#peter stone

June 2nd, 2018

Nolan keeps trying to keep his distance despite your work lives being incessantly, inevitably intertwined. He catches glimpses of you in the DA’s office, casting your eyes away before he can catch you looking. Other times –and those he’s not sure he’s not imagining–, he sees you on the streets, the subway, through the window of coffee places he knows you might like.

He knows it’s a matter of time before the unsteady radio silence breaks, and you beat him to it when he sees you talking to McCoy outside the old man’s office. It could be about anything: a case, his kids, life at SVU. But your eyes meet Nolan’s across the room and his mouth goes dry. He knows he’s done for. 

Nolan walks into the elevator and you don’t shy away from him this time. He actually holds the door for you because he’s a fucking masochist. 

“You’re suspended?” you ask a beat after the doors close.

He breathes out through his nose. “It’s a misunderstanding.”

He won’t turn to you, but knows your brows couldn’t be higher up your forehead. “I’m sure.”

“Can you just–” he snaps, rubbing at his temple, eyes screwed shut. “Not right now. Please?”

“Then when?” you ask. “Until you’re done blowing your life up? Because you’re well on your way, it shouldn’t take long.”

“I’m just off the case, okay?” he says through gritted teeth. “I went too hard during prep with a witness and the family complained. Cutter won’t let me back until I do an anger management thing.”

“Jesus, Nole,” you breathe out, trying to make sense of it. 

“I know,” he says, short. “I’m working on it.”

“Yeah? How’s behavioral therapy working out for you?”

Nolan prays for someone to call for the elevator, desperate for a buffer. God mustn’t hear him inside this damned thing. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“News to me,” you snap, hushed despite being on your own. “I’m your wife, Nolan, not a fucking mind reader.”

He scoffs. “What are those detective instincts good for then?”

You’re so appalled that it takes you a couple of seconds to gather your bearings. The elevator goes down, down, down just like the swooping, impending doom that is settling in Nolan’s belly. 

“Wow.”

He shakes his head, jaw tight. It’s his heartbeat he can hear drumming in his ear, but it sounds incredibly like the tidal wave of guilt rushing to sweep him off his feet. “Forget it.”

You’re literally unable to. “I didn’t realize you see our marriage like an interrogation.”

“That’s not what I said,” he insists tightly. “It’s not like that.”

“Sounds like it’s a little bit like that,” you quip, unable to help yourself. “You used to talk to me about these kinds of things.”

“You used to be able to notice before I had to.”

“Do you realize how insane that sounds?” you exclaim in disbelief. “How am I supposed to know you’re having a hard time if you won’t talk to me?”

“Maybe because I don’t think you can help me.”

Another sucker punch, twice in less than a minute. It’s a new thing, Nolan being the one out of the two of you unable to hold back a hit. “Because it’s that bad or because it’s me?”

You dread the answer, but not knowing is worse. 

Nolan doesn’t say anything. The last few seconds of the ride are spent on stricken silence that drags on lethargically. 

His bravery kicks in a second too late. When he looks at you, you can’t bear to look at him. The doors open; an ungraceful, merciful exit. “I’ll give you some space.”

Nolan calls your name, more exasperated than conciliatory. You don’t turn back. 

September 27th, 2018

“Price, Detectives,” Peter nods at the three of you; Nolan, yourself, and Carisi.

“Stone,” Nolan acknowledges, turning to you in a poor excuse of eye contact.

“Hey,” Nolan says warily, quickly.

You nod, struggling for a polite smile and coming up empty. “Hi.”

“You guys know each other?” Peter spares a few seconds from frowning at paperwork to drag his eyes back and forth between you and Nolan.

Carisi clears his throat, clearly wishing to be anywhere else but between you. “We’ve, uh, worked cases together. You know how it is.” 

Peter hums while Nolan sighs and reaches to rub his pounding temples. The flash of golden warmth against his pale, nimble fingers immediately catches your eye. 

“Carisi, what’s Floyd’s first name?” Stone asks distractedly. Sonny battles between looking stressed and relieved at the task as he recites your suspect’s names and crimes, but you can’t look away from Nolan’s hand. 

There’s that familiar sensation of dread twisting in your abdomen, the feeling of finding out something you never wish to know. 

“I’ll update Liv,” you say numbly. Carisi hums an affirmative that’s slightly coated with knowing worry. Nolan locks eyes with you and looks you over. “See you in the car, Carisi.”

You’re out of Stone’s office before Nolan calls you out on it. Or worse, before you realize he won’t. You find a bathroom on a floor no one you know works in and shove inside. You almost shoulder a random lady as you go to lock yourself in a stall.

“Fuck,” you say breathlessly, so sure that bile will crawl up your throat by the size of the nausea that struck you as soon as you saw his ring. It’d barely qualified as a moment, but it felt eternal–stretched and monumental– while the rest of the world moved around you.

You haven’t signed the damned papers. Nolan couldn’t move out fast enough. He keeps talking about your marriage in the past tense. He’s still wearing the ring he used to swear himself to you. It sits in his hand like it belongs there, like he belongs to you and he wholeheartedly believes it.

Nothing comes up after a couple of dry heaves. Your phone buzzes, probably a text from Carisi wondering where you are. The bathroom stall is stuffy and probably less clean than you’d like but you just need to sit for a minute and text Sonny back. Except.

Your breath catches again. Except it’s Nolan.

Are you okay? The letters go blurry as your vision clouds with emotion and hands shake, but they remain distinguishable and damning. You looked a little sick earlier. 

“Are you fucking insane?” you say to the hopefully empty bathroom. “What the fuck?” 

