Prompt #4: Fireworks
A Quiet Thing
~oOo~
She remembers the playbill in her hands, the faint smell of the mimeograph paper as she traced the purple ink over and over, waiting for the curtain to rise—
Hudson University Dramatic Club.
Spring 1979.
Her mother had brought her to the annual musical revue; after forty-three years, the performance itself is largely a blur. Flashes of color and sound and motion, exits and entrances, a string of unremarkable numbers, perfunctory rounds of tepid applause. Of all things, she remembers the handful of popcorn that she had spilled sitting in the front row of the auditorium's balcony, Serena's disapproving glare turning to one of bemusement as a few greasy pieces sailed twenty feet through the air and landed on Professor Kellogg's bald spot.
That's it, she thinks as she relays the early memory to Lindstrom. "That's all I remember. The playbill, the popcorn, and the song."
He had asked her a question—
"What does happiness feel like for you?"
—and it's brought her to this tangent, a long-winded recollection of her first visit to the theater. She's been circling around her point for the last ten minutes, sneakers on the floor, eyes to the ceiling, bare feet resting at the end of his couch. She doesn't usually recline like this but she's lost herself in search for an answer, rambling about the taste of salt and butter until finally, he interjects.
"Tell me about the song, Olivia."
It plays in her mind as she speaks. A few tentative notes on the piano, rising in the air as she'd leaned forward, resting her arms on the balcony rail. The young woman stepping onto the stage, finding her light, taking a breath, beginning to sing—
When it all comes true
Just the way you planned
It's funny but the bells don't ring
It's a quiet thing
"There was just something about it," Olivia recalls. "The lyrics."
When you hold the world
In your trembling hand
You'd think you'd hear a choir sing
It's a quiet thing
"I had never felt like that before," she continues. "Like I was meant to hear something. Like someone had written it just for me."
There are no exploding fireworks
Where's the roaring of the crowds
Maybe it's the strange new atmosphere
Way up here among the clouds
"And what were you meant to hear, Olivia?" Lindstrom asks.
She pauses, transported back to the auditorium, the velvet chair. Dust floating in the spotlight's path above her head. The music building to a crescendo, the woman's voice soaring across the audience, reaching toward her—
But I don't hear the drums
And I don't hear the band
The sounds I'm told
Such moments bring
And then a sudden shift, the orchestra's retreat as the woman reached the final phrase—
Lindstrom interrupts softly, pulling Olivia back to the room, the couch, the spider spinning its web in the corner.
"Can you sing it for me? What you heard?"
Olivia turns her head on the cushion and glares at him incredulously.
"Listen," she retorts, "I know we've been leaning into vulnerability lately but you know I don't sing. Look it up on YouTube. 'A Quiet Thing.' Liza Minelli."
He waits.
She shakes her head, laughing and muttering things as she scoots herself up into a seated position; she starts, breathes the first syllable, then stops, swiping her hand across her chin.
"This probably isn't going to be pretty," she explains, shifting herself again to tuck her feet under her legs.
"Doesn't have to be," Lindstrom returns. She adjusts her shoulders, finally relaxing into a comfortable position. There's a part of her, she slowly realizes, that wants to do this. She wants to remember the girl who used to hum her own lullabies as she drifted off to sleep, and let her voice be known.
When she finally begins, it's soft and low, slightly out of tune but filled with a forgotten emotion.
"Happiness comes in on tip-toe…"
She remembers what she had felt in the theatre, a lightness, an awakening as she'd abandoned the idea that joy must come with a flourish.
"Well what'd'ya know…"
She pauses and Dr. Lindstrom watches her wipe a tear from the corner of her eye before she speaks, in a whisper.
"It's a quiet thing…"
Slowly, in a hush, she finds her melody again, finishing—
"A very…quiet…thing."
They sit in silence, letting the moment land until Lindstrom finally prompts, "So has that been your experience with happiness, Olivia? That it's a quiet thing?"
"I think so. Yes," she replies as she begins to talk through her memories. An unexpected smile from her mother, popcorn falling from her hand. Her work—glimpses of healing, of justice. The evolution of a squad to a family. A baby boy in a dresser drawer, a judge's signature granting him her name. Her son dancing in the living room. A Mother's Day collage. Her eyes in the mirror, brighter than she found them before. Another day, survived.
But something lingers, Lindstrom knows, at the tip of her tongue, an era of happy moments she hesitates to mention. It fills the room but she doesn't dare speak its name, afraid that its whisper will fade into silence, that it will find a way to disappear again.
The appointment draws to a close.
