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She thinks about him often. Not every day because, you know, life.
But it’s frequent.
Persistent.
It’s an itch at the back of her brain that can’t be scratched. For the countless therapy sessions she’s attended over the course of her career, he remains an unnamed secret, a black hole of guilt that she’s reminded of at the most random of times. It’s made the darkest moments darker, crashed her highest highs. It’s a murky gray sludge that floods her veins and settles deep into her bones.
It’s a wrong she’ll never be able to right.
Back when she was seeing Lindstrom regularly, she thought about deflecting his questions with this curveball. This secret she’s had to sit with. That’ll show him, she’d thought. Because she was sick of talking about the beach house and the devil. Not the one she came face to face with, but the one deep inside herself. Lindstrom was smart and he saw her, and he knew part of the trauma from her descent into Hell was the woman who got herself out.
When he’d get too close, poke too hard, she thought about telling him. Distracting him with this whole other thing that’s been eating away at her since the day it happened.
Nobody knows besides the two of them. A secret that hums beneath her skin in the middle of the night and forces her out from under the covers and into the kitchen for a cup of tea. No one’s ever asked her about it, and it isn’t her place to tell.
He’s kept his mouth shut for 30 years, so can she.
But today is different. Today their secret will get the chance to breathe fresh air again. They’ve served their time, she thinks, shoving the post of an earring through her ear.
Elliot looks up from the paper he’s squinting at, wrinkles smoothing out as a smile washes over his features. He pulls his glasses off and hooks them on the front of his shirt. “You look nice,” he says, eyeing her meticulously curled hair. “Did we have plans today?”
“We don’t.” She automatically reaches for the coffee pot, which is still holding the heat at the precise temperature she likes it. It was an anniversary gift a few years ago, though she suspects it was more for Elliot’s benefit than her own. Still, he’s kind enough to set the temperature to her tastes, not his own, which has to count for something.
“I, uh… I have to be somewhere.”
“Yeah?”
She hums around the edge of her mug, eyes not quite meeting his. It’s been a while since she’s had to be anywhere. There is no job to wake up for, no lunches to make, no dance rehearsals to rush to. Some days she volunteers at a women’s shelter in the south Bronx, something to keep her hands busy and her idle mind occupied. The staff know her well, and every once in a while she’ll run into Curry or Bruno. They assure her the 1-6 is still standing and she tells them about the osso buco she made for dinner.
She leaves out the fact they ended up having to order pizza.
It’s a nice thing, the volunteering. It keeps her from going stir crazy, and even though she no longer has a badge clipped to her waist, she has a lifetime of experience to share. She likes to sit at the big, round tables in the dining room, a paper cup of coffee in her hands, and just listen to their stories. Women who escaped abusive partners, women who have been working to put their lives back together so they can reclaim their children or get a job. A place of their own. She even wrote a letter of reference for one woman who wanted to join the force. She nods as they talk, asking questions when it’s appropriate, and sharing any resources she can.
Sometimes she sees her old blazers draped on weary shoulders. It took her a while to clean out her closet after she handed in her papers. Every morning, she’d run her fingers over tailored sleeves in varying shades of black until she got to the softer items near the back. Sweaters she got on sale at Macy’s, a very expensive cashmere turtleneck she splurged on when she was promoted to Captain. A gray hoodie that divides their closet between his and hers.
She wears soft things now, looser jeans and cardigans. Leggings. Her wardrobe has color; soft blues and blush pinks, deep purples and emerald greens. The harsh angles and shoulder pads are gone. She still loves the way her favorite boots sound as they click click click against the pavement, but more often than not, she wears flats or tennis shoes.
“Do you need a ride?” Elliot asks, leaning across the counter to snag a blueberry from the little glass dish she’s fished out of the refrigerator.
He’s as bad at retirement as she is.
“Not today.” She pops a berry into her mouth and winces; it’s definitely seen better days, so she carefully inspects the rest of them to make sure there isn’t any mold. They’ll have to buy more at the farmer’s market this weekend.
That’s something else they do now, to stay busy. They wake up early on Saturday mornings and run down Riverside Drive until they can’t catch their breath. Then they pick up coffee at a little shop a few blocks from home. It’s small, just enough space for the counter and two wobbly stools in the window overlooking Amsterdam. Usually they’re there early enough that there’s no line, but she’s seen it stretch halfway down the block before. Once they’re caffeinated, they wander past rows of white tents selling fruits and vegetables and organic soaps and candles. There’s a guy who sits on a little crate between the cider stall and a honey farm who will write you a poem for a dollar, and some mornings she drops four quarters into the jar, just so she can listen to the ticktickclack of the typewriter.
Elliot thinks they’re stupid and not very well written, but she sticks them on the fridge anyway.
“Eli and Becky want to know if we’re free for dinner.” He carefully folds up the sports section and pushes it aside. He thumbs through his phone until he can show her the message from his son.
The font is one size bigger than the last time he showed her something on his phone and it makes her heart swell.
She isn’t sure how long she’ll be, but she can’t imagine it’ll take all day. It’s just that it’s been 30 years, and she can’t imagine anyone else will be there at this point. So she’s going to offer a ride and some of Elliot’s unworn clothes. There’s a small duffle already in the back of her car filled with t-shirts and sweaters, a few pairs of sweatpants and jeans. She’d grabbed razors and shaving gel at Duane Reade the other day, along with deodorant and a few other necessities.
It’s the very least she can do.
“Tell them we’ll be over around 7.”
