A/N: I may have to wrap this up soon, being that I'm keeping it in line with what's going on w/ Olivia in the show. I am super excited. Not kidding you, I clapped like a little girl when I saw the previews for the next new ep. On a side note, I apologize if these posts are short. The way is set up is different than It looks so much shorter on here:(
It's been two weeks since the last letter. Elliot could see the pattern on the stationery through the thin, cheap envelope encasing it. Small circles spotted the pale, blue paper. He ripped one corner of the envelope and tore across the top. Quickly, he unfolded the letter. The loops in her cursive were exaggerated and he wondered why she'd written that way.
Hey, stranger. You didn't forget about me, did you Forget? Never. He leaned into the side of the couch and tucked his feet under him as he read what she had to say. The little orbs were bubbles, circling in and out of colored fish that were frozen on the paper. An arrow pointed to one fish in particular. He could just make out a line above the fish's mouth. My mommy misses you. He laughed at the way she'd drawn a little name tag on the fish's fin.
Do you know where we're headed yet? I know you've been keeping track of where I've been. I'm not even sure, myself. I heard the town is small, though. The color abruptly changes and he can see indentations on each side of the paper where she'd tried in vain to get the pen to work again.
I hope you can read my writing. I had to scrap the last letter. You know how clumsy I can be. I sort of sliced my hand open earlier. I ruined your letter two sentences in. I've been assured that there is no permanent damage to my gun hand. You should have seen the hoops I had to go through to get into the clinic. Don't freak, but I passed out. It got me in quicker, though. I got a candy bar out of the deal, too, so it wasn't all bad. Elliot rubbed his tired eyes and tried to digest all of the information he'd just been flooded with. Thought after thought ran through his mind, each painting a picture he didn't care to look at. She'd been injured and had passed out. Low blood sugar, most likely. He felt his face grow flush and balled his fists up, nearly tearing the paper in half.
We lost someone yesterday. The girl I told you about. I never knew her real name. I feel so guilty for not getting to know her. Really know her. Now it's too late. Her little boy turns six in a couple months. She was saving up for a present. She's okay, though. I guess she and I had a lot more in common than I thought. I wonder how many of us there are. I think I'm the only one left. He swallowed hard, trying to get over the first part of the paragraph. His heart thumped softer and softer until it returned to its normal rhythm. Lost someone. His first thought had been the place he told his children about where people wear white robes and sing songs with their grandmas and grandpas. He wondered the same thing she did. How many informants were they risking? When would Olivia be the lucky one to be let go?
I got ten dollars this week. I'm really raking it in now. I'll never complain about our salary again. You'll be getting a bill for the clinic I went to. It took some finessing, but I got it all figured out in the end. They ask a lot of questions in those places. In the second drawer on the right of my desk, there's a credit card for emergencies. Use it. I mean it. The writing changed ever so-slightly. Was her hand hurting her? He thought of her stubbornness and how she'd do further damage just so she could contact him. Typical Olivia. It had scared the hell out of him when he'd seen the bill. It wasn't the amount that concerned him. He'd paid it without a second thought. It was the purpose of the bill that bothered him. He let out a sigh of relief that it was only her hand. It was only her hand. Deep laceration, that's what it had said. The vagueness of the injury had his mind going places he didn't care for it to go.
They're starting to get suspicious. I've learned to think on my toes. You know what my inspiration is? Your daughter. She's gotten herself out of so many binds. She's got you wrapped around her little finger. The funny thing is that you know it. I'll have to thank her. He glanced over at the frame of his twins. Lizzie had a look like she was planning her next move. He'd told Olivia once about the time he'd walked into her room after she'd flushed her sister's essay down the toilet. He'd interrupted the beginnings of a speech that would have made Hillary Swank proud. Tears and everything. The whole works. Olivia had taken a big swig of coffee, which ended up on Munch's desk. It was one of her better, unplanned moments, even if they had to hear their colleague complain about it all day. He could still smell the lemon-fresh scent of Lysol when he walked by.
It's almost Halloween. Take a picture of your kids, okay? Sitting here in the park reminds me of those costumes people buy that resemble the homeless we see on the stoops in the city. What I wouldn't do for another shower. We pool our money together and rent a motel room and take turns. It's not the same, though. Sorry about that. I'm too far into this one to start over again. Another arrow. There was a dark, crimson mark on the edge of the paper. He touched it with the tip of his finger. Scrunching his nose, he stared at it. He realized what it was and frowned. He would bet a week's pay that she'd refused stitches and had some gullible kid just patch it up. He considered it and another thought crossed his mind. Did she need further medical attention? Was she turned away from the hospital because she didn't have any money? It made sense that she'd go to a clinic. He swore and turned the paper over. He didn't want to look at that stain anymore.
