Fields of Gold

Monster. That's all you can think as you stand outside after everyone else has made their excuses, giving you space. You are trying to dodge any lingering press, trying to fade into the white steps, the clear blue sky, the background. They are like leeches, but you don't draw much attention as Barba gets his moment of glory. You are grateful for the icy wind that chills you, a change from the stale air of the packed courtroom. You can barely feel your face anymore. Everything would be easier if you could just disappear. Monster, monster, monster. He has been found guilty –on some of the charges, anyway- he will go away for a very long time, hopefully for the rest of his life. He can't reach her anymore. He can't hurt her anymore. When it came down to it, the jury believed her – partly. This should come as an enormous relief. The certainty should lift the weight that has been pressing down on your chest. It should be freedom. And yet, more than anything, it brings the sobering certainty that you will never be free. You feel angrier now than ever. "Serious reservations" about her conduct? Seriously?! Lewis played the forewoman, and he will never, ever stop. He turned the trial into a media circus, and you are not so sure he actually cared much about the verdict, as long as he got one more chance to hurt Liv. There is no real justice; there can be no justice for this. No punishment that will ever make up for what he did to her. It is only a half justice that keeps him locked away, a half denial of the truth, a lukewarm response to the most horrific crimes you can imagine.

And you don't know how to stop imagining. "He left a trail of her blood all over the various crime scenes." Hearing the closing arguments, even finding out only the gruesome highlights of everything he put her through, gives things a shape of sorts. It's not like you had no clue before. You saw the scars; you couldn't escape the details that got leaked to the news. But you find yourself re-evaluating tiny little situations between you two now, thinking "oh, maybe that's where that came from", wondering about the things you still don't know. In a way, knowing certain details, but then not knowing the full story, not knowing it in her words, doesn't bring the peace of mind you had hoped it would. It just makes every little encounter of the past half year that much more disturbing. Why she pulled her gun on you. Why you never go places where there could be smokers around. Why she went off on you every time you tried to help her with something, even when she was injured. Why she doesn't trust, even you. There is a context to everything now, at least that's what you tell yourself. That should make it easier, in time. Eventually. One day.

But she can't let you in, and you can't let her see how knowing changes things for you, because then she would have been right about not telling you things. You need to have a shot at normality now, other things to focus on. You know you will, since it's not like you will really talk about all of this. Still, you wish that before that return to the uncertain future, you could acknowledge what happened for the briefest of moments and grieve for the past you have lost. Have a resolution of some sort, like a burial. You truly understand that she needs space, but as the "minute" she asked for turns into twenty, the yearning to be there with her in that moment becomes almost unbearable. It is that toxic mixture of frustration and pent-up anxiety when you don't know where she is and your mind plays through horror scenarios. (Pretty hypocritical, you know, since you take off on UC assignments and become hard to reach all the time. She has pointed this out. More than once.) And you are just as much in the dark as ever, because knowing what you know now still doesn't tell you if you should go look for her or not. It doesn't give you a timeframe to go on. It doesn't tell you a damn thing.

Because there is no timeframe. There are only situations, bit for bit, day by day and sometimes, things will be easier, and sometimes, they will be unbearably hard. But then you remember the good times, the post-Lewis moments of happiness and light, the night you celebrated your promotions, the way she teased you about your new collection of ties, unpacking boxes, the feeling of her skin against yours. You make yourself remember. These things are facts, hard evidence of potential. And all the times before: the little boat you took out to that island, the way she said she wasn't the same person anymore, that time she decided to return the favour and cook for you and it turned out absolutely awful. The memory of these little things made you want to stay, even when you didn't know what to say or do. You tend to live from moment to moment, because it's easier that way. And these small moments add up.

You can't give up, because when you are done fighting windmills, there is still hope. Sometimes, you even catch yourself imagining moments that aren't real (yet) but that could be a year, two years, five years from now. You certainly don't imagine the alternative, so that has to be a good thing, right? As long as she feels the same way and isn't only staying with you out of fear, but you really haven't had any room to figure that out. You need a break of sorts, some space. You need to not say things you will regret later. You need to not hang on to each other for dear life and figure out a routine. You need to try to figure out not being together, so you can be together. Maybe you'll go away for a while. These are the thoughts at the forefront of your mind as you wait. Thoughts of how things will (might, could, should) be different now. They are bound to be, right? (It is easier to think about this than to keep seeing Lewis' smirk.)

When she finally texts you [Emergency exit K], it is almost too easy to melt away and make your way to the one-way fire door that Barba casually mentioned once as having a faulty alarm, adding that of course, misusing it would still be strictly against protocol. You get the sense that this "faulty" alarm has not been fixed on purpose, and perhaps the little courtyard around the back that isn't actually that secure is a smokers' refuge. You've pulled nightshifts in the Bronx, you know how it is. Still, they should fix that door. Why can't anything ever work the way it's supposed to? The world seems to be full of these beautiful broken things, and it's wearing you out.

In this case, the brokenness is a blessing. She is standing beside the dirty wall, typing something on her phone, and barely glances up at your approach, as if that could hide the redness in her eyes. Before you can open your mouth, she sets off at a brisk pace, walking one step ahead of you. She couldn't be making herself clearer if she were holding a gigantic, neon-coloured "don't talk to me" sign. That's cool by you. There is nothing more to say, anyway, and you're a little tired of playing this "I'm fine, you're fine, we're fine" game of yours when she is clearly not. And you…well. That's secondary now.

"Right is better, I think." You gesture at the back. It will take you longer to get home this way, but you may be able to avoid the brunt of the media attention.

She slows down a little as you step out onto the main road, wary of any potential journalists, but the sidewalk is still remarkably empty as it has been these past couple of days, since you have broken a 116 year record of low temperatures. The brutal cold has eased up by now, however, and as you glance up, you see contrails gracing the rapidly darkening sky. It will warm up soon. After waiting outside for all this time, nothing sounds as good as hiding under a comforter.

You turn a corner, and as the sidewalk narrows where you have to pass underneath some empty scaffolding, she slips her gloved hand into yours. She doesn't let go even after you've left the construction site, and although she still won't look at you, it's a contact of some sort.

"You okay?" you ask under your breath.

She instantly tenses up, stopping in her tracks, and you regret the loaded question. Maybe you are just too used to hearing "fine" to expect her to actually answer. "I…it's just been…a lot."

"A long trial."

"Yeah. It was harder than I…" She shakes her head as her voice falters, resuming her walk.

"I know."

"I will be, though…okay."

You squeeze her fingers. "Yeah. You will be."

In a little while, you will be home. You will walk back in silence through the neighbourhood that is forever trying to improve itself despite the glamorous façade it has had all along, sprouting new yoga studios and antique stores. It's not you, not at all, but you thought that maybe, you would have a life here, that the optimism would rub off on you. But who can tell what happens behind the nice fronts when the paint begins to chip?

Tomorrow will be the first day "after", an after that will stretch on into all eternity. And you will keep your promise.

~*~The End~*~