March 8, 2021

Almost before she opened the door, she could smell it. Garlic and olive oil and onions, sauteed in a pan. Fresh bread, probably from Marcella's down the street. Tomatoes and butter. It smelled like home, warm and comforting, and after the chaos of the last few days, home was the one thing she wanted most in the world. If she could still smell supper in the air, though, that probably meant he hadn't done the dishes. Just one more thing for her to do, after days spent running herself ragged, and just the thought of it was nearly enough to have her turning around.

Nearly.

She didn't bother calling out when she opened the door, when she locked it behind her, when she leaned back against it and kicked off her shoes, when she dropped her bag in a heap in the corner. She was still carrying her service weapon and she'd need to stow it in the safe in the bedroom, but it was late, and the food smelled good, and she was tired. Maybe she'd just grab a piece of bread first, put a little something in her belly before she shed the struggle and grief of the day, before she finally let herself relax.

Thinking fond thoughts of Marcella's ciabatta she padded into the kitchen on silent feet. What do you know? She thought as she went. He is doing the dishes.

Had apparently just gotten started, if the mountain of plates and bowls next to him was any indication. He did have an uncanny knack for dirtying every pot and pan in the house every time he cooked, and it had always irritated the shit out of her. It was one of the many reasons they hadn't worked out, in the end, one of the many reasons they didn't live together any more, probably the least important, most mundane of all of them, but it was still there. Some things never changed.

"Smells good," she murmured over the quiet strains of the radio, playing some old Springsteen song.

"Hey," he answered, looking back over his shoulder at her, offering her a smile that was wary, somehow, tentative, uncertain. It wasn't like she could blame him for that. They were living in uncertain times, and she was the most uncertain of them all. Just now she was a grenade with the pin plucked out, ready and waiting for the explosion that was bound to come. That had to come. There was too much bottled up inside her, too much anger, too much grief, too much hurt, and nowhere for it to go, the pressure just building, second by second, until at last she split her seams, burst from the tension of trying to hold it all in.

"You ok?" Brian asked her when she didn't respond to him, reaching for a rag to dry his hands as if preparing himself to step into the fray of her wildly roiling emotions, preparing himself to put her back together with his own two hands.

"No," she confessed quietly, painfully. It hurt, admitting that, but this was the first time in days anyone had asked how she was doing, and she desperately needed to tell someone the truth.

"Kathy Stabler died today."

"Jesus," Brian swore, humbled in the face of that sorrow. "I'm sorry, Liv."

"Me, too."

Kathy Stabler was dead. Sweet, gentle Kathy; pretty, blonde Kathy; warm, maternal Kathy. Dead. Blown up, god only knew why. Torn asunder, in blood and pain and fire, for the crime of being married to Elliot Stabler. That was the only thing they knew for certain, even if no one was willing to say it out loud yet. That kid, Sacha, there was no way he'd been hired to blow up some random car. He'd been hired to blow up that car, that specific car. Elliot's car. Kathy didn't have an enemy in the world but Elliot did. Whoever had done this, they'd been gunning for him, looking to kill him or take his wife from him or something, had been targeting him, and now Kathy was dead. Kathy who'd divorced him once, who'd tried to leave him again before Olivia talked her out of it, Kathy who had tried like hell not to be married to him, had died because of him. Kathy was dead, and Elliot's heart was in pieces, and Olivia's was, too, but there was no comfort to be found, not for her. She'd comforted Elliot, in the hospital, helped him gather his children to him, called his old parish priest in Queens, helped Kathleen arrange Eli's transportation to the States. She'd taken care of him, and the whole damn time she'd been bleeding out, with no one there to bandage her wounds.

"Hey," Brian said, ducking his head to look in her eyes, something like alarm in his expression. "C'mere."

There was no point in resisting him, and she didn't really want to, anyway. She was tired, and she was sad, and she was lonesome, and Brian was there, the way he always had been, and he cared about her, and he remembered Kathy, even if most of the people around her now did not. He reached for her, wrapped his arms around her, and she let him, let him pull her in close, let herself sink into the familiar warmth of him, and closed her eyes.

"They took the case from us," she muttered into the soft fabric of his t-shirt. "I've been told to stand down."

"Maybe that's for the best," Brian answered. "This case is eating you alive, Liv."

He was right about that. Friday night she'd been on her way to the Women in Policing dinner, practicing her speech in the car, her hair blown out, her dress perfect, and then the call had come in. A 10-13, and Elliot Stabler, and he asked for you, ma'am, and then she'd stepped out of her car on leaden feet, feeling as if she were floating in the air somewhere above her body, watching it all unfold from a distance, and then she'd heard his voice over the noise of the medics, turned and found him there, Elliot, the same as she remembered, but older, sadder, calling her name, the lights from the cruisers throwing the grooves of his weathered face into sharp relief. Ten years since she'd last seen him, and she wanted to curse him, to hit him, to fall into her arms, and she'd not been able to do any of those things, had been forced to stand, and stare, and watch his life racing all around her while she remained frozen, a little voice screaming in the back of her mind. That voice, it had been screaming for days, and it was louder now than it had ever been.

