Fic: Alphabet Meme Round One -- SVU
Jun. 1st, 2010 12:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
leigh573 down, 23 to go. Hoosh. R for language, if it matters. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
adrenalin211, thank you for the reassurance, the super-quick beta, and for listening to my insane London babble all day:)
P is for: popcorn. SVU; Elliot/Olivia, forlauridsen09 725 words
I is for: independent. SVU; Elliot/Olivia, forhollywdliz 813 words
W is for: waiting. SVU; Elliot/Kathy, forlowriseflare 617 words
*********************************************************
When she’s done puking by the stairs, reasonably confident that her stomach isn’t going to start up again, they get back in the car.
She chews the gum Elliot handed her – some sort of violent mint that isn’t necessarily improving her situation, but he meant well, so.
Despite his smartass comment about crying in baseball, she knows he’s worried. He keeps checking the mirrors as if the Church Lady might have appeared there since he looked two seconds ago. His eyes never rest in one spot for more than a beat, and the muscle in the side of his neck is tense, tight.
She wishes he’d give her a little more credit. She can take a punch, literal or figurative, and the fact that this case has gotten to her more than most doesn’t change that.
She snaps her gum, loud, the way she used to on the way to school to piss her mom off.
“You must be feeling better,” Elliot observes. His eyes are back on the road before she can turn her head. “You sound like Maureen.”
“I told you. I’m fine.”
She fiddles with her chapstick and turns on the radio. The volume is up so high she pushes her back into the seat in surprise. The Backstreet Boys croon, “I Want It That Way.”
“Didn’t know you were a fan.” She grins at him and snaps the gum again.
“Shut up.”
He makes a right without signaling, but she can see his shoulders beginning to relax.
“I got so sick of fighting with Maureen and Kathleen that I gave up.” He pauses, then smirks. “I had this fucking song stuck in my head for three days last week.”
Her stomach’s settling, and she tries to concentrate on the road – hum of the tires, shine of the taillights ahead – so her mind won’t replay the conversation that made her vomit.
Elliot reaches out and twists the volume button to the left. “We’ll get them,” he says, his voice low but filled with that cocky confidence she wishes she could purchase in the candy aisle at 7-11. She pictures it in a shiny package, next to the Snickers and Whatchamacallits.
“I know.” She snaps her gum one more time and turns the radio back up. Tapping her elbow into his arm, she adds, “It’s okay. I don’t hate this song either.”
“Better than that Eminem asshole.” He shakes his head and changes lanes too fast, but she can see the edge of his mouth tilt up.
_________________________
“If I don’t get some sleep soon I’m gonna throw up again,” she grumbles, rubbing her temple with ink-smudged fingers.
Elliot glances up, squinting. “Why don’t you grab a couple hours in the crib?”
He’s clicking the tip of his pen in that spastic way he does when he’s running on adrenaline, caffeine, and Munchkins. She sort of wants to hit him, but he looks pathetic. It would take too much energy anyway.
“Because if we work on this for two more hours, we’ll be done.” She takes a swig of her 7-Up, which is already going flat from sitting on her desk too long. The sugar leaves an aftertaste. She should have gotten diet.
“Weren’t you supposed to have dinner with that Bruce guy tonight?” Elliot taps a few keys and hits return more forcefully than necessary. “The one who writes operas?”
“He composes soundtracks, jackass.” She kicks him under the desk. “And yes, I was. I’m so glad I get to sit here and listen to you click your pen instead.” She tries to look pissed, but really, she’s just too tired.
He pushes out of his chair, the wheels squeaking as they spin. “I’ll be back in a second.”
“Can’t wait,” she mutters, flipping open the file in front of her and trying to bring the fuzzy letters into focus.
She’s been through three more files (still nothing) when she smells popcorn. Elliot sits down across from her and extends the bag, open but still steaming. “Peace offering,” he says, shooting her that obnoxious grin he knows will get him off the hook. “I’m sure Bruce is a great guy.”
