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The city looks like the inside of a computer – like something Jet would’ve spent hours hunched over, cursing under her breath as she dissected the machine until it was unrecognizable. He needs to call her; check in. See how she’s doing. He owes a lot of people phone calls, actually.
For now, though, he just wants to study the city lights in the distance. He’s been standing out here long enough that he’s begun to notice small patches that have gone dark – offices turning their lights off after a long day, or maybe people leaving their apartments for a long night out.
He’s doing neither.
Well, maybe this is a long night out, but it certainly isn’t one that will be enjoyable. There will be no karaoke, no hookah – no cheers-ing with friends over nachos and sticky bartops.
All he’s doing tonight is thinking about his little brother, and how he failed him.
Maybe it’s self-flagellation in a way, and maybe it’s even self-indulgent: allowing himself the time to stew in his grief this way. He should be with his family. He should be with his Mama, and with Kathleen; comforting them and weaving a story for them that will provide some solace in this clusterfuck of a nightmare.
But he can’t do that – physically, he cannot.
He’s completely tapped.
He’s hollowed out like a jack-o-lantern, guts spilled in a pile off to the side, a phony twinkling light being shoved into his center to give the illusion that there’s a light on inside.
But there’s no light inside him.
Randall began to take notice after they visited Joey’s plaque at 1PP.
“Hey man,” he’d grunted under his breath. “If you can’t show up for them right now, why don’t you take the night? Just go and deal with it.”
Elliot had furrowed his brow. “Deal with it?”
Like there was any amount of time in the universe that would ever allow him to properly deal with it.
Randall shrugged and waved a hand in the air. “You know what I mean.” His voice was even gruffer than usual, maybe from doing so much talking, or maybe from crying. Elliot wasn’t sure which.
“Just—” he looked around helplessly, “-go get drunk, or fuck your girlfriend—”
Elliot was going to interrupt but Randall barrelled over him.
“-whatever you gotta do to show up for them tomorrow, so that I can take a break.”
Randall’s expression was serious, and Elliot realized he wasn’t the only one suffering. He didn’t think that he was – he knew that he wasn’t – but there was a flash of something in Randall’s expression that twisted like a knife in the center of his chest.
“Okay,” he agreed, not because he really wanted to do anything in particular, but because for once in his fucking life, Randall was right.
They both needed to take a break from this, but couldn’t do it at the same time.
“Okay,” he said again. “I’ll be back in the morning with coffee.”
Randall nodded, satisfied, and ushered him out of Eli and Becky’s apartment before anyone noticed he was gone. Randall would make up some kind of excuse for him, something that temporarily appeased their Mama until she forgot a few seconds later. Kathleen might not take too kindly to him skipping out, but he hopes that she at least understands.
McKenna answered his call after the first ring, clearly also looking for a distraction from the week’s events.
“I’ll bring a six-pack,” he’d said into the phone, right before hanging up.
And that’s how Elliot finds himself out here, leaning against the hood of his car, downing his third – or was it fourth? – can of whatever cheap shit McKenna picked up and left behind when he answered his phone and suddenly had to split.
It was probably a woman, Elliot thinks, now. There’s very few things Tim McKenna would leave that quickly for, especially when beer and depressing conversation are on the table.
Elliot tips the can back, letting the last of the lager slip down his throat before crushing the can in his fist. The crackling sound is satisfying and he gathers up the other cans and does the same before tossing them into the back of his SUV. He saw a dumpster on his way in here, and just because he’s in mourning doesn’t mean he’s going to turn into the type of garbage person that leaves trash behind.
He slams the door shut, preparing to move around to the driver’s side, when the crunch of dirt and rocks spinning er tires makes him turn.
There’s another SUV headed toward him – not Tim’s.
As it gets closer, he recognizes it, then he makes out the distinct shape of her hair. Somehow, he thinks he even makes out her frown through the windshield.
How’d she even find him?, he wonders.
Olivia pulls into the tire marks that McKenna left behind, and quickly kills the engine, stepping out as she pulls her heavy coat tighter around her body.
She smiles softly, but it’s somber.
“How long have you been out here?” she asks.
