For All of This;
Prologue.
She was 17 years, 9 months, 4 days, and 2 hours when she broke the first promise that she had ever made to herself. The first in a string of many, the last in the fall of destruction. The night sky hung low, she remembers, because her skin felt like it were on fire, as if the heat of the stars was being brushed against her skin.
That nite she stopped counting.
She stopped adding and subtracting, she watched the empty vodka bottle, clear with light blue and black writing, go flying by her head, her mothers eyes watching regretfully, as if mourning for her poor aim, and at that second she realized that maybe it wasn't the drink that was doing this, maybe it was her mother.
Self-medication was always easy. It cost 9 dollars and 88 cents and you could get it at all times of the day, at all seconds of the night.
She was 20 years, 1 month, 3 days, and 19 hours when she realized that if she ever wanted to get away from her mother and her life, it would take more than some medication that she could pretend she didn't need.
On a page in a book with a navy blue cover she read about herself, painted in the short strokes of the statistics that listed her as just another victim. Just another lost one. Just another one of the 1 in 13 adults. Just another one of the 14 million Americans. Just another one of the 53 who had a bad gene, who had a fucked up relative who fell into this, who would drown in each drink they took, who would relax as they heard the ice hit the glass of their whiskey on the rocks. Who would smile at the soft sound of the wine coming together as it was poured into the glass. Who would pretend it didn't hurt as the Bacardi burned their chest. Who would steady their hands to raise the martini glass to their lips.
Self-deprecation was always easy.
She wasn't as bad as everyone else, was what she told herself. She got it down to two glasses of wine at nite. Wine was not what alcoholics drank, it was what classy women with diamond earrings and pearls drank because they were convinced it was good for their heart. She didn't let herself see that it was what was running through her veins now, red wine replaced her blood, traveled through her and to her heart and it kept her alive. Kept her going.
Self- preservation was always easy.
Almost 20 years later and she was still living each day by what she was not. Another day without succumbing to violence. Another day without taking a drink.
But almost 20 years, 4 months, 2 weeks, and 6 hours later she had started living each minute by what it was not. Living each minute against who she was not becoming. It seemed like suddenly, in one second, everyones lives had started fraying. The seams busted and the pieces became unglued and this all happened at once.
But, luckily, she was always good at self-medication.
&&&&&
She didn't ask Elliot to go and she didn't look at him when they asked because at this point it was like every refusal that he made was aimed directly at her. She felt like she was 17 years old again, having to dodge her mother's mistakes and scars and weaknesses.
And she hated him for it.
"I'm gonna go home." He stood behind her, and she did not turn around to face him.
She did not love him. If she had any feelings they were for his memory, what he was and what they were and she did not have any for this man before her, so caught up in what his life had become that he had forgotten that anyone else existed.
"Yeah, right." Her voice was thick and she wanted him to feel that she did not believe him.
For once second she forgot that for all of this she had nothing.
Elliot came around to face her, his eyes looking her over as if trying to read her, to identify her.
For all of this.
Olivia did not give him a smile; her eyes lingered against his for an instant. And for an instant she felt like he was there again. For an instant.
"Maybe you should go home." He stepped towards her, clearing his voice so that the words could be heard, and Olivia looked over to Casey and Munch and Fin, waiting for her to join them before heading out to drinks and dinner.
Olivia wanted to explain to Elliot that their company and the alcohol was better than being alone, that it was more than anything he was offering.
She stepped around him, called quickly to the group that she would not be joining them, and then headed out past him, she couldn't let his eyes look her over any longer, because she knew that he saw her pieces and that he would have tried to put her back together again before.
Would have. The old Elliot who came over for pizza and a beer and a meaningless conversation. The old Elliot who held secrets in his corners, left undone for Olivia to find with the clues he left her with.
Before she could get to the Elevator his voice stopped her, then his hand, grabbing her arm and turning her to face him. When she turned to him there was silence, and while it wasn't the first time, it felt like it was. This felt like the first uncomfortable moment, the first time words escaped them, the first time they couldn't hold the others eyes.
