A/N: Thank you so much for the encouraging reviews. They inspire me to write more :) I hope you like this part. It can end the story, but it could just be the beginning. Haven't decided yet.

The Gravity of Love

-ziyalofhaiti-

Part 2

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 Elliot 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 curl 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 held her, told her everything would be all right, got her food, but it had all been a lie because what he really wanted to do was roll up into a ball, numb away the fear and the pain, and sleep until it was all over. But he was a soon-to-be police officer, a husband, and a father, and he could no longer afford such luxuries, so he pretended and did what was expected of him. Two days later, they were all back home, but that night Elliot went to bed with the bitter knowledge that even as an adult, he was not the hero he was supposed to have become.

After his 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 curling into a ball like a kid. He was no longer a little boy abandoned by his mother.

His first SVU case had made him sick to his stomach. He'd knocked the perp around, almost got suspended, beat 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. Even if it was just an illusion. Even if it was not real. It made him feel that he had it all under control.

Everything.

Under control.

Everything.

And then she left.

She fucking left.

Without saying goodbye.

He tried calling her.

Her phone had been disconnected.

He 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 smirked, how she smiled, 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 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 into 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 roll into a ball and disappear, and he knows what it feels like to indulge in it even 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 receded, 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.

He 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.

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.

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

He knows it is time to step away because he is about to make a one-way turn into Deadly Sin Street, but he cannot 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 he 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 the images are like black and white photographs in contrast to the movie reel of his lips trailing Olivia's skin, the colors changing in 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. 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.

And then, she lets out a barely audible sigh of contentment.

Before he can revel in 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 a little.

He thinks Olivia sees the smile, but she doesn't acknowledge it.

"So who's taking care of Mom and Pop this New Year's?" she asks, her voice forcibly cheery. Her eyes still avoid his.

"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 combinations. She lets out a little laugh, and he can tell it is genuine. He knows he should be getting home, but he will stay a while longer with her, make her laugh some more. 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, has jack shit to do with her saving Eli's life. But convincing himself of it now assuages his guilt and lets him stay with her a little longer, because everything else is irrelevant when Olivia laughs.

Olivia.

Laughing.

A little less broken.