Chapter Text
It is a very ordinary, rainy Friday in late November when Elliot Stabler first sets foot on Blackthorn Island. At first sight, it is exactly what he asked for and hoped to find: no major attraction, no Instagrammer, no big crowd or postcard landscape that would attract vacationers of all sorts. The perfect place to avoid distractions and intrusions, the perfect place to "work on himself", like his daughters put it, offensively, in his opinion, but he got the point.
You really have to squint to see it on a map, given it's only two miles offshore in Eastern Connecticut. There's a small ferry that runs twice a day, and not at all when the weather turns bad. For someone who tries to run away from any sort of civilization, it's the perfect place. He actually found it one night while browsing Airbnb, merely toying with filters to find something affordable for one within a hundred-mile radius of New York. He wants to escape, yes, but not so far that he can't come back in case the escape turns out worse than what he's trying to leave behind.
Truth be told, it looks a bit desolate and gloomy, with the heavy clouds hanging low above his head, downpours threatening to fall any minute. It's a stony coast with steep cliffs and shores covered in rocks rather than sandy beaches. Pine trees cover the ground, so there's almost nothing remarkable ahead, save for the small chapel, and on the other side of the island, he can see the silhouette of the lighthouse, his destination. It is far bigger than he anticipated, towering above everything else through the late afternoon's mist.
It isn't a regular holiday. Holidays were meant for his kids before and usually come with noise, chaos and countless activities.
He came here alone, and the purpose is entirely different. He just lost his wife in a car crash and after first trying to drown his sorrows in work, he eventually ended up abandoning all of his works in progress, as if the passing of Kathy drained all the colors of the world from him.
It could have been the perfect place for his newest story, but all he wanted was a full reset in a land that made no promise to him.
The unusual posting caught his eye instantly when he was looking for places to book:
Private room in historic lighthouse keeper's residence.
Remote location. Ocean views. Shared kitchen.
No pets. No parties.
Ferry access weather permitting.
Please note: this is an active lighthouse and occasional maintenance noise should be expected.
He likes the straightforward, no-bullshit spirit of the listing. The pictures show an understated beauty, all strength and sturdiness, from the overall lighthouse's profile down to the functional, simple furniture of the rented room. It was enough to make him book it. At least it should make for an interesting story to tell later, something to lighten up boring dinner parties, he thinks as he reads through the lengthy booking details in his email.
He exhales as the mainland progressively vanishes behind him, while the seagulls hover dangerously above a couple struggling to finish their sandwiches. He curses himself for not packing extra layers for the crossing and even more so as he realizes his suitcase has been soaked by a rogue wave crashing against the edge of the deck.
As he sets foot on the island, he notices the scarcity of human life there: only a few scattered buildings and stores, including a pub that also functions as a general store, a tiny pharmacy, a school with one single classroom, a chapel and, of course, the harbor. The old, worn-out posted timetables suggest that most places are more often closed than open.
He curses the absence of taxi service (or any kind of service, really, but he reasons that he can't want to live secluded and expect premium treatments everywhere). After a solid half hour of grumbling, as he painstakingly carries his giant suitcase through a field and half-cleared paths of gravel and soil, he finally reaches the grounds of Blackthorn Lighthouse.
The sky is already dark, despite the fact it is just 6pm. The beam sweeps across the island in slow, relentless intervals, briefly bleaching the wet fields and stone walls white before plunging them back into darkness, standing vigil over an otherwise dormant land. Its base carries traces of salt and seaweed, a reminder of where it takes root, the elements fused into its very surface. The foghorn's call hangs low over the island, but somehow the perimeter of the lighthouse is spared, as if nature itself grew wary of it, or as if it simply knows better than to challenge the fiery giant.
The keeper's house sits right beside the tower, squat and weather-beaten against its height. It is covered in signs to deter intruders and nosy tourists. The biggest one, in bold capital letters, reads:
PRIVATE PROPERTY. ACTIVE LIGHTHOUSE. NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS.
Not that anybody would dare to venture past the heavy walls of the giant, Elliot thinks as he gets closer, but living in relative isolation probably means lowering one's tolerance for outside disturbances.
Knowing he is at least authorized to be here, he knocks loudly at the front door of the cottage. He waits a beat, then two, before knocking louder.
"Is somebody here?" He adds, as if the surrounding noise wasn't loud enough to swallow it all.
The listing didn't lie. It is loud, the repetitive mechanical sounds covering the angry waves and howling wind. He assumes the keeper got used to it over time, but he already doubts two weeks will be enough for him to adjust.
