Title: Even Closer At Heart.
Fandom: SVU.
Pairing: Elliot/Olivia.
Rating: PG.
Words: 3,355.
Summary: Everyone thinks Elliot fell off the face of the Earth after his retirement. Olivia knows better.
Notes: This was written super quick as a pinch hit for the Not Prime Time fic exchange over at Archive of Our Own, so apologies if there are some bits that seem a little rushed—I wanted to get it done on time. Takes place in season thirteen, though you don't need to have watched it. Starts after the deleted Semper Fi scene (no I'm not still bitter it was deleted).

You couldn't do it in person?

Olivia sends the text in the late evening, thumb brushing across her phone screen to skim the number of unanswered messages before it, each green bubble of text glaring up at her like some sort of long-running joke. Taunting. Mocking. Hurtful. Her last text is days old—something she'd sent in the early hours of the morning, when she'd laid awake in bed, eyes trained on the ceiling as the events of the past few months played in her mind as if on repeat. The words a last, futile attempt at contact. At closure.

When a day had passed and he still hadn't replied, she'd been ready to drop it. To finally give up. Move on. Leave the ball in his court.

The envelope in her lap changes things.

Her heart had stopped when she'd seen it. Her chest swelling with inexplicable emotion. She'd recognised the handwriting instantly, Elliot's penmanship burnt into her brain after twelve years of joint paperwork. She'd wanted to cry when she read it. Could feel the emotion bubble up inside her: the tightening of her throat, the burn to her eyes, the difficulty in breathing. Instead, she'd shoved it inside her desk draw. Had left it there to be forgotten as the job took priority.

Now, though, alone in her apartment, she pulls it out again. Drops her phone to hold his note in her palm, the medal glistening lightly under the shine of her lamp. Her free hand holds the stem of a wineglass, its contents blood red and almost empty. She lifts the glass to her mouth, downs what's left of it and puts it to the side. Runs her thumb over the words written in black sharpie. Semper Fi.

She knows what it means. It only makes it hurt more when he doesn't respond.

[]

Two months, almost five from the shooting. She doesn't hear from Elliot.

It isn't easy. Olivia handles it as well as she can, which, at times, isn't very well at all. Her emotions shift from shock to hurt to bitter resentment until, finally, resignation. It comes with an empty, hollow feeling. With a million questions, an influx of doubt, and twelve years' worth of memories she isn't sure mean anything anymore.

It's only after she's gotten used to Elliot being gone that he contacts her. Only after she stops looking for a shadow that no longer accompanies her own. Only after she's gotten used to the title Detective Amaro following the words my partner. Onlyafter she's stopped trying to contact him. Only once she's started to file memories away in a compartment dedicated to Elliot and Elliot alone.

It's late. Early morning, really. The chime of her cell wakes her up, the reaction one that's ingrained in her now. She reaches blindly, body twisting under the blankets as she fumbles for her phone. Half asleep, she forgets to check the caller ID.

"Benson," she answers. Her voice is low, deep with sleep.

A beat of silence follows, and then, finally: "Do you remember Gitano?"

It takes a minute for the words to register. For her to realise who's talking. It's so far from what she'd expected that she's rendered almost speechless for a moment, the only response coming to mind a soft, confused, "Yeah." Because of course she does. How couldn't she?

"It still keeps me up at night," says Elliot. His voice is quiet, almost a murmur. The words slurred in a way Olivia is familiar with. In the way that lets her know he's had far too much to drink.

"Elliot," she says, and it feels surreal. Almost like she's dreaming. Her mouth opens, shuts, opens again. Uncertainty gnawing at her. Every time she's imagined this conversation, it's never once been a drunken phone call at three am. "What the fu..." she starts, trails off. Exhales. Reaches a hand to run through her hair, rub at her eyes.

"Sorry," Elliot mumbles, and he sounds it. Sounds sad. "I'm so fucking sorry, Liv."

It's almost unintelligible, as if he's talking against his hand. Olivia sighs, sits up in bed and lets her eyes fall shut. She's angry at him—disappointed, really—and she wants to let him know. Wants to tell him how much of an ass he's been. But the anger is overshadowed by concern. By worry.

"Are you okay?" she asks. "Do you need me to come get you?"

