SVU fic! Offers of goodies! AND SO MUCH EFFIN MORE!
- The Sox clinched the playoffs tonight; Josh Beckett was amusing in comparing football to baseball. "Nothing against football, but... we come out here and do it every night."
- I am going to the Sox game tonight. Is there any photos or memorabilia I can get for anyone?
- My father and I have been invited to sit in the premium boxes on Saturday; is there anyone who wants two tickets to the preseason Bruins/Capitols game for twenty-five bucks? (They're balcony seats, but I paid fifty for them... with all of those surcharges...)
- While the Pats were losing (FUCKITY FUCK FUCK!) to the DOLPHINS (THE MOTHERFUCKING DOLPHINS!) Tom Brady was out shopping with his kid. That's fine and good but... what bothers me about this little snippet is the HAT HE'S WEARING IN THE PHOTO! Come on Tom, you couldn't be... like an Angels fan or something? I thought you were better than that. (Thanks to sp0ngebob for the link.)
- OMG! WINDSHIELD WIPERS! No, but really, Greg Kinnear, Alan Alda AND Mitch Pileggi in a movie together? of sweet jesus.
- AND ANNA FRIEL AND WILL FERRELL TOGETHER!?!?! This 'Land of the Lost' movie could be brilliant... or tank. You know, either/or.
- My dislike of the new ADA on SVU cannot be contained. At all. (Last night's episode was not. Good. At. All.) Still waiting for House...
Title: November in July
Author: scullyseviltwin
Category: Angst
Pairing: Elliot/Olivia
Spoilers: Let's say up to 9X07, 'Blinded'
Rating: Teen
Disclaimer: Dick Wolf has more money than God; I clearly do not. Who do you think owns them?
Thanks: hyacinthian and jenbachand
Summary: Olivia could go home, it's a certain option but there are too many things there that will remind her of everything she is and everything she is supposed to be and honestly, what the fuck, she can't handle that right now.
Author's Notes: I KNOW! It's another angsty, sad, OLIVIA-IS-A-SADSACK. It's so cliched but so FUN TO WRITE!
But that said... this isn't my best work.
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It's night in the crib, though it always seems to be night. Even at noon in July, it's midnight and the evening hangs around in there like Death, waiting for people to fall asleep so that he can assault their subconscious.
She never used to dream here, never used to nightmare. Between the scratchy, government-issue cotton and barely there mattress, she used to find solace from forty-eight hour shifts, think, forget. She used to slide between what could only loosely be defined as covers and find rest, respite. But now it's different, everything is different.
Her ideals, her ideals-for one-are so different now. There's nothing left to account for in the department of emotion. It's not a definite thing, she may get feeling back in her nerves, but for the time being she's thoroughly enjoying having to process nothing except for the itching of her skin against the mustard blanket and the throbbing of something she can't define just to the left of her temporal lobe.
Olivia could go home, it's a certain option but there are too many things there that will remind her of everything she is and everything she is supposed to be and honestly, what the fuck, she can't handle that right now. It's finally-she decides, blinking hard-alright to accept that she can't handle some things.
She can't; there are a lot of things she can't handle. Like, like how he's got another kid on the way (what is that now, ten?) and she doesn't have one. Isn't dating anyone, doesn't want to date anyone. Doesn't want to see, meet, talk to, be with anyone but herself right now (maybe him, maybe but it's too late and she's been up too long and she shouldn't be thinking, at all).
No, no she shouldn't be thinking. She should be counting sheep, or any other farm animal that cares to jump over that picket fence standing so primly before her mind's eye. There were precious few minutes to sleep before she would be called back down to the pen... and sleep...
Case (dead child) after case (raped woman) after case (lather, rinse and repeat) was getting to be monotonous, serving to embitter her, causing her to crave a drink. But that would lead to two or three and possibly a few phone calls to people she'd rather not speak to.
The future she'd dreamed of five years ago was the now that she is living in at the present. No long-term relationship, no hope for children or a family on the horizon, nothing but her career. And it isn't even a career really; she has no ambition for being promoted, and intends to work in this particular department doing these particular things for the rest of her days. Olivia hasn't even considered the "what's next" that most people do.
Her pay grade is decent enough, and she never intends to leave the city, really, so there's no point in trying for a new position. And of course, there's that masochistic part of her that would never leave him. He's self-destructive, he's abrasive and intense and probably...probably perfect for her. Because she craves the sound of his voice, the permanence she feels when she is with him... How safe and fearless when she is with him... with... him. How she is willing to be weak, to break, in front of only him.
Oh, what a reckless, runaway, train-of-thought to be on...
The blanket, for all its ability to be uncomfortable, is pulled up to her chin. Tucking herself in… will she ever have anyone else to do this for her? Can she even bother to care anymore?
Eyes roll back in their sockets and she settles for being static at least; if she can't sleep, if it's impossible, this is preferable.
Not wanting to be thinking about not thinking about... him. Or something. There's something in her bones, something heavy, leaden, rendering her unable to move. Just steady breaths, up and down, deep, sure (somewhat sure) and cleansing. Nothing would get solved tonight, nothing would be changed because she over thinks things, and she can't really over think this anymore.
Well, she could and she can, but she won't because it really is time to sleep, time to sneak a few z's before she's awoken to another murder, another missing child, another, another... a... nother.
And then it happens, it always does and she's surprised that she's surprised that he looks so tired, dejected, ready to give in. The way he waltzes in, looking like November and smelling like sleep, it makes her drowsy. (Or perhaps she just wants to close her eyes on him.)
It's an oddly infatuating sight, and so she keeps an eye just-barely cracked. Elliot slides onto the bed two away, and stares at her. "I know you're awake."
"No you don't," she quips and allowed both eyes to gaze upon him.
Tired, but smiling, he sighs and blinks. And blinks and they stare. "Chief says we can leave, but I know you won't." He knows she won't because he knows her and that's something that's still amazing to her. These thirty something years of her life and he's still the only one to really care to know her.
It's okay. "Yeah," she agrees and allows the edge of the blanket to skate across the underside of her chin.
There's moonlight in his hair, and she can feel all of that autumn air creeping up upon her and they're perfect for each other but tomorrow brings a new day. Maybe she'll hate herself, hate him, maybe she won't but she cherishes this 'right now'. There are buses on the street outside, hustle and bustle from the quarters downstairs but all is still two flights up. She and he and the city below and all is still, static.
If she wanted to think right now, if she wanted to think right now, she probably could, but it's so easy not to, looking at him. There's that forever that she doesn't acknowledge she's been grasping at around the cusp of her blurry vision. Elliot Stabler is in front of her, falling asleep but fighting to stay awake so that he doesn't break their gaze.
It's everything.
She can't keep him, but will forever hold this image of him, stilling all of her thoughts, helping her find peace on this July night.