A/N: Thank you, everyone, for the encouragement so far. I don't believe in defending writing before you've had a chance to read it, buuuuut: I just wanted to say that I know Olivia is a workaholic, but I'm not going to focus on that aspect here. You all know about Detective Benson, but I want to write about Olivia at home - so - I'm not going to make up a fake case. Well, maybe I will - but not right now. I don't know what's going to happen. I'm just letting the characters decide where to take the story - Something the SVU writers wouldn't do. I also am ignoring whatever happened last week with revealing who Noah's father is. Really, writers? Come on. I also don't know who the hell Olivia's nanny is - I'm making her up, too. I do hope you enjoy this, though. I'll probably let you down in that I, too, am a workaholic who does many other things for the most part of my days, but I'm trying to get this nugget out of my system as fast as I can. I promise.

PS: All mistakes are mine. I don't have a beta. You wanna?

ALSO: If you haven't listened to Brandi Carlile's "The Eye", then go do it. Forreal. Most E/O fucking song I've ever heard. It's what inspired this fic, in case you didn't know.

Okay. Here we go...

Chapter 3

Olivia strolled into work on Monday morning with a pep in her step and a song in her heart. Only the song was heartbreaking, and her vigor was forced and fleeting. She spent most of the day with the door to her office closed, which, disappointingly (for her), didn't raise any red flags for her squad. She was their much-loved leader, but she was a temperamental one. Everybody had effortlessly learned to drift with her waves instead of becoming awash in her ocean. She'd earned that gravitational force, although she did not know it.

Dinner that evening was a green smoothie for Olivia and a bottle of whole milk and blended up broccoli, spinach, and apples for Noah. Judging from how the apartment looked, Noah had a busy day.

"It's okay, Lindsay," Olivia had insisted to Noah's nanny. "I know the damage Hurricane Noah leaves in his wake." The young nanny offered to stay and help clean up more and cook dinner for them both, but again, Olivia assured her it was all okay—that's what a house with a toddler in it was supposed to look like.

"Call if you need me," Lindsay insisted. Olivia knew she meant it, and that made her feel a little immoral. She didn't pay Lindsay nearly enough for how good she was to both her and Noah, how much time she devoted to her small family—all hours, any day, night, any time. So much time. Lindsay didn't have any children of her own, and she lived with her father—retired firefighter—out in Queen's. Her mother was in Idaho, remarried.

She understood Olivia's schedule and never complained or declined, bless her. She was a Godsend, and Olivia didn't know how she would ever repay her. That's why, after all day taking care of Noah, doing the laundry, the grocery shopping, and whatever errands Olivia had on any specific day of the work week, she didn't want Lindsay sticking around and doing any more work, though she wouldn't mind the company. Lindsay was dedicated, loyal, smart, patient, kind, and—most importantly—loved Noah. She was a good girl, and she wanted to do good things. She was like a daughter to Olivia, even in the short time they had known each other. She felt like part of the family, a family Olivia never imagined having. As unconventional as it was, it was just right.

After dinner and changing into their pajamas, Olivia and Noah went to watch TV in bed—she was so tired, always. Caillou – that's what Lindsay had told Olivia Noah liked to watch, so she DVR'd all the episodes. Noah was tucked into Olivia's side, resting his head (after wiggling for a little while—resisting, wanting to run loose), on the outside of her right breast. He eventually stilled, entranced with the television. Olivia didn't feel guilty, though she did feel like she was tricking him a little bit. The TV only came on when Olivia absolutely had no energy to do anything else for the rest of the day. Olivia had been raised on Sesame Street. It was okay; a little TV was okay.

When she awoke (fuck, she needed to stop drifting), it was a quarter after eleven and Noah was sound asleep, emitting little puffing sounds as he exhaled. Olivia's heart swelled, and she smiled, though he couldn't see it. She loved these moments. She loved all these moments, as difficult as it felt some of the time. Most of the time. All of the time. Noah was splayed out sideways on the bed, uncovered, without a pillow under his head. He was supposed to sleep propped up because of his breathing problems. Olivia had forgotten, but she didn't mean to fall asleep. She didn't.

She didn't want to wake him, although she didn't have a choice but to move his small body up the bed and onto the pillow. She didn't bother taking him to the crib in his small room opposite hers. They both slept better when they were together, neither having to worry so much about safety—theirs or the other's, whichever the case may be.

As if proving her point, Noah only slightly stirred as Olivia tucked him in and turned off the TV with the remote. She put the remote back in its spot on her nightstand, and picked up her cell phone that had been charging while she slept.

She had one missed call, one voice mail, three text messages, and sixteen emails waiting for her. Deciding she would check them in the order of least likely to make her get out of bed and have to go to work, she checked the emails first. Kohl's, CVS/Pharmacy, Joss & Main, Redbox, Uber, American Express, , Macy's, Pottery Barn, Zillow, CitiCards, and zulily (twice) all flashed their advertisements at her as she quickly went through and deleted them.

And then she didn't know. Voicemail or Text Messages next? The texts could be nothing, just updates from her squad. Or they could be from Elliot. The voicemail could be nothing, maybe a recording from the pharmacy that it was time to pick up a medication for her or Noah, or it could be work—though she doubted it. They would have kept calling. Or it could be Elliot. Decisions are emotional, not logical, so she clicked on her Phone icon to check to see who called. It was Elliot. Of course it was Elliot, who had all of a sudden stormed back into her life.

She hit the play button and positioned the iPhone to her ear, turning down the volume so as not to wake Noah, but pressing the phone as close to her ear as was physically possible.

