Colour Me
He left, and her, and He left her colourless.
Amaro is talking to her in animated tones and she's got no idea what the hell he's saying. She is not interested in paying enough attention to find out. She stopped being involved in his meaningless conversations months ago. She can't bring herself to care all that much anymore, and lately she's been trying to ignore how awful that makes her feel. The prospect of the long and gruelling years ahead exhaust her. She can't recover that zealous passion she once held for her job, just like she can't recover the pieces of the life she used to live, the same ones laying in shambles at her feet.
"Hey," Amaro says, with a wave, trying to garner her attention. "You with me, Liv?" She flinches; she hates how he calls her 'Liv.' After hearing it roll huskily off His tongue for twelve years, it sounds completely wrong when uttered by someone else. It was His nickname for her, and the quiet fury boils in the pit of her stomach when Nick calls her that. It feels a little like resentment and a lot like sadness.
"Yeah," she answers, eyes snapping to his, because, really, Nick hasn't done anything wrong. He's all smiles and he's surprisingly friendly to her, considering how distant and depressing she's been acting lately. He deserves better than her, but he's fresh off the beat and she's the senior detective here, she's supposed to be the mature one, after all. "I'm here."
"Good, b'cause I can't go in there with you unless I know we're on the same page." He jerks his thumb in the direction of the warehouse behind them. "This guy's crazy. Gotta be focused in there."
She feels it bubbling up her throat, the 'don't tell me how to do my job' quip, but she catches herself. He's right. He's almost always right anyway, and for some reason that bugs the shit out of her. Maybe because He was right about a lot of things too.
She nods. "I am." She clears her throat, "I am."
"Okay," Nick nods, vigorously. "What's the plan, then?"
"Plan?"
"You know," he says, "How're we doing this?"
She used to be able to read Him so well that they never needed preparation. With one cursory glance, everything would be decided between them.
Olivia shrugs, smiles slightly. "We get our guy, Nick. Preferably before he kills Haley."
Nick nods again, drawing his gun from his hip and shifting into the academy stance.
She is glad that he can still find thrills. He is new, but not green, although he hasn't yet lost the invisible innocence that they all carry around their first weeks in the unit.
She has been spoiled by the horrors. She does nothing more than exist, go through the movements. Everything is bland, dull.
And she supposes that that is one of the things that bother her the most. Her life is now essentially washed-out, a blank canvass of grey that has been painted over with too many coats of plain. There is far too much insipidness in her mind, in her body, for a job that requires so much fervour.
She is just so tired of everything being so colourless.
She sighs deeply, and they go in.
Martin Wheeler smokes. That much they know from the investigation. His house reeked of heavy, pungent smell, and the few people who knew him well enough to be able to tell them anything say that he has had problems with his lugs lately. In this narrow hallway of what was once a sweatshop, the odour of American Spirit permeates, hanging in a cloud above her head. They are on the right track; Wheeler is in the building.
"Do you smell that?" Amaro asks. "Cigarettes?"
She nods, pointing her finger down the hallway. "Through there," she whispers.
She leads and he follows, the pair stealthily creeping along the concrete hallway. Her heels make a muffled smacking sound against the cement, but she's used to having to be quiet and knows how to step so that the sound stops.
"Benson," Nick says in a throaty whisper from behind her. She cocks her head slightly to the side, so that he knows she's listening.
"Look at this." He bends over, and comes back up with something poised between his index and his thumb. "I don't think Wheeler wears these." He holds up a small purple and blue barrette, with a strand of long brown hair hanging from it.
She raises her eyebrows and nods in agreement. "Nice work. It must be Haley's."
They continue the silent walk down the hall, each step taken with caution until the light from the last window dims and dims until they are pitched into blackness. Amaro flicks on his flashlight, pointing it ahead of her, so they can see.
Although he isn't Him, Nick has her back. She is not nervous with him, because past all the innocence and his boyish aroma, he knows how to do his job. She could never trust anyone as implicitly as she trusted Him, but she has some faith in her new partner, too.
Trash litters the floor of the hallway, old windowpanes, cans, planks of wood, and other unidentifiable junk is scattered about. She has to divert her attention on the blackness of the hallway in front of them and focus on her feet, and that makes her uncomfortable. She doesn't like being taken by surprise.
Suddenly the beam of the flashlight rebounds off another wall, directly in front of them, and they find themselves nose to nose with a dead end.
"The fuck is this?" Nick mutters, and he reaches out to push on the wall. It doesn't budge. Olivia takes a step to the side to let him push with all his weight. The weak floorboards give out under her weight, and…
Crash.
Then there is darkness and a massive pain pounding in her back.
"Olivia!" She hears Nick yell, and it sounds worryingly far away, like at the end of a tunnel. "Olivia! Are you alright!" She blinks, sees Nick's face above her through a large hole in the ceiling.
Something pulls at her past the dizziness in her brain…a memory.
