"Elliot, you know I can't fucking draw…"

Indeed, he knows…

He remembers the first moment he realized it, walking into the precinct after a day in court, making his way through the noise and the clutter—the constant churn of ringing phones and stacks of folders, slow computers and coffee stains. The sounds and smells of pencil sharpeners and yesterday's half-eaten sandwiches, the tear and the crumple of immaterial notes. The parade of strangers through swinging doors, an endless flow of disclosures and defenses. A hurricane of pain and malevolence.

And there, sitting at her desk with a young girl in her lap, the calm eye in the center of it all—Olivia, his partner of three weeks.

They hadn't seen him at first, their backs facing the door. Elliot had paused before approaching, taking in the sight of her—his smart, gutsy, occasionally stubborn new partner—scribbling with crayons. The girl, probably three or four years old had been busy drawing shapes while Olivia looked on attentively, asking questions about every triangle and square. There had been an open bag of gummy bears in front them, Elliot recalls; he had walked slowly to stand behind her, catching her by surprise as she brought a green one to her lips, playfully snatching it from her fingers and popping it into his mouth before she could say a word.

This…she had said, her smile widening...is my friend, Elliot. My very silly friend, Elliot.

Elliot had felt something in that moment, a jolt passing through him, something electric and comforting and nameless. Olivia had never said that before...friend. Not detective, not partner, but friend. He had found his mind repeating it, as if he wanted to crawl inside the word itself and carve out an even deeper shelter. For a breath, he had imagined a world outside the precinct in which the cases were solved and clocks were punched and it was just them, learning each other on their own time. It hadn't exactly been a romantic thought, but he had allowed himself to wonder what it would feel like to know her outside of the job, to call her on a Sunday afternoon and ask her to go for a run or see a movie or do something—anything—remotely normal. To borrow this scene from the precinct and lend it to another day, letting its tenderness play in a different arena. To sit somewhere quietly, a park or a library, perhaps, and watch her bounce a child on her lap.

Josie, the young girl, had handed him a crayon as he pulled a chair up next to Olivia; the trio quickly fell into a comfortable chat, swapping stories about animals and favorite toys as they doodled and snacked on the remaining gummy bears.

My mommy likes the red ones…Josie had muttered, and Elliot had glanced at Olivia with a flash of concern, unsure of the circumstances of the little girl's visit to the precinct. Olivia had leaned toward him, whispering…

Mom's with the sketch artist…witnessed an assault in Central Park last night. Josie's fine. Wasn't there…

…and he had nodded in relief, smiling at Josie, grateful that the little girl in front of him could spend her afternoon thinking about zebras and jump ropes and nothing more.

The three of them had grown quiet for a moment, focused on making patterns of spirals and stars, when Josie suddenly blurted—

Can you draw me a horse?

And with that, she had placed a brown crayon into Olivia's hand and pushed a blank sheet of paper over to her. Elliot had watched Olivia stare at it just a few seconds too long, a strange sort of nervousness coming over her.

I'll do my best…she had replied, gripping the crayon somewhat awkwardly as she made her first few marks. Elliot's eyes had darted between the paper and his partner as the animal slowly emerged…a rather misshapen creature with a long neck and a little head, a rectangular body and one giant eye, and…for some reason…five legs.

Elliot watches Olivia now, over two decades later, holding the pencil with the same tentative grip; her hand considers the idea, searching for fluency in a language she's never understood. It's both strange and endearing, seeing her like this—a somewhat flustered Captain Benson tapping her eraser, lost in the possibility of a blank page.

But to his surprise, she simply mutters, "It's a good thing I love you, you son-of-a-bitch," before kissing his cheek and scooting herself off the bed. She wraps herself in a blanket and takes her place in Elliot's chair, shaking her head and holding back a grin as she catches him watching her. He bites his lip, trying to keep a lid on his growing fascination and amusement, before asking a final question…

"Sweatpants…on or off?"

Olivia doesn't hesitate.

"Off."

Elliot throws back his head with a short laugh as he begins to slide out of his sweatpants, tossing them next to Olivia's shorts on the floor. He feels heat start to rise in his cheeks, an unexpected sensation. Ever since their first night together, Elliot hasn't exactly been bashful about being naked in front of her, but for some reason, this feels different. He considers the fact that they have spent the last few months thriving on contact, making up for lost time with endless touches, magnets fusing in every possible way. But to let himself be seen like this…without the anticipation of a hand soon brushing his chest or a thigh wrapping around his hip… It feels…unfamiliar. Dizzying. Vulnerable.

