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The bustle of the SVU squadroom, which is rarely as deafening as it is today, is only broken through by determined footsteps. Donald Cragen casts a look over his shoulder when he hears them, peeling his eyes from the bulletin board—pinned to high hell with some of the worst he’s seen in his entire career as the squad is saddled with, quite possibly, the most terrifying case they’re yet to experience—and lays eyes on the last person he wants to see.
“What the hell is going on?”
His tone is not fearful like the many others that have been tying up Cragen’s phone lines, not of total concern as the emails cluttering his inbox have been, but of seething rage. Cragen isn’t taken aback though, as he’s quite used to the man before him speaking in such a way, especially when backed into a corner while the people he loves suffer. And, despite a two-year absence and not a single phone call to him made from this office, shock is not an emotion Cragen can say he feels when he sees him.
“Elliot,” Cragen says, stoic, firm, toeing the line of exclusionary off the bat.
“I said,” Elliot repeats, and Cragen notices that his fists are balled, “What the hell is going on?”
Cragen shakes his head, makes a preliminary move away from the bulletin board before Elliot has a chance to see beyond his rage and take stock of the information they’ve got posted, and heads for his office door as he says, “I can’t tell you anything.”
Elliot follows at his heels, protesting with a vitriolic, “Like hell you can’t.”
“You’re not a cop anymore,” Cragen returns, and it’s matter-of-fact. Not accusatory in any way, not necessarily a slight at him, though he can acknowledge to himself that he’s sure the entire squad has had that thought at least once, independently, over the last few days.
“What does that matter? That’s not what this is about,” Elliot replies, and he’s starting to yell. That familiar vein in Cragen’s forehead starts to throb for the first time since 2012 and he cradles his temples between his fingers.
“You know damn well that it matters. I’d lose my pension if I told you anything,” Cragen says, crosses his arms and acts as a wall. “Go home.”
Elliot huffs, patience weaning at a considerable rate, and he fills his lungs as he prepares to promptly lose his shit. He knows that this entire room is more aware than anyone else that he’d be an integral part in this search, and it’s frustrating him to high hell that no one will allow him even the smallest amount of slack.
Elliot catches a glimpse of Fin in his peripheral, but chooses to ignore him in favor of the tirade he’s about to unleash if someone doesn’t give him some fucking information, until Fin lands in his line of sight and hits him with a sour, “The fuck are you doing here?”
And he scrubs an impatient hand across his forehead and down his cheek, releasing a breath that sounds far too close to a growl as he says, “What the hell is everyone so goddamn surprised about?”
Because, honestly, Elliot would be a little offended if he weren’t so scared out of his mind, and so fucking angry, that none of them had expected him to turn up for this. If ever there were a time for him to resurface, he’d assume they’d all realize that this is it.
“If I have to answer that question,” Fin says, eyebrows raised in judgement and head shaking, “you’re dumber than I ever thought.”
Sidestepping that slight, because he sure as hell won’t get anywhere if he pisses them all off right out of the gate, Elliot persists. Takes a breath and tries to rein it in. “Tell me what’s going on, Fin.”
“Not a fuckin’ chance.”
Fin turns on his heel and heads for the break room, and his denial is just curt enough for Elliot to snap. The inner side of his foot collides with a metal witness chair, sending it toppling and bouncing and clattering against the harsh tile floor. When he lifts his head, only somewhat satiated by the release, the entire squadroom has their eyes on him. There’s a blonde on the far side of the room, staring at him like she’s just witnessed someone shit their pants. The man next to her, silently urging her to look away, keeps his eyes trained to Elliot like he doesn’t trust what he’ll do next. Elliot can see the badges on their hips glinting in the fluorescent light, and he can’t help but wonder if the reason that they haven’t found Olivia is because their squad is made up of weanling detectives, without enough tact to conduct themselves around chaos. He does all he can to quell a snarl at the incompetence he perceives in them, and turns back to Cragen, whose eyes are filled with fire.
“I can’t just sit on my hands, here, Cap,” Elliot tells him, and it’s less of a plead and more of a demand. “I wanna know everything you know about this motherfucker, because I can guarantee I’ll find him a hell of a lot faster than you.”
“With what resources?” Cragen scoffs, like it's all one big fucking joke, and Elliot is on the precipice of seething.
