Post-ep for Rescue.
(Don't own, don't sue, constructive criticism more than welcome, etc)
It was late, she knew, far too late to be knocking on Huang's door. But she was out of ideas and out of her bloody mind. With grief, yes—Calvin's portrait screamed in her mind, overcoming her vision, taking her breath away. But she was also plagued by an insistent existential angst. Why (the fuck) had the boy been given to her, only to be taken away? How (the fuck) did she end up alone at 52 years old? And what (the fuck) was the point? Of anything?
She felt it under her skin, a dancing restlessness, and in the clammy sweat under her arms. She had exhausted her usual arsenal of emotional anesthetics (pacing, inane television, too much Chinese food) and was searching for the bottle of vodka she kept around for guests when she caught herself. That had been her mother's drug. Her mother's downfall. And she knew, she knew, that she was not her mother.
So even though it was late, she fished Huang's card out of her wallet ("Call if you ever need me, Liv," he'd said) and used the Bureau's software to pull up his address. It was a fudge of protocol, she knew, but she had crossed so many lines in the last weeks that it didn't feel like it mattered. Just another red flag for her file.
The drive passed in a blur, traffic lights and yellow cabs bright in the semi-darkness of the city. She stopped in front of a brownstone, checking the address against the scrap of paper she'd brought with her.
Olivia had to knock twice, shivering in the late-night wind, before she got an answer. The bolts clicked and the door swung open to reveal a tall Caucasian man dressed in a T-shirt and scrub bottoms, a man who was definitely not George Huang.
"Can I help you?" he asked sleepily.
Olivia blanched, horrified. "I'm so sorry, I must have the wrong address. I'm looking for George Huang?"
The man rubbed the back of his head with the palm of his hand. "George?"
Olivia heard footsteps inside the apartment, a door softly clicking shut.
"David, honey? Who's there?"
George Huang joined the man (David, presumably) at the brownstone's door, rubbing his eyes.
"Liv?"
TBC...