Hello! Another update that's been slow in coming, but it's fairly long, so I hope that will make up for the wait. If you want something else to read in between updates (featuring Noah, hipster Nick, and an Olivia who's finally getting her happily ever after), then go check out After All if you haven't already. Okay, enough shameless self promotion.
A/N: this picks up from where the last chapter left off, with Olivia recounting her misadventures to her therapist. Needless to say...not the happiest of chapters. Warning for violence and sexual content- consensual, non-consensual, and the murky place in between. Title and quotes from Time by tom waits, other quotes from how to be dead by snow patrol. No zonkeys were harmed in the making of this chapter. Yes, they are real, and they are illegal to keep as pets in NYC (hat tip to google)
Questions? Comments? Concerns? Hit me up here or on twitter- lucythespencer.
{please don't go crazy if I tell you the truth
no you don't know what happened and you never will}
Two days prior
"Hello?"
"Liv 'm worried 'bout you."
Elliot sounds even more drunk than he did when you saw him a few hours ago, which was a feat considering he must still be in the hospital. You only answered the call from an unfamiliar number because you thought it might be Brian checking in from...wherever he was. Bad move, Benson. "Elliot, what're you doing? I'm amazed you could even remember my number."
"It mighta took me a few tries. My head hurts like a motherfucker and they won't give me anything for it. What'm I paying for, huh?"
You reach out from where you're lying half-dressed on your bed and grab the bottle off the nightstand, not having bothered with unnecessary chores such as changing clothes or doing the dishes so you'd have a clean glass when you got home. "You need to rest. I'm hanging up now and I don't want you to call back."
"No. Wait. Why won't you talk to me?"
"You want a list?" Your first few drinks had gone down quickly but didn't seem to be taking effect, because you can still feel the throbbing from your burned arms and the hollow acidic feeling in your stomach, the one that started back when you ran into Kathy and makes you feel like you're being slowly eaten alive from the inside out. "There's nothing to talk about. You're drunk-"
"So're you."
"-and I don't have anything to say other than you need to get better, and go home and fix things with your family, and leave me alone."
"But we weren't done when you left, you didn't answer my question. What was that all about? Something happened, Liv, why won't you tell me?"
"'Something happened'?" you repeat. "Where have you been the last eight months?"
"No. It's something else, I know that because you said 'I can't talk about it'. Just like you can't talk about what I did-"
"How many fucking times do I have to tell you it was nothing?!" you shout into the phone, and you can visualize how he must be wincing from the volume of your sudden outburst. Serves him right. "What the hell is your problem? Jesus Christ. You're just like Brian. Neither of you listen to me. Both of you keep trying to make me think I'm crazy- if I say I'm fine, I'm fine, okay? Why can't either of you just accept that? Why do you have to make an issue out of things that don't matter?"
"You're so drunk right now, Liv, you dunno what the fuck you're sayin'. Go sleep it off."
"Fuck you, Elliot, you're the one who called me so now I'm talking and you're gonna hear me out." You pause, trying to remember what exactly you were going to say.
"Liv?"
"What! What is it?"
There's a noise on the other end of the line and you can't tell if he's just breathing heavily or if he's actually crying- and if it's the latter, you're going to drive all the way back to Jersey so you can slap some sense into him. Yeah, he's drunk and yeah, he's in pain. But guess what? So are you, and you're not crying. You're the victim, but you're not the one crying. "All I wanted is to apologize. I never wanted to hurt you, ever, I-"
"Elliot. Stop."
"But I don't want you to forgive me. You shouldn't. I don't. I won't ever forgive myself-"
"Will you just shut up? Just shut up," you plead, because as annoying as his drunken self-pity is, you know the feeling at the root of it is genuine. Despite how callous you both seem at times with the things you say and do to each other, you both would sooner die than live with knowing you caused the other some sort of irreparable pain. You understand why he's killing himself slowly because you're doing the same thing, and now it's just a race to the bottom- one that you're desperate to win if for no other reason than you wouldn't have to see him like this.
