Chapter Text
But if I know you, I know what you'll do
You'll love me at once
The way you did once upon a dream
~Sleeping Beauty, 1959
A/N: Post-ep for OC 2x14, with some canon divergence. Little bit of a different take here. I actually did write the end of this to Once Upon A Dream, the Lana Del Rey version.
Olivia has to read the text message several times before she’s fully absorbed it.
‘Angela drove them into the river. It’s over. Be home in an hour.’
Jesus christ.
Another text, seconds after that one.
‘Mama okay?’
She glances up at his mother, sound asleep across the room.
‘Sleeping. Take your time.’
Pulling in a breath, she blows it out slowly and sinks a little further into her chair, rubbing her hands over her face. She eyes Bernie for a few seconds, and then gets up to tuck the elderly woman a little further under her quilt, tiptoeing carefully out of the room.
She’s still having trouble comprehending that Wheatley had gone after his mother, that he’d turned out to be every bit as dangerous as Elliot’s always believed. She’d known he was diabolical, a true sociopath, but it’s a special brand of evil to deliberately traumatize a woman in her late eighties.
For the first time since he’s been back in her life, she feels guilty. She feels guilty for not believing him, not seeing his crusade for what it actually was…instinct. His gut’s been screaming at him for months, and she’s been blowing him off since Christmas. She’s been telling him to try and gain some perspective, siding with Bell when she’s told him to stand down. She hasn’t taken him seriously enough. Every text message, the handful of phone calls they’ve exchanged…never once, had she entertained the possibility that he might be completely justified.
Until the power grid went down.
Until he’d called, and tried to tell her to stay somewhere safe, that Wheatley was behind it all and she could be targeted.
She hadn’t listened, of course, she’d reported for duty to coordinate with all of the other CO’s, to keep the city as safe as possible. She’d let Noah go to Fin’s for their monthly boys’ night, figuring that even if something were to happen its better he’s out of harm’s way. There isn’t one other person she trusts to protect her child more than Fin, not one he shares mutual trust with.
She’d been settling onto the couch adjacent to her office, intent on closing her eyes for ten minutes, when he’d called.
‘Liv?’
The shake in his voice made her shoot up straight, and sent a shiver through her.
‘What’s wrong?’
That’s when he’d told her.
That Wheatley had targeted Bernie, kidnapped her…but he’d found her unharmed.
He’d started to ramble.
‘I need her safe, I need her to let someone take her home and she won’t go, she’s shaking, and crying, and she won’t go anywhere without me. I asked her who she would go with and she said—she said she’d go with my partner. She means you, Liv, and I know I ask you for too much, and I’m so, so sorry to call you like this, but I need—‘
‘Where are you?’
It’s not even a question in her mind.
It’s his mother.
She’d raced to the location he sent her, lights and sirens, and found them waiting for her. He’d been on the phone when she’d arrived, deep in negotiation, offering Bernie a kiss on the forehead as he’d delicately let Olivia switch places with him. After a few seconds of eye contact, a meaningful squeeze to her shoulder, he’d been off and running.
As soon as he’d gone, her attention had been fully focused on Bernie, using every soothing skill she’s learned over twenty-three years in Special Victims to calm her down. She’s not sure exactly why his mother trusts her so much, but just as she’d promised, she’d let Olivia take her home, flanked with three escorts.
‘They broke the door…’
His apartment is a little worse for the wear when they arrive, and Olivia apologetically asks a couple of the uniforms to do what they can in terms of securing the patio door.
‘Bernie, you should lay down, let me make you some tea—‘
‘Will you stay?’
‘Yes, of course I’ll stay. I’m not leaving.’
Eventually, she’d been able to get a rattled Bernie into her bed, after some tea and a few drops of lavender oil in the diffuser on her nightstand.
‘Honey, you stay for him, too. He’s gonna need help seeing that this isn’t his fault.’
Olivia had swallowed hard, and nodded, patted her hand reassuringly and settled into the chair in the corner, intent on staying until she’d fallen asleep.
She’s still turning those words over now, laying on his couch, one ear tuned toward Bernie’s bedroom in case she stirs.
