Just a one shot that popped into my head. I swear I'm still working on Back.
She's standing on the ledge of the building and for a moment she seriously contemplates tossing her arms out and falling forward. Maybe she can fly. Everyone else thinks she's invulnerable, after all.
She remembers that little girl's face as she lights up her cigarette. She remembers the endless bruises, the marks on her arms, how she cried when they had to reset her noise. Remembers the exact sound of her whimpers as she went through the rape kit her mother had Okayed. Yeah, she needs a cigarette. She doesn't smoke them often, only when she's extremely stressed. Lately that seems to be all the fucking time, she thinks bitterly, taking a long drag, tapping ash onto the concrete beneath her feet. She peers over the edge again. What would it be like to free-fall? They say you are, in that moment, weightless. Right now, the weight of the world is on her shoulders and she's curious, and oh so tired. So tired of everything, and what is it like to be weightless? She inhales again, then watches her smoke dissipate in the cold night air.
The door closes but she fails to react; she doesn't even twitch. She's just one more Detective, she thinks, still looking at the steps to the precinct. She throws herself in front of bullets and knives and protects the lives of everyone else because she has no family to miss her. With this thought she shuffles infinitesimally closer to the edge.
What will it feel like, when she falls forward? Will it be exhilarating? One last thrill? God knows her heart beats on adrenaline.
"Liv?" She doesn't answer. She's thinking and she's tired and she wants to be weightless. She wants him to go away but her mouth won't seem to move. Someone has to be the first human to fly, she thinks and moves again, fractionally closer.
"Liv, talk to me."
"How do you think it feels to be weightless, El?" She asks, softly, not expecting an answer.
"I don't know." He says. "Scary, I guess. Freeing."
"Freeing," she echoes. "I think so, too."
She can feel it the moment he starts to get nervous. "Liv. Liv, come on. You're making me nervous here." She apologizes but makes no move away from the ledge.
"I'm just so tired, El. Tired of everything." She strikes up another cigarette, and Elliot sees his best chance of getting her away from the edge.
"Can I bum one off of you?" He doesn't smoke. She knows he doesn't. He knows she knows.
"You don't smoke." Her lips twitch anyway.
"I never knew you did." He counters. "Come on. Bring me a cig."
She snorts, "You want to pick up the habit of cancer sticks, come get one yourself."
An invitation to come close, and on a pretense she knows is a pretense. This is good. He watches her release her smoke as he walks towards her. She holds out the pack and he tentatively takes one. She stomps out her second smoked cigarette and kicks it over the edge.
"How do I smoke this?"
This garners a laugh, a genuine laugh and he feels his heart slow down when she takes a step back to clap him on the shoulder.
"You really going to smoke it?" She asks him, halfway seriously.
"Why else would I ask for one?"
"You thought I might jump. You wanted me to get away from the edge or you wanted to be close enough to grab me if I decided to jump."
"Paranoid?" Embarrassment is evident in his tone and at the risk of worrying him she answers honestly.
"No." And she means it. If he'd come up five minutes later he might have found three cigarette butts and her broken body on the cement 23 stories down.
His face drains of the color it had regained. "You were going to jump." It's not an accusation. It's just a statement, with a bit of fear behind it.
"That's a strong possibility." She takes his hand dragging him way from the edge so that if she looks down all she can see is the concrete that holds her. She swears she can hear his heartbeat getting less and less erratic. "I've got you," he whispers. And even if she hadn't known this before, the way he grabbed her and held her to him left no doubt.
"I've got you, Liv."
That, muses Liv as she's falling, is exactly how it should've happened. It happened this way, though, and that's okay.
She's laughing on the way down; the feeling is indescribable. She's as free as she thought she'd be and the only thing ruining it is the scream coming from that same roof.
She blocks it out, puts her arms out, because she's always been so interested in physics and air resistance and all that stuff. She wonders if anyone looking out the windows recognizes her and she falls past, laughing like a nut. And she knows, that Elliot is racing down the stairs, trying to beat her to the ground. Not only is it hopeless but what will he do once he's there? She continues to fall, looking for all the world like an Olympic diver, graceful and joyful.