"I love you. You know that, right? You have to know that."
"You know what I know? That if you really loved me, you would accept that nothing like that happened between us and let it go, stop trying to convince me that you-"
"That I what, Olivia? That I raped you?"
The noise that comes out of your mouth is nearly inhuman, part sob and part scream. You're lying on your side, knees drawn up in the fetal position, and your head's tucked down with your chin touching your chest as if you could disappear if you just made yourself small enough. "No. I wasn't, you didn't, no. No! That's not what happened, I wasn't..."
"Isn't that the exact same thing you told me about Lewis? Huh? How is this any different? How? It's not! Why can't you admit it?"
"I wasn't," you insist, desperate for him to believe you. In your mind you can still smell the odors of paint and gasoline that hung in the air in Elliot's garage, hear the smug satisfaction in his voice because he knows he's got you now. He knows you're going to give in and you hate yourself for it, even more than you hate the way he laughs when you give up your halfassed protests and your hips buck against his hand, the tip of his middle finger ghosting over you. Now you're not only giving in, passively accepting your fate, but you're nodding meekly and saying yes. I want it. Don't stop. And it's so fucking demeaning, letting someone screw the hell out of you up against this cold unforgiving concrete wall- even without that other familiar voice in your head, the evil one reminding you that «you're such a dirty girl, sweetheart, look how much you love it.» But you do love it, the sick thrill of feeling used, of being pursued by someone who wants you that much that they're willing to risk the consequences, someone who's going to hurt you just enough to get you off so you can restart the cycle of self-hatred all over again. «now say thank you. say it» and nonono it wasn't like that, Elliot's got it all wrong. "He didn't. He didn't, no, that's not what happened. It's not."
"Liv, what are you...Liv?"
"I wasn't," you repeat in little more than a whisper.
"Liv?"
*click*
{well they all pretend they're orphans
and their memory's like a train
you can see it getting smaller as it pulls away
and the things you can't remember tell the things you can't forget}
Present day
Dr. Christiansen takes a long sip out of her Starbucks cup and nods at you like she's trying to collect her thoughts on all this. Take your time, lady. You know she must hear more than anyone could possibly dream up, talking with all the headcases in the ER, but part of you perversely hopes this story you're telling her now will earn a place in some fucked up hall of fame. Bet right about now she wishes there was more in that cup than a hazelnut latte.
"So when you were having that conversation with him- it seems like you're on two different wavelengths. He's talking about what happened between the two of you, but in your mind you're remembering your assault."
"Yes. No. I was...oh fuck, I don't know, but it doesn't matter. Elliot would never do something like that. He wouldn't, and I don't know why he insists on acting like he...I said yes. He asked me, am I sure, and I said yes. I could've told him to stop, I could've told him to get the hell away from me, and he would've. No doubt in my mind. But I didn't. I didn't do any of that."
"Do you wish you would've?"
You nod, pinching the bridge of your nose like that would keep the tears at bay. "It was so selfish of me...as soon as I looked at him, I knew that. That he was going to blame himself, thinking that he..."
"That he raped you."
"Does no one understand that's not what happened?!" you ask, and God you wish you had something to throw other than the shredded tissue that's clinched in your trembling fist.
"I understand. I'm not trying to argue, I promise, I'm just restating what he thinks. You said it was all consensual and I believe you."
I believe you. At first you let out an audible sigh of relief- someone gets it. But then you think about Elliot saying 'I know you, Liv, and I know you didn't want that', about «you wanted it rough and I gave it to you» and Amanda promising Avery 'it doesn't mean you wanted it, or enjoyed it' and you let your head fall forward, sobbing quietly again as teardrops start dotting the light blue denim of your jeans.
"Olivia? What's going through your mind right now?"
