give you the chance to snub me again?" Her cheeks are red and her chest is heaving but she continues. "I've had enough of that to last me a lifetime, don't ya think?" Then she stops, looks down, and deflates completely. The fire that had been burning in her eyes going out as easily as a matchstick. At last she mutters, "God, even now, it still triggers me when you don't answer your fucking phone."

Elliot's become familiar with this feeling. This utter disappointment and sadness that overwhelms him whenever she lets him know yet another layer of the hurt he's caused her over the years. He's grateful she doesn't hold it against him in their daily lives. No, if anything, she always makes sure to focus on the present, always makes sure to show him, if not openly tell him yet, just how happy he makes her. If it weren't for these odd moments where she's not quite herself, he'd likely never know, so, as much as it may make him sound like a masochist, he welcomes them. He lets the pain and the sorrow invade the cavity of his chest because he firmly believes he deserves to feel even a slice of what she's been keeping inside of hers.

How else will he learn?

He adds 'change Liv's ringtone' to his growing list of mental notes, so he can make sure to always answer her calls when he has a choice. But in doing so he stays silent too long, because she breaks it in a small voice. "I would have called if I knew you would answer."

"If it's up to me, Liv, I'll always answer when you call," he pledges. "I don't ever wanna hurt like I did when I made myself let you go." His throat hurts from how tight it is, his eyes burn, and he's tired of concealing the size of the emotion this woman provokes in him. So he blinks, lets the muscles of his neck relax a little and soon there are ancient sobs escaping his mouth. "I know I've hurt you." He doesn't recognize his own weeping voice. "I know, but don't think for a second it didn't crush me too."

Olivia doesn't hush him this time, doesn't dry his tears or tell him it's going to be alright. Even slightly intoxicated, she seems to understand this is the only way to relieve the anguish he's been carrying with him, the guilt. So she steps closer, uncrosses his arms and inserts herself against his chest before burrowing her wet face—when did she start crying?—in the crook of his neck. Like magnets, his arms lift to hold her there.

They always hurt, these moments of truth that seem to be few and far between, but God, they heal too. And he thinks he'd agree to a hundred arguments if they always ended up like this. He knows from experience her heat is much, much better than her absence.

"I'll call next time."

"Hmhmm." He squeezes her tighter. "And I'll answer."

•••

February 14th, 2023

Elliot Stabler's Apartment, Long Island, 8:49 PM

"Dad, relax, it's going to be fine," Kathleen says as she walks around the apartment, making sure it all looks perfect while also grabbing her things.

She's going out with her boyfriend Sam tonight but she'd made sure to stop by just to help him set up for his date with Olivia. He thinks, out of all his children, Kathleen is the one who loves Olivia the most. With the others, especially with Eli to whom Olivia was basically a stranger, there had been an adjustment period, a couple of months when he'd avoid bringing her up afraid they'd resent him—or worse, resent her—for being happy after what happened to their mother.

"Are you finally going to tell her?" she asks from her spot next to the kitchen counter, keys already in hand.

It's Valentine's Day and he knows what he wants to tell her. It's the same three words he's been biting back for years, the same ones he'd failed to hold back once, at the worst possible moment. He's still terrified they'll scare her away, though, so he plays stupid.

"Tell her what?"

"Dad!" She's playing up her exasperation. "C'mon, don't be an idiot."

He exhales heavily.

"I don't know Katie, it's been less than a year, I'm not sure she's ready—"

He's interrupted by her coming up to him and resting both hands on his shoulders, before whispering, "It's been over twenty years."

The way his throat closes up is familiar, as are the anxious excuses that jump out of his mouth. "Kathleen, no, we've never—"

"I know, Dad," she interrupts him again. "I know that. And I know you loved Mom, but I also know you've always loved her too." Her right-hand drops to the left side of his chest. "Your heart was always big enough for all of us."

He swallows hard. "Whenever did you get so smart, Katie?"

She laughs at him, patting him just above his heart and moving toward the door. Just before seeing herself out, she turns, "You guys raised us right. Enjoy your date, dad."

Jesus.

When he finally steps out of his stupor, she's already gone and a glance at the clock tells him Olivia will be here any minute. He looks around at the flowers decorating the small apartment, the silky white tablecloth Bernie had insisted on and the soft, romantic music coming out of his laptop in the corner of the room.

Everything's beautifully decorated.

