POST-RAGE

"Every one is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody"

– Mark Twain

"You say you see something in me. Well, I see something in you, too. You think you control? You can't. You're controlled... by your boss, by your job, by your wife, by your kids. What would you be if all those controls went away?"

Rickett's voice is a wild whisper in Elliot's ear. The repetition of "I see something in you, too" sticks in his head like a bad song lyric. He's always been afraid of the lingering effects of his childhood abuse. Memories of his father's hostility and the beatings had always left him wondering what would happen if he did lose all his controls.

"I'd be you."

And that would be it, wouldn't it? Simple as that. There is but a thin line that separates Elliot the Righteous Cop from Elliot the Ticking Time Bomb, and even he is not sure where the breaking point lies.

The tension between the two of them – bad cop, bad guy – had rolled around the squad room and everyone had felt it. Elliot wanted nothing more than to break Rickett on his own, to prove that he was nothing but a child-raping, vengeful, weak, and stupid man. But the thing is, Rickett isn't stupid. He's calculating and in tune with his inner monster, so much so that it nearly frightens Elliot. Rickett read him like a pop-up book, taking away all the excuses and layers and getting to the beast within that Elliot always thought was buried too deep for anyone to find.

Now he wonders if Rickett is special, or if everyone around him can see it.

Olivia must see it. She took that shot. And he sees red just thinking of her face so he recognizes that he can't be around her right now. At work, luckily, they still pretend they are just partners. They could be the only ones in the squad room, or even the precinct; nevertheless, they are nothing but professional. They go home separately. They argue loudly and unweidlingly.

However, when Elliot chooses not to argue with her, that is when he's most volatile.

His knuckles, now dried with blood and throbbing, had taken the brunt of his rage toward her. It had climaxed; grown inside his bones, once contained within the marrow and calcium density, until it was in his blood. Every time his rage opened skin on his fists, he bled it out. And he enjoyed the warm, coppery release.

The last place he belongs tonight is here, but his feet seem to walk themselves into the crowded bar three blocks from his apartment. He scans the room, taking in the atmosphere. Throngs of people scatter the room, with their dark clothes and the red and black wallpaper blending together. The cool air reeks of Midori and limes, a signature of the drink the women who frequent places like this enjoy.

Eyes from across the room snap to his like a heat seeking missile. He can tell as she walks over that she's not looking for something of permanence; the gleam in her soft blue, half-lidded eyes flickers from the lowlights of the chandeliers. The combination of long, brunette locks and pale skin along with stunning blue eyes sends his hormones into overdrive. She is different. She doesn't know him. He's rough and ready and flirts a good game when he's pissed. He knows some women are just drawn to an aura of angst.

He thinks not of his ex wife or of Olivia. He sees only blue and brown, and a mesmerizing pink curve of lip as he thinks about how warm and velvety she would be to sink into. He imagines his hips slamming into hers with no restraint, no strings. Just once, he wants to be that man. The one who doesn't imagine his daughter at the receiving end of a monster, the one who doesn't see his partner as anything more than the archetypal abstract officer.

Their conversation is not strained; instead it's loaded with innuendos. She tells him she's in marketing, early 30s, not interested in marriage or family. He tells her he's a personal trainer, and he attributes his battered fists to this as she takes one hand in hers and traces the clotted blood patterns with an animalistic flare of her nostrils.

"My place is around the corner. I could use a personal session," the beautiful stranger murmurs seductively, pressing her youthful, succulent frame into his. The feel is alluring, yes, but the voice somehow is all wrong.

As if by fate, his phone vibrates in his pocket and recognition focuses. His control is once again lost to the woman on the other line because he's reminded of her and now he knows. He knows why this is all wrong.

"You couldn't handle me," is all he says as he throws back the remainder of his drink and tosses a worn twenty on the circular table before abruptly leaving the brunette with her mouth agape.

Elliot wanted to fuck her hard and fast, to hear the slap of skin on skin so that when he was done, he could get up and leave the room before the permeation of sweat and dissatisfaction registered in his senses. Something invisible held him back - still holds him back as he walks the hard cement back to his apartment. He could turn into any bar he passes and grab a fuck buddy, but the thing inside him resists.

And then he realizes the difference between him and Rickett isn't control. It's not people or things keeping him from being a murderous criminal.

That thing is his conscience. He has one.

It's that small voice in the back of his head that tells him when he's making a terrible decision, or tells him when to stop, or leads him in the right direction. It's the same voice that empathizes with victims and children and holds disdain for the people who hurt them.

His conscience.

As he rounds the corner to his block, he pulls his phone from his pocket. The voicemail symbol in the corner tugs at the corner of his mouth. A part of him is always afraid she'll see the things in him that he's tried so desperately to hide and be repulsed by them. He should know better, seeing as how she's got her own demons to battle.

He's ultimately surprised as he drags his feet to his stoop to find her sitting there, huddled in her puffy black coat and clutching a blue coffee cup. She's not omniscient, so he knows she can't read into what happened just twenty minutes ago and how he almost became the kind of man he despises.

She looks almost fragile against the grand door in the entryway; her knees nearly glued together and feet splayed more than a foot apart like a child. Her eyes meet his and all his anguish dissipates.

"Elliot," Olivia whispers, eying his bruised knuckles with a furrowed brow. "I was worried."

Taking a quick glance at his watch, he sees that it's 2:48 in the morning, and he understands her concern. He doesn't know how long she's been waiting, but really, it doesn't matter anymore.

"I know," he replies, pressing the hand she's grasping at to her cheek. "It's nothing. Just letting out some steam."

With one touch, he feels healed. Everything behind her sparkling brown eyes is everything he's ever needed. He's not a monster. He doesn't despise this broken set of hands. These same hands have bled and fought and brought pain, but they have loved. They have held babies and interlocked fingers and brought pleasure to the woman he loves.

And hers have forgiven.

The sympathy in her eyes melts his heart, and he pulls her up so she's eye level to him, one step up. Tonight he came very close to losing the one good thing that he's chosen to keep in his life. His embrace is eager and clingy, but she doesn't question. She doesn't fight or pull away.

She's the opposite of every woman he's ever known.

He may be close, but he is yet to be broken. He pulls himself back and holds her at arms length. He's so overcome with the desire to take her inside and hold her that he misses the cue inside of him that warns him that she's not about to let this go, his relief keeps the noise from breaking through.

The questioning may not be vocal, but there is a hesitation in her step. She follows, tamping down the screaming in her head. So much has happened over the last few days, and there is a dark cloud she can feel looming overhead. Olivia turns to shut the door and takes a moment to suppress the tears that blur her eyes before she turns to join him. It hurts almost more than the anger and distance.

The door closes on the whiskey and perfume.

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