L&O SVU Fic: wednesday’s currency exchange
note: jen! officially, there’s an hour and so minutes until your birthday which makes it cool to give you your first birthday present of three. this is the early one, lol. *grins* but you are awesome. ilu. and everybody wish surreallis a happy birthday!
wednesday’s currency exchange
he likes jazz when he's drinking. guilt prays. l&o: svu stabler/benson. general series ten spoilers. 1,272 words, pg13.
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Outside, they've found a bench; around the bar, it stands and waves back at the music that wanted to follow. Something country, something pretty fucking stupid. He can't decide. He likes jazz when he's drinking. Classic rock gets girls pregnant. He's already in trouble tonight. He's not a kid anymore. Years ago, maybe. It was a better true story.
But he's drunk. Or not drunk. And Liv's not exactly a fan of talking to him right now. They used to do this. Or, well, she used to do this back when she was new and he was old and there were all sorts of things that he couldn't have her getting but she did go there anyway. He feels kind of bad. It was eleven when he called. Or twelve. She sounded half-asleep. He can't remember because she's not talking. It might've been the bartender anyway.
So he gets to watch her instead. Or tries to watch her, facing her hips with his eyes. The jacket's leather. A Christmas present from Kathy and his new son. Liv saves lives. That’s not a joke; it's something that tastes a little like envy because he'll eternally feel useless from that day. He thinks she knows. He thinks she knows and decides to ignore it. For him, 'cause that's what Liv really does.
It’s the bartender’s fault. And his, for coming here. The bar’s an old haunt. Cops have old haunts. Witnesses. Sources. He’s been joining the club a lot lately. Or something like that.
His mouth is dry and he's thinking to himself, "well, El you're an asshole" because he's pretty sure that he yelled at Kathy and a kid, two kids, and wanted to take the baby for a walk because it's the dad thing to do but couldn't. Kathy's angrier. He’s angrier. It’s kind of that thing - you know, if he's honest, he'd even go further and blame it on his attachment to the job. That's actually funny. He's no expert, but he knows his shit.
"M'sorry," he says anyway. He can't stand the fucking silence. Out loud, his voice sort of slurs. His o is a y or his y is a bunch of rs; there's nothing like remembering all those lessons from the nuns. He can see her shoulders tighten. Liv is Liv. They rise a lot. She's too personal. He's just an asshole. They work. He likes that they still work. Long ago, when she started to do this and was brand new, she only smiled and said something like it's fine. She might've meant it then. He wants to believe that. Really, it's just that he doesn't know now.
She doesn't say anything though. His eyes peel back from her hips and he turns, twisting to stare back at the bar. Cops are cops and cop bars breed all sorts of stupid decisions. He can't remember if he still had a card here. It's really her card, but history says that it's all the same. They know by now, he guesses. Or doesn't know. He can still feel the tips of her fingers against his shoulders; they burned a little and now, there's a song to go with it. It’s a distant echo. His head is starting to hum and he swears, swears that it's still playing at the bar. He swears too that the doors are open. Like he left them, him and Liv.
"You're an idiot."
He looks up. Almost misses her. That's a problem. She’s not looking at him either. "Sorry."
He feels like a kid. She makes him feel stupid and unfortunate and maybe he's projecting or some kind of shit. Kathy threw that in his face. There were glasses and homework, eye rolls and new girlfriends, parent meetings and guesses and checks. There’s medicine and the baby, the baby is teething all of the sudden and not sleeping. He just wanted out. It’s his fucking fault. He’s his mother's son.
It is about Liv too. He’s pretty sure. It’s at the bottom of the bottle right now and he’ll feel like an asshole in the morning, he guesses, because he’s rambling around in his head and he knows how she gets. He just can’t think about her. Because if he thinks about her, it’s something and if it’s something, he’ll go there and wonder about it all in the john, his hand around himself and being that guy.
“Shit,” he breathes. And he’s getting dizzy. Again, he tries. “Sorry, I -”
It’s about going on. When she does turn, her hair slips along her jaw. He doesn't remember that it's longer than. He likes that. His fingertips start to burn and he's getting that pool of heat that stretches against his belly. His hands are ready to be buried. It’s there. It’s never left. He knows how to hate. But the alcohol's kinda buzzing in his head still and he doesn't want to tell her because she's angry.