What’s the matter with you? you want to text back, too busy shaking stupid to find the guts to write it. Are you out of your mind?

It's not the first time you’ve desperately wondered what he's thinking. Your husband became an anomaly those last few months before he moved out, shrinking into himself until you stopped recognizing the shape of him. 

Even now, his concern feels off, like he's putting on a show. Gauging his moods used to be the easiest thing in the world, second nature to your own, but lately every interaction is a guessing game you're losing. He won't look at you, and when he does, you're not sure who'll stare back at you.

Your phone buzzes. It's Sonny this time, saying he's already in the car.

stone left w Nolan for an early lunch but he says he'll get the warrant back to us before the day ends.

He's not subtle. Either way, you're thankful for Sonny Carisi.

November 19th, 2018

Nolan calls. 

Something inside him fractures when you answer, weary and sluggish with your last name.

“Hey,” he says, and it comes out gruff. He clears his throat, gripping his phone so tightly it shakes against his ear. “H-Hi. Hey, it’s me.”

A beat, then– “Nolan.”

So uncomfortably it pains him, Nolan wonders, “How, how are you?”

“Tired,” you say curtly, audibly upset at his call. This is a mistake. Rollins couldn’t have been more wrong, you don’t want to hear from him. He should hang up, except– “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I,” he says, stuttery. Honey, he means. He goes to undo his collar, but his hands are shaking too badly, his breath caught in his throat. 

Jesus. Jesus Christ, Jesus, is all he can think to say, but his tongue feels too big for his mouth, and no air will reach his lungs. He feels warm all over, sleep shirt drenched in sweat before the AC kicks on and makes him shiver. The hum of it’s too loud, grating and rough and yet not good enough to focus on it instead of his panic.

“Why’d you call me, Nolan?” you ask, tired. His laugh is a little too close to a sob for it to be called so.

“Sorry,” he says, breathless. His lungs won’t open enough to gather a deep breath and his extremities are numbing up as a result. “I–”

He can’t speak, feels like he’s choking. He’s gonna die here, alone and unloved because he’s a miserable asshole and he can’t even tell his wife he–

“Hey, hey, okay,” you soothe, a 180° from a second ago. He pushes the phone closer to his face, trying to touch you and gather some of the sudden warmth in your voice, get the feeling back into his body. “Nolan? It’s okay, honey, you’re safe. You can breathe with me, right? Breathe with me.”

You talk him through the panic attack like a champ. It’s not the first time you’ve done it over the phone, but it's the first since you separated. He’s too in over his head to notice or complain about the term of endearment. 

Time passes and he’s not sure how long you stay on the line with him. He lies down and puts you on speaker, curls around the phone to pretend you’re lying there next to him, murmuring sweet nonsense. 

He says your name as soon as he feels able to, dry and quiet. Your sigh of relief is loud over the phone.

“Nolan,” you say quietly. “That was a bad one.”

“I know,” he says hoarsely, desperate for a glass of water. But if he leaves the darkness of his bedroom, the spell will break. You’ll be separated again, and this will all be a drastic breaching of boundaries he can’t repay you for. 

You ask, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he says, tasting vomit on his tongue. He thinks about reminding you that the anniversary of you getting shot is drawing near and nearer as the days pass. You must know, surely, but if you don’t, he doesn’t want to be the one to tell you. “Nothing, it’s alright. I’m better now.”

“Come on, baby, tell me,” you beg, and Nolan desperately aches for your hands on his face, your mouth whispering soothing words against his temple, your body tangled in his sheets. “Tell me what’s wrong, Nole. Let me fix it.”

“Thank you,” he says instead, desperate to escape your line of questioning and keep you on the line simultaneously. He knows it’ll irk you, but he can’t help himself. You can’t help him. “I’m better now. I’m sorry for calling.”

“Nolan–”

“Have a good night,” he says, rushing to hang up before you can say anything else. He puts his phone on top of his pounding heart and struggles to breathe. He doesn’t fall asleep or move until his alarm echoes around his empty apartment.

December 6th, 2018

“I was very sorry to hear about your divorce, Miss,” Congressman Stevens says, not sounding sorry at all. Your smile feels more like a grimace, but you do your best. 

Miss. “How kind of you, Congressman.”

“Please, Russel,” he waves you off, dismissive in a way that screams look at my big shiny Congress title. “I’ve always thought you were too much of a woman for a man like Price.”

You start to get defensive on Nolan’s behalf despite how ridiculous that is. He broke your heart and gave no explanation for it, but no one knows him like you do. They don’t get to talk shit, especially when you’re so thoroughly, knee-deep in love with him still. 

When he barely gets a hum of acknowledgement from you, Stevens doubles down. “Though I do believe that means you’re available for a dance?”

You fight off a grimace. William Dodds is somewhere in the room, prepared to remind you to play nice for the sake of NYPD’s next year’s budget approval. You’re also talking to a man who will take no for an answer unless it comes from–

“There you are!” someone says brightly behind you. You catch a whiff of cologne and a soft hand on your upper back, and for a second, nothing has changed. Nolan went to get you a drink and is now back where he belongs, at your side. The illusion lasts a second, less than, before you turn to see Peter Stone dressed to the nines, a sight in a dark blue suit. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“You found me,” you try to gift him a nicer smile than you did Stevens, but he must see through it because his expression turns genuine for a second. He’s all shark-like again in the blink of an eye, acknowledging the Congressman. 

“I apologize, Congressman,” Stone says, managing to look genuinely contrite and refusing to budge even a little. “But SVU’s best already offered me a dance. Maybe some other time?”

Congressman Stevens sneers. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” Stone offers him his hand to shake. “District Attorney Peter Stone.”

