Archive of Our Own

It's a bad idea, but the truth is he can't come up with a better one.

There's no way this goes down that isn't ugly. It's been too long; he knows it's been too long, but the time has just never been right. The day he left, that wasn't the right time. She'd have been angry, devastated, if he'd gone to her the day he decided to put his papers in. Would've hated him for it. Would've looked at him with those dark eyes so full of grief and begged him to stay, and he would've. For her, he would've stayed. Thrown away his marriage, lost his chance to play an active role in Eli's life, lost a piece of himself when he strapped his gun back on his hip and went back to the job that threatened to consume him. Would've sacrificed his own humanity and any hope she had for a bright and joyful future just to spend a few more days, weeks, months in the sunlight of her presence. If he'd gone to her then, it would've killed them both.

Six months after he left was no good either. Without the job that had formed the core of his identity for so long he'd been lost, angry and bitter, and if he'd seen her then, still beautiful, still strong, still steadfast, resolute in the purpose he'd lost, it would've broken him. He would've lashed out, he knew; jealous and missing her, he would've cast the brunt of his unhappiness on her, and wrecked what little remained of their relationship.

A year after he left was too fucking late. He'd settled into the private contracting work but only just; the slightest provocation would've tipped the scales and sent him reeling, and Liv was the most provocative person he knew. A year after he left she'd found her feet without him, and didn't need him coming back to upset whatever delicate balance she'd found for herself.

A whole decade had passed that way, each day deepening the gulf between them, adding to the endless litany of his misdeeds, made it that much harder to even consider reaching out to her. Too much time had passed; it had been too goddamn long.

But now he's got a posting with OCCB. He's back in the city, back on the job, back where he belongs, and he knows he can't hide from her forever, knows he needs to face her before she finds out from someone else. He doesn't want to; just the thought of it, the accusation in her dark eyes, the way she'll force him to confront things he'd rather forget, her broken heart the evidence proving that he is not, and maybe never had been, a good man, the thought that maybe she doesn't even care enough to hate him any more, it turns his stomach. Part of him wants to avoid her, to let her stay in her corner of the city, free from the stain of him, but he knows he can't. It's too damn late for that. Too late to hide. He'll have to face his doom like a man, back straight, standing on his own two feet.

As much as the looming confrontation frightens him, it comforts him, too. It's February; it's winter in New York, and winter in New York always makes him think of her, snow settling on her shoulders, her eyelashes, crunching beneath her boots as she walks beside him. Cheeks red and chapped from the cold, breath rising like a cloud of smoke from between her soft lips. She always came alive, in the winter.

It's winter in New York and he hurries as he crosses the street, two steaming paper cups of coffee in his hands. The bodega down the street is still there, still selling coffee in those blue and white paper cups, still smelling a little bit like cat piss. The coffee's nothing like what he got used to in Rome; it won't taste half as good as the coffee he bought at the cafe around the corner from his flat, but it smells like home, and that's better.

Inside he doesn't stop to speak with the desk Sergeant; he knows where he's going. Up the elevator, down the corridor to the left, and the bullpen opens up, right where he left it, though nothing in it feels the same. It's spartan in a way that feels alienating, all shiny monitors and desks with no personal items to identify their occupants. The reams of paper and massive computers he remembers have been replaced with laptops, the old stained coffee pot discarded in favor of a Keurig. The jumbled collection of mismatched coffee mugs acquired over decades in the old precinct got lost in the move, and now instead of his old favorite Myrtle Beach mug and the chipped smiley face cup there's a neat row of plain black ceramic mugs somebody picked up at Target. He wonders what happened to the Myrtle Beach mug.

The people are unfamiliar to him, as well. There's another information desk up here but the uni who's supposed to be manning it has gone AWOL. A blonde woman with a pretty face and an air of confidence about her is speaking quietly to a tall man in a sharp suit by the desks. The light is on in Cragen's office - Olivia's office, now - but the blinds are drawn. He can't see if she's in there, and she can't see him.

It's a bad idea, turning up here out of the blue, but he thinks calling might've been worse. Whatever Olivia might have to say to him - and he worries that's nothing at all; he would prefer screams over silence. At least if she's screaming he'll know she still cares - he thinks she deserves to say it to his face. Maybe he's lying to himself about that; maybe he's just being selfish. Maybe he's not here because she deserves to see him; maybe he's only here because he wants to see her.

The guy in the suit nudges the blonde, and she looks over at Elliot sharply. What does she see when she looks at him, he wonders; does she see the prodigal son, returning from his long and dangerous journey seeking the comfort of home and the open arms of his father, or does she see a threat? Elliot's not a fool, he knows what he looks like. Especially now, with his head shaved bald - a final acquiescence to the fact that he is losing his hair, and it isn't coming back - and the beard he's growing for the UC job he'll be starting soon. His suit is nice, though - three piece, blue, tailored - and he hopes that between the suit and the coffee cups the image he presents isn't too intimidating for this woman to allow him access.

"Help you?" the woman calls, rising slowly from her desk.

"I'm just here to see the Captain," he says, starting to walk towards the back office. The light is on inside; surely she's in there, he thinks. He doesn't know, but it's almost as if he can feel her, the undeniable gravity of Olivia Benson pulling him in closer and closer, destined for a crash landing.

"You got an appointment?" the blonde asks coolly, sliding herself between Elliot and the office door, the man in the suit crossing to stand behind her, backing her up. The woman looks like a pistol; she's thin and angular, shorter than him and not half so broad, but there's something about her that gives off the air of a brawler. Elliot has a vision of her racing towards him, climbing him like a goddamn monkey on a tree and clawing his eyes out while he's still juggling the coffee cups. The man is somber, but not as intimidating as his compatriot; he'd probably stand back, call for backup while his woman gets to work on gutting Elliot like a fish. For a moment Elliot finds himself wishing desperately for Fin.

"No," Elliot says. No, Liv is not expecting him. He's the last person she'll expect to see today, or any day, for that matter. He's a ghost, and ghosts aren't supposed to come walking in the daylight.

"She's busy," the woman says grimly. "Why don't you tell me your name, and I'll see if she has time to talk to you."

Ah, hell, he thinks. That's not what he wants. He doesn't want the blonde to give Olivia the chance to turn him away before she's ever even seen him. He wants this to play out the way he imagined it, him swinging through her office door with the coffee cups and a soft smile just for her. He doesn't want witnesses. The woman in front of him, she might recognize his name but she might not, and he's not sure which is worse. To be remembered as a villain, or forgotten entirely.

