She's not sure what she's doing, except that it's the most in control she's felt in days. Fuck, if she honest with herself, in years.
It began with the whispers of a dream traversing her mind. All she could remember was that she was warm: not a sunkissed warmth, but the warmth of safety, security; a feeling of home.
But home wasn't here. Not in New York. Not at work. Definitely not in her now-abandoned apartment that she could never inhabit again. No, here was the reality crashing down upon her, her scabbed skin itchy and sore, her head still throbbing, her wrists still battered and bruised. Here contained the quiet truths she spoke aloud, and the louder ones she kept inside. Here was William Lewis, in a guarded hospital room recovering from the injuries she inflicted upon him in her haze of torment and fury.
But she can't shake the tendrils of the dream.
For the first time since It happened, she didn't wake up shaking from a nightmare gutting her psyche and soul. She wasn't gasping for air, panicked, clawing, stripped bare. The place eluded her, still, but pieces floated around her like dandelion fuzz. Safe. Spiritual. Healing.
The need to escape bloomed within her. To leave the guilt-ridden, bloodshot eyes of Brian and her squad. To run from IAB and their barrage of questions. To spend her mandatory recovery time in a different zip code, another time zone.
Maybe to find herself again. To mend her pieces back together and become whole.
She mindlessly scrolled Google, searching for the comfort she felt in her dream. She clicked on different continents, read through travel sites, tried to envision what her foggy brain forgot almost instantly, but whose shadows remained. It was a solid hour of searching before she gave up. Annoyed by her fruitless search, she shoved her weighty laptop off of her lap, suddenly feeling suffocated and fidgety. If only she could close her eyes and recapture the glimmers of tranquility she so desperately needed…
This time when she awakens, it's a gasp of realization. She fumbles for her phone, hitting Fin's contact, still number two on her list. Two years later, and she still didn't have the heart to erase number one, even though it's been disconnected, a shrill operator's recording in her ear the many times she's dialed.
It was the realization she needed all along.
"Liv? You okay?"
"Where is he, Fin?"
She knows he knows what she's asking, who she's asking for. There's no need for bullshit- there's no doubt in her mind that Fin tracked him down when this was all happening. She's grateful when he doesn't reply with questions or stall tactics, and simply recites an address.
"Thank you," she utters quietly, as her tears surface. She quickly sniffs them away, but Fin understands her overwhelming emotions.
"He doesn't know, Liv. I found him, but I didn't contact him. Safe travels."
She stares at Elliot's address. The location doesn't surprise her, and she wonders if she heard murmurs of the place while she was detoxing in her hospital bed under the watchful eyes of her squad. However, she's realizing now that it wasn't about the whereabouts- he was the feeling permeating her dreams. She just needs to see him- even if it's from afar, even if they never speak a word to one another. She needs to know he exists, that their twelve years together wasn't a figment of her imagination. She needs to know that she hasn't lost herself entirely.
She books a one-way ticket to Rome.