It's been a long time since I came around
Been a long time but I'm back in town
This time I'm not leaving
Without you

-You and I/Lady Gaga

"How are things, Olivia?" he asks her warmly.

It has been years, and he still, always, begins every session this way. He leans back in his chair and smiles that kindly, non-threatening smile of his, and asks her how are things, and waits patiently for her to answer. It has been eight years, and he always asks the same question, and sometimes it makes her want to punch him in the throat. Things are the way they always are, the way they always have been. Things are confusing, and grim, and she's tired, but she loves her son and she's steady. Steady like a heartbeat. Steady like a march. Steady because she has to be, because if she isn't the whole fucking world is gonna collapse.

"Good," she says. Normally she gives him a smile when she lies, but she can't manage it tonight. It hasn't been that long since the Navarro fiasco, since Elliot turned up at her door, tweaking on something, broke her heart wide open and then passed out in her arms. The fucker.

"Olivia," Lindstrom sighs. He's seen right through her.

Usually she can play him better than this. There is a part of her, the rational, stable, over-fifty single mother with a command of her own who knows it's pretty fucking stupid to keep paying to see a shrink while she lies to him. The whole point of this is to have somewhere to tell the truth, and to have someone to help her pick through it, someone to help her untangle the knots inside her heart, someone who isn't invested in her professionally, who doesn't have a dog in any of her fights, who isn't there for anything other than her. Someone objective. If she's not gonna talk to him then why is she even here? It's not like this shit is mandatory, any more. Maybe it should be, because she's been dealing with PTSD for thirteen years, ever since Sealview, and traumatic shit keeps happening and her nightmares keep taking on different, exciting flavors, but the brass don't know that. She could just stop, if she's not gonna let him help her, but she doesn't.

"Can I say something?" Lindstrom says then, and she cocks her head to the side, studies him warily. The point of these sessions is for her to talk, and he usually doesn't butt in this early on. Usually he just asks leading questions until she accidentally rips open another old wound she forgot about, and they poke around in there until time's up. But now he's got something to say, and that worries her. She's curious, too, though; she's been talking to Lindstrom for so long now he is almost a friend, and she has learned a great deal about him over the course of their acquaintance as well. He's not the only one who knows how to read people.

"'Course," she says.

"You and I have been talking for a long time, now," he begins slowly. "You've been through a lot, in these last few years. And in the beginning you didn't want to be here, and you fought with me, and tried to mask your pain because you thought that's what you were supposed to do."

She knows he's right, and so she doesn't interrupt.

"But you started to trust me, and you started to trust the process. You were comfortable here, and you were honest with me."

Were, he says, like she was and is no longer, and she knows that's true, and she's not shocked he noticed, she's just wondering where he's going with this.

"I looked back over my notes," he says. "And you started lying to me again when Detective Stabler came back. Had you realized that?"

Touché, Doc, she thinks.

"I'm not lying," she protests, but it's half-hearted at best; they both know she is.

"Hiding, then," Lindstrom suggests. "What are you afraid of, Olivia?"

Nothing, she wants to say, but that's not true. She's afraid of so many things. She's afraid of something happening to Noah, and now she is worried sick about Eli, too. The older Stabler kids not so much, but Eli is still so young, and he needs his father, and his father has jumped off a fucking cliff. She's afraid that something bad will happen to Elliot, that he will be hurt, or worse that he will lose himself completely inside his cover and fuck up so royally he never comes back. She's afraid Amanda and Carisi are right, that Elliot is not the man she knew, any more, and she doesn't know how to mourn for someone who's still living. She's afraid he's a stranger, and she's afraid he isn't, and she's afraid of how much she feels every time she thinks about him. Rage, and betrayal, and hurt, and a desperate, little-girl insecurity that longs to return to the way things were, when they were young and brave and reckless and together, when her heart beat in time to his and no one could stand in their way. She's afraid of their relationship going back to the way it was; she's afraid it never will.

"I'm afraid that I can't trust him," she confesses, after a moment. "And I'm afraid of how much I want to."

