The problem with wanting things, in Olivia's experience, was that the wanting was always better than the having. So long as she only wanted a thing, the thing itself remained a dream, and a dream could not disappoint her. A dream was as beautiful, as joyous, as satisfying as she imagined it to be so long as it remained no more than the fanciful longing of a lonely heart. The moment she had what she wanted, whatever it might have been, the having of it brought an end to the dream, and the fundamental truth that life was neither beautiful nor perfect would rear its ugly head. She wanted the job, and once she had it, it took everything from her. There had been men she wanted, over the years, and it was love she wanted most of all, and anytime she found herself with someone else's hand to hold he never compared to the dream of him she'd written in her head. She wanted love, but when she loved it only hurt her.
This moment, now, in this kitchen, staring at Elliot, this was something she'd wanted for four long years. The chance to see him again, to speak to him, to hear his voice, to demand an accounting from him, she'd wanted it, desperately, since the day he left her. Had dreamed of it, sometimes. Dreamed of how her heart might soar, to see his face. Dreamed of how he'd come to her when she needed him most, how he'd shoulder her burdens and help her, how her heart might finally know peace when she looked once more into his eyes, and saw his regard for her there, crystal clear and undeniable. She wanted to see him, and in the seeing of him she wanted the final proof that he cared for her, that leaving her wasn't easy for him, that he'd missed her.
She wanted this, and now she had it, and the having of it threatened to rip her in two. There were no apologies dripping from his lips; he had not come here to say sorry, to fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness, to rescue her from those who meant her harm.
My old partner, he'd know what to do.
There was surprise written in every line of his face, a queasy cast to his expression like he was about to be ill, his hands unsteady, same as hers, as if he had just seen a ghost, and now didn't know what to do with himself. It was obvious to her, to one who knew him so well, that this man had not expected to find her in this place, and that meant he had not come for her at all. It was an accident, him standing there, looking at her; he had not set out to find her, had not moved heaven and earth to be with her, and there was still a wedding ring on his finger.
She can't know, he'd said, determined to hide the truth of his connection to Olivia from the woman with the cheerful voice who'd come here with him today; why did he want to keep secrets? She wondered. Was he afraid they'd reassign him, afraid that if anyone knew who Olivia was to him - who am I to him? she wondered - he'd be taken from her? Or was he worried about something else, worried about news of this getting back to Kathy, worried about ruining the life he'd built here?
Christ, had he built a life here? What the fuck was he doing here?
I hate him, she thought, staring at him, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes.
Sometimes, Olivia knew, love and hate were impossible to separate from one another. Sometimes hate was the twisted fruit of a love turned poison. A love that had been sweet, once, corrupted by pain and cruelty until it became a dark and fearful thing, and she felt it, now, felt the love that once had bound her to this man turned to hate, because he had not loved her as she wished he would, because she had been so foolish as to think he might; there was shame in her, looking at him, shame because she had dreamed of seeing him again, and now that he was in front of her she saw how stupid she had been. Monumentally, devastatingly, heartbreakingly stupid to think that he had missed her, that he had wanted her, because obviously, obviously, he didn't. He had a shiny new badge and a shiny new life and he hadn't looked for her and now that they were in the same room he had an expression on his face like he'd just swallowed a lemon, and that's what I am to him, she thought, that's what she always had been; something sour and bitter, something to be borne with a grimace.
"Olivia-"
"Get the fuck out," she said.
The thing about a dream, Elliot thought, was that a dream couldn't hurt the dreamer. Freddy Krueger wasn't real, and a dream couldn't kill. A dream could be whatever he wanted it to be, could mean whatever he wanted it to mean, even if what he wanted it to mean was nothing at all. In his dreams, he saw her face. In his dreams she smiled; in his dreams she was always glad to see him. In his dreams she forgave him. In his dreams, she was at peace.
Not so now; it hurt, now, looking at her. The shine of her eyes and the tremble of her soft lip like she was struggling not to cry, the tension in her shoulders and the way she began to pace like a tiger in a too-small cage; her body gave away the secrets she tried to keep from him, and he could almost feel it from the other side of the room, could almost feel her anger, her pain. It was a pain he would give anything to take from her; he would have reached into her chest and pulled the burning weight of it from her, if he could. Would've gone back in time and answered the phone, would've changed everything, his life and hers and Kathy's and Eli's and that little boy at the table, would've wrecked it all, just to stop her from hurting. He'd fall on his sword right now, if it would've done any good.
Maybe it would do some good. Maybe she needed to hear it, but what good was an apology? What was the point of sorry, after he'd left her in silence, grieving and split in half, after he'd abandoned her and left her to be hunted to the point of near certain death? Someone was hunting her, and he had not been there. He was her partner, goddamn it, and his was job to protect her, and when she needed him most he'd been nowhere in sight, and now he didn't even know her child's name.
Jesus, he thought, his gaze darting back to that little boy.