He shrugs. “A while,” then, “How’d you find me?
Olivia slips her phone out and waves it at him. “Remember when we shared find my phone on our personal devices a few weeks ago?”
“Oh,” he feels dumb. “Right.”
“It works pretty well,” she continues. “It didn’t pinpoint exactly where you were parked, but this ship yard isn’t that big. I drove around for a couple minutes and…” she trails off at his expression.
“C’mere,” she opens her arms wide and he steps into them, burying his face in the waves of her hair as he breathes deeply. She smells like safety – warm and sweet, and also a little bit like the precinct. That place has a paper-and-vinyl-sort of smell that clings to your clothes, and he finds that comforting, too.
It’s all the things that remind him of Olivia Benson.
Apparently he has his own aroma, though.
“You smell like beer,” she murmurs, smoothing a hand over his back. “How many of those have you had?”
“Not enough,” he replies.
Olivia huffs out a small laugh, because they both know that he could drink the entire six-pack himself and barely feel a thing. At this point, he almost has.
Elliot leans back, not wanting to let go of her, but needing to see her face.
Her eyes are glassy and wide open, searching him.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to go with the family to see his plaque,” she whispers. “I went just now. It’s perfect.”
He nods, but is afraid to do more than that. If he opens his mouth, he’s not sure what will come out.
“You know you could’ve asked me to help get that made…” she continues, and he shakes his head, swallowing hard. There’s a thick sob brewing deep in his throat, and he knows it's going to rip through him at any moment.
“I already—” he tries to clear it again, “-ask too much of you.”
He brings a hand up to scrub at his eyes, dragging the palm down his entire face like he might be able to wipe away the grimace that’s beginning to twist at his features.
Olivia tilts her head to the side, giving him that look – the one he knows so well. That empathetic, doe-eyed stare, which he finds himself at the receiving end of more often than not.
“That’s not true,” she says. “You don’t ask too much of me.”
He shrugs and shakes his head again.
“I ask for more than I deserve,” he grits out, the last word crumbling along with his composure.
He just needs a minute to fall apart – a minute of her arms around his shoulders and his face hidden in her hair again. A minute to lose himself to the guilt and the agony that’s been rising like floodwaters, creeping closer and closer to drowning him — and now he can’t breathe.
“I know, El,” she circles his shoulderblades with her palm, curling the other arm around his neck, and part of him wishes she’d tighten that arm the rest of the way; cinch it down until he starts seeing black spots in front of his eyes and can taste the murky darkness of unconsciousness in the back of his throat.
Part of him wants to die right now.
Part of him is already dead.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, and he feels her lips on his ear next, her breath soft and so fucking close.
His chest heaves a few more times, the silent tears wetting his cheeks and her hair and her shoulder; they’re fucking relentless. He’d hoped after Kathy’s death, that maybe he’d emptied himself of them. He’d felt like a dried up prune, or a towel that’s been rung out so violently that it remains twisted and useless.
But no, there’s no bottom to grief.
It just keeps coming.
“El,” she murmurs, moving a hand to the back of his head. “It’s freezing out here. Come sit in the car for a little bit.”
He lets her lead him to a car, not even sure which one of theirs it is until she opens the door and is hit with her smell again. The inside feels like her too, and he settles heavily into the seat, rubbing at his eyes and nose, trying to pull himself together as she walks around to the other door.
As she slides into the seat next to him, he shakes his head.
“Joey shouldn’t have been involved. I shouldn’t have let him.”
Olivia shifts to face him. “How would you have stopped him?”
“I don’t know,” he digs his knuckles into his eyes. “I don’t know. Lock him in a fucking room… God,” he looks out the window at the twinkling lights of Manhattan.
“Such an unnecessary loss – another one. How many of them are we gonna live through?”
She pulls in a slow breath, actually contemplating his question like it has an answer.
“More than anyone should,” she tells him.
“Yeah,” he nods. “That’s true.”
He leans back in the seat, finally turning his attention to Liv, who for a moment, distracts him with her long dark hair and even darker eyes. She looks beautiful as usual.
“He was so Goddamn stubborn,” Elliot says, returning to his previous thoughts.
