Post-Heartfelt Passages. I really love that episode, if you know me you know the reason. And I originally wrote this entire fic showing Olivia's struggle after Dodds' death, then I realized there was another player in the game that needed to be looked at closer...Tucker. Let me know what you think.
When he initially mentioned Paris, he was probing. He wanted to see Olivia's receptiveness to the idea of a future family vacation. He had seen two or three travel books on the place when he was scanning her bookshelf one day, but she had never mentioned traveling there before.
He didn't realize, until that night, how seriously she took the idea.
"I'm thinking early June for Paris. If I rush my passport I can get it renewed in time." Olivia sits perched up in bed, Ipad resting on her knees as she taps at the screen. Turquoise glasses are perched on her nose and she has thrown on a white camisole before climbing into bed. The clock reads midnight and she'd already spent the last 2 hours googling ticket prices, hotels and museums.
Tucker pauses, the covers only partially pulled back from the bed, then quickly recovers and climbed into the cream colored sheets to the right of Olivia. "That's a little over a month from now." She isn't sure if it was a question or a statement.
She pauses her typing to remove her glasses and peers at him. They have more than enough vacation time accrued and finding a sitter for Noah for the week shouldn't be too hard. "Is that…?" She hesitates, the question trailing off hoping he'll fill in the gaps.
Tucker lay on his back, his eyes fixated on an old stain in the ceiling. . "That's…It's good." But as he says the words, he quickly sits up to kiss her cheek and rolls over in bed, settling away from her.
Olivia tries to not read too much into the moment. It had been a rough couple of days for them following Dodds' death. The funeral put a huge burden on Tucker as a captain, Chief Dodds was too inconsolable to plan anything and Tucker stepped up to help. The day was immediately followed by drinks, and although it wasn't explicitly stated, Olivia could tell Tucker was keeping a count on how many she had. She'd gone to Lindstrom, while he'd taken care of Noah and then they immediately launched into discussions of Paris. It felt like somewhat of a whirlwind. She could feel the exhaustion of the week settling into her bones. It was the kind of tired that makes your entire body heavy, your brain foggy. The tired that you couldn't shake even after countless hours of sleep. She decides to give up on the trip research and try to get some sleep. Before reaching over the turn off the light, she glancing again at Tucker's sleeping form before closing her eyes.
When she opens her eyes, the boring red numbers of her alarm clock immediately greet her.
2:37am. Roughly two and a half hours of sleep.
At least Noah hadn't woken her in attempts to crawl into her bed. She sighs, closes her eyes again and rolls over, splayed her arm to her right in attempts to catch Tucker's waist. She was going to pull herself over to him, cuddle into his shoulder for warmth. But she is met only by the cool sheets. Slowly, she opens her eyes to the empty bedside next to her. A glance to her left proves the bathroom is unoccupied too.
As she pads into the living room, she pulls on ones of Ed's dark blue sweatshirts. It was likely something from the NYPD, although she couldn't tell in the dark. He's left a few items at her place over the last couple of months…a suit for work, a toothbrush, a pair of glasses. Small things that serve to remind her he is ever present in her life.
However, his presence wasn't seen now. The living room is empty, still dark except for the small light she frequently keeps on next to the fridge. The anxiety starts to bubble up within her and she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to try to push it away.
His phone hadn't rang, so he didn't leave on a work related matter. And even when they were no more than casually sleeping together, he never left in the middle of the night to go back home. He always gave her the courtesy of a quick good morning kiss before he shuffled out the door. Her cop instincts kick in and she takes giant strides to Noah's room, opening the door slowly and quietly. He is still sleeping soundly in his toddler bed. Next, she walks over to the kitchen windows, perhaps looking for signs of a break-in, although she tells herself she is being completely irrational at this point. The windows were clear, but through them, 3 stories below, there is Ed Tucker, sitting alone on her stoop. In the dark she can barely make out the faint glow of a lit cigarette.
The front door of the apartment complex creaks as she opened it, announcing her arrival, yet Tucker doesn't turn around. He sits there, silently, his elbow resting on his leg, hand limply holding the cigarette. The broad expanse of his back is covered in a light gray t-shirt and he's thrown on some black sweat pants. His feet are bare. There is a glass of brown liquid resting next to him on the stoop, likely bourbon. He slides it over to the spot next to him when he hears the door open, a welcome gift of sorts for her.
