Chapter Text
Elliot had been awake for a while, staring at the ceiling while the city woke beyond the hotel’s double-paned glass. He hadn’t moved, not even to ease the pins-and-needles prickling through his arm. Olivia was sprawled half across him, one knee hooked over his thigh, her cheek pressed to his chest. Her hand was fisted tight in his T-shirt, knuckles pale against the fabric, like she didn’t quite trust him not to disappear again.
He lay perfectly still, afraid to shift, afraid to break the fragile trust of the way she had folded herself into him. She smelled faintly of hotel soap and her own shampoo, and the warmth of her body seeped into his, steady and grounding. He didn’t deserve it—this trust, this closeness. He didn’t deserve to be the place she rested when she finally let go. But he couldn’t stop drinking it in.
He hadn’t seen her this unguarded in years. Not since before.
Her hair tickled his jaw when she shifted slightly in her sleep, burrowing closer, her fist tightening in the cotton of his shirt. His chest ached with it. In another life, he thought, this would be every morning.
The phone started vibrating on the nightstand, soft at first, then again, then again. He ignored it for as long as he could, unwilling to shatter the illusion of quiet. But when it buzzed a fourth, fifth, sixth time, he sighed and reached carefully across her, easing the phone free without dislodging her weight.
Seventeen missed calls. Thirty unread messages. The top one glared back, blunt and urgent.
Why aren’t you answering? The jury’s back. –Barba
He closed his eyes for a second, guilt already gnawing. Then he brushed a hand against her shoulder. “Liv.”
She made a soft sound, reluctant, like she wanted five more minutes in this cocoon. His throat tightened at the thought. But he said it again, firmer this time.
“Jury’s back.”
The words snapped through whatever dream was left. Olivia was upright in a blink, hair wild, breath already coming fast. “What—time?”
“Seven-thirty.” Elliot was already moving, calm in the way he only got when there wasn’t any time for anything else. He handed her the phone so she could see the barrage for herself, then set it facedown on the nightstand like a live wire. “Okay. Shoes, brush, anything you need—tell me.”
She shoved both hands through her hair and made a face at the mirror across from the beds. “I need a different life,” she muttered, then swallowed. “And clean clothes.”
“Right.” He cracked the suitcase like it was a crime scene—shirts, chargers, an ancient shaving kit, and the chaos of a grown daughter’s laundry. “Kathleen threw half her dresser in here when I left.” He held up a half-folded concert tee. “Not exactly court chic.” Toss. “One earring.” He blinked at it. “Why do I even have—” Toss. “Socks. None of them match. That tracks.”
Despite the clock pounding in her head, Liv huffed a laugh that steadied her for half a second. “You’ve got quite the boutique, Stabler.”
“Welcome to Stabler & Daughter: curated chaos.” He kept digging, then—“Aha.” He lifted a soft black tank, a simple cream blouse, and a light navy jacket that bordered on respectable. “We might be in business.”
“Bless your messy child,” Liv said, taking the stack and backing toward the bathroom. She paused, eyes flicking to his. “Brush?”
He had it ready. “And—” he rummaged in the toiletry bag, “—elastic.” He offered the hair tie like a surgeon passing an instrument.
She disappeared behind the door. The faucet hissed. Elliot moved through the room like muscle memory—tugging the bedspread straight to find her other shoe, checking his pockets: keys, wallet, badge, phone. He poured the last of last night’s coffee into a paper cup and grimaced, then decided even terrible coffee was better than none. He set it by the sink for her anyway.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand again—Barba—then Amaro, then Brian. Elliot’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t touch it. Not his to manage. He grabbed his own cell, thumb hovering over Kathleen’s name, then flipped it face-down too. One disaster at a time.
The bathroom door opened. Liv stepped out in the black tank under the cream blouse, Kathleen’s jacket softening the edges. Her hair was twisted into a clip; she’d swiped on mascara and the kind of neutral lipstick that read as armor rather than vanity. Her blouse was still creased from his suitcase.