“I work in private security now,” Elliot says, and it doesn’t even register that he’s yelling now. “I’ve made a lot of friends that don’t even have to consider the red tape.”
“Oh, yeah. That’ll be great,” Cragen deadpans. “So he can just get off again and come back to finish her off.”
Elliot tightens his jaw, digs his fingernails into his palms with the tightness of his fists, and tenses his shoulders. Through gritted teeth, he murmurs, “Not if I get my hands on him.”
“Stabler?” comes a gratingly familiar voice from behind him.
And, when Elliot does turn, his eyes roll so far into his head, he isn’t immediately sure they’ll come back out. “Ah, Christ,” he groans, “Cassidy.”
“What are you doing here?”
Elliot could so use to punch something at this very moment, and he’d be lying to himself if he tried to deny that Cassidy’s face is at the top of his list. “If one more person asks me that, I’m gonna snap. The fuck does everyone think I’m doing here?” And he can’t tamp down the incredulous laugh that falls from his throat as he presses his fingers into his temples and counters, “What are you doing here?”
“Liv’s my girlfriend,” he responds, with a little more venom than Elliot cares to entertain.
And Elliot just has to pause, when the weight of Cassidy’s words land with him, because that’s just fucking egregious. “And you let this happen?”
“Let it?” Cassidy echoes, cocking his head at Elliot, eyes narrowing. “Go fuck yourself, man.”
“Fuck me?” Elliot repeats, and his blood comes to a rolling boil. “Everyone in this fucking room let this happen. You all let her walk out of here, and no one gave it a second thought for two whole days. As far as I can tell, every single one of you knew what this bastard was capable of, you let him walk, and no one had her back.”
“Like you would’ve done anything different,” Cassidy yells, his words overlapping and enmeshing with Elliot’s
“I’d have camped outside her fuckin’ door,” comes Elliot’s retort, on the heels of Cassidy’s, so that the entire exchange begins to devolve into an unintelligible cacophony of rage. “I’d have had a squad car out there, bare minimum. Where the fuck were you, Cassidy?”
Cassidy holds back his response, and the screaming dies down to reveal an eerily silent room around them, which hardly registers beyond Elliot’s pulse hammering in his ears. And had Elliot, blinded by his anger, looked around, he’d have seen every eye in the room trained to him.
“At least I didn’t leave her without telling her,” Cassidy says, finally, and Elliot wishes he could say he’d almost missed it, but he’d heard it clear as day, and it’s the final straw.
In one fell swoop, he makes a move, fist cocked and aiming for Cassidy’s eye socket. What happens instead is that Cragen seemingly appears in front of him, one hand firmly pressed flat against his shoulder and the other cupped around his impending fist.
And, for a brief moment, before Cragen speaks, Elliot prepares for a reaming, the likes of which he’d get nearly once a week while working here.
Instead, he’s met with Cragen’s best—firm, unwavering, but not angry. “Elliot, you have to go. Don’t make this worse than it needs to be.”
“What do you all expect me to do?” Elliot asks, not at all softened by what just happened, and shirking himself from Cragen’s grasp. “Sit with my thumb up my ass? I’ve heard through the grapevine how sick this motherfucker is—I don’t even wanna imagine what you’re holding close to the vest—and you’re all just standing here?”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Cragen insists.
“That’s bullshit,” Elliot seethes. “She should’ve never been out of your sight in the first place.”
“It’s a little late for that,” Cassidy chimes in, which is met with a swift glare from Cragen.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Cassidy?” Elliot volleys over Cragen’s shoulder.
“Elliot,” Cragen says, doing his very best to hold Elliot’s attention and neutralize the situation. Elliot can feel that he’s losing his window, and he isn’t sure if he can open it again. “Go home,” Cragen continues, and it feels more like an order this time. “You’re only taking up time we should be using to find her.”
Elliot opens his mouth again, to protest, to demand, to fight, to say anything that might get him any closer to finding her, but he’s promptly shut down when Cragen adds, “I’m trying to give you some latitude here, because I know you must be hurting—”
“—No shit—”
“—But I can’t have this right now,” he finishes, ignoring Elliot’s interjection.
