A/N: No excuses, sorry for the delay. Blame school. Don't they know SVU is way more important than their silly assignments? Also little shout-out to Trish47, who let me borrow the brilliant line that I added to Olivia's last chapter (go back and check it out!). Don't think I'll add any more to this unless someone reviews with an idea of where to take it next. :-) Now back to the man of the hour: Elliot.
He watches her go.
He doesn't really have any other option. He can count on one hand the number of times Olivia has allowed herself to be this vulnerable to him and this is always where the moment ends. She gives him a small squeeze on his knee or his shoulder, a silent look in the eye, and then leaves him right where he stands. Any time he's tried to follow her; it just takes them to a worse place.
Mandarin wafts to his nose in her wake like a gingerbread trail he's not allowed to follow. Heat radiates from his neck in the imprint of her cheek that he covers now with his fingertips. He always has a hard time adjusting to these shifts in their relationship. He doesn't understand why they always happen in a single moment that never quite registers its impact in his mind. Suddenly he realizes his arms are held frozen in front of him even though they are empty now without her. The void in his soul hurts worse, as it always does at these times. It's when circumstances remind him of how little he can do to fix things for her; to give her what she deserves; to help her the way she never ceases to help others, no matter how many times things go horribly wrong, like today.
Except usually, his mind is mirroring hers, and this time he doesn't have an image of what happened – because you weren't fucking with her and what would you be if you'd lost her?But he can't think of that, not now, not ever. He goes into the bathroom at the other end of the hallway because he has to see what she went through so she won't be alone in her nightmares. If he couldn't go through it with her, he will at least stay with her through the aftermath.
Only it's worse than he expected. The cramped square of a room is trashed and blood is everywhere. Sonya didn't just die, she was brutally murdered. Slashed up. Olivia would've come in here and known immediately there was nothing she could do to change the outcome. He moves one foot towards Warner and is overwhelmed by the despair Olivia left behind.
There's a scarf on the floor. Liv's. It used to be blue. He sees Olivia's face in one blink and Sonya's the next. He can't do this. There's too much blood. Too much broken glass. Too much space without her.
Warner starts to say something to him as she zips up the bag except Elliot has to get back to her. He's been gone much too long already.
Olivia's right back into the case when he finds her and he has no choice but to go along. It's like a change of clothes was all she needed to clear her mind.
Elliot knows better.
So he sticks with her to finish the case. And he waits.
Elliot waits through the talk with Alicia's naïve assistant. He waits through the cold to find the five victims at the body dump. He waits through identifying the victims and Alicia idiotically setting herself up as bait. He even waits through the perp's booking into Riker's and Olivia's little tryst to use Alicia to make the guy confess.
He waits for her as long as he can, but he refuses to lose her to the silence that consumes her.
The knock on her apartment door makes an empty echo down the hall. After a few moments, he tilts his ear into the wood, and after a minute of silence he digs out his key to let himself in.
"Liv?" He whispers it for no reason. It is so still and quiet that he would almost leave, except for the fact that every little light is on inside her apartment. It's what she does. When she's alone, she can't handle the night that creeps into her mind. She always tries to chase it away with an artificial comfort.
He's better than artificial anything.
There's no sign of activity in the kitchen, not even a counter or a glass to wipe clean. There's no blanket thrown haphazardly onto the couch. There's no hum at the laptop on her desk. There's no sheets tangled at the end of her bed. But there's a strange sound coming from the bathroom so that's where he heads.
"Liv?" Cracking the door ajar, a blast of steam hits him in the face in its rush for freedom. "Liv?" He repeats while his vision clears, not wanting to catch her in a compromising position.
Only the position is compromising; it's just not what most people would think of when someone says that. She's wearing clothes – a sleeveless solid top and navy blue capri pants, an outfit of casual rainy day book reading – but she's never been more naked in front of him. It's a harrowing sight.
He sees no tears but she's still crying. They're written all over her face just the same. She's sitting on the tile floor against the running bathtub and she's just furiously rubbing a washcloth across her hands, arms and neck. Her skin is so red it's already blistering.
"Liv, what are you doing?" Elliot turns the water off and reaches for her but she can't even see him.
Glazed eyes look past him and all she does is mumble. "I have to get the blood out. There's too much blood. Too much of it. I have to clean it up. I have to wash it off."
"Liv, give me that. Stop it." He tries to tell her that everything's already clean; that her hands are red because she's scrapping them with bleach that's stinging his nose, that this is not the way to expunge the eternal burn of memories. But the words won't come. Her mumbling just gets louder and louder until she's screaming at him.
"The blood. I have to get it out. I have to get the blood off. Get it off, get it off, GET IT OFF GETITOFFGETITOFFGETITOFF!"
Elliot shakes her. "Liv, look at me! Liv!" He finally manages to grab her hands and he holds them tight in his own as she gasps for air and then eventually stills and quiets.
"Sonya," softest whisper words, broken flower petals from her mouth. Still she's not with him because her eyes are far away as he cups her face.
"I know. It'll be okay. I promise. Ssshhh. It's okay."
He says it over and over again until she can look him in the eye, until she knows where she is, until she can escape the memories fighting to control her present.
Olivia blows her nose into a tissue and stares at him in a look he can't read. "You weren't there,"
Bullet straight to the heart. He feels it splinter apart; watches it bleed out. She's right. Goddammit, she's right and there's nothing he can do about it now. No way to go back and erase the past. But if his Catholic upbringing taught him nothing else, it's that in every situation there is a penance to earn back good graces. The trick is finding the right one, and doing it often enough to be forgiven.
Instead of answering her with words that mean nothing, he just kisses her forehead. Whether it can or not, Elliot imagines the contact taking away all of her sorrow and transferring his never-ending love.
Spell, world, barrier. Whatever it is that happens, something breaks. Co-workers, friends, partners, soul mates. All the labels, all the attempts at separation, the shutting off by degrees, everything falls away. Suddenly Olivia leans into his shoulder, allowing herself to truly give into his proffered comfort. Her arms push between his elbows until her hands can almost reach the back of his neck.
Time melts away in their embrace. Skin melds. They cry together, breathe together, feel together, exist together.
And together, holding each other's weight, they both start to heal.