Set: Season 22.
Summary: After 9 years apart Olivia finds Elliot in a motel room, wounded and drinking himself half to death.
Dedications: This update is a belated birthday present to the lovely JessR, Nikki, Lisa and Caty (all the Nov & Dec babies!). I was originally aiming to give you all one individually but this is all I've had in my tank as of late (and nevermind that it's prob my most depressing hot shot to date lmao my bad).
Anyway I hope you enjoy!
And a Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night. X
WHITE NOISE
It's the look in her eyes that hits him first.
Bewilderment mixed with sheer wrath.
Nine years, and this is what it has come down to, a fiery exchange in a motel doorway.
Her eyes drop to his bare torso, the fresh gash drawing her immediate attention, her eyes fixated on the open wound just beneath his lowest rib.
"You're bleeding."
Her voice is lower, much deeper than he remembers and there is a wealth of anguish in her eyes that he knows can't just be from tonight.
Her eyes motion towards the stained motel mattress behind him indicating that he shouldn't be standing in his state but he doesn't move.
She sighs, taking a step forward, her bare palm making contact with his chest as she closes the door with her other.
She steps him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sinks downward with a grunt, instantly missing the firm, fleeting, welcome force of her hand.
She grasps the neck of the vodka bottle from the side table, dousing the already bloodied washer from the edge of her bed, her knees cracking as she crouches downward, her voice stern as she tells him to hold still.
He doesn't flinch when she raises the soaked rag to his open flesh despite knowing it's going to hurt like a mother-fucker because there is a sick part of him that craves it - the searing burn, brought on by her hand.
He knows she wants to hurt him, nine years, and this is the closest thing she has to retribution and she's going to take it.
He wants her to.
Sickening pain claws through the raw cut like rapid flames and he howls in response, his fingers curling vehemently into the mattress so he doesn't grab her wrist. He deserves this he thinks, every goddamn second of this pain – hell she could drag him through the fiery pits of hell for eternity and they still wouldn't be even.
"You need to get this checked out."
Her voice is much harsher than his grip on the mattress and she is talking rapidly now, a plethora of pent up grievances spilling out of her that he can't quite coherently piece together. His eyes slip closed as a rush of blood surges towards the fresh wound, his palms starting to perspire, his mind blanking as the swill of alcohol spurs through his blood stream, competing with the whirring sounds of the broken TV blinking at him from the corner.
His attention moves towards the stray vodka bottle now capped on the beside table and he reaches out, his fingertips only just grasping the tip as he slips it towards him with a grunt. The glass drags loudly across wood, the swill of liquid within a reminder of how easy it would be to dilute his feelings right now, not to mention the unrelenting pain searing through his torso.
He should wait until she leaves he thinks, but there isn't time.
He screws off the cap and raises the bottle to his lips, a voice inside telling him it's time to take himself all the way home. He chugs back a generous swig, showing no sign of stopping and he can feel the wrath of her fury boring through his every pore on his face as he closes his eyes.
A few beats pass before she reaches out stopping him mid chug, her game of chicken coming to an abrupt end as she rips the bottle from his lips.
She slams the near empty bottle on the bedside table as stray liquid trails down the centre of his chest, soaking the front of his boxers.
"If you're insistent on killing yourself then at least wait until I leave."
There is a wealth of rage within her stare and he knows the elephant in the room has just come out of it's cage.
This is triggering her on multiple levels.
Her mother, her brother, him.
Maybe others..
"Then leave," he tells her simply, his voice cracking, but it's devoid of anger, just a desperate plea for her to go.
You can leave this fresh hell Olivia.
I can't.
He is an asshole to be doing this - that he knows and that he can see in her eyes. She's is furious and the irony isn't lost on either of them - he left her to save his marriage, and now he can't even save himself.
She thinks he won't remember any of this tomorrow but she's wrong, he will remember the look she is giving him right now, that will be permanently seared into his brain, the way she stares at him with equal disgust and regret.
She glances away from him at that point because it's all become too much and he catches the moment she calculates that this isn't worth it – that she should never have come at all.
Nine years apart but he can still tell when she's reached her limits with him.
She begins to rise and it's instinctual, he grabs the lapel of her jacket and she doesn't expect it anymore than he does.
She falls forward from his grip, her hand meeting with his bare knee so she doesn't ram head first into his chin.
She gives him a look as she steadiest herself against him, attempting to slip from his grip but he doesn't let up.
Her eyes narrow as he continues to hold her but she isn't shocked, in fact she's almost amused, as if she'd expected him to be this brash and careless with her.
He didn't care about her feelings for nine years right?
Why would he care now?
He cannot believe she is here in front of him, never in a million restless nights would he have expected Fin to be canvassing the area adjacent to the motel he'd been living in for the past three months.
The odds of that alone..
Let alone that she came.
"I fucked up," he whispers, just a breath away from her now.
It's a pathetic version of an apology but it's all he's got.
"I can see that," she says through gritted teeth, indicating the blood still sleeping from his wound, the mark of a bar fight gone wrong or some equally disappointing scenario.
"No," he whispers, his eyes moving slowly between hers. "I fucked up." He repeats a little softer, but it's still nowhere near the apology she deserves.
But he doesn't have it in him.
Not tonight.
Maybe he'll get another chance.
His eyes slip from hers, down the column of her throat to the maroon scoop neck shirt beneath her jacket.
She is fully dressed as if she had just come from work, maybe she had come the moment she'd heard..
She's a Captain now, a fact he already knew but the confirmation of that hits when his eyes fall to her belt, the glistening badge reminding him of all the years he had missed and the opportunities now lost on him - including her.
There are additional lines on her face and a tiredness in her stare but she is still an unwavering vision of timeless perfection, a stark juxtaposition to his unshaven, boxer-clad, vodka drenched state.
He expects an earful at the way he is still holding her - unwilling to let her go, but she doesn't say a damn word.
Her eyes say it all.
Let me go Elliot.
It's moments then before he releases her and she wavers for a few silent beats before she slowly makes her way up to her feet.
"Get help Elliot," she whispers as she drops the bloodied washer down onto the mattress next to him. "Before it's too late."
End.
