"I have lost my home...my job...my friends..."– Alex, "Ghost"
Ch.2: Olivia's POV. Alex to come.
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When Elliot and I got back in the car, I completely broke into pieces. I watched the black car, Alex inside, drive farther and farther away. My situation became more and more hopeless. One month prior to that heart-wrenching sight, Alex and I had ended a beautiful, two-year relationship over a series of ridiculous arguments at work. Sitting in Elliot's car, watching her being driven to a new life, I couldn't then remember what they were about. I waited until I got home to really let the reality of it all hit me -- the irony and the unfairness. All I wanted in the world was to be able to hold her. I was going to get past my pride and stupidity to do so again... I was going to. I got beaten to the punch. Oh, that is how I felt for certain -- punched, beaten and left bleeding.
Standing there amongst the agents, I had a wealth of things to confess to you, with no time or space to do it in. I tried desperately to tell you that with my eyes. You seemed to be more held together, but just as distraught as I. Truth be told, you are most definitely the stronger of the two of us.
And then, that night... the night I hold onto. Some days it comes to mind every moment, so that all my energy is directed toward despair and longing for her presence. Sometimes, it's only once a week. Never longer, though. I can't escape it and I surely don't wish to. It was that night before the trial, when she came back into my life just like that, like a snap, a cartoon poof and she appeared from behind me. I turned around in Casey's office and there she was, more gorgeous than I remembered. Two lines into a conversation and she had me blushing. I had to check myself, physically keep myself in line, call to mind my professionalism. She was standing there, this feast for the eyes -- and there I was, starving, disallowed to even peek. My mind raced from then onward, those short hours, wondering to the brink of exhaustion. Would we get alone time? Would we... would we anything?
I thanked the karma I must have had stored up when Cragen and the Feds assigned Elliot and I to supervise her that same night, the evening of the Connors trial. Without asking, Elliot took the first shift. Of course, he has a family to go home to, but he would have wordlessly given me the last shift even if he hadn't. Bless the man.
I knocked on the room door. Knowing Elliot was fully alert on the other side, I announced my presence just to make sure I didn't have to have a gun pointed in my direction an unnecessary time. He opened it, visibly relaxing. I noticed the abandoned backgammon game on the table as Alex stood behind some chairs, visibly tensing. My partner and I bid farewell. I moved over to the bed to drop my night bag down and shake off my jacket. I gazed at Alex to give her a lopsided smile hello. We chatted pleasantly. She seemed glued to the window, so I silently came to sit beside her, allowing for some much-needed personal space.
Two minutes into the conversation and I learned she was seeing someone. I was not surprised. I was heartbroken, but not surprised -- and I wasn't torn apart. I'd been heartbroken for a while then. I mustered all the friendly, platonic compassion I had in me to give sound, impartial, Olivia-like advice. I don't think I succeeded. Finally, thankfully, we started on shoptalk.
"I can't stop thinking like a prosecutor. Connors is going to sit in that courtroom tomorrow, looking like a choir boy. He is going to charm the jury with his Irish brogue and-and I have to make them see who he really is. But...I don't even know what makes him tick."
That was the cue I was hoping for. I left her at the windowsill to walk back and retrieve the Connors file, the one that would give her the edge we needed her to have. "Alex, you didn't see this file." I handed it to her, somehow wishing the folder was something much smaller, something that would allow a hand brush, a finger touch, anything. She took off her eyes off it to glance at me, give me a knowing look, then spared no time in studying its entirety. The intensity of the moment led her back to a large chair in the center of the room. She sat, back turned. I knew she needed time and space to organize her thoughts, but it left me to fidget. I grew more uncomfortable with each silent moment. Every short-lived second knocked the wind out of me. I couldn't look at her. I couldn't not look at her. So many polarizing desires in my head -- I believe I numbed myself into a thoughtless trance, glancing at the city she spoke lovingly of minutes earlier. My body required action; my brain was out of ideas. Looking back at Alex to check on her progress, or perhaps just to check on her, I noticed the mini-bar in the kitchenette out of the corner of my eye. Happy to have a course of action, I walked over to it to investigate the contents. It occurred to me that the government would be covering all expenses, so I took a look at the liquors and found what I was searching for. It looked like a terrible red and a recent year, but I figured I couldn't be blamed for wanting a sip or two at the moment. I unscrewed the top, closed the door with my knee and overturned a glass cup sitting atop it to pour. The tiny bottle emptied quickly. I threw it into a small trash bin and picked up the cup to swirl the liquid around in amusement. I turned back to the room and chanced a glance at Alex. She was still enveloped in the file on her lap, taking notes on a separate pad. Relieved to not be obligated to explain my actions, I paced slowly back to the window and continued to trance, and suffer, and trance.
