everyone wondering about all of my plotline innuendo: join Live Journal and become a member of eoshippers community. trust me.
so I assume it's fairly obvious to you that I'm back in action. THIS CALLS FOR A JAPANESE DRINKING GAME. OOKKKII OPAAAAIII!!!! oh yes, big time back in action. anyhow, I am also planning on ending this story (gasp! the very thought of ending this story!) in about three chapters + epilogue, so I must warn you: now is the time of plotline-wrapping-up-ness. not to worry or anything about things seeming as they do now (oh bahjessus, have I EVER had anything be as it seems? now, REALLY…) or about the certain inalienable rights of couples being together suddenly being not-couples-being-together . really, cruelty is only a guise, not my true form. to think of me, depriving you all of more love and sex and drama and sex and angst and did I mention sex? but don't make me pull out the warning sign again (ha, as if I had the heart) and wiggle those reviews out of you.
thinking of a sequel. not really SERIOUSLY thinking of a sequel, since how the hell can I pull this ending out of my (ass) hat and make it into a cohesive storyline? screw that, I'll just write lots of OE porn! yes! my reviews will go over the roof! just kidding. but not about the porn part. to be perfectly honest with you, I don't have much time to dedicate to extra thinking since liekwhoa chemistry has really driven me to my utmost human defenses. seriously, I just sit in chemistry and think: 'Couldn't I read all of this on a Gatorade bottle?'!! really now, of all the worthless subjects for an anthropology major…
10 more minutes until The Office! I just have to wait for my sister to stop watching Survivor and then I can watch the reason why my Thursdays are love. since Tuesdays are just ripping my heart out and stabbing it with a rusty stake, honestly…
and oh oh oh!
The I Hate Dani Club is officially in session. club dues (a story in which Dani is thoroughly trashed, smashed, or denied, and OEness reigns supreme in an impressive spectacle of sweat-soaked porn) must be in by the end of November! I am not joking. Label it as 'I Hate Dani Club Dues' somewhere in your story summary, and you become a member! I'm opening the community in a bit. and you all get club jackets and chocolate and cookies. cookies depicting an OE love scene! and some…um…favors from…uh…the Vice-President. PM me if you want to be an officer.
I wasn't joking. I'm dead serious.
alrightee, read on my darlings. because you're all my marshmallow butter ducklings! and because I am definitely not doing my chem homework but instead am reading the latest issue of SPIN and writing this. holy shit, Billy Corgan's an ass and Cragen's pissed! I love tonight!
…
Cliché. That's what she would call all this: skipping record of Etta James, half-filled glass of vodka, 20 seconds left in a minute that seemed to hang lazily from the tip of her tongue. She's started to see things with a future eye- everything is illuminated in that sad frame of light that says they've been here before, everyone has been there before. It's a blasted recap of a past and yet it's a past she has never lived.
Or maybe she's too drunk to notice.
People seem to think she's just as dangerous as her mother, but she's not a raging storm when she's drunk. She doesn't look for sources of pain, thrash against them until her blood tells her she's real for a moment, and then she flickers back into disillusion and cries when insults fly through her. She's not an alcoholic, she's not insane, she's not willing to hate people and blame them for things that have happened, not even the things she wants to take back.
When she's drunk, she notices all of the beautiful things in life and smiles at them and the hazy glow they cast across her spotless features. Beautiful drink, beautiful world, beautiful melting horizon to hold her and never let go.
She makes a beautiful breakdown.
She is center stage today, center stage in her grief and wholesome solo player in that final act. That long standing duo against all odds, reciting lines only rehearsed once before…they've disappeared. She's left in their place, hollow and grave-faced corpse preparing for the funeral of a love story.
"I'm sorry," She whispers, but she just can't remember who she's sorry for. Why she's sorry.
The world is sorry, but it's never sorry for anyone in particular. She feels like the world, floating quietly in space while the cosmos blast carelessly about, feeling sorry for the general consensus. Everyone else can be happy- she must feel sorry for the grief that has to come with life's many journeys.
She stumbles silently into the light, filtering through the glossy windows of the door before she pushes it open, brilliant and stinging air filling her face with painless spring. She's numb to her own intentions, sinking slowly into the pit whose presence she cannot explain, even as the pungent earth rubs against her open palms and reminds her she can start again without consequence.
"Olivia?" The redhead steps out of an Audi, pulling down oversized sunglasses that don't quite fit the long and tapered frame of her face. "Olivia, are you alright?"
But she can't see her. She sees only the bright blue horizon that glimmers violet in her line of view. That and lonely tears that fall into a man's open hands, rippling until they become the lines of his palm.
She catches her foot on the edge of the step, tumbles slowly forward with a brilliant dance of divulged discord. Quick hands have taken hers and pulled her onto her feet, and she smiles in admiration.
"Very…quick." She manages, grinning widely.
