fanfic | svu | eo

[ziyalofhaiti]

The Gravity of Love

an EO fanfic
--ziyalofhaiti--

His eyes find her, and his feet still.

The air locks in his throat, and he can’t breathe.

He has never seen her like this before.

Hunched over.

Broken

.



He doesn’t delude himself into thinking that she is just having a rough day. One rough day could never break Olivia Benson.

No, it has been a long, lonely month for her. Each day she looked more hopeless than the last. Today, the chinks are stronger than her armor, and Olivia has finally broken.

Olivia.

Broken.

He cannot reconcile these two concepts together.

Yes, he has seen her physically wounded, he has feared for her life, but those were merely external factors making her vulnerable. Now, what is within her is breaking her.

Pain had marred her eyes since the first moment they had met. Over the years, her dark irises revealed only more and more hurt. But she had always stood tall despite that pain-perhaps in defiance of it.

Elliot was never oblivious enough to think that in the privacy of her own loneliness she never cried, doubled over, or broke, shattered from all that pain. But having a vague idea of it and witnessing it were two different things.

For a moment he thinks he can imagine the extent of her pain. How much it hurts to lose someone you love. Then he realizes that he has no fucking clue because as much hurt as he has endured in his life, as much as her own hurt often translated onto him, he still had all of his children, and they had never been taken away. He had a wife. He had her.

And Olivia?

She had nobody.

Not really.

Not when it mattered the most.

Because it was New Year’s Eve.

Ellliot was about to head home to be with his family.

Olivia was doubled over in pain.

Broken.

He stands in the doorway of the locker room, his eyes fixed on her. There is a deathly silence in the air, and sitting astride the bench, her back is towards him and her head hangs low. The only indication that she is conscious is the tremble in her shoulders.

She remains unaware of his presence, of his gaze, of his sympathy, of his panic at seeing her like this.

He wonders if he should just let her be. She cherishes her privacy more than anyone he knows. She wouldn’t want anyone to see her like this. Not even him. He hates that truth, but he understands it because he never lets anyone see him like this either.

He could just slip away quietly and wait for her in the squad room. When she returns to her desk, she would be tired but composed. She would wish him a nice evening, he would leave, and her pain would pass unacknowledged.

Maybe it’s the notion that her pain has passed unacknowledged for far too long, or maybe it’s that he’s never watched anyone in pain without wanting to help, or maybe it’s a combination of both, but it doesn’t really matter because all he knows in this moment is that Olivia has to know that she is not alone, that her pain is valid, that she has the right to break.

“Liv ...” he reaches out gently.

Immediately, her shoulders still, and her back straightens.

Olivia does not avoid confrontation, least of all with him. But now, she doesn’t turn to look at him, and she doesn’t say anything.

Which means that her eyes are filled with tears, and that she doesn’t trust her voice not to crack. Because she never lets anyone see her weak, not if she can help it, not even if it’s just him.

Olivia.

Broken.

So fucking broken

So Elliot does the only thing he knows how to do, the only thing she might possibly accept.

He takes a few steps towards the bench, and sits astride its edge.

He waits and says nothing.

She doesn’t flinch.

He slides down the bench towards her, and stops just short of touching her.

He waits.

She doesn’t seem to react to his proximity.

But he is here.

It’s all he knows how to do and he hopes it’s at least a fraction of what she needs right now.

So close to her now, he hears her shallow breaths breaking the silence. Once and again. She’s trying hard to regain control, to breathe more deeply, but she doesn’t seem to manage it just yet.

The heat from her body fills the air between them. His hands are restless to touch her. To reassure her. To comfort her.

He thinks a hand on her shoulder would be more appropriate, but in the end, he realizes it would be more for his benefit than her own. He doesn’t dwell on what kind of touch she might accept; instead, he chooses not to disturb her in her brokenness.

So he sits there and waits.

She does not protest, and he takes it as a sign that he might be helping.

Of their own volition, his eyes roam the fragments of beauty offered by her hunched form. Her usually authoritative shoulders are now sunk, but he finds them beautiful for all the weight they’ve carried. His gaze travels to the small expanse of her exposed neck. Her complexion is darker than his, and he wonders how his hands would look against her olive skin.

Her hair is up, like most days this past month. She has been tired a lot too. He knows she hasn’t slept much since Calvin left. He thinks it ironic that people lose so much sleep over their children, yet Olivia seems to be the exact opposite. Why did things always happen upside down for her? He often wants to curse God for putting her through so much shit, for never letting her catch a break. She gives so much of herself to others, and she always gets jack shit in return. But he cannot curse God when all his kids are healthy and safe. He is such a hypocrite.

Sometimes he wonders what he has done to deserve five children, and what Olivia has done to deserve none. Worse than none. What had she done to be given a child only to have him taken away?

Maybe it was karma. Maybe previous lives did really exist. Because Olivia is so much better than he could ever hope to be. Only a previous life as a tortured saint could explain why he got so much more in this life than she did.

Or maybe being by her side all these years, yet never being allowed to touch her, is considered torture enough.

His stare is focused on the nape of her neck where a few strands of her hair hang loosely. Her breathing has calmed, but it is still irregular, and he begins to question if he is helping at all or just making it all the more difficult for her.