The room looks flawless, the fettucine he'd prepared earlier smells delicious and he's in his best suit.

He has half a mind to undo everything, make it all messy and normal again, but he knows Olivia deserves more than that, so he sits down and lets his mind wander.

Ding dong.

His heart is beating so fast he's afraid it's going to come out of his mouth soon.

'This is silly', he thinks, as he gets up to open the door, 'we've been dating for months now, I shouldn't be this nervous.'

But deep down, he knows why there's adrenaline rushing through his veins tonight, making his limbs shaky and his palms sweaty.

He's going all in.

And it's not because it's Valentine's Day. He's—they've—never cared much for these made-up holidays, always too busy with real-life issues to give it any attention. Hell, the only times they even noticed were because some perp got inspired by it and committed some terrible crime or other. But he's been using them as checkpoints, as ways to measure the time it takes him until he finally bursts at the seams with the sheer amount of feeling he's been concealing from her.

He hasn't even told her he loves her.

That she's the love of his life.

And he's terrified of her reaction because he knows she doesn't fully trust him yet, knows she's always been a runner when it comes to relationships. It's so much safer to keep to himself, to let her set the pace but—

"Elliot?" she calls from the other side of the door, the tiniest flicker of doubt, of fear, coloring her voice at his delay, and he knows he's gotta tell her.

She deserves to know what she means to him.

What she's always meant to him.

"Comin', Liv," he replies, opening it at last.

She looks incredible in her forest green dress that only comes down to her knees. Her hair is even wavier than usual tonight and the light makeup she put on would annoy him for hiding her freckles, if it didn't also make her eyes look like this.

Between the shock of seeing her all dressed up for him and his previous train of thought, he very nearly blurts out his love for her again.

"Hi," he greets instead, smiling sheepishly at her.

"Hey, El," she answers easily, a head tilt and narrowed eyes the only clue she finds his nervousness at all unusual.

But that's before he steps back and allows her to enter. As soon as she takes in the romantic picture before her—and it's way over the top, if he's being honest—she gasps and looks at him, a myriad of questions burning in her brown eyes.

All he can do is shrug, before offering to take her overcoat.

It takes her a moment, but he can see the exact minute she decides to go along with it, dropping her coat from her shoulders and into his waiting hands.

"You really went all out, huh?" she teases, but it's done softly, carefully, as if she senses how important this is for him.

And he thought he couldn't love her more before tonight. What an idiot.

It's not that they haven't been on dates before, okay? It's just that they've always been defined by practicality—Benson and Stabler and their gruesome daily lives. So it was only natural that, even after getting together, they'd favor good food, comfortable clothes, and good company over romantic settings. That, and they still had the job, which didn't allow for much of anything else.

"I did." He drapes the coat carefully over a chair. "But so did you," he whispers, letting his eyes take her in once more.

She blushes at him, smoky eyes nervously dancing around his face.

Olivia's beautiful.

The thought sits there for a long moment, eclipsing all others. He remembers how, once upon a time, when she was still young enough that maybe the job hadn't yet consumed all of her hopes and dreams, she'd dress up and attempt to date. There was nothing practical about the dresses she wore then, nor the heels. Jesus. He'd been jealous, obviously, and anyone with eyes would have noticed that. But now she's here, all dressed up just for him, and it's this knowledge alone that allows him to take a calming breath and move the night forward.

Even if Benson and Stabler had always been about take-outs and casual clothes, there was a woman in Olivia that had once longed for romance. And by god, Elliot wants nothing more than to give it to her now.

"Would you like some wine?"

She bites her lips, still a little thrown by the change in their dynamic, but she nods anyway.

As much as he wants the romance, he doesn't like to see her uncomfortable, so he draws close, resting a warm hand on her upper arm before quietly saying, "Relax, Liv, it's just me."

She snorts. "I could tell you the same thing." But she smiles and he figures both their nerves are as calm as they'll get for the time being.

So he occupies himself with filling their glasses, wishing it wasn't too cold outside for them to use the small table on the patio. But it is, so they'll have to make do with this much larger piece of furniture. He hopes the way he's set it up—her at the head, him by her side—makes up for it.

This night is about coming together, not drifting apart.

"Elliot," she laughs awkwardly when he motions for her to sit and attempts to pull back her chair, "I can pull my own chair, you know?" It's still light, but he can see her discomfort growing by the minute.

