A reimagining of the scene in Philadelphia where Elliot shows up to support Olivia and provide some company. There was SO much emotion in this ep that begged to be explored!

I'm not surprised that she doesn't answer the door when I knock. She's stressed, burned out. She likes to be alone to think when we have hard cases.

But this isn't just a hard case. She's dealing with something much bigger, much more integral to who she is. I don't think she realized what she was getting into when she ran her own DNA.

I knock a little louder. "Liv, it's me."

Nothing.

I should turn around and go home, but I can't get her words out of my head.

I've been alone my whole life.

It's the sentence that has me turning my key—the one for emergencies.

Walk in on me naked and I'll do a whole lot worse than that white supremacist kid, she joked the day she gave it to me.

I smile at the memory, give one more warning as I push the door open. "Liv? It's Elliot. I'm coming in."

The kitchen is dark. Same for the living room. There's a mess of scattered photos, awards, and newspaper articles on her coffee table. I pick up a cutout of a young Olivia. The permed hair makes me smirk; the title, Scholar of the Month, makes me proud.

There's a sniffle from the bedroom.

I walk to the open door to see Olivia sitting on the edge of the bed facing the window, her back to me. An oversized t-shirt covers her body until it lands at the top of her thighs. Her hair is down. She wears it up so much lately I haven't noticed how much it's grown.

She's looking at something in her hands.

"Liv?"

She hasn't acknowledged me, but there's no way she didn't hear me. I walk into the room, approach the other side of the bed where she sits, and I see that she's holding a picture of a middle-aged man.

She doesn't flinch when I sit next to her.

"What are you doing here?" she asks quietly.

Our shoulders brush when I shrug. "Thought you could use some company." I look at the photo in her hand. "Who's that?"

She takes in a slow breath. "Joseph Hollister." She finally looks over at me, flashes a brief, sad smile, then looks away before she explains, "The man who raped my mom." I feel my eyebrows raise and there's another pause before she continues. "My father."

How do I respond to that?

"Simon brought some things over so I can know him better."

I nod. "The awards and articles on the coffee table."

She nods. Then we're quiet. She sniffles again, keeps her eyes on the photo like she's in a trance. It's killing me to know she's hurting, not knowing what's going on in her head.

"Talk to me," I plead in a whisper. "What are you thinking?"

A harsh breath comes out in a half-laugh, half-cry. "That I look like him."

It stills me. That wasn't what I expected, and I know she's reading into things much deeper than that. I peer down at the photo again. She's right. I can't pinpoint what it is, but there's a resemblance. It's nothing compared to how much she favors Serena, though.

She wipes a tear from her cheek. "He kept articles about me," she says. "And I just… I need to know if…" her words fall apart.

I instinctively wrap my arm around her, rub her upper back until my hand lands on her shoulder and gently squeeze. "You're nothing like him."

Her voice is strained in a whisper. "But do you think he loved me?"

For the second time tonight, I'm completely taken aback by her unexpected words.

Before I can speak, she shakes her head, wipes her cheeks. "Of course he didn't. I don't know what I'm thinking."

I move my hands to both of her shoulders, pivot her body toward me just a little. "Liv, stop." She closes her eyes, tears still rolling down her face. "If he had known you, he would have had to love you."

She shakes her head again. "So stupid," she mumbles.

But it's not stupid. I understand. I hated my father and yet, I wanted his love and approval more than anything.

Family is everything.

"He would have loved you, Liv."

She tries to pull away but I stop her, slip my hands to her face.

"Look at me," I say.

Her chin quivers as she takes a few seconds, then she lifts her eyes to mine.

My thumb caresses her cheek, soaking up the water that had fallen, and I smile. Never have I seen someone look more beautiful in my life. "There is no way not to love you, Olivia."

She closes her eyes again when she starts to cry and leans into me, resting her forehead against mine. She has no idea how much I mean it, how much I love her, how much I've tried not to.

My lips drift to hers in a soft kiss, then I pull back, rest our heads together again. Guilt pinches my stomach. I didn't mean to. It was innocent enough that it could be played off as a friendly, comforting peck, but I know that it was selfish, an instinct I've suppressed for eight years.

