Olivia had tried to catch it.

It had been an accident, of course. She had taken her place on the couch, an audience of one, as Noah had launched into a series of kicks and leaps and turns toward the bookshelves—

A bump.

A wobble.

There had been a moment, she realizes now, as there always is before something falls. The object in slow orbit around its tipping point, grasping for equilibrium, considering its fate.

The illusion, the second before it plummets, that all might be well.

Her reflexes, as always, were strong but it had landed just out of reach, shattering immediately—her mother's turquoise vase, one of the only pieces of her she had kept.

Olivia had never told Noah its story; the vase had simply existed there at the far end of the second shelf, holding memories and air.

Once, years ago, he had pulled it from its place, toddling proudly across the carpet, a new treasure in tow.

Careful, she had told him, taking him into her lap.

It's special.

Fragile.

It had always reminded her of a seashell. As a little girl, she had traced the smooth ridges embedded in the opaque glass, following each line as it fanned out from the center. She had spent many minutes sitting by the coffee table in her mother's apartment, gliding her fingers over its glossy surface, imagining that it had found its color during a dip in the ocean.

Sometimes, in her better moments, Serena had joined her.

Her mother had never been one to compliment or dote much. There hadn't been many hugs that Olivia could remember, or presents, for that matter. She had learned early on not to seek out her mother's affection; every moment of warmth was a pleasant surprise, an unexpected thaw on a January day.

Poetry, of all things, had been Serena's love language.

Sitting on the floor with her daughter, absentmindedly circling the top of the vase with her thumb, she had rattled off poem after poem from memory. Serena had drifted from Neruda to Plath, Dickinson to Hughes, swimming through words like waves, floating along as they rose and fell around her until she arrived at her landing—T.S. Eliot, her favorite scribe.

Inevitably, she had always fallen into the same epilogue, whispering, on loop—

This is the way the world ends

…eyes glazed over, finding the ceiling…

This is the way the world ends

…leaning, rising, stumbling toward the cabinet…

This is the way the world ends

…opening, twisting, sipping, closing…

Not with a bang but a whimper.

The vase, the poems—Olivia had mentioned them to her partner only once, and even then, just a fragment of their story. Elliot had, on one of their first days together, caught a glimpse of her paperwork as he passed by her desk.

"Two 'l's,' Liv."

"Hm?"

"In my name. Two 'l's.' Not one," he had said, pointing to the spot where she had just written Detective Eliot Stabler.

"Sorry," she had replied, drawing a small vertical line, fixing her mistake. "I always think of the poet."

"The poet?"

"T.S. Eliot. One 'l,' not two. My mother loved him," she had continued softly, giving herself permission to enjoy the memory. "She used to sit with me once in a while, next to her turquoise vase, teaching me his poems. Knew them by heart."

"Gotcha," he had responded, taking his place across from her, resting his feet next to a mug of stale coffee. "Guess poetry's never been my thing. Only poems I learned growing up were prayers."

An image had flashed in her mind—Elliot, a young boy, reciting the "Our Father" at the same moment she had sat on a rug, speaking in time with her mother, a prayer and poem colliding—

Give us this day our daily bread

Between the desire

And forgive us our trespasses

And the spasm

As we forgive those who trespass against us

Between the potency

And the existence

And lead us not into temptation

Between the essence

And the descent

Fall the Shadow

But deliver us from evil.

And the two of them, exhaling in unison—

For Thine is the Kingdom.

Olivia had looked up at Elliot, suddenly curious to know the boy who had evolved into the man meeting her eyes, her partner of a week. She had assumed they both had a lot to discover about each other—the different ways they had learned to love and hide and fight through the pain of growing. But in that moment, she had felt herself sinking into his mystery, lost and found in the same breath, finding familiarity in his strangeness.

For the first time, she felt to close to him.

• • •

Three days before Serena died, she had given her daughter the vase to keep.

It's a memory among memories that Olivia's been processing with Dr. Lindstrom, another piece of kindling thrown into her mind's fire over the past year.

Elliot. Rafa. Burton. Serena.

Lately, she's been looking directly into the flame, choosing truth, letting it burn.

Still, somehow, it doesn't seem to consume her.

She's settled into her safe place, the hill across from the blaze.

Weekly, she goes there, observes the inferno. She describes it, considers it, tends to her wounds, cools herself.

There is nothing to extinguish.

Everything is illuminated.

"Tell me about the last time you saw your mother," Lindstrom had begun at their most recent session.

Serena had long been a taboo word in their meetings; Olivia had always found a way to skirt around the topic and redirect, changing course. This time, though, she and Lindstrom had both sensed it. She was ready.

The story had started off slowly, carefully, as Olivia began to recount the night she and her mother had planned to meet for dinner.

The little Italian bistro near Serena's place, a red speckled floor, clouds painted on the ceiling.

The empty seat across the table, a ticking clock to her right, four minutes too fast.

A sidewalk, still wet from the rain.