Before he can actually explore some more, a woman's voice surprises him from behind.
"Elliot Stabler?"
"That would be me," he answers cheerfully, before tamping down the fake enthusiasm he got used to in his industry, acknowledging the woman who just appeared behind him.
"Olivia Benson. We spoke via Airbnb," she replies tersely, like it's almost painful to have to reciprocate.
He cannot see her yet, as she's hidden behind big crates that she carries to the centre of the hall. Since he's in her way, she elbows him without an apology so that she can bring them inside. She drops everything unceremoniously with a grunt, before turning to him. Then he gets a good look at her.
She is dressed in practical work clothes: wet boots, faded jeans, an old sweater and a battered tool belt with half its loops empty. Her hair pulled back, her face bare.
"You're late," she states simply, not even bothering with curtsies or pretending to play the whole perfect customer service number.
"Sorry, the ferry ran late because of the weather, and then I didn't realize I would need so long to walk up to here. You know how it is, when you live in the city..."
"Thankfully, I don't. At least, not anymore. But you're right, the ferry is unpredictable."
Not interested in doing more small talk at her doorstep, after what appears to be a busy day for her, she gestures for him to follow her inside.
He quickly takes in the interior, which seems more like a toolshed or a workshop than the inside of a house, with a minimally furnished entrance containing a sturdy table, a few chairs, stacks of files and an old oil lamp that would look perfectly at home in a vintage shop.
She delivers the usual instructions about respecting the premises and the peculiarities of the lighthouse, but Elliot is too busy observing with curiosity the details of his unusual surroundings, the contrast of the beautiful watercolor paintings on the walls and the small holes here and there in the floor and on the walls.
After he drops his luggage in his room, the broody woman doesn't ask him whether he is hungry but promptly sits him at what he assumed was the dining table and serves him a steaming bowl of soup.
He's been walking on eggshells from the minute they met, and he's not quite sure how to behave in her personal space. After an awkward beat, he turns his attention to the meal as she starts eating right after plopping down on the seat next to him.
He blows a few times over the piping-hot spoonful before venturing softly, ‘You made it yourself? It looks delicious.’ She snorts lightly as his grand words don't match his cautious attitude, and makes a point of waiting for him to actually take a bite.
"Yep. Fish is the staple here. Quite easy to make when you get used to the three most common species they use here."
He nods and smiles at the remarkable congeniality of the scene, loosening a bit as he noticed her loud, easy slurping and the way she talks with her hands when discussing a topic that seems to matter to her.
Emboldened, he carries on with the chatter, before pressing a napkin to his mouth and asking, with a big ass smile: "It's been lovely and all, but...Sorry to ask, Could I meet the manager, sweetheart?"
He knows instantly that he fucked up, but he didn't really know where or how.
Her eyes go wide, full moons blasting with fire, and if they could burn him, they sure would.
"Excuse me?"
"Sorry, did I say anything wrong?"
She brings a slightly callused, unmanicured hand to her face, as if she just met the single most annoyingly dumb person on the face of the planet, but she takes a steadying breath before speaking. The fact that the bloke doesn't seem to have a clue about what he did wrong is the icing on top of the very shitty cake she's supposed to eat, so she can't do much damage control, after all.
"Well, we'd be done faster if we just started with what you got right. This isn't a business. There is no manager. And I am the keeper, sweetheart, so you can talk directly to me or find another place to stay. Understood? Finish your soup. In silence, preferably for both."
He is at a loss for words now, gazing down and picking at a piece of cod floating in the remnants of his dinner, like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Ashamed, he merely nods in agreement. He isn't used to strangers being this straightforward with him. His relatives and the few friends he has left, yes, they usually end up fighting with him or leaving him be. But total, absolute newcomers to the Elliot Stabler shitshow? Never.
Olivia is fuming, but she still serves him a big slice of that delicious loaf of homemade bread that he didn't dare to touch. She doesn't linger, standing up right after finishing her bowl, that she thoroughly cleaned with a piece of bread.
"Breakfast is served at 7AM sharp. I don't do delivery or special requests."
On that note, she storms off without bidding him goodnight, refusing to meet his apologetic gaze.
He knows better than to push and ends up unpacking quietly in the modest room assigned for his stay. After a few pages of an average novel he hardly remembered picking, he falls asleep quickly.
--
So much for playing it cool, she huffs apprehensively, as she regains her quarters, right after leaving him. Olivia shuts the door behind her and leans against it for a moment, listening to his footsteps disappear down the corridor.