"That's all right," Elliot says, trying to skirt around her, though the woman gives him no ground. "I'll just stick my head in."

"Not until you tell me your name," the blonde insists. It's a credit to Liv, he thinks, that her people are so protective of her. He never ran interference like this for Cragen, never blocked the man's door like a bouncer at a club.

There's a choice in front of him now. He can relent, tell the woman his name, see what happens next, and risk losing this chance to speak to Liv, or he can cause a fucking scene.

He's always had a flair for the dramatic.

"You gonna let me pass?" he asks calmly, gives her one last chance.

"No," the woman says. "I think I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."

Elliot nods, rubs at his beard.

"I was afraid of that," he says.

The man behind the blonde shifts, moves like he's reaching for a gun at his hip only to remember a beat too late that he's not carrying. That's interesting, Elliot thinks, but not interesting enough to distract him.

Here goes nothing.

It's hardly dignified, but he wants to be sure that Liv sees him. He came here for her, and he's not leaving until he's laid eyes on her face.

He takes a deep breath, and opens his mouth.

"Olivia!" she hears a man's voice roar from the other side of her closed door, so loud it makes her jump, her heart rocketing up into her throat.

She knows that voice.

It is the voice of a ghost, the echo of a memory, a fragment of her dark and painful past. It is a voice she's heard in her dreams for a decade, a voice of anguish and lament. It is a voice like the roll of thunder, the herald of an oncoming storm. It is a voice she has longed for and hated both. It is an impossibility, that voice, but she feels it reverberating through her bones, and she's moving before she can think better of it, rushing for the door, her body moving of its own accord. That voice has called to her, and while her mind is reeling her feet remember what to do. When he calls, she answers; it's always been that way.

She flings the door open and freezes for a moment on the threshold, blinking incredulously at the sight before her.

Amanda is there, guarding Olivia's door, Carisi just behind her, watching her back like always. But the ghost is there, too, standing just in front of Amanda, solid enough for Amanda to press her hands to his chest as she tries to block his entry. The ghost is there, his eyes blue and bright and entreating, two cups of coffee in his hands like an offering he's brought to her altar, an olive branch that cannot even begin to make up for the carnage he has wrought.

"Hey, Liv," the ghost says breathlessly, trying fecklessly to get by Amanda, his progress hampered without the use of his hands.

Hey, Liv.

Ten years and that's all he has for her. A cup of coffee and a hey, Liv. She's not sure what she was expecting; it might've been nice to see him fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness, but she knows better than to hope for that. Knows him better than to expect anything less than this. He is a proud man, and not much a one for talking. Not that she can blame him; she's not big on talking, either. Or, she didn't used to be. She used to be just like him, showed her emotion with a sharp word and a fist, demonstrative in anger and silent in grief. Apologies never came easy to either of them. A memory comes back to her, a text and a paper cup of coffee, a four a.m. chat on a stoop in the dark, a walk to the diner for greasy eggs, a brush with vulnerability, sins never named, buried but not forgotten. She didn't apologize to him, and he didn't apologize to her, either, and they moved forward anyway, the way they always did.

"Let him go, Amanda," she says, shocked by how hoarse her own voice sounds.

Amanda's not exactly a good soldier; Amanda doesn't like following orders. Olivia's always been the senior officer, Amanda her wayward protege. Amanda will listen to her, learn from her, but Amanda's always going to go her own way. For a second it looks like Amanda won't heed her call now, but then she relents, drops her hands and takes a step back so Olivia can approach her ghost unimpeded.

She used to dream about this. Used to lie awake in bed wondering what she'd do if he ever came back. What she'd say, if she ever got the chance to see him again. Used to, but doesn't, anymore, hasn't for a long time. The girl she was ten years ago is a stranger to her now. So much has happened, not the least of which is this: the passage of time proved the truth of Elliot's exile, and she'd long since given up any hope of seeing him again.

But back then, a week, a month, a year after he left, she used to dream about it. Every time she did the scenario played out differently; sometimes he was contrite, sometimes belligerent. Sometimes she was cool and sometimes she exploded in a fit of rage, and sometimes she collapsed weeping into his arms and let him hold her. She imagined them crossing paths on the street, at a cafe, imagined something like this, him coming home to her by his own choice, looking to fix what he broke. Those dreams never got too far; she never got past the first instant of recognition, of reckoning, the idea of his return so unfathomable after the completeness of his departure that even in her fantasies she couldn't imagine what might happen next.

She doesn't have to try to imagine, anymore. He's here, standing right in front of her, and all she feels is an endless swelling tide of rage.

Hey, Liv.

How dare he, she thinks; how dare he come back here like he thinks he belongs, look at her like he's hoping she's glad to see him? Why should she be glad to see him, this man who shattered her so completely, cast her aside like she was nothing, stole her peace and her dignity? It all comes rushing back, the endless humiliation of her unanswered calls, Cragen's steady voice, her crying alone in the interview room. The empty desk, the note that said semper fi. What a fucking joke, she thinks; always faithful. To whom? Not to her. He's not been faithful to her; he has been faithless, made a mockery of her loyalty, kicked her like a dog and cast her out into the night, alone and afraid, confused by his sudden disregard, wanting only to go home again, and him locking the door to keep her out instead.

The years do not vanish, as she gazes at him. She is not transported back in time to the days when he was all she needed, all she ever wanted. Instead the years crash into her like a bulldozer.

I trusted my partner.

I'm just getting over something.

My old partner, he'd know what to do.

That old partner of yours...well, he sounds very macho, doesn't he?

All those long nights alone in the car.

He would've.

What did you think, that he was going to leave his wife and his kids for you?

It's not gonna happen. It was never gonna happen.

"Liv," Amanda says softly, quietly, and the sound of her voice shakes Olivia out of her reverie. Like a finger on a trigger Amanda sets her loose, and Olivia is moving then, moving quickly, brushing by Rollins and Carisi, on a collision course bound for ruin, baring her teeth, and Elliot's got his hands full, has to know what's coming but doesn't have the time or the wherewithal to stop it.

He takes it like a man.

