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When Tynan inquires into Captain Benson's personal life during one of their standing Sunday night dinners, Jake Griffin has very little to say.
"Someone sends her flowers in the regular," he finally offers, after an uncomfortably long silence where his mentor simply fingers the rim of her wine glass, expecting him to prove his usefulness to her any second now. "It doesn't happen every week, but often enough for it to be noticeable. They don't appear to be pre-ordered by her, judging by the expression on her face when she spots them. Delivery arrives around 7 each Monday, so they are there before she starts at 8."
It is not exactly an earth-shaking tidbit. Nevertheless, Jake had noted it down for when things are slow in the world of departmental espionage, though doubting its usefulness. A sliver of regret stiffens his muscles when Tynan’s eyes flash with unexpectedly vivid interest. He is reminded of a shark scenting a droplet of blood.
"That could potentially be useful."
She leans in, hands folded underneath her chin. He supposes he should feel glad that she doesn't think he is just sitting with a thumb up his ass on the job she'd entrusted him with. Still, it feels a little disheartening that the first thing that managed to pique her interest tonight was some floral decorations.
He and Bruno closed five cases that week, but he hadn't been able to edge it in sideways to the conversation yet.
"How so?" he asks and swallows another mouthful of wine. So far, it is not exactly serving its intended purpose of dissolving his unease.
"How would you describe the look on her face when she sees the flowers?"
"Surprised. Pleased, I suppose, but she doesn't let it show much. Kinda shy, never comments on them."
"They are from a man. Trust me," Tynan says with a slow smile. "That is good to know. A woman in a happy, stable relationship is more likely to consider positions that would both allow her to spend more time with her loved ones — while enabling her to use her experience in a more valuable way at the same time, of course.”
Ah. This was about the deputy chief position she keeps pushing her to.
"Look into it — who, how serious, marriage soon or never. Report back within a week," she says matter-of-factly, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
She stands up to put away the dishes, leaving Jake with his clearance rate hanging on the tip of his tongue.
Come Friday, Jake's list of Captain Benson's gentleman callers consists of exactly zero names.
He works his jaw in annoyance, glancing at the clock on the wall every 30 seconds. He should have already provided Tynan with an update by now. Any minute now, she is going to text him a single ominous question mark. If that goes unanswered, she is going to give him a call. Jake really doesn't want her to give him a call.
He likes to think he has better things to do than this. Putting rapists behind bars might place slightly higher in his personal priority list than looking into who his boss is sleeping with, but what would he know. He is just a lackey who has to pay back for his career advancements with dirty work.
After a minute or two of brainstorming, he decides to approach two unis in the hallway who appear to hold some emotional investment in their superiors' affairs. Their gossiping can be heard for a mile over.
At first, he considers chatting them up with all the nonchalance in the world. Make it seem like a friendly chit-chat among curiosity-driven peers. Upon further contemplation, however, he deems that the discomfort he nurses around the topic of his boss's love life likely will have him operating as smoothly as a 35-year-old undercover informant asking kids for their Adderall sources. He might as well whip out a notebook.
He does just so, walking up to them and asking for their valuable help in an internal investigation. Is there any talk of Captain Benson being involved with a man she has been seen with? Not to worry, no wrongdoing suspected. The department simply wants to nip any defamatory rumors about their esteemed captain in the bud.
The older, likely wiser officer remains silent while the younger one appears delighted to be of service. He starts prattling off names, and Jake jots them down in his little notebook as quickly as they come.
William Dodds, former deputy chief
Trevor Langan, defense attorney
Mike Duarte (deceased?)
It doesn't escape Jake's notice that the older uni keeps rolling her eyes throughout the spiel. After it is over, she turns to her partner. Tells him to wise up.
She then turns to Jake and advises him to write down the name Elliot Stabler. And underline it three times.
At first, he is doubtful.
After some cursory research, Jake finds out that Elliot Stabler was Captain Benson's old partner from 15 years back. In his view, this information doesn't add any meaningful weight to the flower deliveries. For all he knows, Captain saved his life, and his way of repayment is keeping her office fresh and fragrant until the day he dies. It felt even inappropriate to suspect any other funny business behind it. Benson is a consummate professional, and she if anyone would tout the importance of boundaries between partners. Cold-hard, unflappable boundaries. Something Jake likes to think he is well conscious of.
Still, he shoots a quick text with Stabler's name to Tynan. She almost instantly responds, requesting more information. This prompts Jake to spend the following five to seven minutes massaging his temples.
He ignores the request up until the man in question actually shows up at the precinct.
Jake is gnawing at the end of his ballpoint pen on a Tuesday morning, staring at a near incomprehensible incident report, when something flags his instincts.
He looks up and sees a strange man, the approximate size of a refrigerator, making his way down the squad room. He makes no eye contact, offers no greeting to anyone, and like a trained missile, shows no signs of slowing down even when Jake yelps out a "Who is that?"
