Annnnnd we're back! Christmas is over, in case you hadn't noticed, but I'm still busy spreading holiday cheer the only way I know how- by hurting people. :D
This is almost definitely my last update for 2014, so I'll use it as a chance to say one more time how much I love every single one of you. If you would've told me on new year's day 2014 that I'd have almost 150K words of an SVU fic written, I would've told you that drugs are bad, mmmkay. This has been a crazy year for me personally and I couldn't have made it without some of you, but *all* of you have made my year whether you know it or not. So we'll meet again in 2015. If you get bored before then, I wrote a Forgiving Rollins one-shot that you could check out *shameless self promotion*
A/N: warnings for violence and large quantities of general unhappiness. Title and quotes from glycerine by Bush. Tiny mention of like a rolling stone by bob dylan. Chapter picks up directly from where ch 28 left off.
{everything's all white, everything's gray
now you're here, now you're away
I don't want this, remember that}
It all happened so fast.
The sound of your own voice woke you up while your brain was still trying to figure out what you were screaming about. Your dream was temporarily forgotten in the midst of sensory overload, dozens of warning sirens going off because this was all wrong. You were in your own bed, you knew that much, but you were naked and hurt like hell and there was someone here with you, someone who wasn't Brian and you were terrified and didn't know why.
Whoever he was, you think he was saying something, but it was hard to make out even the faintest trace of another voice over the sound of your own. nonono stop, where's Brian why isn't he here what did you do to me please don't pleasepleaseplease...
"Liv. Olivia," the voice says, gradually getting louder to compete with yours. "It's me. It's okay, you're alright...everything's alright. It's just you and me here, no one else, I promise."
You chance a peek over at the source of this mysterious voice, and the surprise of seeing Elliot there next to you is enough to momentarily stop your screams. Now you're beginning to remember something...lying next to him, sweaty and worn out but unbelievably satisfied. He's sitting beside you, playing with your hair, and you look up at him and smile when he says something that makes you laugh. But then his face changes and it's not Elliot next to you anymore, it's him and he's leering down at you and it's an acidic stare, eating its way through skin and bone and down to your fucking soul until there's nothing left. You pretend you can't hear the things he's rambling on about in between drags on his cigarette, just close your eyes and turn your head and ignore him telling you that you're «so pretty, so sweet, you're already the best piece of pussy I've ever had and we're only getting started.»
He grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks it toward him until your head follows suit. When you make the mistake of opening your eyes, you see he's got his jeans unzipped and his dick's right in your face and he's jerking himself off with his free hand. You close your eyes again and try to turn away but he's yelling «look at me, bitch, I told you to look at me» and when you don't, you feel the white-hot burn of a lit cigarette being ground into the skin of your inner thigh. You're digging your nails into your palms because it's all you can do to try and keep quiet- not that you can scream with your mouth taped shut, anyway, but the last time you made too much noise he clamped his hand down over your nose until you almost passed out and you can't. You have to keep fighting.
Now he wants to see the damage for himself, probing the burned area admiringly before jabbing his finger into the half dozen or so others just like it, his other hand still on his cock. You whimper softly, a plea for him to stop, but he just laughs. "That your way of telling me you're ready for more?"
He's touching you again and it hurts, it's too much and it can't have been more than five minutes ago that he all but tossed you back onto the bed, decided he was 'done with you', and lit up his next cigarette. You're too afraid to try and kick him after what happened the last time, especially when he's got your gun right at his side, too afraid to do anything, «you taste like you want it bad», and then-
The sensation of your hand connecting with something solid, combined with a sudden shout, is enough to shove you back into the present. Someone's taken hold of your wrist and you're twisting out of their grasp, pushing them away. don't you fucking touch me! "Goddamn- Liv. Stop."
When you stand up you drag the comforter with you, clutched in your fists as you stumble backwards until finally hitting the wall. You sink down against it, blanket splayed out around you, don'ttouchmegoawayimeanit.
