I know i put a lot of drama in the last chapter but believe me it was necessary.
This chapter some things are going to be cleared up!
Here we goooo!!!
Eliot Stabler
It was almost 2 a.m. when the nurse finally gave me the green light to see her.
The hallway outside her room smelled like bleach and despair. I'd been pacing it for hours, staring through the small rectangular glass in her door like I could will her to wake up. Tubes, wires, machines—too many things hooked up to her. Too many fucking things that didn't belong on Olivia Benson.
She was supposed to be invincible.
Not like this. Not laid out like some broken doll, black and blue, hair stuck to her face, a goddamn cast on her wrist, bruises blooming across her arms. Her ribs were wrapped under the gown, but I saw her flinch in her sleep once and it took everything in me not to punch a wall.
But now she was awake. Barely.
The nurse opened the door with a small smile and a warning: "She's on the good stuff. Be prepared for… honesty."
Right.
I stepped inside and the first thing I heard was her giggle.
Her fucking giggle.
"Stabler," she said, eyes heavy but open, her mouth curling into this sleepy-ass smile that punched me right in the gut. "Why are you brooding in my doorway like a vampire? Get in here. You look like a sad werewolf."
Jesus Christ.
"You're high," I muttered, dragging the chair closer to her bed and sitting down.
"And you're old," she shot back, her grin widening. "God, look at your face. It's like someone ironed guilt into your forehead."
I laughed, but it was a broken thing. I leaned forward, rested my elbows on my knees, and stared at her. "Liv…"
"Don't," she said, voice softer now. "Not yet. I can't handle serious Stabler when I'm this loopy. I might cry or bite you."
"You're on morphine. You'd miss."
She blinked slowly, like it took effort. "Okay, but I'd try, which counts."
She turned her head toward me, her hair sticking out in every direction. Still beautiful. Still her.
"How are you feeling?" I asked, voice cracking more than I wanted.
She exhaled slowly, like she had to think about it. "Like I got my ass kicked by a ghost."
I winced.
"Hey," she said, almost cheerfully. "Broken ribs, broken wrist. A sprained ankle too, I think. And a bruised ego. You should see the other guy. Oh wait—no. He ran like a little bitch."
Her voice was light, but I could hear the edge under it. The tightness. The shake she was hiding with jokes.
"Fin said he almost didn't get there in time."
"Yeah," she whispered, eyes losing focus for a second. "I heard him knocking. That's the only reason the bastard left. I was almost gone, you know?"
I swallowed hard. "Don't say that."
She looked at me again, a little clearer this time. "Why not? It's true."
I shook my head, ran a hand down my face. "I can't do this."
"You have to," she said, a bit slurred now. "You owe me."
And there it was. The weight of every goddamn year. Every unanswered call. Every day I wasn't there for her.
"I know," I whispered.
She watched me for a beat. Then said, voice all dreamy again, "Did you know I hated you for a while?"
I flinched. "Yeah."
"I hated you so much I cried into my fridge. Like a sitcom mom."
I chuckled, even though it hurt. "That's oddly specific."
"Because it happened. I had one of those moments where I sat on the floor, ate a spoonful of peanut butter, and cried. And then I got over it."
"Just like that?"
"No," she said, blinking at the ceiling. "Not even a little bit. But I had to."
I swallowed. "Liv…"
"Do you wanna know about Lewis?" she interrupted, out of nowhere.
My spine went rigid. "Fin told me—"
"No. Not the headlines. The real stuff. He had me for four days, El. Chained me. Starved me. Beat me. Tried to break me."
Her voice was steady, like she was reading from a book she'd already memorized. "He said he was going to make me beg him to kill me. He almost did."
I couldn't speak.
"I killed him," she said, blinking slowly. "Put a bullet in his head. It was that or die. And after that, everyone expected me to be okay again. But I wasn't."
My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth would shatter.
She turned her head to me again, and there were tears in her eyes now. "And then I found out I was pregnant."
I froze. "Wait—what?"
"No, no," she said quickly. "Not from him. God, no. It was already there. Already her. My Erica."
I felt like the air got knocked out of me.
"I was gonna tell you," she murmured. "But then you left. No call. No note. Just poof. Vanishing act."
"Liv—"
"No. Let me talk." Her voice trembled, and she sniffled once. "I didn't want to do it alone. I didn't want to be a single mom with a trauma history and a badge. But I did it. And I'm proud of myself. I got through labor with Fin holding my hand because I couldn't ask anyone else."
"Jesus Christ…"
"I didn't need you, Eliot. But I wanted you. And that was the worst part."
That hit harder than anything else. Harder than her bruises, her cracked jokes, her casual admission of survival. Because that was Olivia. Always surviving. Never letting anyone see the damage underneath until she was drugged and broken in a hospital bed.
"I'm so sorry," I said, because there was nothing else I could say.
She smiled faintly. "I know. And maybe one day, I'll believe it."
We sat in silence for a long while after that. The machines beeped gently. Her IV dripped like a clock ticking in the background. I watched her eyes flutter shut again, the morphine pulling her back under.
But just before she slipped into sleep again, she whispered, "I miss us."
I reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair off her forehead.
"I miss us too," I whispered back. "So fucking much."
And then she was out cold, breathing slow and even, while I sat there, drowning in everything I didn't say years ago.