He thinks he will stay for just a moment longer, and then leave her be. Let her compose herself privately like he knows that she would want to do.

He is considering his decision, when Olivia stirs.

Slowly, at first.

Then her palms move to rest on her knees.

She steels her legs against the floor.

This time it is Elliot who doesn’t flinch. He knows she is struggling to gather herself, to bottle up those emotions again, to conceal the pain from her features. She needs to be the one to show strength in this moment, so he sits still and waits.

She squares her shoulders.

Her head, still bowed, shakes slightly.

She takes a deep breath.

Her head lifts slowly.

But then a hiccup escapes her throat.

And another.

And then her fists are banging hard against the bench beneath them; her erratic breaths fighting to contain the hiccups; her body recoiling into itself again.

She shatters right in front of him.

Olivia.

Breaking.

All over again.

Elliot does the only thing he knows to do; he follows his instincts.

His arms wrap around her shaking shoulders.

His hands find their way to hers. His palms close around her fists, and he gently pulls them into her chest.

Her head is still bent, her breathing still shallow, but she does not stiffen at his touch, and that’s enough for now.

Her vocal chords silence the hiccups, but they still rack her entire body from within. He wishes he could just make it all go away. He thinks about all the things that he would give up in his life just so that she could be happy. Because seeing the pain in her eyes intensify with each passing day has taken a bigger toll on him, he believes, than working in special victims

He cannot will the hurt away, so he just holds her trembling frame, sharing silently in her pain.

The woman in his arms may be sobbing now, but he knows her to be just as strong and fearless as he is. This frightens him because the extent of her pain suddenly becomes acutely clear; he, all too vividly, remembers what it feels like to hurt so much that you want to roll up in a ball and cry until all the hurt runs out.

As a little boy, he cried himself to sleep every time his mother disappeared, wondering if that night was the night she never came back. When he was a teenager and Kathy told him she was pregnant; he knew he had to man up and do the right thing, but that night, his mattress had received the punches of his rage, cursing himself for his own stupidity, only to end up muffling his cries, because his life was fucking over before it had even begun. When, as young parents, he and Kathy waited for hours in the NICU, while Maureen fought for her life. Kathy had hugged her knees and prayed, and Elliot had done everything he was supposed to-he had reassured her, told her everything would be all right, held her, got her food, but it had all been a lie because what he really wanted to do was roll up in a ball, numb away the fear and the pain, and sleep until it was all over. But he was a police officer, a husband, and a father, and he could no longer afford such luxuries, so he lied and did what was expected of him. Two days later, they were all back home, but that night Elliot had gone to bed with the bitter knowledge that even as an adult, he was not the hero he was supposed to have become.

After the NICU experience, he had buried every single moment of pain he had felt, and when the pain was so strong that he couldn’t thwart it, he had turned it into rage and lashed out at the first person or thing that crossed his path. It wasn’t perfect, but it served him well, and it sure as hell beat rolling himself up in a ball like a little kid. He was no longer a little boy abandoned by his mother.

His first SVU case had made him sick to his stomach. He knocked the perp around, almost got suspended, knocked the crap out of the punching bag at the gym, and when that still wasn’t enough to stop the pain of what he had seen, he went home and fucked his wife senseless. And when he thought she couldn’t take it anymore, he jerked off until his skin was chafed; wanting to feel anything but the searing image of his daughters’ faces on that dead, tortured little girl’s body.

It seemed to work, this kind of release, because at least he didn’t remember the nightmares Kathy said he had. The combination of rage, sex, and exhaustion was the best antidote because they made him feel powerful, in control. Even if it was just an illusion. Even if it was not real. It made him feel that he had it under control.

Everything.

Under control.

Everything.

And then she had left.

She fucking left.

Without saying goodbye.

He tried calling her.

Her phone had been disconnected.

He had tried his usual remedy. He went for the rage. He punched and he punched until a line had formed behind him at the gym. He went to a bar thinking he could pick up an easy lay, but they all tried to look sixteen with fake breasts and a ton of make-up, and he decided he would rather fuck the couch. So he went back to his apartment. His fly was open the second he walked through the door, jerking off from the shower to the kitchen to the pay-per-view porn. After another shower, he finally slid into bed. Exhaustion was there, but sleep would not come. His mind wandered to her. How she smiled, how she laughed, how she interrogated a suspect, how she comforted a victim, how her eyes bored into his when she was angry. How she had left without so much as a goodbye. No note, no voicemail, no nothing. How maybe he would never see her again.

He had cursed her name out loud.

Olivia was not his mother, but he was once again abandoned by the most important woman in his life. He wanted to curl up in a ball and cry the pain away, never knowing until that moment that her leaving would hurt so damn much.

But he was Elliot fucking Stabler, detective, partner, half-husband, father; he didn’t curl up; he didn’t cry. So his limbs remained painfully outstretched. Facing downward, he screamed into the pillow until he was hoarse, continuing his well-rehearsed cycle: rage, sex, exhaustion, rage, sex, exhaustion, rage, sex ...

