Friends! Strangers! Enemies who are hate-reading this! No, it's not a joke- this is an actual new TG chapter. :O
I could apologize for making you wait (because I *am* sorry) and give you all the reasons this took so long (new job, illness, garden-variety laziness), but instead I want to thank you. If you're reading this now, it means you stuck with me and didn't forget about this little story after so long, and that means more than I can express. I hope this won't let you down.
And most of all, my thanks go to Jaime. It's not an exaggeration to say this wouldn't be done without her, and I owe so much to her. For her constant encouragement, her limitless patience, and her incredible insight on these characters (I think she knows them better than I do myself!)...not to mention her friendship. I love you and this chapter is for you (and because of you). Thank you.
Again, thank YOU too for reading! I'd love to know what you think, so please feel free to hit me up with your thoughts/questions/comments/concerns here or on twitter (lucythespencer). Thank you in advance!
A/N: this chapter takes place somewhere during downloaded child in the official S15 canon, but there are also references to comic perversion because for the purposes of this story, the events of both eps were happening roughly around the same time. No content warnings for this chapter, save for some bad language. Title taken from china by tori amos and all quotes from the end of the affair by ben howard.
{the end of the affair
the weight of a war
the kindness gone to bed}
The door to the diner swings open and Elliot almost breaks into a jog when he sees you sitting in your usual corner booth. You've got both hands wrapped around your coffee mug, desperate to draw in its warmth even though it's an unseasonably mild night and you're already wearing an oversized hoodie.
"I told you I was okay," you admonish him as he looks you over. Of course, when that's all you told him before asking him to meet you in the middle of the night, you can hardly blame him for thinking something must be wrong. "Sit down. Did Kathy know you were leaving?"
"She was asleep. I left a note."
You know she wasn't asleep, and you weren't even there, so Elliot's either lying or else he's just that dense. "El...I don't want to cause problems. You could've-"
"No, I couldn't have. I know that if you call me after midnight and say that you need to talk, in person, you're not playing around."
He has a point. You almost feel guilty now, wondering what he thinks you have to tell him and if he's going to be disappointed when you say "So. Uh."
"Uh...?"
"I think I broke up with Brian."
Ten days prior
In the end, it happened so quietly that you weren't sure if it really even happened at all.
It didn't start out that way, though. It started out the same way it always did, with a minor disagreement that spiraled downward as quickly as that plane Brian can't stop talking about.
You were just getting home from your unexpected trip to the station after that vile performance in the comedy club. You could've waited to take the girl's statement until tomorrow, but she was as good of an excuse as any to avoid Brian for a few more hours.
He had acted like the whole outing was a trick from the start. "Why are you telling me this?"
"What? Because everyone in the squad got tickets, but Nick's not going and so we have one extra."
"Of course he's not. That dude's offended by everything," Brian snorted, as if they didn't spend half the time Nick lived with you snickering at the same lowbrow internet humor.
"So are you going or what?"
"I dunno, Liv, are you sure about this? I mean, his act is kinda..." He trails off, shrugging. "I'm not sure you're gonna like it."
"Why, because he tells rape jokes? I'm aware. Besides, aren't you the one who's a fan of his?"
"The fuck do you mean? You seriously think I like rape jokes, after everything we've-" Your unblinking stare cautioned him against finishing that thought. "What is this really about?"
"Brian, there's no conspiracy here. I have an extra ticket and I thought it would be nice to spend some time together." (By which you mean time together in a noisy, distracting environment with your friends present, the kind of togetherness that doesn't necessitate anything more than idle chatter).
He sighed like you've just asked him to undergo some uncomfortable dental procedure on your behalf and went to get changed.
His mood started to lighten during dinner- the power of mozzarella sticks, perhaps? Ironically, yours didn't. He seemed to be having way too much fun with Amanda. Not in a sexual or flirtatious way, but in that lighthearted and playful way he and you once had back when things were easy. Easier. That familiar sour feeling in your stomach is back, the kind that makes you think that your body is slowly eating away at itself, but it's not jealousy. Watching him feels like watching a caged bird set free, seeing it fly away without looking back and wondering why the hell you were so selfish as to keep it cooped up for all that time. It never needed you. It just needed you to let it go.
