His shoes tapped anxiously against the checkered rug of the waiting room. He could already feel the bruises forming on his elbows from the hardness of the wooden armrests.
He was alone in the waiting room. The receptionist had wandered off behind closed doors and the only other people in sight were walking through the halls. No television playing, not even those god awful soap operas that seemed to be a given in waiting rooms.
For once, he was truly alone. The silence rang in his ears, growing louder with each passing second and fighting off his wandering mind felt futile.
She had nearly died under this roof. A few floors down in an emergency room bay. When he closed his eyes, his vision was replaced with the memory of the lobby rushing past him. He had run through the waiting area faster than the speed of light, fighting off the bile rising in his throat.
Even now, a sliver of fear rises in his stomach when his phone rings, and he's been meaning to change the ringtone for a while now.
'Is this Elliot Stabler?'
He had been so damn mad at that point, trudging down the streets with no intention of going anywhere specific. He almost didn't answer it, that's what strikes him the most. He'd looked at the screen and saw the unidentified number, and he had come so close to sending it to voicemail.
He doesn't like to think of how he would've felt hearing it in past tense from a voicemail. Not knowing if she was alive or dead. It was hard enough to hear it from a live voice, hearing it in the past would've pushed him to the ground from the weight of the guilt.
'You're listed as Olivia Benson's emergency contact. We're calling to notify you that she's currently in critical condition here at Memorial Sloan Kettering's emergency room.'
He'd damn near dropped the phone before he spun on his heels, running in the opposite direction. The anger hadn't faded in that moment, instead it fueled his fire like a rainstorm of gasoline. The hurt, the fear, the utter rage, he'd ran so fucking fast.
He'd pushed past every door, frantically searching through every glass pane as he just ran. And with his feet barely on the ground, he had said a prayer. It was not a prayer he would've said whilst sitting under the tall and ornate ceilings of his church. It was a curse, more violent than his angry pleas at God after his arrival while alone in the chapel. It was different. It wasn't words, because there had been no words yet. There was the wind blowing in his ears as his feet carried him and there was the falsetto cries from the monitors. Nothing else.
He hadn't said the prayer as much as he'd simply felt it. When no words would come to his mind because his mind was too focused on getting himself to her, his soul did the speaking.
That day, he had left her there. His back turned to her apartment door, unaware that hers in the same position, although it made a world of difference because she had been dying on that floor as he'd walked away.
The prayer was an ultimatum.
His anger towards her choices were irrelevant, and the anger he would hold onto for days to come as well. The prayer was an ultimatum with God.
Save her...
or I'm done.
Maybe it was worse that he hadn't said it. Maybe letting his heart do the speaking for him was where the real folly lied. Except, he knew more than anything that the prayers unspoken were often the most truthful. The one wish, the one intent. Had her heart stopped beating and had she lie cold on the operating table, he would've bid his farewell to the God he had known.
In fact, he would've burned every bible that ever touched his fingertips. He would've let John and Matthew and David and Luke dissolve at the tip of his match, in return, trading himself to become his very own version of Judas.
His faith was the last chip on the table, always. The very last offering he would ever give, and as the deceivingly happy paintings had passed him by in a blur, he was ready to roll the dice.
As a child, he had once made the wrong choice to use the Lord's name in vain while in the presence of his father. In that moment, as nothing but an eight year old, he'd thought that he had done his God an injustice so severe that he would burn for it. The belt sure replicated the pain.
Then, he was a man. Grown to stand six feet, a father of five and anything but a child anymore. He had done so much worse. He had done something that would make his eight year old self crumble with fear.
He had threatened God within these walls.
He had threatened God, as if he were anything more than a mustard seed himself. He was no deity with the ability to overthrow his creator, he was just a man who had come so close to falling on his knees as they carted her body away. But he was a man with one wish that day, and to him, that was powerful enough. Strong enough to change any current, any magnetic pull.
He would burn for her.
