Quote Prompt #2: "To the world, you may be one person, but to one person, you may be the world." — Dr. Suess
Whimsy
~oOo~
Olivia's staring at the Seuss-themed mural in the lobby of Noah's dental office—all bright colors and whimsical fonts, as if she walked into a psychedelic version of Horton Hears a Who.
It's a routine appointment that thankfully got her out of work before dinnertime for once—and as another sad parenting right of passage, Noah went in alone for his teeth cleaning. So here she sits, staring, simmering in misplaced anger.
She doesn't hate the whimsy. Or the brightness. Or the sentiment.
She hates that she's immediately thinking of the one person she doesn't want to think about.
She hates the neediness. The want. The nostalgia. The way her brain still screams at her to stay far, far away, but her heart will never deny him.
She hates that she's missed him. She hates that he wove himself into the fabric of her soul the moment they became partners and hates even more that she let him. And she can't stop wondering if even a hint of her reality is reciprocated.
In a parallel universe…
She hates how easy it is to slip back into the teasing and banter, sharing Chinese food and diner fries as if he hadn't disappeared for a decade. Fired a gun together, instinctively in sync. Explaining that one to the Feds and McGrath felt like sitting in Cragen's office again, no one understanding their innate trust and blind faith, breaking every rule on police procedure to save each other's asses.
She hates how much she loves him; after all this time, and distance, and silence.
She hates that her hip hurts. She hates that he's leaving again in a matter of hours, potentially knocking them back to square one.
She hates that he gave her a necklace filled with riddles about direction and happiness.
(She loves that he gave her a necklace filled with riddles about direction and happiness.)
And there's the simmer—the flicker of fire burning in her gut—the juxtaposition of hating the circumstances but loving him, and she still doesn't feel like she has a right or a claim. Lately, all she wants to do is claim him.
A ring reappearing on his finger stopped her dead in her tracks.
Back to a stalemate. A friendship, for now. Two decades of a friendship, for now, a portion of it one-sided with the ghost of Elliot lurking in her shadows. And she's tired.
She's tired and achy, and she can't stop thinking about the damn hug he gave her in that urgent care. Can't stop thinking about his thumb dragging across her lip all those months ago. Can't stop thinking about that night in her kitchen, stripped bare and raw with emotion, still bruised and battered, barely hanging on to a shred of normalcy.
They would have fucked that night if he didn't hesitate with the faintest murmur of her name. Even then, he was so excruciatingly careful with her, a protector above all else. It was a comfort and a curse.
She's so tired of careful. She's tired of tiptoeing around whatever they are. She's tired of change, and destruction, and the constant reminder of the fragility of life forcing her hand.
She hates that Lindstrom was right. It's been over a year since he told her she needs to explore whether there's more with Elliot or move on. The truth is, she can't move on. It's been a quarter century of not moving on. Maybe she's idealized him, them, but she doesn't care. He's always been hers, even if she's never been his.
Fuck it. Before losing her nerve, she has to know once and for all where they stand. She opens her phone and sends off an honest, blunt text.
Tell me one thing before you leave. What we had—was it real?
Her phone buzzes immediately with his incoming call, and she groans—her timing has always been shit.
"El," she whispers. "I can't talk right now."
"Then just listen. Please."
His soft, rumbled voice sends a thrill down her spine, and she can't ignore the warmth blooming in the places she's imagined him pleasuring. She exhales loudly, deeply, and shakily, waiting for his reply.
"Olivia Benson, I love you. I've always loved you. I hate that I'm not saying this standing in front of you, but maybe this is exactly what we need to be brave for once. What we had, what we have, is the realest thing I've ever known. I'm so scared that you will tell me to take a hike; that I'm going to fuck this up even more than I already have. You're my best friend, Liv, my soulmate. God, I've missed you so much. I don't deserve to miss you, but I—"
"Shhhhhhh," she gently soothes, allowing him to catch his breath while she tries to remember she has a heartbeat. "When do you leave tomorrow?"
"I have a six o'clock flight."
"Can you come over ton—?"
"—Yes."
"Good. I should be home in an hour. And El?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you too."
His relieved, watery chuckle dances in her ear as she ends the call, and when Noah comes out seconds later, he immediately asks her why she's smiling.
Apparently, it's been a while.
She glances at the mural, the compass clutched between her fingers, thinking about whimsy, brightness, and riddles that aren't so difficult to solve after all.
"Because I'm happy, sweetheart."
The author of this SVU - Quills & Shutters story will be revealed in October