The Mending Of The Ways
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Dick Wolf and NBC.
Author's Note: Normally, I'm a pretty big Barson shipper. But I've decided to branch out and try Tuckson. Any OOC-ness or weirdness is purely mine. I'd like to give a huge shout out to bellatrix wannabe 89 whose Tuckson fic has really inspired me. Go read it. Amazing.
Dialogue from the show in bold italic.
You can't believe he's finally gone.
The evidence was pretty stark and clear. And you've seen a lot of bodies in your time at the precinct. Way too many. More than your soul could ever handle but you never tell anyone that. Anyone but Lindstrom, that is. He's seen into your soul and he knows you pretty well by now.
William Lewis is really dead. And this time he won't be pulling any miraculous escape. Death is the one country from which no one returns.
He's really gone.
They had told you the time of death but you didn't really need to know that. It's seared into your brain and sometimes you can still see the blood and pieces of brain matter on your skin when you look into your mirror. You scrub and scrub and scrub until your skin is raw but some stains just run too deep.
And blood never really does come out. Sometimes it stains you right to the bone. You know that better than anyone else.
There's so much blood.
And you don't want to remember.
You reach for another glass of cabernet at your favorite bar. It's a small one, not too fancy – you are really not too comfortable in the type of upscale bars/restaurants where you've spent some time with Rafael Barba. He likes the fancy things but that's not your thing.
It really never has been. Even getting dressed up for a date feels unnatural, like you're putting on someone else's skin. It's almost a relief when you can slip into the uncomfortable polyester of your NYPD uniform. At least that's something familiar. And you're not pretending to be someone else.
He's really dead.
It's over. Finally.
Is it, though? Can it be that simple?
"Thought I'd find you here, sergeant." A gruff voice interrupts your thoughts.
You don't have to turn around to know who was standing there. You've heard that voice far too many times. And usually not under ideal circumstances.
Oh, good, my day just got better.
"Tucker." You say dryly. "What's my squad done this time?"
"Why do you always assume that you're in trouble?" If you didn't know better, you could have sworn there was a trace of amusement in his voice.
But that wasn't possible. Was it?
Not Lieutenant Tucker. You have serious doubts he's laughed or smiled a day in his life.
So you merely give him a look, the Benson side-eye usually shuts up people. But this is Tucker. You should have known a simple look wouldn't stop him.
"Do I really need to answer that?" Fuck, his eyes…they're really blue.
Ok, now where did that come from?
"Relax, Benson, I'm not here to arrest you. Not today, anyway." His mouth actually tips up in something that vaguely resembles a smile.
"Then what are you here for?" You demand, a little bitchily.
"I was thirsty. Wanted a drink. I like this place." He doesn't elaborate. But that's Tucker. Never a man to use five words when three would do. "Mind if I sit?"
"I'm not stopping you." You shrug, not really caring if he does or doesn't. But if you're really honest with yourself, you are a little curious about what he wants.
"Not a yes but I'll take it." Lieutenant Tucker gestures for the bartender. "I'll take an Eagle Rare straight up, no rocks."
"And here I thought you were a beer man."
"Can't stand the stuff. I just drink it to be polite. Now this, " he says, lifting the glass of golden amber, "is the real deal."
"I learn something new every day." You take another sip from your wine, trying to fill in the conversational gaps because it's still a bit awkward, you and him, just sitting there in some kind of weird détente. For several minutes, you say nothing at all. What do you say to someone you've not only unconsciously assumed has hated you for so many years but whom you've rather despised? Because let's be honest, no one likes IAB, the rat squad, as some of your colleagues have called them.
However, the more rational side of you keeps reminding you that it was only a job he had to do. That you didn't have some "IAB, please kick me" sign on your back and you really shouldn't hate Tucker because it wasn't his fault.
Perspective: the thing you get when you take your blinders off.
"Well, you must be relieved." He says casually before you have a chance to start some random chit-chat to get rid of the awkward tension in the air.
"Yes. I am." You don't even need to ask to what he's referring.
"William Lewis did the world a favor."
And you do a double-take. Somewhere people in hell are breaking out their winter parkas.
"Are you saying you believe me now?"
"I did not find sufficient evidence to dispute your version of events." That's all he says. Just like before.
And it hits you like a punch to the gut.
He believes you.
"If anyone asks me, I will deny ever saying this but I would have done the same thing." He looks at you with something like sympathy and understanding in his eyes.
Do what? Lie under oath? Admit about lying about it? Beat Lewis to a bloody pulp?
You don't know to what he's referring so you simply say nothing. Years of ingrained distrust of IAB and their games make you hesitant to really reveal anything if you don't need to and this friendly Ed Tucker is still a bit of an enigma, so you choose to keep your mouth shut.
Play the game here.
