Chapter Twenty-Two: Our Time

Olivia

As I drift to sleep in your arms, cradled warmly by both the cover of your skin, and the soft heaviness of the down comforter you bought me all those years ago, I can remember times when things felt right between us. For all of our arguments and leavings, our pains and frustrations, we did have times in our relationship where things were mostly right between us.

And for almost a year we lived in peace, barely fighting, making love often and happily, meeting together after the job to discuss cases, and to fall asleep in each others arms as you told me stories about your life. Without the alcohol in my life, I had more room for you.

After you left me that first time, and I worked so hard, cleaning myself up and pulling it together, I was determined to get you back. Once the drinking was out of my system I could hardly stand to be without you at night. Your side of my bed was empty, and I couldn't stand the whiteness of my walls, the chill of my wood floor without your body in its space. We started up again slowly, taking it one phone call at a time, one meeting at a time. When I saw you at work I made a point to talk to you, to find out if you were doing all right, to ask about your caseload, taking extra care to make sure you knew I was trying to make your job easier for you. I thought not drinking would be enough to bring you back, and it was for a while.

I never actually told you I'd quit drinking, just like I never actually told you that I loved you. Just like I never actually told you about how I grew up. Just like I never actually told you about my time at the academy, or about anything else in my life other than the cases we were dealing with at the time. As with everything else, I just assumed you knew. I didn't get that that wasn't enough. Not until after we found the blood in Zapata's mattress on the boat-- when you'd finally had enough; enough of the job, enough of my pointless rehashing of the case, enough of my inability to really talk to you. Not until you'd had enough of me, of us. And even then I didn't understand until I watched a black SUV take the choice out of our hands, drawing you away from me, leaving me standing with Elliot, my mouth open, unable to stop my tears.

Alex

Watching you sleeping in my arms was always one of my favorite things. You're always so strong, so solid to me. You used to joke about how it was your job to be my hero, and in a lot of ways you always were. But when you're sleeping here beside me, curled up with your head on my left arm, my right arm slung over your side, rubbing your back, you look so delicate. I can remember all those nights in our good year when I'd try to stay awake until you'd fallen asleep, wanting to drift off with the sight of a child-like you clinging to me in your dreams. I always wanted to be there for you, to protect you in your sleep the way I knew I could never protect you in your waking.

How many nightmares did I soothe? How many times did your grunts and muted screams wake me at 2am, the sweat pouring off your body, as your eyes twitched behind their lids in some terror I couldn't see? How many times did I place my hand on your cheek, stroke your forehead, your hair, your chin, easing you back into a more peaceful state? How many times did I save your dreams?

You fought hard to win me back after I left you hung-over in your apartment, staring at the broken window and wondering how to get your life back together. As angry as I was, it was hard to drop my key behind me, hard to know that I had to do it to make you see that I wouldn't stick around forever. And even though your drinking really was a problem, I didn't realize until later that it was your unwillingness to talk to me about it that really upset me then-- the way your unwillingness to talk about other things upset me later.

Two months after I left you we'd achieved an uneasy simpatico, unable to ignore our attraction, but not ready to revisit the failure that was us… together. You showed up at my office late one night with flowers. I was working on a nasty deposition and wondering if I'd ever be able to sleep after a day of talking to a particularly sleazy defendant. When you knocked I thought it was going to be Liz on the other side of the door, pestering me about the file I owed her, and wanting to know what exactly I intended to do about the new case. I was so relieved to see your short crop of hair peek around my door that I forgot for a moment that there was any discomfort between us.

"Hey. I saw Donnelly on her way out and she said that if she doesn't have that file on her desk in the morning when she gets back… what did she say… oh yeah, 'Tell Cabot that if that file isn't on my desk in the morning, complete with an explanation of her intentions, she'll be lucky if she can get an internship with Trevor Langan's mail-boy!'"

I groaned. Liz knew how it annoyed me when she threatened my career choices with a reminder of where I started out. My time at the Langan's firm was stressful, as Trevor was his father's golden boy who could do no wrong. Because we'd gone to law school together, Mr. Langan let his son have the duty of assigning my tasks each day, I suppose because he thought Trevor would know my strengths. The little shit never missed an opportunity to lord his supremacy over me. It accounts for a lot of the hostility we feel towards each other in general, thought not all of it.

"What did you do to piss of Liz?"

