Though Barba's dire warning was echoing through her mind like the roll of distant thunder she tried to give no evidence of her unease as she and Elliot and Noah wound their way through Central Park.
Elliot was right; this park was much, much bigger than the park back home, the little patch of grass where she'd fallen apart over the smell of a stranger's cigarette. There were people everywhere, rollerbladers and families with strollers and couples wandering hand-in-hand; it was nearly Halloween and there was a bite to the air, an autumn chill hovering in the shadows, but the sun was bright and warm enough as they walked, and Olivia found that she was very nearly happy, happy to be with this man in this place. Or maybe it was only that she wanted to be, happy, and this feeling, here, with him, was as close as she would ever get.
On a lark Elliot had swung Noah up off the ground and onto his back, and he was walking now with her son riding perched on his shoulders, one hand wrapped around Noah's little leg, the other holding on to Olivia, their fingers laced together, the steady beat of his heart lulling her through the press of their palms. Barba was a stranger to her, but Elliot was here, speaking to her softly, laughing with her son, the sunlight turning his blue eyes the color of the sea, and there has to be more to the story, she told herself as they walked hand-in-hand along the path to the carousel. What Barba told her frightened her, but she was certain he had not told her everything, and as the initial shock began to wear off she found her fear replaced with a burning desire to know.
"Can I ask you something?" she said. The carousel was in sight but they had not reached it yet, and there was already a line of people waiting to climb aboard while the carousel's current passengers enjoyed their turn; they had time enough, she thought, time enough to begin to unpack the baggage she'd forgotten they carried.
"Shoot," he answered, and she winced at his choice of words.
"Will you tell me why you left?"
As she asked her question she looked up at him, watched a frown settle over his handsome face, the corners of his neat beard turning down in sorrow.
"It's not something I like to think about," he admitted. That didn't bode well; if Barba was right, if Elliot had killed a teenager, that wouldn't be something he'd want to think about. Elliot was a father himself, had been a father seven years ago when he walked away from her; did he see his own children, when he thought about the child he'd murdered?
"It started off like just another case," he continued. "Woman was raped, the men who attacked her were trying to threaten her into dropping the charges, we saw that shit all the time. But it got ugly, and I…I shot someone, Liv."
It wasn't the answer she wanted to hear; it was an answer shockingly lacking in details. It was the truth, but it was not all of the truth, and he's doing it again, she thought darkly. Doing that thing that people kept doing to her, feeding her only half of the story, protecting her from the darker secrets of her past as if she were a child. As if she were not strong enough to face the grim reality of the world around her. As if she were broken, in need of protection, unable to protect herself.
"Elliot -"
"It's not something we ever wanted to do," he continued, refusing to look at her though he tightened his grip on her hand. "We didn't join the force to hurt people, we joined up to help. But sometimes in order to help a lot of people we had to hurt one person. I had to hurt that person, to stop them from hurting other people. We both had to make choices like that, and we both had to live with the consequences."
We, he kept saying. Like whatever he had done she'd done it, too, and that thought chilled her to the bone. Her thoughts drifted back to the gun Fin had brought to her, the weight of it in her hand. That thing, that evil thing, that tool of violence, belonged to her. Maybe she was a tool of violence, too.
"Did - did I ever kill anybody?"
"Do you really want to know?"
She understood why he was asking; it was a beautiful day, and they had come here for a beautiful purpose, come here to pretend, for however short a time, that they were ordinary people, doing the things ordinary people did. It was a beautiful day, and they were going to take Noah on the carousel, and maybe now was not the moment to speak of death and sorrow. But now that she'd asked the question she could not leave it unanswered.
"I think I need to know," she said.
"Yes," he told her, and she felt her heart sink heavy as lead in her chest. "You've killed people, Olivia."
"People," she repeated, horrified by the implication that she'd killed more than once. "How many people?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "I was gone a long time, I don't know everything that happened while I was away. But I need you to hear me - it doesn't make you a bad person, Olivia."
He has to say that, she thought. He had to say that, had to jump to reassure her, had to insist that killing people in the line of duty didn't make her a bad person, because if it did, that meant he was a bad person, too, and she knew he couldn't live with that. There were many things she did not know about him, but that one truth remained; she knew he needed to believe that he was on the side of the angels, even when he did things he regretted.
"Hard choices come with the job," he said. "We do the best we can with the problem in front of us. Sometimes the only way to eliminate a threat is with a bullet. It's ugly, but it's real."