"You smell like a frat house punchbowl." Casey frowns, pulling her friend back into the seat beside her. "Coffee. You definitely need coffee."
"Don't need…nothing at all…" The car. It moves. A surprise!
"Well, your grammar certainly sucks." Casey gives her a quick smile. "Does your inebriation have an occasion?"
"Stabler…jesusfuckchrist."
"Oh god, don't tell me you two spilt again-"
"I'm sorry," And now she's crying. Crying crying crying. "I'm so sorry…"
"Don't apologize to me, honey. I wasn't the one you were sleeping with."
"I'm so sorry…" And now the tears were heavier, greater in quantity. The car was pulling over, warm arms were wrapping around her. Disillusion was pulling away, strong and sad reality sinking in.
"Shh, stop it." Casey's voice of reason, strong and certain in her ear. "You don't have to be sorry. You just have to be sober." She laughed slowly, everything suddenly delayed in Olivia's mind. "You've never been one for alcohol, have you?"
"I didn't…I should have…"
"Don't worry, you'll start making sense to yourself once you're not peeing Bloody Mary's. Did I tell you? I came over because we got the guy who ordered the hitmen. Ripley Montgomery. Katrina Bates' boyfriend. Coincidental, huh? Honestly I have no idea why I'm telling you this since in a few hours you won't even remember me sitting here, but I feel as though taking an extra half hour lunch break to check in on you is certainly worth state funding."
"Wha--?"
"Never mind, dear. Just keep thinking hangover."
…
"Elliot?" There is a short and spastic knocking of knuckles beside his ear, and he bolts upright. But where is the pink elephant? And the woozle with the shotgun that was trying to impregnate him with Denise Richards' alien offspring? "Elliot, why do you smell like a German beer festival?"
Munch. Motherbuggershithouse. Not the person to talk to when you're dead close to drunk. Or maybe you are drunk. Was he drunk? Is he drunk?
Is Munch wearing a tartan thong?
Yes, he is drunk.
"Get…hellaway…"
Munch turned to Cragen's door, grinning maliciously. "CAP-TAIN! ELLIOT'S PLASTERED AT WORK!"
"Kill…you…"
Unicorn porn.
Not unicorn porn.
She was gone, she is gone, she will be gone. She can be here, but she will never be really here again. And all the while, he's crying and drinking and imagining the tragedy played out in poetry, all at once velveteen and cursed.
"Mets lose?" Munch bends over, breathing expectantly in his ear. "Car broke down? World hunger continuing? Cher's last farewell tour? PMS? Take your pick here, buddy. Cragen will probably want to know why you're drunk in the office."
"Just get me –umph- out of here."
Fresh air. Still and chaos and noises beyond all noises to clear his head with their silent screams.
"Fin!" Munch is calling over his shoulder, still bandaged and slung with the care of the hospital. "Come play hooky with us!"
"Is Elliot drunk?"
"Yeah, we can dress him up in women's clothes."
"Bitchsonshitshityoubothandurghumph…"
Fin gives a nod of approval. "Yep, he's out of it."
"His time of the month, apparently."
"Always is." They pull on jackets, grabbing him on either side and hoisting him to his feet. "But that's nothing a chili dog and a barefoot jog in Central Park can't help with."
"Can we drop him in the river?"
"No, I want to dress him up like a bum and make him sit outside with the homeless people."
"No, let's dress him up like a man-whore and shove him into a group of Japanese tourists in Times Square."
"Can we hang him from the Statue of Liberty?"
"By his feet?"
"I was thinking his-"
Elliot groans and sends a lazy fist in Fin's direction. "You both gotta…sliurtapop…"
"Ha, I love this!" Fin grins. "Definitely getting him a pleather skirt."
"And edible underwear!"
…
She wakes up aware again, suddenly attuned to the familiar surroundings of the grey couch, the window on the busy world, the smell of coffee stinging her nostrils. Headache like a bitch, yes, but she's aware now. Disillusion is gone. Anger is gone. Sadness is gone.
Well, not completely gone.
A quickly scribbled note is on the coffee table, and when she stands up to shuffle quietly across the floor, she picks it up and gives it a glance.
Liv, Gave you lots of coffee and tea and milk and a cookie. Pretty sure when you read this you'll be sober but in pain. Good luck with that. Back at the office now, so call me if you need anything. Lots of progress with Bates case- I told you about it, but you have no idea what I said.
-Casey
She yawns, and regrets are all around her, the air stifling only from the quick breath that stinks of despair. She remembers sharp words cutting across the damp air of last night, the eyes that stared but did not see.
She's sorry.
But she can't take it back.
Not now.
