Summary: A companion piece to "Pursuit of Happiness" based around a little snippet that I originally cut out of it when I was writing it that wound up taking a life of its own, and was then graciously given permission to post as a postscript at the end of the challenge.
Notes: Who the hell knows how old Noah is?
. . . And Called It Macaroni
~oOo~
There's never a good time to tell your preteen son that you've been shot.
There's never a good way to tell your preteen son that you've been shot.
She rehearsed the call in her head while waiting for the x-ray results, knowing that regardless of when the call took place, direct and honest would probably be the best approach. And as it was, she appreciated the distraction from the pain. She trained her eyes on the flickering fluorescent lights and just ran lines in her own head as a way to keep her mind off the pain.
"Hey, kiddo, I've been hurt, but it's okay. I got shot but Elliot's with me, and I'll be home soon."
"Hi, sweetheart, this is gonna sound a lot worse than it is, so please don't worry…"
"Noah, honey, you know what my job means…" and of course, that's what the truth was. He was a cop's son. He knew the codes; he knew the different logos; he was diligent about littering and traffic laws. He was the best anti-bullying cafeteria buddy there was. Her little SVU advocate. And now he was coming face-to-face with the other side of it, and not for the first time.
In the dark corners of the night, she could still hear the panic in his voice when the BX9 members stood over her with their machetes and stomped her. That she'd only been stomped that night and not also hacked was still something that she chose to count as a blessing.
And now she had to call and tell him that for the second time in a year, she'd almost been killed. Would he ever recover from this?
~oOo~
She'd been eating macaroni and cheese in a diner in the middle of nowhere Ohio when it happened. It'd been damned good macaroni and cheese too. A crunchy top, full of warm melted cheddar, until it was tainted with the inescapable, oppressive burning of bear spray.
And then she'd been shot.
And then she'd almost fucking kissed Elliot in the middle of an urgent care exam room.
It had all been almost too much, and it hadn't helped when Elliot had disappeared for several months.
In his absence, she clung to the memory of what had happened before he left, clung to the necklace that he'd left her with.
And then her son had to fucking ask for macaroni and cheese for dinner.
"What about spaghetti instead?" she suggested.
She hated this. She hated that she couldn't tell her son why it was that his request for macaroni and cheese–the quintessential comfort food–made her stomach clench instead. She hated that she couldn't give him that very simple thing–that there was yet another tainted memory.
Tainted memories were a dime a dozen. Every high school senior had a story about Boone's Farm, and anyone who'd been to Coney Island might share a story about either hot dogs or popcorn. Most of them were short-lived. Who hadn't puked on a rollercoaster?
It's funny that her mother had ruined vodka for her long before Lewis had forced it down her throat. There's only so much vodka-tinged vomit that one can clean out of Berber carpet before that liquor loses its luster.
She'd heard that really good vodka didn't have a smell, or even a taste. She didn't care to put that to the test. There were enough other things out there, and besides, she saw no need to lose herself in the hard stuff at all. The hard stuff was for people like her mother–the people who needed to–well–lose themselves.
~oOo~
When she'd been nine, she went to a slumber party at her friend Mia's apartment, and they all had banana splits and told ghost stories.
Barbara then suggested they go into the bathroom to play Bloody Mary.
The lights were out and three candles were lit and she could feel the fine hairs on her forearms rise as all the girls began to collectively chant Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary while looking into the bathroom mirror.
That her history teacher had chosen to inform her of the fate of Henry VIII's wives that morning may have influenced the horrors she saw in the mirror.
Women.
Children.
All the tormented and voiceless from years before and from years to come.
She can't remember who screamed first.
She can't remember who ran out first.
She just remembers Mia's sprained ankle, Barbara's broken tooth, and vomiting up the banana split.
To this day, she still reaches around the corner to flip the switch ahead of time when there's a mirror and a dark room. And to this day she won't eat a banana split. Not that she feels the need to justify either idiosyncrasy to anyone.