He doesn’t remember how long it was until fatigue finally claimed him, but he does remember his body’s betrayal the next morning: he woke up in fetal position.

So he knows all too well what it feels like to want to curl up in a ball and disappear, and he knows what it feels like to indulge in it when you’re supposed to be the strong and brave one. Or how devastating it is for someone else to see you that way.

He knows.

He knows her.

Every broken part of her.

The tremble in her shoulders has gone, he realizes.

Her fists have softened beneath his palms. Her breaths are still short and shallow, but she is regaining control, and this makes him glad.

His head is bowed over her neck, and the loose strands of her hair sway in movement with his breath. Tiny goose bumps form along her skin, and he cannot help but think it is adorable.

The air he inhales is filled with the scent of her. It’s never changed since he’s known her, but now is the first time he has access to it for more than a few accidental seconds. There’s rosemary and citrus fruit and a hint of lavender, and he cannot help but smile because he knows exactly which fragrance corresponds to which of her toiletries. Twelve years is a long time to not have such facts stored in his memory, he explains to himself.

His lets his eyes close, reveling in the familiarity of how much he knows her.

The fragrance of her products only enhances the natural aroma of her skin, which is his favorite, because it is the part that solely belongs to her, that is always with her, even when stripped bare. It is just her.

He thinks that even if he lost his four other senses, he would still recognize her by her scent alone. Because he knows her.

Inside out.

Broken or not.

He still knows her.

She feels warm in his embrace, her body relaxed within his. She is letting him hold her, and he cannot decide if it’s a blessing or a curse because holding her feels so good and so excruciating at the same time.

Her inhales and exhales are deeper and spaced out now. Her warm breath caresses his knuckles, and he thinks she has leaned into him a little. It is the slightest of movements, but it is there.

He knows it is time to step away because he is about to make a one-way turn into Deadly Sin Street, but he can’t remember the last time he has seen Olivia this relaxed, and he figures she deserves the brief reprieve. He can keep his mind and body under control for a while longer. For her sake. If not for his wife’s.

So he remains still and quiet, just like her. It is only their warm breaths that move, colliding into each other’s skin. He feels as if they are in their own little world, protected within the glass of a snow globe, impervious to time and space.

Maybe this is what heaven feels like.

Or nirvana.

Because after the thoughts he’s been having, he will need a hundred more incarnations to work off his karma.

He opens his eyes to bring himself back to reality, but all his sees is skin and more skin; so dark, so smooth, so seductive. His lips are close, so close, and he tries to think of his wife-cooking dinner, with the kids, even in the shower. But those images are like black and white photographs in contrast to the movie reel of his lips on Olivia’s skin, the colors changing in full slow-motion Technicolor splendor from before to after he has left his mark on her.

But today is not the day to be an asshole, so he does the right thing. His lips remain hovering, as he inhales her scent and breathes into her skin. He wonders what her breath would feel like on his neck.

Definitely, nirvana, he surmises.

Then she lets out a barely audible sigh of contentment.

Before he can revel n the sound, her back instantly straightens against his chest, and he knows it is time.

His arms fall to his sides and he stands up without a word. He moves to give her space, averting his eyes from her.

He hears her inhale deeply, and she gets up too. She appears calm and composed, like she usually is, and that makes him smile.

He thinks she sees the smile, but she doesn’t return or acknowledge it.

“So who’s taking care of Mom and Pop this New Year's?” she asks, her voice forcibly cheery.

“Just Eli, this year,” he replies. “The twins are going to some kind of sleepover after dinner and the girls are partying who knows where.”

“You know where,” she says.

She knows him all too well. He already has all the details. He knows parties change guests and venue, but this is the part that lets him feel in control, the part that he can do and feel a little better about his daughters being out in the city.

“Touché,” he admits.

And just like that, their stolen moment remains unacknowledged because they do not really touch and they do not really talk, but when they do touch, that is especially when they do not talk. Yet, in his embrace she had both shattered and pieced herself back together. That said more about her, about them, than a million words ever could.

He wants to ask her where she will be for New Year’s, but questions about where she spends the holidays are best avoided.

He feels torn about wanting to spend the rest of the day with her, or spending it with his children, and then he is reminded again why he’s an asshole: because his wife never even factors into the equation unless she’s standing right in front of him. He wonders what kind of shitty life he’s gonna get next, because he may catch perverts, but he’s an absentee father, a shitty husband, and a lustful partner, so maybe he’s gonna be the lonely, childless one in the next life. God knows he deserves it.

They walk back to their desks, and he tells her about Eli’s brilliant new word constructions. She lets out a little laugh, and he is sure that it is genuine. He knows he should be getting home, but he will stay a few more minutes, talking to her, making her laugh. Because making his partner laugh by talking about his children cannot be wrong, even if it makes him late. She saved Eli’s life, and Kathy’s, so it’s the least he can do for her on New Year’s Eve.

He knows that talking to her now, the stolen moment in the locker room, the way his eyes cannot get enough of her, have jack shit to do with her saving Eli’s life, but convincing himself of it now assuages his guilt and lets him stay a bit longer, because everything else is irrelevant when Olivia laughs.

Olivia.

Laughing.

A little less broken.