The last time he brought it out, a 7 year old girl and her 3 year old brother had been raped and savagely murdered by their father, only to have him turn the knife on himself. They were at a loss as to how a father could do such a thing. Lately, the cases seemed to be getting worse. The last time he brought it out was because his detectives needed to, for just a while, forget what happened.
But, not tonight. As he opens the bottom right drawer of his desk, he knows it's not for one of his detectives. Tonight, he is setting out the bottle of vodka for himself.
He had followed Munch and Fin out earlier. He went home and tried not to remember. But, as he sat in his empty home with his untouched pool, he knew it was too much. Too many memories of what was and what should have been. That's why he is back in his office at almost midnight.
On his way in, he noticed Elliot and Olivia were still sitting at their desks. They didn't seem to notice he was back, and he didn't want them to. He shut his blinds and turned off his small desk lamp. The office is dark, except for the light that managed to make its way through the slats in the blinds.
It's a new bottle because last time they drank it all. Maybe he is finally going crazy, but he can hear the vodka calling to him, taunting him, as it sits next to their last picture together. He doesn't even bother with a glass. It would be pointless anyway. He wants to drown his heart, his soul, and a glass would just slow him down.
He twists off the cap and places it next to his keys. It is quiet for a police precinct, and he is reminded of the silence that fills his home. The bottle seems to be moving closer and closer to his lips, and deep down, he knows it's fucked up that he is doing this at work.
"You don't want to do that."
Now he knows he is going crazy because he just heard that sweet, familiar voice. He blinks a few times and he can see her standing by the door.
"It's been ten years." It isn't right to do it, but that is his excuse.
She is sitting in a chair across from him now. "I know," she all but whispers.
He can feel the tears starting to build, but he'll be damned if he lets her see him cry. "Why are you-" Her soft smile stops him from finishing.
"You have been doing well. Don't ruin all your hard work with a bottle of vodka."
"You've been watching."
It isn't a question, but statement of recognition. "Yeah, I have," she answers anyway.
He isn't aware he's crying until he feels her place his left hand in hers. She is perched on his desk, their hands resting on her thigh. As she reaches to wipe away the tears, she realizes he is embarrassed for crying in front of her.
"It's ok," she says softly.
There are so many things he wants to ask her, so many things to say to her. But, as he opens his mouth to speak, only one thing comes to mind. "I miss-"
"Shh," she places a finger over his lips to quiet him. "I know you do," because she does too.
It's quiet again. He is staring at her, trying to commit everything about her to his memory. "I have to go now," she says into the quiet as she brushes her thumb over his cheek.
"Please, stay," he isn't ready to let her go yet.
"You know I can't." She feels bad for doing this to him, but she has to leave at some point.
He stands up and wraps his arms around her. He holds her as if his life depended upon it. And in a way, it does.
As they shift apart, her hands glide down his arms. She clasps their hands together as she kisses him. "I love you," she whispers.
There is laughter coming from the two detectives that still sit outside. Around here, laughter is rare, and the noise causes him to look out his window and into the bullpen. It's a quick movement, but when he shifts focus back to her, she is gone. It's like she wasn't even there. But he can still hear her; still feel her lips on his.
He sits down in his chair again and puts his head in his hands. It doesn't make any sense. How could that have just happened?
The bottle of vodka rests on his desk, its contents untouched. He screws on the cap and puts the bottle back in the drawer. He looks at where the cap was, and that's when he sees it. The AA keychain with the twelve steps written on it lies away from the keys and other keychains. He knows what he has to do. He grabs his keys and leaves quietly.
The earliest AA meeting he can find is at 6 am. It isn't his regular group, but it will have to do for now. He finds a seat next to a young, college-aged woman and a man in his sixties. It's his turn now, so he stands up. "It's been ten years…" he starts, using his words from earlier. And when the meeting is over, he heads straight for work.
His detectives are already there when he arrives. Olivia is perched on Munch's desk in a way that she is facing Elliot and Fin, while Munch is beside her. They are in the middle of a discussion when he walks through the double doors. He nods his head once, as a greeting of some sort, and makes his way into his office.
He immediately opens the bottom right drawer of his desk. The untouched vodka sits in his hand and it's the last time he'll ever bring out the bottle. He grips the bottle tight in his hand and opens his door. When he re-emerges from his office, all conversation stops. Olivia glances at his hand, at the bottle, and she knows what he is about to do. She gives him a sad smile that he returns, and the other three detectives look a little confused.
The doors swing a little as he leaves for his destination. In the bathroom, he opens the bottle of vodka and places the cap on the counter. The liquid splashes a little as he pours the entire bottle down the drain. When it's empty, he replaces the cap and walks out with the empty bottle.
Everyone seems to straighten a little more when he returns. He's walking towards them and all four of them are now standing. He twists the bottle around, takes a deep breath, and sets it on the closest desk; Elliot's desk. Although he won't say it, his detectives know that from now on, when there is a hard case, their captain won't have a shot of vodka waiting for them.
He's alone in his office again. The blinds are still shut and his lamp is still off. It isn't as dark or as quiet as it was earlier, but it will do for now. His phone rings, and it's another day; another case. He is almost out the door when he glances back at his desk, and he can swear he just saw her sitting in his chair.
Before he turns back to the bullpen, he whispers, "I love you too, Marge."