A/N: I know, I know, I should be working on my other stories. But…consider this a way to get back into the mood. Besides, this one basically wrote itself. Hope you enjoy, please tell me what you thought!
* *(xox)
Seeing Elliot at work is like a sip of water when I'm dying of thirst.
**(xox)
I often wonder how the perpetrators moved on with their lives after committing an offense. Did they move on? Did it stay in their head, a gratifying memory that they'd succeeded in their mission? Or was their mind simply constructed as that of something inhumane, allowing them to simply not be bothered? I think this through again as I watch Munch leading Maurice Denver out of questioning and towards the cell. Does he care about the trouble he's gotten himself into, or is he merely gratified that he's finished his task of portraying evil?
I turn and sigh heavily as I pick absent-mindedly at the loose thread at the bottom of my shirt. Cases like this always stick with me. It is nothing unusual; no one can handle the kids. I don't think any of us will be getting much sleep tonight.
I walk to the coffee pot to refill my almost-empty mug, wanting to stock up on caffeine. If I'm going to sleep, then the last thing I want to do was sit around on the couch wallowing and letting my mind wander to dark places. Tonight, I'll be here, finishing the paperwork, finishing Elliot's.
And even when we win, it still feels like we loose. A part of me is crushed; a light in my heart is extinguished every time I hear about a mistreated child. So even when we nail the guy, even when I play it rough and scare the ass of them in the interrogation room, a part of me has still died. A morsel of my soul is ripped from its core, and it reaches out to touch the heart of the child that needs help. The satisfactory feeling of having put the bastard away for life is overruled by a crushing sense of sadness, of hopelessness, that promises another abuser tomorrow, next week.
"Going home soon?"
Seeing Elliot at work is like a sip of water when I'm dying of thirst.
I turn to see my partner shuffling papers on his desk, his eyes fixed on his coat and I can tell he just wants to get the hell out of here, go home to kiss his wife and watch T.V with his kids. That's good. I'm glad he's got someone. I'm glad that his only salvation isn't throwing people through glass windows, or beating up on lockers.
In retrospect, it's not really fair for me to say that. I mean, how can I identify, right? Who am I to judge him? Who is anyone here at the station to be pissed at his aggressiveness? We don't have kids, we don't know what it feels like to work a case and see our family in the place of the victims? Maybe being alone is better after all…
"Uh, actually, I've got a few things to finish up."
He eyes me skeptically, and it's like he knows. It's like he can read my mind. He can tell I'm not heading home tonight. Ten or so years together will do that to a partnership. While we've been on the rocks lately, we've also never been more tightly bound.
"You sure? I mean, you don't have the car. I could drive you."
"I'll get a cab, thanks," I say, with a small smile, trying my best to reassure him. Because Kathy is his priority now. And Eli. They're come to an agreement, an understanding, and now Elliot's mostly in a good mood and he's always left work by six-thirty. I'm not going to be the one to keep him from his family. I take a back seat now I little Elliot jr. and his once-separated-but-back-together-wife. If his home is what makes him happy, I'm sure as hell not going to keep him from it.
He looks at me steadily for a minute, taking in my posture, my tense shoulders, and my tired eyes.
"You okay, Liv?" He asks this gently, soothingly, and it's like he really cares.
Maybe he does. He's been shit at showing lately, though. It's not like me to wallow, unlike myself to lurch at the possibility that 'Hey, someone, somewhere actually gives a damn.' And it has to be fate that the one person who's ever listened (or tried to) is the one I see every single day. How can I still manage to feel so incredibly alone when I'm surrounded by people who I know care?
"I'm fine, El. I'll see you tomorrow." Typical answer, passively stating that I'm capable of taking care of myself. Plainly daring him to argue, to say to my face just how unstable I really am. I want to be left alone, and yet more than anything, I want him to fight me.
With all my heart, I want him to fight me. To tell me that I'm wrong, I've always been wrong, that I don't need to build shells around my heart in order to protect myself. That I don't have to be cold and unhappy, and that he wants to show me just how good life can be.
I want him to pick me up in his arms, I want him to snuggle his face in my neck, and tell me how nice my hair smells. I don't spend several minutes in the shampoo aisle trying out scents for nothing.
I so desperately want him to keep inviting me to his house for Thanksgiving, for New Year's, even though I decline every time. There's just something so fantastic in knowing you're wanted. I want to be wanted. If someone yearns for me, I have the control. The upper hand, the red light and the green light. And I'd so give Elliot the green light.
My eyes beg him to leave me be, to reassure my sovereignty, to go see his family.
My heart craves for him to envelop me in his arms and tell me that he's going to stop ignoring me, now.
I'm yelling at him to give me back my independence, and I'm silently begging him to fight this, fight my stubbornness, and take me home. Take me to my bedroom and take me to his heart.
But.
It is the way it is, and I've always been too apprehensive, too afraid of loosing him to tell him that I'm so deeply in love with him. It's a secret I want to shout out at the top of my lungs, and yet, my mouth won't obey my heart's command.
"Okay. Take care, Liv. Try and get a few in the crib, alright?"
"Yeah."
"See you Monday."
"See you."
I want to blame him. I want to scream my frustration as loud as I can; however I know it's not his fault. I'm a deliberate martyr, a victim to my own damned power. A coward. Scared to give someone the control over my heart, my soul. Because with Elliot, I'm already in way too deep.
He shrugs on his coat and lightly touches my shoulder as he grabs a file and walks toward the elevators.
As I stare at his profile, his dark shape a vivid contrast to the gray walls, I think:
So this is what it is now. A dance. He's the assurance, the leader. And the performance can't start until I join him on the floor.
It's my walls keeping us apart, now.
And seeing Elliot at work is always like a sip of water when I'm dying of thirst.
A/N: soooo….hope the underlying message was clear. ish. Haha. Leave a comment, please!