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Liv is fine until she isn’t.
That’s how she’s always been, how her years as a police officer, mother, daughter, survivor, and friend have molded and shaped her. Most days, she’s a statue: strong, hard, a pillar for others to lean on. Days like today, she’s melting like wax, and the days have been building. She’s staring at the same email that’s been on her screen for an hour, but her thoughts are once again drifting: to stories she cannot change, narratives she cannot rewrite, and actions she cannot take back, even though she knows the results will always be the same. People leave. People inflict pain. People kill. People die. People make choices they cannot atone for. People love fiercely, but it’s never enough.
After almost nine years of officially dealing with post-traumatic stress, how it affects her now is markedly different than the early years. (She scoffs at the fact that she’s had it for so long, she can categorize it into clusters of years.) In the beginning, the feelings emerged quickly- full of short fuses and fireworks. Panic attacks, ferocious nightmares, crawling out of her badly-scarred skin; hollowed eyes revealing vacant, terrifying thoughts. The middle years felt more like treading water- easy to forget she was out at sea until the waves picked her up occasionally and tossed her around, drowning her in saltwater tears. However, she rolled with the tides and learned to become one with the ocean. The last few years seemed like staring at an old, worn photograph: faded edges of memories, fingerprint smudges of grief, portions that remained in crystal clear focus, but viewing it as if it belonged to someone else’s life. Time is a phenomenon that is both healing and isolating, and lately, she feels the loneliness of her circumstances at the core. No one understands this the way that she does. It’s no longer a biting, gnawing urgency but rather a slow burn of echoing despair.
This year has been tumultuous; dichotomies and juxtapositions and paradoxes that Liv could have never expected. Elliot’s return (Elliot’s return!) to celebrate her award; Kathy’s death as a shattering conclusion. The frustrating intervention; hearing a misplaced, surprising declaration of love. Elliot got too close to Angela; Liv got closure with Simon’s death. Reconnecting at Fin’s wedding, a shattered ankle and Elliot running away from himself to go undercover for months. What we had was never real ; in a parallel universe, it will always be you and I. Losing Kat and Garland, dealing with Velasco and McGrath. Elliot fucked Flutura; she fucked Burton Lowe. A one-way street; a holiday invitation. A wonderful weekend luncheon with the Stablers; a fatal Christmas shooting. Happiness always comes with a price- the scales never tipped in her favor: a devastating, inescapable yin and Yang.
Ever since Christmas, ever since having no choice but to shoot a man in the head, Liv has felt the creeping tendrils of trauma take hold. She has learned to reach out, to talk to Amanda, Fin, or Lindstrom, and she has dutifully checked off all of these boxes. She’s respectful of the process that she knows she has to follow to eventually be okay, to find her semblance of order again. None of it is working. Usually, there’s a nugget of wisdom from Lindstrom to tuck away and process. Or, spending girl time with Amanda to drink wine and chat helps her feel human again. Or, Fin distracts her with his shit-eating grin and wise-cracking jokes. One or all of these will eventually pull her from the edge of darkness. F unny thing about darkness, she ponders, sometimes you don’t realize how much it’s encompassed you until your candle has burned out. She’s been hanging on to those little flickers of light; Noah, her friendships, justice for victims, running her squad, and these caveats see her through the day-to-day routines of life. As each day passes, however, she feels it all a bit more: the heaviness, the exhaustion, the sadness, the whispers of panic. This time, she doesn’t know how to fix it.
Sitting in her office, Liv looks at her framed pictures on her desk, trying to center herself, remind herself of happier times, regroup. She sees Noah’s cheerful grin staring back at her and her lips upturn at the image of her sweet son. Her boy, turning into such an assured, thoughtful, brave young man. Liv thinks back to their conversation a month ago, where he nonchalantly stated his sexuality to her during an evening walk to dinner, her eyes mist thinking of his willingness to share this gift with her. This level of honesty that she never had with her mother- she could burst into grateful tears just thinking about how powerful and meaningful that conversation was to her.
She thinks about Noah’s plans for the evening, and her heart soars; a Valentine’s party at his dance studio, his sanctuary. He is so excited, has been talking about it since the novelty of the Christmas season wore off, and she is purposefully hiding out in her office so that she doesn’t get caught up in anything and can hopefully sneak out on time for once to take him there. It’s been a quiet day, but that can turn in a second. While she’s never been a fan of Hallmark holidays (Valentine’s Day at the top of this list), she plans to put on her best mom-face to celebrate it with her excited boy before he leaves for his fun night. She chuckles at the fact that her nine-year-old son has more of an active social life than she does on this particular day.