She sits down next to him, her arm just barely brushing his. The cold of the cement immediately begins to seep through her thin cotton pants. She fights the urge to shiver, partly at the cold, partly at the irony of the situation. This, the middle of the night conflict, sitting on cold stoops and barely talking, feels oddly familiar and she is almost taken back to another time. A time when her hair was longer, the days dragged on and another man sat beside her, confusing the hell out of her. The silence then bore an air of static, like the sky right before lightning strikes. She remembers the way her stomach twisted, lurched when she drank the flowery tea.
"Drink, it will warm you up." She looks down at the glass she holds between her fingers now. Her hands look older, thin lines and more prominent veins cover the surface. Her nails are painted a light gray where once only clear polished was seen. Warm, buttery-brown liquid replaces the flower and the man sitting to her left doesn't make her feel like jumping out of her own skin.
Still, there is something unfamiliar about this. Tucker doesn't do this. He isn't the brooding, angry type when it comes to their relationship. He is typically calm, collected, and he knows exactly what he wants. Now he is still wasn't looking at her, his blue eyes scanning the street every so often, constantly re-assessing the area.
"You going to tell me what's going on?" She sits the glass down in front of her and curls her hands into the arms of her sweatshirt.
"You don't like me to smoke in the house." He takes another drag of his cigarette as he says it, blowing the smoke away from her.
"That's not what I meant."
"I needed air." The words are rushed.
She understands the feeling, the need to be alone, to feel like you could run from the nightmares, even it was just running out of your own building.
"It's different with you, you know that right?" Her chest immediately tightens at his words. Her body is warning her, gearing up for the fight or flight response. She should have known it earlier, the way her turned away from her, the nagging feeling that kept her from sleep. There had been something brewing for a while now. She knows better, she'd seen enough shit to recognize the shift in the air, when even the universe seems anxious. He flicks his cigarette onto the concrete in front of them and watches it until the dim light goes out.
This afternoon on the pier was so light, she'd felt a renewed sense of spirit after Lindstrom, after the possibility of Paris. There was a sliver of hope, a sense of peace. She felt, for just a second, that she was going to be ok after Dodd's death.
Willing the back the feeling from earlier, she repeats his words back to him. "The three of us, we do have a good thing going here?"
"We do." It isn't a question. There is no hesitation. Instead, she is met by a small smile across his lips. He doesn't elaborate. The silence resumes and the feelings of uncertainty edge their way back into her mind.
It feels like minutes pass in silence, his eyes fixated on the chips in the concrete steps in front of him. Hers watch his face ever so slightly out of the corner of her eye as she picks at pieces of her nail polish. Slowly, his eyebrows begin to knit together, his lips form into a thin line. His right hand lands on her thigh without a word, smoothing along the cotton. It was done subconsciously, a move he does nearly every day. Suddenly his fingers stopped their journey.
"It's so fucking selfish." He sounds irritated at his own thoughts. As he says it, the hand on her thigh grips her hard, his fingers sinking into the flesh. Her stomach drops at his words, and she feels her heartrate speed up. At this point, she wasn't sure what he is referring to...their relationship? Her? All she knows is he is finally talking, finally showing a glimmer of reasoning behind why he is out here at 3am. So she lets him have this, she lets him feel because God knows he was so strong for her over the last two days when she was falling apart. She waits for him to continue.
"I said that at the funeral, I realized I can't spend the rest of my life obsessing about whether or not a cop is lying to me." That she understands, working this long, seeing this much bad in the world, you obsess about everyone around you. They all become a victim, a predator. There is no off-switch.
"That isn't the entire truth." Nausea suddenly overwhelmes her. She can't remember if she had any of his bourbon, but whatever is in her stomach is now threatening to come up. Because here it was, the straw that breaks the camel's back. The inevitable. It happened with David, with Brian…just when things start to go right in her life, a dividing wedge smashes her happy bubble to smitherings.
She swallows the little bit of saliva in her mouth, hoping to sound unaffected by his demeanor but the lump in her throat has other ideas. Her words come out hesitant, laced with worry. "Ok. Tell me." The veil of strength is gone. The emotional toll of the last few days has worn her thin. There is barely any fight left. He's seen her this broken before, after Lewis. He knows how much she can take, how much he can push her, so he must know she's on the cliff's edge, threatening to fall over.
