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The city smells like filth.
It’s not like it’s ever smelled good before—God no. New York’s always got that stench, like something died in the gutter and nobody bothered to call it in. There’s a kind of heaviness in the air too, almost sour, and thick enough for him to taste it. Granted, it hasn’t rained in a few weeks, so maybe that’s why. No matter the reason, though, tonight it smells really fucking bad.
Everything about tonight is really fucking bad, to be honest.
He doesn’t want to be here. From the moment Olivia called last week, gently breaking the news, he’s been debating whether he should even show up. There are a thousand reasons not to. But the ones that say he should… well, they’re too important to ignore.
Elliot shifts his weight, the metal of Olivia’s car cold even through the fabric of his suit jacket. He thinks it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment. If her car is here, that means she is too, just a few yards away—and that alone is enough to ground him. She’s always been his anchor. Time didn’t change that. Distance didn’t.
He doubts even death will.
There’s a faint, deliberate tick of heels against the pavement, cutting through the hum of the city around. Instinct makes him turn his head before his mind can catch up and well… the vision alone definitely paid off his visit.
Olivia Benson is, without question, the most beautiful woman in the world.
She pauses for a second, assessing, before moving toward him just as smoke rises from a nearby exhaust vent, curling around her like mist. In the low light, she looks almost ethereal, and—well, fuck—leave it to her to make the city’s broken ventilation system look sexy.
“Hey,” she says as she approaches, stopping just a couple short feet away from where he is. “What you doing?”
He eyes her, then glances toward the corner and the sidewalk leading to the bar where all their colleagues are gathering.
“Saw Lou Frenelli roll in there,” he murmurs. His voice sounds raspier than he expected, even to his own ears. “Cragen hated that guy.”
He turns his head, gaze drifting toward the far end of the street. Fuck, he didn’t come here to cry. He came to pay his respects, say a few words, and get the hell out before the hypocrisy of it all hit him too hard.
Who the hell thought it was a good idea to hold Cragen’s memorial service in a bar, anyway?
Yeah. No. He’s not sure he’ll be able to go in. Cragen would’ve hated the whole thing—and well, he’s not here anymore.
Olivia is.
And truth be told, she’s the only reason he’s stuck around this long.
“You alright?”
He shakes his head, waves his hands. He doesn’t want to fall apart out here, not in front of people. But Olivia isn’t people. If not in front of her, then who? Who in the world could ever understand him better than she does?
“I don’t like funerals,” is all he says.
She nods, then shifts her weight, leaning back against the car beside him, her body mirroring his.
“Me neither.”
She is the one to look away this time, and it takes no time at all for him to catch the redness at the corners of her eyes, or the way her lips press together just a beat too long. She’s holding it in, same as him.
“You alright?” he throws back, and that earns him a smile—small at first, then curving into that damn smirk. Beautiful and totally unfair. Entirely too damn sexy for a night like this.
Yeah, well… he knows there’s no redeeming his soul when it comes to her. He’s screwed and always has been.
“Just feel like we’re entering our all-our-friends-are-dying era.”
Ain’t that the fucking truth.
“It’s the worst era,” he agrees.
“Absolutely.”
They pause, and he takes the moment to take it all in—the chill in the air, the hum of traffic, the city breathing around them. Olivia’s gaze finally finds his, steady and piercing brown, so close yet still so fucking far. God… how much time have they lost? How many chances?
How many people will they have to bury before it’s one of them, and all that’s left is the weight of everything unsaid?
Everything left unlived.
“Not that you can go back, and not that I would—” He says it fast, too fast, then stops himself. When his eyes find hers again, he catches the flicker—the way her gaze drops from his eyes to his mouth.
Lingers there.
Heat curls low in him, sharp and familiar. Want. Regret. Habit. He’s gotten too used to it by now. He takes a slow breath, fighting to steady himself, to not come apart right here. Then he tries again, quieter this time.
“We had a pretty good run there, for a minute.”
She exhales, long and measured, and he feels the warmth of it brush his face. Were they always this close?
When had they gotten this close?
The world tilts a little. His pulse is loud in his ears. He feels like he’s floating, completely airless, and one short breath away from doing something he’ll never be able to take back.
Something he’ll never even want to take back to begin with.
“We still do,” she breaks the silence, softly, tilting her head. “Just… different.”
He nods. And yeah… it is. Different. Probably the best word for it. Different from before, and yet somehow not. Here they are—feeling the same pull tightening inside, the same wants buried under years of restraint. Almost thirty years have passed. So much has changed. And still…
Nothing has.
They’re still here. Still holding back. Still afraid to ruin what’s left.
Still building walls when all he wants to do is tear them down—build something new instead. And fuck, what if they lose each other before they can? He can’t bear the thought alone. If they really are in their all-our-friends-are-dying era, how long before it’s one of them?
How long before it’s her?
His friend.
Olivia.
He watches the red in her eyes shimmer, the way she blinks hard to keep the tears from falling. He knows then she understands him and fuck… out of everything, this might be the cruelest part.
They both know exactly what they’re risking by standing still.