Her phone buzzes just as she puts the finishing touches on an email to McGrath. The distraction pleases her until she sees who it’s from, and her stomach drops.
Not sure what your plans are this evening- wondering if you and Noah would be interested in dinner?
Elliot. Things between them since his Christmas gathering have been… confusing. They’ve been talking more, discovering one another as friends after what felt like a lifetime apart, and for this, she is grateful. He was so sweet after the shooting: listening (not that she wanted to talk), lending a shoulder (not that she shed any tears), bringing her takeout (not that she was hungry), and dropping off Italian coffee (well, the coffee was delicious- she relented in that regard). However, within a week, he was knee-deep in the Wheatley saga again. He was still a man on a mission and a man very much in mourning; she’d expected nothing less. He’s been keeping most of it from her, but she has friends in high places and knows the chatter amongst the NYPD: Elliot Stabler has regained his reputation as a loose cannon, a rebel, reckless to a fault. Ayanna is fiercely in his corner, to Liv’s relief and gratitude, and is doing her best to keep things under control. But Elliot won't stop until he avenges Kathy’s death; of this, Liv is certain. The question now is at what cost and how many casualties from the fallout? She silently prays each day that Elliot does not become a statistic. She’s missed him too damn much to lose him again, forever.
This tiptoeing around each other is causing friction in their blossoming whatever this is . She knows he is purposefully keeping her out of it for her safety and sanity. She desperately wants him to open up, to help him, but she dug her own grave in this regard when she called him out for being a one-way street . Everything with Eli happened seemingly minutes later, and she got the impression that this was the last of any emotional baggage Elliot was willing to place on her. Liv has to pretend she knows nothing while her colleagues tell her everything , and there is a silence between them full of unspoken accusations. She wants to shake him, to beg him to let her in, but she knows he won’t. She’s expecting him to shake her, to beg her to let him into her thoughts after the shooting, but she can’t . So, here they are, in this strange holding pattern, both afraid to ruin what they have tentatively created by letting each other in. Their silence is leading to their destruction. They haven't seen each other in weeks (again), keep their chitchat to brief texts full of meaningless small talk, avoid the big topics that encompass their past and present. She feels it all building, bubbling to the surface- the tensions and frustrations mounting.
However, this text seems lighter, devoid of the thickness of their terse, painful small talk. Including Noah was a sign that he was looking to reconnect positively, perhaps have a fun night away from the heaviness of his current circumstances with the Wheatleys. Suddenly, she’s desperate to see him, her panic and traumas murmuring in her ear. How wonderful it would be to set it all aside for a night, although her innocent little buffer has his own plans. The closeness of a private conversation seems too much to bear, but she feels an innate pull to risk it anyway.
That sounds wonderful, El. Full disclosure: Noah has plans. Would just be the two of us, unless any other Stablers are joining?
The dots appear immediately: Wow, Benson, he’s got more of a social life than you do. Sad.
She outwardly laughs at the sentiment, God, they share the same brain sometimes, and it’s freakishly scary. As she composes herself, the dots appear again. Just us, then. Surprised no one scooped you up already on this most sacred of days.
She rolls her eyes and feverishly taps her screen. I turned away hordes of bachelors lined up at my office door. She adds the eye roll emoji for good measure. You know how much I despise this day.
You do? Never noticed. He adds a couple of choice emojis to indicate his sarcasm, and immediately she feels her mood shift ever so slightly. She’s missed this banter, the ease of just being friends with Elliot, and she settles into a calm she hasn’t felt in weeks. She sighs before delving into the details of their plans.
I’m thinking the diner might be our best bet- probably the only place in NY that won’t have a wait for a table tonight.
Elliot’s reply gives her chills. Well, I may have already made reservations somewhere…
Oh shit, does he think this is a date? She’s just about to call him to give him a verbal tongue lashing when he texts her the address and she smiles. His place. Of course.
Just us at this particular restaurant? She texts back with a smirk. I hear it’s usually mobbed there on a weeknight.
Now her phone rings and Liv picks up wordlessly, listening to Elliot’s light chuckle in her ear. “Katie is babysitting the boys tonight so Maureen and Carl can have a night out, and she’s dragging Eli with her to help. And my mother… has a date.”