Then, more quickly—

Mrs. Carr shaking her umbrella on the stoop, holding the door to the building.

Slippery steps.

Three unanswered phone calls, three unanswered knocks.

With urgency, pictures and sounds and motions had taken hold of Olivia's vision—

A few jagged footsteps.

The scrape of the latch.

The painstaking creak of the opening door; the reveal—Serena, withdrawn and disheveled.

"I tried to talk to her but she wasn't…" Olivia had continued. "She couldn't. She lost it."

A pivot, a spiral, Serena's retching cry.

Her flailing arms.

The crash of a lamp, then a mirror, then—

"The vase," she had told Lindstrom. "The turquoise vase, the only thing that ever felt like it belonged to both of us. She grabbed it. Aimed at the wall. Then she stopped. Realized. Rested it on the table."

"And then?"

"She took my face in her hands. Started reciting a poem."

Bowsprit cracked with ice and paint cracked with heat.

I made this, I have forgotten

And remember.

"I had heard it before. T.S. Eliot, of course."

The rigging weak and the canvas rotten

Between one June and another September.

Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own.

"She got really close, leaned her head against mine, calmed down. She seemed…small. Fragile. Like she would break if either of us breathed too hard."

The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking.

"I could feel the heat of her tears on me. She looked up. Found my eyes. Didn't blink. Etched her words into my memory. Buried her fingers in my cheeks."

This form, this face, this life

Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me

Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,

The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.

"Then she kissed my forehead."

What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers

And woodthrush calling through the fog

"She had never done that before."

My daughter.

Olivia and Lindstrom had sifted through the silence until, finally, he broke it—

"What happened after that?"

"She handed me the vase. Motioned for me to leave. And died three days later."

Lindstrom had let Olivia's words ring in the space before finally interjecting—

"Why the poem? Why then?"

Olivia had taken a moment to consider it all. Serena's choice of words. The life of her mother's ship, deteriorating slowly. A wish for a time—a future—beyond her own.

"I suppose…" Olivia had responded, twisting the end of her shirtsleeve with her fingers. "I suppose she wanted me to know."

"Know what?"

"That even though her ship was sinking…she still had hope for mine."

"And what about yours?" Lindstrom had continued.

"My what?"

"Your ship. Not to get stuck on a metaphor here, Olivia, but what about it? Has it set sail?"

She had looked down with a smirk before cocking her head, delivering her answer.

"I don't have one ship, Dr. Lindstrom. I have many."

"Being?"

"My job. My son. The family I've created. My survival. And they sail every day. It's not always easy, but they make it through."

He had paused, reading the unspoken.

"How are things with you and Stabler?" he had asked knowingly, having had many recent conversations about the state of Olivia's friendship, for now. "Sailing yet?"

"Things are… We're…evolving."

"How so?"

"He's been around," she had begun shyly, cautiously. "No undercover gigs for once. We see each other. A lot actually. Noah adores him."

"And you?"

She had blushed, a reluctant smile forming.

"You're really digging here today, aren't you, Doctor?" Still, Lindstrom had watched her relax into her next thought as she finally admitted, "I do though. I do, too."

After a pause, she had continued, "We're at the edge, I think. Of our friendship."

"And beyond it?" he had inquired.

"Love, I suppose. A kind we've never known."

"So let's picture it, Olivia," Lindstrom had begun. "You're standing at the edge. What happens next?"

And she had realized it only as the words had passed her lips, a contented sigh—

"I fall."

It hadn't been the first time she had considered their love; she had recognized it countless times in all its shapes and ages, platonic, symbiotic, expansive, understood. But this had been different, an acknowledgement of its motion. This had made her shiver. To say it, speak it, give life to the possible. To catch herself in the act of falling and to plummet, willingly, into the suddenness of her joy.

"Then what's holding you back?" Lindstrom had responded, pulling her back to her reality.

Olivia had taken a deep breath before exhaling—

"Elliot and I, we're…special together. We always have been, as partners, as friends. And I guess we're afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of our fragility. Of breaking."

"Because special things are fragile, is that what you're saying?"

She had nodded in agreement.

"Perhaps that's true," Lindstrom had continued. "But you know what else?"

He had leaned forward, convinced of Olivia's trajectory, the rightness of her course.

"The most special things are always worth repairing."

The session had neared its end and Olivia had shifted in her seat, thinking about all the broken ships she had known, waiting at port, dreaming of the sea.

Lindstrom had tuned into her thoughts, leaving her with a word of advice as she stood, turning toward the exit.

"You'll know when the seas are calm, Olivia. When the conditions are right. For you. For Elliot. Then you can decide."

"Decide what?" she had asked.

"If you're ready to launch."

A soft alarm had sounded, the signal that time was up.

And Olivia had opened the door and taken a step, then another, leaving the fire and carrying the light.

• • •

Olivia is gathering—herself, her son, the shards of turquoise glass scattered on the floor—when she hears the knock.

"Just me! Sorry."