“Hold up,” he said, already crossing to the tiny iron bolted to the shelf. He snapped it open, hit steam, and ran it fast over the worst wrinkles while she watched, half embarrassed, half grateful. “You’re good,” he told her, handing it back.
She tugged the hem straight. “You have a future in wardrobe.”
“Don’t threaten me,” he deadpanned. “Shoes?”
She stepped into her flats, wobbling long enough for him to put a steadying hand at her elbow. “I’m fine,” she said automatically, but didn’t pull away until the wobble passed.
“Phone, badge, ID.” He ticked the list, quiet and practical.
She patted her purse, then stilled. “Badge.” Panic flared, hot and immediate. She looked at the chair, the nightstand, the bedspread like it might materialize if she stared hard enough.
“Jacket pocket,” he said, already reaching. He’d hung it on the back of the desk chair last night after she crashed. He slid a hand into the inner lining and came up with the leather. “You trusted me with it when you fell asleep.” He didn’t say you fell asleep on me because there wasn’t space for that now.
She took it, relief softening the lines around her eyes. “Thanks.”
“Protein bar?” he offered, because he knew her tells—her stomach would be a knot and she wouldn’t think of food until she hit a wall. He found one at the bottom of his bag and held it out. “Two bites, minimum. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I’ve seen some things.”
She rolled her eyes and took it, tearing it open and chewing like it was punishment, washing it down with the bad coffee. “God, that’s awful.”
“Yeah.”
The room hummed with what they weren’t saying. We slept tangled. We’re walking into the end of something. None of this is simple.
She reached for her phone at last. Her thumb hovered over Brian’s name, then slid to Amanda instead.
—I’m okay. Don’t rally the troops.—
A reply popped immediately.
—Copy. I’ve got the idiots on a leash.—
A second bubble appeared.
—You with him? (I know, none of my business.)—
Liv glanced up; Elliot wasn’t watching her screen, just slipping his wallet into his jacket, giving her the illusion of privacy he knew she needed. She typed back:
—See you at court.—
She slid the phone into her purse and blew out a breath. “Ready?”
“Always.” He said it lightly and it still landed heavy between them.
They moved in tandem through the motions—he held the door, she checked the lock twice on instinct, he palmed the keycard, she slung the purse strap across her body like a bandolier. The hallway smelled like over-bleached carpet and someone else’s cologne. A housekeeper’s cart blocked most of the passage and they squeezed past, muttering apologies, Liv’s shoulder brushing his chest in a flash of contact that buzzed for a beat longer than it should.
Elevator doors opened on a mirror that gave her too much of herself. She fixed a flyaway, tugged her jacket straight. Elliot stood behind her shoulder in the reflection—solid, steady, impassive in the way he’d learned to be when everything inside him burned.
A pair of tourists got on at the next floor, murmuring about brunch. Liv pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to keep from laughing. The absurdity of it—the world going soft-boiled and normal while hers balanced on a knife edge—nearly undid her.
In the lobby, the desk clerk’s smile snagged on recognition, then smoothed again. Elliot didn’t slow. He held the door; the cold air outside slapped color into Liv’s cheeks and cleared the bleach-scent from her head.
“Cab or walk?” he asked.
“Cab. If I hear my name shouted one more time before we even hit the steps—” She shook her head.
He lifted a hand; a yellow car veered over like it had been waiting for him all morning. He opened the back door and stood until she was in, then slid in after her, shoulder to shoulder but not touching. The driver flicked his eyes to the rearview. “Where to?”
“Criminal Court,” Elliot said. He didn’t add please. The word had never helped him much.
Liv stared at her hands in her lap—faint tremor, the ghost of it. He noticed, because he noticed everything when it came to her. He wanted to take her hand, to thread their fingers the way he’d done yesterday when the world tried to crack her open. He didn’t. Restraint tasted like metal.
