The Gravity of Love

-ziyalofhaiti-

His feet still when his eyes find her.

The air locks in his throat, and he can't breathe.

He has never seen her like this before.

Hunched over.

Broken.

He doesn't delude himself into thinking that she is just having a rough day. One rough day could never break Olivia Benson.

No, it has been a long, lonely month for her. Each day she looked more hopeless than the last. Today, the chinks are stronger than her armor, and Olivia has finally broken.

Olivia.

Broken.

He cannot reconcile these two concepts together.

Yes, he has seen her physically wounded, he has feared for her life, but those were merely external factors making her vulnerable. Now, what is within her is breaking her.

Pain has marred her eyes since the first moment they had met. Over the years, her dark irises served to reveal only more and more hurt. But she has always stood tall despite that pain—perhaps in defiance of it.

Elliot was never oblivious enough to think that in the privacy of her own loneliness she had never cried, doubled over, or broken, shattered from all that pain. But having a vague idea of it and witnessing it are two different things, he now realizes.

For a moment he thinks he can imagine the extent of her pain. How much it hurts to lose someone you love. Then he realizes that he has no fucking clue because as much hurt as he has endured in his life, as much as her own hurt often translates onto him, he still has all of his children, and they have never been taken away. He has a wife. He has her.

And Olivia?

She has nobody.

Not really.

Not when it matters the most.

Because it is New Year's Eve.

Ellliot is about to head home to be with his family.

Olivia is doubled over in pain.

Broken.

He stands in the doorway of the locker room, his eyes fixed on her. There is a deathly silence in the air. Sitting astride one of the benches, her back is towards him and her head hangs low. The only indication that she is conscious is the tremble in her shoulders.

She remains unaware of his presence, of his gaze, of his sympathy, of his panic at seeing her like this.

He wonders if he should just let her be. She cherishes her privacy more than anyone he knows. She wouldn't want anyone to see her like this. Not even him. He hates that truth, but he understands it because he never lets anyone see him like this either.

He could just slip away quietly and wait for her in the squad room. When she returns to her desk, she would be tired but composed. She would wish him a nice evening, he would leave, and her pain would pass unacknowledged.

Maybe it is the notion that her pain has passed unacknowledged for far too long, or maybe it is that he has never watched anyone in pain without wanting to help, or maybe it is a combination of both, but it does not really matter because all he knows in this moment is that Olivia has to know that she is not alone, that her pain is valid, that she has a right to break.

"Liv ..." he calls out gently.

Immediately, her shoulders still, and her back straightens.

Olivia does not avoid confrontation, least of all with him. But now, she doesn't turn to look at him, and she doesn't say anything.

Which means that her eyes must be filled with tears, and that she doesn't trust her voice not to crack.

Because she never lets anyone see her weak, not if she can help it, not even if it's just him.

Olivia.

Broken.

So fucking broken.

So Elliot does the only thing he knows how to do, the only thing she might possibly accept.

He walks to the bench, and sits astride its edge.

He says nothing.

She does not flinch.

He moves down the bench towards her, and stops just short of touching her bent frame.

And he waits.

She doesn't seem to react to his proximity at all.

But he is here.

It's all he knows how to do and he hopes it's at least a fraction of what she needs right now.

Being so near to her now, he hears her shallow breaths break the silence. Repeatedly. She's trying hard to regain control, to breathe more deeply, but she doesn't seem to manage it just yet.

The heat from her body fills the air between them. His hands are restless to touch her. To reassure her. To comfort her.

He thinks a hand on her shoulder would be more appropriate, but in the end, he realizes it would be more for his benefit than her own. He doesn't dwell on what kind of touch she might accept; instead, he chooses not to disturb her in her brokenness.

He sits and waits.

She does not protest, and he takes it as a sign that he might be helping.

Of their own volition, his eyes roam the fragments of beauty offered by her hunched form. Her usually authoritative shoulders are now sunk, but he finds them beautiful for all the weight they have carried. His gaze travels up the small expanse of her exposed neck. Her complexion is darker than his, and he wonders how his hands would look against her olive skin.

Her hair is up, like most days this past month. She has been tired a lot too. He knows she hasn't slept much since Calvin left. He thinks it ironic that people lose so much sleep over their children, yet Olivia seems to be the exact opposite. Why do things always happen upside down for her? He often wants to curse God for putting her through so much shit, for never letting her catch a break. She gives so much of herself to those who need her the most, yet God always gives her jack shit in return. He doesn't think he will ever be able to understand that. But he cannot curse God when all his kids are healthy and safe. He is such a hypocrite.

Sometimes he wonders what he has done to deserve five children, and what Olivia has done to deserve none. Worse than none. What has she done to be given a child only to have him taken away?

Maybe it is karma. Maybe previous lives do really exist. Because Olivia is so much better than he could ever hope to be. Only a previous life as a tortured saint could explain why he got so much more in this life than she did.

Or maybe being by her side all these years, yet never being allowed to touch her, is considered torture enough.

His stare is focused on the nape of her neck where a few strands of her hair loosely hang. Her breathing has calmed, but it is still irregular, and he begins to question if he is helping at all or just making it all the more difficult for her.

He thinks he will stay for just a moment longer, and then leave her be. Let her compose herself privately like he knows that she would want to do.

He is considering his decision when Olivia stirs.

Slowly, at first.

Her palms move gingerly to rest on her knees.

She steels her legs against the floor.

This time it is Elliot who doesn't flinch. He knows she is struggling to gather herself, to bottle up those emotions again, to conceal the pain from her features. She needs to be the one to show strength in this moment, so he sits still and waits.

She squares her shoulders.

Her head, still bowed, shakes slightly.

She takes a deep breath.

Her head lifts slowly.

But then a hiccup escapes her throat.

And another.

And then her fists are banging hard against the bench beneath them; her erratic breaths fighting to contain the hiccups; her body recoiling into itself again.

She shatters right in front of him.

Olivia.

Breaking.

All over again.

So Elliot does the only thing he knows to do; he follows his instincts.

His arms wrap around her shaking shoulders.

His hands find their way to hers. His palms close around her banging fists, and he gently pulls them into her chest.

Her head is still bent, her breathing still shallow, but she does not stiffen at his touch, and that's enough for now.

Her throat manages to silence the hiccups, but they still rack her entire body from within. He wishes he could just make it all go away. He thinks about all the things that he would give up in his life just so that she could be happy. Because seeing the pain in her eyes intensify with each passing day has taken a bigger toll on him, he believes, than working in special victims.

He cannot will the hurt away, so he just holds her trembling frame, sharing silently in her pain.