I changed my mind. Fred is more than a beta. He's a clown fish. What's the other fish in Nemo? The funny one that should be a clown fish? That probably didn't make sense, but I wrote in pen and I don't want to scratch it out. I don't know what difference it would make. This kind of looks like something we'd be taking to have analyzed. At least this letter doesn't have dirt all over it this time. It'll be a miracle if you can read it. I'm rambling now. I guess I've run out of things to say. I miss the interaction. I wish I could give you an address to write back to. I know you hate writing, though. The penmanship got a little easier to read. The mood seemed different, as well. She must have taken a break. The randomness is still there. He'd started to use the phrase "well, that was random" a few months back. He remembered when it was, because he'd joked that a year from that date if she was still the same he was going to quit the force. He said he was getting too old to have to think so much. He found out later that day when she bought him lunch that Fin and Munch had paid her twenty bucks to never change. Said a fresh face would do them all some good. Truth be told, he didn't want her to change, either.
I tried to make this one longer. I think the little town we're headed for is going to be the last one for a while. It'll be harder to get away but I'll manage. People are looking. I told them it was a diary. I haven't had one of those since I was in junior high school. I failed that part of the course. It seems so silly writing down things in your head; things that are supposed to stay there. It's a cheap form of therapy, I've been told. He thought about the time Dickie had found Kathleen's diary and threatened to make copies and post it all over the boys' bathroom at school. He and Kathy had attacked on dual fronts. He'd handled "his son" while she talked their daughter from her room. It took nearly two hours before she'd even come out. Even after that, Kathleen had been inconsolable. He'd stood pressed against the wall, listening to her deepest fears of her brother knowing all that she'd written. Elliot had gone down the hall and searched for the diary while his son scowled away, arms crossed. When Elliot had found the diary hidden underneath the mattress of his son's bed, lock broken, he'd gone into his room and found the extra lockbox he'd kept for his old service weapon. He'd stuck the diary inside and closed the lid. With a bowl of ice cream and a smile, he'd brought it to his daughter along with a key so her most cherished feelings could be guarded once again.
In case you didn't know, I'm an introvert. I hold things inside. The things in there, I don't even want to think about. Why would I want to write about them? Maybe I should have just made up some things. You know, what everyone else was actually dealing with. Cheating "boyfriends" and unfair parents. Even saying all that is going against all the rules of introvertedness. (Is that a word?) I've broken so many by now. What's another one, right? Yeah, so the journal thing. I think I made it through two entries. The third one we were supposed to have our parents sign so the teacher knew we were doing our work. Are journals not supposed to be a private account of our deepest feelings? Guess I had the wrong idea of what a journal was. I quit writing after that. I wouldn't have shown her and she wouldn't have been home to sign it, anyway. The paragraph was longer, more in-depth. More feeling was put into that one. He read it over-and-over. He'd never known her to be a big talker about feelings or emotions. She'd let things build until the pressure got to be too big and everything came out all at once. Even then, she was careful about what she let slip. He marveled at how open she was when writing the letter. How easily her feelings came when forming the sentences that made up her thoughts. He made a mental note to get her a diary so that the feelings she did keep hidden could be transferred onto the paper. She wouldn't need to show anyone or think about what was on those pages ever again, if she didn't want to. Silly or not, in the back of his mind he was sure it was helping her more than she knew. He felt honored that she would share parts of her life with him in her letters. He hoped she slept better after she did. Wherever she was.
The moon's not as bright tonight and the lamp post is flickering, so I guess that's a sign that I should probably quit for now. I'll send this in the morning. I think I see a drop box across the way by the newspaper stand. Not that you can see it. How's the partner? The last line hit him harder than any other. Partner. She was still his partner. He felt guilty for how he'd been referring to her. His old partner. As if she was anything other than his permanent partner. He wanted her back. Was she having second doubts about coming back? No, she said she missed back home. As selfish as it was, he wanted her to miss him. To have the same feeling of lethargy that could only come from the void that hung around long after someone left. The rut he seemed to be in was growing larger by the day. He was in a funk, and she was the only way out. He hated that he wanted her to be unhappy, too because then he'd know she really did miss him.
See you soon, I hope. Keep the cold winter away, will you? I'm not ready to deal with the snow, yet. P/PJ. The letter ended abruptly. She'd warned him, but he was so intent on reading that he'd forgotten. Not really forgotten. He remembered all she'd written from her letters. He just didn't want it to end. He wanted to know everything that she was going through. He sighed and returned the paper back to its envelope before flipping it over. He wished he knew his geography.