Liv gasps and giggles at this revelation. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope- a friend from her old neighborhood. Anyway, I figured my house would be safest. I mean, from the crowds and lovesick couples.”
Liv, always a detective, catches the double meaning of the word safest and is just about to question it when there’s a knock on her office door. She pauses to grant entrance, and Fin peeks his head inside. “Everything okay in here, Cap?”
She smiles and gives him a confused raise of an eyebrow. “Yeah, why?”
“Well, I heard a strange sound in here… it sounded like laughter.” He winks as she purses her lips, giving her pal a knowing smirk. “That Stabler on the phone?” She nods, hoping that Elliot can’t hear him from the doorway.
“You tell him that as long as he makes you laugh like that, he can call you anytime. I’ve missed it.”
“You’re dismissed, Sergeant.” She winks and mouths a thank you to him before he closes the door.
“Everything okay, Liv?”
“Yeah.” She decides that any questions she has can wait until later. “Ah, how ‘bout I meet you at 6? Sound good?”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
Two hours later, she stands at his door, a six-pack of their favorite beer in hand, an offering that screams this is a casual friend dinner and not a date . Before she can tap on the door, he’s there, and she crinkles a brow, thinking of how he probably has cameras all over the place in the wake of the Wheatleys and their threats. He greets her with familiar ‘hey, my friend, Olivia’ eyes, and she feels her walls crumbling to rubble. They exchange hellos and she tosses her coat on the couch while he makes his way back into the kitchen.
Elliot looks surprisingly better than what she was expecting. She prepared herself to face the shell of a man she encountered numerous times this year, especially after everyone reported his current temperament and behavior on the job. However, he appears just as he sounded on the phone: placid, serene, as if the brooding storm has passed, or at least subsided for now.
This realization should bring her a sense of peace and relief, but it doesn’t. There’s something cathartic about facing the ruins of their lives together, both of them untethered and chaotic. Need defines whatever they are, this friendship, for now, but if he doesn’t need her to pick up his pieces, she’s not sure how to move forward. It’s fatalistic, she knows, but there’s a sense of comfort in his fevered agitation, and without it, there’s nothing to hide behind. It makes her more vulnerable, as if his eyes, now bright with clarity and calmness, can see right through her. Lately, she doesn’t like what she sees when she truly looks at herself- what does he see?
Fearing the quiet that has already settled into their evening, she focuses on small talk. "So, your mom is on a date, huh?"
Elliot half grins, half rolls his eyes. "Yeah, apparently he was her weekly coffee date, and I ruined that when I insisted she move in with us. So, I let her go."
"You let her?"
He sighs, leading them into the kitchen as she dutifully falls in step. "Things with Wheatley have been heating up. I don't want to get into the details tonight, but I'm keeping everyone I care about under surveillance. Her date, Roger, picked her up, but I have a private security guy I know keeping close tabs, just in case."
Liv isn't stupid, she just wants him to admit what's going on. She noticed the unmarked car when she was about a block out from his place and wondered who else he might be keeping tabs on. Was she being surveilled without her knowledge?
She wants to question him further but instead inhales deeply to steady herself, instinctively popping the caps off of two of the beer bottles and handing one off. The questions can wait, and she doesn’t want to ruin the vibe of the evening with an interrogation. Finally breathing in the scents of the kitchen, she’s hit with the realization that he’s cooked for her. The aromas of something Italian and delectable permeate the air, and she sees the table set with precision, adorned by tapered candlelight. She could cry at how special this looks, the care he put into a last-minute invite, now knowing with certainty that it wasn’t last-minute at all. He planned this and waited until today to ask out of the safety of friendship. It has the essence of a date, but she’s so touched by his efforts that she’s frozen in place. She takes a long swig of beer to steady her nerves and calm her soul.
“Smells delicious, El. What are you making?”
Elliot grins over the simmering pot. “Bolognese, my only Italian specialty.”
“Need any help?”
“You cook now, Benson?” He winks and leans back against the counter, fully taking her in as he takes a swallow of beer.
“Are you asking about my recipe history, detective?” She grins as he chuckles at their shared memory.
“You’re being evasive, again. How about grabbing the garlic bread from the oven and adding a sprinkle of parmesan to the top. Can you handle that, Captain?”