The hospital cafeteria was a fluorescent-lit purgatory that smelled like burnt coffee and stale fries. I sat there, nursing a cup of something that barely passed for coffee, trying to shake off the weight of the past few days. Olivia was upstairs, sedated and sleeping, her body battered but alive. That should've been enough to ease my mind, but it wasn't. Not by a long shot.
I rubbed my eyes, exhaustion seeping into my bones. The chair across from me was empty, a stark reminder of the void that had settled between us over the years. We used to share moments like this—late-night stakeouts, early-morning debriefs, always with coffee that tasted like dirt but felt like fuel. Now, I was here alone, and she was upstairs, fighting battles I hadn't been around to help her with.
The elevator dinged, pulling me from my thoughts. I glanced up, and my heart stopped.
Kathy stood there, holding a "Get Well" basket that looked like it belonged in a Hallmark movie. Beside her, Lizzie cradled a sleepy Erica in her arms. My daughter. Our daughter. The sight of them together was a punch to the gut—a collision of my past and present that I wasn't prepared for.
I shot up from my seat, the chair scraping loudly against the linoleum. In a few quick strides, I was in front of them, my eyes locked on Erica's drowsy face. Without thinking, I reached out and took her from Lizzie's arms. She stirred slightly, her tiny fists curling into my shirt, but didn't wake.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice harsher than intended.
Kathy's eyes softened, a look I'd seen countless times before—the one that said she understood more than I ever gave her credit for. "We came to see Olivia," she said simply. "After everything she's done for our family, we owe her that much."
I swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at my insides. Olivia had been there for them when I hadn't. She'd stepped up in ways I should have but didn't. And now, they were here for her, bridging the gap I'd left wide open.
Lizzie shifted uncomfortably, her gaze darting between Kathy and me. "Kathleen, the twins, Maureen, and Dickie are on their way," she added. "They should be here any minute."
I nodded slowly, the weight of their support pressing down on me. "Alright," I said, my voice quieter. "Let's go upstairs."
We made our way to Olivia's room in silence, the only sound the soft hum of the hospital's machinery and Erica's gentle breathing against my chest. Each step felt heavier than the last, memories of Olivia and me flooding back with every corridor we passed.
When we reached her room, I hesitated at the door. Through the small window, I could see her lying there, tubes and wires attached to her fragile frame. It was a sight that twisted my stomach into knots.
Kathy placed a reassuring hand on my arm. "Go in," she urged softly. "She needs to know we're here."
I took a deep breath and pushed the door open, leading the way inside. The room was dimly lit, the beeping of monitors the only indication of life. I approached her bedside, gently placing Erica on the chair beside me. She stirred, blinking up at me with sleepy eyes before noticing Olivia.
"Mommy?" she murmured, her voice laced with confusion and concern.
I knelt beside her, wrapping an arm around her small shoulders. "Mommy's sleeping right now," I whispered. "But she'll be okay."
Erica nodded, her gaze fixed on Olivia's face. Kathy and Lizzie stood at the foot of the bed, their expressions a mix of worry and empathy.
Kathy stepped forward, placing the basket on the bedside table. "Olivia," she said softly, "we're all here for you. The whole family."
As if on cue, the door opened again, and the rest of the Stabler clan filed in. Kathleen, Maureen, Dickie, and the twins—all with expressions mirroring the heaviness in my heart.
They gathered around the bed, offering words of encouragement and love, their presence a testament to the impact Olivia had on all our lives.
I stood back, watching as my family surrounded her, each taking a moment to hold her hand or whisper something in her ear. The room was filled with a profound sense of unity—a coming together that Olivia had unknowingly orchestrated through her unwavering support and love for us all.
As the night wore on, we took turns sitting by her side, sharing stories, laughter, and even a few tears. It was a reunion none of us had anticipated, born from tragedy but solidified by love and gratitude.
And as I sat there, holding Erica close and watching over Olivia, I realized that despite the years of distance and unspoken words, we were still connected. Through pain, through love, through family.
We were here.
For her.
For each other.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start healing the wounds of the past.
I don't know how many minutes passed in Olivia's room before the gentle beeping of the monitors reminded me we all needed to give her some space to rest. She looked better than she had when I first walked in yesterday—color had returned to her face, even if the bruises still painted her cheekbones and jaw. Her wrist was in a cast, and I couldn't stop thinking about the fucking bastard who did this to her.
When she finally dozed off again, Kathy put her hand on my shoulder.
"She needs to sleep," she whispered, glancing at the rest of the group. "Let's let her rest."
I nodded reluctantly and turned to the kids—well, most of them. Lizzie stood close to Olivia's bedside, brushing a strand of hair from Liv's forehead. Erica was curled up in Kathy's lap, still half-asleep, her curls a mess from being in the hospital all morning. She didn't even stir when Kathy passed her over to me.
I adjusted Erica gently in my arms as we stepped out into the hallway, her head resting on my shoulder. She was warm, peaceful, smelling faintly of Olivia's shampoo. I kissed her temple as I walked beside the rest of them.
Maureen broke the silence first, giving me a curious glance.
"Dad…" she looked from Erica to me. "Who's the little girl?"
The rest of the kids—Dickie, the twins, and Kathleen—turned their heads. I felt them staring like searchlights. Lizzie looked down. She knew this was coming.
I sighed. Of course. We hadn't had this talk yet.
"She's…" I looked down at Erica and gently stroked her back. "Her name's Erica."
