Title: I'll Stand By You
Author: KalenCaelli
Rating: M
Disclaimer: Law & Order: SVU and its characters are the property of Dick Wolf and related associates. I just borrow them, fantasize about them, and return them slightly disheveled but a hell of a lot more satisfied. I'm not making any money off this story. If I was I'd have a magic wand to make these characters magically come alive. And a kitten.
Author's note: This story was never supposed to happen. Relapse was supposed to be a one shot, Olivia and Amanda were never supposed to end up together. But sometimes characters take me in directions I'm not expecting, and thus here we are. Almost as soon as I began writing it this sequel began to take shape. I had a couple of different working titles, but this one won (the song playing on the car radio may have helped. A little. Okay a lot). I'm a little leery about posting a story that's not fully completed, but I've got it about three-quarters finished, and at the insane pace I'm writing I figure it's safe to assume I'll be able to keep ahead of my usual update schedule. And if not, well I can always throw out some M-rated one shots for you all.
That being said, this story covers some pretty sensitive subject matter, some of which may be triggering. This includes references to rape, child abuse, sex abuse, abuse of the English language, and abuse of some eardrums. Use your best judgement when reading.
Reviews are always appreciated, and may make me write faster/more/plan for a third sequel depending on how often they come. *hintcoughhint*
One more thing, I have a special dedication for a woman who has stood by me through thick and thin. I love you baby – thanks for being my hero.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Chapter 1
AAAAAAAAAAAAAA
The bar is an elegant one, tastefully decorated in hues of muted blues, purples, and golds. A tuxedoed man with thinning silver hair plays a baby grand piano in the corner, the soothing melody setting the ambiance this late Friday evening. The bar's patrons are equally elegant, a veritable laundry list of who's who of New York City's upper crust.
Amanda sits at the marble and mahogany bar, trailing the tip of a finger along the rim of her untouched cosmopolitan, her other elbow propped along the marble bar's countertop, long blonde hair covering the tiny microphone that is hidden in her left ear.
"Suspect four o'clock," she mutters into her wrist, her bracelet concealing a second microphone, crossing her legs and resting her forearms on the counter. She is wearing a sequined black cocktail dress that allows her to flaunt her well-defined legs and provides ease of movement, but dressy enough to play the part she is simulating. Her long blonde hair is down, wavy, tumbling artfully over mostly-bare shoulders and her makeup is a little heavier than she prefers, but which fulfills the role she is playing.
"Is this seat taken?" The suspect is handsome, no doubt. Tall, wearing a fitted blue Armani knockoff, with wavy brown hair and eyes as blue as her own, Eric Fowler looks every bit the stockbroker he is not.
And every bit the rapist he is.
It has been a nearly impossible case from the start. Lack of DNA, lack of forensics, reluctant, unreliable witnesses who just happen to be high-end escorts... the list literally goes on and on.
But each case is linked by a few similar threads, this introduction being one of them.
Amanda flashes a smile that covers up the utter nausea she feels inside and nods to the seat to her right. Eric slides smoothly onto the barstool next to her. "Buy you a drink?"
Amanda nods, feigning interest, knowing that every second of this interaction is being watched and recorded on monitors by her squad mates, her ADA, and her lieutenant. Her partner is in the corner of this room, watching her six and ensuring things do not go off script.
"What would you like to drink, sir?" The bartender is wearing a white tuxedo that probably costs more than her entire wardrobe with a suitably snooty expression befitting his station. He offers no sign that he knows Amanda, even though he spent more than two hours with her less than a day ago, hammering out a plea deal that would see him facing less jail time for his role in this case.
"A scotch, on ice," he orders with well-practiced mannerisms of the upper crust, and Amanda guesses most of the patrons of this establishment would be surprised to know he's really the son of a second generation plumber from Queens.
"And for the lady?"
Amanda opens her mouth but he touches her arm, interrupting her. "If you'll allow me?"
By all means you sanctimonious prick.
"A martini, shaken, double olive," he flashes an attractive smile, his hand lightly rubbing her forearm. She makes an internal note to scrub that part of her body with bleach once she gets back home. Outwardly, she smiles and tosses her hair over her right shoulder, exposing more of her neck, her eyes taking in every verbal and nonverbal clue that this is their guy.
The drink order is a start, something all the victims have in common. Her physical body type another, since all of the victims were blondes of roughly her height and build. It's circumstantial, but it's a start.
"I'm not in the habit of letting strangers buy me drinks, Mister...?" Reaching up subtly behind her neck to increase the volume on the microphone, hidden by her hair.
"Scott," his perfect smile broadens, taking her by the wrist and kissing the back of her hand.
Great, even more of her body to be scrubbed down.
"I'm Amber," she says a little too brightly, playing up on all the blonde stereotypes she genuinely abhors. "And what is it you do Scott?" Flipping her hair over her shoulder, watching as his eyes level on the exposed skin. All of their victims had bite marks and bruising on the shoulder area.
"Wall street." Their drinks arrive, and he takes a sip of his scotch, a smug smirk pasted onto his features. "Investment banker."