He says okay, okay, I'm staying over here, and you nod even though he probably can't see it while your chin is tucked against your chest, trying to block out everything around you until some of the pieces start to fall into place. You had a nightmare, that's what woke you up, and then you started to panic and then you had a flashback and then you were trying to get away from Elliot and. Oh god. Elliot.
You look up furtively, hoping against hope that you're alone. But there he is, sitting a dozen or so feet away, back against the wall so that you're parallel to one another. There's a dark purple splotch forming just below his left cheekbone, but that's not what keeps you watching him in horror. It's his unblinking vacant stare, the kind that means there's a complete disconnect between your eyes and your brain and you're still trying to sort out which one is telling you the truth. You may have only seen it on him once before, but you'll remember it always.
You'll remember because the last time you saw it was also the last time you saw him- until he showed up at Brian's apartment door 24 months later and set this whole sequence of events in motion, and now it's five days before Christmas and you slept with him and it was never supposed to be like this. Not at all.
It started because you were weak. Because you were lonely and scared and wanted a familiar friend so much that you were willing to sidestep your anger at how he left you. Not to forgive, not to forget, just to maneuver around the hurt. It started with coffee in the park and midnight phone calls, and somewhere in the middle of all that you began to let the wall come down, brick by brick until there were hotel rooms and 'I love you's and he became the one you relied on when you felt yourself crumbling beneath the weight of the debris raining down on you. You'd been there before with him as your shelter from the world and consciously or not, you allowed yourself to believe that this was the one thing you had that couldn't, wouldn't, be destroyed. for better or worse.
Then worse came and your fortress collapsed, and you collected everything you could salvage and set off for new territory with a promise to yourself. Never, ever again.
But the road you thought would lead you away turned out to be nothing but a giant circle. Because here you are again, frightened and confused and angry and knowing that it's only a matter of time before your heart cracks along the same fault lines as before...and yet you still can't look at him without wanting to drag yourself over there, lie down with your head in his lap, and wait for him to make it all okay when you know that's the *worst* possible thing you could do. Giving in. Surrendering.
A flash of hope crosses his face when you finally start to speak, only to turn into confusion when you tell him he needs to go. No, not into the other room. "You need to go home because...I can't, El, this shouldn't have happened."
Why not? Because I'm furious and scared and so fucking embarrassed, because now that you *know* everything I went through and we've slept together (twice!) and you've seen me completely melt down, there's really nothing left in between us and that's the real reason I can't stop shaking, because it terrifies me more than any nightmare. "Because I still hate you and I still feel so fucking violated and you went behind my goddamn back, you can't just fuck me so I'll forgive you!"
Because maybe I'm not that much of a romantic- as you yourself reminded me, I've got no problem fucking around without feelings involved- but this was different. God help me, but after 15 years I wanted it to be, I dunno, special? I wanted everything to work out just right for once, and it couldn't because I have this monster inside me that won't let go and won't let me have anything good, at least not for long, before he takes over. "What did you think would happen, Elliot? I don't know why the hell I let you...there's just no way this can end well. At all."
Because now he found his way under your skin too. Now you know the things I see when I close my eyes, because they're the same things you see. Because you'll tell me it doesn't change the way you look at me, that I have nothing to be ashamed of, but I know that in your mind we're no longer equals. Now I'm not someone who can take care of herself, I'm someone you have to protect and I don't want that. I don't want to be coddled- and after all, no one cheats with someone they respect. Even a sociopath knows that much. "I don't need you and I don't need a pity fuck, no matter how many times you tell me you love me like that's supposed to make everything alright. Doesn't work that way."
Because it can't go on like this forever. Ultimately you'll have to choose, and I know what choice you'll make. It's the right one. You have a family who loves you so much and you love them back, and I'm not a part of that. I never will be. Because I've got someone who meant it when he said he wasn't leaving, but I can't let myself be truly happy with him as long as I think there's a chance for something, anything, with you. "All you want is for me to end it with Brian so that you can have me whenever you want, you son of a bitch. You don't care if I'm alone the rest of the time, just as long as you can have me all to yourself. Isn't that what you've always wanted, to not have to share me with anyone?"