“Ah, yes,” Stevens says, standing a little straighter. “Ben Stone’s kid. The footballer.”

“Baseball, actually,” Stone grins, not in the least offended, though you see him grit his teeth at the mention of his father before purposely relaxing. “If you don’t mind? 

“Well, if you must,” he says snidely. Then, leeringly to you, “Come find me when you’re done, sweetheart. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

You fight the full-body shiver that courses through you until he looks away from you. “Jesus Christ. I think I could arrest him for that.” 

“Yeah, I’d give you that warrant,” Stone says. You snort. 

“God, what a dick,” you shake your head. Then, in an unusual show of vulnerability, almost to yourself, “I haven’t even signed the papers yet.” 

Peter takes one look at your uneasy expression and offers you his hand. You look at it like it just conjured out of thin air. “What?”

He shrugs, not particularly bothered. “I’m pretty sure I’m a better lead than Stevens. I can spare a song or three until he takes the hint and backs off.”

You look at him like you’re trying to figure him out, like he’s transforming in front of your eyes from the guy who got your good friend fired to… just a guy. A nice one, even. You take his hand. “Thanks, Stone.”

“I’m about to step on your feet at least a couple of times,” he smirks, but it’s boyish and bashful as he leads you to the dance floor. “I think you can call me Peter.”

You raise your brows, surprised that you’re having fun. “What happened to being a good lead?”

“Not good, just better,” he tips his head to the side, earning a laugh from you.

“Alright, sure,” you concede. You settle into his hands, big and calloused on your middle back and against yours. His features are sharp and handsome under the different hues of lights of the dance floor.

God forbid you have a type.

Across the room, Nolan nurses a drink and watches you laugh, inching closer to Peter Stone like you’re sharing a secret. Nolan’s hands are holding his scotch so tightly the ice crinkles against the glass. 

He goes home unsettled. 

There was a time when the smile you directed at Stone today was his to watch bloom; it didn’t matter if you were in a room full of people, no one could get a grin out of you like your husband.

Who’s fault is it that’s gone, he reminds himself bitterly. Sighing, he stands in front of the bathroom mirror after a quick shower. He cleans the fog to find himself staring back, disheveled, tired, and alone. 

His bed’s too rigid and the sheets nowhere as soft as he’d like, but his mind conjures a picture of you with incredible ease.

He thinks about your hands, the way you hold mugs and pens, and how your fingers move swiftly over a keyboard. It’s such a mundane train of thought that he doesn’t notice how it gradually spills into something more tender–your fingers smoothing over the shell of his ear, the strength of his shoulders, the valley of skin under his waist. 

If he keeps his eyes closed, he can picture himself in your shared room, your hand stroking first over his briefs and then under them. The sigh he lets out is long and relieved, the guilt for thinking of you like this forgotten in his mind. 

God, you looked beautiful tonight. Radiant, put together, and happy at someone else’s side. 

If you’d gone home together, he would’ve undressed you under the soft, warm light of a bedside lamp, kissing each of your shoulders as he unfastened the straps of your dress with shaky, reverent fingers. You would’ve smiled against his jaw before leaving lipstick all over his skin. He would’ve watched with molten, half-lidded eyes the way you’d keep kissing down, down, down–

“Fuck,” he whines breathily, turning his head to bury his face into the pillow. It doesn’t smell like you. He makes a quick work of getting himself off, movements purposeful and thoughts of you speeding the process like grease on a wheel. 

God, honey, he’d groan as you hum around him, looking up at him still in your hairdo and makeup, ))absolutely ruined by having him in your mouth. God, come up here, let me touch you. Come on, come here–

There’s no room for embarrassment regarding how quickly he gets himself there, only the memory of you and the time it’s been since Nolan last touched you. His movements get quicker and sloppier, hips almost completely off the mattress as he spills all over himself. 

February 19th, 2019

 "Ah, shit," Carisi mutters.

You look up from your phone, alert of your surroundings. "What?"

Outside the car,, holding the restaurant door for someone to pass, is Nolan. He's letting a woman through, who thanks him with a brilliant smile and says something that makes him laugh. 

Your insides curl up in sudden anxiety. Ah, shit, indeed. 

There's a moment, barely there and you'll miss it, in which you're hopeful this is a work outing rather than a date. The pipe dream vanishes when you watch the woman who looks nothing like you press a kiss to the corner of your husband's mouth. 

She's elegant; perfect unchipped nails, blown out hair, aura unweighted by the expectations and realities that having a job like yours conveys. You watch him smile at the display of affection and place a hand low on her back as they wait for the valet to bring their car over.

New York fucking hates you.  

“Is everything okay?” Jules Hunter asks nervously from the backseat. 

"Yeah, just an old coworker," you say, years of undercover experience stopping your voice from cracking. It's just another role to play, the unaffected ex. You're fine. "Make sure to keep your distance, the last thing we need is a scene in a neighborhood like this."

Carisi says your name–first, a nickname even–, undeceived by your work talk. His pity might be the blow that finishes you.

"It's fine," you say, hiding behind your hand as you rub your temples. It's fine, it's fine, I'm fine. "Can you just drive?"

You hear Carisi breathe like he's about to deny or refute you, but he backtracks and says "Yeah, alright,” as the car roars to life. 

You don't realize you're holding your breath until he turns to another street, one without Nolan and his date. The image sticks with you, though. Not even the car that plows into you a couple of blocks later helps you forget. 

In the end, Nolan goes home to someone else, Carisi’s concussed all to hell, your entire body’s a giant bruise, and Jules Hunter is dead.

