Special Thanks to my Flug!!!
T Minus 5 Days
It was late. Very, very late. He could tell because the noise coming through his closed windows, the sounds of the city continuing to live, had faded away to nearly nothing. Having lived in and around the city his whole life, he knew the city didn't go to sleep until very, very late. And he also knew that it would wake up early, before he would even be cursed by the rising sun streaming in, the blazing ball of light that breathed energy into the whole world that only caused him to cast shadows on everything around him.
He couldn't say how long he'd been home. He couldn't remember stopping at the liquor store on the way home. He couldn't tell how much of the whiskey missing from the half empty bottle had found a home in his gut versus how much he'd be paying to have steam cleaned out of his sofa and carpeting eventually.
But he did know that the world, the harsh, sharp, painful world, around him had developed somewhat soft, fuzzy edges. His brain was much slower to process things and since he recognized the delay, he was therefore more appreciative of any thoughts that managed to form in the muddled haze.
His tired, exhausted eyes were locked on those damn pictures, the ones he'd hated for existing, finding the black and white images so soothing. He'd slowly thumbed through them, taking in the various shapes in each with much more care than he previously had. When they'd first been presented to him, he had only needed to really see the first two, flipping quickly through the rest without focusing on them had instantly assured him they were all meant to be damning. And after that meeting, after Kathy and her jackass lawyer who'd convinced her that discrediting her husband of half her life was the best way to handle the divorce had left the room, after even his own lawyer had quietly packed up his own papers and left, Elliot had sat there, staring at the top photograph until he had it memorized. Hating it, hating Olivia, hating their bond.
But still, he'd never bothered to look beyond the top two.
His intoxicated state allowed him to lose the indignation he first found in those pictures. Instead he looked at them carefully, drinking in the sight of her when the Elliot beside her had turned away, enjoying what seemed like private moments with her. It took him hours to page through them, appreciating the detective's thoroughness in capturing the images many times from different angles which in turn allowed him to see various expressions lighting across her face. The frames changed, the backdrops, offering Elliot a walk down memory lane and showcasing moments of the previous four weeks. All the pictures featured Olivia prominently, standing at his side, smiling, frowning, talking, laughing, glaring, walking away from him, running half a step behind him, matching his stride on their way up the precinct steps.
Had he been sober, he might have marveled at the idea that they'd been tailed for so long and never noticed. He might have been pissed off seeing the way that his life and his career and even a few of those special moments with his partner had been picked apart and studied and used against him.
Instead he only smiled, feeling a swell of love at the sight of her, knowing they were the only photos of them together despite how long they'd worked together. Sex Crimes wasn't the place people often pulled out a camera to capture the good times on film.
He settled on one picture, one where they were standing on the sidewalk, leaning on their car, probably discussing a case or possibly what to get for lunch or maybe his kids. They were half turned toward each other, his arm resting on the roof of the car, damn near around her shoulders, his stare locked on her face, her head leaning toward him, her smile wide, her eyes bright even though there was no color to mirror them exactly. Somewhere in the back of his head he decided to frame it. Fuck the misconceptions anyone might find in it. Fuck anyone who found something ugly in their innate connection. Fuck the associations he might have regarding the circumstances where he'd received it. His marriage was over before he'd walked into the room that day. It had been over the day he'd decided to leave, knowing that Kathy wouldn't make him happy, accepting that his children would always be his regardless of whether or not he shared an address with their mother. He just wanted the paperwork completed, the fighting stopped, the strings cut. He wanted to move on.
And with his eyes on her smiling face, he could finally admit that he wanted to move on with Olivia.
The world was much harder than it seemed as he stumbled to his bedroom, banging various parts of himself into furniture that was still unfamiliar in the dark. He stripped out of the suit he'd been wearing, the one he knew smelled heavily of alcohol and sadness. His bare feet found the softness of an abandoned pair of jeans on the floor. He stepped into them as his hands searched on the bed for a t-shirt. He managed to pull clean socks out of his drawer before he shoved his sneakers on his feet.
Uncoordinated or not, he was on a mission. The photographs, especially that last one, roused a need in him to see her, to be near her, to touch her. He had to get to her, to somewhere he could feel her.
