Work Text:
It is his fault.
The race of her heart in her chest as the muscle strains to push enough blood to her extremities. He’s the reason her breath is steady, her muscles tense. He’s the reason for the ounce of fight that is holding on by a thread — a flutter of her heart, really. She can’t help but notice the way the aches in her shoulders dissipate at the mention of him: the acknowledgement that he is the one on her mind. She wonders if Lewis notices.
And in this particular moment she considers what would have been two years ago. How she’d go back and guarantee the darkness would dissipate for him if it meant that he’d hold on and walk back into work. If she’d only forced the issue and used the fire of loyalty against IAB to demand he return. But it hadn’t been IAB, and it hadn’t been Cragen either. It had just been the time. Now, she’d do anything she could to turn those hands of time; she’d put his despair and everything else that he felt on her back and climb the mountains for him if it meant that he’d just come back. If it meant that he’d barrel through that door taking everything in his path with him into the far wall.
She’d take back the 20 plus calls she made, the flash of her headlights on his front door if it meant that those particular calloused hands would break the chain between her cuffs and lift her into a secure embrace.
It is his fault…
That she is so weak. That the ability to negotiate falls flat because there’s not someone there to bounce clever scenarios off of. That taunting her is easy and grates her nerves in all the right ways, until she’s pleading with herself aloud for it to stop. That the clarity is in her posture, the shake of her head, the absent-minded pleas for that strained voice to be silent all make it obvious that the nail had been hit with direct force, the proper nerve struck. There is a current person of significance, but he can’t be kidnapped and tortured alongside her, and that is keeping her alive. How easy it is for this man to catch on and play that string until it snaps — teasing her, baiting her, weakening her because she could never be what he is. She could never be able to do the things she claims and admits aloud that Elliot could do.
It is his fault…
That a feral cry boils over as the bar comes down against flesh and bone, splitting and fracturing. The same way her soul does because had her partner not left, disappeared, she wouldn’t be here. Or at least, days wouldn’t have passed. The sun wouldn’t be sliding down with the intention of rising on another day of torture. A broken wrist wouldn’t be flexing as it braced for impact on each downward stroke. Vocal chords wouldn’t be straining with the power of a scream fueled by adrenaline and pure rage.
It is his fault…
When her muscles don’t seize with regret. She considers then that if she knew his current whereabouts, she’d force her muscles to have enough energy to run or swim the miles so that he knows she did it. She did it without him. And the others that replaced him had fallen flat the way she told him for years they would if either one of them had decided that enough was enough. The uncontrollable rage, unrecognizable power that floods her senses in a sick sense of absolution. It’s all him and her. But it’s still his fault.
It is his fault…
That she jerks away as Amaro reaches for her in comfort, slipping an NYPD jacket over her shoulders as if that’ll hide the reality of her suffering. Her stare is blank and her vocal chords are still with the lack of words. Not even a lie because of all the things Elliot had taught her, it was that consequences can be saved for later. Slowly, she’s losing her thoughts, and everything is numb. It all races together, and the hope that he’d appear from the back of one of the squad cars and run to her dissipates. Frantic and fearful, angry and resentful as others stare. It’s him as her hands shake in the back of a bus, and there’s refusal to answer any questions that would potentially save the life she had been clinging to for the better part of four days. So she sits there on a thin gurney and tries to piece together what is broken; realizes that now they’re both covered in the same darkness. One last time, her eyes slip closed on a prayer that he comes back. If only to shine a minuscule light on her darkness. The way she did so many times for him.
It is his fault…
That every relationship has failed or has been held back with a grudge and conditions that can hardly be considered reasonable. It is the presence of those consequences that has her begging for a sign, a challenge if it means getting it all back. She’ll relive it all if it means he knows he is the reason for everything. That she survives and that she has the will to push through circumstances set against her. That she can stay awake all hours because there is hope and expectation that middle-of-the-night coffee and company would be knocking on her door. He is the reason for the disappointment in their eyes when they realized there is no other explanation; they just weren’t him. He is the reason for the devastation settling in her bones when time continues to pass on and the truth begins to fill the void.
It is her fault…
That he is on a high enough pedestal that nothing will ever reach him. That she’s lost herself and her own capabilities. That the independence she has fought for as a child, teen, young adult has seemingly vanished. That nothing and no one is ever good enough, and that perfect matches no longer exist because Elliot’s being, his very presence — mental or physical — has overpowered her entire authority over herself.
It is her fault…
Her distrust from new colleagues: how they tiptoe and skirt around her, how the pity radiates across desks and seeps through text messages. It is her fault, because she refused to move on, and eventually when the outside anger sets in, that will be her fault too, because there was refusal to readjust and give chances — as if petulance is the way to go — but they still come for her, and they still hold her with grace and respect and still exhaust the resources.
It is no one’s fault.
Finally, it’s an acknowledgement of accountability that she cannot fix what isn’t technically broken but just cracked.
It is no one’s fault that time had come to take what it was owed, and it had meant the collateral would be her feelings. It had not been her doing or his doing: the events that transpired were the fault of the perpetrator, and whether or not Elliot had been around, likely would have unfolded either way. The beauty and ugliness of time is that. It cannot be predicted, reset, or even answered for. It can bring forth realization, and in this instance it is simple. He can be the reason for her tears and how she misses him; she alone is allowed to be the reason that she survived and won, and time can be the reason for all of it. Time is a harrowing and vindictive thing, but it doubles back and heals, making things come to light with beauty and grace. And that’s where she is now. Like the stages of grief, time too has a way of blaming and reconciling.
Complete.