Chapter Text
It starts in the rain.
Well; it starts in the drizzle.
Olivia is tired. The kind of tired that seeps into her bones, leaves her wrung out and exhausted; jaded and frustrated and altogether done. The rain only heightens this; leaves her ankle aching and her clothes damp and all she wants to do is go home. Go home, and curl up on her couch and sleep.
There’s a case though, and she’s still understaffed; out in the field once again on a night where she wishes, for once, she could pull rank and hide in her office.
The cases are getting harder; her unit getting smaller, and if lately, things seem more horrific - more unspeakable and violent and sad - than this night is a perfect example of that.
It’s their typical, lately. A rape and a murder and a body, left out for anyone to find. By the time she arrives, the clouds are rolling in, and the skies open up and she expects to be caught up in a downpour, something she can dart away from, but instead it’s a drizzle. One that lasts and lasts and lasts, leaves her soaked and cold and just so frustrated.
When she leaves, finally, when the sun has set and she slides into the driver's seat of her car, she sees it.
They’ve been talking, lately. Sharing little pieces of their day by text. It had started after the Santos case, and had been tentative at first - one or two texts a day. Slowly, it’s been more - a text in the morning and a few at lunch, a phone call at night - and though it hasn’t moved past that; hasn’t turned into anything more, it’s real and it’s tangible, and for the first time in a year and a half, it feels like Elliot Stabler is actually back.
Tonight, it’s a simple text.
Tough case?
She types out her response, simple and short.
Very.
She sees the three bubbles appear, and disappear, then appear again, and if she wasn’t so exhausted, she might have been amused at how particular he was being in his response.
When nothing comes, she shifts her car into drive, ready to drive home. There’s no leads, no ID, no anything but a gruesome image in Olivia’s head for her to relive as she falls asleep tonight.
Before she can merge into traffic, she hears the blare of her ringtone over the SUV’s Bluetooth connection, and she pauses, puts the car back into park, and checks the screen.
She’s not shocked to see his name on the display.
“Hey.”
She answers the call, and waits for his response.
“Hey, Liv.”
He clears his throat after the greeting, a heavy silence passing between them. She waits.
“Bad case, then?”
She laughs, dry and even she’d admit, a little bitter.
“Aren’t they all?”
Her answer is her truth. Every case is awful; every case hangs over her; and it’s all compounded by a dwindling squad. There’s less of them to carry the weight, so she, ever the leader, carries more and more of it.
Elliot doesn’t answer for a moment, and she sighs.
“Sorry - I, uh…”
She stops for a moment, runs her nail up the leather of the steering wheel, as she tries to figure out what to say.
“It was just bad, today. That's all.”
She hears the jingle of his keys as he moves; the creak of the door; and his footsteps as he moves. He doesn’t speak as he does, just stays on the line.
“I’ve got scotch.”
The first words he says after her apology-that-wasn’t surprise her. She doesn’t answer for a second, just makes a sound in the back of her throat; noncommittal, but curious.
They haven’t crossed this bridge yet. Nothing alone, or set up. Nothing outside of work events or cases together; outside of one evening at Fin’s wedding, cut short.
She knows; knows fairly well she thinks anyways, where he’s going with this, but she’ll let him do the work.
“If you need to come over and talk it out, I mean. I’ve got scotch. And uh - I’ve got sandwich stuff but, shit.”
Elliot stops talking, and she can picture him; standing at his island, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes shut, as he tries to figure out what to say next.
“You probably - I forget, you know - I shouldn’t say that; but I forget. You probably need to get home to Noah anyways.”
She wants to interrupt him; but there’s a twisted piece of her, one she’ll never admit to anyone - aside from maybe Lindstrom - that enjoys this. Enjoys watching him fumble it, as he tries.
But she’s cold, and she’s tired, and she’s stretched so thin; past the point of a rubber band poised to snap. She’s the aftermath of that; tonight, pulled too taut and then let go. Limp and lifeless - and sinking.
Enough suffering, she thinks.
This isn’t like before - it’s not him asking her over for a holiday; or a date with her son. This is less than that. This is them, being them again.
For now.
She realizes he’s stopped talking, and she’s let their silence linger a beat too long.
“Actually - I, uh. I booked Lucy for the night, when the case came in. And, he’s asleep now anyways.”
She takes a deep breath in, then exhales it slowly, eyes closed as she answers, finally.
“I could use a drink.”
—
It’s been a long time since it’s been this easy.
Not them; they aren’t easy, certainly. Figuring out who and what they are to each other; what that should look like and when should it happen - none of that has come with anything resembling ease.