But if anyone asks her, she'll gladly explain that both Anne Boyeln and Anne of Cleves were truly maligned–not that she should have an opinion on either, being a criminal justice major.
~oOo~
"Or we could just order in," she weakly suggested.
He smiled gamely. "Spaghetti's good, too, Mom."
She couldn't help but think back to when he was so little, so fragile. When he was just over two, he'd had his tonsils out and tubes put in his ears. He lived on ginger ale and popsicles for about a week after that.
Which is why comfort food wasn't what he ate during the recovery, but the real food he'd been allowed to eat immediately after–what marked the return to normalcy.
And, of course, he still preferred pizza to anything green. Then again, he was a boy.
They'd reached a detente on that–a main dish salad once a week, Noah's choice on the weekend, and in between the compromise choices, like tonight's spaghetti. That she somehow felt like Noah was giving more than she was, was–she suspected, the core of mom guilt.
She'd thought it would get easier as Noah grew older. How wrong she was. Still, he was the best thing that ever happened to her, and they were going to have the best-damned spaghetti she'd ever made tonight.
She pulled the noodles from the cupboard while waiting for the pot of water to boil, and then opened up her crisper drawer, cutting up vegetables to add to the jarred sauce.
"What are you doing?" He leaned over the counter to watch.
She turned the cutting board, to add the minced vegetables to a saute pan with warm olive oil. "I figured I'd dress up the spaghetti sauce a bit tonight–make it a bit special."
He pursed his lips. "Okay."
"We could add meatballs if you want. I think we've got some hamburger in the fridge." For some reason, meatballs had become incredibly important, and she was already looking up preparation tips on her phone, but Noah shook his head.
"That's okay. Really, Mom. It's fine." She closed her eyes. It was fine. It just wasn't macaroni and cheese. It just wasn't what he'd asked for. It wasn't normal.
~oOo~
"Noah asked for macaroni and cheese last night…" She sighed, settling into the crook of Lindstrom's couch. "Did I tell you that's what I was eating when the shooter came in?"
Her therapist shook his head. "No. That must've brought back some memories for you."
She nodded. "What was hardest was saying no to him. Even though he was fine with spaghetti. He's almost seen me die twice now this year. I'm still not even sure I want to get him a puppy, and now I couldn't even fucking make him macaroni and cheese!"
"I'm going to guess this mattered more to you than Noah." Lindstrom slid the box of tissues over to her.
She pulled several tissues out of the box and began shredding them. "I offered to make homemade meatballs. I think my determination to make everything perfect overwhelmed him." She began twisting the shredded tissues into knots. "It's just…I had to do something for him."
"He's been seeing his own counselor, right?" Lindstrom asked, gently.
Olivia nodded. "We got a referral after he witnessed the BX9 attack, and he's been seeing her pretty regularly. Noah seems to like her."
She sighed. "I've probably had a harder time with this than he has. Having to call and tell him I was shot…"
"You've raised a resilient kid, Olivia. That's something to be proud of."
She smiled wanly. "Now I just need to learn my own lesson."
"I would say, Olivia, that knowing that is half that battle. You're going to do okay."
~oOo~
She'd been eating a lot of bagged salads while Noah was at camp. They were easy and had no baggage attached.
She'd just finished scraping her plate when Elliot's text came in–earlier than usual, and she felt the current of excitement run through her.
can you talk. I know it's early
Sure! Just give me a few minutes?
K thx
She grabbed her keys, all but running to the park, and had stretched out on the bench when her phone rang.
"Hi!" She was already happy to hear from him.
"Hi…" it was a rasp.
She swallowed back her shock. "El! You sound like shit!"
"Thanks–" Another monosyllabic rasp. "I've spent the past eight hours puking my guts up. I think I ate some bad clams yesterday."
She felt her heart clench just a bit. "El…Oh, God. Are you okay?"
"Yeah…" It was little more than a croak. "I think I'm empty at this point."