There's a rustling on the other end, like he's shaking his head. "I'm fine," he tells her, the words utterly unconvincing. "I'm with my sister."

Olivia's brow raises at that. In all the years she's known him, she's never once known Elliot to willingly spend time with any of his siblings. "El—"

She's cut off before she can finish. "I gotta go," Elliot says, and the words are tinged with a sort of desperation. An urgency.

There's no time for her to bargain. The line goes dead before she can so much as try.

She doesn't fall back asleep.

[]

She does, however, get a text the next day.

It comes just before lunch, when she's sat at her desk, paperwork laid out in front of her. Nick looks up as her phone vibrates against the wood, and Olivia reaches for it instantly. A nervous pit forming in her stomach when Elliot's contact flashes up at her.

I'm at our usual, is what the text says. And that's all it takes for Olivia to stand up, wave away Nick's curious expression, and excuse herself.

Their usual used to vary—each location dependant on the day, the time, the season. But October, early afternoon, on a Tuesday? She knows the place.

He's standing outside, bundled up in a coat and leaning against the café's wall, shoulders hunched and hands tucked away in his pockets. The sight of him makes her halt, brings back that ridiculous sensation: tight throat, stinging eyes, shortness of breath.

She hates this. She really does.

He looks up when she nears him, when he hears her. The cadence of her step something he hasn't forgotten. They stare at each other, take each other in. He looks tired, Olivia thinks. Tired like she is. Emotionally, physically—all of it.

"You look like shit," is what she says, no two ways about it, and Elliot's face lights up. Mouth stretched in a wide grin that's out of place.

"Feel it, too," he says, and Olivia's mouth twitches.

"Lightweight," she murmurs, and then she moves for the door and he's following her inside. Like they've done hundreds, thousands of times before.

It shouldn't be so easy, she thinks. She shouldn't let it be so easy. But it is. She's still angry, still pissed beyond belief, but they've spent the last twelve years in tune with each other. It's not something that goes away.

"I didn't think you'd come," Elliot says when they sit down, coffee placed on the table between them. "I mean, I'd get it. If you didn't."

"I didn't think you'd offer again," Olivia tells him, and it's like flicking on a light switch. The tension swarming the space between them, making it uncomfortable.

Elliot looks down, away. Exhales slowly. "I'm sorry," he says. "I know it doesn't—I just—" He cuts himself off, runs a hand over his face. "I didn't want to hurt you."

Olivia snorts, breathy and humourless. "Well," she says, sarcastic, "you did a great job with that."

And maybe he thinks she's being harsh, but she doesn't care. He's the one who left without a word.

She watches him swallow. Stares at the movement of his throat, his face. Can tell he's trying to figure out what to say. How to say it.

She sighs. "Elliot," she says. Stops. "This isn't… Why now?"

He looks up, then. Meets her eyes. "Because I couldn't do it before," he admits softly. "You weren't at the precinct when I went to Cragen—and then the thought of having to tell you…" he trails off, fiddles with his coffee cup. "It was too much."

"I wouldn't have talked you out of it," she says, though she's not entirely sure it's the truth. She doesn't know what she would've done.

Elliot's mouth twitches; a small, sad smile. "You wouldn't've needed to," he says, and they fall quiet after that. Contemplative. Olivia remembers doing the same thing a few years prior, in a café similar to this. Only she'd been the one who'd left.

"They gave me a new partner," she says after a while, and Elliot looks back up at her, interested, and they sit there for the next hour. Talking about nothing and everything and somehow things are fine and they aren't.

It's enough and it isn't.

[]

It's easier, after that. At least sort of.

He starts talking to her again, mostly through text. It's harder when their schedules no longer align, when they aren't seeing each other every day, all day, but it's manageable. Different in the good way. She likes knowing that he's there when she needs him. That he knows she's there when he needs her.

It becomes apparent rather quickly that he hasn't spoken to anyone else. That she's the only one he's reached out to. It's surprising, still. They were like a family, she thinks. Had thought. But she gets it, mostly. Understands when he explains it to her; honesty coming easily when he can speak through written words. When he doesn't have to look at her.

And Olivia gets that, too. She's the same way with him.

