AN: So this is my first proper SVU fic, and it took me forever to write, but it was just something that wouldn't leave me alone, no matter how much I tried to ignore it. I'm fairly new to SVU – I had to watch a couple of shows to write a fic for a friend, and then I got hooked! I've only really seen from season 8 through to the current season, and I binged watched them in the space of around a month, so I apologise if they seem OOC.
I'm hoping this reads the way it played out in my head. If not, I'm sorry for the fractured flashbacks – this is kind of like two stories in one, which is something I've never really done before. I'm sorry it's so long.
Anyway, please read and leave reviews.
Unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own.
Glitterberry.
Disclaimer; all rights go to their respective owners; Dick Wolf and NBC.
Of Superheroes and Expectations
Sergeant Olivia Benson is not a fan of running in general, but she absolutely hates being made to run through the thickest parts of Central Park's northern woods, where the paths are few and far between, in the midst of Summer. The air is thick, and though the tree's thick canopy of branches and leaves block out the midday rays, the shade offers little reprieve from the seasonal heat.
The morning's rain had fallen heavy – a badly timed reminder that this was the hottest, wettest Summer on record – turning the usually dry and stable ground beneath her into slick, wet mud that doesn't give either Benson or Amaro the traction they need to catch their darting assailant, Mark Andrews; the cross country star at Columbia University, whom they all – the Detectives at Manhattan's SVU unit – believe to be responsible for the disappearance of six year old Sarah Matthews and the rape-murder of four other similarly aged girls.
"NYPD!" Nick Amaro shouts between pants, over the sound of feet thudding against vegetation, snapping twigs and the faint pitter-patter of still falling, albeit lighter, rain. "Stop running!" His voice echoes loudly around them, bouncing off trees, and Benson knows the perp can hear him, he's just choosing to ignore his pursuers; the story of any cops' life.
She slips, just enough to feel the pull in her ankle, allows a quick glance to her left as she rights herself, can see that despite his more suitable footwear, Nick is having just as much trouble as she is.
"Okay?" He asks her, jumping a log, his pace unfaltering.
"Yeah," she huffs in response, falls in behind him as they squeeze past over grown, prickly bushes.
Mark veers to the left, heads towards a break in the foliage, and Olivia would sigh in relief if she could catch her breath, if her lungs didn't burn with each inhale, if she wasn't pushing her fitness to the limits. Even without the vest underneath her blouse, the long sleeved jacket and her heeled boots, a sprint through the natural woodland area would be difficult enough, and that's without taking her age and aversion to exercise into account.
Maybe she'll join a gym.
Tomorrow.
Benson pushes herself forward, pushes for her legs to work harder, to ignore the fatigue settling into muscles, as Mark disappears, stumbles and falls out of sight, down a steep incline, concern for his welfare only present because she needs him alive, needs him to find the missing girl so she can keep the naive promise Amaro had foolishly made to her parents.
Even before they near the drop, Benson knows that Mark Andrews is okay, unharmed, because he's fallen down onto a pathway, where the stability of the concrete has given him the leverage to propel himself back upright, the momentum of his rolling body transferring back into his desperate sprint.
Benson and Amaro follow after him, a controlled slide down the step embankment, mud and fallen leaves clinging to them, dirtying their clothes, weighing heavy, wet and cool against their hot skin. They refuse to stumble as they reach solid ground, feet pounding noisily as they press forward, sweat and rain mixing together, drenching their hair, the collar of their shirts, beads of water running down their back.
Benson's chest is ready to cave in, her heart hammers against sternum and her blood pulses in her ears, whoosh-whoosh, as panic seeps through into her bones at the sound of impatient, busy New Yorkers; horns blaring and voices yelling, bustling bodies and the low buzz of incoherent conversations as pedestrians talk amongst themselves, into devices, whilst ignoring each other. A quick glance at Amaro tells her that he's just as anxious as she; neither want Andrews loose on the streets of Manhattan.
"NYPD!" Benson yells, bringing herself to a halt, practically skidding, as she grabs for the Glock she keeps holstered at her hip. "Freeze!" She lifts the gun, using both hands to keep her aim steady, points at the retreating suspect as her finger swiftly flicks off the safety. "Dammit," she mumbles as he dives to his right, headed for another path, one that leads straight to the sidewalk teaming with tourists, dog walkers and parents with strollers, the old and the young; the latest rain shower apparently phasing no one.
She's running again, ignoring fatigued muscles, screaming limbs, as she forces her legs to keep working, to move forwards despite the need to collapse, to give in and give up.
