A/N: You can read this story on its own, but it will make the most sense if you read my story Need first, as this is its sequel.

She hardly notices when the plane takes off on her flight back to New York. Her mind is swarming with questions. It was supposed to be a quick trip to Chicago for an undercover sting. She had no idea it would leave her so lost and confused.

"Thanks for doing this, Olivia," Hank says. "Our women on the unit are young and inexperienced. I need someone who knows what they're doing do pull this off. And it helps that you're familiar with the case."

Olivia takes the manila folder that Hank hands her. "It's been a few years, but this guy stuck with me," she says. "Anything I can do to catch the bastard. I'm just sorry we couldn't get him before he moved his ring to Chicago."

Hank nods. "We are Michael and Annabelle Wilson. Doctor and stay-at-home wife with a side business in buying children as sex slaves. Hackett moved his business to the basement of a bar called Richards. I've infiltrated a bit already, frequenting the bar and implying that I was directed their way to buy the 'products' sold there. I mentioned that my wife was also interested, so they wanted both of us to come in. There are also plenty of regulars there… some really good people. Most have no idea what's happening right beneath them. Once we go down and make the deal, our backup will be in to bust the place."

Olivia suppresses the disgusted shiver that rolls down her spine at the thought of acting like she wants to buy a child. "Alright," she says in a tone that accepts this identity only by obligation. "Lead the way, 'Michael.'"

"Annabelle, this is Virginia, one of the best bar tenders in the city!" Hank says as they walk into the bar.

Virginia holds a hand out to greet Olivia. "So nice to finally meet you, Annabelle! Hank talks about you constantly!"

Olivia smiles and laughs lightheartedly. "Only the good things, I hope!"

"According to him, there is no bad," Virginia says with a wink.

"Ginny, would you let Mr. Hackett know I'm here?" Hank asks. He hangs his arm over Olivia's shoulder and she returns the couple-y gesture by embracing him from the side. Virginia nods and disappears through the kitchen door.

Hank turns toward the crowd and points to a group of people throwing darts in a far corner. "Let me introduce you to some regulars," he says. He takes her hand and leads her to the corner. "Belle, baby," he says to Olivia, "Meet some fine folks I've gotten to know here. This is Tonya, Ashley, Blake," he points to each person respectively prior to Olivia shaking their hands. "And THIS bastard," he slaps a hand to the back of a man's shoulder as the man throws a dart. "Is Mark Tilman, a criminal justice professor at Rockford. Fascinating stories this guy has up his sleeve!"

Olivia feels the blood rush completely out of her body when Elliot Stabler turns around. Her heart races, vision tunnels, and there's a ringing in her ears that muffles the rest of Hanks introduction. "Buddy, this is my lovely wife, Annabelle."

Elliot looks just as stunned as she knows she does. He stares at her with wide eyes, then they flit to Hank. He's putting it together, realizing she's undercover, and probably discovering for the first time that his friend Michael isn't actually Michael. Then she remembers where she is, what she's doing, and how important it is. She swallows, then lifts her shaky hand. "Nice to meet you, Mark."

The touch of his palm to hers is all she needs to know that this is real, not a dream, not a vision. It's Elliot. What the fuck is he doing here? Is he undercover too? Has he been undercover this entire time? Four years?

There was a time when she hoped she'd run into him. A time when she prayed it would happen. A time when he was all she could think about because he was all she had.

But that was then.

This is now.

That time passed. Pain turned into hurt. Hurt morphed into anger. Anger grew into resentment. Desire…

Well, she found other ways to deal with that.

She thinks through the last few years of her life. All the unreturned texts, phone calls, his phone eventually being disconnected. She always just assumed he was an asshole and finally decided it was time to rid himself of her. Was it this? An undercover gig in Chicago? And in all that time drinking and throwing darts at bars, he didn't have time to call?

She forces herself out of her daze and turns to Hank. She's happy to see that everyone else is making small talk and they havn't noticed the stare-off between two supposed strangers, but she knows that she and Elliot have to at least acknowledge what's going on before either of them can move on.

She rests her hand on Hank's arm. "Michael, honey, I'm going to go freshen up in the ladies' room."

He leans over and kisses her cheek. "Ok babe, be quick."

She checks the stalls for any other patrons and waits. She knows it won't be long. Her stomach is fluttering, churning, turning her food over like laundry in a washing machine. She's leaning onto the counter to catch her breath when she sees him step through the door in the mirror.

She turns around. The door closes behind him and they both stand there, staring. She's not sure for how long.

"Liv."

There's shock and warmth in his voice and she hates it. She's spent the last four years despising every memory of him and, yet, in one syllable he's made her weak.

Memories flood her mind of her captain telling her that her partner retired, and that need to duck into an interrogation room and weep fills her chest, but as she watches him for a few shocked moments, she sucks in a breath, and chooses not to feel it. She has a new life now, one she would never have if he was still with her.

He steps toward the stalls.

"It's clear," she says, shortly. "You think I wouldn't check?"

He stops. "You're undercover?"

She nods once.

"And Michael, he's…"

"Not Michael," she confirms. She wonders if he's UC with the feds if he's that unfamiliar with Hank.

She watches him, and hates the way she knows his face, hates how she knows he has just one more wrinkle than he did four years ago, right between the brows he furrows so often. He's toned, but maybe not quite as much, and his hair is still cropped and neat. She still feels out of breath as she takes him in, and she's not sure if anger or sadness will be expressed when she says it, but she has to ask. "You've been undercover this whole time?"

His eyes are still looking at her like he's in shock, and he opens his mouth to answer, but the door swings open again. "I... it's not—"

"Sorry!" a woman sings. "Really gotta pee!"