“Thanks.” She stuffs a few kernels into her mouth and adds, “Also, bite me.”
Elliot laughs and settles back into his chair.
She notices he’s stopped clicking the pen.
*********************************************************
It’s one of those days when heat shimmers off the sidewalk in translucent waves before you have time to finish your coffee, which naturally means that the air conditioning in the bullpen is set to something like 55. Nonetheless, Elliot rolls up his sleeves before they head into Interrogation Two for a chat with the expensively dressed grey-haired businessman who happens to be their prime suspect in the rapes of four teenage girls.
Olivia notices the perp wears the same cologne one of her mom’s boyfriends used to wear, the one who listened to Elvis’s gospel records and always wanted to cook dinner at their apartment.
Elliot’s on the offensive from the second they walk in the door, kinetic energy and perpetual motion. He violates the man’s personal space so much even she’s starting to feel agitated.
“Where did you say you went after drinks with this ’friend’ of yours?” Elliot asks. Olivia can practically see the sarcastic imaginary quotes, as if they’re hanging in the air a little to the left of Elliot’s head. His voice is very low, and most people would probably take that to mean he’s calm.
Most people would be wrong.
“Did you forget your medication this morning?” Mr. Manning (that’s the grey-haired guy’s name) mutters, staring at his own fingers splayed on the silver table in front of him.
“Excuse me?” Elliot’s almost snarling.
She closes her eyes for a second and squeezes her palms shut. Shit. Ever since the separation, Elliot’s transitioned from being more easily pissed off than your average person to . . . whatever the hell this is, the thing where he goes from zero to Mach 2 in half a second and all she has is whiplash.
She doesn’t need this shit. She hasn’t even had her second cup of coffee.
But Elliot’s lunging for Manning, his hand already on the man’s shirt collar. Instinctively, Olivia maneuvers her body between him and the suspect, so that instead of careening toward the perp, Elliot’s head almost collides with hers before he realizes she’s there and snaps backwards, regaining control of his body.
She stares at him, watching the vein in his temple throb. No one speaks. After a few seconds, Elliot must notice that his fingers are clutching the Manning’s collar, and he releases the fabric, stepping back several paces until he’s leaning against the wall.
“I’m gonna go get us some coffee, and then we’ll start again, Mr. Manning,” he says, the icy snark back in his delivery.
Olivia glimpses Cragen’s face when Elliot opens the door. He doesn’t look happy.
“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood this morning, Detective Benson,” says Manning, his tone so creepy it makes her shiver under the goosebumps that already decorate her arms. “Or I might have to file a complaint.”
She looks at the door and wonders if Cragen is ripping Elliot a new one right now. “Why don’t you shut up and we’ll start from the beginning, okay?”
_________________________
By evening, Elliot appears to have simmered down. He’s relaxed in his chair, chewing on a pen while he leafs through a file. The back of his neck is sweating, and she catches herself following the moisture as it disappears below his collar, wondering what it looks like on the muscles of his back.
What the hell?
She needs to work less and get laid more. Or at least spend more time with her vibrator and that warming gel she spent too much money on at Megan’s ridiculous sex toy party last week.
She stands by the coffeemaker, carafe tipped toward her cup. Lately, dealing with Elliot reminds her of those Choose Your Own Adventure books she used to leaf through when she baby-sit in high school. The difference is that on a bad day, any approach to Elliot can land her on the metaphorical equivalent of the “Sorry, you’re dead” page.
She can’t predict him anymore, and it freaks the hell out of her. It also makes it hard to do her job.
She’s not sure which is worse.
Screw it. She pours her coffee and walks to their desks, where he’s still munching on the pen. It has tiny dents in the white plastic.
“Do you want to get some dinner or were you going to go-” She catches herself before she says home, because she knows that’s not the word he’d choose for his barely furnished studio. “Were you gonna get out of here?” She sips her coffee. She’s still freezing.
He surprises her by throwing the file on his desk and getting up without hesitation. “Fuck this. I’m so tired I can’t read. We should try that new Indian place Morrison’s always talking about.”