He wishes he knew how to do this without everything feeling so…out of place.

Fuck it, he's in too deep, there's no backing out now.

"I'm aware of that, Captain," he tells her, masking his nerves behind a joking tone, "but I wanted to do it for you."

He can never hide anything from her, though, so he rushes to the kitchen in search of their food, and a couple of minutes to just breathe. He's in a three-piece suit and he's sweating. He can feel how wet his armpits are but there's no way he can justify a change of clothes right now, so he merely drops his jacket by the counter and quickly checks to see if he's started to smell—he hasn't, thank god. But then his head snaps back in her direction. Why did he have to choose to live in a fucking open floor apartment?

So much for romance.

Luckily, Olivia's distracted by her wine, twirling it with a flick of her wrist before tasting it slowly. She's still there, patiently waiting for him, and other than both of their anxieties there's nothing really wrong about this date. She's just responding to his useless agitation, that's all.

Just get a grip.

You've seen this woman naked, for god's sakes.

What's there to be nervous about?

After this small pep talk, and before he remembers how he's meaning to risk every ground they've covered in their relationship in the name of being honest, he finally moves to get their food on their plates and onto the table.

"Buon Appetito." He sets her plate first.

"Buon Appetito." She smiles, her accent effortlessly better than his.

"You've fed me all sorts of Italian pasta, and I still can't believe you can cook for yourself," she teases.

He relaxes just a little bit, sitting down next to her.

"And I can't believe I'm the one who's lived in Italy for ten years and you're the one with the flawless accent."

She snorts, licks her bottom lip to taste some of the sauce. "You do know your accent isn't defined by how long you practice a language, right?" She takes her time rolling some of the fettucini around her fork and tasting it. The way her eyes close in pleasure, it takes everything in him to hold back a groan.

"No?"

"Hm, hm," she opens her eyes, "it all depends on how old you are when you do learn it. Just so happens my mother was a scholar who loved teaching languages, even if English was always her favorite."

"Oh, that explains how fast Eli was to not only learn it, but also start correcting mine and Kathy's pronunciation." The second the words leave his mouth he wants to swallow them back.

He was not supposed to be talking about his wife right now.

Olivia is unbothered, though, clearly enjoying her food and wine. Much less uncomfortable by this than she'd been by his attempts at charming her.

What a mess.

"I learned both Italian and Spanish as a teen, so mine isn't perfect either," she states. "Luckily, learning to cook doesn't have an expiration date for greatness, huh?"

And that's the second time tonight he almost blurts it out.

Fuck it. It's not like the knots in his stomach are letting him eat, in any case.

Elliot pushes his food to the side, swallows what's left of his wine, and moves closer to her. He sees her eyes widen in surprise.

"Elliot?"

"Liv."

She's apprehensive again and he reminds himself one of the reasons he's decided to bare his heart today is so he can quench some of her doubts once and for all. It's absurd how little she still feels he cares about her. He knows it because he's been privy to too many of these moments of insecurity in the months they've dated. Even before.

She huffs, finally impatient. "What's going on, Elliot?"

"Liv, I know I've been acting odd tonight," he admits, and she laughs, relieved. "The truth is, I've been meaning to tell you something."

Aaaand, she tenses up again.

He knows she's probably conjuring up the scariest scenarios, so he tries to move it along. "It's nothing bad." And she swallows. "It's not even news, really." She narrows her eyes.

"Out with it, then," she prods, apprehensive.

For the longest time, all he can do is look down at her eyes. He's been biting this back for so long, he's afraid he doesn't know how to let it out.

"Elliot," her voice is tight, "you're scaring me. What's going on?"

He blinks, takes a deep breath in preparation.

"I love you." It's that same startled, impulsive tone he used the last time, and he hates it, but Olivia's just smiling at him in relief.

"Oh," she sighs, "I love you too, El."

Wait.

That's it?

She's just…going back to her pasta now? She's not running away?

Elliot must be staring because she asks him, "Are you ready to eat your dinner now?"

He just shakes his head, confused. He wants to believe it's this simple, but—

"That's it?" he asks incredulously.

She swallows her pasta and cleans her mouth with a napkin before dignifying him with an answer.

"Elliot, this isn't the first time you've told me you love me," she says matter-of-factly. "And besides, we've been dating for a while now, so I figured you must care about me at least a little bit if you're willing to put up with me this long," she adds jokingly.