After five whole minutes, I could suffer no longer -- the silence nor the wine. It was awful. Looking to the back of Alex's head, she seemed more relaxed. I set my glass down, half-full, on the windowsill. Holding my breath, I walked to the middle of the room and leaned over the back of a chair beside her. She studied her notes. I reached down far, picked up and closed the file sitting on the coffee table. I supposed I would go to put it back in my bag but my peripherals said she was noticing me now. I looked to her and she smiled softly. She took a quick look back towards the window and asked, "How's the wine?"
I smiled. "Terrible."
She chuckled almost silently, raising her eyebrows. "Of course."
"Doesn't anyone in this place have taste?"
"You're looking at her." She never did miss a beat. I giggled in response and tossed the file back down on the chair. I ventured, "Where's your wine cellar when I need it?"
"Oh, that collection," she plopped the notepad and pen in her hand unceremoniously on the table, "How I miss it." She smiled at me; I smiled back. We both looked down. Nervously, I took a glance back at the abandoned glass. "Want the rest anyway?"
She shook her head as if to say, "Not in a million years," and I smiled softly back and nodded as if to say, "I knew you'd say that." Alex had a passion for wine that I couldn't help but to pick up myself years back, before we ever became more than friends. I straightened myself up slowly and walked back to the window to pick up the glass. I took it to the tiny kitchenette a few paces away to pour it down the sink. For the moment, I was out of her view. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I didn't know what to do next. I began to panic. Should we talk? Sleep? Where was I going to sleep? I took two deep breaths and set the glass down slowly. I took a second to collect as many thoughts as possible, which weren't many. Turning to the room, I was startled to see Alex standing. She leaned against the wall slightly at the kitchen's entrance, her opposite hand pressed down into a jean pocket. She looked like a teenager in that instant. Our eyes connected; I realized she was trying to say something, but had stopped short. Our eyes began to speak.
It was all too much. What was she trying to say? My eyes, as well as my strength, wavered. I looked to the side, downwards, upwards, in confusion. Then, as I sensed her closing a distance between us, my eyes ceased to dance and stayed strictly still at some arbitrary point to the side. The situation had heated up too quickly for my brain to catch up. I was confused. I was in terror. I desperately wanted to look at her. What was she doing? She answered that question in a flash as her slender, right arm lifted toward me. She was closer than I'd thought. Before she could touch me, my eyes still averted and paralyzed, my left arm shot up to stop her. The reflex was cat-like.
And then, there I was, in a hotel room an arm's length away from the woman I could never stop loving, holding her wrist firmly in my left hand. I began to wake up. My eyes started again, but still could not link up with hers. My hand, however, begged for continuance. It slid down her forearm, slowly, to her elbow. I dared to watch then, as it resumed a long-awaited reunion with her upper arm and finally, her shoulder. And then, I couldn't hold back. I guess she couldn't either. Her other hand moved up suddenly, completing the task she had originally intended to perform and collided gently to support my chin. Willingly then, I looked at her. The love that was there, unwillingly, brought me to my knees, literally.
The next thing I knew I was on the floor. I took her with me. I think the lump in my throat was just that heavy. I was crying, unbelievably. I continued to clutch her shoulder; she massaged the back of my head. I was embarrassed to be there on the floor, that weak.
Then, like the angel she was, she pressed a kiss to my forehead. I went wild with the sensation of it. I held her closer then, brought her to a hug on our knees -- or perhaps she brought me in. As my tears waned, my strength returned and I held her as tight as I could. Unable to separate myself from her, she leaned back, forcing me to as well. She brought a hand from around my back to wipe my face free of salty tears. She smiled so lovingly, the way she used to, when we would stare at each other in the evenings, free from the world and safe in my bed. I blushed, looked downwards in semi-embarrassment, as she adjourned and cupped my cheek.