She's not gonna tell him about the fucking letter. She's not gonna tell him about Kathy Stabler dictating the words that broke her heart, and Elliot trying to heal her, but just twisting the knife. In a parallel universe...fuck you, she thinks. The anger is simmering, again, but this is a secret that belongs to her, and her alone, and she won't share it, not even with Lindstrom. That's the point of his questions, she realizes. Elliot came back and she started keeping secrets again. That is what they have always done; they have kept secrets, for one another, from one another. The gossamer threads of understanding and trust and fuck it, yes, longing, that bind them to one another, they hide them from view. Who Elliot is, what he means to her, that belongs to her. There is so little in life that is truly hers; doesn't she deserve to hold on to this? To keep this pain all to herself, to nurse it like a baby, to treasure it, shelter it, to protect it? Pain is all the gift he has given her, and it is precious to her.

"He's been gone a long time," Lindstrom points out, not unkindly. "You've managed just fine without him for all these years. Why does he have to be a part of your life now?"

For a second she just stares at him, flabbergasted by the total lunacy of such a question.

"He's Elliot," she says, like that explains everything. And to her, it does.

It's late, and Noah is asleep, but Olivia is not. She is sitting on the sofa with her legs tucked up underneath her, wrapped in a black cardigan and staring at the black tv screen. She didn't bother turning it on; she doesn't want the lights and the noise, just now. She looks at it, and she can see a little movie of her own, playing in the darkness. The good old days, racing through dark streets with Elliot beside her, guns drawn. Hanging out a car window with the wind in her face, gun drawn, his strong hand catching her by the belt, hauling her back to safety at just the right moment. His fingers laced with hers, playing a married couple yet again, and falling into the roles so flawlessly it makes her ache, after, when she's alone. Reading that fucking letter for the first time. What we were to each other, that wasn't real. I know you know that. It was the adrenaline, it was the long hours, and it was never meant to last.

That wasn't real; three little words ripped the foundation right out from under her, made her question everything she thought she knew about this man. Thirteen years they rode through hell together, and she knew him, knew he cared for her, remembers his voice, begging her not to leave him, remembers his arms holding her, that day with Porter when she could have died. She remembered something real, and he told her it wasn't, and when she showed up to talk to him about it he brushed her off. Brushed her off and then told her the very next day you mean the world to me, Liv, and what the fuck was she supposed to do with that? It's no wonder she hasn't been sleeping, since he came back. Everything is upside down and as soon as she gets a handle on her heart he flips it again. Because now she knows he didn't write those words, didn't tell her he hopes she's found someone else because he will never love her like she wants. No, that's not true. He did write them, heard Kathy say them and dutifully copied them down and didn't protest and then gave that letter to Olivia like he believed every word of it.

It's been a few weeks since that night he showed up at her door but she is no less angry, no less hurt, no less fucking lost now than she was then. Part of her wishes he hadn't told her; maybe he thought he was making things right, but somehow this hurts her worse. Did Kathy hate her? She wonders now. Kathy, on her fucking deathbed, confessing that she never believed Elliot when he said he hadn't spoken to Liv, and Elliot looking proud, like he'd just got his fucking merit badge for Being A Good Husband. Kathy told him to say those things to her - we got in the way of each other being who and where we needed to be - and he did and Kathy still didn't trust her man. Olivia's always thought she and Kathy did a pretty good job of navigating it, sharing Elliot with one another; she's always thought she did all the right things, and sent him home like she was supposed to, and that Kathy recognized her diligence in protecting his marriage, but now she knows that ten fucking years wasn't enough to make Kathy let go of her suspicions. Did she ever know the woman at all?

There's a knock on her door, then, and it makes her gasp, and then it makes her frown. The doorman downstairs, usually he calls her before someone comes up. He hadn't called the night Elliot turned up, though; he'd called the police, and she'd had to talk the unis into letting the matter drop while Ayanna struggled to load Elliot into her car and the doorman watched, bemused. She's starting to think about moving again. She loves this apartment; it's where she first brought Noah home, is the only real home he's ever known, and it's nice enough, but the security isn't what it could be and too many fucking people know how to find her here.