And then Mark Andrews darts to his left, hops over a large boulder and breaks out onto the sidewalk, weaving in and out of the foot traffic in a bid to lose the cops chasing him.
October, 1998
"It's official!" Munch announces into the unusually quiet squad room, as he flips over the sheet of paper on his desk calender, updating the date. "Benson's lasted longer than your previous, Elliot."
Olivia looks up from the half written report she's already spent twenty minutes working on, her brow slipping into a shallow frown. "Twelve days?"
"Evans made it less than ten," Munch confirms, his gaze flicking from the newest SVU detective, to Elliot.
"Some people just aren't cut out to be Superheroes," Elliot shrugs nonchalantly, without looking up, his focus steely as his pen scratches against paper.
"Or in your case, the sidekick," Cassidy chimes in from behind Elliot, seemingly appearing from nowhere, dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and blue tie.
Elliot grumbles, throwing a sidelong glance as the youngest detective drops into his desk chair. "Aren't you supposed to be in court?"
"Recess," he counters instantly, grinning as he spins the chair to face Munch. "Are we discussing Stabler's exes, again? What are we on now? Three? Or is it four?"
"Shut up, Cassidy," Elliot replies, picking up one of his pens and tossing it in Cassidy's direction. He misses, earns a snigger.
"I do believe you're his fifth, actually," Munch says to Olivia, lips puckering thoughtfully. "But only the second woman; that must count for something."
"Really?" She asks Elliot, her eyebrows shooting up.
"No."
"Yep," Munch corrects, holding his hand up to count down on his fingers. "First, there was Rogers; he lasted six months. Then it was...what was his name?" He turns to Cassidy. "Geeky guy."
"Norman," Cassidy offers all too enthusiastically. "He had braces and everything," he adds for Olivia's benefit, tapping his own teeth.
"Right, Normal Norman," Munch nodded, before resuming his count down. "I forget him because he doesn't really count; only lasted three days."
"Didn't have the stomach for it," Cassidy elaborates. "Caught him vomiting in the bathroom on day two. Transferred by the end of day three."
Munch nods, before continuing. "Then there was Miss Suarez; she lasted just over three months. Then Evans, who barely made it to ten days. And now, there's you."
"Suarez?" Olivia muses, leaning forward on her elbows, the end of her pen teasing her teeth, eyes trained on Elliot. "Sounds...exotic."
"It...she...wasn't," Elliot says, his eyes snapping to Olivia's as he draws in a deep breath, gaze narrowing as he ponders her. "What about you?"
"Me?" Olivia scoffs. "Oh, no, I'm not exotic at all."
Elliot grins, amusement crinkling his eyes, softening his features. "No, how many partners you had?"
"Oh." Olivia tries to ignore the warmth creeping over her face, purses her lips together as she mulls over the question, three sets of eyes trained on her, curious. She leans back into her chair, stretches out her arms before folding them over her chest, and then answers as honestly, as casually, as she can. "Two."
"Two?" Elliot copies, sceptical.
Olivia nods once. "Yes, why?"
"Two previous, or..."
"You're my second," Olivia shrugs one shoulder casually, ignoring the impressed glances exchanged between Munch and Cassidy. "And I don't intend on having a third."
"Huh," Elliot grunts, huffing out a rush of air, his stormy blues holding hers for a second too long. She's the first to break the eye contact, straightens in her chair and grabs for the pen she'd dropped, smirking as she returns to the report she needs to have finished by the end of the day. She pretends she doesn't hear Munch muttering under his breath,
"Superhero."
"Sonuvabitch!" Olivia exclaims as she and Amaro stand on the side walk, one of her hands raking through her sweaty hair as they peer up and down the unusually busy street, eyes scanning faces of strangers, searching the sea of heads for the perp. They're both breathless, the exertion from the sprint taking it's toll on her ageing body, a reminder that she's been at this a while now, that she isn't getting any younger, that she isn't the cop she used to be. "See him?" She asks Amaro as he paces, almost up on tiptoes, his shoulder tense from agitation, under the weight of frustration.
"I've got nada," he say, tightly, jaw clenching.
"Fuck," Olivia exhales, a hand slapping against her thigh as she pulls her cell from her pocket, dials Tutuola's number straight from her Favourites list.
He answers on the first ring.
"Yeah."
"Fin, we've lost Andrews. Do you have a visual?" Olivia asks, hears Fin relay the information to his partner, Amanda Rollins, and waits patiently as they survey their designated area, where she'd ordered them to sit tight, in the hopes they could chase the suspect in their direction and effectively box him in. She holds her breath, because though their plan hadn't exactly played out the way she'd wanted, she's holding out hope that he'd at least fled in the right direction.