"How the hell can anyone else believe me when I don't even know if..."
"What don't you know?"
"Anything!" you say before lifting your head up again, heels of your hands pressed against your eyes. "For the past few days, ever since I remembered...I've got all these things I'm thinking about and I can't turn it off. It won't stop. Everything's getting so mixed up in my mind and I don't even know what to think. Nothing seems like...all of a sudden I feel like I'm doubting...I don't know. Everything."
"Are you doubting the memories you have of your assault?"
"No. No. I know it was real, that he...but what I don't understand is why it took so long for me to..." You're back there slumped against the side of the tub in your old apartment, being jerked into consciousness by a sudden torrent of freezing cold water pelting your bare skin. You cough and struggle for air, tilting your head up only to choke on the water you breathe in through your nose and open mouth, turning your head away and distantly noticing the swirls of red snaking down the drain. Still, you don't connect that observation with the fresh bruises and bite marks you can see all over your body or how you're so sore that even the tiniest of movements has you whimpering in pain. "Why the hell did I never put two and two together and figure out what happened before now? This whole time I thought that...everything hurt so much," you admit quietly, voice wavering again. "But I assumed it was because of all that happened before..."
"Before he drugged you." When you don't respond, don't move or even blink in acknowledgement, she tries again. "Olivia?"
"I knew something was wrong. I knew that...this wasn't good, this wasn't supposed to be happening. I knew I was afraid of him, but I wasn't. Like my brain knew it, but I couldn't actually feel the fear," you say in a faraway monotone, visualizing your weak attempt to wriggle out from underneath him with your arms tied behind your back and his hands gripping your thighs. «you're a real animal, aren't you, sweetheart?» "He was hitting, slapping me...everywhere...I didn't feel the pain. Everything just felt warm and..." «I mean, I knew you'd be fun but- jesus» and you can hear yourself gasping for air as you writhe around on your cold hardwood floor, head lolling to one side. «bet your boyfriend doesn't do *that* for you, huh?» and he grabs your chin and twists until you're facing him. «my turn. open up.» "I never said anything. I never said no. Not even when..." and you can feel him pushing you onto your stomach, pulling at your hair as he pounds into you relentlessly. "But the worst part is, that while it was happening...even if he'd asked me if I wanted him to stop...I'm not sure I would've said yes."
You give up making any attempt to pretend you're not crying, unable to see her reaction through your blurry eyes. "Olivia. You can't blame yourself for that."
"Oh, can't I?"
"You were drugged," she reminds you gently. "If it really was meth- you've seen how people who are high act, I'm sure you have. Just because it felt good at the time- or at least, didn't feel bad- that still doesn't mean it wasn't against your will. You weren't even taking drugs by choice to begin with. I know how it must feel, but-"
"No. You don't. I swear to god, you don't know how it feels because I don't even know how I feel. I want to believe it was the drugs talking, but how am I supposed to be sure? What if...he was right the whole time? I let it happen. Only I didn't even know that's what I was doing. Oh my god..."
"You're worried that your subconscious set you up to be assaulted?" You still can't see her face when you give her a little nod, but at least she doesn't laugh (or pick up the phone to order a straitjacket). "What makes you think that?"
There's obviously still a lot she doesn't know about you.
{Dr. Jekyll is wrestling Hyde for my pride}
Sunday, May 19th, 2013
"You're up early."
You look up from where you're stretched out on the couch to see Brian coming out of your room with bare feet and bedhead. "I guess. I was asleep for a while before you came in last night...I think. I don't really know what time you got in."
"You don't remember?"
"No, I do. But I wasn't looking at the clock."
"Yeah." He pours himself a cup of coffee, sitting down at the dining room table and staring at the front page of the paper. In the bottom right corner is a blurb about the William Lewis trial. It'll start back up again tomorrow with Melinda testifying about the DNA evidence- and with any luck, that'll be the nail in the beast's coffin, but you'll still be on edge until the verdict is in and you know for sure he's not walking free. "You pissed at me?" Brian asks without looking up.
