About 5:30 that afternoon Malcolm came walking back in the door, and the second Elliot laid eyes on the man he was overcome with a powerful urge to kick Malcolm in the shin.
It was just that the day had been going so well. A little bit of a stumble in the morning, talking to Olivia about how Tucker had died - and how much that had devastated her, the knowledge that he had chosen to leave her, and Elliot would've brought the bastard back to life just to kill him for that if he could've - but they'd recovered. Talked some more about Noah, about where he'd come from and how Olivia had come to be his mother, talked some more about the job, about the old cases, that ones that stuck out, even decades later. Maria, the little girl Olivia found, and all the other kids she'd found, too.
Well, almost all of them. Not Ryan and Rebecca. Elliot didn't want to talk about that here. Didn't want to talk about blood on Olivia's neck and a dead child on a rail station platform and you son of a bitch and what about me? Those were Olivia's words but this wasn't the Olivia who'd said them, and Elliot wasn't ready to share that with her. Wasn't even sure, really, if he should.
The one thing they hadn't talked about, the one topic Fin had been dancing around all damn day, was the matter of Olivia's scars. In the kitchen, when Fin brought out the gun, Elliot thought that would've been the moment, but while they talked and talked and talked the conversation never seemed to make its way back there.
And now Malcolm was back.
Olivia seemed pleased to see him; she embraced him as an old friend and blushed when he kissed her cheek and didn't seem to question, even for a moment, whether he would be eating dinner with them. Of course he would.
"I thought I'd make something tonight," Malcolm said, assuming control of the kitchen like he owned the place, throwing one of Olivia's dish towels over his shoulder as he went.
"Can we help you?" she asked earnestly. Maybe she'd forgotten that she'd never been much of a cook.
"Just keep me company," Malcolm told her with an easy smile that made Elliot want to roll his eyes. "What did you talk about today?"
"Lots of things," Elliot said bluntly. Lots of things that aren't your business, he thought.
"Talked a lot about home," Olivia said, shooting Elliot a look he remembered all too well, one that said behave. "I can't wait to go there."
Fin and Malcolm both startled at the words, both turned to look, not at Olivia, but at Elliot, as if they had both independently reached the obvious conclusion that he was somehow responsible for this new impulse of hers.
"Don't look at me," he grumbled. "It was her idea."
It was her idea, and he was damn proud of her for it, because she was right. She didn't belong here, in this neat little house, in this bland Stepford town; she belonged in the city. With him.
Didn't she?
"It was my idea and I'm an adult and I can go on a trip if I want to," she said, stubborn as ever.
"Sure you can," Malcolm said, in the same level, passionless tone a parent might have used on a precocious child who had just announced their intent to go to Mars. If Olivia noticed how patronizing the man was being, she didn't object to it.
"Anything else? Did you…did they answer all your questions about your scars?"
He just had to say it, Elliot thought testily. Things had been going so well, and now Malcolm had gone and brought up the one thing they'd managed to avoid talking about today.
The one thing had been trying so hard to avoid even thinking about from the moment he first learned that she'd been hurt.
She refused the internal exam.
Something had happened to Olivia, something terrible, something that left scars on her body, something that made a doctor ask for a rape kit, something that made her refuse the exam. Something that gave her nightmares, even when she couldn't remember what it was. A horror so profound it seemed written in her very DNA, and all day long they had managed to keep the shadow of that ghost at bay, and now Malcolm had brought the shadow into the room with them, on purpose.
"No," Olivia said, her face falling as she realized that she forgotten to press the issue with Fin. "We didn't get that far today."
"Maybe tomorrow," Fin grunted from his seat at the kitchen table. "We got dinner coming, you got little man to worry about, we've done enough for today."
Noah was currently sitting in his booster seat at the table next to Elliot, furiously scribbling in a coloring book, and Fin was right. Now was not the moment for horror.
"Yeah," Olivia said faintly. "Maybe tomorrow."