She drags herself to her feet, tugs her cardigan closed across her chest. Underneath it she is wearing only a silky white tank top and some soft black pants; she'd been thinking of going to bed, but she'd been distracted by memories, and now this. At the door she pauses, looks through the peephole, and then sighs.

"Son of a bitch," she mutters to herself.

It's Elliot.

He's standing on his own two feet, straight backed and not all stumbling and insane looking like he was the last time he showed up here. He looks sober enough through the little fisheye, but it's hard to tell, and really she doesn't want to talk to him. She doesn't want to see him, doesn't want to hear what he has to say. She wants him to leave.

She also wants him to walk back through that door and tell her he loves her and mean it, and that's why she opens the door.

"Elliot," she says. "What are you doing here?"

"I was careful," he tells her. "No one's following me. I just...I had to see you. Can I come in?"

He looks good. Well, truth be told he looks bad; with his head shaved and that fucking beard he looks rough, and he's wearing a tight grey henley with a v-neck that is frankly indecent - he's been showing off more skin since he came back, and she wonders idly what the fuck that's about - and his jeans and his boots are dirty. She can see the silver cross hanging around his neck, and it just makes her think of the crucifix on his arm, and the God he believes in, the God who won't let him touch her. She wants to tell him to get the fuck out of her sight.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea-"

"Olivia," he says her name, low and deep, and she wishes that didn't affect her the way it does but Jesus, he says her name, her whole name, like it's a prayer, and fuck that beard because it just makes his eyes look so soft when he smiles.

She takes a step back, and he steps forward, and the door closes, and they are dancing around each other, again, like it's ten years ago and she's young and strong and her knees don't hurt and she believes he cares for her and she can't imagine a world in which he'd leave her.

"I'm sorry," he says. "About the other night. I know I brought a lot of shit to your door and you didn't deserve that. And I wanted to say thank you, for cleaning up my mess. Again."

Who are you and what have you done with Elliot Stabler? She thinks. Apologizing and thanking her for her help all at once? Is the world coming to a fucking end?

"Every time I turn around you're helping me and I just keep handing you shit," he continues.

And ain't that the fucking truth? She just stares at him, arms crossed over her chest. She doesn't know how she's supposed to respond to that. It would be a lie to brush it off, to say you'd do the same for me. Maybe ten years ago he would have, but now she's not so sure. She's not sure of anything, just now.

"About the letter-"

"Oh, I think you've said enough about the letter," she cuts him off, petulant, now. She stalks away from him and he follows, almost meekly. But she knows better than to believe his puppy dog eyes, the way his head hangs as if in shame. He isn't cowed. He's got more to say and he intends for her to hear it, and she knows this, because she knows him.

You used to, she hears Amanda say.

What the fuck do you know, Rollins? Her heart whispers back.

"Liv, I-"

"Why?" she spins around to face him, and he flinches back like he thought she was gonna hit him. He never used to flinch, before.

"Why what?" he asks warily.

"Why did you tell me about Kathy writing the fucking letter?"

There's plenty more she wants to know, but she figures that's as good a place as any to start.

He runs his hand over the back of his head, looks away.

"Whatever they gave me," he says. "It...it made me...it's like I forgot, you know? I forgot about the past. I was just in the moment, just feeling. And I didn't want to be Eddie fucking Ashes. I didn't want to hide. I just wanted to be me, and I wanted to be with you. This was the only place I felt safe and I needed you to know the truth."

She wants to scream. She knows what it means, that he felt safe here. That when he was vulnerable, and weak, and losing his mind, he knew she'd take care of him, and he wanted her to. It ought to feel like a victory but it just tastes bitter; he only comes to her when he needs something. This time it was shelter, and absolution. She gave him one; he'll not get the other so easily.

"Elliot," she says, sighing. "It doesn't matter who wrote the letter."

He frowns; evidently it does matter to him.

"You still gave it to me. You knew what it said," and you knew that it would hurt me, she thinks, "but you still gave it to me. It doesn't matter if they weren't your words, you signed the fucking thing."

Did he spend the last ten years telling Kathy everything they put in that letter? Did he spend the last twenty years promising Kathy that he didn't care for Olivia, that his family was the only thing that mattered, that she was just...she was just work, and she was getting in the way?