"I'm sor—"

Her lips are on mine before I can say it, and they're gone just as quickly. But now her breath grows harder as it mixes with mine and her hands clutch my jacket, pulling me closer. She's intoxicating.

Fuck if I could ever resist her.

I kiss her again and this time I don't pull away. I don't know if I'll ever be able to pull away after this. She pushes my jacket off, making her intentions clear. When she can't seem to get any closer she straddles my lap and I latch onto her like a vice.

I can't believe this is happening, that I'm kissing Olivia. That she's on my lap, unbuttoning my shirt, sliding her tongue against mine.

My hand runs up her thigh, past her underwear and she moans as I squeeze her ass. My hand continues up under to shirt to her back. Between my hand not running into any material and her soft breasts pressing into my chest I realize she's not wearing a bra and I lose it.

I hold her tightly and turn us around, settling on top of her as I lay her on the bed. I want to kiss more of her body but I don't want to pull away from her lips yet. They feel so good.

Jesus, what am I doing? I have to stop.

We have to stop. She was crying, I was comforting her.

This is the definition of taking advantage of someone's emotional state.

I tear my lips away from hers and open my mouth to tell her we can't do this, but I feel her legs widen under me, settling my hips between them and she drags her foot up my calf. I fall into her neck, kissing, licking, and sucking as she sighs. I move further down, reveling in her smell, trail kisses down her body over her tee shirt, kissing her covered breast, her stomach, and finally the skin at her pelvis. I feel her hand softly caress my head and I reach up, dragging her shirt over her navel and continuing up until I reach her breast. She arches her back as I squeeze. I kiss her hip, her stomach, and I want nothing more than to go lower, taste her, make her moan.

I look up to make sure she's okay with it, and when I meet her eyes I see lust, readiness, and tear stains on her cheeks.

Tears she was crying minutes ago over her rapist father.

Shit.

Her knees bend on either side of me when I sit up and stare at her, and I wonder how the hell I have the strength to stop when I have Olivia Benson under me, her hair spread across the pillow, her breasts perfectly outlined against the tee shirt that has ridden up over most of her toned stomach.

Our eyes meet for a few seconds, a look of shared sadness before she closes hers and she nods, understanding that this needs to end.

I shuffle back to the side of the bed, lean forward, elbows on my knees. I can't get a hold of myself while looking at her in that state.

"It's not that I…" I start, but stumble. I take a moment, run my hand down my face, try to get the images of Olivia spreading her legs under me out of my head.

I see the photo of Joseph Hollister on the carpet, discarded and forgotten like he should be.

Do you think he loved me?

Remembering her earlier question sends a shockwave of emotion through my chest. She needs to know that I'm not rejecting her. That I love her. That I'm not him. "I want you, Olivia," I whisper. "God, I want you."

There's rustling behind me. I imagine her running her fingers through her hair. "I know," she says. She lets out a long breath. "Me too."

"Our partnership is under investigation," I mention.

"Yeah." She sounds defeated.

"And you're in an emotional situa—"

"El, I know." I feel the bed move and I look back as she sits up, her hair messy and beautiful. She reaches for my hand. "You did the right thing."

I look down at our hands, hers placed simply on top of mine and I wish it was another time, another circumstance, another day that I could hold her hand for the world to see.

"Will you stay?"

I look up at the sound of her shaky voice. Normally, I wouldn't think twice about staying for her, but, "I don't know if I trust myself."

She laughs lightly, lets go of my hand and lifts the covers to slip her legs underneath. "I do."

I laugh too, then lay next to her. She rests her head on my chest.

"Thank you for coming over," she says.

I brush her hair back with my fingertips, and I pray to God this won't be the last time we can be so intimate. "Of course."

"Do you think Cragen's going to split us up?"

A part of me wishes he would. A part of me wants to make the decision for him right now and I'll be free to love the woman I spend my nights dreaming about.

But the most rational part of me knows that the victims need us, and so I know what the outcome of the investigation will be. I kiss the top her head and answer honestly. "Only if he wants to lose his two best detectives."