He sees Olivia trying to make the shape of an oval; his head, he assumes. She draws it and erases it and draws it again before grabbing the reading glasses she had left on his desk the night before.

"Liv…" he says, breaking out of his train of thought.

"Hm?"

"Don't stress…you don't have to if—"

"El…I want to," she replies, glancing at him over her glasses. He can see it in her eyes; the switch has flipped. She's always been a bit competitive, especially with herself, and now that she's committed to the task at hand, he knows that nothing will stop her. "Just…give me some advice. How…how should I start?"

Olivia looks at him earnestly, wrapped like a cozy goddess in his white blanket; the pureness of her intention melts through Elliot in an instant.

"Just…don't worry about the lines, Liv," he begins, remembering a few words his mother had told him years before. "Think about the story. Talk me through it…what you're drawing."

"The story," she repeats with a gentle smirk. "The story of Elliot Stabler."

Elliot rests his head on the pillow, already picturing how she'll begin. He glances at his body, assuming she will mention the rigidity of his exterior, the walls of sinewy muscle that wrap his bones. He looks at his calluses, the hair on his stomach; his thumb absentmindedly grazes the scruff on his chin. She, he thinks, is all softness and curves; life has weathered her edges and left her smooth to the touch, and he treasures her like sea glass in the sand. He, on the other hand, has only grown sharper, harder, more defined. Life, he imagines, has simply chipped away at him.

Olivia makes another oval and begins her narration, her voice full of emotion.

"These," she says, drawing a few small details in the oval, "are Elliot Stabler's eyes. They are honest…and passionate and dynamic. And I've seen them carry a lot of different emotions over all these years. But lately, all I see is love. So much love." Olivia looks up to find him staring at her intently, his gaze echoing her description.

She continues, her pencil shifting. "These are the ears that have heard my whole story…the ones that will listen to me for hours until the sun rises. And these…are the lips…"

She glances at him again, letting herself drift through the memories of everything his lips have done over the past few months.

"Well…these lips have been very busy lately. And I love to feel them…everywhere."

They share a smile before she returns to her paper, making a few rough lines to create the shape of his torso.

"This," she says, pointing to his chest, "is where I like to rest my head at night…and these…" she continues, extending a few more lines to make his arms, "…these hold me and keep me warm. They make me feel safe…they cradle me."

Elliot's shoulders relax as he finds himself stepping even further into her vision, seeing his body through her eyes. He feels it slipping away from him, the image of himself as the damaged, angry kid from Queens, wearing three-piece suits as a costume. He is real and whole, loving and loved, perhaps more like the sea glass than the rock that weathers it.

A playful grin soon replaces the softness in Olivia's expression; he sits up, trying to peek at her sketch. They blush together as she attempts to draw his penis.

"And this part…God, this part," she exclaims. "This part just feels fucking incredible."

They laugh together before Olivia moves on, seemingly picking up speed as she draws, her confidence growing as she becomes more and more immersed in her story. She describes the power and sensuality of his hands, the way his hips thrust and anchor, the way his legs keep them grounded when she falls into his hug after a long day at work.

"And these are the feet…" She stops, her voice catching, suddenly emotional. "These are the feet…that have walked a lot of miles. Feet that have brought Elliot Stabler to many different places."

Elliot nods, understanding where she is heading.

"Say it, Liv… It's okay."

"They…walked away from me once." Olivia replies quietly.

"But," she continues, her voice breaking, "they found their way back to me."

Her eyes fill with tears, but not because of any lingering bitterness or pain; instead, she sits in the space of forgiveness and considers the journey. The realization that they have tended to the all the sharp pains of their yesterdays, and that their wounds no longer sting or fester. The truth that they have learned how to soothe their shared history—their love, a balm for every ache. The simple fact that there is no conflict or question or distance anymore. That they are here, drawing pictures, on a slow Saturday morning.

Elliot goes to her quickly, pulling her up from the chair and into his arms.

"These feet are planted, Liv," he whispers as she rests her head on his shoulder, letting him run his fingers through her hair. "Next to you, forever. I promise you that."

"I know," she responds, pressing her lips to his neck. "I don't doubt that," she continues as she takes his hand and leads him back to the bed. "I don't doubt anything, actually. I feel like it's just…hitting me sort of…all at once…that we…"

"We made it."

"Yeah. We made it."

The memories flicker between them—everything they had dodged and battled for over twenty years—the bullets and the losses, the weight of circumstance, the missed opportunities, the tension of the unspoken. They hold each other closely and exhale together, silently agreeing to release all of their burdens into the pasts that birthed them. In their next breath and all the breaths that follow, they only know the air of the present—the realm of morning cappuccinos and late-night showers, slow dances and held hands, family dinners, talks of someday.