"What? No." You've been cross-examined enough times to know the golden rule: give the bare minimum response. If they want extra information, make 'em work for it.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
He makes a big show of loudly turning the page when you're willing to bet good money that he's not reading a word of it. "I was tired, that's all. Fucking courthouse."
"I get it," you assure him, not mentioning how you'd been texting back and forth all evening and not once did he say anything about this exhaustion that must've hit him the minute he walked through your door.
"Actually, you know what?" he asks, abandoning all pretense of reading and turning in his chair to face you. "That whole thing...can we maybe not do that anymore?"
"Sure, whatever," you say, wishing you had something of your own to pretend to read.
"It's not that I...I'm not saying I don't enjoy it, the sex part, but it's...I still don't get it."
You sigh to yourself because clearly, this has been a discussion a long time coming (at least on his end), and he's not going to be satisfied with monosyllabic answers on your end. "But...what is there to get?"
One of the occupational hazards of police work in general, and SVU especially, is that you pretty much see it all. Not just the worst in people, but also the things that most folks don't go around broadcasting. Suffice it to say, you've encountered just about every sort of sexual practice out there, and you're no longer shocked by most anything people do to one another in the name of good 'ol consensual enjoyment. As a result, you feel like you have a pretty good sense of what doesn't interest you. You don't find S&M that appealing, you have no desire to be handcuffed (for obvious reasons), and you don't think you could last in one of those convoluted role plays for very long without cracking up and 'breaking character'.
All that being said, you don't think you're a prude (you're pretty sure the number of people you've been with in the past is enough to disqualify you from that label all on its own). You are, however, a bit of a control freak. You like to be the one in charge, and you'll quickly put the brakes on anything that makes you feel too vulnerable. Fast, hard, and impersonal is how you like it, which probably has something to do with your long trail of one night stands and short term relationships (but which caused which? It's a chicken or the egg conundrum...).
But this thing with Brian, whatever it is you wanna call it, this thing is different. Maybe it's your age. Maybe it's your history- as rocky as it was, you had a familiarity there even before you started this. In any case, you're in a good spot right now. You're not thinking marriage or babies or even moving in together, but you have keys to each other's places, which for you two is the equivalent of some sort of blood pact. Not to mention, the sex is pretty goddamn amazing. Like everything else in your relationship, it's very low-stress; you know each other well enough that you don't have to obsess over whether it's sufficiently 'good' or not, and you're both laid back about experimenting with things and being able to laugh it off when said things get awkward.
In this particular case, it started off as a joke. When you first exchanged keys, both of you visibly nervous about What This Means, he tried to break the tension by asking if this was your way of giving him permission to invite himself over for a booty call when he got off work in the early morning.
"Only if you don't wake me up, or expect me to do anything," you said with a smirk. You never really understood the appeal of first-thing-in-the-AM sex (or workouts, or big meals, or conversation, or anything before you've had your coffee).
The next morning, with a couple of hours still to go before sunrise, you're startled awake by the unfamiliar sound of your front door being unlocked. A few moments later, you feel the mattress dip behind you and Brian's hand on your arm, his warm breath tickling the nape of your neck. "S'okay, don't mind me. Go back to sleep."
And somehow it became this thing where a few times a week he would come by after finishing the night shift, let himself in, climb into bed next to you and...well. Despite your general dislike of being woken up so early in the morning, you didn't really mind this quite so much (or at all). True to your word, he was the one doing all the work, and it was surprisingly easy to just relax and let go while you were in that languid, dreamy headspace between sleeping and waking.