Traffic lifted and the city unspooled around them: vendors setting up, steam from a manhole, a dog tugging its human down a crosswalk. Mundane life stacked on top of catastrophe. Liv swallowed the last of the protein bar, grimaced, wiped her fingers on the wrapper, then tucked it neatly into her purse like control could be manufactured out of simple order.
Elliot’s phone buzzed. He took one look—Barba again, with a curt now—and tucked it away. “We’re good on time,” he said, as if saying it could make it true.
She nodded, eyes fixed on the window, watching the courthouse pull closer, heavy and inevitable. Her hand slid an inch on the seat. He didn’t move his. The space between them held.
The cab stopped. Outside, microphones and lenses waited like beaks. Elliot paid, stepped out, and came around her side. For a beat, he held the door like he could hold off the entire city, and she met his eyes.
“I’ve got you,” he said, simple as anything.
“I know.” She believed it. She stepped out into the noise.
-000-
The jurors filed in, faces unreadable, and Olivia’s stomach knotted so tightly she thought she might be sick. The forewoman stood, verdict slip in hand, but instead of diving straight in, she cleared her throat and launched into a moral lecture—words about police brutality, excessive force, officers who thought they were above the law.
The words blurred, but the tone landed like a gavel against her skull. Like he’s the victim, Liv thought, bile rising in her throat. She kept her eyes forward, her spine ramrod straight, but inside she was shaking.
Her fingers dug into Elliot’s knee before she even realized she was reaching. His hand slid under hers, warm and steady, threading their fingers together. He gave one squeeze—solid, grounding, a reminder she wasn’t alone.
“On the charge of attempted murder: not guilty.”
Her chest caved inward. The words hit like a body blow. She squeezed Elliot’s hand hard enough to hurt, panic spiking in her chest. Was this going to be another joke of a trial? Was he going to walk free?
Elliot’s jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle ticking. Fury radiated off him, but he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, except to let her crush his hand as if she could anchor herself to him.
“On the charge of attempted rape: not guilty.”
Her face stayed carefully blank, but humiliation crawled up her neck like fire. It felt like the jury wasn’t just absolving him—they were passing judgment on her. On her body. On what had been done to her. She blinked hard, fighting back tears that threatened to betray her.
Beside her, Elliot shifted forward, his whole body coiled like a spring. She tightened her grip, squeezing again, trying to pull him back from the edge. If he exploded, if he gave Lewis the satisfaction of an outburst, all of this would unravel.
“On the charge of kidnapping of a police officer: guilty.”
Her breath left her in a sharp, broken sob she couldn’t swallow down. She covered her mouth with her free hand, tears rushing to her eyes. Relief surged, sharp and overwhelming, and for the first time in months she felt like the ground might actually hold beneath her feet.
Elliot’s hand held hers steady, his thumb brushing once over her knuckles. She turned to him, and his eyes mirrored her relief, shining with unshed tears.
“On the charge of assault of a police officer: guilty.”
Her entire body gave out at once. She sagged sideways, her shoulder hitting Elliot’s, head tipping against him like the weight of the last year had finally broken through. He shifted just enough to catch her, steady her, not caring who saw.
Twenty-five to life. He wouldn’t walk free. She wasn’t safe—not really, not ever—but this piece of it was done.
The judge thanked the jury, dismissed them, and remanded Lewis to Rikers. The shuffle of robes and the scrape of chairs filled the room, but to Olivia it all sounded far away, like she was underwater.
Elliot stayed pressed against her, silent, immovable. She let herself lean there, just for a breath, until Cragen leaned over and pulled her into a hug, his eyes wet at the corners. Amanda and Nick hovered nearby, smiles breaking through their own exhaustion, Amanda’s glance flicking down to where Elliot’s hand still half-covered hers.
But Liv’s eyes kept scanning the room, searching through the blur of reporters and uniforms. She didn’t find Brian.