"Kathy had just died," he says, very slowly, like he's trying not to get mad but he wants to. Fuck him, she thinks. He doesn't have the right to be angry. "And you were...you had this whole beautiful life, Liv, and I thought I was doing you a favor. I thought Kathy was right, that it would be easier to talk if...if we just acted like...like…"

Like what? She wonders. Like you didn't love me?

"She'd just died, Olivia," he says suddenly, with some heat. "She was dead and we're supposed to honor the dead, aren't we? We're supposed to mourn them. We're supposed to treasure their memory. I wasn't the kinda husband I shoulda been while she was alive, and I felt like...I felt like I owed her."

What about me? She wants to scream. What about what you owe me?

"And the letter was what? Your fucking penance?"

"Damn it, Olivia." He's angry, now. Angry because he knows she's right, she thinks. His wife had just died, a bare few days before, and he was thinking morose thoughts about spending the rest of his life honoring her and he sacrificed Olivia's heart to do it. But now it's been months and he's at Olivia's door, not leaving flowers on Kathy's grave, and she hates it, the way she feels them both being torn apart, pulled in opposite directions. She doesn't want to think ill of Kathy. She doesn't want to be chasing after Kathy's husband; she's never wanted to be that woman. But Kathy is dead and he is no longer married and she'd thought this would get easier with time but evidently not.

"I thought you'd moved on and done well for yourself and I thought I was supposed to be happy for you. I was trying to be happy for you."

"You thought I'd found the kind, faithful, and devoted man that I deserved?" she parrots the words back to him ruthlessly. Yes, she has most of the letter memorized. She read it so many times, in the days after he gave it to her. Tried to find meaning in it, tried to shuffle around her own memories to make space for an Elliot who could be that callous with her heart.

"I thought you had," he tells her, and his jaw is tight from the tension of keeping his voice low enough not to wake her sleeping child. "That doesn't mean I wanted you to."

This dance with him is making her dizzy; he pulls her in and pushes her out and one minute she's on solid ground and the next she's been flung out into space.

That part of the letter never sat well with her. Those lines about hoping she'd found someone else. Every time she read them she found those words at war with her memories of this man. Elliot, getting his back up every time Porter came around. Elliot squaring up with Kurt Moss. Elliot, rolling his eyes every time she left him for a date. Elliot, protective and possessive and not wanting to know who she was with, and talking shit about them any time she did give him a name.

Kathy didn't know about that, she realizes. Kathy only ever caught glimpses of what Elliot and Olivia were like, together. The things they talked about, the jokes they shared, the horrors that bound them; Kathy wasn't there for any of it, and Elliot probably never told her. Why would he? This Fed is sniffing around Liv and I don't like it; somehow she can't imagine him whispering those words to Kathy before they fell asleep together. The letter...it didn't sound like Elliot because it wasn't. He didn't want Olivia to find a faithful, devoted man; Kathy wanted a faithful and devoted man for herself.

"Am I supposed to say thank you?" she asks him. Her voice isn't as angry as she wants it to be. She's furious but losing ground; she's exhausted, is what she is, and she doesn't know what good any of this will do, but she can't seem to stop it. "What did you want? You wanted me to be all alone here just waiting for you to come back?"

"Maybe I did," he says, and his words hit her hard. It is not a kindness; it is a knifing. "Maybe that makes me a son of a bitch." She thinks it does. "But I didn't want to think about you with someone else. I didn't want to think about someone else getting...getting to have you. You deserve someone who'll be good to you, but there isn't a man alive who deserves you."

"Not even you?"

"Especially not me."

The brutal honesty catches her off guard, somehow. He's always been a cocky son of a bitch; she's always liked that about him. Has always had a soft spot for strong, arrogant men, for men with swagger and the balls to back it up. She wonders if that started before or after she met him. The before is so long ago, she's not sure she can remember it now. Elliot has always been so sure. She's not accustomed to hearing him question himself, and she doesn't know what to do with his confession. Coming from someone else it might be sweet, to hear him say he thinks she deserves better than to him, but from him it just hurts.

