A/N: I have wanted to do a song fic for Julie Roberts's "Wake Up Older" for THE longest time, but didn't have a real reason, and didn't think of who else could be involved. But with the whole Dean thing and the Kathy being knocked up thing during "Screwed," I think it's PERFECT! Lyrics are in bold this time.
Disclaimer: Only my overactive imagination belongs to me!
Dedication: Bandbi. Because she loves it when I write angst. Hahaha!
--
This detective will self destruct in five seconds.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Boom.
And just when things had been going so well. Olivia scrubbed her hands over her face and glanced over her shoulder, taking in the sight of the naked field agent in her bed.
Fought with Elliot.
Drank.
Drove to Elliot's.
Called Dean.
Slept with Dean.
Boom.
She rose from the bed, grabbed a long-sleeved tee-shirt off the chair, and slipped it on over her head, realizing a beat too late that it wasn't hers.
NYPD SOFTBALL was written across the front in navy blue block letters, with STABLER and the number 30 in the same font across the back. She considered taking the shirt off, but decided against it, she was, after all, in the mood for some destructive behavior. With a quick look back at Dean, she sighed.
Obviously.
Slept
in my makeup
Didn't get my teeth brushed
I crashed on the
couch
And now my mouth tastes like yesterday's news
Entering the living room, she spied the half-empty bottle of bourbon, knowing full well she'd purchased it full only two days prior.
Boom.
She picked the bottle up and took it to the sink. Uncapping it, she poured the liquor down the drain. That was quite enough of that. She had to find a better way to cope than to drink and sleep with inappropriate men.
Men who were still in love with their ex-wives. Men who knocked up their ex-wives. Men named Elliot.
Well
hello Jim Beam
Oh the places you've seen
If only you could
talk
You'd tell me why he walked out on me and you
She thought back to the previous few days' events. Simon. The trial. Darius. Simon. Elliot. Kathy. The baby.
Boom.
She'd asked him what he planned to do. Not so much because she didn't already know the answer, more so because she prayed that he'd have a different one. Something like, "oh, I'll be in this baby's life, but I love you, Liv. I can't move back home." Or, "Kathy's done okay with the other four since I've been gone. A fifth one won't be a big deal." Instead he'd stood there, seethed at her, and asked her what she meant. In that tone of voice that actually meant "what the fuck do you think I'm going to do?"
So she'd resigned herself to the fact that the relationship they'd been slowly building since the whole Simon debacle began, was over. Over before it really had a chance. Over before she'd gotten her fill of him. But now, it was time to grow up, get over the fairy tale crap, and move on.
Oh
the things lovers do when it's over
Oh the things lovers do when
it's done
Find a cool bottle or a warm shoulder
Wake up older
And try to move on
She'd been reeling when she found out about the baby. She hadn't known quite what to do, and when that letch Braden had told her she wasn't going to have to testify, she went home and crawled inside the bottle of Jim Beam. It was always warm there. Not warm like Elliot's embrace. Nothing was warm like that. Nothing was like being in his arms, watching him sleep, tracing her fingers over his tattoos, kissing his lips…
Boom.
When she'd drunk more than her share of liquor, and woken up from a Jim-induced nap on the couch, she made her first error in judgment that night. She grabbed her keys and went for a drive. Something she hadn't done since she was a stupid kid. She drove and drove around the city, amazingly never getting picked up by an officer. Millions of thoughts had run through her mind, predominantly the look on Elliot's face when she'd asked him what he was going to do about the baby. She'd seen him that angry before, but never at her. She'd always thought he loved her more than that – not necessarily romantically, but at least as a friend. Apparently, she was mistaken.
Boom.
Somehow, in her wandering, drunk haze, her Navigator guided itself to Queens, past Elliot's house. Where she figured he would soon live again. With his family. And his wife. And their new baby.
Boom.
I
drove around last night
Thinkin' 'bout our last fight
I cruised
by your house
And all the lights were out and you were gone
The Stabler house had been dark, so she'd kept driving. Though to be perfectly honest, she wasn't sure what she would have done if there'd been anyone home. Stopped? Yell at Kathy for being a home wrecker? Right. Who was the home wrecker here? Cried? Begged Elliot not to go home? Pathetic.
So she'd done something she considered even more pathetic in the light of day. She'd called Dean Porter. Asked him if he still wanted to camp out at her house to avoid the process server. He'd agreed with some trepidation, asking her what had changed her mind. She declined to discuss it, only telling him she'd meet him at a diner so no one would see him go to her house.
She'd picked him up, brought him home with her, and slept with him. Several times. Eyes closed the whole time, she could only think of Elliot. The man who'd been in Dean's position only days earlier.
So
I found me a stranger
With his comforting danger
But I thought
about you
The whole time we were gettin' it on
She threw empty bottle in the trash and retreated to the sanctity of her couch. Turning on the television, she flipped mindlessly though the three a.m. infomercials, waiting to find something to lull her to sleep. Maybe the magic bullet food processor one… or one of the RONCO ones… or yoga booty ballet… as she was flipping, her eyes drifted shut and she began to dream. Of Elliot.
Boom.
--
Dean rolled over in Olivia's bed, his arm reaching out to wrap around her in his sleep, but finding her side of the bed cold and empty. He sat up for a moment, rubbing his hand over the slight stubble on his jaw before dragging his hand through his brown hair. He had known this wasn't a good idea when Olivia called him. It didn't take a Mensa member to figure out that she was in love with Elliot and he had done something to hurt her. Dean swung his legs to the floor and pulled on his boxers and the jeans he'd been wearing when he met Olivia the night before. He padded barefoot out of the bedroom to the living room, where she lay sleeping on the couch. Dreaming of Stabler no doubt. Dean went into the kitchen and hunted through drawers for a pen and a scrap of paper. Finding a pen but no paper, he settled for a napkin from a fast food restaurant and began to write.
Olivia,
Call me when you're… ready. Or whatever. I'm sorry.
Dean
As he tried to figure out where to put the note so she'd see it, his eyes landed on the empty bottle of liquor in the garbage can. All his assumptions had been correct, apparently. He shook his head and called himself ten kinds of fool while he pulled on the running shoes he'd worn the night before. He dropped his note on the coffee table in front of Olivia and kissed the top of her head softly before going to the door. He glanced over his shoulder quickly and smiled sadly. "Goodbye, Olivia."
Oh
the things lovers do when it's over
Oh the things lovers do when
it's done
Find a cool bottle or a warm shoulder
Wake up
older
And try to move on
Find a cool bottle or a warm
shoulder
Wake up older
Wake up older
Olivia woke up on her couch, a sour taste in her mouth like she hadn't brushed her teeth in a month. Rising from the couch to go to the bathroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the fireplace. She gasped at her own appearance; disheveled hair, makeup a mess. She racked her brain trying to remember what had happened the night before. She looked at her reflected self clothed only in Elliot's softball tee-shirt and it all came flooding back.
Fought with Elliot.
Drank.
Drove to Elliot's.
Called Dean.
Slept with Dean.
This detective will self destruct in five seconds.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Boom.
Slept
in my makeup
Didn't get my teeth brushed
I crashed on the couch
and now my mouth tastes like
Yesterday's news