Work Text:
“I quit.”
“No, you don’t,” Benson dismisses easily, not even looking up from her phone.
“I’m serious, Liv.” (Y/L/N) replies, morose. “It’s been fifteen years, I’m done with suspects landing me in the ER. There’s gotta be more to life than this.”
“Stay another ten and maybe you’ll make Captain.”
“Like I want to put you out of a job.” (Y/L/N) snorts just as Velasco and Muncy find them in the middle of the ER chaos.
“We just heard,” Velasco says, getting in (Y/L/N)’s space and tilting his head to examine her injury. “Shit, he got you good. You alright?”
“It looks worse than it is,” she replies.
“But we’re waiting for the doctor to confirm that,” Benson warns before her detective gets any ideas of slipping away without being checked out. (Y/L/N) pouts like a child and Benson makes the face she does when wondering if Cragen had to put up with her like this when she still was a detective.
“You better, you’re a freaking bloodbath,” Muncy signals at (Y/L/N)’s white dress shirt covered in her own blood. “If I didn’t know better, I’d arrest you for murder right now.”
(Y/L/N) sighs in annoyance. “Seriously, Liv, we’ve been here for almost an hour. I don’t wanna keep you from finally nailing this guy.”
“Don’t worry,” Liv waves her off, which makes (Y/L/N) frown. “Price is on his way. As soon as he gets here to make sure you don’t bounce, we’re back in action.”
(Y/L/N)’s frown turns annoyed. “You called him?”
“The hospital did,” Benson doesn’t react at her obvious attitude. “He’s still your emergency contact.”
“Fuck,” (Y/L/N) curses without much finesse, still holding a bloody gause to her bleeding head. “He’s gonna kill me. I promised I’d change it ages ago.”
Velasco and Muncy share a curious look but don’t comment on that.
(Y/L/N) tries for an escape at least six times; subtly gathering her things while her coworkers discuss the case before Benson catches her and threatens her pension, reaching for a passing nurse and asking for an AMA form, bargaining for someone to babysit her at the precinct to make sure she doesn’t bleed to death while she works.
She fails every single time. Muncy looks five seconds away from sitting on her just to keep her still when there’s a commotion somewhere behind them.
“There you are,” just in time a tall, winded man finds their curtain and zeroes towards (Y/L/N), brown and grey strands of hair loosened from their place in his rush to find her in the endless hospital halls.
He drops his coat and briefcase beside (Y/L/N) and nears like he wants to touch her but isn’t sure he can. He gapes at the blood on her clothes and fear flashes over his features with the quickness of lightning. “What the hell happened to you, they called me and said you were in the ER, but they didn’t–”
“Asshole busted my head against a wall when I went for the arrest,” the cursing must be a sign that she’s okay, because the man sighs and drops his hands on her shoulders, still looking her over with a frown that would make a weaker man look away. (Y/L/N) takes it all in stride. “It’s literally just a couple of stitches, I’m alright.”
“And a grade two concussion,” Benson adds helpfully.
“Thank you, Liv,” (Y/L/N) deadpans, sparing her an unimpressed look before returning to the man, gaze softening somewhat. Velasco and Muncy are completely lost. “I’m okay, I promise. I’m sorry they called you, I thought I’d changed it after we signed.”
“I don’t care about that,” the man quickly reassures and fuck, signed? Like, divorce papers? The Captain obviously knows, because there’s no reaction to this man who came in and demanded all their attention, but the newest members of SVU gape subtly at the scene before them. “Jesus, is this all yours?”
He signals at the blood on her shirt with an air of despair, looking more than a little sick as he takes her in. Meanwhile, (Y/L/N) still seems conflicted about him interrupting his life for her at three in the fucking morning on a Tuesday.
“It looks worse than it is,” (Y/L/N) sighs, repeating what she’d told her coworkers moments before and letting some of the adrenaline of the evening wash off her posture. He stares at her, unsure, and she tenses again. “Nolan. I’m fine. With a hole in my head and a bruised ego but not dying anytime soon. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Don’t say that, Christ,” he seems to realize there are more people around, unfazed by Benson but shifting nervously when locating Muncy and Velasco. “You got the guy?”
“Yeah,” Velasco replies.
“I’m sorry, do we know you?” Muncy, way less tactful, says over him. Velasco makes a face between amused and asking the Heavens for patience.
“Um,” the man– Price– says.
“Forgive her,” Benson replies, looking up from her phone with a raised brow to Muncy. “We don’t let her out to play very often.”
“Nolan Price,” he introduces himself, a little awkwardly, like an afterthought. He barely looks at anyone who isn’t (Y/L/N), now holding her face in his tender hands as he examines her wound. “Manhattan ADA, I worked a case with SVU earlier last year?”
“She wasn’t here, yet,” (Y/L/N) says, eyes closing at the contact. “Hasn’t gotten to know your workaholic tendencies.”
“Lucky her,” he murmurs, unfazed at the attitude. “How long have you been waiting here to get stitches?”
“What, not pretty enough for you?” she quips, raising her eyebrows before wincing in pain when it bothers her wound. Price purses his lips in annoyance and takes over holding the gauze with a murmured curse, gentle and a little shaky. “‘Cause we’re not married anymore, y’know. I can have a badass scar if I want to.”
“(Y/N/N),” he pleads. Muncy looks between them like she’s watching a tennis match, growing more absorbed by the second. “Can we not do this right now?”
“I’m sorry, y’all were married?” Muncy wonders, pointing at (Y/L/N) and Price back and forth in disbelief.
“You’re the worst detective in the world,” Velasco deadpans at her, earning himself an elbow to the side. “What? Come on, rookie, context clues!”
“We’ll leave you two alone,” Benson assures, smiling at Price and (Y/L/N) and placing a hand on her leg, reassuring. “I’ll send the doctor your way.”
“Thanks, Liv,” he sighs, earning himself another set of startled expressions. The man’s on a nickname basis with their Captain? “You’ll say hi to Noah for me?”
“Always,” her smile softens. “I’m sure he’d like to see you two, after this one’s fully recovered.”
“Liv,” (Y/L/N) begins, ready to argue.
“You’re not coming back to work at two in the morning with a concussion and fresh stitches,” she waves away the idea before it’s even suggested. “Go home. Get some sleep, take a couple of days to rest. If you show up at the office for the rest of the week, I’m suing you.”