He follows her through the doors, close like always. Probably no closer than usual, but for some reason, she’s warm before they even reach the elevator.
************************************************************
“You want the Sprite or the Diet Coke? They were out of everything else.”
Kathy looks up from the three-month-old issue of People she probably wasn’t reading. “Diet Coke.” She takes the can and pops the top, drinking a few large swallows before she asks, “What’d the doctor say about Olivia?”
Elliot shrugs out of his trench coat, inhaling the combination of bleach and stale coffee that permeates the hospital waiting room. “They don’t know anything new.”
He sits down. God he’s so fucking tired. “She has a concussion. They’re running a few more tests to make sure it’s nothing worse.” He sighs, running his hands over his chin and trying to remember the last time he shaved. Tuesday maybe? “You know more about this stuff than I do.”
“El, it’s standard procedure. CT and MRI to make sure there’s no skull fracture or bleeding in her brain.” She’s looking right at him, and no matter how hard he searches, the only thing he can find in her eyes is concern. He wonders when the hell that happened, when they all accepted this for what it is.
Kathy sips her soda and flips through the magazine. Something about the Kardashian sisters. He settles into one of the cheaply upholstered taupe chairs, leaving a seat between them because her purse and a stuffed manila folder occupy that space. He twists a button on his shirt and finally picks up the B section of the Times, three days old.
“Did they say when you can see her?” Kathy’s leafing through the contents of the folder now, not looking at him.
“Probably a few hours. I guess the MRI takes a while.”
“Yeah.” She flips the file shut and reaches for her purse. “Unless you want me to stay, I’m gonna help Maureen with that blood drive she’s trying to organize.” Kathy pauses, as if she’s not sure whether to stop or continue speaking. “I don’t know if she’s talked to you, but she’s pretty stressed out about it.”
He’s silent. Maureen hasn’t said a word about the blood drive, probably because whenever she’s called lately he’s talked to her for two minutes and then made some excuse to hang up. He makes himself look at Kathy. “I’ll call her tonight.”
“Thanks.” She rummages in her purse and pulls out pale pink lipstick, which she applies without even looking in a mirror. He’s seen Olivia with lipstick, but he blanks on whether he’s ever witnessed her in the act of applying it. “Call me if anything changes and I’ll come right back.” Kathy leans forward and drops a kiss on his forehead, gesture of habit so ingrained it’s meaningless.
“Okay. I’m only gonna stay here until they let me see her.”
She smiles. “It’s just me and Eli tonight, so if you can’t make it for dinner, it’s fine.”
She walks past him, taking with her the same citrus scent she’s worn since he met her in high school. He remembers the first time he came inside her, the crazy rush, his face in her neck, gasping with release and euphoria as he breathed in the smell he had no way of knowing then he’d associate with her forever.
He’s glad now that he didn’t know anything, then.
He swallows half the Sprite in a few gulps; the carbonation stings as it goes down. Then he fits himself into the chair as best he can and waits for the doctor to materialize and tell him he can talk to Olivia.
It’s not comfortable – the cushion’s too soft and the metal structure behind the upholstery pushes his back the wrong way.
It works for now.
He waits some more.
adrenalin211, thank you for the reassurance, the super-quick beta, and for listening to my insane London babble all day:)P is for: popcorn. SVU; Elliot/Olivia, for
lauridsen09 725 wordsI is for: independent. SVU; Elliot/Olivia, for
hollywdliz 813 wordsW is for: waiting. SVU; Elliot/Kathy, for
lowriseflare 617 words*********************************************************
When she’s done puking by the stairs, reasonably confident that her stomach isn’t going to start up again, they get back in the car.
She chews the gum Elliot handed her – some sort of violent mint that isn’t necessarily improving her situation, but he meant well, so.
Despite his smartass comment about crying in baseball, she knows he’s worried. He keeps checking the mirrors as if the Church Lady might have appeared there since he looked two seconds ago. His eyes never rest in one spot for more than a beat, and the muscle in the side of his neck is tense, tight.
