Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She pulled the file twelve days later.

Olivia isn’t sure how long they stood in that hallway. They untangled slowly, like they were waking up. Elliot’s sobs stilled, her tears ran dry, and four feet grew roots into the linoleum.

It was the far murmur of Bell on the phone that broke her haze. Slipping her arms from the slope of his neck, Olivia tucked her head to the cavern of his chest. Inhaled his familiar bar soap and cedar and salt and Elliot. His lips grazed her collarbone before he bowed his forehead to her own. Breathed in. Stayed. Took his time tracking both hands down her arms before sliding their fingers together, squeezing three times with calloused palms. Held her back and studied. Throat closing up, Olivia pulled them out of the precinct doors into the windy night.

The world was alive again. She’d forgotten. In that fluorescent interrogation room it all felt so far away. The man who killed his wife and the man of her nightmares were planets. But spring was blooming and so was New York. The sidewalk lined with girls wearing floral dresses it was still just a little too cold for, parents letting their kids stay out just a little too late. Fragile hope filled their shared silence.

Elliot was still. Head low in surrender. He chewed his lip and it broke through her anger. Broke her heart. This man all muscle and guilt and primary colors.

Rolling his shoulders, he stepped forward. “Olivia. Tell me what you need.”

Something long abandoned rustled in her chest. Shutting her eyes, she absorbed his echo of her words. The intervention was only weeks ago but that’s when stubborn snow still sat on curbs and Elliot's skin was worn and blue. They haven’t spoken about it. Olivia barely lets herself think about it. Eight letters float in their attic with all the other ghosts.

She opened her eyes. Cheeks gaunt and face ruddy with tears, she could see her lines on his face. But there he was. And for the first time she allowed those three words in Elliot’s timber to settle. Let them sit down and rest. Because in that moment she understood how her same, simple offer opened something in him. How gentleness could let in the breeze.

Olivia didn’t know what she needed. But, she knew how she felt. Only minutes before she'd been running. It was primal. An act of survival so mastered she could rarely be outpaced. Elliot’s mercurial marrow had always been the only needle able to pull her back. Wrapped up in him in that hallway, in spite of everything, she was glad for it.

And so, three words cracked from her bedrock and bloomed free.

“I missed you.”

Elliot’s eyes went wide and her first thought was god I can’t take any more tears right now. But his wrinkles softened to something equally sad and fond. Something known.

Which brings her here - stalling outside his hotel room. Bag weighted. It had been years since she had made a trip down to evidence. Captains don't usually have a reason to pull files on their own, but she didn’t want anyone talking. The station was quiet as she sifted through rows of musty boxes, searching for her name in seething red Sharpie.

Twelve days ago on that sidewalk she told Elliot she needed time. He rolled his jaw, clenched and unclenched his fists. Rubbed the back of his neck and practically snapped at the seams. Then said he could be patient. They both smirked knowingly but she let it pass. Closing her car door, he watched her drive off. Desperate not to let her out of his sight after what he’d learned. But Olivia needed to wash off Richard Wheatley and those memories he unearthed against her will. To make some tea, let it go cold. To watch something that wasn’t Elliot’s agony as she stormed out of interrogation. To slip off her boots and smell her son’s hair. To take her time.

But hours ago she sat her desk and decided she'd had enough time. All her and Elliot seem to do is let time slip through their fingers like it’s a given. Olivia is done with that, done with almosts and loss. The air is warming and the days are stretching and singing with pastels and she is ready to walk towards all of it. To hang up her coat, leave behind the burning frost. She wants to make the choice to thaw.

Hand raised at his door, chipped brass numbers stare back and she turns to stone. Takes in the stained beige walls of that sullen hotel. The hotel he is living in because his wife was killed barely two months ago. Truth grips her by the wrist. Whispers in her ear that he can’t handle it. That they can’t handle it. That it’s too late.

His face a splintered window. I love you.

Nature kicks in. Olivia opens the file, flipping to the tab of rambling testimony in search of one page. Slides it out, folds it neatly, tucks it into her coat pocket.

Finally, she knocks.

Elliot opens the door with a nervous smile, forehead furrowed. “Liv - hey - is everything okay?”

