L&O: SVU Fic: your stage of sidewalk ashes
note: for scullyseviltwin.
your stage of sidewalk ashes
the city’s already sweating work for her next week and all, really, she’s thinking’ about is therapy and a good drink. feet are for walking five blocks, just to marry all your problems. l&o: svu. olivia. elliot/olivia. spoilers for trials & confession. 2,000 words, pg13.
-
The city’s already sweating work for her next week and all, really, she’s thinking about is therapy and a good drink.
But she’s heading home, no problem, fisting her hands into her pockets as she passes guys and their dates and their teeth grinning into awkward clenches. She plays the game too. Y’know, the game. Picking out first-time newbies and eyes to flutter close, the ones for river swimming and tomorrow’s headlines. Just tomorrow’s headlines. She’s lost someone’s number too. At home. Frank the pilot. Or was it just Frank the driver? Can’t remember. But on the phone, he swept into a round of “sweetie” and “hun” and it took her two blinks to stop pretending not to be a good cop.
So the streets are easy. Wide to small, the lick of light that stretches into a hazy buzz. Her neighborhood greets her quietly, arching to wave at her with a few stranglers, laughter breaking in the distance, and car doors looking for a quiet night. It’s kind of a round of noises she’s still uncertain about deserving; early retirement, they say, nobody’s gonna call you a fool.
She does see him though. In the distance, his head bowing between his legs. There’s coffee by his hip. From the corner, a block and a half. She almost smiles. Almost calls, “hey, El - you look like shit!” but that’s not going to be funny. Just true. She hasn’t decided if she’s angry with him. There are reasons. There could be more. It’s a pound of flesh she’s not interested in affording. Or taking. She’s got her years too.
Olivia stops a few cracks back. Her toes point over the line. She picks the shadows that creep to his face, open along his mouth and offer a kind of wry smile in her direction. He doesn’t smile. Not like before. They were young. You can be a young cop. Last long, if you want to, however it isn’t a promise.
“You look nice,” he murmurs.
His voice is heavy, wearing home like a breach. Her hands go to her pockets, grin over the pieces of fabric for her nerves. Another therapy lesson. Coping is to pulling as sleeping is to never, ever again. She lets him study her, the way her jacket hides the splatter of beer that never made it to her mouth. She wants to say something like “I almost did a Frank-the-pilot” but it’s not as funny, telling him. There are lots of things she hasn’t told him.
Instead, she looks down. “It’s late.”
“Coffee?”
He ignores her. Presents the peace offering - it’s habitual, it’s Elliot, and it’s the marks of everything not going well at home. She thinks about Kathy. Stops thinking about Kathy. Starts thinking about Kathy and the kids Elliot wears for strangers. She doesn’t envy him. She does.
She left her Catholicism years ago.
But sighing, she nods and slips into the spot next to him. Knee to knee, with space, she takes one cup without anything else. Her eyes are to his knees, to the break in denim that ages along the length of his thighs. Thought about it? Lately, no. Lately, there’s too much to think about it.
They tell you too, y’know, in the beginning. In the beginning, there are two. Rules for a partner. You leave everything behind. There are no secrets. Okay, no. There will be some, later and between half-jobs, but don’t let them engage. Not yet. Not until there are scars. Not until they’re appropriate. Olivia’s always thought the structure of rules and partners and the things they do, they do to bury before they die, is a bunch bullshit; romanticizing the job was never her frame of face.
She does it anyway. And speaks a little late.
“Yeah,” she pauses, sighing too, “Sure.”
The coffee is cold against her palms. She doesn’t say anything. Wonders how long he’s been here, actually been here. Wonders if he’s really going to ask her about what happened. When he’s coming back. She doesn’t know these things; the precinct wears them all like eyes. It’s just the way things are.
