Usually, she was keen on going to doctor's appointments alone. For a while, she had considered it to be the easier option. Only, she had misconstrued the idea of what 'easy' had meant. Her version of 'easy' was taxing on her emotions, but simpler when it came to the people around her. It left her considering herself less of a burden.
After what happened when Simon had left, she didn't really give a shit about which version of easy she wanted. So, when Elliot had quietly offered to accompany her to the appointment, she hadn't turned him down. She didn't give much of a reply, actually. More or less a shrug and a whispered acceptance.
The exceptional light in her eyes, her signature feature, was gone. He had seen a switch flip inside of her as soon as he'd released her from the earth-shattering grip he'd held her in. He hadn't seen her way of life the first time, back when her diagnosis was still raw and vivid. She had sheltered everyone from that for a variation of time. The lack of light in her eyes back then was something that he had been spared from. This side of Olivia was new to him.
It terrified him to say the least.
That night, they had parted from the hug and moved to the couch. She didn't even need to explain herself, he knew what had happened. She'd cried herself to sleep against him that night, an image in front of him that he'd never thought he'd ever see. Her exhausted body limp against him as if she had just given a full-body exhale and refused to breathe in again.
He'd thrown her legs over his arms, careful not to wake her as he carried her back to her bed. She'd felt lighter than he expected, but he was also playing the dangerous game of pretending this reality wasn't real. He'd taken a route similar as her, allowing the IVF to be the main focus for the time being.
He didn't want to think about the fact that she was shedding weight and growing pale due to the terror her body was under.
But he'd taken notice. He'd noticed that her skin was losing its olive-toned glow. He'd seen that her clothes were practically hanging off of her body at this point. Sometimes he even wondered if some of the bruises that covered her skin were from the constant injections or just the plain fact that her body was going through horrendous changes.
She only had a few more days left of that, the IVF and the bright red sharps container on her countertop was becoming less translucent as it filled with discarded needles. He wasn't ready to think about what would come after, but now he didn't have a choice. He'd made a promise to stick by her through this, and he kept his promises.
He had stayed that night. When Simon had left and she was wading through the waters of exhaustion and fear. He'd made himself comfortable on the couch, afraid to leave her by herself. When she had woken up and found him there, she had figured that he'd just returned by morning, too exhausted to notice that he was wearing the same clothes. He didn't bother correcting her.
That was when he'd truly noticed the light in her eyes was gone.
She'd walked in the kitchen, her arms crossed over the oversized sweater she'd been wearing. Her stare had no real focus, attaching onto whatever was in front of her. Her words were flat and dull, monosyllabic. He'd prepared her morning injection for her and a cup of tea.
A day later, nothing had changed.
He hadn't really expected it to. She was going numb; shutting down as she prepared to hear exactly what she was expecting to hear from Doctor Keller. She was expecting her tests to come back positive for the gene mutations, she was expecting her entire treatment plan to derail.
She was expecting to lose more of herself.
Mentally. Emotionally. Physically.
He's waiting for her that morning as well, only he hadn't spent the night. She'd come into the kitchen once again with a little less of her soul. Next to her tea was the layout of the sterile needles and quickly emptying bottles of Menopur. For as long as she'd been doing injections, she had yet to do one herself. He was there, always. Sometimes it would be in the cribs during their break. Sometimes he'd be knocking on her door just as she was about to leave for work and he'd administer her doses.
She doesn't say much, or anything at all on the second morning. She rolls the band of her sweatpants down, opting for her bruised stomach to receive the day's first assault. He doesn't say much either. Not even one of his imbecilic jokes about making a baby.
He can sense her anxiety, even as it's deeply rooted beneath her new shellshocked exterior. The needle sticks her abdomen and she doesn't flinch anymore. He's gentle, and she's thankful for that. She mumbles something resembling a 'thanks' under her breath and grabs the mug of tea he's prepared for her.
He wants to ask her if she still wants him to come to her appointment, but he's afraid she'll recant her previous — well, he wouldn't call it an invitation, per se.
In silence, he watches her as she sits down on the couch. He's peering over the island, observing her blank stare. He'll make breakfast, and maybe it'll help. It won't, but he can think for at least a few minutes that it might. She's returned to not eating, he's barely seen her touch anything more than a mug of tea throughout the last day and a half.