"He was my partner," she said. He had been her partner, once, and it was her job to take care of him, and Jesus, what would to him happen if she didn't? What would happen to her?

"Don't give me that shit," Brian answered, still holding her close. "He was a hell of a lot more to you than that."

Brian would know, she figured, because Brian was the one who'd heard her screaming Elliot's name in her sleep, in the days after Lewis. Brian was the one who'd found the picture of her and Elliot from the first year they worked together, tucked into her underwear drawer. Yeah, Brian knew.

"I can't talk about this anymore," she said.

It had been days of this, days of Fin watching her like he feared she'd shatter at any second, days of Amanda asking her wheedling questions, trying to get a feel for the situation while Olivia did her best not to give herself away. Days of having to answer for Elliot's behavior to the brass; we were both referred, she'd told Garland, and wondered if it changed his estimation of her, the realization that she had aligned herself with a man he thought too violent to be a cop, the realization that she was defending him, still, casting her lot in alongside his. It had been days of Elliot's eyes, huge and blue and hurt, looking at her, pleading with her, silently begging for her to fix this mess, when there was nothing at all she could do to turn back the clock on this calamity. There was so much left to say, but she couldn't stomach another second of talking.

And Brian, he never pushed when she said no. Never tried to talk about the hard things, if she didn't want to, never asked her for explanations she wasn't willing to give, let her bullshit slide, even when maybe he shouldn't. Just like he was doing now.

"Ok," he said. "Listen, go change your clothes. See the kids. I'll warm up some dinner for you."

With that he pulled away, looking chastised, somehow, like a little boy trying and failing to please his teacher.

"Thank you," she said. "I don't just mean for dinner, I mean for everything you've done the last few days. Thank you."

"They're my kids, too," he said. "You don't gotta thank me for that."

But he'd taken both kids all weekend, even though it wasn't his turn, and he'd kept them here, at home, hadn't taken them back to his place, had made sure that each night when she came stumbling home, however late it was, that she'd be able to look in on her children, and see them sleeping, safe and at peace, and he'd taken them to school this morning, and he'd made sure she had something to eat, and he'd done it all without complaint. Brian had his faults, but he was a good man, and she was grateful for him.

"Thanks for dinner, then," she said.

"Go on," he nudged her out of the kitchen with his hip, and at last she relented, made her way back across the apartment to the bedrooms at the back.

Noah's bedroom was first, and she opened that door slowly, as quietly as she could, not wanting to disturb him. Not that she needed to worry about it, really. Noah slept like the dead, usually, and now was no different. He was lying tucked up safe beneath his blankets, his hair a riot of dark curls on the pillows, his blue eyes closed, his sweet face soft in sleep. The most unexpected little miracle, a constant source of joy, he warmed his mother's heart every time she looked at him. Eight years old, growing like a weed, he had turned into a sensitive, playful kid, and it comforted her, looking at him. She stood there for a minute or two, just breathing, looking at him, reminding herself that however much Elliot's return might have felt like the end of the world, there was so much left unbroken, her life still so full in so many ways, even without him.

After a time she turned away, closed the door behind her and went across the hall, moving on silent feet into Mia's bedroom.

Most people thought they were Irish twins, Mia and Noah. Olivia had been four, maybe five months pregnant when Judge Linden asked if she wanted to take Noah home, and accepting seemed like an act of madness, but. She was already on restricted duty, not allowed to go into the field while she was pregnant, and she could do the desk work from home while she got Noah settled, could work from her kitchen as easily as she could from the office. She'd already picked out a daycare for Mia, and they'd told her she'd get a discount for sending two kids. By that point she and Brian had already broken up, but he still wanted to be there for his baby, and he'd jumped at the chance to be there for Noah, too. It was madness, but it worked, and her two children would never remember life without one another. Neither of them had been planned, Mia and Noah, but this little family had come together so beautifully, and Olivia would never regret a single piece of it.

Amelia Benson Cassidy was her mother in perfect miniature. The color of her dark hair, her dark eyes, the shape of her mouth; she's lucky, Brian had said, the day she was born. She's gonna be a stunner, just like you. She was sleeping soundly, too, little limbs splayed out like a starfish, snoring just a little, a lock of her dark hair caught against her open lips. Very carefully Olivia reached out and tucked it back, and smiled when Mia frowned in her sleep. That little girl, she was too much like both her parents, quick to anger, stubborn, mistrustful. But she had a good heart, too, and she was gentle when it mattered, and they adored her, Olivia and Brian and Noah, and she loved them all, fiercely. Seven years old, and already she was fierce, and god help me, Olivia thought. I'm not ready for teenagers.

But for now her children were small, and safe, and Brian was warming up dinner for her. She left Mia to her dreams, went back into her bedroom and locked her gun away before changing into her sweats. She'd go back out, she'd eat, she'd talk to Brian, and then he'd go home and she'd lay herself down, and pray she wouldn't dream. She didn't think she could handle it if she dreamed, tonight, didn't want to know what visions would come for her in the darkness. Elliot Stabler had come home, and brought a host of demons with him, and grief followed in his steps like a cloud, and Olivia felt that cloud surrounding her, even here, even now. There were dark days ahead, she thought. She could only hope that there would be light at the end of them.