Work Text:
(The phone call notification order goes:
First, Olivia calls Nick, they talk for a while, though with a lot of gaps as he’s upset and struggles to get any words out. When they hang up, he heads round to hug his closest-in-distance kid, wishing he could have done so for his… Munch.
Then Don – he picks up on the second call, retired old man, he was asleep. The conversation is brief and, at the end, she tells him she loves him too. He chokes out, “You too, Liv,” but it almost sounds like Kid.
Then Brian, and it’s easier than she thought, not awkward at all, and she’s oddly grateful for once that their friendship seems to have survived what it has. “He warned me off you once, y’know, though mostly for being so obvious, I think,” Brian says, and she replies, honestly, “I’m glad you didn’t listen.” Then he realises, hoarse and gruff, “No funeral, huh,” and she gets stuck on her next round of tears.
By the time she calls Rafael, it’s 4am, but he’s still up, his sleep schedule even more fucked than hers. She’s sure she can smell the coffee. He asks her if she wants him to come round, he still has an old ADA ID and can say it’s official business, and she says she wishes he could but it’s better to wait for when it’s important. It's not like they can do anything now. “You’re my friend, you’re important,” he replies and she’s silent for a moment, a little overcome, but eventually manages to suggest that maybe they could have a facetime dinner since tonight was spaghetti night?
She sends Sonny and Kat a text at around 6.30am to let them know things might be even weirder for a while. Sonny replies that he already knows – Amanda, no doubt, who's already sent a message saying she'd call Liv later – and that evening, cooler bags full of homemade soup and cannoli show up on three different doorsteps. Kat’s reply is brief with a simple “I’m sorry” but, the next day, each of those doorsteps have a plant arrive as well.
At 7am, Olivia leaves a message for Melinda on her voicemail, knowing she was unlikely to actually get a hold of her. It’s not a fun time to be an ME, and Olivia knows there’s a chance she’s been pulled in for hospital shifts too. She gets a text message in response at 11pm, with a link to a new list of COVID conspiracies, just published that day, and a short note: That fucker is laughing now.
She finally decides to try Alex at eight in the morning, who picks up after one ring, “Hey, Liv. I just heard.” And they catch up for a bit talking about everything and nothing, and for one tiny moment, it’s 2002 or 2012 and everything’s mostly okay.
Then Noah wakes up. It doesn’t take him long to understand – “Like Ellie, like my dad, like your mom?” he asks, too much knowledge for such a small boy – and he spends most of the day curled in a blanket beside her in bed, alternating between reading, watching a show, and crying. But later that night, while she cooks the spaghetti, he puts on his shoes and he dances.)
(By 11am, the NYPD has sent around an email listing the previous day's MOS deaths, and she doesn't bother with anyone else after that.)
(Except.)
(In the small hours of the next morning, after two glasses of wine and while half-asleep, she dials a phone number that she used to know, for the first time in nine years.
We're sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected or is no longer in service.
She doesn’t try again.)
(Ten months later, there’s a knock on her office door.)