Liv offers to drive you home, but you don’t think she’ll be any good behind the wheel until she talks to Cabot. Rollins rides back in the ambulance with Carisi, and so you find yourself driving to Forlini’s for a pity drink or five. 

Fin joins you eventually. You look miserable enough for him to invite the first round, and isn’t that something.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you moan when you hear the first notes of a particularly miserable Jeff Buckley song.You can’t do this right now. “I gotta get out of here.”

I lost myself on a cool, damp night

I gave myself in that misty light

Fin whistles. “Little early for white people music, ain’t it?”

You snort, trying to match his humor, but you can both tell your heart isn’t in it. “It’s happy hour somewhere, I’m sure.”

Not here, though, and both of you know it. Jules Hunter is dead.

“Let me call you a car. I’ll drive yours back to the precinct.”

Good man, Fin. You’re not suicidal enough to get behind the wheel of a car right now.

Was hypnotized by a strange delight

Under a lilac tree

Jules Hunter is dead. Ruby Hunter is going home with her abusive father.

I made wine from the lilac tree

Put my heart in its recipe

Jules Hunter is dead. You’re coming home to an empty apartment. You can’t do anything right to save your life.

It makes me see what I want to see

And be what I want to be

Jesus. Your chest burns not from the tequila, but from something you won’t be able to fix with some ibuprofen and a nap. 

When I think more than I want to think

I do things I never should do

I drink much more than I ought to drink

Because it brings me back you

There’s a bottle of wine at the back of the pantry that you’d been saving for your next anniversary. Were you fully sober, you’d never dare to open it without Nolan; starting to accept the fact that you’ll never get to open it together.

But you’re not sober, and Jules Hunter is dead. Nolan is out on a date.

Lilac wine is sweet and heady

Like my love

The wine’s dark and a little too sweet for your taste. It always tasted better when you licked it out of Nolan’s mouth.

Lilac wine, I feel unsteady

Like my love

You dial his number from memory. You’d been concussed once after a bomb set by a cult leader threw you into a wall. Even when you couldn’t remember the year or your address or who the president was, you’d been able to call your husband. You’d pressed your phone closer to your ear while blood dripped from a wound hidden under your hair, soaking up Nolan’s voice like water in a drought. 

He picks up at the third ring. Calls your name warily. 

“What’s wrong?”

Listen to me, I cannot see clearly

Isn't she coming to me?

Nearly here

“ How do you stand the taste?” you slur, squinting at the ingredients on the back of the bottle. You were barely able to turn on a light and pick up the corkscrew before you slid drunkenly to the kitchen floor. “It's so sweet. Took three sips and I can barely feel my tongue anymore.”

Nolan hesitates, trying to meet you where you are. 

Lilac wine is sweet and heady

Where's my love?

“Are you drunk?”

“Would it matter if I was?” you ask. The wine bottle is close enough to your mouth for Nolan to hear the liquid slosh against the microphone. Lilac wine, I feel unsteady. Where's my love?  “What are you gonna do about it?”

He sighs. You can picture him rubbing his temples. “I thought you were in trouble. We can’t keep doing this, honey. You told me not to call again.”

Listen to me, why is everything so hazy?

“You didn’t call,” you say self-deprecatingly. “Surprised you picked up, though. That bad of a date?”

Nolan gulps. He doesn’t want to talk about this but he can’t bring himself to hang up. He pictures you alone and shaky on your feet, and fears for your safety. That’s all. Not that it hasn’t been killing him not to hear your voice. Not that he’ll take all he can get.

“What, you’re not gonna ask how I know?” you ask, exactly what he’d been thinking. Isn't that she, or am I just going crazy, dear?

“I’m sorry.”

“I bet… you forgot to take your ring off for it,” you say meanly. The sharp breath you get in response feels like vindication, though only momentarily before you’re out for blood again. “Is that what you’re doing home so early? She’s not into married guys?”

Nothing matters. Jules Hunter is dead, and your husband is fighting tooth and nail for a divorce. Nothing is right. 

“What happened?” you ask when he doesn’t take the bait. Nolan feels terrible, he knows what you sound like when you’ve been crying. “What happened to us? What did I do?”

“Nothing,” he says, heart in his throat. “Nothing, sweetheart, you did nothing wrong.”

Lilac wine, I feel unready for my love

“Right,” you say bitterly. “I must’ve. There has to be something, Nolan. This– this doesn’t just happen. Marriages don’t just end.”

Quietly, he says, “Some do.”

“Not ours,” you insist firmly. He can picture you wiping at your face, tear after tear coating your face with your grief. “We were happy, weren’t we? Why’d you have to throw it all away? Why won’t you tell me?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” more, he doesn’t say. I don’t want to hurt you more than I already have. 

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I love you,” he admits, can’t deny such an elemental part of himself. He loves you down to the roots of himself. Denying it would serve no one and nothing. “It kills me to see you like this.”

Feel unready 

“Right,” you laugh humorlessly. “D’you know how stupid that is? To get a divorce because you love each other too much?”

His quiet vexes you. 

“I hate you,” you hiccup into the receiver. “You fucking coward, I hate you so much.”

Nolan says, soft as when he told you he loved you, “That’s okay. That’s okay, you can hate me.”

“I don’t want your permission,” you spit out, voice breaking. “I want you to fight for me. Why won’t you fight for me?”

He asks, “Aren’t you tired of fighting?”

All the breath rushes out of you. After you hang up, Nolan stays with the phone next to his ear for a long, long time, losing himself in the dial tone.