But then one day, you had a very bad day. The kind of day where you end up out in Queens at the home of a child molestation suspect (who you were able to quickly ascertain was not your guy, just someone whose name had been given to the tipline by a vengeful ex-wife). And while this man wasn't a sex offender, he was the owner of a pet 'zonkey'- a half donkey, half zebra who was the size of a large dog and very protective of his territory. Long story short, you got headbutted by said zonkey and landed flat on your back. You weren't really injured, but by the time Animal Control finally showed up and Nick dropped you off at home after a side trip to the precinct to fill out an accident report, you were definitely hurting. So despite your usual loathing of painkillers, you found an old prescription bottle in the back of your medicine cabinet and popped a couple. You figured you deserved it.
What you didn't count on, though, was how the effects seemed to go straight to your head and radiate outward from there. Your whole body went slack, like your muscles had turned to liquid and all the tension had been drained away until you were so light that it felt like floating. All the stress of the day- wasting a whole afternoon chasing the wrong guy while a pervert's still out there, being knocked on your ass by an exotic animal you never even knew existed- none of it seemed to matter. You were perfectly conscious and aware of what was going on around you, but everything seemed to soften and slow down. It was nice.
"You've said that four times now," Brian pointed out when you told him this.
"And I've meant it every time," you say- because it was, in fact, nice. You said it again when he collapsed onto the bed next to you, staring up at the ceiling and trying to catch your breath after he had just fucked you senseless (what little sense you had remaining, that is). It hadn't been like your lazy early morning trysts in that regard, but you had been in that same state where your body felt lax and pliable and your mind was blissfully unaware of anything other than what was right in that moment. You knew you'd be feeling it in the morning once the meds wore off, seeing as how you spent the whole time pleading 'morepleaseharderdamnitIsaidharder', but for now you were glowy and satiated and everything was...well, nice. "You know what else would be nice?"
"Sleep?"
"If you fucked me like that when you come wake me up." Would you have broached the subject without that extra drug-induced courage? Maybe not. After all, while you didn't think it was that extreme, you knew that wanting someone to get rough with you while you were half-asleep was a little out there.
For his part, Brian wasn't completely sold on the idea, but you talked it over and he agreed to give it a try. The first couple of attempts were not quite what you had in mind, and you had all but given up because it was impossible to stay in that hazy, sleepy state of mind that you wanted with someone asking 'is this okay? Should I...' every five seconds.
"For Christ's sake, Bri, I just want you to fuck me and not ask questions. You've done it before...if I don't like it, I'll say so. Otherwise..."
"But isn't it...I mean. It's kinda one sided. Cause you're usually...ah. You like being in charge."
You try not to roll your eyes because for all he's changed over the last dozen years and for all his false bravado, sometimes you still feel like you're dealing with the awkward, overly eager to please kid you knew last century. "That's the point, that I don't want to be. You know what I like, you know I'm not going to break, and I trust you not to take it too far so for the love of God, just fuck me."
After that, you hadn't brought up the subject again. But then eventually there came another day from hell. First thing in the morning, you got a call from IA saying they needed to interview you because the zonkey's owner was threatening to sue the city, saying you had purposely provoked the zonkey into assaulting you. Then comes the arraignment for that shady fingerprint-less flasher that Rollins picked up yesterday, William Lewis. The judge turns him loose, he'll likely end up with all the charges against him dropped, and you still don't even know who the hell he really is. You wish you could've spent the day trying to dig up more info on this creep, but instead you and Nick spend hours on rehashing your (literal) run-in with the zonkey until Tucker's newest lackey is satisfied that this wasn't a case of police-on-rare animal brutality.
By the time you got home that night, it was late enough that you didn't bother with dinner and instead just fell right into bed. You sent a quick reply text to Brian, giving him a short rundown of your day, and then paused before adding [come over later?]
[yeah ok. now get some sleep.]
It felt like only minutes, but you knew several hours had passed between receiving that text and waking up to the sound of Brian fumbling around in the living room. He always made it a point to be noisy on his way in- "never startle someone who sleeps next to a gun," as he put it. You hear him open the fridge door and roll over onto your stomach, dozing off again.
