Olivia

Friday, December 15

After seeing Christine, I found myself back at the station, filling out random paperwork I had been putting off. I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to think about my life, I didn't want to deal with any of what was going on. Everything had gotten complicated. I wanted to escape from Christine's case more than anything else, the memory of the look on her face when I had told her that we had to stop investigating, the knowledge that statistically, we were never going to find who had raped her. Being at work wasn't helping these thoughts go away, but at least they were keeping my mind doing something other than going home and obsessing. At eight, probably at the urging of Cragen, Munch and Fin announced that they were leaving and taking me with them. So we ended up at Malone's, sharing a pitcher of beer and our customary three appetizers.

"You doing okay?" Munch finally asked casually, topping up my beer glass.

"What?" I asked with a slight smile. "Are you trying to get me drink so I'll tell you what's going on?"

He shrugged. "You don't see me filling Fin's glass, do you?" I smiled and picked at the plate of nachos sitting in front of me. "You seem to be taking this case pretty hard."

I rolled my eyes. "I wish people would stop saying that."

"Did you ever stop to think that people might be saying that because it's true?" Fin asked.

I shrugged and popped a chip into my mouth. "I hate having to declare a case cold."

"There was nothing more to go on, was there?"

I shook my head. "It just gets frustrating sometimes."

"So why this case more than any other?" Munch asked.

I took a long sip of my beer before I said anything. "The victim. Christine. She has no one in her life. No family, no friends, no one. We were the last line of support for her, and we failed."

"We're not shrinks. We're here to catch the perp, not help the victim."

I looked at Fin. He didn't sound like he was convinced of what he was saying. "But why do those two have to be mutually exclusive? Why can't we help the victim by catching the perp?"

"Other than the 4 closure rate on sex offences?"

"It's just. . . if it was me, I wouldn't be okay with it."

"But it's not you," Munch reminded me.

"But it could be." I looked up, shocked that the words had slipped out. Alcohol had been doing nothing but getting me in trouble lately, and I quickly pushed my glass away. "What I mean is. . . I know what it's like not to have anyone. If anything were ever to happen to me, I have no one responsible for me. So if that was me, I would want you guys to track down every single man in New York and test his DNA if you had to."

"But why would that make things better?" Munch asked.

"I don't know," I finally said, pushing my plate away. "It's just been a long week." I pulled a couple of crumpled bills out of my pocket and threw them on the table. "It's getting late. I should get going."

Despite my disfavour of alcohol, I reluctantly found myself alone in sweat pants with a bottle of wine by ten that night. One glass turned into two, then into the whole bottle. I tried to figure out what I was upset about, what I could do about it. I didn't know whether it was because of Elliot I was so disturbed by Christine's case, or because of Christine's case Elliot was bothering me so much. And when I tried to figure out what I wanted to do with Elliot, I felt like my brain turned into mush. I couldn't think clearly, I couldn't figure out what I wanted or how to make things okay. I missed having him, my best friend, my confidante, the one who laughed at my jokes and could anticipate my moves on the job before I knew what I was doing. But at the same time, the idea of the other Elliot, the one who had kissed my fingertips and laced his fingers through mine. The Elliot who, if I could finally say the word even just in my head, admit it to myself, was my lover. The word I didn't want to say because of the fear that it would be real. Because with lovers came emotions, and with emotions, expectations and disappointments.

The Elliot that I wanted back, the best friend I used to have, had gone away some time ago. The angry shell that had replaced him just made me long for who he used to be before Kathy left him. I hated her, in a sense, for breaking him. For being the reason that he wasn't my best friend, the reason that we had barely been able to speak to each other, for being the reason that I had to finally transfer out of the unit. It wasn't her fault. At least not completely her fault. But it was hard not to blame her.

Which inevitably led me back to the question of just what I wanted. I knew that wishing for the Elliot that Elliot had been five years ago was futile. Could things ever go back to normal now that he knew how my body responded to his? Would we be stuck in this awkward limbo forever? Or would I be better off just asking for a transfer to another precinct, or another department?