Because I've already fallen for you and the longer I wait, the more it's going to hurt when you're gone. I can't keep needing you this much. Not when you deserve better and I can't promise you I'm ever going to *get* better. Because this here, what happened tonight, that could happen any night. Or every night, and I can't ask you to give up everything you have now for this. For me. "It was a *mistake*, and if you can't see that, then I'm not going to argue with you. Just leave. Go home and figure it out there."
He doesn't even try to interrupt throughout your entire tirade, save for a few times when he says your name quietly like he's attempting to get you to calm down, and it just makes you that much angrier that you can swear and call him names and blurt out every vicious remark that pops into your head and he still won't fight back. It's like he was expecting this. He probably was- he knows you well enough, after all, he knows what scares you without you ever having to say it. But if he knows what you need from him, what you truly want, he's not giving it to you. He's going to let you go without fighting you. Fighting for you.
By now he's dressed and standing in the doorway and you don't know what to do other than make one last desperate attempt to incite him. "What? What's your problem? You don't really love me, you don't want me as part of your life, as anything other than a fuckbuddy, because that's all I am to you. An easy target. You didn't want me until you thought I was damaged...fuck that. Fuck *you*."
Please. Tell me that I have no right to say that to you because it's not true, and how dare I think for a second that you would take advantage of me like that, and you need me too much to let me push you away just because it's the only thing I know how to do (as fucked up as that is) and you love me, goddamnit, and you're not going anywhere.
"That's what you really believe? Or that's what you're afraid of?" Your eyes meet, and to almost anyone else his expression would appear completely blank. But you know how to read him and you can tell you've hurt him deeply, that you've crossed a line that you never intended to cross and it wasn't supposed to happen this way, it wasn't supposed to be like this. And it's too late now, he doesn't know you as well as you thought- or maybe he does, and you're just not worth fighting for any longer. "I think you need to be alone for a while. Maybe then you'll finally figure out what the hell you're doing."
It's like he doesn't know you at all.
{I'm never alone
I'm alone all the time}
You didn't even bother to move when Brian texted to say he was on his way upstairs.
Most of the time you would try to make sure that everything was immaculate when he walked through the door, regardless of what might have happened in his absence. But today, as he himself would put it, your give a shit was broken. You buried your face in your pillow, wrapped the comforter around your shoulders, and pretended to be asleep.
Whether or not he'd ever figured out how to tell when you were pretending, he usually took the hint and left you alone. Usually.
"Liv..." he says with a sigh, disappointed to find you in the dark bedroom with your back turned away from him. He switches on the lamp on his side of the bed and sits down next to you, hand on your shoulder, and you mutter something to make it seem like you're only half awake. "Babe...you're in the exact same place you were when I left. That was 12 hours ago."
"I've been up." You've been a lot of things.
"This is still about that shit with Elliot." You don't answer, because you don't need to. "Liv...I know you're upset. I know it hurts. I get that- but I hate seeing you like this. Like you're just giving up."
You move your head to show you're listening but otherwise you don't speak or turn around. You've genuinely scared him in the last few days, you think, in between your confession that you wish you'd died and your general refusal to even keep pretending you're okay. He'd admitted that it felt like you were just back from the hospital again, like those first few days where you basically did nothing but sit perfectly still or wander aimlessly around the apartment, mute and unblinking. You resented the implication, that you had slid all the way back to the bottom again- but you knew he was probably right.
"He shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have gone there and...well. Neither one of 'em should've done what they did. You have every right to be angry. And I get that it brought a lot of shit back up for you but...Elliot knowing whatever he knows, it's not gonna change your whole life. It doesn't have to," and oh, the irony. "It's like...this is what I was afraid of, why I didn't like him showing up again. Cause he's a dick and I knew he'd do something to hurt you and...he doesn't deserve someone like you. I know you maybe can't see it right now, but you're too good for him."