Elliot's early.

They've been trying to carve out a routine, as much as their jobs will allow, and Friday nights are for pizza and cupcakes.

Olivia wipes Noah's tears—

"It's okay, sweetheart. I'll clean up. You go help El."

After a few more sniffles, Noah makes his way to the door as Elliot, now entrusted with a key, lets himself inside.

"You're gonna kill me," he starts, pulling Noah in for a hug before handing him the box of chocolate cupcakes. "I dropped the pizzas."

"How the hell did you drop them?" Olivia laughs; she surprises herself with her lightness, the fact the broken vase has not left her feeling similarly shattered.

"Heck, Mom," Noah interrupts, correcting her.

"Tripped on some kid's scooter in the lobby. Sent it flying. And your mother's pushing sixty, Noah. She's old enough to say, 'hell.'" Elliot spies the mess on the floor and kneels down to help. "What happened here?"

"Just a little accident," she begins as Noah leaves the box on the counter, joining them on the carpet. "And pushing sixty, my ass. Speak for yourself," she jokes, nudging him with her elbow.

"Hell? Ass?" Noah asks, chuckling. "You never talk like that."

"What can I say?" she begins as the three of them sit together, collecting fragments. "My partner's back. He's a bad influence on me."

"Yeah?" Elliot scoffs. "Wait until I tell Noah about the time you—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there," she exclaims, pressing a finger to his lips.

Noah's oblivious to the look they share, the pull between them, their bodies' resistance.

They return to their task.

Olivia leans against her partner—this form, this face, this life—thinking of her mother's words as she carefully grasps the sharpest piece, placing it into Elliot's open hand.

For once, nothing hurts.

"I don't want to throw it away," Noah suddenly interjects. "I want to fix it."

Before his mother can convince him otherwise, Elliot chimes in—

"We can do that, pal." He glances at Olivia, asking permission. "As long as it's okay with your mom."

She nods and begins to feel something coming over her, a quiet sense of awe as she watches her son and Elliot stand and move to the kitchen counter, laying out the bits and pieces of glass like a pair of pirates examining their treasure.

"I'll order the pizza. We can do delivery," Olivia says as she picks up the phone and dials.

"On hold," she adds, listening to the muffled sound of a synthesizer and bass on the other end of the line.

"No hurry," Elliot responds as he and Noah get to work, fetching superglue and paper towels, tweezers for the tiniest slivers.

"You're a good team," Olivia notices as the boys take their seats and start organizing the pieces, biggest to smallest. Everything between them is intuitive, effortless, as if they had never known a day without each other.

They go into it without much of a plan, it seems, lining up similar edges, making their mistakes. Their creation begins to take on a form of its own, less a vase and more of a mosaic of sorts.

"It doesn't look the same," Noah finally mutters, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"And that's okay, bud," Elliot responds gently. "Sometimes that happens. Things break. You salvage what you can. Piece it together. Fill in the gaps. Try to make something new. Something just as beautiful."

He looks at Olivia.

"Maybe even more."

She hears a voice on the line—

"Sorry for the wait. Pickup or delivery."

"Delivery," she replies, realizing quickly that her voice is cracking, a wave of emotion running through her as she fixes her eyes on this—the sight of the two people she loves the most, side by side, bringing all of her pieces together.

Elliot holds her gaze, no longer a hollow man searching endlessly for the parts of himself that life had carved out of him.

Noah places his hand on Elliot's as they affix the last segment of glass. They keep it in place together, letting it dry.

He's back, Olivia thinks. All of him. Everything she had missed and more.

And their partnership, too, healed at the seams—whole and present, salvaged and reborn.

The voice prompts her; she places the order—one cheese, one pepperoni, pineapple on the side for her son.

Elliot and Noah finally let go, testing the strength of the bonds they've created.

Nothing shifts; everything remains.

"I love it," Noah says, smiling as they take a step back from the turquoise construction— crooked and chaotic and perfect.

"Me, too, kiddo," Elliot responds, giving Noah's curls a squeeze before they delicately carry it across the room, returning it to its place on the shelf. "Why don't you go clean up before the pizza gets here…don't want to get the slices stuck to your hands!"

"Okay, Da–"

Noah catches himself, his cheeks turning red.

"Detective Stabler," he says in a whisper before pivoting swiftly, running into his room.

Elliot turns to Olivia—

"I'll go talk to him."

Serena's voice rings in her memory, the echoes of another poem, a sudden question—

Do I dare disturb the universe?

She watches Elliot take a few steps away from her.

In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions

She reaches out, hesitates—

Which a minute will reverse.

And finally, she decides.

"El?" she whispers, taking his hand. "I'm glad we didn't throw it away."

He knows, in an instant, that she's not talking about the vase alone.

She slips her arms around his waist, pulling him close.

The seas are calm as they stand together, ready to launch.

They fall into each together slowly.

Their landing is soft.

And as they kiss for the first time, they can feel themselves sailing—

The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.