Author's Note: I wrote this in 2012 and only just realized I never posted it, so this may start out from that point in the fictitious timeline.
Disclaimer: I have not in any way contributed to the Law and Order: SVU franchise, don't own any of the original storyline or characters, and I am merely posting this for entertainment purposes with no financial gain. I wrote this myself and have not plagiarised someone else's work.
Something More
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud. His soles hit the asphalt with such regularity he barely notices it. They are worn down with hardly any profile left. Still, these are his shoes, this is his route, and the familiar sound cuts sharply through the silence. The aches in his body, too, are so well-known that they are barely conscious. He is running, the humid air around him keeping him awake. The roads are deserted, and it's bliss to him to just be out here on his own in the night, making use of his body.
"See you later" Kathy had called when she had seen him grab his grey sweatshirt, as every night. Just that. And it's good to be out here, running, because if he were at home now, he would feel as if he had to be doing something. Dishes, for example, which he does more often now. Laundry. And yet he finds that when he does the laundry, it throws Kathy off, because she had planned to do a different load first, because it isn't the right time to do it, because Kathy has been doing it for twenty-something years and he messes up her routine. But he should be doing something, like fixing stuff, making sure Eli gets to bed on time. So he runs, because he will stay in shape come what may, ready and alert.
Chop. Chop. Chop. Ginger is easy to cut. Far easier than that orange cannon ball, anyway. Hokkaido pumpkin is the simplest, the guy from the organic vegetable market has told her, because of the edible peel. Simple? She has tried everything from a steak to a bread knife, and has settled on a smooth one with a large blade. The two halves of pumpkin lie in front of her largely untouched, after a forceful attempt to divide one of them into wedges ended with a knife slip and near miss of her finger. Pumpkins aren't even in season. And so she is standing here, with two deseeded yet wood hard pieces of pumpkin. She couldn't eat that much if she tried. She will probably end up giving most of it to her neighbor.
She could have invited Mrs Wood over for dinner, but she knows that the elderly woman doesn't like to leave her apartment. She could have phoned Karen or someone else, but she barely keeps in touch with these people, and Alex had other plans this evening. In any case, she's not sure that she feels like company tonight. It's an evening for comfy clothes, sitting on the sofa, having a glass of wine. And cooking, apparently. Caramelised Hokkaido pumpkin, of all things.
Streetlamps punctuate his progress with fields of cold light. The thing is, he needs a job. This doing nothing, being useless, just won't do. He needs to get up for a purpose and achieve something. Nothing to do with the police. The thought alone of working somewhere outside special victims grips him uncomfortably. It's too late for him to change, and in any case, he just can't do it anymore. Of course, he couldn't simply return to another department even if he wanted to, not with the IAB investigation and everything that's happened, the press coverage. He has made his choice, and it is a complete one, no partial trade-off. He knew it was the right one the second he walked out after that uncomfortable talk with Cragen. Where Cragen didn't tell him to stay. Once he had driven away, once the building was out of sight and he wasn't tempted to glance back, the heaviness of decades had seemed to lift. He had known he wasn't going to look back. Look Back in Anger, hadn't that been the name of some awful play Lizzie had dragged him to see?
It had been the right decision, all of it. But now, his first instinct when he wakes up is to glance at his alarm clock, ready to grab his belongings and go in an instant, to screen his surroundings, to check that his phone isn't ringing and there hasn't been a case. It takes him a moment to remember, in those seconds between sleep and reality, that he doesn't have to be on edge. This should be a relief, but he can't deny that more often than not, he lies back disappointed, purposeless, sleepless. It is a relief when the time finally comes around for Kathy to stir and rise. She did it with a smile at first whenever she found him there. She smiles less often now.
She is cooking without an occasion, just to do something nice for herself. She actually enjoys cooking somewhat; it's just that she doesn't often feel up to it after a long day. So she has deliberately picked out something special today to make it worth the while. She cooks because she can. It's part of her new set of resolutions, which she won't leave for the new year because New Year's Eve and all that pomp doesn't mean much to her. A nice meal today, sorting out her bills and some exercise tomorrow on her day off. Drinks with an old acquaintance from the Academy in the evening, where, she is resolved, they will keep shop talk to a minimum.
She is already tempted to cancel her evening plans, but she probably shouldn't and, in any case, it might be nice. It will be nice once she gets past the effort of getting ready. She is moving on, or at least she is moving. Ryan is divorced, she heard, and she remembers vaguely that he sort of had a thing for her at one point. But this was a long time ago. Neither of them is who they used to be anymore. She might not even recognise him at first glance. He could be bald by now, for all she knows - not that it matters. That's why she doesn't think of this as a date. "Date" implies expectations, excitement, pleasing someone, exasperation, disappointment- she's past that point. This is just a casual meeting to exchange news, and who knows what else. She isn't hoping for deep conversations or romantic kisses. At most, she's hoping for an orgasm, but that would be too quick and she is unsure if she feels like getting that close to anyone. She hasn't for a while now. She doesn't find this sort of thing easy anymore, even if it's just physical. It's too intimate. If they just end up drinking and talking about the past, that's still company. It counts.