Dinner was awkward - more than awkward, the tension nigh on unbearable - as with each passing second the fact that Elliot and Fin distrusted Malcolm and he distrusted them became harder and harder to ignore. It wasn't like the three of them were getting into fights, or anything, it was just…there. In their eyes, the set of their mouths, the way they were all too happy to talk to her but reticent to so much as look at one another.
It was kinda nice, too, though. Nice to have friends, nice to get a taste of something real, not a picture perfect fantasy but something a little messy, something without an easy answer. Olivia was tired of everyone trying to make things easier for her. The sugar coating and the passive resistance to her questions and the maybe later, maybe tomorrow, maybe this weekend; all that was wearing her patience thin. At least their palpable dislike for one another was honest.
Around 8 pm she put Noah to bed, and after she'd read a little book to him and snuggled him close and kissed his forehead she ventured back out into the living room to discover the three gentlemen in the midst of a quiet, heated argument.
"He ain't bunking with me," Fin was saying. "I just got the one room and I'm too old to share a room with anybody but my wife."
"You got married?" Elliot said, clearly shocked by this revelation, but Malcolm had no time to listen to the two old friends catching up.
"Well, he can't stay here," Malcolm was saying. "There's no room-"
"Cause you're in the spare?" Elliot scoffed. "Don't you have a whole house next door? Maybe I'll go sleep there -"
"Why don't you get out of my face -"
"Why don't you stop sticking your nose -"
"Boys!" Olivia called sharply, exasperated. They were all of them fifty years old at least, bickering like teenagers, and as much as she wished they wouldn't she felt herself fighting back a smile, just the same. These were her friends, and they were perfectly imperfect, human down to their bones.
"Elliot's staying," she said decisively. "And Malcolm can stay, too, if he wants. He got here first, Elliot, so if you want to stay you'll have to sleep on the couch."
Really, she supposed, Malcolm didn't have to stay. Elliot was right, Malcolm had a house of his own to go to, and Elliot was hours from home with nowhere to sleep. But Malcolm was a good man, a good friend - even if he drove her a little crazy - and she'd gotten used to having him close. It wouldn't have felt right, she thought, trying to go to sleep without Malcolm's steady, comforting presence just down the hall. And she wanted Elliot to stay, found that she wanted as many people as possible in that little house, shining light in all the dark corners, making noise, making mess, banishing the ghosts in a joyous burst of life.
"Couch is fine for me," Elliot said tightly.
"Good," she said, smiling.
"And I want a shower and a bed," Fin said. "Have a good night, Liv. Don't be afraid to knock their heads together."
"I won't," she promised. Fin left them then, and she found herself alone with Elliot and Malcolm, each of them with a face like a thundercloud, angry that the other was staying but unwilling to say so out loud because the whole thing had been her idea and they didn't want to hurt her feelings.
"How about some wine?" she asked into the uncomfortable silence. They had to do something to pass the time until they were all ready to go to sleep.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea -"
"Do you remember how wine makes you feel?"
Typical, she thought. Malcolm wanted to hold her back, and Elliot was willing to give her a little leeway, just enough room to make the decision herself.
"It makes you feel good, right?" she said. "It makes you feel happy?"
"And makes you wake up with a headache and god awful heartburn," Malcolm grumbled.
"Only if you drink too much," Elliot said. "One glass couldn't hurt. Just to see how you like it."
That had been his approach from the moment he arrived, letting Olivia try things and decide for herself what she felt about them, and she was grateful to him for it. She was starting to get the feeling that he was introducing himself to her in the same way, slowly letting her have a taste so she could decide whether she liked it. Liked him.
She did.
The wine tasted awful, but it made her feel warm all over, so she just kept drinking it.