It’ll give Elliot an excuse to cook, and she’ll get to play dolls with Catherine. Practice her french braid technique.
“Oh. Noah called while you were in the shower. He says he’s free for lunch this weekend.”
“He’s always free for lunch if we’re paying,” she points out.
Her son lives less than 20 blocks away now, tucked safely in the dorms at Juilliard. She thought she’d like the quiet that comes with being an empty nester, that it wouldn’t bother her because he’s still so close, but oh how wrong she was. They still text every day, and she sees him at least once a week when he comes over on Friday nights for spaghetti, but she misses the way he stomped around the apartment and left his things everywhere.
The only plus side is Elliot doesn’t leave hair behind in the drain.
Glancing at the clock above the stove, she slips around the edge of the counter and presses a quick kiss to her husband’s weathered cheek. It’s barely anything, but sometimes she’s still left speechless over the fact this is her life. That the man she yearned for for decades is finally hers. Every kiss doesn’t have to leave her breathless because she knows he’ll still be there when she gets back. She can find him beneath the sheets at night, under the spray of the shower. He isn’t just a dream anymore.
“Gotta go,” she tells him. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way home.”
“Sounds good,” he says with a wave. She hears the TV flick on as the front door closes behind her.
The drive to Rikers is familiar. Her secret is being set free at noon, and it will take her exactly 32 minutes if there isn’t any traffic. She fiddles with the radio, trying to settle on a station before completely giving up and cracking the window so the sounds of the city can drown out the pounding in her head. Sirens scream at her. Cars honk. Wind whizzes by as her toes press toward the floor as she merges onto the Triborough.
He told her 30 years ago never to visit him again. She keeps telling herself this doesn’t count, because he won’t be a prisoner as of 12PM Eastern Standard Time. He’ll be a free man with a secret he can tell (but won’t). A free man with potentially no prospects.
Honestly, she has no idea. All she knows is that he wasn’t married and didn’t have any kids when he was first taken away. She doubts he found a wife in prison.
Or a job.
An odd sense of calm washes over her as she drives across the bridge from Queens to the island complex. Cement and razorwire rise up around her, but she finds she’s still more comfortable here than she ever was at parent-teacher conferences. There are rules here. She knows how to behave here. For a long time, she had authority here.
She has none of that today, but the familiarity clings to her skin like a warm hug.
“I’m here for Jackson Zane,” she tells the guard, even though he knows exactly who she once was and is already raising the gate.
She parks in a different lot this time, one reserved for visitors and families, not the NYPD and shady defense attorneys. It’s unpaved, and her heels sink into the gravel as she slides out from behind the wheel and leans against the side of the car. The late summer sun beats down on her, and she tilts her head back and closes her eyes as she lets the warmth dust her cheeks. She takes a few steadying breaths, afraid to ask herself what will happen if he walks out those doors and ignores her presence completely.
Not that she’d blame him. He gave up 30 years of his life so she could continue to protect the city of New York. His sacrifice gave her the opportunity to become a decorated captain who still holds sway in the halls at 1PP. He gave up a life so she could live hers.
But he’s also had a lot of time to wallow and turn sour towards her. If he wants nothing to do with her, that will be his choice.
She may have to go back to therapy for that one, but at least her longest-held secret would be out in the open. She’ll still tell Elliot about it once she gets home. Maybe on the drive to Jersey. He was there when Jackson wheedled his way into their case a million years ago, maybe he’ll remember.
Sometimes he can’t remember where he’s put his glasses, or what day of the week it is, but he still remembers all of the cases they worked together when they were partners.
As the heavy metal door creaks open, and two men step out into the light, she realizes she’s the only one waiting. Whoever this other man is, he doesn’t have friends or family to pick him up.
Jackson doesn’t either.
She watches him squint up at the sun, then take in the sight of her leaning against her black SUV. Her breath is stuck at the back of her throat, and she feels her chest constrict beneath a pair of hazel eyes. He stands there and stares at her for what feels like hours, the heat from the car causing sweat to pool at each point of contact. She holds her breath and waits, palms slick and clammy.
Finally, he takes a step toward her. “Rachel Martin. It’s been a while.”
He smiles at her then, and she feels the hole inside her start to stitch itself closed. The air trapped in her lungs slides out on an exhale and she returns the smile.
“I thought you could use a friend.”
Without question, he walks right up to her and pulls her into a hug. He’s thinner than she remembers, and his hair has more gray to it than brown, but his grip is firm as he takes a few steadying breaths before holding her at arm’s length.
“Thought I told you not to come back here.”
She shrugs and gestures toward the passenger door. “Turns out I’m not very good at following instructions.”
The car sits idle as they stare out at the jail. She’s been here a million times since Jackson was incarcerated, but she kept her word and never visited. He kept his promise and never uttered her name. He says it now.
“So. Olivia Benson.”
She turns her head and offers a smile. “Jackson Zane. Can I drop you off anywhere?”
He shrugs. “I figured I’d try calling a few friends and see if they have a spare couch until I can get myself situated.”
But her fingers are already flying across her screen, typing out a quick message to the man waiting for her back at home. His response comes in even less time, and it’s just as accepting as she expected. He remembers, but even if he didn’t, he’d never turn away someone in need. Someone who played some small part in them finding their way back to each other and building a life.
“We have a spare room,” she says, and turns the key in the ignition. “If you’re interested.”
“Oh, I’m interested.” His eyes grow wide as she explains who’s waiting for them.
Some things, it seems, never change.