Or did I want the something more?

I had to question myself in general, at least, if I was willing to be in a relationship. Mine in the past couple of years had been light at best. I wondered sometimes if I really was still looking for someone, or if I just felt tied down by a relationship. I knew that there were a lot of men out there who didn't understand the realities of my job, who didn't understand my need for self-sufficiency. I knew I wasn't looking for my proverbial "other half". I didn't want someone who was going to complete my life or change who I am. I wanted someone who could be along for the ride.

And I knew that's what I would get if I was with Elliot.

Finally at two-thirty, having finished the bottle of wine and half a container of Ben & Jerry's cookie dough ice cream and no closer to any answers to my questions, I collapsed into bed.

Pounding on my door woke me up what seemed like only minutes later. I looked at my clock to find that it was already noon, and the sun was shining all too brightly through my open drapes. I groaned and forced myself out of bed.

"Elliot," I said, surprised to find him standing on my doorstep. I squinted, still trying to adjust to the light and ignoring the pounding in my head.

"Since when do you sleep in?" he asked.

Slowly, my brain registered this knowledge that he had. That he knew that no matter what, my body would wake me up at nine on the weekends. That went beyond what a partner knew. It bordered past best friend. I felt myself mentally putting a checkmark in the lover column.

"I was. . . up late. What are you doing here?"

"I think we need to talk. I thought I could take you out to lunch."

I rubbed my eyes and nodded. "Give me five minutes."

Twenty minutes later we were sitting at a little deli down the block from me. Without having to ask, he had brought my fries over with his to drench them in ketchup and vinegar. Best friend my head told me. Then changed its mind to lover.

"I wanted to apologize," he told me after taking a bite of his club sandwich.

"For what?" I asked, not looking up at him.

"For this week. You had every right to get mad at me. I don't know what it's like to have no one, and I most certainly don't know what it's like to be you. So. . . I'm sorry.

"Oh," I managed softly. "That's what you wanted to talk about."

He sighed. "Do you think we can talk about it while keeping our clothes on?"

I didn't know whether to laugh or be mortified. "I think in this very public place we can manage that."

"I'm sorry. For that too."

"It took two of us."

"But I started things. And. . . I don't know where we're supposed to go from here."

"Elliot. . ."

"I know that things between us have been strange for a long time. Since way before this. I want to make things right here. But I don't know how."

I closed my eyes hard, trying to push back the tears that were forming. I swallowed and opened them, glad to find that I managed to keep my composure. "I guess," I whispered, "I guess that depends on what you want."

His eyes didn't meet mine. "And if I don't know?"

"Then I don't know either." I looked down at the food in front of me and pushed it away. Things felt too complicated. They weren't supposed to be this hard.

Why didn't he know?

"Thanks for lunch," I said softly, standing up and quickly brushing past him. He grabbed my arm and said my name.

"What?" I asked, staring in disbelief at his hand wrapped around my arm. Instead of trying to push him away, it made me want to step closer.

He opened his mouth to say something. And then in a move too fast for me to understand what was happening, he kissed me. In the middle of a public restaurant, he kissed me.

"We can't," I managed to whisper, pulling away from him, my entire body shaking from the intensity. And despite every rational thought in my head screaming at me to stay and figure it out, I ran.

Elliot

Friday, December 22

One week after I had gone with Liv to tell Christine that we had to drop her case, I found myself back at Columbia, checking what one of their science professors had seen at a crime scene weeks before. I only had a couple of hours before I was off for Christmas, and I was fading quickly. I ducked into one of the on-campus coffee shops after the interview and ordered a large coffee.

"Would you like to try our eggnog latte, sir?" The perky, pony-tailed cashier asked me.

"Just the coffee, thanks."

"We can also do a cappuccino if that's what you'd prefer."

"Coffee."