"Okay, but who is she?" Kathleen asked, brow furrowed. "Is she… is she Olivia's?"
"Yeah," I said softly. "She is."
"And… yours?" Dickie asked cautiously.
I nodded.
"What?" "Wait—what?" "Are you serious?"
The chorus of shocked reactions hit like waves, all their voices overlapping.
I raised my free hand. "Alright, alright—one at a time."
Kathleen crossed her arms. "Dad. Are you telling us you have a kid with Olivia Benson?"
"Yeah," I said again, clearing my throat. "It… it happened right before I left. Liv and I had one night. I didn't know until recently. She found out she was pregnant after I was already gone."
"Holy shit," Dickie muttered under his breath.
"Language," Kathy said automatically, though she didn't sound mad. Just dazed.
"She's your sister," I told them all quietly, glancing down at Erica. "All of yours."
Erica, to her credit, blinked sleepily, then slowly lifted her head. "I have siblings?"
I smiled down at her. "A whole bunch of them, honey."
Erica turned and looked around with wide eyes. "Whoa," she whispered, then pointed to Maureen. "What's your name?"
"I'm Maureen."
Erica nodded solemnly. "You have cool hair."
Maureen laughed. "Thanks. You have cool hair too."
Erica's eyes darted around the group. "What are your names?"
Each of the kids introduced themselves one by one. Kathleen knelt down and gave her a warm smile. "You can call me Kat."
"I like that," Erica replied, then gave her the most serious expression I'd ever seen on a four-year-old. "Do you like cookies?"
Kathleen blinked. "Uh… yeah?"
"Good," Erica nodded. "We can be friends."
They laughed. She was already working her way into their hearts, just like she'd done with me. It was surreal, seeing them like this—my kids, all of them, including the one I hadn't even known existed until weeks ago, finally in the same hallway.
Then Lizzie, her voice quiet, said, "She's kinda awesome, right?"
Kathleen turned to her. "Wait—you already knew?"
Lizzie nodded. "Yeah. I… I've known for a bit."
There was a moment of silence, then Dickie leaned against the wall with a sigh. "Jesus. All those years, and none of us knew."
"She didn't want anyone to know," I explained. "She raised Erica on her own. She didn't try to contact me. Hell, she didn't even ask me for help. She just… did it. All on her own. Because she thought I didn't want anything to do with her."
"You didn't," Maureen said sharply. "You left."
The words hit like a punch in the gut. I deserved that. I swallowed hard.
"You're right," I said quietly. "I left. I fucking walked away. And I can't fix that. I can't undo the years I missed or the damage I caused. But I'm trying now. For Liv. For Erica. For all of you."
"Did you love her?" Dickie asked suddenly.
"Do you love her?" Kathleen corrected, raising an eyebrow.
I looked down the hallway, toward the room I'd just left. Olivia, battered but still fighting, the strongest person I'd ever known. The woman who carried our daughter without me. Who never told me. Who raised Erica with patience, with strength, with love. Who had every right to hate me.
"Yes," I said. "I've always loved her. Even when I didn't understand it. Even when I tried to convince myself I didn't. Even when I fucking ran."
Nobody said anything for a long moment.
Then Maureen stepped forward and handed Erica the little plush dog she'd been holding since they arrived. "This is for you," she said. "It's name is Taco."
Erica blinked. "Taco?"
Maureen smiled. "Don't ask."
Erica cuddled the stuffed animal immediately. "I love it."
And just like that, the tension broke.
"I remember when Olivia helped me pick my college essay topic," Kathleen said suddenly. "She sat with me for three hours. Made me cry twice, but it was the best damn essay I ever wrote."
Dickie chuckled. "She taught me how to change a tire. And didn't even make fun of me when I almost cried from the grease."
"She used to sneak us extra cookies when Mom wasn't looking," the twins said in unison, then pointed at Kathy, who pretended to be offended.
"She read me poetry once," Maureen added softly. "After a breakup. I couldn't stop crying. She just sat there, read Neruda and Rilke to me until I could breathe again."
I listened to each of them, story after story, every memory like a thread stitching together years I had missed.
She had been there. For my kids. For my ex-wife. While I was gone.
Erica reached up and tugged my shirt. "You look sad," she said.
I smiled down at her, trying to hold it together. "I'm just thinking, honey."
"You need a story," she said.
"A story?"
She nodded. "To not be sad. Want me to tell you one?"
"Sure," I whispered, swallowing down the knot in my throat.
Erica clapped. "Okay! Once, my mommy was getting ready for a fancy police thing, and she got lipstick on her nose. She didn't notice. I told her, and she said I saved her from public humiliation."
Kathy snorted. "That sounds like Liv."
"Then she said I was her little secret weapon and gave me a cookie even though it was before dinner!"
"Scandalous," Lizzie gasped, dramatically.
Erica nodded. "I still have the wrapper."
We all laughed.
And for a moment… just a moment… the hospital faded. The pain. The fear. The horror of the past few days.
It was just us. A weird, messy, real family.
My kids.
My daughter.
All of them.
And the woman resting behind that hospital door, who somehow tied us all together.
Olivia Benson
The first thing I became aware of was the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor, a sound I knew all too well. My body felt heavy, each limb weighed down as if lead had been poured into my veins. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry, my throat raw. As I forced my eyes open, the harsh fluorescent lights above made me squint.
Hospital. Again.