You squeeze your eyes shut as tightly as possible, as if that would keep all the words in and the memories out. I slept with him. I'm sorry. I don't know why I do these things.
"Please just tell me you'll stay away from him? At least for a little while? Right now you've gotta take care of yourself, you've got so much on your mind already and you can't waste your energy on that asshole. You need it all so we can get through the next couple weeks."
He probably didn't expect you to agree as readily as you did, lifting your head and propping yourself up against your pillow as you nod. But after all, you'd made it very clear to Elliot that he was to stay away (although in a much more dramatic fashion). "I...yeah. I can do that."
"Yeah?" He reached toward your hand and you reached back, fingers curling around his palm like you usually did before you went to sleep at night. "Thanks, babe. Really."
"You're home early," you say softly, eager for a new topic. "Did you remember to get the stuff for the pies on the way here?"
Feeling pretty smug about your combined culinary skills now that you had mastered half a dozen or so dishes that actually tasted like real food, the two of you had decided to take up baking. Your first challenge was going to be making a pie (including the crust) from a recipe you'd gotten from Brian's mom. "Uh, yeah. About that."
Has there ever been any good news that started off with 'about that'? "What is it?"
"I've kinda got to go away for a couple days."
"Kinda. So like...part of you is gonna be gone?" He laughs nervously, seeming not to notice how you are decidedly *not* laughing.
"You know what I mean. But just a couple days. You'll be okay," he decides, leaning over and kissing your cheek. "You've been fine before, you'll be alright now."
"Yeah."
"I'll be here for Christmas. That's the most important thing, right? Our first Christmas in our new place."
First implies that there will be more to follow, and you're not so sure either of you should be making such bold assumptions at this point. "Right. Yeah."
You have a tree. You can't remember when you last had a tree before this, but it was definitely while your mom was still alive. Brian was actually the one who first brought up the idea, and you suspect it was because he could tell that you wanted one but wouldn't admit it. At one point you had these grand visions of decorating the whole place, of making it look like Christmas had thrown up all over the apartment, but then real life set in. Brian would inevitably start bitching about 'how much you must have spent on all this shit', and you didn't know where the hell you'd find the time in between work and trial prep and carrying on an 'extracurricular activity', as Nick had put it. When you were actually at home, all you had the motivation to do was have a few drinks and stare at the TV (when Brian was gone) or fuck and then fall asleep (whenever he finally showed up). So decorating was shelved with the thought that maybe next year you'd have the energy to play housewife again, but it didn't stop you from secretly wanting a tree. Nothing too big, just small and simple and decorated in white and ice blue like something you'd seen on a commercial for cheeses.
You'd only said it once, a single offhand comment shortly after Halloween, so you had no clue that (or even how) he remembered. But one night you arrived home late, practically dragging yourself through the doorway, only to find that Brian wasn't there. Your tree was, however, glowing and so perfect that you couldn't have done it better yourself. Thank God you were alone so no one was there to witness how you cried. And cried. And then texted Brian, who claimed it was all 'baby Jesus magic', and cried some more.
"Liv? Babe?"
His voice jerks you back to reality. "Sorry, sorry. Yeah. I'll be fine. Just like always."
"It won't be long," and he either didn't catch on to your sarcasm or was just choosing to ignore it. Maybe this will actually be a good thing; it means that you don't even have to pretend to keep it together. If you want to lie in bed all day clutching a bottle, that's your call, and there won't be anyone around to try and talk you out of it. "But hey...I don't have to leave right now, we've got time..."
You can tell what he's getting at by the way his hand moves up your arm, right above your wrist, and you fight back the sudden urge to be sick again. He's gotten better lately as far as not making you be the one to initiate everything, which is much appreciated, but you still don't feel badly if he doesn't get what he wants every time. That's just life, and you certainly don't think you 'owe' it to him. But for some reason, you can suddenly hear your mom's voice saying "That's how men are, Olivia, if they're not getting it at home, they're gonna get it somewhere else." Even as a teenager, you thought that sounded wrong on so many different levels and just dismissed the idea. But now...you have complete faith that he'd never cheat on you. But he is gone a lot, and you know what you're doing when he's not around, so who's to say he's not doing the same thing? After all, he'd probably say he knows you'd never cheat on him either.