They need money, desperately. He is failing to provide it despite occasional work, some temporary jobs that never turn into anything solid. Kathy hardly says anything, tries to keep it away from him so far, but they both know it. She doesn't say that he's failing. She doesn't say "so what now, it's about time we figured that out". That's not Kathy. She asks him if he has seen anything interesting, spoken to any of his connections. When he declines, she suggests he phone up this person or that person, and the fine lines on her forehead show. She mentions, casually, who she has spoken to, how she might get into work again. Kathy accepts, silently, because she is used to being disappointed. She accepts until, one day out of the blue, it gets to be too much to put up with. He knows that whatever she must have imagined his retirement from the police to be like, this can't be it. Maybe it's just the adjustment, maybe he will get used to it. Maybe, when he has a new job, things will be different. They will have fewer worries. Then again, things are not bad. It's just that he feels as if he has returned from a long, long journey, which isn't a feeling he's used to having in his own home. He is back, and now what. Eli's face lights up. Eli is bursting with energy. Eli wants his dad to come play treasure hunters with him outside. He gets far more attention than his other children ever did, than they could have had. Everything is more conscious with him. These are the good moments. Eli, blond like Kathy, equals sun.
She arranges the wedges in a baking dish in neat rows, but they won't quite fit. There is a small gap in the middle, and they overlap at the narrow ends of the oval shape. She doesn't really mind. She has never understood all the fuss about arranging and serving food. What did it matter, as long as it tasted okay? She can think of better things to do with her limited free time. When she was a child, she secretly resented the kids in her class who had moms who cooked and went to bake sales, who arranged things and packed lunch boxes. But look at that, she thought, the picture of domesticity, apron and all. She understands it now. With Calvin, she had made a point of packing his lunch every day. He hadn't even known how to react to this at first. But children need to feel secure. People need security. Even on her own, there is a strange satisfaction in making something, physically starting to prepare something, seeing it progress, finishing it. It is a clear-cut process, largely risk-free if you disregarded the knife, with a visible outcome that pleases. The word "home making" springs to mind. It is in her power to make it.
Maureen is getting married. She told them at Christmas dinner. Kathy was all smiles and congratulations. He had been shocked. Jeff? Who is this Jeff? He hardly knows the young man, has barely registered an indistinct face with a mop of extensively long hair. Kathy assures him that Jeff has been around for dinner at their house plenty of times with their daughter, that he is a nice guy who always helps clear the table after, but Elliot, as usual, has missed most of these occasions. Scheduling time with his two oldest daughters hasn't been easy, although he has seen Kathleen more regularly than his oldest. And now Maureen is getting married, all of a sudden."Why can't you be happy for me, Dad?" Why not, Maureen? Because marriage is complicated. Because you should take time to really think this through. Because you are limiting yourself. Maureen, out of all his children, has always been the most ambitious and independent. Fantastic grades, scholarships, well-spoken, focused. That's Maureen. But what can he say? She's an adult, as Kathy reminds him, Kathy who Maureen comes after in appearance. She is independent. She is years older than they were. So all that remains is the hope that this Jeff isn't a bastard, and that they wait a little before having kids. He's not ready to be a grandfather. Eli is still so little, and yet he, too, is starting to slip away, picking out his own clothes, wanting to ride his bike outside. Elliot watches restlessly, and sometimes, he can't help thinking of all those parents whose children were snatched away in an instant, just like that. He catches himself at these thoughts. They are like glass shards of past damage which got stuck inside his brain.
Her mind wanders back to the Clarke case. They have been working on it for weeks now with little progress. Their chances of finding something at this point are dwindling with each day that passes. Every hour serves as an opportunity for evidence to get lost or be tampered with, for the perp to remove himself further, for memories to fade. In some ways, stranger rapes are easier because they don't tend to turn into a he said/she said battle. But with no DNA and no similar cases to go on, there is a wide pool of possible perpetrators and no starting point. The lack of leads and the general feeling that they are standing still on this case, along with legal issues in a couple of other ones, makes her work frustrating. It has also created some tension between her and Amaro because of minor disagreements, or maybe because they are simply tired of working on this to no effect.
