Chapter Text
The Grim Reaper.
Noah couldn’t have picked out a ghost or an Avengers costume, not even a cop, no. Her theatrically-inclined son has become fascinated with the embodiment of death.
It’s not his fault that the spooky season has coincided with some of his fictional mythology books. Not his fault that he can’t see how she’s already drowning in all things death and darkness and despair - has been for weeks now.
Despite the boy's own struggle with the existential terror of someone sacrificing their life for you, he doesn’t know that she might be losing her mind. Because while the word “ghost” has always brought to mind a cute, cartoonish character, she swears that for weeks now there’s a presence following her around. An unmistakably familiar one.
In all honesty, it's the only reason she hasn’t eaten her gun yet.
***
Pfft.
The Grim Reaper.
Some mystical spirit wandering the earth in a cheesy black cloak. How they got it in their heads that I’m allergic to color, I’ve no idea. I’m quite fond of blues, actually. And the scythe, don’t even get me started. Why a scythe? I’ve never understood the fable at all but that part particularly baffles me. Humans, all about show. It’s them, after all, who carry weapons of destruction. I’m merely a result of their handiwork, not some evil lurking destroyer. Alas, they’re not too fond of taking on that responsibility. But if I had to choose a weapon, it most certainly would not be something so grand and obvious as a scythe. I prefer efficiency to show. Knives are interesting.
Anyway, it’s a quaint ideation of me, I suppose. A creature to blame when things go awry in the world. Something concrete (albeit imaginary) to stop the wondering, the insufficient explanations when the supernatural bleeds into the natural. Just enough out of their comprehension’s grasp but an idea still entirely bound to the safety of their occasional whims.
However, I’ve nothing to do with that eerie sense of something watching over her. I’m not the reason it feels like she was more alone in the years he was in Rome than the days since his body left the earth. I’m not the one who is fighting their ability to rest in peace.
He did warn her.
Elliot, unlike the masses of self indulgent souls I remove every day, was not a fan of pomp and splendor. He did not wish for a great big memorial, filled with well wishes from utter strangers.
“Ya know, sometimes I wish people would take a little breather before they let the healing begin,” he had said. I loved him for it.
And so did she.
Olivia Benson has never been one to believe in ghosts or spirits or anything less than the concrete, for that matter. It may be naive, but she’s always found it best to leave her expectations up to what is, not what may be. That way, further disappointment is prevented. But now…
Now she needs hope. It’s all she has left of him.
***
It’s not until 1 in the morning that Olivia finally collapses into her desk chair, a heavy sigh falling from her lips as she does so. The precinct is empty, dead quiet after she sent everyone home. A pin drop could be heard from upstairs.
So it’s rather obvious, damn near loud when another presence enters.
It’s not like the movies. There’s no dramatic rush of air or flickering lights. No doors slamming shut or chains rattling. But all at once, she is not alone. The air stills, filled with something gentle and proud. Olivia sits up, surprised to find herself unfazed as she rests her elbows on the desk and absentmindedly rubs the back of her neck.
Nothing actually appears in front of her, but a moment in time is summoned from the depths of her memory, of kind eyes and a sweet smile, the one reserved just for her as he sits at his adjacent desk. She can’t help but return his smile now, feeling the overwhelmingly familiar presence shift in front of her.
It’s funny how different this is from how she’d imagined a haunting might go. She doesn’t feel alone or afraid. Not even curious, as if her soul has made peace with the answers before her heart could question it. She is settled in the unknown, acceptant of the impossible.
“I miss you.”
It’s a thought that rings loud in her ears until she’s compelled to whisper it into the empty room, directly at the chair in front of her desk. He’s moving, then. Not in any way that is visible; if she had to describe it, she’d say the air shimmered in some sort of way. But a warm buzzing is at her side now, protectively hovering, as if attempting to block out her day. She smiles sadly at the notion and leans into him, tears springing up suddenly at the way her heart suddenly breaks with longing for the solid warmth of his chest.
A tear slips down her face, and the humming gently skims the crown of her head now, unexpected comfort flooding her body at his kiss. Her eyes slip shut as she breathes out, long and deep.
Even in death, he is her safe place.