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The Worst Best Day
Olivia Benson is not a person who celebrates her birthday.
She never has been, and she never will be.
To her, the day is nothing more than a stark, ticking reminder of time passing in a world that steals too much from people.
Today is not gonna be different.
Except everything already is.
She wakes up with a knot of irritability in her stomach. Groggy and grumpy, she stumbles into the kitchen. She pulls her favorite mug from the cabinet, pours it with coffee, then her grip slips. The ceramic shatters against the floor, sending a dark, steaming wave of coffee pooling across the hardwood. She stares down at the mess, jaw clenched.
“Shit,” she swears under her breath, already painfully aware that this day is going to be long and utterly crappy.
Ten minutes later, the universe twists the knife again. In the shower, the razor slips. A sharp sting bites into her skin.
“Shit!” she swears again, watching a thin ribbon of blood swirl down the drain.
It is only seven in the morning, and the day is already a massive pain in the ass.
By eight o’clock, when she walks into the Special Victims Unit, her patience is spent. She heads straight toward the coffee pot without even taking off her coat, body screaming for caffeine. The pot is bone-dry.
Empty.
She stares at it in disbelief. Nobody made coffee. No one bothered to refill it.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
She takes off her coat, then stands in front of the coffee pot, arms crossed, watching the dark liquid drip agonizingly slow. When it finally finishes, she pours a fresh mug, takes a deep breath, and turns around. Amanda Rollins bursts around the corner at the same moment. They collide.
Of course they do.
Hot coffee flies across Olivia’s crisp white button-down, burning her skin.
“Fuck!”
“Oh shit, Olivia! I’m so sorry!” Amanda gasps, eyes wide, frantically grabbing paper towels and thrusting them at her.
Olivia slams the empty mug onto her desk, trying to breathe.
“That’s okay, Rollins.”
“No, no, look at your shirt! Shit! I’m sorry! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Olivia says, voice dangerously dry.
“I’m sorry! Are you sure you’re not burnt or—”
“I said I’m fine,” Olivia snaps, cutting her off.
She grabs her bag and marches to the locker room for her spare shirt.
When she returns, the bullpen feels thick with tension. Fin leans against Amanda’s desk, quietly telling her to give Olivia space. Nick Amaro sits at his desk, organizing paperwork and sensing the invisible radioactive zone around her.
Olivia buries herself in files, grateful Fin says nothing about her birthday. He knows better. But her eyes keep drifting to her phone. Her chest tightens. She shakes her head, angry at her own vulnerability.
No one’s calling, Olivia. Get over it.
Captain Cragen suddenly steps out of his office.
“We got a case. A young woman found in severe shock inside a Catholic church, claiming she was assaulted in the confessional.”
Olivia’s stomach flips. “You have to be fucking kidding me,” she mutters bitterly.
She grabs her coat and the car keys without looking back. Amaro follows. Fin and Amanda take the second car.
Inside the church, incense hangs heavy. A pale, nervous priest meets them near the altar, wringing his hands. He explains that he has stumbled upon the weeping victim while doing his rounds.
“Rounds?” Olivia asks.
“To watch the candles,” the priest replies.
“To watch the candles?” Olivia asks, voice sharp, surprised this is even a thing.
“Yes. To protect the flame from fading, to protect the prayers of the community and to verify if there’s not risk of a fire departure. You seem surprised, Detective.”
“Let’s say I’m not a specialist of that field.”
Amaro opens his mouth, a comment about her Catholic upbringing forming on his lips, but before he can utter a word, Fin’s elbow drives hard into his ribs. Nick winces, shutting his mouth as Fin gives him a warning glare. Not today, kid.
They work the scene with practiced efficiency. The victim is traumatized, but remarkably brave, providing a terrifyingly detailed description of her attacker. Olivia’s heart aches for her, channeling her inner rage into a hyper-focus to catch this monster before he vanishes into the city. They decide to split up to find the attacker: one team doing canvas, one team heading back to run the sketch.
But when they step outside, the universe is apparently not done with Olivia Benson.
She watches the car, the front passenger tire is completely flat.
“Fuck it!” Olivia yells, slamming her hand against the car roof.
She is on the absolute verge of hating the entire universe now.
She checks her phone—12:00 PM, still dark screen—and growls to Fin, “We’ll have to use your car to go back to the precinct.”
The ride back is suffocating. Amaro drives. Olivia stares out the window. When Nick turns on the radio, Lewis Capaldi’s Someone You Loved song fills the car. Olivia’s brain is immediately against hearing this now.
No. Absolutely not. Not today. Not this song.
Amaro hums along, liking the song, while Olivia’s jaw clenches until it hurts.
It feels like a sick, cosmic joke.
Of all the songs. After leaving a fucking Catholic Church.
On this fucking day.
A tear threatens to fall. She breathes through it, furious at the cruel pleasantry the universe throws at her. In the mirror, Fin watches her with quiet understanding. He knows the history. He knows the ghost that haunts her. He knows he can't say anything—not today, not ever—but seeing her look so utterly broken is a sight he truly hates.
They catch the perp by late afternoon.