Oh no.

She's joking about it.

She's still talking about herself as someone he needs to put up with.

She's saying he cares about her, as if his care and his love are interchangeable.

She most certainly doesn't get it.

"Liv, no, this isn't it," he tries.

Her brows furrow in confusion.

"Oh, so you don't love me?" she's still joking, he thinks, one eyebrow moving up questioningly. But he recognizes a good diversion tactic when he sees it.

"Olivia," he huffs, irritated, "of course I do!"

She blinks, "So then, what's the problem?"

"The problem is you're not listening to me!"

"Oh," her expression is still blank, "okay."

"For Christ's sake, Benson, I'm trying to tell you that I love you, I'm in love with you, that that creep Wheatley was right when he said you're the love of my fucking life!"

He's breathing so loudly when he finishes, he almost doesn't hear the weak 'what?' that comes out of her mouth.

"Am I dreaming?" She pinches her arm. "I'm not dreaming, right? You're really saying this to me?"

"I'm telling you you're the love of my life," he repeats.

"No," she shakes her head, growing more adamant when he nods, insisting. "No. No, you can't—" she breathes. "Take it back. Take it back, please."

"I can't take it back Olivia, why would you want me to—" But he realizes she's not listening to him anymore.

Her voice is quavering and she looks…wrecked.

"Why are you saying this to me?" she manages to whisper. "You've got me, I—I'm here with y-you." She looks up, blinking rapidly because the fighter that lives in her refuses to let her tears escape. "Why are you lying to me?"

Her heartbreak is palpable, and all Elliot can think is that he doesn't know how this all went so utterly and completely wrong.

He's once again paralyzed by the shock of her reaction.

"Elliot," she's using her deeper register now, though her voice still falters when she continues, "I c—can't do this right now." In a flash she's up, striding past him. "I'm gonna go."

She's running. He's been afraid of this very thing all along, but part of him still can't believe that she's leaving. Again.

They're both too old for this.

But of course, old or not, he's going after her, pulling her back by the arm just as she reaches for the door.

"Olivia, what are you doing?" He turns her around with his other hand on her shoulder. "I'm not lying, damnit, why can't you believe me?"

She's not looking at him, unable to reach his gaze and he can see her jaw set tight, willing her chin to stop trembling. He carefully slides his hand along her jaw, tilting her head upwards until she has no choice but to look at him again.

Her eyes are soft beneath her lashes, wounded and vulnerable and willing him to let her go but he holds on, watches as she gives in to the tears one by one until his hand is damp.

He's never seen her like this.

He wishes more than anything that he knew what to do to help her, but before he can think of something her eyes flash and she wraps desperate fists around the fabric of his vest. "Please, don't ruin this for me." She blinks wildly against the tears. "I'm happy for once, I don't need anything more, just—" Her breath hitches. "I need to know that what we have is true, I can't take you lying to me," she begs.

"Olivia, God, why is it so hard for you to get it into this stubborn head of yours that I'm not lying to you?!" At some point tears had begun to fall for Elliot too, hot and angry.

That's when she grows quiet. She lets go of his shirt, dries her now impassive face and just…gives up. All of that despair gone as quickly as it came.

"Well, Elliot," she clears her throat, trying to get her voice back to normal, "if you're not lying to me, then I guess you're just lying to yourself," she states with a bitter smile.

Elliot can feel the muscles on his neck tense in frustration. "Why the hell do you think you know more about how I feel than I do?"

She just rolls her eyes at him. Dares to look at him fondly.

It's so condescending it makes him want to scream.

"Because I was there for all of it," she explains, patiently. "Well, most of it," she adds after a moment.

Elliot has the dangerous urge to quite literally shake some sense into her, but even now he's aware he'd rather chew glass than ever harm a hair on Olivia's head. Instead, he closes his hands into the tightest possible fists.

Olivia seems to notice he's mere seconds from breaking, for she slips closer and hooks her arms around his neck, whispering, "I believe you love me, El, and that's more than enough. You don't need to turn it into more than—"

He breaks.

In an instant he's on her, both of them falling against the closed door. One of his arms coming up to her head and grabbing a fist of her hair, while the other wraps around her waist, pulling her into him with a force that'll leave them both bruised in the morning. His hot mouth finds hers with unprecedented hunger, searching for her tongue and tasting the wine and the fettucini and her.

