"You're joking, right?"
"Come on, Tia, please?"
She crosses her arms over her chest, trying her best to appear unaffected by his boyish smile, his bright blue eyes. Trying, and failing, because despite all evidence to the contrary Elliot Stabler is actually a charming man. He's charming, and she likes him, maybe more than she should. They're both married, both parents, friends who sometimes stand too close after too many glasses of wine. Sometimes on Friday nights Tia and Leo go to Elliot's home for dinner; sometimes on Friday nights Tia stands in the kitchen with Kathy while the men talk sports and Elliot's son plays video games with her son, and sometimes on Friday nights she catches Elliot's eye and thinks if only. If only they were alone, properly alone, just once, maybe…but then Kathy laughs, and when Kathy laughs Elliot only has eyes for his wife and the spell is broken. Elliot is her friend, nothing more.
And friends do favors for each other.
"You're the liaison," she reminds him ruthlessly. It's all for show; she's already decided to do this favor for him. Her mind was made up the moment he asked. "Shouldn't you liaise?"
"I'm drowning here," he grumbles in that uncivilized accent she has grown so fond of. "And the last thing I wanna do is go suck up to the brass when I could be working."
It's an irritating habit of his, the incomprehensible colloquialisms he drops without thought, but it's not that hard to figure out what he means from context.
"So I should have to do it?"
"Come on," he says again, grinning. "He'll take one look at you and fall in love."
Sometimes he says things like that and she doesn't know what he means. If he's flirting or teasing without intent. It's maddening but addictive, in its own way, this dance they do, this dance she's not even sure he's aware of. An air of possibility floats between them, and he may be ignorant of it but she's not.
"Do you even know who this captain is?"
Elliot shrugs. "I'm sure I've got an email about it."
But Elliot has about a thousand unread emails in his inbox. He's been slipping lately, dissatisfied with the work. It makes Tia nervous. He's the first interesting thing to happen to her in ages and she isn't ready to see him go.
They're working a sex trafficking case with ties to both Rome and New York, and the NYPD is antsy, and they're sending one of their own to come assist with the operation. Monitor it, more like. Elliot hasn't had the liaison job long, and his people don't trust him any more than they trust the Italian police. The big bosses in New York want a grown-up on site to babysit him, and Elliot wants Tia to go pick the bastard up at the airport.
"Fine," she says.
She's not fooling herself; this little errand won't be fun. Driving some pompous, upjumped windbag from the airport to headquarters is bound to be more headache than anything else. She'll have to be nice to him, even if he's not nice to her, even if he spends the whole time complaining about the traffic and the way she drives. Sometimes foreign police - especially foreign police of significant rank, as this Captain will be - act more like drunken tourists than officers of the law. If this Captain puts his hands on her, she will break those hands. It's happened before.
But it might be useful. As she drives to the airport - a hastily made sign bearing only the word NYPD in big black letters sitting on the seat beside her - she considers the task ahead. The Captain, he will be her opponent, not her teammate, and it will benefit her to understand how he ticks. Does he respond to flattery, is he dazzled by the sights of the city, is he too jet lagged to care about anything at all? Is his reputation on the line, or is he doing a favor for someone? All of those variables will impact the Captain's behavior, and cataloging them in advance will make him easier to manage.
The airport is, as always, a sprawling nightmare of cars and pedestrians, jammed with businessmen and tourists, but this is Tia's city, and she is undaunted. She moves, as always, with grace and confidence, and goes to wait among the milling crowd at the terminal for international arrivals.
Maybe he'll be handsome, she thinks as she stands there, holding her sign, scanning the crowd. Elliot is NYPD, and he's handsome and roguish, unbothered by rules. Maybe this Captain will be cut from the same cloth, and maybe he won't be married. Tia could use a little bit of fun. Leo is so terribly unfun these days.
The flight tracker app has told Tia that the plane she is waiting for has landed, and soon enough a steady stream of people come spilling through the exits. She checks every face, looking for someone to take note of her sign. Most of their eyes slide right over her; she is not what they are looking for. But then, even from a distance she sees recognition in the face of a stranger, watches as that stranger changes course, and heads straight for her.
And that is interesting, because this stranger is a woman.