“I can help with that,” Price says too innocently for it not to be mischievous.
“You’d like that,” (Y/L/N) dismisses him, still trying to help her case. “Liv, come on, I’m gonna be fine.”
“You will,” her boss says. “Especially because for the first time in half a decade we’re not understaffed, so you don’t have to kill yourself to finish a report while you’re supposed to be off duty.”
“Just so everyone knows, I hate this,” (Y/L/N) raises her voice, still in the arms of her ex-husband, looking like a dejected toddler who was told no to cookies before dinner. “I absolutely, infinitely loathe this.”
“Get some beauty sleep, B,” Velasco grins good-naturedly, dragging Muncy with him when the younger detective looks like she’s about to keep the interrogation going.
“I hate all of you,” she says while looking up at Price, who seems a little more at ease now that their audience is retreating. Still, he’s biting the inside of his cheek nervously while looking at her injury. “Nole, please. Stop staring at me like you’re planning what dress you’re gonna bury me in.”
“You try getting a call from the hospital in the middle of the night from the hospital about your ex with a dangerous job,” he snaps, strangled, the last facade of control falling now that they’re alone. “Excuse me for being a little worried right now.”
(Y/N) softens and thinks about the last time that had happened, the reminder immediately making her more vulnerable. They’d been married still when (Y/N) had gotten herself shot on the job. She doesn’t remember much of it, too out of it from the drugs and pain and having to live it through other’s retellings, but Nolan–
Nolan had spent the entire time next to her bedside, taking a leave of absence while (Y/N) faded away in a respirator. The doctors had called her recovery a miracle, and Nolan had wept into her lap as he held her hands to his face, relief pouring out of him so fast he almost passed out. (Y/N), still a little dazed and a lot in pain, held him while he cried it all out.
“Hey,” she reaches for the hem of his dress shirt, untucked from his briefs like it always is when he works after hours. He meets her eye; wet, devastated green finding her face. “I’m sorry. I should’ve thought about that. I didn’t even know they were gonna call you.”
“I’m glad they did,” he sighs, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against her temple where he’s holding her head together, Jesus. “I don’t– Don’t change the emergency contact, that’s not what I’m saying, I just–”
“Too close,” she says softly. “I know.”
“Yeah,” he exhales. He smells like coffee. “Yeah.”
“You’re still dressed,” she changes the subject for both their sakes, tugging at his shirt. “Were you working?”
“Detective brain’s intact, thank God,” he taps her temple twice with his thumb, smiling, though still a little too forced. “At home, but yeah. The Isaacson case is driving me crazy.”
“The double murder on 10th?”
“Yeah,” his lips slip into a thin, stressed line. “Jack says we’re good for trial but I don’t know. I feel like I can’t be ready enough.”
“Is that tomorrow?” (Y/N) wonders, tensing up when Nolan makes that face he does when he’s evaluating how to get himself out of trouble. “Nolan, I swear to God–”
“I’ll call Jack,” he begins. “He’s acquainted enough with the case, he and Sam can handle it–”
“No,” she cuts him off firmly, glaring even if it pulls at her wound. “You won’t pause your life for me again, I won’t let you.”
“Just for a couple of days–”
“Nolan,” she says, voice low and a little dangerous. It’s starting to feel like one of their fights already, neither of them listening to the other and just throwing words out there for no one to grasp onto. “It’s a concussion. I get that it feels too much like last time, but–”
“You have no idea –”
“–it’s not ,” she stresses, reaching to grasp his arms and searching his eyes desperately. “It’s not, not even close. I’m gonna get some stitches and go home to sleep it off. Do you understand me?”
Nolan tightens his lips stubbornly and (Y/N) tightens her grip. “Nole. Tell me you understand. Do not make me physically fight you right now because I will, bleeding head and all.”
“Don’t,” he warns, believing her fully capable. “Fine. Fine , okay. But I’m still coming home with you–”
“Buy me dinner first–”
“And staying until you recover,” he finishes, looking more like a lawyer fishing for a deal than a worried man trying to stop his ex from falling into a coma while alone in her apartment.
“Nolan,” (Y/N) says.
“That’s not up for discussion,” he says firmly, though nothing but kind as he sits next to her. He somehow maneuvers keeping the gauze up to her face and making himself comfortable in the too-small ER bed. “Am I gonna have to sew it up myself? Where the hell is that doctor?”
(Y/N) sighs, carefully finding a position in which she can lean her head on his shoulder, Nolan’s arm awkwardly bent in the air so he can keep the blood flow at bay. He hasn’t complained about it yet. A beat, then– “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course,” he answers, like it was the only thing to be done. (Y/N) smiles, knowing he can’t see her.
They wait. By the time they get back to her place, the sky’s already beginning to clear up, a couple of bodega owners and health nuts on a running kick out and about at such hour. (Y/N), stitched and exhausted beyond belief dozes against Nolan’s shoulder, who steadies her with a gentle but firm hand at the back of her head whenever the cab does a sharp turn or hits a pothole.
The apartment is quiet and motionless. (Y/N) deposits herself on the couch with little grace, eyes already closing as she lies horizontally on the dark velvet fabric. She thinks Nolan asks something about a shower and food, but (Y/N) had already been working on not enough hours of sleep before the incident and she’s too far gone too quickly to formulate an answer.
The days blur by. (Y/N)’s headache worsens before it finally gets better, almost sending Nolan to an early grave out of worry. Despite his promise to focus on his job and not put his life on hold while (Y/N) is injured, he frets and settles into the role of mother hen incredibly quickly. He offers a deal the defense is quick enough to accept and does whatever work he can from home, spending little time at the office much to (Y/N)’s chagrin.
She’s not gonna lie, it’s nice . Having him around, occupying a physical, permanent place in her life (Y/N) once thought he’d always have a right to. Eating her food, coming out of her shower looking like a dream, and falling asleep on her couch with her dog drooling on his chest.
It’s everything she’d dreamed of, once, even if she isn’t naive enough to believe this fixes everything. If it did they would probably still be married, but it’s nice enough . She takes all she can get, and it doesn’t even feel like greed when Nolan takes a place in her bed instead of her couch from day one.
