I'm back! Thank you for your patience, and I hope this chapter is worth the wait. I promise the wait for the next one won't be this long :)
A/N: not graphic by any means, but emotional. Mentions of death, suicide, and self harm. Title from sweet surrender by sarah mclachlan. Quotes from ever the same by rob thomas and I will remember you by sarah mclachlan.
Thank you to everyone who reads, and especially everyone who takes the time to comment :) Coming up in future chapters- brian returns. Is the beginning of the end for them drawing near? Is liv really as 'fine' as she thinks she is? And is elliot hanging around really a good idea? It's all yet to come. But first...we pick up right where the last chapter left off.
{you were holding me like someone broken
and I couldn't tell you but I'm telling you now}
"Hey. Wait."
You had let Elliot lead the way down the hall, following right at his elbow, but as your final destination loomed closer you had started to hesitate. He stops, one hand on the heavy gray metal door that leads to the stairwell. "You okay?"
"What? Yeah, I'm fine," you say, shrugging and trying to look casual. News flash: you're not fine. You started feeling short of breath when you were only halfway here. Now that you've arrived, you needed the break more to fill up on oxygen than to gather your courage (not to mention that the former is easier to find).
"We don't have to do this," he says, and you brace yourself for the 'you're so strong no matter what' bullshit speech that you've heard from every single person in your life at least a dozen times in the last nine months. "If now's not the right time, that's okay. If you say no and change your mind ten minutes from now, that's alright too. Doesn't even have to be tonight. Your choice."
If now's not the right time. Something about that phrase resonates somewhere within you. That you could back out now and he would accept that it was a matter of timing and not anything to do with how 'strong' you are, or aren't. That you could turn around, go back to your apartment together, and watch some more TV without him telling you that 'you're really brave for trying' or that he doesn't think any differently of you. He wouldn't need to say it, because he knows you already know. "I'm ready."
He doesn't question your decision, just pushes the door handle in and holds it open. You walk past him and then take a few more tentative steps forward, staying as close to the wall (and thus as far away from the actual stairs) as you can, as if they had some magnetic pull that would send you tumbling downward if you got too near.
"I'll be right here," he says from behind you. "Unless you want me to go, whatever it is you need. No hurry."
You nod, still facing away from him, eyes trained on an invisible spot on the far wall. When you sneak a glance over your shoulder, you're relieved to see that Elliot is pointedly not watching you to keep tabs on your lack of progress. He's got his back mostly turned, leaning against the door in the same way he used to lean against the file cabinet while perusing the Times headlines every morning.
"Francisco Franco's still dead?" Munch would ask, every day without fail, even though the joke stopped being funny years before you got to SVU. At least to everyone but Brian, who always got a chuckle out of it.
You take another look over at Elliot, who hasn't moved. The sight of his familiar stance has set you at ease somewhat and you take a deep breath in and out before finally turning around, looking down at the dozen or so concrete stairs as if you're peering into the depths of the Grand Canyon.
There's really nothing to see and logically, you knew there wouldn't be. Some unlucky soul had cleaned up the blood long ago and there was nothing else out of the ordinary to mark the spot where it happened. It wasn't like your old apartment, left in medias res by a CSU team in a hurry to get to their next grisly destination, the things they removed telling just as much of the story as the things they'd left behind. Still the air feels unusually heavy, the fluorescent lights just a little too bright and the staircase in front of you just a little bit steeper than you remembered.
You sit down with your back still touching the wall and your knees drawn up to your chest. It feels steadier down here, safer and less intimidating.
Elliot instantly stops pretending he's not paying attention to you. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I just...needed a minute."
"You want me to sit too?" Even though he was the one who asked, you think it was a surprise to him when you swallowed hard and nodded. "Right here?"
You nod again. You're not actually touching, just a fraction of an inch too far away from each other for that. "Thanks."
"Course."
The seconds pass by, the ticking of your watch and the pounding of your heart melding into some sort of syncopated rhythm. "Sometimes I wonder if my mom knew she was dying."
"You mean after she fell?"
"Yeah. I...I know what it feels like to think you're going to die. But when it's truly happening- what's that like?"
"I suppose it depends on the circumstances," he says. "She might not have been conscious enough to realize what was actually going on."
"Maybe."
He sees you turn your head away, palm covering your mouth, and then you feel his hand come to rest gently on your shoulder. "Tell me what you're thinking?"
