This is painful, but EO is endgame- ALWAYS. I'll get there, I promise.

Chapter 1

This is the strangest abduction Liv's ever faced. She almost laughs at the fact that she's been through so many now to compare and contrast. She's not even sure what to call this hiccup in her day. A forceful invitation? An offer she couldn't refuse? An intervention? She drove here by herself and walked inside on her own two feet. She's not handcuffed or bound in any way. She's free to speak- no duct tape over her mouth. For these caveats, she's grateful. However, she knows not to underestimate her captor. Wheatley may be charming, but she sees the venom seeping from his Cheshire-cat smile.

And then there's Elliot. When she arrived, he was already seated at their table. The look on his face told the tale: he was summoned here much in the same way that she was: forcefully, yet diplomatically. Wheatley was as menacing and threatening as he could be as a free man, not technically breaking any laws but reeling them in with all of the things he wasn't saying. They both knew what he was capable of and knew what refusing him could mean. As infuriating as this was, neither had a choice, and the first sight of each other marked glances of worry and frustration. Wheatley putting them both in the same room, at their little diner table that he somehow knew about, was a ploy. Olivia was genuinely curious as to why, but Elliot seemed like he already knew. After a decade, she could still read him, and he was ready to pounce.

Wheatley acted like he had invited them to a dinner party and carried on like the ringmaster of a circus. He seemed irked that a diner didn't match his level of style and debonair suaveness, but he carried himself as if they were in a Michelin star restaurant. He chose this place for a reason; of this, she was certain. Once she was facing Elliot at the table, Wheatley pulled up a chair to join their booth. Reaching inside a bag, he pulled out an insulated container and three glasses.

"How about vodka martinis for the table?" His voice is calm, melodious even, as his eyes fixate on Olivia's as he shook the container and poured. "A little fancy and formal for a diner, but I insist." With this decree, his voice turns deeper, threatening, stoic.

Olivia grits her teeth and glares at Wheatley, their eyes both confirming the truth. He knows. Goddammit, he knows, and he's going to politely, nonchalantly, chillingly instill permanent pain on her tonight to torture Elliot. She repeats a mantra in her head: detach, detach, detach. Detach from this moment, detach from Wheatley and Elliot, detach from the inevitable taste of vodka hitting her lips for the first time in almost nine years. Her eyes remain focused and clear as she wills herself to stay centered and present through this madness.

"Now, now, Wheatley," she says, almost playfully, "I don't drink vodka, but I suspect you already knew that."

He chuckles a conspiratorial laugh, something intimately reserved for the two of them, as Elliot looks on with a furrowed brow, seemingly perplexed. She sees him in her peripheral vision and can tell he senses something horrible is about to happen, but he is rendered helpless by his ignorance. She desperately wishes she could silently communicate with him as they did for the duration of their partnership, but this is beyond any realm of reason. There is no way for him to guess or predict the horror that is about to unravel.

"Captain Benson, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist that you join me in this toast. I know the last thing you want to do is disrespect me. We are having a fine evening so far."

She grabs the drink and casually twirls the stem in her hand. "What are we celebrating?"

Wheatley lifts his glass high and doesn't speak until both she and Elliot have extended their glasses to match his. "To partners."

Olivia winces at the words, the same toast she and Elliot made the night of Fin's wedding. Wheatley watches her intensely as she puts the drink to her lips. She takes the tiniest sip and waits for the wave of terror to strike. Surprisingly, she still feels remarkably numb. Detached.

"Always in each other's corner. Always have each other's backs. Right, you two? Olivia-may I call you Olivia?- Wouldn't you say that Detective Stabler has always protected you?"

She raises an eyebrow in mock indifference. "In the twelve years that we were partners, yes."

"And then he just-"

"-left. Yes, Stabler retired. What's your point?" She struggles to maintain composure while her brain registers one torturous thought: she could have told El about Lewis anytime over the past nine months but reasoned it away with sympathy, with pride, with anger, with confusion. Now she has lost control of her narrative, and there's no turning back. And she's devastated. She honestly never wanted Elliot to know; she especially never wanted him to know like this.