He usually returns from work right before dinner, sometimes with takeout if he’s feeling particularly tired. (Y/N) naps and binge-watches Queer Eye and does everything she misses out on when working shift after shift relentlessly. He lets himself in with her spare key and allows himself a moment to watch her, admiring a view he signed goodbye to in some attorney’s office years ago on some random Wednesday.
Despite the obvious care that still lies between them they’ve never once talked about getting back together, and if that hasn’t done it for them then Nolan reasons nothing will. But everything feels so domestic, so rightfully his that he pretends that he gets to have this, even if only in the privacy of his own mind.
Nolan arrives at her place late one afternoon after delivering some files to the office to find (Y/N) asleep in her room, fresh from the shower while dozing peacefully with the curtains drawn shut and the blanket up to her chin. Her dog lays at her feet, the perfect guardian, lifting his head in perfect attention and relaxing once he realizes it’s Nolan, sleepily lifting his head for scratches Nolan dutifully delivers.
They leave her be while he changes into more comfortable clothes and starts taking out some ingredients for an early dinner. The smell must wake her at some point, because (Y/N) comes out into the kitchen looking dazed and sleepy, but no longer swaying on her feet like she’d been doing the last few days.
It eases the grip anxiety has on Nolan’s chest, even if just a little, giving him more breathing room to pretend that having her this close and engrained in his day-to-day life isn’t doing something to him.
(Y/N) cuts off his train of thought by hoisting herself up on the counter right next to where he’s cooking, silently looking at him work. He cuts some veggies and sprays some seasonings all while the gentle silence of the kitchen is maintained like some sort of truce.
It’s the same truce that has him meeting her eye every couple of seconds until all semblance of cooking dinner is forgotten. (Y/N) instinctively opens her legs when he walks towards her and settles between them, the fit right and perfect like it’s always been. Her thighs close against his sides and his hands reach for her like there’s not a half a decade gap from when they last did this.
He cups her face in gentle, warm hands and leans down to brush his lips against the bandage that protects her stitches, featherlight. (Y/N)’s breath stutters quietly. He can feel her eyelids against his chin fluttering closed.
When Nolan leans back her expression is wistful, a little sad, and that means he can’t bring himself to stop touching her. He leans in, nudging his nose against hers. (Y/N) opens her eyes, a little dazed.
“Nole,” (Y/N) says, a whisper of a name without any meaning, warning, or plead. Just a name, just a breath. Nolan inches closer. “What are we doing?”
“Is it okay?” he murmurs, hand big and protective splayed at the back of her neck, fingers threatening to slip into her hair. He looks back and forth between her eyes, dipping to her mouth for a second before refocusing, pupils dilated. “We don’t have to.”
(Y/N) hums and Nolan feels it against his lips, a gentle don’t be stupid. Nolan presses his mouth to hers, wearing a smile that swallows the tiny sound she makes at the back of his throat.
There had been an unspoken agreement, once, to stay away from each other after the divorce was finalized. But New York’s only big enough to keep them both busy and away from each other in their intertwined career paths. The idea of never seeing the other again was a wistful dream more than anything else.
They quickly started meeting each other in the courthouse, at certain functions that 1PP and the DA’s office both forced their people to attend, and places they’d both loved, once. Bookstores and diners and theatre shows. Then, places they’d never frequented at all but learned about separately, a random street where some guy sold bagels they both liked and the vet her dog frequented that was next to a coffee shop Nolan liked.
It’s like the universe won’t let them forget how intertwined they’d once been. They could get away with coincidences, harmless accidents that they’d get through before going on their way, but this? This is different. (Y/N) called and Nolan came. He crossed the threshold of her home and the invisible line they had marked separating their lives. They can exist in the same city as much as they want but this– this is pushing it.
It’s too easy to fall into each other’s arms, the ache for it never went away completely. (Y/N) has been on dates and taken strangers to bed more than a few times, but no one even gets close to understanding the life she leads. Nolan probably suffers from the same ill; the long hours, and the focus the job demands. It’s not something many people consider worthy sticking around for.
Nolan’s gripping her thighs as he stands between her legs and (Y/N) moans against his mouth. She’s running her hands through his hair, shivering every time Nolan drags his hands upwards slowly, nearing the place she wants him the most before going back down to her knees.
“Missed you,” she tugs at the buttons of his shirt, too distracted to do a good job and taking longer than planned, groaning in frustration. “God, Nole, missed you so fucking bad.”
“I got you,” he promises, the way he always used to that had her melting into him like butter. As predicted, (Y/N) wraps her arms around his shoulders, giving up on the shirt just to have him closer. “You’re alright, sweetheart, I got you.”
(Y/N) lets him pull her off the counter and, dinner forgotten, lead her back into the room by the hand. She’s loose and pliant under him until she’s not, arms wrapped around his neck and breathless pleas being whispered against his mouth. Afterwards Nolan holds her close, his hand soothing up and down her naked back in repetitive strokes and (Y/N) mouthing at his jaw in sleepy contentment.
It leaves him unsettled when he finally goes home, and thus, back to work. They’re both busy protecting their city in their own ways to meet again on purpose, at least at first. The world is cruel and neither of their jobs allows them to forget it, the worst of humanity calling for their attention every day they keep at it.
They manage. Somehow they’ve been at it for almost as long as they’ve known each other; Nolan a defense attorney straight out of college until he made his way to the DA’s office and (Y/N) spending most of her career gaining ranks at SVU. It’s taken her blood, sweat, and tears to make it to Lieutenant, Liv’s second in command after having been with her through it all. While Stabler, Amaro, Cragen, Munch, Dodds, and Rollins came and went, (Y/N)’s been there, steady as a rock.
Nolan knows how much a job like that demands. Being a lawyer is important, all the work cops go through would be useless if there weren’t guys like him to put the final nail on an offender’s coffin, but he could never do what she does. He’s not strong enough for that, and finding himself in a subway station just after a shooting only cements that belief. There’s blood in his hands and shirt and horror behind his eyelids every time he has a free second to think about it.
“Nolan?”
Nolan doesn’t remember knocking. He doesn’t remember Frank calling him a cab and rattling his ex-wife’s address to the driver. He doesn’t remember ringing her number or knocking on her door but here he is, dissociated and still covered in blood, standing right in front of the person his brain chose to take care of him while plugging out.
(Y/N) suddenly curses, sharp and awake. He might’ve woken her up, dragged her out of bed but she’s now wide-eyed and focused. Nolan can’t think enough to be sorry about it. “Nolan, is that blood? Are you hurt?”