For my love…

February 25th, 2019

Hey, it’s me. Obviously. Jesus. Listen, I’m—I wanted to apologize for the other night. I was drunk and sad, and that doesn’t excuse it, but I just… I miss you so fucking much. And I’m not—I’m not trying to guilt you into forgiving me, okay? Please, Nolan, don’t just forgive me. I was such a fucking asshole. I don’t hate you, I could never hate you, of course you’re… you’re allowed to do whatever you want. You’re a good man, and you worry about my feelings, but you… I want you to be happy, okay? Look, I… I just wanted to say I’m sorry. And I would’ve gone to your office or something, but I… I don’t think you want to see me right now, and… And I don’t think I should see you. Whenever I run into you, it’s just so much harder than it already is, and I don’t—I don’t wanna keep hurt—what? When? And Fin’s at the scene? …Alright, meet him there, Rollins and I’ll take the hospital. Yeah. Hey, Nole, I gotta go, but I’m sorry, okay? That’s my whole point, that I’m sorry and I’ll keep my distance for a while, okay? I gotta go, I love you. I—shit. Okay. Bye. 

June 8th, 2019

For a second you think you’ve imagined him; a mirage amongst the piles and piles of paperwork on your desk, the never-ending line of victims waiting to disclose. Someone arrives and you glance out of sheer instinct, doubling back when you see Nolan with a kid holding onto him for dear life. 

You rise and stay in your spot. Nolan interrupts his conversation with the officer manning the desk to catch your eye, drawn to you. 

“Hey,” he calls for you faux brightly, and you don’t need sharp detective instincts to know he’s putting on a brave face for the kid. For a second, you’re not sure who looks more terrified, but at least Nolan has familiar sights to be comforted by, even if your drunken ex wife might not be who you hope to see in times of crisis.

“Hi,” you keep it as casual as you can while your brain shoots rapid-fire questions at him. Is he okay? He looks skinny, is he eating enough? Why is he the one walking the kid to SVU? Has he seen your messages? “How can I help you guys?”

“I was hoping we could talk to someone,” Nolan says. It's more for the kid’s benefit than yours, though he seems fairly disconnected from the grown-up conversation. “Maybe get something to eat for us?”

He nods at the kid, who cowers further behind Nolan when your attention shifts to him. 

“Yeah, sure,” you say, hoping to soothe both of them. “Hey, kiddo. You hungry?”

The kid shrugs. You send an officer nearby for some sandwiches and a juice box from the vending machine. “What’s your name?”

He looks up at Nolan for help. 

“This is Danny,” he says, squeezing the kid’s shoulder and smiling encouragingly at him. “Danny, this is a good friend of mine, she’s a detective with the police. She’s here to help.”

Danny doesn’t particularly look like he believes him, wearily scanning the room.

Nolan takes advantage of the distraction and leans closer to you.

“He disclosed to me,” he says quietly, skitterish and a little lost. “He– his dad was involved in a hit and run. He–he was the victim, but then Danny said–” 

He drifts off, but you get what he’s saying. Even if you didn’t know him as intrinsically as you do, only Liv has been at SVU longer than you. You know how his sentence ends. 

“I’m sorry,” and isn’t that a funny sight, you think, him apologizing to you after your little one-woman show. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Breathing in, you let it all overwhelm you for about five seconds. No more.

It’s a routine you know all too well; you coordinate an interview room and some food for the kid. v when Liv shows up, her frown only keeps furrowing as you speak. It’s a testament to how messy she expects this case to get that she doesn’t even ask how you feel about seeing Nolan again.

“I can’t interview him,” you tell her. Either of them, really. Talk about the biggest conflict of interest in the world.

Liv nods. “I know,” and to Sonny– “Carisi, you’re up.”

You don’t dare to watch. The look on Nolan’s face when he turned to you and said I didn’t know where else to go is burned behind your eyelids forever.

You’ve been horrible to him and here he is, seeking your help. Your comfort. What does that say about him? About you? 

After the interview ends, Carisi touches ground with Liv. Danny sits morosely in waiting chairs, though a little less curled into himself than before. You keep him company while Nolan finishes his own disclosure.

Danny lights up when he catches sight of him. “Mr. Price.”

He runs towards Nolan, who’d been watching you quietly interact from outside Liv's office . He places a protective hand on Danny’s shoulder when the kid goes in for the hug, desperate for genuine affection, but Nolan keeps his eyes on you. Danny murmurs against his shirt. “When can I go home?”

Nolan expression goes lost and overwhelmed. You go to him and offer his favorite snack from the vending machine, both simple and not. An olive branch of sorts. He takes it from you and your fingers brush. 

“Thanks,” he says softly, like he used to say thanks, honey. Your polite smile wobbles.

“We already called your aunt, she’s on her way,” you assure, thankful that she hadn’t hesitated to take him in when you called. “How do you feel about staying with her for a while?”

“Okay,” Danny says quietly. Then, to Nolan– “Can we go to your office again?”

Nolan’s chuckle is nervous, but you’re sure Danny doesn’t hear it. “Whatever for?”

The kid shrugs. “I thought your desk was cool. Do you have any more candy in there?”

The picture makes you smile. Nolan, desperate for some rapport and taking care of the kid through a sugar rush.

“I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again, kiddo,” he pokes at his ribs until he squirms, demeanor lighter than it’s been the last couple of hours. 

He waits until the aunt arrives, and watches Danny walk out until he’s completely out of sight. He’s gonna be okay, Nolan knows, but he’s not sure how you do this every day. 

You’ve always been the strongest person he knows. He realizes now he might’ve underestimated the will it takes for you to keep going and going and going. One case and Nolan’s ready to sleep for three days, though he doubts his mind will let him.

“You’re done for today, Price,” Liv says kindly, hand on his shoulder to pull him out of his trance. 