The eggs fry in the skillet, the sizzling sounds merging with the blathering from the morning news that she's pretending to pay attention to.
He stares at her for a little while longer, taking in the sight in front of him. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that she's given up. Except, he does know better. He knows Olivia Benson doesn't give up. She may sink all the way to rock bottom if the event calls for it, but she has yet to ever give up. She's fiercely resilient and she has a near ungodly persistence that stays within her at all times.
He wants to tell her that she will rise above the water again, as long as she just keeps fighting. Though, he doesn't say it. Instead, he prays that somehow, someway, she can feel it. He wants to release it into the air, to allow it to emanate from him to her.
The eggs on the pan are beginning to burn but he isn't paying attention. His eyes are glued to her as she lives in her own little bubble away from the world. The pain of the scene in front of him is decimating his own spirit, and he gulps away the persistent lump in his throat. Maybe it's witnessing her in such a low state or maybe it's the mountain of emotions that he's been shoving so far down, but it hurts. It's simple, it hurts, but it's not simple because it hurts in ways he would've never fathomed. She's slowly blinking as if her body has shifted into auto-pilot and he's blinking away the tears that are assaulting his eyes.
It takes every ounce of his strength to hold it together and he's mentally giving her more credit than ever for having held it together as long as she did. It's striking him that this is her life now. Irrevocable ups and downs that she couldn't run from even if she tried. But if she can't run, he won't either. He'll choose to stay in a situation that she has no choice but to stay in.
He'll stay not to be a hero, but because despite how horrific this has all become, he doesn't want to leave. In the strangest way, there was nowhere else he'd wanted to be. He'd never forgive himself for leaving before, back when he'd persecuted her for choosing to do IVF.
He's moving the first half of their breakfast onto their designated plates before he goes searching for the rest. He mentally makes a note of the near-empty fridge and tells himself that he'll pick some food up for her. Normally, she'd argue that she could do it herself, but he sees no arguments coming from her any time soon. He'll fish out his mother's old recipe cards and he'll make her a real dinner. Yeah, that's what he'll do.
He's shocked she even has bacon among the scarce amount of food, and he knows that he's probably going overboard, given that she's not going to eat it. But he wants to try. He wants her to try. She needs to try. He won't pester her or even beg, but he'll be what she needs. He'll do his best.
He swipes the plates from the counter and sits himself down next to her on the couch. He sets her plate down on the coffee table, diving into his own while he glances over at the television. "So uh... the appointment is at noon. Maybe we could take a cab, have 'em drop us off at 68th and we can walk the rest of the way? Might be nice to get some fresh air. The leaves are starting to change, we'll be up to our asses in snow soon enough. Then maybe we can walk to lunch after?"
At first, he wonders if she heard a word he said. But she takes a cautious sip from her mug before she softly nods. "Okay," she whispers, still staring off into the distance.
He doesn't want to push, she doesn't respond well to being pushed. But he can't help but think that taking the lead instead of pushing might help. He hates the intrusion of thoughts but he can't help but wonder how long until fresh air for her becomes sparse. How long until her scenery is from only a glass pane in a bleak hospital room?
"Okay," he confirms, just as quiet as he takes another bite.
He'll take the win.
By the time eleven rolls around, he's the one quickly moving about her apartment. He helps her tiredly shift her arms into her coat, grabbing a scarf from the coat rack at the door placing it over her shoulders. Mentally, he pictures that the Olivia deep inside of her is fuming over the fact that he's taking care of her. She's probably kicking and screaming beneath the surface, berating herself for daring to drop so low in front of him. But the light is still missing from her eyes and her lack of motivation is palpable.
Maybe, in some fucked up, reverse psychology way, this will help her. Assisting her will help her. Not in the way most people would think. He's not nursing her back to her old ways; he's trying to piss off the Olivia that is beneath the surface. He'll zip up her coat for her and hold the door, he'll make them walk the rest of the way to the hospital. He'll cook her breakfast every morning if he has to. He'll annoy the hell out of her with his attention and eventually, it will anger her. She'll be forced to muster up the energy to yell at him that she can take care of her own damn self, thank you very much.