And that, she thought, seemed to be the story of her life. It was ugly - what had happened to her mother, what had happened to Noah's mother, what had happened to Olivia herself - but it was real. The truth hurt, but a painful truth was better than a comfortable lie.
"Does that help at all?"
"It helps," she said. If nothing else, their brief conversation had helped her decide not to press him for any more details on the shooting that ended their partnership. She wanted the truth, but she did not want it right now, outside on this beautiful day when she was holding Elliot's hand, when she was trying to be happy.
"Do you want to talk about it some more?"
What would you tell me if I said yes? She wondered. Would he admit to the truth right here, in this crowd of people, waiting in line for the carousel, her son laughing on his shoulders? What if he didn't?
"No," she said firmly. "Right now, I just want to have fun with Noah."
"All right," Elliot said easily. "When it's our turn, why don't you stay with Noah, and I'll stand out here and take pictures? I can text them to you, and you can have them on your phone."
"The phone takes pictures?" she asked, surprised. Malcolm hadn't told her about that.
"Oh, yeah," Elliot said. "And you can save them on there. There's probably tons of pictures on your phone."
Pictures of what? she wondered. Noah, probably, but what if there were other, older pictures? Pictures of her husband, her life before the accident, all her old friends?
"When we get home, I want you to show me how to find them," she said.
Elliot shot her a strangely hopeful look, and she realized a beat too late what she'd said. When we get home, as if his apartment, the place where he lived, was theirs, as if his home was her home, too. She wanted it to be, but she was afraid of that want. How could she trust him so completely, long to be with him always, when she knew he was keeping secrets from her? Was he right, about choices, about sacrificing one person for the sake of others and calling it good, or was he just making excuses, trying to justify an unjustifiable act of violence?
Was she ever gonna know for sure?
"I'll do that," he said.
The line moved up, and with Elliot's help Olivia got Noah settled on the back of a white horse with a blue saddle, frozen in the act of running. Noah giggled and reached out, tried to wrap his little arms around the horse's thick neck, and true to his word Elliot pointed his phone at Noah, snapping several pictures in a row.
"He loves the carousel," she said, smiling, running her hand gently over Noah's back.
"You remember that?" Elliot asked hopefully.
Shit. No, she didn't remember that. Barba had told her that, but Barba had also told her not to mention their conversation to Elliot.
"Yeah," she lied.
"I hope you love it, too," Elliot said, beginning to step away. "It doesn't move too fast, but you might want to hold on to something, just when it starts to move. I'll be right out here."
"Ok," she said, and wrapped her hand around the pole that held Noah's horse in place.
"Here we go," she said to her son. "Here we go, sweet boy."
It felt like something from a dream, standing beside the carousel, watching Olivia with her blue-eyed baby, seeing her smile in casual clothes, seeing her be a mother. Maybe it was a dream, a dream he hadn't allowed himself to face before now, the dream he'd carried in his heart for so many years. The dream that Olivia might finally have a family of her own, that she might one day come back to him, that he could share in that joy, that family with her. It was a beautiful dream; the sweet sound of Noah's gentle laughter, the warm devotion shining in Olivia's eyes, her cheeks pink from the autumn breeze and her smile genuine and true.
It was a dream, and he did not wish to shatter it with grim thoughts of a dark and distant past. It was only natural, he thought, that she was curious about the reasons for his leaving, and he knew he owed her the truth. The whole truth, unvarnished and complete, ugly and damning. But what would happen, he wondered, what would happen when he told her? Would she understand, or would she blame him for what he'd done?
They'd never talked about it before, he realized. Never got the chance; he went from the bullpen to IAB to his house, and he never set foot inside the 1-6 again. Olivia called and called and called, and he never once picked up the phone. He had no idea what she thought about the shooting, if she blamed him for killing Jenna, if she knew he'd had no other choice. And though he had the chance to tell her now it wasn't the same; this Olivia was not the Olivia who had walked beside him for thirteen years, and he might not ever be able to make her understand the reasons why he pulled that trigger. This Olivia didn't remember her training, didn't remember the sound Sister Peg made when the bullet sliced through her body. Explanations would only get them so far; some experiences had to be lived to be understood.
And if she didn't understand, if she couldn't forgive him for what he'd done, would she ever let him hold her hand again? Having been granted the sweetness of her touch for just one night he could not stand the thought of living without it, of never feeling her body wrapped around his again, never hearing her tell him that she loved him, ever again.
Love was a beautiful thing to have, and a terrible thing to lose.