When people ask what happened to her old partner, she skirts around a real answer. Tells them he retired and doesn't offer much else. She likes to keep their correspondence to herself. It's a selfish desire, she knows, but they'd always been closer to each other than anyone else. It seems fitting to keep it quiet. Seems better that way.

She doesn't question why.

[]

I'm in the city. Dinner?

Olivia's halfway out the door when she gets the text, walking beside Nick and Munch and only half listening while the others talk about their latest case. She'd been roped into going for a drink, but the text changes things. Has her stopping in her tracks and meeting their curious looks with a small smile.

"Rain check?" Olivia says. Ignores Fin's raised brow and Munch's pointed look. "Something came up."

"Something came up," Fin repeats, and it's obvious he thinks she's hiding something. Olivia bites back a grin—she's almost certain he knows.

"Mmhm," she hums, anything but inconspicuous.

Munch rolls his eyes. "What are we, chopped liver?" he asks. "Tell him we say hi, will you?"

Olivia does grin now, a light, airy laugh bubbling in her chest. "Will do," she says. Offers a quick goodbye before parting ways.

There's a Chinese restaurant in walking distance of her apartment, and she meets Elliot there. Walks with him inside and orders what they always get. She stares at him until he pays, until he pulls his card from his pocket with an almost-laugh and a murmur of you have more money than I do.

"They miss you," she tells him when they leave, bodies close together as they walk down the street.

Elliot doesn't have to ask who. He hums, the same way she had but sadder, and Olivia is used to this, now. The way he retreats when she mentions going back—like he still isn't ready.

"I'm not saying you have to do anything," she continues quietly. "It's just, you know. They're there."

Rather than respond, Elliot nods slowly. Reaches an arm out and links it with hers. Uses the contact to keep her close; keep their bodies warm amongst the wind and beginnings of snow.

It's new, the physical closeness. Odd, but the kind that puts butterflies in her stomach. She's so used to boundaries—to walking that incredibly thin line between too much and just enough. But the boundaries seem to have lessened, lately, now that their professional relationship is no longer an impediment. Now that Elliot seems to not be able to stop himself: touch a stand-in for when he doesn't know what to say. How to react.

Olivia would mention it, but she doesn't know how. Doesn't really want to. She adjusts the grip of her bag, tightens her hold on his arm.

The rest of the walk is mostly silent.

[]

"It's late," Olivia says later, well after they've eaten. When they're sat on her couch and watching the late-night news, the volume down low. "Don't you have to leave?"

Beside her, Elliot tenses. Goes quiet. Olivia arches a brow at the reaction, confusion mixing with concern.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Elliot answers, but it's on reflex. He sighs after he says it, offers a minuscule shake of his head. "No," he says. Rolls his head against the couch to look at Olivia before adding, "I've been looking at apartments."

Olivia blinks. "You mean..." She trails off, mentally flicks through every conversation they've had in recent weeks that might've suggested something like this was going on.

She comes up short. He hasn't talked about his home life, not recently. She'd just assumed things were fine.

Elliot smiles, and the look is one Olivia has seen before. The one where his eyes crinkle at the sides but he still looks sad. "Can't blame our issues on work when I'm not there," he tells her.

"Elliot," she tries, but he shakes his head.

"Don't," he says softly. "It's—fine. We've been talking about it for a while." He picks at non-existent lint, turns his gaze back to her TV. Watches without really seeing. "Since before I left, actually."

Olivia watches him. Doesn't know what to say. After a moment she exhales, leans toward him on the couch. "Maybe I should have paid for dinner," she says, and he laughs, fleeting but genuine, and the sound puts a smile on her face.

He doesn't ask, but she lets him stay. Throws blankets at his head and sits with him until he falls asleep, the low, rhythmic sound of his breathing oddly comforting.

He's still there in the morning, and part of her is surprised. Both at the fact that she's waking up to Elliot in her apartment and the feeling of complete rightness that comes with it.

[]

It's amazing, Olivia is typing, one hand curled around a coffee cup while she leans against the elevator wall. Struggles to type with just the one thumb. Gone for ten months & people still ask if we had an affair.

It's mostly an offhand comment, something light hearted. When she's not at home, they only get to speak to each other during stolen moments; fleeting instances of the day where things slow down enough that she can manage it. It's never a good time for a serious conversation.