Memories flooded back—the attack, the searing pain, the overwhelming helplessness. My stomach churned as I recalled the assailant's face, the glint of a weapon, the feeling of my bones giving way under relentless blows. I inhaled sharply, and a stabbing pain in my ribs reminded me of my injuries.
I turned my head slowly, taking in the room. And then I saw them.
Scattered throughout the room, in various states of uncomfortable slumber, were the Stablers. Kathy was curled up in a chair by the window, her head resting against the glass. Dickie and Lizzie were sprawled on the small couch, legs tangled together. Kathleen was on the floor, using a rolled-up jacket as a pillow. Maureen sat upright in a chair beside my bed, her eyes meeting mine the moment I looked her way.
And there, in the corner, was Elliot. He was seated in a recliner, his head tilted back, mouth slightly open. On his chest, nestled securely in his arms, was Erica. Her tiny form rose and fell with each of his breaths, her curls spilling over his arm.
My heart clenched. Seeing them all here, together, was overwhelming. I hadn't expected this. I hadn't expected them.
Maureen leaned forward, her voice a soft whisper. "Hey, Liv. How are you feeling?"
I tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "Like I got hit by a truck. Or maybe a train."
She chuckled quietly. "You had us all worried."
I glanced around the room again, my eyes lingering on Erica in Elliot's arms. "I can see that."
Maureen followed my gaze and smiled. "She's beautiful. Looks just like you."
A lump formed in my throat. "Thank you."
There was a pause before Maureen spoke again. "It's been a while since we've talked. Really talked."
I nodded, memories of past encounters flashing through my mind. "Yeah, it has."
She hesitated, then asked, "Can you tell me about Erica? About the years Dad missed?"
I sighed, shifting slightly in the bed, wincing as pain shot through my side. "Where do I start?"
"From the beginning," Maureen said gently.
I took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. "After Elliot left, I found out I was pregnant. It was... unexpected. I didn't know how to reach him, and honestly, I was angry. Hurt. So, I decided to do it on my own."
Maureen listened intently, her eyes never leaving mine.
"Pregnancy was... challenging. Physically and emotionally. I had the support of the squad, but it wasn't the same. There were nights I cried myself to sleep, wondering if I'd made the right decision."
I glanced over at Erica, still peacefully sleeping in her father's arms. "But then she was born. And everything changed. She had this way of looking at me, like she could see right into my soul. She became my anchor."
Maureen smiled softly. "She sounds incredible."
"She is," I agreed. "Her first word was 'light.' She was pointing at the lamp in the living room. I remember laughing and crying at the same time."
Maureen chuckled. "And her first steps?"
I laughed lightly, despite the pain. "Oh, she was a handful. Took her first steps right in the middle of the precinct. Gave Fin a heart attack."
Maureen grinned. "Speaking of Fin, how did he handle all of this?"
I smirked. "Like Fin. He pretended to be all gruff about it, but he was wrapped around her little finger from day one. Used to bring her these tiny NYPD shirts. Said she was the youngest honorary detective."
We both laughed quietly, the sound filling the room.
Maureen's expression turned serious. "I'm sorry Dad missed all of that."
I looked down, picking at the edge of the hospital blanket. "Me too. But he's here now."
She reached out, placing her hand over mine. "And so are we."
Tears welled up in my eyes. "Thank you."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment before Maureen spoke again. "You should rest. We'll be here when you wake up."
I nodded, feeling the pull of exhaustion. As I closed my eyes, I felt a sense of peace I hadn't felt in years. Surrounded by family, I knew I wasn't alone anymore.
Eliot Stabler
I'm barely holding onto a shred of sleep when it happens — the inevitable, gut-punching reality of parenthood in its purest, most chaotic form.
I feel a tiny foot dig into my ribs, and then a heavier weight on my chest. Not heavy in the sense of a burden, but heavy in the way only a toddler can be when they've decided you're their personal mattress.
"Eliot!" comes a sharp, nasally command, too loud for someone still struggling to keep their eyes from completely shutting.
I blink a few times, trying to make sense of where I am, and as if the universe had decided that my own internal confusion wasn't enough, I'm immediately assaulted by the shrill sound of tiny hands tapping on my face.
"Eliot, wake up!" The voice is shrieking, and it's not just any shriek. It's a three-year-old's shriek, which is like being stabbed with a thousand tiny needles of pure, relentless enthusiasm.
I crack one eye open — just one — and am immediately met with a pair of eyes far too big for any three-year-old to be allowed to own. But then again, she looks just like me, so who's really surprised? Her blonde hair falls in messy strands around her face, and she's grinning at me like she just pulled off a major heist. And in a way, she has.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, my voice rough and scratchy from lack of sleep, and from, you know, being attacked by a tiny human at the crack of dawn.
"No," she says, tilting her head, her tone dripping with the sort of sass only a child who thinks they're the boss can muster. "You're Eliot, not Jesus."
That's right. She's got me pegged.
"Yeah, thanks for the reminder, kid." I rub my face with one hand, trying to wake up. This damn hospital bed is the least comfortable thing I've ever had the misfortune of trying to sleep in. I swear it's designed specifically to ruin any chance of restful sleep.
But right now, all my attention is focused on the little human currently sitting on my chest. This tiny tornado of energy with enough enthusiasm to light up an entire city block.
