This thing keeps expanding, despite my original best intentions- and I have to thank all the enablers out there who have been encouraging me along the way for making me feel like maybe somehow I'm on the right track. You all are very much loved and appreciated. :)
All the same warnings remain in place. Title and quotes taken from iwho's gonna ride your wild horses?/i by U2. This one picks up right where part eight left off, immediately before Internal Affairs.
{you're dangerous cause you're honest}
"Babe?"
Your eyes widen, startled out of your half-awake state when you realize that the person next to you is not the person you were just having an incredibly detailed sex dream about. "Uh. Shit, sorry- were you asleep?" Please say yes, please say yes...
"Nah. I've been lying here wide awake for some reason." He sits up to get a better look at your face in the dim light. "Are you okay? It didn't seem like you were dreaming."
"No, no, I wasn't. Nothing I remember. Maybe it's from being in a new place, waking up and not knowing where I was," you assure him, aware that you still sound slightly out of breath.
He nods and motions for you to come closer. You curl up next to him, and God you are still so fucking turned on, and you are definitely the world's worst person but that doesn't stop you from kissing him anyway. He laughs and says something about you being eager to break in the new bed, which sounds like as good of an excuse as any you could have come up with on your own. You'll stick with that one.
You're halfway undressed before you even realize what you're doing, legs straddling his, and this is going awfully fast but it still doesn't seem fast enough. Not when you were practically coming in your sleep a few minutes ago until you had to wake up at exactly the wrong time, damn it all to hell. But he's gotten the hint that you aren't in the mood to take it slowly, that you are beyond ready, and you think you are about to get what you want until the hand sliding down your body abruptly stops.
"What?" you hiss, annoyed until you realize what he's looking at and you see where his fingertips are resting, and then all you can think is oh. Shit. "Bri...it's okay. It's fine."
Now he's staring at you like you owe him some sort of explanation, and you don't know what else to do but sigh and move back to your side of the bed. "Liv?"
"What do you want me to say? It is what it is." You had gotten so used to the jagged raised lines crisscrossing your skin that you had let your guard down, too carried away in the moment to remember that it was all mostly foreign to him, that you had kept the worst of it out of sight and out of reach until now. It should have stayed that way. "That one doesn't even bother me anymore. Cuts like that you can stitch up. Burns are more complicated."
"Yeah, but-"
"But what? It's one of dozens. There's another one about an inch away that took twice as many stitches to close. You've seen what my arms and legs look like. We could sit here and be horrified all day but it's not going to change anything."
His expression has stayed the same, and you know he hasn't heard a word you said. "Jesus, I...what the fuck did he do to you?"
"Why does it matter? What would good would it do for me to sit here and tell you every little thing? It's over, done. I've moved on and you should too." You fish around for wherever you tossed your pajama pants, pulling them on angrily once you find them at the foot of the bed. "Now can we please try and get some sleep?"
You are beginning to wonder if he was suddenly paralyzed and that's why he hasn't moved other than opening and closing his mouth a few times. "Liv...are we ever going to talk about this?"
"There's nothing to tell, not that you need to know. Please, let's just drop it. I'm fine."
"But that's the thing, you're not," and here he goes, using that psychology degree he thinks he picked up somewhere along the line. "How can you keep saying that and stuffing it all down when you know how it's eating at you?"
"Why do you assume that me telling you all the gruesome details is going to make anyone feel any better? Here, watch this. That, what you found, it's a bite mark. He was holding me down and when I tried to fight him off, he bit me. Hard." You can't stand to look at him now, not while he's replaying that image in his head, and you will probably regret sharing even that small amount later but it had to be done to make a larger point. "See? What did that accomplish? Now you have a million other questions, and you're going to have this mental picture that you can't get rid of, and it didn't help anything. So let's please, please not have this conversation again."
"How do you even do that, talk about it like it's something you saw on tv?" he asks, and you are exhausted and would like to go back to sleep while he processes all this.
"I don't have a choice! Unless I'm going to lie down and die, I have to come up with some way to put it aside and keep going. I'm stuck with it, I'm not gonna forget, but I can still save you." When you finally have the courage to glance over at him, he looks absolutely stricken, and you wonder if now he understands that you were right this whole time.