"Got him," Fin finally reports, and Olivia releases a huff of air, taps Amaro on the shoulder to indicate the good news. "Heading west on 110th."
"Got it," she says, before thumbing her screen and shoving the device back into the pocket of her jeans. She jerks her head, echoes the information, and then they're running again, but at least this time the sidewalk is firm, gives them the traction they need to pick up a good pace.
They weave through the pedestrians, dodging old ladies and tearaway toddlers, uttering apologies as they knock into parents and dog walkers.
The sun beats down relentlessly, burning off any remainders of rain clouds, the ray hot on the their heads and backs, and Olivia can't wait to get back to the one-six and head for the showers.
"Hey, Liv," Amaro pants from next to her, grabbing hold of her arm as he slips between the two bumpers of parked cars, taking his partner with him. "Over there," he explains as he holds up his badge to an approaching cab, and she spots them then, too. They cross the street when the bright yellow vehicle has come to an abrupt halt, eliciting a string of irritated profanities in Spanish from the driver, despite Amaro thanking him for his patience as they reach the other side.
"Rollins," Olivia greets the blonde Detective before turning to Fin, who's standing beside her, sweat beading on his forehead, his head glistening in the sunlight. "Where is he?"
"Bastard slipped down that alley less than thirty second ago," he replies, pointing to a break between an apartment block and an abandoned, bordered up grocery store. "One way in, one way out. There's an old service entrance to the store, but that's about it."
"Okay, let's go," Olivia orders, pulling her gun from the holster, and the others do the same, before making their way, in single file, towards the alleyway, attempting to clear the sidewalk of pedestrians as they move. She reaches the corner, holds her hand up to halt the Detectives behind her, glances over her shoulder and into their trusting eyes, before cautiously peering around the side of the building. She doesn't get a visual on their suspect, because the alley is empty bar the overflowing, putrid dumpsters lined up against the twelve foot wall at the end of the small lane.
But the service entrance door to the old store is ajar, and she can't imagine there'd been any deliveries that morning, or any morning recently, so she follows her instincts – the twisting sensation in her stomach that urges her forwards, nagging away at her until she gives in. She signals for the team – her team – to move, to follow her, and they do, because they trust in her, trust her instincts, her years of experience.
She pauses for just a second as they surround the door; Amaro behind her on the left, Rollins and Tutuola on the right, and then she's pushing open the door with the barrel of her raised gun. The hinges whine, groaning under the weight of age and lack of care, and she holds her breath, listening for signs of life, whether their perp or an innocent bystander. She's not sure whether she should feel relieved or worried when nothing but a heavy silence filters through into her ears.
She locks eyes with each of the Detectives, nods in affirmation, before stepping over the threshold, stepping into the small kitchen that had obviously once been the staff break room; the coffee machine is on the floor, the table and chair scattered and vending machine upturned, but the purpose of the room was clear.
Olivia advances through the only other door, into the long hallway, Nick on her six, Fin and Amanda behind him. When they reach the foot of a stairwell, Olivia turns back, uses hand gestures to instruct Rollins and Tutuola to take the first floor, so she and Amaro can continue the sweep of the store front. There's no hesitation as they carry out the silent orders, begin to climb the steep staircase, each step whispering a soft creak under the weight of their bodies.
The door frame ahead of them is decorated with a beaded curtain, and she guesses that there was one time a heavy door here, because there are remnants of fractured hinges and broken screws. Again, using the barrel of her raised gun, she carefully sweeps the hanging strings of wooden beads to the side, before stepping into the abandoned store.
It's silent in here, too, minus the sound of the soles of their shoes creeping along the dirty floor, and a few urban pigeons flapping their wings in protest of being disturbed as they try to rest. The shelving units, that stand at least six foot tall, are mostly empty, except for a couple packets of out-of-date noodles, some disposable diapers and the odd can of beans or soup. The remaining price tags and posters are faded, covered with a layer of dust and bird faeces, and Olivia passes a guess that the store has been out of business for a long while.
The split up, each taking their own aisles as they search the store of clues; disturbed dirt, footprints, mud, anything that may help them find the suspect in their case. They move swiftly, and though they are being as proficient as they can be, there's a gnawing in the pit of Olivia's stomach, telling her they're taking too long, that their chances of finding Sarah alive are shrinking, slipping away, out of her grasps.
