FF: Unsung Lullaby
Title: Unsung Lullaby
Author: Ellie elliestories
Rating: PG
Peter and Olivia friendship/vague UST, sometime pre-"Jacksonville"
Summary: After a difficult case, Peter takes Olivia out for a drink.
****
All he had said was, "I think you need a drink," and she had followed him, handing over car keys and riding silently as he drove them through narrow old streets, wending away from anywhere she frequented. The case was closed, but she just couldn't seem to let it go, though she desperately wanted to. Needed to. At least if she had to find solace and forgetfulness at the bottom of a bottle, tonight she wouldn't have to do it alone. And she knew Peter wouldn't ask, or mention it again.
He'd led her down a back alley, down a set of damp concrete stairs, tinged with mold, and into this room that seemed to hold the acrid whiff of cigar smoke, the scent having permeated the air so long ago that no smoking prohibition could clear it. Her chair was rickety and the table dirty, but the glass Peter put in front of her looked clean enough, the contents a luminous caramel in the dim light. Neither spoke as he sat and tipped his glass to her. He took a long draught, savoring, but when she returned the gesture, she flicked a practiced wrist and downed the contents in one fast burn. The oaky fire in her throat was the first thing she'd felt in days. It was almost enough to dull the image of those little girls, which had been seared into her brain.
When he brought new glasses, with two more rounds, she drank one again, quickly, embracing the burn, feeling it into her empty stomach. It seemed to soothe the queasiness that had settled in during the case that week. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers over the smooth lip of the other glass of Johnnie Walker. "I envy Walter sometimes. His ability to forget."
Peter looked up at her, two mostly-full glasses still in front of him. "You don't really mean that." Somewhere deep behind him, in the shadows, a few taps of a drum sounded, and was joined by a saxophone and bass.
"To not always carry around what we see, to not have to live with those empty eyes following your every step...." She shook her head and took a drink, slower this time, watching as he mirrored her gesture, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the table to match the unknown music.
When he didn't respond, she ventured, "Walter must know a way to remove a memory."
He'd been looking down at the half-empty glass, wagging his head, but at this he looked up sharply, fixing her with his gaze like an animal in a trap. There was a dangerous growl in his voice as he spoke. "He definitely does, and that's why he is the way he is, even more than years of mere institutionalization. Have you really read his file, what was done to him, what treatments he asked for, to forget? You don't want that, Olivia."
He didn't give her time to answer before doing for another round. The glass he placed in front of her sat untouched for a long moment as she tried very hard not to think, to let the music hypnotize her, but she was not yet drunk enough. She forced herself to sip at this drink. Eventually, so softly she wasn't sure he could hear, she said, "I don't want that. I just want to see something other than mutilated little girls when I close my eyes."
That they'd all looked so much like Ella went unmentioned. That coincidence was too much to process, even now. She'd almost excused herself from the case after seeing the victims.
"You know," he drawled. "That you see them, that they stay with you is what makes you good."
"It makes it hard to sleep at night," she confessed, tossing back the last of her drink.
His head bobbed in acknowledgment, then cocked it to one side. "Do you know this song?"
She didn't have to listen to know she did not, but took a second to do so before shaking her head and wondering at his very Walteresque non sequitur.
"It's Coltrane." He smiled a bit at her gesture of confusion. "When I couldn't sleep, I used to listen to him, just let myself drift in it for a while."
"Like a lullaby." She wasn't sure anyone had ever sung her a lullaby. She pursed her lips and pondered the idea.
"Not the soothing way they're meant for children. More letting it fill up my mind until that was all there was."
"You don't need it anymore?" Was there hope that this too would pass for her?
"Why do you think we're here, now?" He tipped back his drink, neatly, quietly placing the glass in a row with the others. Understanding, she nodded and went to fetch the next round.
When she returned to the table, she settled a little closer to him, and took her time in drinking the alcohol. It no longer burned quite so sharply down her throat, and the hard edges had begun to soften, and she sat a little easier. Only when Peter's hand came to rest, matter-of-fact and firm, on her thigh, did she start a bit. He did not pull away when she momentarily tensed, and the warmth of his hand, even though the thin wool of her slacks, seemed to diffuse through her body faster than the alcohol. She'd almost forgotten how it felt for someone to touch her, a simple gesture of comfort.
After a few long minutes of his hand resting steadily on her leg, both sipping their Scotch and saying nothing, she dropped her hand down to rest on top of his. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him glance over at her, quickly and nodded ever so faintly. He said nothing, however, and let the subtle nod roll into a wag of his head along with the music.
They sat the rest of the set in silence, as she did her best to follow his advice to lose herself for a while in the music. All she could feel, though, was the weight of his hand on her quadriceps, and the feeling remained, long after his hand was gone and they'd left the bar, the humanity suffusing back into her along with the simple gesture.