'Olivia! Oh my God, No! No!' '….Can't keep looking over my shoulder, making sure you're okay!"
Elliot…
"Olivia, answer me!"
El…
"Fuck!" And then a loud thump, Nick's voice is closer this time. Her eyes snap open, the recollection fading like a dream, His voice vanishing like He vanished, and now it's Amaro leaning over her, with her head in his hand.
"W – what happened?" She mumbles.
"You fell through the floor," he says, and he's out of breath, the worry clear in his eyes. "Jesus, are you okay?"
"M' fine," she grunts, leaning up on her elbows. 'Can't keep looking over my shoulder, making sure you're okay!' She can't let him see her hurt…otherwise, he might leave her, but they all leave her in the end…
"Whoa," he cautions, a hand on her back. "Okay. Here. Grab my hand, I'll help you up." He pulls her to her feet, and she blinks to rid her mind of the fog.
"Are we in the basement?" She asks, roughly.
"I think so. Hey – are you sure you're okay?" He narrows his eyes at her.
She sighs, and when she rolls her eyes it makes her stomach reel. "Shut up. I'm fine."
He grins. "Okay. Well, there's more signs of life down here then there was up there," and Nick gestures around them. Sure enough, down here, the room is well furnished. The furniture is shitty, but it's furnished nonetheless. There's a couch and an old, moth-eaten recliner and a table that hasn't been varnished. There's a kitchenette, though no appliances and she doubts it's been used in a long, long time. There is a blanket bunched on the couch, as if someone has made that his or her bed.
"I think you found Wheeler's hide out spot," Amaro winks at her. "That's some fine detective work, partner." She can't help but chuckle, because at least he is trying to make her feel better.
The hunt begins again, their guns drawn, their eyes trained. Nick walks to the other side of the large, crowded room, and she ventures away in her own direction.
And there is movement in her peripheral vision.
Wheeler, standing in a dark corner. He's looking right at her. He has a gun.
She knows she'll never get a shot. She won't even get her gun drawn before he'll go for the kill. She knows he hasn't seen her yet; she uses that to her advantage. He thinks that she is the only one here. A raping pervert like him won't miss the opportunity of having his fun, of playing with her. Of only wounding her. But only if he thinks she's alone. She knows that when he shoots her, it'll give Nick a clear shot at him.
And she's so tired anyway that she doesn't have the strength to move. She doesn't care that much about what happens to her, because everything is stripped away now, and she's got nothing but herself to live for. And even after everything she has done, she still isn't sure of her own worth.
Down here in the basement it is oppressively dark, and she barely notices it when she closes her eyes against the loud sound of the trigger.
The pain hits her and it's overwhelming, sickening.
Before she looses consciousness, she hears Nick fire three rounds, and Wheeler falls.
She sits on her white couch in her apartment two weeks later, and she relaxes in her recent freedom from the gauze she has had to wear around her bicep. Yesterday, after her final doctor's appointment, she was cleared for work and was allotted the liberty of taking off the bandages from the healing wound in her arm. She stretches out, a glass of Bordeaux in her hand. She picks up the remote from its spot on the coffee table, and flips on some nighttime soap opera that she strongly suspects needs to be cancelled soon.
An hour and two glasses later she curls under the throw blanket, her apartment flooded in darkness save a dim sliver of light through the blinds from the streetlamp outside.
She forces her mind to become a blank slate, to fall asleep, otherwise she'll start to think about Him, and she'll start to cry again like she did those first months, alone in the blackness of her apartment.
She's rather not think about anything than think about Him, even if it's just his face, even if it's just the whisper of his name in her subconscious. She'll take anything else, anything, if only it would fill the gaping hole in her chest that He created when he left.
But there is nothing left for her to take, because there is nothing more for her. She is alone, solitary, and the blank walls of her apartment, the ever colourless expanse of her mind.
A sudden, single rap on her door makes her sit straight up on the couch. She isn't expecting anyone, and she's got time off. She doesn't want to see Nick, or talk about anything that will remind her of the precinct tonight, because that place holds too many memories.
She looks through the peephole. He is there. Her heart beats so hard in her chest but she is unaware, she is unaware because there is this heat creeping up her neck, into her face, and a tightness taking over her chest that she can't control.
She unlocks the deadbolt and opens the iron door, because seeing him through the peephole is not enough, not real enough, and he could disappear and leave her like he does in her dreams, and she will surly be torn apart again.
"Elliot…"
His eyes are dark, pupils frighteningly wide, but he's here. He's here and he's real.
It's too much. It's too much because he's going to leave again, just having given her a small dose of him, just a sufficient amount so that she remembers in clarity all that she has lost.
It's too much, but God, it's not enough.
"Can I come in?"
She steps aside, disbelief painted on her features. She knows her mouth is probably hanging open, but can't think past the initial shock enough to make herself close it. She holds the door open for him. Elliot pushes past her, and she chokes on the smell of him. It had taken weeks to wash the smell of him out of her clothes.