"You're not saving me, you're saving yourself from having to talk about it. You think you have to be this martyr-"
"Don't even start. Not wanting to needlessly traumatize you doesn't make me a martyr. You're proving me right, actually, because you're freaking out on me when there are so many worse things I could have told you, and I can't deal with it. I can't."
"Olivia, you're not the only one who's allowed to be angry here," he snaps. "It's like you said, you're stuck with it. You've had time to deal. But you can't hide everything from me and then expect me to instantly sort out all the shit in my own head."
He gets up and moments later you hear the sound of cabinets being thrown open and glass breaking. That better not be any of your new stuff, you think as you go to investigate.
Thank God it isn't. "I've already tried that, Bri. Didn't work."
"So what the fuck do you want me to do?" he asks, and you're not afraid of him, not ever, but you're afraid of this. He's your last line of defense, the one who's holding it all together, and you cannot, will not survive losing the one steady thing you have left to cling to. "You don't want to talk about it, I get that. But maybe I do. Where does that leave me, huh?"
"You could...have you ever thought of going to see someone?"
"Yeah. But that's not what I'm saying here, you know that." He looks down at the floor and the dozen or so pieces of shattered glass, each one sharp and jagged but none are quite the same, and maybe that's the problem, that you have both broken so differently. "You're the only person I have who can even come close to understanding what it's like. Sometimes you want someone who just gets it, you know what I mean?"
There is this invisible weight on your chest that's bearing down on you, and you are nothing short of terrified because he is on to you now, he understands that you really are a lost cause and not even divine intervention can change that. "I'm so tired. Let's please wait and talk about this later. Please."
"No," he says flatly, and you are startled.
"No?" you repeat in your very best 'would you like to rethink that?' voice. "You can't force me to talk to you."
"No fucking shit! You think I haven't figured that out already? You've made it very clear that it's alllll up to you and I'm just supposed to nod my head and say yes."
"You know, you've got scars of your own. And yet somehow I've managed not to lose it every time we've had sex." He is going to walk out that door, you are sure of it, and he might as well do it now so you don't have to wait any longer to start imploding.
"For fuck's sake- I'm not even going to pretend you're stupid enough to think that has anything to do with anything." You see him eyeing your new wine glasses and you don't like it. "It's not about one particular scar, it's not about any of them, it's not even about anything physical. What you look like now doesn't matter to me."
You would have thought he had learned that telling you what 'doesn't matter' to him is a bad idea. "Then tell me what does. Seriously. Let's hear this."
"Do you get what it's like for me to watch you hurting and- it's not just that I can't fix it, it's that I can't get close to you without being shit scared that I'm gonna do something to make it worse. Do you see why it makes me feel so fucking helpless?" He's turned around to stare out the window, and from what you can see of his reflection, you may not be the only one fighting back tears of frustration. "You have no clue what it's like to have someone you care so much about and not know what's going on in their head every time you touch them. I look at you and I wonder if you're seeing me or the person that hurt you and...I can't even explain, it's the worst thing I've ever felt. Shitty doesn't even begin to describe it. It fucking kills me."
You certainly can't argue with any of that. You know you're broken, defective, and there's only so much you can hide. "I'm sorry. I really...I'm sorry. I- oh god. I think I'm gonna be sick."
He says something but you can't hear it because you are already gone, dry heaving on the bathroom floor, not even bothering to turn on the faucet to muffle the sound as you usually do.
There's no denying it- you are so very fucked.
{you left my heart empty as a vacant lot
for any spirit to haunt}
"It's so fucking stupid. I don't know why I can't get it out of my head."
You've been sitting in Dr. Lindstrom's office for twenty minutes now, rambling about how you keep having the same dreams over and over, and they all seem to end in sex or death, when you abruptly change subjects.
"Another dream?"
"No, this is real- but it's stupid. It's not even worth talking about."
He suggests you give it a try anyway, and then you can decide if it really is so 'fucking stupid' after all. You should have known better than to bring it up, not when all you wanted was someone to agree that yes, it is stupid, now forget about it. Damn psychologist tricks.
You tilt your head back as if waiting for the ceiling to rescue you. "I can't believe I'm even saying this, because...I shouldn't even waste my time thinking about it. He was just saying shit to try to get to me, he's not a fucking psychic, but." Your voice lowers to an embarrassed almost-whisper. "I'm afraid that everything he said might actually be right. God, it's so ridiculous."
