Hello! So, uh, I kinda left y'all hanging there and then didn't update last week. Take comfort in knowing I'm ashamed of myself. I may update once more this week as my apology, but don't count on it and then you won't end up disappointed ;)
Millions of thank yous again to all you nice people who've been reading and letting me know your thoughts. It really does mean more to me than you'll ever know and I'm so appreciative of all the love. And hate. :P
A/N: This is dark. This is not warm and fuzzy and I'm warning you right now. Timeline-wise, these scenes are all set during Psycho/Therapist up until Olivia's turn on the witness stand. This part is meant to show what's going on 'behind the scenes' during the episode, aka out of the courtroom. The next chapter will be the in-court shenanigans, leading up to the verdict and...surprises. All I can say is don't give up hope, all is not lost and there is happiness in the near future. Which I will eventually have to destroy...but we'll enjoy it while it lasts. :D Title and all quotes from one of my personal favorite songs (according to Spotify, my 2nd most listened to of 2014), Amy, I by Jack's Mannequin. I've been waiting for months to use it and I'm so happy I found the perfect place :)
{another long winter trying to fight this freeze}
"Fuck you, Olivia, what the hell were you thinking?"
Had you had any prior warning, you could've come up with any number of delightfully sarcastic responses to that question. But you hadn't, so all he got was a "What?"
"Don't be funny. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"No, Elliot, I actually don't." You have zero idea what you might have done to piss him off, seeing as how you've barely even left your apartment in days, unless he's just now decided to unload some decade-old grudge (and you wouldn't put it past him).
"What the fuck did you tell your dumbass lapdog about us?"
You're starting to think that these might be trick questions. "I...don't know how you want me to answer that. I tell him a lot of things, so what's your point here?"
"Did you or did you not tell him that we were fucking?"
Your mouth forms a perfect 'o' of surprise as you stare at the phone, not missing the 'were' in that sentence. "Why- how- why would you ever think I'd do that?"
"The guilt got to you? And you wanted to throw me under the bus?"
"No. No." What goes on between you stays there, that's what you've always sworn to one another. You've been keeping each other's secrets for so long that you can't believe he'd ever doubt you.
When you tell him that, he just snickers. "So then why, when I ran into him just now, was he getting in my face about how the hell could I do that to you, that you trusted me and I knew how much that would hurt you, that you were so upset that you were crying for days and saying you wished you were dead...huh?"
Godfuckingdamnit! "Wait, and he told you that I said we had sex?"
"He said he knew all about what happened with me."
"No. Did he specifically say anything about me telling him we slept together? Did he say to you 'I know you fucked her'?"
He groans like that was the stupidest question he's ever been asked. "No, he didn't have to! I knew exactly what he meant!"
"Jesus Christ, Elliot, no you did not! He was talking about you going to Bellevue," you say, and you're not sure which of them deserves to be strangled first, Brian or Elliot. "I told him about that. He wasn't even hardly around the day we...he was home for a few hours and then gone again for a couple days. He had no idea what went on and I sure as fuck never told him anything about it."
"You're positive about that."
"Yes. Think about this, okay, if I had told him- would he still be defending me?"
"How the hell should I know? I figured you'd probably give him some fucking sob story about how I took advantage of the situation...I'm sure you have him well-trained enough that he'd be falling all over himself to forgive you."
You glance around the kitchen a few times until you realize that they don't make anything even close to strong enough to get you through this phone call. "No matter how much...even if I was angry with you, which I wasn't, not until now...I wouldn't do something that would hurt your family. They don't deserve that."
He makes a noise that sounds something like 'huh', like he's conceded your point but isn't going to actually use words to tell you this.
"Besides, I...I still wanna work this out," you say, voice dropping to a whisper by the end of the sentence.
Silence, and then a sigh. "Well, I didn't come right out and say anything about us, ah...so I figure he's still clueless."
"Okay," and thank God for small favors. "So can we talk about..."