She ached for him. "Are you sure you're not dehydrated?"
"I paid Uber for some Gatorade and it stayed down," he assured her.
"We were always a ginger ale family." She smiled as she said it. "Did you get some saltines too?"
"Yeah, I'm set," he assured her. "Liv…could you just talk to me?"
She would've agreed regardless, but the vulnerable edge to his voice made her even more inclined to do so. "What do you want me to talk about?"
"Anything. Just talk. Tell me what you did today. Start at the beginning. Just talk. I want to hear your voice."
She traced the pattern of the table, wishing there was a way she could reach him. Her voice would have to do. "I got up," she began. "I made my coffee. And then I started my gratitude journal. My therapist has me keeping it."
"What did you write?" he asked, quickly adding. "If you don't mind sharing."
She thought about the list. The words hastily scrawled in a leather notebook this morning suddenly felt substantially more tangible for the idea of sharing them with him.
"My view," she started. "I don't appreciate it as often as I should."
"It's pretty nice," he agreed, his voice taking on a lazier, slurred edge.
"Jorge," she continued, with a smile.
She could hear the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. "Who!?"
"Jorge," she repeated. "My doorman. He's so gracious. Always does everything with a smile and was so good with Noah after…everything with BX9. Still calls me Miss Olivia. You can tell he really likes his job. It makes me smile to see him every day, so I'm grateful for him."
He was silent for a moment before echoing. "Jorge…"
"My doorman," she said again, slowly. Half dead with food poisoning, and he was somehow exhibiting jealousy.
"What else?" he asked.
She smiled, knowing the next two answers were going to earn even more pushback.
"Bagged salads," she admitted with hesitation.
"What–in God's name–is a bagged salad?"
Yes, this was going exactly as she'd thought it would. She smiled, though, and answered him. "It's everything in a bag–all the shredded greens, as well as the toppings and dressing in their own separate packages. All you have to do is open everything and mix it together."
She could almost see him making a face as he replied. "You really need to learn to cook, Liv."
"I can cook," she countered.
She heard the scoff and–had she been there–she would've been tempted to swat at him. Instead, she changed the subject.
"It's Wednesday."
"I'm sure that should mean something, but you're gonna have to give me a little help." Though he sounded drowsy, he also sounded more relaxed, more himself, and she was grateful for whatever it was that this give and take had provided him. Indeed, it had set her on a new equilibrium as well.
"That's the fourth thing on my list," she said, watching the sun set behind the buildings.
"You're grateful that it's Wednesday…" It wasn't a question only because he knew there was an explanation forthcoming.
She stood, needing to move, to find the courage to push just a little further, and share just a little bit more. "I thought there was a chance that I'd hear from you. I was looking forward to it."
She was a little bit glad he wasn't there. It made it easier to just talk and to listen.
"Me too," he breathed. "You have no idea, Liv."
She shivered at that. "Get some rest, El."
"Just one more thing?" he asked, his voice increasingly thick and lazy.
"Yes?" she asked, both curious and terrified.
"Don't ever change."
It was such a sincere entreaty that she could only do one thing. "Of course not," she promised. "Go to bed, El."
"Aye, aye, Captain."
~oOo~
It'd been three weeks since he'd come home. Three weeks since they'd first slept together. Three weeks of dating–exclusively–but not frequently enough for either of them.
"I've missed you," he whispered into the phone, his voice raw with emotion that rubbed her like sandpaper. "Let me take you to dinner tomorrow night?"
Why not?
"Okay," she agreed. "Yes," she amended. "I'd like that." And then, "I missed you too."
Twenty-four hours later, as she was dabbing her lip gloss on, she couldn't help but again think that she was standing on a precipice, and for the first time, she was ready to jump–into his arms, into the future.
She smoothed her hair and took a deep breath. He was going to be here shortly and she still had to make sure Noah was set for the evening.
"Okay, so you've got my DoorDash information. Have it sent downstairs and Jorge will bring it up, right?"