He looked her over for a resolution, for the one thing that would outstand the disaster that has leveled everything else in his life. He didn't notice that there were circles around her eyes, because he didn't want to. He didn't notice the gray in her skin because he didn't want to. He wanted to think that there was a reason for this, but Elliot Stabler knew better.
"Where've you been? I called you the last few nights, and you didn't answer." Olivia knew he was lying, but she knew that she couldn't refute it. And she didn't want to. At least she could play along with his lies.
It had been 10 hours and she is itching for what she has fallen into lately. She had to get out of there, but Elliot was standing before her, his eyes looking like they were about to ask the world of her.
"I've just been going to sleep early lately, I guess. Haven't felt too well." She shrugs, and Elliot takes a step towards her, but she takes a step away.
She doesn't know why he's doing this. Any of this, all of this.
"Well, yeah, okay," he said softly, ducking his head as he scratched at the back of his neck. "Everything okay, though? We haven't really had any time to catch up."
"We've had the time, we just never do anymore." The words hurt, they tore her up as they came from her without a second thought, and with him standing this close the only thing that she could let herself think was that she missed him.
"Is it still cold out?" Elliot looked away from the elevator and towards the stairwell a little ways off.
"Probably." She watched him walk to the door that leads to the stairs, and he stopped, looking to her for a moment before raising his eyebrows expectantly.
"C'mon Benson, we don't have all night." She let herself laugh, and it felt like it was the first time in months, the first time she remembered, at least, and then she ran over to Elliot, following him up the stairs to the roof.
He pushed the door open with a hard shove, and then stepped out into the Manhattan air, the stars hanging low and the wind taking them in.
"Here." Elliot took the scarf from around his neck and placed it tightly around Olivia's before taking his wool hat and pulling it over her head and this time it was her eyes that smiled. "So, how's everything? We've been kind of, scattered lately, I guess." He didn't want to admit all that had come between them. Life, for example. "Your favorite ice cream still mint chocolate chip? Or has the period for that run out? What do you like now? Something funky, probably, right? Java chip double chocolate brownie in banana flavored ice cream with a caramel swirl?" He didn't know if after a month of things being here and there if this was okay, but he had to jump in headfirst.
"Chunky Monkey, actually. You got the banana flavored ice cream part right." Her tone was soft, but defensive. Strike One.
Olivia looked away for a minute, out at the lights of the city that she could forget were people. For everything that your best friend doesn't know about you, take a drink. For everything your best friend does not remember, take a shot. For every minute you wish he would take the time to come back to you, pour another glass.
"Hey, remember when we used to come up here –"
"Elliot," she stopped him with his name, hard as it rolled through her lips. She didn't want to reminisce because she wasn't strong enough. She didn't have enough whiskey left for that.
"I wish I could – or, I know I can't – I mean," there were no words in his vocabulary at this moment, and he looked at her, a smile coming across his face, but it came from fear.
Strike two.
"Your collars messed up," Olivia spoke softly, reached to Elliot's neck and readjusted the collar of his coat, and she let her fingers linger for a moment on his neck before pulling herself away.
When your best friend looks at you like he doesn't know who you are, that's when you go for the vodka.
"This is gone too, isn't it?" The minute he said the words, the minute they were out, he knew they were the wrong ones.
Strike three.
"I don't know what you want me to tell you, Elliot. For a month we have nothing, and then you bring me up here and want me to 'remember when' in hopes that it will just all magically change?" She took off Elliot's hat and his scarf and she handed it back to him. She didn't believe in magic. She turned and took a few steps before stopping and turning back to him, "hey, El?"
Her voice stopped the breath that he so needed. "Olivia," he answered with her name, and she shook her head quickly. This, Elliot realized, is what it felt like to suffocate.
"Who do you go to now? Three am, late nite pizzas, cheesy movies."
In that moment Elliot had realized that everything that he hadn't lost he had pushed away.
When you're best friend realizes what he's done and makes no move to come to you, can find no words to help you, that's when you drink enough to not remember.
Olivia Benson always knew how to take care of herself.
Self-medication was always easy.
&&&&
to be continued.