"You know red wine makes you weepy."
I laughed right out loud. I felt the tension floating upwards and away. I gripped her tighter in gratitude.
I joked, "You see, I need you around to remind me." She smiled, but looked down at the comment. Having realized I might have turned the moment sour, I brought her back against me to hold her again. She held me just as tightly.
We stayed like that for a long time. I mean, a long time. By the time I heard her speak again, grateful she was the one to, my knees had begun to ache.
"Olivia?"
"Mm?"
"I want to," she paused, "I want to tell you what I'm feeling, but..."
"But?"
She exited our prolonged embrace to sit back on her legs. The lack of contact surprised me then. She glanced down, then at me, then down again. I kept my hands on her knees. Looking at them resting, she brought her hands back to mine to hold. "Is it fair to?"
After a split second of confusion, I realized what she was saying. Was it fair to profess romantic feelings for someone you were going to leave again soon after, someone you'd hurt before for the same reason? I took a good look at the way our hands fit together. Fairness had been thrown out the window some time ago.
Looking at her hands, I spoke freely. "Fuck fair." She looked up unexpectedly. She was breathing rather heavily, her expression dancing. I felt the need to continue. "Just fuck it. Nothing about this is fair. Fair would be you and me together again. No, fair would be you and me and promises of forever and Cesar Velez on a silver platter." Just in saying his name I took in an involuntary sigh. "I still want you, Alex."
"I want you, too." I looked at her then. I mean, I really looked at her. The more I did, the harder I fell -- once again.
She sighed lightly. "Well, since we're throwing fairness to the wind," her pause reminding me of her love for dramatic ones in classic movies, "I still love you, Olivia." When I didn't flinch or fly away, she carried on. "Even when we parted, even when we were *really* parted, I've always been head over heels for you. I can hardly breathe not knowing what you're doing, how you are, every second I'm not here. Not being here, not being able to tell you I love you every day... it feels like the Alex I know is always falling apart." Her voice cracked. "And I can't endure it, Olivia. I'm supposed to be pretending I'm someone else. To do that, I need to be strong and know the real me. Who I really am feels positively shattered when I'm away, not knowing when I'll see you, if you want me -- "
"I want you." I interrupted. "Believe me, I want you. When we broke up, it was like... I can't even tell you how awful it's been. When you died... when you got out of that car -- "
"I was so close to breaking down and kissing you right there -- "
"I know, so was I." We gazed at each other then so forlornly. I sighed. "It was a cruel joke." My voice was deeper then, sadder. "We should have gotten back together. It wasn't fair." There was that word again. We sat there, still, on the kitchenette floor, while something changed in her eyes. For the third time that night, she raised her left hand to caress my face. Startling me, she leaned forward into the long-lost position I had imagined us being in again for the past forever she's been gone.
In a light tone, she spoke, "Fuck fair," and leaned in to kiss me. I eagerly leaned forward to do the same. Our lips connected finally, and while I could have easily been brought to tears again, my extraordinary desire for her won out. I felt home again. The word echoed in my head as my body filled with a warm kind of relief and elation I'd amazedly once known. Home.
"Alex?" I broke away reluctantly, but I needed to be heard.
"Mm?" She said, eyes closed, so very near.
"Come home to me." At that, her eyes blinked open. She remained near. I realized then she was sitting comfortably in my lap. My eyes and hands were lazy with love. I didn't notice her tense up right away. The tone of her voice alerted me to her condition as she warned, "Olivia," breaking off in hesitation. I looked at her then alertly.
"No, I mean," I paused in an Alex-like fashion, "When you come home, I don't care if it's two months or two years or thirty -- God, I hope not thirty -- I want you to come home to me. I mean, I want to be your home. Always." I saw a little water glossing her eyes at that. Silenced, she leaned forward to rest her forehead against mine and closed her eyes. I watched her breathe in and out, deliberately slow. Then, without warning, she pressed her hand to my cheek, my cheek to her hand, and kissed me passionately.
After that, we didn't stop until sunrise. Actually, we didn't stop until Elliot knocked on the door to take us to court. In my head, we still haven't.
Two years and we still haven't. Years of keeping that memory closer to me than my job, closer than my friends, closer than anything. I didn't get to say goodbye that day; she was whisked away again minutes after the guilty verdict. Had I had the choice, though, I'm not sure I would have been able to. I don't want to say goodbye to her ever, ever again – nothing but hellos and I-love-yous from here on out, if at all possible.