"Or we have a peppermint mocha available just for Christmas-"

I was about to walk out when another cashier came over and put a cup of coffee in front of me. "It's on us. Sorry about that," he said quickly, then turned to lecture the other cashier. I picked it up and was almost out the door when a head in the corner of the shop caught my eye. I looked back to find Christine sitting in front of a laptop in a corner booth. I looked at the door, then back at her, then turned to go see her.

"Detective," she said after recovering from her initial terrified reaction. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm on a case. Do you mind if I join you?"

She closed her computer and pulled off her reading glasses. "Go ahead," she said with a smile. If I didn't know any better, I thought, I wouldn't ever know that anything's wrong.

"How are you doing?" I asked her quietly.

"I'm fine thanks, and yourself?" she replied automatically, still managing to look like she was sincere.

"How are you really doing?"

She dropped her voice slightly. "Do you take this much interest in all your victims?"

"Depends." It was true, and Christmas was a reminder of that. It was bittersweet having Christmas cards come in, from victims I had helped a year, two years, five years before. Some kept me updated on their lives, on how far they had come since their attack, or since their attacker was put in prison. They always left some thank you about one particular time, when I had helped them. I didn't remember all of the cases, but their thanks always stirred up memories. And the number of cards in comparison to the number of victims I had seen, they were a reminder of how many I hadn't been able to help.

"I actually wanted to apologize about last week. I had no right to speak to you the way I did. I know you were just trying to help."

"It's okay," I told her quickly. "You're doing better?"

"Yeah," she replied quietly, not meeting my gaze.

"Chrstine. . . at the risk of sounding like I'm telling you what to do. . . have you tried talking to a counsellor or a support group?"

"I'm fine," she repeated, slight annoyance creeping into her voice. I decided to push her a little further.

"The same as last week?"

"Yes."

"Then why were you finished an entire bottle of wine by five o'clock in the afternoon?"

She took a sip of the foamy drink in front of her and still wouldn't look at me. "I just needed to finish a paper. Really, I'm fine. I'm great."

She finally looked up at me. "You're a smart girl," I told her. "You and I both know that if you need to drink just so you can concentrate on a paper, you're not fine."

"What do you know?" Her eyes widened. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean. . . it just came out."

"No, you're right. I don't know what you're going through. But I do know that I've seen a hell of a lot of good people who have let something like this ruin their lives when it doesn't have to. I know that you're going through hell, and that it feels like that's never going to end. But I also know that if you accept help, you can get your life back. It doesn't have to be like this, Christine."

"Can I ask you a question, Detective?" she asked softly.

"Elliot," I corrected. "Go ahead."

"Do you have any children?"

I think that was the question that I had been asked about my personal life the most, by victims, their parents, and perps alike. I tried to avoid answering as much as possible. "I have four. Three girls and a boy."

"What would you do if this happened to one of your daughters?" She sighed and continued before I could respond. "I know this isn't a fair question, but I want you to understand where I'm coming from."

"I'd do anything I could to help them," I lied. The truth was that it's easier to deal with the perp than the victim. I would go out and torture whoever attacked one of my girls, beat him within an inch of his life, then send him to Sing-Sing, making sure that every inmate knew exactly what he had done.

"But would you make them talk?"

I started to say yes, then realized just how stupid it would sound. "No."

"Then knowing what you know, and having seen what you seen, can you understand why I don't want to talk to anyone about what happened? I don't want to dwell on it. I don't want to sit in a room and talk about it until I'm blue in the face. I want to move on with my life."

"Asking for help doesn't make you weak."

She had slid her laptop into her bag and stood up. "I've spent the past year and a half avoiding being the poor girl whose parents died. I'm not going to let myself become the poor girl who was raped twice. Thank you for the company."

I left my coffee at the table and went after her. I felt a sense of déjà-vu from my lunch with Olivia the previous week. "Christine," I said, catching up with her. She turned and looked at me but said nothing.

"Look," I told her. "I'm sorry if I offended you. I just want you to know that there are people out there who want to help. You don't have to be strong all the time."

She swallowed hard. "I wish I could believe that. Merry Christmas, Detective."

And she was gone.