She startles a little when she feels the light pressure on her shoulder. She turns quickly to face Amaro, who's holding his finger up to his lips, silencing her questions. He signals for her to listen, face tense, and she does. At first, she can hear nothing but the blood rushing past her ears, the occasional coo from an annoyed bird, but she tries harder, forces back the images of the parents sat waiting for her, faces white, eyes red, glassy. And then she hears it; the faintest of whimpers coming from the back corner. Amaro's eyes widen slightly, head lists; a question that Benson answers with a nod before turning back, her grip on her gun tightening as she moves quickly, carefully, towards the sound that gives her hope that they aren't already too late.
There are a million and one protocols they are supposed to follow here, but Benson can't bring herself to care about a single one of them as they reach the closed door to what Benson assumes was once the managers office.
She presses up against the wall, nods to Amaro as he moves in front of the door, signals that she's ready, that she knows how this is going to play out, what they're planning to do, that she's putting her complete trust in his policing skills right now, despite any troubles they may have experienced in the past, many years ago. Amaro doesn't count to three, doesn't take a deep breath to ready himself, doesn't even need a second to think about what he's doing; he lifts his leg, and slams his foot as hard, and as fast, as he can against the door, right next to the single lock.
The door swings open, dust explodes from the frame, the loud bang startles birds into taking flight, distorting the previous quiet into echoes of flapping wings and outraged screeches. Benson rushes into the room first, followed by Amaro, and before she has a chance to process what's happening, to aim her gun and pull the trigger, she's halting, feet almost squeaking against the floor, and Amaro almost slams right into her back.
November, 1998
"Batman."
Elliot pauses at the coffee machine, fingers slipping around the handle of the brewed pot as his brows knit together in confusion. "What?"
Olivia looks up at him, the string attached to her tea bag pinched between her forefinger and thumb as she bobs it up and down in the cup of boiling water.
"You said I could be anyone," she reminds her partner. "So I'm calling Batman."
"Oh," Elliot nods, pulling the pot from the machine and tipping the last of the almost black liquid into his personal mug before replacing it. "No."
"No?"
"No."
"Why not?" she asks, draping the string over the side of her cup and blowing into it, gently, the warmth of the rising steam a welcome relief to her frozen nose.
"Because," Elliot says, stepping away from the kitchenette and heading back towards their workstations. Olivia follows.
"Because?"
"Well, number one, it's the name; Batman," he points out as he navigates his way around the squad room, past wandering cops and around messy desks.
"That's sexist," she points out, shoving a stack of papers to the side so she can put her cup down at her work station, before sliding into her desk chair, refusing to remove her coat until she can at least feel her fingers.
"And B, he's already been allocated."
"What are you talking about?" Olivia scoffs, cupping her hands in front of her and blowing into them, an attempt to thaw her frozen digits. "You can't allocate fictional characters."
Elliot shrugs as he pulls his arms free from his coat, tosses it haphazardly over the back of his desk chair before finally sitting down, the sharp November winter apparently having little effect on him. "Sure you can."
"No," Olivia argues. "You can't."
Elliot's gaze narrows thoughtfully, before he spins in his chair, searching the room.
"Hey, Munch," he calls over to the detective standing at the filing cabinets. "Come here a sec, will ya?" Olivia rolls her eyes when the older man nods, closes the drawer and makes his way over to them. She tucks her hands between her thighs and squeezes tight, the icy numbness colliding with comforting warmth.
"What can I do for you, Stabler?" Munch asks, slapping Elliot gently on the shoulder before resting back against his desk, his legs crossed at his ankles, arms folded across his chest.
Sincerely, Elliot says, "Liv wants to be Batman."
"Ah," Munch sounds, nodding knowingly before shifting his gaze onto Olivia. "You can't be Batman; he's already been allocated."
Olivia raises an eyebrow. "Seriously? You, too?"
"Told ya, Liv," Elliot says, and her eyes narrow at him. "You'll just have to pick someone else."
"But make sure you give it some proper thought," Munch interjects. "Once you've been sworn in, there's no going back."
"Sworn in?" Olivia feels her brow slip again.
"If you're going to become a superhero, there are certain expectations, specific high standards, you gotta promise to uphold," Elliot defines, his eyes twinkling, mouth twitching. "It's not something to be considered lightly."
"That's ridiculous," Olivia laughs.
"We've all done it," Elliot shrugs one shoulder.
"Even Cragen," Munch adds, nodding. Olivia's eyes flick between the two men before her, searching for a sign that they're kidding, that it's a wind up, that they're hazing the newbie. Neither crack though, their faces earnest.
She sucks her lower lip between her teeth, and then releases it along with an exhale of air.
"Okay, then," she says, releasing her right hand from between her legs, flexing the fingers and reaching for her tea. "So who's who?"