She is tall, perhaps a little taller than Tia herself. The woman's thick, dark hair is caught behind her head in an elegantly messy ponytail, and a pair of aviator sunglasses like the kind Elliot favors are perched on her head. The woman is slim but strong, her body enviable, those tits, those hips, that ass, showcased to their best effect in a pair of black trousers and a white button down blouse. Her eyes are dark and her mouth is soft, and her boots are heavy and black, just like Elliot's. She carries a single black rucksack slung easily over her shoulder, and as she draws closer Tia spots the big gold badge clipped to her black belt.
This is the Captain, and she is nothing, nothing like Tia expected. All her suspicions about a groping, leering, incompetent old fool have been proven wrong in a moment. This woman is beautiful, and there is an air of competence, of confidence about her, as if even in a foreign country she feels herself completely in control. She walks right up to Tia, and offers a smile.
"Penso che mi stai aspettando," she says, in crisp Italian, her accent just different enough to identify her as a non-native speaker, though it is ten times better than Elliot's, and that, too, comes as a surprise. Most of the NYPD officers Tia has had the misfortune to encounter in the past didn't even attempt to learn the language. Elliot has tried, and he is passable, but this woman is something else.
"I'm sorry," Tia tells her English. "I wasn't given your name. But you are the Captain? The one who's come to assist-"
"With the sex trafficking case," the Captain finishes for her. "Captain Olivia Benson," she adds, holding out her hand.
"Tia Leonetti." When they shake the Captain's grip is firm but casual, no sign of an attempt at intimidation. "Italian police," Tia explains. "The NYPD liaison sends his regrets for not picking you up himself. I will take you to headquarters, and you can meet him there."
"Sounds good," Benson says.
"Shall we?"
Tia turns and leads the way out of the airport, and the Captain keeps pace with her the whole way, unfazed by the tumult of activity around them. Tia doesn't bother speaking until they reach the car, until they stow the Captain's bag in the backseat and slide in the front themselves.
"Is this your first time in Rome?" Tia asks as she starts up the car.
"It is," the Captain says. "I'll have to come back another time as a tourist."
So the Captain is not planning to treat this little trip as a holiday. That could be good news, could mean that she's focused, dedicated, but it could also make her a pain, if she insists on staring over Tia and Elliot's shoulders the whole time.
"You should," Tia says. "It's a beautiful city."
The Captain's eyes aren't glued to the windows - not that the should be, when Tia is still trying to make her way out of the airport - but are instead focused on her phone. She is typing quickly, a text message it looks like.
"My son," the Captain explains suddenly, unprompted, as if she has noticed Tia observing her. "I just wanted to let him know I've landed."
Tia has a son, too, and so this seems a safe topic of conversation.
"How old is he?"
"Ten," the Captain says, smiling. Her voice is warm when she speaks of him, but privately Tia is surprised; the Captain looks a little too old to have a son so young.
"My son is seventeen," Tia tells her. "Enjoy him while he's young. Teenagers are a nightmare."
The Captain laughs, lightly. "I'm not looking forward to it," she confesses.
It is remarkably easy to talk to this woman. Her voice is warm and deep, and she is unpretentious, does not look down on Tia from her exalted rank. There is something egalitarian about her. Just like Elliot, Tia thinks, Elliot who doesn't care about position or power, who has, from the moment they met, treated Tia as an equal. It must be an American thing, she thinks.
So they drive, and they talk. Tia learns that Olivia has been working sex crimes for more than twenty years. That was Elliot's division, once, but there is more than one SVU unit in the city, and for some reason Tia doesn't want to talk to this woman about Elliot. It hasn't escaped her notice that she and Olivia share a number of physical traits in common; they aren't identical, or anything, don't even really favor one another, but there are enough similarities to make her feel as if she is talking to an alternate version of herself. Perhaps Olivia feels the same; from where Olivia is sitting, perhaps it is Tia who is the alternate, the interloper. But this is Tia's city, and it is Tia who belongs here, not Olivia.