~oOo~
Olivia stops at the corner to check her mascara, her eyes meeting her reflection in the window of a souvenir shop. She tries to make sense of herself, searching the glass for the curls in her hair, the sleeveless summer dress, navy blue. She looks for the earrings, hexagons in gold, the freckles on her shoulders, the gloss she had carefully reapplied as she stepped around the puddle on the sidewalk. But, for some reason, all she sees are rows and rows of keychains and mugs reading 'I ❤️NYC'. The shelves start rattling. The souvenirs tip and spin and fall to the ground. The cardboard cutout of the Statue of Liberty breaks in two and suddenly, Olivia can see it—her own tired face, her messy bun, her pajamas, a hem unraveling. She tries to move but can't. The puddle around her grows, soaking her feet, and all she hears is buzzing and knocking and Elliot Stabler calling—
"Liv!"
Fuck, she thinks as her eyes open and she rolls over to find the time on the clock. 7:48 pm. She jumps out of bed, grabbing her phone as she stumbles over her slippers.
Two texts, four missed calls, all from Elliot.
They had planned to meet for dinner at 7:15.
Olivia races to the front door as he continues to knock—"I'm coming, El! I'm here!"—and pushes away the thought that this is what she had needed that horrific night nine years ago. She opens it and watches concern on his face give way to relief and settle into a familiar sort of amusement. There he is in his starched white shirt, the first few buttons undone, and a light blue sport coat that matches his eyes. He looks at her curiously, smirking, and she slowly realizes that her dream had featured a snapshot of her reality, standing before him, braless and puffy-eyed, a thin gray tank and matching shorts hanging loosely on her curves. She pulls at the hanging thread of the hem, snapping it off as she motions for him to come inside.
"I'm so sorry, El," she apologizes. "I don't know what I…" And then, scrolling through her phone, she realizes. "Shit."
"Liv, I'm just glad you're—"
"I, uh, crap, I thought I'd take a little nap after I brought Noah to Amanda's but I… Fuck. Set my alarm for 6 am instead of…" She's frazzled, pacing around her kitchen, fingers running through the tangles in her hair. "Let me just take a quick shower and then—"
She starts toward the bathroom but his hand, warm and steady, quickly finds her shoulder. She turns to face him and everything slows. It's Elliot, she remembers. Elliot, who's seen her sick and distraught and bleeding. Elliot, who's checked her fever and sipped her orange juice and finished her half-eaten sandwiches in the middle of the night.
She almost forgets that it's Elliot—with his scruff and his piercing gaze and muscles upon muscles—Elliot, who's spent the summer by her side as much as their schedules have allowed, talking and healing and inching toward more. Elliot, who makes her tingle with want. Elliot, who's here to take her on their first official date.
"How about," he begins, pulling her into his arms, "you take your time, get into something comfortable, and then," he continues, "we take a slow ride out to Coney Island and watch the fireworks. Grab some food on the way."
"You don't mind?" she asks, taking a deep breath as she relaxes into his gentle touch. They haven't kissed yet, haven't named this thing they've become, content (for now) to have enjoyed a few warm months of long walks and movie marathons, ice cream sundaes with Noah after camp.
"Course not," he replies, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Save the fancy dinner for our second date."
She raises her eyebrow, smiling as she gently squeezes his side. "Getting awfully confident there, Detective. Gotta get through this date, first."
His eyes follow her as she slowly twists away from him and retreats to the bathroom; he knows she's joking but his breath catches as he suddenly realizes he's nervous.
It's Olivia, he tells himself. Olivia, who's known his sleepless nights, his carrot costume, all of his wounds, inside and out.
But it's Olivia, of course, the woman who slips into his dreams, who holds his heart, who deserves nothing less than magic.
~oOo~
"Fries or chips?"
They're standing at the deli counter, the fluorescent menu on the wall casting a soft glow. George, the owner, scribbles their order on the guest check pad—a Reuben on pumpernickel for her, a Monte Cristo for him, extra chutney. They don't have to discuss the sides; they know the routine. She'll get fries, he'll get chips, and they'll make sure to share.
He'd felt her watching him on the drive there, trying his best to keep his eyes on the road as they'd swapped stories about their days and nights in cars. They'd kept the windows open, the late August breeze cooling them, making soft waves in her hair, still damp from the shower. Olivia had decided to wear the sundress and the gold earrings, as planned, but had left her makeup untouched on the vanity. She had found herself exploring his face, then her own in the passenger side mirror, at peace with the places life had weathered, grateful that both of them had somehow managed to reach this age. Still, she had seen it—the boyish grin, the glint in his eyes, the face that had waited behind the windshield as he looked up at her apartment twenty-three years before, waiting for her to blink her lights. And in her own gaze, she had seen it, too, the spark she once thought she had left behind.