“There was–” he begins, searching for the words somewhere inside of him. They must be there somewhere, hidden, along with all of his logic and basic functions. “Shooter. Shooting, in the subway. People, there was–”
She curses again when his breath catches and cuts him off. The tone makes him flinch. In the blink of an eye, she’s composing herself, relaxing her posture and raising her hands, keeping her voice soft, her expression kind. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. Is it okay if I touch you right now?”
“Nolan?” she asks after what might’ve been seconds or hours, terribly gentle, and the desperation spills out of him like a dam breaking.
“Please,” he says, begs, and finds himself being held upright only by her hands in the blink of an eye. Nolan needs to be out of these clothes and clean himself until the blood is gone and his skin is scratched and new and to be enveloped by her so he can forget there are unkind touches in this world. “Please, please, please–”
“I got you,” she promises, leading him towards the bathroom in the dark of her apartment. It’s as cozy as ever, safe, away, and protected from the horrible things Nolan has seen today. He realizes (Y/N) hasn’t let go of his hand.
“I don’t– I don’t know how you do it,” Nolan says shakily later, much later after (Y/N) sat him down on top of the toilet and kneeled between his legs with a wet towel, touch gentle.
(Y/N) doesn’t stop from where she’s wiping the blood off his hands, letting him rant. “You– I was there for ten minutes and it’s. It’s burned into my brain. You look at these scenes for days, weeks, and then when it’s done you–”
His breath hitches. He’s too close to tears for his comfort, but he’s never been afraid to be vulnerable in front of her. Losing her in the divorce didn’t mean just losing a lover, they’d been friends for the longest time before they ventured into a relationship. He lost a confidant. He lost one of the few people in his life who really knew him, who could take one look at him and know what he needed without saying a single word.
“You don’t take it home,” he finishes, haunted. “How do you do it? How do you– how is that even possible?”
“It’s not,” (Y/N) says gently, like she’s talking to a victim. Nolan hates it, but his hands won’t stop shaking, even in her hold. She sighs as she stands up from where she’s kneeling between his legs, knees cracking a bit, tossing the wet towel in the trash. “You do the work and you do the best you can to not let it get to you but it does. It always does. It’s what means to be human, Nole. The second you become immune to all of it is when you should start worrying.”
“I can’t unsee it,” he whispers, closing his eyes and seeing the dead bodies, a kid asking for help, his hands wrapping his tie around her bleeding leg trying to slow the blood flow while the shooter leaves the massacre behind. “I’m so tired but I can’t. I can’t sleep. I can’t rest, I can’t– I don’t want this. (Y/N/N)–”
“Hey,” she wraps an arm around him and he crumbles into her, the warmth of her skin reminding him what it’s like to touch a body that isn’t bleeding out. “I know. I know you don’t, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to see that, Nole, but I got you. I got you now, okay? I got you.”
A couple of days later he’s back at her place again, cleaning up the dishes they just used for dinner.
“They want the death penalty on this guy,” he confesses, voice dry. (Y/N) stops for a moment, looking at him from the corner of her eye while warm water washes over her hands. Nolan doesn’t reciprocate. “It’s the only way they’ll let us share the case. If I push for it.”
“Is that something you want?”
“What I want doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?” (Y/N) wonders, returning to the dishes when she realizes Nolan doesn’t need eye contact for this conversation. “The guy’s guilty, Nole, there’s no doubt about it. You know it better than anyone. But I know that you won’t put your best into something that you don’t believe in.”
“I can’t let him get away with it,” he says again after a moment of reflection spent taking the wet dishes (Y/N) would hand him and drying them absent-mindedly. “The victims and their families, they deserve justice and it’s in my hands to give it to them. I believe in that .”
“And I believe in you,” she gives him a meaningful smile, as if things were that simple. “You’ll do what you know it’s right.”
“Thank you,” he says, voice awfully tender. “That means a lot to me.”
(Y/N)’s eyes slip to his mouth for a second before they return to meet his stare. It all happens in the blink of an eye and Nolan fools himself into thinking it didn’t happen at all.
He wins the case. Despite (Y/N)’s sweet encouragement, it leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth, as does the next one and the one after that, and he finds himself at her doorstep after each one of them until he eventually loses count. (Y/N) lets him in every time, either to listen to him rant or to distract him with food and a movie, or a warm bed.
Work ends up being a common topic of discussion. It’s inevitable, considering how tightly law and order are intertwined and how fun gossiping about their coworkers can actually be. Nolan tells her about Sam’s crush on Vi, the tech analyst at Homicide, and (Y/N) comes with new updates about the new kids at the office and their high school-like fights while the adults try to play neutral amongst them.
Turns out Nolan and (Y/N) aren’t the only ones talking about their coworkers.
“So, you and the lawyer?” Muncy wonders one day with a child-like glee for gossip.
“Nolan Price,” Velasco adds helpfully, only answering with a smirk when he becomes the attention of (Y/L/N)’s glare.
“I’m not having this conversation,” she shakes her head as she searches for the files she promised Sonny she’d deliver to him. “Don’t any of you have jobs?”
“We’re detectives. Let us detect,” Bruno grins like the asshole he is. “What’s this about a lawyer?”
“I miss Rollins,” (Y/N) says morosely, to which Fin smirks from his desk where he’s scrolling down his phone, attuned to the conversation while pretending he can’t care less.
Rollins, who (Y/N) had spilled the beans to about Nolan almost immediately when they got together for dinner. She’d only smirked knowingly, taking a bite of her food, and shrugged, lawyers, huh?
Lawyers, (Y/N) had confirmed with a snort, nodding at Amanda’s pregnant belly with amusement.
“A lawyer you were married to?” Churlish pipes up, unable to avoid the pull of the office gossip.
“You know, I liked you two better when you were at each other's throats,” (Y/N) points menacingly at Churlish and Muncy, who look a little too much like teenage girls at a sleepover. “We’re gonna braid each other’s hair now and talk about our crushes in homeroom?”
Her coworkers laugh behind her as she peeks her head into Liv’s office to tell her she’s bouncing to the eighth floor, and Liv lowers her glasses to level her with an inquisitive stare.
“What?”
“Why the sudden interest in you and Nolan?”
“We work with a bunch of children and Muncy saw us at the hospital the other night.”
