Propinquity

Jezyk

Spoilers: Set in the future, anything through season 10 is fair game.

Disclaimer: I don't own them. Obviously.

Part One

She never thought she'd see the day. Really.

Neither did he.

Somewhere in the back of their minds, both simply assumed they'd be leaving Special Victims in a body bag.

So when the day came that Elliot asked to talk to her, Olivia thought nothing of it. He'd done the same thing, bought her a hot pretzel from the same vendor, led her to the same bench in the park, had the same pained expression on his face, the day he'd told her he was leaving Kathy. She expected she was about to hear the details of some family drama that really didn't matter to her, except that it meant a salty pretzel, a treat that she didn't normally allow herself to have because the salt just made her bloated.

But most of the pretzel never got eaten, although she hardly paid enough attention to even notice.

Because rather than explaining that Dickie was flunking out of college, again, or that Lizzie was having problems with her roommate, again, or that Kathleen really wanted to move out of her mom's, again, Elliot dropped a bomb on her. A fucking A-bomb. Olivia's world was crushed like fucking Hiroshima.

The son of a bitch was retiring.

He listed his reasons, the latest attempt of a knife-wielding perp which left a jagged scar down his right side only a blip on the radar of all the injuries he'd received over the years. He was getting older, he said. His luck was bound to run out eventually. And, even if he accepted that four of his babies were grown ups, little Eli wasn't. Lately, he claimed, he'd grown terrified that the poor child, who by three-years-old was already accustomed to being shuttled back and forth between his parents like a damn baton in a relay race, might have to grow up without a father. Maybe without even remembering his father.

Elliot had broken down, sniffling disconsolately at the thought that his son wouldn't remember him.

Olivia was pissed off. Because Elliot was most certainly in the midst of a mid-life crisis and she really wished he'd go out and fuck some pretty eighteen-year-old rather than destroy her whole house of cards. And instead of telling him so, she found herself comforting him, reassuring him that he wasn't dead, that he wasn't going to die, and that Eli would definitely remember him.

And still, the resignation stood.

And still, Olivia refused to believe it.

She didn't want to hear about the plans the boys were making for a party at Mickey's down the block. She swore she didn't care if they hired entertainment, not even if it was in the form of some nubile young thing scantily clad, because she didn't believe there was ever going to be a retirement party. She expected, before long, that Elliot would announce he'd changed his mind, that he couldn't walk away, that he was a fucking cop, after all, and that tended to get in the blood stream like a fucking addiction to heroin.

And honestly, it was about as deadly, which was why she was so sure they weren't going to be walking away with a gold-plated plaque from the mayor and a hearty pat on the back from friends. Cops, real cops, the kind of cops she thought she and her partner were, got carried off in vans to the morgue and their blood stained the street for a few days. Their dedication deserved some sort of remembrance, the sort of remembrance that didn't happen if the last time friends saw them was when they left for home, slightly tipsy, clinging to their plaque like it held the same power as their shield once had.

But the son of a bitch never, ever waivered.

And still, Olivia figured he was calling her bluff.

He was waiting for her to ask him to stay, or something. Because he hadn't mentioned it, not after that day. And even though he completed all his paperwork with a focus he'd never previously had, and even though the day eventually came when he'd forwarded his phone line to Fin's, and even though she had to face the day when Cragen stopped assigning Elliot as primary since he likely wouldn't be there by the end of the investigation, Olivia thought she knew better.

She knew better than all of them.

She knew him better.

But then, on a cloudy Tuesday afternoon, Olivia sat in her chair and watched as Elliot, armed with a small plastic bag, began packing away the photos of his kids. She saw him checking through his drawers, adding an item here or there to the small bag. She noticed the way he checked the desktop one last time after he stood. Out of utter confusion that the man actually thought he was going somewhere, Olivia followed him.

She'd been following him for years.

She started to wonder if he'd planned all along that someday he would cut her loose.

By the time she pushed through the door to the crib, Elliot already had his locker open. He'd pulled out his duffle bag, wrapped the plastic bag in a sweatshirt, and placed it inside. He grabbed the personal items – deodorant, toothbrush, comb – and shoved them into the bag as well. The clothes followed, old pants, stained shirts, whatever had accumulated in the locker in god only knew how many years. He carefully pulled free the pictures taped inside the door, folding the tape over the back to protect them from being stuck together. The shots of his kids joined everything else in the bag.

There was one of the two of them, one of the few shots in existence, that gave him pause. He held it in both hands, his lips curving up the slightest bit as he looked at it. And rather than giving it the same reverent treatment he'd given the other pictures, he offered it to her.

"You want this?"

Her blood ran cold in her veins, her eyes narrowing. She was ready to fight, to scream at him for being thoughtless. Except it didn't really matter anymore if he was thoughtless. At least, it didn't matter to her.

