Author's Chapter Notes:
"In chains yet still bold."
***
She wakes up, and he is gone. And only the post-it note on the mirror surprises her.
Everything is running behind this morning, because Elliot not only decided to get up before her alarm sounded, but he also deemed it necessary to shut it off all together. So it is almost ten o'clock in the morning by the time she paces into work.
Elliot's monitor and desk lamp are lit, and a surge of gladness overwhelms her before it settles, cohabitating with the frustration that now simmers behind everything in her life that he touches. As sure as the phases of the moon, they have experienced a genuine and soul-baring interlude, and now he is avoiding her and she wants to be annoyed at him for it, but her energy levels are flagging and she thinks she's almost numb to this shit by now. She's not sure what that's called, but she's a cynic so she'll pretend that it's their very own fucked-up brand of intimacy.
"Morning, Sunshine," Munch quips from his chair. His eyes follow her as she trudges to her desk. "On behalf of New York's Finest, thank you for gracing us with your presence this morning."
"Shut up, John," she mutters wearily, backing cautiously into her seat.
He smirks. "Shouldn't you be in a better mood?"
"I don't know. Are you taking another sick day?"
"Cute," he retorts dryly. "Although I was referring to the fact that your partner's finally back."
You have no idea, she thinks, shrugging. "A lot of good it's going to do. I'm stuck here."
"Small price to pay—" he starts, but the ringing of his telephone interrupts him. "Munch." Several seconds pass before he frowns. "You left it on my desk? Why… I don't see it… No… Yeah, I looked. Last I checked, Tutuola, a medical leave of absence is not the equivalent of a demotion to your goddamn secretary…"
Amused in spite of herself, Olivia looks away and begins her morning work routine. She is halfway through a dozen new e-mails in her inbox when Cragen emerges from his office. Elliot is behind him.
"Munch," he barks.
"Captain?"
"Finish what you're doing. You're with Elliot today."
Olivia studiously keeps her eyes on her work, but she catches Munch's scowl in her periphery.
Cragen purses his lips. It makes him look older. "Is there a problem?"
"Aside from the fact that my last outing with Elliot ended with me nursing a bullet wound on my partner's couch for two weeks—" he holds up a folder. "I'm already on a case."
"Give it to Olivia."
"It's not desk. We're still doing interviews."
"Where the hell's Fin?"
"P.S. 274. We're meeting in fifteen."
The manpower problem has reared its ugly head, yet again, and Cragen frowns. She's sure there is a solution here, something like, Olivia, just be careful and go with Elliot – but this does not seem to occur to either of the three men whose brows pucker in contemplation.
Olivia has never been the last one picked in any team sporting event, but she feels like the fat kid on the bleachers right about now. And she doesn't like it.
"I can—" she starts. Cragen cuts her off.
"No."
"Captain—"
"You need to take it easy."
"Elliot?"
"He's right, Liv—"
She glowers at him. "I can still investigate a goddamn crime scene, Elliot. Captain," and it sounds like a whine, even to her. "I'll be careful."
If it is possible, Cragen's mouth tightens even more; he'd look like a child with a lemon sucker, if it wasn't for the crevices that wrinkles and time have etched into his face.
Seconds pass before he finally huffs in defeat, and by then she already has her jacket on.
"This is the last time," he warns.
The metaphorical lemon sucker has been given to Elliot, who starts for the door with a tight-ass look on his face that is as endearing in its familiarity as it is annoying.
"You said that last time," she throws over her shoulder with a small smile. She and Elliot are going to a crime scene, and the world almost feels normal again.
***
They are back.
Square one.
The drawing board.
A single-celled organism in cosmic goo.
The silence in the sedan is oppressive as Elliot easily manuevers them through downtown traffic. The radio is off.
They both stare straight ahead. She would give the brand new baby monitor in her closet to know what he's thinking. She would give up the breast pump to know what exactly is going through her own mind.
There are several conversations that could be started at this moment.
What happened last night? That's a good one. She might be able to use that one. Except it makes her sound like a clingy college co-ed who just got screwed over by the star quarterback. And Elliot's way past his prime pigskin days.