Liv angry is shoulders and hands, that mouth that tightens and makes him think of things that he shouldn't because he's made decisions, good decisions and loyal decisions. He strayed. They all strayed. But he feels like he's left her behind all over again and he doesn't get it.
"Ten more minutes," she sighs softly. What she won't say: "You can have the couch." or "I'm so fucking mad at you I can't think straight." or "Fuck you." All of which he gets, if she wanted him to, but she doesn't and not having her say anything at all makes him kind of crazy.
He wants her to hate him and maybe she does, but it doesn't make it easier for him. It's making him jealous that she's okay with not talking. She knows everything and he's married the bar tonight for that reason. It sounds better at least. Somebody's laughing loudly behind him and he's thinking he should've just went to work. Friends are not friends and everything changes with kids. He loves his wife. Maybe, no. No, maybe. She should've left. If he goes home now, he might beg her. But Liv's not going to let him. Because she knows. It can't be like this.
He does let his hands drop over the base of the bench, pressing his palms into the wood. They ache. He’s tired. He can feel the lines of his skin stretch over the wood. He’s restless. She’s not going to set with him. Her fingers only brushed against his jacket. She doesn't touch him. Or won't, not like this. Maybe that's the point.
It still comes to him though and he’s thinking about standing, his palms moving to swallow his knees. He tries the weight, presses his feet together on the ground, and stops before he even manages.
He’s dizzy. He really started early and is in confessional, then, when she steps forward to him. She’s wearing an old sweatshirt. It looks like one of his. The fabric too gray, too washed, and he forgets what he was doing.
His mouth trembles. "I'm really - really, really pissed off."
She’s quiet and hasn’t touched him since they left the bar; maybe, she yanked away from a bottle or two, a girl that wasn’t blonde and Kathy, and the cigarettes that were ready to stain his jeans. Her eyes are steady and when she looks at him, she’s shaking her head. They have good badges, a little trouble, but they stand tall. He doesn’t know how to lose that.
Liv presses her lips together.
"I know."
There’s a lump crawling down the back of his throat. Elliot doesn't know why.
wednesday’s currency exchange
he likes jazz when he's drinking. guilt prays. l&o: svu stabler/benson. general series ten spoilers. 1,272 words, pg13.
-
Outside, they've found a bench; around the bar, it stands and waves back at the music that wanted to follow. Something country, something pretty fucking stupid. He can't decide. He likes jazz when he's drinking. Classic rock gets girls pregnant. He's already in trouble tonight. He's not a kid anymore. Years ago, maybe. It was a better true story.
But he's drunk. Or not drunk. And Liv's not exactly a fan of talking to him right now. They used to do this. Or, well, she used to do this back when she was new and he was old and there were all sorts of things that he couldn't have her getting but she did go there anyway. He feels kind of bad. It was eleven when he called. Or twelve. She sounded half-asleep. He can't remember because she's not talking. It might've been the bartender anyway.
So he gets to watch her instead. Or tries to watch her, facing her hips with his eyes. The jacket's leather. A Christmas present from Kathy and his new son. Liv saves lives. That’s not a joke; it's something that tastes a little like envy because he'll eternally feel useless from that day. He thinks she knows. He thinks she knows and decides to ignore it. For him, 'cause that's what Liv really does.
It’s the bartender’s fault. And his, for coming here. The bar’s an old haunt. Cops have old haunts. Witnesses. Sources. He’s been joining the club a lot lately. Or something like that.
His mouth is dry and he's thinking to himself, "well, El you're an asshole" because he's pretty sure that he yelled at Kathy and a kid, two kids, and wanted to take the baby for a walk because it's the dad thing to do but couldn't. Kathy's angrier. He’s angrier. It’s kind of that thing - you know, if he's honest, he'd even go further and blame it on his attachment to the job. That's actually funny. He's no expert, but he knows his shit.