She wishes he’d give her a little more credit. She can take a punch, literal or figurative, and the fact that this case has gotten to her more than most doesn’t change that.
She snaps her gum, loud, the way she used to on the way to school to piss her mom off.
“You must be feeling better,” Elliot observes. His eyes are back on the road before she can turn her head. “You sound like Maureen.”
“I told you. I’m fine.”
She fiddles with her chapstick and turns on the radio. The volume is up so high she pushes her back into the seat in surprise. The Backstreet Boys croon, “I Want It That Way.”
“Didn’t know you were a fan.” She grins at him and snaps the gum again.
“Shut up.”
He makes a right without signaling, but she can see his shoulders beginning to relax.
“I got so sick of fighting with Maureen and Kathleen that I gave up.” He pauses, then smirks. “I had this fucking song stuck in my head for three days last week.”
Her stomach’s settling, and she tries to concentrate on the road – hum of the tires, shine of the taillights ahead – so her mind won’t replay the conversation that made her vomit.
Elliot reaches out and twists the volume button to the left. “We’ll get them,” he says, his voice low but filled with that cocky confidence she wishes she could purchase in the candy aisle at 7-11. She pictures it in a shiny package, next to the Snickers and Whatchamacallits.
“I know.” She snaps her gum one more time and turns the radio back up. Tapping her elbow into his arm, she adds, “It’s okay. I don’t hate this song either.”
“Better than that Eminem asshole.” He shakes his head and changes lanes too fast, but she can see the edge of his mouth tilt up.
_________________________
“If I don’t get some sleep soon I’m gonna throw up again,” she grumbles, rubbing her temple with ink-smudged fingers.
Elliot glances up, squinting. “Why don’t you grab a couple hours in the crib?”
He’s clicking the tip of his pen in that spastic way he does when he’s running on adrenaline, caffeine, and Munchkins. She sort of wants to hit him, but he looks pathetic. It would take too much energy anyway.
“Because if we work on this for two more hours, we’ll be done.” She takes a swig of her 7-Up, which is already going flat from sitting on her desk too long. The sugar leaves an aftertaste. She should have gotten diet.
“Weren’t you supposed to have dinner with that Bruce guy tonight?” Elliot taps a few keys and hits return more forcefully than necessary. “The one who writes operas?”
“He composes soundtracks, jackass.” She kicks him under the desk. “And yes, I was. I’m so glad I get to sit here and listen to you click your pen instead.” She tries to look pissed, but really, she’s just too tired.
He pushes out of his chair, the wheels squeaking as they spin. “I’ll be back in a second.”
“Can’t wait,” she mutters, flipping open the file in front of her and trying to bring the fuzzy letters into focus.
She’s been through three more files (still nothing) when she smells popcorn. Elliot sits down across from her and extends the bag, open but still steaming. “Peace offering,” he says, shooting her that obnoxious grin he knows will get him off the hook. “I’m sure Bruce is a great guy.”
“Thanks.” She stuffs a few kernels into her mouth and adds, “Also, bite me.”
Elliot laughs and settles back into his chair.
She notices he’s stopped clicking the pen.
*********************************************************
It’s one of those days when heat shimmers off the sidewalk in translucent waves before you have time to finish your coffee, which naturally means that the air conditioning in the bullpen is set to something like 55. Nonetheless, Elliot rolls up his sleeves before they head into Interrogation Two for a chat with the expensively dressed grey-haired businessman who happens to be their prime suspect in the rapes of four teenage girls.
Olivia notices the perp wears the same cologne one of her mom’s boyfriends used to wear, the one who listened to Elvis’s gospel records and always wanted to cook dinner at their apartment.
Elliot’s on the offensive from the second they walk in the door, kinetic energy and perpetual motion. He violates the man’s personal space so much even she’s starting to feel agitated.