In not doing anything, they’re gambling away the only thing that’s ever made sense. The chance at something real. The kind of joy, the kind of peace, they’ve only ever found in each other.
He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep moving at her pace before he breaks.
Suddenly, she takes a step forward, and before he can even process it, she’s right there in his space—so close, so warm, so fucking solid as her hands slip beneath his arms and she folds herself completely into him. The hug catches him off guard, knocks the air from his lungs, but thank God he recovers fast, because his arms move barely a second later as if by instinct, wrapping tightly around her body.
Time stands still.
She fits against him like a puzzle piece, and every point of contact feels like it’s on fire. He can’t remember the last time something felt this right—or any good reason why they haven’t done this more often. He can probably count on one hand the number of times they’ve hugged, and for the life of him, what the hell were they thinking? Why haven’t they done this every day, all these years? How has he managed to live so long without it?
Because this is what it’s supposed to feel like. What comfort feels like. What peace feels like. What home feels like.
God, he doesn’t want to let her go.
He buries his face in her neck and breathes her in.
The city fades—the noise, the stink, the heaviness in the air. All of it disappears, swallowed whole by her. All he can feel now is her body against his, her breath ghosting over his skin.
All he can smell now is Olivia.
In Rome, you could walk past a bakery and smell bread instead of burnt rubber, espresso instead of subway rot. The streets there didn’t sweat. The asphalt didn’t stink. Rome was beautiful—clean, soft, almost gentle. It was unproblematic and easy, and maybe that’s why Kathy loved it so much.
But New York… New York couldn’t be more different. It’s filth and noise and chaos. A constant fight, a thousand problems waiting to be solved. And somehow, it’s Olivia who makes it breathable again. Olivia who brings light into it.
Olivia who brings life.
She’s the only one who can stand in the middle of all this mess and turn it into something worth it.
Rome had served its purpose. Rome was Kathy’s place.
But New York…
New York is Olivia’s.
And his… Well, maybe it's taken him far too long to come to terms with the truth of it all.
Rome, New York—none of it really matters in the end.
His place isn’t really a place.
Elliot’s place is Olivia.
“I love you.”
A beat.
For a few seconds, his mind betrays him. He thinks maybe he let that slip—same as before, same as all those other times when the words broke loose against his will. Like holding onto the truth of his feelings about her is just too damn hard for his body to contain.
But no.
Even though those were the exact same words caught in his throat just moments ago, he knows for sure it wasn’t his voice that spoke them.
It was Olivia’s.
Elliot’s whole body tenses. His arms tighten around her instinctively, as if afraid that now the words are out, she’ll find reasons to pull away—take them back, pretend they never happened.
She doesn’t.
If anything, her arms only tighten around him in response.
It takes him another moment for his head to stop spinning before he leans back—slow and too damn careful, still afraid that any sudden movement might make her retreat.
When their eyes meet, he watches the quiet determination in her gaze. The soft, delicate way her lips curl in response. Almost teasing. Definitely way too sexy for his peace of mind.
“What—” his voice catches, and he has to clear his throat before he can go on. “What did you just say?”
She smirks—she fucking smirks—and tilts her head in response.
“Is your hearing something affected by your old age or—”
“Olivia,” he interrupts. A warning. His heart is beating way too frantically for him to pretend he wants to joke around, and they both know it. No—not this time.
This time, he needs her to mean it.
As if hearing his thoughts, her gaze softens. One of her hands slips up from behind his back, moving slowly—past his ribs, across his chest. Her movements are methodical, up until the moment she finally reaches for his jaw, gently cradling his face.
There’s hardly a single breath of space between them now, and for all the ways he’s pictured this moment in his head over the years, the reality of it still knocks the air right out of his lungs.
“I love you,” she says again, even more deliberate than last time.
He can almost hear his heart scattering across the floor, only to be pieced together again almost immediately, beat by steady beat.
It feels a lot like healing.
He must look as stunned as he feels, because she suddenly snorts, a small, amused sound that cuts right through the tension. “Now get off my car.”
She steps back quickly, and the loss of her warmth is immediate. He watches as she turns on her heels, brushing past him in the process—her shoulders softly grazing his chest—and reaches for the car handle.
It’s only when he hears the click of the lock that something inside him snaps.
Oh no, she fucking won’t.
Before she can even pull the door open, his body is already pivoting. His hand slams it shut with a muffled thug while his other finds her waist, fingers curling tight against the fabric of her grey suit. In one swift motion, he turns her, pinning her between his body and the car. Her back hits the metal with a soft smack, and he hears her breath catch in surprise—a sharp little grasp that dies the moment his body closes in.
It all happens in a single, suspended instant. His palm slides up her side, smoothly tracing the curves of her torso until he cups her face. His thumb brushes along her cheek just as his other hand anchors her by the hips, locking her in place.
Her lips part in a silent, involuntary ‘oh’. He thinks about what it would feel like to steal that breath from her with his own lips.
And then he stops thinking altogether.
The moment he dips his head and captures her mouth, it’s like the entire world ceases to exist. It’s years of restraint collapsing in on itself. It’s heartbreak, and intimacy, and life being breathed into him for the first time in what feels like forever.
