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What part of our history's reinvented and under rug swept?
I. Loss
She waits until she's home before calling him, until she's changed out of her black suit and into something less sombre, as though the simple act of shedding her clothes could alleviate her grief.
Can she even call it grief when there's no death?
He answers on the second ring. "Yeah?"
"Could you do it?" There's a loose thread in her jeans, just above her knee, and she worries it absently. "Could you just up and disappear like that; one moment here and the next --?"
He groans softly, cutting her off. "I don't know." She listens to him moving around; the pad of his bare feet on the linoleum in his kitchen, the sound of his back door opening and then closing again. "I don't want to think about it."
Closing her eyes, she sinks back into her couch. "I can't stop thinking about it. The idea of never again seeing --" You. Cragen and Munch and Fin and everyone else at the 16th... She shakes her head. "I just -- I can't -- I don't --"
"Liv," he says, "don't think about it."
"But --"
"Olivia."
She stops.
She stops, and for a moment there's silence. Silence and the sound of his breathing, her breathing, soft and even in the quiet.
Then, in the distance, one of his kids calls out for him, and she sighs. "Never mind," she says, opening her eyes again, "I'll see you tomo--"
"Never, okay." The words are low, murmured, and she swallows her goodbye as she presses her phone closer to her ear. She can hear him getting to his feet. "That's my answer."
He disconnects before she respond.
II. Authority
Her cell rings whilst she's in the supermarket, a bottle of dishwashing liquid already in her hand and fingers outstretched for a loaf of bread. Fumbling the cell to her ear, she steps out of the way of a harried-looking woman pushing a shopping trolley full of what looks like enough groceries to feed a family of ten for a good month or two.
"Yeah, Benson."
"It's just me."
"What's up?" Shifting the dishwashing liquid into the crook of her arm, she snags the bread and keeps moving, winding her way towards the front of the store again. "We got another case?"
"No, no, we're good." There's a brief pause, in which she hears what sounds suspiciously like a car horn. "Where are you?"
"Supermarket. You?"
"Gas station."
"Hmm." Stopping in front of a display of pasta, she frowns. "Linguini or penne?"
"Linguini."
"Thanks," she says, grabbing a packet. "So --"
"So."
She rolls her eyes. "You called me, El."
"Yeah." He pauses. "You know where the jacket is for the Jamieson case?"
She frowns. "Fin handed it over to Casey last week." Like you told him to, she thinks. "Everything okay?"
"Fine, fine, good." Now there's the sound of a car door closing, and another car horn, this one fainter. When he speaks again, his tone is suddenly abrupt. "See you tomorrow, yeah?"
"Yeah," she agrees. "Hey, El?"
No reply for a moment, and she's about to pull the cell away from her ear and see if he's already hung up, when he says, "Liv?"
She smiles a little. "I'm okay."
He exhales slowly. "Yeah," he clears his throat, "I know. I just... had to hear it again for myself."
She gets that. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says, softly. "Your turn for coffee, okay."
"Okay." There's a trace of relief in his voice, and her smile widens to hear it. "See you, Liv."
"See you, El."
Ending the call, she slides her cell back into her pocket.
III. Informed
The call goes straight to voicemail, the impersonal prompt for a message almost enough to change her mind. Steeling herself, she forces herself to wait for the tone.
"El --"
Out of the corner of her eye she watches the seatbelt sign flash off, the flight attendants moving to ready the drinks cart. Pressing her fingertips against the cool glass of the window, she focuses on the blurring clouds far below.
"I'll be back."
She hangs up.
IV. Countdown
"What."
"El?"
"Yeah, Liv."
Groaning, she scrubs a hand over her face. She doesn't even remember hearing the phone ring, much less answering it. "What is it, El? I'm tired." And isn't that the understatement of the year.
"... the fuck, Liv? You called me."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes. You did."
"Didn't."
"Did."
She's not going to lose it, she isn't. No matter how shattered she feels, she still has some control left -- even if it is only over her temper. "I think I'd remember fucking calling you, Elliot, if I had. Which I haven't. So unless --"
"Why the fuck would I have called you, huh? I'm so tired I can't even remember my own name right now, much less --"
"How the hell should I know? I'm not --"
"Oh, screw you. Like you're any better --"
"Well, at least I --" Half-way through her retort, she realises she has no idea what she's saying. Or what she was about to say. Or what they're even arguing about. "El?" she manages.
He's silent for a long moment. Then, very softly, "yeah?"
Screwing her eyes shut, she swallows back a whimper. "I'm really tired." What she means is, I'm so tired I can't even sleep, can't even move, can't hardly breathe because every single part of me is aching for sleep and yet my brain won't stop thinking about how tired I am, about how much everything hurts, and how I can't sleep and --
His quiet, "yeah," burns through her.
Rolling onto her side, she grips the phone more tightly. "What time is it?"
"I don't know." He's in bed too; she can hear the rustle of sheets when he moves. "What day is it?"
"I don't know." Despite everything, she manages a tiny smile. "You ever count sheep?"
He yawns. "Nah. You?"
Yawning as well, she tugs her sheet a little higher. "No -- usually no need, you know?"
"Mmm."
His breathing is deepening, the way it always does when he's asleep. She's drifted off in the crib more than once to that sound.
Turning her face into her pillow a little more, she closes her eyes. "... El?" Her voice catches on a yawn, his name little more than an exhale.
"... mmm?"
She sighs softly. "... 'night."
"... 'night, Liv."
She drifts away.
V. Wildlife
For two weeks she doesn't call, doesn't text, doesn't do anything more than see him every day at work. He's paperwork-bound for the rest of the month, on light duties and a round of PT, and every time she enters and leaves the one-six he's simply there, at his desk, watching her.
It's two of the longest weeks in her life.
She waits, though. Waits for the sling to fade away, for his phonecalls from home to slow, before doing anything. There's a pattern to all of this, after all, a cycle they've repeated too many times for her to screw it up now.
His cell seems to ring for forever before he answers.
"Liv?"
She smiles. "Come over."
The End