"What I'm thinking...you know what the first thing I thought was when I found out she died? That she had it coming. It was gonna happen sooner or later. I was relieved, El. Like she got what she deserved and now I could move on with my life."
"Liv...that doesn't make you a bad person or...goddamn. I know you, and I know you loved her. But you shouldn't feel guilty for thinking...hell, I probably would've felt the same way. It's hard watching someone fall apart like that."
"Yeah," you whisper from behind your hand.
"Ah fuck...I'm not doing a good job of making you feel better, huh?"
"Not your fault." You remember the scene that led up to you running towards the stairs in the first place, how within minutes of Brian coming through the door things had escalated to the point where he was already packing his bags. It's funny how you have basically no recollection of that day from the time you got home until the time he showed up- other than you know alcohol was involved- and yet you can still hear the sound of I can't. I'm done and a suitcase zipper so clearly that you could almost believe it's happening right in front of you. "Sometimes I think...maybe Brian felt the same way. Maybe part of him wished I wouldn't make it and then it'd all just be over."
"Did he say that to you?"
"What? No, God no. But we had been fighting. He was mad I was drunk again and...that's why I left. I couldn't breathe in there and I...the elevator was too slow. I needed to get away. So I decided I'd take the stairs." It was the easiest possible explanation. You weren't about to get into the details- he didn't have to know that his name had featured prominently in the argument, or that your last words to Brian before walking out were 'you're right. I should've just let him kill me.' It'd only serve to make him angry and right now you don't have the energy it would take to calm him down. Part of you wants to tell him what Brian said about you becoming your mother; wants Elliot to reassure you that he was wrong. But it's one of those things you'll never repeat, like «I've ruined you for anyone else, sweetheart» and «I just gave you the best fuck of your life». Things that have too much shame attached to them for anyone else to hear lest they, too, might find even a tiny kernel of truth contained within.
"Hey. Is this...can I?" He holds up the arm closest to you and before he can do or say anything else, you have your head resting in the crook of his shoulder. "I'll pretty much guarantee you, that wasn't what he was thinking."
"You don't know that- like you said. It's hard watching someone fall apart. He told the ER psychiatrist...that he's out of ideas for what to do. That he's tried everything but it keeps getting worse. I overheard him saying that when he didn't know I was listening."
"Liv, you can't go by...that was a bad night. I'm sure he was worried, frustrated- but you can't compare you guys' relationship to you and your mom's. She was never gonna change. You know that. But you, you're different. You'll get past this. You're already doing better and believe me, he sees that."
"I knew it- but I still kept hoping. That she would change, I mean. That she'd finally realize she couldn't keep going like that and..." You laugh bitterly, shrugging. "And maybe she did."
"Did what?" he asks.
"Maybe she went out that night fully intending not to make it home. Maybe it wasn't even the first time she tried. I just don't know. I didn't really ever think about it that way back then, but lately I wonder. Was there some kind of sign that I missed?"
"You can't start going down that path...I know it's hard, but please. You'll end up driving yourself crazy and still never know for sure what she was thinking. All the evidence points to it being an accident so..." His hand starts smoothing idly over your shoulder. "And you know how it feels to think people don't believe you, right? Best thing you can do for her- and for you- is to give her that same benefit of the doubt."
"Doesn't stop me from worrying, though."
"About her?"
"Yeah. I want to...I hope she never knew what happened. At the time, all I cared about was knowing she wasn't in pain," as well-meaning folks kept pointing out to you, there was so much alcohol in her system at the time that she probably never felt a thing, "but now I just...I think about how aware she was, or wasn't, mentally. If she understood what was going on, or if she was afraid. If she didn't know she was dying."
"Most likely...I'd say she didn't."
You look down at the landing, remembering your panic when you came to while lying on the ground and didn't know which way was up, struggling to right yourself like a fish thrashing around in search of water while Brian tried in vain to keep you still. You're not gonna die, he had promised you. "That's what scares me. Because I knew I was alive...I just didn't know what was going to happen next."
You tell him about struggling to fight off the medics, about Brian having to hold your arms down in the ambulance and how everything went black as soon as you got to the ER.
"Jesus," he mutters sympathetically. It's comforting, in a slightly pathetic way, that you feel like you can tell him this because he has no room to judge after his own drunken hospital trip. You guess it's like Nick said- the two of you deserve each other.