This isn’t his fault.
None of this, is his fault.
He was targeted, his wife was murdered, and everything he’s done since then has been a direct result of that trauma. He’s been coping in the best and worst ways he knows how, and who is she to fault him for that? She’s been traumatized, and she’s coped extraordinarily well, by any measure…but they’re different people. They’ve had different things inform the way they process the world, just like any other two people in one another’s orbit, and she can’t expect his healing to be linear.
It’s not his fault that he was targeted.
It’s certainly not his fault that his wife, and his son, and now his mother, have been targeted.
She thinks Bernie’s probably right in thinking he doesn’t know that…the guilt is eating him alive.
Why hasn’t she seen that? Why hasn’t she told him?
Her phone chirps and she holds it up immediately, opening a text from Ayanna. It’s a Twitter link, and her heart sinks at the message that accompanies it.
‘Context. From one partner to another.’
It’s something she needs to know about, she realizes, more explanation for what’s going on in his head tonight.
‘I’ve shot ten people while hiding behind my badge’
She blinks, leans in, feels short of breath.
‘I’m guilty of misconduct’
Oh…oh, god.
She can barely hear it, but there’s another voice in the video, echoing his…no, not echoing…coaching, ordering; Wheatley, telling him what to say. She feels sick and closes her eyes, clicks away from the video so she doesn’t have to hear any more. Wheatley’s been manipulative this entire time, but this—it makes her ache to see him.
Even though they’re out of sync, maybe more than she’s realized, she still knows him, and he needs someone to know him, tonight.
She settles onto the couch to wait, tries to read some emails, gets up and starts to pace when that doesn’t work. Wandering over to the door, she smirks fondly at the patch job the unis have done, which consists of several layers of duct and caution tape. He’ll love that.
Half an hour later, she’s moved onto a stool at the island, and she’s starting to get antsy, wondering if she should text him again.
But, not even a minute later the front door opens and he strides through it, looking around.
“She okay?” he breathes, meeting her in the middle of the living room.
She reaches out to rest her hand on his shoulder, already trying to settle him. “She’s been sleeping. Go check.”
He nods, a little breathless, and disappears down the hallway. She decides not to follow him, to give him a chance to calm down in private, and she sinks down onto the couch to wait. He comes back after a moment, looking visibly exhausted, glancing at her before he sits at the other end of the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees.
“Still asleep?”
He nods slowly, pulling his hat off and rubbing the back of his neck. When he looks over at her his eyes are glassy and sincere, emotion flooding his face.
“Yeah. She’s okay. Thank you.”
Her chest tightens, and she shakes her head a little. “Of course.”
He turns away, and they lapse into silence while he takes a few breaths, slowly calming himself.
She can feel him thinking, can see the way his thoughts are racing, so fast that he’s not actually able to express any of them. He gets this way sometimes, when things are complicated, and overwhelming. He just gets quiet, buried under the deluge.
He needs someone to know him.
“You can go.”
She looks over at his words, blinking. “What?”
He takes a breath, lips parted. “Liv, you’ve done more than enough. More than I deserve. I don’t want to keep you.”
In this moment, she’s tired of the baggage sitting between them. Tired of talking in codes and riddles, and tiptoeing around their relationship like she doesn’t know him better than he knows himself, like they don’t know how to do this. They used to be honest. They used to be able to talk, and yell, and bang into each other without fear, knowing the bruises weren’t permanent.
She knows him.
“Is that what you want? You want me to leave?” she murmurs, turning her body to face him.
He takes a breath, words still clogged and stuck. “I—I don’t want you to feel obligated—“
“—that’s not what I asked you,” she interrupts, gently, drawing him into her gaze, “I asked if you want me to go. Do you?”
He stares at her for a moment, like he can’t quite figure her out, like he thinks she’s testing him. But the second he feels it, she sees his eyes change; they flood with familiarity, with trust and a cautious warmth. He doesn’t believe it yet, that they can erase ten years apart, and they can’t, not really. What they can do, she realizes, is stop bullshitting each other. They can stop trying to do the right thing, to do this the right way.
