Without Word
Rating: T
Spoilers: Loss
Summary: what is said without word
Disclaimer: not mine, don't sue
Author's note: kind of how I felt, and I knew it would happen
"Elliot, I can't believe it. I just can't fuh-" and she runs out of steam at that word.
"I know, Liv, I know," he answers, without looking at her. He tilts the glass back, the last of the beer foam sliding down.
"What do we do, El?"
"We get our coats," he replied, rising from his barstool with less grace than he wished.
She asked the same question in her apartment, later. She was half sprawled on the couch, feet toward the center, leaning on the arm. He was in an armchair, leaning forward, just to her side. Her hair was still damp from the mist that threatened outside, and he knew his phone, turned to vibrate, had rung once or twice in his coat pocket, hung on the back of her door. She passed him the bottle of beer they'd opened after several quiet moments in her dark apartment. It was almost gone. "Olivia," he said, drawing her name out. Her hand was still hanging off the couch, in dead space, and he took it in his. They were both cold from the bottle – fresh from the fridge, the nearing November outside, and the visit they'd just come from. He squeezed her hand, and she looked directly at him for the first time in a longer duration than he could remember at the moment. "Liv," he said, at the same moment she said, "El." The gaze held. "I'm not sure," he continued.
I get up. I put on my coat and you've walked me to the door. There is a hug. I catch a cab and can't help dozing on the way to my house. I make it through the door as quietly as I can, and fall into bed or asleep on the couch. You put on your most comfortable pajamas, brush your teeth, whatever it takes, and you, too, fall into a dreamless sleep. In the morning, we swallow hangover-combating aspirin with our orange juice, we hide any signs of tears, and we make sure not to look at how old we've gotten in the mirror. I kiss my wife goodbye if I can, we show up at her funeral, openly mourn with our friends; eventually we somehow go home and in the morning the routine is strangely similar. As is the next. We arrive at work almost on time, we answer phone calls and interview victims; we make an arrest and we file paperwork; we show up in court and hope for a conviction. We drink way too much coffee followed by way too many antacids, and anticipate days off; we all lean on each other that little bit that pushes our dependency into something to be a bit frightened of, but we never talk about it. We go through the motions; she is dead to us and somewhere along the line we've sworn not to reveal otherwise.
They sat there.