Of course, some things are harder to admit than others, like the horror you felt at waking up half-dressed in a strange place and how you're not sure what outcome you had feared the most. "I think I was...God, I think I was less afraid of what. You know. What might have happened to me or what someone might've done- I was so much more afraid of what they'd seen."
"You mean...?"
"Yeah. But not just those scars. I might have...ah. Added to them myself. And Brian didn't know, not until then, but the way he looked at me..."
Elliot nods, rubbing his jaw the way he does when he's trying to hold himself back from saying something he knows he shouldn't. He wants to find out what you did, you're sure of it, and he's hoping that you'll spare him having to ask and just volunteer the answer yourself if he stays quiet long enough. No such luck. "You're not gonna tell me what you did, huh."
"No." You can tell that he knows it's something bad, something more than your usual scratch marks and patches of skin scrubbed raw, and so you try to reassure him. "I'm okay. I swear. I promised my therapist I'd stop and...I've done alright so far. You don't have to worry about it."
"You think that's why Brian got the idea you were trying to kill yourself?"
"Maybe. I don't know," you say, leaving out the part where you've told Brian multiple times that you essentially wished you were dead (sometimes using those precise words). "But it's...Jesus, El, the look on his face that whole night. I knew exactly what he was thinking."
"That he was pissed off?"
"No, not that. More...disappointed. Like when you feel helpless because there's no getting through to this person. And I knew that because I used to look at my mom the same way." You stare down at your hand, watching as you grip the hem of his shirt in your fist. "I'm not mad at him. I deserved it. I'm mad at myself because I never wanted to be the cause of that for someone else. To be...that kind of burden."
He sighs. "Do I need to give you the lecture about how you're not a burden?"
"No."
"Good, cause I wasn't gonna waste my time when I knew you wouldn't believe it. Even though it's the truth," he adds. "But what I will say- there's a hell of a difference between your situations. I mean, I don't doubt he gets frustrated with you, and I don't blame him," he says, rubbing the base of your neck so you know he's not looking to insult you. "Cause I do too. But again, you can't really compare the two of you to you and your mother. Family- that's a completely different world. You're born into it, you grow up with all this shit thrown at you that you're not old enough to deal with, but you don't have any other choice. And even as an adult, it's still there because it's in your blood. They're a part of you and that's what makes it so damn difficult. You didn't choose that relationship with your mom and you didn't choose to become that emotional support for her way before you were able to understand what was going on."
"Somebody's been listening to their therapist," you say with a quiet sniffle and a laugh.
"For what I pay that guy? You're damn right I am," he says. "But you get what I mean? You and dumbass don't have that lifelong history where you had to basically parent your mother. You're both adults and he's there because he's chosen to be. He knows what he signed up for and if he feels like you're a burden- which I don't think he does- then that's on him to come up with how he's gonna work that out with you. He knows where the door is. But he's still hanging around, and that says somethin' right there."
It all sounds good, although he's right- you still don't believe him. You want to tell him that he doesn't need to bother, that you and Brian will be through soon enough, but it's not time for that yet. There's things that need to be done before that can happen. "I just wish...I feel like I need to apologize to him but I don't know how. Just like...I wish I could go back and tell my mom that I'm sorry. That I wasn't always fair to her, that maybe I shouldn't have been so judgemental sometimes. Even if it was only in my head."
"Honestly? You've admitted that you fucked up and you're trying to change for the better. I think that's really all you can do- for you or for them. The rest is out of your hands."
"The first step is admitting you have a problem, huh?"
He tilts his head in surprise. "You going to AA now?"
"What? God no. It's on the wall in my shrink's office. I already told her there's no way I can sit in a room full of drunks and trade sob stories, but thanks for the suggestion."
"Hey, but this here- this turned out to be an okay idea, don't you think?"
The question catches you off guard, as if you'd forgotten why you were having this conversation on an uncomfortable concrete floor when you have a perfectly nice (new, not yet paid off) couch inside your apartment. And maybe that had been the point all along, that it wasn't so much about revisiting the place itself as it was about giving you the space to talk about it. Because you did feel better, the few tears still streaking your face notwithstanding. You'll probably keep going out of your way to use the other stairwell for as long as you live in this building. But it had been a relief to finally tell the story to someone who wasn't scribbling on a piece of paper while you talked, who you weren't paying to listen to your problems. "I...yeah, it did. Although..."
"Hmm?"