"I'm hungry," she says, her words coming out in the blurted manner of a kid who can't quite contain her thoughts. "Can we go get pancakes? Or waffles. Or those little boxes with cereal that make noise when you shake them."
And then she demonstrates by shaking an imaginary box in front of my face, her little hands flailing around like she's conducting some kind of orchestra.
"Okay, okay," I mutter, still half asleep, as I sit up slowly and carefully. I don't want to wake up anyone else in the room. Kathy's still asleep in the corner, wrapped up in her blanket like a burrito, and Lizzie's sprawled across two chairs, somehow managing to take up way more space than a normal human being should. I try not to disturb them as I adjust my hold on Erica.
"You're gonna wake up your mom," I say, but the second the words leave my mouth, I know it's too late. Erica's already making a beeline for Olivia, crawling over me like I'm some kind of jungle gym.
Liv's asleep, though. She's barely moving, still in a haze of sleep and drugs. I glance at her, then back at Erica, and something in me tightens. But I know better than to let that feeling show. Erica needs me to be solid right now, so I try to focus on her — on her big blue eyes, the ones that look exactly like mine.
"Mommy's still sleeping, kiddo," I say softly. "She's still healing."
That doesn't stop Erica, though. She practically throws herself onto Olivia's chest, landing with all the grace of a falling tree. I catch her just in time, not letting her barrel into Liv's broken ribs.
"Careful!" I snap. "She's still hurt, alright?"
"Mommy!" Erica exclaims, beaming at her mother, oblivious to any and all caution.
Liv stirs, her eyes fluttering open. She looks at me, and then at Erica, a tired but fond smile crossing her face.
"Hey," she says, her voice hoarse from the lack of use and the drugs keeping her at bay. "Hey, peanut."
"Mommy!" Erica grins, her arms reaching up to wrap around Olivia's neck.
"Hi, baby," Liv murmurs. "How's my girl?"
Erica wiggles, her tiny hands touching Liv's face like she's trying to memorize every detail. "I missed you," she says, with the sweetness only a toddler can muster.
Liv's hand, despite the bandages, comes up to cup Erica's cheek. There's a certain tenderness to it, a quiet moment that breaks through the heavy fog of the situation. She's still here. She's still alive. And that's all that matters right now.
"I missed you too, peanut," Olivia says, her voice just above a whisper.
I watch them, heart twisting in my chest. God, I've been gone for so long. Too long.
And then Liv looks at me, and I feel the weight of everything shift in the air. Her eyes meet mine, and I know the conversation is coming — I can feel it in my gut. She's about to drop the bomb on me, and I'm not ready for it.
But I don't have a choice. I'm never ready for any of this.
"I need you to do something," she says, her voice suddenly serious.
I wait, not trusting myself to speak. Instead, I just nod, silently.
She looks at me again, her gaze firm. "I can't bring her with me when we go into protection. Not right now. Not with everything that's happened. Not with the danger." She pauses, her voice growing soft. "But she needs someone stable. Someone she trusts. Someone she knows."
I swallow hard, not sure where this is going.
"You want me to take her."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway.
"Yeah. I do."
And just like that, everything shifts again. It's like the floor's fallen out from under me. I've never felt more unprepared for anything in my life. I look at Erica, who's too busy trying to sneak an extra kiss on Olivia's cheek to pay attention.
I feel Liv's eyes on me, and I nod. Slowly. But the weight of the decision presses on me harder than any case I've worked.
"I'll take her."
"Good," Liv whispers, clearly relieved. "She eats breakfast at 8, lunch at 12, and if she's not napping by 2, you'll regret your life choices. And the loud toilets? Don't let her near them. She's terrified of them."
I chuckle, because of course she is. Of course Erica has an irrational fear of toilets. It makes sense, somehow.
"And," Liv adds, her voice soft, "Fin promised to take her to the zoo Saturday. He's her godfather by the way."
I freeze. My eyes narrow. "Fin?"
"Yeah." Liv nods. "He's been there for her. He promised."
"Well," I murmur, "that's one way to make me look bad."
She smiles faintly, the smile that still holds a trace of her old strength.
"You'll figure it out," she says, giving me the gentlest of shrugs.
I stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do, how to process this. But I don't get a chance to think about it further because Erica's suddenly back in my arms, practically vibrating with energy.
"Can we go get breakfast now?" she asks, her voice a little too loud for the quiet hospital room.
I look at Liv, then back at the tornado in my arms.
"Yeah," I say, giving in. "Let's go get pancakes. And waffles. And the noisy cereal."
Olivia's eyes drift closed again, and she gives me a small, contented sigh.
"You two go have fun. I'll be here when you get back," she says softly.
And just like that, I'm out the door, Erica still squirming in my arms.
I'm not ready for this. Not for the pressure, not for the responsibility.
But somehow, I'm already in it.
And now, we'll figure it out. Together.
The hospital cafeteria isn't exactly the Ritz, but when your three-year-old daughter demands breakfast with the urgency of a SWAT operation, you make do. Erica's tiny hand grips mine as we navigate the sterile hallways, her blue eyes—so much like mine—darting around with curiosity and mischief.
"El, do they have pancakes here?" she asks, her voice a mix of hope and impatience.
"Probably," I reply, suppressing a chuckle at her newfound nickname for me. "But don't get your hopes up too high, kid. Hospital pancakes might not be the gourmet experience you're envisioning."
She scrunches her nose in that adorable way that makes my heart clench. "What's 'gourmet'?"
