Disclaimer
(insert perky cheerleaders ' voice here)
"Dick! Dick! He's our man, if he won't do it, we all can:) :)
Okay so they're not mine, and never will be...i'd like to thank aforementioned Dick for letting me play with them. I'll give em back, I promise :)
A/N: Alrighty, so I've developed a story- posting anxiety disorder. I'm not sure about this one (or any others i've written for that matter) so feedback is appreciated. This is meant to be a three part series, but I'm gonna wait to hear what y'all think before I go ahead and post the next couple of chapters. Any grammatical errors or geographical ambiguities can be blamed on my current mental state of exhaustion and not my level of stoopidity :)
Lower Manhattan
The abandoned warehouse lies by the river, a decaying excuse for shelter in the sweepingly majestic metropolis that is New York City. Olivia sits behind the wheel of her car, and watches absentmindedly as the dust that floated with restrained violence into the air on her approach settles back into its resting place once more. Her mind wanders as she waits for her backup, and she finds herself thinking of Elliot. She feels incomplete without him by her side, like a lone poppy in a field of dandelions and it is a feeling she has become familiar with in these past months. When she thinks of him, Olivia feels as though they are walking a tightrope between confusion and clarity and her equilibrium is as precarious as a seedling in a cyclone. She knows he has tried desperately to maintain his foothold but that he is about to fall. She only hopes that when he does she will be strong enough to pull him back into balance.
She leans back, resting her head against the threadbare material encasing the headrest, closing her eyes and pushing the unsolicited thoughts from her mind. Now is not the time to ponder her partner's state of mind. Or hers. She has a job to do, and do it she will.
Instead, she thinks briefly of the events of the past few days and the reason she is here in this place, at this moment. She fixes her coffee-stained gaze on the worn timber structure before her - an amphitheatre of heartbreak - and she questions whether Shakespeare had ever imagined such a tragedy. She allows her eyes to trace the faded lavender letters adorning the rusted aluminum door. She knows that inside, lives a man who knows not the meaning of reason nor rationality.
Michael Thomas. The name ricochets around in her mind like a baseball at Yankee Stadium. He isn't like the others, but experience has taught her madness takes many forms. This particular permutation of degeneracy had sought justice for his love by contravening the law. She does not blame him for his actions, for she cannot say with certainty that she would not commit an equivalent act if their positions were reversed. She cannot imagine existing without her heart, and Michael Thomas cannot live without redemption for his.
An corporeal ache drips from memory and into the cavity of her chest, and she feels the familiar, transitory bitterness of sorrow rise inside her heart at the remembrance of Sarah Thomas's corpse, violated past restoration and bloated beyond recognition.
They had found her executioner but justice had been blind. She thinks of the jury's decision as a catalyst of sorts, the trigger of an invisible weapon crammed with bullets of emotional despair. She remembers how Michael Thomas had sat in stunned astonishment at the realization his life, his love, had died without vengeance. His emotions had percolated at the surface, an almost tangible snowballing hurricane of wrath that had caused him in the darkness of night to slay the perpetrator with a well-aimed blow to the cranium. The blood of one man sprayed in convoluted patterns on the wall at the hands of another. Both were guilty, but only one was to blame.
The approaching crunch of tyres on the rock-strewn path sluices into her ears and breaks her reverie. A glance in the rear view mirror tells her that the patrol car has arrived. She sighs briefly and moves from the car with liquid elegance, unprepared for the iciness of the air after the relative heat of her vehicular cocoon.
As she breathes she can see the warm air as it collides with the chill then dances away on the breeze. She reaches for the vest the uniform hands her, and checks the safety on her weapon. Instinct tells her to be alert, but it is the voice of experience that whispers peril in her ear. She knows Michael Thomas lurks with wretched anxiety inside the unsteady construction, and she thinks the aroma of his desperation is seeping through the devastated strips of lumber. When she speaks her voice is clear and strong, and she congratulates herself for a moment on cloaking her internal disquiet with external equanimity.
"Michael Thomas. This is Detective Benson. NYPD. Please show yourself."
The only sound she hears in response to the request is the distant honking of car horns as they cross the Brooklyn Bridge in their slow pilgrimage from suburban mediocrity to the swarming lunacy of the city.
"Mr. Thomas. Open the door now."