“Ah,” Liv nods. “Is that why you’re blushing like they just caught you kissing your date on the porch after curfew?”
“Liv,” (Y/N) warns in a tone one might use to say mom.
“Hey, I just hope you’re being careful with whatever you two are doing,” Liv answers her teenage-like energy with a mother-like answer. “Are you. Being careful with him?”
“Are you being careful with Elliot?” (Y/N) counterattacks with a raised eyebrow of her own, knowing she’s got her beat when Liv stammers and looks away with a sheepish smile. “Huh. I see.”
“Say hi to Carisi from me,” she dismisses her after being caught. (Y/N) laughs, loud and unrestrained, a rarely heard sound in SVU’s precinct. “Maybe he’ll want to keep you around on the eighth floor with that attitude.”
“Just calling ‘em how I see ‘em, boss,” she waves the files in goodbye and keeps her smile the entire way down the elevator. The grin is gone when Nolan actually stops by the precinct a couple of weeks later when they’re elbow-deep in a serial rape case going all through the different boroughs.
“You all look awful,” Nolan, suddenly there, says with no filter at all, regarding the sleep-deprived detectives and the week-old mess of coffee cups and take out with a pinched expression. “When was the last time any of you went home?”
“What day is it?” Churlish pipes up while putting drops in her worn-out eyes.
“...Tuesday,” Nolan says, a little taken aback as he watches them ponder how long it’s actually been without a warm shower and their own bed. “Never mind, if you gotta take this long to answer it’s not even worth it.”
That gets him a few murmurs of approval and others of annoyance. He goes to (Y/N)’s desk where she’s frowning down at all the victims' profiles, trying to find a common denominator in demography while rubbing out a crick in her neck.
“Hey,” he says, soft and worried. “You look like hell.”
“And you’re still the charmer you were all those years ago,” (Y/N) mumbles, not even turning her head. Her shoulders do drop a little when he replaces her hand with hers, a gentler touch working out the knots that stress has put in her posture. It gets her to look up at him and sigh in defeat. “What are you doing here, Nolan?”
He shrugs. “Liv called. She said you’ve been getting too much in your heads for this. I’m taking you home.”
(Y/N) scoffs and sneaks a look at Liv’s office, but her friend left almost an hour ago for a meeting with the chief. The same hour it probably took Nolan to get all the way here after work.
“I can’t just leave,” she tells him, despite how much of a dream that sounds right now. “Not while the case is nowhere near done and the Captain’s out. I outrank everyone here.”
“Bruno and Fin seem to be holding out the fort quite nicely,” they both look towards where both men are discussing a timeline on a board in a far corner, incredibly focused considering how laid back they are even during the worst of cases. “And we both know you’d be way more useful after dinner, a shower, and eight hours of sleep.”
“That bad, huh,” (Y/N) makes a face.
“With all due respect to the hardworking detectives of New York City, it smells like something died in here.”
“Alright,” (Y/N) can’t help but laugh, and even that sound is too rattling for her headache. She rubs at her temples. “Alright fine. But I gotta be back here by 7 tomorrow or Carisi will have a stroke. We’re nowhere near ready for court yet.”
“8:30.”
“Nolan.”
“I’m already being lenient here, (Y/N/N).”
They have a quick staring contest, nothing out of the ordinary between them when they’re trying to out-stubborn the other. (Y/N)’s a little too tired to keep her eyes open without an exaggerated amount of blinking, though, and she sighs in defeat after a couple of seconds. “Everything has to be a deal with you, doesn’t it, Counselor?”
“Witness refuses to answer,” he says with a shake of the head that (Y/N) calls cute in the privacy of her own mind, just because she’s so sleep-deprived it’s probably considered a form of torture by now. “Are you gonna let me take you home then?”
The joke is right there for the taking but (Y/N) doesn’t rise to the bait. She looks at Nolan like she’s seeing him for the first time and then says, more vulnerably than she expected: “Yeah. Yeah, let's go home.”
Thank God Liv isn’t there to see that exchange, though (Y/N) doesn’t doubt Fin’ll tell her all about it once the asshole they’re working on is finally behind bars.
So Nolan running to her aid in the hospital is only the beginning. He goes to her after the subway shooting and bad cases, and she lets him take her home after long nights. He uses a white supremacist’s testimony to convict a man of murder, letting him walk free from an aggravated assault afterwards.
Nolan feels filthy and lost and it once again lands him on (Y/N)’s doorstep late at night, desperate for someone to remind him that he’s not this awful person who has no business in the DA’s office.
(Y/N) takes one look at him and gathers him in her arms, ushering him inside.
“I don’t like who I am sometimes, in this job,” he confesses much, much later in the safety of the dark of (Y/N)’s bedroom, his fingers drawing senseless shapes against (Y/N)’s naked back. She looks at him, cheek smudged by the pillow, eyes knowing. “The things I’ve had to do for a conviction… It doesn’t feel like winning in the end.”
“I didn’t want to be a defense attorney anymore because I didn’t believe in the people I was helping. I didn’t like what my work said about me,” he continues firmly, like pleading his case. As if (Y/N) wouldn’t believe him. As if she doesn’t know him better than anyone.
Nolan hesitates. They drown in the silence he’s created, a vacuum made of things unsaid. “I thought the DA’s office would be… black and white, I guess. Go home at the end of the day feeling like I’m on the right side of history even if I didn’t win the case.”
He closes his eyes, overcome with emotion and unable to take (Y/N)’s undivided attention, seeing and perceptive even in the dark. “I don’t like it. I don’t like what it’s doing to me. And I wonder how many things you don’t like you do because you have to until you’re an entirely different person from who you thought you were.”
(Y/N) makes a sound that has his eyes burning with unshed emotion. Sam is new and shiny still, she sees the world and the job they do in the black and white Nolan doesn’t believe in anymore. Jack, on the other hand, knows more than the two of them combined; has been a lawyer for longer than Nolan has been alive and is long past hurt feelings over the way a case is won.
But (Y/N). (Y/N) knows him, and knows the job. Nolan feels vindicated, somehow, when she rearranges her limbs from her comfortable position and puts her face in her hand while the other settles over Nolan’s heart.