“Where did you say you went after drinks with this ’friend’ of yours?” Elliot asks. Olivia can practically see the sarcastic imaginary quotes, as if they’re hanging in the air a little to the left of Elliot’s head. His voice is very low, and most people would probably take that to mean he’s calm.
Most people would be wrong.
“Did you forget your medication this morning?” Mr. Manning (that’s the grey-haired guy’s name) mutters, staring at his own fingers splayed on the silver table in front of him.
“Excuse me?” Elliot’s almost snarling.
She closes her eyes for a second and squeezes her palms shut. Shit. Ever since the separation, Elliot’s transitioned from being more easily pissed off than your average person to . . . whatever the hell this is, the thing where he goes from zero to Mach 2 in half a second and all she has is whiplash.
She doesn’t need this shit. She hasn’t even had her second cup of coffee.
But Elliot’s lunging for Manning, his hand already on the man’s shirt collar. Instinctively, Olivia maneuvers her body between him and the suspect, so that instead of careening toward the perp, Elliot’s head almost collides with hers before he realizes she’s there and snaps backwards, regaining control of his body.
She stares at him, watching the vein in his temple throb. No one speaks. After a few seconds, Elliot must notice that his fingers are clutching the Manning’s collar, and he releases the fabric, stepping back several paces until he’s leaning against the wall.
“I’m gonna go get us some coffee, and then we’ll start again, Mr. Manning,” he says, the icy snark back in his delivery.
Olivia glimpses Cragen’s face when Elliot opens the door. He doesn’t look happy.
“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood this morning, Detective Benson,” says Manning, his tone so creepy it makes her shiver under the goosebumps that already decorate her arms. “Or I might have to file a complaint.”
She looks at the door and wonders if Cragen is ripping Elliot a new one right now. “Why don’t you shut up and we’ll start from the beginning, okay?”
_________________________
By evening, Elliot appears to have simmered down. He’s relaxed in his chair, chewing on a pen while he leafs through a file. The back of his neck is sweating, and she catches herself following the moisture as it disappears below his collar, wondering what it looks like on the muscles of his back.
What the hell?
She needs to work less and get laid more. Or at least spend more time with her vibrator and that warming gel she spent too much money on at Megan’s ridiculous sex toy party last week.
She stands by the coffeemaker, carafe tipped toward her cup. Lately, dealing with Elliot reminds her of those Choose Your Own Adventure books she used to leaf through when she baby-sit in high school. The difference is that on a bad day, any approach to Elliot can land her on the metaphorical equivalent of the “Sorry, you’re dead” page.
She can’t predict him anymore, and it freaks the hell out of her. It also makes it hard to do her job.
She’s not sure which is worse.
Screw it. She pours her coffee and walks to their desks, where he’s still munching on the pen. It has tiny dents in the white plastic.
“Do you want to get some dinner or were you going to go-” She catches herself before she says home, because she knows that’s not the word he’d choose for his barely furnished studio. “Were you gonna get out of here?” She sips her coffee. She’s still freezing.
He surprises her by throwing the file on his desk and getting up without hesitation. “Fuck this. I’m so tired I can’t read. We should try that new Indian place Morrison’s always talking about.”
He follows her through the doors, close like always. Probably no closer than usual, but for some reason, she’s warm before they even reach the elevator.
************************************************************
“You want the Sprite or the Diet Coke? They were out of everything else.”
Kathy looks up from the three-month-old issue of People she probably wasn’t reading. “Diet Coke.” She takes the can and pops the top, drinking a few large swallows before she asks, “What’d the doctor say about Olivia?”
Elliot shrugs out of his trench coat, inhaling the combination of bleach and stale coffee that permeates the hospital waiting room. “They don’t know anything new.”
He sits down. God he’s so fucking tired. “She has a concussion. They’re running a few more tests to make sure it’s nothing worse.” He sighs, running his hands over his chin and trying to remember the last time he shaved. Tuesday maybe? “You know more about this stuff than I do.”