I must have liked it once, she thought, sitting on the couch with Elliot while Malcolm pawed through her record collection in search of something to listen to. A few days before the accident Malcolm had texted, told her he was bringing the wine, and she had four bottles of the stuff on top of the refrigerator. It must have been something they shared, her and Malcolm, another secret between them, like his heated kiss and his memories of her nighttime routines. Must have been just theirs, because Elliot had chosen not to drink any at all. Apparently he didn't care for it.
She didn't blame him for that; she wasn't sure yet whether she liked it herself.
"Oh, here we go," Malcolm said from across the room. "This is a classic, you'll love it. This song is about you, Olivia."
He stood up with a record in his hands, went to the cabinet Elliot had told her was a record player and started fiddling with it.
"Is it really?" She asked excitedly. Had someone really written a song about her?
"Not really," Malcolm allowed, grinning while Elliot rolled his eyes. "But it makes me think of you. Here we go."
The music began to play, somehow soft and vibrant all at once, light and enchanting.
Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking, a man's voice began to sing.
"What is that?" she asked. "Impa -"
"Ipanema," Malcolm corrected her gently. "It's a city in…" his voice trailed off as if he didn't know the answer.
"It's not a city," Elliot said gruffly. "It's a beach, in Brazil."
"Have I ever been to Brazil?" Olivia asked curiously. She was wondering why the song reminded Malcolm of her.
"I don't think so," Malcolm said. "But you're tall and tan and lovely -"
"What, you're not gonna tell her she's young?"
When she walks she's like a samba, that swings so cool and sways so gentle, the man sang. Did Malcolm think of Olivia that way? She didn't know.
"Dance with me, Olivia," Malcolm said, crossing the room and holding his hand out to her. On the couch Elliot muttered something unintelligible but Olivia just ignored him, and took Malcolm's hand.
She didn't remember how to dance, but she liked the way it made her feel, the music and the wine and a man's gentle smile, and she remembered how nice it was when he held her. She'd like for him to hold her again.
Malcolm guided her through it; she moved her feet when he did. When he went forward she went back, and when he retreated she followed. His hips against hers helped her find the beat, and she swayed with him, grinning, and all the while the man sang.
I watch her so sadly, how can I tell her I love her…
Was that how Malcolm felt about her? Did he love her, and just didn't know how to tell her?
When she walks to the sea, she looks straight ahead and not at me…
Malcolm twirled her in a circle, her hair fanning out around her as she went, and she wanted to smile, really she did, but as the song went on she felt a wave of sadness she did not understand begin to overtake her, and she looked to Elliot, then, wondering.
It felt good, dancing with Malcolm, but it felt wrong somehow, too, and when she looked she found that Elliot's eyes were dark and unhappy.
"She hates this song," he said, and Malcolm stuttered to a halt, Olivia swaying uncomfortably in his arms.
Was that true? she wondered. If she hated it, why did she keep the record?
"What is your problem, man?" Malcolm demanded, exasperated.
"My problem is you," Elliot growled, rising shortly to his feet. "You don't know the first thing about her and you're trying to control everything that happens here."
Just like that, the bubble of happiness that had begun to bloom in her chest burst, and Olivia found she didn't want to dance anymore.
"Maybe we should all go to bed," she said. "We're tired, it's been a long day."
"Olivia -" Malcolm started to protest, but Elliot cut him off.
"I'll put the record away," he said, crossing to the cabinet. He did something that made the music stop, and Olivia was glad he did; she didn't want to listen to that song anymore.
"Sleep good, Liv," he said.
Malcolm stalked towards the hallway, but paused near the bookshelf, waiting for Olivia to make her own exit. With him.
For a moment she felt herself torn in two; she wanted to stay, wanted to ask Elliot why she hated that song, or why he thought she did, wanted to ask him why he seemed so angry about her dancing with Malcolm, but she didn't want to speak to him where Malcolm could hear, and she knew Malcolm would not leave the room without her.
I'll just have to ask him tomorrow, she thought sadly.
"Good night, Elliot," she told him as warmly as she could, and then she made her way out of the room, and Malcolm fell into step with her as she went.