The drive to the precinct seems longer than ever, the familiar hum of the afternoon city and the occasional person on the boulevard filling her spirit with an ultimate sort of melancholy, as though this is her final emotion, the one she must take to the grave. And why shouldn't she? Her life has been a sad story in which none of the characters found satisfaction, in which second chances were not allowed. She'd learned from her mother a long time ago that you can't take back your decisions. You just have to work with what you have.
When she's parked the car, she treads slowly to the elevator and waits in sober silence, still blinking and breathing and trying to find that bit of untouched life in her. But it's gone, and she's tainted from head to toe, one giant mistake.
The door beeps, opens. She holds her breath.
And there he is.
"Liv…" He freezes, and so does she. He looks older somehow.
"I just came to…I heard…"
"Yeah, there's progress on the case." He blinks, and breathes. She blinks, and breathes. They still function as one, bound by blood, memories, little hands and feet. "I just talked to Captain."
"Oh."
"So you…you're going to go see-"
"Yeah…"
"You know I…I just wanted to…"
"About what happened last night…" She breathes again, watches his chest inhaling with her own, rising slowly and calmly, but the tension still remaining in his eyes. "I don't want to run, but I want to…if we could just…if you…" She blinks. "Stay."
There is a distinct and pregnant silence. The door begins to beep, closing before him where he stands motionless. And then a hand reaches beyond the sheets of metal running slowly to collision.
And they collide.
Maybe she is still drunk. Because words are melting away with lips and fingers and the taste of skin. He's reaching for her belt, her pants, and everything is being shed like petals in the spring. Blossoms and blooming and there she is.
Everything is violent and fast and there is nothing graceful about it, but she likes the clumsy motion of their hips against one another, the desperation in their limbs when he pulls her up onto him and they press against the wall. He pulls her in, steadies her as she groans, biting his ear when he comes. She gropes impatiently over his shoulder and hits a random button.
Up they go.
…
Cragen smiles with satisfaction when the weight of the file is in his hands, looking expectantly at the partners before him. "Well boys, bring the man in and we can finish this nuthouse case."
Fin nods. "I can't wait until this shit is over."
Munch rolls his eyes. "You're not the one with the shoulder problem."
"Hey now! I was the one who pushed you out of the way, so if you think--"
"It's not like you ever get hurt. I'm always the one getting shot in the--"
"--ass always needs protecting and it's not like anyone ever says--"
"--my wives weren't this needy obviously, but you probably got a lot of--"
"--sex crimes isn't exactly the best job in the world, and you'd be better off as a--"
"--man-whore getting raped right and left, and no one gives me credit for that case even if I saved them from--"
"--Cragen's never in a good mood because you're always trying to get--"
"--tapped into the secret of it, and nobody said it was my idea even though I'm always the first one to--"
"--touch myself for days because of this damn shoulder, so I can't wash my back or get a--"
"--blow me out the window every time with your temper--"
"BOTH OF YOU! SHUT THE HELL UP!" Cragen screams, and they both turn, frowning slightly. The captain is rubbing his temples in exasperation, shaking his ringing head. "You two are worse than Benson and Stabler sometimes."
"Yeah, but we fight like brothers dating the same girl, not an old married couple with different ideas for sex positions."
Cragen stares blankly at Munch.
Munch smiles innocently. "Never mind…"
"Can you just go and arrest Montgomery, please?"
"Yes sir!" Munch smiles excitedly and bounds out the door after his partner, nearly colliding with the redhead who has just arrived at the precinct. "Casey! Your hair's red again."
She smiles sheepishly. "You noticed, John. How nice."
Fin is suddenly grinning over Munch's shoulder, his eyebrow raised. "Actually, Munch was just talking earlier about whether or not your hair is a natural red."
"Oh, really?" Casey blinks, raising an eyebrow. "And why would you--"
Fin smiles again, his voice rising in volume. "And Munch said the only way to tell was if you took off your pants and showed him your--"
"NEVER MIND!" Munch grabs his partner by the shoulder and drags him quickly out, his face the shade of fried tomatoes. He sprints to the elevator, jumping in anticipation. "PRESS THE BUTTON PRESS THE BUTTON!"
"Hey!" Casey storms after them, catching up at the elevator. "In case you haven't noticed, I am no longer single and if you ever try that again, I am going to tell--OH…MY…FUCK."
Because at that moment, the doors to the elevator had opened, and two certain partners are standing before them. Elliot is rushing to straighten his shirt, which Olivia refastens her belt, attempting with one hand to redo her hair and rub off the sucking marks across her left side.
"Urm, hi." She says, hurrying out the elevator and down the hall, Elliot following not far behind.
"Yeah, see you guys." He mutters, and practically sprints in her direction.
There is a silence like no other silence that has ever existed in the history of silences.
Casey finally closes her mouth and opens her eyes. "I…I thought they broke up."
Munch blinks. "I thought he was drunk."
Fin grins. "More the reason!"
…
Author's Note: WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAH ELEVATOR SEX!