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When you first met Elliot Stabler, it was three am and you were sitting down for your post-shift cup of coffee in a twenty-four hour diner. He was stopping in for coffee before he went in to work. The only reason you met is because he bumped into you, spilling his lukewarm, mediocre coffee down the front of your t-shirt. The rest, they say, is history.
It becomes your tradition. Even long after you’re living together, investing in the relationship for the long haul, the two of you text each other when you go in for work and when you’re leaving. It’s your way of finding time to spend together. His schedule is so packed because there’s no shortage of awful people in the world and yours is packed because you work one day on, one day off of twelves at the firehouse. Still, the two of you make it work. It’s the most seamless, love-filled relationship you can remember. You hope that’s the same for your boyfriend, but you know his past. His tumultuous relationship with his (ex) wife, work, and personal faith. The rocky road he’s on to repair his relationship with his kids. (His kids that you’ve never met, but that only bothers you a little bit.)
Still, despite that, when you get Elliot’s text that he’s heading in for his shift as you’re leaving the firehouse, you smile. It’s almost perfect how easily your hectic schedules mesh together for at least an hour every other day and then, if you’re lucky, you get weekends together. It’s a perfect mix of spending time with your boyfriend and having time alone. By the time he makes it to the cafe you’ve already ordered both of your drinks and they’re being delivered seconds before he sits down. Of course, because he can’t be assed to wear a suit like every other detective, he’s wearing that damn denim jacket that you love so much. When Elliot swipes his drink off of the table, his eyebrows shoot up as he talks a gulp like he knows.
You’re too tired for his shit and scoff into your own drink. “You are cheery this morning,” You point out, reaching over to take his hand across the table, “Did you have a good dream?”
“Oh, well,” Elliot smiles warmly at you, leaning forward in the conversation, “I woke up for work and got to see my amazing partner on the news, saving people and getting out safe.” He shrugs, “It’s enough to put me in a good mood.” Your face heats because you weren’t even aware the news was at the fire until it was too late. Damn New York.
“El, come on,” You smile, running your thumb over his knuckles, “Flattery doesn’t work on me and you know it.” He chuckles, only looking away for a brief moment to survey the room - a symptom of PTSD if you’ve ever seen one, even though he’ll deny it.
“I can still try,” Elliot flashes you a wide smile, “Besides, maybe it makes me feel better to compliment you. Ever think of that?” He pauses for a moment and then meddles with his voice, doing a caricature of yours, “No, because I don’t want to take compliments from my boyfriend.”
“Shut up,” You say, laughing, “I don’t sound like that.” Elliot shrugs, bringing your hand to his mouth to press a gentle kiss to his knuckles.
“Sure you do,” He says, “Especially when you’re rejecting my perfectly sweet compliments.” You tug your hand away playfully, wrapping your chilly fingers around your warm drink. “Ouch,” Elliot presses his now-vacated hand against his chest playfully, “I am wounded.”
“You should be,” You quip, “I’m going back to our apartment and lighting it on fire.” He laughs - it’s a rare moment where Elliot tosses his head backward and lets his smile light up his entire being. “I’m not joking, all of your precious baseball cards. Poof, gone.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” He narrows his eyes, grinning after he finishes the rest of his coffee, “You have too many throw blankets to do that.” His phone chirps, but you both ignore it. “I know you better than that.”
“I’ll put them in my car,” You shake your head, reaching out and kissing Elliot’s hand once more, “Go on, get to work. I am going home to move my blankets to the car, torch our place, and nap in said blankets.” When he walks you to the door, he presses a lingering kiss to your lips, and you know he’s coming home to you safe after he’s done working. (And he knows you won’t light the apartment on fire, but that’s only because it’s a recurring and ironic threat from you.)