"Brian's Wolverine," Munch informs, his voice low, as if he's worried they'll be overheard.
"Cassidy? Wolverine?" Olivia laughs. "Really?"
"He insisted," Munch shrugs. "What can ya do?"
"Okay," she grins, amused. "And you are?"
With mock indignation, he replies, "D'you even have to ask? I'm Captain America."
"Because you're old?" Olivia jokes, and she catches Elliot smirking when her eyes flick to him.
"No, because I believe in freedom and justice," Munch frowns as Cragen steps out from his office, manoeuvres through the squad room effortlessly, his eyes fixed to a sheet of paper in his hands.
"What's that about justice?" he asks, looking up at the three Detectives.
"Munch was just filling Benson in on our alter ego's," Elliot answers their commanding officer, resting his elbows on the arms of his desk chair and interlocking his fingers.
"I see," Cragen nods, his gaze travelling over the three of them. "And once you've finished this top-secret conversation, do any of you plan to do some actual real-world work?"
Munch leans forward, tilting towards Olivia, jerks his head in Cragen's direction and says in a mock whisper, "Nick Fury, in case you hadn't worked that one out."
"You'll feel the fury if you don't have your DD5's on my desk by the end of the day," Cragen quips, though there's an edge to his tone that tells Olivia he's entirely serious.
"On it, Cap," Munch declares, pushing away from his desk and heading around to his work station. Olivia makes a start by attempting to neaten the stack of papers strewn across her desk.
"Stabler, when you've got five, I need a word," Cragen says, turning to Elliot, apparently satisfied that his unit are back to doing their jobs, what they're paid to do.
"Sure, just give me twenty to finish up here," Elliot responds, nodding, and then Cragen is retreating, attention focused back on the paper in his hand as he disappears back into his office.
"So," Olivia continues once the office door closes, eyes locking with Elliot's as he looks up. "Let me guess; you're the Incredible Hulk?"
Elliot laughs, shaking his head. "Nope."
"Then who?"
He leans forward, the amusement dropping from his face, hooks his finger to bring Olivia in closer, or at least, as close as she can get whilst she's sat at her desk and he at his. Then, in an incredibly deep, husky, voice, he says, "I am Batman."
"Hey," Olivia says, trying to keep her voice steady as adrenaline surges, her hand trembling slightly as she slowly lifts her gun to aim. "Let's not do anything we may regret, okay? Put the gun down." Her gaze flicks down, eyes connecting with those of a terrified six year old, wishes that she could tell her that everything is okay, that she'll be going home to Mommy and Daddy real soon.
"I didn't do it," Mark shakes his head, the gun wobbling slightly as he presses it against Sarah's temple, pulling her tighter against his body by his restraining arm. "I didn't hurt those little girls."
"Okay then, so why don't you let Sarah go, and we can talk about it," Benson tries, her finger heavy against the trigger, but even she knows there's a chance he'll pull the trigger at the same time she does, killing the victim. She's not Superwoman, after all, despite all of the rumors. "You help me, and I'll help you. Let her go."
"I didn't do it," Mark says again, biting his lip and drawing blood, tears filling his eyes. "They made me do it. I didn't want to." Sweat rolls down his face, mixes with dried mud and red blood, and his fingers dig into Sarah's shoulder so hard, his knuckles turn white. "Those poor little girls," he whimpers.
"Who? Who made you take them, Mark?" Benson asks gently, one foot in front of the other.
"Stop moving!" Mark screeches, points his gun at Benson and then back at Sarah as he takes a step back, dragging her with him, and Benson can't swallow past the lump in her throat. "This is all your fault!" He continues, yelling, and she can't make sense of the madman's words, is trying to process and assess Mark's state of mind, but she can't, because all she can see when she looks down at Sarah Marshall is every victim she's ever lost.
"Okay, listen to me," she tries, holding up one of her hands in surrender as she slowly moves, lowering her pistol and dropping it on the ground. She signals for Amaro to copy, to follow her lead, and though she can't see him, she knows he's doing the same, hears the metal land against the hard flooring. "I, we, know that you don't want to hurt Sarah," she says as she slowly straightens up. "We know that, so why don't you just let me get her home, safe and sound, hmm?" Even to her, it sounds as if she's pleading with him. She hears Amaro move behind her, but she holds a finger up, halting him as he steps into her eye line, hoping he'll have confidence in her, in her actions, even if she's lacking herself. "We'll let you go, all right? Give us the girl, and you can walk right on out of here."
"I-I don't...stop it! Stop confusing me!" Mark yells, eyes flicking around the small, closed in room, over Amaro, back to Benson. "You're lying!"