“Yeah hey, I’m fine. You'd mentioned you were packing all week so I thought I’d drop by. Sorry I should’ve called, is it a bad time?”

“No no, just…yeah, trying to get ready for the move next week. ’S good to see you. You wanna — ?” He gestures back to unpacked boxes and a bowl of Cheerios. The sleeves of his charcoal hoodie are rolled up and it’s the first time she’s seen Elliot dressed down in a decade. Untailored and unbuttoned. Memories flood and it aches.

“Uh actually no I don’t.“ His brows knit in rejection. “I —“ Shaking her head, she rakes a hand through her hair. Sighs. Reaches into her tote and pulls out the evidence file. On the drive over she practiced a whole thing. How he should read it at whatever pace he could handle. To make sure to take breaks. To be mindful of his own PTSD. And that she couldn’t, wouldn’t, sit there and watch him read through it.

Turns out Wheatley was right about that.

On the list of life events to fill Elliot in on, being kidnapped and tortured was at the bottom in invisible ink. Cruel and impossible. Because walking out of that beach house was the end of her magical thinking. Elliot hearing about her disappearance, soaring in from parts unknown to pull her from the edge, coming back home — it felt so certain, even two years later. And then it wasn’t. So Olivia stopped weaving and waiting.

She'd have been a fool to map out how to tell Elliot this story. He was gone. She let him be gone.

But now his gaze is falling to the file and he knocks back on his heels. Eyes boring into the cursed key, as if willing it to vanish. Wouldn’t that be nice? That terrible history of hers, mist.

Her speech is forgotten. “Elliot. I need you to remember I’m alive.”

Unblinking, he swallows unconvinced. She lowers her head to pin his stare, waiting for a nod. With a graze of her wrist, he carefully takes the file from her hands like it’s wrapped in thorns. His voice is clipped and quiet, “Thank you for trusting me.” It’s earnest and mostly true and there's nothing to say so she starts to walk away.

But, he goes on. “I meant it.” Elliot isn’t talking about what he just said. They both know it. One arm is braced on the threshold like it’s keeping him standing. “Before I read this, before — I want you to know I meant it. And I feel really lucky.”

She stares at the man with the hole in his wall and the dead wife and the bowl of Cheerios.

After a beat he clicks the door shut. Olivia heads to the stairwell, heavy slip of paper slowing her march. The ink of her own whispered confession in her pocket. Those two words leave footprints with each step away from Elliot.

He would’ve.

Arms swinging, she picks up her pace.

Chapter Text

Olivia would have hated it. 

Evidence file open and gaping on his hotel room floor. Elliot falling down her rabbit hole. Tumbling in rage and grief. The West Side one-bedroom where he left her turned to rubble and blood. Her home a weapon. A constellation of burns. Shaky fingerprints across her bruised cheek in 4x6. Brown eyes like wells of nothing. Folded bones in a trunk’s abyss. Tired hands wrapped around steel, shaking and broken and furious. Her favorite necklace, tagged. His medallion, tagged. Another fist through his wall. And another. Elliot sorry. And another. Elliot sick. Elliot crying.

Elliot in flames. 

Instead, Olivia's folding laundry across town when her phone lights up. 

You awake?

It's early. Noah's at a sleepover, Fin is on call, and her apartment is cleaner than it's been in years. The Saturday air is dour and damp so she grabs a sweater before heading downstairs. Arms wrapped around her body, she readies herself. 

Elliot waits wilted at the spine, palms around his neck. Two lonely cups sit next to him on the stoop. Dusk is slipping, the chilly sun making it’s way. Feeling her presence, he straightens. Her file lays in his lap. 

Olivia takes a coffee as she settles on the steps. Studies the familiar Anthora paper cup.

He clears his throat. “I am in awe of you.”

Head turning at his confession, she takes him in. Unshaven and nose red. Knuckles torn. But he’s looking at her freely, blue eyes like sea glass moving over her face. He’s looking at her like she’s real. 

“You — “ Leaning in, his breath is laced with minty toothpaste. “I’m in awe of you and I am so so fucking sorry.”

Swallowing the catch in her throat, she sighs. “I know you are, Elliot.”