But the two of them, together? One backbone, two bodies - the person who just knows, without asking or needing to be told, what the other needs? That part, the one where they know each other intrinsically, is easy, here, tonight.
When Elliot left, it was abrupt. Someone opening the book of Olivia, and erasing the most important chapter; the one where all her secrets - her needs, her wants, her desires - were written.
In the meantime, she’d tried to fill that space with others.
No one’s come close. Others have filled only portions of her story. Neat and tidy script on a page here and there; filled with easy endings and segues into the next. There are no coffee stains and ketchup drops from the book left open, over used and faded, her fingers dancing over favorite passages.
Tonight, it feels like revisiting that chapter; again. Coming back to it finally, years later, and finding something else there. A different meaning; one she hadn’t wanted to see before. Not lost, after all - misplaced maybe. Replaced now, piece by piece, pages falling where they should. The chapter wasn’t erased, after all; just written too early.
She wasn’t nervous as she pulled up outside his loft. She knows it will be just them, no buffer anymore of Bernie or Eli close by, but she’s keenly aware that tonight, this won’t be the space for anything beyond.
She knocks on the worn wood of his door; frowning at the piece there remains slivered, unvarnished evidence of his last stint undercover.
Olivia shifts from side to side; shivering as she does. The air is colder now; the rain finally stopping, but her clothes are still heavy against her skin. She hadn’t even realized, at first, how the rain had soaked her. It had been slow, but persistent, sneaking underneath the brim of her umbrella, quietly seeping into her.
“Hey.”
The door opens, and he stands on the other side.
He looks so familiar; standing there. Time has changed them both so much; cut them open and left them both littered with scars, but there, standing in the frame of the door, he just looks like Elliot. Blue eyes on hers, ones she’s looked at a thousand times before; in a thousand different places. It feels like a return to something; an easing, finally.
The ground doesn’t shift; the earth doesn’t quake - it’s nothing that dramatic. She steps though the frame of his door, into the small living room, and it’s something much more simple.
It feels like, just for a moment; just for tonight, here in this space, she can lay those burdens down.
“Hey.”
—
They start with the obvious.
He ushers her in, one hand on her forearm, frowning at the way the fabric lays on her, still damp.
“You’re wet.”
His statement of the obvious would be funny; and on another night, she might be tempted to make a crack about his detective skills, if she wasn’t so exhausted. Instead, Olivia just nods.
“I, uh. I was outside during the rain.”
Elliot pulls away then; one finger in the air as he moves through the space. He disappears into his bedroom, and emerges in less than a minute. He’s holding a neatly folded stack of clothes. Sweats and a t-shirt and on top, he has an oversized hair claw.
Olivia raises her eyebrows at that.
“It’s - oh, no. It’s Kathleen’s. She left like, ten of these here after she stayed with Eli last month. I’ve been using it to hold some tv cords together.”
She sees his cheeks color at her presumption, the idea that he would hand her a hairpiece from another woman, some woman who spends the night and leaves her belongings in his space. She doesn’t want to question why she cares. Maybe in the morning, she can parce through that feeling, examine it and prod it; take it apart and analyze herself. Tonight, she’s too tired to do anything but admit, there’s some relief that it’s his daughter leaving hair supplies around his home.
He hands her the stack of clothes.
“Pants and shirt are mine, so they might be big on you, but - uh. They’re dry, at least.”
His smile is shy; and he only meets her gaze for a second, busying himself with procuring some glasses after he hands off the stack.
She feels something warm bloom, deep in her belly, at that. That they can be here tonight, and he can be shy about her disappearing into his bathroom; and slipping into his clothes. It’s different, that feeling; yet the act is familiar. She’s borrowed clothes from him (and he from her, once or twice) before, but the air is charged now. It’s different, but familiar. It should be unremarkable, but it’s not.
It’s comfortable, though. The idea of it. His clothes on her tired body.
She locks the door to the bathroom, changing quickly. She pulls her hair up, twisting it back, smoothing a hand over spots of frizz where the water has dried.
When she re-emerges, he’s turned the television on, but left the volume low. The lights in the hall are off; and he’s turned on the under counter kitchen lights, and the lamps in the living room. It’s cozy, and she likes it.
She wants to lean into it, just a little. Let this homey feeling here with him pull her in.
“Hungry?”
Elliot is standing behind the kitchen island. He’s poured out two glasses of scotch and pulled out the fixings for turkey sandwiches. Cheese, mustards, pickles; slices of tomato, leaves of lettuce pulled apart.
