A/N: So if you know me you know i'm absolutely in love with these two. Voight and Benson that is. This takes place in the same universe as my first Benoight one-shot. Gotta thank Sarah and Meg for encouraging me to keep writing these two. This is part 1.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything Dick Wolf does.
PS: if you want, you can follow me on twitter at thepaperframes.
Halcyon Days
you crawled home that night
with your heart between your knees–
every bad word like a sunburn on your back.
your poured yourself up the stairs and didn't care
for what got caught in the carpet.
- Ashe Vernon 'A Toast'
You don't sleep when you get home. You can't. You've been from one part of the country to the next, yet exhaustion still refuses to take you under. The week's events are far too vivid; too fresh in your mind.
Instead you stay awake, bare legs stretch out in front of you, and a sleeping Noah tucked into your chest as you lazily stroke the few curls that rest at the nape of his neck.
It's all you can do to remind yourself that he's not here, and you survived.
377 days. That's how long it's been since you'd faced off with the devil. Sometimes you still dream about him. About his hot breath on the back of your neck; his intruding hands, yanking and pulling on angry charred flesh. The way his unhinged laughter resounded off the walls of the Mayer house, masking your lethargic protests as his fingers hastily undid your belt, and dipped below your waist band; maliciously pawing at the tenderness between your legs. The way he took joy in bending and twist the metal that would forever serve as bookmarks to your torture. How he -
You stop yourself from making your way down fucked up memory lane.
He's. Not. Here.
And hasn't been in 377 days.
It's taken so long for you to get that through your head that all you could do these last few days to salvage what little sanity you have left, was disassociate.
Perhaps that was your biggest mistake, too.
You knew how men like Yates; men who hated women so viscerally and without remorse, thought. Your time spent dancing with the devil in the flesh could've saved a 19 year old girl. Nadia's death could've been prevented. But you'd been too afraid to go there. Too afraid to go back to that Olivia. The Olivia who'd needed two bottles of wine just to get through the night and the same Olivia who'd made bullshit calls at work because she couldn't - didn't want to logically look at a situation from all angles.
If you are being honest with yourself, you kind of reverted back to her anyways. You knew and now you know for certain, what Nadia went through - was going through - and you failed her. The knowledge you had ingrained into your skin both figuratively and literally speaking, could've kept you one step ahead of Yates. Your suffering could've ended hers sooner; it could've saved her life and not been for naught.
But you'd been too chicken shit to trust yourself to safely go back there without needing a crutch in the form of fermented fruit. A bottle of wine. Or three. And you'd promised yourself once the little boy asleep on your chest had been placed in your arms that you were done making your mother's mistakes.
Now Nadia's dead and you're fighting sleep. Afraid of what your conscious might conjure if and when you your body gives way to that familiar lull of unconsciousness. Though you're not sure which is worse, reality or dreamland. There'd been a point two days prior, when Nadia's autopsy report had ended up in your hands, and you'd read how semen had been found in her throat, that Lewis's voice had echoed in your thoughts clear as day.
Get on your knees sweetheart. And if you bite me, you'd be so lucky that I knock your teeth in.
A trance like stage took over your body and you'd found yourself closing the file and moving towards the ladies room at lightning speed to throw up everything in your stomach.
Your fingers had curled around the porcelain bowl and you'd cried until you couldn't cry anymore. The past always has a way of etching its way into the fabric of the future.
You'd promptly gone home and crawled into bed with your son. The smell of his lavender and chamomile scented hair lulling you to sleep just to have your dreams betray you. Your subconscious had conjured up the beach house and the bathroom and then spliced against the granary back drop. You'd woken up gasping for air and in the process you'd awakened a very cranky Noah. Together you two cried as you rocked him back to sleep. Too shaken to go back under yourself, you'd clawed at your scars until you drew blood and then promptly made an appointment with Dr. Lindstrom.
And now you need to make one again because you can't get Nadia out of your head and your subconscious enjoys digging the knife in deeper.
When you close your eyes, Nadia's face morphs into your own and you clutch Noah a little tighter.
He's not here. You are. He's not here. You are. He's not here. You are. You survived. You survived. And you still failed.
Noah's rib cage expands with air beneath your fingers. His soft snores becoming your life line. You know what's coming next. Even as you breathe in and out, gripping the soft fabric of the baby onesie.
A flashback.
Deep breaths in and out, you remind yourself. You can hear your heart beating, your pulse racing and you count backwards. Eyes wide shut, too afraid to look at your surroundings, but too afraid not to at the same time. You're at home. You're in your apartment. Your son is sleeping on your chest.
You're safe. You're here. You're safe. You're here. You're -
But it's too late.
Like a horror movie, you watch as a cacophony of images skitter across your eyelids. Broken belts, hot metal, searing flesh, a reddened badge, and laughter. Someone's screaming, and you instinctively tighten your arms around Noah. Is it you, is it Mrs. Mayer? All the cries all blend in together.