She smiles softly. “Sounds like a Stabler, alright.”
That earns her a laugh, but it’s paper-thin and far too brittle to sound like anything other than a failed attempt at healing.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“For what?”
Elliot opens his mouth to answer. “I don’t know,” he admits.
Olivia reaches out a hand and settles it on his knee, smoothing her thumb back and forth. The contact is grounding and he cautiously allows himself to feel it.
“Who else was here with you?” she asks, and it makes him furrow his brow at her.
“How’d you know someone else was here?”
She nods toward the outside. “You missed a can. And I know you’d never pick out that crap yourself.”
That elicits a bigger laugh, and for a second he forgets. “Damn, Benson. You’re good.”
She smiles. “Well, I didn’t make captain for nothing.”
He nods in agreement.
“So,” she prods. “Who was it?”
Elliot holds her gaze for a little bit longer.
“Why, are you worried I was here with another woman?” he fires back. He isn’t even sure why he says it, because it’s absurd. They both know he’s smitten with her and always has been.
“No,” she scoffs.
“Tim McKenna,” he says, watching as she rolls the name around in her head.
“Ah,” she replies, somewhat covertly. “I’ve heard of him.”
Elliot shrugs. “Yeah, he helped me out recently.”
“Right,” she says, but she doesn’t ask any more questions.
“I think he actually ditched me for a date,” Elliot scoffs. “He rushed off after only having one of his shitty beers.” He smiles picturing how Tim flew into his car like his ass was on fire. “If this had been asphalt, he woulda left skid marks.”
Olivia chuckles. “Well, maybe that’s what he needed.”
“Yeah,” Elliot sighs. “Maybe.”
“What about you?” she shifts again, this time reaching for his hand and weaving her fingers in between his.
“What about me?”
She rolls her eyes at his evasiveness, even though he knows exactly what she’s getting at.
“What do you need?” she exhales through her nose and studies his profile as he gazes down at their clasped hands.
“This,” he admits. “You.”
He knows he should’ve called her sooner; shown up at the 1-6 and demanded her time, because that’s what people do when they’re dating.
Olivia hums, nodding slowly. “You’ve got me.”
He can feel the tell-tale burn behind his eyes again and he groans softly, trying to will it away.
“What?” she asks, squeezing and bringing their clasped hands to her mouth. She presses a soft kiss to one of his knuckles, and he can’t help but let his head drop to the headrest, heavier than a lead anvil. He turns it enough to meet her eyes.
“Hm,” he grunts, forgetting what her question was.
He was always bad at concentrating when Liv was around, but that’s only gotten worse as they’ve aged, and then exponentially worse once he knew what it was to be loved by her – mentally and physically.
She rests her cheek on their intertwined fingers, air coming from her nose in gentle puffs. It brushes his skin, and makes his head feel light.
“You’ve got me, El.” She says again. “So, how can I help you?”
He chuckles wryly. “What you’re doing right there isn’t so bad.”
“Okay,” she murmurs, tipping her face again so she can dust light kisses over each of his knuckles. It isn’t lost on him when she lingers for just a little bit longer on his bare ring finger. There’s an ache in his chest that is both grief and wonder.
“So,” she says, letting their hands drop to her lap. “Do you want me to follow you home?”
He nods stiffly. “Yes. Please.”
Neither of them move a muscle.
“Olivia…” he doesn’t even notice when the tears begin stealthily making their descent again, and by the time he does, it’s too late.
She’s leaning across the center console, kissing his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth – kissing everything, with no discrimination. He closes his eyes and he lets her, because it feels so good, he couldn’t possibly stop her. Eventually she lands on his mouth again, and she stays there, kissing him deeply and with such longing that he finds his hand releasing hers to reach for her waist instead.
“We should—” she breaks away briefly, but only to scoot closer. “We should go to your place.”
He nods in agreement, but doesn’t even make a move to touch the door handle.
His other hand curls around her neck, pulling her toward him until she’s bent completely over the divider, and she has no choice but to acknowledge what’s happening.
“Do you want to share that seat with me, Elliot?” Her voice comes out even lower and raspier than usual.
“Yeah. Would you sit with me?”