And when she finally does, he won't negate it. He won't tell her that she can't take care of herself because she hasn't been. In fact, he wonders if he may even smile. She'll snap and unleash like a wildfire and it's his job to pour the gasoline.
When they finally reach the end of the cab ride to the outskirts of the park, he can see the hospital at the end of the street. Her nose has turned red from the crisp and chilly autumn air, and he's just glad to see some color in her face.
He's playing the long-con, and he's hoping it won't be long at all. "I always loved seeing the trees changing colors as a kid." he states, smiling with a child-like wonder in his eye as he looks around. "I'd get so excited when we'd move onto Earth science in school because every year they'd teach us more and more about the seasons changing."
She doesn't answer, but he can tell that she's listening as they leisurely make their way up the street. "You see, it's actually the chlorophyll breaking down. That's what makes it look yellow and orange. But it always blew my mind that some leaves would turn yellow or some would turn red or some would turn orange. They all came from the same tree, but they were all different colors."
The resting frown on her face begins to lift, so slightly that if he hadn't paid attention, he wouldn't have noticed.
"Most people call it 'fall' since the leaves fall. I always preferred calling it 'autumn'." he chuckles. "I remember, I think it was sixth grade, I did a report about the season for class. I was doing research on why it's called 'autumn' and I learned that it came from the word 'autumnus' in latin — which some people believe is rooted from estruscan meaning 'the passing of the year'."
If she had the energy, she'd chuckle too. On the inside, maybe she was. She wants to quirk her lip and roll her eyes because he's so goddamn sentimental when he doesn't mean to be.
She likes it when he rambles.
"I loved that. 'Passing of the year', it sounds so refreshing. I think it always gave me a reminder that things would get better. My parents would fight and my mom would go off the handle but the year would always pass and start fresh. No matter what. I liked the consistency. Or, better yet, the consistency among the unstable. It didn't matter how shitty things were, it was the one thing that could never disappoint me."
Even with her head hung low as she watches her footsteps, she is listening. Usually, she'd think that he was pulling this out of his ass just to give her a message of hope. But something inside of her tells her that he's telling the truth.
"I liked autumn too," she whispers, shoving her hands into her coat pockets. From her peripheral vision, she sees him smile, teeth and all. He nods his head ever so slightly, still looking around as they make their venture.
"Yeah?" his hands are in his coat pockets too, and his elbow bumps into hers as they stroll. "You've never been a winter person, have you? But I'm not sure if you like spring either. Spring isn't for me. I like the rain when the trees are changing, the leaves are falling, and the roads are sloshy. It's chilly, but cozy. Springtime never felt cozy to me."
She thinks of her little mental log cabin and how perfect it would be in the fall. He's right, she doesn't want the blossoming flowers that come with easter eggs and four leaf clovers. She wants the pumpkins and the cinnamon and the glowing midnight moon. Heaven lies in a crackling fireplace where wool blankets weigh them down and protect them from the harsh force of the world.
Her shoes are splashing against the puddles as they walk, and she doesn't think about much else other than that. Thinking about anything other than the breeze between her mythical pine trees feels like a thought that would be too heavy to carry. She's too tired for this.
She thinks back to that Robert Frost poem that has been in her head on repeat for days. She thinks about the diversion of the two roads and what they look like. She has to imagine an array of yellow leaves dividing the two roads, giving no hint of which direction to travel towards. She thinks about how the rain water has probably pooled on each little leaf, holding them all down against the sodden dirt floor. The entire pathway, both roads, covered head to toe in the bright yellow foliage, wearing it like a dress.
How could she tell which road was less traveled by?
How could anyone?
She wants to see the crossroads. Not her own crossroads, but the yellow ones with dampened fallen leaves. Maybe if she sees it, she'll know which path to take. An instinct, a sign, an emotional gravitation. Something other than her own choice to decide for her. Though, she isn't sure what it is she's supposed to be deciding. Everything feels decided for her already. On some level, it is. It's the familiar pesky feeling that there's a choice to be made, she just doesn't know what it's purpose is.