Her hand cracks across his face, hard and sharp as the flick of a whip, his cheek reddening beneath the blow while Amanda cries out in alarm. At the impact Elliot rocks backwards; he's too solid, too steady, too strong to lose his footing entirely, but his weight shifts to absorb the blow like a boxer in the ring. A snarl pulls at Olivia's mouth; one hit is not enough. The beast of rage that lives within her chest is clawing its way out, hungry for blood.

That beast; she's been starving it, the last few years. Been going to therapy, reading the self-help books, lighting fucking candles and meditating like that'll give her control. Control of herself, of her responses, of the beast she's always been afraid of, the one gift her father gave her. Elliot has a beast of his own, and their monsters used to run wild together, fed off each other. He never tried to rein her in, never looked at her like she was crazy, broken, dangerous; not like Amanda did, that day in the courthouse. You have no idea what utter terror is, she remembers saying, remembers the way Amanda flinched away from her like her rage and her pain was catching. Elliot wouldn't have flinched.

He's not flinching now. In the instant after she hits him he is standing still and steady, utterly unafraid, and it burns her up, his confidence. He should be afraid, she thinks. He should be groveling.

"Where the fuck have you been?" she hisses at him.

The question has haunted her for the last decade. How many nights did she look up at the inky black of the sky, the stars blotted out by the endless burning of the streetlights, and wonder where he'd gone? She'd always thought he'd stay close; he's got his mother in Jersey, his kids to worry about. She's always imagined him just on the other side of the city, in Queens, in Brooklyn, on the other side of the river but still here. The thought used to comfort her, the thought that he was close, that she might stumble across him at any time, but now it just adds fuel to the fire of her anger. All these years and he's been here, in the same fucking city, happily living his life without her. It didn't break him, losing her, and she hates him for it, in that moment. He broke her; he was supposed to break, too.

"I been trying to come home," he croaks. He must see it, the warning flashing in her eyes; he has one second before the next blow lands and he uses that time to set the coffees down. That was smart, probably, because this time she hits him with a closed fist.

"Bullshit," she snarls as her hand collides with his face. This time she shakes him, and she goes in for another hit, aiming for his fucking kidney. She wants to make him hurt; she wants to purge this grief, this embarrassment, this longing from her body, wants to use her hands to lance this wound.

This time he's ready for her; he catches her right wrist in his hand, growls her name.

"Goddamn it, Liv."

She goes in with the left but he catches that, too.

"Would you just -"

She wants to ram her knee into his fucking balls, wants to make him ache.

There's a scuffle; Amanda calls out, alarmed, reaches to try to grab hold of Olivia while Carisi catches Elliot by his armpits, and the whole time Olivia's hands are grasping for him, still, reaching for him like she's been reaching for him every day for the last ten years, and Elliot is reaching for her, too, reaching out across a decade, trying to hold her. Amanda and Carisi drag them apart, shouting; a few unis stop in to look, rubbernecking from the corridors, and there's too many eyes on her now, she realizes. She's lost control and she can't do that, not in front of these people. She's supposed to be better than this, now. All Elliot's done is prove that she hasn't changed, not really. She's only been pretending.

"We're fine," she says, shaking Amanda off.

"You sure about that?" Amanda asks warily, her eyes darting wildly from Olivia to Elliot and back again.

"Yeah," Elliot says, pushing Carisi off him. "It's fine."

Olivia's hit him twice and left a shiner on his cheek and he says it's fine, and a grin tears at the corners of her mouth. Some things don't change, she thinks, and this is one of them. They'll explode on one another, rage and burn one another to ashes, but they'll stand together, at the end.

There's so much she wants to say to him. So many questions, so many accusations. Christ, she wants to hit him again. But they can't do this here; there's too many eyes on them, and Olivia can't let them see.

"Come with me," she says to Elliot, and begins to march out of the bullpen, heading for the corridor, for the stairs up to the roof. She doesn't look back, but she doesn't need to. She knows Elliot is with her, can feel him there, right on her six. Right where he belongs.

"Liv!" Amanda calls out, frustrated and confused, but Olivia ignores her and just keeps moving, propelled by the endless grief of a broken heart.

They burst out onto the roof together under a full head of steam. She got two good shots in and he can feel the dull ache of her fist on his cheek, but she didn't hit him as hard as she could've. His nose isn't broken and he's still got all his teeth. That's by design, he thinks; even in the height of her fury she held back. She wanted to hurt him, but not to maim him. That's something, at least.

It's comforting to him, her anger. There can be no anger, no hate, without love. If she didn't care about him, if she'd forgotten him completely, if she was glad to be rid of him, she wouldn't have lashed out like this. The violence of her response is soothing; it's her indifference that would've shattered him.

"You ready to talk or you wanna hit me some more?" he asks ruefully as the door slams shut behind them. Absently he wonders if she thought to grab her keycard before she came up here; the last thing they need is to get trapped on the roof in the cold.

She whirls on him in an instant, her eyes answering the question for him; yeah, she wants to hit him again.

"Where the fuck do you get off?" she demands. It's about 11:00 in the morning, the sun beating down on the roof, filling his body with a heat that the cold air sucks out of him before it can truly warm him, the inherent contradiction of a bright day in winter.

"You just show up here," she continues, "after ten years -" she says it like a curse - "and expect…I mean, Jesus, Elliot, what did you expect?"

"This, pretty much," he admits. If he'd given her some warning things might've gone down differently. If she'd known he was coming she might've tempered her response, might've been mature, gracious, aloof, but he didn't give her the chance to wrap her head around his arrival first and that means he's gotten pretty much exactly what he expected. He'd wondered if the time might've settled her down some, cooled her ire, made her merciful and calm, and maybe it has, but the woman in front of him is not Captain Benson, in command of her own squad, the faithful servant of her demanding mistress. She's all Liv, right now, all teeth and claws, wounded still, as fresh as if he just left her.

And Christ, she's beautiful.

She's so fucking fierce, a lioness come into her own, and she's so fucking pretty. The fall of her dark hair, the fire in her eyes, the shape of her body beneath her black suit; beguiling, that's what she is, and with just one look he's under her spell, hungry for her. Hungry for the way she makes him feel, powerful and righteous. Whole.

"You think you can just walk back in here like nothing ever happened -"

"Oh, I know something happened -"

"I have a life, Elliot," she snaps. "No thanks to you-"

"You wanna tell me about that?" he interrupts mildly.