Noah nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
"Leave your phone on," she continued running down the list of rules for when he spent any time alone. "Call for anything, do your homework, and leave it out so I can check."
He rolled his eyes. "It's only the second week, Mom. I barely have any homework."
"Then you shouldn't have any problem doing it and leaving it out, now should you?" She squeezed his shoulder. "Do it early and then you can have screen time until bedtime."
The conversation was interrupted by the buzzer. "It's Elliot," she said. "Let him in while I finish getting ready."
She ducked into her room to grab her purse and check her hair once again. As she turned, she caught a flash of the compass in the mirror.
Happiness no longer seemed like something so evasive. Still, the reminder was nice. She smiled as she traced the lines of the necklace. She loved him. That was what mattered.
She took a breath to open the door. It was time to jump. It was time to let him catch her.
She opened the door to see him and Noah standing together, talking–friends and confidantes. She wondered if they were talking about big dumb dreams and stupid little dreams again, but looking at them was starting to give her some big dumb dreams of her own.
"Hi–" She ruffled Noah's hair and then settled into the crook of Elliot's arm for an easy kiss. "Hi," she repeated.
"You ready?" he asked. "I've been researching the best places for mac and cheese in the city."
Her breath caught, her stomach clenched, she tried to force a smile, and then Noah spoke. "Oh, Mom doesn't like macaroni and cheese anymore."
Her observant, precocious, sensitive not-so-little boy. It had only been twice, and he'd already picked up on that fact. And then she saw the realization dawn on Elliot's face; his excitement quickly fading into concern.
"Of course," he murmured. "I should've thought. I should've realized." He tightened his hold on her a bit. "We'll figure something else out."
She laced her fingers through his. "It's fine. You couldn't've known."
His thumb grazed her knuckles in silent response before he spoke. "I'll cancel the reservation. We'll just go eat at my place."
Noah's eyes went between the two of them, trying to read between the lines of their conversation.
She nodded, reaching out with her free hand so that both hands were joined. "Okay." She stood on tiptoe to kiss him lightly. "Let's go." She turned to Noah. "We'll be back by eleven."
~oOo~
"We need to stop on the way," he said as they pulled out of the garage.
She nodded. "There's a Whole Foods a few blocks from here."
He shook his head. "There's one closer to my place. If Noah hadn't said something–"
"El…" She didn't want to have this conversation; not now, not in this car. It wasn't necessary. It was just macaroni and cheese. It didn't need to be a thing."
But he pushed. "If Noah hadn't said something…would you have?"
She didn't have an answer for him. Only because the truth was she probably wouldn't have, and he knew as much.
"Elliot." His name had become her only counterargument.
It was ineffective. "Were you just gonna go to the restaurant I'd chosen specifically for macaroni and cheese and–what–think I wouldn't notice when you didn't eat it?"
"I hadn't thought that far," she admitted.
"Damnit, Liv! He turned sharply onto a side street. "Why do you have to be so fucking stoic all the time? You know you're allowed to feel!" The blue in his eyes darkened like storm clouds, but he looked away immediately, realizing he'd gone too far. "I'm sorry."
"I feel." She reached for his hand on the gearshift.
"I know." He turned his hand over to meet her palm-to-palm. "You've been doing it on your own for so long, but I'm here now."
She nodded, closing her eyes, letting the enormity of it all wash over her. "Yes, you are."
"So, no macaroni and cheese…" he said, bringing their joined hands to his mouth to gently kiss her knuckles. "Anything else you don't like?"
"Banana splits," she said. "And the patriarchy," she added.
He chuckled, the warmth of it cutting through the last remaining threads of tension in the car, and she could feel her shoulders begin to uncoil. "I coulda guessed the last one, but you're gonna have to tell me about the banana splits sometime."
"I will," she promised. "El, I love you. I'm gonna keep trying. I'm gonna do this."
He kissed her knuckles again in response. "Me, too." He let go of her hand to gently run his fingers over the inside of her knee before starting the car again.