The walls feel cold and if his sanity were not intact, he'd think he was the only one in the hospital now. His prayers were different today. They were not almighty demands to an ear that was under no obligation to listen. Instead, they were feeble. They reeked of an unspoken apology for how he had acted towards his God the last time he sat in these chairs.
Though, he wasn't sure that if he was given a second chance that he would've done it differently.
Sitting in the chairs now was not accompanied by vehement begging, but rather submission. Today, he would accept the outcome for what it was meant to be.
His last irate demands towards God being answered with her survival had not taught him that being irascible was the answer. He knew, after the anger had turned cold, that his obsecration hadn't been the final decision for her. It never would be. He had no say in how the world would turn, or better yet, how her world would turn.
So his prayers were quiet now. Reverting back to how they were meant to be. Humility intact, acceptance to follow. He only prayed for strength and for mercy now. For grace and peacefulness. For forgiveness.
She's behind those doors right now and he wants to tear them down. The thought of her crying or breaking in a room only one hallway away from him shoots knives into his chest. His hand feels cold without hers now and he can't stop thinking about how her hand had felt as if it belonged with his. She had walked away, her head held down as she prepared for her world to shift. The look in her eye as she gave a last glance, it makes him wonder if it was a goodbye.
Though, if she were waving goodbye to him and the way things once were, this wasn't the right time. It was weeks ago, perhaps even the day she had left the squadroom for a simple mammogram appointment. Her destruction was already laid out in front of her, bombshells upon bombshells wouldn't add to this earthquake. Not enough to warrant one last glance at what it all used to be.
He hopes that if, God forbid, she is receiving bad news, that she isn't crying. He wants her to be fierce, though he understands that ferocity will not always be in the cards for her. Not anymore. But he can hope and pray that whatever news she is being given, she will take in stride.
If there's a guidebook for this, he hasn't read it. He can't think of the right words for when she comes out. When the tears will have stained her cheeks and she falls into him, will there even be a need for words?
The walls begin to feel as if they are closing in on him, and maybe they are. His eyes have been purposely avoiding yet another painting on the wall across from him. They make him feel just as miserable as they make her feel. If he was a man without restraint, he'd tear them down too.
It's only a matter of time until these chairs become more familiar than his own bed, and he will grow used to the shooting back pain from the hardened cushions. It's okay though, he thinks. If he's by her side, where she directed him to be if he were to be around at all, it's okay. If he must, he will find a home within the uncomfortable chairs and wooden arm rests.
He'll grow used to the silence, and her silence. Always the internal fighter, her. She doesn't speak about her battles, not about Sealview or her mother. Not that he's the psychiatrist's model patient either. Yet, he found it strange that he longed to hear her talk about her pain while he refused to do so himself.
She's on the other side of the door.
He hates it.
The clock is moving slower and each time the red hand ticks per second, he feels as if he is being interrogated by it. How long can he wait? How long until the idea of knowing she's crying or upset behind that door before he bursts through?
These walls play mind games. The whole hospital does.
Ticking clocks. Colorful paintings. Closed doors. Retracting walls. Sounding alarms.
If this was a game of psychological torture, he was losing. How did people walk these halls and not run screaming and crying while dragging the people they loved away? How did they breathe? How did they ever accept the fact that a piece of their heart, someone they cared about, was somehow living a life that required this place?
How was denial ever fought off?
His psyche is trembling and he feels it, he wants to grab her and run. He wants to ride until he's chasing the sunsets over the view of the road. Anything to take her away from this and allow it to disappear. But it won't. It won't go away if he wishes hard enough and it won't go away by ignoring it.
She's sick, he tells himself. Words he hates hearing, hates thinking. But despite the fact that the walls feel like a prison to him, he knows that there is nowhere else on earth she should be instead. She's in good hands, but she's also in the hands of fate.
There's nothing more a control freak such as himself hates than the inability to control fate.
He hates hospitals because he hates death. Hating death doesn't align with his job in the way most people would think. Most would assume that his hatred towards loss would send him running from the idea of being a police officer. Though, he liked to think that their job was one of the healing parts of the natural order of death. He could get justice, he could get restoration.