The next time you wake up, he's sitting next to you on the edge of the bed. "Hey babe."
You mumble something in reply without bothering to open your eyes, hoping he gets the hint that you're not in the mood to make out for half an hour. Fuck me or leave me alone, you say silently.
He kisses your temple and you ignore it, but then he's straddling your thighs and tugging down your pajama shorts and oh fuck. Yes.
Neither of you say a word the whole time, so it's nothing but sighs and groans and heavy breathing, the only exception being when he's struggling with getting your tank top off over your arms. "Leave it," you hiss when he accidentally pulls at your hair in the process, your shirt bunched up around your wrists so that it's loosely keeping your arms pinned above your head. You keep them that way when he fucks you, eyes still closed and head still heavy with sleep as you let him bend your legs until your knees are almost to your chest, grabbing onto your thighs for leverage so he can thrust deeper and harder. He bites at one of your nipples when he comes and then you're right there with him, the sensation overwhelming you so completely that for a second you're seriously concerned about losing consciousness.
"Fuck," you whisper when he's lying at your side again. You feel light headed and dazed, not completely sure if you're awake or dreaming. You ache all over but your limbs are still limp and floppy, like you've had some sort of unusually aggressive massage, and you have this sense of being used in a way you can't articulate.
It is the single greatest fucking thing you've ever felt in your life.
You don't get a chance to talk about it. William Lewis had struck once more overnight, this time at Alice Parker's apartment, and from there the days fly by as making sure he'll never walk free again becomes your 24/7 mission. By the time Saturday night comes you're completely drained of energy, yet too restless and nervous to catch up on the sleep you so desperately need.
Brian's working until midnight. It's a typical weekend at the courthouse, where the only crime to investigate was someone taking a yogurt that didn't belong to them out of the communal fridge, and so he'd spent most of his shift texting back and forth with you.
[you drunk yet, zonkey woman?]
[nah don't feel like it. back is killing me and I just wish I could sleep]
A thought occurs to you, and you lean over until you can reach the drawer in your nightstand. You pull out the prescription bottle and think back to the last time you took these, how easy it was to just let everything go and how completely amazingly wrecked you felt by the time Brian had finished fucking you, and then you pick up the phone again.
[you coming over when you're done?]
[yeah in an hour or so]
You look at the bottle again, considering. If you took two last time...you shake three of the pills into your palm, figuring that should keep you just barely on this side of consciousness. You'll have time to sleep later, but for now...
[good. because you know what I really want?]
After you hit send, you get up for some water, take your pills, and then go lie down to try and relax while you wait for them to kick in. He's replied by the time you get back to bed, a reply that you can feel yourself blushing when you read, and the two of you kept the conversation going until you must have drifted off to sleep.
If the texts he had been sending you were any indication, you thought you were on the same page about your plans for once he arrived. So imagine your surprise when morning comes and you wake up with a recollection of hearing him arriving at your door...but nothing else. He apparently came in, decided you must be asleep, and then went to sleep himself.
Which brings you to the present. "What is there to get?" you repeat. "If you say you like it, and I like it, then what's the problem?"
"It's just..." He frowns, brows furrowed in concentration as he searches for the right word. "Weird. Kinda weird."
Well, that was articulate. "So you don't like it."
"I didn't say that! All I mean is...it feels weird having sex with someone who's asleep, you know?"
"But I'm not. If I was sleeping and had no idea what was going on- then I'm not really getting anything out of that. Sorta defeats the purpose."
"Okay, but you might as well be asleep if you're just lying there like you're playing dead. Like I told you...I don't get it."
"God, you act like- I'm not asking you to tie me up or hit me or..." You shrug one shoulder, bristling a little inside but trying not to show it. "I'm not asking you to do anything that...you know me. If I said no, stop, don't do that, you know I mean it. Otherwise- I trust you."