He walks straight through the door to the Captain's office.
Jake sits up in alarm, his hands tightening around the arms of his chair.
He fully expects a gunshot sound in the office the very next second. Seeing his distress, Rollins shakes her head with a dry chuckle.
"That's just Stabler. He just comes out and goes like a stray cat Captain Benson doesn't have the heart to shoo away."
"Oh."
He might have recognized him from an old photo had he still been lean and sported even a dusting of hair. Or stood still for just a second. The man had moved more like a freight train than a person.
Big bald guy, he proceeds to write on his notepad.
No wonder the uni told him to underline his name. There is no way the other guys could have even the combined muscle mass of Stabler. Jake wouldn't like their odds in any competitive scenario, especially relating to a woman's romantic favor. Jawbones have been shattered for less.
Yet, he retains a healthy amount of skepticism. Just because Stabler marches around like he owns the place doesn't mean there is any substance behind the gossip. He can't imagine Captain being too pleased about such a half-man-half-bull barreling into her office like that, much less dating him.
Not long after, the pair emerges from the room together. She is scoffing at something he said. Unsurprising. Yet, the way he is grinning as he trails after her gives Jake pause. He is all the more bewildered as he spots her giving him a grin back. It is so fleeting, so delicate that it is almost like a shared secret between them.
It is only then that Jake notices that in his other hand, Stabler is carrying her coat. In his other, her purse.
He gawks.
His eyes follow them as they walk across the room toward the exit. It therefore doesn't escape his notice how the man's fingers ghost near the small of her back as they move.
When they are gone, Jake takes out his notepad.
He underlines Stabler's name for the fourth time.
"So, what's the deal with Cap and her old partner? Are they together?" he tries to ask, casually, swiveling his chair toward Sergeant Tutuola when they are left alone in the squad room one day.
In answer, Tutuola starts dryly chortling. It goes on for at least half a minute, trickling down from his throat to his chest and finally to his belly. The longer the vibrating laughter goes on, the more unsettled Jake feels.
"Wouldn't we all like to know."
Tutuola then proceeds to admonish him for not going to cop bars more often. "The fact that you just asked me that tells me that you don't know any of this department's lore. You need to go out and socialize more, son."
"Well, I am chewing the fat now, aren't I?" he sputters, uncomfortable.
Tutuola smiles and lowers a pen he is holding underneath the top panel of his desk. "I want you to take a look under there."
Jake hesitates.
He'd hate to be an unwitting participant in a hazing ritual involving crawling under a table and having his head banged against the top surface. However, he liked to at least believe that someone who has been with the department almost as long as Captain Benson would be a little above that.
Still, he only cranes his head partially under the table as he crouches down. Just in case.
Tutuola taps with his pen on a number scratched onto the wood, only visible to those who know how to look for it.
"The figure is the amount of money currently in the betting pool. Has been accumulatin' since '04. Some of the participants are no longer even alive — may they rest easy upstairs."
According to some quick mental calculations, the sum would cover three yearly installments of his car loan. Jake swallows.
"It's no use, son. There is no end in sight. Your best bet is on the 'never happening' camp. That is tallied under another desk. You could still make a profit, but it'd be puny compared to this. Such is the nature of short odds."
Jake draws his head from underneath the desk, frowning.
This will be hard to put into words in a report for Tynan.
Detective Stabler shows up again at the precinct a few weeks later, zapping some new life into Jake's halting investigation.
This time, he is prevented from simply waltzing into her office by the locked door and the drawn blinds. Jake furtively ceases working, dedicating the corner of his left eye to observing how the big guy reacts to this roadblock. His fingertips inch toward his notepad.
There are two steaming paper cups of coffee in Stabler’s hands. The temperature of the liquid is made all the more evident by the frequency with which he slides the cups up and down his large palms as he stares at her door. There is a frown on his face.
Something tells Jake he expected a warmer welcome.
Over the preceding weekend, he dived deeper into the history between the pair.
Interesting discovery after another followed. Not only had Benson and Stabler boasted the highest clearance rate in the whole department, but they also bore the title of the pair most often referenced in internal memos. Their efficiency as a team seemed to have weighed more in the scale for the brass than any pesky objectivity concerns or psych evals, explaining why they weren't split up for 13 years. That is, until he was involved in a tragic shooting in 2011 and likely forced to put in his papers. After that, he moved to Europe for a decade or so.
Jake can't help but wonder whether it was far enough for his wife.
During that time, Benson quickly rose through the ranks. She never seemed to escape the designation ‘Widow Stabler’ though, at least not in certain whispering circles. The tables seem to have turned within the last five years, however. Now Stabler is the one referred to as 'Mr. Benson, aspiring.'
The rumors, along with the betting pool, perplexed Jake somewhat. Stabler, with his tatted, tree trunk-like arms, imposing figure, and not exactly polished mien seem as far from Benson's type as possible. Jake would be the last to know what the woman was into, though. And he'd prefer not to think about it for too long. Or at all.
