Failure to Thrive

Rated M for content and language.

They are not mine but I was compelled to do this…

Thanks for reading, comments are encouraged and appreciated.

She sits in the corner of her sofa staring at the blank television screen. She doesn't turn it on, doesn't want to hear it. She is too full of noise already. An ambulance in the distance makes her squeeze her eyes shut. She covers her ears to keep herself from screaming. It's a long time before she releases them and continues staring at the black screen again. She tightens her robe around her body. She had showered as soon as she got home. There was blood on her hands and clothes. Her blood, his wife's blood and his son's blood, Elliot's unholy trinity of guilt, responsibility and need. She scrubbed until her skin was angry red from the effort and the scalding water. She would never be clean enough to begin again. She couldn't even remember what it felt like to be new.

At first she thought it had been a day about giving. Pieces of herself had to be handed out until there was nothing left. Still, the chaos and crisis continued to crash around her, taking more, demanding more. She kept giving until every hope, every dream, every single thought of him had been handed back to his wife. She can't think about him anymore. She can't talk to him. She can't look at him. In the moment that she held his naked squirming newborn son and the shrieking alarm of his wife's flat line status filled her ears, she knew. Death would be the only way out for him now, until death do us part. He's tied to her forever, to them. He has always belonged to them. She couldn't breathe but the baby started to cry and she grabbed the emergency blanket to try and keep him warm. She turned him into her shoulder so he wouldn't see his mother die. She watched them fight to save her, gripped with a fear that outweighed her entire existence. They had her back before the ambulance hit the hospital bay. Elliot's son was squirming, trying to suck against her neck. She couldn't be what he needed.

When she was in the car Cragen had handed her the phone, I love you, I love you too. It was an accident but the sound was reality crashing in, her heart twisting into a mangled unrecognizable ruin, her soul splintering and shattering into a million shiny pieces in the street. The glass and the metal were nothing. Sooth his wife. Calm his wife. Save his wife. Comfort his wife. Help her deliver his child. Listen to him say he loves her. Devastated. Destroyed. Totaled.

She can still hear the sound of the monitor in her ears. She can still see the flat bright green line behind her eyes. She wonders if it's her body trying to tell her that her own heart has stopped beating. She wonders if it will ever beat again.

She followed the gurney through a maze of turns to a room. The nurse kept guiding her but didn't offer to take the child. They kept them all moving, moving, moving. All she wanted to do was lie down. A woman came in wearing gloves with sterile gear and took the baby from her. It left her with nothing to do with her hands. They asked her questions about his wife but she didn't have many answers. She knew the doctors name because they had been on their way to an appointment. Her legs folded beneath her and she sat down. They wanted to help her, to examine her for injuries. The doctor explained that sometimes you didn't realize you were hurt until later. They spoke to her softly like she did to victims. She almost burst out laughing at the absurdity of it. Hurt at the scene? Yes, she was hurt. Fatally injured. Couldn't they hear the monitor? It was already too late. She directed them to his wife, to his child, to the living. She sat and waited. Time was not measurable here. Everything was florescent lights reflected into shiny floors. There were no shadows moving to mark the rise and fall of the day. So she just waited without knowing for how long.

When he came through the door at the end of the hall she jumped to her feet, his name bursting from her lips in relief. She reached out and just as quickly snatched her hand back, cursing the reflex. He looked at her as he passed into his wife's room. She sat back down heavily. She wanted to leave but she knew if he came out and found her gone, he would come find her. She needed this to be completely finished.

He was back before she had time to prepare herself. He walked out and she asked him how the baby was doing. She couldn't call the child his son. She couldn't ask about his wife. He smiled a beautiful smile at the mention of the baby. She tried to smile back. Elliot had been there when the seed was planted and she had been there when the child was born. The sharp irony sliced through her. Yes doctor, the injuries are definitely fatal. He started to walk past her and then grabbed her wrist and spun into her. She was all at once shocked, comforted and terrified. He whispered that she was okay. He thought it was a tangible truth. She knew it was an abject lie.

Since he had never hugged her before that in itself felt strange. Not once in all the years they had been together. Not when her throat was slashed, not after Gitano, not even when her mother died. Not once in celebration or comfort. It seemed almost impossible after everything they'd been through together that they never turned to each other. It was very careful planning. She couldn't think with the scent of him still on her so she started to walk. His wife told him she wants to name the baby after him. It strikes her as odd. Why not his first son? She didn't voice her question; she made a crack instead and then left as fast as she could. He said he would see her later. She just said good-bye.