She's prowling by the door as he leans back against it, crosses his arms over his chest and watches her warily, on alert lest she turn to strike him again. The truth is, he does want to know. Wants to know what kind of life she's made for herself, what's she's done, where she's been, who she's loved while he's been gone. Everything he missed, he wants all of it, now. Wants all of her, now, in a way that surprises him. It's a living thing, the need he feels for her.

All this time that need has been living inside him, starved and weakened by distance but never dying. In the sweltering heat of summer in Rome he thought about her, thought about the travel brochures in her kitchen and the adventures she dreamed about but never undertook. In his bed, in the dark, lying next to his wife, he stared up at the ceiling and wondered where she was, who she was with, wondered if she thought of him at all. It got easier, day by day, but he never forgot her, and being near her now brings it all roaring back to the surface. He was right, he realized, right not to answer her calls, right not to see her in the days after he left. He was right; one look is all it takes, and he's right back in this thing with her, devoted, doomed, bound to her irrevocably.

Ten years of silence, and he wants her as badly now as he ever did before. More, maybe, even.

"No," she snaps. "I don't want to tell you about my life. It's none of your goddamn business."

Bullshit, he thinks. She's always been his business. She always will be.

"What do you want, then?"

"I want you to leave," she snarls. "I want you to crawl back into whatever hole you came out of today. I want you gone."

No, you don't, he thinks. He knows her, and he knows she doesn't want him to leave right now any more than she wanted him to leave ten years ago. It'd be easier on her if he left; she could go right on hating him. And the hate is safe. The hate is a comfort. The hate has been her shield for all these long years and if she puts it down she'll risk a kind of hurt he knows she doesn't want to feel again. Olivia doesn't want him to leave but she's pushing him away because that's what she does, what she's always done.

Not this time. This time, he won't let her push him out. This time, he won't either of them run.

"I'll go," he lies, "but not until you've heard what I have to say."

"I don't care -"

"I left for you, Liv," he tells her, and watches her wheel around, hair swirling around her shoulders while her mouth falls open, indignant and affronted by the very suggestion.

"I left so you could keep SVU," he says before she can catch her breath. "I gave that to you." He almost calls her sweetheart, and wonders where that came from, the sudden rush of fondness, of affection, of possessiveness he feels for this woman who ought to be a stranger to him after so many years apart and is still somehow the one soul he knows best in all the world.

"I knew it was gonna hurt but I knew it would be better for you in the long run, and I was right about that, wasn't I?"

"You unbelievable asshole -"

She is trembling with fury, but he is not afraid of her. Let her try to hit him again; he's ready for her, this time.

"You're a Captain now, got a squad that cares about you. And I - I knew it would be easier for you if you could hate me. Blame me. You wouldn't have to miss me if you hated me."

"You think I didn't miss you?" she hisses, and it brings him up short.

He knows she did, knows she must've missed him in the beginning, but no, he didn't think she did anymore, not after such a long time. He thought she'd be too busy being pissed at him to want him to come back, if she thought of him at all. All this time he'd stayed away because he thought she wouldn't want anything to do with him, has only come back now because he felt like he had no choice. But if she did miss him, that means -

"I - "

"I fucking missed you," she continues heatedly. "Do you have any idea how many times I wished you were here with me? How many times I prayed…"

She never used to pray before, his Liv, and the thought fills him with shame now. Olivia, who didn't believe in God, who never understood his faith, never wanted any part of it for herself, prayed for him while he was on the other side of the world, praying for her.

"I can't change what I did," he tells her hoarsely. "And I can't expect you to forgive me. I'm not asking you to."

"Then what do you want?"

You, he thinks. He wants the way things used to be. He wants to come home.

"I wanted you to know I'm here. I got a job with OCCB -"

"Oh my god." If she were a dragon she'd have breathed fire when she said it; he can see the fury in her dark eyes, and rushes to explain himself.

"Listen to me," he says, reaching for her, his hand curling around her bicep, stopping her pacing and anchoring her in this moment with him, his eyes boring into hers while he speaks the truth he's been carrying in his heart for months, the truth he's yet to share with anyone else.

"For ten goddamn years I have been trying to be the man I thought I should be. The one who was strong enough to let you go. I tried to be a good father, a good husband, but it's no fucking use. Kathy left me, Liv. Like she should've done before Eli was born. Ten fucking years, and we're getting divorced, anyway. For good this time. And it made me realize...I'm sick of it. I'm done pretending to be somebody I'm not."

The suits, the espresso, the balcony overlooking the piazza, the soccer games and the dinner parties; he's fucking tried, and it's all been for nothing, in the end. He is still, after everything, Elliot Staber. He is a leather jacket and a pair of blue jeans, heavy boots and a gun at his hip. He is a man in need of purpose, a purpose he did not find in Rome, or anywhere that wasn't here. He is too angry, too grim, too much for Kathy, and he always has been. For the first time in his entire life he has made a choice for himself, not out of duty, not in service to others. It's pure selfishness, reclaiming his badge, coming back for Liv, and it feels fucking good. It feels like he's finally doing the right thing. Like he's finally right where he always should've been.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" she asks. He's still holding on to her, and all he can see is her. Not the city behind her, not the sunlight glinting off the puddles of half-melted snow in the shade of the air conditioners; just her. Just Olivia, the prettiest woman he's ever seen in real life, older and wiser and resplendent in her grief. She is brighter than the sun, and the warmth of her beneath his hand feels like home. His heart is clamoring for her in a way it never has before; mine, that heart of his insists. She's mine.

"I'm your partner," he growls at her. "For better or worse, Liv. It's you and me. It's always gonna be."

"You have no right-" she's not sputtering, exactly, but it's close.

What the fuck is he talking about?

It's like something from a dream, in that her mind is struggling to comprehend that any of this could possibly be real. It's like a talking fish. A unicorn. It's Odysseus returning to Penelope after twenty years away. It's unthinkable, and impossible, and it's happening.

It's Elliot, standing in front of her, telling her that he's getting divorced - for good this time - that he's back on the job, that he's home, that he wants to be her partner again. Wants to be hers. It's Elliot speaking the truth she's always known, tried so hard to forget.

It's you and me. It's always gonna be.

"No, I know that," he says. "I got no right. I got no claim. I know you probably got a man -" she doesn't, but in this moment she wishes she did, just so she could throw it in his teeth - "and I know you're not gonna forgive me anytime soon. Maybe never. But I'm here. That's what I came to tell you. I'm here."

