A/N: I'm so excited about the feedback I got after the first chapter. Thank you so much! Reviews and comments always inspire more writing.
Those who have read my Rolivia fics know that I try to update my stories regularly, with only a couple of days between each chapter. I'll try and do the same with this one, but I'm going back to school soon, so that might slow me down a little bit.
And no, I don't speak Italian (except for a few words and phrases) so I'm depending on Google for this and I know that I'll butcher the language more than once. Bear with me, lol.
TW: PTSD/Alcoholism/nightmares (things really aren't pretty right now.)
Susanne Sundfør - The Brothel
CHAPTER 2 – DO NOT DISTURB
Quiet. That's all there is. In a house that's been bustling with something, someone, every day for such a long time. The sound of a video game, the coffee maker in the morning, the sound of a child laughing, on a rare occasion the sound of two people making love, more often the sound of two people doing the complete opposite.
He's not entirely sure if the silence that has suddenly settled in these walls around him is a kind of relief, or just an unforgiving reminder of how his life turned out.
He really shouldn't be surprised, but he is.
Even after weeks of planning this, talking things through, saying goodbye in more ways than one. After months of knowing exactly where things were headed, he still finds himself a little shell-shocked.
Maybe because after all this time, he really thought that they would make it. That they would both be stubborn enough to make it work, stick with each other even if it wasn't what they actually wanted. Even when they knew that they were done.
At least it was her decision, and there's some weird solace in that. How insistent she had been, clearheaded, and confident.
"It's time."
When they finally signed the papers, it was as if a newfound peace settled between them. They had nothing to fight for anymore, so they stopped fighting each other.
And strangely enough, the last few weeks living together as friends instead of lovers, parents but not a couple, had been the happiest time of their relationship in years.
She was happier, he was happier, Eli was happier.
Eli.
That's the one thing that makes all of this so unbearably painful. His choice to stay. Her choice to leave. Saying goodbye to his son. It's only a small comfort knowing that they'll see each other again in a couple of months. But it's not enough, because he wants every single day.
It's the one thing that will someday pull him back to the city and the life he left behind. He knows that. Being separated from his son by the Atlantic ocean is not an option.
But for now, he stays. Maybe because one some level he knows that he needs more time to prepare himself for what he might find when he returns.
Enough silence, he thinks then, as he reaches for the remote to turn the TV on, if only to quiet the most intrusive thoughts in his head.
The bottle of red wine from the night before is still standing on the counter, half empty. And his eyes moves from the bottle to the balcony where they sat less than twenty four hours ago. Promising each other to be better, to make this work, to support and love each other, to be grateful and proud of all the years where they did make it work.
He grabs the bottle and pours himself a glass, walks out on the balcony with steps that somehow feel heavy and light at the same time. He lifts the glass towards the sunset, like he's giving his broken marriage a final toast.
And then, for the first time in what feels like forever, he allows his mind to wander. To her.
He wonders where she is, what she's doing, how she's doing, if she's with someone, if she's still a detective or if she's finally been rewarded with a well deserved promotion.
Is her hair long like it was when he left? Or did she cut it again? She never could decide on how she preferred it. He always thought she looked beautiful no matter what.
Maybe she has a kid now? And a husband? That family she always longed for.
There's a weird and sudden sting in his chest.
He wants that for her, he always wanted that for her. But he would be lying if he said that the sting doesn't also come from a place of jealousy.
And he hates himself for it. He hates himself for all the times he let that jealousy seep out, when he meddled in her life like that, even if it was just some snide or innocent comment. He never had the right and he did it anyway.
But more than anything, he hates himself for leaving. As necessary as it was. And now, too much time has passed. Maybe it could've been salvageable after a couple of months. But not after three years.
In the time that has passed, he has rarely allowed himself to think about her like this, because he always knew the risk of it breaking him completely. But even when his thoughts were absent, his guilt never went away. Instead, it has settled in the pit of his stomach. And it lives there, as a harsh and daily reminder that he will never be able to forgive himself.
And after three years, even if she did find it in her kind, beautiful, wild heart to forgive him, he knows that he wouldn't deserve it.
As he lets his thoughts drift off, he puts the glass to his mouth, his ears barely catching the words of the news anchor filling his empty living room.
"L'Europa è in piena allerta dopo una serie di attacchi terroristici nelle principali città di questa primavera."
"Liv,
At least let me know that you've arrived safely.
A."
If someone had told her a couple of years ago that she would one day get to visit Rome, only to stay in bed for three days straight, not even sure where in the city she was, she would've rolled her eyes and scoffed. Mostly because a trip overseas always seemed impossible with her job and schedule.
But if she ever got the chance? She would be up by the crack of dawn, and not return to the hotel until her eyes, stomach and ears were filled with the eternal city.
"Liv,
I'm serious. It's been days. Let me know that you're alive.
A."
Paris had been the dream, the few times she had allowed herself to dream like that. But Paris was just as much a fantasy. She had pictured herself there with someone she loved, she had pictured herself happy there.
She hadn't pictured herself in Rome. No mental images or expectations to live up to. No dreams to get brutally killed by a much, much, harsher reality.