"Yeah, but I still can't figure out- what exactly your deal is that you like this so much. Cause it seems kinda...demeaning to have someone else do whatever the hell they want to you while you're pretending to be this...ragdoll or whatever."
You already weren't looking at him but you turn your head even further away, biting your lip. What the fuck are you supposed to say? That you know, and that's what you like about it?
"I'm not trying to be an asshat, Liv, I just...you know how many times I've seen johns doing a girl who was passed the fuck out?"
"Now we're talking about two different things here. For one- I'm not unconscious, I don't want to have sex while I'm unconscious. And what you're talking about, they didn't consent to it. I've told you what I want, you know what my limits are and you've always respected that," you say, because he has, even when you wouldn't give him any explanation beyond 'bad experience' as to why you were so adamant that he keep his hands away from you while you were going down on him, "and I'd never ask you to even pretend you were doing something that crossed the line."
"I know you wouldn't. That's not what I mean. Seriously, I just don't understand the appeal."
"You keep saying that, but then you say 'it's not that I don't like it', so you must understand some of it."
He rests his elbows on the table and scratches his head like this argument is too confusing for this time of the morning. "It's hard to just put aside all the shit I've seen, y'know? Maybe you can...compartmentalize, or whatever, but I'm not real good at that. Especially after so many years of seeing so much fucked up stuff happen to these girls right in front of my face when I can't really do anything about it. And I get what you meant, this is a totally different scenario, I get that. But then...it's like the other night. It was fun right then, not gonna lie. But. Afterward? I dunno, it's weird and I kinda feel like an asshole. Even though I know you were cool with it. Like I said, I can't just shut it off and not think about those guys who'd just fuck the hell out of some girl while she's laying there face down and then walk away."
Your stomach twists, and you're mildly horrified to realize that you're not sure if it's because you feel guilty for putting him in an uncomfortable situation- or if it's because your first thought was 'but that's exactly what I wanted you to do'. "I...I'm sorry. Really. I am."
"Nah, don't be sorry, it's not like you forced me to go along with it and...I'm not trying to make you feel weird or anything. Cause I know it's something your exes might've been into or-"
"I never- you're the only one. I mean...I never tried anything like that with someone else," you blurt out before you really know why.
"Oh. How come?"
"I guess I...it's a trust thing. You said it before, I like being in control. I've never had someone who I felt okay trusting like that, or someone who wouldn't just assume that it was because the job was messing with my head," and his face kinda falls, and again you're not sure why you said that, because it was one of those things that sounded completely different in your mind and takes on a whole new meaning once it's said aloud.
Neither one of you speaks. Both of you become very interested in studying the floor beneath your feet. "Maybe, ah, maybe I should go. I've got stuff to get done before work tonight." You nod, murmur your agreement, and a few minutes later you're both standing by the door. "Uh. You know I'm not mad at you, right?"
"Right. I'm not either," you assure him.
"It's just..."
"Yeah. I know."
He leans in and gives you a quick kiss on the cheek. "So, should...you still want me to come by Tuesday morning?"
"Yeah, I...we can go out for breakfast before I have to be in court. Or...whatever."
"Whatever," he agrees, opening the door. "Then I guess I'll call you tomorrow night to make sure."
"Okay."
You both nod awkwardly at each other again, and then he turns and walks down the hall.
{so close your eyes, son...}
Present day
"It's...it's so stupid. The whole argument was. We would've ignored each other for a couple days and then we'd go back to acting like it never happened and things would've been fine. That's just how our fights went."
"But?" You frown, confused, and Dr. Christiansen explains. "You said it 'would've' been fine. What happened instead?"
You blink several times, not realizing until now that you'd left out a major detail of the story. "Oh. Well...the next day, Monday, I was going to call him. But when I got home that night, I, well...the next time I saw Brian, it was four days later and I was in the ER.
And by then pretty much everything had changed."
{...this won't hurt a bit}