There's never been a moment when she's allowed herself to really think about it. To think about him, and her. To think about his hands on her skin, his hips between her thighs. There have been flashes of want and weeks where she longed, but she's never let herself really consider what it might be like because there has never been a time when he's been available, to her. Even when he was divorced it's not like romance was in the cards; their lives were hectic, frenetic, and he was mourning the destruction of his family, and then she was gone and then she came back and then Kathy got pregnant and he was right back where he belonged. He was never hers to choose, to want. And she read that stupid fucking letter, and it sounded like he'd never wanted her, anyway, and she'd been trying to make her piece with that, and he goes and does this. Tells her he's thought about it. Tells her he doesn't think he deserves her.

He is as much a part of her as her own right hand, as the scars that linger on her skin, as the rage that bubbles in her belly, and he tells her he is undeserving, and what she hears is that she is undeserving, too.

"Fuck you," she tells him.

Hurt makes his eyes go wide, his mouth drop open; he thought he'd paid her a compliment and she's cursing him instead.

"You think you're some kind of martyr?" she continues, undeterred by his dismay. "You don't want anyone else to have me and you don't want me, either, and where does that leave me?"

"I never said I didn't want-"

"You gave me the letter," she reminds him mercilessly. The conversation keeps going back to that; he didn't write the fucking thing and if he'd never given it to her they wouldn't be here now. She wouldn't be half so angry, half so hurt, half so fucking scared, if she hadn't spent the last few months believing that everything she felt for him was all in her head, imagined. And she didn't have to, wouldn't have felt this way at all, if he'd just kept the letter to himself.

"I thought I was doing you a favor," he says, and she wonders if she kicks him in the balls now and calls it a favor if maybe then he'll understand what he's done to her. "And I wanted you to read it. Not the words Kathy said. The words I said. I was never gonna be able to say them to you out loud, and I thought you wouldn't want to hear them, but at least then you'd know."

In a parallel universe, it will always be you and I.

In all the years she has known this man, through all the hell they have endured together, those few words mark the only time that he has acknowledged them. Not what he needs or what he thinks she deserves, not how she's feeling or what she wants from him. Them. It is the only time he has ever spoken of them, as a pair, two halves of the same whole, two puzzle pieces meant to fit together. It is a declaration of mutual devotion that encompasses them both, him longing for her and duty bound to someone else, her longing for him but unable to reach him. And she knows, looking at him now, that he wants to hear them, and hear his care for her in them. His love of her. His want of her. That he hoped she'd read them, and find some solace in them.

He is so fucking stupid.

"In a parallel universe," she says, and her voice is dripping with spite. "Is that supposed to make me feel better? What about this one? What about this universe, Elliot? What about me? Not some fictional me who exists in your head. Not some version of me that's easier for you to handle. Me. Because this universe, this is the only one I'm ever gonna get. And you told me...that letter was your way of telling me it was never gonna be this one. You want me to thank you for that?"

"There is no universe in which you're easy to handle," he grumbles. "I wrote that when Kathy was still alive and I hadn't seen your face in ten years. I wrote that when I thought you probably hated me. This universe right here, you and me, I had to do my duty and I thought you'd never want me anyway."

He doesn't have to do his duty anymore, she realizes. Maybe that's why he came to her door that night, why he's here now. Maybe he's figuring it out. Maybe he thinks there's still a chance. Maybe he wants one. She's just not sure she can give it to him.

There is a part of her that wants him. There is a part of her that will always want him. He has always been sexy but never more so than now, now when they are both older and grimmer and he is free and bold and carved of solid muscle. It's more than that, though. It's more than sex, more than his hands and his mouth and the way her belly flips when she thinks about him touching her. There is a part of her that will always want him, the only person who understands her, all of her, the only one she knows, the only one...the only one. The one. The fairytale dream come true, the one where there is only one person who will ever fit inside her like he was made to be there, the fucking glass slipper sliding home and making her a princess, giving her everything she ever wanted, making all her dreams come true. There is another part of her, though, smaller but no less compelling, that tells her she's a fool, and that he has disappointed her one too many times, and that fairytales are for children.