Who am I to you? No. Too existential.
What the hell is your problem? Too combative.
Why are you like this? Too vague. Besides, it's Elliot, and he probably doesn't know the answer to that one, either.
Everything of substance she can say is being vetoed by the majority of her brain, and the silence builds and builds until she feels suffocated by it, and nothing witty is coming to mind yet so the only thing that bubbles up from her throat and out of her mouth is—
"Are you okay?" she blurts. She shifts in her seat to look at him.
At her question, Elliot blinks. Swallows twice. His hands flex on the wheel. The muscle in his jaw bunches.
Stillness pervades.
Exhaling angrily, she turns back in her seat and looks out the window. His silence is a gas leak and she's done playing with matches.
Square one. Cosmic goo. Horseshit.
***
The sun dances across the murky waters of the Hudson as Elliot parks. Warner is already at the scene; she silently appraises Olivia's shape as she turns to greet them.
"Morning," she calls dryly as Olivia passes under the crime scene tape that Elliot wordlessly holds up. "Good to see you both. Elliot," she nods. "You're looking much better."
He jerks his head in acknowledgement. "Thanks. What've we got here?"
"Male victim, late twenties, early thirties," she begins, leading them to the black bag with CORONER emblazoned on the side. "He's been beaten, so I'm assuming cause of death is hemhorraging caused by blunt force trauma to the skull and abdomen. Among other things."
Olivia frowns. "And this one's ours?"
"This was lodged in his rectal cavity," Warner explains, holding up a large plastic bag. Inside is a bloody cheerleading baton. "Judging from the angle, depth of penetration and the amount of blood, I'd say the baton probably perforated the large intestine."
No, Olivia tells herself as her stomach defiantly twists and clenches. Now is not the time.
Elliot nods. "Any prints?"
You've seen worse, Olivia screams desperately at her stomach as the tech answers. You've seen much worse. Grow up.
But it's too late, and her legs are carrying her to the railing overlooking the river and she doesn't think she'll make it but she cannot, she can NOT, vomit in front of Elliot in the middle of a fucking crime scene and—
She unceremoniously hurls her breakfast into the river, her fingers clenching the metal pole of the safety rail. The wind whips through her hair and she utters thanks to whoever is in control that she didn't puke on herself.
Unaccustomed to the sudden upheaval within, her daughter gives three hearty kicks. Olivia moans.
And he is yards away but she could swear she hears Elliot sigh.
***
"I'm not a fucking invalid," she snaps as soon as he shuts the car door.
"Nobody said you were," he replies. He is too damn calm as he backs the sedan onto the street.
"They don't need to say it."
"It happens to all of us."
"When they're fucking green, maybe. And it doesn't happen to me."
"Things change," he mutters.
She can't argue with that, but she fights the irrational urge to do so. Their light turns green and they pull forward cautiously; Elliot's been obsessive about intersections ever since Eli was born.
Eli…
Screw it.
"What happened last night?" she asks, proud at how even her voice sounds.
Elliot starts before visibly making himself relax, which, as far as she can tell, is progress. He swallows. "What… what exactly are you asking?"
"I'm asking why I woke up to a post-it note."
"Got up early," he shrugs.
"Elliot."
"I don't know what you want to hear from me right now," he sighs.
"Are you planning to—"
"Look, Olivia," he begins, and it's not angry or frustrated or pissy. It's tired. "I couldn't sleep. I thought about my kids. I thought about my family… they're on a fucking loop in my head. They're always in my head and I… I keep thinking about what I'm giving up."
She freezes, horrified. "You know I would never ask—"
"It's not about you," he clarifies. "It's just… I… I don't know how to do this right now."
Olivia struggles to keep her face impassive, because Elliot is talking to her like she's more than a pregnant, burdensome police officer who helped him fuck around on his wife. So she nods in acknowledgment and sits quietly for the rest of the ride, marinating in her own adolescent insecurities and memories of her mother.
***
She returns from the bathroom to find a post-it on her desk. Elliot's eyes don't stray from his computer monitor as she picks it up and sits down.