"I'm not," she shakes her head. "I swear to you. You can get on a plane, and you can go far, far away from here," Benson says, eyes glancing, for the quickest second, at Amaro, hopes to catch his gaze for support, but it's useless, because he's staring at the little girl, his face failing to hide the panic, the inadequacy, he's feeling.
Benson's heart skips a beat as Mark's finger twitches on the trigger.
December, 1998
There's a flash of movement in the peripheral vision, and she turns slightly to her left, glances out of the large window expecting to see an NYPD officer taking a short cut across the soccer pitch.
Though she can't see the face he's hiding with the large hood he's tugged over his head, she feels the pull of his eyes, can feel his gaze lock with hers, before he turns away from her and begins to sprint across the frigid sports field.
"Suspect on the run," Olivia barks into the communications system that connects her to the other NYPD officers on the university's grounds, all out searching for the three girls that had gone missing from their dorms that morning. "Headed east, across the soccer pitch." Her eyes lock with Elliot's for a brief second, before she's backing up, headed for the door to the small room they're in; the room they'd found the girls tied to chairs, unconscious. "I'm in pursuit," she says, tearing her eyes from her partners as she turns for the door.
"Liv," he begins, takes a few steps after her, torn between backing up his partner and staying with the drugged girls until his back-up, the paramedics, arrived.
"Stay with the girls," Olivia throws over her shoulder, unfaltering. "I've got this," she assures as she body slams into the door, hand tearing at the handle, and racing out into the hallway. She rushes across the polished tiled flooring, boots slipping only slightly, before charging through the closest fire exit and flying out into sharp, December air.
"NYPD!" she yells, her breath a puff of white mist as it leaves her mouth, and she forces her legs to work harder, hurries down the steps, crosses over the concrete path and hops the small border fence onto the frozen turf. "Freeze!" The hooded figure glances over his shoulder, his pace neither stopping nor faltering, ignoring her direct order as he heads for the tall, brick faced building; the large basketball hall that divides the soccer field from the hockey pitch. "Hey!" She calls out again, the cold air slamming into her chest, assaulting her lungs with each sharp inhale, smarting her cheeks and watering her eyes.
The suspect barely acknowledges her as he hops over the border fence, sprints up the walkway, heads straight past the sports hall. He suddenly veers to his left, disappears out of sight as he heads down the side of the building.
She follows suit, her knee jarring slightly as she slips on a patch of ice blanketing the path, but she doesn't have time to nurse the injury. She half runs, half limps, slows her pace as she approaches the far end of the building. She reaches for the gun at her hip, unhooks the holster clip and slides the Glock from the sheath as she peers, cautiously, around the corner.
She eyeballs him just in time to watch him reach the far end of the long, narrow alley and round the corner, vanishing from sight again. She follows after him quickly, and she's not sure if it's the sound of her own heart hammering or the thudding feet of NYPD rushing to back her up that she can hear, but it's loud, almost deafening. She lifts her arm, the gun, is ready to take aim, to fire off a round should she need to; because this guy has raped and tortured six college students – if she needs to take out a knee cap or two, she will.
She doesn't see the attack coming, and later on, she'll chastise herself for being too eager, blame it on the desperation to catch the perp, because she should have known better than to emerge from the alley without taking heed, glancing around the corner and surveying the area for potential threats.
Her eyes catch a flash of silver, metal, as the baseball bat strikes against her outstretched arm, catching her wrist. She gasps in pain, the sudden shock releases her grip and her gun falls from her hand, clatters against the frosted concrete as it slides away from her, out of reach. Another blow follows only a second later; an elbow colliding against her cheekbone, causing her to stumble backwards, momentarily dazed.
She rights herself as the throbs reverberate through skull, regains her composure as her combat training kicks in, readies herself for the components next move; plants her feet firmly shoulders width apart, raises her arms defensively, muscles tense, fingers flexing as she balls her hands, weight shifting from foot to foot.
The perp, whose face is still overshadowed by the large hood pulled over his head, throws the bat down, metal against concrete, and instead opts for the weapon he's pulling from his sweatshirt pocket. His mouth twists into a sadistic grin, and Olivia feels her heart rate spike, because she allows the quickest of glances at the small blade, knows it's the same pocket knife he'd used to mar the bodies of his living victims, carving into flesh like it was his own form of art.
Adrenaline surges as he makes a lunge at her, confidently swiping at her midsection in an attempt to slice her open, tear through clothes, flesh and skin. She arches, jumps back, her muscles automatically recoiling, steadying her body, stabilising her balance so she's ready to move again whilst she tries to anticipate, work out, his attack strategy.