Today is one of those days she consumes my every move. We interrogated a suspect early this morning with a piercing gaze. A complete bastard, but with striking blue eyes. Two guesses where my thoughts were led then. I took a full lunch hour to eat a leisurely meal at the cafe we played footsy at for the first time. I walked back to the station listening to a favorite piano concerto of hers on repeat. I considered going to the cemetery, but decided against it. I spent most of the afternoon engrossed in paperwork and nostalgia. Elliot offered me a ride home, but I opted to walk instead. Strolling home now, still listening to that concerto, I realize I shouldn't have passed up that ride. It's too cold and too far to walk, even for a woman on a memory lane. The sun is settling; it filters through the high-rises nicely. Though I'm reminiscing, I reach for the memory of her glistening eyes and there's no way I can achieve melancholy. She's out there somewhere, loving me just as much, even if she's not missing me as much. I think, not for the first time, that she's moving on and absolutely ought to. But considering I'm not moving on myself, I continue to think about her eyes, her lips, her voice, her heartbeat, everything I can. I have to shake myself from reverie every time I cross the street so that I don't foolishly cross too soon.
I'm heading a little bit out of my way to visit the courthouse, and why, I'm not sure. To complete this day dedicated to her, maybe. It's only appropriate. Besides, it's beautiful at sunset. The rays hit the wide, white stairs just right. Quite esthetic, especially in winter and on weekends, when the block isn't busy. It's Sunday. Rounding the corner to those stairs, I anticipate the gorgeous sight I am about to see. Before I can begin my admiration, however, someone familiar, I notice, adorns the view. I'm surprised to see Fin here and even more so to see him smoking a cigarette, but it fades. It occurs to me he's had a rough couple of days. I'm happy, actually, to see a friendly face, even if it's one I see every day. I ascend the stairs aways away from him to sneak up from behind.
"Don't you know those things give you cancer?"
He doesn't turn around, but I can see from the side of his face he is smirking. I move to sit beside him on the steps where he is seated looking uncharacteristically contemplative.
"So do your ovaries."
"Clever." I sit down and stretch out my legs for a moment. I ask him for a puff and he hands it to me. A drag is all I can handle and frankly, it's all that is satisfactory. I pass it back and take a contemplative glance myself at Fin before I turn to admire the fading light before me. I wonder why he would be here -- not just here at the courthouse, but here at the end of this particular day. I read somewhere a week ago that we invite things into our life through thought and intention, without even being conscious of it. I didn't like the idea at first, thinking of how unjustly things have been taken away from me in life, but it's growing on me. It's nice tonight, this shared quietness. It's so rare.
"Did you have a thing for Cabot?" Fin asks out of the blue. The question and the randomness of it should be overwhelming me, but considering she's the only thing on my mind and has been all day, it seems like a totally appropriate question. Still, this is Fin asking.
"Have a thing?" I ask him to redefine the question.
"Were you in love?" he asks.
I feel my mind being blown, but it stops short. Looking in his eyes, I recall that one day at the station. I remember that night I sat in my apartment, trying not to think about Alex in a romantic way, wondering idly if he thought anything of the fact that I had lied to her about having plans that night. I guess he did after all. Even if it wasn't then, he had some idea from some other way, I suppose. Lying seems pointless now. The moment's perfect.
"Hi." Before I can admit to anything, a voice greets us from a higher step. I turn to look. It can't be and it is. It is.
We do invite things into our life, we have to. Alex is here. She's standing right there, looking at me. She just said hello.
I'm reeling. I realize, however, that I'm in the middle of a conversation, perfectly enough about her. I tear my eyes away from her beauty to answer Fin. I tell him, simply, "Yes." I couldn't possibly deny it now. My attention is given right back to her. Unwelcome, my reservations rise up again to the surface, despite how sure I am of loving her. I search my mixed up head for the right thing to say as I manage to stand. I remember what I've always wanted to say, what I've rehearsed, what I've fantasized again and again. In my head, I pat myself on the back for all that daydreaming. I ask, "Are you home?"
She seems to sigh and smiles almost imperceptibly. "I'm home."
That's all I need to know.