A/N: Hello all = My very first time doing anything like this. Heh. So stick with me. Never written fan fic, but I love reading it and decided it was time I tried one. Reviews are wonderful. = Most likely will not be a one shot, but that depends on reader feedback! Any all criticism is welcome.
Spoilers: none, really.
Disclaimer: If I were Dick Wolf, would I really be sitting here spinning fan fiction? I think not. things would be a looooot different if I were, though. XD
Pretend
She thinks about things.
She thinks about things, and how they have changed her. How they have made her a little bit stronger, angrier, older. How they appear more and more in the curve of her neck, lining her motions as she struggles to get through the hours, one at a time.
Just a few more minutes, she tells herself. And I will be free.
But these are lies, and she knows it. She's got lies coming every which way out of her ass, and they're so tangled and convoluted she doesn't even know where to begin the untangling, doesn't even know where to begin the explanation.
She is never truly free, and will never be. The demons chase her shadow, line the clouds in the mornings and haunt her dreams as she tosses and turns. She knows this. Move on.
She cares too much, enough for the both of them. Hell, she cares enough for the entire unit's worth, never mind one person's. The demons feed off of this, thrive on this. She knows, he knows, everyone knows. They all are tormented by their job, by the things that they see every day. They all lay awake at night, silently watching replays over and over on the smooth plaster of the ceiling, lit like a stage by the city lights.
But she takes it to the heart, tucks it high into her cheek and sucks on it like a peppermint candy, mulls it over and dissects it and analyzes it to the death. She takes it personally but is careful to keep it hidden, careful to remain composed and calm under the eyes of her coworkers. Careful to pretend like nothing is wrong, like she is perfectly fine.
But no one can hear her screaming.
This case had been particularly hard. She didn't even want to think about how it was tormenting her partner, who had children of his own, when it was eating her alive inside out and she didn't even have kids. The computer screen blooms into Technicolor and she doesn't seem to see the letters and symbols set before her, doesn't seem to register them. She's like a robot, automatically manipulating the system to get to where she wants and her fingers begin to fly over the keys, and so intent is her gaze upon the screen that you might think she's just overzealous about the paperwork. But you'd have to have pretty shitty people skills to not pick up on the fact that she was so emotionally fragile right now that the slightest gust of wind was going to bring the house of cards crashing into the dust.
She needs caffeine, and she needs it now. Coffee is horrible for you and shortens your life, and she knows this. Still, she can't help but admire the rich brown sheen of the liquid as it spills into her cup, a brown so deep and dark it's black. She empties two small sugar packets into the mixture, stirring it in before she tests it, seeing if the caffeine-to-sugar ratio meets her standards and it does, so she accepts the cup and brings it back with her, to her desk. Her partner is gone, his chair empty and desk bare, but what else is new. She is alone, and this is what she likes. The precinct is relatively quiet on a Saturday, other cops spending time with their families or grocery shopping or exercising, things that normal people did.
She isn't normal.
Instead, she spends her time catching up on work, flipping past offending pictures and pages of highly detailed medical reports like they were the latest Us Weekly. She downs her second and third cups of coffee within the hour and by the second hour her hands are shaking and she's got all sorts of typos across the screen. Disgusted with herself and her inadequacy, she shuts the computer down and splashes the last of her coffee violently into the sink, and some of it splashes up onto her nice new blouse.
Karma, she thinks instantly but her mouth opens and she's swearing "Shit!" before her brain has a chance to catch up. Her temper rising to unhealthy levels as she furiously scrubs at the small splatter stains, she bites her bottom lip so hard she tastes blood.
The blood.
Immediately she sees it across apartment walls, sees the rich dark stain spreading across Winnie the Pooh bed sheets, sees so much of it on the little girl that it must have been painted on. The coffee's doing loops in her stomach and she stops scrubbing, her vision dancing and she's going to be sick if she thinks about this anymore.
"Liv?" She wheels, fighting the nausea, and her fists clench tightly at her sides when she sees who's spoken, who's finally put in an appearance.
Elliot.
"What?" she snaps back tersely, the polar opposite of what she wanted to say. He recoils slightly, ever so slightly, but after 9 years she can calculate his movements to the T. His eyes, usually the color of the sky on a cloudless summer day, are darkening to match the deepest parts of the sea, where the sunlight has no chance of ever reaching.
The point of no return.
"You okay?" he asks and she hates him for his pity, for his concern. She hates being pitied, hates being babied, hates attention.
"Fine," she says dismissively, giving up on the coffee stain and grabbing her coat. 70 she paid for that tawdry rag, Burberry label, and it hardly keeps her warm. She needs to go coat shopping.
"Olivia." His voice is louder, impatient, and she spins on her heel so they're face to face, just like old times.
Old times. It hits her like a blow to the stomach.
Her breath catches but she hides it, glaring straight at him, fists clenched so tightly that her short nails are digging into her palms.
"What?" she hisses, her voice full of loathing and venom and she's coiled and ready to strike, defensive and angry.
"I'm trying to talk to you, and you're ignoring me." His voice has a playful edge to it, but he's meeting her gaze and the intensity is burning her skin.
"I'm leaving. We can talk about it tomorrow," she snarls, turning away but he catches her wrist and pulls her back and her fist is about ready to sink into his face.
"What the hell is so important?" she explodes, ripping her arm from his grip. Now's she's drawn herself to full height and at 5' 7" she can meet his eyes directly. "I. Need. To. Go. Home." She tries patronizing him, talking down to him like a child, trying to find that old fury. She's poking the beehive with the stick, and she's allergic to bees.
He looks hurt for a split second, but that familiar anger flashes briefly in his eyes and he levels her with one of his looks.
"We have to talk about this case," and his voice is heavy and drawn-out, tired and worn. She doesn't blink. She knows this case isn't easy on him, either. She knows. She does.
"I've got all day tomorrow, Elliot," she spits without thinking and her cheeks heat. When did she decide to sound so bitchy?
"Now, Olivia," and she sees, with a sick twinge of satisfaction, he's starting to get annoyed with her. She steps closer to him, eyes blazing.
"I'll see you tomorrow." She spins away and strides down the hall, pushing through the door and out into the drizzle that's starting. She squints up at the New York sky, through the permanent layer of pollution that encases the city like bubble wrap, and looks at the heavy gray clouds, an ominous sign of a storm. She hails a cab immediately and stares out the window, watching the storm's progress.
At least the weather, of all things, matches her mood tonight.
Tbc…