His hood slips on his second attempt, moves back just enough to reveal the familiar messy blonde hair, the stormy mix of green and brown, dirty and murky, in his eyes, the long straight nose, the hard set mouth; the face of the 18 year old she'd routinely interviewed just two days ago.
"Jon-Paul, let's talk about this," Olivia says, low, steady; an attempt at placating the football player, at being the voice of reason, but his empty eyes and ferocious expression tells her that she's already at a loss. He lunges again, and reflexes kick in. Olivia reaches for the knife, wraps both hands around Jon-Paul's wrist and forces his arm up, away from her body, away from soft tissue. He's strong though, despite his young age, easily has a hundred pounds on her, towers over her five foot seven frame, and it quickly evolves into a dance of power, a struggle to survive versus a struggle to kill. He twists them, forces her to the left, and then slams his body into her, without hesitation, a planned move to force her backwards. She slams against the brick faced building, but she refuses to let go of his wrist; her will is just as strong as any of his built up muscles.
She attempts to kick out at him as his body traps her, encases her in a cage of rage, and she uses the little strength she has to pound his fist against the wall, over and over, drags his bare skin across the bricks as he fights against her. She kicks out again, his own spare hand is a vice on her throbbing wrist, and she manages to land a blow to the side of his knee. It's not a lot, but it's enough to make him falter, to weaken him momentarily.
"Let...go," she forces out past clenched teeth, slams his hand one more time, hard and unforgiving, and the knife falls from his grasp, lands with a clatter on the path, and she moves quickly, kicks it away from their bodies before he can make a grab for it. She's not fast enough to doge the next blow though; feels the back of his hand connect with her face almost immediately after the pressure on her wrist lets up, and it's followed by the familiar metallic tang of blood in her mouth. Her cheek in on fire, and she staggers a little from the force of the blow, and she doesn't have a chance to regain her footing before a size 13 boot lands a blow to her side.
And then she's falling backwards, crashing against the pathway with a loud thud, forcing the air from her lungs on impact, the jolt jerking her head back to slam against concrete, sending stars and blobs of grey across her vision. She groans, blinks against the visual obstructions, hands reaching out to find something, anything, that she can use to her advantage, as a weapon. Beyond the receding fog covering her eyes, she spots her gun a foot or so away from her outstretched hand.
But then he's on top of her.
Over 200lbs presses onto her abdomen as he straddles her body, thick chunky hands wrap around her delicate throat and squeeze tightly.
Olivia can't breathe.
She reaches above her to grab at the face that's blurring above her, the features hazing into a shadowed mess, lines fuzzing. A familiar voice echoes around her, inside of her, somewhere close but far away, and it's almost a comfort, and a drive to push her forwards, to fight. Her heart hammers, pounding against her sternum frantically, as she wriggles and writhes beneath the bulky eighteen year old, her feet kicking out in a desperate attempt to gain some traction, just enough to buck her body up, throw her choker off balance. But he's heavy, and she's tired, and she can't breathe because her chest is on fire. The colour drains from her world, there's a looming black cloud at the edges of her vision, her head is aching with each slowing beat of her heart, and her gun is right there. She stretches out her arm, uses the rapidly receding adrenaline to reach for her weapon, isn't even close enough for her fingertips to brush against steel.
She feels his weight shift slightly, his hands hesitating as his cold glare follows the direction of Olivia's reach, and it's just enough to give her the opportunity to ball her fist and land a blow to his right kidney, hard and fast. He howls in pain, his hands release just enough for Olivia to draw in a big lungful of needed oxygen, to initiate her training. She pulls herself up enough to swing her elbow up to smash against his throat, shifting his body from hers. Gasping for air she twists, scrambles for her gun, doesn't wait for her vision to clear, for her eyes to regain focus, as her arms pull, legs push. But something is pulling her back, pressure on her ankle, and there's that voice again, louder this time, clearer; Elliot on the COMS.
"Liv, where are you?" Concerned, a plea.
She can't answer him though, can't speak, because she's still gasping, can barely breathe, needs to deliver oxygen back to stiff, tired muscles, to budge the sluggish movements. She kicks out against her restraint, hears a sickening crunch and sees a flash of red as her boot collides with Jon-Paul's nose, eliciting a howl of pain and he lets her go. She pushes forward one last time, uses the last remnants of the adrenaline in her system, wraps hot fingers around a cold butt, rolls onto her back and, even with her pulsing vision and throbbing head, manages to aim directly at Jon-Paul's head, just as Elliot comes hurtling around the corner, followed by Munch and Cassidy.