She switches on the worn-out kettle and goes behind the wood panel in the corner to shed her work clothes and get ready for a quick shower.
Right before hopping into the tiny adjacent bathroom, she briefly checks the bookings on her laptop and sighs when she notes that a guest cancels his reservation for the following month.
Then her eyes dart to the dates of her current guest's stay.
Two weeks. Two fucking weeks, she seethes.
She presses her fingers harder than usual against her scalp as she replays the displeasing encounter in her head. She is so ramped up she accidentally put on too much shampoo and it soon starts burning her eyes, further fueling her annoyance. The douchebag was a perfect example of why she hated having strangers in her house. But the roof needed work, the generator was ancient, the supply boat cost a fortune, and something was always breaking.
And now she's just learned, through an official letter, that public funding will be drastically cut in the near future. The extra income provided by Airbnb was becoming a necessity she couldn't avoid.
She had a bad feeling from the start about that Elliot Stabler fellow that requested to stay a whole fortnight in the cottage. She opens her laptop again and googles "Elliot Stabler", like she does for all her guests. She might be a strong woman, nobody's free from lunatics.
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Turns out, possibly worst of all, he's a novelist. Not exactly Stephen King-famous, but definitely famous enough to be recognized on the streets of New York from time to time. Someone acclaimed by a few pompous critics, with even a few awards for his latest books.
Wonderful. Two weeks trapped with a celebrity.
After fixing an old clock in her room, she stirs her watered-down coffee, absently wishing he won't unnerve her more in the near future, else the following days will feel awfully long for both.
Satisfied with her handiwork, she puts it back on the wall, next to some old photographs in a chest that belonged to her great-uncle, black-and-white snapshots of past keepers and their families. She straightens one of the photographs beside it. A family stands stiffly in front of the lighthouse, the children squinting into the sun, the keeper's wife holding a baby against her chest. Olivia has no idea who they are. She likes the picture anyway, like it's a story of her own, even though she doesn't know the beginning of it.
She hums contentedly, pleased with the restored harmony. She grabs her old chipped mug, turns on the evening news on her small portable radio, and sits down again.
Two weeks...
--
As anticipated, he wakes up early the first morning of his stay to the sound of squeaky engines churning above him, making the windows and foundations tremble.
Damn, I get why it was so cheap and easily available now, he grumbles while slowly getting out of bed, shaking the sleep out of his body with easy stretching motions.
He tiptoes to the shared kitchen to find a simple yet fully garnished table : toasts, eggs, fresh fruits and jams that looked homemade. There were even piles of crispy bacon and pancakes. But there was nobody around, save for a note:
Eat whatever you want and please clean after yourself
He smiles at the dedication and care despite the obvious bad blood between them.
So he dives in like a starved man (which he is, actually, considering the light dinner they had before the fight). He takes more than he needs, pairing pancakes with that divine blueberry jam, topping his buttered toast with bacon like he intended to eat his entire weight in hearty food.
Suddenly, his gluttony is interrupted by faint, unmistakable piano notes. Curiosity gets the better of him, the need to understand how this music dares to exist in such a hard and unforgiving place, with little space for delicate things. Sure, he knows that harsh places often inspire artists, life mimicking inner turmoil or whatever shit analysts love to serve you to explain to you why a convoluted, pompous piece is genius.
The wooden floorboards creak as he makes his way upstairs, where the notes seem to drift from. But as he nears the source of the noise, it stops entirely, and the nearest door swings open, revealing Olivia who seems as happy to see him as she was yesterday when they parted.
“Hi, may I help you with something?” she asks stiffly, though it's quite obvious the pleasantry is solely a facade. She clearly hopes he doesn't need anything from her and that she can go back to whatever she was doing, her body still half in the room, already angling toward the corridor, trying to shoo him off as smoothly as she can.
"No, I just... Thanks for breakfast, it was delicious."
She mollifies just a notch, as a ghost of a smile appears on her face.
"Well don't get used to it. Yesterday was my last day of fresh supplies. I was supposed to get some tomorrow but weather forecast is terrible. We may have to live off stale bread and canned food for a while if it doesn't get any better," she adds, pressing her cardigan against her sides, even though it isn't cold at all.
"I'm fine with whatever you have. Actually, I can cook dinner, just to thank you for your hospitality and-" She raises an eyebrow at that but doesn't object, eyeing the room behind her longingly, clearly not interested in pursuing the conversation. "Sorry, I interrupted you. I will get out of your hair. Nice music by the way."