By the time you got to the bar, he and Amanda were still laughing and joking while you and Fin trailed behind like a pair of glum chaperones who'd rather be doing anything besides keeping an eye on the kids.
"I already wanna punch this guy in the face," Fin said as you passed by a poster on your way inside the club.
"I told you that you didn't have to come, y'know," you reminded him.
"And pass up free pretzels?" he asked, finally cracking a smirk. "Naw, never!"
The crowd of mostly college students was much drunker than you expected for 9:30 on a school night. Maybe because you were usually the good girl back in your own university days, studying diligently in between a campus job, volunteer work, and being the sober sister who watched out for your less responsible housemates. Or maybe you're just getting old.
Amanda ducked out to answer a phone call and you were standing in between Fin and Brian, trying to spot your reserved table, when one of America's finest young minds came staggering over to you with a backwards baseball cap and a t-shirt proclaiming "I Mowed Your Mom's Lawn."
"Heeeey!" he said, face lighting up with recognition. "I know you! I saw you on TV!"
All three of you stiffened, temporarily at a loss for words, and you could feel Brian's hand balled into a fist behind your back.
To your surprise, the kid reached out and punched Fin in the arm. "You found that creepy dude that was cuttin' chicks' hair! You're like...a national hero, bro!"
"Just doing my job," Fin said through clenched teeth. "Gotta make sure the taxpayers get their money's worth."
By the time Amanda came back inside, she found the rest of you sitting at your table with identical stone faces, everyone staring blankly straight ahead in a way that would make Mt. Rushmore envious. "Hey Brian, so-"
She took stock of the prevailing mood and sat down silently, pulling out her phone and tapping away. On her left, Fin was all but crushing his peanuts in the palm of his hand, while on her right Brian was clutching your chair like he thought you would bolt at any second.
He didn't need to worry. You weren't going anywhere, even though it took every ounce of strength you had to keep from grabbing one of those watery beers from some drunk frat boy and pounding it back in a single gulp. You'd been sober for weeks now and you weren't going to change that because of some wannabe 'social satirist'.
As it turned out, you didn't need anything to loosen your tongue any more than it already was. Brian looked like he wanted to murder someone- you or him, you're not sure- when you couldn't resist making a wisecrack and Josh made his way over to your table.
You did a good job of appearing stoic and unbothered, as far as you could tell, but Brian looked like there was about to be literal smoke pouring from his ears as he shoved his chair back and stormed out.
"Brian," you said, hurrying behind him and trying to pull on the sleeve of his coat, "what the hell was that?"
"What was- you tell me! Were you trying to get him to humiliate you in front of everyone?"
"Excuse me?" You had been hoping to get a rise out of him, even if you weren't entirely sure why. It's not like his intended audience was suddenly going to decide he was out of line for mouthing off to a cop and turn on him en masse.
"Why couldn't you just keep your mouth shut? I swear to God, I should've slugged him in the-"
"No, you shouldn't have. I don't need you to protect me; I can take care of myself."
"Oh yeah, that's worked out great."
You spotted Fin and Amanda over Brian's shoulder, both trying to slink away. "Guys, no, where are you going? It's fine."
"Yeah, we're cool," Brian assured them, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. "We were just-"
A girl came hurrying up to you before he could explain, and for the next several hours you were able to lose yourself in someone else's misery. It's what you do best. Hell, it's why you became a police officer in the first place. If you spend all day in the thick of other people's problems, you don't have time to think about your own.
But at some point, you had to go home. And when you did, Brian was waiting for you.
"I thought you'd be in bed," you say when you find him in his usual spot on the couch, Peanuts on his lap and a beer in hand as he frowns at the TV.
"And why would you think that, Olivia?"
"Because it's late?" you retort, annoyed by the way he's glaring at you like it's so unreasonable to assume he'd be asleep at 3 AM.
"Well, I'm not sleeping."
"You didn't have to wait up for me, I told you that when we left the club."
"Oh, I'm not awake because I wanna be, so don't let it go to your head," he assures you.
You decide to play dumb. "Brian, is there a problem?"
"Is there a problem? Is there a problem?" he repeats, over-enunciating every word. Peanuts glares up at him, a silent warning against his outburst, and then yawns and closes his eyes again. "No, my girlfriend's just trying to pick a fight with some douchebag in a room full of them, but other than that- we're great."