She laughs and elbows him as he maneuvers over to the island to toss the salad. “I think I’ll be just fine.” She carefully removes the tray from the oven but accidentally grazes her wrist along the side of the hot tray as she’s reaching for the cheese. She feels the intense sizzle and immediately panics. Quickly and silently (because the words are trapped in her throat), she sheds her blazer in one swift action, flips the cold water on, and thrusts her wrist underneath the steady stream.
“Liv, you okay?” He looks over and realizes what happened. “Shit, Liv, did you get burned? Liv?”
She can’t answer. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and it’s ALL happening at once: the panic, the fireworks behind her eyes, the feeling of crawling out of her skin, nausea as the internal waves flip her around, the photographs flashing in her mind of the crime scene, of her face in the mirror, of chopping her hair, of her scars, now feeling fresh and raw and itchy. It’s ALL happening as if Lewis is with her in this kitchen. Nine years of trying to forget have disappeared in an instant. But now, new visions have attached themselves to these moments: flashes of Kathy’s grave and Richard Wheatley’s sinister grin and a bearded drugged Elliot at her door. The letter, fucking Flutura, a disoriented Bernie, a heartbroken, sobbing, Eli. Elliot’s ten years of abandonment. A Christmas Day fatality. Flash after flash, she feels all of it, and can’t escape the heavy tears falling from her eyes. One tiny little flick of her wrist was all it took for her volcano of heartache, depression, and trauma to erupt.
“Hey, Liv, it’s okay.” He tries, oh goodness, this poor man tries, to be so gentle with her, to reach out and touch her arm for support, but she flails and fights as her reflexes take her back to another time and place. She is grateful she doesn’t have her gun, because she cannot stop herself from spiraling out of control. She leans over the sink taking gasping, shallow breaths.
Elliot’s eyes widen in horror, stunned by her reaction, but knows full well what PTSD looks like. He jumps into protector mode, keeping his distance, speaking in calm, measured tones.
“Liv, can you breathe with me? I’m going to take some deep breaths. Listen to my breathing, okay?”
She feels like she's underwater, but she hears him murmuring and saying something about breathing. She sees his arm in her peripheral vision, and instinctively reaches out, resting her fingers on his wrist, locating his pulse point. She needs ( she needs!) to feel him, to have him with her, even though she has an overwhelming urge to run out the door. The steady thrum of his pulse is comforting, and she uses it to count time with her breaths. He’s here, he’s really here, and all of the moments she has wished for his proximity flood her brain. Before she knows it, she’s sobbing.
Elliot gently places his free hand atop hers, tracing the length of her fingers. “It’s okay, Liv. Let it all out. I gotcha.”
They are side by side at the sink, and Liv leans into his shoulder, absorbing his strength. She’s shaking, a combination of the chill of having her arm under cold water and the release of the emotion she’s bottled up for so long.
“El, I’m sorry. I should go.”
“Liv, please stay. Two-way street, remember? You don’t have to tell me anything, but I’d like to be here for you. Help you through whatever this is.”
She nods her head through stuttering breaths that are resuming some rhythm of normalcy. Her tears subsiding, she rolls her neck to try to release some of the tension that crept in. Elliot’s hand immediately travels to the expanse between her neck and shoulder blades, carefully pressing into delicate nerve endings, finding the knots that are forming and kneading them into submission. She’s never felt this cared for, this relaxed after an episode, and she knows why. She aches for the time she’s missed with him, yet she’s relieved that he’s here now. A tension of opposites.
They stand silently for a few more minutes until Elliot reaches for her wrist. “Let me see that burn. Are you okay?” They peer at the offending appendage together, and aside from a small, angry bubble of skin, she’s no worse for the wear. A little burn cream and a band-aid, and it could easily be forgotten, if not for her history.
She finds her voice again to manage an unconvincing plea that she’s fine, but Elliot ignores her as he reaches for the small First Aid kit he keeps under the kitchen sink. He works methodically, and she lets him take care of her, lets him fix her, lets him in.
“So,” he treads carefully, eyes on his work, “burns trigger your PTSD.” He says it as a statement, not a question, and she’s grateful that the detective in him picked up on their shared affliction. “That’s why you said that to me, that day in the car. You knew that I had it because you have it.”
She nods meekly, eyes also fixed downward, internalizing his caretaking, avoiding his glances.
“I laughed in your face that day. God, Liv, I’m such an asshole.”