The truth doesn't always set you free.
"I don't know what you're talking about." There. That's a safe answer.
"Sure you don't." Clearly, he's skeptical but he doesn't push. "This bourbon's really good; you should try it."
"Never been much of a bourbon person myself, never really liked the taste." You admit.
He pushes a glass over.
"Drink."
"You always this bossy?" You cock an eyebrow at him.
"I call it direct. Small talk isn't really my forte."
"I see that." You take a small sip. And it's good. Tastes of leather, mint, summer and chocolate. Seems impossible to have so many distinct flavors in one glass but somehow it happens and it delights you.
"I told you."
Rolling your eyes, you push his glass back to him. "It's good. You're right."
For what feels like forever but which is only a few minutes, you both sit in silence, both nursing your drinks, deep in thought. And this time the silence doesn't feel that uncomfortable. But you're still a little confused as to why he's being this friendly.
IAB never does anything without some kind of reason.
"You think the Cubs have any chance this year?" Tucker abruptly changes the subject.
What the hell?
"You like the Cubs?" You're a little surprised. Baseball isn't your thing at all but he always struck you as being a Yankees fan. You'd heard rumors through the NYPD gossip mill that he liked Derek Jeter. Just water cooler talk that you hadn't really paid much attention to at the time.
"You sound shocked."
"Well, I don't know baseball… but aren't they the ones that will never win the World Series because they're cursed or something? Never figured you for backing the loser."
"What can I say?" He drains his drink. "I'm a sucker for the underdog."
"You're an interesting man, Tucker."
"The name's Ed."
"Well, Ed, what's this all about?" You gesture at the two of you, sitting there, drinking… as if the years of animosity had fallen away, the old grudges and seeming hatred seemingly not so important anymore. While you had certainly not forgotten them, they just seemed …irrelevant at the moment.
"Do I have to have a reason?" Tucker asks.
"IAB does nothing without a reason." You say shortly. "At least, that's been my experience."
"I'm not IAB right now. Just a regular guy having a drink with an attractive woman."
At the adjective attractive, your brain seems to short-wire a little. Did Ed Tucker, the recipient of many squad room curse words, really just say you were attractive?
You're pretty sure your jaw just hit the ground and you quickly check the reflection from the bar mirror to make sure. Nope. Mouth closed.
Dignity salvaged. At least for now.
"I don't know about you," he continues, "but I'm hungry. Want to grab a bite? They got some decent food here."
Your evening couldn't get any more bizarre. And, yet, you don't mind.
TWO HOURS LATER
The food is delicious, somewhat surprisingly. You've really only come here for the drinks and occasionally munching on the usual nachos and salsa. With all the stress and tension, you've forgotten how hungry you were and you've managed to polish off your burger in about ten minutes.
He orders a chicken Caesar salad and a bowl of clam chowder, which seems a little odd for you, given that you figured him for a meat and potatoes kind of guy. And you say so because apparently the bourbon has removed a little bit of your filter.
"Bad experience at a subpar steakhouse." Is all he says when your food arrives.
He tells you about his life in the Boston PD. The weather was colder than a witch's tits and some of the people…not much better. After a while, it just sucks the life out of you. And you see a look in his eyes and on his face that you've seen on the faces of too many people who have lost everything.
It's a face you see staring back at you in your mirror.
You tell him some weird stories from some of your earlier cases. And, of course, when an old name comes up, he can't help but make a jab. Because he's still Tucker. Not the Saint Ed of IAB.
"That partner of yours - Stabler - he was a real prick."
"For the record," You stare at him, a little pissed, "the feeling was mutual." You and El had your issues but you'd be damned if you let Tucker talk smack about your old partner. The one who still had a piece of you.
Who always would.
"I was there to do my job. Not to win a popularity contest."
"Well, if there was one, you would have come in last place. Or maybe they would have invented a "negative place" category just for you. I lost track of the times El wanted to plant a fist in your face."
"Just Stabler?" He smirks a little, as if he knows very well how often you wanted to just throttle him.
"Can you blame us…er..him?" You said in exasperation.
"Nope. Benson, it was never anything personal." He takes a long sip from his drink. "Can't be seen to be protectin' killer cops."
"We..I… wasn't a killer! You should have trusted me."
"Let me ask you something. If you had a suspect with evidence as strong against them as the evidence was against you, would you have taken their word for it?"
He has you there.
"Fair enough." You say grudgingly.
"Must be my lucky day. You're agreeing with me." His eyes crinkle in a faint smile of amusement.
"Don't get used to it." You grumble, but you can't help but smile a little.
His eyes soften. And there's something in them that throws you a little, and something in your chest loosens. And something flutters – but you blame it on heartburn.
That's easier.
He's got really amazing eyes. He should smile more.