It’s all impact. Sharp edges and softness all at once. It’s the smell of her perfume, and the taste of mint on her breath mixed with the faint trace of the drink she’s had earlier. It’s fruity, sweet and deeply intoxicating.
He dives in deeper.
Suddenly her hands come up, pressing against his chest for half a heartbeat. He thinks she might push him away, repeat what she said in her kitchen all those months—no, years—ago. He thinks if she does it, he might genuinely not survive. If she stops him now it might actually break him for good.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, her hand curls into his jacket, pulling him even closer. The motion knocks the breath from both of them. When her lips part, it isn’t hesitation he feels—it’s surrender.
He takes the opening for what it is: clear invitation. His tongue dives in to swipe at the seam of her mouth, and he tastes her like he’s waited decades to do, the world narrowing down to the rhythm of their breathing, the rush of heat where their mouths meet, and the way his hips are pressed flushed against her, where he has her pinned on the back of her SUV.
He may never know if the moan he hears then came from him or her. Maybe it came from both of them. Maybe there’s no Benson and no Stabler anymore. Maybe there’s not one without the other.
Maybe there never was.
Her hands slide up his chest and into the back of his neck, her touch firm and deliberate. There’s no space here for hesitation. Her fingertips on his skin ground him somehow—bring him back to the present, to the breathtaking fact that he’s currently making out with Olivia Benson on a street corner outside a bar neither of them even wanted to attend.
The realization hits him all at once, and it makes him fucking giddy. Before he can even think it through, he nips at her lower lip—almost playfully, too dazed with desire to stop himself.
Her soft moan breaks into the night air, echoing faintly down the empty street.
“Elliot—”
He doesn’t give himself time to think. He presses forward, trailing slow, unsteady kisses along her jaw, then down to the curve of her neck. His lips find her pulse, steady and way too quick beneath his mouth. He lingers there, tasting the heat of her skin, the slightly salty flavor of her sweat, feeling every breath she takes with his tongue, lips and teeth.
Her hand stays at the back of his neck, holding him close. Her breathing turns ragged, uneven, and inadvertently pushes her breasts up at each intake, driving him further from reason. He wants them too, under his hands or his mouth, he’s not picky. He just wants all of her.
“Elliot, stop.”
The words cut through the haze like a blade.
He freezes instantly, the world rushing back around them. His breathing stumbles, harsh and uneven, but he doesn’t immediately move away—he’s too damn worked up. His pants are too fucking tight, and he’s sure she’s noticed, given the fact his whole body is pressed in full to the length of hers.
He can’t stop the apology from slipping his lips. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t.”
Her hand, still behind his neck, pushes gently until he looks at her. Her brown eyes are hazed but piercing, holding him in place.
“Don’t apologize,” she says softly. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want you to.”
For a second, he just stares at her, barely breathing. The words echo in his head, over and over. It takes him a beat to find his voice.
“Yeah?”
A small smile touches her lips. “Yeah.”
The word is soft, almost shy, but it hits him like sunlight breaking through fog. He smiles, softly. For the first time in a long time, he feels… happy. Stupidly, quietly happy.
Even though he’s still really—painfully—hard.
“I might need a minute, though.”
She laughs, inhibited, and damn—he thinks he might be falling in love all over again.
He better get used to it, he supposes.
“Maybe,” she says, voice low and teasing now, “we should find a better place to continue this later.”
He blinks. “Later?”
“Yeah, El… later.”
She gives him a look that’s both fond and maddeningly composed before stepping forward, gently guiding him as they begin to untangle from each other. “I’ve got work to do. And you—” her chin tips toward the bar behind him “—why don’t you go in there and say hello?”
His smile shifts, softer now, touched with resignation and something close to awe. Yeah, maybe she’s right. Maybe the only way forward is to stop running—face the ghosts, walk straight into the places that still hurt.
And if this, right here, is proof that they’re finally moving somewhere new—that this is just the beginning—then hell… he figures he can face whatever comes next.
He nods, then with one last, barely composed breath, reaches for her car door and pulls it open for her.
Olivia slips into the driver’s seat, her movements steady and gracious—but he doesn’t miss the faint flush on her cheeks, or the way her lips are still beautifully swollen. She glances up at him, that familiar spark in her eyes.
“Can I call you later?” he asks then, almost tentative.
She smiles. “You can call me anytime, El.”
They both laugh then—softly and way too self-conscious for two people who had their tongues in each other’s mouth in the middle of the street just moments before.
He looks toward the corner again, to the bar where he’s supposed to go, then back at her.
“I love you too, Olivia.”
She stills, her hand pausing on the steering wheel. For a heartbeat, all she does is look at him. Then that soft, knowing smile curves her lips again.
“I know,” she says.
He smirks, then nods.
“Later,” is all he says, and before he can change his mind, he closes the door and turns away—hands shoved into his pockets as he starts toward the bar, willing the night air to cool his body into some semblance of control.
The night feels different now. Sure, the air is still thick, and the city is still alive, but he swears the smell doesn’t bother him anymore.
Not when there’s a trace of lavender lingering in it.