She looked insane. She knew she looked insane. At this point, she was certain Ayanna had her finger poised over her phone, ready to call the psych ward. Olivia's fingers were locked in her hair as she paced the floor.

Ayanna's eyes followed her back and forth, but Olivia was still too triggered, too shocked, and too pissed to form words. Her mind felt like a jumbled mess of angry New Yorkers slammed together in the rush hour gridlock. In the silence of the evidence storage hallway, her mind was screaming.

Maybe she was crazy.

She continued her shaky but methodical movements back and forth down the short hall. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Ayanna lifting the clipboard off the bench where it had previously dropped when she began her pacing. Her brow furrowed, and Liv knew the other woman was trying —and failing— to figure out what set off this intense reaction.

She couldn't look the other woman in the eyes when she said the words. "He found the boxes." Her fingers tightened on her hair slightly, the little pinch of pain providing a centering sensation. "Um, the ones with the evidence from, uh, my case against William Lewis."

"Oh." Olivia could almost hear Ayanna's now screaming thoughts. Everyone knew about Lewis. She was a walking precautionary tale, often used as a case study in the academy. She was certain every NYPD officer knew about the police captain, who had been kidnapped and assaulted over the course of four days. Twice. Everyone else knew. Everyone except Elliot.

Olivia picked up her pacing again, still avoiding Ayanna's heavy gaze. She knew what the question would be before she finally asked. "He… he didn't already know?"

Her jaw clenched and released. There wasn't any judgment in the question, but the whole issue was heavily laden with ten years of abandonment and silence.

Olivia's mouth felt dry when she finally stopped pacing, returning to her seat on the bench before answering. "I wasn't sure," she admitted. "He was, God, he was gone so long, and I didn't hear a word. I thought maybe? But he never said anything, and I..." she sighed. "I never spoke to him about that." She felt her eyes watering. "I just," her head dropped into her hands, "didn't know how to." She continued to struggle to find words. "How do you tell someone that they missed the absolute worst experience of your life? He was my partner, but he was my best friend too. I just," she sat up a little and pressed the heel of her hand against the corner of one of her eyes. "I knew no matter how I told him, it would be absolute hell." Her head hung. "For both of us."

Ayanna nodded, silently absorbing the information Olivia just provided. Olivia appreciated the other woman's ability to consider her words carefully before she spoke. Her even-tempered, down-to-earth nature had to be useful when working with Elliot, who could be overly passionate and overzealous in his pursuit of the right thing.

"I always assumed he knew. I'm sorry." She sighed. "I'm sorry this all went down this way." She hesitated. "I don't want to be insensitive or anything, but we need to find him, and knowing what he found only makes me more anxious to find him."

Olivia nodded in agreement. "I know."

"What now?"

She knew where he went because she knew him. Call it whatever you want—intuition or some shared mind-soul communication trickery—she just knew. The problem was that she never wanted to return to that place.

"I think I know where he is."

-000-

"Do you want me to go pull him out?" Olivia felt Ayanna carefully reading her body language.

Olivia's eyes took in the crumbling structure. She absolutely wanted her to get him for her. She wanted to curl up in a ball on the backseat and let someone else take over this part of the journey, but she knew that would never work. She had to be the one to bring him back. This was Elliot, and he was probably devastated and triggered, and while she hoped he wouldn't do anything stupid, she wasn't sure, and that thought terrified her.

"No, I can do it." Olivia's hand hesitated briefly on the door handle before she pushed it open.

Her nerves were strung so tightly that the sound of her car door slamming behind her made her jump. Her heart pounded furiously. Her eyes lifted to the building in front of her. She could do this.

She managed to make it around the corner of the building before she vomited. She thanked God Ayanna couldn't see her hunched over, holding her own hair back. Her previous meltdown was already embarrassing enough.

She coughed and spit the taste from her mouth into the dirt. Eventually, her stomach settled enough for her to lift herself into a more upright position. When she stepped forward, she felt her body begin to tremble and shake. She hated this. She felt weak. She felt like somehow, even years later, he had a hold on her, and she hated it.

She might be scared of the memories, but she was more scared of losing him.

Her stomach churned uncomfortably as she accessed the building's back staircase. Even after all these years, she knew exactly where she was going. For a minute, she considered the possibility that he wouldn't be where she thought he might be, but she knew him. He would be there. He would be punishing himself mercilessly for the pain she suffered. He would take it personally because their hearts had always been knit together. She felt his pain, and he felt hers. Deeply.

With another slow breath of air, she started up the stairs. Every step brought with it a feeling of terror. The day Lewis guided her up these stairs, she resigned herself to die; every step felt like a step closer to the gallows.