You can't tell where your pain stops and Mrs. Mayer's starts because you're lying on the bed next to her as Lewis hovers above her. The tape wrapped around your wrists is so tight your hands are turning blue. Your eyes are slipping closed and he swats you so hard across your face that bright reds and oranges dance across your line of sight. Don't fall asleep bitch or she dies. Is that what you want, another life on your hands? Blood is smeared across your face and he's holding onto your jaw, nail bits digging into your cheeks to keep your face pressed into the plush purple duvet as he viciously tears Mrs. Mayer in two. She doesn't look at you and your eyes threaten to fall shut once more. It's taking everything in you, all of your strength, to fight the cocktail of pills he'd shoved down your throat. I'll fuck her cold, bitch. Get up. What kind of fucking cop lets someone die? You whimper as he laughs; the bed violently shaking as he buries himself harder and faster inside Mrs. Mayer.
She screams and he cheers as if he's sliding into home base after a grand slam. Just as he comes, one of his hands dances up your thighs over your burnt flesh, between your legs and his fingers claw at the clasp of your slacks before sliding into your underwear, digging and pulling - grabbing and pinching. He leans over Mrs. Mayer, whispering so only you can hear Oh baby, don't get jealous. We'll have our fun soon. I've got plans for you. Then he's kissing you, hard and unforgiving as his fingers dance around your thighs, down your backside and you're screaming again. .
Knock. Knock.
You nearly jump out of your skin at the sound of knuckles against wood. Your heartbeat thunders in your ear drums and you look down to see Noah clutched so tightly against your chest that you're genuinely surprised that a) you haven't hurt him, and b) he's still asleep. Seemingly unfazed by the fact that his mother was trapped hell, reliving the stuff that not even nightmares could conjure up with a frame of reference.
Knock. Knock. Again.
It takes you a moment to get your feet planted firm on the ground. Your hands are shaking and your heart beats so fast you're afraid it'll jump straight from your chest. Almost two years is what stood between you and that beach house, yet it'd felt like yesterday.
He's not here. You survived.
You glance towards the clock on the wall opposite to see that it's 11:27PM and your brows furrow, wondering who or what it could be. Ever since Yate there's been this disturbance simmering in air, like a spark ready to catch fire and to be honest, it scares you. Last time you'd felt this charge, unkind walked right into a gun and then straight into a left hook.
Slowly you get to your feet, moving at a snail's pace as if to not disturb Noah when you're clearly still so intensely rattled and didn't want to risk alarming him.
Once he's down in his crib, you do something you haven't done in 377 days. You answer your door with your glock in hand, promising yourself that it's just a precaution. A just in case because he's not here. You survived. But Nadia didn't. And Yates isn't dead. And 'just in case' only goes so far when you keep confusing yourself for a dead girl.
You're shocked to see who's on the other end of the peephole, carrying two Starbucks coffee cups in hand, a flowery tea bag sticking out of the lid of one. It's none other than Chicago's questionable finest, Hank Voight.
He's changed out of his court suit and is dressed in his familiar button up, dark jeans, and leather jacket. He rocks on his heels and turns to walk away and you hastily undo all three locks on your door; the deadbolt, chain lock, and door handle.
"Hank . . ." you call out to him, forgetting for a moment that you're dressed in your night clothes; pajamas that consist of a flimsy white V-neck t-shirt and a pair of blue checkered shorts. You'd discarded your bra the moment you'd walked through your front door. You also forgot that your gun is still perched snuggly in your right hand until Voight makes his way back to you.
"I know there's some neighborhoods in Chicago where it's customary to answer your door with your gun, but I didn't take you for a shoot now, ask later kind of gal…" he comments, chin nodding towards your hand.
Your fingers grip the steel tighter. If only he knew.
"I uh, uhm, I…" you draw a blank, knowing that the simplest answer would be to tell him the truth, but it'd also involve telling the entire truth, too. So you don't answer, instead you step behind your door, motioning for him to come in.
"I'll be right back."
You leave him to find his way to a clear spot on the couch or a chair or somewhere that's not being occupied by Noah's things while you go off in search of a sweater, and to put your gun away.
/
He's seen you naked yet you can't bear the thought of him seeing you bra-less. It just made you uncomfortable to know that you were on display - vulnerable - like that. So after securing your gun back in your nightstand, you grab the first sweater you can find, an over-sized navy blue NYPD sweatshirt, and slip it on over your head.
The sweater is plush and soft against your skin, dwarfing you in the extras fabric. You don't bother with finding longer pants. The worst of your scars rest just below your bikini line.
He's not here. You are.
When you finally make your way out of your bedroom, you find Voight nestled in between McGruff the crime fighting dog and Snuggles, the bunny, Noah's favorite stuffed animals. His elbows are resting on his knees and his shoulders are slumped forward. You don't even have to say it to know what's on his mind. It's the same thing that's on yours. Nadia's death and Yates trial.
