Chapter Text
June 4, 2021
6 am tomorrow .
Elliot frowned as he stared down at the message on his phone. Tomorrow was too soon; he was supposed to have three more days at least. Three more days to get the perishable food out of his fridge, take out the trash, call his mother. Hell, tomorrow morning he was supposed to be in Queens, cheering for Eli at his soccer match. Tomorrow was too soon, but it wasn't like he could say no. Not to the Sarge.
10-4, he typed back. Message received. What he wanted didn't count for shit; he'd go where he was told, when he was told, and he'd not complain to anyone but himself.
At least he still had tonight. Twelve more hours, by his watch, before he was due to turn up at the office. Twelve more hours until he would have to pass his phone and his badge and his gun into Ayanna's waiting hands, and drift off into shadows. A lot could happen, in twelve hours. A life could change in an instant, a second; twelve hours could be an eternity, if he let it. Twelve hours could make all the difference.
He looked up from his phone, scanned the familiar street again. Shift change for the unis wasn't for another hour, but the street was busy, still. Other people, ordinary people, hurried down the sidewalks, crawled by in their cars, heading home, heading out for dinner, heading to countless different places, unconcerned with anything or anyone outside their own little bubbles. A horn blared close to hand as some jackass in an oversized, too-clean pickup almost clipped a Beamer; right in front of a police station, too.
Prick's probably on his phone, Elliot thought, sipping at his lukewarm coffee as he sat behind the wheel of his own car, parked by the curb and out of the chaos of traffic. He didn't need the coffee, really; he was wide awake, and if he wanted to get some sleep tonight he probably shouldn't have any more caffeine. He wasn't drinking the coffee because he needed a pick-me-up; he was drinking it because he needed something to do with his hands. Something to keep him grounded, focused, present, something to help him find his way through the labyrinthine tangle of his own thoughts, staring at the building across the street.
He could've just gone inside. Squared his shoulders, marshalled his courage, and walked through the doors. Taken his punishment like a man, instead of waiting in his car. He didn't, though, he didn't go. He chose to wait.
There were reasons for that choice, of course. It wasn't just cowardice. There was a woman inside that familiar building, a woman with a familiar face, sitting in a familiar chair, a woman who had been a friend to him once, and was now a stranger. It was the woman he'd come to see; it was her forgiveness he sought, though he knew she had no reason to give it. But she was busy, his woman. She was a powerful woman, an important woman, and if she was still at work at 6:00 p.m. she had a reason to be there. Some vital task kept her there, away from her home, and he had no intention of interrupting her. It would be unkind, he thought, to disrupt her day, to pull her away from the people who needed her, relied on her, just for the sake of his own searching and uncertain heart. No, he would not disturb her; he would wait until her work was through, until she came marching through those heavy doors graceful and steadfast, and only then would he go to her.
The scene kept playing like a film in his mind. Olivia as she had been when last he saw her, long dark hair, lean legs, soft lips, a leather jacket hugging the curves of her body, a gun at her hip. Olivia, brave and bold and brash as anything, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in real life, marching out into the night. She'd make her way down the steps, quick but careful, eyes scanning the street, and he'd step out of his car, step off the curb, step towards her. Would she look up as he moved; would she feel him close by, even before she saw him, before she heard him? He thought she might. He thought he could feel her, separated from him by walls of stone and ten years of silence and identifiable to him, still. Something hovered in the air, some a scent, a vibration of vitality; she's in there, he thought.
It wasn't like he knew for sure, though.
Three months ago he was in Rome contemplating the demise of his marriage when the offer came through from OCCB, and the wheels had been turning steady and unrelenting ever since. There was a move to arrange, school registration forms to fill out, meetings with the divorce attorneys, a trip to the shooting range to requalify with his weapon. Every minute of the last three months had been spent in feverish occupation, getting Kathy and Eli settled back in the Queens house with Mo and Karl and the boys, getting his new apartment set up, getting to know his team, getting the lay of the land. He'd been busy, but he'd found the time to do this one thing, to access the NYPD directory and track down the woman he'd been dreaming about for the last ten years. She was still there, at the 1-6, but she was a Captain, now, and he was so fiercely proud of her he felt as if his heart might burst in his chest every time he thought about it. This place was her home, still, as it always should've been, and he thought she must surely be inside, could've sworn he felt her moving through the familiar corridors the way a farmer might swear he could feel an oncoming storm, but he didn't know. Hadn't seen her enter. There were dozens of other places she might be today. Out on the street, interviewing witnesses; down at One PP, facing the wrath of COMPSTAT; at home, nursing a cold; hell, she might be on vacation.