Hospitals were different. A saving grace, maybe. But to walk into a hospital with anything other than fear was a rarity. They housed birth and death all under the same roof.
He had heard a quote once. "Airports have seen more sincere kisses than the wedding halls, and the walls of hospitals have heard more prayers than the walls of a church."
Hearing it had struck him in the gut, reminding him that nothing ever is as it's seen.
The walls of this hospital would hear more of his prayers than any other church he has stepped foot inside of. Even for a man of faith whose faith was hanging on by a thread, he would pray under this roof until it collapsed.
His eyes are drawn to the movement of the door and through the small pane of glass, he sees Olivia's shock-ridden face. As he rises to his feet, he sees her push her way past the door and into the waiting room. Her jaw hangs slightly and her eyes have no real destination locked in.
"Liv, you okay?" he breathed, reaching out a hand to guide her as she nearly stumbled. His grip came to both of her shoulders, holding her steady as he tried to coax a response from her. He could feel her trembling against his hands, her head slowly rising to look at him.
There was no answer in her swollen eyes, nothing he could decipher. It took every ounce of his strength not to lift his hands from her shoulder and cup her cheeks. Instead, his grip just grew tighter.
She searched around the room, never quite falling on anything particular. Her jaw still hung and her brows furrowed when she finally looked up and into his eyes. He could hear the audible gulp that came from her throat "Can we go, please?" she asked in a breathless whisper.
Wordlessly, he nodded. His arms came away from her shoulders, gesturing for her to walk ahead of him. Her march looked different to him now, yet he couldn't pinpoint exactly what about it had changed. Her emotions were unreadable as were the steps she was taking.
She remained silent for the elevator ride down. Through barely open eyelids, he glanced over at her. He hated the moments when he was unable to decipher whatever it was that she was feeling. The closest thing he could read from her was... confusion?
Her jacket was folded over her arms, covering her stomach as she headed towards the front exit. He didn't bother looking around the lobby this time either. In fact, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stomach it if he did.
Running through those doors, weeks ago, he never imagined it would be like this.
Without a word between them, he pauses her and carefully lifts the jacket from her arms. Instead of putting up a fight or demanding she could do it herself, she lifted her arm out as he slid the sleeves over her.
Her eyes didn't meet his this time.
The fresh air washed over them both as they stepped out from inside the hospital. There was mist in the air, not thick enough to be rain and not light enough to be a sprinkle. Inwardly, he cursed at himself for not thinking about bringing an umbrella, the last thing he wanted was for her to get sick.
He'd expected her to hail them a cab and resist the idea of walking back, yet she strolled over the sidewalk as if the thought of a taxi was the last thought on her mind. He didn't like the silence, it felt too dangerous. Something fragile hanging between them, and he wasn't sure whether to ask or wait.
Her steps were slow-paced, and if he weren't mistaken, he'd think she was actually enjoying the moments spent in the misty rain. He could see the droplets pooling on her cheeks and he was just thankful for the fact that they weren't tears.
It's fifteen minutes of directionless walking before she finally breaks her silence. "I liked autumn too." she says, drawing from their earlier conversation. "I liked it because it meant I got to go back to school and escape from home. I didn't really like school itself that much, but it was better than being with my mother. It also meant that she'd be going back to work at Columbia so life was just a little bit more peaceful."
She stops in her tracks, her hands shoving into her pockets as she rocks on her heels. The rain falls a little harder and the droplets are falling off of her shoulders. "I liked autumn but it came with consequences too. Sure, I'd be free from my mother for more of the day but it also meant that she would be under more stress and that I would be living with the constant feeling of needing to escape further. It was a double edged sword."
"Liv," he sighs. "Just talk to me, please." he asks in the most helpless voice she had ever heard.
She stares into his eyes for a moment, blinking away the raindrops on her lashes. Searching his eyes had always felt like searching the ocean, and felt impossible not to drown within them. Her head turns, motioning for the bench that they had stopped near.