She shook her head. "I have a copy." And she did. It was the one she kept framed in her living room. The one every single man she'd ever had over had asked about. The one they all seemed slightly bothered by while they asked hopefully if he was her brother. The one she never bothered to explain would be the reason she'd leave them all in the dust. The one picture she owned of them, of the man to whom no others could hope to compare.

And the fucker was leaving her.

All of sudden, she wondered if maybe she shouldn't have held them all to such a fucking impossible standard, since in the end, it appeared, Elliot couldn't even meet it.

When he finished with the locker, after finally putting the picture in the bag with the rest, he closed it and pulled the lock free of the door. "Cragen's gone for the day, right?"

She nodded, accepting the lock when he handed it to her. "I'll give it to him in the morning." Thankful for something to do, she turned to her locker, setting the heavy piece of steel on the shelf. It was the only thing she had left, besides that picture, which she was thinking of burning. But it would be gone in the morning.

Just like him.

With a heavy heart, she turned back to him. She heard him sigh as he looked around, the sad tone sounding like he might have finally realized what he was doing. She was hoping he would ask for her advice, finally give her an invitation to stop him. Instead he stepped toward the door.

But he stopped a step later, setting the packed duffel on the floor. "You're not going to show tonight, are you?"

She knew he was referring to his little "party," the one she'd never expected would happen, let alone got the details of. She shook her head, thinking of the three pints of Ben & Jerry's Cookie Dough sitting in her freezer, right next to a brand spanking new bottle of vodka, the private party she was throwing for the occasion. With a little luck, she wouldn't remember much come the morning, hopefully a vodka memory block would erase the shithead from her mind entirely.

He nodded, his face revealing that he understood her choice. He waited then, just a few feet away, seeming to tempt her to beg. She swallowed hard, her eyes glued to the floor, wondering how she could still be alive and in so fucking much pain.

Finally, he realized she wasn't about to beg for anything, and stepped around her. His footsteps stopped a moment later, turning around as he moved back for his forgotten bag.

She couldn't not look at him.

But she couldn't ask him to stay either.

She felt like her heart would explode if she didn't breathe, but she was afraid of what she might say if she dared open her mouth. Even so, she heard her own voice drifting over the chasm between them. "I don't know how to say goodbye to you."

The bag hit the floor with a thud, leaving it behind as he approached, closing the space between them to the mere sliver that it had always been since they'd been partners, occupying the area that he hadn't set foot in since the day he'd fucking killed her. He smiled at her, a light, happy look taking over his features.

"You don't have to. I'm not going anywhere."

She scoffed, knowing he wasn't rescinding his resignation. "You never had time for your wife when you were still married and she lived in your house."

He shrugged, blowing off her words. "We'll see each other. I promise." He held her eyes as though he meant it.

She didn't believe a word. She recognized it for what it was – his attempt at mercy. He was trying to pull the knife out of her back without killing her in the process. Knowing she was going to die from the wound anyway, she figured she should at least acknowledge his try. Her hand jutted out at waist height, waiting for his to grasp it.

A formal handshake.

That was how colleagues said farewell.

When they weren't being carried off in a body bag, at least.

She wasn't expecting him to laugh, but she understood how ridiculous the sentiment was. They hadn't shook hands the day they'd met. She tried, of course, because that was how she'd been taught people did things, but a much younger, much dumber Elliot had been there that day, turning to his boss and asking if the man was out of his fucking mind. He gestured at her vaguely and announced, "I'm not working with that," like she was some sort of fungus. She'd contemplated shooting him that day.

In retrospect, she kind of wished she had. It would have saved her no end of trouble. And Elliot too, since there wouldn't have been an Eli for him to worry about growing up without a father.

Feeling stupid for trying, she dropped her hand to her side. And again, she heard her voice, although it seemed that someone else was speaking for her, someone who hadn't gotten the memo that Elliot was the one responsible for hurting her so badly. "If I hug you, I might refuse to let go."

Someone, apparently, who spoke the absolute truth.

And surprisingly, Elliot stuck out his hand, waiting for her to shake it.

And even more surprisingly, the moment her hand touched his, she was yanked off balance and pulled into his arms. Her arms wound around him, clinging to him for survival, knowing it hadn't been at all teasing that she wouldn't be able to release him. He held her, squeezed her hard, letting her know that he, as always, understood what she couldn't say. She felt his breath next to her ear, tickling her neck. Then she heard his voice, solemn and heartfelt.

"I promised, Liv. This isn't goodbye."

He let her go, slowly loosening his arms, letting her know he was abandoning her, giving her a bit of a warning. His lips pressed against hers lightly, quickly, another solemn and heartfelt promise that she didn't believe for one second.

And he was gone before she was even sure any of it had happened.