When the conversation shifts to the case at hand, a sort of righteousness descends upon Olivia. She is fierce when she speaks of the horrors she has seen, the damage done to the victims, her desire to bring those responsible to justice. This case isn't about numbers for her, isn't about her reputation or that of the NYPD. Olivia wants to help the girls, and she wants to hurt the men who have taken them. That, too, is like Elliot, that compassion for the oppressed and the seething hatred for the oppressors. By the time they arrive at headquarters Tia's sentiments towards the Captain have warmed considerably; she is beginning to like this woman.
The office of the NYPD liaison and his staff is tucked away in a corner of the headquarters of the Italian police in Rome. Elliot has two Italian detectives and two Americans under his purview, as well as a secretary, and Tia herself, on loan to assist with the bigger cases, as this one is bound to be. They are a merry little band, and Tia thinks they will like Olivia, as they like Elliot, will respect her calm demeanor and her fervent belief in justice. If Olivia treats them as well as she has treated Tia so far, this operation might actually go well.
"I'll introduce you to everyone," Tia says as they enter the room Elliot calls the bullpen, an open space filled with desks for everyone but him, the office in the back reserved for the liaison himself. In the bullpen all the detectives are already gathered, waiting; Elliot is nowhere to be seen, but the blinds on his office window are drawn, he's likely in there.
"Francesco," she says to the nearest detective, "would you get him, please?"
The young man jumps to do as she asks, rushing to the office door and knocking on it once, sharply. Tia has resolved to wait until Elliot joins them before making introductions, and so she takes a moment to assess the atmosphere of the room. The Captain is standing with her hands on her hips, no trace of apprehension on her lovely face, and the detectives are watching her, with varying degrees of discretion. They are curious about her, as Tia is herself, that much is plain. They are waiting to find out what sort of woman she will be, and what her presence here will mean for their team.
The office door opens as Elliot comes to join them, and Tia takes that as her cue to speak.
"Everyone," she calls, "this is-"
"Jesus Christ."
She spoke as Elliot was moving through the doorway, and the moment his eyes landed on the Captain's face that blasphemy was torn from his lips as if the hand of God himself had reached down Elliot's throat and wrenched it from him. It is Elliot's face Tia sees, across the bullpen from her, Elliot's reaction she notes, not the Captain. It is Elliot's familiar features contorted into a picture of shock, of almost horror, Elliot's body utterly frozen as if he has forgotten how to move, how to breathe. There is a palpable sense of all the air having been sucked from the room, a tension, sudden and sharp, undeniable in that place. He has seen the Captain's face, and clearly he has found something there he recognizes, but the ferocity of his reaction is baffling to Tia.
She knows this man. They have been working together on and off for two or three years now, more so in recent days than ever before. Tia knows how thinly he controls his anger, knows the rage and the petulance he carries within him. She knows how he treats her, with care and affection, teasing and protective. She knows how he takes his coffee, and what expression crosses his face in the instant before he throws a punch. She knows his children's names, has spent time with his wife and son, has seen the man he is, not just the cop he shows to the world. She knows him, but in this moment the face she sees is not the face of the man she knows. Gone are his charming, American brand of arrogance, his confidence, his self-assured strength. Gone too is his anger, and his willfulness. He is, for the first time in their acquaintance, uncertain, and there is something in his eyes that looks like grief.
Carefully Tia turns her head, considers the Captain, and feels her stomach twist when she sees that same grief written on this woman's beautiful face. Olivia isn't breathing, either; she is frozen, her eyes locked on Elliot, her hand pressed against her own heart. There is something visceral, in the way Olivia is looking at Elliot, the way he is looking back, as if they have both seen a ghost. But not just any ghost; the ghost of someone they have lost.
Everyone in that room can feel it, Tia is certain. No one is speaking, five pairs of eyes bouncing back and forth between Elliot and Olivia, curious and alarmed. None of them expected this, and none of them know how to behave, won't know how to behave until they know for a fact what this is. How Elliot and Olivia know one another, why seeing her face made him swear, whether this reunion is a good thing or not, these things they do not know, and they don't dare speak lest they stumble into a hornet's nest.
Who is she? Tia wants to yell. Who is this woman, really, and who is she to Elliot? Elliot who has not mentioned her name, not even once? Tia would have remembered him speaking fondly of a woman he once knew, but he has done no such thing. He has kept her hidden, and Tia doesn't know why, and that fact irritates her. They are friends, Tia and Elliot, and friends are supposed to tell each other things.