She's not on vacation, he thought idly. Liv never took a vacation.
Once more he scanned the street, fingertips tapping against his coffee cup in an attempt to expel the nervous energy from his body. He only had twelve hours left, and then he was going under, and then God only knew when next he'd have an opportunity to see her face. Months, probably, before he got to call himself Elliot Stabler again, months before he'd have a chance to ask her out for a coffee, beg her for the reconciliation he so dearly sought.
It was his fault, he knew. His fault they'd gone so long without speaking. He'd been resigned to it, to never seeing her again, but fate had other plans. Fate had brought him home, back into the fold, and he knew he could not walk the streets with a badge at his hip without facing her first. It was the least she deserved, to hear of his miraculous resurrection from his own lips; if she heard it from anyone else she might never forgive him.
Hell, she might not forgive him anyway.
There were reasons for it, his silence. There were always reasons. Reasons like Kathy, and Eli, like a marriage on the verge of crumbling and a toddler who needed his father. Reasons like the silence of Olivia's apartment and the vengeful wrath of IAB. Back then a clean break had seemed necessary; he'd seen no other choice for them. They were never going to be casual friends, catching up once every few months, exchanging texts as and when they had the time; maybe they could've tried, but he knew that would end. A protracted slide into oblivion, a once profound connection dissipating like smoke. It would've hurt just the same; worse, maybe. A quick, clean death was preferable to a long and lingering one. It was a mercy, he told himself. A mercy killing. He'd put their partnership down with one blow, buried it in the soft dark earth with his own two hands, believing he had no other choice. He could never again be the man she needed him to be, and without him she would be free to build a life of her own choosing, on her own terms.
For ten years he'd put himself to bed each night with the fairytale of his mercy ringing in his ears. It's better for her to be angry than to be sad, he told himself. Without me she could go anywhere, do anything. I was only ever holding her back. She was never mine.
Whatever he felt for her, he would not speak its name. Would not call it love, the thing that drove him to madness for her sake, that drove him to kill for her sake, drove him to die for her sake. Devotion, maybe, he could call it that, could say that they were devoted to one another, devoted like a captain was devoted to his sinking ship, going down together. If he stayed they'd have died in each other's arms, bloody and broken on the street somewhere. If he stayed she'd never be free.
I set her free, he thought. Set them all free, really. With the door marked Olivia firmly closed Kathy could finally breathe easy; without Olivia's name on his lips he could finally be the kind of husband, the kind of father, his family needed him to be. At least, that's what he tried to be. It had all been for naught, in the end; his sacrifice had bought him ten more years with Kathy, and they had been good years, mostly, right up until they weren't. It turned out that it didn't matter how hard he tried, how many pieces of himself he hacked off and gave away; there was nothing he could do to make her happy. He wasn't the right man for her, not anymore; hell, maybe he never had been. Maybe they should've stayed separated, all those years ago. Maybe they should've been brave enough to strike out on their own when they had the chance, instead of wasting another decade in pretending. Kathy's heart had stopped loving him before Eli was ever even born; they'd kept their marriage on life support until their son entered his teenage years, but the time had finally come to pull the plug.
He knew how he'd spent the last ten years, but he had no idea what Olivia had been up to. Apart from working her way up the ranks, apart from her brilliant success in her career. Had she found a man of her own, settled down, built the family she always wanted? He hoped so; that was why he left, after all. As long as he stayed he would be the only family she'd ever have, and he was not enough. He hoped she'd found what she'd been looking for.
Pretty soon he was gonna find out. Pretty soon she was gonna come walking out those doors, and he'd see her face, hear her voice, and maybe, if God was merciful, maybe she'd tell him. Where she'd been, what she'd done, who she loved.
Maybe she'd put her fist through his teeth. He wouldn't blame her if she did.