His thoughts weren't well ordered as he hailed a cab, telling the driver to hurry toward the precinct, gripping her coat so tight in his grasp that he started to lose feeling in his fingers. He dragged his legs up the steps, trying to fake sobriety, knowing it was pointless. He didn't stop in the squad room; he couldn't feel her there. He continued up the stairs, ducking his head to avoid anyone who might try to talk to him, only coming to stop outside the door to the crib. His hand was on the door. His body was leaning on the wall, ready to push it open. He'd be able to feel her there. He'd be able to see her in that cot, where he'd found her, where he'd touched her. He'd be able to smell her, experience to rush of her arousal when he thrust her against the wall. All he had to do was open the door and he'd be there again, with her the way he'd intended, with her the way his drunken mind recognized it needed.
But when his weight fell on the door, the squeaky hinges protesting his request, he found nothing. Even one day had changed it. Perhaps the windows he'd opened. Perhaps the other people who'd slept on the cots. Perhaps the janitor who'd mopped the floor. The cause didn't matter; the effect was the same. There was no Olivia. He turned on the light, searching the space for some evidence of the few minutes that had altered their lives forever. The cot she'd been lying on had been made up fresh. The wall she'd braced them against was empty. The floor they'd collapsed on was shiny and clean, reflecting nothing.
Disappointed and half sobered, he left, practically running with his confused feet tripping over one another as he made his escape. As he hailed another cab, he was grateful that he wasn't a somber, depressed sort of drunk. At least the alcohol filled him with both a purpose and the energy to satisfy it. He was looking for somewhere to feel closer to Olivia, somewhere he could convince himself he could still feel their connection, despite the circumstances, despite the fear plaguing his sober moments that told him he might never again feel that closeness.
His body worked automatically, inebriated as he was, climbing her steps, opening her door. He wasn't even really sure of where he was for several minutes; he only knew that he could smell her. Without having had the luxury of her perfume clinging to his clothes all day, he'd missed it. Whatever had been left on her coat had faded with the time in his possession and out in the alley. In her apartment, however, it surrounded him, encompassed his intoxicated body, enveloped his tortured mind.
He sat there in the dark for a long time. Just feeling close to her. Just being in space that belonged to her. Just sitting where she might normally be. Getting high from the idea alone.
But then, it wasn't enough anymore. He couldn't quite convince himself that she was there. He didn't feel her presence so much as the ghost of it, teasing him with the idea that although she had once been there, she wasn't any longer.
He left her jacket on the couch, searching around for somewhere, something, else. There was no goal, no conscious thought in his mind when he stepped in her bedroom, but he knew he'd found what he wanted. The scent was stronger there, coming from the combination of bottles on her dresser. He lifted her perfume to his nose, knowing it as well as he knew his cologne, knowing he'd recognize it even when twenty-four years hadn't been enough to recall Kathy's favorite perfume. He picked up another bottle, a pink plastic one, next, inhaling the scent her lotion and finding the same familiarity. He'd found what he was looking for. It was as close to her as he could get.
He almost fell onto the bed, suddenly crushed by success. Because he'd wanted to feel closer to her than in his apartment where she'd never set foot; because he'd found the only place he might feel close to her until she was back.
And he wasn't close to her at all. All the creams and perfumes and make-up and clothes in the world would not add up to being with her. He'd never felt so alone, so empty.
He didn't even know what he was doing as he pulled back the thick comforter, slipped between her sheets, and buried his face in her pillow. The alcohol, the mission, the energy – it had all left him, like she had.
All he had left was loss. He'd had her for ten years by his side. He'd had her for a few minutes as something more. And he'd lost her. She was gone. It had taken that for him to truly understand how much he loved her and he hated himself even more for it. Because he never told her. Because it explained the angry way she'd reacted when he tried to walk away. Because she'd needed to hear it. He cried himself to sleep.
He awoke, however, in the best mood he could remember being in for most of his adult life. Consciously, he hadn't been able to create Olivia out of scented air. His unconscious mind, on the other hand, was all too happy to do the job. So for the first few moments of being awake, he smiled up at the ceiling, completely convinced that he'd slept that night happily and quite welcome in Olivia's bed with her sleeping contentedly in his arms after having made love to her until they passed out. He believed it so well that he was sure he'd only grabbed her pillow and snuggled it close to his chest after she'd risen to shower.
And for the briefest, happiest moment of his life, he contemplated joining her.
Unfortunately, his consciousness eventually awoke to join his physical presence, reminding him of why he was there and crushing the pathetic bit of joy that had started to flourish. The realization made it hard to breathe. The morning light hurt his eyes. His stomach felt like it was on a roller coaster. His head felt like he'd bashed it into a wall. And he was pretty damn sure someone had shoved a dirty gym sock in his mouth.