She screams as if she's on a rollercoaster and then knows nothing else.
And because fate is one sick bastard Elliot exits the precinct doors just in time to see her hit the ground.
"No!" he screams brokenly. "Liv, God." And he gathers her in his arms, rocking back and forth, unable to see through his tears. Fuck, she doesn't even look like Liv. She's all twisted at impossible angles. Half her brain is splattered across the walk in front of the house. There are bones protruding at ridiculous angles. And, somewhat disturbingly, she's smiling.
"Should I call a bus?" Asks a rookie who has come upon the scene.
"N…no. No point."
"You sure? She…"
"Jumped from the roof, rookie." A sob tears from his throat. "She didn't survive that."
He cries harder, clutching her body to him. She's literally dripping brain matter and blood. It's on his shirt, his arms, and he hasn't even noticed. It doesn't matter because she's dead. She's dead. And it's his fault, it's his fault, his, because he couldn't stop her. He tried, dammit, hadn't he? Was there something he could've done that he didn't? How had it gone downhill? She'd given him the cigarette. She had laughed at him. And then, "You were great, El." And she had jumped.
What happened, what the fuck happened, between 'How do I smoke this?' and the woman he loved taking a 23 story fall? Then he laughs humorlessly because anyone he would need to call…they're just inside. The 1-6 is her family and they'll be here soon enough. Another harsh sob racks his body and he can't, just can't, and God how is he supposed to go home and smile at his wife tonight? How can he leave here, bloodstained, and tell her he failed to save his partner from herself? He can't even bring himself to let Liv go, despite the ME trying to pry her away. "Don't…don't take her."
"Sir, we need to get her to autopsy…"
"Cause of death is pretty fucking obvious, don't you think? This is my partner, my best friend, and the love of my life. Fucking give me some time!" And whether out of fear, respect, or understanding the ME does exactly that. "Liv." He whispers. "I love you, you know? You…you had to know. I loved you so much, you know that. You were my light in the dark. But you got lost in the dark. I…I failed you. I just took and took, didn't I Liv? Oh, Lord…This is on me, I did this, just as sure as if I'd pushed you. I should've been there for you. I should've…" Distantly, he acknowledges that his shirt is covered in blood and in gray matter and then there are hands pulling him away. He isn't letting go of her but between Fin, Munch and Cragen he eventually has to. Still, he remains on his knees even as they cart her away. "I failed her." He says hollowly. "I might as well have pushed her." He chuckles emptily then. "I failed my partner. I failed my best friend. God." If he were a mess before there weren't even words for the disaster he was now. "She's an atheist, you know." They do. "I want to say a prayer for her right now, but it's like…it's like I'll upset her. Some higher power that let this happen…she hates when I do that." Is. Hates. None of them has the heart to correct his use of the present-tense. "Do you realize," he verbalizes, "there's no one for us to notify?" Cragen covertly wipes his tears while Fin chooses to ignore his. Munch is sobbing openly but no one dares to ask if he's okay; to intrude on grief so powerful that to look is invading something very personal. Elliot hadn't been the only Detective in love with Olivia. "We're it." Elliot continues monotonously. "How fucked is that?"
Nobody answers.
"She deserves…deserved so much more than she got. How, with all the good she's done, did she end up with no parents, brother or sisters; no boyfriend, girlfriend or kids…how did this amazing woman end up so alone that she killed herself?"
Olivia would've elbowed him hard for that. Reminded him that John's father had committed suicide and he was only making this whole situation that much worse for Munch. And no one would mention her thoughtfulness. They never had, but maybe they should've.
They should've—he should've—done a lot of things.
But he didn't.
And those times, those choices, led them here.
And Don Cragen will never be the same.
John Munch will never love again.
Fin Tutuola will eventually, hopefully, remember how to breathe.
And Elliot.
An hour ago was the last time Elliot was every going to be okay.
He goes home to find an empty house.
And then…well then…
Precisely one hour after Olivia jumped from that roof, Elliot Stabler eats his gun.