"You can make yourself a home
You can want no other ever
But it's never too late to be alone"
-It's Never Too Late to Be Alone, Del Amitri

Saturday, June 24, 2023
Morning

He's been home three days and every single one of them he contemplates calling the doctor and admitting he was wrong. He can't do anything without some level of pain and a considerable amount of finagling because he's right-handed dammit and his right fucking arm barely moves and he doesn't want to use it anyway because it hurts like a mother and it's wrapped up like a fucking mummy and strapped to his chest in a sling which he reluctantly admits helps the pain a little but renders him almost helpless.

They'd tried sending him to a nursing home. He'd refused. Sure, they called it rehab, but he knew it was a fucking nursing home and he'll be long dead before he checks into one of those even for rehab. The kids tried to reason with him, the doctors pointed out the things he wasn't thinking of, and he'd shut them all down. If he's not sick enough to be in the hospital, then he should be at home. But he thinks maybe he was wrong.

Eating is a bitch, cooking is out of the question, and even with something simple like a sandwich he drops food all over himself and he misses his mouth when he tries to use a fork. Buttons are impossible and he can work the zipper on the fly of his jeans, but not the button and none of his shirts will fit over the way his arm is wrapped except his workout tanks and if that's all he's going to wear there's no point in bothering with a shirt and every time he adjusts the sling it hurts like hell so it's not worth moving it to try to put on a shirt. He can't shave without the risk of slitting his throat and he can't use the clippers with his left hand and so he's walking around the house in sweatpants and no shirt with an unkempt beard and what's left of his hair is growing out in little gray piecemeal patches on his head and if he looked in a mirror, he'd probably be horrified, but he doesn't look in the mirror because he doesn't want to see the scars from the surgeries and the bullet holes and the sorry state of his hygiene and his useless right arm. He hasn't showered either because he doesn't want to get the bandages wet and he has been sitting on the couch most of the last three days feeling sorry for himself because everywhere in the place reminds him of his mom being there even though she hasn't been there for a year and he couldn't even go to her funeral and his kids are satisfied that he's alive and well enough that they've all gone back to their jobs and lives and he's just sitting in an empty apartment barely able to wipe his own ass and wondering why he's still alive when he doesn't even want to be and wishing his mother was still there to hug him and tell him that it would all be ok.

He makes the attempt every time he starts to feel bad for himself to remember Evans, the twenty-seven year old rookie detective who'd bounded up those porch steps in an effort to impress him. He thinks of Whelan, who'd also tried to impress him in the beginning and put up with his shit moods and eventually was accepted by Elliot as part of the team who'd been almost directly in front of him and thus spared Elliot's life. He's not sure he wanted the favor, but he recognizes that Whelan's family would happily trade if they could. He thinks of how he couldn't even attend the funerals of his teammates and he's heard from Jet and Reyes that Ayanna is going through it for not having adequate vests and additional backup for that warrant and he wants to jump in and defend her because it hadn't seemed necessary and he can't because he knows they're coming for him later, once they think he's had enough time to heal.

He thinks about lying on the ground that day, staring up at the sunny sky and listening helplessly as Whelan died and sometimes at night he swears he can hear that rasping breath and he wishes there was someone around to check on, someone healthy he could hear breathing and block out the memory.

He knows it's probably not a brilliant idea, but he's off the pain meds and so he drinks to numb his arm and his side and his brain. He wonders if he has a problem with the drinking because it seems to be the only thing he feels like doing anymore. Then again, needing something to make existing hurt a little less isn't so much a sign of weakness in his opinion as a sign that his life absolutely sucks. The problem is the alcohol only makes him morose thinking about his situation and the men who are dead and Ayanna's job being threatened over shit luck and Olivia and how she hasn't forgiven him. He doesn't expect her to because the memory is fuzzy, but he knows that he tried to seduce her and wound up getting slapped in the face and when he's really drunk he remembers that what she'd hinted at that night means she'll never forgive him, but he'll be damned if he can remember much and he wonders if she confided some terrible secret and he forgot and he suspects it has something to do with why she slapped him because he knows if she thought he was trying to assault her, she could and would have done far worse.