She obliges, hoisting herself up and over the uncomfortable piece of plastic separating them, and depositing herself heavily onto his legs. She’s solid and warm in his arms, and he holds her close enough to feel her heartbeat echoing his.
They kiss and kiss and kiss for so long he forgets where he is; with her perched on his lap and her hands stroking over his shoulders and across his chest, they escape together.
It isn’t long before they’re both too warm, and they begin shedding layers, each still pretending to not see the scenario playing out right in front of them. He didn’t expect this. He didn’t even imagine this when he saw her, but she has a way of surprising him in moments when he needs it the most. And, if there was ever a time he needed to be taken out of himself – shown something so bright it’s nearly blinding – it’s definitely now.
Their hats and coats get tossed into the back seat, along with his heavy sweater and her blazer.
Then it’s just thin pieces of silk and cotton, easily moved aside by hungry hands and wet lips. It’s his mouth on her neck and her breasts, and her fingertips tracing the solid ridges of his chest and stomach. It’s fiery skin-on-skin and slippery limbs gliding over each other. It’s adjusting their body parts like puzzle pieces until they get the fit – fighting with the lever on the seat and with their own stiff joints until they find a position that’s just right.
She’s in his lap much like before, facing away with her back flush to his chest. He has both arms curled tightly around her stomach – but something isn’t working. He needs to see her.
“Liv, need to see – see your face,” he pleads.
She reaches up, with no hesitation, and jerks the rearview mirror down and to the left. He finds her face in it, and lets out a ragged sigh of relief.
After that, their thrumming need and the sound of their heavy breathing fills the small space, and neither of them think of anything else.
They move together carefully, and with the focus of Olympic athletes, not resting for even a moment lest reality creep back in and pull him under. It isn’t graceful and it isn’t perfect, but neither are they. When he finally reaches a point where the restrained, languid thrusts aren't enough, he kisses her shoulder, almost like a silent warning.
She catches his gaze in the narrow mirror again, lashes fluttering over the brown pools of her eyes, and she nods.
His motions turn more desperate and quick, flicking his hips to meet her when he realizes that she’s hovering above him, right hand clutching the grab handle, bicep so pronounced that he has no choice but to smooth a hand over it.
Every curve moving over him is more tantalizing than the last: her arms, the muscles framing her spine, her hips, her ass, her shoulders – he touches all of them.
When he feels himself close, he hooks his arms around her and brings their bodies together once more, grinding up into her as she presses her own fingers against her center and builds herself up quickly.
But it’s not quick enough. He comes suddenly, with a strangled yell that probably makes her ears ring, and before he’s even fully softened, he’s reaching around her to finish the job.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, wiggling over him like she intends to move.
He just growls, “Please, let me,” and she melts back into him with a sigh, spreading her knees wider and finding his face in the mirror as he finds her center. He rubs her perfect, pink, bud and fucks his own come back into her with his thick fingers until her brows draw together and her jaw slackens.
“Oh,” she chokes out, right before she tenses above him.
They stay quiet for several minutes after that, and he watches the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing gradually slows.
“I love you,” she murmurs, reaching a hand back to cup the side of his face.
He turns to nuzzle his mouth into her palm. “I love you, too.” The words are muffled, but the sentiment isn’t.
“What else do you need, El?”
“Else?” he asks, watching as she bends forward and begins to pluck her clothes off the dashboard and from the footwell. “What else is there?”
“Want to grab a bite to eat?”
Elliot begins to rearrange himself, running a hand over her spine right before she pulls her shirt down over it. “I dunno, only if you’re hungry,” he says.
She shrugs. “I had a late lunch, so I’m alright.”
“You sure?” He instantly feels guilty at the idea of her skipping a meal for his sake. “I have a tray of something that Ayanna gave me. You know, sympathy food.” He brushes her hair aside so he can see her jaw and her profile. “I could throw it in the oven.”
“Sure,” she smiles faintly. “And then maybe a shower and bed?”
Elliot curls a hand around her wrist, tugging gently to get her attention.
“Yeah, shower and bed,” he murmurs. “Liv…”
She glances up at him. “El.”
What else is there to say?