Elliot sighs quietly when the phone goes unanswered the first time he calls. He places the receiver back on its cradle and waits a moment before picking it up again. He presses down the redial key with trepidation and hold the phone to his ear, simultaneously drumming his fingers on the surface of his desk. This time, the phone rings all the way to the voice mail, and continues halfway through his monotonous answering-machine message before he hears the soft click indicating that she's picked up.
"Hello?" She answers, her voice unsure.
"Hi, Olivia."
On the other end of the line, there is silence. He can hear the crackle and pop of the connection, and the soft, almost imperceptible inhale and exhale as she breathes. She doesn't speak, only listens. She does so often, thinking about the situation in her own mind and spinning it around until she thinks she's got enough control over it to be comfortable. He knows she's alert, waiting for him, primed for the words to come out of his mouth.
"It's Elliot," he states, hoping that she hasn't forgotten. Some days since the accident five years ago, although rare, are good. She can remember her life, and his name, and their relationship. Other days, the unfortunately frequent ones, she finds herself trapped into the hell of her empty memory.
On the other end of the connection, silence prevails a reaction to his words.
"Everything OK?" he tries again, because after five years of it, he knows how to get her to respond. He focuses on asking her questions about herself. Questions she can identify with, ones for which she can provide an answer.
"Elliot," she murmurs, and he can hear the recognition seeping into her voice. He knows she hasn't forgotten, because he's all too used to her voice when she's panicked and scared, and right now she's nowhere near the blatant hysteria that bleeds from her in the morning when she wakes up, when she forgets her entire life all over again.
He grins, and the relief floods through him as if his last exhalation was the barrage sliding open and allowing the emotion to wash across him. "How are you?"
"I'm fine."
An awkward silence passes. Their lives are filled with awkward silences. The void where her memory used to be is a gigantic hole and the silence blows in, taking up every corner of her mind.
"What've you been doing?" he prods, hoping to get a better feel for her state of mind.
"Nothing." She is silent for a moment. "I watched a bit of T.V." Her voice is calm and quiet and all the things he knows she's normally not. She's unhappy, and he can tell right away.
"I'm gonna head home now. I'll be there soon," he tells her, leaning forward in his chair and planting his elbows on his desk.
"Okay," she acknowledges.
"See you in a bit," Elliot stands. "I love you." He says it with conviction, and he's taken to saying it often, even if she won't remember it. He's just desperate for her to understand it, even for the shortest of moments. And although he would never blame her, he dreadfully wants her to reciprocate the words. He would die to hear them grace her lips. She never does though, and it's understandable. To her, he is a total stranger every morning.
He can't expect her to love a stranger.
"Bye," she says, and he hears the soft click of the telephone being replaced onto its cradle.
He walks to the door of the Captain's office, and knocks three times quickly with his knuckle before opening the door.
"Elliot," Cragen looks up from the pile of unordered papers scattered across his desk, and the stick of red liquorice that dangles from his fingertips. "What can I do for you?" His face has aged with the years, hardened with the cases, but he is ultimately still the same empathetic man Elliot first met.
"I just got off the phone with Olivia." He starts, and that alone is enough to get his captain's full attention. Apart from Olivia's neurologist, Cragen is the only one to whom Elliot has divulged all the details of her condition.
"Everything okay?" he asks, slightly weary.
"I'm actually going to head home, if that's okay…doesn't sound like she was doing all that great over the phone, so…" Elliot tucks his hands into his pockets and leans against the doorframe.
"Elliot…" Cragen sighs. He sets down the liquorice on the pad for his mouse, and drums his fingers anxiously on the mahogany of his desk, as if he dreads the words he's about to speak. "I understand your situation. And trust me, I want her to get better. I really, really do. No one deserves to be happier." He caps his pen and places it on the desk before folding his hands in front of himself, his thumbs twiddling, but his appearance otherwise calm. "However, it's been like this for a while now. You have a job. You have a duty here to fulfill. I can't keep letting you go home half-way through the work day every time it seems she's maybe not entirely happy -,"
"Not entirely happy?" Elliot cuts him off, his voice sceptical. "Not entirely happy? Do you have any idea what it's like for her? Can you even imagine what she goes through every day?"