Kurt Moss, she deciphers through Elliot's scrawl. It is followed by a familiar number.
"You answering my phone now?" she asks, eyebrow cocked. He shrugs, his eyes on the screen.
"Wouldn't stop ringing."
She dials the number with a heavy sigh; Kurt answers on the third ring.
"I saw you called," she says by way of greeting.
"Yeah, thanks for calling. Do you have a minute?" he asks quickly.
Great. "Yes, I have a minute. I called you. What is it?"
"Two things, quickly. I'm looking at strollers—"
"Kurt—" she sighs. She can feel Elliot's eyes boring into the top of her head as she rests her face on her hand.
"Just listen," he insists. "I know you like to run—"
"Liked to run."
"—so I'm trying to decide on a running stroller or one of those regular ones… what's this one called?" he asks someone. Olivia can hear a muffled answer. "A 'pram?' Thank you. Olivia, would you rather have a running stroller or a pram?"
"Kurt. We discussed this. You are not shopping for me."
"I know what we discussed. And you need a stroller."
"I have a stroller," she protests. And she does. Sort of. She's dog-eared a page of the Babies R' Us catalogue. Circled her dream stroller and planned on paying cash on her next payday.
"Not like this, you don't. This one's by Schwinn, the bike people… it's got a drinkholder, a place for your iPod—"
"I don't have an iPod."
"—a see-through canopy—"
"I'm hanging up now."
"Oliv—"
She replaces the phone with a grimace; Kurt's reappearance in her life has meant watching him attempt to compensate for his previous absence by jumping into fatherhood with both feet. It would be funny if he wasn't so damn overbearing about it. And fuck, she just remembered that Kurt said there were two things; she'd hung up on him before he could get both of them out. Oh well.
And now there is Elliot, staring at her with an expression that makes her think of words like "flabbergasted" and "thunderstruck." And not in the good ways.
He looks like he wants to say something, so she props her arms on her desk and waits. Their eyes meet and she stares at him expectantly, watching the wheels turn.
She doesn't have to wait long.
"Kurt's back," he says. It isn't a question.
She nods, gauging his reaction.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
His jaw works, and she knows he is trying to look casual by the way the muscle twitches as he keeps his forehead smooth. His knuckles are white around his pen. "Are you two… are you with him?" he asks quietly.
What? "God, no," she answers quickly.
He visibly loosens, and the atmosphere between them relaxes slightly. "Then why—"
Because he's the ass I picked up to scratch an itch. Because I kept him around too long. Because he's one-half of my daughter. "He's the father." The phrase sounds shopworn before it even leaves her mouth, but almost everything about them is used and tattered these days, so go figure.
Elliot doesn't react the way she thought he would, with desks flung aside and flames of possessive anger shooting out of his nostrils. There is the knitting of his brow and a glare. And then he is still for a moment, reading her expression before settling back in his chair. "You're okay with that?"
Not really. "It's not just about what I want. You have kids, you know that."
He looks down. "I do know that," he replies after a moment, frowning at the pen in his hands.
"He just wants to be involved, so… he'll be around more."
Elliot nods slowly. "Huh."
This is as good a segue as any, so she forges ahead. "What about you?"
He looks up. "'What about me?'" he repeats blankly.
"Will you? Be around, I mean," she asks, swallowing back an irrational wave of anxiety at the idea that he might not want to be.
Then Elliot looks at her for several moments, really looks at her, and his eyes are so clear it makes her feel like she's staring into the bottom of a pool. A lake with shipwrecks and seamonsters. She wishes she knew what he sees when he sees her. She wishes she knew what he was thinking.
"Do you want me around?" he finally asks.
Want.
In a perfect world, she would have the words to tell him that preferring and wanting and desiring things are a thing of the past for her. That she's made her choices and now she is following through. That she's not sure she can be herself without him. That she sometimes wishes she wasn't so goddamn codependent.
But she doesn't know how to say any of that. "Yeah," she answers, nodding.
His expression is inscrutable. "Then I'll be here," he says after a long moment. They stare at each other, unblinking. And then he turns back to his computer.
And for now, that's all she needs to hear.
***