The answering silence allows Olivia a moment to exhale in frustration. In a perfect world, the door would swing open and an unarmed, compliant suspect would stand quietly while his rights were read and his hands were cuffed. She knows that no world, especially this one, is perfect and so she turns to look at the uniformed officers.
"Stay with me."
Olivia waits for their silent affirmative of understanding before she reaches for the door, curling her fingers around the worn metal handle and pulling gently. The answering groan as the hinges give way is loud in the comparative silence of the moment. Her arms stretch parallel to the dusty ground, her weapon ready as she places a booted foot inside the door and takes a step into the darkness.
In the next instant, the calm is violently shattered as the timber panel near the door is destroyed in an explosion of splinters, noise and confusion. The officers scramble for cover as another shot breaks the silence and the walls of the dilapidated building.
Later, Olivia will admit her next action is not her greatest choice. She could blame it on a need to diffuse the situation at hand or distraction caused partly by her partners' spiral into emotional stupor. Lord knows she has lost enough sleep recently. Whatever the excuse for her lack of judgment, she knows one thing is certain. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
She chooses not to join the officers behind their vehicle. Instead she moves further inside, pressing her back against the wall aiming her weapon at invisible adversaries in the gloomy crevices of the warehouse. She does not flinch as the door slams into place once more, severing her contact with the officers outside and shrouding the room in shadows. She knows that Michael Thomas is here in this room and can hear the panicked voices of the officers outside on communicating their situation to despatch, but she has never before felt so alone.
She hears the unmistakable click of a hammer as it falls into place, and she knows that somewhere in the shadows, beyond her left ear, there is bullet with her name etched on it. She turns towards the sound, an almost involuntary action borne of instinct and experience and she is met with the image of a man whose expression is overflowing with grief and whose spirit is drowning in sorrow. She knows the look - has seen it countless times before – and she feels a flutter of compassion for the events that have lead this man to this moment.
"Michael. Drop your weapon"
'Relax Detective, if I wanted to shoot you, I wouldn't have missed with the first two shots.' His voice is calm and detached, as though he has given up on life and he is now an automaton going through the motions of existence until his creator calls him home.
'Drop it. Drop it now. I will shoot you.'
The room is dark, but she can see the artificial red and blue lights bouncing through the windows and dancing with the dust that peppers the windowpanes below the rusted crown of the building. She wonders if Elliot is outside too, for she knows he will have heard the officer's call for backup. She knows he likes to think of himself as her protector, but Olivia does not need him to save her. She can do her job without him, but she misses his strength all the same. Like a cartoon superhero, she is almost invincible when he is by her side. Almost.
"I don't doubt it. Where's your partner?"
She thinks back to Elliot's response to the verdict that had lead to this moment, and although she refuses to draw hasty parallels between her partner and the man before her, she knows they are more similar than either would care to admit. Olivia had watched from a comfortable distance as Elliot comforted Michael, one devastated man to another and she knew in that moment each understood the other's pain. Both were standing in a world that had tilted off its axis neither knew how to restore it to orbit. She does not wish her suspect to know the direction of her thoughts, and so she swallows her emotion, hoping that he face remains as impassive as her tone when she responds.
"He's not here."
The mobile radio clipped to her belt makes a liar out of her as it crackles to life, the sound permeating the musty air inside the building. She hears a voice, distorted by noise but she knows it is her partner, as does the man standing in front of her. Olivia reaches a hand towards her belt, her gun never moving from its target, but a shake of her suspect's head has her ignoring Elliot's pleas for contact.
"That's crap, detective and you know it. He's always with you. Even without the radio he's here with you now."
She allows herself to meet his hazel gaze once more and a mild surprise is reflected in her own chocolate depths. She wonders whether he knows her thoughts, whether in her current state of confusion she is as transparent as the windows above her head, whether she actually does wear her heart on her sleeve. Her partner has certainly told her that often enough.
Why don't you go on outside, and see for yourself?"
She feels a semblance of unease as she stands there in the darkness, with a bullet aimed at her chest and an anxious man behind the trigger. She does not flinch, for she knows outward calm is vital. Her hand does not waver on her own weapon as she aims it in his direction, and he does not baulk at her suggestion. Instead, his lips curve in a humorless smile of hope that Olivia thinks would appear almost ridiculous in any other situation. In here it is an appropriate match for the confusion and sadness raging inside this man's heart.