"How's he doin' anyways?" Tucker asks, just to be polite.
"El?" You choke a little. You weren't expecting that. But it's Tucker and again, well, he's not so great at the small talk. And it's just a little amusing because it's clear he really doesn't give a fuck about how Elliot is doing. But that's the only thing that amuses you.
Elliot put in his papers.
Even now it hurts. It's been over two years now and you've finally accepted that he's not going to return your calls, that he's not going to just walk through the door, coffees in hand with a tired smile on his fac. That he's truly left that part of his life behind. Including you.
Especially you.
Even now, thinking about it, something in you breaks. Always does keep breaking.
Being cut out hurts.
I'm your partner, for better or worse.
He looks at you narrowly.
"Sore subject?"
Damn, that man is perceptive.
"Just a little." You shrug, like it's no big deal. "We haven't talked in… well, a long time." The last few words come out soft and he can barely hear you. You smile, but you know it's tight and that it doesn't touch your eyes. "It's okay, life happens, things change, we move on."
You never step in the same river twice. Munch had quoted this to you once, right after he put in his papers. Everything changes. And nothing changes, except what has to.
Let's not talk about this.
"His loss." Tucker says simply and takes another sip of his drink. And he doesn't bring up Stabler again.
But you both keep talking and before you know it, it's last call.
Surprisingly, you've had a wonderful time. And, for a change, Lewis hasn't been the dominating force in your mind. Hasn't been the dominating subject of conversation.
Hasn't consumed you. And it feels so liberating.
Olivia, it's time to let Lewis go.
"Well, this has definitely been interesting, Ed." You say, sliding on your coat, and reaching for your credit card to pay your bill.
"It's on me, Benson." Tucker slides his credit card to the bartender.
"I owe you one." You thank him.
"Not at all. It's been a pleasure." And the look in his eyes gets a little more intense. But it doesn't scare you. Not at all. And the fluttering in your chest, which you'd attributed to heartburn, increases at what you see in them.
"Gotta say I've always respected you, Sergeant." He says. "It's not an easy path you've had. Takes a lot of strength to keep it together."
He raises his glass and tips his head to you. And something about that very simple gesture starts to break the walls you've built up since Lewis.
"You're right about it not being easy." You say. "I can't deny that when I see the kids in the squad room and think about this past year, I get tired. So tired." Your voice cracks a little. "Not sure how much longer I can keep doing this."
"You're stronger than you give yourself credit for." He says, remarkably sympathetic. "My pop used to do a lot of sailing when he was younger. 'Ed,' he'd say, 'sometimes the waters are gonna be rough. You just need to adjust your sails.' You're a strong sailor, Sergeant Benson, just keep adjusting those sails. Remember, you can always catch your breath in harbor."
It's the longest speech you've really heard him say.
"Thanks, Tucker." You still have a tough time calling him Ed, he'll always be Tucker to you. "By the way," you smile, "I think it's time you call me Olivia."
This time his smile's a little wider than a smirk. "I'll keep that in mind. Can I walk to you to your car?"
You smile and nod. You're perfectly capable of making it to your car on your own but the chivalry 's appreciated.
The night is cold but you don't mind. It's clear out and you can see the stars. And for the first time in a long time, you can enjoy them. The night isn't something to totally dread. The two of you walk in companionable silence, neither of you feeling like you need to say a word.
"We should do this again sometime." He says when you reach your car.
"You sure about that? I'm a tough person to deal with. Ask my squad." You laugh, a little nervously, because something's changing and it's throwing you off stride because where's the asshole you loved to hate?
He sure isn't here.
"Oh, I have." And you start to get pissed off again because he better not have asked your squad and then you realize he's actually teasing you.
Oh, okay, then.
"Well, you know where to find me." You smile at him. Holy hell, I'm flirting with Ed Tucker. He's the enemy.
But, no, he really isn't. And, if you're honest with yourself, he hasn't been in a long time.
"Yeah, I do." The corner of his mouth turns up. "And I'll be looking forward to the next time."
And, before you can say anything, he pulls you into him and puts his mouth on yours. And it's hot, and it tastes of bourbon, and of clam chowder, and a little undercurrent of spice. And you're warm and safe and, holy hell, it's so good. And you're kissing him back.
But you're not really too startled or surprised because you've realized that this whole evening has been leading to this. But what has been surprising is that you've not been dreading it at all. You've wanted it.
And it feels so good; so very, very fucking good.
That'll teach you to judge a book by its IAB cover.
Before you could really get into it, he releases you.
"Just thought I'd give you something to think about." He smiles slightly. "Goodnight, Sergeant. Until next time."
He walks away, his boots making a crunching noise on the fallen leaves.
Maybe it's not always trying to fix something broken. Maybe it's about starting over and creating something better.