But such is his lot in life that he is forced to consider this along with calculating Stabler’s chances at actually attracting her attention. Right now, with him staring at her door, it seems he'd like nothing more in this world.
Jake wouldn't be surprised if he had asked whether she was having a busy morning 30 or so minutes ago. When she'd answered, he had taken it as a sign to sweep in here like a tactical ops team given clearance for a strike. Any hesitation, and he was going to miss his window — to do what, he isn't sure. Bring her coffee? Bask in her presence for the five whole minutes her psyche allows her to relax? Try and cram in as many subtle references to the burning ardor licking at his heart in that time frame?
Jake has to wonder how wooing a woman in such small increments is working out for him.
In the next moment, a sound of masculine sniggering rings out through the walls of the office. It is soon followed by softer laughter.
This adds a grim quality to the man’s already somber expression. Jake frowns a little, too, realizing the voice was Bruno's.
They have been in the office for a while now.
"You can set the cups down on my desk, if you want. I think it'll still be a minute," Jake says, keeping his voice nonchalant, glancing up at the man's towering figure.
He nods. He doesn't set anything down.
"Who is she with?"
The words are said with some reluctance. As if he had been under some strain to keep them in. Not a very lengthy strain, however. He had let the silence stretch for exactly four seconds.
"My partner. Detective Bruno," Jake answers.
Stabler looks even unhappier. He knows the guy.
Jake does a little back and forth swiveling with his chair, wondering how to address him. He might have some information that could make the man happy. Or at least, see Bruno as less of a threat. Which he isn't.
"You are Detective Stabler, aren't you?" he asks, detaching his gaze from Benson's office door. Stabler doesn't. Nor does he answer.
"I recognize you from a photo Captain has," he goes on. "She has a bunch in a mat on her desk. Yours is in the middle, right in front of her seat."
The look on his face betrays that he did not know this. Only now, he darts a look down at Jake.
It is a fact that Jake only discovered recently himself. She usually has papers or a strategic stapler on top of his photo — Jake had only seen it when he had done some light snooping in her office, trying to see if Stabler had left a note with the flowers that had to be from him. No note, but a prominent photo. Jackpot of sorts.
Stabler attempts to show no reaction to this piece of news, but whatever grin that he is inwardly beaming bleeds through so violently that even your typical mantelpiece Buddha looks downright dejected in comparison. The not-so-discreet way his shoulders square up also speaks to his newly boosted confidence.
Jake tells himself not to feel bad for tattling on this specific decorative detail. It is not as if he is pimping out his boss or anything. He is simply sharing public information that even the janitors should be aware of.
"Sorry, I don't think we have met," Stabler says, suddenly in a good enough mood to acknowledge him.
He still doesn't place a cup down, pressing one of them against his broad chest as he reaches out a hand for Jake to squeeze.
"Jake Griffin," he responds, shaking it.
There is a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Benson must have mentioned him. Hopefully in a positive context, but his confidence in that is not exactly sky-high.
"Jake Griffin," he pronounces, attempting to mask any two and twos he put together in his head. He then goes on, with three seconds more restraint this time around.
"Tell me, does your partner spend a lot of time in the captain's office with the door closed?"
"No more than the others."
The answer comes out before he actually takes the time to consider whether it is true. The captain does seem particularly fond of Bruno, and she is objectively beautiful enough to lead the latter down the quagmire that is lusting after his superiors. But he is not about to deliver that kinda news to this man. Unshot messengers are usually happier in life, after all.
After an aeon, Bruno and the Captain finally emerge from the office. Stabler immediately walks up to greet her.
He brushes Bruno's shoulder not too politely in the process. The other guy's brow jumps in amusement, and he mouths something to Jake that he can't quite decipher.
Jake feels weirdly happy for Stabler's sake that Benson looks genuinely pleased to see him. And that his caveman maneuvers went either unnoticed or ignored by her. He proceeds to hand her the coffee, and she proceeds to pretend she does not burn her tongue on it. Lunch plans are seemingly agreed on. He grabs her coat once again, and they leave together.
This time, his hand rests securely on the small of her back.
Jake remembers once reading something about probability fields in physics. They are a mathematical description of how likely a particle is to be found at different places in space. The answer is never something firm. All anyone can do is guess and be willing to accept that they may never know for certain.
He is starting think Captain Olivia Benson's singlehood is one big hand-wavey quantum theorem.
His certainty that she is with Detective Stabler or that she is definitely not together with him varies depending on the day. He overhears phone calls where she bemoans that she doesn't have time to date, and in the next moment, she is asking her son to reserve a ticket for Stabler at his dance recital. It all has Jake wondering whether the man in question is being driven as crazy as he is.
What is more, the hydraulic press that is his mentor's demands of information necessitates that he find out the truth. And soon.