Here's the truth: Richard Wheatley had missed something. 

Yes, she was protecting Elliot. Yes, she was protecting herself. But she was also protecting them. A part of Olivia liked Elliot not knowing what happened to her. Liked that they were preserved of William Lewis. Olivia took sanctuary in their twelve years. 

In some somewhere, she and Elliot sit at messy desks nose to nose. The phone rings, the coffee spills, the locker slams. She rolls her eyes and he falls in step. Birthdays. Haircuts. Tuesdays. Passenger seat reclined, she drifts off to the lullaby of his breathing. A drawer of chopsticks and chewed pens. Days end with AM radio and the flick of a lightbulb. Time rushes forward but swirls around the two of them. No evidence file, no scars, no how-do-I-do-this. 

Their partnership, fossilized. 

But now Elliot is here — widowed and ashamed and on her stoop. Older.

Tracing the edge of her cup, she goes on.  “Honestly…I don’t really want to talk about it. At least not tonight and probably not for a while. But after Richard I — I didn’t want your imagination to take over. I thought you should know the truth. From me.”

Elliot clenches his teeth. Bobs his head. "Thank you for that." All friction and heat, he's holding back and Olivia isn’t sure what to make of it. “How are you now?” he grits. 

“I’m okay now. It’ll always be…there. But I’ve learned how to live with it. Still learning. And my life is good — in a lot of ways it’s better.”

At that last word his eyebrows lift, face softening. It looks almost like hope. “You’re a mom,” he murmurs warmly. Like he’s reminding them both.

She smiles back. “I’m a mom.”

Knees knocking gently against hers, he taps his fingers against the file. “I know that I failed you.” Olivia flinches. “In…endless ways. But this — I don’t have words, Liv. I’m gonna try to find them. For how sorry I am, how goddamn sorry I’ll be for the rest of my life.”

“Elliot. You weren’t my partner anymore.”

Silent, he gapes at her like she’s speaking another language. Face twisted and incredulous. It's like sinking and she pinches her nose, throat burning and clouds circling. Olivia knows it’s coming. She knows it’s coming because she knows him completely. 

He would’ve.

“I wish — “

“Elliot, don’t —“ 

“I shoulda been there. I would have killed him. I would have enjoyed killing him.”

It’s immediate. Her sky goes black, waters foamy and churning. Red flags are raised. Olivia laughs and it’s from the darkest room of the house. “Is that supposed to comfort me?” she spits, lips set in a bitter grimace. 

Unprepared for the shift, Elliot recoils. Winded. His mouth falls open but he has nothing to say in the face of her high tide. 

“Am I supposed to feel reassured? Cared for? This promise you’re making now, eight years later…so what, Elliot?” 

“Liv — “ he reaches out, rough palm carefully cupping her cheek. Curling a hand around his forearm she shoves him away. Cuts him off because already it isn’t enough.

“Goddammit NO!” Voice breaking on a sob, she jumps off the stoop like lightning. “You have absolutely no right,” she warns. 

“I know.” 

“You have no idea.”

“You’re right.”

“You think I don't know? That I didn’t imagine what my partner would do? That — that I didn’t spend those days of utter terror, sweaty and delirious and dying, believing in some fantasy like a complete idiot?” Whispering mostly to herself she muses, “It felt more real than the truth sometimes.”

Elliot rises to his feet but she’s already stepping away. Both hands fly up in surrender.

“What do you want, Elliot? You wanna sit here, run through all the scenarios? Tell me the different ways you coulda killed him? How you would have been able to actually finish the job?”

“Christ no Olivia never, that wasn’t —“ he pleads.

“Maybe you wouldn’t have needed to kill him at all. You’d have checked on me long before those two days came and went — had a feeling something was up when I didn’t answer the phone." Fury a riptide, she's sliding into the undertow. She's pulling him with her. He doesn't fight it. “Or were you gonna say you'd've driven me back? Noticed how he watched me, heard the things he said to me, and just...known."

Elliot looks ill. Gray and swaying, he stumbles back. But she can’t stop. 

