A/N: I wrote this a while ago; any constructive criticism is welcome.
Spoilers: Conviction- Pilot, Loss
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. This story is not-for-profit. Etc, etc.
When they tell her, she knows it isn't true. It can't be true. She has nightmares sometimes, and soon she'll wake up, her blond hair damp, sticking to her neck. But then she'll roll over, and Olivia will be there. Maybe watching her, dark eyes boring holes through her skin, making sure she doesn't disappear. And she won't.
She places the phone back in the receiver. It rings again, and she thinks maybe Branch forgot to tell her something.
"Alex." She can hear the panic in Olivia's voice. "We heard…I thought…I didn't…"
"I'm fine, Olivia." And she is. She's fine. Maybe this is real, but it's a case. It's work, and she can handle work. She'll take refuge in the law.
"I'll see you later, okay?" Olivia gives a sigh of relief. "I love you," Alex adds, her voice just above a whisper. She wonders if it's true.
She calls Branch back.
"You'll want to proceed immediately, of course?" She knows he will, because it's politics.
"McCoy's ready to take it," the D.A. drawls. But does he sound just a little bit tense?
"No, you should give it to Steele." She launches her argument, as if Branch is the judge and she's once again an ADA, arguing a motion. Hears her justifications—"He knows this case better than anyone else," etc, etc, and this is work. Just her job, her career, her straight shot to the seventh floor. She loves her job.
She rushes to hear Branch's address. She's not sure why, she already knows, has already talked to him. It's a morbid fascination, and she pushes through the crowd to stand close to the TV. Christina is crying and everyone looks somber, and Alex wraps her arms around herself in a familiar, comforting gesture. Reminiscent of the too many lonely evenings she'd rather not recall. She prides herself on perfect posture, but now she hunches over, wishing she could disappear inside herself, though she thought she'd never want to do that again.
"We mourn the loss of a great lawyer, a wonderful friend." Alex thinks how no one ever speaks ill of the dead. They don't mention the time you were jailed for contempt, the time you authorized an illegal search, the time you sent a woman to be gang-raped in prison. The time you made love to a woman and in the morning told her not to tell. Anyone. "He was a man of great integrity"—she pushes her way out of the room.
She swallows the panic in her throat, but she's scared. Terrified. She wasn't scared the first day she went running in the park. She wasn't scared, really, the first time she walked back into Rikers, and not so much, even, when she kissed Olivia again. But now she feels the familiar rock in her stomach, that seemed to shrink but never quite go away all those months, those years.
"Benson."
"Olivia."
"Alex, what's wrong? Are you okay?"
"Yes. Can we get lunch? Meet me at my office."
Half an hour later, Olivia knocks gently on the door before pushing it open. Alex pulls her through the doorway, shutting the door as she pushes Olivia up against it, capturing her lips in a savage kiss. Olivia opens her mouth when she feels Alex's tongue against her lips. Alex pulls fiercely at the buttons on her shirt.
"Alex," Olivia gasps, pulling out of the kiss. "What are you doing? What's wrong, sweetie?" It's not that she doesn't like it, it's just that Alex is…
"Don't talk," the blonde commands, pleads. "I just…need…" She trails hungry kisses down Olivia's neck, running her hands across her flat stomach. "Please, Olivia," she thinks. "Don't ask, don't talk about Mike. Don't talk because your voice is full of sorrow, and it scares me."
Olivia pushes away from the door and turns, pinning Alex there instead. Her hands run up slim thighs, lifting the attorney's skirt. Alex runs her fingers through hair much longer than she thinks it should be, still kissing Olivia like a woman drowning, gasping for air.
She buries her face in Olivia's shoulder when she comes, emitting a sound somewhere between a moan and a cry. When she lifts her head again, Olivia notices her eyes glistening, red-rimmed, tear tracks visible on her face. The detective suspects it's not from the orgasm.
"Are you okay?" she asks, putting her arms on the slender woman's shoulders.
And there it is—that sadness, pity, grief, guilt, dripping from her words, and Alex can hardly stand it.
"Of course," she says, pulling away.
"When's the funeral?" Olivia asks, choking on the word.
"Tomorrow," Alex says, and wishes she hadn't. "Your funeral's tomorrow." The words always echoed in her head, and she always suspected they might have been true.
"Do you want me to go with you?"
Alex looks carefully at her lover. Studying her face, staring through her eyes, trying to find something familiar, something besides the guilt. She doesn't want to go alone; she never wants to be alone. But god, wasn't once enough for Olivia?
"No, I'll be fine, thanks. See you at home."
Jim storms into her office. "You got an adjournment without telling me?" It's a statement, not a question.
"I'm not willing to risk an acquittal because some juror's pissing in his pants." Because the smart ones know to back off. Because we were friends once, and hell if I'll let you make my mistakes.
She stands amidst her ADAs. Though she's not that much older, really, they strike her as only children. Four lifetimes will age you, she thinks, staring at the coffin, the flowers. A few snowflakes are falling, and she wraps her coat a little tighter around her. She wishes Olivia was here to wrap her arms around her. Olivia. God. "How long?" How long, Mike?
Wisconsin was quiet like this at night. Deathly quiet. Will you hum the Mr. Frosty song, Mike?
The minister finishes, a few people start to wander away. "So," she thinks, "this is what death is like from the other side."
She sees someone standing away from the group, like an interloper. When she moves closer, she sees no tears in Olivia's eyes, but her face is sadder than anything she's ever seen and her gloved hands are not clenched into fists, but hanging limply at her sides. The picture of dejection.
"You shouldn't have come," Alex says gently.
The detective looks like she might speak, but doesn't. Instead she reaches out and brushes her fingers against Alex's shoulder, as if Alex might shatter with a touch less delicate. Maybe she would.
They stare together at the cold stone bearing her name. Olivia's hand on the small of her back is firmer this time, more secure.
Alex wonders, fleetingly, if maybe this grave isn't empty after all. If maybe she digs down deep enough, she'll find her soul, grown cold and lonely, but extant nonetheless.
"Let's go home," Olivia whispers. They turn to leave.