"I don't know about you, but I'm ready to go back. My ass has been numb for a while now." He laughs and agrees with this, holding out his hand to you as you stand up. You keep holding onto it even after you're back on your feet. "Seriously, though...thank you. I needed this and I know I probably wouldn't have gone through with it if not for you so- I appreciate it."
"Don't have to thank me, Liv. Should probably be the other way around." When you raise an eyebrow at him, he looks a bit flustered and scratches at the back of his neck with the hand that's not holding yours. "All I'm sayin' is- you trusted me. With this kinda scary, real personal thing...you didn't have to. But you did. And I know that's not something you do lightly so...thanks."
You give him a smile as he opens the door for you, and you walk silently back down the hall together.
Still hand in hand.
{funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word
we are screaming inside although we can't be heard}
You step apart as soon as the door shuts behind you, as if the clock had just struck midnight and the spell was broken, and now you're left with this giant pumpkin that you're not totally sure what to do with so you'll just continue to kinda watch each other shyly until someone comes up with a better idea.
Speaking of clocks..."Shit," he says, looking at the little wooden one atop your bookshelves. "I didn't realize how late it was...sorry about that, you're probably tired-"
"No, no, it's fine. But if you need to go-"
"I know Nick's probably coming back-"
"Don't worry about me, Nick should be on his way-"
You both stop and laugh, a little breathless from trying to talk over each other so quickly. He grabs his coat off the rack behind the door and clears his throat. "So. I guess I'll see you later."
"Yeah, definitely. Soon," you say, keeping the disappointment out of your voice. It's not that you were hoping for something more, but you just weren't ready to say goodbye- as if it was going to be any easier ten minutes or two hours or three days from now. Better to part now on good terms that let things go too long and end your encounter on the inevitable sour note.
"What- hang on a second." He's got one arm in its sleeve when he pauses and lets his jacket hang down his back, going over to the window and looking through the blinds. "Man. Didn't realize the snow was that heavy."
"Oh?" You hadn't been paying attention, too busy thinking of what you were going to do to occupy your time once he left. Despite what you told him, you doubted Nick would actually be returning from Amanda's (because let's face it, that's where he was) before morning. At least the bad weather would keep you from being tempted to go down to the bodega if shit got bad. You didn't expect it to; the idea of having a drink was barely on your radar even after what happened earlier. You'd been telling the truth when you said that getting it all out had removed a heavy burden from your psychic load. But you also know that between Brian and Nick, you haven't actually spent a whole night alone since your accident, and you're all too aware of what lurks in the shadows of your mind as the hours tick by.
He lets out a low whistle. "Yeah, get a look at that."
"It's..." You squint, not really sure what you're supposed to be seeing. It's snowing, yes, but it's nothing you don't see a dozen or so times per winter. You frown at him, trying to figure out what's going on, and he raises his eyebrows back at you as he gives you the tiniest of nods, like he's waiting for you to catch on to- oh. Oh. "Are you sure you want to drive home? I mean, the bridge must be a real mess right now."
"Eh, I could probably make it. Don't wanna impose on you."
"You wouldn't be, I promise." Both of you are well aware that this whole thing is a farce and yet no one's going to drop the act, as if the walls are recording this conversation for posterity so that later on you can play back the tape and prove that this was the only sensible solution to a very real problem.
"Well. I guess...no one's waiting at home for me anyway, right? But I'm only staying on one condition."
"Which is?"
"I'll take the couch. I'm not kicking you out of your bed."
"El, you don't-" You stop, laughing at how you started to argue before your brain had even caught up with your mouth. "Okay. I...that's okay."
You set about finding linens (thank God for Nick and his diligent laundry habits) and a shirt from one of the several of his that you've stolen for your own collection. "What, Nick gets to sleep naked here but not me?"
"Nick's bare ass has not touched my couch," you say. From the way your face feels right now, your cheeks must be a nice shade of scarlet. "And if it has, I think we'd all rather not know." You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly at a loss for what to do with your hands now that you've laid the shirt on the back of the sofa. "So, uh. Goodnight? I'll be in there if you need anything. I mean. Well. You know."
"I know. And I'll be...here. So g'night." He apparently decides that even physical contact would be less awkward than talking, because he leans in and gives you a quick side hug.
Heading back to your bedroom, you pause at the door to look over at him one last time- incidentally, right at the moment he strips off his shirt. You turn your head as quickly as possible but you're not quick enough.