Even before he speaks, he’s shaking his head slowly, still looking into her eyes. “No. I don’t want you to go.”
“Ask me if I want to leave,” she says quietly, tipping her head, “Ask me what I want.”
He swallows, like he’s bracing himself. “Do you want to go?”
She doesn’t make him wait for an answer.
“No,” she breathes, soft and easy, “I don’t.”
“Okay,” he whispers, finally breaking their eye contact.
He slumps a little, drawing his fingers back and forth across his forehead; she can see the cracks, now. She gets up and comes to his side of the couch, sits down right beside him, and draws her palm up and down his back. He’s warm and solid there, and she has the sudden urge to press her cheek between his shoulder blades, to know what it would be like.
“The only way this thing works,” she starts quietly, “Is if you tell me what you want, and I tell you what I want. And, sometimes we’ll be able to give, and sometimes we won’t. But…I have to know what you want. We used to be able to talk. We have to...figure out how to get back there.”
He’s nodding as she talks, hands folded into a prayer position, thumbs pressed against his mouth. When he leans into her a little, she lets her hand drop and presses her shoulder against his. The muscle memory is instant, and she closes her eyes, letting it soak into her body. It feels like the entire room exhales when they’re like this, like nothing can touch them. She feels some of the tension drain out of him, knows he’s feeling the same comfort.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” she murmurs, eyes still closed.
He shakes his head. “No. Bourbon.”
She exhales slowly, pats his knee, and gets up to pour it; two glasses, so he doesn’t have to drink alone. He shrugs out of his jacket while she’s up, lets it bunch up on the couch behind him, and when she comes back his palms are pressed into his eyelids.
“Here,” she offers, nudging the glass into his hand, and then sinking back down at his side.
He takes the glass, takes a long sip, and exhales heavily. As she takes her own sip, she can feel it hit his system, feels the change in his energy, his posture. But he doesn’t say anything, and she settles into the silence with him, keeping her shoulder pressed against his. If he wants her here, and he wants silence, tonight, she can give him that. They’ve spent so much of their time together in silence, that all these years later it still feels comfortable, and soothing.
But, she wonders if silence is what’s best for him right now. He’s deep in his own head, she can see it, and she’s not sure how long to let him stay there.
“I’m sorry.”
He inhales, and turns his head to look at her, confused. “Why?”
“For,” she sighs, drinks the bourbon, “For not having your back. For not…listening. I saw this taking hold of you and I just, couldn’t go there. But I should’ve.”
“That’s not your fault,” he says quietly, shaking his head, “You have your own life, you have a kid, your own cases—I told you I wanted to find balance, and I haven’t been able to yet. I did the opposite of what I said I was gonna do.”
She smirks, huffs out a breath, musing. “We’re really nailing this whole ‘friendship’ thing.”
He bumps her shoulder a little, affectionate, and she can see his cheeks lift. She glances at him when he takes a breath, like he wants to say something, but it takes him a minute.
“It just hurts,” he manages, soft and raspy, not looking at her, “It hurts when I mess up with you. Because I missed you so much, and I just wanna do this right, because you’re everything. You always were. So, sometimes I just, don't.”
It’s not what she expects him to say, and her eyes burn as they flood with tears.
She reaches for his hand, and he meets her eyes when she laces their fingers together, lips parting when he sees her face.
“I didn’t—“
“Don’t, do that,” she breathes, shaking her head, “Don’t stay away because it’s not perfect. That’s not what I want. You’re not messing up with me.”
It’s the most vulnerable she’s seen him, when she says that, and the way his face falls open brings fresh tears.
“No?” he asks, looking down at their hands, “Sure feels like it. Feels like I destroy everything I touch.”
She sets her glass down on the coffee table, takes his and does the same, and reaches for his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her. He does, for a second, but his eyes are red now, too, and he closes them, leans into her touch against his cheek.
“None of this is your fault,” she soothes, rubbing her thumb against his skin, “Not a single piece of it.”