The sound of her crunching footsteps seemed to be amplified in the silence of the haunting building. Each stair brought with it an excruciating memory.

Step. A little girl hanging by her wrists. Step. The cool steel of her own handcuffs. Step. Her body pressed forcefully into a metal table.

She tried to keep her eyes open, but every time she blinked, he was there.

Halfway up, she clapped her hand over her mouth. Her stomach acid whipped against the base of her esophagus, and she thought she might be sick again. Something about the sound of her footsteps grinding into the stairs sent her reeling. She dropped her head down, convinced she was going to throw up. She wanted to go home, but she wouldn't turn back. She couldn't. That would mean she had given up on him, and God knew she could never give up on him. So she persisted.

As she approached the crest of the stairs, her heart thundered. She only had about five more steps before she would be back in that room. She stopped, and her hand gripped her stomach. She reminded herself to breathe. He was dead. He was dead. He was dead. She repeated the mantra over and over until her pounding heart slowed to a tolerable rhythm. She swallowed deeply and took that final, ascending step.

She didn't see him at first. Her eyes fixed immediately on the metal table, sitting undisturbed, exactly as they had ten years prior. She unintentionally shut her eyes, and flashes of memories accosted her senses. Her stomach writhed at the all-too-real feeling of his hands groping her body. His voice was in her ear. The smell of his breath. It was all there. He's dead. It didn't seem to matter that he was dead; he haunted her all the same.

She ripped her eyes open. Suddenly, she remembered her purpose for reliving these tortuous memories. Elliot . He sat with his back to her, his eyes fixed on the window. He hadn't heard her. She silently observed his defeated body language and his shoulders shaking while he cried. A wave of relief washed over her when she saw his side arm still clipped to his belt.

She hesitated to move forward because she wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't suddenly vomit or pull herself into the fetal position. No. She wouldn't do that. She was stronger than him. He was dead, and she survived. She had all the power. She took a step towards Elliot.

"I wish they'd demolish this place." She kept her eyes on him, not her surroundings. His eyes flicked up at her in surprise. He must have been completely lost in his spiral if he didn't hear her moving up the stairs.

He looked like hell. Worse than that, actually. He looked defeated. That nearly wrecked her.

It felt surreal to have him here in this place. She wanted him all those years ago, in the beach house, and again in this crumbling building. And now, here he was, ten years too late, sitting in the very spot where she thought she was going to die.

His body stiffened, and his eyes dropped back to the dirt. His strong arms tightened around his knees. She watched the muscles in his arms flex, and she worried his hold on himself might cause damage. He dropped his head against his still-flexed forearm.

She stepped closer, wanting nothing more than to touch him. The entire drive to the granery her brain cycled through emotions of fear, anger, and devesation. She wanted to yell at him, but she couldn't throw him any lower. She couldn't hurt him more.

"You scared the hell out of everyone. You know that, right?" She kept her voice casual, as if she wasn't completely unnerved by being there.

He remained so silent and still that she could barely make out the rise and fall of his chest.

She took a slow, steady breath and crept a little closer. "I'm pretty pissed, you know." She continued her monologue. As long as she kept talking, she kept the nightmarish images away. "You know," she said, taking another step, "you shouldn't have taken those boxes. You could have just asked me about it." She wasn't sure what she would have actually done if he had. She knew she needed to tell him about it eventually, but she could never find a way to say the words.

She had gotten close enough to touch him, but she sat next to him instead. She watched the rhythm of his breathing change when she shouldered in close to him.

He kept his head down, and she ran out of things to say, so she rested her head against his shoulder. He had calmed for a moment, but the second she leaned into him, he started to cry.

Even with the soft shaking of his shoulders, the contact brought a rush of warmth and that feeling of home. She breathed in the feeling. As much as she hated being here, at least she was here with her person.

She hated that even after everything, he still remained the one who knew her. Something incexplicable called for him, and time had never faded its intensity.

She continued to lean against him, and he continued to cry. She wasn't entirely sure how long they stayed that way, but eventually she began tracing circles on his back. His crying slowed, and eventually he chuckled ruthfully. "This is so f*cked up." He shook his head. "You dragged yourself all the way out here, stared down memories of the worst kind, and you are still trying to comfort me."

"I can't say that I'm happy to be here right now," she admitted quietly.

She felt his shoulders trembling while her head still rested against him. "I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry for everything." He palmed away the tears running down his cheeks.

She wanted to absolve him, but she knew he'd refuse absolution. This man took upon him the sins of the world, like some sort of pusedo Christ, but he wasn't God. He wasn't superhuman. He was a deeply flawed man, one who knew darkness. One who knew her. The only one to truly know her, and while she couldn't provide some sort of cosmic absolution, she could split open her chest and offer her bruised and broken heart.