"Why does that bother you so much? He's a sexual predator. He thinks gang rapes are hilarious. So yeah, I'm gonna say something about it. If I have my way, I'm gonna throw his ass in jail too. Is that okay with you?"
"In jail? You think he's good for- you know what, never mind. I'll let you handle that."
"Wow, thanks." You pour yourself a tall glass of water, trying to will it into becoming a nice red. No such luck. "So you're not going to answer my question? What you're so pissed off about? Are you embarrassed of me, or-"
"Damnit, Liv, of course I'm not. I'm pissed off at myself for not cracking his head open like I should've!"
"Oh, I get it. This is about your ego. Because other than you feeling like Mr. Badass, what was that gonna accomplish?"
He gestures toward the wall behind him, the one with the hole in it that you've never got around to fixing. You had suggested to Nick that he could make himself useful and patch it up while he was staying with you, but his only contribution was to put a wooden frame around it ('This is modern art, Liv!'). "I dunno, I thought you were into that kinda thing. Doesn't do it for you anymore?"
"I never was," you say flatly, "and besides, there's a big difference between punching a wall and punching a stranger in the face."
"You're right. And stop me if I'm wrong, but didn't Stabler do that too? Worm his way into the jail and-"
"Yes, he did! And it was a terrible idea. He could've been arrested, he could've fucked up the whole trial, not to mention it was an extreme invasion of my privacy...so what exactly sounds good to you about that?"
"At least he did something! Even if he just cracked a few of the fucker's ribs, at least he wasn't some pussy who just sits there and takes it, lets someone-"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop," you command, hands up in front of you. "You better think real carefully about what you're going to say next."
He rolls his eyes, then his head, then scratches at his face. "I didn't mean it like that, Liv. I wasn't talking about you, I was-"
"Oh, you weren't?"
"Not everything is about you," he spits angrily, and if you hear that one more time from one more person, you're going to fucking choke them. "It's like I don't get to have any goddamn feelings of my own here, because the only thing that matters is what you want! And I can't do anything about it. I can't even write a fucking letter! So what good am I-"
"Wait, you can't what? Write a letter? What are you even talking about?"
"It's...forget it. It's not important."
"No, I wanna know," you say, because you are honestly puzzled. Brian has never been one for written correspondence, to the extent that he will call to tell you something that could've been communicated in a one-sentence text (much to your annoyance). "What are you writing?"
"I was writing," he corrects.
"To who?"
He stands up, both hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I was trying to write a letter to the judge. For the...you know. For the sentencing. Barba told me it might help if he had a letter from someone who knew you, who could-"
"Wait. Barba told you this? When were you...what, you two are friends now? Where the hell was I when you two were talking about me?"
"You were drunk!" he says- and boy, you sure walked right into that one. "If you even remember, he drove your ass home that one night when you were falling down shitfaced, again, and he mentioned that maybe it was something I should think about. He said you didn't want to make a statement, so it'd be good to have one from someone else."
"He had no right to do that! And you...so, were you ever going to tell me about this? That you were writing personal things about me to be read in public? Or were you just not going to bother because 'not everything is about me'?"
"I hadn't told you because there's nothing to tell! Look," he says, and you follow him into the bedroom. Peanuts, who had taken refuge there when the fighting began, jumps off of the bed in disgust and stalks past you while Brian picks up the small trash can in the corner and dumps the contents onto the comforter. "There. That's it. That's all I had."
There's about half a dozen wadded-up pieces of paper, all with no more than two or three lines written and then scratched out. "Dear Your Honor, I'm writing this-", "Your Honor, I have been in law enforcement for almost twenty-", "To Your Honor, Olivia Benson is-", "Dear Honorable Judge Kofax, the defendant William Lewis has-"
"See? There's nothing. I just...I thought I could do it, but I can't. I can't even do this one fucking thing."
"But what was it...what were you trying to write in the first place?"
"I don't know! He told me all I had to do was write about how I felt. About what it's been like for us since..." He reaches for one of the little paper balls and tosses it back toward the trash can, not even a hint of a smile on his face when it hits the rim and bounces in. "Everything. Fuck, I don't know."