She really doesn't want to be thinking about this case at home, but she knows Amaro probably is and it's getting to him far more than it should. Maybe it's because the victim is a single mother struggling to get by, but she can tell he is emotionally involved. Is that a bad thing? She's not exactly the right person to preach to him about setting boundaries, but she gets the impression that he almost wants her to. It's completely normal; after all, she is more experienced. Amaro is a good cop who pulls his weight but still, she has no personal need to be anyone's "mentor". It makes for a strange partnership.
The secret is, it's not enough. It should be, but it isn't. All these years, he has missed so many things, often wishing that he could have more time to spend with Kathy and the kids. He has held a clear image of the family life he wants, the life that has been possible on their best days, with barbecues in the garden and a beer at the end of the day. Now it's here, now he can have it. Now he can forget the ugliness in this city, the perversions of human nature.
The years have inevitably changed him, but now, he can still make up for things. There is a window. He is pretty happy, or at least there is at least something to be happy about most days. Still, the hole in his life is there, and it's not just because he feels useless or because any change takes some getting used to. He has left something behind on uneasy terms, thrown it out rather than closing it neatly and tucking it away in a story album. He has left on bad terms.
She seasons the vegetables, careful not to overdo it on the ground cloves. The smell of garlic and allspice makes for a strange mixture, and she feels like she is trying to turn gingerbread into garlic bread. This can't be right, but the recipe was so particular about details such as how to "semi-crush" the garlic that it would be strange if it were an error. Well, at least her apartment will smell interesting even if the food might be a bit unusual. This is going to take so long to bake, too long, and the urge to just grab some bread and make a sandwich is hard to resist on an empty stomach. No lunch break at work today.
Is she being unreasonable about Amaro? She has tried very hard not to be, once it became clear that he's actually a pretty decent guy. She doesn't want to be one of these people with impossible standards, refusing to work with anyone just because he's…well, different. It wouldn't be fair. He's not Elliot, of course he isn't, and he shouldn't be. She has been telling herself that her hesitations about him are normal, that it just takes a bit of adjustment, that it's easy to become too set in your ways if you do the job for a long time. Knowing that it's "normal" hasn't been all that helpful though. But they have been making progress, haven't they, they have established their own routine. She has let it go. They're fine. He's a good partner.
Bang. He is torn out of his thoughts, halting in his tracks. It is only a split second before he realises it is not the familiar sound of shots he heard, but probably a firecracker. Bang, bang. Both falling. Blood. Call a bus. He can feel the hair on his forearms standing up. The appeal of firecrackers is beyond him, despite Kathleen's endless childhood fascination with fireworks. It's an innocent play with surprise and danger. He couldn't imagine anyone who had been with the Marines would find them entertaining, but he calms himself down, remembering the way his daughter's face would light up at the public displays.
As he turns the corner, he makes a decision and departs from his usual route, crossing the street towards the dark stone walls towering before him. The asphalt is sparkling in the pale glare of the streetlight, already glazed with a thin layer of frost. The bite of it makes the skin of his face sting.
This new phase in her life is a good thing. She has decided this at some point, on a random day, a Tuesday. She is past non-sensical dating, past commitment issues, past unfulfilled yearnings. She has forgiven Elliot, has forgiven herself, Simon, even her mother. She'll take life as it comes. She won't let the job finish her. It is, she reminds herself, a job. So, she fills her life with other things. She rings up Calvin regularly, although he isn't exactly talkative at the moment. She pairs up with Alex for her exercise routine. She goes to bars. Well, a bar. Hell, she has even been to a girls' softball game and exchanged friendly words with a defence attorney. Who told her that the secret was having other things. Relaxation. She is relaxed. She'll leave caring too much to Amaro and Rollins, the fresh brains, for a while.
After all, counting too much on one thing, on one person, would be…well, bad. She takes a sip of her wine and grabs some bread sticks before settling on the sofa. There is no point in brooding over all this again. She needs to build a network of people. Period. And right now, she really needs her late dinner.
The door is not locked. It isn't supposed to be anyway, but it surprises him that there is all this trust going around tonight. It's pitch black inside, except for a couple of emergency lights on the ceiling and the soft, dancing lights around the small candles at the very front. The familiar smell of humidity and frankincense puts a weight into the pit of his stomach. It feels right; it's the feeling only an old church like this one can rouse in him, a building that carries in its history the whispers of those asking for shelter. Nowhere else do the story of Christ's sacrifice and the dynamics of sin and redemption feel so real to him. It reminds him of his childhood, of kneeling at the altar and swallowing down his rage.
As he walks down the aisle, the sound of his feet hitting the cold stone floor seems amplified in the empty building. The sparsely illuminated images of torture and death along the high walls could be frightening, but in a way, he is at home here. The candles are flickering, drawing him closer. Each candle represents one memory of a dead person. There are so many here. How many of them died too soon? The surrounding darkness makes them shine more brightly. Yes, this is where he belongs.