They're nearing towards the hospital and each step feels heavier than the last. She knows he's doing this on purpose. She knows it's probably just the beginning too. He's forcing her to continue. To just keep continuing, existing, pushing, whatever term he feels fits best for her. He thinks she's giving up. She's just tired. She isn't going to shatter and break if the breeze blows in the wrong direction, she's becoming familiar with her own tailor made process of grief. He's the unfamiliar one. He's underestimating her.
She isn't giving up; she is allowed to be exhausted.
On some level, she wishes he would save his energy for when she really needs a push. For when every little loss feels like the world's greatest defeat. As of now, she still knows how to put one foot in front of the other, even if she doesn't want to.
The future may be different.
She doesn't know her limit yet, it's still being tested.
She's gonna need this energy of his for when fighting a battle becomes fighting the war.
He's wasting it. She would've eaten eventually. She would've gone to her appointment. She would've come around, probably. He's gonna get tired, she's already waiting for it to happen. He'll start this act of keeping her going and he'll burn out faster than she will.
He can walk away at any moment. He is not tethered to her in any form other than work, she thinks. He holds no obligation, no contractual need to keep her upright. He's marching beside her now, but for how long?
Maybe that was why she had waited so long to tell him about the cancer. Prolonging the amount of time he'll be around because if he knows sooner, he'll burn out sooner, he'll leave sooner. Or maybe there were a hundred reasons why she didn't tell him and that just seems to be the one that suits the day.
When she knows he isn't looking, she glances at him from her peripheral vision. She wants the image in her head, and she wants to use her remaining strength to keep it there. The image of him beside her, grinning as he looks around at the trees. Beside her, more importantly. Still here.
Within a few silent moments, they're standing in the exact spot she stood when he'd realized she was sick. When he'd seen her across the lanes and the blur of yellow cabs. She'd thought her world ended in that moment, but the concrete still stood. Even now, after Simon, she'd felt the same. As if her world would never be able to heal itself and the rubble would never clear. She wondered how many more times she would feel that way; how many more events would feel like the final day.
"Do you want me to go in with you?" he asked, trying to hide his shiver as they stood beneath the entryway. Her eyes refused to meet his, fearing it would just exert more of herself into a moment that wasn't significant enough to call for it.
She knew she'd see his fear. Entering these places, no matter the reason, killed a part of the soul.
"Sure," she mumbled, giving a slight nod as they walked into the lobby.
When she checks herself in at the main reception desk, he's staring up at the lobby ceiling. He hadn't had enough time to do it when he'd rushed in the last time. The colors of the room had flown by him while he ran. He still hadn't unpacked that entire day in his head yet. He still hadn't dealt with the fact that he had actually received a phone call from Sloan Kettering telling him that he was being called as an emergency contact for a patient in critical care, or that the entire way there, he was battling with the voices that were telling him she was already gone.
That was for another time.
He doesn't know it yet, but the feeling he has when he sees the artwork in the room is the same reaction she'd had. Like walking into the softroom at the precinct, but with the knowledge behind it that it was just a façade. He'd always felt as if just a small part of him was betraying the person he was guiding into the softroom. He knows it's an illusion, do they?
It's the same here, now that he has enough time to take stock.
The only difference between here and the softroom is that everyone who walks into the hospital and sees the happy and colorful artwork knows it's bullshit, for lack of a better term.
Olivia's voice pulls him back, it always does. "We've gotta head to the third floor. That's where Doctor Keller's office is." she gestures towards the elevators, not quite waiting for him to catch up.
The walls of the third floor's hallways are beige and he wishes he wasn't surprised. He hates that she knows exactly where she's going, she knows exactly which turns to take and she does it with her face staring blankly forward. He's watching her as she's marching on.
The thing that strikes him is the fact that he feels no anxiety radiating off of her. There is no worry or wandering thoughts, just the notion that she is walking into certain doom. Because to her, she knows what he's going to tell her. She knows that the doctor will flip through the pages of her file and fold his hands together and with a sigh, he'll do what he does best; deliver bad news.
She got her answer from Simon, this is but a confirmation.
In a strange way, he wishes that she would worry. He wishes that something inside of her will still have the belief that this could go a different way. But she doesn't. Not from where he can see. She's so certain that she'd place her life on it.