"Who's 'he'? Lewis?"
You nod. "When we were still at my place. He was sitting on my bed next to me."
"Present tense," he prompts gently, because you're supposed to practice talking about it 'as if it was happening now', which is about as fun as it sounds. Something about how your brain needs to relive traumatic memories before it can process them. Whatever. You're no scientist. "So he's sitting next to you. What else is happening?"
"He's smoking. He's got the cigarette in one hand and the other is kinda...he's touching my hair. He says he's not going to sit here and listen to me cry, so we should talk. Because we already know each other so well. But I'm not. I'm not crying. I'm just...there. I'm not doing anything."
You remember the way he was halfway on top of you, holding you down, and he's trying to kiss you but you turn your head and then he's got one hand around your throat and the other's flicking a lighter, holding it right up to your face and «I think you're going to stop fucking around and do what I say, aren't you?».
"And what's going through your mind right now?"
"Just stay alive. Just do what he wants until...this is when I still thought someone might come and find me," you say, voice cracking on the last word. «what's in it for me if I don't fuck you?», and he won't keep his hands to himself and every time he touches you it is so disgusting that you almost wish he would knock you out again. You're shaking and shaking and he's brushing your cheek with the back of his hand and «have you ever been in love?», what the fuck kind of question is that, you'd rather he go back to trying to get you to talk dirty to him because that you can handle, it's revolting but you can keep that shit up all day if it would buy you some time.
Dr. Lindstrom frowns but says nothing, scribbling something down. "You're doing really well, Olivia, I know this is tough. Stay with it as long as you can. What are you telling him?"
"I say I don't know." Then he laughs, and it's so loud, «all that really means is he didn't love you back», and you bite your lip and don't say anything, «jesus christ you're gonna cry again?» You're not, you tell him, he doesn't know shit about your life but he laughs some more, «I don't have to, I could tell you were damaged goods from a mile away. You think you hide it so well, don't you?» and he's kissing you again, his fingers are pressing right above your hipbone and you try to choke back a whine, you know he remembers you're burned there and you won't, can't give him the reaction he wants. «You act like I'm telling you something you don't know. It's kinda depressing me, detective, I've gotta say. You're 45 years old and let's not kid ourselves, this thing with the boyfriend isn't going anywhere. You put all your hopes on this one guy, whoever he is, and get flat out rejected».
You say once more that he doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about and he gives you that psychotic grin. «Fine, my bad, I can admit when I'm wrong. Allow me to rephrase. He didn't shoot you down. He just didn't fucking care. And it broke your little heart, because you let yourself believe that you actually had something. Am I getting any closer, baby?»
Go fuck yourself, you snarl, because it is either an excellent or terrible idea to prove that he hasn't broken you yet, and it's definitely the latter because he flicks the lighter again but this time he's holding it against the flat of your stomach, «I think I'll let you take care of that», and he's got his hand clamped down over your nose and mouth so you can'tscreamcan'tbreathecan'tthinkohgod...
When he finally lets go, he grabs your arm and hauls you to your feet, «that was fun but I'm tired of talking now, you've given me a better idea». You happen to turn your head at the right moment to catch a glimpse of yourself in the big mirror above the dresser and jesus it's like you don't even recognize yourself, you're all bruised and burned and bloody and had you known how much worse it was going to get, you probably would've thrown yourself at the barrel of the gun in his hand right then, «see something you like?»
He jerks your shoulders around so you have no choice but to face your reflection head on, «you look so good right now, sweetheart», and he wonders aloud if the boyfriend would approve, nah, he probably won't be able to stand it. «We both know how these things work, don't we? He won't be able to get it out of his head, picturing you and me», and you try to laugh the same cold way he does when you inform him there *is* no 'you and me'. There's that snicker, the one that you didn't even come close to imitating, «but you don't get it, baby, by the time I'm finished with you- I've got shit planned that you wouldn't even imagine doing with him. And he'll know, everyone will, and they'll always wonder what a whore you really are, if there wasn't part of you that wanted it. Liked it.» He rolls his eyes, «here we go, you're gonna start crying some more», and you bite down on the inside of your cheek as hard as you can to keep quiet when he jabs his finger into the fresh burn mark low on your stomach.
"A-and then. Fuck. He made me watch while he- no. God, no, I can't. I'm done. I can't..."