“Think you would've ordered surveillance on my place? Or no, you probably woulda been stubborn as hell — camped out in the van yourself for the night, right?" Her vision blurs with salt and she gets in his face, hissing through her teeth. “Should I keep going? How far back in time were you gonna rewrite this story for me? For yourself? 'Cause I have done it plenty and in every single version you were there.”

Flinching at her words, his face is rippling in agony and something rotten in her gut thinks now you see.

“So let me save you some time: It doesn’t matter.” Voice fallen flat, she grabs her file from the steps. “It happened just as it did. He got me. You weren't there."

By the time she’s slammed the door Elliot is on his knees, ash.

Chapter Text

Apparently it had started pouring. Elliot waits in her doorway, clothes heavy with rain.

Four hours later and Olivia had calmed. Stood in the steam of a hot shower. Washed her hair and scrubbed her face clean. Changed into leggings. Poured a glass of red wine, poured it out. FaceTimed Noah goodnight. Put Friends reruns on low and paid no attention, letting the laugh track drift in and out as she got lost in thought. It wasn't until a little before midnight that she noticed a message from Elliot, sent minutes after she’d stormed away.

Whenever you’re ready I’m with you.

Confused, she went to her window and peered through the curtains. And there he was. Still. Standing under the awning, ankles crossed and hands in pockets. Chin dipped to his chest. Like he was waiting for the train.

For years she held onto the betrayal. Turned the lock and said never again. And for a while she could pretend. But then Lewis came along. Dragged her by the ankles and sunk her to frozen oblivion. Olivia wasn’t certain of anything down there — not even herself. Just him. The only thing she could see in the dark was Elliot. His was the call that led her to shore.

And then she survived. Cut her hair. Let it grow. Painted walls and climbed ladders and got a new name. Built a life he hadn’t touched. Found new friends, found old lovers, found parts of herself and found that she liked them.

All of it was real.

But those four days made it plain that Elliot was permanent. There was no erasing him. Can’t believe she ever thought she could. Their history lived in her immortal parts, etched into bone. So she stopped trying. Left him a museum inside her living beating heart. And then she went on and tended to the garden around it.

It’s why, after everything, they’re staring at each other across the threshold and he is still her very best friend in the world.

It’s why Olivia steps back and lets him in.

Elliot stands in a puddle as she tosses him a towel. Grabs a hoodie and a pair of Cassidy’s old sweatpants and shows him to the bathroom. They don’t speak. While he’s changing she finds the evidence page hidden in her pocket. Pauses. She thinks of Elliot on her stoop, planted under bitter rain. Thinks of how twelve years ago they fought so hard against their shared roots. How twelve days ago it felt so peaceful to let herself rest tangled with him.

The bathroom door creaks open and he’s wiping his neck with a towel, surreptitiously taking in the apartment he's never seen. The framed photos and fridge magnets and macaroni art. Olivia likes the way it looks — him in her space.

Elliot’s about to say something and she doesn’t want to lose her nerve so she steps forward, silently passing over the final piece.

Brows furrowed, he doesn’t break her gaze. Takes the page and unfolds it with care. Reads.

…you started talking to me about your romantic fantasies about your ex-partner. How he would have known what to do with me.

He would've.

Stumbling backwards, his expression darkens as he collapses to the couch. Eyes boring into her missing testimony. Over and over.

“I thought of you,” she admits, sitting by his side. “I wanted you. And he — he saw that. Used it to taunt me. I knew what you’d do to him. I was so certain of it…of you. But you weren’t there so I — “ The thunder of steel echoes back and she cuts herself off. “I did it myself.“

Delicately tracing her inked words, Elliot’s face crumbles. His grief is smoldering and she braces herself.

But then turns to her with nostrils flared, eyes shimmering. It’s sad and reverent. Proud. Slowly lifting his hand, he slides it over the apple her cheek. Olivia closes her eyes. Leans into the safety of his touch and grasps his wrist. It’s permission and he cups her jaw. His calloused fingertips dip into her hairline, thumb brushing away a tear.

A few beats pass. The quiet full and gossamer.

Eventually he croaks, “You took this out of your file.” It’s not accusatory. It’s not a question.

Forcing herself not to retreat, Olivia keeps her eyes shut. “Honestly I — I felt stupid. To have needed you. To have wanted you there to ‘save’ me when — you left. When all those years…you didn’t need me.”