"Not now. Not yet. I'll, uh, let you know."
You squeeze your eyes closed for a few seconds, trying to keep any emotional outbursts at bay. "So...I guess I have nothing else to say to you, then."
"How've you been holding up these last few days?"
"Oh, like you suddenly care? I'm fine."
"I do care, Liv."
"No. You don't. You don't just abandon someone you claim to love-" there's that word again, the one that feels like a punch in the stomach every fucking time, "at the worst point of their life. I'm not an expert, but I know that much."
He's silent again and your face is flushed, cheeks burning red in shame because you've said far too much, you're far too exposed and once again he has the upper hand in this conversation. "I...should go."
"Yeah, you probably should."
"Wait. Liv?"
"Yeah?" you say, voice embarrassingly hopeful.
"I guess I should apologize. For accusing you of..."
You don't miss the careful way he's phrased it, that he 'should' apologize instead of actually saying he's sorry. "Yeah. You probably should."
Click.
{waiting but the cold's got a hold on me}
For whatever reason, Brian couldn't believe that Elliot would rat him out to you.
"I can't believe he'd do that!"
"Seriously? You never thought...I don't know. What were you thinking?"
"How much have you had to drink today?"
Correct answer: too much. Or maybe not enough. "Ohhh no. You don't get'ta make this about me."
"I'm not fighting with you while you're drunk."
"I'm not drunk, I'm angry! How else am I supposed to feel when I get this call from him out of fucking nowhere, and he's pissed off at me because of you, because he thought I told you that...that I put you up to it? Huh?"
"Of course! That's what you're mad about, him being pissed at you. I should've guessed."
You frown, trying to decipher what he's getting at. "What exactly are you saying?"
"He fucked you over! Why do you give a shit whether he's mad at you or not?" he asks, a hint of suspicion in his voice. "I thought you weren't even talking to him."
"I wasn't until today!" you say with a laugh, gesturing broadly and nearly knocking the lamp off the table in the process.
"Then see, there you are, just go back to not talking to him. Problem solved."
"No, problem not solved, because the problem is you. You were the one who...huh." Something has just occurred to you. "Where did all this even happen? You were supposed to be at work."
"I was. Sometimes I have to leave the building to do my job, you see."
"And so where were you?" He hesitates and you groan. "Is this really a matter of national security, Brian? Cause I can just call Elliot and he'll tell me."
"He was coming out of a lawyer's office."
"What kind of lawyer?"
"I dunno, tax? Family? Immigration? There's more than one firm in the building- why does it even matter?"
"So you're in public and decide that's an okay time to- he didn't need to know all that!" you say, rubbing the bridge of your nose. "I told you that shit in confidence, not so you can...what? What did you accomplish, other than having a chance to run your mouth? I don't need you, or him, or anyone else deciding they need to defend me. Fuck that."
"He didn't need to know...I thought he already knew everything about you! Isn't that how all this started?"
You make a face like you've just bit into something rancid. "Oh my god, are you actually- you're jealous! That's what this is, isn't it? You think he busted into this invisible circle of trust and you're angry that you're not part of it! Oh my god."
"I don't know why the hell I'm even trying to talk to you."
"You think I'm here pouring my heart out to him or something and you're missing out! Well, sorry. You're wrong. I don't tell him shit."
"Glad to know I'm not the only one, then."
"See? See that?" you ask, and you may not be as drunk as he thinks you are, but you're drunk enough to start jabbing your finger in the air to make your point, "You really are jealous! I knew it!"
"Okay, you need to calm down."
"You have this sick obsession with wanting to know every last detail, and-"
"Enough!" he barks, and now you've really pissed him off. "Just shut up. I'm done listening to you."
You've never hit him, never even come close, but the only thing stopping you now is a serious lack of hand-eye coordination. "You don't get to tell me what to do. Understand that? You don't ever...so what is it?"
"What is what?"
"What is it you wanna know so badly? We'll play 20 questions. Yes or no answers only," you slur.
