Um so this is my first ever Law and Order UK fic so I hope it doesn't suck!
Disclaimer: I own nothing
It was over. Or at least, that was what everybody else thought.
But not her, not Crown Prosecutor Alesha Phillips. She could still feel the pressure of the bruises against her thighs where he had grabbed her; still feel his hot leering breath all over her. She could still feel how her stomach had leapt in horror as he grabbed her legs, pulling her to the floor. She could still feel everybody's eyes in the courtroom as they told her she was a liar. She shuddered.
"You should go home. Get some sleep." James. How could she tell him, that sleep was not an option? How could she tell him that despite all her best efforts to forget, when she closed her eyes all she could see was him. How his sadistic voice haunted her dreams, waking her up in a cold sweat. How could she tell him that they hadn't really won? Merrick had won over her. Soon enough his sentence would be over and he would be free, whereas she would feel his touch for the rest of her life.
Instead she just looked up at her collegue and best friend and nodded with an attempt at a small smile. But she knew he was watching her, taking in her shaking hands that slung the scarf round her neck and the force she used to turn off the lights.
Nothing was real as she walked to the tube. It was like everybody knew what had happened to her, everybody had seen that tape. She cringed every time somebody brushed against her in the street, her face a picture of numb pain. She was well aware she was shaking, her eyes wide and alert, every face around her morphing into his. She knew her hands were clenched into tight fists around her purse and she prised it open to buy her ticket. She knew that, as she walked down the road to her flat, she would never be allowed to forget as she had first planned. Never would she be able to move on.
She didn't relax when she made it to her flat, dropping her back and double locking the door, shutting all the curtains before she allowed herself to turn on the lights. She nudged the voice in the back of her head telling her she needed help away as she made her millionth cup of coffee, trying to make her work stretch through the night, redoing and repeating reports until they couldn't be more perfect. She was angry with James and George for not giving her as much work as they used to, how else was she supposed to make it through the night? They thought they were being kind, but no, they were condemning her to another nightmare, another sleep filled with terrible memories.
But it was inevitable, she supposed. Inevitable that she would eventually fall asleep on her sofa surrounded by folders. Inevitable she would later awake in a cold sweat, tears staining her face. Inevitable she would convince herself she needed to be up by four to ensure she was ready for work. Inevitable that she was always the first in, a new occurrence, James previously always in the office before she was. And she didn't miss the look of surprise on his face when he came in second this time, followed by momentary concern, then relief. The irony was not missed on Alesha, she knew he thought it was a good thing she was throwing herself back into work, meant she had moved on. Instead, she was driving herself to the limit, living on coffee and the occasional power nap.
So she did what she did best, carried on. She investigated cases, made trips to the station, wrote reports. She was always the first to finish, always replying to work related emails in an hour. She overheard George talking about a promotion for her, the idea made her heart leap. Not because of the extra pay or the responsibility. The more she had to do the less time she had to think about what was going on. They thought she was strong, that she had always recovered when in fact she hadn't even given herself the opportunity. James thought it, George thought it, Ronnie thought it. But there was one person who saw straight through her cleverly built charade: Matt Devlin.
He first noticed it when he came round to the CPS offices with the Griffin case. He noticed how little she was speaking to them, how the sparkle had left her eyes. He noticed how she applied herself to her work, not stopping for lunch or the tea breaks Ronnie suggested whenever they were all together. Just an apologetic smile and a comment about how much work she had. He took in everything, her tired eyes, her weary smile and her slumped posture. This wasn't the Alesha they all knew, and he wanted her back.
"How are you?" She looked up in him at alarm as he interrupted her desperate not thinking about Merrick routine. She fumbled around with the word fine, her cheeks colouring. How could she tell him? He sighed, and she knew the game was up. Crossing her arms defiantly and staring at the floor as a tear rolled down her cheek, she heard him carefully sit down in a chair. He didn't promise it would be ok like Ronnie did. He didn't reassure her that Merrick was locked up like James. And he didn't try and talk as if none of it had ever happened, as George did. He just sat gazing at her waiting for her to make the first move.
"I'm not broken, Matt," she told him, lifting her head and meeting his eyes. He swallowed, thinking of how beautiful she was.
"I know." She nodded, digesting this information. She saw James tactfully removing himself from his office behind them, watched as the door swung shut. Matt was nervous, she could tell. Why should he be nervous? She was the one that was damaged, not him. She was the one that should be nervous.
That was when she realised she was.
"I'm not sleeping," she blurted out. She didn't know why she said it and regretted her words immediately. But Matt didn't look surprised or taken aback. He just replied, "I know that too." He leant across the desk. He didn't touch her, not a gentle hand on hers or a comforting rub on her arm, she knew he was being careful around her, and this realisation pained her.
"I want to help," he was saying. "I really want to help, what can I do." She smiled tiredly at the innocence of him remark.
"It's done," she said, picking up the pen and continuing to write. "There's nothing anybody can do. I just need to get over myself."
"Alesha, stop that," he insisted. "I've seen you, you've redone that report three times now."
"I just have to finish this," she said stubbornly. He leant across the desk and took the pen her. She frowned at him.
"What?"
"I know what you're doing," he said, pocketing the pen. She shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes.
"Believe me you don't."
"You're using work to try to forget what happened," he said simply. She stared at him in disbelief.
"How do you..."
"It's not uncommon, 'Lesh," he smiled, and suddenly she was the innocent one. She looked at him uncertainly.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm more than just a pretty face," he said, the traces of a grin on his indeed very pretty face. She allowed herself to smile a little then as well, and this smile was the first one that reached her eyes ever since that day. He relaxed, proud of himself. "Come on," he said.
"What?" He gingerly took her hand in his waiting nervously for confirmation this was ok, before leading her to the door.
"You can go home," he said. "You need to. You need time, Alesha." She looked down.
"There's no point."
"Don't say that," he said gently. "Time heals everything in the end, Alesha. You just have to give it a chance." And she knew he was right.
Everything was right when she walked to the tube. The hand snug in hers acted like a force field, the jolts as people brushed against her nothing more than that. Her hands were steady as she got her card out and got on the tube. He sat against her all the way, a barrier between her and the world. And as she walked with him to her flat the dark and the noises meant nothing to her. He said goodbye to her at the foot of the stairs to her flat, entering his number into her phone with instructions to call him if anything was on her mind, or even if it wasn't.
Alesha shut the door behind her, switching on the lights and making herself cocoa instead of the usual coffee. Within the hour she was lying in her bed, her breaths deep and even. Her sleep was dreamless; the folders that usually were the object of her constant attention abandoned on the floor. Time might heal her eventually, but Matt Devlin was doing a good job of it on his own.