Feeling as shitty as he did, he didn't feel compelled to change, shower, or give a shit what anyone thought of how he looked. The only shred of normalcy he found in the day was pouring himself a cup of coffee when he got to the precinct, although he was starting to get used to the stares of his coworkers.
Elliot sat down at his desk and rummaged around in the drawer for a bottle of something that might cure his hangover. He seriously doubted that anything he washed down with coffee was really going to help, but he made the effort. It gave him something to do besides cry or feel sorry for himself, which had only recently become valid options for ways to spend his time.
He wasn't exactly surprised when the captain, looking very tired and rather irritated for no reason, appeared at his desk. Hoping to conceal his hangover, he tried very hard not to wince at the fluorescent overhead lights as he looked up. "Morning, Cap."
"Elliot, my office." No wonder the man looked tired and irritated, what with repeating himself over and over.
Elliot dropped the half-assed façade and groaned. "What now?" It only took a second for the panic to rise up and make him jump to his feet. "What is it? Did you find something?" When Cragen's face briefly flashed from concern to confusion to pity, Elliot's already displeased stomach flipped over.
"Oh, god, did you find her?" The fraction of a second between Elliot's words didn't leave enough of a window for the older man to answer.
"Is she ok? Please tell me she's ok." The silence and the panic ganged up on his legs, leaving Elliot's unsupported weight to cave back into his chair.
"She's alive, right? Please let her be alive." His words were barely a whisper, but they seemed to carry across the absurdly quiet room.
Elliot didn't notice. His eyes were locked on his boss's, waiting for some indication that he needn't pull his gun and eat it right there. He watched as the other man's face changed almost imperceptibly, giving a hint of a smile while his eyes darted to the side.
"Good morning, Elliot." The soft, measured tones of George Huang's voice were welcome rather than annoying for the first time in nine years.
Elliot's eyes glanced in his direction, but returned to Cragen's face. He didn't say anything. It was obvious that Huang's presence was the answer to one of Elliot's questions; Elliot just didn't know which. It could be that Huang was the reason Elliot was requested in Cragen's office. It could also be that Olivia was dead and Cragen was dumb enough to think a psychiatrist would be enough to keep Elliot from his partner's side, even in death.
Cragen swallowed before he spoke, keeping his voice low so as to keep it from all the sets of ears listening in, although such a volume would have only been perceived by dogs in the area. "Elliot, I asked Dr. Huang to come in today. I thought you might appreciate having someone to talk to."
Elliot narrowed his eyes, his body instinctively knowing how to respond to someone's suggestion that he seek counseling. It was usually whose opinion was of little real value to him. But sometimes, it was Olivia. He usually responded that he'd go as soon as she did. She would come back with a question as to whether or not they could get a two-for-one special. He'd answer they could and that it was called couple's therapy. Then she'd smile and laugh and tell him she wasn't sure that would really help any.
Instead of an answering laugh, Elliot wanted to scream at the idea that she was dead and therefore such exchanges would only exist in his mind, short as that would be until he blew it right through the back of his head.
Huang stepped forward, insinuating himself into the space between Cragen and Elliot. "Elliot, there's no new information. Don simply thought you might find some benefit in talking to me."
Elliot hating talking to people unnecessarily. He considered confiding in people talking unnecessary. And one of the reasons he hated it so damn much was perfectly summed up in what had happened. He'd confided in Cragen, partly to protect Olivia's reputation, partly because he couldn't control his emotions. And Cragen had turned around and called the fucking shrink on him. Elliot glared over Huang's shoulder at his boss. Motherfucker. That would effectively teach him about confiding in people.
Certain there was no other option, short of an involuntary visit to Bellevue, Elliot shrugged. "Fuck, whatever." He stood up and waited for Huang to suggest somewhere they could "talk" while he shot daggers at Cragen. It wasn't just that he was being sent to see a doctor, not even that he was being forced to confess something he still wasn't comfortable discussing at all to a coworker. It was that Cragen had an ulterior motive. Sure, Elliot accepted that his behavior and appearance probably looked to many like a cry for help. He wasn't even sure it was really a bad idea. Huang would be a better audience than Cragen had been; Huang had kept his secrets before. Huang already knew that he was terrified out of his fucking mind over his feelings for Olivia, and that had been before Elliot had actually been able to name them.
No, there were millions of reasons for Elliot and Huang to have a little chat, but it was the fact that Cragen's primary reason for sending him was simply to get Elliot off the case and out of the precinct for a little while.
And Elliot didn't like it one bit.