She tried to wait until she got home but the force of holding on caused her to tremble. Her cell phone rang three times. It was Cragen asking why she wasn't seen at the hospital. She told him the doctor saw her upstairs. It was at least partially true. She said she was going to take a couple days off. They told her she would be sore tomorrow and she should probably rest. He had accepted it without hesitation and she quickly got off the phone. Her phone rang twice more, Lake and Stabler. She didn't answer either one. The trembling became a steady shaking, a crumbling reservoir ready to blow. She made it inside the door of her apartment but the tears were coming even as she stripped to get into the shower. The blood on her shirt was crusted against her skin. She felt herself breaking, being crushed as surely as if the car had folded in on her. Crushed by their past, by the events of today and by everything she now knows they will never be to one another. She'd run but there isn't even anywhere for her to go. The water stings and burns as it pelts against her and runs over the small cuts she didn't even know she had. She had started to scrub then, punishing and cleansing herself with every stroke. She sobbed until she couldn't breathe, until she had to step out and throw up from the force of it. She sat on the floor for a long time before pulling on her robe

It's dark outside now and she hasn't moved. She isn't hungry or thirsty but she thinks about getting up and getting a glass of wine. The idea stays in her head but her body still doesn't move. She wants to quiet the noise in her head, stop the scenes that flash on every surface when she steadies her gaze. She wonders when she let her control slip, when her feelings for him grew into such an unmanageable beast. She knows she has only herself to blame. She fed that beast with every smile he gave her, every soft word and piercing glance. The ache in her chest swells painfully and fresh tears spill onto her cheeks. She reaches for the tissue to blow her nose and tries to gather a deep breath.

She watched his child come into this world, encouraged his wife to push and laughed over the sheer joy of the birth. It was a remarkable experience but it cost her everything and then some. His child was real, was here and was waiting to meet his father. It was no longer a vague reference about his pregnant wife. She keeps the images in her head, replays the scene over and over, punishing herself for believing. She pictures him making love to his wife, creating that child until her breath is hitching so hard she thinks she's going to throw up again. She runs to the bathroom and empties what little was left from her stomach. The acidy bile burns her throat but other than noting it she doesn't really care. She rinses her mouth and brushes her teeth. Her reflection in the mirror is a woman she does not know and would never wish to meet. Her eyes are swollen from crying, her face is puffy, her nose is red and a purple bruise has started to show on her jaw and in her hairline. She doesn't remember hitting her head but thinking about it now she must have because she woke up in the car. She touches the spot and is surprised by the pain and the swelling. It's basically hidden by her hair so she drops her bangs back over it. She probably has a concussion. She'll have to stay awake which almost makes her laugh because she's a long way from sleep. Maybe days away. She wipes her face with a cool cloth and goes to the kitchen.

One glass of wine won't kill her and even if it does right now the risk is worth it. She pours a large glass of red and heads back to her perch on the couch. She's going to have to transfer, for good this time. She can't be near him everyday and be able to shut this down. She'll get a new partner, get used to a new partner. Maybe Cragen will let her work with Lake or Fin until she decides where she wants to go. She curls her hand into a fist and pounds it into her knee. GOD DAMN IT! She should never have started spending more time with him after the separation. She knew it was a mistake. All the red flags were there waving furiously in the wind and she just ignored them. The screaming and crashing in her head picks up in volume and she closes her eyes. FUCK! Her head throbs and a wave of nausea washes through her.

She jumps when he knocks on the door. She sits perfectly still and waits for him to leave. Her phone starts ringing again but she doesn't reach for it. She knows it's him and she isn't answering. The last time she completely ignored him she had just ended a man's life. This time she had witnessed a life begin. She's being fucked harder by irony tonight than any man she has ever known. The knocking begins again, grows into a persistent pounding. Nothing in her moves to answer. She pulls her knees tighter against her and listens to him call her name until a neighbor yells at him to knock it off. His fist slams hard into the door, more from frustration than anything at that point. She drags her fingers over the material of her robe and watches as her fingertips move up and down over the soft terrain. She knows how he looks, can see his lips pulled into a tight line and his jaw flexing in anger. His eyes are dark with confusion and hurt. He hates being locked out and not knowing what's happening. She thinks it's too fucking bad. He has no right to be here. He has a home. He has a family. She hates him. God how she wishes she could hate him.