"I keep thinking about you. I've been so close to losing you, twice." The nausea stops. Her heart keeps fluttering, picking up the pace because it is about her. It isn't about them, any ending. It is about losing her. Again.
"I keep telling myself it wasn't you in that pine box. It was…" When he stops, she notices the flesh on her leg is almost aching now. His fingers sink into her thigh like he is clinging to her for life itself. When he speaks again, his voice drops, the words rough. "It was…I could have been burying you." She feels like shit. She feels like a terrible girlfriend. She feels like she doesn't deserve him. Because in the midst of her being so concerned with the possibility of him not wanting her, she failed to see him hurting. She didn't even stop to think how this last week could have affected him.
"I'm so sorry." He doesn't look at her. His eyes look glazed over, filled with unspoken emotion but void of tears. There isn't anger there. No, she certainly knows what anger looks like on Ed Tucker. This is something different, his eyes are soft, but distant. It is pain, like the darkness of the day had clawed its way into his mind and planted deep roots.
"Hey. Hey." She crooks her head into his line of sight until his blue eyes finally make contact with hers. He blinks slowly until she comes into focus. "Ed, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry I haven't been mentally here these last few days."
"Don't. Don't do that. You were supporting an entire squad, Dodds' family, and holding yourself together." She never thought of it like that. SVU had been her family and keeping her head afloat when shit hit the fan was second nature. I'm fine may forever be her mantra.
Olivia threads her fingers through his, the rough pads folding over hers. He watches her thumb trace an old scar until he lifts their joined hands in front of his face. He studies her, slowly and she doesn't say a word but dear God she wants to know what he is thinking. This is more emotion than they've ever shared. It's love, agony, renewal and loss all wrapped up into the moment he squeezes her hand and she almost jumps in response. A direct touch, a physical reminder that she is standing directly in front of him, he didn't carry her in a pine box and slide her body into the back of a waiting hearse. A reminder that she's lucky to be alive.
"What a pair we make, huh?" She scoffs because she realizes how ridiculous they must look. Two grown adults outside in the middle of the night staring at each other like their parents might never let them communicate again. He leans his forehead into hers, mirroring her actions in the hospital hallway. She blows out a small breath and the warm air landed on his lips, his mouth opening as if he could breathe her in.
He leans further into her until his lips bumps hers. He doesn't kiss her yet, he just stays there, feeling her exhale onto his skin. She runs her tongue along his bottom lip slowly, coaxing him to let her in. He opens to her and she slides her hands under his shirt as she slips her tongue into her mouth. The bourbon and a faint hint of cigarette smoke linger in his mouth but it's familiar, comforting. A taste that's all Tucker. His hands wind into her hair, cradling the back of her head. She's sinking now, letting herself get lost in his touch, in his fingertips down her spine, letting the weight of the week dissolve away. There isn't enough contact between them and now she's craving more. The need to wrap up in his arms, bury her face in his chest and just feel...safe.
The sound of a car coming by reminds them both of their location and they pull away.
She grabs his hand again and starts to stand to make her way inside.
"I would have taken care of him." She freezes. The words come from below her and she knows he's still sitting but she doesn't turn around to face him. She exhales through pursed lips and waiting for him to explain because she feels like she's got only seconds before another bombshell drops.
"If something were to happen Liv, I would take care of Noah." The tone is serious. It's evident this is coming from a place of careful deliberation, Tucker isn't one to blurt ideas without thinking.
She tries to find her voice and fails and her words sound more rough than she anticipated. "You don't have to do that."
"What I mean is," he groans a little as he moves to stand, coming to her side, "He's family now. You both are. That hit me today. When I was sitting in that church, listening to Chief Dodds talk about his son...his family. That gave me even more of a reason to transfer to hostage negotiation."
Instantly, her eyes prick with tears. She didn't know it was possible to have anything left in her tear ducts after the last two days. Quiet, wet drops fall onto her cheeks because this is...a lot. Almost too much for her to process. His pain, her guilt, his confessions. It feels like her chest could burst with the emotion. The idea that someone would be willing to take care of her child, her adopted toddler...she never in a million years would imagine any man she dated would be willing to do that.
She can't help it but her mind races to Lindstrom's office. You know how complicated guilt is.
She wipes the tears hastily with the back of her hand, straightens her back in the process. "It's...I trust you. You know that's a big step for me. For us. But...will you do something for me?"
"Anything."
"Go with me to Lindstrom."
End chapter. (Please review)