AN: This is a little dusty piece I found when I moved to a different computer. It was written a long time ago (fixed it a bit). The timing fit well as you will see. Please let me know what you think. One-shot. Have a great weekend.
Olivia feels like a decorated Easter egg. One she never got to decorate herself. The top and bottom have been dipped in shades of dark reds, the middle a fading blue. It was supposed to be a purple egg, maybe one of those glittered ones too. The packaged kits always depict beautiful glitter eggs, but in reality the only ones that can be created are swirls of color, some in better patterns than others. That white invisible crayon was used too; someone tried to lovingly write a name, spell out message, instead the white lines blurred together, no one could make out the message. Now those red and blue colors fade, like the heavy drips that never quite dried, and fell to the cardboard holder. Her red colors, the only thing that remains bright and even that is by mistake. The egg rolled onto the floor and cracked, it is waiting for someone to pick it up-back to where all Easter eggs should be. On the floor it remains, cracked, red and bleeding into the blue colors, white lines that leave no clear message, this is what it like, this what is has become.
She wears her tiredness like heavy metal armor, it is all consuming, makes her want to leave it all behind. It was never supposed to be like this. At 4:48 a.m. she feels a sense of clarity that she has not known in months, maybe even years. Her body should be sleeping, in a bed of warm sheets with a soft comforter. Instead she's on the floor in her small galley kitchen, her back up against the refrigerator. In less than two hours her three alarms will go off, time to start a new day, a day within her cloak of exhaustion and darkness. If she succumbs to sleep now, she will not wake up in time. Those three alarms remind her that she is needed yet again, set to the streets to deal with the worst criminals. These same people that get to sleep, and yet they will interrupt the peacefulness of innocent lives. Easter is in several weeks. Olivia thinks about those children that will not make it to decorate their eggs, and for those who are around will simply refuse.
On the kitchen floor she remains. An incoming text message from her partner indicates that Lindsay did not make it out of her coma; she simply did not make it. A puppet master with strings is pulling too tight, taking anything good away. Occasionally it dangles small objects, glimmers of hope. They all get pulled away, just like the lives she sees everyday. Yesterday Elliot gave her an update about Calvin. In her head she knew the boy could never be hers, never share a part of her life. He was yanked from her, just as much as she was taken from him. Calvin is in the foster care system, a judge decided that was the best place for him. Elliot and she know he will most likely be lost to that world, forgotten and alone. Along time ago she might have believed he could find a family, maybe even decorate Easter eggs. But if anything, lately, life has taught her to look at everything with shades of midnight black. Forever jaded.
5:15 a.m. and still she's on the kitchen floor. She can still see traces of Lindsay's crimson blood deep in her nails, dark and dried. Twenty hours ago it was bright and still flowing. Olivia's limbs are incredibly heavy. She is so exhausted, and broken from this world. An aura of clarity surrounds her. As much as she yearns for sleep she wants to be held. Crack, cracking, and cracked. Sonia's death lead to him touching her, and holding her. For brief seconds in time she thought maybe it would be okay. But how can it be fair that she feels a minute bit of peace at the expense of a death? Her current clarity tells her, it was never supposed to be this way. The final strings that hold her together are fraying, tightening and unwinding at the same time. They tighten like the clothes she now wears. She exposes parts of her tan skin, like parts of her soul-giving more away.
One hour before the alarms go off. Sleep never comes. Today the weatherman predicts rain-hot, heavy and humid. Despite his words, she knows he is just talking about weather, but to her it is her life, her day ahead.
She thought about buying a lily, an essence of life in her apartment. Instead she left it at the store. In the end she can't bear to watch something else fade into the abyss. It would wilt. She would forget to water this plant; she cannot even water herself.
Thirty minutes to go. Her shower rains down, at first scalding hot, anything to make her feel. When her body cannot take it anymore she brings it back to cold, oh so cold. The water mixes with her tears. She cannot tell the difference anymore. This is not how it was supposed to be. The rest of the dried blood deep in her nails slowly disappears, until the next death. As she pulls the towel tight around her body, the alarms go off. Another day to begin, more bricks added to close her in.
He brings her black hot coffee, and places it on her messy desk. Another example of her falling, fading away. The coffee may help her hold on a bit a longer, he thinks, it's down to this, down to coffee. It is one hour into their day, and Elliot still hasn't seen his partner. The problem is that he has not really seen her in days, maybe in years. It is a string that holds her there, the one that ties them together, to him it is forever.
Her shirt is blue. Her blue shirts are tighter now, but blood always seems to find its way there, his, hers, and even Eli's. She walks out of Cragen's office, he's has never seen her eyes like this. Varying degrees of brown, speckles of black. Easter eggs have flecks and speckles of color. She finally makes direct eye contact with him. Elliot's pupils dilate; darken to almost match her black. That string, that attachment they feel, pulls stronger now. Now, this is what it all comes to. Finally, she drinks the coffee he brought, its dark, smooth and warm, she feels it all. Olivia is putting her pens away, cleaning her desk. Seconds tick by, but really, they feel like hours to him. Finally, it comes shattering his world, but not hers. "Twenty-one years, so many deaths. All the good, has turned to dark." She can't even look at him as she finishes. "El, I'm done."
Olivia is now piling the pens into a box. He thinks of everything single thing she has done. There should be a party, a celebration, something grand. Or maybe a heroic ending, like a crime fighting duo lining the front page of the morning newspaper. Fin and Munch are not even around. She's placing her picture frames into her box. There is one of the two of them, they are both smiling. They are younger and less jaded, seven years back. He didn't even realize she had put the frame in the third drawer down.
"Liv, it will get better. We need you here, the vics, all the good you do, don't let it get you. I need you." She looks at him, really watches him. Turning back to her desk she says nothing and continues to pack her desk, two hours into their day.
All the things she wants to say to him, to try to explain her leaving. Everything she never said out loud. She wants to call him a rat bastard, but she doesn't. In the end, everything comes down to what they were to each other, and what they will probably always be, complicated. Complications, wrapped up a world of madness, and visceral need. "El, thank you for the coffee. I am just glad it's not tea." She turns around, he sees her blue shirt, and this time there is no blood. Elliot goes to grab her, pulls her into him. Not for Eli, not for Sonia. This is for her, and only her. As he wraps his arms around her, she holds him back. It's binding, and almost hurts. Olivia wills herself not to cry, begs her body not to betray her. Tears fall, just like the weatherman predicted. Their audible breaths tell their own story. "El, I don't do good bye."
He let's go, ever so slightly and looks at her. "Fuck Liv, don't go."
It's a pointless statement. They both know she'll leave in minutes, walking out of the one-six. Her life and memories will paint the walls of the station, whether they ever move again, her colors will always remain. For every piece of herself that she gave away, a part remains somewhere. It coats the victims, alive and dead, and it coats his heart and all her brothers in blue.
When she lets go of the heavy doors, they make their usual sound, but outside everything is different. She is lighter; her blue shirt even seems paler. Maybe she'll go for a long walk in the park, or actually fall asleep in her bed. Hell, maybe she'll even buy that lily plant. Whatever, wherever it's better now, some sort of peace. Fuck the weatherman, the sun peaks through the clouds later that afternoon.