After a marginal pause, wherein Elliot tries and fails to see a way to walk out of here and leave this entirely to the people who allowed her to get taken in the first place, he’s at a loss for anything else to say besides, “So, that’s how it is?”
“It’s how it has to be,” Cragen insists.
“You expect me to do nothing,” he confirms, because it's all still so ludicrous to him.
“You doing anything would be breaking the law,” Cragen says, like Elliot needs or wants that reminder.
“This is ridiculous,” Elliot scoffs, turning on a heel because if he doesn’t leave, he’ll burn this place to the fucking ground. “You all let her go,” he calls over his shoulder as he meanders to the door, “and you think you can get her back?”
“You know,” Cragen calls after him, and Elliot stops but doesn’t turn to look, “if you wanted to be here for her, you probably shouldn’t have left.”
And Elliot, in his first attempt this entire afternoon to be the bigger person, passes through the squadroom doors and toward the elevator in lieu of burning any more bridges.
He’d known, rationally, that he had a very slim chance of gaining much intel, if any at all, by going down to the 16th precinct. He’d prepared for that eventuality and had resolved to find her anyway. So, on his drive back to the shoebox of a studio apartment he’d rented in East Islip after his divorce from Kathy, he makes a few calls.
And, about eight hours later, he receives a call.
~oOo~
Olivia Benson fears that she might no longer be Olivia Benson.
It’s hard to maintain one’s sense of self while being assaulted by flashbacks that feel like they’re simultaneously happening right now and ten years ago, but actually only happened about six months ago.
Visions of Lewis, in a bloody heap on the floor, flood her. The visceral sound of his bones cracking and pulverizing under the metal bar fill her ears as if they’re in front of her. The damp feeling as his blood splatters against her torso, and as the tears stream down her cheeks, unnoticed in the frenzy. Sometimes, Elliot is next to her. Sometimes, he isn’t. The sequence of events is fuzzy, and that’s the truth, but the both of them are the only ones who know what exactly happened in the room of that beach house, and they both intend to keep it that way.
She’d told Lewis, while he was unconscious, that she’d call him, and in a rational state of mind, she never would have. But, she imagines, through the mix of the adrenaline, the sleeping pills, the vodka, the sheer will to live, and the innate human need for comfort (that she so deeply wishes she could exterminate within herself), she’d dug Lewis’s burner from his pocket and had dialed the number that’d spent twelve years at the top of her speed dial list.
(All fourteen years, if she’s honest, but she thinks she’s earned the right to lie to herself.)
He’d sounded openly relieved to hear from her, sounded near tears. She’d made a note of that after the fact, thinking back on it, but at the moment she’d been just as overcome to hear his voice, so much so that she hadn’t even really heard what he said.
She’d given him a crude description of the surroundings of the house that she’d seen when she’d escorted Viva and Luisa out the door, and he’d said something about being there soon.
It had been no matter, though, because she still has no idea how long he’d actually taken. Ten hours would have felt, and still does feel, the same as ten minutes.
What happened when he’d arrived, she has what she’s sure is a near perfect recollection, but she won’t even allow herself to think her way through it.
She doesn’t remember, however, who had called for backup. Elliot had arrived, what happened happened, and suddenly the house had been surrounded.
She isn’t even sure if either of them had known for sure that Lewis was dead until Amaro and Fin had gone in after Elliot had taken her outside.
They’d cuffed Elliot as soon as he’d gotten her to the ambulance, and she remembers wailing. Remembers him telling her that everything was fine, and that she was still safe.
She’d gone to the hospital, had walked out against medical advice after her exam, and he’d been in the waiting room.
It’s all a bit fuzzy after that, and in between the events she does remember, but they’d spent the last six months contradicting each other’s stories.
She vaguely remembers that case they’d worked a few years back; the child fight club that had ended with that preteen boy dead on the carousel and the older kid’s abusive stepdad shot execution style in their basement.
The mother and the son had both claimed the murder, and the evidence was too muddy to isolate one of them, so they’d been let off.
Without acknowledging to herself which one of them had dealt the fatal blow, she can admit that they both were deliberate in not shooting him. The angle of the shot, prints on the gun, and crime scene recreation would produce much more evidence against one over the other if they’d done that.