His knee tips though, presses into hers. Just jeans. No dress. She was supposed to be looking, remember? Homework for the mind, said her therapist. Meet someone new. Be old fashioned, whatever that means. She didn’t make it very far. Her gaze drops though, studying the way his knee seems to scab over hers. She doesn’t press back. She doesn’t drop away. It's nothing new.
She guides her thumbs over the rim of her coffee cup instead, arching her nails along the holes of openings in the side. He’s going to ask about something easy. The dates. El’s investment in making her happy, on a purely odd, subjective way makes her want to rip him into pieces. She knows he cares.
But her mouth is shut. Stays shut. On a lot of things. They’ve had the mechanics of their something else, but have been losing it. There’s fallout. She feels it. She’s not sure he’s ready to understand that.
“Nothing fancy, huh?” And he’s nodding towards her jacket, leather, the flaps hiding the war stains from the bar. She smells like cigarettes too. And girls that are named Amber and Mattie, IDs for co-eds.
She shakes her head. “Nothing serious.”
He says nothing. There’s a sigh. It could go either way. There’s a car too, rolling by her and him, by the link of their knees. She hears Springsteen muffled against the glass. A door slams, somebody’s yelling “baby, baby, baby” in the background. For backup, or something like that. There’s never any silence in the city. She remembers Portland all the time, the way she slept with her eyes open and wishing for noise. Now, here she is without some sort of operation of both ways. No new face, no new eyes.
Elliot hasn’t touched his coffee though. It stays in the holder, between them and framed by their knees. She turns her head a little, just to watch him, and waits for his eyes to open and close again. He doesn’t though, just pours the pressure of another sigh into his palms as he then starts to fidgets with his sleeves. It's a warm night. Almost. She watches his fingers, tracing the motion on the coffee cup as his buttons pop and roll.
Is it really a warm night? She really doesn’t feel it. The weather's still on in her bedroom - she'll make a bet to that.
“I lost my check,” he finally says. His tongue drapes over check like a badge.
“I know.”
He scoffs. “Kathy’s pissed.”
“She should be.”
She shrugs when he looks at her, eyes half-open and closed, with this strange surprise written into the lines of his face. She doesn’t look away either, licking her lips and shaking her head.
“She should be,” she says again. And it’s true; Kathy’s been long since martyred into being pissed at Elliot. There are true struggles, but then there are the things that Elliot remains so far out of touch with, buried into the eyes of his family of kids.
He sighs. “I know.”
Her fingers are still mocking his movement over the lid of her coffee, practiced and nearly coy. She watches; as his gaze drops to study them, unabashed like the weight of her own gaze, and peeling everything back. She wants to say something like what? and mean it with that kind of tense, endearment for a smile. Something that he’d get. Something that she could carry.
But his hand cups her fingers over the coffee, the lines of his palms pressing to swallow all her nails. She stops. He tightens. Almost briefly. His knee too runs against her thigh and Olivia has nothing to say, just a run of her tongue against her lip as she keeps watching.
“At least,” he says slowly, “at least, you’re trying - y’know?”
She doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. She guesses that it’s fair; in it’s own way, with how things have been moving between them. Last summer, this summer; someone’s bound to write a song about this one.
And no, it nothing to do with wanting to tell him or not wanting to tell him what happened. His investment, even to the others, has remained clear to the length of anger he’s been supposed to carry properly. Give the guy a gun and a badge and there’s too much to pick off. One by one by one. And look, there are too many songs about those things too.
It doesn’t mean she wants to talk about it. She carries her thanks and verbalizes some form of “for the coffee” keeping her efforts to tasking the other things. She forgets about therapy. About the night she won’t have. She forgets about El and his habits, the way they stayed behind in the squad room and in the eyes of the others, the conformists in their own ways.
“Yeah,” he shrugs. He’s always louder.
He's always louder, too much even. So much that his hand crawls up to the link of her arms, his thumb rolling in circles. She feels it. She doesn’t feel it. And looks to him quietly as everything stops at the fold of her arms. She says nothing. He says nothing. It's a play of a play, the burn of a few, scattered indulgences that neither of them should've been sharing. The first day. The second time. You know how it goes.