Elliot's response comes a couple minutes later, when she's walking down the steps of the court house.

Fair question, it reads, and Olivia stares. Blinks.

Of all the possible replies, she hadn't imagined that one.

Drunk? she sends back. Because, really. Why else would he?

No.

Nostalgic.

Olivia stops walking, moves to the side. Out of people's way. She sends back a simple question mark in answer and waits impatiently for a response. She knows Elliot often finds it easier to say things through text, that a lot of important admissions have been things he's sent her at two, three in the morning. But even this seems... too much, somehow. Like it would've crossed a line at some point in time.

I'm unpacking, is what he sends back, and it's accompanied by a photo a couple seconds later.

Olivia brings her phone closer to her face, squints lightly to make out the image. It's photographs, she realises. Scattered across the top of a box, most of them old images of Elliot with his children, but a few of them of her. Of them, together. Closer than they probably should have been.

Oh, she thinks. Just—oh.

Her phone goes off again before she can respond, and the words that flash across the screen form a pit of excitement in her stomach. Make her insides flutter with something akin to opportunity.

Can I see you tonight?

He doesn't have to ask twice.

[]

It's on the late side when she gets home, the clock almost at eleven, but Elliot still meets her there. Still walks inside and settles down like it's not almost midnight. Like he has the right to be this comfortable in her apartment.

They fill each other in on their days, and part of Olivia still isn't used to this part. Still isn't used to being separated so much. But the other part likes it. Thinks it's been good for them.

"Lizzie's been helping," Elliot is saying. He's standing in her kitchen, looking at the contents of her fridge and very pointedly not laughing as she stumbles between her bedroom and her bathroom, trying to change out of her work clothes and into something more comfortable. "And by helping, I mean overtaking every design element."

"Probably a good thing," Olivia calls back. "Your last apartment looked like a before shot on a renovation show." She walks back out to the main room, grins in answer to Elliot's look of faux offence. "I say it with love," she jokes, plopping down on her couch.

He follows her there, sits beside her. Close enough that their shoulders brush, thighs too. When she leans back, her head is almost on his shoulder.

"'Course you do," Elliot mumbles, but he's got a small smirk on his face. Olivia grins at him, big, bright, and beautiful; the expression fading a moment later.

"I can come on Sunday," she says. "Help out."

"And by help out you mean snoop through all of my things and eat all of my food?"

Olivia's shoulder lifts in a light shrug. "You do it to me," she says, and Elliot huffs a laugh as he leans against the couch. Tilts his head back to look at the ceiling.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs. Falls silent after. Olivia looks at him from the corner of her eye, shifts just the tiniest bit closer.

"Why'd you come?" she asks, and her voice is softer now. Their conversation obviously taking a more serious turn. She's not complaining, she's just... curious.

There's a pause, and then Elliot's voice is quiet but clear. "I miss you," he says, and they don't often do this. The open honesty is both surprising and more than welcome. "I mean. I know we talk, but—"

"It's different," Olivia finishes. She gets that. Feels the same way. "I know."

"Yeah," Elliot breathes. Looks at her, his eyes clear and expression unguarded under the low light of her living room lamp. He's staring, unashamedly, and Olivia stares back. Can feel the tension thickening.

"What do you want, El?" she murmurs, because she isn't an idiot and she knows him well enough to know that he does want something. Because covert feelings and innuendo and years' worth of almosts are all well and good but she wants to hear him say it. Needs to.

"You," he says, plain and simple. He reaches out in the next second. Cups her jaw and leans forward when she doesn't recoil, their faces close enough that they're breathing the same air. That his lips almost brush hers when he whispers, "Always you."

There's no time to reply, and it's probably a good thing because Olivia doesn't know what to say to that. Elliot's mouth is warm when he kisses her, his lips dry but gentle and it isn't just a kiss—it's thirteen years and every exchange they've ever shared. Is everything they've wanted for a long, long time.

His grip on her tightens when she kisses back, his other hand moving so he's holding both sides of her face, and Olivia reaches out, too. Curls her hand in the fabric of his shirt and holds on tight.

Neither have any intention of letting go. Not this time.