She kinda wants to hit him again. Kinda wants to hate him. Does hate him, actually, for the way he left and everything that followed after, for the way he showed up here with a cup of coffee and a hey, Liv like no time has passed. For the way she feels when she looks at him, like she's ten years younger and she's got a reason to hope for brighter days ahead. She wants to hit him because she's worried that if she doesn't she might cry instead, and that would be so, so much worse.

"You're a real son of a bitch, you know that?" She asks him wryly.

"And you're beautiful," he says, the sincerity in his voice knocking the wind out of her. He's still holding her arm, and she wants him to never let go. "Don't think I've ever said that to you before."

That's true, she realizes. Elliot's never said a goddamn word about how she looks. Even Nick said something; even Fin's commented about it before, when she showed up at a crime scene in a beautiful dress. Not Elliot, though. It surprises her, the impact his words have. Like she's been waiting twenty years just to hear him say it, and now that he has she doesn't know what the fuck she's supposed to do next.

"You gonna hit me again?" he asks, careful, wary of her after the display in her squadroom. Shit; Amanda and Carisi are never gonna let her hear the end of this. Fin's probably about to make good on a bet from a lifetime ago.

"Thinking about it," she admits.

"You hit me if you want," he says. "God knows I deserve it."

It's not the same if he tells her to; there's no catharsis in it, she realizes. Not anymore. That, downstairs, that was the release she's waited ten years for, and now she just feels tired. Now she just wants him back, the way he used to be.

Christ, he's never gonna be the way he used to be. But she's not, either.

"What are you really doing here, Elliot?" she asks, quieter this time. "I mean really, what are you looking for here?"

"You," he answers without hesitation. "Just you, Liv. I been missing you too long. I don't wanna miss you anymore."

She doesn't want to miss him anymore, either. She's so tired of it, the missing. Tired of losing people, one by one, tired of the endless parade of grief. But Elliot has done what none of the rest of them have. He's come back. He's come back for her.

Or so he says. She wants to believe him; shit, she wants to believe him. But the impossibility of it fills her heart with doubt. What if he's only here because Kathy left him? Because he's reeling, searching for something familiar to ground him while his life spins out of control? What if this is all just some massive midlife crisis; what if he's about to crash and burn, and what if he takes her with him?

"You screwed up your marriage and I'm sorry about that, Elliot, but you can't -"

"This has nothing to do with my marriage -"

She's hit him where it hurts; she can see the pain on his face, hear it in the tight, angry tone of his voice, feel it in his hand, letting go of her. The second she loses his touch she wants it back, and hates herself for it.

"This has everything to do with-"

"This is about you!" He bellows finally, cutting her off. "Jesus, Liv, I'm here for you. Because I want you. Because I've wanted you every day for the last ten years."

"You want me," she repeats, shellshocked and completely thrown off balance by the fervent desire radiating from the solid breadth of him, by the answering call of need echoing inside her own heart.

It's…it's embarrassing, that's what it is. It's humiliating, the way she wants him. The way she's always wanted him. The way she looked across her desk at two in the morning and smiled softly at another woman's husband, the way she cried for him when he went, cried for him like he'd goddamn died or something, the way she longed for him in her darkest moments, the way she still wants him, now, after everything.

That's the thing about home, though. The thing about home is that's where a person's roots are planted. It's not a conscious choice; no one gets to decide where they make their start in life. And the thing about home, about those roots run deep in rocky soil, is that a person's heart will always long for home. To go back to the place that made them, the shelter that raised them, the hands that held them. Olivia never had a home, not really, not until she met Elliot Stabler, and she never decided to do it, never decided that he would mean so much to her, but he is where her heart put down roots, and he is what she has been missing, aching for, for ten long years. He wants to come home but shit, she does, too.

She wants to come home.

"You're goddamn right I do," he growls, and then he reaches for her, and before she can even draw in a breath, he's kissing her.

Holy shit, she thinks. Holy shit.

The taste of her explodes against his tongue and sends his heart into overdrive, jackhammering against his chest the way it used to when the Gunny pushed him out of a helo, when a perp pointed a gun at him, racing like he's about to die.

Maybe he is; maybe he is about to die. Maybe she's about to kill him.

But Christ. What a way to go.

With Olivia, body hot as fire beneath his hands. With Olivia, whose hair smells faintly flowers in a way he really, really likes. With Olivia, whose soft lips are parted for him, who actually goddamn whimpers into his mouth as he kisses her, her whole body swaying into him dangerously, like her legs won't hold her. That's what they say in the movies, isn't it, that a kiss made a woman weak in the knees? That's how he feels right now, actually; he feels like his body is on the verge of imminent collapse, like the only thing holding him up right is her. Overwhelmed and terrified and free, that's how he feels right now.

Free falling.

His tongue slides against hers and her teeth catch against his lip and he can feel her breathing. The air is cold but the sun is warm and Olivia's breath burns his cheek where her nose is pressed hard against him. His hands are tangled in her hair, clutching her tight to him like he's afraid she's about to run. Which, to be fair, he is. He is afraid she's about to run away from him, afraid that despite her open mouth and her hips grinding into his she's about to bolt, to tell him that she hates him, that he's gone too far, that it is this indiscretion and not his abandonment of her that will spell the end of their relationship.

And in a way he's right.

She does it quick, with a gasp and a sudden jerk of her shoulders; she wrenches herself away from him and hauls off and slaps him one more time while he just stares at her, kiss-drunk and stupid.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she snarls, her cheeks flushed pink and her chest heaving. Beneath her black blazer she's wearing a white blouse, split demurely at the collar; it's a nice blouse, professional, not revealing, exactly, but when he looks down he can see the little wrinkles where her soft tits press together and he feels a sudden, wild urge to press his lips there.

"Felt pretty right to me," he says, reaching for her again, his right hand sliding around the curve of her waist beneath her blazer.

She hits him again and he chokes when her palm collides with his cheek, stumbles a little but doesn't lose his grip on her. Shit, that stings.

"Ten years," she says in a trembling voice like she's got the wrath of God and all his angels on her side. She probably does. "And you come back here, and expect me to just - to just - to just -"

"I don't expect anything," he says, and that's true; he doesn't expect that she'll let him touch her. Doesn't expect her forgiveness or her understanding or her kisses. Doesn't expect that she'll make room in her life for him, doesn't expect that they can just pick up where they left off like nothing ever happened. He doesn't expect anything; he wants a whole hell of a lot though.