They’re too old for this, she wants to say. But she’s the one leaning forward, into his space as an understudy for the moment. You’ll smell like me, she wants to say and lets her jacket press into him. Like beer and cigarettes, like the laughter of Friday, and all the stuff that you were supposed to lock up with our guns and lockers. You’ll shower. And hard too, she wants to continue. Hands to skin, scrubbing because of the ring buried in your finger - Liv's written all her accusations before.
She presses her mouth to his jaw.
Her eyes are closed. It’s light. It’s there. It’s how heavy she’ll let the moment get. It might say, “yeah, I want to tell you something” or “no, no, this is a bad idea” but she’s not interested in the freeze facts. She keeps her mouth against his jaw, her lips warm and moving slowly against his skin. She lets them stretch and suck, forming an oval of a mark. For him to wear. For her to remember. It changes all the time. She tries to pull back too, but presses forward again; her mouth slides along his jaw again, to the end, and sweeps a sigh against his ear. Her fingers stretch over his thigh, pressing into knuckles as she gives him a little, just a little weight.
There's a stop. She stops.
She likes to forget too. She means it. She finishes it. It says nothing about the way she pulls back, slowly and with curled hands. Her eyes close, but she can still make out the print of her mouth against his skin.
He’ll still find it too.
Her mouth tightens close. She picks up her coffee to almost smile and stands on her heels, glancing into the blur of a street. She listens for him. Then stops, watching a new car pass. There’s laughter. Across the street, someone waves. Her thoughts continue into processes, into standards for a new session. Sunday, when people sleep. And El's looking straight, the other way.
She nearly smiles. She nearly laughs too - it's funny, if you're going to think about it. But she won't. Instead her head bows still and her fingers drop. He might flinch when she touches his shoulder. Bridges her fingers into a pass of fading affection. And her voice is soft, firm, and never for him.
“Go - go home, El.”
It’s what she has.
your stage of sidewalk ashes
the city’s already sweating work for her next week and all, really, she’s thinking’ about is therapy and a good drink. feet are for walking five blocks, just to marry all your problems. l&o: svu. olivia. elliot/olivia. spoilers for trials & confession. 2,000 words, pg13.
-
The city’s already sweating work for her next week and all, really, she’s thinking about is therapy and a good drink.
But she’s heading home, no problem, fisting her hands into her pockets as she passes guys and their dates and their teeth grinning into awkward clenches. She plays the game too. Y’know, the game. Picking out first-time newbies and eyes to flutter close, the ones for river swimming and tomorrow’s headlines. Just tomorrow’s headlines. She’s lost someone’s number too. At home. Frank the pilot. Or was it just Frank the driver? Can’t remember. But on the phone, he swept into a round of “sweetie” and “hun” and it took her two blinks to stop pretending not to be a good cop.
So the streets are easy. Wide to small, the lick of light that stretches into a hazy buzz. Her neighborhood greets her quietly, arching to wave at her with a few stranglers, laughter breaking in the distance, and car doors looking for a quiet night. It’s kind of a round of noises she’s still uncertain about deserving; early retirement, they say, nobody’s gonna call you a fool.
She does see him though. In the distance, his head bowing between his legs. There’s coffee by his hip. From the corner, a block and a half. She almost smiles. Almost calls, “hey, El - you look like shit!” but that’s not going to be funny. Just true. She hasn’t decided if she’s angry with him. There are reasons. There could be more. It’s a pound of flesh she’s not interested in affording. Or taking. She’s got her years too.
Olivia stops a few cracks back. Her toes point over the line. She picks the shadows that creep to his face, open along his mouth and offer a kind of wry smile in her direction. He doesn’t smile. Not like before. They were young. You can be a young cop. Last long, if you want to, however it isn’t a promise.
“You look nice,” he murmurs.