"Sounds really complicated," Amanda giggles and sips at her own drink, which thankfully is just water, as previously arranged with the barkeep.
They make small talk for a few minutes, and Amanda plays her role admirably, pretending to get more and more intoxicated as the evening goes on.
After a while, a familiar voice pipes up on her ear mic. "Try to bring him in, Rollins."
Only one voice can call her that and elicit such arousal.
Amanda listens to him prattle on for a few moment before feigning exhaustion.
"It was so nice to meet you, Scott," Amanda nods to the barkeep. "Just charge it to room 315."
Check.
"Can I at least get your number?" Eric feigns disappointment at having their evening cut short. Holding out a fake business card and a pen, Amanda scribbles the number for the SVU tip line, knowing the suspect would never call it.
"Maybe I will see you tomorrow?" Amanda asks, knowing she never would, but Eric nods, lying.
"I'll look for the most beautiful woman in the room." He's laying it on thick, and Amanda gags internally, but forces herself to stand, feigning wooziness.
He is on his feet in an instant, bracing her, his arms wrapped around her body with surprising strength. "Hey there, are you sure you are okay?"
As if he cares.
"I just feel dizzy, all of the sudden." Amanda wobbles on her feet. All of their victims had GHB in their system, usually slipped in by the bartender. It was the first clue they'd solved. The bartender had been taken into custody the day before and offered a plea. He is assisting them in exchange for pleading to a lesser charge.
And it is one of these reasons she is alcohol- and GHB- free.
"I better help you to your room," Eric offers, walking Amanda in the direction of the elevators, hands gripping her upper arms tightly. For her part, she plays the role of a drunk very well, stumbling about and tripping over the threshold of the elevator, bumping against the wall. It's a performance worthy of an Oscar.
He hits the button for the third floor.
It isn't until they arrive there, and the grip on her arm tightens painfully, that she has her first inkling that something is wrong.
He begins to move her, hard, in the wrong direction, pushing her into a nearby stairwell.
"Wh..."
The gun materializes out of nowhere, pressed low against the small of her back, and a voice whispers next to her ear.
"Make a move and your guts will be scattered on the wall."
She freezes, her mind trying to wrap around this latest turn of events. How had she missed this?
"Rollins?" Her earpiece crackles to life, her lieutenant's voice a little sharper than normal. "What's going on?"
"What do you want?" Amanda asks, aware that she's been made and that her life depends on her cooperation. But she has to ask the question, if only to buy herself time for the others to find her.
Eric hits her on the back of her head with the gun's handle, causing her to cry out in pain, stars erupting in her field of vision.
"Rollins!"
"Make another sound and the next time you won't be so lucky."
Amanda nods silently, blinking back tears as he shoves her against the wall, pinning her, holding his gun to the base of her neck and patting her down her sides roughly for hidden weapons. She grimaces when his hands slide up her leg, his progress halting just shy of her crotch.
"An unarmed undercover officer," Eric's breath is low against her ear. "And I thought the NYPD was smarter than that."
Amanda closes her eyes, praying he doesn't look inside her clutch, where she'd hidden her drop gun. Right now it's pinned between her and the wall, not in a place she can easily access it, and if she tries, there is no guarantee Eric won't kill her.
How had he learned she was a police officer?
"Hold on," Olivia's voice is tight, with an undercurrent of frenzy. Amanda can almost visualize her colleagues racing down the hallway towards where the banks of elevators resided. "We're coming."
"Move!" He shoves the gun into her back, forcing her to climb up the steps. She delays as much as she dares but Eric makes her move quickly, sometimes taking the steps two at a time, not an easy feat in heels.
Her head is aching painfully as he opens the stairwell door to the fourth floor, shoving her through right as Amanda hears voices in the lower corridor. Throwing her roughly against the wall he swipes a thin piece of plastic she recognizes as a hotel room key, pushing Amanda into the room and closing the door swiftly behind her.
She is on her own now. Fear begins to gnaw at her gut, remembering another hotel room, another time...
No, she can't go there.
"Rollins, if you can hear us, give us some kind of hint as to where he's moved you."
"What, no foreplay?" She quips darkly, grimacing as he smacks her across the side of her head with his sidearm again, ears ringing as she falls to the ground. Her clutch flies across the room. Bile rises in the back of her throat, her right hand covering her mouth as she tries to fight it.
"Are you saying you're on the fourth floor?"
Eric kicks her in the stomach, the toe of his shoe catching her in the stomach once, twice. Amanda groans, arms wrapping around her stomach in pain.
"Didn't I tell you to shut up, bitch cop?" Kicking her once more for good measure, his eyes fill with a darker rage that turned her blood to ice.
"Amanda!"
Gasping for air, Amanda finally chokes out her reply. "Yes!" Eric's foot coming to a halt inches from her body. That her reply isn't meant for him doesn't seem to cross his mind.
He grabs her by the arm, roughly, tight enough to bruise, half-lifting, half-dragging her towards the bed. Amanda knows she should fight him on this, but she's still having a hard time catching her breath and her mind is already flashing back to Atlanta and to Patton.