"'What it's been like for'...," you repeat. "Really. What has it been like, Brian? Why don't you tell me."
"Oh, so now you want to talk about our feelings? Nine months later, you're finally ready?"
"Me? No. But I'm not the one trying to write this letter. I already told Barba that I've said all I have to say at the trial. I'm done talking about it."
"You're done. Got it. So I guess we won't be talking about our feelings, huh? We'll just stuff it back down. Like always!" He throws another paper ball in the direction of the trash can, but this time it veers off course and clips Peanuts' tail as she passes by. She makes a grumbling noise and skitters away, leaving Brian looking forlorn. "Look what you made me do!"
"It's paper, it didn't hurt her...Brian, what do you want to talk about so badly, anyway? You're the one telling me you couldn't come up with anything to write."
"No! Damnit...it's not that I didn't have anything to say, it's that I don't know how to write about it."
"So what is it you wanted to say?" you ask, even though your posture shows that you're entirely not interested.
He ducks his head, hands shoved in his pockets like a recalcitrant little boy. "Just that...if it wasn't for...things would've been different."
"And by 'different', you mean what?"
"...I dunno. Just...better."
"Better? Oh, okay. So I'm bringing you down?"
"No! Not for me. For us," he mumbles, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"Well, that's too damn bad," you say, and you will not cry, you will not cry. Just like you didn't cry when you looked over your shoulder to see all your friends at the bar without you, or when you looked down at your feet so that you didn't have to see Elliot turning and walking out the door, or when you looked straight ahead at that poster of a dancing cartoon germ so that you wouldn't have to make eye contact with the ER nurse who was cataloging your injuries. You can do this. By now, you're a pro. "And I'm sorry I ruined your idea of what-"
"Liv! That's not what I meant, okay? You didn't do anything wrong. Alright? None of...this...is on you."
"'This'. Whatever it is that you can't write about, but you know it would be better without me."
"That's not true," he insists. "Without you, we wouldn't have a relationship to begin with."
"So what's wrong with our relationship?" you ask, and to his credit, he doesn't laugh.
"No- it's- I'm...fuck. I mean, is this what you thought it would be like when we moved in together?"
"Oh. I..." You're caught off guard by this question, because you don't honestly remember doing that much thinking about it before you took the leap. You thought a lot about what kind of apartment you should choose, and how you wanted to furnish it, but as far as thinking about the actual reality of moving in together? To you, it just seemed like an extension of what you were already doing (albeit in nicer surroundings than his bachelor pad). You couldn't go back to your old place, and his apartment was getting cluttered by too many haunting memories, so the two of you starting over somewhere fresh seemed like the least-bad alternative at the time.
"You don't know," he says, and his downturned mouth tells you that was the wrong answer on your part.
"I had a lot on my mind then, Bri..." It's true; there's no way he can deny that. And you do remember briefly wondering if you were making the wrong choice just because you were too scared to be alone. But you were going to do it sooner or later anyway, right? That's what people in adult relationships do, they move in together. It's normal, and it's economical- or, it would be if you hadn't insisted on a brand-new building and brand-new furniture. Oh well, you'll get those paid off someday. "I mean, didn't you?"
"Yeah, yeah, of course," he blusters, sounding far too overconfident. "But I guess I thought it'd just be..."
"Different? Better?"
He frowns at the options you've given him. "Closer. I meant, that we'd be closer. That's what I wanted."
"It's hard to be close to someone who's always taking off for days at a time," you say, even though sometimes you wonder to yourself if this enforced separation is the only reason your relationship has lasted this long.
"Yeah, I get that. But when I'm home, at least I'm making an effort." He sees your eyebrows shoot upward and backtracks. "Not that- I didn't mean it like-"
"Yes, you did. Don't try to put this back on me."
"Stop, okay? I'm not blaming you. I know you're dealing with a lot and that's not your fault, it's-"
"Oh for Christ's sake, Brian, please don't start with that. I told you, it's done. We're moving on." He looks totally unconvinced. "Weren't you the one who said we should make the best of the time we have before you leave? Meanwhile, I come home every night and you have nothing to say...to me, at least, you do talk to the cat...and you just sit in front of the TV until four in the morning. What am I supposed to do with that?"