"Fancy. Like Uncle Fin's cooking."
Erica's eyes light up. "Uncle Fin makes the best spaghetti! He says it's his 'secret weapon'." She giggles, and I can't help but smile.
We reach the cafeteria, a bland expanse of linoleum and fluorescent lighting. The smell of institutional food assaults my senses, but Erica seems unfazed. She tugs me toward the food line, her energy boundless.
As we grab a tray and start selecting items—pancakes for her, black coffee for me—Erica chatters incessantly.
"Uncle Carisi always brings me lollipops. He says they're from 'confiscated evidence', but Mommy says he's joking. Aunt Amanda lets me play with her dog, Frannie. She's so fluffy! And Aunt Casey taught me how to say 'objection' really loud. Mommy wasn't too happy about that."
I raise an eyebrow. "Sounds like you've got quite the entourage."
She nods enthusiastically. "Uncle Nick showed me how to make funny faces to cheer Mommy up when she's sad. And Papa Don tells the best bedtime stories. He does all the voices!"
Hearing these names—Fin, Carisi, Amanda, Casey, Nick, Cragen—brings a pang of nostalgia and a twinge of jealousy. They've been there for her, for Olivia, while I was... absent.
We find a table by the window. Erica digs into her pancakes with gusto, syrup smearing her cheeks. I sip my coffee, watching her with a mix of awe and trepidation.
"Erica," I begin cautiously, "you know you're going to stay with me for a while, right?"
She looks up, her mouth full of pancake, and nods. "Mommy said you'd take care of me while she's busy."
"Right," I say, relieved she seems okay with it. "We'll have fun. Maybe go to the park, watch some movies."
Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. "Do you have a dog?"
I chuckle. "No, no dog."
She pouts. "Aunt Amanda has a dog."
"Yeah, well, Aunt Amanda's braver than me."
Erica giggles, then suddenly tilts her head, studying me intently. "El, what were you like when you were my age?"
I blink, caught off guard. "Me? Oh, I was a terror."
Her eyes widen. "Really?"
"Yep. Once, I tried to give our cat a bath. In the toilet."
Erica gasps, then bursts into laughter. "Did it like it?"
"Not one bit. Scratched me up pretty good. My mom was furious."
She leans in, eyes sparkling. "Tell me another!"
I rack my brain, dredging up memories long buried. "Okay. When I was about four, I thought I could fly. So, I climbed onto the garage roof with an umbrella, like Mary Poppins."
Her jaw drops. "Did you fly?"
I snort. "Nope. Just broke my arm."
Erica laughs so hard she nearly topples off her chair. I reach out instinctively, steadying her.
"You're funny, El," she says, beaming.
"Glad you think so," I mutter, touched by her delight.
She takes another bite, then asks, "Did you know Mommy when she was little?"
I shake my head. "No, I met your mom when we became partners on the police force."
Her eyes light up. "Like superheroes?"
I smile. "Something like that. We worked together for a long time. She was the best partner I ever had."
Erica nods sagely. "Mommy's the best at everything."
"She sure is."
There's a comfortable silence as she finishes her pancakes. I watch her, noting the way she tilts her head—just like Olivia. The way her brow furrows in concentration—again, Olivia. But those blue eyes, the mischievous glint? All me.
"El," she says softly, "why do you look sad?"
I startle. "I'm not sad, sweetheart."
She reaches out, placing her sticky hand over mine. "Mommy says it's okay to be sad sometimes."
Damn. This kid is perceptive.
"I just... I missed out on a lot," I admit.
Erica squeezes my hand. "But you're here now."
I swallow the lump in my throat. "Yeah. I'm here now."
She grins. "Can we get a dog?"
I laugh, the tension breaking. "We'll see."
As we gather our things and head back to Olivia's room, I feel a warmth I haven't known in years. This little girl, with her boundless energy and unfiltered honesty, is mine. And for the first time in a long while, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
The hospital room feels too small now. It's filled with goodbyes, with promises that feel like they're hanging in the air—unspoken, heavy, and inevitable. It's surreal. I should be used to this. I should have learned by now how to deal with leaving people, losing them, but this time feels different. Because this time, it's Olivia.
She's standing by the window, the weak light of the late afternoon spilling across her, casting shadows in the hollows of her cheekbones. She's still bruised from the attack—she's still here, alive—but there's a vacancy in her eyes that wasn't there before. It's as though everything she's been through is written on her face, and for a split second, I can see it all: the pain, the betrayal, the fight to survive.
Her eyes flicker to me, but she doesn't speak. She's been quiet like this for a while. Ever since she woke up. I can see her thinking, working through something in her head, but she's not letting me in. Not yet.
I shift on my feet, a little restless. Then, I finally ask the question that's been gnawing at me since she came back into my life.
"Olivia, when you get back... is there any chance we could talk?"
Her eyes stay on me for a moment before she speaks, voice steady but with an edge to it. "I've stopped being hostile, Eliot. I did that for Erica. But forgiveness? I don't know if I can do that. I don't know if I ever will."
The words hit harder than I thought they would. A soft punch to the gut. I nod, biting back the retort, the sharp words that could break through. But I don't. I can't.
"I get it," I say, my voice low, because it's the truth. I do get it. I've never been good at saying the right thing. I've never been good at making things right between us. And it's too late to change any of that now.