"I'm not your consolation prize -"

"You're the whole jackpot," he says. If she wants to play around with metaphors he can do that. She is the jackpot, the big score, the win he's been chasing his whole life. She is not a diversion; she is the goal. Ten years he's been trying not to want her - longer than that, if he's honest, but it's the last ten years that have shaped that want into a hungry, needful thing - and now that he's finally letting the want take him over, it feels good. Damn good. It feels like…shit. It feels like this is what they should've been doing all along.

She coils up like she's gonna hit him again and this time he's ready; he catches her by the wrist before she makes contact and doesn't let her go.

"Getting real tired of that shit," he growls. He can't tell who she's fighting, him or her own heart or the doubts she's been carrying for so long she doesn't know how to put them down. He knows how to put them down. He's finally learned, and he wants to show her the way.

She wriggles a little and he does the only thing he can think of; he pushes her back until she's pressed hard to the door, pins her in place with the bulk of his body, his knee wedged between her thighs and his hands on her hips, and her breathing like a bull about to charge, eyes wild and a little scared, and that slows him down, clears some of the fog from his mind. It looks like she's afraid of him, and that's the one thing he can't stand. He can't stand the thought that he's frightening, to her.

"Talk to me, Liv," he says in a low, rough voice.

That's all he wants. All he's wanted for ten long years. He just wants to talk to her, to hear her voice, to know that she's real, and here, and with him. He doesn't want to have imagine her anymore. He wants the real thing.

"Have you lost your mind?" she answers unsteadily. "You've - you - you don't even know me anymore, Elliot! You have no idea who I am, how I've changed. And I have no idea who you are anymore, and I can't - I can't trust this. I can't trust you."

"You're right, I have changed," he says. "I'm not the same man I was. That's why I'm here, Liv. I don't wanna keep making the same mistakes."

"No you want to make new, more interesting mistakes," she grumbles, and it makes him smile; that's his girl. Bad-tempered as ever.

"You wanna trust something, trust this," he says, and grabs her wrist once more, lifts her hand and presses her palm to his chest, just above his heart. He doesn't say it. Doesn't say my heart beats for you, doesn't tell her how he's been carrying her around inside his ribcage since the night he met her. The words they've spoken tonight are already more honest, more vulnerable, than anything else he's ever said to her, and those words have taxed him. He's not a poet; he never has been. But he knows she's not, either; she doesn't need the words, some flowery declaration of devotion, of fealty. She probably wouldn't believe it, anyway. Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. She's never been much on faith, his Liv. She needs to see, to feel, to know, and that's what he's trying to give her now. He wants her to feel it, the beat of his heart, the solidness of his body, him, real and right in front of her, not turning away. He wants her to know that his heart is hers, if she'll only take it.

"Fuck you," she says, and then she catches him by the collar of his jacket and drags him to her for a fierce and all consuming kiss.

This time she is not on the back foot, reeling, uncertain; this time it's her tongue in his mouth, her hands sliding under his jacket, her heart racing ahead while he struggles to keep up. She bites his lip a little too hard and he knows she's done it on purpose; he can taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth and with a growl his tongue surges between her lips, taking his blood with it, wanting her to taste it for herself. If it weren't for the layers of his vest and shirt he's certain her nails would draw blood from the way she's clawing at his back, and he kinda wishes she could. It might feel good, her tearing him open; might feel like penance.

His hands knead bruisingly at her hips; what he wants is skin, and heat, but they're both wrapped up in too many layers. Not that they need to be; the air is cold but between the sun and her he's so hot he's starting to sweat, and she's gasping, too, wriggling in his grip like she wants to get free, not of him, but of that damnable blazer, of every obstacle that separates them from one another.

It's not like they can get naked up here; that's a crazy, stupid risk. But he isn't exactly thinking logically, just now. It's instinct, the way his hands reach for her, one on her ass and one on her breast. Instinct, the way his mouth sinks over the line of her neck, the way his teeth worry at the delicate tendons there while she pants into his ear. Instinct, the way she grinds against his thigh, desperately chasing the promise of relief. The way he needs her is instinctual; his body knows the way, though his mind cannot comprehend it.

It feels good, the meat of her ass in his hand, but when he glides his palm over her hip and down between her legs, that feels even better. Feels like heaven when she moans at his touch. Olivia, moaning for him; the thought alone is nearly enough to have him cumming in his pants.

"I take these off, you gonna try to hit me again?" he asks, curling his fingers over the waistband of her trousers.

The risk is monumentally stupid. Anyone could come walking through that door - noon isn't too far off and the smokers like to come to the roof on their breaks - and it's cold and they're both wearing their heavy boots. He wants it, though. Wants to get them naked, or as close to that as they can manage, wants to bury himself inside her, and it has to be now, he thinks. A moment's indecision could cost them everything, here. If they stop now, go back downstairs keyed up and unsatisfied, face her squad and the grim reality of their lives, he's certain he'll never get her back. She will retreat from him, the tsunami of emotions unleashed by their unexpected reunion receding, leaving carnage in its wake. It has to be now, because he needs her to understand. They were made for each other, he knows, and he wants desperately to show her, to prove it to her, to provide the unassailable evidence her investigative mind needs in order to finally, finally accept that they deserve the love they've denied themselves for so goddamn long.

"You wanna find out?" she answers, leaning her head back against the door, looking at him through hooded eyes.

In response he grins tightly, and flicks the button open without hesitation. It's not a no; she has not promised not to strike him, not to wound him, not to hate him, but she hasn't said she would, either. The danger does not stop him, and maybe that's what she wanted to see from him. Maybe she just wants him to show her that he's not afraid, that she doesn't have to be, either.

He has to be quick about it; if he takes too long the utter ridiculousness of the situation might set in, and they might both be laughing instead of panting. With confidence and a shocking speed he wrenches her pants and underwear both off her hips, bites at her thigh while he wrangles with her boot because he'd rather hear her whimper than laugh at him. All he needs is one; one boot off, one leg freed from her pants, and then he shoots upright again, hooking her bare leg around his hip while her pants pool on the ground around her other ankle.