The explosion of a cracker nearly has her dropping her glass. People are celebrating early. Good for them, if slightly annoying. She can't wait to see 2011 go. It has been one hell of a year. She approaches the window, draws back the curtain slightly and takes a look at the frost-glazed street. There is no one out there, absolutely no one except for the cars driving by on the main road. People must be making their way to parties right about now, if they aren't already there. She doesn't mind staying home. It's better than being stuck in some inane conversation with some guy she isn't interested in. In any case, tonight is one of those "high risk" nights where the precinct gets more calls than usual. There's too much alcohol involved, too much carelessness and lowered inhibitions. She expects to return to a huge workload in a couple of days.
They are celebrating the end of one more year. It's a good thing, and still, she can't shake the feeling that something is off, that something irreversible is happening here. This year was full of "lasts" and now, just losing the year itself makes her restless. She wishes it had passed already. Then she wouldn't have to "review" all the things ending with the year in her mind, could stop being sentimental and focus on other matters. Clinging to things, recounting them so they won't get lost as if it's the last opportunity to ever do so, is pointless.
He kneels down in the front pew. These wooden benches never get any more comfortable, and his knees are already complaining. But he needs a moment. There is something he wants to say, something he needs to ask, but it's just beyond his reach. He prays, as he always does, The Lord's Prayer. "Our Father" are the words and the idea he likes best, an idea meant to be comforting. And yes, he does wish for his trespasses to be forgiven. Next, he gives thanks for his life, his health, his children's health and happiness, his wife, their life together this past year. He prays for each of his children individually, asking that they be protected, knowing that they face the same risks as everyone else, knowing that God seems to act completely arbitrary in who he protects, but still praying that his kids are the exception, that they be spared, because that would be enough. He confesses his doubt, his lack of understanding for this injustice, but he can't quite get himself to ask for forgiveness for this doubt. It is what it is.
At this point, there is nothing left to say. And still, he hasn't said it yet, the thing he isn't able to "run off" tonight. It is neither a question nor a request. "Please" is the only word that comes to mind. It's a yearning tucked away in a box he doesn't want to open. An uncertainty that weighs, laden with guilt.
She wants to call him, but she isn't going to start this again. Picking up the phone, setting down the phone, dialing, erasing. They've talked, they've settled that and closed that chapter amicably. It's yesterday's game. It would hurt more, in the long run. It would be bad for both of them, but for her the most. Yes, a lot of time has passed, but that would only make it worse. Things have returned to normal, and phoning him would make her miss him. She won't go into that.
Then again, the ball is in her court because of the stupid card. The only one she gets each year, not counting the one from Cragen, which he pretty much sends to the entire department. She hadn't counted on it this year, but no, he had to go and send one and throw her off. It wasn't like it was a profound one. It was your basic Wal Mart "Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year" with only "Happy new year. All the best for 2012. -El" scribbled inside. Not exactly poetic or indebting. She might suspect Kathy's initiative behind the Christmas card and some awkward need to send it out of politeness, except for the trees. The card depicts a snowy forest by night and she recalls telling him, during some late boring shift, of her dislike for the Santa Clause story and all that Christmas merchandise, but her liking for winter and snow. To this day, he has never given her a Santa card. The thought makes her smile. It's the kind of thing only he would know. Was.
I need to know. I need certainty. But as odd as this change feels as reality is starting to settle around him, isn't he secretly relieved? Just a little? It's over. His time has been served and the debt to society has been more than paid. Has it? He is done. He has further duties now which, he vows, he will fulfil. I will do my best. He should be satisfied with all the things he has in his life. That is the best thing he can do now, really, despite the girl who was lost because of his gun shot, the girl who was failed. I'm sorry. He has prayed for her, many times over even though it won't do much good now. He can't keep going over every case, every other person, every other unresolved question and choice he has made in his life. He will lose his mind if he does. I'm sorry. He needs to stop looking back, and yet that feels like a betrayal, too. I'm sorry.
He is looking for security here, within these walls, although he knows he should be able to find God anywhere. But sometimes, he can't. Maybe this, too, will get easier now, or maybe the need for it has just lessened. Yearnings dull with time. There will be no more double life, no more conflicts of loyalty. It is easier this way. And still, part of him wants to sink even deeper into the dark pit he has abandoned. To drown in all the sorrow with her. Or just sit in the car with her for an afternoon, one afternoon only, sipping coffee in comfortable silence. Forgive me. And please watch over her, too. He has chosen light.
She takes another sip of wine to dull the ache. "Was" is the operative word. She will look forward. And back, too, but not in regret. She will not look back in anger.
He kneels in silence for a moment. As usual, no answer comes.