Dr. Lindstrom's reminding you to breathe, telling you you're getting better at this, you're making progress. But this isn't something you really want to get better at, and if this is what progress feels like- maybe you were better off staying stuck.
{you tell me things I know you're not supposed to
then you leave me just out of reach}
You don't bother with your normal routine of fixing your makeup after the session is over. Normally you try to get yourself looking somewhat presentable because you'll be meeting up with Elliot, but you don't have to worry about that today. All you're going to do is jump into the first cab you can find and go home, and your new furniture doesn't judge you for your runny mascara and blotchy complexion.
The moment you step off the elevator is the moment all your plans are ruined. "What the fuck are you doing here?" you hiss, loud enough to signal your displeasure without alarming the people passing by.
"It's Tuesday. I'm supposed to meet you here on Tuesdays."
"Elliot, what did I tell you the other night?"
"You told me not to come to your apartment, and you'll notice that I have not," he says haughtily, as if staying away for 36 hours is something to be proud of. "You didn't say anything about me being here, so I assumed we were still on."
"Well, you assumed wrong." You wonder if you could get away with punching him in the jaw right here and now if you flashed your badge around enough afterward. Knowing him, though, he would love the opportunity to cry police brutality and you're not going to give him the satisfaction.
"I need to talk to you. All I want is a couple minutes, that's it."
You spy a green tea lemonade in one of his hands and take it from him, more than willing to accept bribes even though you have no intention of giving in. "Does it look like this is a good time? If I wanted to talk, I know where to find you. Do you think that I'm at a point in my life where I even have the energy to deal with your shit?"
"Y'know- and I say this with all the fondness in my heart, don't get me wrong, but you're kind of a bitch."
You could do without his version of 'fondness'. "Is that what you had to come here to tell me?"
"Eh, not specifically, but I figured I'd get the chance anyway." You stand rooted to the spot, gaping in disbelief, and all he does is shake his head. "Don't act so surprised. You knew it was coming. I'm sure you can get away with anything around everybody else in your life, because they're too scared of upsetting you, but me? I'm not."
When you walk past the door and out onto the street, he follows right behind you. "It's what you wanted to hear, isn't it? You want someone who's not going to treat you like you're broken, that's what you said before, and you won't admit it but you know I'm right."
"I have nothing to say to you. Leave me alone."
"I'm not afraid of you. You know that- hell, you like that." He matches you stride for stride, staying right next to you on the sidewalk.
"This is a bizarre way of convincing someone to talk to you."
"Well, I got sidetracked," he says as you try and fail to lose him in the crush of people inside the crosswalk.
"By me being a bitch?"
"Basically, yes." You can hear that stupid shit eating grin in his voice. "You're not actually trying to get rid of me."
"And you know this how?"
"About a dozen cabs have gone right past you and you've kept on walking."
You yank him by the elbow and lead him into the vestibule of the next building you come across, your back to the wall and arms crossed impatiently. "I'm giving you two minutes. Make it good."
"Why did you tell me that story the other night?" and of course that's what he wants to talk about, he thinks he's got something on you now. "About asking for me in the ambulance."
"You really want to discuss that here?"
"You're the one who dragged me into this place; we can go somewhere else."
"Fine. Look, I don't know why I told you. It wasn't something I was planning on," and God was that ever the truth. Your brilliant example of how he had fucked with your head had backfired, because now he thinks there's something deeper going on, and he'll start twisting things around to make it come out seeming like you need him.
"You don't know. No idea at all."
"Isn't that what I said? I don't know why I told you, I don't even know why you were the one I wanted in the first place. I wasn't exactly thinking clearly at that point."
"But you knew you wanted me there."
"Yes," you say tersely. "You were always the one who had my back, or used to. It makes sense that I would think of that, doesn't it? Stop making it into something it's not."
He smiles conspiratorially, and it feels like home, feels like he's going to lean across the desk with some sarcastic remark or hot new piece of office gossip. You may very well have given into the urge to smile back- but a tiny smile, mind you. "What am I making it into?"
"El...there's nothing I can say to you now that's going to make a difference, so let's leave it at that and get on with our lives. That's what I'm doing- trying to do, at least. I keep getting interrupted by someone," and there's that smile again, and it has probably been longer than two minutes already but there's some unknown force keeping you here despite your best intentions. "So now you got your answer, and we've established that I'm a bitch-"
"I'll tell you something."