"Everything alright?" he asks, smirking with pride at your reaction. Or, what he thinks is your reaction. Your face is still red from before, that's all, because you're definitely not blushing now. For fuck's sake, you've seen him naked. You've had his-
"What? I'm fine."
He chuckles; cocky son of a bitch. No doubt he thinks you were covertly checking him out. "Then stop staring."
"I'm not star- you know what, I don't need to justify myself to you," you decide, trying to sound as haughty and aloof as possible. "Goodnight."
"Yeah, yeah. Sweet dreams!"
{I'm so tired but I can't sleep
standing on the edge of something much too deep}
You can't sleep.
It has nothing to do with the fact that Elliot is currently on your couch while your baser instincts tell you he should be in your bed. (Although you will admit that might have been the reason for it earlier). You're done thinking about it now, as pleasant of a thought as it might have been, because you know it's a Bad Idea coming from a place of sexual frustration. It's one of those things that sounds good and is fun to imagine...until you remember what led to your recent celibacy, and then all the fun is gone, replaced by an acidic taste in your throat and a burning sensation somewhere low in your stomach. Thus why you just can't think about it for long.
Thoughts like that could be the reason your new therapist told you not to lie in bed awake; that it only increased your anxiety level and so you were supposed to get up until you started to feel sleepy. Problem was, you're not sure how you can do that without waking Elliot up. Even turning the bedroom lamp on would probably get his attention. You reach out toward the nightstand in search of your phone, only to find that it's not there. Damnit. Most likely you left it in the living room, and you don't want to take the chance that it would ring and Elliot would mistake it for his own, answering it only to find Brian (or maybe worse, Nick) on the other end of the line.
You pad as softly as possible into the other room, guided by the blinking green light that tells you your target is located on the coffee table. Elliot is asleep, forehead resting against the back of the couch, and you know how dangerous this is but you can't keep yourself from pausing to watch him for juuuust a moment...
"You gon' get over here or what?" he slurs, and you're so startled that you almost drop the phone. You're about to tell him you hadn't even been standing there for more than a second or two (because you hadn't) when you realize that he's still asleep, eyes closed, and probably assumes you're Kathy.
You start to make your escape when you hear him again. "Where goin', Liv?"
Oh. Okay then. You've never known him to be much of a sleep talker, not like Brian who can carry on a mumbled dialogue with himself all night, so you're not sure whether to ignore him like you would Brian or answer him back. You settle on assuring him that you're right here, touching his hand so he knows you're not lying.
"Stay," he says as he's turning onto his side, presumably to make room for you next to him.
"Um. I'm not sure that's a good idea."
You're debating whether you should wake him up or just let him be and walk away when he squeezes your hand. "Liv I won' hurt you. Promise."
"Goddamnit, Elliot," you swear under your breath. He looks so peaceful like that, so fucking hopeful with his hand in yours, sleeping soundly with no clue that he's just delivered the equivalent of a knockout punch to the heart. He's lucky you don't smother him with the pillow, and you tell him as much as you lie down next to him. "And I'd enjoy it too, you son of a bitch, cause you deserve it. But not...not because of that."
When he's still oblivious, even after you're unsuccessful in keeping a few teardrops from dotting the fabric of his shirt, you feel strangely emboldened. Maybe this is what people find cathartic about going to confession; spilling all their shameful secrets to someone who's both there and not there at the same time. He won't remember anything you say come morning. Or at least, that's what you tell yourself. "I'm sorry. I'm so...you don't know how many times I've wished I could take that day back and...that's impossible, I know, but it's pretty hypocritical too because...God. I feel like if I just talked to you- really talked, if I told you everything- you'd know it wasn't your fault. But I'm selfish, cause I'm pretty sure...you wouldn't want to be around me after that, I don't think. And so I guess I'd rather have us both pretending it never happened and maybe, in time, you'll be able to stop feeling guilty...Jesus, I know what kind of shitty weak person that makes me, that I'm too afraid to tell you the truth because. Well. Cause I'm too afraid to even be honest with myself. And I'm too afraid of losing you again."
You hold your breath, suddenly afraid that he'll open his eyes and tell you he heard everything, but he just slumbers on. Once you're sure he's not on the verge of waking up, you tilt your chin so that you can press your lips against his forehead. "I love you. I'm sorry."
{I'm so afraid to love you
I'm more afraid to lose
clinging to a past that doesn't let me choose}