“Nolan Price,” she tells him, soft and quiet like she did on her wedding vows several lifetimes ago. Nolan shivers at the reminder of standing in front of their families and God, swearing to love each other forever. “I know exactly who you are. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
He smiles; a feeble, lazy thing. He moves some hair off her temple and draws her into a kiss by the back of her neck.
“It matters why you do what you do,” she says after they separate to breathe, unwilling to be distracted even though she’s a little more disheveled than she was mere moments ago. “You do it because it’s right. Because it’s kind. Because many others don’t have the stomach or the will for it.”
“Some people would say the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
“Those people haven’t stood in the middle of a crime scene with the worst of humanity displayed in front of them,” (Y/N) replies cleverly, Nolan’s heartbeat still thrumming under her fingertips. “Nolan, I– the job sucks .”
“Okay,” he’s amused despite himself, grabbing her hand in his and kissing her fingers. “That’s comforting.”
“Shut up,” (Y/N) dismisses him, but doesn’t stop him from turning his lips to her knuckles, the inside of her wrist, the crook of her elbow. “It’s not easy most days, and it’s not fair either. But we don’t do it for ourselves. If we did, you’d still be back at the defense office. Or worse, a private firm.”
“The raise wouldn’t hurt,” Nolan’s up to her shoulder, eyes alight with mischief when (Y/N) purses her lips, unimpressed. “I know, I know, that’s not why we do it. You’re right.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” her words are swallowed by Nolan finally reaching her mouth, but it’s not a frenzied embrace, the beginning of another round. It’s just a touch, a connection, an acknowledgment of something they’ve been leaving unsaid way before (Y/N)’s visit to the ER.
It’s too much. It’s too much and not enough and it takes (Y/N) too long to realize she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing. She won’t call it friends with benefits because neither of the two requirements of it applies to their situation. They’re not friends, exactly, and there’s really no advantage to their encounters. They always leave her unsettled, like she’s being used somehow.
Maybe if he only sought her out for sex then she could find some comfort in the clear limits of it all, but he doesn’t. Nolan goes when (Y/N) calls and when she doesn’t: to the hospital and the precinct and her home. She’s been opening her life up to him again without even realizing it, making a habit of having him around like he never left at all.
She never answered Liv’s question. She’s not careful about Nolan in any way, (Y/N) jumped off the ledge with her eyes closed for the same man a second time in her life. She thinks she’s flying until she drops by his office to see if he wants to have dinner, only to be met with Sam, buried in documents for a case and smiling apologetically at her.
Sorry, you just missed him. He’s got a date tonight, so he left me with all the written work. So much for a gentleman, huh?
A date. A date . (Y/N) has been spewing poetry about her ex-husband while the man was out there seeing someone else. Going on dates , maybe, plural , somehow still making it to her apartment most nights as if he hadn’t been in another woman’s arms already.
Who’s the one who isn’t enough, (Y/N) wonders, his ex-wife or the new person he’s seeing?
She says a hasty goodbye to Sam and finds herself moping at home not long after. It’s around two in the morning when there’s a knock on the door, and (Y/N) counts up to thirty-two seconds before she sighs and gets out of bed to answer it, drop-dead sure of who’s at the other side.
“Hey,” Nolan smiles, tired and apologetic. He’s still so very handsome, but something about (Y/N)’s idea of him has shifted. Her eyes fall to his mouth and all she can think about is him kissing her while thinking about someone else. “I was sure you’d be asleep. It didn’t occur to me until after I knocked.”
“You’re alright,” she tries to soothe, but it comes out a little too flat. Even then Nolan makes himself at home, tugging at his tie and scratching behind her dog’s ears when the dog sleepily nudges at his hand.
“At least one of you’s sleeping their 8 hours,” he jokes, sitting on the couch with a groan. They make idle small talk but it doesn’t take long for Nolan to realize (Y/N)’s barely into it, brows furrowing in a concern that would usually make her stomach flutter. It only leaves her hollow now. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t think you should come over anymore,” she says, expression tight like the words are fighting against her and trying not to leave her mouth.
“What?” he asks, blindsided.
“Unless it’s for– for work or emergencies, Nolan, I–” she stutters, nervous and so, so tired. “This isn’t good for either of us. This– this–”
“This what?” he wonders incredulously. “I thought we were good, I came here to talk to a friend, but if you’d rather I go–”
“Friends,” (Y/N) laughs without humor, a mean sound that has Nolan flinching. “Is that what we are?”
“I– I thought so.”
(Y/N) shakes her head, avoiding his eye. “Not good ones, then. Not the way we’re doing it.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“What is this, Nolan?” (Y/N) asks him, crossing her arms on top of her chest. “We’re divorced and you’re seeing other people but we share a bed and come home to each other most nights?”
Nolan’s breath catches. For a second there (Y/N) doesn’t sound mad, she sounds desperate. She sounds hurt. Nolan has hurt her while trying to take care of her in all the unorthodox ways he came up with after the divorce.
“You can’t–” she begins, cutting herself off and covering her face with her hands. It takes Nolan longer than it should’ve to realize she’s crying. He stands and goes to her, reaching, but (Y/N) pushes him away, eyes wet and red-rimmed. “It hurts me when we do this. When you come to my home asking me to hold you and when you come pick me up at work like we live together.”
“It kills me that you hold me and– and kiss me and sleep with me like you– like you care about me when you were the one signing the divorce papers at the first sign of trouble and– and dating other people–”
“I do care about you–” he begins, firm.
“Not the way I want you to,” she cuts him off, tears finally rolling down her cheeks. “Not the way I care for you.”
Nolan gapes, hands flailing as he tries to figure out how to fix this and then dropping when he realizes he can’t.
“You don’t love me,” he flinches again, (Y/N)’s voice quiet and small and defeated. “You’re– you’re doing this halfway and I can’t take it. I can’t take half of you, Nolan.”
“(Y/N),” he says, going for sympathetic but coming off as pitying. He watches (Y/N) close herself off by changes in her physicality. The sudden blankness of her stare, wrapping her arms around herself, avoiding his eyes with all the willpower known to man.
“You should go,” she tells him, wrecked, wiping at her face as if that could erase all the hurt from her expression. She won’t fucking look at him. “I got work to do, you should go.”
“It’s two in the morning,” he points out uselessly.
“Nolan,” she sighs, voice breaking and staring at the floor. “Please.”