If he steals all of her oxygen away she won't be able to deny his feelings again.

Who could ever fault his logic?

She's whimpering against his mouth, running a hand up and down his neck and the back of his head. It feels so deliciously good, even amidst his anger, that some lost, drifting part of him vows never to complain about his lack of hair ever again.

"You," he kisses her mouth.

"Are," her nose.

"The," her cheek.

"Love," both her eyes.

"Of," her chin.

"My," her neck.

"Life."

And he steals her breath away again for long, heavenly minutes.

Eventually though, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other one time too many, reminding him she's still in heels and her ankles aren't what they used to be. He seems to have evaded her escape so, thanking his lucky stars, he pulls her toward the couch.

He likes her here, where he can press her back into the cushion and just focus on drawing those wonderful little sounds from her throat; she's so responsive when he focuses his attention on her left ear. But she's always been a giver more than a taker, so it comes as no surprise that she doesn't stay far behind, using her lips and her tongue and her teeth to make him delirious with pleasure.

"Ugh," he groans when she finds the right spot on his neck. "Fuck, Liv, it's never like this with anyone else."

It breaks the spell, but once he gets over his immediate yearning he can't bring himself to care. He's decided he's not going to hold back with her, ever again.

"Elliot," Olivia admonishes him with kiss-swollen lips. It takes everything in him not to resume their previous activities, but it's a physical ache now, his need for her to understand.

"Olivia," he admonishes her right back. "I'm not lying."

She squeezes her eyes shut, exhaling hard. When she opens them again, she tries to reason with him. "I appreciate your attempt at romance, I really do, but you can stop at the wining and dining next time, okay?"

This would have definitely made him angry if he didn't have his arms wrapped snugly around her, her weight against him. As it is, he can finally focus on trying to properly communicate. "Liv," he murmurs in her ear, feeling her shiver against him, "before, you said 'you were there for all of it', what did you mean by that?"

She pulls away, looking intently into the blue of his eyes. "You're really going to make me say it, aren't you?"

"We gotta be honest with each other, Liv," he reasons.

"Yeah," she breathes, "I guess."

Her anxiety is obvious from the way she pulls away, avoids his eyes, right down to her hands now twisted together on her lap. When she does look up again, she says, "I know I'm not the love of your life, Elliot, because I was there for a lot of it." She swallows. "I was there through the ups and downs of your marriage, your separation." She glances away quickly, as if afraid of what she might see in his eyes. Or what he might see in hers. "I was there when you started hooking up with other people, and when you went back to your wife," she finishes in a small voice. "I was right there, El, and you never—not even once—chose—" She chokes, unable to finish the sentence.

But Elliot hears it loud and clear.

You never chose me.

"And then I was still there while you figured out what you wanted, even after y—you put your family first and decided to l—leave me behind." Her lip quivers, her voice grows ever quieter with each word it forms. "B—because I never managed to walk away from the love of my…" she trails off, fists the skirt of her dress and tries to hold back a sob.

His whole chest burns.

She's not done, though, clearing her throat again. "So, you see, I know you don't love me like that."

It's his turn to whimper.

"It's really okay, El, I don—" she stops to moisten her still swollen lower lip. "I've never expected that you would." She widens her eyes at him as if urging him to understand.

Tears are streaming down his cheeks now but he's so far past caring, the pain he feels inside is so great, even the concept of shame or pride escapes him completely.

"I know I'm not—" She struggles to find the words, looking around helplessly before settling on, "I'm not to you what you are to me, I've always known that." Her self-deprecating smile is a dagger straight to his heart. "But now you've given me more than I ever dared to hop—" she cuts herself off, suddenly pale. "I'm sorry," she shakes her head avoiding his eyes, "of course I never hoped that Kathy, that she'd—"

He can't take this anymore.

He weeps for her. For them, for all the choices he's made to leave her so certain of her meager, insignificant spot in his life.

It's the furthest thing from the truth.

"El?" she asks softly, tentatively bringing her hands up to dry his face. "I'm sorry," she soothes, "I shouldn't have brought her up."

He chokes up on all the reassurances he wan—, no, desperately needs to give her. While his mouth isn't cooperating, and forming actual words seems unachievable, he brings both his hands around to cup her face, shaking his head in denial while his fingers caress her cheeks.