"No. That's my answer."
"Then stop fucking pushing! Okay? I'll save you the trouble. Whatever it is, whatever horrible thing you want me to admit so that you'll have an excuse to take off just like everyone else in my life...it's true! It happened. And it was so much worse than you could ever fucking imagine. So there you are. Problem solved," you can't resist adding.
"What the fuck, Olivia, you're not even making sense anymore-"
"You wanna know what I think?" You can hear him say no, but you're already long past the point of no return and besides, it was another rhetorical question. "I think that all this time, secretly, in your head, you've never believed me. You've always wondered if maybe I'm lying. Maybe I really wanted it. Maybe I liked it."
He picks up your empty glass and lets it shatter on the wood floor, and you think he was trying to get your attention but now you're just angry because he beat you to it. "Olivia. Shut. Up."
"You're gonna tell me that you've never even once-"
"No! Never. I've always believed you, and I'd be really fucking pissed that you would doubt me if I thought you had any goddamn idea what you're saying right now."
"You know what? I'm so tired of you. Just go. Just be somewhere not here," you decide, suddenly no longer interested in carrying on this conversation. It needs to end now, before he changes his answer, because if he's lying...then you don't want to know. You can't handle that, certainly not tonight. It's just better not knowing.
"I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to be alone right now."
"Okay, then I'm leaving," and the idea of wandering around drunk in the dark is terrifying, but you know he won't actually let you walk out, not when it takes you three tries just to get yourself into a standing position. "Not gonna be here with you."
"Ohh no. No way are you going anywhere."
"You're gonna stop me?"
"Actually, yeah I am. I will physically keep you from walking out that door if I have to," he warns, looking around like he's searching for backup. He could take you on his own, he knows that much, but he also knows that he'd like to keep all his limbs in working order.
"I wanna see you try-" you start to say, but you're not about to get the chance, because you're sprinting toward the bathroom with a hand clapped over your mouth before you can even finish your sentence.
Brian is undoubtedly relieved.
{give me a cloud there's so much at stake
decided to walk, there was ice on the lake
I never worry cause it never breaks
but I feel it cracking under my weight}
It had been...a few minutes, maybe a few hours. You really couldn't tell how much time had passed when you awoke to the sound of the bathroom sink running. The light was shining straight at you through the gap at the bottom of the door, and you quickly groaned and turned your head away because it was too bright even behind your eyelids.
"Liv?" you hear Brian ask when the door opens. You raise your hand slightly and wiggle your fingers in reply. "You feeling okay?"
"Better after I threw up," you say, remembering kneeling miserably on the cold floor until your stomach was finally empty, then slowly making your way back and collapsing at the foot of the bed because you couldn't drag yourself any further.
"I bet."
You struggle to get into a sitting position before taking the pills he hands you and popping them into your mouth, followed by a few cautious sips of water. You're gradually getting better at this whole pill thing. You can look at them without automatically gagging, and you even manage to swallow them on the first try without choking a good fifty percent of the time. "I'm okay now. Just...my head."
"At least you gave yourself time to sober up before you have to be in court tomorrow, huh?" He sits down next to you, back against the headboard, and frowns when he sees you looking curiously at him in the dark. "What's up?"
"You didn't leave."
"You thought I did?"
"Yeah. No. I mean...I don't know." You honestly hadn't even given it a thought, first because you were consumed by more urgent matters like not passing out with your head on the toilet lid, and then because you actually did pass out (though not on the floor! Victory!). But now that he's here beside you, now that your head's slumped against his shoulder, you realize that maybe this almost didn't happen. You could've woken up tomorrow morning to find that he just...wasn't there, and you're not cold at all but you still start shivering violently at the thought.
"Hey, sssh. It's okay, I wouldn't leave you like this," he says tiredly, pulling you closer to him. From here you can catch a faint whiff of alcohol on his breath- figures that he'd resort to the same coping strategy you had, even if he hadn't taken it quite as far. "I'm here. I'm still here."