He doesn't bother to take off his shoes; instead he just walks to the window and pulls up the blind, staring at the street below.
She asks, "Why are you here?" at the same time that he opens his mouth and says, "I heard about what happened."
She doesn't speak for a while. Just focuses on breathing.
"You talked to Amaro?" She finally whispers.
He turns, and his stare is so, so dark. The shadows fall across his face, hiding his eyes, but its only effect is to render his glare even more intense.
"You bet you ass I talked to him." His voice is like gravel, rough, strong, and he's angry.
"Elliot -,"
"Don't." He cuts her off sharply, narrows his eyes at her. "What were you thinking?"
And then she gets angry too, because How dare he judge her when he's the one who couldn't care enough about her to stay. "I don't have to explain myself to you." She glares, but her bottom lip trembles dangerously.
He laughs, a single bark of uncomical noise. "The fuck you don't."
"Why do you even care?" She says, and it's loud. Louder than any of the previous conversation. "You left!"
He averts his eyes for a moment, licking his lips. But then the scowl is back, in full force, and she feels a little intimidated. "Now who's judging? I did what I had to do, Olivia."
"And I did what I had to do."
"You didn't have to get yourself shot!" He yells, pacing toward her. He grasps her good shoulder, leaning in her face. "Yeah. Nick told me. He told me all about how you stood there, and waited for that bastard to take the shot. He told me how you didn't even try to protect yourself. What the hell was going through your mind?"
"I…Nick was supposed to shoot him. I…I had a plan," she whispers.
"Based on a shaky assumption you made about an unpredictable rapist, right after you fell through a fucking floor." He is breathing heavily, his gaze locked on hers. "It was more than irresponsible. It was – fuck – it was so goddamn reckless of you Liv, and I swear to god…" his voice breaks.
She inhales a shaky breath, her eyes wet. "You will not raise your voice at me in this apartment." Her voice shakes. "Get out."
He steps closer. "No."
She raises her arms, puts her palms on his chest. "Elliot -,"
"I came here for answers." He snakes a hand behind her and places it on her nape, gently, and closes his eyes. "And I'm not leaving until I know you're okay."
She lets out a quiet sob, because doesn't he know she'll never be okay without him?
He takes a deep breath, and moves impossibly closer to her. He shakes his head, almost pleading. "Why were you trying to kill yourself, Olivia?"
"What?" She whispers, brokenly incredulous.
"Why?" He whispers hoarsely, touching his forehead to hers.
"I wasn't," she chokes out. "I wasn't, El."
And then their fight is forgotten, the harsh, pointed words left behind in a world too confusing for her, and he wraps his arms around her and pulls her stunned form securely against him. His scent folds around her, and she cries at how good the familiarity of it all feels. She clenches her fingers in the jacket he hasn't bothered to take off, and presses her face into his shoulder.
She has missed him so, so much. And now he is here, holding her.
"Let me get you the help you need," he whispers huskily, mouth brushing her ear.
She shakes her head against him. "I don't need it," she says, her voice cracking. "If you'll stay, I don't need it."
"I…I can't go back, Olivia." He squeezes her.
"I know. And I would never ask you to. But stay here," she emphasises, voice muffled by his shoulder.
He pulls her back, holding her out at almost arms length, his gaze washing over her face. His hands slip up to knot his fingers in her hair, and his thumbs brush across the wet stickiness on her cheeks, and he is so gentle.
He leans forward, and presses his lips to her forehead, holding her still with his hands in her hair. He stays with his mouth to her forehead for a moment, just breathing, before brushing his fingers ever so lightly over her eyes so that they flutter closed. His lips follow the trajectory, whispering over her closed eyelids, tickling her as he repeats the motions twice, his warm breath falling across her face.
Her breath is so shaky when she inhales, but the tears have slowed. She is engrossed in his presence, at his very real existence that seems to take over more and more of her with each passing moment.
His slightly parted lips slide down the bridge of her nose, leaving a ghost of a wet trail, until the soft pliability of him fastens onto her mouth, moving ever so slowly against her, testing, tasting. He is touching her so gently with his mouth that his breath escapes from between them, washing over her wet lips and bringing her to life.
She pushes herself closer, and bravely opens her mouth to his tender requests, sharing a moment so soft and so private with the person that means so much to her.
Ten minutes later, she is lying across her bed, her clothes gone. He presses himself against her, and the warmth of the skin on skin contact along with the electricity it stimulates inside her makes her seek more. She wraps her arms around his neck and her knees squeeze his hips acquiescently.
"I need you," she whispers, and licks his neck.
He whispers something back, and she only barely hears him.
"I'll stay here. I'll stay." And his mouth is against her and his hands slide under her hips.
He lowers himself onto her, into her, and…
Colour.