"Liv," he started, and her breathing paused so she could hear what Elliot had to say. "You didn't respond to my messages, and I just…I know that invite came out of nowhere. I'm sorry, I'm…I'm sorry for a lot of things, and I want to tell you about them. Can we…can we meet before then? Would that be better? For lunch, or…I don't know, you pick. Call me back, or…or text me, okay? Let me know you got this."

And then he was gone, but Olivia was awake, sitting up, bringing her knees to her chest, and putting her head between them. She was breathing in and out and thinking about breathing and trying to do it right. She listened to the message three more times, in case there was something she had missed. But she hadn't missed his words; she has missed Elliot. And he wanted to see her. She wanted to see him, too, desperately. But Olivia didn't do desperate anymore, and that realization calmed her down, steadied her. She checked her text messages: all of them from Elliot.

"can I call you?"

"are you on a case?"

"call me, liv"

It was 11:30 p.m. when Olivia crept out of her bedroom and into the kitchen, wanting the feel of the hard tile beneath her feet and granite on her elbows instead of the soft carpeting and cushions of the living room.

She sat her phone down onto the countertop and moved to get a glass out of the cupboard and fill it with water from the tap. She was very thirsty these days. Water and sleep – she could never get enough of either. She gulped the whole glass down in one long, eager sip and filled it back up.

She moved to the other side of the breakfast bar and sat on a stool with perfect, uncomfortable posture. She reached for her glass again, took a small sip, and slouched, moving her body closer to the counter and tapping her fingers on her phone, as if she jarred it enough it would do something by itself instead of relying on her to make the commands.

She put her glass onto the counter and picked up her phone, held it with both hands and shot out a reply to Elliot over text message.

"Got your messages. Sorry. You awake?"

"you know i am," came his almost automatic reply. Olivia wondered if his phone did all the work for him, if that's why it was so easy for him to talk to her now, when she had spent four years recovering from the idea of never talking to Elliot again. So, understandably—right?—it was hard for her to start this back up again. Whatever this was. Whatever it ever was.

"I can talk," she wrote. Really? She wondered if she could. "You want to text or call?" It was whatever he wanted. This was all his doing, and he was going to make the decisions. Olivia didn't have the energy to do any more of that. He had never responded to what she wanted, anyway. She wanted explanations and comfort and companionship and safety, and he took it all away. And it was going to be hard to break through all the barriers Olivia had built – against him, against everyone except for Noah. Noah and Olivia. They were partners now. She didn't have another one.

The jarring buzz on the countertop made Olivia jump. Elliot had decided to call. She picked up her phone, abandoning her water, and hunkered into the sofa before answering. The lights were out, her focus sound.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey. You just getting in?"

"No," she laughed – as if that was a ridiculous question. He was supposed to know things about her now, she figured. That's what the evidence had suggested. It hurt her a little that he thought she wouldn't be here at midnight with her son. "No, just waking up," she clarified. "Fell asleep watching cartoons a few hours ago."

"Welcome to motherhood, Olivia," he said, and she could hear the genuine smile on the other end of the phone.

She lifted her lips and cheeks as if to smile herself, for just a second, before relaxing back into a neutral face.

"The impossible became possible," she said, gently.

"I was so happy for you when I heard…"

"How did you hear?" she interrupted. Her mood had transitioned into a sudden fierceness she had not felt in a very long time. "I meant to ask that before. How do you know all this about me when I don't even know where you've been since that day…"

"I had to get away, Olivia. I was all over the place. I was in Norfolk for…"

"But how do you know?" she asked. "How do you know about this, Elliot?"

"Fin," he said. "Munch, Cragen, Cassidy…"

"You talked to Cassidy?" she asked, disbelievingly. "When the hell…"

"People who love you," he finished.

"But not me. You didn't talk to me. You talked to everyone except for me. Why, Elliot?" her voice had cracked, letting down some of her guard, but she was desperate now to know.

"I couldn't," he said, and was silent. She couldn't hear him breathing, or shifting—she couldn't hear anything in that moment to prove he was real, and that made it easier to ask the questions she had been waiting eagerly in the back of her mind to ask since he left.

"So why now? What changed?"

"Because I'm back in the city. I'm here, and I know you're here..."

"I've always been here," she responded defensively, bitingly.

"I know. I know you've been here. But I wasn't. I wasn't here, Liv. In a lot of ways, I wasn't here. But I needed to come back, and I'm here. I can't…I can't be here, Olivia, and ignore you."

"You've ignored me for four years…"

"I wasn't ignoring you," he said.

Olivia let out a bitter laugh, "Well you fooled me, Elliot! Because from where I was, back then—when I was here—looking for you, begging you to call me… When I was here, fighting without you… When I thought I was going to die and was desperate for you, Elliot. I was desperate, you ignored me."

Elliot was silent, so Olivia kept up her diatribe.

"And I know you think you know all about my life, Elliot. I know that's what you think. But you don't anymore. You never did, maybe. You know what you've heard, what you've been told, but you don't know, Elliot. You don't know what it's been like, just like I don't know…about you. We don't know each other, Elliot. How can I come to your kid's birthday party? With my kid? You don't know us. Eli doesn't know us…"

"You were there when he was born…"

"—You weren't," she cut in.

He waited a beat before shifting gears. "I know you, Liv," was all he could say. "And you know me."

"I don't…" she was a stubborn, determined woman.

"Then let's get together," he said. "Let's meet each other now. Here, I'll set us up…"

Olivia laughed, despite herself. "Like a blind date?"

"Do people do that anymore?"

"I'm sure some people do. But not us."

"How do you know that, Olivia? I don't know you, right? And you don't know me? How do you know what we do?"

"I guess, then…" she said, hesitated, considered, and impulsively, instinctively decided to respond: "we can find out."

TBC