He left the engine running; he couldn't bring himself to turn the car off. The drum beat of his heart pounded the rhythm of her name; Liv Liv Liv Liv Liv.

She was there, just there; he could go to her, if he wanted, if he was brave enough, could put the car in drive and go, and see her, the proximity of her nearly enough to drive him mad with longing and he'd been running for four long years, desperately trying to find some place where the street corners didn't smell like her, and somehow his racing feet had carried him to her front door, and the part of his heart he'd inherited from his father told him that this was a punishment for his sins and the part of his heart he'd inherited from his mother told him that it was a second chance, a chance to do things right, a gift not to be squandered.

In front of the house he shared with his family, the place he was supposed to call home, the refuge he'd run to in a feckless bid to escape her, he sat in the car with his hands wrapped so tight around the steering wheel his knuckles were liable to break, and tried to remember all the reasons why he needed to go inside, and still he kept the engine running.

Go to her, his heart screamed in his chest. He could; he could just go. Go and talk to her, and -

And what? Apologize for walking out without a word, for leaving her alone, hurt and confused, for knowing exactly what it was gonna do to her and doing it anyway?

I'm the longest relationship you've ever had with a man.

He knew that, and he left, and the one thing he never wanted to be was a goddamn quitter, but that was what he was, it was what he'd done, he'd fucking quit, and left her, just like she was always afraid he was gonna, just like everybody else always had, and it was eating him up, burning him to cinders right there in the driver's seat.

She was just there, on the other side of the highway, in a prefab house with a baby who shared her face and Christ alive, having her so close was going to kill him.

I can't do this, he thought, and then hated himself for it, for being so fucking weak; what kind of man was he, letting another woman become as important - more important, maybe - to him than his wife, too afraid to love her and too in love with her to let her go, until he did, until he left because he couldn't be in the same goddamn city with her and keep his vows, and a better man could have done it, he thought, a better man could have loved his wife and been a friend to his partner and he'd always wanted to be a good man and he was beginning to suspect that he really, really wasn't, because he'd let them both down, Liv and Kathy, wasn't strong enough to be what either of them needed him to be, and -

The phone began to ring and he accepted the call before he ever realized what he was doing.

"Yeah?" He croaked, his throat too dry to let him speak.

"Are you gonna come inside or are you gonna sit in the driveway all night?"

It was Kathy, calling him from inside the house; probably she could see him through the windows (still curtainless), probably she could hear the engine idling on the other side of the front door. He should stop being so stupid and go inside; he should go, and kiss his wife, and talk to his son, and help with unpacking all those boxes that only existed because he'd decided to uproot his family and drag them halfway across the country for a new start that was beginning to feel more like an ending than anything else.

Kathy was gonna see it on his face. He knew she would; she'd take one look at him, and know something was wrong, because maybe she didn't love him anymore and maybe she hadn't for a long time but she'd been his wife for thirty years and she knew how to read his face and she'd know, and he wasn't allowed to tell her. There was something ironic about that, about him having a built-in excuse not to tell his wife that he'd seen Olivia, something ironic about his job butting into his marriage again. Leaving the force was supposed to be him choosing his marriage over the job and he went and got a new one that required him to lie to her and maybe it was never the job that got between them, not really. Maybe the problem was always him.

"I'm coming," he said. It wasn't like he had any choice. He couldn't sleep in the car, and he couldn't go back to Liv because she'd looked at him like she hated him and probably she did and he couldn't blame her for that and it was dangerous, anyway, him being so close to her. It was his job to protect her and he wanted to, desperately, and the best way he could do that would be to send her away from him. If he cared about her he'd push her away but he cared about her too much to lose her again and Jesus. He was fucked.

"I'm coming," he said again. "I'm coming home."

But that house wasn't home; home was the precinct, the city teeming with life, the smell of rotting garbage and the gun at his hip and Liv by his side. Home was a place he hadn't been in four years; home was a place he'd never go again.

In the morning she was going to regret letting Noah fall asleep at 6:00 pm but in the moment she was too grateful, grateful for the quiet and the comforting weight of her child in her arms and the gentle, peaceful sounds of his steady breaths to even contemplate waking him. She'd fed him dinner and carried him up to her bedroom, let him snuggle in next to her in the bed while she tried to find something to watch on TV, but he'd fallen asleep in two minutes flat and so she'd just turned the damn thing off, wrapped her arms around him and buried her nose in his hair and tried not to cry.