Pulse quickening against her hand, his fingers twitch and press into her scalp. Breathes in. Breathes out. “You’ve got it all wrong, Olivia.”

Shadows close in and she pulls away, crossing the room. "Is that right?"

“It is,” he says. Chews his lip. She’s about to tell him to forget it when he stands. “Why d’you think I asked for you that night?”

Olivia stills.

“When Kathy — the night of the bomb, of your award ceremony. Why do you think I called for you?

The question steals the wind from her lungs. She’d just assumed his 10-13 coming through her radio was pure, wild chance. “I — I didn’t realize you had.”

“Don’t remember much but — I remember wanting you,” he explains. “I was scared. So…angry and terrified and I know it wasn’t fair, that it was your party and that I left you but Christ, Liv, it's not something I even thought through. It was…instinct." Hands clasped in prayer, Elliot takes a careful step closer. Watches her mind reeling. “For the past twelve years, the past twenty years, whenever I’ve been lost you — you’re my muscle memory. I don’t even understand it but that night you were —“

“Home.”

He sighs, nods knowingly. “Home.”

Elliot’s voice is lush with purpose when he reaches her. ”And y'know what, Liv? No matter what happens, I’m so damn grateful. For you. That you're the voice in my head. I’m not proud of much but — I’m proud of that.”

His declaration strips away stone. Olivia peeks over what's left of her fortress. "Me too,” she murmurs.

“But. You were there for me and I — I’m not trying to — I know I can’t fix that. I just —“ he grits his teeth, “I don’t know how to earn you.”

“What happened to me — it’s not your fault. I never thought it was.”

Unconvinced, he presses the heel of his hand to his forehead.

“Yeah, I wanted you. And yeah, you weren’t there for me,” his eyes squeeze shut, “But I meant what I said earlier. It doesn’t matter. You left. And then…that happened. Those are two separate truths.” Leaning in, she softens her voice. “I had to stop playing that tape, Elliot.”

Head snapping towards her, he sobers. “I hear you." With a nod he clears his throat. “Well. What can I do now?”

Olivia takes Elliot in — this Elliot, who writes letters and says how he feels and pretends to be patient— and makes a choice.

“Stay."

“I am. I’m staying,” he vows.

A few seconds pass and she walks to her room. Draws the curtains. Toeing her slippers off, Olivia listens to his footsteps following her in and turns as he’s rounding the bed.

“Wait no — " Thinking he misunderstood, Elliot’s brows fly up as he backs away. Brow quirking at his panic, she finishes, “That’s my side, El.”

“Ah,” he chuckles.

They pass by each other. Stand separated by the clearing of bed. Olivia’s pulling her hair up when she catches him watching, head tiled in wonder. Smiles.

“I missed you,” he breathes. His expression is serious, voice like heated coals. And once again his words release something grounded in darkness.

Her soil blooms buried gold.

“I love you.”

Elliot’s face melts, blue eyes gleaming. She mirrors him.

Pulling back the duvet, they slip under the cool sheets. Settle in on their sides and lay nose to nose. The rain taps on the windows and paints shadows across Elliot’s forehead and it occurs to her that this is a first for them. This is new.

Olivia inches closer and suddenly they’re seeking. He brushes away loose strands of hair, runs his knuckles down her spine and pauses at the swell of her hips. Watches as she unzips the loaned sweatshirt and slides her arms around his bare waist. Leans her forehead on his. Breath shaky, his lips trail down her neck, past her collarbone, just above her breast.

It’s intentional. He’s searching for something.

When he stops at a small puckered scar, her breath hitches. Olivia knows the mark far too well — can still feel the blinding bite of Lewis’ lit cigarette. Can see the foggy Polaroid of it’s immediate aftermath. Elliot holds his lips to the wound. Kisses it softly. Then he’s ghosting his mouth back up, stubble tickling the shell of her ear.

Whispers, “I love you. Of course, I love you.”

Olivia exhales. Arms tightening, he gathers her closer and rolls to his back and she lets him. Lets herself rest intertwined. Cheek against the warm skin of his chest, she counts the beats of his solar heart.

They hold each other until daylight.