She could eat, after all. It’s been - well, she doesn’t know how long it’s been. She has a vague memory of Amanda handing her a granola bar as they’d waited in the car for the ME to take the body away. She hates to eat anywhere near crime scenes. Her stomach churns still, at the sight of most, but there’s also something about the perception; the idea of it, that she refuses to project. That she could be so callous at the loss of life; so casual and indifferent, when a body lays near.
She nods, and he gestures her over. He passes her a plate, and they stand, side by side, in the soft glow of the kitchen, assembling their meal. They slide on to the kitchen stools to eat, and that’s when he finally asks.
“You wanna talk about it?”
She lets out a sigh, in between bites of food, before she answers.
“Yes? No? I guess I just…”
She uses the crust of a bread to dab at a dollop of mustard that’s fallen, and pops it in her mouth. When she’s done chewing, she finishes her thought.
“I don’t know, Elliot. It just feels like more of the same, but worse.”
He nods, takes a bite of his own sandwich, and sets it down to take a sip of his drink.
“It’s a lot, some days.”
His words are spoken softly, and he’s looking at her. She sees it there, the softness in his eyes, the way his head tilts just so as he gazes at her.
He knows what he’s seeing. Has seen it before. In her, in himself.
Elliot continues, his voice still low.
“It’s a lot for anyone, but uh - it’s a lot for anyone, but especially for anyone like…”
Olivia raises her eyebrows at this, curious as to where he’s going.
Elliot shakes his head, and looks down at his plate before he continues.
“‘Specially for those of us who take it so personally.”
There’s been an ache deep in her; dull and persistent and building over the last few years. It’s one that she can’t seem to shake, no matter how happy she is.
Because she is happy; sometimes. Moments with Noah and friends and small victories at SVU; they do give her joy. It’s enough to fill her cup, keep her motivated, but still. It’s always there though,that ache, just below the surface. And maybe, she realizes, with his words; maybe there’s something to be said about the one who sees it. The one who knows it too.
Like recognizes like, after all.
“Yeah.”
She manages to say the words, her voice unsteady, as she sets down her drink.
Elliot looks up from his plate then. Puts down his sandwich and slides his hand over to the one she’s resting against the cool granite countertop of his island.
Olivia looks down, at the way their hands cross, and watches as he squeezes her gently; just once, before pulling away.
It is nice to feel less alone.
They finish their sandwiches after that; and he proposes a second glass of scotch. Olivia hesitates and he notices; fumbling a bit as he asks if she’d prefer water, or a mug of tea, even. She nods, accepts his offer of something hot.
The scotch has already done its job. That, coupled with the soft yellow glow of Elliot’s home; the quiet way they stay, hovering close enough to draw comfort from each other’s prescience, but staying firmly behind that line - all of this has warmed her. Thawed the coldness she’d felt initially; dulled the ache a bit.
“Thanks for coming over, Liv.”
He’s at the sink now, and she’s sliding on to the soft leather of his couch. Olivia looks down and realizes - she’s wearing his clothes; curled up on his couch, and she can’t remember a time where she’s felt quite this at peace.
“Thanks for having me, Elliot.”
She catches his eye as he carries over her mug, and smiles at him as he hands it to her. He moves around the couch to sit near her - not right next to, but close enough that she could, if she wanted, reach out and put her hand on his arm; or his shoulder; or his thigh -
Olivia sees him then, sees him reach behind her. His arm across the back of the couch, hand ghosting close to her shoulder blade. She can see the way his fingers uncurl; then recurl, back into themselves, as he decides.
She can feel him hesitate. Knows the way he second guesses himself, this move. This moment of over familiarity; is it too much, for where they are right now? Will this spook her, startle her away?
She wants it, though. She doesn’t have the capacity, here; tonight, for more than this, but she does want this. The quiet reassurance, the knowledge that someone knows. Knows this, but more importantly knows her.
That he could touch her, with no intent; other than giving her a moment of comfort; a chance to feel something less than alone.
Elliot shifts then, his left hand still holding his glass of scotch. He takes a small, deep breath in, then his hand is there. Sliding around the back of her neck, and resting. It’s one light squeeze, barely perceptible; and then it’s just there. Solid and still and strong, but there.
They sit like this, silent, sipping their drinks.
History finds itself again, sometimes; allows you to come back to where you thought it ended, and Olivia sits here, quietly, tonight, a hazy realization filtering through her tired mind.
There’s no one else that could shoulder this burden with her, not like him.
He knows her.