Before I can find a way to push past the lump in my throat, Fin walks in, his usual calm expression clouded with concern. "Olivia, it's time."
Erica stirs in the corner of the room, looking up from her coloring book. The simplicity of her world right now makes my heart ache. She doesn't know what's coming. She doesn't know how much this is going to hurt her. And the more I look at her, the more I realize I can't let her feel the weight of this. She doesn't deserve it.
"Time for what?" Erica asks, her tiny voice high-pitched with confusion.
Olivia kneels in front of her, cupping her daughter's face in both hands. "Sweetheart, Mommy has to go away for a little while. Just a little while, okay?"
Erica's brow furrows, the innocence in her eyes quickly turning into a flash of worry. "How long is a little while?" she asks, her lips trembling.
"Five months," Olivia whispers.
I see Erica's world shatter in that moment. Her tiny hands grip at Olivia's shirt. "Five months? But that's so long!" She pushes against her mother's chest, her small body wriggling with the force of her confusion.
"Mommy, I don't want you to go!" she says again, louder this time, her voice cracking.
I step forward instinctively, but I'm not sure how to help her. "Erica, it's okay," I say, my voice soft but unsure. "You're going to stay with me for a little while. You'll be with me, and we'll have lots of fun."
But it doesn't make sense to her. It doesn't make sense to any of us. "You're not Mommy," she spits out, tears now running down her little face. "I want Mommy!"
And just like that, her tantrum erupts. She's kicking and hitting me now, her tiny fists pummeling my chest, and I just stand there, unsure of how to stop it, unsure of how to take the hurt away. The anger, the fear, the frustration—it's all pouring out of her, and I realize, too late, that I'm the one in the crossfire.
"Erica," Olivia says, her voice breaking, but still trying to soothe her. "Sweetheart, I have to go for a little while, okay? But Mommy loves you. Always."
But Erica is beyond comforting. She's crying, her face contorted in disbelief, and she suddenly pushes away from me, her arms flailing as she turns to Olivia.
"I don't want you to go!" she cries. "I don't want you to leave me!"
I feel a weight settling in my chest. This isn't just about me. This is about the hurt we're both causing her. And it's not fair. None of it is.
I glance at Fin, hoping he can make sense of this. He steps in beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder, his eyes locked on Erica as she sobs in Olivia's arms. "Eliot, she's never been away from Olivia. This isn't about you. It's about fear. She's scared."
I look at Fin, his words sinking in. "I don't know what to do," I admit, my voice rough. "I don't know how to fix this."
Fin gives me a quick, understanding look. "You don't have to fix it. You just need to be there. She's gonna need you, and you just need to hold her together when she falls apart. It's not your fault."
But it doesn't feel like it. How could it not be my fault? I'm the one who's stepping into this situation when I wasn't here for so long. I'm the one who's trying to hold it all together.
But there's nothing to do. We all know that. The clock's ticking, and Olivia's time to leave is now.
I take a deep breath, trying to keep my composure for Erica, but I feel the tension in my body, the pull between staying strong and falling apart. "Erica," I say, my voice hoarse, as I kneel down to meet her at eye level. "Listen to me. I know you're scared. And I know you don't want Mommy to go. But we're going to be okay. You're going to be okay."
She looks up at me, her blue eyes swollen from crying. She's searching my face, looking for a sign, something that will make it all feel better. But I don't have that for her. All I have is the truth, and I'm not sure that's enough.
Olivia stands up, wiping her own tears. "Sweetheart, I love you. Always," she says again, and I know she's fighting not to break down in front of Erica.
The door to the room opens, and Lizzie steps in. Her face is stoic, but I can see the exhaustion in her eyes. "It's time," she says, and the words hit like a final nail in the coffin. Olivia takes Erica in her arms for one last hug.
Erica squirms, pushing away, and I catch her, lifting her up to me. She fights me, kicking and screaming, but there's nothing I can do. I hold her tight, her sobs muffled against my chest. She cries harder now, her body wracking with grief.
"Shh, Erica, baby, it's okay," I whisper, but I don't believe it. I don't believe it at all.
Lizzie and Olivia move towards the door, their suitcases in hand, ready to walk out of this hospital room and into the unknown. But the pain in Erica's eyes—the way she holds onto me as if I'm the only thing left that makes sense—sticks with me.
"I'm sorry," Olivia says softly, her eyes never leaving Erica.
And before the door closes behind them, I hear Erica's voice—so small, so fragile. "Mommy, please don't go..."
And that's when it hits me: We're never going to be the same after this. Not ever.
There's something about carrying an angry, screaming, flailing child that really messes with your sense of self-worth. Like, all that "father" stuff you were supposed to get right goes straight out the window when a three-year-old's tiny fists are hitting you in the chest like a little wrecking ball.
I'm holding Erica as she's doing her absolute best to turn my ribs into dust. She's kicking, scratching, and doing everything in her power to make me regret trying to be a good guy. And goddamn, it fucking hurts.
She's crying. Hard. I can feel the weight of it in the way her tiny body shakes against mine. Her sobs are like daggers. The desperation. The confusion. I hate seeing her like this. Hate it more than anything. It's like being torn in two, because no matter what I do, I know I can't fix this. Not right now.
"Eliot!" She screams. "I don't want to be with you! I want my mommy! I want her!" She pulls at my shirt, clawing at me, still not getting it. She doesn't know. Not yet.