"There was no music. I guess the lighthouse's noises are indeed getting into your head, after all. Sorry I got to get ready and run some errands;" and with that, she closes the door unceremoniously to his face.
--
Despite the absolute absence of human life (and seemingly, any form of life at all), Elliot finds himself distracted as he tries to sketch, his usual trick to realign and find inspiration. He finds himself thinking far too much about his blunt hostess long after she disappeared behind the door. More than anything, he's thinking about ways he could make amends after their awkward meeting.
He ends up packing a light picnic and renting a bike from the general shop, deciding to explore the island a little. It had two bicycles for rent, both of them older than Elliot's youngest daughter. But there aren't many cars or dangerous roads, so he isn't too concerned about the dubious brakes or the worn leather grips.
He opts for a specific section of the island, the furthest from the lighthouse. There isn't much to it, except for the dreadful steep cliffs circling the isle and a constant fog that rolls in early in the morning and returns as night falls.
Why the hell do I care what this woman thinks of me? He winces as he takes in the outcome of his sorry excuse of a drawing. He tries to capture the fading light, but always ends up scratching and then tossing the offending failed drafts aside.
He stops on a bench for a drink of water, as the afternoon paints the sky a shade darker, signaling for him to get back.
In the distance, the lighthouse glares at him, steady, unforgettably big.
"Shit", he exclaims, as he remembers his promise to cook. He knows she probably doesn't expect much from him, but forsaking his one vow was not on his list.
He rushes back to the lighthouse, fighting strong gusts of wind and punishing showers, seemingly conspiring against him for failing to keep his word.
As he gets there, he's greeted with the strong scent of food simmering on the stove. Shame creeps up to him faster than he'd ever care to admit, but at least, he's not met with her withering stare, which is a beginning. He removes his coat and shoes, making sure he's not adding any dirt or disarray to the mix, and sets up the table. He lifts the lid on the pot to discover a stew of boiled meat and veggies that smells incredibly good and nourishing, with absolutely no pretense of being healthy or fancy.
He feels undeserving but still sneaks a taste from the ladle. It's perfect. As he relishes in the flavors, he hears it again. The piano. He doesn't hesitate this time and lowers the heat under the food, as it comes to a boil and strides upstairs.
The door to her room is left ajar this time and he stops dead in his tracks as he takes in the scene.
She looks like an entirely different person, utterly focused on the swift motion of her fingers over the small keyboard. She plays almost hesitantly, yet the melody comes out clear.
He wants to leave, as if he is witnessing something entirely intimate he shouldn't be privy to, but at the same time, he cannot stop watching this entirely new version of herself, face impossibly softer, shoulders relaxed, a version safely locked in the confines of her room.
Or so she thinks.
As he carefully endeavors to step away, the wooden floor creaks underfoot, and she startles as if an alarm had gone off overhead. Her accusing gaze falls upon him instantly, and he doesn't have a good lie or excuse to serve her when she's at the door, ready to scold him for sneaking up on her.
“You're... pretty good,” he stutters.
“I'm rusty,” she answers tightly, taken aback by the sincerity of the compliment.
“Didn't sound rusty to me.” Realizing it wouldn't go any further, he changes the topic. "Sorry I got carried away while exploring..." He searches for her face and clocks the moment she understands his allusion to the cooking promise. And then he sees it again, the distaste on her face, the same as the day before. They may not be counting points, but he knows it's at least a second strike against him on her side. "I'll get up early to make you breakfast tomorrow," he feels compelled to add hastily, as if the lingering disappointment on her sharp, unforgiving face hurt him physically.
"I get up at dawn, you know," she shoots back, clearly not ready to give him an inch yet.
"I can set an alarm. Speaking of alarms... I lowered the fire under the stew, which looks amazing by the way, cause it came to a boil. I hope I did good..."
"Surprisingly, you did," she snarled. But she also smiles, so he doesn't feel like a total loser this time.
As they go down to the kitchen together, he gets too cocky again. "Nice keyboard too. I didn't know maintenance noise would entail this," this time, she glares at him in a way that silences him for the entire meal, which was her intention.
He finishes before her, scrambling around too hard to show his goodwill, busying himself with cleaning the pots and the whole kitchen, while he's at it.
"Think you can get up at 4? Could use some extra hands," she asks with the barest hint of amusement, as a fork slides from his soapy hand.
He waits for her to elaborate, but she doesn't. Obviously.
He bites his tongue before coming up with a stupid answer and nods slowly. With that she leaves him to his unfinished business, elbow-deep in bubbles, and a head ready to explode.
This is going to be a very long two weeks.