In a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, you remember Liv was with you in the ambulance to the hospital after you were shot. The memory of the moment is lost to you, never catalogued in your mind, but Nolan never forgot about the gesture and you know it.   

Had you had kids together, you’re sure one of them would bear her name. 

“Go home,” she orders in that motherly way of hers.“Shower, eat, sleep. You did good today.”

Nolan nods, though he stares vacantly in front of him, clutching his jacket to his chest. Liv shoots you a look before calling his name again, gentler. 

Nolan blinks like he’s barely registering her words.

“You sure you can drive, man?” Fin wonders, brows raised. 

"I can take him," you offer before anyone else can. Brave or stupid, you can’t tell. "I can pick up that paperwork you wanted from Stone’s office, Liv. It’s not that far off my way.”

You don’t even know where he lives now.

While rubbing the tiredness out of your eyes, you miss the range of looks sent your way. Nolan nods solemnly, though, looking relieved at the prospect of sharing a small space with you again. He's been nothing but overwhelmed for hours. 

“Yeah,” he says. His voice cracks either from disuse or emotion. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yes, thanks. I’d really appreciate that.”

You watch him gather his things: coat, briefcase, phone. You don’t bother to do the same. You’ll be back later tonight anyway, and it’s nice to just look at him. 

June 9th, 2019

You’ve been in the car for almost ten minutes before you dare to break the silence.

“How are you?” you ask, quiet and with your focus on the road. Kind of how you were with Danny, you try to appear as non-threatening as possible. “You were great today, but I know that couldn’t have been easy.”

“He’s a good kid,” Nolan says quietly, avoiding the question. Months ago, the evasive maneuver would’ve annoyed you to the point of snapping. Now it just makes you sad. “He’s got a long road ahead of him.”

“Hopefully only as long as it has to be,” you give him the out, sighing in genuine exhaustion. This is not how you wanted to see him again. “Carisi got a lot from his interview. He’s pretty much a lawyer, so. He’d know.”

“Yeah,” Nolan says, and the silence envelops you again. You’re jittery, you realize, like you’re waiting for a verdict. 

“Thank you,” he says much, much later, when you’re almost at the steps of his new address. He doesn’t say it like it pains him, but rather like he’s relieved. “I know it’s been… a while. But I really didn’t know what else to do.”

“You can always come to me for help,” you say, honest and automatic, then wince when you remember the last time you’d actually talked. “About work stuff, sure, but. I mean. If I’m able to help in any way, I want to.”

“I know,” he says, and when you’re able to look away from the road, he's smiling faintly, eyes closed and head tilted up against the seat. 

“Liv’s right, by the way. About taking it easy,” you hope it doesn’t sound too much like an order. Nolan’s demeanor doesn’t change, so it mustn't. “Cases like these are hard even when you’re trained for them, and the kid took to you pretty easily. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. You did well.”

“I wish I could do more,” he says quietly.

You sigh through your nose. “Yeah. I get that.”

The rest of the ride goes by in silence, but it’s not as heavy as you’d imagined it’d be. You park in front of a pretty brownstone you’ve never seen before and stop yourself from counting how long it’d take to get here from your place. 

It’s now or never. 

"Nolan," you say before he has a chance to get out. You keep your hands on the wheel, hoping to be grounded by the feeling of leather beneath them. You won't look at him. "Wait, there's..." A big gulp of air, then– "Here."

You reach to the side of your seat and immediately find the envelope that's been giving you grief for months. You hand it to him with a bittersweet smile, looking at a spot on his forehead so you don't have to look him in the eye. 

Nolan takes it from you. The envelope is big enough so your hands don't touch. "Oh. Oh. Are these…"

"Signed," you're not sure if that's what he's gonna ask, but you both know what the envelope holds. "I was gonna file them earlier this week, but we got caught up in a case. This is easier, right?"

Nolan blinks at you, uncomprehending. "Yeah, you..." Seemingly unable to find his words, he says, "Thank you."

Your smile is wobbly. "Sure."

You turn back to face the wheel, thinking he'll get out of the car and be done with it, but he doesn’t move. When you dare to peek, he's got the envelope on his lap and he's looking at it like it might bite him. 

He quietly wonders, "What made you change your mind?"

"I guess... I realized there was no point in fighting it when it's so clearly what you want,” your breath stutters as you answer. “And I think you're letting me keep fighting it because you love me. So I'm giving it up. Because I love you, too."

"You can't give me what I want," your voice breaks and it has him looking at you, the urge to comfort still there at beck and call. "But I can, so I will. I am. I promised I would, when we..." you trail off, clear your throat. Got married. "That doesn't change, Nolan. Not for anything."

He looks at you like he used to when he wanted to kiss you and you can't bear it. You look away.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, looking down at your lap before facing the wheel again, hands touching leather. “For the things I said that night I called. I was sad and drunk, and so many things were happening, but that’s no excuse. I called you later to apologize, but I don’t know if you…”

“I did,” he says softly. “I forgave you even though you begged me not to.”

“I’ve been awful to you,” you say, horrified to find your eyes burning. “That’s not–I don’t want to be that person. To anyone, but especially to you. I’m sorry.”

He says your name, and you see his hand reach for you in the corner of your eye. You don’t know if you’re grateful or disappointed that he won’t touch you. 

“I know,” you give your best shot at a smile. “I appreciate your forgiveness but I think I’m gonna feel like this for a while. That’s on me, though, okay? I’m just glad I could give you this. I hope you get what you’re looking for, Nolan.”