"You've got it all wrong," he finds his voice, at last.

"Oh?"

"Yeah," he whispers softly. "I didn't keep my distance because I didn't care." His fingers travel down to the corner of her mouth and her eyes flutter closed. "I did it because I'm a coward, and I loved you too much."

Her pretty brown eyes snap open. She seems to be at a loss for words, utterly confused. "You did?"

He laughs in disbelief.

"Yeah, I did. I still do. Nothing could ever make it go away." His hands now travel towards her head, fingers tangling in the silky strands just the way he's learned she loves. Her eyes are closed with pleasure when he continues. "Not when you went to computer crimes, or Oregon," he tugs softly at the hair at the nape of her head as if in reprimand and she whines, "not when I hooked up with other people or when I went back home." He nuzzles her nose with his. "Not even when I ran away to a different continent for ten years, did I ever stop loving you, thinking of you, yearning for you."

This is where she'd usually bring up his marriage, an expression of guilt passing by her face so fleetingly you'd miss it if you blinked. But she just hums, content, and he knows that finally, oh God, finally, they are on the same page.

He sighs, taking in her blissful, relaxed expression.

This is insane.

They've had sex before.

Incredible, hot, two decades' worth of sexual tension relieved sex.

And this still feels like the most intimate moment they've ever shared.

Because they'd shed their clothes before, but now they're shedding away their defenses, leaving their souls bare for the other to see, trusting they won't hurt each other anymore.

When he stays quiet too long, Olivia lazily opens her eyes, not a glimpse of that familiar fear to be found in them. She just turns her face into his hand that had inadvertently stopped its caresses and mewls her request for more.

He openly laughs, inundated by so much relief and joy and love for the woman in front of him. His hands go back to work and she openly moans, biting her lips.

Elliot is a lucky motherfucker, because if this is how an open, relaxed Olivia reacts to a head massage, he cannot wait to find out how she reacts to everything else.

"Do you believe me now?" he mutters, an indefinite amount of time later. He knows she does, but he still wants to hear her say it.

She finally sits up, pulling his hands from her head and holding onto them before giving him a brilliant smile. "Do I believe what?"

He smirks, intertwining their fingers before giving her what she wants. "That I love you." He drops a kiss onto her pretty lips. "That I've loved you for the longest time." Another kiss. "That you, Olivia Benson, are the love of my life." He gives her a deeper kiss before pulling back to look at her.

"Well, I suppose I don't have a choice," she tries to tease, but her grin gives her away. When she finally gets herself under control, she tells him, seriously, "I've loved you too, Elliot, for longer than I'm willing to admit." He just squeezes her hand in understanding.

He could stay here forever, holding her against him, stealing kisses whenever they feel like it. Just being here, together.

"El?"

"What?"

"You know I never meant to come between you and your family, right?"

He just chuckles. Of course, part of her will always worry.

"I know."

She settles against his chest for a minute, before—

"El?"

To say he's amused by her childish antics is an understatement.

"You never did manage to eat your dinner, did you?

He laughs out at that.

"Why do you ask, babe?"

She stares at him for the nickname, but slides a hand down his abdomen. "Your stomach's growling. "

He grabs both her sides, holding her to him. "I think I'm hungrier for something else," he rasps against the shell of her ear.

She shivers, gasps, but then disentangles herself from his arms, slowly. "C'mon, the pasta's delicious, and dessert will still be here when you're finished." She pulls him up by the wrists.

"So you admit my cooking is delicious?" he asks, stepping ahead of her to reheat the fettucini for them both because he knows she'll want another serving.

"I've been complimenting it all night, Elliot, you were the one too preoccupied with declarations of love to notice," she quips, moving effortlessly around his space to help him with the dishes.

"Oh, forgive me for wanting to make sure you knew how I feel about you," he grumbles.

"Yeah, at least fifteen years too late," she mumbles under her breath, only half-joking. He catches it, nonetheless.

"I promise to spend the next fifteen years making up for lost time if you'll let me," he says after they're both sitting down at the table once more.

Olivia just laughs. "Elliot."

"What?" he asks, between blowing on his scalding pasta.

"You are aware we'll be in our seventies by then, right?"

He just furrows his brows, offended at her implication. "So?"

"Oh, Lord help me," she laughs some more.

And Elliot makes one last vow to himself to make good on this promise, in every way he can.