The last two nights he's spent passed out on the couch and it's still early summer, but the heat and blinding sun are here and the humidity is coming and he thinks about that ancient dream of his to move to Seattle and he has a cousin out there and possibly a buddy from the Marines and maybe getting away from New York and all the shitty memories of his failures is a good idea, but then he remembers he can't even dress himself and so packing and moving is beyond him and it still doesn't stop him from trying, from haphazardly throwing things in boxes and leaving them open because he can barely fold the flaps closed let alone operate a damn tape gun and that gets frustrating quickly. So he keeps drinking and he doesn't even want to drink, he just doesn't have anything else he can do and it takes a shitload of beer for a man his size to get a buzz so he drinks hard liquor because it's cheaper and he suspects that thought alone would get him a stint in rehab and he's not voluntarily going anywhere with rehab in the title.

He finally calls the physical therapy place his surgeon had recommended because he hopes there's something that will help him function on his own and if it's just a matter of certain exercises that's definitely something he can do, especially since as he gets drunk, his left arm gets even more useless and he's splashing more alcohol down his chest than he's getting in his mouth.

It's just past noon and he's already good and drunk for the day and the knock at his front door startles him enough that he spills whiskey on his filthy sweatpants. He knows it's one of the kids, checking on him during their lunch, and they're most likely pressed for time and he thinks if he ignores them, they'll probably go away. Besides, he doesn't feel like talking to them, or anyone really.

There's a second knock and he sighs as he climbs to his feet, suspecting that whoever it is isn't going away so easily. He hears soft voices through the closed door, one of them definitely a child, and he figures it must be Maureen and one or both of her kids and he knows the look of disdain Maureen will have on her face when she realizes he's drunk because Kathy used to make that same face and he's ready to argue that he's an adult and this is his apartment and she came here and he's so prepared to deal with his eldest child that he pulls the door open without looking and then he's very much not prepared.

It's not Maureen and her kids.

It's Olivia and her kid.

And when he sees her mouth drop open in shock, he remembers that he's barely dressed and has whiskey spilled on his lap and he hasn't bathed or shaved or brushed his fucking teeth in days because it's really hard to use a toothbrush with the wrong hand.

And Noah. Oh shit the boy looks pale and tired and his eyes go wide when he sees Elliot's abdomen, the crisscrossing scars from the various tubes and the multiple surgeries that aren't covered by the sling. The boy has an envelope in his hand, a card it appears, and Elliot feels even worse about himself.

He can't possibly meet her eyes, he can already imagine the disappointment, and it's worse than Maureen's and Kathy's and he steps back to allow them in and he figures this is a bad idea, but he can't turn them away either.

"I wasn't expecting visitors." He doesn't mean to be snarky, but he can't help his tone because the fact is he laid in that hospital bed for weeks and didn't hear a damn word from her and he knows he deserved that and he knows Fin explained that Noah was sick and he figures Noah with his card is the reason she's here and it's not about Elliot at all and it hurts more than she's here for her son and wasn't there for him. "Let me go get dressed."

Liv and Noah turn toward the living room and he wishes they'd gone into the kitchen because while the pile of take out containers overflowing the trash is embarrassing, he has the excuse that he can't cook right now, but instead Olivia is going to find all those half-packed boxes and get mad and a pile of empty bottles that she'll assume he drank today.

He remembers as soon as he sees the pile of clothes he left in a heap on the floor of his bedroom that there's a reason he's not dressed, but he can't scare that kid again and so he tries. He pulls on some jeans and he can't work the button one handed, but if he can manage a shirt, neither of his guests will have to know about that, and he wants to put on a decent shirt, but he knows none of his dress shirts will fit over his wrapped arm and so he's looking for a loose t-shirt and why the fuck are all of his shirts so damn small and he unhooks the sling and he's trying to force a sleeve over his arm except he's had it in a sling so long now the damn thing won't straighten out and the shirt won't fit over it and he cannot go into the living room to face Olivia and Noah shirtless with his jeans unbuttoned. He's already exhausted from walking that far and he sits down on the side of his bed and wonders how long it will take them to leave if he just never comes back.