Would she understand, he wondered; would she understand why he'd left the way he did, why he had to try to be present for his family, why he'd finally admitted defeat? She'd understand why he came back, he thought; she'd understand the siren song of the work, understand why he took the gig with OCCB when he could've made five times as much money doing private contracting work with Buck. She'd understand what it meant to him, reclaiming his badge, why he'd come back to the job, returned to his long-time mistress when his wife left him. The work had a hold on her, too. She couldn't free herself from it anymore than he could.
Across the street the doors of the 1-6 opened, and his heart rocketed up into his throat as she stepped into view.
Christ, she was beautiful.
The time had changed her. He'd noticed it in the little photo of her in the NYPD directory, but it was clearer now, now that he could see her. All of her. The spread of her hips, the meat of her thighs were thicker now than they'd been a decade before; her bust was fuller, her hair longer, her steps more measured. She was too far away for him to see the wrinkles on her face but he remembered them from the photograph, and thought only how beautiful she was, how regal. Regal, that's how she looked, like a goddamn queen, come into her power, come into her own. Through the long years of his absence she had surely weathered many storms, but they had only made her stronger, only made her lovelier.
There was a plan, and the plan required action of him now. She was walking down the steps, heading for her car, and it was his turn to move, to rise from his seat, clamber out of his car and go chasing after her, but he remained frozen in place, sorrow welling in his chest because she was not alone.
A child walked with her. A little boy, 6 or 7 maybe, holding tight to her hand, smiling as he looked up at her, as she gazed down on him fondly, her eyes full of love, a love Elliot could see, even from this distance. The boy had a mop of curly brown hair and he was talking animatedly to her, and Olivia was smiling, and shit, he thought.
It was always a possibility, he knew. A possibility he'd hoped for. That she would make a life for herself, a life with no room for him in it. He'd thought about it more times than he wanted to admit over the years. Prayed for it. Please, God, let her be loved, that's what he'd prayed for. And those prayers had been answered, apparently. She had a child of her own now. There was no doubt in his mind about that; the boy who walked beside her, holding her hand, he had to have been hers. Must've come here after he'd gotten out of school, spent the afternoon coloring in his mother's office, watching her work, and now they were going home, together. To a home where that boy's father must surely be waiting for them. Maybe there were other children; maybe this one was only the youngest of several. However it was comprised, Olivia had a family, now.
She had a family, and he didn't know the first goddamn thing about it. Fate had finally blessed her with the child she'd always dreamed of, and Elliot hadn't been there to see it. To see her joy, to listen to her fears, to help her when she needed it, to celebrate this love with her. She had walked this road without him; she didn't need him, after all.
She really had been better off without him.
In the end, he could not do it. Could not intrude upon her quiet moment with her son, did not dare risk frightening the child, destroying the fragile peace Olivia had made for herself. Her life was her own, now, and she had no need of Elliot, not anymore. There was nothing he could say to her, nothing he could do for her, that would ease the pain of his departure, and there was nothing he could offer her now that would justify his intrusion. His hands were empty, and in a little less than twelve hours he meant to disappear again. How could he ask her to wait for him, when he had not waited for her? How could he ask her to make time for him now, when he had not made time for her when she needed him to?
Whatever he had hoped to find here, it was gone. The woman he knew didn't exist, anymore. She had grown into someone else, someone stronger, someone steadier, and he could not do anything but hurt her, now.
In silence he watched her unlock her car, help her son inside, buckle him up, close the door. Watched her smile as she walked around the car and out of sight, watched her slide into the driver's seat. Watched the car pull away, taking the last of his hopes with it.
Get ahold of yourself, he thought grimly. You've got a job to do.
Olivia was safe and well, and now that he had seen her with his own two eyes he would have to be satisfied with that. It would have to be enough, just knowing that she had survived what he'd done to her. He could not ask for more; she didn't owe him shit, there was nothing he could do now but wound her, drag up the memory of long forgotten hurts. It might make him feel better, speaking to her again, but now was not the time to be selfish. If he truly meant to be her friend he must think of her, and what she needed, and the last goddamn thing she needed was him.
Someone else had need of him now, anyway; the clock was ticking, and there was work to be done, and he meant to throw himself into that work with his whole heart. Maybe if he worked hard enough he'd forget the ache in his chest, the loneliness and the roaring guilt that threatened to consume him. Maybe if he did his job well enough he might, one day, forgive himself.
He put the car in gear, and drove slowly away, leaving Olivia and her son and all thoughts of redemption behind him as he went.