He's still here. For tonight. You feel his chin resting on top of your head and you let out a little sigh, knowing you have to remember every single thing about this, every single second, because your seconds are numbered and there's no telling when the last one will tick past you.
"Liv?" he says after a long silence.
"Yeah?"
Minutes pass without a word from him as your mind wanders back into the courthouse, thinking about how empty it had felt yesterday just knowing that he wasn't going to be out there on that bench waiting for you. Maybe you were wrong to tell him he didn't need to be there. Maybe you should choke down your pride and tell him you've changed your mind.
"We can't keep doing this," he finally says. "Something's gotta change."
"Doing...I don't know what you mean..."
"I mean the drinking, the fights...it's the same thing over and over."
You nod, but your thoughts are still elsewhere. He can't be with you in court. No matter how much you might want him to be, it's too risky. There's too many secrets hanging in the air, ready to be effortlessly absorbed as if by osmosis. You know what people are saying about you, what they'll be saying once he's finished with you, and you can't put Brian through that. He doesn't deserve it, no more than you deserve him.
"Liv? You still there?"
"Yeah, I'm...I'm awake."
"Promise me that once this shit's over with...promise me things are gonna change," he says, and suddenly your world has shifted because this isn't how it's supposed to work. He's supposed to be the one making promises, telling you it's all going to get better soon, not seeking reassurance for himself when you know that things are honestly only going to get worse.
"They will, hon. I promise."
{I never felt this kind of cold before}
Victim.
You had forgotten about it, too trapped in that moment when he made his big announcement that he wanted to represent himself, when you felt a burning wave of acid swelling in your stomach and rising into your throat. But now it's coming back to you, echoing over the sound of water running in the bathtub.
Victim.
He had looked so self-satisfied when he said it, voice brimming over with false sympathy, turning around and looking straight at you just in case you hadn't already noticed how much he was enjoying himself. You were right where he wanted you. Again.
«I won, didn't I?» He stands in the doorway of the bedroom, grinning proudly as he sniffles once, twice, swiping at his nose with the back of his hand. As he approaches, you can see that he hadn't even bothered to zip his pants. «Hey. You think you can go all silent on me now? Huh?» You try to respond, but your voice is weak in the aftermath of so much screaming over the last several hours. «Say it. Tell me I won.»
You stay silent, defiant, telling yourself you're still fighting although you know you're really just giving up. What's he going to do if you piss him off, kill you? You're dying anyway. «Say it!» He's shouting right in your face, spit landing across your cheekbones as he pulls your head up by your hair, and when he moves closer he shoves his knee in between your legs and oh god there's that screaming again and it can't be coming from you, there's no way it can. «Look at that, you didn't lose your voice after all.»
And now for the first time since the night you got home from the hospital, you stand completely naked in front of the mirror that hangs on your closet door, scrutinizing your reflection. You look better than you did that day, free of bandages and stitches and freshly imprinted teeth marks and perfect impressions of keys. The bleeding has stopped and the angry reds have faded into stubborn shades of pink and white. The sharp lines and edges have blurred, scar tissue making it harder to distinguish the origins of each particular wound (but you remember. you can't forget).
You look better. But before, as hideously injured as you were, there was the hope of healing. Even when it seemed unimaginable, you knew that your present state wouldn't last forever. Now seven and a half months have gone by and you're having to accept that this may be as good as it's going to get. Sure, the doctor said your scars might keep slowly lightening, but they're not going away and they'll never blend in with the skin surrounding them. You've given up on the idea of plastic surgery. The thought of being put under, of the pain and the healing process and being poked and prodded by a stranger- it's not worth it for something that might just make the scarring worse. Especially when you can't stop sabotaging yourself, scratching and scrubbing and adding your own self-inflicted damage to whatever he hadn't already destroyed.