"What are you even talking about?"
"You told me something, and so I'll do the same. Call it a show of good faith."
This is the strangest conversation you have had in recent memory, and that includes the one you had last week with a witness, an intoxicated clown in full costume who said you 'look real nice up top'. "Listen, we could stand here and tell secrets all day-"
"Kathy begged me to talk to you."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"My head was pretty fucked up...more than usual, for a long time. All those years of complaining that I was never home, turns out she should've been more careful what she wished for," he said, resting his hand on the wall and leaning in closer to you in the process. "Course, I don't think she pictured me sitting around on the couch getting shitfaced from morning to night...she ended up taking the kids and leaving for a month."
"And she wanted me to fix that?"
"She thought you were the only one who could. If there had been a way to physically force me into the car and dump me off at your place, she would've done it."
Thank God that she didn't. There's no way she could afford your babysitting rates. "El..."
"I did a lot of things I'm not proud of for a while. A lot."
"But everything got sorted. You figured it out with her, you're working again, you get to be there for Eli like you couldn't be with the other kids. I mean, you went to therapy and now you're all enlightened...or think you are," you say, unable to resist the dig because really, the 'new Elliot' still bore a striking resemblance to the old model when provoked. Or maybe it was just you. Maybe the two of you were cursed to forever bring out the worst in one another.
"Goddamn, Liv, you're not hearing what I'm saying! I don't know how many times I sat there staring at my gun and wondering why I was too chickenshit to pull the trigger. Do you get it? You can be angry all you want, I don't blame you. Go right ahead." His free hand is gripping onto your shoulder, effectively trapping you. "But you do not get to keep telling me I was getting off on playing some sort of fucking mind game when- if anyone's head was fucked, it was mine. You're gonna have to find a new reason to hate me. Shouldn't be too hard. Do you want me to make you a list?"
He's moving his arm as he talks, shaking you slightly as he does, and all you can do is look up and silently plead with him to stop. This is becoming too much, too many things you don't want to think about exploding all at once inside of your head.
"There's a lot of shit that I fucked up over the years when it comes to you." You raise an eyebrow slightly and he does the same as if to say yes, you heard me correctly; treasure this moment because it may never come again. "I can say that now, but at the time I seriously thought the best thing I could do was to save you from myself. And don't you fucking start in on how controlling I am. You go on a diet of straight whiskey and then tell me what great decisions you make, okay? You'll be amazed."
"What happened to 'it wasn't you, it was the job'?"
He's leaning in so close that you can smell a mixture of coffee and green tea on his breath. "I think we both know that's bullshit, don't we?"
"Enough," you say weakly, but he's not listening.
"If I could go back and do it all differently, I would. You deserved better. And I'm not just talking about how I left."
"I don't want...you don't need to tell me this. I'm serious. Enough."
"You're going to pass up an opportunity to hear me admit I fucked up?" he asks, amused and disbelieving, and goddamn him to hell for his stupid jokes, for thinking he can reappear without an invitation and dump this all on you after he left you with no choice but to start over without him.
"I knew it already, I didn't need you to tell me that." You exhale slowly, trying to hold onto your last fragments of self control. "You can't do this. It's so easy for you to come here and-"
"You think it's easy? After all this time?"
"That's exactly what I think! Why wait so long? Because it's so easy for you to say all that shit now, when you know there's nothing you can do about it. It's too late to change anything. It's over, done, there's no purpose in telling me all this. What do you honestly think you're going to get out of it?" When he doesn't answer, you take it to mean that you have proved your point. "Nothing's going to change, nothing's going to happen. It never was. Let's just leave it alone."
You nod toward the palm he has flat against the wall, signaling for him to move it and let you go, and he doesn't lift it fast enough for your liking so you resort to ducking under his arm. When he tries to grab your wrist, you shake him off easily and you're out the door before he can try again.
He says something but you can't hear it because you are already gone, running to flag down a passing taxi and climbing inside, not even bothering to look back.
You run away because that's what you always do, that's what you're best at, and because you are so very, very fucked.
{who's gonna ride your wild horses
who's gonna drown in your blue sea
who's gonna taste your saltwater kisses
who's gonna take the place of me?}