~oOo~
"Do you wanna change before we start cooking?" he asked. "You can probably find a t-shirt and sweats in my room."
"Great!" She leaned in and kissed him. "I'll be right back, then."
She ducked into his bedroom, closing the door behind her. This was Elliot's space, and she wanted to luxuriate in it, study every element in the search of understanding him just a little better. She also wanted just to change and get back out to him sooner. He'd spent the entire trip through the grocery store talking about how much he was looking forward to cooking with her; he was nearly giddy at the prospect.
She found t-shirts in the second drawer and pulled one out at random, slipping out of her dress and bra and sliding his shirt on in their place. She smiled as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. It was his academy t-shirt.
She dug through another drawer and found sweatpants, rolling them at the waist to fit.
"So, how can I help?" she asked as she padded into his kitchen.
He froze, his knife poised mid-slice. "Liv…" Her name came out like a whispered prayer.
"What?" she asked. "El?"
He put the knife down, steak fries momentarily abandoned. "You have no idea how many times I've fantasized about you in one of my shirts," he told her, both his voice and his expression molten.
She could feel herself melting under the scrutiny. "And now?"
"And now, I want nothing more than to get you out of it," he growled and stepped closer. "What if we put dinner on hold?"
She grinned and it threatened to consume her. "What if?" she repeated, turning on her heel and walking away from him, back in the direction of his bedroom. She knew, without looking, that he was following.
He stepped across the threshold and pushed her gently in the direction of his bed. "Will you undress for me?"
She looked at him through lowered lashes and nodded. "You gonna sit down?"
He swallowed hard, biting his lips, and then took a seat on the edge of his bed.
Keeping her eyes trained on his, she stepped out of his sweatpants, let them drop to the floor, and stepped away from them. There she stood in his t-shirt and a pair of lacy blue panties. He groaned, and she took a step in his direction. "You're overdressed."
He shook his head. "You first." His eyes were dark, and he swallowed deeply again.
She licked her lips and met his eyes again, before reaching for the shirt and lifting it over her head. That, too, she let drop to the floor. There she was, unselfconsciously, nearly naked in front of him. He nodded his approval, as his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
She wanted to touch him; she was nearly crazy with it, and could see it in him. Deliberately, she hooked her thumbs in her panties and pulled them down until she was fully naked. She'd met her end of the bargain. It was his turn.
She started to take a step toward him, but he stopped her with a quick shake of his head. "Just let me look…just let me look a little bit longer."
She raised her head, straightened her neck, letting him see her as she was. The heaviness in her breasts and the pendant that hung between them, the swell of her belly, the scars left by Lewis, and the more recent one from the shotgun in the diner in Ohio. She let him see her, and she didn't flinch, and still, the fire in his eyes did not die down. This was her; this was him; this was everything that
She took a step closer, and this time he let her. "Your turn," she said and tugged at his shirt, her fingers shook as she tugged at the buttons and she grew frustrated at the quality of his tailor. It would've been easier just to rip it off.
When it was finally off, she reached for his waistband, unbuttoning his belt and pants and forcing them down. He was hard, and she fought the urge to take him in hand, but something told her he was going to set the pace again here, too.
He did so, tugging her wordlessly in the direction of the bed. He started at her jawline, tracing kisses along every surface, and then to her neck, her collarbone, and her breasts. He took his time, maddeningly covering every surface but her nipple, and she whimpered, arching her back wordlessly begging him to continue and give her more.
Finally, he tongued one nipple and then the next, before moving fleetingly down her breastbone, across her stomach, and then swirled within the concave hollow navel.
Lower and lower he moved, until he'd found her core. Gently, he pushed his tongue between her folds and then found her clit, alternating between circles and waves.
She gripped his shoulders. He was so solid–once again her anchor even as he threatened to unmoor her. "El…inside me…now." She was so close, and it would take nothing to push her over the edge. She didn't want to go alone.