One person who could provide him with even a modicum of clarity is Bruno, who seems close with the captain. He really doesn't want to ask him, though. Their partnership is not on solid enough ground for him to start to pry into things. Bruno probably readily thinks of him as a rat with its upturned snout sniffling in the air.
That Jake is, but he doesn't need to know that.
One afternoon, when he is charting alternate avenues in his notepad, Bruno is munching on sunflower seeds across their desks in a beyond distracting manner. Jake lowers his notes. He stares at him.
Even he is surprised by the question he ends up voicing. It is not "mind chewing a little less loud?" or something useful, such as "Do you know if Captain Benson and that organized crime guy are involved?
"You and Captain Benson, is there anything going on..." is what comes out instead.
He leaves the sentence hanging like a sword of Damocles about crash onto his neck.
Bruno's right brow rises up to his hairline, but so does the corner of his mouth. He realizes what he is trying to ask, and looks absolutely delighted.
"Ohhh. There is absolutely no need to fret, Griff," he tuts, rising from his seat. "You'll always be my number one."
The sentiment is accompanied by a saucy wink and a squeeze on his shoulder as he walks on by.
Jake clenches his eyes shut.
This is all starting to feel like some karmic humiliation ritual for accepting a spy’s post in the first place.
"Uh, Captain?" he starts, unpromisingly, walking into her office one morning after approximately 15 minutes of mental self-coaching while staring in the men's bathroom mirror.
Luckily, Captain Benson looks to be in a good mood, looking up at him with a sunny smile when it's usually mild annoyance. Jake doesn't expect to see that smile remain for long.
As much as he hates doing this to her and hates himself for being coerced into this, he could see that the only way out of the gridlock was asking her. Directly.
Or more or less. He'll have to encrypt his inquiry in a way that doesn't send his ass on a two-week unpaid leave. She keeps her personal life under so many locks and keys that he doubts even Tutuola could get away with a single eyebrow waggle after a Stabler visit to the precinct.
He had a preplanned, elegant opening in mind, but now that he is standing in front of her, he can't form a single word. Much less recall how he was to arrange them. Or what they were.
"Take your time," she says a hint teasingly. She folds her hands under her chin and lets her gaze wander to her left, where she has a vase full of yellow lilies. Her eyes linger on the delicate petals as if in a caress, a soft smile on her face.
She is in love, he suddenly realizes.
No one who isn't looks at a bouquet of week-old wilting lilies like that.
After what has to be a decades-long silence, she turns back to him, quirking an expectant eyebrow.
He says the first thing that comes to his mind.
"Those flowers. Lovely."
She nods, tensing up. Already. Shit.
He might as well come out swinging.
"Uh, who are they from? …Is there someone special in your life?"
Sadly enough, this does not inspire her to launch into a thorough breakdown of her relationship with the sender of the flowers. She does not articulate her complicated, perhaps long-repressed feelings for him. She does not elaborate on all the nuanced reasons she is afraid to let him love her. She definitely does not itemize the deep-seated insecurities stemming from their volatile partnership or his leaving which she likely considers obstacles to a healthy romance. Alternatively, unlike in Jake's most delusional fantasies, she does not reveal a detailed history of a secret relationship that has been going on for years, soon culminating in a wedding or a commitment ceremony of any kind — and give him her answer on whether the ensuing domestic bliss will push her into accepting the more settled position of a deputy chief.
Instead, she stares at him.
What is more, she takes off her glasses as if to undim the laser gaze that is about to burn him to a crisp. Duly, she gives him such a withering look that he briefly considers resigning on the spot.
"There is a bit of a time-crunch with the O'Connor search warrant, so I'd appreciate it if you got back to work with it," she says, slowly.
"Yes. Right. Right."
He skulks out of the office, mortified.
That went as well as one might expect.
"You tryin' to ask out Captain, Griff?" Bruno asks, plopping down to a chair next to him with a startling thud, approximately an hour later. "And I thought we had something special."
Jake loses the battle against the bloodflow rocketing to his cheeks and lets out a sigh.
"I did no such thing."
"That is not what I am hearing."
Maybe there is some basis for Stabler's jealousy over Bruno. Captain shares too much with him. Or he is curious enough about her to be in the know about all the menial interactions she has in a day. Maybe Stabler has cause to confront him in the nearest abandoned alleyway after work. Jake certainly wouldn't mind someone roughing up Bruno a little to stop him smirking at people like this, inspiring the most humiliating tomato-glow he didn't remember having to endure with his previous partners.
"Shut up," he groans, pincering his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I was just..."
He casts a terrain-sweeping glance to his left and right. He then leans over his desk toward Bruno, propping himself against his folded arms.
"I am just dying to know what is actually going on between her and Stabler. Not knowing is kinda giving me an ulcer," he hisses.
That was the last thing Bruno seemed to have expected. His mouth hangs half an inch open before twisting into a delayed smile.
"That is the cutest thing I have ever heard you say."