I hope it’s worth it, a voice inside you says. It sounds a little mean, but you know it’s honest. You’ve never wanted him to be unhappy, not even when he was hurting you. You’d thought being together was the best way to help him, but it’s not. What do you do with that other than to let him go?

“Sweetheart,” he says, coated in disbelief, and you close your eyes at the sudden onslaught of tears, pressing your forehead to the steering wheel. He curses sharply. “Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for this, I’m sorry for everything.”

It’s killing him to watch you like this and not be able to comfort you. “I know. I know, baby.”

His breath hitches. For a while you just sit there, both of you shells of the people you used to be. For the first time since it all blew up, you mourn the death of your relationship together. 

You don’t touch, don’t look at each other. Just sit there, blinker on, and let the silence envelop you like the last embrace you refused each other. 

You don't remember the last time you touched him with that intent. To touch him, hold him, just because you wanted to and could. The last time you kissed.

Jesus, it could’ve been anything. A morning kiss, a goodbye kiss, a hello kiss. A have-a-good-day-at-work peck, a don’t-forget-to-get-the-milk near miss at the corner of his mouth. 

You wonder how bad of an idea it’d be to ask him for one now. For old time’s sake. For last time’s sake. 

You don’t. He looks at you one last time, long and sad. You’ll never see him again and you’re way past remembering him happy and in love with you. 

It’s impossible to catalogue all of him: every curl of his hair and laughter line and dark spot under his eyes. The sad twist of his mouth, his rumpled clothes, and fidgeting hands. 

You try to catch all of it. There, showered in the golden streetlight, next to you and no longer yours. Officially. Lawfully.

January 18th, 2020

“We’ll never get a warrant in time with Mr. Nepotism gone,” Rollins quips.

“Amanda,” Liv practically begs.

You bite the inside of your cheek until it stings. It doesn’t stop you from speaking up. “We could ask Nolan.”

Liv’s office is engulfed in uncertain silence. You turn your back to the interrogation room where your suspect is slumped in a chair, looking bored. “What? Come on.”

“You come on,” Rollins says, more bite than bark ever since SVU’s loss was the DA’s gain with Carisi gone. “You want to make the precinct a telenovela stage?”

“What Rollins means,” Liv says pointedly with the patience of a Saint and a watch it stare sent Amanda’s way. “is that we don’t need any drastic measures yet. Especially any that might make anyone uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine,” you say. Fine, fine, fine, it’s fine, I’m fine. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to help. Isn’t this time pressing?”

Liv studies you, all-knowing and no bullshit. You straighten under her gaze but you’re pressing where it hurts and you both know it. Amanda mentioning another friend that’s gone with the wind is the nail in the coffin you needed, and you watch her settle in resigned acceptance before she says, careful. “You’re sure?”

You shrug. Of course, you’re not. You miraculously haven’t seen Nolan in over six months, but you don’t think you ended on bad terms. Even after everything.

Liv sends you each in different ways. You go hide in the breakroom and pull out your phone.

Hey, I’m sorry to bother you

I know it’s forward and it's been a while but is there any chance we could get your help with a warrant?

He reads the message almost immediately. You hold your breath and make an effort not to drop your phone like it’s on fire.

Hi

Don’t worry, you’re no bother

Is Peter’s replacement not in yet?

Sonny’s actually ditching us for the DA’s office but he’s still working through the sea of paperwork they gave him

Huh. Good for Carisi. It’ll be nice to have someone with his instincts around 

Send me the details. I hear Blakemore is especially lenient if you catch him on his way out

You breathe out, relieved. It’s fine –polite, to the point, impersonal–. Fine, fine, fine.

You’re a lifesaver, thank you

And I’ll tell him you said that, I think he needs to hear it

Give me 10 and I’ll email you everything

His willingness to help is only the first surprise of the evening. Nolan shows up to the precinct less than an hour later. Your face must be doing something when he sees you as he comes in, because his own expression is almost amused.

“Figured it was urgent,” Nolan shrugs. 

You swallow, mouth dry. He looks devastatingly handsome, clothes well tailored as always and curls combed back less tightly than usual. Not only that, but he comes bearing gifts and he shines like a beacon of hope amidst a shittier-than-usual case. 

“You figure correctly,” you feel wrong-footed, caught off guard even though you were the one who suggested asking for his help. You can only hope your smile isn’t too off. 

“Well, thank you, Price,” Liv says gracefully, already on her way back to the office. “Sorry I can’t stay long, but it’s really good to see you.”

“That’s nice of her,” he says when it’s just the two of you, faintly surprised. You wonder if he realizes how honest she was. “I, uh, I should get back.”

He doesn’t offer an excuse and you’re oddly thankful for it, despite how badly you wish to be in his presence a few moments more. 

This was just a favor, after all. 

“I’ll walk you out,” you say. Your brain starts spewing ideas about begging, dinner, about sharing another space with him that’s a little more private. 

“Thanks,” he accepts, a little wide eyed as if you caught him thinking very similar things.  

"You cut your hair," he notes when you reach downstairs. The snow is falling and you forgot your coat, figuring you wouldn’t be long. The bitter cold doesn’t hit you immediately. 

You can't help the smile that tugs at your mouth. However wistful it is, it's genuine. 

You ask, "Pretty par for the course, right? Getting bangs after major life changes?"

It gets a chuckle out of him. After a beat, he says, "You look good. More rested, too."

It tugs at your heart. "Thanks. I've been trying to get home most nights."

"That's– that's great," he stutters over his words but you can tell he means them. His earnestness is overwhelming.

"How are you holding up?" you wonder, desperate to keep the attention off yourself. Desperate to know how he is.

"Oh, you know, busy. Not getting home most nights."

