I don't own SVU. The only thing I own is my excessive amount of tears after seeing the promo for "Psycho Therapist."
She made it all the way to the fifth floor of her apartment building before she collapsed on the stairs.
She usually took the elevator, but after today, after seeing him there, she couldn't bring herself to do it. It was irrational, she knew. After all, he was in a holding cell at Riker's. She had seen him in a courthouse elevator. It was a freak coincidence, bad luck, a cruel trick played on her by the universe. He couldn't have instigated it, that she knew, and there was no way he was in her apartment building, that she knew also. But he had gotten to her once. Been in her apartment once before. And that was one too many times for her. So for tonight, she opted to take the stairs.
She slowly lowered herself onto the ground, forcing herself to try and deeply inhale. She could feel her heart racing and sweat leaking from the back of her neck. She hadn't realized she had been running up the stairs, sprinting to the safety of her room. When was the fear going to stop? When would she be able to stop running and start living again?
She put her hands on her head and breathed in again, this time noticing that her breath was shaking. Before she could pull it together, she heard a tear splash against the concrete floor, shattering and echoing against the cement, sounding like a gunshot in the abandoned stairwell. She felt another tear fall. And another. And another. All rushing down her cheeks still the slightest bit blemished and tender from the attack. She quickly cupped her hands under her chin to stop the tears from hitting the ground.
She wondered if she was going to die right here in this very spot. To die on the stairs. It would be like fulfilling some kind of sick prophesy - to die in the same place as her mother.
She placed a hand to the floor. The cement was icy and hard. The pads of her fingers lightly, delicately explored the concrete. It was smooth and it felt like a memory. It triggered the sensation of holding the bedpost in her hands, rusty beneath her shaky fingers. And in that moment, it had felt like freedom; but now, it felt like entrapment, like the chains that were enclosed around her wrists for so many hours.
She jerked her hand away from the floor, as if she had just had her hands on a hot stove. She blushed in embarrassment, though she wasn't exactly sure what she was embarrassed about.
Her face grew red and hot, and the feeling seeped down into her chest, and the heat replaced the chill that was in her fingers. Her memory shifted to the blowtorch, hot and electric and inviting. It had called to her. It had begged her to use it on him. But of course, she couldn't. That would make her a monster too. As bad as he.
She'd almost rather be on trial for murder, and not for the fact that he'd be dead. Just for the fact that she wouldn't have to face him again. God, how was she going to face him again? She could get knocked for excessive force, but it wasn't excessive enough to leave him lifeless. How was that fair?
She peered out the window, and as usual, everything was still happening. The world around her was still going on as if her life wasn't falling apart. As if she wasn't slowly breaking into pieces.
She looked at the buildings, all standing tall and proud and steady. She remembered when she used to feel like that. Feel invincible and powerful and like nothing she would encounter would ever bring her down. And yet, here she was, haunted by a past and living a life she wasn't even sure was worth it anymore.
For the briefest flicker of a moment, a thought barely sparked in her head. The thought that she'd like to fly, and just one last time would be enough flying for her. If she could only just climb to the tallest and highest of buildings, and jump, and fly, that would be enough. But she knew she couldn't do that. Because then she'd be a hypocrite, and he would win.
He's going to win anyway, a hateful voice whispered harshly into her ear. The voice of the enemy. The voice of Richard White. Of Lowell Harris. Of William Lewis. Of herself.
You're going to win, another voice said. Of Cragen. Of Munch. Of Barba and Nick and Amanda and Fin. Of herself. Of-
"You okay, Liv?" a voice behind her asked. He didn't touch her. He knew better.
She wiped at her eyes one last time before turning around and looking up. She still didn't have the strength to stand, and he knew it. Instead, he sunk next to her on the step.
"Fine," she said, forcing a strained smile, her voice still raspy from the tears.
He didn't believe her even a little, and they both knew it. Their eyes were speaking volumes, more than their mouths ever would or could say.
"You want to order in? Or I could cook. I know how much you love my clam sauce," Brian said.
"I could too," Olivia responded detachedly, still staring off into the distance, not fully engaged in the conversation. She was still shaken from the day's events.
"And let you waste another five pounds of chicken? I don't think so," Brian said with a small chuckle, remembering the last disastrous time she attempted to make dinner. Back when she was happier and her smiles met her eyes. Before the attack when they were still sneaking around like a couple of teenagers, him taking a shower in her old apartment while she was on the phone with Cragen, them both praying no one inquired about the subtle hints of sweetness they showed in the precinct.
God, it seemed like so long ago, as if it really was when they were teens. Could it have really been mere months ago? Those months seemed like a lifetime.
For him, he supposed, it kind of was. Back in '99 when she agreed to go out with him the first time. She showed up to the restaurant with her short, dark hair and deep and soulful, yet young and innocent eyes, and he was already in love. It took her fifteen years, but he thought that maybe somewhere along the way she discovered she felt the same way too.
There'd been mistakes and heartaches and a lot pain in those fifteen years, but it was a journey. Every couple has their journey – some couples just may have a little longer and rougher one than most. But wasn't it the ending that mattered most? Wasn't the result what really counted in the end?
"You hungry?" Brian asked, gently knocking his knee against hers.
"A little," she lied, looking at him. He was trying. He was trying so hard to help her. And she was trying so hard to let him.
She was looking at him, she could see every part of him, and so he felt like it was safe to reach out. He slowly lifted his hands in an almost defensive pose, and softly brushed a stray hair from her eyes. A strand of hair sticking to her forehead, permeated in sweat. And yet, to him she had never looked more beautiful.
He moved to put a hand on her shoulder, massaging it gently with his thumb. He felt a twinge of joy and hope when she didn't flinch away. Olivia felt a pang of pride when she herself realized this. She didn't want to pull away, but she didn't want it to go any further either. That she wasn't ready for yet, and he read that in her eyes.
"You gonna be okay?" he asked her tenderly, phrasing it like a question. He wouldn't reassure her that everything would be okay, because he wasn't sure that it would be. He wouldn't reassure her that everything was okay either because they both knew that would be a lie. So he asked her, he didn't tell. There were a lot of people telling her things lately, and not enough people asked her, Brian thought.
She looked into his eyes for the first time in a long while – too long awhile – her dark eyes met his own. They were strong, sturdy and reassuring, but inviting as well. They would protect her and comfort her: a rock and a pillow. Her lips curved upward without her forcing them to. The smile even reached her eyes. "I will be," she whispered, leaning into his touch a little more, inhaling him and allowing herself to be held.
"I will be."
Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Reviews would make me really happy.