His voice is heavy, wearing home like a breach. Her hands go to her pockets, grin over the pieces of fabric for her nerves. Another therapy lesson. Coping is to pulling as sleeping is to never, ever again. She lets him study her, the way her jacket hides the splatter of beer that never made it to her mouth. She wants to say something like “I almost did a Frank-the-pilot” but it’s not as funny, telling him. There are lots of things she hasn’t told him.
Instead, she looks down. “It’s late.”
“Coffee?”
He ignores her. Presents the peace offering - it’s habitual, it’s Elliot, and it’s the marks of everything not going well at home. She thinks about Kathy. Stops thinking about Kathy. Starts thinking about Kathy and the kids Elliot wears for strangers. She doesn’t envy him. She does.
She left her Catholicism years ago.
But sighing, she nods and slips into the spot next to him. Knee to knee, with space, she takes one cup without anything else. Her eyes are to his knees, to the break in denim that ages along the length of his thighs. Thought about it? Lately, no. Lately, there’s too much to think about it.
They tell you too, y’know, in the beginning. In the beginning, there are two. Rules for a partner. You leave everything behind. There are no secrets. Okay, no. There will be some, later and between half-jobs, but don’t let them engage. Not yet. Not until there are scars. Not until they’re appropriate. Olivia’s always thought the structure of rules and partners and the things they do, they do to bury before they die, is a bunch bullshit; romanticizing the job was never her frame of face.
She does it anyway. And speaks a little late.
“Yeah,” she pauses, sighing too, “Sure.”
The coffee is cold against her palms. She doesn’t say anything. Wonders how long he’s been here, actually been here. Wonders if he’s really going to ask her about what happened. When he’s coming back. She doesn’t know these things; the precinct wears them all like eyes. It’s just the way things are.
His knee tips though, presses into hers. Just jeans. No dress. She was supposed to be looking, remember? Homework for the mind, said her therapist. Meet someone new. Be old fashioned, whatever that means. She didn’t make it very far. Her gaze drops though, studying the way his knee seems to scab over hers. She doesn’t press back. She doesn’t drop away. It's nothing new.
She guides her thumbs over the rim of her coffee cup instead, arching her nails along the holes of openings in the side. He’s going to ask about something easy. The dates. El’s investment in making her happy, on a purely odd, subjective way makes her want to rip him into pieces. She knows he cares.
But her mouth is shut. Stays shut. On a lot of things. They’ve had the mechanics of their something else, but have been losing it. There’s fallout. She feels it. She’s not sure he’s ready to understand that.
“Nothing fancy, huh?” And he’s nodding towards her jacket, leather, the flaps hiding the war stains from the bar. She smells like cigarettes too. And girls that are named Amber and Mattie, IDs for co-eds.
She shakes her head. “Nothing serious.”
He says nothing. There’s a sigh. It could go either way. There’s a car too, rolling by her and him, by the link of their knees. She hears Springsteen muffled against the glass. A door slams, somebody’s yelling “baby, baby, baby” in the background. For backup, or something like that. There’s never any silence in the city. She remembers Portland all the time, the way she slept with her eyes open and wishing for noise. Now, here she is without some sort of operation of both ways. No new face, no new eyes.
Elliot hasn’t touched his coffee though. It stays in the holder, between them and framed by their knees. She turns her head a little, just to watch him, and waits for his eyes to open and close again. He doesn’t though, just pours the pressure of another sigh into his palms as he then starts to fidgets with his sleeves. It's a warm night. Almost. She watches his fingers, tracing the motion on the coffee cup as his buttons pop and roll.
Is it really a warm night? She really doesn’t feel it. The weather's still on in her bedroom - she'll make a bet to that.
“I lost my check,” he finally says. His tongue drapes over check like a badge.
“I know.”
He scoffs. “Kathy’s pissed.”
“She should be.”
She shrugs when he looks at her, eyes half-open and closed, with this strange surprise written into the lines of his face. She doesn’t look away either, licking her lips and shaking her head.