Following this, he gives a similar conspirational glance-around to their surroundings.
"Also, in my educated opinion..."
He crooks a single finger, inviting him to lean closer.
Jake follows the motion, pushing himself farther across the table. Bruno beckons him even closer, and he complies, stopping only when he is close enough to feel his partner's breath gust against his skin. It is only then Bruno dares to reveal his information.
"It's none of our business," he whispers.
Flustered, Jake slumps back with a groan as Bruno chuckles.
"Aren't you at least a tiny bit curious?" he blusters, running a furious hand through his hair.
He is. He can see it from his face — and maybe a tiny bit disappointed too, perfectly cognizant that Benson would never spare him even half a glance as long as the bald man walks this earth.
"Off the record," he says, rubbing his chin. "I think they are together. I just can't prove it."
And isn't that precisely Jake's problem.
It is Jake who ends up drawing the unlucky lot of Superbowl Sunday overtime. It is alright, however. It is not as if he had plans to watch the game with anyone. Bruno tried to ask, but he is fairly sure it was 80% out of pity. He'd rather retain his dignity by eating reheated mac and cheese alone at his desk while working on getting all the evidence submission forms done for Monday morning.
When he enters the squad room with his tupperware bowl and an energy pouch between his teeth, he spots the last person he expects to see in the darkened precinct. Stabler is standing in the captain's office, fixing a bouquet of roses on a vase by the window.
When he determines the flower arrangement is up to his standards, he turns. He doesn't notice Jake through the open door, though, because he pauses at her desk. His eyes fall on the desk mat, his photo right in the middle.
He gazes at the photo like an excavator an ancient relic he is trying to decipher. Maybe it is a mystery to him why she would place him in such a prominent spot on her desk. Maybe he'd like to know whether that means anything. Whether he could let himself dwell on certain possibilities longer than he usually permits.
It is this look in his eye that proves to Jake, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they are not together.
At least not in the way Stabler would like for them to be.
He still hasn't spotted Jake. He stows his late-night dinner on his desk and walks up to the captain's office, leaning against the doorway. He announces his presence with a clearing of his throat.
Stabler looks up. A flash of startled shame flashes across his features, like someone from the Old Testament caught coveting something that did not belong to him. Jake could only assume it was a running theme in his and Benson's relationship.
"Oh, Griffin. Don't let me get in the way of any work. Just picking up something Captain Benson asked me to," Stabler explains.
Picking up something, leaving flowers behind. A slight variation on the theme. The sad thing is, Jake doesn't think he is even doing it because the next bouquet might be just the thing to push her into his arms. No, it feels more like he could drop the habit with as much difficulty as breathing.
"Roses make her roll her eyes. Lilies make her brighten up," Jake says.
The man stills as he absorbs the words. Two slowly unfolding changes to his face follow. His tongue rolls into his cheek, making it bulge in an unsettling fashion. The muscles around his cheeks and jaw tighten, forming a grin that is simultaneously amused and dangerous.
"Are you trying to give me advice?" he asks in a low voice.
Yeah. Seems like you need it.
These words in his mind don't get voiced for the simple reason that he doesn't want his head smushed like an overripe grape.
Yet, Stabler can still read the answer from the petulant expression on his face. He takes two steps closer, and Jake violently resists the urge to move back himself.
"How about I focus on my partner, and you focus on your own, kid?" he suggests in an almost amiable tone.
The true sentiment behind his words is revealed, however, when he takes yet another imposing step, this time forcing Jake to back out of the door. He closes it to his face with a powerful slam.
Jake stands outside the office and shuts his eyes, letting an angry breath flow through him. Sometimes it feels that he has no more issues with his temper than any other cop working in such a difficult field — but this is certainly not one of those moments.
Partner.
Stabler's word echoes in his head. It sounds more and more macabre the longer it rebounds.
Captain Benson will always be Stabler's partner in his mind. He says it like there's something transcendental and sacred about it. Like that single word entwines them together forever.
No further action needed.
What he doesn't seem to understand is that it's just a mirage. He can bring her coffee and flowers as much as he wants, fully embrace this courtly worship from afar bullshit and pretend it means she is somehow his — but that isn't going to warm anyone if something happens. Judging by the cuts on his face, he is not exactly the type to stay out of trouble. And Jake knows for a fact that his captain is the same. She would have been taken out by a bomb mere weeks ago if not for Bruno.
The universe is not going to spare them just because they are partners. Stabler isn’t going to make her immortal by building her a statue and falling to his knees at a respectable distance from it. He certainly is not going to buy a second more time by leaving her these little offerings of himself like a thief in the night. Never too overt to risk losing what little he has.
What a fucking waste.
Jake spends the next week with something acerbic simmering inside him. Presently, he is staring at the little notepad resting next to his keyboard. Setting it on fire with the power of his mind seems an equally fruitful feat as asking more questions from anyone. There are no answers. All that remains is inertia, both from him and his two sorry subjects.