"M'sorry," he says anyway. He can't stand the fucking silence. Out loud, his voice sort of slurs. His o is a y or his y is a bunch of rs; there's nothing like remembering all those lessons from the nuns. He can see her shoulders tighten. Liv is Liv. They rise a lot. She's too personal. He's just an asshole. They work. He likes that they still work. Long ago, when she started to do this and was brand new, she only smiled and said something like it's fine. She might've meant it then. He wants to believe that. Really, it's just that he doesn't know now.
She doesn't say anything though. His eyes peel back from her hips and he turns, twisting to stare back at the bar. Cops are cops and cop bars breed all sorts of stupid decisions. He can't remember if he still had a card here. It's really her card, but history says that it's all the same. They know by now, he guesses. Or doesn't know. He can still feel the tips of her fingers against his shoulders; they burned a little and now, there's a song to go with it. It’s a distant echo. His head is starting to hum and he swears, swears that it's still playing at the bar. He swears too that the doors are open. Like he left them, him and Liv.
"You're an idiot."
He looks up. Almost misses her. That's a problem. She’s not looking at him either. "Sorry."
He feels like a kid. She makes him feel stupid and unfortunate and maybe he's projecting or some kind of shit. Kathy threw that in his face. There were glasses and homework, eye rolls and new girlfriends, parent meetings and guesses and checks. There’s medicine and the baby, the baby is teething all of the sudden and not sleeping. He just wanted out. It’s his fucking fault. He’s his mother's son.
It is about Liv too. He’s pretty sure. It’s at the bottom of the bottle right now and he’ll feel like an asshole in the morning, he guesses, because he’s rambling around in his head and he knows how she gets. He just can’t think about her. Because if he thinks about her, it’s something and if it’s something, he’ll go there and wonder about it all in the john, his hand around himself and being that guy.
“Shit,” he breathes. And he’s getting dizzy. Again, he tries. “Sorry, I -”
It’s about going on. When she does turn, her hair slips along her jaw. He doesn't remember that it's longer than. He likes that. His fingertips start to burn and he's getting that pool of heat that stretches against his belly. His hands are ready to be buried. It’s there. It’s never left. He knows how to hate. But the alcohol's kinda buzzing in his head still and he doesn't want to tell her because she's angry.
Liv angry is shoulders and hands, that mouth that tightens and makes him think of things that he shouldn't because he's made decisions, good decisions and loyal decisions. He strayed. They all strayed. But he feels like he's left her behind all over again and he doesn't get it.
"Ten more minutes," she sighs softly. What she won't say: "You can have the couch." or "I'm so fucking mad at you I can't think straight." or "Fuck you." All of which he gets, if she wanted him to, but she doesn't and not having her say anything at all makes him kind of crazy.
He wants her to hate him and maybe she does, but it doesn't make it easier for him. It's making him jealous that she's okay with not talking. She knows everything and he's married the bar tonight for that reason. It sounds better at least. Somebody's laughing loudly behind him and he's thinking he should've just went to work. Friends are not friends and everything changes with kids. He loves his wife. Maybe, no. No, maybe. She should've left. If he goes home now, he might beg her. But Liv's not going to let him. Because she knows. It can't be like this.
He does let his hands drop over the base of the bench, pressing his palms into the wood. They ache. He’s tired. He can feel the lines of his skin stretch over the wood. He’s restless. She’s not going to set with him. Her fingers only brushed against his jacket. She doesn't touch him. Or won't, not like this. Maybe that's the point.
It still comes to him though and he’s thinking about standing, his palms moving to swallow his knees. He tries the weight, presses his feet together on the ground, and stops before he even manages.
He’s dizzy. He really started early and is in confessional, then, when she steps forward to him. She’s wearing an old sweatshirt. It looks like one of his. The fabric too gray, too washed, and he forgets what he was doing.
His mouth trembles. "I'm really - really, really pissed off."
She’s quiet and hasn’t touched him since they left the bar; maybe, she yanked away from a bottle or two, a girl that wasn’t blonde and Kathy, and the cigarettes that were ready to stain his jeans. Her eyes are steady and when she looks at him, she’s shaking her head. They have good badges, a little trouble, but they stand tall. He doesn’t know how to lose that.
Liv presses her lips together.
"I know."
There’s a lump crawling down the back of his throat. Elliot doesn't know why.