Both of their prints had been on the bar. Lewis’s blood had stained both of their clothes. Both had come away with defensive wounds. They’d recovered both sets of DNA from beneath Lewis’s fingernails, and Elliot’s nose had bled on Lewis’s hand when he’d tried to hit back.
Olivia sticks faithfully to her story, that she’d first subdued him with the metal bar, and again when he’d managed to break free.
Elliot also sticks to that story, the only deviation being that he’d arrived just as Lewis had broken free.
Today, she sits amongst the lavish furnishings of Rafael Barba’s office with Elliot beside her.
The higher-ups had sanctioned Barba for one final meeting with the two of them—a final crack at extracting the truth from within this tangled web. As she understands it, there’s no love lost within the department. No one is all that broken up over the death of the most heinous criminal that quite possibly the entire NYPD has ever seen, but appearances require due diligence.
“Liv,” Elliot murmurs, nudging her from the swirling, swallowing vortex her mind has become. He motions toward Barba, who has clearly asked her a question at some point in the recent present.
Barba tamps down a sigh, tries his very best to flash her that sympathetic look he only reserves for her, and that she despises on principle but appreciates nonetheless. “Liv, why did you call Elliot instead of Cragen or your squad?” He repeats, perched on the edge of his desk, looking down at them.
Olivia wishes he’d sit in his chair.
“I was traumatized,” she says, and she catches the bite that she hadn’t meant to inflect when Elliot gently squeezes her knee, “and all I had was Lewis’s burner. Elliot’s was the only number that came to mind.”
“Not 911?” Barba challenges, softly but with the underlying firmness his voice always carries.
“Barba, I was lucky to be conscious,” she sighs.
“What did he do when he got there?” Barba asks, choosing to relent.
“Lewis was already dead,” she says, as she’s said for the past six months.
And, unfailingly, Elliot interjects. “No, he was trying to get to his feet and I knocked his lights out.”
“Elliot, stop,” she says, placing her hand in the crook of his elbow. “ I did it.”
“No, I did,” he insists. Following the routine to a tee.
“You have a family,” she says.
“And you have a career,” he responds.
“I killed him,” Olivia says, looking up at Barba again.
“No, I killed him,” Elliot repeats, following her gaze.
“Were you two this nauseating when he was your partner?” Barba quips, launching himself up off of his desk and pinching the bridge of his nose.
Elliot breathes a quiet “Wow,” under his breath, and Olivia hits him over the shoulder.
“I know what you’re both doing,” Barba tells them, after a beat, “and I hate that it’s working.”
Elliot blows a breath through his nose, leaning back in his chair and widening his legs, the dominant prick. But, she kind of enjoys it. And she’s due some enjoyment these days. “What do you mean?” He asks, and she can tell Barba is doing all he can do not to turn red and smolder.
“This is the last meeting we’re set to have on the matter,” he says, rounding the desk to lean against the bookshelves. “If I can’t come back to Jack McCoy with anything probative, this gets dropped.”
“You don’t say,” Elliot mocks, and Liv swats at him again.
“I’d advise you to stop hitting him, Liv. I don’t wanna have to prosecute a domestic dispute,” Barba quips.
“That's not fair,” Liv retorts.
“Fine,” Barba breathes, shaking his head. “Get out of here, the two of you. I’ll let you know when it’s all over.”
“That’s it?” Elliot says, tentatively rising from his seat.
“What else can we do? We can’t prove anything, and a terrible man is in the ground,” Barba deadpans, already leafing through the file for his next arraignment. “Would you like a medal?” He adds, without looking up.
“Elliot, stop,” Liv says, her hand flat against his pectoral. “Let’s go.”
Elliot leads the charge out the door, and Olivia shakes her head as she thanks Barba with eyes only, following him out and nodding politely to Carmen as Elliot blows right past her.
“It’s over, El,” she tells him as they enter the elevator, hoping to crack through his brooding exterior.
“It should never have happened in the first place,” he mutters, practically punching the button for ground level, and Liv slumps against the elevator wall as the doors close.
“But it did,” she sighs, “and we can’t change that. We’re lucky to be walking away.”
“If this is your version of luck,” Elliot says, the elevator coming to a slow halt, “don’t ever go to Vegas.”
“Shut up,” she says, taking a step toward him, ratcheting up on her toes, and pressing a chaste peck to his lips before the elevator doors can open.