Tynan has just texted him again, conveying just how disappointed she is in his inability to find such a menial piece of information as Captain Benson’s relationship status. And she really thought he was the right man for this task.
He is not sure how he has ended up in a position where his job depends on his captain's situationship.
Even that seems too kind a word. They don't seem to be even sleeping together. Not with the way Stabler sniffs around her like a touch-starved dog.
He doesn't feel exactly bad about painting such an unflattering mental picture of the man. In a way, he deserves it. The man thinks staring at her longingly enough constitutes a notarized application for her hand in marriage. Funnily, or sadly enough, she doesn't offer even that in return. He has to divine signs that she likes him back like tea grounds from the bottom of a cup.
Tragic, the lot of them. Jake included. Here he is, spending his Friday night at the office when he was released from work an hour ago, thinking bitter thoughts about two imbecilic cops wasting their remaining years on earth through incommunication.
There are lights on in the Captain's office. Seems like he is not alone in his lonesomeness tonight.
At least it's not self-imposed when it comes to him.
He stands up suddenly, his chair shooting half a meter from underneath him with a squeak. He can't keep observing this from the sidelines. He just can't.
"You have a moment, cap?" he asks, stopping to wait in the doorway after an obligatory knock.
She crooks her index and middle finger, inviting him to step inside without looking up from the papers in front of her.
That is when Jake notices there are fresh lilies behind her on the windowsill.
He smirks inwardly. Too little, too late, Stabler. It does not change his mind about what he is about to do.
"It's about Detective Stabler."
She looks instantly up from her work. Nothing like the name of this man to distract her from the other pillar of her life.
Jake draws in a breath. Prepares to sling his grenade.
It is made a little easier by the fact that he is about to implode something for a man he doesn't particularly care for. Any additional qualms would have just been a hindrance to what must be done — so maybe it is a good thing Stabler was rude to him.
"He was at the precinct one day, asking whether there was anything going on between you and my partner," he narcs.
Rats do as rats are.
Benson blinks. Any mental processes trundling in her head are not betrayed by even the slightest other change in her face, and he gets the impression of her trying her hardest to keep her expression schooled. It pushes Jake to keep going.
“I just think it is a little inappropriate,” he says, accentuating the word with a smack of his lips. "Hounding me about such things."
It is then that her face finally darkens. Like low-hanging storm clouds suffocating sunlight in just a few seconds.
"Thank you for telling me."
She doesn't look at him when she says it. She is looking somewhere far away, in the distance. Mentally walking down the street where Stabler lives, perhaps. Searching and destroying.
Jake takes this as his cue to leave, which he does, quickly, in case Benson decides to take her wrath out on him.
He is not exactly sure what he wishes this snitching will produce — time will tell whether this will result in anything but Jake being run over by Stabler’s unmarked SUV.
But at least it is a propulsion in one way or another. That is not something these two seem to have experienced in a while.
Another day, another request from Tynan — though he mentally classifies them as direct orders nowadays. The mayor is breathing down her neck about a subway groper they are trying to track down. Tynan wants to know how the investigation is going, but Captain Benson is being economical with information. She suspects key details are being kept from her.
She wants photos of the evidence board. It is Jake's lowly task to snap some when no one is looking and forward them to her ASAP. Just in time to tamp down any feeble pretensions he might have about having a meaningful purpose in this squad.
He deliberately ignores the timeline that Tynan imposes on him. People are bustling over and around the board all day in order to pin the bastard, and Jake doubts that a series of selfies with every square inch of the board as scenery-setting background will be taken kindly by his colleagues.
As if having sensed Tynan’s excessive interest in the board, Captain Benson has made the executive decision of having it wheeled into a storage room at the end of each day, where it remains locked until the morning. She is not paranoid enough to tell the janitors not to hand in the keys to any of her detectives, however.
And that is why Jake is at the precinct in the middle of the night, cursing and grunting under his breath while trying to light up the board enough with his flashlight to take semi-fluorescent photos. He tries not to rush, knowing it will only make the pics blurry and unusable, but the sweat actively pooling under his collar reminds him how deep of a shit he is in if someone catches him.
And all this for a "thx" from his mentor.
At the same time as he takes the final photo, the door to the squad room slams with the clamor of a thousand gunshots. He nearly jumps out of his skin
"Just ask me," he hears a female voice hiss from the main room. He is suddenly beyond ecstatic that he had enough sense to close the storage room almost shut so that only a narrow sliver of light paints a streak across the space.
He silently rounds the board to duck behind it just in case, though, because that voice sounded terrifyingly lot like Captain Benson.
"Liv..." he hears another impatient voice sound.
Detective Stabler.
Well, at least there is now no want for additional motivation to remain hidden. He will do so if he needs to burrow an actual hole in the wall like actual vermin. He is not getting folded like laundry in the hands of this man today.