“She should be,” she says again. And it’s true; Kathy’s been long since martyred into being pissed at Elliot. There are true struggles, but then there are the things that Elliot remains so far out of touch with, buried into the eyes of his family of kids.
He sighs. “I know.”
Her fingers are still mocking his movement over the lid of her coffee, practiced and nearly coy. She watches; as his gaze drops to study them, unabashed like the weight of her own gaze, and peeling everything back. She wants to say something like what? and mean it with that kind of tense, endearment for a smile. Something that he’d get. Something that she could carry.
But his hand cups her fingers over the coffee, the lines of his palms pressing to swallow all her nails. She stops. He tightens. Almost briefly. His knee too runs against her thigh and Olivia has nothing to say, just a run of her tongue against her lip as she keeps watching.
“At least,” he says slowly, “at least, you’re trying - y’know?”
She doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. She guesses that it’s fair; in it’s own way, with how things have been moving between them. Last summer, this summer; someone’s bound to write a song about this one.
And no, it nothing to do with wanting to tell him or not wanting to tell him what happened. His investment, even to the others, has remained clear to the length of anger he’s been supposed to carry properly. Give the guy a gun and a badge and there’s too much to pick off. One by one by one. And look, there are too many songs about those things too.
It doesn’t mean she wants to talk about it. She carries her thanks and verbalizes some form of “for the coffee” keeping her efforts to tasking the other things. She forgets about therapy. About the night she won’t have. She forgets about El and his habits, the way they stayed behind in the squad room and in the eyes of the others, the conformists in their own ways.
“Yeah,” he shrugs. He’s always louder.
He's always louder, too much even. So much that his hand crawls up to the link of her arms, his thumb rolling in circles. She feels it. She doesn’t feel it. And looks to him quietly as everything stops at the fold of her arms. She says nothing. He says nothing. It's a play of a play, the burn of a few, scattered indulgences that neither of them should've been sharing. The first day. The second time. You know how it goes.
They’re too old for this, she wants to say. But she’s the one leaning forward, into his space as an understudy for the moment. You’ll smell like me, she wants to say and lets her jacket press into him. Like beer and cigarettes, like the laughter of Friday, and all the stuff that you were supposed to lock up with our guns and lockers. You’ll shower. And hard too, she wants to continue. Hands to skin, scrubbing because of the ring buried in your finger - Liv's written all her accusations before.
She presses her mouth to his jaw.
Her eyes are closed. It’s light. It’s there. It’s how heavy she’ll let the moment get. It might say, “yeah, I want to tell you something” or “no, no, this is a bad idea” but she’s not interested in the freeze facts. She keeps her mouth against his jaw, her lips warm and moving slowly against his skin. She lets them stretch and suck, forming an oval of a mark. For him to wear. For her to remember. It changes all the time. She tries to pull back too, but presses forward again; her mouth slides along his jaw again, to the end, and sweeps a sigh against his ear. Her fingers stretch over his thigh, pressing into knuckles as she gives him a little, just a little weight.
There's a stop. She stops.
She likes to forget too. She means it. She finishes it. It says nothing about the way she pulls back, slowly and with curled hands. Her eyes close, but she can still make out the print of her mouth against his skin.
He’ll still find it too.
Her mouth tightens close. She picks up her coffee to almost smile and stands on her heels, glancing into the blur of a street. She listens for him. Then stops, watching a new car pass. There’s laughter. Across the street, someone waves. Her thoughts continue into processes, into standards for a new session. Sunday, when people sleep. And El's looking straight, the other way.
She nearly smiles. She nearly laughs too - it's funny, if you're going to think about it. But she won't. Instead her head bows still and her fingers drop. He might flinch when she touches his shoulder. Bridges her fingers into a pass of fading affection. And her voice is soft, firm, and never for him.
“Go - go home, El.”
It’s what she has.