"Olivia! Hey, you okay?" Elliot's voice is right next to her, and she forces her eyes up to look at her partner as he crouches beside her.
"All under control," she breathes, voice hoarse, wincing as her head throbs, throat burns, cheek flares. She attempts a smirk, and her face aches, but it's worth the soft, relieved chuckle from Elliot.
"Yeah, you got this," Elliot grins, easing the gun from Olivia's grasp, before lacing an arm under hers to help her to her feet. "Come on, let's get you checked out." Olivia glances at Jon-Paul, feels a wave of relief finally crash into her as Cassidy pulls him to his feet, ignoring his cries of pain and protests of police brutality, even smiles a little as Munch puts the cuffs on him just a little too tight.
"The girls?" Olivia quickly turns back to her partner, closes her eyes against the rush of dizziness and nausea; a sure sign of a concussion setting in.
"They're okay," Elliot nods, and it's not until he applies a little pressure as an attempt to guide her, that Olivia even realises he's still holding her, supporting her. "We did good, partner." She leans into him, allows him to guide her back towards the alley they'd emerged from, takes comfort in his body warmth.
"El..." she begins as they move, slowly, his name cut short on her tongue as she winces, her own voice vibrating skull and bone, and she waits for him to shy away from the unintended abbreviation of his name, but he doesn't, and she likes it, so she doesn't correct herself. "If you're Batman, does that mean I'm Robin?" She peers up through thick lashes, her chocolate browns locking with his baby blues.
He shakes his head.
"You, Liv," Elliot grins, eyes sparkling, cheeks dimpling. "You're Superwoman."
"Indonesia!" Olivia practically cries in desperation. "There's no expedition treaty," she continues, bargaining with the seemingly schizophrenic man holding a gun to a child's head. She still holds her hands up in front of her, useless, unarmed, and she definitely doesn't feel like a Superhero. "I'll pay for it myself." She can see him considering the offer, his eyes narrow thoughtfully, and though she's clutching at straws, she feels like she's making progress. She refuses to look into Sarah's eyes, at her tear streaked face, refuses to give in to anything that could weaken her. "How much do you need? Name a number."
"Ten thousand!" Mark barks straight away, licks at the sweat beading on his upper lip. "Ten thousand transferred right now!" His eyes flick around the room nervously, and Benson nods, waves her hands slightly to get his attention back on her.
"Okay," she agrees, moving one hand slowly. "I'm just going to reach for my phone..." Olivia's stomach squeezes as the man she's trying to make a deal with begins to look panicked, his wide eyes darting from her to the door behind her, the window to his right. "Hey, ten thousand is a lot of money, okay? I just need to call my bank." She halts her movements until she gets one head jerk in response. "My phone's just back here..." she trails off, moving her right hand, slowly, steadily, behind her, and she can tell by the sudden intake of Amaro's breath that he's seen it, he's on to her. Mark's heard it to, because his eyes have flicked to the other cop, attention momentarily distracted, and it's now or never.
Benson's fingers wrap around the back up piece she'd started to keep tucked into the waistband of her pants after the whole William Lewis ordeal. She pulls it free, finger flicking the safety off as she moves, holds her breath and fires off a round, all in less than three seconds.
She lunges forward, the gun falling from her grasp and clattering noisily against the tiles as it slides away from her body, and she reaches for Sarah, pulls her into a tight embrace, small body clashing against her adult frame, before Mark Andrews' lifeless body can even hit the floor.
"You Liv," Elliot grins, eyes sparkling, cheeks dimpling. "You're Superwoman."
"I've got you," Benson whispers into the long, blonde hair, feels the little girl shudder as shock and relief crashes into her fragile body. She glances up as Amaro steps around them, kicks the gun from Mark's limp hand and checks the neck for a pulse, regardless of the head shot. "I've got you," she breathes again, more for her own sanity than Sarah's, as the soft whimpers turn into body jerking sobs, and her grip tightens on Benson's blouse.
Amaro shakes his head, affirming the death, before straightening up and heading over to pick up both of Benson's guns from the floor, his own already re-holstered. But she doesn't care for protocol, or due process. She doesn't care for her discarded weapons or that she's just taken a life. She swoops the child into her arms, keeps her angled away from the fresh corpse, protecting her from seeing something that no one should ever have to, something that would taint her childhood and haunt her for years, and leaves the small, stuffy office. She heads for the exit at the rear of the store, ignoring Finn and Rollins as she passes them, because she has just one mission; get Sarah out, get Sarah home.
Fin.