When you finally submerge yourself in the warm bathwater, only then do you notice the coppery taste in your mouth and realize that you've been biting your lip hard enough to draw blood. You instantly start to feel dizzy, grabbing onto the edge of the tub. «What, you think I wanna fuck you now?» you hear him say, hear yourself crying and pleading with him to please, no, please god don't, I'll do anything. «Don't worry, sweetheart, I'm not interested anymore» and your stomach drops, you know you're only alive as long as you're interesting to him and maybe you do want to live after all, «you're a fuckin mess, no way am I gonna stick my dick in that», but you can still feel him prodding at you with his fingers, your pained whimper drowned out by the sound of him laughing, «doubt I'd enjoy it much, know what I mean, guess maybe I went a little hard on you before», and when he holds up his fingers, you can see they're coated in blood, at least until he pops them into his mouth with a nauseatingly exaggerated sucking sound. «jesus fucking christ, that's good» and he grabs you by the chin, suffocating you with his mouth as he forces his bloody tongue past your lips...
You close your eyes and sink further down into the water, imagining yourself slipping under and letting it swallow you whole.
{never felt this kind of hold on me}
"Just need to be alone for a bit," you had hastily explained to Nick, brushing off his concern as you hurried out of the courthouse and into the refuge of the first cab you could find.
[are you still there? We have a break and I'm coming home]
Brian responds almost instantly. [I'm here babe]
Your 'lunch' break has been extended to two and a half hours at the request of a certain defendant who, according to Barba, has used every available opportunity to drag out the proceedings by complaining about one ailment after another. This time it was a ringing in his ears that was triggering a migraine. Whatever it was, you weren't going to hang around. Not after the unexpected run-in you had with him as he was leaving the courtroom.
«you look good today, sweetheart»
The guard who was escorting him growled out a warning to stop talking. As he yanked on his arm to lead him away, you froze at the sound of a familiar loud exhale.
«see, that wasn't so bad, was it?» He groans one final time before he moves off you, grabbing your shoulder to force you onto your back again. «don't worry, I'll take care of *you* later», he promises, wiping away the sweat and tears on your cheek with his thumb. You don't make eye contact, not even when his hand wanders downward and squeezes your breast, fingers digging into a deep cut that still hasn't stopped bleeding. «god, you're so pretty. but we have to get out of here now, I don't want our fun to keep getting interrupted by that old bitch's screaming».
You throw some money at the driver and rush upstairs, feeling like you're being chased by the sound of heavy breathing and the feeling of being torn apart from the inside. Brian's waiting at the door and looking concerned. "Are you okay? What happ-"
He's cut off when you push him against the wall, hands on either side of his face as your mouth crashes into his. "I don't wanna talk."
"Liv, woah, slow down," he says, but you've already shed your coat and blazer and you're pulling him with you into the bedroom. "You're not going to tell me what-"
"That's not what I came here for," and he should know that, should know you're not rushing home to break a two day stalemate in which you've barely spoken to each other.
"Liv."
"I need you to fuck me. I need you to not ask questions."
You're almost completely undressed by now, grabbing his hands as you sit down at the edge of the bed, and he doesn't even have his socks off but it's okay, you've managed to get him on top of you and that's all you're really after. "The fuck, Liv, you just show up-"
"Do you not understand what I'm telling you?" you snap in frustration, eyes wild and heart racing, and it seems to work because this time when you kiss him he doesn't argue. He bites at your bottom lip and that's good, that means you've pissed him off enough to where he's given in.
You complain loudly when he takes too long to get to where you want him to go because fuck that, you're not in the mood, you've been ready since before you even made it home and the more time he wastes, the longer you feel someone else's hands on you.
"Fucking finally," you sigh once he's got two fingers moving inside you, a steady stream of harder, damnit, I need it coming from your mouth as you start tugging at one of your nipples. "C'mon. More."
He pauses what he's doing when he looks up at you, and his eyes are dark in a way you haven't seen in a long time. "Do you wanna get yourself off or do you want me to fuck you?"