"Elliot," Cragen chides. "I understand this. I do. But I'm your boss and it's my job to make sure you do yours. You're here getting paid as much as the other detectives who stay here and work cases all day and often all night. As a friend, I stand behind you. But as a commanding officer…something's got to change. You spend half your time investigating her accident -,"
"It wasn't an accident, Cap, someone attack-,"
"I know." Cragen sighs. "I know. But try to understand me here, Elliot."
"I love my job," Elliot says lowly, from under furrowed brows. "But I love her more. And she'll always be first. Always."
"Have you considered sending her to the Institution during the day?"
"She's not a fucking loony. She's perfectly capable. She just…she gets scared, that's all," Elliot defends. He's taken to being very quick about defending her, readily standing up fiercely to any criticisms or judgements toward her.
"Sending her there for the day doesn't mean there's anything necessarily wrong with her," Cragen reminds him. "It's just a safe place for her when you're at work."
Elliot scoffs. "Are you kidding me? She'd rip my balls off."
Cragen pulls a half-smile, just a small tug of his lips. After a heavy sigh, Cragen waves his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Go, Elliot. Take care of her." He leans back in his chair, warning in his eyes. "But figure something out, okay? This can't continue forever."
Elliot nods, and pushes off the doorframe. He paces back to his desk and presses the power button on his computer, not bothering to shut it down properly. He slings his jacket over his arm and grabs a stack of unfinished paperwork before quickly exiting the squad room before anyone can change their minds and make him stay.
Often, he thinks quitting would be so much easier. But they live off his salary, and Olivia could never hold a steady job.
Olivia stands in the bedroom, the closet door opened wide to reveal the body length mirror hung on the back. She stands on the carpet before it, staring at her own reflection.
This is me, she thinks; as she watches the stranger in the mirror tentatively prod her cheek. This is me. This is me.
If she looks hard, she can see bits and pieces of herself from when she was younger. She woke up this morning thinking she was twelve, living with Serena, and late for school. Instead she was greeted by the creases on her face, thinner hair, and breasts droopier than she'd wanted. The startled yelp of shock that had erupted from her frozen lips earlier today had roused the sleeping man beside her, the man claiming to be her husband.
I'm Elliot, he'd said. And he'd explained everything. An accident. Memory trouble. You're forty-six. It's okay; don't be scared, I'm here for you.
With a violent burst, she reaches out and yanks hard on the door handle, slamming the closet shut. The mirror on the back of the door vibrates with the force of the impact, but all she cares about is that the stranger is gone now. Gone. Just like decades of her life, and all the precious moments between.
The emotion raises up inside her, powerful, a churning ball of frustration and anger and sadness. She cannot control herself.
She picks up a small ornamental glass bird from the bookshelf behind her, and angrily hurls it at the floor. Instead of crashing satisfactorily into tiny crystallized shards with the shattering clash she had hoped for, it dings a mark on the floorboards and the tail of the bird breaks off. Instantly she feels guilty, and the unexpected flash of anger evaporates. It could be one of Elliot's prised possessions, maybe from his parents (if he has any) or an expensive gift from a friend.
She quickly gathers the two pieces in her hand and rushes to the kitchen, where she digs through the drawers until she finds the glue. She uncaps it and carefully sticks the tail back onto the body. Excess glue oozes from the sides when she pushes down, and she wipes the stickiness away with her fingers. Returning to the bedroom, she hides the bird behind a box on the dresser, not wanting Elliot to find it. She is terrified of upsetting him, of alienating the only person she knows.
"I broke the bird, Elliot, I'm sorry," she says quickly, when they are seated at the small dining table eating Italian takeout. She holds her breath. Her hands wriggle in her lap, her nails picking restlessly at her cuticles.
"What?" His face holds an expression of genuine confusion.
"The glass one in the bedroom," she explains nervously. "I broke it."
Elliot doesn't answer, just stares at her with piercing eyes, and chews slowly.
"You're mad," she states, nodding and looking down at her plate of food.
"No," he contradicts, clearing his throat. "I'm not mad. Where is it?"