He looks a bit stricken, as though he hadn't noticed that's what he'd been doing (or maybe he just hadn't noticed that you had noticed). "Got a lot of shit on my mind, Liv."
"Anything you want to share?" you ask, unsure if he was just parroting back what you had said to him earlier.
"It's late. Let's just go to bed."
"Yeah." You turn away and go into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you before methodically going through your nighttime routine. When you get undressed and reach for the oversized t-shirt that you keep in the cupboard under the sink, your eyes catch a glimpse of pink streaks across the tan skin of your arms. They're pale, a much lighter shade than they were not too long ago, and you realize that you haven't added to them since before you went to see baby Benjamin in the hospital. It wasn't because of him- that would be ridiculous- but holding him had been a reminder of the things that you wanted. A different life, something with a little more normalcy. And yes, maybe a life with a husband and a baby and everything except the picket fence, which doesn't fit in well with your Manhattan high-rise aesthetic.
You're still not completely convinced by Elliot telling you that it's not too late...but there is a part of you that's open to the possibilities the future could hold. Like you told Dr. Lindstrom, maybe that door hasn't been closed yet.
You open the (literal) door to find the bedroom empty. Stepping into the hallway, you can see the top of Brian's head peeking out over the back of the couch while CNN drones on in front of him. His head is slightly tilted to one side, making you think he may be sleeping, and you start to say something to see if he answers when you stop yourself. What would you say if he responded, anyway?
So instead you go back to your room and climb into bed alone.
That door might still be open. You're just not sure that there's anyone waiting for you on the other side.
{could you be alone?}
"The thing is, I'm making progress. It's everyone else that's stuck in the past."
Dr. Christiansen nods sympathetically, jotting down something on her notepad as you explain your struggles of the past week. "Did anything change with Brian after the conversation you had that night?"
"No. Well...not really. He's been coming home earlier in the evenings, before I do, and he makes these big dinners. Which is great, but then we sit down at the table to eat and don't talk. We just stare down at our food. And I try to tell him about my day, or whatever, but he doesn't seem to care. The only one who he wants to interact with is the cat...who he still hasn't found a new home for, by the way. I think that's actually who he might be cooking for, because somehow it's always something he likes and he always gets a plate of his own."
Before your therapist can get a word in, you feel the need to clarify. "I know that sounds like I'm jealous of that cat, but I'm not. I just want him gone."
"Do you think Brian would be interacting with you more if...Walnut?...wasn't around?"
"Peanuts. And no, I don't think he would." There's been plenty of chances, when your feline roommate was busy sleeping or licking himself or just hiding under the bed like the silent tension in the house was too much even for him, but Brian's only response was to sigh at whatever was on the TV and continue his restless channel surfing. "It's like he wants to say something, but he's too afraid. Or he just doesn't know how."
"Did he ever go back to working on that letter?"
"No. Not that he would probably tell me if he had, but no." You explain how you had chewed Barba out for trying to recruit Brian into his scheme, only to be given the excuse that it was 'simply a suggestion. I figured that the two of you could discuss it together' when you're sure Barba knows damn well that you and Brian don't discuss anything together beyond whether you should order sesame or almond chicken this time.
"Why do you think Barba knows that?"
"What? Oh. Well, I mean, he's been to our house, he knows about a lot of...stuff that's gone on," you say, shrugging. You think that it's a safe bet that since Barba knows you were cheating on Brian, he also assumes that you're not having a lot of heart-to-hearts, "and he's good at reading people. Maybe too good. But we used to talk about things sometimes, him and I did."
"Not anymore?"
"No." A thought suddenly occurs to you, and you crinkle your nose in disgust. "I bet he did it on purpose."
"Who did what?" she asks, face carefully neutral when you know she probably wants to toss her notepad away in confusion and leave you to solve your problems on your own.
"Barba. I bet he told Brian to write that letter just because he knew Bri can't keep a secret, so I'd find out and get pissed off."
"And why do you think he'd want to piss you off?"