In interrogation, Olivia is a storm, pushing him to the edge with a lethal, venomous intensity. She’s furious against that bastard, and she’s furious against everything. The man in front of her begins sweating through his clothes when she finally hits the table with her fist near his hands. Through the two-way mirror, Cragen watches her, tapping his fingers nervously. Finally, he enters the room.
“Benson! Out! Now!”
She storms out of the room and Cragen closes the door behind her.
“Go get some air, Olivia,” he tells her.
She’s breathing heavily through her nose, her pulse racing. Without a word to anyone, she rushes to the stairs to the roof.
On the rooftop, the wind cuts cold. She stares at her dark phone screen and wants to hurl it over the wall. Instead she kicks the said brick wall hard with her right foot. A sharp, blinding pain shots up her leg.
“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” she screams at the sky.
Then the clouds open. Torrential rain slams down, soaking her instantly. She stands there, drenched. She tilts her head back toward the sky like God himself has personally offended her. Or maybe she has offended Him. She doesn’t even believe in all this and suddenly she feels really stupid and angry at her.
Back in the bullpen, she looks like a drowned rat, water dripping from her hair. Amaro looks up when she sits at her desk in front of him, and his eyes wide with surprise.
“Are you—”
“I’m fine!” she yells, cutting him off.
They work until eight, then Cragen sends them home. Olivia looks at her dark phone screen—mocking her, screaming at her that she has no notification—then leaves.
At her apartment, she kicks off her soggy shoes and socks, drops her coat and goes straight to the kitchen. She grabs a bottle of white wine, and pours a dangerously full glass of it. She knows it’s too much, but she doesn’t care. She just wants this godforsaken day to die.
Just as she is about to sit on her couch and take a deep sip of wine, a firm knock sounds at the door.
She sighs loudly. “What now?” she mutters, annoyed.
She walks toward the door, her face twisting into a tired, annoyed scowl, ready to unleash hell, and yanks it open without even a look in the peephole.
The words die in her throat and she freezes. The air is leaving her lungs in a sharp gasp.
He’s here. In front of her.
He stands there in the dim hallway light, exhausted, shoulders slightly hunched, clutching a massive bouquet of pink peonies.
Her jaw clenches. Her throat burns. Breathing turns shallow.
“Screw you!” she yells, slamming the door in his face.
Inside, she exhales quickly, her hand still on the door.
What a son of bitch!
He disappears for months, he doesn’t even say goodbye to her, not a word, not a call, not even an email, and he’s now at her door with pink peonies?
Go to hell, Stabler!
But her hand betrays her. She opens the door again.
He hasn’t moved. His eyes are reflecting a profound, crushing sadness she has never seen in him before.
“Happy birthday, Liv,” he says, voice cracking on her name.
She breaks. She feels it, and she can’t help it to happen. The sob tears out of her. Elliot doesn’t even think for a second. He walks inside, closes the door with his foot while dropping the peonies on the floor. He pulls her into his arms, holding her so tight it feels like he is trying to put her back together.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Liv,” he murmurs into her hair as she breaks against his chest.
In that moment, holding her trembling frame, he finally understands the true depth of the agony he has inflicted on her.
“Screw you and your peonies on my birthday!” she cries, fist striking his chest.
The hit carries every ounce of betrayal.
“I’m sorry…” he whispers, holding her tighter.
Slowly, the frantic weeping slows down into quiet, shaky breaths. Olivia pulls back slightly, her arms folding protectively over her chest. Her cheeks are flushed and wet, her dark eyes bright and luminous with remaining tears as she looks up at him. He rests his hands gently on her arms when he starts talking to her.
“I… I just couldn’t stay like that anymore. I tried, I really tried to give her everything she wanted, Liv. But I couldn't. I can't. I can't because all I want is you. It’s always you. Always been you. And today, I just couldn’t ignore that feeling anymore. I… I had to be there. I’m so sorry it took so long.”
She has no words. Instead, she turns on her heel and walks into the kitchen. Elliot follows her carefully. She opens the fridge, grabs a cold beer, and hands it to him. She picks up her glass of wine on the coffee table and sits on the couch. He follows, sitting close.
“I missed you so fucking much it hurt,” he says.
She takes a long sip of her wine, then turns her head to meet his eyes.
“Kiss me, El,” she suddenly says.
The breath leaves his lungs, but he doesn’t question her. He doesn’t hesitate. He puts his beer on the coffee table, then his hand cups the back of her neck as he leans in. Their lips meet, desperate and hungry. She tastes white wine and he tastes beer. The mix is intoxicating. A low groan rumbles in his throat as the kiss deepens. Their tongues slide together, slow and searching at first, then urgent, demanding. Years of suppressed longing, anger, and aching love pour out. His fingers thread into her hair. She grips his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, moaning against his lips and pouring every emotion from this brutal day into the heat of his mouth. The kiss turns fierce. Teeth grazing, breaths shared, hearts pounding against each other. They wanted this for years and it’s finally happening.
They finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, breathing ragged, eyes dark with raw desire and passion.
“Happy birthday, Liv,” he whispers against her lips.
Olivia leans up, brushing her mouth over his.
“Screw you, El,” she murmurs, before capturing his lips again, deeper this time.