"You told me you believed in soulmates once," he says.

It is a conversation she only vaguely recalls. They were outside, walking somewhere, and she decided she could trust him, and told him a secret that she has not shared with anyone else since that day, partly because of the work she does and partly because of the way he reacted. Even then she was tired of fighting, and she is more tired now than she has ever been.

"And you told me you didn't," she tells him. Yes, she remembers that much.

"I do," he says. "I do. I always have."

Who is this man, she wonders, talking about parallel universes and soulmates like he believes? Where is her Elliot, the one who drinks shitty bodega coffee, the one who used to buy her hotdogs from the cart and act like that counted as taking her out for dinner? Her Elliot was always suspicious of anything he couldn't see and pragmatic to a fault, and now he's saying...what is he saying?

"You said-"

"If I admitted I believed in soulmates and all that shit I'd have to admit that I wasn't married to mine and that would have broken us all in half."

Jesus Christ.

They don't do this. They have never done this. And he chooses now, tonight, just a random fucking day when he could slip away long enough to come to her without being followed, to lay it all on the line.

"It was always you and me. It was always us. It always should have been. And it couldn't be back then and now…"

He shifts uneasily on his feet, and they are both tired of standing, caught between the sofa and the kitchen, but they can't sit down, can't step away from each other, even for a second.

Now what? She wonders. Now, now that Kathy is dead - and Jesus, it feels bad to even think it, that he is only here because his wife is dead - does he think that he's in with a chance?

"And now you hate me, and you're happier without me, but I just needed you to know, I guess. So thanks. I'm done."

He turns to walk away; he's said his piece, he's made his amends, his offered his explanations, and now he is going to leave her. Again.

"The hell you are," she says, reaches out and grabs his forearm, the only part of him she can reach. He spins back around to face her but she keeps her hand on him; he keeps trying to leave and she's worried that if she lets him go now he'll never come back.

"You never once asked me what I wanted," she tells him. "You decided I deserve better than you. You decided I hate you. You decided I'm happier without you. But you didn't fucking ask me, El."

Part of the reason, she thinks, the reason why he didn't ask and why they never talk about this and why he's so sure that he knows what she wants, is that most of the time they do know. They know each other so well that most of the time they can read one another's thoughts, anticipate one another's needs. He knows what she's gonna have for lunch and he orders fries with his burger, and when they're halfway through they switch plates, and he eats the rest of her salad without even having to ask while she wolfs down his greasy leftovers because they each wanted both and they don't mind to share. They just know; he takes his coffee black, and she takes hers with a little milk, cream if she has to and the last time he saw her in the morning hours he had a cup for her in his hands. He prefers baseball to football and she doesn't give a shit about either, and they both know all the words to Paradise by the Dashboard Light. They know.

But they don't know this. They don't know this because this isn't supposed to happen and they've both been swallowing it back for twenty fucking years now. Assumptions and insinuation have brought them to the brink of ruin; honesty is the only thing that's gonna bring them back.

"Ask me," she says.

His eyes search her face, so blue they're almost black.

"What do you want, Olivia?"

Finally.

"I want you, you fucking asshole," she tells him. "I want you to tell me this is real. I want you to tell me that I didn't stand in the way of anything. I want you to tell me it's not all in my head and I want you to tell me you want me. I want you to stop fucking running."

He moves with surprising speed; he's a big man, a tall man, a broad man, heavy with muscle, but those muscles are deft and sure and they bring him to her in a heartbeat. His hands tangle in her hair, pull her until her forehead is resting against his, until they're so close she has to close her eyes against his proximity.

"I want you," he growls at her. "This is real, and you never stood in the way of anything, and it's not in your head. I want you. Jesus, I want you."

"Took you long enough," she whispers back, suddenly breathless.

He doesn't answer her with words; instead he sinks his mouth over hers, hot and wet and hungry, holds her to him with his hands anchored in her hair, and she wraps both her hands around his forearms, and holds on tight, and lets him sweep her away.

It's what she always wanted, anyway. The rest of it, she thinks, was just noise.

It will always be you and I.