He goes. If anything, because it’s the best thing he can do for her right now after breaking her heart so thoroughly she can’t stand to be in the same room as him. He spends the next month almost reaching out; thumb hovering over her contact before retreating, hesitating before going home instead of her apartment or the precinct.
He sees Carisi a couple of times, too. With them working in the same building and being at the courthouse more often than not, it would be impossible for their paths not to cross; even if that had once been a problem that he and (Y/N) shared and now she’s nowhere to be seen around the city. Either she’s consciously trying to avoid him or the universe has finally deemed their last conversation closure enough on their tumultuous story. Whatever it is it leaves him feeling void, like a phantom haunting the streets.
Carisi sees it when they nod hello at each other and when they stop for small talk in the hallway. He looks at Nolan like he pities him, probably not on purpose considering how well (Y/N) has spoken about this guy. Nolan is a little bitter at the fact that Carisi got the job and the girl while Nolan spends his evenings rotting away in his office with no one to come home to.
It’s his fault, though, isn’t it? (Y/N) was right, Nolan had asked for a divorce and pushed her to get the papers signed under the guise of it being the best for everyone involved. He’s also the one who kept dating while their encounters became more intimate, more real. Maybe it was the fear of getting too close and hurting her again, or maybe it was just him being stupid and assuming that (Y/N) would be there for him like she’s always been.
God, he wishes he hadn’t left her that night, even if she’d asked him to. There was no niceness to it, walking out of her apartment and leaving her to think what she said was true. Of course, he loves her. Again, still, always. Just because things became too complicated for them to still be married didn’t mean he stopped loving her, trying to look out for her as best he could from a distance.
But he’s never told her that. Maybe he should. Maybe he’s left enough things unsaid. He ponders on it for a day too long and then his own passivity comes back to bite him in the ass behind the barrel of a gun.
Nolan gets shot on a Wednesday.
(Y/N), miraculously, hears it from a Carisi first. She’s on her way to check on a witness with Velasco when her phone rings, Sonny’s name in the caller ID. He rattles the news out before she can even ask him how he’s doing, limbs going numb as he shakily conveys what just happened right outside the courthouse.
He was– his brother killed himself in holding yesterday. He was looking for Nolan specifically and it’s. It’s bad. They took him straight to the hospital but there was– there was a lot of blood, (Y/N/N).
(Y/L/N) doesn’t remember much from the rest of the drive. She’s sure Velasco must’ve broken more than a couple of traffic laws on his way to Bellevue, and the first thing she remembers after coming back to her body is Samatha Maroun with her head in her hands in the hospital’s waiting room.
She’s covered in Nolan’s blood and meets (Y/N)’s eye when her breath hitches, wide and terrified and apologetic all at once. (Y/N) backs away when Sam stands and takes a few steps toward her.
She wonders if this is how Nolan felt back when it was her life threatened by the sharpness of a bullet. Or if he’d seen it coming, somehow, the call from the hospital to tell him that the inevitable had happened: his wife, in one of the most dangerous jobs in the city, finally succumbing to the threats of an average day at work.
Except Nolan’s job isn’t meant to be threatening, not like (Y/N)’s. It’s never supposed to be him, his life hanging by a thread. Out of the two of them, he was always supposed to be the one walking out the hospital’s doors on his own two feet– maybe grieving, but alive. Always alive.
Her phone rings. She stares down at the screen and the unknown number and chokes on a sob when the woman on the other side of the line tells her about Nolan’s accident. He hadn’t gotten around to changing his emergency contact either.
The doctor comes, looking weary and exhausted, and (Y/N) fears the worst. Liv had come and gone earlier in the day and now there’s no one to hold her upright when the doctor tells her they expect Nolan to pull through. The first night is always the worst, she warns, and if he makes it through that then they expect a full recovery, but he has to wake up first.
He’s not awake. He might not wake up. He has to wake up first.
(Y/N) doesn’t even blink. She pulls the wife card and must look miserable enough that the nurses offer her a cot to camp out next to his bed without her having to ask. In his room, Nolan is pale and still with a tube down his throat and his chest struggling to rise and fall every couple of seconds.
(Y/N)’s almost sick at the sight, trips on her feet, and holds onto the doorframe for dear life. She debates going in, thinks that no one would fault her if she didn’t. Maybe Nolan’s actual girlfriend will swing by and the last thing she needs is her boyfriend’s ex-wife crying over his unconscious body.
“How long have ya’ll been together?” a nice nurse with a southern twang asks later when she comes in to change Nolan’s drip bag.
“Since college,” she recalls, smile shaky but real at the reminder of early 20’s Nolan, wild curls and a fierce sense of righteousness. At least one of those things hasn’t changed. “We were friends first. Until he stole a kiss from me I’d never thought of him that way and then I… did. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since.”
She smiles back, soft and charmed. “He’s gonna be alright, hon, you’ll see. I’m sure he’s fighting to come back to you right now.”
(Y/N) isn’t so sure, but that doesn’t stop her from thanking the nice woman and holding onto Nolan’s arm for comfort. The point of contact is the only thing that keeps her somewhat sane, the physical reminder that Nolan’s heart is beating and warming his skin against all odds and all people that tried to make sure otherwise.
They arrested his shooter almost immediately after. The man wasn’t interested in what happened to him, only focused on ending Nolan’s life and wrecking (Y/N)’s along it.
Nolan wakes after the longest three days of (Y/N)’s life. She refuses to go home unless there’s someone in the room with him, either Sam or his mother or sister, who didn’t hesitate to fly in to be there for their son and brother. (Y/N), who they hadn’t spoken to in years, was gathered in their arms the second they met in Nolan’s room.
She even got Liv keeping guard at one point or another. As Captain of the NYPD, she knows exactly how to sweet talk the nurses and is one of the only few people (Y/N) trusts wholeheartedly. The trips home felt a little less like stretching herself thin when she knew it was Olivia Benson watching over the most important person in her life.
The most important person in her life who doesn’t love her back. (Y/N) doesn’t care. As long as Nolan gets to live a long, happy, and healthy life, he can love whoever he likes.
Nolan makes a wounded noise when he wakes, the respirator still on. (Y/N), attuned to him, straightens up at the disruption of the quiet immediately, finding Nolan’s head tilted her way with wide, green eyes looking for hers desperately.