That night, she really slept for the first time in a week.
****
Author: Ellie elliestories
Rating: PG
Peter and Olivia friendship/vague UST, sometime pre-"Jacksonville"
Summary: After a difficult case, Peter takes Olivia out for a drink.
****
All he had said was, "I think you need a drink," and she had followed him, handing over car keys and riding silently as he drove them through narrow old streets, wending away from anywhere she frequented. The case was closed, but she just couldn't seem to let it go, though she desperately wanted to. Needed to. At least if she had to find solace and forgetfulness at the bottom of a bottle, tonight she wouldn't have to do it alone. And she knew Peter wouldn't ask, or mention it again.
He'd led her down a back alley, down a set of damp concrete stairs, tinged with mold, and into this room that seemed to hold the acrid whiff of cigar smoke, the scent having permeated the air so long ago that no smoking prohibition could clear it. Her chair was rickety and the table dirty, but the glass Peter put in front of her looked clean enough, the contents a luminous caramel in the dim light. Neither spoke as he sat and tipped his glass to her. He took a long draught, savoring, but when she returned the gesture, she flicked a practiced wrist and downed the contents in one fast burn. The oaky fire in her throat was the first thing she'd felt in days. It was almost enough to dull the image of those little girls, which had been seared into her brain.
When he brought new glasses, with two more rounds, she drank one again, quickly, embracing the burn, feeling it into her empty stomach. It seemed to soothe the queasiness that had settled in during the case that week. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers over the smooth lip of the other glass of Johnnie Walker. "I envy Walter sometimes. His ability to forget."
Peter looked up at her, two mostly-full glasses still in front of him. "You don't really mean that." Somewhere deep behind him, in the shadows, a few taps of a drum sounded, and was joined by a saxophone and bass.
"To not always carry around what we see, to not have to live with those empty eyes following your every step...." She shook her head and took a drink, slower this time, watching as he mirrored her gesture, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the table to match the unknown music.
When he didn't respond, she ventured, "Walter must know a way to remove a memory."
He'd been looking down at the half-empty glass, wagging his head, but at this he looked up sharply, fixing her with his gaze like an animal in a trap. There was a dangerous growl in his voice as he spoke. "He definitely does, and that's why he is the way he is, even more than years of mere institutionalization. Have you really read his file, what was done to him, what treatments he asked for, to forget? You don't want that, Olivia."
He didn't give her time to answer before doing for another round. The glass he placed in front of her sat untouched for a long moment as she tried very hard not to think, to let the music hypnotize her, but she was not yet drunk enough. She forced herself to sip at this drink. Eventually, so softly she wasn't sure he could hear, she said, "I don't want that. I just want to see something other than mutilated little girls when I close my eyes."
That they'd all looked so much like Ella went unmentioned. That coincidence was too much to process, even now. She'd almost excused herself from the case after seeing the victims.
"You know," he drawled. "That you see them, that they stay with you is what makes you good."
"It makes it hard to sleep at night," she confessed, tossing back the last of her drink.
His head bobbed in acknowledgment, then cocked it to one side. "Do you know this song?"
She didn't have to listen to know she did not, but took a second to do so before shaking her head and wondering at his very Walteresque non sequitur.
"It's Coltrane." He smiled a bit at her gesture of confusion. "When I couldn't sleep, I used to listen to him, just let myself drift in it for a while."
"Like a lullaby." She wasn't sure anyone had ever sung her a lullaby. She pursed her lips and pondered the idea.
"Not the soothing way they're meant for children. More letting it fill up my mind until that was all there was."
"You don't need it anymore?" Was there hope that this too would pass for her?
"Why do you think we're here, now?" He tipped back his drink, neatly, quietly placing the glass in a row with the others. Understanding, she nodded and went to fetch the next round.
When she returned to the table, she settled a little closer to him, and took her time in drinking the alcohol. It no longer burned quite so sharply down her throat, and the hard edges had begun to soften, and she sat a little easier. Only when Peter's hand came to rest, matter-of-fact and firm, on her thigh, did she start a bit. He did not pull away when she momentarily tensed, and the warmth of his hand, even though the thin wool of her slacks, seemed to diffuse through her body faster than the alcohol. She'd almost forgotten how it felt for someone to touch her, a simple gesture of comfort.
After a few long minutes of his hand resting steadily on her leg, both sipping their Scotch and saying nothing, she dropped her hand down to rest on top of his. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him glance over at her, quickly and nodded ever so faintly. He said nothing, however, and let the subtle nod roll into a wag of his head along with the music.
They sat the rest of the set in silence, as she did her best to follow his advice to lose herself for a while in the music. All she could feel, though, was the weight of his hand on her quadriceps, and the feeling remained, long after his hand was gone and they'd left the bar, the humanity suffusing back into her along with the simple gesture.
That night, she really slept for the first time in a week.
****