With near effortlessness, he shifted them, so that she was on his lap, riding him. She hooked her legs around his back until she had what she needed, she closed her eyes, clinging to him, riding out the waves of her orgasm, drawing him in.
In the silence and the stillness of the afterglow, she just breathed, just felt, and just was. She nestled a little closer to him, trying to ignore the part of her brain that insisted she should be moving, should be doing, should be justifying and accounting for every second of her time. Instead, she let her mind drift to big dumb dreams, stupid little dreams, and to the idea that maybe she could find it in herself to try macaroni and cheese again sooner rather than later.
"You hungry?" he asked as though reading her mind.
She wasn't, and yet. "We probably should eat."
They fell into a rhythm in the kitchen–she prepping, he cooking–moving past each other with an understanding of where each others' bodies that were fully instinctual–a primal understanding of where the other was that underpinned their partnership and now held them together as strongly as the firmest structure.
Every time his fingers brushed over her lower back, she wanted to lean into it. And she did the same, poking her head over his shoulder to see what he was doing, and give her the opportunity to be just a little bit closer.
~oOo~
Dessert was simple strawberry shortcakes, and she smiled around each delicious forkful. "I think I'm going to make you my personal dessert chef."
"You've got it," he agreed with an easy, lazy smile, and reached for her plate to start doing the dishes.
"I got it–" she stopped him. "You did most of the cooking."
He stood. "Or, we do it together…"
"So, I've been thinking," she began as they were curled up on the sofa after dishes, "there's another adoption event this weekend." Elliot nodded. This was the third event in as many weeks. They had the crate. They had the food. They had Rollins' vet on standby. All that was lacking was the puppy.
"Anyway, if you wanted to pack some things and…stay the weekend that might be…nice." She felt like a child inviting a friend over for a slumber party instead of her partner to spend the weekend.
He kissed the top of her head. "Or I could just stay…"
Her heart skipped a beat. "Move in with me? El…is that what you want?"
"I wouldn't've brought it up if it wasn't." It was always so simple for him–a creature of black and white, right and wrong; dark and light. His love for her fell into that simplicity; all other decisions followed.
She nodded, taking it in, absorbing it all–the simplicity, the normalcy. "Okay," she agreed, with a grin, climbing unabashedly into his lap. "You wanna just come home with me tonight, and we'll start moving you in, in our spare time?"
"Perfect."
~oOo~
"They're all from our Matilda litter," the volunteer explained at the pile of grunting wrestling puppies in the x-pen. "They're eight weeks old now, were raised in a foster home with their mother, and are ready to go to a home."
Noah's eyes were bright as they opened the gate to let him in to meet the puppies. At the volunteer's instruction, he sat on the ground and was immediately swarmed by a half dozen curious canines. Still, one crawled into his lap and began licking and nibbling his face causing him to dissolve into giggles. "This one," he said. "This one."
"His name is Bruce," the volunteer said, and then turned to Elliot and Olivia. "Mom and Dad, if you want to come with me, I'll get you started with the paperwork."
Mom and Dad…if only, and yet it wasn't anything either of them was going to correct. The time may come soon enough.
Paperwork, signatures, an adoption fee, more toys than even the average infant would start with, and Noah had arrived home with his puppy.
"So, what are you going to call him?" Elliot asked watching the puppy attack the puppy pad like it was an intruder rather than use it for its intended purpose.
"What about Max?" Noah asked, as Olivia gently tried to use a toy to redirect its attention.
Elliot shrugged. "Lotsa dogs named Max out there. We've got a special dog; it should have a special name."
Noah nodded, taking that under advisement. "What if we just kept it Bruce then?"
Olivia shook her head. "No, there was a guy named Bruce in college who broke my heart."
Elliot looked up sharply. "Bruce is definitely out."
"I have an idea," Olivia said up at Elliot with a smile. "What about…Macaroni?"
The author of this SVU - Quills & Shutters story will be revealed in October