Elliot removes Olivia's glasses and wipes her cheek. "Happy tears," she whispers.

He kisses her gently before twisting himself toward the chair to grab his sketchbook; she shifts to lean against the headboard, motioning for him to sit between her legs. Olivia opens her blanket and lets him rest his back against her chest, a mirror of their earlier position. She wraps the fabric around his shoulders and asks…

"So…how'd I do?"

The drawing itself is hardly museum-worthy. The proportions are all wrong, with massive arms and a skinny neck, though she has managed to sketch a rather generous appendage between his legs.

"It's perfect."

"You're so full of shit," she replies with a squeeze to his arms before she pulls him more tightly against her.

"I mean it," he says, tracing her pencil lines with his finger. "It was a solid effort. And it made me feel—"

Elliot takes a moment to consider this; he can't quite grasp the word for the feeling. It's good and light and it lives somewhere in the slowness he's been seeking. He realizes that he's been searching for it in all of his recent endeavors—he has looked for it in flour and yeast, the unhurried rise of dough overnight. His hands have tried to find it in muffins and birdhouses, dabs of paint and pencil lines, and finally, in the eyes of his love as she tells his story.

For years, he had believed that he wasn't meant to enjoy anything in its purest form, that every bright thing in his life would know its shadow. His joys had lived in tandem with his discontent—a committed marriage that struggled to survive, children who wished he was home, a job that fueled and destroyed him, a soulmate in a parallel universe.

But now, in the slowness, he discovers that there is no longer an asterisk on everything he loves. For the first time, he senses something breathing through him, coming from him. It surrounds his mind and heart, keeping his troubles at bay, and inside, he is clear and restored and glowing and…

"Peaceful. Liv, I feel…peaceful."

And as she rests her chin on his shoulder, she whispers, "Me, too."

He places his sketchbook on the sheets; they don't say anything as they begin to fall into each other's touch. It's unhurried and deliberate, the way they start to explore. They tune into every small detail, their senses heightened. The morning has given them practice in drawing by hand, and they take their time capturing each other, relishing in all the curves and lines. They begin to trace with fingers and lips, paying special attention to the parts they usually forget—she kisses the delicate spot behind his ear, he turns her over and runs his tongue down the length of her spine. They find themselves rolling, twisting, skin over skin, their bodies brushing and stroking every peak and valley of their landscapes; they can feel themselves forming again.

They break from each other, just for a moment, as Olivia motions for Elliot to lay on the bed and crawls to his feet. She presses her lips to his soles before sliding herself up his body and over his hips. He reaches a hand to her face, his thumb tracing the corner of her mouth. The motion echoes another gesture from another day, but this time, they are free of letters and lies, the haziness of what was, what is, and what will be. This time, her lips close, wetting the tip of his thumb as she lowers herself slowly, guiding him inside of her. Their breaths catch as she finally settles, enveloping him completely; he drags his fingers down her chin and neck, outlining the slope of her chest as she begins to move. Olivia leans over him and grips the headboard, letting him paint her breasts with wet kisses, and Elliot's fingers glide down her back as he lifts his hips to meet her movements. They keep their tempo but their intensity grows; he wraps his arms around her waist and sits up to pull her into a deeper embrace, their tongues dancing as their hands continue to roam everywhere, massaging and pulsing with each languid thrust.

She finally breaks the kiss and finds his eyes. They know that there is something new in this; it's as if they are aware of their own weightlessness, like swimmers breaking from a storm, no longer meeting the resistance of waves. They can feel it—the change—the way they've stripped themselves of their heavy layers. Here, now, they have let go of it all—the regrets and the fears, the questions of trust, the pictures they had once painted of themselves. Here, they rise to the surface. Their hands intertwine and they do not drift, floating in and through each other, no longer desperate for air. They climb, together, onto their door in the ocean; they have forgotten what it feels like to drown.

With one last thrust, he brushes his finger between her legs; their bodies swell and crest and rush, and they collapse into each other, finally ashore.

They spend the next few minutes in silence, rolling onto their sides, letting their breaths sync and slow until Olivia whispers a single word…

"Someday…"

"Hm?"

"Someday," she repeats, stroking his face. "I'm ready…for someday."

"You mean?"

"Yeah."

And with that, her hand searches for the sketchbook and pencil in the mess of sheets; she finds them both and writes her name on the left side of a new, blank page.

BENSON

He looks at her, understanding, and adds his own on the right.

STABLER

And together, their hands find the center and draw the hyphen.