"I'll get it," she says quickly, and jumps up from her seat. She shuffles quickly into the bedroom and reaches behind the box, closing her fingers gingerly around the delicate decoration. She relaxes in the private of the bedroom, the red tingle leaving her cheeks gradually, and her heartbeat slowing. Slowly, the embarrassment wears off. She walks back into the dining room, where he is leaning back in his chair waiting.
"It was an accident," she murmurs, and sets the bird down in the palm of his hand. He inspects her poor glue job, before placing the bird on the table.
"How did it happen?" He asks, and his gaze is imploring yet his voice remains casual.
"I don't…it happened all of a sudden," she explains, trying to tell him about the anger that had washed over her without sounding completely pathetic. "I got so mad…and it was there…"
He nods, understanding flashing through his features. "That's normal. Sometimes you get upset and you can't always control it. It's okay." He smiles at her, but it isn't genuine and she can tell he's holding things back from her. She wants to demand to know everything, but warns herself against angering him further.
"Was it a present?" She asks, testing the waters. She doesn't
"Yes." He nods and picks up his fork, pushing some food around on his plate. "Are you going to finish?" he gestures to her place, and the food still cooling in front of her. She sits down and imitates him, poking her fork into the vegetables.
"Who gave it to you?" She continues, not wanting the awkward silences that are far too common between them.
"Uh," he pauses, and sets down his fork again. "You did, actually. A long time ago." She watches quietly as a wave of sadness crosses his eyes.
She lies in the same bed where she woke up, on the same side, and under the same heavy comforter. It is late at night and she is tired, but she fights it. A melancholy surrounds her when she realizes that tomorrow when she wakes, she will have forgotten everything. She'll have to learn everything all over again. She wonders how tired Elliot must be of this pitiful routine.
In the bathroom, the sink turns off and the light extinguishes, and Elliot walks casually to the bed in a pair of black boxers. Her gaze travels the hard planes of his chest, the graceful bulge of his muscles.
Her eyes flutter closed when he plunks down on the mattress beside her, and pulls the comforter over himself. He shifts around until he is pressed against her side, her every curve heated as his body melds to hers. She is still, absorbing the new feeling of this man so close to her.
Her eyes snap open when his lips whisper against her neck, his breath washing out across the arch of her shoulder. His arm wraps tightly around his upper waist and his hand tickles along her ribcage, his searching fingers stopping right below the curve of her breast.
"Um…" she exhales, her voice unsure and shaky.
"Shhhh…" he whispers, his voice almost inaudible. He lifts himself up on his elbow and leans over her, his eyes searching her face, his gaze slipping over her. He shifts forward, and presses his lips to hers. They are warm and soft, and insistent when he doesn't receive a response from her. She lays there, docile like road kill, trying to convince herself to move her lips, her hands, to react to his offers. Her heart beats too loudly in her ears and her arms feel like lead.
Elliot's hand moves up the rest of the way and he slowly lays his palm flat over her breast. He exhales loudly against her mouth at the intimate contact.
"Elliot…" she tries, twisting her neck to the side slightly. It breaks the connection, but he only refastens his lips to her earlobe, suckling gently. His hand tenses and he gives her breast a gentle but firm squeeze, stroking his thumb across her nipple. She feels his erection against the side of her hip.
"Elliot…I'm tired. I just want to sleep now," she murmurs, the red once again tingeing her cheeks. Unconsciously, her hand comes up and pushes on his shoulder, placing distance between them. "I'm sorry. Not tonight."
He pauses above her, stilling and removing his hand from her body like she has burned him. He closes his eyes and sighs softy, though he tries to hide it from her, and them smiles at her lovingly.
"Okay." He rolls away from her and takes her hand, giving it a squeeze. "I'm sorry sweetheart." He lets her hand drop and turns away from her, onto his side. "Good night." She can tell, from the way he stays absolutely still, that he is upset.
She wonders how many times this happens. How many times he comes to her for sex and she turns him away.
"Goodnight," she murmurs back. She wants to feel something, anything, but her heart denies her. She is incapable of feeling because she has nothing to feel for. She is but an empty shell.
She lays flat on her back and closes her eyes, willing sleep to come.