For a moment you stare back defiantly, acting like you're thinking this over even though you could've come from the tone of his voice alone. Finally you stretch your arms out above your head in submission, hands under the pillows as your back arches toward him, grinding up against the heel of his palm.
You can tell he's pissed off at you and frustrated as hell but he doesn't get that it's what you need, for him to stop being so goddamn careful with you sometimes. Even now as he starts fucking you with a third finger, it still doesn't feel like enough, and you're shifting around restlessly to find a better angle.
"Jesus, will you stop," he says, his forearm across your waist to hold you still, and there's not even that much force behind it but it's enough to keep you from moving. Enough that he's in control now as he fucks into you over and over, and the sensation combined with the feeling of your hands pinned beneath your head sends a wave of terror down your spine that ends with you coming hard, your mouth falling open on a silent scream.
"Fuck, I..." He watches you cautiously and you wonder what he's thinking, what you must look like, because you feel so fucking good and so fucking scared all at once and your heart is skipping beats and you can't catch your breath, and you need to get out of here because with every passing second you feel a little worse, a little more disgusting and disgusted and..."I've gotta go, I'm gonna be late. I'm sorry."
"Babe...are you sure you're okay?" he asks as you scramble to get dressed, glancing in the mirror at your messy hair and pushing it back behind your ears.
"What the fuck kind of question is that, Brian? What do you think? I don't have time for this," you add, because you don't, not when your life consists of running away from one thing after another. But despite your hurry, you still notice the way he's standing at the window with his back to you, leaning sideways against the wall like it's the only thing keeping him upright. "I'm fine. We'll talk later."
"No, we won't. Let's not lie about it."
"Bri, I'm sorry, I-"
"I thought you had to leave."
"Yeah. Yeah, I do."
{I hear your bare feet on my bedroom floor
but you're not there anymore}
There wasn't a card, but you didn't need one.
Reds and pinks, oranges and yellows, brightly colored flowers standing in stark contrast to the gray sky in the window behind them. They were almost identical to the bouquet that had shown up at Brian's door seven months ago, right down to the green tinted vase that looked just like the one you had smashed on his kitchen floor while you screamed and raged at your invisible enemy. So no, you didn't need a card. You knew who it was from.
Last time you had picked up the phone to, as Elliot himself had put it, call him to come over so that you could tell him to leave you alone. Today you got a text from him not five minutes after the flowers had arrived: [figured you'd get mad if dumbass knew they were from me so decided I'd be anonymous]
A few seconds later: [I'm sorry about the other day. Shouldn't have accused you like that]
And then again: [you can believe me or not, but I do care and I'll be thinking about you today. you're stronger than he is. you're going to survive this]
With shaking hands, you struggle to compose even the simplest of replies: [thank you]
One minute passes.
Then two.
Then three.
Four.
Last time, it wasn't enough. That's what you had told him, that he couldn't just send flowers without even bothering to sign the goddamn card, not after two years of radio silence that you never knew what you had done to deserve. It wasn't enough then and it's not enough now, but this time you don't have your sense of moral superiority to cling to. You know this whole thing started with you, that it's all because you can't let yourself be happy for even a few hours without trying to destroy it all. And this time it seems like you succeeded.
Yesterday you walked up and down the courthouse hallways, trying to focus your energy on anything except what was going on behind those double doors, and every time you turned around you prayed that you'd see him standing in front of you. Just like after Sonia died, when you rounded the corner and found him waiting there like something out of a movie. You could count on one hand the number of times that you'd hugged before that day, but he still didn't hesitate to hold onto you and not let go, and you remember how it took everything you had to keep from sobbing out of sheer relief. How you needed him and he just knew. Just like how he knows you need him now...only this time, that's not enough. No matter how many times you turn around, he's not going to be there.
You let go of the phone and clutch the edge of the counter, shoulders shaking and teardrops dotting the screen as you start to cry.
{hold onto me, Amy
I never felt this kind of cold on me
Amy, I may never feel this way again}