He wasn't Noah, anymore; it seemed so important, that day in Judge Linden's office, the decision to give Noah the name his mother had chosen for him. Noah Porter, that was who he was, and Olivia wanted to honor that, wanted him to know that his mother's name was Ellie Porter and that Ellie had loved her son and named him Noah. All those promises Liv had made to him, all those truths she been so determined to tell him, she wasn't allowed to give him any of that, now. She was going to have to pretend his name was Gabriel - Gabe; apparently the marshals had picked out his nickname, too, another decision they'd taken from her - and she was going to have to pretend that she was the one who gave birth to him and that they'd never been to New York City and she wouldn't be allowed to speak Ellie's name, not until he was old enough to understand how vital it was that he keep this secret. Witsec had made a liar out of her.

The totality of her isolation was like a stone pressing on her chest, forcing the air from her lungs, cracking her ribs, leaving her broken and lonesome and bleeding. She'd always been on her own, stubborn and independent and fighting her way through life on her own two feet, but she'd never, ever been this lonely. Sometimes, in the old days before Elliot left, she'd spend the night at the station just to hear the sounds of the night shift shuffling through the corridors, just to feel like she was part of something. But she had been, part of something; even in the dark days after Elliot's departure she was never really alone, with Cragen and Munch and Fin beside her, watching her with pity and understanding in their eyes. There had always been someone; Burton, when she was young, and even after he'd gone her mother still remained. Drunk and aggressive and maddeningly sad but present, still.

What she felt now was different; what she felt now was a loneliness so complete she was certain it was going to kill her. There was no one to talk to, no one to watch over her, no one but Noah, who was so little and needed so much from her.

No one but Elliot, on the other side of town.

If she could've, she would've screamed.

There was a time, not so long before, when Elliot's presence would have been a boon, a godsend, the only thing she wanted, something worth giving thanks for. There was a time when he would've been the only one she wanted to talk to, the only one she wanted, period, but he had broken something in her and she didn't want him, now.

Or no, that was wrong; she wanted him. With everything she had, she wanted him. Wanted him to come back, wanted him to stand there and listen while she screamed at him, wanted him to hold her, wanted him there, the warmth and the strength and the nearness of him a talisman to ward off the terrors of the dark. She wanted him so much it scared her, because how, she wondered, how could she still long so desperately for a man who once hurt her so badly? So much had changed in the last four years; her life, her body, her soul nigh unrecognizable, now, after all that gritty transformation, and God only knew what he'd been through - he hasn't changed, she thought, though she had no reason to think it; he is Elliot, still, and always will be, and maybe it was strange, that she had so much faith in his steadfastness and so little faith in her own - and they were strangers now, practically, or near enough as made no difference, and she should hate him. Did hate him, in the way a farmer hated the rain that did not fall, hated it for its absence and how desperately it was needed. Hated him, and yet could not bear to be parted from him; the right thing, she knew, the safest thing would be to confess the truth to Jackie and ask for reassignment, but she couldn't because the day she was shot Olivia Benson had died in every way that mattered and seeing Elliot's face had brought her back to life, however briefly, and she couldn't leave him, she couldn't, because if she did she would leave her soul behind, beside him, and maybe it would be better, she thought, maybe it would be better to just live here for as long as she could. If her life was going to end she wanted to go the way she'd always imagined, bloody on a sidewalk with Elliot's hands pressed to her belly, and maybe now that he'd found her, maybe if she died now they'd let Elliot and Kathy take Noah. Maybe that was for the best.

Christ; she wanted to beat the man bloody with her fists and she wanted him to raise her baby if she died. What a mess.

Probably she wouldn't see him again for a while. Jackie had explained that the marshals wouldn't babysit her forever; they'd expect her to make her own way, and would keep their distance to avoid drawing attention to her. He had her number but she didn't have his and if he didn't call her four years ago she had no reason to expect him to call her now. No reason, except that she'd seen it in his eyes, the need, the hurt; no reason, except that she knew him, and felt him, moving around on the other side of the city, restless and anxious and wanting for absolution, wanting it as badly as she wanted to withhold it. A storm was coming; it was not a question of if, she thought, but a question of when. There would be a collision, and no telling how much damage it would cause until the thing was done.

She held her son, and closed her eyes, and dreamed of Elliot's medal shiny on the butt of her gun, crashing into her face.

Across town Jackie sat at the little desk in her home office, and typed four words into a Google search.

Olivia Benson Elliot Stabler

Here we go, she thought, and began to scroll through the results.