He starts in on another story. "Remember that time we got lost in the backwoods upstate?"
"The anonymous call, right?" She had laughed, remembering instantly. "The one where they left the evidence under a fucking log."
"No signs anywhere," he had continued, reliving it. "No GPS. Must've spent three hours driving in circles…"
"Running through all those unmarked trails…"
"Thorns and crap ripping up our legs."
They had found their sentences merging, becoming one storyteller, as always.
"And then," she had added, her imagination trading the streets of Brooklyn for sticks and brush and miles of trees, "then we took one last turn by that creek, right? And ended up exactly where we started."
"And there it was, right in front of us," he had chuckled, shaking his head.
"That damned log," she had finished.
They had grown quiet, sensing the metaphor—the years they had spent navigating their own terrain, the detours they'd created, searching for something they had found on day one. The decade he had left her in the woods, alone. The impasses and traumas and tragedies they had faced. The uneven ground beyond their control.
"I'm sorry it took so long," he had finally breathed. "I'm sorry I—"
"El, shh…" she had hushed, bringing her finger softly to his lips, their eyes meeting, saying everything.
She had spoken words of forgiveness months before and he remembers it daily—her strength, her grace, and her one request.
Just be here, Elliot. All of you. No more hiding. And I'll do the same.
Now, at the deli, a boy around Noah's age turns the corner from the supply room, carrying a stack of brown bags as high as his nose. He slides them onto the counter as George announces, proudly, "My grandson." Patting the boy on the head. "Already learning the business."
The man and the boy stand side by side, packing orders. It's a busy night, patrons filling and surrounding the handful of red vinyl chairs that line the wall, waiting for their meatball subs and tuna melts. Elliot finds a space to stand in the corner, and Olivia leans against him, her back to his chest. Slowly, his arms make their way around her and she covers his hands with her own. They stay like that, watching the front door swing open and closed. He breathes her scent, the freshness of her shampoo, something like honeydew and summer rain.
She settles into his warmth—his wholeness—as it surrounds her completely and her mind drifts to Lindstrom's office. The song. The question. All the memories she had tried to forget.
What does happiness feel like for you?
This, she decides. Like this.
The boy opens another bag and Georges rattles off the checklist.
"Alright," the owner starts, "you got the Reuben and the Monte Cristo?"
"Check," his grandson replies.
"Extra chutney on the side?"
"Check."
"Napkins, utensils, two bottled waters?"
"Check, check, and double check."
"Okay, now you fold the top over and staple it…"
Elliot and Olivia hear the crinkle and the click, looking up as they notice George pointing in their direction.
"Good job, kid," he finishes, smiling at them. "Now you can bring it over to the nice couple in the corner."
The boy rushes across the sticky tiles, beaming as he hands Olivia the bag.
A couple, they think as they thank him and wave to George; after twenty-four years, no one feels the need to correct him.
Outside, they walk together, the shining lights of Luna Park only a few blocks away. The skies are clear overhead, a blank canvas for the evening's fireworks.
In the open, as they cross the street, he casually says, "Love you."
She doesn't have to think. It comes easily, effortlessly.
"Love you, too."
Their hands intertwine and no one hides.
They can't wait for the fireworks. Under the streetlamp, she turns and they collide, the brown bag falling to the pavement. She seeks him, all of him, and when their lips touch, the world seems to fade—the clang and clatter of the amusement park, the rush of waves beyond the boardwalk—leaving them, only them, two souls making magic in silence.
In the distance, the crowd roars as a squiggle of light rises and pops, a star dancing in the darkness. But Olivia has a sudden change of heart, whispering—
"El?" She smiles. "Take me home."
That night, they abandon the fireworks in favor of making their own—thrilling, hot, and loud. They learn the sound of ecstasy; they hear it as they burst through the door of Olivia's apartment, a symphony of heavy breaths and falling clothes. It's the spring of the bed, the rattle of the headboard, the music of their bodies, learning each other's songs. It's the cry of their names as they reach the heights—shattering, cascading, filling each other's skies with color.
But in the morning, as she wakes in his arms, Olivia learns that happiness is a quiet thing, indeed.
The brush of his fingers on her bare skin.
The soft thrum of his heartbeat as it syncs with hers.
The contented sigh that escapes her lips as he pulls her closer and they fall asleep again.