I'm not even sure what's going through my head. If it's the fact that Olivia's leaving and I'm stuck holding the pieces. If it's the sharpness of Erica's nails sinking into my skin, or if it's the guilt, the regret, the weight of the past four years coming crashing back like a freight train.
"Erica, calm down," I try, voice gruff. "You need to calm down, okay? It's not gonna help if you keep kicking me."
That doesn't work. Of course it doesn't. What the hell was I thinking?
"NO!" She punches me in the chest again, and goddamn it, I almost drop her. She's relentless. "I HATE YOU! YOU LEFT! YOU LEFT MOMMY! I WANT HER! I WANT MOMMY NOW!"
My heart cracks a little more with each word. Jesus. She doesn't even know how much she sounds like Olivia in that moment. The words, the anger, it's all too familiar. It's like I'm staring at a smaller version of Olivia—eyes the same blue, the same fire. And I'm standing here, holding the hurt she doesn't even know how to carry.
I shift her in my arms, holding her tighter because I don't know what else to do. She's so small, but she feels so fucking heavy. It's a different kind of weight, one I don't know how to manage. I want to tell her it's all gonna be okay, but I know that's a lie. Nothing about this is okay.
I hear Maureen's footsteps behind me. She's carrying Erica's bags, still silent, but I can feel the tension in her. Hell, I feel it in myself. None of this was supposed to happen. We weren't supposed to be in this position, but here we are. Olivia's gone—well, not gone, but soon enough she will be—and I'm left to pick up the pieces of a life I wasn't even part of.
"Maureen," I grunt, trying to make it sound like I know what the hell I'm doing. "Just follow me inside, will you? I'll take care of her."
I kick the door to my apartment open with my foot, trying to juggle both Erica and the suitcase in my arms. There's still a sting in the air—like everything's just waiting to fall apart.
I set Erica down on the floor. She immediately takes off in a blur of anger, her small legs carrying her to the bathroom door. The sound of the lock clicking into place rings out like a final nail in the coffin.
I exhale, resting my forehead against the doorframe.
"Erica, honey," I call softly. "Can you come out, please? We need to talk."
There's no answer. Nothing but the sound of her sobbing through the door. My heart fucking breaks. I've been there, I've felt that—hell, I've lived that for years. That sense of helplessness. The frustration. The loneliness. And I can't fix any of it.
Maureen sets the bags down by the couch and walks over, leaning against the wall next to me. "She's not gonna talk right now," she says quietly. "Let her cry it out."
I look at Maureen, her face softer now, but I can see the tension in her eyes. "I don't know what to do, Maureen. I've been out of her life for four years. I'm just... I'm not supposed to be here. I'm the last fucking person she needs."
She nudges me, her expression firm. "You're not her enemy, dad. You're the only one she has right now. She needs you, even if she doesn't know it yet."
But I'm not sure I can be what she needs. Not when she's hurting like this. And every second that passes with her crying in that bathroom is another second where I can't make it right.
It's an hour before the crying slows down enough for me to hear the soft sniffles through the door. I stand there, frozen, waiting for her to say something, to tell me that she's ready to talk. But it's the silence that's the loudest. The silence that fills the cracks of my broken heart.
The door creaks open slowly, and there she is.
Her face is puffy, her blue eyes red-rimmed and blotchy from crying. Her hair's a mess, little curls sticking out in every direction, but even through the sadness, she still looks like Olivia. She's still so small, so fragile.
Her voice trembles as she speaks, quieter now. "Eliot?" She pauses, her little hands wringing together. "Why did you leave me?"
I feel like I've been sucker-punched. I feel it all at once—the guilt, the regret, the fucking shame of it all. I knew the question was coming, but nothing could've prepared me for hearing it from her.
I open my mouth, but the words don't come. How the hell do I answer that? How the hell do I explain the four years I spent running from my own demons, from the mess I made, from her mother? I couldn't have known. I couldn't have known that she was here, that she existed.
But I didn't know. And I never got the chance to fix it.
Erica's waiting for an answer. She's watching me, her face full of expectation, her little eyes pleading for something I can't give her.
"I didn't mean to leave you, Erica," I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't know. I didn't know about you. I wasn't there when I should've been, and that's on me. But I'm here now. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."
She stares at me for a long moment, her tiny body trembling slightly, and then she speaks again, voice small but full of conviction.
"Mommy told me you left."
I nod slowly. "Yeah. I was a coward, Erica. I made mistakes. And I'm sorry. I can't take that back, but I can be here now. For you."
She looks away, silent for a second, and when she turns back to me, I swear I see something in her eyes—something like trust, but something else too.
"Will you be nice to me?" she asks, her voice uncertain but still hopeful. "Like Mommy was?"
And that right there, that's what kills me.
I crouch down in front of her, reaching for her tiny hands. "I will be. I promise."
But the truth is, I'm scared. I'm scared of failing her. I'm scared of not being enough, of not being who she needs me to be. But I'm here, and that's all I can give her.
She looks at me for a second longer, before asking softly, "Can we have dinner now? I'm hungry."
I chuckle weakly, wiping my face with my hand, trying to shove down the knot in my throat. "Yeah, baby. We can have dinner. Let's get you some food."
And as I take her hand and lead her toward the kitchen, I know it's going to be a long road to make things right. But at least we're finally starting to walk.
IM SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING SOON IM STILL IN SCHOOL GUYS BUT IM TRYING!!!
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