You hum. "Jack’s been giving you grief?"

"Nah, he's fine," Nolan rubs at his temples. It's familiar territory, work, and you both thread the path gladly. "Some cases are just..."

You exhale heavily, "Yeah. I'm sorry I involved you in this one."

He shakes his head. "You're the one who has to live it every day. I'm glad you're taking care of yourself."

You think about keeping it to yourself, but he’s always been your best friend. You love sharing everything with him. “I’ve been thinking about taking the Lieutenant’s exam.”

Nolan’s expression brightens considerably. He calls your name with a couple of ounces of the affection he used to say it with. “Hey, seriously? That’s great.”

Shrugging, though visibly pleased at his excitement, you reply, “Liv’s been delegating more since the whole Noah and Sheila thing, you know? And Fin’s happy to stay where he is so I thought, why not? I’ve got her blessing and everything, I just haven’t taken that final step, yet.”

“What better endorsement do you need?” Nolan says, beaming with pride. “Seriously, you should do it. I can’t think of anyone better suited for the job. And you’d get to stay at SVU?”

“Probably, I’m not sure. Liv’s spending more time with Noah these days, but you know how long it took her to make Captain. I don’t think she’s going anywhere anytime soon, and at this point in my career, neither am I. It’s too important to me, you know?”

Nolan’s smile softens because he does. He’s always known you better than anyone.

“Well, whatever happens, wherever you end up, they’ll be lucky to have you,” he says, sure like he is of very few things. “Just don’t leave for, like, New Jersey, or something. You’re bigger than New Jersey.”

It gets a laugh out of you. You feel like a teenager. “This one-sided beef with Jersey has gotten way out of hand with you.”

“I’ve got enough arguments to cover my bases.”

“Sure, Counselor,” you joke, remembering why he’s here and then adding– “Thank you for today. We probably would’ve turned this over to Cold Cases without that warrant.”

He shakes his head. “I was happy to help. And, hey, it was nice to hear from you.” He hesitates. “I wasn’t sure if I should reach out, but I’d been wondering. How you were and everything.”

“Me, too,” you say. You hold the precious moment to your chest, dreading its end but accepting that it will. “Sometimes I forget we were friends first.”

Nolan smiles like he’s remembering something. He’s not the only one.

“Is it for the better, you think?” he asks. “The no contact?”

“Probably,” you say honestly. Time and distance aren’t enough to fall out of love with him. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Indefinitely?” He wonders, cautious to keep his voice and expression devoid of any disappointment. 

“My therapist seems to think so.”

You get a sardonic half-smile in return. “Yeah, mine’ll probably agree with yours.”

You’re surprised at the ease with which he shares that with you. “You good?”

He shrugs, slightly sheepish. “Turns out I’d been doing not so great even before we separated.”

Quietly, you ask. “Better now?”

The look on his face is so fucking tender it keeps you warm in the freezing cold. You haven’t even started to shake, yet.

“Better now,” he assures. And isn’t that all you ever hoped for?

He says goodbye and he doesn’t kiss you. Obviously, sure, but he does reach for you and squeezes your wrist on top of your sleeve. Your breath catches, a blink and you’ll miss it moment that feels endless to you.  

“I’ll see you around,” he says it more than he asks it, and it somehow feels more like a goodbye than the last time you saw each other. “I’m glad you called.”

You feel like you’re at the brink of something, the last scene before the credits. Your half-smile is as filled with love as the one you gave him when he was waiting for you at the end of the altar. 

“Me, too,” you say, and it’s as true as it is simple. “See you around, Nolan.”

-

my sincerest apologies for keeping this fic hostage in my drafts but it's finally yours. i had the best of times writing for nolan and reader as always, and im always open to continue their story.

Fucking Stone, you thought. You tried hiding your smile from Rollins, Fin, and Carisi, but they caught on.

“Someone you know?” Carisi asked.

“Something like that. Hey, can you guys cover for me for a bit? I’ll be back in 20.”

“Yeah, of course.” They said collectively.

You grabbed your bag, shoved the envelope inside, and rushed out of the squad room.

When you got to Stone’s office you knocked a few times.

“It’s open.”

“Peter Stone. I never took you as the romantic type.

“Y/N.” Stone got up from his desk and went over to you and showered you with kisses on your lips. “Did you like the roses and the chocolates?”

“The roses were beautiful but now the whole squad’s looking at me, wanting to know where they came from. Also how did you know those chocolates were my favorites?”

“Good. Keep them wondering. And to that question, I think it was just a wild guess.”

You smiled and sat down on his couch, with him following suit.

“So, how about that dinner?”

“I’ll be glad to go, only because I’ve gotten to like you.”

Stone moved closer to you. “You sure it’s not because...” He ran his hand up your thigh. “We had mind-blowing sex two nights ago?”

“I think that’s a part of it too.” You smiled. “Stone... are you admitting to enjoying my naughty tendencies?”

“What can I say, Y/L/N? It was like we were in sync.”

“We sure was. I wouldn’t mind doing it again any night.” You mused. You gently pushed Stone down to the couch and got on top of him. “Or any time of the day if that mattered.” You whispered in his ear.

“Wow you’re even naughtier in the daytime.” Stone said.

“Of course I am.” You kissed his lips then unraveled his tie a bit and unbuttoned his dress shirt to give him a hickey on his collarbone. His hands were moving to your ass. You then sat up and caressed his cheek when you were done.

“I’m gonna miss you already.”

“It’s only a few hours and we have jobs to do. Plus... we can do whatever the hell we want after dinner.” You smiled, getting up.

Stone got up after you.

“Whatever the hell we want. I like that.”

✯✯✯✯