Both Stabler and Jake fall silent at that. The latter even stops scanning the storage room for a secret escape route.
"Well, I am certainly hoping you are not sleeping with your subordinates," the man answers with deathly slowness.
Captain Benson gives a laugh. It has not a speck of humor in it.
"Technically, you are my subordinate."
"It is a good thing we are just very good friends, then."
The degree of venom in the voice affirms that Jake can't be around for this. He is absolutely not going to listen on to what those words are about to trigger.
There is a nail sticking from the wall. Maybe if he rams his head against it with an efficient enough pace, he might manage to euthanize himself before either of them utters another word.
The harrowing silence is eventually broken by Benson.
"In some ways, you haven't changed at all." The sentence courses out like one long sigh.
"What do you mean by that?
Another mirthless chuckle. "Remember Ash Ramsey? Whenever I much as exchanged two words with him you looked like something had crawled up your ass and died."
"I don't trust feds."
"Then you'd be happy to know he's with LAPD now."
The ensuing silence is somehow even longer than the last one.
"You still talk?" he finally rasps out.
"You still phone Briscu in prison?"
That comeback had shot out so fast it was as if it had been waiting on her tongue like the hard, foul pit of a fruit.
Stabler shudders out an indignant breath.
"You know perfectly well she meant nothing to me."
Jake hears shuffling footsteps. She is walking around the room, as if to self-soothe. He wonders if this is a common habit of hers in the presence of this man.
"It's okay, Elliot. I have had a few nothings too."
It is almost tangible, the way the air in the two rooms thickens at these words. Jake starts thinking about escape routes again.
"If you ask me who I will hit you."
For a moment, he only hears Stabler's breathing. It must have been supplemented by a meaningful look or two because Benson suddenly erupts again.
"Not Bruno, for god's sake. You are ridiculous."
"Am I?"
Heavy footsteps. He is crossing the distance to her.
"Maybe if I have no right to let it carve me up inside that you have these nothings, but I don't think it is ridiculous to want to ask about them."
The sound of furniture moving. Jake imagines a chair being turned, placed between her and Stabler. A protective barrier, if only mental. It doesn't stop the man from gritting out his next words.
"To see if I have a snowball's chance in hell."
Jake stops breathing. So does the pair in the other room, because for a while, not a single sound is heard.
"Elliot..." she starts, her voice wavering like a leaf in the wind. "You can't keep doing this."
“What? Telling you how I feel? Telling you you are the love of my goddamn life?"
She lets out a sound. The smallest, most pathetic sound that barely even registers as a whimper. It made him think of being hit in the sternum, but expecting the blow. Like it had been a long time coming.
Stabler goes on in an urgent, hoarse voice.
"It is taking more and more effort pretending that you are not. But I will keep trying if you tell me so. Just tell me. I need to hear it. Even if that leads me to spending the night drinking my head full, I will wake up tomorrow, trying harder."
After a pregnant pause, the chair creaks again, followed by some hesitant footsteps. Benson is retreating again in another feeble evasive maneuver.
"What if I can't give you what you want?" she finally whispers, voice barely audible.
An incredulous voice stems from Stabler's throat.
"What do you think I want?"
"I don't know. A stand-in, maybe. You know it's not gonna work. I am nothing like what you are used to, someone who takes care of you and—"
"You seriously think I need a woman to pack me lunch? Seriously? Is that what you think I have wanted you for these 26 years?"
The following silence sucks what remaining oxygen was still left in the space.
Jake musters his courage. He takes a step from behind the board. Then another.
He moves silently to the gap in the door. He feels a physical urge to take a peek, if only to check up on them. They have been quiet for a long time. What he half-expects to see is not two desperate people locked in a standstill, but them crumbled to dust under the weight of the words that have been aired. Probably for the first time.
Benson is standing with her back to the office door. She is looking down, her cascading hair obscuring her eyes. Stabler has his broad hands on her shoulders, imploring.
It should look like he is crowding her, but strangely, it doesn't. Instead, he gives the impression of a man at the mercy of a higher being. It is either her, the reluctant object of his worship, or whoever has the power to bestow him the gift of parting her lips, making her say something in response. Anything.
“I’m coming off too strong again, aren’t I?” he sighs with a smile that isn't really a smile. “Over two decades has a bad habit of expending a man’s self-restraint.”
She lowers her head on his shoulder.
He takes this as a promising enough sign that he lets his hands slide down until he is holding her loosely in something akin to an embrace.
“I’ll tell you what I want”, he murmurs. “I want the rest of your life. In any way I can.”
He makes the smallest increment of a move to detach himself.
“Just lemme know what way it is gonna be.”
His chest falls and drops under the strain of his exhale. He lets his hands drop, tries to take a step back.
Her hand purses around the fabric of his shirt.
“Don’t go.”
She finally lifts her eyes to him.
“Please don’t go.”