The anxiety radiates off of him as he sits beside her, preparing himself for what he had expected to hear the entire time. It was different though. He could prepare all he wanted, but when it came down to it, he wasn't sure he was ready to hear it. Maybe he never would.
"Elliot," she starts, taking a deep breath. "I don't have the gene mutation." she states carefully, blinking away the burgeoning tears.
His jaw falls as his breath becomes bated, and the smallest of cautious smiles. "Really?" he exhales. "But... but I though with Simon's grandma—"
"I thought so too. I was certain, actually. But I was wrong. Doctor Keller said that it's just a coincidence, that her and I.. well, you know." she shakes her head, still struggling to say the words when the time came for it. "I don't have to alter my treatment plan or expand my surgery."
"Liv, that's amazing, this is great!" his smile grows but he feels the insecurity. He feels the prayer being answered but with a different result closing in on them. "I mean, you're happy, right?"
Her next inhale is bigger and he feels the world falling off kilter. "Yes," she hesitates, her eyes falling down into her lap. "I'm more in shock than anything. It's just... " her head falls back and he's struggling to wrap his mind around why she isn't relieved or happy. "I don't think you're gonna understand if I explain what I'm feeling."
"Liv, what is it?"
"This whole thing!" she chokes out. "I'm just starting to realize that this is how it's going to be now." the hurt in her eyes is visible now as she shakes her head. "These ups and downs, all of it. I mean, I just spent the last three days completely convinced that my situation was deeper and worse than expected. And it was three days of pure suffering and fear. So were the first two weeks after finding out I was sick. Nothing about this is ever going to be linear or promised. I'm just gonna keep going through these ups and downs that, quite frankly, drain the life out of me."
He wants to hold her hand but the moment feels too sober and he fights the urge. But she's wrong. He does understand. Maybe not to the degree she's feeling, but he understands the feeling of impossibility. Instead, he listens.
'Be who she needs you to be, Elliot.'
"This just keeps breaking me and breaking me. Of course, I'm relieved. I'm happy. But... it's hard to be happy when I realize that the last three days were not the last time I'm ever gonna feel that low." she wipes away the tears with the back of her hand, but they fall again and intertwine with the raindrops.
When he looks into her eyes, he sees the despair outweighing the relief and he wonders if he'll remember this moment forever. Olivia Benson with almost no hope.
The leaves are falling from the trees as the rain beats down on them, and he can no longer tell which on her cheeks are tears or droplets of the storm. "I just want this to be over, El." she says, her words shaking as she tries to breathe through it.
"It will be, Liv." he pleads, pushing a strand of hair away from her face. "You... you gotta stay strong though. This isn't going to last forever." he feels the ache in his eyes and damn it all to hell if he cries, he'll cry if he needs to because the look on her face is shattering him from the inside out.
"But will it?" she sniffles, her eyes only growing increasingly glassy as she cocks her head to the side. "Even if I do make it out of this alive, this fear that is living inside of me will never go away. Do you understand that? For the rest of my life I will be shaken to my core when I have to go to the doctor or when I feel sick." her lip quivers and he can hear her breaths breaking involuntarily. "I-I'm scared, El."
And she breaks. On a park bench in the upper east side of Manhattan when the orange leaves float to the ground, she breaks under the pressure of the fear. Under the grip of her anxieties. Her eyes clamp shut and she instinctually falls into his body, his arms anchoring her in. He rests his chin on top of her head as she cries against him, but it's okay because he doesn't want her to see him cry either.
Maybe every road was the road less traveled by, she thinks. But from where she's sitting, she's almost certain that her road hasn't been touched by the shoe soles of anyone else. Not in this detail. Not in rainy upper east Manhattan during autumn in the arms of someone whose badge was their only obligation to her, yet gave so much more.
The tide of a new season is upon them, and neither are ready to say goodbye to life as they know it. Whatever the new season is, it's wholeheartedly unknown.
He likes autumn, and she does too...