So I actually got my start in SVU nearly ten years ago (horrible fics in first person narrative that have since been deleted, I might add), but it's been almost 5 years since I've written anything in this world.
The conclusion to the last episode was certainly compelling, but perhaps unnecessarily gut-wrenching. I needed to write this little ditty for Liv, so that she may at least get a shot at peace and happiness, if only in my imagination. Ignoring spoilers for future episodes.
seizure (n.) : the act of taking possession, as by force or right of law.
Fifteen years.
She was naïve when she started, thought it would get easier the longer her tour. That's what she told herself every night for the first year, after she'd awaken drenched in sweat from another hollow nightmare featuring the sadist of the week.
She'd slide out of her soaked nightshirt and stumble into her bathroom on shaky legs, wincing under the harsh fluorescent light as she flicked the shower on as hot as it would go.
It gets easier, she'd rasp, collapsing to her knees in front of the porcelain toilet bowl, dry-heaving until the steam sank into her lungs and dispelled the monsters from her memory.
It gets easier.
As if she could ever become immune to the depraved side of humanity.
It only got worse. At first, it was sacrifices she was completely willing to make, ones she'd been almost prepared for, wherein the ends justified the means. Restraining orders, suspensions, false arrests, even the loss of a relationship or two – she'd been ready to do what it took for the little piece of justice she got at the end of the day, knowing that she'd (hopefully) made someone's life better.
Or at least allowed them to sleep at night.
She thought it was okay, a good cause in the name of justice.
It gets easier.
Her mantra morphed into a coping mechanism, something she'd mutter when the world went to hell. The first time she shot to kill; the first time she felt the blood of a close friend staunched under her palm; the first time she'd left her co-dependent partner –
It gets easier.
The phrase died on her lips the night after she was assaulted.
First assaulted. The fact that it even needed a modifier was so fucked up.
It was then that she realized the scales had tipped the other way and she was slowly losing her grasp on her sanity.
Or maybe she'd never had it. Maybe the deck had always been stacked against her and she was too driven to see it. She'd always thought fate to be a ridiculous notion, but maybe her life had been written for her at the moment of conception -
A lifetime of pain.
Everything became more of a rapid decline after he left her to chase the demons by herself. And God fucking help her, she misses him. And he was such a damn miserable bastard half the time, but no one understands her quite like he does. Or – did.
Yeah.
It doesn't get fucking easier.
Fifteen years. She's done.
"Were you gonna tell us you were leaving?"
Olivia freezes, expelling a deep sigh as she tosses the box onto her chair. "Nick – "
"Your old partner – he left without so much as a damn word to you, didn't he?"
She braces herself and turns around, already on the defensive, arms crossed over her chest. "It's not the same thing," she says firmly.
"Then tell me how it is, Olivia."
Jesus Christ. He sounds like Elliot more and more everyday. "I just…didn't want it to be a big deal."
"You've been here, what 15 years now?" He scrubs a hand down his chin. "How could it not be?"
She ducks her head, lets out a little humorless laugh. "You wanna know why I'm here at midnight on a Friday, Amaro?" She shoves her hands into her pockets, leans forward. "I'm tired. The whispers, the stares, the sympathy," her voice cracks. "It makes me nauseous."
"And you care that much about what other people think of you?"
"No." She grimaces, picks up the box from its spot on the chair. "I don't give a rat's ass about what other people think." And she doesn't. But she's done feeling like a victim.
She's taking her life back.
Olivia awkwardly tucks the box into her hip, walks a few paces toward the door. She stops in front of him. "You're a good cop, you know. A good partner. Do me a favor, though."
"What?"
"Don't make the same mistakes I did. When it becomes unbearable," she rasps, "leave this place while you still have a reason to get out of bed in the morning."
"Liv – "
She shakes her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I'll be back tomorrow to say goodbye to everyone."
She claps his shoulder with her free hand, leaves him standing alone in an empty precinct.
She hopes he finds his peace, too.