Wheatley continues, his voice a gloat-filled sneer. "My point is, in his ten-year absence, you went through a lot. Didn't you, Olivia?"

"Ten years is a long time. Doesn't anyone go through highs and lows?" She tries, tries so hard to keep the conversation light. She knows it won't last long.

"Lows? Is that what you are calling them? Wow, I'm impressed by your composure and dignity, Olivia." He grins as he motions for her to take another sip from her glass. He's not going to let her off easy, especially with Elliot watching.

She takes another sip. Internally she's screaming, but not for the reasons she was expecting. What pisses her off the most is that Wheatley is winning. He's the puppet master, and she and Elliot are the marionettes. He knows exactly which strings to pull to get them to fold. At that moment, as her detachment wanes and she feels the vodka sting her tongue, she comes up with an insane idea. It's going to hurt like hell, and she's not sure how she'll ever be able to look Elliot in the eyes again, but this bastard isn't going to win. Her narrative. Her way.

Holding her glass, she motions Elliot with it but doesn't look at him, keeping her focus on Wheatley. She'll save the emotions for another day. Just rip off the bandaid, Benson. "You see, Elliot, Wheatley knows that I don't drink vodka. Vodka is a trigger for my PTSD, stemming from an attack nine years ago."

She sees Elliot in her peripheral vision and notices that the face she was expecting, the one she envisioned for years as she recited the mantra of this story in her head, is not the face she is seeing. She expected to see his eyes widening with surprise, fists balled up with rage, body language wrought with the burning, bubbling fury of getting sucker-punched by mere words. However, Elliot seems… guilty. Like he was just caught with his hands in the cookie jar. His eyes, brimming with tears as they dart between her and Wheatley. At this point, she is truly confused by this entire situation. She wills herself to continue her act. Scoffing, she puts down her glass in indifference. "Is this truly why you brought me here? Frankly, I'm over this story." She rolls her eyes and manages to maintain the neutrality of her voice, the calm, low demeanor she saves for interrogation rooms.

Wheatley laughs again, practically giggling with glee. "Oh no, Olivia. You see, it took me a little while to figure it out, but I finally realized what would truly make Elliot hurt. No need to tell your story. I want Elliot to tell his."

"Excuse me?"

"The worst pain for Elliot was not to see his wife die but to see the spark in your eyes die. To see how his actions have destroyed you. Even in his absence. Right, Elliot?" Your absence?

Olivia chances a full-on look at Elliot, and she sees that the color has visibly drained from his face. What the fuck is he talking about? She can do nothing but wait and wonder, and once again, let Wheatley have the ultimate control.

"You see, Olivia, he already knows all about William Lewis. Isn't that right, Elliot?"

She flinches ever so slightly. She takes a breath and lifts an indignant brow. "He's been back for months, Wheatley. It doesn't surprise me that someone told him. I mean, he could Google it, for Christ's sake. What's your point?" She's trying to reason with a mastermind, and she already knows she's failing. Because this guy always seems to be two steps ahead, to know things he shouldn't. Her stomach drops- she knows something awful is on the horizon. If Wheatley's grin doesn't confirm it, Elliot's silence does.

"Detective Stabler, where were you in May of 2013? When your partner, I'm sorry, ex-partner, was kidnapped for four days and tortured within an inch of her life. When she was bound, gagged, drugged, burned… where were you?"

Olivia freezes. She tries not to look at him again, but she needs to read his face. She sees terror and tears. Her heart races; she's never before been so afraid of an answer.

"Detective Stabler, are you going to tell her, or should I?"

She hears Elliot's remorse before he even begins to speak, and she knows. His sigh, the droop of his shoulders, his apologetic body language. She can't hear this, but she has no choice.

"I was here. In New York."