“El, it’s fine. You didn’t know. You weren’t in a great place that day.”
He shook his head, unwilling to let her let him off the hook. “I have a lot to make up for.”
“I have several scars, El. From burns.“ She tries to keep going but her voice catches and the tears sting. Her eyes talk instead, their shared, unspoken communication, and she searches his face for a modicum of understanding.
“Shhh… Liv, you don’t have to do this tonight. I’m not going to push. I know you’ll tell me when you’re ready, and if you’re never ready, that’s my cross to bear for failing you. I would never ask you to relive your traumas for me.”
“I want to tell you, I don’t want you to find out from anyone else. I just-”
“It doesn’t have to be tonight, okay?” He finishes his task but continues to keep his hands over her wrist and hand as if praying over her wounds, both obvious and invisible.
“Is it okay if I ask what other triggers there are, so I don’t accidentally fuck up again in the future?”
“Jesus, El, I can be near ovens. I just won’t win any cooking competitions anytime soon.” She chuckles a bit, and he follows her lead with a small, grateful smile. “This was just a dumb accident. But, that’s a fair question. Let’s see… I’m claustrophobic now, so no enclosed spaces. The sound and feel of duct tape. Vodka. I can’t drink it, can’t smell it.”
Elliot palms his forehead, “Christ, Liv.”
She chances a look at him, and she sees the expressions she’s been dreading, the look of his that she replayed in her head for years. The same look she saw every time she got into a situation he couldn’t rescue her from until it was almost too late. His face in the squad room after Jenna. Wet eyes, frozen, pursed lips, pale. So very pale. A face, she reasoned, that defined why he left in the first place. She knows how complicated they were, and she knows that what they had was too real, counterfeit letter be damned. If she heard Elliot’s voice a decade ago, she wouldn’t have been able to leave either, if that was the only choice she felt she had. She wants to say all of this, wants to finally crack and release two decades' worth of realizations, but she knows it’s not the time or place. This whole Wheatley thing needs to end first before any type of healing can begin.
“May I ask a question?” Elliot chances, and she nods. “Has Noah ever seen this happen?”
Sighing, she understands the connotation behind his words. Has she ever dealt with this alone, while managing single parenthood? Has anyone been there for her? Has she been able to protect her son from PTSD, just as Elliot has struggled to do?
“There have been a few instances, especially after the second time. He was little though, and it was easy to put him in his crib or playpen for a little bit. I am usually much better at controlling them now, and if I feel something coming, I’ll stay at work late, or ask Fin, Sonny, or Amanda to take Noah if they can.
She realizes she’s rambling and looks up to see Elliot’s eyes wide with surprise. “The second time, Liv?”
She winces. “It’s a long story.” She turns to him, places a reassuring arm on his shoulder, caressing his neck in the process. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Anything.” His eyes are azure, dilated, smoky.
“If anyone brings it up...if anyone mentions my name before we have a chance to talk…”
“I’ll cut them off. Nothing until I hear it from your lips, okay?”
“And please don’t look it up in the system. There are parts I want you to hear and see from me instead of a case file.”
“Of course.” He takes his hands and tentatively places them at her hips. “Liv, what do you need? What can I do?”
She stares into his eyes, seeing all of the love, comfort, worry, and adoration in his gaze. She’s rendered speechless, again, and simply pulls him into an embrace. He holds her and she melts, letting all of the traumas of the past and present slip away in this sacred moment. She absorbs his love, strength, and apologies.
They stand for minutes until Elliot breaks the silence with a featherlight whisper. “I’ve missed you so much.”
She sniffles, mouth buried in his neck. “El, you have no idea.” She lifts her head, and without warning or question, places a chaste kiss on his lips, a kiss of forgiveness, friendship, and a promise for the future. It’s warm and sweet, and she lingers enough to commit this moment to her memory, forever. She places her forehead to his as they breathe in tandem, eyes closed, savoring this first new experience together.
“Hey, El?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’m starving.”
He chuckles as he opens his eyes. “Let’s get you fed, Benson.”
She starts to pull away, but he pulls her close again. “Hey, my friend, Olivia,” he pauses as she looks on, endearingly. “I’m glad you’re here tonight. I know you aren’t a fan of this day in general. Thank you.”
“Well, maybe this day isn’t so bad after all.” She reaches over to the counter and grabs her beer, waiting for him to do the same. “To partners.”
He clinks his bottle with hers. “To partners.”