The accompanying, pleading look lasts no longer than a few seconds. It is followed by the angling of her neck. Her hands unclutch from around his shirt, freeing him. She doesn't touch him after that. Not really. She just brings her face, her lips a breath’s width away from his, her eyes near provocative in their longing.
His hesitation barely has time to register to an onlooker. But it is there, a trained response from his body to keep him from barreling full-speed after what he wants.
She sways a millicenter closer, and it all falls away.
He bridges the gap after one heartbeat, pushing her against the door.
She melts just as quickly.
The following sight resembles a painting he had seen once: a golden couple, one completely enveloped in the other. He can see Stabler's broad back, a little of Benson's craned neck, her flushed cheeks, closed eyes, and her long hair that streams through his fingers as he cups the back of her head. There is minimal movement. Their desperation is only seen in the tiniest of signs. A relieved knotting of a brow. A rejoining of lips after the smallest of partings. A hand tightening around a waist.
Jake takes a step back from the door, not wanting to intrude more than he already has.
It is hard to keep track of time in the dark storage room, but if he had to guess — they have been at it close to half an hour.
Jake keeps staring at the board, fantasizing about sitting down. Maybe the next time they come up for air and start talking, the voices could be enough to mask the sound of him planting his ass on the floor. No such luck, though, since they seem to have developed a superhuman ability to keep their mouths fused. The only sounds he can hear are soft sighs that are starting to border on moans.
When it comes to that, he is breaking a window.
The ominous sounds eventually cease. He moves closer to listen, just in case it indicates his imminent freedom.
They are whispering among themselves; the softest of tones perhaps elaborating on precious feelings, assuaging unvoiced fears, sketching out fragile dreams the other might share. None of it seems meant for anyone else's ears, which is why it is good they are keeping their voices down.
If only they also moved to another, perhaps less public space to discuss this further.
Or not discuss. Whatever. He doesn't want to think about it.
"Yes,” she finally sighs, audibly enough to reach Jake's ears. He inches even closer to peer through the crack of the door.
"My answer is yes."
Stabler gives a chuckle. "I don't recall asking you a question. Unless you are telling me that, yes, I am coming on too strong."
"No, that's not what I meant—"
"Or did I ask you another? I don't recall. But I am pretty sure my bad knee would be giving me hell if I had."
A pause.
"Jesus, Elliot."
"But fuck my knee, right? If the answer is yes," he sighs against her mouth before enveloping it again.
She kisses him back, but just for a second. She then punches his chest.
"Just teasing," he assures.
He tilts up her chin to claim her in yet another desperately slow kiss.
"For the time being," he adds, parting for breath.
She punches his chest again.
Benson does not appear terribly distressed about his insinuations, however, continuing giddily kissing him for at least a few eternities longer.
Then finally, an eye-wateringly welcome whisper issues from her.
"Let's get out of here."
Stabler looks as elated as Jake feels. He turns, quickly, so quickly that Jake barely has time to get away from the gap.
If Stabler found Jake spying on his lady like this, the guys at the forensics would have to conceive entirely new terms to describe all the ways his body had been broken down.
Luckily for his life and the unsettlingly prominent blood vessels in Stabler's forehead, no discovery takes place. Instead, Stabler grabs Olivia's coat, helps her put it on.
They walk out together, his hand not in his usual place on the small of her back.
It is holding hers.
The door closes behind them. Jake lets his hands drop to his knees and releases a full-body, convulsive exhale.
Captain Benson doesn’t come to work the next morning.
Tutuola is left holding down the fort, an excellent development for Jake. The man does not exactly notice or care that he cannot marshal together one morsel of concentration this morning.
“Fin says we can take a long lunch today,” says Bruno, startling him out of his trance. He then slings Jake's coat over his lap. “Sandwiches from Al’s?”
Jake doubts Tutuola actually said such a thing. It is is more likely an implicit message conveyed by the way the sergeant keeps leaning his full weight against the backrest of his chair and nodding off.
He glances at his phone where Tynan's latest message still remains unanswered. One menacing question mark. As he stares, another arrives with a deafening ping.
He thinks of Captain Benson, her lashes dark fanning over her cheeks as she smiles in Stabler's arms. He thinks of Detective Stabler, draping her coat over her shoulders, gazing down at her like a priceless pearl in his cupped hands. He thinks of them, walking out hand-in-hand in silence, either too serene or tenderly nervous to be able to form words.
They are just very good friends. Heard him say so myself, he types out in response.
After, he mutes the phone swiftly, slipping it in his pocket.
"You know what?" he says, turning to Bruno. "Let's go to a sit-down place. I know a good Chinese spot."
His partner grins.
"Sure, but let's not get too crazy. Still trying to save money, ya know."
"Don't worry. Fin can treat us to all of our lunches next week."
Jake smiles at the quizzical look on Bruno's face before offering a clarification, his lips popping from the simple joy of uttering the words.
"He is about to be fucking rich."