Across the room from her Elliot appears to have regained some control; he takes a step forward, and in the very moment his foot moves so, too, does the Captain's. As if they rehearsed it, as if they were counting off the beats to the same song, they move as one. Right foot, then left, both of them, in perfect sync, their steps rising and falling at precisely the same time, they cross the gulf between them until they are standing no more than arm's length from one another, stopping just as they began, together. Tia can't see Olivia's face from this angle, but she can see Elliot's. Some of the fear has left him; his eyes have gone soft, the way they sometimes do for Kathy, and he is looking at Olivia intensely, unblinking.
"You look good, Liv," he says, finally. It is confirmation that Tia did not need, confirmation that they know one another, that he knows how this woman looks, that he feels comfortable enough to comment on it. His voice is almost wistful, and he has called her Liv. Olivia is the name the Captain gave her. Not Liv, not a nickname, not the name Elliot has called her. Elliot has chosen to address her in a way that is somehow private, somehow intimate, and Tia holds her breath, waiting to see how Olivia will respond.
It takes only a heartbeat for that response to come.
There is an audible crack as Olivia's hand strikes Elliot's face. The slap is sharp, and swift, and even as the squad calls out in alarm, even as they all surge forward to separate Elliot and Olivia, Tia can see that the Captain is trembling from head to toe.
"Stand down," Elliot says to his team sharply, waving them away with one hand while he rubs at his stinging cheek with the other. His skin is red and angry where she slapped him, and Olivia is breathing like a bellows, a palpable anger radiating off her.
Elliot has told them to stand down and so Tia stops before she reaches them, standing abreast of them now so that she can see both their faces. Elliot looks rueful, but he makes no attempt to get his own back. Olivia's eyes are blazing; she looks like she wants to hit him again.
What did he do to her? Tia wonders. In her experience Elliot has been nothing but respectful of the women in his life; he is a breath of fresh air, compared to the men Tia is used to dealing with at the Italian police. He makes coffee for her, and he opens doors, and he keeps his hands to himself - even when she wishes he wouldn't. How could a man who treats her so well have done anything to merit such violence from Olivia? Perhaps, a small, smug little voice whispers to her, perhaps he has been so kind to Tia because he cares for her, and perhaps he was cruel to Olivia because he does not care for her.
"I deserved that," Elliot says evenly, calmly, despite the injury he's just suffered.
"You son of a bitch," Olivia snarls in response. While it appears Elliot has forgiven her for the slap, it is equally plain that Olivia has forgiven him for nothing.
In a flash she raises her hand, and Francesco calls out a warning, but Elliot has no need of it; he saw her move, and knew what it meant, and as fast as Olivia is he is just as quick. He catches her wrist, his heavy bulk holding her in place. She goes to strike him with her left hand, and they collide, feet moving, hands gasping, as she struggles to hit him. It is clear Olivia wants to hurt him, and though he is taller and stronger he is a gentleman, and seeks only to defend himself without striking back.
We should stop this, Tia thinks, but that thought has no sooner occurred to her than the scuffle comes to an abrupt and shocking end.
Elliot wrenches one of his hands out from between them, and uses it to grasp the back of Olivia's neck. He takes hold of her so hard her entire body shudders with the impact, and he uses his grip to draw her to him, bows his head and rests his forehead against hers. As his skin settles against hers all the fight seems to Olivia in one great gasp; Tia can hear her trembling intake of breath, and watches as Olivia's body goes slack. As she leans into Elliot, their faces close together, his hand possessive, demanding at the back of her neck her hands fall to swing useless by her sides, and even from a few paces away Tia can hear them both breathing raggedly.
"I'm sorry," she hears Elliot say. His voice is wretched, wrecked with guilt, dripping with misery. It is, she thinks, the sincere apology of a man who hates himself, and she doesn't know why. Until this moment she has prided herself on how well she knows him, how well they work together, how easily she can read him, but she does not recognize the man in front of her now. She has never, ever seen Elliot like this; she had not known, before this moment, that he could even be like this. Repentant, reverent, desperate.
"I'm sorry," he says again. "Liv, I'm sorry."