"Which time?" It's hard to pinpoint a moment this month when Liz hasn't been on my ass. The truth is I'm sloppy without you in my life, because I spend all my time wondering how you are, instead of putting extra effort into trying my cases properly.

"I, uh, I brought you these." You hand me flowers that you've pulled from behind your back, and I can't help but wonder what Liz thought of you walking towards my office carrying irises. As usual, you read my mind,

"I told her they were left over from a date. I figured it was close to the truth."

"Since when are we dating again?"

"Alex." Your tone is disapproving, and I answer you similarly,

"Olivia." There's a pause…

"I miss you."

"I'm sorry." I was. I didn't like to think of you feeling alone.

"Look, just… come to dinner with me. We won't even call it a date, we'll just call it…"

"'Dinner?' We've done that before Detective. Somehow we always end up in bed afterwards."

"Not always." You sound petulant.

I sigh, then acquiesce, "I will go to dinner with you on two conditions,"

"Anything," you lean in to hear my stipulations.

"It has to be Italian, and you can't order any wine."

I'm surprised at the pleased look on your face as you respond, "No problem counselor. Just you, me, some irises and the best Italian food in the city."

I didn't go back to your place that night, and I slept alone in my own bed at the loft. But it wasn't long before one dinner turned into two, and then three, and then five, and suddenly we were going out or cooking for each other every night. And while I didn't believe you'd stopped drinking completely, I could tell that at the very least, you'd stopped drinking all the time, and that was enough for me.

You never did say you were sorry. And until today we never talked about the broken window.

Olivia

You didn't move back in right away. And I tried to be more open, which was a little easier with the alcohol out of my life, but I was never able to talk to you the way you could to me. I was too used to getting hurt, too used to getting left behind. By the time you did take back your key, I'd found what seemed to be a good balance of admission and omission about my life, and we found a sort of awkward harmony about our life together. You stopped trying to draw me out all the time, and I stopped pretending I didn't care about certain things.

We were together almost without interruption in the year before you took on Zapata. And even though we still fought about the areas of my life that were closed to everyone, even you, it was a beautiful kind of existence, knowing that you'd be by my side when I woke up in the morning. Every day-break I stared at your sleeping face, framed by blonde locks, amazed at how I could possibly love one person so much.

That was the year we moved most of the things from your loft into my apartment, our styles coming together… not quite seamlessly, but with a sort of eclectic grace. In that year you convinced me to paint the living room and bathroom, you bought me a TV and DVD player, and you conned me into letting you paint my bedroom lilac. My fifth floor walk up was warm and full with you in it. And it was as much fun to come home to it together as it was to beat you there and fill the rooms with the smell of fresh-cooked food, waiting to greet you in nothing but a black Williams-Sonoma apron and a smile.

We picked out a sofa, chair and loveseat to replace my dime-store recliner and mismatched armchairs, and you rearranged the bedroom furniture about 15 times. I got used to the feel of you in my apartment, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I had a place that felt like home.

After you died I used to get up in the middle of the night and smell the living room curtains, letting the memory of you wash over me in the darkness. Sometimes I'd wake up for work to discover I'd fallen asleep on the rug in front of the television, hoping to pick up some trace of your snow-white toes padding around an apartment where you couldn't be anymore.

Alex

By the time I started to feel like I needed more from you than I was getting, we'd been living together for a year and then some. I still kept my loft downtown, fully furnished but lacking it's former charm, as most of my more decorative possessions were decorating our apartment here. On occasions when I had a particularly complicated case to try it was the perfect place to get away and plan my strategies without the distraction of your body floating around the apartment cooking, or waiting for me in bed. I always ended up catching a cab back at the end of the night though, unable to sleep without you by my side. Sometimes if it took too long you'd show up at my door, holding your pillow and a bag with your badge, gun, and change of clothes.

The night we had our last fight we were at your place… our place. Your place. We'd been arguing for awhile and I'd started thinking of it as yours again. I suppose subconsciously I was trying to prepare myself for the leave I didn't want to admit was coming. I'd been spending more time at the loft, telling you that the cases we were handling were more complicated than usual, telling you that Liz was on my ass, that Branch was out for blood. They weren't lies exactly, but they weren't the truth either, and strangely I didn't feel that bad for my own omissions, since you had more than your fair share of your own. I regret them now. Or rather, I regret the timing of it all. Because we needed each other more in that last two weeks than ever before and neither of us could find a way to express it properly. For the first time in our relationship I found myself as tongue-tied as you always were.