"This too," he says breathlessly, tearing the blazer from her back, and the second it hits the roof beneath them she surges forward, sinks her teeth into his neck while she tugs at his jacket. Between her legs she is bare, and hot as fire where she grinds against his thigh; he can feel all that heat even through the thick fabric of his pants, and wonders idly how it feels for her, the scratchy material against the softest, most sensitive part of her. Wonders if his clothes are gonna smell like her cunt for the rest of the day. Christ, he hopes so.

They wrangle together, trade bruising kisses while he unbuttons her blouse, while she pulls his vest away. They don't have the time or inclination to put in the effort to remove his tie; she just loosens it enough to get her mouth on his neck where she wants it, and his hands dive beneath her bra, feel the heavy weight of her breasts in his palms while they rock and grind mindlessly together.

It's good. It's very fucking good, but he needs more. Needs to be inside her, needs to feel her, needs her to feel them, together, whole, the way they always should've been.

Olivia is not the sort of woman who needs things from people. She's spent her whole life trying not to be that person. Independent to a fault, literally; there have been so many times over the years when her determination to do everything by herself and never ask for help has ended in calamity. What she feels, what she wants, what she needs, she keeps that shit to herself. Doesn't let anybody in, doesn't let anybody see her soft underbelly, the weakness of her longing. The squad needs her to be strong, unrelenting; the squad needs to lean on her, and not the other way around. There is no one she can go to when she needs something, and no one she would trust enough to admit that to, anyway.

Except for him. She has always needed him, and ten years away hasn't changed that. Odysseus, she's called him in her mind before; for twenty years Odysseus was away from his Penelope, ten years at war and ten years at sea. They've had their decade of war, her and Elliot, and they've had their decade of wandering, lost and afraid, and he has come home, now, to find Penelope right where he left her, queen of their island, protecting their home and managing it in the best way she can. Odysseus had to prove himself to his Penelope, and Elliot is trying to do the same, now, trying to prove to her that he is who he says he is, that she can open her arms to him, and breathe freely for the first time since he left her. Trying to prove to her that despite the changes wrought by time he is still the man she loves.

She wants him to be the man she loves.

His hand drives between their bodies to the place where she is wet and burning for him, and she rucks up his shirt, slides her hands up the smooth plane of his back while he touches her for the first time. Probably she should feel something like embarrassment, like shame; this is all happening so goddamn fast and she thinks she should be better than this. Stronger than this. The truth is that she isn't, though. She isn't above it all, the desire of a heart seeking the comforting touch of the one it loves. She's only human, after all, and she loves him, and she has missed him so desperately that she cannot bear the thought of being parted from him, even for a second.

It has to be now. She needs him now, needs him to exorcise the ghosts that haunt her body, needs him on her, in her, needs the evidence of his devotion wet between her thighs for the rest of the day just so she'll remember that this is real. That he has come home to her, and brought her home with him. That she doesn't have to be alone, anymore.

Ten years, and Penelope fought off her suitors, entertained them and their suits for a time but never let anyone have her, all of her. Ten years, and Penelope never stopped believing that her Odysseus would return to her one day, even when everyone else had written him off as a lost cause. He's not a lost cause, her Elliot; he came back to her, the way she always prayed he would.

"Now," she pants at him. It's thoughtful, his hand on her pussy, his efforts to ensure her pleasure as well as his own, but she doesn't need it. She's been wet since the moment she first hit him. She's been ready for twenty years.

"Yeah?" he asks, fumbling for his belt with his free hand while two of his thick fingers curl into her heat and draw an uncharacteristic mewl from the back of her throat.

"Yeah," she answers, her voice going higher and higher as his fingers stroke inside her, as his pants slide off his hips, his belt clinking when it hits the ground.

It's quite possibly the craziest thing she's ever done, and that's a high bar to clear. But it's right, she thinks. They were never gonna be a long slow slide into romance, flirty texts and quiet dinners and good-night kisses that lead to nowhere. All or nothing, that's who they are. One kiss was never gonna be the beginning, for them; one kiss was always going to be the end of everything, the line in the sand between who they are and who they will be. For two souls so long kept apart one kiss was all it would take, all it ever would've taken, to change everything, forever. The rest of it is just the natural conclusion of a courtship that's spanned a lifetime.

Between her tits and his chest she can't see his cock, but she doesn't need to see it in order to feel it. To feel his left hand tightening over her thigh where he holds her leg at his hip, to feel the thick head of his cock sliding between her folds. He parts the lips of her pussy with it, big and full of a delirious kind of promise, slides it up to stroke over her clit in a way that makes her shiver.

"Now," she tells him, impatient and arching off the wall, opening herself up to him, inviting him in. It has to be now, before she thinks better of it, before someone tries to come through that door and catches them with their pants around their ankles. It has to be now, before she dies from wanting him. "Now -"

Now the head of his cock presses against her, stretches her open, pops inside her while her cunt closes tight around it. Now he thrusts shallowly against her, lighting up the nerves at her entrance, making her cry out in relief, and need. Now he is groaning against her neck, his fingertips leaving bruises in the soft meat of her thigh. Now he is inside her, not just metaphorically, but actually. Now he's hers.

Finally.

It drives her crazy, the deep, rumbling sounds he makes as he thrusts harder, deeper, as he feels the silken walls of her sex clenching around him. He feels huge like this, feels like he's splitting her open, and she's not sure if that's because his cock really is that big, or just because it's him, because it's Elliot, tearing down her walls, breaching her defenses, revealing her for the lost and lonesome thing she has been since the day he left.

She feels good. Too good. She makes him feel like he's gonna die right here, buried inside her.

As she takes him, all of him, she makes these little sounds of appreciation that drive him wild. Her breasts heave beneath the lace of her bra and he is through with resisting his impulses; he sinks his mouth over her there, sucks her flesh into his mouth and holds on tight while he rocks his hips into her, the seafoam slick of her desire easing his passage. It feels - Christ. Nothing has ever felt like this before. There is a synchronicity to it, to them, an understanding he has never known with any other lover. The skin of their bellies rub together, his shirt riding up from the brush of her hands, her shirt unbuttoned by his own fingers, and that feels almost - almost - as good as her pussy. It feels good, to be bare with her - or as bare as they can be, under the circumstances. To be open, to be honest. This is what intimacy is; it's not just cock and cunt and cum, it's this. It's skin and hands and two hearts sharing the truth of themselves. The truth is that he is not whole, without her. The truth is he has never felt as much himself as he does when he is near her. The truth is she is the one who made him the man he is, and the man he is wants her, desperately.