He exhales like he’s needed to hear that for a year, even if he doesn’t completely believe it yet. Grasping her wrist, he turns into her palm and rests his lips there, nodding a little; it makes her shiver. It feels good, touching him like this, feeling the warmth of his skin. His eyes are wet, and she uses her thumb to wipe it away, tracing his dark circles.
“I hurt you,” he rasps, tucking the words into her palm, for her to keep.
She breathes slowly, swallows. “Yes.”
He’s raw. Cracked open. “I didn’t know what else to do. I never want to hurt you again.”
“I know that,” she whispers, breath high in her chest as his stubble rubs against her palm.
She feels it everywhere, her entire body prickling with the awareness of him. It’s a lot, almost too much right now, but she forces herself to breathe and stay with him, like stretching through a sore muscle.
She won’t run.
Slowly, they both relax as the intensity of the moment passes, and her breaths start to come easier.
She sighs quietly as he nuzzles her wrist. “You need sleep. When’s the last time you slept?”
“I don’t even know what day it is,” he admits, gently pulling their hands into his lap, rubbing soft patterns against her skin.
“You should sleep,” she repeats softly, sliding her fingers through his.
He closes his eyes, brows furrowing, and she watches him wrestle with his thoughts again.
She encourages him, rubbing her thumb against his wrist. “Tell me. What do you want?”
“I want you to stay,” he exhales in a rush, “Not to—I just wanna be with you. I wanna be near you.”
It’s honest, and it takes her breath away because it’s all she’s wanted for the past year too, but hasn’t been able to admit it to herself, or to him. Even when she’s been shocked, or angry, or hurt, there’s still always a part of her that just…wants him, wants him nearby, brooding or cracking wise or saying nothing at all. They’ve spent days together, working, napping in shifts, and even when they’ve gotten cranky and snippy, she’s never wanted him gone. She wants him near her, always.
Instead of answering, she slowly stands up and lets her hand slip through his, grasping and gently pulling him up.
It surprises her when they move with ease around his room.
She’s nervous, can tell he is too, but it doesn’t translate into their ability to dance around each other. He gives her some of his clothes, joggers and a tee shirt, disappears and comes back with a spare toothbrush.
He asks if she minds if he sleeps in his underwear.
She doesn’t.
And then they’re standing at the foot of his bed.
“You have a side?” she asks quietly, gesturing.
He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his neck. “Not really. Not anymore.”
That hits her, for some reason. Surely, there had been ‘sides’ to his marital bed. Even without being married, in her own relationships, they’ve chosen sides. It just makes sense, to know where you’re going to sleep, to have the things you might need in the night in the same place. A book, in-progress, or some water.
Melatonin.
Hand cream.
Chapstick.
He doesn’t even know where to sleep, after forty years.
She swallows hard, and picks the side closest to her, leaving him to walk around to the other. Unceremoniously, she draws the covers back and climbs in, feels the mattress move when he does the same, switching the light off. There’s some rustling around as they settle, but she already knows how she wants to sleep, and there’s purpose to her movements. She slides closer and turns her back to him, reaches for his arm, and he easily presses in behind her, like this is exactly what he’s wanted, too.
At first, they’re tense, because it’s so new.
But, little by little, they relax in waves.
She lets her body settle fully into his, her back against his chest, her ass nestled into his lap. His arm grows heavier around her waist, breaths slowing and deepening, as they realize how needed, this is. It goes on, until they’re so relaxed they could be asleep; the only indication that he isn’t, is the soothing back and forth movement of his thumb against her ribs.
Sleep is coming, though, and she knows it will be deep, and decadent. She feels warm and safe, here with him, and for the first time all night she’s not analyzing it, she’s just enjoying it.
His lips part against her hair, and when he speaks his voice is low and soft.
“I’m afraid to want…this. You.”
He’s just checking. Making sure he’s not alone.
“Me too,” she whispers, there with him.
It’s the most familiar moment they’ve shared, sitting in fear together. It’s what they know best. She can walk into anything, afraid, uncertain, as long as he’s at her side.
This is no different.
They’re no different.
With that knowledge, they sleep.
A/N: Thank you for reading!