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At first, it’s requesting to watch the Knicks and asking for a Julius Randle home game jersey.
Then it’s cheering in tandem on the couch for the Jets and choreographing mini celebrations after each touchdown and completed field goal.
For a solid month, Olivia is convinced that Noah is going to drop dance in favor of sports.
Then it’s mimicking specific mannerisms and dialogue, like calling him ‘El’ instead of ‘Mr. Stabler’ or ‘Elliot’. He even gains the ability of cocking his head to the side with a bashful smirk to get his way at dessert time.
For those brief moments, she catches the proudness on Elliots face from his spot on the couch as if he’s succeeded at something monumental.
Though she’ll never give him the satisfaction of confirmation.
It’s only when the last recital of the season approaches that she pieces each of those subtle changes in her son together and figures it out.
He’s throwing a tantrum about the suit he has to wear; complaining that it doesn’t match, that it’s not ‘fancy’ enough and as she kneels to the floor in front of him, lifting his chin to meet that piercing blue gaze, she asks him what he thinks fancy means and why he thinks he needs that.
It’s a simple answer; innocent but calculated.
“It’s not sharp like El. You always say El looks sharp. I want to look sharp for my recital. You said that’s a good thing. I wanna be sharp.”
Cupping his cheek as the emotion hits her square in the chest she pulls him in close for a forehead kiss — half expecting him to push her away in disgust as such is normal for the eight year old boy.
But he doesn’t.
“You didn’t pull away.”
“You don’t pull away when El does it. And he lets you give him cheek kisses.”
It dawns on her then that Elliot isn’t the only one Noah has been observing.
For eight years old, he’s perceptive and absorbs everything like a sponge. He’s attached to Elliot — in the way he was to Peter — and that frightens her because there’s still uncertainty of Elliot’s intentions and his commitment to her.
“Well, then sharp you shall be. But I must say Noah, you do always look nice for your recitals.”
She’s grabbing the vest as he re-ties his dress shoes and helps him slip into it. He asks for the real tie this time and if she’ll help him with the knot.
The knock on the door stops her from draping it over the back of his neck because it’s an opportunity for one of those private dreams to come true.
As she stands in the hallway watching the broad back of Elliot Stabler lean over her son, his large hands dwarfing the tiny strip of faux silk and reciting a rhyme for guidance, she's struck with awe and realization that she truly is closer to all her dreams than she thought.
When Noah pivots around him, his face beaming with the largest smile she’s seen since his first dance lesson, the tears well in her eyes and that proud mama urge is filling her chest so full she can barely breathe.
“How do I look mom?”
“Sharp, sweet boy. Sharp.”
Briefly she looks at Elliot and mouths a thank you, her hand resting over her heart to signify the depth of it.
He just nods, places his hand between the young boy's shoulders and ushers him towards the door.
In a move that is more Elliot than her, she grabs him by the elbow and uses his momentum to swing him back into her space for a sweet, chaste kiss to the lips.
And finally, the confirmation she swore she wouldn’t let him have, is being given. The light of his smile shines in his eyes as his hand cups her cheek, and though he would deny it vehemently, there’s a hint of smugness in that toothy grin.
Subtle changes are good, they’re safe and they’re promising. And all it took was for an over-observant eight year old to acknowledge and apply them.
Complete.