Olivia gets a glimpse of the bar before the door closes again and see's Hank behind the counter, shaking hands with a large, dark man she recognizes as Hackett. She shakes her head. She can't deal with this right now. Not while she's working.

As the woman shuts the stall, Olivia turns the faucets on as high as they will go, then holds her hand under the loud air-dryer to activate it. When there is enough noise, she pushes down the sickening feeling in her stomach and leans up to Elliot's ear. "You and your friends get out of here now. It's not safe." She starts to go, then turns around, speaks quietly to the back of his head, watching him through the mirror. "And… you don't deserve to hear this, not in the least, but I need it… Goodbye, Elliot." She watches through the mirror as his eyes close, then she leaves him in the bathroom with her solid warning to get the hell out.

And she assumes he did. She thinks about it as the plane's turbulence sloshes a bit of her drink onto the tray. She and Hank worked Hackett effortlessly, made the deal to buy a twelve-year-old girl, and the Chicago PD raided the entire bar, busting the trafficking ring and saving countless children, but unfortunately, Hackett got away. When they came back out of the bar, she didn't see "Mark" or his friends anywhere.

She should be elated. She should be celebrating. Even with Hackett out there somewhere, this is a huge victory in her line of work. But all she can think about is that rat bastard and the odds of running into him after all this time. Images flash through her mind of the last time she was with him, the night he shot Jenna. Her heat in his mouth as he penetrated her with his fingers. His glassy blue eyes boring into her as he buried his erection deep inside her. The brush of her hair with his hand, his kiss.

She pops her eyes open, not realizing she had closed them, and she chastises herself for getting swept up in the memory. He left. He hurt her beyond any pain she had felt at that point in her life.

Until he hurt her even more, probably without knowing it.

Because no matter what—if she were undercover, hiding out, changing her name, or just generally trying to stay away from him—regardless of her circumstances, she would be at his side in a heartbeat if she knew he was in danger. If she knew he was taken, kidnapped, tortured, and assaulted in a beach house for half a week.

But it doesn't matter. He's gone. She moved on. She learned to numb herself to his abandonment and made a life outside of him. Seeing him for five minutes doesn't change any of that.

Before she knows it, she's back home, and an Uber has dropped her off in front of her apartment building. Riding the elevator to her floor, a smile forms on her lips in anticipation of seeing her boy, who she knows will probably be asleep, but secretly hopes he will be up late.

When the doors open to her floor, though, her smile fades faster than she can process the image in front of her.

He's there… Elliot. Asleep outside her door, his back against the wall in a slump, a baseball cap covering his face. If she wasn't so familiar with his frame, she might not have recognized him, but she knew as soon as she stepped off the elevator.

She wonders if he went to the airport as soon as she told him to leave the bar. She was only in Chicago for a few more hours after their bust. She wonders why she mattered to him now, just because he saw her after four years of nothing.

She's free now to do whatever she wants. She's not undercover anymore. She wonders what kind of satisfaction she would get out of kicking him while he slept. But she remembers her baby boy inside, and chooses once again not to feel anything.

But that doesn't stop her from hoping the slam of the door jolts him from his precious slumber.

"Hey, Liv!"

"Hey, Lucy," Olivia greets the nanny. "Listen, there's someone outside—"

"Elliot, yeah I know," Lucy says.

"You talked to him?"

"A little. He knocked."

Olivia huffs. "Well, thank you for not letting him in... He's has no place in this home."

Lucy's lips curve into a half-smile.

"What?" Olivia asks.

"He said you would say that. I recognized him from your pictures but told him I wasn't comfortable letting him in since Noah and I don't know him. He said I'm a good nanny and that I'm right to not let him in because you wouldn't allow him to have a place in your home yet."

"Ha. Yet?" She fidgets with her coat as she slings it over a stool on the bar.

"But he knocked to introduce himself and let me know that he would be waiting for you outside."

"So, he's a polite lurker. Good for him."

"Anyway, Noah fell asleep quickly tonight. Did you get the photos I sent you from the park?" Lucy asks as she slips her jacket on and heads for the door.

"I did, thank you. I love them."

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

Olivia opens the door for her. "Tomorrow," she confirms.

"Bye, Lucy," Elliot says as he stands to his feet.

"Bye! Nice to meet you!" Lucy calls back.

Elliot turns to face Olivia. He stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. "Hey."

Olivia watches until the door to the elevator closes so Lucy won't have to witness whatever happens next. And honestly, she's not sure what's about to happen. She's thought of this moment countless times in the last four years and she's fantasized about punching him, slapping him, cussing, screaming, guilt-tripping.

The elevator doors close, though, and none of those options seem as satisfying in this moment as simply looking at him, void of emotion. She gives him neither happiness nor sadness, joy nor anger, relief nor tension, she just acknowledges his existence in silence because she has no idea what she feels.

Then she calmly shuts the door.

"Liv… We need to talk," he says, holding a hand against the door before it can close all the way.

"Fuck you, Elliot," she mutters under her breath. She shuts the door the rest of the way and walks toward her bedroom.

"Olivia… Please…" he begs through the door. "It's about Hackett."

She stops at the comment, her eyebrows furrowed, wonders if he was undercover for the same operation.

She makes her way back, looks curiously at him when she opens the door again.

"Can we talk?" he asks.

"Suddenly you're dying to talk?" she asks. "The irony."

"I know I screwed up. I want to explain," Elliot tells her. "At least… as much as I can."

Olivia's eyes roll. "I know everything I need to know."

You left.

He looks around the empty hallway. "Liv, I really need you to let me in."

"Why?" she asks, not one ounce of empathy in her voice. "Still maintaining your cover?"

He drops and shakes his head. "Look, you don't have to like me or talk to me, but I need to come in. If Hackett or any of his men in New York see me, I'm dead."