He's hers, he thought faintly. Hers. Olivia's, her flesh and blood, half of her, made in love - Christ, he hoped the child had been made in love, and not pain as Olivia herself had been - she had loved someone and he had died and she was alone with a baby and Elliot didn't understand any of it, didn't understand where the baby had come from or who wanted Olivia dead or what had put that shadow over her eyes, but he wanted to know. Needed to know.
And so he took a step towards her, his hand outstretched.
"Olivia," he called her name, loving the sound of it, the familiar roll of it through his mouth; four years since he'd last said her name out loud, and he'd missed it, shit he'd missed it.
He'd missed her.
He'd missed her, and she was here now, and he could see her, could almost touch her, could hear the ragged sound of her breathing, and his feet shifted, began to carry him towards her as if of their own volition, and maybe this is where he was always headed, where he was always meant to go, back to her, back to the one who knew him, the one who saw him, the one his heart had dreamed of, and something like hope shot through him, and -
"Get the fuck out," Olivia said darkly.
"Get the fuck out," Jackie heard the woman say.
Yikes, she thought. That's a little harsh.
What had Stabler done to this woman?
Jackie's initial suspicion that they knew one another seemed to have been validated the moment Stabler called the witness's name. There was no way for him to know that, Jackie thought, because he hadn't seen the file yet; only Jackie had seen it, and Jackie hadn't told him shit. The only name you need to know is the name the US Government gave her, that's what Jackie'd told him. No, he knew this woman, knew her with one look at her face, just as she knew him.
What Jackie wouldn't give to be able to see them! If she peeked her head around the corner they'd spot her at once; if she wanted to observe them without tipping them off the only way she could do it was from hiding. All she could do was listen, and think.
Stabler seemed like a decent guy. He had a decent sense of humor, a sharp tongue, a tendency to hold himself like a soldier - a Marine, she'd seen the tat - at ease, a little tense but not neurotic. He had a pretty wife and a cute kid and a picture of both of them in a frame on his brand new desk at the office. Catholic, ex-military, ex-cop, husband, father; before this moment, Jackie would've sworn he was too boring to be much of a threat but clearly she was wrong about that, because this whatever-this-was that was unfolding in the kitchen, this was dangerous, for everyone involved.
"That all you got to say to me?" she heard Elliot respond, biting off his words like he meant to chew them down to dust.
"Fuck you, Elliot," the woman fired back. "You're the one-"
"Liv-"
A nickname, Jackie thought. That's new.
"You're the one who left," the woman hissed. Stabler was trying to interrupt her again, but she didn't give him the chance. "You're the one who didn't pick up the phone. You had your chance to speak to me four years ago and you didn't say a word, and yeah, I got nothing to say to you now."
"Bullshit," he answered.
They sure are swearing a lot in front of that baby, Jackie thought. According to the paperwork the kid was not quite two, which in Jackie's experience meant he was right around the age when he could be expected to mimic the sounds that people around him made, and he was likely to delight in sharing his newfound talents at the most unexpected times. Maybe his mom doesn't care, Jackie thought. Some people didn't mind it when their babies said shit. Personally she always thought it was funny when kids swore but -
"What are you even doing here?" the witness demanded, exasperated. It seemed like they were trying to keep their voices down, Jackie thought, but they were really, really bad at it. Just agitated, probably, tempers running high, but still, it was bad form. Surely the first rule of keeping a secret was "don't fucking shout it".
"I'm here to protect you-"
"Oh my god, that's not what I meant."
"Oh. I uh - I don't know, Liv. I needed to work and the Marshals were hiring."
"So you moved to Nebraska?"
"I just went where they told me to."
Like a good soldier, Jackie thought.
"Well, congrats," the witness said in a voice that dripped with venom. "Shiny new job, shiny new life, glad to see it's all working out for you. You can leave now."
She'd been trying to kick him out of the room for the last two minutes, and didn't seem to be making any progress in that regard, but Jackie could appreciate the woman's dedication to her cause.
"I'll go," Stabler allowed, "but I won't go far. I meant what I said, Liv. You can hate me, you can refuse to speak to me, you can throw shit at me if you want, but I'm here to protect you. You're - "
"I swear to god, if you say I'm your responsibility - "
"You're my partner. For better or worse, remember?"
Silence fell then, a silence still and whole through which not one single whisper of a sound emerged. No rustle of clothing or tap tap tap of the child's plastic fork on his high chair or slide whistle gasping intake of breath; only silence, so complete it seemed to swallow up the whole world and everything in it.
For better or worse, a marriage vow, and then some, and Jackie wondered, then, if she had been unkind in her estimation of Stabler, and his woman, and their secret. I'm here to protect you, that's what he'd said; the woman was spitting daggers at him, cursing him and casting him aside, and still he remained dogged, dedicated, determined to lie to Jackie, to the goddamn US Government, to violate the terms of his employment and risk copping a charge or two, just for the chance to keep his Olivia safe. She didn't know what this was, yet, what these two meant to one another, what their reunion would mean for her and for the future, but she knew devotion when she heard it, and she heard it then, in Elliot Stabler's voice.