"Oh, who knows. Maybe he's still mad about the whole Jimmy Mac thing- which, I never asked him to help me. He did that all on his own," you add. And yes, you realize that he was probably putting his ass on the line when he blackmailed Jimmy with...whatever dirt he was threatening to reveal, but it was his choice and you had nothing to do with it. You know that he deserves to be thanked, much more than the weak show of appreciation you've given him, and yet you can't bring yourself to do it quite yet. It would involve acknowledging once more that you fucked up, got yourself into a situation you couldn't handle (again) and would've been royally screwed if someone else hadn't come to your rescue. "Besides, he's been so standoffish since he figured out that Elliot and I had...maybe it's jealousy. I bet that's it."
You watch her scribbling something else on her paper, probably about how you've lost all touch with reality. "So you think he was trying to cause problems between you and Brian?"
"He blames me for everything," you say, moving on quickly after you realize how stupid that sounded. You tell her about the fight you had with Barba after you choked on the stand, "and he blames me for ruining his case, but then he says it's all my fault that he took this to trial in the first place. I just want to scream...make up your damn mind! And why would he even want me to speak at the sentencing? I'd probably just blow that for him too and that would be another thing for him to bitch about. Maybe that's why he gave up on me and decided he'd go with Brian instead."
"Do you think you 'blew it' before? At the Lewis trial?"
"If I hadn't, if they had convicted him on all the charges- he'd be automatically going away for life. I mean, maybe it'd come down to the judge deciding whether he'd get seventy years or eighty, but either way he would die in prison. And as it stands now...he could be out in his late 60s. That's really not that old, not when I think about- I'd probably still be alive then. Elderly, but alive."
"And that scares you," she says, with no need to phrase it as a question. "To think of him potentially being free while you're still living."
"Who knows, I could be in a wheelchair by then, I could be sick and..." You think about Alice, about Mr. Meyer, their hearts giving out from the stress. About Mrs. Mayer, who last you heard had been in and out of the hospital with any number of ailments since the day you crossed paths. "I can't live like that, always looking over my shoulder, wondering what if..."
"And you don't think it would make you feel better to speak at the sentencing? To be able to tell yourself that you did all you could to make sure that he won't get out?"
"No! I did all I could before, during the trial. I told the truth- most of it- and I was the one who ended up humiliated while somehow he makes himself look like the victim. If I couldn't get people to believe me then, why would it be any different this time?" you ask, the bitterness in your voice flowing as freely as the tears in your eyes. "I'm not doing that again. And I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of...I'm supposed to stand up in front of him and talk about how he..." You hear Brian's voice, mumbling 'things would've been different', and inhale slowly as you try to collect your thoughts. "It's over. I'm done talking about it, thinking about it, wondering what would've happened if...but how am I supposed to move on when no one else will let me?"
"What do you want them to do differently?"
"Well, just...everything!" you say, throwing up your hands when you can't find the right words. "What I mean is- for the last few weeks, Brian acts the way he used to, back when..." You take a sip from your water bottle, which is filled with actual water these days, to avoid having to finish that sentence. "When I first came home from the hospital. He tiptoes around me, barely says anything unless I speak first- and then when I try to talk to him, about my day at work or whatever, he'll say something about how 'we shouldn't talk shop'. He says he wants to spend time together but then he just turns on the TV or plays with the cat. I told you, it's like he's afraid of actually interacting."
"So you wish he'd initiate conversation. Or at least not shut you down when you do."
"Exactly. Especially when...if he's going to say that we don't talk, or I don't open up to him, then why won't he listen to what I have to say? I would think, if I was him, that I'd be proud that my girlfriend's doing well enough to really focus on the job that I know she's passionate about. But he just wants to sulk about the past and how things could've been different."
"It's not uncommon for relationships to go through something like this after a traumatic experience," she says gently, the cap of her pen tapping against her chin. "The two of you had certain norms, ways of doing things and relating to each other, before your assault. Then afterwards, everything gets shaken up. The rules change and you eventually get used to it as the new normal. The only thing is, you don't stay in that crisis mode forever. Things keep changing, and sometimes your relationship struggles to keep up, so it becomes a matter of having to make adjustments again."
"And what if you can't?" (Or aren't even sure if you want to, you think to yourself.)
She puts her pen down and looks straight at you, not unkindly. "Well then, I guess you have some decisions to make."
{this is it?
and what of him?}
is it really over? find out next time...