The truth is she feels so fucking good he is dangerously close to cumming after three strokes inside her.

"So good," he tells her, drawing his hips back, surging forward just to hear her cry out for him. "You're so good, Liv."

And she is, good. She is good; she is a warrior for truth, a champion for justice, a woman who would step in front of a bullet to save anyone in need. She is selfless and kind. She is ferocious in defense of the weak, unstoppable in pursuit of her purpose. She is righteous and vengeful as the god of the old testament. She is angry and wild and gentle. Time has changed her but he knows on a base, primal level that it has not changed her that much. She is still his Liv. She always will be.

"Good," she pants back at him. "God, so good-"

Her agreement, her encouragement, her hands and her heat, have loosed the beast of his own want, and he chases their union and the absolution it promises with abandon. Pounds into her, again and again, the door shuddering behind them while she claws at his neck and cries out her pleasure. Thrusts his aching, weeping cock into the softness of her relentlessly, addicted to the sensation of it, of her. Need blinds him, drives him on, makes him feel wild, untamed and unreserved. More more more his heart chants in his chest; he needs more of her, needs all of her, needs to feel her come undone around him.

But he's not sure he can get her there before his own release overtakes him. She is tight and wet and velvety soft around him and he's been waiting twenty goddamn years for this and a man can only take so much sweet pleasure before he breaks. His hands are occupied, one holding her leg at his hip, holding her open for him, the other pressed hard to the door and holding him upright, keeping him from crushing her. He can't spare a hand to reach down to the place where their bodies are joined, he can't -

She can.

She can, and does; while he surges inside her Olivia's hand shoots down between them, her fingertips ghosting across his cock where it's pistoning inside her, the touch electrifying. For a second she lingers there, apparently as awestruck by the reality of their joining as he is, but then she remembers her purpose. Moaning and writhing beneath him she rubs her own clit while he buries himself inside her, her voice rising higher and higher, and it occurs to him to wonder then if anyone can hear her. Wonder if her voice will carry down to the street, if some passerby may take note of her delirious sounds of pleasure, and the thought of it only makes him fuck her harder. Let them hear, he thinks. Let them know that she is loved.

"Close," she pants at him.

"Come on," he growls back. "Come on, Liv, cum for me, wanna feel it, wanna hear it, come on -"

His encouragement, his cock, her fingers, drive her to the edge; she breaks like a wave, crashes into him, wet and overpowering, and he drowns in it, in the beauty of her undeniable response to him, in the powerful, prideful knowledge that he is the one who has given her this pleasure. Only for a second, though, because the beauty of it, of her, cumming on his cock, undoes him utterly, and he unleashes his own cataclysmic release, groans loud and long as his cock spills the slick evidence of his desire deep, deep inside her.

For a minute, maybe two, she just holds him. Holds him, her leg wrapped tight around his hip, her arms around his middle, clinging to him as a child to a favorite stuffed animal. Holds him, smells his sweat and his aftershave and the mint from the gum he's always chewing. Holds him, feels the solid warmth of his body at rest, breathing deep and slow in her embrace. Holds him, the way she's wanted to for ten long years.

But they cannot stay here much longer; they have stayed too long already.

With gentle hands she cradles his head, pulls his face up from the pillow of her breasts so she can look into his eyes, so blue and so tender, so full of hope.

"We have to go," she says. I love you, she thinks.

He nods once, draws his hips back slowly, watches in avid fascination as his cum follows after, dripping down her thigh. That won't do, she thinks, she'll have to go to the bathroom, try to clean herself up, will have to -

As she looks at Elliot his eyes go dark, watching the slow slide of his cum against her skin, and then he reaches out, catches it on his fingertips. Maybe he means to be a gentleman; maybe he feels some remorse for making such a mess of her in the middle of a workday, but the sight of it, his hand, his cum, her body, ignites an unexpected need in her, and she grabs him by the wrist, lifts his fingers to her mouth and sucks them clean one-by-one, looking him in the eye all the while. If she had more time, she'd take his cock in her mouth, watch him fall under her spell completely, and she wants him to know this. If she had more time she'd sit on his face and come apart with his beard burning her skin, and she wants him to know that, too. If she had more time she'd scream and rage and fight him, pound her fists on his chest and weep and let his promises and his hands soothe her battered heart.

But time is the one thing she never has enough of, and as she looks at him now she can't help but wonder how much time they have left. Does he mean it, she wonders; is he really home to stay? What does he think is going to happen next? There's no denying the truth of what they've just done, what it means for them; there is no coming back from this, no universe in which she can pretend this didn't happen, carry on like she was before, without him. He has torn her open, and she can't knit herself back together, not this time. If he leaves her now, he'll take her with him when he goes.

In silence they dress, pull their pants back into place; she grimaces as she feels him pooling in her underwear and doesn't miss the prideful smile that spreads across his face in response. He likes that, she knows. His cum inside her, slowly spilling out, staining her underwear. She likes it, too, but Christ she has to work.

As she runs her fingers through her hair, trying to let out some of the volume he's teased into it, Elliot reaches for her, slides his hand over her hip and pulls her in close, and she can't help it; she melts against him, turns her face up to him and sinks into his kiss with a sigh. A soft kiss, a sweet kiss, a gentle kiss that lingers, that soothes. When he pulls back he runs his fingers through her hair and ruins all her hard work and she's not even mad, can't be when he's looking at her like she's the center of his whole world.

"What are you doing after work?" his voice rumbles at her, a little hopeful, a little uncertain.

After work she has to go home, find something for dinner, spend time with Noah, and however much she has shared with Elliot out in this roof she isn't ready to share her son with him. Not yet, anyway.

Maybe one day. Maybe they'll get there. She hopes so.

"I'll call you," she murmurs. Maybe he can come over after bedtime, leave before dawn. Maybe that'd be ok.

"You gonna answer?" she adds, remembering a lifetime ago and a hundred unanswered calls.

"Every time," he swears. "I promise."

"You better," she tells him. "Or I promise, Elliot, I will kill you this time."

He laughs, and kisses her again, and a tiny seed of hope begins to bloom deep in her chest.

We're gonna be ok, she thinks. Eventually.