It's the confidence that scares him. How will it be in the future? If she were to be told there was no hope, how long would it take before she would give up?
They reach the separate waiting room, which looks oddly like a doctor's office, that he has never seen before.The one she has spent countless hours in. She's signing herself in at the second reception desk and he's watching her movements and just how planned they are. They're calculated with ease because she's become comfortable and familiar with this particular hell.
He wants to break over the revelation, but he can't. He can't crack and shatter the moment he sees just how much this has become her life. So, he sits instead. The savagely uncomfortable chairs that he remembers from the emergency waiting room are the same here and his back already hurts but his chest hurts more.
He knew that sometimes people repressed those events, ones like running head first into an emergency room to find the person they care about. He knew it was a response to trauma, but he had underestimated just how hard it would stir up within him as soon as he returned.
Her body practically fell into the chair next to his. He watched her blow a long breath out through puffed cheeks. She was staring dead ahead, her eyes blankly falling on the coffee table that was littered with health magazines. But his eyes were stuck on her as he bit the inside of his cheek. Sitting beside her felt strange as he couldn't shake the sensation that he was suddenly even more taller than her.
His lips stayed pressed together, resting with a whisper of a grin as he simply watched her. Even in her darkest moments, she amazed him. Her sheer strength to just exist even when existing terrified her.
The fear was finally radiating off of her, and he hated the fact that it relaxed him. Though, he knew fear was good. He knew it meant that some sliver of herself that held onto hope was still inside of her, somewhere. She wasn't submitting to the inevitable anymore. The way she tapped her foot or how she picked at the threads of her sweater with her nails, it was reassuring to him. He wanted her to keep hope, but she didn't have to be alone in her fear.
The back of his hand fell against the wooden armrest, open to hers. Though, it was probably the fact that she could feel his gaze burning on her cheeks that caught her attention and made her look up at him. Her eyes darted from his, to his hand, and back to his eyes again. Hers held a question and his held the answer.
It was a promise and an offer, lying at the tips of his fingers.
Without a word between them, she slowly raised her hand and rested it within his. He could feel her pulse thumping as their fingers interlocked and another deep exhale came from her lungs. She wasn't looking at him anymore, but her grip replaced the need for him to be in her sights.
I've got you.
She remembered the night his hand had snuck beneath the door's threshold.
I'm here for you.
His hope was matching her hopelessness. He had faith to abet her fear. She wanted nothing more than the ability to rely solely on herself, and maybe she could if she tried, but that didn't stop the fact that he was the air in her drowning lungs.
The anger she still quietly harnessed for his actions around the time he had found out she was sick, it was fading. She was forgiving him, her body first to accept the fact that she was wasting time if she held onto it any longer. Her mind was always the last to catch up with her body, and her body was always the one that brought him in.
The room was quiet. For that moment only, they were just two people who needed to lean on each other. And though they were sitting side by side, the hand holding hers was actually pulling her from the icy water she was falling in. Not a stranger passing by would be able to see it, but they would.
"Olivia, you can follow me back," one of the nurses said, stepping out into the waiting room. She took a fraction more of a second to relish the feeling of his hand in hers before it slipped free. She stood, him following in suit. She turned, lightly pressing her hand out to his shoulder.
"I uh— I can go in by myself."
"I mean, are you sure?" he asked, doing that insufferable thing where he licks and bites his lower lip.
She took a deep breath, finding her vision falling to the floor before looking back up at him a wistfulness in her eyes. "Yeah. It won't take long. But can you still sta-"
"I'm not leaving." he cut her off, gently stroking her shoulder as he nodded at her.
She flashed a quick and almost indistinguishable smile before turning to follow the nurse. With one foot in front of the other, her head hung low. If she were to ever feel as if a moment were going in slow motion, it was now.
He was watching her head off to war, once again. He knew the stakes. He knew the odds. It made him sick to his stomach, but he liked the fear for himself too. Fear meant hope, and goddamn he had hope in spades.
Just as she reached the door, she turned back to see him still standing like a statue. He grinned, nodding once more. "I'll be right here." he mouthed the words.
Then, he was alone.