“Nolan,” she tries to say, coming out too reverent and dripping with relief. She must look like a nightmare, sleepless and scared shitless. Nolan focuses on her like a beacon, groaning as he tries to move toward her. (Y/N) reaches to stop him. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. You’re okay, don’t move. You’ll pull your stitches.”
She gets the doctor in the room in less than ten minutes, and another thirty has Nolan free of the tube and gazing sleepily at her.
“Hi,” (Y/N)’s whisper shakes as she draws slow, trembling fingers through Nolan’s hair, keeping it off his face as he blinks drowsily up at her, his face and lips incredibly pale.
“(Y/N),” he stutters out after a few moments, his dazed eyes brightening slightly in recognition. Her throat closes up, eyes burning.
“You’re okay,” she says, eyes dropping half shut as she leans forward so she can softly touch her forehead to his, feeling overcome with emotion when Nolan sinks into it despite his exhaustion rendering him almost useless. “You’re alright, we’re okay.”
Nolan mumbles something (Y/N) can’t make out. She keeps her ministrations going, soothing motions against his face and on his hair. He sighs, and his body seems to sink further into the hospital bed as sleep takes over him.
(Y/N), who hasn’t stepped foot in a church since Mike Dodds died in this very same hospital, can’t do anything other than stay close to her ex-husband, bow her head and pray.
It’s a lengthy recovery. The doctor wasn’t lying about anything: the first night had (Y/N)’s belly filled with tight knots of anxiety and now that Nolan’s woken up, he’s the worst patient on Earth. The bullet ripped into one of his lungs and filled it with blood, so whenever his breath comes out a little difficult or shallow (Y/N) feels like going out of her mind.
“You’re fussing.”
“I am not.”
“(Y/N), you’re giving me a headache.”
“I’m pretty sure those are the drugs they have you for the hole in your lungs –”
“Can you stop for a second?”
Nolan seizes (Y/N)’s arm just as she’s about to fluff another one of his pillows, hand wrapping delicately around her wrist. (Y/N) stills at the contact, having the decency to look somewhat sheepish.
“Sweetheart,” he says, for the first time in a long time in the daylight and with no intention to start up something. It’s sweet and fond and annoyed all at once, and (Y/N) shivers helplessly. Nolan’s thumb against her pulse point is soothing. “You’re not a shark. You won’t stop breathing if you stop moving.”
“That’s the nerdiest thing you’ve ever said,” (Y/N) says after a bit, watching the grin take over Nolan’s face like it’s the sun coming out from behind the clouds. “I can’t believe you know that. Where in your brain do you have room for that information?”
“You’re worrying yourself to the ground,” he ignores her bewildered response, tugging at her so she sits next to him on the bed. He’s finally out of those horrible hospital clothes, wearing sweats and a sleep shirt that doesn’t bother the dressing around his torso. (Y/N)’s still looking at him like he’ll break if he breathes a little too hard. “I’m alright. If the doctors think I’m well enough to go home then they might be onto something.”
“Cute,” she says. “You think you’re not staying with me until you heal.”
His easy expression hardens. “(Y/N).”
“I don’t care,” she cuts him off, aware that they’ve interchanged parts from the last time they were here. “You almost died, Nolan. I don’t give a shit how okay you are, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Nolan sighs. “Is this your way of telling me you care about me?”
“That was never in question,” she recalls their last conversation before he got shot. When she realizes what she just said, her posture straightens. “I–”
“You’re right,” he concedes, reaching again for her hand and this time intertwining their fingers with ease. (Y/N) looks at their hands like they’re a bomb about to go off. “It wasn’t. But you were wrong before when you said I didn’t care.”
“I meant–”
“You meant I didn’t love you,” he cuts her off, not unkindly. “You did say that. And you were wrong, (Y/N/N). You couldn’t have been more wrong.”
“Nolan,” she murmurs, resigned. “You don’t have to do this. Just because you’re–”
“Because I almost died,” he says a little too easily, making (Y/N) flinch. He brings their hands to his mouth and kisses the skin of her knuckles. “I shouldn’t have left that night. The fact that I let you think you were right killed me way before that bullet almost did.”
(Y/N)’s eyes shine with tears but she doesn’t shed them. She tightens her mouth, withholding whatever answer is struggling to stay on the tip of her tongue.
“I’ve been running,” he confesses, the truth almost as scary as what had him running away in the first place. “From you, from us. Since the divorce and when we started seeing each other again. I was afraid of hurting you again and I did it anyways. And in– in trying not to make this a thing, I didn’t realize we were already in too deep to pretend it was nothing.”
People you love, people you love, people you love.
“I love you,” he says, eyebrows drawn. “And I’ve been hurting you. I’m so sorry, (Y/N/N). I can’t apologize enough. But I can make it up to you if you’d let me. I can spend my entire life making it up to you if that were something you’d want.”
“Something I want,” she repeats softly, looking at his face. The subtle shake of his eyebrows, the sad bow of his mouth, the hopeful glint of his eyes, the nervous movement at his throat. “You were seeing other people.”
He winces. “I went on a date I was putting off before we… Before. I thought I owed it to her to let her down easy. But I owed it to you, to be honest, and I wasn’t. That’s worse than anything.”
“I don’t think I ever stopped loving you,” she admits what she’s only told Liv in the safety of her apartment. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
“That’s alright,” he nods, looking too elated for his own good and trying to keep it at bay. (Y/N) thinks he’s cute. “We can take it slow, as slow as you want. We can start over from scratch or– or we can call it while we’re ahead. Whatever you want, (Y/N/N). Whatever you want, you get.”
“Sounds like a great deal, Counselor,” she says. “What do you get out of it?”
“You,” he shrugs, a small movement that doesn’t disturb his stitches. “Me, back in your life. In whatever capacity you want me to be.”
The kiss she delivers to his mouth is slow and barely there. Nolan cups her jaw, letting her nuzzle against his cheek after it's over.
“Slow,” she says, hesitant.
“Sloth slow,” he confirms, a little too breathless for such a simple embrace. Maybe it’s the physical exertion or maybe it’s her– intoxicating in her own unique way. “Staring-at-paint-dry slow.”
“I don’t wanna start over,” she tells him. “We’re– we’ve been through too much to do that. I don’t want to erase everything that’s happened. It wasn’t all bad.”
“No, sweetheart,” he confirms, drawing her close for another kiss. “It wasn’t bad at all.”
end.