So you paste on your best interested face, all but batting your eyelashes, and you force yourself to kiss him back until his hand slips under your shirt. "I don't wanna fuck."
"That's fine, babe, anything you want," he promises, and it's not an unusual request, so you feel pretty confident he isn't suspecting that something's up. He's trying to unhook the clasp of your bra when you stop him for the second time, reminding him that he just walked through the door so you're pretty sure he still has his contacts in. This he balks a little at, but he knows there's no arguing with you on this so he gives up quickly, trudging off to the bathroom. He thinks you're being ridiculous by still not letting him see you undressed unless he's nearsighted and the lights are out. You don't know why this in particular bothers him so much, considering all the other things he has or hasn't done per your request, so you just stand firm and ignore him when he makes stupid little comments about how he'll never be able to take his contacts out again without getting crazy turned on.
He comes back to bed and you pick up where you left off, but now you're feeling it even less than you were before. Correction: you're too distracted to feel anything, running on autopilot and distantly hoping that you're doing a good job of faking enthusiasm. But as the old adage goes- it's not him, it's you. You haven't had more than a few hours' sleep in days, not since Barba called you to come in on Sunday night, and you haven't eaten much of anything substantial in that time either. You've already been fucked enough for one day (literally, metaphorically...), and having someone all over you again just makes you feel dirty and used. «ready for more so soon, sweetheart? yeah, you are, you can't get enough». You've never actually slept with two different people in one day, and you don't feel particularly proud of it now. Not when that other person is all you can think about- the bruise on his cheek, the look he gave you when he left. I think you need to be alone for a while. Alone. He left you alone and now Brian's leaving you alone and you can't do this anymore and...
"Stop, please, just stop. Fuck. I don't, I can't..." Brian lets go of you immediately, alarmed by the tears that you don't even realize you're shedding until you start to speak.
"Hey, sssh, it's okay. Not a big deal, you know that. It's okay," he says as you bury your face against his shoulder, and you don't deserve him. He's been so understanding and patient after everything you've put him through in the last seven months, and now he's leaving again and you'll be all alone because everyone leaves, and that is really what you deserve. «no one cares, sweetheart, no one wants you». "Sssh, it's alright. Do you wanna talk about it?"
You shake your head even as you start to murmur in a soft, shuddering voice. "Don't leave."
When you were about six years old, your mother went out one afternoon while you stayed behind with a babysitter. You typically weren't a clingy child, but on that particular day your stomach hurt and you didn't want your mom to leave while you felt sick, so you asked her to stay but she said she couldn't.
You don't even remember where it was that she was going, but that's not the important part. What you do remember is how you started to cry, pleading with her not to go, and as she kept saying no your wails just got louder until you were screaming and refusing to let go of your grip on her arm. More than anything, you remember how powerless you felt at that moment. Your tears were the only tool you had to convince her to stay, and yet you realized that no matter how much you begged, she was still going to leave and there was no way to force her to change her mind.
You're not six years old anymore, but you feel as out of control as you did back then. This isn't you. You've never been the one to put yourself out there, openly admitting I need you. I can't do this without you even as you know that it's a futile request. You don't leave yourself open to get hurt like that...but maybe you don't even care anymore. Maybe you're at a point where it feels like you're invincible just because you can't possibly hurt any more than you already do. Dylan had it right- when you've got nothin', you've got nothin' to lose. Please. Don't go.
It's like you don't know yourself at all.
{it must be for real cause now I can feel}
That night you lie on the couch in near-darkness, eyes traveling back and forth between the Christmas tree and a phone that doesn't ring.
Alone.
You pick up a nearly empty bottle and take one last drink to finish it off, then close your eyes and wait for sleep to overtake you.
{could've been easier on you
I couldn't change though I wanted to
should've been easier by three
our old friend fear and you and me}