She wanted it man. She came on to me, started talking about her ex-partner...
"Hey," you say softly as you sit down next to him, curling your legs underneath you. You lean against the back of the couch.
"Hey," he repeats, leaning back. "I'm sorry. I know it's late and I've got a flight in about seven hours, but I . . . I just . . . I brought you some tea. Green, decaf."
"Thanks." You say nodding towards the paper cup. "And it's okay, Hank. Really." You reassure him because it truly is. You understand why he's here and you're partially thankful, partially worried that he is. Had he not knocked on your door minutes ago, you could've done serious damage to both yourself and your son.
"I was gonna kill him. Yates. I had his neck. All I had to do was twist and," he snaps his fingers for effect. "All I kept seeing was Nadia's face, her eyes. . . I've seen dead bodies, but it's different when it's... It's your kid."
You nod knowingly because you get it. You do. You and Voight, you're cut from the same cloth. You're like two dogs, traipsing down a well beaten path; two wounded warriors, veterans of the streets, who still get up every day and blaze into battle even when exhaustion rots your bones. His admission of almost murder doesn't faze you either. Much as you would like to say that you hadn't see that coming, you had. When he'd stormed out of Meloni's and shrugged of Erin's request for a night stroll with her, you'd known. Part of you'd known then, too, that he'd end up here, opposite you. You knew Voight all too well. The anger, the rage, and his blood lust to balance the scales of injustice.
"She was just a kid…" Voight's raspy voice whispers and you can tell that he wants to cry, and is trying not to, by the way his bottom lip juts out. You reach a hand over and squeeze his shoulder, unconsciously scooting closer to him. He reaches a hand up to cover yours and in the process Snuggles gets trapped between your bodies. "I could've done more."
I could've done more.
He's wrong. He couldn't have done anything else. You on the other hand, you could've done more. Should've done more. You knew. You knew. Yates was following the Lewis handbook of hell and you knew it.
"I could've saved her. She was snatched from my yard - house. And I just sat there while he - he . . ."
She wanted it. She came on to me. We did things to each other man. Should've seen her. So eager. So starved for attention.
The words come out of your mouth before you can truly assess them. "If anything, I'm the one to blame, Hank. Not you."
Apparently you've caught him off guard because he finally looks your way; his gray eyes scrutinizing and incredulous before he shakes his head dismissively.
"No, Benson, this started in Chicago and it's where I should've ended it. The minute he latched on to Erin, I should've ended it. Took him out back and put a bullet in him. Now that would've been justice."
Did daddy diddle you?
My ex-partner, he would know what to do.
He's still alive.
I don't know how.
With your free hand, the one that you're using to prop your head up on the back of the couch, you pinch yourself. Hard. Attempting to stave off another flood of unwanted memories. If only you had put a bullet in Lewis.
You pinch yourself hard a few more times, digging your nails into your skin; the pain keeping you tied to the present.
Yeah, you definitely needed an appointment with your therapist. And fast.
"Look, Hank. It wasn't your fault. If it was anyone's, it was mine. I knew what Yates was going to do next."
Beneath your fingertips and unmistakable burn sets in and you immediately know that you've drawn blood. Voight leans back against the sofa, his fingertips graze across your shin in the process and you shiver. He looks at you, catching your direct line of sight.
He knows something is going on with you, but is waiting for you to make the first move. "You knew what Yates was going to do next?"
You duck your head low, loose tendrils of unruly hair falling in your face. You've figured for a while that he's known something happened to you. Hell, you'd pulled his shield the first time you'd sent Rollins and Fin to Chicago; he'd probably done the same the moment he'd sent Erin to see you. Which meant he'd see everything. Hell a general google search of your name filled in all of the deets not in your personnel file.
"How much did you find out about me before you made that trip up to New York last November?" You ask him, lifting your gaze to meet his. He stares at you head on.
"Enough to know that you're a damn good cop." He states flatly, and that's all you need to hear to know that he knows something about Lewis; something about the man that haunted both your nightmares and daymares.
"I let a - I was kid- a suspect -" you pause, fingers shaking as you prepare to tell your truth. Huang's familiar soft voice crawls into your conscious and you think about a conversation you'd had with him some months ago when he'd ventured in from Oklahoma to help you out.
This isn't on you. This is not your fault. You have to accept that something happened to you that you couldn't control. And because you couldn't control it, couldn't stop it, that doesn't make you lesser than you once were. You are still Olivia Benson. You're not broken.
You'd held onto Huang's words that day, stored them away for a moment like this. He'd said the same thing Lindstrom had been telling you for months, but for some reason coming from Huang, who'd seen you through 12 years of your career - your life - they'd felt far more genuine.
"His name was William Lewis and he broke into my apartment; kidnapped me at gunpoint and...hurt me."