“El, it’s standard procedure. CT and MRI to make sure there’s no skull fracture or bleeding in her brain.” She’s looking right at him, and no matter how hard he searches, the only thing he can find in her eyes is concern. He wonders when the hell that happened, when they all accepted this for what it is.
Kathy sips her soda and flips through the magazine. Something about the Kardashian sisters. He settles into one of the cheaply upholstered taupe chairs, leaving a seat between them because her purse and a stuffed manila folder occupy that space. He twists a button on his shirt and finally picks up the B section of the Times, three days old.
“Did they say when you can see her?” Kathy’s leafing through the contents of the folder now, not looking at him.
“Probably a few hours. I guess the MRI takes a while.”
“Yeah.” She flips the file shut and reaches for her purse. “Unless you want me to stay, I’m gonna help Maureen with that blood drive she’s trying to organize.” Kathy pauses, as if she’s not sure whether to stop or continue speaking. “I don’t know if she’s talked to you, but she’s pretty stressed out about it.”
He’s silent. Maureen hasn’t said a word about the blood drive, probably because whenever she’s called lately he’s talked to her for two minutes and then made some excuse to hang up. He makes himself look at Kathy. “I’ll call her tonight.”
“Thanks.” She rummages in her purse and pulls out pale pink lipstick, which she applies without even looking in a mirror. He’s seen Olivia with lipstick, but he blanks on whether he’s ever witnessed her in the act of applying it. “Call me if anything changes and I’ll come right back.” Kathy leans forward and drops a kiss on his forehead, gesture of habit so ingrained it’s meaningless.
“Okay. I’m only gonna stay here until they let me see her.”
She smiles. “It’s just me and Eli tonight, so if you can’t make it for dinner, it’s fine.”
She walks past him, taking with her the same citrus scent she’s worn since he met her in high school. He remembers the first time he came inside her, the crazy rush, his face in her neck, gasping with release and euphoria as he breathed in the smell he had no way of knowing then he’d associate with her forever.
He’s glad now that he didn’t know anything, then.
He swallows half the Sprite in a few gulps; the carbonation stings as it goes down. Then he fits himself into the chair as best he can and waits for the doctor to materialize and tell him he can talk to Olivia.
It’s not comfortable – the cushion’s too soft and the metal structure behind the upholstery pushes his back the wrong way.
It works for now.
He waits some more.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-06 09:02 pm (UTC)Sooo, this may not be the appropriate forum to voice this in, as I don't wish to take anything away from the actual subject of the entry, BUT. I don't have any other way to tell you so I'll say it here: I eagerly await Round 2 or 3 or whichever one finally busts out the Jack & Renee stuff, because your J/R stories are like warm sunshine amid the bleak & dreary landscape that is my life.
Crack to an addict.
Booze to a drunk.
You get the picture. ;)
Now did you really need to know that? Nope. TMI? Possibly. But I had to say it - I was practically compelled - so I transfer all blame from myself to the addictive quality of your writing. :)
no subject
Date: 2010-06-07 12:25 am (UTC)Round two is all Jack/Renee, and hopefully four of the prompts if I can get my ass in gear. The current plan is to do Babysitting, Glock, Recovery, and Vacation, given that I have ideas for all of them. The trick is to 1) find time to sit down and write and 2) be in the right frame of mind when I do have time. It's a pain in the ass. But I'm hoping to get at least one of them done tomorrow, and I'm more wildly excited than I should admit about the prospect of being back to writing Jack and Renee.
My love for them is so fucking unhealthy.
But seriously you are too sweet to compare my fics to crack. I hope whatever I come up with next lives up to your expectations -- I live in constant fear that I will disappoint. Woe!
no subject
Date: 2010-06-07 09:48 pm (UTC)And when the time comes that you finally do move on, again, no worries. "For everything a season" and all that crap.
(As for "spouting lunatic conservative madness"? Bitch, please. <--Oops. Sorry. Forgot that whole social convention about "not swearing at strangers..." ::face gets red:: Okay, bye! *rushes out embarrassed*)
no subject
Date: 2010-06-08 04:28 pm (UTC)