"How..." she blinks, trying to center herself in the present. "How did you know?" Hoping he doesn't start hitting her again.
"We're on the fourth floor, Amanda. But you've got to give us a room number."
"How do you think?" Throwing her roughly on the bed, crudely cupping his groin.
When working in pairs, every criminal duo has a dominant and a submissive partner.
Pistol leveled at her face, Eric takes a step closer, the corner of his mouth curling in a half-snarl.
The bartender. It was the only way.
"How did Tommy tell you?" Trying to buy time — time enough for the others to reach her before he rapes her.
Or worse.
"Amanda, we need more. We have the exits blocked but I need to know the room number. Give me something. Anything."
"You tell me, sweetheart," Eric began unzipping his fly.
"No no no no no," Amanda began scrabbling backwards, genuine panic beginning to consume her, praying that the others will figure it out before it's too late.
Not again. Anything but this.
"You're going to do what I tell you, bitch, or I'm going to put so many holes in you..."
There is a loud bang, the door to the room flying open with a crash. Lieutenant Olivia Benson is the first through, sidearm raised, and before Amanda can even process what's happening three things occur almost simultaneously.
"NYPD, freeze!" Olivia announces, leveling her Glock at their perp's chest, eyes blazing with a righteous anger.
Eric spins, his pistol lifting as he brings it to bear on the brunette.
"Gun!" Amanda calls out, afraid that their perp will catch Olivia by surprise the way she herself had been.
The gunfire is deafening in such a small space, a spray of blood slicing the wall, tiny droplets splattering across her face and body.
"Amanda?"
Amanda stares at their perpetrator, eyes glossy, ears ringing, her pulse pounding furiously in her ear. The blood is pooling around his body, soaking the plush white carpet a dark crimson. Eric is lying in the center of that pool, fly open, a single bullet hole in his temple. His icy blue eyes are unseeing, his gun having fallen from his loose fingertips. His expensively-tailored suit is rumpled and Amanda idly wonders if the shop where he rented it from is going to want it back.
"Amanda?"
Those pale blue eyes slide over to concerned brown ones, and Amanda nodded, weakly.
"Sorry lieutenant," Amanda feels weak, almost ashamed. "He got the drop on me. I didn't see it coming."
"As long as you're okay," Olivia murmurs, her hand lifting a fraction before dropping, and Amanda can tell the older woman is struggling against the urge to gather her in her arms. Their newly-established relationship is a closely guarded secret, one that no one in their unit has yet deduced. Amanda tries to stand but promptly sits down, woozy.
"Liv, is she okay?" Fin and Dodds have just materialized, Carisi a half step behind them. "Man we got a hell of a mess here." Fin shakes his head, surveying the crime scene, finally falling on where Olivia is kneeling next to his partner.
"It was a good shoot," Olivia says, glancing over at the rest of their unit with an air of authority. "Suspect was armed." A pause as she shifted into commander mode. "Carisi, I want you to take our friend the bartender back to holding. Let Barba know he is no longer a cooperating witness. Dodds," Olivia turned slightly, "you and Fin get a bus and CSU here and then stay here to process the scene. And," her voice elevates slightly as Fin prepares to protest the assignment, "I will accompany Rollins to the ER since I have to give a sample anyways."
Fin and Olivia stare at each other for a long moment, and then Fin nods, stepping out into the hallway, cellphone against his ear, Carisi on his heels.
"Dodds, can you wait downstairs for CSU?" The dark-haired sergeant nods, trailing after Finn.
Leaving Amanda and Olivia alone.
"Liv," Amanda's voice is low but insistent, "I don't want to go to the doctor. Please, can I just go home?" Pleading with her eyes, begging her to cave, just this once.
No go. Olivia shakes her head, "You're getting checked out in the ER immediately. Now were you hurt anywhere?"
She knows what Olivia wants to ask, and Amanda shakes her head lightly, her stomach roiling, fighting the urge to vomit all over her expensive high-heeled boots.
"Just hit me a couple of times with his..." she's having problems forming the words she wants to say, "gun." Olivia's eyes widen as she probes Amanda's head tenderly, the blonde wincing as those very fingers find a rapidly rising knot hidden by her hair.
"Oh Amanda," Olivia murmurs as she withdraws her fingers, pulling the younger woman against her side, pressing her lips against the crown of her head. Grabbing her flashlight, she first examines one pupil, then another. "You've got a concussion, sweetheart." The brunette pauses, gathering her thoughts. "A bad one too, by the looks of it."
"Does this mean we get to play docto..." It is getting more and more difficult to keep her eyes open, and Olivia shifts quickly, gathering Amanda's face in her hands and tapping her lightly on her cheeks.
"Amanda, sweetie, you need to stay awake for me." There is an undercurrent of urgency in Olivia's tone, sleepy blue eyes blinking fuzzily, focusing on the woman she loves with all her heart.
"Fin where is that bus?" Louder now, more urgent. "Amanda stay awake for me. Please honey you've got to stay awake."
The last thing Amanda remembers before slipping into unconsciousness is Olivia's voice calling her name.