She finally hears his departing steps and begins to breathe again. She wishes she had never left Oregon. It was easier to just miss him. Her chest heaves again and she tries to hold her breath. She swipes out her arm, sending her lamp crashing into the wall. It shatters gloriously, sending fragments in every direction but it doesn't help. The sob rips from her anyway. She turns her face into the pillow to muffle the agonizing wail that claws its way out. She thinks this must be what it feels like to die.

On the other side of the door Elliot stands frozen. He heard the breaking glass and then the most horrible sound. It was more than crying, it was the sound of someone in immeasurable pain. He couldn't imagine it, had never heard anything quite like it. He has never heard anything like it that sounded like her. His heart twists in his chest as though someone is squeezing it, trying to make it burst. He wants to go in, to just bust down the door and go in and pull her up against him. Something went very wrong for her today and he doesn't know what. Suddenly he's afraid, petrified by the realization that he had something to do with the way she sounds. He can't breathe. The air in the hallway is all at once hot and pressing against him. He has to get out of the building. His feet feel heavy, weighted to the floor as though gravity itself is fighting his urge to flee. He's a bastard and he's proven it to himself by standing here because part of him is fascinated by this part of her he doesn't know. He's never heard her cry. He hears the sobbing continue and can picture her now, the image searing into him, branding him with the agony of the moment. He presses his palm to the door once before slowly moving away. He has never in his life felt so helpless. He swipes at the tear on his cheek and looks at his damp fingertip. He's startled by all the extreme emotions that have rocked him in this one day. He needs air.

Once outside he fills his lungs, dragging deeply as though he were coming up from a long dive under water. He has to talk to her, to find out what happened to her. He sits in the car for a while contemplating whether to go back up or to wait until morning. He knows she won't let him in while she's crying. He calms himself by rationalizing that maybe sheer exhaustion will buy her some sleep. There's a hollow ache within him. He feels like someone has reached in and carved some essential part of him out and walked away with it.

Olivia jerks her head up and her eyes pop open. She dozed for just a few moments, the images in her head raging to life in the nightmare. She sits up straight and her head throbs painfully. Her mouth and throat are dry and tight so she gets up to go to the kitchen but the room spins and tilts. She leans on the arm of the sofa for a minute. She wasn't supposed to fall asleep. She touches her head and the swelling has turned into a definite bump, a very tender bump. She slowly moves to the kitchen, rinses out her wine glass and puts it away. If she ends up unconscious on the floor she doesn't want them to think she's drunk. The words like my mother echo in her head and she pushes them away. She clutches the sink until her fingertips are white trying to will the nausea away and steady the room. She grabs a bottle of water and drops the ibuprofen into her pocket. She throws a handful of ice into a towel and heads back into the living room. She needs coffee but that's going to have to wait until everything stops moving quite so much.

She sits down and takes a drink before gently pressing the ice to her head. She feels the cool path of the water all the way to her stomach. She's thirsty but she's afraid if she drinks too much she'll throw up again. She places one foot on the floor to center herself and takes some slow deep breaths. Her neck and shoulders are stiff; her face feels generally swollen from crying. The darkness is dense enough to tell her she is still in the deepest part of the night.

The ice is just about gone and the front of her hair is soaking wet before she trusts her stomach enough to take the ibuprofen. She rests her head on the back cushion and folds the cold wet towel over her puffy eyes. She's a mess, emotionally, mentally and physically. She hurts in places and ways that will never heal. Her eyes sting and ache behind the cloth as they try to produce more tears. She's all cried out. She wants to sleep, to lay her weary body in her bed and sink far enough into the darkness that no images remain. She's tired of thinking but she can't make it stop. The scent of antifreeze, oil and blood seem to linger and she considers showering again even though she knows she's clean. She remembers a moment of quiet when she first opened her eyes. The only sound she heard was a hissing from the engine, beyond that it seemed all of New York was quiet. Maybe she had been somehow deafened by the wall of noise that slammed into her just seconds before. None of it makes sense. It's all jumbled up and tumbling through her, over and over.

She lifts her head and removes the washcloth, she feels a little better. Heading into the kitchen she stops to wash her hands. The soap feels slippery, like the body of his son. The baby squirmed and she had to clutch him with both hands, pull him against her own body still covered in the fluids from his mother. Light flickers in the water and she realizes that it will be dawn soon. The room is tightening its shadows as light begins to force its way in. Her phone rings. He's up early. She wonders if he ever went to bed and then curses herself for wondering anything at all. The phone finally stops ringing.

She needs to get out of here, to clear her head. She needs something that belongs only to her. She puts on coffee and goes to get dressed because she knows there is only one place she has to go.