"You're funny. Are you afraid of dying, detective?"
She ponders his question for a moment, and she thinks how ridiculous it is that she is having a conversation with this man, in this place. But she humors him nevertheless, for any outcome is preferable to the obvious finality of death. Whether it is his or hers, is not yet written. She feels almost sorry for him, for she is familiar with the loneliness and despair that has driven him to this time and place. She knows that actions will only enrage, or cause further desolation, so she placates him with simple words instead.
"No."
She does not tell a lie and watches him intently for a reaction, any response that will give her hope they can both walk out of here unharmed. Olivia thinks she sees his finger on the trigger waver just a bit and her own hand firms its grasp on her gun. She knows that she will shoot him to save herself and that she is not afraid to say farewell to this life. But she is terrified she has already said goodbye to Elliot.
"Do you know what it is like to love someone so much you would give your own life for their deliverance?"
Yes. She finds herself thinking of her partner, and wonders for a moment which of her synapses misfired to make the connection. Despite her confusion and his personal chaos, he has been the one constant in her existence. In that instant, she realizes with absolute certainty she would give her life to preserve his sanity and rescue his spirit. She is perplexed by this new direction of thought and knows there will be time for contemplation later. For the moment she deflects the question and maintains the external appearance of control.
'Michael, I'm not having this conversation with you. Drop your weapon."
"Humor me. Give me one more minute and then we'll end this little standoff."
She does not know why her head moves in a gesture of acquiescence, but for some strange reason she feels she owes him this much. He is a desperate man, but she realizes his destruction is internal. He will not harm her.
"You want some advice, detective?"
"No. I want you to drop your weapon."
Her response is instantaneous and although he ignores her request he smiles in the darkness, and she sees irony in his eyes as he begins to speak.
"If I could have one do-over, do you know what it would be? I would tell Sarah I loved her just one more time. We had an argument the night before, and we went to bed more confused than lucid. I didn't tell her I loved her when I left for work the morning she died, and I regret that more than you'll ever know. I don't regret what I did to the bastard who hurt her and I don't regret not being there to save her. I'm not so egotistical as to think I can change fate. Whatever you do, Detective Benson, don't let confusion and regret reign supreme in your life. Fight for your serving of clarity and don't ever let him go."
Olivia's eyes widen slightly at his words, and she thinks she knows what an epiphany feels like. She does not voice her realization but watches her suspect as he curls his fingers tightly around his weapon and places it to his left temple. His dark hair moves against the barrel in a proverbial battle between finality and certainty. She sees his finger move and knows with absolute confidence that he is ready to be with his wife once more. Olivia almost wants to let him go, for she knows that his existence from this moment on will be in spirit or in prison. Neither is the perfect solution and neither will bring his love back.
"Don't do it, Michael."
Despite her understanding, she knows what she must do and makes a token statement in a final attempt to end this situation without carnage
"What are you going to do, Detective Benson? Shoot me?"
Olivia aims her service revolver and fires. She watches with dispassionate grace as his eyes widen in a momentary expression of disbelief before he crumples like a house of cards. His weapon lay discarded at his side, and she moves quickly to stem the flood of dark cerise liquid flowing from the wound on his shoulder.
She lifts her radio from her belt and depresses the button with her free hand. She doesn't know who she is speaking to, but knows whoever is on the other end will hear only her commanding tone. Those who know her well will hear her words but know that her control is a fragile illusion.
"Suspect down. I need a bus in here. Now."
The rusted metal door slams open and a cacophony of sounds and coloured lights flood the darkness. In the next few moments the room begins to swarm with uniformed officers and EMS personnel.
Olivia stands wearily and wipes her palms on the dust-covered material of her jeans. She holsters her weapon and allows herself one final look at Michael Thomas before she walks towards the rusted metal entrance. She knows he may live, but it will be a shallow existence. He is only half a man without his heart.
She steps into the fading light of the day, and breathes in the crisp air as though the action itself will replenish her control and rebuild her imaginary armor. She knows where she is, but feels lost all the same and so she turns to look for direction.
She finds her compass amid the confusion and her chocolate eyes meet his cerulean gaze above the lights and noise. Olivia feels her increasingly precarious grasp on control begin to collapse as she moves towards him. She is heading east but she knows that in him she has found her north.
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(tbc? – please tell me whether you think it's worth continuing)