"Liv,
We're worried about you. I'm worried about you.
A."
So here she is. Not fantasy Paris. But random Rome, instead. And she's not here to be happy.
The sign that's been hanging on her door since she checked in, says it all.
Do not disturb.
That's what she wants. That's why those big curtains shuts out the sun. That's why she's been ignoring every call, every text and every email.
So it doesn't really makes sense to her why she keeps reaching for her phone, only to type and press delete until her words are erased like they never existed in the first place.
Eventually, she figures the blonde detective back home in New York is persistent and stubborn enough to contact local police here in Italy and make them track her down if needed. So with one eye open, she finally responds, checking three times that the spelling is correct so she won't give away the fact that she is far from sober.
"Amanda,
Stop worrying about me. I'm fine.
Also, I'm sorry for the things I said before I left. I know you've worked so hard to get on the right track and I'm proud of you.
Take care of yourself.
Liv."
The reply is almost immediate. Immediate and a little surprising, because if her math isn't completely off, it's 3 am in New York.
"Liv,
You're not fine. That's the problem.
I'm here. Talk to me.
A."
She throws the phone to the foot of the bed, covers her face with her hands, and groans. She doesn't want to talk. Because it really feels like that's all she's been doing for almost a year.
IAB, Lindstrom, Brian, the trial. How many times can she answer the same questions without going insane?
Did Lewis rape you? How did you manage to subdue him? What happened before he took you to the beach house? How do you feel about that? Are you doing ok?
She's done with the questions, done with talking. She just wants to sleep, and drink, without interruptions. No. Questions. Asked.
Do not disturb.
On some level, she knows she can't keep doing this. She needs real food, daylight. She needs a lot of things. But for now, she'll sleep. Just for a little longer.
It's a rare moment of calmness between them when she rests her head on his chest. She thinks he can feel it, too. That he can feel how she's not fidgeting, how her heart isn't racing, and neither is his.
The kiss didn't make her anxious. If anything, it made her heart beat faster for entirely different reasons that has nothing to do with anxiety. Also, she might be feeling just a little possessive tonight.
His grip around her arm tightens, but not too much. Just enough to let her know that he's content, happy to have her close like this.
Maybe, she thinks. Maybe they can try again tonight. Maybe it can be better than the one time when it failed miserably, and the second time when she faked her way through it, only to end up crying in the bathroom, hours after he fell asleep.
She closes her eyes for a moment and wills herself to focus on how her body feels. Searching for any signs of uneasiness. Nothing. If anything, she finds herself a little turned on, if that's what it is. It's a little hard to remember.
She moves her hand over his stomach a few times, and smirks when she feels him respond immediately. When she moves her hand down to the top of his pants, he breathes her name out and it turns her smirk into a smile.
"Liv…" He repeats, and neither of them know what he wants to say next.
You don't have to?
Or…
Touch me?
It doesn't matter, really, because a few seconds later her hand moves over his jeans, getting the confirmation she needs. He's turned on, too.
I want to kiss him again, she thinks, I actually want to be close to him.
The feeling is so profound because it's been so long, too long. So she lifts her head abruptly, capturing his lips in a kiss that is much fiercer, much bolder, than the one before.
She hums against his lips, all while moving her hand back to the top of his jeans where she starts working on getting the top button undone.
Just to make sure, one last time, that they're on the same page, she leans back to look at him.
But it's not him.
Brian isn't Brian anymore.
William Lewis is staring back at her, grinning.
"I missed you, sweetheart."
Sweat is dripping down her forehead when she wakes up screaming, and she barely makes it to the toilet before all the content in her stomach spills out of her. The Italian wine pouring out from her mouth and her nose makes her cringe repeatedly.
The taste is unbearable.
She continues to gag until there's nothing left, until the gags turns into dry heaves, and until the dry heaves turn into silent gasps while her heavy head rests against her arm.
Fuck, she's tired of this. How unpredictable it is, how random her anxiety is, how completely unstructured her nightmares are. And it never fucking stops.
She spits one last time before flushing the toilet, watching as the sickening combination of wine and bile and saliva disappears. Out of sight, out of mind.
Guess I need another glass.
The tremble in her hand is prominent when she fills the same glass she's been using since she got here, and once again Serena Benson enters her mind, unlocking new memories that she fails to shut out in her weakened state. She has seen that tremble before.
If only you could see me now. Would you be proud of how much we resemble each other? Proud that I'm more like you than my father?
By the time she's undressed and stumbles inside the shower, the glass is already half empty, and her memories are once again blurry.
When she returns to bed and tries to go back to sleep, she suddenly finds the silence in the room absolutely maddening. It was nice at first, just listening to the sounds from the busy streets of Rome, the traffic, the sirens, the life out there that she has no current plans to participate in.
But the walls are closing in on her now and she needs something to remind her where she is. Something to stop her mind from playing tricks on her, something to keep her away from him. So she turns on the television and settles for something that looks like a local news channel.
Her Italian might be a little rusty, but right before she falls asleep, her brain still registers the news anchor saying something about how Europe is on full alert after a string of terror attacks in major cities.
A/N: TBC.